{"id":39,"date":"2017-01-13T13:45:39","date_gmt":"2017-01-13T13:45:39","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/blogg.hiof.no\/blindspot\/?p=39"},"modified":"2017-02-22T15:14:59","modified_gmt":"2017-02-22T15:14:59","slug":"material-2","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/blogg.hiof.no\/blindspot\/2017\/01\/13\/material-2\/","title":{"rendered":"Writing exercises"},"content":{"rendered":"
She is...<\/span><\/strong>\r\n\r\nShe is sitting in the sports hall on a bench.\r\nShe is exhausted after hours of cleaning. They will arrive\r\nin a couple of hours, in a bus, from the south. They might \r\nhave travelled for more than three weeks.\r\nShe is sitting on the bench and taking of her rubber gloves.\r\nShe is drawing in her calendar while listening to a podcast\r\nabout Portuguese cooking.\r\nShe is drawing small patterns without really giving form to\r\nanything.\r\nShe\u2019s drawing in her calendar. It is the 4th of July 2016.\r\nShe is soon of on holidays.\r\nShe is online.\r\nShe is considering where to go.\r\nShe is googling travels to Angola and parallel watching a\r\nNetflix series about the Colombian mafia.\r\nShe is lying on the sofa watching the news. A car crashes\r\non the street.\r\nShe is online, again.\r\nShe is measuring her shadow: in the morning, at noon, in\r\nthe early evening. It is summer.\r\nShe is writing a letter to her grandmother. She is writing\r\nan email to her grandmother.<\/span><\/pre>\n
He looks at...<\/span><\/strong>\r\n\r\nHe looks at the recorder, checking settings. Is it\r\nrecording at all channels, as supposed to?\r\nNo.\r\nShit.\r\nDo I have to wade through all hundred and four sub-menues\r\nin order to reset this?, he thinks. This is fucking useless.\r\nThe recorder is really nice when it works, but setting it\r\nup is a nightmare. Designed by engineers. Designed by a\r\npedantic technical mind that starts out by systematically\r\nlisting and then displaying all configuration options that\r\nwere ever added to the firmware, including the useless\r\nfeatures invented in a late Friday afternoon haze.\r\nAnd of course, the one tiny detail missing, the one they\r\nnever got to, was a simple stupid preset storage. Why would\r\nyou want that?\r\nFive furious minutes later. The LEDs are finally blinking\r\nas supposed to. As far as he can tell it is now configured\r\ncorrectly. But the place itself has been deconfigured in\r\nthe process.\r\nThe state that he has to bring himself into in order to do\r\nrecordings that he can engage with later on, is gone.\r\nDepending on his mood, the world has more or less colours.\r\nNow the light is harsh, and erase the colours, leaving only\r\nwhite and bleak shades of gray and beige.\r\nThe cables has gotten entangled. Can we please invent\r\nwireless electricity? Like now? Thanks.\r\nThe perception of the place, shadowed by technology and\r\nbad-tempered moods.<\/span><\/pre>\n
She looks at...<\/span><\/strong>\r\n    \r\nA huge box with holes in it\r\nHe thinks it is a mountain because of the dust covering it\r\nShe wanders what\u2019s in the box\r\nBut he doesn\u2019t care for a mountain is only a mountain\r\nAnother woman is standing there, she walks a little and\r\nthen climb the mountain and sit on the dusty box\r\nWithout warning\r\nAs soon as she sat, the box mountain strangely and\r\nimperceptibly disappeared SHE\r\nBut after a while she saw that it was still there but more\r\nto the right\r\nNo more dust but papers seemed to be filling it\r\nHe didn\u2019t even notice it had changed place and had some\r\nkind of content\r\nHe thought it was some kind of new construction , maybe a\r\nsupermarket he thought\r\nBecause he wasn\u2019t giving it any attention, so he didn\u2019t\r\nnotice all the papers\r\nThe woman who first sat walk again, whistling and went into\r\nthis without warning<\/span><\/pre>\n
But what she doesn't see...<\/span><\/strong>\r\n    \r\nBut what she doesn't see is black, pink, green and the\r\ndirty leaves of sound floating up from the trashcan where\r\nit all began. the startup and its wonderful, wonderful\r\nwonderful greasy, greasy, greasy greasy green grey blue\r\nwhite song of gentle insistence. But what she didn't see\r\nwas herself nor did she see the others nor did she see the\r\ncity, the trucks, the planes overhead or the worms sliming\r\ncreeping underneath the newspaper screaming screaming\r\nscreaming the computer humming humming humming the doors\r\nslamming slamming creaking and slamming the dust spreading\r\nall over in a grey brown red cloud growing, growing,\r\ngrowing steadily and covering, blanketing coughing away the\r\ngreen leaves. But what she didn't see was flat, square,\r\nround, she only saw the stripy, green, dustbrown can,\r\ncontainer on the other side of what she thought and din't\r\nsee. But what she didn't see and did see at once was some\r\npile of melon on an icy frosty cold november day piled by\r\ncaucasian men who drove thousands of watermelon in old grey\r\nbrown trucks all the way from georgia to violently smash\r\nthem on the wide open square of taganskaja station. what\r\nshe didn't see was berlin the suburb of moscow.<\/span><\/pre>\n
They look at...<\/span><\/strong>\r\n\r\nThey look at each other and they didn't knew where to start\r\nThey were in pairs, they were in Paris\r\nThey looked at each other and realize how difficult it was\r\nto loose the ownership of their own bodies\r\nThey didn't even look\r\nThey though they were looking and decided to describe They\r\nsaw it together\r\nThey didn't payed attention\r\nHow awful is to be tricked by your own reflection They\r\nlooked and they are still looking.\r\nI stop looking, because they are looking at me\r\nSo we can look at this without having the same eyes, is\r\nthat what you saying?\r\nThey looked again at each other and hoped somebody would\r\nsave them from their own wills\r\nThey had no patient and no wish to keep looking at that\r\nperfect white wall\r\nThey knew all the time, and they never said it out loud\r\nThey look and by not finding they assumed it existed\r\nThey looked and looked and looked and looked, until they\r\ngot sleepy\r\nThey were dreaming that they have seen it somewhere They\r\nforgot what they have seen\r\nThey were we shortly after one of them left the room\r\nThe space...\r\nThe space seems to hide the only thing that makes it\r\nvisible The space seems to avoid speaking about what we\r\ndon't see\r\nAs we proceed without vision The space seems to unlearn us\r\nwhile we think we've seen enough\r\nWe are at the beginning, The space seems to invite us to be\r\naudience although we are on stage, although we keep\r\nconvincing ourselves that shadows are only in relation to\r\nilluminated things\r\nThe space seems a to unthink, unlearn, unknown, unbelieve,\r\nunhunt at all\r\nThe space seems a hunting cabin, a treat, and then it\r\ndoesnt, specially after yesterday when i experienced the\r\nsame cabin in the middle of Alexanderplatz\r\nThe space seems to bring my eyes closer to myself, it\r\nborrows other lenses showing light as negative, like the\r\nnegative effect in photoshop\r\nThe space seems to invade other space, and pervert it,\r\nbecause it is obsessed by shaping its own shadow\r\nThe space seems to be a waiting room, that builds\r\nexpectations on how much time we can still pretend we are\r\nthe audience\r\nIn the end The space seems to lack shadows but the show\r\ngoes on<\/span><\/pre>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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