La Ville Imaginere de Vert
Moments in a Life: L.M.
He composes in the morning. The melodies waking him gently from sleep. Minuets, rondos, waltzes, concertos, operas. Softly they hum in his head as he prepares a cup of black espresso on the stovetop. Rinsing out the basin, emptying the metal cup against the edge of the sink, packing the grain tightly and filled to the top, and sealing the lid with five twists, he puts the press on the gas flame and shuffles to the window. An expansive window with nine window panes facing a stone patio with ivy-covered walls.
When the house was given to him, after many years of having been abandoned and nearly forgotten, the patio was overgrown with ivy. The vines steadily made their way inside. Climbing the walls and passing through broken windows. The tile floor was mostly gone and vegetation had grown in its place. A patchwork of foliage and ceramic tile laid out in a checkerboard pattern. Birds and other animals had taken up residence in the ruin. The exposed wooden beams were humid and moist and rotting in parts. The roof was completely gone, after years of decay it had finally given way during a storm. Stone tiles from the patio were broken and many had gone missing. A small fountain, discovered only later during the renovation, was buried beneath the verdant foliage. He found the overgrowth beautiful and enchanting - nature running wild inhabiting the forlorn house. He spent three months going back and forth between his minuscule attic apartment several neighborhoods to the east and the old house that now had become his home. He composed in the morning and in the afternoon took the city bus to the house, wandering through the growth sometimes sitting for hours on a broken fold-out chair watching the sun against the foliage and marveling at the variety of plant life in such a small enclosure. His fingers brushed against the soft leaves as he watched the sunlight dance against the walls. Sometimes he climbed to the precariously-placed roof where between high concrete walls he could see the entire city cascading to the brilliant sea. White cubes with clay tile roofs alternating between shocks of abundant green. It exhilarated him. Melodies rushed in. He pulled a pencil from his pocket. When his sketchbook ran through and every square centimeter saturated by his indecipherable pencil marks, in desperation should one note escape him, he moved to the largest surface readily available surface. He covered the walls with musical painting.
Burnt coffee. He starts the process again. Five twists set atop a burning flame.
When the house was given to him, after many years of having been abandoned and nearly forgotten, the patio was overgrown with ivy. The vines steadily made their way inside. Climbing the walls and passing through broken windows. The tile floor was mostly gone and vegetation had grown in its place. A patchwork of foliage and ceramic tile laid out in a checkerboard pattern. Birds and other animals had taken up residence in the ruin. The exposed wooden beams were humid and moist and rotting in parts. The roof was completely gone, after years of decay it had finally given way during a storm. Stone tiles from the patio were broken and many had gone missing. A small fountain, discovered only later during the renovation, was buried beneath the verdant foliage. He found the overgrowth beautiful and enchanting - nature running wild inhabiting the forlorn house. He spent three months going back and forth between his minuscule attic apartment several neighborhoods to the east and the old house that now had become his home. He composed in the morning and in the afternoon took the city bus to the house, wandering through the growth sometimes sitting for hours on a broken fold-out chair watching the sun against the foliage and marveling at the variety of plant life in such a small enclosure. His fingers brushed against the soft leaves as he watched the sunlight dance against the walls. Sometimes he climbed to the precariously-placed roof where between high concrete walls he could see the entire city cascading to the brilliant sea. White cubes with clay tile roofs alternating between shocks of abundant green. It exhilarated him. Melodies rushed in. He pulled a pencil from his pocket. When his sketchbook ran through and every square centimeter saturated by his indecipherable pencil marks, in desperation should one note escape him, he moved to the largest surface readily available surface. He covered the walls with musical painting.
Burnt coffee. He starts the process again. Five twists set atop a burning flame.
