RWS Jour 63
I arrive to sculpture finally feeling ready to clean the space of the substrate of Styrofoam and paper that has blanketed the floor of the ambassade. I spend the morning cleaning the space, organizing the books and papers floating about, and attempt to revive the plant. In the midst of this, I see the police briskly enter and traverse the bridge. There has been some drama this morning, however I do not have the energy to pay any attention. There are so many things that one can spend their attention on here, it feels like a livestream with five hundred different channels all blaring at once. It leads me to think about the ecology of my attention, and that book I want to read by Yves Citton. I think about attention as a currency, attention rarified in the onslaught of overstimulation, and finally the endangerment of my own attention. I am often over stimulated here, and there is a sense of diligence I must embody in order to remain in alignment with my intentions. It has been difficult to get back into the rhythm of writing and working in the ambassade, and I have been yearning to get back to the practice of the cahier de bord, and update the entries onto the site. The neighbor precedes to tell me that someone lit five fires in the sculpture late last night. Perhaps that is why the police are here. It does not surprise me.
As I am en route to the tool shed, I cross paths with Marie Antoinette and am filled with jubilance. It was just a few hours earlier that I had been thinking of her, and was planning to email her today in regards to my struggle to obtain an English copy of Sylvia Federecci’s Caliban and The Witch. It is difficult for me to acquire books in English here, yet I thought she might have a suggestion. And to my surprise, she appeared in the flesh ! I was delighted to see her smiling face, and we spoke for a while and exchanged thoughts on the sculpture, school, and the desire for more dialogue. She said she would be coming back to the sculpture and could bring me a copy. Enthused by this serendipitous encounter, I returned to my work with a new focus, reinvigorated in my investment in both Walser and my walking practice.
Bridel walks into the ambassade to ask for some help – Thomas has thrown his gold teeth in the trash, and he needs help looking for it. The thought of finding something as small as a tooth cap dipped in gold in the heaps of garbage amassed each day seems like an insurmountable task, yet I indulge in the absurdity of it and accept.
I return in the evening to listen to the chant quotidien, and embrace the softness of the evening. The light rain seems to have put everyone in a calm mood, and we lay draped over the stairs of the forum listening to the Kurdish serenades. The night contrasts the intensity of the day. I go to bed with an echo of a lullaby, humming myself to sleep.