March 19, 2004

Liquid torture

Night falls, the sales girls in the stores become impatient, and there is this one entrance in a sidestreet, with a guy on a bar chair in front of it. It's my favorite place, among the three or four I know. Its walls are decorated with art, though only sometimes you notice it is actually changing. DJ's enter the podest, unfolding their speech of sound, filling the tiny cracks in the walls with crumbs from the grinding bricks.

After shaking my body of what seemed hours, I am sitting, which is one level lower than anybody else, just for a moment, until I realize it was more than just that. I can see everything that's going on. I am watching and separate, become the watcher, become an observer of flirty glimpses, a witness of couples falling apart, a surfer on the wave. And the sound and the motion and the bodies are fluid towards the end of the room. So much anticipation. So much energy. A bunch of garden hoses becoming lose under water pressure.

I am waiting, for the next drop of water hitting my skin. My eyes strive a table to my shoulder, it slowly fills up with bottles, soaked napkins and glasses. I smile, knowing, I am that glas on that table, with the remains of cranberry vodka on descending ice, slowly rocking towards the border.

Posted by Henning von Vogelsang at 07:31 AM