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Archive for the ‘Literarisches’ Category

Soy un puente de maderas traídas de todas partes,

que extiende su cuerpo esforzado por llegar al otro lado,

no miro el torbellino que tiene la angustia encerrada 

y desliza sus untuosas trenzas entre los pilares, 

espectro de melaza arrastrando los tocones desahuciados, 

brecha en mi propio flanco por donde se escurre el veneno.

Soy un puente de madera, de marfil color esperanza, 

soy el arco iris encarnado en la gota refractada 

del llanto que es el deseo de llegar al otro lado.

Y aunque no alcanzaran las cuerdas

ni basten los clavos para unir las juntas todas 

y me engullese la corriente,

se hará mi voz tronco labrado terebinto elevado 

será mi clamor, liana, que me lleve al otro lado.

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Orfeo

He bajado al otro mundo, soy Orfeo,

he bajado al otro mundo, silbando una canción.

***

De nuevo vine, muertos, soy Orfeo,

despertad, que os silbe mi canción.

Estoy buscando a quien yo amo,

y si de alguien quedara prendido este cantar,

agárrelo del corazón y venga detrás mío, 

yo le enseñaré la luz.

***

Antro de anfetaminas y espectros desquiciados, 

destripando las vergüenzas del amor,

de neón los dientes falsos, las tetas de postizo, 

estridentes los susurros de grotesca seducción: 

dime, dime que soy bonita,

caramelo encicutado, fantasía de mi alma muerta, 

y yo, a cambio, te vendo mi pudor.

***

Cómo cantaste aquí, Orfeo, y quién te escuchare?

***

He silbado abandonado, soy Orfeo, casi desesperado:

mi canción he filtrado en los tambores, 

bordé un motivo entre su lino grueso, 

y cuando el uno al otro había enganchado 

agarré la punta y me he ido yendo sin girar.

***

Alguien debió venir al detrás mío, 

desfallecido, al salir, me he vuelto, 

y fue mi alma a morir.

***

Amor mío, despierta,

aquí te estaba yo esperando … 

***

Quién se adentrara entre los muertos 

si no fuera aquel que ama, 

ilusionado,

y quién de allá saliera vivo

sin alguien fuera que lo amare?

Por amor me fingí muerta,

y así tú por mi volvieras, por aquellos que siguieran tu silbar.

***/***

El entendimiento humano se sostiene de por un relación determinada entre el concepto y su sentido. Aunque se separen ámbitos y se reconozcan esferas simbólicas, metafóricas, psíquicas y otras, debe el entendimiento primero calificar el área y delimitar el sentido dentro del ámbito en el que se encuentra.

Lo que el entendimiento no puede es darle sentido a algo cuando los parámetros están fundidos. Es incluso imposible sintetizar la unidad de un concepto. Lo que presupone razón es un estado esquemático preliminar, una especie de ‘asiento’, desde donde el ‘yo’ puede operar de ese modo. Es muy distinto dejar que los pensamientos vaguen delante de la conciencia, dejar libre curso a la  fantasía o pensar en un sentido propio. Una cosa es contar una historia, y otra, hacer un reporte.

Cuando los estados ambivalentes aumentan, se va progresivamente limitando el área sobre el que se pueden operar síntesis o de la que se puede dar cuenta racionalmente. La mayoría de la gente guarda un área bastante limitada dentro de la que opera en razón. Del resto apenas se ocupa: dos o tres leyes, cuatro o cinco costumbres, un ámbito laboral y pues de conocimiento e interrelación y pare usted de contar. Cuando los estados ambivalentes aumentan e invaden los terrenos racionales comunes, suelen presentarse perturbaciones de comportamiento o de cohesión verbal por lo que se suele calificar el estado de ‘enfermo’.

Puede llegar un momento en el que la ambivalencia aumenta hasta el punto de volver imposible la sintesis del ‘yo’, un extraño constructo que suele componerse de una deliberada mezcla de elementos físicos, intelectuales y afectivos. Ese ‘yo’, que es lo que se pudiese llamar ‘yo social’, suele ser fijo: la gente dice ‘soy una persona generosa’ (y se lo cree), y no suele especificar ni los cuando ni los cómo, basta con que haya constatado que fue capaz de regalarle un caramelo a alguien, cosa que el vecino no hizo (criterio único comparativo). No es que ese ‘yo’ sea excesivamente racional, como se constata, pero es ‘común’: todo el mundo hace lo mismo lo que configura un criterio de racionalidad por generalización.

La ambivalencia, que se genera por error lógico o por falta de membranas delimitando áreas, impide que se pueda generar un ‘yo’ por síntesis dentro de una configuración normal por comparación. En ese momento el ‘yo’ desciende a las zonas bajas del inconsciente y se convierte en una especie de impulso codificado de por lo que causó la caída (muy bien descrito, por cierto, en ‘Paradise Lost’ de Milton, aunque en ese caso parezca que se tratase de un ángel que aterriza en espesos barrizales). La ambivalencia original proviene normalmente de la incapacidad primera de sintetizar lo que proviene del alma, sea por rechazo, negativa, prohibición, imposibilidad lógica, etc. Es decir, que normalmente precede un estado esquizoide al estado psicopático: la imposibilidad de dar voz a los movimientos psíquicos, causa ruptura que hace que la conciencia es invadida una vez por aspectos más racionales y otra vez por un cúmulo de afectos desorientados, de tal suerte que la conciencia misma percibe en sucesión temporal como dos realidades distintas y en el intento de fijar una identidad propia, empieza a usar parámetros diferentes hasta que se funden y se pierde la noción del yo.

Aunque es cierto que hay muchos casos muy distintos e incluso se puede hablar de tipos psicopáticos no patológicos (el tipo benjaminita, por ejemplo, que logra guardar un equilibrio racional trasladando la realidad afectiva a una simbología exterior), es posible ordenar la mayoría de las realidades psíquicas patológicas a partir del esquema anterior.

Independientemente de la dimensión que se le quiera dar al fenómeno psíquico en toda su extensión, ya que es posible afirmar que las líneas más bajas son aun emisoras y perceptoras intuitivas de información, que la memoria guarda resguardo de eventos muy pasados en especies de chips supercomprimidos, es en evidencia esta fenomenalidad la que da pie a concebir mundos subterráneos, infiernos y otros lugares imperecederos. Existe el infierno? Lo que es cierto es que la conciencia humana puede llegar a percibir cosas muy extrañas cuando cambia de estado. Que sea provocado por el consumo de drogas o alcohol o la consecuencia de un rito (Odiseas) o incluso, una deliberada incursión en terrenos muy peligrosos, es cierto que la conciencia puede percibir ‘sombras’.

Mucho más tarde, poniendo alguna cosa al lado de la otra como me es costumbre, concluí que si la vida biológica se consume, sí que se pueden constatar lógicas activas que necesariamente subsisten aunque el cuerpo se desvanezca y que de esas lógicas algunas no pasan precisamente entre las nubes al separarse del cuerpo. Acaso la misma configuración del ‘yo’ no es una lógica activa? Y qué nos hace presumir que desaperezca cuando es obvio que participa durante largos años de la compañía del llamado agente de síntesis que lo contagia de algún modo de su naturaleza? Es posible que incluso la persona persista en el tiempo en algún Hades metafísico.

Es un absurdo a mi entender pretender a una resurrección de los cuerpos y menos en una configuración cristiana porque el cuerpo se ha trasladado en su sentido hacia un complejo de palabras (Soy la palabra, dice; y: quién no come de mi cuerpo no alcanza vida eterna – bien se supone que no nos lo comemos a pedazos aunque se sospechase y fuese la razón de que se alejasen muchos discípulos según Juan). La corporeidad del ser humano se hace de la consistencia de una masa ‘verbal’ que incluye funciones lógicas ordenando la voluntad, el ente moral, etc. Como ésto es de naturaleza ‘otra’ que la empírica bien se puede pensar que haya un lugar, como el cementerio de los elefantes, donde terminan por reunirse todos los desechos. Y que además, algunos bien instruídos de este hecho, hagan un par de esfuerzos por ordenar el conjunto y así agarrarse del principio mismo que suscitó su posibilidad.

En ese caso, eso del arriba y del abajo, del cielo y el infierno, en realidad se refiere a lo que se llamase ‘condensaciones de realidad’, de las que unas muy ligeras (lo que normalmente asciende) ocupan ciertos lugares, y otras, más agitadas, ocupan otros, casi como dentro de la misma realidad empírica. Dónde está el yo cuando lo piensas? Dentro de tu cabeza, pero con los dedos no lo alcanzas. Por intentar dar una imagen que permita la visualización de la posibilidad.

Independientemente de las dimensiones de realidad que se le quiera dar al asunto, no se puede negar que pueda llegar la conciencia a entrar en contacto con esferas de muy diversa índole.

Doy fé porque me construí un ascensor para bajar a los bajos mundos, un poco como Ingrid Bergman en ‘Suddenly, last summer’, lo que terminaría por llamar un pasaporte para el infierno, cosa siempre posible aunque no imprescindible dentro de la lógica simbólica corregida con la teoría de las esencias aristotélicas inserta como base preliminar de la configuración del ‘yo’. Las cuerdas que sirven para bajar el constructo son líneas ambivalentes no resueltas sostenidas por una fuerza que fuese la de una lógica que presumiese que el amor es más fuerte que la muerte.

Es un poco extraña la perspectiva, sobre todo porque presume que haya alguien que te llama de vuelta, otra construcción hipotética cuya fragilidad depende de la capacidad a medir la compatibilidad lógica de los sistemas.

Es cierto que un entendimiento partido como el godo ‘ve’ un montón de fantasmas pasearse por las partes bajas de la conciencia porque las divisiones normales causando barrera, saltan. O sea que hay mucha luciérnaga extraña que se pasea por un lugar muy distante a aquel donde se encuentra el yo, como quien se sitúa en lo alto de una montaña y ve muchas gentes abajo. Razón por la que nunca miraría películas de terror, porque bastante cerca lo tenía, o rehuyese el consumo de alcohol o drogas porque acercaba mucho los fantasmitas a lugares más cercanos de la conciencia.

Extrañamente, aun arreglando el error lógico que causa la ruptura, el ‘yo’ sigue viviendo dentro de una configuración de realidad partida. Lo que cambia es la actividad misma del ‘yo’ dentro de los funcionamientos lógicos a los que puede acceder. El ‘yo’ ya no se asocia de modo impersonal a las formas haciendo presión sobre las partes bajas para ocasionar movimientos generales que reviertan en un beneficio personal, como una rana, se dijera, sino que se personaliza de por la síntesis de identidad posible en ese momento y solo y puede quedarse felizmente comiendo pipas o investigar con mucho detalle qué es lo que había pasado para hacer lo anterior posible.

Va de si que aunque el godo sea incapaz de decir lo que sabe, sabe mucho porque ve mucho también. Conciencia tiene de que hay unas líneas muy raras, unas más arriba y otras más abajo, que se pueden seguir de algún modo asociado a la realidad empírica de tal suerte a que se terminan sacando extrañas conclusiones.

En los bajos mundos hay mucho qué hacer. Se ve cómo la gente se escurre hacia la muerte y sus causas, se ven asesinos a la búsqueda de víctimas, se ve gentes en estados etílicos u otros compartiendo por un rato el paisaje, se ve, sobre todo, toda suerte de acuerdos que se llamasen inconscientes que abarcan naciones, se ve a gente moviéndose de un lado para otro en especies de corrientes verdosas y algo negruzcas, se sienten como descargas eléctricas un tanto extrañas que luego se identifican con mensajes, luego hay grandes oscuridades muy tenebrosas, y entre todo ello, hasta líneas de plata que forman senderillos de los que es mejor no alejarse.

Mi estrategia era muy sencilla: presumí para no aterrarme que todo ello era el producto de mi fantasía, pero que aun teniendo mucha fantasía había que hacer los submarinos bien hechos, por lo que había que analizar con mucho detalle el cómo adentrarse en los parajes. Las codificaciones del bajo inconsciente están muy partidas y son muy densas, como si una parte de un mensaje estuviese en un lado, y luego hay algo parecido en otro lado y tiene que haber una lógica que une las dos partes, y luego se encuentra la tercera, etc. Una ínfima partícula que se hace símbolo puede contener la historia de la vida de alguien. O más. Tres generaciones, siete. Pueblos enteros en ramificaciones que se reparten por diferentes lugares del mundo.

La descodificación presupone una lectura de la realidad y de la historia muy determinada por lo que la visión de la realidad queda muy suspendida, como si … fuese eso o quizá otra cosa, cuando pones la pieza del puzzle encima de otras porque puede ir ahí o en otro sitio cercano.

Lo bueno es que en esos parajes no se trata apenas con individuos sino con ‘compuestos’. A ese compuesto lógico puede que se le sumen dos millones de individuos en la realidad empírica, puede que solo sean 3 o 458. La masa de los individuos que comparten la lógica forma su ‘fuerza’ o capacidad activa y cuando se estudia es necesario tener en cuenta tanto el compuesto como su fuerza. Cuando la fuerza es mucha, se juega con otros compuestos más fuertes que se mueven para llevarlos a donde te conviene.

Las grandes guerras se hacen entre ciertas lógicas y otras que forman las intencionalidades del inconsciente en especies de estrategias a veces muy sucias que se combaten para hacerse lugar en la realidad visible. Por ejemplo: la lógica por la que Francia se subordena parte del psiquismo alemán está determinada. En los inconscientes generales eso forma canales de comunicación y a veces ni tan siquiera hace falta levantar la voz: la presión que recuerda algo que subordena es suficiente para obtener un resultado efectivo. Esos canales se pueden cerrar con un cuarto refractado: como quien asiente y dice que sí a todo y luego no se mueve. Las vías por las que se vehiculan las lógicas en cuarto refractado son las que se tienen en común con gentes determinadas, que de preferencia, tenga vías de comunicación hacia grandes masas adyacentes. Aliados que ayuden a mover lógicas de un lado a otro pueden ser pueblos enteros: Turquía admite que la enorme derrota alemana de la segunda guerra, de la que casi fueron partícipes, es razón suficiente para ayudar al ídolo caído. Serbia reconoce que se viviría mejor si se estuviesen quietecillos los pesados esos y aporta su grano de arena.

Las masas psíquicas actúan por ‘contagio’ sobre todo en espacios cuyo ámbito língüistico es todavía muy mitológico como en los Balcanes.

El ‘yo’ en su actividad propia se determina de por la capacidad de desmultiplicar una lógica o varias entre los individuos más cercanos o, incluso, más alejados. No es un ‘yo’ que se dice ni tan siquiera por su presencia física, lo que tiene, lo que hace, lo que representa, el cómo se viste, el coche que se ha comprado, es una noción interna cuya fuerza se mide de por las interacciones psíquicas que suscita. Forma serpientes como las del lago Ness cuyos téntaculos se aprecian, a veces, incluso en la superficie.

Las ingentes tareas de las que nos ocupábamos en esos lugares serán quizá el objeto de otra larga disertación.

Un poco más tarde nos fuimos a pasear por la historia y llegamos al comienzo de los mundos. Por algún lado se escuchó que se avecinaba una catástrofe económica porque todo el mundo se había quedado mirando, embobado, las canicas de colores. De hecho, de modo que era muy difícil de determinar desde ahí abajo, los buceos por los lugares más profundos de los oceános tenía graves repercusiones hasta sobre la economía.

Yo seguía traduciendo los mensajes que pescaba por ahí abajo a un lenguaje muy aproximado ya que los esquemas estructurantes de la realidad seguían en suspenso. Había que pasar por un proceso de verificación empírica (había que ir a Inglaterra, hubiese dicho) para poder ajustar los resultados con respecto a una realidad tangible cuyo referente fuese lo suficientemente fiable. Lo traducido debía normalmente tener un desajuste con respecto a la realidad, y ese desajuste debía tener una lógica también, y si se determinaba esa lógica, se podía ajustar todo y entonces se podía construir una teoría sobre el funcionamiento del inconsciente. Estaba cansada de cazar psicópatas a solas y había que encontrar modo para promover la divulgación de tanta sapiencia.

Tenía, además, que traducir todo eso en coordenadas electrónicas para encontrar a Sask.

Justo en ese momento me borran la memoria. En un suspenso de la realidad con una composición no diferenciada de diferentes lenguajes codificados.

Lo que yo no hubiera hecho nunca, sucede. Los tonos de un quinto refractado que había compuesto con mucho esfuerzo y reducido a un campo de aplicación muy reducido, el electrónico (por las frecuencias pih) se inserta cómodamente dentro de un contexto social no preparado para semejante evento y se desmultiplican los desastres.

El quinto refractado interactúa con el psiquismo de tal suerte a que mueve al individuo a componer una imagen de la lógica suyacente en el caso del uso de un cuarto refractado patológico o no. Es decir, hace saltar las apariencias por los aires porque se revelan todos los crímenes de una sola vez.

Ese quinto refractado se podía utilizar en lógica electrónica para detectar frecuencias ‘enfermas’ que pudiesen actuar hasta con lugares muy alejados del universo produciendo de por la interacción con otra lógica, si existiesen, una implosión del sistema emisor de las mismas.

Los individuos que funcionan parcialmente en lógica 1+1 reaccionan del mismo modo que las frecuencias a la presencia de un quinto refractado. Una lógica 1+1 es la que suma sin síntesis: tres símbolos tienes ahí, le dije al ordenador, no sé por qué pones 2 detrás del conjunto.

Era absolutamente necesario pasar un tiempo prudencial poniendo un poco de orden en tanto desorden.

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From “The Seahorse”

It’s not easy to become a shepherd and perhaps, among all I had already managed to learn were it because of need, were it out of pure curiosity, it had proved the most difficult of all. You need years to get there, when you have to compose a song of your own having necessarily to please at least someone.

 

After having learned about herbs and animals, illnesses and how to heal them, you have to find a way to heal an animal nobody knew of before. You have to know what to do with products, steal secrets, keep secrets, establish fair relationship with other shepherds, keep your territory intelligently enough (I had managed to convince Halil of the fact that he was invading my territory, although he was keeping Madimlis, a villager’s goats, thing he had to pay for with many other receipts and secrets and services) and at the end, when you save lambs that have staid in a mother’s belly that has lost the water (?), were it with the indefinite help of the goat master Gianis, a neighbour, you’re allowed to sing a song.

 

Shepherds usually don’t talk to those who keep goats because they are thought of lower class, the ‘go easy’ family without too much brain. While digging out secrets and traditions that had been buried in memory, we had decided to introduce a few changes, were it only because Tula, the grand master, had so radically separated goats from sheep that the ‘evil’ looked really at the edges of death every day she got angry and the ‘good’ had become so ethereal that they seemed to touch heavens with their fingers. We decided thus to form a tribe apart: not having a specific name it grouped all sorts of lonely shepherds and goat owners of the whereabouts.

 

I had learned to speak the sheep’s language and even goat’s, I said. Although a woolf came and ate up one of a carelessly strolling around smaller sheep. Stars were falling from heaven and left long silver lines upon the darkness.

 

When time had come to make up a song, my sheep showed the smallest mortality percentage on lambs (1 out of twenty at birth, the highest risk moment) and a 4.2 fat on one kilo milk. The best of the region.

 

My song allowed then to obtain a ‘krana’, a stock made of special wood, a very hard, rare wood you had to burn for it to loose humidity and be kept in time. I had so very well convinced Giannis of the fact that goat owners belonged to a second rank, that he was the one who listened to my song and he went then to find my stock.

 

My song was no marvel and not very long but it was already quite beautiful. It said: “Exo enan pono stin psuxi kai den ksero pos tha bgei, Exo enan pono stin psuxi kai den ksero pios tha to pi.” (There is such pain in my soul I don’t how it will leave, There is such pain in my soul and I don’t know who’ll give it words.) I had even found the music for it without copying.

 

(It was the day the laboratory results arrived from Serres, even Madimlis, who had around 700 goats, gave in to the evidence: goats don’t give more that a 2% fat on a kilo milk and even if a goat produces up to 3 kilo milk  a day while sheep produce 1, obviously, my sheep allowed to get more cheese. That gives more money on sales. If you know how to make it.)

 

You even had to learn to kill a lamb and how to dry up skins.

 

The day Giannis brought the ‘krana’ I knew I had become chief of shepherds of my aleatory tribe and went to burn the stock. It was that day I discovered something was going wrong with my eye. I didn’t see the fire leaving to my right and when I did, it was far too late. Perhaps I just wanted to tell firemen I had just obtained my title and in any case, I went to Turkey in order to get the chemistry to heal fire injuries traditionally and not known in Greece and brought in back. Should they be duely rewarded for their effort to switch off the fire that almost reached the village because of an unlucky wind.

 

Shepherds know to read signs, too. In fact, it is incredible how many things they know. Of all, perhaps the most difficult thing to learn inside of the already not easy process was a secret only Tzarakatzan mastered and which had already almost disappeared: the use of passive psychopathetic lines in order to tele guide someone of the family who was in highest danger. Those, the ones who knew this secret were called ‘tselingas’ and upper chiefs of tribe. I knew it was like that as Tula had tele guided me through Skopje until I found ‘her’ mountain but it seemed quite difficult to copy the logic.

 

I saw a sheep while walking down to David’s Tower and knew it had died, thing I was confirmed after. It was my father’s sheep, Joel: my inheritance, I had said, while asking him then to contribute to the acquisition of a small herd. “Have even learned the notion of sacrifice,” I thought then, “and there must be heavens for sheep, too, here, among the notes of my song.” Sheep don’t leave the earth. They stay somewhere between you and your soul, when they die. Sheep may give away their soul for others and thus it seemed as if they knew my father would die and then, wouldn’t die finally.

 

It’s true that shepherds are not allowed to leave their sheep, but already then when I was learning even about songs in order to be ready that day to come in the far future, I had told them a song about a shepherd who had to leave to town and even if I didn’t want to leave anymore at the end, they didn’t make lambs that year. The only reason a shepherd is allowed to leave his sheep for is to revenge his sheep and they had decided so. On top, before the herd was made, it had been said that a strange phenomenon in time would happen at the end, and only very specific lambs were allowed to participate to the adventure of teaching a human what a sheep was.

 

Sofonias did even understand its name and there were many sheep laughing around the world because they said there was a sheep that had fallen in love with a human.

 

That day, leopard had come.

 

Submit, you people.

 

Even Li had submitted to a higher God. Image is to wisdom what the Emperor is to the wisdom of the people that is said in Shaolin. If the Emperor makes a prophecy mislead by Shaolin who is leaning on foreign wisdom, China dies. Until it understands why.

 

Two monks are walking behind the Emperor because they come before.

 

Li had submitted to Identity in the image given to the wisdom of his people.

 

Tula, we’ve managed to reach our goal. China is alive. They can master now the movements of their soul  and if they decide to say their anger, they will in wisdom that will still astonish the world. Tula’s 200 million soldiers were carefully put under the Emperor’s command. How angry they must have been. Because they were saying it through the realms of death.

 

“For what is of me, I can’t see any other God,” Li had said. “There you are, that even without seeing you submit to it.”

 

Li was a business man, officially and I, I was writing a book.

 

Leopard was laughing as usual and I told him he should stop laughing as it was a very serious day: I had rather understood everything. He sat down to learn about it all, although he was not sitting there beside.

 

“Look at this,” I said. “I was given poison that should poison my liver by German hands. Accidentally I was given another poison by French hands that healed the first poison and distroyed neurons and this was healed by the milk of sheep that have eaten the herb’s milk. Now. Yesterday there was another accident, and the one who had planed my death, died. The German one. The one in Skopje.

 

See. I didn’t plan anything. I just went somewhere and probably caught someone’s attention who made an investigation and discovered something was wrong and the other ran away and was shot, while (I continued) trying to escape a bullett. That’s what it looks like. The liver is healed when the accident becomes essential. Her death was essential to me: and through an accident I’m participating to, she dies. The liver gets healed when the accident is essential.

 

In order to have the accident become essential, your neurons must be bombed up, as such twist in thought is difficult to obtain with healthy neurons. While your liver is repaired, you live in a world where the accident is essential, in a fairy tale that is somehow linked to reality. Why does the milk of the herb (galakschida) eaten up by sheep, finish by healing your neurons?”

 

And leopard said that the three has become one because your body is powder and milk is your soul.

 

More or less, I said a little bit puzzled, yes, I mean, in my language I would say it otherwise.

 

If the black magic has three elements, then you can say, that f towards f with m in the middle, is given an image in f (poisoned liver) towards f (poisoned neurons) in the transfer of m to the body that is the image and innocence in soul that heals a logic, as logic is not of body but of soul. The milk inside of this is the logic allowing to get out of the magics and a healed soul, heals the body.

 

How do you heal yourself? I have to do something with my hands that affirms an identity saying the pain of my soul. I am then in the world as I’m and this, as it is identity, cuts the lines that are linking me to others in an ill logic.

 

“You have a great master,” Leopard said, “the one who has made dust of your body.”

 

We didn’t know why our pain was many’s pain, but it was like that and had to be said like that. Hannah didn’t know what her task was. Her job: what she had to do with her hands.

 

Diligently participating to the conversation was Elvia, who said, yes, and these people speak quichua because v in A and f in B thus v* in A and v in B = v. I turned my eyes and said, “That’s what killed Hannah, and I will have a look at it after. Can I come to see you?” And she said, yes.

 

“Your task, Hannah, is to get back home.” (If I find the murder, first, I didn’t say, but otherwise you’ll be killed again.)

 

I decided that I had already enough for the third part of my novel and that I wouldn’t include Hannah’s story inside of it but would refer to it in a fourth part I had just made up, because, I said: “It’s like Harry Potter and at the end people can’t get enough of it.” Actually the third part intended only to distroy the black magic inside of a general image including a possible conquest of Jerusalem by Pakistani and although it was true that the conquest was becoming more than real according to reactions as I could perceive them, (people can’t live without fairy tales, really), there must be given a space to close the circle and this would include many other stories. Actually, the revenge of the Queen of Sabah should walk down to ‘Firework in Amaretto’ whose inconsistency had already become obvious and this would oblige me to make many arrangements. On top, there was the whole story of Elvia and quichua, too, and Ecuador and the song and there was simply no space left in the third part.

 

I was very proud of Tula. “While fighting against the illness, those who say the illness become enemies who you fight against and when they die, you’re healed.”

 

In fact I was very proud of Sask, too, although I had finally concluded that the bomb was really much more dangerous than I had thought of first. The first bomb must have had a system of absorption of atomic energy that finished by exploding in such wicked ways that it may cause the death of millions.

 

It happens when you build up imaginary Sasks that your ideal finishes by looking as reliable as the real one.

 

Imagine you have a crossed black magic forming a knot among people in a triple logic. It goes sometimes from Spain to Russia, from France to Israel, from China to Greece, or from China to Russia, from France to Spain, etc. Giving the feeling of essential relationships (we all became Muslims after a while or said, in fact, the only difference between a Muslim and a Christian is that the Muslim takes for wifes at a time and the Christian one after the other) it had simply no moral justification at all and was bombing up the foundation of the stability of relationships in time.

 

In 1996 I submitted the gang to the absolute need of doing as if one and only was the essential one and fight against all attempt shifts may occur. As this was rather not possible such as things were, actually I quite precarious balance was built up: Li was married to a mirror image of Ines de la Fressange, I was married to an ideal Sask and was keeping Natasha while Hannah found her task, and Tula, who staid alone, was finally married to Heleni, who was found a few years later.

 

It didn’t matter who was who, as actually nobody would get married to anyone, and the couple m to f were kept because of Hannah’s intelligent idea to associate the third element to oneself. Thus Hannah was the ‘x’ in between, too, a very heroic and courageous male. I had adopted her solution while keeping a slight difference: my ‘x’ was my body and appearance, while I was neutrally staying in thought. Just in case.  Sask and Ines de la Fressange got married to an ‘x’, and Li was x hold by lines in wings m m, shaolin. As Natasha only saw horrible male shadows all over, an ‘x’ appearing in whatever smelled man, she couldn’t even stand Hannah and I built a cover in a false Hannah who wasn’t such a brute anymore, who was Natasha’s x, very far away.

 

Actually (Leopard looked in surprise at my scheme), it’s generating an erotic tension in ff and mm lines. Exact, that’s what seems to be happening, final reason for Lazares’ coming back from death, perhaps.

 

“And thus,” Leopard continued, “there are two realities. Sask is not the real Sask but it’s true because it’s moving as logic and thus for Hannah and for all of you. And how do you know in these poles who is the male and who the female?” “Precisely, I don’t know yet. For the time being it’s moving from one to the other depending on needs.”

 

“Yes. We’ll see. If Sask is married, the element that is there is attracting an enormous disgrace. It is covered by Sask’s reliability, is in fact furious and is the one who has covered Federman’s presence here. The second part of the bomb is possibly causing a most general disaster.” “And this?” “Because Sask is not moving in ff lines but in mm lines. My mistake. Will have to play the homosexual man now, such fun.”

 

And I turned my head and laughed and said: “It’s always your fault, universally. Whatever happens.”

 

If souls moves in wings, it had been not been given permission yet for the wings to generate erotic tension. There are two wings to each side and the middle covered by two wings, too. Six wings. The wings to the right are good and those to the left, are bad. (The good and the bad thieves.) As the wings have no erotic tension they convert sexual impulses into a path,  a teaching, an object saying what is of love in spiritual realms because for them, it is not attached to flesh. And this should bring back the Grand master.

 

But the bad wings get tempted by flesh and the human looses inner finality. What happens if they enter the good wings the day they’ll stay without resources? We loose erotic tension. We’ve lost our path. And what happens if the bad wings are inside of the good wings without wings in the middle? It makes a horrible bomb. An image of the end of the world.”

 

“You very much love the end of the world,” Leopard said. “It’s just an image,” I answered, “and there are two of them.” “And how are you going to avoid the first one,” Leopard asked, “as, may I add, this is rather not an image for me?” “Well. She’ll have to get a divorce, with or without scandal. And then you have to push Leya into the other side.” “Ah,” Leopard continued, “because she’s a boy.” “A geysha?” “I don’t know.” “Well, yes, something like that. She will change the nature of the bomb, and the second part is not going to be poisoned anymore but, well, I don’t know, I wouldn’t say specifically innocent, but at least not that dangerous.” “And why would she be wanting to change such a dangerous bomb for a less dangerous one?” “Because this bomb may explode in interaction with salt or cadmium every day in her own nose. That’s why.” “With France?” “Yes. And there is salt already.”

 

“And Federman?” The fiscal interfered in the conversation without anyone’s permission. “Federman is dead. The German x is dead. If Sask changes Rafael for Leya, she looses all lines of contact. Easily: Sask is army, Leya belongs to the underworld. Both together will take over the state, as police has been bought up by Federman.” “A coup d’Etat?” “Yes… I mean, nobody will ever give that name to it. Factually, a coup d’Etat.” And I continued: “There is no legal interaction between Sask and Leya possible, thus Sask will not cover anyone. Leya will stay in the underworld and Sask will continue her bomb.” “You mean that the fact of getting married to someone whithout love is ‘illegal’?” “Yes. From an absolute point of view. And the giving honor and respect to that is making that the underworld enters upper realms. And this is why Sask is building a bomb that is nothing but  a most exact image of that horror you can admire from this window, too: 200 murders and all mafia of the world under one sole roof. A marriage without love is necrophilia, Solovjev had said.”

 

Leopard staid back: “The bomb is going to become a tactic bomb without danger for those who have it.” “Yes,” I said, “and you, you will fall in love.” He burst out laughing. “I won’t,” he said. “Don’t trust the devil.” “Because,” (he had gone lost in thoughts) they are together but they are not together and this stabilizes both parts of the bomb.”

 

“It won’t make her happy,” Leopard continued, much more interested in the love story than in the bomb. “No. But for the time being it avoids a disaster.” “You should take Leya’s place.” “I? Never in the world. Have not enough with what I have, to take care of this unbearable person on top.” “But you have a better bomb.” “We’re nice boys, Leopard, we will make business.” “Business?” “Yes, business is no love affair. I give you back your bomb if you make a war.” “A war?” “Yes. I need to give a positive end to my novel, otherwise it will really look as if I had made up everything.” “I don’t want to gossip, but Sask is really furious because you say you’re going to conquer Jerusalem and doesn’t trust you a second.” “Well, and what has my war to do with a conquest made by Pakistan?”

 

“It’s really a nice bomb,” Leopard said. “And why should she take it?” “Because it is the truth of what has happened inside of the possibility of a solution: ff lines (Moses) have gone fused with mm lines (Yoshue) and you have to put something in between in order to separate them. What you put in between is a war that moves inside of a six wings logic, a fact, a reality, and when you have a look at it, clearly you can see what there is and patterns of thought are ordered in separated wings.” “That is really wicked,” Leopard said. “You will win the war.” “She will win the war, say, if she listens to my advice.”

 

Sask asked whether she would win the war and Leopard said she would win the war if she followed my advice and gave the scheme of the bomb to her and answered to the question what the advice was, “This.” It looked evident enough to Sask, and she agreed.

 

(War of Gaza, January 2009.)

 

Finally even the fiscal agreed on that, that Leya really but really looked like a boy, too. “What means, too? Like Leopard?” “But we have a national betrayer who is happily running around without a possible intervention, and that will need of a few hours of meditation, too.” “In any case,” Gazit continued, “I wouldn’t mind a coup d’etat if things are like that and it clearly, really clearly shows it could lead to a solution this way.” The fiscal looked really happy that day and meant that an end would be put to the national betrayer by putting the one into prison because the owner of the hotel would warn when I would leave.

 

It was that day that Gazit made a comment to the fiscal, that looked like a complaint and said that their electronic communication was constantly cut by An. “What is An?” the fiscal said. “My anger,” I answered, and this really puzzled the fiscal.

 

“Your anger?” And she turned her head. “Yes. A town in France, Anger.”

 

Ha.

 

Why did Ribbentrop go to Israel? Because she had a cyrrosis and wanted to contact Federman and thus the OTM to get a new liver in Rumania. She had obtained her location through a list she had obtained from the Foundation Onassis. She must have left Skopje more or less the same time than me. She had a cyrrosis that had been provoked by constant invitations by the surrounding populations to drink slivo and she could always drink a few more than the others. In less than 10 years her liver was bombed up and she, not me, was searching for a new liver. ‘The way you kill, that way you die.’ (Urdu)

 

And she had to find a place to stay just getting to Ein Kareim?

 

That’s none of my concern, now. She had a cyrrosis and I was healed by an accident that killed her. And thus, you can bomb up France’s neurons just by following the same logic: because France has healed the liver and the killer is dead.

 

And for all who may have backed Ribbentrop’s intention, shall they die the same way or another.

 

And Gazit is complaining because there are interferences in electronic communications: neurons are nothing but electronic communications. How interesting.

 

I told Gazit that day that I may perhaps solve the problem. “But,” I continued, “They will close me into a psychiatric hospital if it works.” “Not in a prison?” “No. You can’t put someone into prison for an accident. But they are mad and they will say I made the accident and it is crazy, to provoke an accident, and thus I’m mad, – because they’re crazy, I mean.”

 

“You can?” the fiscal asked again without anyone’s permission. “I don’t know. It is possible. A mars woman who detects electronic signals, Minja’s intuitive logic of transfer to computer language, the structure of the accident that has been at the origin of Ribbentrop’s death … I. It should do it. … And I find the one who poisoned my neurons. Logically. More than logically. Anger is the central of French Intelligence. This chemistry was developped by French Intelligence. I know that it is there because the bastard who pretended he could ask me for a marriage (!), look at that, finished by telling me that his father had been an under cover agent in Africa, where he fished the worms from, probably, by the way, they lived in Anger and thus the one who has developped the chemistry must be in Angers, too. Le Figaro, sent in to Greece by Franck’s father, the brother of Gregory, every Tuesday and Thursday, published not so long ago, that a special monad for electronic crimes had been opened in Angers. The electronic headquarters of French Intelligence are in Angers.”

 

They are silly, I went on thinking. They are really silly. They have even published how the electronic system of defense of Legifrance works, in Le Figaro. In Le Figaro, look at that and saying: that even the most perfect system of defense (a regenerating system) will find someone who will break it. And that Dutch had already developped electronic subguns in order to try defeating it, without success, until then. A challenge I gave in to, and half an hour later, Legifrance did not exist anymore.

 

“Is this enough?” Gazit asked innocently. “No,” I went on, “you need a reverter. Nothing you bring, nothing you take away with you, nothing you construct then because all intervention will be considerated deliberate.” “Then?”  “A stone. But don’t ask me too many questions, I won’t tell you all my secrets.” “Do you know about electronics?” “No. But we shepherds are very clever. I even have a ‘krana’,” I added very proudly as if this could be convincing enough.

 

I wasn’t searching for a cover and nobody would pay me again for such a peaceful intervention. I just needed someone who’d ask himself for a few months how it were possible a stone may put an end to the most powerful electronic system on earth.

 

Hm. Gazit asked for advice and a young man belonging to the electronic department was invited to the conversation, too, as if someone who had a ‘krana’ was reliable enough so as to move him to leave the headquarters for a while. Gazit who was the translator between the mars woman and the poor soldier who had never in his life been confronted to such an usual situation, asked whether I could give proves for my sayings and I said: “That this system has a warning system, so that if you change something on a text that has been copied of the web page, it provokes an attack on the hard disk. Le Figaro said. Well, a warning signal has a channel and then the attack happens through another channel. Probably a lazer control as it does not happen directly on the page or through it. Wouldn’t you say so? A warning signal has a channel and an attack signal has another channel. Now. You’re French. Just think for a little moment you are inside of a general logic that is able to poison someone’s neurons because, because it suspects it may have known too much of what happens inside of a hospital.

The channel that alerts and the channel of attack are the same. Because the suspicion has not been verified. If it is so and it must be so, what happens if you send another alert signal just while the attack is happening, by simply changing once again something you didn’t like on the simple word document? You’re sending 10 alerts signals and they are just sending one attack because the others have been blocked on the way up. Logically it’s going to push the attack back to the … hard disk. Where the regeneration system does not work anymore.

 

Black out. In shepherd’s language. When this will happen, are you going to believe a stone may destroy the most powerful electronic system in the world?”

 

He said, … “yes, if all that is true” and I laughed and said, “otro que se lo ha creido todo (another one who has believed everything)” and wouldn’t believe it myself, logically. “Are you going to do that,” the man said slowly. “If you take me out of the psychiatric hospital after,” I said. “I mean, not you. You find the means.”

 

But the hypothesis was starting to interest me. “I know someone there,” I said after a while, “I have nothing to do for the time being, I must find someone there and you see, slow revenge has its virtues, bastards can be very useful, sometimes, they can be at the origin of accidental accidents, too.” “You can get there?” “His brother has been staying at my place for a year and will finish his University year thanks to my efforts. It should make an exchange for at least three months.” And I turned myself and said “I have to change cover. Not a penny in my pockets, no friends, no acquaintances, already a little bit mad, in any case quite stupid and dull like a sheep, I will get inside.” “And how are you going to touch their system?” “Because they don’t know that electronic marks are kept after changing the system. I will even tell them and they won’t believe me. I just need to keep in the computer a piece of something that may be related to their system.” “And?” “They will never recover of the virus that will enter the main working system. Do you believe me?” “ … Yes …” “I don’t believe it myself and if it really happens I will be terrified for six months after. On top, they have no milk.” And I burst out laughing as if I had found the funniest association of ideas of the world.

 

Diamond. (I got lost in my contemplations.)

 

A poison attacking the liver has bridges of attachment to another affecting neurons, so that the liver is healed and you need milk in order to heal yourself. (There are underground agreements between Germany and France.)

 

One of the them has diamond powder, or the combination of both provokes a reaction that generates something like organic diamond powder. Or the combination of the three elements. ‘Crystals’ in my brain are reading ‘light’.

 

These people are completely crazy.

 

Yes, Gazit, I will go. I don’t believe that it works but I need to have a look at that. I hope it isn’t true but it may be that they are attracting the light from Andromeda.

 

You can’t attack a human because there is life in him. You attack the logic. A human may understand he is wrong and if he doesn’t, he dies. You have to put him in front of the choice, a real choice and if he makes the right one, the logic changes and he lives. You can’t kill a human.

 

Send a signal before shooting, Natasha. “If you see a dove upon his head, don’t shoot.” (She will shoot the Czeczenian chief February 2006)

 

Tula has put her 200 million soldiers under the orders of the image made by the Emperor.

 

I’m Jerusalem in the name of the Queen of Sabah and Sask will build up a bomb and make a war.

 

Hannah will find the way back. I will meet Li again, later.

 

It’s for sure that Ines de la Fressange will believe in the story of the Russian Prince.

 

7 planets are forming a line. 8. The eighth is a moon.

 

There will be a reversion in time.

 

Hollywood, you owe me a lot in intellectual rights. You even put Angelina Jolie into my movies.

 

The light, the light that is ill for us arriving from Andromeda has the same logic than our strange black magic combination in the depth of our unconscious. You believe now that wickedness can attract meteorites on Sodome and Gomorrhe? It can. And Tula believes we can fight against it. We have to move from this towards a reference of rational order. Whatever we do can’t be but a step forward, whatever. Move! Now.

 

Something between Germany and France is at the origin of it all. Could be the Vatican. Hm? Transubstantiation? I hadn’t dealt with that before.

 

Was there time before God made the Universe?

 

Light is driving us crazy.

 

Shield. Put the seven planets on line. And the moon.

 

Yes. It will make stones out of light. 7 stones and a moon.

Look. They are there. Meteorites are falling upon the sea in Gallicia and nobody takes care. It’s no meteorites, it’s light.

 

You see, Sask, how easy finally. You’ll become a stone and I, Natasha and Tula and Li, and even Hannah and Ines de La Fressange, and seven new stars will be born in the universe.

 

Identity that falls on what we do because it is saying it through the contrary of what is at the origin of our death. The erotical lines will disappear. We will be monads then. And after, perhaps, we will fall in love with someone outside: without ghosts in the middle.

 

I have to go to Angers. They will die all, otherwise and perhaps it is too late anyhow. For them.

 

It is of need to conceive a materialization of spirit (Istanbul 1993). Of a given spirit. Of the ill one. Of broken light.

 

I can’t do otherwise anyhow. I won’t get healed if I don’t do it and they will die anyhow. Point your bombs at France and Germany and Italy and don’t doubt throwing them if they start again wanting to play with … light. Cards, probably. Ask favours of the Emperor if it were of need, Tula, and you Natasha, kill those who have the light. And I, I will say these words to the world for them to get afraid and not to start again.

 

Es gibt Emperor.

In the vision of my own destiny

 

I opened my imaginary agenda that day, being sure that at least that was imaginary, and as if I was really a very serious person, – serious people always have an agenda, – and wrote down a few notes:

 

I could presume now that the liver poisoning had been an accident of a determined nature. Afraid we may learn about the gold traffic and thus about an operation headquarter in Balkans, someone is said to invite us to change the path from Rumania to Serbia with the idea of saying a little after to Serbia, there are spies around and make us disappear. Unluckily, Serbian don’t kill anyone and the man at the border tells us on top, why we should change the itinerary. I’m eventually identified as the only one who may cause trouble and poisoned. I would call that a routine operation acting in panick after failure, which, eventually, is answering to very deep and hidden signals of the unconscious.

 

I would say that the happening in En Kareim corresponds exactly to that pattern.

 

I’m though in direct knowledge of something strange.

 

I can presume then, that the atack on neurons is a deliberate attack answering to what someone thinks to be a personal offense. Apparently the ‘shadow of a ghost’ has felt a horrible offense because he has been called ‘beggar’ and has moved a few links in order to revenge such fact. I would say that this attack happens between Mersin and Cyprus, reason why I know that there is a chemistry healing the liver. To which extent my personal research of help through very near communication lines to Tula help to the realization of it, is difficult to say, but it is true that I don’t feel specially menaced by that. If I’m not searching for something to heal me, ‘the shadow of  a ghost, or the shadow of the dog in, Brel’s words’, these idiots don’t find lines of attack. It’s not excesively difficult to know where it comes from and to induce an error that allows to get an approximate amount of what I need to get healed.

 

From Gölpazari to Cyprus, my state of mind is getting down and down into the pits of the unconscious in order to try finding a solution. It seems as if these realms of the unconscious implied a perspective that contains elements we are rarely aware of: possibilities are measured with human measures and over all situations appear in notions linked one to the other in almost irreal ways. On the way down, I’m seeing projects, blocks of thoughts, like quarrels, stories and fairy tales, Hannah appears, Tula appears, Sask is there, somewhere, I tell a few of these things to Conchi as if taking notes of something very surprising and inside of all that I see a very small and narrow path that may lead me back to health.

 

A project as inner finality is something that keeps you alive, and even more so if I have really seen that it leads back to health. Voices ask for a place to stay, for means of realization, for a ‘similar language’ environment, for financial resources, and put a few marks of things that have to happen and I will recognize in order for me to be sure everything is happening according to plans. It’s no accident that the messengers of the Queen of Sabah appear at that moment. The ‘psychic cloud’ linked to this ‘story’ is parts of the solution. There is a quick transfer of political coordinates into psychic notions and a most interesting perspective appears inside of the realization of a novel whose matter has been taken out of reality. It’s true that I somewhat count with the fact that Sask will make of it a duel. The opposition is what keeps you alive. You need to sharpen intelligence every day in order to get the means to do what you want. It means your attention is alert and this helps you to wake up the day after.

 

From my point of view it’s a random, almost unsignificant happening that will certainly not shake the world. I will loose 10 years time of my life, up to 15 actually. To put such a finality at the end of the process, implies these 15 years have not gone lost for nothing.

 

It’s true that I remark somehow that there are many people who start getting interested in my project, intuitively, because they’re horribly bored in their offices and every day’s life organization, but it is still a fairy tale, somehow, a game of intelligence: we are going to knock out super star Sask of the Israeli Intelligence and people are very happy with such a perspective.

 

Logically I will go to Jerusalem, thing marking our definite success, our symbolic victory, and I will have to start learning again to speak. We didn’t talk very much, then, and there were others who did. A sentence here, a sentence there, answers became situations that were embedded in reality as if the very context it happened to happen was wearing enough signs of intelligibility. Had I been asked then what we are up to, I would certainly have answered that everyone had his own business as if it were enough to point at the social reality in order to give a proper answer. It means that all the rest is said and understood in a very strange language whose codification is actually the same than the one of the stories told to Conchi during the path down.

 

As if you said that the last resources of life are a marvelous fairy tale attracting your attention where nothing else is of importance but this subjective relationship to the fairy tale, and understanding and logic, definitions and demonstration become paler and paler, irrelevant, insignificant, almost absurd in their lack of depth and all your existence starts turning around that, imposing paths, acts, reactions, interests. Apparently there were quite a lot leaning on the last resources of life if you judge through the high acceptance of the project and the enthusiastic participation of many to it.

 

I would say that our main activity is to steal systems intuitively: reactions, tones of voice, signals of all kind, psychic types, all this says indirectly how the technical system works and may help to find a way through.

 

Is the duel true? How difficult to say. We live inside of the imagination that it is so and when I will get there a third time, we have won and I will tell the story in such ways that it will clearly appear as if the duel had been, making the whole much more interesting and exciting. I will need around 5 years after in order to structure language again, a very specific language, leaning half on fairy tales and facts, as if insisting in the inherent truth of fairy tales through the use and misuse of facts, real situations and names.

 

I need to know more or less what the world is doing at upper social levels: finally ‘we’ had decided that the story involved spies and mafia bosses, bombs and possible wars, technical miracles and devastating pests and to get a perspective from where all this becomes visible enough, you need to get up to  a level where decisions are taken at international basis. A five stars hotel fits us well, in Jerusalem on top: the way people dress, move, talk, creates the actual proper environment that should finish by determining the language.

 

It’s very beautiful and that should be enough for the time being to pay me off for 15 years absence. I know my language and reality understanding is ‘strange’, reason why I don’t bother anyone with my stories. I actually don’t seem to be sure whether the neuron’s functioning will be completely healed: appears a very slight distortion to the possibility of obtaining a common reality apprehension but it doesn’t matter very much: a fairy tale does not need of precise and accurate reports and I haven’t lost the abstract theoretical ability. What I can’t do is to link my stories, my underlying reality configuration, to outer reality. I’m never sure whether my constructions are real or not, they seem to be linked somehow to something, but I don’t know how.

 

It doesn’t matter for my book. Hollywood makes up a lot of things, too, and does actually not care about how all that is actually and factually linked to reality. I’m building up an image, I’m inserting a fairy tale into reality, I’m trying to convince myself of the fact that I have not lost 15 years of my life inside of my original life plans. I wanted to clear up psychopathetic behaviour and analyze what happened during second world war inside of new metaphysics. All that is still there inside of my future novel. It’s true that I wanted to know, too, personally, what these strange communications lines were I knew from when I was a child and I’m horribly curious: a state of mind that is so near to death is fascinating and I will want to stay in it in order to study it the years to come.

 

And then. Yes. And then, is this true now or not?

 

The almost incredible cascade of happenings succeeding itself one day after the other there where I’m, now, with nothing that I could hold for factual proves in my hands but quite a lot of them in my own peculiar language, a murder, a crime, high treason, a real bomb, possible real spies, and a sniper on my back. Well.

 

I’m confused. I try putting all the elements together for myself, in order to know whether I have not done anything wrong and conclude very quickly one thing: if, for whatever reasons, my most imaginary fiscal asked me to say what I had witnessed, I would be strictly incapable of. A compound of intuitions, associations, fairy tales and stories of different nature and many proves in … gipsy language.

It’s true that if we hadn’t been working at the bomb and a high treason hypothesis, nothing would have ever happened. I guess it may be true and am hunted now on top because I intuitively react inside of a possible solution scheme we had been working at.

 

That is starting to make a second fairy tale, I go on thinking.

 

We were very serious. Actually, whenever we opened a hypothesis, let us say, implying a Russian spy, investigations were made in order to know exactly what the one may have looked like, how she/he was dressed, social environment, what she/he could eat, what the general compound of thought was, which variables were possible, in order to know how exactly the one would react inside of a given situation. And this implied that we were making up the most absurd hypothesis possible: the existence of mar men, the regeneration of neurons through thought, the transmission of information through electronic signals, the coming back from death of someone who had died 20 years ago, the structuring and ordering of hell, etc. Some things had finished by looking somehow true, yes. It was true that I wrote down these Hebrew words on my paper. But I had no general theory for that and it actually didn’t bother the feeling of possible reality inside of a story: flying carpets, marvelous lamps, super heros are the common food of those and the only innovation we had introduced was that we were attaching all that to ‘possible’ things inside of common reality. To say: the ‘marvelous’ was rationalized to the extent that, embedded inside of a determined context, it may appear as true. Or at least as possible. Fun arose from the crash of different logics producing the most absurd situations, following a little bit ‘Alice in wonderland’ strategy and at the end it was sure that ‘I’m Jerusalem’ belonged to Pakistan as title and the false pretenders had to die all together. I was the superhero representing whole lots of other superheros who had provided me with all sorts of magics to fullfill my task and this time, Enkidu would win his battle against high tech Gilgamesh.

 

Not that all hypothesis would be inserted into the story. We would choose a few of them, the most relevant of all.  We had been working at thousands of them.

 

And now? Reality is eating up my fairy tale. Won’t need to make up anything, I went on thinking, it all seems to be horribly true, somehow.

 

Yes. But what a horrible world we’re living in, finally. I mean, independently of my own destiny and my projects, is this ever, ever possible? No, señora, I say to the Spaniard, I haven’t done absolutely anything and I’m being hunted by a sniper for having jumped into a hypothesis and am possibly accused already of ten thousand suspicions just because they think I’m in  a situation of inferiority. Police is paid by mafia, forces are unsufficient, a bomb of unknown contents has escaped all control, spies walk around as if they were at home, is this supposed to be normal?

 

While psychiatrists ask themselves whether you can say it ‘compulsive’ if it happens 23 times or only 14, Schwartz, the bar man, is hunting psychopaths and while a crime is committed, highest chances exist Gazit will be accused of whatever just because she assumes a responsibility, there where she hasn’t seen anything at all. She hasn’t, the others have but they will say they didn’t  that day, the fiscal will finally really arrive.

 

May I know what is going on?

 

It’s not Jerusalem and it is not King David, it’s a general situation that is affecting King David and Jerusalem. Although I admit that intuitive reactions based on fairy tales are perhaps not a rational parameter, rational common parameters are lacking obviously all over. To which extent can you expect something of something? To which extent can you claim for it? I can’t expect the fiscal will ever understand how you hunt  a psychopath: actual main matter of my studies, it has no theoretical background yet. You can’t expect it even of a psychiatrist: their background is another.

 

Can I expect a fiscal may not be mislead by a false accusation, a suspicion, an ‘intuition’, even a false self accusation? I should. Can I expect the police is not paid by mafia? I should. Can I expect I will not be hunted by a sniper if I’m peacefully working at writing a novel? I should.

 

What in my behaviour can still be said ‘normal’, not excessively determined by unknown criteria and what in the general common behaviour is starting to really fall into irrationality?

 

I don’t know.

 

Why does the fact the German agent dies, heal my liver? Not my liver, my fright and thus my liver. My fright derives of the fact that something has happened that has put my life in danger. The agent dying I grasp the logic of the attack and can build up a defense for it. It protects me and my liver and I feel well.

 

I’m ‘diffusing’ reality because I know there are things I can’t fight against. There are things it is better not to know because you can’t change them. I introduce criteria of deviation in order not to be confronted to the consciousness of what derives of my knowledge. It’s not that ‘the dog’s shadow’ may ever attack me again. It is that a grave psychopath in what I call a Baldwin logic, has influence enough so as to move the whole French intelligence to an absurd attack for not justified personal reasons. See, the guy, I don’t care a shit about who you pretend to be and as things are, I would rather shut up. If you’re an idiot you’re an idiot and if you’re a beggar you’re a beggar. It’s like that and you better assume for everyone’s  well being.

 

If it has happened at that moment it means that this factor of irrationality has acceptance as possibility inside of French Intelligence. What do you conclude: the Moscow Opera attack was planed by France, Ruanda massacres derive of that kind of logic, Middle Orients are an immediate target, etc. Are you going to live in the awareness of that? No.

 

It’s true that most people would perhaps have never concluded such but they have little to do with logic: the mechanism, the logic that is behind one and the other event is exactly the same. I’m an expert in essential logics, it’s like that, although I share my wisdom with very few.

 

If I want to explain to the fiscal what I have seen and carefully put the correct names behind each thing: this was an intuition, this was a fact, this was a construction, this was a coded message, this was a conclusion, I will have to go to France, deliberately as they killed deliberately, for a personal revenge as they acted moved by it, with the finality of ridiculizing them, because this is what they intended. The attack on neurons finishes by provoking irrational behaviour, incapability of social contact, impossibility to work, and then: a beggar myself making my intelligence be ridiculized by the world? Ha, ha. So funny, the guy.

 

A revenge based on nothing and wanting to make prevail a pretended privileged situations as means to assure ‘that he was so powerful and had already warned then’. Does this imply Conchi has to pay you  a trip? Does she owe you anything? If the situation is thus that this worm can push things that far, betta be careful.

 

X’ logic is the same ruling on terroristic attacks in Balcans. It’s different. It’s groups ordered to serve purposes, demonstrations of power, political structures. The French logic is just ‘put shit to sell weapons’. It’s obvious. And obvious then, that even if organized by France, the Moscow attack shows different elements: X has fused with French Intelligence at a certain number of levels.

 

The Twin Tower attack. The 11 Mars attack in Spain (Muslims that are acting under the cover of ETA). What are the new elements? Pretending to be inside of a diffuse cloud of political lack of foundation. Federman is behind the Twin Tower attack because she is furious they have thrown her out of the USA.  Mafia has entered the circles of German and French Intelligence.

 

Such a beauty. However coherent my conclusions already in Greece, I’m not going to put that as reality perspective to my consciousness. I’m writing a book, I don’t care about anything of all that, if we manage to push a terrorist to suicide, the best and better, but that’s parts of the fairy tale.

 

I have to go to France if I want to explain theoretically to the fiscal what I see of the situation. Not that it will ever happen, I guess, but I think it social responsibility to be at least able to make out of a horrible fuzz a coherent story the fiscal may understand, just in case she would ever ask for my opinion.

 

What I see, is that if Angers falls, I won’t be afraid anymore of what I see. Goliath has just fallen thanks to one sole stone. The rat has been eaten up by the booted cat. The fact that the accident concerning the German agent has happened is opening new, incredible perspectives. I may perhaps be able to have coffee with the fiscal in the future, thing that makes me feel much better: I recover thus my social person, I had lost for many, many years. Inside of this possibility exactly.

 

If I can say that we, the 7 magnificient, are moving innocently inside of a black magic logic, I can say, too, that there are who are using this same logic for their own purposes, deliberately and wickedly. As we are not ‘normal’, we are quite isolated, easy target for whatever agression. On the other hand, we are the only ones to understand the mechanism of this logic and may actively fight against it. Our integration into a normal social body will be extremely helpful: it’s obvious that we obtain an incredible support of population that is fed up with the constant violence, irresponsibility deriving, arbitrary attacks, situation of general instability, etc. If we look ‘normal’, we are not strange elements you have to take care of anymore. Perhaps, we may even talk to a fiscal, who, as things are, will run away the very moment she will see one of us. Actually she will most probably associate us to the ‘enemies’: the shadows, the formal patterns are the same and it is something you should never forget. I mean, before terrorizing fiscals.

 

My imaginary conversation with the fiscal has put things there where they are. As I’m studying Gazit very carefully, by the way, I have an average idea of what common sens is, too. Figure out the world was made such that I may have a conversation with the fiscal. I can, how peculiar, immediately make the difference between what is a hypothesis, a reality, a construction, a keeping appearance, a symbol, a fairy tale, a subjective perspective, an objective fact, an intervention on personal basis, etc.

 

The fact of being subjectively convinced of the fact the fiscal will laugh at Gazit’s pretension to take all responsibility on her by asking “how was the body dressed?” and point wickedly with a finger at her saying ‘you should never pretend to more than what you are’, letting her go and bursting out laughing a little later, makes it possible to think a Samson strategy.

 

Perhaps it is not true and such a fiscal does not exist, but to think this possibility allows a very, very clear evaluation of the situation. And this evaluation exists, is real and a very nice perspective. I feel much better there than thinking I will stay forever in my half in fairy tales bathing logic with attaching points to reality through accidental use of names, facts and situations.

 

Inside of this perspective the evidence arising is that it is all true. Not what I say here because I had said to Gazit that no scandal would touch King David, although everything would take place there because it was easier to construct a plot, and in any case it fitted the ambiance and would make good publicity at the end. Even the possibility of reading electronic signals.

 

I’m no doctor and don’t know how: we use to work in approximate notions using words that are not very well defined. It drives you mad, certainly, in normal cases. I’m used to transform inner movements in words from when I’m very young: these ‘interferences’ become readable signals. No joke. I’m a super woman thanks to you, la France.

 

Am I thinking right? If a mushroom that poisons a liver in a German strategy, gets in contact with a plant’s milk destroying neurons inside of a French deliberate plan, and is surrounded by sheeps milk haven eaten another milk containing plant, then the poison becomes a ‘something’ that is ejected by the body while your neurons start capturing electronic signals.

 

If the German strategy gets in contact with France’s deliberate plan, without sheep’s milk, it will rotten two nations.

 

Is it correct? I’m working at levels of body. They are working at levels of intelligence, upper lines, logics. If the German logic gets in contact with the French one, you have a poisoned liver that produces a miracle in this that it is healed and completely destroyed neurons, which, without milk, attracts the broken light, producing a rottening of cells of the dorsal spine.

It looks horribly true inside of my evaluation table. A miracle gives you the feeling you’re superman, destroyed neurons put an end to whatever ordered social organization and in the meantime whole millions of population are rottening without solution, if and only if, they have carefully followed my indications (?)

 

Clotilde (French) and Jorge (German) got married in 1997 (?). I told them not to leave for France as they had promised. They leave in 1998. The logical structure that has healed the liver in bombed up neurons without milk has just become a reference and model for deepest love in … France.

 

How many chances are there the illness called sipsi may not exist? I don’t know, nobody would ever accept this as scientific explanation. Me, neither.

 

Why does my personal destiny become so easily a general destiny, I go on thinking, it should be impossible.

 

To say that the poison, a new one resulting of the interaction of both, in interaction with that sheep’s milk produces a ‘matter’ that is ejected by the body, and if this is not done, it introduces itself into neurons and attracts the broken light, that rottens neurons.

 

I’m moving inside of my logic. To  Germany (X) in France (virtual) I get out to the surface … Federman. I have not been yet to France and will get Federman out to the surface a little later.

 

Two logics, a physical reaction and a more ‘intellectual’ combination of elements, meet in the accident that has killed ‘X’. What links one poison to the other is the how they affect outer reality. If a affects A this way and b affects A that way, then a is linked to b through the way they affect A.

We still don’t have milk, but we have Federman. X is dead, Anger may fall, and this puts an end to international terrorism if on top Sask makes a war that establishes the rules.

 

There is no milk and the only thing we may pretend is to put an end to international terrorism. They will be wanting milk on top. Who has killed my sheep? Reclamadle a Cascorro, ahora, I say, because in any case, even if I were not angry, there is no milk.

 

My fiscal is an imagination, a reassuring one. If there is identity of the 7 magnificent, I see, for me, that Angers falls. Perhaps the fiscal isn’t, but my conclusions are. Perhaps the seven don’t have identity, but they will affect reality in my way of ordering reality inside of this thought.

 

No, they are not producing a chemistry that combines a miracle with the distruction of neurons, they are transmitting this logic as love dream, it is affecting grammatical structures, esthetics, organizations, politics, it is affecting the fundamental structures of organization of reality and this is attracting the broken light anyhow and on top is furthering chemical combinations that look ‘pleasing’ inside of that structure.

 

I didn’t tell you to go back to France and here, here there is milk.

 

Ti na kanoume tora (What else can we do), I tell myself, you can’t do more than what you can do and it is true that to put an end to international terrorism is the only thing we can do, now. If these constant interferences stop, perhaps we may find a solution for sipsi, too.

 

I have studied Angers and have always allowed to the ‘shadow of a dog’ to come whenever he was in trouble, as usual. The other one who comes often is the representative of Federman, or of the residuum I have to get rid of, IR. IR is there before I can launch an overall attack on GL. I see Federman before I will be able to attack Angers, but Federman will be put an end to, after.

 

In this incredible logic that looks to me as reassuring as the fiscal, I will heal myself completely and I may presume that if this mental retarded are copying logics I’m wickedly getting rid of, perhaps one or the other will do the same with mine. Sask, Natasha, Li. There are chances we get rid of international terrorism and I will have coffee with the fiscal.

 

Well, don’t forget the book, that has obtained an extension and will look the following way: I will write articles on subjects trying to put together my thoughts inside of Gazits common sens and wanting to explain to the fiscal what has happened in Anger and one day I will try putting them together. It will appear that Sask has put me into prison and I will remember that I wanted to write the story of how we went down to Jerusalem. Remembering that and writing it down, I will remember the conquest to Jerusalem and put the ban in internet, without yet evaluating very well its meaning myself. Thus, follows the second trip to Jerusalem in 1995. And there is a gap and I have to order my thoughts for the third part.

 

I start it but it is wrong.

 

It’s not the same if you go to Haifa than if you go to Tel Aviv.

 

Time passes. I don’t go to Haifa, I will go to Tel Aviv, por chulería, I say, I take even a plane back.

 

I transfer texts from the first ‘compound’ to the third part. In the meantime a war in Gaza has taken place. Sask is always late.

 

I can write the third part and must shift texts again, because Hannah doesn’t fit into the whole, and it will become to long. Shall I put Hannah now into the first part that has become the fourth?

 

No. I need a fifth part. The war of Gaza and an electronic explanation with me in a hypothetical prison follow the third and the  fifth should finally help me out to Cuenca, Ecuador.

 

It gives an image to what a shift or reversion in time is. 2009 follows 2003 and then there is a hypothesis and of that jumps out 2003/4 until 2008.

 

A marvel. A master piece. Don’t say no, Frau fiscal, it’s all I have to take a pleasure out of this chaotic situation.

 

Let’s put the Emperor into the fifth, too, I need time to think about it.

 

It must have appeared after the war in Gaza or in between but its meaning was diffuse. It must be there in internet like the ban ‘I’m Jerusalem’ and who knows what is going to happen again. It doesn’t matter, I feel better now.

 

I’ve made a few phone calls, said a lot of none sens, asked for money I’m offered after a while, I look poor, without resources, a little crazy, convincingly enough. If I have made a few mistakes in the general trouble they will all disappear under the cover of my new role.

 

Good. We still have to get out of here. I mean, I.

 

It’s August, the light is shining bright. I make a calculation and say that if they are controlling the plane tickets sales, under electronic control usually, they will not pay attention to  a ticket that is paid by a person abroad. I phone to my father who is sleeping and tell him I have to leave from here. He says, I shouldn’t worry, he will pay the ticket the day after. I go to a travel agency that is full. Much better. The man says that there is no place in flights to Madrid, not even through Athens. Well. It looks bad.

 

And then he asks whether I don’t mind when. And I say, not really. And he says, wait, perhaps I can do something. And there is a place in a flight through Athens to Madrid very late at night or early in the morning and I say, my father will pay and the phone call. Thus he phones to my father who pays with a card and I’m told to pick the ticket up in Tel Aviv.

 

A paradise.

 

Good. The man in the hotel is going to warn the police if I leave and I hope they don’t mind if I leave a bill of about 30 USD without payment. Punishment. What does it mean to such betray poor tourists to the police. As it is night, there is no one at the reception.

 

I prepare my luggage, walk down the staircase, go down to the main street and take a taxi.

 

When I arrive to Tel Aviv it must be about 10. A woman I ask where I can take my ticket from asks, ‘why so early?’. “Because there are no taxis later at night,” I answer.

 

I presume I have three days. The man of the hotel is going to warn the police, making a horrible fuzz, about three days later. It makes me arrive to Madrid, even through Athens.

 

I get my ticket and wait, outside, mainly, having coffee and smoking a cigarette. It’s obvious that I have not run out of resources if this is what they think, because I arrived with a taxi. My father’s name is not my name and comes from Spain. The hotel owner has not phoned.

 

As narrow as a wooden bridge upon the abyss.

 

A border control agent called Silverman says I can’t come back to Israel because I’ve staid three months beyond the actual visa permit. “It’s law?” I think. “Or you the judge?”

 

Psst. Federman has even infiltered border controls.

 

Although a toll agent looks a little bit puzzled by the overall presentation of my new cover, she finishes by giving in to the evidence that my plane will leave if she doesn’t let me go. There are so many things to look at and so many papers to go through, that she doesn’t have time enough to arrive to my secret.

 

In my pockets I have the Hand of Fatima handed over by Irit Gazit to me just before leaving. The keys to the town of Jerusalem.

 

“Be happy, Queen of Sabah, ‘I’m Jerusalem’ is yours’”

 

 

 

parts of it in www.theseahorse.wordpress.com third part of “I’m Jerusalem”

 

 

 

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Gäbe es, oh Wunder, Ort des Sagens,

sagahaft verschwommen hinter dem Nebelreich,

Mythos der verschwiegenen Rebellen,

schwer bewaffnet mit dem Hauch der Zeit.

 

So sei doch Untertan des empörten Schweigens!

 

Nein, ich gäbe dich nicht auf. Wie ist dein Name?

 

Sieh, hinter den Stahlrändern, der verkümmerte Rauch

des Sehnens: ach, so dass ich lebe! Das Ahnen einer Wirbelsicht,

im Kerne des Gewitters wie Weihrauch das Gewebe,

des erotischen Gewindes. Und läge dort die Antwort aller Fragen.

 

(Ich habe keine Klammern, das noch zu zeigen was das Wort nicht kennt.)

 

Was wir von dem Wahren noch behielten:

warum wollten wir es zerschmettern gegen die Konvention?

 

Du, Dichter, wolltest meinen, Gottes Gabe wäre nicht Liebesfrucht,

und es es ist doch ein gezeichnetes Wandern über Lebensweiden,

wolltest sagen, man sollte die Konstruktionen zerstören,

dem Gefühle freier Lauf: und fingst dich auf in metallischen Zäunen.

 

Wie blind.

 

Sieh! Ein Zeichen klar über dem Wasserspiegel, wie aufprallende Kieselsteine

in Kreisen über die Oberfläche, springt auf, wirbelt gegen die Winde,

fällt erneuert und steigt nochmal in die Luft, so gibt sich wieder der Realitäten Sinn,

im Wirrwarr der erstarrten Strukturen, sucht der Geist das Licht,

und fällt in anderen Armen, als würde die Geborgenheit für Sekunden

in der Wärme des Erworbenen die Erinnerung bewahren jenes…, und zuckt,

 

erkennt sich nicht wieder, wendet sich ab, neigt den Blick gegen die Höhe,

sucht im Gedächnis das Geschworene in Ewigkeit, lacht,

verblendet vom Wahren sieht er Figuren in fleischlichen Gestalten,

ironisch erstaunt spielt er auf Geigen der Vergangenheit,

 

bis dann, eines Tages …wenn Hölle und Himmel schon lange Tatsachen

der geheimen Wirklichkeit sind, zerrt der Engel den Dämonen über Meere und Seen,

dich bis zur Weise im Urklang der verschwörten Leidenschaft.

 

Wenn du schriest, hörte dich des Sinnes erstmal das verworrene Pfeifen,

wenn du schriest … Doch schriest du? Ich gläubte es dir nicht.

 

Deswegen sei doch erschrocken über die Spiegelung der Seele.

 

Ich werde dich suchen. Ahnen lässt mir glauben ich hätte Herrens Recht,

dich zu verwirren. Und wenn es wahr wäre? Dass Wunder des Blickes

eiserne Töne zerschmelzen, als würde er zeigen, dass Mauern zersprengen

im leisen, eiskaltem Zwitschern der Zärtlichkeit.

 

Ach, ich bin immer im Wege zweier die sich nicht finden!

 

Als sagte das Wankende der eigenen, ja, so langen Brücke über dem Wasserfall,

Äste des gleichen Regenbogens im verzweifeltem Mitleid des Tauben,

sanfter Ruck der Schulter, und eine gewobene Frage,

so sterbe nicht in Gleichgültigkeit während der Regen fällt.

 

So, jetzt kenne ich deinen Namen. Und sag ihn dir nicht.

 

Das ist des Sieges Narrheit. Wenn Angst dich erschüttert weil du siehst

es hätte die Möglichkeit gegeben. Und jetzt?

 

Wie Trauben im Winter, wie Trauben bitter im August,

nimm was das Vertraute dir bietet, der Verführung ernster Weg,

wie gekreuzte Zeichen auf den Türenbalken, das symbolische Labyrinth,

Signale zwischen den Spiegelwänden, wo niemand mehr sieht was er meint zu sehen,

wo jeder des Gegenteils überzeugt, sich beugt vor dem Schein der Sicherheit.

 

So hat die Konvention ihren Sinn.

 

Schaffst du es, ihr zu entgehen, bist du Zauberer und Meister der alten Magie,

ohne  das straffe Notwendige zu erschüttern. Wer kennt Gottes Wege?

 

Wohl Gott allein.

 

Ich wollte dir so vieles sagen.

 

 

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Liebesbrief

(Zum mythologischen Ursprung der Liebe) 

Wir sind uns im Grunde uns selber fremd, als bräuchten wir wirklich die Augen eines anderen um uns in unserer Vielfalt zu entdecken, und würden deswegen abweisend die Sicht jener ablehnen, die uns kalt in ihre gemeiselten Strukturen hineinzwingen wollten — es gibt nur eine Sicht, in dem sich der Mensch entfaltet: diejenige in der der andere am Entdecken des sich neu Wiedergebenden befindet, und damit Blätter am Ast wachsen lässt, die selbst der Ast nicht mehr erwartete. Lange schon stellte ich fest, dass nur der Hass der Aussenwelt uns in eine ideale, verträumte Welt hineinführt, in der wir in Schlössern wie Neuschwanstein unter den Schwänen und in der Spiegelgallerie, in unglaublicher Schönheit die Tage verbringen, hoch auf den Bergen, wo es schneit, weltfremd die Zärtlichkeit des Herzens wahrend, in einer Art des vertrauten und vertraulichen Wahnsinns. Was wäre der Hass anderes, als das völlige Missverständnis unserer Handlungen, die deformierte Interpretation der Worte und ein beschuldigender Finger, der dich immer daran erinnern sollte, du hättest doch zumindest das Böse gewollt. Wie weit mehr wäre dieses wahr, wenn durch Umstände und Zustände der Wirklichkeit, uns der Körper völlig fremd wird, gebrochene Abwesenheit des Ich zu dem was uns am nächsten liegen sollte, und sich der Mensch dann weiter, als würde er sich zu leben noch trauen, nur im Sinn sich selber findet, so dass dann wenn der Sinn verneint wird, Schweissperlen einem die Stirn herunterrinnen vor Angst, einem würde das Leben genommen werden. Dann flieht man eher weit und sucht hinter den Bäumen Schatten. 

Gäbe es keine Liebesgeschichten die gut enden? Man müsste sie erfinden. Einmal sagte Konstanze, vor langer langer Zeit, hätte sie ein Buch gelesen, wo die Liebe sich dadurch versinnbildlichte, dass das Bild der Geliebten sich auf jenes des Geliebten aufeinanderlegte, als würden die Züge des einen sich im anderen zerschmelzen. Das hörte sich fürchterlich symbiotisch an, und es hätte mich nicht gewundert, wenn dann wieder das verhängnisvolle Gewitter das Zeichen der weissen Segel zerstört hätte, damit Tristan stirbt, am Ufer — denn Symbiosen sind vielleicht nur dies, dass man sich nach Zeichen richtet, die man alle im Sinne unserer Leidenschaft interpretiert, bis dann eines Tages sich die Zeichen gegen uns wenden, weil wir es nicht gewusst haben, im Traume der Seele Hoffnung der Anwesenheit des anderen zu finden. Vielleicht. Auf jedem Fall ist es auch wahr, dass nicht alle Liebesgeschichten schlecht enden: es ist eine Tatsache, dass Zeus mit Hera über jahrtausende verheiratet war, auch wenn der erste mit seinen Seitensprünge jene wohl oft aus dem emotionellen Gleichgewicht brachte — natürlich musste man dann der Hysterie eine göttliche Herkunft versprechen, aber Tatsache bleibt, dass trotz der Spannungen, das Paar sich nie trennte … 

Ich dachte mir, es wäre möglich eine Liebesgeschichte in den Realitäten zu inszenieren, beispielhaft. Natürlich ist es wieder fürchterlich egoistisch, denn man ist gezwungen, um verschiedenen Verhängnissen zu entgehen, wie zum Beispiel, jenem der gefrorenen Abweisung, oder der zu lauten Anwesenheit der Fremden, die wiederum, durch ihr Geplapper, das Ganze in seinem wolken- oder nebelhaften Schleier zerstören, die Realität so zu interpretieren, wie sie einem gerade passt – aber es hat den Vorteil, dass es sich nicht in dem Sinne um eine erfundene Geschichte handelt, in der man alles so hindrehen kann wie man will, man muss sich nämlich, wäre es nur ansatzmässig, wenigstens an gewisse Fakten halten, des Wortes oder der Gegebenheit, die man dann, ja, so hindrehen kann wie man möchte, aber man sage nicht, sie wären nicht dagewesen. 

Denn bevor Liebe auch eventuell zu einer physischen Tatsache wird, wenn sie es jemals werden sollte, muss ihr eine Geschichte vorangehen, ein, könnte man sagen, gestiefelter Kater, der dreist Wirlichkeiten umwandelt, damit das Magische des Geglaubten sich mit dem Mythos der Interpretation in mögliche Realität verwandelt, ohne welches, würde ich meinen, der Grundsatz der Liebe fehlt, und jene unweigerlich im Nichts des Bildes, des Scheins und der Phantasie verlorengeht, bis sie saure Asche wird, die einen bitteren Hintergeschmack hinterlässt, oder Platz für neue, lügnerische Phantasien öffnet, bis letzten Endes sich der Mensch völlig in den Irrealitäten verwirrt, und meint, Liebe wäre doch nur ein Traum, mit dem wir das Brutale, Eiserne des Fleisches decken. 

Vielleicht kann der Wahnsinn, in den wir fliehen, wenn wir uns nicht mehr gegen die Waffen der Menschheit wehren können, wie folgt erläutert werden. “Jede Farbe hat eine Bedeutung,” sagte Julita, und schrieb die Farben auf die Tafel auf. „Und die Liebe,“ fragte ich. „Die ist rot,“ meinte Julita. „Rot?“ antwortete ich, „Ich würde eher sagen, blau.“ „Blau ist kalt,” sagte Julita, “das würde ich der Liebe nicht antun.” So suche ich blau, so tiefblau wie der Himmel von Madrid im Frühling, als persönlicher Beweis dafür, dass blau nicht so kalt sei. Blau ist dein Hemd, so blau wie der Himmel von Madrid, sag nicht, Julita, blau stünde für Liebe nicht. Aber jedoch sag: “Sie war so blau, sie hat zu allem ja gesagt.“ „Dann,“ hätte Andrea gesagt,“Hatte sie auch einen Kater.“ „Wenn sie einen Kater hat,“ meinte ich, „soll sie ihm doch eine Katze suchen, damit er nicht alleine ist.“ Siehst du wie einfach, die Zeit in Stücke geht, wenn die Minuten nicht aufeinanderfolgen, sondern eben Gedankenfolgen sind oder Wörterreihen, die sich kreuzen in verschiedenen Interpretationen, der Wirklichkeit oder des Bewusstseins, so dass eine zersplitterte Realität entsteht, die sich der Realität entwendet, hartnäckig, fast pauschal, ironische Kristallstückchen auf dem Fussboden der empirischen Tatsache. Wo lebt man dann? Hinter der Bergen. Wie Rumpelstilzchen vielleicht, tanzt man um das Feuer, und wartet nur noch darauf, dass die Nacht vergeht, damit man endlich jenes bekommt, was einem versprochen wurde, das heisst, eine gewisse Urrache die sich wie Rauch langsam zu Feuer und dann zum Brand entwickelt, denn gegen deine Wand, kommt niemand mehr an, und leise, mit abgewiesenen Augen, siehst du nur noch, lächelnd, in der Ferne, wie alle Strukturen aufgesaugt werden von deinen Hirngespinsten, Vorreiter des universellen Chaos und des Untergangs. Sag, was wurde einem versprochen? Zumindest das Recht zu sagen, was man dachte, so dass es auch in seinem Sinne ernst genommen würde. Wäre die Wut davon geboren, dass eben das Gesagte abgewiesen wurde, aber dass der aus der Stille geborene Sinn, wie reinste Milch, Täler und Wälder nährte, jahrhundertelang, gestohlen, angeeignet, vernichtet der Sagende, ausgelacht, zu nichts reduziert, verspottet, verjagt — so wandle auch dieses noch in Wolle um.  

Dann ist manchmal Rache auch der Vorgänger der Liebe. 

Man stelle sich also vor, und es ist notwendig dem Ganzen tiefe Wurzeln zu geben und universelle Dimensionen, damit ja eben das Mythische standhaft seine Rolle ausführt, dass jemand dagewesen wäre, der erstaunt vielleicht den Sinn des Ganzen, zumindest intuitiv, erfasst hätte, und anstatt in Panik zu geraten, nur verwundert, sich gefragt hätte, ob dem noch vielleicht ein anderer Ausweg bevorstünde. Nun gibt es aber keinen anderen Ausweg, als denjenigen, der mit allen Maschinengewehren schon davorsteht, loszuschiessen, um Hilfe zu bitten. Dann unterscheidet man den Mörder vom Gesegneten, da der letzte dem Hilfeschrei eben antwortet, während der erste nur lacht. Es hätte also erstmal ein tiefes Schweigen gegeben. Denn hier wäre eben eine Pause entstanden. Wer denn, sagte sich jener, kann dieses noch so verstehen, dass er sich trauen würde, im Mörder noch den Gesegneten zu sehen? Ruhe. Dann gibt es wohl Hoffnung noch. Denn Mörder bin ich nicht, nur seines Gewandes gekleidet tu ich so, um ihn noch zu rechtfertigen, eventuell. 

Und schweigend still entfernt, schaust du dir an, was ich dir zeige: verstehst du denn nicht, meiner Rache Lust? So siehe doch die Schönheit zersprengt, die Lügen wir Krebsknoten sich über ganze Körper erstreckend, der Tollwut zahmer Schein, wie Geier selbst das Geschweife des Erotischen im Blute des Sarkamus, der zynischen Melodie ertränkend, wie Kriemhilde in tückische Fallen die Anmut, das noch Träumende lockend, Vampire sich nährend aus Kinderseelen. Und siehst du, ich dachte du würdest sagen: du übertreibst. Dann hätte ich mich wieder abgwandt, zurück in meine Welt, hätte gesagt, ich habe es ja versucht, doch kein Mensch versteht. Ich war mir dessen fast sicher, du hältst nicht aus. Es hätte mich nicht weiter besorgt, zumal ich nichts mehr vom Menschen erwartete. Ich wäre nicht einmal halbwegs enttäuscht gewesen, denn man kann nur enttäuscht sein, wenn man erwartet. 

Aber du sagtest ganz einfach nur, und sanft: so warte. So warte? Das hiesse, ja, aus dem Ganzen noch vernünftige Sätze und Prosa und Gedicht zu machen, das hiesse ja, den Wahn aufzugeben, auch wenn, ja auch wenn die Gefahr bestünde, dass dann noch alles im Sand zerläuft. Weil du es sagst: wie soll es sein? 

Lehnte sich mein Blick auf die Möglichkeit des Unwahrscheinlichen, wie der Tauchende in der Tiefe, oben, ganz oben, noch Licht erkennt, Strahle unter dem Wasserspiegel, und die gedämpfte Not: ich schaffe es nicht, es ist zu spät. „Und noch zehn Minuten bis Buffaloo.“(Fontane) „Es brennt, mein Bruder, es brennt“ (yiddisches Volkslied). — Wasser gibt es nicht mehr. Und sagst: so tu es doch, als wäre es so einfach wie Kaffee trinken am Strassenrand. Doch schon immer reizten mich Unmöglichkeiten. Nur wie? Sagte die Frau: „Wenn es nicht eine Grippe ist, und es mit Tempra nicht verschwindet, dann trinke eine Flasche Brandwein. Sollte das weiterhin nicht helfen, dann handelt es sich um Liebeskummer, und der ist nicht zu heilen, nur öffne dir die Adern nicht.“ „Es gibt Gott,“ sagte ich,“die Adern öffne ich mir nicht. Sollte es sich um Letzteres handeln, dann schreibe ich in der Not wohl einen Liebesbrief.“ Und sie lachte.  

Gut. Dann müssen wir handeln, und zwar schnell. Was ist Liebe? Nichts als der Terror vor dem Abgrund. Was kommt diesem Terror am nächsten? Ein anderer Abgrund, zum Beispiel, ein sozialer. Also schmeisst den Menschen in den Abgrund, und zwar flott. Es ist alles Sache der reinen Interpretation. Soll’s vor Gericht? Ist angebracht. So, da stehst du und siehst die Wirbel unter den Füssen sich auftun, wie mögliche Erdbeben, die die Gewissheit verschlucken, ja, und Hilfe. So komm, was gäbe es daran, du warst noch nie im Krieg? Und weiter, wie meistert man die Angst? Mit Selbstsicherheit, spanischen Briefen oder einfach, mit Abschweifungen — macht nichts, Hauptsache man sieht es, die Angst zerlöst sich, langsam tritt Entspannung auf, jetzt wissen wir es: was sich auftut so grauenhaft, welches, würde man meinen, an sich nichts zu tun hat mit dem was wir uns unter romantischen Lieben, ja, sogar, unter pornographischen Gewächsen vorstellen, ist nichts als die Pforte des Todes, sagt Jakob, der kämpft gegen dem Engel in Todesfurcht, denn nur der, der den Tod überwindet ist der Liebe wert.  

Ich sehe dich, da wo du nicht bist, wo du dich vergebens vergeben hast, wo dich nicht trautest dir die Wichtigkeit anzumessen, die dir gebührt. Also spiel hart. Jage Gespenster in der glühenden Nacht, Julita, hör zu, anderer Ohren hören in der Weite was ich dir nachlässig erzähle, und nährt das Herz von dem, was die Nähe nicht erlaubt, denn die Geier spähen. Sei Bote, Kind, denn die Zeit ist reif, sei blind, doch erinnere dich des Mutters Liedes, Michail Strogoff spiel, jetzt, und gäbe dir die Ewigkeit Dank, was er dir auf Erden nicht bezahlt, glaub, für ein Moment, es wäre auf Ewigkeit. Jetzt renn, sofort. Vergebens dachte man, man könnte Vögel in Käfigen einsperren. Ich kann nicht mehr, sagte Julita, nach einer Weile, und du vergibst? Natürlich, Kind, ich habe noch andere Karten in der Hand. 

Jetzt haben wir sogar den blassen Abschein deines Selbst, der sich verkörperte in der bleichen Sehnsucht des Unmöglichen, erschossen. Geh! Wer glaubst du zu sein? Wie die Hexe von Hänsel und Gretel, nährst du Träume des Verliebens um die Schweine aufzufressen. Doch ich halte dir magere Knochen hin, und schnell, jetzt weg, uuh, das war knapp.  

Was suchten wir eigentlich? Warum ranntest du für mich, und du, und du, wo ich nicht hab’ bezahlt, für sie vielleicht, warum? Uns war teuer das Spiel, und jetzt ist die Sehnsucht erwacht. „Wessen sind die Felder?“ „Des Zauberers.“ „So, jetzt kommt bald der König vorbei, und wenn ihr nicht sagt, des Grafen, dann werdet ihr alle zu Tode gepeitscht…“ So verlor sich langsam die Ratte in ihrem Hirngespinst. Ah, ah, sagt Barbara, wenn sie es nicht schafft, dann macht sie uns allen den Garaus, noch eine Woche bleibt, und ich möchte zurück ins Vaterland, mit der Gewissheit eines Siegs. Sollte jemand die Angst überwinden, dann brauchen wir alle nur noch gehörig dem Pfade zu folgen, hat sie es geschafft, so sind wir sicher wir schaffen es auch. Denn ihrer Wege trauen wir uns nicht, das sind schwierige Wege, wir brauchen den menschlichen Pfad.  

Wäre er offen? Es könnte sein. Was gehen uns die Tatsachen an? Um die Angst ging es uns, und deswegen war das Spiel so hart. Sag, es ist nichts geschehen, sie haben den Sieg. Doch untergründig schwellt die Sicherheit, nein, es ist nichts geschehen, doch sagte man: „Schlaf.“ Das ist, in meinen Armen, bleib. Und damit gäbe es der Seele Sieg über die Angst, und weite Pfade geöffnet der Unendlichkeit.  

Jetzt sag, war es nicht die Vernunft wert? So schreibt man Liebesbriefe und eine Geschichte der Liebe, eben bevor noch das Bewusstsein ahnt, es handle sich um solch schwierige Dinge, sollte es jemals es erfahren, was der Not nicht ist, es sollte ja nur paradigmatisch sagen, es gäbe die Möglichkeit doch. Und damit machen wir den Griechen den Garaus, die aus Frauenhelden nur wütende, rachsüchtige Weiber (Medea, Antigone, Elektra) machten, oder Verliebte im Wahn (Hyppolit), auf jedem Fall, dem Tode gewidmete und den Tod hervorbringende, und inszenieren nun in unserer Wirklichkleit, dem gnädigen Volk von Ekuador sei Dank, Frauenhelden, die eben die Geschichte schrieben, indem sie sagten, bis hier, ich kann weiter nicht, Atem neuer Hoffnung aus anderem Munde, gib mir die Fackel nun, reicht es?, ein Flüstern, ein Raunen, halt dich, um Gottes Willen, fall nicht, dem Anschein unterworfen, gleichgültig jeder entgegengesetzten Kraft: sag die Wahrheit nur. Ja, in der Tat, erhoffte ich mir vom Ganzen, das Traute der Liebe für mich, so werde ich gut bezahlt. Das sei. 

Manchmal, Andrea, erkauft sich eben die Vergangenheit dadurch, dass man da straff hält, wo die anderen fielen. Und wäre es wahr, sagte sie, ich habe weiter Schöneres in meinem Leben nicht gesehen. Und gewann dadurch Bayern ganz, errang die Niederlande, unterwarf sich das Plattdeutsche, erschoss manchen falschen Helden in Berlin oder Frankfurt, und sagte dann zufrieden, als wäre weiter nichts geschehen, „so teuer sind die Schokoladen? Dann esse ich sie wohl langsamer.“  

Wüsste man, über welche Abgründe man läuft, so würde man es sich nicht wagen. Deswegen nennt man sie ganz anders. Aber es bleibt eine Tatsache, dass eben Liebesbriefe so ausschauen müssten, als würde sich durch den träumenden in sich gekehrten Blick des Unwissenden, die ganze Menschheit irgendwo bewegen lassen, und selbst unglaubliche Mächte besiegen, die ja nur im Namen eben dieser Liebe, sonst gäbe es tatsächlich keinen Grund, besiegt werden können.  

Siehst du. Macht ja weiter nichts, wohin der Weg uns führt. Aber du solltest gestehen, dass nur die Möglichkeit, diesen Liebesbrief zu entwerfen, Grund genug ist, einen Liebesbrief zu schreiben, und sollte er … unbeantwortet bleiben. Denn dankbar wäre man nicht, wenn man nicht zu erkennen wüsste, wer uns zurückgab die Vernunft, selbst wenn du gesagt hättest, davon wüsstest du nichts, damit du siehst, was uns das Unterbewusstsein spielt, und wer du wohl gewesen. Dann bleibt zumindest dies, auch, du zergehst in Eifersucht nicht. 

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Antwort auf schwere Fragen oder wie man das Pornographische vom Erotischen zu unterscheiden versuchte

Moderne Kurzgeschichte mit russischem Anhauch 

 

“Das hat wohl alles keinen grossen Sinn,” sagte sie störrisch. Sie ging zur Tür, als würde sie dort den Ausweg zu dem erwarteten Schweigen finden können. Dann drehte sie sich noch einmal um, und meinte: “Dein Schweigen bin ich wirklich satt.” Sie machte die Tür auf, ging, fühlte sich eher erleichtert, stieg die Treppen hinab, und fand die kühle Luft ihr ins Gesicht schlagen. Sie lief die Strasse runter, vielleicht weinte sie auch, aber es war ihr eher gleichgültig, fand ein Kaffee und setzte sich hin, bestellte sich einen Milchkaffee, zündete eine Zigarette an, und versuchte zu überlegen. „Ich werde dir Morgen Weihrauch schenken,“ sagte jemand, irgendwo in der Nähe. Sie lächelte. „Ich werde dir Morgen Weihrauch schenken,“ dachte sie, und  „Das wäre vielleicht die Lösung.“ Sie vergass sich in Gedanken, sah verzauberte Spiegelungen der Vergangenheit aufgehen in Bildern der Lyrik und welcher Geschichte, vergass sich wieder, und meinte, wohl heute wahrscheinlich das Problem nicht lösen zu können. Dann ging sie wieder. Sie lief eine Strasse hinauf, bog um die Ecke, glaubte sich geirrt zu haben, erinnerte sich erneuert daran, dass sie wahrscheinlich jemanden kannte, irgendwo, und beschloss, ihm einen Besuch abzustatten. Er meinte: „Was hast du heute wieder?“ „Um es kurz zu fassen,“ antwortete sie nach einer Weile, „frage ich mich was der Unterschied wäre zwischen dem Erotischen und dem Pornographischen.“ Er lachte. „Schwere Frage.“ Er setzte sich hin, forderte sie auf, sich hinzusetzen, nahm einen Stift, und malte eine Figur auf einem Blatt. „Das ist pornographisch,“ sagte er dann. Bis zu einem gewissen Punkt, erstaunt, fragte sie wieder: “Pornographisch? Ein Kreis?“ „Du solltest russisch lernen,“ meinte er, „dann würdest du vielleicht verstehen.“ Sie schaute verduzt: „Dann bringe es mir bei.“ Er schwieg, als würde er etwas erwägen. „Willst du den Unterschied verstehen? Dann erwartest du von mir eine Antwort, eine klare, eindeutige, erklärende.“ „Ja,“ meinte sie, „genau.“ „Und ich,“ führte er fort, „tu so als würde ich dir die Antwort geben können, ziehe deine Aufmerksamkeit auf mich, nehme Papier und Stift, sehe deine Augen leuchten, kann mich noch freuen, über deine Erwartung, und male dann einen blöden, dummen Kreis. Ist das nicht pornographisch?“ „Dass du mich um die Antwort prellst?“ Sie sagte eine Weile nichts. Als liesse sie vor ihren Augen vergangene Geschichten in Fragen und Antworten aufgehen lassen. „Vielleicht,“ sagte sie dann, zögernd. „Nicht zufälligerweise“, meinte er , und tat gelehrt, „kommt das griechische des Erotischen aus dem griechischen der Frage, oder vielleicht umgekehrt, denn die Götter, auch wenn sie klein sind, kommen zuerst, und dann die Fragen …“ „Hm.“ Sagte sie. „Bleibt die Frage ohne Antwort, zerfällt sie im Pornographischen. Das wäre das kalte Aufprallen der Erwartung auf die Einöde des Unsinns. Nicht schlecht.“ Sie nahm sich etwas Zeit. Er schaute sie an, liess sie ihre Frage formulieren, versuchte sie zu erraten, um die Antwort parat zu haben, und sagte: „Das wäre wohl das Erotische.“ Sie lachte kurz. „Die Frage zu erraten? Dann müssten wir ja wissen, welche Frage wir uns hauptsächlich stellen…“ „Oh, oh, „sagte er, und hob die Hände, „das war zu schnell.“ „Wir suchen doch nur die Verwirklichung irgendwelcher Phantasien, wenn wir uns trauen, und wenn nicht, dann ordnen wir uns einfach irgendwelchen Strukturen unter, und hoffen, es gäbe da noch Platz zu träumen — Abends, alleine, wenn der Mond aufgeht.“ Fuhr sie fort, als würde sie in Gedanken vertieft, keine Antwort mehr erwarten. „Das war beinahe Onanismus,“ lächelte er: „Man spricht nicht alleine gegen die Luft.“ „Und du — du bist ein Erotikkiller,“ fügte sie hinzu. „Selbstliebe ist nur erotisch wenn es keine andere Lösung gibt,“ meinte er — „und das ist wohl selten der Fall. Man sollte sich nie vom Gespräche in die Erinnerung verführen lassen, man beginnt dann, die Realitäten zu verwechseln, in ihren verschiedenen Ebenen.“ „Gut.“ Sagte sie. “Ich fühle mich vollends berichtigt. Was wäre dann die hauptsächliche Frage?“ „Du gehst schnell zur Vergewaltigung über,“ meinte er ironisch, „dabei sollte das ausserhalb deiner Befugnisse sein.“ Sie lachte laut. „Nun hör doch auf! Werd doch ein bisschen ernst, hier.“ „Ich dachte du wolltest eine Antwort auf deine Frage.“  

„Und nun, doch nicht. Bist du konsequent mit deiner Erklärung, dann kannst du mir ja keine Antwort geben. Ich bin ja gar nicht in dich verliebt.” “Du verstehst schnell,“ sagte er, „deswegen, vielleicht, kann ich dir nur pornographische Antworten geben.“ „Du Ungeheur,“ fuhr sie auf, im Spass, „wenn das nicht ein Hinweis darauf sein sollte, das man gewisse Fragen nur an gewisse Leute zu stellen hat… Ist dir das russisch genug?“ „Beinahe chinesisch. Schon nicht schlecht.“ „Dann sag mir ob du jemals die Antwort auf eine Frage bekommen hast.“ „Willst du mich verführen?“ Er lehnte die Hände mit straffen Armen auf den Tisch. “Nö. Warum?” Sie schaute diesmal wirklich sehr erstaunt. “Wenn du mich jetzt in meine Geschichte hineinführst, dann siehst du doch meine verworrenen Augen, die sich mit deinem Zuhören vermischen, als würden unserer beider Körper sich ineinander auflösen.“ „Du bist wirklich pervers,“ sagte sie kurz, “du zerstörst meine ganze Welt.” “Bah?” “Als könnte man niemandem seine Liebegeschichten erzählen.” “Und aus dem Erzählen noch das herausholen, was die Geschichte nicht von selber gab?”  „Du meinst ich hätte lesbische Phantasien?“ „Ich habe nichts gesagt.“ Er lächelte. „Nein. Ich habe das nicht gemeint.“ „Das hörte sich aber so an.“ „Sache der Interpretation,“ antwortete er kurz. „Man soll nicht alles durcheinanderbringen.“ „Vielleicht hast du Recht,“ meinte sie dann. „Das Sagen ist vertrauter als das Tun.“ „Wir könnten sagen, es wäre Sache der Feigheit? Dann wäre es noch immer nicht lesbisch. Obwohl es dahinneigt.“ „Gut. Man soll also nicht so feige sein, und von dem Erzählen nicht das erwarten was uns die Tatsache nicht gab. Damit wäre ich grundsätzlich einverstanden. Aber wir kommen nicht weiter.“ „Sollen wir?“, und er gebrauchte nachlässig verschiedene schwere Untertöne. „Also wirklich, mit dir heute. Ich habe doch gesagt, ich wäre nicht verliebt in dich.“ „Schade,“ sagte er, „du stellst gute Fragen.“ „Aber ich bekomme keine Antwort dazu! Ja also, verdammt noch mal.“ „Immer mit der Ruhe, wenn man zu warten weisst, bekommt man auch die richtige Antwort.” „Wohl nicht von dir?“ „Auf jedem Fall nicht heute.“ Er stand auf. „Vielleicht verliebt man sich in Soldaten, weil sie die Armee verkörpern, und ist dann tief in den Armen gewisser Strukturen, so dass man noch so tun kann, als sähe man den Menschen nicht. Vielleicht verliebt man sich nur in dem was der Mensch verkörpert, und nie wirklich in jemand anders, weil wir dann alleine wären, abgeschnitten von der Welt und traurig.” “Du lügst,” schnitt sie ihn heftig. “Das ist nicht wahr.” „Oh, doch. Vielleicht nicht immer, aber sehr oft. Es ist sehr schwer einen anderen zu lieben. Man sucht was einem fehlt, zu sich, als würde es das Sich vervollständigen, ohne das wir uns hinzugeben brauchen.“ „Das ist wirklich pornographisch.“ „Sicher. Deswegen ist unsere Welt voll von solchen Bildern. Kalte Veranschauulichung unserer Gedankenweisen.“ „Ich würde mich in einen Soldaten verlieben, nur dann, wenn es keine Armee mehr gäbe.” “Du bist wirklich romantisch,” sagte er, “oder nein, du stirbst mit Solovjev.” “Dann wäre der Sinn der Liebe die reinste Hingabe, ohne dass man etwas von ihr erwartet.“ „Schwachsinn,“ sagte er kurz, „es ist in der Natur der Liebe, etwas vom anderem zu erwarten. Du würdest mit deinem Soldaten schlafen, aber die Armee würdest du nicht retten: spätestens dann, wenn du dieses einsehen würdest, würdest du dich von ihm verabschieden.“ “Tatsache.“ Gab sie zu. „Aber ich hätte es versucht.“ „Und vielleicht auch die Gründe des Untergangs der Armee erforscht. Man kann nicht so tun, als wäre es nicht wahr, dass reine Hingabe immer eine Antwort gibt.“ Setzte er hinzu. „Ja,“ meinte sie auch, und schwieg. „Siehst du, man kann nur elyptische Antworten geben.“ Er überlegte noch. „Du hast die Antwort selber nicht?“ fragte sie verdutzt. „Antworten sucht man. Vielleicht sieht diese immer anders aus.“ „Dann würde man aus jeder Nachforschung eine erotische Geschichte machen.“ „Deswegen sterben wir ja,“ grinste er boshaft,“weil man Ratten nicht lieben kann.“ „Also wirklich, du bist heute humorvoll.” „Das Suchen nach Antwort darf uns nie von der kalten Realität abschneiden. Sonst verlieren wir uns in Hirngespinste. Ich sage dir eines, wenn du wirklich das Erotische verstehen willst, dann muss du eben einsehen müssen, dass ich dir eine gewisse Tatsache aufsetze.“ „Wenn ich sie nicht widerlege …“ „Oh, oh, du bist wirklich schnell … Hm. Könnte ich befürworten. Es gibt Momente wo man Tatsachen eben nicht aufsetzen kann.“ „Und was wäre deine Tatsache?“ „Glaubst du mir?“ „Stark, mein Kind, damit kannst du mir fast ein Kind machen. Sagen wir mal, so ganz hypothetisch, dass ich dir nur das abnehme was du von mir annimmst.“ „Das kommt mir spanisch vor.“ „Wird wohl ein sehr internationales Kind werden …“ „Solange er nicht französisch wird.“ „Dazu verehre ich dich zu wenig, Junge.“ „Gut gespielt. Ich fühlte mich schon sehr entwürdigt. Wie kann man nur des Geistes mit dem Fleisch verwechseln …“ „Und daraus einen nationalen Sport machen? Sachen der Selbstbewertung …“ „Hm.“ „Deutsch gesagt,“ sagte sie nach einer Weile,“entsteht das Erotische in der Spannung des Doppelsinns des Wortes.“ „Man sollte nie so technisch sein, die Explizitierung des Prozesses zerstört den Wirbel.“ „Ich wollte dich ja nicht heiraten.“ „Richtig,“ lachte er, „das hätte ich nicht vergessen sollen.“ „Und damit,“ führte sie fort, „hätte die Zensur auch ihren Sinn. Grob gesagt. Aber kann das Erotische auch physisch werden?“ „Oh, du meinst ob sich das Erotische im Fleische verliert? Und dann nur noch eine natürliche Entspannung angesammelter Kräfte ist?“ „Moment,“ unterbrach sie ihn, „darauf gebe ich jetzt selber die Antwort. Wenn das Erotische durch den Doppelsinn des Wortes entsteht, dann bliebe es lebendig nur dann, wenn man in der Lage wäre aus dem Körper ein Symbol zu machen, und eine neue Spannung zu kreieren.“ „Ah, ah, man denkt sogar nach. Richtig. Würde ich auch sagen. Jetzt kannst du eine Schule für Erotik-Didaktik aufmachen.” “Du Hammel, damit wäre mir womit geholfen?” “War nur ein Vorschlag …” „Wenn ich das verkaufe, wird daraus doch nur wieder Pornographie …“ „Womit es wahrscheinlich universelle Lösungen nicht gibt …“ 

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