#berlin journal

[dunkelwort]

Stilles Land

https://archive.org/download/stilleslanddunkelwort/Stilles%20Land%20-%20Dunkelwort.mp3

  Dunkelwort, Berlin 2019 (Ger). ISBN 978-1704898629 Presented at Stadtsprachen Literaturfestival, Berlin 2016. read: archive • listen: podcast • watch: YouTube download: Dunkelwort (excerpts) buy: amazon.it | .com | .de | .uk |

View On WordPress

[dunkelwort]

Dunkelwort p.16

Öffne jetzt die Hände nochmals in meinen, deine nacktesten Hände: von dir zu mir, was flehen sie?

In der Handfläche dehnt sich die Welt, die versammelte Welt: Genauigkeit der letzten Tage.

Die müden Adern pulsieren zwischen zwei Händen gespannt unter elektrischen Hieben. Die Hochspannungskabel fliegen durch einen dunklen Gang, auf noch warmen, doch dunklen Bildschirmen unter den Trümmern des Hauses

View On WordPress

[dunkelwort]

Dunkelwort p.19

Zeig du mir das Wort, kein Wort der Welt sah ich, das Raumwort, das Zeitwort – wie heißen sie? – ihren endlosen Klang.

Entweder Tod oder Stein: leichter auch in unserer dunklen Sprache.

Für diesen letzten Blick halte ich einfache Reime fern. Unsere Ohren sollen kleine Ruhegehäuse sein.

Der Atem erstarrt und kein Wort kann ich mehr sagen. Errätst du es noch nicht?

Wer die Wörter schuf sprach die…

View On WordPress

[dunkelwort]

Dunkelwort p.20

Letztes erloschenes Wort über den Schreibtischen, Schneestreifen in der Ruhe um staatenlose Ruinen. Die Stadt, ein verlassener Kreis. Dann legt sich eine Hand um diese offene Wunde. Die Welt schläft. Sie weiß es schon.

  Dunkelwort, Berlin 2019 (Ger). ISBN 978-1704898629 Presented at Stadtsprachen Literaturfestival, Berlin 2016. read: archive • listen: podcast • watch: YouTube download: Dunkelwor…

View On WordPress

[dunkelwort]

Dunkelwort p.23

Wo Licht ist, ist Dunkelheit gleich meinen Händen, nachts, am Weltrand.

Es weitet sich in uns aus und hinterm Quantenschild der Ungewissheit will es als kleines Fragment des Atems in die Atomstruktur zurück.

Zwischen zwei stillen Sterben gebiert ein abgedunkeltes Leben sich selbst im Augenblick der Welten, in einem Puls der Planck-Zeit, oder kaum weniger, Zeitlücke, Zeitsplitter.

  Dunkelwort,…

View On WordPress

[secolotrentino]

L’ultima trovata della Merkel: “più viaggi in medio oriente per i tedeschi”

L’ultima trovata della Merkel: “più viaggi in medio oriente per i tedeschi”

“La Merkel consiglia ai tedeschi di fare più vacanze di formazione nel mondo arabo”, così si intitola un articolo del Berlin Journal, che spiega la nuova proposta della cancelliera tedesca “per capire meglio il contesto”, pubblicata nel video di sabato chiamato “Die Kanzlerin direkt”(direttamente la cancelliera), prima del ventesimo Vertice del Turismo dell’associazione federale dell’economia del…

View On WordPress

[kalandra-bankhead]

Notes on a Blackout

I'm standing on a covered patio in the middle of the night, smoking a cigarette. The black sky just outside of the window matches the funereal attire of the assembled crowd, who is also standing around, either smoking, or drinking, or like myself, waiting for something to happen. Inside the main club, the swirling mass of bodies are swaying, grinding, churning, like a vortex of of inky blackness. The music pounds, but at this present time, I don't feel attracted to it. I've tried dancing a little bit, but I find this body of people aloof, too trapped in their own ritual; I feel alienated. It is my own ego that is keeping me from joining these people.

I look down at my watch. Twenty five minutes have passed since I met a short American boy in the single bathroom stall, paid him twenty euros, and took both pills that he gave me. I'm still waiting for something-- anything-- to happen. In spite of the gin I've been drinking, I feel stone-cold sober. I'm amazed that anyone has the energy to even be up and dancing this late. I stifle a yawn, not that anyone would be paying attention anyhow. I sit and glance at my watch. Anytime now.

And then it hits me like a train. My senses heighten; I can almost feel my pupils expand. I didn't think it was possible to see this much at one time. I feel, at first, nauseous. The pulsating rhythms emanating from the main club demand my presence. It is time. My whole body is screaming at me that if I keep sitting here, I will die. The only way to stay alive, something inside me says, is to go and dance. Dance is life. I get up, and striding purposefully through the black curtain, I am rushed headlong into a world of Lisa Frank colors, reverberating rhythms, and primal, urgent movement.

I can't remember much else from that night. I woke up on the train home seven hours later-- after all the dancing, after they had turned on the lights and I was alone with the bartenders, after speaking rapidly in a melange of all the languages I know, trying to communicate-- and, stumbling through the bright sunlight away from the grunge of East Berlin into my friend's apartment on the other side of town, I promptly fall asleep.

[kalandra-bankhead]

Berlin Journal, Part 4

14 September

I had my first party last night. I think it was a smashing success. Only twenty people or so showed up, but considering the size of my room, I think it was just right. I drank heavily all night, starting with the wine that I was cooking with. Vast quantities of wine were consumed by everyone. And beer. And gin. Dalton invited friends of his, but as I expected, they were mostly solitary, stuck up creatures. Nothing annoys me so much as that. Around 1, I kicked everyone out and we went to an underground bar, Der Kellar, up in the north of Neukölln. It was 8 euro to get in, so I didn't drink anything else there. But the music was good, and glitter and confetti littered the floor. It was very Berlin. Being very drunk, and convinced that my friends had left me, I departed around 3 or so. I was rather annoyed by those other gays, I think, because at the bar, they were more insular than before.

As I was making my way back down Karl-Marx Strasse, I ran into the rest of the group. I sat and talked with them for a while. Still being very drunk, and the party being disbanded, another girl, Amelie from Denmark, and I tried to make our way to a gay bar (it being 4 by this time). We didn't find one, but settled on a quiet place, and had gin and tonics and discussed Beyoncé and third-wave feminism and queer theory. I'm frankly surprised that I was still awake and cognizant by this time. We left, and somehow I made it to my flat. I vaguely recall being convinced that someone was following me, and so I picked up a broken bottle for protection, which is why I woke up at 2 in the afternoon with dried blood on my hands.

Surprisingly, my hangover wasn't as awful as I thought it might be; nor was my apartment as trashed as I thought it would be. I spent most of the day cleaning and drinking tea. I'm surprised at how easy the place was to clean; in the states, a party of 20 or so would have trashed the apartment, but no, except for the dirty dishes stacked neatly in the corner, there wasn't much mess. It was fantastic. 

I went to a bar tonight. It's apparently the place to go-- SchwuZ (meaning something like 'gay central'). It's about 15 minutes from my place. As soon as I got there, I wish I had gone in drag. Queens were everywhere. I actually followed a queen in.

Later

I passed out after that; I think it was around 5 AM that I stopped writing, or rather, fell asleep. I followed this queen into SchwuZ and made my way through the crowds. It was pretty full when I got there at 12:30 or so, so I couldn't imagine it getting more full. But more and more people kept streaming in.. There were three separate dance floors; on played oldies, one top 40, and one was techno. I constantly moved between the three. I think I did because I felt so self-consciously alone in the middle of this sprawling, industrial club. I wanted to hide, escape those judgmental stares of the men who could so clearly tell that I was different.

Faggots are still faggots wherever you go. There were still the stare; the thirst; the smoke. Some things don't change. And so I danced. I sought that place of pure abandon, where I could stop worrying about if I was pretty enough - everyone in this country is gorgeous and tall - or the fact that I'm alone, or the hunger I felt for physical attention. I danced to forget. But you cannot forget for long. Perhaps I wasn't drunk enough.

There was one man though, who was kind - Ike, I think his name was. He wore flannel, glittering jewelry and heels. I told him my name is Guillaume, and that I'm French-American. People seem to dislike you less if you're not fully American. They have less disdain for you. Also, 'Kelsey' is not a common name here, and the Germans can't seem to pronounce it. So I rechristened myself as Guillaume. Maybe next time I'll pick a name that is a little less foreign sounding to my ears. But it was good to have a persona, a mask, to wear. His drag queen friend invited me drunkenly to the Kit Kat Club, but since it was almost 4, I demurred. Besides, the last remnants of the wine I drank were almost expired and I felt the urge to write and sleep.

I woke up at 1 today, and feeling the urge to spend money, I made my way to Friedrichschain in search of a flea market. It's huge; it takes up the whole park. The stalls were packed with people when I arrived around 3. There wasn't anything I needed in particular - certainly not the furniture, though there was some stuff that I liked - but I bought some things. There was a lovely Canadian woman peddling soaps and we ended up talking about Coco Peru of all things. I also bought a small silver earcuff - which I'm currently wearing in my right nostril - and a pendant with the face of the Maschinenmensch. And now I'm in a twee little cupcake shop around the corner, drinking coffee. The music they play in here is fantastic -  New Order, the Shins, Kraftwerk - but the cupcakes are too rich for my taste. 

I feel the need to reinvent myself in this city. I want to cut my hair, dye it blue, pierce my nose, get a tattoo. There drastic changes though are not what I came here for. I came here to dance, to work. Or maybe I did come to run away from something. Maybe it's from myself. Maybe this whole city is one of runaways. It remains to be seen.

Still Later

After the cupcake shop, I made my way back to the Bahnhof, and eventually made my way to Alexanderplatz. I almost considered going into a church for the Anglican service at 6:00, but then thought against it. I wouldn't feel appropriate walking in, especially with the Maschinenmensch, an icon of modernism, debauchery and destruction draped so casually about my neck.

And then I began to consider my saints, my icons. Who is guiding me at this point, anyhow? Certainly not Jesus. So I appeal to the spirits that inspire me:

Saint Edie, for playing the hand that you're dealt and resilience in the face of adversity. "What the relatives didn't know is that in dealing with me, they were dealing with a staunch character."

The Maschinenmensch, misandrist icon, seducer of men, destroyer of cities;

Saint Tallulah, for guidance when I become too self-pitying, and a reminder to never take myself too seriously. "Nobody can be me. Even I have trouble doing it sometimes."

Saint Walt, for doing it yourself, and to embrace the lyricism of life, its triumphs and its failures. "I am vast. I contain multitudes."