Letter to Francisca:
wombat_part - third book of a letter to Francisca.
Living to find the right letter to write.
Finding one to love.
wombat_part_02
Back again after a few hours. Let me tell you that Wiebke and I now live in our own flat. We haven’t got it set up yet but already it is pretty. The bedroom is mostly in order. Wiebke set up the stereo today; so for the bedroom now, it is only CDs tapes, pictures and boxes to be organized. The toiletless bathroom is part of the bedroom. The geometry of the window at right angles to the bathroom door, both being at 45 degrees to the bedroom’s somewhat squareness, make for an attractive focus on the room. The window also opens to the view of trees which is far more pleasant than the smell of cars and the view of the Stadtbath of our previous dwelling. The kitchen also looks out the back. It has a small balcony which is also our refrigerator until we buy one. We also lack a kitchen table and cupboards and shelves, and I lack a job. The living-room may become my work space if and when I get inspired to draw, paint or write. We hare a toilet with one neighbor. I’ve never seen him but I’ve heard his television when I’m by his door and I’ve smelled his stench after he’s visited the shitter.
Let’s have a new paragraph to exclaim the joy of the forest proximity. Large woodland is straight up the end of our street. Most excellent on account I like trees much more then cars and people. We also have a bakery, a Getrinkmarket for our water supply, a drug store for nothing I ever buy but at least it’s there and a couple small grocery stores. Germany doesn’t have variety stores that stay opened late. They don’t even have them. Everything is closed at 6:00 P.M. except gas stations, where sometimes you can get a few things to eat such as beer and cigarettes. Two things I have no use for. So you have to make sure you have enough bread on Friday to get through the weekend. Funny how physical reality can take up so much of your time. It’s unavoidable, especially if you share your life with someone. I wouldn’t give up sharing my life. I have trouble if Wiebke goes away for a week. I don’t want aloneness, beyond the eminent personal detachment we all share, anymore. I had enough of it and I was never without friends; although it sometimes felt like it. I’m a bit without friends now that I left them 8,000 km. away. A few friends are 14,000 km. away, who live in BC Sorry about the sentence structure on that last sentence. I’ve met a few people here but have yet to be close to anyone. Wiebke of course is in a different category. I believe we are quite close and getting closer. It works out well. I want to smother someone in love and be smothered in love and Wiebke is the same only more. I still suffer a little from mistrust of women and a mild hatred for humans that makes me a bit of an ass at times. Why is it so much fun to write with a green Bic pen? They aren’t environmentally friendly just because they write with green ink. Did you notice more cars are green the last few years? What’s up with that foolishness? And what if man is de-evolving. Technological advances doesn’t necessarily, indicate evolving. There are more indications to show it has increased our rate of de-evolving. Shouldn’t this be a major concern? I’m having a hard time staying hopeful. I hate to think I’m deceiving myself. On the other hand - Why not make a masterpiece, I keep thinking. So what if it is only howling at the moon: so what if I’m the only one who witnesses it. So what if one day I finally figure out how to write a great novel and it goes unnoticed. Or so what if it gets world wide recognition. Everything is forgotten after time. Nothing matters but what’s in your life, so I’d guess. Without trying to sound cold, it doesn’t matter that life sucks for most people if they never interfere in mine. Should I care? If I say I do and do nothing, how is that better? Do you care that children are being killed in some countries when they can’t feed them? Do you care that a frightening high number of women are raped? Do you care that fathers rape their young daughters? Do you care that government is corrupt? All governments. So what if you care? Why don’t you do anything? Are we crippled? I know you’ve tried to help a little. Maybe you’ve saved someone’s life. My cousin’s husband will be dead before you read this. He is dying because he shared a needle. Pretty shitty reason to dye for one little mistake in youth. And now suddenly I want to be silly. How shall I do it? A silly poem could be in order. But wouldn’t you know it, I haven’t one to give. Unless:
Now here it is, a silly little poem
About anything or a yellow comb
For any reason that’s bound to appear
Like leprosy in artists drinking cheap beer.
I walked in the woods, past all the trees;
Where there’s flowers, there’s often bees.
Are you still pretty, do you mind that I ask?
You have nice titties, as well as a good ass.
People are strange, and so what the hell,
Chickens are silly and a pile of shit smells.
Handles are for buckets, plugs for the sink,
You know dam well I’ll say something about dinks.
I can’t resist a poke at genitalia,
Jesus Christ, we have to impale ya.
God dam it, that is getting pretty bad.
Rhyming each sentence is making me mad.
Why some poems have nothing like that.
And they get printed at the tip of a hat.
Just have the connections, grease a few palms;
If that’s not enough, suck a few dongs.
So that’s quite fine; I’ve uttered my fill.
Now I’ll shut-up and will be still.
_bunnie stop_
In as much as it is bound to happen, I suppose the future is there but I don’t succumb to the idea that we may be visited by people in the future and I don’t believe anything beyond guessing is prophecy of the future. And so the point of this sudden discourse on a quiet night in Deutschland, is that although we might think of pimpley face, broken glasses with tape and plastic pocket protectors with 7 pens in it, kind of boys when we think of history, I believe we should forget our stifling stereotyping for a while to see what has captured their attention. I’m coming to understand that history may be the most important thing to understand before blundering any farther into what we have guessed to be our future.
Wiebke is digging through her history as I speak. This isn’t what I spoke of but she’s there laughing at pictures of herself and friends.
I can be an asshole but it doesn’t help much but I will be if I have to. I am thinking mostly of a TV and how I’d hate to have one. When they’re around, there’s a chance, when you’re board, to turn it on and that’s too bad because anything you could think to do, and there’s always something, is better than sacrificing your time and brain on that shit. But I won’t discuss it farther so have no dread.
I like fruit tea. I’m not sure if my spelling will get better or worse as I learn Deutsch. I think I better run give Wiebke a kiss.
She’s having a good time in there.
How about some dribble about my desperate life. Let’s start with the music changing from Lynie Kravits to Devorack to set the mood. Unfortunately, the only thing to complain about is my lack of money and my Auslander status, which means my total lack of rights and chances for things that came so easy in Canada, like a visit to the doctor, which I never did anyway, job - that’s the one. Let’s focus here a moment. Not only am I up shit creek without a paddle, as the would say, I can’t find my fucking boat and I’m up to my eye balls and will soon find it hard to breathe. Leave the melodrama a moment for the facts. Fact one. I hate the German mail. It not only cost much too much, 3.00 DM to send Canada a letter, but they send letters back to senders as often as an important letter comes. If the shit for brains asshole jerk-off hadn’t sent my work papers back instead of putting them in the mail box as most letters go, I would have a job. But in the extra week that they were lost, new complications have arose and I may be without a job at the Irish Pub. Chances of getting a job, other than prostitution, are highly unlikely, for Auslanders can only have a job no German wants. We see high unemployment here so Steve’s in shit if he can’t freak out the boss enough to hirer him. Him, that’s me. With no job, since I now have no money and owe Wiebke 5 or 600 DM, - Wiebke is having a fit looking at a school book or something. It’s not good to write with people around, especially people who want your attention. And the problem with this cheep pen is that my baby finger becomes green.
What was I on about? Oh. Did you notice I can sometimes keep to a subject for a few sentences now. I just realized that. I may gain my faculties. Wouldn’t that be a treat? The situation is that if the fuckin’ bastard had delivered my letter, I’d have a job, thus money to buy food and pay rent. Now there could be trouble. Maybe I want trouble but this may be the wrong time and method.
I have my work papers now, but there’s trouble in Frankfort office about maybe a German applied for the job and should have it and how come the paper is only good for 2 months. And no one hires under the table because the forces of the law, which Germany has in large, check for Auslanders working illegally and fine the establishment.
I just thought of something. I could construct a most impressive letter, with a translated copy, explaining my qualifications and Auslander predicament and why an English person is better suited for the job. Grasping at straws, so they say. What about modeling?
There is probably a hundred solutions. It’s only despair that would keep a fellow from thinking of a few. Let’s try: prostitution, drug trafficking, any others, oh, the bid for help through a boastful letter - but what’s better? Counterfeiting, robbing a bank or a gas station (no previous experience), phone Canadian consulate and offer myself as chauffeur, I’ve done that for the Swedish consulate, play my guitar in the cold wet market when no one is likely to give more than 10 phenigs, I’m not so good at performance, bum on the street. ‘Auslander, can’t eat, send money or give me work.’ Wiebke is trying to lay an egg or get a cock to fuck her or something. I’m going to see if she can bare me not reacting. It’s not very nice of me but I want to train her to let me write when I have the urge. One day I may have the urge to write something somewhat relevant to my direction that I’m sure to find one day.
‘Wouldn’t that be something?’ Billy said with a pointed grin. And the symphony is coming to a pompous end typical of that kind of music and Lynard Scynard. How ‘bout a song?
What can an Auslander do for money
What can he do for cash?
Can’t get a job at the car wash
Can’t find any food in the trash.
What can an Auslander do for money
How does he buy his food?
Well, you get the idea. Something on that vain. I’ll try when I’ve some time on my own. Now it’s almost 03:00 and it’s time for sleep.
_bunnie stop_
Morning time now. Tuesday 3 or 4 of ‘94. I’m running a bath. I’ve still got my cold. And I want another go at this Auslander song.
I’ve got the Auslander’s blues.
I’ve got the Auslander’s blues.
I’ve got those outrageous most
Out landishest Auslander blues.
Okay the course is something like that. Let’s try a verse now.
I’ve got no food on my table
I’ve got no water in my sink
If I could afford to do it
This might drive me to drink.
The landlady is sending me letters
And they’re not just to say hello.
They say something in a strange language.
I think she want’s me to go.
There goes it. Something like that. Get the mood? A little folky maybe.
Till later, Franny.
Wouldn’t you know it? I thought of several verses and another song while in the tub. Let’s see if I can remember any at all. Let’s start with:
My woman doesn’t need me
But wants me just the same.
She said I should learn the rules
Learn to play their game.
I’ve got to learn to pay the piper
Learn to grease their palms.
Maybe learn a few cords so I
Can learn to play my songs.
Course -
Had another verse about, what was it? Maybe I’ll have to get back in the tub. Oh, let’s try:
I’ve got no Benzin in my Auto
I’ve got no Auto in my drive
I’ve got only two more pieces of bread
To keep me alive
Can’t afford to go to the doctor
And you know I’m always sick
My teeth are falling out of my head
I’ll have to make some out of sticks.
Course -
I’ve got no shampoo to wash my hair
I’ve got no soap to scrub my hands
I’ve got no water to wash my clothes
I’ve got no shoes on which to stand.
Can’t afford to go to my home land
I wouldn’t want to it I could
I only want to be with my woman
She’s the only thing makes me feel good.
Course -
How ‘bout this one? Let’s see. How does it go.
I’ve got words
I’ve got words to sound absurd
I’ve got words to make you cry
I’ve got words to make you angry
I’ve got words until I die
But I ain’t got any meaning
Not without someone to hear my song
-
-
I’ve got words to charm a woman
I’ve got words to get into her pants
I’ve got words for religious discourse
I’ve got words for political rants
But I ain’t got any feeling
Sitting here all alone
-
-
Something like that. Maybe just another (I can’t decipher the word I wrote here.) I just enjoy to hear myself rant and rave. Guess I’ll do it till my grave. Never seem to tire even if it’s all the same. When I’ve written it all twice, I start to do it again. Enough for now. I’ll drag Wiebke out of bed so we can have breakfast and do a couple things before the sun goes down. Spater Alligator.
_bunnie stop_
Children’s poem.
Lambs are made for cuddling
Some are made for chops
Some are made for sweaters
Some are made for socks.
Now here we are, Francisca, on the 7th of January. My German has not got much better. I have been to distracted with the moving and not getting a job and having no money.
We had our first dinner guests in our new home. Toby and Nevin. Toby, I know from school, he doesn’t go any more because he had to work so many shifts at Irish pub while people were away and I had no papers. Now people aren’t away and my papers don’t seem to matter now. He is from the south part of England. His presence in this land is because of Nevin. She studied a year in England to learn English, the Germans do that, and met Toby. Similar to Wiebke’s story. She was there a couple months when she met Toby; then instead of going to school, she learned to talk to him. She knows 4 languages. German is native as well as Turkish because her parents are or were. English and maybe the other is French. It was a good evening. I made a most yummy pasta, which we had after the party and baguette we bought in France and afterwards, an hour at least, we had a chocolate mouse which was made by Wiebke.
The sun still refuses to shine. Two days a month, it will be partially sunny. The river is flooding a little as well from the warm temperatures and all the rain. They closed the Stadtautobahn. We didn’t have such a pretty time this morning. After only a short sleep, the door bell started singing their warning song. ‘Hello, get out of bed.’ It was the washer machine look man. Not the repairman. Apparently, this kind of machine can’t be fixed by their own service men.
The first man was here Wednesday for one hour. He took the motor off, looked at it and put it back on. He told us maybe the bolt was loose so that’s why it didn’t work. Well that wasn’t the reason; we found out soon after he left with 170 marks of Wiebke’s in his pocket. They get paid 8.50 every 5 minutes and that includes travel time plus tax. He did fuck all. Wiebke explained what the problem was to him and suggested the motor wasn’t the problem. I think she told him it was the brains of the machine, but he wasn’t interested in their thought. Most of the time he was here, he did nothing. Sorry about sentence order. I should move some around to make a better sentence but I don’t want to now. I also may not later just to show how a first draft of writing can be so uncivilized.
by Joanne B. Washington
read on. wombat_part_03
© 2001 | the jose wombat project