Starting off. The biographical? Besides the point.. All selves are readily deployed, but to no avail. How to read? Eyes. Pages. Because he could not get a mynah bird, Flaubert got a parrot. It's inability to transcend animal boredom written on every feather. How to transcend? Explode. Incorporate all unthought enterprises into a word. Demand a bastion, blow it up. How to love? Attempt humanity, even if it's only for the few.
«I almost love you.»
Joseph Beuys told Imi Knoebel before shortchanging him a legacy.
How to interact? Hands. Play with every button and lever. The pinball machine of life, tilting with streams of multiballs ejaculating from every conceivable hole, springing into action with every tickle. Possibilities far beyond your reach. Some street in Berlin, inadvertently clogged with unspoken beauty. Fuldastraße in moonlight: an alien spaceship teeming with poetry materialises in the shape of an unexpected spätkauf. You think yourself smitten. Your personal Tempelhof of stories. Planes nosediving into scientological volcanoes only to be spewed out as instantly ancient rhymes.
How to persevere? Resist. Time and people. Television screen goes black. The gold fish move out of your imagination and onto the two-dimensional waterfall of a convenient computer. How to write? Legs. Kick the words out of your belly. Rearrange them on chairs and shelves. Show empathy. It's a fashion.
B.A.
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