Wintersehnsüchtelei

Manchmal wünsche ich mir, ich könnte mich in eine Katze verwandeln. Nach Hause kommen und mich schnurrend auf das Sofa legen, den Körper einrollen und den Kopf auf die gefalteten Pfoten legen. Das dicke Fell schützt gegen Welt und Winter, die Nonchalance der getigerten Seele düpiert die Sehnsucht. Die Sehnsucht nach Schneeballschlachten zum Beispiel und der dumpfen Stille im Neuschnee, nach glasklaren Nächten übersäht von Sternen und schneeflockigen Ingrid Bergmann Küssen und einem warmen Körper und Gegenstück zu diesem Loch im Herzen. Die Sehnsucht danach, nach Hause zu kommen, sich auf’s Sofa zu legen, den Körper einzurollen und nicht an Dinge zu denken, die es so garnicht gibt im Zeitalter des Klimawandels und der Desillusion. Der Klimawandel macht meine Winterwelt letztlich nass und grau und die Desillusion lacht sich ins Fäustchen und verdeutlicht, dass dies strenggenommen garnicht meine Welt ist: Denn irgendetwas, was vielleicht auch irgendwann einmal aus Liebe geschehen ist kommt vermutlich genausogut aus anderen Gründen zustande.
In dieser Situation hilft eigentlich nur etwas Warmes im Bauch, ein gutes Buch, ein Anruf, Bier, Kaffee oder Spaziergang mit Freunden, mit Kindern spielen; Programmkino, Pfefferminztee oder einfach nur ein aufregender Wichs im gemütlichen Prädormitium --- Witze sind wärmstens zu empfehlen und Wärmeflaschen auch nicht schlecht. Gibt es Theater, Kunst, Disko oder ein Konzert zieht’s mit mp3s im Ohr wippenden Schrittes dorthin, wohin die nasskalte Dunkelheit die Menschen treibt. Dort verleiht man seinen Kopf, Geld und Witz und hofft - auf die Nonchalance der getigerten Seele, Schneeballschlachten und flockige Ingrid Bergmann Küsse, die Wangen apfelrot dank innerer Wärme und vielleicht duften fremde Haare nach Winterluft. Währenddessen verkriechen sich Klimawandel und Desillusion vor lauter Sehnsucht zwischen den heimischen Sofafalten.

Thank you Bev for the cat...
Thank you Beautiful South for those Ingrid Bergmann kisses and thank you F.C. Delius for "Ich leihe Dir meinen Kopf".

Wetland Sunset

Myra startled as a stumbling Leonard crashed sleepingly through the dark living room, fumbling for the ringing phone and breaking glass in the process. She jumped at the corresponding noise but was soon calmed by his brief and calm conversation – “how exactly does it feel, human life,” she wondered. Myra yawned while stretching her back, preparing herself to ponder this thought on the comfortable sofa: How was it that life for Leonard seemed to be fleeting, like rain on a sunny day or sudden gusts of wind slowly stripping the trees in autumn? And yet, it was commandeering, imposing its twists and turns on everyday life in all their briefness or extraordinary drama. But why, she thought while straightening a spot of messy fur on her back, does he antagonise it and still embrace its wonders once they had become apparent to him anyway? She had suspected all along that he got some kind of satisfaction out of this struggle and premeditated that she would observe him, tomorrow, to resolve this mystery. Her dream turned into an eagle-winged tigress, hunting like an owl through the dark and starry night.

***

His favourite radio station brought him back into the world in the morning. He knew the commentators by their voices, enjoyed the interviews and discussions on current events and was never annoyed by the musical intersections. The radio, just like the bakery around the corner, was what he loved about home: This he had known before, but cherished ever since he had come back from his recent trip to the opposite end of the planet. At the moment home was still new to him and he considered himself lucky for what he had and that was that. Moreover, he had started to get this deep sense of satisfaction from his work: Someone had said it, and it had stuck – “there are struggles much bigger than us”. He really wanted to be a part in some of them.

***

Myra had long woken up, cleaned her fur and sharpened her claws. Now she was hungry. Leonard had not come back home all day and outside the moon already rose from behind the next row of houses. Houses - Myra took them for granted, just like the trees, grass or garbage cans in the backyard. At the moment, she was concerned with other things, though. She hadn’t had a chance to check on Leonard today and was hungry, very hungry.
In the morning he had seemed strangely at ease, even playing the paper-mouse-on-string game she was crazy about. And when he had ruffled her, he had done it just right, there had not even been the slightest sense of ---
she heard the key in the door. All her suspicions about human life were confirmed even before she saw the woman enter the flat. Myra watched her come in from the opposite end of the living-room. She didn’t look hostile, rather at odds with herself, the world - just about everything. Her eyes were wet: This she had seen with Leonard before and it fitted perfectly what she had wanted to find out about yesterday! Yet, it did not matter much now, for now she was just a very, very hungry cat.
The woman sat down next to her, staring a hole into something on the opposite wall, the keys weakly dangling in her left hand. “Let’s see if this will make a difference,” Myra thought and brushed around the legs, purring and mewling. Oh, she really was hungry now…

***

A few hours earlier a glorious day full of jokes, flirts and laughter had come to an end for Leonard. He and his friend Fran were then enjoying the sunset, overlooking the meadows, flowers, birds and trees alongside the little lake inside their local city park.
“I’m really glad I caught your call last night – broke something while picking it up, though,” Leonard said. “Oh, where I come from that is a lucky charm,” Fran replied. “Ha! Where I come from it is actually a sign for clumsiness,” laughed Leonard. “I don’t think so,” Fran said, now looking straight at him “I haven’t seen you this happy in a long, long time. Now, you spill the beans what’s going on with you, will you!”
Leonard smiled. The sun was still warm and setting and everything looked strangely beautiful and surreal. In fact, the sun was a giant orange and the meadow a mysterious carpet painted by Monet. At first he did not notice the fist clenching his heart, but when he did, the pain was already too strong to speak. The world around him turned into something else, like an artist’s impression or an incredibly witty remark. He wanted to laugh, but his mind broke into confetti.

On a gorgeous late-summer evening Leonard's good friend Fran called the ambulance.


Thank you, Jan Schmuckal, for Wetland Sunset.

Musical Life Cookery

When life did not feel right Martha started playing a game she called “musical life cookery”. It was an amazing, imaginative game where she could just about detach from her own life and let lyrics, sounds and all those fictional and non-fictional characters of popular music mingle and meet. That usually made her happy.
Martha liked weird, funny, poignant and occasionally touching connections switching and mixing issues, people, ideas and personalities between songs. Making up a musical movie in her mind allowed her to live other lives for a while until their experiences brought her back home.

One rainy Saturday night, Martha made Frank Zappa and Beth Gibbons accidentally bump into each other in an old funky jazz bar in Louisiana. Frank was just in the middle of a whacky Nixon impression, when Beth nearly ran him over.
"Blimey!", Beth said, not instantly noticing that very strange and weird change that happend as she spilled her drink amidst Frank's attentive audience - Frank and her had mixed personalities: Frank suddenly was Beth, or rather a Beth-like Frank, still retaining some aspects of his but with some of Beth’s personality traits - and vice versa. Frank felt curious. Not only had he never been to Portishead before, but he had also never felt that particular kind of serenity. Strangely inspired he grabbed a guitar and sang

“And the right and the wrong and insane
And the answers they cannot explain
Pulsate from my soul through my brain
in a spanish guitar“ (For a Spanish Guitar by the Byrds)

Beth, in the meantime, had gotten herself a glass of white port with lemon juice and was chatting up the band disrupted by Frank’s singing. When Frank had finished, Beth smiled and cracked a joke about the American guitar she had grabbed. Together with the band she played Egyptian Reggae by Jonathan Richman and even Frank joined in the dancing...

Martha was happy with the world where Frank Zappa and Beth Gibbons would become friends and people were happy with each other’s similarities and differences. Jacques Brel was sitting next to her on the sofa, gently stroking her hair and kissing her forehead. Martha took a sip of her tea. Outside, the rain was pouring down and her good friend Tanita Tikaram waived at her from under a large black umbrella. Distant music trickeled into her room -

“On a midnight voyage,
One that has no ending;
And it's sending me
The things that I need.
Far away from shore—
Further than I've been before;
But I feel the strength of the new sea.
(Of a midnight voyage for just what you need...)
Dreams come and go,
And I sift through them.
Love starts to grow
From the thoughts that I find within them.” (Midnight Voyage by the Mamas and Papas)

Love in the Days of the Blunt Pencil

Wilbur had just finished going through the weekly classified and since the kettle was boiling, he got up to make tea. There were still gaps in his tour for tomorrow and he was hoping to make amends by choosing a route through the middle class suburb of Rosemount to possibly pick up leftovers from the odd removal. He had rented the scrap metal truck about a year ago and although things could have been better he was his own boss and getting by modestly.
When he sat down at the kitchen table he noticed the slim figure quietly standing in the doorway. Wilbur was puzzled, for the person must have stood there for some time without him noticing. Looking at her he remembered seeing her passing by in the park a couple of days ago. Or could she possibly have stood next to him in the second hand bookstore downtown? Yes, he remembered briefly remembering her, like an echo of something significant that had happened long before. And then he had found this book that he might as well send his nice Emily for her birthday.
She smiled and as if she was walking right through him, a soft blanket or veil slowly flowed neck-down around his shoulders, just inside his skin.

~

The party had been going on for several hours and the speakers were spilling a mid-90s trip-hop classic over the midsummer night of North Donside Beach. Wilbur was comfortably tucked into his blanket, his face gleaming in the heat of the fire. The mood significantly lifted by various passing bottles of red wine, old friends and new acquaintances were chatting and laughing.
“What is this about mustard-vinegar dressing that makes me cringe?” Sitting next to him and pulling a face Beth Gibbons would have killed for, Alice was playfully tossing around her spinach salad in a plastic vessel. “It’s the vinegar – there’s just too much of it,” Wilbur answered, while Alice shrugged off sour times – “brrrrrh, you can feed that to the seagulls!” - “Crooooaak, croak, crrroooooak,” Wilbur replied flapping his arms up and down and prompting Alice to wittingly shove a spoonful of spinach right into his mouth – “yikes, very sweet of you, but too sour even for a gull on a beach party,” he laughed. “Just like real life,” said Alice and kissed him, “this food is something special.”

That had been the beginning of an extraordinary summer. With the last exam finished, they went on a long trip hitching and hiking across central Europe. In Switzerland, they had found shelter in a farmhouse after a long hike and torrential rains. The old lady of the house was a brilliant story teller and when the rain finally stopped early morning, they had gotten to know the full extend and drama of love, death and horror in the villages’ local history.
In Leipzig, they had made love on the rooftop of an old disused factory building – their ‘castle’, and they would look down on the tiny match-sized subjects below and invent royal decisions to be taken: “That’s Margaret. Her husband had been a former employee of the postal service, but after the reunification he had lost his job. Margaret is frustrated with him, because his mood is nauseating ever since he has been working with the employment agency – what should we do, my Queen?” “We chop his head off, my King.”
And they had found Alfred – a hungry little stray kitten crying for help in a public park in Amsterdam and after organising water, cat-food and a cardboard-box with breathing holes, they were now smuggling him back into Britain.
“I want a baby, Wilbur…” The National Express was hurrying across the pastoral scene of late summer rural England and inside sat Wilbur, painfully trying to imagine what his baby might actually look like and despite his luck at loss at the overall meaning of it all.

They had been madly in love in summer, but by winter their lives were moving at individual paces. What Alice could not stand was his stubborn self-deception. He was like this or like that, he would say, implying a hurtful “you still don’t know me, maybe I’m not good enough for you”. She knew that wasn’t true. She could see beyond individual character traits and had struggled through both the death of her baby brother Marco and her parents’ subsequent break-up: If there was one thing she knew for certain it was real love when she looked at it. It was not something she could ignore and with Wilbur it had been with her all the time – mustard-vinegar dressing and all.
“When freedom was practised in a closed circle, it faded into a dream,” Wilbur then wrote in fridge poetry. At first she took it as decorative whimsy, but the sentence had struck and stuck: Of course, he was the person he was and she loved him for it, but the hidden cruelty with which he would maim her efforts to devise a common future for the two of them hurt her. It was also rather childish, in her opinion.

Wilbur was at odds with himself. Not only was his job with a local accountancy firm meaningless and boring, but he was also struggling not to loose it. Yet, the more stress his boss would unload onto him, the less he would get done. With each apology the strings on the inside of his soul would tie into a tighter knot, impossible to untie. What was needed was a sword, to break the spell just like Alexander had done with the Gordian Knot. Wilbur wanted to quit and look for something else, but when he got home, his mind was oblivious. On top of it all, his father kept calling – “we’re going to Venice on invitation of your sister Francine and her husband Barry. You know he is a solicitor in Hampstead, don’t you? He is such a man of means and connections. Anyway, when will you get a proper job, Wilbur?” What a prison cell his life was! How could Alice honestly expect him to simply break out of this mess without any collateral damage?

One night he had a dream. Alice and he were walking up Gallowgate through stormy weather. Gusts of wind tore through their conversation, distorting phrases out of context and into absurdity. Both of them felt misunderstood and hurt by the other, yet they were trying to drive their respective point home: “You are ---- invincible ---- shit” – “When you --- falter --- each time your father calls.” They were bitterly angry with each other when Wilbur spotted what looked like a Rubik’s Cube just next to the sidewalk. It looked muddy and had obviously been thrown away by some bored kid. Yet, it looked precious, as if it could provide answers to all his questions. “Wait, I need to pick up that thing,” he shouted, but Alice startled at the monstrosity the wind had turned this phrase into and with tears in her eyes darted off into the wind. Wilbur picked up the Cube and tried to follow, but the wind got stronger and stronger, until he could hardly move forward. Having lost sight of Alice, his only hope was the cube: He instantly realised that each of its sides provided the answer to one of his personal struggles. “My life is such a mess,” he thought, “I won’t make sense of any of the other sides, but at least one of them is an image of Alice.” He knew that if he would solve at least that one side, she would come back and maybe they would be able to sort out the rest together. Frantically, he started to turn the bricks, but with each turn less and less bricks actually reminded him of Alice. Then he realised that he didn’t even know what she looked like – and woke up.

A month later, Alice moved down south. She called him from Westmoreland Service Station: “You know, Wilbur, I cannot forget you stopped loving me. Love is a precious living thing and a terrible thing to loose. It is like a plant that needs watering and sunlight, so it can grow. I have taken Alfred with me. Take care of yourself, please do. I really hope that you take care of yourself…” Soon after, Wilbur quit his job.

~

The figure was now sitting across from him. She looked neither young nor old. Her face had friendly and rather androgynous features. She wore a pastel-coloured dress gently flowing around her body and although she looked at him in a kind - yet nonchalant – way, her body generally seemed fragile enough to get bruised by everyday items such as wooden chairs, kitchen sinks or even a blunt pencil.
Wilbur searched around for dangerous objects. Indeed, this was not a place to receive a guest – he fetched a pillow and blanket and put out Turkish delight. His guest, in the meantime, smiled. Who was she? Just when he was about to ask, she spoke:
“I am Love and I’m moving in.”
Wilbur blushed. “There might not be enough room for you and I’m not sure if you can bear with me...”
“Don’t you worry about that – I’m here to stay. As long as you can remember…”
The veil gently settled over a vast expanse of land deep inside Wilbur - where he had expected crevasses and cliffs - and he smiled for the first time that day.