I just got off the plane from New York and I’m feeling a bit disorientated, which is my excuse for presenting this enigmatic image as proof that my Riesling Diary continues its twisting and turning path, now from Berlin for quite a while. Let me put you out of your misery though, the object pictured above is a hunk of glass I found in the garden of the house in suburban London where I grew up. I always loved gardening, and one day whilst digging in the garden 46 years ago I literally dug it up. I presume that it dates from the years when the house was under construction (1939-40), but that’s only a guess, because I really can’t explain how it came to be there. However, from the moment I held it under an outdoor tap and the cold water freed it from the dirt clinging to it to reveal these sharp and irregular contours I was fascinated by it, also attracted and repelled by it.
And that’s very much how I feel in Berlin this evening. I’m sitting at the desk in the shared apartment where I have a room and wonder what the hell I’m doing here, even though I can explain rather well how I got here. Of course, it is all part of my way of life oscillating between the twin poles of Berlin (my North / +) and New York (my South / – ), but also with my use of entirely legal (where purchased) medications to cope with the stress of intercontinental flights. While we passed over Ireland around 5am the turbulence was pretty extreme and some people in the plane were yelling and screaming in panic. But, I feel sure that this is far from being the whole truth. This kind of dislocation enables me, at least on days like this, to acutely see and feel some of the things nearly everybody else on the street takes for granted and are therefore blind to.
I know that it sounds too obvious to say, but here in Berlin it really is totally different to in New York City, and in ways that no New York Times correspondent will every be able to get into that newspaper (fear not, for I certainly don’t want to suggest that they don’t feel the same kinds of things as I do), because every publication has its explicit and implicit agendas that filter out exactly this kind of stuff. Who wants to pick up a newspaper and find an enigma with jagged edges like those of the hunk of glass staring back at them? Not many people, but I’m damned if I’m going to let that fact alter the way I report anything I experience to you. Here it is, jagged edges ‘n’ all.
