Acorar

Walking outside the village, stepping on debris and stone, we find a milestone, once buried in the exact and primitive place where the thresholds that separate neighbors kiss. It seems that one day I stumbled upon the tip of one of these stones and it rose. Today marks eight years since we premiered "Acorar," and by unearthing that stone, I moved the landmarks, the limits, and the fears, and portals and fences opened. And the sky.

Today the photographs of that moment, the traversed cartography, the knowledge, the lessons, and so many lived experiences are presented tinged with a small joy that makes us see the fortune of growing up with this profession of theater, especially when your contemporaries value the effort and the significance, and the ephemeral act of telling a story remains fixed in their memory and makes it enduring.

Perhaps we lacked something. Perhaps it had to be this way. Perhaps it is now that we will take new flights. Perhaps it will be in the Library where we will be happy again. A library of talking stones, of breathing earth, of words that touch us, caress us, and make us, and where papers come to life. A den of people who live it. Maybe we would not have been complete without having touched the sea at the library.

We thought we would tell a story about the sacrifice of the pig, about death, about wounded Mallorca, and we discovered that we only know how to live and speak of life. And it is in this space where I learned to say 'Life, life, life!' and now here we are, with an eight on our backs so that theater overturns certainties and shapes them into an infinity of life, without landmarks or neighbors, all one.

Acorar is having roots firmly planted in the ground, in the earth, the only possible way to learn, to live, to fly.

Toni Gomila, Manacor, October seventh, two thousand and nineteen.