Sunday, November 26, 2006


And so the next evening when the day was done and we had decided to take over and do the entire revolution all by ourselves, cause in the end - yeah now we were closing very much up to The End - of every meeting and every dialogue and every little encounter even the youngest and apparently most radical and fearless and revolutionary Iranian turned out to be afraid, just like Mohammad in Yazd who turned up the volume of Linkin Park and drove 130 kmph through the night and opened a blue cardboard container of German vodka and swore he would follow us all the way up through Iran in the bus that we would buy or rent and fill up with young and restless, but as soon as the tourist police had kept him for just a couple of hours, he was gone, just an innocent voice on the phone saying - hi, how I you! and, - I am afraid I have to concentrate on my university classes, and yesterday the filmmaker Mojtaba had asked us to erase him from the surveillance camera tapes and even burn the curriculum vitae he’d given us, just because of the invitation we had sent and handed out to all kinds of artists and students, an invitation to visit us in the apartment, “a cell where Iranians and Europeans together in the coming days will plan for the decisive event; an event that will lead to a new revolution”, and now once of a sudden darkness had fallen over Tehran, “a cold clear night”, everybody had gone and we were alone and so, why not! we decided to go to that theatre, and Thomas even brought the camera cause he wanted to film me all the way trough, just like I had filmed him all the way through that evening before the night we went to the two girls, that turned out to be three, that turned out to be “two daughters and a woman”, that turned out to be all of them whores, and right now we are sitting on the backseat of the taxi, quite late, cause although it is only half past five the theatre is in another part of the city centre, at least “one hour” away, and me bent over a box of salad trying to stuff the void with just anything and Thomas behind the camera trying to stir or cheer me up to act and go all the way, cause “now we want to see what is behind those Islamic scarfs!” And we get out of the taxi and I throw the empty salad box and a banana peel behind a bush on the steps leading up to the theatre, just like the Iranians do, and inside the theatre lobby is filled with replicas of European artists, bohemians and intellectuals with ponytails and designer glasses, and everybody has an air of the superior, an arrogance, but in the moment they hear that I am “Bob Nielsen” the excellent mob opens up a corridor and a kind of theatre servant, an Iranian “James”, appears and hand over an envelope with a whole pile of free tickets to “aroye Bobe Nilsen”. And so I am sitting in the fifth row right in the centre and Thomas is filming me from behind as I see her enter the stage and she is exactly, and now on stage even more, like Ghita Noerby, the same aura of the aristocratic that would make it impossible for her to play any kind of minor role in this “naturalistic”, but safe and unreal parallel world, and of course she is followed by a waitress or courtisane who does the dressing, while Ghita is delivering her monologue facing the audience, le populas, her mouth so sensitive, her voice like the exotic bird singing this incomprehensible Farsi with its “hreile hrobie”s and “hreile mamnoun”s, and but it just goes on for hours and in the darkness behind me Thomas has long since started to whisper “Auschwitz Auschwitz Auschwitz” while shifting his incompatibly long legs over and over again ...


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