identity threads are randomly pulled by the moment of observation.
the vital fabric of personality moves and removes around itself. unknown is the beginning. unknown is the end. so is the weaver or weavers. it is autodidactic and idiosyncratically produced, yet also in the hands of an unknown, distributed or maybe a known, condensed exteriority. known is the surface, the moments of crossing and overlapping. from the time of birth, fibered crosses never cease to exist, digging wrinkles in time, fossilising, crystalizing, building chunks of immutable, irremediable truth. nevertheless this strength of undeniable facticity is symmetrically compensated by their movability when it comes to the moment of perceiving them. the knot, the crossing the overlapping is an element of this structure, which neither starts in space, nor ends in time. it happens somewhere, in a place that could be here and in a time that could be there. still it happens because in space it couldn’t have been there and in time it couldn’t have been here. the same could be said for the filaments, the fibers, the threads, the narrow, lanky, prolonged stretching limbs. the filaments that meet or don’t meet never give up on their individual facticity, until they become foundational elements for the so complex and inexorable layered fabric skin.
an opened gap on this fence-like or window-blinds-like or anemone-like structure frees the elements that build it and the meaning that it barricades. a tear, a slit, a crack, a wound or maybe just the mere possibility of ventilation. a fence, window-blinds, anemones, one could also just speak about division: the overlapping can also happen in an almost parallel way; from overlapping does not derive perpendicularity. a moment of invasion or maybe the relieving liberation of the musty air, the refreshing breath of the cooled outside.
1.1. my flax trousers: on my black pullover I see a yellow thread. I look down at my trousers and see a slit on the fabric that covers my left leg. maybe I can sew it. 1.2. it happens somewhere, in a place that could be here and in a time that could be there. still it happens because in space it couldn’t have been there and in time it could only have been here.
1.3. I cut my hair about two months ago. I still meet people who haven’t seen my new head. they tell me you cut your hair or nice haircut or they touch my hair or they touch theirs pantomiming mine. this has been happening for the last two months and it has not stopped to happen until today. my old head is still a reality for many people. why would they think that I cut my hair. my old head is still a living, real image floating in someone’s idea of me.
2.1. a cotton ball: in someone’s bathroom I find this cotton ball on a shelf under the lavatory. I take a fragment of it and tear the fibers apart from each other. I hold the cotton on my hand. 2.2. it happens somewhere, in a place that couldn’t be here and in a time that could be there. still it happens because in space it could have been here and in time it couldn’t have been there. 2.3. in the underground there is someone on the phone. the train rubs against the dirty air of the tunnel and produces a loud tumult. the person on the phone tries to make herself or himself being heard by transmitting her or his voice louder than the sound surrounding. she or he is spelling a word, screaming loudly at the phone: “Are you listening to me? It’s V from volume. A from amen. G from giraffe. I from Iceland. From Iceland, yes. I from Iceland. N from nowhere. N from nowhere. A again from amen. L from love.”
3.1. a piece of ginger: they are drinking an infusion and feel something swaying around inside their mouth. they carefully hold the tip and pull it out. as it slides through their lips they understand it’s a ginger thread. it escaped through the strainer. 3.2. it happens somewhere, in a place that could be there and in a time that could be here. still it happens because in space it could only have been here and in time it could have been there. 3.3. two people sit in two opposites sides of the same long corridor bench of the train. the one on the left takes out his bag furiously. he puts it down on his lap and swears. the sweat drops fall faster along his oily skin whenever he screams. his veins press his skin to the outside and his epidermis turns reddish. he takes down a pair of scissors and places them violently on the bench. he takes out two dirty semi-opened packages of handkerchiefs and violently places them on the bench. his fist produces a dry low deep sound of anger. he takes out a pen, a comb and some paper clips. he screams louder. the person on the right thoroughly closes eyes, producing deep folds on the eyelids. the person huddled up with something like fear. the person starts to clean the wet surface of the eyeballs. the person on the left takes out five hundred-euro notes and puts it on all other things. the person on the right is crying and huddles more, tries to shrink inside the clothes. the person on the left takes out a sealed transparent plastic and paper package with a bottle inside. he opens the package aggressively, like a predator tearing apart the victim’s meat with it’s blood-covered teeth. he has trouble opening the package, while the person on the right gives up on holding the panic-charged tears. the person on the left finally opens the package and throws the plastic and paper to the floor. the person on the right is crying, holding neither tears, nor vocal chords. the person on the left holds the bottle with both hands between his fat legs and reads the label for five quick seconds. he takes out the bottle cap and sprays the substance inside the bottle onto himself. he sprays it about ten times very impatiently. he sprays it every time as if hammering a nail. the person on the left keeps on crying huddling the body, holding neither tears, nor vocal chords, nor thick viscous snot. the person on the left screams one more time, this time a very long scream while putting all the things that were laying on the bench back inside his bag. the package of the bottle, the pen and two paper clips are on the floor. he picks up the pen, leaves the paper clips and the plastic/paper package on the floor. he runs to the door of the train, opens it and leaves. the person on the right is still crying, without having to hold neither tears, nor vocal chords. the person on the right loosens the body and keeps crying.
4.1. fresh celery: it was cooked for a soup with other vegetables. in the middle of the mixed soup inside my bowl, I see a thread of the celery which wasn’t mixed. I can’t chew it and it stays there. 4.2. it happens somewhere, in a place that couldn’t be there and in a time that could be here. still it happens because in space it could have been here and in time it couldn’t have been there. 4.3. on the bus someone is writing on their phone. the person writes something down and stops. the sentences are erased. the person writes another thing down and erases it. the person writes the first thing that was written down and stops. the sentences are erased. the person makes a photo and attaches it to the text field. the person writes down something and stops. the person erases it. the person clicks on an emoji and erases it. the person writes something down and erases it. the person writes the third thing that was written down and erases it. the person clicks on an emoji and stops. the person erases it. the person writes half a word down and erases it. the person writes exclamation marks down and erases it. the person writes something down and stops. the person erases it.
the threads, were they pulled by someone, where they pulled by something, did they abandon their position, were they pulled after all?
PHOTO BY ALICE ALBERGARIA BORGES