1983: it's 82, and i am 105. we're all together here, arranged into a honeycomb patternof heptagonal plastic seats, which may aswell have our numbers on themas ournumbers are all that give us presence.the seats are all connected. we are allconnected. all coded with a commonpurpose. a central need. a need only tobe satisfied by the ringing of a bell,the flickering of a light; an indicationof allowed passage through one of theoppressive black doors. we don't talk.we listen. we watch the lights above thedoors.we wait our turns to tell our lives to the faceless; to the non-feeling. we waitnervous,alone,together. the bell rings, a light changes color. 83 stands. he passes through anopen black doorway. meek. the door isclosed behind him. i look at the ticketin my hand. it is now 83, and i am 105. 1984: Further along the tape,one floor up,the lights and bells are gone. red dots on a black field form symbols: calling out, that none may hear, who is next.who is not. a grey dot floor, worn to a larger extent at the foot of the connected seats than at the thresholds ofthe black doors, indicates more waitingthan going in. more anticipation thansatisfaction. more confusion thanclarity. more fear than relief. we wait.a door opens. one comes out - one goesin. the dots reform. it is 84. my numberis not important. 1985: 85. big brother failed his showing. no one was impressed. i try to assume a number, but there are none in the machine. i look to see who is next, but there are no formed red dots. i stare at the faded grey dots of the floor. my papers have been collected and stamped!does the lack of ticket, the dark ofnumber plate, the fresh laying of grey dots at the door i used until now infer atightening of policy `BEWERBER MIT NAMEN, ANFANGSBUCHSTABEN..., BITTE NICHT LAENGER HIER AUFHALTEN' or another failure of brother, big's (name rearranged for administrative purposes)information planning? or a success? perhaps one needs no new number for each visit now. perhaps we, who maintain space about the plastic heptagon, have been numerically grouped, our individuality only in synapse of some larger circuitsystem. no longer a dot on a chip.perhaps instigation of renewed acceptance ofmypresence here requires a more modern stimuli: i knock on the black door`WENN SIE BITTE DRAUSSEN WARTEN...'. hours at the amt, 85. no one is impressed. 1986: i became somebody to somebody at the amt today. no thoughts about floor coverings, or plastic person control light devices. no hours of waiting. no heptagonal seats. a door to myself, with several servants of civil duty at my attendance. i was immediately recognized, as i walkedthrough a door without a number. i was asked to excuse any delays. a `BEAMTER'made me aware of the incompetence of the system, and asked i show patience. i did. he bad me kindly to accompany him to the office of his colleague. others waited, in those seats, by the worn floors. `PFIRTY GOTT; SELBSTVERSTAENDLICH, HERR WOODWARD. KEINE URSACHE! `WIEDERSCHAUEN'. at the amt, in 86, i became somebody for somebody. 1987: if i thought there were no point, i suppose i wouldn't continue to record this report.though somewhat more abstruse, if not directly confused, the thoughts bandying about in my processesstill seem worthy of ink and paper space.no change of floor covering, or hive like seating; no bells or red dot silences; not even the feeling of solidarity has managed to leave any distinct impression during my wait. i could easily sit and listen to recorded headphone wavelengths and ignore it all. this year at the amt, hours have been passed in expectation of that which, if i am to be honest with myself, i do not want: residence permission. i could easily imagine this will be the last correspondence from this particular bureau. it is 87. i have a number, but am not interested in looking to see what it could be. there is no longer any mystery to these closed black doors, and the faceless have acquired identity. they should be given sympathy, if not pity. they must decide who is to obtain that which is not to be offered to all and who not. these decisions are not based on need, but on monetary worth, and ideological warrant. a terrible responsibility, of unpredictable consequence. the identified faceless are, however, not to be pitied because of the overwhelming weight of their daily decisional musts, but for their ability to remain non-caring throughout the process. hours at the amt, 87. as if from 5 years, there remains so little with which to mark them. 1988: somehow no longer interested in describing the nuances of this particular visit in brother's house, i stare into a glass counter displaying turkish translations of german request forms. i don't have any of the papers required, and expect to be asked to return. time. all i want is time. i have to find my own place. I have to fill my own belly. i have to see to my own health. i have to keep myself occupied. ok, i don't want them to mix in these affairs anyway. the only problem lies in the fact that i have chosen to accomplish these tasks here,where they enjoy the say so. at the endof each allowance of time, time in theirspace, i must come to the building withthe worn honeycomb seats, and grey dot rubber floorsand black doors, above which the red dot computer number plates are, once again, not in working order. during this visit, i'll request a great deal of time. 5 times around the sun. five years. what they want to know is, if i, during the previous time allowance, have been capable of feeding, housing, caring for and occupying myself. i have been but can i prove this? stupid regulations. stupid regulations. i would leave them alone, if they would me. they won't. so, here i amat the amt, 88.bored. disgusted. anxious. almost wishingthey would refuse this allotment of timesince their space is not exactly what ihad expected, and certainly not that of my preference. at the amt, 88. not nearly as creative as 83, 4 or 5; disinterest and disappointment have left a stain: a constant reminder of what this space has done to my time.
The German Face I stood staring, incidentally, at the names of several pairs of cotton pants which, composing the colourful part of an amateur advertisement, had been the apparent focus of my attention on many previous journeys into the underground. Actually, i was practicing a German face. A German face is a face which prompts one not to get involved, not to invade and not to be sure of whether its bearer would at all be pleasant at contact. It seemed necessary to me to sustain attempts at maintaining such a face as my American face too often had led to aggression on the part of other German face bearers. I stood so, not registering the names of the pants i appeared to be studying, practicing said face. Just completing the second half of its hourly round (on this occasion, from midnight to one a.m.), the U Bahn clock's minute hand jerked and the rolling schedule sign tossed up the right combination of letters and numbers signifying my train - U 8 Olympiazentrum - (one car only). My gaze dropped from the cotton ad to the tracks in front of me, still with practiced face, when she walked by: neon blue coat, strawberry blonde hair, blue eyes, walkman. She walked quickly passed, looked at me (obviously longer practiced at the face) and slowedthen she stopped and turned back. `Cute', i thought, but this is typical. I resumed my face concentration and as the train arrived i looked to see which compartment door would be the most painless. I entered, knowing she was stepping onto the same car. I sat, hands in pockets. She sat across from me. I realized then how beautiful she was behind her German face. I focused on her features and she gazed up at me. Her eyes were wide and clear, but somehow piercing. We looked into each other's eyes for an indeterminable number of moments, but i had to give way.i was losing my German face. I resumed to scanning her hair and her coat, at her shoes and tucked cotton pants. I noticed she was nervous...or sad. She turned circles with the cable of her walkman headphones and tangled it tightly around her milky white, tiny hand. When she would loosen it again, there were rose colour indentations left behind. I raised my questioning eyes to her face. She was lost on the seat beside me, considering something i had no chance of trying to comprehend. Her skin was soft and clear as a child's. Her lips were wide and subtly pink, and she would slightly pull her lower lip in and release it, as if about to cry. When she would pout that sensuous lip outward, it would blush again with a new kiss of moisture. I wanted to speak, but she was in a world of music and thought i was afraid to enter: and she wore a German face. She caught me watching her. She stared directly into my eyes and we held each other fast in our residual stares for long seconds. I lost - i shifted my looks to her strawberry hair. She looked away. I felt an urge to communicate. I pulled flyers from my jacket (those telling where i would be singing next). I wanted to give her one, maybe ask her to come alone. I pretended to read...with a pretended German face. "Scheidplatz" came scratching out of an inefficient train speaker. The train stopped, we both left the U Bahn. She ran away. I wanted to follow, but started homethinking about my German face and wondering if, with such a face, i will ever be happy. For the time being i was infatuated with one lovely German face and angry about by own...
After 4 a.m. In Hamburg 1 Gentle shuffling: the sleeping to the door escorted spitting at the world on the street. Another language: patterned from something dying. Land of plenty. Mountains of butter and beer. Ears lost to a remake - T-Rex some things do not die. 2 There is no real darkness here. Circled eyes stare toward similar aberrations of other genders hopes of finding tit pillowspipelines to ecstasy. The cooked hamburger from an American military base is only part of a picture with colours arun and lines drawn on a mirror. 3 I've seen your picture beforeslept in your bed of sweat and fervor. I followed you across the south/west to another promise mis-filled. I suck the contents from a commercially blown glass. Still only part of what i see in your face is what i was looking foronly pieces of the shape fit into the puzzle of the night. But i would anyway. 4 I am the owner: 'those here are counted as an average income per head. I count my personnel first bouncer (speaking in my ear presently), waitress, cook, barman, second bouncer (eating my food)and think about income. A man comesich kassiere. Disappear. Count the money somewhere else.' 5 Last page of borrowed paper. Time to think about to whose world the previous 4 belonged. I am interested in the waitress something positivesome kind of ability to look through all i've taken to heart. I would not have asked the black man from where he came... Would not have spilled a cross beer papers the thoughts of this evening. Something distant. Something lying close to what i needwant. It continues. The paper is filled...
Spring Took Me Spring took me by surprise this year. Just as i was preparing for a long winter's hibernation - closing doors, pulling shades, firing up heaters - a spring like ray of sun came dancing into my heart and soul. No, no, snow will still fall. And it did take a long while before the rays of love were able to melt their way through crystals formed upon the fragile entrances to my inner space. But somehow feelings of spring, of new growth, beautiful colours and hopeful, long days managed to seep through, bringing with them a warmth i'd seldom had the pleasure of feeling. Still these spring like movements of harmony frighten me. They came too quickly to a climax and melted what i'd been protecting for so longcreating a flood of tears. I must say, i've come to learn the ways of the seasons well. Spring is as quickly gone as it comes. And if spring rains don't fall to replace the waters lost to dew like tears, all new growth could burn under an incessantly scorching summer sun. And i realize too that spring has arrived much too early this year, and the tender shoots of a seemingly eternal summer could freeze and die. I am afraid. But spring is love: and this sudden spring - temporary as it may be - has drawn me out of my hibernatory extreme. I will enjoy it in all its bitter sweetness and hope i'll not be left to face the winter without protection, void of tear supply and freezing in an empty dark abode.
