The music of time
There is something, a type of memory, I don't quite know what, a background noise, a music, barely perceptible, perhaps, but it is as if in the darkest, most well hidden heart of a house everything that happened in the house has remained there, molded, shaped. As if the house harbored in a musical score the meter of the sobs and of the happy times. The adagio of a lament. The andante of a dream. Now and then the tamborilero of the joys and the laughter. And abruptly, the hard blow. And now and then the silences. Also the silences. You open the door and there it is, the full symphony, and suddenly you let yourself be carried from smell to smell, from sound to sound. From sensation to sensation. The music of time.
The quote is (translated by me) from a gorgeously lyrical book, Utilidades de las Casas, by Isabel Cobo. I loved it when I read it, and somehow my recent trips to little places - La Alberca, Prats de Mollo, Mogarraz - brought it to mind. Small towns have a similar kind of memory, don't they?