On the Calculation of Volume, Book I

by Solvej Balle

We have grown accustomed to living with that knowledge without feeling dizzy every morning, and instead of moving around warily and tentatively, in constant amazement, we behave as if nothing has happened, take the strangeness of it all for granted and get dizzy if life shows itself as it truly is: improbable, unpredictable, remarkable.

We have always had need of time together. We are not one of those couples that has to have time apart, to miss and rediscover one another, to go away then be reunited in a collision of love. Distance, leave-taking and reunions are not what bind us to one another. For us it has always been about the days together, day after day, night after night, again and again.

I am not saying I have lost hope. It just doesn’t come by so often any more. It has moved away. It was quite undramatic, it did not slam the door behind it, it is more as if, like an animal, it has found new hunting grounds, like a cat that has moved next door or a plant that has scattered its seeds where they are more likely to grow.

So many things, colors. So many signs, shops, people, so many articles in the shops, so many handles on so many doors, so many shoes walking along the streets, so many coats, so much stitching in so many shoes, in so many garments, so many stones on the curb of so many sidewalks, so many details, a maelstrom of objects, of tiny details on these objects, all of these things I had amassed from the streets of the eighteenth of November, layer upon layer, so many that my mind had to cram them together, but I glided through it all with unaccustomed ease and found myself thinking how strange it was that one could float so lightly through such a compact world.

❤️ Reminded me of Pat Schneider’s poem, The Patience of Ordinary Thing