Home. Morning. 9:13 appears on the cellphone screen. Nine twenty on the analog clock in front of me, on the sideboard. Winter day. Strong winds outside. The heating buttons pop. Santosha was just getting up, walking, speckled, towards the kitchen. I brought her food and water dishes into the house. Quiet. Some kind of buzzing is heard, maybe from the direction of the refrigerator. I smoke a cigarette. A bird calls outside and the palm leaves opposite rustle in the wind. Clicks, knocks of things drifting in the wind. And the same monotonous hum of the refrigerator as an EKG. Continuous stillness. Quiet. Lots of room for thoughts. Saturday. I planned to clean but I want to write and read. and rest a moment from the whole busy week that was. Everything is still in the room and I am alive. Coughing for a moment, I feel my singularity in space. The sun came out but it's still windy and rustling. Nearby winds and such muffled ones that are heard from afar. The sound of the heating buttons popping. Winds are getting stronger. The trees outside struggle with the wind. How strong they are. The voice of a crow calls. heard through the closed windows. All through the closed windows. A bustling and moving world. It's cold. I hear a squeaking sound, like a door moving back and forth on its unlubricated hinges. The wind, there is something existential about it. that emphesizes existence. the struggle for existence. A car is passing by. The wind is getting stronger. The cigarette is over and I already want another one. The sound of footsteps is heard from the apartment above me. A knocking sound from outside. and quiet. Everyone must be locking themselves in their houses. Every house is a scene. The sound of the heating buttons again, as if marking the beginning or end of a chapter or thought. like a punctuation mark.

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I'm taking a walk. I see a man and a dog. A man walks with a dog and a leash stretches between them. Two objects and a line in the middle. Choreography for a man and a dog.

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Idea for an exhibition:

Three white spaces.
Three situations from everyday life.

Space 1: A girl jumps on a rope. Jumping and jumping. She has energy and enthusiasm. Jumps and jumps until she starts to get tired and slows down. and slows down more and more. With her last strength she swings the rope and moves a foot and another foot and finally stops. panting . Maybe sit down for a moment. As soon as she feels that she can jump again, she continues repetitiously until the closing time of the exhibition spaces.
-The rope draws the girl's kinesphere and her (round) world.
-Jumping the rope as a metaphor for the daily effort in the routine of life.

Space 2: A couple - a man and a woman, sitting opposite each other, looking at each other, between them is a round coffee table on one leg.
Silence.
They barely move. There is a lot to say but nothing is said as if it is too difficult to say or that everything has already been said.
On the table there are two glasses of water - one for each. Each one of them sips when they feel the need to.
The glasses of water are like a timer - as time passes, the glass empties.
It is possible that one of them will get up, turn around while thinking, turn his back, come back and sit or stand up and look at his partner with folded hands. Or sit and fold his hands. Or he'll look down and fidget with his fingers. In any case, the look at each other will stay. They look at each other. The moment is stretched. No final result or any end. And so on until the closing time of the exhibition spaces.

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Space 3: A woman stands in front of a face mirror on the wall and looks at her face. The woman is obliged to observe herself but she can if she wants to fix her hair, touch her face, approach the mirror to see if there is something in her eye. She can smile, cry, laugh, whatever comes out of the moment in an authentic way. This is a time devoted to her observation of herself. Until the closing time of the exhibition spaces

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Three everyday situations in which the people function as plastic material in space and in dialogue with some plastic object (rope/ table/ mirror). The figures are silent, still or with minimal movement or moving repetitiously. Continuous images without beginning or end.

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Horizontal composition:

Seashore.
A man and a woman play with a ball.
A black ball defines the horizon.

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Playground. Birds. Mountains around. I'm waiting for an interview. There's no one here but me right now. Morning. A car is passing by. Birds tweeting. Gentle wind. A fly goes around me, gropes, jumps - forehead, cheek, nose. Dog droppings composition on the sidewalk in front of me. It's dry. A car passes, going up the street. A sawing sound is heard in the distance. Leaves blowing in the wind, dance on the ground and the fly continues to circle around me and on me - knee, elbow, stomach, shin. Birds spread out in the sky from an arrow shape to a wide-legged triangle until they are invisible. The fly - one on the forehead, one on the shin. A car passes, continues down the street. Another one stops. A man appears. Gets in the car and starts it.red car . He makes a turn and goes down the road. In four minutes I will go to the interview. The sound of sawing in the distance. Crow calls. Foliage in the wind. Cyclist up the street. The fly spins around far and near. Lands on my hand, groping. A bird calls. I'll probably be ahead anyway. One more minute and I'll be out. The wind moves  the trees again. Date trees. A car passes, continues up the street. Eight o'clock. I get up for the interview.

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The movement of the ants on the tiles
is the movement of my thoughts

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I look at my fingers. I have dirt in my nails. I wonder about this phenomenon . This is what disturbs the eye, which must be taken out, cleaned. This is what was stored there in the narrow and compressed space from the course of the day, where I was, what I did. It's a micro world. micro-history. microrganisms. archive. index. It's the drift. This is what is stuck and hard to get rid of. That's not nice. It's not civilized. Unhygienic. It's sick. Infection. This is what is presented to the nurse or the "responsible" in a spreading and what that is examined in a fist as an ancestral gesture. It's black .It's dirty. That's the small difference. The seen. This is childhood. Nomads. Doing. That is truth. This is existence. It is the material. And spirit and character. It's the attention to details. It's in the claws that protect the edges and attack against what comes to it. The tips, gouge in the flesh of the desires. Scratching, digging, removing, playing, tearing. This is the miniature, the precise, sharp, etching movement of the nails which are dead and in the same time replaced and regenerated frequently. They are stiff. Creak. Scratch. Cut. Pierce .They take chaff out of hay. Select. Peel and get peeled. And every day this dirt in the nails comes in and washes out. Each time in a different way, under different conditions and different circumstances. It has no end. It is the necessary, the living.

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The leftover food in the kitchen sink strainer is 
the archive of the events of the same day.

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Home. half past nine in the evening.The sound of the air coming out of the air conditioner is heard. The cup of coffee I was drinking is next to me. A car passes in the street below me. A slight light shines from the table lamp to my right. The clock is ticking. I'm a little cold. I turn off the air conditioner and suddenly I can hear the sound of the computer engine. A knocking sound from the apartment above. In my imagination I see a woman moving something there. A car is passing by. The building is layers upon layers of happenings, one above the other. Another car passes. And a muffled sound, maybe of a motorcycle? and the sound of the computer engine. I get reminded that I was dreaming of a layered chocolate and whipped cream cake. Another car passes. and a motorcycle. This time it's definitely a motorcycle. and another car. Every car is like a passing thought. In the river of the street. Every car is a wave. that passes. And another car passes by with a load that jumps. And quiet .The sound of some machine from outside. low voice. It's dark outside. A sound from the direction of the kitchen, like something unloading some kind of load from itself. And the kettle button just pops like that, without boiling. I get reminded that I also dreamed of a fire. The sound of the computer engine. I think I'll make a white night. The sound of a car passing by. And another voice from the kitchen as if it had its own life there. Strenuous sound of the computer's engine is heard. it's been with me for almost sixteen years... Sound of a car door slamming from outside. and one more. Barking dog. And that whipped cream cake... I haven't had a good cake in a while... The clock is ticking. Car starts. A muffled knocking sound from outside. The ticking of the clock. One of my ears suddenly opened. I didn't notice it was clogged. The clock ticks, sometimes as if to emphasize a particular ticking. A voice from the apartment above. The woman who moves. And it's actually a man who lives there. Muffled speech and laughter. Where does this text go? A car passes by, as if answering the question. I hear the tip of my pen on the paper draws letters. Sound of movements from the apartment next door. And again a knocking sound from the kitchen, the same load that seemed to break. A car is passing by. And so all the noises and sounds are like a continuous concert - the voices from above, cars passing by, the loaded sounds from the kitchen, the computer's strenuous engine, occasionally a barking dog... It's night and I still think about the whipped cream cake...

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Moroccan cookie. A sandy long landscape burnt in the oven. The deserts of far away Morocco. Track lines are drawn there. Three tracks. I see three horsemen galloping on their horses, sandstorms blinding their eyes. They race from A to B and that's where the cookie ends.
What remains is a solid base and above it the space air. Land for ants to breed in if it stays outside too long. 
Every morning I take a bite of this landscape alongside my black coffee and it dissolves into the particles of flour and orange, sugar, oil and butter, a little salt and baking powder and turns into nothing. A dream landscape that crumbled.

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Land. A single tree, its arms reaching up to the sky holding a cloud 
dropping rain.

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Performance for stage:

A woman in her fifties enters the stage. She is in a floral dress and her steps are heard - she has heels. She sits on a chair in front of the audience. Looking towards the horizon. Silence. At some point she starts to tear up. Wiping the tears with her palms. Her eyes are constantly directed towards the horizon. For moments she manages to keep her restraint, sometimes tears up again. Like this for about five to ten minutes, then she wipes her tears and gets up, going backstage.

*

Bus. A normal weekday. Afternoon. The bus is quite. full of people but apart from the engine it's quite. A word here, a word there. But quite. Everyone breathes the same space, a metal box moves on the road, dragged on wheels. People get off and on at the station. Densed movement. It's hot. Suddenly a man is heard from the back of the bus yelling at someone next to him "What are you gay? Move your fucking hand, you shit!" Heads tilted back. There is a happening. Action. The crowd on the bus is tense, silent. The two men, back there, sit huddled next to each other. "Get the fuck out of here, you son of a bitch!" the second responds nervously, the first approaches him too close and with a threatening look full of hatred shouts at him "Come on let's get off at the station I'll fuck you!" And the other responds, "Come on, let's get off at the station, I'll fuck you!" They both actually agree on this and move nervously to the door. Overtaking people as if elegantly but full of fire, "Come on, I'll fuck you" one repeats and says in a mantra of nerves, his hands are stretched, tight. The crowd is quiet. Still. Tension. Suddenly one comes in the role of separator - "Calm down brother" he enters between them calming the more nervous one (the-non-"gay") "Brother" he gives him an assertive look in the eyes. The nervous man sends an accusing finger in a 'no no no' motion towards the other, over the shoulder of the separator, grumbling "I'll fuck you, you piece of shit" And the white in his eyes screams red and poison and the brown in the pupils blackens under the contracted eyebrows. They get off at the station. The door closes. 'The screen goes down'. And still tension on the bus. Staying on the bus I feel like I've seen the best show in town right now - that's real theater! real play! action, drama, authentic actors! Excellent dialogue and so simple...it repeats itself but in such a precise way!

*

A picture in everyday life:

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Supermarket : The butcher position

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 The butcher's position is a kind of stage, an arena surrounded by glass through which you can see the variety of meats - the materials of the creating butcher. I see the butcher in white, cutting and separating  the wheat from the chaff, drops of blood on his bib - evidence of the actions that took place. He  gouges  the red and purple of the raw meat. Sorts, grinds, weighs, covers with plastic sheeting, sharpens knives. He is on display in his actions.

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I'm walking down the street. A father and a child pass by me. The father is on a bicycle, steps with his feet on the ground, the child is walking. "It's like soft candy" I hear the father say to the child. The sentence seems to have been thrown out of nowhere, followed by silence. I walk past them. Feels like the sentence is a poetry floating in space. Imagine a red gummy candy.

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A mouth chews gum 
a word comes out

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Performance for stage:

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A woman in an apron cuts an onion. A lot of onions, one after the other and she starts crying from the burn. continues to cut more and more and cries. The burning reaches the audience and everyone cries together.

A moment of union.

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Bar. I drink a third of Carlsberg. Asks if there are pretzels. there is. Great. On one side of me - two men are sitting. On the other hand - two girls and then a couple. It's still early. Nine quarter in the evening. Sunday. It's calm. On the bar - between the men sitting to my right is a round wooden tray with half a pizza and another piece on it. The men talk about Jiu-jitsu. The girls on the other side laugh. I- lighting a cigarette. The bartender - talking to the girls. from a distance. The men - talk. And the pizza - in the same situation- half and another piece. I look again - one piece is taken. The one that was out of half. The girl next to me laughs a lot. Her laughter is present in space. It becomes part of the soundtrack of this bar. Two guys walk into the bar. A bar is an interesting place - I think. You never know who will enter, who will leave. It's a play. The bartender goes outside for a moment. I know him from Tel Aviv. And it makes me think about Tel Aviv and why I'm not there. And that this is a loaded place for me. Although it seems on the surface, always, as a place with many more options. I ask the bartender from Tel Aviv, why not Tel Aviv?, he says he opens a new page. There was Tel Aviv and there was Jerusalem. And he won't go back there. Meanwhile on the pizza tray - one more piece remained. The men talk to the bartender on pouring out your heart. and how hard is it and how do you do it. I set my watch - a cigarette in half an hour, not before. In the meantime, I'm eating the pretzel. 'Simple songs' is the song at the moment. I feel heating from the legs. Tel Aviv, I think. 'Simple songs' is over. The pizza - still in the last piece. marks a quarter like a quarter of an hour. I would like another beer. Another third. The pizza - still in a quarter. The last piece. It changed direction. moved. The men roll a cigarette. Another guy entered the bar standing nonchalantly. I ask for more pretzels and it turns out there are also pickles. the bartender suggested. American music from the 1940s seems to be playing. The pizza is over. The tray is cleared. The men are talking. I got pickles. It's spicy. I turn to the nonchalant guy, asking him what he does in his life. He is a storyteller, he says - he helps people with their storytelling, for example if there is a man who sells street lamps and he tells how good and economical they are, then he, that storyteller, suggests that he should say that they light up the environment and make it safer. I say -  o it's very poetic and I think - maybe the guy should sit down a bit. But he goes. The men on the right are talking, with expressive hand movements. Nearby - a guy is standing. I ask him why he doesn't sit down, he says he just orders and leaves. white wine. The laughing girls went out and  a guy is sitting in their place. his Hands folded. he drinks wine. The men on my right continue to talk.  They no longer have anything in common like pizza. Disco music. The men talk about animals and adoption and death.