Marienplatz is nearly deserted at the early hours of such a cold, gray February morning. The cab driver has rushed through an empty A9 in his ancient Mercedes with the recklessness of a fevered dream that has lulled the frayed nerves to a surprising sense of well-being. Like in all journey through the void, the last eight hours of flight has left the human animal with a frightening loss of any certainty about where one is, a loss that is also liberating. Fear and freedom can sometimes conspire to follow each other, freedom lurking eagerly on the other side of terror.
As the taxi slowly comes to a halt at the corner of Weinstraße, the sense of disquiet that has been carrying me along in its path suddenly leaves me alone. And as I stare at the familiar but yet forgotten St. Peter’s towers, the incessant machinations of mind takes pity, releases me from its grip and suspends me in a magical minute of thoughtless wonder that speeds up its own destruction by trying to resist its inevitable demise. That minute seems to have been enough, just enough, to clear away the debris that have been blocking the exit out of this ténébreuse labyrinth where the thoughts and impulses have been chasing each other. The world that was felt to be out of joint to this exhausted mind even an hour back now suddenly promises to offer a shelter.
The cold air embraces me with the brutality of a long forgotten desire. The piercing clarity feels all the more familiar as it reminds me of home, on the other side of the ocean, where too the wind kisses and slaps and bites…and brings me to the luminous world of sensations away from the shadows of derelict ambitions. The wind hisses and whispers as it pushes me away from Marienhof towards the Gothic domes of Frauenkirche through the shop-lined corridor of Kaufingerstraße. The splendors on both sides of the street, emptied of all human vanity at this hour, radiate an austere, fragile beauty that the daybreak is already scheming to dissolve. The fertile silence within the depths of the half-lit stores, on the other side of the frosty windows, stares back at me candidly. I find myself face to face with an old acquaintance as the milky sunlight spreads itself reluctantly across the wide expanse of a melancholy Munich morning. He is looking at me inquisitively through the thick silvery glass of an antique store whose barely visible interior offers a tantalizing glimpse into its well-deserved reputation for ramshackle wealth.
No matter how hard I try I cannot quite recall when was the last time I saw him. He seems to have gotten younger with age, the lines on his face mocking at me through their absence. The eyes glow as they measure me with frank disdain before leaving some space for compassion in a tranquil smile. The smile draws me closer.
As I start to step forward opening my mouth to greet him with a name that I recall I have forgotten, I feel the world around me disappearing and my raised feet meet no solid ground as they try to plant themselves back. He steps forward, his hands folded around his chest, offering no help as I watch myself vanishing inexorably. He stays standing nearby; reassuringly, terrifyingly, indispensably close.
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We have been throwing pebbles and stones back into the foaming waves of Ipswich bay. It is a bright and breezy March afternoon and other than us there are only a handful of Rockport locals down at the Halibut Point state park at this time of the year. The high tide and wind are rolling the waves into ever innovative patterns. As the waves, one after another, crash onto the tall rocks and saturate the air in a ceaseless cycle of short-lived dense cold clouds, a remarkable procession of rainbows appear right in front of our eyes. Unpredictable in their shapes and color variations, each lasting no longer than a second or two, offering stark visual contrast to the gray rocks, gray-dark ocean and a sky where gray clouds are now rapidly accumulating to fill in the void left behind by the sun as it starts its rapid winter descent over the bay. Against the backdrop of colors that are now spreading over the horizon, the dance of the fleeting rainbows create a visual music. Like a fluttering of piano notes over a slowly swelling orchestra.
The tiny little man next to me by now has been transfixed by this wonder unfolding before his eyes. Otherwise a bundle of inquisitive energy he is now silent, stunned, and his fingers — warm even outside the confines of the unfriendly gloves which I have now been entrusted with — hold onto mine with an unshakeable strength. As I breathe in the sea air it seems lighter than usual, and maybe even new.
Quiet Noise 