Das erste Jahr Babybuddha jetzt auf:
What better place for me to collect myself, reflect or write than next to our sleeping baby? His quiet sleep (and the right that lies next to his head, especially the ineffably smooth curve of the back of that hand) allow me to be more awake than I am. The baby sleeps soundlessly, only once in a while his breath demands more, and then, with a hoarse rattle, he sucks in air and after a tiny pause — with relief, it seems — pushes it out again. I see how at those moments his blanket rises noticeably, while otherwise nothing moves. As though the breath in our baby had turned, adjusted itself, made room for itself, like an autonomous being, and were now once again in accord with its host. I remain quiet, but the breath sometimes shifts its position in me too, while my fingertips slowly, carefully, find the letters on the monitor, on this soundless keyboard which I find so thrilling: never, it seems to me, can writing have been closer to the inaudibility of thought (even though this keypad makes writing more difficult; I think it’s due to the lack of physical separation between of the letters, their pseudo-separateness on the touchscreen, a separateness that calls strong mental participation; but that may be an advantage). And so I compare the smoothness of the glass monitor with the smoothness of the back of our baby’s hand and find (though I sense a deep connection, an ancient relation between the two) no conclusion.