28

Fremd zu sein an einem Ort
heißt keine Begierde zu verspüren
Menschen kennenzulernen

Sich einsam zu vergnügen
bisweilen Hilfe zu brauchen
aber es vorzuziehen
alleine gelassen zu werden

Einsamkeit wird mächtig
Heimat zieht und zieht und zieht und zieht
nach Hause -- oh zu Hause

Aber dann
fühlt sie sich wahr an und real
die Ahnung von Autarkie

Der Einsiedler in der Masse findet
das Paradies in der Mitte von nichts
Frieden inmitten von Kriegern
Zufriedenheit umgeben von Gier

Der Einsiedler in der Menge

Der Held der Bibliothek: Twentyseven Oh Two Oh Seven

Wie ein Tier in die Enge getrieben, Panik in den Augen, einen Ausweg suchend, verzweifelt & hoffnungsvoll zugleich losstürmend, den Kopf gesenkt, Richtung Ausweg, egal ob real oder imaginiert, indifferent, ob ihn Freiheit oder Stacheldraht erwartet, froh über die Bewegung, mit der das aufgestaute Adrenalin abgebaut wird, Energie im Körper, starr Richtung Ende starrend, nicht denkend, sondern handelnd, rauscht er, wieder langhaarig, an mir vorbei.

Ich blicke ihn an, dann blicke ich ihm nach.

Er windet sich rumpelnd durch die Drehtür und verschwindet eilig, weniger panisch, aus meinem Sichtfeld.

Ich schließe meine Spindtür, ziehe den Schlüssel ab und gehe langsam zu meinem Platz zurück. Ich bin nun der letzte Held unter vielen Studenten in der Bibliothek.

Oh I don't know

Once you're done undoing
the love that was my life
please be so kind
as to rewind
to my non-existence.

Once you're done undoing
everything I'm not
please turn to me
'cause then you'll see
my potential.

Once you're done apologizing
for the time you spent without me
don't make a fuss
instead be tough
'cause now I'll break your heart.

Twentythree Oh One Oh One

Manchmal könnt ich alle hassen
allen an die Kehle fassen
und drücken, drücken bis es schmerzt
und ich es mir mit Dir verscherz'.

Manchmal kann ich nichts -- nur lachen
so laut und krank bis
meine Kieferknochen krachen
und dann versteck ich mich im Schrank.

Manchmal hoffe ich auf bess're Tage
doch eigentlich hält's Gute dem Schlechten die Waage
und dann will ich kein and'res Ich
denn ich find's hier nicht mal fürchterlich.

PRAGUE OH TWO, THREE

Das Mädchen mit dem toten Hut läuft die Straße entlang. Sie hält den Hut in der linken Hand, die näher am Herzen liegt. Einen Blumenstrauß aus schwarzgefärbten Rosen trägt sie in der rechten.

Sie ist auf dem Weg zum Hutfriedhof. Der Hut ihres Opas liegt direkt neben dem Hut ihres Onkels. Zwei Hüte ihrer Mutter liegen in einem Doppelgrab. Das Grab für ihren Hut ist schon ausgehoben, ein kleines schwarzes Lock in nasser schwarzer Erde. Ihre Stimmung ist gedrückt.

Weil kein gutes Wetter ist, will keiner aus ihrer Familie mitkommen zum Begräbnis ihres ersten Hutes. Sie ist traurig. Dieser Hut hat sie elf Jahre begleitet. Sie hat ihn gepflegt und mindestens viermal neues Innenfutter hineingeklebt. Sie hat ihn geliebt, wie man einen Hut lieben kann. Nun ist er nicht mehr. An diesem Tag nun soll er beerdigt werden, endgültig und für immer aus ihrem Leben und von ihrem Kopf genommen.

Da kommt ihr eine Idee. Sie wechselt den Hut in die rechte Hand und streicht sich mit der linken übers Haar. Sie schaut ihren Hut an, beginnt zu lächeln, wird fröhlich. Sie rennt los.

In der Einkaufsstraße läuft sie in ein Hutgeschäft, kommt zwanzig Minuten später mit einer Hutschachtel heraus, nimmt den Hut aus der Schachtel, setzt ihn auf, spiegelt sich einmal kurz im Schaufenster, will weitergehen und zögert leicht. Dann wirft sie die schwarzen Rosen und den toten Hut in den nächsten Mülleimer.

PRAGUE OH TWO, TWO

Er denkt und sitzt, und manchmal fliegen seine Augen mit und Bäume werden grau. Er vergißt mich, will nicht fallen, fällt doch. Sein Aufprall erzeugt ein tiefes, dumpfes, langes Echo im Irrgarten meines Herzens.

Er fiel geradewegs in einen Haufen Scheiße. Er stank. Ich fand ihn unerträglich und liebte ihn doch. Auf seinen Schultern luden die anderen ihren Mist ab. Er merkte es nicht, bis er davon erdrückt wurde. Keiner stützte ihn, alle schauten nur zu, denn mit ihm ging auch ihr Mist unter.

Ich wollte ihm helfen. Ich versuchte es wirklich. Aber ich war so glücklich, daß mein Mist mituntersank, daß ich nicht imstande war, ihn zu retten. Als er endlich nicht mehr da war, wog meine Freude schwerer als das Gefühl des Verlustes und ich fühlte mich gut.

PRAGUE OH TWO

EXT. AN EXTENSIVE SHOPPING STREET IN NEW YORK -- DAY

The shop window of an incredibly expensive-looking MANICURE&HAIR SALON 

Same shop, front door. The door opens and a woman, Gwen Horowitz, steps out of the salon. She is in her early thirties and has obviously just gotten her hair done. She is wearing big sunglasses, also an elegant, knee-long, dark-green dress; she is holding a leather dog leash in her right hand; the leash is attached to a small brown-white terrier. In her left hand she is carrying a rather big Louis Vuitton bag of older style. She carries herself with the air of somebody who knows they can afford almost anything and who is acutely aware that this sets her apart from most other people around her. She gets into the back seat of a black, new Jaguar that is waiting in front of the salon. The car has darkened windows in the back. 

INT. THE CAR -- BACK SEAT -- MOMENTS LATER

The dog is on Gwen's legs. Next to her and behind the driver's seat we see many bags of various sizes with the labels of well-known and expensive designers and brands, also men's. Through the window we can see that the car is moving. The woman just sits there, strokes the dog, and stares blankly at the back of the front seat. A cell phone rings. She fumbles with her purse, takes out a tiny cell phone and answers expressionless. 

GWEN

Yes?

She listens, then

I'm almost done, honey. 

I hope I'll be home in about  (she looks at her small silver watch) 90 minutes.

Listens again, still expressionless, then

Already picked them up. 

Listens

At 8. Tonight.

Try to be home by 7, will you? 

Listens

No, that's the day after tomorrow. 

Listens, then with slight impatience in her voice, but not in her demeanor

No, that's tomorrow. 

Look, just try to be home by 7, okay?

I'll let Cleo take a walk in the park and then I'll head straight home, too. 

Listens, now clearly expressing exasperation through her tone, but not in her demeanor

Just try, alright? Thanks. Okay bye. 

She hangs up and continues to stare blankly at the back of the front seat while stroking the dog. 

EXT. A PARK -- A LITTLE LATER -- SUNSHINE

Overhead view of the park. It is neatly arranged with bushes and lawn between paths. We descend towards Gwen as she is walking slowly along a path, looking down. The small dog is running excitedly across the lawn, in and out of our view, without the leash, sniffing here and there, peeing somewhere. Gwen looks up, walks over to the lawn. 

EXT. THE PARK -- GWEN'S POV -- DAY

We see several people alone or in small groups sitting on the lawn, talking, having a picnic, or reading. It is a merry, quiet, peaceful sight. 

EXT. THE PARK -- DAY

Gwen slowly walks across the lawn, looking down again. She hesitates, then leans down, and takes off her high-heeled sandals. She resumes walking, barefooted now, still looking down. She walks unsteadily at first, as if not being used to walking without heels. 

EXT. THE PARK -- GWEN'S POV -- DAY

Slow motion: We see her neatly pedicured feet, how they touch the grass, how her toes spread to feel as much of the grass as possible. The feet stop walking; the toes grab a bit of grass and rip it off the ground. The toes relax and let the grass fall on the lawn. 

EXT. THE PARK -- DAY

Gwen's face is still without expression as she reaches the end of the lawn and continues walking barefooted on the path. The dog runs across the path to a bench on a small grass area nearby. The woman looks towards the bench. 

EXT. THE PARK -- GWEN'S POV 

We see something beneath the bench. We approach the bench, zoom down to figure out what we are seeing and walk around the bench to the back. There we see it is a woman, Meg, sleeping underneath the bench in bright sunshine. She is not dressed as immaculately as the other people in the park but also not as we expect a homeless person to be dressed. Her age can't be told because she has her long hair covering her face. 

EXT. THE PARK -- DAY

Gwen is standing above the sleeping Meg. She hesitates, then crouches next to Meg, hesitates again, tries to brush the hair ou of Meg's face. Meg stirs, opens her eyes, and looks at Gwen. Gwen sees that Meg can't be oder than 40. Both women don't say anything, just look at each other for a moment. 

EXT. THE PARK -- GWEN'S POV

We see Meg's face. There is neither make-up there nor dirt; big, sleepy, green eyes look at us; her forehead is rather big; she has round cheeks, a small mouth with small lips. Her face doesn't seem to be that of a homeless person. 

EXT. THE PARK -- MEG'S POV

We see Gwen's face. It is carefully decorated: light eye shadow that fits the light grey color of her eyes; moderately applied black eyeliner; long, black eyelashes; a hint of rouge; unobtrusive red lipstick. It's perfect, perfectly moderate, and it doesn't seem to be meant to express emotion; and Gwen still doesn't. 

GWEN

I wonder what it's like (she hesitates, we can't be sure why) to have no responsibility. 

EXT. THE PARK -- GWEN'S POV -- CONTINUED

We see Meg's face, same as before, but now with the slightest smile around the corners of her mouth which has not yet reached the eyes

MEG

Remember being a child.

EXT. THE PARK -- MEG'S POV -- CONTINUED

We see Gwen's face, still expressionless

GWEN

I never was one. 

MEG (o. c.)

Image being one. 

Gwen looks at us imploringly for a beat, slightly frowning. Then her face relaxes. 

EXT. THE PARK -- DAY -- CONTINUED

We see Gwen first kneel down, then lie down next to Meg, facing her. The dog comes running, takes a sniff at the two women, and runs off. 

EXT. THE PARK -- GWEN'S POV

We see Meg's face. The smile from before has now reached her eyes, yet is still very slight. It weakens as we 

DISSOLVE TO

EXT. THE PARK -- MEG'S POV

We see Gwen's face now, not as blank as before, but somehow relaxed, soft. She closes her eyes and we

FADE OUT

Pub Med, Part Then

Part Then: 

Well then, no more dilly-dally, let's get to it. (Was what I was thinking at the end of the night.)

Off I went to Kreuzberg, specifically the U-Bahnhof Görlitzer Bahnhof. It was around there that T., a recently re-discovered friend from high school, had invited some of his friends to present him with gifts and happiness. And since he has a girlfriend I figured the other thing that makes you happy was food, and for T. specifically: meat. So I brought a cook book, GU's Meat Basics, which I myself like very much. And thus one topic dominating my night was established: vegetarianism, the benefits of eating meat, the supposed elitism of a tv chef proposing that meat should be a luxury item again, the benefits of buying bio-products vs. those of buying local (which, strangely enough, very often does not coincide), &cet. p.p. This was before I had explained to me how I was living the most privileged life on earth.

When I arrived, there was T. with his girlfriend and magnificent-woman-all-around W., and there was whom I would come to know as The Thirtysomething Heterosexual White Underprivileged Male. I also gathered that he did something with music though I can't be sure if it was professionally or privately. And after a while, when the both of us were standing, I realized he was short. I should have known, though, the way he said the things he said and the way he argued against or for something – the way he argued mostly against me. Lest you believe that I am thrown by anybody standing their ground against me argumentatively, you should know that in my family we've always cultivated a climate of vigorous and passionate debate, which quite regularly turned into full-on family fights, with shouting matches, the banging of doors, curses and, sometimes, a return to the issue in question -- the whole nine yards, really. Imagine this exponentially intensified by two lawyers (who are professionally trained to argue) in the family, a literary scholar, all mainstream political affiliations, a moody youngster (who, most probably without being aware of it, discovered the Socratic method for himself, albeit in a microcosmic, concrete way, where he does not discuss the relative merits of one position over the other but instead asks questions aimed at making you lose yourself in details of which he then cherry-picks one to ask a question about again, all in the hopes of making you contradict yourself or your argument inconsistent – and if it doesn't work the first time, he just picks another detail to ask a question about, repetite ad infinitum), a huge amount of books read and digested, and a lot of thick heads. So I can hold my own, I really can. But this guy. This fucking guy.

In the beginning all was good. After I arrived the four of us made a little small-talk, other people kept arriving, we talked mostly as a group until we didn’t fit around the table anymore. Smaller groups formed and kept re-forming. At some point I sat with The Thirtysomething Heterosexual White Underprivileged Male Fucker (referred to hereinafter as “Thwumf”) and another friend of T.’s, a three-time father, vegetarian and thoughtful. I, ever the conversationalist, decided to tell the story of the lunch-break masturbator whom I happened to come across a few days before. (Let me explain: I was sitting, during my late lunch hour, at the Spree; it wasn’t a sunny day so there were few other people there. I was reading the news on my cell phone when behind me there was a quiet commotion: some youngish guy was breaking through the admittedly very light and trimmed bushes and looking around questioningly. After a few minutes, when I had neither heard nor seen him leave, I turned to look if he was still lurking in the bushes, which would have made me uneasy, seeing as the only other person in my direct vicinity had just left the next bank a few meters over and disappeared from view. The guy in the bushes was still there alright, but he wasn’t exactly lurking. He was standing between me and the bushes, approximately one and a half, maybe two meters away from me, his penis in plain view, rubbing one out.) I had told the gist of this story earlier that night when there had been only a few of us yet and I had – stupidly, I admit – added that the guy didn’t look like what I imagined a public masturbator would look like. Again, I admit this was stupid. I got called out for that, and rightly so. Anyway, when I mentioned this story to the thoughtful vegetarian father-of-three, The Thwumf kind of went off on his own very idiosyncratic, very provocative-for-the-sake-of-being-provocative and at least to me very inappropriate tangent about why I find this experience unpleasant, what about the masturbator’s feelings, about there not really being anything wrong with what happened as I didn’t suffer, didn’t get hurt and have no loss in quality of life, about how I would have reacted if it had been a woman fondling herself, if it had been a couple having sex, and some more aspects in this vein. I couldn’t react fast enough before he brought up the next hilarious point which makes me think now (unfortunately I was too caught up feeling like I had to defend myself for not liking being jerked off to in public to realize it at the time) that he really wasn’t interested in an intellectual or even ethical discussion of sexuality in public spaces or the inherent difficulty and fragility of defining what constitutes a transgression, be it in legal, ethical or general terms. I guess now that he was not comfortable with me making a stupid and judgmental comment like “he didn’t look like a public sexual deviant”, but was neither willing to reflect why this is the case nor interested in debating constructively why and how there might be different understandings of personal space and transgression and whether or not there is the possibility of coming to a shared fundamental basis. Anyway, that was the point in my relationship with The Thwumf when the whole thing took a dark turn. My mind was racing, I didn’t know where to turn first argumentatively, and didn’t stop to realize that in no way was I required to defend myself. Nor was I required to explain to The Thwumf how women have been and in many regards still are being disenfranchised in modern industrial societies. I don’t mean to compare hardships or make a competition of victimhood, but hearing somebody, anybody say, flat-out say, as The Thwumf did, that women are not being and have not been marginalized, that in fact women are the most privileged beings in modern industrial societies, left me white-hot with rage and also speechless. Literally speechless. At some point I was so fed up that I did what I hate when it is done to me: I said that we should stop talking about this whole thing, that I did not want to talk about it anymore and frankly saw no point in discussing this further. I don’t have (m)any regrets about that night but I do wish that I would have kept my cool, grown evilly quiet and logical and torn him to shreds intellectually as I am sure I would have been able to. In retrospect I begrudge him the victory – for I am sure he perceives it thusly.

What I’ve come to realize is that I was forced to live through a tiny, miniscule fraction of what I imagine rape victims must go through. Again, for purposes of clarification, no physical harm was done to me, the feeling of being violated I suffered was teeny-tiny and entirely subjective, and I in no way mean to compare myself to or put myself on the same level as victims of rape or attempted rape or sexual abuse or …

I do, however, understand in a very limited way how the feeling of being abused or used or victimized might not be the worst about any transgression, but the feeling of having the blame, or even part of it, heaped upon you, of having the transgression talked down, minimized, trivialized, and of being told that maybe it wasn’t all bad, maybe you’re overreacting, maybe you’re being unreasonable or too sensitive, &cet.

In light of all this, experiencing The Thwumf being what I perceived as purposefully glib and polemical for the sake of either derailing me or belittling me – and expressly not for the sake of the discussion – made me so angry that I did not and could not keep engaging with the Thwumf. So I didn’t.

A little later, after having talked to W., who used to be flatmates with The Thwumf, and after having found out a little about The Thwumf’s backstory, which, incidentally, might explain some of his positions, but which did do nothing for me to accept or indulge his behavior, I talked to another guy there, let’s call him The Nice Guy, and told him about the masturbator and The Thwumf’s reaction. He was having none of it. He himself told me a story of having been the object of a public masturbator’s attention and how he felt uncomfortable about it, too, and when The Thwumf, who strained his neck to overhear what I was telling The Nice Guy, jumped in to clarify his position, The Nice Guy delivered when I hadn’t been able to: he fired broadside. The Thwumf tried to do the same thing again he did with me and The Nice Guy tried his best to counter him.

Alas, it was all for nothing – The Thwumf didn’t really want to argue, he just wanted to provoke. And feel superior, I guess. The Nice Guy grew more and more enraged and I grew more and more uncomfortable, one, because I put him in this position, and two, because I didn’t intend to start any animosity amongst the birthday guests. But, I have to admit, it was a good feeling to have somebody else there who experienced similar things and who has similar reactions – to me, who has never fully trusted her own instincts and who lets herself be unsettled quite easily, it meant I wasn’t wrong, my instincts weren’t wrong, my evaluation of two entirely different situations (the masturbator, The Thwumf) was not wrong – it meant that I could trust myself a little more.

At some point The Nice Guy got so fully exasperated because of The Thwumf (who, by the way, disqualified himself further by pulling exactly the same moves with The Nice Guy, another Thirtysomething, White Male appearing on the Underprivileged-spectrum on the same level as The Thwumf, that he pulled with me, a more privileged being than himself – there you have it!) that we went inside. Fabulous girlfriend all around W. then tried to mediate a little, which The Nice Guy, being the nice guy that he is, accepted and welcomed, in part taking it as a chance to air out his grievances to a third party just as I had done with him, but I was having none of it. I was, quite frankly, neither interested enough in The Thwumf to keep discussing him further nor was I willing to grant him any leniency whatsoever. I was being a stubborn bitch at that point, and I stand by it. 

How I came to be propositioned, how I met the pretty blue-eyed Estonian physicist with the great hair and why dilly-dallying is not for me, this will all be revealed in Pub Med, Part After. 

Pub Med, Part Before

Boy oh boy, oh what a night.

A night of meeting people, of having the world of the white woman, the most privileged being on earth, explained by a white, heterosexual male, a less privileged being, according to his own estimation; a night of being propositioned to have sex in the pub's bathroom by a huge Bavarian post-doc physicist baritone and of him being offended by my feeling like a prostitute; a night of being accused of being after the Bavarian's money and of being told there was none to be after; and a night of chatting with a 28-year-old blue-eyed and very pretty Estonian physicist who kept saying "idee" instead of "idea".

Yes, that’s right, I have another story to tell. Which reminds me: I haven’t told the other story to its end. Shit. One more thing for my to-do list. Speaking of to do: I can check off Estonians.

It all began with a breakfast, make that brunch, of champions on Saturday last. Id est: J&B&me.

After that J&me went and bought ourselves some more nail-polish because the both of us don't have much money to spend right now but wanted to buy something for ourselves nonetheless. I actually didn't buy nail-polish because I could not find any that I definitely wanted a similar or the same shade of which I don't already own. I bought myself a cheap mascara instead, which turned out to be pretty good. So no money thrown away this time.

I then went home in order to commence prettifying myself, which I did. Specifically, I did so with the new (and as of yet unpaid) heated curlers. Which have become my newest playthings. I scrubbed and shaved and washed and creamed the hell out of myself. I dressed casually (after all, I was going to a Kreuzberger pub which looked as metaphorically dirty as the more sleazy pubs on the Reeperbahn), but carefully in one of my self-made skirts, a black tee, a black, rather old cardigan and cheap, poisonously green ballerinas. I put on the biggest pair of glasses I have in order to counteract the curly-girly-blonde impression I was giving in my mind.

And off I went. When I came home nine hours later I still looked quite alright, I think. Although I had taken off the glasses in order for the Estonian's eyes to look more easily into mine. But this isn't the story. The story is what happened in those nine hours. And the two after that.

Against the Dark

Please beware: Mushiness ahead.

Ich fühl mich sauwohl hier in Berlin (und das ohne meine Möbel, ohne meine Bilder, ohne meine Bücher, ohne mein Bett, ohne mein Geschirr, ohne Arbeit, ohne das meiste, was ich eigentlich als notwendig für das eigene Wohlsein erachtet hätte). Wenn es nach mir ginge, bliebe ich für die absehbare Zukunft hier. Und da es nach mir geht, bleibe ich hier. Auch wenn sich Berlin noch ein wenig gegen mich sträubt, hält mich das nicht davon ab, jetzt aktiv und entschlossen meines Glückes eigener Schmied zu sein. Es wäre ja noch schöner, wenn ich mich von einer weiteren Stadt unterkriegen ließe. Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, ....

In diesem Sinne: Hauruck und Prost!

XERXES = SEX REX

Außerdem: das.

Weil ich mich heute nach ihr fühle

i knew my grandma would die eventually after her first stroke, and i knew it wouldn't be too far in the future.
i was sad and uncomfortable when my neighbor died from a disease.
i was mildly disturbed when my godmother's son's grandma died of old age.

i am as yet undefined after c.'s death.

i am helpless, angry, sad, indifferent, devastated, hopeless, reckless, irate, catatonic.

at times it's real, at times it's not, at times she's gone, at times she is very much alive to me.

i haven't been alone for four days. now i am. and i'm not dealing with it too well.
i don't want to be alone, not anymore, don't want to be all by myself, and at the same time i don't see the point. he dies, i die, we split, we're done, we're dead, there's hurt and anger and death, and what's the point. this is not a question because there won't be any answer satisfactory to me.
just be over and done with it. that's maybe the only helpful, realistic solution.

i mean: really, what's the point?

I'm sad and angry and drunk

Sad because of C., angry at the world and my own head and L. because she hasn't called, and drunk because somebody needed to finish off those leftover bottles of vino and sparkles from yesterday.

Sie fehlt

"Ich bin nicht tot,
ich tausche nur die Räume,
ich leb' in Euch
und geh' durch Eure Träume."

Gerade die Todesanzeige erhalten.

Rumms.

Sie ist weg.

Einfach so.



Auferstehung ist unser Glaube,
Wiedersehen unsere Hoffnung,
Gedenken unsere Liebe.

Engel

Nein.