Yesterday wasn't much different. I went to the grocery store and Turkish market to pick up my weekly Lebensmittel -- yogurt, muesli, soup, bread, some fresh ravioli, a pineapple, grapefruit juice. Then I took a stroll through nearby Neukölln, stopping at a Canadian pizza place for lunch (Ron Telesky, Dieffenbachstraße 62). I was a good decision away from ordering a slice of the vegetable-pesto, but opted instead for the pie topped with sliced hot dog, french fries, and fried onions. They convinced me to put some Danish mayonnaise on it, too. It was so good. My second piece was baked with rosemary, sliced golden potatoes and sweet potatoes. Sweet potato pizza? Then again, french fry and hot dog pizza? Yes.
To work off my new gut, I took another sun-soaked snooze in the grass along the canal.
Do not be fooled. My life here isn't all... um, exotic... food and naps. The rest of the time I'm on my computer arranging interviews and Googling all things Berlin. That's just a whole lot less interesting to talk about.
For those who are interested, last Friday I finished helping Matt edit some of his stories to submit in a fiction contest. Now I have two internships lined up: one starting tomorrow at a gallery in Mitte, the other starting in August for the literature festival. I'm also scheduled to help next week with a festival on architectural spaces and their acoustics. I just scored a short-term gig as a party photographer -- I'm interested to see where this might lead. As soon as the last of my jewelry-making supplies arrives, I will put together some earrings and necklaces to sell at the market and possibly a boutique or two. Hopefully this will pay for my day-to-day expenses, like food. I'm still searching for more stable, more financially-rewarding work. But it looks like my long, boring days lounging in the park are over.
The artist is plagued in a way that the audience is not. It's relatively easy to be satisfied as a reader, a listener, a passive observer. The effort we put in is minimal, so whatever reward we gain is sufficient.
Yet some works go beyond the expected perimeters of artistic gratification -- and often go beyond the audience almost completely. Or do they? What I find so wondrous about these works is that they are so real. They have the capacity to touch people in the bases of their souls, to knock their asses off stools and send them sprawling on the floor. They lack majesty, by nature unconcerned with bullshit so they can reach for and dig at the roots of humanity.
I don't mean to sound like a snob; we don't have to be well-educated to find beauty or the sublime in art. And I don't mean to restrict this sensation to only the "fine arts" familiar to us. What I find equally inspiring and stunning is that people have found ways to communicate what cannot be articulated in everyday speech.
Which is what brings me back to literature. The only medium fiction writers work in is everyday speech, but they employ other tools to create something embedded with much more than can be implied through intonation or suggested with gesture. For whatever reason, people accept metaphor, for example, much more readily when its presented in fiction than in quotidian life. This is evidence that there are certain expectations that come with art, which separate it from "real life." We allow the artist to experiment (in fact, we expect him to) and are ready to forgive him if he fails to produce the desired effect. Why is this, why do we hold art in such high regard, even more so than our own lives? How is it that people view the mission so admirable, but don't attempt it themselves? (In contrast, upon learning the story of the self-made millionaire, we certainly don't lack the cowardice to try following in his footsteps.)
The only place I'm going with all this is right here. Today I finished Julio Cortázar's "The Pursuer" ("El Perseguidor"), which is going down as one of my favorite stories of all time. Until it's all been absorbed and forgotten, I don't want to read anything else. Not even the last story in his collection. "The Pursuer" is a tribute to all great artists. The narrator, Bruno, is a jazz critic, as well as the friend and personal biographer of saxophonist Johnny Carter (in reality, Charlie Parker). The story itself is a criticism -- of jazz, of Carter, of Bruno, of critics. By critiquing jazz, he inherently critiques Carter and vice versa. By critiquing himself, he critiques all criticism. . . . It's easy to see how it gets messy. But what I found most compelling was how Cortázar, or Bruno, described man's pursuit of some greater truth through these two voices, one of the said rational critic, the other a wholly self-absorbed artist who rambles schizophrenic daydreams to anyone who'll listen. And even more so, his skepticism of one being better off than the other.
Sie ist ein Geschenk
und ich wohne nebenan –
Packst sie nicht ein.
Doch, die Petalen,
sie sind anfällig für die
Brise des Sommers.
***
He's the mouth and I'm the ear, so as not to say that he's the mouth and I'm the . . .
Every critic, yeah, is the sad-assed end of something that starts as taste, like the pleasure of biting into something and chewing on it. And the mouth moves again, relishing it, Johnny's big tongue sucks back a little string of saliva from the lips.
***
It's like in an elevator, you're in an elevator talking with people, you don't feel anything strange, meanwhile you've passed the first floor, the tenth, the twenty-first, and the city's down there below you, and you're finishing the sentence you began when you stepped into it, and between the first words and the last ones, there're fifty-two floors. I realized that when I started to play I was stepping into an elevator, but the elevator was time, if I can put it that way. Now realize that I haven't forgotten the mortgage or the religion. Like it's the mortgage and the religion are a suit I'm not wearing at the moment; I know the suit's in the closet, but at that moment you can't tell me that that suit exists. The suit exists when I put it on, and the mortgage and religion existed when I got finished playing and the old lady came in with her hair, dangling big hunks of hair all over me and complaining I'm busting her ears with that goddamned music.
-Julio Cortázar, The Pursuer
Sunday afternoon
a man vomits
on my ankle
no regrets
That said, I'm very happy with the way things are turning out. It's true, I don't have a job yet and need very much to find one within the next week or two. Though I've been looking and applying nearly every day, I have saved most of my time and energy for indulging other interests. I haven't even begun to exhaust my resources.
So I’m sitting here listening to Otis Redding. Except it’s summertime, and I’m sitting at my typewriter topless except for a silk scarf. And maybe even that isn’t authentic. Maybe it’s polyester or a nylon-blend. Just over 7,000 kilometers away, I have a sweet, funny and wildly intelligent boyfriend. So I’m alone, listening to Otis Redding.
For dinner I managed to sauté some green asparagus (white is more popular in Germany) and white mushrooms (I typically avoid the green ones, as do the Germans) in lemon juice and sea salt. I think I did a pretty damn good job of it, too. I even took the time to trim off the mushy ends and scrape off the fuzzy growth that accumulated after a week of sharing the fridge with a bowl of green seeded grapes. Using the small, dull knife from the right drawer in my rented kitchen, I removed the unwanted bits, dropping them into the trash. I’m still wealthy enough to afford having undesirables. And there’s always my health.
So I’m sitting alone, except for my health, with a plate of soggy vegetables and a glass of Chilean wine, listening to Otis Redding sing about some baby or other.
I have a little theory, many of them, actually, but this one is that my ability to successfully open a bottle of wine, Chilean or not, is directly proportional to the intensity of my desire to get drunk off the wine. That said, I have more failed attempts and broken corks under my belt than any self-respecting adult would be ashamed to admit.
In front of me lay a few pens, of various color, a seascape from a family cruise (not my own), a roll of 35mm film waiting to be taken in to be developed, and a I (HEART) NY mug. I’ve never been to New York, city or state, but my lover has. It’s the only sliver of my country he’s ever seen, and already he can proclaim his love for it. That’s commitment. I can’t even commit to a color of nail polish, let alone a fixture in my domestic life, or a man, if there’s any difference.
So I’m sitting alone and nearly naked, drinking red wine from a ceramic coffee mug, listening to Otis wail about needing someone who doesn’t seem to need him back. My German Shepherd lies beside me, panting like a large, sweaty dog does on humid summer evenings in the central European valley. I walk to the kitchen to get him a bowl of cool water (and another mug of wine, for yours truly) when I realize I have been misapprehending dear Otis for the past two minutes and forty seconds. His valley has very, very little to do with central Europe, or melancholy, low self-esteem, or even runaway loves. How is one supposed to differentiate the sad Fa’s from the happy Fa’s. Where I come from, which sure as hell isn’t the South of the 1960s, a Fa is a Fa.
So here I am, alone, tipsy and sobbing softly half into a white ceramic mug whose message would assert me a hypocrite and half into a slobbery dog’s water dish, when I remember that Otis died young. A few years younger than I am now, maybe 26 or 27. In Madison, Wisconsin, no less. I start to wonder if he would like Madison when I realize he would never have the chance to find out. It’s New York he loves, not America, and especially not the Midwest.
I don’t feel quite up to listening to Otis’s happy song, so I stop the music and turn off the lamp while I’m up. The lights of the train station are enough for me to make out my keyboard, and the dog’s soft moans, caused no doubt by some regular, reoccurring summer dog dream, are quieted by the roar of the elevated nighttime commuter train.
reading the concrete for the prophecy
written in chalk and a man, teacup
and bottle of honey look on
at those who have the time
to give a poet a chance, to tread
upon the messages, separated by the cracks
all of them (the words?) wash away
with the first rain a canoe tumbling
a great fall it crashes first then splinters, sinks
later, finds buoyancy when it dries
and crumbles with age but still makes it ashore
to be spotted by beachcomber gulls
and sand lice hiding in its
cracks only to leap
at the surprise of those who stop to look
for the answer in the path
laid before their naked feet, cracked
heels and waterlogged toes.
A few days ago I moved into my apartment. It’s located in what is, so far, my favorite part of the city. It’s a block away from the canal, a block away from a large park vibrating with bongos and eccentrics, a couple blocks away from the train station, a street full of hip cafés and bars, and the weekday Turkish market. I find the apartment much too big for a single, average-sized person like myself, but I think it will work just fine. I have a full kitchen, fitted with yellow tile and all sorts of dishes, pots, pans, cutting boards, and more pasta than I can eat in a month. There's even a washing machine for my clothes. I bathe in the tub, which without too much exaggeration is the size of a small billiards table, in the mornings (except for the past couple of sweltering days, which allowed for two cool baths a day). My living space, which goes without saying shares the same room as my sleeping space and my work space, fits a double bed, several shelves and wardrobes, a two-person desk, a futon and a large plant all quite comfortably. In all, there are four windows that overlook my cobblestone street and a café below. On several days of the week, bells from nearby churches can be heard. In the back, there are separate recycling receptacles for white glass, colored glass, paper, plastic, aluminum and organic waste. That leaves very little to actually be thrown away in the garbage. I'm renting the flat from a physicist (and part-time artist) who is finishing his dissertation in Hamburg. I'm in love with the apartment, and have already accepted it as my home.
As I'm doing my very best to save my money (and that I don't have much of it to save), I spent most of this week indoors. Every couple of days I go to the street market to pick up some fruit and vegetables (the strawberries here are amazing!) Für Frühstuck esse ich Muesli mit Joghurt und Obst. Nudeln und Tomaten machen viele von meinen Essen, aber Spargel ist auch billig hier. Spinat Creme (100g) kostet nur 1€ und Fladenbrot 0,50€ für 5 Stücke.
Last Sunday I went to Prenzlauerberg's Mauerpark flea market (der Flohmarkt) and picked up a typewriter. (This makes 3 out of 4: I have purchased a bike, an apartment, and a typewriter. All that's left to find is a job.) Die Schreibmaschine (Triumph-Adler Contessa 2) cost me 8€ and the ribbon, found at a local stationary store, cost 5€. The pleasure it has bestowed upon my restless summer days has already made up for its cost. The rest of the time, I ride my bike or take self-directed walking tours around Kreuzberg and nearby Friedrichshain. I've done a bit of thrifting (I have never seen so much hemp-linen clothing) and have perched several evenings on the edge of the canal to read under the setting sun. The sun rises here between 4:30 and 5:00 and sets shortly before 10. Of course, the winter is a totally different story, but for now I'll focus on summer.
A week ago I also went to the Komische Oper with László. The show was certainly good, but not great. The actors sang beautifully and I suppose that's what matters the most with the opera. My chief complaint was that the costume and set design was relatively contemporary, or at least kept itself free of a certain place or year. Yet it was still set during the Christmas season (I'm sure I'm alone in my opinion, but I really think they could have changed this without ruining the spirit of the story. I don't want to see snow in June!) and tuberculosis consumed Mimi despite it being a very dated disease. Because of this, I was distracted at too many points and was never able to fully submerse myself in the play. As for the set, the stage was left completely open, free of backing so that the innards of the backstage were exposed to the audience. Just a thin, wooden frame created structural depth for the actors to play. In the first act the chorus arranged a large Christmas tree center stage, complete with presents underneath wrapped in shiny foil. To mimic the disarray of the second half, the presents were ripped open and their wrappings left to clutter the stage.
I expected the play to be performed in Italian (is it ever done in French?) with German subtitles, but it was sung entirely in German. (I would have preferred Italian, I think.) Fortunately, I read the synopsis beforehand and understood nearly everything that happened.
The lesson I took from the evening was that despite having money, fame, or even good friends, life is still complicated and difficult. The Bohemian lifestyle is not to be envied or romanticized by the upper-classes, even though it inherently is by being transcribed into an opera (think of the social class of the typical theatergoer). Not that I mean to trivialize the plight of the playwright.
The cafés I've visited this week include Manouche, a crêpe shop run by an ex-Parisian, and Il Casolare, a memorable Italian café with a terrace and good pizza. Both are on Grimmstrasse here in Kreuzberg.
Just two days until the start of the European championships! This means that for the next two weeks, every evening at 18.00 football fans will fill the cafés. Those without televisions will either have to find one or shut down so their staff can still watch the games.
The Pit of Babel
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Es muß ein Fortschritt geschehen...
Wir graben den Schacht von Babel.
Some progress must be made...
We are digging the pit of Babel.
(Franz Kafka)
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I am Katie Sharrow-Reabe and I am interested in structural and social architecture. Linguistic and cultural translation. Progress through retrospection. Subliminal and subterranean connections. And I would like you to help me put these fragments into a hole.
