On touching liquids

In front of her she had a printed script of about ten pages, held together by a staple to turn over the upper left corner. Also Anna had a pen, which she was tipping continuously against her jawbone. She was reading to him: “Sophia was walking through a field of golden wheat in late September sun, dusk light casted her lashes and lay soft shadows on her eyelids …
... bullshit. Do you even want to hear this?”

“Sure, Sure, keep on. I am listening.”

“We definitely don’t need to do this.”

“Just fill me up.“

[Little pause, Anna's eyes hovering over the text] “If I could change this, I would rewrite it. It‘s so kitschy. Or totally ironical. Like, it’s either romanticising and idealising or just pointing out some pain in the ass. Okay, maybe that stuff is fiction, not real, but far more real than any science … It lacks the seriousness we need and seek. Am I naive?” She took a red pen and started crisscrossing over the text, making lines and notes and creating new narration on the pages.

Meanwhile, he was looking around in the room, his eyes, focussing different distances, swung from scene to scene, watching birds outside the window, the extraordinarily white and straight teeth of the guy some tables ahead, the barista baristing behind the bar in simple perfection of movement between coffee machine, dishwasher and trashcan, wearing a topical style of facial hair, deeply sunk yet nodding with the lo-fi beat of the music, portioning ground coffee into good caffeine sizes ...

[Anna abruptly started reading out what she had written:] "When walking through a field of golden wheat in late September sun, the dusk light softly shadowing her eye lids pictorially represented a fence towards the inner housing of hers...The phenomena of this Eden gated inwards through her lens twirled up abstractly in her optic nerve, punched and mixed up in the stream of accumulated knowledge prepared to filter and organize and order what suns strings played on her senses: So (to her) the physical environment was nothing more than a surrealistic painting.
Because what Sophia/Vergissmeinnicht came from was a city. Straight onward 24/7 production cycles of intertwining public spaces and privacy, transferring people from their families to their colleagues, their cuddle zones to their sources of trouble/work, from giving to taking and back. An itself maintaining commune with a safety membrane yet permeable enough (and nervously willing) to let in (some) others – not wholly, but a selective “thinking outside the box” was already implanted and mostly imbibed “in the box” for quite some time, appearing and flouring already in its manifested structure, such as words, gestures, arts, buildings, streets, etc.[1]– and beings sensible and engaged enough would try to work out and expand the tolerance and the coexisting of plural positions: to understand their own small existence in this bubble being not only just one of a thousand and more (of worlds) – but also the bursting tension of these. Too much, for Vergissmeinnicht, yet never enough.”

"You know, the thing also is, fiction isn’t only fiction. It flows. Everything flows – look at liquids, Screen interfaces, we are the liquidly scrolling and switching, connecting everything. Any narration naturally narrates the answering of its…umh… creation, of the source, this fictional and artificial uttering. But intertextuality [2] is reality. All I see is all I see is all I see. Your words appear in thousand forms and mediums, doubled, tripled, all real objects. Products for my consumption. Everything that hits my lease, no matter what source or from which level: Ingested and to be processed. But at the same time of course I am pretty aware of what actually is possible or rather not – That there is fiction and reality, and fiction produces, narrates and shares reality, but still is not real. It's fictional. And then, in the shifts, in those seconds between the levels/worlds there comes this feel creeping up slightly right here in the neck, in your Stammhirn, shiver, unclear, like a lost thought, that feeling of uncertainty: Uhm, where exactly am I? What is this who am I where … and how did this come? Which pill did I ingest? [...]”

“Could you please try talking less in terms and more in words? And define ‘intertextuality is reality’, please. And, could I add that maybe you see the world from a slightly narrational view?” He lay his head to the right and grinned capably.

The last point hit it. She was thinking in narrated worlds only. Stuck in words I am and words are no deeds, she thought, it all stays the told action, a matter of words: Not really a person. A product of the context, a subject of terms. Here are the limits of (her) control.
She turned her head. A Pause. “Interreality. That is what I meant. The princess and the pea. Think of your multiple channels, beautiful subtle but complex fabrics, digital layers produced out of a world made of fucking flesh/.. and dirt. Here the earth scales down on pea-size, a pea dressed in bits. Deserted pixels.”

“You don’t even know your point, do you?”

“Where is the sand? I mean where is the god damned desert!” Then she got maniac again with the pen on the paper. He was just watching patiently the beautiful movement of a madly working mind. Like a performative ornament, he thought.

“Create a city... Vergissmeinnicht thought … in left Dubai. Now not more than a relict of expiring transport-routes since nothing‘s left to be hewed out (…).Airlines, they still use the airport for older times sake maybe, or just didn’t believe in the end of modern horizons. Dubai was the last scream, the dernier cri, a pervert orgasm of a soon be gone world, paradoxically pairing beliefs. The water ran out but at that time its builders and inhabitants had already left the sinking ship (who could afford living there anymore? Not even fanatics) – the exit had been well part of the construction plans. Left behind there lay this vertically and horizontally worked space like a last-seasons toy. A quite expensive one. Surrounded by extinct suburbs of slums, dried out, not more than the rests of food and fecals of that exotic animal, whose skeleton still rests there, shimmering and shining squinty in the strong inexorable sun. Who would have thought it should once become a home for the children of the insane abracadabra of world(s) they were born in to? Vergissmeinnicht and some fellows had left their world – now settling down in this leftover heat inthe believe that there they could find at least nothing. Did they? Who knows. Do you know ‚nothing‘? Do you see ‚nothing‘?
But the moon was big at those skies. (– animist). To howl at. Vergissmeinnicht and the Crew could identify over that. They sat in a rooftop pool, empty, wearing Gucci on the bare skin (some shopping earlier that night to get of the sweaty clothes: take what you need, out of the 1001 malls, but washing cross out of your dictionary– and they had never been such thirsty) and far from any clear water.
Haven't we had everything: (Our depression as well) – the good life in this functioning network of all-time availability: exponential agglomeration of strengthening and thickening singular bubbles run and fed by the web canalsystem of amazon floods. Work Work Work, perfectionizing, individualising, solving. Can you feel the hardcore techno harmonizing with your pulse? We are in the flow. You are the flow. Musculature tensing – relaxing. Working – resting. Remember the plastic beaches with peoples perfectly bronzed skins, sweatingly gemmed with pearls of stinky salty water beneath a super bright sun. Slices of bathrobe clothing attached to the bodies roasting to exhaustion to stop the fucking brain! – but the cool turquoise pool water will revoke, refresh: go on. We wanted, we needed the real heat, the sheer beat of pulse in the veins, sandy lungs, loss of saliva to excuse no speaking to save and share wet lips for true communication. The light was fucking everywhere. Here is the darkness. …So did we come to die? I came for blinding the brain; to rewrite Orpheus, learn to believe in my playing fingers – because I would look, mistrusting by roots: and proof: of my own dirty hands, unable, unworthy to touch...
Unable. My hands are – they melt the Ones they touch into sweet liquid.I myself don‘t melt, I can‘t – but I dive deep, deep in your shimmering ocean, because you twinkle, your whole body glitters with every motion, essential fracturesof infinite morphing, slowmotion I catch the reflection with my breath, Ibreath in your sparkling, blurring with you, the immaterial – but dissolvementis impossible. I stay solid. But why am I unable to touch you as solid.
Searching for fucking mountains of rough stone air and coldness to encounter, to be in the solid waste landscape. It was meant to be a place for the boom of it all, to make it happen. The familiar countrysides not at all any type of wasteland. Hightech-biofarms or VR-Atlantis don‘t really offer a dirtysoil for morality: The dream of archaic flower blossoms as old as the hills of the waste land itself. Shantih Shantih Shantih. Is it only ever land of my thoughts? Imagine a set of white turned up eyeballs in a constantly shivering face, not moving for seconds, feeling like hours, feeling like years, of a lifetime, constantly shivering in a shock rigid. But time is not a thing anymore. Who needs time, who wants time anyway? The most precious is the Me, the You and the If, existing in a scale of light and darkness of day and night: earth, wind and fire, your skin approaching mine; your fists in the delves of my ribs, waving into each other quite perfectly...
How did I get here, Vergissmeinnicht asked herself – but one could argue that what drove them exactly to Dubai was an even deeper and denser (inter)weaving of ecosocial sense of guilt, the search for vision and the damn deep wounds in our inner formalities. Each of them was lying for his own more or less, some foot over another leg or ahead on ones belly, but very clear units of brains there in the pool, 56 meters above streetlevel.”
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[Julian:] “When will you accept that what you are searching for is a partner, is love, another body to encounter, intense (bodily) intercourse?”

She had never been close to a desert, but this was a deserted place. For still feeling home but getting lost for real.

There followed some minutes of silence.

[1] Anna later adds how she associates this to the feeling of fraud. Or the concerns, that selected otherness is a disguised own. Which follows you will never be able to encounter, because you only allow  otherness you can control.

[2] Here she would try to explain like this: All Texts that connect with the narration of your existence, of any "fictional" or "real" material, co-shapes the body of it, its being, its words, gestures, habits, rhythms: A Text = Any object, coproduct of its contexts.