Book

2013-10-28T03:41:00.002-07:00

„Goodbye Barbara, and have a good evening“,

one woman says to another.

This sentence is said on a cold evening,

inside a quiet and warm coffee shop.

The personal greeting enters my belly

and settles there,

warm and pleasant,

even though I’m not Barbara.

I came in here, escaping a cold Zürich street,

and found myself joining a shared sense of warmth and silence,

of people reading papers,

evenly distributed in the coffee shop,

sipping from cups.

Now, I’m evenly distributed as well,

sipping

Lipton tea,

eating a „Schinken Croissant“,

writing this poem.

All four waitresses

are gathering now,

having a look at a photograph, printed out on an A4 sheet.

In the photo, a woman.

She’s looking upwards, her face lit.

Next to her,

a bouquet of red flowers.

The waitresses spend a few minutes discussing the photo,

and then spread out, back to work.

One of them takes the photo and approaches a customer.

He takes a long look and says: „Ist super!“.

The two of them discuss the photo for at least 3 more minutes.

There’s so much I’d like to know.

There are so many questions I’d like to ask.

But I’m not asking.

I’m not mingling.

I’m sitting on the side.

Observing and writing.

2013-10-28T03:39:00.004-07:00

Spotless, I’m not.

There are spots of life’s memories on me.

Therefore, my thoughts are less than blessed. I could call them breathless.

I’m like this city: rows of thought-buildings inside me, ugly, commentaries of plots, beating like hearts.

But I’m fighting this.

Out of breath, dripping imaginary sweat, wishing for, at least, imaginary calmness.

Only imagination could possibly help now.

I call the calm to come, and I imagine the storm to be gone.

My thoughts - I jot them down, and that undoes my knot.

I find my spotless spot.

Debt

2013-10-28T03:38:00.001-07:00

I‘d been working there for two years. Every day I had arrived at 8 a.m., had said „Hello“, and hung my green coat on a wooden hanger, near the entrance. Some days, I had put my hat on a table, smiled, made a joke and someone had joked back. I had sat at my table, done my job, neither particularly well, nor really badly.

I mean, it was not my strong suit, this kind of work - debt collection. Calling people who owed money, and didn’t want to pay it back. It had taken a lot of manipulation on my part, although most of them had been better at that than me, their words jumping, flying, and performing flick flacks in the air. Their words were like swords. Stupid image, but that’s the thing - I don’t have any special authority, not in the image department, nor in the debt collection department.

An army of three people were sitting in the room when they fired me. I was 30 years old, that day. As I realized what was happening, a feeling of relief started to grow inside me. (If I dropped a tear, it was a sign of joy. They may not have seen it that way. This was a good thing).

Not as fragile

2013-10-28T03:36:00.004-07:00

The upstairs neighbours have been bothering her for several days now. They have been dragging furniture around, as if having nothing better to do than trying out, all day long: does the big sofa please the eye more standing up against the east wall or the south wall? And accordingly: where would the armchair go?

She looks up from the notebook, and sees him, through her hair, which opens up like a curtain around her eyes. He looks back at her, curious, and then rolls his eyes to the sound of moaning furniture ....

His brain and heart are arguing. He feels it was wrong of him to quit his job, but knows it is not true. Over there, standing between the white office walls, he said the words that had been a burden to him, He had to get them out. “How could you have said such words?”, she asked him after the fact, when he told her what had happened. “I was told to say that”, he explained. And it was true. This body of his, which has been ill, healthy, young and old and which represents him in the world, opened its mouth and said the words.

The gaze he launches at her now is camouflage. His naughty curiousity is a hiding place for his sadness, his fear.

The squeaking of the dragged furniture upstairs fills him with an unbearable sense of restlessness. He is finding it difficult to define, or even understand, this restlessness, and therefore does not tell her about it, does not share. He is wearing the costume of another person, a calm person, not as fragile.

The trash can

2013-10-28T03:35:00.002-07:00

He is young, 20 years old, or maybe 25, with hair as dark as charcoal. Having gone round the trash can three times, he touches it gently, hesitating ever so slightly, before opening the lid. He puts his left hand in, all the way to his shoulder, moves some things, and finds what he wanted. He takes it and leaves.

Pasta scream scream scream

2013-10-28T03:34:00.003-07:00

Angry, he poured all the pasta tomato sauce over the principal. Leaving her screaming, he exited casually. Everyone else around her remained lost, looking at the door, through which he had just left, and then back at the principal. Long pieces of pasta and tomato sauce were dripping from her hair and skirt. 143 people lost their appetite, all at once. Three women pulled themselves together, snapped out of the collective trance (imagine a little fairy gently casting a spell on each of them with her magic wand).

They quickly approached the principal and helped her get herself back together, cleaning her and then taking her to the ladies room.

The hall was buzzing, a subtle ironic shiver in the air. There was a feeling that it was not over yet. No one felt safe, as if each person in the hall was still in danger of having a bowl of pasta spilled over their heads.

Meanwhile, in the ladies’ room, the principal underwent rehabilitation. She felt a deep aggressive need to get rid of it all. Get rid of everybody. This was filling her up with words, and she screamed to let them out. The women around her pulled back, because it hurt. As she was screaming she felt relief, and the words scattered around her, rolling around and exploding.

She expressed it all, the very worst. But a lot was still left inside her.

Apricot kid

2013-10-28T03:33:00.003-07:00

I’m standing in the doorway of our kitchen, a kid, a bag of apricots in my right hand swinging beside my leg. Mom isn’t looking. She’s straightening Dad’s tie. They’re looking at each other and laughing softly, small and shy little laughs.

Between me and them there’s an abyss. Inside the abyss there’s a hive full of bees that want to sting me. I’m throwing apricots at them. They avoid getting hit. Two of them catch the apricots. I keep throwing more, and then I look down, into the abyss. On the ground, the bees have set the apricots up in three straight lines. Straight like dad’s tie. Really, really straight.

Now the bees are flying around, and I see Mom and Dad moving around the kitchen, bumping into each other. They’re getting ready to leave and start their day.

The little book

2013-10-28T03:32:00.001-07:00

The little book breathed out long streams of air, without crying, A sudden urge caused it to cast a glance to the right, where it saw the little girl, studying. It wanted her to read it, and recalled her abundance of plans, ideas and glorious missions. It used to be the same, full of heroic words in it, some written the normal way and some upside down.

Women apply moisturizing cream in an upward movement in order to resist gravity. The little book, too, wanted a cream that would turn its abandonment simply into a nightmare, from which it could wake up at any moment.

It cast a glance to the left, to the mother of the little girl. Her hardships had swirled into guidelines around her eyes and the corners of her mouth. Like a bullied child, she was sitting there, waiting for more of them to surround her, one by one. The changes within her, spilling out, were exposed awkwardly in her exhaustion and in each particle of energy she was lacking.

The little book wanted her to read it, as well. It was lying on a table, in the center of the room, between the little girl and her mother. Both of them were reading, deep into their books. But it knew them better than those other books would ever know them. It was the relic of who they had been at the time they had read it.

2013-10-28T03:31:00.001-07:00

He seems to remember

her fingers,

the aura of friendship.

Friendship filled to the brim.

He forgets

with what?

2013-10-28T03:30:00.002-07:00

Pay attention

to the white, wild, fluffy

silence.

This silence burns

the pressure of thoughts.

Pay attention

to the green, wild, fluffy

vegetation.

The green grass ventilates

the pressure of thoughts.

2013-10-28T03:28:00.001-07:00

Looking for images

he is flying

above a dozen plains.

Above the whole alphabet

from A to Z.

Streets passing below him.

Families down in the street,

looking up to watch him.

Sunglasses,

protecting Fathers’ eyes

from the sun,

and from him.

He is passing next to the seventh floor of a building.

He smells lemon tea

and meatballs.

“So many times,

all I can do is watch”,

he is thinking.

The images come when they come.

His life and death

2013-10-28T03:27:00.002-07:00

Remembering her gray eyes, with blue and green flickers. Like the sky on a cloudy day with alien spaceships.

He has always felt disconnected. In his life and even now, that he is dead.

The essence of his liberation has always peered at him from those familiar blue green flickers. He has never been able to fully believe that they are human, those eyes. At the same time, he has never been able to point out a reason for that.

He loved her, and still did. Her wild presence was a gift he had never known with other women. Her way of stubbornly searching for her place in the world, to which she did not belong, had surprised him every single day.

That is why he always explored her, and continues to do so, now, dead.

2013-10-28T03:26:00.003-07:00

I was dead, I believe. It was an afternoon of darkness. I was walking in a city through shop windows, seeing reflections of faces in them, and a twisted world.

That day I found a train ticket on the ground. Its destination was: “Sanctuary, Kinship.” I picked it up and headed to the train station.

It brought me to you.

2013-10-28T03:26:00.000-07:00

She was wearing dark jeans and boots,

and she noticed me.

It made me feel proud,

as if I’d done something great.

She had a pirate’s demeanour,

and the dance floor was spinning around her,

with me.

As I talked to her for the first time

the future was asleep, full of promise.

As she answered me

both of us were travellers,

riding together on the same giant bicycle,

with the sun in our faces.

2013-10-28T03:24:00.003-07:00

She’s a rare creature,

sitting here with me

among candles and plants.

Tender talking, taking.

„Hear my mud soul!

Is there something wrong with it?

Please keep my secrets very safe.“

2013-10-28T03:23:00.001-07:00

From among the tops of buildings

I’d like to jump.

And then, not to fall fast,

but to fly

down

slowly.

Approaching the bottom

I’d know it:

“The gentle final thump is coming.

Solid time divides into seconds:

three,

two,

one.

The chapters of my life are being counted backwards.

Mistakes are melting into the empty future.

My biography is writing its last chapter.”

The Storyteller

2013-10-28T03:22:00.001-07:00

For too long I’ve been expecting a truck full of stories to pull up at my driveway and unload.

For too long I’ve been a tourist in a storyless land, walking around, lost and tired, without asking for directions.

For too long I’ve been drunk, having absorbed facts at the happy hour of information, letting them distort my mind and soul.

Imagination now pulls up at my doorway. A mad storyteller nods hello and enters.

The storyteller can’t get the stories inside her to come out. Have a close look at her face! Blocks of tears are pouring out of her, flowing black and fast. The stories cast blue and red shadows, down the corridor of her body.

Moving from one room to the next, she can’t find any rest. She feels madness slowly nodding at her, greeting her, staying, standing at the doorway. She tries to slam the door, but the only thing that shuts up is her imagination.

Movie

2013-10-28T03:20:00.001-07:00

She was whispering into his right ear, telling him about that time when she understood that she had no control. She tried not to put too much pressure on his shoulder, as she was leaning on it. They were sitting in the cinema, watching one of those American movies about two people who find each other, lose each other, and then find each other again.

Neither of them were feeling anything like those people in the movie. For 13 minutes now, they had disconnected from the movie, and converged into a world of their own. The loud dramatic music, the dialogues, the laughter around them, the darkness - all of this was wrapped around them, protecting and isolating them.

He felt her burning his ear, secretive. Whispers coming at him with lots of warm air, humidity, and words. Every word she was saying was removing another one of the hardened layers around him. He was completely hers right now. He did not know whether he would always have the strength to be hers, but decided not to think about that now. Holding her hand inside both of his on the arm rest between them, he felt himself getting stronger.

He kissed her hand lightly, as if nibbling men’s food. Her whispering stopped for a minute as she searched for his eyes. Bringing her mouth to his he kissed her softly.

No

2013-10-28T03:19:00.003-07:00

She was wearing white trousers, which fit perfectly around her hips, and was already on her way, when she noticed at least two spots on them. She rubbed them with some spit. The stains smudged, and became even more prominent. At that point, she would have liked to let her rage out by screaming. But her rage did not find anywhere to go, it was ashamed to come out, there, in the bus. Three other people were there, without counting the driver.

She got off, devastated.

“No chance,” was a message she instantly received from the expression of one of the

interviewers. The second one shook her hand, he literally shook it.

The look of the first interviewer paused on one spot, on one leg. It stopped there, making it bigger and bigger. Dismantling every tiny bit of self confidence she had ever had regarding this interview. Then it was over.

Another „No“.

Shapes

2013-10-28T03:18:00.003-07:00

There’s a line of conservative people in front of me. With silhouettes between them, like passageways. I can pass through them and find out what’s on the other side. In some cases, one of the people reaches out to the back, trying to grab me, sometimes succeeding, other times not.

Whenever they fail, I can pass to the other side, where there are colours, lots of colours, covering the space around me completely. Slowly, the colours take on shapes: fluid shapes, some undefined, others more like faces, lakes or mountains. I help them into existence. And then, all that’s left to do is to clean my brushes and try again tomorrow.

An experimental snow poem

2013-10-28T03:17:00.003-07:00

(The words in brackets are comments by the poet to herself)

It’s snowing.

White bits are coming from the sky (Ok, trivial).

Snow.

Morning.

Morning snow.

This becomes clearer, when observed

set against a dark object.

Because it’s light, that’s all.

But it’s everywhere,

either way,

floating downwards,

and onto my paper

down-words.

It’s in the open space between houses and gardens,

forming patterns

in space (it’s in space, got it, move on),

Two tiny chirping birds

are flying through the snow,

one flying horizontally,

the other upwards at a 30 degree angle.

2013-10-28T03:16:00.002-07:00

The branches and leaves, standing out at the top of the tree, were rocking back and forth. They seemed like three or four children with caps and gowns, lightly dancing to music they were hearing, and which I wasn’t. The story of my life.

Beginners

2013-10-28T03:15:00.001-07:00

Writing to you from right now.

No answers,

just telling, sharing.

Music in the background,

a band playing.

It’s called "Stone temple pilots".

I like that.

I feel ugly.

Be with me and

don’t let me fall into the habit of

judging,

telling stories

inside my head.

About the future,

about doing and not

doing.

Watching a movie.

It's called "Beginners."

I like that, too.

This movie has a slow and precise

way of describing

places,

people,

events,

relationships.

It’s putting me in a precise

mood.

But still I'm one small step away from

being what I used to be:

judging,

telling stories

inside my head.

About the future,

about doing and not

doing.

2013-10-28T03:13:00.001-07:00

This is my chance to blend in, to deny all that has happened, because today my clouds are feeling very lucky! Grey and heavy, full of rain and opportunities - just waiting to pour down, telling me: “Stay! Get wet!”.

On the other hand, this is my chance to fade away, away to foreign lands. Because the light around my clouds is turning white and is smiling its foreign truth. I could go - surf away on serendipity, until my world feels lucky.

The new store next to the coffee shop

2013-10-28T03:12:00.002-07:00

A new store opened next to his regular coffee shop earlier this week. It sparked his curiosity, but he has not gone in yet. It is shiny, bright, full of anticipation. A group of four people entered it about 50 minutes ago, and has not left yet. He is looking at the colourful stripes in the display window, sipping his coffee, while three more people enter the new store.

He looks around and watches the other guests in his regular coffee shop. Each of them with a laptop during their relentless daily visit in here. He recognizes their faces. And, even if he were bleeding from the head he would still be able to recognize the girl who always sits by the south window. Today, as always, she is typing something on her pink laptop, glancing every once in a while at her papers, which are spread on the table. In his mind, he is going over the obstacles standing in his way to talking to her. Others have tried. He has watched them fail, one by one.

She has the habit of sitting there until noon. But now it is only 11:30, and she gets up, packs her backpack, leaving on the table an almost empty coffee cup and a plastic, which had been wrapped around a sandwich. She is at the exit, ceremoniously bidding the baristas goodbye. Look at them! Poor guys! Being left behind as she walks away... That’s it. She’s left the coffee shop. She’s entering the new store.

There you go! He has found a reason to talk to her. He will go to the new store, too. He gets up, quickly checks his pockets for his wallet and keys, waves goodbye to the baristas, and leaves.

But then he turns towards his car.

An exhausting race is going on in his mind. He hears all those bad voices speaking to him “At your age! Really! You should be ashamed of yourself... she’s half your age!” There are plenty more, but he is embarrassed to write them down here.

He reaches his car but, then turns around again.

He looks in the direction of the new store, and starts walking with determination.