2024. 8. 18 Sun

First entry in three months, but feels much longer. Reading Paul Celan in a café, I thought of Mr Steinmeier’s office. On his desk lay Bertrand Badiou’s biography of the poet, who rejected anything biographical. We were supposed to be looking at floor tanks and the details of a secure cable route to the desk of the President. I was more interested in whether the book had been his own purchase or a gift. Frau Knop asked me not to photograph the shelves, which I found odd.

I read a few pages and then stopped. The chatter in German and English slowly began to resonate and soon became unbearable. Would I be able to journal instead, that I have been reluctantly avoiding? I am still overwhelmed by the things that have been in the past year and will be in the next. Where to start? I would write about F. As I am here celebrating the quietness of it all and he in his home town celebrating his, it seems to be a good opportunity.

I regret not giving him a proper kiss before I left on the last day - we had just finished bombarding his room and I was hoping for some quiet time with him before we said goodbye. But he was getting ready to meet another friend and I had my mum waiting for me too. Tired and disappointed, I acted stiff and hurried off.

F went into the water with me once, although he was rather scared to do it. Funnily enough, he was the one who could swim. I was thinking about this yesterday when I was talking to S, who also cannot swim but is going to Barcelona to dive into the Mediterranean. As we walked to the bus station from a strange little villa called a castle, F told me it had been the best day of his five years in Berlin. I smiled, but didn’t tell him then how happy that made me feel. I loved the wet breeze and the columns by the lake. Also the silences and laughs. Silly promises and showers of droplets like myriad particles of light. And an immense wanting that it all be kept warm and beating like a bird’s heart.