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It is already dark when a man in Berlin-Moabit yells against night, which, more urgently than on or days, must come soon now. Black Anorak, flap jeans, butt, beer and plastic bag. With a slight imbalance it stands half a metre too far in roadway, where Redeemer is like a citadel out of city.
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“Everything you wanted to tell me, everything! But none of this you could prove to me! “
On or side of road, service is just over. In spurts, visitors come from church and huddle toger on small square, marked with light chains, like meerkats under a heat lamp. They wait a few minutes before y tear mselves away in order to disappear into small groups in all directions. No one seems to care about man in Anorak.
Nothing. Could. Your. Me. The evidence. Nothing! “he cries again, dodges an approaching car and lurches, Unbalance again, along darkness towards spree.
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On any or day of year, I would not have heeded all this. I would have dismissed it as something that just happened, extreme rash on Thermometerskala of a town that was already neurotic. What you can see during a walk in Berlin. But today is not just any evening and that is not some walk. It’s Christmas Eve.
About author
Johannes Laubmeier was born in 1987 in Regensburg. He works as a journalist and translator and was part of Christmas for a service at a Berlin daily newspaper.
A few years ago, in a survey, three percent of all participants said y were spending Christmas alone. Statistically speaking, no more people will be alone on this date than on or days of year. But maybe more people are lonely. Wher Bing Crosby in White Christmas, Wham in last Christmas or Elvis Presley in Blue Christmas – y all sing that at Christmas absence of or people is actually unbearable. Like no or social event in year, this garing, getting toger, or fear that all of this could not stop.
Miserable fir twigs pile
I should be in Lower Bavaria now, in a small town on A93. I should sit in my mor’s living room and slowly sink into sofa pillows, children’s punch and past. Instead, I’m in Berlin, alone. At beginning of December, I did not call me fast enough.
So in afternoon of December 24th I walk down Tower road towards Rathaus Tiergarten. From town hall, Melody shreds blow up street, a brass band huddles beside a beautiful Christmas tree on balcony. Christmas carols, easy to beat. About fifty people, older couples mostly, stand in loose groups on bare square before and swaying.
A flower shop on corner is still open. On a pallet in front of shop lie remnants of something that was a few days ago a fragrant, inviting pile of fir branches. The branches were now carried into living rooms. Public Advent is only to be held until December 23rd. After that, she’s private.
At least almost. Hell, se are Instagram stories of ors. In a minute’s time, pictures from German households land on screen of my iphone: Christmas cribs, Christmas trees, Christmas presents and again and again: fire.
Antonio Gramsci, when he coined concept of “cultural hegemony” in 1930s, must have anticipated Christmas photo filters on Facebook and Instagram. Hegemony, he writes in his prison diaries, arises when an idea is accepted as desirable without coercion from large parts of society. At Christmas hegemony of wood stoves reigns in Christian-dominated parlours. Suddenly I understand it emotionally and not only thought about what fear of missing out related to social media means: I’m not just afraid to miss anything. I’m just really going to miss something here. In short, I am considering lighting paltry fir twig pile and post it on Instagram, but let it remain.
