transfaabulous reblogged
Munich Gothic
- it is june. you enter the s-bahn. before you stands a woman of 40. she’s wearing a dirndl. she’s smiling. the deer on her schürze are smiling. the deer’s teeth are smiling. you look away. her braids are moving slowly “ein prossssssssit” they hiss
- it’s october. you’re walking to your next lecture in Schelling 3. You look for the room the lecture is held in. you ask the janitor for help. “des is die treppn obi im keller” he mumbles. he’s drinking Gustl. the room in the basement is empty, except for the shelves. they are filled with books. they are everywhere, secure behind glass. a book winks at you.
- after the lecture, you walk to the subway station. all people walking in front of you are suddenly crossing the street. you see a beggar sitting there. the other students ignore him. on the other side of the street, there’s a café. “love kills capitalism” says a sign in big friendly letters above the door. their coffee is 4,50€.
- you’re at a masquerade, wearing a raccon mask. at midnight, you take it off. none of the other guests do. they are wearing raccon masks as well. they look at you. you’re a young woman. they come closer. “kik?” the first one says. “kik?” a second asks. “kik?” “kik?” “kik?” they are coming closer. their eyes glow orange. “kik?” “kik?” “kik?” “kik?” “kik?” their teeth are sharp.
- the streets are clean. there are many people walking around, shopping bags filled to the brim, mink coat shining, perfect coiffure, nails done elegantly. their smiles are empty. a child dressed in red Bayern München merch runs into you. you shiver. the mother smiles and says sorry. it’s getting colder. the glass and metal walls are coming closer. you’re freezing. the streets are clean.
- it’s august. you feel uneasiness creeping up on you. it’s sommerferienzeit. public traffic is empty and peaceful without children. you feel the darkness coming closer. soon.
- it’s september. you are coming down with a serious case of nerves. you enter the bus. three girls in dirndl smile at you. sweat rolls down your forehead.
- it’s september. a big friendly American sits next to you on the S-Bahn. “are you going to Oktoberfest?” he asks. “no,” you say. “are you going to Oktoberfest?” a young Italian boy asks. “no,” you answer. three drunk Australians start hugging you. “let’s go to Oktoberfest!” a Swede is wearing a blue dress. “I’m on my way to Oktoberfest,” he tells you. A group of Chinese men and women enter the S-Bahn. “we are going to Oktoberfest today. Neuschwanstein is tomorrow,” an old woman with kind eyes and a camera informs you. the camera’s eye is kind as well. a boy in aldi-lederhosn sits down in front of you. “are you going to the wiesn?” the S-Bahn is full. you can’t breathe. “no,” you whimper. it’s so cold.
- the streets are meticulously clean. a tram passes by. you go into the REWE. there’s no more beer. frowning, you leave the REWE. the street is covered in vomit. lebkuchenherzen cover the vomit. a single lonely lederhosn is hanging on a lantern post. “they’ve left for now,” the grumpy old neighbor murmurs. “they will be back. we don’t know when.” you can feel his eyes scorching holes in your back. they will be back. it’s not even October.
- “Gehen Sie auf das Oktoberfest?” a woman asks. she is dressed in a bright and colorful plastic dress. “Nein”, you whisper. “Ich mag das Brathähnchen und das Mass”, she tells you. the dress is too loose. the colors hurt your eyes. “Besonders mag ich das Bierzelt,” she adds. “Aber nicht das Bier,” she adds. her dress fits perfectly. “Aber die Riesenbrezeln sind gut.” Her dress is moving, the ribbons crawling up her neck. the dress is too tight.
- “Ich weiß, ihr Bayern trinkt nur Helles”, a smug student proclaims, “aber es geht nichts über ein kühles Pils.” You look at him with pity. his T-shirt says “NRW beste.” his trousers are brown with green embroidery. they’re too tight. they’re jeans. you can feel the people around you judging him. his eyes are empty. he is already dead.
- “bayern zuerst”, an old man tells you in the biergarten. “I’m not actually Bavarian,” you answer uneasily. your obazda starts getting mouldy. the beer is suddenly schal and the brezn is steinhart. the old man is gone. seehofer now sits in his place. “bayern zuerst!” you think of your mother. she’s back home, waiting for help. “bayern zuerst!” he snarls, “bayern zuerst!” you leave the table. the kastanien are closing in on you. their leaves are a ruddy red. “it’s the disease,” you think. “bayern zuerst!” the trees whisper. “bayern zuerst!” the leaves are dropping red. the sky is blue and the clouds are white. “bayern zuerst!”