My travel to Kraka

Today is Andreas night. And I am alone with Martin. Stayed. In the mansion. All different away-drove. And in the kitchen of two full refrigerators and a full supply shelf. With Unaufgegessenem. We threw everything away. Regardless of the durability date. How much Śmietana. How much sweet butter. How much sunflower honey. At most enormous amounts surprised me mustard grains inserted by mustard bottles, mustard senfgläsern and. About what do scholarship holders from all world in Krakau nourish themselves? Obviously mainly - however I do not have notion why and to which - from swung, large and small „S “. We threw everything away. Without consideration for initial letters. Without consideration for tongue and language. Without consideration for taste. Without consideration for color. Without consideration for packing. Without consideration for contents. Without consideration on the degrees of the Verschimmelung. „“, Guessed/advised Martin do not best even look at essentially. And ran into his room up, got empty plastic bags. Then it started again, because we needed a ball-point pen. Sometimes humans want to note somewhat. Regardless of all adversities. Above on the cabinet the dusty note book of Mr. András Rácz from Budapest lay. Today is Andreas night. And Martin and I stayed alone. We inhabit the middle east rooms of the Łaskihauses. It in the first stick. I with the Engelin in second. Under the roof.

A wonderful winter day is past. In Kwiatonowice. Steel-blue sky. Sharp contrasts. On the horizon. Good view. In air. Sun. On the fields. Snow. I could see that everything, without rising from the bed. Kasper brought me in that early coffee. To the bed naturally. Then they drove into the city. To the work. And I remained the whole morning alone. I love a wearing of the time out. Long the mute its. Without having to rise from the bed. A wonderful winter day. In the afternoon reading at school. The more benediction-rich the morning silence in the property house proved. School building did not stand to times of Lina Bögli yet. As other covering in the village. It would have itself been pleased about the presentation of second pupils of the second class. At three o'clock in the afternoon. The still bright hour. On a wonderful winter day. I remember - which have I even yesterday the Kwiatonowicern told - that Lina B. led nearly a half century long diary. Day after day. It wrote even if it did not have to write anything. For example: To say „nothing. “Or: „The same like yesterday. “(And yesterday could not do „I have anything to say! “been its). Tricks nearly as with Gombrowicz. Apart from the fact their life ran after the return to Switzerland, as it were after their „retirement” in very regulated courses. Experienced. Nearly ritualisiert. Daily walks. Daily English hours. Daily meals. She ate with the cutlery of the king Kalakaua, her had given gotten to the parting from Honolulu. Daily notes. The older it became, the more paid attention it to the order of each daily. Each yearly. I am also moved. There there is nothing to varnish. After the death of Lina Bögli appeared a modest memory of it. A personal record zerdehnter on book sides. Of its friend Amy Moser. Amy Moser wrote as the first, what afterwards all copied getreulich that Lina Bögli, when them lived in the hotel „cross” in duke book lake, which paid rent in each case for the hitting a corner room in the second stick „in advance for 12 years “, in order not to have to remember any longer. I am also Swiss. And I consider myself, how often she could pay their rent in advance for 12 years, if she lived 27 years in „the cross”? Does not come up somehow. In addition it could not know to ahead, how many years it would be vergönnt. Under this cross. Thus I set to the computer and opened its diaries, which I had before two years scanned. I possess nearly 5000 bit-maps - electronic illustrations are called each handwritten side. I flew over all holidays, Weihnachtsfeiertage, Silvester and New Year's Days from 1915 to 1940. And fast it proved that she paid the rent not for 12 years, but for 12 months. In each case 300 Franconias. A little thing. A mistake in the time. It is more important that I discovered on this occasion that she always adopted the year with nearly identical words, going to end, at Silvester: „Thus adieu, you dear old year, thousands owing to for everything that you me brought! “(31.12.1919 among other things). So always was it. Twenty five years long. By December 1940. The last diary ends with the entry on 28 December 1940: „It is a wonderful winter day; but I am not better. “And to it comes nothing more. Only emptiness. Those hurts. Each time, if it opens again. On the screen of my computer. In my memory. Before my eyes in Kwiatonowice. Nothing more. It had no more Kraft to adopt the old year with the used thanks. Their only three days were missing. Before, on 26 December it had noted two days: „Natural do not feel I better; and now I am still completely blind at the left eye. Everything approaches to the end! “ It lived still nearly one year. But the days did not become bright any longer. The silence zerdehnte the time. It died on the day of the winter sun turn, on 22 December 1941. A wonderful winter day is past.

I spent the whole day of yesterday in the car. Thus it seems to me today. And that is unhealthy. To dead-slam shut so the time. In the car. To cut through so the area. In the car. Thus to courage-measure. Afterwards. After a sleepless night. The memory still misleads me in. It made itself broad also in the car. Rides along. Like the had an accident trucks on a snow-covered side street. Like the forgotten book in the backpack. Like the plasticcorked dry red wine in the trunk. This time I went away with Kuczok (and become, which I do not know yet, with Nahacz return). That already admitted trick (goes here not around humans, but around the work of a writer). But in the car on the way after Gorlice I did not reach only once for the book. The car does not love reading passengers. The driver loves discussions. Above all, if he is a woman. I paged through Kuczok (Opowieści przebrane - Auserlesene narrations) only in bed. He did not get me. Neither the neck. Still the ears. The eyes were assigned to me. I do not like déjà vu. Neither in thoughts. Still under the fingertips. Again impacts. Again piece of muck. Again whip. Cries. Tears. And pain. In the early mornings. And still I am in the car. In a tiny sheet metal casing. Those absolutely no colors into their inside to penetrate leaves. The heating however stands on max. all ways in the life is nummeriert. And hang like enormous green describe in the wind. Vary over the loud motorways. There is no emergency exit. Still another escape route. Neither a coincidental. Still marked. From the tunnel travel. From the Düsternis of an early November evening. Not even forward. By the night. Also the reverse gear. Does not help. And does not lead only anywhere. The day of yesterday drives car.

Directly I break open. Today reading in Gorlice. Tomorrow in Kwiatonowice. And then weekend. Paul, my adopted grandfather celebrates today in new Holland Thanksgiving. Maryna, the Ukrainerin, wrote yesterday its play to end. It appeared content against noon in the kitchen, cooked its first coffee and said: „Production!” It is to flow much blood. It brought four persons around the corner. In the evening the speech was of the fact that in the mansion also spirit lives. Mrs. Krakowska had birthday some days ago. Coincidentally I experienced after so many years. Because it celebrates only its name day. She came on the same day into the world as my sister. Everything is relative. Early in the morning snow on my windows, which dissolves in the course of the daily gradually, lies. I open a window. Leakages at the icicles. Affect the snow. On the roof. Under which I live. The sky is anämisch. And the language has a problem that it depends on humans. And therefore lives. And is incalculable. Like we all. I must give an answer to the question, why I feel well in Poland. Tomorrow. But perhaps already today. But determines the next weeks, months, years. Continuously. Again and again. I do not know, what I am to say. Neither today nor tomorrow. I know only that the own condition is also a linguistic affair. I expect the assistance of the landscape. The lower Beskiden. And on the grandfather in America. It is so far. I break open.

I write since the early morning. In a language. And translate. Into the other one. I do not have notion, where I am. Somewhere between skies and earth. Today the first careful flakes fell. This time was it me, as if the language would get ever sharp edges, becomes ever more painful, the further I to the west and the south raid. Already in Berlin me the German stung pointedly into the ears. And then in Basel to bear in the Trämli after Allschwil, the Basler dialect - allegedly of all Swiss dialects the so-called high German next - simply. As I longed myself for my empty room under the roof in Krakau. Yesterday we drank then to still late at the night sharp Ukrainian Honigwodka. Rinsed thereby the Barszcz down. All kept up courageously. In the kitchen of the Łaski house. When detoxicating the impressions of the journey. When dissolving the into one another wedged languages. When loosening the leg musculature. Last week said Martin to us with the Tai Chi, we should not on the movements of the body concentrate. On the fingers look, not on the hands, not on the lower arms. No. We should concentrate on flowing the energy. He was naturally around „chi”, on this mysterious something, which us by a few inconspicuous movements assign becomes. It even admitted that the Chinese would possess a special word for this energy, we it however would provisionally not use. Then demonstrated it in Polish, which way has to take the energy straight with the movement, at which we had concerned, by our body. And „kręgosłup” [spinal column], „barki” [shoulders], „ramiona” [arms], „ręce” [hands] said, „palce” [finger] and back (by the hand movement, which closes the circle) too „biodro “[hip], „brzuch “[belly], „centrum “[center]. My God! And I, as I now once am einfältig, concentrated me on these words. The head imprisoned of translating. „Kręgosłup”. I know finally, what is called and understand. Which that is: The spinal column. And nevertheless I begin to search. After possibly a place in my body. After something, which always sat at its firm place and suddenly withdraws themselves now. In air dissolves. In the word. In an uncomplicated Polish word. In the language. „Kręgosłup”. „Barki” „Ramiona”. I do not feel anything. No flowing. No energy. No warmth. I do not have anything. I am not anything. My whole body has to exist stopped. Verstohlen look myself I over. Perhaps the spinal column jumps in a subordinate clause by the ajar window outside. Or straight presses itself by the closed door through. Perhaps my shoulders in the Dachbalken hang. Perhaps drängeln my elbow in like always overfilled bus 192 already again to the airport. Perhaps klimpern my fingers in the Parterre on the wing a Chopin Walzer. Someone practices in the other room trumpet. And I do not understand, why me my spinal column was misplaced. By the night-cold park I returned to the mansion and decided not to think any longer longer about this thing. Yesterday I returned. Into my roof room. The day before yesterday early I flew from Basel to Berlin. From the airport beautiful field I drove directly to beautiful mountain. To the acacia road. To one single hour of Tai Chi with Monika. It introduced me to the first recess stage, the so-called yin yang form. And it was exactly the same as with Martin. Monika says to me somewhat. Me to this and that one refers. Adjusts possibly approximately. And suddenly. She says: „Think of the Lendenwirbel”. My God! What is that? „Lendenwirbel”? Kręg lędźwiowy! The lower part of the spinal column. Perhaps. I know nevertheless. And understand. There but nothing is. In my body emptiness yawns. From the inside. Into the German language inside. In the early I had said good-bye into Swiss German to my sister. The man of my cousin, the daughter of the deceased of uncle W., gave after the funeral on the way to Poland back a bottle Zwetschgenschnaps to me. Selfburned from own Zwetschgen. It stuck a hand written label on the bottle. „Bürner Zwetschgen 2001, 43% alc.” This gesture affected me more than the whole transparent beverage. I confessed Monika in the fifth stick at the acacia road that Swiss language, or better said: some the Swiss of dialects are harder, and therefore more hurt, than the German language. I did not say it however that the languages (everything) mean me straight bodies rob. Gradually. A particle after the other one. That the languages me in the way stand. At present. And how. Me prevent from it, me also only to erhasten. That the languages strammstehen. Like the national guard. Between thoughts and skin. Between me and non-me. The fact that now no speech can be of the fact that „chi” flows. As long as words are located in the area like „Lendenwirbel”, „put up basin”, „long back”… - I do not know no more. Which that is. Still where I am. I write since the early morning. In a language. And translate. Into the other one. I do not have notion, where I am. Somewhere between skies and earth. In the afternoon I drive to my Polish hour. Perhaps it brings me neither on the legs.

I returned. To foot. Of the bus stop at the crossing Kastanienallee/larch avenue. By the last holperige piece of the Kastanienallee. Before it ends before the Łaski house. , Where my room under the roof is. Here one has the impression, one is somewhere on the village (and not in one of the best accomodation Krakaus). Broken road surfacing. Of weeds practicing adult inclined sidewalks. I go in the middle on the road. To the right side a new house is built. Afterwards the meadow comes. The horse stud. And I have the impression in the last days the whole world to have orbited. To carry the whole globe on the back. Home. Like my Engelin. The wings. There yet three o'clock in the afternoon and I would like to only sleep. In the kitchen Ukrainian Barszcz cooks. In an enormous pot. The long board is already covered. What is here the matter? Nazar with new hair-style. Looks still nobler. Loads me in. To the meal with all around five. I returned evenly only. Legend I. Redundant way. On the refrigerator in the kitchen a letter for me lies. From Switzerland. The death notice of Beat M. addresses from my friend, its first wife and nut/mother of its children. The world presses on my shoulders. Nobody could at that time, when they separated from cheerful sky, because Beat a new Partnerin did not have, which also none understood, anybody could know at that time or suspect that Beat must live fast. In the Trab. Gallopp. Zweispurig. In order to keep up. With which, today none of us knows until. But we understand now that it little time was vergönnt. It died at all souls at heart failure - with 47 years. In the room under the roof the laptop draws 72 new enamels to me from the net. W. arrived lucky at Guangzhou. Reported that it carry a kurzärmeliges shirt. Daytime temperature on the average with 24 degrees. I answer that I call before five. Because we around five in the kitchen to the Ukrainian Barszcz meet.

Today is holiday. In Poland. And into certain Swiss cantons. Therefore the funeral of uncle is W. in Büren not until tomorrow. In the canton Solothurn works today nobody. There the holy Martin is celebrated. And the Martinsgans the neck cut through. But one works tomorrow. Therefore I come still in time. On. In order to discharge me. Of it. As it is right itself. Thus to travel, I do not like at all. Returned in the night from Warsaw. With the last bus into the mansion. A few few hours slept. Today at 13 o'clock flight to Berlin. Overnight accomodation in the dwelling with the ore gel. Tomorrow morning my airplane takes off from Berlin-Schönefeld around 6:45. To Basel. I do not have notion, as I come at this time to the airport. But it will already become somehow. Around 8:10 I am to land on the euro-air haven in Basel - is called on French soil. So always already was that. They will let me somehow enter. Into my country. Afterwards with the bus to the main station. And with the first best course to reading valley. An early lunch with nut/mother. After two years. I am always somewhere. Not there. Then with the car after Büren. A small quarter of an hour travel. In Büren I probably spent my luckiest moments. In my childhood. Who knows. Allegedly our memory leads around us continuously at the nose. As much for the moment. Obviously Switzerland straight calls me now. And straight I do not oppose her now. I meet it after the holy Martin.

Warszawa. Not until today I discovered that behind the national museum to the Aleje Jerozolimskie the Polish military museum hides itself. That there in the green garden (if one may call this in such a way) tank, airplanes, helicopter and different archaisches, easier like heavier cannon drove. I am never so far those few step direction bridge gone, although I lived completely many years long here in he proximity, worked, thought, walked, for his part even for queue stood and this and the settled. Today I entered the museum on the search for general Bijak. On the search for its haven-guesses/advises, an oil picture painted by Jacek Malczewski. The woman at the cash pointed out me kindly that I inquire better first - there in the Zimmerchen directly opposite - whether this Ölgemälde is present in the museum, before I pay six Zloty for the entrance. And indeed. Is the picture not there. Not in this museum. And nobody knows, where it could be. Perhaps in Rogalin. The boss of the department of Ölgemälde, of on-duty responsible person by telephone into the Zimmerchen „directly opposite “called, means for which no entrance must be paid. Perhaps in Rogalin. There is the largest collection of Malczewskis paintings. I do not have notion, where Rogalin is. With Poznań, the oil picture woman explains without being asked. That create' I today in no more case… murmur I. And on-duty one receives by telephone the message, from someone invisible one from the underground courses of archives that in this museum nothing of general Bijak is present. Not the smallest trace. Yesterday I spent the six Zloty saved today in the centers military library on copies. For the most detailed article over general Bijak, which I could find so far. Ten sides, in the contradiction to all facts, which I already collected. But that is unimportant. It is many more important that the article shows also an illustration of the search. A reproduction of an old photo of the general. In uniform naturally. In the general collar. Quality very badly. In addition, nothing makes. This is the only photo at all - except the fear-exciting wording in oil of Malczewski - which I know. The only one perhaps, that exists. Who knows. In this photo Bijak looks anyhow finally like humans. And finally I understand, why Swiss Lina Bögli fell in love with him. Point. As soon as I am again in Krakau, I must formulate a written request, on insight into „the narrow personnel document “of the general Juliusz Bijak, which is in centers military archives in Rembertów. For a concrete date ask, and a Plätzchen in the read hall to reserve leave to me. Come again and then. As much this time in Warszawa clarified oneself.

Sometimes plays get legs and run by the world. „Lina Böglis journey “* was specified yesterday in Krakau. I asked myself, what knows the director Christoph Marthaler, me, Judith Arlt, nor Lina Bögli say about this woman? Since nobody answered, I went. In order to experience it. In „the Hala well Rajskiej “. In resounds to the Paradiesstrasse. A forgotten Requisitenkammer of the Stary Teatr. In the bus 192 my head the insight was misplaced that theatre does not only live on language. Sometimes the force of gravity works and humans comes not from the mark. I am Swiss, live in Berlin, search since years traces of Lina Bögli and her loving, general Julius Bijak. In Kwiatonowice. In new house. In new Holland. Her large nephew Paul closed me in March into its arms and said: „You are finite there! “Skies on ground connection. Where am I come? Sometimes I am at the right time at the correct place. It lasted for a long time. On red plastic chairs. A provisional spectator's stand. Nothing for humans with back pain. But recently usually. In shut down factories and empty-vacated hotels. Theatre is made. In Basel at the station of Baden I would not seriously have taken the piece. The songs as Kitsch laughs. The texts as hopelessly banal. In the citizen of Berlin Prater would have bored me the piece to death. I would be in the break beer drink gone. Like so many different also. And not again come. In Krakau however there was no break. To the Paradiesstrasse affected me the unsolvable dilemma of the main figure in a place, which I so far could not do. At me. On the stage a small woman stood in high-closed black costume. The disciplined educator outgoing 19. Century. And around it the longing rampantly grew. Homesickness. Switzerland. Switzerland as radio. Switzerland for on and switching off. Switzerland as pushbutton. Switzerland as postmen. Switzerland as sea and Landweg. Switzerland as suffering over suffering instead of suffering instead of suffering creates country and people. Switzerland as Gottfried God hard. The possession greed of a alpine passport transition. Since the antique one we know Personifizierungen. Personifizierte of fears. Personifizierte of dreams. Personifizierte of impulses. Amor and psyche. The expansion of the area is new. The Requisitenkammer. Depth psychology on organ pipes. Mourning march at the standing desk. The dear grief is paged out. Modern outsourcing. The suffering ability runs beside the baton. The stage as interior. That is nothing at all new. In order to make ten years of terrible isolation noticeable, a glass water is sufficient. A red apple. And three singing boys.