I've been knitting a lot recently. Meow!
Sunday, January 26, 2014
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
On the personal side of things.
Yes, I've been pregnant. No, I don't have a child.
I guess I don't need to explain. My decision, my responsibility, my pain. Mine alone. No one would help me carry my child, no one helped me deal with the consequences.
And yet, I wouldn't want anything to be different now. Nothing has taught me more about life, love and compassion than those few weeks I was a we. I don't wish I could have avoided this situation, I don't whish I could change what I've done. If anything, I am grateful for that little thing coming and living with me for however short a time we had. I gained a deeper understanding about pretty much everything, and if pain, guilt and shame are the price I have to pay, I pay it willingly.
Sometimes I feel like a cold hearted bitch because I am, in some sort of twisted way, grateful for what many would call the death - or the murder - of my child. And true, in order to deal with it, I did turn into a cold hearted bitch for a while. It's a tough decision, it was a tough time. I could simply not allow myself to feel everything at once.
But it was I who carried my child, not those who'd call me a murderer. It was us who shared this body, not anyone else. I made the conscious decision to call her my child - if I was going to deal with the pain, then I'd go the whole way, not trying to ease anything by telling myself something about cells and brain waves. And the truth is, from the very first moment, she was my child - our child. Even knowing I would never ever bring her to life, I could not deny the joy I felt when I found out. The horror, the joy. What followed then was a nightmare best kept in the dark. And it did not stop. I simply slid out of my life as it had been and I haven't made it back. I live on this side now. No one knows, no one sees, but that life, it has gone, and I won't get it back.
From the very beginning, I felt some kind of presence. Something was different - I denied it, because of reasons, but I knew. But that presence was not attatched to that thing in my womb. It was all around me, it permeated me. It was not conscious, it was not alive, it was just there. Just as love is there. But I was in shock. I couldn't have a child, I didn't want to. I pretended not to feel what I was feeling.
You see, my womb, my body. My hormones going wild, my signature on the paper. That's what it boils down to in the end. No one else. It is an immense weight, the inability to share any of this with anyone. As every woman who manages to maintain a true connection with her body knows not only with her mind, hormones have an enormous influence on how we feel, and on how we think. And getting rid of that thing in my womb hurt. It hurt physically, psychologically, it hurt in so many ways I just fail to describe it. And as if this was not enough, I was thrown into an intricate situation involving a whole bunch of people who were not allowed to know and expected more of me than I could have given even in my best times. A little part of my died.
A father? yes. There was one. Up until then.
But the point of the story is a different one. That presence, it did not go away after I saw that bloody mass disappear in the hospital trash. It stayed with me. It was different, but it stayed with me for quite a while. And I remember the first time I was able to feel joy again: It was when I felt the presence dissolve and become one with our surroundings again. Becoming dust and air and love and light, and thus continuing to be part of my life for now and ever. Look, I thought I heard her say, cry if you want to, as much as you need to. But I'm not gone. Thank you for letting me join you, thank you for letting me go. It was a short time, but what matters, is that we've been together.
And that little moment changed everything. That moment was worth all the suffering I went through and even all the suffering I caused in the aftermath. This is not about logic, or ethics, or reason, this is about the most powerful experience I've ever had. And no one will ever take that away from me.
Thank you, little one, for giving me so much. I know, one day, you, me, your father and everyone else won't be separated anymore. We won't be us, but we won't mind. Because We Are One.
I guess I don't need to explain. My decision, my responsibility, my pain. Mine alone. No one would help me carry my child, no one helped me deal with the consequences.
And yet, I wouldn't want anything to be different now. Nothing has taught me more about life, love and compassion than those few weeks I was a we. I don't wish I could have avoided this situation, I don't whish I could change what I've done. If anything, I am grateful for that little thing coming and living with me for however short a time we had. I gained a deeper understanding about pretty much everything, and if pain, guilt and shame are the price I have to pay, I pay it willingly.
Sometimes I feel like a cold hearted bitch because I am, in some sort of twisted way, grateful for what many would call the death - or the murder - of my child. And true, in order to deal with it, I did turn into a cold hearted bitch for a while. It's a tough decision, it was a tough time. I could simply not allow myself to feel everything at once.
But it was I who carried my child, not those who'd call me a murderer. It was us who shared this body, not anyone else. I made the conscious decision to call her my child - if I was going to deal with the pain, then I'd go the whole way, not trying to ease anything by telling myself something about cells and brain waves. And the truth is, from the very first moment, she was my child - our child. Even knowing I would never ever bring her to life, I could not deny the joy I felt when I found out. The horror, the joy. What followed then was a nightmare best kept in the dark. And it did not stop. I simply slid out of my life as it had been and I haven't made it back. I live on this side now. No one knows, no one sees, but that life, it has gone, and I won't get it back.
From the very beginning, I felt some kind of presence. Something was different - I denied it, because of reasons, but I knew. But that presence was not attatched to that thing in my womb. It was all around me, it permeated me. It was not conscious, it was not alive, it was just there. Just as love is there. But I was in shock. I couldn't have a child, I didn't want to. I pretended not to feel what I was feeling.
You see, my womb, my body. My hormones going wild, my signature on the paper. That's what it boils down to in the end. No one else. It is an immense weight, the inability to share any of this with anyone. As every woman who manages to maintain a true connection with her body knows not only with her mind, hormones have an enormous influence on how we feel, and on how we think. And getting rid of that thing in my womb hurt. It hurt physically, psychologically, it hurt in so many ways I just fail to describe it. And as if this was not enough, I was thrown into an intricate situation involving a whole bunch of people who were not allowed to know and expected more of me than I could have given even in my best times. A little part of my died.
A father? yes. There was one. Up until then.
But the point of the story is a different one. That presence, it did not go away after I saw that bloody mass disappear in the hospital trash. It stayed with me. It was different, but it stayed with me for quite a while. And I remember the first time I was able to feel joy again: It was when I felt the presence dissolve and become one with our surroundings again. Becoming dust and air and love and light, and thus continuing to be part of my life for now and ever. Look, I thought I heard her say, cry if you want to, as much as you need to. But I'm not gone. Thank you for letting me join you, thank you for letting me go. It was a short time, but what matters, is that we've been together.
And that little moment changed everything. That moment was worth all the suffering I went through and even all the suffering I caused in the aftermath. This is not about logic, or ethics, or reason, this is about the most powerful experience I've ever had. And no one will ever take that away from me.
Thank you, little one, for giving me so much. I know, one day, you, me, your father and everyone else won't be separated anymore. We won't be us, but we won't mind. Because We Are One.
Monday, December 23, 2013
Heaven is a Place on earth.
We've grown. We don't make the mistakes we used to make, we don't keep hurting each other blindingly, because we learnt to see, and we learnt that hurting someone won't undo any of the harm that has been done to us. We manage our feelings well: We let the darkness come as close as it wants. and we know that we only have to make a little step into any direction to find our way into the light. We've grown, yes.
And yet: I cringe at the thought that I'll never hear or say words like this again. I am horrified thinking that I'll never be so out of my mind again that I could close my eyes and forget all I knew, forgetting the deepest thruths it took so much work to gain, just to be there with you, with you, and only you - whoever you may be. But what I fear most, is that I'll never, ever, love anyone again as much as I loved you. I know Heaven is not a Place, and it's not on earth, and I can reach it without you perfectly well.
But I wish it was.
Lana del Rey - Videogames
And yet: I cringe at the thought that I'll never hear or say words like this again. I am horrified thinking that I'll never be so out of my mind again that I could close my eyes and forget all I knew, forgetting the deepest thruths it took so much work to gain, just to be there with you, with you, and only you - whoever you may be. But what I fear most, is that I'll never, ever, love anyone again as much as I loved you. I know Heaven is not a Place, and it's not on earth, and I can reach it without you perfectly well.
But I wish it was.
Lana del Rey - Videogames
Sunday, December 15, 2013
Nanika.
somethings off
Es gab einen Ruck, und plötzlich war schon immer alles ganz anders.Vielleicht hat die Welt aufgehört sich zu drehen? Oder vielleicht dreht sie sich jetzt in die andere Richtung?
Vielleicht bin ich es, die sich weitergedreht hat
mawaru mawaru fuusen no y-o-u ni
oder mein Blick. Ich klettere tief hinunter, und hebe meinen Blick zum halben Mond des Brunnendeckels.
Etwas ist da, und etwas ist weg. Etwas ist anders.
Verdreht. Verrückt. Verschoben.
Die Geschichte ergreift Besitz von mir. Indem ich beginne, sie zu erzählen, erzählt sie mich. Mein Schritt landet genau dort, wo er landen muss/soll/kann/darf worte waren ursprünglich zauber und auch die Welt befindet sich immer genau dort, wo mein Fuss auftrifft.
ano yo-
Und dennoch fällt mir jeder Satz erst ein, wenn der vorige meine Lippen verlassen hat. Wieder und wieder erzählen wir uns gegenseitig, und bewegen uns dennoch nie voneinenader
times up.
Es gab einen Ruck, und plötzlich war schon immer alles ganz anders.Vielleicht hat die Welt aufgehört sich zu drehen? Oder vielleicht dreht sie sich jetzt in die andere Richtung?
Vielleicht bin ich es, die sich weitergedreht hat
mawaru mawaru fuusen no y-o-u ni
oder mein Blick. Ich klettere tief hinunter, und hebe meinen Blick zum halben Mond des Brunnendeckels.
Etwas ist da, und etwas ist weg. Etwas ist anders.
Verdreht. Verrückt. Verschoben.
Die Geschichte ergreift Besitz von mir. Indem ich beginne, sie zu erzählen, erzählt sie mich. Mein Schritt landet genau dort, wo er landen muss/soll/kann/darf worte waren ursprünglich zauber und auch die Welt befindet sich immer genau dort, wo mein Fuss auftrifft.
ano yo-
Und dennoch fällt mir jeder Satz erst ein, wenn der vorige meine Lippen verlassen hat. Wieder und wieder erzählen wir uns gegenseitig, und bewegen uns dennoch nie voneinenader
times up.
Saturday, December 7, 2013
Denkmäler und so.
Nein. Sag nichts. Sag Nichts.
Die Zufälle begannen sich wieder zu häufen. Ich verweigere mich schon seit langem der Tatsache, dass diese eigenartigen Verflechtungen etwas mit einer Fehlschaltung meinerseits zu tun haben. Ja, ich mag mich von dieser Realität lösen. Aber nur weil meine Realität sich woanders befindet, heisst das nicht, dass meine Geschichte nicht wahr ist. Sie findet nur nicht hier statt. Und wenn ich mir die leeren und stumpfen Gesichter ansehe
sagt den irren unter uns dass sie schon ganz recht haben
dann nenne ich mich gerne wahnsinnig.
Lass uns träumen. Dort begegnen wir uns auf eine Weise, die hier nicht möglich ist. Wir weben ein Netz, indem wir uns nach und nach, sanft, einwickeln, und mit einem Lachen, und mit einem Klang zerfällt es wieder zu Staub. Der um uns in der Luft hängen bleibt und dann allmählich zu Boden schwebt: Woher wir kommen. Wohin wir gehen.
Die Dinge fielen mir zu. Je weniger ich tat, desto mehr geschah. Alle Dinge fielen an ihren Platz - und alles was ich zu tun brauchte war ausatmen. Aber dann begann ich, mir das Märchen zu erzählen, das altbekannte Märchen: Du bist was du tust! An ihren Taten sollt ihr sie erkennen! Sei stark: sei wach-sam. Sei dies, sei das: Sei!
Und ich fing an, die Leere zu füllen. Mit Sinn, mit Ideen, hehren, mit Zielen und Plänen. Ich war erfüllt. Ich labte mich, ich träumte und hoffte und bangte. Aber wie die weichen Kissen in meinem Bett einst von der Ruhestätte zu unerklärlich furchterregenden Lufträubern wurden, so fing mein eigener Inhalt an mich zu erdrücken. Von innen her schwoll ich an, schwoll mein Bauch an, schwollen meine Brüste an, meine Lungen, meine Kehle, mein Gehirn, und gelangte doch nie
oder hätte ich den Weg nach Hause lieber nicht alleine finden sollen
nach aussen.
Wenn ich dich ansehe, weiss ich nicht, was ich sehe. Ob du dich einfach nur zu gut als Zerrbild meiner selbst eignest, um dich als Du zu sehen. Ich sah dich wachsen, ich wuchs an dir. Ich verlor dich und ich fand dich. Ich hatte dich nie, und deswegen wirst du immer mein bleiben.
Sei! Nein, Sei nicht, sei Nichts, sei nicht mein, schweig, schweig, sag kein Wort!
Und du lachst mich an, mit deinen Grübchen, eine unendliche Schwere in den Augen, die deine Lippen nie berührt. Aber dieses Jahr, wie jedes Jahr zuvor, wird alles anders. Dieses Jahr kommt alles zu spät und ich fange früher an. Ich ruhe,
dass das wasser in bewegung mit der zeit den stein besiegt
ich warte schon von Anfang an, und immer wieder, ich höre auf zu sei-n und
bin
auch diesmal: für all diejenigen, die Augen haben.
Die Zufälle begannen sich wieder zu häufen. Ich verweigere mich schon seit langem der Tatsache, dass diese eigenartigen Verflechtungen etwas mit einer Fehlschaltung meinerseits zu tun haben. Ja, ich mag mich von dieser Realität lösen. Aber nur weil meine Realität sich woanders befindet, heisst das nicht, dass meine Geschichte nicht wahr ist. Sie findet nur nicht hier statt. Und wenn ich mir die leeren und stumpfen Gesichter ansehe
sagt den irren unter uns dass sie schon ganz recht haben
dann nenne ich mich gerne wahnsinnig.
Lass uns träumen. Dort begegnen wir uns auf eine Weise, die hier nicht möglich ist. Wir weben ein Netz, indem wir uns nach und nach, sanft, einwickeln, und mit einem Lachen, und mit einem Klang zerfällt es wieder zu Staub. Der um uns in der Luft hängen bleibt und dann allmählich zu Boden schwebt: Woher wir kommen. Wohin wir gehen.
Die Dinge fielen mir zu. Je weniger ich tat, desto mehr geschah. Alle Dinge fielen an ihren Platz - und alles was ich zu tun brauchte war ausatmen. Aber dann begann ich, mir das Märchen zu erzählen, das altbekannte Märchen: Du bist was du tust! An ihren Taten sollt ihr sie erkennen! Sei stark: sei wach-sam. Sei dies, sei das: Sei!
Und ich fing an, die Leere zu füllen. Mit Sinn, mit Ideen, hehren, mit Zielen und Plänen. Ich war erfüllt. Ich labte mich, ich träumte und hoffte und bangte. Aber wie die weichen Kissen in meinem Bett einst von der Ruhestätte zu unerklärlich furchterregenden Lufträubern wurden, so fing mein eigener Inhalt an mich zu erdrücken. Von innen her schwoll ich an, schwoll mein Bauch an, schwollen meine Brüste an, meine Lungen, meine Kehle, mein Gehirn, und gelangte doch nie
oder hätte ich den Weg nach Hause lieber nicht alleine finden sollen
nach aussen.
Wenn ich dich ansehe, weiss ich nicht, was ich sehe. Ob du dich einfach nur zu gut als Zerrbild meiner selbst eignest, um dich als Du zu sehen. Ich sah dich wachsen, ich wuchs an dir. Ich verlor dich und ich fand dich. Ich hatte dich nie, und deswegen wirst du immer mein bleiben.
Sei! Nein, Sei nicht, sei Nichts, sei nicht mein, schweig, schweig, sag kein Wort!
Und du lachst mich an, mit deinen Grübchen, eine unendliche Schwere in den Augen, die deine Lippen nie berührt. Aber dieses Jahr, wie jedes Jahr zuvor, wird alles anders. Dieses Jahr kommt alles zu spät und ich fange früher an. Ich ruhe,
dass das wasser in bewegung mit der zeit den stein besiegt
ich warte schon von Anfang an, und immer wieder, ich höre auf zu sei-n und
bin
auch diesmal: für all diejenigen, die Augen haben.
Sunday, October 20, 2013
Life Signs
A few days ago I had coffee with someone. I was telling about a friend (acquaintance? how is one supposed to know these days, with the internet and everything) who used to disappear from time to time, leaving "us" all to worry. It is a weird thing, watching someone's mental condition deteriorate, in the worst case, or simply changing, in a less drastic way, until one day, they just disappear.
He then told me, among many, many othe things, that he understood very well. That he, however distant the connection might have been, couldn't help but worry a little when someone you'd shared your thoughts with just... wasn't there anymore.
He then told me, that after a while he found out he had been doing exactly that all the time. Hiding, dissapearing, leaving everyone to wonder. And that made me think. A little.
I'm not quite well lately. I think most people that have known me can relate, days are getting shorter, semester has started again - it's not quite as fun as lazy summer weeks. I'm facing new challenges in a lot of different areas of my life, and though I'm quite convinced that I am more than able to face them head up, this makes me very nervous. It always feels like I'm dragging behind. It's never enough. Never enough, no matter how much I do. Still, there is only one way to escape, and since I really don't want to kill myself (besides, I have very successfully indoctrinated myself with belief in reincarnation, and am thus convinced that even killing myself just leads me exactly back to where I was trying to escape from), I might as well do that facing stuff.
So if someone asked me if i was fine, I wouldn't know what to say. On the outside, all seems quite well. One layer deeper, there is nothing but fear and self contempt and despair. Go even deeper, and you find the usual rock solid, unwavering certainty that everything is how it should be, and that it will all be well in the end. So, no, I'm not fine, but I'm getting by, and I thing after finishing these chances, even that fear-and-despair-layer will be easier to cope with.
He then told me, among many, many othe things, that he understood very well. That he, however distant the connection might have been, couldn't help but worry a little when someone you'd shared your thoughts with just... wasn't there anymore.
He then told me, that after a while he found out he had been doing exactly that all the time. Hiding, dissapearing, leaving everyone to wonder. And that made me think. A little.
I'm not quite well lately. I think most people that have known me can relate, days are getting shorter, semester has started again - it's not quite as fun as lazy summer weeks. I'm facing new challenges in a lot of different areas of my life, and though I'm quite convinced that I am more than able to face them head up, this makes me very nervous. It always feels like I'm dragging behind. It's never enough. Never enough, no matter how much I do. Still, there is only one way to escape, and since I really don't want to kill myself (besides, I have very successfully indoctrinated myself with belief in reincarnation, and am thus convinced that even killing myself just leads me exactly back to where I was trying to escape from), I might as well do that facing stuff.
So if someone asked me if i was fine, I wouldn't know what to say. On the outside, all seems quite well. One layer deeper, there is nothing but fear and self contempt and despair. Go even deeper, and you find the usual rock solid, unwavering certainty that everything is how it should be, and that it will all be well in the end. So, no, I'm not fine, but I'm getting by, and I thing after finishing these chances, even that fear-and-despair-layer will be easier to cope with.
Monday, September 9, 2013
I had a dream.
I remember telling you that dream, while we were walking, I saw your eyes grow large, the goosebumps on your skin, you suddenly shuddered. I had told you about her, didn't I? You couldn't understand properly if I hadn't told you about her. She. Mine. Mine and Mine only. From the beginning to the very bloody end. The cheering comfort she gave me while she lingered and then left. Why is it that the ones we hurt so badly that spend solace on us? While the ones that hurt us just drop us with our dead dreams.
In my dream, I saw her... again. She was small, tiny, her face beautifully carved (mine MINE). She came running on her tiny feet, held up her tiny hands and said: "I'm scared. There is something. I don't know what it is, but it's there! There is something!" I froze. "But he's gone!" I said. "The Doctor's gone! How can that be?"
I took her in my arms (oh, her bones were so delicate, she hardly weighed a thing) and hurriedly, we left.
Oh, and that's where my tongue, where my fingers refuse to give me the words I crave. I remember beauty, sad and proud, broken and mended, used and worn, full of memory and life slowly fading.
(My... head? starts to ache. I can feel the pulse. I can feel it.)
And then... gone. She was gone. No, I was gone. Because I remember, it was only when I got back and found her again that I noticed she had been gone. I ran through dark woods, I saw dead ghosts, I ran, I ran, I never got tired. Old cities, empty, except for the people there, and beauty, heartbreaking, mindbending, breathtaking beauty. Broken windows, open doors, Dust, Dust everywhere. We hurried - how had I become Us? - through that hall that lead to where I suddenly remembered her.
Quietly She was sitting there, playing, between majestic chairs, in front of the crackling fire, so small, so tiny, oblivious. Child! I spoke, are they still here, are they still here?
(Goose bumps, small tear in large eyes, a sudden shiver. It was a Dream, only a Dream. I am not alone no never alone never alone)
Dreamily, she turned around. "Why, yes, of course they are. Right there", she pointed, "But don't worry. They won't do anything to you. You see, the only reason we were so afraid was, that we didn't know who they were." I had frozen with her first words. I was unable to move, to think, to act. "Here you go", she said, her voice calm and steady as it always had been, "take this". And she gave me a small lamp. I made the effort to take the lamp, eyes avoiding the place she had pointed at, my hand trembling. "You need to look", she insisted, "what use is the light if you don't look?" And suddenly I felt so ashamed that she, she above all, could stay so peaceful while I was consumed by fear.
The light it gave off was a pale blue. I raised the lamp, following the line with my gaze. And there I saw him. A large candle, as big as a small child, old, ancient, patiently burning, and his two brothers, too. And I knew who they were. They needed no swords, no wings: I knew wh they were, red flame flickering in the pale blue light of the lamp She had given me.
I haven't woken up since. No, I haven't woken up. But it all makes sense now.
I remember telling you that dream, while we were walking, I saw your eyes grow large, the goosebumps on your skin, you suddenly shuddered. I had told you about her, didn't I? You couldn't understand properly if I hadn't told you about her. She. Mine. Mine and Mine only. From the beginning to the very bloody end. The cheering comfort she gave me while she lingered and then left. Why is it that the ones we hurt so badly that spend solace on us? While the ones that hurt us just drop us with our dead dreams.
In my dream, I saw her... again. She was small, tiny, her face beautifully carved (mine MINE). She came running on her tiny feet, held up her tiny hands and said: "I'm scared. There is something. I don't know what it is, but it's there! There is something!" I froze. "But he's gone!" I said. "The Doctor's gone! How can that be?"
I took her in my arms (oh, her bones were so delicate, she hardly weighed a thing) and hurriedly, we left.
Oh, and that's where my tongue, where my fingers refuse to give me the words I crave. I remember beauty, sad and proud, broken and mended, used and worn, full of memory and life slowly fading.
(My... head? starts to ache. I can feel the pulse. I can feel it.)
And then... gone. She was gone. No, I was gone. Because I remember, it was only when I got back and found her again that I noticed she had been gone. I ran through dark woods, I saw dead ghosts, I ran, I ran, I never got tired. Old cities, empty, except for the people there, and beauty, heartbreaking, mindbending, breathtaking beauty. Broken windows, open doors, Dust, Dust everywhere. We hurried - how had I become Us? - through that hall that lead to where I suddenly remembered her.
Quietly She was sitting there, playing, between majestic chairs, in front of the crackling fire, so small, so tiny, oblivious. Child! I spoke, are they still here, are they still here?
(Goose bumps, small tear in large eyes, a sudden shiver. It was a Dream, only a Dream. I am not alone no never alone never alone)
Dreamily, she turned around. "Why, yes, of course they are. Right there", she pointed, "But don't worry. They won't do anything to you. You see, the only reason we were so afraid was, that we didn't know who they were." I had frozen with her first words. I was unable to move, to think, to act. "Here you go", she said, her voice calm and steady as it always had been, "take this". And she gave me a small lamp. I made the effort to take the lamp, eyes avoiding the place she had pointed at, my hand trembling. "You need to look", she insisted, "what use is the light if you don't look?" And suddenly I felt so ashamed that she, she above all, could stay so peaceful while I was consumed by fear.
The light it gave off was a pale blue. I raised the lamp, following the line with my gaze. And there I saw him. A large candle, as big as a small child, old, ancient, patiently burning, and his two brothers, too. And I knew who they were. They needed no swords, no wings: I knew wh they were, red flame flickering in the pale blue light of the lamp She had given me.
I haven't woken up since. No, I haven't woken up. But it all makes sense now.
Thursday, September 5, 2013
What We Are
i am a singer
i believe i make
sound out of pain
melody flowing through your ears and
inside your brain
i cling
i am a painter
i believe i make
pictures out of colours and words
let them melt into each other
and tear
the music
apart.
i am a healer
i believe i give
you a bag to carry your pain
i share your load i
make you smile and sigh and sleep
i am:
a believer,
i believe.
i believe i make
sound out of pain
melody flowing through your ears and
inside your brain
i cling
i am a painter
i believe i make
pictures out of colours and words
let them melt into each other
and tear
the music
apart.
i am a healer
i believe i give
you a bag to carry your pain
i share your load i
make you smile and sigh and sleep
i am:
a believer,
i believe.
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
M.
i don't remember much of that night. eyes and lashes, a scent of leather and honey, and an asymmetry so well balanced it could even out all the bumps and bruises, the scratches and scars...
but i remember: that night my head ached for the first time. oh, it wasn't my first headache. i've had headaches before: because i'd drink too much, because i didn't drink enough, because i hadn't eaten enough. never because i had eaten too much. but that headache
it hasn't gone since.
it's still there, somewhere behind my eyes, right there, in the middle of everything. i can't feel it, but it's still there. and the dumb absence of the real thing tortures me more than the sharp pang that would
at least make me cry.
but i remember: that night my head ached for the first time. oh, it wasn't my first headache. i've had headaches before: because i'd drink too much, because i didn't drink enough, because i hadn't eaten enough. never because i had eaten too much. but that headache
it hasn't gone since.
it's still there, somewhere behind my eyes, right there, in the middle of everything. i can't feel it, but it's still there. and the dumb absence of the real thing tortures me more than the sharp pang that would
at least make me cry.
Monday, August 19, 2013
What We Are Made Of.
This man is made of letters. A lot of letters, that goes without saying, an astronomic number of letters - but letters only.
Here is his girlfriend. She is, as you can see, made of flesh and bones. And what flesh, what bones! It's a delight to see it - and to touch it!
Now they are going to the fair together. On the swingboat and on the Ferris wheel, everything is still alright. But then they get to a shooting stand; a somewhat strange shooting stand, admittedly.
Test yourself! is written in large letters on it. And below, the rules:
The man, his arm around his girlfriends hips, attentively studies the inscription. He wants to go on quickly, but she urges him to make use of this profitable offer. She wants to see what he's able to do.
- Every shot scores.
- You get a free shot for each score.
- The first shot is free.
But the man doesn't want to.
"Why not, darling? There's nothing to it, is there?"
The thing is, that you have to shoot at a quite particular aim, namely on yourself, that is to say, at your own reflection in a metal mirror. And the Man of Letters does not feel real enough to differ between himself and his reflection in such a bold manner.
"Either you shoot", the girlfriend says angrily, "or I'll leave you!"
He shakes his head. And there she goes with another man, a butcher, who knows all about flesh and bones.
The man is left behind and gazes after her. As she disappears from his vision, he falls apart into a little heap of tiny minuscules and majuscules that gets stamped into the ground by the crowd.
In fact, he might as well have shot, might he not.
-Michael Ende, The mirror in the Mirror. A labyrinth
Roots and leaves.
Sunday, May 5, 2013
Empires rise
and empires fall.
S isch äbe n en Mönsch uf Ärde...
I just moved into my new flat. Room. Whatever you want to call it. This feels so weird. Kinda sad, despite of everything. So very lonely, though I shouldn't be. Reminds me of the time in Japan, sitting in my room - no actually missing anyone or anything in particular - but missing, oh, something was missing. That yearning I always feared I had lost: here it is again. Tearing my heart apart.
And I love it.
S isch äbe n en Mönsch uf Ärde...
I just moved into my new flat. Room. Whatever you want to call it. This feels so weird. Kinda sad, despite of everything. So very lonely, though I shouldn't be. Reminds me of the time in Japan, sitting in my room - no actually missing anyone or anything in particular - but missing, oh, something was missing. That yearning I always feared I had lost: here it is again. Tearing my heart apart.
And I love it.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Instant Zen
1) Zustände erreichen
2) Zustände mit Reizen koppeln
3) Reize mit Zuständen koppeln
4) Zustände erreichen
2) Zustände mit Reizen koppeln
3) Reize mit Zuständen koppeln
4) Zustände erreichen
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Neutrals
Es geht neutral zu und her: Aber nur im Bezug auf Kleidung.
So geht das! Wenn man Blaue Haare hat, sieht die Welt ganz anders aus, ich schwör, Mann! :-D
So geht das! Wenn man Blaue Haare hat, sieht die Welt ganz anders aus, ich schwör, Mann! :-D
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