" Muttersprache "
I am inside a constructed space, as if the dream has already decided its geometry before I arrive. Nothing feels accidental. There is a long, clean room divided into zones that don’t quite belong together, but still hold.
On one side, a bar is fixed along the wall. A piece of cloth hangs over it, as if something had been practiced there and then left behind. I don’t see anyone using it, but I feel the discipline of it in my body, the memory of being placed into form, of repeating something until it becomes correct.
Further in, there is a car in a narrow enclosure. It keeps turning within that space, adjusting, reversing, trying again. The movement doesn’t resolve into leaving. It just continues. I hear my mother’s voice, very clearly, as if it is part of the structure: “Ich habe auf keiner Auffahrt jemals so viel gewendet wie auf dieser hier.” The sentence doesn’t explain anything, it just fixes the situation — this is a place where turning replaces arriving.
A red path runs through everything. It doesn’t follow the logic of the rooms. It cuts across them, bends, drops down, rises again, as if it belongs to another system entirely. I move along it without deciding to.
On another side, there is a bed, unoccupied, but not neutral. The sheets are disturbed, carrying the trace of something that happened or almost happened. Nearby, there are small objects arranged on a surface — bowls, glasses, something that suggests a setting but doesn’t complete it. It feels like preparation without conclusion.
Below, there is a circular trace marked on the ground, arrows indicating rotation. The same movement as the car, but abstracted, turned into a diagram. I feel it again in my body — the repetition, the return, the inability to settle into a direction that holds.
There are no people here, but nothing feels empty. Everything is charged with use, with proximity, with relations that don’t quite close. The erotic is present, but not as a scene — more as a condition of spacing, of something about to happen that never fixes into form.
I don’t try to resolve it. I move through it, or it moves through me, and the red line continues, connecting things that don’t belong together, without asking them to make sense.