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WoodwindsEssay, soundscape & crayon – April 3rd 2026

I’m cooking bolognese. Small dots of tomato sauce splash onto my white shirt, and a light and curious rhythm pops up in the back of my head. It is a bassoon, its sound vaporish in form, constantly shifting in shape and color. It feels like some sort of play. Like an invitation for me to move with it. I look down at my shirt, and I wiggle along to the sound of the tomato dots before I give the sauce another deep stir.

I begin to imagine smokey shapes puffed into the air from the tip of a clarinet now joining in.

The shapes feel airy, improvised, and impossible to catch. And yet, there’s a lot of body to them. A thickness that almost allows me to touch them in my mind. I look towards the doorway to my living room where the light from the evening sun has thrown itself lazily across the wooden floor like a tired cat. It takes form between the shadows of plants, furniture, and waving trees outside the window–warm and golden. The light shifts constantly like the sound shapes in the back of my head. The sauce simmers.

Everything circulates in sonic patterns, playful and colorful. The thin line of a flute appears. Timidly, at first, but then it stretches and swirls dizzily around in endless loops. I stand in the kitchen, inside these loops of sound—stirring, listening, watching the light. It all repeats itself in different ways. Nothing really ends. It just lingers on.

I taste the sauce–pffft! It’s too hot.