Be careful when it comes to people

“It’s fairly adequate to hand out wisdoms when you are leaning against a ship rail and your hair blends in almost seamlessly with that cloudy sky’s silver lining”, he said.

“On land words of advice can easily have a pitiful flavour to them when they plunge from an old man’s withered mouth. On the high seas, however, they complete the intrinsic pathos of a sea voyage just perfectly - at least when there is no land in sight. So, listen to me, son. I want to tell you something. There is only one thing that you need to know in life. Life, life is all about people. No matter what it is, if you can’t share it with other human beings, it becomes painfully irrelevant or gains such gravity that it pulls you down into the darkest caves imaginable.”

The old man paused for a moment and I could tell from his expression that he had seen these dark places one too many times and that the mere thought of them still hurt every single one of his bones.

“But be careful with people”, he went on shaking off the gruesome memory with a smile. “They are needy creatures and if you don’t watch yourself they might drain you like leeches. There was a time in life when I thought that you needed to be sparkly and happy to gather people around you. That people turn away facing the weak and aching version of yourself. But that is not the entire truth. There are also people that are drawn to other people’s agony like moths to a flame. That’s because some people simply are parasites. They live off your state of mind, they ride in your emotional wake. Depending on their nature and polarity, they either need your happiness or your misery to keep their own hearts pumping. If you fail to deliver what they need, the only thing they can do is to look for another host - just to survive. Therefore, the first question you should try to answer is if you are a parasite or a host. Once you have found out, it gets a little easier to steer through life.” He paused again and gave me a gentle pat on the back before he continued. “With our previous conversations in mind, I don’t think you are one of those bloodsuckers. But I do have the feeling that you might be prone to misinterpreting other people’s attention just like I did it when I was young. And this will automatically exponentiate your emotional conditions - which doesn’t have to be a bad thing. When you are in a good mental state, chirpy like a bird and beaming with energy, people will come out of their holes and cling to your heels. This will add further vigour to your high. Once life’s natural sine curve will lead you downhill again, though, the same people will turn away quicker than you can notice and vanish from your ambit. Then it won’t be too long before their counterparts will show up. The people that thrive on your sorrow, that will kick you even deeper into the mud whilst allegedly holding your hand. And there is nothing you can do about it. Believe me. It’s their nature. This is the only way they know. But it doesn’t make any sense to stay away from them either. They are everywhere. And they can still be good people. Just be aware of their nature and make sure that they have no power over you. That’s all you need to do.” Before he went on, he smiled again and and turned around to look at me. “Every once in a while, though, someone will surface whose heart pumps his own blood through his veins. Someone who won’t need you to feed him with life and its ingredients. Someone who accompanies you on your journey. And this person will get really close at times but might also fall back a little occasionally or lead the way. His motor, however, will always run under its own power even if you will feed it with some extra steam sometimes without even realising. And these are the people who will add a great sense of relief to your existence. They will make it all worthwhile, believe me. You, my friend, I’m sure, are going to meet many of those people. Just make sure to open your eyes and admit to yourself that not all kinds of attention are signs of affection and that real affection can also be very silent and passive. But it’s getting windy out here. Let’s go inside, you might want to join me for a cup of hot coffee.”

"Every man has inside himself a parasitic being who is acting not at all to his advantage." ~ William S. Burroughs

Make it a double.

Today I went to an imaginary bar.

It was crowded. And loud.

It was not the prettiest of bars.

And it’s kind of loud was not the best kind of loud.

It was the kind of loud that hurts your bones and makes your brain ring in a ridiculous attempt to fight external dissonance with internal music.

But still, I managed to overhear a conversation. 

And this is how it went:

“Please make it a double. And no ice. Because ice. And hell. They are behind me. I’m ready to move. Forward. And forward only.

Crazy. Crazy is good. If it’s crazy forward. Going backwards to crazy things I already know from a crazy past, that’s a no. Moving backwards to get caught in a crossfire between soldiers that are not mine is another no. A categorical no. This is your war. A war between your own and very private dichotomies.

And, dear, we are not the elements either. If we were, fire would melt the ice. Water would extinguish fire. But we are people. Real people in a real world. And real people in a real world don’t follow the same formulas as the elements. Ice is ice and will stay ice unless you melt it from within. And fire is fire. It won’t go out unless you extinguish it under your own steam. We are people. Real people in a real world. I am real.”

And then the monologue stopped. To be flushed down by a double shot without ice. 

The answer. Silence. Because as it happened, the person wasn't real. It didn’t exist. And the person that didn’t exist talked to a counterpart that didn’t exist. Not here. Not now. Not in that bar. But maybe some place else.

In my head. Or in a book I read. 

Or maybe in your head.

Point is. We are real people. In a real world. And crazy is good as long as it's the good kind of crazy.

But never mind.

Sometimes, it’s just about having a drink in a secret bar in the very secret corners of your mind.
About making sure by looking into the mirror behind that bar that you are still you and that the demons on your shoulders are behind you. And just behind you.

"Listen up - there's no war that will end all wars." ~ Haruki Murakami (Kafka on the Shore)

A letter to my daughter.

Count backwards from three when you are angry.

Count backwards from twenty before you provoke a consequence you can’t take.

Sleep on decisions,

only take them in the mornings no matter if in the rain or under the sun.

Compose your letters when the sun goes down
and send them off in broad daylight if you still mean what you felt the night before. 

Write. Write your own aphorisms.

Don’t plaster your way with the distilled paroles of strangers.

Read. Read a lot. 

Expose yourself to as many versions of the facts as you can.

Think. Chew. Chew on these facts.

Boil them down to become your opinion.

Exercise your opinion 

until it becomes your second nature.

Don’t hesitate to change your nature

to question yourself and everyone else around you.

Don't judge. 
Back up the weak and the ill-treated.

Cultivate your own values, 
they are going to brace your spine. 

Don’t accept people violating your values.

At least turn around and go.

Build your voice and feed it.

Use it with conviction, instinct and tact.

Be kind. 

To yourself. And another.

Be humble and modest

but be ready to step up for yourself.

Don’t follow rules blindly.

The world won’t go under if you break them wisely.

Laugh about yourself

and love yourself - before another.

When you love,

love truly and openly.

Express yourself.

Express what you feel and what you think.

Take care of yourself

and surround yourself with people who do the same.

Be good, be smart, 

be silly. 

Be courageous.

Be gentle and strong.

Find out who should have the final say

your heart or your brain.

Expect to be surprised.

Dance with your own temper.

Collect people and memories

and take them with you if you can.

And don’t you forget:

You can push the sun over the edge of the horizon 

just by snipping your fingers.

Love. Mum.

“What is a home without a child?” ~ Mark Twain

Painting a Song

Words, lines, pages.

A book.

And a cover.

Rooms, corridors, walls.

A roof.

And a house.

I’m lying comfortably with my eyes closed

My heart out in the open

My thoughts unclothed

When suddenly a storm sets the clouds in motion

The wind comes and turns the pages

It kicks in the windows and doors

Raindrops, heavy and courageous

gather in puddles on the floors

They smell like the ocean and taste like the sea

With tiny waves breaking on shore

And the monsters lurking undersea

don’t know why they are angry anymore

The hamstrung widow in the corner

starts to talk about love

With the wild gestures of a performer

and slender white hands wearing watertight gloves

The dark cynic muse sleeping on the dormer

Wakes up to recite poems about the sky above

He feels torture no longer

And sings about spring fields so lush

The guitar laid to rest in an open case

is dusted off by the wind‘s breath

Its strings resonate apace

humming a melody for the deaf

My fingers reach out in search

Between the floor boards they make a find

Black and white keys are right there in the dirt

And tones bald and clear emerge

It might all be in my mind

It might all be in my dreams

I might be wide-eyed and blind

My imagination rushing to extremes

But why would I bother, why would I care

Afterall, a songwriter comes through that door

Strides through the parlour

And turns my words into a song so pure

Words, tones, beats

A melody.

And a song.

That touches a chord.


"Throw your dreams into space like a kite, and you do not know what it will bring back, a new life, a new friend, a new love, a new country." ~ Anaïs Nin

Any other Kind of Fable

I have a memory. Of a memory.

I remember that I remembered. Once.

A scene. 

I remember that I remembered vividly.

But I can’t grasp it. The scene. The memory.

I can’t feel it. Anymore.

It’s authenticity. 

It’s vigour, it’s force. 

It’s hidden

under the thick cloak of another past.

A foretime embedded in another life.

Like a doll in a doll.

A memory of a memory. 

What is it worth?

It’s like looking into the mirror and all you can see 

is the reflection of a reflection.

The more I try to embrace it 

the more it fades into the background.

Away from the spotlight of my conscious mind

into diffusivity like vapour in air.

Has it really happened? The scene.

Did it really take place?

Or is it just the memory of a figment

and as such a delusion in itself?

A castle in the air

built on the foundation of a fantasy.

A lie about a lie

entangled in the net of a farce.

But then again.

History is nothing more than a story among many.

With no greater claim to credibility

than any other kind of fable.

So, I might as well 

just remember the memory

remember it’s vigour.

And remember it’s force. 

I might as well just wed the two,

consolidate them into one.

So it can morph into a story

that once was worth being remembered.

"I  can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realises an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don't have complete emotions about the present, only about the past" ~ Virginia Wolf

Für Rolf Pippig. Meinen geliebten Opa.

Anders fühlt sie sich an. Die Welt. Heute.

Kleiner. 

Dabei warst Du es doch, 

der uns gelehrt hat, wie groß sie ist.

Dass Grenzen keine Barrieren sind.

Und Barrieren keine Hürden.

Dass man Hürden nehmen muss,

um sich treu zu bleiben.

Stolz. Stark. Ein Genießer.

Ein Reisender.

All das hast Du uns vorgelebt.

Und wir schwimmen weiter.

In Deinem Namen.

In Deinem Windschatten.

Stolz. Und stark. Wir genießen das Leben.

Wir bereisen die Welt.

Morgen. Ohne Dich, aber mit Dir im Gepäck.

Und wenn wir Dich zu sehr vermissen,

machen wir die Augen zu und erinnern uns.

Du sitzt am Strand. In Portugal.

Neben Dir, Dich an der Hand, Deine Hanni.

Unsere Mutti, Oma, Omi.

Und du guckst sie an und sagst:

Ich würde alles wieder genauso tun.

Alles. Wieder. Genau so.

Anders fühlt sie sich an. Die Welt. Heute. 

Ein bisschen kleiner.

Aber unsere Herzen, die sind größer.

Denn darin nehmen wir Dich mit.

Immer. Und immer wieder. 

"Es wird vielleicht auch noch die Todesstunde. Uns neuen Räumen jung entgegen senden. Des Lebens Ruf an uns wird niemals enden... Wohlan denn, Herz, nimm Abschied und gesunde!" ~ Herrmann Hesse (Stufen)

The Calls of a Siren

Once I caught a glimpse of the Northern Light

It was fragile and soft

so I held it tight

From the mountainous horizon

of a city in red

I could hear it calling like a siren

Ever since, I have been carrying it in my pocket

where it keeps glowing

like the fire trail of a rocket

It reminds me of the Moroccan colours

so loud and sonorous

that they make me shudder

It evokes Marrakech’s sounds

so colourful and vibrant

that they shake the grounds

Back in the real world

I can still feel its vigour in my heart

where it is lying unfurled

And every now and then

I take it out and touch it

with kid gloves again and again

I balance it on the tips of my fingers

where it feels as soft 

as the memory it triggers

And just like the water under my feet

it drives me to islands

where life grows on the street

And just like the wind under my wings

it takes me to places

where love springs

"Goodness can be found sometimes in the middle of hell." ~ Charles Bukowski, Women