The Direktor has got all his natural products together and speeds after the social amenity of his wife. He MUST catch her up. Full steam ahead, they both helterskelter along the roads. Soon Michael's holiday home appears by the roadside, oh you dear people who did not cross our paths today, how lucky you were! In the brightly-lit windows an officer of style, largely proclaimed to the dark. The many worn-and-torn parts of the human body, please see for yourself, can be transformed with the help of industry and foreign concerns into a pretty impressive colony of holiday homes where we can take our many and various interests for walkies on a lead. And up front our heavy steel muzzles peek out. Where the waters of desire flood upon the meadow, the gentlemen outgrow themselves by almost twenty centimetres. Then they lead us along their narrow path, and declare they won't stop till their electricity, gas and time have run out. Once in and once out, and then they take a rest.
15
MICHAEL OFFERS A THREATENING smile from his illuminated zone where he flows about beyond the vast panoramic panes of glass. His world is well disposed, at his disposal he has sufficient driving skills, and he has tiled himself up, young and saved for at least three years, with his shiny, sanitary life investments. He will not open his door now for anything. Noisily, two people sink on his doorstep, where normally the sunshine faces of friends make a stop. It is impossible to reach Michael. The woman kicks the door and hammers at it with her fists. What was appears to have been nothing. All those things he said and did with her, all in vain! But people are never at a loss for words, nor is there any more than words concealed in them. Snow begins to fall softly. That's all we needed. Contained in his fine fibrecast of clothing the student stands at the window looking. The spell of night has already been partly broken by him. This young man owns several skiing get-ups, and generally speaking he likes getting it up, he wants to climb higher and higher, to go far. With a faint jangling, and sporting trademarks on which he even sits, he makes his way across the ridges of the country. Never alone and never silent, and soon the sun will be shining on him again. A faint screaming begins. Clouds of game come out of the forests into the clearing, and this average member of the young herd stands there motionless, uncomprehending in his brightness, which also seems to attract other vermin. Michael stands there, affably charged, a live wire. He is at home and his own keeper. The woman weeps at his door, her heart is pounding like a wild thing. Her senses are put out because they are having to put in overtime yet again. Her senses are out of tune in the open, in these temperatures. Almost at the same time, the woman's circulation, overloaded with alcohol, collapses, and she sags in a heap by the door. Manure on a frozen bed. By day the lifts thread by in skeins, affording access to the landscape, and people meet and fall upon other people, unloving. This woman, never will she properly feel at home on this earth. A little human feeling trickles into the bushes, too. Scandalous.
By day they plunged through the uneven terrain, the sporting folk, but now, when they might be needed, there isn't a single one to be seen, to hold back this woman from her assault on herself, take her by the heart, and stop her wheels. Generally the Direktor regulates the financial current in his company, he flows into its channelled bed and then, at one with his member, produces a perfectly respectable stream of his own. He sees to it that the water is drained off as he wishes and through his senses. The married couple are currently in the shadow of houses, trees, night. Gerti hammers at the pitiless door and has already slipped down it. She kicks it. The student, without even having to do anything more, is worth any effort. He smiles and stays standing where he is. After all, Hermann is there, her man, her husband, whom he would never want to resemble. And this husband looks up, above him, where he is not accustomed to seeing anyone. The two men's gazes meet halfway, they are both motorized. Almost simultaneously, for a split second, they sense their bodies rebelling against death. Preventively, Michael lowers his gaze by one or two tiny degrees. They have both heard the crashing of waves in the shell of Gerti's cunt, that's all there is to it. No point in flailing their arms, only to be shifted a few derisory centimetres off balance by the propeller of lusts that, tinkling and crystal, set a wind blowing at head height. At least one of them doesn't find it worthwhile moving his expensive clothes just for the sake of this woman's will. The young man lights a cigarette, seeing he's bearing the flame in his hand anyway, chained to his ski slope, standing there and hearing the mountain birds of prey swish about him.
They are out to pluck the last little flame from his lighter, to take it to the humans below him, who feel closer to God than he does. He doesn't care either way about the fire in the village, he doesn't have to take it there. Gerti has escaped the vortex of the stove, where things spatter and crackle nicely too. But now it's enough, it is time she was taken and set, this precious gem in the Direktor's home. Examining her closely, the Direktor takes her by the waist and begins to drag her across the nighttime ground, touched with hoarfrost. She stamps and kicks her hooves, that's the last straw! She is still wearing the silk dress she had on this morning, in which hopes were aroused, and from the front and rear, Gerti's figure being what it is, things are looking good, even though it is as if the day, weighted with snow, were starting to sag a little. The student is simply not a giving man, nor will he ever be one. He looks out, shading his eyes, but there is not enough light to present the couple in glory. He does not always spurn the unfamiliar. After all, he did make a try at striding out brazenly over the fields, annoying the game, breathing the air and then returning it, used, to the piste. Still, it doesn't reach much further out into the landscape, his shining aura. Nonetheless, it can supply a frame for this holy family and the card-format view that includes them. Michael shades his eyes to let them grow used to the dark. Nature is not gentle, Nature is savage, and people fleeing from its emptiness take refuge in each other, of all places, where someone else is already in occupation. Perhaps Michael will go for a drink with the Direktor, who would like to finish the picture Michael started with his own stupid brush, the little prick. Amid the firs you no longer need language. Let's just throw it away!
Silence sweeps the streets, and God transfigures the inmates of the region – indeed, several of them are still at work, some carving and snippeting at their furniture and homes, the rest looking after their current partners who are in non-permanent residence. New ones are forever having to be hauled home (and promptly their usefulness is at an end) to make Nature's standing promise of work and shelter come true. At long last they settle down! And so they keep the promises Nature mistakenly gave them: the gentle blunders that became human beings; and human errors have destroyed the forests that give them life, too. One further thing that Nature promised: the right to work, according to which every occupier who has sealed a pact with his employer can be delivered by death from God too (God's stinking delivery). Now I've made a slip as well. Nor do the lords of the land know of any deliverance from the dilemma. There is less and less work, there are more and more people doing everything they can to see it stays that way and to see that they themselves stay. Like now, wearily but proudly hanging their signs of life on the wall and handing in their cards. All around, bodies are beginning to develop, and the most oddly constructed of figures are coming into existence. If the architect who made these motorway-users could see the freaks arising flushed with hope from their crumpled marital beds (to think of all the other things they've crumpled!), he would promptly redesign them, given that he himself rose again in a far more thrilling way from his cramped sepulchre to set us all an example, which can be studied in museums and churches. The bad witness we all bear the creator simply by being there and not being able to help it: now they are all stirring and humming, and as their bodies work they move in the rhythm of pop music on the 03 station or a simple record. How calmly Marx responded to us! All the spendthrift debts which they are now collecting, hugging each other tight: who would give them anything at this hour! Not even the innkeeper by the bridge, obeying his dark instinct to earn more than he has spent in the way of drinks, trying the food he himself has prepared, where 86-year-old kitchen maid Josefa licks the plates clean and gobbles up the leftovers.