Conheci Markus Nikolaus na noite de 15 de janeiro de 2013. É fácil lembrar-me da data, pois fora uma noite especial. Minha querida amiga e cúmplice no crime Annika Henderson, mais conhecida como Anika, tinha uma performance aquela noite no lendário Berghain, ao lado de Trust e Zebra Katz, e eu organizara para eles a festa pós-concerto em um local charmosíssimo da cidade chamado Loftus Hall. Markus, que estava no concerto para assistir justamente ao concerto de Anika, viria para a festa depois, onde nos conhecemos.
Desde então, Markus, que se apresenta como poeta-músico sob o codinome Cunt Cunt Chanel, tornou-se uma das pessoas mais próximas e importantes em minha vida e começamos a colaborar em peças de spoken word + soundscape, assumindo para o projeto o codinome de dupla eletrocaipira Domeneck & Nikolaus. Apresentamo-nos na Bélgica, ao lado do Tetine, colaboramos em peça para o programa paralelo da retrospectiva de Hélio Oiticica no Museu de Arte Moderna de Frankfurt, e já temos performances programadas para 2014 em Roma, Madri e Barcelona.
O vídeo abaixo foi gravado em nossa última performance, em Berlim, durante a sexta edição do evento que organizo com meu outro grande amigo e cúmplice no crime Black Cracker, chamado READING: a night of text / sound / video, que investiga maneiras alternativas de publicação de texto (publicação no sentido de tornar público), seja em voz, música ou vídeo.
Nele, pode-se ou/ver a última estrofe da nossa primeira peça em colaboração, "Don´t feed the poet", e então na íntegra a peça mais recente, "No vacancies". Abaixo do vídeo, publico o texto da peça.
Domeneck & Nikolaus - performance em Berlim -
parte da peça "Don´t feed the poet" e ainda "No vacancies" na íntegra.
No Vacancies
Ricardo Domeneck
"Cette vie est un hôpital où chaque malade est possédé du désir de changer de lit
Charles Baudelaire
It
is hard to believe the calendar or trust the GPS when you wish to be
out of time, out of place, sharing the oxygen and geography with no
other creature. Even harder to accept the clock or the map, so you
repeat: “This is Berlin, not Tierra del Fuego, Poughkeepsie or
Dubai, much less Hogwarts or Oz.” Here
you are, connected, located by satellite, mobile, googlable, always
in the attachment, twinkling like a star and twittered, your face on
the book, my space is your space. Here I am, with a registered
address, full of social security, a part of your whole, a member of
the club, a resident, an alien, you can locate me better than I can
find my navel, my cock, my anus, I sign up, I type in, I log on, I
fade out. 52°30'N 13°23'E. Alone and crowded, hunting for the hole
where to stick my entire body, if I could only dig that hole in you.
Where is the so-called “The One”, is this some fucking Matrix,
the joke is on me, only six
degrees of segregation between my body and the perfect lover, maybe
here, surely there, in 05°33'N
00°12' W or in 29°39'N
91°07' E, in Viznar, Uppsala or Lhasa, in Curitiba, Oaxaca or Accra.
We all happy kids in our own little private hospital beds, our
labeled and fashioned and styled pretty hospital beds. No spare
rooms. You hum, you whisper, you buzz. “Hey Sister Morphine”,
remember when your Nanny would sing you that song, her melons
bobbling to the beat of the lullaby.
The dogs barking in the neighbor´s yard. Beware of all dogs. You are
not welcome here. Go on kid, take your clonazepam, your valerian,
your promethazine, your catnip and camomile, sleep tight, here comes
the high tide. You
have been cheated of ever being at the right place, at the right
time. Check your wristwatch, it has stopped, you have no pulse, your
heart is clogged, your throat is sore. And this is what they call
spring, this sorry excuse for a winter, this toxic rain over plastic
flowers. But your hair is natural, your hair your good old friend,
never leaves you, never abandons you, your good friend The Hair. And
your lungs, tireless pair of things. Your nails, not growing, they
don´t grow, what they do is try to escape from you. Your feet forgot
the taste of a place. Vacation is over, school is closed, you must
move on. Where, you ask. There. Or maybe there. Or there.
We don´t have all day. March 19th
2010.
3 euros and 25 cents in your pocket, the one with a hole. There we
go. You overslept. Missed the bus. Took the wrong turn. Walked one
corner too much, one block too little. You were not the fitting X for
the crucial Y. Actually you were lucky your parents ever met. Fucked.
Didn´t choose abortion. I will go on mapping my displacement by the
coordinates of your restlessness. Thank you very much. I am here,
says the map, and elsewhere. Now, says the clock. It is the end and
the beginning, and anywhere is only the place to forget the place
before. Look at me. Look how I adapt to your natural habitat. Move
over, this hospital bed is now mine.
(publicado como texto originalmente na revista alemã Zeitlosschrift, em 2010. Escrito especialmente para a revista, o mote dado aos autores da edição era o verso de Baudelaire que passei a usar como epígrafe).
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