A resinous squeak as always at this time. The first roller shutter goes up. shift work, maybe.
At the same time someone opens the hot water tap upstairs, a night bath for day trippers, lucky two.
As children we fought our way through the foam in the tub as foam butcher, until only tiny fibrous islands remained. That was the moment, in which I thought of unsafe countries on the map and looked for the boat; the soap dish sunk to the bottom. My sister had already pulled the plug. The water was now disappearing surprisingly quickly, I ended up on dry land, cold and uncomfortable.
Later we sat on the sofa and watched Scapa Pensieri in leopard pajamas and body suits. They even had feet on them, so that we could no longer peel open our softened shriveled toes with our fingernails. Sometimes there was still a hot cocoa. That was the highlight on Saturday evening.
In two hours the man next door gets on his rattling moped and drives off, in the dark. The chairs of the Romas are still standing in the garden and rotting. The whole family suddenly left at the end of summer with a rust can without a license plate. The corona season had just blossomed, and the black hooded old woman held out her hand generously to each of us, (from such a chair), each of us, that passed!
Straight, I hear, kommt mir gegenüber der Brasilianer heim. He always rushes towards his door and pushes the handle down while moaning like a drowning man. Then he loudly calls out the names of his roommates. I do not know, how many there are. The, who are still bathing now, are, as far as I've heard, Nude bathers. After bathing, they are evidently thirsty and kick their pants with their beer (slip-los) on balconies. (I depend on rumors!)
Back then, when Schwesi and I were bathing, as a child, at home in the tub, then we went underground and gargled for a while with the top stale layer of brackish water. My sister turned on the hot tap again. Now it was too hot, so she turned on the cold tap. Now it was too cold. But we definitely couldn't run in more water. So we either had to pull out the stopper or pour in foam again. So we did that (the latter)
And so on.
It is well known that dreams are foams. I mean, because the young nudists always argue. Anyone in the house would know, that they do not need this complex type of reconciliation, as young and lively as they are. But when the screaming gets too loud, or someone turns the hot water tap on too hard, I always have the feeling, that the walls will burst. There is then an overpressure, but no attenuation in this house. And then I always think; if the huge voice of the blacks in the upper left only started a song! Amazing Grace ….
I've already introduced the Kurds with the dangling corridor and the transport institute. I think, he is now sound asleep, because soon he will rise from his bed. He doesn't live in the small apartment alone either.
I have no idea, how many people live in this house, that is so filigree, that it almost bursts. When I was still living on Mauziweg, in the old building, in Bern, we were exactly four parties: zuunterst Carla, the drunkard, who won the lottery once. In the middle Regula, the yoga teacher, whose flowers I watered, when she was at the healing seminar in California again, and at the top Traudi, who always called the police: either, when I heard fifty cents at ten at night. Or there was a smell of gas in the stairwell because of Carla, who always vomited and drank at the same time. And then wanted to blow yourself up out of her gloomy shaft.
I was still talking to people back then. And that is pure coincidence. It just happened naturally. When Carla started hallucinating, she used to run up the stairs to me. Traudi, the house policeman, hat sie im Gang abgefangen und ihr streng den Weg versperrt: Where do you want to go? called her. “I want to go to Marion!” But then everything happened very quickly, the house's own needs proclaimed. Carla and I had to get out. Traudi died surprisingly quickly. But Regula still has to be there, In her flat, in which it absolutely smells like nothing. After no body, no flower mouth. At most a little like fennel tea.
The Mauziweg was the most beautiful place, where I lived, nicer than Hildanusstrasse. That it was good anyway, that I once got away and dissociated in the Breitenrain, was overdue. Especially, after the whole neighborhood got news, I, The marriage of Hopper B., the renowned A. brought down. Of course it was, as so often, completely different. Hopper B., the cultivated, Married women from the beautiful house next door suddenly courted me. Every morning he was in his socks before six in the morning, with perfume, caviar, graphic sketches of our brilliant future together, etc.. My milk crate was splashed and burst. Because Hopper B. was so manic! It was all too much for Traudi. She called the police. Aber Hopper B., was then in the shape of his life; he loved his enemies! And gave gifts to every stray dog, who crossed his path with a kind hearted word! Felt!
I give you 1000 Francs in cash, for this, that you leave me alone. I said to Hopper B., before he finally escaped to Ibiza for some time. At two o'clock at night we stood together at the Coop on Eigerplatz in front of the ATM and negotiated. It was so funny. I started stupidly, Hopper B., to like. After all, he was an original one, more talented, funnier, highly vital and mature man in his late forties! It resembled the slightly squat, sensual cuddly bears H. Winesteins, with the pinch of uninhibited vulgarity and the lush, fat features of the Sun King. once, when I met the wife in the quarter, she approached me and said: “Hopper just can't make it back from Ibizia … he scrapped our car in Spain.” I gave my condolences (condoled?) smart-discreet-happy. But then, when he came back, did things really start. It must be related, that once I hit my broad chest against Hopper B. clapped up. Suddenly I felt, how it would feel like that; a broad chest to lean on! And his words, its tires,sounded even frothy than before his trip.
It is well known that lies have short legs. The only thing is tricky; that one, who tells it, means, he is telling the truth! In that moment, in which he tells them! And, that's the tricky thing! Or? I'm right?
“Finally write the story about the Hopper and the other billy goats!”, rambled my Platonic, as the years passed, once … But I wasn't thrilled. I always need a lot of motivation and I find the most, of which my Platonic said, I should write about it: unnecessary. Unnecessary.
Only Trash.
Why should I write something, that is important neither to the world nor to a single heart?
I would, honestly rather dead.
Oh yes, Hopper B. had a homemade one, modern bathtub, in the middle of the living room! In this he was bathing very hot (for his “Ghosts”, like he said, to animate) and wished me a good night with a still relatively antique cell phone model (2009). When his wife caught him. Not, that she would not have known and seen everything, what was happening before her eyes with her unique man ….
She hatefully sent him over to me! There, where it fits well….. to do things, the only dirty one, make little boys, when they dream of little girls, which are also small and dirty, because they do little dirty things, when they dream of dirty little boys. And small ones, incite dirty boys to do it, To make messes together with a certain sophistication.
Only Brackwasser.
(But, and this at the end: he lived on her(financially).The two formed a professionally strong team, of which she made head and administration, er creativity and innovation…. the attempt, Breaking out Hopper B’s, was an illusion. And by the way, you see there again, what such a team between men and women can be good for …. a joint professional project, etc.)
I think, it's raining. I can hear a faint splash behind the thinned glass windows. Glass panes can become thinner over the years? These are at least fifty years old. If only it doesn't storm again.
When it storms here, which has happened a lot lately, then the wind blows through the cracks. He then slips under my chest and lifts the lid of my thinking and waiting. This lid, that covers my concentration and does it, that I don't lose myself.
Although I may never see the light of day again.
Now the noise rolls in from behind the noise barrier. The motorway does not rest for more than maybe two hours a night.
I really would like to have steaming butter croissants for breakfast again.
(18.10.2020)
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How can I make the line spacing larger??