My travel to Kraka

The winter time does not have to do anything with the winter. Separate is generally considered as standard time. That is nowadays easily forgotten. Consequently the summer time has to do nothing with the summer. And must logical-proves as Nichtnormalzeit to be understood. As wrong time. Between them, between the standard time and the wrong time the so-called time conversion lies. It lies. Stands. Rests. Opens unfold. Or too. Runs backwards. Hastet forward. Jumps in the circle. Or in the square. Depending upon Design. Spirit of the time. Or personal preference. In the kitchen over the table usually a circular clock hangs. Over it already nearly as much was sinniert as over the hereditary sin. The time hangs the conversion in the kitchen and belongs to the minister. Since on Sunday the time occurred again normality, and not into the winter, humans in this country pray. And o'clock an irresistible tiredness seizes to mine in each case against 19. I lie down then for a short Stündchen and the time become an active component of my Schlafes. That must have to do with Krakau, because in Krakau, Mr. Krakowski told me a while ago, I straight again had waked up, happens the most peculiar things. The statistics however mean that it comes on Monday to the time conversion to more accidents on the road than on every other Monday of the yearly. Therefore the Brandenburger put a holiday now on this Monday. And Poland on Tuesday after Monday after Sunday. So that neither on Sunday, nor on Monday, still on Tuesday, still on Wednesday on time must be worked. And nobody the danger exposes itself, from a according to plan overfilled streetcar over-drives to become. , I read, corrode myself bears before the winter peace daily up to a half kilogram additional body weight. The winter is thick and sleepy. The time does not have to do anything with the weather. The time is sovereign and body-temperature-independently. Into some texts undreamt-of outlines creep. As into raschelnde leaves in the park. It lies already knöcheltief. In the correct winter, under a thick Schneedecke, the time will have finally lost nothing more. Ice flowers are not umlauts. And naked branches no second hands. Yesterday I was not on the cemetery and not one word all day long wrote.

Suddenly a Martin steps after the other one into my life. Last week, when I waited in the morning for the bus, hung a pink handbill on the wall behind the bus stop. Somewhat inclined. With yellow sticking tire attached. But clearly readably. That one can itself immediately in the culture club Wola at the queen Jadwiga road 215 to Chen Tai Ji Chuan courses writings. I stood on the queen Jadwiga road. And bitter morning air on the chest felt. I had however no notion, on which height, under which number. I straight was. A bus stop is not a house. Although humans have there meanwhile also a roof over the head and a wood bank under the back. The stop little house however does not possess a house number. And then I saw suddenly for the first time - how often I waited here already for the bus? - on the other roadside two golden Täfelchen with the numbers 211 and 209. Thus the 215 cannot be too far. A bus interrupted my numerologischen views. Overfilled, already to this early hour, the 192-er of the airport varied to the roadside. One moment and carried us forward everything stopped. Keuchte heavily and drove off again. Already to this early hour. In the evening I went inquiring. The culture club opens only around 15:00 clock. Whether I can come to one sample hour. And me thereafter decide. Whether I for the course write myself or not. Japan taught me caution. In all areas of life. Not only regarding Tai Chi. And one said to me that Martin leads „training “, an experienced teacher. Tuesday and Thursday. Completely different Martin translates an excerpt of my Japanese diary into English. This necessity resulted here suddenly. And my brother, also Martin - today birthday has. It is older than I, therefore I know it, since I am in the world. It completes exactly in this hour, in this moment its first half century. Yesterday I went courageously to me so far unknown the Martin. I crossed the park under the mansion with fast steps, because it is darkly everywhere, darkly everywhere. And already was I there. In the first stick of the small country house. Something above the stop „Sielanka “[(village) the idyll]. Down someone played piano. Otherwise it was doing good quietly. I drew a deep breath. In Berlin the wunderlichsten people meet to the Tai Chi. Mainly advanced or middle age. On the search for something are for their second, better life half. I do not know it. According to which we look for all. Actor. Musician. Artist. Dancer. Writer. Journalist. Teacher (except for skirt music, Blockflöte, trombone or piano also for mathematics and chemistry). Publisher. Photographer. And a Richterin. Perhaps it is most normal from us all this. At the queen Jadwiga road is everything different. Two came young. One with a long, beautiful dark-brown Zopf - a shy, somewhat restrained dte rodent, but very attentively. The other one clearly younger. Roundish. Impatiently. Omitted. They have already three so-called training hours behind itself. That is, they are beginners. And I am from the first hour on in the arrears. And the oldest one. The warm feeling remained still for a long time in the knees, after I had again crossed the dark park. For a long time Martin was called us only stands. In the first Qi gong positions. The thick boy did not bear. But it did not complain. Did not cry. Did not desire up. Martin corrected carefully our body attitudes. The backbone arranged straight. The arms. The shoulders. The hips. The basin. Release. Release. Everything release. I learn the words for each part of the body at the opportunity. The form begins with a step to the left. I was speechless. Into Berlin the first step goes to the right. Eastward. But it plays a role? The different masters divided the world into different zones. And thus unhealthy rivalries in the fight for the limited number of customers prevented. And in such a way we make obediently the first step to the left. Or to the right. In order to step nobody on the feet. In this country. I am everywhere the oldest one. In the bus. On the road. In the cinema. On the way home. In the mansion. In the theatre. In the first stick. In the tavern „the respected day of the week”. With the reading with the Nike winner of this year. On the book fair. On the bicycle. To the Rudawa. To the Weichsel. In the streetcar. Under the Wawel. With Polakowski. Now I wait on the fourth Martin. The newest scholarship holders in the mansion. It will release me. Because it is older than my brother. Already in few days or few hours.

We lead a penguin life. In the rhythm of regular separations. W. came approached. And already again away-flew. It can, as said, contrary to flight-unfit birds problem-free to fly. However the first herbstliche cold torments me. And I do not understand certain prefixes in the Polish one. Why for example „landed “and „started “on the indicating panels (and everywhere otherwise, where writing exists) with the same prefix „wy " to be formed („wystartował”, „wylądował”). But I see now that in German exactly the same is. Although for arrive also here, journeys, to entry etc. other prefixes gives. However. W. is in an orange easy jet machine „started” and me so its black back course-turned. And as with the Kaiserpinguinen it takes two months, until we see ourselves again. And it me with its white belly comes to meet. From the airport I drive directly to my second Polish hour. Here the grey cells are refurbished. And the brain gets food. The white side of the world. Afterwards directly after Kazimierz. The sky glows in the west. To the literary name day performance of two Nazar. A Nazar, which lives with us in the mansion. And another. Penguin life. The bar is black like the night. The languages whirl in whistle smoke clouds like the angels on Biblical Wölkchen. Ukrainian. Russian. Polish. German. English. Best the poetic cliche of our Nazar, which it speaks in all available languages, pleases me: „God is an indefinite Fürwort.” And therefore penguins under such adverse circumstances must love themselves, begatten and to nourish.

Wolfgang came and brought themselves different strange things also. From Berlin. Pile of old newspapers. From another world. Then we drove streetcar. It pulled us in the cinema. We did not want to see the film „the march to that pin GUI ever “. I am penguin-crazy for some time. And find that we think much too little of penguins, about it speak. They unimportant to us. The world functions in the best way without it. For example there is hardly Kinderspielzeug in the form of penguins. I did not succeed in until today buying a Quietschepinguin from plastics for the bath tub which a typical Piguinlaut of itself gives, if the child includes it in his small fist. There are only yellow Quietscheentchen. And the children learn in their first bath days that in the bath tub only a Waltdisneyente can swim. I wish myself a bath tub penguin. Although nor I am neither a child one have. Still at present in the mansion in a bath tub to bathe can. But I have a Engelin with watering can. Penguins are flight-unfit birds. They rudders with the wings in the Antarctic sea and steer with the short legs and the swimming fins between the toes. My Krakauer Engelin cannot fly also. It hangs here over me, under the roof, and seems to be completely content. It walks rather by air. With decided steps. Legs. Marches it. In their felt boots. It floats. On wings. We drove thus with the streetcar. With the number 1. In the backpack my penguin sat. My small soft material penguin, which I got some years ago given. In London. In the natural history museum. To the Themse. By evenly that Wolfgang. With that everything began. And now we drive together into the cinema. Into an inhospitable world. To a Unort. Into an enormous shopping centre. With business, which is to be found everywhere. With Fressbuden, which are to be found everywhere. With cinemas, which are to be found everywhere. With films,… a French film, version synchronized goods, Bigmacs, Imax' s, None' s. Thus Polish. Wolfgang is inspired. The language will not affect it. It read in the newspaper, while it flew to Krakau (Wolfgang can fly contrary to the penguins) that the pictures are beautiful and the text stupidly. That the words a agitate-blessed Hollywoodstory to tell want. An empty hall. Well cooled. At the beginning only we sit three in it. Then still another family with a correct child comes. And actually - the words, the synchronized texts under the pictures, try to form a human dear history. With long, out-living journey to beginning, two-hundred-one hundred march to breeding place, with following dear dance, dear singing, dear contact, dear fulfilment, which promises of eternal loyalty, with which waiting for the egg, with which ritual delivery ice delivers to the father, who out-breeds it, in the lower belly fold. And already the loving must separate. The nut/mother watschelt back to the polar sea, because it is hungry and exhausted. It returns after two months, in order to feed the Küken and replace the flared out father. Allegedly - in such a way the words say it, not the pictures - the mothers in the accumulation of some thousand penguins without problems recognize the correct partner and the own Küken, which slipped during their absence out of the egg. Christian virtues in the Antarctic. And so on. The father wankt from dannen, because now he needs urgently food. The wisdom of the Pinguinküken culminates in the statement that the world consists of a black side and a white side. The black side means parting, separation, pain. And the white side means return. Combination. In the circle of the family. This is a poetic view of the world. And the poetry is human sex. As the Kitsch. Or the romance. I am not safe me whether on the Antarctic luggage ice time for poetry is. Or place for a pictorial sunset. There it concerns rather lives or death. Exclusive. Around hunger and fodder. Around nothing else. Around warmth and cold weather. Around ruggedness. Like much time Kaiserpinguine in their life with dormant waiting spend. Also boredom is human sex. We however return to normality. At the night. With our small soft penguin in the backpack.

This morning around nine I had the first Polish hour - first for surely twenty years! When exactly I stopped taking hours and having a teacher, I do not know no more. Also not, when exactly I began. Perhaps 81 or 82. I sat in the course of Felek. In a stickigen lecture hall of the University of Basel. I did not understand anything. Nothing at all. Felek wrote us for hours exceptions the board. And it let copy us, in the booklet. Into the head. In the memory. At that time there was not even computer. The eyes burned. Of such and other exceptions. The neck burned. Of hissing and other sounds. Felek was proud (and is it probably still) that it knew more exceptions than Poland. I owe many things in my life to Felek. Really. But not my Polish Sprachkenntnisse. I owe nearly everything to Felek, with exception of the language. Felek sent at that time all, which carried with the intention of driving to Poland to us for longer or shorter time, to the Krakowskis in Krakau. And in such a way also I knocked a daily for the first time on the door at that and no other road in Krakau and stated in broken Polish that Felek sends me… and are sufficient. For everything and always. For October I studied 83 in Warsaw. Yes. And regularly the courses at the Polonicum visited. With a man, whose face I sees clear before me, whose name does not want to verbalisieren itself however any longer. Language courses for foreigners. At that time I hardly brought a sentence over the lips. I arrived at the name day of Tadeusz at Warsaw. That knew I at that time as few as all other things. After 85 I had certainly never again a teacher, still another one hour - to this morning at nine o'clock. Mathematically seen, that means that I learned two, three, at the most four years Polish. And I have the insolence to write. In this language. At the night I dreamed for the first time. The Engelin was awake, like always. Under the roof. With the full watering can in the left hand. Since I am here, I have an easy sleep. Loosely like fresh snow. Betäubend such as cotton wool. Colorless. Without commonplacenesses. Without injury, hysteria, envy, aggression. Today I woke up and knew immediately that I had for the first time vacated that there is me. The dream presented me a clear picture from the first days, as if this would be the most important moment of my Krakauer of life, and brought beyond that all feelings, worlds and times in disorder. Now I learn. Everything, I not Felek owes. Perhaps in the next to last (Polish) Blogeintrag I should replace the word „ochronę” through „borowiki”. But who knows whether that is not again differently around unkorrekt. And drapichrust in the future I the untranslatable Poetik of „powsinoga “or „“to assume sometime to have itself.