ENDSIEG: THE SECOND COMING for Donald Trump

Milo Rau reží­ru­je čte­ní nové hry Elf­rie­de Jeli­nek v pře­kla­du Git­ty Honegger

Para­lel­ní onli­ne čte­ní nové hry Elf­rie­de Jeli­nek ENDSIEG: THE SECOND COMING- reak­ce na zno­vuzvo­le­ní Donal­da Trum­pa — v něm­či­ně a ang­lič­ti­ně. Režie Milo Rau, ang­lic­ký pře­klad Git­ta Hone­g­ger. S úvod­ním slo­vem Elf­rie­de Jeli­nek u pří­le­ži­tos­ti irác­ko-ame­ric­ké­ho para­lel­ní­ho čte­ní, po němž bude násle­do­vat roz­ho­vor s Milo Rau­em a Git­tou Hone­g­ger, kte­rý bude mode­ro­vat Frank Hent­schker, výkon­ný ředi­tel Mar­tin E. Segal The­a­t­re Center.

Diva­del­ní cen­t­rum Mar­ti­na E. Sega­la v New Yor­ku ve spo­lu­prá­ci s Vídeň­ským fes­ti­va­lem (Wie­ner Festwo­chen) | Svo­bod­ná repub­li­ka Vídeň uvá­dí v den inau­gu­ra­ce onli­ne čte­ní hry Elf­rie­de Jeli­nek ENDSIEG:DRUHÝ PŘÍBĚH.  Pře­klad Git­ta Hone­g­ger, režie Milo Rau, živě pře­ná­še­né na glo­bál­ní, na komu­ni­tách zalo­že­né peer-pro­dukč­ní síti HowlRound TV.

Němec­kou ver­zi čte Ursi­na Lar­di v Mossulu/Iráku; ame­ric­kou ver­zi čte Nico­le Ansa­ri-Cox v New Yorku/Spojených stá­tech amerických.

Toto onli­ne čte­ní hry ENDSIEG: THE SECOND COMING je vůbec prv­ní worksho­po­vou pre­zen­ta­cí ang­lic­ké ver­ze hry. S vel­ko­rysým svo­le­ním nakla­da­tel­ství Rowo­hlt, Ham­burk, Německo.

O hře

Demo­kra­cie se nachá­zí ve váž­né kri­zi a lidé jsou zma­te­ni. Elf­rie­de Jeli­nek rea­go­va­la na dru­hé voleb­ní vítěz­ství Donal­da Trum­pa důle­ži­tým tex­tem:  ENDSIEG, ponurým pokra­čo­vá­ním hryAm Köni­gsweg / Král měš­ťa­nů, kte­rá se věnu­je vol­bám ve Spo­je­ných stá­tech před osmi lety.

Jeli­nek uka­zu­je, jak jeho stou­pen­ci vidí „nové­ho staré­ho krá­le“ jako bož­sky vyvo­le­né­ho vyku­pi­te­le. Král však není sám, sto­jí za ním stí­ny, jeho poli­tic­ké a eko­no­mic­ké kli­ky, kte­ré boju­jí o jeho pozor­nost i mezi sebou navzá­jem. A odpor se hrou­tí: „Říkám, že už nic není, nic jiné­ho není, jiné už nee­xis­tu­je, není co vidět, zbý­vá jen to jed­no,“ pro­hla­šu­je sle­pý věš­tec. Co tedy zbý­vá kro­mě Jeli­nek neú­pros­né­ho zkou­má­ní naší doby?

Miss Piggy as Polyhymnia, Kermit also as somebody, behind them an alpine wayside shrine. A poem is recited, which is the following:

Don’t turn around! You are followed by a column of black ships, done up with flags, done up the women, moving up the beau­ti­ful rol­ling waves, the Lord makes them big, big­ger than ever, the women also do it, and this is how it shall be for all of us toge­ther, per­fect, das Volk, the Peo­ple, alwa­ys per­fect, alwa­ys wel­co­me. It says what it wants. It alrea­dy said it to us, no worries. And look: They stay up the­re, they stay on top, the­ir heads are abo­ve the water aga­in, in the foam which they secre­te, that’s the­ir ele­ment, otherwi­se they would drown: So now we know, they did not go down. It also may stay, as it was, the Peo­ple, the Volk, it will be gre­at aga­in, all of it, foam on top of the waves, which are coming and not going, yet, none­the­less, so tran­si­to­ry, human beings who get abused, pas­sed off as gar­bage or just offed, but they also off them­sel­ves. On the sho­res it is piling up alrea­dy, the sea of the sup­pres­sed, who finally are allowed to press on them­sel­ves, from below to abo­ve and then, all the more, from abo­ve to below. Whe­re­ver it is pres­sing, the­re is the Volk. We are here. Now we’ll soon beco­me freer, safer, heal­thi­er! The Lord will soon arri­ve! Oh, I see, He’s alrea­dy here!, I was not mis­ta­ken, I did hear the door open, this Lord who will embra­ce and kiss it, the Peo­ple. What demon destroyed it so cru­elly, this Volk? They did not need a demon at all, but they got him, in the West, the­re they appro­ach, out from below the snow-cove­red rock. Tho­se being led, tho­se being had. The pres­su­re gets pas­sed on, from both sides, it also pushes from below, all might wake up with cries of woe. They are alrea­dy awa­ke. It’s rol­ling, the wave rolls. Alrea­dy it can no lon­ger be stop­ped. The pres­su­re is pas­sed on, from all sides, all will awa­ke with sounds of woe. The wave’s enor­mous column rolls in, roa­ring. It can no lon­ger be restra­i­ned. Who would have thou­ght so? Well, I did. And it came true.

Now the­re are alrea­dy seve­ral Peo­ples, seve­ral Völ­ker, all pea­ce­ful now and ple­a­sant, we won’t need tren­ches any­mo­re, not in front of the court either and not a thou­sand ships of belie­vers, which are cut­ting throu­gh the water, plowing it up, sowing them­sel­ves into it, stirring it to stir up the mas­ses as well. Yes, the mas­ses also came. They brou­ght with them the­ir tri­bally bon­ded blo­od, so that it won’t get pollu­ted by fore­igners, for the newest deter­gent for sensi­ti­ve skins that does not lea­ve behind irri­ta­ting resi­due. The ships lie deep, the pilots fly deep. A bullet whist­led and eve­ry­bo­dy followed it, all of tho­se, who, once aga­in, aren’t even worth a whist­le, they just don’t know it yet. An umpi­re fired the star­ting gun and then quick­ly blew the whist­le. The win­ner was alrea­dy pre­or­da­i­ned. Eve­ry­o­ne knew it.

The pala­ce resounds with ste­ps, back and forth. The way it has been fore­ver, it will go on fore­ver more, accor­ding to the hymn. Eter­ni­ty starts now, dated as of today. Eyes turn for­ward, color rises in the che­ek. Done! The down stay down. A tou­gh hand made a grab for them, out of the water, from the sand, they are on the sand and think they are still at sea and cares­sed by the water, they make swi­m­ming move­ments, beco­me move­ment them­sel­ves, over­flowing eve­ry­thing, a glis­te­ning as if from snail sli­me, you wret­ched cre­a­tu­res, you devour my beau­ti­ful lea­ves!, but they alrea­dy tur­ned towards me, also the hos­ti­le ones, you can do nothing to me now, but you eat me out of hou­se and hair, yes, hair! What the­re is, will be dis­tri­bu­ted to fri­ends, the only human bre­ed that still exists. Freer, safer, heal­thi­er! Richer. I stand aga­inst it. Not with me! I say, nothing exists any­mo­re. The Other does not exist any­mo­re, the­re is nothing to look at, the­re is only the One, this time the Other is once aga­in the same and it will also stay that way. it is busi­ness as usu­al. It is nobody’s busi­ness. This gol­den crown on this head that rema­i­ned the same as we were befo­re all time, it fits fir­mly, the crown, a devasta­ting fire storm which calls itself pea­ce, pea­ce eve­ry­whe­re is alrea­dy in the making, the sewing machi­nes are whirring alrea­dy, the fle­sh melts down like pine resin. Ouch! This fab­ric cuts deeply into our skin.

And the bullet, too, it took the liber­ty, it whiz­zed by and took a pie­ce with it and that’s all it got, now that it had gone and done it. Eve­ry­o­ne wan­ted a part of it or be a part of Him, no, it only scratched, the bullet, it was hap­py to cut into that bark, now it is recor­ded, the spot is mar­ked eter­nally and now eve­ry­bo­dy who does not live, who only marks life by lif­ting the­ir leg any­whe­re some­o­ne has been, but also in the Nothing: the peo­ple and the­ir heads and with them the­ir heads in chief, I can men­ti­on them here only in pas­sing, no, bet­ter not, no pie­ce of the holy ear torn off by the sweep of the pas­sing bullet rushing by, without having to get any­whe­re. Neverthe­less, it sim­ply doesn’t have time. It has no time any­whe­re. But otherwi­se, it has nothing plan­ned. It is in a hur­ry and can’t accom­plish much more. Someone’s sha­king His dus­ty hair, the snow-blond hair, blonds alwa­ys win. They must win. Advan­tage blonds. The champs, not only in Ger­ma­ny, champ eve­ry­whe­re, your gol­den hair, your ashen hair, Shu­la­mit: You lost. You are fired. Your fle­sh is not wel­co­me here and nowhe­re else either. The Man now lives in the Hou­se. The Man takes possessi­on of His hou­se. The bullet knew it alrea­dy befo­re its tar­get. Without the band-aid, it can no lon­ger be seen. With or without the band-aid„ no one sees any­thing, not the sho­re under­ne­ath, not the face abo­ve the band-aid, pain­ted with chalk, fea­ring the rain, the disap­pea­ran­ce. We drink milk. The Man now lives in the Hou­se. We drink milk eve­ry day, black milk, because that’s all the­re is. We drink milk eve­ry day, because we can. And the fle­sh finally gives in, it alwa­ys must give in, it only has itself as pro­tecti­on, that which gives, now without a giver, the givers give to others, they much pre­fer taking, but to Him, to this man they give more, they make Him big like his land, no, big­ger, the land run­ne­th over with Him, and He run­ne­th over the sho­res, He, who has been pla­ced abo­ve humans, a cho­sen one, a god incar­na­te, they give pra­yers for the land to get even big­ger, so that folks don’t lie so con­fi­ned in the­ir gra­ves, so that they have room, but the­re is only water whe­re it ends. Who’s got the big­gest? No, that gra­ve we don’t want. We dig our own.

The land is almost enti­re­ly surroun­ded by water and whe­re it rema­ins hard, uny­iel­ding, unpro­ducti­ve, a wall will soon go up, whe­re it is too hard to dig, we’ll soon blow up, just you wait, soon, no one can stop it any­mo­re, a fen­ce, which sup­ports and lovin­g­ly enc­lo­ses it, the land, and makes it feel safe. More can be done! That dear land, it had to suf­fer so much, now there’s an end to suf­fe­ring, now the grail goes up to the Hill, whe­re it alwa­ys belon­ged, to the One, the mean one eve­ry­o­ne means, but carried by many who should have been reti­red long ago, like old tires, the­re, the crowd is uncoun­table, no, unac­coun­table, looks are thrown around, it doesn’t mat­ter whom they hit, looks are not retur­ned, they must first be exchan­ged, so that eve­ry­bo­dy can be paid back in the­ir own coin, small chan­ge, which won’t make him big­ger either, not eve­ry­o­ne can be big, not eve­ry wan­na-be big­gie is. The others might as well get lost and hand them­sel­ves over to Lost and Found. No looks the­re, looks are held on to, the crowd is among them­sel­ves. Now the crowd scre­ams like an ani­mal that wants to get out of the cage. And what the crowd wants, it gets. The cage is open. The ene­mies, the hos­ti­le prin­ces are for­ced back behind a reta­i­ning wall, the warri­ors are ques­ti­o­ned, one gets hit with a lea­den bullet or wha­te­ver it is made of, it hits inaccu­ra­te­ly, but well enough.

They demo­lish each other, they devour each other, they are try­ing it, how dear this image is to me!, I used it alrea­dy many times: Two ser­pents, both erect and entwi­ned in each other, sim­ply devou­ring each other, just like that! One last time: Come right up to me, all of you! But we are here alrea­dy!, many are say­ing, they don’t have much more say any­mo­re. No lon­ger fami­li­ar to any peo­ple, any nati­on, this form, which it cre­a­ted itself, a People’s beau­ti­ful fea­tu­res, something’s oozing out of it, I can’t see it, from all the shit in its head?, from blo­od?, from being drunk on itself. No. My mommy for­ba­de me to wage a batt­le, only when I –  – upon my return – – will look her in the eyes, may I fight aga­in, with still bet­ter wea­pons, which she will get for me. Unfor­tu­na­te­ly, she didn’t get them for me. She didn’t get it. My father got it. Get off your ass, build your own litt­le hou­se, so that all of us can live under one roof hope­fully high enou­gh not to hit it. We drink and drink. We wipe our mou­th. We wash our hands.

Still more water coming down, the looks of the dele­ga­tes, hea­vy-foo­ted they arri­ved, ligh­ter foo­ted they depar­ted. The­ir goal is behind them. Luc­ki­ly. Like the bullet. Base­ball caps no lon­ger pro­tect the base, they stroll atop the heads of tho­se peo­ple and seek, harm­fully now and then, to get hold of as many as possi­ble mor­tals. And if, for this pur­po­se, they must get back on the Hill aga­in, they will take it upon them­sel­ves, as peo­ple put the­ir fai­th in them­sel­ves, tho­se folks alwa­ys put the­ir fai­th and the money most of them don’t have in them­sel­ves and the­ir depu­ty on earth, The God. Below that they don’t do it. The­re is such raging, as if the goal were some­o­ne else, some other dickshit, in soli­ta­ry tor­ment, the looks now are ejec­ted for­ce­fully, they want to get some­thing for being here today, for put­ting out right here, for terri­fy­ing the others with words and batt­le roar. Tho­se are just words, but what kind! Select words others spat out befo­re them. They pick them up, thin­king that it was they who lost them. Calls as if of vul­tu­res resound, eagles join in, who­se young ones had been robbed, they eat you ali­ve. Imme­di­a­te­ly they draw the­ir circles high abo­ve the nest, the Adler­hor­st, the eagle’s nest, whe­re the­ir fate has been deci­ded and is deci­ded now. It hit the mark right on, it hit us, we were the goal, the tar­get. But we also aimed at the others. It doesn’t mat­ter now. Unho­ly hands throw away the sword, eter­nal pea­ce thre­a­tens, because then eve­ry­thing sta­ys as is, just –  – one more time, still more times –  – freer, safer, healthier.

Poor us scre­a­ming nest­lings, not even the scre­am will they per­mit us. The scre­am swept the bullet away, but this God does not die away, He doesn’t even have to resurrect, He is still erect, He is still hard, says, He gets slan­de­red, libe­led, but still stands the­re with his bib­le, just to show you, He is coming up for air. He takes a bre­ath of totally new air, which, however, is the old one, so that finally a dif­fe­rent wind is blowing. More air, ple­a­se! Here it is! Cheers! With our wings we flail around, living below us is that Hill-Billy, we some­ti­mes see him in the hallway, on the stairs, alwa­ys upward. We never see him wal­king down, like time, alwa­ys for­ward, bac­k­ward never. The sun has alrea­dy been appri­sed. It is so appre­ci­a­ti­ve, won’t rai­se an objecti­on, when it is about its shi­ning light, nothing is fas­ter! You have to ring the bell twi­ce, but not at the wrong door, be suspi­ci­ous, be susta­i­na­ble, even if no one noti­ces, stay at your post, stand by your Man! It is the second time around that the fun starts for real, you’ll see. Under­ne­ath us this hole, when did you last look into what was going on under you, oh God, you, super­na­tu­ral one abo­ve us, our who­le, dear home­land has sunk into a hole!, what can one say! Should we take the hole somewhe­re else? You just have to say it. So then do some­thing! A hole of which we don’t have an over­view, loo­king into the depth we avo­id, rising in front of it the taber­nacle with the only Rede­e­mer, whom we now are get­ting back aga­in, as our host, the holy host, He even gets dis­tri­bu­ted, neverthe­less, more is coming, the holy bread kee­ps mul­tiply­ing as more and more ingest it; eve­ry­o­ne gets a pie­ce of Him, after this Lord had disap­pea­red for a few years, because He was sto­len from us, we say it as it is, he was taken away from us. Now he is here again.

Let us turn away, the gates of this land of sorrow are unlatched, we see here the oppo­nent wri­thing in his blo­od, so it is said. Oppo­nents eve­ry­whe­re. But we are totally pea­ce­ful, we don’t attack, we get attac­ked and must defend our­sel­ves. In the womb of the mas­ses lies the out­co­me of this cam­paign. The mas­ses are like a mother to them­sel­ves. The mas­ses are a woman who, after all, pro­du­ced these human mas­ses. Let’s not be chil­dish! But we are chil­dren, so then, why not? The crown of thorns has been remo­ved. The God is now reco­gni­za­ble to tho­se, who alwa­ys were His, but did not know why. Excuse me, but we cer­ta­in­ly have the right to men­ti­on our reli­gi­on, and not alwa­ys only the one that loves to kill peo­ple! Of cour­se, that god, who, on eve­ry street­cor­ner can give you chan­ge for pea­ce with war, which he feeds on, often on-scre­en, even thou­gh he can’t be shown. Ours will show his appre­ci­ati­on, even of tho­se who do not acknowled­ge Him, tho­se he will know best, he’ll keep an eye on them, they’ve been ear­mar­ked, but the­re will be no con­sequen­ces. For our god no one must get his hands dir­ty, for the other one, his followers have the­ir hands full, all tho­se suit­ca­ses, which disap­pear from the con­veyor band as soon as it gets star­ted. The trolleys alwa­ys stand clo­sest to the bag­gage claim. In front of all the others. Our claim tags are not tac­ked on to us, they are tac­ked to our load, which we alwa­ys must tac­kle our­sel­ves. Guar­ding this nest, the hass­le, the pro­blems with the bre­ed –  – all for nothing, the wings keep rowing, the eagles can’t land any­mo­re, they come to a standstill, in the air is whe­re they stand still, but not silent and they look: qui­te a sight, huh!?, they lost the­ir home­land to eter­nal pea­ce. They scre­am. The other birds rai­se the­ir heads to hea­ven. Oh, My God! Eter­nal pea­ce I cre­a­te for you, says the Lord, no, not this one, the other. What I lea­ve you is pea­ce. No pro­blem. I give you my pea­ce –  – a pea­ce, such as the world can­not give to you, only I can do that. I repe­at: Pea­ce I lea­ve you, pea­ce I give to you and that is eve­ry­whe­re, the­re will be eter­nal pea­ce all over the world, which will go hand in hand with pro­spe­ri­ty, they alwa­ys come toge­ther, they have known each other fore­ver, thou­gh they never arri­ve. The add­ress was kept a secret from them, so now they just get going, but don’t know whe­re to and they dis­tri­bu­te some­thing to some, who scra­pe the fid­dle more dark­ly. I give to you not as the world gives. Let not your heart be troubled nor let it be afraid. I give you a pea­ce, no one else can give to you. It will be eter­nal and eve­ry­whe­re I am. I can’t repe­at it often enou­gh. No pro­blem, the ple­a­su­re is mine.

Well, let’s see if this will be a pea­ce! What are you say­ing? It can’t be seen yet? The gol­den river flows more cal­mly in pea­ce­ti­me, the directi­on is set. The eagles are scre­a­ming aga­in, we’ll get you alright! The eagles will land short­ly, step back from the bor­der or else they’ll get you, or else the war will get you, it will catch up with you, it will cash in on you aga­in, and you wouldn’t want that. The money we pou­red into war, we’ll now pour into pea­ce. We are really loo­king for­ward! Pea­ce will get you too, but elsewhe­re! Stay, whe­re you are, or it won’t find you. You are in the wrong pla­ce here. Pea­ce nowhe­re in sight, it hasn’t arri­ved yet. We can’t be saved, let alo­ne save any­thing right now. The water rises higher and higher, but at least peo­ple no lon­ger talk so high­fa­lu­tin.’ They finally say what’s what. They alwa­ys said so, but we didn’t under­stand them. They alwa­ys say the same thing, why? Because they are right. And that’s the tru­th. Thou­gh the ruler’s dice alwa­ys stops, whe­re­ver He hap­pens to be, doesn’t roll, doesn’t swing, its num­ber shows one side of the dice, just one of its many sides, yes, it is many-sided, eve­ry­bo­dy can see what num­ber is up, with one hand they can grab it, the dice, oh, could they, just once, grab His hand, the stur­dy ruler’s, who threw it, who threw Him­self at the bullet, He, from the line of David, no, not that one, dif­fe­rent tri­be, dif­fe­rent, ove­racti­ve mem­ber, with His mud­slin­ger He stands in court, to be depor­ted into the Never, no, not that, He didn’t see it coming, that bullet and He didn’t see any­thing else coming either. Not the other can­di­da­te, a woman, who’s alrea­dy gone aga­in, they alwa­ys go away, women, and it takes an eter­ni­ty, until they finally come. He likes what else He has in mind. He’s got all the time in the world now, which belon­gs to Him alo­ne. As our guy saw her go, no, it, the bullet, he knows what he can make of it. He can make plou­ghs and cut­le­ry out of it. He can make wea­pons for at home, for vio­len­ce, which can be used easi­ly at home. But He doesn’t do that. To each His bullet, that He can do. That works. You, too, will soon shake in your boots he sold you with fit­ting caps to bet­ter walk all over you, whi­le you lick His boots and He pulls out His strap to boot. That’s what you get for blowing your tops, just you watch for the sne­a­kers, He scre­ams. He is still con­fused, the squadrons are blowing into the flu­f­fy baby bird hair, the bullet might take some­thing along, some­thing of the fle­sh of His fle­sh, it doesn’t take much, inste­ad, now He is taking us along: He orders us: Stri­ke up a dan­ce. He is not the fas­test run­ner, He is no Achilles, by no means. But He is a good dan­cer. He swa­ys with him­self, He wei­ghs remar­kable pounds which are on the other side of the sca­le pan.

The stars glis­ten and He whist­les for his dogs, proud boys, to come. He takes His time. He takes His time for eve­ry sin­gle one, a gene­rous sli­ce of time for eve­ry litt­le ball to pla­ce it correct­ly on the lawn table, which He set him­self, only for Him­self. The round thing has to get in somewhe­re too. Ano­ther round. In this estab­lishment no one will say any­thing. The ball was in the sand. Now it isn’t the­re any­mo­re. The ball is no lon­ger the ball, at least not this one, the sand is no lon­ger the sand, at least not here. Oops, the ball, no, bullet lan­ded in the glass, no, grass, deli­ci­ous! Three bullets just for Him, whe­re one would have been enou­gh. The ice also knows whe­re it belongs.

The eagle is cry­ing now, he cries for his chil­dren. He, the old new King does not cry, His fle­sh can take it, with imme­di­a­te effect it can take any­thing. You can see it, He looks it. He doesn’t have to visit His dre­ams any­mo­re, they rea­li­ze them­sel­ves inde­pen­dent­ly, on the­ir own, they are no work for him, are right in front of him, He sees: Tho­se were not dre­ams at all, a man like He does not dre­am, He also lives in his dre­am, and how! This here, what is it?, the pile, what is it?, tho­se are cor­p­ses of peo­ple surroun­ded by other peo­ple, lamen­ting, because they have nothing bet­ter to do. He’ll put an end to all of this, eve­ry­thing, eve­ry­thing must end any­way, now eve­ry­thing must turn around, the world will be –  – I repe­at for the last time, cross my heart – – freer, safer, heal­thi­er, more won­der­ful with eve­ry day, who knows what it might be. Okay, so He will end vio­len­ce, which nobo­dy has any use for any­way, let’s be honest, or He will turn it aga­inst His ene­mies. You sure­ly see it like that, too, don’t you? It makes no dif­fe­ren­ce any­way. He likes to end things, because He doesn’t like to work, I tell it like it is. Why don’t I tell eve­ry­thing, because it is like it is? No idea, but at least He won’t have to dress warm any­mo­re, because he will stay naked, the Empe­ror, we don’t mind, it’s easier that way, when ano­ther disas­ter will be reve­a­led aga­in, in front of which we then will stand, spe­echless and cold. These flags do not ratt­le, they walk on tip­to­es throu­gh the gre­en front yards! And then they stand the­re, plan­ted, big­ger, taller than the other plants. Now cut for the vase, cut out of the pro­tecti­ve grass. Because eve­ry­thing is about us, who must not be dis­tur­bed. For this ruler we are plants for show. And/or. Whe­re did we put the cata­lo­gue with the bad seeds? Did he alrea­dy spread them all? He alwa­ys is at least one step ahe­ad of us.

The eye­lids sque­e­ze clo­se­ly in one’s sle­ep, which will, once aga­in bring forth mon­sters, ractactac, here they come alrea­dy!, no, it’s not yet them, this is a man who puts the week’s gro­ce­ries into the trunk and then seats his wife in the front, so that he knows, whe­re in front is, so that he will remem­ber. This is whe­re he must dri­ve. This is whe­re we are hea­ded, we for­got the bre­ak­fast fla­kes, we’ve got to go back! Let’s hope they aren’t mel­ted yet, the fros­ties! And you, Lord God, could also thaw for once! Relax. The smi­le of a God can’t clear up any fore­he­ad, exact­ly abo­ve his eye­brows, that is whe­re He rages, easy to see, eve­ry­o­ne sees it, in words and vio­len­ce, in the vio­len­ce of words, in the vio­len­ce without words, in the vio­len­ce or the words and in the popu­lar anti-wrin­kle poi­son, that’s per­fect, now He can wade around in him­self, it spla­shes and we did not put on a mud­gu­ard, so now we have to mul­tiply, the­re is no other opti­on any­mo­re, we sim­ply have to beco­me more, that’s how we plan­ned and pri­ced it, glo­ry and its pri­ce!, wha­te­ver, what did I want to say? His spe­e­ches cause some­thing to hap­pen, that’s all, no idea, some­thing is hap­pe­ning, some­thing is defi­ni­te­ly hap­pe­ning. And now it has hap­pe­ned, he still sta­res into the TV, whe­re He stars, He is worried, if His ear will hold up, yes, it holds up, will the out­co­me hold up, yes, it holds up, it has the scre­a­ming in a tight stran­gle­hold and pres­ses it to the ground, tho­se who were still on top, are the suc­kers now. That’s how fast it can go. Ser­ves them right! Why are they scre­a­ming so much? Now the ruler can’t hear His own words! That’s how His words hold on to him, that He can’t hear them any­mo­re. He drops them like hot pota­to­es. The crowd catches eve­ry­thing, they latch on to it all. They wrap him in crap with gra­vy. He is the­ir main cour­se, a court has con­fir­med it, after all. And you? What are you still doing here? You now must endu­re wha­te­ver bane He sends you, you’ll also endu­re big­ger disas­ters, just lis­ten to Him!, He spe­aks as if in his sle­ep, like His oppo­nent, a woman, whom we don’t have to remem­ber any­mo­re, who can no lon­ger coun­ter Him and never could. He is not too old, not too weak, not too sick, not too smart, not too stu­pid, go ahe­ad, ple­a­se, come on in! Who­ever is what he is not, is wel­co­me here. Luc­ki­ly, we don’t know what he is. We only know whom we want to make the ruler over us.

This mas­ter lost His oppo­nent, His sla­ve. You can’t find him at the moment, all of us will be sla­ves, eve­ry­o­ne tears from the­ir bones the withe­ring fle­sh, old they are them­sel­ves, and the young are young, they know it them­sel­ves. Eve­ry­o­ne is who they are. And, likewi­se, it is as it is. Huh? What do I think about that? The King says, that now He will most cer­ta­in­ly return, now all the more!, and the­re He is. But He will, on His way back, which won’t be a going back, but at least He’s got the tai­lwind for it, He will, possi­bly sli­ght­ly, lose His way by a few degre­es, len­gth times wid­th. The new oppo­nent He doesn’t even reco­gni­ze. But He knows, that this oppo­nent is insa­ne, abso­lu­te­ly insa­ne. That’s what he says, yes, exact­ly, He says it about a woman: a cac­kling madwo­man, a grin­ning mon­key, doesn’t even know her skin color by heart, thou­gh she looks in the mirror all the time, alwa­ys claims a dif­fe­rent one, when asked. And that is exact­ly what she is and alwa­ys will be: dif­fe­rent! Just with whi­ter teeth than we. They just can’t bite. The eagle scre­ams aga­in and the scre­ams of peo­ple follow Him, the­re is this tre­men­dous noi­se we have known for a long time. It drowns out eve­ry­thing. We know it and appre­ci­a­te it.

They mis­sed the last cru­ci­fi­xi­on, but now they are all part of it. They are wit­nesses and will sure­ly encoun­ter the King on the­ir next walk, the dis­ci­ples will encoun­ter and reco­gni­ze Him. Or not. Some­o­ne is alrea­dy put­ting his hand into the wound but gets drag­ged away. We don’t want to hear about wounds today, on this day of tri­um­ph. Wha­te­ver you died of, don’t say any­thing now, because we alrea­dy know it. We know what you are say­ing and going to say, we are voting our­sel­ves, and the­re­fo­re, we vote for our­sel­ves. We elec­ted our­sel­ves, we didn’t have to look at the ballot. We are chil­dren who talk to blind old folks, we are old folks who talk to deaf chil­dren. All of them are tal­king at once, but the result is the same. With royal gifts the win­ner is wel­co­med in the hou­se. We behold his sto­ried pla­ce of rest: it is not, it is some­thing else, whe­re only one can thro­ne. As for us, we do not want to sit on uncon­secra­ted ground in the gods’ gro­ve, besi­des, He is alrea­dy sit­ting the­re. He rules and lets us rest. He finds no rest or pea­ce, like a spec­ter, He holds up a dra­gon kite to His entou­rage. It will fly off right away. The­re are no more pur­suers. He is the Lord of money, more one can­not be. But the money can alwa­ys be more. How about a litt­le more? No. The other one has the money, the mil­ky highwa­y­man, the sperm wha­le, that big whi­te mobi­le dick, votes don’t count much in this regard, peo­ple don’t count, only money counts, who­se mas­ter He is, because He made him­self into it and was also made for it, by dark fore­igners, whom we shall never meet. They hold the­ir hands under His soles and hea­ve Him up, hea­ve-ho! We must, of cour­se, take our cue from the resi­dents and do His will. That’s what they want. They don’t even know what they want! Do they act or hesi­ta­te? Our sen­ses?, no, not ours, some sort of non­sen­ses fore­see: Soon tho­se who endu­red unspe­akable horror, horri­fic pain from sha­red tri­bal blo­od, will soon be han­ded over. Nothing can be done about it. This seer wears her new sun­glas­ses with pri­de, except that behind them she sees nothing. It works. No god works here, So then, we just make our own. He is made of transpa­rent glass, but nothing can be seen. Seer she is of gre­at batt­les, a storm-dri­ven small dove who advan­ces up to ether clouds and glo­ats at the sight of such batt­les, suc­king on the blo­o­dy eye-can­dy the­re. Or some­thing like that. But she sees nothing. Can’t bla­me me for it.

Our devo­ted pur­suer clo­se behind us, still devo­ted, but sure­ly soon devi­ous, referred to as “the spec­ter” below, some­o­ne pain­ted on the wall war­nin­g­ly, rather than spe­a­king of his vice, but big­ger he is than the boss, the current win­ner, who still follows His litt­le balls, rather than tur­ning around for once, a super­i­or who does not trust the spo­ken word, nor the deed, who will very soon come by in per­son to see, if the devo­ted follower might not be suc­cess­ful, possi­bly mar­ching alrea­dy in front of Him, the King, because then he would have to take a step back aga­in, at least one step into the line. So then our follower might not even follow us, he follows com­ple­te­ly dif­fe­rent types, who haven’t tur­ned around for him once, nor twi­ce, they know who he is. They alwa­ys know whe­re he is. We also turn around and see nothing, we see nobo­dy and nothing, our follower sim­ply doesn’t follow, he doesn’t want to follow all the rules and that’s His vice. I don’t know whe­re he is now, but I know, he is here.

They are tal­king about all this, the pur­suer talks from the Off, from the out­si­de in, he inter­fe­res, he tells some­o­ne, his boss, who did not under­stand what hap­pe­ned, and whi­le they talk and shout, so that they don’t under­stand the­ir own word and exchan­ge thou­ghts about what they still can’t under­stand, eve­ry­thing really, that hap­pe­ned, on the cross and to the left and the right, and this they don’t under­stand at all: how could any­o­ne put up with such a thing, and mea­nwhi­le, they go on tal­king and shou­ting, so that now it’s not just the­ir own words they don’t under­stand, they don’t under­stand the others’ either, tho­se least of all, all of them are shou­ting the same thing, but alwa­ys dif­fe­rent­ly, with words they want to aven­ge other words, the coun­te­nan­ce of the Lord and Mas­ter, they can’t kiss it, so they shout; the­ir shou­ting han­gs over the­ir heads, which are get­ting hea­vy from it –  – okay, so, whe­re was I?, because you con­stant­ly interrupt, asking me things I don’t know either, but mind you: the whi­te dove for the King arri­ved and has alrea­dy gone aga­in, you can read about it in a moment, pity, we would have loved to take a sel­fie, even bet­ter, a lot of them, so that eve­ry­o­ne knows the King was here, He is here aga­in, just because He was here once alrea­dy, He is here and gone, the dis­ci­ples will acqui­re a pea­ked cap with his catchy phra­se that He will come aga­in and, lo and behold, here He is alrea­dy, well, that must go on your head now, but it’s not worth it any­mo­re being youn­ger, or jün­ger in ano­ther ton­gue, none of us will beco­me Jün­ger, (I am so asha­med for say­ing this. [T/O: Well, no pity for or from the transla­tor!]), the King doesn’t need this any­mo­re, He does not need to beco­me youn­ger, a youn­ger one stands rea­dy alrea­dy, right behind Him, he alrea­dy ste­ps on his heels, he is more than rea­dy to walk right throu­gh the old King, like a hot kni­fe throu­gh britt­le bones. The land is big enou­gh for him, now and fore­ver, current­ly it is still open to any­thing, who knows for how long; young or old, it’s all the same, it’s all His, the King owns it all and even more ground for his sho­es the­re, too, he did not have to pull them off, they are the sho­es of no fisher­man, just sho­es, if He’ll ever find them aga­in, even thou­gh He was shot at: a miracle!, because the­re He is, back alrea­dy, the sho­es are also pre­sent, no one would step into tho­se! But He. So, in any case, the­re He was, the­re He is aga­in, how does He do it?, how does He do it?, He did it. Unfor­tu­na­te­ly, He can’t be eve­ry­whe­re. His fans are disap­poin­ted. Because He is also elsewhe­re, not whe­re his sho­es were, but elsewhere.

He belon­gs to eve­ry­bo­dy. Pity, we wan­ted Him for our­sel­ves only. But He belon­gs to all. Now He belon­gs to the world, we behold His retre­at, let Him play out his tricks or tre­ats, we still need Him. Whe­re He sits, others will also sett­le. Do we really want a guilt-sta­i­ned man in this posi­ti­on? We do and also will get Him, we don’t see His guilt at all, not His infa­mous mari­tal bond. We con­si­de­red Him a nati­ve, who does not per­mit vaga­bonds to shack up among us. Trus­ting Him, we put our hand on this good catch, we might not have done it, had He not thre­a­te­ned us that without Him we won’t get ahe­ad, we’ll get nowhe­re, see only pain and sorrow eve­ry­whe­re and only the dead would not be tou­ched by mise­ry. All others He will beat. He is old, but all others He still can beat, hole in one! and that is His way. What do you think? You think you’ll get a free lunch here?! No way, and not che­a­per either, the others, all the others He still can beat, from resurrecti­on to resurrecti­on, for ever and ever, He just has to keep an eye on the watch, on the one coast it is dif­fe­rent from the other. The­re­fo­re, He must resurrect more often, eve­ry sta­te wants its Savi­or after all. Like ebb and flow aga­inst the sea. They also keep coming. Even I under­stand this. Here with us it is day, whi­le you are still beni­gh­ted. And now He will safe­ly escort His dis­ci­ples throu­gh the crowd, that will divi­de befo­re them on its own, no need to divi­de and conquer, the crowds can take care of this, any others are not around any­mo­re, they didn’t get in. The crusa­de is over, now it’s high time to crucify.

The she­pherds of nati­ons rise, the King, once aga­in not among them, but He will come. He’ll make His appea­ran­ce short­ly, it is said. The havoc He wre­aks He won’t run into him­self, His father’s soul, dece­a­sed, does not con­tra­dict Him, nobo­dy con­tra­dicts Him, faw­nin­g­ly, eve­ry­o­ne heralds His fame. He won. He kept His herd toge­ther. He wasn’t han­ged for a she­ep or a lamb, for that mat­ter, inste­ad, He could feather his nest all the bet­ter. He she­pherds sepa­ra­te­ly, He has His own herd that greets Him eve­ry day with its pled­ge of alle­gi­an­ce. He is with the wolfs, He is not with the she­ep. Why rescue a fore­ign peo­ple, if no one rescu­es the­ir own from the­ir ruler. That is His first goal, because He does not have to pro­tect it, His peo­ple, who took care of the ene­my of the til­ted –  – but that didn’t do Him any good –  – ruler’s ear. His peo­ple know how to do this. I, the Donald, could duck in time. ‘T’is ear­ly practi­ce for one who wants to pre­ser­ve him­self for poste­ri­ty. He won’t even have to save up Him­self, His assets are so huge, no rea­son to save. He is not stingy with Him­self. He also prai­ses him­self. This is the Boss prai­sing! Pub­licly faw­ning on his glo­ry seems smart to Him, sin­ce no one else does it or do they? He boasts how wise­ly He will run things, whom He will sack, whom He will keep. What kind of dirt He will cle­an up, what then stir up, what stir He’ll nip in the bud, who­se butts He’ll bust, whom He will dump. With all that prai­sing He for­gets this: if ever a land is adept at devou­t­ly ser­ving its god –  – this King trumps it! We’ll get to that, He says, one thing after the other. The hel­pless will go first, we’ll do away with tho­se, we besie­ge God with pra­yers, so that eve­ry­o­ne knows by what bre­ed of men this land will be led and who will be hel­ped susta­i­na­bly and who then must get out instant­ly! Upright is the Man, who is your Mas­ter. He does not help the hel­pless, He hel­ps tho­se who don’t need help.

The eagle shrieks aga­in!, no one says Stop, nobo­dy tells it any­thing , somebody’s got to say Stop! But this one dri­ves throu­gh eve­ry­thing, eve­ry Stop sign. Somewhe­re there’s a big cra­sh aga­in. No idea. No, nobo­dy here. Only He’s still here, but He withd­rew, there’s some­thing, some­bo­dy we set in moti­on, but whe­re is He? Is He pla­y­ing His lame, I mean lawn game aga­in, hey, even the ball hurries away from Him. We can’t do that. We have to stay. Whe­re did He go? How come, they’re all here, how come no one is? Just now He’s been tal­king to us, His wife at his side, who is eve­ry­thing, but cer­ta­in­ly not His mother. Any minu­te her face will tear right throu­gh the mid­dle, that’s how taut it is. We are tan­ta­li­zed, may­be we’ll see it hap­pen. And sin­ce this bullet did not hit Him, it could not have been shot by his father. That’s not the way. He would have bet­ter aimed at Him, we stay here unhin­de­red, but besi­de our­sel­ves, and nothing has been set asi­de for us. So, which side are you on, boys. Nobo­dy is nee­ded any­mo­re, the­re­fo­re he isn’t here either, the big rap­tor on the mount, soon he will rape his prey like the car manu­factu­rer. Because even in the futu­re, cars will not be born by sons of man, they’ll still run off the pro­ducti­on line, but they won’t be able to run away. On the street thou­gh, they will try. Nobo­dy can stop this luc­ky stri­ke any­mo­re, least of all a nobo­dy. Thus He stands, the Prin­ce of Hea­ven, the gol­den locks, or wha­te­ver that is, cove­ring old and new wounds, He doesn’t seem to won­der that he wasn’t even woun­ded then, what’s the­re to won­der, it was a miracle. Amen to that. The noblest Führers around Him now, a gol­den flock, gold-pla­ted long ago, yes, also the armor around the­ir chest, pea­ce it says on the­ir licen­se pla­te, but do they know it too? Do they know what to do, whe­re to go with all tho­se batt­les. Yes, sure, why not, gil­ded also the plu­me on the sparkling hair-hel­met. Eve­ry­thing else on Him they’ll also gild, wan­na bet? Around Him they stand, and He, He’ll be coming momen­ta­ri­ly, it is his moment: a won­de­ring, no, woun­ded god at the cen­ter. When the doc­tor, quick­ly sent for, may­be alrea­dy pre­sent all the time, just to be sure, got to see the wound of the quick­ly pas­sing bullet, he suc­ked His blo­od, no, he did not suck any blo­od, that’s what the King lea­ves to the other blo­od­suc­kers who want to wea­ken our wor­kers, so that he will beco­me a strong Führer and also stay one, at the­ir expen­se, tho­se, however, belie­ve, that the power­ful will rather pur­sue boars or boun­cing balls than them: not with us!, we are not the elect, but with us electi­ons are won. The band of the rich, who come craw­ling throu­gh the­ir needle’s eyes and move into pala­ces instant­ly, whe­re they have been alrea­dy any­way, whe­re they keep going in and out as usu­al, this band-aid will now be torn off, pull your­self toge­ther!, and take a look under it, tho­se wol­ves, the wol­ves of Wall Street, have alrea­dy devou­red eve­ry­thing! To the bone! This wound reeks! Gan­gre­ne! They won’t get throu­gh, they won’t get throu­gh to us, in our litt­le whi­te hou­ses in the prai­rie, they won’t get the­re any­way and we’ll never go to whe­re they’ve lost hou­se and home, poor bastards, for whom we’ll do some­thing, we just don’t know yet what. You can’t tell us any­mo­re, what and whom we can bla­me? Okay, not Him, but we can bang our head aga­inst theH, which we spe­ci­ally cle­a­ned befo­re with a fil­thy rag. We wan­ted to finally make a cle­an sweep! Nobo­dy tells the tru­th, but we are tel­ling it all the time, it’s just that no one noti­ced. That hel­ped Him, no doubt. Now He sta­ys with us, unhin­de­red, unless He dies befo­re and then His spec­ter will be called into acti­on, His sha­dow who will cover all of us, until we suf­fo­ca­te in it, because money needs no peo­ple. It needs only itself. This sha­dow goes in front and throws with peo­ple, not the other way around. And then eve­ry­thing is taken from them. Take me, take me! Take you whe­re? But nobo­dy will ask this ques­ti­on anymore. 

The takers will be known to the court. Tickets are han­ded out, the sweat of work, no pain, no gain, which we don’t have any­way, because others deter­mi­ne it, we don’t smell our sweat, only that of the others, the­ir pan­ting we can hear all the way to our shacks, the comra­des’ rage is on fire and must be extingu­ished, otherwi­se we’ll be late at the show­ground, whe­re we get wei­ghed so that the Lord, our mas­ter will rema­in well-dis­po­sed to us. Whom will He buy today?, some­o­ne who ste­als even the chil­dren of eagles?, some­o­ne who will also cle­an you out, He’ll also tra­de you an eye for an eye!, did you alrea­dy look at the new pictu­res of Him? No, He won’t do that, He won’t buy him­self any­o­ne, He’s alrea­dy got Him. Don’t exag­ge­ra­te like that, it’s so typi­cal of you!, on the con­tra­ry, He, in return, He will give eve­ry­thing, He doesn’t have to do that, He’ll let you have it, less than He’s got, I just don’t know what and how much! These folks ally them­sel­ves with others, there’s bon­ding and bro­ther­ho­o­ding, the sis­ters left, finally!, new bonds are in the making, bundles get pac­ked up: beat it, under the bridge, into the vault of hea­ven! Now all of them are one unique­ly uni­fied Peo­ple that made itself big on its own so that His Majes­ty has a lan­ding field and won’t fly off the han­dle but rather han­dle us mer­ci­fully and spring for a couple of boxsprings for us. And, of cour­se, this Lord and Mas­ter had to also enlar­ge the ground under him con­si­de­ra­bly, to make room for all the buckets that must be kic­ked, no one shall sle­ep, all dead!, okay, His reach must also be exten­ded, so that he can see, whe­re He put tho­se damn sho­es. Give me my sho­es, He called after the stu­pid assas­sin, who didn’t know either, because he was mis­sing, not when he was called but when he got down to acti­on. That guy was all He nee­ded on the cross, He can still cho­o­se the side him­self, whe­re He’ll be plan­ted on his cross, I can alrea­dy hear him cock the gun. With that one He should have fra­ter­ni­zed?, with that pig? What a dumb reli­gi­on, even the vir­gin-cha­sers are bet­ter off, the­re they have them coming, thou­gh they’ll also have to sha­re them. Fra­ter­ni­zing –  – all humans do it. So that all of them can hang toge­ther. He too, He right in the mid­dle of cour­se, He is a smart and swift man at pra­yer, immu­ne to any kind of mis­cella­ne­ous ple­as. That the land be finally big enou­gh for all tho­se who want it more com­for­table, and big­ger, and they also made it big­ger, so that the­re is room for all of them, so that all of them have room whe­re the King alrea­dy is, whe­re even the King goes on foot, because He doesn’t want to go the­re at all and never gets the­re any­way. High prai­se for His con­si­de­rati­on of us. We pass it on, He deser­ves it. So that all of them, without moo­ing, can be led to the slau­gh­ter­hou­se, whe­re ani­mals exha­le with a roar but not in– any­mo­re. Yes, some, who could nei­ther hear nor see and didn’t know what hit them, have inste­ad an under­stan­ding of catt­le and the best ways to kill it, so that it would shut up and let us get some rest, befo­re the eter­nal rest: on our way on behalf of the herd, by order of the catt­le we wield this pit­ch­fork to get them in tune, just lis­ten to the­ir inte­res­ting pitch, gun care and heal­th con­t­rol, USA today, tomorrow the world! Riots further away over the­re, this pitch here was one too, a hell of a hoot, whi­le we were just practi­cing on the sho­o­ting, no, the dri­ving range. 

Sim­ply by being the­re, they do it, they could do it, what? No idea. Oh, yes, sure, that’s what it was. Make the land big­ger, make it as big as it has alwa­ys been, you just didn’t noti­ce back then! So, do it, finally, make it big­ger, at least as big as it once has been, it’s just that we didn’t know it then. So get going, at least as big, that’s how it must be once aga­in, so that we too can finally see it! We call on eve­ry­o­ne: Join in as sup­port for our land and our bur­ghers, Join and we’ll rock the world out of joint: O bles­sed spi­te, that ever I was born to set it right! You have resis­ted sle­ep for so long, now the King sung you to sle­ep. He finally got you to see the light, the blue light on the ride to the hospi­tal, also for Him­self, to the Hou­se of hou­ses, also for Him­self, but only short­ly, wha­te­ver, this terri­ble time has ended now. He is back in the are­na. The rob­bing He’ll do him­self this time, in per­son, we, however, are stan­ding the­re and tole­ra­te it. The road to it, no idea, but I ‘ll be the­re fas­ter than you, lea­ding the way to ser­ve you as the Führer, yes, to ser­ve, that’s what it’s called now, sin­ce the servants are finally silent, no more chan­ce for them, well, I can’t see any. Remem­ber: The catcher gets cau­ght and He, the hun­ter, was struck by hunter’s luck. What do we say to it? We say: what­so­ever is won with gui­le and aga­inst the law, can­not endu­re. Hel­pers He won’ find either. Say what? And what about His sha­dow? He‘s alrea­dy get­ting big­ger, a man who will come, – – the man of the futu­re, short­ly befo­re his arri­val – – who will repla­ce him, bet­ter than He has ever been, a right hand, that is given to the King, whi­le the left hand, which knows exact­ly what it is doing, alrea­dy clasps the land. Which means with a money clip? You sure­ly can­not over­lo­ok Him, He knows the Volk bet­ter than him­self, this Führer of the Sha­dows, who will come to take away the rest of our sins. He alrea­dy carries His wishes bald-faced in front of him. Okay, but what is thrown here is qui­te wei­rd, it is a man, not his sha­dow, the sha­dow throws the peo­ple, I can’t belie­ve it! No one else belie­ves it, because no one has ever seen it this way. The­re, behind Him a gigan­tic sha­dow, who doesn’t even look like his thrower, well, so now he just tur­ned the tables and threw his thrower. That one turns around now and then, because He does not cast a sha­dow, He is one, after all, He doesn’t under­stand it, He sud­den­ly feels so light, as to His body He is a rather groun­ded per­son, who, like all of us, came craw­ling out of the ground, sin­ce ima­gi­ning a woman for it would really be too dis­gusting. No, He doesn’t say this, We are say­ing it? A tal­king sha­dow, giant sized? I can’t ima­gi­ne it. I must be wrong. Well, let’s hope so! Well, no one hears it any­way, let’s stop it, stop it, so that He can rule in pea­ce and qui­et, so that He can get to work undis­tur­bed, so that He can get down to busi­ness, so that He finally gets to sit down and put on His sho­es, which He once lost unse­e­mly, never aga­in will He come unar­med to a bra­zen riot, He will be loa­ded. He will lean on some­o­ne we don’t see, His sha­dow, almost invi­si­ble, no, not really, ear­lier I descri­bed him as dark and gigan­tic and as the actu­al per­son, who, like a dis­cus thrower in rever­se drags his mas­ter behind him, who hauls the who­le earth behind him, because it is a disc, I can’t tell, as hap­pens so often, whe­re he is now, but he is here, what do I know, he is alwa­ys here, the futu­re one, he’s wai­ting alrea­dy in the ruler’s body, that he can sepa­ra­te from the lat­ter and rule him­self. The ruler won’t stay, no ruler sta­ys, it would mean, after all, that He sta­yed behind, sta­yed back, no, we don’t want that, He sta­ys here with us, unim­pe­ded, the ruler and his sha­dow stay, it makes no dif­fe­ren­ce, who is in front and who’s behind. Done. Finished. He assu­res us He won’t die befo­re at least four years, then His sha­dow can take over, he can practi­ce in the mean­ti­me, he won’t rest until all the money will be direc­ted to tho­se who want to mar­ry it, he is the bride’s father of the money and its bri­de­gro­om at the same time. The bri­de he is not. That would go too far. He also is his dow­ry, this righ­te­ous man has ear­ned it.

The King will fix eve­ry­thing. Off with the crown of thorns!, He doesn’t need it any­mo­re, nor the band-aid on the ear –  – so big, they could also see it in the back rows and boxed the­ir own ears, to get rea­dy for the field of the batt­le, the batt­le for the field –  – this band-aid he doesn’t need now any­mo­re, it was a small crumb of con­so­lati­on, he doesn’t need it any­mo­re. He doesn’t need con­so­lati­on. He is the con­so­lati­on for the ravaged land. He rushes spright­ly to the honor-crow­ning open batt­le in front of the came­ra, it is over. He won. He wants to talk instant­ly with His sha­dow now, but that one alrea­dy does not answer Him. But all along the line He paces off, He doesn’t need answers. He is suf­fi­ci­ent. He is not insu­f­fi­ci­ent, but we cer­ta­in­ly have enou­gh of Him. His mou­th is equip­ped with a gol­den lock, that is sup­po­sed to pla­ca­te us. No chan­ce to ever get into it, into the ruler’s body! The chips are in pla­ce, the followers put in the­ir pla­ces, the followers are pla­in, but they count, each one of the­ir small votes coun­ted, the fire is bur­ning now, it has been bur­ning for a long time. Nothing chan­ged, no one wal­ked across the water. It has been deci­ded. That’s all. It’s over. The eagles pack up the­ir pic­nic bags and fly away, with sad glan­ces at the empty nest, well, they’ll just build a new one. Some­bo­dy will guard it. And that will also be He.

It was all for nothing, but not for free. The batt­le over the Hill, the batt­le on the Hill, the shi­ning light of the dei­ty, eve­ry­thing vanished, the gol­den hou­se gone, the dis­gra­ce of having won and still lost: vanished. Eve­ry­thing gone and then this! Won aga­in! I don’t belie­ve it! Who can stand it, some­thing like that? It’s get­ting boring and alwa­ys the same, win­ning, alwa­ys the same, the usu­al suspects are alwa­ys win­ning, that’s no fun. The win­ner is alwa­ys He and if, for once, He doesn’t win, then He’s the tempting pro­fit that’s worth fighting for. The sha­dow even turns around some­ti­mes, if his super­i­or, who now trots behind him is still here. Now, unk­nown wan­de­rer, what do you have to say to this? Wouldn’t you say your guard is a fal­se seer? Your guard is your sha­dow, who is even more you than your­self? Qui­te clo­se and alrea­dy on the way to here, just in case the sha­dow would deign to turn around to see, whom else he could lead on.

The King’s vic­to­ry-hap­py shout rea­ches all of us in sound and visi­on. Just a moment, we are coming! We are mar­ching West, whe­re, may I ask, is it? Excuse me, aren’t all of us the West? The run of the belie­vers will fill the bre­a­ches in this fallow earth, whe­re the­re hasn’t been life in a long time, in mea­dows, in highwa­ys, what are you stan­ding around doing nothing, you vul­tu­res? And you eagles, what about you? Bre­ak is over, bre­ak-ins are on, eve­ry­thing that has been locked, the last bas­ti­ons, burn them down, now eve­ry­thing goes. Sha­me­less and yet vul­ne­ra­ble, the country’s sons fre­e­ze in pla­ce, exhaus­ted from the­ir rushed runs over the all too lei­su­re­ly mowed mea­dows, throu­gh no lon­ger gre­en valleys. The last ones are alrea­dy get­ting up aga­in, the front lines will also have the­ir turn, up ahe­ad there’s that sha­dow, he’ll also have his turn, the lines are mar­ching on, the lus­ci­ous pastu­res, the busy mea­dows aren’t lazy either, but the grim cuts will get them, soon. The­re is a rea­per. Yes, but we don’t see him, whe­re is he? He’s called death. Oh. Yes, the sons too. They are also into it, and in for it. They are run­ning throu­gh the cities, which are also tired from eve­ry­thing that is done to them eve­ry day, let alo­ne during the night! But no one must sle­ep! They can be tired, let them be tired, and inatten­ti­ve too, a God will think for them, but they must not sle­ep, not yet, the God will put in a tree, He will put on all of them, and if He can’t do it, He will pass on the gar­den to even stron­ger rea­pers behind it, you can’t ever see throu­gh it, tho­se who­se repre­sen­ta­ti­ve he is, the rep of reps„ tho­se repre­sen­ta­ti­ves who­se color­ful gli­t­zy things in the sam­ple case he does not under­stand, he under­stands nothing about them, he has no clue even of what goes into a suit­ca­se, how then can he sell them. But tho­se have been sold long ago! Even when dying, will He not be totally mise­ra­ble, when they come clo­se to him from both sides –  – chil­dren, cud­dle up to him, like tho­se of the anci­ent, fallen King. Sha­dow, do what you want! Embra­ce the father or don’t, so that He can reco­ver from the mise­ry of His long voyage and His for­lorn­ness and lone­li­ness. Let alo­ne His lega­cy! Who­ever can still wait will be in for a big sur­pri­se, I can gua­ran­tee it. Now I will only brie­fly tell of what went on! As if I could really do that! At my age one loves the spa­re word. I don’t have room for more any­mo­re. That case He can clo­se, the Savi­or, the Father: Lis­ten to Him only: Lis­ten only to Him! Don’t lis­ten to me, you’re sup­po­sed to lis­ten to Him! And warm regards! In the futu­re be as loyally con­cer­ned about me, as you have been up to now. I need it. I am all alone.

Still tired from the fast run? Aban­do­ned by cou­rage and stren­gth? Then they might as well follow Him, there’s no one else around. At the sea­sho­re the peo­ple, who are like the sea, boundless these days, the­re are no bor­ders for them, they are eve­ry­thing, they are eve­ry­bo­dy, they are totally dra­i­ned, but not drow­ned, they can play eve­ry­o­ne else too, the eagles too, for all I care, the few that still can fly, cha­sed by the majo­ri­ty, who roam throu­gh the woods with the­ir guns. Tho­se aren’t heard of, the sho­o­ting majo­ri­ty is not heard of. You’ll hear from them very soon. You’re gon­na hear from us, they say. The majo­ri­ty is often heard of and will be often heard of, but no one lis­tens. He alwa­ys was the win­ner, that’s somewhat mono­to­nous, don’t you think so? Tho­se who saw it them­sel­ves don’t even lis­ten any­mo­re, they alrea­dy know it, they remem­ber past stri­fes, but are hap­py to let go of what’s past to whe­re­ver it wants, like the sha­dow its per­son, althou­gh all of them are dis­tres­sed that now no one, besi­des the­ir nei­ghbors, wants to even argue with them. Will this spe­ech pro­tect? Will they be pro­tec­ted from this power­ful spe­a­ker? No, this spe­ech will not pro­tect them, they don’t need any pro­tecti­on any­way, now all of them are for the ruler, no mat­ter what He says. Exact­ly, it is as I pro­phesied: So, the­re is one wal­king along the oce­an sho­re who had fore­sworn the rage aga­inst the she­pherds of nati­ons, but He does not give a damn about tho­se Peo­ples, I swear. Except for this one. Shou­ting horri­fi­cally, it attracts its ruler’s atten­ti­on alwa­ys anew, who­se wound has stop­ped hur­ting long ago. They are many, they are almost eve­ry­bo­dy, they gir­ded them­sel­ves with the­ir own stren­gth, the pants slip down, none­the­less. One can alrea­dy see the­ir fright­ful balls. Sor­ting and orde­ring, they walk throu­gh the lines of warri­ors, who they are them­sel­ves, they stand erect, they arm for the final batt­le, the End­kam­pf, the date is fixed alrea­dy, they were told. Pre­li­mi­na­ry batt­les no lon­ger necessa­ry, aga­inst whom, huh?, fore­fi­ght for what, when the main batt­le has alrea­dy been won, befo­re the fore­fi­ght star­ted? Excuse me, aga­inst whom was the main batt­le? You don’t have to remem­ber it. That one’s no lon­ger necessa­ry! That new oppo­nent wouldn’t have been necessa­ry! A woman, gim­me a bre­ak! Her we let pass, toge­ther with her spe­e­ches which don’t reach us. No cha­ri­ot needs to be pre­pa­red, no muscle ten­sed, no armor rea­ched for, rage no lon­ger pro­du­ced, nor stren­gth. Now we pro­du­ce the fight, a new pro­duct we offer, but eve­ry­o­ne knows from at home, just in a somewhat dif­fe­rent form, a wor­se form, it won’t even get star­ted, it won’t win any­way. And then we export it, we export the fight, just the rage, until it wra­ps the land in its flowered cover, so that no one will look under­ne­ath any­mo­re for what’s the­re, thin­king it is pea­ce that’s the­re, because pea­ce can’t keep itself, it must be kept, but not under wra­ps, it must be sup­por­ted so that it won’t fall the last moment. It really sucks, that we should have to keep this kind of thing too.

Star-span­gled Odys­se­ans, you, pull your­sel­ves toge­ther, case clo­sed, igno­re this stu­pid kama­le­on here!, you can’t even see her, don’t let your­self be con­st­ric­ted, pour out! Hur­ry to the King of sha­dows until you beco­me sha­dows too, all of you, the new big army –  – just sha­dows who burn them­sel­ves into the walls of buil­dings, who­le cities vapo­ri­zed, the peo­ple are gone now, all gone. They are avai­la­ble only in gold and, opti­o­nally, set with pre­ci­ous sto­nes, but not for eve­ry­o­ne. Who could still afford peo­ple at this inflati­on rate! Finally, we now pro­du­ce sha­dows only, in our sha­dow fac­to­ries. Back to the very last lines they shall fight, the sha­dows, yes, but in the front too. Yes ple­a­se. First, they should fight aga­inst the sun, without which, thou­gh, they wouldn’t exist. But it’s so hot! Eve­ry day that heat! Fighting for eve­ry sin­gle vote no lon­ger necessa­ry. He’s got them all alrea­dy, tho­se he nee­ded, even more than nee­ded. This is clear as day­li­ght. Now we know it. The pro­tec­tor of the dry land, but also of the oce­ans, he won. So many words, such Hout­co­me! We do sha­re eve­ry­thing, we divi­de, also the votes, and then we uni­te them aga­in, we cast the lots, tho­se who had no desti­ny, are cre­a­ting it now for them­sel­ves, the lot spo­ke, all of us won, it says, we will be told our win, we are still wai­ting for the voice to sound our vote, to each his own, to each her own, (no more the­irs the­re), right on time for the clo­sing date, a thun­de­ring voice, not of this world, we’ve never heard any­thing like it, we are all done. Finished! Finally. All of us! Well done!, up, for, in and over. Over the rain­bow! That’s enou­gh. No need for more. Eve­ry­o­ne hears it, the voice, even befo­re the­re can be a hea­ring of the King. Eve­ry­o­ne hears Him and his voice, which He alwa­ys carries with Him. The King of sha­dows, the sha­dow of the King, the dark of the night, the dark kni­ght, the far hea­vens, whe­re the King will soon be, luc­ki­ly not yet, but soon!, the sha­dow waits pati­ent­ly, he’s got only one wei­rd vice, but that’s a lau­gh, he saved him­self, but no one else. That cloud that slid in front of the sun, that electi­on that went down a slip­pe­ry slo­pe aga­inst the King, this won’t hap­pen to us aga­in, because this time He will win, finally, this time has come, spring­ti­me for the big fart, yes, this air still belon­gs to us, and what we don’t have, He will let us have it, the sha­dow is thrilled, he’s made of air after all, he’ll Heil him­self in no time, wan­na bet? Our balls are tou­gh, but not tou­gh enou­gh. The hor­se chews on the bit, the fla­kes fly, it is foam, the hor­se doesn’t have it on its Hfrom tal­king, he does. His bit flic­kers in the spo­tli­ght, He thinks, we went out alrea­dy, but we are still here. Heil. He will assign us His sig­na­tu­re duties. He will order us whom we should order what. Heil. He will take care of it. He won’t care about us, but He will take care of some­thing, He has not announ­ced yet. He doesn’t have to. Not yet, but soon. So you can take it to the bank. By the way, how is He doing any­way? Does He have a new message for us? Does that man take us seri­ous­ly at all? Did the near-death expe­ri­en­ce chan­ge Him in any way? Might this vic­to­ry not be as radi­ant as it could be? We polish and polish. What don’t we know yet? What does not yet shi­ne throu­gh the glass which is as clear as it is invi­si­ble? And yet it is here. What will we still find out? We find our­sel­ves in a batt­le of the good aga­inst the bad, it depends which side you are on. Bre­athing hea­vi­ly, the figh­ters lean aga­inst the­ir wea­pons, the wounds are still hur­ting, but it was for the cause. It paid off, now others get paid and more others are pay­ing. And still more others are coun­ting, yet aga­in others are down for the count. For him they kept coun­ting, all doubts have been remo­ved. At long last the King of Men arri­ves in the hall, the site of the con­gre­gati­on. Who got hit? Something’s rin­ging in our ears. Did the son of man lea­ve and retur­ned as King? Did the sha­dow get back in his pla­ce? He migh­ti­ly overra­ted him­self. Exact­ly! Yes, this is exact­ly what hap­pe­ned. But we don’t even know yet who won! But now we know. Do we act or hesi­ta­te? He wouldn’t hesi­ta­te at all. We sub­mit our­sel­ves to Him. One of our dele­gati­ons has to vomit. Now the next one. The ser­pents of peo­ple wind seve­ral times around the buil­ding. Oh, this fight will tear us apart, we tear up our bre­asts, that is, tho­se who have them. The others just do some­thing else. The­re is enou­gh around. Who pours water on us to extingu­ish us? What does this man of God say? We are on fire! We are dying to know. All of us toge­ther have the bur­ning earth and a high, bur­ning moun­ta­in cove­red with bur­ning tre­es, no, not high, just a hill we climb, are clim­bing aga­in and aga­in, with our bac­kpacks behind and our rage up front and the wea­pon more to the side. We’ve been up the­re many times, mea­nwhi­le we can find the way the­re in our sle­ep. Now only our Lord and Mas­ter still has to come. Ah, we see: He has arri­ved. He is here. Now He is here. He never was away, but now he is here all the way. For us. Wel­co­me, who are you, the best of immor­tals who calls us, who asks us? He does not have to, on fire, we say yes. Until we’ve come to our sen­ses, we just keep say­ing, still on fire: yes.

Well, okay, the Ili­ad came in han­dy for this!

And what else do I see? Oedi­pus at Colo­nus, poor old bastard!