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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 Has a person ever disappeared?, he is withdrawn from state protection.”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, the more I told myself about myself. 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! I can do that often. In any case, as long as I can lie as flat as possible. 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, 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, that the solution lies in communication and that communication is not a means to an end. You can talk to each other as long as you like, until reconciliation occurs, that's the logical way. 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, maybe too little, I hadn't said it in too many years. That's when I realized, that this sentence is only private, as long as both understand its meaning. So when a love story falls apart, only two versions remain. Like every story, that you tell yourself, two versions of a story are always true and untrue at the same time. That can go so far, that the shared history was so far destroyed by the ex-lovers, that a court makes the attempt, to create a new version from the fragments of history. 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. I counted them, she, 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, the uneasy Easyness of Being, i lost her. So I tried, to gain something from an empty biography and described an introverted woman, 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.
(Das laute Lesen als Testlesung gedacht, weil einem beim Lautlesen Dinge auffallen, die man vielleicht besser noch streicht etc.)