This series is my contribution to the monthly text-battle
'The secret diary of somebody else' with artist Aino el Solh.
click here for:
'I forgot to mention that I will be out of town.'
coming up title: X (15.05)
I usually get woken up by the neighbours in their kitchen, right next to my bed. Every morning they fight! Or that is at least how it sounds like through the brick wall, while someone is putting something back onto the shelf with a short tick-sound, twice. Then some more fighting, followed by silence till at least lunch time. I stack up the pillows under my head (who needs eight pillows snarling around?), my eyes stay closed.
The blanket follows any of my moves with that sound of breaking waves, never letting me out of sight. Any revelation of skin is immediately covered. My skin feels numb and soft when I rub my legs. The birds discuss relentlessly, meanwhile picking the last seeds and I drift off to some small dreams that won't last long. Something like a commercial break.
The eyes feel heavy and dry, while the light hesitantly slips through to my brain. The fridge is playing his cold-blooded melody for a moment, brr zzz pff brrr brrrrrrrrrrchhrrrrrrrrrrrrrr, as the thoughts start to come in and the heatwave, that is a result of that, is forcing one leg from under the blanket.
My view is blocked by a white mountaintop, when I open my eyes. I play god and move the mountain to lavishly gaze at the framed drawings on the wall.
The upper part of my window is covered with pieces of coloured foil (left-over from a retired love). Together with the fake crystal, hanging faintly off a sewing thread, they perform a ravishing play, if the sun hits the right point of view (around 15h). The arid and harrowed branches, outside my window, form shapes onto the facade of the opposite house. The facade is broken by two windows that cover the staircase and show nothing but black glass. I wonder at times if somebody is looking back. Something seems different today. 'bright, jazzed, clear, animated, expansive'
I hear the neighbour leaving the house, his shoes crush through the snow.
The immense walls were made of the finest concrete from the region, so smooth, the uneven surface must most
certainly be procured mechanically. They would use cork ladders to reach the top of the walls. The cork eases each step of the climb, when carrying up buckets full of apples.
Once they reach the highest platform there would be no need to enjoy the vast and far away view of the landscape,
but instead be seduced into the random labyrinth of caoutchouc pipes. (If one would be able to see the labyrinth from afar, they might believe observing a porcupine loosing bits of its 30.000 quills).
Thousands of pipes, red and white striped lances, piercing the blue, being thick and fleshy at the bottom and thin like a needle higher up. The spikes growing all along their sides are used for the main transport with ropes to climb hand over hand, to feet and back over hand. The choice of climbers in the village is already decided in the youngest age and the switching moves are trained almost immediately. The helmet, that is obligatory, is made from a folded crown cap, scratching the lobulus auriculae from time to time. Notes are written down on their paper shirt and the trousers are filled with helium. The wind would blow strong and whenever they make the attempt to scale through to the middle,
you could hear them whisper
„Part of that power which would
Do evil constantly, and constantly does good“
the sword that is bright
flow prima materia
shell of face limits the view
a book that is old
yellow as the shelve can be
all is coeval