When I was eighteen I wanted to go to Malteland and let Malte deflower me.
Malte had a subcutaneous one, aversive Magie, with which he simultaneously beguile-poison-paralyze-send-away-again-in-himself-draw women etc. could (in my case infinitely repeatable).
After sleeping with me (which I hope will cause more physical pain!), Malte went into the kitchen and ate a hot chicken with ketchup, while I went home and slapped the act on a large sheet of paper with a master painter's brush in a kind of pointed watering can, although I also give my children's carpet a Miro-like (or should I say Picasso-esque) Missed new plastering, which I never regretted, because my children's carpet was mustard yellow or better instant puke yellow and got me, i have to say it, all through childhood and adolescence you just vomited or: Almost puke reminded. (So this is astonishing, as I, although I believed probably once a day for the first twenty years of my life, vomiting and admonishing me: Caution, you have to throw up right now, Jeanne! Overall, probably only puked once and only after too much fish paste had been squeezed into the umbrella stand of my beloved kindergarten teacher ....
At this point I may have to say a few general things about my childhood and youth, For example, that apart from this kindergarten teacher, I have never come to appreciate a parenting person in my whole life, I was stupid in school, had no talent, To make friends, embarrassed me at lectures, but was convinced, I am a princess, the everything, yes, EVERYTHING really has to fall into one's lap. (u.a. the prince), etc., and yet with every challenge, small or large, this panic, completely irrational fear of throwing up overcame!
I was also the daughter of two producers with mouths that were far too small, who continually like shamed servants all mine (Dirt)Wiping up tracks behind me, so also those, which I employed in my nursery, the pigsty, which I inhabited and wormed tenderly like dingy pigs and in it I confused myself against ... and others. Clean spit country?
Nineteen ninety-four, already a year, after my defloration and shortly after my first provisional and crazy attempt at pulling out (one of many, haha) My producers had the puke carpet torn out of the parental home with the colorful wheelbarrow on it and, as part of a gradual general overhaul and complete conversion of my children's room into an Ibis studio or an Ikea dummy, or simply an empty room! ……………… then replace with a purple-colored Persian. It is already getting on in years, poor foams, On which I am lying now at the age of forty and busy with the assignment of a Chinese juggling plate above me, think of the makeshift arrangements of this past swept away:
The temporary solution of this transition room into the hand of a new owner through the sale of this house one day, permanent, After all, vomiting for no reason, the makeshift of the mustard-yellow Picasso carpet, that only lasted a year, the makeshift of my existence, not just on the first day, after Malte left me forever, started, the makeshift cup of tea, which cools down after ten seconds ... etc.
Laues, gentle passing!!!!
And now back to Malte again: So Malte sat on a stool and greedily ate the ketchup chicken, while I was standing in the doorway to the kitchen (or was I still lying on the carpet?) and watched, how he licked the fat from his long, brittle fingers with half-closed eyes. He was completely withdrawn, as if he wanted to sing or ... pray ... and although I knew, that Malte cared absolutely nothing for me and sent me away at every opportunity, and me, whenever he felt like it, in tears, as thick as the musk perfume in its bottle, with his little choke bandage back to him and soaked me between the fleshy lanes of his sinful, holy kisses of Mary ...
... I loved Malte.
(27.1.2018