Stairway to the Moon

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"All is well, as long as we keep spinning. Here and now, dancing behind a wall. Hear the old songs and laughter within. All forgiven, always and never been true." Suspirium - Thom Yorke

There I was again at Berghain in the inner and outer glow of existence; the glass stairwell which connects the two dance floors. I was sitting next to a boy of 18. He came and sat next to me, he told me I looked like welcoming company. After some chit chat, he offered me LSD and I accepted. We were joined shortly after by my closest friend L and two others I have just began to communicate, but felt a soul level connection with. We shared a conversation about land and ancestry.

The next thing I knew I was walking, running, flying, up and down all the steps of Berghain. My sense of time and space were inverted but based on later calculations, 3 to 4 hours of extreme locomotion. Cycles were interspersed with meetings, moments, exchanges, with people and with architecture. The meeting with people inevitably included moments of trying to explain the layers of realities I was experiencing. I knew at any moment I could turn inward, inside myself, and be transported back to a stair well, running in either direction. The meetings with architecture were bodily conversations without need for explanation between us. My flesh listened to the memory of metal. My skeleton longed for metamorphosis into the spiraling structure that held it. To escape my story, my psycho-drama, and embody a truth beyond subjective experience.

There were moments in toilet cubicles. One shared with my soul mates found earlier suspended between the dancefloors. The lines between feeling, talking, shitting, dancing, were blurred, safely contained by the intimacy of space. Did I leave via the cubicle door or through the toilet itself, to be running again down a flight of stairs, the metal handrail now transformed into intestines? I was digesting the experience of being a building.

Another exchange at the entrance to a toilet cubicle included a woman allowing me to go in first but her male counterpart attempting to prevent me. He declared both he and I as narcissists; that we both put our own needs before others. The woman insisted I go in first and when I emerged, I turned to him in anger and declared, "I am not a narcissist, I am a transgendered woman, and my sister could feel that."

I rarely entered the dance floors and if I did, it was just to pass through as a ghost; as an observer of energy. I felt the dance of the space that contained the dancers, and my own dance on the dance floor would have devolved my experience to subjective expression.

I passed in and out of the gate on the ground floor opposite the cloak room. It was shared by angels who glowed. I could only gaze at them as I swept past on my toes in either direction. I flew past what appeared to be a Japanese empress several times before I found us sitting and talking outside the gate. They possessed a beauty I was fearful to look at. I told them that they looked how I imagine Tsuki to be on the inside of me.

The right to exist, the right to love.
The constant rise and fall.
The trans of being between.
The digestion of experience.
The dance of time and space.
The eternal hope.
This is not My Own Berghain.
This is Berghain.
The experience of being alive.
And dead.


Tsuki

moon.jpg