Fish & Fowl
Fish & Fowl
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|1||Fish & Fowl||36:46||
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|2||Ursula Andkjær Olsen reads "Kære Fisk" (Dear Fish)||10:07||
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|3||Die Wanderin (2007)||10:24||
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|4||sagte er, dachte ich (1999)||10:39||
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Here I am with my lungs, my breathlessness, I can't stop breathing, oscillations in the air = sound = music, I can't help myself. It's the constant breathing that makes me feel so fleshy, so convulsive.
I've tried to collect my thoughts on the good life, I feel like a lawyer pleading my case, or a fool engaged in seduction:
Music, kids, books, love, sex,
a healthy home,
theatre, city-life, company,
love, care, intimacy, awareness,
art, quality, meaningful occupation,
good health, food on the table, and fun and games. And peace in the world,
of course. My children. Tons of happiness, being in successful
dialogue with others, joy and curiosity about the future,
my wonderful wife. More joy than sorrow, peace - especially inner -
(red) (red) (red) (red) (red) (red)
peace, energy.... hmm ... love, warmth, freedom.
... hm ... hope ...
My breathlessness, an invitation.
Is breathlessness an invitation to pay attention to sound? Unsound? You don't
say anything. Music = sound = oscillations in the air, but why not in water, that's
not what I wanted to say: Music = sound = oscillations = turning oneself inside
out = breathing.
Something so concrete and yet so abstract. Breath. The voice of life. I am so porous.
Are you listening? Can you hear (especially) perfume, do you think I'm (red)
basil? It's pouring out through my mask. Free-fall,
free, free ...
Hope? Nuances, like: everything and nothing, just nuances. Everything and nothing, nuances.
Paradox. Hope you can use it.
Lungs are so porous, it's pouring out through them, all-pervasive,
how can I understand you (without lungs)? Like a plant? I know so few plant names.
Honeysuckle ... Seaweed .... yes! More interactive with the world. The nightshade family. Sunflower, bluebell, (red) basil, I feel (red) basil has roots in the same way
of thinking. As I like me. Lovage or lilac, the invitation is a premise for my being in the world. I know so few plant names, a perennial, or some other plant which makes you hallucinate when you take it ... hmm ... a poplar tree. Not newly pollarded.
A birch tree.
Mimosa ... a tree-top, can one hear the intervening years?
Is it also pouring in and out of you? We are both empathic. In some ways we're quite similar, an occupation with people's complex emotions.
I act like a fool:
I look out of the window: bluebell, basil. It's so cool!
I'm crazy about.
All that - there's nothing I detest.
Everything and nothing, just nuances. Which in the right mood could be perceived as
Unimportant, unconscious, bad, an insult.
What I am saying?
The lung as an invitation to dialogue.
I'm really perverse, I am the voice of life. A must\. And everything in between.
\\Bigger than the sum of my parts\\ - or however you say it. That's what I'm trying
Like a plant, like a creeping-creeper - which attaches to the tiniest growths and slowly but surely moves upwards and out to the sides ... you could see my breathing like that.
Isn't language a costume sewn by others? (Who, who, a squirrel, a bluebell? It varies from day to day.) A low-grade filter that our thoughts and feelings pass through before they, (lightly or heavily) distorted, arrive at their destination.
You? Even though I haven't met you? I judge from your music and the e-mail correspondence. Through the wall.
You are like (I am like) a (red) squirrel?
A beautiful silvery fish.
A Siberian snow leopard.
A little bird, the way it doesn't work, so porous.
Like café mocha with orange chocolate.
Maybe a cat, a lion, a lioness, a kind of feline - lithe and wary ...
A medium-sized dog, a fox. From the canine family. Sorry.
Guinea pig, mule, sorry, the way it doesn't work, it varies from day to day.
A Bengalese tiger, a malnourished wild cat. My dreams are based on music that makes us hold our breath spontaneously.
Unfold your lungs. Eagle.
Not a filter, my lungs are improvised filigree.
The natural unreliability, it's not me that's unreliable, but it's not me that sewed the costume, language's natural costumes (the nature of language is costumes, (red) (red) (red) (red) (red) (red)).
Yet still: costume, I sew (red) cloth on it. The need for forms of expression that are as comprehensive as possible. More imaginative definitions are no less legitimate.
Dialogue, in the eye of the storm, or of the beholder. That's what I'm trying. To be in the moment.
Paradox. The lung is my temple, my, your temple! An invitation.
Dialogue. A costume that we have all sewn. A tree-top, hope ... being in the present moment, the moment's (red, red) micro-world.
The natural unreliability of lungs, mysterious, fleshy filigree, sewn by everyone, an invitation to hallucinate, to improvise, to summon forth the beauty in the world that surrounds us.
I keep breathing the whole time, but it still keeps going off course, it turns into breathlessness. Paradox. You, me, you are hereby invited to
freely, through the wall.
My, my breath as an improvisational approach.
My breath as a strict compositional structure.
In my temple.
Breathing - executed by someone who doesn't mean it? An evil heart?
In the eye of the storm, the mask,
In the cracks, fundamental differences are revealed, earth, water,
even though we have the same roots. It's coming on too strong from inside to be able to keep its word.
The word as one of breathing's costumes, something that could, in the right mood, be perceived as music = oscillations in the air, water, oxygen? - my temple = free fall = isn't that what it's all about?
Naked and clothed, between the mask and the face, sits the free, free fall.