ÜBER MEINEN AUFENTHALT IN IOWA (Beitrag für den WDR3)

"Inmitten meines Herzens" der Beitrag über meinen Aufenthalt in den USA, am International Writing Program of University Iowa  in Iowa City:

"Inmitten meines Herzens"

von Milena Oda

Iowa - Iowa City! Ich fliege für 2 Monate nach Iowa!

Die USA kenne ich zwar ganz gut, aber unter dem Land IOWA kann ich mir nicht viel vorstellen. Iowa liegt in Midwest, wie man in den USA sagt. Flache fruchtbare Prärielandschaft all über all - der Maisanbau dominiert das Landschaftsbild. Iowa steht für das ländliche Amerika. Die nächstgelegene Metropole, Chicago, liegt 4 Stunden - etwa 400km entfernt. Durch Iowa fließen mächtige Flüsse wie der Mississippi und der Missouri. Spektakuläre Naturwunder, wie etwa einen Grand Canyon oder atemberaubende Wolkenkratzer wie in New York, gibt es hier nicht.

Doch wie eine Perle in der Auster liegt die Universitätsstadt Iowa City im gleichnamigen Bundesstaat. Hier wurde vor 35 Jahren das berühmte Internationale Writers Programm, von Paul Engle und seiner Frau Hualing Nieh Engle inniert. Es gilt als nicht akademische, aber international definierte Residenz. Neben diesem Program wird ein akademisches zweijähriges “Creative Writing Woskshop” für die “Ausbildung” oder Weiterbildung der angehenden Autoren, Schrifteller in den USA angeboten.

Ich bin als Stipendiatin dieses Schriftstellerprograms im Herbst 2011 an die University of Iowa eingeladen worden. Jährlich kommen bis zu 37 Autoren aus aller Welt in die Kleinstadt Iowa City. Zwei Monate schreiben sie während ihres Aufenthalts in so unterschiedlichen Genres wie Fiction, Non-Fiction, Lyrik oder Theater. Die Schriftsteller und Dichter sind in ihren Ländern meist anerkannte Autoren. Sie kommen unteranderem aus China, Tibet, Nepal, Süd- und Nordkorea, Vietnam, Pakistan, Israel, Palestina, oder Südamerika. Fünf kommen diesmal aus Europa. Wir alle haben an der Iowa City die Möglichkeit, eigene Werke weiterzuentwickeln oder neue zu verfassen. Schreiben, nichts als Schreiben wird in den nächsten Monaten der Dreh- und Angelpunkt meines Aufenthalts hier sein. Außerdem werden die Stipendiaten zu Lesungen eingeladen, nehmen an Diskusionen teil und begleiten junge Literaturstudenten bei ihren Lehrveranstaltungen.

Kreatives Schreiben ist fester Bestandteil der studentischen Ausbildung. In Plenen wird das Selbstverfaßte vorgetragen, Lyrik rezitiert. Die Universitätsstadt Iowa City ist eine idyllische amerikanische Kleinstadt, die Wege zur Literatur sind nicht weit. Im Shambaugh House, dem Zentrum für Kreatives Schreiben sammeln sich sowohl die Autoren des International Writing Programs, als auch die Studenten zu Seminaren und Lesungen. Abends begegnet sich die literarische Versammlung von Studenten und Schriftstellern in der angesagten "Prairie Lights", einer renommierten Buchhandlung, die fast täglich einen namhaften amerikanischen Autor und sein Buch vorstellt. Und noch später am Abend trifft man sich auf ein Bier oder einen Whisky in dem sogenannten Writer-Pub „Foxhead“.

So hielten es auch die anderen Autoren-Stipendiaten vor uns - zur Zeit ihres Besuchs in Iowa noch unbekannte Schriftsteller. Manche von ihnen inzwischen Nobel- oder Pulitzerpreisträger: John Banville zum Beispiel oder Arnost Lustig, Viktor Pelevin oder Orhan Pamuk.

Ins International Writing Program wurde ich mit meinem ersten Roman eingeladen. “Nennen Sie mich Diener” erschienen 2011 in deutscher Sprache. Mit Auszügen auf Englische habe ich mich beworben. Hier in Iowa gelte ich als deutsche Schriftstellerin und vertrete im Kreis der Autoren daher Deutschland. Doch ich verschweige nicht, dass in mir zwei Herzen schlagen – ein tschechisches und ein deutsches. Meine Liebe gehört zwei Sprachen und zwei Kulturen, die auf vielfältige Weise meine literarische Arbeit inspirieren. In Europa fühlt sich meine Seele zerrissen. Die wechselvollen historischen und politischen Bindungen beider Länder verhalten sich in mir wie zwei unterschiedliche Personen. Während der wenigen intensiven Monate in Iowa, versöhnen sich diese beiden Teile miteinander. Denn hier interessieren die nationalen Zerwürfnisse in Europa kaum. Hier zählt nichts mehr als die Literatur. Ein Umstand der mich sehr beglückt und meine Zuhörer fasziniert, wie ich feststelle. An der Iowa University halte ich Vorträge über meine literarische Arbeit, lese aus meinen Essay über die Freiheit des Schriftstellers im Radio in New York:  http://www.blogtalkradio.com/odamilena/2011/11/28/literary-critical-essay-dogs-freedom oder werde zur Radio-Talkshow in New York eingeladen http://www.blogtalkradio.com/lugaduga/2011/11/28/frank-talk-with-frank-ferrante-to-live-and-grow-up-in-germ. Die Studenten der literarischen Klassen interpretieren meinen Roman, meine Gedichte und mein Theaterstück. Es ist eine Freude, die Arbeit an meinem Schreiben teilen zu können. Anchliessende Lesereisen führen mich nach San Francisco, nach Washington DC und New York.

Doch vorallem erinnere ich mich an die kleine Stadt im Midwest. Und wenn mich jemand wieder fragt, wo liegt Iowa? Sage ich: Inmitten meines Herzens!

Dieser Beitrag wurde im WDR3 ausgestrahlt, - hier nochmal als Audio zu hören:

http://www.wdr3.de/resonanzen/details/artikel/wdr-3-resonanzen-cd0fe68e1d.html
Mehr zu mir & meinen Büchern& T-Shirt: http://www.milenaoda.com/
Oder Blog auf Deutsch & Cesky: http://www.milenaoda.wordpress.com/

Capitol in Iowa City, mein tagtäglicher Weg.

 Mit dem Direktor Christoph Merill vom International Writings Program.

In "Foxhead" gab es immer was zu trinken, zu spielen und zu besprechen... man konnte unentweg plaudern! Siehe die Männer von Iowa City! 

Deutsches Haus in Grinnell College Campus, at my reading-tour in Iowa

 Reading and discussion with Wole Soyinka, a Nigerian writer, the Nobel Prize for Literature in Shambaugh House.

Dort gab es und gibt es Tschechen, auch sie werden eingeladen: hier "Beseda Lidu" in der brühmten "Prairie Lights" Buchhandlung.

IOWA CITY. Mein tagtäglicher Spaziergang.

Das Stadtzentrum ist einfach, ohne historische Denkmäler.

 Mit Natascha Durovic, Landsfrau aus der Slowakei, die schon Ewigkeit dort lebt... aber so alt ist sie nicht, immer frisch und offen, toll, dass sie dort ist!!

Das war die Ankündigung meiner Lesung mit der Begleitung mit Garett Chase am Klavier, und mit meinem T-Shirt, "fucking" vorsichtig versteckt in the Buchhandlung: The Haunted Bookstore.  Hier draußen mache ich eine Reading Performance:

siehe das Video: Milena Live from Iowa City!:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MZbsvGPR5lQ

 

ENGLISH EXCERPT FROM MY NOVEL: PLEASE CALL ME SERVANT.

My novel in German language, translated by Steph Morris: 
NENNEN SIE MICH DIENER. Published by Schumachergebler, Dresden 2011.

Buchtrailer in Deutsch / Booktrailer in German:

Novel is about: Two disturbed men, obsessed by their own rules and systems: Leonard believes he is an obedient servant but serves only himself, according to a system of serving rules he himself has determined. Professor King can only relate to the world through arithmetic; he is a numbers collector who has developed a system for measuring every footstep. He employs Leonard believing he can manipulate him. Leonard believes he has finally found a master he can serve. Both men founder on the rocks of their demands and desires. Milena Oda has created two extraordinary figures, authentically masculine, and with them a dysfunctional fairy tale with a bizarre and a surprising ending.

In English:

MILENA ODA

PLEASE CALL ME SERVANT

 

Part I: My Name Is Servant

My name is servant.

And I request you to address me as such; I am Servant and am called Servant. An individual does not, as people imagine, require a first and second name. My name is Servant. When people persist in asking ‘what are your first and second names?’ I turn away and refuse to listen. The gentlefolk claim not to comprehend me? How else should servants indicate their servitude? They are astonished, shake their heads, stare at me and still will not understand. ‘I cannot assist you with an answer sir.’ They ask me again, trying to unnerve me. ‘Your name is Steven Servant?’ No, my name is Servant. I have no answer to questions such as ‘Why do you call yourself Servant?’ It pains me that I must hear words such as ‘unfortunate’ and ‘pitiable’, must continually point out my vocation. You do not see a Servant? You have not noticed my resplendent livery? People rely on patterns, and if they are missing, the world dims around them. Servant is neither a Christian nor a surname; my name might have been Footman, Valet or Right Hand Man. I could also be called Aide, Adjunct, Attendant or Lackey, but no word better describes my character, always ready to serve, than Servant. I have always been the quiet accompaniment to the loud melody: chestnut seller, newspaper deliverer, keeper at the military museum, porter, doorman. I began as a lackey and I wish to finish as one.

I am enthralled by subordinance, its self-effacing constraints. My sense of self is insufficient (a servant’s sense of self) and I cannot and will not live in liberty. Independence is unbearable to me.

(...)

I am always dressed in my livery (except during my morning and evening ablutions) so I believe there is no reason (any more) to call me Leonard. I require a lengthy pause for breath when I hear the word ‘Leonard’ or must speak it. If I deliberately call myself Leonard, it means I wish to leave a long, deep scar in my body. I have to leave something there, someone indeed, who I wish to be... so I am disparaging about myself. There really is no-one left to whom I am Leonard. And certainly not when I face people in my livery. I stand before him in my livery and call him, ‘my master’! He knows full well what it means – to me – to wait patiently by someone with the obedient composure of a servant. And I do not answer the question, ‘why do you wear your livery outside of your working hours?’ I remain silent in line with Rule 8. I, the Servant, wear livery day and night, and this livery is my skin, my ego. The livery allows me to call myself I, raises my status. It is the highest honor to wear the livery constantly, and to be clothed in it in the presence of a master. This is dictated by the most important rule, Rule 1.

I advocate traditional serving values - I have created 47 servant's (my) Rules. I am the embodiment of a court attendant’s courtesy.

The searching gaze of my wide-spaced eyes betrays my innate servility. ‘Alongside your utter obsequiousness there’s also a certain honesty to your plucky little cross-eyed face,’ the mother used to tease me. My eyes are wet and bulbous, and I have ‘water on the brain’ with a broad forehead and protruding ears. She called me ‘my baboon’. I have large ears – an unmistakable sign of a congenital developmental disorder. My colorless hair points to a serious degeneracy. Nature made me ugly. When I open my mouth I reveal a cleft between my two front teeth. I think of this repugnant gap every time I have to speak; I would rather use sign language. I stutter over the simplest greetings. Uttering even a brisk ‘Good morning’ is difficult. I have no desire to wish anyone except my master a good day or a good evening. It is required of the Servant that he exchange words only with his master. Forcing me to speak has a crushing effect. My stutter consciously restrains me from contact. I maintain distance from anyone not interested in me as a Servant. I like to serve in company where I can genuinely be of service. I deploy every resource of my soul to uphold my servant psyche.

In the morning I look in the tiny mirror with one eye closed, in order not to see more than my chin and jaw while shaving. Leonard never looks in the large mirror when he is naked. Only the naked man is called Leonard. How inept this Leonard is. I abhor Leonard’s degenerate masculinity. A hideous individual. I am overcome by a ghastly angst if forced to see myself without my livery. I detest the asymmetry of my body. It is ten years since I last saw my deformed frame exposed in a mirror. This grotesque sight causes me pain and embarrassment. When I see myself naked, I beat and tear and hate myself. Leonard’s ugly physicality is a mixture of the ridiculous and the merciless; nature made a joke at his expense when she begat him. How damned similar he is to a poor cripple in every detail of his own wounded, malformed appearance! How disgusting to be like such people! I am precisely like them. A vile hound. Naked and debased, Leonard barks helpless on his lead.

If I put on my finest livery and pull on the exquisite white silken gloves, the bland individual Leonard becomes a snappy, dapper Servant. Then I stand in front of the tall mirror and admire the allure of the attractive Servant before me. What release: an unleashed dog’s euphoric cry! The moment each morning when I see myself in the delightful livery is a vision of style, a feeling of joy. I begin my service with renewed courage and resolve.

[...]

Part III: At the King's Court

Not yet an English palace, but a master requiring ‘assistance for scientific purposes’. I repeat the requirement, the precise nature of which remains unclear. How strange it is to travel across the city. For the last fifteen years I have barely left my street. My environment has consisted of the four roads surrounding the house I live in, the daily walk in my sortie-livery sufficing. The journey through the city makes me alert. I stand taut in the bus; I neither talk to anybody, nor gaze inquiringly at anyone. I do not have the strength for strangers’ gazes. My legs give way, my long body buckles, out of my control. Along the streets, my pace breathless. The people are loud. Following the pavements, lost in the traffic, saved by a friendly gentleman – he could easily be my master. I walk fast down a narrow alley. Fear of the unknown. I see myself as a fearful person, although I have long waited for this unique moment. I must be free of any doubt. Dazed by the journey, I hear the noise of the streets in my gut. There is the house. At last! I stand at my new master’s front door. How long I have waited for this moment! I hear myself ring the bell. I am not told his name. I address him for now as ‘sir’. He will soon reveal the title the humble one is to use when speaking to him.

Half past four on the dot, you’ve managed it. Pull yourself together Servant. Were I not now here at the door, I would be arranging the four-thirty tea-time ceremony, would be taking delight in serving my good master Earl Grey in green china cups with fruit scones. I long for these strong, static, aristocratic traditions; to be one of the finest servants around.

‘Enter!’ A man’s voice calls from behind the door, a voice leading me to expect something noble. How pleasant it is to hear the command ‘Enter!’ – a foretaste of ritual and of a real master! It is a good start. I step inside. Through the dark passage straight into a bright living room. A small, rotund man with a square skull and a wide, round face sits in a wingback chair by an open window in the huge room – he reminds me of a Swedish bulldog. His sallow, unresting, green eyes observe me earnestly, curling eyebrows arching up as if the man were forced to endure acute pain. His small, open mouth breathes loudly and with effort, and his eyes reveal exhaustion and inertia. Is this the master? I check my posture and my standpoint.

Then the sight of his living room – such chaos! Everything in a mess. I understand now; I have been summoned on account of this disorganisation. He needs a fastidious assistant such as myself. With my acute sense of structure I will create impeccable order amongst his books and papers, make every intractable corner beautiful; I cannot abide negligence.

He heaves himself up from the armchair and cries out, ‘Bohumil, how tall are you? I need to know precisely. Detailed knowledge is my business. I approach data and facts meticulously. Do you know the exact length of your limbs?’ ‘Of course, sir.’ I bow in compliance. ‘I am 1 metre 97 tall, my arms are 1 metre and 3 centimetres, my torso is 97.3 centimetres long, my legs 99.5, my feet 33.4. Should I continue?’ ‘Highly interesting personal details. Every determinable number relating to your person is of great interest to me. My research field is man and the world as a mathematical figure! You understand what I am saying?’

A pause. He is waiting for my ‘yes’. I am silent. I will not pronounce a ‘no’, according to Rule 34.

(...)

Translation by Steph Morris *London^Berlin, 2010.
published in Germany, Dresden.
More or order by: www.verlag.schumachergebler.de

More about me & my books & my T-Shirt-sale: http://www.milenaoda.com/
Blog auf Deutsch & Cesky: http://www.milenaoda.wordpress.com/

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