Birgit Kempker The Root of the Free Radical is Heart You are are in the project. You're being discussed now. May there only be little black magic. You're the nautical skin. You navigate. You're in Europe. You're looking for experience and feeling. You're looking for them here. Now we're talking about your roots. Take off. We're networking. You're surrounded. Read this. Go stand in the square. Boom boom, listen to the children. Look at the basketball. Go to the pond with the children. Listen to the frog. Dangle your feet in the dusk. Now have a bright space here. Go fearlessly into the project. Divide yourself a little. Divide yourself from yourself. You're a particle of Hellerau. A particle of aesthetics, a particle of existence. It's written on the wall in gold. Above the door. You're a gate for what passes through you. Look at the sky. Don't call it Maria. Say door. You can say passage. Say passenger. Say umbrella and protection, and say blue. You can also say cap. You're coming by train. Don't spare yourself. Get involved. Let your colors run. Don't be left hanging. You're a bit of an oyster. A bit of Easter. You aren't closed. A bit pink. You shimmer. You aren't open either. Now put down the oyster-Easter-aster sequence. Enough of laying happy series. We'll give you a sign. Put the suitcase down. Unpack the clothes. Look at yourself. Surprise yourself. Let someone give you lamp, give you blanket, pillow, desk. Wipe the floor. Sweep the dirt into the hallway. Put the plugs in your ears. Make yourself at home. Be round, golden, auratic; listen -- simply be a simple egg among other simple eggs. Protect your head. Put your throat into the project -- Europe. Drown. Vanish. To vanish -- the idea arouses you. Dissolve. Submerge. What are you doing here? Lie down. What are you saying? What are you doing? Put down everything you have. Do a lot of nothing. It feels good. You'll see a rain of tongues. Don't strain yourself. It's Russian. Everything's here. Don't prick up your eyes. Be deep. Be blue. Let the sentences trickle through your body sac. Make the door porous. Drink the first sentence. Navigate. You're the nautical skin. Forget yourself. Don't stop. Whirl. Surface somewhere else. Throw up. Follow the dolphin. Undulate. We'll interpret it. Accept it. Don't be afraid of all the animals here on the square. Fear no meaning. Spread yourself out. Do it like the pelican. Give them blood. Where there's a wound, take tongue. Say rip. Lick it away. Add to it piece by piece, to your injury. Network it. Stand under the aspen before the outbreak of leaves. Buy a calling card. Do your laundry. Touch kittens. Stroke your egg. Don't forget to exhale. Air out your pants in the window. You can buy yourself a rose. Let the snail creep across your joints into your sleeping bag. Sleep in the cemetery once a year. Forget the dream with the stone. Don't pack the stone in your duffel bag. Close the zipper. Protect your heart. Shake yourself. Take the bus. Bite into the apple from the tree. Eat light and dark beer. You're on the outskirts of Dresden. You're nautical. You eat Indian food with friends. Destroy the evil objects, say friends who know something about Africa. Put your hands in your pockets. Throw the bandages away, even the ones with blue eyes and the little plugs in the pupils, even the ones in your coat. Be as open as the sky so that nothing that wants to enter you is left hanging inside you. Catapult the invasion through yourself into the loop. Feed the current in. Meet spirits. Go for a walk. Call it Hellerau. Now Graz. Austria. Lana. Here's the hotline between projects. Here's Basel. Hear me? Need me? Feel me? We're going for your roots. Branch out. Rustle. You're the nautical skin. Practice. Partly your resistors conduct us; partly they attract you -- we got you under your skin. Don't be afraid of gadgets; don't be afraid of boom boom, your heart, the root of the free radical. Put your hand on your pain. Listen. Accept it. Now we're going for your heart. We're measuring. Enjoy it. We're defining you. The root of the free radical is heart. We're going beneath the sentence. Accept it. Prepare the knife. Investigate your shoulders. Wings are gadgets. Enjoy thoroughness. Flight membrane covers something, now fly, something, now philosophize, something, while flight time passes, ours, please pass, something blooms, so we, please bloom, something like a creeper, until becomes something else, again we, something roars, a bullroarer, you, you extremely excited about yourself we all, in the greatest, until the self-immolating, final process, the projector burns, carbonizes, blister and blaze, your friends' hands, look -- Fire, flame, plastic ashes, all the things circling above the square; in short, a moratorium on looping, wheeze, plastic bags are shared, are placed over respiration, and we, despite all the delay in the turmoil, see raging loops gather themselves, circle like birds, black birds, and we -- mostly avoid suicide and relax on the Festival building roof, pictures still in the rooms, despite without a projector, vultures over the jaw's empty spaces, a lot of pain, despite without teeth in our mouths, which bleed a lot at night in Room 4, toward so much transformation like airplanes, meteorites, hallways, and rooms in the house, losses on the left side of the face, in the rooms, not rockfall in your mouth, no mouth sleep, no -- transit center, the new bridge, call it magic platform, exorbitant flesh and cheek pouch, tongue coat. Play a flute in the hallway. Wake up your friends. Glottis swears. You to Graz in your mind, the other project, a little escape, here let's say hello to Lars von Trier: here's a project, inner idiots discovered, tip top. We expand. We connect. We're connected. We're dedicated. We rustle. We love the white area. Devote yourself to the square. Accept it. Self-immolation rituals with comforts, simulating loops, call it Russian mothers. Hit the notebook cover. Look behind you, fast. Every day, we dedicate the form of the experiment to somebody who put us in the mood for such dedications so that we pulled cables, say, manipulated ourselves into moods that seemed exciting, which we used to take measurements and draw conclusions, which lead to new conjunctions, about ourselves, too, consequences, frequencies, interpersonal turbulence, circular breathing, self-dedication and immolation -- in short, pulse, as it took place in all of us, pulsed, which excited us, it radiated so that everybody always got something from it if anyone got something from it, even outside. There's no outside. Get it? Stand in the square. Rewind to the missing tooth in the corner, to the jaw in the other body. There's always the other body. Draw diagonals to the ovaries. Where it hurts, it loops the loop. Knead the plugs. Establish a bit of a relationship to them. Put them into the bowl beside the fruit. Leave the door open. Let the photos in. Put the Scottish blanket on the bed. Let the caterpillars out. Leave the plugs in. Go to the square. Enjoy it. Each of them simultaneously kept four-four time with one hand and three-four time with the other while they marched, changing every moment from four and three and six to five and seven, Bernard Shaw. This is where Rolf Dorn found the spot that connects separated circuits; bodies in motion flashed through the man. Lay your egg. Feel airplanes in your knees. Ouch is postponed. Leeches are sucking. We complain. Puss is discharged. Oh one for all sucks poison out, out of everyone, collects evil in his jaw, which roars off, betrayal; we stand whining in the garden and miss the one who doesn't play with us, who holds his jaw out for everyone else. In the love field. Tuck your shirt in your pants. Protect your tailbone. Set out. Cross the square. Put your foot on the milestone. Break the spell. Look at your skin. Look at all the band-aids. Look at all the black eyes on your body. Take out the plugs. Let the paralysis go. Let it go. Take it off, vigorously, heave ho. Move. Go under your skin. Images ramble through bodies. Yes, play with the mess. Feelings are manifested in heads, many times over, many many heads on the place where the one cut off sprouts a desire for renewal, as young as pale green asparagus. Shoots at the bloody margins. Start to bud. Set it, for the root of the free radical is water, its blood red as beetroot. It's the place where the hydra is, and the basketball. It's the love field and Scrap the hero. Vital drives fly over Hellerau like geese; everybody wants to live uninterrupted despite all the dust on the grounds -- ears in use, eyes, too, skin, body parts ramble, moved between blood and water; the word meaning has never been used like this before. Look out the window with Walter and don't do anything more and don't fill everything else up with little piles. Put it back. Put airplane throats back. Put ashes back. Put photos back and caterpillars. We defined the border as the fence behind the shack that children want to go into and where fucking is. There are rings rolling across the square; people band together and vows are spoken. We wanted to be there, weightless. The square was dull in the Taoist sense, but we had an urge to interpret it. We weren't yet here where we are. We assigned things to other things. Hellerau to existence. Basketball to child. Basketball pole to tree. Trailer means shack, we decided, boom boom, the heartbeat. We were doubled up in ourselves and called it being deep. We had an inner reality, sure, while, wrestling our way across the square, one of us always got to grab the other; we measured ourselves against each other, pushing without hurting each other, turning on dimes like young dogs while sliding to the ground, above us airplanes, birds, construction workers, Holgerson's geese, hollow of the knee, almost emergence, and once in a while a star shot down at us. You're human. You crave coherence and emergence. The shifting of weight. You project ideas. You call some of them ornaments. The ornaments help you simulate yourself when you're absent. You want to be absent, you say, then you can't stand it. You're often absent where there's room. That's good for room. Make room. You cry. You don't want the absent. You embroider, knit; you weave and make little piles. You light candles. You pet a dog. To your toe, you say ornament, little ornament, you ten (toes). Some ornaments are hybrid systems; others are teeth, alveoli, toes with half-moon-shaped nails, dirt under the bump, blood in the cheek, fiction in the brain, above the lip, on your neck into the collar. Sweat on your brow. You remember. You lose. You navigate. You're the nautical skin. You go down Hellerau Way. Go, coherence! Go, emergence! We went. It took a lot out of us. We didn't want to be captured by ourselves, nor did we want distance. We wanted an entirely different condition. In the love field, someone falls out of a tree, we made rules, then we sat down at the table under the trees and agreed on sentences with which we wanted to discuss the square we called the love field, which was right in front of us, so it would come around, even if we're still here and let it have its meaning, from the window, from the Festival roof, which isn't very beautiful and tender for a square that's much lighter without us, and beautiful. We looked for the study where the couple doesn't arrive -- our rule: go under the sentence -- the couple doesn't arrive, we said, sitting at the table. Whoever wants to go into the shack fucks. Whoever falls out of the tree is dead, which made us say Scrap, the hero on the square. Boom boom, the heart. Don't take it personally. Blow away. They played mental osmosis and for life and limb and into life and into limb and hardly slept at night because of the noise, even at night, in the hallway that lay outside the rooms that looked out onto the square, and none of the airplanes landed here where everything was; instead, a propeller got tangled up, ran backwards, which made it scream like slaughter the whole night through like airplane cattle, says Charlie, a typical sound of turning the wrong way. They wanted to flow without harm. They wanted current. They had a European contract to examine machines -- and how they examined machines. They said clothing is an example of how thinking finds an exit. Clothe yourself. Mistakes are often atmospheric phenomena, so contacts collapse, unstable and flickering, and the current doesn't flow even though there's a lot of voltage and it doesn't let up and nakedness doesn't leave us. There were moths in the dust between us and the current. Scalp skin itched. They made connections with their fingers. Say button. Say cable. Say fire. Say trees. Say dead balls that fall from trees to mark areas of loss, while not saying child, or cafe cunt, you ass. Betrayal -- don't say that. Scrap shoots. There was loss on the square, where human and airplane went and flew over and under each other back, back and forth, at the same time. In the body of existence in Hellerau the airplane spot was the hollow of the knee. Romance was secretly spreading. We hid. To be with an airplane, close to the skin in the hollow of the knee, nautical, was so beautiful inside and outside that it wasn't at all loud anymore, but was still existence. At night, beings call me to their places. It hurts a lot to be there. The face is sculpted toward the back. The pressure conditions suck the flesh back over the bones, and sand me till I fit. In the shack is the needle with blood; it is ink. (Translation: Andrew Shields) Für Quereinsteiger: Zur Hauptseite von Urs Engeler Editor