the darkside

the darkside of being me is, well, dark. and as there is hardly any light, it is impossible to tell what’s going on there. and judging by the commotion, something is going on there. or maybe it is just the full moon thing.

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the camera thing

‘i write poetry when i have forgotten my camera,’ i said to her casually. ‘then i wish you to forget it more often,’ she replied with a hug. that’s that then.

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september 28

the little wings of a ladybird flash by my face, dissipating into the distance of speckled reds and greens and the smell of the leaves, falling. i regret forgetting my camera.

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a handheld from above

sometimes i switch off my handheld, turn off the radio and log off the internet. the world is outside my zone of communication. i am not in the world, the world stays out there, with its haste and traffic jams, with its information and the lack of it, with its people and events. i float […]

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true art

compassion without pity. being near without invading. hurting in order to heal. staying still without looking down upon those who run. acceptance without judging. sharing a life experience without arrogance. being patient without bitterness. holding someone without possession.

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the night

and so i was standing there, in the darkness, and listening. to the bat song, and to the trees talking to the wind. to the smell of almost fallen leaves, and raw earth from the fresh fields. and how the stars move and the clouds stand still. so simple. so irreversible. life moves from a […]

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the madness of pain

the madness of pain consists not in one’s own experience. even if it might be quite terrific. the madness of pain consists in the seeing of the pain of those one loves, and being quite unable to alleviate it, or do anything about it. not because of the lack of compassion, or capacity. just because […]

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the non-tale

fairy-tales end with sth along the lines: and they lived happily forever after or they lived long and happily. what about those tales that end with: they lived long. because that is more close to the truth, is it not?

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to those who survive miraculously

“It’s amazing we survive, isn’t it.”, someone wrote to me yesterday. and i agree. death is usual, survival is miraculous. the broken parts turn into barometers, devices of foresight, after they heal (what seems to be) haphazardly. and then we live on, disfigured, but whole. and very few can look at the disfigurements, and see […]

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the unwritten

i thought about writing a long and maybe poetic post about my mother playing tetris. she was perfect at it. but i will not. because it would be too long and too poetic, and what is inside me is all raw and sore, and not poetic at all. she played tetris like a world champion […]

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is dark in its green, stretching, stabbing the air handsomely; a sway and a breath, a flutter, bird-feet stuttering in wait for the snow. the bark a little scaly, climbing, higher, higher, till the bellies of clouds are scratched invisibly, playing right into the gates of stars. carefully leaning, the smell of resin, all freshening, […]

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to stand barefoot next to a tree, and extend a hand and grow into the grass and soil beneath, and reach up, out, towards the sun. or the cloudy sky, or the darkness of night, starlit, moonlit, otherwise. to hear the grass grow. to commune with the birds in the branches, as they seek refuge, […]

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