Der Geruch von Rauch liegt über der Insel, das Meer im Wind. Schwarz, grün, opal, weiß. Salz permanent auf Lippen und Haaren. There is no fish shop on these islands. You know someone that knows someone.
Faroe, in perpetual hazy, wet, storm-swept suspension in void. A rock in space, all the beauty and all the rawness, and everything is as direct as possible. The malte thing, old and new, at once, rendered as island.
Atras a montanha, os edifícios. Atras os edifícios, o mar.
Travel, the third kind. Being here is less about travelling in italics, rather about being somewhere else. A micro-period, otherwise unpaused. Doing what one does, altered by incidents and customs, life’s general shape and psychography remaining as they are. It is a state that produces new lines of inquiry, and the pursuit of interests unique to a temporary environment, but their shape and weight is similar to one’s, italics, regular life. Spending time near the Trentino threshold with regular intent, as every day, as every place. Later, one will say that one went about one’s business here, reading, writing, corresponding, minding work and minding self. A time abroad, Bildungsreise, Totenschutz, auch ich in Akardien.
The garden of love and death: Condensed spatial elegy, semiotic intricacies at the highest resolution – crisp yet untainted by the burdens of explanation and expression: Architectural intensity that remains abstract, intellectually and emotionally, interlinked in the venn of vesciia piscis, amorphous but distinct. All is sharp and soft at the same time, its slanted momentum bound to algebraic stasis, both acutely present and evaporating into the umbra venetian pasture surrounding it. Everything here is a sign. None has meaning.
If you want to be happy all your life, make a garden.