Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Death and Laughter

One solid steel knife, sharpened against black seatbelt, a leather hand piece braided like Bill’s to perfection, of course, presses into your forehead as the blood trickles down the in-swoop of your brow. The pain overcomes you and you’re not sure if you’re yelling or not for your body has lost the sensation of the presence of air. You can’t maintain the status of the knife’s path however you know what he’s carving into you. You’ve been wearing it for the past fifteen years: it has become you. No, but now it really has become you. Fucking Basterds.

I genuinely felt every emotion possible while watching that movie. Tarantino has a way of doing that to me. She ran away from that Frenchman’s house, crying, splattered in the Jewish blood of her aunt and uncle, swastikas flashing red like gunfire in her head. She just ran. And she kept running. We are the Nazi killers. I expect one hundred Nazi scalps from each and every one of you. There he was, Brad Pitt with a southern accent and a moustache, doing comedy and sticking his finger into her bullet wound. I was in the front row. We swam in the blood. We lay in the dreamboat’s eye wrinkles. We read subtitles as long as the walk from Heinrich-Heine to home…and that was if we could move our heads fast enough. After it ended, I said to Sally, “That was such a great movie. I bet it was so good the way it was intended to be seen: from a distance.” Our sectionmates let out an open laugh. It was nice to have people understand me for once. I forgot what that felt like (and have probably hurt some feelings because of my I’m in a foreign country act. Dummy. To who ever you are, I’m sorry I’m such an ass).

“You can go back to eating your sauerkraut sandwiches, you wienerschnitzel finger-lickin’ prick.” The hum of mildly insulted yet altogether amused Germans fills the American-like theater. I sink into my red cushy chair, looking up at the screen, which spans triangular, like the beginning of Star Wars. Yes. I watched the entire movie like that.

Hard, genuine laughter filled the full auditorium at the hilarious portrayal of Hitler, the loss in cultural translation, and the satiric approach to the Nazi regime and its attack by this American Nazi-killing squad, eight men strong. Absurd! So funny. An interested humph filled the room as a character held up his pointer, middle, and ring fingers, requesting Drei whiskey and suddenly the Englishman’s ‘German’ cover was blown. Thumb? Nein. This was later explained, as this was an American movie. People will ask me what I thought of the film. Well, it was excellent. Fantastic. Cinematography, acting, direction, foley art, even! They were all immensely spectacular.

However. The experience of seeing a comedy about such a sensitive topic in a crowded theater (when has it been long enough?) is fascinating in and of itself, but watching an American film concentrating on Germany’s shamed history, with funnies, surrounded by Germans, was almost more appealing than the experience of viewing the movie alone.
The vibration of that room cannot be recreated with any amount of words.



I laughed so much today. Sally’s ardent ”Yes,” to Shanga during our acting workshop, met by a flaming circle of abrupt laughter, embedded in her glistening eyes and adorable red face as she looked at the dry, sparkling recipient of her three-letter word left me laughing for a solid five minutes. I never want to forget how much I laughed today and how much fun I had. I hope I was in a moment of extreme elation when he let go todaylastnight. And I hope that that place of extreme happiness is where his soul found solace after his heart stopped beating. Maybe he has the ability to visit me in Germany and see me in my height in the country that makes me think so much about him and the impressive life he led.

And if he can, I hope he can come to our showcase on Friday and watch me dance. I don’t think my grandpa has seen me dance live since I was seven. Maybe soon he’ll be watching me from heaven but I’m not entirely sure if I believe in that. I believe in love. And she sure loved him. He was her life, you put it, Mom. And maybe Nicholas Sparks knew what he was writing when he wrote love and death. His wife said, “You know, I think today’s the day.” And it was.

God, I love you so much. Dad, you told me to be happy and at peace and I’m really trying. It’s not about art any longer, though. It’s about feeling something and feeling connected. I couldn’t wait to write when I got home: my fingers felt like being busy but my body felt like sitting still because it feels heavy and almost not allowed. But tomorrow, after sleep, it will feel light. I will be able to dance and roll my feet from one point to another, feeling healthy, feeling free.

It’s about connections. He was about connections. Mom, you told me once I remind you of him the way I talk to strangers. So now I’m giving myself to Germany and I’m giving myself to dance. I’m giving myself to writing and I’m giving myself to friends. Since right now, I can’t give myself to you guys. But I miss you so much and my fingers are wrapping around yours and I’m cuddling you as I go to sleep at night. I hope you feel it.



This dance is for you, Grandpa Al. I love you.

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