Losing You

There is the inevitable - the obvious things that are asking to be done. Then there is the sunshine and the hidden cobblestone streets, the palm leaves rustling in the ocean breeze, beckoning me to explore.

The sunlight kisses the yellow white beige color of the terrace, reflecting the aging color of the fort, Portuguese colonial traces in an islamic town that reaches way back to the Oman empire along the Swahili coast.

My mind strays - the question whether or not to go on a sailboat ride. The logistics seem so complicated. To trust or not trust that shady guy? Because last year we ended up going with someone else. He wanted an advance. I chose not to go but to work. I wonder about my priorities. My thoughts rush across the bay to the main land. There is G. and his smile. There is something about this boy, I can't tell. I remember losing you for good, and Solange was on rotation. You denied any softness after you had gotten so deep into my mind already. I was hooked and dangling like a fish on a fishing rod. You never gave in, not one single bit. It felt like running against a wall. It was the mystery of finding solace in desolation, somewhere, a secret code.
And then, with distance, it all seems a bit odd and strange and so very fortunate that it never worked out in a way that we could get even more entangled.

Usually, when I meet men, they either remind me, strangely, of one of my sisters. Not, that they resemble them, but I call them 'A' or 'J' types. G. is Emeralda type. I would introduce him to my Godmother.

That's what's up.

Losing you. Losing is good, sometimes.

This Life

There is times, that etch themselves into your being. Summer 2006 is one of those. 'It's all over now Baby Blue' by Bob Dylan on rotation. I know I've been writing about this before.

'The empty handed painter from your streets, is drawing crazy patterns on your sheets... the sky too, is folding over you... and it's all over now baby blue....'

See, times pass. The 60's are over. It is 2014 now, and it happens weekly that I look up from my routines and think 'this is it. I've been here, Nairobi 2014.' We are living history. We are shaping history. This music is transporting a myriad of meanings through space and time.

For a while I was at a loss to make sense of my years in Los Angeles. I wondered what the hell I had been doing there. If it had been a big mistake, leading me astray, delaying what really is important to me. And, as time passes, I realize that it is not so. Every little thing I have experienced, gone through, shaped is informing my very steps I am taking now that make me so happy, that are leading into deeper and deeper meanings. Nothing was futile. I can't deny that music plays a huge role in my life. I can't deny that the emotional landscapes I wandered through during those years are what I am working with now. I can't deny that this love I have known, so infused with all this music, was so insanely beautiful and meaningful. I can't shake it. This young man touched me so deeply, I can still feel it in every piece of my soul. My friends from that time continue to touch my life deeply. The things I learned about life, love, loss and art give substance to everything I am doing now.

A friend asked recently 'with all your years in Kenya - are you finally settling for a consistent career?'. I can't blame him - the strands of the things I have done seem so disparate, if not random. I have wondered a lot about my path, myself, I have doubted that what I did was right or whether I missed out on very important aspects - but I feel now so clearly, that it is all true. That it is all right. That it all comes together, in the end.

Who knows, if I can know this kind of love again. Who knows if I can leave the dead behind, and if they will stop following me. When I kissed you, I had a flash back and wondered how it was to kiss him. And I realized, I would never, never, never again kiss those lips I so dearly loved.

And that's ok. Because it's all over now Baby Blue. 

it's such a strange world we live in, ey?

Class seems to be a variable.

No matter whether in Santa Monica or in Loresho, there is a conversation that doesn't change. Or in South C Los Angeles or in South B Nairobi.

The world is changing but some things are not.

Jamming

I am angry at myself. Because I am sitting here trying to encourage some girls to join in the Jam Session at the Finissage of UN-known Spaces at Goethe Institute. And they don’t want to. The guys are free styling, and the girls are only comfortable with the songs they have practiced.

I remember this whole thing about running towards our fears and how our biggest joys are waiting for us there. It makes me angry like that stupid Rumi quote with that meadow beyond right and wrong where we can meet and stuff. When I was young, I went to an illegal jam session in Switzerland. It was in an abandoned freight wagon station at the outskirts of town. This is where the Colombian and I did things I can’t speak in public of. This is also where the bar tender told me I had to start drinking and smoking to get my act on. This American guy who was apparently extended family with TBone, the famous blues guitarist, had helped me pick my first electric guitar. A Fender Rhodes. The jam session confused me deeply. I wanted to die. I tried anyway because I was braver then than I am now. Girls (yes I am generalizing) are scared to go wrong and be judged and things and then they stop going to jam sessions and never learn how to do this really. 

It is sad.

There is nothing I can say actually because I have no right to encourage girls to free style and not have the balls myself to go up there and grab the guitar and just try my luck at it. Let’s start encouraging each other to do this. Screw perfection.

The Good Story.

When she is telling her story, sobbing, I get this creeping feeling that I know that guy. I ask her straight up is it 'Don Juan #2' (name changed by author :)? She stops dead in her track as she picks up her jaw from the floor and with a little hick-up in her now tiny voice she says 'yes. how did you know that?'

Because, I know the story.

And it is so good! Very appealing. I am afraid I am becoming one of these people who start seeing everything as marketing. The problem is really that there is no consumer society around here in the wild wild East of Africa that then can help you make claims to return something or get reimbursed. It is almost like Berlin! A self service store of sorts. If you buy a product with the entire package you also have to read the small print, and it almost always says 'you can't complain because we told you so'.

His story is great. Here is why: As a mzungu girl you have a lot of options in this town. It is sad, in a way, but also a fact. Perhaps it is true that I can't go around and judge the taste of people or the power of 'otherness' for our biologically informed decisions, but I can see the trend. Many times I will win over my beautiful Kenyan sister (eh, the ridiculously beautiful one who doesn't only look like a Goddess descended from the heavens but who also has charm, wits and a golden heart) because I am white. And I am saying that with an upsetness inside because I am really not the prettiest girl around the block. As an esthetic person I would say that I am an average good looking person. My whiteness is overriding that in this country. I am always impressed and relieved when that doesn't seem to be true, because me, too, I want it to be about people and personalities. Anyways, I digress. So, with these many options in town we hetero women run into different types of men. Some want our passports (and I love the ones who say that straight up into my face), some want the status upgrade that seems to come with having a white girlfriend (I disagree with history on this one but perhaps it is just biology trying to trick us into diversity and most probably it is about economics), some are just into white girls (and that's okay but leaves a lot of question marks in every direction) and others are not interested (that is usually very interesting) and really don't need you at all. Very appealing.

I remember, how in the beginning some guy friends of mine who see themselves as Kenyan middle class, were complaining about white girls falling for the rasta man in informal settlements - why? Because they want to, I don't know, satisfy their socio-romantic solidarity with the poor. Because artists cut across class and are wildly interesting. Because, reasons. Why doesn't she fall for me? Is it the middle class? Is it his personality? Maybe it is really just about people, and that would make me happy in the end. But let's be honest - dating and sex and all these things have never been just what we want to make them be. It has always been about a lot more factors than just obvious ones.

To go back to our question: his story is great because it takes us from the slums to self-empowered wealth. It is essentially like having a cake and eat it too. You have that phoenix story, sitting with a man who can treat you to an expensive dinner that in the back of your mind makes you feel guilty because you realize this is half of the salary of your housekeeper for a month. A man, who essentially doesn't need you. But who says, that he is tired of this Nairobi dating scene. That there must surely be more to life than this. That's when you get hooked. It is a triple success: Someone who has risen, who doesn't need you but declares he is tired of sleeping around.

We always want something different. If you fall for this story and you added ideas what this really is about and then don't get out what you expected it is quintessentially your own fault. Not to say that people shouldn't be transparent and so on, but let's face it: we want to believe the story and we don't want to read the small print or even better - contain our sprouting fantasies to see what is really going on. And, to be sure, it is not that the story was even a lie. It is what this person chooses to share and what you want to hear. It is a golden sunset and a hero riding on his horse into it.

Marketing: The Compassionate Heart

I can't help but cringe a little bit when she says 'oh, is it that woman around Yaya? I know her, she talks to me all the time.' He then pitches in 'I know her too... she has been around for a while.'

Why is it, that we feel tricked when we fall for a good story? In the end, did it really matter? An old woman conning people on the street should use any story that gets her money, if you think of it. It is in no way different from any other marketing out there. You sell the story that people need to hear to initiate a transaction. 'Don't feel bad' they say. 'Don't feel bad at all.' But I can't help it. I also feel bad when I get goosebumps by ads for Samsung or when I fall for one of Nairobi's Don Juans like every other white girl I meet afterwards. But that's a story for another time.

Yesterday night was the moment that was the straw that broke the camel's back. I had overdosed on sugar and my giddiness spilled over into the street. With swinging steps I made my way back home because I am one of those wazungu who proudly declare that they don't care and still walk at night regardless of what our Kenyan (and expat) friends say about that. Until something happens, of course.

This old woman runs up to me. She doesn't ask for money, she asks for a job, because it is better to do something than to beg. Because, she has two children and so on, sometimes she can't put food on the table for two days in a row. My sugar high is wilting by the second. We talk. My friend says, when you talk, you are already hooked. So I am hooked and we talk. I say, we already have a housekeeper. She says you are a very good boss. Such a good person. That you talk to an old woman who has nothing on the street. The other people who are streaming back into Kibera in their suits and broken shoes turn their heads. I say, in fact, I am not the boss. The landlady is the boss. She says that doesn't matter, you are a good person. I ask her if she has a phone, so I can perhaps refer her to someone who is looking for a housekeeper. That would be nice she exclaims but I don't have a phone, see, my son had fees coming up in school so I had to sell my phone. 

I feel terrible. My hand is playing with the money I just got out of the ATM. I say, here, please take this money and I want to give her 2k. I say, I really don't want to perpetuate this image, that white people have money just because we are white. In fact, I am a student and I live on a shoestring budget too but of course, while I have a shoestring she doesn't even have any shoes, perhaps. And of course, as the money in my hands is derisively sneering at my claim of brokeness, I can't help myself and give her the entire three thousand shillings I had in my pockets for the next couple of days. We end the conversation with her promising me to buy a phone and call me the next day to show me that my money really went somewhere good. Then there is something about Kisumu and Luos and a high five and she disappears into the dark. I stagger home, meet some friends who laugh at me having been conned but with tears in my eyes I say 'she looked like my Mom'. I couldn't help myself. I don't care if I was conned. Not until the next day, when they said they knew her too. My claim to uniqueness dissipating in thin air.

It is hard for me to see old people going through trashcans. In my european hometown as well as here in Nairobi. It is almost worse than seeing children begging. And yet, so far I was able to walk past most of the working people in the street who market towards my compassion. Often I will walk past a blind-ish crippled person and think to myself: your story is not touching my compassionate heart. It is no different than me walking past the shoes and clothes in the stores that I have no money for. 

In the very same moment I think 'what would Jesus do?' and while my friends would be surprised to hear this because they don't know me as an overtly religious person, I am actually serious about that. Jesus didn't have a blue print how to treat people. He healed one person and sent them back to the village so they could tell everyone what happened. The next one he told to never go back and keep it a secret. Of course Jesus wouldn't just give money to everybody. He would probably sit down and talk and see what really is up. What caused this? Where is your share of responsibility in this life? Are you living a smaller version of yourself? Is society proportionally more to blame?

Sometimes I am thinking, in a way this marketing of the poor is a more direct way than going for the marketing of NGO's who then need a lot of the money to pay salaries and hardship allowances and furniture of their staff. Perhaps systemic change is more important but also maybe just giving a poor person money as they are working their ass off on the streets appealing to our twisted and tortured hearts of compassion is also just that - a transaction of goods. And sometimes we buy, and sometimes we don't. I am remaining with a big question mark in my heart.

sting

I stand in front of a closed door, and it is see-through. I think I can see everything, but clearly, of course, that's not true. My fists and jaw are clenched. Raven voices teasing my worthlessness out, again. It was, clearly, not worth the fight. Guess that's okay. Guess that's okay. Guess that's okay.
The silver lining on the horizon: why waste time if it ain't right? But... I have a question, knock knock, I have a question here. Couldn't it be something true and just in and for itself? I should have shut up and start filtering. To preserve. To protect.

The reason why people filter truth is because other people can read it only in their own way. And then they run away. And then we are left alone. And then we decide that next time, we will play the game.

Drowning

She sits there, with her fists clenched, her heart wide open. The second thing she says is 'I got cervical cancer. Second stage.'

She just found out.

I sit with her and her lips quiver. Singular tears wet the sides of her temples as they try and hide and find a way to release.

'How many blows can one person take?' She says. How many?

I sit with her and hold her neck and her hand. Someone calls. I understand only a few things. There is nothing really to do but be there. Talk to her. Listen to her. Be silent with her. So many things.

The dream I had, when I moved in. How she was calling weakly from her room and nobody came so I went to look after her. She was lying on her bed, wretched, looking up to me whispering 'it is so hot, I need water' and I poured cool water on her neck and back. How I saw the pain and the dwindeling and the need to be helpless, after all. Someone like her, who has been through so much, childlessness, ensuing abuse and being kicked out of the house, widowhood, - someone like her has seen so much. So much intensity and pain and strength in God. Something higher and deeper than yourself. She has held widows and helped them wash off the stigmatization, take care of HIV orphans and build houses for safety. She is on a road. She is on a journey. On a long and winding road.

Let's be in silence. For a moment. For now.

heavy

It is like a hard, heavy hand in my neck, putting too much pressure, making me sad.
I am mad at myself for not being more organized and light and easy to be around with, this is why hate everyone unorganized, heavy and not easy to be around with. I hate myself like that, I am terrified, to actually be that way, I want to leave and never come back in situations like that. I want my own room.

Fuck putting things into perspective and justifying and rectifying. I just want to be angry, mad and sad.
It's been a challenge to be such a burden to everyone and not have my own space. It is too much. It is so little and I am so lucky and it is too much.

Today is one of the days when I can't deal with that lifestyle anymore. I had that for too long when I lived in Los Angeles, and now here it is again. It is avoiding conflict, hating conflict etc. pp. just like my sister was, just like everybody is,  just like how I hate everything. Too many fucking ideas and preconceptions in my head. It makes me tight, stiff and blue. It makes me go away and not know where to go and how to be, proper, I understand I do too little moving, not enough this not enough that. Argh.
Frustration and just inside directed aggression. I am not a nice person. I was laughing in disbelief and defensive.

Meaning

I don‘t actually want to be a high performing person, the way you see it.
I want to live the small life. Not because I want to run away from duty but because the only way I can live fully is by living the small life.
It is an interesting experience to be part of this experiment. Not for long though. Not for long.
It is too exhausting to think it otherwise.

Good night.

abandon

i wish i knew how it looks from the outside. does she recognize my insecurity? i move but it is clearly not my place. i feel silly pretending a flow. she is sweet. her hand so soft on my cheek. her eyes wide and sparkling like fireworks. her moves are like a cats. the pearls shimmer softly in the badly lit ballroom palace. when i look at her and her extremely handsome and tall cousin with a very admirable position somewhere in the world of things, i see royalty. this is how kings and queens and princes and princesses used to look like.

the irony when they all start jumping and screaming along when a punk song comes on. "i don‘t care". such a different fuck you that the song meant. i am not sure if it is cynical or comical to see the decision makers and consultants and elite students go off like that on that song.

it‘s not that cold outside. i think of how free i feel. wild child. remember when we were in africa (the doors). as a traveller i may not have an immediate impact (or any at all) but as a faithful LOTR believer i know that it was the hobbits who sealed the deal of final impact. not alone, granted, but it goes to show that some things we just can t know. of course that is not an invitation to be an asshole or a slacker.

it s just so much nicer not to be gripped somewhere tightly in structures that limit freedom of mobility. the jetsetters, i don t envy them. at all.
i envy those, who travel by foot.

The clarity meddles with cut up pieces of yearning that breaks its way in moments of calm.
The cracks are calling to be recognized.

Travelling

That feeling of autonomy that I feel now despite the stale aftertaste of a somewhat difficult conversation about the future.
We all know that there is something - fragile about a further engagement. We all know, that I haven't been exactly doing well in some ways. It was a struggle. And it still is. I am still grateful for every single thing I have learned but today, again, I felt a bit tired of it all. Maybe I am even more tired of myself, who knows. I wanted to go running and time told me that wasn't exactly a good idea. I should have just gone to bed earlier.

Lakini - there was DJ Zondie. Who walked with HHP all the way from South Africa to Kenya. Can you imagine? They actually did it. He sold his house. They didn't want any sponsoring money to prove that this wasn't just a publicity stunt. At MC Matre's and Paleface' show at Choices he rapped as well and talked about his journey and his underlying motivation for it in a way that really moved me. Little did I know that he is one of Africa's biggest MC's.
Afterwards I had a long and inspiring conversation with Zondie. I had no idea I was talking to a musical legend, we really just clicked and had really interesting ideas to exchange. In the end he left me with his contacts saying, you know, that tour of yours, I want to help you with that. Basically, what they did is what I had originally in mind when telling Matre to come to Kenya. Since Didintle from SA wanted him to come to South Africa I said, well, then let's organize a tour from there up to Kenya. My idea was to connect with local musicians on the way, who, like Matre, are also involved in social change projects. Link them up, cross-pollinate, draw a real-life map and connections and make musical collaborations as well as a documentary about that. DJ Zondie and HHP didn't do exactly that - they did the walk to raise awareness for a Pan-African dialogue and HIV mindfulness - but they have all the connections now coming through Botswana, Zambia, Malawi, Tanzania, Kenya.
Jaysus.
Talking to Zondie and other cats at Choices I realized - this is really a point where I thrive. It is very close to my fire. Somehow it is. I am happy to be invested now with Amani and I do want to continue this journey but let's be honest, there is a reality check that is calling loudly for further and deepened engagement with the musical and creative world.
Not, that that can't tie into Amani, of course!

Who knows, Matt - maybe it will come through after all, at some point, if it seems the right thing to do.

papa

he says 'you are letting yourself go'. it is not pretty.

the air is gathering more humidity now, clouds stack and balloon, a lonely shark is circeling in the harbor.

'papa, papa' the childrens cry and run towards the shore. papa means shark. the dolphins are gone.

palm leaves whisper - when i don't look, they sound just like any tree. i know there are differences, but they are subtle. my eyes are weary from staring at this screen. it is good to let my gaze settle upon the roofs of Lamu. sweat, tickeling my neck.

he says 'you are right too, but i am right also. but i get your point.'

my point was that i see value in not letting myself go but not for the sake of an ulterior motif. for the sake of being disciplined, undogmatically, but not for the sake of wrapping guys around my little toe. in the end of the day it all boils down to this, for me anyway: you can play games, you can be strategic and it may all pay off - but you better know very well what it is you are after and what it is you truly want. you might wind up in uncomfortable situations otherwise, where you have to detangle and unspin in an effort to let go of what you just tricked into your life. i prefer honesty. 

the problem with that is - the line between that and letting yourself spill and seep through the cracks of good will is fine. still - i believe that even in our worst moments of letting ourselves go people who truly like us and are attracted to us won't be repelled. Tiff was right. it is a selection process. wild. but oh boy does it select.

i can't even say 'too bad you didn't make it' - because i know it ain't true. the only thing i probably really want is the fact that i can't have you. it is simple as that and i would like to be proven wrong, but in the end of the day, this is my song. 'papa papa' where is the shark? i want the shark to be my friend. i don't want papa to be alienated. i want papa to come running and save me when i fall off trees and break my head. i want papa to come join me in istanbul and support me when i am almost dead. i want papa to eat all the jell fish in the ocean and hack away on the thiefs. i want papa to enter my past and fill it with presence. 

and then, maybe, i can let go of you, phantom, phantom you. twilight bat, perfect mirror, projection canvas, jellyfish. elusive pattern, you.

there is a different time count here, in Lamu. there are tentacles that want to reach out to you but the urge isn't strong enough. i let the palm leaves do the whispering. i let the papa do the circeling. i let the seagulls do the following of the dhaos and the wind and the fish. i let the cats do the scratching and meowing and hoping.

let me disappear into the night, into dreams of dying and birthing. of growing and unearthing. of becoming who i am.

I make eggs in the morning. I listen to this music. I think of my love and admiration for S.

Then I sit down and eat my eggs. The world is grey outside. And a wave crushes over me. A crying that comes over me and I just let it come. It feels like this is my last meal it feels as if death is inevitable. A strange sensation. What a strange feeling that is. Maybe I have to go through this one more time. Fully aware. I am so confused. I really don´t know. I was so scared of dying these last past weeks. As if it was bound to happen. And of course it is bound to happen, at some point. But the idea of it happening soon is a completely different mind game. Why is this happening? I am afraid that I am merely over dramatizing things. Or not getting at the root of something. Or maybe I am just plain scared and that´s okay. Maybe it is okay. Maybe it is just fear. I wonder what Max and Uli must have gone through.

it´s bitter sweet pity - to feel the stir of genuinity beneath it all. as if there is something waiting. and it´s been waiting for so long. it´s been waiting because you took other roads, deluded yourself and missed your twenties.
the only salvation lies in the consoling thought, that maybe perhaps all these experiences will be worth something one day. maybe i can melt them one day into some grande finale. or some grande something. or nothing. who cares.
it is the point beyond doubts. when doubts occur but do not matter in the same way because you are finding your way down the stairs in the dark, carefully putting one foot after the other, trembling and daring.
that´s the way to go.
to follow your heart.

so i go out, out, out, something is a'callin me. i meander from place to person to place to phone to beer and smokes. i find, on my way out, a person to talk to, another one to fight off. gazes thrown into the room like fragile glass bulbs crashing on the floor.
and then i come home. i take the night bus. i take the night bus to the hotel. i open the book and i read. i read of her loss. how her child was kidnapped and killed. i read about her reasons of publishing her diary and the correspondence relating to the case. and as i read i calm down. i come to the place that was calling in the first place. a strange clarity fills my mind and my heart.
i bow to you anne lindbergh. these are the little seedlings of truth you were hoping would reach hearts to shine a light in the dark.
it is quiet. it is quiet now here. it is okay to be quiet.
it is okay.

sometimes i get the feeling that i have been running, even though there are moments and moments of peace. but sometimes i get the feeling that i have been running. restlessly. away and back and fro. to touch upon this fragile deep memory. to get back in touch with you. to get back in touch with me. to truly feel that what has happened and who i have become now.

maybe it isn´t awkward to go back to this place. maybe it is okay. maybe it is the only saving grace i have to pick up myself where i have let off.

oh god. mazzy star. drawing me into a time vortex that spits me out somewhere on Sunset Blvd in the Holiday Inn (or something like that). The cockroaches on the street, big like lampposts. The dim lights and the Pay4Less in which I hurried barefoot to dry my tears and my fears. Walking around the building multiple times talking to a good friend far away who on the other side of this time vortex has left his place and vanished into obscurity.
who would understand?

and such is it. music that heals. music that breaks walls made of glass separating decades. broken glass. sharp. sharp enough to tear a hole into melancholy blue.
see, maybe it isn´t even that i really care or dare call this feeling love. i once spelled these four letters with awe. they have spilled and left a pool of arbitrary feelings - and an abyss filled with lusting snakes that want to rip me apart and tell me that i am not good enough. it is even pathetic when i write it. because i know it is not true. but what do they care for truth? all they care for is fodder to make them grow and lust more: more guilt! more drama! more this! more that.

growing up has become a lot easier and a lot harder in the same time. things that have taken me years take me only days now. but the canyons have grown wider and the abyss much deeper and the bells keep ringing the name of love.

it´s not all that bad

now that i look back

i can feel the magic

i can sense the spectacularity of it all

and the dancing feet

oh what a great summer

oh what a great summer to be had

the bad news are, that the more I READ about social projects (worldwide) the more I grow impatient and annoyed by that scene. it´s quite the disappointment in many ways, because indeed, the question remains where my passion has gone regarding these issues.

i reckon that it is a simple equation - the more i read the less i am inspired and the more i actually DO the more passion i will feel.

i guess there is no way around doing then. i hope it doesn´t involve so much reading.

not everything is okay
but some things are
i try to put my feet on this ground
so many things that call for fixing
i hope i will manage
i hope i will cope
i hope i can make this
a good road.

selten hat mich jemand so gesehen wie du es beschrieben hast
deine worte trafen genau ins herz
manchmal wünschte ich, dir könnte ich so begegnen
genau so tief

dann sind es aber doch nur vorboten von möglichkeiten die verborgen sind
bis sich jemand verdammt noch mal die mühe macht, sie zu sehen

ich vermisse jemand anderen
aber ich denke an dich
pako ich denke an dich.

sinking

Ich sinke. Sinke. Sinke.
In meiner Brust flattert es und ich verberge.
Verberge deine Augen und dein Lächeln um sie nicht mehr zu sehen.
Darf es nicht sein?
Ich spreche mit ihr und bin verwirrt über die Gründe meines Handelns und Seins.
Den Berg erklimmen wollte ich, doch jetzt sinke ich nur hinein.
Tiefer und Tiefer, Tropfsteinhöhlen, Unterirdische Seen.
Die Kälte lässt mich schrumpfen
Ich bin schon ganz klein.

rage unknown

dear dad

it is not okay that you weren´t there. even when you were there it was rare that you actually were there.
where were wear ware
now it is okay. now I understand. now I can muster the strength.
then it was not okay. the ways that I developed to cope have become patterns. now I am only mad at the patterns. at myself. not at you. I missed the moment to be mad at you. I missed the opportunity to muster all my rage and express it. from me to you.
but rage demands direction. that is why it went somewhere. there was no where so it went to the only one available: towards myself.

dear dad.

it was not okay that you were sick. dealing with pain instead of dealing with me. i am small. i am dependent. i am dependent on you. i had to get sick for you to be there.
first i get sad. then i get pouty. then i resignate. rage never appears. not in my memory anyways.

dear dad,

just three days ago someone led me to this place of rage. i was barely able to touch upon it. i was fucking scared out of my mind. when i felt it, it wasn´t pure. it was mixed with despair and grief and abysmal sobbing. i wanted to rip her face off like a mask. or smash her against the wall. roar in anger like a dragon threatening to destroy her. gobble her up. rip her head off the shoulders and make her appear. make her present. make her mine. make her stay there. make her come to me. make her a real person.

the voices saying it wasn´t all that bad are my rage´s biggest enemies. they handcuff, silence, gag and mask my rage. pull a veil across it and muffle it. suffocate it.
my rage is like a dangerous animal that is said not to exist. it eats my cells and mutes my life force. and because i don´t know it i can´t use it. it uses me.

noch wichtiger, als wer du mir sein kannst, sein wirst oder bist, ist die frage wer ich mir selber sein kann, sein werde, bin, war.
noch wichtiger, als wie tief deine küsse gehen, wie weit du meinen seelengrund berührst oder ihn jemals sehen wirst oder gesehen hast, ist die frage, ob ich mich selber berühren kann so tief.
die träume, wie sie in mir schlummern. wie sie geduldig schlummern. willst du sie nicht? willst du sie nicht spüren? sie werden lassen? dir zeigen lassen, wie und wer du bist und wer du wirst?

noch wichtiger als deine zuneigung, deine anerkennung und dein sehen ist mein sehen, meine zuneigung, meine anerkennung.

warte nicht.

it´s hard to breathe.
i didn´t expect but certainly hoped for this
just not... this uncertainty.

there is no beginning nor ending to this kiss. your lips pressed against my fingers while i watch pillars of air hosting stars way up at the end of the skies. there is no closing movement of lips or the sound of kiss as we know it. it´s just this: an eternity that burns deep and can never be forgotten.
i look at your hands and they speak of a different lover, of a boy who lives in the body of a man who lives in the confinements and the safety of an institution. artist hands these are and i watch them as they flutter and wing through the evening air as you speak, like little birds drawing cryptic patterns into the horizons. there are moments of hesitation when our faces are so easily accessable to each other. it takes nothing but one little intent to make these lips meet. your eyes are full of questions but i prefer your shoulder and my hand on your heart and the gaze into the stars.
you leave me with so many riddles that my heart wants to burst into a wild blossoming.

sometimes I miss you more than anyone
just because i know that talking to you would accelerate this process immensely.
because my questions can´t be naked around other people
because i don´t dare to
because with you i always had the courage to just be
how we explored this world
and this life
and how you, like a bigger brother, would generously tell me about the things you had learned way ahead
i am so scared sometimes and i know i don´t have to be
but it would be easier to just call you and ask you and see

maybe it is true what they say
that you are still around
somewhere, in the clouds
or in the trees that whisper with the wind
or maybe in the water - appu!!! - that is caressing my skin
maybe you are inbetween heart folds or souls
i miss you bro
i miss you.

exploration

gefangen in gedanken, verhangen, gequält im verlangen.
es geht nur mit neugierde. dann ruhe. dann exploration.
es geht nur, mit darunter schauen. suchen. grenzen anfassen. angst rauslassen.
wer ist mir mein gegenüber?
wer ist mir die welt?

this room is finally opening up
i want to crawl deeper into it and lick my wounds
broken everything broken
and it is good to be alone.

yellow moon

it´s only a flimsy, a tiny little repercussion of tremors that quickly subside...
I feel disconnected from this heat
no need