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47 and 53.

My father went on to play the Aria seventeen times more. More vinyls and reel-to-reels and some cassette tapes, too. That afternoon we listened to a total of nineteen recordings of the same thing—mesmerising, debilitating and filling both us of with an equal amount of awe. And a sense of repetition, too, to be frank. A Saturday afternoon after which I could have played the Aria by heart and blindfolded. “There you go,” my father said once there was nothing more to be played, “Leave now,” he added.
With a firm hand he gestured towards the door.
He then roared “Get out! Get the fuck out!”
And I clearly saw the desert, felt the burning heat on my arm, I was blinded by the constant sun and my only refuge was a Joshua tree. With him lost—no music, no damaged armchair—and me standing next to him yet unable to guide him or find my own way at all. Options were limited, no path to follow, a complete sense of abandonment enveloping an otherwise forgiving setup: the two of us without intentions, left to aimless loitering in a space not well suited for reflection.


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