so long, jimmy : 2

[...] Amazed and at a loss for words, I smiled back and gestured towards my half-empty glass.
“I’m good, thanks.” I said, but he wouldn’t have any of that.
“Wha’d’you want?” He didn’t wait for an answer and ordered another pint of FourX. Alright, it would be horse-piss then tonight, fine with me. I grabbed a stool and sat down next to him.
“Th’Crooners are fucking brilliant,” he stated. Obviously, he was not expecting this statement to be debatable. The bar staff handed over the lager and he thanked him with a broad smile. Shoving it in my direction, he continued, “It’s their riffs, you know. The guitarist really got it down, though I have to say their performance today is a little hampered by that frigging moron at the tables who can’t handle his equipment. Fuckers. Did you notice how they switch from B flat minor to A major in the refrain? That’s ace, man. Wha’d’you think?” He eyed me quizzically and went straight on, “You reckon they gonna play ‘Dead Chicken Run On’? They’re very Velvet Underground with a tad of Iggy Pop, don’t you think?”
Suspiciously, I looked him in the face, but couldn’t tell whether he was taking the piss. I opted for an indecisive shrug and explained, “You know, I think they’re just the Crooners and utterly pissed, but yeah, it definitely has that Velvet Underground feeling. Though of course their music’s different. You seen Pink Grease play over the Collie last week?”
“Fuck man, I wouldn’t miss that in a thousand years. Very classy. I liked the way he got the girls going. You know.” Not knowing what exactly I was supposed to know, I just nodded. Jimmy sat on his stool and granted the room a pleased smile. Afraid that he might be looking for someone else to talk to, I said, “By the way, I’m Mark.” I tried to sound casual, but I think I failed miserably. Jimmy was very smooth, though. He signalled the barman to fill up his drink and replied, “Nice to meet you, Mark. It’s a pleasure.” He gave me an indefinable smile. “My parents call me James… but to you I’m Jimmy.” I felt bewildered, but smiled back. His grin broadened, and again I noticed how stunning he was. I furtively examined his clothes while he paid for his pint. Tight blue jeans, worn-out black Converse All Stars, a wine-red t-shirt – ‘He Doesn’t Like Chocolate’ – and a brown corduroy jacket with three badges on the lapel. The Faint, The Arcade Fire, Interpol. He was completely relaxed, perfectly unaware of his perplexingly beautiful face. His hair looked dishevelled, but that may have been on purpose. I noticed he was quietly observing me, so I made a point of studying his badges. Jimmy, however, did not seem to mind and continued his chatter. He somehow managed to put me at ease, although I tend to be rather shy when in public. We ended up going through our record collections and discussing music – “Did you know he only topped himself after…?” “Have you noticed how they…?” – the whole evening. Shortly before curfew, we went to an off-license to grab a pack of lager and strolled to the canal basin where we’d spend the rest of the night. It was warm and the air smelled of wild reeds, grass and the stale water down by our feet. I cannot remember ever feeling this alive as I have that night.
After the gig, I didn’t see him for a while. It was not until the beginning of term that I ran into him at the coffee shop. Skipping class to escape from the numbing sterility of the campus, I had come there to hang out a little. The place is usually frequented by a lot of drop-outs and madmen hoping to strike up a conversation and to grab a free coffee. I come to read a book and enjoy the meaningless chatter without getting involved. That day, the shop was empty but for Anne, who is completely nuts and tries to hook up with absolutely anyone who faintly resembles a male exemplar of the human species. She is only thirty, but looks a lot older. She hit on me once, making rather discomforting allusions as to me ‘having a member of the working class’. Her puns are terrible.
When I came in, she was disclosing the intricacies of her medication to the barman. I sat down at the other end of the counter, but knew that ultimately even this would be to no avail. Anne finished her coffee, then packed her stuff and remarked that she was ‘gonna split now.’ She shuffled over and hoisted herself onto the stool next to mine. I flinched. Then ordered a coffee and a gun. The barman smiled wryly.
“I’m afraid we’ve run out of the latter.” He had been enduring her for hours already. She’s usually first in and last out.
“A rope would be just as well. In fact, anything will do.”
Anne ignored our conversation and made a show of rummaging her pockets for small change. Occasionally, she gave me an impatient side-glance. I pretended not to notice and quietly began sipping my coffee. Some minutes later, the door opened. He must have seen me from outside – I was sitting by the window – and come in to say hello. A questioning look in my direction, then he raised his eyebrows and gave Anne a condescending smile.

epilogue

Just recently, I came across the play After the Rain (Després de la Pluja) by Sergi Belbel. It was lying on the desk in the office of our little theatre. Bored and having run out of something to do, I grabbed the three essential Cs – a chair, a cigarette, a coffee – and started reading.
Employees meet on the roof of their company’s tall building to enjoy their at-work cigarette. The sky is leaden, it has not rained in years. Smoking is prohibited – almost everywhere – and so it has become a vice to be given in to secretly. Every so often, the staff’s clandestine pleasure is disrupted by others stepping outside, others who have come to relish in the blue smoke as well – a fact unknown to those now hurriedly hiding the evidence of their trespass. In time, however, the word spreads and the secret order of smokers gets to know, hate, love, fancy, fuck each other. Everything – the leaden skies, their antipathies, their affections, their secrecy, their fear of being given away – is a further strain on their already frayed nerves. Everyone is on edge. Ready to blow his top. Anytime. No release, but the cigarettes. No release, but the smoke. No release.
Forceful. Cruel. Enticing. Nothing stays as it is, and in the end nothing is in its right place. Fighting, bitching, fucking, meditating, mourning, their lives go the dogs. The is no up, down, left, right, wrong, or centre. And then comes the rain.
And after the rain, I was left with a strange feeling in my guts and a page titled Epilogue. Otherwise empty. Simply

Epilogue

I turned. Another otherwise blank page but for

(The Sun.)

Two words. But two words. And yet... Once I can put it into writing, I will.

not agree

I do not agree with the linguists who say that it is the complexity of our language that distinguishes us from the animal. It is our ability to surround ourselves with things we despise and that we are uncomfortable with, happily denying our unease and anxieties just to… to do what?

on cannery row

The word is a symbol and a delight which sucks up men and scenes, trees, plants, factories, and Pekinese. Then the Thing becomes the Word and back to Thing again, but warped and woven into a fantastic pattern. The Word sucks up Cannery Row, digests it, and spews it out, and the Row has taken the shimmer of the green world and the sky-reflecting seas. (from: Cannery Row by John Steinbeck)

It speaks to me. It is as if a sea-side town had been written down, as if blue twilight had been captured between the pages of a book, my memories altered to fit into an older version of a scene so serene and absorbing that it just blows my mind.
That morning in Shoreham I could not sleep. I walked down to the small port and tried to make out the French coast across the sea, but I was too far in the west. The sky was a stale stainless blue; the mist was the only reminder that it was only four o’clock in the night. A cool breeze was blowing from across the continent, and it carried the shrieks of the seagulls that where hovering over something far out on the Channel – a smack, probably. The restless circle of birds was the only hint that others got up before I did.
When the first sunbeams slowly sneaked across the streets and the sea, noises swept waveringly into the scene and turned into the motor of a car and the footsteps of an old lady picking up pebbles on the beach. The world seemed so perfect I did not dare dropping my cigarette butt on the concrete of the pier. The circling birds slowly moved with the ship that was somewhere out there, beyond the horizon. I stood and watched them for half an hour, then followed the now forthcoming, then withdrawing line of the water. The algae and the seaweed stuck to my shoes, the salt from the sea settled on my face, and I walked until, after four miles, I saw the Palace Pier that was still asleep and quiet. Standing under the West Pier I watched the sun rising behind the helter-skelter above the sea. The tiredness that had clasped my thoughts since I woke up was gone and I felt every little fibre of my body, of my clothes. I felt the sand between my toes and the salt in my hair, the sleep in my eyes and the remains of last nights mascara on my face. The urge for a coffee got stronger, so I left the beach and paced slowly past the Odeon on my way to the North Lanes, in search of a café. A bakery had just opened, and the woman behind the counter sold me a tea; I drank it quietly. Through Royal Pavilion Park I strolled to the bus stop, got on the one back to Shoreham. As I arrived at our house, Bob had already left for work. Kathy was still and bed, so I tiptoed back upstairs, into our room and found Anna lying there, fast asleep, a bunch of red hair under a bright-white blanket. It was summer in England.
To see the sun rise over a sleeping town makes the world a different place for a split second. It is like stepping into a parallel universe where everything that can go right goes right.

so long, jimmy : 1

It was some lonely Friday at the end of the first term of my second year. My Fridays were invariably spent in solitude, peering into my books on economics and wishing that whole fucked-up system to hell. I remember that it was Friday exactly because it was lonely and quiet, a state not often to be encountered in our house. At the time, I was living with four other second-year students in Hillfields, in an all-male shack provided by our university. On Fridays, the lads would go out, have a drink at the Anchor and Arms and then mooch to the Colli to get either laid or shitfaced. Sometimes both. I could have joined them, but found that looking for enlightenment in my books while others were looking for their legs on the floor of some shitty bog gave me a certain advantage over my fellow students. As I was burning with ambition and hell-bent on outdoing the preppy fuckers at Warwick, staying in on a Friday night seemed not an extortionate price to pay. There was still Saturday, and the good gigs were all during the week, anyways.
This night, too, I stayed in and tried to come to terms with inequity funds. The atmosphere in the house was quiet and tranquil; nothing seemed out of the ordinary. It was not until I heard a knock on our front door and went downstairs only to find Jimmy standing there, smug smile, bloodstained t-shirt, bag in hand that I became acutely aware of the volatility of my situation. Jimmy nodded, strode ride past me and through the corridor, and sat down on our kitchen sofa without further ado.
I had met Jimmy the summer before, at a gig of the Dead Crooners – a band that I mostly remember for their loud, if not particularly refined guitar play. I’d already had a few and pretended that I was having a good time when I saw Jimmy standing at the counter, waiting for his pint. Smiling, suave, standing out by a mile. He exuded a certain coolness, like a thin layer of ice surrounding him. He was the master of cool. I stood and watched, imagined that if the girl next to him got any closer, I might be able to see her breath waft off in little, hazy, white clouds. As I stood there gaping, Jimmy turned around and looked in my direction. Trying to follow his gaze, I turned, too. A group of girls talking animatedly; nothing special about them, they weren’t even looking our way. Next thing, there was a hand slapping me on my back, and someone said, “Hey, mate, want a drink?” Not in that usual pub-manner, short and dropping the utmost possible number of syllables. It was more a flow of words, you know, where cannot make out were the one begins and the other ends. It was Jimmy’s voice, I realised as I slowly turned my head. His hand rested comfortably on my shoulder. To describe Jimmy, all you needed were s-words: suave, smiling, self-confident, a little smug, too. In short: stupefying. Amazed and at a loss for words, I smiled back and gestured towards my half-empty glass.

would

Would it be of any help if I mentioned that I was voted on the board of our little theatre?
Would that be a good excuse?
Would it be of any help if I mentioned that I do yet another director's assistance and that instead of getting shitfaced in front of a screen I'm getting wasted during rehearsals?
Would that be a good excuse?
Would it be of any help if I mentioned sort of in an aside that I'm drinking too much and sleeping too much and reading too much?
Would that be a good excuse?
Would it be of any help if I mentioned that I'm trying to come to terms with the Book of Job and Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained and that such people cannot be taken into account?
Would that be a good excuse?
Would it be of any help if I mentioned the fact that I have to go to my courses and don't feel like it at all and wonder am I the only living person around or is there some fifth dimension to things that I simply cannot grasp?
Would that be a good excuse?
Would it be of any help if I mentioned the fact that it is bloody winter and that I simply cannot be arsed to deal with anyone really?
Would that be a good excuse?
Would it be of any help if I mentioned the fact that this piece of writing is shit anyways?
Would that be a case of constructive criticism?
Would it be of any help if I recommended everybody else should just go and fuck themselves?
Would that be good advice?
And would I be making a point in saying that I cannot bring myself to taking anything seriously except for the ultimate experience, whatever that is supposed to mean.

a new year. inert

A new year, a new chance to fail. I see the flame of the night-light die and watch my tea getting cold. Inert. Aim higher, think bigger, and where are you now? Inert. Sooner or later you will write it out, bleed it out. One way or the other. Words drizzle slowly from my hands; the keyboard is sticky with the residue of tea and wine. The letters saccharine molecules forming an impenetrable, gluey amassment. Like caramel. The thought makes me cringe, makes my bad tooth hurt. A new year, a new appointment with the dentist.

aim higher, think bigger 2

Consent (not condescending). He said yes. He is d'accord. Green light. Now I wait for the days to pass until I can begin. There is light?

no entry

- And will you write him the letter?
- I don’t know.
- Why not? Hey, what is there to lose?
- Nothing… Oh, I don’t know.
- So, why don’t you?
- I don’t know what to write. Isn’t it a bit silly, all this?
- No, it isn’t. Look, shall we practice a little?
- I don’t know.
- Don’t know what?
- I mean, I’m not sure this is a good idea.
- Just tell me what you would tell him, and then you’ll see if it sounds silly.
- You think that’s a good idea?
- Come on, don’t make such a fuss. It’s only a bloody letter.
- Sure. It’s just a fucking letter. Ok. …
Dear… no, that sounds stupid already. I think I’ll leave out the name bit.
“I have been thinking about you a lot, recently. There’s not much I want to say, really. Only, that I kind of wish you would have known me as the person that I am today. That I had been given the chance to show you how I changed. Not because you wanted me too, you were well too wise for that. (But I only realised that later.) More, because you’ll never know me as the person I’ll be for the most part of my life. I feel sorry. What for I don’t know.
I think I only want to let you know that I miss you – in many ways. I feel so helpless. I feel like a porcelain doll that has a fissure. A sudden stir and I will break. You left me in that state, and that I did not understand. Why did you leave me when I was but a small, submissive, stupid doll? Couldn’t you have waited a little longer? Given me a chance?
But this is not the time for mulling over the past. It might seem a little strange to put it like that, but I think I got over you. I miss you, your advice, your company. But I know I’ll manage on my own.
Today, I was going to town by bus. We were driving past the crossing where I had to change to tram; I looked to my left and saw it coming down the hill. Impatiently, I waited for the other passengers to get off. I was last. I started to run. The tram stop is three hundred metres from there. The tram was already closing its doors as I turned the corner. I kept running. The light indicating that it was about to leave began to flash. I didn’t believe in what I was doing anymore, but I kept running. It had been snowing last night, and the pavement was still icy. I kept running, mad girl in short skirt and high heels, running for her life. I didn’t know what else to do. I got closer, slowly, though I could hardly breathe anymore. I just kept running. My legs started to burn. I kept running. Finally, the driver opened the doors again. I got on the tram and found myself facing a lot of old grumps staring at my little breathless self. I shrank, and for a moment I considered feeling ashamed for the state I was in, for running for a tram when I could have just as well taken the next, for holding up the traffic. Then something in me shouted no! and I stared back – calm and smug. Fuck yous. Fuck you all.
That is all I have to say, really. There’d be a lot more, but I don’t think it will be of interest to you any longer. Thank you for being there when you were. You were important to me. Forever yours…”
- That’s it?
- That’s it.
- And you think that will bring him back?
- No, it won’t.
- So, what’s the point in writing, then?
- No point.
- Will you post it at least?
- I wouldn’t know where to.
- Look him up, then.
- It won’t help. No directory for these places.
- What did he do? Emigrate to outer space?
- Kind of.
- Kind of? Stop fucking me about.
- I don’t.
- So what’s your frigging problem?
- He’s dead.

aim higher, think bigger 1

strange elatedness got hold of me the resolve to dare what i never thought could work i feel like kicking something sit down and write this application be successful outdo them all whatever they thought i'll show them they were wrong not meant to study too lazy no stamina well fuck yous me in the embassy british council management would that work ever ever ever work could i do that could i aim higher think bigger than the rest is ambition driving me towards a goal or is it simply eating me up shut up they cannot hurt me can they will they will rejection hurt and is it worth not trying will anything hurt more than this year has it worn me out or made me stronger the knowledge that i'm the one to hurt myself the most is it enough to face the world complicated big tempting elating overflowing with things i'd never thought i'd know will it work will i work is fear an excuse for not trying won't i have to try some day anyway and why not now i will aim higher think bigger if i have my brother's consent or not am i too set on the idea of a career am i too set in my own ways my state of mind to change shouldn't this be the time for a little optimism isn't it time for a little optimism shut the fuck up i feel driven towards what i do not know something i have to get somewhere once i get there it'll all amount to nothing i know but just shut up i feel driven it'll drive me insane

fool-proof

And the sun sets around 15:35. The cutout of a tree behind the window stretches to the sky, sad and sorry, seemingly aware of the futility of his endeavor. The window ends, thus he must end. There is no outside world that is not caught in a frame, preserved behind glass, sterile. Venturing out into the lifeless cosmos of the streets, I unconsciously anticipate the smell of disinfectant. My world is made up of squares. House: square. Window: square. Garden-gate: square. Upbringing: square. People: square. Adaptation or extinction. And, I implore you, which is which? Conformism or stepping-out-of-line, yet again. If you look at me, am I a cutout reaching for a sky that is nowhere to be seen?
The system is fool-proof. The escape is but in my head, and once again the notion of ‘mental exile' takes another connotation.

i want out and i want a drink

Nothing more, nothing less.

shopping, no fucking

This is my desk. This here, this is a full ashtray. It sits there in a free spot on the light-brown veneer. The rest of said desk is not to be seen. Covered in paperwork, paper, work. Paper I work on. Paper I should work on. Paper I have worked on already. Paper I will simply ignore until the third reminder to hand it in within the next two weeks reaches my otherwise empty letterbox. I love ignoring the paperwork. Although it costs me money - mainly the alimony my father's employer has to pay me since my father died - it stills gives me a feeling of self-determination. There's also a lot of litter on this desk. Sometimes, I confuse litter with letter and throw it all away - with the result that another reminder lies on the kitchen table. At this desk I sit and wonder.
I met up with Chrissie today, after uni. We were to go shopping for presents, and shop we did. Being at a loss what to get our 'beloved ones', we decided we'd just go with the flow, see where it takes us and buy whatever we thought appropriate. However, we soon found that where other people shopped wasn't exactly what we were looking for, so we headed to the alternative quarters of town and pestered the shop attendants in the little boutiques. 'Oh, I love this, but it's so fucking expensive.' 'Look at that, man, who'd buy that shit?' 'I guess I'll have that for Spanish Ana, she's into stationary as well.' 'I've no frigging idea what to get my mother. She'll be cheesed off anyways, so I could just as well go for something cheap.' 'You mean cheap or inexpensive? Cheap they have galore, whereas for the latter...' Many an angry looks we got, but somehow it felt good to behave like a teenager again. In the end, all the hurrying and pushing and shoving and chatter and pointless remarks of other shoppers annoyed me. And what I came home with were some tidbits and the news that I'll have to pay 325 Euros for a pair of glasses that suit me. Merry Christmas!
Shopping. What do I get out of it? Nothing much, except for the mundane pleasure of spending money I don't even really have. I find it satisfying to be able to say: Hey, I'm living off a minimum of money; in fact, when all's added up, I have less than the average single on the dole, and still I can afford decent clothes. See, you're not lacking money; you lack a sense of dress. I am cheap, I admit it.
What do others get out of it, especially around Christmas? Why do they push and shove as if every item in the shop was there only once? Why the hurry, why the aggression, why so rude? What makes them tick?
There used to be a time when I didn't understand why people would go shopping at all. I wore what I found in the cupboard and that was it. These times are past. Ever since I've been on medication I've grown increasingly... mediocre? I've turned into a fashion victim and cannot find anything bad about it. Sometimes, I feel the argument brought forth by women with too many shoes, namely that shopping is as relaxing as it is addictive, contains a grain of truth. Though I find it is more a short-lived relief, a release of tension if you will, it has something to it that so far I've only found in habits generally considered not too healthy. Put it that way, I've exchanged sharp objects and alcohol for a corduroy skirt and white pills. I am still not sure if this was a bargain.
What makes people tick? With regret, I have to confess that I do not know - nor probably ever will. Someone once said to me that he always feels bad when passing a beggar in street because he doesn't give him any of his change. In short, he was conscience-smitten. That could be helped if he'd part with some coins. Now, I for my part also feel bad when I pass a beggar in the streets. I feel bad for not feeling bad about the fact that I don't give them any money. I simply don't care about them. They don't matter to me. Does that make me a bad person? Does it make me a bad person to gleefully walk past some poor sod while I am all wrapped up in the warm flood that follows any kind of self-mutilation - be it of the body or of the purse? Does it make me a bad person? Did I just assume my purse was a part of me? Does that make me, apart from already being a bad person, does that also make me a bloody capitalist swine? And will I be allowed to just say yes and move on?
I'm staying up way too late. I miss my lectures in the morning. I'm becoming far too outspoken in here. I'm trying to string my thoughts together, end up with loose ends, a patch-work quilt ripped apart. I think about shopping. No fucking for me. Do I feel bad about it? Does it make me think? I guess so.

window-shopping

I amble through the city-centre, I’m in no rush. Opening my eyes feels like watching a video on fast-forward, distorted voices hurriedstepsbarelyrecognizable faces. I choose my steps carefully; try not to step on the crack between the concrete tiles. Anything could break now, I could easily go to pieces any time. There is no certainty, it is just a feeling. I watch my feet, watch the lower half of the shop windows and see the reflection of a hundred feet hurrying over the wet and mucky floor. The green fur-boots that walk beside me make me ponder whether surrealism has become reality, or whether it is just reality that has turned surreal some minute between the last glass yesterday evening and the ringing of the alarm clock. I feel I’m being distracted by my own thoughts and come to a momentary halt as I try to regain my balance. Then I continue sluggishly stumbling, carrying on my deliberate, foolish dance. I look out for the green fur in the all the greyish buzz, but it’s gone. As I make my way, the loudspeakers on the roofs persuade the shoes around me to leave the muck and step into the hot air that showers down on everyone brave enough to pass these invisible doors opening/closing/opening incessantly (The thought crosses my mind that these showers disinfect your soul, helping you to let down your natural defences). I can make out the speakers’ noise, but the cotton-wool in my head stifles the words. I move through a world full of sounds and devoid of meaning. By the bus stop I halt and take a tentative look around. Less feet here. Holding on to the post of a traffic sign, carefully checking the position of my feet, I begin to raise my head. I sway a little, but I manage to steady myself. What had been a pair of beige suede shoes on the periphery of my field of vision now becomes a pair of legs wrapped in a dark green coat and a white handbag. I try to focus, lift my head a bit higher. Legs and handbag turn into a whole body, all dressed in this dark green coat; hips, waist, breasts, shoulders, all indiscernible, all one straight line. The last bit is the most difficult part. I raise my gaze even further, ready to close my eyes anytime. The face opposite makes my heartbeat stop for a second, then I feel my legs moving, involuntarily. It is just half a step backwards, but that did it. I look down, panic-stricken, and it takes me some seconds to realize, but yes, that face, that old lady’s face… that face with the innocent dark green hat matching the coat perfectly, that face made me step on the crack. The crack. I feel my knees weaken; feel sick, my stomach’s heaving, and I have to run, run. My feet hardly carry my weight, my terribly heavy weight, I’m concrete, I’m solid lead, but then I finally manage to move. I push myself away from the post, make a large step, and fling myself into the moving traffic. I catch a glimpse of my watch: 15:43, the bus is on time.

---
As if it were that easy.

wave

And then I get this feeling and it rolls over me like a gigantic wave… my feet are pulled away from under my body; I slam hard on the shore, sand scorches my skin, then the water pulls back and washes me away like a piece of flotsam. I am drifting, floating out to sea; the further out it goes, the calmer the waters grow until I’m merely bobbing up and down up and down like some misled yellow plastic duck. This feeling.

And when it washes over me, it urges me to leave everything behind, to lash out at someone, cut my ties, social, factual, imagined, real. And then there is something inside of me which I do not know and yet it is there; undeniably some kind of second self. And it rages and screams and despairs over the orderliness, the squareness of this life I lead, over the pointlessness, the passionless get-up-go-out-come-back-go-to-bed. And then…

I used to lash out; bloody hell! at least try to free yourself, for fuck’s sake. And when there was no one and nothing there, I would cut away the things inside me that tied me down. The ties itself I could never reach, but the something inside me was appeased.

Now, the medication straps me to an off-shore pole only yards from the saving, stinging sands. My hands are bound. No cutting away those ties. The wave washes over me, I feel its brutal force, but I am tied down and all it does is fill my lungs with water until I want to either swim or drown, but it never lasts long enough…

a mess

How to begin? I live in one of those council flats in Spon End – you know what it’s like, they’re all the same. Drab and dingy they cower against the grey serpent that is the ring road; both a reminiscence of the 60s futile strife for modernity carved in concrete. In one of these I live. The windowpane on the corridor is shattered, the staircase smells of piss, the air is stale and the colour on the walls is perished and coming off. When I moved in, they told me I’d even have an en-suite bathroom. What a joke, this is a one-room flat.
I worked the night-shifts down at the post office until they sacked me two months ago. Finding it hard to readjust, I usually stay awake at night and retire in the morning. Now that it is November, I hardly ever get to see daylight. I don’t mind. This part of town looks better in the dark, anyway.
A few nights ago, I must have overdone it a little. I’d been reading Murakami’s A Wild Sheep Chase, a book like a ceaseless drizzle slowly seeping through the layers of your soul until you feel all wet and forlorn. Suddenly, everything seemed pretty pointless. I was weary. Feeling incredibly tired, but unable to sleep, I resorted to my usual nightcap: a few painkillers washed down with cheap whisky. Next thing I remember is me lying on the carpet, fully dressed. The pile had left an imprint on my arms and face. Outside, it was already dark. I groped for the alarm clock – half eleven. Bloody hell! Drowsily, I got up and went to have a shower to get rid of the drugged feeling. After, I felt a little better. Taking a look in the mirror, it occurred to me that it had been days since I last shaved. I lathered my face, took the razor and damn near cut myself as the doorbell rang fervently – once, twice, thrice. I flinched and, muttering a few words I won’t bother to repeat here, shuffled to the door to peer through the spyhole. Nothing. Cautiously, I opened the door a little… and before I could say Jack Robinson (not that I had even tried to), there was a foot in the gap. The foot, however, was not alone. It belonged to a squat little man in a non-descript but rather ill-fitting dark suit. Without saying a word, the dumpy fellow pushed me aside and entered my room. I was too startled to object. My reaction will become infinitely more understandable if you consider the fact that I was but a very skinny lad who wore nothing but shaving cream and a towel slung suavely round his waist. The intruder, though, did not seem to take any notice of my unfortunate situation. He freely wandered – no, waddled (Did I just call him squat? He was more bordering on the obese, if I’m to be precise.) – about and took in his surroundings. His shoes left black stripes on the linoleum. This assault on my privacy seemed plainly absurd. Sheepishly, I cleared my throat.
“So, this is it, then” he exclaimed after a while in a high-pitched, shrieking voice.
“Er… this is what, exactly?”
“Don’t you feel ashamed?”
“Of what?” I asked, exasperated.
“Well…” He stretched the word, modulating his voice, high, low, high. He was obviously enjoying himself. “What have we here? A bowl of damsons, all gone mouldy. Three empty cans of coke, one of them full of cigarette butts. Seems someone did not do his chores for quite some time. An ashtray, teabags and chewing gum inside!” Triumphantly, he grinned at me. His chubby cheeks started to glow. “I dare say normal people would certainly use the ashtray for the ashes, don’t you agree?”
“I don’t think this is any of your bloody busi…”
“Ah, ah, ah.” He pointed his fat, small finger at me. For a moment, I was so confused that I lowered my head and stared at my hands like a little boy. “This place is somewhat of a mess, don’t you think? Worn underwear on the desk, a pile of records on the floor. And what is that there, on top of it?”
“A… a cup?” I stuttered.
“A dirty cup, to be precise. A very dirty cup. Grimy. With some indefinable residues of something in it.” He made a show of being disgusted. “What do we do with it?”
“Empty it into the toilet and sluice it down?” I guessed.
“So?”
“So?”
“I am waiting and I have a lot of time.” It was unbelievable – only it seemed very, very real. I couldn’t help it; my legs didn’t ask for permission, they just wandered over to the stack of records and then I also lost control of my arms: they acted of their own accord. Disbelievingly, I picked up the cup and took it to the bathroom. I had to get a grip on myself. The man followed me, delightfully watching my every move. When I had emptied the cup, he commanded, “And now flush.” I did. I really had to get a grip on myself. I considered my options. He was still inspecting the toilet bowl – probably, he was finding some fault with it as well. Furtively, I pushed one of my dirty socks that I had thrown on the floor when undressing towards the bathroom door. Then I gave it a good kick. It landed near the entrance, which was still open. Startled, the dumpy fellow looked up and went, “Ah, so you’re trying to hide something from me! A sock. Sweet. You should have realised by now that such manoeuvres do not get you anywhere. I even know about the porn collection you keep hidden so meticulously under your mite-infested mattress.” I flinched. What the fuck was going on?
“Nothing will escape my eye, not even this stinking, lousy sock.” He waddled over to the door. With glee I watched him take the bait. I cast my head down, looking all mortified. Elatedly, he beamed at me from below, then bent down to pick up the fugitive piece of clothing. With a lot of effort, obviously hampered by his weight, he managed to grab it. That was my cue: I streaked towards him and shoved him out into the corridor. He lost his balance. I smashed the door shut and locked from inside. Then, my heart still racing, I went to the bathroom to wash the shaving cream off my face. All the while, I heard him shuffle and groan outside. I sneaked over to my bed and burrowed in the sheets. I was scared out of my wits.
The first few hours, the bell rang several times. Then he resorted to knocking. After a while, it stopped. All this has been three days now. I’ve been drifting in and out of sleep ever since, not daring to move other than for taking a leak. Whenever I get near the door, I can still hear him tapping his foot…

---
Oh yes, I've sunk so low as to let you read my homework.

the untranslatable

Oh, I confess. I have been shamelessly neglecting this blog. Oh, and I repent. It's been a long time. The project with the brats has been cancelled. Neither were they really interested nor could they muster up the courage to give it a go anyways. Thus, more free-time and less theatre for me.
The reasons for me absence: manifold. October was a busy month. Finally, I went to uni again, and I loved it. Danny came over for a few days and I showed him around in Dresden. That was the last time I really drank alcohol, for some days after he left, I fell ill and it turned out that I caught a neat, little virus that caused hepatitis - now, I have to wait until my liver gets better. The doctors told me to refrain from anything that might be physically exhausting - obviously, they've left uni quite a while ago.
Other than still feeling tired, no news here. Well, I sort of mull over old friendships and acquaintances and come to the conclusion that there are few people left who really mean something, anything to me. Which I will take down as good and bad at the same time. My oldest friend, she never gets in touch. And I wonder, now that I 'forgot' her birthday (due to being in hospital), what is there between us other than an old bond of friendship long past its prime? A reminiscence of what once was and will never be again. We do not live in the same town anymore. We do not share the same circle of friends anymore. We do not have the same interests anymore. In short: we're living world's apart. And yet I am somewhat reluctant to do the most straightforward, honest thing: to say good-bye, thank her for what we were allowed to share and move on. I let it sleep; partly out of fear, partly out of nostalgia for a world that is now, with the death of my father, lost to me once and for all.
The Untranslatable, Heimat, home and a place where you belong wherever life might take you, is lost. She was the last link. She is the last link. And I feel sad, for even though I do not want to go back to where I came from, even though I despise this small-town life in the midst of small-town minds, the pettiness and squareness of things, even though... I still somehow did treasure the fact that I could have gone back, at least for day. Now, there is no place to stay, no tales of known places being told, no nothing. And I feel I am floating, drifting through this world, no strings attached. It is what I always wanted, what I longed for since I awoke from my childhood's dreams and took in with bewilderment the world that surrounded me. Now that I am finally there, the rejoicing in my new-found 'freedom' won't come so easily. I cherish my situation, I am well aware that now there is nothing, no one to hold me back, that my obligations are minimal... and still - naturally so, I think - there is also a feeling of loss, of ending, of letting go what once was part of me and is no longer. I realize I am cut off from what used to be my life-line, my last resort. The responsibility that goes with that still feels weird - in a good kind of way, an important kind of way, yes - but it can also be frightening at times.
Letting go and leaving behind - I always thought I was good at it. And probably I am, in a twisted and absurd kind of way. Few people I know cast away acquaintances or friends with as light a heart as I do. However, and this I realize only now, they hardly ever meant a thing to me - or if they did, I just brushed it off lightly and didn't think of it again. I know that life goes on, and I vowed to myself I'd keep up with it. This, however, is different. This is the last link to where I come from, where I've grown up, the last link to the group of friends that influenced me most.
I sort of came to the conclusion to write her a letter; in fact I already did. All I am waiting for is to find a good present for Christmas, and then this said present together with a not-so-christmassy letter will be off to Marburg. Or to her home address, maybe. If she gets in touch, so be it. If not, then I will say my good-byes quietly and on my own. Have a drink on her for the sake of old times, and enjoy the current that will take me where to I do not know. She's the last of the old tribe. She's the last who knew me before I had the chance to leave anything behind. I know she has always eyed my way with suspicion and maybe also a bit of fear – not that my way of living a life deviated from the ordinary, at least not that I am aware. I am curious as to how far old bonds reach.
There's a faint sense of sadness lingering in the air these days, but I feel this is okay. No damage done, no gashes here, no battles won.

scared

Today, in no less than five hours, we're going to meet the brats for the first time. THE BRATS, I say, and mean the kids aged 13 to 16 with whom we'll do our theatre project. The play is Eric Bogosian's Suburbia, and if the brats are anything like the characters in the play, I'll top myself. Seriously. Thing is, though, that they'll probably be worse. It is not without a good reason that we've applied for funding under the headline: Theatre Project for Socially Disadvantaged Youths.

I don't know why, I really can't say why, I've absolutely no fucking idea why I think that my looks matter in this respect. I somehow feel the urge to adapt to their way of dressing. Considering that I am slightly older and come from a totally different social and geographical background, this just has to end in a catastrophe. I am not fucking fifteen anymore, and I had better come to terms with it. Nevertheless, I feel that I am inadequate. Especially, when it comes to my looks. But then, will they care? I doubt it. I've heard several times now from their social workers that they despise students no matter what they look like.

Let us hope for the best, expect the worst (namely that they don't turn up at all), and yet be curious all the same. Wish me luck, I'll tell you how it went.

the voter, n. (sing.): narrow-minded, malevolent, ignorant creature wilfully putting at risk the well-being of his master and servant, the politician

Cold it is outside, already. The sun is setting behind the old, neglected villas. The leaves show first traces of red and yellow. Autumn is stealing in. Goldfrapp is playing in the background. I am sitting in front of the screen and blow my nose every other minute. I have a bad cold. As I might have mentioned already, autumn is stealing in. Slowly, but steadily. I know, because I have a cold. I always do when it turns autumn. There's little sprinkles on the screen. Sorry, forgot to cover my mouth; I know it’s a bit revolting. Anyway, it's warm inside, the heating's on and I have a cup of that nice Roiboos brew that's always referred to as tea. Strictly speaking, it is not, but what the hell...

Sunday was Election Day. I didn't vote. Yet. Half of Dresden goes to the ballot-box on October 2^nd because the candidate of the right-wing party died. Not that many people cared. The rest of Germany, however, had their say. And what they said was... well, schizophrenic, probably.

Let's start with the basics. We were governed by a coalition of the Social Democrats (SPD) and the Greens. They have been trying meekly to implement reforms that were desperately needed. They fared badly in the polls over the last few months, but re-gained popularity as the election campaign advanced. More often than not, their line of politics has been boycotted by the opposition, namely the Christian Democratic Union (CDU) and the Liberal Democrats (FDP). Nothing spectacular, so far. The opposition did quite well in opinion polls, the majority of people would have voted for them had the elections been held in spring. They promised tough reforms and their head candidate, Angela Merkel, had already been awarded the title of ‘Germany's Iron Lady’. Shortly before the campaigning, a fourth party formed; a fusion of the eastern Socialists and a new western equivalent. Let us call them The Left. Well, you probably know all that stuff already. If not, read the Times or something.

Okay, the elections. Some 77% of the population went to the ballot-box, and what was the result? Everybody won the elections! This is clearly the best result we've ever had. The CDU won, because the coalition of SPD/Greens has not been re-elected. The FDP won, because they were the only party who gained votes in comparison to the elections in 2002. The SPD won, because they fared better than the previous opinion polls had predicted. The Greens? They won because they got more votes then they thought they would. The Left won, because they didn't exist before (Let us ignore the fact that one part of The Left actually did), so of course they had gained votes. SPD/Greens won, because CDU/FDP does not have a clear majority. CDU/FDP won, because SPD/Greens do not have a clear majority anymore. No one has a majority. None of the coalitions anticipated does actually work out.

Thus we learn: To win elections in Germany, it is not necessary to achieve a good result. It is not even necessary to have any chance to partake in the future government. You can actually lose votes, and yet win the election. Also, it is possible to deduce a victory from unofficial surveys conducted half a year before the elections. Splitting hairs over the fact that one party is not one party but in fact two is allowed, too. It is also okay to just stubbornly cling to power until everybody accepts that you do have a (god-given?) right to indeed be where you are. All you need is a certain brazenness and arrogance, but you will surely have acquired that on your way up the ladder, won't you?

Any solutions? Any new coalitions? Well, not exactly. CDU/SPD could form what is called a Grand Coalition. However, it is an unwritten law that the stronger party's head candidate will be elected chancellor. This, however, happens to be not the SPD, but the CDU. They have 0,9% more votes than the SPD. Schroeder (SPD), however, doesn't care much for that. He insists that he be chancellor, come what may. This, the CDU will not accept. Obviously, they will want Merkel to be the new chancellor. Any other coalition is practically made impossible by the fact that the FDP refuses to participate in any government with either the SPD or the Greens onboard. They promised beforehand they would.not.do.that.come.what.may and are now afraid they might never get rid of their opportunistic image if they changed their mind. The Left... well, they are being ignored by all parties. Why? Because. No obvious solution to the voter-induced dilemma is in sight.

The result: is obvious. Anyone with half an eye in his head can see that... The voter failed. He wronged the politicians. He is a malicious creature. What did he intend by deciding the way he did? What did he think? Did he think? The voter. Yes. Once it comes to elections, the people suddenly unite. They become an entity, a collective. Like the Borgs. And then they vote. With all their force. In their destructive, callous, thoughtless manifestation of The Will of the People, they knowingly accept the total confusion and utter helplessness of their politicians - poor, solitary creatures who have left the safe haven of 'the people' to work hard for the best of the collective. Instead of supporting these politicians, the voter wilfully risks their well-being. He even puts a spoke in their wheels, ignoring that the cart is only going full speed in the wrong direction for the voters own good. The voter is an unthankful creature. But, he is sovereign of the state and thus has to be obeyed. Even though he is a bad sovereign. Actually, he should be overthrown. And beheaded. And then a new sovereign should be elected. I suggest Schroeder. Though, they might have slightly more trouble getting rid of him. But at least he’d be out of the way.

rock on! or else you'll wake up the baby...

Well - I am well aware that it is no Sunday today. The thing about the Sundays is more like, ehm, a guideline, anyway. Principles are made to be thrown overboard in the right moment... Something like that. You know where I'm coming from.

Anyway. Last week was my sister's wedding party. The fact she got married last December didn't bother any of the guests - even though she and my brother-in-law had not declared it specifically a 'wedding party'. However, before this party, which was last Friday, I had to spend some days at my mum's. I don't know exactly why, but I had promised her to visit. Now, you should know that the relationship between my mum and her children has always been... well, complicated. To say the least. To cut a long story short: my mum had some strange ideas on how to bring up children, and on top she can be quite - let's put it straight - petty and intolerant. It's not very easy dealing with her, and the fact that once you let her catch you off guard will worsen her behaviour is not helping the situation, either. About one and a half years ago she found a partner who matches her in almost every way - except that he lacks a sense of humour. I guess it is even more exhausting now.

The funny thing last week was that usually my mother and I practice a lot of small talk. She tries to pry into my private affairs; I try not to let anything show. Normally, I am not exactly a secretive person, but I am more than glad to make an exception for my mum. I hate the way she always makes everyone justify their actions and words. Like why one did this and that fifteen years ago, or where one's been when she called last week and why one didn't immediately call back. Why one 'neglects one's studies' (by the way, I don't) to do theatre (which I only do when I'm free) and other stuff (by which she means p&p arpgs, having a boyfriend, spending money on anything, etc... which is, by the way, my own fucking business and nobody else's). Why I don't clean the bathroom the way she does. Why I am of a different opinion than she is and why I won't eat her eggsalad. You get the drift. Apart from being tedious and a real pain in the arse, it also simply wears me out. Everytime I come back from her place it takes me days to just calm down and be able to relax again.

This time I had to stay three days with her. Since my father died, there's no other place to go around there, and dropping by just like that is out of question considering the sixhundred kilometres that lie between us. So, I stayed at her place for three days, and whilst being there I had to find some appropriate clothes to wear for my sister's party. Mum decided she'd accompany me on my shopping spree. Now, there's only one thing I hate more than shopping: shopping with my mum. Actually, I've grown fonder of shopping over the last few years - ocassionally I almost enjoy it. With my mum, however, it still is pure horror. Notwithstanding the fact that I am a 22-year-old student who's been able to take care of herself and her clothes for years now, she still tries to talk me into buying the stuff she likes. After five hours of listening to bad recommendations and even worse opinions on how I looked, I gave up. Yes mum, okay mum, we'll take it. So there I was: a not-so-proud owner of a violet, long corduroy skirt and a pink jacket. Lovely.

The next day I found some excuse to borrow her bike, took the skirt and jacket back to the shop, exchanged them for a cardigan and a blouse in the brightest of reds and went home - well aware of the fact that she'd sure as hell be cross with me for not wearing what she wanted me to. Much to my surprise, she wasn't. Okay, so she wasn't exactly pleased, either, but at least she respected my taste insofar as not to complain about it in my presence. Thank you, mum. I appreciate that, and this is not meant to sound sarcastic.

The party itself was okay. Lots of people I didn't know and a boyfriend who showed up in jeans. I could have slaughtered him right on the spot, but my in-law wouldn't let me.

I couldn't really enjoy the party anyway, for I was dead tired. My little nephew decided he need not sleep the whole day and thus drove us all mad with his sour mood. He's only six months old, but he already seems to be afraid of missing out on something. Whenever something seems to be going on, he refuses to go to bed. So I and my boyfriend were sent on a precarious mission: "Send the fuckin brat to sleep, whatever it may cost!" At least that was how my sister, who was on the verge of completely losing her temper anytime the child so much as made a sound, put it. Right then, we got the buggy, took the squealing baby, and off we went for the woods. My sister hinted that he only sleeps when the buggy's rocking a bit. 'Rocking a bit' turned out to be 'nearly falling over', for it wasn't until we took a very bumpy path with pebbles and stones lying everywhere that my dear nephew decided to finally fall asleep. Until then, we'd already been walking for one hour. The problem however was that he would wake up every time the rocking came to a halt, so we had to walk up and down that path for another one and a half hours. As a reward, we were greeted with a smile and a 'dadadadadaa' when he woke up. And, thanks to his sleep and our hurting legs, everyone at the party thought my sister had a very nice and well-behaved son.

The next day we discovered he'd gotten his first tooth - which probably also was why he was so fussy the day before.

Tomorrow I'll be off to Cov for a week. I am slightly exited already, and I'm looking forward to seeing Danny and the lot again. Wish me luck for the flight, if the plane's late I won't catch the last coach to Cov and be stuck in London Luton Airport.