THE BS CASE
9. THE CARRIER: POSITIONING THE MURDERER
“The night I found Bernd, I think it was around 2:44 am, he was lying unresponsive on the bare ground. I picked him up gently and put him in one of the books in my bag. There was no one around, and if I hadn't picked him up, which was a difficult ethical question and a choice that felt ages, he would have hung in the wind or been trampled and humiliated, you could even say I had a call, I didn't know Valeria Solanas, I didn't know Bernd either, it was just pure intuition towards a young man, a stranger, and rush of adrenaline.
The night I found him, I made a small place for him in my living room, went to my bed and locked the door behind me, a man I didn't even know was lying half unconscious in my house, where I hadn't let anyone in for months. I felt a pit in my stomach of disgust or fear, a stabbing agony mixed with apprehension. I thought of fingerprints sealed indefinitely on a photograph, 8 eyes in a plastic bag, I couldn't sleep.
I had two justifications for separating Bernd's head from its usual location on his body, and I am not necessarily regretting it.
1. I was consumed by a profound sense of envy and admiration for his authentic joy and straightforward simplicity. My affection for him reached such an intensity that I felt compelled to eradicate him. In a state of historical apathy, I got hysterically nostalgic and wanted to bless him with making his representation immortal.
2. I had every and no reason to do/not to do it. ”
No blood was shed, and no newspaper reported it.
13.2034
I. THE HEAD
On a day like yesterday, Bernd Siebensich has/was tortured away from the reality of his entity; his head was brutally cut up and separated from the rest of his body in a vulgar lack of sensitivity to create an experimental scene, so to speak, to make sense in an artistic laboratory by non-professional surgeons, his identity was sub-consciously removed and re-found through a symbolically arranged image of himself or a persona he hired for a second after the fifth attempt of him taking a photo of himself with the exact right angle that represents the white wall which emphasizes the quiet gap in between thus gives context to his physical irony. He decided to keep the lower part of his body for himself and away, he thought it was out of interest and not serving, thus limiting the playground for the improvisers or whoever would deal with the story after his loss, his sacrifice or contribution to the history of public and the possibility of a recycled justice in a reestablished harmonic unity.
No, Bernd didn't play billiards, nor was he a dedicated soccer fan. He appreciated the warmth of a woman, but he never had this actual closeness to reproduce children from his DNA in cartesian constellations. Bernd was aware of this dilemma and never made it a subject of his (own) matter, he never contributed to elections either, for he was busy spreading his serial, sharply framed messages to the fringes of society, to the forgotten, cramped areas of the city, placing them like banners in dead-end streets as silent demonstrators, sometimes in front of the dirty, smelly, drunken junk bars in canalizations, and giving some of them to the flower sellers at night for nonprofit-nor-romantic or any specific reason to be recognized in color or to feel like someone fairly special.
Bernd was generous with his feelings, not with his thoughts, he didn't speak as he didn't eat much, but he liked his fake-plastic cat, and not at all his biological mother, who blamed him god's sake a decade for the sudden death of his father, though he was a son of an immigrant wrestling-show entertainer from the 80s on, he spoke Latvian fluently and a broken German accidentally, that was funny, but she put a lot of sugar in her coffee and read erotic books hiddenly without mercy or suspicion.
Bernd didn't like subway music like jazz in general, but he had his moments when he gently agreed when he met his colleagues twice a year, they spoke of phallic architectural representations in Atlantis, the fall of liberal men in China, cheap but powerful washing powders on the global market, drank three bottles of liqueur with coke without getting too sentimental.
Bernd was not a SMOKER, or a time traveler, nor was he a billboard designer, he was straight in choices. He was getting paid by the state to create the phenomenon of this and that Kitsch bigger than his destination. He was neither cynical nor hypocritical; he was just a symbolic package as his supermarket choices and a promising hero indeed who paid his taxes on time but never read he the Bible nor a self-help book during a toilet session. Just like you.
And I suggest he enjoyed it as much as he enjoyed looking at the sky and inventing games with the obscure shapes of the clouds to pass the time. Bernd could have been anyone too, but in this case, it was him, literally him, it was Bernd…
That cold, foggy night, before he went out to install one of his photographs on the streets of town, he dreamt on his chaise lounge of losing one of his dog teeth in the reflecting charm of his mirror image, then he found a piece of paper wrapped around a long brown hair on his kitchen floor, it didn't say much to him- when he woke up, everything and nothing was the same, he brushed his cat and, as usual, left his house without a key in his pocket.
I HONESTLY can’t entirely agree that he had enemies, though he did care about some moral issues, but controversially. Well, he put the newspapers, before even throwing an eye on their virginity, in the trash bin of his neighbor- Manta Sandana, who was originally a Mexican undertaker and owned two large refrigerators at her residence in Malta, in case of a natural disaster or an emergency I guess; she was stocking the news for a future civilization like hairy chicken pieces wrapped in plastic foil and Bernd, apparently he, he knew something about that…