Kinder Tiere Greise als Sammler

E a Uerr

*Neapolitan for this is awesome!
Ariane Müller, The missing consonant in Carla Lonzie
The missing consonant in Carla Lonzie

Agatha Christie wrote that the choice to become a professional writer meant to write whenever. Whenever she was not feeling like it, when nothing came to her mind, and writing simply seemed like spoiled life time. But writing anyway was what becoming a professional writer was, and producing text, which meant producing an income. She wrote other sorts of texts than this one, and when she would write other sorts of texts than usual she would use a pseudonym. I don’t feel like writing a text, because I don’t want to be explicit. And I admire all of the writers who still are. If there is a person connected to it to admire. Because anonymity seems to be the thing now, when one writes explicitly, which somehow seemed to be a feature of dark times earlier, and perhaps still is. Or is it just a wink, proposing these are dark times, so that people feel the coldness creeping, fear the consequences of not yet written lines, read the signs, shiver of fear, don’t want any sentences connected to their lives, as they don’t want cigarettes connected to their photos?

So instead of not writing, which at this point readers would suggest, I intend to be a professional writer and write whenever. So: who, when, why, and how? Principal questions, their answers written down in notebooks now guarded in Agatha Christie museums (promise this is the last mention of her in this text).

Yvonne Rainer has pointed out in her film Murder, and murder, that while this cry—murder!—normally produces a lot of attention, and media coverage afterwards, that when it comes to breast cancer, and the connected mass murder on a whole generation of women, and I have to add a lot of artists Ketty LaRocca, Hanna Wilke,… the silence is deafening, and the media coverage overseeable. —?—Ok, here we would have an uncomfortable, or simply boring theme, let’s quickly jump over it. Did you feel the discomfort as well? Something has become too pathetic. But is it the body, the slight implication of sex, as in breast? Is it too private?—albeit to be correct, she is talking about a structure, but still, did it seem to be connected to other people’s stories possibly only conceived to catch our empathy, our very personal feeling, already triggered by too many of those? Aiiiaa, the miseries, and their misers!

I admire Yvonne Rainer.

Imdb writes about the film: Mildred and Doris are two middle-aged white women, from very different backgrounds, who become lovers and set up house together. The film explores the pleasures and uncertainties of later-life emotional attachment and lesbian identity in a culture that glorifies youth and heterosexual romance.

Sounds better, somehow as in Berlin Biennial. Slightly melancholic. And conscious and strict about our culture, in that it glorifies youth, as said. Like in, Maybe it is because I am too old for this, which will probably be the last words on the deathbeds of many an art critic.

So who then will have to jump over the blade—this is untranslatable German and means something like die—? And when, why, and how, and given poor people are a bore, and structural murder via wrong distribution, wrong sex, wrong birth place ends conversation?

Let’s together with Giorgio Agamben, and Toni Hildebrandt, to whom I owe this, introduce the figure of Pulcinella. He has been killed before. But this is just one point. His main interesting feature is that he simply turns every conversation into a conversation about food, and getting drunk, and being uncomfortable because of said condition, or sex and relations to it, and being uncomfortable because of said condition. Seems contemporary enough. But we shouldn’t be mistaken and take him for one of our contemporaries with whom we share a bar. His is a mask and a last refusal. We wouldn’t see him crying or laughing, and we wouldn’t even see him thinking. And he wouldn’t give an opinion or be explicit.

In these pictures of summer, in all of the distributed wellness oasis, I sensed the figure a lot. Eating, doing a sing-song, sitting in the sun or the mud. Knowing about the total indifference of the hosts, in that they may kick you out in no time. And they do. And there would be other dinner guests, so you eat quickly now, and do your song and dance at the scheduled time. Not being explicit, and alas wearing this mask of youth, and nobody would know if you are laughing or crying.

As a figure of comedy, Pulcinella is capable of various deaths and other unexpected movements. And as a real figure? But there is none. And as a product? Somebody will clean the dishes and sweep the floors.

Nobody here seems to be quite certain, whether the vine gets enough water. It has grown to the second storey, but the leaves don’t look right.

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