Today I made my decision, if any, to write less loudly.
I do not know, where the big shit comes from for me. I think, it is because, that I am constantly re-acquiring the language quickly. I never cared about the language, unfortunately, while writing, just because, that the result flushes a certain substance to the surface, and I as quickly as possible the burdensome weight of one (physical) statement can place. Nevertheless I try in my new prose attempt: “Testimony without witnesses”, is the title, to refrain from the mouthing if possible. And that's only possible, if I officially diligently, reasonably carefully petty statements, e.g.. to the weather, pack in a careful sentence. My first novel: Belief, has cost me all substance, I got high on it for years first (from writing), then burned out again …. It is not easy, to write prose, when you've lost all that lightness. You have to look, that one does not get into sentimentality, the permanent lament drifts away. The lament has been my heartbeat for almost two months, it pulls through me as an endless rattle …. and this disorder compels me to do so, not throwing my feeling faster and deeper into my writing, than I can handle. I mean that too: that i im “Testimony without witnesses” does not want to strive for a new dramatic climax, that I don't want to be mauled in my work, through which I seem to lack passion (or co-passion of me with other?) in life compensated resp, sublimated. I really only try to write for pragmatic distraction, I no longer have to do idolatry to my work, I can't give myself to her anymore, because I gave her all of me, in my belief, if that sentence makes any sense. In that case, of course, I shouldn't write anymore, when I say, that I can give my writing almost nothing more, only the bare minimum of passion. But after weeks of thinking how I could make ends meet the yawning emptiness in my bed raft, until my natural death or a complication due to my long-term chronic illness, I had to see, that I have no free choice at the fork in the road. From a new one, others Gone, e.g.. through a job advertisement like this: “Find work from bed! Four hours a week! Light paperwork only, no numbers etc!”, I looked again, maybe I can explain it, how so, it is an impossibility at this point in time. I do not want to say, that I experience a fiftyfold burnout, not least due to recent trauma, u.a. by the electroshock arrangement of the neuro center in the Inselspital Bern, the cowardly exit withdrawal of my bum doctor D., and my private, little lovesickness, that recently gave me an unparalleled quirk in my life, partly self-inflicted …. maybe I can explain it, how so, it is an impossibility at this point in time. I do not want to say, I'm in mental paralysis up to my neck, I'm just looking for more forms of resurvival, this time almost only hurts my psyche, the physical thing, gives, the cause of the shitty circumstances, is pushed back behind the pain, in which my liveliness and lust for life are reversed for hours: glowing, sometimes, when the sun is shining, if it is possible, to take a little trip, like mid-April with Ildy, down to the Zehndermätteli. It was an experience, that caresses me like a strange fairy tale, now in long hindsight: the low-hanging trees with the spring-like buds, the bright light, reflected in our apple juice glasses, in the black hair of the fairy Ildy with her pale, yellowish face, her gentle, monotonous voice. And everywhere the budding green of the little plants in their pots next door in the nursery. We walked the circuit through the grass. Every thirty meters a colored Easter egg shone towards us, almost as a landmark. And finally at the water we took off our shoes and put our toes in the sand. Almost ten days ago I was able to make my first trip to the old town after several years of abstinence. I just walked along the cobblestones, deeper and deeper down the city, I have every wall, every stone, every window noted. But later, because I mean 2h “Functionality on good days in good periods” had lost and was already in the third hour of the excursion, I barely made it back. I didn't want to call TaxiKahn, not with TaxiKahn-my disabled chauffeur, one so bittersweet, fairytale, strange trip as a visitor from Over to Here, decide on, I have to admit, it was very, very hard to find home, in the furthest corner of the Engehalb Island. But seventy-two hours later, I suddenly cried again, cried, cried, like about something lost, that I only touch, just touch, can never properly inhabit again. to conquer the city, after so many years of abstinence, showed me, that there is no access, no real access for me …..that I am a streamer, a stroller …..who just happens to stop by here, but no longer participate …..I do not want to say, that me as a young brat’ belonged, had my niche. But those were just the stupid ways of adapting to the system and what they asked of me, with whom I was fighting in the first place at the time. In the evening or at night I still escaped, danced till dawn in the attic and got drunk on Chris Rosales three hundred yards, from the riding school to the train station, up the sidewalk of the bulwark …… and at an excruciating pace! One can say, I swam, I slid my whole body over the asphalt, while Chris Rosales pulled my arm and ran towards the horizon with it, like he was stung by the tarantula. That was maybe a cocky moment …. that I will never forget…. although then this scene is not the yellow of the egg either, as it seems to me in hindsight. I have up to a year – my year in Bruges – now 20 years lived exactly in the official city of Bern, a disappointing idea, certainly, because Bern is and will remain a city of civil servants. But the rock in Junkerngasse, the Nydeggstalden, the minster platform, all of this touched me in a way. Do not know why. Maybe, because the stone is older than my stay in the city of Bern, much older, strictly speaking. And because everything old has calmed and touched me for a few years. Because it's not there anymore, but it's still there, because it's underneath, the solid, like the stone, under the overthrow, because it's the city, that still exist. Although she does not wait for any renegade man, is she still there.
(8.5.22)