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"Don't fly. Hybris means to defy your destiny, and all people who did that were punished by the gods." What do you understand about hybris, she thought. Hybris was to know one's destiny and yet not to act accordingly. It would be hybris not to do it. She simply had to fly there; the Eagle's call had been echoing in her guts for years, deafening her during the last months, tearing her heart into pieces with its longing scream. However, her father had surprised her with unexpected insight when he compared her to Icarus. Indeed, how well did she understand his impulsive elevation towards the most irresistible and most shining – and nevertheless the most treacherous and deadly. Now here she was, on the deserted beach behind cliffs and pine trees, her belly full of wine and little fish like in former times which had been crushed under the hot iron of oblivion. "You have forgotten", noticed the man with the birdy name beside her, whose face at the airport had been radiant with joy as she had never seen nor expected in him before. "You have forgotten everything." "My memories are in my body", she said. "But I don't want to remember!" She was not to remember what might have linked them in such an intimate way. She had her comparatively stable life in what one week ago she still would have called her country. At least she had found now a convincing explanation for the feeling of being home, which had overwhelmed her since her landing or even in the air, when she saw the mountains for the first time and loved them immediately. Back home. Home again after such an unimaginably long time. Oh, finally being back in her motherland, among her people, under the sign of the Eagle. Now the lifelong search for her belonging, her roots, herself had come to an end. If the country calmed down even more after the riots, maybe she would go even further south on her next, her second visit to the land of her soul. She was determined to look for that sunken place where the sun rose from the sea and fell into the sea again after having drawn a large bow over the water – the floods the fishers sailed away with every morning and returned on in the evening, bringing nets
loaded with fish and hands full of warmth to share for the night. Now she remembered the curse-blessing she had howled at the sea out of her anxious longing. "Damned be the sea which took you away, blessed be the sea which brought you again!" It was not easy for a shepherd girl to be a fisherman's wife. "Tell me more!" she insisted. They had lived a simple life, too simple a life perhaps. She had been the first girl to choose a man out of love, and this love made her suffer as she feared for his life among the waves, and this suffering linked her even more closely to the land under her feet, the sea in her eyes, the sun in her heart. While listening to him, she could not stop tears running down her cheeks. This was an inner revolution or rather a revelation. The revelation of her true, lost identity, a loss that had been pricking her like red-hot needles for a lifetime. Finally she had come home to herself. Yet conditions had changed. Her former brother was her boyfriend now, whereas her former husband from the white cabin near the sea, the man with the birdy name, could not be but a brother. "When I came first to the place I was only six or seven years old", the man with the birdy name told her through the salty wind. "Even though I'd never been there before, I knew the place. I remembered it from another life, and I knew, too, that somewhere in this world you would exist. So I began my search for you, first in my country, than after the fall of the dictatorship and the opening of the borders, all over the world. That's what I used my profession for. And now I have found you! I have found you!" When they had left the decaying capital in the morning, she had foreseen that this day would be decisive. She had cancelled all her appointments without letting anybody know. He had kidnapped her with her consent, like a bride whose parents oppose the marriage. As they were driving across the large, sunny square, passing the museum, the riding iron hero and the street where only two days ago she had observed a policeman up to the hips in the floods of the heavy rainfalls, she pronounced solemnly the name of the day. Aware of its vital decisiveness, she erected the day an invisible monument out of sounds. It was the beginning of the so-called Second Autumn, a warm day between the times and therefore prone to revelations and revolutions. Indeed he had revealed her why she was here,
why she had to come, who she really was. He had spent a third of a century looking for her. So she had to bow to the evidence of destiny. She was ready now. When they kissed, she burned all the bridges behind her. A few days later: flying back. The brutal cultural shock. An icy flat stinking of new paint, making her head ache. And her fax did not move, and her phone bell remained silent. When she called his number, his colleague told her: "He's not in." – "He's not in", the second day. The third day the employee told her that the man with the birdy name had gone to the mines in the north of the country. She understood that he did not love her, that he had never loved her. But she was profoundly bewildered with all the rest. Who was she? What was real? At that time a carcinoma began to develop in her breast.
I see the golden eye of my incredibly blessed town, its sunbeaming, loving honey eye. Its other eye is a cristalline sparkling sea, deep blue and light feather blue, or grey and majestically stormy free. Saranda mou, my own eyes, which are a breed of sea and sky, of heat and heaven, fall onto my dear olive trees below my gorgeous balcony - time is not ready yet. Olives are ripe and blackened and are just waiting to be picked and to soak in their own spicy spa, becoming thus the yummy-yum of fishermen and shepherds and crazy beachwalker kings and queens like my little gypsy kids and me. But your eyes have still the color of your uniform, of hiding in distressed woodlands, of tasting the edge of death and pretending not to fear. In spring, when trees have shaken off their oranges and lemons, when air and water are buzzing with starfishes and starflies, time will come; then you will be given the most beautiful olive eyes, and I will kiss them.
DEAR STONE My letters will not reach your eyes. They will wander, lost, in your city of Dear Stone. But in spring, in spring, when snow is melting over stones and refugees and rebels, let's take a heard of goats and fill all their horns with wine, to bend your name, to make it read the same forwards and backwards. Like a dance, ferocious jumps over the moon and every border. I have forgotten, yes, forgotten all our missing words at our little beach of wine in your city of Dear Stone. Cause everything important I do know. That you take me for beautiful, for instance, and for good, only St. George knows why. So let spring come with buses and with aircraft and with tanks, for neither refugees nor rebels do I fear, as refugee, as rebel by myself in Dear Stone city. And I'll offer you one hundred brand new words as dowry, hammered with pain into my brain.
COFFEE This powder coffee, with so many addictives and sugar, this powder which under the hot water jet of my electric water kettle transforms into a buoyant drink, this is my cherished luxury. I buy it always at Lika's store, Her husband Kujtim is a dialysis patient and is driven by his son three times a week to Ioannina in Greece for treatment. Three times a week 180 euro less. This is not easy to earn in Albania. So father and son spend the rest of the day to drive to cheap stores and to fill their boot with things you don't get in Albania. Lika sells them in their little shop every other day, although she has not the best health either. The illness has weld together this family. They are evryday heroes. So I enter and chat with Lika with her profound, day-to-day wisdom and also with the other customers, who either know and greet me or hear from Lika what a nice person I am.
friendship. This fasting wears me down. outside. Five twenty-six. "Don'r worry". and it will be easier. Just like there is the tendency of more sea below and more sky high up. Not the part of not eating. I guess that this is one of the meanings of Ramadan: to crack oneself open to a new awareness. my first host in Saranda. Well. there is also tendentially more bread below and more cheese on the upper side. every day. Emina has already given up. dipping our lips into fresh. the famous cheese bread. I will see that she is really the best cook. so slowly. sipping the most delicious coffee in the world. my best friend from Tirana. "Consider it as a joyful gift to God. Kosova. this is something I am used to by financial hardship for almost ten years now. I phone my dad to wish him a good new year. The other morning coffee drinkers besides me are Skender. He is a Georgia freak.Then I turn to the right shelf. Perhaps not as good as the famous Tina-mom.. coffee. because she has stomach problems. as I have learned. Hmm . and Moikom. I have already sinned twice. Finally. No. Although not the miracle I have expected from the famous Georgian food. Now it is on my plate. "I am eating Khachapuri. I put all my mind together to delve as deep as possible into this scenery. wich chicken and with chocolate. We are sitting on the terrace of Hotel Mediterrane. dipping our soul in friendship."Oh. COFFEE STORY # 2 The day is creeping forward so slowly. without coat. "You must not consider Ramadan as a chore". While I hear the call of the imam from a distant mosque. while the doctors in the hospital in snowy Heidelberg perform their biopsy to diagnoze my breast cancer. And this experience has increased so much my respect for my Muslim fellows. beauty. I prefer chocolate this time. Vanilla. As it is winter and cold. Irish Cream. It is like the sea sky on many Sarandian days: you cannot say where one ends and the other one begins. who submit to this . one colleague has explained me. No. Iftar has as arrived. where we indulge in the view over the whole Bay of Saranda. during the day in office and when I walk the streets of Prrizren. nice. here in this beautiful scenery. I take a square piece and bite into it.sun. However. but I am off-track and will not try Tinikos khachapuri and will say "mommy" to Nino instead. is called "funduki" in Greek. the moment of sunset. which reminds me of a drink I have only learned here in Saranda to appreciate: hot chocolate. I am socializingaddicted. that's delicious!" he replies."Don't worry" . in comparison with Nino and Guliko on my odyssey through Georgia on the search of my lost soul. she is also the first Georgian woman who cooks for me. to keep focused on it in spite of the sharp pain which passes through my right breast . are waiting for the sun to go down. hot coffee. when eating and drinking is allowed again. The last one. Looking forward to summer. I do what I always do first on Iftar: I grab my coffee cup and rush to the coffee machine. The drink which comforts you like a Georgian mommy. We are sitting on the terrace of the hotel. but later. and I am only slightly off-track. this is still the beginning. and this is why I have moved here to the Albanian Balkans. torture every year. what I really miss more than anything is coffee. KHACHAPURI 1 I have read about it in the tourist guide. and in the evening I eat porc at the field camp. here in Prizren. the first Georgian specialty in my life!" . 2 Luiza is the best cook." I am living in Kosova and am fasting to share the life of my friends. Chocolate. increases my sensitivity and also my tendency towards depression. at the New Year's party of the Georgian soldiers: Khachapuri. This is at least what this ordinary cappuchino means to me. How do I enjoy this rewarding coffee! It is not that I am caffeine-addicted. ultimately to the Higher Realm. "Don't worry". It is incredibly hard for me. COFFEE STORY # 1 The sun is caressing my warmth-hungry skin. including me from abroad. which touches me in a healing way. light and delight -. We others. to understand a bit better what it means to be a Muslim. in end-November.. Amaretto and Hazelnut. I am looking forward to more. sea. I am friendship-addicted. Coffee is what I miss most. Moikom says in his typical way. really.
Dancing has been my second passion along with reading. made by wise women. kali. royal blue. he replied. I walk barfoot. "Why is this one much better than the Khachapuri I ate in Prizren?" . no forest moss. when I felt connected to my body and the physical world around. whatever you do. and when I danced. which came only in the last place. perhaps on this very spot."It is the cheese". It is an art eating them without letting the juice drop out of its crusty life-saving jacket. with golden stripes. On the inside. and maybe. which had perhaps been my greatest problem ever. the guy I am off-track with and I had celebrated New Year's Eve with. our Kakhetia. * Now I have ground under my feet. I was dreaming of a life without feeling cold and pain. The rock is dry. As Princess Argjiro I left Saranda and Albania. who do everything to make me smile again. I will return home. Here on the shores of Batumi I have lost my soul. your Kakhetia. and hardly physical. and golden is Kakhetia. solid rock.The most exquisite delicacies tower up in front of me . the world fell into place. with risen head and secure. an egg is swimming like a tiny boat-inside-the-boat on the juicy filling of baked cheese and melted butter. Then I feel connected again. stable. and it is warmed by the incredible strength of the Mediterranean sun. On the hill. EARTHING I am not yet fully used to this Earth.I returned woman. I was dreaming of a life form where it was not necessary to go to the toilet and to wash and to get food. together with my wise friends. who know all the secrets of the earth.among them. without geographical limitations – and especially without sex. and after some days with my friends between the beach and an utmost ugly flat of naked concrete in the eleventh floor without elevator. My spiritual necessities were the upper priorities. When I was sitting in a plane and the plane was getting faster and faster and faster and finally took off! And when I was dancing. grua. It is deep blue.here. I know that there have been earthquakes all over the time. a plate of Khachapuri. Yum! Yum! I am surprised about its tastiness and ask Genka. wherever you are. For blue is the color of my homeplace. where the sea is a known one and knows me to the depth of every drop of water. My sensuality was not the one you see in thousands in the media. maybe this tasty Acharian Khachapuri. There were only two exceptions. THE DRESS It is like these dresses you find in Africa. But I will survive and rebuild my town. On the edge is is surrounded by a thick crust of bread in order not to drown. everything had started. but I returned home as the proud Queen Tamar. A friend once told me that I was building the pyramid of needs upside down." 3 It looks like a little boat. I was automatically sensual. This Acharian Khachapuri or Acharpuri is only to be found within one hour's distance from the sea. and these are also the colors of my newly earthbound soul. glowing. and will help rebuild my town. without trying to educate me by means of books or rituals or art in order to become normal. My ground is hard. as I did now. not even beach sand. giving you a stunning dignity. Here in Batumi. All my life I have been predominantly spiritual. or I won't survive and then I'll come back again in another life. ethereal. I walk always barfoot when it is warm and I can feel my earth under my feet. "Here we have original Georgian cheese. For some time I start living again. . shining. I am glad to be sitting in this restaurant together with Guliko and her daughters Eka and Keti. whereas my physical needs were a luxury. I walk high up on the edge and watch the sea glittering below. One day there will be an earthquake again. It was the one of a Greek girl I saw in a film and who wore a long dress and just lived herself out. like in that ourstanding life when I had first been a shepherd girl and then a fisherman's wife . strong moves . will help me to find it again. My ground is no grass. when he was still a soldier in Kosova. perhaps in this life. the sea and sky and even more the secrets of a female soul.
If you're going to Saranda. barns and walls with it. I learn to trust. most generous. I return down to the town along the bay. I try not to see the concrete skyscrapers made out of greed without listening to the ground. there would be no war at all. cactuses and other plants. perched in their eagle-nest villages. I parfume myself with orange and lemon oil and with some aromatic plants without name. are so shiny white! I feel the same rock under my feet. which trigger an exotic exuberant joy in my heart. sometimes with a defect. with eyes like wine leaves and with a body like the comforting.not only for today or for one hour. With these flowers. which is still imbued by the repetitive images from the "moderate" . remembering an old hippie song: "If you're going to Saranda. This Earth. which are about trips with various means of transport. I need not fear. His father calm. Why I am afraid of marrying. peasants take pieces out of it and build their houses. I need somebody to earth me and have found one of these men from the real Iberia. I tried and am still trying to made a way out of the signals of my heart. be sure to wear a flower in your hair. Earth nourishes them. Love with all its bitter shades. Yesterday we had practised yoga in the forest. most sunlike people. I don't need another pair of wings. After he rejoined his troop and Guliko`s daughters left for the sea. In barely two weeks I have traveled all emotional chambers of my heart and of mankind. which get more and more used to the summer heat and to the little stones and thorns under my soles. War and peace. together with beautiful flowers.e. Why it is just normal to feel so knocked down in this time of transition. I am reading all the life helf books I have brought with me and regret having brought so few. My soul is exhausted. but finally I always get the right plane or get on track again.i. fear of death and numbness of survival. The rock is white. benevolent. MEDEA 04 I am sitting again on the veranda of the mountain cottage. and I feel a slight pity for them. and I put flowers in my hair. "Why not? No problem! If they only let me talk to Kokoity. I am safe and warm. Don't worry. And these old houses. And so am I. nourishing Earth itself. friendship. with this love without boundaries for everything and especially for my karmic place and myself-in-place. I JUMPED OFF THE TBILISANIC and then I jumped off the Tbilisanic saving myself from myself and swam and swam for ages (I had practiced in Batumi) through the Black Sea the Red Sea the Blue and the White Sea the Rainbow Sea and the Sea Without Colour home home to old Afka’s familiar shores and after resuscitation for my chest was full of salty water I found everything everything under my sun with new appreciating eyes. silent." * Eastwards. because I know what it means to be out of place. It will be warm ." Of course. but the whole summer until almost the end of autumn. you're gonna meet some friendly people there . He himself a sun zombie. Then I analyse my situation from all possible angles. His mother switching from love to utter disgust and again to helpless love.. and to the little stony shells from former times.. they still call the Earth "Mother Earth". before looking for hidden mushrooms. in the "real Iberia". I am an eagle and a seagull. together with the venerated Sun.grass is scarce. They are out of place. the two of us departed to this mountain resort. Why I am afraid of love. They bake bread and ripe wine in giant earth wombs. the two years will pass like . So they don't ever forget that they come out of this Earth and are bound to it as long as they live. but it is there. all dreams come true. Everything will be all right. all shadows of my past released again. securing. I note all my dreams. sometimes in the wrong direction or with the wrong timetable. jealousy. The morning yoga with my friend Guliko has done me well. and they nourish it back with the sweetest songs ears have ever heard and with the most breathtaking dances bones have ever tried. breeds the most centered. far too cold climate of Germany. the most caring mothers. the most joyful men. when the ceasefire was finally declared after many candles lit in church.
the bus drivers and I gave each other nicknames.in Batumi. Are we in Fushe Arrez. and in the evening I give reiki energy to Rusiko's overworried head and Guliko's overworked back. and I need friends so badly now. I know some groups and their songs. Instead Mickey strolls along. "Unknown" is the name of the main star. The teenager Mary. His apparent lack of attention is explained by him and everybody by the traditions of this confusing country. He is crazy. And of course he does love me. bored locals and a drunken former national soccer player. and then we will chuckle together about Morris. Rusiko's daughter. Whereas in Kosova. some passenger or bus driver invites me to eat in one of the restaurants on the road. in the restaurant we toasted with salt and pepper. to do nothing except enjoying the journey. in Tbilisi? Mickey is my friend. Guliko as a good holiday surrogate mother will tell me not to dance with him because I am another one's girl. in Shemria? I drag myself out of the bus into the cold air to have a coffee or mountain tea with my friends. I always admire to what extent the bus drivers feel responsible for all their passengers. in a car the immovable purpose of which has become to drive these boys to any place their imagination can conceive of. is getting on my nerves without noticing it. When I change the bus in Tirana or get into the bus in Prizren. lets me scratch his marvelous. Each time I return from such a trip. Mary and her brother have painted the iron fence white. along deep turquoise rivers and the enchanting sea with its ever-varying rocky bays. the asanas and yoga breaths calm me down. and then she will allow me only one dance and one mouthful of araqi. We are a team. It is just that I am a deep sea diver. they call me "Saranda!" In buses I have conversed with shepherds and writers. in Samtredia. How happy he is to sniff me again! He wags his tail. He will be perfectly safe in the Ossetian war and in Afghanistan. anywhere between Rubik and Kukes. in Lajthiza. through majestic mountains. passing historical cities with imposing fortresses and beautiful white villages with modest peasants with goodness in every wrinkle. I dive into the depth for shells while relying on the boat crew on the surface. It is so calming to relax on the bus seat and to be carried to far. I have become a bit wiser. As I cannot read or study on the mostly mountainous roads. and attention is what gives me sanity in times of peace. all dogs seemed to be called Jackie. And I let my thoughts go and find inner peace in this scenery. I am overtired when the bus stops for the second or the third time. but doesn't she see that I just want to be on my own most of the time? In the morning. Most bus drivers from the lines Saranda-TiranaKosova and Tirana-Tetova know me and are my friends. to the village pub. I am grateful for the warmth of summer on my skin. we often begin to form a kind of community. I would like to play with them and to have coffee with their friendly-looking parents. During the war I had began to meditate every morning to keep my mind alive. The little boys from the cottage opposite have put again their loud music in the write-off car. I am led to philosophy. Tonight I wil go out with Guliko and Mary. She is really trying to be nice with me. yet I stay where I am. and Guliko taught me a love song on the panduri to keep me from insanity. There are flowers in the grass in front of the cottage. Then horses were running below our balcony in the capital. which is just an open tent with some benches. bonds up and down. he does it for me. and with two students I danced in the bus at four o'clock in the morning! In most of the cases. to have everybody just think the best about me. here they all seem to have the name Mickey. they wave and smile at me. curious and effusive and at the same time too shy to pop over. I am forced to slow down.nothing. the meeting point of vacationists. to think and feel my projects further on from an intuitive side. On my last trip from Tirana to the poetry festival in Macedonia. Kidding at the broken steering wheel. In the night bus through the night mountains in the North. He is not the first Mickey-dog I have met. retired people and children. As we are together for several hours. and not to drink araqi. I hope that Morris will be there again. I think. but I have forgotten where the first one had been .away places with other friends. The greatest richness of traveling by bus is meeting marvelous people and having a great time. but he gives me attention. goldbrown dachshund fur. TRAVELING BY BUS THROUGH ALBANIA It is such a bliss to travel by bus through Albania. Their .
and the words. so I glide and bounce and fly and be free. and without any helping hand. My soul is imbued. so that the only lights which remain are those of far-away opposite coasts and of the inside. With this brave. and all suffering will have an end. Sometimes people are not seen anymore. slowly. on the road. or the mountain tea I have drunken in Shemria. in the pot of delicacies of the Luizas of the whole world and in the pot of piggies ringing the bell. Free to what? To breathe. beautiful heart I reach out to mountains and valleys and shades. in the pulce of grammar school students. Tourists will be happy. I rise. It was necessary. The streets were overripe. just by means of words and melody and rhythm. like bananas on their edge to brownness. together with pop music. rolling her R in the Tiranian way. In the buses to Macedonia. a capsula emptied of all unnecessary thought. hears the beat and the sound.mobile phone does not stop. a caterpillar earthquake. impregnated with beautiful images and good times. They will come. They ensure the smooth gettin on the right bus or find a hotel for vacationist who come spontaneously to Saranda. dirty. My lung is a deep sea fish diving glass and a parachute of bold bouncers. or Sothern folk. a sea snail with a visionary sigh. without anything. Waiting relatives and friends are informed at what time the bus will arrive. dirty. As open as the streets are. softly. The bell the sound of which returns into my ear and goes out to the big bell over the Peace Bridge in Tirana in front of the Pyramid. Neighbors and shop owners wonder what has happened. they appear by themselves before my inner eye: the glittering of the sea just one meter away or deep down the cliffs. The little blackboot opposite the bus stop rejoices. SARANDIAN STREET JUNGLE Upside is turned down. Here I am again. Whereas in the older buses in the South. with the accomplice of the electric lights gone out and away. we will finally be respectable with new asphalt on the streets. with the inside turned out . too. concretizing the inner disruption of this country. until someone reveals the all-to obvious explanation: they are in hospital. and an unwritten letter on a summer evening at a sea bay windows. The modern buses to Kosova have video equipment. All their intestins are spit out onto heaps. or the shrewd mountains under the fairy-like full moon. And the pilaf I have eaten on the Southern mountain pass of Llogara. I rise. Streets are no longer rivers to walk or to drive on. bam. Ah. Everywhere. and mostly we watch New Year videos with popular music and turbo folk and silly humor.and therefore prone to injure others. bam. we are also offered tea and coffee and sweets. hesitantly at first. My heart's lung is just a heartbeat away. Earth has come up again through a pneumatic hammer vulcano. The first girl. they have fallen into a hole. shoes are getting dirty. they will come in greater numbers than last year. In one day you change worlds. The drum's beats rest in the fishers' net. then with increasingly secure moves. so vulnerable. as if we were in a plane.. is the mantra. still speaking Albanian all the time. which are no longer bound to any language. from Oriental to Mediterranean and back. which turn your stomach around. whirl through the ether towards the black holes of the universe and the Black Sea of Batumi. or fiery Greek music. by the rhythm of my own glass heart in splinters and my paper lungs in fire. Tourists will be happy. This is the revenge of the powerless streets. Will they now finally take us seriously or will they find another pretext to keep the door of the European house shut? At least we are keeping our doors open and sometimes even our minds. When times get tougher again. bam. a bell made of ammunition reborn in meaningfulness. on the road. The streets have opened their hungry moths and are open down to their belly. and my lung's heart is just a breath away. the musical background is the cheerful chatter of the moderator of "Top Albania Radio". I pick the oranges of contentness and the lemons of joyful life polyphony. She drops her pen and dances her unwritten letter. His time has come. on the road. to beat the drum of my heart. sitting with a pen and an inkpot . They have become paths of our everyday jungle. broken. behold.
Once I threw away a bag on Sunday morning. The Golden Place. Just for the little one. she thought now.Neill's "Theory and Practice of Anti-Authoritarian Education" . IRINI IRINI IRINI you can rest now and relax and trust IRINI IRINI Liberty lady turned into the maiden of Peace eagle wings are doozing on soft bougainvillea petal cushions and the seagulls of peace are gliding on whhoooaaaaooooo through glittering silver blue whiiiiiiiaaaaaooooo singing songs with "iiiiiiaaaaaooooo" welcome to tranquility welcome to the silver breath birds and chimes are in your head welcome to the rainbow beach IRINI MOU welcome home to Paradise THE GOLDEN PLACE It was the place where they usually ate together. the Wadgassen bread. This is my second copy. to the beach café. In front of them the river. She could not stand it anymore. They should stay away more often. fed the fire. the animals. and I had to take the bread out of the bag and dispose of it separately. But he had no eyes for her. frivolously. "Don't". This had given her respect as the priestess of the clan. But it was stronger than her. two of them with camembert. saved my soul.I enjoy the new street jungle like a child. she capted their thoughts. one with ham. her heart was already killed by the withdrawal and negation of his attention. She know that she would lose her status as a priestess. she who had always preached love. when my parents were still in bed. the other women had come up to her. a present from my uncle. It took so long until everything had gone. "She is a child. Just one more look into his eyes. If she killed. leaving stains on sheets of paper. into the loo. beautiful. She observed him as he put dry wood together. She knew that she would be expulsed. and balancing like a ballerina on small wooden bridges to the other side. His smooth movements were pricks into her heart. to join my friends with dirty shoes. That's convenient. after my mother had taken away the book and I was unable to find it in my rare house searching actions when my parents were out.S. You can't kill the truth. I am having lunch in my own room in order to study for school. she would die in the wilderness. The Celtic language I learn and the books I read instead of studying for school. yet they say it is good for my health. which are a mat reflection of the Night Mountains in the North. defying each and every law of geography. he won't be yours either. They directed calming thoughts to her to help her in her inner fight. especially my bible. and I was so afraid all the time my parents would come and would discover what I had done. in order not to get interrupted or disturbed. and if he doesn't want to be mine anymore. I hate this integral bread. Just one more move. Without the clan. I am living a drawers' life. The bag didn't want to sink. The taste is horrible. her back. if she died. Then I will finally throw all the stinky plastic bags with blue-whiteblack mouldy bread remainders away. It was pure terror. her head. A. I just open a drawer and put the bread into it. BREAD My mother has just brought me the plate full of bread. one with sausage. She had seen both of them together by the fire. jumping over ditches and trenches and rift valleys. Life is much easier without them. They surrounded her and put their hands onto her shoulders. He is mine. put the corn onto the sticks and held them over the fire. My real life is hidden in my drawers. and around them the rocky walls with the caverns. I hope my parents will go out again soon. The bread I don't eat. Four big doubledeckers. which soon would form a waterfall. She is only a child!" But her soul-starving of the passed weeks had fueled her fury.the book which has influenced me most and which has . who jumped around him. climbing over earth mountains. because the place where this abominable bread comes from is my lost hometown where we don't live anymore. Her friends. harmony with the earth. with each other. Bread from other evenings is already going mouldy. as they call it in a kind of irony of destiny.
and all between in the air. Yet it would not be your very own perfume without the scent of salt and algae. in this movement which has made the universe and develops it further. which have seen a lot of life. and at the same . a mixture of the most extravagant aromas from far-away countries on remote continents and in distant dreams. re-descend on Earth. open curves at first. now. At night it sparkles everywhere: below in the sea as the reflection of the strong lights over the port. cool. sowing smiles among my people and reaping happiness. It is modern. The reflection of the fire blazed out of her eyes. you will definitively overcome cancer. The world has become a sparkling feast." Maybe they thought: And in this light. THE LIGHT "We know that the light is different there". half-mysterious cozy smell of old houses. which all seem to have their own generator on their back. and blooming with this infinitely powerful sweetness of Sarandian spring and summer streets. It is spiraling and my finger and my mind with it. becomes denser. jasmine. As a very subtle note one must add some other very Albanian fragrances: the half-musty. of the sea you love from the bottom of your being. and if I looked now into the Sea. more stars than I saw in the star-famous desert and which make up for the lack of streetlights in my village-like neighborhood. as if it were made just for me. above in what you don't call anymore a sky. Its form is the most perfect form existing on earth. I was more than convinced and continue to bear the inner torch of the Sarandian light. It simply fills you up with joy. and then it will not only shine from the huge eye of the sky. when I wear four pullovers and three cardigans and four pairs of trousers and three pairs of socks all at once. which makes you drunken by giving you clarity. "We have seen it in Malta. whereas in Germany it could risk to be a stale shelf warmer. I love these fireflies. cute flashlights. tiny. who board the bus in the midst of summer. tightening more and more. this giant mirror would reflect me a light which would burn away all my burdens.So she grasped her spear. but a firmament. a perfume. together with some spicy drops of pun and wit. It is a poetry. life concentrates increasingly. which never go out like our houselights. no. there is this little soul of me. imbued by the smell of the flowers you and your parents could not agree upon if they were orange flowers.) listen to the sound of omi bombs dropped at home evreryone gone clone into foam It fits exactly into my hand. in winter. Light is in the air. no. and I am aware that you have earned this clarity-donating faculty by interminable mental and spiritual odysseys through dense and suffocating fogs you did not even know how to be afraid of. the first month of my life in Saranda. following the road on the top. whereas in German it means "granny". It will come back to the outside. Big. I touch it with my left index. or. a humor which prefers to laugh with others than about them. avantgarde . said my parents on the phone. out of the beggar's wrinkled hand. lonesome lawn no pawn someone who shone now is gone someone has gone from foam to bones mouldring in stones at dawn whoever shone wonder is gone please can we phone to wondersome home with bonbons the bomb the bomb is gone listen to your omi she is at home omi is here THE FRAGRANCE OF YOUR POETRY The fragrance of your poetry is a delicious perfume. out of the stones.at least here in our slowly awakening Albania. all my nightmares. it will creep out of the newly laid asphalt on the streets. as you said. and the honest sweaty air of workers with weather-beaten skin. POSEIDON'S PHONE LISTEN TO THE SOUND OF OMI (Explanation: "Omi" in Georgian means "war". which had become the eyes of the Tiger. And in the midst of this feast. as they said. everything that could hold me back to shine on.
One rises and approaches me with open arms. They are carved in lime. please. to phone Poseidon whenever I am far away from the sea. And Poseidon. which is in reality only a different way of being. without ending. the old ways repeat themselves. Here on the ground floor. between being and non-being. and my fingers turn around. This is the other realm. I don't have the money to pay it back". "Don't worry". tasting carefully in order not to commit a sacrilege. of skillfulness and language. we can talk again of a walk. with ever greater perspective and understanding and wisdom and compassion. I pull the doorknob. sharp. not only the one on the top. narrows as much as to impede my fingers to continue their research. of which the top on the outside. the point where all movements converge in stillness.time the spiral rises to a hill with a little road around. shining. the Majestuous. blinking in an ever-changing mix of blue and silver. doing. But the address was different. Behind. "You get a credit in love and beauty. my beloved brother. the edge between the outside and the inside. the town where I had studied. there is the Secret. the most prominent one. the unspeakable feminine. timeless. to hear the sea. Finally. I knock on the next door with the bronze plate with ornate letters: "Bank of Life". of a road. it is somewhat dark. a big window invites for a little rest." She pours coffee into three cups with huge. where all movement is cushioned in quietude and silence. where managers are sad when they are transferred to another place. I ask. which is now so small that my finger doesn't fit anymore. Some of these scars are shared. whereas the other lady makes fresh coffee for me. in the innermost core of the world. has given me his unique gift through the hand of an old friend. a lime reflection of the deepest timeless wisdom of the universe. THE BANK OF LIFE When I got that call to show up in the Bank of Life. cutting. the coffee lady smiles. now it moves and is moved. The edge is huge. "But I have not asked for a credit! Anyway. is only an exteriorized reflection. like the houses in already very distant Heidelberg. the way continues inside. "You are granted a credit. to listen to his voice. spaceless. I found myself in front of a rather classical-looking. and also a retreat for the life-tired and heart-broken. following several at the same time. Two young ladies smile at me. It is a telephone. the sea-dog Nuredin. becoming. Sit down. Poseidon has made it. but always larger. With a wide glass front at the most beautiful spot at the seaside. How can such a unique. the Terrible. On the top. surprised. boarded by my beloved palm trees. I look outside wow! Here is my beauty again. On the first floor. the one on the outside. the top." "A credit?". opposite the fisher's harbour and the most beautiful beach café Limani. seeks development. severalstorey building. artful structure with astonishing mastery. A white mobile phone from one of these salty zones where the Immortal encounters the mortals. The way back. Spiraling around. containing the Core. Until the end. With an openness and transparence like myself. given as a souvenir from my Sarandian host. the Essence. of behind and before and yesterday and tomorrow. have formed itself? This can only be an Immortal's masterpiece. My fingers. "Our credits are very special. The mystery of the world womb. "Welcome! We have been waiting for you!". Yet each one has its own personality with its own scars. the pure being is sufficient for itself. they are technically up-to-date with a generator giving never-ending light. There are many roads now. yellow smileys with protruding noses. I thought it would be the ProCredit Bank in Saranda. This is the barrier beyond which the material cannot go. The world collapses into one point. to make you . All the surface in its unique form is composed of parallel roads like those of man on Earth. solid stairs of stone. turn around. and I inhale the typical smell of old university buildings. the mystery of origin of mankind. enter a cave. After the first huge turn. The door opens with a light creaking. I follow the stairs up. which can not be understood with human brains and which can only be seen with the Third Eye. in a warm ochre with stone frames around the door and the windows. like the painfulness of transition. none deviates on its course. Then the cave. glittering. the Amazing. she says. life becomes individualized again.
in his words. in the ocean-crossing arms of your invisible family my dear. which is so heavy that it makes your back and head ache on the long road and which you don't open because world is translated better in the green eyes of the beloved and you are walking in dreams with stars under your soul fairy-like. the warmth of the sun. and. Today I choose. Today I walk down between vines and whitewashed walls.no selfhatred any more no self-hatred any more clarity dancing barfoot over brand new streets wearing deep pink flowers in my hair or passion flowers from the churchyard clarity sizzling in the air buzzing through my ears and lips rising in the air from polyphonic throats in brotherhood screening the black coffee ground in an ugly flat in Tbilisi "You have the eyes of the Tiger". Only birds do. This makes for credits for other people. so knowingly." full of tenderness for the new woman in the house love is like a song you heard in those Black Sea minibuses on the first days of something called erroneously love just to hear it again in rainy post-war barracks in these new times where everything pops clearly out of radios and love seems like the dictionary you always take with you. along the church with living passion flowers outside and living golden saints inside. yes. Today I choose to go down my way through gardens of oranges and lemons. and therefore you get this special credit for creators. Today I choose to jump over the open canalization digs to walk.a generator of the sun itself your breath . "Where you go to. by cleaning out your own soul. like a mermaid. by singing. along the decorated party seat with new flags and cut hairs from the former barber shop. or screening the Arab signs of the Koran in Laprake.live. See the smiles of the people on the street? They all live and give and receive on credit. her eloquent mute husband. more enlightened form. by volunteering. who gave my eyes their blue delight. Tirana "You won't be able to fly. full of small spiral gifts. and my streetfaced children. The beauty of the sea and of the bay. TODAY I CHOOSE .the spirit of joy like dancing dolphins and your outstretched hand is it like a Georgian folk song . Of course you have to pay it back with interests. By writing. and to make you create. refined. cry like a newborn. The interests are the way you give it back in a transformed. Now you are a part of the system. like every day. to walk through my paradise mirror. or moving gemstones on a wooden board with planetary circles. Today I choose to walk directly down the stairs. GENACVALE your soul . I greet old Vasillo in the small grocery shop at the corner. the friendliness of the people. this is your credit.. you'll be a goddess" electricising clarity after two phone calls with my true mother and my true love and now I travel mountains and I move mountains and watch the full mountain moon and make a mountain song in a strange tongue and soar in wider circles like the Eagle herself. We have heard that you are a creator.. infallible . Here waits my friend. not used to beauty nor to being only fantastic. between deserted beach cafés in the rain. "You'll go to Kosova". But many people will listen and look up to you".
it is no wonder that an earthquake may also happen in my little beach town. buying a laptop and one dictionary after the other. too. Nothing fell down. Freedom from worries. because I had read that this is the safest place in an earthquake. I felt it with awe and astonishment. There must be another way. dazing on my bed. I can just limitate pain. I thought about the writings and channelled messages about the long-awaited and now arriving ascension of the Earth. This time it was stronger and consisted of several shaking pulses. Will there be a bigger one. Do not go outside. "Was . here in Saranda. in that moment. When I switched on Radio Saranda. who several centuries ago had said after the famous Lisbon quake: "Let's bury the dead and rebuild the town. "Saranda is build on a rocky ground". This is a time where many people have decided to leave. in the East of tomorrow. I went out on the balcony. because you may be knocked down from a falling house. and not only in Delvina. After all. to raise funds for reconstruction with my real-life accounts. without some outer help. I had known that Albania is a seismic zone and had been more afraid of earthquakes than of rebels and mafiosi." Nevertheless I THE LITTLE EARTHQUAKE Tired. Having digested the surprise. I would prefer giving a first helping hand and then dashing off to rich Germany. "therefore real earthquakes are improbable. That I have a soulplace and a soulmate." Now this made-up story had become true. and here. cannot be expected from more money. Sometimes. but the show was over. I had felt a tiny wave going through my body and wondered whether it was an earthquake. Releasing? Indifference towards my bank account and my financial obligations? I cannot be indifferent. somebody reassured me. thus." Later I looked up the Richter scala on the internet and reached the conclusion that our little quake was about degree 3. for it was a tiny earthquake. Thinking of the Marquês de Pombal. that I love so many and so much. (So I was right!) At 12. In the West of yesterday. not a baby anymore. extremely fascinating feeling from Mother Earth through Platon's and Fotini's ground floor up to my flat into my body. No answer. Kosova is getting up again as well. the first news was: "Today the town of Saranda was struck by a little earthquake. whereas others have decided to stay. Some people were working calmly in a garden below. overworried. being everything part of a giant improvement plan. Last year on the 1st of April. I have decided to stay . Now every cell of mine had felt that earthquakes are possible in Saranda. And the thrill of not knowing what will be next. For me. if not impossible. it would be hard. I had made an April fool of my grandmother by telling her: "There was a little earthquake in nearby Delvina. In spite of my nonchalance during the earthquake. But it would be possible. Only that strange. But it was here. I cannot do everything. I leaned my back on the massive wood and waited. there is nothing really to fear . and which stones will be left unturned? The worst thing would be not to be in Saranda. and being everybody an immortal soul. From this perspective. before the folklore program. I can see that I breathe now. that I am connected to so many and so much. too. nothing burst. but an inocuous toddler.this an earthquake?" I called. some seismic shocks incurred. which lasted for 30 seconds. They didn't notice me. reassuringly far away. I cannot earn enough money to live consistently without worries. I went into the next door frame. Was this really an earthquake? What else could it be? I was fascinated and completely free of fear. to help global enlightenment. Am I safe? There was a little earthquake yesterday. things were no longer as they have been before. the media reported only a little earthquake in Greece. will I really stay? The Earth is releasing negativity in this necessary phase." I could have lost everything. to start working again.30 o'clock. The sea was deep down... no indications can be made about the strength of the earthquake.. that I am loved and held. overwhelmed. Abroad in Kosova. As Saranda does not have any seismic station.. nothing crashed.
who knows that in reality it is a spiritual being having just a human experience? like books and songs. I will regret every moment I did not love Saranda to the fullest. the white dog Tato energy agreement with serbia vice-minister bojaxhi in belgrade: we have reached the solution for transmitting energy COMMANDMENTS . Maybe . I did not covet my neighbour's wife. I did not want not to honour my parents. the messengers of sea and sky. and thrill. death and destruction. I did not kill. which belong to humanity. But there are things. I look around and find joy in the turquoise sea. the seagulls in front of the sun. fascination. I do not know enough of anatomy . But I was assigned customers who force me to. I did not take your name in vain. Curiosity instead of fear. my neighbours waiting for electricity and water and the white dog Tato. utmost curiosity.. Athina. little earthquake to my financial problems? Will I really be able to look at my situation with fascination. knowing that each moment is the last of its kind . I'll offer Him the vivid presence of my people. Artemis. and with the detachment of an old soul. the commitment to more love. God?" there was no answer. I did not want to work on Saturdays. I did not worship any other god besides you. But he doesn't come. And in the end. provided that he exists. (Poem out of a news becoming poetry just by breaking the lines) (Poem out of quotes from friends’ emails) life is shit I hope you get it milder at times other times don't give up we do milyen a tél?(*) jó? kedves? WAITING in Saranda it is sheer pleasure hugs and kisses Sziszi! (*)what is the winter like? is it good? is it kind? I am waiting for my Love. I anchor their presence in me.. How can I apply these insights of my cute. I did not want to steal. who seems to have waited for me.. more attentive and intensive love in the present moment .. More love. Never mind. But I worship Aferdita. But I was given parents who did not honour me.this is the only answer to transience. When my Love finally comes. because if it crumbles down in seismic shocks. But I slept with my neighbour's wife's husband.look at my Saranda now with even greater love and tenderness. But when I called "Where are you.the scar on my wrist is on the wrong place.
And therefore I walk my path up the hill to her temple. the chosen. which have just begun to open up. my poor heart of mine. a believer. I will reach people. which becomes steeper and steeper. if you cannot live. I thanked her. Let me sing you lullabies the fishers have brought me from shores beyond all horizons. said the uninvited guest. But I have been chosen last summer to become the youngest priestess of Aferdita. What do you want? I said. Rock in my chest like in a rocking-chair. together with herself. The door was closed. singing. sat down at the fireplace and did not move anymore before spring flowers put their head out of forgottenness. waiting to be unborn. went to the toiled and flushed it down. Now I am alone on the path. I am a builder and I am a believer. everybody of my close family and of my wider family. POOR HEART OF MINE Breathe. like in a cradle. First I did not understand why me. I did not have the strength to jump out of the AFERDITA'S DAUGHTER The day has come. The sun has risen. They have braided my hair and decorated it with orange flowers. in a summer heat that glows on each and every stone. clapping hands. and by loving them. My poor heart of mine. and some of them furtively dry their eyes. I will show them the way to the purest love as Aferdita herself has brought it to us. but only in the purest hearts. I cannot share my food with you because I am starving.and like my community. because I. waving. resilient heart of mine. Upwards. as the new pupil of the Highest and Most Beautiful. which is not to be found in the huts and houses. I have put on the white gown and my friends have perfumed me with the sweet fragrance of jasmin. with the pretext of measuring the snow in front of the cottage. My beloved grandmother with her . And I cannot sing you songs because the joy bird has flown away with the first rainfalls. I have always been an analphabet of love. That old beggar in black clothes had shut me in. I did not want to eat. LADY IN BLACK She came in black rags. BREATHE. and I understand the mystery that today's analphabets of love have a hidden knowledge of real love. beloved child of the Goddess. I have also the latent ability to purify others by my example. Who feeds you with poisons and stings? Who makes you swallow the illusion of lovelessness? Swing. I love Asklepios because he has healed everybody I know.and me being. if your drumsticks are lost in the abyss of histories. My years are roots in its ground. But I had a whole year to think about it. breathe. I will give you to eat. I am a mirror of my community. Upwards. the crone ordered. warm hands and milky eyes would not be anymore without Asklepios. Aferdita's temple is not amidst her people. And she got out of her pocket a dirty piece of bread and broke it in two. I was too tired for food. my voice. Like my heart . If you cannot give. As I know it. Here they are. I can tell you stories. I stood up. my heart to Her. By letting Aferdita take possession of my soul and of my body. with golden sandals under the golden sun. the mortals on the edge of sky and earth. I cannot tell you stories because nothing happens. Sssht. Pradoxies are your daily bread. my poor heart of mine. a builder. I have risen and kiss my sisters good-bye. like Asklepios' one. by lending my body. you are like a drowned whale. Come here.
It was the summer when she hurt her foot. and later talked to lawyers until she broke down. which would ache through the entire summer and almost the whole autumn. Nobody to open a door and to boil you an egg. The smell came out of the part of the wardrobe which belonged to the elderly landlady and was locked. This is where stories are made. at the Hungarian Movie Week. Slowly. Will we marry? . Tamás wrote her in his second letter: "I want to know if you are my partner in this world. because they still did not have any language in common. The first thing that seemed to show her that things could get better again was the second room she was given. she read about intuition. They had no words and therefore bare no memory. SUMMER WITH MOTH BALLS It was the summer she had moved to the Hill. So you can also tell me a story. and she had felt that Hungary would still have a role to play in her life. and she hurt her arm. It was a marvelous film about people pushing a streetcar through Hungary. the old lady said. in the country left behind. the one whose existence she had suspected for the first time five years ago. she fell into a deep hole in the night in front of the ancient amphitheatre where a festival took place. a better air would come into her life. Who had appeared out of the blue of the internet. and they make me sad when they talk of the colours of summer. It was something in this dire world to hold onto. of the triumph song "Magyarország". There is a line between summer and winter. How to recognize the invisible. It was the summer of Radio Petöfi. she kept the window open to expel the smell of moth balls. as she now had to say.window. like a human plant sprouting out of the damp ground. wooden table. Yet it was also the summer of Tamás. hoping that from the rubbish dumps. She read about the Albanian queen. She had to hurry up with learning.No. Inmidst the nauseating moth ball smell. or they were beautiful and hurt me even more. The room where she translated poetry and learned Hungarian. They could not hurt. Again the language had enchanted her. Life was slowly tucking itself in again. I did not have the strength anymore to cover my ears and just laid my head onto my arms on the rough. And he wrote about his wish of inventing something. Suddenly the old lady began to hum. I said. nor her best friend hold any future for her. because all the signs are pointing to you.Yes. Neither her ex. I would like it very much to be so. laid it down again on the side. However. . two weeks after she had begun to call for her unknown Hungarian love. observed the old woman with one eye and put my thumb into my mouth. quarreling and growing up until Budapest. How to trust her hunches. Yet the burden of my invisible self was too big. trying to sweat out the traumatic events expelling her from everything she loved. Okay. however temporarily. She had tried to close it hermetically with scotch tap and kept holding the window open. humpled through the town in the early mornings on the lookout for boxes in front of the shops. But I hate stories. sending her a weblink and asking her to help him with this research. you have won. her love of the Town. In the room with the moth balls. They are sad when they talk about the black and white winter." Seagulls and butterflies told her to trust. alienated her from her lover. My fear was rising. got up again. the shadows receded. Anyway there was no place to go to. she took her eagle necklace as a pendulum. Is he my soulmate? . For over three months. They were just simple tunes of only one or two notes. Stories were either dreadful and hurt me. humpled some more steps and broke again into tears. she stopped reading when young Geraldina came to Albania and was about to marry the king. Stripped her of friends. I lifted my head. Humming had no history and therefore did not hurt. Then Tamás wrote her about his interest for mushrooms. slowly. And when her foot started to get better. loving. living. who had been Hungarian. Which had destroyed. of vocabulary learning during the evening news on TV.
the drugs had reached his brain. with tasty herbs. SALT My mouth is empty.I won't starve. but unable to really think. They called it "marili". the friend replied. I once loved a man with the slavic name SaltSalt. It was my birthday. but I will never cease searching for it. and I will run out. Mara will forget her grandmother and the dreams of crows and cows. My foundation is always moving. My foundation consists of things I found. I am Mara under cobwebs and dreamcatchers. Then there were the troopers with the grace of the late birth. They shatter everything. The dreamcatcher serves to catch rats and crows . One day I will dream of a river. and each time it was harder to get up again. who took me to the salt gardens. beautiful horses. Now he lived with his parents like a handicapped. I carried it off. jumping from one idea to another. I found friends and lost them. Now the double salt flourishes only on my cheeks. Earthquakes are integrated. and I named it "the gold of friendship". But there was an emptiness which remained in her heart and was the seed for the next part of the quest. unable to work. It would be just another one of the many poisons in her life. They shared with me their special salt. Mara never starves. unable to get to grips with life. She was more alarmed. There is a man in the room. He is the one I’ve spent thousands of nights with. comforting for far too many sad days. The fake stability of her arduously repaired world began to crumble again. Before. I won't find the river. I don't know him. a chaotic way of writing. Many mistakes. Tamás wrote her with breathtaking honesty that he had been taking drugs for a long time. Yet one hard blow followed the other. I don't remember any food. running. the grace of not being forced to kill their equals. She was horrified and sent the letter to a friend who knew his language. I found a rocking chair. wide brownish river. and everything fell down. My stucture leaves me life-struck. At least.of researching the possibility of making food out of larves. Of a wide. where crying hedges formed a labyrinth in which I am still wandering. . I had an old aunt. and some years ago. She had to hurt him. clarity. who washed her clothes and cooked for her. not only because of the smell of moth balls. The cobweb belongs to Grandmother Spider. for hope was not yet massacred completely in the plains in the North with wild. Tamás was not the one she had been looking for. the quest would continue. Finally she traveled to her friend beyond the snowy mountains. but do not kill. who has risen me with honeysuckles. which is a very solid foundation. she had to accept to be hurt again by life. developing. He seems like a foreigner who tries to write Hungarian. Tamás was still the best one. Not unable to feel love and to feel pain. I found songs and healing plants and kept at least some of them. The salt of the sea. Some day later. I don't remember having eaten anywhere. out of the baracks and the barbed wire. He was innocent like a child and selfless. trying to help her in her quest. my tongue is hollow. Her head ached. in the pocket of my winter coat. I found loves and lost them. forming erosion beds on my cheeks. I remember only salt. A psychiatric diagnosis popped up in her mind. changing.
There is no mechanism to pull up water. With a rope I could try to hang myself. You know what alll the tears are for The solution is love So flexible to flow in all existing forms This is the lesson you had to learn In modesty In doubts Not the star from Albanian TV But the unknown girl from the one-room flat in Heidelberg Leaving for love Returning for love And enriched by all hurts Because it hurt because of love That exists And that will offer itself Through the stony walls around so many hearts And the paths you have trodden under orange and lemon trees Are paths of love And one day the four-color rainbow you painted on the wall won't be anymore And memories will vanish Yet all the traces you left are traces of love Little energy trails Which only clairvoyants can notice But Saranda has changed since you came here Changed for ever A tiny little bit for the better The floor is full of shattered glass. Here I am to get the baby. with ever bending willows. Lay down on the sofa. . THE MIDWIFE The midwife knocked on my door on one evening of damp earth. I didn't want to see the instruments. which is as futil as the water. and I could put the bucket over my head and try to asphyxiate. "Normally babies." I obeyed. I did not even wonder that she had three hands. "But I am not pregnant at all! How will you get a baby? I haven't even slept with a man!" "That is none of my business". the splinters enter my bleeding feet until I hit the wall. which reminded me the teeth-puller I feared as much as normal people feared dogs. but you won't believe me what strange things I have already pulled out of women!" I closed my eyes and tried to relax. "I was sent here to deliver you. I have flung all my mirrors on the floor because they showed me only distorted images. when I walk. Maybe it will anchor for a certain time in the city with the seven bridges. "Do you think dogs have group souls or individual souls?" I asked the midwife. It is deep and it is dark. Then I bang my head against the wall. This is at least how men and children die. waited until her breath would be calm and said then: "So. After some steps. around the river of human life. reflecting a real." "There is always something to deliver!" said the midwife firmly. singing about the ever returning. but put her hands on my head and my chest and my belly. You know what all the stuff is for. Now. The ship of the search will sail on. soft possibility of hope. I just wondered whether she would deliver a puppy or a book. replied the midwife." "What baby?" I wondered and stared at the midwife. She put the bucket down in my living room. protesting already somewhat weaker: "There is nothing to deliver. She looked like a farmer with her big boots and her bucket full of water. there are not even ropes and buckets. where one of them seems as if it hangs magically over the broad waters. suddenly convinced that she might know the answer. reflecting architecture and art. there is always a wall. The woman did not answer. hoping in vain I would faint. This is only logical. THE WELL There is the well. because she knew things about me not even I did know.She will enter in the dance about the river. a living city. and I bump indistinctly into them.
as I always do. On the horizon there were already the mountains and the wall of the artificial lake. The desire to know trembles into me from head to toes. The highway ended. "Is it true?" he uttered. I think. I screamed and hid my head in Mommy's apron. slowly like a golden leaf. What might the water have done to its dwellers? Grandfather used to sit on the bridge. YOUR VOICE What did I catch in my fishernet? . THE SWAN The swan was heading down the highway. when the bells of the church rang from down in the waters. The time passed. and that there is snow on the bridge?" Again the swan nodded. and a drop sparkled in my eye. The trucks. "What?" I asked. this is for sure. Suddenly I knew that the last question was for the swan to ask. Somewhat later. without slowing down. I was too afraid of these things. I did not know that the phone lines were still functioning there. which did not seem any more that big. By not getting it well. I suspected it had something to do with Grandfather. selling sunseeds. There could also be a frog with a golden ball. Oh. He knew these things better than we did. "Is it true that the water has so much sunken that you can see the old bridge again. Indeed I had feared the naked face of the rising town. Especially of the cemitery. may God help me that I might finally have caught your voice! Your voice! A voice like a warm. His pure white feathers crackled in the sunlight. I was relieved about the snow. The swan pulled the wheels in and set his wings for the wind. Already as a child. Maybe there is even water. turned their heads. "Is it true that the water has so much sunken that you can see the spire of the church again?" The swan nodded. red sunrise. He once had phoned me. and we would drink it anyway. There could be a mosaic of butterfly wings. What would the last question be? I did not dare turning my head around. I was becoming increasingly anxious. and the harbour began. but even cuter than in my infancy. And some stones around. We were the only swan driving down the road. I did not know how to greet him. I will understand all mysteries of the language. cozy home. I let him answer instead of myself. We did not know if it was dawn or dusk. There could be corroding barrels with radioactive waste. which streamed from the feathers themselves. If I die. What is in the well? There is something. There is some air. He stretched and yawned and was suddenly alert. the man from the back seat raised again his voice: "Is it true?" "What?" I asked. We continued to drive. There is nothing more important than knowing what is there down in the well. It could be clean and could save the white town from dying. It was my role to do so. hoping that the proverb "Dirt don't hurt" is true. I remembered past happiness. I remember the day when I crawled out of this very well into a big. Only now do I understand this subtlety of the language. Only one thing exists in my brain: what will be at the end of that dark tunnel? Floating down. whether to say "Did you dawn well?" or "Did you dusk well?" These greetings I had brought along from the sunken city. Therefore. when the man woke up on the back seat.Women die by not resolving the well. where you can take your coat off. It could be dirty.
let it be your voice! I will frame it and hang it on the wall over my bed. It was pure. and there was no electricity and no water. and I felt infinitely blessed by this impersonal purity. You cannot tell with fish. which reminded me of happy parties. It was the smell of hope. the smell of survival. diamond. through the mountains lit by the full moon. I did not believe it at that time. You don't see the soft energy ball between them. and I told myself that it was also the smell of security. They smelled of fish. So you did not see either that in the bus to Macedonia. together with the garlic and the incense. I hoped they were not rotten yet. SURVIVOR The earthquake was over. walking the beach. Yet I was holding his hand under the pale moon of the Macedonian mountains. I don't want trumpets or violins. are empty for the normal eye. whose existence was doubted by my tamed brain. How irregular the nails. two rails are more. I took squeezed Vasilika out and wondered for a small moment why only I had survived. It was just the sea. During the following weeks I lived in a Robinson-like way. But I still had the cakes and canned fruit and even three loaves of bread from the shop. It made me hungry. together we're railways from shore to shore! But my hands. the sound of brushing water. Nails are the rails of the hands. but as there were no shocks anymore. It was then that I. comforting. lulling. No feces adding a sarcastic challenge to tourists on their survival holidays. I stepped out of the shelter made out of burt concrete. It was the smell of the sea. I hate the telephone because it is not your voice. let this voice be yours! I don't want chimes. discovered the real smell of being the only surviver of the great earthquake. the sound of hushing water. because its crispy gnawing is as far from your voice as yesterday my own voice. and all for free! I took a box of matches to burn my fish halfway through on a pile of former chair legs. my poor hands I will feed with snow instead of sun and seashells. I had an invisible hand between my hands. First I discovered several intact fisher boats with full nets. A tasty smell creeped into my nose. Tomorrow there would be no fresh fish anymore. It seems that I really caught a voice in my fishernet. EMPTY HANDS Oh God. It always smells rotten. calming down my sharp and burning nerves. crystal voice and let it rinse down through all my awakening highways of light. How dirty they are. A hand even I could not see. Indeed I had already been used to the latter. hoping . Oh. I will fill my ears with your golden. please. It had fallen down the steps and had stopped just in front of the sea.A voice like a rocking chair. No nauseating sewages anymore. Then I discovered Vasilika's shop. there was enough food. I was the only survivor. You don't see healing energy streaming through them to injured organs and souls. I abhor the doorbell because it is not your voice. Life in Albania is a powerful disaster training course. What mighty railways they form! One rail is tiny. I will take a little bit out of it and knot it into a handkerchief for my pocket. For the next month to come. Nor do I want the sound of flushing water. oh fishernet. I did not now how to prepare them nor how to clean them. Oh. So I lived quite abundantly for more than a month. let it be! My hands are empty. And the most abject creature on earth is the little worm in my commode.
but she had not abandoned the wish of a man she could walk through with closed eyes. she did not imagine anymore to be picked up by a sensitive poet with narrow eyes. and those who walked through them seemed not to have noticed that they had been through a human being. with simple tunes. dreaming about me as I dreamt about him. the spiritual one and not that ignorant who had given her mother nothing than herself. A long time ago she had imagined to walk through the Beloved. I love books. it is mine. When my mind tries to cross the line I have deliberatly set. I pull it back. I am a person without memory. it cames by itself. These things she once had filled her life with to squeeze some drops of meaning out of it. the line of pure awareness. she unlearned geography I DON’T REMEMER I don't remember. We were holding hands. She understood that she had become transparent when people started to walk through her. It was cult sites she aimed at.that he really would exist somewhere. which only could hurt. One day Kedvesem just had to appear before me and place into my hands his visible hands full of warmth and tenderness. the real. who would feed her with sake and sushi and haikus. and the other one passive. the pain is mine. On the day her mother reported her lack to the police and her picture appeared in the papers. I made up the sweetest songs for Kedvesem. mine are these two hands. giving. One hand has fingers and the other one has a wrist. When she met her father. But the beautiful man with the coffeecolored hair and the endless eye landscape was not among them. scared by what was and even more than what could be. a human experience. they protect me when I build them up around me. It was Kedvesem's hand I was holding there in secret in the mythical trance only journeys on a mountain night bus induce. Mine is the kitchen knife on the table. With a soft voice. which was as comforting and securing as she wished a man to be. as she walked with closed eyes to the river when she returned from school. and who had given herself nothing more than a set of genes. When people started to walk through her. The tear rolling into my mouth has a salty taste. Ouzo is my friend because it helps me not to poke my nose into my own affairs. and the more her very soul got lost in ever warmer winds. it was his task to look for her. unheard by the other passengers. one active. Our bound strenghtened. Philosophers and sages of all ages have stressed the importance of being in the here and now. I am on earth. when she met the Dragon from Croatia. in the body of a fearful woman. and I was softly humming. she understood better. There is also an almost empty little bottle of ouzo. In the years to come. chewed on it like a Somalian chewing on a twig of the toothbrush tree. it would be a worse lost for him. receiving. and if he did not do that. she dissolved all human desires for a similar counterpart. who does not have any reason to be afraid. it is now. I don't know where I go. she lost the vigorness she had clung with to her mind movies. waiting for me as I waited for him. This was when her mother had moved from the giant house with thousands of inhabitants to a simple forgotten archaeologists' hut on the Roman excavations. So this is where I am. And if she missed the bus home to Aquincum and strolled instead around the Japanese embassy. I don't want to remember. and only under the full moon. By and by. The pain is now. Real men were different. There is a book in front of me. from the small number of words I had learned in his language. she began to use her transparent status to travel for free around the world. first she was mistaken that her dream had come true. in the warm sommer air. Then she had bought his books to keep chewing. If she did not find the man she could walk through. TRANSPARENT . There is a packet of coffee. And when I don't pull it back. the moon of new songs. for a homeopathic simile. Coffee helps me to work. were now acts with the lightness of feathers. She understood after she had chewed for months on his sentence "You have already found what you are looking for". I don't know where I come from. into soft summer air.
A somewhat dirty keyboard with a missing tooth. My pieces cannot come together anymore. my own modest vessel. We roll up until our bodies form little balls and close our eyes. by turning transparent. in a desert where not even a cactus can comfort me. Nobody does this. THE JOY OF OUR SEASONS This is the joy of our seasons: Spring gives us the taste of fine. Yet it has always been there. I remember the invisible hand I had once hold in a bus in Macedonia. There is that beast of soul. reaches into my musing. which is in the claws of hammering headaches. can also go to sleep first. I do have captain blood. the emprisonment of change. And these little hands of mine cannot heal me. invisible. changes. she finally understood as her last conscious understanding that the Dragon from Croatia had been right. places without sea. now.. We try to draw the continents on their wall. a gentle pull pervades the anchor chain. One arm. "The healer needs another healer". We drink buckets full of "waldmeister" lemonade and run barfoot on bicycles to the river or to the swimming pool. which on the edges became increasingly fuzzy. who alone knows the way through the wild waters. I won't be. having so much to digest. I don't believe anymore in the existence of hands other than my own. Barren deserts with not even a creek. anywhere between heaven and earth. They are red. A hand reaches into my being.. doing hard routine work under a captain's order. it breaks out and searches its own way. if these hands of mine were only able to reach out as if they were invisible! But all they can do is form an alliance with the keys of a rachitic keyboard. Only other people. light a fire and creep into these little snow globes.and learned energy. In winter we build little igloos. Oh. white and pink. and some of them are even blue. had already gone from matter to a form of purer being. My head stays down. My uncontrollable vessel revolts against the control of movement. The world closes its eyes. changes me forever. from inside. We are always very curious who will be the first one with petals coming out. hanging down from the firmament. but each time when I try to steer . my heart hurts. Not all of them are here anymore. And now. had said Delvina on the Macedonian airport. one breast and two ribs with a bit of pulmon have been thrown into the sea. I was not. before she left again. Pain finds me. by taking me exactly to the places I would never have thought of. who tell us about new roses and new days to come. but I still try to escape with my current dosis of pain. For she herself. yellow. . thin rose petals in honey. I am not. We lick our fingers. I know I have to surrender. In summer we sit under the tree with the deep green leaves. My brain hangs from a baobab tree.. I am not a simple sailor. It is not allowed to look at them before they come out of the clothes. "healers can't heal themselves". too.. Only a pair of eyes is left to look for my other pieces. grinds me. So here I am. The petals we had begun to grow come now out of our clothes. Who finishes first. hanging there on an anchor I has never noticed before. c h a n g e . Someone is pulling up the anchor again. When the last bit of contour was absorbed. We water our roots and run barfoot to our tree again. hopes existing and hopes let go and hopes pierced by the force and fury of that hope itself. In autumn we begin sharing ourselves. We are woken up again by the bumblebees. It doesn't want to go the refugee tracks to Corfu or to the bottom of the sea of Otranto. and we are even more curious about the colours. let the honey melt in our mouth and let enter the rose petals into our blood. A hand. In vain.
which are coming in ever greater numbers in this moment of blindness. one needs more than just one word and all the other words had been sweeped away therefore the poor little word would have no company at all it seemed to like the sea so I went out and let it swim away and off it swam. But these faces are not always in syntony. flaring flames. my eyes kill me. they are swimming around me in circles. I put my hand deep into my skull. seablue dolphins. But it is not a fever which can flow out of my body. Now the heat is blocked. whereas they fear the tranquil. But my fingers are tired. and nobody looked at it nobody picked it up only me. they obey to the gentlest touch of my fingerberries. one of these rainbow-like creatures of hope. The fever is there. pink dolphins. in closer spirals. These people. LABYRINTH SONG erring through the labyrinth erring through the labyrinth round and round and round and round without ever closing the circle I long for my dogs and for the scent of jasmin flowers I find a little pencil like a thrown-away cigarette but the pencil does not write . I have settled inmidst the slum to dissect the palpitations of a soul addicted to beauty. I wanted to reach the stars as well. The alliance does not bring forth anymore sparkling stars. either because to write. to normal countries with normal people who would know what to do with such a strange word whereas I suddenly wondered why everything had became so loveless THE MIDNIGHT OWL HAS PASSED The midnight owl has passed through my window. through then fingers to the keys. and I am her guardian. On the brink of the fisherboat. who I am. I have turned the world upside down. Saranda. bowed down bowed before Love and put it into my pocket at home I didn't know what to do with it it didn't fit into a flower pot and I didn't want to lock it away in a drawer but I couldn't use it. not by breaking the calm horizontality of former Sarandian times.The keys work with me. maybe a neverending newer pain. and then I feel that I have fallen through a gap out of the cosmic order. It has to be. When I forget how I feel. yellow dolphins. LOVE IN LOVELESS TIMES This morning I found a word its name was Love it was lying on the dirty pavement. but flying with the Eagle. tear my eyes out of my head and throw them to the dolphins. as strange as it may seem. by concrete pillars and icecream paper. onto the screen and then all over the world. incredibly suffered for and immeasurably desired. Saranda. but I cannot imagine a pain worse than the current one. are not at all affected by the death of Sarandian horizontality. tired of life and of the hammering pain in where once had been seated one of the most intelligent brains in school. as I am wordcrazy. My lover. Take my eyes away. my life. has at least as many faces as I have. The remnants of Onchesmos are hardly to be seen between the skeletons of starscrapers. life is good. Yet I don't forget that Saranda is my mirror. and I will have it transform me. sleepy Luli in his majestuous whiteness as if he were the Devil himself. Saranda is the most beautiful town of the world. I am bitten by stones. but not by the dogs feared by all the other inhabitants. and I am one of them. When these faces look at each other in syntony. hoping that all these changes and works on my body will finally lift me to a higher level. It will be painful. no euphemistic harmonic clusters of consonants and real vowel harmonies. Be just a sunbeam on my always sun-hungry skin. I step out of my challenging door and allow the dire stones to bite me. more Sarandian than ever. my love.
Jöjj velem. my soul. Be still and feel that you are safe. Of parrots and ice birds and many other birds which I know only as fluffy feather balls in shining colors on the four horizons of the sky. Terribly late. No turtles found for you. Gyere. my paradise bird. you'll miss the plane. You were neither on the beach in Greece Nor in mulató music. Come on. Ssshhh. Mine the world. I'll never write you any letter. it trembles of cold or of fear. If you miss me. Kedvesem. any word. Here is the plane. Last call. Mine the sky. paprikás szalámi or the intricacies of double conjugation. No vases smashed for you. This is the last call. This is a new time. This is your last call. From now on I will protect you. the next catastrophe. Feathers of the hens and the elegant white sea hens. I'll never cry again to songs in winter nights. Yet bare of its ribbon cage. its warmth passes into my hand. not knowing from which side will come the next blow. and call him Kedvesem. Kedvesem. feeling utterly naked and exposed. LAST CALL TO KEDVESEM LET THE PARADISE BIRD OUT OF THE CAGE! I reach into my chest and find a tiny. Be still and feel that all is good. which glide down my wrist. Of hawks and eagles. Are the warm. Mine my heart. black cow watching over her fallen angels. darker than shadows when your sweetheart marries and doors slam closed forever black cow will graze away your pain when quests for love end in nothingness there she walks on lightless rubbish dumps here she is. Nor were you in my diary. pulsating cushion. And your metropolis in my screensaver will never be your city anymore. Here I am still. any poem. I whisper to my heart. and some houses on the beach are white. If you don't appear now. red. You did not walk out of my screensaver or my desktop background. Kedvesem. It's time. I throw my heart like a bird of joy into the blue open.otherwise there is no earth and god there are my doggies from the shabby streets and not all cats and not all gypsies are dustbin creatures and not all my fears come true BLACK COW her blackness grazing the dust out of our souls intouchable queen of the dark appearing at the sky of live risen from inperceptible edges without moos or cow-bells just being there. I'll get a dog instead. It feels so smooth in my hand. Last call to Kedvesem. And if you miss the plane. Last call. I dress my strange heart of mine with feathers in all colors. the next insult. You don’t need a cage anymore. . You will be a joy. my little heart. you're late. I speak softly to my heart. my arm.because there are no words left somewhere there must be joy because a joyless universe would mean a loveless god and a loveless god would be no god at all and a pencil without words is no pencil at all there is live outside this labyrinth there must be . of the roosters and the fat black sea roosters. you will miss me. deep red drops. You will feel joy. Kedvesem. The plane is ready to take off And you still have not appeared. my letters and all this visualization stuff. But mine. Fly. tears or blood? Don’t be afraid. The power resides in the Now. Kedvesem. Fly. Last call to Kedvesem. Drágám.
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