And I tell myself: I have an idea. But when I think about it the place where I am and everything that has just happened (immediately and in the past) has led to this moment. It’s maybe not my idea or not just mine and maybe it’s not that I have it, it is possible that it has me.

And then the landscape becomes more than an idea to me, it becomes me as there is no difference between me and idea. Constructs of the mind are only as stable as the mind and only as rigid.

And it is this that leads to the audience coming on stage: dissolving boundaries, the difference between, foreground/background confusion, stability shifts toward something not yet grounded, unmoored but trusting.

And then a condition of my life intervenes in the form of something like a dream–except that it is really happening–but happening with a twilight version of myself only half fueled and being taken care of. And then it really becomes clear that I never do anything alone even if I think I do.

And (in this twightlight condition) I looked to the right where the painted portrait hangs and there was a portrait but not the real portrait, it was the wrong shape and colour. And I looked beyond my feet to where the window should be and there was a window but it was bigger than the usual window, my window, the one I always look to. And I looked to my left where the door would be and it was much too far away. A replica of a room I recognise but I didn’t have a self myself and there was a nice man there who looked at me but I didn’t know him. He said: “don’t worry, after awhile you’ll understand.” I believed him. There was no urgent need to leave this replica of a room. I had no alternate destination in mind. I waited.

Now there’s no audience coming onstage but I am there and Sophie and also the idea of not us and no decision and multiple endings and never solid and possibly not knowing our names–or at least me not knowing mine. Nevertheless, we go on.