Oleander Poison Dripping

So who’s been reading this old blog, decomposed at the spine and words blurring into one another on pages of soft oldness? And what do you expect to find out, what do you expect to know, why do our tendrils cling onto a bark of wood that has eyes that look into woods of green, away from us?

There is a wide space of loneliness that fills my heart.

Gypsies

“Gibt’s hier einen Spiegel?” fragte ich ihn.

“Nein, der ist leider gebrochen, aber Sie können in den Laden da rein gehen, ich vertraue Ihnen.”

“Das dürfen Sie nicht,” beantwortete ich ihm, “ich habe einmal Ohrhänger von einer Frau gestohlen, weil sie böse war.”

Diana, Silly

“But I bought clothes for you,” I sobbed over the phone, “I mean, clothes for me – but you were supposed to see me in them and be happy.”

Under A Bewitched Moon

On a full-mooned November night, I lost my True Love.

Sleeping Beauty

I am against prostitution. I don’t like that men are allowed to view women as sex objects, as toys, to play with, to wag their tongues at, to battle with, and damage. Women are human beings too. There was once Boadicea, Warrior Queen, there was Jeanne d’Arc who led the French army, and there are stellar, strong Greek Goddesses out there, like Artemis. We were in an age strong, and we Are, if we allow ourselves to rise up against such blasphemy and push the stake so deep into the ground, that no man dare pull it out.

Roses in the Wake of Sunlight

Johnny A was so fucking cool. Though I didn’t find it cool that halfway through asking him for a photograph, he got distracted by a girl with a pretty hat (it wasn’t very pretty). The point is: He was so fucking cool. He had this mean ass face with a permanent scowl that stretched itself into a pained smile every time the music stuck its long ass in his throat, and he had this electric black guitar and a drummer who looked like he got stoned in Heaven. I was standing there, jaw dropped low, thinking I would die any moment because the music was just too good to behold, making sure I was clutching my glass of vodka real good because I was afraid I would just let go. Later I started dancing ever so slightly to the music, my hips swaying a little, my shoulders loosening, my head swimming. On the way home, Clara and I passed by the Gänseliesl, and she looked so beautiful in the night, the flowers in quiet bloom adorning her hair and placed lovingly in her basket. I couldn’t help but to stand there, gazing up at her, basking in the magnificent glow of her beauty. When I climbed onto the bank of her fountain, I felt slightly powerful, that I was standing there, with the Gänseliesl standing protectively above me, blessing me in some way. Students kiss her all the time, she has been being loved by drunken students for almost a century, it’s as though the ghosts of students past hovers around her, their kisses whispering blessings she keeps with her in her basket.

It’s past one a.m. now, but I’m filled with such vigour; if I had a piano here in my room, I would sing poems to it. Time to go, though.

On hindsight, Johnny A. doesn’t deserve the free advertisement; I cannot get over his coldness towards me. But before that moment I went up to ask for a photograph, these were my endlessly swirling thoughts, and I want to remember them, because they have meaning to me. 

Carnivale Words in Hearts That Know No Secrets of Palaces

I like how old churchbells still keep time in Göttingen. I am currently sitting on my red silk bed, the velvet aubergine cushions to the side of the wall, my blanket in a big, luxurious mess of fluff. Yesterday I was sitting in my cosy corner, my rainbow blanket over me, and I turned to my side and looked up at all the books sitting above me to my left, and I thought, “All this Love.” I feel Loved by books. I love books. I love their presence, I love looking up at them, seeing them, knowing that they’re there, this one big comfort to me. They have been my best companions, and Mom was right about that when I was small. Actually, Mom was right about many-a-things, including Mallory Towers, The Famous Five (generally Enid Blyton), Nancy Drew, and music like The Beatles. I did take up her suggestion on books, and read a many of them, and thought how lucky I was to have believed her, but I never did trust her on music, and I never did listen to The Beatles. …I wonder why they called themselves the Beatles, though I am getting a picture of those small sixties Volkswagen (apparently “Wägen” is only used in Süddeutschland) in my head.

I realize school starts in an hour for me. I’ve been listening to a lot of good music lately, (duh) including Fleet Foxes, who in their tiger mountain peasant song (don’t you just love that title) have a tinge of melancholy. Yesterday I wore the earrings I bought from those couple of hippies at the roadside for the first time, and it looked great, and for the second time since Fall, I pretended to be a Mediaeval Princess, and I reckon I made a pretty good one too. Did I wear fur yesterday as well? Yes, I did. That makes for a good 14th-Century Princess.

The Blooming Dead

When I think about it, and how there are stories and stories to write….

Rainbow-shining Happy

I was thinking about it, well, not really thinking, but it’s a wave of feeling that has been washing over me in rainbow colours for quite a long while now, but I was subconsciously thinking about it, I suppose, and now I am consciously thinking about it, and consciously making it known, that, when I think about it, I am honestly, seriously glad for certain people: people whom I have not spoken to, with whom I have no desire to keep in touch with, and who likewise don’t want to think about me either. I am not glad that I have them, I am glad for them. When I think about it, that Zuni is out there rocking it with eyeliner and jet black paint with her band, with her own life, and Cara is out there in the diamond-flashing night, modelling and partying with people, and that she has her own life, and that I am here in Germany, in my own living dream, learning cool things like Runology and Norwegian, and forging my own life too…. That we have gone three separate directions, away from each other, that we are all settled into our own lives, doing our own things… That we have found ourselves. I think I can say this, that the three of us have found ourselves, in some certain way. That we always have known ourselves, that we have dipped and had uncertain days, and that now we are certain, that we are climbing with big hurrahs on our own trains, back where we always used to be, or where we always longed to be, and on these bright red engines, we’re sailing through the sky on magically-sprouted wings.

I don’t have a lot of good things to say about either of the two, and I know that they don’t have very many good things (Zuni would probably like to say that she has nothing good to say about me at all, or that I am undeserving and too filthy for words, or something along those lines) to say about me either, but it makes me kind of rainbow-shining happy, this feeling that washes over me, knowing that all three of us have found ourselves, and are doing what we want to do. That we are no halves, no dependent beings, but wholes. Zuni has her own life, with her own friends, Cara has her own life, with her own friends, and I have my own life, with my own friends, and each of us has wonderful stories about our own lives to write in books, each so dreamful and slithering in rings of silver smoke in dunes that will hold our voices for eternity. That we found the right path for ourselves. And I am happy for all three of us, because it’s all equal, we are human beings, and we deserve that.

adjøs