Archive for March, 2008


the spitting image

March 29, 2008

of those that wipe their mouths with white tissues. crazy in their own honeysuckle and further and down the road. voulez vous? when again? and how? yes, how. how. how. how. and after we have heard enough, there is nothing but silence. breath. breadth. vastness. the essence and tears of you and me. tears that are dispersed and disturbed by the noises outside. is it christmas yet? will we ever sing again? yes, we will sing. we will stand on a mountain, clothed in gold and silver and sing till our voives drop. of war battles, of feathers, of the pavement. that we walk on. of course, what else would we walk on when we have never worn any other shoes. shoes are made of leather, of silver patterns, sometimes with names stitched onto them. and symbols. the symbol of your voice is that of a swan lifting off from a lake in the cold morning. you can see it floating, then spreading its wings and cutting through the breeze. can you smell it? the grass, still wet from the night and crying over the departure of the moon. same thing with me. every once in a while i walk not on the pavement. i walk through the meadows collecting the dew drops. they stain my legs, they stain my trousers, they stain me. and i walk up on high with a fox under my arm, talking of the day before. my friend, the fox. there’s a house, too. there’s always a house. with lots of people, tall and small. sometimes it has towers, high up in the sky, sometimes it has cellars, deep down in the ocean and i will meet tilda and i will meet tori there. have you known them? have you heard the bombs going off in the silence? when we stop breathing, there is nothing but silence. hold your breath. and tell me what you see when silence is covering the sea around us. see the waves, the sun, the beauty of a seagull. concentrating again. never stop writing, just keep going. whatever comes out of it will be written down for all times. it’s your legacy. it’s my legacy, my inheritance and all of it is going to the poor house down the road. the poor house with no windows and a tiny entrance only, shabby and run down. we should get some carpenters to do it up. once we have stopped breathing. that will be the case, easily. we can start again just after a few seconds.


have good faith in them

March 24, 2008

whatever comes to mind first is free writing. taught by a young teacher in the US named Miss Sheheane. Married a pastor, became a patriot and had several kids. lost contact with her as I was criticising US foreign politics. hopefully, she is in good health.

so much for an intro. the moon is not shining tonight, looks like the trees are falling in. when zone free coffee enters the house, everything is possible. as is when she is lovely, stevie wonder will free those people across the zambian border. whenever a lack of freedom is in the air, that’s when the hormones kick in. and the voices. the voices that will relentlessly tell you of their latest casualties, their former relatives and their future cast members. however, cast a shadow onto this table and the wolf that will come howling out will be covered in honey and smell of trees and unicorns. he has something to say, no matter where he has come from. so let him speak and wipe off the excess honey that he caught hibernating in a bee hive. he is one of a kind, a russian descendant and future governor of kyrgysystan. what else! what the hell! skin on skin, fur on fur, over all of my clothes, it’s a cat. it’s two cats. and it’s a thought of savages. of the wild, the free. of a goldcrest singing, filling my body with every golden bit that there ever was. shining through and through. feel incredibly heavy and laden with it. feel completely full, the heart bursting with coins, notes, and the humming of those that clear off the streets so that we don’t have to walk through the dirt. met a few of them, one used to sell old clothes in frankfurt. big beard, talked of the issue. soldier during the war of secession? what is it, anyways? secede, succeed, success, excess. excessive reading, excessive listening to music from it all, through it all, through the very head and bones. lick the legs of the chair and tell me what it tastes like. will you? and don’t get your tongue caught in a splinter. will hurt, let me tell ya. crazy folks out there. crazy folks in here, whenever you look into the mirror. looks like you’re being followed, wherever you go. won’t be easy to escape. a jump into a big pot of honey will do. i’m sure. and then up to the moon who has finally decided to show up.

the end


blood flowing through our veins

March 22, 2008

“Dear God, let us be aware of our own death so that we may become wise.” My mother read this out to me this morning as we were talking about bringing an abundance of life into life. Blood keeps it all together. Blood is the juice of life, love and sorrow. Blood pulses, pushes, pinches in our bodies, it is constantly flowing from head to toes, it circulates, it vibrates, it gives and takes lives. Blood clots sometimes, sometimes it decides to flow new ways, different ways, sometimes it is me. It shines from within towards the outside, it pulls the outside back in and makes sure wounds heal. People have called it blue, denoting a class position. People have called it a stain when it flows outside of our bodies. People have called it red – red is what emerges from our bodies, red is what pushes our hearts when we are in love, red is what is comical, theatrical, musical.

Blood is what lets us blush, blood is what lets us rush. And, listening to divine music, blood is what makes us hush.

– thanks to Dvorak for his Slavonic dance No. 2 in E minor op. 72 –


The “bee”

March 21, 2008

I have decided to celebrate this moment of joy. The hedgehog.



after watching “Auf der anderen Seite”

March 21, 2008

how far is it? Two months, three months on a bicycle? A couple of weeks on the train?

A few more by foot….

my way


VoilĂ  les choristes

March 18, 2008

Somebody tell me that this music doesn’t make fans…

Free after Annebach in Pearson, Roberta (2007) ‘Bachies, Bardies, Trekkies, and Sherlockians’ in Gray, Jonathan, Sandvoss, Cornell and Harrington, C. Lee (eds.) Fandom: Identities and Communities in a Mediated World, New York: NY University Press, pp. 98-109

“[Without this music] my life would be impoverished. It affects me profoundly and joyfully and enriches every second I hear it and afterwards because it changes me. The music is also so profoundly beautiful and sublime. It calms me, it soothes me, it uplifts me, it energizes me, it makes me think better, it makes me so very happy (Pearson 2007: 107).”



March 6, 2008

Last night I went to see him. He gave a lecture on English literature. And although he didn’t say and although he’s still around, the atmosphere in the lecture hall gave the impression of a goodbye. Those that had come, and I would like to think that they had come for him, might have been followers of his, people that believed in what he had done was something great and wonderful. The mixture of gratitude, great reverence, love and emotion that filled the room the moment he finished was immensely intense. He sat back down again on his wooden chair, looking down at the floor, legs crossed, then stretched out, then pulled up again. He seemed to be greatly ponderous, as if he was not with us any more. He might have been listening.

During giving his lecture his hands were shaking from an illness. He spoke with a very soft voice, eyes often fixed onto his paper, hair white and casual shirt. The moment he started talking I was completely enthralled by his presence. I thought that I had seldomly seen someone so beautiful before. His humour, that pulled through the whole lecture, his devotion to words and literature, his energy that seemed to be mostly hidden by Parkinson’s somehow filled the lecture hall and brought it to light.

I felt the urge to go up to him and touch him – as a pilgrim would touch a saint. I had never seen this man before, only heard from him through other students. I immediately regretted never having been able to attend any of his lectures or seminars. It would have been great enough to be able to talk to him, not necessarily paying attention to his words only, but to see his body and soul at work. I cannot tell what it was that made him so unearthly attractive – maybe it was the feeling of “She’s leaving home, bye bye”, of his leaving that seems to be in not so far away a future. Maybe it was the amount of feeling and admiration, yes, love indeed, that streamed through the lecture hall. Maybe it also just was his air of vulnerability, the presence of a great man at old age who would somehow not quite fit into this world of today anymore.

I do hope that I will get to see him again – giving another lecture after my having read some of his work.