3 days passing though Njimegen and interrupted skies.
Rivers, arteries and escape routes.
Storms push me back and I remain on the outskirts.
Storm No 1 pushes me against a tree.
all I can feel is the rain interrupting the surface of skin
and the river I wanted to cross…
Storm No 2 pushes me through the doors of Galerie Marzee, where I open drawer after drawer of sculptural body ‘ jewellery ‘.
I am absorbed in the act of repeatedly opening and closing drawers to discover.
I imagine them being filled with the rain water…
Storm No 3 holds me indoors.
I can’t breath.
I am held still by a blanket being placed across my knees.
I stay very still until I decide that a glass of water and slipping up the wooden stairs will be my escape.
3 days of being held in…fractured connection. A lesson in expectation…
The architecture of walking, of space temporal movement being led by unfolding cities that act as catalysts, sleepwalking or trusting unintended paths, In a few days I will be in Njimegan…
Kraków day 4
There is disconnection
Like shifting platelets.
Connection that is neither static, nor rooted.
When I lean down,
expel a breath across the floor,
a certain kiss, a certain movement,
I cannot hold it.
Did I expect too?
Connection more like an offering,
A tease that is often misshapen.
Better to blow into the ground and watch what rises…
Kraków Day 3…
Flat ground lends itself to recall
And so takes me to a place
I need to know…
Walk south away from the centre, down ul.Wielicka and after 30 metres turn right onto ul.Jerozolimska. In 100 metres you are here.
I begin to wander through the wide fields,
long grasses, echoes and upturned stones. Remnants of the camp look to me like dirty old teeth.
I take off my sandals and let the sharp needles of dry grass that are growing between the scattered gravestones, slowly and deeply prick the soles of my bare feet.
The hot wind traps, carries, extinguishes and calls.
A voice suddenly says ‘Hello, I am from Canada , have you been to Auschwitz? What lense is on your camera?’
There is no one else around us in this place.
The same person walks towards me when I return back to the old town, and some time later appears again at the next table to me in a small cafe…
A small game, but not mine. The Canadian man with the Polish accent…