Kate Leismer hops on the S-Bahn to join the 24-hour Literatur auf Dem Ring project…
On a chilly Saturday afternoon in early February, I was invited to participate as a writer and observer for a 24-hour writing event on the Berlin Ringbahn that involved seven authors from across Europe. An assorted mix of novelists and poets writing in German, French and Italian, the idea was that they upload their texts to the Literatur auf Dem Ring blog every couple of hours.
The linguistic disparities of the writing reflect the European nature of the project; although the artists are primarily working independently, they all understand the project as a collaboration. After boarding at S-Bahn Schönhauser Allee, all the writers scattered. Most worked on laptops, but one carried a typewriter, and as the train circled the city, we are all left alone across two cars.
Some worked on novels or short fiction, others wrote poetry or simply made literary observations. Although I did not participate in the full 24-hour event, joining only for a few hours in the evening, I also contributed my own notes and literary musings to the project, which can be found below. The results of the entire experiment can be found at the official website.
Home. We attach so much, perhaps because we don’t have one. I will not write about being American. I will not write about being American. I will not write about being American.
The Russian. He pulls the cap off his thermos and pours me coffee, still hot. We are passing the cap of coffee back and forth, the Russian and me, and he says, “This is the Russian way.” When I tell him that I am concerned with my American identity and ask if he can relate, he says, “No, I don’t have this.”
Metaphors. The train, the ring, the circle that takes one hour, which is on repeat, like space and time, like a day, like a season, a lifetime.
One hour. She makes a list of all the things you can do in an hour. It is not very long: eat and fuck.
Birds. At the main terminal, the birds are trapped between the three walls of the station, not seeming to sense the cold air at the end of the tunnel, the way out, the escape. Desperate, yet uncaged.
One night. You can accomplish much more in a moment. The lights begin to flicker.
Year one. There is motion in history no looking back, because the progression is endless, though you can always hope for an interruption, the sounds of change and possibility: Ausstieg Links.
Language. Inevitably, they ask, and I answer: “Es tut mir lied. Mein Deutsch ist nicht so gut. Können Sie Englisch sprechen?” They tell me that apologizing is such an American thing to do, and that I should stop, even though I genuinely feel sorry about my German.
Fiction. The Ukrainian maid knows that I am dirty. The elderly neighbors upstairs don’t trust me. The police have stopped me for riding on sidewalks. All cab d…