Think (15.11.17)

How many times can a single piece of cake be divided?

A bag of mixed up pencils and brushes, stained papers all over and a tiny plastic bottle with a cap to squeeze the water through. The place is set in seconds like an operation table of that kind that you find in hospitals with mint-green walls.
Elsa had no idea by then, that the place around her would be dissected in the same fashion, for days to come.
The lamp would throw short shadows on the paper, while there would be no other sound then that of the grinding of coffee beans, for minuets and minuets. It is so seldom that Elsa experiences the ease to not be conform some kind of idea when spending time with someone. To not talk, but to feel a high, intensified by the actions of the abreast, that again make her appear in a state of no judgement towards her own actions, as we usually tend to do.
Or maybe this was just an introduction, the flawless before they pull their bow and arrow?

It feels like the wave of Hokusai has just thrown them out through the cafe door. Set free to the cold, following a hit in the face by reality. They close their jackets and move on. She impresses her bag of Periotropes
(tools that enable her to react to any ascending phenomenon, capturing it, analyzing it and storing it), just to see if they still there, but leaving it closed for a little longer. 'Wir hätten gern zwei Gemista und zwei Capuccino, bitte.'
He attaches a red tin funnel to her ear without coming close, giving away his stories. They do not sound loud nor cupped. She follows each entanglement through the forest of expressions seeing a path of thoughts well marked on a map of only islands.
They can feel how their sleeves slowly start to interweave while walking. To almost immediately be interrupted again
by the beeping gauge of pre-conditions that make their way from the shoulder down. The scream for absolute connection, the recurrent inability to do so, the fear to turn into Süskind's Jean-Baptiste or simply loosing track of your bag of pencils. Elsa is astonished by the apparent duality of the fantastic and the absolute sharpness, takes a marker and engraves a Q and an I on the door while he draws up the stairs.

Building (15.12.19)

If Simonides would walk through that door. On top of the dark blue shelve, on the right side when you enter the room, sits a wooden sculpture of a donkey that is reminding of the days that he would come back home, after being gone for a week, with a shiny new magazine of dressage horses, which smells like fresh glue. Further down the shelve stands a white candle, on it a thick red wax cross, referring to the moment he had given that photo-developing-kit, long before art school. Along the wall you find a plank on eye-height with a well preserved collection of different sizes shiny sawing-blades, that revive the evening he had build a cabinet from scratch for the grandfathers record player. The bulky fireplace standing a little off the wall, resembling the moments of sneaking under his blanket every night, more then 35 years ago. When you make a turn to the left further into the room you find a vase from the 50's with more then 30 roses on a small coffee table, bringing back the surprise birthday party he had organized in that favorite bar. Next to the vase stands an orange disc-dial-phone, indicating his phone calls to explain the situation on the road while driving to Berlin. A lavender hammock stretching diagonal through the room, resembling the week he had constructed a brand new bed between two wardrobes in the new sleeping room on the first floor. On the left side of the rope hangs a golden key, that gives a cue to the many moments of him opening the front door at two in the morning in his pyjamas, without making a scene. At the window-knob you find a triangle instrument, that calls up the day that wild shetland pony had arrived. On the ground in front of the heating you find a pill-box which recalls the moment he had explained how to feed the bees for the winter, while standing on top of the garden shed. A wooden box with a toy truck stands in the center of the room on a plinth, that points out the many brunches on the top floor in Kaufhaus Galleria at Alexanderplatz.

As the Neubauten once sang, 'I wish this would be your color'

Princess (15.10.19)

Quote:
"Nothing is static. Our bodies flourish through dynamic constant exchange with the universe. Cells thrive through cooperation with one another, as do all organs. Blood must flow freely and stopping its flow creates coagulation, just as thwarting the flow of a river creates stagnation. Nature similarly provides us with a perfect symphony. The sun provides warmth for seed buts to sprout. Rain brings much needed moisture to crops which subsequently gives us food to nourish our bodies. Nowhere in the natural world does hoarding exist. The process of giving and receiving is a crucial part of natures rich abundance. In this way the law of giving is very simple. If you want joy, give joy to others. If love is what you seek, offer love. If you crave material affluence, then help others become prosperous. The easiest ways to get what you want, is to circulate the flow of abundance and help others get what they want and what they need. To be blessed with all good things in life, including abundance, learn to silently bless everyone with all the good things in their life.
Pleasant thoughts, good wishes, appreciation, compliments or even a smile. The more you give, the more you receive. Consider abundance and simply another name for universal good, which is always available to you, as a divine loving compassionate being. By excepting lifes goodness and offering it to others, you will create true abundance in your own life. Practice the law of giving by offering a small gift to everyone you encounter. The gift needn't be expensive, a flower, a smile, a heartfelt compliment, a helping hand or a silent blessing. And remain open to gratefully receiving gifts that are offered to you."

Facade (15.08.19)

Countless layers covering even more layers, too dense to ever be lifted.

It must have occurred at the 'piazza delle facciate' as far as I can remember.
The Noblewomen as well as the Merchants would travel far with their historic facades,
made of ancient stones and often covered with useless ornaments. They congregate around
an uneven square for seemingly leisure purposes. The order of placement would commonly be determined by the simplest rule of all 'first come first serve'. Which can be quite grueling.
For example last year, Sir Heros was allocated between Countess Trieux and Baron Calliope, archenemies since birth, just because it took him seconds to find a book cover before his departure. The opposite of what you might be thinking is true, but cleaning the surface of the facades is unheard of. And rather known as to be an effective way of displaying your knowledge, ever since the great depression. The rain patches that are carefully attached around the solid frames of the entrances tell of a landscape far to the east of the square and making it easier to identify with, I was told. The architecture is so numerous in execution, that the mind of the guests on the terraces have no rest assured. The inclination of the stripes first draw your gaze upwards, in order to then direct the glance onto the narrow part of the overhanging roof.
Here is to point out that the Merchant Erato has taken care of the exact 64 degree angles between each of the facades, since 20 years now, which makes it hard for her to find the time for vacation (sometimes you would hear her complain). Not to mention the wooden covers of certain windows, that doubtlessly want to demand their perspective.
Everyone is aware that for each occasion there is a suitable window-attribute trying to least represent the situation which is happening behind it. Whereas the confetti in the gaps indicate that the clouds are hanging low the next day indeed, on time for the farewell. Like I said before, too many layers, the play must have long started without the audience ready. What else would have been the point of shortening this whole rehearsal?
But you know what I am really sorry about? is that in all those years they never managed to lay beautifully patterned tiles at the front entrance, being unpolished to the core over time.

Power (15.07.19)

If I think of the options, the possibilities might as well be infinite.
I lost the ring.
That ring that I know as long as I can think.
The ring that I was sure I will wear one day.
Anything that had happened the week before seemed to merge as one day.
And so far I did not solve the riddle.

It was around end of last year that I actively decided to stop sabotaging myself, repeating the mantra 'I will be fearless from now on' (as an artist, a human, a lover and a working bee) three times, while laying on the cold floor listening to her Nidra voice. I felt a drive.
I took the train to my parents soon after x-mas, with a card-game in my luggage. This game is meant to get to know each other better by asking questions off cards to one another. I was determined to have my father join. 'What was the best present you've ever received?', 'I received three' (meaning my brothers and me). He had tears stuck in his eyes.
I felt slightly uncomfortable, suppressing my own emotion, believing that I had never before seen him that emotional. Unaware of the puzzle piece that this moment would offer me. He is a man of his generation, a provider that knows no rest and had barely the time or ability to deal with the traumas that he inherited from his ancestors.
What is it to grow old, maturing, knowing your limits and needs, stepping aside, reconsidering, emancipating yourself from the past? We are loosing traces of naivety and consequently a precious type of passion too. I was as clear then as I am now, that I do want to continue to wander, stumble or dive into a lake of tales. This time thou with beaming confidence.
I was finally in Rome when my mom called me to tell me that my father had a stroke and that he is on the intensive care. He died 4 days later surrounded by us on the 5th of March.
His eyes were looking at me for the last time that January.
The golden signet ring with a squared black onyx stone was handed to us by the nurse in a plastic bag, together with his watch and teeth. And only after a month was I ready to wear it.
Slightly too big on my index finger.
People that trust in the power of stones, believe that the onyx crystal 'helps stomp out negative thought patterns stemming from the most debilitating and toxic emotion of them all – fear, the shackles of self-doubt and anxiety'.
A colleague told me that he once dried his hands with the kitchen towel, that was hanging near the garbage bin. His ring was nowhere to be found, only while he emptied the garbage bin he saw his ring falling through. A woman on the street told me (while I was searching the ground with a rented metal detector) that a friend of hers temporarily lost his ring that got stuck at the back of his office-chair.
Maybe our ring fell under the car after I tied my shoes and was then taken by a bird that dropped it near the pedestrian bridge, the ring then being pushed into the canal by a governmental lawn mower.
Infinite possibilities.
Like memories that help us through the night.

I want to end this story with the monologue taken from a film.

'[...] if there is pain, nurse it. And if there is a flame, don't snuff it out. Don't be brutal with it. We rip out so much of ourselves to be cured of things faster, that we go bankrupt by the age of thirty and have less to offer each time we start with someone new. But to make yourself feel nothing so as not to feel anything – what a waste.'

Sitting (15.06.19)

Sitting down does not necessarily mean to lay down next. I could stand up eventually after I sat down. I might even have to stand up again. As much as my body is asking me to lay down today, I resist and stay seated, possibly no movement involved at all. If I would lay down I could turn from one side to the other or shake up my pillow, just what feels best for my back. Sitting is simply the between standing and laying. Something that takes a certain amount of time.
What if I put my feet up, would that count as laying or still sitting. Who would be the judge of that and anyways why at all. Someone or something could asks you to get up is also an option. I could focus on the notes on my wall, read them over and over again. If the seat has wheels I could turn my face towards the sun, close my eyes and stare against the inner side of my eyelids. And even if everything was within reach, I still would want to visit San Remo.

You (15.01.19)

That would be the other one, wouldn't it?
A sublime possibility of freshly consumed projection, from within me.
'A transmission by imagination', shooting at you, bedded by the æther and smiling gracefully over the abyss. Jumping down and cutting through the clouds, too close to the grass-covered side, when different hands pull it into the centre of absolute darkness, just to be able to continue to fall.
Sublime by its energetic nature, causal and surely not lavish. Carrying me on a wing that uses the warm lift of the city's backyard. A bright projection that fills the sky with sparkle, transforming a window into a kaleidoscope, a thousand times. Everything falls into place for now, when these fractions and rash rearrangements shake their hands, when it is time to break through the branches, landing on the ground and clearing my mind of most misconception.

2018

January (15.12.18)

December is not January. *



*I just want you to read this short sentence very carefully.

At the time (15.11.18)

The floor is as dark as it always was, the smell of the cleaning-soap is long gone and the walls block the view to something that is about to reveal itself.

Possibly not so much of a revelation, but rather a still unexpected outcome of something that has been polished for a vague time. Its hard for me to describe what I do not see. Black matter matters a big deal.

We all arrived and ready to set the tasks to start and then finish this, before we can continue with the new. It does not take long and the sound of drilling, pushing, dragging and destroying fills the entirety of the space. The round table is covered in paint and books, the megaphone standing on its mouth. The chairs around the table are empty, the PVC-pipes bending through the space holding Albert's bags and the microphone on the speaker is not in use. A box with a bunch of wooden laths is leaning towards a TV-screen, some laths hold masks with faces (reminding me of stiff flags), others simply try to reach the cocktail-bar on wheels. Several couches and armchairs being anything else but to sit on, surrounded by cables, tape and chicken-wire. The two red petrol canister standing neatly next to each other, just as two bit-part players waiting for their call. Like busy ants we frizz us from one object to the next.
I notice a pink line. The air, in an instant, is saturated with vibration and I feel a force of curiosity that intimidates me. It seems as if the pink line has only just been sprayed on the walls, leading to a sentence that is written in mirror script ' ɿɘɈɈɘd ɘm wonʞ υoγ ' and beaming off everything, good and evil. For a second all objects in that room pull together with a force of attraction of that kind, that if hold on to any longer, it would leave nothing to tell the story. I walk out through the colossal door, over the grid-floor, a short breeze is waving my hair and I can only assume that even today I still don't know what I would answer.

Art (15.10.18)

“But today we barely think of doing anything that has no purpose at all.
That it is possible, desirable and above all beautiful. That the most beautiful thing in life is to express one's own powers, not for a purpose, but where the act itself, the action itself, coincides with the purpose.
Love too has no purpose, although many people say 'of course it has a purpose', the purpose of either leading to sexual satisfaction or to get married, to have children and to lead a normal bourgeois life.
This is why love is also very rare today. Because love without purpose, love in which everything that is important is the act of loving itself, where being, and not hunting for something / not having something / consuming something, but the self-expression of a human being, the expression of his/her abilities, thus that is the only purpose. That goes away, with such external goals, successes, production of things,
consumer-oriented culture as ours, yes, that goes away. So far away that you don't even think it's possible anymore.”

(Süddeutschen Rundfunk 1973, Hans Jürgen Schultz im Gespräch mit Erich Fromm)
Translated with www.DeepL.com/Translator


“I hardly know why, but I have seldom seen anyone
—[...]—to whom I have taken such an immediate liking. “

(George Orwell, Homage to Catalonia)



#window #diamond #fireworks #purple #upsidedown #blue
#paint #museum #table #noanswer #action #noreaction #kreide #xy #gardinen #perspective
#triangle #fragile #brain bow #rainbow #awake #asleep #moskito
#wtf #lamp #gold #weapon #city #busstation #charlois #rotterdam
#trolley #balloon #flying #home #new #stuff #emotions #universe #does #not #answer
#no #place #like #cloud #bed #sun #sneak #space #float
#friedel #fine #notfine #clue #noclue #she #mirrored #projection #inmotion
#skalitzer #bvg #ubahn #bath #chicken #love #city #daydreaming #somewhere #else

Story (15.09.18)

It is not the first time she heard that story and probably not the last time either.
What is it in the tap water, that triggers the same behaviour? What is the average amount of layers necessary, before the pattern is revealed, to then be buzzing through the air like a stung balloon (in reference to my story 'Famous').
The question is not 'who are you?' but rather 'what more can you be in relation to the other?' Which sounds convincing and devastating at the same time.

She remembers this room, it changed a bit since, the red curtains must be new. Not sure how they ended up in bed together that night, but there were times when she wished nothing more.
He resembled the real artist that lived on plain bread and coffee, drawing paper and pencils everywhere and strangely calm about the standards of live, believing in taking no part in it as an observer. The leafs have the shape of that kind you find on paintings of rain forests, they dance right in front of her face separated only by a thin piece of glass. The shadows tickling her skin.

Her hair-tips feel too much dark-matter floating between them and anything, in order to be at all clear on what to do next. The projection is in full fumes and still no sign of a bursting bulb. There is no end to any one thing! Let's bridle the horse and transform within

Lips (15.08.18)

The air is saturated. Almost scintillating, like the air in Sao Paulo during lunch-time. A grey glimmer is covering every surface in this city on a warm evening, after it rained forever.
The sky between the houses sizzles and the yellow butterflies nibbling from a rare puddle on the street, gathering like a hand full of corn-chips. The cicadas are nowhere to be seen, striking with their canon. A sound that reminds me of these unbearable hot summers in a rural landscape.
Barely any tree or human soul to be found, only the evening sun that casts shadows like she does on an Edward Hopper painting. Explicit and ruling, but kind in its warmth.
I walk down the cobbled pavement halting at the house with painted shutters, blue, chipped off by wet wind, with a vine tendril almost reaching the roof. I follow the vine with my eyes, looking up and see him standing in the window putting on the finest red lipstick.

Second/Zweite (15.06.18)

She exhausts her cigarette, without additives, like candy with fake sugar, while she imagines him bending hazed branches to chip off the dry leaves. Until the apartment door opens with a vibrant approach. "Honey I’m home".

"In classical antiquity, memory was considered the > mother of the muses <. Up until the Renaissance, a number of sophisticated techniques for the training of memory have developed and been handed down.
They are all based on the fact that a basic repertoire of places and images is impressed on the memory in a certain order, to which any and changing circumstances can then be associated. »The art of memory resembles an inner writing. Anyone who knows the characters of the alphabet can write down what is dictated to them and then read them from memory again. Likewise, those who have learned mnemonics can take what they have heard to places and recite it from memory.«
(Frances A. Yates, Memory and Remembrance, Berlin Edition, 1994).
Fludd distinguishes between round and square mnemonic art. The round art uses fantastic and magically charged diagrams with which it tries to draw down heavenly influences. The Square art is the classical mnemonic technique that makes use of real existing places and natural images."

(Alexander Roob, Das hermetische Museum – Alchemie und Mystik,
Bibliotheca Universalis, p.460, Taschen 2016 / unofficial translation)

More (15.05.18)

The major devision of a long poem started to play about 45min ago and it gently reaches Elsa's ears while she is folding her hands to rest her head, when realizing how thin her fingers are, perhaps only skin covering the bones.
And that idea of two hours of 'nothing' is stuck in between her thoughts.
Elsa's shoulders are pushing her body back and forth and she is persistent to go back into these moments when rhythms are getting entangled to then drift apart again like a sunrise:

'The eager ballerina is performing her erudite jumps and her tutu has no choice but to bounce with it. Just one cube is falling from a staircase, before a whole bunch get shoved down.'

She remembers the calmness in that site trailer when she heard the continually repeated musical phrases for the first time, the flat acres surrounding her, with barely any tree to be found except the satellite-station not far.

'A fish that hides in a coral-tube, looks out for an instant and disappears again. Fat raindrops that disrupt the playfulness of tiny ones. Two vortices that irrationally clean the floor. '

Elsa sadly states that this is randomness that pretends an interaction. It is still a mystery to her how it is possible that it only takes two minutes to forget what had just filled the room.

There again, the sunrise where no sunset is needed.

Sword (15.04.18)

the sword that is bright
flow prima materia
shell of face limits the view

a book that is old
yellow as the shelve can be
all is coeval

Right (15.03.18)

The immense walls were made of the finest concrete from the region, so smooth, the uneven surface must most
certainly be procured mechanically. They would use cork ladders to reach the top of the walls. The cork eases each step of the climb, when carrying up buckets full of apples.
Once they reach the highest platform there would be no need to enjoy the vast and far away view of the landscape,
but instead be seduced into the random labyrinth of caoutchouc pipes. (If one would be able to see the labyrinth from afar, they might believe observing a porcupine loosing bits of its 30.000 quills).
Thousands of pipes, red and white striped lances, piercing the blue, being thick and fleshy at the bottom and thin like a needle higher up. The spikes growing all along their sides are used for the main transport with ropes to climb hand over hand, to feet and back over hand. The choice of climbers in the village is already decided in the youngest age and the switching moves are trained almost immediately. The helmet, that is obligatory, is made from a folded crown cap, scratching the lobulus auriculae from time to time. Notes are written down on their paper shirt and the trousers are filled with helium. The wind would blow strong and whenever they make the attempt to scale through to the middle,
you could hear them whisper
„Part of that power which would
Do evil constantly, and constantly does good“

Exhausted (15.02.18)

I usually get woken up by the neighbours in their kitchen, right next to my bed. Every morning they fight! Or that is at least how it sounds like through the brick wall, while someone is putting something back onto the shelf with a short tick-sound, twice. Then some more fighting, followed by silence till at least lunch time. I stack up the pillows under my head (who needs eight pillows snarling around?), my eyes stay closed.
The blanket follows any of my moves with that sound of breaking waves, never letting me out of sight. Any revelation of skin is immediately covered. My skin feels numb and soft when I rub my legs. The birds discuss relentlessly, meanwhile picking the last seeds and I drift off to some small dreams that won't last long. Something like a commercial break.
The eyes feel heavy and dry, while the light hesitantly slips through to my brain. The fridge is playing his cold-blooded melody for a moment, brr zzz pff brrr brrrrrrrrrrchhrrrrrrrrrrrrrr, as the thoughts start to come in and the heatwave, that is a result of that, is forcing one leg from under the blanket.
My view is blocked by a white mountaintop, when I open my eyes. I play god and move the mountain to lavishly gaze at the framed drawings on the wall.

The upper part of my window is covered with pieces of coloured foil (left-over from a retired love). Together with the fake crystal, hanging faintly off a sewing thread, they perform a ravishing play, if the sun hits the right point of view (around 15h). The arid and harrowed branches, outside my window, form shapes onto the facade of the opposite house. The facade is broken by two windows that cover the staircase and show nothing but black glass. I wonder at times if somebody is looking back. Something seems different today. 'bright, jazzed, clear, animated, expansive'
I hear the neighbour leaving the house, his shoes crush through the snow.

Mentioned (15.01.18)

'I forgot to mention that I will be out of town.'

2017

Fuel (15.12.17)

Someone told me once that he imagined scooters would actually run on the sound they are producing.

What makes me think that I could describe the fuel of the whole world (or lets take the universe) in one short story, even thou it will include a drawing…
My parameters are playing a game with me instead, leading me from one thought to the next.
An earth ball with a fixed amount of energy that is in constant transformation with all its aggregate states.
No growth, but a nonlinear dynamic of prehistory, a complexity that circulates, that makes butterflies create storms. Cells that interlace, form new coalitions, turning into something else? Fossils that develop in earth's crust over millions of years, causing human obesity, feeding the worms in the ground, so leafs can fall in autumn.
A double rod pendulum that bushes the floor of anybodies home.
But the unpredictability of humanity has long started to cease. We used to create space through actions, a space is non-existent as long nobody sets a foot in it, it determines how we produce our surrounding and how our surrounding produces us, we are living in a hashed world, not in a whole, but in pieces, we get constantly interrupted or otherwise overloaded by a digital picture wall, a never ending wallpaper. How to understand that invisible energy that can not be made audible with an amplifier. That energy, with its often missing tangible connections, which fuels our interactions, that makes us being part of the whole, that feels so satisfying.
Usually I would have an out of context (but quite in the context) sentence ending the story right here, but I really can't think of any.

Think (15.11.17)

How many times can a single piece of cake be divided?

A bag of mixed up pencils and brushes, stained papers all over and a tiny plastic bottle with a cap to squeeze the water through. The place is set in seconds like an operation table of that kind that you find in hospitals with mint-green walls.
Elsa had no idea by then, that the place around her would be dissected in the same fashion, for days to come.
The lamp would throw short shadows on the paper, while there would be no other sound then that of the grinding of coffee beans, for minuets and minuets. It is so seldom that Elsa experiences the ease to not be conform some kind of idea when spending time with someone. To not talk, but to feel a high, intensified by the actions of the abreast, that again make her appear in a state of no judgement towards her own actions, as we usually tend to do.
Or maybe this was just an introduction, the flawless before they pull their bow and arrow?

It feels like the wave of Hokusai has just thrown them out through the cafe door. Set free to the cold, following a hit in the face by reality. They close their jackets and move on. She impresses her bag of Periotropes
(tools that enable her to react to any ascending phenomenon, capturing it, analyzing it and storing it), just to see if they still there, but leaving it closed for a little longer. 'Wir hätten gern zwei Gemista und zwei Capuccino, bitte.'
He attaches a red tin funnel to her ear without coming close, giving away his stories. They do not sound loud nor cupped. She follows each entanglement through the forest of expressions seeing a path of thoughts well marked on a map of only islands.
They can feel how their sleeves slowly start to interweave while walking. To almost immediately be interrupted again
by the beeping gauge of pre-conditions that make their way from the shoulder down. The scream for absolute connection, the recurrent inability to do so, the fear to turn into Süskind's Jean-Baptiste or simply loosing track of your bag of pencils. Elsa is astonished by the apparent duality of the fantastic and the absolute sharpness, takes a marker and engraves a Q and an I on the door while he draws up the stairs.

Pain (15.10.17)

That piercing pain flashing through my shoulder is getting worse, it even hits me now when I turn around in bed.

She is saying that this time she is not laying awake at night. That her heart is not running in circles anymore like the last time.
That she learned from that experience. But what exactly did she learn?

There is this cafe where I usually meet up with my older sister to have a coffee with cake, but since a while now she stopped drinking coffee and we changed to Prosecco. She told me about her being astonished hearing all these devastating family stories. Why do people think, once they made their own family, that they all should be merging into one big happy family again, with aunties and grandparents.
Most of us are not content with the way our parents treated us and we actually left home. And eventually we will build our own castle made of pebble, near or far, to be ruined by the common idea of (grand-)parenting and equally obstructed by the fact that each of them lives in their own bubble. Most likely thou these bubbles just differ by that slight change in opacity.
There are holes in the surface too, like the ozone layer, injuries resting far in the past, a summery of rejection and disappointment. Slowly grasping the system that is kept alive till this day, that validates a behaviour and destroys any invading entity from the outside (the smaller scale enemy of their private world). A system that protects the inventor from any consequences, being excused of any transformation. That epigenetic loyalty that is needed to provide that system will live on.

Why is it so exacting to believe her?

I might just try these massage balls that he brought to work.

Oxygen (15.9.17)

Again Elsa slept through the alarm at 7:10, preparing the food for lunch and dinner, unlocking her bike in the backyard.
Her eyes meet with his, through the window, next to the typical Berliner front door, when she walks her bike out onto the street. The coffee place, that keeps selling good koffie for a reasonable price, would surely be out of croissants by now. When Elsa bikes up that short path into the park she sees their blood lined eyes every time, ready to sell you 'stuff for baking' as Jimmy would call it. She manages to stay on the lane with the smooth stones passing the Russian bar, she would possibly not even recognize him anymore, it was late and dark then.
Why would you start a bike-shop on a raised ground floor? Maybe that is why one screw costs a euro?
As much as Elsa enjoys the fact of a green wave of traffic lights, she finds delight in watching this crossroad and the encounter of most different types walking from one or the other direction, lost, determined or curious.
Moving up the bricked bridge, she realizes they added even more furniture, piling up until the next evacuation.
She manoeuvres her bike around the two bumps on the road, making a right, passing the immense buildings in which dreams are made to come true. Ironically with the marble monolith (a seat design by the city) placed in front of the building, displaying all his belongings on it, a blanket- a cup- a plastic bag- a box- a shirt.
Another bump on the street. Another bridge, green, from the family of Tour Eiffel, used by young people to watch the sunset or the moon, most likely in a romantic way. The cafe with the dusty windows on the right, where the cars never mind to leave space for the passing bikers, is long closed. Ohh that annoying crossing! 'Do I turn left right now or first right then straight? Or take the pavement?', Elsa decides not to stop and buy that affordable self made cake from the schwäbische bakery, with their tiny 'try a bite' pieces of cheesecake on the counter. She is suspicious about that ugly hotel just before the S-Bahn bridge, as she meets the street. The street that seems to be in need of a makeover for no one knows how long already. An enforcement of perspective by abruptly changing unknown lanes.
She is passing by the car with a sticker that suggests it was just coming back from an off-road trip though the mud.
The guys, that smoked their red blood cells aside, causing some amputated legs, are taking a break in front of the apartment building. She smiles when she sees the big AfD election poster being half ripped off, hanging uncharitably from the wall. Elsa turns left almost reaching her destination, presuming another Tatort being shoot next door, when she breathes in sitting down on her chair.

König (15.8.17)

Once upon a time there was a young girl, stubborn as she was born, could climb up any tree,
she would sit only on one particular tree. That tree was standing in the backyard of a four floor house, cramped between bushes, fences and bricks, erecting towards the sky,
the only place left aside.
The girl, let's call her 'king', would wear her white and blue striped shorts with a pocket full of paraphernalia she calls Periotropes. These tools would enable her to react to any ascending phenomenon, capturing it, analyzing it and storing it.
The tree fork was smoothen out by now and the ivy had no other option than to just grow out of the way until up the tree crown, where she would sit. Only when the piercing sun shines through the leaves at midday, casting shadows on each other, it would produce an extend of green that was divine. The bark evaporates the fine dust of yellow, saturating the sky like a swarm of bees. Her uncle told her that the tree is called Fever Tree (Vachellia xanthophloea), the Shamans would cook a brew with its bark to induce a lucid dream, to walk the 'white path'. “Before going to sleep a question is asked that will be answered in their dreams”.

While waiting in the tree for the sun to go down, she would routinely collect the fractions of the day using her defined Periotropes. She would paste the bickering of the family on the third floor into an orange booklet. While the squirrel is swiftly hopping past her, she has to crush and store the acorn in a vacuum. The window that is firmly closed has to be slapped with a shoe. On the other hand the clattering of crockery can be perfectly hooked onto a kite. The more difficult one to analyze is the painful cough of the upstairs neighbor, keeping the whole house awake at night, which she has to abandon into a rabbit hutch. The crying and fighting of the siblings and their incapable father, is turned with a dice, interrupted by the birthday song soothing the backyard and the unwrapping paper right after on the second floor, she usually stores that in a reservoir of coat hanger. The linden leaf floating on a spider string, stays a mystery to her.
And sometimes when the night falls she thinks about the seed that must have been brought along during colonial times, fallen out of the pocket, starting to grow right here into a tree that was never able to breath the air of its land. It was the only one of its kind in this neighborhood.

Mitarbeiterin (15.7.17)

The room had the shape of a rectangular, roughly the hight of an ordinary apartment. The stone walls seemed merely painted black or maybe a very sooty grey. Outside the night was trying hard to keep the room gloomy and obscure. Broken by eight generous windows, the walls fragmented that same opacity. The entire floor was covered with lasting carpet, but the corners of the prism were impalpable. “confusion has always been at the heart of wisdom”, she remembers. The air was nebulous.
Nothing would hang on the walls, not one picture, no chair standing near the stairs, nor a wardrobe.
A tousled bed was standing near the left wall. They were alone and he offered her orange juice, while she stepped out of the bed. The mood was all quiet and stir, as faint as the light that evoked.
She was only wearing underpants and a soft white sleeveless shirt. He was studying her with all his capacity and with no interference. When the darkness was gently pushed aside by dawn, beams appearing like the effortless movement of silk underwater, she sat down on the floor with her back against the wall, facing him. The light rays shimmered on her body. She embraced her legs, pushing them effortlessly against her chest, feet on the ground, when he let himself surrender onto the bed,
but mumbling 'A geometric shape is the geometric information which remains when location, scale, orientation and reflection are removed from the description of a geometric object'.

Amok (15.6.17)

One side is coated with orange paint, which is shielded by a flat white rectangular piece,
on this rectangular piece are two blobs, the green one seems to slide down a bit and the red one has a little hole,
on the other side of the big block (the one with that orange side) something deep black is growing upwards or dripping down, the third side has something red attached to it, that overcasts almost all of that side with a smaller black piece coming out from it, the forth side is encased with something seemingly organic, dripping in full quantity,
the top is pierced by two pipes, one is going straight up, coated in green white and black drippings, completed with a baby-blue smashed ball, the other pipe sticks out at forty-five degrees, piercing three red-brown objects that could be flowerpots, topped with one green-white object, all emerges from an oversized industrial bag, the entirety rests on a pallet.

Pre-adapted (15.4.17)

The field seems endless, especially in the dark. Far away the flickering lights (oscillation of electricity) of that neighbourhood which is populated with juvenile burger places, not worthy of the exhausting hill-ride. So I got out
of bed, as she advised me by texting 'get out!!' I can stay in bed for hours and hours, staring at the tree through
the stained window, while my thoughts change so abrupt, it would be out of the question to write them down.
The guilt often drops in unbearably.

I can hear my bike wheel scratching against the front fender while the only thing I can see is just a meter of a worn out white painted stripe in the middle of the old road, fading into the darkness, something like a Lost Highway,
being pulled smoothly after you let go. I am convinced there is no one else wandering through this vast dreamlike episode (12.2km2) and I hope they had not close the gate on the other side before I would reach it. Sure, you never know what will meet your sight, anything could turn out to be of inspiration, even a hermetically closed polyphrenic ejaculation of 90's pop. When I hear her say the line 'The community goes past me', I feel confirmed.

The grey and massive revolving door stays turning all night and I make my way out, passing the burger places, realizing that I can not play ping-pong with myself. Then again, finding someone's foreign language to translate,
is hardly an approximation of what is and can be. Eventually my cloudy blanket is the sanctuary called 'night', no
matter what.

Hinter / Reward (15.3.17)

'I could have flown to New York with what I spend on changing the flight dates',
said Julie on the phone, chit-chatting about the days to come and then hung up.
Yes, it might have been more romantic indeed, but nothing is for certain anyways.
This time she was gone for a month, she couldn't wait to get back, some months just feel lengthy.

She sits back continuing her writing while billboards pass by, trying hard to win back her attention.
The story in her notebook, written with that smooth pencil, starts with: 'Sam never really felt a shine for these huge clean vast spaces.
And he has been to so many...'
Julie was convinced, what ever the title would be, the tale had to be about that moment that was real, still queerly sounding like a movie.
What else is there to say, her imagination is inseparably connected to her own inner colourful church window, leading to a trail covered
with boxes and bags. Damn that guy stayed in her head, to make it evaporate only a flight above the clouds is the best course of action.
To name but a few intimacies.
No time to take a rest, but instead being forced to recognize the changes during her absence, after she steps off the train.

New white graffiti covering the entire front door, that just failed the key hole, if you look close
new barrister at the corner cafe, not knowing that she does not take a lid on her cup
new monumental painting, on the wall of a house, on the way to the studio, pretending not to be a house, but a staircase
old trees that got their branches trimmed, even a person witnessing them for the first time, would notice
the scaffolding wrapped around the house on the other side of the street, that looked totally fine, but seems in need of something different
new benches at the pétanque courts, made of yellow wood, shining in the sun, tomorrow it will rain again.

'Imagine I would leave for a year, to work full-time in another country….'

Accent (15.2.17)

It is not that Noema and Noesis are bored.
But
Plenty of things that have happened and
even more people that have experienced them.
Whilst a soft voice in the radio was singing 'If I didn't care more then words can say…'
My friend told me that she decided to stop producing artefacts, to stop helping new things in to this world. What are the odds? The odds are long.

Thumping / Hammering (15.1.17)
A script to walk under balconies

Coleman Hawkins -Out Of Nowhere tickles her in the back of her head. The sky seems to struggle with birds and heavy clouds. This years winter Linda was outside, when that apparently everlasting rain turned into snow. For weeks she felt like walking behind a semi-transparent curtain, the one with embroidered flowers, all in cream white.
The snowflakes are gaunt like fluffs, any trifling blow could change their movement upwards. Finally, after eight years or so, she got herself a hard-earned new winter jacket. The hallway of her cosy apartment is filled with jacket when she wraps it around her shoulders, with a fast twist. The door falls close, slow, with that imminent sound that tells the whole world that the neighbour came home late, again. The snow is still falling, meanwhile big chunks that have no time to loose. Lindas nose gets cold and her cherry cheeks make her appear joyous. With her hands in the wide pockets, her feet tight in the shoes and armed with the rumpled notebook, she continues to walk out on the white blanket. She remembers Benjamin saying that he dreamed of a frozen cake with the name 'Top Secret' and imagines him how he used to stretch his back to modern music in the middle of the room, wearing only his underwear.
By now the snow is masterminded by the steady piano of Duke Ellington, twirling around each other. The night starts to move closer from behind the five-floored houses and Linda wonders how many celebrities anybody can love at the same time? She stands still under the balcony to look at the windows being lit one by one, whereas the snow resembling a kind of distortion of times when we still used antennas to watch tv.
Living in the rearmost chapters of a novel is quite a romantic situation and she makes her way back home.

2016

Denkgewohnheit (15.12.2016)

The paper is white, standard thickness and arranged most horizontal.
On it a rectangular, made of fine black lines, with a noticeable distance,
parallel to the outlines of the paper.
The rectangular is divided in three parts, of which the middle one is the widest.
'In the following situation:' is written underlined in the upper left corner of the first block,
under it 'Place'.
Then two lines nothing.
Which is followed by three words in one row, divided by a comma.
'When, Date, Time'.
Six lines nothing.
'What was before?'
The paper is blank till the end of this block. (maybe eighteen lines).
The middle block has seven written lines, of which two are underlined,
creating two sections.
'Then I think:'
Next line says 'Shortly before'
Six lines nothing.
'During'
Another six likes blank.
'After'
Six lines blank.
'Then I feel:'
Right under it 'Before'
Six lines unwritten.
'After' is almost touching the lower line of the rectangular, leaving no empty space.
The most right sided block has three written parts that are all underlined ending each with a colon.
'My behaviour'
Almost twelve lines blank.
'The effect was'
Two lines of white paper.
'Short-term'
About fourteen lines nothing till the end of the block.

The Claw (15.10.2016)

His leather shoes were once shining like an apple that was buffed with a woolen sweater.
He has shoes for each day, standing in no relation to possible occasions.
The socks are striped, some thinly knitted and others so warm inside, it would even pop a chicken out of an unfertilized egg.
His trousers are made of jeans, slightly wider then his legs are round, which are long and standing straight like the trees along the canal.
The black belt is fixed with a perfect knot, that would falsely change his total posture to
look like an feeble man, if it were not around his waist.
His t-shirt is made of a dark green color and a bit too short, so I can get a glimpse of his belly. Right in the middle of the shirt two unicorns are making love under a well-shaped rainbow. His shoulders are widely apart, forcing the two bones under his throat onto each
other, resembling an arm wrestling contest. (Not sure what part the few breast hairs would
play in this.)
The jacket is as red as the raincoat that unfolds out of its own pocket.
The arms are strong as if they always were and will be, solely seen when they're needed.
His left hand is wearing a seal ring, the nails are short and the fingers not too long with skin similar to the cover page of a well read book, simply able to hold a basketball in one's
clutch.
His head. The hair is unhesitatingly curly, which used to be forced down with coconut oil.
It is dark brown with an umbrage of grey, alike some sort of a marble cake.
His nose, in the shape of a parrot beak, is dividing his face perfectly, starting right between his eyes. Blue eyes as the polar ice caps, luminous as a kaleidoscope, wanting to understand what they see.
His ears hear the words as they are said and meant at the same time, shaped to its detail, resembling some unknown ancient code. There is a minor idea of a beard, but it could as well just be the shadow of a passing seagull.
The lips master the kiss, melting everything that comes close, the words spoken through this mouth accompany any movement in perfect symbiosis, it is the cherry or the icing on the cake, the salt in the salad, the milk in the coffee, the power button on a mixer, the bell on the bike, the brooch on the blouse, the inner sleeve of vinyl, the lint behind the glass of a frame, or more.

The Last (15.09.2016)

The last toilsome piece of wood to move down to the basement?
The last fizzy beer to do the eclectic dance?
The last gloomy tunnel ride to neglect you at the muted crossing?
The last skinny ocean dip to finish this?
The last noise performance to fall out of the window (not so deep)?
The last cut of lethargic hair to tell the agonizing truth?
The last time inside to value the heat being wasted outside?
The last vernissage to blame me?
The last joyous turn to hold him for the very first time?
The last Shuto-Uke in full grace?
The last picture taken to make that international call with a wooden mobile phone?
The last round of Mejuffrouw Muis to slide into dodo land?
The last night in a caravan to put up with rebellious gnats?
The last painting to pack into rasping bubble foil?

Or simply the last day of summer

Battle (15.07.2016)

The push of the tip of the shoe into the gravel, moving it from left to right, drawing half a circle, while
inhaling the dust that ascends.
The path cleaned meticulously, resembling the bird of paradise tidying his dance floor for convincing
purposes.
The hat protects the eyes from the sunbeams,
the shirt is in need of no sleeves and
the trousers were dirty before.
The square cloth hanging limply out of the pants back-pocket, possibly moving methodically from one hand
to the other, a while later laying on the park bench, consequently back into the left hand and therefor round in
to the back-pocket.
The slow and determined crouch down, with the target-line in the mind's eye.
Residing an instant, to splurge with the power of concentration.
Once more up for one of the plenty strike mannerisms

The Stork
The Plongeur
The Disinterested
The Yogi
The Grandmother
The Wizard
The Fakir (Player of the snake)
The Lazy

The position of the hand not in use and the pose of the whole body are not only determined by the inevitable.
The short correcting glance, a keen blow into the empty fist, holding her up high as
she could resemble a diamond and the pitter-patter of the dusted shoes just before the attack.
Ensuing the silence, so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
Lifting her up with a bit of a shake, then turning the hand, bending of the knees,
eye's screw up, tension in the other arm, exhaling once and finally releasing her with an appropriate velocity.
The metallic sound spreading over each field, the synchronous incipient movement immediately afterwards.
One foot measuring the distance that otherwise could be spotted in seconds from far by a professional
glimpse. A few trained arms are folded behind the back while the toe establishes the winner and the long-
time residents do not even need to waste any look.

The occasional laugh and alternating handshake, the carefree applauding and the rattling of some polished bullets across the square, make me spend hours on this bench.
When the sun is shining.

Feeling (15.06.2016)

The walls are reaching high, made of orange bricks, covered with wheels, the fine music crawls up the rickety stairs and the carpets are just soft.

She is laying on that compliant golden corduroy couch,
around her all these moments.

Blowing through each others minds like a vivacious lightning 'how could I have known'
The radiation of trust, the welcoming care, like a sliding blind pass over the blue line.
The joyful rapper bracketing away, from lawns to churches
A verbal whirlwind that knows who teaches swing in this town
Most charming compliments that only a Swedish girl could misunderstand
A sardine that swims with hands and feet
The bastion of calm, out of the blue that holds you tight
The endless room, at the end a tree, is empty and filled with the most beautiful music.
Possibly something great will be purchased after she left.

The taxi drives towards the growing sun, her flip-flops still glued to the dance-floor,
she walks up 5240 and opens the door, a smell of defined koffie is saturating the air,
from far a French birthday song is recited while she passes by an abstract drawing of a tropical island. Hermann the lobster is spreading his wings on the kitchen table, he is just very straight forward. She pushes through the pile of cat hair towards the balcony, deciding to take some home in her suitcase to make her own cat. Just as she is walking barefoot over Rummykub stones spread systematically on the floor, the eager popcorn hit the bottom of the checkered pillow.
She loves her car subscriptions and anything that relates to these trips. These junctures, even if its simply the very first Poutine, make her heart grow, it is aching a bit, maybe a little bit more then that. The sodden green of a mountain can indeed make you feel small, saying to herself, 'thank you for letting me see your new home, so I can still relate to your life.'

She is closing the sketchbook and all sit down to a magnificently made meal, made with so
much dedication, like music in your mouth.

Voller Magen (15.05.2016)

She moves in circles alike the ballerina in a wooden music box,
the numb glitter around her shoulders is sparkling towards the ceiling or any other direction.
The zombies are out
her own is hiding under the glitter, as if no one would notice.
Assuming she would resemble an ant, she would be stuck under a leaf, for the mushroom to survive
But she is walking in circles instead, repeating herself while the rhythm creates any continuation
'No need to maintain, tell, reveal, express, render or rap this again and again'.

She got no imbued acre to dig up, but rather enough time to lay with a half awaken head
under the blankets. Her belly aches and still does.

She declares herself queen of the empty acres.

Dyzigotic (15.03.2016)

Two heads are bent closely above a small rocky table, whispering in each other's ears,
his head moves away from her, swinging, similar to a muscle contraction he can not control.
But that was quite a while ago.

Dizygotic?
Something that missed out on a possible symbiosis?
Something that works perfectly in parallel.

I am sure if I would flaunt my sweater he would want to grab underneath it and a feeling rises within me like water up to my ankles. I swim with the birds, dance on the bottom layer and reappear.
I bite the loose skin on my red lipstick lips and hear him breath persistently
while he climbs from one room into the next, a castle, it seems endless, so I wait.

She just so changed her bar stool and since everything is more radiant in reality,
he is able to apprehend how everything just happens to him.
The kiss was a waist of time, their tongues would move monotonously without any clue of rhythm. The air is smokey and he sits perceptively and in an undiscerning manner on the couch that barely shows any of the colour it use to have. Musing about the particleboards (more I can not reveal), while she is hankering for passion by changing to another bar stool once again. He had told her that all words are feminine as hell to him, but I guess she simply got consumed by the structures of apparent randomness.
No, she was unqualified.

Intermezzo:
A happy yellow face.
A (blue) thumb.
Blushing cheeks and two gibbous moons on their belly.
He admits: 'You are beautifully tired', when she replies: 'and you are one of the two.'

I declare it's clear as mud, but you continue to walk on soft tarmac. So I describe the sky as beamingly clear, matching a recently cleaned metallic surface of a fitted kitchen, while the sun leaves me shivering every 5 min. Modelling clay or your soothing hand descending into a bag of dried beans, are two totally different things and I should shut the hatch of my cloud, but then again disagreement is especially delightful.
As you go on wheels through the supermarket I pursue not to move, alike fragile clay fresh out of the oven.

He noticed the puddle on the road together with the first fine rays coming from the hot sun, making the air slightly opaque. It looks pretty happy, he assumes.
I can hear the sparrows smacking, not for the first time and the windmill is chasing them leftwards. I reach for the glue for broken hearts.

He remains within the car with only a flashing red light.
' The arts my dear tend to go faster then nature.'

Solve (15.02.2016)

Evian spelled backwards.
He swayed slightly on his feet while whispering into her ears. His left hand moves from her neck up through her hair, pulling each single hair, causing goosebumps on her right arm. Many times.
She loves to solve it all, riddles, relationships, knots, problems, a broken picture frame, a wooden chair with one leg left rotting outside in the rain, the world plastic issue by fitting bananas and all other grocery into one thin transparent rolled up free of charge plastic bag at the vegetable display or the double sided tape that relentlessly got stuck to the scissors that were meant to only cut fabric. As long as it has nothing to do with herself or anything that dangles behind her suitcase. Both his hands hold her head, carefully, when she has to admit that there is no sky like this dutch sky.

Monument (15.01.2016)

Solid as a rock.

'I want to induce, as I am moving. I have contemplated on the options, working with the possessions that I carried along, summing them up and creating a whole effect in parallel.
Objects and situations have lost their effect simply in detail by superficiality, thou changed in their totality, they display a great heaping impact.'

They are progressing with a calmness like no other. As if the time and the number of things that could be done, do not exist. These breeze-less movements explore the area. More will not be disclosed, not a little thing, any millimeter or even smaller. You are able to rotate and stretch like something that is spit out. It begs the question as if they still have time to explore the total or only a granular part. Instead it is me that directs this question. Why should they? Why should I? It is the ease without destroying that impresses me the most.

2015

Men (15.012.2015)

Aino, what a troublesome title this time!
I spill the beans, I used some tricks to avoid a deeper written thought on some of our titles through this adventurous year: being so busy simply not able to write a story, writing quite a short poem, just transcribing a dream or the excuse that there is too many memorable moments to choose from that would undoubtedly fit a title… Men…
I find them charming once in a while.
So sexy when they do what they are good at and pretty adorable when life just happens to them, when they least expect it. We both talk a lot about them and it is not really helping. That is why I only came up with a subtitle 'so far'.

'Three dyslexic brothers working together in the library.'

I know this is asking for more but since germans are known for their splendid humour this will be a quicky and I better end it right here.

Famous (15.11.2015)

“I am known for exaggeration, everything I say, they say, you better divide it by two.”

The tradition was to cover the whole city with balloons, thousands of helium
filled balloons.
No cloud could keep up with this carpet of dots.
People from all the neighbouring places would leave their houses and march for days to be blown away by this stunning festivity.
The balloons would be delivered all mixed up, hours before.
There would be pink balloons next to red ones, brown next to yellow ones.
Screaming colours next to each other with their strings possibly permanently entangled.
The light striking the ground through the balloons would make any flower close
its petals. The strings were so messed up, not a single one had the same length.
The few tall citizens, living in this city, would wear sticky gloves, trying to
arrange the balloons by colour and pull the strings straight. Finally, the
amount of balloons stacked on top of each other would bend down to the ground, one balloon would manage to fly off and the carpet would collapse. To this day,
not one person has confirmed to have seen a single balloon since.

Trial (15.10.2015)

Car lamps approaching at night.
A modern dentist chair turning in circles with no one on it.
The leather steering wheel looking blue in the dark.
The fake curly brown hair of a tangible puppet.
Wooden cute looking sticks along the road.
Morph.
A flappy corner of the newspaper trembling in the wind.
A stiff golden bracelet made of thin ornaments with a red stone in the middle.
The trumpet fixed to a flagstaff.
A greenish white bag hanging over the saddle of a horse.
The arrow shooting into a piece of cloth or paper.
A savoury red rose, following each petal from the inside to the outside.
A perfect tornado turning into a roller coaster changing into piano keys,
the keys slide into a bucket of paint,
mixing the paint with a stick, turning white traces through the turquoise paint.

When ever I close my eyes to play this game, first thing I always see is a ladybug.

The manual for foam (15.08.2015)

The light shines through the blue fabric, that moves carelessly left and right.
It squeaks when you attempt a comfortable position and its colour is so intense, it turns the room into a deep sea. The strings are firmly tightened between the walls and shape the blue fabric,
like thick water running through little holes.
“If you lay diagonal the whole body is in a straight position, that's how they do it in Venezuela”.
He is wearing worn out grey jeans tightened with a stately brown belt and an off white shirt with rolled up sleeves. His short brown hair just had a haircut, looking like he came straight out of the shower. There he stands with his agile posture, awaiting the moment that was promised to him. His fine shaped mouth shows a smile that combines uneasiness with the pure excitement of the unknown.
He manages to rest his head on the green pillow, that curls like a caterpillar protecting itself from an enemy.
You can buy this pillow at the brand new shop that sells anything you would need for any sport, in 300m2. Cheap climbing shoes, small skateboards, modern swimsuits and all size yoga clothes.
His feet are bent over the void, heated by the approaching sun from around the corner.
The effective hammock is still swinging from left to right, while the white walls block the only view of the unfamiliar. The window in front of him interrupts it all and his eyes stare at the blue sky. He imagines the tubes, piercing the sky, being the chimneys of steam ships cruising this neighbourhood like enormous creatures that rove unnoticed with their silhouettes.
Only now, when his gleaming eyes caught the rooftops surrounded by cute and slightly dramatic flowing clouds, that he notices the music repeating an intangible melody.
The rhythm is so far-reaching, it morphs everything, all ingredients become one.
It lasts fifteen minutes and will almost certainly never be repeated again.

Ours (15.07.2015)

The Tabula Rasa prevailed a while ago, before it was folded like a paper plane. Each fold was marked by a stain and each fold made flying more and more achievable.

The plane explored the strong, bright red Swiss Army knife suspended from the doorway. The knife presented its sharp scissors, tried the stubborn bottle opener and used its defined nail file. The paper plane liberated itself from the complexity of the Swiss knife, and left with stringed flapping wings.
One option was to land on the kitchen table, a table with metal legs and a plasticised surface, standing in the center of the room and determined not to bent a leg. When the paper plane realised the vase with perfectly shaped flowers on top of the table, it maneuvered underneath, to be able to take the blow and ascent. It all happened in seconds, buckling the paper nose irreversibly.
It guardedly drifts, heading to the shelf near the clean window, right towards a sparkling spray bottle, with no label. Who could have known what was in the bottle. The air got all misty and acrid, while a sprinkling sound took over every bit of the room. The stained and heavily soaked paper wings just made it through the window.
"I am certainly not going back in there."

Because (15.06.2015)

You astonish me over and over again.
The doors and curtains just closed and people squeezed next to each other on the floor.
The lights were dimmed and a tensed body was laying on the floor covered by an unframed painting of a woman. I remember these paintings so well, the soft dreamy like faces of reoccurring women, the beautiful red and blue and the wallpaper patterns. They used to hang on laundry wire in her studio, one behind another, filling the room with the smell of wet paint.
You put white gloves on and picked up another canvas, holding it up so it would not touch the ground. So fragile and massive at the same time. The body on the ground got covered by another painting and changed position according to the woman on the canvas. The smooth motion drew the total symbiosis and it was then, when that painted woman became alive, that all my cells felt the tragedy, that immense energy, the pain I was not able to protect you from. My skin shivers while I sat close to the ground, wiping my tears. The room was filled with jangling silence until your voice started to sing a lullaby. Anything else I felt became trifling and vain and I saw again the beaming person that you are. You truly inspire me. You are my family.

Untimely (15.05.2015)

'The only reason for time is so that everything doesn't happen at once.' (Albert Einstein)

The brown boxes cover half of the floor, open and empty. Standing there, cramped next to each other, waiting to be categorized. The exhausted window is opening and closing with a squeaky noise. It is pushing the black office chair along the ruff corner of the table.
The chair refuses to stay up and rolls on for no reason. Pushing towards the door, back to the window, to the dirty mirror, towards the shelve and back to the outdated counting machine. He is pausing in front of the plastic surface. Watching the pencils rearrange. They try hard to find their favorite neighboring color pen. Yellow, blue, green, brown, red, pink, purple and many shades of grey.
One rolls, all roll. The compass strives to interfere by spinning circles and hits the glowing box. The box that loves to duplicate pictures of underwear attached to a flag post, if the bulky printer is too lazy to swing its wire. The green brush is finishing the job after the eraser bounces through plenty of thin lines. So everyone can start anew.

If these brown boxes would have legs on their own they would not be pattering with joy, but instead stopped believing in it a while ago.

Body (15.04.2015)

'That one must have been here for more than a hundred years'.
While being boggled by the fact he wraps his arms around it for no transcendental reasons, scratching a bit of his chin on its fossil skin.
He is standing on his toes, which are safely covered in bulky shoes, to reach even further. Pulling the rope tight as he can, his fingers shake with force as he brunts two knots into one loop on both sides. That soft piece of plastic-like fabric is stuffed in its own bag. 'How convenient!' He is pulling it out to let it breathe into its full size, and if it could, it would head for the hills. The wind blows strong, but nothing much can stand against a hundred years of stoicism. There it flutters, tightly knotted, ready to do what it is meant to do. She pushes one side of the fabric down, balancing on her toes which are covered in old leather with a hole. It ruffles against her bottom when she insistently forces it down to slide into the soft shell. Rolling her body to the left and right, moving her legs and arms like the beetle in Kafka's Metamorphosis.
It all ends with a soothing sigh.

Circumstances (15.01.2015)

Sitting with both knees on a padded chair
How did he get up there?
Breathing hot air
Squeezing gently her red nose
The clouds push together till it snows
Are you sure these are black crows?
The chair could use a stitch or eight
Before its too late
Come on finish your plate
Wondering how a wave could possibly be

2014

Happy (15.11.2014)
The shade of happy we call relief.

For some reason I thought the hooks and screws were on this side of the lane, but instead I got lost between toilet seats and plastic pipes. I carried this little red basket, which I unfolded at the entrance, knowing I wont even need it. Purely for self-assurance, like standing at a rock-concert holding onto a drink. I think the 8mm hooks will do and I make my way back downstairs, but not before strolling through the sunny lamp department. Square shapes, balls, complicated geometric shapes, white, red, plastic, paper, glass, for the kitchen or next to the couch, anything that warms your heart and my ears at that moment.
I was excited to get home and put that extra window up on the wall, while I got onto that metal moving beast, which would bring me down slowly, very slow. The escalator, the moment of contemplation about what we took and what else we need or thinking about how nice it was yesterday. It is determined, once you are on it, there is no way back.
I passed three or four home builders till I had no one in front of me. I was all to myself enjoying the straight forward view, a view you breathe in after the effort of climbing to the top of a mountain. I was standing steady on both my feet enjoying the rhythmic shaking of the escalator. How often do we have the chance to get around without even moving.
All that moving stopped the moment I took one glance towards my left, the opposite lane that brings people up to get lost between paint buckets, brooms, cables, boxes and brushes.
It took a millisecond to recognize that face, a millisecond to take back my eyes looking down at the grey lane. I felt my heart beating way faster then that rhythmic shaking, an uncomfortable heat was rising from my throat up to my face. That slow heat taking over like stepping into the bathtub. Why didn't I stay behind the other people. Oh damn that escalator was moving so slow. Phone, in which pocket do I have my phone?! Basket?! Oh yes two hooks. The escalator set me free.
What would I have done without the basket.

Interchangeable (15.09.2014)

It is round, I am certain it is not half a circle, making its way down like a ballon carrying heavy helium. The beams are shooting high up through the dense matter which is purely steam when you move through it. A tower of white bricks is blocking my view towards the left. The fluffy matter floats while leaving almost no traces. Under it a piece of fabric that is shaking in an uncontrolled way, making it impossible to read the message. To the right the constant changing randomness which possibly holds more then we like to imagine. The glowing of the circle gets intenser with each millimeter downwards. Four black dots change their coordinates with that unknown ease, like a paper plane landing under the table. Now the fine drawn black peeks have the chance to pierce the circle, they do and nothing changes. All of the sudden a rhythmic sound pushes into my ears forcing me to look to my right. I wait till its gone, looking at the beams getting wider. Two towers move from left to right, slowly disappearing again. It is impossible to say what is fixed and what not, like a chameleon deciding to find more prey somewhere else.

After (15.08.2014)

Next thing I was sitting on a swing. It had a wooden, worn out seat hanging from perfectly knitted ropes.

My friend was about to push me so I could start swinging. His face was covered in a beard and his hair was combed straight back. His jeans were dirty, held up by a fine leather belt, his striped socks wouldn't show because his shoes were tightened too high.

He was speaking on the phone while he was standing right next to me, putting his arm around my head, holding me close to his side. He was wearing a warm sweater, like a sailor. It was made of soft and strong white wool, the waist band of his sweater displayed a winter scene in blue. If I would dare to open my eyes I would have had wool all around me. A sweet smell sneaked into my nose, reminding me of the smell of my cat after she'd been hugged by a person I would love to be around.

He dangled us slightly left and right while still being on the phone. His soothing dark voice would just make it through the thick wool into my ears. It felt super cosy. Then he started to push me on that swing back and forth, soon I swung very high up. He pushed me so hard that I could've looped-the-loop. I let my feet slow me down by brushing the wavy Persian rug on the floor. He warned me: "No, don't do it, only one person ever did it before, it doesn't turn out well."

But I did. Sliding off the swing, landing on my right foot first and turning back towards a messy wardrobe, that cut a corner of the room. The wardrobe doors were wide open. My eyes followed the knitted ropes closely through a magnifying glass, leading me to the dusty top of the wardrobe. I was puzzled, only one rope was firmly secured, the other one was much longer and just lay in a coil on top. "What? All this time, it was only fixed like this? That's impossible."

Glitter Ribbon

The freezing morning lay a slippery, iced blue layer on the rooftop.
Up there, that's were we were. It got too cold staying up there, even though the angels were baking cookies, so we made a move to get down. He was steadying himself on a pipe along the bricked chimney, smiling (something he seem to do a lot). He was catching my hand to make sure. I was almost kneeling down with my chest towards the abyss and moved slowly on that iced ground, down the last bit of the roof, which was gradually sloping down towards the metal ladder. The ladder was freely leaning against the water pipe and wasn't too reassuring. I didn't care.
There I was at the very end of the roof putting my left shoe (the one without the glitter ribbon) on the first step of the ladder, leaving the other still on the roof.
All motion stopped, I looked up to him and he asked me with that smiling face: “Can we stay like this for a while?” I answered with a convinced “Yes”. So we did, looking at each other holding hands.
I dare to say we both had joy in our faces, having his question and my answer in our mind. At the other end of the ladder was a friend asking if he could help me out, I answered that everything is alright and that we were just having a moment right now and he left us to it. The next moment I realized that my foot was falling asleep and I let him know. This didn't change our uncomfortable romance, but at the same time asked for a change of action. So I took my hand back and turned around in my black furry coat. I made it down and so did he. How could this moment end so fast? Yes, it was cold.
I imagined how else I could have make myself forget that my foot was falling asleep.
I say to him, “Before I can stay with you like this for a while there are some things I need to ask you. Do you prefer multiple choice or straight forward questions?”
(of course I don't know what he would have chosen). I ask him:
“What is your favorite colour?”
“Do you go for walks alone?”
“Do you like to hold hands?”
“Do you like to cook?”
“Do you write down your thoughts?”
“Do you watch TV?”
“Are you seeing someone, except me right now?”
”Do you eat coriander?”
“Do you hold on to things?”
After that it would be the time to tell him that my foot is falling asleep.
Should I tell him that I believe that we didn't use this uncomfortable romantic moment to the fullest? That I have an idea how else this rooftop moment could have evolved? That I am willing to hear, maybe even be curious about his idea of the possible iced rooftop course. Or will we have to try it again and experience that nothing will be as we have imagined it to be.