FICTION IS LIKE A SPIDERWEB - PERHAPS ONLY LOOSELY ANCHORED, YET CONNECTED TO THE UNIVERSE AT ALL EIGHT CORNERS.

Freely adapted from Virginia Woolf

Düsseldorf, Germany

On November 5, 2024, Düsseldorf is expected to experience autumnal, gray weather characterized by persistent fog or high fog. Temperatures will remain mild, with highs often ranging between 10 and 14 degrees, while it cools off significantly at night. It will remain mostly dry. Source: AI / Google.

It’s the same old story every autumn: Fog or low-lying fog will form again tonight across much of the country. Temperatures will drop to between 0 and 7 degrees. Ground frost is possible in a band stretching from Lower Saxony to Saxony and northern Bavaria. Source: Wetter.de

I need to smoke a cigarette. It’s the middle of the night. I’m not really a smoker, but I need something to fly through the air, just like the plane that will soon take me back to the wilderness. So I create smoke to get in touch with the inhabitants of this other world, my friends who live on the other side, where there is nothing you can touch, only thoughts and feelings, spirits. Wildness. Animals. Wild animals. Everything that no longer exists here. I mustn’t lose this—this connection. I have to get to my whale and my puma. My hummingbird.

It was so beautifully foggy today; it lay over the meadows in the Zoopark like thick, smoky, billowing cotton. I went there for a jog this morning. On the way back, I tripped over a raised stone slab in the sidewalk and fell onto my knees. Yes, for a millisecond I found myself on my knees and hands like an animal, completely symmetrical, the sudden weight evenly distributed across all four points. Somehow, though, as I was falling, I suddenly became a hybrid between a winged cat and a whale, and the two of them spun my body around in a flash—this winged whale-cat—to help me scramble to my feet and get back up immediately. 

By evening, the sky has cleared. The fog is also a beautiful gateway to this other world, but now it’s gone, high above; now I have to make my own smoke. 

I wander through my apartment in complete darkness; I don’t need to turn on the light because I can see everything without it. The long, narrow hallway, the box of books I’ve set aside—and all the stories it holds—standing in the way, right next to the front door. I sneak around it elegantly, like a big cat. I go into the living room, sit down on the sofa, and listen for a moment to the voices coming from the box. Stern, scientific, deep voices, didactic, mixed with soft, hazy rhymes, raunchy, brash sounds, and wisdom from the Eastern world. I get up, go into the kitchen, and open the top left drawer where my cigarettes are. Right in the middle at the front—I reach for them with sure hands. The lighter is on the dining table, next to the narrow green flower vase. I stand in the open garden door, stare long into the small flame, and then smoke my way into the darkness. 

It’s around 2:30 a.m. and completely quiet; even though I live in the middle of the city, my garden is an oasis of calm. Suddenly, a bird begins to sing. A song from another world. A beautiful song, consisting of three notes: high, low, then a little higher. It sings the same song three times. High, low, then a little higher. 

In November, there aren’t any birds singing in Düsseldorf at all, and certainly not at night. But I called out to him, so nature is making an exception tonight in this beautiful city garden. High, low, a little higher. 

Yesterday at the office, my colleague asked me how I was doing here, so far away from my new jungle home. I didn’t have to think twice before answering; I told her that I miss the wildness of nature here every single moment. I still remember saying, “There’s nothing wild left here.” I hadn’t quite finished the sentence when a cute little titmouse flew in through the open office door, perched on top of my monitor, and looked at me. I was frozen in place and immediately thought, oh dear, how could I have denied the existence of you birds here? Of course you’re here, and you really are wild animals. My colleague jumped up; she still had the experience with the squirrel fresh in her mind—the one that hopped through our storefront window one Sunday and startled the people outside on their Sunday stroll. The whole thing had triggered a fire department response, during which the wild little squirrel was rescued. That’s a nice story too, but I’ll tell you that another time. 

Fortunately, the bird quickly found its way back outside on its own.

Little Bird of Hope, of course you’re a wild creature, a beautiful spirit in the concrete jungle of my city. And of course you live here. Goodness, how could we have forgotten that? 

“The sky has taken its birds and gone”—that's what's written on a building wall at Worringer Platz. 

And it just occurred to me. Worringer Platz is a very sad place right in the heart of the city, and it tells a story of drugs, violence, and misery. The forces at work in this place are defined by a very sad geometry—a geometry of human suffering that flows into the square through eight streets, like the legs of a poisonous spider that bites wildly here, weaving all life into its cruel web and holding people irrevocably captive there with its sticky threads while they are still alive. 

If we could restore balance to our built environment by transforming the energy in a given place—turning it from a destructive force into a nurturing one—we could avert much human suffering and bring about positive change. We could heal. 

All knowledge lies in nature. In the wild, untamed aspects of our existence. In the natural behavior of flora and fauna. I’m reminded of my cat. She has a very special spirit and keeps our house in order. You know, I have big spiders here that sometimes find their way into my home. Then Lucy comes along and plays with them. In a funny, comical dance, she breaks their legs one by one. And the order matters—it’s always the same combination of legs, and it’s always the same leg she goes for first. On seven legs, Madame is still reasonably fit; she puts up a decent fight and is still pretty nimble on her feet. If a juicy prey were to appear before her eyes right now, she could probably still take it down with some effort and weave it into her spiderweb. But once Lucy has broken her second leg, she can take her time with the lady. After three legs, Lucy has usually lost interest in her and drops the lame prey right in front of my front door. “Hey, look what I’ve left here at your door. I’ve done my job.” 

A few years ago, I conducted a Feng Shui study of Worringer Platz. I did this partly because this square causes so much human suffering, partly because one of my friends was affected, and not least out of deep respect for our many innocent children, who also live in this city. 

The conclusion of my study was that the problem lies in the streets leading to this square. Viewed from above, the eight streets look exactly like spider legs. However, if you calm at least two of these streets—that is, stop their flow of energy—then you can heal this square. You just have to know exactly which ones. We must respect the forces of nature. Their cosmic geometry. With this respect comes the knowledge of how a destructive place can become a place of harmony, strength, and flourishing. If you make the right decisions. Tough, clear decisions. Playful and life-affirming. Wild and innocent. To quote Lucy: “Hey, take a look at my study. I left it on your doorstep a long time ago. I’ve done my work.” 

Heaven didn't take its birds with it. And it didn't leave either.