Trans-form-ation

Hitler built these highways. Some of them still rhythmically bumping against the wheels. I´m waving back and forth into sleep and frightened wake ups. Big blocks of asphalt, one after the other, quick, quick, we gotta build those roads before the war begins.

Then it ended and they bombed Dresden to it´s cores. The church of our lady, stomped into the ground.

Former Eastern Germany still looks the same. Some parts of the roads are new, smooth, a lot of them aren´t. I see the sign with my national socialistic patriotic grandfather´s former hometown rush by. Distand memories of childhood days trickle in, I feel nauseated.

My dad´s tears. For the first time in my life I witnessed those precious pearls dwell up in his eyes. Looking at the church of our lady in pieces, people trying to rebuild, my Dad trying to rebuild himself. Me, small, facing my life, facing history, facing the transformation from a father to a person..

He drives like a motherfucker. Fast. The curves press me into my seat and I sweat secretely behind my Californian sunglasses. Marc Jacobs. Oh Lord.

My dad slapping my leg so hard that it burns. "Don´t fall asleep" he says, "you must keep me up through this ride through the night." The Hitler autobahn rhythmically luring us into sleep. The realm of no thought control. The grey. The imminent. The death. No tomorrow.

There is no limit on the Autobahn. The dude in the backseat sports a bigger-than-Hendrix fro but has a very German smile. Nobody ever asked me a question. Well, the only one being "don´t you want to start smoking again´?"
This is the part I might not like. Which I didn´t like about a lot of people in America either. That no one ever seems to be interested how it is on the other side of the world. Ignorant. Arrogant. Defensive. They assume they know. They don´t. Nobody knows.

Nobody knew what it was like. The pain. The war was over. It was in vain. I don´t know why they did it. There was no thought of tomorrow, only rage, only grief, only sorrow.

Because you will never know until you go.
Damnit.
The Euro-Disco sound sounds refreshing in the beginning, fun, I think, this might be fun. After three hours of the same CD rotating for ever in the very much loathed supermarket-volume I feel vomit mixed into my saliva. I can´t fucking take it no more. I look out and see a wild cloudy sky, tractors mowing gras. Ploughing dark brown earth. Whimsy whamsy trees, polluted, sad. But the green gras, it´s lovely.

My dad sent me a newspaper clip to LA. The church of our lady, rebuilt. The phoenix rising from the ashes. He said, now he´ll keep me up through my night. Be alert, it´s dark but the road, it´s ahead. We´ve only got so much light.

I try to concentrate and be okay with the speed. He is one of those motherfuckers who tailgate you until you give in and make space. It´s a dangereous game if you ask me and I am more than happy to leave as soon as he drops me at the main trainstation. The dude with the fro looks at me as I say good bye, with the weirdest look in his eyes. What´s that? I ask bewildered and he says "you got a safety pin ...uh,...there" Then he jumps out as if to hug me good bye but I´m already gone. Strange. He was so arrogant and defensive in our sparse conversations. Might have been a mask, of course.

People with a past. A burden. A mask. A city with a past. A burden. A mask. A city with a future. Maybe. For me. For us. That´s what it is, in the end, right, a mask. Just.

Gosh. What about the uh, safety pin. It´s for my safety, ha, people like you, duh, who can´t help to try and snatch a peak of my cleavage. Thank you very much for the ride. The wall. The indifference. The hidden voyeuristic peaks from behind that mask.
People, so predictable.

Illusions of safety. I will visit that place. Of transformation. Maybe I´ll cry, just for the sake of it. Just to remember, that my Dad is still alive. To feel as if. There is. A meaning. Behind it all.

faint

I almost fainted today.
At first I thought it was just a stolen progression. The sound was so faint. Something that worked well before has the fate of being used, abused, re-used all the time by all the copy cats out there.
Then I realized, that the sound bricks falling through the air actually hit me and since I am made of clay I burst into pieces, all shattered on the floor. But for a milli second, nothing moved. It was, as if the broken splinters hung in mid air for a slice of eternity and the key turned, unlocked the door, the door swung wide open and memories flooded in, steady, fast, like the stream behind my parent´s house in spring time.
We were just looking for food for tonight. Innocently. Being HERE, in the here and now. Enjoying home. We will sleep in a `Jurte´, a Mongolian kind of tent with a whole in the middle where the firesmoke can escape. Me and my old, old scout friends. I haven´t laughed like that in a long time. We were joking and we had fun. I feel safe and home and seen and understood around them because they know me so damn well. The way I like myself best.
I forgot, that you know me the way I like myself the best and the worst. You brought the best and the worst out in me. I stumble. I fall. Then I remember...
It WAS that song. It really was. Lay Lady Lay. Bob Dylan in one of the biggest whole sale stores in a little provincial town in the Black Forest, Germany, probably on the radio, a very unlikely coincidence that made my will crumble and my knees weak. It was annoyingly so but very typically, not loud enough, the elevator or supermarket kind of volume that drives me crazy every day. But almost magically it seemed as if the volume turned up just for me, as I got drawn in, listening attentively. Every single line. Every single instrumental move. The sound. The words. The meaning. My meaning. My memories. My love. My life. All I went through.
You.

the kiss

I pushed the old worn out cassette into the deck and tried to pull out a cigarette and find a lighter. Somethings are necessary at times withouy being predictable. It just pops up out of the blue and mingles with your moments, infiltrating your soul.
It was exactly one of those things and when a sudden surge of new feelings washed over me I was unsure whether it was a byproduct of music or - well, real. Something I could feel.
I stopped the cassette. The feeling stayed. The door pushed open, laughter trickling in.
The irony, the sweet aftertaste of it on my lips. The irony of me living Californian style on Black Forest Roads. The fucked up car. The hippie beach music. The smoke. The sun. Granted, it was pale, but it kissed the sky.

Grey, Orange and Light Blue

The names flash in neon orange color and make me feel like a coma patient who just got back to the world of living. Of moving. Of talking. Of naming.
St. Johann, Kleinhüningen, Forellenweg... Names, so familiar to me yet distinctevly foreign. I can´t put them on a map. I just can´t figure out where this was, when it was, how it was. Where it was. Graffiti slurs over a grey wall, I gaze under a bridge, try to catch a glimpse as the bus cleanly rolls by. Maybe there is a JANE, maybe there is a piece of a wild, almost forgotten past. Busses are so clean here, so smooth, so orderly. They arrive on time. The always do. The doors shut and open properly, zooming open zooming shut, silently like in a space shuttle or so it feels.
There are no ramblers, no gamblers, no stumblers in this bus. I unpack my guitar, there is a lot of space in the bus at night, I start to play the blues.For the ramblers and the gamblers in a different bus in a different time in a different world. And for those stumbling out there somewhere hidden, in the grey darkness of old.
Bridges, tunnels, streets, narrow streets, old houses. Passing by, grey in grey. Memories like rugs, fluttering in the midspring wind, trying to escape the prison of my thoughts. I really try to remember.
The jam session nights in the old trainstation. You have to drink and smoke more a rugged man said, the light was all glow and gloom and glitter and orange golden. M. bought me drinks, I wondered whether the other guys knew he had bought me too. With his smile, his eyes, his curly hair. He was a terribly bad drummer though and sex wasn´t that good but hot behind the freight waggons.
My room, so beautiful, with bright red-orange sheets on the bed and the Portugues´parfume, Light Blue by Dolce and Gabbana. The Angolan Sunshine, his perfect driving rhythm guitar and the shabby basement where we practiced and I almost poisoned myself spraying for the first time in my life in the hidden.
The attic of beautiful Anoushka, so high above the brickstone roofs, where I made love for the first time.
She loved the Doors and tea and my poems.

HA!

so i kicked my lazy ass and turned the link field on in this blog. it was really really easy. geez. laziness is humanities big enemy and in the same time our biggest engine....we'd still be doing laundry in rivers otherwise right?!
so, if you klick at the title you'll find a post that I liked that I found rummaging around in the september section. Actually, september has a lot of posts that I like. And I usually don't really like what I write too much :) so go ahead and check it out if you want to and have nothing better to do :))

phew

Phew, How I Love This Room!
It's been great to me. Really. I sit in the window, savoring the sight once more. The fortress of the homeless dude who looked at his creation of abandoned tables and cardboard walls with the critical stepward back of an artist.
At the Capitol Records Tower, the wires, the small alley way. The memories dancing in the wind.
Thank you room, for being so good to me. I love the interior too. My furniture. The way it's put. Stay put, I say to this sweetness, but I know it's lingering in the air like a fleeting moment and then it will be gone. I love it. That's the wonderful life I've been put into. Stay put says the wind and I wink and smile.
Good things can spring from here I feelingly think.
Many a post I wrote inspired by you.
The bed finally gave in though and it's time to go now.
Amazing how life takes care of things. How free and unbiased I can go now to Germany.

I remember this French Guy who visited me in Basel, Switzerland. He was there for just a weekend, introduced me to the Pixies and fucked my beautiful friend E. on our couch. The danger of it. The absolute audacity of it.
The song I sang for them in the velvet blue night in our beautiful backyard one of the most memorable moments. The gold dust of the sun rays in the songlines shimmers still through. And then he was gone, for ever. A footprint in the sand, scattered to the four winds.

Moments sometimes amount to an intensity of a hawk fluttering in the wind on one spot. Not moving, regardless, spying with piercing eyes. The aim unknown to the spectator but my heart, my heart it knows.

This French guy, he was talking all the time about the illusion of safety.
And as I sit here and love the songs and life and audacity I smile at the thought of the illusion of safety, and more, the illusion of attachment.

It's not.
There is no attachment and I have been shown. How we sometimes get tempted to jump in squares, in prescribed patterns, such and such things are unacceptable, moral behavior. Take it, don't take it, sue, don't sue, be mad, don't be mad.

Another guy I met in the bus today was reading something. I read over his shoulder and then I caught him reading my book. We laughed and started to talk. To the very end. It was the right person in the right moment, gracefully put into my face by Whoever It Is. He said 'People rejecting you is God protecting you from them. Never take anything personally'

I don't. Because, I love it. I smile. I can dance now, free and wild...

In The Dark Night

As I tried to sneak up the stairs he started to bark. Chocolate covered cranberries cracked between my teeth, I felt like a thief. Red, Gold, Orange flashes in my mind, remnances of a breathtaking flower bouqet that some Latino dude had brought into the bus, at 2 AM.
It's valentine day.
At home there is a cookie heart covered in red sugar on my bed. Reminds me of the things I wanted to do but never did.
Chocolate covered cranberries are the best.
I sit down and read. And remember.

There was a time when I came home with a dull knife in my heart. There was a corner in the old apartment building that held each day an empty sight for me. An empty door with no one waiting in front for me. There was a swimming pool at the old apartment building that held each night a full bright night sky for me, tangled up in little drops and waves of warm water.
There was a time when I sweated all the tears away on a treadmill next to the pool.
When I jumped up to the sound of my 'Lay Lady Lay' ringtone. When my heart jump started a paralyzed me.
There was a time when I couldn't cut garlic anymore. When I cried myself to sleep, when I embarrassed myself, when I retreated back into my shell.
Then there was a time when I walked and talked again. Me too, I was reborn.
I lost the bracelet I had made for you and since you never came to pick it up ... oh well... it didn't matter then, right?
The candles I had lit for you, they burnt down eventually.
The music changed.
The knife is sharp now. Cutting pieces and layers of emotions into edible patterns.
It is the heart that is dull, longing to be lulled into the kind of sleep you only get after having made amazing love to someone you love.

All the cranberries are gone now and the dog went back to sleep. There are new problems now, somebody else gives me grief. Somebody else puts hearts on my bed. It's not like I ever got one anyhow.

Stories to be told, Stories to be made of Gold

He Said, oh my god, you have so many stories, you really have to write them down. Do you know how many writers are out there who are dying to have stories in their background like you do?

That's indeed very sad I thought. How about you just go out there and live??

He Said, write it down now, it wears off with the years. The details won't be so vivid anymore. Don't worry about publishing or anything, just write it and the rest will fall into place somehow. LA Weekly would pay you for your Russia-US comparison story.

I went home, smiled at the table fortress my parking lot homeless dude built and got pissed off at my housemate who just keeps on gloriously ignoring my Majesty Self.

Things went well today. As if to give me an idea how else life could be like...

Oh well. Good night...Maybe my stories need to be told, maybe they are not made of gold.

Actually, a lot of them are made of dirt. From under my eternally French-reverse-manicure dirty nails.

Asian Groove Again

There is no other title for this post.
This is the end of the road.
The snake who eats her own tail, gobbeling it up in slow motion.
There we stand again. In the rain. Trickeling slowly down, softly softly, falling on the windshields, creating patterns similar to those of Aboriginal Paintings in Australia.
Do you still feel that way? he asks. Like, you can't be in love, can't have a boyfriend, can't be a girlfriend.

Asian Groove Again. Terian Gulabi Buliyan by A.S. Kang sings. Tags: Bhangra, Punjabi, word, desi, south asian roots. Similar Artists: Bally Jagpal, Bally Sagoo, Baldip Jabble, Jazzy B, RDB

As if I could say something to this. I cringe I flinch I try to hint. Find a way. They say women use 20 000 words a day. I am at my limit. Does love really make that blind? That you can't see. Didn't you know? No. You just stuck around. You were in love with me and you just waited it out. And to my great anger and frustration all those people seemed to be right. It wasn't forever, not that I would have even dared to think that but certainly I feel how my innermost hopes got raped.

He stuck around. There we sit in the car with this amazing rain lulling me into escape, my dear friend, sleep.
It was such an amazing evening. It was perfect and I wish I just could fall in love with him.
Wouldn't it be perfect to fall in love like that?
Gypsy Gypsy gone, next please.
As if it would be that easy.
Something tells me that if I wanted it would be easy.
Quit apparently I don't want it.
And now Bob Dylan sings 'Living the Blues'.

Let's go and live the blues, come one, now, come on, forget the Asian Groove

This is so beautiful, it makes me cry

I awoke today and found the frost perched on the town
It hovered in a frozen sky, then it gobbled summer down
When the sun turns traitor cold
and all the trees are shivering in a naked row
I get the urge for going but I never seem to go

I get the urge for going
When the meadow grass is turning brown
Summertime is falling down and winter is closing in

I had me a man in summertime
He had summer-colored skin
And not another girl in town
My darling's heart could win
But when the leaves fell on the ground, and
Bully winds came around, pushed them face down in the snow
He got the urge for going
And I had to let him go

He got the urge for going
When the meadow grass was turning brown
Summertime was falling down and winter was closing in

Now the warriors of winter they gave a cold triumphant shout
And all that stays is dying, all that lives is getting out
See the geese in chevron flight flapping and a-racing on before the snow
They've got the urge for going, and they've got the wings so they can go

They get the urge for going
When the meadow grass is turning brown
Summertime is falling down and winter is closing in

I'll ply the fire with kindling now, I'll pull the blankets up to my chin
I'll lock the vagrant winter out and bolt my wandering in
I'd like to call back summertime and have her stay for just another month or so
But she's got the urge for going and I guess she'll have to go

She gets the urge for going when the meadow grass is turning brown
And all her empire's falling down

By Joni Mitchell

darkness

washed away, and over me.
a smile,
in the morning,
woke up with
.
silence is straddeling me and then comforting my soul.
look around you
there is still beauty
and a new life everyday.
desperation gives way
to
new, different feelings.
like, I play guitar in the morning to wake myself up.
again.
i almost forgot to pray
for my angels
maybe that's why the forgot
to pray for us.