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

Arriving in my own Mirror

Some lessons in life come naturally. They grow organically in the back of your mind until they finally settle within your system to blend into your wall of wisdom. Others, however, hit you like a hammer and shake the wall's foundations. Becoming a parent is probably one of the most “traumatic” and yet therapeutic experiences. It comes with all sorts of concrete and abstract obligations, sentiments and resolutions. And while everyone around you seems to know everything better than you and overwhelms you with a colourful and incoherent puzzle of advice, you still need to figure out for yourself who you are as a mum. As a dad. As someone who suddenly becomes the most important person in the world. And this very circumstance constitutes the one thing that surprised me the most. On the spur of a moment, my existence gained a significance that didn't go well with the beliefs of an amateur existentialist. Now, almost two years later, this novel perception has turned into an utterly fulfilling affair and I find myself babbling about the meaning of life. I have realised that being self-centred – a habit that is not exactly my second nature - is the key ingredient to parenting. Why? Because there is someone whose happiness and well-being depends on you – completely. So your happiness, health, sanity and value backbone have to be secured, protected and defended as only a happy, healthy, sane and morally firm person can provide these little people with the framework they deserve and need to grow. Translated into other words this means that you need to stock up on self-respect and self-reflection in order to become a model that is fit to take care and fit to be copied. Because that's what children do. They copy. They learn by imitating. Sometimes, when I observe my child, I feel like somebody is holding up a mirror. My child's gestures, intonation and movements bear an uncanny resemblance to mine. And it is a very natural reaction to try to be the best version of yourself when facing your reflection. And this, I find quite amusing. I expected myself to get out of focus and sink into oblivion during parenthood but to my utter astonishment I learned that I need to take care of myself, too, if I want to take care of someone else the best possible way. I learned to put myself first – with a very selfless intention.

"The time will come

when, with elation

you will greet yourself arriving

at your own door, in your own mirror

and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.

You will love again the stranger who was your self.

Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart

to itself, to the stranger who had loved you

all your life (...)"

~ Derek Walcott (Love after Love)

The World that is my Oyster

My world is a canvas

with the painting changing its shape

changing its colours

and changing its age

Depending on angle,

depending on light 

and the eyes of those catching its sight.

So please be aware that the romance on the surface

could be a crime between the lines.

And the foe holding my hand

might be the shadow of a friend.

The stranger who promised me the world

could be swallowed by the latter

and be cast into an eternal hush

by the monochromaticity of just one brush.

Amidst the peace of the wheat fields 

that are the scions of summer

there could hide a thousand monsters

or the world that is my oyster.

And if you dip it into water

the painting might show another layer

that will change shape

change colour

and change age

Depending on angle,

depending on light

and the eyes of those catching its sight. 

"The Maestro says it's Mozart but it sounds like bubble gum when you're waiting for the miracle to come" ~ Leonard Cohen