Dashing back and forth, thought wanders. It is related to looking. Sometimes, I need a momentary glimpse – a slight clearing in the midst of an incongruous landscape, a glint of light in the fog, a shape with boundaries on the map – and from there, I try to piece together the perfect landscape, made of fragments mixed with signals one sends out, not knowing who receives them. The clearing takes time. Once cleared, the landscape paints itself, but it’s not instantaneous. First, patience, vibrations, attention, moving and not settling-humility. The silence around thought is part of the landscape.
I am writing this on the train through Piedmont. We flash past villages, stations, vineyards, and hills. The wintery slopes smouldering to heaven; the thorns pay court to the wound. Perhaps, because my window is my companion for re-looking at the land, I am fascinated with the perception of light and darkness, along with the visual dissemblage and abstractions. There is a light evening inside. In the fog, the body loses its contours, swerving instead towards the voice’s uncanny mobile flux. The self remains fluid, loading with perpetuity.
