Walking before Sleep

"(...).... and then he walks up to her, reaches out his hand to her, and she takes his hand and stands up, then they just stand there again, and I think that I must go back home, it will be completely dark soon, but I sit and look at the playground where a young woman and a young man are amusing themselves as if they were children, but now it is already so dark that I can barely make them out, or maybe I am imagining it all? Are they not there at all? Am I only imagining that they are there? No, of course not, after all, I saw them and I see them now, I think, that much is certain, but maybe I should get out and get some fresh air?"

Jon Fosse, Septology 1– 2

I often go for such walks, or it seems to me that I do. Sometimes I get into the car and sit motionless for a long moment, not knowing which way to go. There are too many possibilities. And it's a waste of petrol. In the end, I go for a walk around the block, and every step brings a different thought.

Today, great collages exist in our heads. Blends of what is heard from the world and what theoretically comes from the world, but turns out to be a product of an algorithm. Heavy snow in Kamchatka, a queue of European leaders waiting to meet Trump — documentary frames, so convincing that they leave no room for doubt.

I escape into sleep.

During the pandemic, I traveled virtual kilometers on Google Maps. I saw otherworldly creations, unexpected blurs and deformations of the landscape, geometric shapes of unknown origin, headless figures, torsos growing directly out of the ground, abruptly ending horizons...

Everything I do comes together into a not very coherent whole. And maybe that is exactly what is natural. My hand cannot keep up with recording all the phenomena that interest me. I choose topics intuitively, sometimes almost randomly, and I clear the presented images of excessive narrative.

It is getting dark — less and less can be seen.

That's better.

O. Pawłowska