Joachim hat ein ganz feines Gespür für Untertöne
Joachim hat ein ganz feines Gespür für Untertöne

Angelika Meier

Joachim Löw wohnt hier nicht mehr

Am zweiten Juli bin ich durch das Tor gegangen. Ich atmete tief durch, weil es doch auch schön ist, wieder draußen zu sein, dann begab ich mich auf direktem Weg nach Neukölln, wo der Joachim Löw im Hotel Mercure sicher schon auf mich wartete. »Sobald du rauskommst, sofort in die Besprechung«, hatte er ein paar Tage vor meiner Entlassung am Telefon gesagt. Ich war ihm von ganzem Herzen dankbar, denn schließlich hatte ich ihn die ganzen letzten sechs Wochen hängen...
  • Lachen
  • Absurdes
  • Satire
  • Gegenwartsliteratur
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Buchpremiere: Victoria Lomasko: »Die letzte sowjetische Künstlerin«

02.05.2023, 19:30

Espace DIAPHANES Berlin
Dresdener Str. 118
10999 Berlin




Yes, magic exists!
Yes, magic exists!

Antonin Artaud, Stephen Barber (Hg.)

A Sinister Assassin

Antonin Artaud’s very last work, prior to his death in March 1948, is the most extraordinary element of his entire body of work – and is the element now most enduringly inspirational, for contemporary artists, filmmakers, musicians, writers, choreographers, and others inspired by Artaud – through its fiercely exploratory, extreme and combative forms, along with its dissolutions and negations of forms, focused above all on the human anatomy, as well as on sonic experimentation and on provocations for innovation in...
  • Apokalypse
  • Autobiographie
  • Literatur
  • Dichtung
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Aktuelle Texte

Diane Williams

How about some string?

I said “Would you like a rope? You know that haul you have is not secured properly.”
“No,” he said, “but I see you have string!”
“If this comes into motion—” I said, “you should use a rope.”
“Any poison ivy on that? ” he asked me, and I told him my rope had been in the barn peacefully for years.
He took a length of it to the bedside table. He had no concept for what wood could endure.
“Table must have broken when I lashed it onto the truck,” he said.
And, when he was moving the sewing machine, he let the cast iron wheels—bang, bang on the stair.
I had settled down to pack up the flamingo cookie jar, the cutlery, and the cookware, but stopped briefly, for how many times do you catch sudden sight of something heartfelt?
I saw our milk cows in their slow...