Apr. 18th, 2006
today we went to the village where we planned to rent a house for the winter, which we took only for 2 months as it turned out, because, for one thing, there was no electricity. we went to take our stuff away today. in october, when we visited the house for the last time, we left apples scattered on all the window sills, tables, and everywhere. now we found them brown, half-rotten, half-withered, and i took armfuls of them out on the porch and threw them at the empty yellow barrel in the yard. brown juice ran down the side of the barrel. what i write is quite useless. then we stood in the field and i took pictures of myself. at the time when i stopped writing, about ten years ago, one of the things i noticed about writing was that i used it for self-justification. it doesn't mean that what i write is about what a nice person i am, but just writing somehow implies that. or, at least: i am, i breathe, i speak -- at the time when all these things are being questioned. that was one of the things that turned me off writing, but many different things converged at that time.