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The Wonderful World

Once upon a time lived a little girl. She loved nature and spent most of her spare time discovering the world of plants and animals. While the other children were playing with their dolls and toy cars in their rooms, she climbed trees, crawled through bushes and collected flowers, stones, dead insects and a lot more very special, interesting, sometimes strange things she found on her adventure trips over the fields and through the forests. Everything she found or could watch, she thought about and examined very carefully. She wasn't yet old enough for having a subject like biology or geology at school, so she didn't have the scientific knowledge. She never needed to know those rules and formulas. She created her own rules and formulas which, in her opinion, gave a clear, sensible structure and of course sense and importance to everything, in her fantasy. She was enthusiastic if she by herself could discover something, without have been told how it has to be. In her world, everything had its very important, exceptional importance. Perhaps a different than adults would see in it, but her way was much more emotionally vivid and simply sensible and less seriously rational and emotionally cruel.
She imagined relationships between rain and plants and sun and animals and plants and animals. For her winter was a kind of death. And because she knew how much fun you even can have in winter, following the footprints in the fresh fallen snow, she concluded that death in general must have such good aspects as well. The night, which’s darkness, changes everything and the new drawing light in the morning. One day she found a big box, nearly as high as herself. She carried it into her room, cut a door and a window into it and installed a light. From this day on, everything she collected and examined she took into this mysterious place, to which she always fled when ordinary life seemed to conquer her mind. In this box, the laws and obligations of the big people, who think of themselves to be the one and only true instance of life theories (as if such great things might ever be enlightened and discovered finally), didn’t count for anything. That was her safe space, her own wonderful world. --
If I remember well, later a computer took the place of the box. The girl spent her time studying vocabulary lists. Nevertheless she received bad grades on the tests perhaps because she watched the birds in the trees outside the classroom, while the other pupils were writing, concentrated on the really important subjects of life.   

>back>>

The girl and the tree

...It was one of those first sunny and warm spring days. I helped my mother preparing the patches. Like a machine I was pulling out the weeds. Because it made me sad, to think about all the innocent plants I was killing, I tried to review some of the mathematic formulas, about which I wrote a test the next day. One patch after the other, always making the same movements with my arms, hands, head, whole body.
When I nearly had finished the last patch, I found a strange plant that looked really different from the other weeds. I didn't have any ideas what it might be, so I called my mother to take a look at it. She didn't need much time to establish that the plant I found wasn't anything but a little tree, just as big as the weeds and she advised me not to make any difference between weed and tree. To pull it out, and kill it?
Well she didn't say exactly something cruel like that but I thought that it was  absolutely not sensible to pull out the tree like I would pull out the weeds.
I decided to let the tree live and pulled out the other plants around it.
Soon I found that I really liked the tree it was different from all the others.  I decided that this tree would be my best friend from that wonderful day on. And after a long, hard discussion about the rights of trees and the human obligation to protect little lost baby trees, the tree was allowed to keep its place in the middle of the carrot patch.
I called it Egon and cared a lot about him. Each day after school, as soon as I could, I ran out of the house to have a look at little Egon. Which grew and grew, from day to day. I spoke a lot to him and he always listened attentively. He was a very sensitive friend and he always was there, when I needed him. Soon he became bigger than I and I looked forward to the day I would be able to sit down by his foot and read a book in the shadows of his leaves. I always told him about my plans for our future. I never wanted to overlook the plans he might have his-self. But he always agreed contentedly.
When I again spent some hours sitting by his side, watching the birds that slept on his branches a strange feeling of absolute satisfaction fulfilled my mind and I fell into the deepest meditation in this calm, peaceful atmosphere that surrounded me. This phenomenal experience I made with him one day before I should go into a holiday camp for ten days. On this day I sat there about five or six hours because I could feel his sadness about the lonely time that lay in stone for him and I felt bad because I was the one who went away. When I nearly wanted to return into the house, where it didn’t rain, it seemed to me that I  heard him ... First he sighed than he bowed down a little  and whispered softly: "You always can count on me."  That moment I knew that he was strong enough to stay alone some days. At some point all of us have to learn this in life. Now it was his time.
The ten days really were hard for me. I felt alone among all those other children. Not on of them was as sensitive as Egon and I hardly could imagine talking to them because they always just shouted and cried, terrible! When I returned home you can imagine how happy I was, to see my Egon again. As soon as I arrived I ran down to the patch. Nothing had changed, but Egon - he wasn’t there anymore. With tears in my eyes I turned around where my father stood. He put his hand on my shoulder and told me encouragingly, that Egon had fallen in love with another young tree and had migrated into forest with her. I cried about two days without resting more than to sleep and even today I feel as if there is something missing when I enter the garden.

>back>>

...A woman has to do what a woman has to do...                             
... “And now I'm standing in front of the residential building that I know all too well.... That's what we have negotiated. He keeps the apartment; I keep the appliances our bird and the painting. He never liked it anyway, he told me when I took it from the wall above our bed. After it had hung there already about seven years. I can't yet understand how he could live every day looking at a painting that was disgusting to him. And that for seven years. He never wanted to hurt me, he said. -Never wanted to hurt me, ha!-  I know what I have to do now. I'll climb up the steps. All 42 steps, each of which looks different, each is special. I can still remember the last time I climbed them up, it's - I don't know- it's some years ago. Now I'll climb them up again, up to the apartment Y 75. The others will surely be there already. Someone I don't know will open the door for me. The door to my apartment. I'll walk along my corridor. Pass the bedroom the kitchen on the right, then the bathroom on the left. Straight to the living room. Many laughing and talking people. Oh, someone I know, I'll say hello to them. I'll laugh and show them, that I'm happy even without him. Yes that's what it is about. That's the actual reason because of which I returned again, of course. No, surely not to congratulate him on his birthday.  I want to show him that I worked on myself, that I finally don't think of him anymore or still even don't wait for his return to me.  I'll talk with him about my new successful life. I'll make him really regret leaving me. We are going too different ways, ...our relationship isn't sensible anymore he determined. Without showing any sign of sadness about those surprising news he had for me. (And I always thought, after all the birthdays, the Christmas eves and our annual anniversaries he said, that he isn't a man of great surprises and presents. I have to admit that, then, “the end” nevertheless, was one for me. Nearly as a Santa Claus appearing to Easter.)
I know he'll have to ask me for another chance. He'll beg on his knees that I forgive him.  Yes, that's the subject my returning to this place of my, of our history. Nothing else. I want to pay him all that back; I want to show him that I don't need him anymore. That's what I'll do. Now!”...

The sun's long gone by now. The white hair of the old woman seems to shine through the blue, clear evening air nearly as if a second moon is shining tonight. She stands there, dreaming. She stares lost, absent-minded at the empty, waste lying ground of a pulled down house. She just stands there, it starts to rain a little, she lifts her arm, a car drives past, she seems to grasp after a door handle, a bird flaps up. Suddenly she turns around, for a short moment. I can see her face, it's soft clearly expressing that mysterious contentment... Her eyes, smiling- but finally, not forced to say anything serious anymore. Does she nod? Does she recognize me? She turns back. Nearly as suddenly as she turned away, to the other side, she turns back. With the still lifted hand she opens the “door”, disappears into the night in front of her, disappears into the time that has passed...(her?)...
...Being a women she ...did what she had to do, she just...

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Golden Memory

I'll never forget the way her orange-gold hair played in the wind that morning.  I'll never forget her orange-gold hair.  I didn't know then that it would be the last time I saw her.  I know she was waiting there for me; I know she wanted to say goodbye to me.  Now I know that she certainly just wanted to give me the chance to make everything clear between us.  Now that I know all this, I regret trying to ignore her, trying to suppress my attraction to her.  I hoped I might give the impression to her that I really wanted her to go away.  I wanted her to, you know.  Not how it actually was. -
In my opinion there wasn’t anything else to say.  Actually there was more to say to her than I could ever do in just one lifetime.  I didn't want to have anything else to say to her.  I saw her but she was already "gone" to me. And now I am sure. At least in this lifetime I won't see her again!
I saw her for the last time that windy late summer morning.  I saw her, I passed her, I tried not to look at her, but I couldn't; I had to!  My eyes were caught by her fascinating personality.  Once more I couldn't flee her attraction.  The first thing I saw was her golden orange hair.  I saw it from afar.  I wanted to turn, go away; in another direction, but the moment my mind received her picture, my feet walked by themselves. The wind blew through her hair so that it flickered, bobbed up and down, hesitated, floated, sailed and nearly seemed to melt with the green dress of leaves, glimmering golden, as her hair. She rose up her head, as if to say something-probably exactly what ever should have been said-probably what would have dissolved all the misunderstandings between us.  Well, this way it dissolved something as well.  But more our hardly established relationship. Her hair flickering like fire, her head rising up, her lips, ready to grant me some last sounds of her soft voice, the blinking of her eyes, unendurably self-assured, but in my remembrance turns to an expression of ice-cold emptiness.  The last picture I have of her. - 
Even if I can't remember anything else, even if I can't remember one word, one conversation; I can't remember her particular qualities, her characteristic way to move, to act, to treat people.  I'll always remember this last picture. -
All composed in cold, clear light.  Late summer morning. -
I'll never forget her orange-golden hair. I'll forget all eventually, excluding her orange-gold hair melting with the green, golden glimmering, dress of the tree she was standing under. Each time I pass the tree I'll think of the orange-golden hair.  Always I'll remember her orange-gold hair and I'll try to forget that I now know the true reason of her waiting for me that morning.  She wanted to say to me:
"Mon chère je vais t'aime toujours.  Je ne vais jamais oublier toi.  Mon chère. „.
-Well, she just wanted to lie to me once more.  Wanted to end this lie with another lie!

>back>>

Rainbow Colored Shadows

The fresh, earliest hours of a day. The sun is just about to rise.
Sleeping twilight in the side street still. Black cats change to gray dogs that dance a little on the walls, until they'll hide finally to sleep during the day, in the chests, behind the curtains, under the beds and bodies of those, who won't awake anymore.
Still too dusty and gloomy for daytime but already about getting too lightened and lively for the nights play. Someone, partly clearly recognizable, partly fading away with the undertow of fog, walks floating over the sidewalk, along the street, the houses, the windows, the doors, the closed, save protected hide-out of those who are afraid that the night might take away their only important, immaterial possession.
He walks evenly slow. Sometimes he jumps over parked cars or from one corner of a house to another. Evenly his steps get faster and slow down again, faster and slow again and again. When he passes trees and bushes, he revolves around himself, jumps among the leaves, so quickly that one can't follow his moves with one's eyes. Suddenly, reaching a rainbow colored house, he stops, dwells, looks up to a bird sailing down from over the gables behind him, down, over his head in the dark night in front of him, a lark.
Looking up from the street, he watches a window, close under the roof of this rainbow colored house, as it was about to be opened. A young, beautiful woman sticks out her head and naked shoulders, wipes away some "dream-tears", for the pain in the world, with the back of her hand, catches them in her small, tender fist, curved reaches out her arm and lets fall down the sparkling tear drops, on his face, down there. She looks up to the sky, a contented smile runs across her face, he dissolves himself, changes everything and disappears. It's day, let's live.

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The meaning of coincidence

I'm Parcival, Parcival Angel of Disappointed Dreams. I've been chosen of the whole angle assembly, to tell you something about our work up here.
Well, we work together in teams of some main angels whose number is never less one and only one can be added yearly, what's not obligatory. But if you once started working as a main angel in one of these teams, you are obligated to stay in this position as long as this team exists. Our mission is to discuss, to decide and to come to a common agreement and to write down how our work develops in a big book. It's really hard work. Usually the basic difficulties are the thousands of free working angels that change teams whenever they like to. You can imagine, that it’s not easy to decide and reach a common consensus if there are thousands of equal cooperators having an influence. Free working angels haven’t a particular responsibility. They change their point of view, or opinion they are representing, from team to team, they are involved in, in a period of work. But they should keep on their opinion during one period.
We main angels have fixed responsibilities. Some have really unpleasant jobs such as myself. I'm one of the first main angels of a team that started with good conditions, as I remember. We weren't only partners we were also friends and to come to a trouble-free conclusion was easily done. OK, to be honest we had some problems with Adolphous, Angel of Mule, Strong Will who we used to call "Angel of No" not officially; He is an angel of a really dominating personality. He often tried to play the role of a leader, which official doesn't exist; actually it's strictly permitted to have a leading angel in a team. We haven't a hierarchy; we are all equal and try to act responsibly following the important principles of the community of fate angels. Because this syndrome of dominating outsiders is well known among us, we created the special position of guardian angel. That's one of the main angels in each team with an additional fixed responsibility who is elected by the whole angel assembly to have a carefully look after the angels, trying to dominate and even more importantly, to take care of bad influencing angels and to regulate their involvement in decisions.
We didn't need such a guardian responsibility in my team for many working periods. Adolphous was dominant and still, until now, keeps on influencing many things egoistically but the whole angel assembly decided that his job was and is a basic importance for the story of the development of our work and shouldn't be regulated particularly. Unfortunately my team had the bad luck of being the victim of another sad syndrome in our society. Some working periods ago one of the mean angels, better known as "fallen angels" decided to join our group as a main angel. Titus Artaxerxes, Angel of Crazy Thoughts and Compulsions. When we talk about him, we called him the rat that brought the plague to our team. We applied for a guardian angel when we realized that he was getting too strong. We got an acceptance of the whole angels assembly.
Jonathan an extraordinarily exceptional angel was appointed. Jonathan Angel of Exceptional Thoughts and the Belief in Luck and Trust. That's one of the really exceptional things; he's got much more than one responsibility. He joined our team two working periods before Titus. Jonathan didn't talk much, he seemed to be really wise, he restrained himself in most discussions and we others didn't know anything than rumors, really strange. Sometimes we wondered if he really is an angel. His look and acting, what he expressed is, that he is elected for something with much more importance.
No one was surprised when he was appointed. With the exception that he restrained himself most of the time and he doesn't intervene when something really bad was written down as story of the development of our work, he does good work. With this guardian angel, we have better times now.
Well, I hope you are pleased with this exceptional insight. I could tell you more about some special angels or myself or our mission and the aims but I'm tired of writing. I wrote the last chapters, all of the last working period in our team. I think I've earned some free days. Perhaps I'll help Santa Claus with the presents there I might meet some beautiful young angels of the not-world-interfering sort. Merry Christmas and a happy New Year to everybody
Signed                                                                                                                                                                         Parcival
Angel of Disappointed Dreams

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Time to say

... dimming, fading white-green light in the gray room. No window, only a door. A door, without a handle, just a "push"-sign. Silence, only sometimes one or two words are exchanged. But not a sign of a sensible conversation. It seems as if those present weren’t there anymore. Nevertheless, careful observers could hear them scream and cry. Their eyes hardly ever met. When the one looks up from the floor, the other one turns the head towards the door, or the non-existent, window.
"What a bad luck"...
" Nice weather don’t you think"...
- Silence -
"Shouldn’t we talk about the future?"...
"Couldn’t someone just tell me why humans can talk and think and feel?"...
- Silence -
"Why?"...
"Such a wonderful, sunny day; I like it!"...
-Silence - ...
It seems as if you can hear the old, brown wristwatch on his arm ticking - but actually you can’t hear anything. - ...
" Are my ears still okay? Or why can’t I even hear the time running by?"...
- their eyes meet a second. Enough, too long, much too long.
"Perhaps... perhaps the time is just not running by anymore",
the words cut deep and sharp like the hits of a whip. The light is nearly gone now.
- Silence -
"What time is it please?"...
-Silence-
One of them stands up.
"Might you please switch on the light again, please?"...
-Silence-
... Finally dark, all of the white-green light is gone...
-Silence-
"I think it's time to say-- to say good bye-- now."...
"I think it's time to say--to say I love you--now."...

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Different Similarities

It protects me soft and safe,
Makes me into the loneliest creature in this world;

It's my most favorite life quality,
My most demanding, hard fight;

It makes me into something special, extraordinary for my fellowman,
Forces them to keep the biggest possible distance;

What gives my life the happiness, and my days it's worries;

Is my hope and doubt,
Is my love and my hate,
Is my way and my fall,

It is my clearest expression,
The most mysterious impression you'll once have of me as well;

Obviously strange;

My freedom makes me free to be;
Keeps me caught in the cage of my freedom.

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My Doubts

I'm a storyteller but I'm tired of telling stories. 
All my life long I told people about worlds created by my fantasy. 
My experience taught me that most listened attentively and appreciatively. 
People like to hear things expressing something more interesting to them and impressing them more than their own everyday life.
I am a rescuer from the boredom of reality.
I'm not obligated to be honest; I'm obligated to be creative. 
You should know, it's hard to be a storyteller; it's hard to be only an entertainer and to live, always waiting for those special moments chosen to be the moments that may make a story interesting and exciting enough to be different from true-life stories. 
Besides, I have experienced that people never want to hear real stories.  They like stories that hide the reality behind a mask. 
Stories that make mysterious anthracite of an ordinary gray; a labyrinth of a straight, single trail; a bright rainbow of a dirty window glass. 
My time as a storyteller has run out. 
I guess that there are no more stories I could tell anyone without being afraid of supporting a development from an achievement-oriented society to an achievement-oriented society that is not able to say:
"I feel good..." or "I feel bad..."; a society that is sliding in the roller coaster of self-analytic control.

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Again

"Where are you going?"
"I don't know yet."
"Are you trying to mock me?—Why...—?"
"No, you know well, that that's one of the last things I would do to somebody."
"So why can't you just tell me..."
"Good bye. Have a nice evening by yourself."
He says, and the front door, completely glass, with an iron frame and handle, shuts slowly, heavily behind him, once again. Like the last week and the weeks before. Again.
It is Friday evening, again. He's gone, again. I see him walking down the stairs of our veranda, turning to the left towards our grange until he finally disappears into the blue, dark night--or behind the dirty, gray corner of our house--anyway-- I can't see him anymore. I hear his key tinkle, or I heard the key last week. Sometimes, I imagine little things, that use to happen permanently, in the same situations, for example, I hear the key tinkling, if I heard them the last week or the weeks before, when he left the house, to drive away on Friday evening, again.—
Well, the key, probably they tinkled, the car door slammed, then the motor evenly hummed, the red backlights lit up, and ran down the driveway. A short moment I can see him, sitting behind the steering- wheel. It seems as if he stares at me, as if he knows something. But of course, he doesn't, he actually can't see me, hidden in the darkest corner of the checkroom. I can't, or don't want to see the car disappearing completely. The last thing I see, the cold, white front lights of his run-down white car. They blind me.
I walk down the corridor, slowly. Down the long dark corridor. It seems to be longer and darker than ever before. At the end of it, I reach the dining room. It's partly lit, by the dirty orange of the street lamps that shine through the windows. Lowering the shutters, I rest a moment, look out the window. The old lady, which once welcomed us in the neighborhood extraordinarily friendly, is taking out her little, fat, brown dog for a walk, she's talking to it, as if she would talk to a child.—
Shutter is shut completely –darkness in the dining room. Just a slight of light fells on the floor, trough the sliding double-door, which leads to the dining room. Through the opened slit, I can see our wedding-photo, placed exactly in the middle of that old, ugly chest of drawers that he inherited from his parents. I enter the living room and walk to the chest. Pick up the photo, try to have a look at it, but I can't see anything. I put it down again, on the front side. I established that the TV is running, such an old "Let's-be-happy- together-movie". I remember that we watched such movies, as well, together, some years ago. But tonight it would just make me sad. I ignore the TV and switch on the CD-player. "The doors". I really like them, I liked them since high school, I guess. I remember him, offering me the tickets to the concert. Just to have a date with me, what he told me one morning of our honeymoon in Rome, while he turned off the cassette I taped for him, a Doors cassette, live in concert. I thought it would pleas him. Instead of the music, he changed the station to a radio program that broad cast the morning-mass, life, in Latin; neither of us speaks that language. But it was our honeymoon and we were happy.
A strange feeling of anger and disappointment, resignation comes over me. I turned the music up louder and press the "repeat-one-button". Looking around in the room, my eyes discover an old photo of Sam, Sam with her father. I have to talk, I need some conversation, now, or I’ll go mad. I'll phone her, she always has time for me. She's obligated to care about the problems of her old mom.
"Hello."
"Hi Sam, it's me."
"Mom? What's up? Did he go away again?"
"What...how do you know that?"
"Well, Mom, that's why you called me the last some Friday evenings."
"Really, did I?" I'm sorry, but...you know..."
"Yes, I know, you haven't got anybody else to talk to, I know."
"Sam."
"Why don't you buy a dog? Joe bought his parents a dog last spring and they are so happy with it!"
"When will you and the children visit me again? I miss them, and I miss you, you know."
"Did dad tell you where he went today?"
"...Never,...he never tells where he's going on Friday evenings. I know, that he knows, that Friday is my only free..."
I try to suppress it but I can't hold back the tears...
"Sam, what's wrong with me, what has happened to our relationship? Sam I'm so afraid of loosing him."
"Mom."
"Oh Sam I...I love him still so much..."--
"Mom, are you still there? --Did you hear the news today? Father John Calvey died. He was killed by a gang of Satanists, they assume...Tell me mom, wasn’t he our guest for Sundays lunch frequently, when I was a child?"
"You remember correctly, he was. Sometimes he still comes Sunday afternoons to have a cup of tea with dad...but Sam. What shall I do? He won't..."
"Mom, stop it, dad will come back again. As every Friday. Believe me, he will."
"Sam, he won't come back, this time it's different, I feel it, I..."
"That's what you tell me every Friday evening, that's nonsense, he'll come back. As he did every time. Trust me. Trust him. But,--well, sorry mom, but I have to hurry up, Joe will come soon, we are invited for dinner at his parents. And I'm not even dressed yet."
"But Sam.!"
"Good night mom, he'll come back."
"But Sam, I know, today..."-click-"...today I know..."-hummmm-"...today I know that he won't come back again..."
Slowly I stand up. In the kitchen, I fill a glass with water. I try to clean my hands; they are still a little black under the nails. I throw the tong that is in the sick, in the garbage. With the water in my, still vet, hands, I walk to the bedroom. I shut the door behind me, open the window, enlighten a candle. I walk into the little bathroom. Before I open the medicine cabinet, I have a short look in the mirror--I guess there isn't anything exceptional about me. I take out some sleeping pills, return to the bedroom and take the pills, with the water. I lay down on my back, look up to the ceiling, not waiting anymore, until I fall asleep, again.

>back>>

Last Flight to Eskap

Sitting in the lounge of some airport or other, waiting for the flight to some other airport or other in another country, to Anewer or Somwer-Als that doesn't matter actually anyway.
There are billions of other people in the same or a similar place, in the same situation as well. All sitting in the lounge of some airport or other just waiting until a friendly woman's voice calls out some numbers to differentiate them from the others and sends them to the gates, their check-in-points, the planes that'll bring them to another place.
But that doesn't matter either, because what's the difference then?
What could ever be deciding enough or of enough importance to make one better or worse or even just different from the others? Walking to the gates, checking into their flights, flying to the one or the other place, to Anewer or Somwer-Als, which doesn't make such a difference at all, none of them are doing anything that different just sitting, waiting, listening, walking, checking-in, waiting again, walking and living on a life wherever the plane, the friendly woman's voice sent them to the gate and check-in point of, is flying them to.
Well, I fly frequently on the line that takes passengers from Somwer-Als to Paris, and further for those who think they have to, to Anewer. And back, of course. From Anewer to Paris, and further for those who think they couldn't stay in Paris, even if they would like to, to Somwer - Als. 
And that's good that way.
There are always people flying with this line, every day. Sometimes there are even passengers that fly with it for the second, the third, or even very frequently, as I myself, but not every day as I myself. -I mean, they fly frequently as well, but not as often as I. –
... In the past I often wondered why. Now I could even mention two possible reasons, if someone would ever ask .... 
But for me it was a great success to come to this solution and I am, to be honest even a little bit proud of myself for that. Oh, yes, I know that it's not gentleman like...don't show people that you're proud of yourself, son, my mama always tells me, don't think you do anything better than them, the others, she means probably....
But, I am sure I can trust in you, although I don't know you; you won't tell it to anybody else will you? But now you, you surely are very excited about what I determined as the two possibilities there are that some fly more than one time with this line or more than two or three times.  The reason that they fly frequently, as I myself, but not every day, as I myself. Two sensible reasons that, as I told you already- but shhhh! mama really shouldn't know. And she has good ears, and a friendly voice, you can imagine what mama would do if she would hear that I tell you that I am a little, really just a little bit...shhhh! Good ears, you know. - Well one reason might be, that I'm living in Somwer- Als, with my mama of course. And the other, ... well...
…it's my job.
Yes once, some time ago a friendly smiling old man put this hat upon my head and told me that I'm going to fly Line 23... don't know the actual number, could never remember the number. I know that I must take my seat when the friendly woman's voice calls out the sentence:“ Attention! All passengers for the last plane to Eskap Line 23...."-I never had a feeling for numbers- "In some minutes your gate will be open to check in. Line 23... to Eskap. Check-in possible as soon as the plane to Somwer-Als has left...."
Oh, I nearly missed my key word while.... I have to hurry up, I shouldn't miss the flight, my mama would be really worried. So, good bye; have a nice time, as I myself, wherever you go, that doesn't matter actually anyway.

>back>>

Buy me!

I'm afraid I got hopelessly lost in this twenty-floors-high-and-spread-over-three-towers department store. After searching for five hours till now, I nearly feel as if I have spent my whole life in here. I must have lost Mary and the children somewhere between the restaurant and the...--no; I can't remember seeing them anywhere since lunch. But as I'm thinking about how I lost them, all the time since then I just remember less. I guess I gave up seeing them ever again when I thought for the 8th time that I had finally found them again but all the women with the children by their side were just really surprised and sorry for me, but none of them was Mary. The next one I'll take home with me, Mary or not.
But anyway, where is the exit to the car park, and will I be able to drive?  Well, I guess, I gave up ever getting out of here again, the 8th time I thought that I had finally found the right direction to the reception, and I saw this silly robot-dog jumping up and down on the glass table, squeaking "Buy me!... Buy me!..." the whole time, for the 8th time again. It is just that I'm so exhausted. Imagine, the last hour I stood here at the same intersection between the Toy Department BG (Babies & Girls)-D, the Book Department NC (Novels & Comics)-F, the Pet Department LI (Lizards & Insects) -E and the Show-Bedrooms FU2 (For Rooms under 2 square meters) -D. Everywhere I look, people, pairs, families, single children and groups of them, single young women (perhaps there's actually no use in searching any further...) and groups of them.... people, hundreds, thousands, billions of people and all are walking around between those bright synthetic colored things.  Everywhere the weird pets: green, yellow, red, pink, ... All those people, buying, buying, buying, buying...
"AND THIS DAMNED ROBOT-DOG!!!!!!" it never stops squeaking, I want to kill it, I hate it, I'll take this damned dictionary—special offer, 50% more content, same price—...interesting...—and slam the damned robot-d... "Is every thing OK, Mister?"-Is this nice old lady talking to me? - " Su...Sure, sure. All right, everything's all right." I'll take the book from over my head, and put it back on the book table  "Buy me! Buy me...!"...I turn around—it doesn't take much power; it is so easy; I'm surprised how quickly the dog 's dead. He just peeps once more, then - silence—how wonderful. I' m proud, I'm proud as never before. I feel as if I've done something really great for the first time in my life. Oh, I'm feeling so fulfilled, I'm so...Why is this little child staring at me?  It is staring at me, isn't it? It is staring. Is it frightened? Damned, such a good feeling. " Well done, don't you think? Someone had to stop this humiliating play!"...But why, why is this child crying and howling now?  Well, let it do whatever it feels like. Everybody should do what they feel like.... Hey, man, you surprise me. You are developing into something of a philosophic hero. I swear to myself from now on, I'll never do anything but what I feel like doing. - First of all I'll walk a few steps back to look there—I think that I saw one—and see if that soft-ice cream machine is still there.
I'll buy an ice cream for this poor child, sad without any reasons. Probably it just doesn’t know the truth already.  I thought, I'm sure the soft-ice cream was somewhere over here, or there,...did I take the wrong direction? Am I lost all over ag...ahhhhhh there it is! I knew it was somewhere over here. I am having a really great day; well it's just about to develop into one.
I'll buy two ice creams. One for me and one for this child...Jummmy! That tastes awfully good. I didn't remember. It's years ago, probably it was even in the days of my childhood that I enjoyed such a sweet melting soft-ice cream. I think I'll buy three more. Two for me and... one more for me too!  Hey! And what nice things do I see there? Thousands of toy-cars waiting for someone to play with them. I sit down between all those blinking, perfectly formed dreams of my memory.  Grab one, another and, all the ones I can reach from down there. I start to unpack them. It's like Christmas. It's better. It's like Christmas and birthday. I push the boxes away; I need space to create a car park. It's so–I can't imagine how I could ever do anything else. I take the green, yellow, red and pink beautiful toy cars; play with them like I saw it in one of those police series on TV. The one flees from the other, crashes yet another jumps up, revolves around itself, rushes down again onto the others' roofs. What fun, alone with all these cars. It seems as if the red car' s recovered, it starts again suddenly followed by the green one which gets faster and faster, ohoh, it's nearly caught up, but in the last second it could be protected by the pink car jumping through the air just in front of the...
" Joseph what the hell are you doing there? What's happened?"
-Mary?  I rush up as fast as I...
...he tries to stand up clumsily, he's a sorry sight. What did he do, what on earth had happened?...
...Mary, how could she find me, I felt so good and now. Why is she looking at me as if I were naked?...
...Gee, and now he's even tripping over the toys. What a luck that the children aren't here. I wouldn't like them to see him like this...
..."M...M...Ma...Ma...Mar..."
...stuttering, kneeling in front of me, looking like a little boy, remainders of soft-ice cream on his face and on his shirt, partly hanging out of his trousers. Someone has to stop this humiliating play…
...I should feel bad, I guess, but I don't know why. Did I do any thing but what I felt like?...
...What shall I do with this man now? Shall I drive him to a doctor? Or is it better just to call one...?
... I don't want to go away from here, never again. I want to stay here, with my cars and of course with this yummy soft ice cream...
...."let's..."
...."Go away! I don't want to..."...
..."Joseph!?"...
..."I'll stay here. Here I'm happy. Here I have everything that I need to live. I can take anything I want. And…"
..."But, Joseph!?...You can't..."He stands up with a frightening power. My god, what's happening?
... "Go away, you make me really, really angry!" She looks so small, standing so helpless in front of me. How should this little person ever be able to order me to do something?  She's so weak, little Mary. It doesn't take much power. I'm surprised how easy it is to grip her shoulders and push her to the side. She just trembles, falls, flies. First her hands, then her body... her head slams on the white, cold marble slab on the ground. Red, red, red— everywhere red.  All around her body.  Red, red, red blood. Her arm shakes once more, then–silence—all around us, silence. How wonderful. I' m proud..." I'm proud! People, do you understand! I'm ...oh my god..."as never before, I should run, should flee. I run away, run away. Hide myself. I feel as if I've done...

...nothing...Nothing extraordinary, just what I felt like. I'm buying a soft ice cream and enjoying it, enjoying the really great day, well it's just about to develop into one again.

>back>>

75th Please

Take my hand stranger and begin to forget how it all began...

One more morning I was on my way up to the 75th. At 9.37the elevator reaches the 47th floor, at 9.37 and 6 seconds the 49th floor... There were the same people as every working day at this time in this elevator, on this Tuesday, after 9 a.m., in the elevator 0 of the 8th section in the 15th entrance ground floor area. All on their way up to their jobs as yesterday and Saturday and all the days before. 9.37 and 12 seconds, 51st floor. There was the old gray-haired man, elegantly dressed each day. The only one who politely says hello to everybody. He's always smiling friendly, looking content. Somehow as if he's enjoying going to work.  Probably he has his own business with his own secretary and a staff. One can assume that one day his son will take over his business. Margaret, young woman 25 or 28 or something like that. From Monday to Saturday one can see how she gets more and more exhausted. 9.37 and 18 seconds, 53rd floor. A young man still just a boy, fresh from the university, always busy, nervous, looking at the wristwatch, approximately three times a minute. 9. 37 and 24 seconds, 55th floor. Charlie, the philosopher. Each day he tries to heighten the mood with hopeful, wise phrases. Probably the one he read in the daily calendar on the toilette at home. Not to forget, Terry. Weird girl. Black dressed always, every day. Dark colored hair, sad eyes. She stands as close to the corner as possible, nearly becoming one with it. 9.37and 30 seconds. 57th floor. The elevator stopped, really exceptional, for this floor. None of us pressed the button for the 57th floor, so the stopping-wish could only have come from someone outside, standing on the 57th floor waiting for an elevator further up. „ God damned, that's not necessary!" the young man muttered, looking at his watch. „ Calm down my friend, the most important things, that may ever happen in your life, you won't miss just because the elevator stops in just one floor more one morning of your life, " Charlie smiled mockingly, a little arrogant but friendly, when the iron  elevator door opened mechanically, powerfully. An Arabian-looking man, dark hair and eyes stood there. As he saw us, saw the full elevator, it seemed as if he were a little frightened. I guess I had seen a wish to disappear at once in his blinking, confused moving eyes, or just to disappear before the door had opened. But he did the momentous step into the little room full of people watching and judging him carefully. Turning to the closing door, behind him, he took a deep breath looked to his shoes. 9.10. 59th floor. "Damned I'm two minutes late just because of th...“ "Calm down friend you won't be thrown out, just because of two missing minutes. You may tell them that the elevator was delayed by an extra stop on the 57th. They'll understand if you explain that to them... well they know that there are people who can't follow the rules even not the...“„ How were your holidays, -- Charlie? Didn't you fly to the Middle East last month?"...I had to interrupt this silly play. I couldn't understand how sensible adults could ever be so insensitive." Well, it was all right. I really enjoyed the sun --and the food, of course. I never ate such a good kebab before." "And the people? How are they?" 9.40 and 6 seconds . 61st floor. ."Damned, I' m attending an important phone call. I'll miss it. They won't call again." He looked at his watch but this time his movements weren’t mechanically nervous as usual. This time his eyes angrily, reproachfully brushed the new passenger, who noticed that the things, argued about behind him, were directed indirectly to him. "Sorry "he murmured. Beads of sweat began to run down his forehead. One might have seen his helplessness, anxiety. But some of us just were absent-minded as ever, and some just tried busily not to take any notice of him.9.40 and 12 seconds 63rd floor. The old man who had smiled all the time since the tension got more intense 6 floors, 2 minutes and 15 seconds ago, always the same unimpressed, unaffected expression, suddenly started to take part in the general conversation, "Gee, I' m so proud to work in this building. It's the most impressing and most important of its kind in the whole country probably even in the whole world. I'm so proud to be a citizen of this country and god, am I proud to work here. "He was smiling so superficially, somehow dishonest, so dishonest, that it nearly could have been simple naivety, or the age, -well another possibility which I shouldn't forget to mention here. Even if it was sadly not really probable.9.40 and 18 seconds 65th floor." Aren't you proud child“, he nearly shouted with his deep, singing, voluminous, bass -voice and laid his big, strong, wrinkled hand, somehow paternal but almost unemotional, on the head of Terry standing in her corner starring on the door crack through which the changes of light and dark created an even rhythm.  Terry seems as if she had forgotten where she was and who else was there and anything, just by following the rhythm of dark and light outside, inside the elevator shaft, through the crack. The hand on her head struck like lightening and ...perhaps it looked a little bit as if she was pushed down by it but actually just collapsed, howled, held her hands up in front of her face.9.40 and 24 seconds 67th floor. The old man just kept on smiling but actually, certainly just didn't really know what was happening. He looked at her, smiled. Smiled the same way as he did before and he does, in general, all the days of the week. Then he turned away, "We all should be very thankful to God. We are chosen to live in the best times I ever saw. Ha, ha, ha!“ 9.40 and 30 seconds.  69th floor. The girl sat there still howling. Because, I guess, no one knew what to do, everybody just kept on doing what they were doing. I felt really uncomfortable and, I guess, some others as well.   9.40 and 36 seconds. 71st floor.  Margaret must have come through, to the decision that someone should take care of Terry. Margaret kneed down, and calmingly spoke to her. I felt a little ashamed. I should have done something as well.9.40 and 42 seconds. 73rd floor. Suddenly the elevator spluttered, stopped. The machine was silent. Margaret had fallen down on the ground, Charlie helped her up again. - I wished I had been the one to help her up. Just to know that I've done something good as well. -Then, depressing silence, just suppressed sobbing. All of us were a little shocked. Then the young impatient man couldn't hold himself back any longer. Shouted, angrily screamed, beat against the elevator door, the button board. The foreigner, who had joined us since the 57th, probably frightened of the outbreak of aggression, began to breath more deeply and irregularly. His eyes... the expression even frightened me, just being an observer of the scenery. He sounded more and more as if his collar were choking him; he tried to widen it with his left hand, with his right hand back behind him to support himself, but unfortunately didn't notice that Charlie stood there, " Caution friend. There are more people than you in this elevator. " He hissed, pushing the poor, frightened man back. He had no chance to keep his balance. I could have tried to...but it was too late already, he weakly crashed into the boy, who was now snorting as an angry bull, and who had obviously already missed his appointment. He just didn't want to hear the carefully spoken sorry and turned around and hit the innocent foreign man with the fist right in the face. Nearly the same moment the elevator begun to work again. Some drops of blood splashed in Terry's face of all people's. She still sat on the ground in the corner, seeing the blood she howled even more excitedly at once. 9.45 and 35 seconds. 75th floor Margaret wanted to help the girl up, but as she softly touched the girl's shoulder, the girl screamed. The iron elevator door opened, mechanically, powerfully. "I've finally had enough!" Margaret went out of the elevator holding her head. Then the young man followed her, ran down the corridor not caring any further about what he had done. Even Charlie seemed as if he had lost his patience, shaking his head, left the little room now becoming emptier and emptier. The gray-haired man followed him, smiling. With three fast steps he caught up and laid his arm around Charlie's shoulders. I heard his laugh fading away. I stood there watching the people leaving the elevator. I felt stunned and helpless. My head hurt and my eyes burned. After a short while I decided to turn around to see who was left. The surprising look straight into the eyes of the strange foreigner, who stood close beside me, was that impressing... even after all that had happened today, I'm still moved by that look. I left the elevator without looking back begun to walk the way to my department, where my work waited for me. I was still so confused about the strange events in the elevator that it took some time until I recognized the fire alarm. Perhaps I just realized it when I realized that masses of people were running along the corridors and a general panic spread and pulled everybody with it. I wondered and asked some guy who was about to pass me what was going on. "Look out the window!" He shouted and disappeared. And I looked out the window and ... my god! I couldn't see anything but....
For hours I've been walking through the corridors of this hospital I don't even know exactly where it is. I am walking along all the injured, sleeping, exhausted, confused, shocked, unconscious people. I hope to find someone I know, perhaps a friend, ...I feel so lost, so lonely. I could cry ...Why isn't there anybody I know? They can't be dead, all of them. They can't! All those people sitting, laying around. I look at their faces. I try to remember if I know one of them...just have seen one once, exchanged a glance, one second but one sight in my memories. " Aren't there any..." I know..., I have seen these eyes before. These deep, dark eyes. I believe I remember that I saw them once, in the elevator up to the 75th, in the morning, short past 8 a.m. on my way to work. -Wasn't it... could it be possible that I..., didn't I meet this look ...the eyes that have caught me are coming nearer. Might it be possible that that stranger recognizes me as well? We are so close that I can feel his breath. There's somehow an aggressive tension between us, looking deep and sharp in each other’s eyes. Is it the mistrust or do we just need some time, carefully judging each other, to forget about the hopelessness, despair fear, anger and pain of that destiny day that changed everything. Changed the world, our county, the city, minds and thoughts of the people everywhere and here around us and it changed us ourselves being involved personally. So it seems to be natural that we need more time to differentiate friend from enemy, now and of course he looking like... no I won't make that mistake. And now I remember when we met and how it was. And I see deep into his eyes, see the fear, see the scream for help, see his will to...and know...He suddenly smiles, the happiest smile I ever saw, the smile that made me feel so happy, I guess as never before. Teardrops role down his cheek. We just stand and smile and forget the day the world the people around. I lift my hand and said...

>back>>

The future is a dream; the past is a game and the present...
... a play.

It' s never played consciously. It's a winning or a loss.
The moment of fear and doubt, you try to pause in
the acting’s busy progresses, the direction will just say:
..." and she is pausing once again,
thinking about herself
and the present situation
And the cruelties in the world..."
But pausing like this she won't ever notice that she looses the life’s sense,
not trusting that she could ever win those dream's adventures.

>back>>

Missing Someone

It is just my weekly shopping in the same ordinary Supervalu store at the corner, just like every week. Milk, butter, some apples, toast, whatever you feel like, and something unhealthy...that's what my shopping-list tells me to buy. "Really precise," I think and know that that would be just such another afternoon spent hesitating between the Fruit & Vegetable Department and the shelves of sweets.  Hopeful and energetic I begin my hike through the crowds. As usual I try not to pass or even cross through the Toy Department--although I would like to have children myself once, I can't think of anything worse than the screaming and yelling of little spoiled children and the desperation of their exhausted, annoyed mothers, whose sight discourages me having children myself each time again.  The Value radio plays music that probably should be relaxing but actually makes me feel somehow aggressive. A charming, unnatural man's voice offering quotations and supplies through the loudspeaker, regularly interrupts the music, which to listen to the whole day long, must make one sick. Mechanically taking a shopping basket, I establish that I'm a little bit confused because I feel rejected by and attracted to the voice, offering cereals family size for the same price as ordinary size. On the one hand it sounds passionate but on the other just monotone and boring, nearly irritating. And in the end I just can't surely say whether the music makes me aggressive or the voice. Perhaps both or just both together or the mixture of relaxing and attraction or perhaps, the general atmosphere.  People, many people, either hurrying busily from one department to the other, or standing -- still-- wondering-- thinking-- weighing out-- suddenly grasping something and running on again.
Don't know why, but I just think about that. That's the thing with thoughts, they appear and disappear when they like to and, in general, you can't even choose the subject of them. And because I know and accept that, I don't even try to suppress them. So,  ... Let's see. Which milk shall I take? 0.1% fat, 0.3% fat or even fat free. I notice that someone is standing beside me. I feel observed and try to look as if I take the fresh milk, of free-range, happy, cows, on purpose—with 3.5% fat by the way. Not really content with the decision I made, I walk further. I try to think that there is no use in spending too much time in weighing out the pros and cons of  0.1%, 0.3% and fat free milk. But that's just another thing with these thoughts, you nearly never can lie in your thoughts to yourself. It's damned to fail; you actually know the truth anyway. ... Five apples, as every week. I don't know why I still keep on buying them each week again. All I do with them is put them into the fruit bowl in my kitchen and give them to friends who visit me, or throw them away when they are bad. Probably that's a habit from childhood, something like a tradition. My mother used to buy five apples as well, weekly. But she never had thrown them in the garbage or gave them to visitors. No, I think I remember that I had to eat them. Each day in school, one apple.
I just put them into my shopping basket. I don't want to think about that now. Perhaps later, when my children go to school once.
Just 23 and half a minutes in this Supervalu and the basket is nearly full. I wonder if all people buy such a lot of superfluous things. Again I have this terrible feeling of being observed by somebody. I look to my left, to my right, even behind me, but there is nobody who seems to take any notice of me. But, how strange: I'm not sure if I'm happy or sad about that.
Passing the several departments, I wonder if all people feel observed as I do, when they are doing their shopping. It's a shame that there are so many people in the Sweets Department today (that means, no chocolate until next week). I walk some rounds; remember the time when I played as a child between the shelves. Well, I guess it has looked nearly the same for years, but I have changed, as the times have. I find myself standing in front of a great selection of fast food dinners and as if I had known it... the man's voice interrupts the music to tell the buyers that there is a special offer in fast food dinners today, and just today. Special offer, hmm? That's true; this fast food stuff's really cheap. I look at the back of one, and another and one more. Is that a joke? Are all those dinners really just for two people? Suddenly I have such a feeling, I'm feeling as if... I feel that..., I...run, run through the corridors, through the crowds, through the Toy Department. The shortest way to the reception.  I don't care about anything around me. I'm just feeling so, I feel, I have to come to the reception, soon, sooner... --The man looks different than I expected, but I don't really care about that. He smiles at me, and with his "fast food dinners"-special offer-just-for-today voice; he says caringly: "May I help you? "—...Well, I have to say something...--
" It is just, I feel ... I think, ... I'm feeling as if...as if... I'm missing someone!" I'm absolutely confused.
"That's not a real problem.  I'll call them out over the P.A. and sooner than you imagine it, you'll have them back," he says as if he knows situations like this really well. But he..."No, you don't know, it's a really big problem.  It won't be that easy.“ He stays cool, "We'll see, is it a child, -- or an elderly person, -- perhaps sick, --.“ I'm so stirred up, my head is a mess as never before," NNN...No. NoNo...NN...!"He is really professional, he knows people like me, who have gone mad in between the overfilled shelves, being pulled through the stream of the buyer-crowd, "First of all, calm yourself down, take a deep breath, and then, tell me who you are missing, the name, the age of the person, other important things about them, and your name of course."...I'm winning back some of my consciousness." I'm Ann, Ann Loner." He seems to be really proud of me, smiles, "That a way...and now..."He still just didn't understand the seriousness and urgency of my situation, "But you don't know. It's not that easy! Really,“--I nearly have to cry--..."it' s, it's not... it's serious, you know, really." I'm sobbing. He obviously is getting bored, "Of course I don't, but who are you missing? Without the name I can't do anything for you!" So I try to control my enormously emotional confusion, "Well, I'm missing someone, ...I'm missing a man..." He smiles again.
Smiles as if he were looking at a dog, which brought back the thrown stick for the first time.  "That's already better and now his na...“ It's just enough; I'm at the end of all my powers "I'm missing the man." He's at an end too, but of his patience, "Which one, there are thousands?"  Well I have nothing to lose anymore, "I'm missing the man, the man in my life."
I've said it. I've done it. I put down my basket and leave the Supervalu.
Until next week.

>back>>

My Home in the Mountains

I love the winters as much as I hate them. But what else could I do than hate or love them? And how should I ever determine which one I feel more, concerning the winters in the mountains where I made my home once upon a time?
I often wonder how I could fight against my hate and enjoy my love, but I feel that I would miss both if I would ever lose just one of these feelings. I by myself can't make any sensible decisions about this. 
Of course, I would try to talk to people about it. But in the summers it's strange, even for myself, to talk about the winters and its wonders and beauties and fears and lonely hours,to those few hikers, that get lost up here. And, well, in the winter, when white, cold, snow covers the woods and the trails are blocked with ice. Then I hardly see anything living but the majestic eagles, elegantly sailing ellipses over their territories down in the valley, not that far from my wooden block-house, where it isn't winter at all.
But I never saw a hiker walking through the snow on the top of that mountain I built my house on. Sometimes I think I hear knocking on the door in those cold winter nights, and frosty, dark, days. But when I look out of the window, there's always just snow and ice and more snow. And the voices out there I can't hear. 
But although there are winter days, I sit in my snow-covered, wooden, house and feel safe and content. I am writing my stories, painting my pictures, and thinking about how good it is, that it couldn't ever be better than being here in my house, living by myself, doing all I ever wished to do, all by myself. Never depending on others, to wait for them or to be thankful to them (whether I wanted or needed their help or not).
Well, I have to admit that I feel lonely as well, just to have mentioned all of my feelings that are important for me to survive those life-necessary winters.
The hikers in spring, summer, and autumn, they are nice, sometimes. Sometimes they are even friendly, and now and then I have conversations with them that make me feel as if they are on the way to understanding. I know, that sounds really arrogant when I talk about my visitors. But the other way around, I would never assert that I understand them, walking in the heat in big groups or if not in groups, if they got lost alone, they are searching for their group.  I don't know the reasons for that strange difference.
I don't know how someone can do that permanently and feel good about it.
I don't know why!
I probably will never know.
I guess that's made out of the same ingredients as my hate and love for winter.  And you know that's also something I don't know. I couldn't live without the joy of doing all those things I do by myself and for which I need the loneliness. And I couldn't live without the sadness and depressed hours, for which I need the loneliness too (if I am really honest, and mainly to myself). It’s just a shame, that the loneliness is sometimes so depressing that
I just don't want to survive the winter months and that I am often so afraid of the hikers, that'll soon appear when the snow is about to melt away.
So I am caught, sitting on the seesaw of hate and love, of loneliness to survive and loneliness to die.
It's just luck that I know that there are some more mountains, on the top of which is the home of someone like me, and that on each mountain top, winter comes, and that each of those others seems to survive as well. 


>back>>

Later...Later...

It is Sunday morning. Well, actually, it is afternoon, but for me, Sundays aren't anything but mornings. It was just some minutes ago, that I forced myself to wake up. In contrast to my Sundays, my Saturdays have one-hundred-fifty percent less night. I wanted to stand up, have breakfast, and sit in front of the computer until it was time to go to bed again. On the kitchen table I found a plate with pancakes and a note from my mother:

"Dad is at the school, tonight there will be a performance of his students.
He would like to see you there. Be ready to go at about 8 p.m., I'll pick you up.

I'm at a meeting of the church-congregation. You know,
the anti-racism campaign "Ways to a Healthy Nationalism" will start soon.

You have to take grandpa to the "Central" today;
Remember our agreement about the car!

We are both very worried that we haven't seen you since last Sunday evening.
We want you to spend more time at home and less with your friends in the football team and Marcy.

We know that you don't go to the singing-lessons anymore, your teacher called your dad.
I don't have to tell you, you know that that makes him really sad!
He has earned much more respect for what he does for you, and he loves you as much as I do!

Mom.... & Dad"

I always wonder why my mother cares about such kinds of things in our family and my father does not even sign personally. I take the plate and start eating while searching for my grandfather. I find him sitting at the table in the big living room concentrated staring at a glass of water. He doesn't take any notice of me, so I sit down on the couch.
I look straight at the big, black, and gray painting. There are two skyscrapers there and two planes. September 11th, 2001 stands on a little card affixed at the lower right corner, perhaps the day my parents met for the first time in such a building or in a plane?
Adults, they are such sad creatures. Always living in the past, just because they don't want to realize, that their time is over.
I look at my grandfather again. I'll never understand the things he does. I can hardly speak his language and he doesn't speak one word of mine. "Hey Jo (the name Dad calls him), are you ready? We'll go to the park together today. Just you and me, and I hope you don't make any trouble." I know that he can't understand what I said, but suddenly he begins to murmur something like  ": sie kommen...Bomben, ...Flugzeuge, zerstört, alles zerstören....".  I pick up his jacket from one of the chairs beside him. I guess he will understand what I want to tell him, when I show him his jacket.“Hello Joho!" I try to get his attention by acting like a clown, talking to him like I would talk to a child. " Hey Groß Father, what's the matter, you... du and mich...ich, we go, walk (I illustrate it all with the help of my hands, arms and the jacket) in das park... -oh, come on Jo, take the jacket. In five minutes we'll leave."  I'm losing my patience; throw the jacket over his shoulder. Suddenly he grasps my arm, turns his head up to me, away from the glass, frightened, looks in my eyes, murmurs "...sie kommen... Bomben,...Flugzeuge,... alles zerstört,...zerstören alles...!..." Weird man, something really strange is going on with him. I shake his hand from my arm -- what does this old man want to tell me? -- I have to make a call. Perhaps Marcy wants to come to the "Central" as well.... Her mother tells me that she's still sleeping and doesn't feel good today. "Is it possible to visit her later on?", I ask, but not meant as a real question. I know already that I will, no matter what her mother says. "Bye, see you later."...
Grandpa surprises me; he has finished dressing already and waits at the front door, ready to go.
We have to walk just five minutes, along some traffic-calmed streets, to reach Central-park. I feel uncomfortable not talking to him, and I don't want him to start going mad again. I don't try to speak his language. I'm sure that he couldn't even understand me then. "I'm going to graduate next summer. You know, I'll finish school.... -- I thought about moving in with my father's family, afterwards...-- I want to become a professional football-player." I turned my head sometimes, to see how the foreign words affect him. When I mentioned the word "football", I realized that he had begun to smile—it seemed that way to me at least-- so I decided that that would be a good subject to talk about. "Well, I want to become a great football-star...." Meanwhile we had reached the park. I lead him to a bench near the pond, where the younger people ordinarily meet. "My coach told me that I have a talent for playing..." I motion him to sit down, and do so myself as well. "Is everything all right for you here?" He still smiles and I continue talking. "I'm quarterback. I'm the best player on my team. I think the most important difference is that I'm not only strong and fast like the others—although perhaps I'm even stronger and faster, but also that I am smart; I am not one of the mindless fighters, I am the head of the team. I lead the boys, tell them what to do, where to run, ...I am the coordinator, I manage that all of them work together as one...Don't think football isn't intellectually demanding--as Dad does--football has many complicated rules. To get good results, a lot of strategic knowledge is necessary..." I know that I exaggerate, but he doesn't understand anyway. He keeps on smiling, so I think he likes it, and I keep on telling him about my cleverness in football, and some stories about how I solved some really hard problems in my best plays, told him about the success of my team and how good the atmosphere is there. I told him that the boys are something like a family—in any case better than...- and our coach is something of a father to me...Jo keeps on smiling, and I am glad about that. As long as he doesn't go mad again. "Pat, is it you?" A voice, coming from behind my back, interrupts me. I turn around, to see who it is. "Uncle Archy, what a joy!" I haven't seen him for more than ten months. "What have you been up to? Why didn't we meet anymore since your birthday last August, which was it, the 46th?"
"45th, but that's not a real difference anymore. How are your parents?"
" Didn't you spent the time in New York?"
" Well, no, I spent some months traveling. India, Himalayas, you know, the usual things."
" You were in Europe, too, right?"
" Not since 2003. It wasn't possible afterwards. You know, this damned, stupid war. Hard times for Europe. Everything's destroyed. The Third World War already --lucky Americans, hardly any traces left of it over here-- What did you hear about it? What do you think?"
What a question. The war has been over for a long time. Why should I know anything, or even still have an opinion about it? What for?
" I see. It's all right, Pat. I wish that everybody were able to live without the cruel memories of this war. Who is that?" he points to Jo who is still sitting on the park bench.
"Oh, that's Jo, Mom's father. He came here from Europe some months ago. I guess, it was around Christmas. Moms' sister died of cancer, so Mom brought him here, to care for him. Do you have a watch?" Why is Uncle Archy smiling so strangely, I just asked for the time?
" It's a memory of Europe. It's nearly 80 years old and still working." He shows me the brown, really filthy watch. "It was a present from --." "Hummhumm. Nice, really good watch." How interesting it is, how boring old people become. Strange, I remember, once I thought Uncle Archy wouldn't ever get old. I thought he would be one of the few, which stay young, and don't begin to talk about the war and that emotional stuff. It seems to be the fate of the human race... Oh my god, is that really the exact time? "Sorry Uncle Archy, we should already be home by now. We have to hurry up. Well, probably we'll meet at your birthday this year again. Right? Isn't it next month?" I have to get this old man back home as soon as possible. Shit, how can I? Grandpa has to be at the house and I have to be gone before Mom arrives at 8p.m. how shall I ever manage to tell this old, crazy man now that we have to...
" Can I help you Pat?"
Uncle Archy seems to have noticed that I have some problems with communication.
" It's just, I can't speak his language. He has to be at home at 8 p.m. at the latest. Mom wants to pick him up then. They want to go to a ...I don't remember, something of Will, you know, Will and his students."
"I know."
"And I have to go to Marcy's. She's ill."
"Still the same girlfriend?"
"Two years next month."
"Good boy."
Uncle Archy smiles and pats me on the shoulder.
" I'll bring him back to your house. So that he's there when your Mom arrives."
He's still the good guy that I remember.
"Oh thanks a lot. You're really great. You know, sometimes I wished my father would be more like you."
I take a short last look, back at Jo still sitting at the park bench, thank Uncle Archy with a polite smile and begin to walk quickly in the direction of Marcy's house. Some steps away, I look back again. Uncle Archy sat down beside Jo. Seems to talk to him, smiles, laughs. Instinctively I stop, actually I don't know why.
What did he say? Everything's destroyed on the Continent. I hardly know anything about the time my parents spent in Europe, years ago. I hardly know any thing about the past of Mom and Dad. And I know nothing about this war.
I'm not yet too far away, to here Jo shout loudly: " Verdammte Amis, verdammte!“ and Uncle Archy friendly pats him on the shoulder and laughs. --
What did he say?

>back>>

Two can do...What...?

We've met once more at the same junction as nearly every Friday in the last months, maybe even years. But what else are years than a couple more months? It’s the same situation so we just don’t wonder anymore, why there's this strange atmosphere between us. We gave up trying to improve it. We take it, as it is, what else should we do? There are these problems but there are the advantages as well. And since we gave it up, it's better. Nothing has changed actually, but it's better now and why should we think about reasons, or solutions, if we are simply satisfied with this result anyway? I remember, there were some promises made once, in the very beginning, which were followed by obligations. But all possible to fulfill. Nothing that would have been humiliating, or  ...--correct--... impossible to fulfill. There was never much romance in this relationship, so why should it be different today? We say hello with an official kiss. How are you? How was work? ... The obligatory questions. Then we start to walk, down the street. We just walk; don't think about it, I think it has become a habit already. We tell our problems, we are holding the other's hand. I don't know, it makes one feel less lost, walking around in the streets, than not holding the hand of another, and even if one knows that this other doesn't really listen. The hand is there, nevertheless, so one could imagine that there's someone, listening. We stop again at one of the next junctions, the same as each Friday-evening-meeting, perhaps caused by the traffic light but probably, actually because that's the junction where we have to decide what to do, each Friday night again. We both would know that we have to decide now, but we don't think about it. We just do it again. "I would like to have a drink with you. Just talk, tell jokes, have fun, some easy, thoughtless hours, you know...", she says fast, monotone, as if she knew she would say this sentence since the last time we had a drink and tried to have fun, to talk. I remember, it was a catastrophe. --Sometimes I have to realize that she isn't really present in my presence, like now when she is suggesting that. It reminds me that I am not present as well, and if she observes me sometimes, as I do her, she realizes that as well. -- Her suggestion, though, makes me remember that the last time we had a drink, at one of the meetings-evening-meetings, we didn't speak a word, I drunk to much, I lost control and screamed silly things, sung and probably I was simply too honest, I'm afraid I hurt her. And probably she was ashamed of me. That she nevertheless suggested that we have a drink, I guess I have to see it as a reproach to make me feel guilty, but what should I say, I don't want to defend myself, she is simply right. I look at her, just for a second, enough to determine that she is really not here and she surely doesn't want to talk to me for hours, not even for some more minutes. "We are going to the cinema today, isn't that a great idea?" I ask, trying to sound happy with my suggestion. "OK" is the answer. Well, I didn't expect another answer, and I know that's the only thing we two can do without doubting something we shouldn't doubt, because we both know that doubts would mean the death of it.
It is my turn to decide which movie we should watch; probably it's even my part in our relationship. I always chose the films, or where we should go for dinner, everything like this.
I chose the wrong one. It isn't funny, it isn't interesting or even well made...I think she slept most of the time. "Did you like it?" I ask her when we had left the cinema. "Yes, it was OK." I knew that she didn't like it. It's always the same. I make the wrong decisions and she has to endure it. But why, damned why can't she make just one single decision? It's always, always me who has to. But--that's not the point. Accidentally we look in each other's direction, in the same moment. We smile and look back to the street in front of us again. While walking down the dark street, which we always walk down after the cinema, we don't speak a word...
... Shortly before we reach the last corner, I begin to play the old game: "My place? Or yours?" She seems to laugh, understandingly kisses me, "Our place", she whispers and we go home.

>back>>

Still Waters

He was just a young man who didn't know how to live, so one day he decided to die. All his short life long he lived in a big city, which he just left a few times for holidays in the mountains or on lonely islands with a white-sand beach. Some weeks ago he finished school. He had the best grades of all the pupils who graduated with him. The mayor, the headmaster and the senator were at his graduation ceremony and congratulated him on his excellent work. He didn't feel much pride or something extraordinarily great. It was his life. The success in school, being treated as a better, more intelligent boy than the others, winning the recognition of famous people...All these were very ordinary things for him. For the start into his new life as an adult, his parents bought him his own, big, new, apartment in the city center and a new car, although the old one was just two years old. They gave him an account with a balance of $230,000 and employed a secretary for him. The first job of this secretary was to arrange a date for the prom, with the most beautiful and fought-over girl of all those which were relevant concerning age and the social status of their families. But he never left the apartment to go to this date. It was the eve of the prom.  When he had finished dressing, he looked into the mirror in the corridor. He saw his young face, still too young to shave, then he noticed an ancient family photograph beside the mirror, which his father had placed there, probably him anyway, because he was the one who once had told him who the people in this photograph were.
In the middle of the group sits a very old woman, the mother of his father’s grandmother. Behind her, a middle-aged, strict looking woman, her daughter and his father’s grandmother, her hands laying on her mother’s shoulders. At her right stands his father’s grandfather, the husband of his father’s grandmother, the woman who was laying her hands on the shoulders of the old woman sitting in the middle of the group in the photograph, her mother. At her left, her still very young daughter, his father’s mother and his own grandmother. At the left of this young lady, still just a girl, all her life in front of her, her husband, and the father of his father, his grandfather. In between those two, the girl, his grandmother and her husband, his grandfather, looking like his father today, stands a young boy, perhaps nine or ten years old, his father. This boy, his father, is standing there, in the same way as the man behind him at the left side, his grandfather, the husband of the girl, his grandmother, the daughter of the middle-aged woman, the grandmother of his father and wife of the man at her right, his father’s grandfather, the man of the strict looking woman who laid her hands on the shoulders of the very old woman sitting in the middle of the group on the photography, the family of his father.
In that moment he realized that he was the son of his father and his father was the son of his father and his father was the son of.... and he should live a life like his father is living, who had lived a life like his father as well, and suddenly he felt so superfluous, he felt an emptiness like never before.
He wanted to think about his life but in his head there was just this ... emptiness. He felt lonely, for the first time in his life, he felt really lonely. The first time in his life he would have really needed someone to talk. He switched out the light --Darkness--. He never felt the darkness as strong as in this night. He walked through the cold corridors of his apartment, stopped at the one, at the other window, but couldn't endure the look of the lighted city. All the people who lived without his emptiness, who weren't lonely. Each window he had looked out, he closes, leaves it and walks to the next one, to look out of it, to feel lonely, empty and bad, looking at all the lights of the happy people outside, and then closed it as well.  He continued that procedure until he had closed all the windows. He had reached the bedroom, fully dressed; he let his body fall onto his bed. He looked at the ceiling, wanted to think about his life, but just felt empty and lonely and didn't know what else to do but look at the ceiling of his bedroom. There he laid, on his bed, looking at the ceiling, the whole night long. He was still laying there when his secretary arrived in the morning. The secretary, naturally, was surprised of the darkness in the apartment. He searched for his employer and found him, laying on his bed, looking at the ceiling.  The secretary asked if there was any work for him to do today, and the boy said that he had to decide something important but didn’t know how. The secretary advised him to go for a walk, to get some fresh air and some distance from the ceiling of his bedroom.   Furthermore he offered to stay in the apartment until he returned. And so the young man left the apartment, left the house, left the city center and walked, and walked and walked and didn't stop, until he had reached a place where he couldn't see any houses anymore.  But he still felt the emptiness and he even felt lonelier than in his apartment some hours ago. When he had reached a bus stop in between some little trees, he sat down on the bench and waited for the next bus back. The sun was about to set and he felt that it was getting colder. Luckily he didn't have to wait for a long time.  Nevertheless it was long enough for him to determine that it's even worse, to feel empty, lonely, bad and cold. Soon he was back in the city, even sooner he had reached the estate and still sooner than he knew it, he was back in his apartment. But still didn't know, still felt empty, felt lonely and bad. His secretary asked him seriously how he was then…perhaps bored. The young man answered that he had been in the forest, and told him to go home and that he had come to a decision...
... Which were the last words he ever spoke to another human...
...There were many popular people at his funeral and even relatives he didn't know and which couldn't have known him. No one spoke, no one cried, no one stayed longer than the end of the perfectly, rhetorically-composed speech of the sun browned, black haired (with white sprinkled temples), blue-eyed TV-priest whom the mother had chosen, and booked, and whom the father had paid. On the white marble slab on his grave is written in golden letters:
"In Respect & Honor to Henry Roger
Who always was free to do what he wanted to.
His last day on earth he spent in the forest."

The Final Countdown

"Please lay this gun down. D…don't do something you'll regret."...
"There isn't anything you need to fear. Everything will be all right. You'll see. We'll help you."...
What are these people talking about? What will be all right? My life, the situation? They don't know anything about me. They don't know me at all. Who gave them the right to judge what...
"Go away, all of you! I don't want to see anyone anymore! Go away! Let me alone!"
"Lay the gun down, that isn't a solution."
" I don't need a solution! I don't need you, go away."
"Don't be a fool, lay the gun down."
"I am a fool! And I just want to die now. Go away, leave me alone."
It's just their goddamned job. They try to keep someone alive, because it's their goddamned job. I could be anybody. They don't know anything. They know that they lie. What they tell me is just to fulfill their obligation to save each human's life, even if it's just a physical life they can save, they don't care about me. If they did, they would leave me alone or even kill me themselves. "I want to...."
-
"How are you, Honey? Are you better again?"
He is so polite. He could never understand why....
"Yes, I'm better now, I talked a lot to the doctors here, they helped me a lot. To understand, you know."
"Yes, I know. You know, I love you, whatever happens, I will love you."
-
"Give me the gun, nothing will happen to you. We'll care for you, we'll help you, we'll be there for you."
Why can't they just go away? Can't they see that no one can help me? Why do they offer me these illusions?
"Stay! Stay where you are or...I'll shoot myself! Stay away, stay where you are. Don't come closer."
-
"Hey, don't cry. We'll come through it. Together we are stronger than this illness. Darling; give me your hand! Look in my eyes! I'll never leave you."
Why, why does he lie to me? Why does he treat me as if I were a mad person who doesn't know what she does? I know what I am doing. I know why I cry. I know what makes me sad and robs me of my will to live. If he could realize that he would help me more, if he wouldn't lie, wouldn't play this silly game: Survive, survive, survive, ...waiting for better times. A better life? But man just has one life. And some of these lives are faults of nature. Aren't meant to be. He'll never understand.
"I want to be alone now. I need to sleep a lot, that I have energy for the therapy tomorrow."
"I understand. It's just, I love you, and I want you to know that."
I can't believe that, and he knows nothing.
"Yes, I know. You are so good to me. How could I ever repay you, for what you are doing for me now."
That's what he wants to hear, so that's what I say to him. I know that he has to lie to me, so I have to lie to him to be fair, just to be fair. No one should hurt another more than this other is willing to hurt back.  He looks tired. I am sure he himself wants to go as well, if he ever actually wanted to come here, at all.
"Hey, my little Butterfly."
He tries to smile, but it looks as if he's walking barefooted over red-hot coals.
"Sun of my life, I know that you soon will shine again. I know that your "book of life" will grow thicker, as well, and if you just knew how sure I am that you'll have such a wonderful last story at -The End-, such a wonderful last page filled with joy and contentedness. I need you! I love you, Honey. I know you are stronger than this illness! You have to be! For your future, for me, for your unborn children and grandchildren."
What wonderful words he uses. Words, as if they meant anything, as if my soul could be fed by words. Poor fool! Poor man! Thinks he has to play the strong one, the hero.
"Yes, sure! I'll be all right again, soon. I promise you. Goodbye."
He goes away, which feels really relieving. I don't like it to see others suffering because of me.... How cute, he makes funny faces from outside through the little window in the door. I laugh, because I know that he makes a fool of himself to make me laugh.
-
"Please, you are still so young. It isn't yet too late. You can still change everything! You can achieve everything! Don't do it. Give me the gun! Give me the gun! Don't, don't do it. Don't...!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"-|-
-
This "book" shall not have a final story, shall not have a "Happy Ending".  No wise word will finish it.... It won't, because I decide how it should end ...........NOW.............-----------------------

>back>>

2002

What happened
-Decay in three parts

I)
Today, something strange happened to me. I want to tell you—because—I think—it happened for a reason. Life taught me a lesson, and now, I have to tell about it, because I guess, that it might be something for everybody, to reconsider before screwing up, what’s not ever to reverse.
The day started probably as most days of most people do, with the screaming alarm clock. That it was a grey, rainy and cold day, I knew without getting up and looking out of the window. There was no friendly, bright sun light and I heard the billions of little drops of rain drumming against the dirty glass of my windows. My room was flooded of cool, wet air, which floated humming trough the slits all around the frame of the windows as often as a gust came up against the house. Just deep, depressing silence, after I had stopped the ringing of the black box with the digital, yellow-white, blinking numbers, by pushing the red button. I wondered whether I should stay at home and have a little more sleep, and later relax in the bathtub, hear some Bach, read a book— but I already was brushing my teeth, dressing and of course I hurried as I do each morning again. I couldn't waste the time I needed, to do all the things I had planned for today, and I wanted to do all of them of course, as I use to. I really should be in time. Jumping down the stairs to the front door, I pulled the keys for the car out of the right jeans pocket. Always the right, since I do things like this, I could rationalize a lot of time, I spent on searching before. I put the keys for the car in my right pocket, the "notes for -the day" in my left. My purse, I find in the right pocket of my jacket, paper and pencil for the next  "notes-for-the-day" are in the left pocket of my jacket, inner pocket, right cigarette and lightener, inner pocket, left peppermint drops. Jumping up the stairs from the gate out on the street, I pulled out the box of cigarettes from my jacket, and the lightener. This was, what changed my plans for today in the first place. I realized, that I had to go for cigarettes. Nevertheless, I light the last one, so I could throw the box into one of the garbage cans in front of the house. I had to walk a few blocks, to come to, where I use to park my car. It takes one cigarette to come there. Once I had to park there, cause I couldn’t find a spot closer to my home, and that was when I realized, that it's nice to smoke and to walk some steps before entering daily lives routine.
When I started the motor today, I realized, that I also had to get some gas. But first, I should get some things done at the office.
I use to write these “notes for the day”. I write down what I have to do, what I want to do, what should be done, and all that stuff, you know, ordinary things, work, errands and that stuff. Today, I read the “notes for today” the first time, just after starting the motor. I know that exactly, because I added two things, and I deleted “the call”. I suddenly decided not to call him, after all these months. I had a lot to do, I was busy, but after all these months, I didn't feel like calling him anymore. So I added: “going for cigarettes” and  “gas station”. Then, I tried to get a slight impression of all, what I was going to do, and determined, that even the slight impression was— A LOT: “Working through the documentation of the DK-3 attempt series once again”, so that I could finally finish, and hand them in, “writing the article for the science magazine, calling the lab for the latest results, calling Dr. Pâtion”, to let him know, that I am still following his work, he needs attention, he's really difficult to work with, perhaps, a typical French attitude, … “the call”... I deleted, so I would surely have enough time to... “go to the gym”... in the evening, after work, and then ... “Newspaper” ...the latest News of politics, all that’s happening in the world— my secret passion.
At the desk in my office, I found the latest news of the “company's board”. An “all- employees- information- leaflet”. Glancing at the first pages, I noticed the words: “the new elected supervisory board... has come to the agreement...“ Ha— how cynical— elected—
Agreement—.... Jesus! I am a lucky girl. My job is to complex to replace it by a computer program. Just, as I thought about how familiar and nice it was, when I started to work there, someone knocked at my door. Mr. King, the senior boss of King Discovery, the company I am working at for 6 years, next spring. He was the one who employed me, and offered me the best possibilities for my working- career. He never waits to be called in he just enters. I guess he often acts as if he still was the one who leads the company—poor old man—
He doesn't hesitate; at once he sat down at the seat on the other side of my desk. Sitting there, face to face, I realized how old, how grey and weak he has become. Soon after his son had interfered in the company businesses, everything changed, from the one to the other day. King Discovery became a joint stock company, a supervisory board was introduced and the poor old Mr. King got a honorary position in the company, but the important business questions are not his responsibility anymore, nevertheless he still acts as if it was, perhaps he really didn't figure it out.
 After the ordinary polite greeting, he began to complain about his son's way to manage businesses. This topic allowed him to lead the “conversation” right to his problems with his life in general, money, the cars, his family... Well, we know each other for a long time. We always had a good working relationship, I always could complain about bad working conditions, or suggest improvements in all company issues, but it is simply too much for me to be his shrink and best friend, daughter he never had…. After he lost his position in the company, he began to visit me more regularly at my office. First, two or three times a week. But lately, it seemed as if his health got worse rapidly and the number of his visits increased (I could draw a diagram). Sometimes two or three times a day. He always tells me the same things, his problems with his son, the problems with his wife. All these things I shouldn't know, and don't want to know anyway. So I simply don't listen anymore, and I didn't listen today either. When I interrupted him, very politely—I’m not cold as ice, I don’t want to hurt him, you know— so I simply suggested, very politely— you know— to change the subject. And he, it seemed as if he anyway already had finished but in a frightening way he said, ...he said, you know, with tears in his eyes:” She left me. She just left me. Packed her things yesterday— and today— she was gone”. Everything about him, his face, his uncoordinated eye movements his trembling grey hands folding empty leaves of paper… everything told me, screamed, that he just couldn't understand— desperation— this man, this old man crouched into the chair behind the other side of my desk had lost the ground under his feet. And, as I realized which situation I was in, or the situation I could have realized, well first I hesitated but— it was too much, simply too much, I couldn't help, I care about the troubles of my fellowmen, but I had no good words, advice, comfort for this man.
So I continued, still confused, trying not to face him directly, I said: “ Well—hum-r-hum—
Mr. King, what's your opinion on the latest company- developments?” hearing my own words I felt sick at once. And he, he just slowly rose up from the chair behind my desk. As I still couldn’t really figured out, whether he did understand what I asked him. Then he just smiled, a silently suffering smile. He smiled, and I smiled, as well. Politeness? Maybe. But I couldn’t offer more than a tortured confused smile. So we “smiled” “at each other”, he with a numbly screaming heart, and I, with an empty, frozen mind. Then he said, very tender and well composed, nodding: “ Sooner— (Sooner) or later— (later) we will all—(everybody will) be rationalized away— (away away away anyway away)".  He left the room. Left me, sitting there.
Did he know, what he actually did to me? Or did I simply interpret something wrong? I somehow, suddenly felt really sick, all my inner organs seemed to shrink to the size of a pea within the fragment of a second, pulling a hole into my stomach. Just one thing was clear to me that moment:
I had to get out of there.                                                                       

II)
The first kind of idea I had was: cigarette!!! But the search for the box was without success, so I grabbed my jacket and left the office, my floor, the building, the building complex. As I reached my car, I realized, that I had left the keys at my desk. So I began to walk. I walked about ten minutes, when I realized, that I became kind of wet. It was raining. So I walked faster and faster, until I was running. Getting closer to some place I could get cigarettes, I felt, my mind becoming clearer, as if the rain washed away all these gloomy confused “not- thoughts” — but— suddenly— I thought— of him.
I met him first, at a rainy day like this, I saw him standing in the rain, waiting for a bus, at a bus stop, in front of the company-building complex. I had just finished work, on my way home, when I passed the bus stop, he was standing there. I stopped, and asked whether I could drop him off somewhere.... I don't know what made me doing that, intuition, pity? But I simply did it. Nevertheless I 'm not exactly someone who does things like this, and nevertheless he was a man and I didn't know him. So when we had reached his apartment, he invited me for a hot cup of coffee and I agreed... We ended up talking until two, perhaps three o'clock in the morning... Well, that was the beginning of our relationship. It begun at a rainy day like this and I guess, this first meeting was the only one we ever spent just as friends. Probably, we would have been really good friends. To use the word “turbulent” to describe the relationship we did have in the end would be way understated. In the end it was a battle without any compassion, we simply tried to hurt each other, however we could, and I even can't remember how it came to this state of  “love- hate”. And I am also not sure who finally ended it. We had one of our “discussions” again, and he reacted as he always did. He remained as cool as ice. Perhaps his arguments weren't even that “great”, overwhelming or simply just convincing, he always made me feel like the looser.... Well, as I remember, I said something, you wouldn’t quite consider something nice to say, but I can't remember what, something about the dog, his dog. He took his dog and went away and I guess, what I said about his dog was the last thing I said to him. Two years ago— already.
I was too proud to contact him, and he ...perhaps he loved his dog too much, to forgive me. A friend of ours’ told me that he found a “dog loving”, “not smoking” girl. Those aren’t the exact words but the exact meaning of the facts, the exact words tried to mediate to me. She must have moved into his apartment right away. I don't know, that might have happened about one year ago— probably that was about the time I thought to know that this chapter of my life was finally finished, at least it was clear to me, that I had to finish it, finally. I broke up with all of our friends, destroyed all leftovers of our time together, I even moved, not to sleep in the same bed, WE did, not to eat at the same table, WE did, not to have the same view out of the window, WE had. We never really moved together. Personal freedom— you know. But actually, he didn't “love” the smell of cold smoke and I didn't really “adore” his dog, and it's smell.—
Yesterday, our anniversary day, was the first day, I seriously considered calling him, and I meant to call him, today. But what should I say, how would he react, what sense does it make anyway? He could reject me too easily, could hurt me again. Would he want me to call him, anyway? Would he want me to interfere in his new happy life, with his new "dog loving", not- smoking girl friend? Would he? I didn't want to take these risks, so I decided not to call him, at least, in the morning when I deleted the note, which was meant to remind me. But that was before I started running in the rain, before I realized that I did leave the keys for the car at the desk in my office, before I wanted to get out of— something… I don’t want to remember. But in the rain, remembering the time with him, soaking wet, I wanted to call him again. Whatever could happen, I urgently wanted to call him. So I entered a filthy looking bar, asked for the phone and called his number. I hadn't even enough time to be excited, at once, a women's voice answered. Hearing her voice answering his phone made me angry and jealous at once. So, that's his new girl, “dog loving”, not smoking, with a sweet, innocent voice... but it turned out, that she didn’t even know him. She was sweet, no question, she even tried to help me anyway. She expected, that the one I was looking for was the man who lived in her apartment before. Nevertheless it must have been months before, she still had a note, with his new address. “I didn’t talk with him, just with his wife—very nice woman— but I guess that doesn't really matter. They left me their new address. They wouldn't have a phone, where they move to at least, so she told me...”. That’s about what the woman on the other side of the line told me, then she gave me the address, what made the decision for me. The man behind the bar told me that this address isn’t too far away. No more than five minutes. He gave me the directions anyway and it was easy to find. And somehow, I felt happy and content with what I did. Didn’t he still mean a lot to me, didn’t I still love him, after all this time.

III)
So I found myself happy, content and wet down to my skin and further, standing in front of a small, but comfortable looking house. Just for that moment, I was so sure, that it’d be just fine. I thought, that it's a really good chance to start over, maybe become real friends, going for long walks with the dog, which was a good boy after all. —
I remembered, he had this idea; he was very found of, that that's one of the best things in life that you always can change, start over, regret but forgive. What a great success, getting over myself, after all, I thought. Exulted I pressing the button of the bell. –
I don't think, to exaggerate, when I say, that the face of the woman opening the door almost right away, well her face and it's expression, probably must have been the complete opposite of my face, and it's expression, when the door opened, and I faced this woman and she faced my— my silly smile. She looked sick, grey and somehow old but actually surely wasn't much older that I am. It took quite a bit until I realized that I should better say something at least introduce myself. And so I did as soon as I had gained back my consciousness again. Still somehow enthusiastic I told her that I am the X-girlfriend of her old man. I was giggling like a little girl. The one who doesn't like dogs, I continued. I thought to make a joke to relax the situation, but she didn't laugh, didn’t even smile at all. Suddenly I felt very uncomfortable not getting a conversation going, I guess finally, the excitement did break thought, after all. So I began to figure out, whether she did know who I am. She did, but didn't want to say more than yes, or no, or nod absent-minded. I don't know what happened to me, but I felt, as if I just didn't want to let the silence break through again. I realized a feeding cup in her hands, so I asked whether they've already a little baby. She simply answered no. So I continued asking. When they had married, all that stuff… whether he is at home finally. That seemed to be her keyword. She slowly passed me, headed towards the stairs. So, is he at home then, I had to repeat. I didn't wait for the answer because I realized one of those chair- lifts, such one, elderly people use to have. That made me asking whether one of their parents moved in with them, so that they could better care for them. This time, no answer at all. She started climbing the stairs. I felt somehow strange, somehow pulled deeper down than I ever fell before. —
I didn't know, that this was the very last moment of the day, I was kind of in my usual state of mind. Before, I even never thought, never expected, that it could ever be that different. I knew, that things, such things— "shit" happens. But-- not to me. Would it?

I asked where the dog was, the dog he used to have, the dog he loved so much. That was the first question she answered: “The dog was killed in the car accident”. She took the last step, looked down at me— “so, do you still want to visit him?” Just for a moment I felt the impulse to turn and run away as fast as I can. But without being conscious of what I was doing, I closed the door behind me and climbed up the stairs to find myself again standing in the room, his wife just had entered before me.
The room was very bright, a big window showed the view at a park two or three blocks away it reminded me of the view I had, in my old apartment, I guess some kind of coincidence.
The temperature in the room, must have been about 85° well, it was really hot, nevertheless my wet clothes. But the impression I had was that I entered a room in a hospital, the smell, the atmosphere, the noises, everything white, aseptic, cold— yes— actually, the impression was cold, simply cold. I couldn't help it; I had to stare at him. I couldn't think. I couldn't do anything but stand still and stare at this body, laying at a big hospital bed, surrounded by machines. His head was fixed to his body, probably, his legs and his arms, under the white linen cover, were fixed as well.  She must have realized, that I was absolutely unable to handle this situation. So she waited some moments, but as I didn't move or just did something else, she started to talk to me. She told me about the accident, which situation, state of health he’s in now. She told me about meeting him, when they married, moved into the house, the accident right afterwards. She told me that he kept telling her about me, that he meant to call that I must have meant a lot to him. She told me that I could come visit as often as I could imagine too. “ One has to get used to such a thing, the situation…”, she tenderly whispered as she led me out of the room, laid her weak arm around my shoulders, talking to me, like you would talk to a child and yet it felt good as well as I could allow myself to feel. I guess it’s been these few hopeful, words, which saved me of a mental break down.
To which—I was— today— closer— than— ever— before.
She called a cab to bring me home “safe”.

I asked the driver to me drop off, somewhere down town, I didn't feel like going home now. I just let me drop off somewhere.... There was a bar, with big windows, towards the street. This bar. I felt like whiskey and having lots of people I didn’t know around….
I hope you understand, I needed to tell you about all this shit!
But I still feel like being furnishing of this room, I feel white, aseptic, empty and cold. —
What do you mean? Maybe I should smoke a cigarette? —
Perhaps, but— do you really think this feeling could be "smoked" away?  I could quit smoking now. Could I? What do you say? Yes, that's true, honestly I don't want to, I like it, and perhaps it gives me a short break from this feeling. On the other hand, I'll become sick of smoking. Perhaps I'll get cancer, or something? –Hum?— Yes, you’re right, then I still could simply start over and have a new life couldn’t I?.... – Would you give me a light then? And would you do me a fucking last favour?!! Tell me: Why are all these people staring at me?
“Waiter! Another double one, and the bill!”  

>back>>

2004

July

                      Never be above

BE EQUALITY

                                                                                       Never be beneath

You ARE alive!
You ARE loved and
You can give love!
Your family’s around you and supports you!
And all that really counts is their love, which isn’t just enough but already much more than you should expect to be there.
Their Love, Understanding, Support, is a lot more resistant, longer lasting and trustworthy than what most others can offer you.

Be thankful for each new day!
Use the time you’ve got!
Honor your achievements and the mental and social progress you’ve made.

1. Nothing’s expressed more precise than silence.
2. Truth is subjective.
3. Facts are a matter of interpretation.
4. Nothing’s sure, nothing but your feelings.

live  learn  let live  listen  be loved  see  say  tolerate

TRUST

be thankful  experience  hope accept  respect  love

Life God It

knows what happens
is supposed to
and will make
sense and will
have meaning!

There is no hopeless future.
Each new day is a new chance!

Maybe you think you can’t change.
Maybe you think your life won’t change.
But “THAT” is life, CHANGE!   

Don’t let the stream of things swallow you if you can take your own direction, you have the choice.

We’ve just as much meaning as we give to ourselves.

Basically society’s like water for the fish. Live necessary medium to move in, but it doesn’t influence individual fate.

What you do to yourself won’t ever concern or influence anybodies’ destiny but your own.

Don’t try to get back to them by punishing yourself!Don’t punish yourself for anything!It will make it worse!

If you’re conscious of your guilt, most of all you need to be able to forgive yourself anyway.

The only true punishment is the consciousness of ones guilt.

You just don’t… can’t know! As much you think and learn about everything there is.
You can’t be sure about anything nor is anybody else.

Truth is momentary, opinion, thought~ life remains changing and is always the same and never.

Wait! Breath deeply! No hurry, don’t worry! What shall be, will be.

There might be even more, existing, what we don’t understand than
what we do understand.

Cause all ways to play are in the same manner appropriate—
with how much dignity and respect your “character” will be treated,
depends on your “interpretation”.

The “key” is there— it’s just, what you don’t know, what you don’t see, what you can’t hear— it’s between the lines— in the gaps between the words— in the questions without any answer— so don’t doubt, don’t question, don’t give up— just know, the “key” is there, as certain as love itself.

Try to see all the sides of something and especially all the sides of it you can’t see and never forget that it’s impossible to see all the sides, which are to a thing. Everything we see isn’t anything but a fragment of what’s actually there.

There is nothing more destructive than anger and hate. Always be attentive, explore the true sources of your “negative” emotions. Do try to be careful; do not misdirect them, for hate in the wrong place is a weapon you cannot control. You’ll burn down cities before you can see the smoke and realize that you hit the wrong one.

You can’t be defined by categories, you are a whole new category, you are you and nobody but you knows better what’s best for you.
So is everybody a whole new category by themselves… practice TOLERANCE!

But what we do not see is that all things actually do not exist.

They are just very useful means to satisfy our needs.
To really understand, we need to look into ourselves, where our needs are created.
Resting inside we can tell needs society forced into us from needs we imagine being part of us. Truly being inside ourselves will allow us to tell good from bad and being sure about what’s important and truly precious to us.

>back>>

August

I can sleep no more, it’s daffodils I am dreaming of.
Jeff is humming and I am crying, hallelujah!

When I can love, how can’t I?
When I am gone—there is no me any longer, so how much can it be anyway?

These melodies they keep returning, from A to Z
I like to think and back, I am.

The silence calls for comfort. I wanna give who wants to take so much?
I want to give you all my love and ask for nothing in return.

I am not asleep.
I can’t.
I am just dreaming, of daffodils.

…I know, I ask for a special treatment, but all I give is,
…EMPTY PROMISES. …

…I am failing myself, leaving my friends to the thought,
that they may have entered already… but in deed, they are still standing outside, freezing,
knocking on my door. …

…Well, just as I said before or should have, or meant to…
…I love you. …

…I am trying to escape my past, it’s memories, aims, thoughts, values, feelings, love, hate, blind trust, the addictions, obsessions, illusions… I had.
I am trying to escape my past, not you, not me, not us.

The moon did rise,
and I am waiting—
impatiently,
cause I don’t know where the stars are.

A short eternity I try to understand,
failing the now and today.
Too wide is the country I could own,
too little time is left to explore it.

A good- natured Truth cuddles lovely to my soul,
tenderly it whispers in my ear:

“You are and stay and go,
but the love you can give will be eternal.”

Don’t ask,

Don’t ask why I am crying today,
Tomorrow I gonna smile again, don’t ask why.
Don’t ask where all my anger, all my desperation comes from,
Since they hardly ever throw their shadow on my happiness.
Don’t ask who I belief to be, why I feel, what I feel,
Maybe I could give you an answer, but you shouldn’t ever be content with such an answer,
My friend.

>back>>

September

I can’t expect, what I can’t achieve myself,
shouldn’t ask for something I couldn’t give,
can’t open anybodies’ eyes
to something I can’t see clearly myself.
But SEE, what I ACHIEVED to GIVE!

carelessly
I am walking around
not going anywhere
but going permanently

LONELINESS,
hell of an addiction!
Always searching for the perfect state of
being ALONE
What isn’t contradictious,
dissolves itself into lose chaos.

I am falling
can’t stop myself
too much is offered
too little to lose

I am falling as completely as I chose
too dear is tragedy to me
too much I love the drama

>back>>

October

MY LOVE

was unspoken
undone

how far apart
a lie
throws “lovers”

NEVER

to reverse

                                                      alone.

November

I can’t tell why,
I don’t know how
there have been so many possibilities
but still no alternatives

It’s the best now, I suppose
It’s the best, I hope

Often even the best,
hurts at least the one.
Does it?
Necessarily?
PROBABLY IT JUST ALWAYS ASKS Its SACREFICES

And the one just can’t chose, the one is or not, on the other side,
the looser, the sacrifice.

December

There are so many things I first have to get over,
to get anywhere.
THEY don’t know how it is like to fight against YOUR SELF,
every hour every second every thought you think decision you make.
You can hardly ever be conscious, conscious of the simplicity of life.
You have to force yourself to give importance to anything in your life
to accomplish… some other level… a shelter… the shore, cause…
THEY don’t know how it is like to fight against YOUR SELF;
being supposed to fight for YOUR SELF,
desperately hoping to find the SELF, worth fighting for.

>back>>

2005

February

I have got the indefinable feeling
to drown within the frame of my possibilities.

How could I be that arrogant,
to think I knew you.

But then, now and then,
not coordinated movements
become a beautiful figure,
accidental scrawling
becomes an even structure,
nothing saying words
become a sentence with depth, meaning and sense.

Most of all I prefer to listen to my thoughts,
as they are cutting the silence into little pieces,
which are easier to bear.

In my dreams I see my feelings transformed to pictures,
but still, I can’t understand them.

If I shouldn’t recognize you tomorrow,
just try to remember what it is, that connects us,
and I will find you again in your smile.

>back>>

June(NYC)

So maybe we are just one of the others for each other. Maybe just like somebody we took the same train with, somebody sitting in the same park, somebody passing by, staying without meaning for our lives.

I try to remember, what was it in the first place?
How did we get to know, or actually, how could we spend time together, apart, not getting to know the other?

…and what I was looking for, hoping for just kept me from getting what I could have gotten. Like being hooked on the crazy idea of finding something I have inside, on another planet, just because I’ve found something absolutely different what looked similar on this other planet. …

And where there’s emptiness, there’s silence, and where there’s silence, there are people who break it, and where there’s broken silence there’s anger and regretted, and where there’s anger and regretted, there’s despair and suffering, and where there’s despair and suffering there’s emptiness.

It sometimes takes a while to realize, that it sometimes got too late to start over, but it never gets to late to start changing the paths you used to take…

But it was so easy—just let go, just let it be how it is—the problem isn’t what seems to be the problem, what seems to be the problem is just a projection. Like all in life is projection—we turn our emotional selves into a screen on which we keep projecting basic, deep feelings, traumas, subconscious and essential emotions. So actually, people, relationships etc. which seem to be a problem, just step on the stage and walk into the screen—they become part of the projection, they are nothing but projection to you. Not by dealing with these people and the relationships etc. we get over the real problems we may get over them just by getting into a steady connection and permanent conversation with our basic, deep feelings, traumas, subconscious essential emotions—when we learn to understand and treat these our “original problems” well and appropriately.
…Does conventional intelligence (IQ) exclude emotional intelligence?

Do I see you, you see me do I see me do you see you do you belief in faith, belief in tomorrow, do you belief in today and do you have faith in the past, do you stay will you go away, do you love, do you know how that feels like?

The problem is not, that another person might view me poorly,
the problem is that I let myself being but beneath….
The problem is not, that others might think of themselves as more intelligent,      
the problem is that I doubt my own intelligence.
The problem is not, being lonely,
the problem is not being able to let yourself be part of the     
stream without loosing the consciousness of being   
an individual, special, respectable, person worth as much as   
everybody else with a will of your own.
The problem is not, being not understood,
the problem is not wanting to be understood nevertheless it is a
basic human need.
The problem is not, the lack of physical tenderness,
the problem is not wanting to be touched that deep in ones    
human soul, nevertheless it is definitely one of THE basic    
human needs.

But actually, I don’t have THE answers, I can’t know for sure.
The future is a world that hasn’t been discovered yet—
NOTHING IS SURE and NOTHING IS FOR SURE.

I will try to stay faithful to myself and the only consistency
I will try to “force” myself to is always trying to do the best I can,
the very best, my possibilities allow me to do.

The little girl with
braided hair just
wanted to find out
more
about life
The little girl with
peach like cheeks
just wanted to know
why people hurt
each
other
and don’t care shit
about anything
but
themselves
The little girl
couldn’t hide
her innocence—
The little girl
wouldn’t understand
why innocence
is such a
stain—
Why one needs to be a sinner to be respected and acknowledged.
The little girl with braided hair and peach like cheeks
didn’t understand,
maybe,
she was just too naive,
or not intelligent enough.
She didn’t understand but found truth, love, respect and acknowledgment—
eventually,
finally,
inside,
her
SELF
screw you
fucking motherfuckers,
some day I gonna fucking kick your fucking asses,
you arrogant bitches, and sons of bitches, jerks, geeks,
assholes, smartasses, motherfuckers,… 
… some day…
hell…and how you’ll fucking see.

>back>>

July

When do we have really finished something
Life never says:

The End

Life seems not to know mercy, but endless generosity.

All what’s human is contradictory—

So are the words we hardly feel but desperately try to
express our feelings with.

But can we REALLY feel anyway?

Or do we just stop to feel —
The Moment we realize, that

Loving

makes

us

hate
at the same time?

August

And yet, I’ve listened to you,
and yet, you’ve listened to me.
It’s probably just—
that we wouldn’t really tell,
what we wanted the other to know.

But it seems unbelievable to me,
that ever since,
the sun still sets—
at the same place,
in Tübingen.

 It is strange, how people realize,
that all their lives, they’ve been the one they’ve been with.
And nevertheless, I have never been with anybody really,
I feel like I haven’t been ANYBODY,
not even myself either.

Soon I gonna have to start walking again,
nevertheless my shoes are hurting me—I gonna.

Some time, they’ll ask me, why I am writing in English,
and then I’ll tell them, that it’s because I met you.
And they’ll understand, you’ll see,
they’ll understand everything I see and they don’t see,
because that’s what I gonna tell them about and then—
they’ll understand, you’ll see.

All I know,
in one sentence and a headline in two lines

Green plastic bags filled with food and other errands, the people are carrying through the park which is crowded of peace searching couples and groups and singles like myself on whom sometimes single green leaves are falling down just because they don’t like hanging out at the branches of the trees anymore, through which heavy yellow light from the deep soon setting sun is falling and forming shadows which are moving with the late afternoon breeze on the grass green fields of short cut grass and if green would be the color of hope, I wouldn’t know whether hope would be made of plastic or grass or leaves and I definitely don’t know why this is printed in black and not yellow.

September

Could I ever feel content,
just being the one,
others can feel better than?

But if your word simply isn’t enough for me?
I want your heart,
want to own your soul,
want you just for me alone,
want you completely.

And in your perfection,
your perfect obedience,
as pawn for your soul
I will demand your word, that you’ll forgive me,
for hurting you
the way I’ve been hurt.

Because you don’t deserve
to live without my pain,
I couldn’t live without you
without my treasure.

Just when you’ve suffered,
when you’ve died like I did,
can I set you free,
will I give you back your soul,
and your broken heart.

>back>>