quietly salt and water mingles, gathers, falls...
fall has come over the land. autumn fogs cloud the mornings. rays fight their ways through, noon tears the grey front into pieces, a last smile from the summer.
single drops gather, flow. a stream towards the ocean. with so much salt.
that moon, it was so high, and your eyes filled to the rim, 'it's like coming home' you whispered and i held you in my arms while father sky and mother earth embraced us in their sacred union.
all this is past. fall, autumn, past, falling.
if someone let you down, in love you can't fall no more. there is no space to fall. but there is
the moment of breaking through
unexpected when you think you were soothed
when all is in frames and shambles in the same time
when a thin skin feels so thickened all alone
the levee broke and there you were
paradox and
so close,
her name just a memory
and maybe you are
her.
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
In My Life
I don't remember anything in my soul
it's all so faint and two dimensional now as a tale that I've heard a long time ago.
And it's only been two weeks. Oh, well, maybe already two years of parting, if you want to look at it that way. Without music everything fades even faster. Some songs will bring it all back to me, the feelings, the knowledge of the bond, the affection, the convictions, the - love.
But I don't love you anymore. It's been taking me that long. But now I can say it and it seems to be true - for now, at least.
I remember that my dad told me once that if I want to know what I truly feel I'd have to stop listening to music for a while. To find what is truly inside of me, and not taken in or triggered by music. I haven't been listening to much music lately, because I've been working a lot and it has taken me far from that road we traveled for so long.
I don't know what will be in my life. I still would love to show you some things here. But now it's past dusk and I gotta go. Maybe sometime else. In a different life.
When we can love and live together.
it's all so faint and two dimensional now as a tale that I've heard a long time ago.
And it's only been two weeks. Oh, well, maybe already two years of parting, if you want to look at it that way. Without music everything fades even faster. Some songs will bring it all back to me, the feelings, the knowledge of the bond, the affection, the convictions, the - love.
But I don't love you anymore. It's been taking me that long. But now I can say it and it seems to be true - for now, at least.
I remember that my dad told me once that if I want to know what I truly feel I'd have to stop listening to music for a while. To find what is truly inside of me, and not taken in or triggered by music. I haven't been listening to much music lately, because I've been working a lot and it has taken me far from that road we traveled for so long.
I don't know what will be in my life. I still would love to show you some things here. But now it's past dusk and I gotta go. Maybe sometime else. In a different life.
When we can love and live together.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
not yet
no words yet
really
to grasp what is happening
in front of my very eyes
i am so far
and so near
from and to
anywhere
when i hear your voices
i remember and recall
and want to jump in the red chevy
and listen to some puerto rican reggae
run into the ocean or ride down Marguerita Avenue
with the sun and the wind in my hair
but now it is the thick green
that holds me captive
the quirly swirly sounds of the creeks
the crows in the cloudy skies
the rolling hills dancing with thunder
i've seen it all
and the music remains the same
'i hear the clock tick'
really
to grasp what is happening
in front of my very eyes
i am so far
and so near
from and to
anywhere
when i hear your voices
i remember and recall
and want to jump in the red chevy
and listen to some puerto rican reggae
run into the ocean or ride down Marguerita Avenue
with the sun and the wind in my hair
but now it is the thick green
that holds me captive
the quirly swirly sounds of the creeks
the crows in the cloudy skies
the rolling hills dancing with thunder
i've seen it all
and the music remains the same
'i hear the clock tick'
Thursday, July 10, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
The Straw
Change is scary and uncomfortable. It is a bitch, because it comes unprepared, other change that I anticipated creeps up to me in the wee morning hours when the dawn riddles my existence. The eternal struggle to attain and maintain balance weighs so many of us down, luring us in all kinds of extremity just like it happened to pamino in the 'magical flute' by Mozart when he had to go through the fire and the ice to break through to his own truth, finally. Sittin' on the dock of the bay comes to me, bringing back memories of another lifetime, inciting dreams of what is yet to come.
Sharing the most intimate moments in this space has become hard, first I started molding and forging more, creating as I have with my art installations back in the day but then I made the mistake to let too many people know about this sacred place and the awareness of possibly judgemental eyes put yet another layer on this cage and I keep trying to break through. To who?
Funny, how in the hassle sometimes we forget to ask the right questions.
Change doesn't come slowly, it does, it does, but the actual straw that breaks the camel's back seems so evergreen. In the midst of the whole load still improbable. Unexpected. Outrageous and different.
Letting go of the old picture and putting the new one in is the most trivial of acts conceivable and yet, it pinpointed the change, it hurt and doubted, it wasn't the same.
But I have to go there, I have to go.
Sharing the most intimate moments in this space has become hard, first I started molding and forging more, creating as I have with my art installations back in the day but then I made the mistake to let too many people know about this sacred place and the awareness of possibly judgemental eyes put yet another layer on this cage and I keep trying to break through. To who?
Funny, how in the hassle sometimes we forget to ask the right questions.
Change doesn't come slowly, it does, it does, but the actual straw that breaks the camel's back seems so evergreen. In the midst of the whole load still improbable. Unexpected. Outrageous and different.
Letting go of the old picture and putting the new one in is the most trivial of acts conceivable and yet, it pinpointed the change, it hurt and doubted, it wasn't the same.
But I have to go there, I have to go.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
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.
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.
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.
Monday, July 02, 2007
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.
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
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
Saturday, June 30, 2007
beneath the skins
i think we all miss you, secretely, at night, hidden, beneath pillows, beneath our skins.
you were always there, soft and yet coming through strongly. with your voice trembling and your eyes big and like turtles. i know we didn't want to hurt you nor did you want to hurt us. us, the ones that left you behind. us, the ones that you left behind. us, who don't know how to reach out anymore or how to be reached.
some of us think that it is over and we have to move on but i wouldn't let anybody else speak for me nor dare to speak with certainty for them.
you thought of protection. so did i. wonder, what if, what if we had read that book about the Mexicans. shared a bed. continued writing in that book, so long.
first i did and eventually you too, thinking of finally going your own way. of standing up for yourself, just on the wrong leg.
you only hurt yourself.
and who can blame anyone, who can throw the first stone?
it looks like you found a way now, now that you are smiling and your eyes like stones.
skipping down the hallway, life, newfound.
i'm sure i am not the only one who looks at you in secrecy, remembering, wondering, i feel almost more for him and her than for myself.
sometimes you kind of reach out and i feel miserable for missing you so much. for missing you not so much. for simply not knowing what it means to have had enough.
it was a good time. and there was worse times.
somehow, however, i can't believe that life is absolute. so serious. i can't believe that the future could ever outweigh the past. that an earlier past can level out what happened before.
the summer was long and heavy and you held my hand sometimes but mostly we went swimming.
i dont' know what it is, my love, whether it is maybe like a pile of shit that nobody bothers to clean up. after a while the worms and the flies come and everybody else just turns away.
but i remember the soft breeze.
you were always there, soft and yet coming through strongly. with your voice trembling and your eyes big and like turtles. i know we didn't want to hurt you nor did you want to hurt us. us, the ones that left you behind. us, the ones that you left behind. us, who don't know how to reach out anymore or how to be reached.
some of us think that it is over and we have to move on but i wouldn't let anybody else speak for me nor dare to speak with certainty for them.
you thought of protection. so did i. wonder, what if, what if we had read that book about the Mexicans. shared a bed. continued writing in that book, so long.
first i did and eventually you too, thinking of finally going your own way. of standing up for yourself, just on the wrong leg.
you only hurt yourself.
and who can blame anyone, who can throw the first stone?
it looks like you found a way now, now that you are smiling and your eyes like stones.
skipping down the hallway, life, newfound.
i'm sure i am not the only one who looks at you in secrecy, remembering, wondering, i feel almost more for him and her than for myself.
sometimes you kind of reach out and i feel miserable for missing you so much. for missing you not so much. for simply not knowing what it means to have had enough.
it was a good time. and there was worse times.
somehow, however, i can't believe that life is absolute. so serious. i can't believe that the future could ever outweigh the past. that an earlier past can level out what happened before.
the summer was long and heavy and you held my hand sometimes but mostly we went swimming.
i dont' know what it is, my love, whether it is maybe like a pile of shit that nobody bothers to clean up. after a while the worms and the flies come and everybody else just turns away.
but i remember the soft breeze.
everly moving
ahh, I am going to enjoy this!
A night ride through Westwood, ghostly houses with big stale numbers painted on their faces, ending at an obscure golf course and a homeless but clean looking fat bellied man behind a big barred fence telling me where to go...the way leads back to Wilshire, through the UCLA student village up to sunset where I don't know which way to go again. The student houses flicker in delight, it's friday night and music is blaring, all different kinds. Cars are lined up on either side of the street, some even on the sidewalks, students rush through the night and I smile how close those two so different worlds are.
On sunset I take the wrong direction and after I passed the 405 I have to stop and ask for directions. There is a lexus hotel, very luscious and private, soft music in the background.
I park my bike at the entrance, shoulder my red designer bag and ask the receptionist for directions. I look so acceptable that he lets me use their internet. It is funny how clothing does make people. Everything I am wearing is from the actress whose house i will babysit from tonight on for a whole week.
I love and hate that I don't have a car.
I fu king hate that I chose to take the stupid bag instead of a backpack.
I love that I lost my way.
On my way out a valet guy asks me whether I need to check in. I smile, grab my dirty bike and shake my head. No man, thank you, I just needed to ask something. Have a good night.
He smiles, understanding suddenly what's going on, petting my arm for a second.
The hotel does have something about it. So comforting. So luxurious. So not for me.
On the long and winding suicide way to the canyon my red leather bag bangs rhythmically at my front tire. I #$%^&^& and laugh at the same time.
The road up the canyon is wet because of the sprinklers of the rich people's houses.
Rich people have such awesome houses in such awesome areas with wonderful trees.
Too bad, I think, that they don't use it properly.
It's good to be out, breathing trees at night.
A night ride through Westwood, ghostly houses with big stale numbers painted on their faces, ending at an obscure golf course and a homeless but clean looking fat bellied man behind a big barred fence telling me where to go...the way leads back to Wilshire, through the UCLA student village up to sunset where I don't know which way to go again. The student houses flicker in delight, it's friday night and music is blaring, all different kinds. Cars are lined up on either side of the street, some even on the sidewalks, students rush through the night and I smile how close those two so different worlds are.
On sunset I take the wrong direction and after I passed the 405 I have to stop and ask for directions. There is a lexus hotel, very luscious and private, soft music in the background.
I park my bike at the entrance, shoulder my red designer bag and ask the receptionist for directions. I look so acceptable that he lets me use their internet. It is funny how clothing does make people. Everything I am wearing is from the actress whose house i will babysit from tonight on for a whole week.
I love and hate that I don't have a car.
I fu king hate that I chose to take the stupid bag instead of a backpack.
I love that I lost my way.
On my way out a valet guy asks me whether I need to check in. I smile, grab my dirty bike and shake my head. No man, thank you, I just needed to ask something. Have a good night.
He smiles, understanding suddenly what's going on, petting my arm for a second.
The hotel does have something about it. So comforting. So luxurious. So not for me.
On the long and winding suicide way to the canyon my red leather bag bangs rhythmically at my front tire. I #$%^&^& and laugh at the same time.
The road up the canyon is wet because of the sprinklers of the rich people's houses.
Rich people have such awesome houses in such awesome areas with wonderful trees.
Too bad, I think, that they don't use it properly.
It's good to be out, breathing trees at night.
Friday, June 15, 2007
lies
so
different
yet the same
eternally evolving
revolving
give me a revolver
i wanna fuck you in the mouth
i wanna make fucking love
of course
not to your corpse
but to your very
soul
penetrate your mind
unravel
the unfolding of
your child
blossoming
all over
again
different
yet the same
eternally evolving
revolving
give me a revolver
i wanna fuck you in the mouth
i wanna make fucking love
of course
not to your corpse
but to your very
soul
penetrate your mind
unravel
the unfolding of
your child
blossoming
all over
again
Saturday, May 05, 2007
..
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?
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?
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)
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
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.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
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.
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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