I don’t know if you remember,
But the last night in Castlefranco,
The day before I was going to leave,
We all went to Bar da Stefano,
For a big farewell getting together,
The Grande Finale,
It was the cheapest Spritz that I managed to get,
The one we all had talked about,
The 80 cent Spritz,
Even with an olive,
(which was unusual for Bar da Stefano)
And some of the guys had brought their own home brewed wine,
And were eating food,
Having a blast,
And in that 80 cent Spritz I got a slice of lemon,
And in that lemon slice was a lemon seed,
That I kept in my mouth,
Sucked on it until it did not taste of lemon any more,
‘Cause that is the trick,
If you want to plant a lemon tree,
From a lemon seed,
From a lemon fruit,
You need to suck it until it does not taste of lemon any more,
And after that you need to keep it moist until you get to plant the seed,
‘Cause the lemon seed must under no condition dry out,
If you want a lemon tree to come out of it,
So I kept it in my mouth,
All the way back to Locanda Speranza,
Where I wrapped it in moist toilet paper,
And put it in a plastic bag,
And brought it back,
To sweden,
Then to Norway,
Where I am now,
From Castlefranco to Trondheim,
From the 11th of june to the 30th of june,
One day short of three weeks,
Where it is finally sprouting.
BREAK MY BODY
This is the industry, the labour, of the artist, of the city, of the space, of the insects and of the machines. These are the signs that something has happened. This is it, this is what has happened. Inside and out, outside and in. The silk larvae eats the mulberry leaves and creates a cocoon around its body, preparing for adulthood. We boil the larvae alive in its cocoon, and untangle this superfine thread, spins it into a thicker thread, weave the thread into a shiny fabric. This is the stuff dreams are made out of. The insect pollinates the flower, the flower looses its petals and from the ovary the fruit is formed. The fruit is picked, washed and digested. Sweet dreams are made of this. Even before I am aware, my body is preparing to leave the bed. My brain is creating the electrical impulses to swing my feet out from under the blanket and onto the floor. The route of the day is already predetermined, and I live in blissful ignorance. The path in my brain and the path in the terrain can be seen as lines drawn in pencil on ordinary paper that are already there, but in a different room. The fall is what disrupts the time, the path. My body lets me know this is not what was intended, give me a warning flag in black, blue, purple, red and green. To sleep, perchance to dream – ay, there’s the rub. The death of something in order for something else to become. The strips of bark from a broken branch weaved into a home for homeless beetles. The mussels pried open in order for the shells to be used as hair removal devices. The lemon is picked to get to the pit to suck the seed to plant it and get a new tree. The end of an old story triggers the beginning of a new one.