29.6.2003
Dear Mr. W.
Have I already told you about my "Wehrmacht" booklet?? It hangs over my bed and I put the boys there, with whom I somehow get into a kind of exchange. It's a pretty empty book, because all of this is difficult and stressful. And the market isn't exactly big either. But lust is a driving force. I mean in my case: the desire, to dance. The desire, to sing. The desire, (the hunger) on words. The desire, penetrate the eyes of a few men. The desire, To exercise power. The desire, tingly, at the sight of beautiful nature pictures. The desire (the infinite thirst) for water. The desire, to measure my physical strength in the grass with a man. The pleasure of weakness and being at the mercy of things. The pleasure of screaming. The pleasure in tears, that are full of love or a valve of emptiness. The pleasure in pain, the too much of the devotion. The desire, finally being laid flat by a man and momentarily obliterated, because the fulfillment must be a huge crash. The pleasure in all of this, which only occurs in my imagination. I'm digressing.-
Perhaps you have seen the film “The Piano Player” based on the book by Elfriede Jelinek. I think sometimes, I am so. Like the piano player. Autistic. Somehow encrypted. The piano player is about forty, still lives with her mother and is satisfied from a distance at night in a parking lot in the drive-in cinema. When a piano student approaches her, she only goes into parts of his advertising, it is deeply ambivalent. Of course I'm not that bothered, because in contrast to the piano player, I can live my instincts freely. But I still have my problems.
The last night drove me to white heat. I don't want to wait for the person, does he ever come? But then I don't know either, whether I want love longer or only love in lust, the sudden surge of feeling for a person, that one loves in lust, not in life. For Klaus Kinski, sexual intercourse was life-sustaining, compensating function. He could pour himself into any woman any night. Has he really experienced this bliss of annihilation every night? Then the Creator is mean! I don't have that gift! I am not so equipped by nature! Apart from that, my brain is downright fooling me. My brain or my ether (the sphere between my skin and the air) knows e.g.. warm pliability and hint of the masculine sex, the lullaby, the tears of bliss, the ecstasy between skin and air. But my body is different. Strictly speaking, my body entrance that defines me. Always on, to withdraw, to pulsate out. And to disappear again. To the white heat, because I, sorry, if I say so: once a targeted male "fuck", want to have implemented the male "fuck" of my brain! In a technically smooth treatise! Didn't say above: the desire, in power? I don't have that power ….
example: So the guy is mediocre, relatively strange. I don't feel any more warmth. He should go immediately. I can't go any further, in the material, really material sexual area. Gives, where to fix it. So I'm blue-stocked like my mother. So yes! I'm waiting for love! The pure, permanent! The luxury of a transparent, unclouded fulfillment. Renunciation is pure and beautiful, is better. There is nothing moral about it. In the end I accept a whole person, a whole person inside of me! For that I have to see this person with my pores! And he? How should he feel and see?
So I'll end up in bed like Ingeborg Bachmann. And that drives me crazy. A part of me wants just like Klaus Kinski, get me my thousand orgasms, and then fade away relaxed and invigorated at night! But another part is just ether!
I'm afraid, i can only write and dream. (and do auto-eroticism.)
9.7.2003
Wrong appointment. Closed the gates. Walk around in restlessness and fear, because something is physically wrong, But I want to get up again. Can't go back to the glass house, Not? I'm undecipherable and encounter incomprehension. Isn't it my feelings?, physical perceptions, that are not in the frame. A little deviation in me, about me. It is: gives me problems, Pain. It is: like knowledge. Gut, I still have something like a megalomania, every leap year once. Understanding, as Blaise Pascal, just a core that is much too soft. Etwas wie Herz und Seele und Lust, to live and not to be alone, a core, who constantly cannot endure the knowledge or carries it around as a burden, a schizophrenic glossy paper, invisible, aber too, metabolize alone. And so I will probably always remain sick or vulnerable, because on the one hand I have to live and on the other hand I deny life, the world has to carry on my back, like someone who carries his wheelchair-accessible great-grandmother. Only at times do I burst like a young weasel from Everlasting No to Everlasting Yes, then comes the shock again: to judge, separate, see, detect. And the physical pain, that come from somewhere. Nobody knows. It scares me, that powers rage within me, that medicine and science cannot uncover (or want), I imagine the natural disasters, how close they are to the natural wonders and then tip over into catastrophe, like the story of creation. Am I not also a creation story? Clueless, at the mercy of pain, the vortex of short happiness, the arbitrariness of the force of nature, the bloodless, squeezed and alienated games of the system, again and again the emptiness and silky caresses, from somewhere, the natural wonders, the only miracles, that I can hope for, come. Understanding. What do I mean by that? What knowledge is it then? It has to be one ….
9.7.2003
But will marry me into the world with their encoded, Incredibly secular priests and nested cold vows. Making parts of me fit for the market again, the slightly crippled, maybe. I do not know anyone, that does not sell, not prostituted. Why not recycle the entire system for this purpose .... it's just enough, when I go back to daycare and for 3 Franken fifty paper roses.
20.7.2003
I want to write about happiness, That haunted me again, suddenly, Sunday evening, Forty degrees in the shade, not an hour of sleep and yesterday night in the back like colored peacock plumage. Three beer, I free, as free and wild and beautiful as Emily Watson in Breaking the Waves, ready, to streak with open eyes. Flying out with a euphoric look, the more I drank, whole deer, brown tight zebra dress, brown kohl, Pumps with rattling bells, fresh, pleading loose hair, soon the heart, soon the rooster, soon the chick of the party, home, recorded, hop off Chris, which I do not add anything to Manu, that I've had in my sights for a long time, lay my head, who is as light as a feather and yet full of rotating funny turbulence on his knee amidst the people and lanterns, above me the white sparkling stars, light birches, which lean in the wind and: „But!“Sigh. Please hand me over to him. Why still get to know? When I am there, can be present with everything, what I have. Aber oke. It's not that simple after all. Manu is silent, almost apathetic. I don't want to miss him for a moment, I feel, we are delicately entangled like cobwebs in something. Something deep, That makes me levitate, and that now goes on, an hour longer, and that still hovers in me today.