Once upon a time in the 70’s, a woman (photographer) I was on the edge of falling in love with (but never did) asked me to write poems inspired by her pictures, for an exhibition. It took place in the „Cafe Peter“ in Würzburg, in the basement. Bright walls, the photographer’s spacious landscape motifs – „Discreet Music“ and „The Plateaux of Mirror“ were the only albums played there. Permanently. Quietly. Gentle does it. The woman who owned the café came to me days after the opening, and told me the music would be creating a little dizziness in her head, she felt a strange pull. And, frankly, in the long run she would probably lose her mind. We reduced the times of playing the background. Everything forced is lost anyway in the sounds of „Discreet Music“ – something came around the corner and disappeared behind the next one. It came back again. And again. And then disappeared. And came again. And disappeared. Dizziness may happen, of course. Soft confusion. Everlasting love to sensations on the verge of falling apart. Sarah for example, the photographer, a shadow from the past. I would have loved to sleep with her, but instead she taught me ten tricks for taking out an aggressor at a moment’s notice (in emergencies). Beautiful music, she said, and gave me that short kiss, three, four secs of timelessness, the type of „this happens only once“-kiss. I never forgot its taste.
(in dear memory of my teacher Dr. Egon Werlich)