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Now Hear This opens its studios doors to the world of Altes Finanzamt, where we encounter the evil geniuses behind a curiously named monthly literary event: *Filament Stanza*



is one of the best kept secrets of Neukölln.

Though it's hard to find and though the logic according to which the opening days are fixed may not seem evident, it's cozy and friendly inside. You can get Portuguese wine or beer, usually served with lupines - which have nothing to do with Spanish tapas - while you listen to experimental music or to a reading.

Filament Stanza is an anagram of "Altes Finanzamt" and the title given to a monthly literary event. It is curated by Mário Gomes, Jochen Thermann, Eirik Sördahl, Joana Bértholo and John Holten. Apart from readings, "Filament Stanza" proposes literary duels, writing marathons and scenic literary performances.


Jochen Thermann lives in the wrong neighbourhood in Berlin. In winter he therefore spends a lot of his time looking out of the window of the Ringbahn to Neukölln, thinking about the poetry of the goals that Borussia Dortmund has scored this season. Now he is riding his bicycle again. To make a professional appearance he has published a book on Kafka’s animals suggesting a metaphorical model of the mind. He writes texts for Netzreporter and talks about history on Montagsradio. Among others, he pleads guilty for the invention of Philosophical Football. Together with Mario Gomes, Eirik Sördahl, Joana Bertholo and John Holten he is in charge of Filament Stanza, a monthly night of literature at Altes Finanzamt that he warmly recommends.



Joana Bértholo still denies she lives in Berlin after 4 years and many pauses - Buenos Aires, Lisbon, London, Marseille. She was born in Lisbon in 1982, studied Visual Arts and Design, ran marathons and played at being a professional triathlete most of her teenage years, and only payed writing any attention when her silly ramblings started getting awarded. She has published a novel, a compilation of stories, many other short stories in different media, and a script for comics. She insists her next novel as well as her PhD dissertation is about the topic of "Shadows" - though nobody else agrees. more or less: http://www.unscratchable.info/.


Mário Gomes still has not decided, whether to write his name with an accent on the *a* or not. The version with the accent would be the Portuguese one, the version without it, a German or rather international spelling. Whenever he dedicates to academic work, he avoids the accent. In the credits of his films, he usually appears as "Mário" with an *á*. To avoid excessive reflexion about this question, he makes up new names to stand as the authors of his literary publications. He is a Philosophical Football referee, one of the co-founders of Altes Finanzamt in Neukölln, where he organizes the monthly literary night along with Jochen Thermann, Eirik Sördahl, Joana Bértholo and John Holten.

very far from berlin...

I am leaning outside the windows of my bedroom at my parent’s house. A ladybird explores my window ledge.

It is quiet except for the distant rush of cars passing on the nearby motorway, and some sporadic birdsong. The birds are deep in conversation. Perhaps he is right, it may be spring after all.

My eyes drift along the plume of smoke I exhale, seeing only one bird perched high in the tree across.

It is orange breasted and moves its head with a quick and sudden sharpness. It seems the most delicate thing. When it chirps the tone rises up like a question. It is anxious. Uncertain, neurotic.

You’re always anthropomorphising everything

He says.

Perhaps he’s right, I am projecting my feelings onto it . It could be perfectly happy there, serene, content. I wish I knew what sort of bird it was.

He thinks I’m allergic to nature. This is not true. I grew up with it. Came of age on long walks, picking berries, sipping nectar out of honeysuckle flowers, collecting baskets full of pine cones to burn.

I liked the lavender in our garden best, not because of its smell, but because the butterflies and hummingbirds would always hover there.

When I first moved back to London, what I missed most about the place I’d left behind was the seasons.

Distinctive seasons, magical for a child.

Snow in the winter that fell heavy from the sky and stuck fast to the ground until it came up to your knees.

Breezy springs where crocuses and daffodils would bravely break through the frost .

the summers were almost too hot but then it meant you could run with your friends through the sprinklers and have fights with water balloons or water guns.

And autumn,maybe most stunning of all , leaves in every shade of the rainbow, I liked to pile them up and dive into them, their softness breaking my fall

I finish my cigarette, its cold now, I should close the window. I don’t know what the bird sings about. I cannot speak its language. But why should I? It’s song is not for me after all.

stansted...gateway to london (the first 20 minutes..)

Waiting at the very short queue at passport control the man who looks at my passport has an accent that is really too posh for his occupation. Did something go wrong after Eton? As he gives me my passport back, the chinese man who sits at the desk next to him shouts out

NEXT!

The man serving me shudders, shakes his head while casting a pained look at me, leans over and says to him

No need to shout… it’s not as if we’re in Germany.

The chinese man looks embarrassed. I take my passport back

Waiting at the stand to buy my coach ticket to London, the twenty something Spanish girl who serves me is less interested in the transaction, more interested in how her hair and make up appear in her reflection. She’s cute so I forgive her for this.

I leave with my ticket to buy a sandwich and a coffee at pret and over the tanoy someone says

Carlo Fanni please come to the information desk. Carlo fanni.

I catch the eyes of two burly security guards in flouro jackets . Their faces are lit up like gleeful school boys. I also can’t help from smirking.

Carlo fanni.

I hear a girl say to her friend

He must have really enjoyed making that call. Carlo fanny..

her friend can’t stop laughing.

When I get to the coach stop,, I’m accidentally (I hope ) pushed aside by a group of Italian girls who seem lost. They ask the guy at the bus something in italian, and as I am thinking, Italians think they can speak Italian everywhere well..The boy replys, in Italian. Actually, he is Italian. The girls don’t’ seem to appreciate their luck.

He tells me I can’t take my coffee on the bus but I have nine minutes. I step aside and ask the bus driver if I can take my suitcase on the bus. He says no (in an accent I think is polish) but offers to put it into the boot for me now while I smoke.

When I finally get in I attempt to hide in the back but am soon surrounded by a class of dutch students. I look out the window. Its warmer here, but also greyer and wetter. Why didn’t I pack an umbrella? I should know better. It’s nice to be home.

departure..

I am about to give him the password to my email account. I was hoping he could print something for me when he went to the internet café

I would be too tempted to look at your emails.


But there is nothing I’m scared of you seeing.

I’d rather not have it…I’m the type who if I found a diary…would look through it. But at least I’m honest to myself about that.

I understand. But I’m not that type.
As much as I am weak at any hint of temptation, I draw the line when another is involved.

I mostly don’t do what I shouldn’t …mostly

That morning was much more difficult by his presence in the bed. I was finding it almost impossible to slip myself away from him in that moment. The minutes ticked over and passed, drawing perilously close to when I should have already left.

Finally I forced myself up.
Pulling on a purple vest that lay on the floor, I asked if I could turn the light on. He sleepily murmured

yes.

All of my movements are misdirected, overwhelmed by clumsiness. Bleary eyed , my limbs too long, stumbling in his room. I am the bull in the china shop... I thought.

But at least I am dressed now, have everything packed now, just need to get my phone from the wall. I go to unplug it, but misjudge the space in the back corner of his room, turning only to narrowly miss knocking a stack of papers on the window ledge. But even half asleep I have cat like reflexes , so catch the pile just before the first layers slip to the floor.


As I shift the papers back into their disordered order, the corner of an image is poking out. I can’t make out what it is, and I don’t know what makes me do it, I think it must be a postcard, and I instinctively think its best to leave it alone.


But I pull it out ever so slightly anyway and I see it’s a photograph of him. This is the first photo I’ve ever seen, that looks exactly like him, s I know him now. It could have been taken last week, it could have been taken yesterday.
I think he looks beautiful.


But then he is not alone in the picture. There is a girl, I’m not able to look at her for long. I couldn’t’ really tell you what she looked like. Fair skin, dark hair. Maybe she had wavey hair or curls? I can’t tell you what her facial expression was. I didn’t look long enough, but I instantly knew who she was. I know it is the girl from before. And I feel guilty for seeing it, and awkward for seeing it. I gently push the photo back into its place in the pile.


And then I feel… I don’t know exactly how I feel. I feel strange and confused and…jealous? No…not jealous. This is a feeling I have no word for, all I know is it isn’t pleasant. Why…why am I effected this way? By a relic from a life before me? When him and I are always telling *war stories* , when I’ve even played with the idea of showing pictures to each other of all we’ve been involved with before?


But I shouldn’t still be here now. What would he say if he woke up and saw me there. Just standing there. Twenty minutes longer here than I’m meant to be. All dressed and standing staring out his window, into the empty hof. If I don’t go now I could miss my flight. I look back at him, curled up in bed peacefully. I look back out of his window and floating through my head is this one sentence

*they were happy then*

And all I can think about is ending. Their ending. The ending of the life he lived with her before I was known. And he is always quick to point out the mortality of things. And I know he’s right, that nothing lasts forever and…I don’t have time to think about all this now. What good is it? I have to leave. I go to him. I kiss his mouth and then again kiss him gently on his cheek. I whisper in his ear that I love him. Outside the air is brisk and it is beginning to get light. I close his door gently behind me. Its time to leave. It's time to leave...

night on the town

I go out on a night with myself. I am taking myself out on a night on the town…my way…no compromises. I will go to as many places as I like, stay for as long or as little as I like. There will be no one to consult or argue options with.

I am acting out with a serious case of (a term my mate b-ski invented) F.O.M.O

Fear

Of

Missing

Out…

Why else would I attempt to go to four events in four hours? And how will I know when is best to be at each space?

When I arrive at trash city limits at the diamond lounge, my first thought is: Waiting on my own is not so much fun. I get more than a few stares. What do people think of me in this turquoise dress, on my own, writing in a lime notebook? Maybe they think I'm a journalist?

And then a woman's voice says

Excuse me

I move aside to let her pass, miss her face but catch her walking off, all long legs and tight black vinyl knickers, fishnet hold ups. Yes… I've come to the right place.

A dj moves to the dj box, a mic is adjusted. Something must be happening. The lights dim and then, to a pulsing hard rock soundtrack, a curvy brunette performs a striptease down the runway shaped stage. Her every move executed with precision, perfect. The act culminates with a dance with firey wands, which she juggles and swallows, occasionally stopping to take a sip from a pitcher of fuel, occasionally spitting out a spray of fire.

After her act I walk out into the street and decide I need to give myself some games to make things interesting, like if at this very moment I turn my head, and see a cab then I am allowed to hail it.

Bingo

I tell the driver the address he says something in german that sounds to me like

*what hour of the street is it?

I give him the number again

I havn't understood, he asks again

What hour is it..?

I say I don't know, apologise for my german. He says its ok.asks where I'm from, apologises for not speaking English. And then I say in german

Um do you mean which corner? Its between this street and this street

Yes, that's what he meant.

When we arrive at the gallery I'm disappointed. I've been to this space many times before. Each time was heralded as the best party ever. Each time I'd walked in to the two packed rooms you could barely move through and left shortly after.

Why was I here again? Oh yes, an exhibition, with an after party with a major dj, and the clincher, everyone would be wearing masks.

As I push through the doorway and look to the dj I realise I have no idea what this major dj looks like. So it could be him spinning,or not. And yes everyone is wearing masks, but by now they have all been pulled back to their foreheads. Giving everyone strange hair, with the impression of metallic headbands.

I consider getting a drink, then pretend to be looking for someone. Then I actually make the effort to fight through the crowd to look at the art, and many people give me pointed glares for this effort. If I wanted to see the art, why did I come now?

There's not much point in staying. I invent a new mission. I will not leave until I have a mask. This is slightly tricky as it appears they are no longer giving them away, so getting one means taking one from someone else. How will I manage that?

I will wait for the first boy who smiles at me…no that could get dangerous. No I will wait for the first boy who smiles at me…shyly. Yes. I will pretend to be looking for someone, and then the first boy who smiles at me shyly, I will go up to him and say very politely

Enshuldigung... kann Ich deine Mask haben?

And after a few smiling boys, I see the one I'm after. The one who meets my eyes, smiles and then immediately looks away. He seems very surprised when I go over to him. And when I ask. He smiles again.

Naturlich...

Grinning now as he takes it off and hands it to me, as if he's happy to have done me this favour. I wait for him to disappear out the door way, before counting to five and then walk in the opposite direction out the door.

After the fourth event, a cabaret night at the kookurburra comedy club, I leave with my friends to an anarchist bar nearby. The bartender looks at me like I'm insane when I order a jackdaniels with soda on ice. He modifies this to a jamessons (without ice, anarchists find ice offensive apparently) and another glass beside it with seltzer water.

I consider joining a friend across town at the club wilde renate, but think better of it, and traipse back in my highheels to the ubahn to finally make it home.