Josef von Nazaret bei der Diavorführung
Und es ist nur die Diashow, es sind doch und eigentlich nur anderer Leute
Angelegenheiten und fremder Nachbarn Sitzgarnitur, aber da, da drauf und
drin und mittendrin, da eingekastelt in gehortete Bilder und geworfen
auf klaren Grund: deine Frau und als gehöre sie dazu, da sitzt und
geht und steht auf anderer Leute Urlaubsbildern deine Frau und sie ist
jung, sie ist schön und fremd und lacht, da lacht dir die Maria entgegen
aus einer anderen Welt, da hat sie sieben Gesichter und alle kein Teil
von dir, da ist die Maria und integriert, da ist die Maria und einer umfasst
sie, da hat einer sie so um die Hüften gefasst und sie gehört
zu mir, da schaut sie in die Kamera und von hinten um die Hüften
gefasst, weil die Frau gehört zu mir, da steht inmitten andrer Leute
Getümmel ein fremder Mann und hält eine Maria im Arm, um die
Hüften, hat er die Hand auf dem Bauch und knapp über der Scham
und ganz nah den Mund an ihrem Hals und als flüstere er ihr was zu,
da hat der Mann einen Kopf mit kupfrigen Locken und schlanke Finger umfassen
sanft ihren Bauch, was, sagt der Josef und als wär er taumeln, was
ist, sagt der Josef und alles dreht sich um, die Hand am Glas, im Knabbergebäck,
den Mund im Gelächter und heiteren Gespräch und wo ist das,
fragen sie, wo ist das, das, sagt der Josef und schaut den Leuten in die
Augen und ein allgemeines Innehalten im Kauen und Schlucken und lauschigen
Abendvergnügen und wo ist das, sagen sie, wo ist das Problem wo ist
denn das Problem, das, sagt der Josef, was, sagt der Josef und schaut
sie an aber keiner schaut zurück, weil das gibt keiner zu, da will
keiner der erste sein und der ders ihm sagt, da will keiner nichts gesehen
haben und rein gar nichts gewusst und vor allem niemand dem Josef, was,
sagt der Josef, und er steht auf und als würden sie zurückweichen
und von ihm weg, zurück, sagt er, da tritt er hart ins poröse
Licht und von dem schnaufenden Projektor, da ist er im Mittelpunkt und
der Spot direkt auf ihm, da hat er im Rücken die bunten Bilder und
die Welt dreht sich schnell, exakt und perfekt und korrekt mit der Diashow
im Dreisekundentakt, das ist der Gang, der Lauf, das ist der Galopp der
Welt, dreht sich ziemlich rasch, ist ganz schön schnell, zurück,
das sagt er und wandert über die Gesichter mit den Augen zum sich
wo festhalten, aber alle aalglatt und perfekt poliert und wie gut ausgebuttert
und dass er abrutscht darauf, zurück, sagt er, und das meint er,
da würde er gerne zurückspulen, die Bilder und das Hasten der
Welt, anhalten, sagt er und Panik steigt auf, weil da rennt ihm was weg
und weil die Bilder gehen und laufen und da rennt ihm was davon und da
würd er gern was haschen und greifen, aber: spulen sich fort, da
taktet die Maschine im Dreisekundenschrittt, da sind die Bilder Perlen
auf der Schnur und Tropfen höhlen was aus, ausschalten, ruft der
Josef und dreht sich um und keiner tut was, weil das geht keinen was an
und wo in aller Welt ist denn das Problem, weil es würden die Leute
gerne weiterknuspern und Getränke trinken und ganz unbescholten und
behaglich dem unverbindlichen Verziehen der Münder frönen.
© Verena Rossbacher
First Place: Tom Morrison
Exclusive: Joseph of N. Flayed, Taunted, by Slides!
Now with neighbours so prone to flaunt private affairs the prospect of tonight’s slide show was daunting enough, only the pictures streamed and cast upon, thrust upon, stamped into and staring from the plain white wall expose, no, enshrine, your wife, and she’s in the picture alright, when not seated she’s standing or otherwise swanning about, your wife, ’er contented face sweetly graces some stranger’s ’oliday snaps, only she’s younger, this Mary laughing down from some distant realm, she’s even lovelier, and her radiant smile launches ships by the drove yet leaves you high and dry, for she’s otherwise engaged, Mary is, she’s in the arms of another, Mary is, and those two arms of his encircle her hips and she’s mine, she’s now captured on camera embraced by two arms round her waist so she’s mine all mine, and coming on strong amidst that foreign kerfuffle is a stranger with two arms round Mary, clasping her hips, nice and tight, one hand poised on her belly perilously low, lips so close to the skin of her throat he might be whispering, that copper-crowned stranger with slender agile fingers idling upon her belly, well what, Joseph says, and he sounds like he’s reeling, what on earth, and everybody turns, glasses clutched in one hand, munchies in the other, mouths full in the flight of chortles and merry banter, oh where on earth is that, they wonder, well, Joseph says, where, Joseph says, staring so hard at his neighbours the jollification and grubbing comes grinding to a halt, so where on earth, they chorus, and what on earth, just what on earth, where, Joseph says, well, Joseph says, but nobody meets his eye, who would be so stupid as to speak up first, nobody never saw a thing, heard not even a word or so much as a whisper about thon Joseph, well, Joseph says, rising to his feet as if anxious his neighbours might take flight, come back, he says, and cutting through a crumbling shaft of light he confronts that snivelling projector, under the spotlight’s glare he’s now full stage centre, and his backdrop’s the world in all its gaiety, spinning in most perfect, correct, exact alignment with a three-second slide-shift that strictly dictates the way, the course, the gallop of the world, spinning fast, running like mad, come back, he says and scours for stay the sea of faces and eyes only his gaze goes slithering over immaculate polished faces slippery as eels seemingly basted the better to make him come a cropper, come back, he says, and he means precisely that, he wants to wind back the pictures, the haste, of the world, stop, he says in rising panic as he feels something slipping from his grasp, the pictures on course things now slipping away, and he would catch what he could but no, things stick to their course, the machine expelling one slide then three seconds later the next one, slide for slide and drop by drop, off, Joseph cries, spinning round, but nobody lifts a finger because it’s nobody else’s business and just what on earth’s the matter with him when all anybody wants to do is keep on nibbling crackers and knocking back drinks and enjoy a spot of wry grimacing and sly smirking, that discreet pleasure reserved for good folk of spotless repute.
Second Place: Bradley Schmidt
Joseph of Nazareth at the Slide Show
And it's just the slide show, it’s still and really purely other peoples’ business and strange neighbors’ living room sets but there, on it and in it and in the middle of everything, enclosed in hoarded pictures and projected onto a clear background: your wife and as if she belongs there, she is sitting there and walking and standing in other peoples’ vacation pictures, your wife and she is young, she is beautiful and strange and laughing, and Maria is laughing towards you from another world, she has seven faces and none of them are a part of you, there is Maria and integrated, there is Maria and someone is holding her, someone is holding her around her hips and she belongs to me, there she’s looking into the camera and is being held from behind around her hips because the woman belongs to me, there in the middle of other peoples’ bustle, is a strange man and he is holding Maria in his arms, around her hips, has his hands on her tummy and just above her pubis and his mouth really close to her neck and as if he was whispering something to her, the man has a head full of coppery curls and slim fingers wrapped around her belly, what, says Joseph and as if he were floundering, what’s going on, Joseph says and everyone turns around, their hands on their glasses, in the bowls of munchies, mouths laughing and cheerful conversations and where is that, they ask, that, says Joseph and looks them in the eye and a general pause in chewing and swallowing and the cozy evening entertainment and what’s the problem, that, says Joseph, what, says Joseph and looks at them but nobody looks back because no one is admitting it, no one wants to be the first one and the one who tells him, no one there claims to have seen nothing and known anything at all and above all to Joseph, what says Joseph, and he gets up and as if they were flinching, recoiling away from him, get away, he says, there he steps hard into the porous light and in front of the wheezing projector, he is the center of attention there and the spotlight is directly on him, there he has the colorful pictures at his back and the world turns quickly, precisely and perfectly and in time with the slide show, three second cycle, that’s the path, the course, the gallop of things, it turns fairly fast, it’s really quick, go back, that’s what he says and roams over the faces with his eyes, trying to hold steady somewhere, but everyone’s slippery as eels and perfectly polished and like greased piglets and his grip slips, go back, he says, and he means it, he would like to hit reverse, the pictures and the skelter of the world, hold up, he says and panic creeps in because something's getting away from him there and because the pictures are traveling and moving and running away from him and he would like to snatch and grab, but: they keep on reeling, there the machine ticks away in three second intervals, there the pictures are pearls on a string and drops hollow something out, turn it off, Joseph hollers and turns around and no one does anything because it’s none of their business and where on earth is the problem, because the people would like to keep on munching and drinking beverages and completely blameless and comfortably indulging in the noncommittal wagging of tongues.
Tony Crawford
And it’s just the slide show, it’s only and all it is, really, is other people’s business and someone’s neighbors’ sofa suite, but there, on the wall and in the picture and right in the middle, framed up there in treasured pictures and projected onto a white background: your wife, and as if she belonged here, your wife is sitting and walking and standing here in other people’s vacation pictures, and she’s young, she’s pretty and a stranger, and she’s laughing, Mary is smiling out at you from another world, she has seven faces there and none of them a part of you, there’s Mary and she fits right in, there’s Mary and someone is holding her, he’s got his arm around her waist like this and she’s with me, she’s looking at the camera and held around the middle from behind, because the lady’s with me, there’s a strange man standing in the middle of a throng of other people and with his arm around a Mary, around her waist, has his hand on her tummy and just above her pubis and his mouth right next to her neck and as if he’s whispering something to her, there the man has a head of coppery curls and slender fingers gently holding her belly, what, says Joseph and as if he’s reeling, what’s, says Joseph and they all turn around, their hands on their glasses, in the snacks, their mouths in laughter and cheerful chatter and where is that, they ask, where is that, that, says Joseph and looks the people in the eye and a general halt in the chewing and swallowing and enjoying a cozy evening and where is that, they say, what’s the matter but what‘s the matter, that, says Joseph, what, says Joseph and looks at them, but no one looks back, because no one admits it, no one wants to be the first and the one to tell him, no one admits having seen anything, much less known anything and most of all no one wants to tell Joseph, what, says Joseph, and he stands up and as if they give way and back away from him, go back, he says, he steps hard into the porous light and from the puffing projector, he’s in the center and the spotlight is right on him, he has the pretty pictures at his back and the world is turning fast, exactly and perfectly correctly with the slide show in a three-second cadence, that’s the pace, the course, the gallop of the world, spinning rather fast, it’s really fast, go back, he says and his eyes wander across the faces for a place to hold on, but they’re all slick and perfectly polished and as if greased thoroughly so he slips off, go back, he says, and what he means, he would like to back up, the pictures and the hurry of the world, stop, he says and panic sets in, because something’s running away from him and because the pictures are going and running and something’s running away and he’d like to grab something and hold on, but: unwinding away, the machine cycles on in three-second steps, the pictures are beads on a string and steady drips will hollow something out, turn it off, shouts Joseph, and turns around and no one does anything because it’s none of anyone’s business and what in the world is the matter, because the people would like to go on munching and drinking drinks and perfectly respectably and pleasantly indulging in the tactful pursing of lips.
Hugh Fraser
Saint Joe an’ the slide shaw
C’mon Joey, get a grip man, it’s jist a slide shaw, it’s just ither people’s business, you barely know ’em, you’ve jist ended up oan some random neebors’ settee, that’s all… but pish, there’s no doot aboot it, it’s her, oan it, in it, slap bang in the muddle of it a’, like she’s bin frozen in that stash o’ foties, then chucked up against that empty wa’: yep, it’s yer missus sure enough, looks right in her element, sittin’, walkin’, standin’ aroond oan sumwin else’s holiday snaps, your missus, young, bonnie, not the Mary you know though, she’s laughin’, Mary’s laughin’ at ya frae anither world, you’re seein’ a’ these diff’rent sides tae her, alien to you though, it’s Mary, like she’s right where she beloangs, Mary, sumwin’s got a hold o’ her, sumwin’s grabbed her roond the waist, what’s this a’ aboot, that’s my wumman, she’s lookin’ in the cam’ra and sumwin’s got her frae behind roond her hips, whit the hell is this, the lass is mine, and there in the muddle of this big crood of folk is this random guy and he’s holdin’ my Mary in his arrums, roond her hips, he’s got his hand oan her belly just up frae her privates and his mooth’s right up near her neck like he’s whusperin’ summat tae her, he’s got a loada curls like copper waiyer oan his heid and his slinky fingers are roond her belly all gentle like, whit, says Joe, it’s like he’s stagg’rin’, whit, he says, and they a’ turn towards him, hands oan their glasses, in the nibbles, mooths laughin’, chattin’ away, where’s that, they’re askin’, where is that yeah where is that, says Joe and looks ’em right in the eyes and the chewin’ and swallowin’ and cosy wee evenin’ vibe stoap for a whiley, where is that, they’re sayin’, whit’s the proablem, whit exactly is the proablem, precisely that is the proablem, says Joe, whit is this, says Joe and he’s lookin’ at ’em but nae one’s lookin’ back, cuz nae one wants tae admit tae it or be the first tae tell him, they’re a’ like: we ain’t seen nuthin’, we dinne know nuthin’, an’ we surely ain’t goanna tell you Joe, whit, says Joe, an’ he stands up and it’s like they’re shrinkin’ back away frae him, goa back, he says, an’ he stamps intae the fleckery beam o’ light in front o’ the projector that’s puffin’ an’ wheezin’ away, he’s bang in the muddle o’ it a’, the light’s shinin’ right oan him, the foties in glorious technicolour right oan his back an’ the wurrald’s spinnin’ fast like the slide shaw, nice an’ neat an’ tidy, three second a slide, that’s the rhuthm, that’s how fast it’s goan’, how fast the wurrald’s trottin’ along, pretty damn fast it is, pretty bloody fast, goa back, he says an’ his eyes are wandrin’ o’er a’ the faces tryin’ to get a foothold, but they’re a’ like Teflon, all polished tae perfection, they’re like slipp’ry wee sprats, so he slides right off em’, go back, he says, can we reel back please, reel back the slides and the wurrald that’s rushin’ along like this, stoap, he’s sayin’, an’ he’s panickin’, cuz summat’s runnin’ away frae him, cuz the pickchaz keep changin’ and changin’ an’ summat’s tryin’ a git away frae him an’ he’d like tae grab ontae summat, but they keep goin’ forward, it keeps firin’ oot the pickchaz every three seconds like a big Pez machine spittin’ oot sweeties, it’s flippin’ Chinese water torcha, switch it oaff, shouts Joe and turns aroond but nae one does a thing, cuz it’s none o’ anywin’s business, and whit the hell is the proablem, cuz the people’d like to go oan wi’ their munchin’ and boozin’, and gi’ ’emselves the treat o’ a respectabul, cosy wee tut-tut that disne commit ’em tae nuthin’.
Joseph Given
Joseph of Nazareth at the slideshow
but it’s just
a slideshow, nothing else, really just other folks’ affairs and furniture
of unknown neighbours; however, there, framed, there in the middle of
the heaps of the hoarded pictures, projected onto clear flat whiteness
now: there’s your wife, sitting, standing, walking, as if she belonged
there, on other people’s holiday snaps; your wife, and young and
foreign and laughing and beautiful is she, laughing in your direction,
from another world - inside of which she has seven faces, none of which
are for you—Mary’s integrity, integrated somewhere where arms
encircle the hips of my Mary, belongs to me, looks into the camera, while
arms encircle her hips from behind, because the woman belongs to me, standing
in the middle of hordes of strangers, a strange man, holding Mary, his
arms round her hips; on the swell of her belly, his hand, above her pudendum,
resting – close to her neck his mouth, like whispering something,
the man with the head with the copper colour locks, his slender fingers
gently lingering on her abdomen, what, says Joseph, around him the world
spinning, what the, says Joseph, his senses reeling, hand on the glass,
fingers in the trail mix, the mouth laughs and witty chit-chat and where
is that, they ask, where’s that, that, says Joseph, and looks the
people in the eye and a general tension in the sense of expectation and
the sound of mastication and swallowing there, in the comfort of an enjoyable
evening and where is that, they say, where, and what’s the problem,
what’s the problem then—that, says Joseph, what, says Joseph
and looks at them but no one looks back because no one wants to be the
first, no one wants to do it, wants to admit it, to say it to Joseph,
no one wants to have not seen nothing and not known nothing, and most
of all, no one but Joseph—what, says Joseph, and gets up and, as
if they were drawing back from him, back, he says, and stepping firmly
into the speckled light in front of the wheezing projector—and there
he is in the spotlight, the Technicolor film world at his back, and the
world turns quickly, exactly, perfectly, correctly, in time with the slideshow,
every three seconds, which should be the way, the walk, the run, the gallop
of the world, quickly turning—very quickly in fact—back, he
says, pondering the faces with their eyes, for some grip, something to
hold onto, but everywhere is slippery, perfectly polished and oiled, so
that he skids and falls, back, he says, and he means it: he wants to rewind,
the images, the haste of the world, pause, he says, and panic rises up
in him because something is running from him, something he’d like
to grab, hold onto, but
clicking forth in
its three-second rhythm, there, the pictures, pearls on a thread, drops
strike caverns into rock, turn it off, screams Joseph, and whirls around
and nobody does, no one does anything because it’s got nothing to
do with anybody, and what in the world is the problem then, because the
people would like to just continue scoffing, drinking their drinks without
rebuke or disturbance, indulge the non-committal movements of their mouths
in quiet comfort.
Vincent Kling
Joseph of Nazareth at the Slide Show
So a slide show is all it is, and it’s really other people’s business with seats provided by strange neighbors’ seats, but there, right up front and smack dab in the midst of it all, boxed inside pictures kept in a case and thrown onto a clear background, your wife: just as if she belonged right where she is; your wife—she’s young, she’s pretty, she’s a stranger, she’s laughing—is sitting and walking around and standing up in pictures from other people’s vacations; Maria is smiling out at you from a different world; she’s got seven faces and not one of them any part of you, and here somebody’s put his arms around her hips from behind and she’s looking into the camera while being grapsed from behind by her hips because the woman belongs to me, and there standing right in the midst of that whole crush of different people is a strange man holding Maria by the arm and around her hips, with his hand on her stomach, not far above her privates, his mouth very close to her neck and as if he were whispering something to her; the man has a head of copper curls and his thin fingers gently encircle her stomach; what? says Joseph, looking ready to keel over, what’s going on? says Joseph, and everybody turns around, glasses in their hands, munching crackers, mouths fixed in laughter and cheery conversations, and where is that? they ask, where is that? that? says Josef and looks those people in the eye and then a general pause in the chewing and swallowing and the evening’s easygoing pleasantry, and where is that? they say, where’s the problem where’s the problem anyway; that, says Josef, was, says Josef and looks at them all but nobody looks back, because nobody’s admitting it, nobody wants to be the first and then be the one to have to tell him, so nobody has seen a thing and nobody knows a thing, not a single thing and above all nobody deals with Josef, what, says Josef, and he stands up and it’s as if they all want to shrink back from him and move away, back off, he says, then he steps firmly into the porous light from the wheezing projector so now he’s in the center, spotlight directly on him, the bright colored pictures are on his back and the world is turning quickly, precisely, and perfectly and correctly with the slide show set at three-second intervals, that’s the way, the run, the gallop of the world, turning pretty rapidly, very fast in fact—back off, is what he says and lets his eyes wander across the faces so he can hold fast somewhere, but they’re all smooth as eels and perfectly polished and as if buttered well so he can go sliding off them, back off, he says, and he means it, he’d like to wind it all backwards, the pictures and the scurrying of the world—stop where you are, he says and panic mounts because something’s running away from him and because the pictures are leaving and running and dashing away from him and he wishes he could snatch at something, hold on to it, but: wind their way onward, the machine keeps time in its three-second tempo, the pictures are pearls on a string and drops are hollowing something out—turn it off, yells Josef and turn around and nobody does anything because it’s nobody’s concern and where in heaven’s name is the problem anyway, because what the people really want to do is keep on crunching and munching and drinking their drinks and in all innocence and comfort indulge the open-and-close of their mouths with no obligation.
John Manning
Joseph of Nazareth shows slides
After all, it's only the slide show, and when it comes to it just other people's affairs and seating provided by neighbours we don't know, but there, somehow caught up in the middle, shut in among long-hoarded pictures being projected on to a clear surface: your wife and, just as though she belonged to the scene, sitting and walking and standing there in other people's holiday snaps – your wife and she is young, she's pretty and different, and she laughs, it's Mary laughing at you out of a different world, she has her seven faces and all of them no part of you, yes it's Mary and all of a harmony, it's Mary and someone's put his arms round her, someone's just grabbed her round her hips, and she's mine, there she's looking into the camera and is being taken from behind round her hips, it's because the woman belongs to me, and there in among the tumult of all these other people there's a strange man and he's holding a Mary in his arms, round her hips, has his hand on her belly just a bit above her privates and right up with his mouth pressed on her neck as though he were whispering something to her, and there's the man has a head of copper locks, and his slim finger are taking a soft hold of her belly, what all that about, says Joseph, and as though he were about to tumble says again what's going on, and they all turn round, hands holding glasses or dipping into the nibbles, mouths caught in laughter and cheerful conversation, and where is it, they ask, and where is it, where is it, says Joseph looking people in the eye, and there's a general pause in the chewing and swallowing and hushed evening amusement, and what's happening, they say, and where's the problem, what's the problem supposed to be, it's that, says Joseph, what's happening, says Joseph and looks straight at them, but nobody looks back, because nobody wants to admit to it, nobody wants to be the first and the one who tells him, nobody wants not to have seen anything and not to have known anything at all, and above all nobody telling Joseph, what on earth, says Joseph and gets up, and though they are all moving back and away from him, he says get back, and then he kicks hard into the porous light coming from the wheezing projector, there he's in the centre of it all and the spotlights's shining direct on to him, he's got the bright pictures behind him and the world is whirring round quickly, precise, perfect and exact in three-second rhythm matching the slide show, that's how it goes, running its course, the world galopping along, turning rather quickly, all pretty fast, and get back he says, and lets his eyes wander over the faces to where they're holding on , but they're all slippery as can be, well polished as though done out with butter so he might lose his footing on it, get back, he says, and that's what he means, if he could he would wind it back, those pictures and the urgency of the world, stop it all, that's what he says, and then panic breaks out because something's running away from him, and because the pictures are moving and running and there a piece of it rushes away from him and he would so like to catch something and seize hold of it, but: it's being wound on, the machine beating in three-second steps, the pictures are like pearls on a thread, and drops hollowing something out, switch it off calls Joseph and turns round but nobody does anything because it's nobody's business, and where on earth is the problem supposed to be, because all people want is to go on nibbling and sipping their drinks and, being entirely blameless and at ease, amuse themselves watching the noncommittal twitching of people's mouths.
Steph Morris
Josef of Nazareth at the slide show
Just this slide show, it is just and really is other people’s business and the people’s three-piece we don’t talk to, except that there, up there, in there, in the middle, in boxes, in boxed-up pictures, blown up on a blank background: your wife, as if there was nothing wrong, standing, sitting, walking in other people’s holiday snaps: your wife, and she is young, she is pretty and distant and laughs, that’s Mary’s laughing face looking at you from another world, that’s her with seven heads, none of them belong to her, that’s Mary, someone’s got his arm round her, someone’s just put his arm round her waist, she belongs to me, that’s her looking into the camera, with someone with his arm round her waist, from behind, because that woman belongs to me, in the middle of other people’s mayhem some strange man holding this Mary in his arms, round her waist, got his hand on her belly, just above her privates, his mouth by her neck and it’s like he’s whispering something to her, that man has a head of coppery curls, slender fingers gently holding her belly, what, this Joseph says, and as if he’s tumbling, what the, this Joseph says, and everything switches, the hand round the glass, in the nibbles, the laughing mouth and jolly chit-chat and what is that, they ask, what is that, that, this Joseph says, and looks people in the eyes and now a halt to the general crunching and swallowing and the pleasant evening we’re having, and what is that, they say, what’s the problem, what is the problem with that, that, this Joseph says, what, this Joseph says, and looks at them but no-one looks at him, because no-one will admit it, no-one wants to be the first to speak and the one who tells him, no-one wants to have seen nothing really known nothing and especially no-one when it’s Joseph, what, this Joseph says, and he gets up and it’s as if they parted and drew away from him, back, he says, that’s him stepping straight into the gaping light, hot air from the projector, that’s him in the middle with the spot pointing at him, that’s him with his back to the Technicolor pictures and the world turns fast, exact and perfect and correct like the slide show, three seconds each, that’s the pace, the race, the gallop, the world, it turns pretty fast, really quite nippy, back, that’s what he’s saying and drifts across the faces, his eyes searching solid ground but all slippery eels and buffed up nicely and thoroughly greased with butter, to make him slip, back, he says, and he means it, that’s him wanting to scroll back, the pictures and the haste and the world, halt, he says and panic rises, and because something is running past him and because the pictures are walking and running and something is running away from him and that’s him wanting to catch, to hold, but: they scroll on, that’s the machine beating each three seconds, that’s the pictures, string of pearls and drops carving something out, switch it off, this Joseph shouts, and turns round and no-one does anything, because it’s not anyone’s business and what in heaven’s name is the problem, because people would rather like to carry on nibbling their nibbles and drinking their drinks and indulging in carefree curling of the lips in peace if you don’t mind.
Anne Posten
Joseph of Nazareth at the Slideshow
And it’s only a slideshow, it’s only other people’s business and unknown neighbors’ sofas, but there, right there in between everything, in the middle, stuck right there in the middle, cloistered amid treasured pictures and thrown into clear relief: his wife, as if she belonged there, sitting, walking, standing amid other people’s vacation photos is his wife, and she’s young, she’s beautiful and strange and she’s laughing, there’s Mary laughing at you from another world, she has seven faces and there’s not a trace of you, Mary’s there and a part of it all, here’s Mary in someone’s embrace, someone has his hand on her hips and she belongs to me, here she’s looking at the camera and being held around the hips from behind, because this woman belongs to me, in the middle of other people’s turmoil stands a strange man who holds Mary in his arms, around her hips, he has his hand on her belly, down near her privates and his mouth is very close to her neck, as if he’s whispering something to her, the man has a head with coppery curls and slim fingers he’s holding her belly gently, what, says Joseph reeling, what’s this, says Joseph and everyone turns to him with their hands full of glasses and noshes, mouths full of laughter and cheery talk and what, they ask, what, that, says Joseph and looks everyone in the eyes, and there’s a general pause amid chewing and swallowing and a cozy evening’s enjoyment and what, they say, what is the problem what’s the problem here, that says Joseph, what, says Joseph and looks at them but no one looks back, because no one will confess, no one wants to be the first, no one wants to be the one to tell, no one’s seen nothing, knows absolutely zip, Joseph least of all, what, says Joseph and stand up as if they’d draw back and leave him, back, he says, and steps firmly into the porous light of the wheezing projector, now he’s right in the middle with the spotlight on him, he has the colorful photos at his back and the world’s spinning, exact and perfect and correct with the slideshow in three-second intervals, that’s the course, the way, the gallop of the world, turns pretty quick, nice and fast, back, he says that and wanders with his eyes over the faces looking for somewhere to settle, but all are as slippery as an eel and perfectly polished and buttered and he slips and slides over them, back, he says, and he means it, he’d like to go back, rewind the pictures and the haste of the world, stop, he says and panic rises, because something’s running out of him, because the pictures keep going and changing and something’s leaving him, and he’d like to snatch at it, grasp it, but: it winds on and on, the machine clicks in three-second time, here the pictures are pearls on a chain and drops tear it out, turn it off, cries Joseph and turns and no one does anything, because it concerns no one and what in the world is the problem, because everyone just wants to keep crunching and drink drinks and wallow blamelessly, comfortably in the noncommittal contortions of their mouths.
Heike Raabe-Stuemler
And it is just the slideshow, it is just and only other people's business and strange neighbor's sofas, but there, on there and in there, right there in the middle, there boxed into those horded pictures and thrown against a clear surface and as if she was part of it, there she is sitting, there she is walking, standing in other people's holiday pictures, your wife and she is young, she is beautiful and strange and she laughs, there is Maria laughing at you from out of another world, there she has seven faces none of them part of you, there is Maria and integrated, there is Maria and someone is holding her, there is someone holding her around the waist and she belongs to me, there she is looking into the camera held around the waist from behind, because that woman belongs to me, standing there in the middle of other people's buzzle is a strange man and he is holding a Maria in his arms, holding her around the waist his hand resting on her tummy just above her private parts and his mouth really close to her neck and as if he is whispering to her, there is that man with a head of cupreous curls and his slender fingers touching her tummy, what, says Josef, and almost tumbling, what is going on, says Josef and everybody turns around, glass in hand, fingering the nibbles, mouths full of laughter and chitty chat, and where is that, they ask, where is that, that, says Josef and looks into people's eyes and there is a pause in the chewing and swallowing and the cozy diversion and where is, they say, where is the problem, where is the actual problem, that, says Josef, what says Josef and looks at them but no one counters the gaze, because no one admits to that, nobody wants to be the first and the one to break it to him, everyone claims to not have noticed and knowing nothing and certainly not in front of Josef, what, says Josef and he gets up and as if they were retreating, backing away from him, back, he says, and he steps hard into the crumbly light and in front of the gasping projector, there he is focus of attention, taking center stage, those gaudy pictures in his back and the world turns fast, accurate and perfect and precise together with the slide show in its three second rhythm, that is the duct, the gait, that is the pace of the world, turns pretty fast, is rather quick, back, is what he says and wanders along the faces with his eyes in order to hold on, but all of them glib and perfectly polished and like generously buttered so he slips on them, back, he says, and he means it, that is where he would like to wind back, to stop the pictures and the hustle of the world, stop, he says and panic rises, because something is getting away and because the pictures move forward and run and something is getting away and he would like to catch to snatch something, but: they wind away, there is the machine tapping it's three second beat, there are the pictures, pearls on a string and dripping wears away something, turn it off, shouts Josef and turns around and nobody is doing anything, because it is nobody's business and where in the world is the problem anyway, because people would like to continue nibbling, drinking their drinks and just innocent and easy indulge into the uncommitted twisting of their mouths.
Matt Vunush
Josef of Nazareth at the Slideshow
And it is just the slideshow, these are, however, really just other people´s affairs and strange neighbours´ furniture, but then, on it and inside and right in there, there boxed in hoarded pictures and thrown on a clear foundation: your wife, and as if she belonged to them, there your wife sits, and walks, and stands on other people´s holiday pictures, and she is young , she is beautiful and strange, and she laughs, there Maria laughs at you from a different world, there she has seven faces and none of them is part of you, there is Maria and integrated, there is Maria, and someone embraces her, there somebody has grasped her around the hips that way, and she belongs to me, there she is looking at the camera and grasped around from behind, because the woman belongs to me, there she stands in the midst of other people´s turmoil, and a strange man holds a Maria in his arms, around her hips, has put a hand on the belly and just above the crotch, and his mouth very close to her neck as if he were whispering something to her, there the man has coppery curls on his head, and slender fingers gently embrace her belly, what, says Josef, and as if he were staggering, what is, says Josef, and everything turns around, the hand on the glass, in the snack mix, the mouth in laughter and cheerful conversation, and where is that, they ask, that, says Josef and looks people in the eye, and a general pause in chewing and swallowing and cosy evening fun, and where is that, they say, where is the problem where really is the problem, that, says Josef, what, says Josef and looks at them, but nobody looks back, because nobody admits it, there nobody wants to be the first nor the one who tells him, there nobody wants to have not seen anything and known absolutely nothing and first of all nobody to Josef, what, says Josef, and he stands up and as if they shrank back and away from him, back he says, there he steps harshly into the porous light and from the puffing projector, there he is in the limelight and the spotlight directly on him, there he has the colourful pictures at his back and the world turns fast, precise and perfect and correct with the slideshow on a three-second beat, that is the motion, the course, that is the gallop of the world, turns quite fast, is pretty swift, back, he says that and wanders over the faces with the eyes to hold on to something, but everybody slick and perfectly polished and like well-buttered and that he slips on it, back, he says, and he means it, he would like to rewind there, the pictures and the bustle of the world, stop, he says, and panic rises, for something is running away from him, and because the pictures walk and move, and there something is running away from him, and he would like to catch and grasp something, but: spin forward themselves, there the machine clocks in three-second steps, there are the pictures like pearls on a string, and constant dripping wears something away, switch off, Josef calls, and turns around, and nobody does anything, for it does not regard them, and where on earth is the problem really, because people would like to continue with munching and drinking drinks, and completely respectably indulge in uncommittedly twisting their mouths.