Domestic dances 2007
The room is calm.
Blue, calm, waiting.
Big, white bed, white bedside tables, blue curtains.
The curtains are closed, the room is dim.
Like a little lake in the forest on a very quiet day.
Fingers move across the curtains, touch the wall, disappear again.
An arm and then another is seen and then not.
As the woman gradually appears, she opens the curtains
and daylight fills the room.
Her body moves across the room, this way and that way.
Nothing seems to fit., nothing is quite right.
Dispite all the calmness there can be no rest.
Waves are moving on the lake in the forest.
Did someone throw a stone in the water?
Red, the floor mat is red and not to be trusted.
In the struggle between the woman and the room
it is clearly taking sides with the room.
The walls also offer little comfort
and the bed is downright hostile.
Where can you go when the whole world is against you
and there is no place to go?
The waves on the lake seem to move in all directions at once.
Splashing about without any sense of order.
The wind is very, very cold.
And then, nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Softly the woman places one finger on the white linen.
Another finger, the whole hand,
an arm and then another.
Finally she is sitting on the bed
leaning against the head boards.
Her eyes are closed, a hint of a smile on her lips.
A white feather slowly drifts through the air
until it touches the dark, calm water.
The lake, with all it’s gentle strength,
carries the feather.
by Ólöf Ingòlfsdóttir