Transformation: Der erste Schritt zur wahren Sichtbarkeit

Bevor wir beginnen
(Ruhig anfangen. Nicht eilen. Das Tempo des ganzen Textes wird hier festgelegt.)
Achtzehn Menschen waren dabei.
(Pause.)
Nicht alle am selben Ort. Nicht alle zur selben Stunde. Aber jeder von ihnen hat etwas gesehen, das kein anderer so gesehen hat.
Ein Fischer. Ein Zöllner. Ein Ratsherr. Ein Statthalter. Ein Mann, dem man die Ketten abnahm. Zwei Schwestern und ihr Bruder. Eine Frau aus Magdala. Und einer, der ihn verriet.
(Pause.)
Ich erzähle dir die Tage von Mittwoch vor dem Kreuz bis fünfzehn Tage danach. Ich erzähle sie so, wie diese Menschen sie erlebt haben könnten. Jeder spricht nur von dem, was er selbst sah, hörte oder fürchtete.
Was in der Bibel steht, erzähle ich, wie es dort steht. Was darüber hinausgeht, ihre Gedanken, ihre Gesten, die kleinen Dinge am Rand, ist Innensicht. Es ist erfunden, aber mit Respekt erfunden. Wo es besonders weit geht, sage ich es dir.
(Langsamer.)
Du musst nichts glauben, um zuzuhören. Du kannst einfach dabei sein.
(Lange Pause. Einatmen. Dann der erste Satz des Mittwochs.)

The Cosmic Farce
Carlos Castaneda arrived in February,
with a kilo of wood screws in his hair.
Two Saint Bernards barked in perfect time,
"We need more vodka!" — and that’s no rhyme.
Seventeen Indians, amidst the gusting wind,
built something strange from screws and canopies pinned.
Machiavelli cried, "A strategic masterstroke!"
While Marcel Proust in his own memories soaked.
Ernest Rossi measured time, purely in his mind,
as Bell’s Theorem called out, "Everything is vast—
yet all connected—be it a carrot or a spirit!"
The carrots nodded: "How sexy, how hot!"
Then came Rumi, Ramirez, Rilke, and Mann,
and Thomas de Quincey devised a plan:
"Two crates! One of champagne, one of vodka!
And off we go—like greased-up rockets—right now!"
The number 6969 hovered in the air,
bestowing a dream upon every screwdriver there.
The Saint Bernards danced with empty bottles in hand,
while the carrots engaged in things far more risqué.
But suddenly, Bell tore time clean apart:
Egypt! Snow! A February miracle, a work of art!
A pyramid rose, made of screws and wine,
the Sphinx was a dog—who refused to be defined.
Machiavelli shouted, "Power belongs to those who screw!"
Rilke composed verses, quiet and true.
Rumi smiled: "Everything is one, my friend—
even a kilo of wood screws that never cry out."
Then a UFO appeared, gleaming and wide:
"You’re all far too mad for Earth-time to abide!"
It invited them all—shamans, dogs, and poets,
carrots and crates—things never to be forgotten. And even today, when the sun shines in February,
one can hear a St. Bernard weeping in the cosmos:
“One more sip! One more screw! Just one more!”
For 6969—that is the cosmic club.


Verse 1
Carlos arrived with screws,
St. Bernards barked aloud,
seventeen Native Americans built
a totem pole that dared to stand tall.
Machiavelli remarked: “Clever!”
Proust pondered—and found himself stuck in a jam.
Chorus
Oh, 6969, you magical number,
Champagne, vodka—what a scandal!
Wood screws go flying, time has gone mad,
and a carrot dances erotically amidst it all!
Verse 2
Bell tore time right in two,
Egypt came passing through,
the Sphinx was a dog with a hangover,
and Rilke wrote: “Oh, screw—perhaps later!”
Rumi smiled, gentle and vast:
“All is one—even the vodka, ready and waiting!”
Chorus
Oh, 6969, you magical number,
Champagne, vodka—what a scandal!
Wood screws go flying, time has gone mad,
and a carrot dances erotically amidst it all!
Verse 3
Then a UFO appeared, wide and gleaming:
“You’re all too crazy—hop aboard, thanks!”
Everyone climbed in: the poets, the dogs,
the carrots, the crates, and the screws—all of them.
And ever since, the cosmos sings into the night:
“One more round! One more screw! One more battle!”
Chorus
Oh, 6969, you magical number,
Champagne, vodka—what a scandal! Wood screws go flying, time has gone mad,
and a carrot dances, erotically clad!




A Cosmic Caper
Carlos Castaneda arrived in February,
with a kilo of wood screws in his hair.
Two Saint Bernards barked in perfect time,
“We need more vodka!”—and that’s no rhyme.
Seventeen Native Americans, caught in the breeze,
built something from screws and canopies.
Machiavelli cried, “A strategic masterstroke!”
While Marcel Proust in his memories soaked.
Ernest Rossi measured time in his mind,
as Bell’s Theorem called out, “Everything’s entwined—
connected, be it a carrot or a spirit!”
The carrots nodded: “How sexy, how hot—let’s hear it!”
Then came Rumi, Ramirez, Rilke, and Mann,
while Thomas de Quincey devised a plan:
“Two crates! One of champagne, one of vodka!
And off like greased rockets—right now, voilà!”
The number 6969 floated through the air,
granting a dream to every screwdriver there.
The Saint Bernards danced with empty bottles in hand,
the carrots engaged in acts far more erotic and grand.
But suddenly, Bell tore time clean apart:
Egypt! Snow! A February miracle, a work of art!
A pyramid rose, made of screws and wine,
the Sphinx was a dog—who refused to align.
Machiavelli shouted, “Power belongs to those who screw!”
Rilke composed verses, undisturbed and true.
Rumi smiled: “Everything is one, my friend—
even a kilo of wood screws, which never cry out in the end.”
Then a UFO appeared, gleaming and wide:
“You’re all far too crazy for Earth-time to abide!” It invited everyone: shamans, dogs, poets,
carrots, and crates—things one never forgets.
And even today, when the sun shines in February,
one can hear a Saint Bernard weeping in the cosmos:
“Another sip! Another screw! Just one more!”
For 6969—that is the cosmic club.



“Screws in the Cosmos”
Verse 1
Carlos arrived with screws,
Saint Bernards barked aloud,
seventeen Native Americans built
a totem that dared to stand tall.
Machiavelli remarked: “Clever!”
Proust pondered—and found himself stuck in a jam.
Chorus
Oh, 6969, you magical number,
Champagne, vodka—what a scandal!
Wood screws go flying, time has gone mad,
and a carrot dances erotically amidst it all!
Verse 2
Bell tore time right in two,
Egypt came passing through,
the Sphinx was a dog with a hangover,
and Rilke wrote: “Oh, screw—perhaps later!”
Rumi smiled, gentle and vast:
“All is one—even the vodka, ready and waiting!”
Chorus
Oh, 6969, you magical number,
Champagne, vodka—what a scandal!
Wood screws go flying, time has gone mad,
and The carrot dances erotically inside!
Verse 3
Then came a UFO, wide and bright:
“You’re all too crazy—hop in, alright!”
Everyone climbed aboard—the poets, the dogs,
the carrots, the crates, and the screws, too.
And ever since, the cosmos sings through the night:
“Another round! Another screw! Another fight!”
Chorus
Oh, 6969, you magical number,
Champagne, vodka—what a scandal!
Wood screws go flying, time has gone mad,
and the carrot dances erotically inside!


Carlos Castaneda arrived in February,
with a kilo of wood screws in his hair.
Two Saint Bernards barked in perfect time,
"We need more vodka!" — and that’s no rhyme.
Seventeen Indians, amidst the gusting wind,
built something strange from screws and canopies pinned.
Machiavelli cried, "A strategic masterstroke!"
While Marcel Proust in his own memories soaked.
Ernest Rossi measured time, purely in his mind,
as Bell’s Theorem called out, "Everything is vast—
yet all connected—be it a carrot or a spirit!"
The carrots nodded: "How sexy, how hot!"
Then came Rumi, Ramirez, Rilke, and Mann,
and Thomas de Quincey devised a plan:
"Two crates! One of champagne, one of vodka!
And off we go—like greased-up rockets—right now!"
The number 6969 hovered in the air,
bestowing a dream upon every screwdriver there.
The Saint Bernards danced with empty bottles in hand,
while the carrots engaged in things far more risqué.
But suddenly, Bell tore time clean apart:
Egypt! Snow! A February miracle, a work of art!
A pyramid rose, made of screws and wine,
the Sphinx was a dog—who refused to be defined.
Machiavelli shouted, "Power belongs to those who screw!"
Rilke composed verses, quiet and true.
Rumi smiled: "Everything is one, my friend—
even a kilo of wood screws that never cry out."
Then a UFO appeared, gleaming and wide:
"You’re all far too mad for Earth-time to abide!"
It invited them all—shamans, dogs, and poets,
carrots and crates—things never to be forgotten. And even today, when the sun shines in February,
one can hear a St. Bernard weeping in the cosmos:
“One more sip! One more screw! Just one more!”
For 6969—that is the cosmic club.


Verse 1
Carlos arrived with screws,
St. Bernards barked aloud,
seventeen Native Americans built
a totem pole that dared to stand tall.
Machiavelli remarked: “Clever!”
Proust pondered—and found himself stuck in a jam.
Chorus
Oh, 6969, you magical number,
Champagne, vodka—what a scandal!
Wood screws go flying, time has gone mad,
and a carrot dances erotically amidst it all!
Verse 2
Bell tore time right in two,
Egypt came passing through,
the Sphinx was a dog with a hangover,
and Rilke wrote: “Oh, screw—perhaps later!”
Rumi smiled, gentle and vast:
“All is one—even the vodka, ready and waiting!”
Chorus
Oh, 6969, you magical number,
Champagne, vodka—what a scandal!
Wood screws go flying, time has gone mad,
and a carrot dances erotically amidst it all!
Verse 3
Then a UFO appeared, wide and gleaming:
“You’re all too crazy—hop aboard, thanks!”
Everyone climbed in: the poets, the dogs,
the carrots, the crates, and the screws—all of them.
And ever since, the cosmos sings into the night:
“One more round! One more screw! One more battle!”
Chorus
Oh, 6969, you magical number,
Champagne, vodka—what a scandal! Wood screws go flying, time has gone mad,
and a carrot dances, erotically clad!




A Cosmic Caper
Carlos Castaneda arrived in February,
with a kilo of wood screws in his hair.
Two Saint Bernards barked in perfect time,
“We need more vodka!”—and that’s no rhyme.
Seventeen Native Americans, caught in the breeze,
built something from screws and canopies.
Machiavelli cried, “A strategic masterstroke!”
While Marcel Proust in his memories soaked.
Ernest Rossi measured time in his mind,
as Bell’s Theorem called out, “Everything’s entwined—
connected, be it a carrot or a spirit!”
The carrots nodded: “How sexy, how hot—let’s hear it!”
Then came Rumi, Ramirez, Rilke, and Mann,
while Thomas de Quincey devised a plan:
“Two crates! One of champagne, one of vodka!
And off like greased rockets—right now, voilà!”
The number 6969 floated through the air,
granting a dream to every screwdriver there.
The Saint Bernards danced with empty bottles in hand,
the carrots engaged in acts far more erotic and grand.
But suddenly, Bell tore time clean apart:
Egypt! Snow! A February miracle, a work of art!
A pyramid rose, made of screws and wine,
the Sphinx was a dog—who refused to align.
Machiavelli shouted, “Power belongs to those who screw!”
Rilke composed verses, undisturbed and true.
Rumi smiled: “Everything is one, my friend—
even a kilo of wood screws, which never cry out in the end.”
Then a UFO appeared, gleaming and wide:
“You’re all far too crazy for Earth-time to abide!” It invited everyone: shamans, dogs, poets,
carrots, and crates—things one never forgets.
And even today, when the sun shines in February,
one can hear a Saint Bernard weeping in the cosmos:
“Another sip! Another screw! Just one more!”
For 6969—that is the cosmic club.



“Screws in the Cosmos”
Verse 1
Carlos arrived with screws,
Saint Bernards barked aloud,
seventeen Native Americans built
a totem that dared to stand tall.
Machiavelli remarked: “Clever!”
Proust pondered—and found himself stuck in a jam.
Chorus
Oh, 6969, you magical number,
Champagne, vodka—what a scandal!
Wood screws go flying, time has gone mad,
and a carrot dances erotically amidst it all!
Verse 2
Bell tore time right in two,
Egypt came passing through,
the Sphinx was a dog with a hangover,
and Rilke wrote: “Oh, screw—perhaps later!”
Rumi smiled, gentle and vast:
“All is one—even the vodka, ready and waiting!”
Chorus
Oh, 6969, you magical number,
Champagne, vodka—what a scandal!
Wood screws go flying, time has gone mad,
and The carrot dances erotically inside!
Verse 3
Then came a UFO, wide and bright:
“You’re all too crazy—hop in, alright!”
Everyone climbed aboard—the poets, the dogs,
the carrots, the crates, and the screws, too.
And ever since, the cosmos sings through the night:
“Another round! Another screw! Another fight!”
Chorus
Oh, 6969, you magical number,
Champagne, vodka—what a scandal!
Wood screws go flying, time has gone mad,
and the carrot dances erotically inside!

Ein sanfter, leuchtender Quantendrache sitzt ruhig auf einem Balkon, neben ihm eine Person von hinten, die vertrauensvoll die Hand an seinen Hals legt. Der Blick beider geht in die weite Ferne, ein klarer Blickfang ohne weitere Elemente.
Ein freundlicher, zahmer Quantendrache mit schimmernden, leicht durchscheinenden Schuppen aus Türkis und Gold sitzt ruhig auf einem schlichten Stadtbalkon, daneben steht eine Person in Rückenansicht und legt vertrauensvoll die Hand an seinen Hals. Der Drache nimmt die rechte Bildhälfte ein, die Person steht links, und beide blicken in die weite, offene Ferne; der linke obere Bereich bleibt frei für große Schrift. Im Hintergrund erstreckt sich ein Dämmerhimmel mit sanftem Verlauf von Tiefblau zu warmem Orange und winzigen Lichtpunkten, die an Quantenteilchen erinnern. Die Stimmung ist ruhig, vertrauensvoll und von stiller Weite geprägt, ohne Action und ohne bedrohliche Elemente. Die Farbgebung ist kontrastreich mit leuchtendem Drachen vor dunklem Blau, klaren Konturen und weichem Licht
Farb- und Stilhinweis
Ein tiefes Nachtblau als Hintergrund mit einem warm leuchtenden Drachen in Türkis und Goldorange sorgt für starken Kontrast, der auf hellen wie dunklen Oberflächen und in kleiner Vorschau sichtbar bleibt.