“I never know what’s suppressed and what is just to be forgotten!”
Rohkost
Gurken/ Gurkensalat
P2 wohnen
Dauerwelle kastanienbraun
Zahnschmerzen im Eigenheim,
introvertiertes Vogelhaus
Zu viele Vogelhaeuser in den Baeumen
Sauerkraut mit Schweinebraten
Tomatensalattomatensalato…
Wandschrank des VEB Hellerau
Oma lass uns schaukeln !
Who is she?
She was working on the creation of a fictive character never to be reality. It was her faith and fear of a future being of herself.
Her fictive character arose from a combination of different ideals and the longing for the lost object of identification.
Only through the loss of her past could the past become object of identification and feed her nostalgia. By consciously constructing her nostalgia she found a way to finally transform those past experiences into a fiction.
Sibylle refused to mourn the loss of her love of being a mother and housewife. She got on her swing. She remained in an upside down hanging position, slightly swinging back and forth.
She enjoyed the dazzling numbness of this position; she sensed the emptiness in her breast and the forgetfulness of her desires with a big relief. Her eyes were half open and her gaze broken.
She allowed herself some daydreams and thought of some sensations her life had given to her:
‘When she was twelve she couldn’t do anything with her body; she couldn’t even swim or ride a bicycle. In this state, attending here first dancing lesson, she felt as awkward and self-conscious as the day she had tried to show off her charms in the role of a Spanish dancer. She began to detest dancing lessons, but for another reason. When her partner held her in his arms and held her to his chest, she felt a funny sensation that was quite like having butterflies in the stomach and which she didn’t find so easy to forget. When she got back home, she would throw herself in the leather armchair, overpowered by curious languor that she couldn’t put a name to, and that made her want to burst into tears. She did not know whether there was a certain amount of self-deception in her ingenuousness: whatever it was sexually frightened her. She lived with no open reference to bodily functions and no untoward physical act was allowed to tear aside the veil drawn over sex by custom and convention.
On the pretext that she had too much work, she gave up going to the dancing lessons.’
A sudden stroke of pain in her head made her stop dreaming and brought her back to the present state she was in. The position became uncomfortable and something was tickling her left toe. She had to move and do something!
Work was always there, even if nobody was waiting. But most of the time she just enjoyed the relaxing state of emotionless swinging in space. She thought it would be completely up to her, to start something or to leave it.

But this fly on her toe was interrupting her comfortable position and nothing could help:
A big crash and her ass sat on the ground.
All of the furniture and ceramics were cracking by her furious screaming, while lumbering through the rooms of her flat.
She was out of her mind, not willing to accept the walls of her apartment.
Once she got exhausted, things found their order faster then a spectator could have recognized in their normal sense of movement. Dishes got back into their places, furniture was moved into its old position and all broken lampshades replaced. All of this in such a short time that somebody could hardly have realized what had happened.
Sibylle was walking around - reading, writing, doing the dishes… - living in her summer residence. It was a one storey stone cottage with three rooms, all quite small but in a certain way designed. The kitchen had its character by the choice of red curtains, red painted kitchen units and the white and red dotted dishes. Through a small but adequate hallway the other rooms could be reached effortlessly. The two bedrooms were simply furnished with one bed each, a little table, reading lamp and a kind of cupboard for clothes. A big auburn wall closet of VEB Hellerau dominated the living room; to fit with the rest the couch and armchair they were upholstered with light beige cotton.
Sibylle had spent five long summers in those rooms, always relaxing from her hard work as an administrative officer of the womens magazine for fashion and culture. The work was fulfilling but it was exhausting enough to spend the whole summer without thinking once of fashion and culture. She was enjoying her very own life here in her summer cottage.
She had been living there since she hade split up with her husband. Their vulnerable relationship had never been happy, and the only thing they really were saving and waiting for was the big chestnut-brown wall closet that came in three parts. It was a beautiful piece, with the most contemporary design. Referring to the Bauhaus functionality, it brought back some of the old civic ideals of middle class life.
In the middle part, a slideable glass door was included to cover up some shelves, sparsely populated with glass figurines and small ceramics. Sibylle kept her presents there nicely presented and protected from dust. She was not tidy at all, but in fact these glass shelves were the most precious she could think of. It hurt her still, to be so attracted cleaning these shelves every day of dust even there was none.
Was she keeping herself together? Her life was hers and she did not have to share it anymore with anybody. Her independence was complete and happiness was what she thought she was feeling. She went swimming every morning in the nearby lake, neighbours came over from time to time to have a meal together. They were all quite smart but they didn’t interest her much. Of course boredom was part of her summertime. Nothing was missing; she had everything and especially her very own life.
Friends came over and they had parties in her cottage. From time to time there was a couple days of a love affair. When it was over, she got herself in order again and started with her everyday routine. It helped her to forget the irritations of those excessive nights.
She enjoyed seeing the days passing by, doing everyday things without any pressure or stress. But then boredom would return - and despair.
She once again confessed to herself that she wanted to live her life to the full; she desired to find more than a drug in the activities of daily life.
But on the other hand, her need for those signs of time passing by and the repetitive activities of the everyday was existential for her. It made her feel like she was floating through time and space without any distraction or interruption. The sedate temper she was in through those times made her smile and live without fear of anything.