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Sonntag, 19. Februar 2017

Camomile tea (f)or disciplined Collapsers





















































































































I often come to think that childhood is our last hideaway from reality and in that, one of 
our last sources of simple wisdom and infinite magic. When retrieving back to that place you sometimes find the easiest, most simple and most obvious answers. Answers and solutions you weren’t thinking of before. You weren’t able to see, because you were too covered up and surrounded by your daily routine and everyday responsibilities. 
Remember, when you were little and sick in bed how your mom made you camomile tea, read stories to you and tucked you in. Even though you were sick, there was never a sense of doom, a sense of forsakenness and endless suffering. You always knew and felt that there was an end to all this. That the camomile tea would heal your fever, medicate your sickness. 
I wish, there was camomile tea and stories for a broken heart. Something that could take the edge of the pain, something that could make it easier, speed up the healing process before time evidently heals this broken, shattered to a million little pieces heart of mine.     
I had always assumed that when this relationship ended, it would end with a certain gracefulness, a sad and thoughtful charm, a tender farewell. Unfortunately this is never the case, is it? In fact we feel too much. We don’t just feel our own pain anymore, but we start to be preceptive for the pain of the world and every living thing in it. We start to see all the cracks and bruises. Every little detail that seems to be wrong with this universe. The world acquires a tendency to crumble as easily as a soda cracker and you find yourself horribly susceptible to small animals, different shades of light, songs played late at night over lonely radios. It becomes particularly dangerous to go near movies in which children call for wise monsters and crippled girls are healed by the unselfish love of impoverished bellhops. Everybody and everything seems to breath melancholy. We are in fact so receptive for pain and suffering that we eventually start to feel overwhelmed. This state of mind, this state of feeling everything, feeling too much, finally, makes us experience a sensation of unreality as acute as never having felt at all. It is becoming painful to see. It is becoming painful to breath. It is becoming painful to think. Suddenly there seem to be whole areas inside us we have to be careful of. Our mind, like a paw, winces away from certain sharp recollections. 
Sometimes I think, the only thing we haven’t lost is the ability to suffer. We’re fine and in ease at suffering. But it’s such a silent suffering. We never disturb the neighbors, our friends or parents with it. We collapse, we collapse even daily but we collapse in the most disciplined ways. That’s us. That’s certainly us. The disciplined collapsers. And because we suffer, we think we loved, for the suffering is the proof, the testimony of a heart that was able to feel such love. The thing is, the problem maybe, that when we have suffered long enough we step by step, moment by moment adjust to the idea that we have always suffered, and that it was never any different, and a sort of mocking health is eventually achieved. So we keep walking, we keep working and we keep living, thinking that everything will be fine in the end. All we have to do is to stand up straight long enough. I think, that after all nothing can save us but a good fall. It’s the act of staying up there on the wire, balancing ourselves with that trivial parasol and being so pleased with terrifying an audience, that’s finishing us eventually. 

Don’t you agree? A great fall, that’s what we need.




photography by leon antonio james and me.








Freitag, 27. Mai 2016

the magic we see(k)






























It's a known fact of physics, that energy never disappears. It does change it's form, varies it's function, alters and transits, but energy never vanishes into thin air or dissolves into nothing. The concept of Karma reflects this physical law very specifically. Every emotion, every deed, every thought you send out to the world and the universe itself, will find it's way back to you. 
Somehow, someday.
Karma means, that you get, what you give. The basic principle of cause and effect, action and reaction.
At first this idea may sound more logical than magical, but if you really think about it, Karma is the origin of any kind of magic. If you believe in magic, you create magic yourself, if you don't, seeking it will be pointless and an endless one way-road. You need to believe in magic before you can find it, see it, experience it. Then and only then you will not just have created magic, you will be able to see it in everything and everyone, because magic is here. It surrounds us like oxygen, it inhabits every cell and fiber of every being. Magic can be found in every tiny grain of this universe. It is in all the stories we tell to pass the time and in every single moment we experience. It helps us, guides our every movement and even fixes the tiny often unnoticed fractures this world inflicts on our hearts. 



photography by hiroko and me.














Freitag, 1. Januar 2016

be good












The night was full of haze and noises. 
Bright lights mixed with sparkling dots and quick fainting colors. Blue, red and yellow assorted in a grey mist. 
We walked home, accompanied by an aura of peculiar excitement, which was inhabited by a sense of nostalgia and this special sadness only time can cure.
It was time we found; 
Not on the street or in the promises of a new year.
 We found time for childhood-memories and almost forgotten hope, as we watched E.T. .

There is something timeless about it's aesthetics. 
Something beautiful that pours right into your heart, and makes you realize, how many thoughts and memories you left behind. Thoughts and memories not destroyed by time, but slightly covered by it's invisible dust.
You tend to forget those things while growing up, while watching too many films, reading too many random stories and being distracted by life itself.

How beautiful is the thought of being this connected to a friend, that you feel all their love, pain and even hunger, thirst and desire for knowledge. 
That there is literally a physical and psychic connection between the two of you.
These kind of connections do exist, binding us together like most fragile, invisible heartstrings.
They might not be as strong as illustrated in the film, but they are present and you can feel them every time you stand still; still in one moment and lean in very carefully.






Donnerstag, 31. Dezember 2015

old years' melancholia





















New Years Eve is always one of the strangest and most curios days. 

It is the last day of this year. 
The year itself feels as old as time at this point. It has been patient and tolerant. It had to be, to survive all the accusations, defamations and insults of it's harsh critics. To live through all the vulgarities of the people, that it so generously provided with 365 days. 
Now the old year looks back at it's work and is quite content despite all the horrors, weirdness and catastrophes it saw. After all, there have been good moments as well. Moments filled with laughter, incredible happiness and almost impossible love.
There have been worse years. Better years as well, to be completely honest, but a year can only do so much.
Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter. 
It worked through all of it, and is about to lay it's weary head to rest and die.
It is time to end it's time. 
Now and finally, cut-off from all hopes, expectations and strong impulses; it remains just a another year in a long line of years past and years to come.
Nothing special, but nothing ordinary either. 
A year is a year. 
Nothing more and nothing less.
It only provides us with time and it is up to us to decide what to do with the days, hours and seconds given to us.




Photograph by eve arnold and me.







Sonntag, 12. Juli 2015

Sonntagskinder
















We were sunday-children this weekend. Flimsy and unburdened. 
Just for a few moments. We invented games, remembered old ones and talked about the sound of a common sunday-afternoon. When you remain in silence, you can hear the glimmering cracks of heat meeting the light noise of the wind playing in the leaves while the grass molds slowly into hay. You can hear all kinds of humming and buzzing of natures little creatures and sometimes a light splitting of wood somewhere.
We sought a lot of words in and for this sounds. Some of them complicated, some of them simple, every single one of them wonderful and unique. 
Sometimes we didn't find the right words, so we made some up and isn't that the beauty of language, really?
You can put some weird shaped tiny figures together and combine them to something meaningful. 
Maybe not for everyone and the world, but meaningful to yourself.
You are then the only person, that can make sense out of this "rubbish", absurdity and chaos of letters  on a sheet of paper or in your mind and that is in a way like having a secret with the language itself.
You can choose to share this secret, to keep it or to write down words that everybody understands. Whichever you choose it all leads up to you telling a story.

Beautiful things belong to beautiful souls.




 graphics by andy gilmore; photography by me