A weird night spent with a temperature of 101*F. Yielded up the usual restless half sleep, fever dreams. Long conversations with persons speaking as if over a great dark distance, the subject matter mostly forgotten. As one does.
Something about two friends or brothers, archetypal characters, forever locked in a cycle of destruction and reconciliation.
Something about a wooden bench in a dusty little villa somewhere.
The bench is lined up along the wall of a nondescript building to my right. Impression of another building ahead. Everything is sand-colored, covered with a thick layer of fine particle dust like flour softening the contours of otherwise rough forms. Scene is lit by hazy light from an undetermined source. Feeling of immense passage of time (and therefore accumulation of dust), and simultaneously a sense that time is frozen in this moment of dusk afterglow.
The bench is also archetypal, related to the brothers. The bench is continually destroyed and restored—“Die zwei Brüder umarmen … und dann später, wird die Bank nochmal zerstört.” But of course.
I’m observing this cycle in a series of glances and disjointed happenings in terms of the state of the bench and a sort of constant whispering background narrative. At the same time it’s impossible to catch the brothers in the act. I’m “told” this will be the case.
Indeed, explains the darkness, that’s the limitation of my perspective and of their phase of existence—the brothers existing as not so much entities to be encountered or observed directly but as a process which is always in a state of both having just occurred and about to happen again.
And from my location I can see both past and future filled with energy and movement, but in the present, where I myself can stand, the scene is lifeless, empty, a dusty wooden bench awaiting inevitable forces to act upon it.