Mutschmann's

There's only one more night to Berlin. Just over a week ago now. Then I promise I'll shut up about it. As a chronicle. A map of constellations. Just one more night. A night that began with the day T made his way back to Paris. Got a text from him on the plane. Saying he'd almost started crying. While waiting for the bus. Before even getting to the airport. Something about how we were there. That renewed how we're going to be elsewhere. Like here. He went back early to go on another trip. For work. No pleasure. Even though he got some even there. At the risk of pleasure. Gets hard to circumscribe. Even now, I experience slight hesitation. Writing before. I might hesitate getting started. And then I'd be in. Siderated. It should be a word in English. Sidéré. Greatly surprised. Except the stars are in there in French. In the word. In the 16th century, it meant influenced by the stars. In the 18th, you know, the Enlightenment, they invented a noun, sidération, to mean the sudden annihilation of vital capacities, in a state of apparent death, under the effect of an intense emotional shock. Now it basically means struck dumb. Which is how any I gets when it gets writing. "Mine" included. And here I am having written. Seeing stars.

So T sends the text message from the plane. I text back. "Don't be sad. I found the guy with the grosse Schlange on line." That seemed to reassure him a bit. Meanwhile. I alone in Berlin. Also found T² and W² on line. They had the same program for the night. Prinzknecht, a neighborhood bar, kinda like the Pilsner in San Francisco, big enough to become a general HQ for festive events. They do a lot of turn over. Must make their year, and make it pretty good, out of several different weekends of big German parties. One of the bartenders: he's also the poster boy for the leather store down the street. So Prinzknecht. And then Mutschmann's. We've been to Berlin Easter three times now. Always Sunday at the Mutschmann's. Last year I had big irretrievable philosophico-political thoughts about why we'd had so much pleasure. Surplus value. World economy. Fetish. Something about our moment in world history. Berlin's newly anchored market economy. All of us there knowing it's not real, but still. Feeling like it is. See? Irretrievable. Before T did me good in a booth downstairs.

This year. Lots of beers at the Prinzknecht flying solo. But chatting with the Frenchies. Or toasting one or two from afar. Waiting to see when T² and W² would walk in. They'd said around 10. I got there, as I said I would, earlier. Ended up standing towards the front of the bar. Chatting with a leather dude I see around Paris a lot. Met him in Berlin. At Snaxx. Could it have been just last year? Nope. Actually the year before. T has just now confirmed it. While he's reading about Snaxx on-line. No on-line access during his work trip. Lol. That's funny. That we're still hovering so concretely around Snaxx. Actually, this guy I was standing next to inaugurated the all-the-way-up-over-my-hiney zipper there. And we were chatting with another leather dude. From Antwerp. Who works in London. Chatting. But watching the door. For when T² and W² would walk in. They did. And I shortly followed. To the other side of the bar. Right up against the bar. Which meant several heave-ho's from time to time when some of the bigger bears would have to push past us to get to the potty. Or to another beer. Or to another bear. Chatty chatty. Auf Deutsch! Grosse Schlange! I said 11. To the guy with the grosse Schlange. Or 11:30. Which it shortly was. So off again, solo, into the night.

Not far. Just down the street. Handy. Early enough so there wasn't a line. Space of the Mutschmann's? Easy for once. Walk in. Big big bar in middle of space to right. With pool table to the other side of it. Much smaller bar straight on through. With stairwell leading to basement. With landing for chilling. One step down into darkness. Line of4 or 5 slings along right wall of darkspace. Big platform in middle of darkspace. As big as the bar upstairs, probably. Booths behind that. And a couple of dark corners round about back to the landing. So. Walk in. Walk around. Surprise! No grosse Schlange. But J. California J from Friday night. Well-past his goal of 20-30 German cocks by that point. No doubt. By the pool table. Chatty chatty. How's it going. How often do you get back to the states. More often now, I say. That my father's sick. I get his empathy. Know he heard me. Even if he's forgotten. Didn't stop him being excited. "Do you have a condom?" He asks me. While unzipping my zipper. We know where that goes. Did me good right there at the brightly lit pool table. I rattled the empty bottles and everything. Nice. No need for German Schlange. When I got done right by T's California thing. Friend of my good sex-buddy R. A kinda constellation. That helps you make out the other stars.

More beer. Cruising around. Running into a couple of Frenchies. Another J. Recent sex-buddy. Responsible for the shaved state of my torso and elsewhere. Nice encounter. See you soon in Paris. Still, at this point, citing the German Schlange. Then standing at bar. Cruising. Sorta. Waiting again. T²'s T-shirt. Pinch his butt. Poor thing. Too many beers. Beeline for the bathroom. W² in line checking coat. Then the three of us again at the bar. Then the two of us. T² likes to watch. Even in the dark. So the W's stand at the bar. T² coming and going. Kissing W². Lots and lots. Spilling beer at some point, reeling. Paying for beer spilled. T²'s had his fill of watching. Your place or mine chat. Theirs.

Out into the world. Cold world. Taxi-cab. Immediate. Whisking us to their hotel. Up the stairs into their room. Smoking something on the balcony. How can it already be 4:30? Hazy. Lots of beers. Lots of tenderness. Lots of doing good. Attention. To their longevity. Doing my best. To help it continue. Witness. To lots of love. Doing what I can. To show them what I get from it. That is to say. Not much sleep. But tender sleep what there was. In between them. Before waking. Check-out day. Rendez-vous for brunch. Café More. Like they named it for me. Reservation for 12:30. Confusion. Where am I? How to get back "home?" Maps. We're right at the fold of the map. So map not much help. Right and right again straight to train. No need for a map. Just a couple of words. Confusion. Bright sun. Me in all my leathers. Exhaustion, too, no doubt. Wrong platform. Switch platforms. On the way. Poster for Tillmans. "Lighter." Knowing. Suddenly. Exactly what I'd be doing with my extra day in Berlin.

10:45. "Home." Shower. Breakfast. With C and L. Chatty. German. Evaluation of parties. Snaxx too much for C. Understanding. But I like too much. On my way to the shower. L says, Time for bed? Nein, I answer. I can sleep in Paris. Shower. Comfy clothes. Fetishes by the wayside for brunch. Café More. I like too much. And I like More, too. My on-line profile. For a while now. Reads "Ready for more." Didn't mean the café until Easter Monday. Now means that, too. Long brunch. Nibbling at theirs. Drinking coffee. Looking at the boys. Thinking I might have ended up with others. But enjoying comfort of the click of parallel lines. On the banquette with T². W² across from us. What do you do. How long have you lived there. Where will you go on vacation. Paris. When? And that one's cute. And, oh, him, too. I think he's from Paris. Quiet. Tired quiet. Easy quiet.

Some kind of home. Out on the streets. For a walk. Stop at a building. Just look at that staircase. The streets of Berlin. On Easter Monday. So quiet and empty. Not like Paris. Wondering how. Knowing so little of each other. We could have so little need for talk. To keep us this comfortable. They pick up their bags. At their hotel. Call a cab. Kisses goodbye. See you in Paris in May.

Back home. Stretch out to rest. No sleep coming. Watch a little of the "New World." Terrence Mallick. DVD. I brought with me. Love that movie. Turns out the New World's in the Old. Or it's in both. It's a new relation to old codes. Too much for my state of exhaustion. Back out for dinner. And one or two last beers. Cross paths with P. Friend from Paris. Signing for an apartment in Berlin. The next morning. If all goes well. Apparently all did. Chatting. Evaluating space at Snaxx. Him telling me of other nights at the Berghain. Other than Snaxx. Me wondering. "Fucking the Remains" party at the Scheune. He's not going anywhere. But here or back to bed. Me saying, what the hell. Walking out the door. To the Scheune. Just can't quite get my head around it. Walking away from it. Thinking I have other things. Besides fucking. Like writing. Beside fucking. To do with the remains. Just missing bus. To take me back to the apartment. Waiting, therefore. 10 more minutes. On a cold stone pedestal. In the cold Berlin night. Relieved. At the idea and then the reality. Of a good night's sleep.

Good night's sleep. Next day writing you. "Quick Missive from Berlin." Going to Wolfgang Tillmans. Hail. Sun. Snow. Constellations. In the sky. On the earth. In the world. Fucked-up cosmos. There I am sidéré among them. Looking at pictures at an exhibit. Reflected in them. Literally. Incidentally. Barthes! Posthumous publication. Sad sad journal. Of tricks met and missed and desired. Incidents. Like me. And different.