Yesterday evening while returning from work, riding her bike home, I had absolutely excellent idea for a new post. But then I am the forgotten. Fuck. However I wanted to say
social conventions that I think are overvalued. Why for example should not seem normal to stop the bike for ten minutes chatting with the guy who is always sitting in front of McDonalds Hugenottenplatz in the morning at nine? The one with the mini camp stool, his beard as Massimo Cacciari, the cap mountain in his hand and a small dog with a vest with down.
Apart from the fact that probably only speaks German, I mean.
On the surface it looks like a interesting personality.
I can imagine that does the herdsman near Lindau, ten years ago, and called Joseph and Karl-Heinz. Cheese is mediocre, and only little talk with the animals and blasphemy when the cows run away too away. He has very few expenses, the money under the mattress, three books in all and gets up every day at 4:57 in the morning. I can easily imagine him pulling me down a Saxon lady immediately after breakfast (assuming that those of Lindau - or Karl-Heinz same - they hate the Saxons for some reason unknown to me). And then at some point you get tired of being alone and talk to the animals. It takes a woman who, after two months starts to kick the femurs to vent his lack of self-esteem. She obviously at some point and then runs away with money. Joseph, fell into depression stops working and gives the strong beer and vodka mixed with Smirnov. Soon he loses all his possessions and garnishee the hut. For years now he can not remember clearly, traveled all over southern Germany looking for a good reason to call it quits. Karl-Heinz is so drunk that tattooing has become a relief map of Bosnia and Herzegovina on the left thigh ( cit. ) has the liver as a baobab tree and is sprawled on the edge of a sidewalk. Look at the ground.
Then the meeting that changed his life. Meeting a child of 7 years. Blonde (just happened). The boy is playing in the street, but for a moment escapes the attention of parents. He approached the man of the pavement and spits on his ankle. Joseph points out the sudden feeling of moisture and observe the white saliva that the baby slowly percolating into the shoe. And he understands.
Now Karl (-Heinz) no longer drinks. He has bought a dog and dress every morning with a black vest with down, to protect it from cold. He sits in the same place, day after day, in front of McDonalds, it counts the smell of fried fat the same way as a pious atonement. A kind of "Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner 2.0, in other words. Joseph asked why the charity has nothing, but every minute is dying to tell someone his story. The only word that people hear, though, is "danke." One word more and more pay.
Tomorrow maybe I'll stop ten minutes with him. Or maybe instead I will be another good idea.
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