He is otherwise something of a disrespectful man, the country policeman, and so he demands all the more respect from the young recruits. He doesn't care about anything except this house, this one and that one too. I should explain that in greater detail now, but it's not necessary, because anyone can put himself in the same situation and immediately sign a savings agreement with a building society. But I don't know, there's something, it's better not to visit people like that, they always only serve themselves, perhaps because they're stingy. That means that people who join up with them always have to live in reality and are not allowed to dream. Someone who one day falls in love with them is soon looking anxiously at them. Where have all the dreams gone? Such people can always hold onto themselves, even if they briefly give themselves away or rather: lend themselves out. It only looks as if they were expending themselves and spoiling others with their presence. We've got plenty of time, it only takes half an hour of my time, but not this one, to explain it to you in greater detail. You're yawning. You've heard it all before. I know. Even the country policeman's trainers are of the opinion, with respect to the rocky ground, which they briefly but firmly touch, that everything on and over which they climb belongs to them. We take care of our homeland, and we like to keep it under control, and these are brand name shoes, even if I got them a little cheaper. Oh, a little herd of chamois, there are even two kids with them, how nice, about ten yards vertically below the gravel path. They don't crush anything at all under their hooves. How lightly these animals whose bodies appear so heavy jump from a rock on their thin little legs, we look enviously above our allied walking and trekking shoes at the same time trampling a couple of tufts of grass at the edge of the path, where a short time ago they were still found alive, so that the animals could eat them. High above, a pair of buzzards, crying loudly so that the little animals can disappear in time, who still have to live off their winter fat, and are keeping themselves upright with their last reserves of energy. The district has become noticeably lonelier since the springs can no longer be marvelled at on the surface. We've been struck by that. For that reason, as well as for others, tourism has declined considerably, many have got alarmed about it, what's happened to our attractions? Where are the foreigners? Why don't they come? Are we being boycotted by our own guests? What have we dished up here? We've dished up the same as usual, haven't we, schnitzel, chicken, sugared pancakes. The mountain, which is one thing that doesn't consist of food, we're not the Land of Cockayne (or are we? or are we nothing else?), has been locked up long ago, but it can easily be unlocked. Like an envelope, which anyone can tear open to read what message the landscape has and the one over there, too, the message is different for each person and so it's no problem to recall the messengers, our ambassadors. We are not to blame for anything. That's accompanied by loud music on the radio. And those who remain are already more elderly fellow citizens and prefer to walk around on the plain, look up in astonishment at the snow-covered peaks, take photographs and turn themselves into a reference work, which inns in the valley serve the freshest trout straight out of the stream. We'll go there afterwards and open the filler pipes. Come on in. All right, but here the path already goes up into the mountains, it's not my fault, it's better if you just stand still. Snow on the felling areas higher up in the forest, on these breaks between the trees down which the avalanches raced with particular abundance this winter. It is now late spring (spring comes rather late here anyway) and still correspondingly cold. The noise of the inn died down long ago. Here, at least in the more low-lying parts, agriculture and forestry used to be carried on, but now an eternal water use ban has dawned. Further down there's a catchment basin, but you won't catch anything. It is the area, measured horizontally, which is bounded by watersheds, yes, shedding can hurt. In between there's the water, one hopes likewise permanently separated from us. Sports which are kind to nature are always welcome, but others not, absolutely no mountain bikes-strictly forbidden! This poet doesn't want them, and I don't either, but can't say it as nicely as he can, who would like to kill the poor cyclists, who would also just like to have fun. But running or walking, that's OK, isn't it? No, the poet has nothing against that. Although: Every step crushes approx. one thousand insects, a mighty spectacle, which is unfortunately also coming to an end, but only if one were as small as this ant here, there you are, its time is already up. That wouldn't be any good for us: being crushed underfoot. Nothing is grown here anymore, here there is no chemical treatment for plants, and the plants of course look as one might expect, somehow wild, tousled, worse for wear, puny, don't you think these are chance creations? They've got no breeding. Once they wouldn't have been allowed to proliferate here in such numbers and take away space that could have been used productively. To the country policeman, the thought that something could not be useful is unbearable, and yet he involuntarily relaxes in this dramatic landscape, from which he has learned, at least, to appear wild and romantic when necessary. Nature belongs to all of us. Too little always belongs to the country policeman. Nevertheless. There are some who say they have observed that sometimes he also went here at night. Sometimes he deliberately stands on every cluster of flowers, no, today he doesn't want to pluck and pick up anything, not even edelweiss, nature isn't that interesting after all, it's not an animal (put it this way: An animal is nature, but nature is not an animal, providing milk and eggs which we can use, and to be honest, nature doesn't provide me with much either). It's called an eco-system, only Kurt Janisch doesn't see how and where there's supposed to be some kind of system at the bottom of it. To him nature is a green chaos, like the party associated with it, and like the chaos in his brain; and only his body, so that its performance improves, is worth being first looked after and then honed, one thing at a time. From such people we should learn to obey the state, without them needing to waste any manners on us. When they kick down our doors because we're black or have worked in the black economy, we're harvested and only then cut by the neighbors. A policeman is always right.
It always makes sense to work at something, and mining has had the sense, over the eons, to throw the mountain bit by bit into the depths, in seconds if necessary, and even under the mountain there are things happening, which are perhaps beneficial to it, but certainly not to us. Because the mountain can in a short time virtually liquefy itself deep inside, yes indeed, in the depths, as if there were not already enough water there! So now it also turns to mud inside, and after that, watch out, it breaks through. And it breaks through into neighboring, already packed, old worked out chambers, and sometimes, if they have not been properly backfilled, these are particularly susceptible. Who actually checked the consistency of the packing material, of the concrete? No one? Well, then of course we'll need to call the Country Police to find that out, but not today and not this country policeman, he won't be on duty. But one day, one day some time, he too will try to find out whether it's true that lean concrete packing was used or not. Like all of us, he will need experts to do that. The information won't be volunteered. A subsidence might perhaps have occurred if the chamber had been properly packed, but not this catastrophic breakthrough, which took people into the pit with their eyes wide open and afterwards didn't let them out again even with their eyes shut. They're still down there. Ten head of them. No, you won't get anything out again, on the contrary, you're still in nature's debt and have to pay. So: What interests the country policeman about women also lies more below the waistline, which the more fearful don't even dare cross with their eyes. The country policeman, once the sunny credit side has been checked, always only looks there, an area about which he has already collected further details on many occasions, so that he knows his way around, if he ends up there again. It's nicest in nice weather, this area, then one can at least take a good look at the landscape, to see whether a couple of death's heads look back and nod to the camera. All these fit to use lives have been buttered into the landscape and then crushed by the magma, well, by the shit, until they themselves have presumably become as soft as butter. Don't follow this mine to the bottom, follow Kurt Janisch uphill, even if it's hard! Weighing heavily on him, as on the management of the mine: economic pressure. He must find success. He must. Failing which he must go broke and be declared bankrupt. There we have the mine, and there we have Mr. Janisch's fly, they stand opposite one another like two terrace restaurants by a lake competing for customers. What will you do for me? You'll get from me! With fewer people the mine had to produce as much as with many. It routinely had to increase the tonnage. What must Kurt Janisch do now? Be at the right place at the right time, have his arguments acknowledged and have the buildings and apartments of lonely women valued. The Leoben Public Prosecutor's Office is waiting, at some point someone will stray into their side street. If the mountain doesn't come, then its prophet of property, Kurt Janisch, will come to us in the cramped building, and then at last we'll have him, we don't have anymore room. Otherwise we have to come and get him. One hears rumors, these little liberties of the propertyless, but one hears nothing concrete. Welcome meanwhile to the Barbara shaft, where, however, there's nothing left to save.