Once he discovered on a crispy clear morning in Madrid in the bookshop of the Reina Sofia a booklet Gramática de meseta, from Ibon Aranberri. He reads on the cover: “At the foot of the hill lies a pile of stones numbered, waiting for another destiny. As if attributing reason to stones made any sense. As if stones had consciousness and were able to sense the disorder in which they were placed there.” He opened the booklet and discovered a picture of a sundial, deconstructed, put in the sand, cut off his daily moving shadow and time. It reminds him to bring some sand for the sand-collection of his sister, saved in tiny small glass bottles.
He muses about the Alps and remembered an absurd text of Miroslav Holub which has made a strong impression on him: Concise contemplation on maps. In not much as one page, Holub described in which way a Hungarian peloton get lost in the mountains but did found after days their way back on a map which appear at home to be a map of the Pyrenees.
He bought the booklet and two postcards of two paintings by Goya, the inventor of the scetchbook. The beautiful La Maja, desnuda and vestida, for each eye one, stretched out on the bed, inviting and waiting. He remembered the undressed one send by his brother Joost, three years before his dead, visiting Madrid with one of his young twin-daughters, Swan. He did write below La maja Desnuda ‘sister of the dressed one’.
He was touched by his difficult to read handwriting, quick as always, and by her attribution in Adíos and just her name: Zwaan.
He wondered why he was alive on this dreaming morning in Madrid and showed his treasures to his love.