i'm late, very late with my five words. it's hardly saturday any longer, is it? well, i've just scrambled out of the rabbit hole, where i spent considerable time finishing a translation project. i hope you'll forgive me.
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When I woke up this morning, I held the fine end of the thread of my dream in my hand. I had been standing in the grand hall of a museum, talking to some person I can remember neither face nor name of and said: „I so badly wanted to buy a Carsten Höller, but they were all gone. Then I saw those two deer, and I just knew it had to be them.“ – Can I remember whether the deer were live? No, I can’t. And where would I have put them? Are there people running stables for artwork? Surely, there must be. And what does it tell me in the blue light of the morning? Is it the sure sign of an art related inferiority complex? Is it the deep wish to touch the silken ears of a deer? Am I attracted to artists dabbling in biology? All I can clearly remember, is one of the deer turning her slender head towards me, twitching her ears and looking at me with those brown eyes. Then I woke up. It makes me wonder. Wouldn’t you wonder? Later that day my stiff neck makes me sigh, and somehow the fact that the rain has turned the yellow leaves -- rustling on the sidewalk and street just the day before -- into some undefined brownish slush leaves me sad. They are driving around in those big orange trucks again, sucking up the leaves with big flexible snouts. One is driving, one is walking, holding the snout, moving it around so as not to miss the odd pile hiding under a parked car. I can see bits of traffic queuing up behind them, the driver surely drumming their fingers on the steering wheel. I’m riding my bike around them, down to the baker’s for a sourdough and to the Asian grocer’s for some noodle soup, some fresh lime and some sugar snaps. I must not forget to add plums to my shopping list for the next day. A friend is calling, we say to meet up on saturday. I have to finish some work, and I keep thinking about things that don’t seem to lend themselves to easy answers. Are thoughts flying higher in summer? Is autumn the season of rumination, of dark plum compote, of deer and other illicit thoughts finding their way into my dreams? I should imagine so.
blue // wonder // sigh // illicit // imagine
thank you, enia
