The Plantation and the City: Rubber, Labour, Cologne (2)

After dipping into research on the Kölnische Gummifäden-Fabrik, its colonial connections, and the lack of collective memory on the site, I wanted to explore different ways of writing with the historical material. After the workshop “Speculative Actions” at the Akademie der Künste der Welt in September, I took part in the subsequent sci-fi-a-thon and played with a few ideas. Here’s the text I wrote and read.

School Is Over. They Said

Ok I can take you, I had said in an unguarded moment, and there you are, standing at the former entrance to the yard, looking uncomfortable in your civilian clothes in this area of the space movers, who emerged from the „the 1 percent“, not knowing what to expect, and of course you wonder if the agreement was a mistake on both our sides. When you had to decide, when school was over, you chose earth and science and the field, and how could you have done otherwise, all those Fridays formed your mind and body, with both feet on the ground, the air had become an no go-zone for all of you, and sometimes I had wondered when you would ditch your footwear for good as well and grow those ugly roots. With the decision we had parted ways, and it was the accident on the bridge, where neither of us needed camouflage, because water, where we met and reconnected.

So, now, I hand you over the suit and watch you struggle with the unfamiliar gear, especially the hand part. How to fit something in where there is only place for no-thing, I can see how that would take time and some sweat and expletives. The winds are favourable, you the lucky child, always, I remember that, and I can steer the bubble easily for you to enter. Yes, you would ask about numbers and technology, not understanding how we were powered by stories, and I can sense already how this visit will end unpleasantly. I can only hope that you will not report on it because the information would neither bring more resources to your lab nor enhance your product. The irony, the total disregard for us flyers, and the lack of imagination, in not seeing how we would melt into the artists and, finally, how the rubber trees would choose to join us, and how our energy was not to be harvested for others, much less by others.

Even you, the gifted earther, had not been able to anticipate the biggest mistake of the space movers here, calculating that by destroying the old brick and iron and concrete structure, minus the decades of pigeon shit, and by employing asbestos protection infrastructure in the process, and all those security guards, the energy would again manifest as concrete gold along the street, earth bound, gravity in place. But no, quietly, subversively, thankfully no. Powerfully no. The rubber trees had remembered, and the plantation workers, and the women on the factory floors, and the apprentices at the machines, and the trainees painting the walls. They all had remembered: how leaf became hand, how hand became rubber, how rubber became woman, how woman became boy, how boy became machine, how machine became place, how place became school. On earth, school is over. Where the bubble takes you now, school is everything. You still don’t understand.

You speak of that, as we ascend, as the rubber of the bubble stretches in the trajectory of the old chimney, as you can see how the imprint of the former forest realizes itself further west, you speak of the shock when so many of the trees chose to leave, of the un-growth, of the dis-solidarity. How you had expected a dangerous cloud now and then, like the earlier mushroom kin in the air, how you and everybody else had kept their masks ready, and how long it had taken to re-adjust to the emptied fields and parks. You are not able to use our language, you are not giving in, you are not able to speak of it, of migration and loss and nightmares and grief. Your children came programmed, a protective measure you say, and anyway, why should they waste capacity in learning of the trees if they will never meet them, it would not be productive. As the city becomes smaller, you also remind me how the veins of the forest-botanical garden in the south have been erased completely, before you recall that our trees do not remember this site. But we both notice it, how you do not mind to talk of my pain, and you pause.

You try to play it cool when we arrive, to focus on the faces, to not look at limbs at all. You know about the outcome of my decision and therefore feel comfortable around me, but it takes you courage and discipline to step over into the busy welcome cell, I can tell by the flicker in your eyes. You want to speak to our elders, even though the visit would take a form of patience which you normally don’t display, I could tell back on the bridge by the urgency in your voice. You really do not need to inform me that earth spins faster since the trees left, I understood long ago, where would you learn of slow-time after the layers below your feet kept their vows of silence, even those shifted and exposed and accessible. You are asked to absorb the rules for your schooling today, I had explained early on, we do not hand over, we use breath to communicate. The time has come to meet the elders.

While you stand still, the first elder has moved his cell right next to us, so you can easily step over, and it is daytime still, so you need to pull up the face cover only, out of consideration for their health. You exchange your first pulses, and the cell switches to transparent mode, and it dawns on me: we are above water, and here, and now, is where the potential opens, and the schooling might lead to reproduction, and reproduction might lead to our destimation or to yours or to the multitude that has not been dreamed of since the migration.