A polyester screen and roundworms made from industrial silicone. Inhaling microbes. A hand touches a wooden chip, shedding dead skin. My warm, moist body, my urge to move, to look, to gather material and information – to decide, to move along.

This body sits down and looks at how the brown liquid is absorbed into the porous plaster.  I feel like my body is far less permeable – but that isn’t completely true, is it?

Are there insects hollowing out the core of the tree trunk? I cannot hear it nor see it. Are they gnawing at the mycelium of Fomitopsis Pinicola? Living and decaying materials become intermixed. Unknown parts of insects, living and dead bacteria, pollen…

From this spot, I will take something very tangible with me. It will change me again; it will become a part of me.

Enormous, white, computer-generated hands that are severed from a body, bloodlessly, floating in outer space. It looks like they are holding the Earth. Detached human limbs thriving in outer space? The Hands could be caring parents to the planet, using their power and knowledge to nurture and improve the biosphere.

Maybe a bird will try to eat the silicone worm.

The forest is a place of risk; things that I cannot predict can happen here. I might and most likely will harm the environment that I am so curious about. Everything is already here, more than I can ever know of. I miss the museum, its clarity and simplicity. Space that is intended for humans and their art.

Just beneath the soil, in semi-darkness, a gentle tip of a nematode might touch my foot.

the microplastic from car tyres, from my shoes,

the coffee, the picture of an art event on my phone, a WhatsApp message from mum

the inconceivable beauty of the decaying tree trunk

lives within the tissues of the other