"ich Berlin verfallen bin."

Der Himmel über... not yet Berlin, rather NYC. But you just lift up the camera, and already can see it all. The attempt at an earthless horizon. Just a line, like any other, like the same one that would divide almost two years. (In the plane: a conversation about Michel Serres and Gabriel Orozco. Arriving at the airport, giving your name to your flying-mate, asking a cabdriver, your first words in German: "Sind Sie frei?")


In Berlin. The front view, or rather this time to my left. Your kind of building. This time not in the West, but in the former DDR.
Something so familiar. Die Gesichter, die Augen. The smell--from the beginning, inside the brief, red tunnel from the door of the plane to the immigration officer. Certain happiness, calm, not exactly, nur ganz bequem, innig auch.
A first walk to get Lebensmittel. Friedrichstrasse station.







You search for the word. You have become rather quick at this. Die Nachbarschaft, die Nähe, the surroundings. The first writings on the walls: "Let us be friends" and "home street home" (almost in front of your window). And--being so used to it, so inside it--almost forgot: It's raining.






And you hear it all.
Bertolt, mostly as the memory, preparing you, from the plane, the talk, to the place. Die Dreigroschenoper. How to take the picture. Never a right way.








Brecht, Bernhard--with a hard 't' sound. Under the black bear. Among several gardens. Next to the river. 2002. 2009. 2011. The same place. Space. Spot. Stain. Try your Lacan at this. Or better yet, not yours.
J'aime la seine, aber ich Berlin verfallen bin.