Chapter One: GOING EAST. Twenty-One. I have to admit that I am not so fond of that number. Ok, it contains three times the whole wholesomeness of the holy seven in itself, and of course: Not only the far ancestors of us Jesus-killing-Jews felt the holiness and roundness of the uneven 7, when they came up with the enchanting idea, that man and even his life-long serving wife must rest from the burden of work on the seventh day, thus invented the week. Also other cultures throughout the history of the human species sooner or later understood that the 7 is holy, and as I pointed out above, the trinity of the 7 within the 21 marks its significance and magic, turns it into a kind of an arrow, pointing out into the well- or bad-meaning direction of the creation, kind of finalises the final-solution-Gestalt of its existence? Harsh and maybe not even true. Although I think, in many cases it is, for example in my case?
I personally was quiet crippled back in those days in 1984, when I became 21. Not that I was really thinking about taking pills against my depressions, but my disabilities to find friends or a job, to study like a normal student or even make those girls interested in me, whom I would like to be interested in me, were rather disturbing.
Back in 1984, when the Berlin Wall motivated Pink Floyd´s worst album ever and some freedom-loving, fearless East-Germans to try to surmount it, risking to be shot by those vicious Selbstschussanlagen (in English: spring gun? weird..why not simply “self-shot-installation”?), thus often finding their death or – liberty in the free and capitalistic West …
..in that same year 1984 I moved eastwards, with this group of Jewish second generation sons and daughters, who had been so unfortunate to have been brought up by their Holocaust-surviving-parents in Post-Nazi-Germany. I was undoubtedly the most miserable, unhappiest, youngest and shyest in this “let’s see and feel how it really looks like, down there in Ausschwitz and Treblinka”-expedition-team. Sitting in our comfortable tour bus and for the logic of all this feeling like being transported to the east, we feared and hated the East-German Vopos controlling our passports, who, unlike our familiar West-German cops were so much more resembling their unpleasant Nazi-police forerunners. We saw a truck, all covered with this big “Go West”-cigarette-trademark-commercial-picture and exploded with unbelieving laughter, and then – we saw them: the Polish, the Poles, however you wanna call them. For more than 500 years, as I was told by Mom and Dad, they had hated us. After their King Kasimir had invited tons of Jews to his Polish Kingdom, to revive commerce and trade around 1300 or something, they never really fell too much in love with their Semitic long-nosed, hook-nosed, Yiddish-babbling, bearded neighbour-creatures.
To be followed by Chapter two: Me, the continuation of my mother ….Chapter One: GOING EAST. Twenty-One. I have to admit that I am not so fond of that number. Ok, it contains three times the whole wholesomeness of the holy seven in itself, and of course: Not only the far ancestors of us Jesus-killing-Jews felt the holiness and roundness of the uneven 7, when they came up with the enchanting idea, that man and even his life-long serving wife must rest from the burden of work on the seventh day, thus invented the week. Also other cultures throughout the history of the human species sooner or later understood that the 7 is holy, and as I pointed out above, the trinity of the 7 within the 21 marks its significance and magic, turns it into a kind of an arrow, pointing out into the well- or bad-meaning direction of the creation, kind of finalises the final-solution-Gestalt of its existence? Harsh and maybe not even true. Although I think, in many cases it is, for example in my case?
I personally was quiet crippled back in those days in 1984, when I became 21. Not that I was really thinking about taking pills against my depressions, but my disabilities to find friends or a job, to study like a normal student or even make those girls interested in me, whom I would like to be interested in me, were rather disturbing.
Back in 1984, when the Berlin Wall motivated Pink Floyd´s worst album ever and some freedom-loving, fearless East-Germans to try to surmount it, risking to be shot by those vicious Selbstschussanlagen (in English: spring gun? weird..why not simply “self-shot-installation”?), thus often finding their death or – liberty in the free and capitalistic West …
..in that same year 1984 I moved eastwards, with this group of Jewish second generation sons and daughters, who had been so unfortunate to have been brought up by their Holocaust-surviving-parents in Post-Nazi-Germany. I was undoubtedly the most miserable, unhappiest, youngest and shyest in this “let’s see and feel how it really looks like, down there in Ausschwitz and Treblinka”-expedition-team. Sitting in our comfortable tour bus and for the logic of all this feeling like being transported to the east, we feared and hated the East-German Vopos controlling our passports, who, unlike our familiar West-German cops were so much more resembling their unpleasant Nazi-police forerunners. We saw a truck, all covered with this big “Go West”-cigarette-trademark-commercial-picture and exploded with unbelieving laughter, and then – we saw them: the Polish, the Poles, however you wanna call them. For more than 500 years, as I was told by Mom and Dad, they had hated us. After their King Kasimir had invited tons of Jews to his Polish Kingdom, to revive commerce and trade around 1300 or something, they never really fell too much in love with their Semitic long-nosed, hook-nosed, Yiddish-babbling, bearded neighbour-creatures.
To be followed by Chapter two: Me, the continuation of my mother ….