A Thousand Plateaus

THERE WERE HUNDREDS OF PEOPLE LIVING HERE
SAILS AT THE WINDOWS
AND THE PLANES CAME CRASHING DOWN
AND MANY A PILOT DROWNED
AND THE SPEED BOATS FLYING ABOVE
PUT YOUR HAND OVER THE SIDE OF THE BOAT
WHAT DO YOU FEEL?

i met princess superstar tonight. i hadn’t seen her for a couple of weeks. since they showed the soccer match (spain vs france) everywhere, we ended up in this fancy, expensive cocktail bar, which was really nice: dark leather interior, smooth light and even smoother music. and no news of the world cup sneaked in. we almost were the only guests except for two dark-skinned girls who were sitting across the table in our little separé and who switched from german to turkish and back again fluently. one of them glanced over to me from time to time and smiled in a friendly and charming way.

anyway, when i was sitting on the subway home i realized that i’m not drunk enough. so i got off one station early and walked up the street, passing the “maifeld”. it was after midnight already but i wanted to check who was standing behind the bar so that i might have a last beer and bring my blood-alcohol to the level needed to chase away the ghosts. i had hoped that maybe jodie was on duty, a rather big, ‘burschikose’, gay girl who is also from bielefeld.

do you know the feeling when you do not want to return home? because people are waiting for you. because there are hundreds of people living there. because your little one-room apartment is crowded with cockroach-like ghosts who sneak under the bed or between the wall and closet as soon as you switch on the light. but still they’re there, stealing the air to breathe, telling jokes and lies about you, coming out of their hiding places when you turn your back on them. and then you realize that home isn’t home but simply another contaminated place that you don’t feel safe in. and that you are not drunk enough to face the ghosts. and the voices. and the thoughts that jump onto your chest heavy as millstones, suffocating you.

but when i was walking past the café i saw that i didn’t really know the waitress who was working. so i walked straight home. so it’s half past midnight and in the halflight, in the halflight i look around and see my clothes scattered all across the floor: jeans and t-shirts and socks, and the cushions from the sofa that miraculously turns into a bed at night and my shoes and the hope that the catalog may fill the blank space that is in danger of being peopled by things i don’t want to lose a word about. the two cuba libres i had were good and strong. but not quite strong enough.

sebastian’s letter is lying untouched on top of the pile of papers and i’m surprised by my own ignorance. i can’t remember having heard a more urgent chorus than in kate bush’s “coral room”. for a moment i wondered where it was coming from. then i realized that i’m still wearing the walk-man headphones. there must be a reason why i haven’t read the letter yet. i thought about handing it back to him unopened and saying something like: “well…, you know…i’m not sure whether this is a good idea…” or something like “put your hands over the side of the boat” or  “do you really think you could help me chase the ghosts? do you really think so? do you really think so?” and i swear that if i turn my head, i swear that if i turn my head i can see her asleep on the bed. time to lie next to her.

AND THE PIECES WILL LAY THERE A WHILE
IN A HOUSE DRAPED IN NET
IN A ROOM FILLED WITH CORAL
SAILS AT THE WINDOW
FORESTS OF MASTS
PUT YOUR HAND OVER THE SIDE OF THE BOAT
PUT YOUR HAND OVER THE SIDE OF THE BOAT

AND WHAT DO YOU FEEL?