Es ist etwas gruselig, wie sehr Geschichten eine Welt schaffen können. Wie im Traum. Ist dieses Café ein Hybrid aus Erinnerung und Fantasie. Wir sitzen hier in einer bestimmten Ordnung. Ich in jener beschriebenen Beziehung zu der Frau, und sie auf genau dem Platz, den ich auf dem Papier für sie auserkoren habe. Sie nickt mir freundlich zu. Weiß sie von mir? Ich mag sie. Am liebsten möchte ich hingehen und sie fragen, ob alles in Ordnung ist mit ihrem Garten und ihren Träumen und ihrem Einkaufskorb. Beim Schreiben dachte ich immer, ich wäre sie und das Mädchen jemand anderes. Aber das ist falsch! Ich bin das Mädchen. Man sagt, eine Geschichte erwächst aus Realität und Fantasie. Aber wird aus einer Geschichte auch Realität? Mir wird heiß. Mein Tee kalt. Sie verdeckt ihr Gesicht, und ich versuche unauffälliger zu starren. Irgendwann packt sie ihre Zeitschrift, ihren Korb und ihre Träume und geht. Und ich bin noch hier. Oft ist alles ganz anders herum, als wir denken. Und viel besser.
I wanted to take this slow. It took me two hours to prepare my outer and inner condition. I thought of avoiding too many people at the beginning, walking around, going by an empty train to get used to myself. But my plan didn´t work out. The first step on the street felt like a jump into a fire: crowded streets with trillions of `normal´ people, wearing normal suits, having normal lunch. I was thrilled. I couldn´t breathe, let alone lift my eyes. I ran to the train station, a cocktail of adrenaline and thoughts drugging me with: Run, stoop, take small frantic steps as a crack driven woman, hide behind your role, your dirt. Nothing will happen to you. After a few steps of self suggestion I felt quite safe. Just keep on looking down with the cap covering your face. As long as you don´t see any people, perhaps they don´t see you. I was wrong. Half blind of tension, I almost bumped into a business guy, quite cute looking. I had a few key encounters this day and he was the first. His torn open eyes looked at me with disgust, shock and pity at the same time. And I figured: Even if I tried to be invisible, people indeed might not recognize you. But they see you. After a long ride on the train and a walk through the city of destination, I finally found a space for my mission. Now I was going to spread my newspaper, sit down and place my paper cup in front of me. Right here. I was really gonna do this, right? Come on now, do it. Leap off into the pavement. Cower. Use your arms, the cap, the pullover as your shield. Sitting there, all I saw was shoes passing by. I calmed down under cover until, after a few minutes only, I heard coins rattle. A pair of blue sneakers turned around and walked towards me. What´s he doing? Is he coming to me? No way, he is. Don´t look up, don´t look up. Breathe. Hide. A hand sank down to my paper cup and dropped a coin. I looked up where my view met some young
man´s eyes. I thanked him. He nodded and rushed away. I did it. I´m officially accepted as one of`em. I was terrified.
Today, my book came. I wrote it one year ago. It was as a commissional work, which is why I couldn´t really accept it as my own work from deep down. I thought I´d never want to read it again, put it aside and totally forget about it.
But holding it in my hand I could´t help me saying “hello”. Browsing a bit and stopping at some parts. And you know what? It´s not too bad. A little cheesy here and there but somehow ironical, intense and real at some other passages.
The weirdest thing still is reading you´re own stuff asking yourself: “WTF WAS I THINKING”???
I mentioned a guy riding through the sea on his dolphin-toothbrush. No kidding.
Man, that´s weird.
This is my hair before I´ll actually dye it green tomorrow (no kidding either, Lena´s gonna kill me).
But before this, there´s still some night-work to do:
1. Writing a list of questions I need to ask my `objects of research´.
2. Looking out for those `objects of research´. This might be the more difficult part.