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erschienen in der HOW TO #4 – stalker
von Alex Leask
This is what I do.
I have nothing else.
Just this obsession.
This drive.
I have perfected my art. And that I am proud of. It is never a personal affair. At least initially. It can become very significant though. I pick at random. I see a face in a crowd that looks as if it might reveal an interesting story. All I have to do is get close enough. Then the story tells itself.
It’s a waiting game. A pursuit. It appeals to our age-old sense as hunters. It’s a natural thing. To suppress it would not be natural. And that’s why I’m not going to stop.
No restraining order. No institution will stop me. They can lock me up. And they have. But they can never keep me for good.
It’s all about detail. Figuring out their daily routine. Where they live. Where they work. When they eat, when they sleep. Who they fuck.
I follow them. I wait in front of their homes. Wait for them to be spilled back out on the streets so I can learn what their public life is all about. Only that I don’t really care about their public lives. It’s the private life that matters.
I want to know things nobody else knows. I want to know their secrets. The dirty ones and the petty ones. I want to know what no one else can know. What no one else should know. That brings me closer to them.
When I know all about their outside lives, I can concentrate on where they live. I know when they are getting their hair cut, when they have an appointment with the woman doctor and – most importantly – when they will be back.
It is important to know these things. Because then I can go visit. Breaking in is such a terrible term.
Visiting is always easy. Follow a neighbour into the building. Ring a random doorbell, have a convincing story and that’s it really.
Know how to pick a lock. It’s a trade easily learned inside institutions. Most people don’t really lock their doors, you know. They just pull shut and rely on that. Not enough.
When I’m in, I automatically get a sense of what it is I’m looking for. It’s like I just got to know her better. Like I really know what she’s about. It’s the furniture. How it’s arranged. The pictures on the walls. All these things tell me what to do next. Find something personal she won’t really miss, but notice. The bathroom is always good. For instance, take some lipstick. I need a souvenir. She’ll remember she put it there, but she’ll think that she might have misplaced it. At a friend’s, at some bar freshening up.
The first visit is always very quick. I have to acclimatize slowly.
I call her when she gets back in. Make sure the phone’s ringing while she’s opening the front door. She’ll be out of breath by the time she gets to the phone. Eager to find out who’s on the line.
I don’t hang up immediately. I make sure she knows something has changed. I stay on the line just long enough to make her feel uncomfortable. Then I hang up.
The next time I’m in, I rearrange a few things. Nothing too conspicuous, but she has to realise that she is no longer on her own. That she is gradually losing control. That I am taking over. That way, when I call next, she will demand to know what I want. She will talk to me. And I didn’t even have to say a word.
A special touch of mine is to add things. Let’s say she has a collection of rubber ducks. Well, let’s not say. This actually happened. This one had a collection of rubber ducks. The classic yellow rubber duck in different sizes, the yellow rubber duck with a big “I love you” heart, red devil rubber ducks, white angel rubber ducks and black pirate rubber ducks. At least 20 of them. One day I added one with giraffe spots. Don’t know when she noticed it. But she must have at some point. I’m sure she did.
But I digress. The most intimate place in any home is the bedroom. This is where the most incriminating stuff is usually found. There and in studies, at desks. I read her letters, the poems her lovers wrote, look at her pictures. I check her computer. Internet histories. Learn. The more you know, the deeper you get.
I want to know who I’m dealing with. And nothing is more individual than a person’s smell. I find out through her clothes. Immerse myself. By now I am comfortable staying in the flat for hours at a time.
Sometimes I leave a clue that I’ve been to visit, sometimes I don’t. My calls are infrequent, too. I no longer call as soon as she gets back in. Sometimes I call to wake her up in the morning. Sometimes I call her cell phone at work. I just don’t want to give away a pattern, but I know that she will stick to hers. It’s the only thing she can hold on to by now.
Oh yeah. Another reason why I don’t want to keep a pattern. She’s probably contacted police. And they’re just waiting to set me up. But if I don’t make mistakes, I’m untouchable.
That’s why sometimes I have to let go for a while. I have to stay away. Not be in touch. That’s the hardest thing, because she has become the most important thing in my life. She has become my life. The very essence of it. But I know it’s the right thing to do. And therefore I have no choice. I stay away. But not forever. I will return. I know that. And so should she. The urge is simply too strong.
Then, out of the blue, I’ll send her flowers. Not home. To her workplace. A big fucking bunch of roses. Her colleagues will ask who the new boyfriend is. The note that is attached to the flowers reads something like “Nice boots you bought yesterday”. She will know who sent the flowers. She will know it isn’t her boyfriend. Because he hasn’t seen the new boots yet.
I find places where I can get really close to her without her noticing. Like the cinema. I can sit down next to her. In the dark. I can imagine myself touching her. And if I play my cards right, that might actually happen. Accidentally. Squeeze past her looking for a seat. Tap her on the shoulder, asking if she could move one over, I can’t see. Thank you. Ask her for a light after the show. Cup her hands while she’s lighting up your cigarette. Of course, I know she smokes.
That’s how it’s done. It’s a game. The best game I’ve ever played. The rules are simple. Number one. Don’t get caught. Number two. Don’t get caught. And that’s it. If I stick to that rule, the game will never really end. She will be mine always. I will have given her something she will never forget. When I tell my story, people say it’s disturbing. Or even sick. Not to me. To me it’s something else. It is just a secret way of saying“I love you”.
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Rubber Ducks
von Alex Leask
This is what I do.
I have nothing else.
Just this obsession.
This drive.
I have perfected my art. And that I am proud of. It is never a personal affair. At least initially. It can become very significant though. I pick at random. I see a face in a crowd that looks as if it might reveal an interesting story. All I have to do is get close enough. Then the story tells itself.
It’s a waiting game. A pursuit. It appeals to our age-old sense as hunters. It’s a natural thing. To suppress it would not be natural. And that’s why I’m not going to stop.
No restraining order. No institution will stop me. They can lock me up. And they have. But they can never keep me for good.
It’s all about detail. Figuring out their daily routine. Where they live. Where they work. When they eat, when they sleep. Who they fuck.
I follow them. I wait in front of their homes. Wait for them to be spilled back out on the streets so I can learn what their public life is all about. Only that I don’t really care about their public lives. It’s the private life that matters.
I want to know things nobody else knows. I want to know their secrets. The dirty ones and the petty ones. I want to know what no one else can know. What no one else should know. That brings me closer to them.
When I know all about their outside lives, I can concentrate on where they live. I know when they are getting their hair cut, when they have an appointment with the woman doctor and – most importantly – when they will be back.
It is important to know these things. Because then I can go visit. Breaking in is such a terrible term.
Visiting is always easy. Follow a neighbour into the building. Ring a random doorbell, have a convincing story and that’s it really.
Know how to pick a lock. It’s a trade easily learned inside institutions. Most people don’t really lock their doors, you know. They just pull shut and rely on that. Not enough.
When I’m in, I automatically get a sense of what it is I’m looking for. It’s like I just got to know her better. Like I really know what she’s about. It’s the furniture. How it’s arranged. The pictures on the walls. All these things tell me what to do next. Find something personal she won’t really miss, but notice. The bathroom is always good. For instance, take some lipstick. I need a souvenir. She’ll remember she put it there, but she’ll think that she might have misplaced it. At a friend’s, at some bar freshening up.
The first visit is always very quick. I have to acclimatize slowly.
I call her when she gets back in. Make sure the phone’s ringing while she’s opening the front door. She’ll be out of breath by the time she gets to the phone. Eager to find out who’s on the line.
I don’t hang up immediately. I make sure she knows something has changed. I stay on the line just long enough to make her feel uncomfortable. Then I hang up.
The next time I’m in, I rearrange a few things. Nothing too conspicuous, but she has to realise that she is no longer on her own. That she is gradually losing control. That I am taking over. That way, when I call next, she will demand to know what I want. She will talk to me. And I didn’t even have to say a word.
A special touch of mine is to add things. Let’s say she has a collection of rubber ducks. Well, let’s not say. This actually happened. This one had a collection of rubber ducks. The classic yellow rubber duck in different sizes, the yellow rubber duck with a big “I love you” heart, red devil rubber ducks, white angel rubber ducks and black pirate rubber ducks. At least 20 of them. One day I added one with giraffe spots. Don’t know when she noticed it. But she must have at some point. I’m sure she did.
But I digress. The most intimate place in any home is the bedroom. This is where the most incriminating stuff is usually found. There and in studies, at desks. I read her letters, the poems her lovers wrote, look at her pictures. I check her computer. Internet histories. Learn. The more you know, the deeper you get.
I want to know who I’m dealing with. And nothing is more individual than a person’s smell. I find out through her clothes. Immerse myself. By now I am comfortable staying in the flat for hours at a time.
Sometimes I leave a clue that I’ve been to visit, sometimes I don’t. My calls are infrequent, too. I no longer call as soon as she gets back in. Sometimes I call to wake her up in the morning. Sometimes I call her cell phone at work. I just don’t want to give away a pattern, but I know that she will stick to hers. It’s the only thing she can hold on to by now.
Oh yeah. Another reason why I don’t want to keep a pattern. She’s probably contacted police. And they’re just waiting to set me up. But if I don’t make mistakes, I’m untouchable.
That’s why sometimes I have to let go for a while. I have to stay away. Not be in touch. That’s the hardest thing, because she has become the most important thing in my life. She has become my life. The very essence of it. But I know it’s the right thing to do. And therefore I have no choice. I stay away. But not forever. I will return. I know that. And so should she. The urge is simply too strong.
Then, out of the blue, I’ll send her flowers. Not home. To her workplace. A big fucking bunch of roses. Her colleagues will ask who the new boyfriend is. The note that is attached to the flowers reads something like “Nice boots you bought yesterday”. She will know who sent the flowers. She will know it isn’t her boyfriend. Because he hasn’t seen the new boots yet.
I find places where I can get really close to her without her noticing. Like the cinema. I can sit down next to her. In the dark. I can imagine myself touching her. And if I play my cards right, that might actually happen. Accidentally. Squeeze past her looking for a seat. Tap her on the shoulder, asking if she could move one over, I can’t see. Thank you. Ask her for a light after the show. Cup her hands while she’s lighting up your cigarette. Of course, I know she smokes.
That’s how it’s done. It’s a game. The best game I’ve ever played. The rules are simple. Number one. Don’t get caught. Number two. Don’t get caught. And that’s it. If I stick to that rule, the game will never really end. She will be mine always. I will have given her something she will never forget. When I tell my story, people say it’s disturbing. Or even sick. Not to me. To me it’s something else. It is just a secret way of saying“I love you”.
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