[video is an (English) radioplay fragment from Radio Klotestad radiovideoshow (2022)]
We know the images.
It’s idling a bit. It’s warm and languid. Heads and limbs stick out of cracks and what might be called windows. You could fall asleep. Whether you know what is at the end or not, what you fear is getting closer.
The tram stops.
The sun is shining.
But the black spots on my once bright soul obscure the view. The curtain falls, you might say. But there is no curtain, no chance, no time to think. And so i don’t.
When the receptionist reaches out to take my letter, I mechanically extend mine, as if to shake her hand.
My soul only reflects others.
The dark sucks in deeper and deeper, until I suffocate in a darker black, a nothingness, a vacuum in which I am somewhere. But where? Where am I, in this shit ocean of jargon, this cesspool of floating thoughts, unspoken fear, denial of me?
The discouraged faces in the lobby speak volumes. A big man almost knocks me over, his sight obscured by the heavy thunderstorm around his mind.
Cattle. We are cattle.
In the waiting area we do not speak.
A soft good morning is greeted with a nod, sometimes a smile. I want to talk, but it's too quiet. People are listening. And I'm already being picked up.
A conversation that just doesn't want to be a conversation.
Several times the young woman interrupts me. As soon as I threaten to give my opinion about my unemployment, she shuts me up. We think in opportunities here, she says. I keep my mouth shut. I want to present her with a dilemma. She interrupts me again. I feel the pressure, but still I keep my mouth shut. Then a sudden bang, someone lets out a scream.
All the lights go out, the client manager's PC goes out with a descending buzz. The emergency lighting comes on pretty quickly. I can leave.
Public transport is shut down due to the power outage. I walk through the park; the crows call to each other as soon as they see me. In the busy city I navigate between the tourists to the public library, where you can sit in peace and for free, with a view over Klotestad. Stranded travelers with the same plan and a group of tourists stand chatting behind me. Their sharp voices don't bother me anymore. Within me is the silence of the slaughterhouse.
"What a lovely view!"
If only i could find the stairs to the top floor. The way out. If only I rose above the glass ceiling, up, up, further and further. Don't see the depth, don't park the plane against the mountain, don't take the plunge, don't linger.
Many million people without electricity, no tram, no train, no metro.
It starts to rain.
Time is ticking, the drops slide along the thick glass.
Amazing: I can see the seconds dry, the seconds wet.
Again and again: The seconds dry, the seconds wet.
When the water rises quickly, you count in steps, hours, seconds, moments, months, solar flares, moon appearances. The shorter the beats, the longer the steps. I want to take big steps. I’m in a hurry. Hunger for knowledge. Thirst for freedom. But i live under the covers. Meditate, masturbate, pimp your thoughts, think in opportunities.
The lights go back on.
I check my social media.
The letters fly across the screen, one word stays with me: tour boat. They sail past many floors below. The almost alien flat bottoms with as much glass cover as possible, so that the people and the cameras on board can see as much as possible. Value for your money. The skipper who uses his standard joke at the end of the trip – achtentachtig prachtige grachten – to get the clog filled with tips again.
Note to self: calculate how many people they transport daily, the costs and the normal wage of the skipper. And if it’s bad to not tip him.