This morning was a morning of simple pleasures. In the kitchen, with the window wide open receiving the sounds of the outside, things fell into place. Recent criticism of written words offered to me has enthused and driven me to wake, expectantly, wishing a pen in my hand. There can be no small joy attached to the knowledge that you are on the right track, that the direction you pursue is at least headed somewhere and that you have escaped the movement of circles.
In through the open window came the sounds of a trumpet, hauled up through the courtyard by something unseen, bringing immediate recollections of Roy Andersson’s You, the Living, before instruction could be heard, instructions yelled over the top demanding a change in tempo or informing of a new movement. The voice was impossible to place, not German, probably of a language Latinate, maybe French or Spanish. The trumpet always reminds one of Spain, a Spain never visited (certainly my one visit to Spain yielded no Marachi), but then there was accordion too and a miniature ensemble started up.
This, remember, all over breakfast and early, just after waking. It was too much to bear, so I ate my bananas and drank my green tree and picked up an art catalogue. Inside were hazy, unfocussed pictures and a short passage of text which seemed to refer to various Heideggerean question of function; when does something stop becoming itself, is an umbrella with a hole in it still an umbrella, even if it still fails to fulfil its purpose, that of keeping one dry?
This, and other questions, to be answered today through writing and various expeditions in the sunshine into town. I need to buy a tent. There were few questions answered last night, sitting in the lovely cobbled cellar where upstairs all the furniture is stuck to the ceiling and even the clocks are upside down. No questions answered, but a good deal asked and some beer drunk and some cigarettes smoked and some stilted but engaging conversations held in an unholy mix of four languages. Speaking in this way, where there is no common denominator and the table is thrown open to all manner of translations and misappropriations is one of the most entertaining ways to spend an evening. At the end of it all, the Portuguese, French, Japanese, Polish, German and English all went home.