Saturday 21 May 2022, 12.00 noon CET
Locations: Helsinki, Sheffield, Vaasa, Vienna
Details of exploration:
In preparation and as a way of tuning in together prior coming to Vaasa, on Saturday 21 May 2022 at noon GMT we five writers engaged in a shared experiment in collective writing in public space. The writers/artistic researchers make written observations of a public site for a time-bound period, collaborating in a shared action, though geographically apart [in Berlin, Sheffield, Berlin, Helsinki, Vaasa]. We began with three 10-minute warm-ups with different foci of attention – e.g. surfaces, surfacing. From there we continued to write with attention on 'as far as the eye can see'.
Below is the overall 'score' or series of prompts that were used for structuring an experiment in collective writing in public space. A series of prompts for timed writing/reading together in different geographical locations.
SCORES/INSTRUCTIONS
Part 1: Writing phase
Engage in a period of writing in a public space of your choice on Saturday 21 May at noon CET.
Pre-score - Attunement: Before writing spend time tuning into your bodily experience, the experience of your different senses, tuning into being.
A. Warm-up explorations
The writing starts with three warm-up scores of 10 min each:
* Surfaces
** Surfacing (not yet)
*** And still, something follows, what if
TIME FOR STILLNESS, EMBODIMENT BEFORE VERBALIZATION… TIME TO BE (10 min)
B. Then, write for 1 hour from the same spot (if possible) in relation to 'As far as the eye can see'.
Part 2: Writing up/transcription
Type your notes from the initial writing phase, so that the text is clearly readable (for yourself and others). Please note where and when you have been writing.
To the right are the texts and recordings generated through engaging with each 'score' or 'prompt'.
Surfacing (Not Yet)
Surface as a thing-ness perhaps.
Surfacing in the contact between.
Surface surfaces under my touch.
I feel its texture in relation.
Texture – always in relation, a phenomenon of touch, of being-in-touch.
Touch is a surfacing, as a surfacing.
Suddenly, this slip from the noun of surface to verb, the introduction of ‘ing’.
Stoning.
Lichening.
Skinning.
Mossing.
No, these words describe the object itself not so much its surface as such. Is surface always adjectival, a quality, a characteristic, a felt sense.
Sunlight breaks and my skin warns, a surfacing of comfort, of ease. This not yet, a movement before I can recognise, a coming-into-possibility, a temporally indeterminate moment, like I am projecting myself forward in time, in order to write now what is not yet.
Not yet as a writing of clairvoyance, of prophecy.
A projection and a looking back.
Becoming.
So hard to catch this on the cusp of its unfolding, my writing is never able to be in time.
Always a little after the fact, or else always risking to lean forward, into a not0yet future, that has not yet happened, into the yet-to-come.
Yet this yet-to-come is always imaginary. Is this yet-to-come always imaginary?
The imaginary feels as if it begins too strongly with the I, with a capital I – Imaginary.
Can I see this yet-to-come, can I feel this yet-to-come, becoming attuned to its cusp of arrival, without that tilting into the imaginary of I. The yet-to-come, a not yet that is not limited by the imaginary of my I. To see the foreshadow of coming, in the moment before it is fully recognisable, its murmurings just before it fully appears.
Prescience. With what senses to attune to this not yet. The eyes feel so graspy. They reach already from me, stretching to know, to name, to gather the unruly now. It is the sense of the already known, to fold the now into known.
I had not before seen the enveloped “now” in “known” so much until I write it now.
From now to known.
Shifting from a felt unfolding into object, into known, into k-noun.
K-nouning, knowing, k-now-ing
K-nouning as a knowing.
The time has already past once more.
And still, something follows, what if
What unfolds from the attention I bring, what follows. The writing unfolds depending on where I still, where I settle, where I place my attention. A placing of attention, rather than the paying of attention. To place one’s attention. Attention ‘places’, attention ‘placed’. Place. Places. Placed. Placing. Placing. Placing.
Placing: words look so strange repeated over and over.
Lacing. Interlacing.
And still, what follows, what if.
This what if feel semantic.
The words themselves unfold possibilities as they are turned.
What if, a turning over of possibility.
New words unfold as the words are turned.
To ‘turn’ one’s attention.
This turn of attention in turn, turns.
Turns what is attended to, not only turns over, but also turns, as in transforms.
The turn of attention, the transformation of attention.
To turn.
Taking turns.
Turning one’s attention, placing one’s attention.
A space begins to emerge or open in the words.
These two worlds in relation, the space I am writing in relation to, where I have placed myself and the space of the text itself.
Space, splice, lace. Interweaving or interlacing of these attentional spaces, two spaces interwoven.
How to hold in relation.
This feels generative.
As far as the eye can see
There is always a gap or discrepancy between what the eye can see and what I think the eye can see. There is always a discrepancy between what the eye can see and what I can see. As a sensory organ, the eye’s seeing appears visual, but it is also relation to what I can recognise, that is what I can see. There are things that I cannot see, even if the eyes see. For seeing is already a recognition. As far as the eyes can see is then, as far as I can recognise.
Yet the eye’s capacity to ‘see’, in turn effects what I can recognise, what I can see. The seeing, that is, the recognising that I able, is dependent upon my eyes for seeing. And my eyes are not as good as they used to be. To really see, to see far, I need to wear my glasses. Putting my glasses on, I recognise further, I can see further, the far-ness that my eyes can see is increased. Or rather, there is a sudden sharpness, a clarity that was not there before.
Suddenly edges become clearer, details appear where before there was only softness and blur. The liveliness of the flower border suddenly surges, as insects, bees, suddenly appear.
Language, written texts, along the hoardings of the building become suddenly legible. For a mix of uses – creating space to entertain, relax, play, gather, shop, eat and drink … Respecting our city’s heritage. I am now testing my vision as if in the optician’s chair. Straining my eyes to ‘make out’ the detail of the text. To ‘make out’ – I am suddenly struck by this term: to ‘make out’ as in to be able to grasp, to understand, to pull out of the indeterminacy, into clarity of vision and comprehension.
I am struggling to ‘make out’ the details. Taking my glasses off again, further details slip from view, from being readable.
Readable.
Legible.
Understandable.
Recognisable.
What the eyes see or what I recognise? Seeing and recognising, becoming somehow indifferentiable.
What the eyes see is light and shadow, colour and movement, a sphere of visuality. Does the eye even ‘see’ distance, nearness? Or is this a cognitive afterwards? Is it that the I sees such things, but not the eye?
What does the eye ‘see’? Does the eye even ‘see’ on its own? What is seeing? Is seeing to understand, to recognise? And can I see without language, for it seems that language too enables me to recognise? How is the relation of the recognising of language and the recognition of the eyes? How is their interweaving?
I am looking but is this already seeing?
It is hard to not already name.
Inventories of nameable things: the flower border alliums, and geranium, of foxtail lilies and of bees. Yet which bees for there are no doubt many?
The eye sees only an undifferentiated interplay of colour, light, shape, movement – seeing - as in recognising - gives contour to edges, it names. And counts.
I try to count the bees. Taxonomies and accounting. Of the buds still waiting to bloom and the headless stalks of flowers already passed and faded.
Writing somehow makes clear this relation of seeing and language, of naming. Yet how to see/write without recourse to pre-existing names and nouns? What am I seeing and what kind of language is called?
Maybe it might help to change to listening where the contours of things are not so quick to establish, less easy to immediately recognise. No, this is not the task. As far as the eye can see, as far as I can see.
Yet writing creates a dilemma, for I need my glasses to see far, yet when writing, the glasses blur. Between seeing (looking) and writing, this shift of glasses on and off, something always gets lost. To write with the eyes closed, seeing into the dark space behind the eyes, behind the eyelid. I think of Cixous’ writing, writing blind. Does she mean writing without seeing, or without recognising in advance, without the “I” as much as without the eyes.
I realise that I am drifting into thinking, and am forgetting to look, or it is to see. How do I use my eyes in this thinking – they are open but may as well be closed. I sense that I have withdrawn, away from what the sensory organs of the eyes can see. Except from these words now appearing on the page. I see the words form on the page as I am writing. Do I see the thought first, no, I hear them, no, I watch them? They are half heard in thought, half looked at as they appear on the page. Somewhere between the senses, a multimodal phenomenon. Between the touch of the pen, paper, thoughts, eyes, hand – and a listening which is without sounds, which is to the silence, listening to the sounding of words ‘in’ my head. A sound, an internal sound of a word voiced, but not spoken.
Listening to this silent sounding, which none the less can still be heard. There are times when the sounds, the unsilent sounds of the surroundings occludes or overwhelms the silent unspoken sounding of my thought-sounds as they are forming.
Between the seeing of the words unfolding on the page and listening to the words emerging in that silent sounding, and the pen nib at the cusp of these two realms, in touch with both.
As far as the eye can see – inner realms, invisible to the eye yet present none the less. Dark realms, these spaces of silent wording, not yet surfacing. The not yet surfacing of language, a language surfacing in the contact of the pen and the page, and the formless half words, half sounded in my head.
I am looking ‘inwards’. At times, there is too much ‘going on’ outside. ‘Going on’ - what is this going on? All these lives in motion and movements, and intentions in action. All this activity unfolding, all the time.
I look up – is this the furthest I can see. Seeing unobstructed by objects and others’ movements in the space. Layers of clouds passing, and beyond that blue. Blue is as far as the eye can see, as far as I can see. I cannot see further than the blue sky, but I can see as far.
As far, or further than?
Spatial measurements and delimitations.
As far and as far as.
As far as – already a border, a border between what I can recognise and what exceeds or escapes that frame. I know that there is no doubt further, even than the blue sky, further into the dark of other universes, beyond what I can comprehend.
The eyes/I see as far as I know and can recognise, yet I know that there is further still, and yet I cannot ‘see’ that far, not yet, not now.
Clouds gather suddenly suggesting rain. The darkening clouds somehow make the sun’s rays more luminous, somehow amplifying its intensity, and the edges between the sun and shadow, the clouds and the blue sky.
This seeing, this recognising, this writing even, takes practice, takes practising. I can see only as far as I am practised, as I am practising. Exercise of the faculties of the senses, at the interval between this seeing/seeing and of the eye/I.
Surfaces
The wind on the surface of my cheek, my skin, tells me it is blowing in a certain direction. The right cheek feels the wind, the left stays sheltered, unaffected by this flow of moving air.
Surfaces have been skinned. I try to recall how the building was before, but it is hard to remember.
Now the building is flanked in a skin of hoardings, in turn skinned by advertisements and projected imagining of how this same space will look at some time in the future.
A confusion of all these surfaces – projected images of a future time, my memory of how it was, and the surfaces of now, a de-surfacing in fact. Buildings with their once-surfaces torn off – exposing their hidden innards. I am now struck by the association between surface and skin. Sur-face. Under the skin, skin, skin of the world. An epidermal layer, a thin veneer. How deep or shallow is this surface, this skin of the world?
Looking can only imagine it seems, for surface is a phenomenon known only really in touch. I imagine running my fingers over that which I hold in my sight, but not in my hand. Not so much an imagining as a recollection, recalling past touch, past surfaces – my existing knowledge of how a certain surface feels.
The grey breeze block of the interior is exposed, with its careless seams of cement never intended for view. In my mind, I try to bring the sense of my fingers’ contact with this specific surface texture – the shifts in roughness, intermittent bulges and holes. I cannot recall whether this surface would feel cool to touch, like marble. Temperature shifts in the meeting points too – between my hand and the wall.
What register is temperature – relational? Only ever in relation to the warmth or cool of my hand, which in turn, feels already changed by the wind and the air. The surface skin of my hands definitely feels cooler than when I began. Does air have a surface? Or is it a phenomenon only felt in its brush with surface?
And now sound, the sounds of bells, bouncing off surfaces, and now all these sounds. Of work, of demolition, reverberating off the walls of the building, already gutted and exposed.
The workers are moving surfaces, a sheet of metal, of plywood. Skins. Surfaces for surfacing other surfaces. Some surfaces show their materiality – others are already covered over, their materiality concealed.
I realise I am moving from the surface of now into a future tense. I bring my fingers to touch the ground, the stone steps upon which I am sitting. They feel warm to touch, warmer than I would have imagined. Always this gap between imagining and sensing.
Moving between touching the stone, a sandstone, almost soft to touch, and the rub of my finger and thumb. My hair brushes the surface of my cheek. Wind and hair, in touch. A sensation born of a mutual movement, of hair and wind. Touch, always a relation, and of so many things.
I realise that I have lost track of time, and shift to surfacing. Maybe I am already there.
13.12h 13℃
Every year I forget how much it blooms in the summer. One might think “Ah, it’s green, it’s here, this is it” but not yet. One day one realises how much was missing. How much was still hiding. How much warmth was still to come. How much freshness and looseness.
And still, every year I’m surprised by it.
I’m looking at the shades made by objects. Such as my hand on this notebook. Maybe I can outline it with my other hand.
That was sort of the outline of my hand on the paper. Right hand made by the left hand.
The buildings, the objects, the trees, the plants, cast a shadow on the garden.
What about sounds?`What about the cars, the birds, the neighbours music always, constant, and not yet recognized and still always present.
Things surface as our attention allows them to.
I’m bound by time. I’m bound by 10 minutes now. Nothing says I can’t forget and get lost. I could. But let’s go back to the not yet… and still… surfacing.
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13:34h 13℃
Up down. Up down, Up down, Up down, Up down, Up down, Up down. Up down, Up down, Up down, Up down, Up down. Up down. Up down.Up down.Up down.Up down.Up down.Up down.Up down.Up down.Up down.Up down.
My sight stretches but not towards the horizon, but rather over the surfaces of the grass, trying to map, to form a skyline for the grass. My head rests over the spiky surface, getting lost between the stems that rise and forget there is anything bigger than them.
I rotate and everything is lost in this vast blue. No reference in sight, just plainness. A bird passes and breaks the plane, turning it into a backdrop to its anatomy. The bird leaves the frame. There is nothing but blue. And yet everything else is there. What else? Who else? Elsewhere.
My back leaves the ground and encounters a familiar world. The garden, the grill, the walls, the bushes, the edges of the garden surrounded by a wall of greenery, the trees, the window, the bricks, teh chairs, the table, the burned to the coal potatoes, the shades, the shine, the green, red, brown, yellow, green, green, green, yellow, green, black, brown… the world full with its information. I lay down. Blue, blue, blue…
Out of the blue. Into the blue.
No more images. The birds, the cars, but not a car or two but a mass of car sounds that transform into static. The bells.
The shadow of the walöl is walking on top of my body.
Cold feet. Hot head.
An and. Probably more. “Honey I shrunk the kids”... An eyeball walking through the grass. Up down. Up down, Up down, Up down, Up down, Up down, Up down, Up down, Up down, Up down, Up down, Up down, Up down, Up down, Up down, Up down, Up down, Up down, Up down. Grass-hopper. Hop-hope. H-o-p. H-p-e.
There are some ants inside my right leg. Tingling. Pain. And gone. My toes stretch, open, and then go back to being a foot. An entity.
The foot rises to the ground. On the ground. The knees point up to the blue. The ant walks the bridge.
The foot becomes a leg. An entity.
The torso joins the knees, the hands join the feet, the head wobbles. The body becomes a body. An entity.
An entity that attempts to forget its purpose. That attempts to get lost somewhere. And still, awareness has not yet dispersed to never come back. Ware. Weariness. A-weariness.
Forget and forgotten everything falls out of the blue and back into the blue.
Just blue.
13:01h 13℃
Where is the surface of the grass? Is it on the cusp of each stem? Is it a drawn “skyline” going up and down? Is it a block which connects all the stems making it a whole?
The topography of a garden. Ups and downs with an unimaginable amount of crests and valleys all causi imperceptible for our common sight.
To look at the world from a different height. To lay our head on the ground and pretend we live within a world of giants.
To follow the lights and shadows that draw the images in the space. To divide, or to forget to divide areas and places. To see the difference, observe it, wonder upon it, embrace it, adapt, belong to all of them and forget that we are.
To find, to discover, to uncover, to recover.
To let the bare foot grasp what is below, without seeing, without hurry, without aim, without shoes.
To allow the neck to wobble around and about.
13:46
På Lazza, en marockansk lunchrestaurang I hörnet av Gjutarestigen och Sågaregatan
Den ensamma betraktaren
Två bakverk, den ena doppad i rosenvatten, en sockerkaka, den andra med malda hasselnötter
Väldigt gott te med mynta
Ränder
Musik med pan flöjt, den spelar sången, Fernando
Lukten av klor i toaletten
I hörnet speglar, en kapphängare, en liten målning med stor sandstrand, en pir i bakgrunden, två kameler, stor och liten, havet
Stora vägghöga fönster i två riktningar, mot gatan och mot kevyen liikenteen väylä
Längst bort vattentornet, svampen
Sound of silence
En liten estrad upptill kantad med blommor, en girlang, i hörnen två lanternor, baktill ett vitt skinande glansigt tyg
Få röster
Svängdörren till köket knarrar
Ny låt
Svarta små paketbilar som tillhör ett företag på andra sidan gatan
Bilar som kör i maklig takt med samma hastighet, man ser det eftersom avståndet mellan bilarna är intakt, hastigheten är kanske 40 km/h
Det finns små figurer på gatuskylten för gjutarestigen, motivet är gjutning
Blåsigt
Rullskidare
Flera olika låtar med pan vars namn jag har på tungan
Take a look at me know
Cyklister som cyklar i väldigt olika takt
En annan skribent, jag sitter inomhus
Inne ute
En till skribent, vi rör oss på ett område
Byggnader kastar skuggor
En byggnad kastar en skugga
Människor är väldigt olika klädda, en del i tröja en del i täckjacka med mössa
3 hundar i väldigt olika storlekar
Gardiner med volang upptill är snörda i mitten med ett tunt runt band
Volangerna har ett kantband i beige med små tofsar
Kalla kårar
Jag förflyttar mig i tankarna till andra orter
Det blåser fram sand
Ett missnöjt barn
Bilar med reklam
Personbilar
Snart är jag utomhus igen
Ostadigt
Love Hurts
Röster bakom mig
rullskidare
13:18
Spricker till ytan, inte ännu
Surfacing, not yet
Det är vår och allting spirar
Liljekonvaljens avlånga löv som slutar i en spets är ännu tunna, mjuka skarpt gröna i solljuset
Tallen har tappat små grenar som ligger mellan eller på liljekonvalj
Grässtrån sticker fram här eller där, de är högre än allt annat, undervegetation
Vitsippornas blommor tittar mot samma håll
Under mina fötter barr och undre barren mull som jag inte kan se utan att gräva
På gränsen mellan skog och det bebyggda
Där trottoaren svänger börjar en stig vinkelrätt, den fortsätter uppåt mot krönet bakom mig
Fåglar som jag kan höra men inte se
Läten, sång, skrän, lockrop
Avstånd mellan mig och tallens stam, mellan mig och krönet
Om jag flyttar mig bildas andra avstånd
Jag har ryggen motbacken och skogsdungen breder ut sig
Asfalt trottoar bebyggelse
13:28
Och fortfarande, någonting följer, vad om
And still, something follows, what if
Kråkan koltrasten bofinken lövsångaren skatan
Om jag stryker liljekonvaljen ser jag små gröna knoppar
Torra gula barr i min hand, doften av kåda
Små rörelser
Inga andra människor
Det fina med att sitta stilla är att fåglarna tittar fram
Jag vickar på handen, släpper barren och lyssnar på koltrasten som sjunger uppe på krönet
Fågelsång gör skogen till en plats
Steg
En kort skugga till höger om stegen
Det doftar gott i skogen
Hertonäs industriområde
På en stubbe mellan trottoar och skog
13:08
Ytor, surfaces
Skuggor lägger sig på trottoarens yta
Bakom mig sträcker sig en skogsdunge
Under mig den plana ytan av ett nedhugget träd och en färsk stubbe
Solen uppe till höger, ljuset silar ned genom lövverket, som gör att bladens skuggor lägger sig platt på trottoaren
Vissa skuggor är svartare
Skuggorna är i rörelse, enskilda löv darrar, grenar skakar, andra grenar svajar, sidlänges, uppå, nedåt – allt detta blir en plan yta
21.05.2022
Prater-Hauptallee, Vienna
Surfaces
Auf die Plätze fertig los. Wo beginnt die Schreiberin, wenn sie beginnt zu schreiben? Where does one start when one starts to write? Looking for surfaces, trying to get into, repeating the score.
The writer’s thumb is pressing against a green pencil. Ein Bleistift, 2 B, soft enough to slide smoothly across the page without smearing. Lead on paper. Egg-shell-colored paper.(Or shall I call it differently by looking for another analogy.
Another surface. I’m writing-drawing the world’s faces onto this sheet. ‘Ivoire’, forbidden matter, comes to my mind. This paper is yellower than ivory. It is more-yellow-than on an imaginary scale ranging from ‘egg’ or ‘almost yellow’ to ‘not yellow anymore’.)
The paper’s surface is taking on the lead pencil’s move driven by three fingers: thumb, index and middle finger. The thumb, der Daumen, is surrounded by a little red bloody line. (The writer bites the nail skin when looking for words. She has been a thumb sucker until her teenage age. Daumenlutscher! The
world is fast and nervous. One can tell by looking at her thumb.)
As far as the eye can see
A heavy woman passes by. With one hand she’s holding a dog on a leash, with the other hand she is pushing a pram. She says to another woman: “I’m of two minds about this...” (Ich bin hin- und hergerissen.) She looks at the bench where I have placed my phone and says: “Oh, someone has forgotten their iphone.”
(Oh, da hat jemand sein iphone vergessen.)
Ich bin hin-und hergerissen. Um in Ruhe schreiben zu können, muss das Ich mehr oder minder stabil sein, es darf keinen Hunger haben, der Wind darf nicht so stark sein, die Sonne nicht so heiß, sonst kann es nicht auf dieser Bank im Prater sitzen und schreiben.
I will pretend there was no ego behind these eyes. That my writing was not connected to the brain tissue of a thinking-judging, white middle-aged woman. To write as far as the eye can see. Like an iPhone on a bench. The writer wishes she could disappear, distance herself from the yellowish page in her notebook. That it could see all by itself.
The passer-by wears a T-shirt with an photo. It shows a woman, that looks like the passer-by herself, with a child and a dog.
I look into the pram but it is empty. It seems to be a pram for the dog. Or a pram for the woman to support her walking.
As far as the i can see
I know a writer who refuses to write I with a capital letter.
They write i in lowercase.
I like the little dot on the i. That dotted i. Estar dotado means ‘to be gifted’ in Spanish. To be gifted with a little dot.
Schreiben heißt, dem Ich eine Falle stellen. Die „as far as I can see“-Falle ist so beschaffen. Man kann etwas Bestimmtes damit einfangen. Kaum ist es eingegangen, braucht man die Falle nicht mehr.
I close my I.
Ein bimmelndes Ding fährt vorbei. I cannot write with closed eyes. And when I open my eyes I am distracted.
The sound of this place consists of: wind, the fading music of a collective tourist bike, a group of women walking by with a cart, far away screams from the attraction park, das Knirschen eines Joggers auf Kies, eine Dame auf Stöckelschuhen.
As far as I can see
As far as I can see. The beginning of the sentences lures my mind into memories linked to this place.
Sometime in 2005 I was jogging along this alley. Back then I had moved to Vienna for work. There were regular workdays and “weekends”. I could leave the office for a run.
Sometime in 2019 I was walking along this alley with some artist friends and colleagues. One of them said: “You should get this fellowship”. The alley turned into a pathway into the future, into “as far as I can get.” (The fine line between wanting to get somewhere and of letting it happen. Remember the score: encountering rather than searching.)
Centuries ago, a group of aristocrats was riding their horses on this alley to hunt animals. The alley was built wide and long so their eyes could see as far as possible. I’m probably mixing up the history of this place with that of Berlin. (Prater with Tiergarten.) I’m still writing with this thumb, this I.
What is surfacing when I write? The windy alley in the park or the things in my head. A sentence-apparatus. ‘Surfacing’ as in ‘turning-its-face-towards-me-while-I’. Where do I draw the line? Surfacing time, progression of time in things.
Not-yet-points, the index finger points towards a future.
Produktionszwang! (Score: encountering rather than searching.)
When do we begin to be off-score? When do we betray the agreement or that what has been agreed upon? The other writers that write at this very moment?
The radicality of choosing a viewpoint, writing point. My point? Einen Punkt machen.
Shall I write about this tree? Die Rinde. Biologists can do it better, also I’m constantly lacking English words.
Shall I write about the doubt? About the surface of doubt.
This situation. I need more framing, a task! I want to start rather than to question the task.
This is Alcohol
There are unshadowed Women
Flings of an Afternoon
Wings of sweat in the springy wind
Bottles lie bare
Troubles are cold, and the sun is streaming
A fight, like a gauze, is unfurling
A map dim and dreaming in a wreck
A fake bridge, a frail tenant
Leaves, year after year, like a silent toil
Scenes in a rented dwelling
Drinking while the ear rings with the scream
Moving horns, and signals
Calling upon the lustrous coil of the new leaf
A signal is sealed
Roads wandering like the sea
Shapes tell you what to cross and what not to
Holding hands has never been easy
Broken eggs have been soaked in the grass
A carton can be filled with their yolks
Birds glide
A person running slowly
Dog barks, then stretches
Water is swift
Sound samples are lengthy
Construction of women shining
Submerged to the maximum.
One body in the water.
A time-lapse of vehicles
Model cities
Room in the sleeve
Funny perfection
Abstract tightrope
Stabs in the day
Fury of loss
Writing a lifelong novel
Pictorial truth
Suspicious
Exuberance
Desire to survive
Driving each day
Travelling east to West
Fantastic colours
Carefully sustained over time
Mark-making procedures
Buff-coloured backgrounds
Tiny paired dots
Fringe of the parks
Burden of recognisable forms
Formlessness of a grassy patch
Horizontal and diagonal stripes
Collision of traffic
Feeling of freefall
Ice cream cone litter
Empty time
Mixing the languages
Ordinary understanding
Getting rid of ideas
Tottering an inky line
Smell of wood smoke