And I’m sure I’ve bored you before about the Russell Hoban novel where the characters include a speaking hospital and a speaking London Underground. But I thought I’d share this one with you. Because on the Strada Maria Rosetti, București, Romania, on Monday this week (9th May 2016) a Trabant talked to me in words.
Its words were garbled. It spoke of pocketsful of solutions to the problems of the world, of train journeys into the sun, of life erupting all around us, of words that fall broken, of how this isn’t Budapest or Vienna or Bratislava or Belgrade or Ulm or Linz or Regenburg. Or Novi Sad.
The starless bible-black frieze isn’t just for us, Trabant said. It’s in us. Hin und zurück is an emptied binary, it said. A binary perched on a green/blue glass balcony, pal. This is broken. Because why not. Because everything is repairable. Everything is broken. There’s a dead man in the cable car and the chicken is still dancing, and even dwarves started small. Descended from the dust of stars. In another lifetime when blackness will be a virtue but the road still full of mud.
Trabant spoke. But words. Words are mirrors showing pure blank space, words are as tears wet on your face, said Trabant. I spoke back, but Trabant went silent. Hidden in plain ear sight. I walked round the other side of the car, and all there was, was … was its jokingly passive-aggressive ‚hello‘ sign. Dâmbovița, I said. Dâmbovița. And all the candles and fires. And every prayer and every song, I said (for no reason) then left. Here’s Trabant’s hello sign, fwiw:
