Nichts geht über Zwischenstationen, in denen das Wort
Liebe gehasst wird. Ich sitze in einem Cafe, in dem alle
verloren gehen, dabei tanzt der Bär im Bermudadreieck.
Nur nicht heute morgen, an so einem halbseidenen Feiertag.
Gute Gedichte lösen sich in den Bildern auf, die sie doppelt
belichten, sie brauchen weder die zweite Meinung noch
Diskursfreudigkeit. Sie blitzen kurz auf, und verschwinden
wie gute Schallplatten auf zu vielen Umzügen.
Archives: Donnerstag, 29. Mai 2014
„Der leere Sarg“ (heute um Viertelvorzehn im Ersten)
Memory: The summer of 1990 was very hot – in London. No rain, no fog, no bad vibes under a clear blue sky. We lived in the Pearl Hotel on West Cromwell Road, Klaudia (she was the photographer) liked the special atmosphere in that old hotel with its sweet raga sounds flooding the entrance area. I thought Harold Budd’s masterpiece THE PEARL would be the icing on the cake. Breakfast was terrible, fucking was great. Within seven days we interviewed writer Peter Ackroyd, the late master of the Penguin Cafe Orchestra, Simon Jeffes, and trumpet player Jon Hassell – in Brian Eno’s artist residence in South Kensington. The topic was CITY – WORKS OF FICTION. (m.e.)
“He thought of his old tapes, the ones he’d had for years, the ones he’d used over and over again. Their silence was always different to the silence of a new tape: it was loaded, prickly with things recorded and erased; a silence that was like ghosts. That house was an old tape masquerading as a new one. It had recorded and erased, but it was pretending it had just come out of the cellophane. It had ghosts, but it wasn’t owning up to them.” ― Rupert Thomson, The Five Gates of Hell
