Berlin Sojourn Begins

Maria in "Spiel Mir Das Lied vom Tod" Me in black hat under her arm.

Dear Isabelle,

I forward a piece of an email to a friend that qualifies as journal entry type stuff. As to “telling it all” well, my intention in my online journal was to entertain. I have the skeleton of an autobiographical diatribe back in athens that is considerably more personal. If I wrote a book, I would certainly tell all. I am of the romantic school, I woke into artistic consciousness informed by the notion that the detritus of the artists’ inner world was the very stuff and fiber of art. The idea was and is to dig up jewels or less savory objects from deep within and display them for all to see in the hope that all will see something of themselves and will thus be reinforced in the notion of the preciousness of their “individuality” a renaissance or protestant notion that was not really important in the ancient world. There.

“Now I understand why Christopher Isherwood called his Berlin book “I Am a Camera”.

Yesterday I was sitting at a cafe table watching the Berliners promenade by, trying to record everything everything everything. Not poss, unfortunately. I have discovered that I am now an avid, even passionate CYCLIST of all things. (I still smoke like a steel mill, though, even on the bike.) I bought a bicycle in Athens as a means of obtaining some sort of independence in the burb where I was forced to dwell by my unfortunate collision with “my wife” Athena. Carless, drivers’ license-free, a bike was the only viable option. I soon came to love the damn thing. I have been blessed in that everywhere I have landed these days there has been a velocipede available to me. Where once I knew the whereabouts of every pharmacy, liquor store, bar in a given area, I now know where to find all of the bicycle shops. This town is a delight for cyclists. There are hordes of people on bikes, there are covered bicycles for hire called “velotaxis” which pedal tourists around this legendary city as well as a score of transverse bicycles where the pinheads ride reclining.

There are few sights in this life to compare with that of a well-formed woman riding a bike in a mini skirt, let me tell you. A well-formed blonde teutonic goddess, well it takes your breath away. A sunny day beckons. This is rare and wonderful up here in the north country.

Let me tell you, there is some kind of compelling karmic link betwixt old guido and Berlin. Everything feels “right” here. Maybe I have found my city at last. This is like New York except there is a streak of anarchy and a black leather sexual license that seems to be lacking in the large manzana. off we go, enough diet coke fuelled verbiage to put in your pipe and smoke.

love, bratwurst, vast pinwheeling mandalas o’delight shedding sparks in the multiplex universe and other such acidhead nonsense”

Dear Jackie,

How did I come to be acting in Berlin? Well, the story is like this. I was acting in a movie in Athens for a director named Nicholas Triandafyllidis with whom I was working closely at the time. He was a fan of my music and my stage persona and thought I would be good in films. I did about five for him. I met  Anna, this young actress on the set, not long after JJ died, maybe too soon, but what the hey? to make a short story long she was working with this director here, Albrecht Hirsch, a German director of some repute in theavant garde scene and I came to know him from hanging around the stage door like the stage door Johnny I was, lusting after the young things in the dressing room, sneaking a peek, hell sticking my head in and taking a good long look.

Later, I started doing the role in Agamemnon, another connection I made through this film director and this German guy saw me doing ag. in Athens, his wife saw me in Zurich and hey presto I was cast as Henry Fonda  in this here thing.

This piece is a hoot extraordinaire, I am indulged all over the place, I have largely written my own part, I do all kindsa stuff as I may have said. there are horses, chickens, all kinds of livestock.There is music involved, of course. I play guitar and sing two songs not my own “No Woman No Cry” by Bob Marley which I loathe and “Rovin’ Gambler” by God knows whom as sung by Robert Mitchum and re-arranged by me for Octave-divided guitar and scream.

The soundtrack includes Ennio Morricone (of course) Marilyn Manson singing “Sweet Dreams are Made of This” some German Schlager cowboy song about horses and La Bamba. I love it.
The piece is called “Das Lied vom Tod” from the German name for “Once Upon a Time in the West” or “Cera Una Volta Il West”.

 As for keeping limp in my love scene, it’s just work ma’am. There is, however, this polymorphous perversity that sets in after a great deal of overindulgence when the world feels like a vast piece of skin freshly lubed and awaiting the final hump. ahem. In this wise the love scene with her is a sort of continuation of the whole experience here in my dream Berlin. subjective experience is so….subjective. others may view this town as cold and rainy and gritty, I am moving through a well lit Weimar republic dream of sensuous decadent berlin, lolling around in crumbling apartments in east Berlin. watching the morning drool come drooling in with my arm around a woman 22 years younger than old Guido.

he do go on about his own bad self. I must be off into that good day. do try and write me more often, dear.

take care

blaine

Author: Blaine L. Reininger

Blaine L. Reininger was born July 10, 1953 in Pueblo, Colorado. Then he lived a life. By and by, he founded Tuxedomoon with Steven Brown in 1977. He traipsed around America, tuxedomooning until 1980, when he began to traipse around Europe. As a direct result of all of this traipsing, many musical compositions were composed, most of which found their way to some sort of mechanical device capable of reproducing musical compositions. This was mostly for the good. He now lives in Athens, Greece, where he is content.

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