tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79345992024-03-21T20:21:07.779+01:00Life inspiresImpressions on the Way to NowhereThe banned Gift-Giverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01066370622763679194noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7934599.post-42139501656744831552008-02-06T13:37:00.000+01:002008-02-06T13:45:11.559+01:00ComatoseI am in a shapeless room flooded with light – a shining white vacuum. Before me appears an angelic form, the gender clearly feminine. Her powerful wings tremble, her long silver-white hair shines and dances in a wind that I cannot feel. The slender silhouette is wrapped in a lengthy blue gown that shimmers as if it wanted to dissolve in the glowing white of the room. I look up. The pale, expressionless face sparks a cold chill over me, but I do not hesitate as the angel reaches her hand towards me – the hand is cold but gentle and grasps my own with a firm embrace. I allow myself to be led. The formless room becomes a dry, yellow-brown path littered with stones. It vanishes at the horizon in the deep blue of the sky. As we reach the path's end, a wide, cloud-covered abyss opens before us. Now I feel the bites of the bitter wind as if it would rush me into the depths. The angel spreads her wings and leaps into the abyss, my hand still firmly held in hers, pulling me after her. Overwhelmed by the moment of weightlessness I do not notice that the angel has released my hand and dissolved into the blue inscrutability of the firmament. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpuT-FzgItB1KBZlN6NSVjs8HwfNNd-Shyphenhyphen7qOv_BnGI2EFSgfIRZM2yWv44F-cO_ZwIkjFwCyBL_kO7zHtmB7HxRWpbIDnuCi040PcSnz3IXJz9U9UuWY5oHJIE3uB2hMSSqoSzw/s1600-h/100_1949.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpuT-FzgItB1KBZlN6NSVjs8HwfNNd-Shyphenhyphen7qOv_BnGI2EFSgfIRZM2yWv44F-cO_ZwIkjFwCyBL_kO7zHtmB7HxRWpbIDnuCi040PcSnz3IXJz9U9UuWY5oHJIE3uB2hMSSqoSzw/s320/100_1949.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5163846333656226802" /></a><br />I fall through the blanket of clouds, but the clouds are not soft and tender, the way I had always imagined them to be. They are sharp and rough and tear my skin away as I fall through them, ever deeper into the abyss. I see that I am drenched with blood and the clouds above me glow a tender red. I sink below into the dark-indigo realm of the Undines. The hope that the wounds of my fall through the clouds would be soothed by the pure, cold current is abruptly dissolved. The water burns in the open flesh and bloody stripes stream from my body so deeply submerged in the unfriendly blue. First these stripes are long and the color of carmine, then they become lighter and thinner until my body glides, free of blood, almost translucent, through water that no longer burns. I leave the water. I feel an increased ease of motion, a weightlessness. Each step is like gliding through the air, each movement like a dive in the sea. I find myself now in a meadow, enclosed in the distance by a forest. Gripped by the feeling that I am lighter than air I let myself fall into the wild green, grip it with hands that I ball tightly into fists to vigorously tear out tufts of grass. From the two callow spots a thick red substance begins to flow forth. It surrounds me and begins to intrude its way into my flesh still raw with wounds. The feeling of weightlessness diminishes. The blood of the Earth courses its way through my veins, closing the skin behind it. I open my eyes. The sky above me begins to darken. I smell rain in the air. With the feeling that I have lain for centuries in the meadow, I slowly pull myself upright. My heavy limbs reluctantly obey and carry me to the grove of trees that entices from the distance with its somber depths. The crowns of the century-old trees permit little light into the interior of the forest. The sense of murky green melds into the odor of damp humus, which I slowly approach until I am completely enclosed by the thicket. Gradually my eyes adjust themselves to the darkness and I am able to recognize the contours of single trees. The forest appears deserted. The sounds of shy mammals and nimble insects, even the slightest breath of wind are absent. For this reason I am surprised to see, between two somewhat narrow tree trunks, the figure of a well-grown woman.<br /> <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioLIk-Vg8Hl5Ui0AORo6E4nZ3eB6VJ16VDSuqVmghf3FVv6IWvnU6XbxlCYBEzas68DCkfLSoyUX1j6LFkQGXhNUM6_nUqY6EB6cMd6aQcsNyNGSaN2l0zE4bj7hhKaoyevDq3dg/s1600-h/100_1950.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioLIk-Vg8Hl5Ui0AORo6E4nZ3eB6VJ16VDSuqVmghf3FVv6IWvnU6XbxlCYBEzas68DCkfLSoyUX1j6LFkQGXhNUM6_nUqY6EB6cMd6aQcsNyNGSaN2l0zE4bj7hhKaoyevDq3dg/s320/100_1950.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5163847046620797954" /></a><br />The feeling, however, does not linger. It is replaced with a sudden certainty that this person belongs here, that this is her forest and that I, as her guest, must show her my esteem. I approach her, head bent before the mistress of the trees - she likewise steps towards me. She takes my face in her meager hands and kisses me on the forehead. Her lips are soft and warm. Though I expected cold severity, I am not surprised. She brushes her warm and arid fingers over my face and I fall asleep. Or am I dead…<br />I am in a shapeless room flooded with light –a shining white vacuum. Before me appears a human form, the gender clearly feminine. My powerful wings tremble, my long silver-white hair shines and dances in the wind. She looks up. I offer her my hand. She allows me to lead her.The banned Gift-Giverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01066370622763679194noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7934599.post-14467397118518699732007-08-26T16:12:00.001+02:002007-08-26T16:19:04.801+02:00<strong>I am not a good blogger</strong><br />The idea of blogging still isn't quite clear to me – I guess I'm not a people person and blogging – as I understand it now - requires keeping up contacts, constant visiting and commenting and back-commenting, linking etc. I am bad in these kinds of things and what's worse – I am not very consequent and systematic in writing either. So all that makes me non-blogger-material, but as it is - I have a blog. So what is there to do? <br /><br />Of course, I could delete the blog but as all that wouldn't be bad enough, I am not good in definite decisions either, so the blog is what it is – neither fish nor fowl. <br /><br />So once again a try to reanimate the dying patient – at least I have something to tie in with – the picture. I wanted to write a story to it – I couldn't for two main reasons:<br /><br /><strong>First</strong><br />As I stated above I am not very consequent and systematic in writing – I won't analyze the phenomenon as extensively as I could but just to state that it is not laziness: besides inspiration a writer needs room for writing. Not necessarily "a" room but as Virginia Woolf states in her "A Room of One's Own" the freedom of writing without being disturbed by the everyday crap that takes most of our time and energy (of course Virginia Woolf described it with much more sophistication than I just did). Some of us – and I live with one of those – are able to just take this freedom and shut out everything else – I can't do this. Maybe the urge to write is not as strong inside me as it needs to be. <br /><br /><strong>Second</strong><br />I am stuck in the first phase of writing – the idea. There it was, a sketch of a sculpture that had an immense affect on my aesthetic sensation. Therefore the story has to keep up with the affect – no romance, no happy or unhappy love, nothing of this sort – it would have to be something completely different but the harder you try to be different, the more unnatural you get. So I gave up, first to let it ripen but as usual "the everyday crap" won and here we are again.The banned Gift-Giverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01066370622763679194noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7934599.post-12795195949518230712007-03-23T11:29:00.000+01:002007-03-23T11:44:30.670+01:00La Valse/The Waltz<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK_qLVEiWtpku6kNlmSnZb9wB7MiNSNgcYkEOx_dVw_53qtepnhTa-XKN10PpqpNWWdvAK2xXO054UmV5fYNQTcjGG5YZZ6EtN32C4cG1ZdsRxYW2byWSQnnJ3FXKs8D4c5avHPg/s1600-h/scatch.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5045065439269960242" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK_qLVEiWtpku6kNlmSnZb9wB7MiNSNgcYkEOx_dVw_53qtepnhTa-XKN10PpqpNWWdvAK2xXO054UmV5fYNQTcjGG5YZZ6EtN32C4cG1ZdsRxYW2byWSQnnJ3FXKs8D4c5avHPg/s320/scatch.jpg" border="0" /></a> This is a sketch of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Camille_Claudel">Camille Claudel's </a>sculpture "La Valse" (The Waltz) - i'll try to do more and maybe to write some stories to this - that's the plan, we'll see what will become of it...<br /><div></div>The banned Gift-Giverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01066370622763679194noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7934599.post-1160894045702763512006-10-15T08:33:00.000+02:002006-10-15T08:34:05.716+02:00ComatoseI am in a shapeless room flooded with light – a shining white vacuum. Before me appears an angelic form, the gender clearly feminine. Her powerful wings tremble, her long silver-white hair shines and dances in a wind that I cannot feel. The slender silhouette is wrapped in a lengthy blue gown that shimmers as if it wanted to dissolve in the glowing white of the room. I look up. The pale, expressionless face sparks a cold chill over me, but I do not hesitate as the angel reaches her hand towards me – the hand is cold but gentle and grasps my own with a firm embrace. I allow myself to be led. The formless room becomes a dry, yellow-brown path littered with stones. It vanishes at the horizon in the deep blue of the sky. As we reach the path's end, a wide, cloud-covered abyss opens before us. Now I feel the bites of the bitter wind as if it would rush me into the depths. The angel spreads her wings and leaps into the abyss, my hand still firmly held in hers, pulling me after her. Overwhelmed by the moment of weightlessness I do not notice that the angel has released my hand and dissolved into the blue inscrutability of the firmament. I fall through the blanket of clouds, but the clouds are not soft and tender, the way I had always imagined them to be. They are sharp and rough and tear my skin away as I fall through them, ever deeper into the abyss. I see that I am drenched with blood and the clouds above me glow a tender red. I sink below into the dark-indigo realm of the Undines. The hope that the wounds of my fall through the clouds would be soothed by the pure, cold current is abruptly dissolved. The water burns in the open flesh and bloody stripes stream from my body so deeply submerged in the unfriendly blue. First these stripes are long and the color of carmine, then they become lighter and thinner until my body glides, free of blood, almost translucent, through water that no longer burns. I leave the water. I feel an increased ease of motion, a weightlessness. Each step is like gliding through the air, each movement like a dive in the sea. I find myself now in a meadow, enclosed in the distance by a forest. Gripped by the feeling that I am lighter than air I let myself fall into the wild green, grip it with hands that I ball tightly into fists to vigorously tear out tufts of grass. From the two callow spots a thick red substance begins to flow forth. It surrounds me and begins to intrude its way into my flesh still raw with wounds. The feeling of weightlessness diminishes. The blood of the Earth courses its way through my veins, closing the skin behind it. I open my eyes. The sky above me begins to darken. I smell rain in the air. With the feeling that I have lain for centuries in the meadow, I slowly pull myself upright. My heavy limbs reluctantly obey and carry me to the grove of trees that entices from the distance with its somber depths. The crowns of the century-old trees permit little light into the interior of the forest. The sense of murky green melds into the odor of damp humus, which I slowly approach until I am completely enclosed by the thicket. Gradually my eyes adjust themselves to the darkness and I am able to recognize the contours of single trees. The forest appears deserted. The sounds of shy mammals and nimble insects, even the slightest breath of wind are absent. For this reason I am surprised to see, between two somewhat narrow tree trunks, the figure of a well-grown woman. The feeling, however, does not linger. It is replaced with a sudden certainty that this person belongs here, that this is her forest and that I, as her guest, must show her my esteem. I approach her, head bent before the mistress of the trees - she likewise steps towards me. She takes my face in her meager hands and kisses me on the forehead. Her lips are soft and warm. Though I expected cold severity, I am not surprised. She brushes her warm and arid fingers over my face and I fall asleep. Or am I dead...<br /><br />I am in a shapeless room flooded with light – a shining white vacuum. Before me appears a human form, the gender clearly feminine. My powerful wings tremble, my long silver-white hair shines and dances in the wind. She looks up. I offer her my hand. She allows me to lead her.The banned Gift-Giverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01066370622763679194noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7934599.post-1147697029949695022006-05-15T14:42:00.000+02:002006-05-15T14:48:33.470+02:00The romantic GirlThe girl leaned back, her thoughts circling around her two fellow travelers. A picture book couple – watching them almost made the tedious train ride pleasant. The book she’d packed for the trip remained between her hands, open to the last read page, no chance of the story holding her attention against the picture of that couple in love – as she concluded they doubtlessly were. It’s not a new love, their glances, full of trust and tenderness, tell that. But the fascination of the other, that unquenchable desire for nearness that she believed to read in the body language of the two assured her that the couple was still in – as the girl called it – the carefree phase of love in which the world is defined by the other. What might he think when he meets her doe-like glance with his smile? What might she think, when she senses his breaths on her temple? The girl’s imagination began to weave the most romantic of all love stories about the two, as a quiet male voice tore the sensitive web of her thoughts.<br /><br />“Are you sure?” – the woman nodded. “Not even the slightest doubt?” She nodded again.<br /><br />Sure about what? What doubts? The tender web became the first irregularity, but what is it about? She is certain and there is not a single doubt! Neither she nor the expression on her face betrayed how this doubt-free fact could affect their togetherness for the better or worse! Now desperate, the girl searched in the doe-eyes of the woman the boundless happiness of a soon-to-be mother and in him the worries of a young man confronted by the shock of sudden fatherhood. It must be that! Now the innocence of their young love is vanished, now the realities of life begin! Sunk in deep regret over the loss of romantic in the fantasy picture she had so carefully built around the couple, the girl failed to notice the man who had joined the train at the last stop, though his glance wandered attentively between the girl and the couple. But the couple did not fail to notice him.<br /><br />“What do you think,” he whispered in her ear, “will he talk to the girl?” The woman shook her head. “So you think he’s just looking at her because he’s bored, without any hidden intention?” She nodded. “No, I don’t believe it.” He didn’t give up. “He’ll talk to the girl and start flirting with her.” This idea coaxed an ironic smile from the woman, accompanied by an energetic nodding. “You have no sense for the romantic?” he finally gave up.<br /><br />He whispered into his ear! The cooings of love, or even the plans for their future as a family? It could still become romantic, perhaps they have moved past the initial attraction and now they are ripened for the next development in their relationship? Sill the girl did not notice the eyes of the stranger, not even his presence. Wait a minute! The girl remembered the book still held between her hands. That’s how it was with Victoria and Antonio: the chance meeting - the girl was sure of it: that couple across from her had met each other through a coincidence, predetermined by destiny! – the romantic love crowned by a proposal of marriage just like in the movies, then the desired son and heir – Antonio was of course and Italian count – and everything would have been so lovely, if not for that unbelievably good-looking gardener… In that instant the girl noticed the stranger in the seat next to her. Already new strains spun into her web of fantasies, as once more the male voice she’d heard the first time drew her back from her imaginary world in to the real one.<br /><br />„Is there nothing I can do to change your decision?“ A shake of her head caused him to stand up and reach for his suitcase. “How’d you like a night out in Berlin, with me?” he asked turning suddenly to the girl. The train lost momentum with the grinding screech of brakes, as the girl tried unclearly to articulate the answer screaming loud inside her: “Of course! I’d love to.” It was just like in the movies – shot through the girl’s mind, but disappointed by the unclear mumblings the man had already left the train. The girl reached for her bag and, suddenly regaining control of her voice, ran, tripping over the feet of the stranger, after the man and called after him “I have to get out here, too! Wait for me!”<br />The stranger picked up the book the girl dropped and left behind during her hasty departure. “The Storms of Love” he read the title aloud. A feminine hand took the book away and threw it energetically into the garbage canister under the window. “Hello stranger. Did you enjoy yourself?” “Wonderfully.” “Didn’t you want to get in here in Berlin?” “I thought I’d surprise you.”The banned Gift-Giverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01066370622763679194noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7934599.post-1143187477741674922006-03-24T09:03:00.000+01:002006-03-24T09:04:37.743+01:00Two MothersWhy do I do this to myself? She fell back powerless against the seat while the little boy pressed his nose against the window saturated with greasy fingerprints. She closed her eyes - I don’t want to see it. If I see it I’ll have to tell him the glass is full of bacteria and that it could make him sick. I have no more energy for that. He doesn’t listen to me anyway. When did I actually give up? She felt a light kick and opened the eyes. Oh well, at least he took off the shoes before climbing onto the seat. All those lectures from last week, the week before, and the week before that did have some affect, left behind some kind of trace in that small, unimpressionable head.<br /><br />I envy you! - she wanted to call to the mother with the lively child who sat in the seat across from her, but she said it only to herself. It was a joy to watch the curiosity with which the boy explored his surroundings, and even if he wasn’t traveling the first time with the subway, it was the first time in this wagon, on this seat, with these people. That was worth exploring up close… Bump! The boy jumped from the seat and fell into her lap, the hand of the mother immediately intercepting and pulling him back, while chiding the boy and apologizing to the woman.<br /><br />I can’t look people in the eye anymore without seeing their accusations crashing in on me: “What a wild, misbehaved child!”, “He’s completely out of her control!” Somehow she slowly lost control as he began to walk and then to speak. Such a strong personality, such a bright mind - everyone was impressed, but she was the one who had to bear the daily struggles with him, listen to the complaints of the teachers at the nursery school. When had her proud eye for her child vanished in the depths of desperation? When had the hopes for the future turned to worries, and the worries to fear?<br /><br />She must be rightly proud of her little boy, even if she does seem somewhat aggravated at the moment. That is the typical eye of the mother. How happy she would have been to trade her own worries and sadness with those of that mother. How happy she would have been to see her own daughter jumping and playing like that. But she not even smile… The little boy climbed onto the seat next to her and stared interested at her. As if he could read her thoughts he beamed suddenly at her, showing her all of his childlike charm. She beamed back at him, forgetting for one moment the gaze of her daughter staring into emptiness, into a world not open to her.<br /><br />A loud and brief yell cut through the wagon. All heads turned, eyes searching for the cause, and found a pleased child who only wanted to see if the people sitting so uselessly and unmoving were real or just dolls. But his pleasure was tainted again by the hand of the mother reaching for him, and the boy sat again at the seat by the window.<br /><br />I can’t go on, I just can’t go on. Maybe I’m a bad mother. Or maybe I’m just worrying too much. Aren’t all children like that? No, I don’t believe that. Why can’t I have a quiet child, a girl, sweet and friendly, uncomplicated, and not such a bundle of activity robbing me of my last spark of life-energy. She viewed the woman sitting across from her. That lucky woman, surely she has no children, no worries. She looks so at peace.<br /><br />That was a wonderful yell, a pity that the mother doesn’t want to be happy about it. She thought of the quiet that ruled in her house, the picture pretty girl living there, but also somewhere else entirely, who hardly spoke and only occasionally, stepped slowly through the room, like an apparition, always returning to the same corner of her room. She could sit there for hours and look through books, slowly and regularly turning the pages, absent, almost ghostly.<br /><br />It’s a shame I have to get off soon. I would have liked to get my fill of watching the boy, his joy of life, his energy and his curiosity, but most of all his smile, so real, so sincere - seeing one’s own child smile, that must be the meaning of life, and her daughter will probably never be able to smile. The invisible bubble that surrounds her allows no one near, wards off every attempt to get close to her, wards off every tender gesture, and not even the so often praised and idealized love of a mother is able to burst this bubble. The helplessness, that is what hurts the most.<br /><br />Finally, we have to get off soon. I won’t have to blush at the stern looks of all those people. What am I doing wrong? Am I too strict or maybe too lenient? So many books, articles, and informational pamphlets read… And he’s still loud, almost always in motion, always as if in flight, as if he would only fly by this world and must at all costs see, experience and do everything… And not even their empathic, geared to children explanations, the untiring attempts to bring some peace into life, can stop this “flight.“ The helplessness, that is what disturbs the most.The banned Gift-Giverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01066370622763679194noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7934599.post-1140002758923754902006-02-15T12:09:00.000+01:002006-02-15T14:12:01.923+01:00ReconsiderationI am glad to report that one of my stories posted below was published in the current edition of <a href="http://www.practicallycreative.net/creations.html#alexandra">The Practically Creative Quarterly</a> in the "Creations" section. It is the story "The Dread" - one of my favourites by the way. The illustrations were chosen by the editor and fit perfectly the mood of the story. That is why I reconsidered and desided not to illustrate my stories myself - I think they work better without it. This way there is more room for imagination.The banned Gift-Giverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01066370622763679194noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7934599.post-1138617287554047252006-01-30T11:31:00.000+01:002006-01-30T11:44:48.476+01:00PrejudiceHe’s surely one of those gang kids, a graffiti-spraying, pot-smoking hoodlum, the way he’s dressed. She eyed the boy carefully, just taking the seat across from her, a wide, deep-sitting jeans, a t-shirt three sizes too big with a massive hand showing the middle finger, and perhaps - she couldn’t recognize exactly - his own head, closely shaved and wrapped in a cloth. A loser, obviously. She pulled her daily newspaper from her handbag. Why did they always have to put these naked women on the first page. She skillfully overlooked the hardly erotic, overbearingly primitive photo and devoted herself to the text under the half page long headline.<br /><br />Shit! I’ll be too late! Why do I always have to bring her to nursery school? She always takes so long, but there’s something sweet about how she stops every few steps and notices things that I wouldn’t even see with a magnifying glass. “Why do the ants always march in a line?” “Does it hurt the leaves when they fall from the trees?” And the five extra dollars he received each month from his mother for taking care of his little sister and bringing her safely to nursery school each morning were very helpful. To be honest - even if he occasionally had to rush to not get to school too late - it was fun with the little girl, and he would have done it even without the extra money. But today was too much. Today of all days she had to make so much trouble, today, the day of the test - that stupid poem! He struggled to remember the words, <em>“Who rides so late, through night and wind? / It is the father, with his child; / He has the young lad clasped in his arms, / He holds him securely, he holds him warm…”<br /></em><br />What is he thinking about? The boy wouldn’t leave her alone. His presence made it impossible for her to concentrate on the scandal report in her newspaper. She’d hear about it anyway in all detail this afternoon drinking coffee with her neighbor. He looks so suspicious the way he wrinkles his brow and thinks so concentratedly! He’s surely up to no good. Hopefully he’s not thinking of taking my purse. She pressed the handbag of artificial leather close to herself, while crumbling the newspaper on her lap.<br /><br /><em>“My father, my father, can't you hear, / The promises the Erl King is whispering to me? / Be quiet, stay quiet, my child; / It's just the dry leaves rustling in the wind... the wind...”</em> how does it go on <em>“love you, your beautiful figure excites me...”</em> no, wherever did I put that paper?<br /><br />What’s he looking for so nervously in his bag: a can of spray paint, a knife, or something worse…? How many people are still in the wagon? She looked hastily behind her. Thank god. It’s too many. He wouldn’t stand a chance.<br /><br />I’ve found it. So, what was it again? <em>“Fine lad, will you come with me? / My daughters will tend to you; / My daughters will put you to bed every night, / And cuddle and sing and dance you to sleep.”… </em><br /><em><br /></em>Well, that was close. Just a crumbled piece of paper, luckily. That can’t do any harm. Unless he downloaded the instructions on how to build a bomb from the Internet. One reads about such things. Now where did I see that? That’s when she noticed the newspaper hadn’t stood up under the pressure of the handbag hugged against her breast, and had to surrender. Still holding the handbag tightly in her hand she tried to smooth out the newspaper and spread it flat again. Now where was that. I just read that here somewhere about the Internet and all the things one finds in it.<br /><br /><em>“He arrives at the farm with pain and distress. / In his arms, the child was dead.”</em> Now that wasn’t so bad. That old Goethe guy isn’t as difficult as I had thought. But because of him I nearly missed my stop! He sprung up and with a few quick steps was by the door, which opened in the same moment through a light pressure.<br /><br />My goodness. Why did he have to jump up like that. The shock has given me hiccups. But at least I’m glad he got out and will attack someone else, not me.The banned Gift-Giverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01066370622763679194noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7934599.post-1138360824746522132006-01-27T12:14:00.000+01:002006-01-27T12:22:16.110+01:00Bliss<a href="http://lifeinspires.blogspot.com/2005/10/bliss.html"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/609/1660/320/Bliss.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>The banned Gift-Giverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01066370622763679194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7934599.post-1132745897301977122005-11-23T12:36:00.000+01:002005-11-24T15:27:10.666+01:00The Dread<a href="http://lifeinspires.blogspot.com/2005/10/dread.html"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/609/1660/320/The%20Dread.4.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>The banned Gift-Giverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01066370622763679194noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7934599.post-1132659206612883872005-11-22T12:32:00.000+01:002005-11-22T12:37:10.073+01:00He & She<a href="http://lifeinspires.blogspot.com/2005/10/he-she.html"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/609/1660/320/He%26She.0.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>The banned Gift-Giverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01066370622763679194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7934599.post-1131360711169702482005-11-07T11:50:00.000+01:002005-11-08T09:04:51.870+01:00The Walk<a href="http://lifeinspires.blogspot.com/2005/10/walk.html"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/609/1660/320/The%20Walk.1.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>The banned Gift-Giverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01066370622763679194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7934599.post-1131359830839615822005-11-07T11:28:00.000+01:002005-11-07T11:37:10.853+01:00PicturesIn the coming weeks I will post illustrations to accompany the stories already posted. After this, all new story posts will include an illustration.The banned Gift-Giverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01066370622763679194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7934599.post-1130610179129943332005-10-29T20:22:00.000+02:002005-10-29T20:22:59.140+02:00Mike and AishaI made it! He threw himself onto the seat out of breath and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. Just a quick SMS and everything will be running as planned… What?… Where did I put his number? Under Eddy? I thought I saved the number!… Wait a minute… maybe I can remember it… 0172... 75949... 45... Or was it 54? No matter. I'll try it with 45 and if that doesn't work, then with 54...<br /><br />That guy looks sweet. If he would just stop playing around with his cell phone and look at me. Hello, you hot guy, here I am, look at me!… Oh, my stupid cell phone! I hate it when people call me in public, probably my mother… An SMS? Who could it be? "Caught train. On my way." Huh? Someone must have made a mistake. Delete or answer? Why not, actually? "I'm on my way, too" OK, back to my beau.<br /><br />Why is she looking at me like that? I hate it when people stare… I'm saved, my cell phone, Eddy for sure, so the number was right after all… What? Huh? He's on his way, too? Going where? I thought we'd meet at his place?…<br /><br />I think he's shy, the way he keeps avoiding my glance. But I'll get you yet, before your stop, my darling… Oh not again… "I thought we'd meet at your place?" That lost soul again… We'll get to the bottom of this in a moment…<br /><br />Thank god for cell phones. At least she's not staring at me anymore… It's Eddy again… What? Who I am? So it was the wrong number. Should I answer? What the hell. At least I'll be busy and won't have to notice her staring at me…<br /><br />Oh, damn, he got another message. Oh the way he sinks his head concentrating, he looks even better, with those long eyelashes… heavenly… Shit! My cell phone again… "My name's Mike and you?" Yeah, with a name like that no wonder you keep dialing wrong numbers…<br /><br />Well, if it's a girl, maybe I can make a little game out of it, maybe she's really sweet, who knows? Aha, the answer… Yes, I knew it! Aisha, if she isn't pretty as sin with a name like that!…<br /><br />He smiled! I think I'm about to fall in love! Should I say something to him? That cell phone again… Sure, sure, I know I have a beautiful name, but I don't want anything to do with Mikes, so just keep quiet…<br />Now where is her answer? Two whole stops and she's silent… Stop staring at me you stupid goose! It's getting on my nerves, what happened to Aisha?…<br /><br />Why is he so nervous? Did he notice that I've been watching him the whole time. I've got to talk to him! I have to!… What should I say? Hi? No, that's stupid… Hey, how ya doin? That's even worse… Oh man, I thought if I didn't answer this Mike would leave me alone… Sure, as if I want to meet every creep dialing a wrong number…<br /><br />She's still not answering… I won't give up. I have her number. I'll take it as a challenge, yeah… I'll find a way to meet her…<br /><br />Two more stops and I have to get off! Courage Aisha! Talk to him…<br /><br />Finally, next stop and I‘m out. Then I'll be free of those staring eyes. How can she stare at me so boldly? One more SMS to Aisha. I'm not giving up, you beauty…<br /><br />I think he's going to get off. Now or never…<br /><br />- Hey,… how are you!…<br /><br />He didn't even hear me… Too late… I screwed it up… Farewell my lovely… Oh man, this stupid Mike just won't give up… "F*** off" - that must have been clear enough.The banned Gift-Giverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01066370622763679194noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7934599.post-1130186458220389112005-10-24T22:39:00.000+02:002005-10-24T22:40:58.226+02:00BlissI love this city! She leaned on his shoulder and watched the houses streaming by the window. Bricks, cement, glass, iron… everything clearly ordered, the pulsating traffic of the streets enclosing it all… I can live again. He thought of the little cottage they had to leave behind. On the lolling fields, the wide horizon, the straight line tying the solid ground under their feet to the dreamy heaven above. And in the middle of it all their tiny, warm home, their sanctuary, in which she with her feet on the ground, and he with his head in the clouds can feel at home. Our happiness knew no bounds! It was good to feel her head on his shoulder, her nearness, her warmth, and to dream of someday returning. This acceleration, this life and this energy of eternal movement, my elixir of life! Just the opposite of that unbearable silence, the emptiness as far as one can see, that we had to live with for so long. We were cut off from the world there, from people, from real life, as in a lethargic sleep. If he hadn't received that offer from the university, she would very likely have left him, but now the city, the people, the culture, the life on the pulse of time, a modern apartment in the middle of the city, so many possibilities… There must be a way to escape all this! He searched for her glance. Why can't I just look into her eyes forever and forget for always the picture of the metropolis that painfully cuts into my pupils, the noise that stabs into my eardrums? I don't want to go back to that sterile apartment! The apartment with the white, glassed in stairwell, the noise proof windows, an advantage he could appreciate, but not the picture they presented him, one that awoke the strong desire to pull the curtains shut. I don't want to spend the rest of my life behind closed curtains! My contract will expire in a year, then we can return and everything will be as it was before, the long walks, quiet evenings in front of the fireplace, cuddling up close, drinking hot chocolate. They would surely have a dog again. She had a hard time coming to terms with Napoleon's death, and here in the city they couldn't keep a dog. One more year. He saw her reflection in the glass window. Hopefully they'll extend his contract. The dean hinted at it the other night at dinner at the Cheré Pieré. She can't go back. Not to that wasteland, those hour long walks, those boring evenings in front of the fireplace and those incessant hot chocolates that made her sick every time. Surely he'd want to have a dog again. She'd been so relieved when Napoleon had ended it for her by running in front of that car. No, no way did she ever want to return… He looked at her as she raised her gaze to meet his. After all those years her big eyes still looked so mysterious and indecipherable, but trustworthy. Out of their glass-green depths he found the belief in himself and on her never-ending love to him. "Are you happy?" he asked her softly. "Yes, I'm happy," she answered him smiling and turned her gaze to the city streaming by the window, "I love this city."The banned Gift-Giverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01066370622763679194noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7934599.post-1129724647711255232005-10-19T13:59:00.000+02:002005-11-10T16:12:19.696+01:00The DreadHe'd planned everything with the utmost care, bought the ticket, checked the schedule, prepared a printout with the travel instructions, telling him at which station he'd have to transfer from the street car to the subway. At breakfast he'd drank herbal tea instead of coffee, left his apartment on time, without having to rush, made his connection; he felt good, it was peaceful and relaxed. He boarded and sat at an empty seat by the window. That was important, extremely important! Without a window seat his entire travel preparations would have been for nothing. But now he sat there, the street car pulled away and he glued his eyes to the glass - just don't look at the people, always look at the window, regardless of what happens, do not look at anyone! Listen to the announcements naming the stops: five stops and he would have to transfer; trees, clouds, houses, no people, no people! At the first stop, by all means keep the eyes closed to avoid looking at the people getting on. Stay calm, everything will be all right; he'd thought of everything, planned everything! <br /><br />He noticed that someone had seated themselves next to him - now don't fall into a panic - he pressed his long, thin body onto the cold hull of the vehicle - no people!<br /><br />"Excuse me," a chubby hand tugged at his sleeve. "How many stops is it to the main station?" Ignore her, just don't acknowledge her and under no circumstances look at her, don't look! "Hello?" the tugging became more insistent. "I asked you something." His limbs stiffened; he rigidly held his gaze on the scratches of the window glass. "Hallo?" The face belonging to the chubby hand forced itself between him and the glass, "are you all right?" <br /><br />Help! His eyes searched for a new anchor, something inanimate. No face, no! The palm of the chubby hand moved back and forth in front of his eyes. "Hello? Is everything okay? You look so pale." He had lost, he could no longer avoid the round face. It had already begun, this time with the nose. The nostrils moved slowly upwards, the bridge of the nose became wider, the shrinking eyes sank deeper into the rosy skin that grew rougher by the second, as a light, white fuzz began to form - it was the face of a sow that no longer spoke to him but grunted. If she weren't so loud the others might not notice. He didn't dare turn around. I can't cause any more damage, he thought, and started visibly as a young woman with a child on her arm sat quietly down in the seat opposite him and the grunting sow. No! It was too late to look away. The arms of the child suddenly grew longer, hairier. A long, furry tail snaked its way out of his pants. The little monkey cheerfully climbed all over his mother, whose hair meanwhile spread across her face. Now her jaw jutted out towards him and swelled wider. Her no longer human, fur-covered arm secured the climbing creature from a fall. <br /><br />How many stops must I go on? Two? Three? No, I can't stay here that long, I must get out immediately! Before the others notice. Before I've done any more damage. He began with uncertain steps to move towards the exit. He tripped over a snake, fell against the horns of a mountain goat and was barely able to duck as a peregrine falcon swooped directly over him. So it's gotten worse. Now he no longer had to look at them. It was enough to be in the same room with them… Leave, fast! He pulled the emergency brake. The street car braked jerkily and came suddenly to a screeching halt, at which he forced the doors apart and sprang out. <br /><br />"I knew something was wrong with him. He was suspicious right from the start. Do you happen to know how many stops it is to the main station?" the chubby woman asked.<br /><br />"Two more. But it'll be a while before they can start after that emergency brake was pulled," the young mother answered cordially as her child climbed into the now empty seat by the window.The banned Gift-Giverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01066370622763679194noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7934599.post-1129318837783160412005-10-14T21:40:00.000+02:002005-11-23T12:40:42.696+01:00He & SheHe was a slim, adroitly dressed man of middle age. Perhaps fifty, perhaps a few years older. His shortly cut gray hair didn't fit well with the smooth, unwrinkled expression that he now interrupted with a pair of somewhat square-edged, darkly-framed reading glasses. From his sporty backpack - actually a leather attaché case would have gone better with the gray suit - he extracted a book rich in pages, enclosed in a black leather case. James Joyce. Ulysses. But she didn't know that yet. All she saw were the well-groomed and tender hands holding the book leather, thinking about her own short and chewed-up fingernails always bearing the brunt when she became nervous or hectic, something that happened all too often, as her hands, which she tried now to hide beneath her threadbare carrying bag, revealed.<br /><br />He hadn't yet turned to his book. To avoid looking immediately at the girl sitting across from him, he glanced out the window. Slowly his glance shifted from the dirty and scratched window glass to the chin-length, somewhat unruly hair of the girl, or was it perhaps a young woman? Out of the depths of her chestnut-brown hair shone two, perhaps three gray hairs. She might be twenty or even thirty. Read the book, read the book, his thoughts repeated. He stared at the letters that somehow wouldn't form themselves into comprehensible words or coherent sentences. They represented black forms endeavoring to hide the whiteness of the pages, but without success. The brightness of the paper's surface dominated the foreground as the black, dissolving forms lost themselves ever more. He removed his reading glasses and glanced up - without the glasses he could see her face clearly and distinctly, the somewhat roundish form hidden partly by the strains of inconsistently falling hair. The clearly denoted mouth, full but somewhat pale, as if the red that had surely been there once had been sucked out by someone's kiss. Had he just thought about kissing? The book, the book, hurry, read…<br /><br />She wondered what kind of a book he would read with such distraction and inattention. The leather case hid the cover - the bookmark, a small publisher's brochure depicting James Joyce. No, it couldn't be that easy. That would be banal. Or was it that easy? Could he really be reading <i>that</i> book? If he actually were reading Ulysses then he wouldn't read it that way, in the train, looking up every two minutes. She tried to tear her attention from the book and his hands which cradled it, and turn her attention to his person as a whole. But she couldn't. The thought of those hands touching her, the way they touched that book in this moment, would not let her go. Look out the window!<br /><br />Why did she turn around? Now he could only see her lips from the side, their fullness no longer visible, his eyes no longer able to follow their contour. He turned back to his book and succeeded in reading another page, turned to the next page.<br /><br />He moved his hand! Why did I have to look away? Now it will be two whole pages before he turns the page again, and by that time I'll surely have to get off. I hope he doesn't leave before me. I couldn't stand the empty seat.<br /><br />The new page could not compete with her lips. She turned again and is looking at - the floor? Or is she maybe looking at him? The book slid to the empty seat next to him and fell from the leather case. So it <i>was</i> Ulysses. As he groped for the fallen book, returned it to its case, placed the case back on his lap, and searched for the missing page, she stared at him as if to impress for all time the light, flowing and simultaneously subdued motion in her memory, and satiate herself on it. Yes, she did look at me! Her lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to say something, but had lost the power to speak. He sensed a strong desire to touch those lips with his index finger, to slowly and carefully glide it across the rosy surface. Unconsciously he raised the index finger.<br /><br />He's looking at me! Does he know I've been staring at his hands this entire time? So what if he does! She raised her glance. For one moment they looked in each other's eyes. The next stop was announced.<br /><br />He closed the leather case and packed it into his backpack, she allowed her bag to slide from her lap and stood up. It was obvious that they would both leave at the same time. The train stopped, both arose and came to the exit. The door opened, the people - he and she among them - streamed out. Without looking back he went along the platform to the left. She stepped off to the right side. The doors closed noisily and the train rolled away past the people, he and she among them, both moving ever further away from each other.The banned Gift-Giverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01066370622763679194noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7934599.post-1128881986157564472005-10-09T20:17:00.000+02:002005-11-23T12:39:20.673+01:00The Walk<div align="justify">She closed her eyes. The train rocked and the morning sun warmed her through the window glass. The aroma of coffee met her nose, even though the coffee she held in her hands was everything but aromatic. It was the idea of good coffee that excited her senses.<br /><br />Now she strolls through the castle park, stepping lightly over the soft ground. She breathes deeply and the tender aroma of coffee blends with the sharp odor of fallen vegetation flooding the park in the dampness of early morning, before the late-summer rays of sunlight, aided by their ally, causing with its light breath the leaves to dance, smuggle themselves through the thick crowns of the century-old oaks.<br /><br />She draws in the energy of the nature surrounding her, the oxygen which the plants release from themselves, that byproduct of their life-giving relationship with the light of the sun. It floods through her body, presses into her, causes each of her cells to pulse, giving birth to a feeling of absolute and infinite energy. She tears her mouth open wide, as if to scream, and swallows the tiny, unseen particles with her ovally formed lips.<br /><br />“Stop it” - the light resistance of the wind tears her out of her inner ecstasy. The flow of energy slows. The pulse becomes a slight shudder. The cool, airy breath of the wind that climbs over her arms to her neck emits a pleasant, exhilarating warmth, like the touch of a tender hand of someone dear. She closes her eyes to surrender unconditionally to the feeling of complete security. But the cool breeze weakens, the air around her becomes increasingly heavy, suffocating. The round, light particles of oxygen combine in a fateful liaison with the carbonmonoxyde. She glances to all sides: people, cars, the city - she has left the park.<br /><br />The feeling that accompanies the separation with a lover overcame her suddenly… She opened the eyes.<br /><br />“Were you having a nice dream?” –she hadn’t as yet noticed the man who now smiled at her. “Yes, I was.” - glance to the window. She’d missed her stop… “Thanks to you I’ve missed my stop. It was so lovely, watching you dream.” he said, smiling at her.</div>The banned Gift-Giverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01066370622763679194noreply@blogger.com2