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.
for a short moment, I ask myself how it feels for you
if you feel as if small electrons dance through your body, as well,
when my/your fingers dance on our bodies,
in movies, there’d be a firework right now
well, there’s something else between us two
a way more delightful than a firework
bought a bunch of sun-flowers in MA-city last week. some of them are still in my office room, some made their way to my home. the yellow already start to loose its colour, the leaves have some brown traces. others would have thrown them away. but i haven’t. i hate these f* yoga-sentences. but there’s beauty in imperfection.
(and probably i have the most imperfect balcony in 1 km around my flat, do i care, nope)
quelque chose va arriver cet nuit//on ne sait quoi//l’espoir nous suffit//et le tue tous.
Sue-Ann is quite lost. Standing in a stunning red dress in a Spanish pub, her blond hair dramatically falling over her shoulders, black high heels on, but no hot Spanish guy looking at her. Some guys scream; not for her but for Sergio Ramos – who should score now, for God’s sake. Sue-Ann thinks that maybe her cousin was wrong. Go to Europe during the summer and you will find a man, maybe only for one night, but at least you will find one who knows how to satisfy your needs. And if it’s not in Spain, then in Portugal (oh gosh, that Portuguese men), or in Poland (ever tasted Piroggi while you are showered with compliments about your figure even you are not 60-90-60?), or in Island (forget what you heard about shy Scandinavian people), or maybe in England (they fall for our Midwestern-accent, darling). Her cousing simply had forgotten to tell Sue-Ann that European men fall for football as well. And, so sorry Sue-Ann, this summer was football-time. Maybe the Netherlands the next time?
There are Three Lions on the shirt that his oncle gives him on his 7th birthday, and maybe it’s not a shirt with Three Lions, but it’s one with a Bundesadler/ a German Eagle, or it’s one with a Schweizer Kreuz/a Swiss Cross, and actually it doesn’t matters what is on the shirt, as the shirt belongs to him, it belongs to his memories of playing in the dirt with his friends, scoring a goal on some dark Saturday night somewhere abroad, and driving home all night together with his team, celebrating that they won, and that now they are in another, a higher league. It doesn’t matter for him. But sometime it matters for others, and they ask questions – are the Three Lions your country? do you know the national anthem that you need to sing when you wear the Bundesadler? do you represent the values the Schweizer Kreuz stand for? So many questions while all he wants is running and scoring more and more goals.
The moment when you stand in the tram, on the way to work, and you overhear two English-speaking students about their attempts to learn German – “and then you make a Fehler and everything is wrong”. And you realize that you did a Fehler/a mistake and that this caused everything to get wrong.
Dear fellow readers, I had quite a tough time recently and made some mistakes causing me some trouble but now I’m back and will share more on poemcollision again. Sorry in advance for the football stories that will already follow today ;-)
I want to ask you some questions and I hope that I’ll get some feedback: Why do you follow my blog? What do you like, what do you dislike? What do you miss? And most important to me: What is your personal background, where do you come from? Hey, make it personal on that blog again; not only share likes :-)
P.S. Starting myself: For those not knowing – I live in Mannheim/South-Western Germany. I like, quite obviously, photography and writing a lot, and recently I became an addict to paper art and handwritten letters/postcards.
Posted in Inside
Tagged back again
When the day to leave has come, I leave so much behind. Things, moments, people. I don’t remember when exactly but somewhere in the dust, I come across a young American who choose to come here/who didn’t want to continue working 9 to 5, sitting in the office 40 hours a week. While I wait for my passport to be checked, I hear him saying that finally life makes sense to him again/that he has something to wake up for. For a short moment, I imagine stealing his passport, running away, taking a plane to L.A., droping ice-cream on Sunset Boulevard. Another thought not to waste further time on: I’m 1,60 metres, he’s about 2,05 metres; he’s a man; I’m a woman; I’m Syrian, he’s American. For him, it’s an escape from boredem. For me, it’s an escape from war.
A text that is inspired by a young Syrian woman I’m very glad to have met; and by the ARTE-documentary “Syria: The last days of Afrin.”
Posted in Outside
Irgendwie habe ich es geschafft, die Erinnerungen zu verlieren. In der Zeit seit fünf Jahren, zehn Tagen und … (ja, ich muss nicht immer an ihn denken, wenn ich ein grünes Kato-Männerhemd mit Farbflecken sehe, eine gelbe Quietscheente, und so vieles mehr, aber jeden Morgen nach dem Aufstehen zähle ich die Zeit weiter; weiß, wann es war, als er Schluss gemacht hat.) Mein innerer Taschenrechner funktioniert noch, während mein Fotoalbum sich langsam leert. Und dann am elften Tag des fünften Jahres ist es umgekehrt, Ich stehe in der Wohnung einer Kollegin, wir – Anfang Dreißig, direkt von der Arbeit, Zwischenstopp bevor es in die nächste Kneipe geht (den Arbeitsstress wegsaufen) – amüsieren uns köstlich über diesen Jüngling, der in der Wohnung gegenüber seinen Rücken am offenen Fenster bräunt. Bis zwischen seinen Beinen ein blonder Haarschopf auftaucht. Meine Kollegin kreischt “ach, du scheiße, der kriegt grade ‘nen…”, dreht sich weg, schnappt ihre Tasche. Ich will auch gehen, aber dann auf der Treppe nach unten sacken meine 12-Zentimeter-High-Heels weg. Ich war irgendwann wie die unbekannte Blonde, wir waren wie sie … vor fünf Jahren und … verdammt, der Taschenrechner hat einen Breakdown und die Bilder sind wieder da.
#won’t tell which tiny detail of this story is true