writer, sound and performance artist
--- short / poetry
--- longer / publication
--- public projects
--- photo / video
relevant work experience
--- project management
--- teaching / workshops
--- writing / translating
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You bury your feet in the sand.
Your hair is wet from your morning swim. You sit on your blue beach towel with images of the 1978 Olympics and stare out over the lake. Slowly you rumble your fingers through the sand to filter out the small pebbles and shells. You prefer the tiniest pieces of broken white shells the most, and always make sure to bring a few hands full back to your beach house in the pockets of your grey pants.
If you stay here long enough, you could collect more than enough broken shells to fill the entire floor of your cottage. Getting out of bed in the middle of the night, you would hear their crisp sound under your bare feet, their small outlines too soft to hurt you or leave a mark.
The raccoon that lives underneath your shell-filled house likes it when you make soft noises in your sleep. It comforts him to know that you’re around to keep him company, that he’s not alone with all the rich people who only
come here in the summer. You are his loyal companion, from the crisp April morning air, to the salty sweat of an unexpected hot October afternoon, curled up in the bed above his head all the way through December's dew.
But there comes a day, very soon, where you won't be resting in the sand after your morning swim. You’ll be preparing your departure. The wooden logs I sent by current express will all have washed ashore, and one by
one you'll have carried them to your porch. This is not wood to leave to dry to keep you warm to stay to elongate the pleasure. This is the wood that will build the raft to bring you home to me.
From Egur you will sail to the Landnam Islands on a Monday morning in the year 874. You will go alone, and build a home where the logs will reach the ocean shore on the other end – the first log, the foundation of your new home. You will trot over land and trek over water and trout among the hills with the white sheep who are as adventurous as mountain goats. And there I will find you, and we will drink the wine, the special wine from special grapes and grafts that doesn’t make your belly itch in agony. And we’ll eat the fish that isn’t a real fish, to ease my animal-loving mind. On the second day, Uncle Saul will send us some fig jelly from Pelamork to announce the arrival of his newborn Child. The Child who will not bear a name until you light the rose candle and whisper it toward the horizon.
Until then... until then you will collect white broken shells and sift out the broken glass and let the logs mature.
Until then, my friend.