She draws the cape tighter around her curvacious body. you can see the life spill out of her eyes. even when they are dull they seem to hide this glowing fire akin to cold winter nights.
Nothing is ever for free, nothing is ever for nothing. Things didn't just happen in vain. As music rolls in I see a landscape appearing, the landscape of my life. It's not just a jungle. It's been souldscaped, so to say. There were things happening, that scaped and shaped my soul.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Saturday, April 28, 2007
surrealism
the fog paints everything in shimmering silky grey. palmtrees lose their pathetic vacation look, they gain degrees of mysteriousness, of history, stories, whispered in the wind of old days.
The fake gas fueled fire flickers and flimmers in the cold. Those logs will never grow old, they will never burn down, they will never give birth to anyone or anything. They will hardly keep me warm or sooth me with crackeling noises. They have a long but hard life. Nothing I ever would wish for.
A song appears through the mist, it might be an old soul song, about love, about now or never, or the doors, screaming into the arriving dawn.
It is amazing how many layers of memories a song can carry on its waves. Ah, how it manages to sway me back into strange, old emotions, old truths that changed their faces so many times, that transformed from the excitement of newness and youth into the forlorn whispering of the old.
It's as if surrealism is taking over reality in strange flickering and fickle sounds....painted, no, smashed against a dirty, plain, grey fogwall. with frogs jumping all over
When the music is over....turn out the lights....(Jim Morrison)
The fake gas fueled fire flickers and flimmers in the cold. Those logs will never grow old, they will never burn down, they will never give birth to anyone or anything. They will hardly keep me warm or sooth me with crackeling noises. They have a long but hard life. Nothing I ever would wish for.
A song appears through the mist, it might be an old soul song, about love, about now or never, or the doors, screaming into the arriving dawn.
It is amazing how many layers of memories a song can carry on its waves. Ah, how it manages to sway me back into strange, old emotions, old truths that changed their faces so many times, that transformed from the excitement of newness and youth into the forlorn whispering of the old.
It's as if surrealism is taking over reality in strange flickering and fickle sounds....painted, no, smashed against a dirty, plain, grey fogwall. with frogs jumping all over
When the music is over....turn out the lights....(Jim Morrison)
Friday, April 27, 2007
mutiny in obscurity
She turned around one more time, insecure so, her left hand quivered in the dim light like a leave in a fresh morning breeze.
Into obscurity she delved, into this velvety shimmering soft greenish blue.
Her gaze hit me in an unexpected way. It was, as if we both just knew but never, under no circumstances would bear to utter those words, smelling of deep orange red, like terracotta, crumbling down like the Mexican sandy rocks beneath my bleeding feet.
Yeah, it sounds pathetically dramatic in a way, the red rocks and the crumbling and tumbling and the blood mixing with the earth. What can you do, what can you do when you already know that self destruction doesn't necessarily work the way you want it to.
So oblivion, how to be attained? Where are you hiding, you elusive being? In the running waves? In the fleeting glimpses of past times that burn the skin of your tender heart like cigarettes living flesh, squeezing your soul, the juice, it tastes like yellow squash, like Mexico, like San Francisco and the Doors. Like the smell of burnt hair and meat and the dying heat of fading songs.
In obscurity she dove like a pelican dives into the ocean, spying a fish from far above, falling down from the sky like a stone, gravity at its best use, never for free, how can the pelican see from so far above? I don't know exactly what she expected or wanted or needed, but she must have seen something there, as she was, flaming into the sea.
When nobody can hear nor touch you no more, when everything is silent, when past and future are mute it is time for mutiny. In your own soul, in your very own obscurity. The last thing she seemed to say in this long moment of gazing into her oceanfilled eyes, was that she felt she had every damn right to have a catastrophe, a crisis, a mutiny. The smell of salty water, on her cheeks, on her lips, she licked it away and turned around one more time, waving good bye.
And so she was, in obscurity, trying to break through, with her emerald eyes, flaming into the sea.
Into obscurity she delved, into this velvety shimmering soft greenish blue.
Her gaze hit me in an unexpected way. It was, as if we both just knew but never, under no circumstances would bear to utter those words, smelling of deep orange red, like terracotta, crumbling down like the Mexican sandy rocks beneath my bleeding feet.
Yeah, it sounds pathetically dramatic in a way, the red rocks and the crumbling and tumbling and the blood mixing with the earth. What can you do, what can you do when you already know that self destruction doesn't necessarily work the way you want it to.
So oblivion, how to be attained? Where are you hiding, you elusive being? In the running waves? In the fleeting glimpses of past times that burn the skin of your tender heart like cigarettes living flesh, squeezing your soul, the juice, it tastes like yellow squash, like Mexico, like San Francisco and the Doors. Like the smell of burnt hair and meat and the dying heat of fading songs.
In obscurity she dove like a pelican dives into the ocean, spying a fish from far above, falling down from the sky like a stone, gravity at its best use, never for free, how can the pelican see from so far above? I don't know exactly what she expected or wanted or needed, but she must have seen something there, as she was, flaming into the sea.
When nobody can hear nor touch you no more, when everything is silent, when past and future are mute it is time for mutiny. In your own soul, in your very own obscurity. The last thing she seemed to say in this long moment of gazing into her oceanfilled eyes, was that she felt she had every damn right to have a catastrophe, a crisis, a mutiny. The smell of salty water, on her cheeks, on her lips, she licked it away and turned around one more time, waving good bye.
And so she was, in obscurity, trying to break through, with her emerald eyes, flaming into the sea.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
the boat
breathing, it's like breathing.
the moon gently rocking by the window, from one side to the other just to linger for a moment at the very far left side and then hesitatingly coming back, like on a rolling wave, accompanied by her love, the evening star.
it's the boat rocking and it's the waves murmuring and it's the dolphins playing with me in the waves.
the lagoon is very quiet. only the wind sings in my hair. it is late afternoon and i want to melt into the sand, just be, just breathe for a minute. after one week, finally, i feel the land. i started arriving when i climbed the steep mountainside with my worn flip flops, thorns in my calluses, red dust in my lungs, hands trying to cling to the dissolving rocks, trying to get to the top. and then, finally, the view, the omega round in all shades of green and blue, the red striped rocks and the cactus. the essence of being defensive in a world that is bare and bleak. goats, hiding in the mountains, salt lakes simmering in the heat. a thousand year old turtle slowly paddeling through the breeze.
the essence of beautifully surviving it is.
sometimes things are so hard to grasp. so hard to accept into your reality. you breathe it in, and in the next moment you find yourself back in some lousy lobby of a run down airport. staring at tanned pilots, a white woman in white clothes and a wide white hat and pitch black sunglasses. the epitom of a first lady, of some rich guy, with her lovely children at her hands, elegant, graceful, rich, a pigeon holed image of someone she is, she is not, a life that is so surreal that it lays clam and relentless like a second skin on your clothes.
the joys of wave running with dolphins gliding through the turqoise riddled salty sea, of surfing behind a roaring motor boat or just jumping off the deck in sheer leisure, the joys of spending hours picking shells, turning them into beautiful jewelry, eating well without cooking nor doing dishes, the joys of watching a movie in a dark star spangled night, or watching a naked woman on another rich man's 'boat'...are enjoyable for a second and then they are worn, sucked dry, aus, vorbei.
but the rocking motion, it stays, it sways us into sleep
it's the boat
breathing
tbc
the moon gently rocking by the window, from one side to the other just to linger for a moment at the very far left side and then hesitatingly coming back, like on a rolling wave, accompanied by her love, the evening star.
it's the boat rocking and it's the waves murmuring and it's the dolphins playing with me in the waves.
the lagoon is very quiet. only the wind sings in my hair. it is late afternoon and i want to melt into the sand, just be, just breathe for a minute. after one week, finally, i feel the land. i started arriving when i climbed the steep mountainside with my worn flip flops, thorns in my calluses, red dust in my lungs, hands trying to cling to the dissolving rocks, trying to get to the top. and then, finally, the view, the omega round in all shades of green and blue, the red striped rocks and the cactus. the essence of being defensive in a world that is bare and bleak. goats, hiding in the mountains, salt lakes simmering in the heat. a thousand year old turtle slowly paddeling through the breeze.
the essence of beautifully surviving it is.
sometimes things are so hard to grasp. so hard to accept into your reality. you breathe it in, and in the next moment you find yourself back in some lousy lobby of a run down airport. staring at tanned pilots, a white woman in white clothes and a wide white hat and pitch black sunglasses. the epitom of a first lady, of some rich guy, with her lovely children at her hands, elegant, graceful, rich, a pigeon holed image of someone she is, she is not, a life that is so surreal that it lays clam and relentless like a second skin on your clothes.
the joys of wave running with dolphins gliding through the turqoise riddled salty sea, of surfing behind a roaring motor boat or just jumping off the deck in sheer leisure, the joys of spending hours picking shells, turning them into beautiful jewelry, eating well without cooking nor doing dishes, the joys of watching a movie in a dark star spangled night, or watching a naked woman on another rich man's 'boat'...are enjoyable for a second and then they are worn, sucked dry, aus, vorbei.
but the rocking motion, it stays, it sways us into sleep
it's the boat
breathing
tbc
Friday, April 13, 2007
and so it was...
like little miniature marching bands in my head, marching through my ear, into my head, winding up and up and up, echoing and vibrating losening up buried memories of long gone excitements. the cracks, the twists, the noises, the echoes, the strings, the dark obscure nights in some Berlin basement somewhere somewhen somehow amazing.
drum fills in rows like crushing shorelines, one after the other like precious beads on a necklace that i weave through my hair. the almost slow motioned movements of swaying hips, fluttering hands like caught up birds, looking for a way out, a way to follow the ever dictating beats and fills and waves and sounds clashing and splattered all over the floor. the dj's bend over the machines, creating powerful patterns, only known to them, translated by our bodies, our movements. hair flying through the air, smoke slowly filling the room with intrinsic formulas. snaking their way through sweating bodies, heavily pumping lungs, almost still life like people who froze in a moment of death, induced by borderline substances that beam you right there and back. smiles hanging in the air like a sleepy willow in a forgotten misty land and empty eyes staring, searching, losing, rolling back in dull sound filled heads.
i always thought that the sounds were utterly boring when lying on a bed all by yourself. searching hands could translate them well enough but best was and is, undeniably, the power of those soundwaves running through your veins, weaving secrets back and forth through you into the room, bumping off other people, dancing a mystical dance of forgetting and death.
and so it was,
in the mornings, when we could come back, resurfacing, coming from the dark, the sun was always so bright, and the birds filled the thundering silence.
drum fills in rows like crushing shorelines, one after the other like precious beads on a necklace that i weave through my hair. the almost slow motioned movements of swaying hips, fluttering hands like caught up birds, looking for a way out, a way to follow the ever dictating beats and fills and waves and sounds clashing and splattered all over the floor. the dj's bend over the machines, creating powerful patterns, only known to them, translated by our bodies, our movements. hair flying through the air, smoke slowly filling the room with intrinsic formulas. snaking their way through sweating bodies, heavily pumping lungs, almost still life like people who froze in a moment of death, induced by borderline substances that beam you right there and back. smiles hanging in the air like a sleepy willow in a forgotten misty land and empty eyes staring, searching, losing, rolling back in dull sound filled heads.
i always thought that the sounds were utterly boring when lying on a bed all by yourself. searching hands could translate them well enough but best was and is, undeniably, the power of those soundwaves running through your veins, weaving secrets back and forth through you into the room, bumping off other people, dancing a mystical dance of forgetting and death.
and so it was,
in the mornings, when we could come back, resurfacing, coming from the dark, the sun was always so bright, and the birds filled the thundering silence.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
wise words
I came back with my hair all braided, thousands of thin little braids made by Kenian hands...My sister and I had been looking on all the streets until we found the probably only black guy in the entire neighborhood, whom we immediately attacked with our questions.
Tver was warm and friendly then, it was towards the end of my time in Russia. He brought us to the student housing apartment he and his five other friends lived in, and his cousin or someone, braided my hair for 500 Rubels while we were all watching satellite TV from America. I gulped at the price but my sister looked at me with this look that every big sister has and which silences you in a milli second.
When she arrived at the trainstation all she could say was 'oh my God, your shoes!'. Befuddled I looked down at my shoes and couldn't find what she must had found. Sure, I didn't really fit in with the dressed up, make up burdened Russian beauties, but my shoes had been nice to me all the way long. And they didn't show that I was a stranger. I loved my shoes. They had been through all the dirt, with me. If they could tell stories I said and laughed. But she just took me by the hand (another annoying big sister metaphor) and went straight to the next flee market to buy fake adidas sneakers for me.
500 Rubels was a lot of money for me then. When a bread costs 5 Rubels and a pear 14 Rubels you start counting in Rubels after at least two months of nutritional deprivation. Even though 14 Rubels was only one dollar (if you changed currency with the mafia..with the bank's it was more expensive) I counted in Rubels at least from the day on, when my mother sent me money in the MAIL. The letter arrived and the money didn't.
I hope some border control's child profited from our money, I hope it wasn't vodka. I hope it was a woman, who opened the letter, not a man. Men usually hung out between the soviet buildings at the rusty old playing structures for children who were going crazy in schools (the only way out was and still is of course good grades, a good education...). They were continually drunk with self burnt vodka. The women walked around like they just had jumped out of some beauty magazine and kept the whole country going, from very young to very old. Old women would be standing at corners selling carrots or what not from their datschas, I couldn't help thinking that in some way this was better than rotting away in some elderly home. And that the wee's and woe's of people always depend on the general economical and social situation. You can take a lot more than you think, my dear.
I have to admit, to put things into perspective, that all my Mom had sent me was apparently 70 bucks but that equalled approx. 750 Rubels, worth more than half a year of work for my host's mom, but she never got paid anyways. She was a teacher. Never stopped working either.
During the cold march days I met Pjotr, a man with a long brown beard, and who was walking barefeet even through the long winter months. He lived across the Wolga and back then the water was still frozen so we could just walk across the river instead of making this big tour through the city over the bridge....He lived really close to the water and every morning took a bath in a hole that he had cut into the ice. I did that twice. You get rid of your clothes, walk towards the hole in a dreamy, strangely surreal atmosphere, bend your knees, place your hands firmly on the ice and slide into the ice cold water. Sinking into it is the most amazing sensation you can imagine. It is everywhere. It is in direct contact with you. The river is murmuring. Quiet, quiet, sleepes brother. Then you push your head up towards the sun, the sky, the birds, take a deep deep breath and dive back. twice. Three times maybe. Then hands reach out to help you out, you stretch and stretch towards the sun and let your arms and torso fall towards the ground. Then you rise again, let the air pretend to be water, run through your lungs, stretch and stretch and fall. Maybe run, through the snow and then back into the warm house.
Newborn.
When I arrived with my thousand braids at Bale/Mulhouse international airport I didn't believe my eyes, it was so clean, so perfect and the streets so even. People spoke German and it wasn't any longer a secret language between my sister and me or my teacher and me. I was fat, I thought, when my sister took me to a clothing store, she bought me some new clothes. Four months of Russian food will change your body when you're not used to it.
Going up the stairs in my old school I felt like a stranger, speaking German was strange too, it left the tongue unsatisfied. I rolled it up and down, bit it occasionally, moved it constantly. Germans don't use their chest when pronouncing vowls. The language is so flat. Rowno. In class my teacher asked me to come up front and tell my class mates a little about my experience in Russia. Words stumbled clumsily out of my mouth and my smile tried to stay cool but nobody would ever know.
When I came home, somewhat exhausted, a little depressed, and puzzled, my dad looked at me and said these wise words:
'If you change your voice the change you went through becomes way more evident and powerful than your braids could ever tell.'
I tried to understand, observe my voice a little closer..let the change modulate the sounds.
I couldn't help remembering that when I looked at the new layout of this blog today.
Then I tried to write, tried to observe whether the change, - can it modulate???
Tver was warm and friendly then, it was towards the end of my time in Russia. He brought us to the student housing apartment he and his five other friends lived in, and his cousin or someone, braided my hair for 500 Rubels while we were all watching satellite TV from America. I gulped at the price but my sister looked at me with this look that every big sister has and which silences you in a milli second.
When she arrived at the trainstation all she could say was 'oh my God, your shoes!'. Befuddled I looked down at my shoes and couldn't find what she must had found. Sure, I didn't really fit in with the dressed up, make up burdened Russian beauties, but my shoes had been nice to me all the way long. And they didn't show that I was a stranger. I loved my shoes. They had been through all the dirt, with me. If they could tell stories I said and laughed. But she just took me by the hand (another annoying big sister metaphor) and went straight to the next flee market to buy fake adidas sneakers for me.
500 Rubels was a lot of money for me then. When a bread costs 5 Rubels and a pear 14 Rubels you start counting in Rubels after at least two months of nutritional deprivation. Even though 14 Rubels was only one dollar (if you changed currency with the mafia..with the bank's it was more expensive) I counted in Rubels at least from the day on, when my mother sent me money in the MAIL. The letter arrived and the money didn't.
I hope some border control's child profited from our money, I hope it wasn't vodka. I hope it was a woman, who opened the letter, not a man. Men usually hung out between the soviet buildings at the rusty old playing structures for children who were going crazy in schools (the only way out was and still is of course good grades, a good education...). They were continually drunk with self burnt vodka. The women walked around like they just had jumped out of some beauty magazine and kept the whole country going, from very young to very old. Old women would be standing at corners selling carrots or what not from their datschas, I couldn't help thinking that in some way this was better than rotting away in some elderly home. And that the wee's and woe's of people always depend on the general economical and social situation. You can take a lot more than you think, my dear.
I have to admit, to put things into perspective, that all my Mom had sent me was apparently 70 bucks but that equalled approx. 750 Rubels, worth more than half a year of work for my host's mom, but she never got paid anyways. She was a teacher. Never stopped working either.
During the cold march days I met Pjotr, a man with a long brown beard, and who was walking barefeet even through the long winter months. He lived across the Wolga and back then the water was still frozen so we could just walk across the river instead of making this big tour through the city over the bridge....He lived really close to the water and every morning took a bath in a hole that he had cut into the ice. I did that twice. You get rid of your clothes, walk towards the hole in a dreamy, strangely surreal atmosphere, bend your knees, place your hands firmly on the ice and slide into the ice cold water. Sinking into it is the most amazing sensation you can imagine. It is everywhere. It is in direct contact with you. The river is murmuring. Quiet, quiet, sleepes brother. Then you push your head up towards the sun, the sky, the birds, take a deep deep breath and dive back. twice. Three times maybe. Then hands reach out to help you out, you stretch and stretch towards the sun and let your arms and torso fall towards the ground. Then you rise again, let the air pretend to be water, run through your lungs, stretch and stretch and fall. Maybe run, through the snow and then back into the warm house.
Newborn.
When I arrived with my thousand braids at Bale/Mulhouse international airport I didn't believe my eyes, it was so clean, so perfect and the streets so even. People spoke German and it wasn't any longer a secret language between my sister and me or my teacher and me. I was fat, I thought, when my sister took me to a clothing store, she bought me some new clothes. Four months of Russian food will change your body when you're not used to it.
Going up the stairs in my old school I felt like a stranger, speaking German was strange too, it left the tongue unsatisfied. I rolled it up and down, bit it occasionally, moved it constantly. Germans don't use their chest when pronouncing vowls. The language is so flat. Rowno. In class my teacher asked me to come up front and tell my class mates a little about my experience in Russia. Words stumbled clumsily out of my mouth and my smile tried to stay cool but nobody would ever know.
When I came home, somewhat exhausted, a little depressed, and puzzled, my dad looked at me and said these wise words:
'If you change your voice the change you went through becomes way more evident and powerful than your braids could ever tell.'
I tried to understand, observe my voice a little closer..let the change modulate the sounds.
I couldn't help remembering that when I looked at the new layout of this blog today.
Then I tried to write, tried to observe whether the change, - can it modulate???
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
geometry
I start believing, beginning from today again, that time is moving in spirals, not linear, if it is moving at all. Sometimes I also believe that it is like air, ever present in the confinements of our little earth system, more an area or content than a line between A and B.
These thoughts, however, flicker inconstantely and fickel through my mind. What actually counts is that music is magical and very persuasive and very deluding and at times stimulating.
All these things are geometrical.
Also the way I feel about him.
Very geometrical. Somteimes a kiss says it all.
These thoughts, however, flicker inconstantely and fickel through my mind. What actually counts is that music is magical and very persuasive and very deluding and at times stimulating.
All these things are geometrical.
Also the way I feel about him.
Very geometrical. Somteimes a kiss says it all.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
ready or not here I come
For the longest time 'ready or not, here we come' was a mere reference to the Fugees for me. Until I became a nanny and found out that this is what you say when you play hide and seek.
It is noon, the sun is shining in Santa Monica. Chuck Berry is playing in the Interactive Cafe and I take the 'Green Issue' Vanity Fair edition to sit down with a coffee and read.
I open it, read a little and have to swallow. I am disgusted. Why, in the hell does this disgust me? It;s good when people are used as role models. Thank you, Leo di Caprio, for being a role model and all the other ones too. I wonder whether i have turned into a cynic.
Chuck Berry still doesn't care but about his girl so I smile and get this feeling that while I am really busy preparing my big escape plan (everyone in LA has an escape plan, so I was told in the very beginning when I arrived) I am actually really getting trapped. Because I can like this, it's not like I couldn't.
Sometimes it's as if life sings 'ready or not, here I come'
it sucks...
but
...
you know, it's all so - RELAAAATIVE
yeah, whatever.
('whatever' and 'it sucks' are the best English words that I learned to use here!!!!)
It is noon, the sun is shining in Santa Monica. Chuck Berry is playing in the Interactive Cafe and I take the 'Green Issue' Vanity Fair edition to sit down with a coffee and read.
I open it, read a little and have to swallow. I am disgusted. Why, in the hell does this disgust me? It;s good when people are used as role models. Thank you, Leo di Caprio, for being a role model and all the other ones too. I wonder whether i have turned into a cynic.
Chuck Berry still doesn't care but about his girl so I smile and get this feeling that while I am really busy preparing my big escape plan (everyone in LA has an escape plan, so I was told in the very beginning when I arrived) I am actually really getting trapped. Because I can like this, it's not like I couldn't.
Sometimes it's as if life sings 'ready or not, here I come'
it sucks...
but
...
you know, it's all so - RELAAAATIVE
yeah, whatever.
('whatever' and 'it sucks' are the best English words that I learned to use here!!!!)
Monday, April 09, 2007
ever
I fold the bed sheets, freshly washed, try to be tidy, tidy, like becky, gulping down another tide of tears that threaten to take over. Catching myself with the thought that I have never been so sad before, which is, of course a lie, what about last summer, when you thought your heart was breaking, what about when you were 17 and a world crushed on your shoulders.
It is, I muse, the same fucking principle. Feeling responsible either for the world's pain, for your lover's pain or for someone else's children. It's a damn fine line, that. The ego trying to balance this huge feeling of responsibility that is trying to corner me since my early childhood days. It's a trap and an opening in the same time.
It would urge me to go out and see and save the world, it can urge me to stay and dig into the earth, into someone else's fate, destiny.
Responsible to maintain my health, my happiness, my meaning of life to still be useful for the rest of the world.
Today I was thinking, I am so over this nanny thing. Time to move on. Like last year. Geez. Why did I stay.
Why didn't I go a 'normal' way. You know, choose a field of study, then study.
But know, I had to coem this long long way and feel despair being a constant guest in my house.
It is, I muse, the same fucking principle. Feeling responsible either for the world's pain, for your lover's pain or for someone else's children. It's a damn fine line, that. The ego trying to balance this huge feeling of responsibility that is trying to corner me since my early childhood days. It's a trap and an opening in the same time.
It would urge me to go out and see and save the world, it can urge me to stay and dig into the earth, into someone else's fate, destiny.
Responsible to maintain my health, my happiness, my meaning of life to still be useful for the rest of the world.
Today I was thinking, I am so over this nanny thing. Time to move on. Like last year. Geez. Why did I stay.
Why didn't I go a 'normal' way. You know, choose a field of study, then study.
But know, I had to coem this long long way and feel despair being a constant guest in my house.
sometimes
sometimes things just get out of hand
sometimes a good movie wants you wanna change your life
you just laugh
into the blue
remember some good stories you read
and facts, or so, that moved you to tears or despair
or go out, travel, and fall and die
heroes, sung about, the ulysses and homer told it all
there were others, knights and soldiers
rebels and philosophers
simone weil and david levine
a little color splashed onto a white wall
sometimes a good movie wants you wanna change your life
you just laugh
into the blue
remember some good stories you read
and facts, or so, that moved you to tears or despair
or go out, travel, and fall and die
heroes, sung about, the ulysses and homer told it all
there were others, knights and soldiers
rebels and philosophers
simone weil and david levine
a little color splashed onto a white wall
Sunday, April 08, 2007
old truth, simple, in new shoes
war
violence
maybe a reason why our culture is so obsessed with violence
and in turn the violent
with religion
is
very simply the fact
that it makes us feel so alive
in an environment that abhorrs death
no caskets nowhere
no mourning nights for the deceased
death banned behind clinically white hygenic doors
and into dirty gritty night filled streets.
the violent video games
for example
maybe for lack of a better sport
in a country that has been to war
too much
abroad
violence
maybe a reason why our culture is so obsessed with violence
and in turn the violent
with religion
is
very simply the fact
that it makes us feel so alive
in an environment that abhorrs death
no caskets nowhere
no mourning nights for the deceased
death banned behind clinically white hygenic doors
and into dirty gritty night filled streets.
the violent video games
for example
maybe for lack of a better sport
in a country that has been to war
too much
abroad
aging
first moments on ground at home
feeling groundlessly home
homely groundy
great to be back
thrilling and scary
because i fear i have to face facts
about me
my life
where I am headed at.
feeling groundlessly home
homely groundy
great to be back
thrilling and scary
because i fear i have to face facts
about me
my life
where I am headed at.
sprachlos
sometimes I imagine what I want. A cup of honey tea. Warm, or even steaming hot, and my beige night gown. Sitting on the couch next to the shimmering orange yellow lamp in the living room. I imagine that I would come back into my room after that cup of tea on the couch next to the lamp in the living room and would feel much better. The internet would work, I would write something, inspired and no, I wouldn't smoke. The very thought of smoke makes me frown. I don't like the taste damnit. No, unfortunately that's gone. It was a nice interlude, however, the smoking thing. It had something to it.
instead all of this, however, I just stay in bed and feel miserable. My back kills me and my thoughts.
Like, how too much light becomes unbearable when you look at it from a very dark place.
How certain things can't be grasped until they've grasped you.
How words still make me believe sometimes although I know how the undercurrents flow...
Words, trying and tricking.
Words, castles in sand, can be castles, can be sand.
Words, words.
Words.
instead all of this, however, I just stay in bed and feel miserable. My back kills me and my thoughts.
Like, how too much light becomes unbearable when you look at it from a very dark place.
How certain things can't be grasped until they've grasped you.
How words still make me believe sometimes although I know how the undercurrents flow...
Words, trying and tricking.
Words, castles in sand, can be castles, can be sand.
Words, words.
Words.
white, red, black, my daddy is back
my dad gives a seminar currently, on the threefold goddess cult of the matriachal cultures/cults. the three original colors are white, red, black. the white virgin, the red mother, the black mater dola rosa, mourning for her dead lover, her lost son.
he hopes that people who work with art therapy can tap into this, it is a powerful knowledge that underlies the patriacalic cultures/religions and in many cases just has been turned into new symbols.
my dad...he makes me cry, but he is more often right than not. and like any good oracle he never says something easy like, go right or go left. never.
'you can still throw everything over the top and start anew somewhere entirely else. it's the honest right of the white virgin goddess who still reigns over you!! You also have the right to quit for good, even if it feels cruel. Cruelty belongs to the white goddess and has to be learned. With the red one it is entirely different, she has to become mild and gentle because of the babies. But it's too early for that one and you don't have to be wise yet either. Make stupid mistakes! Your daddy orders you to do so. Shake the dust off your feet, don't be defeated too early, trick 'em like a rabbit! use alexander technique, if there is a knot, just cut it, short and concise, you only have to account for yourself and the little girl in you has to just shut up for a little while. good luck. your daddy'
he hopes that people who work with art therapy can tap into this, it is a powerful knowledge that underlies the patriacalic cultures/religions and in many cases just has been turned into new symbols.
my dad...he makes me cry, but he is more often right than not. and like any good oracle he never says something easy like, go right or go left. never.
'you can still throw everything over the top and start anew somewhere entirely else. it's the honest right of the white virgin goddess who still reigns over you!! You also have the right to quit for good, even if it feels cruel. Cruelty belongs to the white goddess and has to be learned. With the red one it is entirely different, she has to become mild and gentle because of the babies. But it's too early for that one and you don't have to be wise yet either. Make stupid mistakes! Your daddy orders you to do so. Shake the dust off your feet, don't be defeated too early, trick 'em like a rabbit! use alexander technique, if there is a knot, just cut it, short and concise, you only have to account for yourself and the little girl in you has to just shut up for a little while. good luck. your daddy'
Friday, April 06, 2007
closer
Disruptive time lines, zig zagging through mind and space.
What, if time wasn't like air.
What, if it was like a ray of light.
Come closer, now, dare the impossible, come closer, draft upon my scent.
Like an apple blossom petal, so pointless, so beautiful.
Breath taking.
If time was a story, what would it tell. Would it read palm lines? Would it read tarot? Is reading telling? Is telling reading?
Sometimes it feels, as if I paid for the rollercoster ride and found out mid-loop that I can't do this. But there is no way out. You gotta stick with it to the bitter end. If I only had a knife to cut myself out but I left it at home. It hurts to admit that my dad gave me a swiss knife before I left to America.
This is how I feel some times.
But this is how life is some times.
You could go out, but you don't.
What, if time wasn't like air.
What, if it was like a ray of light.
Come closer, now, dare the impossible, come closer, draft upon my scent.
Like an apple blossom petal, so pointless, so beautiful.
Breath taking.
If time was a story, what would it tell. Would it read palm lines? Would it read tarot? Is reading telling? Is telling reading?
Sometimes it feels, as if I paid for the rollercoster ride and found out mid-loop that I can't do this. But there is no way out. You gotta stick with it to the bitter end. If I only had a knife to cut myself out but I left it at home. It hurts to admit that my dad gave me a swiss knife before I left to America.
This is how I feel some times.
But this is how life is some times.
You could go out, but you don't.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
in the thick of it
sometimes life just gets so thick in my perception, i feel like in a strange jungle, not mine, and bushes everywhere.
nothing helps then, even not you, even not me.
music, long forgotten tunes shake my square mind up, there is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in.
i remember, there was a dad and there was a song and L.Cohen and Macy Gray and a bare room in a culturally rife city in Switzerland. It was Graffiti then and excitement, some sort of, and a new sense of who to be.
Things long gone now. There is a confusion going on, a big one, everyone knows it, it's as if they are talking behind my back, thinking I'm the only one oblivous to the facts, whispering, afraid I would run into them, swirl around to stare into their faces. it's not as if I'd scream out loud 'gotcha buddy!' 'caught in the act!' 'ha!' or even 'boo!'. No, no, I wouldn't do that.
Even he knows, it is seeping through his words and we both lie and pretend, and we want it so desperately. Gosh, children we are, playing in the sand. Until the, the dark comes. Sun gone, Momma is calling but we just don't want to see or hear or abide to the law of gravity. Love was supposed to undo it. Man. It was. It really is.
Now it's confusion, and it seems an easy thing to do to just turn back and look into my own face. It's not as if I wanted to, you know. Write a letter to God and have him undo all these horrible things that can't live up to the horribleness of life elsewhere.
There was a time. ...
And you don't know about it.
It was mine.
Completely. Only. It was the oligarchy of deep emotions.
It was, what was close to my heart, closer than anything now.
I am sorry if I worry any of you. If I come across as akward and adolescent. Or even lost, for heaven's sake.
I just wish you could leave me the fuck alone and not observe every fucking move I make. Comment.
Just comment on my writing and take it for what it is. Writing. Digestion. Fiction. Reality through layers of glass.
nothing helps then, even not you, even not me.
music, long forgotten tunes shake my square mind up, there is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in.
i remember, there was a dad and there was a song and L.Cohen and Macy Gray and a bare room in a culturally rife city in Switzerland. It was Graffiti then and excitement, some sort of, and a new sense of who to be.
Things long gone now. There is a confusion going on, a big one, everyone knows it, it's as if they are talking behind my back, thinking I'm the only one oblivous to the facts, whispering, afraid I would run into them, swirl around to stare into their faces. it's not as if I'd scream out loud 'gotcha buddy!' 'caught in the act!' 'ha!' or even 'boo!'. No, no, I wouldn't do that.
Even he knows, it is seeping through his words and we both lie and pretend, and we want it so desperately. Gosh, children we are, playing in the sand. Until the, the dark comes. Sun gone, Momma is calling but we just don't want to see or hear or abide to the law of gravity. Love was supposed to undo it. Man. It was. It really is.
Now it's confusion, and it seems an easy thing to do to just turn back and look into my own face. It's not as if I wanted to, you know. Write a letter to God and have him undo all these horrible things that can't live up to the horribleness of life elsewhere.
There was a time. ...
And you don't know about it.
It was mine.
Completely. Only. It was the oligarchy of deep emotions.
It was, what was close to my heart, closer than anything now.
I am sorry if I worry any of you. If I come across as akward and adolescent. Or even lost, for heaven's sake.
I just wish you could leave me the fuck alone and not observe every fucking move I make. Comment.
Just comment on my writing and take it for what it is. Writing. Digestion. Fiction. Reality through layers of glass.
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