on the Strudlhof stairs i spent some hours yesterday. daylight faded into night. i kept recording...
as i was lured by the movements of a hanging plant in tune with the wind, i overheard the language of some footsteps. i heard somebody look at me; i heard this in the sound of his steps. with a side-glance i felt like seeing this person who introduced me to the idea of this stairs.
i walked to the steps. i looked down.
only to marvel at the appearance of my accidental viennese guide for the night. the russian marco polo. who is very luckily still in vienna. the last time i came across him was at this owl place. i bought him some dinner to pay my respect. (and on this fucking cold and magnificiently metaphorical day, i had actually sent him and also simon a message to translate 2 lines of the poem by Doderer. this poem i tried to read in german. at the base of the stairs by the fountain was this poem. the last two lines rhymed and sounded very poetic. i craved to understand the language. however, as it turns out he had not received this message. he received themessage after he tried to translate... after his appearance here. shaved face; fresh smell; and a particular distance like that of a comrade even.)
and marco polo walked past by me. i asked: "what are you doing here?" delighted with his presence.
he was here by a touch of magic, as he stated it.
and here he tried his best to translate.
the wanderer said:
vase with this bloody green stuff: moss he means.
between the wars ...
much has sunken...
"it should be poetic as well so i can't do a direct translation"
... would be grief
as marco polo struggles with the translation, an old man comes in... at a point marco polo stumbles, an old man approaches the marco polo and the unknown digitized stranger, the oriental little one so to say... the passer-by approached and offered these two souls some help... this passer-by's version is:
"the beautiful is the smallest thing"
and marco polo put the bits and pieces together:
"much has sunken in grief "; or:
"a lot has been sunken in grief and sadness"
"and beauty is of smallest duration"
as we step down to view the stairs from below, we recite: jugendstill, art deco..
he points to the middle and says:
"here we go: vase in the middle. mosses. "
"hey, they renovated it, actually!"
this was also the day i got my new pink 80s LAMY. from a magical store.
"so, this is where you travel between time!"
"in 1918, the austrian empire breaks up; and the narrative jumps forward and backward and forward and backword ... all these figures they meet at the stairs"
"it's bloody cold here, let's go up", says the white-skinned marco polo with the russian-british accent. i am already shivering. we go up the stairs, once more trascending time. trascending space. just by walking.
i adore the sight of the streets in vienna at this time of the year. as if i have seen it in spring or in summer? no, just my imagination. i realize that i perceive this city to be an extension of Pera, taksim, istanbul. it gives me space to think and to reflect.
and i just found this piece of literature in english online. just tonight.
On the Strudlhof Steps in Vienna
...
the mossed urn in the middle, by the wall,
outlasts the year between the wars and dying.
So much is past and gone, to our dismay,
And beauty shows the frailest power to stay.
Heimito von Doderer, "The Strudlhof Steps"
tranlated by Vincent Kling.
i enjoy the passer by's and marco polo's version better. (and simone's version is erased due to some absynth and vodka and beer. which was really not necessary at all. this was also the stupidest night in this oriental little one's personal history. she just kept on sending out messages to the eastern countries, sharing the fact that she was watching the turkish star trek in vienna after a time travel in a neighbouring stairs. with friends. and she also sent messages to marco polo. who was he, actually? at this point there was a twist in this digitized technology, like a twist of fate, the message system started to have a life apart from her. acting on its own will. it was a solidification of some will power anyway; the whole night. the oriental little one missed the beat, ordering an unnecessary glass of beer. and as soon as she believed in its unnecessity and th out-of-tune situation, she spilled over the glass of beer. luckily, marco polo was not hurt. and still soon she would already have to apologize for another weird and off -tune behaviour, an excess of feeling, of not knowing how to show in what way... and the next day she looked for words to call herself. shall she call herself a fool. an alien? a child too impati,en at times to miss the beat and run fast only to fall face down. she should call her self the sweetest fool. she had a touch of boldness, some brevity that would surprise men and women both. it was all right in the end. apologies accepted by marco polo. new exciting projects already set on the table. a man of his word; the oriental one wished that marco polo, too, is a human being of his word. a promise is a promise. stairs is stairs. stairs in this case is also the ultimate time machine. for this little shapeShifternightDrifter, the crash course on the psyche of vienna proved most worthwhile... in gratitude, she dived into sleeps and dreams that she would not remember the next day.)
"and beauty is of smallest duration"
