Monday, 17 March 2014

Cabaret

Maybe this time I'll be lucky. So says Sally Bowles. Two years in Berlin today and I am in a penthouse where Cabaret plays with all the scratches. I put my legs up in the air. I drink Highland Park whisky. Everybody loves a winner. All the odds are in my favour. Something's bound to begin. It's going to happen. Maybe this time. Maybe this I'll win.

I believe in everything. I got lucky. I need nothing more or less than the clack of fingers on a keyboard, on a typewriter; all I need is the scratch of a nib. Did you ever think it would end up like this? All of the patterns on the floor. All of the music. Opportunities spring up like the first signs of sunflowers. The best is the moment where the seeds you have sewn in the earth are shrugging the top layer off like it was so many past decisions. I stand in my kitchen looking at soil being tossed into the air by sullen spring shoots, and I think that all your decisions are the right ones. Hey Jane, you fell into something lucky.

Luck and gack and fuck: all words in your throat. Fuck is the one that you felt when everything fell apart like all the hailstones on top of your intentions. Gack is the things that you just cleared from the clogs around your taps. Luck is the one you promised yourself no matter what the other ones said, no matter that the world looking upon you with heavy eyebrows and a penchant for the scowl.

Doesn't it feel great that you were right? Even when your freezer is leaking like a dog tongue on the kitchen ground. Even when your mailbox is full of demands like sulfur and brimstone. Even when you wake up with the tap gack all around and inside your throat.

If you happen to be rich and you feel like a night's entertainment, you can pay for a gay escapade.
If you happen to be poor and you feel like a night's entertainment, you can get whatever you want through wet tongues and intention. Don't believe me? Don't believe me. I make all of the promises and nine tenths of the curled hair. I make seven eights of the red lips. I will bring you something, that is what I promise, when you are weak and waiting.

There is something in these in these streets that I have felt nowhere else, or perhaps only in the corners of New York. There is something that comes alive and makes me feel like a creature who is so much more than skin. I shrugged off everything that the British had to offer and I have never missed it for a moment, except for those people who are still there and ripe like mangoes dribbling down my chin.

They all smoke and drink gin and I would hold all of their hands. I would run up and down their arpeggios; I would point my toes on the glockenspeils they craft as staircases all the way to their bedroom doors.

All we ask is ein bisschen verstanden
. That's it. I am writing along to Cabaret like you might sing along to all of the songs people around you once snagged. Let me tell you: I got lucky. Tomorrow belongs to me.

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