Writing exercises

She is...

She is sitting in the sports hall on a bench.
She is exhausted after hours of cleaning. They will arrive
in a couple of hours, in a bus, from the south. They might 
have travelled for more than three weeks.
She is sitting on the bench and taking of her rubber gloves.
She is drawing in her calendar while listening to a podcast
about Portuguese cooking.
She is drawing small patterns without really giving form to
She’s drawing in her calendar. It is the 4th of July 2016.
She is soon of on holidays.
She is online.
She is considering where to go.
She is googling travels to Angola and parallel watching a
Netflix series about the Colombian mafia.
She is lying on the sofa watching the news. A car crashes
on the street.
She is online, again.
She is measuring her shadow: in the morning, at noon, in
the early evening. It is summer.
She is writing a letter to her grandmother. She is writing
an email to her grandmother.
He looks at...

He looks at the recorder, checking settings. Is it
recording at all channels, as supposed to?
Do I have to wade through all hundred and four sub-menues
in order to reset this?, he thinks. This is fucking useless.
The recorder is really nice when it works, but setting it
up is a nightmare. Designed by engineers. Designed by a
pedantic technical mind that starts out by systematically
listing and then displaying all configuration options that
were ever added to the firmware, including the useless
features invented in a late Friday afternoon haze.
And of course, the one tiny detail missing, the one they
never got to, was a simple stupid preset storage. Why would
you want that?
Five furious minutes later. The LEDs are finally blinking
as supposed to. As far as he can tell it is now configured
correctly. But the place itself has been deconfigured in
the process.
The state that he has to bring himself into in order to do
recordings that he can engage with later on, is gone.
Depending on his mood, the world has more or less colours.
Now the light is harsh, and erase the colours, leaving only
white and bleak shades of gray and beige.
The cables has gotten entangled. Can we please invent
wireless electricity? Like now? Thanks.
The perception of the place, shadowed by technology and
bad-tempered moods.
She looks at...
A huge box with holes in it
He thinks it is a mountain because of the dust covering it
She wanders what’s in the box
But he doesn’t care for a mountain is only a mountain
Another woman is standing there, she walks a little and
then climb the mountain and sit on the dusty box
Without warning
As soon as she sat, the box mountain strangely and
imperceptibly disappeared SHE
But after a while she saw that it was still there but more
to the right
No more dust but papers seemed to be filling it
He didn’t even notice it had changed place and had some
kind of content
He thought it was some kind of new construction , maybe a
supermarket he thought
Because he wasn’t giving it any attention, so he didn’t
notice all the papers
The woman who first sat walk again, whistling and went into
this without warning
But what she doesn't see...
But what she doesn't see is black, pink, green and the
dirty leaves of sound floating up from the trashcan where
it all began. the startup and its wonderful, wonderful
wonderful greasy, greasy, greasy greasy green grey blue
white song of gentle insistence. But what she didn't see
was herself nor did she see the others nor did she see the
city, the trucks, the planes overhead or the worms sliming
creeping underneath the newspaper screaming screaming
screaming the computer humming humming humming the doors
slamming slamming creaking and slamming the dust spreading
all over in a grey brown red cloud growing, growing,
growing steadily and covering, blanketing coughing away the
green leaves. But what she didn't see was flat, square,
round, she only saw the stripy, green, dustbrown can,
container on the other side of what she thought and din't
see. But what she didn't see and did see at once was some
pile of melon on an icy frosty cold november day piled by
caucasian men who drove thousands of watermelon in old grey
brown trucks all the way from georgia to violently smash
them on the wide open square of taganskaja station. what
she didn't see was berlin the suburb of moscow.
They look at...

They look at each other and they didn't knew where to start
They were in pairs, they were in Paris
They looked at each other and realize how difficult it was
to loose the ownership of their own bodies
They didn't even look
They though they were looking and decided to describe They
saw it together
They didn't payed attention
How awful is to be tricked by your own reflection They
looked and they are still looking.
I stop looking, because they are looking at me
So we can look at this without having the same eyes, is
that what you saying?
They looked again at each other and hoped somebody would
save them from their own wills
They had no patient and no wish to keep looking at that
perfect white wall
They knew all the time, and they never said it out loud
They look and by not finding they assumed it existed
They looked and looked and looked and looked, until they
got sleepy
They were dreaming that they have seen it somewhere They
forgot what they have seen
They were we shortly after one of them left the room
The space...
The space seems to hide the only thing that makes it
visible The space seems to avoid speaking about what we
don't see
As we proceed without vision The space seems to unlearn us
while we think we've seen enough
We are at the beginning, The space seems to invite us to be
audience although we are on stage, although we keep
convincing ourselves that shadows are only in relation to
illuminated things
The space seems a to unthink, unlearn, unknown, unbelieve,
unhunt at all
The space seems a hunting cabin, a treat, and then it
doesnt, specially after yesterday when i experienced the
same cabin in the middle of Alexanderplatz
The space seems to bring my eyes closer to myself, it
borrows other lenses showing light as negative, like the
negative effect in photoshop
The space seems to invade other space, and pervert it,
because it is obsessed by shaping its own shadow
The space seems to be a waiting room, that builds
expectations on how much time we can still pretend we are
the audience
In the end The space seems to lack shadows but the show
goes on