runamorian [cata20]

by an-men

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1.
10:53
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06:52
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08:11
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08:49
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8.
09:59
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released 01 November 2011

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tags: experimental contemporary dance electronica jazz pop tape music techno world. ethnic London

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catalogue of wonders ~ ARTS ON THE VERGE OF AN ATTACK OF GENIUS ~ analogue & digital music & noises & sounds for the delectable connoisseur ~

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Track Name: kebili runamorian
Oralit [oh.raa.leet], the same as (in a very vague sense) of soul or anima (ba); very common name for a tree of several species that the Shankarian poets sing about very often.

[From ‘Music for Angels’:]

He didn’t open his eyes. He knows it’s better to maintain them closed for a while, they work like a kind of mental compass, and if they are closed you’ll be capable of recognising the part of the land you are in. The sound of her voice was very distinct and soft at the same time. She was not speaking louder than the other voices, but the magnetic tone of hers came from the circle of the other tongues to caress his feelings and body. And Haru knew that she was doing it on purpose. Language can be used like an instrument of enchantment; spoken language in her was magic Potion. Haru could listen to the water balancing in a pot, probably on top of the head of some man transporting it into the circle of men and women.
Lila was smiling, he felt, with the smile of one that knows the guest had arrived, even if she was not seeing him, yet. That’s why he didn’t open his eyes. The other women started laughing and smiling, clapping their hands in a syncopated rhythm, welcoming him, he was sure. They were looking to Lila and they were proud because they know they like each other. They were brothers, twin brothers.
The wind was whirling around his head, trespassing the rings in his ears. The branches in the naked trees transmitting gentle crackling sounds, as a secret language of nature. The sand was still warm, after the sunny day. Several goats were eating some new grass by the small lake. He could guess that his oak stick was around somewhere. The women were now playing with the tongues composing a strange melody of welcoming. They knew that the strange man from the other land was arriving. They could feel it, the soft wind stopped and the sand whirls died suddenly, the trees went silent and the moon was shinning with the pale blue colour Haru used to enjoy so much. Even in this land he was capable of comparing things, and he sensed that only once he has seen the moon looking like that one, but only once in his short life.
Lila was singing the traditional welcome song, the very same song they sing at weddings or funerals, the same melody when someone arrives or departs, because they were the very same things, coming or going, staying or travelling meant the same kind of haunting feelings.
This people knew that they were solitaire souls.
These ones were only words saying too much, saying little of understanding thought. But he didn’t have any need to explain whatever. People, as languages were solitaire bodies.
Haru thought that he used to live wrapped in words, several kinds of words. And that he preferred the sound of those words Lila was intoning without any meaning to him, except maybe that his naked back against the sand was shivering with pleasure. His hand went down to his almost hairless pubis and embraced the limp penis slowly. He just wished to know exactly the meaning of the silent shadows of the trees, the movement of his hands when he was dancing in the darkness of his room, naked as now. He thought he had to choreograph a kind of lament, a sigh of disappointment because he couldn’t stay in this land as long as he wished.
The sounds of the people on the desert tents were still disturbed by the noises vanishing slowly inside of him, as he dipped into the other world, to the other side of the mirror, as he used to think a door. Yes, he thought, it was a kind of door opening now.
So he kept his eyes lightly closed, waiting for the certainty of reaching the other side of his journey. He could smell the fragrance of the Oralit, the favourite tree in the songs of that nomad tribe. The flowers seemed like knifes, the handles of a deep blue and the blade of a fleshy luminescent red with some yellow spots that shine at night. Lila told him that they were the flowers of lust and love, and that in a special night with the blue full moon they open to show the fruits of an opaline colour and sweet flavour. The ones who eat them in that night will fall in love forever, she told him while touching his hand. And she smiled as a candid child does, half-shy, half-teasing, and told him that she was not in love with him. It was too early for that, and she couldn’t understand the meaning of all those things the poets invented in remote and ancient songs played by the clean summer nights, around the bonfires. Secretly Haru wished to fall in love with the girl, she was so beautiful and amazing, sweet and at the same time so active and he loved her laughs when they danced around the tent. But he guessed that that would be impossible, a sensory illusion in the shape of hope, trying to fool himself. For the very first time he was feeling something strange and uncomfortable, and he knew he was missing the wind that used to howl and whistle when he arrived to these parts. His heart was pulsing; he almost could see the purple blood veins in his hands expanding with emotion. He wished that when he will open his eyes this world could be submersed in a glimmering semidarkness, only a big blue moon, as he loves so much. Being naked under the spell of a fantastic moon and dancing with Lila with grandeur and with the spasms of peril in all the senses raging inside of him, absorb all the beauty in him and in this people of dreams within dreams. He wanted to stay where he wanted, there, physically, with all his body awakening to the freedom of the desert, the moon and the open sky, he wanted to preserve all the emotions of all moments in a small box he could open in his room when he wanted, when he was missing this words, this people, their movements, their laughs and songs.
Sometimes he was guarding the herd with his oak staff on the hills and the echoes of men and women washing clothes and the fabrics in the lagoon would come into him, inside, deep inside him, the reverberating waters, the sound of hands scratching the wool on the polished rocks, the sighs and the sweat drops falling into the water, the sound of the muscles tensing and distending, the humming of some song a young girl was composing in the moment. Everything came to him in waves of echoes, distinct and clear, like in layers of pure sound. And his eyes were watching the infinite of the dunes in the distance, the sheep and goats eating the green, his hand in the oak rod supporting his body.
He was the Shepherd. And the people taught him is name in their language, Sanvean, the one who watches. And after the golden and white dunes the sky, an immense sky made of pure colour and stillness clear as the thoughts he could think, a pure extension of great blue. There, and at the same time so far away. Sometimes when he was watching this sky he wished to have wings and fly. And then he used to think that the simple way of this people was nothing more than the meaning of life, they were angels without wings harvesting the land, feeding the animals and washing big pieces of cloth. Even if he was happy watching the herd, dancing and learning with Lila, he still felt the solitude of his body, and then he had to dance, dance as possessed by a wild but harmless soul, not a devil, in his mind dark angels didn’t exist, simple as that! If he was dancing with a strange kind of strength, furiously and without stopping for long and long minutes that seemed to be hours, trying to hide some weird emptiness he was dancing with the invisible wings of some blessed angel, a dancing angel, some being that possessed him and he was dancing not only to the tribe around the fire, but to a horde of gods, living Gods. And their clapping and incitement pushed him to fly and jump higher and higher, an athletic young god floating and talking with his body, saying everything he couldn’t express in words. When he was dancing in those nights under the blue moon, he was writing with his body a new book of choreography, an essay of caresses pointing to the longing sky up there, and to him. It was a kind of salvation, a blessing.
Strange purification of the body, his name printed in the nakedness of his skin. And the people of the tribe could start shouting his name, Sanvean, Sanvean, Sanvean, clapping their hands and humming. The drums composing an ethereal rhythm, the double flutes imposing a haunting melody that incited him to close his eyes and arch his body into the earth and feel the pulse of his heart synchronised with everything around, his name being said out loud touching his naked body, a torrent of words escaping from his body, and music and paintings. And all this was condensed in the thought that he was feeling beauty. He was beautiful dancing in utter nakedness, being close to him, as he could never feel before.
The rod was by the Oralit tree when he opened his eyes. The moon was blue, as he sensed. His naked body lying on the sand. He took the rod and looked to the tents not far away. This was the tribe of Alykiur, his adopted tribe. Open legs, the handholding the oak rod, his eyes scanning the fire and the men and women singing. He saw Lila’s back with the golden curly hair, the shoulders balancing to the song rhythm. His pose was like the very first time he came here, without knowing if he was dreaming a dream of a dream or simply flying out his body watching himself there, like a small god in this tricky land. His white skin, in that night, was very pale and shinning and the old woman that smiled at him made a little bow and gave him her hand. They were warm and rough, the skin scratching his long thin fingers. She took him to the fire and gave him a dark thick juice, at the same time crackling her tongue, calling for the other members of the tribe. And when she spoke it was like two or three different voices at the same time, like singing, and Haru understood the meaning of it, the soft tones melted with a high pitch saying ‘This is the pale young man we were waiting for, let’s give him the welcoming drink, the one that will make him feel at his own home. Welcome, young man from a distant island, we were waiting for you.
And they asked questions and he spoke their language. And he knew he was not dreaming at all. ■