Slowly leaving

You wake up at 3 in the dead of the night. You don’t even wonder why it is called “dead of the night” until you write down those words 1,5 hour later. You sit on your balcony in the heart of the city, inbetween the baby plants that are growing slowly, cucumber, courgette, rocket, basil, avocado,  sunflower, the weeds that get free range because they take care of themselves and provide more flowers than the ones that were planned. You are more worried about leaving them behind than not seeing your friends for a while. A police car is driving through the street and you notice how the blue lights on top of the car have a heart shape. It is quiet but only relatively. It is quiet compared to day time in the city. There are still some people out and about. Cars are passing.
There is still some time left to role up city life before moving into silence. A relative silence as well. Nature is never silent. But the sounds are different, more soothing, most nighttime city sounds still speak of speed and distraction. Fast cars, drunk tourists. But around 4 the first birds start to sing. They do during the day as well but then their song drowns in the other noise. The first one is always a robin.

What should I take into the Middle of Nothing? What do you need? It is tempting not to take anything and see what will grow, take shape, come into existence if I go unprepared, with empty hands. What I will find, what will find me. No books, no cameras, no computer, no extra clothes. The Middle of Nothing will provide.

The Middle of Nothing isn’t a place though. The Middle of Nothing is here. I named it. Or borrowed the words. The Middle of Nothing, my Middle of Nothing, doesn’t really exist until I describe it. So I will pack my computer. My small solar panel. My sleeping bag, even though I will have a room and a kitchen and a bed and electricity, because I’ll escape it from time to time to sleep in stone huts, under trees, on soft grass or dry leaves. I will bring the slow cameras, the Sx-70 and the Polaroid Land Camera. The Daydream seeds. The oldest clothes. The magic fluids to make ink. The sturdy shoes to walk endless circles. And books. Too many books. I will try not to but I will.

I’ll miss the sea. Or maybe I’ll pack it as well. My suitcase is too small for it but it fits in my head.