Come on, lazy bones, just get up! Go for a walk and enjoy the beauty of this new autumn day. In the dance of cool blue shadows, you can already sense winter drawing near. An aquamarine sky caresses its sapphire liquid lover, while in the distance, a lapis lazuli mountain range looks on, envying the beauty of their union. The blinding sun’s diamond reflections paint the palm fronds white. Let the still-mild air kiss the sleep from your eyes so you can witness the spectacle.
Because before you realize, darkness will descend. Like a black hole, the night will swallow the reddened dusk, wrapping you in the stillness of nothingness.
Last night‘s recordings sound as if I had been completely drunk. In reality, I had just been drunk on sleep.
This morning, however, waking up is a different story. My dog presses his face against mine and licks my nose—our sacred morning ritual. Inside my head, words are still fast asleep. “Coffee” is the very first one to clear the fog. I ask Alexa to turn on the news, needing to figure out what is happening in the world today. With a fresh mug and a yogurt in hand, I retreat straight back to bed.
On the radio, a reporter mentions that today is International Mother Language Day. The broadcast quickly shifts, making me wonder: is a new global conflict really looming over Europe? Then, the host introduces a word that describes me perfectly—tsundoku, the Japanese term for people who pile up unread books on their nightstands. Minutes later, a photo on Facebook catches my eye and lures me into the endless temptations of research.
But my drift is cut short. Wifi, my dog, urgently needs to pee and insists we get moving.
Outside, we cross paths with a couple wearing sunglasses. It is a windy, gray day; the sun is completely hidden. I can’t help but wonder: what exactly are they trying to hide?
Down by the water, chaos breaks out as a flock of seagulls relentlessly pursues one lucky bird that managed to catch a sardine. Only a solitary cormorant remains completely still, as if lost in meditation. Looking down, I notice the reflection of a railing stretching across the water. The stark black-and-white lines instantly evoke the striped uniforms of prisoners in Nazi concentration camps. What a curious association for a simple morning walk.
Later, I go out for lunch with an English friend. As I play last night’s recordings for her—now translating my dictation to English—she can’t help but laugh out loud.
And looking back at my day, I have to chuckle too. It is fascinating how the mind works in those quiet, unstructured hours between sleep and fully waking up. From the simple, chaotic greed of seagulls to the heavy weight of history reflected in a harbor railing, our brains constantly weave together a unique tapestry of the world. Perhaps that is the beauty of language, or simply learning to translate our thoughts: it forces us to stop, look closer, and find meaning—or a good laugh—in the most fleeting moments.
A friend sent me the link to a Swiss painter’s website. I explore it with interest. I see oils, acrylics, three-dimensional works, and photographs.
Above all, her cyanotype prints captivate me. I submerge myself in a web of white lines: shiny filaments on a deep blue background. I pause to digest what I’ve seen. I look up toward the window in front of my desk, where a similar image surprises me. Above the whitewashed stone cubes of my town and the expanse of the cobalt sea extends, like a net of scars, a tangle of vapor trails that cross and lose themselves in the azure nothingness. Superimposed, an army of gray lenticular clouds evokes the silhouette of several UFOs.
To board one of them, I think, and fly to distant, ephemeral worlds—worlds that no longer exist anywhere but in my memory. To lose myself once again among the caresses of cotton fabrics and natural fibers. To let myself be carried away once more by the adventure of turning that delicate image into tangible matter. To create a space of dreams where reality vanishes on the threshold of the borderland, where the interstice transforms into a physical sensation of nothingness.
Ma, as the Japanese call it. For them, the space between things is not empty, but filled with energy: a force that moves you, inspires you, and lifts you up, like a flight inside a lenticular cloud. A possible interaction with the foreign, whether object, plant, animal, or human. Everything possesses a soul, a sensual promise, and deserves respect. The other, the unknown, is that which disquiets and at the same time fascinates; that which invites exploration. Is it not similar, perhaps, to being aboard that fictional alien ship?
I imagine black spheres descending on thin strings from that cloudy craft. As they draw near, the skeins unravel, turning into wavy filaments and shaping letters. They enter through my window and gather on my computer screen. As if holding hands, they weave sentences. I press a few keys to save this extraterrestrial text. What a rescue for a blocked writer!
