dalla raccolta di artisti vari “Visionaire n.53” e dall'album "Cartography" di Arve Henriksen

we started in the suburbs of smaller cities
and as we followed the nomadic call our nobler instincts led us further
from society's centre
Westward, to a cabin hoisted aloft on faulty foundations far above the
Napa Valley
where the rain-soaked earth shifted beneath us and trees caught like
kindling
smoke clouds ripening in the vintners sun [not sure about “in the
vinters sun”, it's quite hard to make it out]
but part of us refused to follow
interior distractions beckoned, rallied
snagged we'd return to the cities on day trips and long weekends
self perversion
anonymity found only in the midst of bricks and mortar
the hustle of strangers
we were worldly people after all
but the haze of the rural and the agents of pollination clung to us
sparked like hayseed halos in the western sunlight
no one let on they'd noticed
but we saw, we knew

I watched my parents as they stood in a crowded Euston station up fresh
from the country
suitcases at their sides, waiting on my arrival
illuminated in an otherwise sea of grey
not at this moment

we were tempted back repeatedly until the lure of the cosmopolitan lay
beyond reach
we moved East in to the forests and the mountains where life's
desires tore us apart
how cruel to find oneself alone at that altitude
at what point did the fear of numbers set in
and the recognition of internal isolation place us outside of
belonging?
but then wasn't that always the case?
weren't we simply allowed to forget?

on temple mountain I threw down a rope that others might follow
no one came