Outside feeding times, the son talks very little to his mother, even though she beseechingly pulls an intimate blanket of food up over the two of them. Mother tempts the child out for a walk. And ends up paying dearly, by the minute. Listening to this neatly-turned-out child talking like a television. Which is his main source of nutrition. Off he goes now, out for a walk, unfearing, because he hasn't been watching the nastiness of the videos yet today. At times the sons of the mountains are already asleep at eight in the evening, while the Direktor is adeptly filling more art into his engine. And what most puissant of voices is it, pray, that bids the herds'in the meadow be upstanding, each and every one? And likewise the poor and weary early in the mornings when they look across to the opposite bank where the rich have their holiday homes? I think it's called 03 Wecker. Playing one hit after another from six a.m., those busy little rodents, gnawing away our days from the moment we wake.
In the Hitlerian back rooms at the gas stations they are taking a swipe at each other again, the petty people tied up in apron strings, wasting themselves and their half portions of ice cream beneath colourful umbrellas. It is always over so quickly. And work takes so long and the rocks endure for ages. No matter how endlessly they go on repeating themselves, all these people can do is reproduce. The hungry mob. Yanking its sex out of that door so conveniently positioned up front. These people don't have windows, so that they don't have to look at their partners when they're at it. We are kept like cattle! And there we go, worrying about getting on in the world!
On the ground lie peaceful paths. In the family there is always one who is waiting in vain, or falling in the struggle to stake a claim. Mother's labours afford her a sense of security, which the fruit of her labour, bent over his instrument, promptly destroys. The local people don't feel at home here, they have to retire for the night when evening life awakens good and proper in the sporting people. To them the day belongs, to them the night belongs as well. Mother monitors the child, squatting on the wall where she lives, so the child does not feel too comfortable about things. This violin doesn't particularly care for the child. In the catalogues, all the like-thinking crowd stride out defiantly, intending to fill each other's cups to overflowing. The personal column is read, and each person rejoices in his own little night, cast into the dark of an unfamiliar body. The diligent carpenters of life put ads in the papers, hoping to install their partition walls in other people's dark corners. One man on his own ought not to be too much for himself to handle! The Direktor reads the ads and places an order for his wife so that he can order her to her place, which is in red nylon lace with holes in the silence for the stars to peep through. One woman isn't enough for the Man. But the threat of disease restrains him. Prevents him from putting forth his sting and supping honey. One day he will forget that his sex can be the end of him and he will demand his share in the great harvest. We want to have fun! We want to ramify! The people who placed the ads lie in complicated positions on their mattresses, describing the paths along which they dally. It's to be hoped their fires don't go out; that would mean they would have to go out themselves and court disappointment. His wife is not enough for the Direktor, but still, he's a public figure, and he has to make do with this small car. He tries to make the best of it: to live and be loved. The children of people who're there to be used: they themselves are employees in the paper mill (it is a temptation to them, the unbound product of which bound books are made), they are unlovely to look at. It takes a siren howling at them to produce any sign of life. At the same time they are hurled out of life and fall like cataracts, superfluous, from the lofty heights of their savings. The helm has already been seized from their hands and in their stead their wives are making for the safe harbour which the men were at such pains to avoid and to void. They are the fruit of dry vines, shrivelled and rotten in no time at all. On their mattresses they are overcome by the desire for death. Their wives die by their own hand (or have to be given a helping hand by the state). They are not private. They do not have anywhere beautiful to live. What you see of them is what you get. What you see, and what you sometimes hear coming from the choir. Nothing good. They can do a lot of things at the same time and yet they still don't ripple the water in the pool where the Direktor's wife in her swimsuit stretches out on her blanket. The blanket coverage of Nature. Nature, immeasurably high and remote from us average consumers.
The water isblue and never takes a rest. But still the Man returns from his day's work to his home. Not everyone can have taste. The child has a lesson this afternoon. The Direktor has put everything on computer. He writes the programmes himself by way of a hobby. He has no love of the wild; the silent forest means nothing to him. The woman opens the door, and he perceives that there is nothing so big but he will be master of it, but neither must it be too small or else it'll be opened up immediately. His greed is an honest thing. It fits him just as the violin fits under the child's chin. These dear people encounter each other frequently in the house, for everything comes from their hearts and is proclaimed unto the light. The Man wants to be alone with his divine wife now. Poor folk have to pay before they can put in to shore.
Now the woman doesn't even have time to lower her gaze. The Direktor has other ideas when she makes to go into the kitchen to fix something up. He takes her arm in a determined grip. First he wants a crack at her. He's cancelled two appointments in order to have it. The woman opens her mouth to cancel this appointment, but she thinks of his strength and shuts her mouth again. This Man would play his tune even in the bosom of the mountains, his violin stroke would echo off the rocks, he'd stroke his rocks off. Time and again the same old song. This resounding banging tune. So astoundingly terrible. To the accompaniment of resentful looks. The woman hasn't the heart to refuse herself. She's defenceless. The Man is perpetually ready to go. Greedy for his pleasure. To pleasure himself. Lo, this happy day is there for the rich and the poor, but unfortunately the poor begrudge it the rich. The woman laughs nervously as the Man, still wearing his coat, deliberately exposes himself to her. And there it is, the thick-headed thick head and shaft of his member. The woman's laughter grows louder and she slaps herself on the mouth, startled. She's threatened with a beating. Her head is still full of music, Johann Sebastian Bach, expressing her own feelings and those of others, music guaranteed to give pleasure, going round and round in circles on the record player, chasing its tail. The Man is chasing his tail too, or his tail is chasing and he is following. So it goes with men, ever onwards, their works ever greater but presently collapsing behind their backs. The trees in the forest are more stoutly and reliably upstanding. Calmly the Direktor chats about her cunt. How he will force it open in a moment. He seems intoxicated. His words totter and reel. He grips the woman's hip in his left hand and yanks her serviceable (easy to service her) clothing up over her head. She wriggles in his heavy-weight presence. He yells at her for wearing tights, which he long since forbade her to wear, stockings are more feminine and make better use of the available holes, if they don't indeed create new ones. He tells the woman he is going to have her real good now. Twice; At least. Women are planted full of hopes and live off memory, but men live off the moment, which belongs to them and, when carefully tended, can be gathered into a little heap of time which likewise belongs to them. At night they have to sleep and can't fill up. They are afire and warm up in small containers. Surprise surprise, this woman has been secretly rendered infertile through pills; the Man's never-becalmed heart would not countenance having no life gush forth from his ever brimful tank.