Ah, said W., who visited recently, that's your writing table, and that's your yard. He looked through the window. It is disgusting, he agreed. And what's wrong with your plants? Why is the concrete green? It shouldn't be that colour. And what is that growing there? Is it a weed? It's too big and serious to be a weed, W. said.
I'll bet it smells terrible out there, said W. It does, doesn't it? You can tell. I'll bet it really hums. You'd never know of course, I tell him, because the windows won't open. They're jammed shut, I tell him, because the flat's changing shape. It's sinking, I tell him. It's collapsing in the middle.
The flat's sinking, W. says, and the yard is rotting. What is that out there? Sewage? And why's it covered in foamy water? The sewage's from the upstairs flat's waste pipe, I tell him, and the foamy water comes from the pipe from their kitchen sink.
W. agrees that Bela Tarr would take a 20 minute tracking shot of the yard. The yard would mean more to him than all our nonsense, W, says. Do you remember when he said that the wall, the rain and the dogs all have their own stories, and that these stories are more important than so called human stories? Do you remember when he said that the scenery, the weather, the locations and time have their own faces? Their own faces! The yard, the horror of the yard, is the only thing around here Bela Tarr would be interested in.
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