Jan. 30, 2011 at 5:21pm with 1 note
What you did matters. Or, The Girl With The Number Tattoo  #6 Maybe it was Ethan, or Ethan’s strange, cold body. Deidre couldn’t figure it out. As always, when something was stressing her out, she went to the pool, diving her head under the water, feeling the strength of her muscles, listening to the rhythm of her own breathing, watching the bubbles that came out of her nose. She never wanted to dive up, she always wished that she could stay there a little longer, down there, at the bottom of the pool. The tiles were quite old,  but the pool itself didn’t seem to be, at least it wasn’t disgusting, or at least it wasn’t in this strange view of the world her googles created, somewhat kaleidoscopic. It was not that she was afraid of this upcoming memorial service. She just really felt strongly that it was determined to be ackward. No one really cared about that guy, most of them hadn’t really known his name, before he was lying there, at the floor, becoming this dirty little scratch an institution that dependant on forces it constantly had to please didn’t need. No doubt that no one had even touched him, this boy has been kind of this shy, insecure little whatever, never talking much, always moving like he had decided, at one point in his life, to live without a body, only using his feet to carry his head around, a stick in his ass. Deidre was sure that she has been the only one in a long time that had had touched him. Maybe it was this parallel, that somehow striked her. She didn’t want to have to lie on that floor, cold, to be touched again. It seemed harder than she had imagined to embody the Israelian summer night‘s dream in this somewhat stiff, selfcentered city, falling for the numbness of a winter’s cold. At least it would be fun to watch all of these people, so obsessed with their massmurders, death marches, transports, traumas, to watch if they would be able to find a way how to deal with this one, concrete body, whispering what was his name again, oh, this boy, I remember I met him once, in the elevator, it must have been September, I guess, but he looked healthy, didn’t he, well? Probably they would try to overplay their insecurity not to know how and where to look while someone would certainly hold a speech filled with these ackward words of loss, tragic, remembrance, youth and fate, they could easily copy it from their books, no big deal. Probably they would sit there like she had been sitting at these strange and never ending catholic worship ceremonies when she was a kid, living in that goddamn village, trying to concentrate on her legs that she somehow had knot into each other, she has been quite an athletic kid at that time, to calm them down, not to jump up, not to hit the wooden wall of the bench in front of her, to make some beat, to distract her somehow from this strange …. At least she would be well prepared. Unless she would have to sit next to Marguerite. Imagine Marguerite, doing her stupid flirtshow with this Adam, never being aware that he felt uncomfortable in her presence. Although Deidre thought that he was one of those guys you don’t have to waste a thought about, she somehow felt sorry for him, watching him being patronized, seeing that he knew it but had no clue how to get himself out of the situation. Marguerite’s greek statue shaped face next to his Foucaultian head, bald, with dominant glasses framing his greyblue, featureless eyes, Deidre never had figured out, if it was supposed to be some sort of mimikry or if it was just quite a smart camouflage way of hiding his natural bald head, they made quite a pastiche, overall. There were still some hours to go, time wasn’t always mercyless, and Deidre promised to herself to think of her arms chopping through the water or the shabby tiles floating down there, under her body, just in case she would need to pull herself together. It was embarrasing to laugh at a memorial service, that’s something she knew without having experienced it.   The Meyerhoff Theatre was quite packed. Adam hadn’t expected so many people there. As always he tried to find a seat in the rows in the back, not to be at the center of attention. Understatement had proven to be his golden path, no need to step out of his box, not today. And although it was supposed to be one of those lame performances, you could never be sure, if the whole thing didn’t turn out to be an interactive experience, forced on everyone. He had seen things like that on TV. And his ability in reading the new cultural signs hadn’t improved yet. There were plenty of badges, filled with names he should have known given the time he had spent at the Museum. He sneaked on a seat between two spotlights. Marguerite hadn’t shown up. He noticed that he was looking for her. Peter was entering the hall. He passed by his seat, smirking, pinching Adam’s shoulder in this manly way that suggested cameraderie, Adam smiled back, Peter headed to the front. Well done, that one. There was a displeasing silence. Everyone seemed to be unconcentrated, maybe somehow really touched, it was hard to get a feeling of what was going on. The director grabbed the microphone, he spoke in this stretched way, spitting out one word after the other,  Adam concentrated to follow him, trying not to loose the track, wondering if he spoke the same way if he ordered something in a restaurant. His overweight didn’t speak for that. He smelled Marguerite’s chanel 5 before he even noticed that she was sitting next to him. „Hi“ she whispered, giving him this big smile, he nodded, reaching out to carress her shoulder, not knowing why he did it, it was too late to stop his hand from doing it. Marguerite put her bag in front of her feet, struggling with the scarf, that got stuck in her hair. Adam hold his hands tight at his body, trying not to reach out to help her. The director went on talking. It still seemed to be the introduction part of the speech, although he wasn’t the type to make a real climax in any parts of his text. „That’s exactly why all of them are that much into the Holocaust. Imagine him at the gay bingo. A complete failure,“ Marguerite whispered in his ear, he could feel her breath on his skin, he sobbed, burking down a laugh. It felt like at school, just somehow better. Why not sitting out that next two hours as the two Muppets, only with more sex appeal. Was it a kind of regression? Or could you see it as an act of freeing yourself. But freeing from what? And why was it that there were always coming negative somewhat second hand psychonanalytical categories into his mind, trying to merge everything that happened to him into this familiar pattern of personal crisis, in a way proving that  insufficiency had to be his eternal stage of existence.  His hand lay on Marguerite’s tigh, it was musculous, he hadn’t expected it to be. He hadn’t expected to feel that much, if he looked at it, being honest.   It rained like mad, Marguerite was pissed. Why hadn’t anyone told her that it turned out to be one of those days. She tried to pull her jacket over her head, which was senseless, of course, it was supposed to be one of these tight cut, clinging jackets, perfect for a show off, not made for an outdoor trip, and how could she have known that going to work would turn out into a fucking boot camp experience. She rushed to the metro, not sure what way heading. Noone would notice that it was the same blouse she wore yesterday, but she knew. She decided to go to the office. The article she was supposed to write wouldn’t do it itself. And there were these emails waiting to be sent, an appointment for the monthly waxing procedure to be arranged, a call with her advisor to be made, in short, a future to be arranged. The people in the train were annoying, every time she needed some space to get her thoughts sorted there was an elbow stuck in her back, a leg hitting her tighs, why could people never accept this invisible circle she drawed around herself, that she tried to protect, she wasn’t a crash race car, after all. The trap was to draw a comparison between the fate of the roma people in the Anhaltelager and what happened in France right now, that she knew instinctevly. Although it seemed quite a la mode to draw comparisons, of whatever, to deconstruct master narratives, dominant victim groups, universalizing discourses, or to simply put your name on the map. She was good in dumping people, but still it was sometimes hard to develop a convincing argument, that made her untouchable, there was a difference, over all. She shouldn’t have agreed to write this dumb article, but it seemed too late to play the sickness card. She would have to avoid numbers. For sure. Maybe similarities in the structure of exclusion, deprivation of rights, deportation, on a very abstract level, maybe that would be a way to go. Adam’s way of kissing her had surprised her. It was more gentle and at the same time more passionate than she would have thought. Once he had put off this ackward glasses. It had took her some time to let her thoughts go, but then, at this certain moment, she fell for it, she just decided to let it go, and maybe it was the other way round, her passionate way of kissing him was what had surprised her the most. It somehow crashed with the pet concept she really was up to. She knew it was going to trouble her, which had not been part of the plan. She never had thought that he would take the control out of her hands. He looked so different first. It scared her to step out of her box. It had been a moment of freedom, still. Probably she would need to be very clear of the differences, more than pointing out the structural similarities. They could nail her on that, it was no stage in her career to survive getting nailed. And it wasn’t a smart thing to step out of two boxes at the same time. At least it was too overwhelming for her, she would freeze as always, losing any agency. Adam‘s neck was soft, it felt familiar caressing it, she felt the prickel going through his body, where did all these excitement come from? Maybe it was exactly the excitement that you can’t predict, not by what you think of the person you’re about to fuck, first, second not by what you think of yourself. Maybe there was no logic to be found. He was caressed her eyes, her cheeks, in this gentle, soft manner, while she felt his body, merging with hers, hungry, passionately, craving. There was no craving in the way she planned the text. There was no desire to say something. To make a point. To be excited about an idea she would like to stick to. Worst, she was afraid to never find it again, glamour with brains, glitter with empathy, seriousness with a twinkle in your eyes. All night long they had kept their Muppets habit, there was so much fun, she never had talked that much, rolling on a couch.  She should have stop to tear his jeans down when he looked in her eyes with this nondescript gaze. It was just that she didn’t want to stop. But he could have told her that he was transitioning. At some point at least.

What you did matters. Or, The Girl With The Number Tattoo  #6

Maybe it was Ethan, or Ethan’s strange, cold body. Deidre couldn’t figure it out. As always, when something was stressing her out, she went to the pool, diving her head under the water, feeling the strength of her muscles, listening to the rhythm of her own breathing, watching the bubbles that came out of her nose. She never wanted to dive up, she always wished that she could stay there a little longer, down there, at the bottom of the pool. The tiles were quite old,  but the pool itself didn’t seem to be, at least it wasn’t disgusting, or at least it wasn’t in this strange view of the world her googles created, somewhat kaleidoscopic. It was not that she was afraid of this upcoming memorial service. She just really felt strongly that it was determined to be ackward. No one really cared about that guy, most of them hadn’t really known his name, before he was lying there, at the floor, becoming this dirty little scratch an institution that dependant on forces it constantly had to please didn’t need. No doubt that no one had even touched him, this boy has been kind of this shy, insecure little whatever, never talking much, always moving like he had decided, at one point in his life, to live without a body, only using his feet to carry his head around, a stick in his ass. Deidre was sure that she has been the only one in a long time that had had touched him. Maybe it was this parallel, that somehow striked her. She didn’t want to have to lie on that floor, cold, to be touched again. It seemed harder than she had imagined to embody the Israelian summer night‘s dream in this somewhat stiff, selfcentered city, falling for the numbness of a winter’s cold.

At least it would be fun to watch all of these people, so obsessed with their massmurders, death marches, transports, traumas, to watch if they would be able to find a way how to deal with this one, concrete body, whispering what was his name again, oh, this boy, I remember I met him once, in the elevator, it must have been September, I guess, but he looked healthy, didn’t he, well? Probably they would try to overplay their insecurity not to know how and where to look while someone would certainly hold a speech filled with these ackward words of loss, tragic, remembrance, youth and fate, they could easily copy it from their books, no big deal. Probably they would sit there like she had been sitting at these strange and never ending catholic worship ceremonies when she was a kid, living in that goddamn village, trying to concentrate on her legs that she somehow had knot into each other, she has been quite an athletic kid at that time, to calm them down, not to jump up, not to hit the wooden wall of the bench in front of her, to make some beat, to distract her somehow from this strange ….

At least she would be well prepared. Unless she would have to sit next to Marguerite. Imagine Marguerite, doing her stupid flirtshow with this Adam, never being aware that he felt uncomfortable in her presence. Although Deidre thought that he was one of those guys you don’t have to waste a thought about, she somehow felt sorry for him, watching him being patronized, seeing that he knew it but had no clue how to get himself out of the situation. Marguerite’s greek statue shaped face next to his Foucaultian head, bald, with dominant glasses framing his greyblue, featureless eyes, Deidre never had figured out, if it was supposed to be some sort of mimikry or if it was just quite a smart camouflage way of hiding his natural bald head, they made quite a pastiche, overall. There were still some hours to go, time wasn’t always mercyless, and Deidre promised to herself to think of her arms chopping through the water or the shabby tiles floating down there, under her body, just in case she would need to pull herself together. It was embarrasing to laugh at a memorial service, that’s something she knew without having experienced it.

 

The Meyerhoff Theatre was quite packed. Adam hadn’t expected so many people there. As always he tried to find a seat in the rows in the back, not to be at the center of attention. Understatement had proven to be his golden path, no need to step out of his box, not today. And although it was supposed to be one of those lame performances, you could never be sure, if the whole thing didn’t turn out to be an interactive experience, forced on everyone. He had seen things like that on TV. And his ability in reading the new cultural signs hadn’t improved yet. There were plenty of badges, filled with names he should have known given the time he had spent at the Museum. He sneaked on a seat between two spotlights. Marguerite hadn’t shown up. He noticed that he was looking for her. Peter was entering the hall. He passed by his seat, smirking, pinching Adam’s shoulder in this manly way that suggested cameraderie, Adam smiled back, Peter headed to the front. Well done, that one. There was a displeasing silence. Everyone seemed to be unconcentrated, maybe somehow really touched, it was hard to get a feeling of what was going on. The director grabbed the microphone, he spoke in this stretched way, spitting out one word after the other,  Adam concentrated to follow him, trying not to loose the track, wondering if he spoke the same way if he ordered something in a restaurant. His overweight didn’t speak for that. He smelled Marguerite’s chanel 5 before he even noticed that she was sitting next to him. „Hi“ she whispered, giving him this big smile, he nodded, reaching out to carress her shoulder, not knowing why he did it, it was too late to stop his hand from doing it. Marguerite put her bag in front of her feet, struggling with the scarf, that got stuck in her hair. Adam hold his hands tight at his body, trying not to reach out to help her. The director went on talking. It still seemed to be the introduction part of the speech, although he wasn’t the type to make a real climax in any parts of his text. „That’s exactly why all of them are that much into the Holocaust. Imagine him at the gay bingo. A complete failure,“ Marguerite whispered in his ear, he could feel her breath on his skin, he sobbed, burking down a laugh. It felt like at school, just somehow better. Why not sitting out that next two hours as the two Muppets, only with more sex appeal. Was it a kind of regression? Or could you see it as an act of freeing yourself. But freeing from what? And why was it that there were always coming negative somewhat second hand psychonanalytical categories into his mind, trying to merge everything that happened to him into this familiar pattern of personal crisis, in a way proving that  insufficiency had to be his eternal stage of existence.  His hand lay on Marguerite’s tigh, it was musculous, he hadn’t expected it to be. He hadn’t expected to feel that much, if he looked at it, being honest.

 

It rained like mad, Marguerite was pissed. Why hadn’t anyone told her that it turned out to be one of those days. She tried to pull her jacket over her head, which was senseless, of course, it was supposed to be one of these tight cut, clinging jackets, perfect for a show off, not made for an outdoor trip, and how could she have known that going to work would turn out into a fucking boot camp experience. She rushed to the metro, not sure what way heading. Noone would notice that it was the same blouse she wore yesterday, but she knew. She decided to go to the office. The article she was supposed to write wouldn’t do it itself. And there were these emails waiting to be sent, an appointment for the monthly waxing procedure to be arranged, a call with her advisor to be made, in short, a future to be arranged. The people in the train were annoying, every time she needed some space to get her thoughts sorted there was an elbow stuck in her back, a leg hitting her tighs, why could people never accept this invisible circle she drawed around herself, that she tried to protect, she wasn’t a crash race car, after all. The trap was to draw a comparison between the fate of the roma people in the Anhaltelager and what happened in France right now, that she knew instinctevly. Although it seemed quite a la mode to draw comparisons, of whatever, to deconstruct master narratives, dominant victim groups, universalizing discourses, or to simply put your name on the map. She was good in dumping people, but still it was sometimes hard to develop a convincing argument, that made her untouchable, there was a difference, over all. She shouldn’t have agreed to write this dumb article, but it seemed too late to play the sickness card. She would have to avoid numbers. For sure. Maybe similarities in the structure of exclusion, deprivation of rights, deportation, on a very abstract level, maybe that would be a way to go. Adam’s way of kissing her had surprised her. It was more gentle and at the same time more passionate than she would have thought. Once he had put off this ackward glasses. It had took her some time to let her thoughts go, but then, at this certain moment, she fell for it, she just decided to let it go, and maybe it was the other way round, her passionate way of kissing him was what had surprised her the most. It somehow crashed with the pet concept she really was up to. She knew it was going to trouble her, which had not been part of the plan. She never had thought that he would take the control out of her hands. He looked so different first. It scared her to step out of her box. It had been a moment of freedom, still. Probably she would need to be very clear of the differences, more than pointing out the structural similarities. They could nail her on that, it was no stage in her career to survive getting nailed. And it wasn’t a smart thing to step out of two boxes at the same time. At least it was too overwhelming for her, she would freeze as always, losing any agency. Adam‘s neck was soft, it felt familiar caressing it, she felt the prickel going through his body, where did all these excitement come from? Maybe it was exactly the excitement that you can’t predict, not by what you think of the person you’re about to fuck, first, second not by what you think of yourself. Maybe there was no logic to be found. He was caressed her eyes, her cheeks, in this gentle, soft manner, while she felt his body, merging with hers, hungry, passionately, craving. There was no craving in the way she planned the text. There was no desire to say something. To make a point. To be excited about an idea she would like to stick to. Worst, she was afraid to never find it again, glamour with brains, glitter with empathy, seriousness with a twinkle in your eyes. All night long they had kept their Muppets habit, there was so much fun, she never had talked that much, rolling on a couch.  She should have stop to tear his jeans down when he looked in her eyes with this nondescript gaze. It was just that she didn’t want to stop. But he could have told her that he was transitioning. At some point at least.

  1. gehdamedame posted this