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‘incomplete flight patterns’
excerpt from ‘when to move in disorientation’ (2021)
this video/text piece is a collection of footage of migrations, an abstraction of personal flight patterns while inhabiting different spaces. It was projected with dislocated audio, the animated text moves the viewer from watching one or the other, but not both reading/hearing/seeing at the same time. The accompanying essay written in tandem with the video can be read here:
to the border in the water that day
we take the train to Farge. it’s a morning with low hanging clouds. what we’ve come to do is understand our disorientation, the seven of us all from different points seeking a space of familiarity. we make our procession along the river banks, the tide is low, and in a few hours the demarcations we took note of on our way will disappear with the rising water. i keep thinking about that panel discussion with Fred Moten i saw circulating online. how we need to remember to come together again, how that is an act of resistance. my mind is distracted, sure i am in germany but my thoughts are altogether elsewhere. the remnants of war are everywhere. the militarized zones, quiet and loud at the same time. those violent brutal relations are still ongoing, displaced from Farge but radiating out from it and all other points across europe. we try to move around valentin bunker and still not be oriented by it. its gravitational pull and structure is oppressive, still. i notice the sound of my feet on the gravel. it proliferates and sounds like thousands of feet. there are cows across the road. L remembers his grandmother saying the cows lay down before it rains, they have another kind of sensitivity. what kinds of knowledge are handed down.
it amazing to me the proliferation of dandelions. their lightness and ability to take off with wind. how their substance counters the heaviness of that concrete structure. we join together in a kind of communion, sharing food and stories together. we turn away from the bunker towards the water. the sun comes out. i am overtaken by how special this feels, after so many months where gathering has been restricted and criminalized due to the pandemic. how necessary it is to come together, to discuss.
we continue down the path, to that border. i feel uneasy about the newly paved road, like some old tale warning against going down a certain way. we stop at the line between the gravel and the paved. we sit in a circle and read, one paragraph at a time. the rain comes through, light then heavy. and thunder. then lightning. i wonder if more cows laid down, right before the rai
‘incomplete flight patterns’
excerpt from ‘when to move in disorientation’ (2021)
this video/text piece is a collection of footage of migrations, an abstraction of personal flight patterns while inhabiting different spaces. It was projected with dislocated audio, the animated text moves the viewer from watching one or the other, but not both reading/hearing/seeing at the same time. The accompanying essay written in tandem with the video can be read here:
to the border in the water that day
we take the train to Farge. it’s a morning with low hanging clouds. what we’ve come to do is understand our disorientation, the seven of us all from different points seeking a space of familiarity. we make our procession along the river banks, the tide is low, and in a few hours the demarcations we took note of on our way will disappear with the rising water. i keep thinking about that panel discussion with Fred Moten i saw circulating online. how we need to remember to come together again, how that is an act of resistance. my mind is distracted, sure i am in germany but my thoughts are altogether elsewhere. the remnants of war are everywhere. the militarized zones, quiet and loud at the same time. those violent brutal relations are still ongoing, displaced from Farge but radiating out from it and all other points across europe. we try to move around valentin bunker and still not be oriented by it. its gravitational pull and structure is oppressive, still. i notice the sound of my feet on the gravel. it proliferates and sounds like thousands of feet. there are cows across the road. L remembers his grandmother saying the cows lay down before it rains, they have another kind of sensitivity. what kinds of knowledge are handed down.
it amazing to me the proliferation of dandelions. their lightness and ability to take off with wind. how their substance counters the heaviness of that concrete structure. we join together in a kind of communion, sharing food and stories together. we turn away from the bunker towards the water. the sun comes out. i am overtaken by how special this feels, after so many months where gathering has been restricted and criminalized due to the pandemic. how necessary it is to come together, to discuss.
we continue down the path, to that border. i feel uneasy about the newly paved road, like some old tale warning against going down a certain way. we stop at the line between the gravel and the paved. we sit in a circle and read, one paragraph at a time. the rain comes through, light then heavy. and thunder. then lightning. i wonder if more cows laid down, right before the rai
