Vertrauen Sie mir - ich weiß, was ich tue!

Unter dieser Rubrik gibt es ab sofort meine "Hausaufgaben". Ich tue mir immer noch sehr schwer, aus einer Ich-Perspektive zu schreiben. Meine eigentlich Inspiration an dem Tag war ein Youtubevideo, über Esoteriker und als ich daheim saß, dachte ich über Jim Jones nach.
Jim Jones war ein Sektenführer, mit allen uncharmanten Eigenschaften, die man sich vorstellen kann. Er war Vater des People Temples, Wunderheiler und Hochstapler. Außerdem ist er für einen Massenselbstmord seiner AnhängerInen (inklusive ihm) in Guyana verantwortlich. Interessierte können sicherlich das Internet bedienen. Ich selber habe damals das Buch "Selbstmord im Paradies: Mein Leben in der Sekte" gelesen, hier der Buchrückentext:

"Er hatte ihnen das Paradies auf Erden versprochen. Und sie sind ihm gefolgt – bis in den Tod. Vor dreißig Jahren geriet die US-Sekte People’s Temple in die Schlagzeilen der internationalen Presse. Ein regelrechtes Massaker hatte am 28. November 1978 in Jonestown (Guyana) stattgefunden, 913 Menschen starben, darunter 276 Kinder. Opfer eines charismatischen Führers, James Warren Jones. Was treibt Menschen dazu, sich in ein System der Unterdrückung und Manipulation zu begeben, das sie mit dem Leben bezahlen? Deborah Layton, die neun Jahre lang Mitglied der Sekte war, konnte ein halbes Jahr vor dem Massaker aus Jonestown fliehen. Zwanzig Jahre später schrieb sie diesen eindrücklichen Bericht. Ein Buch mit Wucht. Ein Buch, das auf fesselnde Weise aufklärt. Ein Buch von beängstigender Aktualität."

Leider ist es schon eine Weile her, daß ich das Buch gelesen habe und ich habe es auch nicht hier in GB. Wer sich generell für Themen dieser Art interessiert (Sekten), kann einen Blick riskieren. Wer eher lesefaul ist, kann bei Youtube auch diverse Dokumentationen zum Thema finden.

Zurück zu meiner Hausaufgabe. Letzendlich ist das hier auch nur ein Snippet und müßte als Kurzgeschichte natürlich deutlich ausgebaut werden. Ich könnte mir vorstellen, daß manch eine oder einer die Verbindung von Lolita und dem Kurzerzählten nicht so gelungen findet. Könnte das doch zu Fehlschlüssen verleiten. Ich möchte Homosexualität nicht auf die Ebene von Pädophilie  runtersetzen. Allerdings ist der Character William Williamson darauf angelegt, ebenso grenzüberschreitend zu sein wie Humbert Humbert, dessen Lust Motor für seine Handlungen war.

Williamsontown

“You are God’s instrument Mr. Williamson. How you healed Martha today.  That was…really. A miracle. When she came up to the stage…” Jackie’s eyes are beaming at me.

“Thanks Jackie. But it’s not me. It is you, the people, and your faith. We are all His instrument. Remember Romans 8:11, “But if the Spirit of him that raised up Jesus from the dead dwell in you, he that raised up Christ from the dead shall also quicken your mortal bodies by his Spirit that dwelleth in you.”

“Thank you so much father” her hand reaches for my arm,”thank you. I really felt it today when Martha started to speak and her voice crac…”

“Sorry to interrupt you Jackie”, I recoil,” but I am in hurry. I need to catch my train and Laura is    waiting outside for me. I really am terribly sorry, we’ll see each other next week, okay? God bless your soul. ”, with that I turn, leave Jackie, hear her “Thank God for William Williamson” while I am hurrying towards the doors. I feel my shirt scratching. Why do they always need to talk after the session?  Then they want to touch you and ask for further advice or want to invite you to their house for a nice dinner.  And the dinners never turn out to be nice.

When I step outside, Laura is already waiting on the opposite side of the street. I see that she is wearing the petrol pleated skirt. She wore it for one of our first rendezvous; we chose Lolita, she loved Kubrick’s movies, I adored Nabokov.  

She was already waiting for me in front of the movie theatre, hopping on her feet, wearing that same skirt, black patterned tights and a short, black coat that wrapped around her slim figure. A bag clutched beside her, snow falling on her hat. She was heavenly. I loved her.

We met in one of my healing sessions. I couldn’t help but notice her beauty spot, when she came to seek some further advice after the session:

“Mr. Williamson, I just came recently to town…” and I sunk into her eyes, her voice surprisingly deep, promising endless dawn.  And above all things have fervent charity among yourselves:  for charity shall cover the multitude of sins.

“Laura “, I give her a hasty kiss, “are you alright?”

She nods: “I am fine Will, I was managing your calendar, then my Mum called and she wouldn’t stop talking, you know how she is. Anyway it got late and I couldn’t find your bag. I was looking in every corner of the house, but nothing.  I didn’t want you to miss your train, so I packed your stuff in my travel bag instead.

“That’s fine Laura, don’t worry. Thanks darling,” another kiss.

“I hope I didn’t forget anything. Also I packed you a little something.”

“Oh, that sounds good, can I look now or should I look later?”

“I will miss you Will…” She stares down at the pavement.

 ”Laura, look, we had this discussion already and I need to be at the train station in 15 min, so let’s try not to argue, okay?”  Hands toying nervously inside my pockets.

“Uh huh…”

 “Is there anything I can bring back for you from Paris? To cheer you up a little bit? I will have some free time after my meetings.”

 “The Eifel tower, maybe?”

“Sure darling, whatever you want…” I beam at her with the integrity of a used cars salesmen whist bending over to take the bag; “I’ll call you when I am there.  Whenever I have the time. But I really need to go now. Otherwise I’ll miss my train.” I embrace her convincingly and kiss her on the forehead. I am already fumbling after the car keys.

As the train rolls into the Gare du Nord I am already at the door and staring through the window like a cat into a goldfish bowel, trying to recognise the waiters’ face.  After everlasting minutes the train finally stops, I am the first to jump out- an innocent school boy who cannot wait to throw his books into an after class corner, hunting those beautiful opportunities to do all the wrong things. I spot Jean-Luc immediately; he rushes towards me and I feel my pulse racing.  Jean-Luc, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul.

 And I know that Jesus and Humbert Humbert died for our sins.  

 

Vertrauen Sie mir - ich weiß, was ich tue!

Schnell zur Einleitung: Zur Zeit bin ich in GB und versuche mich in Creative Writing. Was in Deutschland ja noch recht verpönt ist; man ist gefälligst von Geburt an Genie und BestsellerautorIn und KünstlerIn. Doch das Argument der Angelsachsen hat mich überzeugt, es durchaus mit so einem Kurs zu versuchen: Generell handelt es sich beim Schreiben um eine Kunstform, in der man sich durch das Üben verbessern kann. Das mag auf den ersten Blick etwas irritierend sein, schaut man aber in benachbarte künstlerische Bereiche wie Malerei und Tanz, die man entsprechenden Instituten studieren kann, erschließt sich das Argument recht schnell. Ausschlaggebend für mich war zu dem, dass ich mich gerne mit Gleichgesinnten über Ideen austauschen wollte und Schreiben als festen Bestandteil in meinem Leben integrieren wollte. Da ich eher zu den faulen Menschen gehöre und ich besser unter Deadlines arbeite, erschien mir ein Kurs, in dem ich auch weitere Kontakte knüpfen kann, sinnvoll. Und wenn unser aller Szeneheld Blake Schwarzenbach es getan hat, dann ist das für mich doch schon Absolution genug.

Hier also von nun ab unter dieser Rubrik meine wöchentlichen Schreibübungen. Die erste Hausaufgabe war recht simpel, wir sollten um die 200 Wörter zu zwei zufällig gezogenen Wörtern schreiben. Glücklicherweise wollte jemand mit mir "bonfire" und "Camden" tauschen, ich bin halt mehr der Things-In-Jars-Mensch (meine Wörter: "octopus"/"jar"). Die zweite Hausaufgabe fiel mir schwerer, da es um das Schreiben aus der Ich-Perspektive ging. Wir hatten drei Charater in einer kurzen Gruppenarbeit erstellt und alle drei Charaktere waren mir nicht sympathisch. Es fiel mir schwer, in meinen Charakter (deutscher Sohn aus dem Adel mit Nazivergangenheit, nun dauerbesoffener Punker und immer auf Krawall gebürstet und Rebell ohne Grund, aber immer bereit) reinzuversetzen. Ziel um die 200 Wörter. Eigentlich sollten sich zwei Charaktere in einer dramatischen Szene treffen. Die Anlagen dafür sind schon da, aber die zündende Idee kam mir erst gestern Abend und das nach dem Arbeiten. Vielleicht später noch in voller (kurzer) Ausarbeitung.

 The Hunter

“Finally!” the man called out. No one was in the room to answer him. It was a large room with high ceilings and high shelves. The light fell sparsely into it – the blue hour his favourite time – and in every corner shadows hid the treasures and pleasures from the spectator’s eye.

He didn’t need light; he knew exactly what was in here and where to find it having worked there almost every day. It was stuffed with wonderful bizarre things and he was the one responsible for it. The surgeon. The scientist and adventurer.  The collector.

 John Hunter lifted up a jar he had hold of in his hands and pulled it closer to his eyes. A broad smile lit his face. He stared into the jar, into the colourless formalin. His newest exhibit floated gently before his eyes: the denture of Winston Churchill. Forgotten: the struggle and cryptic and - God forgive him - illegal ways the denture had finally come into his possession. Forgotten: the people in the streets who never stopped their tittle-tattling. What an oddball he was; a threat to society that needed to be locked away. Forever. All John felt was his excitement, an endless passion and curiosity that dragged him forward, helped him to cross the tedious boundaries of his society.

Pleased with himself, the smile still on his face, he stepped closer to the shelves and lifted the jar up to place it between two vessels; one containing the teeth of a soldier who had lost his life in the battle of Waterloo, the other a necklace made of human teeth, a present from his friend Henry Morton Stanley who found the oddity on one of his expeditions to the Congo.

 But, before he could place the object to let it join the neatly organised lines of jars, something else caught his attention. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a gap on the lower shelves that had not been there before. The dusk marked clearly the outlines of a missing jar. A jar that held an unusual exemplar of the cephalopod mollusc family, an octopus Hunter had fished out of the sea, risking his life to secure the specimen. Irritated, Hunter lowered the jar and crouched down, the smile vanishing from his face.

Punk In Drublic

 

This is how the girlfriend in a coma must feel. Can I pull through? The alarm is going now for half an hour but I am still half comatose. My head is a fucking train wreck; pain is just battering it. Slowly I rub up my pillow, eye lids half closed, trying to gain control over my body. My joints are stiff and I taste a note of too much nicotine and too many cheap beers in my mouth. I try to recall last night but after a random gig the movie suddenly snaps. You don’t have many options if the band sucks and you still want to have a good night out.

Another five minutes and I can convince myself to turn off the damn alarm and balance my body out of bed. Sweet, still wearing clothes; the band shirt reeks of sweat, cold smoke and stale beer. I don’t care; all I need is a cigarette before I get to work. Okay and definitely pain killers. It might improve the chances of me surviving the day. I spot my pack of fags and before I have even lit one, I turn on the record player. “I can't go to work. The boss is a jerk…” - thank you Black Flag for your pearls of wisdom.

I couldn’t have said it better myself. This job is sucking my life.  A corset, keeping me in line with the ordinary.  Four days a week, 8am-4pm:  “Good morning, this is Joseph, is it possible to speak to…?” But at least it is a job and I need money.  I knock back the pills, finish my cigarette, grab a jacket from the floor and fumble for my mp3 player. And keys, don’t forget the keys. The player is already turned on when the door falls into its lock.

13 minutes until lunch break at 12. I arrived late to the office, my supervisor gave me the look, I ignored it, head down, straight to my booth. The drones were already in line, staring with full concentration on their monitors, always buzzing so friendly down the phone. Hypocrites.

How I fucking hate this job. Receiver to the ear, dial, “Good morning, this is Joseph, is it possible to speak to…”, on-hook. Repeat. Best case scenario they don’t pick up at the other end. I keep a close eye on the clock, trying to waste time, staring at the sample, dialling on purpose the wrong number, quickly hanging up after three rings, recommended waiting time is five. Misspelling codes, delete, misspell it again. A call that no one picks up can take me a minute, I am working on a minute and a half. It is just seconds I gain, but they will add up. I feel better by being unproductive and knowing that they still need to pay me.

And now for some light entertainment: Tucked-in-Shirt is getting chewed out by the boss. Her mouth opens quickly; her salvia spraying his workspace. And the poor sod just nods; when she turns he rubs his eyes. Complete loser. Five to twelve: lunch break.