4.5.24, Saturday
Cloudy weather, tranig. Saharastaub, humidity, Cold drops. No sun, it stands out in the crackling blue like a teaser eye. Just clouds, Smear and spoiled yellow in between, as hot and moist as sticky fermented milk.
When it's beautiful, the weather makes you cry, certainly. Because it then reminds you of everything else, which was nice, nice to fluff up. What was that? Hm. In my case it was expectation! The possibility, to take the mood away and exaggerate something diffuse, Exactly! And so the mysterious one, magical input, which emerged from the light of the respective mood. The drama crystallized in the colors, regrouped vigorously. Whereas when the sky is cloudy it doesn't exist at all. The understanding of drama. A beautiful summer day; For so many years he has piqued me with melancholy. The melancholy of the almost endless farewell (through an illness without beginning and end).
In my “Disappear” I soon became stingy with lavish sentences like an accountant or cherry-picking budget questions. I have to keep the sentences short. And pick out the right sentences. Where there might be a shortage of literature? And where just biography or transition?
Another try: to structure myself with small, senseless actions. How to get through the day. Especially on the weekends. I'm not done with this “Disappear”. But I can still only write on days, that are put together correctly in terms of energy. Because I have this flow, I need this extraordinary tension, physically, like psychological. (The possibility, to dramatically inflate, where there is nothing?) I have always written with my whole organism. Like Ludwig Hohl, who famously did pull-ups, in his cellar door. I still do training. Even as a cripple. So that the tension can always be accessed. This disheveled one, most tense stringed instrument in me. That only serves my writing. NO. But writing serves life. THEN.
And Kertesz says: “The true means of human expression is life.” AND.
My physical state, my life: I'm even capable, to go a medium round, over in the Reichenbachwald. By stopwatch. I can even walk quickly for twenty minutes. (before I have to lie down for hours again). Almost like back in the day. But then days come, in which the ME strikes like this, as always. And then you can't even think about getting up. It seems more dynamic overall. I have a sore throat and fever today. This is extraordinary, as the body is rarely able to do this with ME. The immune system blocks the outbreak. Maybe that's a sign, that the IHHT makes my immune system a little stronger despite everything.
And now to the psychological residue or residual organic matter: This substance has reawakened, after many years of physical fighting and physical survival. I'm back now, since the end of the pandemic, approximately, confronted with my emotional world. Who behaves like a hot-tempered child. A toddler, that was forced to do so for a long time, to take a bath. Head under water.
(I declared my psyche dead in one chapter, At that time, the debilitation of all organ systems forced me to do this, including the hormonal ones. That was 2015. This chapter: End of homeostasis I have in the new version of “Disappear” built into the middle part of the book. Let's see …)
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Blue: It's almost been a year now, that someone ordered me here, to take off my white dress. But I can't say more about it at this point. It's crazy: when something touches me, and I want to write about something; then always, because it is acute. Organically acute. And they always are, almost always encounters with Eros. Always only the most private things.
(Od Eros can also be impersonal? Check out Tinder, then the prerequisite for this is, not to be personal. The usual note: please don't talk for long, immediately hit a cost savings phrase.)
But these private things began, to disturb me in my novel; the narrowness of privacy. This quintessentially feminine thing. Really still no access to an idea beyond what can be experienced with the senses. A curse, that weighs on me.
It is, as if I had been thrust into a world, in which pure humanity no longer exists, no beauty. So it's felt like this to me for about two years, although I cannot vouch for my perceptions. (there would be too little objectivity). The descent began, since C. left me. And it intensified with the pandemic and increasing cruelty in the world. This could all be pure coincidence, Because coincidences can set off entire chain reactions through stupid little whims.
During the course of my illness, which does not exist politically, but determined my whole life, I understand, that everything is politics. That I, Despite my privacy, I am affected by politics. And I made their decisions or failure to provide assistance. (no funding, no therapy for ME., no structures. A life of disbelief, in the invisible.)
So I hang around on digital platforms out of sheer lack of relationships and loneliness, where you are measured, instead of explored, and experience even more disconnection. The problem is, that I was there too, like here, continue my monologue and reveal confidences. Because I don't understand, that my word could be caught by someone. Not taking into account the consequences, because I already believe myself, that there is no one of flesh and blood. There, at the other end of the digital tunnel. These profiles never take shape, don't reveal anything about themselves. Man bald: who are you. And at some point it happens like that, that people don't even pay attention to themselves there anymore. You think of yourself as a virtual phenomenon, a chat, that it thrills, to think away from people and boundaries e.g. to disregard your own tone.
I wanted to talk to a real person about things, that have happened since the pandemic. But I didn't find any. Not even for money. For decades, I didn't recognize the thorniness of my social interactions. I'm in a bubble, an ivory tower, for my writing, my intoxication: the maintenance of homeostasis lived. And exactly, in that moment, when awakening threatened, homeostasis broke down, I was thirty-eight, when it was time, something new, To set up something else, besides writing; That's when the ME really hit.
I remember the day, where my stomach went numb. As if I were sinking in mud up to my chin. That was the last time, as I sat at my large oak desk, 2016, the last time once, that sitting was a real option for me. I threw myself from the desk onto the sofa, with a cry of amazement and horror. And, That's how it went. Neverevermore. Raven.
And then, because the ME is like that, how she is- brutally circumcising- I just wanted to make love again, before … and bought this young beautiful man at the university as a visiting service. Something too, that one can no longer imagine today. But I'm ashamed. How can you demand needs and simply ignore the restrictions, the illness has to be blamed on one?
I held on to the doorframe, as N. went. This moment, who separated one reality from the other, I didn't tolerate it well psychologically.
I regained my control, gradually realized myself as a cripple. And then came C. Because he himself has CFS (not me) hat, he understood this one aspect.
What C. there was this moment, at the very beginning, when I still had this feeling of wholeness. OF SELF-BEING.
(Consequently, also as a writer) Not, because C. would have made me whole. None. C. was part of my youthful ivory tower. A vacuum, that was ended. By the circumstances. And, clear: through rooftop wars.
And now this. As if it wasn't worth it anymore, express the crap. As if it were classier, the brutalized media events from the crisis areas are broadcast on the channels “consume.” And to learn from it. These events from one world, which is becoming more and more inorganic. A real fucked up thing.
I still expected more from interpersonal relationships. I'm the good-for-nothing. More movement, Vibration, density, complexity, dedication, Subversion, Intellect, Magic, Aura …I didn't expect sympathy, and, not even empathy …. but gestures, that I can read!
This is also why you structure your day. Because of this absence. Noticing and noting the stupid details. Da alles Stupid, Grosse, Essential things slipped away from me. But when cleaning up, I often don't know, how. It'll all go away anyway. Is it important, whether now, or then? And then I just throw a lot of things away. Other things go in drawers. But what's the point?? Whether it is covered by a container or open to view?
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When I left Brügg and arrived here, I felt light, fast — because the pain in Brügg, it was like waterboarding for me. (I said it). In a love story you are no longer a peripheral character, you experience yourself as whole, in love for others. You experience your self without division. And in Eros you get everything….really everything was given…. there is no escape. Such as e.g. In the language ….
Remind me, like me when I was about eighteen, sat at the window in the high school library and studied for a geography test. M. had left me, this time for good. And everything, what I think, whatever thoughts I could muster, was this: 'It's over. Been. And a whole one, huge life without M. is still ahead of me. It's not over yet. But this, it has been. BEEN. BEEN.’ The thought hit me like a concrete ceiling. The length and meaninglessness of a life without M., the magician. These could be the feelings of your first great love. My life is always somehow precarious and final, made the separation from C. much more dramatic, as if I knew the feeling somewhere: There is more than one chance in life.
So I fled here, because I had to.
… I didn't call this Sickhouse from the start. But I can't say more about it at this point. My traumas suddenly have a strongly retroactive character. I would never have my experiences, the early ones, e.g., viewed from the perspective of an autism spectrum disorder. Maybe then I would have seen it, that this wall really couldn't be and isn't torn down. Because everything funny has to inhabit the edges.
My basic experience is, that people don't communicate with me.
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Everything is there, what it is about the other (the white dress) and telling me there is actually irrelevant. How can I put this insignificance in the final chapter of a novel? Where the previous parts talk about surviving the illness and muddling through the school system? How can I create this monument to someone so random?? Apparently I can no longer distinguish between them, what was really important, for my life, and the, which is just repetition and triviality.
A man's behavior can be a metaphor for everything else. That I could never and can never achieve. A metaphor for lack of relationships. But at the same time for life. Paradoxically.
Deeper, More details. Narrower things squeeze into perception, which is radical, hallucinatory, twisted. And for which I no longer vouch. Since I stopped saying hello. I was able to go on a few trips this spring, and get excited about it, that the battery of my disabled scooter gave up after just two and a half hours. Dies, after many years of never being able to stay upright for more than an hour.
The sun is so rare, but if this light is, right light, then I am as moved as Camus Mersault. My trip to the Löhrwald remains in my mind like a surrealist painting. Even dandelions are silver, not just white foam. It's all, except for the grass, enchanted by a mood, that doesn't come from me.
Then I came home, this Sunday at Easter, after the excursion. And was here again, in this hopeless dead end.
If only I could have prepared myself for a functional life. One life, that serves the benefit and the useful. I was able to see the lives of my parents and grandparents early on, that functional existence is everything. And that there is no room for daydreaming. Maybe that's why this stupid compulsion grew in me, to explore all these matters, that serve no single purpose. This fatal striving for the more perfect self._