Echologies

The corner where I live attracts mythical creatures. Every morning, rain or shine, a one-man bike protest cycles by, wearing a helmet, frantically blowing into a whistle, carrying a huge sign demanding something, and playing the (unrecognizable) demands from a tape recorder, which alternatively blasts a gift card Chinese melody which has become so ingrained in the innermost folds of my cerebral makeup that it is close to behavioural conditioning.

The other creature is “Zigarrenmann”. He is rather small, wears a beaten hat, ragged bandanna around his neck, a consequently torn Camel jacket, usually faded pink pants, and sandals. He comes by every other morning to stand down in the entrance door of my building and smoke a cigar. He tends to have nose bleeds and sometimes has one nostril blocked with a slightly bloody tissue lump. If it’s warm enough, he’ll use the doorknob as a coat hanger for his jacket. He stands there, serene, contemplating, smoking a cigar. I can smell it in the stairway in the morning. I have been walking past him now for many years, looking for my keys, carrying home groceries, going out to work or coming home from too long a night. Never have we exchanged gazes or words. I am convinced that it is a silent mutual agreement not to acknowledge each others’ existence, that it would break a spell we both don’t know, but rather not risk to break. One day I will talk to him.

At night, the traffic flash which catches people going too fast or too close to the red light cuts through the darkness in my room three times in two seconds. It freeze frames what is gone and casts shadow memories onto the white and grey walls. The body of resonance is different now. Echo chamber music.