Whatever happens to me during weekdays, on Saturday and Sunday morning I can't help it: my inner self regresses to a 5 year old boy mental state. It's my defence mechanism that pulls me back through time without my consent. It's a shower of heartfelt nostalgia that makes me look foolish; it's the wild animal-child in me that grabs my ego and smashes it to pieces like a fist in a bowl of ripe strawberries, spilling sweet red syrup instead of bitter blood. A couple of hours I'm the chief of a train station in the cardboard mountains with green onion forests, peering solitarily through myopic eyes towards wooden trains filled with rushed plasticine passengers. The evening goes on with the Saturday bath, a festive occasion of simulating historical underwater battles with my hands morphed into submarines, facing the fast attack of a rubber duck convoy. Sunday ends with the adventures of a couple of sad porcelain cats escaped from home and lost in the immense field underneath my grandparents' table. Monday morning, the alarm clock brutally shatters the spell - but the clock wants all the best for you, he's your ally: he wants me to tell you, through sounds, all these stories that happened in the weekend.
File under: electroacoustic composition, narrative soundscape, half-remembered childhoods.