not I not I, but the wind that blows through me
by Dylan Spencer-Davidson
the dreams that flowed through us in the dreaming matrixes that marked the beginning and end of the week. listening to fields, animals, energies in the group. all this and more, blurted out in the vocal improv cacophony. practice as its own form of reasoning and activity. domestication. how life and death work differently on a farm. how do you define a field? force fields, art fields, the exhausted field, working the field, extracting from it (“what do you hope to get out of this week”). the spine as a necklace, tailbone to skull, the spine of the train creaking beneath my feet, the same movement with 20% less effort, the elegant twisting of the legs of the cardamom buns. emotional responses are way faster than logical responses. the fly that lands on my nose during our study session about domestication and animals. the fly has no idea what we’re talking about, in the same way that we have no idea what the mountains are talking about. a hunting trophy more ethical than a pet? becoming a gear in abstract machines of our own collective making. verena’s cinematic solo vespa ride to the beach bar. “we may look like a perfect family, but that’s not the case, but i’m saying too much—”. the ghost of DAI there with us. the food so easy and cheap and delicious and central to the week. dancing with jellyfish at the beach, chats under the mosquito net in speckled sunlight.