Sometime in the years 1990 to 1995 I wrote this somewhat crazy, surreal, punctuation-free text about cycling. At that time I read a lot and I think that some lyrics influenced me a lot.
However. After the exhibition is before the next. But first and foremost I wanted to clean up my large drawing paper cabinet, because in all the drawers there were now piles of drawings, newly bought coloured paper and grey cardboard.
It was about time.
So first of all everything out. In the new workshop there was enough space to put everything in its place. And the watercolour paintings finally have room for themselves.
Then I found this text. It tells a story - superficially, but is actually interesting for me, because it shows how associative I think, or thought at that time.
I probably wrote it on my Apple LC II and put it in justification. That's what I'm doing here now, too.
times of cycling
driving through landscapes over wet roads over which no sun shines and no evening rises the blossoms in the narrow watered canyons in the valleys next to the roads ways and fords fade carefree the trees no longer stem themselves against the bristling storm from the needled forests in immediate neighborhood narrow ripe rolls over the road and leave a forgetful trace in the past no man's land behind us the rain covers everything and our souls rise gray from the husk haze of the wet bricks the tires roll not by themselves the mountain up and down the mountain a contradictory and seemingly defeatable monument for the iron but to be broken will with a deadly exhaustion ends every conquest when birds shout over the shame of people how empty could the woods valleys hills souls treesbe into them nothing will be dreamed only out of them one lies in a meadow
after days, when the life-giving pour has sunk into the realm of nematodes and worms and the sun shines on top of that hades dry and spoiling the delicate growths of our love dry in the heat over our personality spoilages and only blue so blue again sky above our stars before the sun shines the next day the next moaning can become thought when our dry brittle cracked lips tear open to a broad laugh and no pain of the world breaks the love to us and the empty space around us to irritate to wither can create from a dry puddle full of dust a life becomes a malleable piece of clay with high compaction properties a whole day full of happiness cries to the sky on the ground of living facts roll as far before our future and behind our past afterwards into further valleys over further heights along the deadly water into which we both do not want to fall unobsessed over far heights the sky or the stars at noon in our forgotten dreams of time the
run dry by ourselves in our flood in which we are washed away far away from each other and with each other by the entangled washing-up life and arrive like nowhere with short handshaking and can't hold on and our embraces in the water are wet from the dry tender rub there is nothing to feel we slide through each other and glide off each other are so far away farest away from myself am I seeing myself in your distorted mirror of joy anxious fear in a new day something else turns me around again and in the gardens the flowers bloom in strong borders and cannot do without the love of the people they have only become through them what they are love archaelogy would be to cultivate the cult of the dead where she shows herself I sometimes I look her in the face and do not understand me, how i can shy away from the naked affection of my dearest so with my wild desperate agony everything out of the way from the face-field strike where the most beautiful before my eyes show me under trees roll the wheels rubbing in curves
carressing the asphalt gravel and give dust its own profile bubbles emerge from the water blow up and disappear in wild whirlpools under the bridges and sadly look up again and don't forget, what they are and were short fine little impressions of a little bit of oxygen and have already passed without a blink in the water and have not timidly reappeared in front of other captors and remind the people in flat and mountainous landscapes of short moments the ferns wink tearing in the rain and what our cheeks is rolling down is not always cheerfulness and confidence the tears roll the fences block unfortunately gate of the beldnung (sic!) the view on the land behind it and not a single word touches our lips emerges between them again in silence we meet together when we are furthest away from us if i don't find my way i don't just lose myself in me i don't get lost next to myself i look for myself in myself and have disappeared in myself and come to light again in another place under a big white cloud that
me darkened in one, the detours are probably boundless when they beat up over us stray life like feelers stretched out and in every corner there is something to find through the many layers of the world you can hardly find everything is indeed defoliated but the fine crusts dissolve into transient puff pastry when the language comes to days they pass once more in a long stray in the day itself and the search for the stray consumes so much energy and getting up becomes a stressful matter is the weather too bad only the night was sweaty and the day has just begun it has already killed the evening and the results are even too miserable it only counts a written word or a composed thought but not a solid and not uncertain stroke on the paper the wheels roll between wide hedges even though they are so finely trimmed in their overflowing ferocity we assure ourselves of the space of time that lies behind them and we are penetrated by a stream of fantasies and stories that take place when lonely farmers
bring the cozy and sociable cows to a thistledledon pasture and listen to their stories tender and dirty stories of sexual intercourse behind the high cut hedges of the ramming of horns in the gender struggle from the entanglements in the the wide harems of the cows on hedges cut by wiry fences and cheap hedges and the pointed marked ears of the horned beasts listen to the whimpering of the farmers to the sadness of all that lies abandoned on his meadow between fertile cows and not behind can see the well-cut borders of his little world where outside between two wheels rush casual like the time try to stop and also enjoy the moment of the cattle drive and so different worlds come closer between two well-cut hedges and stop still and not much needs to be said the birds remain silent on that and once the sea rush between the many-voiced whisper of the grasses sounds and with thundering bangs the waves strike at our physicality then
we can be blasted or carried away or washed away or shattered as much as we cramp ourselves in this watery storm as much as we try to resist after many years and endure small waves but the sea remains full of time so uncertain and the mountains of waves always higher than it plays our imagination and the sea will withdraws again and the little remaining water of our eyes washes around the fine crushed scratched stones of our common path.
Ein surrealistischer, assoziativ geschriebener Text über das Radfahren, Beziehungen und das Erleben von Landschaft.