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Newsflash. Black Hole Finally Created by Collider

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punkt

punkt

pünktchen

 

She loooks at the small spheres on her desk. “Knock.” – “Knock.”

“Who’s there?” The scientist at the desk beside her answers his phone.

Her eyes look through the window. The trees outside seem to literally sparkle in sun reflections between deep green shades. A wonderful May, the promise of a beautiful summer. She’s looking forward to her holidays.

“Can’t be” – the scientist at the desk besides her leans forward in his chair. Her eyes get back to the small spheres at her desk, she gives the left one a new push as they seemed to lose energy.

She turns to her functions. The one in front of her has an especially interesting drive upwards just left of +3, but you can’t really see it from the visible numbers. You need results for that. Her eyes draw the line while she wonders if it’s time for a pizza.

“Come with me” – the scientist looks at her, she didn’t notice the call ending. He’s standing right beside her desk, although she asked him so many times to keep some minimal distance. It’s her functions, not his business what’s she’s doing with them.

“Sorry?” She takes care to let her voice sound clear, not too loud but just as sharp as a peeler.

“We’ve got a problem with the Collider. Come with me.”

She turns her chair around, looking straight at him, without moving a single muscle.

“Excuse me, since when you got an assistant? And be assured, I’d got a notice if that assistant was accidentally me. And please be furthermore assured …” her voice getting louder now with every single word, there’s some history behind their both desks standing right aside of each other – “that such a notice wouldn’t stay unshreddered for a single second, boy. You go mind your business on your own and I…” – she looks at the row of numbers with their hidden gap around +3 – “I do my stuff here. Got me?”

He leans forward, leaning his hands on her desk, his nose now almost touching hers. She takes care to position her knee – carefully, slowly, so he doesn’t notice – right under his bollocks. ‘This will hurt, boy’ is all she can think in this moment.

He looks right into her eyes. She looks right onto her knee.

“Listen, boy. If it’s so urgent, you better hurry and go now.” She doesn’t give more than one warning and places her foot – slowly, carefully, so he doesn’t notice – in a comfortable place to give enough power for the upcoming pain.

“The col-li-der”.  He repeats as if she would need a huge Zaunpfahl* to understand. ‘A Zaunpfahl in my hand right in this moment wouldn’t be a bad idea’ is all she can think now. She makes a tiny move with her foot to warm the muscles for the upcoming hit.

“Alright then” – with a rushed move, he pushes back from her desk. ‘Ah’ – her disappointment must be visible on her face. A split of a second too late. She should not wait that long next time. He goes back to his desk and grabs his jacket from the chairback. “Don’t complain later about all the media interviewing male voices only, alright?” It takes him a few steps to reach the door.

“Wait. What? Wait a second!” – She grabs her pen, looks at her desk in a hurry. Two pieces of empty paper. A calculator. A calendar with notes. Her keys. Rushed steps. Door closing behind her.

They enter the subway. Short past rush hour, there are even a few places to sit down. Sparkling sun reflections on the trees for a few moments before the subway dives down.

“So?!” She almost shouts at him in the noise of the subway. Here, down in the tunnel, the screetching of subway rails is almost unbearable.

“Alex called”, he says as if she’s supposed to know his ‘friends’ by first name. ‘Or last name or Nick or shoe size or coffee preferences or the favorite color of their panties’ she adds in cold burning fury while she wonders why she was able to understand his answer at all in this screeching.

“And who the fuck is…” she starts when a dog distracts her. Walking silently down the subway wagon, his owner one step behind. The dog looks tired. The owner not less. She stops him and looks at the street news cover in his hands. It’s from last month, she shakes her head. The dog owner walks on. Just then she realises that her purse is still on her desk, must have been hidden under her functions… ‘Oh no…’ – in sudden panic, she screens the wagon.

“A friend” he answers.

“Of course.” – With her face almost touching the glass, she looks nervously at the station platform, getting visible now and coming closer.

“Works at terminal B. They got an alert today.”

“Don’t they do that every day?” She asks, screening the people at the platform while the doors open. She stands up. “It’s getting really too crowded here. I’ll take the next wagon. See you in two stations.” She leaves the wagon and follows the dog owner to the next wagon door. “Nice doggy”, she smiles. The scientist enters their new wagon just before the door closes. “What was this about?”

“Nothing”, she says while she watches the controllers through the wagon glass. Someone buys a street news paper, the dog lays down. The owner is searching for exchange, the buyer starts reading. Screetching rails are even more unbearable here, where the rails lay in deep curves, making passangers sway from side to side as if they were on a boat or heavily intoxicated.

“Alex called Maggie”, he says. She takes a breath. It’s really unnerving hearing him talk to her as if they were related, befriended or in any close relationship other than two work desks placed a tad bit too close to each other for her privacy needs.

“Maggie the spicy sauce cook”, she snarls.

“What? No, I don’t know that one. Maggie, his girlfriend.”

“Ah, the girlfriend, of course. How could I have missed that…”

“Yeah, I am really wondering. Now, Maggie says there’s some strange rush at the tunnel’s exit C.”

Exit C. Now this is interesting. She looks up, however, still observing the controllers from a corner of her eye.

“What was Maggie doing at exit C?”

“She lives nearby.” He says. The screetching right now gives her very uncomfortable goose bumps. Only one station left now to go through but the controllers are ready with the last wagon. With her stare glued on them from her eye’s corner, she prepares for her next sentence. Something about the hot weather, the sticky atmosphere, the need to change the wagon again, when she notices the controllers stop at the platform. One of them looks at a croisson stand. Both slowly walk to the stand and wait in the line. The doors close.

“I have a green card”, he says just in that moment.  It’s the type of public transport ticket allowing you to take someone with you in the subway after rush hour.

“Ah yes? Good for you”, she sizzles, folding her two empty pieces of paper. Adjusting her calculator, placing her pen carefully between the papers. Key check. “Let’s go”, she says when the doors open at their destination.

The city’s complex underground is a world on its own. Meandering dark tunnels connecting platforms weaved by sound clouds shivering with violine strings, guitar chords and bongo rhythms which only seem to get along until the next public music permission is due. The clouds are ripped by screetches and glued back together by steps in shoes on high and low heels, before they make place for vanilla aroma slogans, ad busted by sweat and beer.

Since the new collider tunnel was built, the central place A – or A-place, as they call it here – in the eastern part of the city connects it with those three subway lines (including the red slow, up and down diving riversnake through the city) and seven commuter train lines on top of  regional trains it was connecting before.

Now there’s also the collider tunnel. Changing from the red subway to the commuter train took always ages. Getting from the subway station to the collider entrance takes twice that time. In spite of the daytime, the passage is  uncomfortably empty. A last violin string manages to tremble before dying behind them, quite exactly two meters after they enter it. An incredible silence, given that they are in the center of the city, given all that rush behind them. Given all those heavy machines on their rails just a couple of meters below and above them. A very uncomfortable silence.

They hurry down the passage corridor. What you hear however is only one pair of shoes (she chose her silent sneakers today, as always). And a cell phone.

He stops while she walks a few meters further, unfolding her pieces of paper, pressing them against the wall tiles. She needs to know. Sure, she knows how the function behaves, she can foresee the upward drift, but she needs to know. After all, that’s her job.

Computers have proven to be unreliable decades ago. There was just no way to prevent firewalls from crushing. Computerization – a trend that came with such an overwhelming global rush and speed that it seemed impossible to be ever turned back and ridiculously naive to ever even think of such a possibility – was followed by a sudden move back to handmade work. Minds with an affection to numbers, enjoying solving mathematical challenges were needed. Such as hers.

“We’re on the way” he says into his cellphone, unheard by her drumhead which was too busy with that needed another result to care for anything else in this unexpected time window. Thinking how many telephonists were currently anyway listening into the manual cell phone lines her additional ears were probably indeed not really needed. Plus two dot seven five still followed her foreseen line. As did two dot eight (and two dot nine, she checked that yesterday already and had no reasons to doubt, but still… there could be a surprise somewhere inbetween, in addition to the space around plus three). She checks two dot seven seven five.

“Don’t ask. Think of buying a balls shell. Know someone who sells one?”

“Two”, she says silently.

“Ah, right, for both of those”, he adds into his manual cellphone, in a rather sour tone as he was rather sure she did not listen.

‘Point Seven Seven Five…’ she adds in silence, in a sudden shock whether she said any of those numbers aloud. That’s her function. She grabbed it while he was waiting for his green card ticket to get valid. That’s not her problem, his ticket. That’s her function and none of his business. Plus… after decomputerization, minds too attached to numbers were regarded as not that reliable on the streets. People generally agreed that jobs like theirs were needed, but there was some mistrust and occasional cool distance, she couldn’t blame them for that. Anyway, she really needed to get her speech center under control.

The proven dot almost gets visible. Only two brackets left.

“A few meters away from there. Any news from Maggie?”

Almost…

“See you there.”

She’s interrupted by someting she can’t locate. She turns around to see him standing three meters away. He looks at his phone and stucks it away. Damn. The bracket. She folds her paper back. And besides, she likes her own card. At least she does not need to wait for the rush hour to end before getting to her work place. How could she leave her purse on the table? ‘Never. Ever. Let yourself get in a hurry just because of some rumoured media rumour’, she notes to herself. ‘On the other hand, if there’s really something at exit C…’

“Ready?” She asks.

But, of course. Nothing is that easy. Decomputerization was not a simple development either. Bottom-up moves as well as Top-to-Top battles cooperated unknowingly on this one. There are reasons to ask whether the Data Hamster Law (a kind of all-you-can-get permission for “security”) or the hack battles between continents’ heads gave the final push – heads clutching to 19th century representation as if their calender was frozen long before their birth, clutching to them just as desperately as to the bombs, drones and bullets they were riding.

They pass a slowly wagging dog’s tail. The rest of the dog is on its feet, must be a relatively young one – or relatively Spanish. Any other dog would have enough undercoat to sweat at this warm May day. The owner’s bright reddish-pink hair falls into the face. There’s a stack of street news papers laying aside. They’re from this month. She shakes her head. ‘How could I. Never. Ever…’ repeatedly echoing through her mind.

Cell phones. The name was all that survived decomputerization. Basically, cellphones today are short-range walkie-talkies using human microphones. Given how they work, it’s amazing how fast connections are built up today. People old enough to remember computerized times say you just can’t compare those and keep demanding an own, new term for them. The rest has other problems and is still using – “cellphones”.

The street news seller checks and stacks away her cell phone. It’s short range, you need people everywhere to make these modern communication channels work.

They arrive. He attempts to open the door but she jumps forward. He retracts his hand from the doorhandle. With a grave look on her face, she pushes the heavy door open. She suppresses a silent sigh, goes through the door and lets the door fall just in time to almost hit his face. He stops it with his left hand and rolls his eyes. Finally, they’re in the collider corridor, the door shuts behind them:

“Knack” – when the lock clutches, you can hear the vocal. It’s obviously an a. Or is it?

‘Shut up’ she snarls silently to the door behind her. ‘I want to hear it.’

And she hears it.

The silence.

It’s indeed incredible. A total lack of sound.

Like in: total.

But given the size of the collider corridor, that was actually not that suprising, or at least – should not be. The tunnel was a wide cirle through Clermont-Ferrand, Paris, Berlin, Nowa Wieś, Bratislava, Zagreb, and a number of other cities, districts and villages, cutting through Hungary, Croatia, making a short dive deeper underground in the mediteranean area, coming back up to solid ground in Italy and finally arriving back in South France. (Those tiny particles really got around.) Relative to sea level, it was uneven but it still worked.

“So.” – She breaks the silence. “You know which way?”

“Exit C. Must be to the right.” They follow the tunnel.

There are no “cell phones” in the collider. The entire tunnel is heavily shielded.

“Watch out!” She shouts and pushes him hardly against the tunnel wall. Hadn’t he learned a while back, as a baby, to hold his head up, it would have been rather a hit. (The wall shielding is a complex multilevel structure with really heavy and hard teflon shielding on the wall’s surface. Proven.)

“Ffffioh!” She whistles, her lips curving, her eyebrows lifted. “This was close. Haven’t you seen it?”

“Seen what.”

“Those tiny particles are really fast.”

“They shut it down, almost two hours ago. Which is why we really should move on now.”

They go another few wordless steps.

“Must have been a late arrival. After all, that’s not untypical here, at A-place.”

“Right.”

“Seriously, it almost hit you. Was very fast.”

“Right.”

“Your head’s OK?”

“Why, I think so… yeah, everything’s fine.”

Her disppointment must have been audible in the following silence.

Which was, when they both did finally shut up for a few seconds, indeed total. The floor was covered with smooth, black material that absorbed even the sound of his shoes. Right in the heart of the city (when you looked at the city’s map from below, they were exactly where hearts usually grow), with the sounds of millions in motion shielded away, the sense of air carrying almost no acoustic waves was… well, sensational. So, consequently, she quickly noticed her senses getting nervous: ears starting to compensate for missing background sounds, reinforcing her breath (she was sure she didn’t breathe that loud, or did she?), her sense of touch turning inside, hammering her pulse as if she was on a marathon course. (Alright, admittedly, she did not belong to the people jogging at 6 o’clock in parks – no matter how rainy or sunny or how nice the park – just simply not her favourite kind of sports, but… was she really that much out of shape?)

That was definitely some very effective shielding.

A couple of slow seconds rush in long time-trains.

“…so…” He dares to say something.

“…hm…” she looks at the dim lighting in the tunnel. Just enough light to not stumble over your own feet, but…

She trained herself to work on her functions even while walking. A bit of paper, your pen in your hand and a half of one eye on the ground. But the light here was too dim for her to see the ground, in that perfect black, perfectly silent flooring.

“…hm…” she hums.

“Nice weather” him again. He seriously wants to small talk?

“YEAH, indeed” she barks. “You -do- know that the sprinkler system here is connected to the guy having -your- function in front of him when it’s shut down?”

“Uhm…” – was she questioning his functions? “Are you questioning my functions?”

Another timetrain rushes by. Quite exactly three and a half seconds.

“Did you mess around my desk?!”

Oh, now he finally wakes up. She did care to inform her speech brain in time to say that without a single tone.

“You’ve been searching through my desk?! When!” He stops and holds her arm, she shakes it roughly away.

“When you’ve been busy cell-phoning spicy sauce cooks, you ‘scientist‘.”

Oh, their both tones get very sharp now. Better get a few steps back. You can see them from the distance, staring at each other, both rolling up their sleeves like some lousy pantomime actors in a busy pedestrian zone.

They indeed both rolled their sleeves up, and both as a pantomime as none of them did wear sleeves, it was just too warm a day for that. He even opened his hand and let his jacket fall down on the floor before doing his pantomime part. A dizzy dark spot in the blackness surrounding it.

The punch-

-line probably doesn’t need to be written here or does it?

As you all have long guessed, it of course started to rain in that moment.

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So, now at least the awkward silence was gone. They sounded like frogs stomping through a muddy puddle, with the chilly and relaxing sound of forest rain as background noise, like some “nature meditation” CD from old times back then before vinyl reclaimed the streets and shops.

She waited until they went 20 meters. Then she decided: no, let’s wait another 10.

Then all she said was: “you forgot your jacket.”

The next few seconds would have been too fast for at least a half of the theatre audience, would this be an action movie. Written in legible words, one after another, even those busy with their popcorn buckets and ice lollies have a chance to follow.

He walks back to grab his jacket.

She goes on, step by step, taking care to not accelarate with an audible rate, only a tiny bit faster with each one, so he doesn’t notice.

When he finally realizes what’s going on, he has no chance anymore.

Under other circumstances, he would have had a 1/10 chance to reach exit C almost simultaneously. Not here, Not now, she knew it. She heard the moment when he started to run and enjoyed it.

The slippery puddle ground, his chique shoes… just no chance. She listened to the splashes behind her, grinning wildely while she sprinted as if she’d run for her life.

She opened the door and, hearing how many meters he is behind, didn’t even care to hurl it when it closed, it closed softly and almost entirely soundless, with the exception of a

“Knack.”

(The vocal of this door also sounded like an a?)

“Who’s there.” The guy standing in front of the door turned now, facing her.

Unbearable noise. She looked up. A helicopter was hovering above the area. A number of police cars, a waiting ambulance.

“Who are you.” The guy staring into her face was obviously some kind of security guy or tried to look like one.

The door behind her stayed close. How many times did he slip in there? Is that normal to take that long to reach this door? She imagined how this would look in an oldschool slapstick movie – him inside, slipping again, and again…

With her both eyebrows almost at 8 of 10 height she lowered her look to the place where the name shield of the guy standing in front of her was supposed to be. Then she looked back into his face. She did not say a word. The guy lowered both head and voice and let her pass through.

Silently, she told the person in the ambulance that there’s a guy in the collider who probably broke his ankle.

“Where exactly?” Asks the voice in the ambulance.

“Probably right in front of the door if he had bad luck, not farer away than 30 meters though. Left side. You won’t miss him.”

The med went back in direction of Entrance C.

She took a long look at the busy scene in front of her when she heard an

“AOTSH!”

She swirled back just in time to see the med holding his hands at his forehead, door C swinging. “Oh my…”

And through the open door came:

a girl (in a purple wig)

an other girl (green wig)

a probably-girl-not-entirely-sure (wig purple)

a guy in high heels

a small woman hopping in a sack,

a teenie on a skateboard.

Now her jaws really dropped.

“W…what…” she asked the smiling guy on her side in the crowd – the crowd was there almost as fast as this circus crew, people liked that. “I thought cellphones have no range in the collider…”

“They shut it down, somewhere around two hours ago.”

“And installed cellphone connections? That quickly?”

“The incident in the collider made that necessary.”

W-hat incident she was almost about to say but suddenly felt it would sound a bit stupid in this moment.

“I came through from left, no signs of irregularities…”

“To the right from here, a quarter of an hour by feet from the door, I was inside.”

“How does it look?”

“Interesting, you should see it.” The guy smiles, watching the circus crowd parading past them.

So, she goes back to Entrance C door.

She asks the med if he’s alone here. With his hands in front of his face, he shakes his head. “Where’s med two then?”

“In the bakery.”

She looks up and sees the other med coming from the bakery. “Oh my” he says when he reaches them. “Can you care for that?” She asks, med two nods and she re-enters the collider.

“To the right here” says the voice behind her. She does not look back, she recognizes it.

And she also does not say that she knows because he said that already. She recognizes the sentence’s performative nature.

“Did the med really got hit by the door?”

“Really bad luck. It’s a heavy door. But it’s a plain door at the head’s height. Probably a serious bumb on the forehead, not much more.”

“Not much more? He can’t do a med job today with a bumb…”

“Sh.” He whispers.

The sprinkler was turned on to the left of the entrance only. Here, on the right of the entrance and left of the exit, the flooring was dry.

The silence again when time rushed by in dim light. A quarter of an hour is a lot of steps. A lot of seconds. A lot of air to be breathed in and breathed out.

And they finally reach it. Turns out to be exactly the tesseract some of you might remember. A bit escheresque in this incident’s variant, a bit reminding of a movie scene with David Bowie.

She comes closer.

The colors of the tesseract sphere change, as the colors of the shown scenes are changing, too. She tests how close she can come to it, careful to act when she feels the pull. As her senses don’t show any, she is finally standing right in front of it – or that’s what it looks from her perspective. She couldn’t say for sure how huge the real distance between her and the tesseract was. There was no pull.

On the other hand – would she have been able to say for sure the distance to the thing was X because the pull was exactly 9.8 rounded down? If there would have been a pull?

She decided to muse about that later and squatted down. The thing was hovering at the height of exactly three cheeses. She followed the shown scenes and colors when it suddenly turned dark. The thing reminded her of a spherical home cinema in a home that suddenly lost its power connection.

But then she realised that it still was transmitting.

She sees a person being arrested for some arts or a slogan. According to all evidence, in the middle of the night, however in the middle of the night in some metropole on a busy street. The sphere was silent so far, but then it starts transmitting the audio track.

She hears the city rush, cars rushing by one after another. The person being arrested is standing in handcuffs in front of the police car.

Then she hears a car that seems not to belong to the usual motropole street rush, as it drives way too quick and stops right behind the shown person.

If the home cinema sphere had a replay button, she would push it now. A car driving way over speed and stopping behind a police car and no one asks them to be shown their driving licence?

People get out of the car in “sportive” clothing. Strange looking people.

They greet the policeman looking at them in a very friendly, familiar way.

Then they ask the policeman if they need help with that case, offer him to take that case over.

The policeman smiles at them and says in a nice tone: “no, no”.

She observes the faces of the other police-people around the incident.

And wonders how often this happens. How many hear that question. And how often this is not even noticed in the police file.

Who were these people.

Why did no one ask them.

What did they do here?

Why is no one asking them how they heard of the “news”.

Why is no one asking to be shown their driving licence.

And where is the note in the police file.

She stands there, waiting for the sphere to show the next scene.

The thing turns black. And she is left with the question how often that happens. And how many anwer something different when being asked the same in that same familiar tone.

She slowly turns around and walks back to exit C. Admittedly, her feet feel a bit shaky, but thanks to her snkeakers and the flooring and her careful watching of her steps, she does not embarass herself with a classic scene that might provoke someone to ask her if she needs a couch to faint in a more elegant way.

Because her answer would be probably: “Hm. If you happen to have one in your rucksack, I don’t mind. For a moment.”

And that would be very embarassing because right now, exit C door opened.

She manages to whisper back before they come out of the entrance, out to the noise of the helicopter and the now crowded place:

“funfact: even if someone noted that. How to prove it.”

credits:

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this novel’s subtitle is: EPIC PROSE BATTLES OF HISTORY

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Text and copyright: Anna Panek

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sound and lights: a big city in the middle of europe

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soundtrack: a demosoundtrack, some nice stuff (link when ready)

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a line of text

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another line of text

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just enough time to let those in a hurry walk away

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— easter egg. —

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a grinning group of people with pumpgun-huge joints.

“so, who’s in for a bet?”

she leans forward and says: “out of 1k? maybe one person. if they come in groups to the theatre and one of them gives the hint to the group, maybe one percent of the entire audience. anyone wanna raise?”

they look at their cards.

“I pass.” (huge smoke circles up and up.)

“I’m out, too.”

she grins.

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— movie starts again. back at same scene.—

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The crowd in front of the entrance, circus groups in the middle of them, speeches, transparents and printed tweets on sticks and music and the helicopter above them (some people were looking up worried, after all: it’s a black hole. How does the helicopter driver want to know how black holes behave? Not that nice to see a helicopter falling down on you or the crowd… rather risky, this helicopter right above the scene of the incident that was impossible to keep hidden any longer, cellphoning people knew there is one. “On the other hand” – some of them said and looked away from the noisy helicopter – “on the other hand, when it implodes or explodes or what ever black holes in this area plus circumstances are supposed to do, then we will be anyway sucked in faster then the helicoter.” – “I hope so” – others answered.

The door to entrance C was now opened by a journo who wanted to enter.

BAD LUCK.

And two meds – one of them with a huge adhesive plaster on his forehead – are rushing to the scence.

someone in the crowd: “What’s up with this door today? Every time someone wants to open it, it hits someone.”

But who was supposed to know that the door was opened from the inside at the very same moment.

And out of it – the crowd is dropping their jaws – a

UFO.

A flying couch, to be exact. Color: green.

OFF: “or how else did you think it was possible to fly back that fast, compared to the way _to_ the tesseract?”

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(story in progress. …this will need app 2 days … or weeks… or months… to reach the topic. black hole. the hole was created by 28 collider assistants. one of them will have bad luck enough to meet her. story will get its author name when it’s finished. or earlier.)

*Zaunpfahl. German for fencepost. Part of a German idiom and not supposed to be translated into an English term (that would base on an idiom that has a similar meaning but uses a different picture) because the next sentence needs the fencepost.

das

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wohl

nicht

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fassen.

ich

sagte

mehr

abstand

zur

wp-werbung,

bitte.

Written by wn030

October 25, 2015 at 6:33 pm

Gustl Mollath: Über esoterische Gutachten und Richter, die Autoren spielen.

with 28 comments

(wn030-5)

Es gibt doch Sachen, von denen denkt man sich als Fahrradfahrer: so, das war jetzt der geistige Achttausender meines Lebens. Es gibt Skandale, Affären, von denen man sich strampelnd denkt: wow, jetzt habe ich aber etwas erlebt in meinem Leben, Höhen unerahnte, krassestes an Unmöglichem, mehr geht gar nicht, wenn an der nächsten Ampel einer vergißt, auf die Bremse zu treten, werde ich mit dem Gedanken abschließen: “Es hat sich gelohnt”.

Dinge, von denen man hört, liest, die eigentlich gar nicht gehen, “theoretisch”. Praktisch aber, siehe da, gehen sie doch. Bestellte Ghostwriter im Dunkeln an tiefen Astlöchern, Doktormacher, beklaute Studenten, nein, also es gibt Skandale und Affären, von denen darf man sich denken – höher geht nimmer.

Und dann strampelt man weiter und stellt fest: Nanu, Achttausendfünfzig. Theoretisch ist hier kein Berg laut Landkarte und dann ist da plötzlich doch einer. “War ja klar – Apple Maps, warum hab ich bloß nicht auf die Warnung gehört. – Nun gut, dann also Gebirge” (sagt sich der Fahrradstrampler) und hält die Hand an die Augen, da die Sonne gerade so fröhlich blond strahlt. “Sieht nach Bayern aus.”

Gustl Mollath, der ehemalige Maschinenbaustudent, der seit 2006 für etwas in der Psychiatrie festgehalten wird, das, beliest man sich in der Urteilsbegründung, der neueste Roman aus einem Brigitte-Verlag werden hätte können, wäre der Richter nicht abgewiesen worden und hätte er nicht versucht, aus Frust statt dessen Romane in Urteilsbegründungen zu schreiben.

Zitat: “obwohl er 1976 unglücklich verliebt war, legte er das zweitbeste Abitur der Schule ab”. (Zitat aus der Urteilsbegründung 2006 – das pdf kann von der Chronologie-Seite der Unterstützer heruntergeladen werden)

Was denkt man sich da als Literaturkritiker zum Ergebnis eines Richters, der sich nicht entscheiden kann, ob er einen Bildungsroman verfassen will oder später von Trivialliteraturexperten begutäugt werden möchte? Denkt man sich da – interessante Einleitung, sehr nett eingefädelt, der Satz, gleich von vornherein direkt zum angepeilten literarischen Motiv, aus dem Autor wird noch mal was? Könnte schon sein, dass man sich das denkt. Als Literaturkritiker.

Und als Fahrradstrampler? – Sieht nach Bayern aus. Dirndlbuch mitten in einer Urteilsbegründung, wer hätte das erwartet.

Keine zwei Kilometer höher jedoch kommt noch eine Überraschung. Kennen Sie Esoterik? Das sind so “Ganzheitlichkeit” und “Fixpunkte”, Wasser,  Steine, Brettl, goldene und etwas Geld verdienen. Manche etwas weniger, manche etwas heftiger. Wenn Sie mit mir (ich strampele auf einem unterwarteten und auf der Landkarte nicht verzeichneten Berg, auf aktuell 2550 Höhenmetern) – wenn Sie mit mir wetten wollen würden, wo Sie die heute nun nicht gerade erwartet hätten, wo wäre das in etwa? Bei drei Kilometern? Verloren.

Zitat: “Ein anderer Gutachter sei 2011 zum Ergebnis gekommen, Mollaths Gedanken “kreisten um einen fernen Punkt von Unrecht, das sich in der Welt ereigne und der den Kristallisationspunkt der wahnhaften Störung” darstelle.”

Ist das nicht irre? Ich sagte Ihnen doch, es gibt Sachen, von denen hätte man vorher nicht gedacht, dass die einen derart hammerhart umwerfen, dass man gar nicht weiß, woher man auf die Schnelle genügend Kissen und Matratzen zum weichen Landen organisieren soll. (Sie haben’s erraten. 3050 Meter, ich liege gerade im Gras und ich sage Ihnen, der Rest bis 8050, der wird nicht schlechter.)

Ich erreiche langsam die 3070. (Ich schiebe jetzt lieber ein Stück, ab jetzt bin ich auf alles gefaßt, denke ich.) Was finde ich vor, auf dreitausendundsiebzig Metern? Möchte jemand einen kleinen Einsatz wagen? Meine Warnung: machen Sie das lieber nicht. Dieses Spiel ist nicht zu gewinnen, Sie werden verlieren, egal, was Sie auf 3070 vermuten möchten.

Ich finde nämlich, mitten in dieser herrlichen Gebirgslandschaft…

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ein…

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Kunstmuseum. Name: “LouvreManouvre.” [Link Mona Lisa Bavaria 1] [Mona Lisa Bavaria 2] [Mona Lisa Bavaria 3] [Mona Lisa Bavaria 4] [Mona Lisa twittert] [und wird angetwittert] [update: doch, doch, wird] [Link zur vollen Länge]. Der Name der Ausstellung lautet: Documenta XL.

Der “Link zur vollen Länge” ist übrigens eine Klanginstallation. Und weil wir hier in Bayern sind, im Gebirge, erzeugt diese Klanginstallation ein Echo. Und wie Echos eben so sind… (“Ich habe nicht “strikt vertreten”, dass Herr M. “zurecht weggesperrt ist”, sondern …”)

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Auf 3075 schalte ich auf “SloMo”. Nein, ich schalte nicht den Gang meines edlen  Statussymbol-Rennrads auf 2, mit dem ich zu dieser Tour de Ferd(inand) angemeldet worden bin, denn das edle Drahtross liegt ja dort hinten kaputt im Gras. Mir wurde für den nächsten Abschnitt eines dieser uralten Herrenrad-Dinger in die Hand gedrückt, bei dem ich so arg hoch greifen muss. (Ihr wisst schon, die Dinger so, wie sie gebaut wurden, als es noch darum ging, “auf Augenhöhe” mit den Reitern zu bleiben.) – Ich muss also ziemlich hoch greifen.

Mit diesem Uralt-Teil an der Hand, ganz langsam Schritt für Schritt gehe ich im SlowMotion-Tempo weiter nach oben.

Also ernsthaft jetzt – vorsichtiger kann man doch nicht sein, oder?

Auf 3080 liege ich aber schon wieder im Gras, denn ich bin eben von einer Schülerdemo überrannt worden. Stampede. Meine Haare sind ganz durcheinander, aber wenigstens lebe ich noch. (Glaube ich.)

Ich rappele mich wieder auf und bekomme ein nächstes Ersatzradl in die Hand gedrückt, diesmal aus Bambus*. Es sieht so aus, als hätte es Chancen, bis zum vorletzten Tausender durchzuhalten (der letzte ist für ein bestimmtes Edelrad reserviert, das kommt noch, aber die 3970 bis zum Umstieg auf das reservierte Besondere hätte ich lieber etwas sicherer in der Hand jetzt, also Bambus*). Ich schwinge mich auf das Teil und stelle den Gang zuerst auf 0,314, bevor ich mit Überraschung feststelle, dass o,42 auch geht. Ich fühle mich sofort wie auf dem Heimtrainer oder vor einem Bluescreen und atme tief durch, denn jetzt heißt es in die Pedale treten, ich sehe schon von weitem das nächste Ziel – unweit in Fluglinie, bei der Steigung jedoch eine erkleckliche Anzahl von Umdrehungen entfernt leuchtet ein Schild. Das sieht nach einem spannenden Schuppen aus – und vor dem Schuppen hängt ein Plakat. Darauf, von meinem jetzigen Tretpunkt gut zu erkennen, die Worte: AUTORENLESUNG.

“Aha”, sagt der zu meinem Team gehörende Literaturkritiker, “sieh an, der Dirndlbuchschreiber mit der Unterschriftenurlaubsvertretung hat es also doch zu etwas gebracht, ein Verlag hat ihm das abgekauft?” – “Bayern”, antworte ich kräftig in die Pedale tretend.  “Die stehen auf Dirndlromane. Zahlungskräftiges Publikum, da hat dann wohl ein ‘Literatur’-Verlag am Ende auf die Qualität gepfiffen.”  Wir wollen uns beide diese Lesung nicht entgehen lassen,  also los.

Ab da überstürzen sich die Ereignisse allerdings etwas. Auf dem Weg zu dem angesagten Schuppen geraten wir urplötzlich in eine Schlägerei zwischen zwei verfeindeten Gangs, die sich um einen sogenanntes Stimmviech, eine genetisch eher konstruierte Dolly prügeln. Dolly ist aber im Labor etwas unkoordiniert abgelaufen. In ihrer Schnauze steckt ein Hefter. Die beiden Gangs prügeln sich anschließend mit Dolly um den Hefter, dabei wird das Ding völlig zerrissen und landet in einer Pfütze. Dolly beißt den Anführern beider Gangs kräftig in die Hand und entkommt quer durch die Alm.

Leicht perplex radle ich langsam durch das Schlachtfeld, der Literaturkritiker sitzt auf meinem Gepäckträger. Ich manövriere vorsichtig durch die Papierfetzen, abgerissene Hemd- und Handtaschen sowie herumliegende Knöpfe.

Kaum sind wir beide uns halbwegs sicher, das Schlimmste wenn schon nicht bereits hinter uns, so doch zumindest sehr bald hinter uns zu haben, da uns nun auf dem Weg zu dem angesagten Schuppen mit der Autorenlesung nichts mehr in den Weg kommen kann, werden wir knapp vor dem Eingang von einer Polizeirazzia überholt.

Es herrscht etwas Aufregung, also halten wir uns etwas abseits und überlegen, wo wir nun heute die geplante Streckenpause einlegen, da ja das Kulturevent offensichtlich ausfällt.

“Psssst…”, werden wir da plötzlich von der Seite angeflüstert. Eine unscheinbar wirkende Gestalt in grauem Schlapphut und Trenchcoat schiebt uns einen Zettel zu. Der Literaturkritiker nimmt ihn entgegen und wir starren gemeinsam auf den Zettel. Der Kritiker entfaltet ihn (er mag aussagekräftige rhetorische Pausen, auch wenn er sie gelegentlich in Gesten statt in Worte packt, wenn sich die Gelegenheit dazu ergibt).

Auf dem Zettel steht (jetzt entfaltet der Kritiker das vorletzte Drittel des Zettels…):

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“AUTORENLESUNG Umzug zur Scheune. Beginn wie geplant. Beeilt euch.”

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Wir sehen uns um und entdecken etwas weiter hinter dem angesagten Schuppen tatsächlich eine halbverfallene Scheune, um die weitere unauffällig-unscheinbare Gestalten herumstehen. Wir sehen uns an, der Literaturkritiker hat jetzt richtig schön hohe Augenbrauen. Mehr Bestätigung brauche ich nicht, also machen wir uns jetzt, ebenfalls sehr unauffällig-unscheinbar aus dem Razziageschehen davonstehlend, auf dem Weg zur nur leicht verschobenen Kulturveranstaltung.

Wir betreten den Schuppen. Auf der Bühne sehen wir, schwach beleuchtet und vom Dunkel der restlichen Bühne umrandet, einen Schreibtisch und ein Telefon.

Die Lesung beginnt.

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Wir bemühen uns, eine gute Figur als Zuschauer der Vorstellung zu machen. Mein Begleiter zählt die literarischen Stilmittel mit – “hörst du diese Exklamationen”, sagt er, “sehr gekonnt”.  Das begeisterte Publikum klatscht andächtig, dann betreten 3 Figuren in Anzug und Krawatte die Bühne, in den Händen ein goldener Pokal. Der Literaturkritiker packt seinen Zettel aus und faltet nun auch das letzte Drittel des Blattes auseinander, darauf steht: “PS: mit Preisverleihung im Anschluss!”

Wenige Minuten später (es wurde etwas stickig im Raum) stehen wir wieder vor dem Schuppen. Doch wie es scheint, können wir heute mit einer längeren Nacht rechnen: nur knapp oberhalb der Stelle, an der noch vor kurzem die Schlägerei tobte, sammelt sich nun eine neue  aufgeregte Menge. Wir treten an die Gruppe heran. “Unerhört!” Hören wir einen Bauern schimpfen, “unerhört!” – Wir befragen einige der mit Mistgabeln und Rechen bewaffneten Personen und erfahren, dass die Ikone des naheliegenden Dorfes besudelt worden sein soll. Einige Journalisten sollen dem Kunstmodell (dem aus dem Museum LouvreManeuvre) nachgesagt haben, sie hätte sich faceliften lassen – “unerhört!”, schimpfen die Bauern. “Unsere Mona Lisa eine Lügnerin? Niemals!” – Bedrohlich recken die Bauern ihre Mistgabeln und Rechen in die Luft.

Und da kommt sie – die Dorfschönheit selbst. Die Bauern verstummen andächtig, erwartungsvolle Stille liegt nun in der Luft. Sie nähert sich der Bauernmenge, stolz ragt ihr Kopf über dem Mob.

Da, plötzlich  – ein Rascheln hinter uns, wir drehen uns um. Aufgeregt kommt eine Bauernhofdame den Berg hochgerannt, es raschelt aus den Dirndl-Unterröcken.

Es raschelt,

und raschelt,

und raschelt,

die Bauernhofdame atmet etwas schwer, als Sie vor dem Kunstmodell steht. “Ihro Hoheit” – stammelt sie entrückt, die Stimme versagt etwas vor Atemlosigkeit. Sie händigt dem Kunstmodell ein Papier aus. “Ihre Rehabilitation.” – Sie macht einen geübten, vor dem SPIEGEL sichtlich mit viel Fleiß trainierten Bauernhofknicks, eine Art Dorftanzpirouette, den sogenannten Odlplattler.  “Selbstgeschrieben“, fügt sie noch nach, in ihren Augen glänzt ein Freudetränchen.

“Spieglein, Spieglein.”  Sagt ein älterer Herr mit Brille und grau meliertem Bart, der sich gerade zu uns gestellt hat. Er und der Literaturkritiker nicken sich zu. Offensichtlich Arbeitskollegen. “Es geht doch nichts über ein gestandenes literarisches Kulturerbe”, fügt er noch nach. – “Märchentradition bester, grimmigster Sorte – hatte mal mit dem Gedanken gespielt, mich darauf zu spezialisieren”, sagt der Literaturkritiker.  “Da sehen Sie mal, welch einträgliches Material Ihnen entgangen ist, eine wahre Goldgrube”, erwidert sein Arbeitskollege und verschwindet, mit seinem Spazierstock wedelnd, durch die Menge der noch immer andächtig schweigenden Bauern.

“Wenn man bedenkt”, sagt der Literaturkritiker, “dass wir erst auf 3090 Meter sind…” – Wir beschließen, dass wir uns auf diesem Streckenabschnitt nunmehr lange genug aufgehalten haben. Der Kritiker setzt sich auf meinen Gepäckträger und ich trete in die Pedale.  Die Gangschaltung auf, wie gehabt, o,42 – wir haben noch viel vor.

Auf den nächsten Metern wird die Steigung allerdings beträchtlich. Ich muss herunterschalten, wenn ich den Literaturkritiker auf meinem Gepäckträger, der gerade mit einer Bergbauarbeiterlampe auf dem Kopf in ein Buch vertieft ist (Sie erinnern sich – es war Nacht, als wir – ohne Pause in der netten Gesellschaft mit den Rechen und Mistgabeln einzulegen, weitergefahren sind), wenn ich den Literaturkritiker auf meinem Gepäckträger also nicht herunterwerfen will, womöglich auch noch auf mich drauf beim Herunterfallen. Also 0,314, geht aber immer noch schwer, jetzt 0,21 – auch nicht, schließlich schalte ich auf 0,1984.

Jetzt geht es endlich wieder spürbar voran.

Der Literaturkritiker fragt, ob er mir aus dem Buch vorlesen soll.

 

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(dieser text ist noch im entstehen, bitte etwas geduld, klicken Sie bald wieder vorbei…)

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Fußnote: Auswahl weiterer empfohlener Links.

Medienecho gesammelt (verlinken wir, damit unsere Twitter-Updates da unten diese Seite nicht ganz so vollknallen, dass die erst nach Stunden aufgeht…)

Codewortzeile: “Alle nachprüfbaren Behauptungen haben sich als zutreffend herausgestellt. …  Das birgt die Gefahr, dass …”

Nebenthemen.

* Das mit dem Bambusrad ist nur Keyworddropping, lasst euch davon bitte nicht ablenken, ihr könnt beizeiten nach “Bambusrad SPIEGEL” suchen und dort weiterklicken, wenn ihr ein Fahrrad braucht, ist hier irrelevant, wirklich nur Keyworddropping.

Written by wn030

November 18, 2012 at 11:49 pm

Article orchids on bullshit ground. Some say, BS always was a good fertilizer. Others answer: cowshit always worked, too. About Wikileaks bitching around recently on twitter and about Guardian entering the bestseller fight arena.

with 16 comments

[apk for wn030 – January 31, 2011, with updades.]

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Let’s make it short. When in between of the fight for freedom in Egypt, in between news about Egypt’s unwanted “President” building a not-imagined before information wall against the rest of the world – about news able to let you lose your breath everyday (from closing of pages  like facebook and twitter, pages being used by journalists, too – to an entire internet shutdown, to SMS shutdown (SMS being sent by journalists, too), to foreign journalists reportedly being held in hotels, to arriving AlJazeera journalists being sent to the airport, to reports of violence against journalists [reporters injured by police], to a shutdown of a station [AlJazeera] to arrests of reporters and seizure of equipment]... when in the middle of indeed important news and calls of AlJazeera to bloggers for help – a spokesperson somewhere in a warm and cosy bulding*** is starting to bitch  about a sentence not being entirely read by himself, you may well have reasons to be a bit more than just halfway to exploding.

Yesterday night in Europe experienced such a moment. Lots of followers of the official wikileaks account were – in the middle of their own work – suddenly interrupted by a 2-tweet-nagging that we can call a Julian nagging, accoding to the attacked Guardian journalist who replied and noted that exactly this official account was hardly used by anybody else that night.

So, what exactly happened? Julian hinted at an article published on the Telegraph webpage on 30 Jan 2011 at 5:59PM GMT. The wikileaks spokesperson wrote his concerns regarding “Guardian names Manning as source” linking to the mentioned Telegraph article. Due to the 140 chars frame of twitter, we can only hope that the telegram style with a misquote was just a result of the twitter structure. If at all, we have to speak about 2  Guardian journalists naming Manning as what? According to the Telegraph newspaper, as the “alleged” source. Here’s the article quote, 2nd paragraph:

“The authors, David Leigh and Luke Harding, of The Guardian, name Specialist Bradley Manning, the soldier being held in a US military jail, as the alleged source of the information which was passed on to The Guardian by WikiLeaks.”

So, what’s the problem, you might ask, so far this is nothing new to anybody following the case. Two Guardian journalists are not the “Guardian”, we might reply to Julian and alleged is an important word not forgotten by the telegraph. The article, describing the book of David Leigh and Luke Harding (thus, helping them a bit to reach the next bestseller list, something Julian of course right now is a bit touchy about, while his own book is as much in development as Daniel’s debut work as an author**), lists facts that are indeed no news to people following the Bradley Manning story since it started (re start: see the very last lines of this complement entry and re development of the case see Manning updates here). Still, what to think about Julians distracting two nighttweets? Tweets wanting to raise some attention at the book, before his own one hits the tables? (regardless of rumours about Julian’s book being written by ghostwriters – let’s still call it his own one, as long as we don’t have  real proofs about an author work misuse by WL in our hands than just some rumours spread by the other leak gang after the clash – a strategy that both gangs in quarrel widely use these days. Update: no, there are reasons to assume this is not just a rumour…). So again: what is this about, pure raising of awareness, attention gaining, some showfight-rant-advertising help for a book before  his own one – [or if written by other writers, then hopefully not naming JA as the “author” <- update regarding this question) – before his “own” one arrives in the shops? You shouldn’t exclude this sideway-consequences, of course readers will expect a reply when the expected next bestseller is there. They will pay for the reply if curious enough, so of course some ranting here and there will finally work fine as an upfront extra ad for the awaited bestseller candidate book title.

Just all this, awareness raising before the book-run Julian-Daniel-Guardian,  the bestseller-chase really starts, sure? Becalmed, we could impassively come back to other, more important topics if there wouldn’t have been some unexpected replies from one of the attacked authors, David Leigh, himself. In order to let you take a look at them yourself, please feel free to click at  this storify sample where wn030 collected some important reply quotes of David Leigh.

On Jan 31st, at 0:23, David Leigh surprised with the following charming reply content and tone: @wikileaks absolute pack of lies against the Guardian. Manning not our source. Who says “free Bradley” on their logo?# Wikileaks does”. From the “pack of lies”, we can easily conclude the Guardian journalist is heating up a bit. From the 2nd sentence, however, it gets visible that the book will hardly be worth a deeper looking review. If the entire book follows the same thorough arguing as this 2nd sentence, we can perfectly cancel “Wikileaks: Inside / Julian Assange’s War on Secrecy” from our watchlist of possible bestseller top hits.  Some former incredible crazy claims spread on the twittersphere  by diverse people – claims that money help might be regarded as an “admitting” of Bradley as source – were hard enough to watch and to stay patient. Although these claims may not have been the only reason for the awkward delay of Wikileaks’ legal help donation to the Manning support network (see more about the delay in the middle part of this complement entry),  everybody who took part in these flat,  stupid and greedy looking self-justifications should simply learn to think before logging in into his/her twitter account. But David’s second sentence here is just too much for being called a gaffe. When a Guardian journalist regards support – in this case, via a small graphical addon, an account avatar sticky, needed and as for the support itself, long awaited given that it took the Wikileaks spokesperson himself quite a long while to accept his  co-responsibility for Manning, a responsibility existing absolutely regardless of the fact whether Bradley was the person who submitted the material or not and absolutely regardless of the fact that an upfront link between them can be perfectly excluded (update regarding this, july 13th/14th 2011) –  so, if this Guardian journalist regards an avatar sticky as an “evidence” for a “source” – then let’s forget about the book, we can perfectly expect the same journalistic “thoroughness” from this author part.

Article orchids on bullshit ground (and cowshit, of course, in order to stay politically correct and to emancipatedly “genderize” where appropriate). The first orchid got visible just a few hours later, an article reply by x7o. The original form of this orchid was ready at an unknown hour and previously posted on wl-central, a wikileaks supporters platform, copied to freshhorse due to a short wl-central overload after the wikileaks account spread the link to this orchid reply via twitter. Let’s assume some other word plants will follow earlier than expected.

But in the meanwhile, let’s return to the small “showfight theory”. Of course, there are no reasons at all for anybody, neither any spokesperson on earth nor for any Guardian reader, to expect or fear so-called “loyality” from a newspaper. “Loyality” is simply not what newspapers are for, originally, neither regarding governments, nor regarding companies, nor regarding networks like Wikileaks or their spokespeople. The argument that the same newspapers are publishing material they got from Wikileaks is no argument at all. Newspapers – like any other older or newer media as long as they feel committed to journalism – have other duties, being contrary to any “loyality” expectation. Thinking about it in a less emotional moment, Julian would have to admit to it either, given that his approaches to achieve official status as a Journalist are for real. Will realizing this fact – the fact that no contract on earth will turn a medium to a “loyal” one – be able to make him rethink his decision to turn to “exclusive” contracts,  a decision that made Wikileaks less and less recognizable as the platform it originally was? We think: hardly, at least not yet.

But what does it tell us about where the Guardian is aiming at (aside of aiming the bestseller list)? A newspaper like the Guardian might – in their coverage of the Wikileaks saga – have other reasons for a careful positioning than “loyality”.

Let’s remember for a moment what the platform originally was. It made access to journalistic raw material accessible. While being published and available (before Wikileaks turned to “exclusive”), it made something quite interesting possible. Suddenly, for a short moment (until “exclusivity” showed up), the accessible material made a fair competition between workers in the media universe possible. Suddenly, it was not the question how large your network is, how much your network can afford – but the quality of your own work – both regarding research as well as text style quality – your work as a journalist decided over the quality of your result, the material coverage. In the very same moment, allowing for a quality comparison not only between journalists themselves but between the media, a quality based competition between old, new, established and free media platforms and networks. An extremely interesting moment in the Wikileaks history, now gone (although, at least in Germany, we should keep our ears open as for  how long this will be the case, we expect a media debate about this exclusivity problem in March).

So while other media have acually indeed no reason at all to bother what will happen to the platform or its spokesperson since it lost its status as a potential raw material provider for them – what exactly is Guardian’s positioning telling its readers about the logics inside the editors’ staff nowadays?

You as a reader might in this moment have the wish to interrupt: positioning about Wikileaks? What has Wikileaks to do with it, we are talking about Guardian showing unprofessionalism re the Bradley Manning topic, why Wikileaks? My answer would be: simply because this is not the first showfight between Guardian and Wikileaks, it’s just another fraction of an ongoing battle, at least from the readers’ point of view. Many Wikileaks followers are debating these two nighttweets even days later with referring to the Guardian publishing police reports of the Swedish case. At which point returning to a sentence above might get replicable: what exactly is Guardian’s positioning telling their readers about the logics inside the editors’ staff there? While other media have hardly any reason to bother, for Guardian this is attacking one of their valuable raw material providers with a bending down to the level of the Expressen or the German BILD.

While respecting their duty to stay illoyal (to any official body, network, government, company, lobby) is in general an extremely valuable turn – this bending down here, a handshake with Expressen, is indeed proving that some journalists there forget about a simple and tiny but maby worth reminding problem behind: as soon as the media [Guardian included] lose platforms like Wikileaks, after these platforms have shown and proven their relevance for the media landscape, their importance for a return to work that can call itself journalistic again – especially in times when pure cheap PR work is more and more jeopardizing this profession – as soon as this happens, they [Guardian included] will be simply redundant. Careless cooperating for the aims of  cenzoring bodies, i.e. raw  material destroyers while cooperating on a bottom-feeding yellowpress level is working on their [Guardian included] self-destruction as a whole.

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** Daniel – as a puterexpert – is the story teller in this book. The text was written by a Zeit author. For a computer expert, acually a perfect decision. (There is an update regarding this.) But for someone who wants to be described as a “journalist”, as observed in the case of JA in the last weeks, this will be quite something else. Not few working on the network prefer and propose to stick to “spokesperson and editor” and in fact this is exactly our proposal, too. We just want to hint at the fact that the book of JA – in progress – a book that will quite for sure be also a book written by a ghostwriter (see comments below for the 3rd confirmation, 1st ones reached the public by reports of former WL network coworkers [not Daniel] – that in this case the public may react to the ghostwriting a bit differently. See the GuttiGate for just an idea of the wind that may reach WL in case the book does not name the real author of it and for the case JA still asks for being named as a Journalist.

Workers in the network explain this is needed in order to help the USA gov to realize they are messing around with an online publication platform. This is no explanation  at all. The fact that it’s hardly possible to describe WL as something else is simply too obvious for anyone who managed to read a newspaper with WL topic in the last months and it will be hard to find a web user who didn’t. Editor (and spokesperson) is absolutely enough as a help for the US gov to finally realize what exactly they are actually trying. There is no reason at all to call sb. a Journalist without enough work in the public in order to judge it and say thumb up or down. We have not seen an article list of articles written by Julian. We also have not read other publications by JA. And a “Journalist” who needs a writer in order to write “his” book is like a GP who needs his secretary to dictate him the diagnose. Talking about “Underground” : he knows fairly well that he was described as the researcher for this book (regardless of the question whether being involved as one of the protagonists or not – we are talking about the writing work). Researcher: this is an assistant job. You just don’t jump up from an assistant to a journalist without a single own text online. And in case of the Wikileaks page: we see what we see as WL work, the work of – the network. That’s one of the reasons why we – so far – would not question the function of WL as a journalistic platform, publishing raw material for journalists plus the interested public – and some work done by the network in order to present them. (We – btw – have no idea whether the network as a whole is happy with the danger of WL turning from this function to the function of pure infodealers [via exclusive contracts]). But back to the journo role: show us the article list and we’ll talk on about it. With the background of the role as a spokespip at WL, this might even have been possible: it was and is a spokespip role, but it was and is a spokespip neither for a gov nor a comp nor a lobby circle but for a journalism related platform, so the rule PR=/=Journalism [which usually forbids a switching between them, regardless of how long ago someone worked in the other lake and is a rule for the mentioned cases] does not apply here. But: without an article list with articles written by your own there’s no chance. Since you decided not to prove your journalistic writing skills in the book but preferred to work with a person having the skills for that, we understand that you understand that this is the proof that your roles as editor and spokespip are absolutely enough.  Anyway there’s enough to do with these two responsibilities, isn’t it?

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… interesting. regarding the “auhorship” question, now suddenly there is an

UPDATE 2012.

regarding this book, we’re actually talking about a CO-AUTHORSHIP, in opposite to the assumption of a firedoglake author, but – we’d say, so far, this is at least something. let’s see.

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… and guess what, regarding the topic “arena showfights between Guardian journo twitter accounts and the WL acc”, there is an update, too:  Dec, 2012

Link 1 (Malala vs Manning, about the twitter showfight on Dec 12, 2012)

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and don’t miss

Link 2, too  (discussion)

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(regarding the topic “Malala vs Manning”, tweets from December 10th, 2012 – the incredibly poor Guardian article re Manning winning the Guardian Person of the Year poll and the even more poor reaction to this by the person tweeting from wikileaks’ main twitter account)

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And now hold your breath: there is even another UPDATE, also December 2012, regarding those missing own articles mentioned in the text above and further discussed in the comments section of this page:

Articles with an author finally show up online (link to the text “Two Years of Cablegate as Bradley Manning Testifies for the First Time” by J. Assange, posted on Huffington Post, according to the page on Nov 29, 2012, and sent out via email on Dec 12th) – Comment to this text: it looks fine and it definitely looks like an acceptable article. Research help done by the network as well as other text editing steps like proofreading (checking for typos) are typical parts of the workflow – however, in case facts ever shop up proving that parts of this article were -written- by other people than the signing author, there might be rasons for a real shitstorm on the websphere. Let’s hope this will never be necessary.

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*** re the “warm and cosy building” – note the date when this text was written. This was written when Mr. Exclusive was dining in a luxurious chateau. The expression in this sentence does not refer to the current situation (2012) in the Ecuadorian Embassy.

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wn030: sadly, however there is another update necessary.

January 3rd, 2013.

x7o, the account mentioned in the text above, has proven to be what the person probably calls erm… “logical”. namely, while defending the repost of nazi content and links to a right wing populistic paper, x7o calls us – the account hinting at this issue – what? well, “extremist”. yes, you actually heard that right. we really loved that. it would have caused an overwhelmed, bright laughter if the issue itself was not as serious as it sadly is.

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Written by wn030

January 31, 2011 at 7:01 pm

feuilleton (under construction)

with 14 comments

der folgende Beitrag ist urheberrechtlich geschützt. “textcode option” included. reprintanfragen können an die unter “about” (navigationsleiste) sichtbaren mailadressen gesendet werden.

apk für wn030, 1.6.2009

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Das Leben ist kein Ponyhof und wenn, dann Ponys für Alle!“

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Prenzlauer Berger Lesarten einer Streetart-ähnlichen Sprühaktion.

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Wer Anfang Mai mit Augen eines Großstädters – geöffnet, wachsam möglichen wartenden Fallen auf dem Bürgersteig ausweichend – die Schönhauser Allee entlangspazierte, dem dürften sie aufgefallen sein: weiß, klassisch-schlicht, drei Worte und ein Ausrufezeichen. Auch wer aus Wedding seine Schritte Richtung Mauerpark lenkte, womöglich um nebenbei den Reifegrad der noch grünen zukünftigen Mirabellenfrüchte am Mauerstreifen abzuschätzen, dem dürfte das Weiß des gesprühten Slogans in die Augen gesprungen sein.

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“Ponys für Alle!” – Was will dieser Spruch? Bei dem Gespräch mit einem Anwohner der Kopenhagener Straße, die an beiden Enden auf einzelne dieser Sprühspuren stößt – einige davon sind selbst ende Mai noch gut zu erkennen – äußert der Anwohner die Vermutung, der gesprühte Slogan müsse etwas mit “Das Leben ist kein Ponyhof” zu tun haben. Dieser auf den Erfahrungsschatz westlichen Vorortnachwuchses anspielende Spruch zierte den Titel einer Demonstration im Jahr 2005. Die Demonstration wurde 2008 auf indymedia literarisch nachbearbeitet, als nach einer langen Vorlaufzeit schließlich der Freispruch eines Demonstrationsteilnehmers auf dem zum Theatersaal erklärten Gerichtssaalparkett – im III. Akt des über Vernetzungslisten angekündigten Stücks “Kamera-Arschloch” – erklärt wurde.  Alle Teilabschnitte des Gerichtssals-Theaters bis zum Freispruch wurden von Rezensionen auf indymedia begleitet. Spruch und Demonstrationstitel gehen auf die Suche von Studiengebührengegnern nach einem geeigneten Ort für das “Summercamp of Resistance” 2005 zurück, denen nach dem Scheitern von Verhandlungen über den Kreuzberger Mariannenplatz von der damaligen Bezirksbürgermeisterin ein Ponyhof als Alternative angeraten wurde. Aufgegriffen wurde der Spruch anschließend von einer Hochschulgruppe, die sich im Folgejahr als linke Liste an der Freien Universität Berlin zur Wahl gestellt hatte. Über Aufkleber verbreitete sich der Spruch schließlich über studentische Räume wie die Offene Uni BerlinS, Toiletten linker Kneipen sowie generell im universitären Raum. Gut möglich, daß der Anwohner, der, obwohl selbst kein Student, regelmäßig studentische Räume nutzt, deshalb diese Vermutung äußert.

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Bei genauerer Betrachtung des Streetart-Spruchs zwingen sich aber auch andere Parallelen auf. Die Wahl des “Bildgrunds” – der Bürgersteig -, das Weiß der gewählten Farbe, das Ponymotiv – wird hier dem Vorbild Rosinantes nachgeeifert? Oder hat sie hier vielleicht selber ihre Finger im Spiel?

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Rosinante ist Schöpferin der Pferdehufe-Abdrücke, die in den Sommern 2006 und 2007 Straßen, Bürgersteige und vereinzelt auch Hauswände in Berlin geziert hatten, darunter auch – schräg und eigenwillig, über Gitter gleichsam hinwegspringend, den Übergang über die Eberswalder Straße zum Mauerpark und dessen Begrenzung zur Gleimstraße hin. Die Hufe hatten einen Bericht auf Radio Eins und einen Beitrag in der Morgenpost (vom 17.6.2007) nach sich gezogen, in dem Wolfgang Krause, in den 90er Jahren Hauptakteur der Aktionsgalerie “O2”, Organisator der Knochengeld-Aktion von 1993 und früherer Gastdozent an der Kunsthochschule Weißensee, dem ihm unbekannten Schöpfer der Hufe 100 Euro für die benutzte Schablone geboten hatte.

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Zwischen dem Hufabdruck als Zeichen und der Wahl der Buchstabencodierung von “Ponys für Alle!” steckt zwar ein zu großer medialer Bruch, um nicht über mögliche Beweggründe dieser drastischen Änderung zu sinnieren, doch wer wollte einem Künstler den Wechsel in Form, Stil und Medium absprechen?

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Höchstens der Künstler selbst. Bei einem Gespräch mit wn030 teilte “Rosinante”, die sich derzeit in Wien aufhält, wn030 gegenüber mit, daß ihr das Auftauchen von “Ponys für Alle!” bereits von mehreren Seiten zugetragen wurde. Der Hintergrund des Spruches sei ihr zwar unbekannt, doch die “Mischung aus Kleinmädchencharme und subkultur-typischer Forderung ‘Für Alle!'” empfindet sie als gelungen. Trotz der Parallelen hat sie jedoch nicht den Eindruck, daß der Sprühspruch ihre Hufe-Spuren rekurriert, die zwar bereits 2007 von vielen Berliner Mitaktivisten und mittlerweile auch von Künstlern in anderen Städten aufgegriffen wurden, doch unter Beibehaltung der Form und meist gut vernetzt, so daß von einer regelrechten Künstlergruppe der “Hufonauten” gesprochen werden kann, die “Horse Art” in den großstädtischen Raum, u.a. auch nach St. Petersburg und Miami trägt.

 

Unmittelbar zu ihren Hufabdrücken angestoßen wurde sie nach eigener Aussage vor drei Jahren von den Vorbereitungen für die Fußball-WM 2006 in Deutschland, die verdeutlicht hätten, wie stark dieser Sport trotz allem immer noch als Männersport die Alltagserfahrung von Männern auch jenseits der Jugendjahre prägt. Sie sieht darin ein weiteres Zeichen für die Rückständigkeit der Gleichberechtigung in einer nur scheinbar emanzipierten Gesellschaft. Während Männer ihren Lieblingssport aktiv und passiv bis in das hohe Alter beibehalten können ohne ihre persönliche Integrität dabei zu gefährden, seien Mädchen gezwungen, spätestens bei Erreichen der Volljährigkeit ihrem Jugendsport zu entsagen: “spätestens mit 17, 18 muß das Mädchen das Reiten aufgeben, sonst macht es sich – in der Schulklasse, im Freundeskreis – lächerlich”, so Rosinante. Sicherlich eine Problematik, die einen begrenzten Anteil des weiblichen Nachwuches berühren dürfte, gilt doch das Ponyreiten bis heute eher als Hobby von Kindern aus besser situierten westdeutschen Reihenhaussiedlungen – als kleiner Gegenpol zur 2006 das gesamte Land überziehenden Fußballhysterie jedoch eine sympathische Geste.

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Mittelbaren Anstoß bot die Auseinandersetzung mit dem großstädtischen Raum als offenem Freiraum, der zur Brechung gewohnter Sichtweisen, aber auch zur ‘privat-autonomen’ künstlerischen Infragestellung stadt- und verkehrsplanerischer Unsitten einlade. “Am Ende der Oderberger Straße, hin zum Mauerpark hatte man plötzlich diese Absperrungen aufgebaut”, sagt sie wn030 gegenüber. “Niemand verstand, wozu diese Absperrungen gut ein sollten, früher kam man ohne Hindernisse über die Straße”. Folgerichtig führten auch ihre Hufspuren über das Absperrgitter hinweg, als stünde dort nichts – und sie überquerten die Straße in eigenwilliger Wiederaneignung des Straßenlands: schräg, zielsicher führten sie vom Absperrgitter direkt in das Grün des Parks, als stille Absage an Normierung und Straßenverkehrsordnung auf einem seit Jahren von Fußgängern dominierten Stück Straßenland. Mit den “Berliner Pferdesprungveranstaltungen” hatte Horse Art schließlich 2008 aktionistisch den Sprung über Straßenabsperrgitter geübt. Unweit der Galerie Engeler an der Kreuzung Schwedter Straße / Kastanienallee (Erste Pferdesprungveranstaltung) und an der Hufelandstraße (Zweite Pferdesprungveranstaltung) wurde vom Freundeskreis  der “Hufonauten” das Absperrgitter zum Aktionsobjekt und herausfordernden, überwindbaren Hindernis umfunktioniert.

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Und “Ponys für Alle!”? Auf der Bloqseite einer Musikband, die eine Platte mit gleichnamigem Titel veröffentlich hat, werden im Mai 2009 Äußerungen lesbar, die einem Bekenntnis zum gesprühten Spruch gleichen und eine Vereinnahmung der Sprühaktion für eigene Werbezwecke vermuten lassen. Der Anwohner der Kopenhagener Straße schüttelt dazu den Kopf: “Das wird nicht gelingen. Es wäre nicht das erste Mal, daß sich der Kommerz beliebte Streetartstile und Underground-Formen einverleiben will. Das kann es nicht sein. Leben ist kein Ponyhof und wenn, dann Ponys für Alle!” ergänzt er schmunzelnd. Vom Freispruch des Teilnehmers der „Das Leben ist kein Ponyhof“-Demonstration hatte er als grundsätzlich analoges Wesen zwar noch nichts gehört, doch mit seiner Vermutung könnte er recht haben – ist der Demonstrationsteilnehmer schließlich vom Verdacht freigesprochen worden, ein in der deutschsprachigen Literatur schon 225 Jahre zuvor geadeltes klassisches Wort (s. „Götz von Berlichingen“) beleidigend verwendet zu haben. Die klassische Schlichtheit des Formats, das klassische Weiß – versteckte Hinweise auf den politischen Subtext des Spruches? Der Anwohner zieht weiter: „Jetzt jedenfalls schon.“

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Mag sein, daß die Band in in Charlottenburg oder Wilmersdorf mehr Erfolg damit gehabt hätte, die Sprühaktion für sich zu vereinnahmen. Im Prenzlauer Berg scheint jedoch die Aussagekraft anderer Lesarten klares Obergewicht zu behalten. Die Rezeptionsästhetik spricht dem Text – und sei er noch so kurz – eine „Intention“ entschieden ab. Der Leser und nur er erschafft den Text Kraft seiner Wahrnehmung. Ein Beispiel, wie Repolitisierung kommerzieller Aktionismen in widerständigen Kiezen funktionieren kann.

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Image Hosted by atpic (c) anna panek

 

 

nachtrag 29.1.2011. “auf der in weißen Buchstaben geschrieben steht: Das Leben ist kein Ponyhof”.

About “feuilleton”

(wn030 26.5.09)

entgegen den üblichen publikationsgewohnheiten von wikinews030 [zeitnah erscheinende berichte, kurzreportagen , längere beiträge und kürzest-update-ticker] handelt es sich bei “feuilleton” um eine auf dauer angelegte ressort-sparte, die feuilleton-beiträge aus dem bereich engagierter kunst und literatur sowie den schnittstellen zwischen protestbewegungen und den von ihnen evozierten künstlerisch nicht unbedeutsamen demo-kunstwerken (sogenannte “tranpis”, flugblattkunst, ähnliches). feuilleton wird diese beiträge gesammelt auf einer seite zum lesen (und für den reprint) anbieten. sofern möglich, werden hier auch archivbeiträge aus anderen beiträgen erscheinen, wofern es sich um beiträge handelt, deren urheberrecht die bei uns einsendenden autoren besitzen.

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diese seite befindet sich derzeit (26.5.09) noch im ausbau. eine andeutung auf “hintergründe, zusammenhänge und prioritäten divers” kommender feuilletonthemen auf wikinews030 ermöglicht eine  kurze überschau über das update dieser seite.

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die uns bisher angekündigten themen:

noch ein wort

1. “PONYS FÜR ALLE!” – bekommt die nur offiziell derzeit inaktive liste DAS LEBEN IST KEIN PONYHOF nun einen neuen slogan oder hat nur ein streetart-neuling rosinantes spuren findig aufgegriffen? – über frische (bottom-up-rezipierbare, da von bürgersteig in die augen des flaneurs sendende) kunstaktionsspuren (gesichtet mai 2009) im prenzlauer berg (schönhauser allee, in der nähe des moritzhofs, die brücke nach wedding entlang). incl.: o-ton interview mit der derzeit in wien weilenden schöpferin der hufspuren in berlin-prenzlauer berg und berlin-mitte des sommers 2007 und 2008, rosinante herself. (mitglied und treibende kraft der hufonauten, die die hufspuren bereits u.a. nach st. petersberg und miami getragen haben.)

mit unwiderlegbaren argumenten räumt der beitrag mit einem schlag alle gerüchte vom tisch, daß es sich bei  dieser streetart nur um die kopie des streetart-verfahrens und im grunde um den bloßen werbegag einer durchschnittlichen band handelt, die slogan wie aktion derzeit auf einer bloqseite auf ihre fahnen zu schreiben beginnt.


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2. “WAS IST DIE FLIEGENDE UNI?” – ein feuilletonbeitrag incl interview mit dem schöpfer einer polit-literarischen lesereihe, die derzeit v.a. im berliner kaffee burger sich ihres daseins weiterhin freut.

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3. DER DEMOFLANEUR. eine gründlicher auf die flaneur-theorie von walter benjamin eingehende rezension eines bestimmten sekundenbruchteils der improvisationstheater-szenerie vom berliner alexanderplatz, gesichtet anläßlich der kundgebung der soligruppe brunnenstraße 183 aus dem jahre 2009 (zur kundgebung selbst siehe update weiter unten auf https://wikinews030.wordpress.com/2009/05/15/brunnenstrase-183-sieht-immer-roter/ )

sowie

möglicherweise, diese einsendung ist uns bisher nur angedeutet, noch nicht sicher versprochen worden

möglicherweise ein beitrag zum thema “KUNST- UND KÜNSTLERPHOBIE BEI INDYMEDIANERN – verschwindende beiträge und ihr zusammenhang mit sprachlicher hypernormierung der linken szene”. hintergrund ist die sichtung einer löschmeldung auf einer indymedia-seite. das schwinden eines beitrags zu einer tanzperformance vom mai 2009 (das thema tanzperformance myfest berlin schwand durch die löschung eines beitrags vom 13.5., wie eine kürzlich sichtbar gewordene ergänzung auf indymedia uns mitteilt) scheint der person, die uns die einsendung angekündigt hat, offensichtlich den einsatz einiger schreibarbeitsstunden wert. es handelt sich, nebenbei bemerkt, um einen beitrag des weddinger matthias von hoff, den ein ahnungsloser indymod(erator) aus den ressorts soziale kämpfe und kultur gelöscht hat. wie eine forumseite vermeldet, zieht eine wachsende gruppe langsam wütend werdender berliner gegen eine hamburger indygang (und ihre vereinzelten berliner freunde) zu felde. moderates moderrare humanum est, aber too much moderare est eines feuilletonbeitrags wert.

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und last not least: WIE GEHT ES NACH DEM ZITAT AUS T.A.Z. von hakim bey weiter? – Teil zwei eines Textgewerks mehrerer schreibender Hände (<- link 1), (link 2->)die potenziellen Textpartner des zweiten Teils sind noch in Diskussion. beziehungsweise im gespräch, um noch genauer zu sein (<- link 3), beziehungsweise im schreibgelaber, um es ganz auf den punkt zu bringen (<- link 4).

 

 

 

 

Written by wn030

May 26, 2009 at 11:26 am

Posted in kultur, literatur, medien