9.2.2002
Russian party at Gaby's. So many men, as I see in a year. In the dim light of the roof deck, family. Russian band, sentimental, melancholy. The Russian men dark, auratic. Gabie's attachment: Coach jackets students, funny, loving, pubescent boys. After pouring down two glasses of red wine, I begin, to shine.
Without the wine, my bitter clarity would grow like a sickening obstacle behind my forehead. But as it is, the environment melts like wax, and I beam at the plump men, they seem just as ignorant to me, like myself. I am in love with testosterone, feel it in myself, when I face the Jewish macho. He is a Slavic student and by no means squeamish. Does he follow me to the bathroom?. That's when I meet Gabie's friend, a system loser and Kurt Cobain without ambition and sharpness. We get along well five minutes later and dance around the room, unable to be stopped, as if weariness with life turned into euphoria, sways like a harrace in a fine reed boat. The Slavic student is forgotten. And immediately afterwards I am boxing the horticultural boy with the red cheeks. A man against thirty, Kind, like seventeen, bekifft. I catapult myself into his eyes, love doesn't understand my depths, long looks. If it's that tedious, to talk to him a bit lively, I want to think of his love right away. I don't want to know a name, but exchange number. Gaby and I twirl in a circle, as if we were young girls in the arbor in a Hungarian village. I am the center of me. The candle flames lean towards me, when I float past them in my long dress. Unsteady, feverishly I hear myself saying to you: I now collect plastic bags, since the last oil disaster. The ocean is vulnerable and indispensable, he is powerful. Don't you want a little orange vodka out of my Mc Donalds salad shaker? Fortunately, my throat will soon be hoarse. I take on the old man, the climber. See, what can be done. He exudes a certain calm. But the longer he talks, the more restless I get. I jump up and off onto the balcony, where you can see the swans glowing bright white in the water below. I want to throw bread down. And wine glasses on the asphalt, ehrlich. Suddenly I am surrounded by boys again. The smell of testosterone makes me drown. But nobody is strong enough, to catch me. Such good games, that I drive! I babble a little more, but this time nothing more, that I can remember. But then my tongue suddenly becomes heavy. I look at the clouds, their fringed texture. "What's the name of: the fringed texture of the clouds in Russian?“I hear myself ask. The men are speechless, now. Would definitely be something to taste and sniff and touch. My last train to Bern has left. I don't like anymore. Tired of mine, I hug the Slavic student, who hangs like a shadow of himself outside on the balcony railing. What happened to that? Wasn't that self-confident and lion-like?? His hand naturally finds my waist. she (the hand) is more beautiful than his look. Around six in the morning I sneak out of the house. Gaby is used to such farewells from me. Who knows, where she is right now, at all. I'm really looking forward to going home. Infinite.
28.12.2002
Farewell party in comfort. Stumble over myself, trip myself up, by taking the average of the men present like cows (?) treat. The first one is fine with me, to rub against him, like a transparent glass cabinet, and then leave it for the next one. It feels like an addiction to me: Throw my nakedness even to the biggest booby. It is a necessity, to feel myself, even if I feel a no small amount of self-disgust after such occasions. I am going home alone, and it is, like slipping back into my casual maternity clothes. Self disgust too, because i'm addicted, to think of love, when i see a man, that I like once. But then suddenly having fun is not enough. I return home in a bad mood. Of course I did it again, to grab the wrong guys, while I am the few, that scare me, because they give me a pang: they could be exciting, ambushed. That with men as pleasure will never work. Another question: should a woman show a man her perhaps only mediocre noble interest, if he shows little interest in her? I feel like it somewhere, to finally do it, I would probably be better afterwards. But there is another idea: It is the man's job to respond to the subtle signs of the woman. And finally, uncertainty: What am I, when I wrap up my nudity again, and below that the really naked, the body comes out?
29.12.02
The thought, that people saw me, makes me crazy. You don't even have to spread out, each can be snatched away in the imagination of another. Men, Complete strangers can make an image of me in their minds, you can do something to me, that I will never know, in her mind. I dreamed of Jan. Our cheeks brushed yesterday, a moment of rapture. But this intimacy seems almost grotesque to me compared to the distance from the spirit of this person. Maybe that's the reason too, why I am always a little provocative and not a paragon of friendliness with men; they won't tell me anything about their brains, they stroll around like lollipops, and nobody knows, what they burn for. I have no intention of either, to bare me, but no doubt it comes down to that every time. I expose myself, suddenly got fed up- Look at me- think of my bristles under my silk dress- and white: it's time, to evaporate!
Is the dark the place of love? And the bristles? In love people are equal? Human? Busty? dark?
- 12.02
I expect a moment to contemplate. Or turning away. A seagull droppings floating around in huge ship turbines. There will be a huge bang, I don't doubt that. Nothing is exceptional, not even the last day of the year, to which one waves, because one is separated from life. I've been separated many times. Right now, however, I am exploring a lust for life. Or let's put it that way: a desire for certain situations and processes: I want to be surrounded by men I don't know, i want to see, how they cope with their insecurity, when I nudge each other or better: anstrahle. I never want to be as lonely as yesterday, When I still wanted to be an angel, poured into a base. Loneliness leads to constriction. Everything gets tight, inside. I would like to illuminate all men, also the, that I like.
„Today I try not to suffer too much. I join the real. » (Michel Houellbecq)