This month I practice remembering (= forgetting): routines and expectations that usually riddle my days loose their sharpness to the pace of the countryside. The most relevant aspects of living cannot be calculated or quantified.
Geometric hay balls are notes out of key in a landscape. Tones of gummy green. I think of painting.
I think of prime numbers and counting devices. I think of body based enumeration systems – standard units, norms, rulers.
A stack of paper wallows in a corner of a cold room.
I, with it, learn the graceful art of hanging out, bearing the chill.
I talk to my new sisters on the rooftop as we sip on coffee and rummage through our sibling thoughts.
We grow cow tails and horns.
I realise: hilly green landscapes, corn fields and farms, long curvy roads and solitary trees are home to my favourite feelings.
In wide open space my mind stretches and my anxieties evaporate. I no longer see the point in producing work for the sake of being productive, dignified or useful – because art shouldn’t be imitate labour.
I’m in the mood for laughing a lot about nothing in particular. I run out to meet a group cows tirelessly chewing time away while stroking and licking each other’s snouts
Sometimes it looks like the only thing that moves in a field is her tail.
Lazy is her pose, massive is her presence.
I feel so brittle-boned and restless all the time, she inspires me.
In October I held back.
While carrying on loosely my research on systems and organisms, I made pegs when I wanted to speak, wrote about transitioning, measured objects and corners of the Villekulla rooms, counted hay balls on large fields, ate large amounts of fromage blanc.
I waited to be struck by coincidence and hoped for something to stick effortlessly:
Like the friendship and care I found in Mina, Annina, Simon, Leonie and Noah;
Like the discovery of my big love for cows and everything that suddenly stemmed out of it.