Sunshine and Rain in Berlin
The sun made a cameo, after days and days, months and months of drizzle in Berlin.
Friday, I rode to meet everyone at the demo.
Sound bikes and kids marching, speaking out for a livable planet.
We are late for the demo, scream a couple, catching up with #fridaysforfuture march.
I guess everyone is.
All afternoon, the sun greeted us, on bikes, everyone out, singing as we rode, between the guys smoking, drinking beer, sun bathing, juggling in Mauer Park, the city popping, magic light everywhere.
Kai invited me to the Rave at Soli*Küfa*Rave @ Burge on Saturday.
Three trains to get there.
People drinking beer.
And then the familiar lost feeling.
Can’t find my way inside.
I heard the voices inside the venue at Hausprojekt Burge, but could not find the entrance at Burgemeisterstraße 17, 12103 Berlin.
Walked around the block looking for the entrance to the elusive collective community.
No door to the party.
Sometimes the whole experience feels this way, unable to find the way...
Till you find the entrance.
“Maybe the party you miss by not finding a way in is better than the party you find?” Alan W. Moore chimed in. “Or so it often seems....”
“Good point…”
“You get in and wish you hadn't found it.”
I follow a few others, who look lost, ahh, the buzzer, opening a secret entrance that was always there, making my way, at close to ten, arriving to a room full of people, music,
Bisi & Lasta spinning techno when I finally made my way inside.
Techno beats into the night, dancing with Federico and Kai till midnight.
Late night train, Federico and I part ways.
He’s off to Budapest.
I try to get home, to sleep, to dreams, lulling me in.
Bruce from Princeton was there, not the ward where he usually resides, temporarily free.
The Dichdigger was mulling about, still my friend.
This is really the only place I see him.
Harry was was on his way out.
“I made peace,” Dr. King told him.
“With what?” Mr. Belafonte asked.
RIP Harry.
Sunday, books, school and techno clubs called, the teenager with their struggles.
The rain was back, accompanying each of us, feeling and not feeling, not quite sure what we’re chasing, but still chasing it, still looking for that feeling.
That's ok, that's Berlin.
On I ride to Berghain, no line, just a onceover from the scary doorguy, after a conference inside, and I was in. Let the Berlin adventure continue. Can you feel it, the music pumped, techno and disco, first floor changing and bag check, beer in the bar, floor to floor, lights, thump, back and forth, through corridors of dark rooms, hookups, sex corners, queer space, lights shining through the smoky darkness, natural, synthetic, feeling, music, drink, bathroom lines for this and that, back to the techno on the first floor, mellower tunes on the second, up to the balcony to watch the dancers, back to the first floor bars, back rooms, back to techno, room after room, round and round, stop for a beer, back to the bodies shaking, till i’m exhausted.
Grab some pommes at the Cafe Istanbul.
And then a trip to Friedhof Berlin (II.Sophien-Friedhof).
Between this life and that, the cemetery is always an ideal destination.
By Monday, the gray remains.
And I make my way to school.
I like the library here, because it's quiet, a place to just be, to live, to feel, look at journals, read, to be alive, even when alls failing, mistakes everywhere.
Not sure where to take it.
Lost in myself, losing the others, losing myself… riding the moods, missing the tram,
Wrong class time, wrong room, wrong city, wrong self, wrong passcode in the library. looking for a place to hide.
Can’t go in there, says a librarian.
You need to check your bag in the locker.
None of them are open.
Seeing I'm lustered, Eric walked me to the law library, where I could sit.
His family from Ireland, left because of the famine.
Off to Bavaria, then to school in Praha, where his father was caught up in the war.
Four hours of class and I give my presentation on all our struggles with migration, generation after generation.
Back home after class, old movies about the desert.
Lawrence liked the dessert because it was clean.
Lawrence of Arabia, thinking of past friends, lost himself:
“My will had gone and I feared to be alone, lest the winds of circumstance, or power, or lust, blow my empty soul away.”
Each day, more adventures in sociology, chatting with students fleeing Ukraine, hoping for better elections in Turkey, wondering about their future, changes in migration laws, the Geneva convention, civil society, and revolutions, in all sorts of colors, what kinds of ethics we find a cold cold world of numbers and empirical analysis.
Everyone is trying to find themselves here.
Few Berliners are actually from Berlin.
Instead we’re immigrants, many refugees from Ukraine, from Kosovo, others from Istanbul. We meet and talk in between classes, in hallways, outside over a cigarette, offering tips and a chat.
Lots of discussion of class and migration and occupations. Not much discussion of race here.
We find our way.
The teenager is riffing on band names.
FART: Flamboyant Anarchist Artists Reject Tyranny
Friends and foes fight for your right to party or united resisting tyrannical powers.
Wednesday night out for gallery week.
Eternal return, the instructions for entry are generally vague, an address, no floor or directions from there. Tonight no party people were outside. No smokers. Still we find each other, following the sounds to the fourth floor, beer and art for gallery week. The eternal combination of art and beer, ever luring each other. Another night, another opening.
David Steinberg posted a note on the culture wars in the states:
“Montana House Representative Zooey Zephyr raises her silenced microphone after being prevented from speaking for a third day by Republican House leaders. Zephyr, the first trans person ever elected to the Montana House, is being silenced in response to remarks she made last Tuesday, arguing against a bill that would ban gender-affirming care for minors. Referring to the body’s daily opening prayer, Zephyr said “I hope the next time there’s an invocation, when you bow your heads in prayer, you see the blood on your hands.”
Back home, more dreams, a child, terrified of father looking down at them, looking up, shaking, scared, a closeup, wondering, fearing the violence.
Nothing clear, who's the kid, who's the father?
Who's doing what? Why can’t he stop himself?
Can’t sleep, better to just sit with it, with my dream notebook.
Better to see it all, between winter and spring, awake and asleep with the strangers who visit us in the night.
