Home?



He broke her brushes, spilled her paint, soiled her canvas and left.
How brutal one could be to an artist!
She puts her right hand up to her chest, gently touches the pearls round her neck, looks at the mess, and gasps. She raises her hand to her lips and lets out a silent cry. Smeared colors. She picks up a canvas, and with tremor, realizes that this is about art. Life has made art. She wanted a pale painting with water lilies, but life has never been exactly mellow of late.

I met her for coffee.

“… I stopped looking for romance. I only want someone to feel home with.” She laughs, and then takes a sip of wine. “I am looking for home. I am a homeless spirit trying to find asylum in someone’s being.” She gazes pensively outside the glass window as if talking to the city racing on the sidewalk facing us, “This is not codependency at all that I am looking for, not even…
I will try to explain it through an example about music; this is my language after all.
Bach. This has changed my interpretation of Bach, in fact. Take his concerto No1 for instance. When you reach the Adagio, don’t you feel a fall, a… a collapse?! You feel that you are afraid of something, but cannot quite make out what it is… this is not a panic kind of fear, this is a mystic fear you breath through your veil of a modern man… a scent… trespassing hundreds of years to reach your inner being. This is an ancient urge to human contact… you just sense a tremor that only one touch could make you feel safe, and this “safe” is what you identify as “home"…
Life is exactly like a concerto; it takes you through joy, love and happiness very rapidly, then leaves you up there trembling in the cold of your fears trying to reach for the safe hand, trying to go "home". Go play Bach, you’ll figure it out…”