Autumn Storms 'n Crying Marego
A tiny little dot on the map, yet unmarked and for most unknown. A tiny little spot on the globe, on the periphery of the fast and furious magnetism of todays unglorious society. Close to the sea, yet in salty waters, in one of the far corners of a Southern French Lagoon I encountered 'Le Marego'. A universe, a trace of a lost and hidden country, which has never had any more of a definition outer than 'the land of the Fabulas'. No borders or frontiers have ever had the chance to tie the land to one solitary place, no coordinates were ever invented to locate the land of the Fabulas, no one has ever found this land without wanting to. This land is only to be reached by those who believe in miracles and the ones who permit them souls to search in freedom for the unknown yet dreamed reality of their imagination. This land is an Island surrounded by the endless horizons and ever singing waves of the eight Ocean. And you know it.
'Le Marego' is a secret quarter where the fire of the land of the Fabulas is being kept alive by a dozen pirates who gave up their names and passports in order to dedicate themselves fully to the art of keeping the fire alive. They choose in freedom and consciously but they paid a high price. They were to be neglected, even rejected by the Fast and Furious. Their existence was only to be confirmed by the heat of the fire and the eyes of the other pirates. The price was solitude and a deep conscious grieve for what has been forgotten and burned by the ones who were their mothers and fathers by birth, their bloodbrothers and sisters, their past collegues and friends. All pirates have one thing in common: They had all left their comfortable and social lives behind and there was nothing but a shadow of hope ahead. The hope that one day freedom was to be shared and celebrated by all and that the lonely pioneers could embrace their lost ones again.
There was no way back. And even though the solitude was firm and bitter, the hope kept them warm and the memory of the glorious light of the land of the Fabulas made them protect and guard the tiny little flame that was burning in 'le Marego'.
It's a stormy night and one of the village elders sits quietly in his cabin. His head is bended and his eyes closed. He listens to the music of the wind and now and then he whispers something back.
A mother and her child have abandoned their house and sleep now in the steel explorer of the big bearded sculpturer. The waves are new to them but fearless they fit the dress of this new life.
I go outside and look into the darkness. An aggressive South Eastern reports the heat from far away and brings big swell. The boats dancing on the constant waves. A sail was ripped violently and scatters around like a lost weddingdress. Moist laundry flying on the thin line where she was hanged. I jump off boat and safe her, for I feel like saving something or someone tonight. I wander around between the sleeping and shaking sailboats with unknown destinations and wonder why no one is outside. For these stormy nights are the nights in which new songs and poems are to be born. These stormy nights are the nights which bring memories alive and the sound of long forgotten lovers. These stormy nights are the nights in which fear is to be concurred. These nights remind me of my home for I was born on such a night.
