please

give me anything
to hurt
a razor blade will do
or her sweet smile smack into my face
a blade, a dull knife, maybe a fist too
and


just numb the impunity of this moment
for me

stick to it

He sang them, in all kinds of ways, sometimes he would deny them, sometimes he would bring them up out of the blue, sometimes he would piss you off, showing no care.
He might have seemed pathetic and pitiful at some point but as he went through he came through, slowly but surely, until not only he but also the rest of the world believed it.
Wounds healed over time or so it seems. The frames that contained them still look pretty impressive but sometimes he can't help but destroy them with one big stroke, smashing them, shattering them, enraged that they are the invisible anchor to memories that are gone.
But so we all keep going. In my cage behind glass windows I watch the grey street morph into a liquid stream of lead, telling stories of yet another life in slow motion.
People still cheer him on, scrambling for the shattered pieces of old picture frames.
And I am so far away from anything, you are safe behind seven veils and songs become songs, valid in themselves, and whatever emotions flooded through me just kept on flowing and left me stranded at some moon filled bay without compass or sense.
Sometimes I think that maybe we just loved him, that our love reflected off this big full moon and when it declined we left, sucked into the black that hid all that was ours. This thunderstorm swirled me in outrageous spirals and spit me out at some sidewalk in Berlin where everything seems so calm and people hurry but they can't hurt me.
And my love is not fazed nor faded, it lingers in the midst of unspoken words and lies, in melodies too sweet to bare and naked dreams that fill your night mares.
I do not understand anything that is happening to me nor to you, I just feel how the oceans and mountains and plains and timezones separate the anguish from pain.

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.

oh brother where art thou

IMG_0543.JPG, originally uploaded by saralaimon.

What I think about it?
I don't know. Don't be defensive. Don't tell me, that I don't know what I am talking about just because I haven't gone there. I doubt you know profoundly more than I do.
I don't judge you, I got past that. I am not the one who runs around at a party telling people how much fun I have without drinking or getting high. I got high, I drank, and I feel like Joni Mitchell's "Blue" when she sings 'everybody is saying that hell's the hippest way to go, well I don't think so, but I'm gonna take a look around..."
It's just that... it's not mine. It really isn't.
What I think about it?
I think if we face it (and yes that does imply some slight unintended judgement just by having a different opinion which does include not only my life but life in general) it has to do with an inconvenient truth.
I hear so many explanations that sound somewhat defensive and also, almost like excuses, ranging from 'spiritual cleansing' to 'medicine' to 'i take it only in a ritualistic setting' to 'you have to break down those walls'.
Why, I love walls. I love climbing over walls and I love hiding behind walls, I love building walls, I love taking them apart. I do not like bombs.

I have the feeling that in the end of the day it has to do with following analogy:
Taking drugs is like pouring spirit into a vessel that is not big enough to contain all of it. It overspills. It feels abundant and good and all these things just bubble around you, give you an overdose of whatever matter that spirit contains, gives you extra power because it is so abundant.
But in the end of the day your vessel is NOT able to contain all that. And I feel that it erodes under the pressure over time. It wears out. It doesn't get what it needs to organically grow to contain more spiritmatter. Yes, in tribal ritualistic settings maybe that is different but you don't live in a god damn tribe, my friend. You didn't do the homework of a shaman who's life WORK is to deal with these things. You didn't live the life that is tied into that particular rite which uses that particular drug to help you. In fact, I think, this drug doesn't help you at all but it uses you. I mean, really, what do we know about these things? About eventualities of realities that do include spirit, demons, powers that be, consequences, truths?
I met all these healers and shamans from cultural healing traditions in Minneapolis at the Symposium of 'Ways of Knowing'.
The shopping mentality of the western people is just disgusting. IT doesn't go anywhere. People are not willing and too lazy to do their homework. They want the best of everything and leave. And usually they leave a trail of destruction, unintentional but yet very tangible. Like children with no elders.
The craze for eastern or generally indigenous ways of life is understandable considering the void and emptiness that the dead ended road of one sided intellectualism and materialism has brought us to. However, I feel strongly that the ruthless and uprooted fast food mentality which by no means is mean spirited but moreover, filled with great intentions, leads into yet another void.
In our cultural traditions are just as many ways of healing, knowing and life, that do open pathways to wholeness, to ecstasy, to elevation, esprit, spiritual growth.
The way we came opened up a new, very dangerous freedom, that we didn't have before in indigenous tribal settings. It does transcend in some ways the confinements of the very protective ways of life in a tribe and opens up a horrific abyss of possibilities that not many people can deal with, apparently. I understand the need for exploration, for anything that will take us over or under or away from there.
But I do also painfully see how great chances and opportunities are shunned away from.
To walk a spiritual path with the assets of a fully engaged left brain, marrying it with the right brain, exercising, taking it step by step, has enormous potential.
How do we learn? How do we find new ways? I do understand which role drugs can play within that scheme. I do also understand that I don't have to burn to know that fire is hot, I can touch it, I can watch it burn by itself.
I am searching myself. I'm just saying. Either way, if you have all these elaborate explanations already, you might as well have the balls to face other inconvenient thoughts every now and then. Maybe.
This, of course needs to be revisited. This was just a brainstorm.
This is for all the people I have lost in the battle. This is for all the tears I have shed. I cry not only for those who exploded and imploded during their search for something, I also cry for those who got stuck, in general, anywhere. In soberness, in conservatism, in liberalism, in any ism. I guess that in the end it's about the way we deal with things. I don't mind broken glass, there is always mosaics to be made. I guess I mind, most of all, getting stuck and the value of even that, I know, is beyond my comprehension.
It's just that, I still get overwhelmed and cry.

i honestly don't know why i still would say that. that i miss you so much. it's so messed up, maybe it's just the night that takes it toll on me. but the cross streets just were too familiar and if you just feel half as weird to see me as i felt about being on these bloody streets i completely understand that you would have an issue with that. i am at 'home' now, or whatever they call this place and some random shit is happening on the tv. james dean looks across the room from a poster pinned up at the wall and i remember random moments in the practice rooms, an orange skirt, passion, truth and a shut door. it's just passing, is it.

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 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.

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.

on the autobahn

German A Capella humming into my ears. I lean back, look around in the gay bachelor´s apartment, an old friend of mine. My refuge. For tonight.
I marvel. Marvel at the calm, the peace, the well, you know, the graceful way I marched from the emergency phone back to the car. A real fucked up car that would make California look proud but would make every German TUV test agent look pale...

I confess, I really do believe in guardian angels. See, things happen sometimes in a way that really make me think...
I could have freaked out and get stressed over all this bullshit happening to me today. But then again....The flat tire was just an excuse to get me to the bodyshop. The brakes were totally, entirely burnt out, as it turned out, something really just fucking saved my life. And in turn, I also saved my aunt´s life. Good thing I found out about the brakes before the ride would have sent me on my last trip through the clouds. Or her, for that matter. Later.

Oh whatever. I can´t quite believe that I am where I didn´t want to be, somewhere in the middle of Germany with a shitload of stress ahead. Oh well. It might be worth saving lifes, don´t you think.
I felt like a homeless with all the bags dangeling around my neck and arms and the guitar and the long scarf. My black stockings strangely weird, wrong place, wrong time. People laughing at me on my long way to the trainstation....But you know, I just felt, like, kind of...thankful. It could have been so much worse. You know, thank you, gosh, thank you.

Well, you know, - I know why I don´t like cars.

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.

Does It Make Me Crazy?

Can anybody tell me why in the hell anybody would write with Capital Letters In A Text Message Like This? What´s the deal with that one???

wondering at 2 AM - inspired by el mas guapo in DC

i remember when i was 13 and at one of our first ´parties´. we had a pretty clear idea of how parties have to be, you play silly bottle games and dance together in pairs and the broom dance and make yourself go unconscious by breathing really hard for really long.
and you dont sleep for a long time.

we didnt know about anything and i remember sitting melancholicly at the window sill gazing into the stars, the moon, the moon, wondering where you were, who you were, what you were doing at this very moment. looking at the moon like me? longing to be with me as i long to be with you
then i met dany and the stars and the moon lost their romantic shimmer and were just, oh well, objects in the sky. my star was right next to me, in my arms.
the stars and the moon were just the right lighting for our romantic sex on the beach night.

then he broke my heart and went away and ever since i wished i could long at the stars again. make them shimmer again with hope. make my memory erase his name forever so i could long for him again somewhere, unknown. it s melancholy when you dont know the name. its tormenting abyss of pain to know the name
of him who stole the shimmer of the stars, the meaning of the moon and your heart

Brutally Honest

Feelings already formed into figures way high up over the clouds, bouncing around like children in cotton pads.
Feelings disguised in thoughts tormenting me with information. My heart talking, all of the sudden, and so damn loud! I really was wondering whether anybody else coud hear that, it just would`t stop, it wouldn´t stop like the murmurs of the creek behind the house of my childhood.

Brutally honest sometimes a necessity.When the plane touched the ground and bounced a little my fragile defense crumbled into pieces. A few first tears flew through the chilli Frankfurt air in the midst of broad smiles. Hand clapping, yeai, we have arrived safely. No terrorists, no major storms, no other accidents. My first steps on German ground, re-evaluating every inch of home. The bread is so fucking damn amazing here, there is nothing like that anywhere in this whole wide world and I mean it.

Brutally honest notes:

The magic spell of true love in the moment. Hard to wihtdraw from that, so hard to withdraw. Wed the polarities, unite them within self.

In the end. There is family, no matter what you say. It is what it is.

To give in to the overwhelming...

Oh well, I know I DO love you. But there is a but in the equation.
Which is no good.
Insolveable equation, that is.

People living their lives. Things are so different everywhere. Doesn´t make it right, doesn´t make it wrong. We want it so bad for it to be good. So bad.
Nature so rich, almost forgotten, reminding us of the truth beneath everything. Beyond all facettes and differences......lives, going their way, going well, going unwell....
The well the well, where is the well.

Loyality

Never is anyone to live my life.
See, I'm afraid. It's about loyality.
Royality of the heart.
'Take a chance with me. She is going to sing it - You'll find peace with me. You're my remedy. 07.'
Friends, dropping, Never wanted to drop anybody. Hovering above life like a hawk, ready to attack, obsessing, yet just observing though.
Never wanted to be disloyal to you. What are you doing to me.




But it's about finding out the truth about who you are and your friends.
Who they really are.
Who really is your friend.
Who you can really be friend to.
Passing dreams.
Fleeting, fleeting only and always, eternally. Never can anyone be me.
I gotta take it on or else I should fail. Or prosper, due to sheer will.
What you really want, what you really will be.
be, be, be, be. Is it,
is it, is it really me?
Travelling solely. Through and through and through and through.

NOT

At some point I asked myself, whether I could leave this amazing place. I thought, that, which will make it so hard for me to leave, is this place. This living situation with my friends. That we miraculously got the place we envisioned to live in, together. With the amazing neighbours. While my 'wife' Klodi left to Albania and my love eventually left me too all I had was them two. I thought, gosh, I am so lucky, I am so damn lucky that I found at least two really good friends here in this strange city.

Life is treacherous and it always teaches you otherwise.

Hypocritical motherfuckers. The irony is, I'm glad I found out. That you are NOT.

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.

a woman of mystery

a woman of mystery, he said in the midst of his babbeling, deserves more respect.

I looked at him, surprised, holding onto my book. My neck hurt from turning my head into his direction and his funny, vivid expressions that somehow didn't want to match his old features sparkled all over the monotony of the bus's roaring engines.

a woman of mystery, I thought to myself, mystery.

k-o-k-o

Koko fell on the stairs
her legs twisted
didn't utter a sound
faced the dirty ground
passengers just stared
seemed to be nobody's round

K-o-ko she said
make up artist and
cops suck and smell bad

fuck fuck fuck in such a lovely voice
her right half blue and red and swollen -did she have a choice?
the asshole guy from the last seat
came and comforted said I'll kill that motherfucker
how did he become so sweet

but you just don't beat, oh you just don't beat a woman

and Koko just waved her hand
like the Queen from England
but she was from Denmark
could harldy walk could hardly talk

her smile took away all the shame
i saw the despair but pretended it's all the same
she peed in her pants as she held on to that tree
Koko Koko they just can't see

and when she cried that tear
we held each other her room was messy
like those people who can't let go
slow suicide without any hope

she said I'm fine I'm fine
dignity lost right there on the street
when she wetted her own cold feet
but I believe in God she said

Koko, Koko what makes you human
the little girl in your eyes
Koko, Koko, what makes you human

that tear you cried
but not of fear
when it fell on the ground
it made a sound
the sound of a smile

(and i know this is going to sound like an attempt to rhyme but
it occured to me that this is what makes:

life worthwhile

Fly Brown Dragons

'i love los angeles' (Fly Brown Dragons)

I sit, listening, writing, thinking.
Yesterday I let the smoke signs rise into the sky, out of my little room, my ship in the stormy sea of gritty Hollywood life.
In thousand sparks red hot ashes exploded in the night on the cold concrete floor.
Lionnesses came to my mind. How they eat first, and then share the food with the kids. They've got to fucking kill another animal the next day. That's why. Personally, I think that's an important lesson. Of course, we are extremely social as human beings and can afford at times to save a person before ourselves, put the kids before our needs... Some people eat too much before they share. But who am I to judge. Everybody's gotta do what they gotta do, and sure, that's not a blank cheque for doing damage but it's true, to some extend, isn't it.

Well, I guess what I wanted to say is:

LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE WHEN I AM EATING.

DAMNIT.

Ok. So -
Now I am here, somewhere in LA, working on the 'Tard and Feathered' zine Vol. II that Lady Basco is making. Listening to her brother's playlist on his ipod.
Not that any of this would concern you, except for that if you are a true artist you would want to touch as many people as you can, right? If you want to participate in the magazine check it out. See whether you want to move through this medium too. Your blog adress and anything else you want to be known about your writing or yourself will be readily displayed and a nice side effect of course will be that it will increase your outreach radius somewhat. ;)
We'll distribute the zines for 15$ per piece here in LA and I don't know where else.
The money goes straight into making the next zine.
If you are interested write me or check the tard and feathered myspace site out: http://www.myspace.com/tardandfeathered

yeah and yes, I love Los Angeles, as well....

one love to all of you!

blue tears

dunno whether i really wanna call this blue tears. Maybe I should call this rather 'patience and green eyes' because that's what they said their street names were.
you know, you gotta understand, this one is tough. It's not like I am going to sound accurate or anything. If I could, I would draw you a picture, draw you in. Zoom into the socks, surprisingly whitish, and the dry black skin perking out inbetween the pants and the shoes. The sweater he hurdled up at his chest, where the heart is, and the rest of a coke line on his left nostril.
His eyes dwelling up when he sang this song about his mother who 'did some things not right but she had to do them and she always saw that he had toys for X-mas'. She was a hooker, his father gone. With 13 he bought her diamonds from the first street money he had earned himself. She never wanted him to go there but she knew that he had to do what he had to do just like herself. The yearning for a father who was never there, the attempt to replace this lost man in her life...
'Green eyes' nodding his head from time to time, looking straight into my eyes, relentlessly sinking deep into my heart. Looking away. Hiding his moist eyes but he couldn't he couldn't, we already had crossed the line and stood naked in front of each other. There were no masks anymore somehow, no piss stained clothes or ground mattered nor did my french barret or beautifully fucked up boots.
'Patience' had asked whether we wanted to hear a song and we, full of life-celebrating energy turned around on our heels, heading back up Yucca, to the dirty entrance hall they were dining at.
He started to sing. His voice so raw and soft in the same time, praising the woman, women in a man's life. The woman, who lifts him up and brings him down, a woman who makes him human who saves him from drowning. A woman who is worth more than anything he's ever seen but oh she can be mean. He loves women, that was for sure and we were kind of bummed out, literally, fazed by the coincidence; we were so beautiful. Women.
And green eyes, thoughtfully agreeing with him after certain lines of lyric, chewing away on his late lunch that he ate as proper as can be, with fork, knife and napkin, you see.
Sometimes he would shake his head or smile and nod with his head as if saying, yes, oh yeah, that it is. Blues, turning things around, giving a perspective to too deep a salty sea. Making you laugh in the saddest of love songs.
'God, I will sell you my soul, do anything you want me to do, but if the devil brings back my love I will sell it to him too...'
The underlying longing strong like a wild mountain current, the lack of beauty in his life, the lack of beauty in the form of a woman, the most beautiful form that there is - bursting out like water out of a rusty pipe in northern Russia in spring time.
We, mesmerized and I desperately observing, taking in, breathing in, all too aware of the contrasts, savoring them like a bum savors his last drops of liquor in a cold chilli winter night.
How they both dried their tears with stained sleeves trying to hide what makes them human - a tear that makes the sound of a smile when it hits the grey ground.
The life story told in thousand and one words, in a cascade like a waterfall, rolling over us like a relentless wave from a raging sea - the urge to be heard overwhelmingly deafening, the fear.
The blue tear.