“Who knows what I want to do? Who knows what anyone wants to do? How can you be sure about something like that? Isn’t it all a question of brain chemistry, signals going back and forth, electrical energy in the cortex? How do you know whether something is really what you want to do or just some kind of nerve impulse in the brain. Some minor little activity takes place somewhere in this unimportant place in one of the brain hemispheres and suddenly I want to go to Montana or I don’t want to go to Montana.”
Kennt ihr das auch? Jeder will ein Stückchen von einem abhaben, gleichzeitig muss man Klausuren, Essays, Hausarbeiten, Bewerbungen etc. schreiben, dazu wunderbares Wetter, bei dem man sowieso eigentlich nichts anderes machen möchte als in der Sonne zu faulenzen…
Seit 2 Tagen habe ich das Gefühl, dass mir alles über den Kopf zu wachsen scheint. Nur widerwillig schreibe ich an meinen Hausarbeiten, die schon längst fertig sein könnten, aber jamaikanisches Kreolisch in “Me Dying Trial” von Patricia Powell und die Darstellung der femme fatale in Oscar Wildes “Salome” passen einfach nicht mehr in meinen Kopf! Alle Plätze besetzt, tut mir leid! Was beklage ich mich, ich bin ja selbst Schuld daran! Die Gedanken sind frei, und meine haben sich leider nicht wie erhofft an die Fersen besagter Romane geheftet, sondern an die Ilias von Homer. Das hat mich wiederum zu Joseph Campbell geführt, der als Mythenforscher alte Mythen mit zeitgenössischen literarischen Werken in Verbindung gebracht hat (sehr zu empfehlen für Interessierte: “The Power of Myth” und “Hero With A Thousand Faces” ), was mich aufmerksam gemacht hat auf Christopher Vogler und sein Buch “The Writer’s Journey”. Christopher Vogler ist Drehbuchautor und Publizist und hat u.a. schon für Fox und Paramount Drehbücher anderer Autoren anylisiert. Tja, “The Writer’s Journey” ist durch und durch ein tolles Buch, vor allem für all diejenigen, die sich als Autoren verstehen. Und jetzt, wo ich das Buch schon gelesen habe, hat sich die kleine Idee im hintersten Stübchen meines Gehirns festgesetzt, dass ich ja auch mal versuchen könnte, ein Drehbuch zu schreiben. Wie gesagt, versuchen, ist nämlich alles gar nicht so einfach. Obwohl ich wahrscheinlich genug Geschichten parat hätte. Alle schön eingesperrt in meinem Kopf, ich muss nur den richtigen Schlüssel zur richtigen Tür finden. Ja, mir ist schon klar, dass manche die Idee belächeln könnten (und mit Sicherheit auch tun), aber die mir angeborene Kreativität muss ich einfach auf irgendeine Art und Weise artikulieren, mir fehlt lediglich das richtige Medium dazu. Bis ich meiner Kreativität freien Lauf geben kann, wird es wahrscheinlich noch etwas dauern. Wie gesagt, zuerst müssen die Hausarbeiten und Bewerbungen fristgerecht eingereicht werden. Und da muss ich mich von Zeit zu Zeit ein wenig selbst motivieren, am liebsten mit John Hiatt und “Have a Little Faith in Me”:
Anne Sexton: “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs”
No matter what life you lead
the virgin is a lovely number:
cheeks as fragile as cigarette paper,
arms and legs made of Limoges,
lips like Vin Du Rhône,
rolling her china-blue doll eyes
open and shut.
Open to say,
Good Day Mama,
and shut for the thrust
of the unicorn.
She is unsoiled.
She is as white as a bonefish.
Once there was a lovely virgin
called Snow White.
Say she was thirteen.
Her stepmother,
a beauty in her own right,
though eaten, of course, by age,
would hear of no beauty surpassing her own.
Beauty is a simple passion,
but, oh my friends, in the end
you will dance the fire dance in iron shoes.
The stepmother had a mirror to which she referred–
something like the weather forecast–
a mirror that proclaimed
the one beauty of the land.
She would ask,
Looking glass upon the wall,
who is fairest of us all?
And the mirror would reply,
You are the fairest of us all.
Pride pumped in her like poison.
Suddenly one day the mirror replied,
Queen, you are full fair, ’tis true,
but Snow White is fairer than you.
Until that moment Snow White
had been no more important
than a dust mouse under the bed.
But now the queen saw brown spots on her hand
and four whiskers over her lip
so she condemned Snow White
to be hacked to death.
Bring me her heart, she said to the hunter,
and I will salt it and eat it.
The hunter, however, let his prisoner go
and brought a boar’s heart back to the castle.
The queen chewed it up like a cube steak.
Now I am fairest, she said,
lapping her slim white fingers.
Snow White walked in the wildwood
for weeks and weeks.
At each turn there were twenty doorways
and at each stood a hungry wolf,
his tongue lolling out like a worm.
The birds called out lewdly,
talking like pink parrots,
and the snakes hung down in loops,
each a noose for her sweet white neck.
On the seventh week
she came to the seventh mountain
and there she found the dwarf house.
It was as droll as a honeymoon cottage
and completely equipped with
seven beds, seven chairs, seven forks
and seven chamber pots.
Snow White ate seven chicken livers
and lay down, at last, to sleep.
The dwarfs, those little hot dogs,
walked three times around Snow White,
the sleeping virgin. They were wise
and wattled like small czars.
Yes. It’s a good omen,
they said, and will bring us luck.
They stood on tiptoes to watch
Snow White wake up. She told them
about the mirror and the killer-queen
and they asked her to stay and keep house.
Beware of your stepmother,
they said.
Soon she will know you are here.
While we are away in the mines
during the day, you must not
open the door.
Looking glass upon the wall . . .
The mirror told
and so the queen dressed herself in rags
and went out like a peddler to trap Snow White.
She went across seven mountains.
She came to the dwarf house
and Snow White opened the door
and bought a bit of lacing.
The queen fastened it tightly
around her bodice,
as tight as an Ace bandage,
so tight that Snow White swooned.
She lay on the floor, a plucked daisy.
When the dwarfs came home they undid the lace
and she revived miraculously.
She was as full of life as soda pop.
Beware of your stepmother,
they said.
She will try once more.
Snow White, the dumb bunny,
opened the door
and she bit into a poison apple
and fell down for the final time.
When the dwarfs returned
they undid her bodice,
they looked for a comb,
but it did no good.
Though they washed her with wine
and rubbed her with butter
it was to no avail.
She lay as still as a gold piece.
The seven dwarfs could not bring themselves
to bury her in the black ground
so they made a glass coffin
and set it upon the seventh mountain
so that all who passed by
could peek in upon her beauty.
A prince came one June day
and would not budge.
He stayed so long his hair turned green
and still he would not leave.
The dwarfs took pity upon him
and gave him the glass Snow White–
its doll’s eyes shut forever–
to keep in his far-off castle.
As the prince’s men carried the coffin
they stumbled and dropped it
and the chunk of apple flew out
of her throat and she woke up miraculously.
And thus Snow White became the prince’s bride.
The wicked queen was invited to the wedding feast
and when she arrived there were
red-hot iron shoes,
in the manner of red-hot roller skates,
clamped upon her feet.
First your toes will smoke
and then your heels will turn black
and you will fry upward like a frog,
she was told.
And so she danced until she was dead,
a subterranean figure,
her tongue flicking in and out
like a gas jet.
Meanwhile Snow White held court,
rolling her china-blue doll eyes open and shut
and sometimes referring to her mirror
as women do.
Schneewittchen mal anders. Und weniger geeignet für Kinder. “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs” ist 1971 erstmals im Gedichtband Transformations erschienen. Anne Sexton (*1928, t 1974), eine meine Lieblingspoetinnen, wandelt darin einige Grimmsche Märchen ab und erzählt diese neu. Transformations hab ich noch gar nicht so lange im Regal stehen; es bewusst und aufmerksam aus demselben genommen, um darin zu lesen, aber erst vor einigen Tagen. Habt ihr schon den Sex and The City Film gesehen? Gegen Ende liest Carrie Charlottes Tochter ein Märchen vor, weist sie aber sofort darauf hin, dass es märchenhafte happy endings im wahren Leben selten gibt. Da musste ich sofort an Anne Sexton und besagte Gedichtsammlung denken. Und an Sara Bareilles. Die besingt nämlich in ihrem Lied “Fairytale” (wie passend!) Märchenheldinnen wie Dornröschen, Rapunzel und Schneewittchen zum Kringeln komisch aus wunderbar realistischer Sicht (”Snow White is doing dishes again / ’cause what can you do / with seven itty-bitty men?” - nur, um nochmal mich nochmal auf Schneewittchen zu beziehen ). Zu hören auf ihrem Album Little Voice (von wegen!) und natürlich hier:
Wärmendes Sonnenlicht, erdrückende Hitze, furchterregende Schauer (Donner und Blitz inklusive) und sogar Hagel (munkelt man). Aus diesem Anlass an dieser Stelle ein sehr süßes Gedicht von Alison Smith mit dem Titel “Weather”.
Weather
Horrible Weather
Staying in bed weather
Cuddling up close weather
Ignoring the world weather
Warm Weather
Go for swim weather
Take a walk weather
Picnic weather
Bald patches of earth bore olive green hair of silken grass,
which swayed frivolously with swift currents of winter breeze.
snow white rabbits had a furry shock of hard hair,
galloped at electric pace through winding lanes of the valley.
lethal alligators were adorned with a bush of needle like hair,
glided with languid energy through deep waters of the jungle river.
the maple trees possessed wild hair projecting from their roots,
gave birth to a cluster of sweet fruit tumbling down with sporadic outbursts of wind.
pure bed sheets of silk had a plethora of feeble hair,
ready to get brutally crushed at instantaneous contacts of bulky flesh.
the disheveled body of chameleon had sprouts of razor edged hair,
tickled masses of insects, bare walls of brick as it clambered up with difficulty.
long handle of broomstick had infinite hair of cheap cane,
scraped trapped molecules of dust and loiter from remote corners of kitchen walls.
the sparkling surface of ocean had ravishing hair of salt,
struck colossal portions of jagged rock with unparalled intensity of a wild tiger.
a bundle of crisp currency note had concealed hair of ecstasy,
had the tumultuous power to purchase all animate objects on mother earth.
all humans born had fragile bunches of hair emanating from their scalp,
the same grew into islands inhabited by deceit and lechery,
as advancing years crept, vanquishing immaculate hair of childhood,
into traces of everlasting oblivion.
Wie schon erwähnt mit dem falschen Fuß aufgestanden.
Weiterführende Literatur zum Thema Füße:
Cristóbal Romero, Juan (2008). Una muchacha descalza.
Una muchacha descalza
Sin verla pasar la intuyo,
acaso por su andar como
descuidado y sin asomo
de estridencias. Un murmullo
–suave contrapunto– a cuyo
paso parece la casa
no inquietarse. Se retrasa,
luego apura. La presiento
como un puro pensamiento
que sin verlo pasar, pasa.
). Zu hören auf ihrem Album 
