Love Teacher Architect (German English Space)

It was early afternoon when he returned home. He lived on the fourth floor of a relatively new building – not so new to have the small windows still working, nor old enough to have good, wide working windows. Neither did it look modern, if you understand with it some plastic construction refined with black glass, nor was whatsoever similar to a house meant to last. It puffed up during one of those time folds, when you have to save your poverty somehow somewhere. This building was one of those “where.” He climbed the fourth floor and stopped on the threshold with the key in his hand. The door looked pale grey, it had always been grey, nothing new about that, but this tonality made it look different from the lightness it previously seemed to have. He was tired after many hours of work and a long journey to the airport. He turned the key and entered the short corridor. Paleness disappeared into the dark space. He automatically took off his shoes and the jacket, he deposed gloves and hut on a stool nearby. He stood in the hall for a few moments. It was dark, yes, it was dark. Downstairs the sun had still some meters to walk downhill. Such obscurity was not justified. It’s still day – he thought. But you never know when the card is turned face-to-table. It was dark in the kitchen. Even darker in the other rooms. He needed some plants to bring the colors of time inside. He needed some colors.

He sat and thought about the house of love. There are no walls there and one is rid of those spasms which make the heart beat. Men, like hearts, grasp tight each time they relent and then they release again and contract again. It seems that such a rhythm is inscribed in the human nature – in breath – in blood circulation – in the intercourse. It seems we never get rid of the newborn bird’s spasm in the nest. Never get rid of this hand keeping the heart tight home. Walls though bring obscurity and fear. There are more and more corners and thresholds the more one builds fortresses. The bed lies in the safest spot – and at night one must nonetheless hear the uncanniness of the bathroom’s dropping sink. As he sat – he dreamed of the house of love. There were no hunters there, because there were no preys. Fear would be a ridiculous emotion dissipated like a cloud on a dance in the terrace facing the sea. Past and future are but other contractions and they would never be there to find, not at least in their dialogical, corrosive bite. There wouldn’t be a sole snake daring entering the labyrinthine strata of passion digging hole of memories – since there wouldn’t be passion. And future wouldn’t move its ankles like a butterfly-man whose mouth traces (you don’t know) either a laugh or a cry. Because the house of love doesn’t have walls and past and future are but eternally present smiles of the same moment. Intimacy has there only a chamber – where mosaics reflect and expand the joy of the world on cut open breasts and legs. There would only be you there – your strength and eyes – with you myriads of times and rights – people of love, things to do, friends and desires. That would only be you. He was sitting and looking around where his shoes lay on the floor like so many footprints in the darkness. He switched the light on and the opaque artificial light entered through color paper. Here he had tried to imprison his love – between the bars of those dying plants on the windowsill. Here he had heard the princess screaming of his and his own spasms – of pain and joy. The house of love though is not a cage – because the dweller you is infinite as infinite is the house. He looked around and he knew there was a much bigger house beyond those four walls and thousands of corners, from the fridge to the desk, there was a home whose walls got beyond the dark-grey switching off sky. The clouds were stools and the stars flowers. He had so much pain inside for the handcuffs on the corridor’s wall – so similar to an armory. Which kind of torture had he experimented every morning anew to try to keep his heart beating, the lungs breathing in and blood running restless? And his love in. Why did his brain seemed made of the four walls of the day, where each hour must be either an escape or a proof? His hand lay down and could not stand up. He was passing through the evening without moving from the trap he himself had built. He was forgiven – because who lives in the house of love will always forgive – but how could he forgive himself to these smallest details? The latter are often harder than approximation. The house of love walls are made of trust – it’s a material that’s hardly used pure for constructions – but there’s no construction without some of it. If one concentrate only on the presence of trust seeds – deposing the city plan to a love x-ray – a miniature will appear – much similar to the starry sky. And there’s no other reason than that – if a city exists – despite all those erroneous beliefs and wars on gas, gold and coal. Buildings stay up despite all the concrete in them – for a sort of heliotropism, I read once. A poet described the western city par excellence once: “Ruins or Sunshine, it was a City that held itself high like a Snake to the Sound of a Flute.” It’s easy to say ‘concrete’ – but it wouldn’t be concrete without this trust seed in it. Well, the walls of the house of love – if there are – are made only of trust – and that’s why they say there are no walls in the house of love. He sat and wondered why he thought of minutes as stitches on his skin. Time made to be freed and free – he had made of it a web of signs on his own skin. His texture of words – was it meant to catch his only love in some pretext, some excuse once more, bringing him away from the house meant to – you. Every sense and sentence seemed enmeshed in piracy. A bad shade fell on the lullabies and pet names he attempted at murmuring to his love – all his stories – if only they were lies! – no – just misery traced as verses. Monkey’s cries! And his tight, never tight enough embraces? Were they not another attempt at kidnapping his love from flight – bringing him in – in – immer more, in the interior, into the Innerlichkeit – of these four dusty rooms? Hands made to touch. Hands made to touch! He sat and cried. Handsmade to touch – unable – now – stupid protuberance to tickle the guitar, at best. He had led the princess into the cubby-hole; for safety reasons – like the U.S. government talks of security of the nation. All this to happen was tolerated in the great house of love. After all – those stark thick walls lay stable beyond the mean fridge-sink perspective of things. He got to the window and stood there some minutes longer – thinking about how much he was loved and how much love was raining down, falling and rising above the meadows. There was never a beginning and ever an end. It was there – ‘it had been there’ one may one day say – but that will always be a reason of love and trust. Is that what I see in the child walking by? In the friend and you?

I’m coming home my love – he mumbled staying by the window (you’ll come back soon)