Wow, That Sucked (Flashback, Part II)

Continued from Part I

The last weekend of September, Berlin is overrun by art openings. The famous Art Forum Berlin hosts hundreds of international galleries while spin-off art fairs, like Berliner Liste and Preview at Tempelhof Airport, show cutting-edgier artists.

I, however, had an insider tip. For Katrinka and me, only the hottest of the hot would do: Heidestrasse am Hamburger Bahnhof, opening night. Contributors included Künstlergruppe Artists Anonymous (not that arts anonymous) and a gallery called Haunch of Venison.

We figured: Contemporary Art Fête = Doll-it-up Opp. However: Bitter Weather + Shrunken Wardrobe = Creativity of the Essence.

Thus, Lilan's Outfit = (Katrinka's Sexy Black Dress) / hidden under (Old Black Cardigan + Jeans Jacket + Green Silk Scarf) – anti-sexiness % (Fat Frye Boots).

And Katrinka's Outfit =  (Sexy Diane Von Furstenburg Knock-off) / hidden under (Khaki Trenchcoat) – anti-sexiness % (Black Ankle Boots + Lilan's White Tights + Fingerless Purple Gloves)

But we figured, this is Berlin. So: Alien Outfits = Hot-to-Trot.

Next came: Dark, deserted march from S-Bahn along Heidestrasse. Katrinka, flu-afflicted, hobbling on rubber heels. Me, uncertain, turning into gas stations and furniture-store lots ("There's a light! That must be it!).

Finally, we saw people. A courtyard. A tiny door. We opened it. Ice-walled hallway, blaring bright. We passed into a room. Dim, stickig. We sank into sand, black. Techno pounded. Bare-chested men carried trays. Their shoulders sprouted white furry wings.

We figured: We are here.

Katrinka pressed toward the bar. I turned left into a magic tunnel. Built of teddy bears and plastic trucks, plush dolphins and cooking pots. Wine glasses, Chinese take-out boxes, fairy lights. Wicker chair backs, table legs, wooden banister bits.

In other words: (Louise Nevelson + Lewis Carroll) * Andy Warhol / Mauerpark Flohmarkt.

The tunnel wound round, opened into another room. A mirrored hexagon stood six-feet high and wide, sand inside shining white. Black-sand footsteps dribbled in. Another tunnel to my right — fake white fur, ceiling to floor. A heater blasted in its bowels. A lone bulb glowed red.

Katrinka and I reunited. We abandoned Alice's rabbit hole for another building, with sculptures of uncertain meaning: A cabbage on a glass table. A scooter, fifteen rear-view mirrors welded to its handlebar. A shattered pile of shatter-proof glass.

In yet another building: a huge silicone-sheathed mound. A bowl of eggs in water, balanced on its tip. Branches sticking from its sides, seaweed dangling, like so many fallopian tubes. A long vertical opening—nothing less than vaginal. Accompanying it, digital photos and film of cavemen types, blood-red patches of grass on their heads.

We wandered from gallery to gallery. Garbage bags strung from the ceiling, each housing a live tree and soil. White pizza boxes piled and labeled. Art? A white tent, samosas for sale. Food. Not art.

I was looking for Bayreuth Boy. Hotspot insider. He was nowhere to be found. 

Back at Alice's, the crowd had grown. Mostly Berliners for whom Contemporary Art Fête did not = Doll-it-up Opp.

Katrinka trekked upstairs. I revisited the fuzzy igloo. Then followed. Found her in a reconstructed GDR-style living-room. Floral wallpaper, worn sofa. On the TV, a skinhead being interviewed. Portraits glowered from their frames. Nazified, gas-masked. Marilyn Manson's contribution.

Katrinka was talking to an African-American guy. I approached. "This is..." she began.

"You already forgot my name!" he pouted.

"No..." she hesitated.

"Trevor."

Her Handy rang. Being a non-Berliner, she answered. I looked at Trevor. "So where are you from?"

"Berlin," he snapped.

"No, I mean—" There was nothing German about his accent.

"I've lived here seven years."

"Okay."

"But, tell me" — his tone had suddenly shifted — "about Katherine."

I blinked.

"She tells me she is a singer!" His eyes blazed. "In London!"

I blinked again.

"What does she sing?"

Trevor's lips were moist, parted. "Jazz," I started. I glanced at Katrinka, crouched beside the TV, chatting loudly. A fist closed in my chest. "WHY DON'T YOU ASK HER ABOUT IT."

Trevor said something. I'm not sure what. I was falling. Sucked inward.

I heard The Hermit. The Curse he had cast on me. I saw the men. The German men. Who don't usually look. Looking. Ever since Katrinka came. Every street, every platform. As if she were a Goddess, alighted among them. I strode beside her. Invisible.

"You lived in Brooklyn?" Trevor was asking me. "What are you doing in Berlin?" He, it seems, had awakened to his own rudeness. I, it seems, was too polite to walk away.

"Working on a book," I muttered from the depths of the place I was being dragged.

The invisibility alone I could have handled. Two blunt-faced rejections, back to back, the weekend the stars predicted Love?

No.

Trevor was still talking. I was gone. Curled tight.

Katrinka stood up. I couldn't look at her. She was ready to go. We said goodbye to Trevor. He appeared embittered.

We walked out of Marilyn Manson's living room, down the stairs, past angels, through the ice entrance. "You go home," I told Katrinka. "I'll go to Sony Center." It was late but I didn't care. "I'll buy tickets for tomorrow's Ratatouille." Anything to be away from her.

I sat on the train. The ancient voices roiled  — old fat ugly unwanted — the ones best ignored. But right now they had me. I needed a cell phone that spanned oceans. I needed Coley. Julie. Rosemary. A sane female on solid ground. To yank me from my sinkhole.

I bought two tickets to Ratatouille.

I sat back on the train. I pulled out my journal. It is precisely for emergencies such as these that I carry it always. I began to write. I went to the center. I broke myself open. I began to cry behind my glasses. I did not care who saw.

Words are my ropes. My carabiners. My pick axes.

I wrote and I wrote. And. Clawed. My. Way. To. The. Surface.

Here is what my pen told me: Love yourself in the face of this. Love yourself this age, this body. Love yourself inside and out. Love yourself no matter who looks, no matter if no one.

By the time I got home, I could look at Katrinka without hurting. Quite so much.

By the following day, I could even laugh. A little.

"Next time," she told me, "we switch. You be the jazz singer."

"Ha ha," I said, "Sure." I did not tell her the truth. For the next time Katrinka comes, we will: Order in Chinese. Play Monopoly. Watch DVDs. We will tell no one our professions. There will be no one to tell. Because whatever else, We Will NOT Go Outdoors.

Poor girl. It's not her fault. She really is that stunning.

As for Astrology Zone's promise. Love did come. Just not the kind I expected.

Comments

[jess]

this is a beautiful entry, lilan. i am so sorry you had to feel that way, but i so admire your courage and self reflection and the place you found in the end. much love,
jessica

[Lilan]

Thank you, Jess...I was hoping the recovery part would speak loudest in the end.