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To tell someone: put the diabolo on the floor, roll it from side to side, as soon as it passes in front of you, lift it up and make a small and fast movement like this, up and down with your dominant hand, only your dominant hand (the other is present without strength), it is like a spear that involuntarily echoes in the head, without often assaulting the conscious with the relevance that this set of simple gestures can take. If the most basic principles of the diabolo can influence the course of a life, I wonder what some right words can do at some right time. Perhaps there is something profoundly poetic in both. Maybe these worlds touch each other. Conception, direction, interpretation, sound, texts and photography by Teresa Santos, technical support by Dídac Gilabert and production of Grito imagens.

Work in progress at Acus 19.10 by Hilo de Diabolo in Fàbrica de Somnis of Vic.

Teresa Santos
Teresa Santos

Summer poems

In summer, the body knows the pause. Pause.

Monday fires
I open the window on this hot night. A paraphernalia of light and sound is installed in this picture. You’re lying in bed and you’re sleepy, so you don’t see. You ask me if it’s beautiful. I don’t know, it’s happening behind the trees. The heat postponed the fire. Even a Monday can be a day of fireworks. There are things that cannot be postponed. One. Two. Three. Silence and heavy breathing.

All the outer layers try to seduce you, buy you, convince you, provoke you, enthuse you, control you, consume you, invade you, alienate you, until, finally, overcome you.

Today for today
Golden waves populated by reverent suns are crossed. Along the hot and infinite asphalt, fast breezes roll towards their destination. Micro universes shaped in this peninsular desert, are oases of color and life. Dry valleys drain among almost green giants. Time drags itself to the rhythm of a tired body. Today, for today, we have traveled our way together. Saramagos are left behind and things so familiar as unknown are missed. Remaining places melt and fade, leafy, within the latent chest. Are we there?

There is an open window that does not close. A breeze that disturbs the sight that does not end. Beyond, in infinity, the tangible dream subjects itself to the impermanence of days and nights. Time passes, absorbed in the illusion of being. The wanting fades and there is a window that closes.

Teresa Santos