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A Letter to My Memory
-”Ist es Liebe oder sind es nur sieben und dreizig graden Friktionen?” Already before Albin made the for me so well known question, I knew that it would appear. He always made the question when he was sitting together with an unknown woman. It could take five minutes or five hours, I never knew when, only that it would. It happened sometimes that he switched the order of the words, so that the distinct number of degrees came in the first part and love in the second part of the question. What version he used depended of course upon how he thought the woman would appreciate the question. Albin wasn’t German, but he always liked to commentate and make his insinuating questions on this ”the power-language of Europe”. According to Albin, the German language was the language of poetry and life, and everything thoughtful and powerful ought to be expressed in the language of the third Reich. He could often sneak in a quotation from his German favourite poems, when he said something, attempting to trap someone from the opposite sex. He especially quoted the masterpiece, (Albin’s opinion “Der Panther”. In our endless discussions about love, life and death, Albin always returned to the same subject: freedom. Perhaps he felt just as locked in as the predator in Rilke’s poem. Albin said, that the possibilities of getting freedom were, to never look outside the bars, or to find the key to the lock of steel cage. He was primarily looking for the key to the lock, at the bottom of glasses, or on the chain around female necks.
-“My name is Falk! Come! Drink absinthe from my chalice!”
I don’t know if he ever found the key, but his searching was as persistent as a fly’s visit in the nostril a summer morning with hangover. Unfortunately his hands got tired caressing female necks, and his knuckles whitened more and more squeezing the hard shell of the bottle. Several years have passed since I last heard from Albin, but now and then I dust off the memory of my old friend. It is a pleasant memory to dig up and dust off.
Old friend and Sancho Pansa!
It is morning. The sun shines upon me from far below, behind my back. I’m situated high above The Thames. Time has gone on vacation, I don’t know where but perhaps She’s swimming together with some of the youngest sunbeams, far out at some distant bend of the Thames. I do what the pilgrim and I was born to be doing, flying, soaring, diving! If I look down I can see the black water speeding towards me, I’m smiling, it’s a happy smile, completely free from dirt and other impurities. The wind is whining in my brown and white fetters, apart from that everything is quiet. My ears, that usually repel and try to shut different sounds out, are now working with what they were made to work with. They are sucking in every sound, sucking with the same power as the sun drinks dew from the grass a warm summer morning. There is a feeling far away, somewhere between the cochlea and the palate, the craving for sound. Ich habe es gefundet! The key, it’s here within reach, my ears are apprehending it’s rattling. I am focusing all my power on getting it, it’s difficult, it’s slipping away. I’m resting for a moment, gathering my power, and try again. The time has returned. My prey is freedom, and death is my key.
Ps. I’m sorry that I’m forced to write on a machine. If my memory is not at fault, you prefer hand-written letters? Unfortunately death has an unreadable handwriting. Ds.
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A Letter to My Memory
-”Ist es Liebe oder sind es nur sieben und dreizig graden Friktionen?”
Already before Albin made the for me so well known question, I knew that it would appear. He always made the question when he was sitting together with an unknown woman. It could take five minutes or five hours, I never knew when, only that it would. It happened sometimes that he switched the order of the words, so that the distinct number of degrees came in the first part and love in the second part of the question. What version he used depended of course upon how he thought the woman would appreciate the question.
Albin wasn’t German, but he always liked to commentate and make his insinuating questions on this ”the power-language of Europe”. According to Albin, the German language was the language of poetry and life, and everything thoughtful and powerful ought to be expressed in the language of the third Reich. He could often sneak in a quotation from his German favourite poems, when he said something, attempting to trap someone from the opposite sex. He especially quoted the masterpiece, (Albin’s opinion “Der Panther”. In our endless discussions about love, life and death, Albin always returned to the same subject: freedom. Perhaps he felt just as locked in as the predator in Rilke’s poem. Albin said, that the possibilities of getting freedom were, to never look outside the bars, or to find the key to the lock of steel cage.
He was primarily looking for the key to the lock, at the bottom of glasses, or on the chain around female necks.
-“My name is Falk! Come! Drink absinthe from my chalice!”
I don’t know if he ever found the key, but his searching was as persistent as a fly’s visit in the nostril a summer morning with hangover. Unfortunately his hands got tired caressing female necks, and his knuckles whitened more and more squeezing the hard shell of the bottle.
Several years have passed since I last heard from Albin, but now and then I dust off the memory of my old friend. It is a pleasant memory to dig up and dust off.
Old friend and Sancho Pansa!
It is morning. The sun shines upon me from far below, behind my back. I’m situated high above The Thames. Time has gone on vacation, I don’t know where but perhaps She’s swimming together with some of the youngest sunbeams, far out at some distant bend of the Thames. I do what the pilgrim and I was born to be doing, flying, soaring, diving! If I look down I can see the black water speeding towards me, I’m smiling, it’s a happy smile, completely free from dirt and other impurities. The wind is whining in my brown and white fetters, apart from that everything is quiet. My ears, that usually repel and try to shut different sounds out, are now working with what they were made to work with. They are sucking in every sound, sucking with the same power as the sun drinks dew from the grass a warm summer morning. There is a feeling far away, somewhere between the cochlea and the palate, the craving for sound.
Ich habe es gefundet! The key, it’s here within reach, my ears are apprehending it’s rattling. I am focusing all my power on getting it, it’s difficult, it’s slipping away. I’m resting for a moment, gathering my power, and try again.
The time has returned. My prey is freedom, and death is my key.
Ps. I’m sorry that I’m forced to write on a machine. If my memory is not at fault, you prefer hand-written letters? Unfortunately death has an unreadable handwriting. Ds.