tonight//cette danse

oublie mes mots/take me in your arms//pour danser/pour rire/pour pleurer//tonight/et les autres jours/je sais pas ton nom/et ce n’importe pas//je change les langues/comme toi/myself.


Posted in Inside


Es sind starke Wörter, die in diesen Tage benutzt werden. Einige von ihnen haben ihre 70jährige Wurzeln, die doch eigentlich 1.000jährige Wurzeln hätten sein sollen. Andere haben Wurzeln, deren Anfänge wir nicht mehr kennen, nur noch die sprießenden Blätter sind es, die wir immer wieder wegkehren müssen. Aber während die Blätter der Bäume uns erfreuen (jetzt im Frühling in zarten Grün, im Herbst in gelb-orange), wissen wir nicht, wie wir mit diesen anderen Auswüchsen umgehen sollen. Denn was ist Ehre? Wessen Ehre wird gerade gekränkt? Und wieso, von wem? Oder in anderen Worten: Ist es gerecht, Deutsche/Europäer in “Sippenhaft” zu nehmen und als Nazis zu beschimpfen, weil Ehre gekränkt wurde? Und wie soll diese Vergeltung aussehen, die jetzt durch die Presse geistert? Als ob der Nazi-Vergleich nicht schon schlimm genug wäre.

To those speaking English: I wished I could easily translate those words into English and describe how I currently feel about the Turkish-European “crisis” (or whatever to call this situation) but I can not do this. In English, I just say: “What a f* great s*.”

Posted in History rewritten

flecken auf der haut

Irgendetwas war es, dass ihn dazu zwang plötzlich auszusteigen, eigentlich hätte er erst 5 Stationen später aussteigen müssen, aber so drängte er sich aus der Bahn, hinteließ Fluchen und Tritte, die ins Leere stießen, stolperte ihr hinterher, vielleicht war es die Art, wie sie sich bewegte, die Hüften, das Haar, etwas Unterbewusstes, sie lief langsam und machte es ihm leicht zu folgen, über mehrere Straßenecken hinweg, er kam ins Schwitzen, von der Anstengung und noch von etwas Anderem, liefer unten in seinem Körper, bis sie stehen blieb und eine Umarmung erhielt, die er sich vielleicht erhofft hatte und ihr deswegen gefolgt war, aber das war es. Er stoppte. Und drehte sich um. Sie hatte ein Kind. Er hasste Kinder. Die mit ihrem klebrigen Fingern überall Flecken hinterließen. Auch auf der Haut, davon war er fest überzeugt.

Posted in A night - somewhere, some time


if I close my eyes and say these prayers, that I’ve learned when I was a child, with faith; reapeat them with strong voice

then people who have gotten close to me, do not stay in hospital anymore but return to my side

reading newspapers will not feel like we are at war

signs will come to me/to us // just as Zadie Smith winning the Nobel Prize for Literature because of her beautiful words.

if I could just close my eyes and start praying.

and if it would change so much // or so little.

Posted in Inside


and how many journalists do you need to imprison until you become a democrat? ups, I forgot that Germans do know nothing about democracy; we are still all Nazis


Posted in Non-Fiction | Tagged ,

two souls

He had asked if she’d put on her most beautiful dress. She did. Standing in front of her closet, there was no doubt, in this second, which one she’d take. It was not dress but a skirt, still she took it. The one her mother had carried one on a special occasion as well. And she remembered, from her mother’s stories, and the pictures on the wall, that her mother had worn flowers on her head, comparable to those flowers in her heart she wanted to have in her heart at this night. So the young woman went to several flower shops to get all the colours she needed. The city was crowded this day. Everybody wanted to get the daily shopping done before the big football game started at 8. Finally, their small country had the chance to enter the finale of the European Football Championship. Besides, it was very warm. 40 degrees. But while everyone rushed around in the narrow streets of Kraków, the young woman stayed cool. Walked to the bus station, walked again to her apartment, sat down to weave her crown of flowers.

It hadn’t cooled down when they finally meet in one the restaurants his cousins had recommended him. For the first date. “For the one”, as the olderly man had said while smiling. They had agreed to meet outside. But he had troubles seeing her, the football fans with their red-white flags distracted him. And then when he saw her, his glance first went to the flowers, then to her skirt. This impression wouldn’t leave the evening, 2 hours and 20 minutes in which he didn’t see the glance in her eyes/didn’t hear the intelligent things she said.

And he left with this impression. Thought that he’d spent the evening with a woman he could never hang around in one of the cool discos he sometimes went, or that she wouldn’t be one to take with to any of these boring but important business dinners. Thought that she was of these hippies who wanted back the 1970ies. Back of in his apartment, he took of the belt that his father had worn when he’d met his mother. It hadn’t brought him any luck. As the skirt and the flowers hadn’t brought any luck to the young woman.

Later that night, Poland lost the game, and a whole nation cried.


Posted in A night - somewhere, some time | Tagged , ,

Through Centuries

Through centuries, there have been people who want to see us on our knees, who want us to pray, to stay obedient, silent. Their form of power over us has taken different forms. Some took us to the pyre, some took stones to let life fly from our veins. Some have rethought their actions, some still cling to their ideas/traditions. And sometimes, these “people” are not men, but women.



Posted in Outside | Tagged , , ,

Pictures of the week


taken in … guess what, not in any Arabic country, but in Schwetzingen (Germany)

Posted in Uncategorized

my personal sponge

This last day of the first month of the new year – it’s … well, everything that can go wrong, it went wrong. From a belated tram, a missed train, a bus that goes to the wrong direction, from another belated train, an important journalist ending up at a wrong place, a business-man flirting with you and your colleague, then suddenly speaking of his wife,…. around 20:00, sitting in the tram, going finally home, after 13 hours. And then…no, the guy sitting next to you isn’t your boyfriend, he is not flirting with you in French, and he’ll not have dinner with you later; but it makes you realize the meaning of the German-saying “Schwamm drüber”: Literally, take a sponge, and clean it away. Your day might have been stress² but there’s always someting to smile about, even in the greatest chaos.

31st January 2017

Posted in Inside

A modern fairy tale

Once, there was a young girl, somewhere in post-communist Europe. She had only one wish, and someone told her that – if she’d only take enough off her clothes, and get lost of as much as possible that God had given her – she’d achieve everything she wanted. But probably not in this small, cold country that she called “home”. So this young girl packed her suitcase (or something else in which you could put as many bikini as wanted) and moved on. First, to a country where they rolled the “r” so much (like in these movies about World War Two). [Not that she noticed anyway; she only “talked” to “photographers” anyway.] Then, one day, she made her first steps in a country that was still united at that time. She worked hard, and wore less. And one day, she suddenly spoke to a huge audience; and wondered afterwards what had gone wrong. Didn’t she prepare all of her sentences with Google, and who was this “Michelle Obama”?! But she moved on. There was so much to give her comfort. It didn’t matter that there were all these skinny, smart blondes around her. Because she was now First Lady. When she was alone – her husband in his bathroom, colouring his hair; her son sleeping (again) – she spoke these words very slowly out loud. First Lady. Never mind her accent was so strong that nobody knew which language she spoke. And then there was the Day of all Days. She danced with her husband (no, it will be my way that we’ll live), wore a beautiful dress (I wanted Ralph Lauren anyway, not any of these younger designers) and listen to the crowd, cheering to her (yes, they cheered, for her!). She now lived the life that she had always dreamt of (and wasn’t it beautiful to wear dresses instead of nothing; and to think of nothing instead of …mmm..nothing?!). Yes, she was the most perfect First Lady of all times.

Posted in History rewritten