The end of a day that was easily lost, as all these days are. The state of waiting, having just finished and not yet begun, is ripe with inactivity. There is a deadline but it signals the beginning and not the end. Tasks up to this point are not finite, they are to be finished indeterminately.
Of course there are those things that must be done, the urgency simply depends on the level of completeness I want. CD-Rs need pressing, music collection needs archiving, plants need labelling and passing on, books need organising into boxes, musical instruments need wrapping and packing, clothes need segregating (Berlin, storage, charity).
The rest depends entirely on dedication – making future contacts present, researching possible performance spaces, acquiring the language. All are ideal, all can be seen as the reason for going, but it is hard to motivate yourself in the face of the blank canvas that stands for the rest of your time.
Now, right now, I can see us standing in the hot street, the tenement blocks are slabs of orange, beige and grey, and then walking through the open door to our hallway, passing through and out into the courtyard, itself dominated by large trees and creeping ivy. We then turn left, Cara and I, to find a small door which we walk through after unlocking and then make our way up six sets of stairs to the third floor where, after a little trouble with the lock, we enter the flat which is barer than we imagined but not without a certain quaintness and certainly not without its share of bright midday sun.
At this point, everything on is white, bleached out like over-exposed film. I have thought about this too many times and there are no possibilities left, just a bleaching of possibilities, a sheet over the eyes, a field of snow, this new life.