Undercurrents [antikvár]

Rita Beres-Deakl touched the mapI touched the map and it melted in my hands.The rain drawing stripes above the brown Wisconsin prairie, early September. Eight miles from our destination we were waiting at the bus stop, the only tourists left over from the busy summer, aiming at a place nobody wants to visit. Nothing to admire, just the asphalt getting darker and darker grey as evening fell on us. Thin brooks of water creeping down my skin under my jacket and my shirt.We waited one hour for the bus. But then it came, and took us to the dark red barn, its huge rooms filled with bunk beds. Blue and red blankets covering the red wood. And there you were, the two Australians we had said good-bye to a month before in Portland, Oregon. We met again at this place out of time, in a barn off the map.la, vi är barn. We are children, looking for a moose in the dark Swedish forest. Envying the girl who had already seen one, we wanted to have a peek, like curious children spying on Santa Claus on Christmas Eve. It's strange that moose can live on such a small island. And that it actually gets dark in Sweden in summer, though only after midnight. I was the only one who was not dressed in black. You could see my jacket, but I was lost. It all melted together around me, the pine-trees, the now frightening bushes that so kindly offered their blueberries to us every morning, the silent Northern sky, and your figures.lag kan inte se dig mer. lag kan inte hör dig mer.And another forest, in Hungary, early October. We got up at dawn to hear the deer bark. We wandered on unwalked paths, looking for a clearing, hoping to get a view from a hilltop, but each hilltop was covered with trees, blocking the view. Are you allowed to leave the paths at all, or are we in a natural reserve? Nettle coiling around us, alive like an animal. You became frightened when we saw the tracks of wild boar, we had to turn back. A soft wind was in the air, and hot cocoa waiting on the table back at the castle, far above the misty valley. Another odd place, or was it the same? With all of you I have gone off the path. The moose that never came was the same as the stag we never heard. Not seeing, not hearing, not finding connects us all, at the point where we leave the map.