4381932.
A number, that had been lost in me for twenty-five years! As if the subconscious would catch fire too! But only when it really hurts, correct, really tight!- The pressure points can no longer hold the weight, breaks through all-engulfing weakness. Then it suddenly becomes very light there (I do not know where), and images float up, single sheets only, aber immer mehr von ihnen, like little stragglers. (I see young ducklings in front of me).
4381932! Yes, but! A phone number, which I once knew by heart. 4381932… and I cheered, I ran. And then, how I got the number again, is there already this street and the number of this street, because a street always has a number, because otherwise you won't find the house!
I “go” so and google and see, that this house still exists. Everything around has changed completely. Settlements have sprung up. The bear is gone. But, maybe, because even then it was a storage dump, the property, has this small section of perhaps twenty meters been forgotten to adapt to the changes in time!? This is called neglectful treatment!
Below, towards the street, there were more cement sacks standing around. Next door, where the old garden gate still squeaks, Pneus pile up. And the old cart, from the oily the exhaust dripped, is still there, just changed color. The facade of the house has become even more bland, bleached the shops, the kitchen window thin as ice. And the entrance- can this be?- mit frischem, plastered in light wood? But why, how so? What's going on??! That's twenty meters, after all, straight out onto the sidewalk and the street that was already used at the time, a little house in between, to forget. But the front is through the garden, which even then nobody “belonged to”, almost overgrown.
Twenty-five years of wild hedges, Ginster, Currants, Raspberries; not to the number 50 belonging…dispossessed?! The whole lot didn't belong to the number 50, back then? If I really reflect, used the old owner of the number 50 this lotter's booth rammed into the sidewalk as a dump and only rented the lowest floors to one or the other poor bon vivant or bum?!
Gives! The door latch gives way, dark and jerky, unique! Because, he! Every door latch has its own unique sound?! And, How I push down the door latch, it gets even brighter…. so hell. Like the light on the first spring morning, the impressions fall over me. That means no; not about me, because I am no longer a body, and doesn't want to be any more. I just take delivery of the leaping leaves. They twirl like a funnel from bottom to top. Outside in? Surely they move on. So, how we moved on then. Vor fünfundzwanzig Jahren, When this door opened for me, and quite, really! I mean: the door to that number!
But, God dammit, somehow I'm wondering: what kind of memory did I have then?! Those summer afternoons in ninety-six? Hoped over the squeaky garden gate, walked through the bushes, in which it flew and crawled, barefoot! All day long. Slept and was only half awake!
And then he, who gave me berries: 4381932. Like a shot from a pistol.
Lately everything at once has the status of the past. Strange, where the present, the Associated, far too little weighted and nothing could come of it (I couldn't shape it, no). Twenty-five years of this proliferation! I do not know, should I laugh or cry, because I-oh you scare- now I have something like a memory! Laugh, because that's something after all.
cry, because I know, what that means, recall: Nothing haunts you from these shallows, as long as you still live in the river, Swiftly drifting underwater, closed in bud green… Something like that haunts you, if you fall out, Time doesn't want you anymore. For example, by causing your brain to experience physical pain, to jump off. The presence, the now, freezes, und stattdessen rückt dir die Vergangenheit zu Leibe… so intense, like a hallucination.
What else can I do?, than to press these fragments against me retrospectively! This kind of cellular decay is very sentimental.
4381932. Twenty-five years in the drawer, and then that! I don't even have a brain!
And then, now, I once told myself all the streets with their street numbers, where else I stayed, later. Your real names. Her size, intermittent effect. The associated environment, Phone numbers, Infrastructure etc. The yellow cell phone, that went swimming, approximately. It was so hard, that it sank!
The sound of the doors. More the noises, than what finally came to light behind it….. God dammit! (Maybe from the streets another time.)
Somehow I felt put off in every place, in every street, behind every door. I didn't even make the decision on Hopfenweg, deliberately: I want to stay there!
But that's just the way things are, I guess. That you have to arrive first, if you are forced to. And by then it is usually too late.
What to anchor: a pain.
In the two rooms on Austrasse 48 no bum would live today. It was all damp even then.
But it was the dump, in which I felt at home. Short term. Doesn't matter in retrospect, because you don't save the duration and deadline,
rather—–
(14.2.2021)