Im unendlichen Kleinen sind gekrümmte Masse nützlicher als starre.
Das kann auch für das Ungeheure gelten.
Ein aufrichtig gekrümmtes Lied.
Das Lied als Mass.
Das Lied als Instrument.
Das Lied als Gefährt.
P übersetzt so ein Lied.
P, der Europa einen neuen Blick auf dessen vergessene Schätze ermöglichte,
bot, bieten konnte,
neue Blicke im Dienst alter Verhältnisse.
This machine has never felt pain.
Never slept in a too-soft bed dreaming of murders committed centuries ago, never drunk too much red wine and bared its soul to its drinking companion, talking of everything but love.
This machine has never
felt the pit of snakes in its stomach drop down past the reach of rope and basket, past the help of hands, has not known what it might be like to wake up wishing it were dead.
This machine has never worn
a too-big straw hat to keep out the sun on an October afternoon, never laughed so much its belly ached, never sat sipping tusli tea from a borrowed glass under a winter moon, listening to an old Hindi song sung by a young South Indian voice…
I: an English letter which stands for myself,
I: solid, a solitaire, a one letter word.
EGO: a Latin triple, two vowels appearing like elephants ears and the G: somehow open and not open.
ICH: again a triple, a German: a solid statue seems to offer itself as a construction supporting the C: the openness towards what is coming next. The H serves as a rocket, catapulting the C into other dimensions.
I: solid like a skyscraper, tender and rank like Pounds New York,
I: one tower of the World Trade Center, no longer proud and solid, but vulnerable and suffering from recycling its dignity.
I: fragile not since September 11, but since Turings paper of 1936/37, challenging Descartes`Ego, by programming:
I = blank or – , i.e. possibly nothing.
Zuweilen übernehmen wir neue Techniken,
weil jemand von aussen zu uns vordringt,
der oder die versprechen, unsere Schätze
in neuem Licht erscheinen zu lassen.
P, der Europa einen neuen Blick auf dessen Schätze ermöglichte,
bot, konnte
neue Blicke im Dienst alter Verhältnisse bieten.
Krümmende Sorge,
eine, die sich dem Kommenden entgegen krümmt,
sich von ihm bereits verändern lässt,
bevor es eingetroffen ist.
Es treffen und es werden eintreffen:
Menschen, Wellen,
Ströme von Menschen mit konkreten Verlangen nach
Nahrung, Schlafstellen, Verdienstmöglichkeiten.
9.
I’m on morpheme today.
*
A word so fierce it refutes the break.
The dusk is mine.
Child of sleep, raiser of ghouls, take the hurt.
*
No sense in rupture.
*
Morphing one into the other
Crystalline analgesic anaesthetic
The numbing narcotic of loss.
In der Mitte des Lebens
Verliert sich die Neigung zur Faulheit
An der Zither.*
Being in the midst of ones life,
the inclination towards doing nothing
gets lost
at the lute.
This sounds funny because something that tends towards nothingness gets lost at something that does not implicate by itsself something, but only when it is played. So something nothing achieves more nothingness by something that does not exist properly. This is something.
Zitiert nach Tanizaki Jun’ ichiro: Über die Faulheit. In: Merve (Hrsg.): Hannes Böhringer zum sechzigsten Geburtstag. Berlin: Merve, 2008.
I = shit (Dieter Roth)
I = something that matches (misst) itself with the gods not unluckily (Friedrich Hölderlin)
I = ?
8.
The naming of Hannibal’s elephants.
*
They strode out of the Atlas,
flat-headed, fan-eared,
fighting with tusk and trunk,
smelling bad enough to drive the horses mad.
Historians, naturalists, archaeologists fussing
over a single Carthaginian coin.
Snow, and black
trumpeting rock.
*
Names invincible enough.
Names with war in their throats
and a dying hunger.
Spearheads entering flesh.
Mountains being scaled.
*
Only one survived.
Surus, the Syrian.
Indian elephant reaches Carthage from Syria via Egypt.
Names the colour of flint.
*
Their mouths turned blue.
In their brains the names still whirred,
thirty-seven bar one,
whispered by poets
in the form of birds that fell.
The gasp of the last big secret.