not you

it's been three years. he still doesn't look anything like himself on that picture on the roof, with the flowers, the sun, the red brick chimney, the blue sky.
the view isn't like a sunset anymore but there are trees and the floor is made of hardwood. he makes himself some food, peaches and cottage cheese, offers me blueberries, some smiles.
his roommate is watching tv with his daughter and when i tell him i also speak Germa he says he already knows. the couch is made of black leather, his daughter is ten and looks like a blonde California girl.
after he shows me his new tracks we start arguing later when it was that we met first; he is set on fall but i know for a fact it was spring. a spring full of confusions and later we met again, in deeper states of my confusion under palmtrees and ocean breezes.
as i hold him so he can't hold me too much i fight memories and thoughts that evade my mind. it's a concentrated effort and i'm sure i could just get rid of it in the blink of an eye but it doesn't really seem like i want to. i'm complicated i say, i am guarded, not ready to let go. the idea of yummy playfulness makes me giddy but there are these voices fighting inside, i turn to the side, shh, shh, lullaby.
i feel like a little girl all over again.
i feel like i live in a fast forwarded future. we all knew it would come to this. didn't we? and he is so breath taking, with the curls and how he stands so tall and these eyes...and it's only been four and a half months and i just can't forget that he is not you.

Berlin

berlin spreads its dark wings and huddles me in. i cough and breath and fear to lose conscience. my tears don't dry in the rain and johnny cash is playing. blue night engulfs my heart. i wish i wish i wish i was here. my soul is lingering somewhere still high up in the clouds. singing the song of a dying swan headed north.
oso plays and urges me to think of the things i got. better to lose your photos than your life in a flood. i think of the pacific ocean of course and the alleyways and the strange days that had found me. of good byes and other impossibilities. that it must have been a relief that i left. and i wonder what words mean at all. and if he has ever loved. oh have i loved. boy. the rain is streaming down and it's hard to keep track of the caleidoscope of memories that flood in. how i really loved the northern midwest and the westcoast. new york, and still, in the distance, new orleans. austin, texas, and portland, oregon. a miriad of possibilities. letters to be written.
people only vaguely smiling back at me in these grey streets here. my New York friend anguished because her man is determined to move to Berlin. i know now, i know now. i know.
berlin, you got me back. it's hard to find ground under my feet. people so familiar and yet foreign. so cultured and grounded. so ignorant in their own right. nobody even asks how it is over there.

falling away with you by Muse

Sitting at LAX waiting for my flight to Berlin I hit random on itunes and thats what came up: falling away with you by Muse.
It was weird, it struck a chord with me, I checked the lyrics out and it was so oddly fitting although I dont quite agree with the melancholy, but yes, yes, it indeed exists. I dont know what will happen. our lives just have begun. but i love . i do.


I can't remember when it was good
moments of happiness elude
maybe I just misunderstood

all of the love we left behind
watching the flash backs intertwine
memories I will never find

so I'll love whatever you become
and forget the reckless things we've done
I think our lives have just begun
I think our lives have just begun

and I'll feel my world crumbling,
and I'll I feel my life crumbling
and feel my soul crumbling away
and falling away,
falling away with you

staying awake to chase a dream
tasting the air you're breathing in
I hope I won't forget a thing

promise to hold you close and pray
watching the fantasies decay
nothing will ever stay the same

and all of the love we threw away
and all of the hopes we've cherished fade
making the same mistakes again
making the same mistakes again

and I feel my world crumbling,
and I feel my life crumbling down,
I can feel my soul crumbling away,
and falling away,
falling away with you

all of the love we left behind
watching the flash backs intertwine
memories I will never find
memories I will never find

p.s. - facts

I really wish I could write about the beautiful things happening in my life right now but it seems that so called bad things lead to more alone-time and therefore more writing. sometimes a couple of ideas of what to write cross my mind but I never write it down and then, when I am sitting here to write it all down my mind is blown away and empty and writing-less...
maybe i have to write plain facts these days as opposed to facts transformed into fiction as I love to do.

here five facts that make my days:

1. He is back
2. I do love him, it's not an illusion
3. I found out where my whales go, which kind of whales they are
4. I will follow them (please click on the link to a post of beautiful amazing Veronica of lonely roads and psycho paths!)
5. I will stay here for one more year in OUR little studio apartment and with my amazing job - in other words, life is still making the best decisions, life is still an amazing adventure that I am merely following like an astonished child.

ah, and i love my parents, my family and yeah. the whales and my friends. my friends....

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.

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.

schizophrenia

schizophrenia
Sometimes I stopped in the middle of a sentence and felt ashamed of myself. I remembered how I would sometimes talk cynical about my love just to hide how much I really cared. To protect the unnameable. Nothing wrong with that, granted, but still...It's a distinct feeling of being too weak to be true.
It's LA, man, it's something that you can't put in words. All I said, maybe that's true too, maybe that's what I really think when I am not trapped in this gigantic lost-angels-hole. But when I was driving down the black forest A5 to see my friend Silvia and the sun worked her way through the pale clouds, I couldn't help thinking that I would love to drive down the sidewalk at the beach, with the wind in my hair.
LA is for phony money oriented career suckers, sure, of course, but also for outdoor freaks (it's really just an hour and you're in the middle of mountains or the sea or the desert) and people who are content with a small circle of good friends who don't care about the rest in the city. And not necessarily oblivious to the rest of the world.
It's also a place where, as an artist, you can actually do really interesting things. It's the schizophrenia of being inbetween the dirty, gritty world of the streets and fucked up buildings and the glimmer glamour media dominated celebrity world that infiltrates the minds of millions and billions of tabloid readers every day everwhere in this crazy world.
It's a giant tight-rope dance project.
Where illusions are millimeters away from reality and yet universes away... Reality so relative, like clay waiting to be formed. Results to be sold elsewhere. Where you feel more detached from the rest of the world than anywhere else (well, THAT is a very subjective judgement) but where most of the rest of the brainwashed world thinks that it's at. Where it's different from what you think it is. Always. And where you have to confront yourself in a different way than before (DUH, true for everywhere, right?). Where you can hide from yourself just as well. It's up to you, always, in this crazy city. (well I guess...it 's everywhere that way?!)

The schizophrenia for me lies in the fact that i can't tell.
I can't take my words back. It's still the same. I still don't like it. I still almost start crying and get disgusted by my own depressed voice or attitude when people ask me how I am or like it here. I can't stand the good mood or smiles either when they are plastered on my face. It's a fucking caroussel and I am by no means in the position to say anything at all, actually. Which, of course, doesn't stop me from contemplating and rambling like I do now.
I am kind of driven by this feeling of shame that crept in, when I stopped for a second in the middle of a conversation with a ecology/economy student in one of Berlin's fantastically fucked up backhouse stairways. The light was dim and sounds simmering in the air. His hair was in dreads and his smile a beam that glued me to the steps. I couldn't move for half an hour, caught up in the cascade of words flying back and forth, weaving a story about LA and America and my life here that was just not really true. It was as true as it can be in a state of schizophrenia. It was the other side. It was, what made him say, I hope you make the right decisions and when you're back here come by for a coffee or a beer. It sounds like you should move back here.

When I finally left I felt excited and tormented in the same time. Ironically I ran into a girl from San Francisco downstairs who was in search of a place to stay. She was in Berlin and I felt home and she felt out of place.
Literally.
I can't tell. Still. I haven't been writing much about my time in Germany or the time after, here. Digestion is slow. It was hard to swallow.

And I still feel sorry for having painted such a tristesse in the eyes of my friends. LA. You aren't that bad after all. Are you.