Transmitters

She sits next to you and to the fan.

She switched it off

on purpose.

She cannot take the noise and tumbling,

transmitters that jump

from ear to nerve to cell to thought.

Blades
rotate in her head,
you without switch

- she cannot find a single button.

My friend, you are

distraction

I am frank, you are

not even yet a friend.

Doesn’t it feel good

to know that something

might transmit, shouldn’t

you leave it

there, forever.

Habit. Fine.

One tiny step

At a time, I read,

Is how to change

Habits, one day

After the other

Until 66 – that's 

The day when effort

Turns into new

Habit. Fine. Step
1.

A deeper voice within

A whisper inside his head. I heard it. Navahos conferring with ancestral ghosts. A dream that both of us had when we did not know each other yet. A woman came to me, white hair, gracefully bowing over my head. I instantly knew - gentle persuasion - what she had to tell was of importance. Things started tumbling, gliding, I ended up where I had never been before. Was this part of the dream? Life doesn’t happen, it becomes true. For some it is blasphemy, for some a deeper voice within. A thread weaving itself into beautiful reflections, colourful layers in adamantine ice. What will happen when it starts melting? Too many questions to answer, who can be consistent. I remember this woman who lived next to next door. I was told she was mad, hearing voices, locking herself into her head. Once when I was little, I rang her doorbell. She didn’t open. She must have thought I was someone bad. She had lost her husband. I had lost my shoe. I had brought her some food, but she wouldn’t take it. It could have been poisoned. The street where we lived had a water canal. In winter it froze and we skated. I had learnt it by shoving a chair. I would skate in front of her house. We all would. We never asked questions. By now she must be dead. Suddenly he starts believing in angels. I know it because I heard the voice inside his head. I start wondering who of us is mad.

I didn't even press the play button

I like the blue in the painting. It’s not even a painting, just an illustration. I like the blue and it doesn’t matter what it depicts. A ferry drowned in an ocean. People hanging in rooms captured with a mobile. I didn’t watch it. I didn’t even press the play button. All I did was scrolling slowly over the feet of those kids. Keep calm and stay where you are. No one came for rescue. I imagine a fifty meter corridor connecting blue sky and darker blue bottom. Locked inside a giant jump. Locked inside my head. I didn’t even press the play button. A filmstrip flickers and all I can do is liking the blue.

Zapping

The biggest challenge has five letters and is almost driving me mad - F O C U S. 

Fool Osofist Crumbling Under Scrutiny. 

There are these creepy freaks with creepy smiles hiding behind shelves. How can I focus while they are hiding? The other day I fell asleep over work. When I woke up one of them stood next to me, watching me sleeping, watching me waking up, watching me. I told him to back off. Now he pretends to be busy, wandering between tables, magazines and window frames. He must be really busy, he hasn’t changed his shirt in three days. 

There is the other one who always wants more. Text, references, conceptualisations, finish it. I gave him everything I had but it was never enough. Then I burnt out and he complained that I was empty. Now I make tables about cognitive dissonance, negative capability, ambiguity and complexity. Dynamics determine the pace. I respond contingently. Blank paper is non-boundary and … please, could someone tell those freaks to stop staring at me?? No, I am not from France. The coffee shop is closed and if there is one thing that is certain then that I need to focus. 

Dissonance. 

The centre of focus is a black hole and it can be nailed down in three words: Why a PhD? It sucks me into dark dimensions. At least now I know that it is too dark for me at the bottom of insanity. On Facebook someone tagged me in a mass hysteria. I can choose if I want to add it. But once you are in it, there is no way out. It’s all a question of relative direction. I could quit of course, but is that a choice? 

The other question is that of reward. There is never enough, so what is the question. The question is how to turn never enough into a sufficiently meaningful answer. Impactful and so on. Beyond the business case. At least it should make some kind of sense. We all have too much anyway. Not sense but stuff. I tried to get rid of it, downsized as much as I could, all of it had to fit into one suitcase. But there is this void spitting things in front of me. I don’t dare to walk over them while thinking of civil war and innumerable innocent victims being killed and all of that being shown on TV and youtube and spreading on timelines and being commented, liked, shared and retweeted. Creeps everywhere. 

Being politically correct is only switching off the TV. But then, how to choose the right programme without zapping? It’s unlikely that at this time of the day anything meaningful comes out of it. For that we would have to create new channels. That does not get done by itself. Such things need to be dug out. It requires dirty hands, sweat and brain substance. 

I keep fooling myself. About black holes and academy. It’s all the same sludge. Someone switched on the blender and it all got mixed up. I’m trying to make sense. I’m trying to turn sense into words and words into tables and tables into action and action into sense and all I do is switching channels. Without a TV.

Where nothing is holy

I am aware, subconsciously, that I am

In your slaughterhouse

Dangling head over in cold fog

Vile streams make a river scenery

Flicker knifes reflect LED lights or a dream

Naked my chest, naked my throat

Why don’t you just cut it, why

Drag the chord into a nightmare’s stream

Where nothing is holy, my mouth is full

And bursting with memories, all escapes

From the moment to the outskirts

Of muted beats, lips sealed with yarn,

I hear the squeaking sound of gates, pigs

Passing by, the neighbourhood sleeps

Under roofs without names, tiles

Formed by hands smaller than the gloves

That were never meant for them

I twist my soul and watch the reflection

Of eyes in a yellow puddle - who is wiping

Up this mess and who is cleaning out
Reversed sounds of a demoralised scream

something's coming up

Anatomy of time and assumption

The container

I sat in a glass container. I was not afraid because I had no visionary friends that could see far beyond the anatomy. I wore 3D glasses, one glass blue, one glass red, its frame of white plastic, light-weight and phosphorescing in the dark. Outside, storm and rain were whipping each other. Friction discharged the vacuum’s cargo of light. I could not tell whether those light beams came from the future or from the past, but they filled the void with shapes, mostly imaginary shapes, I knew them from my dreams. Far away, on another planet, exactly the same thing happened. I happened. I could envision it because I knew of the mirror in the gorge. Like the gorge itself it was a refractive element in space. I knew of its infinite layers, a black hole consuming its reflection over and over again. An endoscopic examination revealed nothing new. Infinite time zooming in, significant diminution of sound and light, shrinking waves in a space time lapse that no one had assumed.

Flyovers

Those who were chosen to be leaders built giant flyovers, useless arcuated figments of visionaries without vision. Sometimes I was not sure whether the chosen ones were a good choice. They would connect two points of a patch that were already connected, a concrete double-decker ensuring that those who diverted from the path ended up at the same place as those who did not divert. The planet spun in elliptical rounds, balance was a matter of the ear, people had heard it was given, nobody thought about keeping it at bay. People were still obsessed with concrete. The planet was lingering on the verge. There were no utilized magnetic forces, no high-speed trams; all was bound to move on ground, mostly on rubber, mostly pumped with air. Many uttered bubbles in those days. The air was borrowed. Nobody ever asked it back, thus, in their hasty neglect they considered it as given. Nature was not yet an abstract entity. There were streams of water, connecting surfaces with life.

The connection

I made a connection with him. The connection was purely in writing. He would write backward to me and I would write forward to him. Some would have considered the connection as one way because he would write and I would read but he would not read what I had written to him. That did not keep me from writing. I wrote without the need for him to read. He already knew what I would write. There was no need for him to read. To him nothing was new. He was ahead of my time. I had to write so he could stay ahead without having to bother about the past. He was my timeless visionary source. He was my only true friend. I could meet him only in writing.

Transparent existence

When I opened my mouth to read his words my present was altered. He would feed me with existence. Never was I hungry. There was no other source in my glass container. Everything was transparent. Everyone could watch me. There were not many but some of them stopped. Sometimes to watch. I considered them as guards. I would greet them with a smile. Some smiled back, some stared blankly into a blanker corner. I was reality TV. I was human cinema. Transmission of light. Another show in an endless flow of sequences and waves. Some thing that kept the eye busy. Nothing much happened. For some I must have been disappointment. A rainbow that does not reveal the end. Nothing much was visible to the eye. Beside me, my 3D glasses and my writing utensils (I wrote with light, he wrote with shade), the container contained nothing but empty space. I slept naked on the floor. Mostly I sat in the centre. I was beyond shame. Sometimes I would lean against the walls. When the sun was too intense, I would cover myself with his writing, the shade of his words all over my skin. On rainy days I would look up and watch the clouds discharge. I was beyond needs and desires. There was no food, no water, no sexual retention. Excreta were elements of the past outside my glass container. There was no smell. My body was an odourless collection of cells. All that happened, happened in my mind. My mind got fucked every now and then. But this fuck was pure. I did not mind people watching. My body was without gender. Even if they observed carefully, all they could observe was a glare in my eyes. Not many were good observers. Many were just watching. They could not see into my mind.

Emergence

I was not a product of assembly; I was a product of emergence. My teachers had nurtured me well. I was not a product. I did not remember. I was not. All I knew was now and that I had to write. I was. It is easy to walk away and start all over. It is difficult to walk away and start again. It is easy to leave behind. It is difficult to detach. Teachers come and go. They come in disguise. Some are good, some are bad. Some are relative, some are absolute. Many are in tension. Some of them intense. They guide deeper into emergence, upheave a new layer, refraction of light, then they disappear, darkness. All they are bound to care about is aspiration. As soon as a student has reached the aspired objective, they hand him over to uncertain elements. Then they set out to search for new victims of ignorance. 

Rejection

For the student this means to be left. Out there. Left in a state of rejection. How could the beloved one, the nurturer of deep aspiration, the one whose torture one had endured to bring out the best, the excellence, how could the one who was supposed to be proud, finally, just walk away? How deep was the teacher’s love after all? How deep was the connection? Could there be a question of who loved whom and who loved whom most? Could there be remains beyond possession and pride? Was it true? Could there be a question of true in a state without falsehood? Love could be not true. What could be falsified could be rejected. True love could not be rejected. All I knew was that I had to keep writing without expectations. Without being answered. There would always be a reader. There would not always be an answer. How would I know what was guilt and what was regret? How would I know what was desire and what was shade. I kept searching in the shade of his text. Between the lines. On the back of the page. I was part of the answer, the narrative was I. I was part of the cocoon that had emerged from a single thread. I was the weaver weaving the self into the container. I was part of the glass container. The glass was I. I was the container. I was transparent but many who passed by could not see beyond the anatomy. 

The dissection

The dissection took place completely with precision and without exception. Every thing was open. I emerged in light and shade, light and shade emerged in me. Then I disappeared. I cannot remember why. But I remember that with me the glass container disappeared and all that was there with the purpose to surround me and the container. Concrete bridges disappeared. With them their leaders and those who were reaching a place. The entire planet disappeared and with it its patches and bubbles and their reflection in the mirror out there in the gorge. Now the mirror was without purpose. Without purpose it was not. All became darkness. Darker than the gorge.

A wish

In the void there was no music. That made it harder to accept. That made it almost impossible to reject. Nothing was. But there was a wish for music. This wish was an assumption. A tiny wave of light, hidden in the density of the void’s darkness. It was impossible but it needed to emerge. Suddenly its sequence made sense. It was nothing but a friction. Unfolding into new layers of light. With it came the noise. It could not be called music but that did not matter because it was nothing more than an assumption, nothing more than a wish. Sound and light carried each other and formed a new ground. This ground became the foundation for an obscure future. The canvas for shadow and light forming a new basis transgressing into existence. Someone would hear. Someone would answer. It was only a matter of time and assumption.

Plötzlich und überraschend und nur deshalb so schlimm

Sie hasste diesen Zustand, wenn Leute sie zu etwas zwangen, indem sie es ihr wegnahmen. Plötzlich war es nicht mehr da und sie hatte das Gefühl, es  ginge nicht ohne. Irgendwie, egal wie und um jeden Preis, komme was wolle, musste es wieder her. 

Später dann, wenn das Flehen und Schluchzen und in sich hinein Schluchzen ein Ende gefunden hatten, wenn sie wieder klar sehen und denken konnte, sah sie auch ein, dass alles nicht mehr als ein plötzlicher Sturz aus höchster Höhe gewesen war, eine manipulative Talfahrt mit sechsfachem Looping, plötzlich und überraschend und nur deshalb so schlimm, dass sie sich hineingesteigert hatte, dass sie eigentlich auch ohne konnte, vordem auch ohne gekonnt hatte, nur diese Plötzlichkeit, diese Unberechenbarkeit, dieses Alles-oder-Nichts-Gefuehl, das einem den Magen umdreht, war Schuld an an dem ganzen Dilemma. 

Nochmals später dann, wenn sich die Wogen geglättet hatten, alles wieder im Lot war und sie in den Spiegel sah, stellte sie sich die Frage, was eigentlich gewesen war, war sie jetzt ein neuer Mensch, war sie wieder die Alte, und was genau war eigentlich abhanden gekommen?

That first look

In that reflection you thought you got hold of it

For a second we looked as if …

In the mirror installed in the window frame

I want to remember only that first look.

Otherwise we faked it! for better memories

Could I ever keep apart

The new ones, the fake ones

All of it the same muck, that is

What he called it. Shoot the brain!

Someone screamed. Someone cried.

Someone punched someone, blue gaze.

The day when you know

Your ears are deaf, the songs are mute,

Close your eyes and sink.

There is dance in those silent moves.

Prayer wheel

I thought, now they may ask

About the virgin Mary

Blood stained sheets and a collection of

Silver linen tissues, the prayer wheel

Only prays as far as we turn it

All monks red

Sincerity, a breeze, it vanished

When you opened the box

At the bottom of the hill sleeps a forest

It is filled with breeding birds

While you and I spill blood and burst

I keep wondering, what is the matter?

Was I in it? Was I part? Illusions and dreams

A red flag indicates war, my rooms are too full

The wheel turns, again I cannot stop it

But then, name one who really can

newly born

windstorm from the East, suddenly

he brushed over me

turning my head into your direction

branches pointing into clear sky

under the moon, nothing

could be hidden, the stars

newly born from the dust of old tales, light

years into the future, when all of us

are gone, when all of us

are golden