Dienstag, 19. Januar 2010


well : I drink a lot; I write a lot : I’m trying to get the research on this film done and tomorrow I’m meeting someone who wants me as an assistant for some project/or maybe doesn’t. It won’t make any difference money-wise. But he is a fairly well-known director, or at least well-known to insiders, if I ever apply for a real job he’ll certainly put in a good word for me. I meet G. but am not exactly sure if I actually want anything from him. I happen to meet Hans, he played Baby Bester in S.’s last film, and together we did a script reading and ever since I’ve been asking myself : what can be that can be; I’m jobless and there’s no justification for my existence/unfortunately; and in my special case, I can’t even claim potential genius. At the same time I’m annoyed with my lack of radicalism and my friendliness, but the way things are may be good, too. But what is it that keeps you breathing : besides your body/which is hard to get away from. What is it that gets you out of breath : besides your head, which is a very inadequate part, too. I see the summer light and believe in something again. That things will go on. And so on. (So what is this then. Delirium. A fata morgana, because I haven’t slept since the day before yesterday, because I’m crying and laughing at the same time, I haven’t slept, yes, but I can keep the deadline, the story is not as good as it could be, because I can’t give my best under such pressure/which we all feel, come on; once more : I’m trying, I’m going to get it done. I should put on a little rouge, I’m so pale around the hips.) I feel the light, it’s gentle and hurts at the same time. Again I believe things may be fine. I haven’t slept with a man for months. You know : at some point you don’t miss it so much anymore. I see the people around me beginning to break/breaking apart/not so much breaking away or departing. If you remember something that might help me along/get me out of here : tell me. Or tell me now. I’m still dreaming of my own departure. But to where? Back then I had no goal/just one big square to start from. Like in a game, where the entire board is the starting square/your life, and you know. You have to go. Which then means : you roll the dice; you probably don’t even notice the number of eyes and you move, don’t you. We’ve still a long way to go till the finish line. You. You just went. Though the situation here with these people does me good like nothing has in a long time, so in the middle of things, everyone’s doing something, and outside. That’s where life’s lived, and even if it’s only a tram that stops and starts up again. Well, my parents contribute to the rent, there’s support from the job centre, they call it assistance for start-ups, which is what we all are. Start-ups, one two three. Jürgen brought that stylish office furniture with him from his old office after the bankruptcy, and now, when we have official meetings, we no longer go to a café, of course; but impress people in the midst of our designer furniture. Sometimes people come in directly off the street. Though no orders have come in yet, as far as I know. But then again. In the building out the back, you’re most likely to be absorbed by birds’ chirping, which is rather nice and, of course, in a broad sense, has to do with life/according to the motto : birds’ twittering is what life is; though you are always a bit cut off from all that’s not happening outside. And right now, this is where I spend most of my time, with a basic haughtiness and exaggerated opinion of myself, I simply go about writing my Marrakech story, the topic is important now, time is probably pressing, as far as the zeitgeist is concerned, hmm. But now I just act as if I can hold out for another half a year and move at least towards this goal, and eventually get there, too. I can always do some job for S., his business is doing very well, the rent is paid, really shouldn’t talk about it, it’s all so ludicrous, but then again. Just like you said. Life is what it is. I would just like it for once that you would, for me, that you would take me seriously, that I could feel this a bit, too. A little while ago, before you appeared in this odd light, tears were rolling down both my cheeks, as if there was something for us to celebrate here. And I took off an hour ago, because they kept wanting to go on. Sure. The application has to go out before midnight. We’ve done all we could for it. At some point you can’t revise it any more. Why me, I fell asleep over the keyboard, while wanting to add up a few items. Over and over again. Know what I mean. You believe these numbers are trapping you in some kind of purgatory. Having to file this stupid application for all eternity. But you never make it through. Every time, just before the end, when you’re finally ready to add up the last numbers, you slump over. The hellhounds whimpering at the back of your skull, it’s hot and you know, that it will never get any cooler, and you won’t be able to read the figures in the right order. That’s how things are. In any case, I got out of there. They can stick it. Never mind if they don’t pay me my wages for the entire job. I mean. It’s a job. Imagine. And then I meet. I only wanted to drink some coffee and to think about what might happen next. So I’m sitting here, and this guy comes by. From the performance. What is he? A journalist or philosopher, or what. He acts like I’m a poet, as if there might be something to it. No idea what he’s talking about. My first thought, he turned my laptop around and my poems : he wolfed down the poems I sometimes write when I’m depressed/but only sometimes. And he can’t remember where he knows my writing from, and he says, it has something to do with Cage, which in any event makes me suspicious; it gives me a jolt when he says/I understand, yes, I understand it! He’s going to pick up his three-and-a-half-year-old daughter, play with her a little, make dinner, put her to bed and the computer in the kitchen, and tomorrow take her to kindergarten again etcetera. He probably went on and on talking like this, though he just sat down briefly at my table and said something like : at least I know why. Life is what it is, that’s an observation, though it’s only meaningful to the mind, I can’t just accept everything, anything, nothing; naturally, I ask myself, if not acceptance : then what? This inadequacy to be happy or unhappy – but what peaceful/exciting afternoons those were with Gustl and Gusti and the others, weren’t they. First at the Volkspark, then quickly back home with Gusti or through the rain and later everyone together for coffee again, almost always we drank something. Someone usually stayed on and others turned up. And do you still remember that tender bit of momentary intimacy/(as) if someone unexpectedly and with no need for anything to follow, caresses your cheek, in all probability that’s something that makes you breath, at least for the next not entirely nice moments. To live like this means : piecing everything together all the time, and maybe that’s all that’s in it for me. You have to get going. Yeah, sure. You too. You’re sure to do a super job. If I need your help. I’m on to several stories. I’ll get back to you.

Angelika Reitzer
From: Frauen in Vasen. Prosa [Women in Vases. Prose]
Vienna–Innsbruck: Haymon Verlag 2008
Translation: Catherine Kerkhoff-Saxon

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