der Hammer in Berlin: und noch... das Ebenbild

Without an audience. Without eyes. What are these reflections, these words that you write with the screen in front of you, trying to tie the images, to tell (not say) something to someone ("das hier ist dein Sohn")? You hear "Polly says". And you think of echo, of repetition, of anniversaries and the different rings. Dreimal, 3 times have you been in this city and each time it becomes more familiar (gewöhnlich), even the language changes--This time too much Spanish auf den Strassen--and yet after here you go to Madrid. What can you use from here? Are you confronting something, facing something, besides your most common/vulgar fears? Where are you going to leave this, to write it? Think about the statues, the presences, those eyes over you.

(And yet too much to write, too much to comment, "berichten") You drink now a check beer and it's not your favorite--Not like that time when you were 22. ("Danke dass du an mich glaubst"). You listen to a tribute to Nirvana and one to REM. Exactly from those years. As everything goes. You read Freud auf Deutsch. 9 Years ago. And yet your visage is seltsamer, older and younger gleichzeitig. Narcissismus is not even under consideration, there has never been other theme. Look at the pictures (Guck mal!), at the statues selected, the paintings--Sin, kiss, the hand. And yet.

What was it? Rilkes command (Gebot), 10, 100 years later? What you must say & write. Just post the images. Jetzt die Bilder den Frauen der Maler. The wives of the painters, just as last time it was Hegels & Fichtes wives that called your attention. But in the middle, or right after it. Paris. When have you understood who was him, or what was the city that bears his name? A flower. Unverständlich.

[And now you live with a wirklicher Neurotiker... who besides die Traurigkeit that he spreads around him, jumps every time you enter the kitchen where he lives... Deine Gastgeberin hat gesagt, dass er es nicht einfach hat.... c'est pas facile pour lui... Vielleicht. And you should understand, but the only word that comes to your mind is "jerk", "Arschloch", usw.] Something in the way.

You look at the pictures now and think how to match them. But it'd be too much. For your reader to do it. The portrait of another painter. The new cyclops (plural)... the painting with erased figures. Why again did they attract my eyes? You know me, you should/shall know.

[And now, what you cannot see here... one more reason to type instead of writing. My writing becomes ever so smaller as it tries to hide in every nook of the sheet of paper. As if the paper were never enough, even though I can never-it seems-finish a notebook. Those 3 nice little ones, Moleskine, with dates starting in 2004. I still write in them-when I find them. And that other one with a newspaper cut with the face of Poe--which Guillermo gave me--I wrote something in it last time I was in Mexico. "The room of the painter."] The boy in the writing desk--The title is there, inside the picture. And that other picture, which called your attention, but even more because that girl was also taking a photo of it, fascinated (erinnerst du an das Mädchen begeistert von Balthus Bild? In Pompidou?)

And now Rafael. In the house of your best friend you saw it-as it were-for the first time. Gleichsam. And next to it as no coincidence, the story of drawing, and a ceiling. All was one room including both, an old room inside the reconstructed building. You took all together, it took you. (Listen to "Drive" by The Veils--cover from REM).

Why do objects call your attention so much? Gegenstände. What kind of question is this?

Flowers.Rock Flowers. Marble Flowers. (Writing by the window, another Empfindung zu erinnern. A family eats dinner by candlelight in an apartment down in front of mine. Or maybe just a couple.) Then relief. Relieve. Erleichterung oder wiederaufheben. Aufhebung? Deine ganze Theorie liegt dort. And at this point the Philosophers appear--can you recognize them?

Und dann, Rodin and the "man/human with his thought/thinking"... What I should have taken more photos of. What should I have all the time in front of me. As a horse. (Let her/him understand who want/can).

And now you have fallen in the trap, to comment. You see a fold & a hand, an expression or gesture. Ausdrück--ex-pression. Something that lifts itself & goes out, beyond (ex). "Ex." How has this word come to exist, out of what? What I do not count, what I do not see, what I have forgotten? Existenz. Profile. Neben. Perfil. There's no exact one. Not one either, always at least two. What to do with this? Especially with regard to Wagner.

Not to comment, not to prescribe, not to say. "Not", das komische deutsche Wort. Such das! (In the meantime: los/el papalote(s)).
[Und die Bilder, die dich erinnern daran...]

"Austellungen." The word once you could not remember. And there are several more. And yet yesterday you finally talked with the old lady in the Antiquariat in Leibnizstrasse, and bought a few books from her. And the dinner with Uly, dein ehemaliger Gastgeber and a friend. Then Alexanderplatz without a camera. But this was yesterday. These pictures are from before. "Based in Berlin."

(You're avoiding the sculptures on purpose. Especially the one mit der Frau, reclinant. The leg, foot, breast, nipples, usw.) And your finish/start with the empty red/white building. Nothing really to see there. But you hate to delete, nay, to edit, nay, to cut, nay to forget.