“Matter is a sedimented intra-acting, an open field. Sedimenting does not entail closure.”

                                                     (Barad 2014:168)




Small yellow shells…


I gather shells on the shores of my island.

They remind me about my dreams.

About an infinite amount of imaginations created in/by/through nature.


I see her walking across the yard.

She stops by my stone and reads.


Guilt. Heavy weight. I had enough of guilt in my life, if you want to know.

Everybody knew better than me.  Everybody seemed to be better. Everyone seemed to achieve better results. Presenting themselves as better people.  What could I do? Close my ears and eyes? Ignore the cruel looks whenever I passed their houses. I could feel how they all were hiding behind their perfectly ironed curtains. It was all too perfect. What did they try to hide? Everything. Because I knew they kept their secrets locked into their own darkness.


You see, the yellow shells and me, we have a secret. An agreement. An understanding. A conversation. Together.

Sometimes we agree. Sometimes we argue. We disagree often. Battling.

But of course we both know that we can't keep fighting. We learn through disagreements. It's pure pleasure. (Laughing)

Tiny delicate forms – constructed as homes for even tinier creatures. Creatures like me. For me the yellow shells are my shelters and my home. My space for rest and peace. My space for wondrous thoughts and imaginations. A space nobody yet has discovered. One day perhaps. Perhaps one day everything will be well known. Understood. Meaningful discoveries will be made. (Laughing)


My name? You are curious…


I was named after one of the three Norns.


Some say that the Norns were witches.

It doesn’t matter to me.

But I prefer to think of myself as the one who spins the thread of destiny.

It sounds important. Brave. Powerful.

I spin the thread of the future.

A spinner I am, for that which should become or that which shall happen.

I like to think that my parents thought this way.


My tiny yellow shells. They move. In my dreams. In my thoughts. The strong colour brightens my moods. They tell me to explore. Tell me to trust in growth and shaping.

You must think I am a mad old lady. Talking to yellow shells.

You may think whatever… I know I am like one of them. Like a yellow shell. Bright. Yellow. A home for movement and delights.

Homeless. A home left behind.

Precious to the one who has ears, eyes and senses open for the very tiny beauties in life.  A detail can easily be passed. Forgotten. Ignored.

But I know. I have learned that any thing can make a difference.

A word inside me/my shell, is an amazing world to discover. A single letter – like a tiny shell – enfolds experiences of movement. I hear the sound of voices inside every shell. Inside every word. I hear the sound of  “experience itself”.