Late afternoon. The windows show smears when the light catches them, and the mirror. Once it was wiped in round circles – but by whom? And the windows – who wiped them?
Late afternoon, and the whole world gives itself like one of Ozu’s ‘pillow shots’: as a pause between scenes; between events and themselves. Nothing happens – and that’s what happens. Like a cat licking its paw in the sun: nothing at all. Like the droop of a washing line, plastic clothes pegs, green and white beaded with rain: nothing.
Why is it important, this non-importance? Why do you seek to keep it, to write it down? Because it is a condition I would like for writing. A writing like any other, just like a day is like any other. Common, ordinary, and more than that. The ordinary deepening in the ordinary; the droop of the day discovering itself in the droop of writing.
(Pillow shots: what happens when writing is not yet writing? When it is seen only from the corner of your eye? Someone is writing, there in the other room. Someone, far away from you, behind the smeared mirror.)
Lars Iyer's Blog 