Every day, the lake disappeared a little more. A few weeks earlier, stray dogs had bitten a child a little further south, in the mountains. She wasn't afraid, and anyway, there were always the stones. This morning, she'd woken up on the edge of things, a little beside herself.
She had looked at her father as if she'd never seen him, rediscovering the features of his face. A memory had gripped her stomach, so she'd gone outside.
Each step through the red mountains brought her a little closer to herself. She turned left past the three eucalyptus trees and thought of the roots, then of her dry hair. A bird flew past her, a flutter of wings, a breath on her neck.
She had been born in these mountains. She felt them growing inside her every day. She lay down on the large rock at the edge of what remained of the lake. The stone had retained the coolness of the night, and she lay on her stomach, wrapping her arms around it and resting her cheek on it. There she saw the wheat all around and the sun emerging from behind the mountain. She saw the fire appear on top, eating the heads of the ears, taking back what was hers. She plucked a handful, saw no smoke, felt no heat. She placed them on her rock and watched the flames.
extract from my personal notebook
september 2023, Paris, France
Samah, the wheat on fire is an ensemble of a drawing and 3 paper mache sculpture and it has been shown in the contexte of the 73rd Jeune Creation Festival in Oscar Niemeyer’s space in Paris.
