My free writing is not as free as one might expect. It goes back into the dry tumbler, getting damper for every iteration. But it is a continuation of an approach to making art that I have had as one of my analogue tracks for many years. See what comes out, you could call it. Improvisation, flow, surprise.
Lately dark things come out. The iterations does not dampen things, but makes them even more gritty. Humour that I cherish above all is not necessarily showing up for the audition. Sometimes I write something beautiful and simple like this:
The wind has blown the burnet rose and the rose haw into a frenzy. Now they rest. The air is salty, the sea buckthorn wiry, the skin tight and dry from sun and sorrow. Muttering in the background, the sea is getting ready for the summer night. And up the dune, a small child is dragging a heavy stone. She is a stone collector – her sole ambition is to collect stones. Many a valuable stone has she found. Especially the flint that her father loves.
But most often brutality, weirdness and horror comes out of my fingers. Maybe it is the times, maybe it is me in these times. I don't know, watches with interest and surprise and acceptance what comes from beneath.
It has also been a way to get back into doing an opus again. I am collecting all this in a book called Katabasis. It will be made into a pdf, then later I plan to have it printed.
