A Thousand Plateaus

sitting on the balcony, the sunday-afternoon noises provided a pleasant background for reading : rustling of leaves of the birch tree, radios on balconies, birds, kids playing, the music in his own room (he had listened to some harmless, innocuous pop-music all day long. in fact for the past couple of days already : morcheeba. he hadn't been that restlessly miserable in weeks and he didn't want to take chances by putting on potentially disruptive music). but the book didn't really interest him : the language was bulky, and it was tiresome, if not impossible, to visualize what was said on the pages that were thin as bible-paper and densely printed.

every now and then his chin dropped onto his chest and rested there for ten, twenty seconds until he finally decided that reading on the sofa would be much more comfortable. he managed to read two more pages there, then gave in to the weariness. sleep after sports was guiltless, as if deserved. as soon as he closed the eyes, a black blanket fell easily over faces and places, problems and propositions, erasing their outlines, leveling the horizon of his mind, smoothing everything into one long, dark landscape his thoughts could take flight over freely.

he woke up half an hour later from a burning hunger that was only thirst in disguise (he was dehydrated from not drinking anything after running 15 km at the gym this morning). after two glasses of self-made peppermint ice-tea he was still hungry, but at least the headache from drinking the cold tea too fast shocked him into being awake. there would be plenty to eat later, when he would meet with jodie. they had planned that, while everybody else would be engaged in the dullest national reterritorialization, they would meet tonight to cook and have an ice cream bomb as dessert.

it's not a very good day for any of our protagonists.

at seven in the morning jodie is still sleeping. phil is asleep as well. elaine is turning around in the bed, still tired. but next to the bed on the floor there's a book lying on the same spot than when she dropped it last night. she's stretching out her arm, but can't reach it, stretching her whole body, moving forward a little on her elbows, disarranging the sheets, getting a hold of the book and retreating with it under the warm blanket. shortly after seven gorgeous victoria is waking up from the sound of the shower with a headache. while moaning to herself she starts to massage her temples.
"didn't i tell you to keep me from drinking the heavy stuff!" she's shouting gently in the direction of the bathroom. first the sound of the shower curtain being pulled away, then of her lover:
"um, did you say anything?"
"never mind! you want a coffee, too?"
"sure, honey."
on the cold kitchen tiles, her warm bare feet leave ephemeral prints. when the water is boiling she's reaching for his favorite cup on the top shelf, she's stretching out her arm but can't reach it, so she pulls over a chair to climb on it. the table is a mess : parts of yesterday's paper, used knife and marmalade, thirsty flowers in an empty vase and the twenty-seven engagement-announcements they'd be sending out later that day. he had been against it.
"too old-fashioned" he had protested on a sunday morning the other month. but she had insisted.
"it's not old-fashioned. it's romantic..."
"yes, hopelessly romantic" he had sighed and then left for his law-firm.
"... you know, honey. still got some files to work on." 
it had been five in the afternoon before he had returned, and at six her shift at the café had started.

at nine in the morning gorgeous victoria has switched on her computer and is working on her philosophy term-paper. somewhere else phil is still asleep. elaine is still reading. jodie's waking up when her roommate spills some milk and shouts out a curse. half asleep she's stumbling into the bathroom, careful not to step into the white puddle on the kitchen floor. the soap is stinging in her eyes and she turns around, turns her head towards the shower-head, leans against the bathroom wall with both arms extended and the hot water keeps splashing right into her face for five full minutes.
"i'm off to work!" her roommate is shouting through the door, "there's a letter for you. it's on the kitchen table. listen, are you sure you don't want to come to julia's party tomorrow night and watch the match there?"
jodie's taking a deep breath, turning the faucet and the warm wave of water is replaced by the rather cool morning air pouring in from the window. shivering, she's pulling away the shower curtain to get a towel.
"fuck!"
"what?" her roommate asks.
"where's the fucking towel?"
"oh, i took it. i did the washing and thought..."
"do you always have to start thinking? bloody hell!" balancing on one leg she's trying to get a new towel from the shelf. she's stretching out her arm but can't reach it.
"so what about the party?!" her roommate wants to know.
"well, i told you already! i'll meet with phil and we'll cook."
"are you sure?"
"positive for christ's sake! now fuck off and go to work!"

twenty minutes later elaine is still reading. phil is slowly waking up. gorgeous victoria has finished the second chapter of the term-paper and jodie's standing in the kitchen (finally dressed) in front of the puddle of milk. her roommate has left a note next to it on the table saying : 'in a hurry - sorry!'
"stupid cunt!" she's mumbling. the letter on the table doesn't look like  a bill. it's in a dark envelop and the address is hand-written. she's opening it with the handle of a teaspoon.

this very moment victoria is startled by a noise. elaine is still reading. phil is checking his mails : no new messages on server. jodie pulls the letter from the envelop. victoria stops typing as she recognizes the sound. it's her boyfriend's cell phone that he has forgotten. it's lying on the windowsill, blinking. she walks over to check the display. jodie unfolds the letter : a single sheet in a familiar writing. elaine turns a page. phil bites into a cookie. victoria is holding the phone. he has received a text-message. and she's asking herself whether she should open it or not. she decides not to, puts his phone away and goes back to work. having read the last line of the letter jodie is swaying back and forth. trying to get a hold she's stretching out her arm for the chair but can't reach it. making an awkward move forward she's stepping right into the milk where she keeps standing, in the middle of the white liquid, motionless at last, both arms dangling down, the letter somewhere on the floor. elaine is turning another page. phil is having another cookie. sunken in her work, victoria has already forgotten about the unread text-message. "mark, when will you tell her about us?" is what it says.

at eleven at night, victoria is falling asleep next to her fiancé, unconcerned about the strange smell on his neck. elaine is still reading. jodie's sitting on her bed, without lights, knees clasped by her arms which look like a sewing-pattern. phil is shutting down his computer, and when the noise of the machine has stopped in sync with the  pause between two tracks of the cd that's playing he's hearing the familiar and dreaded sound of sniffing and paws scratching on the floor behind him. two white shadows are attacking him before he can even turn around. there's a weapon in the corner of the room, and he's stretching out his arm

how come that you always realize that you're fucking big time depressed when it's too late already. worked all night long on the revision of the thesis - god knows what for and if it will be of any use at all.
and now i'm listening to the new sigur ros album which is so - rich in sound and so bombastic. and and and fuck.

woke up early from the sound of thunder after a short, restless night. the whole morning was hot and humid, occasional rainstorms that neither cleared the air nor brought down the temperature. went to the gym at night again, even though i'd been yesterday. there is something that i can only describe as a kind of 'restless resignation'... very disquieting. thought a lot about things that alice asked me about the other night. difficult questions that i don't really know how to answer, because there are certain processes and forces that - even though they influence and shape my life - seem to be very hard to understand even for myself. and much harder to communicate to another person.

yesterday i got a parcel. the address was written in my mother's handwriting. she had sent me two sauces, the kind that you pour over ice cream and then they harden. chocolate and caramel. i almost texted back suggesting to send a new fridge, too, because the one i have doesn't have a freezer. it's not really a common thing to get parcels from my parents. in fact it was the first one ever. during the traditional one-call-per-month last week-end, when there was another awkward pause in the conversation, my mother said out of the blue and pretty arbitrarily:
"oh, at the aldi they have those sauces again that you pour over ice cream..."
"really...?"
"yes."
pause.
"they are good."
"yes."
pause.
"yes."

sitting at the café, i flip-flopped down here in my shorts after the gym, it's sunny, a little windy, perfect, perfect, perfect weather. i got the ibook all set, my ideas for a habilitation project scribbled on some crumbled paper, my notes for whatever, and later tonight jodie will work.

when i open itunes i can't decide which music to choose. martha wainwright doesn't seem to be a good choice and yet i doubleclick and here we go : as soon as the dense, warm, acoustic sound starts i know that this has been a mistake, but i can't stop it, it's like a toboggan-ride down a snowy hill : once you've gained speed the only thing that can stop you is a large rock. predictably the music does the same that meeting a stranger in the underground does who is wearing your cologne. all of a sudden. and yes, much like a big rock sticking out of the slope.

and the boys they run faster
and they throw harder
and they get stronger
and they are gone
they are gone
they are gone
i wanna be like them

bad idea #1428: sneeze while you're brushing your teeth. guess you have enough fantasy to image the outcome of that.

long day. the seminar went well today. i'm co-teaching with elaine, and today we were discussing "the dispossessed". much of the class is kind of like a dialog between elaine and me, and in good sessions we come up with really good ideas and dense interpretations which mainly develop while we're talking. of course we do some preparations and we discuss beforehand what we will do, but much of the stuff is really being developed in the classroom. which is cool. today after the session i had the feeling like we had really enough material to write an interesting paper about the novel.

when i came home from the office i grabbed the ibook and went to the café to rewrite the introductory chapter of the thesis, which i finished tonight. then jodie forced me to stay for something to eat with the rest of the gang. now it's almost midnight and i've just returned and i have a massive headache even though i only drank water the whole night long. my fridge is empty (as in totally empty) and the only thing left to eat is a bag of salt pretzels. yesterday evening i fixed myself some sponge bob fun pasta but forgot to add salt to the boiling water. dreary life.

sitting on the sofa afterwards in the middle of the night, he felt a sudden craving for sweets. luckily there was some candy and he had to be held from eating the whole box on his own.
"hey, leave some for me!"

it had been even less satisfying than in the past, and he wondered whether he might have been here for the last time. in the distance the cathedral was shining like a lighthouse, pulling him away, making him admitting to himself what he (and we) already knew : that he did not want to be here. even though he didn't know if he would ever find another body that his body would find acceptable. there was no predicting. it was simply a totally arbitrary choice.
 

the minutes passed while he was looking outside almost motionlessly, counting the planes that were floating in the night-sky weightlessly. one every three minutes. across the entire horizon. without sound. beautiful. he pretended to take part in the one-way conversation, even though he did not try too hard, and gave occasional, short answers. seldom more than "yes", "no" or "oh really?!"

when a particularly objectionable video clip splashed onto the screen, something made him jump up and he walked into the bathroom, leaving the bad music and the irritating company behind for a moment. bringing his face up against the light after washing it, he saw himself in the mirror and he remembered the words with which he had been greeted earlier that night:
"you look tired and old!"
very charming.
"that's probably because i am!" he had hurled back angrily. "and besides no one forces you to see me. nobody's putting a gun to your head!"
this outburst had surprised him and he had realized that he had just deliberately misinterpreted genuine concern for an offense. maybe because he was irritated by genuine concerns. he had seen the hurt in the large brown eyes that had looked at him quite confused, and he understood that he had put it there. again.

"are you okay?"
"yes!" he called back through the locked bathroom door without turning his eyes from the sorry face in the mirror. his hair was a mess. 'the worst home-dye job in the world' he had overheard someone commenting on it, and he had to smile. strangely, his own reflection simultaneously soothed and bewildered him, and he tried to pin down a random thought that was fluttering through his mind like a moth caught in his room, too stupid to find its way out of the widely opened windows : he thought that his favorite mode was the third person figural narrator. he wished he could be one. disappearing behind the central character, not responsible for his actions and yet connected to him, lending a voice, adding a tone.

and then - out of the blue - a familiar fear took him by the ankles and pulled away his legs. he lost balance, tried to get a hold of the shower curtain displaying a caravan of penguins and almost hit his head on the hard edge of the tub.
"are you sure you're okay?"
"yes, i just slipped on ... something."
the fear now filled the entire room, dripping in big, viscous drops from the tiles. the penguins smiled mockingly. "fucking drugs!" he cursed the same time as he realized that he didn't do any drugs. this only scared the shit out of him even more. "it's real, then..." he tried to recall a passage he had read earlier that day, a truly utopian idea that, if he could only claim it for his life, would expunge this fucking fear of the future forever. but he couldn't remember.

but we can:

Well, what had he come here to do? To do physics. To assert, by his talent, the rights of any citizen in any society: the right to work, to be maintained while working, and to share the product with all who wanted it. The rights of an Odonian and of a human being. (Le Guin : The Dispossessed. 277)

johnny jay commented: what happened, mister?

can't really say :-(

and then the shit hit the fan. und zwar so badly that i'm still stunned and princess superstar shouted at me in an email: i could slap you in the face! she wrote angrily. you are a cruel, complete idiot!

but what did i do wrong? this wasn't supposed to happen. and neither did i saw it coming nor did i encourage it. fuck. is this supposed to be comfort? to know that no matter how fucked-up one's life already is you can always fuck it up even more?!?

bloody fucking hell. this definitely is rock-bottom - not only messing up my own life but other people's.

woke up confused and hurting. had massive nightmares about you. you here. you with me. you talking. you smiling. and your fucking radiant face overexposed every singly frame. couldn't sleep anymore then and started to panic again. you know, i'm pretty good at repressing the important things that effect my entire life in a basic manner in favor of events that are just around the corner, such as a visit from the states or a talk at a conference. i manage to concentrate on those 'little, present things' and forget about the 'existential' problems (for lack of a better term) easily. but now, that visit and talk are over and there's nothing around really to focus on, the whole shit surfaces and keeps pulling my guts out.

i'm missing you so - even though i hate you. i sort of love you still even though you cared for my feelings as little as i care for coldplay's new album or for mold cheese. the entire hour on the machine this evening i saw you looking back in the hallway as i was closing the door on you. there *was* genuine sadness in your eyes. jesus i'm such a fucking idiot.