Signature for Estonian Classic Radio – Winter season / mix: Jüri Reinvere, 2003
Music I: F. Poulenc: Salve Regina / Ac.of St.Martin-in-the-Fields, cond. George Guest
Music II: P. McCartney: Liverpool Oratorio / Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra, cond. Carl Davis
Music III: filtered forest, dog afar
This spreading of the endless ocean, in the light of the night. Scattered forests, windflowers on the ground. And the smoke of the bonfires, past the beaches, as far as one can see. The moon distances itself, bent upwards diagonally, and carries the sea along with itself like it was something light as a feather.
On the other hand: a dark spa resort, the weekend, a drunk tourist leaning on the counter. Nearby a cementary, crammed with crosses. The smell of mineral water, the cash register rattles in the lobby.
The water rising, slowly, the surface of the water tears itself: fills with newer and newer waters, wells up, the skinny rope of the boat scratches the deep of the sea, the voice of the wind reaches the surface, which holds up without the slightest slip.
Then the wind turns into a long, full roar.
In the night like Buddha, the sea embraces the earth, and a red mass is cast to shore, which cools right down. After a few hours the matter disappears, everything is dark again.
Early morning: the grass frozen over. A leaf at the edge of the street. On the ceiling the new light of the sea: the playing of curved mirrors past the narrow corridor. The precise unison of the clocks, the deep sleep of the people behind the doors.
Light: boats crumpled up on the sand, branches form repugnant patterns. The tales of the dogs wave around in the corners of the beach, straight just like the boats, and look for detectable crumbs in the soft sand. The first walkers walk at the edge of wet and dry, collecting bottles with a strange shape.
An abandoned village between estonian and russian marshes, some pines: the fields are full of weeds and the roads are a quagmire, people are dead, their children likewise. There’s severe frost at night, and the silhouette of a bride with a crown stands behind the window, her strange look to nowhere, her motionless body. The fog has jelled into fibers, the bushes stand quietly, it’s difficult to breath. The lights of an intercontinental plane flicker in the sky.
A light crash: the sea beach. Windflowers behind: the first chord of the work, and the very last, only separated in time.
Another level: the progress of music history.
Darkness, a mocking darkness, the bouys getting closer to the shores. And the knowledge, that in the morning, that each morning, exactly the same fires are started around the beaches.