The Gymnastics Apparatus of Loose Planks

I recall a dream. My friend [person A] and someone else are with me. I start drawing in black ink, abstract characters that spell out the name of my beloved.

Out of the blue, I vaguely discern the letter A, but the intention is clearly there. Suddenly, a reflection appears on my page. It is the red container on the roof, in [private studio name redacted] workshops. The image reveals the studio space. This is where he lives.

Together [person A], the other fellow, it might be [person B] or [person C], and I move to another and an unexpected place, but before that, I want to show them the new artwork I have finished: my drawings of the last few days. In fact I did two artist books. I accomplished a lot of work and feel proud of my achievement.

We enter a gym where an artistic

gymnastics championship is taking place. I clearly see myself reflected in that. It is the beginning, the final practice session just before performing for the judges. [person A], the other guy and I, are sitting in the audience when one of the gymnasts starts on the parallel bars. The apparatus is defective; she can't really do her routine because one of the bars is way too thick, about 18 centimetres in diameter.

In the other direction I discover another odd apparatus. It is something I haven't seen before, a square platform, the same height as the beam and made of loose planks of wood. It must be hard to keep balance, I think, as none of them are fixed. I ask one of the gymnasts how long this apparatus has been part of the discipline? “A long time,” she replies, “since my parents’ time.” She is not the youngest. I guess she is in a senior category, and the same is true for many others in this championship. This bizarre apparatus has existed for a long time, and I wasn't aware of it!

The scene shifts to a very different one: we leave the gym, it is nighttime. A soldier approaches in his Jeep. Too soon and with ease, we jump into his car. It is a strange feeling of vulnerability.

Close to the side of a road, he drives over the parapet that divides the pavement from the land and then goes down the slope. He manoeuvres his jeep skillfully and makes the drive down extremely smoothly.

Then he stops in front of the door of a single small, and austere room. It is his house. Although he's a friendly guy, I find myself alone with him. Prudently standing outside and looking in, I feel shy.

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