You know when I left my flat in the morning to take some pictures for this blog entry, I was like writing a f* off-entry. To shout at these idiots who marched on the streets of Chemnitz the last days, screaming “Wir sind das Volk” to demonstrate that their “Volk” was violated by Merkel & Co. but actually showing how just f* empty their brains are (if they even some). But then we I returned, I decide to leave it like that; only posting pictures to show not what they do but what will happen if we don’t stop them and what happened because others weren’t stopped. No coincidence, that yesterday, in 1939 World War Two started.
And regarding younger German history a.k.a. younger German shame: If you have the chance, then watch “Wir sind jung. Wir sind stark” by Burhan Qurbani (2014).
Posted in History rewritten
Tagged Auschwitz, Überfall auf Polen, Birkenwald, Chemnitz, Dachau, Deuschland deine Zukunft, Holocaust, Mannheim, Neuengamme, Rostock-Lichtenhagen, World War Two, Zweiter Weltkrieg
and for those who want to spend Sunday evening a bit more serious – here some latest pics from MA-Luisenpark
#regarding the amount of storks I see recently, I should be pregnant with up to 20 babies
#ha, good one ;-)
i looove that woman:
#would look the same in that video
#na, I would fall of the sofa within a second
#and break my ankles
I asked her to draw me. I liked the way she lay on the sofa, half-naked, her full breasts looking towards me, her entire body a memory of ancient painters back to the 19th Century, Paris. After all these years, I still see her in front of me, the sun playing with her skin. It was as if I was supposed to draw a portrait of her but my intention was the other way around. I wanted her to draw me, watch her in this lesson. She grabbed a pencil and started. Was it a bad sign that she closed her eyes at the beginning? With the aim to draw my face from her imagination?
To tell the truth – it didn’t get better when she opened her eyes and started to look at me. After a while, she stood up, saying it was time for her classes, left the apartment. When I asked for the painting, she just said that one word – “later”. There was no later, or maybe there was. That later when I found her in bed with my best friend and the only thing that stayed behind was her painting on the naked floor. She was an art student, by the way, not me.
#i can’t draw/even with my eyes open
#but i was recently told that i have a cute handwriting
die Hitze fängt mich ein wie ein Schmetterling von Bienen umzingelt wird. seine Flügel flattern wild umher, die Luft erhitzt sich, bis die Bienen fliehen und die Schönheit zurückbleibt.
sie nannten ihn Maus. Dachten er würde sich immer zurückziehen, wenn sie nur den leisesten Ton von sich geben würden. Dann war es Tag und anstatt sich in sein Mausloch zu verkriechen, wurde die Maus zur Katze und erhob laut fauchend ihre Tatzen. Leider kam da gerade der Hund, sprich die Polizei, vorbei und sperrte alle in ein (Mause-)Loch.
Die Sonne geht unter. Der Puls steigt. Irgendwo steppt heute nacht der Bär. Unter irgendeiner Decke. Ich liebe diese Wortspiele; wer würde heutzutage schon freiwillig mit einem Bär ins Bett gehen? Reicht doch, wenn die Typen Hipster-Bärte wie (Samt-)Tiger tragen. Grrr…
Ich verweile wie der Augenblick. So jung ist mein Körper, so alt die Gedanken, die dahinterstecken. Ach, Augenblick verweile doch; nur wir zwei zusammen, heute Nacht, nur wir zwei. In diesem Augenblick.
#with eyes closed
#and heart wide open
I don’t know how you write your texts but I’m into first writing by hand in one of my several blank paper-books and then if I feel like, I post it here. And sometimes if I feel like, I grab a biro and close my eyes and just start to write – it will look like as if a child has just started writing but I like to open my eyes again and see the words on the paper. Here’s an attempt from yesterday night (the texts will follow later).
Love – turn the word around and skip away a -v for a -r and there’s Erol, the guy you lost your virginity on. Steal away the -e and the -r and buy a pair of a -f and an -o and you feel again the fool you’ve been that night. The -f feels ashamed and runs away and is replaced by a -c/ for forming cool: a) the way he was that night (a living James Dean with darker hair and these cute Sommersprossen) b) how cool that night was (yes, it was minus whatever Fahrenheit in that old mustang) c) cool like he acted the day after. One -o and the -l find other words to rely on and change places with a -m and and -e. Come never close to me again. CO(²) – the dead air that leaves your lungs and flies away//ME – for all the beauty that stays behind when all the sh* that love can evoke has gone.
did you ever think about that all people voting for afd or any right-wing party actually must be the most environmentally friendly on earth?
’cause I mean if we don’t stop producing so much electronic waste, how should life conditions in Africa (the place our waste is transported to) get better so people won’t flee?
#no they are not
#did you ever ask yourself what happens to your old smartphones, computers, etc?
With constant temperatures over 30 degrees, I can’t think about something else than grabbing a book and enjoy summer time on my balcony or in MA-Luisenpark by escaping to a different world. Which book from your country would you recommend me for my journey?
To get some inspiration for your answer – what I can re-read over and over again is:
– poetry book “Megalomanic” (Shamshad Khan) > words words words worth reading a thousand times
– “Guantanamo Boy” (Anna Perera) > a teenage-book but a must-have for adults as well
– anything by Elizabth George > a good thrill with an execellent thriller
– “Wir sehen uns am Meer” (Dorit Rabinyan) > hearttaking/heartbreaking lovel playing in the West and in the East
– “Kabale und Liebe” (Friedrich Schiller) > “Sturm und Drang”-literature at its best
There’s some American/UK pop song on her i-pod playing – “I’ll be there for you” – when she’s somewhere she hasn’t been before. The princess shoes on her feet start to camouflage with the street they walk on, from white and pink to a certain trace of brown and grey. The female singer dies sreaming “I’ll be there for you. Say you’ll be there too” when she’s there. Her body is, her mind isn’t. How could it be? She’s in her early 20ies, voted Putin last time, never heard of Gulag-stories, now she’s here to film a podcast about a backyard-theatre that needs to move every week because of his plays’ contents. It doesn’t help that the music changes and a 80ies rock band sings about love that feels like Independence Day.