There are flies. There are flies everywhere. I am trying to do nothing. And not being bored. I wonder why they are here, and inhabite my legs, my arms, my ears. My yoghurt. They could take an example from the birds, minding their own business, not wanting to be near you. Dancing from tree to hedge, from the inside to the top of the hedge, at the far side of the garden. Of course.
This is about dancing. A choreography…..and I am waiting for the birds to come back. The sparrows they are making their nest just under the roof, they were watching us, eating our simple evening meal, hoping that we were not going to climb to their higher house. I picked up my film camera to capture their nice accompaniment and noticed they left.
This is not the dance I ment before, my children moving rapidly from and to each other on the sound of ‘Different trains’ from Steve Reich. I never wrote it down, it is still in my head, my children are grown. I am trying not to do useful things, I am trying to play instead of work, I am trying not to think, about making important works. It’s difficult. It is difficult to tell yourself that it is alright to be an amateur. So I will wait until tomorrow, when the sun will be shining again.
I miss my mosquito.
I am trying not to miss him. This is art, and it is about art itself, during the proces of the making, without a goal. Otherwise it would be work, not falling together with itself.
I run.
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