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.
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.
taken in … guess what, not in any Arabic country, but in Schwetzingen (Germany)
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
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.
Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses, yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,
Send these, the homeless, tempest tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.
Oh, wait, I’ve forgot, it’s January 2017…I won’t take them anymore, sorry.
#Let’s make America f* great again.
I always hated this idea of “us” vs. “them”, “we” and “they”, but then on New Year’s Eve, I find myself sitting in the tram, and I simply want to have any second skin around me. As if suddenly the entire tram/Mannheim’s city was home to groups of young, darker-skined men, as if “fake” was “reality”. And I’m in the middle, turning crazy because of paranoid thoughts.
I’m still against “us” vs. “them” but something has changed, inside me, and I’m scared of this emotion. It could be so simply: I could continue laughing about all those “the world has became black”-idiots, about people such as F. who condemms Hillary Clinton because “she’s a lesbian and takes cocaine”, and ask myself how much more sick the world will become. I could. But at the moment I don’t.
i google your name, search facebook, try to re-find your picture somewhere else, to realize there’s nothing, and that I’m completely fucked up.
“This year I’ll stay up until New Year’s Eve because I want see 2016 to die.”
Not my words but yet so true. Happy 2017 to everyone!
Am Ende waren es Schwäne, die mich dazu gebracht haben, alles zu erzählen. Es ein Samstagabend gewesen und wir beide in der Alten Feuerwache, ein Konzert. Wir kannten uns noch nicht so gut, und du wolltest es wahrscheinlich auch nicht, nicht in diesem Moment, aber durch die Enge des Raums kamst du mir immer näher. Ich hielt es nicht mehr aus und rannte davon. Weg. Wie immer. Ich stand auf der Brücke über den Neckar, blickte hinunter auf den dunklen Fluss, als du mich wieder gefunden hast. Es war kalt, keine Handschuhe oder eine Mütze zum Schutz vor der Kälte. Ich glaube nicht, dass ich geweint habe. Nur gestarrt habe ich, nach unten. Im Schutz des Brückenpfeilers waren Schwäne, so viele hatte ich hier noch nie gesehen. Vielleicht hast du in diesem Moment etwas gesagt. Ich fing an zu sprechen. Wurde wieder zu dem Kind, das ich immer noch bin. Das Berührungen auf der Haut spürt, die es nicht spüren will, nicht einordnen kann.
Heute stehen wir vor Gericht. Wenn ich den Kopf heben würde, sähe ich dich – links, ihn – rechts. Meine Mutter – irgendwo.
Wir haben seitdem nicht gesprochen. Sie hat mir nur einen Brief weitergeleitet. Damit ich die Rechnung zu unserem gemeinsamen Handy zahle.
Geld war ihr schon immer wichtig.