A winter walk in slow motion. The sounds of every sinking step along the snow carpeted trail, of a twig’s shudder felt by each cell of the tree, of water droplets dripping from glittering icicles, of pine cones being kicked sideways, of broken glasses…
An endless journey forward through the monotonous sparse woods, which effortlessly extends itself by looping the same scenery. It invites a meditative mind to open the inner eyes, drawn to meticulous examination of every detail in the derivation, and lulled to dreamy introspection of the encompassing philosophy.
At times clouds pass over and hastily flew on, casting transparent shadows on the otherwise blinding whiteness. A strange flicker produced by the transient chiaroscuro induces a moment of intellectual illumination, in which the mind briefly floats in the air of delightful clarity.
When I was small and looked at “Still Life in Motion”, or “Movement in Still Life”, I thought of a largely immobile living being undergoing quasi-equilibrium movement. Now it suddenly clicked that still life refers to a painting, like that of a couple of drying flowers gathered from outside the house, a framed old photograph of someone distant in memory, a plate of promising green grass, and an empty bottle – all of which set against a patchy gray wall in a dark room. So is trudging in that snow, doubtlessly a motion but in truth a collection of snapshots of the outer scenes and inner states.
I have never been good at ambient music. But when I open the window, and all the luminous particles of sounds and samples come along a sudden blow of wind onto my face – like this entrancing opening – I am the most willing captive to offer my most secret imagination.