und jetzt immer noch…

Have you ever seen all the world celebrating? Alle die Welt ein Fest. Les rues pleines, tous les visages ouverts: “un festin où s’ouvraient tous les coeurs, où tous les vins coulaient.” Have you ever seen the total celebration? Have you heard that hour?
What is celebrated is forgotten, as if it was the same Oblivion. Just for a time, alles (wird) verziehen.
And it is in this, on this basis, that one recognizes the world. As one celebrates (it).

One cannot run, one does not want to run. Man ist innen und alles ist außen. Ja, nichts so einfach. Doch nicht.

One listens, one feels oneself a compulsion to dance, to leave without doing it, to be that man and that woman, the car full of people and the last guy dancing and bouncing alone.
“Wer bist du und wo bist du?” “Ich heiße James Martell… und ich bin in Berlin, je.”

Everything in little fragments, forming a world. Everything in, everything is the streets. As you walk towards the next place, inside. As you think nothing can open itself a little more. Aber, immer noch. Todavía. Der Himmel. Encore, audessus, audessous.
“le bonheur est éphémère… l’amour est sans pitié”

In the celebration, you walk as if you knew—as if everybody was going to the same place. Geschichte des Geschicks des Gedichtes des Gesichtes—or “how did I come to love (my) history.”

One hears that rhythm, ohne Vokals: elektronische Musik and the friend you left behind. Hear again, it is (a) breath, a respiration and soon you’re over the roof. The sky breaths, the rain breaths, the people around you breath—this is a soundtrack. Renn, renn.

Open the book:
“Marion und Loorie (singen): Sous le porche à huit heures
Sur le banc devant le tobogan
Sous le saule pleureur
Oú je l’attendais
Tout pouvait encore…

Arriver!”



Du wartst etwas, du wartst noch. Noch?
Nicht mehr, du bist hier. Seit 11 Jahre. Vor einem Leben.
(And yet you wish you’d have been able to call their names, and they would have seen, they would have heard what you were hearing, what you were seeing. You looked up, you always do, and praised—your—Absence.)


Tu es une carte postale. Du machts eine Postkarte.


Open the book, again:

“Gedankenstimme Marion:
(…) Das ist es wieder, mein Wohlgefühl. Wie wenn im Innern meines Körpers sich sanft eine Hand schließt”



How do you construct, build the images. Bilder. As—almost—the most important thing for you. Son of your era. Reproduziertbarkeit… Right now this image of you in a room, writing this. Perhaps more important than the text—and yet you will not take the picture. Cause it’s necessary
—not to take it.

Always in the wrong place, always in the right place.


That is the celebration. Walk into the night. Walk and become the night. One needs a river. Not so much to jump (immer die Möglichkeit), but to know that you could, that everything ends up there. Keine Esche, Wasser für Wasser—Bier für Bier—Wein für Wein—Blut für Blut.
Just to put it bluntly.


Until you get into a wall. A wall is a door, always. Alle Werke.





Open the book:

“Wir sind eingeschifft”