the night

the people with a life leave now. disappear into the dim twilight. i eat some strawberries, those i brought, as far as I am concerned, i have no where to go, don't know where i belong.
think of random things, that rhyme, like song, thong, bong, wrong.
i eat some more strawberries.
there is a little girl dancing on the table her mouth a little pout, her hair twirly curly, shmirly, she is so adorable.
maybe i ll go swim in the moonlight

schizophrenia

schizophrenia
Sometimes I stopped in the middle of a sentence and felt ashamed of myself. I remembered how I would sometimes talk cynical about my love just to hide how much I really cared. To protect the unnameable. Nothing wrong with that, granted, but still...It's a distinct feeling of being too weak to be true.
It's LA, man, it's something that you can't put in words. All I said, maybe that's true too, maybe that's what I really think when I am not trapped in this gigantic lost-angels-hole. But when I was driving down the black forest A5 to see my friend Silvia and the sun worked her way through the pale clouds, I couldn't help thinking that I would love to drive down the sidewalk at the beach, with the wind in my hair.
LA is for phony money oriented career suckers, sure, of course, but also for outdoor freaks (it's really just an hour and you're in the middle of mountains or the sea or the desert) and people who are content with a small circle of good friends who don't care about the rest in the city. And not necessarily oblivious to the rest of the world.
It's also a place where, as an artist, you can actually do really interesting things. It's the schizophrenia of being inbetween the dirty, gritty world of the streets and fucked up buildings and the glimmer glamour media dominated celebrity world that infiltrates the minds of millions and billions of tabloid readers every day everwhere in this crazy world.
It's a giant tight-rope dance project.
Where illusions are millimeters away from reality and yet universes away... Reality so relative, like clay waiting to be formed. Results to be sold elsewhere. Where you feel more detached from the rest of the world than anywhere else (well, THAT is a very subjective judgement) but where most of the rest of the brainwashed world thinks that it's at. Where it's different from what you think it is. Always. And where you have to confront yourself in a different way than before (DUH, true for everywhere, right?). Where you can hide from yourself just as well. It's up to you, always, in this crazy city. (well I guess...it 's everywhere that way?!)

The schizophrenia for me lies in the fact that i can't tell.
I can't take my words back. It's still the same. I still don't like it. I still almost start crying and get disgusted by my own depressed voice or attitude when people ask me how I am or like it here. I can't stand the good mood or smiles either when they are plastered on my face. It's a fucking caroussel and I am by no means in the position to say anything at all, actually. Which, of course, doesn't stop me from contemplating and rambling like I do now.
I am kind of driven by this feeling of shame that crept in, when I stopped for a second in the middle of a conversation with a ecology/economy student in one of Berlin's fantastically fucked up backhouse stairways. The light was dim and sounds simmering in the air. His hair was in dreads and his smile a beam that glued me to the steps. I couldn't move for half an hour, caught up in the cascade of words flying back and forth, weaving a story about LA and America and my life here that was just not really true. It was as true as it can be in a state of schizophrenia. It was the other side. It was, what made him say, I hope you make the right decisions and when you're back here come by for a coffee or a beer. It sounds like you should move back here.

When I finally left I felt excited and tormented in the same time. Ironically I ran into a girl from San Francisco downstairs who was in search of a place to stay. She was in Berlin and I felt home and she felt out of place.
Literally.
I can't tell. Still. I haven't been writing much about my time in Germany or the time after, here. Digestion is slow. It was hard to swallow.

And I still feel sorry for having painted such a tristesse in the eyes of my friends. LA. You aren't that bad after all. Are you.

Fragments

Then he said, don't worry, we are both kind of Gypsies, we always move around - for now, you'll live your life here, I have my life over there...Maybe we'll meet at some other crossroads again, and until then, man, I'm always here as a friend. And the most important thing is that you do what ever it is you want. Figure it out, but go with the flow.

The relief which these words brought are kind of unimaginable for anyone else but me, of course. It's not like I wanted to know that there is some sort of a safety net - that he d say I wait for you or some bullshit like that....but I was freaked out, that this might be a either/or situation. A possible bad mistake. One that ouch, hurts.
Now I'll continue going with the flow without hurting or regretting. Feeling free and okay. Okay to be me. Okay to be loyal. Okay to honor this big love of my life.

It wasn't a marital promise, just as my Dad rightly commented today. But it isn't wrong either to be faithful and giving everything it's own time to grow, blossom, die. Giving it a chance to be reborn. Who knows. I don't count on anything. It's just that I think every step has its own importance. Yeah, I should write a new age book on that. lol...

So I let go of him for now and continue to pursue the ways that unfold in front of my eyes as I walk through this wild jungle called life.

I Thought This Was Hilarious...But it might just be that I'm blinded by a thing called...

Real life text messaging:
'Yeah but if I come you have to care for me'
"Lol WHAT IN THE HELL DOES THAT MEAN?"
'Um...cook for me. Massage me. Talk to me. All that shit. Wash my jeans. DAILY BLOW JOBS. Things like that.'

I Wholeheartedly Agree

Capital punishment is as fundamentally wrong as a cure for crime as charity is wrong as a cure for poverty.
(Henry Ford)

apple and oranges

There is something to being stuck in the middle of America with no dime to your name but tons of country music on air. I munch rice crackers and pitty the fact that those two nice king sized beds won't get any loving tonight, what a waste of beauty and space. Oh well. So since there is absolutely NOTHING to do here around Cincinnati International airport or in this hotel I turn the TV on.
A while into zapping around I realize I haven't watched TV in ages.

The next thing I realize is that I haven't watched Bush enough on TV.

I am appalled.
I am apalled.
Gosh.
I am apalled.

I am truly astonished how this man can still be doing what he is doing. Doesn't he wake up at night, covered in cold sweat, treading the next public announcements he has to go through?
The painstakingly horrifying moments when a reporter asks a question that sounds so smart that all he said before just looks like horseshit next to it?
The cringing inside when the answer is so stupid and by the way not the right answer to that question....but merely a repetition of the previous said....an apple for the orange...

God Bless America.

stuck

stuck in the middle of America with no dime to my name but a lot of decision making ahead.
the hotel is comfy, not in vain, the name - comfort suites - and you are missing. Those beds...they are so big and so vast and so inviting. TO use them properly. I ll just lay there tonight and wonder about how life goes.
will i take the flight to LA tomorrow?
will I take the greyhound for 17 hours to see you?
will I melt again?
will it be hard?

Love is Blind

Can´t believe that those shades returned. Blueblockers. Like those you used to wear.
Nervous butterflies once again, returning from long lost dreams, sccary how they flutter and shiver in the early morning sun.
The prospect of you. Of me in you. Around you. Your arms.
Love makes me blind.

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.

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.