October 25th, 2016

There’s a certain Germanness all us foreigners eventually acquire, even in a place as supposedly un-German as Berlin. It’s a subtle kind of exclusivity, a humourous psychic connection that always arises when we the German-or-Germanised all agree that someone has “misbehaved”. And the transgression, too, is normally quite subtle; it’s the slightly too-loud or too-often cry for attention, the teeny-tiny disrespect of everyone’s seperateness, the mis- and non-understanding of the collective cultural attachment to dis-attachment, to interpersonal non-connection, to the Almighty personal bubble, as much energetic as physical.

And we know we have integrated once we find ourselves addicted to this exclusivity, against the will of our very hearts. We know it hurts and yet we cannot get enough of getting our own space, isolation limitless as holy entspannung; we cannot think and feel and taste enough of our carefully sequestered cerebral worlds (“Herzlich Willkommen to the Cosmos, population ONE. Please keep your feet off the seats in front of you and mind the gap on your way out…) and finally we find ourselves attached, in-love-with our lonelyness, less and less willing, and more and more unable to step outside it, and into the connectedness that is everything.

And thus we step AROUND it, with our humourous psychic connections, the quintessentially German smile in our eyes; we find our oneness under the table, out in the Ether, above our lonely brains and underneath our starved hearts — with only the “misbehavers” to remind us of how close we really are (and how German we’ve really become).

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