full moon

the kiss was like a sting, short, sweet, deep. one of those unprepared moments in which you could let it go or take advantage of it. a powerful eagle, spreading his wings, in just one blink of the eye.
- we let go of each other very well aware of that dangerous tension, of that door we just had opened. it had been shut for a while. under the daily burdens. the daily tasks and goings and comings. his fingertips burned through light blue cloth into my shoulders. i bent over to get the dark red guitar case out of the car. his breath sharp and controlled breaking the magic, breaking the flow, making us go back to where the others were gathering in everchanging circles and spirales, laughing, talking, moving.
he was so close to me. so near to me. so precious to me. I remember. that night. full moon, high above the ocean. the sky a haven, big, round, wide, like a giant bell covering us little lovers in the palm of the world. like me embracing him with the innermost part of my body and soul... he kissed me like lava kisses the earth when the volcano erupts, his hands and breath and curls brushing over me like the wind, waves coming in and out, finding home, salt water to salt water and his eyes, like two burning coals next to the full round silverwhite shining moon. the moon, so still, so foggy, so mysterious, just smiling, just smiling, just finding us again.
do you remember that night, i said and he laughed, laughed it off, shook his shoulders and straightened up, gazing into the grey zone between the shore and the line.
night has come over us again.
he holds me and we drink and laugh and see her smiles, somewhat longing lingering in the air between us. finally we are all together. a full circle. and then he bends down over me, his fingers stroking my hair out of my face, smiling like a young god, his eyes, his eyes, mercy upon your soul. my lover full of grace smiles me in, takes me in, breathes me in, saying, see, my love?

how long how long

'How long do you want to still live this life?' he asked. He asked, 'how long do you plan on still living this life, beloved?' I laughed, laughed it away, laughed to disguise the knot in my throat that threatened to break through in a sobbing sigh.
Well, I said, well, I said I was going to be here for one more year, but what it exactly will hold I don't know.
'No, I mean, will you continue to just work or...'
No, no, I will start taking college classes in fall...
'What kind?'
Uhm, something like psychology, languages, writing, things that interest me, we'll see...
'Aha'
yeah...you know, Dad, you know, sometimes I think the same thing. I think, damn, how long can I do this still? I don't know if I can. Sometimes I regret not having auditioned for that theater project. Sometimes I think I should have gone for it. But then I tell myself to shut up, to not regret, because it makes sense and it is legitimate to do what I do. I know that I could do it like my sister, crazy, somehow, following a dream and it would work out, somehow, but I want to take on the responsibility I have. I do.

My sister told me once, somebody who knows what he wants finds a way. Somebody who doesn't know what he wants finds reasons.

I guess I walk the line, between those two. I know what I want but I found reasons too.

I have the feeling something will happen this fall and I don't know what it is but it will change my life. Maybe I will be in Paris all of the sudden.

at the beach

At the very last day at Le Gurp we said good bye to the beach. My father found a good place for a camp fire south of the old bunker, admonishing of his father's fainted fascist world. As the orange golden flames flickered and licked their way into the darkening soft night, lit only by the sound of waves and travelling stars, I heard more stories in the silence. My father was always so brave and so tall, he knew so much and kept so much to himself. We were just sitting around the fire, faces dipped halfway into a vivid dancing glow, halfway into the foggy kiss of a growing beach night.
I believe it was 11 PM when we first heard the sound of the didgeridoo. It was as if it was coming from another world, from withing the bunker and the teenagers from further away seemed to fade away with their beer and their laughing and their 'killing me softly' rotating on the ghettoblaster.
This was before I knew it was 1995, it was just a number then and Lauryn Hill not even a name. New Zealand, didgeridoos and fires in the night held a place in my flaming imagination though and stories of aborigines and a deep love for this world.
The man approached us when dad beckoned him to come.
I didn't know my dad then. I had no idea. Vaguely only had he told stories of his past, of running across Europe and an Irish maiden and his first kiss in Rome in the Colosseum. And how mom abducted him, kidnapped him like a real heroe would do, she saved him and she took him far, far away into a new life that created us and our story and our night at the beach.
The guy appeared slowly, as if an invisible quarryman chiseled him out of the dark boulder that was the night into the dancing light of our little refuge.
His hair hung all the way down over his shoulders and he had a long beard. His eyes were sparkeling like a nightstar and his voice was very low and soft.
Dad invited him to sit with us and he played for us, as the nightwind and the atlantic waves and the love swayed us into a rhythm that doesn't know words.
Stories spilled over, that I didn't understand. I was too young but very impressionable. I had no idea. No idea, how my dad saw this guy, how this was a milestone maybe in my dad's long way to meet us, to come, with his story in his hands. It was a sharing beyond my comprehension, a relict of his life, a lost thread of long hair and fires in the night. The simple berber's life. The romantic veil covering a past too harsh and too strange to be told in fiction.

He was brave, my dad, we slept in the dunes. In the middle of the night there was loud noise, fighting, drunken craze. My dad ushered us to the car, hiding behind the sandwaves, crawling back to get Juli's shawl. It was dangerous and I didn't know why, I had no idea, I trusted in life and in my dad and that everything would always be alright and the same. Ever changing but never bad.
After a long long drive we stopped on a side dirt road where my dad peed for three minutes. It must have been a relief beyond just emptying his bladder. It just didn't seem to stop. I marveled at this and everything else that was.
A night in the dunes. A long haired didgeridoo man straight out of the bunker and the sand. Evil young people drunk and dangerous, breaking into a kiosk at the beach at night. Us crawling to the car my dad racing away. Juli crying, her shawl was missing. My hero dad crawling back. His voice so low and whispered. Hush, hush, lullaby.

father

I had no idea. Vaguely only had he recounted some of his stories, something about running across Europe, away from a raging red headed father with too little a stomach and too much alcohol to digest. Long hair, and a girl in Ireland who was surprised to see him but let him climb through the window into her chamber.
Amazing, how that was all possible, over the canal and all. Ferries, busses, fright trains and trucks. A hippie VW bus on the way to Turkey, a 'master' he lived with, never went to India but learned how to clean shoes and later how to make and repair them. Acid, accidentally consumed, slipped into his drink, outside the hippie bus, only once or twice, or God knows how many times.
There were other stories too, enfolding latter times, Turkey again, a side ditch on the road, an ADD disturbed kid without a father and his best friend Michael. Wild times, racing through the dawn, police, something something, and the Turkish jail. Turkish steam baths...Turkish friends and foes.

But, I had no idea. These were stories woven into violet silky and velvety strings of storytelling. Truth and fiction in a tangolike dance united, vague clouds that rained softly on my little soul. Heart and mind, intertwined. Reality check, one two, there was none, I was a kid, children don't see the facts they only see the truth in colors.

the lover

she finished her drink.
expensive. free.
shook off her tiredness.
gaining focus. trying to be.

'i'm a longing lover' she said. 'better alone.'

you know, to the extremes. closeness exploding, distance imploding.
that's what she liked.
always.

work is the inbetween. raging with anger. raging with lust. raging with trying to just calm the fuck down.

the broken glass

it was just a vase.

the flower will fade just like the memories will fade.
one day, it will look wilted, ugly and old.
it will stink.
i will say, look, no wonder the glass broke, this flower was a stinking mess.
in the end, it was just a vase.

the water, in the meantime, trickled down the floor, found a crack, sneaked into the ground, filtered by earth, fed by gnomes and fairies that I believe do not exist. maybe.
the water was in the vase, nourished the plant - but I forgot all about it.

the water was love and it still is somewhere, pure, as it was.
pure, as it is. unconcerned about

flowers
vases
and all that