544
PARTISAN REVIEW
near, and set us free sometimes for the tree "tree," the river "river,"
the soothingly green plain, the shimmering mountain back , saddle
of gods, the cloud as the early morning airplane, the flower as the
refuge cup. Let us this evening be who we are-human beings of a
primordial time, and use the tongues inside our mouths to bend the
moon behind the boughs, the snailhouse in the mud and iron rods in
the cement into one unity . Land , lower your flag at a coat of arms.
Valleys all, strike your hymns, forget your names. Ways here, shel–
ter yourselves in namelessness . [He walks up and down the stage .]
Construction site, here, you too, as in the old saying , animate your–
self into nameless simplicity . That th is place [he points] have no
name this evening. That it be called "wilderness" and that there be
no one here but us. We too are nameless . [To everyone in the
circle .] Answer as a.k .a. unknown. Show no one your homeland .
Forget the judgement and ignore the trial. Don't look to the peo–
ple-nothing can be seen there anymore . Move without music–
music leads in the wrong direction . Only the most delicate rustling
accords with the human ear. [They listen .] The names fall away. We
are in the free. Now we can call this place "earth" again . –
That fellow is normally called Albin. His home is a cellar and the
bigshots here think he's retarded and let him only work provisionally
month by month. At the inn the waitress once sat down next to him,
and [to Gregor] you should have seen him clutch her hand . What a
caress that was! He did not just cry just laugh , he hollered loud and
sobbed. And in-between he tugged her apron string with a big grin .
And here, back at the barracks, he kept saying: "She sat down next to
me so sweetly." Of course, Albin is no idiot. He only plays dumb for
those he doesn't know: and mostly he don't want to know no one . He
lives in his cellar because he decided to. He extended it for a war. It
is his bunker, and it's also there for us . Perhaps we'll thank him for it
soon. I've been down there a lot , also overnight. He's got a ham
radio in one corner, it rustles, whirrs and pops- and sometimes
voices come from across the sea, from island to island . A bird: the
dawn . Morning red a flock of doves . The cellar is a real warren and
holds more than tinned goods. Each wall has one nook for stones and
fossils, and each nook stands for one construction site , and each find
is inscribed - with names that bear no semblance to the norm.
Otherwise, you know Albin as the fellow who bellows in empty train
stations at night. He's the guy with the switchblade, the smart ass
with the claxon by the bar who hurls his mug against the mirror,
then plunges headfirst into the next beer-belly . He's the grinning
