It is hard to believe the calendar or trust the GPS when you wish to be out of time, out of place, sharing the oxygen and geography with no other creature. Even harder to accept the clock or the map, so you repeat: “This is Berlin, not Tierra del Fuego, Poughkeepsie or Dubai, much less Hogwarts or Oz.” Here you are, connected, located by satellite, mobile, googlable, always in the attachment, twinkling like a star and twittered, your face on the book, my space is your space. Here I am, with a registered address, full of social security, a part of your whole, a member of the club, a resident, an alien, you can locate me better than I can find my navel, my cock, my anus, I sign up, I type in, I log on, I fade out. 52°30’N 13°23’E. Alone and crowded, hunting for the hole where to stick my entire body, if I could only dig that hole in you. Where is the so-called “The One”, is this some fucking Matrix, the joke is on me, only six degrees of segregation between my body and the perfect lover, maybe here, surely there, in 05°33’N 00°12′ W or in 29°39’N 91°07′ E, in Viznar, Uppsala or Lhasa, in Curitiba, Oaxaca or Accra. We all happy kids in our own little private hospital beds, our labeled and fashioned and styled pretty hospital beds. No spare rooms. You hum, you whisper, you buzz. “Hey Sister Morphine”, remember when your Nanny would sing you that song, her melons bobbling to the beat of the lullaby. The dogs barking in the neighbor´s yard. Beware of all dogs. You are not welcome here. Go on kid, take your clonazepam, your valerian, your promethazine, your catnip and camomile, sleep tight, here comes the high tide. You have been cheated of ever being at the right place, at the right time. Check your wristwatch, it has stopped, you have no pulse, your heart is clogged, your throat is sore. And this is what they call spring, this sorry excuse for a winter, this toxic rain over plastic flowers. But your hair is natural, your hair, your good old friend, never leaves you, never abandons you, your good friend The Hair. And your lungs, tireless pair of things. Your nails, not growing, they don´t grow, what they do is try to escape from you. Your feet forgot the taste of a place. Vacation is over, school is closed, you must move on. Where, you ask. There. Or maybe there. Or there. We don´t have all day. March 19th 2010. 3 euros and 25 cents in your pocket, the one with a hole. There we go. You overslept. Missed the bus. Took the wrong turn. Walked one corner too much, one block too little. You were not the fitting X for the crucial Y. Actually you were lucky your parents ever met. Fucked. Didn´t choose abortion. I will go on mapping my displacement by the coordinates of your restlessness. Thank you very much. I am here, says the map, and elsewhere. Now, says the clock. It is the end and the beginning, and anywhere is only the place to forget the place before. Look at me. Look how I adapt to your natural habitat. Move over, this bed is now mine.
Originally published on German magazine Zeitlosschrift, 2010