to see the inside
of your story
or the other one,
you have to open them.
I have covered two paper bowls (with text from a found book in Spanish) with concrete. One of them has a bronze varnish on the outside.
They remind me of fruit. Stone fruit, with a hard skin. But when you cut the fruit open, you find no stone inside.
“This is it: I have no language for reality. … how could one prove who one is in reality? I can’t. Do I even know myself who I am? This is the frightening experience of this period of remand: I have no language for my reality.” A passage from Max Frisch’s novel “I am not Stiller” (in my own translation). I have replaced the preceding pages with a concrete block.
Language is like cement, a story can be like concrete. Maybe that is so, because such a shape of story touches us deeply. It transmits an experience across the limits of the pronounceable.