Wrists cut open, blood everywhere. Not my blood. No Royal blood here.
How it all started? A few things I’m making a tremendous effort to remember. I read this on a wall somewhere. Or on the WALL, the Berlin Wall when it was still up and standing.
(images of a Wall crumbling, possibly the Berlin Wall)Sprayed on the wall: “America is the only country that went from barbarism to decadence without civilization in between.”
“Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months.”
In fact, it all happened so fast, I think. There I was, staring at this wall as it was suddenly being torn down and the entire world was there to celebrate it. Those sentences I was staring at were being dismantled, destroyed as the Wall was being destroyed. Should that mean that the meaning of their content was also becoming meaningless?
Hospital: yet, these faces where hanging over mine and the questions becoming more and more annoying: “are you feeling better?”
Sidewalk: yet, these faces where hanging over mine and the questions becoming more and more annoying: “are you feeling better?”
My father, o yes, I remember him, was standing on one of those wooden platforms that West Berlin had built to overlook East Berlin.
And now? Now I am.
Yes…. standing on one of those wooden platforms that West Berlin had built to overlook East Berlin.
I thought we were on Cornelia Street.
My father and I: His eyes, all tears. He simply could not understand what had happened to his city. They had CUT IT SHUT, doubled it, while I’m cut here all open trying to remember….I am desperately trying to remember.
Hospital: what really matters, such as, for instance, matters regarding my own survival?
Meaning…I am not a spy or a double agent. I’m a playwright and a stage director of theater and opera.
Yet, someone is writing my life for me. A Ghost writer? Some double, maybe.
Yes, it’s slowly coming back to me. The orgies, the great and wonderful cunts and ass holes and my life in hotels….
After all, Sam Beckett had been to Tunisia numerous times….and had Arab connections. But if this story were to have been written by anyone else, it obviously appeared to be much more in the style of …better shut up.
You have no idea where you are: they captured you after you fell on the street and your blood….
Reagan had warned Gorbachev and the world came to Berlin. Is that where I am? Why all these Arabs then?
I feel like Guernica. The painting, I mean.
“What? What was that?“, a lonely voice shouts from the dark. It’s the voice from another agent, perhaps another double agent.
Voices in my ears.
A bitter taste in my mouth.
Maybe the note implanted in me – “you are S-trapped” came from …“What? What was that?“, a lonely voice shouts from the dark. It’s the voice from another agent, perhaps another double agent.
WHO IS WRITING THIS?
AND WHERE THE FUCK AM I?
London – 15 April 2010
LONDON — British civil aviation authorities ordered the closure of the country’s airspace as of noon on Thursday to shield aircraft from a high-altitude cloud of ash drifting south and east from an erupting volcano in Iceland. The plume shut down airports and forced the cancellation of hundreds of flights in a wide arc from Ireland to Scandinavia.