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.