|Dimensions||20.2 × 10.6 cm|
Art by Pes.
During the first 8 months of 2017, I had to fly about twenty times. I sometimes left for work, most often to see my sick father, in Beirut. He was dying but I didn't want to realize it totally. I went there and left, my heart happier than when I arrived, because I left him smiling too. Between January and July, I saw him almost once a month, maybe every two months. Sometimes we would listen to music together, I would put pieces that he liked. Sometimes we talk. His memory of the moment was beginning to fad, but that of his youth and his life before the illness was intact. I spent time with him and then I took a plane. The rest of the time, I was working, trying to take care of my family and deal with more personal matters, while keeping my head a little out of the water. The moments that were mine, that is to say of absolute solitude, and of almost tranquility, without being worried for what or whoever it was, were absolutely rare. Among them, there were the concerts or the recordings with Class of 69. There were also some bits of hours that I flew at the time, between two planes, most often abroad to make a more solitary music there, static and very little moving, long to the way I love it and let it drift, first in me. This is the one put here on these three tapes.
Among these travels and these floating moments, I will always keep in mind the 3 or 4 days spent in the spring in Kyoto. They will undoubtedly be among the most beautiful that I have been able to live, summarizing retrospectively the perseverance of my love and my fears. But this is another story. In Kyoto, I recorded songs from sounds I found there and other files that were on my computer – recordings of my synthesizers left at home. I composed in front of a rather sticky rice pudding, with a view of a cemetery (my room was overlooking it, do not ask me why) having in mind a session of meditation in a temple. I learned to hold myself a little straighter and let the breath regulate me. It was the first day of this trip and I have been thinking about it all the time since. Sometimes I try to repeat the exercise, but most of the time, I think only of these few days, this hour in this temple and some other nice moments in this city whose memory haunts me while gradually erasing itself. Memories that recognize each other all the same when they intersect in my memory and time.
The other stay that remains in me is that summer, on the borders of Portugal, not far from Andalusia. We were there, a family at rest, in search of itself and in cure of its fatigue. In an old farm's house, white walls, dry sun, I made some pieces That I wanted very low, almost inaudible, like the breath of a wind, a freshness that didn't come. I wanted this music to be there, without being there, that it acts my desire to be a ghost and disappear. The need to find an unreachable serenity. This music imposed itself, I don't know if I like it or not, it was necessary to live with it, to accompany it and to make it grow. I took pleasure in that little presence. And then one morning around 7am, my mother called. It was July 31, and I went back to Beirut.
Nidhamu – meditations