To us as outsiders the landscape around MOKS is still non-defined. Each road out of Mooste means nothing. They’re just routes to somewhere else non-defined. A blank, a location, a zone, a space but never place-like. We have a sense of being on the edge. We are on the edge of our own life and not yet in the centre of another’s.
On Tuesday we met a group of visiting art lecturers from around Europe. One of them said in passing that Estonia was science-fiction: a wilderness of disused submarine bases, derelict collectivised farms, one million people living in a country bigger than the Netherlands but with 1/16th of the population, survivors perhaps, of what who knows? The ghosts of the Cold War squat the Western imagination. Initially I thought it a little unfair to the one million who now live in a resolutely contemporary and capitalist present, but walking around Mooste, these ghosts still speak to us. Perhaps only the Western European sees them, as they come from spy films, old propaganda and the once primordial fear of nuclear winters. Now this is all science fiction. A paralell past that never really occurred. These visions have nothing to do with Mooste itself, or modern Estonia. They´re all hocus pocus.
I think the edge of Mooste is affecting us. Our pair-ness is accentuated and interrupted by it. Today I sung some songs and Trish slept. We then filmed ourselves running into glass. Trying to find the edges.