»here i am there are you«
– Helmut Heißenbüttel
»Life’s a bitch and then you die / that’s why we get high / ’cause you never know when you’re gonna go / life’s a bitch and then you die / that’s why we puff lye / ’cause you never know when you’re gonna go«, AZ (read: alpha and/or/to omega) howls and I am humming along while I get high. I went to Budapest and all I got was stoned.
Two days later I sit in a bus, smelling like a thousand ashtrays and giggling incontrollably at something I read in my Baudrillard: »Die Realität ist eine Hündin.« Reality’s a bitch, all right. French to German to English. Maybe it’s the same joke originally, maybe it’s a completely different thing.
I’m bemused, then amused, and realise that this is what those days are all about: Sameness but difference.
I’ve been here before, to the same place. But, now: Different me, different it. Maybe that’s why I’m looping away all (of the) day.
It’s something I realise while my cigarette butts mount as I’m mouthing my buts towards B.: There are those gaps we will never close. Like the gap between Buda and Pest which are eternally symbolically divided by a river which is as deep as a u and winds like an s.
Abraham, A to the B, bowing to Buddha. You can’t make that shit up, just put a sticker on it.
We find them in the Garden of Philosophy. It took us half an hour to find the place, stumbling through deserted backalleys and marvelling at the bizarre beauty of Budapest’s post-socialist architecture on the slope of that mountain (another pun in translation, transition). »Why do you like that?«, B. asks me and I avoid using the word »abject«.
On the day on which I came, my essay My untimely suspension was published. It picks up the age-old aporia of poor young Hamlet who is another f(r)iend of the b. But not nearly as existentialist as B. can be. »To be or not to be«, we’ve all heard that before. Same old, same old. But here comes another but: But did you read on? »[…] there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.«
Think that busted bust. The separation in and of the self. Oh, well, that’s also a thing. Isn’t it? Is. Not. It. Now put that back together if you can.
What if it was truly like they say; what if the quickest way from point A to point B would be route C. What if, to put it differently, difference brought sameness? Do we become one in raising our hands while Barnt is playing? Or are our tastes, like A. points out astutely, presented differently however alike they appear to be?
Our sameness, what difference does it make?, I quietly ask myself now in the back of my head which is still numb, affected by and buzzing with a shared vocabulary. Split that letter for a second, I’m not talking about the same one here. B. and I explicity don’t use the same explicit words, only B. and I do. Beware our awareness of this.
Dear, how gullible of [suspended] to think that brilliance bestows beauty upon being. (Especially if there’s no being, non-being that doesn’t belie itself.) Maybe we’ve missed our chance to be radical I think, long after I’ve been taken away again.
There you went, the bird and the airplane. It’s a mix-up, really: There’s alpha, but beta‘s in the back.
Back to Berlin then, back to business and the beauty of it.
The last word’ll be not a frail farewell. But a banal »bye, bye«.
I could tell you a joke if you liked the one about Nas and Baudrillard: The only German poet who bestowed beauty upon German, I told B. when we first met in that bar, was Hölderlin. There’s a Hölderlinwort which also is mine: Aber.
»So komm! daß wir das Offene schauen,
Daß ein Eigenes wir suchen, so weit es auch ist.«
– Friedrich Hölderlin
Yeah, but. Ja, aber.