Dreamwork

A combination of cross institutional hospitality and friends of friends means I am back here. I’m back here: hosting a party or an event though I am not the owner of this place and I don’t know what’s going on, am more of a guest than anyone else, not sure where I’ll sleep. But, in the back, I like the role of putting posters up, coordinating, disrupting what are the major and minor hierarchies. I accidentally call Sasha who always seems to know what she is doing and am reminded it’s a Halloween party and a bank holiday and a series of events, we should write that on the poster. I have accidentally called Sasha using a shortcut of technology but the way she appears on my screen makes me feel sharp: my phone, conflating content and form, says Glas and we talk about this. She knows what’s going on, others do too; somehow everything has come together at least as a plan. I arrive on foot though I have come the furthest and it’s raining as it is here, albeit warmer. Now, everyone has arrived by car and is parking in a place I know doesn’t exist. I touch my knees, my ears, as they roll down their windows. There are lots of hopeful people who likewise haven’t determined what’s happening but I join the stream of those walking forward and it’s a poster I’ve never seen before. Mijke who I have not seen in too long is giving a workshop: they are probably doing it for free but I still get a jealous feeling about this hustle, this grind, thinking why could I never make a workshop for people who have arrived by car in a non-place for a weekend- long Halloween party that doesn’t exist, which I myself have ambiguously organised. I am cynical for these selfish reasons about the quality of the planned session but the art on the screens is beautiful. I don’t know who the artist is but know the shapes, pink and blue, chalky. And what Mijke says is beautiful, already its own poem. You people are so blue, another voice said, addressing a crowd I hadn’t even noticed. I had to look up.