yesterday we went to gunnars house, the worlds last spilåpipa maker, to record and learn about his traditional wooden flutes. dark oak floors and low white ceilings, dangling lamps, walls of ancient books and rows and rows of flutes, from the stairwell to the kitchen. a long line of instruments graced the wall perpendicular to the flaky faded green and yellow covers, bagpipes, hardangar fiddles, mandolins, violins, and more. i wish the wind had been blowing inside, the house would have been a huge aolian harp. everyone touched the various delights with big eyes and hushed fingers. as we played polskas for posterity, outside over the greenhouse and rumpled fields it began to snow.