The chorus of voices.

The dance, the dancer individual as representative of the species.

The chamber ensemble, both on & off the stage, sound of the world & soundtrack of the persons. Beginning & ending tones, designating temporal sequences or special movements: music as time-space: era-area-aria.

Letters written to individuals, reflection of the qualities of that unique relationship trajectory: real? Or just of the minds orientation? Orchestration of everyday life, but not to represent the mundane/banal aspects of existence, rather to raise them into the realm of spiritual satiation: work worship.

Write a letter to ___ in Seyðisfjörður. Keeper of the torch: flame of mind fueled by ember body, torch of reason, light of the philosoph, anarchist librarian, archivist of communal knowledge heard through the aural tradition. Tell ___ about the books read over the last year: Donna Haraway, Alejandro Jodorowsky, Ursula K LeGuin, Claude Levi-Strauss The Raw and The Cooked, Felix Guattari Chaosography, GD&FG What Is Philosophy... juxtaposed with stories collected from people, the plight of the blue collar worker in America compared to the heroic Scandinavian trade worker, the story of class and classism in the first world, stories storming stories of a different order. Zen and the art of bonsai, the art of conversation, the art of house building, the art of noise, the art of doing nothing or the practice of nothingness: we are all so busy with the void that perhaps we forget the stillness of true chaos. Juxtaposition of mental and physical forces. ___, I have a new job, I build photosets for junk mail catalogs yet I am more of an anarchist than ever. Perhaps you can understand my position more than anyone, a question of purpose - to oneself, to the world of persons, to the world of things - but also of money. The house we built stands as a cerebral landmark, the axis mundi of conjoined worlds, of the absurd and the practical, a pillar of consideration, hinge of the universe separating two or multiple worlds. Remembering something ___ once said, about returning to Seydis after a summer in Copenhagen, describing a collapse of the boundaries of time-space. ___ had also hinted at slippages of the temporal continuum, shimmers of memory, the blurry state of mind while reading books on the sofa early in the morning, how a daily routine such as having breakfast at the same table with the same quiet company can lead to a condensation &/or collapse of the real into the imaginary abyss. How much of our time together was real, actually happened? How much was a figment of our individual or collective imagination? The first time I left Seydis, after the summer residency, ___ paid for my bus ticket and my response was that perhaps that I only exist in his memory - before our conversations of memory. Later while building the house, so many accumulated thoughts about physical history, human-scale time set against the stage of the geological pancake mountains - described as a layer cake of dough and jam, sweet to the mind, landscape made visceral through the memory of our haptic sense of eating sweet cakes, the textures and colors. The house was stripped and resurrected, returned from death, given a new body and filled with revitalized pneuma= our breath, our labor, the songs we sang out into the valley while applying the skin, the hum of the sanders vibrating the soul and skull while revealing the stratifications of history hiding beneath gray molten ash, the crisp breeze flowing down from the valley, more water than atmosphere typically allows, filled the space with the outside: breakdown of inside/outside during the construction, always open to that landscape while still sheltering our dreams and aspirations, like a 9-pole house or dreamers wigwam of indigenous peoples. Sterling and the sweat lodge as mirror portals of each other, constructed by the same visionaries for different purposes, both for cultivating mindfulness at the brink/periphery, one of civilization and the other of the earth/sea, platforms for communing with greater and lesser intervals of major and minor parables of the creation and destruction of mind/body relations. To return to Seydis will be a pilgrimage, a circling back to the source, embodiment of eternal return, a communion as well as a reunion: to nature and to humanity. That place - the house and the topology of memory upon which it is build - is a site of amplification, beyond holy it is profoundly secular, of and for the earth, prepared to be swept away by rising tides but forever buoyant in the salienated seas of our collective experience. I want to continue speaking with ___ about freedom, anarchy, liberation, beyond equality towards the modulation of individuality. What is the purpose of school, or perhaps purpose is the wrong question: how do can we practice school? How can we practice? What is in a practice? Towards what are we practicing: an end, a goal, wisdom, mastery, or merely old age, pure time, life as a grand speciation, a derive through the psychic continents, we all as flaneur out for a Sunday stroll, or monks on our own mountains humming the song emanating from below to above, or the sky-ward seeking dancer losing their body in the arms of the breeze, or simple pupils humbled by the infinite task of sweeping up after the ashram. The technique of cleaning, of cooking, of staying mindful in all the daily tasks, including talking. Every moment is a target which can be hit or missed, but not to win or lose: a question of potential attentiveness, proliferating awareness, or not: the lack thereof. ___, how have you changed? ___, how will you keep on changing? What does your landscape look like, what does it resemble, how do you make decisions to keep it in or out of order?

I want to send you a book: Ursula K LeGuin's Always Coming Home. LungA isn't an anarchist art school, it is a hinge between two worlds. The place is a transformation but it is up to the initiate to be transformed. As a last thought I remember Osho, and want to discuss influence and responsibility in the same breath. It always seems a matter of time, time as matter, as a material which can be manipulated, but time cannot be owned or kept: the primary delusion. We are aligned as much as we wish to escape individual and collective delusion, but will still entertain certain illusions for sake of fun, radical play, politics of honesty and joyfulness. How do we practice and temper our influence upon others? Upon ourself? We know it will take time.

Later... thoughts of Iceland keep returning, eternal return of the twisting golden braid, call of the center, back to the nude transparency of the ices over void. Remembering the conversation with the mountain, as well as with the humans. I should research the possibilities of a reunion, return voyage, even if just for a short span, to revisit these landscapes and reacquaint with these peopling peoples.