2022
From disappearance. There are many kinds of it. Some are so obvious, that it sounds funny, to mention them at all: animals disappear. glaciers and islands. People. In the southern hemisphere of the Americas, that's how many people disappeared without a trace between nineteen eighty-seven and two thousand and twenty, that an international day of the disappeared has even been established. It says on the website of this association: "A missing person is, as long as she stays gone, a mystery. The disappeared doesn't fit into any grid, is a man without matter. Has a person ever disappeared?, he is withdrawn from state protection.” It is called enforced disappearance. How do you conjugate that? Someone is made to disappear? Forced off the scene or something: discrete abgemurkst?! Other types of disappearances are caused by the following situations: Krieg, natural disaster, Hunger, social injustice in general and the consequences of these circumstances: Suicide, illness, ostracism, lonliness, neglect. A concatenation of overly complex and complicated circumstances or vice versa: a trigger and not a way out. All the disappeared have one thing in common: Have they ever disappeared?, all, they can no longer tell their own story. Then others are needed. So-called witnesses, who happened to stumble upon the story of the disappeared or at least somehow watched the disappearance of the disappeared.
I'm one of those disappeared. And yet not quite. Someone between here and there, about to disappear, that always, and, but clearly present for me. Because I am here and I exist, in that space in between, I keep telling my own story. It's a story, which is getting less and less, je mir ich über mich erzählt habe. I'm sure I've explained the circumstances of my life many times, just to repeat: For the past seven years, I've been vertical for an average of two hours a day, the rest of the time I lie there and look out the window. This view out of the window is, so to speak, my only possession. He's not particularly spectacular, he always shows the same thing: the small sheep meadow on the other side of the Reichenbachstrasse and behind it the tall, massive trees, pinned above it is a long piece of sky. Is my gaze free?? He is, as I said, always the same, that never fully reveals itself to me, without ever being quite the same. Incidentally, there is an electric blind at the top of my window, which I hardly ever use. This store has the panoptically straying peculiarity, that she lets me see outside. The views from the outside, however, she appears completely obscured. It bothers me, that this store gives me a view, which is only transparent to the inside. In my opinion, the conditions for the view from inside and outside should be the same. Or would it not need a store?
A not insignificant number of those affected by my illness spend their lives behind completely blackout curtains or blinds. Because they can't, the slightest stimuli, like light, Filter motion and noise. Thank God! Ich kann das. In any case, solange ich dazu möglichst falch liegen kann. I just can't start, to move properly, to stand long, to walk and study difficult things at the same time, to bend and turn, running and dancing etc. I can never feel so much, auf der Ebene meines chemisch herunterschraubten Sensoriums, as i could! So far so good! If only it weren't for thinking. You can't just turn it off. eyes, You can shut your mouth and even your heart, but the thinking just keeps going. I often count the clouds in my head or do the memory game I pack in my suitcase, to so my brain of an inconcrete, to get rid of a kind of brooding that is not exactly comprehensible. I mean, what can someone like me have to ponder? Can anybody, who has been lying down in a room for almost ten years, claim of themselves, that he is still there? I used to brood over the work problems, the seal or the boys. But today, where I have nothing more to brood over, my rumination has become a kind of rumination about rumination itself. It's like a rampage, while the rest of my body is on the verge of fainting. The aspect of my disappearance leads to this, that my thinking is not constructive and my introspection collides, so that it often blocks my view from the outside. Where should I look?, when I can't see anymore? Where should I think?!
my room is fixed, I can't move my bed. The big windows sometimes suggest me, I'm right now, to go out on a raft. Mrs Immobile it says and consists of two surfaces, that are next to each other: my back and the mattress. Actually, I don't like the name of my raft. A ship should The Conqueror hot or at least Seemöwe. The river is actually very close here. He lies in his bed of sand directly below the meadow with the trees. The longest among the trees reach down with their trunks to the water, their branching spices can be seen in the sandy shore. Isn't it amazing, that this sand doesn't just lose the trees, as soon as there is even a little storm? When it storms here on muggy summer days, the sky above the slope gets this amber glow. Clouds settle like turbans on the treetops and suddenly countless black birds gather high in the sky. They come from all directions and sail like yo-yos. Is there up there, far above the highest treetops, maybe a crossroads, whose rules no one understands, than the birds themselves? Is the storm over?, the winged works of art in the sky are also swallowed up in one fell swoop. Crows and ravens inform each other of threats with two hundred different warning calls. How big does your vocabulary have to be?, when they caress each other with sounds, build a nest or fight?
Communication is very tough. Just don't forget, dass die Lösung bereits im Kommunizieren liegt, und man nicht als Mittel zum Zweck kommuniziert. You can talk to each other as long as you like, until reconciliation occurs, das ist der logische Weg des zwischenmenschlichen Austauschs. I was convinced of that for a long time, but not anymore. I've talked to a lot of doctors over the years, organizations contacted. I wanted to draw public attention to the disease, I fought our disappearance. But I wasn't successful and got the impression, the more passionately I fight for my causes, the less I succeed in connecting. Bitterly, I withdrew and only shifted my language back to the private. My actual sentence, that was this universal one, private, the one to a single human being, mostly of the opposite sex, speaks, you already know, which one I mean! I wanted to say that sentence again, breathe, thunder! Coincidentally, the opportunity presented itself to me, what a miracle! But, Caution! I spoke it too often, zu viele Jahre hatte ich nicht mehr gesagt. That's when I realized, that this sentence is only private, solange beide seinen Sinn verstehen können. So when a love story falls apart, only two versions remain. Like every story, that you tell yourself, sind auch die zwei Versionen einer Liebesgeschichte immer wahr und unwahr zugleich. That can go so far, dass die gemeinsame Geschichte von den Ex-Liebenden so sehr zerstört wurde, dass ein Gericht, den Versuch macht, aus den Scherben der Geschichte eine neue Version zusammenzukratzen. Without the invited witnesses, Amber and Johnny wouldn't even be able to take their testimony. Your story would then be just a story, that someone tells themselves. So, how I do it with my story!
When you only ever tell your story to yourself, it can happen, that suddenly you are no longer safe, what information is relevant to the story, which not. Knowing almost everything about someone, means, that you never get to the end of it. Unlike the view out the window, a new perspective on the person opens up again and again, at least, if you believe, you yourself are this. to be the person, about which I tell a story, went so far for me, that I just wasn't that person! she, that was one on paper, who always slowly fell behind, while I always stayed that, who I am, here, at this moment! So I started, to talk to my beaten back person, like a younger me, gave her name. Ich motzte gegen sie, because it didn't evolve, only pretend to grow, a tiny moment; why couldn't she fill my story, as my alter ego? She loved the movie, the drama, the spontaneous appearance, the provocation and the risk. she was a child, always young, blinded, a bundle of energetics with black flashing eyes, nowhere at home, always on the move, grausam direkt und dreist, i lost her. So I tried, lediglich einer leeren Biografie etwas abzugewinnen und eine introvertierte Frau beschrieben, controlled and basically deeply anxious; the woman with her coffin. I could only say the same thing about her, how about my view out the window: it's a look, that never reveals itself to me. Unless, that something is changing imperceptibly from within. In the window, these changes come from the light, from the clouds and the wind, from the birds, the sometimes, when it dawns, fall down and trudge around the bodies of the sheep, loudly scolding. I've found, dass sich die Schafe zum Schlafen in die Nähe des Unterstands legen. Gegen Mitternacht wird ihr Bimmeln allmählich spärlicher, verklingt gegen drei Uhr morgens beinahe, aber doch nie ganz.
Und nun fällt mir eine Geschichte ein, eine kleine Schafsgeschichte: Dolly-Dolores-Babygirl-Grauhaar-Diva-Taff, I do not know, habe ich sie schon erwähnt, she had a boyfriend, Glöckenweh, he was so scary, that he tied a little bell around her wrist. Mit diesem Glöckchen sollte Dolly-Dolores-Babygirl-Grauhaaar-Diva-Taff möglichst laut klingeln, as soon as she entered Glockenweh's apartment. To get noticed, schüttelt eine Frau also ihr Handgelenk, so fest es eben geht und huscht mit klopfendem Herzen, auf leisen Sohlen dem schreckhaften Mann entgegen. "Do not ever do that again, to scare me like that!“ Droht der Mann in dem Augenblick, in dem die Frau ihre Arme um ihn schlingt. „Wo, Dolly, hast du dein Glöckchen?“ – „Ist nicht meine Schuld! Das Glöckchen war zu leise!“, entschuldigte sich Dolly. Aber es war schon zu spät. A woman, die zu laut war, vergass, flehentlich um Verzeihung zu bitten, setzte sich an den Strassenrand und weinte. Sie weinte so sehr und lange, dass die Aussentemperatur sank und die Leute ihre wärmsten Mäntel anziehen mussten, wenn sie nach draussen wollten an diesem scheusslichen Tag. Selbstverständlich soll es Menschen gegeben haben, für die dieser Tag der schönste ihres Lebens war, denn so ist das Leben. Freezing rain pelted the hood of an excavator, while behind the barriers and the Toitoi the Frisco car waited for passage. Herr Friscomann leaned against his car and looked down at his bare feet, muscular arms. “The day gets a shovel in the arm by a cold realist. Sie bauen ein rechtwinkliges Wohnhaus, a wall, maybe a tower!? But why? What's that good for?“, Dolly snorted stupidly. Stared stubbornly at the excavator, the barriers, the toi, the Friscomann. The play sky cleared up a little after many days. A bise from East Siberia came driving and laid the notorious one, curved sight of Dolores open. Sie sass am Strassenrand und zeigte mit dem Finger auf ihr dünnes Hemd: „Wisst ihr, who I am? Kommt nur und hört! Eigentlich heisse ich Baby-Girl-Diva-Taff, but since I live here on the side of the road, nennt man mich der Liebesclochard.“ Dass Dolly die Wahrheit sprach, erkannte man auch an ihrem Nokia Lumia. Es lag wie eine Reliquie in ihrem Schoss, und wenn es ganz selten einmal klingelte, dann hatte es diesen verspielten, bimmelnden Ton, der wie ein Federfüsschen die gläsernen Stufen einer Wendeltreppe hinab gleitet: "You're all right, Dolly?“, erkundigte sich eine männliche Stimme. Sie war ebenso hell und verspielt, wie ihr Summton und legte sich fächerartig über das Gehäuse des Lumias, and, sie musizierte über das weite und zerstörte Bauland von Dollys Ohren hinweg. „Alles oke. I'm there!“, wisperte dolores in Telefon, die im Baugelände am Strassenrand sass und fürchterlich weinte. Die Tränen rannen ihr über den offenen Ausschnitt das Sternum hinunter und weiter über die Füsse auf den Asphalt, wo sich Schnecken, Wassergümper und bald Fische einfanden, um zu baden. Wochen waren vergangen. Das Haus war unterdessen fertig erbaut, doch nirgendwo zu sehen waren die Bewohner. „Die Leute, die in diesem Haus leben, sind noch nicht heimgekommen.“ Stellte Dolores grummelnd fest. „Es sind Scharen, die im Tower zuerst miteinander kämpfen, then without each other. Berge von Argumenten saugt der Blumentopf aus dem Mark des Mannes, und Berge von Gegenargumenten aus dem Mark der Frau. Sie verstehen sich zuerst, und verstehen sich nachher nicht oder umgekehrt, simultan über Tausende von Stockwerken verteilt. Dolly-Dolores-Babygirl-Grauhhar-Dramedy-Diva Taff war sich der Wirkung ihrer Worte vielleicht zu bewusst. Bis sie feststellte, that he forgot them all in a row, die Worte. Lisa Dramedy–Diva-Taff rinnte, Oh scary, through him!“ Passanten, die sich der kümmerlichen Figur erbarmten, brachten dem Liebesclochard Sandwiches und Tee. Es war unterdessen Winter und das Nokia Lumia sah aus wie Chlaus, ein Weihnachtsmann mit platter Nase und weissem Bart. Aber immer produzierte er von Zeit zu Zeit diesen märchenhaften, himmlischen Singsang. „Hi, everything ok with you? Not heard in a while. Can you give me a quick update on the status?, entweder per Whatsapp oder Phone?" - "Thank you, ich bin da …“, flüsterte Dolly. Der Rotz lief ihr aus beiden Nasenlöchern, wurde von den schnelleren Tränen eingeholt, und beides gefror innert Sekunden. once, es war das letzte Mal, da hatte jemand Dolly ein Sträusschen Schneeglöckchen in den Schoss gelegt. So beim Vorbeigehen. „Geht es bei dir?“, sang es aus dem Nokia Lumia. „Ich bin da …. Du musst dir um mich keine Sorgen machen.“ Dieser kurze Verkehr hatte Dolly alles abverlangt. Mehr war nicht mehr drin. Von nun an war da eine so riesige Angst in Dolly, sobald es bimmelte, that she the, der die märchenhafte Melodie ankündigte im Profil unter Kontakte in Glöckenweh umtaufte. Glöckenweh sollte sie daran erinnern, dass jeder seiner Anrufe ein Schmerz war ohne Ende, da es keinen Weg gab durch Worte aus diesem Schmerz heraus. Is, Glöckenweh, even, hatte einmal gesagt, am liebsten lausche er nur ihrer hellen Stimme. And, er lausche nur dem Klang ihrer Stimme und lausche gar nicht erst auf den Inhalt respektive die Bedeutung der Worte! Im Nachhinein ist man immer gescheiter! Is, Glöckenweh, vertrug eben nur Glöckchen! Und sie Dolly-Babygirl-Grauhaar-Dramedy-Diva-Taff war dazu noch ein einziges mal laut geworden! Oder sollte man es eher taff nennen? Die Sonne zwirbelte aus den Wolken, flies smacked on silvery windshields. A little chick came and hopped past in a semicircle. Dolly sass weinend und frierend am Strassenrand da, als sich dieser Rand plötzlich von der Strasse löste und mit ihr davon schwamm. Wie ich sie später traf, werde ich dann noch erzählen. Aber vorerst stelle ich noch ein Denkmal auf, zwar an der Stelle, an der der Rand mit ihr davon schwamm: „Hier ruht der Liebesclochard. Er brauchte nicht diese Art von mehrschichtiger Geborgenheit, which is not protected by any walls, er brauchte diese gegenteilige Geborgenheit: that doesn't tolerate walls, keine Grenzen, keine Vorhänge, um dem Geliebten so nahe, to be as possible. Hat jemand vielleicht sein Handy gesichtet? Zeugen melden sich bei Jeanne Stürmchen, Reichenbachstrasse …“