ein Abenteuer von Lollophant.
Geschrieben von CRK
gelesen von Jan Münter
The house of my dodo's life was a hospitable building à la Hundertwasser, where everyone could go in and out, where there was always soul food on the tables, and everyone who was hungry could feast on it. The building was located near the cliffs to the Sweet Sea. It had five onion turrets protruding into the roofing garden world, like the index fingers of indicating hands.
Curiosity and its never-ending human beings cavorted everywhere.
Only the small storage room of the house seemed to be seriously orphaned. It had been quartered in one of the onion turrets sometime in the grey past. But a nobody had ever seriously stopped by there and possibly even rummaged through it.
Instead, it has always been the same pattern:
Dodo had taken a detour and arrived at a crossroads. Then a nobody packed boxes with Dodo's angular memory ballast, because he preferred to indulge in liftitis instead of freeing himself permanently. These boxes then piled up in front of the door of said rumble chamber. At some point, none of these box towers took pity, picked up the old key from Dodo, opened the door, then stowed the boxes in some free corner and closed the door again with the rusty padlock.
Not even Dodo himself has been inside for more than a few breaths in the chamber, which is difficult to market, full of life ballast.
But that was soon to change, because a nobody's time had run out, and for Dodo the moment of reviewing had come. He wanted to make a U-turn in his life so far, and should prove his courage to himself and the others and do everything differently than before. He finally wanted to stand up for his creative talents.
So one day he stood in front of the wooden door with the cool iron key in his warm hands. It would have to be painted again, the rainbow colors are already completely faded, gradually peel off and let the naturalness of the wood come to light, thought Dodo, as he resolutely inserted the large key into the chunky padlock.
Courageously, he pushed the door open and was immediately flooded with warm fingers of light. They fell through the circular stained glass window into the enclosed, round tower room and cut the stuffy air into green, blue, red, yellow and other colored stripes. The shutter was half open and allowed the view of the large wind turbine of the roof garden. Grains of dust danced to an inaudible music in this play of light and shadow.
In good spirits, Dodo entered and stumbled right at the beginning over a carelessly placed moving box with memory ballast. He had labeled this box with Edding. Health nurses and geriatric care assistants were written in block letters on it. Dodo bent down and opened it carefully. It contained his care books and transcripts, his white work clothes and his pschyrembel.
He straightened up briefly and thought that detours increase local knowledge. He had to smile. "Now at least I know what scapula or cranium on German mean," he murmured to himself.
Dodo looked around and found a dented aluminum case, standing at the very edge of the round tower chamber. He meandered around the stacks of boxes and knelt in front of these damaged suitcases. He reverently loosened the closures and slowly lifted the dusty lid. His eyes were filled with bags of colorful glass stones, beads and buttons.
He had found his then beloved mosaic things in blind flight. He had not mosaicized since the Wild South times. It's just a pity that his bosses preferred a trained colleague at that time. He himself would have loved to stay there.
Groaning, Dodo stood up, stretched out his long legs and once turned around his own axis. At one hundred and eighty degrees, he came to a stop and had four boxes stacked on top of each other in front of him. He looked into the top one. That was his volunteer box. In it he found books on the subject of aging and its accompanying phenomena as well as works on the subject of addictions and mental handicaps.
Thoughtfully, he closed this moving box again. Times change me, even though they have shaped me a lot, he thought. Whereby I will never, never, say, he thought further.
He turned forty-five degrees again and took two steps to the left. At his feet stood an old, dusty folding box. There were only two manuscripts on their floor. Dodo leaned over them, took both works in his hand and leafed through them like a flip book.
The catalogues for my exhibitions as Studiosus, he remembered and put them all back in the box. That's when my creative journey really began, Dodo whispered into the storage room. These were important milestones for my current life.
He straightened up in the middle of all the boxes, boxes and other containers and was already about to leave the small room when he got stuck with his left foot on a large metal box. The lid of this ornately decorated box popped open and various photos tumbled out. Again he knelt down and looked at these gems.
These were all shots in which he liked himself and did not look kinky. Wherever he smiled, this was rarely the case, especially with the old to older pictures.
When Dodo had collected all the photos again and followed up on his memories, he thought that this circular, small room was in reality not a rumble chamber full of uncomfortable truths, but over seven corners a place full of treasures, as he now affectionately called them. His treasure corners.
On quiet soles, he finally withdrew from his chamber, as if he could scare off one of his memories and encourage them to flee. However, he did not hang the rusty lock in front of the door again, but only leaned it on ...
© CRK, LE, August 2017
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