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.

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.

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)

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.