You know, he says, some things just really don't make any sense. Period. The end. NO sense whatsoever, utterly meaningless, horribly senseless. That's that! You don't always have to look for meaning in everything and all that. Sometimes, booom, it's just meaningless. And wrong in a way. You know? You don't have any idea how many things I fucked up. Gosh. I let so many doors and windows open and close and just let them go when I should have jumped right in. But I didn't. And you know, in a weird way, that's when there is freedom. You are there, in this place that you don't belong and weren't meant to be at, and there is freedom in that.
At what a price, Dad, I say and breathe a layer of ice right off my heart into Kachemak Bay. The glaciers lick the mountains across the water as if they were gigantic ice tongues and I feel a chilly breeze. The alders, the blue jays, the horses, the trees.
Pushki, Devils Club and wild roses.
Wild rasperries. Wild berries I don't the name of. Wild, wild clouds over wild wild land.
If you messed up twice, you will be all the more concentrated and ready when it comes around a third time, he says, and it always does. It always comes around again.
I hope you feel little, meaningless and small. It is good to know that. Screw the rich and the famous.
He never wanted that. Richness, fame. My mom more so than him, but she grew up on beautiful land and knows what it means to work it.
But i understand him more and more. Wealth, fame, property. I don't want that either. Money is good for food, to pay bills. And that's why you work.
work is beautiful he says. Woe those who don't have to work. There are only a few who can manage. It is what makes us human too.
When I told him about the surrogate mother, the c-section and all that he had to go for a walk. Just doesn't feel ready for this kind of world yet. I am right in it. Every day. Not for long though. Not for long.
As I get up and try to shake off the stress, the city, the airplane, the frustration at home and at work I look in the sky. I feel good. I know why.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Saturday, August 11, 2007
the fall
I definitely lost some innocence and I can't blame him for losing all his respect for me. Indeed, if it was me ten years ago I probably would have crucified myself in a rageful storm of tears and disappointment. We both moved on after that year and don't talk anymore. Funny how life meanders. How we fall. How we lose touch. How we lose ground. How we lose ourselves. How we hope to be found.
Days go by and by and some morning bring the bad news: I can't do this anymore! Nah, says the other voice, trying to balance out, trying to relativize, trying to make it grey, nah, it's just your period. Period. Or the wheather or your emotional condition.
Courage? Rage? Coeur? Heart? Love? Life? Breaking away? Rageful courage? Action versus passivity? All those people who went on adventures up the Kunam Punur, down the waterfalls. Up the mount everest. Through deserts, cultures, lives, loves. Story telling for the sake of it. Nah, I don't want to be in business. Maybe a field researcher for human rights issues. Maybe this maybe that but the days stretch on and on, only sometimes a little kid's smile breaks through like a crack in the ice. Melt it away, tears, melt it away. Melt it away. Melt it away.
He is fragile, and trying, and we are bouncing off each other. He wants to be heppy I want to make him heppy. I want to be heppy. We all want to be heppy. He, she, it.
He, she, it. I, you, we, them they us.
And I know that nothing else matters.
The fall. From innocence to confusion. Trying to break through. While doing so, breaking my wings. While doing so, falling hard on concrete. Falling, not on soft green pastures. No, no. Lost and found, somewhere in the desert, a lost and found station, shattered and grey - for all who are looking for something or someone.
Theresa, where are you now.
Days go by and by and some morning bring the bad news: I can't do this anymore! Nah, says the other voice, trying to balance out, trying to relativize, trying to make it grey, nah, it's just your period. Period. Or the wheather or your emotional condition.
Courage? Rage? Coeur? Heart? Love? Life? Breaking away? Rageful courage? Action versus passivity? All those people who went on adventures up the Kunam Punur, down the waterfalls. Up the mount everest. Through deserts, cultures, lives, loves. Story telling for the sake of it. Nah, I don't want to be in business. Maybe a field researcher for human rights issues. Maybe this maybe that but the days stretch on and on, only sometimes a little kid's smile breaks through like a crack in the ice. Melt it away, tears, melt it away. Melt it away. Melt it away.
He is fragile, and trying, and we are bouncing off each other. He wants to be heppy I want to make him heppy. I want to be heppy. We all want to be heppy. He, she, it.
He, she, it. I, you, we, them they us.
And I know that nothing else matters.
The fall. From innocence to confusion. Trying to break through. While doing so, breaking my wings. While doing so, falling hard on concrete. Falling, not on soft green pastures. No, no. Lost and found, somewhere in the desert, a lost and found station, shattered and grey - for all who are looking for something or someone.
Theresa, where are you now.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
You are sleeping, still, warm and fuzzy. Hard to leave your arms, they are golden, they are warm, they hold me. Sometimes I think of L.Cohen's 'Marianne' and how she made him forget to pray for the angels. And then they forget to pray for us....
I leave you good bye, just for a second. Finding myself in the clouds. When I come back you still will be sleeping, we'll make breakfast and go to work. Art is breathing under the carpet, tears are saved for the rain. Smiles break through me when I am angry, worries in vain.
'Hey that's no way to say good bye' (L. Cohen)
I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm,
your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm,
yes, many loved before us, I know that we are not new,
in city and in forest they smiled like me and you,
but now it's come to distances and both of us must try,
your eyes are soft with sorrow,
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye.
I'm not looking for another as I wander in my time,
walk me to the corner, our steps will always rhyme
you know my love goes with you as your love stays with me,
it's just the way it changes, like the shoreline and the sea,
but let's not talk of love or chains and things we can't untie,
your eyes are soft with sorrow,
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye.
I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm,
your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm,
yes many loved before us, I know that we are not new,
in city and in forest they smiled like me and you,
but let's not talk of love or chains and things we can't untie,
your eyes are soft with sorrow,
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye.
I leave you good bye, just for a second. Finding myself in the clouds. When I come back you still will be sleeping, we'll make breakfast and go to work. Art is breathing under the carpet, tears are saved for the rain. Smiles break through me when I am angry, worries in vain.
'Hey that's no way to say good bye' (L. Cohen)
I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm,
your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm,
yes, many loved before us, I know that we are not new,
in city and in forest they smiled like me and you,
but now it's come to distances and both of us must try,
your eyes are soft with sorrow,
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye.
I'm not looking for another as I wander in my time,
walk me to the corner, our steps will always rhyme
you know my love goes with you as your love stays with me,
it's just the way it changes, like the shoreline and the sea,
but let's not talk of love or chains and things we can't untie,
your eyes are soft with sorrow,
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye.
I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm,
your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm,
yes many loved before us, I know that we are not new,
in city and in forest they smiled like me and you,
but let's not talk of love or chains and things we can't untie,
your eyes are soft with sorrow,
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
full moon
the kiss was like a sting, short, sweet, deep. one of those unprepared moments in which you could let it go or take advantage of it. a powerful eagle, spreading his wings, in just one blink of the eye.
- we let go of each other very well aware of that dangerous tension, of that door we just had opened. it had been shut for a while. under the daily burdens. the daily tasks and goings and comings. his fingertips burned through light blue cloth into my shoulders. i bent over to get the dark red guitar case out of the car. his breath sharp and controlled breaking the magic, breaking the flow, making us go back to where the others were gathering in everchanging circles and spirales, laughing, talking, moving.
he was so close to me. so near to me. so precious to me. I remember. that night. full moon, high above the ocean. the sky a haven, big, round, wide, like a giant bell covering us little lovers in the palm of the world. like me embracing him with the innermost part of my body and soul... he kissed me like lava kisses the earth when the volcano erupts, his hands and breath and curls brushing over me like the wind, waves coming in and out, finding home, salt water to salt water and his eyes, like two burning coals next to the full round silverwhite shining moon. the moon, so still, so foggy, so mysterious, just smiling, just smiling, just finding us again.
do you remember that night, i said and he laughed, laughed it off, shook his shoulders and straightened up, gazing into the grey zone between the shore and the line.
night has come over us again.
he holds me and we drink and laugh and see her smiles, somewhat longing lingering in the air between us. finally we are all together. a full circle. and then he bends down over me, his fingers stroking my hair out of my face, smiling like a young god, his eyes, his eyes, mercy upon your soul. my lover full of grace smiles me in, takes me in, breathes me in, saying, see, my love?
- we let go of each other very well aware of that dangerous tension, of that door we just had opened. it had been shut for a while. under the daily burdens. the daily tasks and goings and comings. his fingertips burned through light blue cloth into my shoulders. i bent over to get the dark red guitar case out of the car. his breath sharp and controlled breaking the magic, breaking the flow, making us go back to where the others were gathering in everchanging circles and spirales, laughing, talking, moving.
he was so close to me. so near to me. so precious to me. I remember. that night. full moon, high above the ocean. the sky a haven, big, round, wide, like a giant bell covering us little lovers in the palm of the world. like me embracing him with the innermost part of my body and soul... he kissed me like lava kisses the earth when the volcano erupts, his hands and breath and curls brushing over me like the wind, waves coming in and out, finding home, salt water to salt water and his eyes, like two burning coals next to the full round silverwhite shining moon. the moon, so still, so foggy, so mysterious, just smiling, just smiling, just finding us again.
do you remember that night, i said and he laughed, laughed it off, shook his shoulders and straightened up, gazing into the grey zone between the shore and the line.
night has come over us again.
he holds me and we drink and laugh and see her smiles, somewhat longing lingering in the air between us. finally we are all together. a full circle. and then he bends down over me, his fingers stroking my hair out of my face, smiling like a young god, his eyes, his eyes, mercy upon your soul. my lover full of grace smiles me in, takes me in, breathes me in, saying, see, my love?
Thursday, July 26, 2007
how long how long
'How long do you want to still live this life?' he asked. He asked, 'how long do you plan on still living this life, beloved?' I laughed, laughed it away, laughed to disguise the knot in my throat that threatened to break through in a sobbing sigh.
Well, I said, well, I said I was going to be here for one more year, but what it exactly will hold I don't know.
'No, I mean, will you continue to just work or...'
No, no, I will start taking college classes in fall...
'What kind?'
Uhm, something like psychology, languages, writing, things that interest me, we'll see...
'Aha'
yeah...you know, Dad, you know, sometimes I think the same thing. I think, damn, how long can I do this still? I don't know if I can. Sometimes I regret not having auditioned for that theater project. Sometimes I think I should have gone for it. But then I tell myself to shut up, to not regret, because it makes sense and it is legitimate to do what I do. I know that I could do it like my sister, crazy, somehow, following a dream and it would work out, somehow, but I want to take on the responsibility I have. I do.
My sister told me once, somebody who knows what he wants finds a way. Somebody who doesn't know what he wants finds reasons.
I guess I walk the line, between those two. I know what I want but I found reasons too.
I have the feeling something will happen this fall and I don't know what it is but it will change my life. Maybe I will be in Paris all of the sudden.
Well, I said, well, I said I was going to be here for one more year, but what it exactly will hold I don't know.
'No, I mean, will you continue to just work or...'
No, no, I will start taking college classes in fall...
'What kind?'
Uhm, something like psychology, languages, writing, things that interest me, we'll see...
'Aha'
yeah...you know, Dad, you know, sometimes I think the same thing. I think, damn, how long can I do this still? I don't know if I can. Sometimes I regret not having auditioned for that theater project. Sometimes I think I should have gone for it. But then I tell myself to shut up, to not regret, because it makes sense and it is legitimate to do what I do. I know that I could do it like my sister, crazy, somehow, following a dream and it would work out, somehow, but I want to take on the responsibility I have. I do.
My sister told me once, somebody who knows what he wants finds a way. Somebody who doesn't know what he wants finds reasons.
I guess I walk the line, between those two. I know what I want but I found reasons too.
I have the feeling something will happen this fall and I don't know what it is but it will change my life. Maybe I will be in Paris all of the sudden.
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.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
peace and war 1# edition (storm in brain)
the moment when you stop shooting to reload the gun?
the moment when your mind rests from running?
the moment inbetween the heart beats?
the moment when the music sets in to blow away the dust of now?
there is no dust in the now, there is no dust in the now.
the dust, my friend, is blowing in the wind.
when it isn't struggle, is it oblivion?
when it isn't a fight, is it paradise?
when you are not fit, are you to blame?
are you sinking like an old wreck?
are you in shape, floating with the wind?
are you stirring into a direction?
will you ever arrive?
is it peace, when you arrive?
some people say that there is a life after death. as a child I knew that was right. as I grow older in earthly years I realize that there are some reasons why my grandfather rather believes that there isn't.
worms, the ultimate idea of peace. ceasing to be. the budhistic strive for no more lives on earth. heaven. not hell. war and peace, north and south pole, east and west, man and woman, to live and to rest.
I don't know where I go but I know I am walking. I don't know what to sing but I am breathing. Beats to unknown songs. Words to unknown melodies, stories to untold children.
Untold stories to children. You. Are. All. Children. When you are at peace.!?
The bird you hear singing when reloading the gun. the click a mere rhythmic contribution.
The breathing that you feel like waves crushing, when your mind stops running.
The echoe of your heart beats inbetween, taking on the lifesong.
The music that sings of dust and wind, of space and time, the sick and the ones getting better or worse...
May Be.
the moment when your mind rests from running?
the moment inbetween the heart beats?
the moment when the music sets in to blow away the dust of now?
there is no dust in the now, there is no dust in the now.
the dust, my friend, is blowing in the wind.
when it isn't struggle, is it oblivion?
when it isn't a fight, is it paradise?
when you are not fit, are you to blame?
are you sinking like an old wreck?
are you in shape, floating with the wind?
are you stirring into a direction?
will you ever arrive?
is it peace, when you arrive?
some people say that there is a life after death. as a child I knew that was right. as I grow older in earthly years I realize that there are some reasons why my grandfather rather believes that there isn't.
worms, the ultimate idea of peace. ceasing to be. the budhistic strive for no more lives on earth. heaven. not hell. war and peace, north and south pole, east and west, man and woman, to live and to rest.
I don't know where I go but I know I am walking. I don't know what to sing but I am breathing. Beats to unknown songs. Words to unknown melodies, stories to untold children.
Untold stories to children. You. Are. All. Children. When you are at peace.!?
The bird you hear singing when reloading the gun. the click a mere rhythmic contribution.
The breathing that you feel like waves crushing, when your mind stops running.
The echoe of your heart beats inbetween, taking on the lifesong.
The music that sings of dust and wind, of space and time, the sick and the ones getting better or worse...
May Be.
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