Fiction The feeling to belong here in America is not free... umlauts and the characteristic throat crackle are missing... the price is the upwards and sideward opening of the artificially narrowed European horizon. Only downwards there's nothing to do: we Germans have dug deeply enough already. The forest is ours, the sea belongs to the Brits (as Canetti observed) and the Americans have heaven. The French don't need any of it because they're always the first when it comes to good food. While the other guests still play hide-and-seek, les croutons already say cheers. Beckett wrote in French because you can stain silence in any tongue. Interlude We love to play, all of us, black or white, yellow or red, dead or alive. Non-fiction At night I lie on my Texan air mattress dreaming, as sluggishly as I can, of Heimat, of the bitingly cold Berlin. But only the dragon flies listen. Rattle snakes sunbathe in the dunes: I practice the whistle that mollifies them until they get off to the scarce sleep of the serpents. Then I pick them up with my driftwood stick and sling them towards the sun so that they sail, sail, sail as far as the Camargue where my shoe is still stuck in the sludge, humming to itself.
© 2010 Marcus Speh. All rights reserved.