PART 2 : RECORDING
[Headphones are recommended for listening to the recordings]
To the right are recordings of each of us reading our text generated in response to the prompt, What Resists?
Invitation to you — the reader/listener: Explore the sound files by playing, pausing, muting — they can be played singularly and in combination. We are interested in possibilities of the space — or even textorium — that is opened up in the act of (listening to) reading?
PART 1: MARKET SQUARE, Vaasa, June 2022
Details of exploration:
This phase of exploration was initiated by a series of prompts: (1) What Resists?, (2) Pulls of Attraction and (3) To Follow.
Prompt: WHAT ESCAPES | RESISTS DESCRIPTION | WHAT IS LEFT OUT?
Location: Scanning (10 steps, every 3 mins, in a line)
Duration: 30 minutes writing
In the end, everything that is living and breathing and felt right now escapes, resists, will be left out. This sense of anticipation, the waiting to begin. The photograph I just took is not this experience — experiences unfold in time, have a temporal dimension, moreover, are necessarily felt. Everything that escapes — so many felt senses in the space, so many imperceptible registers of sensation and of sensing.
Time escapes. I am not even sure what is meant by this, by this sense of time, what is this time that escapes and leaves no trace.
I look at the clock. It moves between the temperature and the time. In the hours spent here tonight, the temperature has risen from 17 – 20 degrees, time has passed between 19.00 and 20.22. But what can be held of that. Tomorrow much of this felt sense, I will have lost. Forgotten. All the moment by moment modulation of attention, second by second shifts and fluctuations of time’s unfolding.
Life unfolding.
Now unfolding.
This unfolding.
Here unfolding.
All unfolding.
I am counting steps. Counting as way of measuring. So much cannot be counted, cannot be accounted for.
All that cannot be accounted for.
What cannot be accounted for?
What does this mean?
Cannot be named and measured?
Cannot be written:
In books.
In the records.
In the archive.
In the histories.
In the news.
In the memories.
In the libraries.
But maybe in the:
The stories.
The songs.
The whispers.
The dreams.
The sighs.
The shadows.
Our shadows now, marked long on the cobbled floor.
The curiosity of that group and the courage of the one who came to ask.
Curiosity. Curiosity escapes.
Resists. Resists. Seeps. Leaks.
Breaches boundaries where it does not officially belong.
Curiosity as an aliveness, a being alive in and to the world.
All the aliveness that has passed here, over all that time.
Yet no trace, hardly any trace. Save for a few marks and scratches on the surface of the floor. All that time erased, no, not erased, for time never really was, was never a ‘thing’ to try to erase, always an unfolding.
Unfolding, to unfold. All that time folded into objects and surfaces and things.
Breath and pulse and felt sense. All the ing-ing, the breathing, the pulsing, the feeling.
This writing — all that will remain is the writing and not the writing. Only the object of writing and not its experience, not the writing writing. The experience of writing (verb) resists writing (noun).
Writing resists itself.
Writing resists writing.
Thinking resists thought.
Knowing resists knowledge.
Writing escapes writing.
Thinking escapes thought.
Knowing escapes knowledge.
All verbs resist or escape their nouning.
Naming resists names.
The ing-ing of aliveness resists form, or rather static form, for form is always a little formless, always a little still in flux.
What escapes?
What will be lost or what may be liberated? Lost or liberated?
Forgotten or freed?
I cannot know how you are feeling now, what is holding your attention?
You in the sun writing, whilst I am now in the shade.
We are sharing this action together, but I can never of know the experience for you.
Somethings are never able to be fully shared.
What escapes, what resists?
Is this also what cannot be shared?
What cannot be shared?
What cannot be shared (in language)?
What cannot be communicated?
What remains undisclosed, undisclosable still?
What will I forget?
What have I already forgotten?
What leaks and seeps and spills beyond all means of capture and control?
What leaks and seeps and spills beyond our action into the square, into other’s lives?
Will they take it with them?
We will never really know.
We will never really know how.
You never know.
You never know for sure.
The text begins and sets in motion a train of thought, or rather of thinking-writing, the unfolding of word after word.
In every word, so much escapes.
So many possible trajectories of exploration, abandoned or discounted.
So many things missed or left unsaid.
What triggers? What calls?
First movements, movings, stirring of activity in the stillness of the square.
Following — you take my eyes with you.
Wondering — where do you go?
No, I am not wondering about that. My attention stops as soon as you leave this frame.
It is like the square is a sheet of paper, movements are trajectories of drawn lines.
A spiderweb of itineraries taken.
Dense patterns of movement cross the corners and the edges, turning the diagrammed shape of the square gradually in the direction of an irregular hexagon, octagon, and so on, towards circle. Each route shaves off a section of the square, through the invisible trace of desire lines and short cuts.
Still no-one really crosses the centre of the square.
The wind makes other itineraries.
Tree blossom or leaf, fallen in the cracks catches the wind, is caught by the wind.
Pale yellow blooms to intense cerise edges. These small reminders of Spring now gathering on the crevices between the cobbles.
The wind brings animation. The blossom leaves look like small boats in a dense network of canals. A labyrinth of criss-crossing lanes and gullies.
Petal remnants gather in the corners between one cobble and another. Occasionally one breaks free and rolls with the wind across the square.
Circles of men in the cafes, meeting.
Gathering like the clustered petals and leaves.
A woman crosses the square with two hoola hoops, green and red.
A man in a checked shirt smokes, and the small child plays.
Brands try to pull my attention yet mostly fail. They have such a deadening effect on the square. Advertisements work through the pull of attention or of attraction. No not attraction, rather coercion. For attraction is a rather more fragile and fleeting experience — not so easy to control and predict. Advertisements work hard to tempt, seeking the formula that will best seduce. Branding is the most curious of advertisements — often just a name or sign. Names in giant letters marking out a territory.
Marking, naming. Yet the large branded names do not have the pull of attraction, in fact, rather they somehow repel, oppress. Suffocating signage at the edges of the square. Dead signs, incommunicable signs, like large shouts. Failing to call, failing to connect, failing to care. A noisy background none the less, difficult to ignore.
Rhythms of movement and of attention. The regular flap of the flag on the breeze, heals meeting stone, gull’s cry.
A young boy turns his head to look back at the ice-cream stall that he has just walked past.
Head turning. What is it to turn one’s head or have one’s head turned?
To turn one’s attention, the physicality of the turn.
Head turns and eye lines.
What patterns of attention?
Eyes pull the attention. At times it is as if the eyes have a will of their own, are so easily bored and restless, refusing to settle and still, always on the look-out for something else.
The ears hear, but can remain passive, receptive. Just hearing.
But the eyes somehow want to know, want to see more, want to get closer.
What is it?
What was it?
What is that?
Eyes and names.
Looking back, looking again.
Attention has a different register to this endless searching of the eyes. It draws one closer, holds the gaze steady. Still, is it attention that draws one closer, or the object of one’s attention or attraction? Which comes first attraction or attention? How is the draw of attention. Writing of attention?
My attention is pulled, or even absorbed by the act of writing. Writing stills me, allows me to begin to settle. Towards the attraction of this other realm, this page-realm, a space of blue lines on pale page. Uncluttered by all the signs and noise and dust and flapping flags and banners and branded names. An open space. A space opens in a space. It feels like the wind drops as I settle into the writing, the background noise somehow quietens. I can hear my own breath once more.
Writing and the body. Writing as a pathway back. There is too much in this space pulling at my attention, pulling at my attention without attraction. More like a sense of nag. Attention is easily scattered in manifold directions.
Hold still. Attend.
Attraction can unsettle, for it can sometimes feel like such a surface lure, the pull of immediate gratification, attention drawn this way and that, by one thing and then another.
Attraction does not lead to attention in this sense, but rather it is through attention that attraction blooms. Things becoming more attractive somehow through the bringing of attention, of care.
My experience is that is does not work the other way around. The pull of attraction, in fact, depletes or disperse or even confuses my attention, rendering it unsettled, indeed, unable to connect.
Connection and attraction.
To let attraction come through attention, not to seek it, not to chase it.
Attraction — all the games and tricks of seduction, all the devices and ruses of luring someone in. What rules of attraction, what operations and ploys.
The square seems to work against the laws of attraction — its frame somehow operates as a means of anti-desire. Trucks block the sight lines of café stall, obstructing them from view. Market stall seem isolated and abandoned, as though remaining long after closing time.
Suddenly the warm sun on my face. I close my eyes.
Not to follow this, but just to feel it.
Attention like the spreading warmth of the sun on my face.
Singularities.
To attend to the uniqueness of all things, to stay, to remain attentive.
Remaining attracted, remaining in connection.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ /// ‘’’’’’’’’
‘’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’ ‘’’’’ ‘’’’ ‘’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’ ~~~~~ !!! ooooooooooooo
- cccccccccccccccc // ;;;;;;; ‘’’’’’’’’ ,,,,,,,,,’’’’’’’’// ‘’ ‘’’ ‘’’’ ,,,,,,,,,,,
I feel I have slipped into drawing, as if to mark this I shift to pencil from a pen. Following sounds has somehow pulled me away from language, and I am struggling to find a way back. Language fractures into a hybrid of signifying signs and symbols, a system of markers for notating trajectories and intensities of sound.
Upwards and away from the square, away from its formations of lines and cobbles and pathways. A swift curves a line. A gull loops and drop, catches the wind again and returns to orbiting the square. A turn swoops low to the ground, and a sparrow comes close to my side. Again, I am spotting, I am naming.
A segment of rainbow suddenly colours the greying skies.
I wish I knew the words for the different cloud formations — could discern cirrus from cumulus, differentiate nuance within the common naming of ‘cloud’.
There are existing names, names of categorising and of differentiation, for recognising and being able to classify.
Bird names, cloud names, the names of specific rock and stone, and grasses. Brand names loom large.
But then to work with these names only brings the seething world under the control of existing taxonomies and systems.
New ways of calling — a poetics of observation?
I follow the rainbow and it disappears behind the roof of Apteeki Apotek, just to the right of a satellite dish.
A woman looks back to follow my actions, she pushes her bike across the square, takes the seat and rides away.
A woman clutching a plastic bag shuffles across the square. I imagine she is often followed, but is she cared for.
To follow, to care for, to attend to. I do not know the etymology of ‘follow’. But I think at this moment of the word ‘swallow’, reminded by the swallow or is it the swift that screeches on the wind.
Follow.
Swallow.
Fallow.
Follow and fallow.
I wonder why ‘swallow’ is pronounced like ‘swollow’, as if it had an ‘o’, and ‘fallow’ is not pronounced like ‘follow’, but rather sounding the ‘a’.
Strange idiosyncrasies of the English language.
Etymology follows a word to its origins. A word without origins, or source — like an acousmatic sound.
A word devoid of source or origin.
Pure word.
Pure sound.
Origin-less words.
To follow a word to its origins is also to take care, to be careful how one works with words.
Follow.
Fallow.
Swallow.
Swallow as in a species of bird, or to ingest, or to take in, make disappear.
All these many meanings.
Writing as a following, a following which somehow follows itself.
To follow the incipient thought in formation, following something as nebulous as the clouds which now part to reveal blue.
Following, fallowing.
Fallowing of language — allowing it to rest, in order for words to seed and grow.
To follow, to keep up with, to stay with, to stay in touch.
Do you follow me?
Do you understand?
I follow you. I am with you. You have not lost me (yet).
I follow, I am still following.
To follow is to commit, to bring to the fullness of one’s attention. To here and not to there, with this and not with that. Try to follow more than one impulse and notice the dithering indecision that ensues.
Do I go this way with you or that way with the others?
To follow — what is yet to come.
Left to be continued, still incomplete.
Day follows night, night follows day.
Some events are predictable, others are more unfathomable, harder to determine in advance.
I begin to write and yet I do not know what will follow, what will unfold, what will ensue. I follow the writing but do not know where it will lead.
To follow a path.
To follow in the footsteps of.
To follow the lead.
To follow the crowd.
To follow a trend.
To follow a team.
Pull of attraction 11:20am / 18°
Slowly strolling while the wind passes through the fingers, the hair, the ears, the next, the trees, the stone, the buildings, the square.
The sight gets to wander and encounter. Objects on the floor, hear down, cabizbaja. The eye wander. The sight stops. Some cobblestones are mode a la intemperie without much dirt to cover their sides. I can see almost 3 or 4 cm deep. Trash on the floor, random stuff. A lot of cigarette butts and nicotine baggies. People around dwelling in the square, sitting down, having a memento. Others walk through walking with a purpose. I recognize some people. I encounter them in my path. I turn my head above from the ground, I raise my chin and encounter the street light lamps, not in poles but held with cables that dance to the rhythm of the wind.
I reach another point of the square. I found another person. I look at the trees and see a nice stone. I put it in my bag. I observe and realise that most of the tree spots have a stone inside the cage where the trees are held. Is this a thing? I mean, is this stone playing something purposeful? I found a stone that seems to be more part of the urban architecture. I take it with me, but don’t put it in my bag yet. I intend to. I see the stone I had taken inside my bag and try to figure out where it comes from. I can’t recognize any surface. An old man is strolling my way. He reaches for his bike, opens the lock, takes away the chain. Opens the second lock. Moves slowly, prepares his sleeves, his vest, checks his pockets, and walks aways with the bike. He hops on top of it and crosses the square riding the bike. I have swapped the rocks now. I took out the one I initially took and took the cube looking one which I can actually see where it belongs on/in the square.
Walking and only strolling and observing made me feel nostalgic.
No sé de dónde viene la nostalgia. O nostalgia relacionada a que. Automáticamente quiero entrar a un juego de “recuerdo…”
Recuerdo mis caminatas solitarias en Puebla
Recuerdo los días nublados, en silencio, sin hablar, observando y pensando
Recuerdo las calles, las esquinas, las tuberías, esos árboles horribles chiquititos que tan solo generan polvadera
Recuerdo el panteón
Recuerdo a mi padre
Recuerdo el sótano
Recuerdo los recortes, las obleas, los colores
Recuerdo a mi madre, acostada viendo el teléfono o leyendo, comiendo algún tipo de dulce o botana. Sus piernas dobladas con las plantas del pie sobre la cama.
Recuerdo la cama que ya no está, la mesa que ya no está, el refri que ya no está.
“Come back” a voice says. “Come back to the square. Come back to what you see here, in front of you, get out of your head, count, see, write”.
20:20h / 20° - 30 min
What is left out (resists description or storytelling)
Point 1 — Everything but these words on the notebook are out. Images. Never the sound. Always the sound. My back is out. Everything behind me.
Point 2 — As something comes closer, everything else disappears and is left behind.
The body of the shadows crossing in front of me. A seagull.
When looking at my shadow, I am left outside. What doesn}t belong to the square? Is not belonging the same as being left out?
Point 3 — The sun. The people. El lenguaje. Los pajaros. La gente. Las onomatopeyas reinan en este terreno. La acusmática se sienta a su lado. Asieta se sienta, no se sienta, asiento. Siempre hay un ass en asiento. No hay asiento sin ass. Las ruedas del carrito. Los pasos.
(Maybe people are left out by not knowing what we are doing — but someone asked. He said “have fun”. I intend to).
Point 4 — (Now I really feel observed)
El sol se ha quedado a mis espaldas. Está ahora detrás del edificio y la sombra reina. El calor se ha quedado atrás. Lo acogedor del sol vespertino. La gente está detrás. El monumento está detrás, el supermercado K está detrás. Las bancas del paseo están detrás. La fuente, las tiendas (o algunas tiendas) departamentales.
Point 5 — Sumergida en la sombra que dan los edificios. Todas las piedras por las que he caminado están detrás.
Cada vez más y más la voz de las personas se hace más y más tenue. No se si siguen ahí o ellas también se están moviendo. Ahora los escucho, ahí están.
Es “tarde” y los puestos ya no están abiertos. Las playeras, no he visto las playeras ¿Dónde están las playeras?
Mi energía también está quedando atrás, o al menos se esta llendo a algun lugar diferente de aquí.
Sexto punto en la plaza — Así como muchas cosas quedan atrás muchas otras delante. El encuentro. Are the buildings out from the square? Is the limit not part of the entity?
19:43H /19° - 30 min
To follow
EIL423 - 10 SEC
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EOK169 - 46 SEC
BX774 - 10 SEC
HNR355 - 8 SEC
YIN852 - 41 SEC
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GIK557 - 16 SEC
NHF862 - 11 SEC
OVZ253 - 41 SEC
EOK168 - 54 SEC
XOM718 - 11 SEC
JJB143 - 12 SEC
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CGH998 - 12 SEC
SZZ190 - 13 SEC
YHY520 - 44 SEC
GFC412 - 9 SEC
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XPK481 - 5 SEC
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16 X - 7 SEC
CFL100 - 9 SEC
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BPH 610 - 11 SEC
KSU441 - 106 SEC
FROM THE SQUARE. IN THE SQUARE. WHILE IN THE SQUARE. WITHIN THE SQUARE.
TO FOLLOW
Words that I can read but not understand.
In order of appearance, I’m following my aesthetic preferences
LYCKLIG
KAIKKI
älä
Buffet
AMARILLO
Butcher Banker
LEDIGA
Helpoimman
Ulko-ovien
An automatic door opens suddenly as I pass by.
A man who looks like David Beckham is advertising for a brand of watches. His heavily tattooed left hand which carries the watch reads LOVE. In the background, a badly photoshopped football hovering in the air.
Läällää myös
To follow Umlauts counterclockwise around the square.
A word, almost impossible to read:
Polkupyöräsäilytys
Kesä in combination with a pair of lacquer white slides.
Snäppet
Buchstaben aufschnappen. Gleaning Finnish words from screens, windows, signs.
To place them here.
Waiting for their effects to happen
in the faces of those who understand. Like you
Pysäköinnillä
It’s a bit like eating candys in the dark
Läällää myös
WHAT ESCAPES (RESISTS DESCRIPTION)
Teenspirit
Two girls carrying a diamond diadem in their hair
that glitters in the late sun
How it feels to walk side by side across the square
To look at each other and laugh
To be in full diamond pride
What escapes is where they are now
I can’t see them anymore
What escapes is where this writing wants to go with me
10 steps to the front
10 min later
10 years later
PULL OF ATTRACTION
Following random passers-by, being pulled into the speed of their steps and walking style. That man that walks slowly in direction of the mall. That woman that comes out of the mall and locks her bike. That tall guy that walks fast across the square. I can’t keep up with his pace. A white poodle sniffing at a bunch of flowers next to a market stand. Kartoffeln, Paprika, Blaubeeren, Erdbeeren, Erbsen. I’m pulled into the puffed up hair on its head. A humming sound pulls me away. I find a row of benches. Like a train without a shell. Each bench occupied by a man or two. Elderly men, most of them equipped with big bags, collectors of bottles, drinkers and no-drinkers, all sitting in the same direction. The strong feeling of having time overcomes me. I sit down. How it must be to have time. The man who sits on the other side of the bench just sits. No phone, no newspaper. I try just to sit, too. Just that. A rolling walker. A newspaper moving in the wind. Two passer-bys study the offers of ice cream through the metal grid of a closed kiosk. Strawberry, vanilla, blue berry, caramel.
Inhabiting another being for a while: That man. That poodle. This situation.
I change bench. A man sits down opposite me. Can I smoke? he signals. Another man with a bike and bag full of bottles comes by. Can I sit here? he asks, sits down at the end of the long bench. The two men start to talk. Anyone who sits in this invisible train I reckon agrees to be talked at. They ask me what I am. What I am doing here. I make a movement with my pen gesturing writing, pointing at the market square. I take out a chocolate bar. This seems to be a trigger for the man next to me who takes out a white cardboard box, opens it and offers the ingredients to me: Pastries with and without cream, donuts. Two other men, bottle collectors come by and the man offers the sweets to them, too.
A finger touching the creamy light brown glaze of a bonelike pastry.
Yorbas is my name the man says in Finnish pointing at himself. Cordula, I say. He tries to repeat my name. Breasjfklasjdfjsla, he says. Question mark. We laugh. Ciao Yorbas, I say, as he walks off to the next bench.
att följa
to follow
19.42-20.22
jag följer
efter
en klargrön stol
en stolpe med ett klot längst upp i linje med en lyktstolpe med en skylt för parkering
klotet rostar, den grågröna färgen flagnar
annonsering förbjudet
härligt att se dig
let’s work together
sleep well
käytä pyörätietä
älä koske tolppiin ja köysiin
anna tietä suojatiellä
vapaata toimitilaa
fresh and new
tervetuloa töihin
pysähdy punaisiin
helpoimman kautta
tomgång förbjuden
oulu
maksa puhelimella
ett leende som fastnat
en person som hojtar i en hälsning – de följs åt
en person på motorcykel klädd i svart med svart hjälm och svart visir
hen med väskan över axeln går tillbaks
en större grupp som går väldigt långsamt i samma takt
ett rep fastsurrat mellan pålar
ett finger som höjs
en hand som sticks in i fickan
två händer som viftar i takt
svank och en knut på plastpåsen
ett steg i taget
torgets sluttande yta en uppmaning
händerna stöder korsryggen
framåt med kantiga steg
det som övervakningskamerorna inte noterar
se det som inte för väsen
det som tar plats
det som inte låter
det som aldrig möts
blinkande ljus uppe på taket
skräpet som lägger sig mellan kullerstenarna grupper
det som inte låter sig beskrivas,
what escapes description
skribenterna i linje, skriva 3 minuter ta 10 steg
20.18
riktningar
linjer
det som lämnas
repetitioner
det som hänger
det som backar
20.21
det som sätter sig
de som inte kan
jag som inte kan
skuggan som lägger sig vänsterom
det som passerar
hen som tittar
de som lutar sig mot fönsterblecket
20.24
ta fast mig
jooo
ölen tog slut på silverscenens trappa
fler skuggor
vänder mig
reflektionerna
stumpen av hela kroppen som reflekteras i silverscenens trappor
fragment
delar
snuttar
bitar
avrivningar
uppstötningar
avlämningar
spottloskor
alla ölburkarna får plats i påsen
värmen
måsarnas bus
lukten
20.28
oss
den bästa stunden
solen i örat
läpparna klibbar
fuktar dem
går 10 steg framåt
nu
20.32
återkommande
kommanden
pussikalja
kätshee
20.36
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
avståndet mellan oss
Pull of attractions 30min
11.30-12
kaksin nopeasti torilla halki
yksin takki auki, takin liepeet levähtävät auki askelten tahdissa
hitaammat askeleet punatakissa, katse jalkoihin,
tennareiden kumipohja on äänetön
naurahdus ja katse kännykkään
kännykän kaiutin päällä
ei ketään keskellä toria
kolmikko pieni ja iso ihminen
molemmilla päähine ja aurinkolasit vaikka on pilvistä
äänet päivästä päivään, varpuset joita en ole onnistunut näkemään ja liikennevalojen rytmittämä autoletka
päähineitä, ulkovaatteita
haalistuneita kenkiä
rollaattori ja sandaalit – ne lonksuvat
pyörätuoli ja huomaavainen työntäjä
jalankulkija joka ei ole menossa minnekään, 90 asteen käännös aikalailla keskellätoria, jatkaa kohti
kauppakeskusta, siellä tuttava tai puoliso, he jatkavat yhdessä
korkkarit
tennarit
jollat
saapikkaat
lokit jotenkin torin vakio, niiden tuleminen ja meneminen kiinnostaa
tällä hetkellä ei ainuttakaan mutta kohta ne sieltä tulee
rääkyy kalkattaa
lipuu torin yllä ja valitsee hyviä tarkkailu paikkoja
kättä ojentava veistos on ulosteen raidoittamalla
tori vilkkaan autotien ja kävelykadun välissä
tori kauppakeskusten välissä
kova tuulenpuuska istun kuitenkin tukevasti näyttämön rappusilla
iltaisin aivan eri tunnelma ja meininki
nyt arkipäivä ja lounasaika
vanhempia ja lapsia
otos väestöstä
pillimehuja
katuruoka autot ja perävaunut
muovipussi puristusotteessa
käsilaukku kämmenellä
paperinen ostoskassi
rattaiden rätinää kivetyksellä
hiussuortuvat korvan taakse, donitsi
bussin ovet avautuvat, se tyhjentyyy matkustajista ja jatkaa kohti Vaskiluotoa
pari autoa etenee nopeasti
kirkkaansininen vaatteessa
kirkkaan oranssi takissa
kestokassi jossa omena kuvio
reppu ohjaa painoa taaksepäin
ryhmä lukio- tai ammattikorkeakoulu ikäisiä
kirjoittaja nojaa oikeaa jalkaansa kaiteeseenjoka ympäröi istutettua lehmusta
kumartuu eteenpäin
kävelee takakenossa
istuu
istuutuu
Score: To Follow
21° C // 19:45
गुलाबीपंखुड़ियां
बासीफूल
नीलेप्लास्टिककाटुकड़ा
मसलीहुईपत्तियां
बिजलीकेतार
बादल, आसमान
नीलीरस्सी, लोहा
पत्थर, प्लास्टिकबोतल
नएपौधे
समेटीहुईकुर्सियां
सीमेंट, एंटेना, कांचकेटुकड़े
Scanning — what escapes (resists description) //
21° C // 20:18
shadow in the grout
sound under the square
space of standing hook
in the ground
changing length of shadows
stopped time in the clock
patterns on each cobblestone
the number of seagulls
the number of seagulls flying silently
the waiting
the chewed gum
the stains
the heat in the back
the ending of the sunlit part of the square
broken glass
closing of shops
collecting of cans
why we are here
what makes us right
dust on the silver stage
beginning of shade
change in coolness
what is immediate
the conversation
the clouds
misalignment of reflections
the twisted mask bird’s eye view
view from below
what’s behind
the collection of cans
intentful walking
the voice on the other side of the phone
the bleached colours of the flags
change in the direction of cobblestones
the beginning of a song
the origin of a family
Score: Pulls of attraction
17° C // 11:15
connecting cables
shoots on a trunk
setting up a day
checking the supply of electricity
they come as secrets
the walking of a passerby
almost like guests
left behind
summer path
seizing, hushing, gushing, rushing
alive and well
devoted City bikers
cheap coins
chained up and down
piling up pink bicycle lock
lock bicycles
gendered models
parked when the electric connection
someone makes a photo of two bags
both handles of a bicycle
baby carrier
two bicycles
flowers at the wheel
bicycle flashes among cars
the wall is covered with writing
pedals chained to the rack, and pedals
pedal like clams
words on a page
little packets of lovers thieves blue enamel body
movement of the tongue
the light splashes from the wheels
the market is a movement of the tongue
petting a scar
meandering root
embroidery hoop
sensations of an image
pattern recognition
software of our brains
carcass
mind glomming into things
possibilities of material
words that don’t rhyme
the vibration of words continuous chains
stays cold under my skin