the call

12:41 AM. My phone is ringing. The air is too hot, my mind too busy, throwing myself back and forth, forth and back in china's bed I take the momentum of my tossing around to swing my legs over the edge onto the hardwood floor and stagger to the table where my phone buzzes. It is Marie. Of course, I think, she just came back from the mountains. So I pick up, but he is sleeping, or trying to do so. Did I wake you up, she asks and I say no, no, and I look at his gorgeous broad shoulders and the stormy curls clouding where his lips linger on the white pillow case. - We've just been watching Kill Bill so it's all good. How are you doing, how was the mountain.
Good, good, she replies, but I am calling because I just read what you sent me.
Oh! I hear my silence drop to the floor.
Emeralda - yes? - Emeralda, you have to write a book. The silence inside trickles down and gathers at the ground to become a flooding storm. One day. Once upon a time... The way you described it, the way you confused it, all of it, it was just exactly like it was, you know, the magic of it. She says. Maybe. Something like that, I don't quite remember. But it was good and it really meant something to me to be awoken by her calling me to tell me that.
His soft breaths swaft in the air. I hear him sleeping. He triggered all of my emotions. He was the wheel of my drive. He rolled me in and out and over. It was a really good year. And now he is here. Lying next to me, breathing. Sleeping. Waiting, for me to come, and love.

Earlier he and I were sitting. He was reading, I was typing away on the old typewriter, a veil of inspiration thick and stinging, in the air. It is always a good memory to just be whoever, whatever, whereever you may be.

And I remembered, how some people told me along the way, how they wished me good luck for my musical career and that I should be a singer. And I remembered how somebody else told me as well, that I should write more. And I remembered how it feels to be inspired when somebody you admire compliments you.

So I get up at 12:58 to yet attempt another moment of writing on the good old mac G4 Powerbook while longingly glancing at the smooth, black and silver Corona next to the powerbook on china's desk. this isn't china, this isn't america, this isn't in obscurity. anymore.

it is a call. and -

this is trying. more.

attempt to translate

All is different
When will you return?
I am not afraid anymore
It is fivolous
It ruins my stomach
No being scared anymore
But ants
They still run through my house
We have an antstreet there in our house.

The mirrors shiver sometimes, slightly, sometimes they even see saw at the wall.

Earthquakes
Earthquakes shake me as well

There it lies, the unborn child, patiently waiting for my hope to arise.

My life would be over too soon, he says.
Not now. And he almost gets angry.

The heavenly spirits laugh at this.
Don't be a fool, you,
so they whisper in the wind

But nobody every really understands them.

Ay, could I only be at home and bask in my thoughts from afar

Because to live in the afar is not easy and home sickness seems suddenly like a stone around the neck,
If somebody would push me now into the sea,
Ay, Ay, Ay

Home Sick?

Where is home? Where the stove is or the heart?

My heart, My heart, I have whispered for a long time....
But not it won't be long anymore.
I still love you as dearly as at the first day.

If I only could find you, now, that I need your advice so badly.

the fish have sex on the beach and I fell in love with America

two to three inches long they jump out of the water around 10 and 12:30 PM to have sex on the beach. I have never heard of that before. But that's what I am going to do tonight. watching shamelessly how fish have proper sex on the beach.

this evening I fell in love with America. It was pretty unspectacular, actually, I was on my way to this internet cafe when I stopped dead in my tracks when the song 'Easy peaceful feeling' caught my attention. A lonely man with a cowboy hat and acoustic guitar sang your song. The song that you told me to download. When you hung up and cried. When you asked me why I wasn't saying anything on the phone and I tried to not cry and you said, no, no, it's ok, it's ok if you want to cry. When you hung up and I broke down and cried. Boo-hoo, I cry, you cry, we cry too.
Gosh, it must have been a pretty messy mess of salt water and dramatic tragic vibes mingled in Ellie's messy room.
But it was for a reason.
It was for the blues.
It was for the homesick.
It was for the broken heart.
It was for us to break and reassemble our hearts.
It's tonight that you are coming back.
I walked back to listen to the end of the song. I melted.
A homeless woman and her transient lover stopped by. He had put a flower that he had stolen from someone's front yard into her hair which was covered by a dirty old blue trucker hat.
Jimmy Buffet, said the transient lover, and the cowboy singer was so happy that someone asked him for an artist he actually knew songs of and sang the song of the man who lost his salt shaker. The woman had tears of joy in her eyes and the man sang along. They both sang along.
After a while the woman started eye-contacting the passerbys. Hey, put some money in his case! she cried.
A lean sunkissed woman on crutches stopped insecurely trying to find some one dollar bills in her pocket. She fell. All the money spilled over the ground. She had only one leg as I discovered, the one she got was beautiful and naked under her black white leopardskin patterned dress. I helped her up and gathered all her money in a whole wad and stuffed it into her pocket. She was drunk, as well, I guess, but she was so happy about the music too and she loved us and the night.

They said I have to check out Prince's 'Purple Barret' song or was it 'Dark red Barret"? The transient lover said I looked French and I said I never wanted to be buff and German but at least I could help a woman up.
Jay-D, the transient and his lovebird, Janet, left but not before he gave me a galant hand kiss.

Why I fell in love with America?
I don't know. It's a feeling. If you know exactly why, it's not really love. Take that away and you won't love anymore right?
It might have to do with the fact that they all knew that song. And it made them all happy for that one moment in this one night. A homeless couple, a drunk one-legged beauty, probably a former prostitute (I like to believe) and a cowboy-hat singer who's night was made by people who loved his songs.

the letter

sometimes a feeling can overflow into my fingertips and pour into the keypad like liquid honey.
sometimes a feeling is so strong that it can't belong
not to this pad, not to this world of words, not to the black and white of the happily ever after.
but, i'll try anyway. sometimes a classical music piece says it better. or Carlos Gardel's Tango.

he wrote me a letter.
it was the perfect letter that I never thought I would get.
ever.
and see, how i am at a loss of words. i will have to go my goldsmith that is hidden where the gnomes live, in a dark deep mountain.
i will have to go and smith the words, pour them into golden leafs and jewelry that will be my nightsky.
he sent three little curb flowers with it.
fragile, like butterfly wings, pressed, flat, shimmering, light, so frail and yet so heavy in meaning.
the butterflies have returned.

the sound of children going to school

in the far distance the sound of children going to school. a scent of summer, caught up in the vibrant voice of past days. when I was a child, going to school. when you were a child, going to school. when we all were children, going to school.

my hand is shivering, ever so slightly, but it's defintely shaking. my arm rests on the balcony reiling, but the hand is moving anyway. the sun plays gently with green green leaves, a thought passes by, a soft soft breeze: I do not matter but I know I do. the paradox of being. the paradox of SEIN.

it's never useless to look further than the child.

I can't forget

I stumbled out of bed
I got ready for the struggle
I smoked a cigarette
And I tightened up my gut
I said this can't be me
Must be my double
And I can't forget, I can't forget
I can't forget but I don't remember what
I'm burning up the road
I'm heading down to Phoenix
I got this old address
Of someone that I knew
It was high and fine and free
Ah, you should have seen us
And I can't forget, I can't forget
I can't forget but I don't remember who

I'll be there today
With a big bouquet of cactus
I got this rig that runs on memories
And I promise, cross my heart,
They'll never catch us
But if they do, just tell them it was me

Yeah I loved you all my life
And that's how I want to end it
The summer's almost gone
The winter's tuning up
Yeah, the summer's gone
But a lot goes on forever
And I can't forget, I can't forget
I can't forget but I don't remember what

..

there is something to be said about art.
well, no, i mean, there is really something to be asked about art.
What is it...this glowing, slow, magical fire, that burns me spine. Ashes, ashes, phoenix, rise, hail to flowers in those waves.

It's sometimes work like a sculptor, like adding clay to perfect the form, taking away marble to make appear what is, inside.
A struggle for words, a failure, maybe so, a leap into the unknown, the not-known, where you are nobody, unknown, not known, the price of anonymity and poverty in skills, fighting the fight of Goliath and David, yet again.

No. This doesn't make any sense.
Let me start again. Let me make all the traces visible. From the table to the pedestal.

The burning conviction that something has to be changed, something has to be protected, something has to be done, blazing in a child's eyes. The wounds, the aching, the aching, the aching, when a way has yet to be found. When words are missing and polemics don't suffice anymore, when the whole array of human desaster and excellence opens its doors -

Can it extinct what cannot be not?

Why do we always think, that something has to be changed? Isn't it almost as if we were a little bit too slow, pretending to fit? Things change, always, necessarily so, what a waste of breath to tell it to do so.
Where lies the bigger betrayal?
In human life, or in human systems?
Can an artist make a real difference?
Can a voice speak and heal?
Is there only short term healing?
Did it matter what they did?
Does it matter that we do?

Do the businessmen matter in the same way?
Do the politicians and the lobbyists too?
Who?
Are?
You?

11 Minutes

The countdown starts, words get stuck.
'Awbrey doesn't confuse me' she said, and tears watered the beautiful garden of her eyes but it didn't spill, she kept it tidy, as he crumbled and fell in front of her.
Thousand pieces, 11 Minutes, eternity kept moving.

Anger really is only ever directed at yourself. At your own incapbilities and weaknesses. The disgusting parts. The things you never talk about, that you swallow down, that you bury so nobody else can find them and speak them and stab them into your flesh.
My heart, still pumping. Thoughts flash through my mind like electrical signals in a forlorn ice cold night.
Why is it always so cold in Santa Monica.
If I get ever angry at you again, remind me to pack my suitcases and leave.

.

it's kind of almost ridiculous how I am waiting for 0001010001110001010000010101011010 to appear, letting me know, you're still near...ooo11101001110001.

the power of gayness

"and the opportunities....they-re not going anywhere either, what`s important is to know what you want and what to 'ask' and what to 'take' from life
i`m getting all philosophical and shit, i hate that" (D. Mihaila)

The day I found out that gay means, well, gay, as in: happy, jolly, light, something changed.
Maybe one of the reasons why gay people are still hated in many heads is, that it's so fucking annoying when somebody is overtly gay.

There is something intrinsically intriguing when we encounter the darkness. The smell of death, so seductive. The immense power of an accident, of torn bodies and souls and tormented minds and we cannot stop staring.

I remember this girl, she had only one leg and proudly walked the halls of our school on her crutches. She had cancer and soon after died. I couldn't stop staring. I was a little girl and I couldn't divert my eyes. It was dreadful and amazing. It had it's very own glory, something descending from far above, something so more important and deep than anything else in my little life.

It is very clear, that tragedy is very very intriguing. It absolutely is. Or at least comedy in tragedy, you know, beginning with the old Greek stuff.

But then, there are the moments on the top of a mountain or a tree...The sleepy scents of a sunny hot dusty Italian afternoon or the sounds of joyful music around the campfire late at night, when the fire is crackling and my friends sleeping, like angels, so beautiful.
There was a bumblebee who showed me the way and there was a swallow right in front of me, battling the storm, looking into my eyes and a Russian family who welcomed me with empty hands but open arms.

And that's when I wonder, when it happened, that heaven became the more boring choice. Because, it probably isn't that bad alltogether after all....

Sometimes, I really just want to be a lame gay duck