Those who say little, drive lawnmowers
Today for a bit of relief, there is at long last another guest entry from my Facebook friend and master of the written word, Alexander Wallasch, about a particular sort of person who used to annoy in analogue and now annoys in digital: the silent man. For those who want to know more about Alex, there is more information at the end of the text.
Those who say little, drive lawnmowers (by Alexander Wallasch)
Much earlier, when the smart girls with centre partings still wore white knickers with red trim under their long skirts and smelt of patchouli, the world was still in order. So you can claim, and who would want to say anything else anyway in the face of such romantic descriptions of the world? But nevertheless that isn’t actually right. Because back then, being silent had all the power over the fluttering skirts. Why? It’s quite simple: because we boys didn’t have anything clever to say yet. Back then there were four categories: those who didn’t know any better and cheerfully babbled away. Those who knew, but couldn’t keep silent. Those who still had some hope and tried it over again. And those whose strategies consisted of holding their tongues. That made them into absolute rock kings. Mysterious. Deep. And consequently they got so close to that patchouli that made us dizzy from afar. Why couldn’t we just simply learn to keep our mouths shut? Why did we gabble away every given opportunity at every given opportunity? Back then it was the time of the Silent. We looked on at those who kept silent, as they kissed, and as they did all the other things which we could for our part have imagined with the most beautiful words, but never experienced ourselves.
But what has become of those silent types? I sometimes encountered them on the street later in life. One of them was driving the town lawnmower, an old car with a “Baby on Board” sticker, and was wearing a short checked shirt in summer and had colourful tattoos which looked like comical extensions of the short sleeves. And then I was silent. Smiling. I said nothing. Just nodded briefly, waited til a spluttering came from above the amusing skin-comic, and simply drove on. In the rearview mirror I could still see his open mouth, and, for the first time, also saw his bad teeth. Had that been the actual reason behind his silence, or did that come later? It doesn’t matter. I had grasped one thing: being silent doesn’t pay in the long term. Being silent has a bloody short half-life. And he who is silent for too long, gets bloody ugly tattoos.
Why am I telling you all this? Because I have realised that, even in the 21st century, there are still people who believe that being a patchouli rock-king is a lifetime position! In any case you could get that impression, if you had been on Facebook for a while, had settled in and then suddenly realised that even on there it can be bloody quiet, although you are sharing the same virtual space with several others. That’s annoying, because I crazily look around myself automatically and instinctively, in case one of those little knicker queens is there somewhere making all these men fall silent. Actually. One of them is always at it. And like iron filings to a magnetic plate the four categories align themselves here as well, like lemmings, following a law of physics: the majority are lawn-mower men. But of course there is no smell in the internet and the clouds of patchouli have no effect at all. Being silent here is simply being silent! Then, in their despair, the lawnmower boys post interminable lists of Youtube music videos. At first they reap a few “likes”, then nothing more, because what’s the point? Most people have enough boredom to download their own videos from Youtube.
The second group of these “PS” lawnmower-men has a more aggressive roar: threads with increasing comment length just makes their silence ever louder. Of course, then the first one boils over. Then another, and then even more silent types break their silence. But: those who stay silent for so long don’t have a smooth voice – it’s too loud, too quiet, it squawks, whimpers or rattles after but a few syllables. Why? It’s quite simple: the truth about Facebook is this: Facebook is not a blog. No ifs or buts, every post and every comment is no less than a summons to a conversation. And Facebook friends are conversation partners. That is how they are chosen. Or rejected! So those who won’t speak and keep waiting longingly for the next cloud of patchouli sooner or later ends up just driving the lawnmower in Facebook as well. And inevitably drives vociferously into the next empty bulletin board. Facebook is text. Therefore Facebook is the world of the copywriters. And we are the copywriters. The kings of Facebook. Those who will get to look behind the red trim. Assuming the clouds of patchouli are thick enough. (Alexander Wallasch, 46, is a German writer, journalist, columnist and copywriter at one of the north-German top agencies (which does not want to be named here). In his 2006 novel “Hotel Monopol” the Financial Times saw “an update of Charles Bukowski and Hubert Fichte”. In 2010, “German Son” (Deutscher Sohn, co-authored by Ingo Niermann)became the most discussed German novel of 2010. The Frankfurter Allgemeine Sunday edition wrote “The result is a strongly established prose, which rethinks the cosmopolitan inheritance from classicism. A crystal clear novel countering hystericism among the German suppressed : literature on patrol .”)











