Corpses in the Courtyard, 1, 2, 3: ascensionem columbæ

The assumption would have been alone by way of the stumps on the one end and the felled lying about on the other had I not seen for myself the red-robed ultimate arbiters of arbor taking to their task. What I had happened upon appeared by my interpretation — as accurate an estimation allowed by my years of experience about this abode (as well as one of those profound, coincidental catching of a moment where the caught caught my having caught them) — to be precisely when they had realized they were ill-equipped to literally uproot these nesting quarters. Therewith would the hacking commence.These days or not, experts are not engaged. There are no experts. There are bidders who send their promised cheapest to accomplish things deemed necessary by someone or another who would rather not spend more, making an already needlessly terminal arrangement more malignant.

What I assumed (in spite of contrarian ken) was that it was to be just the one tree that would be coming down — the oblique one, which had come to be so as a result of the last time cheap labor’d been loosed in the yard, erecting and de-erecting the scaffolding. During those assemblies this one tree ironically had become a convenient resting place, a brace for the heavy parts of the support system built for the next cheaply subcontracted wave of labor. The heavy bars and battens would lean against that once not leaning tree, if only temporarily, to, if not damage, permanently disfigure it.

Where my assumption’d lain false by a third I discovered upon my return. It was a visceral visual assessment, for sure, but it was not until the following morning that the implications of the three felled trees would ascend to the auditory cortex by way of the vacancy of the Columbiform’ed cooing.


Let me not be the purveyor of the false assumption of so many, that the big bad Other is, as monolithic lone-wolf, alone rapaciously irresponsible. Time is money. The way I spend my time, too, has an effect on who can live where and for how long. It is how cheaply I increasingly desperately seek my sleep.

While I’m not a believer, I do believe that money in whatever currency is the root of this evil. These values afford the wicked abuse of the accumulation of wealth. The hierarchical structure is indeed unfair.

But if your care is too expensive, there is a practitioner whose time is too precious to care. There is a relatively fair-waged technician who won’t spend his free time scanning for your ill spots that would need to be uprooted. This is the dirt out of which these conditions flourish. And if this were not enough as we speak, it is I who am not out comforting the uncomfortable in favor of forcing my metaphor on you the afflicted.

So it is in the tradition of the Assumption of the Christ that I pronounce unto you by way of the rhythm & melody of that sequence of coos, now ascended out of “my courtyard” to find a home, I hope, in another one:

“We all are guilty. We all are guilty. We all are guilty. W—”

Courtyard Crucifix – 2018

„Es gibt kein richtiges Leben im falschen.“ —Adorno



Der Parkbank Pinkler Kapitel XIII: alt & blutfarbig

Vorläufig ist schon vorbei. Ik wähl Die Längsten.
Die Längstpartei war immer da.

—Udo Üblich

Der “kleinere Übel” Spruch gilt nicht nur in Amerika, wo er so lange verwendet wird, dafür und dagegen, dass eine bestimmte klischeehafte Wirkung dessen, selbst das Übel unterstützt.

Leider in Deutschland auch und in anderen demokratischen Ländern, in denen auf mögliche Koalitionskonstellationen geschwärmt wird, mit den la-di-da fashionabel Farbkombinationen, sind es trotzdem ausschließlich eine von der beiden Volksparteien, die das Sage haben.

Der Unterschied beim Parlamentarischen besteht darin, dass die Grünen, aber auch die stiefmütterlich behandelten Linken — wenn nur selten, weil verfassungswidrig eingestuft (sieh “Kapitalismuskritisch”) —, erlauben sich mitgeschleppt zu werden, um nach dem Anschein von Wählbarkeit oder Kompromissbereitschaft zu streben, wegen Gier nach Macht und Gut.

Wenn auch nur des Congressus Legatorum Regionalis Berolinensis, je näher ans Fleischzentrum des Staatsapparats, desto leichter strömt durch die Zähne heraus, “Warum nicht mal eine Wurst?” Der schlachtet mit. Obwohl sich der Hirte als Hüter präsentiert, leitet er die Viecher dahin. Wenn nicht schon schwarz, am Wahlnacht scheint alles Verkehrsrot, was ein Signal sein soll. Sollte doch ein Signal sein. Hier wird ausgetrocknet, bis vor der nächsten Schlacht.

Es gibt keine Opposition. Zählgemeinschaften gibt es. Es wird nicht bestimmt. Es wird bege… bege… bege… gesteuert. Die Volksparteien treiben diese Entwicklungen voran, und da wirkt in Wirklichkeit nur zusammen eine Einzige, die die dunkelst möglich Rotschattierung annimmt. Und man fragt sich woraus das Braun entsteht.


Convenient Collective Culpability

The files in the Department of Contradictions Held Fast Simultaneously are swelling to an extent only as the preoccupied would have it, which means they are piling up no matter how you dice it. Yet, still, I cry for distinctions.

Every death that comes to be attributed to another entails each of these accused’s actions to be met with the speculation as to his or her affiliations, investigations, calls to wait for these and see, not to rush to foregone conclusions, succumb to fear’s rationalizations.

This is most prominently manifest in the wrangling between self-identified liberals and conservatives of the brigade of social media, who, god love ’em, are changing the world one post at a time.

The flame throwing press certainly feed this and no matter how circumspect their “what we know and don’t knows” would have it, certain words are taken up, always spoken and/or printed regardless of context. Is he or Is he not?

The consumer response asks “Can we not see that he is summoned from the ideology of my would-be ideological tormentors?” or “Isn’t it just the fucking guns?” but never both or neither.

Whatever the stated position, one thing remains true to form: Whether we twist to non-ascription of the criminal so as to buoy tolerance of the innocent, or bend to calling everything names because to do otherwise is worthless and weak, we are at war. At least we are said to be. Always. Always at war with a Name. If there’s thinking outside of this box, it hardly ever does anything other than question whether there might be two or three names. Even in the case where it is established that the namer made up The Named, the war on the name stays steadfast.

Despite the irrelevance of the claims of responsibility, the veracity of those claims or identity of the claimant, one way or another the name is propped up as something to oppose, or as in the case of the more activist warrior, something to kill for. Conveniently.

This bears repetition: the Name is something to kill for. Any association with the named need not be any nearer than that. The name alone is enough for untold trillions in expenditure, as well as swinging an axe at strangers on a train. The collective of the former adds further convenient justification to the motive of the latter, which in return feeds the former’s irrational self-justification. Now, when I say irrational, I mean those who don’t profit from it.

Bullying back with bullets

It’s been said that yesterday’s pistol wielding killer in Munich had been under psychiatric care and complained about having been bullied for seven years. I wouldn’t venture to reckon if his excuse corresponded to the truth of his convictions but I do believe that the world would be better without meanness & violence and don’t doubt that the bullied sometimes fire back indiscriminately.

Just imagine what it’d be like to live with the ever-present fear that you or your family might be recipients of an explosive projectile because somebody three doors down doesn’t seem to be acting right according to “intelligence”. Might you feel picked on? The American First Lady’s call for awareness of bullying would take on a profound new dimension if so many people weren’t trained in the art of believing the harm they inflict on the innocent serves a greater innocence.

Even if all of this is lost on us, it is not lost on those who pull the strings. If it were, it wouldn’t be string pulling; it’d be the folly that the social media activist often says it is… right there next to his advocacy for the nearest puller of his strings.


When it was revealed that the apartment house in my ‘hood that had been beset by riot cop-backed evictions belonged to a shell firm at whose sole behest — and lack of legal justification — the evictions had been carried out, it was too late for a mindset change even though the evictions were ruled unlawful. For it had already been established by a people not into firsthand knowledge that the automobiles burning nightly on the streets were attributable to the likes of those who occupy this particular building.

Forget that the occurrence of arson had largely abated prior to the convenient harassment that preceded the evictions. Let us rather view the increase in vandalism to everyone being harassed because the evidence is so perfectly circular.

Forget that the actual occupiers — as a matter of semantics — are any new occupants of the building, and by extension the neighborhood, who by virtue of the landowner’s looking to late-capitalize off of hip property, would require the previous occupants’ being removed.

While we’re at it, let’s just forget how landowners come to own the land in the first place.

The question is: If someone in your building is suspected of a crime, what circumstances need be met before Law & Order decides to bug bomb the lot of you and make room for the next crop of sub-gentry?

Other than the provincial concerns circling Berlin’s imminent mayoral contest, one might wonder what & for whom is convenient this attempt underway to streamline how “far-left” and “far-right” are treated by the arms of city-state justice, by branding them the catchall “extremist” – superordinate to their respective legal transgressions as already defined.

Execute with extreme non-prejudice.

When a guy randomly knifes his co-passengers or takes target practice on mall shoppers, is the best response point-counterpointing sarcastic knife ban proposals versus how much deadlier the rapid fire of bulletry is, or a rush to pit the NRA against ISIS as enemy number one, considering the bottom-line ideology that weaponizes the world to its chattering teeth reaps the rewards of the conflicting principles that say we should profile & execute them by remote so that we don’t have to discriminate against them in person?

Is this not the same pretzel logic that calls for due process while taking as given that the public executioners are telling the truth when they say the executed was a shooter, while in all the days and months before, the cockamamie stories cooked up by cops encountered deep disbelief thanks to the presence of (in)convenient video?

Might the difference maker be the universal headlines that co-dubbed the story titled Five Officers Down in Dallas the worst such case since 9/11, thereby rendering examination of any available video to “kooks” who can’t quit? (We better keep an eye on them.)

Just how close can extrajudicial process kill, and do you only care about it in the “first they came for the (blanks)” way, which betrays that you don’t really care about the (blanks)?

Can the Good Cop really protect the people from destined degeneracy? Might there be issues that trump all others, which in point of fact do not carry that name? Will the big culprits forever remain too big to tell?

Double Dee goes to Karlsruhe

Dear S,

Thank you for your reply.

I have been so hin und her gerissen regarding your reception of my Humanity Sentence as so unduly irreverent so as to disqualify me from the field of Deutsch Denkertum. Then, that you referenced as leading Denker someone for whom there is no Simple English Wikipedia entry, well… talk about flippant!

How can I even begin to take this struggle seriously? is where I ended up until I had spent an evening with a particularly long, circular nightmare, whereupon I found myself by the light of the moon in my sleeping chambers in a cold sweat, forced to further considered the, as you stated it, ‘urgency to the issue’.

So pack my bags I did, with the expectation that I would be spending a good ordeal of time in the land of the supremest court of them all, Karlsruhe. And what an adventure it led me on! But not what you might have expected.

To wit (or to cut to the chase): I did as you instructed, as far as circumstance would allow. I fed that disgusting pig the wieners so, and, frankly, was surprised at how willing and enthusiastically — and in what manner — he cooperatively gorged himself. If I had not known better, I would have thought he had for this purpose taken the form of a tweenty-something Japanese schweinefleisch-obelisk fressing, gut busting competitor. No. He was still fat and smelly — pungent as only a oily man of Western tenure never having had his tweed cleaned could be.

I was at the ready with my blunt instrument (a cricket bat somehow seemed most appropriate and, ironically, was the easiest for me to come by, as it was mounted on the professor’s wall directly behind him, for, you see, I had forgot this one detail of your detailed instructions (though I must tell you as an additional aside that being a left-hander for me and for a good many left-handers whom I have befriended, many an acquaintanceship as the result of my subscription to Lefty, means having so unconsciously integrated myself into the whirled of the righty, that the most natural pose for me was to feed with the left, strike with the right)) when the Herr Doktor began to choke his last choke, forsaking the point of my coup de grace. He was dead within seconds.

I do not suppose I have to tell you — a decent man not unlike myself who is not prone to the kingdom of the moral relativism of our recently departed anti-hero — that flushing through my mind as I restored the cricket bat to its previous position was the relief of a Denker who had done a good deed without having had to resort to violence.

No sooner had I gedacht these Gedanken, did several secretaries, assistants, colleagues, and the like, come rushing into the office to see what was the ruckus, for this corpus did make a remarkably loud thud as it arrived to meet with the polar bear rug upon which was scribed the List of Beings’ Rights.

I had not even been able to consider a defence before this not unmotley crew hoisted me upon their shoulders and paraded me back through the entry hall to the eventual jubilation of the assembling academy. At the edge of my field of vision I noticed a diligent pair forcibly removing, shard by shard, the portrait of the freshly late Doktor from its altar. I could do nothing but clearly make out the überbig superscription as another pair hastily hung the replacement portrait of his successor: ‘Deutschlands Top Denker’.

I am doubly ashamed to admit that I was swelling with pride, for, as you may recall, I believe neither in pride, nor shame.

But alas. This ineffable level of self-indulgent elation was extinguished in a moment when I saw the cartoon-like visage in what I had assumed would be my rightful place of Nachfolgership. It was that of Bernard-Henri Lévy!

‘But he eats foie gras!’ I protested to no avail. It seems they had made up their minds long before the conception of my deed. I hope you will forgive me when I tell you that it occurred to me, albeit fleetingly, that you might have had foreknowledge of this eventuality.

I hope one day to be able to enjoy the solace of having played an instrumental part in the fate of Denkness in general, but now it just smarts.

Bitterly yours in Freed Rich’s Hine,


Diary of an April Unseen

Tuesday 7b

I saw her from afar coming right toward me.
She wore canvas shoes and approached as if floating
in black and white. Even the dog who followed was
half-submerged in the black.

In truth, I’ve grown old waiting.

Now I comprehend too late that the closer she
came, the greater the distance, and that
we will never meet.

—Odysseas Elytis

Der Parkbank Pinkler Kapitel XII: Konstanz: Ballast der Ewigkeit

Die Wahrheit ist nicht da drin, es ist da draußen.
Doch, vielleicht hier drin, aber nicht da drin.

—irgendjemand irgendwann

Zum einen hast du einen Fehler gemacht und dann noch einen freiwilligen Irrtum begangen.

Von vorne: Wir bekommen unsre ganze Geschichte im Voraus erzählt, verstehen es eher als Wahrscheinlichkeiten. Wohl prognostizieren manche verdienstadelmäßig titulierten „Experten“ aber andere schreiben die Zukunft, und damit die Vergangenheit. Selbstverständlich auch die Gegenwart, wo auch immer beachtet. Sie sollten darauf, mehr oder weniger, weniger Acht geben. (Ich meine damit nicht du Sie, sondern die sie.)

Ich sag das, obwohl gemahnt wird, dass alles zu lesen, zu fragen, nachzuprüfen sei. Ich behaupte nicht, Alternativen gibt es nicht. Das ganze Leben ist voll von Alternativen. Aber ohne Paradigmenwechsel passen die sehr unangenehm bis unerträglich ins Ganze hinein. Passen die doch hinein — wie daneben aber dabei oder werden sie in der Öffentlichkeit als Diskussionswürdig präsentiert —, sind sie gewiss keine Alternativen, davor oder danach.

Die zügellose Wahrheit befindet sich auf der Ebene,  woran sie überall geglaubt wird. „Achte darauf“ heißt in diesem Zusammenhang sich im Kreis drehen. „Schwindelig bleiben.“

Andersrum bedeutet Aussteigen vielmehr, „Nehmen Sie letztendlich zur Kenntnis, dass es doch kein richtiges Leben im falschen gibt.“ Gerade dieses reiht sich in die Unendlichkeit ein. „Hören Sie auf, die Minutien zu verfolgen, mit ihren Befürlügner zu diskutieren oder zu versuchen, die Träger in ihren Dienst zu überreden, umzudrehen.“ Auch wenn Sie glauben, sie wären nur verstellt und irregeführt.

Daneben aber nicht dabei: Die besten Geschichtenerzähler neigen dazu, öfter auf „so“ zu verzichten. So. Noch mal weiter. Weiter von vorne. Ein Lied von meinem.

Letztens ist mir über eine Reise durch Süddeutschland ein hiesiges Knabberzeug zur Kenntnis gebracht. Naja, es war nicht unbedingt örtlich abhängig. Wie oft der Fall, könnte es sich vielmehr um eine Spätkaufssonderlichkeit handeln. Kam mir aber als beides vor.

Zur Sache: Da war kein Anwalt bei, als diesen Erdnussmöbiusband Snack entwickelt worden war. Wissenschaftler wohl kaum. Zumindest keine wahre Wissenschaftler, der etwas auf sich hält. Und sei entweder Anwalt oder Wissenschaftler da gewesen, würden sie bereits zu Werbeagenten geworden sein, brächten sie den folgenden Warnhinweis auf die Tüte an:


Mein Kuli ist alle. And they said it was the Russians what couldn’t make a good ballpoint…

Grosse Pointe? Bestimmt war da was dran gewesen. Ach ja: Nehmen wir zum Beispiel diese Straße hier. Die ist nicht die wahre Rudi-Dutschke-Straße, obwohl sie scheint, dessen wahren Name zu tragen. Und es kann keine Real-Rudi-Dutschke-Straße geben.

So ist es mit dem Aufruf zur Solidarität. Der nimmt mit zunehmender Schärfe die Form von einem Sprechakt, der Menschen fordert, sich einzureihen, während diese schon ewig offenkundig sagen, besser beraten hieße, Aussteigen! Benennen können sie dieses aussichtslose hin und her was sie wollen, aber „Intragruppenkonflikt“ ist es nicht. (Ich meine damit natürlich nicht du Sie, sondern die sie.)

Daneben aber dabei. All 2-morrow’s orgasms. Versprechen oder sich versprechen? Das ist hier keine Frage. Der Geist ist stärker als die Materie. Schwerer auch. Schwer zu ertragen. Like, real heavy, man.