Apr. 24, 2011 at 3:24pm with 5 notes
What you did matters. Or, The Girl With The Number Tattoo  #8  (fertig for now) Adam. There he was, Adam, finally. He could feel that Adam was coming, that he slowly emerged from that somewhat cocoon in which he had hidden himself. Let’s make it beautiful. There was a list of demands, he didn’t know where to start. A laugh on everyone’s face in the metro. Better education to everyone there, probably rather sociology than history, or maybe just some new brains. No more justifications. A portion of desire mixed with irony. A dancefloor full of handsome young boys in their underwear. That would please him at least. Just for the pleasure of watching. A governmental decision to put a low dosis of cocaine into the water supply pipes, so that everyone could feel a little bit more relaxed. And selfconscious. Adam wanted to hug everyone, not in the way he usually did, to seem open in preventing ackward silences. He really wanted to hug. He felt the power to channel his imagination into something else than ever-soaring levels of suspicion. He could feel Marguerite’s presence in the room. That was so much better than the presence of massmurder. It has been worth waiting. There was no need to spoil the excitement now by thinking of the exhausting work a relationship would require. If there would be a relationship. But why shouldn’t it tend this way. At least he could imagine things turn out that way. It felt like a century. But now he was ready. At least to start with a dog or a cat. And there it went, as Marguerite hadn’t want it to be. Another Monday morning, she was late, not that there had been a time she was expected to be in, how could they survey everyone? Though, there were cameras outside of the building, controlling security guards who controlled the entrances, there were cameras in the elevator, controlling all of the people who wanted to see the library, there was a warning, every time she turned on her computer, that she entered an official network that would censor any page she would like to see, a network that didn’t allow her to see any page containing the words that were the most significant to her. To her work. To her life, to be more specific, although that tended to become inseparable, sex, porn, gay or transsexual. At least no one complained about her self made schedule. But for her it counted. She couldn’t stand herself being late, in her own, quite neat structure.  There’s no perfection you could expect from others. And besides all of the efforts she took to get rid of this selfcementing habit, it still was better to stick to a strangling structure than to step into chaos. Adam. Adam ment chaos. It wasn’t his fault at all, but why not blaming him. That way it was easier to think about the whole thing. She should have known it. Especially because she usually mastered the Marguerite security warning: Consequences of every action you take are inappropriate to the action. Therefore it’s not the action that you should erase. But the consequences. So that all future occurences can still be monitored and reported. To make sure under any circumstances that they fit in what you think of them. Marguerite assumed full responsibility for her actions, except the ones that were someone else’s fault. There was no doubt that it was Adam’s fault. Wasn’t he the one pushing the whole thing in turning unpredictable? Now that she was late, it would be even harder to combat her memories’s sneak attacks of what had happened on the Sunday afternoon sofa. There it was. It has been evening, not afternoon, and it was on the bed, not on the sofa. How much energy would it cost her to reinstall the grounding feeling that it was Monday, that she was supposed to think in her straight forward, brilliant way. Lost energy, wasted to not losing herself in waves of craving. That was ridiculous. She had taken a shower, she had washed her hands a dozen of times, she had used hand soap, she had washed the dishes, she had used a body lotion. There was still his smell, on her hands. No, the fact that really was ridiculous:  it was Adam controlling her craving. No one was speaking about Ethan anymore. By doing the memorial service, everything that was supposed to be done was done. Life went back to its routines. There were two weeks left, until everyone she knew here would head to a different direction. She wasn’t good in saying goodbye. She never showed other people what was really going on in her, although sometimes emotional outragings made their way through her shyness. But then it felt more like an overwhelming, inappropriate outbreak, people usually reacted confused, unprepared of this sudden change of interaction. With dead people it was easier. That’s what Deidre liked about them. It had happened right before the memorial service. And it was nothing Deidre had expected to happen. Or she thought to be over that a long time ago. But Ethan offered her a cigarette. Lying there, on the floor, under her desk, knowing exactly that this was a way to get her. Deidre had quit smoking some time ago, or rather at some point she had decided that it was mistaking selfdestruction for passion that led her to this obsessive pattern. But what happened was just that the passion was gone. Not her fear of dying. Nor her desire for selfdestruction. She inhaled the smoke, she had to cough, like at high school, in the mornings, hiding in the back yard, looking for the music teacher she had had a crush on, she couldn’t believe she was telling this Ethan right now, but Ethan laughed. It must have been that feeling of intimacy that encouraged her to go on. what do you regret? what makes you think that i regret something? well, you’re dead. it’s not that bad. no? First it was spooky, but more than that, it was a relief, when he started to talk. Deidre noticed that it was the first time that she heard his voice. at least I don’t have to regret anymore. that’s tautologic. it isn’t.       but you repeated the word. i didn’t. you did. you seem to be quite judgemental. there’s nothing wrong with that. it’s cold. it’s not. it’s being wit. see? wit is judgement. you sound like this Eiserne Granathand guy. you mean that chubby Thompson? if this is his name. i’m not like him. anyway. Granathand fits better. Marguerite came up with it. so she’s wit. maybe. for sure he isn’t. there seems to be no more judgemental person than you. why do you want me to feel ashamed? i don’t. you did. you picked me. i didn’t. but you were lying under my desk. coincidence. there’s no such concept. you don’t believe in coincidences? no, i do. see. i just fell down there. but why mine? what do you expect to hear? i expect nothing. i just want you to tell me why. why? we’re stuck. no. so you tell me why? i can’t. why not? it’s your requiem. you have to know. what do i have to know? why it makes you feel bad. i’m not ashamed. why do you insist on that? your first word was regret. so what? so you regret to be the one who was there. what makes you think everything is centered around you? that’s archetypical for my gender. great. you shouldn’t feel ashamed. guess that’s archetypical too? no. stop telling me how i should fucking feel. see? gosh. no, i don’t wanna have another cigarette? no. are you mad at me? why should i be? you tell. because you are mad at me. you owe me nothing. so why would i be mad at you? because you owe me. i’m dead. how can i owe anyone anything? you left me with this strange feeling. stop looking for a meaning in every stupid thing. but i have to understand. there’s nothing to understand. what are you? a twentysomething explaining me how things work. it’s not my fault that it was your desk. you could have picked someone else. i told you i didn’t pick you. it’s annoying to talk to you. you repeat everything i say. so why do you talk to me then? to get things done. everything is done. no. i haven’t even started. you can’t anticipate everything only to feel safe. allow yourself some goddam spontaneity.  

What you did matters. Or, The Girl With The Number Tattoo  #8  (fertig for now)

Adam. There he was, Adam, finally. He could feel that Adam was coming, that he slowly emerged from that somewhat cocoon in which he had hidden himself. Let’s make it beautiful. There was a list of demands, he didn’t know where to start. A laugh on everyone’s face in the metro. Better education to everyone there, probably rather sociology than history, or maybe just some new brains. No more justifications. A portion of desire mixed with irony. A dancefloor full of handsome young boys in their underwear. That would please him at least. Just for the pleasure of watching. A governmental decision to put a low dosis of cocaine into the water supply pipes, so that everyone could feel a little bit more relaxed. And selfconscious. Adam wanted to hug everyone, not in the way he usually did, to seem open in preventing ackward silences. He really wanted to hug. He felt the power to channel his imagination into something else than ever-soaring levels of suspicion. He could feel Marguerite’s presence in the room. That was so much better than the presence of massmurder. It has been worth waiting. There was no need to spoil the excitement now by thinking of the exhausting work a relationship would require. If there would be a relationship. But why shouldn’t it tend this way. At least he could imagine things turn out that way. It felt like a century. But now he was ready. At least to start with a dog or a cat.

And there it went, as Marguerite hadn’t want it to be. Another Monday morning, she was late, not that there had been a time she was expected to be in, how could they survey everyone? Though, there were cameras outside of the building, controlling security guards who controlled the entrances, there were cameras in the elevator, controlling all of the people who wanted to see the library, there was a warning, every time she turned on her computer, that she entered an official network that would censor any page she would like to see, a network that didn’t allow her to see any page containing the words that were the most significant to her. To her work. To her life, to be more specific, although that tended to become inseparable, sex, porn, gay or transsexual. At least no one complained about her self made schedule. But for her it counted. She couldn’t stand herself being late, in her own, quite neat structure.  There’s no perfection you could expect from others. And besides all of the efforts she took to get rid of this selfcementing habit, it still was better to stick to a strangling structure than to step into chaos. Adam. Adam ment chaos. It wasn’t his fault at all, but why not blaming him. That way it was easier to think about the whole thing. She should have known it. Especially because she usually mastered the Marguerite security warning:

Consequences of every action you take are inappropriate to the action. Therefore it’s not the action that you should erase. But the consequences. So that all future occurences can still be monitored and reported. To make sure under any circumstances that they fit in what you think of them.

Marguerite assumed full responsibility for her actions, except the ones that were someone else’s fault. There was no doubt that it was Adam’s fault. Wasn’t he the one pushing the whole thing in turning unpredictable? Now that she was late, it would be even harder to combat her memories’s sneak attacks of what had happened on the Sunday afternoon sofa. There it was. It has been evening, not afternoon, and it was on the bed, not on the sofa. How much energy would it cost her to reinstall the grounding feeling that it was Monday, that she was supposed to think in her straight forward, brilliant way. Lost energy, wasted to not losing herself in waves of craving. That was ridiculous. She had taken a shower, she had washed her hands a dozen of times, she had used hand soap, she had washed the dishes, she had used a body lotion. There was still his smell, on her hands. No, the fact that really was ridiculous:  it was Adam controlling her craving.

No one was speaking about Ethan anymore. By doing the memorial service, everything that was supposed to be done was done. Life went back to its routines. There were two weeks left, until everyone she knew here would head to a different direction. She wasn’t good in saying goodbye. She never showed other people what was really going on in her, although sometimes emotional outragings made their way through her shyness. But then it felt more like an overwhelming, inappropriate outbreak, people usually reacted confused, unprepared of this sudden change of interaction. With dead people it was easier. That’s what Deidre liked about them. It had happened right before the memorial service. And it was nothing Deidre had expected to happen. Or she thought to be over that a long time ago. But Ethan offered her a cigarette. Lying there, on the floor, under her desk, knowing exactly that this was a way to get her. Deidre had quit smoking some time ago, or rather at some point she had decided that it was mistaking selfdestruction for passion that led her to this obsessive pattern. But what happened was just that the passion was gone. Not her fear of dying. Nor her desire for selfdestruction. She inhaled the smoke, she had to cough, like at high school, in the mornings, hiding in the back yard, looking for the music teacher she had had a crush on, she couldn’t believe she was telling this Ethan right now, but Ethan laughed. It must have been that feeling of intimacy that encouraged her to go on.

what do you regret?

what makes you think that i regret something?

well, you’re dead.

it’s not that bad.

no?

First it was spooky, but more than that, it was a relief, when he started to talk. Deidre noticed that it was the first time that she heard his voice.

at least I don’t have to regret anymore.

that’s tautologic.

it isn’t.      

but you repeated the word.

i didn’t.

you did.

you seem to be quite judgemental.

there’s nothing wrong with that.

it’s cold.

it’s not. it’s being wit.

see?

wit is judgement.

you sound like this Eiserne Granathand guy.

you mean that chubby Thompson?

if this is his name.

i’m not like him.

anyway. Granathand fits better.

Marguerite came up with it.

so she’s wit.

maybe. for sure he isn’t.

there seems to be no more judgemental person than you.

why do you want me to feel ashamed?

i don’t.

you did. you picked me.

i didn’t.

but you were lying under my desk.

coincidence.

there’s no such concept.

you don’t believe in coincidences?

no, i do.

see. i just fell down there.

but why mine?

what do you expect to hear?

i expect nothing. i just want you to tell me why.

why?

we’re stuck.

no.

so you tell me why?

i can’t.

why not?

it’s your requiem. you have to know.

what do i have to know?

why it makes you feel bad.

i’m not ashamed. why do you insist on that?

your first word was regret.

so what?

so you regret to be the one who was there.

what makes you think everything is centered around you?

that’s archetypical for my gender.

great.

you shouldn’t feel ashamed.

guess that’s archetypical too?

no.

stop telling me how i should fucking feel.

see?

gosh. no, i don’t

wanna have another cigarette?

no.

are you mad at me?

why should i be?

you tell.

because you are mad at me.

you owe me nothing. so why would i be mad at you?

because you owe me.

i’m dead. how can i owe anyone anything?

you left me with this strange feeling.

stop looking for a meaning in every stupid thing.

but i have to understand.

there’s nothing to understand.

what are you? a twentysomething explaining me how things work.

it’s not my fault that it was your desk.

you could have picked someone else.

i told you i didn’t pick you.

it’s annoying to talk to you. you repeat everything i say.

so why do you talk to me then?

to get things done.

everything is done.

no. i haven’t even started.

you can’t anticipate everything only to feel safe. allow yourself some goddam spontaneity.

 

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