Wild Sovereign Development Site

Tag: Berlin

  • lord snowdon’s bicycle

    lord snowdon’s bicycle

    Rounding the corner on my bike just now I accidentally took part in a mass demonstration. I don’t know what it was about, maybe just a celebration of biking. People seemed easy and relaxed, it is a sweet sunny day with high white cloud, a blue sky, the pack of people travelling at jogging pace over the bridge, guarded by police on massive motorbikes, reminded me of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s description of her father’s experience of riding up out of the river bluffs with a big wolf pack travelling on all sides, they must have just killed and eaten, he told her, they showed no interest in me whatsoever. This was a quiet deed: shared, fruity, holy; some cyclists had dressed up, about a third were wearing helmets, but most of us travelled incognito, as our regular selves, quiet chat here and there like flowers in the grass or fishes occasionally leaping from the water. At my street corner I peeled off and passed the flower stall that has suddenly appeared since the weather turned autumnal, the strands of cut purple grasses stirring their flimmish pretty seedheads in the breeze like a prairie. America once was all prairie. A body of buffalo roamed it from end to end, turning each time they eventually reached the coast, nosing each other, “it’s not here! go back!” like the sparkling water in a snowdome slapping from end to end slowly. This may not be the exact scientific truth.

  • election earring

    A federal election approaches Germany, they’ve a Conservative government to vote back in. It’s an unequal fight: the sitting Chancellor, Angela Merkel, is called “Mummy” by the press and one of her would-be opponents is the Pirate Party (they’re good, but they’re goofy). This town is festooned with candidates’ placards. Barely a one unadorned with some form of wry or dark or daft commentary. Most common, because easiest, is the black-marker scribble under the nose which denotes A Moustache Like Hitler’s.

    One of the locally beloved candidates approached in the markets last weekend, handing out leaflets in person. He is well into his eighties. On his election posters he appears to be wearing lipstick and a light powder, has in his glaringly perfect false teeth. His posters are the least defaced. Today I saw a poster on a bus stop which had grainy B&W pictures of the two major party leaders with the legend, “Who sucks most? Vote with your gum.” People had stuck wads of gum onto the faces of each, an almost literal vox pop. On the poles down the cafe strip I noticed official campaign placards have been interspersed, must have been overnight, with photos of cheesy-looking 70s fashion models from large-format old magazines. Mounted on cardboard and strapped between candidates they look to me eminently electable. Though possibly the recent experience of picking through the bizarre and downright crazy single-issue Senate candidates for Australia may have soured my outlook.

    H2O HoL rainbow spill

  • picked it up & have kept it

    Walking along a quiet street feeling grumpy I heard a loud, juicy burst of fat laughter. Coming towards me was a man on his phone, shortish, gleaming, African, with laughter rolling through him, like a wisp of weed rolling in the sandy sea. Further down the street I saw a dog waiting in the laundromat, wistful with big eyes turned to the door, and passed a middle-aged punk whose hair had almost entirely balded away. But he had worked the few strands growing over his forehead into a messy quiff, stiffened with product but still with his own native old man’s/little boy’s curls escaping, as though he were saying to Death “You’ll never take me alive.” Coming back to the house I found a small square of white paper stuck to the cobblestones, entirely blank on both sides, and I picked it up and have kept it.

  • visiting Berlin Wall

    Passed a remaining section of the Berlin Wall and saw tourists of all languages leaning up against it for photographs, posing with big smiles and often two thumbs up; one Japanese girl had a coy, sexy grin. I wonder what it is they imagine they are visiting.

    photograph is of a building-site skip transformed into street art with the aid of a shopping trolley turret, carpet-roll gun & many layers of clingwrap plastic.

    H2O HoL gladwrap tank

  • boyfriend is bearded

    boyfriend is bearded

    This afternoon riding the Underground (the above-ground Underground, speeding through the trees) I saw a bearded man put up his hand to the steel pole at the end of his bench seat. In doing so he embraced his girlfriend, sitting beside him rather hunched. He said to her, in accented English, “it’s good to be you, my-Sascha.” “Is it?” she said, bleakly, and submitted to his hand dropping round her shoulder and cupping and fondling the bone.

    H2O HoL small dog large man

  • unter den berlinden

    unter den berlinden

    When I leave I will miss the magical wildness of Berlin, that is already being built out for apartments and hotels; the overgrown factories with railway lines running through them; the fact that on every sunny spot, a railway bridge, a low brick wall over the river, people will bring out their paperbacks and their beers, arrange themselves quietly, spend an afternoon, publicly lolling. I’ll miss the laundromat round the corner from me which is also a pub and has a pool table and couches. Old punks, living in squalor in huge squats but running them as businesses now – showing open-air movies, collecting beer bottles for their glass deposit. “Was your father a glassmaker?” my dad used to say to me, when I was a kid and would sit hunched too close to the screen blocking his view of the TV. I set my TV out on the nature strip seven or eight years ago, I do not miss it, but in Berlin my whole of life is like a child’s, sitting too close up against the screen – everything in colour, everything sharp and growing and broken, everything wailing and wrecked. On the medieval bridge I pass five buskers, all with their CDs out. The bricks smell of piss. This besieged city, surrounded by untouched ancient villages which were, until a few years back, clammy East Germany. The Wall runs like a cold seasnake through the town, you can look down at your sneakers and gasp, it has grasped you, the double line of bricks that show us: here is where we once were two. Isn’t it strange how a city itself can hold our patience and attention, an affectionate contract – the unending tolerance one will bring to one’s surroundings: like Melbourne, like New York, though perishing of loneliness some afternoons I’m in love with the stinking vile city as a whole. I love its dogs, haunting and purposeful and striking out each alone on some adventure of perception, one by one, differently spotted and scarred and with or without a collar, muscled or fat. Berlin, its train rides, the foul breath of the underground, I love its filthy pavements and its skies, almost invisible now that it’s autumn but breaking out late in the day with a luscious deep Fabergé blue that brings cameras up from chests and phones out of back pockets. I specially love its bicycles, spindle traffic of a woven city. I know nothing I experience or say here or see can make sense, not ever ever, I could grow old here (oh! a year, give me a couple of years yet) but I still would never know the deep dark nature of our violence, the way we entertain each other like guests on the front porch, the beeriness, the weary wary tolerance and mighty longing that like an oily octopus deep in the works drives this city and all who sail on her: show me the way to the next itch to scratch. “Berlin”, the name has become a spell, to me. I’m bound, bonded, blinded. In Berlin a spell.

    H2O HoL greened bench

  • democracy

    democracy

    Voted! Gosh it feels wonderful. For those few minutes with ballot paper in hand, we are utterly sovereign, entirely free.

    It turned out something of an odyssey to get there: which feels also appropriate and fitting. So many people have died for our right. I got sidetracked, absorbed in some other work I was doing, suddenly looked up and it was late. I rang the Embassy. Yes, they said, just come on in, we’re open for another twenty-five minutes.

    I was twenty minutes away by train. So I jumped on my bike. Me and bike climbed on the wrong train at the right station (U-Bahn, S-Bahn, Strassenbahn… who can tell the difference here?) and as we travelled uncomfortably it occurred to me maybe you’re not supposed to bring your bike onto the Underground. The cars are narrow. It was hard for other people to climb on and get off. But they were very friendly about the inconvenience. Four stations later realizing this line (now travelling through the treetops – it’s confusing) did not connect with the above-ground line I needed, me & my bike jumped off.

    Locked up bike and flagged a cab. “Can you take me to the Australian Embassy?” We got there at three minutes to four. There was a little queue outside, of people clutching passports. “It’s not clear we’ll still get in,” a woman explained. “Ah,” I said. “So maybe the government will be decided by people who are just that little bit more organised. Maybe that’s a good thing!” The guard let us in. I was the last through the doors. We had to give up our bags for screening, the fellow next to me (a songwriter from Melbourne who later told me his life’s summary) seemed to have endless pockets full of coins. He literally made a pile on the security guard’s counter, two handsful. He had travelled from Hamburg.

    The Embassy smelled of Australia, possibly because of the charcoal artworks in the beautiful foyer. It really was beautiful. The staff were casually dressed, like people who have not have time to iron. A woman in trodden-down loafers and white jeans came out with handsful of ballot papers, calling out names. “Rosie? Molly? Hugh?” We stood about like pub patrons at the tiny high tables, bent over our forms. People were chatting as they voted. Democracy, I love you. On the U-Bahn platform on my way back to collect the bike I watched a man in salmon-coloured jeans hitched very high on a black leather belt, so old his skin was reptilian, prance down the platform very slowly whilst carrying what looked at first like an old fashioned suitcase, black and with white corners. Turned out it was an immaculate but disposable carrier bag from a glossy store. He stood waiting and felt round the bottom of his (empty ~ I peeked) huge bag to pull out its contents: a small plastic comb. Nervously he smoothed his hair back one more time.

    Beside us a young girl with glitter round her eyes forged through the pages of the novel she was carrying. She held it right up to her nose, almost literally immersed. If anyone is curious my voting method ran as follows: 1. Greens. Because our environment is a bigger issue than any other. 2. Start putting all of the cruelest people last. Above the belt, below the line. I had to carry my vote into a glass-fronted office where a man said, cheerfully, “All done?” and sealed up the envelope for me with sticky tape. “Such a friendly embassy,” I told him, “thank you.” I love you, Australia.

    H2O HoL snowy australia globe

     

  • scripteddybareitall

    Saturdays in the studenty district of Berlin where I am living have been infested with a gobbling string of raucous hens’ parties. You’ll see a dozen young or not so young women all wearing matching headpieces – bunny ears, airline-hostess hats, fascinators, halos on headbands – and maybe pink t-shirts with a slogan, or beauty queen sashes… today I saw nine girls towing a children’s wagon which had several bottles and all their handbags stashed in it, the head girl (the bride-to-be) had on a prison uniform and her satin sash read, “Lifer.” You’ll hear them before you see them, most probably. Last week I saw fourteen candy-pink bunnies coalesce in front of two long-legged fellows who had taken up life on the couch, someone else having left a corduroy couch in a garden bed by the cobbled street; they made some sort of suggestion to the boys who responded with some sort of willingness, bringing a ragged cheer, a whooping, from the hen party, that had an unmistakeably dutiful quality.

    What I dislike about these dos is they seek to rope in passersby. It reminds me of why I don’t like street theatre – at least not the kind that leaps, rehearsed and scripted, onto a tram and then claims the other passengers, immersed in their own train of thought, their lives, their worries, their books, have no sense of humour/are ‘inhibited’ if they refuse to be bullied into taking part. This seems to me to give what might otherwise be actual fun an aggressive quality. There’s always one girl lagging behind, her arms folded, her handbag protecting her heart. Why must a woman be willing to consume penis-shaped chocolates to marry the one she loves? Why must she dress like a lap dancer in order to prove she’s a good sport? In a small northern town over Christmas we saw a man sweeping the town hall steps. His friends called us over and dispensed beers from the open hatchback of a small scarlet car. “He’s thirty,” they explained. “This is his birthday. He has to sweep the steps until nightfall, or until a virgin comes past and kisses him.” Eventually his girlfriend, her expression an unutterably painful combination of the wry and the humiliated, scampered up the steps and kissed his cheek. He put down the broom. A cheer went up. Somehow celebration seems to me – Christmas notwithstanding – far less convincing when it is so scripted.

  • tower of rage

    tower of rage

    Yesterday morning I woke in that state known so satisfyingly as A Towering Rage. Must’ve had infuriating dreams. The sun came in my window and all the injustices of life lined up around me and stared like palings. It’s not a very usual experience for me and I wasn’t well equipped to deal with it. I didn’t stop to reason with or resolve my mood, just strapped some shoes around my feet and spilled out into the street. People were out. The sky was blue and clotty. The riot of graffiti seemed selfish and pointless. I travelled fast, towering and glowering. Took a sharp detour through the ruined industrial park where newer tourists than I stood about in shambolically worshipful groups, staring up at things with cameras in their eyes. Everyone was annoying. Before long the fury had burned off like a dew but for twenty or thirty minutes it was quite a lot of fun, in a yah, boo sucks kind of way. People got out of my way. The best and strangest, most irritating part was as I strode along not bothering to alter my misanthropic expression, men marvelled and turned and stared. A fellow in a schnitzel cafe craned round his wife’s back to gaze and blink. A tall man with a redheaded child on his shoulders met my eye with that slightly goofy, astonished, almost grateful look by which strangers compliment each other wordlessly. I was too angry to be gratified but I kept noticing. Each time I thought, like an incoherent teenager, As! If! The young, bearded, beautiful man who lies supine with his begging bowl annoyed me more than usual. The day before I had noticed his sweatshirt said, I laugh at you all because you’re all the same. He rattled his tin at me wistfully and I said, spreading my hands, Are you going to give *me* something? Sure! he said, digging into his coins with a big smile. I laughed, which annoyed me the more. As ever the sky and the water were beautiful, the sneer in my mind, more than love, seemed to distill every atom of the day into a burning clarity.

    H2O HoL ashtray hearth

     

  • hitting the child

    Today on the markets I saw a man hit his child. He and his wife were standing among the racks of a bright clothing stall, I did not see what the boy had done but I noticed a woman sitting at her sock & beanie stall knitting had stilled her two needles and taken up watch. He said to his son, We are sick of you today. You must stop this. Look: people are staring. The child looked unhappy. He was maybe 7 or 8. Maybe he had done something monstrous, we were bystanders. I exchanged glances with the sock lady and her mouth tightened. Walking towards the little family I saw that the boy had flung himself on his father, wrapping his body around the man’s leg, his arms tightly clasped round the thigh and his face buried in the fabric of his father’s jeans. The father was speaking to his wife about clothes. I went up close to him. I dropped my hand quietly on his shoulder. “Let him say sorry,” I coaxed.

    “Eh?” He looked up. I repeated, “He wants to say sorry. Let him say sorry.” My hand came up to cup the back of the boy’s small, silky head. “Yeah, yeah,” said the father, dismissively, “we will.” But his own hand crept up into the boy’s hair. Because I think, whether we are parent and child or two adults, by instinct we follow each other’s example. Later I wondered how had I got away with it. Why had the father not slapped me, as well. I think because I had no sense of righteousness, I didn’t feel entitled, I felt irresistibly moved. I felt back to my voice, my tone, and felt its gentleness. I felt the way my eyes were burning with love in my head. You know how you can feel them in their sockets, fires in the skull, your soul on fire inside them, like a pair of windows opening out instead of in.