| Traces It is Monday morning and I wanted to write something. I wanted to write something that... I wanted to write, I wanted, I want to, I am trying. Words. I am trying to write right. Morning... morning thoughts are... Writing... words... in the pen or the fingers, or the fingers on paper, can I? No... Trying. I want to write. I try. Writing. Words. Letters. Lines. Shapes. Writing. I try... Writing I want to... something... I want... Writing is... noise, no, no is not, no. I. Words. I want, I try, I... I... These lines, no... no. Lines, words, language... As vrea, dar nu pot acum... Cuvintele care... Mais non. Dat is het ook niet. Ah... je veux écrire mais... Oui... Les pensées... c'est... la trace, c'est... Dans le rêve c'est... c'était, il y avait... mais... Ah... écrire... Mda... A puzzle of stories, poems, essays, connected by another puzzle of triggers and pointers. A not quite random montage of photography, research notes, travel journals, letters and interviews, combining facts with fiction. Depicting a life inside a life, as imagined by a musafir, a woman gazing at life through the lens of a passer-by, from the ambiguous, ambivalent position of a stranger. A drawing of time and crossroads. |
