The street is long and empty, deserted, a pleasant feeling. You look at space that leads somewhere and is not filled. The contrasts of the overhanging treetops are fresh and yellow, with dark areas. The emptiness in particular affects and is different from the bustle and rattling that otherwise prevails. Peaceful, emptiness with birdsong in high crowns: tits, robins and a virtuoso blackbird opening a sound register. The side roads are dusty and dry and scary. But the entire uncluttered space of the cobblestone road provides a view and overview. Then I turn left into the birth forest: a contrast of pink back trees and “wild green in the foreground.” The wild shadows lie like tall phases, ghostly ghosts across the undergrowth. I walk through the scary vegetation, flanked by thin trunks of the young birth forest. Oak, birch, elderberry and beech in a chorus drummed together and on the other, blackberries.
Then I reach a fallen birch that closes off the old wild forest like a silver snake and where you can rest, observing everything at knee height. The silence and the light fall over your skin like ghosts. I gradually perceive trunk after trunk, reddish, dry, vibrating, jumping from one to 3, from straight to oblique. You rest and listen and the forest moves over you, passes you and puts its hand on your shoulders and let the silence and the song of the birds sink in you.
Suddenly, a dark figure appears before you, beckoning and beckoning, leading the way and whispering and pointing. He anticipates the narrow crooked path between the wild forest and the native forest, which is arranged stem by stem like strings, a chorus of upright lines and soft foliage. The man in the red cap disappears into the distance, shrinks and waits, clinging to a white branch that indicates a change of direction. Then the forest turns left over a dried ditch, between scraping blackberries and intrusive stems, haggard, and turns to the right. The trees are now broken and hang half-split and smooth with the crown down. Wood splinters protrude from the orange trunk. A network of white branches plunges down and winds between the green growth. A tangle of lines, twigs, a rounded braid of rotating nests, so wild, so jungle-like it suddenly becomes civilized. The plantations have been humanized, a house that is hidden and appears in the green. Where’s the man who disappeared like a red dot? Does he live here? Everything looks deserted with an appearance of habitation due to the awning that overhangs 50 cm. My eyes search the windows, not a hint of movement. The terrace is empty. The doors closed. At the back a swimming pool with pruned boxwood, deserted, empty. A metal staircase dips into the bowl. I can’t see if there is water in it. The nearby garden is minimally maintained, except for the park itself which, like the nativity forest, accommodates wild white felled and torn trees and preserves Rousseau-like conditions. Strange look.
The entrance next to it shows no movement for a single day. A lot of blue batches covered demolition, dirt and a Mercedes SUV was not moved an inch after weeks. He suggests presence present. But there is none. One day I see 2 swinging doors, blinds like wings, wreathing the side door. There is silent movement. I walk the full length of the park along a wide grassy driveway to the dead street. There is a small container outside. So there is someone after all. Is it the man in the red cap who lives in the house like a devoid of insects?
To be continued in my next newsletter.