There is a woman who is always pacing the Metro station at Republica Argentina. Graying, long, curly hair, a strange grin, hands behind her back, a long plaid coat... she falls into my periphery. I´ve no idea who she is. I go down the escalator and see her ghost from the corner of my eye tumbada on the stairs in-between the sets of moving ones. We woud thicken if we exchanged looks, if we were to say to one another, yes, I see you every day. Cassandra asked me if she has changed, if she had thickened. Our lives slide alongside of one another and we are the ones who choose to look or to not look. Just like these trains. This changing wind of Hans Zimmer. She has changed and I begin to draw her in my mind. Beginning with the shadow in the inner pocket of the eye, just like Jon Puls. These images weigh on me, I must learn to draw weight. Heavy, light, change. The faux fur on the hood in front of me moves in the breeze but we are in-doors, underground. From where do these things come?
I recieved a postcard from the States today, from Sydney, asking about the weather in the Spanish abyss I have fallen into. Well, I live and breathe and am heading to Barcelona this weekend for four days of adventure and solitude. Breathing and living!