?

Log in

Studierzimmer III
In irgendeinem abgelegenen Winkel

M.
Date: 2009-04-17 11:26
Subject: (kein Betreff)
Security: Public
http://studierzimmer3.blogspot.com/
2 Comments | Post A Comment | Share | Link



M.
Date: 2009-03-24 23:22
Subject: (kein Betreff)
Security: Public
Only a thin glass keeps the rain from the inside of this room. The wind, however, is amorphous and swift enough to make its way in; the drapes shudder. Insulation is a myth, particularly in this third storey room of a Victorian redbrick back-to-back. The wind causes envy with its invisibility. It gives voice to the falling water -- a chaotic musician, with chance as its metronome. A half-delirious thought. 

And there is the understated comfort of sitting on the bed by the window, and feeling the wind ease through the unperceived cracks, slowed down and breathing inside, as distinct from its outside hollering. What does that gap do? It is the mouthpiece, and, at certain moments, the reed. 

The glass itself bends while absorbing the shock of the larger blows, beaten by breath, but still standing (and I wonder at how great a gap there is between impression and materiality) like a loyal messenger, letting in the news -- the smell of the outdoor nightly chill. 

Each note the wind utters like a pulse, charged, and it itself is its very life, its own life-bearing moving mover, persistent, sometimes insistent, like now. The rain cannot but be carried along and thrashed against the window, stretched and streaming down as a witness, as a testament to the wind's hollow voice. It seems, then, the two give voice to each other.

I see waves of rain in the air before a yellow streetlight outside; like schools of fish, the drops move in synchronicity, unintentionally giving off an impression of co-ordination and order. 


If I could thank the rain and wind, would they hear me?
Post A Comment | Share | Link



M.
Date: 2009-03-17 21:32
Subject: i am neither breather nor speaker
Security: Public
Soll schreiben was ich schreiben soll, statt Zeit vergeuden, aber Leben ist kurz und wenn ich die Spur verliere, ist's noch schwieriger weiter zu gehen, ohne Lust, so zu sagen. Für mich war's fast eine Überraschung, wie viel die vergangene Monate unerwartet waren, und wundere ob es weiter so gehn wird. was denn noch? nicht nur schnell, sondern auch total anders als davor, aber was war eigentlich 'davor'? wandere herum, beim Schreiben, meine ich, aber auch im Leben, und denke nach so viel was noch nicht oder nicht mehr ist; ich bin alle Alter, wie jeder ist. was heir unterstrichen und dann herausgebracht ist -- das ist nur, aber doch ist's viel, die Saite, die von jemandem gespielt ist, und was nicht Laut ist aber spielt darunter.

ist's möglich sich in einer Stimme -- oder Stimmung -- verliebt zu sein? Natürlich.
Post A Comment | Share | Link



M.
Date: 2009-03-17 01:12
Subject: (kein Betreff)
Security: Public
 In the same room, a few yards and friends between us, we sit, at a safe distance. A shared history hums in the background, a little unsteadying, always threatening to allow that ever-active discomfort surface. And we wait and hope it doesn't come, but know that at some point we'll meet again, and all will have been as if it had not been at all, a blank chasm in its place.
Post A Comment | Share | Link



M.
Date: 2009-03-13 21:29
Subject: Morning Mr Magpie
Security: Public
Hearing the out-of-tune humming coming from the room next to mine, I wonder, do I sound like that too? Hollow, pathetic, off-key? 
We always sound different in our own ears. The magpie outside my window decides to screech in his own voice. It's like a special Friday the Thirteenth visit! 'Morning Mr Magpie,' I say silently, more out of memory of a song by the same name than out of superstition. 

In the Aesopian fable, the crow is flattered enough to open its mouth to let out its beautiful voice; the cheese it had stolen falls into the flattering fox's reach, and instead of singing, the crow lets out only a stifled, inward-sounding groan.

Perhaps after that initial loss their voices changed, and every time a magpie or a crow or a jay sings, it cries -- at injustice, at its inherited stupidity, at the fox's trickery. 

Still, I cannot help but be partial to our urban winged vermin companions. 

Post A Comment | Share | Link






M.
Date: 2009-03-05 18:25
Subject: (kein Betreff)
Security: Public

The phone rang and she was invited for coffee.
Her mephistophelian mentor, in whatever form, was in the habit of extending such civil invitations. Today's meeting was at three o'clock and she was not to be late: he looked upon the dilatory with the same unforgiving contempt normally reserved for the mentally torpid -- worthless prey, too easy. But he had not been clear as to the location: the coffee place downtown on Kirkgate, he said, just before hanging up. But there are many coffee places on Kirkgate, and she could think of no particular place that stood out.

She decided to leave early and walk quickly, and when she arrived at the top of the street, she looked down, self-aware, and saw a dark figure amidst the fashion-conscious money-spenders and loitering onlookers. He stood up and held his cigarette in his left hand, delicately. Around him there was a circle of space which people managed to avoid without knowing it, and this emptiness shone like a spotlight. Of course: it didn't matter which café. She'd find him -- or he her -- before the location would become apparent. 

 

They sat down. He crossed his legs quietly, and looked pristine and fine like a Greek statue. 

 

'Your nonchalance frightens me sometimes.'

'How so?'

'You never seem to be worried. Do you care about anything at all?'

'Eager for some intense conversation, aren't we?'

'No. Just frustrated.'

'Perhaps you should relax, indulge in a little "nonchalance", as you call it.'

She eyed him with uneasy admiration, trying to pass it off as contempt, and bowed her head slightly towards the cup before her.

'Drink. You'll feel better.'

The coffee was, as it always is, smooth, hot, black, and welcome.

'You speak like a novice. I do wonder sometimes whether you've learned anything at all.'

She didn't know how to respond effectively and so waited for him to continue. An awkward moment (for one party) passed, and she realised that the burden of silence was hers to carry, so she sighed and stirred her coffee, watching the formless steam rise before continuing.

'I have learned a great deal. But very little of it was from you.'

'Oh, now that's not so. You've learned to tolerate yourself. You've learned to ignore your weaknesses for a solid thirty seconds in order to move forward. You've held your head blissfully in the clouds, almost, when I've convinced you to. You've learned the joys of possibility, and have forgotten the hardships of having to confront yourself every time you wake up or pass a reflective window. Do you remember that?'

Her memory, though it assented to the facts, did not agree with the sense. She had been taking his advice and moving at his insistence for three years now. And between now and that point three years before, she had the feeling she'd been spiralling off her designated path. She was beginning to act without the confidence he once inspired in her, without the assurance that his advice was holy and well-meaning. He had detracted her many times.

'I've directed you many times.' She had the uncanny suspicion he knew what she was thinking. 'I've reminded you of what you are.'

But this was the problem. She swirled her spoon one full circle, slowly, and stopped. She did not want to remain here. She had drunk her coffee down, more quickly than usual, to the dregs, and the spoon now was set amidst only the fine wet sediment, traced into an inscrutable, reticent design. 

She saw where she had been, how she had depended on him as a guide. He had seen more, and could communicate in languages she'd never master. Always an enigma, and almost her intuition. He seemed to know more than she did, perhaps he even knew what she wanted most, but this she could not know for certainty.  

But he could tell her no more about her future than the coffee grounds could.

 

Still holding her spoon, she looked up and into his clear eyes and saw nothing. He smiled faintly and took her hand that held the spoon, as if she were a child. 

'You are lost again. Where have you gone?'

She wanted to say 'home'. She wanted to be 'home'. She wanted to know what that meant, and why she desired something she didn't know. 

'You don't need to speak.' He ordered another coffee for her and lit another cigarette. She took solace in this repeated action, this familiarity. Small, predictable actions like these seemed her only source of divination. 

Still she wondered whether she was being laughed at.

Post A Comment | Share | Link



M.
Date: 2009-02-16 01:43
Subject: (kein Betreff)
Security: Public
one day forgetfulness will be given me
Post A Comment | Share | Link



M.
Date: 2009-01-27 02:39
Subject: (kein Betreff)
Security: Public
Like an Echo, she only heard herself respond. Unlike an Echo, she knew she had a forerunner. Too many images of casting out a wish admixed with charity, each eroding the other so that deliberation, under desiccated circumstances, becomes habit, groundless, though nevertheless with a history. 

Do unto others, do unto others, do unto others.
A mantric monotony.
She could not converse, and now her actions were silent too, but she wrote like a banshee. 
Post A Comment | Share | Link



M.
Date: 2009-01-27 02:36
Subject: (kein Betreff)
Security: Public
Red trim, dark wood, Bitte vorsicht! and cigarettes indoors.

I grew accustomed to this so quickly, so deeply. 
Post A Comment | Share | Link



M.
Date: 2009-01-16 21:42
Subject: repetition
Security: Public

Post A Comment | Share | Link






browse
my journal
April 2009