There are opportunities that are specific to a certain age. Then you have to decide: either-or. The old game of chance. I have made my decision. I want it. Want to write the first few sentences. Want to gush unguardedly. To draw a sketch, build a model, make a wish list.
This is my first and last breath. A warmup for the short appearance before the curtain falls. These words are an instigation, but also a farewell. Written at night, to be read at night. Ideally spread out over the span of seven. They contain courage. Desire. And fear. Be careful with them. Because they could mean something.
He who sent me will remain silent for now. Only once will he speak. At the end. When every-thing is done.
Until then: Join me at the window. Close your eyes. And break the glass…
I
SUPERBIA
HOW MUCH THE WORLD needs me. How much it depends on me. Now. Today. Here. Not tomorrow. Not later, but now.
I kick away the cups of the beggars. Pull the woolen caps from the heads of music students. Outside beer tents, I spit into the glasses of drunks. I tear the balloons from the hands of stupid kids, watch them rise into the clear night sky. Let the kids cry, let them scream and spit with anger. It only broadens my stride, swells my chest. I laugh at the fare dodgers that get busted, the man in the sausage stand caught in a cloud of smoke and the lost tourists. All the young fathers with their bikes, their child seats, their BabyBjörns, just waiting to show off how quickly they can change diapers. How very happy they are in their new role. Finally, they don’t have to be a man anymore. Only a dad. I laugh at the well-behaved people on the escalators, always standing on the right, showing off how thoughtful and socially competent they are. They probably mention that in their job applications under “Community Contributions”: “I always stand on the right side of the escalator (and only there).” And I laugh about all the young ones who are as old as I am. Who talk of nothing but family celebrations, keep their hands warm in their jacket pockets, but would never use their fists. Who are even afraid of tight boxer shorts and never wanted to be like Serge Gainsbourg. I laugh about them all. Long and loudly. Because I jumped, 150 meters down. Along the smooth skyscraper facade. No umbrella, no net. I didn’t scream. Didn’t make a noise. I kept my eyes wide open, stared firmly into the void when they pushed me over the edge. Under the bright full moon. I felt what it is like, to fall. To plunge into nothingness. Without anything to hold onto. No floor beneath me, no helping hand. What it must be like to really jump. When everything is over and despair has won out. When all group therapy, cognitive enhancement and chat rooms have failed, when the last text has been sent. As I fell, the wind slashed at my face, taking away my vision and my consciousness.
But I landed. Safe and sound. And yet, I was shaking. I threw away the certificate immediately: official acknowledgment of my victory over gravity. What a way to demystify the whole experience. I’ve looked death in the eye. Nothing less. His pupil was white, like a shark’s just before the fatal bite. With pale and empty eyes, he stared at me and didn’t blink, like a pro at that old game that children play. He briefly whispered: “Not now, but soon.” With this sentence in my ear, my feet touched the ground. I put my hands on the boney shoulders of the girl who was there to catch and unlatch me. And then I ran, fast and without looking back. Off into the night. Laughing, full of mockery. Because pride comes after the fall.
At an intersection I see a few traffic cop pedestals. With their red and white paint they stand there like the last witnesses of a time in which authority was still a matter of formality. It wasn’t only for the sake of visibility that traffic cops once wore white gloves and white coats. People called them “white mice.” Their uniforms were more regalia of honor than functional equipment.
I step onto one of the pedestals and look around. The headlights of cars flicker through the night. When the traffic light switches to red a few vehicles gather and wait next to each other, motors running, like a panting herd. The traffic light produces a strange sensation of familiarity. For a few moments a community is formed, linked by common destiny, complete strangers falling in line. Then on command they jointly charge forward, remain shoulder to shoulder for a brief instant longer, until one breaks away and the group is forever dispersed.
My right hand touches my forehead in a salute. “One day, my son, all of this will be yours.” No, wrong tone, wrong mood. Leave the father aside for today and just start with the son. Because he still foams at the mouth, like you in your dreams.
I know I could do it better. For example, I would be a better speaker than them. Not simply come up with better phrasings—many can do that—no, I could bring life to the sentences, make them sharp, so that they land and stick. Could string the words together without any space for “like” and “um”. People would listen to me until the last word. I would talk like others conduct Bruckner’s Ninth or commentate in a soccer stadium. Language creates reality, that is indisputable. What we need is more exclamation points again—otherwise we end up talking with no one but ourselves. The fear of set phrases and clichés keeps us silent. And the dread of the unfinished expression destroys our hearts. In our attempt to pick just the right address, an “equitable” and “easy” language, we don’t notice ourselves shying away from the real thing. A few decades ago a reference to “class” could win any discourse, now a reference to “gender issues” is all you need to get everyone on your side. We’re always identifying with those discriminated against. Out of solidarity, we too feel discriminated against and wait for lawmakers to step in on our behalf. But a society can’t survive if no one owns up to the larger whole. It surrenders to the divisive attacks of ideologues and cynics. Our lives are ruled by apathy and retreat. We have to do something about it.
Once I gain power, I’ll build public squares where people can gather and talk. Squares that inspire courage, that don’t suppress. With fountains and stringed lights, last-minute accommodation and speakers’ corners. Spaces that don’t get appropriated by any one group, but rather remain open, agile, ready for attack. I will grow grapes and rosemary there and install small buckets in the floor where you can cool your beer in the summer and warm your feet in the winter. And there will be enough stone benches. Nothing is worse than a square without benches. Yet, it won’t just be a place for relaxation, but one that challenges you to speak your mind, take a position. It will be paradise for those that trust each other to engage face to face. Those who seek human interaction, real questions, authentic listening.
I’ll dictatorially allot houses in a way that doesn’t allow anyone to get comfortable in their double standards. All residents will be foreign to each other. I’ll ensure that no one can make trite statements during the day, knowing full well that they’ll return to the safety of their suburban villa in the evening. Forced resettlement, division of large families, fights at the tenants’ assembly—bring it on if that means that everyone will get to experience foreignness firsthand.
I’ll enforce that a poem must be read before every committee meeting, opening bell or editorial conference. Not a prayer, not a national anthem—a poem. Doesn’t matter from which country, in which language—but it has to be poetry. That would help. For example, in preparing people’s spirits for the big questions, the broad horizons. A life without coffee breaks and striking airline pilots. A poem every now and then could change a lot.
I’ll appoint animals to maintain order. For demonstrations and riots, May Days and search warrants. Preferably pandas and zebras, but sometimes, when things get really heated and dangerous, giant tortoises and dromedaries. The mere presence of exotic animals would reign in even the worst offender. Their mysterious aura would intimidate him. Much more effective than any water hose. Humans are more ashamed in front of animals than their own kind. They’re even shy about peeing on a tree in front of their dogs. Under my leadership there would be a close cooperation between the police and the zoo. And prison cells would get relocated to the giraffe enclosure.