“To think, pursued by a red type miasma in the Soostik, of all places…”
Our Thaddeus had a close call with a wretched end, as many of you might well have heard by now. To think, pursued by a red type miasma in the Soostik, of all places… We’ve all let our guard down on its lapping shores, taking in its peacefulness and, perhaps, enjoying a sighting of a green type miasma. It is a stroke of absolute quick-witted reaction that Thaddeus escaped. I imagine many of us might not be so lucky in his position.
I’ve had playing in my office all day a really lovely piece of music, tender and melancholic, titled “Pianofidling” by sound artist Alexander Rishaug. I suppose these slow, subtle melodies must be right at home in his sparingly inhabited native home of Norway, both share the same serene landscapes. Both also, to my mind, inspire a sense of curiosity, or exploration. There is an undeniable provocation to discover—each note passing like an age-old tree, every reverberation like the rough face of its bark coming into focus—and to discover without pressure of time or obligation. It’s an urge to simply be, and absorb, to ingest and ruminate.
It lends itself as the ideal guide as I find myself exploring some of my own, unsettling memories—memories of when I was caught in the control of a luminiferous miasma, the same type that nearly took our dear Thaddeus. Sitting across the room from me sits the small red box I trapped the miasma in, and today I find myself terribly aware that it still resides inside that box—in this very room with me. Day in and day out, there it sits, merely a few footsteps from my desk, a few more from the chair beside my record player. But it is there that it stays, because when it is there it is not anywhere else—and if it is nowhere else, it also endangers no one else.