Pouring myself coffee, thinking of another Monday, another Berlin. No time to write here within recent days and weeks; I arrive at the page blank with no recollection of previous sketches or mutterings. All around the city is slowly distilling its occupants into the street as gentle trickles of occupation and purpose. Sunlight, pale and warming, filters through dust rising from the courtyards below on unseen thermals. Summarise the week then, remember last week and tell it again. There can be no week beginning without a week's end.
Much time was spent bicycling across the city, taking advantage of the pleasant August weather, never too hot in its threat of storms. The downpours that Sunday bluffed to bring never materialised either. Much time spent moving across the city, on a bicycle, traversing the canal, alongside the dustbowl park (formerly Goerlitzer Bahnhof, that site of intrepid secrets), then direct along Oranienstrasse, following the route of the demolished wall, the topology of terror, into the administrative district, past the embassies and police blockades and street fairs, round the Reichstag, along the river, into Tierpark and beyond.
Held various collusive refreshment activities, espressos by the lazy river, meeting artists and activists, plotting out exhibition and performance space. Much comma'd thought too, tiny connections and run-ons between concepts and personalities, between architectures and predicted flows of people. Slowly it comes together, an exhibition transformed from scratches on paper into spatial manifestation into conversation and back into scratches, once more, on paper. December holds import now too, another music project, something slightly more extended, warehouses and tape-players, a limited hardcopy release, samizdat murmurings to be held on the shelves of record shops.
The weekend was, in the majority, spent walking. The majority of that majority was undertaken through tarblack forest underneath swooping owls and clouds of lakeflies. Out towards the East we gravitated, the train bound for Frankfurt Oder, us for a different direction, toward a vector of meandering lostness. Keep the rails on the right, the lakes on the left and head for the lights! We could not hear the rails, nor smell the lakes, nor see the lights.
We rounded pastures glowing luminous under a hood of pin stars, scaled chalk mountains, picked our way through the towering nests of fire-ants, pitched across rivers and gulleys until finally we arrived in camp. There we sat and talked and drank as the night reached its coldest part, soundtracked by stages set deep into the woods, absorbed in the connections between things, in linguistic temperament, in natural aesthetics, in East German cinema, in reappropriations of musical culture, in all these nonsenses.
Within this nonsense, we became absorbed, and within the forest we became lost one more. Friends arrived, stages shifted occupants, drinks were poured and cigarettes. Then, that moment, where we passed a minute of pure cold into the next day, the sun creeping up over an unseen horizon, eventually breaking into the trees and then onto our faces as it lifted over the roof of the barn and the dense canopies of greening leaves. There, the week ended.