- Pour la Princesse Russe -
When Jones decided to become Bowie an unsettling process started. Virtuality took command. He turned into something else which caused difficulties in identification. Sometimes the process itself knocked under the shell of his brain to remind him of what was going on. Knock, knock – 'Yes', he could hear that decisive sound. Like a rumor from his own memory. Noise. Grinding the former identity to dust. The dust on the floor and on the furniture under the roof. The roof was his skullpan he recognized. ‘My god’ he screamed, ‘everything is just turning in circles.’
And a few incognitos of his former life joined each other when walking in circles. His head was that of a deceased relative. A skull which his incognitos were carrying around and playing with. K – he remembered was the well forgotten and always present relative. K. from Prague, long ago. ‘Yes, it’s me.’ – ‘Good to see you again, where have you been?’ – ‘Oh dear, don’t be silly, I’m you, I’ve always been you. And you are me, under our roofs in Josefstraße.’
Day and night had melt even if their signifiers remained steady in his mind under the dark shell – a far away star of being and not represented nothingness. ‘My eyes, my eyes, my eyes, K.’, Jones shouted. ‘It feels like they are burning pieces of hot coal.’ ‘Don’t worry, it is like the Sandman in Hoffmann’s novel. It’s your desire which has been sacrificed. You directed it towards yourself and made the world your dog, a tool. You will jump from the observation tower soon. Total castration as punishment for your arrogance.’
‘Let me see, let me see, I want to see the light again before.’ – ‘Here in the darkness of your brain? Fool!’ – ‘Through my eyes, brother.’ – ‘You’re dying, nothing else. I’ll switch off the program now.’
Jones knew that this moment would have to come. Long ago he had recorded a song for that occasion. ‘Warzawa,’ he remembered. But too old for this new experience now. ‘Let me have another chance to get lost in music before everything ends, K., my friend, please’, he begged.
K. knew only noises, scratching, hammering, breathing. Jones’ suggestion irritated him. ‘It’s already done, K.’, Jones smiled. He was quick. ‘And you K. now, my friend, turn into sound – you are sound because you’re mine.’ K. dragged himself a few steps and became dust while the dust particles began to swing and turn into thick sound fog.
The triumphant man fell asleep. His young incognito fellows turned off their masks. All were Jones, father, grandfather, stepfather, mom and grandma. They silently rushed to the staircase and stepped down to the entrance.
‘Josefstraat’ – the tram station showed. But why were people speaking Portuguese?
Written Jan 9th, 2016 to Mr. Henri Berners
RIP Ziggy, Jan 11th, 2016 Ulrich, Henri et la Princesse Russe