Thanks for the Memories (assignment 4)

The smell instantly pervades my nostrils as we enter the perfume store. It stings. Tears are mounting, an itching redness creeping out from the corners of my eyes. Dryness in my throat, my esophagus begins to gasp and writhe. A harsh pit within my stomach fills with acid and bile; it begins to pull at the back of my tongue. It slips into my mouth with a final lunge as I leave the room. A sickly mix of vomit and saliva drips from the grate on the side of street. Fresh air flows into my lungs and the noxious smell is swallowed by the welcomed stench of asphalt and rubbish.

The bench presses into my back. I feel my shoulder blades being pushed and pulled in a quiet war with gravity, one forced higher than the other. My right hand upon my abdomen, I feel my heart beating in my stomach. My left hand hangs towards the ground, one nail tapping lightly upon the gravel. Strands of hair bend slightly and hint at the whisper of a breeze. The air is warm and slightly sweetened with the flavor of summer flowers.

At a mere 2.50 euro, food has never been so good. The garlic pushes forcefully into my taste buds, while the yogurt flirts playfully in the background. Lettuce crunches and explodes between my teeth and the fibers of meat pull across my gums. My stomach is screaming in anticipation. I lick the paper, hoping that the last remnants of tomato and the lingering bread crumbs will be as flavorful as the full bites that had gone before them. They are. Indeed, food has never been so good.

His pants were the color of stale floss. No, not white. They were that worn out, minty fresh green that you can taste in the back of your eyes with each plaque filled pull. And after all, why not? Perhaps they didn’t match his burnt orange button up in the traditional sense of the word “fashion”, but he made it work. Besides, Oscar Wilde did remind us that fashion is a form of art so vile that we must change it every two months. Maybe this man is simply ahead of the curve. He’s a trend setter. Clearly. The stains across his clothing—simply blots of creativity leaking through. The grease in his hair—just looking for enough sheen to help out someone in need of a mirror. The cut of his pants, a few inches short of normal—trying to keep from dragging out the floss in the event of a puddle. Indeed, he’s got it down.

Einstein Bitte. I swear that’s what they are saying. No, don’t worry, I know that they are actually saying something about exits. Tar pulls at my jeans, making a dark adhesive bind between me and the u-bahn seat beneath me. An unwashed and humid smell lurks towards me from a man holding the overhead railing. I tell myself he has every right to grasp the railing, even if it does mean unleashing a smell of such epic proportions. Regrettably, I’ve never been good at rationalizing.

The child crinkles his brow in anger, yet a smile still pulls across his squishy little face. He throws the ice cream cone at the Turkish man. He deserved it; after all, it is really rather cruel to deny a child ice cream. The man toys with him for an eternity of 45 seconds and eventually yields. The child laughs with delight as he begins to shove the marshmallow like ice cream into his mouth.

I gaze down at the sticky brown butterscotch seeping into my bleachy pale jeans. That’s going to stain. I wonder if making cupcakes was really worth having a shit colored stain on my favorite jeans. It will certainly lead to questionable and awkward conversations in the future. But a student of my budget can’t really afford to find replacements, especially not after living in Europe for two months. I decide that the cupcakes were worth the trouble. All I needed was to see the smile on Joe’s and Daniel’s face when I brought them a plate. After all, stains are like scars for clothing—they tell stories of life’s little adventures.

I am writing on the Berlin Wall. My ballpoint pen scratches at the worn concrete, desperate leave a mark. I try to think of something clever. After all, this is the Berlin Wall. An inane “Catherine wuz here” simply won’t do. Flakes of sand and history crumble to the ground beneath the scratching of my pen. Is such damage worth proving I was here? Is it damage at all? I carve in the words “Smile, the world is a beautiful place” and step back. You can’t even see my writing from a foot away.

I never knew that Santa could swing dance. His shirt isn’t red, nor does his belly protrude and press against mine as we dance. But his rosy smile and fluffy white beard are most certainly those of my long lost imaginary idol. His hands are somewhat chalky, they tell of his age, or perhaps of a poor use of talcum powder. His skill whirls me across the floor. An airy and playful technique that hints towards years of experience. At his age, I think he learned to dance in the actual 1920’s.

Falling cherry. It silently crushes onto the top of my shoe. The owner looks down upon the ashy scene. He takes another drag, long and slow. Lazy eyes pull themselves from the ground and I am met with an empty gaze. The pupils do not change, the eyes do not focus; I doubt he sees me. Greasy hair is pushed to one side with his free hand as the smoke dips from his mouth and into the crevices of his cracked lips. He breathes in as if to sigh, pulling the trails of nicotine back in through his nose. He briefly returns to my shoe and the turns away.

Its wings are twitching. Grayish green blood oozes onto the pavement from its crushed abdomen. The remaining four legs pull feverishly at the ground. It is caught in the sticky adhesive of its own blood, but eventually it inches forward slightly. Its head is turned to one side, even as it moves. Its eye is dragging along the stone. The cornea is torn and shattered as the fragile membranes rip along the stone. It tries to pull itself into the air, but the wings are destroyed. It comes to rest.

The first drip sizzles upon the hot plate. I tap the extra grounds from the grinder and marvel over the stream of happiness gracing my coffee mug. The forming pool whirls about the ceramic sides, quietly splashing as the last drops fall from the pot. The smell drifts towards me. My lips seal against the mug and the angle of my wrist begins to rotate. Heat in my mouth. Warmth through my throat. Soft, stimulated tranquility.

Peter Fox whispers in my ears. We skip down the street, tapping our shoes in a style not unlike that of Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. A rainbow casts an iridescent shadow before us. Entranced, we follow its guide. Who knew Candy Mountain was actually in Germany. We gorge ourselves on the saccharine spread before us. Charlie the Unicorn joins us, fresh from his kidney transplant surgery. We begin to sing merrily over happiness flavored truffles as a sunset dances an awe inspiring show with a backdrop of shooting stars. True story. Seriously.

She lies on the railing. Her sports bra still damp from the run. She breathes deeply, her ribs pressing against her skin with each pull. Her thin frame hangs from the red railing, looking more like a shine of dew than a human form. Her legs are still shaking lightly, her arms ebb and flow with her breath. Drops of sweat from an auburn curl of hair. Her breath finally comes to rest, her chest rising slightly less with each inhale.

It hurts. It burns. The acid eats at my skin and I can feel my life washing away. My throat is torn, my voice scratches as I cough. I look down. A sickly yellow color with strings of red. I am momentarily concerned, but it is nothing I’ve never seen before. My teeth are throbbing. Looking in the mirror I can see how they have become thin. The edges are growing more and more transparent. And yet, I push harder. I dig my fingers deeper. My body heaves and spasms. I wonder if it will ever forgive me for what I’ve done.

The pocket watch glistens in the afternoon sun. I don’t have 30 euro. I wind it. I can feel the metal spinning in my fingers; I can feel the clicks of turning gears as the hands begin to move. I don’t have 30 euro. Tick Tock. Such a soothing sound. It reminds me of consistency, of a more organized world. His eyes are pushing at my fiscal inhibitions. I shouldn’t have 30 euro. The table is rickety, one leg slightly shorter than the others. It shakes as people walk by through the busy market. I once had 30 euro.

Don't You Think We Ought to Know by Now? Don't You Think We Should have Learned Somehow? (assignment 3)

I breathe out the day.

I’ve been looking forward to our conversation.

Look at the sky; let the night wrap a blanket across your tired shoulders. Let the day wash away. The chain supporting the swing creeks in the back of my ears. It perfects the wrenchingly beautiful melancholy of John Mayer’s “Slow Dancing in a Burning Room”. I mumble the lyrics in the bottom of my lungs:

---nobody’s going to come and save us, we’ve pulled too many false alarms---

A child has spilled glitter across the black carpet of the night’s sky, and I swing a little harder in hopes of a closer glimpse. I tell myself that the stars will warm my eyes; they will whisper soft nothings of a calm and restful place in the distance. Are you still cold?

Three AM. The last lights of the apartments flitter away and a few more stars emerge from the fading shadows of society. Finally, I have my moments alone with Berlin. I ask her how her day was. She quickly responds with a pithy and dry relation of events from recent hours. She is trying to mask the dissonance of her baseline with a compelling, organized melody. She sings of clean streets, she sings of culture, she sings of a globalized community. Yet, her streets are clean but only for the poor who collect bottles for money. Her culture is simply spray paint dripping off the walls. And her grandiloquent talk of global citizenship is merely compensation for a dearth of national identity. But I won’t tell her that I hear the undertones through her rosy lyrics. After all, I can commiserate with the pain of being called out on a false smile. She looks to me, as if to ask of my day, but her question is swallowed in hesitation. The answer is presupposed. She can tell by the way my legs dangle limply off the seat of the swing, moving only to keep from stopping altogether. Casual anhedonia has left a bitterness in my mouth that makes me dream of apathy. For you see, happiness seems too unrealistic, even in a dream. Perhaps Schopenhauer was right: there is only happiness but for the absence of pain. And she understands.

She holds my hand as we gaze on together. I wonder if we are friends, Berlin and I. Neither of us is particularly gregarious, and her time with me is more a matter of circumstance than volition. Perhaps she knows that I had misplaced expectations. I had contemplated passion; images of torrid rapture with a man I would only know long enough for him to give me reason. And yet, upon arrival, I found her. She stood before me in a dull grey dress, with patched rainbow stockings clad upon her legs. She was pretty, to be sure, but her bare feet were tired and her eyes were worn with bags from staying up all night. Cigarette smoke still clung to her thin blonde hair and liquor seeped from her breath as she greeted me. Guten tag. Good day. I nodded in apprehensive acknowledgment as she swayed past me without making eye contact. But I see her more clearly now. And tonight, with flowing hair shining in the moonlight and a cigarette hanging lazily from red lips, she is beautiful. She is perfect. Her eyes, open only half way, tell stories of war and political turmoil; but the crow’s feet to their sides speak to the freedom of art and rebellion. Caught between austerity and anarchy she sits beside me, immobilized by her own irony. And I understand.

An ocean of moments washes over us. And drowning has never felt so good. Eventually, she will break the silence, lest we become too lost at sea. How was it? Was it everything you wanted? Was it everything you hoped for?

She is asking about my visit to Istanbul. I cannot tell if her question stems from legitimate interest, or if it is meant only to fill the silence. I am inclined to assume the latter is true, however she knows my unmet expectations about her were transferred onto Istanbul prior to my leave. Perhaps she is morbidly curious if I was met with continued disappointment. Regardless of the reason, we make an unspoken agreement to mutually humor the conversation. And so, I tell her. He was different. This is perhaps too ambiguous an adjective, yet my thin vernacular seems to find it the most fitting. When we met, Istanbul and I, I was instantly compelled. His demeanor was outgoing and amiable, and he greeted me with outstretched arms. He made me so very hopeful.

He was beautiful right from the start. Golden jewelry sparkled across embroidered clothing and white teeth peered out of smiling lips. His call to prayer echoed and played among the songs of birds as the sun rose upon him. He was entrancing. He asked me to dance. I agreed without question.

I had never heard such music. Drumming with culture, singing a colorful story of ornate modernity; the music was moving. I closed my eyes. I wanted him to move me with the dance, which was so foreign to my tired frame. I wanted it to feel good. But I became distracted, as the smell of rotting fish and crumbling foundations crept towards my nostrils. He told me to pay no mind and showered me with compliments. But his words were simply smoke in my eyes. I pulled away and focused my gaze. Mistaken charisma gave way to the image of an inaniloquent and unctuous man, who saw me only as a foreign trophy with which he might toy. I do not know what lay beyond that image. Perhaps a family, perhaps a culture of love and community. Whatever it was, I knew in that moment that I would never see it. I couldn’t. In the same way, I knew he would never be able to see me as more than his preconceptions. Our dance came to a shattered end while the music raged on. I was within throngs of people, yet I had never felt so alone. Of course, loneliness seems all the more noticeable when among others. Their very existence accentuates your isolation, leaving you on the wrong end of a harsh juxtapositioning. And I had wanted so badly to finish the song. Because sometimes you’ll dance with anyone just to feel the warmth of someone’s arms.

I see. She understands. She does not smile, she does not console; but she understands. We return to silence. Dew is collecting upon the grass; but BI feel the moisture only slightly against my numbed toes. I should go inside; it’s almost five in the morning. The sun will be rising soon. I give myself a final, gentle push on the swing, and the swing beside me sways along in the breeze. I never thought an empty seat could be such a good friend.

I Am Berlin

I AM BERLIN,
I walk proudly down uncluttered streets,
And pristine walls with arresting punctuality
Look at my beautifully painted face,
Look hard, as I blow smoke into your eyes,
And perhaps you won’t see my heels dragging behind me.

For, I AM BERLIN
Conflict and paradox
Irony and misplaced memories shadow my face
And string a haze across my words
You stumble upon my names
But your moment of pause is confused by the children
Who jump from block to block
My portraits hang along construction
The construction of a city
The construction of a memory
The construction of an absolution
You smile and you frown
And you cry and you imagine
Yet your face is limp; as coffee flows sweetly against my words
Words from the face of a horse about the life of a dog
Do you see it?
Do you feel it?
Do you really hear me?
Or is the sullied concrete beneath us just the snapshot of a tour?

Now I AM BERLIN
My clothing is black
On black
On black
On neon green
Clad in fishnets and army boots,
My legs stand thinner than my smokes
And my dog seems better fed than I
But don’t worry,
He won’t bite
You see, he’s so very well trained
The spray paint stings your eyes as you walk past my unsung artwork
The anarchist symbol shaved into my scalp
Shines brighter than my pink hair
But, I like your music
I like your style
So come with me sister
We’ll fuck the system
We’ll fuck the world system
Or didn’t you know,
Anarchy is a group activity.

No, I AM BERLIN
Would you like to buy a paper?
Only a euro twenty
I know you see me
Even looking down, I can feel you staring
Poor but sexy, that’s what they call it
So what do you say?
Would you like to buy a paper?
Are your pockets too tight?
Do I not seem to need it?
Should my voice be more broken?
Should my ribs chatter against my shirt?
Please, would you like to buy a paper?
Only a euro twenty
I don’t smell of liquor
And I’m doing an honest job
So why are my words are simply moaning undertones in the din of a subway


I AM BERLIN
Do you have a cigarette?
Do you have a light?
You see, I seem to have run all out.