My travel to Kraka

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Dell 12 Cell Li-Ion Battery 

Wolfgang bring along a spirit mirror from China for me, concave, with the eight Triagrammen approximately - Bagua. For my room under the roof. Wolfgang bring along from Japan two Familienglücksdarumas for us. In the duo luggage. One is red, the other one white. You can select. It offered. Generously like always. And I take, which remains remaining. Darumas have two empty eyes, iris and pupilless. At the New Year's Day we will paint an eye. This is pure Futur one. We will set a black point into the center, since colors and abilities for more are missing to us. We will lend to empty eye the full view - and us thereby will somewhat wish. Everyone for itself alone with its Daruma. I with the white. Wolfgang with the red. Thus I select. And nothing else remains for it. The world is unfair. But if our separate desires, of everyone will have gone for itself alone, in fulfilment, we will have to paint the second eye. Everyone at its Daruma. This is pure Futur two. A black point into the center of the emptiness set. The alive view to the dead eye white lend. And the Pappmachékopf burn. Everyone for itself alone. The luck is inexorable. The spirit mirror is concave. That is, it has a lens surface curved inward and tightens the bad spirit like a sticky gluing tire in Grossmutters Bürner kitchen the flies in the high summer, and glows it. Even if the mirror would be convex (such gives to buy it in China), it would also tighten the bad and would zerstreuen then. That would mean: evenly on my neighbours in the Łaskihaus distribute. And all my Martins around me in completely Krakau in the misfortune falls approximately. The misfortune is inexorable. Wolfgang is hardly life-glad humans, like another. Therefore it bring along a spirit mirror from China for me, concave, with the eight Triagrammen approximately - Bagua. For my room under the roof. For my neighbours. The house. The city. And the earth circle. A good slide and all property in the new year. We drive tomorrow to Danzig, to Roma and Radek and EH and Janusz. Mean best and oldest friends in this country. Into Internet come I in this year no longer.

Business as usual: Wolfgang cooks (Indian sharply), I washes off (helvetisch cleanly). It drizzles. The wind is too warm. The city too empty. Nevertheless a winter cap bought. And Magda M. from Berlin in „the Prowincja “met. Coffee, Szarlotka, Cognac. Merry Christmas season you all!

We returned. Into my room in Krakau. Wolfgang carries its books, papers and shirts over Krakau, Warsaw, Danzig after Stralsund. In the kitchen post office from Kwiatonowice lies. Kasper sends copies to me to general Bijak. I know in the meantime that he had a sister. We eat with Jarema.

Café picture book. Around ten. Acacia road. I in-ordered it all. Hildegard. Maria K. Rhea. In alphabetical order. With Rhea I was one year ago in Kwiatonowice. In March we met on Maui, flew ourselves over the volcano. And now. Like always. No miracle. Separate the picture book Café in beautiful mountain. Maria K. run tent the forehead. She is an experienced woman. Horoskope lie. Only Hildegard is confident. Still the main station feeling. Bar of any capital. The life in the 1-second pulse. Goslarer place. After one. We come too late. The lunch with mother-in-law. Since beginning month lives it alone. Huttenstrasse. Around three. First stick. In the middle in the city. A senior home. Father-in-law eyes shine. He likes young women. Still. But that is already everything. The hands look for occupation. The head would like home. The legs do not carry the body. The tongue does not bring thoughts on the way. The soul does not find the exit. Outside it becomes already darkly. Consciousness is tired. Opposite with WaKüFa one can buy everything. White commodity.

As on push of a button the language wraps around. On German. Around eight I run around the corner to my house lady doctor. I need my third Tetanus syringe. Afterwards I would have for ten years peace. She said one year ago. And admonished itself to remember. Time becomes ever more relatively. And the thoughts ever more clearly. Wolfgang sleeps approximately so long, how he sat in the airplane. Yesterday. Or the day before yesterday. I do not know, from where the time comes. Around twelve I run to the Lausitzer place to my hairdresser. I want the color on my head loose will. Red remainders still from Japan. She does not understand. And I may not explain anything. At the angel basin one gebaggert. As in the first winter. When was that? After we had pulled into the east of the city. Into the shade of the wall. It at that time already any longer did not give. Time does not know borders. The Wasserbecken is now ausgebaggert. In December. The bank finally (after like many years?) fastens properly. Crushed stone up-poured. Reed cut off. The swans became white and away-flew. Also the herons looked for that width. The winter comes. With giant steps. The how many in this year? Around one I run to the beautiful flax route. Over the Kottbusser gate. As by an enormous waiting-room. A main station. In the no man's land. Where the driving directions were waived. And at home abolished. Wolfgang drives to his father, who does not recognize him any longer. On evening we sit in our kitchen and drink wine. That ore gel on the bell tower of the ruin of the Michaelskirche shines now at the night. Irgendwoher flows money. Over the former death strip the time is nailed to the sky.

Our penguin life: See again in Berlin. Wolfgang flies against the wind. Fourteen instead of thirteen hours. Misses the connection in Frankfurt. Lands with a later machine in Tegel. Its suit-case remains on the distance. I land punctually in beautiful field. March with hand baggage on the rapid-transit railway yard too. Our penguin life: we eat with tonuses. Wolfgang is tired. I wait at the night for its suit-case. Are to guest in the own dwelling. Search on my empty desk traces. The suit-case knocks after midnight on the door. The luggage delivery man asks whether I stones SAM LCL. Yes, legend I. But this is the suit-case of my man. That already blessedly sleeps. Dreams. Somewhere between Guangzhou and Berlin. I come only from Krakau. And nevertheless no more does not know, where I belong.

Homework. After the genitive immediately a pointing follows. The colon. Nazar sent email from Lwow. No letter. In the well-known poetic Verkürzung. Without point. „Thanks for the autumn improvement”. German. And Polish: „Dziękuję za uświetnienie jesieni”. The thoughts turn back into old times. Autumn sheets. And God. In Nazars the poems an indefinite Fürwort is. With me, I would be a Dichterin, he at the most one comma would earn. The eyes however sink in the snow. Before the window. In air. On the roof. Directly it will cover everything. More warmly, more closely, fresh, damp snow. And I will see nothing more. Still feel. After midnight I call Wolfgang in Guangzhou for the last time in this year. Wake it. Because with it is the night already past. I want that he does not miss his airplane. It finally also. Then I lie down. And over-sleep the last pain of the isolation. Today I survived one poetry evening with Wisława Szymborska. In Krakau, in the center of the Japanese art manggha. In May I survived a reading with Tadeusz Konwicki. In Warsaw, in the Café of the publishing house Czytelnik. One does not have to do with the other anything. As like that is. Except the fact that it rained in both cases. That is, today it stopped evenly. And directly a thick layer of soft snow puts here over everything. Except the fact that heue Szymborska and Konwicki explained at that time itself ready to mark their books. The complaisance of earned writers transforms the quantity of the Bewunderer into a gefrässige Meute. Wrong does to me, but I know for it no other word. That did not experience Canetti its living day. A mass of Verehrern in the center of the Japanese art before the table of the Literaturnobelpreisträgerin. A mass of Verehrern in the Café Czytelnik before the table of the master. The Mrs. Verlegerin today always asked understanding. Quietly and politely. That, ask, so not. Absolutely incomprehensibly. This crowding. My ladies, my gentlemen. They may not crush the Dichterin. Not the Preisträgerin. The Mr. Verleger regarded a doing without a word. In its suit blackness. It secured its colleague from the rear. I know, what proceeds in its head. Because I know it. I read off it its eyes. Its high forehead. A poem develops. The next. And I, which is not I Dichterin, envy it. Around the talent. The gift. The handicraft. The short form. The concise formulation. The male words. I am long-winded. Pleonastic. Need enormous amounts of words. And the authorities from the library in the dwelling with the ore gel. Me only Elias Canetti comes into the sense. Its books. From the shelf in the corridor. Mass and power. The Jagdmeute. The conscience of the words. Canetti experienced time life no Polish queue. I already for the second time. So one. Post office-socialist. Queue. Savage of animals. In that it no more behaviour gives. With leaves. I do not read poems. I admit that openly. But gladly I listen to them. From the mouth from poet inside. The modesty of Mrs. Szymborskas words. Went fast under in the greedy Polish post office-communist Hetzmeute. But I can do now really nothing. A woman walk desperately „where is the mainstream direction of the queue here? ”, because you seem, she would stand on the side of the auditorium in manggha, on which the queue moves around no Jota forward. Therefore it pushes with all forces. And elbow. In my backs. Another beside me complains about the lack of logistics. And I snatch at air. I survived. Thanked you me the publisher. More easily around at least two Kilos of body fluid. Lebendgewicht. Weldingbathed. At the stop I waited for the bus and felt the cooling. At the night. In the bus. Home. I read all poems. That volume ends with a colon. And is open. Approximately. Closed. Again I will never ask a Polish Dichterin or a Polish writer after a reading in Poland for an autograph. Harm around the words. After midnight I call Wolfgang in Guangzhou for the last time in this year. Wake it. Because with it is the night already past. Until tomorrow all snow innocent with a thick layer will be covered. And I will see nothing more. Still feel. Still hear. I want that he does not miss his airplane. And over-sleep the last pain of the isolation. After the genitive in each case the colon follows.

Not even in the middle of Decembers, and already I have the last Polish hour this yearly behind me. Well that my scholarship was extended. Because still nothing penetrated. Nothing at all. Into consciousness. The understanding. The fingertips. Of this language. On the contrary. I have the feeling, everything would evaporate. The head in pure air dissolve. Perfectly. The thoughts. The brain. The cells. Would be somewhere outside. Of me. The body except itself. And except me. Decomposed into individual Martinwörter. In the gymnastic area under the roof. In the culture club „Wola”. „Wola” is still a Warsaw urban district. In my soul. On the other hand I do not arrive. The Rabsztyńska road. There I lived in that year, in which I worked in Warsaw. And toward its end we married. One does not have to do with the other anything. Nothing at all. No Taxifahrer knew, where she is. This Rabsztyńska road. In Wola. And here spinal column. Shoulders. Poor one. Unfolding the Seidenkokons. Or Chinese Chan SI gong. And I am afraid now. Whatever. To say. To write. Are on the Lauer. And control yourself. In order to make no stupidities. A sentence from the open dictionary. On the screen of the laptop. Behind the text. In the next window. Continuously I look something after. In a window. Completed verb form. In that window. A verb of the unfinished movement. In the Polish one one goes as it were the whole life into the school and can never stop. To go. I lost the innocence. The question marks bore themselves into my forehead. Determined does not go in such a way. In the Polish one. And Grażynka paints me here equal a red keep smiling into the text. A Emotikon. A normal smile. Or a verschmitztes. I lost the confidence. In Wola Justowska. Today the last lesson. In this year. As good that my scholarship was extended. Today genitive and accusative. The inflection of the nouns. The male-animated forms. The not-male-animated forms. That is called the special forms. Martin the older one in the room under me laughs at me that I think over it, why genitivus „dopełniacz “is called Polish and acusativus „biernik “. Over the fact that the word must have „biernik” in my opinion etymologisch similar roots (and therefore also a similar meaning) as „bierny” [passively], „bierność” [Passivität] - and „dopełniacz “as „dopełnić” [fills up]. He laughs and reads „private correspondences “in the Lemberger courier from the year 1892. And for me everything is sudden a problem. Linguistically. I do not know, for example whether the word is „osoba” [person] a person or a thing. Whether it a noun of female sex is or an not-male-animated thing. And whether between and the other one at all a difference exists. The teacher threw today completely thoughtlessly the thoughts into my note booklet that actually nobody can say, whether it concerns here around a genitive or an accusative. This famous „kogo/co” [whose/that], which one me into the head gehauen has like an axe, already in the first Polish hour, in the first moments in this country, during the first contacts with this language. „Kogo/co “- seemed to me always absolutely inappropriate. But all repeated it passionless. Whose. Which. The students of the Polonistik. In the stickigen university library. After each verb. The movement. Or emotion. Buy. Whose/which? Love. Whose/which? Memory. Whose/which? Zuzia. My God. As long is that ago. Whose/which? I never believed in this question. And therefore I do not know until today. Why Mr. X in the Polish one buys Mercedes or a Fiat in the genitive. And Mr. Y a car. In the accusative. Why the one genitive-possessed. The other accusative leaving. Is. And now suddenly everything blurs. It remains unclear whether this genitive is not actually an identical accusative. All write today enamels and sms - in the Polish one in the genitive. The postman still hands each written letter out in the accusative. Today I lost the last confidence. Into my fingertips. Computer keys. And grammar terms. Wherein to the Henker does the male animatingness of a car of the mark Fiat lie?

To Martin part of five see „the second Engelin”. It wimmelt from Martins. In my Krakauer everyday life. From one too few were here still decided. The speech. Although also it has continuously part. At my life. At my letter. Martin of the translators. Martin, the translator works in a bookshop. And actually is German. I intentionally „actually write”. Because, as we know. A German, which works for three years in a Krakauer bookshop. A German, which teaches Roman right for five years at the Jagiellonen university. Swiss a Stipendiatin. We all have a nationality. For nothing and again nothing. Possess a passport. To the light. And to the easement of trespasses beyond the border. In reality we prefer it. In Poland. To live to spend to work to earn few a good time. Martin of the translators. Translated an excerpt out „silks”. From the German in English. Amazingly well. And in such a way it speaks also Polish. Amazingly well. For over one month we change regularly after midnight enamels. Meeting us in the bookshop. It foams to milk for my slat Macchiato. Or is busy with the washing machine. In this bookshop everything is possible. And available. Martin is very young. Very sensitively. Looks rather like humans of the music. I thought. Any mark completely at the beginning. Casually. Senselessly. Nobody needs such thoughts. At the night before my departure for Rzeszów I understood finally. We are not prepared. Against understanding. Or Nichtverstehen. Stupidity. Mental Schlitzohrigkeit. The sky knows, from where that comes everything and where it goes. In spring, hardly back from Japan, I drove to a Tai Chi weekend to the sea. After Usedom. Ahlbeck. To the border. To Poland. I remembered our infinite walks. During lunch time. Over old sand. In the sharp wind. One day in the one direction. After northeast. Until herring village. On the next day in the other direction. After southeast. Up to the national border. On damp sand. And there somewhere at the salt-poor Baltic Sea between the country and the other one, into the middle OF nowhere, told me the flute teacher of their pupil. To Poland „“is emigriert. After Krakau. I was surprised. The teacher is young, how she can have adult, pupils of age? It told unbekümmert that it had once visited it. In Krakau. That he in a bookshop work. And indeed. Only at the night before my departure for Rzeszów. I understood. That there cannot be two escaping. From Germany. That it must be Martin of the translators from the German in English. There is still another another Martin. Translates. From the Polish one into German. Of it later more. I understood that Martin, my translator, that must be old block flute pupils of the citizens of Berlin Tai Chi practicing flute teacher. Also the third Martin, my Chen Taijichuan teacher is pervasive in my Krakauer everyday life. I think each day of him, if I do not practice the new form, which he tries to teach to me. Separates the old, which is familiar me of Berlin. And already in my body place took. Yesterday I was for the first time in the room of Martin, the older one under me. In the Łaskihaus. With daylight. I confess that I already sat in the evening or other time with him. With a modest Glä red wine. If in the kitchen cook rituals were to course. And us the Fettgestank to body moved. Yesterday morning I knocked the older one thus on the door of Martin. Also the translator is. Before it left the house direction library. No Morgenmuffel. This Martin is rather humans of the books as humans of the music, let alone the Sopran or old flute. I asked it to examine me two data. To lend two books. A few sides to copy (it concerns naturally general Bijak). I did not have desire on library. Not on this morning. And at no different one. I saw the old trunk before its window. And it understood that this had to be at the beginning of the tree, which ends over my rooflight in the sky. I stare daily for hours into its bald branches. In the pale winter sky look like the Ärmchen of innumerable hungry children. Down, before Martins window, stands the trunk. And does not look healthy. Old. Tiredly. Rotten. With me it above shows neither its age nor his wounds. Does young and übermütig. Greedily. After the life. It wimmelt from Martins. Last night we met closed, the whole staff of the Łaskihauses, all large and small „M “, in addition, all other letters of the alphabet - to a literary evening in the Goethe Institut. There also Martin, the translator sat in English and flute pupil of my Tai Chi friend. Toward end of the meeting, nobody white why, toward end of this multimedia happening the keyword „recent Berlin scene “became a piece of short Prosa of Tilmann ramming EDT read. Title: The mouthpiece. Protagonistin: the flute teacher. Protagonist: the I storyteller, former pupil of the flute teacher.