Gangway #24: Dieter Sperl: when the landscape ceases

the door is dripping it is damp the tongue is exhausted for seconds only wheezing the tongue hanging out with all these fingers and teeth and ears in a wheezing to dawn like this until the body ripped open on the floor the heart in its beating in a passionate new year’s beginning the chin is in the armpit the finger moves out only flashes like each pulse-beat in this dripping and pouring from all the hair the tongue cuts across the field the bodies and faces turned thrown to the ground to the ground and lain there the forearms only a few body-parts like now thrown limited to a few body-parts from all pores everywhere it pours from all the hair no beginning at all on to the ground like this without any fever always somewhere else long since the folds between a finger wheezings over the calendar in a snowstorm through the screaming on the corridor to creep out in the clapping of the crowd out of the last garden gnome when the fork into the face of a piece of meat on a morning like today to wake up like this on a morning like this to go out like this

the street is empty still take another ten breaths today wolves and fish populate these senses there in the middle of a thick forest you follow the tracks stand still you follow the tracks with the scent on several branches at the same time like this in this wheezing near the ground to follow until the breath is perceptible the breath perceptible the pleasure stays long on the ground men kneel on this ground and hold their heads in the grass they lament the death perhaps they are lamenting themselves no trembling now the glistening sun and fast shadows in front of eyes a stone is thrown against the sun such a wheezing the later twitching of the faces what’s been suppressed grows long pushing until it strikes us in the face and is already gone as soon as it struck us the fingers in the soft neck in the crevices long seconds only this sun which stands open there a telephone conversation early in a morning a bird goes past infiltrated by february by ants insects they run so fast

there are no more images there the train goes irregularly slowly something is flying never mind aquarius and autumn on these fingers so near that the salt the salt on the fingertips begins to jump the cracks for example here in laughter behind the horizon for a forest assembled the family bent forwards wheezed on to the ground on a station lies a fir-tree branch on a yellow line like this left over from a christmas from the last one probably that pushed itself forward into the new year on this skin there these senses the station manager waves from his camera no more waiting now no waiting at all only a dying and a living that was hardly noticed hardly noticed in the natural shadow-play of the trees a cat runs across the street don’t come back

thirty-eight feet with ears standing upright alone in summer in packs in winter when they are hungry in general they rest during the hottest hours of the day running fast as if blurred two old people are wearing leather gloves a buzzard is sitting on a cable around him only this white winter landscape only at the end does it begin to change into hills when the head is twisted quite far round wheezing just above the ground long lines in white mountain landscapes only this wheezing an old child is defying his birthday his tongue is friendly leather gloves with the fingers cut off and all other forms of gloves smoke rises up two birds beneath a bridge there will have to be a lot of animals there the trees group together or they appear as trunks a separate population of spruce and scots pine with size thirty-four rubber boots on the ice-rink in the forest slid there run there jumped over the wooden side fallen on your bottom hit the ice half with your hands half with the back of your head the ice is bleeding between the hairs our next stop the old faces often get quite hard before they implode the old faces as long as it’s still possible with a board hung in the wind when again we’re beaten from these heartbeats these heartbeats nothing fights against them in order to announce our fear as well when individual people when individual people are struck dead or their death’s hushed up or they departed early the dead win their feelings back through their living representatives when they are addressed thousands of culprits millions of culprits have lived in one family it’s only another forty minutes now thirty minutes another few minutes a wheeze tongue hanging out

she has sunspots on her reddish-fair skin when the landscape ceases she begins to follow to pursue the rapid trail of footsteps yes she has sunspots when she has left the landscapes behind her a few cuts above the knee it only rained once in five days to start off like this with these feet on the ground scattered between the heaps of rubbish in the sky slow rainships cruise the rumble of an aeroplane comes later several days until clouds hear the drums going on many a sunday to wheeze like this alone over the ground still another thirty minutes a few seconds now gulls screech behind the curtain through the curtain when they cast in lights movement between the dogs sit in the forest and stay between the leaves lie until it’s morning rapid wingbeats cold wind on your ears but a certain a certain very slow rumble is closely interwoven with the spring you can perhaps hear the steps in the glass if you could only hear better the steps in the glass with your coat open as if they were dancing the fishes before lively rainy days quite near where they’re at home and the sounds of grinding from the dismantling section they hang at night over the suburbs as if they were dancing from the side into the holding stack in the smell of hot hotplates you put off your happiness to a day in the midday heat no animal in sight only a car is standing there abandoned with a yawning abyss your feet in empty space so that the bodies between the trees begin quite suddenly to tremble the hands on the hunt then on the hunt then to do something daily to wheeze tongue hanging out two wolves are running fast entangled in the snow to the point of being totally surprised veiled women often in black children playing as any pulse-beat fragile the gaze wanders over pine forests and hill-ranges the lush meadows can hardly be held up by its own body-weight it’s just above the ground only a crawler lane keeps the ground in order there are two legs four legs they rush over the ground just above the ground all the flotsam that comes from the land and from time far behind the hills there where the horizon begins nowhere no waiting far and wide this sun the screeching of the gulls beneath a sunday the wrist two muscles for this winter lie waiting for battle or fortune then the animals sound as if from silence as if from talking there the mouth laughs the children stand in the rain at the front door under the roof it’s been raining for hours two hours their mother comes with her shopping bag and umbrella in her hand not a very loud day despite the rain no real memory but the rain the rain so unceasing has no end in sight the children are not waiting for the rain to stop it doesn’t stop it won’t stop any more wheezing at the front door under the porch it’s raining and lightning with dirty and grazed knees where were the girls where were they she’s wearing black boots and looking out of the window only the rain really clap hands in their collection through the gap between window and curtain where the child heckles on all fours four feet it’s four feet running over the carpet into this gap in a midday heat outside in front of the house behind the house madcap rushed running headlong between the clothes-poles always a lot of heat and wet to the skin fallen in this heavy rain thirty eight feet rushing from the dust into the rain from the glowing heat from midday into the downpour into a cloudburst the heavens are bursting it’s raining from all feet down at the front door where were the girls where were they on that day outside in the weather with their clothes totally soaking only this wheezing this lessening wheezing over the years the wheezing lessens at this front door it’s quieter there’s more spoken about the future assumes proportions a well-ordered day makes its appearance the fingers get older to walk with a torn-off sun-hanger walk more quickly then more slowly there are two legs they push forwards then backwards then four legs near the ground another twenty minutes still another twenty minutes the days are overcast infection occurred long ago the child hasn’t got a temperature to come like this out of such a morning with plenty of fresh air if they are warmly wrapped up to come out like this especially when they have a cold just compare that the body is there the earth is there something has changed the windspeed for a few minutes there’s just sun and dirt on your finger tips a light breeze is here five days have passed then a bird then a second one all at once almost every view is oriented on the line of the horizon often stunned for long seconds only chapped fingers the only movements the year has given away colour after colour

drink as fast as a wolf drink as fast as a dog feet and fingers look for holds only just above the ground beneath a pile of stones beneath a layer of freshly fallen snow look out of the window just here the settlement begins on the shelf lie knitting the school exercise books of the daughters and jeans waiting to be shortened there are four square metres all round the house at the entrance five square metres of meadow with simple flowers with a check pattern the shirt is ironed the blouse is ironed the photos of their daughters in the living room on a sideboard the daughter as a five-year-old the daughter as a thirteen-year-old the other daughter a few years afterwards only a very few years the other daughter as a nurse what did she look like as a fifteen-year-old what did she look like when she was still going to primary school as a seven-year-old and then as a twenty-year-old what must they have looked like the two daughters so that they didn’t have to go to the factory like insects that fly up they sleep facing forward and in summer there are many of them

here at all the rivers and flooded areas there the thunder ceases and no hail and no rain falls on to the earth any more on a morning like this there are twenty minutes still twenty minutes just above the earth follow the shadow-lines of the high clouds sometimes the fire also gets out of control and you can hear a noise you can hear this noise there are men and women they last a certain time they are at home over there among themselves just as they are here on the street above the ground when they wheeze up and down the feet yearn for nothing the hands yearn for nothing the sky enters our experience burning sweat runs abandoned from a face these few evenings in summer on which you were able to sit under the stars outside these evenings somewhere rain far away in front of a shop on a country road a soup with cheese swimming in it the houses step nearer there are early noises coming from the street or from the mountains early noises from a kitchen when they were washed up to press forward like this at our feet

on a sideboard are the photos of their daughters the photos of their sons a young woman is kicking a chestnut against a tree very many fallen and cut down trees a child is using a branch to draw on the ground far behind a crow is landing an elderly married couple is creeping over the meadow a man with a hat is approaching on a bicycle an old mercedes with people just as old stables on the right side with one rear leg the skewbald mare is scratching itself on its ears permanently birds fly high in the sky once again the horse scratches itself with its rear leg a woman claps her hands several times one child explains to another one that you should only feed a horse with your bare hands another twenty minutes the celebrations have been in full swing for a long time

there are words for monday words for tuesday rain and heat or rain and autumn you’re walking in the sun now you’re walking in the sun tomorrow no longer to wait for anything

over there fifty people are being swept under the table it doesn’t take a week three days perhaps twenty minutes there were two feet four feet they went with their desires to survive they went home on their way there they stopped still hanging in their names there are two feet wheezing over the ground the washing hung in the wind just above the ground wooden fences that you can smell but september still hasn’t been sailed through yet a few accords animals close by only step by step now only step by step now before the sun disappears she doesn’t leave the house very often any more she mustn’t fall ill any more either there’s no-one else there on a shop car park cows are sunning themselves perhaps a few seconds or fewer

the whole body clings to the ground as far as possible crawling over it slowly and effortlessly it is warm here only the trees tower upwards a body runs along a straight otherwise no living thing was to be seen the rotations of the hands in many variations until the salad with the hot potatoes until the salad has disappeared as it were only the empty bowl with vinegar is left standing in the middle of the table until it’s taken away until the plates are likewise taken away remember this the empty table with four hands with eight hands depending still listen simultaneously without a signal without anyone clapping their hands listen to the chairs being put away pushed back from the table then disperse only the voices left that go like drums in the early afternoon the wind opened into a spring into a stone

there are two feet they’re running quickly beneath the clouds up and down a flat expanse there are four people a woman a girl then a dog stepped on a dandelion in a second one there they’re running straight over this meadow to wheeze the scream of a painted child no real illumination no real joy but what then this keeping on a lead of the whole body to go out on a day like this with your mouth gaping open

count to four count to five before they’re quite born with violent nose-bleeds a water pistol is working on an old ruined wall again and again seconds go through my head in my september in my october the tv appearance of a donkey twelve days have passed perhaps ten days away over a fence over a metal fence an avenue on which many black horses are running time of rain with the water time of flowers with the wooden steps which lead up to the street with the wheezing a twitching of the eye breaks out of the eye a man is lying stripped to the waist on a wooden bench it’s march outside or april much too cold still or may behind the church spire there’s only a light breeze if you approach him he won’t notice many clouds are moving across a clear sky without indicating any direction there are images of a little town on a day like this you don’t need to notice anything go barefoot over the meadow go barefoot a cat lies lazily on the warm wall of the church with its feet stretched out why do you want to sleep you can’t feel any memory in your hands and so in the end you don’t hit any birds whatsoever

the sparse rays of the sun have been seen for days the sun returning now is especially welcomed by the children in the schools and nurseries sun festivals are celebrated and colourful pictures painted twenty-four hours make a day then the years then the years from the sky birds fall we simply join them a strand of hair out of the eye streaming cat over there at night crow big bird people on the street find the tempo in which they are hunted the fast flying up of the birds not to wait for anything any else don’t wait for anything else step by step the speaking of the river

break off step by step the speaking of the river it smells of rain the wet grass smells of rain to do something in this way to wheeze with the wind in his eyes the stranger falls into the sleep from which he will awaken only years later like the people from the house opposite they’re looking out of their windows again then no-one will be looking again for days on end fall asleep on a park bench in a sun only this light breeze and freckles which stretch to the horizon tear at the body again and again outbreaks of time and laughter no foot-prints there’s no path prepared with these steps on the face no path viewed from the distance a small figure disappears between restlessly dancing wheat-fields nearby the light refracts into the last piece of country road with the search for hidden fish and arrows in the corners of the rooms in the corners of the clouds cheerful whistles drawn on a gateau wooden fences one moment from a distance of ten metres when you’re sad when you sit on a tree from a distance of eleven metres orange-segments which keep a circle warm when you hop over kerbs heaven and hell in the a morning you don’t listen to the screaming like lightning as if thrown to the ground the forearms the stomach the feet to hear the wheezing only just above the ground to wheeze only just above the ground washing fluttering when the wind then when the wind comes in the wind hangs itself on the washing a man with his birds in a park in guangzhou 1998

to look like this at the water like every pulse-beat no pulse here then it’s quiet then it’s quiet here no pulse only talk into my mouth when you make soup when you look at a star into the very highest rain a car smaller than an ant smaller than a pin with six cameras positioned at the window what’s happening in the street staying up and waking up on a park bench in a sun fall asleep march outside still far too cold to lie on the benches in the same places on the slope behind the house wooden steps that lead up to the highway into the handkerchief on such a day on a day like this there’s a voice which is knocking a river which is flowing past there’s a forest here the summer if falling on the field the stones are bringing snow into the bird-year with a noise on the tongue not for a needle even only a scratch to fall through it with your hands

there’s a time to be contented there’s no time for this one day one year perhaps later there are four feet then only two feet on a morning like this like this to creep out walk out the air rushes into the room when you open the window where the sun falls apart like this on to the ground on to the street it’s behind the house there are steps running up wooden steps there are two feet no-one comes too late only one child then there are two there are two girls they have to make their way on foot on the highway three kilometres four kilometres they walk wrapped up in their thick coats they have woollen hats on their heads and footprints the sun strikes the ground the animals are now a gust of wind the girls are walking it is a summer on the road dust whirls when they wheeze just above the road they can hear the noise of the gravel in their noses they can hear the dust with their hands they sketch their wishes in the air many wishes for later on this highway they were invented these wishes stamped in laughter in crying in a nursery in a bedroom then they cut with these tears this air is a bird tossed upwards just like now thousands of mothers one day one year perhaps later you walk through one life through two lives there are eight feet they are still wheezing eight feet wheezing up on the highway tall brushwood the yellow lines down the middle lead the eyes until you turn off they’re hot days stagnant water completely broken up insects crawling into something birds of summer only smoking on the hill in front of the house