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Sie sind hier: Home » Girl Friday – the Book of Bad » Girl Friday – the Book of Bad 25. Words Are Colourblind
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Gabbi WernerGirl Friday – the Book of Bad 25. Words Are Colourblind

Von | 31.01.2014, 9:01 | Kein Kommentar

There are words that make a good song, but most of them are colourblind.

Welcome. To the stories I told in many hotelrooms. To a man who had trouble falling asleep. A business deal. He paid for my words.
Here they are.

*

„Do you have any favourites, you know, number one words?“

I had to think about it for a while.
„Sometimes I like certain words. Like a good song. On occasion I think I can fall in love with a word, the sound, the meaning, the subtlety or just the very directness of it. Lament … I like lament, and lethargic for instance. Especially the combination of both in one sentence should be something I could try to use soon. And how about tragic, tearjerker and teetotaller, ah, that would be an interesting one too. But they don´t automatically have to be words that start with the same letter. Mildew and vomit can also have their charm, when you think of it. It is all about how I would use them, how I would mold them into something new, something that could surprise me. Pneumonia was one of my all time first favourites. A real high school crush so to speak.  I remember tasting the sound and the meaning of it, I must have been about fourteen. I could imagine that this would be my cause of death, it had such a romantic feel. Much better than cardiac arrest or clogged arteries for all I cared. Hmm … Filigree, mayhem and preposterous. Ah, I will just linger on those three for the rest of the evening I guess.“
R. laid his head back on the pillow. He gestured for me to throw him a cigarette, and lit it. He inhaled deeply.
„For me, ambivalence will just do fine.“
I asked him why he was so interested in that specific word.
„We are not turning this into some kind of session thing are we?“
I said that I did not know.
„You know, were I tell you about my heart´s desire, I don´t think my heart desires something. It just pumps the blood real good. That´s all there is. Better leave it with storytelling, it is much more relaxing if you do that.
So what will your story be about this time? And can you remind me that I need to buy Christmas gifts for my wife and kids tomorrow. Maybe you can do a Christmas story for me. Have you seen that market at the river? Real bad taste. But I can tell them it is genuine German Christmas galore I got them. Or could you get them something?“
„I don´t think I am good at buying gifts for anybody, and I don´t know your family, why don´t you get them ipods as well?“
 „That is a good idea, leaves the wife. Can you buy her some jewellery for me, that would be good. I don´t have the time. So, a Christmas carol, can you do that?“
„I don´t know, I am not so much the Christmas kind of girl.“
„You never celebrated Christmas at home, with your folks?“
*
I told him we had. But most memories of the festivities had grown dim. The last couple of years I had made it through those days by being high or downed on whatever I could score. My family noticed I was so much more relaxed. Three whole days I would spend in a complete daze, enjoying the lights, the music, in my very private bubble. I would giggle a trife too loud and long at the obligatory jokes my father would tell, I would sing along to „Silent night“, then, at appropriate hour, I would dress up, take my gifts with me, and go party. This way I managed. It was never Christmas, which I liked, sober or doped out, there wasn´t a big difference.
When I was still a little girl it was like this. I did like the smell of the cookies my mother would bake, I loved the tree, but somehow my family always arranged the night to corrode into the worst kind misbehaviour: „Divorce“ was shouted out loudly, but never seen through. „Hatred“ was whispered through every sentence unspoken. Once, I must have been eleven or twelve years old, my mother got badly drunk and laid down under the glass table we had, calling out for me  to come lie down next to her. My father and brother would just ignore her and go on discussing whatever they thought more important. My mother would laugh out more and more hysterically, I became sure she had lost her mind, or was at least on the verge of losing it, and that nobody noticed, or worse, cared. So I just sat beside her and tried to convince her she should at least lie under the tree, on the rug, so much nicer than a glass table.
„If you were a lawyer, like your father or me, you would understand why a glass table is so much more suitable.“ She barked, laughing at me. Our cat got nervous, hissed at my mother, and ran away. I just sat next to her that whole night, watching her laugh out and make jokes which had no pun what so ever, her incoherent soliloquy went on for hours. I tried to stroke her hair, but she would not let her touch me. Those were my childhood Christmases. Sometimes my brother would get drunk and smash a hole in a door with his fist. My father never drank. He said Christmas was a marketing tool of the fundamentalist Christians. This remark would be neglected by the rest of the family, so my father would go upstairs, into his study.
That was the time I lost my belief in Christmas. A couple of years later my beliefs would go into an entirely different direction: I became completely fixated by german female terrorists, and Christiane F. The only Christmas story I could conjure up for R. was this one:

To be Continued. Next Friday. Every Friday. From 09.00h.

Link to German Translation: click  Girl Friday – Buch des Bösen 25. Worte sind farbenblind

Artwork: Gabbi Werner

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