From
Declaration of Love by Michael Lentz

Weimar - a magic word, right? - and everything has to go through Mannhein, all roads lead through Mannhein, but in Mannheim there's a delay, Germany is delayed, Germany arrives with a delay in Mannheim and departs with an even bigger delay, the mothballing of Germany proceeds in Mannheim, even later, and then gets its finishing touch in Weimar. I've become addicted to trains, of all things, I fly through the country in a kind of giddiness, my eyes glued to the window, I watch German programming, "all our channels are full," you said, and then at night the news report comes which I've been longing for and in which I no longer believe. If that's the case, and I if you know it and we know it, then it has to be doable, I'll take care of you, I think suddenly, I could take care of us, it's nice to have this thought again, "because he remembers and because he fights back," right? Beyond Weimar a puppet city, as though on exhibit, a childhood memory fading into dusk, an undiscovered place called Bad Sulza, some distance before Großheringen, Bad Sulza should be our seat of government, Bad Sulza as national puppet capital, Berlin left to fend for itself, the government won't be located in Bad Sulza, Bad Sulza will be made government, the Chancellor's Office and the Ministries will be disbanded, and all of sudden there's an answer to the question of what's taking shape in Germany: nothing. The lights go on, the lights go out. And if the lights go on again, gladness reigns. Leipzig? What was there between Bad Sulza and Leipzig? I spend my life in restaurants and bars, I realize, I could imagine settling in Hamburg, but I'd probably move on after a week, Leipzig might be a good fit, we'll see, we'll see, Berlin would be a possibility, without going fully off the rails, Stuttgart is unthinkable. The real estate section takes up almost the entirety of the weekend Leipzig paper, a city for sale, everything must go, lots of clouds, but with patches of sun, a nice sounding city, well-proportioned, not as broad-shouldered as everybody's favorite, Munich, you could rent a whole city, spend every day and every night somewhere different in it, and every time you could be a different person, with different intentions, absolutely contradictory plans, options. It's a crying shame that such a multi-existence, polyvalence, is impossible - do you understand? - to be a man one day and a woman the next and to hate yourself whichever way or to see right through yourself, boringly deformed. Leipzig has changed address, Leipzig is now located in the US, and that would benefit them, why. The Monument to the Battle of Leipzig. The Battle of Leipzig Monuments. The Memorial of Leipzig Mental Battles. What next? A monster heaved up on a hill. I'd just about decided to move into a place on Naundorfer Strasse, at least I was toying with the idea, after viewing the empty apartment, of basing myself on Naundorfer Strasse, I glance over the rooms in this apartment on Naundorfer Strasse, "the walls will have to be painted white," I complain, "each room is in a different color, I leave green and enter yellow, leave yellow and enter blue and end up in the adjacent red, you can't put up with a place without any identity, anyone would move out," I complain. A view from the balcony onto a backyard garden, the garden is a mess, but there is one, there's a balcony and plenty of space as well, from the balcony though the hall and the stairwell back on to street - worth considering, ninety-seven square meters of space - toward the tram stop, "Monument to the Battle of Leipzig," which no sooner appears atop the rise as it makes me want to die, the monster summons immediate fear, fear arises immediately, right? I walk through the park-like field from Naundorfer Strasse toward the Monument to the Battle of Leipzig, a sight-seeing attraction, a must, I think, nice apartment, I think, and there it appears, a burly giant, "and if you're fed up with it all, you can throw yourself off, others have done it, they've put up nets," said the taxi driver. It occurs to me that you might as well throw yourself off as soon as you see this Monument to the Battle of Leipzig, this monumental dictatorship, this thing itself is more than enough, and that affects me so much that I'd like to stand in front of it with a sign "Modest donations for the demolition of the Monument to the Battle of Leipzig greatly appreciated," with fond regards to the poet Günter Bruno Fuchs, who took up the idea with regard to the Victory Monument in Berlin. This colossus stands there, this carnivorous paw, while everything around seems to be falling apart, the dictatorship of crisis rhetoric, the tongue-speak of crisis, the less-than-enlightening mood of imminent demise, this unswerving, unswervable colossus, and I can't help but think of psychoanalysis, I'd love to find out what this whole apparatus has to do with me, I mean, at first it's nothing, and then this enormous hammer comes, as though it's self-evident, but it's not self-evident, it should take note of that fact, there is nothing in this country and absolutely nothing that is self-evident, least of all this captivating Monument to the Battle of Leipzig, which I can only approach at a distance of fifty meters. I circle it, avoid it, if I come to close, it will suck me in - right? - and then I'll be a figure on its exterior, I will have been irrevocably incorporated into the Monument to the Battle of Leipzig, throw yourself off, obviously, if you get too close to the monster, you get sucked in, figure on the bottom, or you have to throw yourself off, which is obvious, if you get too close. All my life I'll have to return, the Battle of Leipzig or bust, so to speak, I can't get beyond this square box, this terrible accommodation, the thought of moving to Naundorfer Strasse disappears like a soap bubble. I wouldn't be moving to Naundorfer Strasse, I'd be living in the Monument to the Battle of Leipzig, such a monument, and it would be a monument of love, you could imagine, but it's a monument of demise, it's a nauseating admonition, the Caran d'Ache utterly useless before it, such a tiny pen, such a giant, right? You wouldn't wish a monument like this on your worst enemy, the innovation of Freud can be traced back to the Monument to the Battle of Leipzig, if I were to say that I would to you the Monument to the Battle of Leipzig as a token of my love, one would have shudder in fear, then retreat and collapse in heap, it's utterly intolerable that when everything is over, when everything seems to be over, that a monster like this should arise from the ground, should be baptized, here the intolerable is put to rest by the intolerable, and I can't help but think of psychoanalysis. But that's enough now, that's finally enough, I tell myself, the heating in the trains has gone on the blink, although it's winter, winter is coming, I see, a train rolling slowly through France, getting ever colder, the Monument to the Battle of Leipzig is responsibility for train delays, it too is on board, it's heavy, it ensures that night falls promptly, outside the lights are going off, the trains are getting colder, the heating is on the blink, you should get your sweater out of your suitcase, but I can't find my suitcase. I could give my all and try re-starting, legs retract in the cold, the Monument to the Battle of Leipzig skips and jumps through France, silhouettes of a city, scant, unevenly distributed light, I could just resign myself to no longer being with you. Could I, could I come to say goodbye, come to go, so to speak, would it be better to jump one another's bones, taking flight, they are currently on the run, the Monument to the Battle of Leipzig is not on the run, it is your parents' bedroom, a name crashed massively to the ground, the Monument to the Battle of Leipzig is currently on its world tour, such cold in the train, am I a bucket rider? The Monument to the Battle of Leipzig marries Lorelei, the two of them decide to move to the River Elbe, "take your time, there's no sense in haste," deserted house sits deep, and he who carries a deserted house around with him will come out empty-handed, waiting in line in a deserted house. Trier is fifty years too late, to own something like that in the city is dangerous. The Porta Nigra will save the day, they probably think in Trier, But the Porta Nigra has to be constantly renovated, everywhere it's falling apart, history is falling apart, and history as it falls apart gets replaced piece by piece, centimeter by centimeter by modernity, nothing to eat, and its getting colder and colder in the train, have we come to some sort of understanding? We can talk openly again about children, can we only stand one another's company, when we're apart? No sooner do we come together, then conservation falters, and our skin is all pins and needles, but the suspicion is receding - what do you think, is the suspicion receding? France in darkness, orange street lights, warlike peoples, now things are beginning to freeze, there's a draft in this country, something is blowing through the country and what that is, a reserved seat in the cold, and outside slow motion, a letter arrives from the authorities, citizens registration office, we've heard that you've moved away, if that's the case, please fill out the enclosed form indicating that you've moved away, and if it's not the case, please notify us in writing that you haven't moved away. It doesn't matter, for even as I'm here, I'm more for being there, and regardless of whether I'm here or there, it's the same distance from there to here as from here to there. All correspondence to be returned there, where I'm not, so that I'm not absolutely gone, although I myself don't know whether I am in fact not gone, and even if I'm here, hello, you actually don't need any mail, mail is environmental destruction, piles of existence in form only. Hardly anyone write love letters these days. The experience of a love letter is day-long confusion, which under certain circumstances can drag on into the following day, the following calendar year. One should go to the post office and tell them, please forward along love letters only, should there be any, I only want love letters delivered, please, you can deposit bills and everything else directly in your in-house recycling container. You will wait for years, you could just sit at home, and no one knows where that is, at home, and every day you wait for a love letter, you never leave the house, and no one knows where that is, the house, and every day you wait in vain, every day you wonder why none arrive, why no love letters arrive. I didn't come inside you the last few times, child's unanswered question, unanswered question of children, lack of answers predominant, along with fading élan and monumentally restricted thinking, would you rather be the popular monument or Lorelei? Have you just arrived or are you already going? When we first met, I was formal and you familiar, and suddenly nothing else mattered, we looked one another in the eye and stood up to it, and now, only a few months later, months and months later, will we stand up to it? It's only been a week since Hamburg, it's been years, what would you most like to do? I don't understand the question, I used to test out whether I thought about sex all the time, but I had no success, in constantly asking myself "Are you thinking about sex," I was, of course, thinking about sex by asking myself whether I was thinking about sex, and not thinking about sex was always interrupted by the question "Are you thinking about sex?" And in truth I don't even know what sex is, you shouldn't think too precisely about it, over-contemplation has nothing to do with sex, sometimes I think about watching you age, seeing you getting slowly old. Could someone in this train turn out the light and bring me a beer, seeing as there's nothing to eat, my hands age without doing anything, my body, kept with great effort in motion every day - right? - aging away, you follow the aging process in the mirror, it's always too bright, even when it's dark, always too bright, light can the worst thing in the world. Consider the naked mole rat, it's blind, but it still reproduces, it's always too bright, even when it's pitch black, there's always something to see. Then past Mulhouse, full moon, I thought I'd put that behind me for today, strands of fog writhe past, full moon mauls through the window, I'd like to describe the full moon as no one ever has before, but I don't get any further than "full moon," it's such a full full moon that I can already hear the wolves baying, the Monument to the Battle of Leipzig by the full moon, this monster bathed in the full moonlight, the Monument to the Battle of Leipzig's dog, I'd kneel, it would be the fright of my life, a Full Moon Battle Monument, a Full Battle Moon Monument, a Battle Moon Full Monument, a tailback of urges, a Full Moon Battle Monument Dog, my feet two blocks of ice, the full moon is not just a matter of preparing for one's old age, "and by the light of this unexpected moonshine, you can see almost as clearly as by the light of day," so the words of the old Frenchman I'm reading. Then past Mulhouse, last exit home - right? - with the air of one's old home, through one's so-called old home into one's so-called new home, and where a so-called feeling of home has remained. "I'm sick and tired of home…," says Sergei. So, you old Hooligan, is that the case? What else do you have in your bag of tricks? Nineteenhundredandtwentytwo, for example, following outrage: "Go ahead, harmonica, whimper./ Everything boring and dead./And you, slut, come and drink with me./Come drink with me, I said.//You're kissed 'til you're raw and all fucked out/You make me want to retch./ What are you staring with your stupid blue eyes?/Should I pound your face, you bitch?//You should be rammed in the ground./ Scarecrow./How did I run headfirst into you/ A deadly case of flu?// Whimper, harmonica, whimper./ And drink, you stupid hen/ Them there, dumb with huge tits -/Why should I not have them?//You're not my first./You're a dime a dozen/But a beast like you/Is something I never…//Whether this one or that one/ What wears me down, turns on my seed./Me, I should take the noose?/ Ha, I've got no need.//It's all over between us two./And you can go get wet./I should beg. Okay I beg./Forgive, oh please, and forget." Is that an outrage? At least in the end you beg for forgiveness. Begging tangible through the window. Have I run hopelessly into a deadly case of flue? The rest is literature. Right? Or is it the other way around? Tears of the fatherland, is that it? Nineteenhundredandtwentytwo? You didn't exactly make a lot of friends in Berlin, boy with the fair hair and curly locks, you went on a conscientious rampage in Berlin, punched someone in the face just because he didn't like the poem that came out of your mouth. I mean the old Dane didn't ram the scarecrow, after the slut, in the ground, he just wrote a book, about someone who isn't really in love, but just desires her - right? - the one "who wears him down and turns on his seed," sure, but only to a degree - right? - and then enough is enough, hopelessly run into a deadly case of flu, in your home country, you hooligan. Every kid on the streets knows your most obscure lines, nineteenhundredandtwentyfive, the noose was too thin, beating your head against the radiator, you crawl into the bathtub, wounds and all, into the bathtub, a pulsating artery, a poem of blood - right? - dedicated to your friend, "Goodbye," "a meeting promised elsewhere," and then your last two verses "dying is nothing new in this life/but living too is nothing new," then collapse, motor blown, a final unfinished torso, nineteenhundredandtwentyfive, "he who has loved can no longer love/ he who has burnt can burn no more," where exactly is the passage about egotism "everything flown by ...past…and over?" I've been searching all day, not for you, but for this passage, this sudden apparition, this appearance, this consolation, this snowstorm, the entire book is swollen, mussed up, and then I carry over that which is plain to see in front of my eyes dryly into a dream: "With myself on the margin, I'll never come/to myself, whom I love/I will remain forever foreign."