Thursday, May 31, 2018
Tuesday, May 29, 2018
C.Jung, relationships
‚For two personalities to meet is like mixing two chemical substances:
if there is any combination at all, both are transformed.'
C.G.Jung
Von meinem iPhone gesendet
if there is any combination at all, both are transformed.'
C.G.Jung
Von meinem iPhone gesendet
Monday, May 28, 2018
Mozart , Symphony No. 40 in G minor, K. 550 [complete]
so much much better than my shit poem a few minutes ago...
waking up..awakening...good day to me
positions
had all of them, positions,
just cannot bend my bones
nor my heart, but a fuck
in the head is painful
i had it, o holiness, love,
my third eye got
all blurred, i tell you,
deliciously perverted,
a torture turning
desire to headache,
the body dangling
from a noble soul
a brainwash for
kisses, orgasms
shredded for dogs,
embrace for sadness
had all of them, positions,
attitudes, pains and kicks,
went for a bath, for fresh air,
finally found: no.
and found yes.
no to mind fucks,
yes to me
and to this day.
no more prisons,
no traps, just my
normal fucking days,
to eat, to shit, to sleep.
well, maybe i should write like Bukowski?
no. i won't imitate.
just sometimes..i write bad poems ....
should be silent. better.
just cannot bend my bones
nor my heart, but a fuck
in the head is painful
i had it, o holiness, love,
my third eye got
all blurred, i tell you,
deliciously perverted,
a torture turning
desire to headache,
the body dangling
from a noble soul
a brainwash for
kisses, orgasms
shredded for dogs,
embrace for sadness
had all of them, positions,
attitudes, pains and kicks,
went for a bath, for fresh air,
finally found: no.
and found yes.
no to mind fucks,
yes to me
and to this day.
no more prisons,
no traps, just my
normal fucking days,
to eat, to shit, to sleep.
well, maybe i should write like Bukowski?
no. i won't imitate.
just sometimes..i write bad poems ....
should be silent. better.
Billy Joel , Honesty (Official Video)
honesty is what i need,
but not only ugly little truths and half truths,
honesty means you must be honest with you too ,
open to me.
liquid night
white flowers shining
with the full moon,
liquid light,
a lonely frog.
fire fell from the sky,
the milk turned sour,
maybe i heard a baby cry,
now all is still.
first food, then morals,
was Brecht so right?
i only know:
this is night.
nothing to expect,
nothing to explain,
i go to sleep
like a soldier
as if there was
no tomorrow and
only the scent
of flowers was true
with the full moon,
liquid light,
a lonely frog.
fire fell from the sky,
the milk turned sour,
maybe i heard a baby cry,
now all is still.
first food, then morals,
was Brecht so right?
i only know:
this is night.
nothing to expect,
nothing to explain,
i go to sleep
like a soldier
as if there was
no tomorrow and
only the scent
of flowers was true
Saturday, May 26, 2018
I did think.., Mary Oliver
I DID THINK, LET’S GO ABOUT THIS SLOWLY
I did think, let’s go about this slowly.
This is important. This should take
some really deep thought. We should take
small thoughtful steps.
This is important. This should take
some really deep thought. We should take
small thoughtful steps.
But, bless us, we didn’t.
Seneca:
"You act like mortals in all that you fear, and like immortals in all that you desire… "
.....
"Putting things off is the biggest waste of life: it snatches away each day as it comes, and denies us the present by promising the future. The greatest obstacle to living is expectancy, which hangs upon tomorrow and loses today. You are arranging what lies in Fortune’s control, and abandoning what lies in yours. What are you looking at? To what goal are you straining? The whole future lies in uncertainty: live immediately."
riddles
my heart is heavy,
it stutters at night.
the moon not yet full
pulls my soul to rise
into mysterious tides,
into dreams of riddles.
i was happy at the river
laughing with the dogs.
now i turn clear and dark,
the wind has ceased,
grief follows all illusion,
i have folded my wings.
there was nothing i want
but peace and sleep
and you to hold me
near to your breath.
forever. i postponed
me day after day
and night after night
for years, out, too far out.
remembering prophecies
i listen to my cat eating,
wondering what you feel,
i knew that i cannot talk.
when truth refers to the past
there is no way to go,
and listening will be hard
and lead nowhere. i forget.
though we must live with
what is broken, we may find
release. my faith is more
in death than in love, now.
until then i walk and try
to be aware of a flow
of joy and laughter and
of all the sadness i meet.
i will leave nothing out,
neither the trees nor the sun,
not the suffering, the pain,
nor the music and the pauses.
sela.
it stutters at night.
the moon not yet full
pulls my soul to rise
into mysterious tides,
into dreams of riddles.
i was happy at the river
laughing with the dogs.
now i turn clear and dark,
the wind has ceased,
grief follows all illusion,
i have folded my wings.
there was nothing i want
but peace and sleep
and you to hold me
near to your breath.
forever. i postponed
me day after day
and night after night
for years, out, too far out.
remembering prophecies
i listen to my cat eating,
wondering what you feel,
i knew that i cannot talk.
when truth refers to the past
there is no way to go,
and listening will be hard
and lead nowhere. i forget.
though we must live with
what is broken, we may find
release. my faith is more
in death than in love, now.
until then i walk and try
to be aware of a flow
of joy and laughter and
of all the sadness i meet.
i will leave nothing out,
neither the trees nor the sun,
not the suffering, the pain,
nor the music and the pauses.
sela.
Friday, May 25, 2018
is it a virus?
Laurie Anderson has a song, 'language is a virus from outer space'.
i don't know. say no ,no, no.
humans are the virus, humans enter each other in many ways,
multiply, replicate, take possession until the hosts either die
or drop out or heal , antibodies filling their system, needy of anti, of fighting back, of defence.
humans are the virus.
humans.
not language.
language is a tool like a shovel, a spade, a violin.
what we do with it gives meaning, beauty, dreams, death, boredom,
loneliness or approach.
when we rest our work at hand, we put the shovel to the side-
we fall silent.
language is nothing but a fucking lot of work, slavery, weeding out gardens,
watering and showing our presence in sound and noise. language can hide us or turn us completely naked,
we stand there as fools with our heart on our tongues, it is bleeding and nobody wants to see.
we stand there with a water hose in our hand but the garden has disappeared.
say no, say no.,no.
language is not a virus.
it is just dangerous as everything is.
shovels and words can be weapons.
let us put them down.
we are the virus.
we, us..
can we give another spin to our dna, break patterns in the shining singing spiral,
the scintillating code, can we be happy without killing?
without dominating, without using other humans as our prey?
can we?
can we synchronize with laughter, joy and the dance of life?
can we be calm and let others be, can we grow humour, wisdom and love?
good night.
i don't know. say no ,no, no.
humans are the virus, humans enter each other in many ways,
multiply, replicate, take possession until the hosts either die
or drop out or heal , antibodies filling their system, needy of anti, of fighting back, of defence.
humans are the virus.
humans.
not language.
language is a tool like a shovel, a spade, a violin.
what we do with it gives meaning, beauty, dreams, death, boredom,
loneliness or approach.
when we rest our work at hand, we put the shovel to the side-
we fall silent.
language is nothing but a fucking lot of work, slavery, weeding out gardens,
watering and showing our presence in sound and noise. language can hide us or turn us completely naked,
we stand there as fools with our heart on our tongues, it is bleeding and nobody wants to see.
we stand there with a water hose in our hand but the garden has disappeared.
say no, say no.,no.
language is not a virus.
it is just dangerous as everything is.
shovels and words can be weapons.
let us put them down.
we are the virus.
we, us..
can we give another spin to our dna, break patterns in the shining singing spiral,
the scintillating code, can we be happy without killing?
without dominating, without using other humans as our prey?
can we?
can we synchronize with laughter, joy and the dance of life?
can we be calm and let others be, can we grow humour, wisdom and love?
good night.
communication evokes listening the other way
a few days ago i heard a short part of a comedy show, Nico Semsrott, a German, he stated that he is a demotivation trainer and: joy is nothing but a lack of information.
i don't know for sure, but to a certain extent i can agree.
yes, i find it extremely astonishing that joy can be possible, the joie de vivre is a secret, a wonder, it is
a possibility of life and it looks as happening by itself. just like plants, trees, bushes, flowers can grow out of small seeds. but-it is not all happening 'just' like that.
i guess silence is best.
i cannot see that words, sentences, opinions and wishes and offers mean anything
important at all, neither in speaking nor in writing.
when i'd vomit on the carpet or pour out beautiful poetry, open my soul and heart,
the effect is the same: you'll see what you see and you hear what you hear.
then you'll tie a knot in it, put it in a drawer, and what you do with it has nothing to do with me.
using language words will have left me, they lose their context and if i'd react to what happens after i might lose my integrity. much better not to speak, answer, just maybe much better to talk about the weather, the taste of coffee, send a like or a picture- nothing much can happen, possibly.
anyway, never should i expect to be understood, neither when i talk nor when i am silent.
i cannot correspond to nothing to expect nor to daily reports and greetings, i am not an administrator of niceties, and what appears here light and easy and simple is nothing but an agreement on not being able to solve anything in the deep, to keep it for oneself as nobody wants to know what you feel and think and wish and need. one calls it staying in touch but it is actually very far from touch-and we all know this. just an euphemism for a lack of ability to respond and come to an intimate approach, dangerous closeness. is closeness dangerous?
a lack of love maybe? a fear of attachment?
if i was a studio mixer, i'd put myself on a slow fading out, no hall nor echo.
and then i'd change into a pause.
i am tempted all time.
when i am a pause i can hear the birds sing.
they are wild and free. solace and pain at times,
but first of all to hear and see what 'is' now and what is true and real,
to feel connection to the rhythms of nature, to be near the universal patterns of life and death,
find the fragility and impermanence of all beauty as an essential condition.
i don't care much for inter-action anymore, it appears full with human futility, regression,
sticky stuff, black holes, more and more empty of hope, more a trap than a path.
now i said nothing and too much.
i am not who i was and i cannot go the same ways.
what i used to like i see as poor entertainment, thought being the worst.
i prefer to shut up now, and i only wish i find humans to make me laugh and let me be present in peace.
i try to be kind but it is not an aim in itself. there are no aims and goals.
when i don't want to be kind i will have a reason.
i have the utmost difficulties to motivate myself to find stuff i like to do.
i am flat out, i feel i cannot give more, and i am not going to wait for Godot
nor for anybody at all.
just walking and breathing and sleeping until i heal better.
i am not sad, only reflecting. i like the spring rains, the thunderstorms, the meadows filled with flowers,
the scent of soil and grass.
but communication is not communion.
i don't know for sure, but to a certain extent i can agree.
yes, i find it extremely astonishing that joy can be possible, the joie de vivre is a secret, a wonder, it is
a possibility of life and it looks as happening by itself. just like plants, trees, bushes, flowers can grow out of small seeds. but-it is not all happening 'just' like that.
i guess silence is best.
i cannot see that words, sentences, opinions and wishes and offers mean anything
important at all, neither in speaking nor in writing.
when i'd vomit on the carpet or pour out beautiful poetry, open my soul and heart,
the effect is the same: you'll see what you see and you hear what you hear.
then you'll tie a knot in it, put it in a drawer, and what you do with it has nothing to do with me.
using language words will have left me, they lose their context and if i'd react to what happens after i might lose my integrity. much better not to speak, answer, just maybe much better to talk about the weather, the taste of coffee, send a like or a picture- nothing much can happen, possibly.
anyway, never should i expect to be understood, neither when i talk nor when i am silent.
i cannot correspond to nothing to expect nor to daily reports and greetings, i am not an administrator of niceties, and what appears here light and easy and simple is nothing but an agreement on not being able to solve anything in the deep, to keep it for oneself as nobody wants to know what you feel and think and wish and need. one calls it staying in touch but it is actually very far from touch-and we all know this. just an euphemism for a lack of ability to respond and come to an intimate approach, dangerous closeness. is closeness dangerous?
a lack of love maybe? a fear of attachment?
if i was a studio mixer, i'd put myself on a slow fading out, no hall nor echo.
and then i'd change into a pause.
i am tempted all time.
when i am a pause i can hear the birds sing.
they are wild and free. solace and pain at times,
but first of all to hear and see what 'is' now and what is true and real,
to feel connection to the rhythms of nature, to be near the universal patterns of life and death,
find the fragility and impermanence of all beauty as an essential condition.
i don't care much for inter-action anymore, it appears full with human futility, regression,
sticky stuff, black holes, more and more empty of hope, more a trap than a path.
now i said nothing and too much.
i am not who i was and i cannot go the same ways.
what i used to like i see as poor entertainment, thought being the worst.
i prefer to shut up now, and i only wish i find humans to make me laugh and let me be present in peace.
i try to be kind but it is not an aim in itself. there are no aims and goals.
when i don't want to be kind i will have a reason.
i have the utmost difficulties to motivate myself to find stuff i like to do.
i am flat out, i feel i cannot give more, and i am not going to wait for Godot
nor for anybody at all.
just walking and breathing and sleeping until i heal better.
i am not sad, only reflecting. i like the spring rains, the thunderstorms, the meadows filled with flowers,
the scent of soil and grass.
but communication is not communion.
Tuesday, May 22, 2018
Monday, May 21, 2018
Sue Wrinch,Spellbound
Spellbound
I fall into a hare’s being
she opens herself for me.
she opens herself for me.
I slip in, climb
the staircase of her ribs,
the staircase of her ribs,
and settle close to her
sparking, twitching heart.
sparking, twitching heart.
Scents, earthy and herbal
wrap my head in a meadow scarf.
wrap my head in a meadow scarf.
Long ears twist to catch sound,
vibrations, high and low.
vibrations, high and low.
I can hear earthworms tunnel lazily,
as bird’s scribble notes on sky,
as bird’s scribble notes on sky,
taste the green of Spring in grass,
as sunshine soaks into my fur.
as sunshine soaks into my fur.
I look out through shining
amber eyes, see field and hedge
amber eyes, see field and hedge
blur as my legs hurl
over scrub and heather,
over scrub and heather,
lungs gulp in clear air as
I flow, bounding the furrows.
I flow, bounding the furrows.
to lie at last under an opal moon
still spellbound.
still spellbound.
Sunday, May 20, 2018
coming home, thunderstorm at Lake Konstanz
born in Konstanz...
Markdorf, a small part of childhood
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