THIS BUILDING IS A BODY [CLUB UTOPIA]

The Body Building It is night, and fog has descended upon the outside. The room is dimly lit by the faint moonlight that has found its way through the windows. I gently feel my way forward, as if I had never been here before. My body knows each room, every door frame, every ledge, but invisible forces appear to be roaming about, trying to topple the order that I rely on. I do not know whether I am awake or dreaming. There is no certainty. The room seems to be pulsating quietly. There is my laptop on the table. Close by, a delicate structure, a chair perhaps, or a holder for thoughts, where I can hang them like a coat that retains the shape of my silhouette even when I have already moved on to the next room. My breath laps around a fanned-out shape – a metal house plant whose carcass presents her leafy palms. We inspect each other in silence, our faces pale in the moonlight, and find solace in each other’s presence. Then, there are the animals. Like black ghosts, they hover in the room. The shiny, distorted balloons, impaled on poles, are a little brash, but they mean no harm. Suddenly, I hear the murmur. Across the silence, it whispers befogged words that dance around my body and usher me into the next room. The floor seems soft, or absent, but I manage to proceed. It feels almost as if I was floating among the figures that appear before and beside me. They refuse to inform me about their roles in the game: This make-believe dream plays me like a puppet on a string, nudges me around, and finds pleasure in watching me tumble in wonder, and wonder why nothing has happened to me yet in this uneasy situation. I feel certain that this house is a body, and that my surroundings allow it to breathe. Breathe in, breathe out, faster at times, then again slowly. It is the rhythm of this breath that rocks me back and forth, leaves me adrift, causes ever-changing encounters with racks, fixtures, and all the objects that catch, hold, and return my gaze. Even though these configurations seem strange to me, I am certain that we are no strangers. They have always been with me. For a while, my house and I breathe as one. And suddenly, it dawns on me that whatever surrounds me are my thoughts. I keep thinking them anew in an automated process. I modify them and add new ones, but in the end, they are always the same ones. In this room, I meet them as embodied manifestations, like the organs of my body. I can touch them, sense them, and feel their effect on my body. That is when thoughts turn into sensations. A somber mood takes hold of me; apparently, darkness has prevailed. I land in front of my broken laptop wearing a motorcycle helmet. It is heavy, and I can barely lift my head up. I would like to sit down, but do not know where. The room is breathing and oscillating; the darkness takes on the appearance of fog outside the windows. A figure reveals itself before me. It moves its head, bows down and whispers through the dark reflection. For a moment, I stop breathing, and the house as well has fallen silent. Its floors have become solid, the air inside has stopped moving, and the helmet has gone. I feel relieved. I straighten up, take a deep breath, and walk out the door. Gesine Borcherdt Translated by Dennis Buchholtz