Words on Enescu’s Suite Ancienne Performed by Laura Pauna

I had the pleasure of enjoying a few of Laura Pauna’s online performances. Below I wrote a a short story inspired by Enescu’s Suite Ancienne to accompany Laura Pauna’s vivid interpretation. Stories inspired by music. Enjoy!

Words by Patricia Furstenberg on Enescu's Suite Ancienne as Performed by Laura Pauna, Romanian and South African classical pianist.

South African and Romanian classical pianist Laura Pauna performed the PRISMATICA album LIVE in a concert presented by Vektor Productions in partnership with the Embassy of Romania in Pretoria.

There were two concerts, Saturday 14th of May and Sunday 15th of May. More info here.

Hit play, enjoy this passionate performance and, I hope, my story.

Cocooned in black clouds, the wind jumps from behind the forest and rolls down the valley, a tsunami of gravel and branches… Winded, the woodland draws breath…

Like an invader, the wind pushes over mighty trees still dazed by a summer of sunshine… Whipping their leaves about their trunks. Twisting their trunks towards the heavens. Their roots scream in protest. Their tears are torn leaves, yet they stand. Still…

Enraged, the wind leaps forward. Now wrestling and crumpling together shrubs and golden dandelions lost in its path.

Behind a boulder, a poppy flower. It quivers in the charged air, its tiny hairs like feelers, questioning life. And nearby, a sapling that grew in estranged soil, from a seed dropped by a hurried bird. It lowers its branches, the sapling does, and it tries to fight the gale. To shield the poppy…

The bluster got to them. It teases the sapling. It puffs and it pants, it spits ice lifting its branches into a dance. Now strumming its bows in a request for life, now lulling it into deceptive sanctuary… The sapling bends, it twists, it turns this way, and that in the wind. It remembers how he’d traveled, as a seed, it remembers the lesson – and it bends over the poppy, a pretense bow, till the gale unfolds further.

The wind, with only a handful of twigs and sand, rumbles away.

It hastens my way.

The witness.

Angry, he shows me his size by the cacophony of scents he surrounds me with. Earth, foliage, mulch, oils, dust. And steals my hat, hiding it in his clouds like molten lead.

I laugh. Wind spins around me. I am a tree. See my branches? See my leaves?

I lift my hands and feel the clouds with my fingers.
I touch raindrops. They fall like a curtain around me. And I cannot see.
‘I understand now,’ I laugh.

Copyright © Patricia Furstenberg. All Rights Reserved.

~~~

Enjoy more short stories on my blog here.

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