Monday, April 19, 2010
call it by its real name
She's on the run along the canals. I can't tell what she's looking for, if anything. Love? Food? Just a distraction? A nice way to kill some time. The moon is but a sliver, but through a rift, on the outskirts of the horizons, there's some navy blue spilling out, as a premonition. The fox cuts across Greifswalder Strasse and starts following the street car tracks.
You've got to keep moving, right?
(He doesn't speak, he screams, when he's on the phone)
She sometimes talks to me as if I was an idiot. I guess I am when it comes to certain things. I am at a remedial level when it comes to faking a smile. And it's nearly impossible for me carrying more than two soup bowls without scalding myself, or leaving a trail of carrot-ginger splashes on the tiled floor. I hate that tone in her voice, that look on her face. Hate it. But then again, other times she's very sweet. Tells me how much she likes me, and says I am a good worker. A good worker?
I know she drinks too much red wine upstairs and that she makes expensive phone calls to her Psychic friend. That witch tells her that soon she'll meet a tall, handsome man and she won't be lonely or confused anymore. That love really is a miracle, and that her personal one is just waiting in the wings. The dollars go tick-tick-tick.
She's a fool because she allows herself to dream and to hope.
(He thinks I am unfair. I think he's unfair. He says I'm selfish. I say the same thing about him)
I stopped and watched the fox disappear down the soft slope leaning towards Alexanderplatz. I suddenly ached to be in a forest, and to see her there, threading confidently over roots that beckon for a human stumble. But not a fox one. I dreamed, for a short moment, of those dense pine tree fairytale forests that I think could only exist in Scandinavia. Where distant snow-covered mountains poke star-hung skies, and elves flow-dance on misty meadows.
The sum of the problems is always constant.