Vertigo – 6 – Day 7 and 8
Saturday May 23rd 8:53. Here everything is quiet. I usually own the place, I am almost the only one to work in this henhouse converted in a workshop. There is Danny and his children who builded and are maintaining the village and Orit the cook, preparing food for the people who came for the chavouot festival (commemoration of the gift of the Torah to Moise). I say that everything is quiet because there is no more noise than usually when there are tents standing everywhere and a lot of children.
Everything is calm exceptmaybe within me and the bykers taking advantage of shabbat to throb their motocycles. I am in an utopic world where love and children are reigning. Yesterday Adi took me in a tour of is father and valley habitant, at the school fair and at Dana’s who sells her delicious bread in a trailer in her garden. The school, they, artists, writers, new cultivators, created it to give their children an education that look like them, open and creative. Dana, her, concentrates in her garden what she wishes for the world. The trees are dressed with colorful crochet coats, the best musicians come here to improvise together, the one who comes beat on the table and invent himself percussionist. Children are coming back from the school fair with flowers crowns on their heads. Even the dog seems to jump out from our imagination with his eyes circled in black and white. The place is so thrilling I would like to be drawn in it. Dana says « I imagine that there is the sea behind the trailer, not to see this hideous buildings ». And it's true the air is salty.
Sunday May 24th, Nest Deuteronomy 22:6-7
If you happen to come upon a bird's nest along the way, in any tree or on the ground, with young ones or eggs, and the mother sitting on the young or on the eggs, you shall not take the mother with the young; you shall certainly let the mother go, but the young you may take for yourself, in order that it may be well with you and that you may prolong your days.
The possibility of a nest, each twig, tied with white thread, still attached to the branch. It will be enough for a bird to attache them together to make of it his shelter. White is the one under which we will not stand. A nest to become, like a story already written, If you happen to come upon a bird's nest along the way...It should have been a bird. It should have been the void before, the will ou the necessity to procreate, it should have been the destiny. That greeds leeds one's steps, that some lightness, almost frivolity to end up in carnage. A mother who was never the egg neither the young on the way of one that now crosses her, now or yesterday. Maybe it will be her third nest destroyed and no posterity may not remain to prolong the days of the distract passerby. To be a mother and be safe to procreate again and again, be passerby, rambler and pretend to be God. To be a mother, to have one, is it a concept or a reality ? Their presence, their absence aren't they creating us as God's do ?