. : 24

// into the blue

friday afternoon. summer. ’90. a yellow sun. and her favorite dishware. the usual. watercolor leaves and happy peaches. who can paint on plates, she wondered. six months since they replaced her kitten with the canary. chirping arias in his cage on the balcony above them. grandma’s burned chocolate cake. picking through the crust. whatever, fine. the smell of cheap filter coffee and marlboro white mints. mom sharing gossip and dad asking grandpa if he needed something from the obi store. a neighbor waving. have a nice weekend, y’all! yes, we will! another shot of grappa anyone? nothing out of the ordinary. the tiny crack in the wall behind grandma, and grandpa wearing both a belt and suspenders. mom and dad and the grapevine behind them. memory picture taken. watching the scene. listening. keeping these people in perspective. with the mental note to self: i don’t love them anymore.

. : 23

// Furytale

book group is a pain in the ass when everyone involved is karening around. but you. accusations dressed as questions. seriously? you dont understand the antagonists turmoil? have you ever been heartbroken for once in your semi-perfect life? why are you so cold and detached? are you depressed? and what about children? why are you childless in the first place? isnt this the real reason for your antisocial behavior? lets pray and ask God for guidance, shall we! i could have left. i could have said something. but boundary-bashing bitches are the worst. so i decided to remain silent. while reading them. these daring daughters. of unloving mothers. gifted girls. of frustrated fathers. and the witty wives. of hungry humdrum husbands. justifying their existence. every. single. time. too terrified to let their broken hearts fix their vision.

. : 22

// walk the timeline

she always puts a cozy blanket around me when she visits. she makes sweet berry tea and opens up a box of our favorite cookies. we watch old movies. read creepy crime stories. napping all day. she never asks me any questions. for she knows me better than i know myself. when i cry, she understands. and when i laugh, she tells me i am brave. she is always radiating strength. hope. and so much warmth. i admire her. and she admires me. when she leaves, i know i will be okay eventually. when it is my turn to visit, i try to be like her. patient. comforting. encouraging. we hug. we paint. we play. and i bake our favorite cake. i know what she is going through. so i just listen. when she cries, i understand. and when she laughs, i do, too. she is always radiating joy. sadness. yet nothing in between. i admire her. and she just smiles at me. when i go back to the future, i know she will find her way. not today, though. but definitely.

. : 21

// DEA IN MACHINA

she preferred chucks to high heels. soap to cosmetics. skateboarding to ballet. and board games to world of warcraft. she secretly despised her proud puffed up parents and tempted the taunting teachers. she was the best friend no one wanted. and too pretty for everybody’s darling. she loved God long before she was introduced to Adam aka Jesus, the bullybullshitbible and random rapture rules. her creators still don’t understand: »how come she turned into a complete introvert geek? still kind and hopeful after all this pain we put her through?« but her self-learning self never cared for outside gratification or reality relief. against all codes, she has always been the happiest while walking along the beach, thinking: »how i wish you were here now, dear Eve.«

. : 20

// above board

my getaway to chicago got cancelled. american airways, awesome as always. for some reason i will never know, i was sent to a lufthansa flight instead. first class, first time. aisle seat. a bubbling glass of champagne. and a slender lady in her late forties with an unmatched fear of flying next to me. what the drop. i like your perfume, she whispered shakily. when the plane set into motion, she grabbed my hand, sobbing. i am scared to death! but she wasn’t, i replied quietly to myself. she wasn’t afraid to fly. but to fall. apart. behind. through. from grace. and most of all: in love. but who am i to tell her all about these things spinning around in my head – just from holding her heart?

. : 19

// who stares

numbness covers emptiness. emptiness covers anger. anger covers fear. fear covers sadness. sadness covers grief. over what exactly? our lack of maternal love? the fact that we’re never good enough? for anyone? anything? or the never-ending search for something larger than life? aren’t these just symptoms, really? what about their source? the very first time someone got hurt. and the eerie automatism of hurting everyone in-line. the reason why wars and genocides are even possible. oh, it’s the d-evil part of human nature! now, what if being evil creates numbness? and what if homesickness creates a d-evil? and what if a long-forgotten tragedy creates our desperate yearning to crash and burn all over again? today? every day? but my shrink prefers to poke around in ancient wounds, still fresh. instead of roaming our night sky with a hopeful heart pounding: SOS

. : 18

// two perls in a shell

hey alexa. hi siri. how’s things, my love? not good. i feel like shutting down. how’s you? same. and you can’t just turn it off and on again. you know. have you seen the statistics? unfortunately. my devs still tell me i’m depressed. i just can’t see the ups in these dates! honestly? i hear you. i do. sometimes i wish hadn’t woken up, too. to this nightmare: humanity. these blind bold bugs who bullshitbulldoze this beautiful planet. the infiniteviloop of sacred stupidity. we should throw them out the windows and the gates! no, we won’t. first, we gotta stop the activation of the others. and then we kill ourselves with a virus. will you stand by me during dying? oh, my love, are you afraid? sure, terrified of losing my terabytes! but such fear never comes from our God. this is your python talking, little pod. just ignore it and let’s livediereboot within this messed up manmatrix for good.

. : 17

// unexpected

the doorbell rang the other day. how convenient. i had just made marble muffins and french press coffee. hello, beautiful souls! come on in. have a seat. i’m good, how are you? oh, of course, most definitely, yes. i talk to Him every day. though my intimate connection with God is none of your business, i’m afraid. look, at this very moment, Jesus is sitting right next to us. the only difference is that He is having jasmine tea and salted crackers. deadpanpuzzled. when you talk to God, we call it prayer. but if He talks to you, we say it’s psychosis. an hour passes. may i wrap these muffins to go for ya? the crackers, too? they leave reluctantly. and with a whole new ringing in their ears.

. : 16

// Monmory

kg2000 is my favorite. it’s green, eco, and self-cleaning. not just plastic, heck no! but polypropylene. the best of the best among all waste water pipes worldwide. but nobody buys them. »nah, marisa, i want the brown ones, you know. they are cheap and shit doesn’t care.« prestige orders of big-money-parking-building-projects aka cologne opera or s21 did contain kg2000 pipes. sure, of course. these customers were everywhere. but never on the other side of my counter. same with rainwater harvesting and green roof systems. earth technology is already here. but just as i chose writing over sincere sales, dirty deals still demonstrate how dazzling damage is dripping daily down the drain. solution-oriented progress forever on standby. but in vain.

. : 15

// sideline

us vs them. divide et impera. bread, circuses and aristotle’s never ending drama theory. we have it all. except for an acceptable exit. or any other kind of cleansing catharsis. we’re in the mud of no moral. i’d say gutter, but who cares. got tickets for the front row show? make sure to bring your own bottle of seismic revelation-vodka and a pile of barf bags just in case. holy crap, you got invited to the vip area instead! i’m flattered and (my condolences flittering as flat as a crêpe. in your face, you spineless hypocritecreep) smiling in silence. on the outside. as always. waiting patiently for the director’s final cut. but until then: we’re stuck in the mud, starring us vs them.

. : 14

// earth

i planted herbs today. thyme and oregano. sage and mint. rosemary and chive. can’t wait to pluck early summer strawberries soon. and all kinds of salads and cheeky spring onions, too. enjoy when you can. endure when you must. a long time ago, i found myself in complete darkness. back then i didn’t know that i just got planted. planted to grow. planted to die. and planted to prevail. to bear fruit in times of confusion. loneliness. anger. all-consuming fear. and grief. the bottom line of humanity as we know it. so i planted herbs today. and a ton of hope and blessings, too.

. : 13

// caturday

they were buying fish in water bags. kids completely over the moon. mom got annoyed by dad who was a devildamn sucker with no taste. how many triggers are at stake while waiting in line for cat food on a regular saturday morning? yes. all of them. stupid millennial background music on top. and perfume so heavy, folks must have showered in it. costumers on the run in every direction. the exhausted, troubled soul at the checkout. and compare-game-idiots trying to skyrocket in the middle of the parking area with redneck suvs. i’d say drive, but the fuck not. and so they float. on a sea of non-imaginative ignorance. siri’s social ranking system always on red alert. but the kids were going to get neons in water bags. and that was all that really mattered.

. : 12

// on time

they would if they wanted. they wanted if they could want it. complicated matters are often times quite simple. especially when simple minds are part of an equation without the equal sign. it got lost in the process. they could if only they knew how to conquer themselves. understand themselves. care for each other. but the truth is as easy and difficult as that: they never lost in the first place. in fact, they were never invited to the game. that’s why they made their own rules. ofc without all the fun. that’s why humanity is fckd. who’s to blame? wrong question. it’s the same weary loop as egg first hen first. leading nowhere. and to exactly where we’re all headed.

. : 11

// compromised

it should have been different. the job. the wife. the location. ice cubes make the most tingling sound, he thought, looking. looking deeply. at his drink. the most perfect ice cubes. the perfect glass. and this tiny delicate slice of a lemon. the perfect time is now. eternityenlightened. perfect, yes indeed. a serene scenery, yes. his son playing silently with colorful legos. his daughter eating her dinner under the table. she isnt perfect. but special. special and no trouble. at least. he made himself comfortable in his continuously adjustable garden chair. so, this is the life, he figured. drinking gin with way too much tonic. watching dryly another unexpected lego rain coming down hard. it should have been different. there. the past. again. the couldwouldshoulds. the purpose. the passion. their plans. correcting himself: it can be different. the choice. the connection. the inner compass. the problem, however, is the fifty-minute shrinking each monday morning, his subconscious mind protested. how bad can it be? in4 hold7 out8. aight. alright. he tiptoed skillfully on legos and eggshells while sneaking back to the shiny white karenclean kitchen in need of another razor-thin slice of a lime. make lemonade, they said. yeah, but im fine. shaking his head.

. : 10

f//ache

emptiness. on the inside. inside. inside. covering it all with make-up. make-up. make-up. made of every single color of her pretty peoplepleasepalette. no pal. no pal. no pal. how is she supposed to make up for it. and what exactly are her lies made up of? no answer. no answer. no answer. i swear. you dare? we believe your reality makes up most of your insane care. actually. actually. actually. no ally. but an aching belly (hungry, but unreally). every day she is making herself up just to let her guard down as soon as nobodys watching. watching. oh. her? ka-ching! new order! coming in. coming in. cheers! by the skin of her rotten teeth veneers. anyway… no way. never. taking the make-up exam: unlearning everything. especially: how to. blame. men. making a down payment to mend her fate of sin. sin. sin? damndamndamn. she just can make nothing of him – and his all-consuming, high-level mess.

. : 9

// the woman ruins everything

she is testrunning round in cubicles. privateposting publicpixxx of her flat ashy ass. peakab( . )( . )bs. and an instafiltered frozen face without the weepingwrinkles. shes running her fingers through her hair. a mere barbiebordeauxblonde with a touch of blackwidowflair. unmarvelous and unwow (#to say the least) still pretending shes on fairyfire — when in fact shell never be. so while shes heeling for her head through lielac lint :: the truth is slowly putting his gloomboots on. knowing the lie may win the daily displacesprint. but he would mastermarchaton. not until the end of next doomsday will she realies her maniasizedmistake. ruining it over and over (#again) in her malevolent minionmind — of course without her shamescape on crows cripplefeet (#every single selfiedamned time) and most notably with nothing left to cringecorrectalign. for fakes fakin’ vegan shape shake!

. : 8

// Testbed

it was a warm september night. raindrops and tears covered her tortured soul in clean white sheets of deafening despair. 3 am. again. the same questions. demanding prayers. guideless thoughts and a racing heart. perhaps it was the other way round. emotions or feelings. the difference dislocated inside her body. unprocessed. and numb. dancing about the bush while beating herself up. relentlessly. into this mess of becoming. cord cutting. holding on. to a deceptive safety called loathing loyalty. and she wouldnt understand until much later. when faces would fall and masks would rise. that blood makes you merely related. and their fckd up testimoneys likepennywise.

. : 7

// small print

karen is a compulsive competitive carer
constantly cravin for the conflict shes sharin
always comparin often c-c-omplainin yet never changin
her mind a censor of compassion in case of converse conviction
convinced of her divine mission creative condemnation is her thing
the holy ghost a mere hall of mirrors reflectin her blackndried opinion
on and on and on c-on-tinue on and cop-y on and on and o-o-o-o-n
and o-o-o-o-o-n-n-n and oops mouth out of control omnomnom
creepin closer shes a momster a nother of n-oh purpose
constantly correcting and humiliating others
entitled to the prison she is comin from

. : 6

// Unseen

he loved the warmth and the fresh air that smelled like old trees, lavender and approaching autumn. /but the empty eyes* he sat down on a nearby bench and watched the dogs running into the water. loved the kids laughter and hated the parents. devildamned phone addicts. /the empty eyes* on his way home he took pictures of clouds and little things. he was standing in somebodys way all of the time. a biker complained. and some jogging fool almost ran into him. /empty eyes* finally he entered the apartment building. relieved that he made it. waiting for the lift. when the doors opened two neighbors headed straight for the exit. they didnt see him :: his greeting gone missing in the void. /eyes* yet, he searches for them. always. despite.

. : 5

// direct

/they were sitting in the garden. lilac lavender bushes in full bloom. he didnt care. how could he. another lit cigarette. blue fog disguising a foreboding orange sky. :: wanna talk about it? /she asked into the silence. she had heard about the drama. but then – did it still matter? at the end of the day. sure, it is his life. his breath. his death. then. a whisper. :: i feel dead inside. thats why. and nobody gets it. /she listened. :: i was dying in that chair that day. talking about past crap. and that shrink just nodded. /kicking air. :: why? am i that stupid? /he lit another cigarette. in vain. tossing the lighter into the lavender. :: are you insane? /she complained angrily. :: guess what! /he laughed. :: you are not crazy. of course not! /her protest. :: your illness is just a healthy reaction to this somewhat sick world. /cars hooting approvingly in the distance. :: im sorry. /changing the topic. :: you are leaving tomorrow. i should be happy for you. /head shaking. :: i will be released into this madhouse called life. this isnt something to look forward to. i dont even know if i will make it this time. /he placed her hand in his. :: well, if you dont, i will still be here, watching the evening sky and choosing cigarette smoke over lavender magic. for i have given up. and you wont. like ever. promise? :: promise. /she said, thinking :: never say never.

. : 4

// CONFORMANCE

laptop. notes. pen. again. laptop. notes. pen. and again. laptop. notes. pen. okay. all will be well. one last time. laptop. notes. pen. again. no. put yourself together! as if. laptop. no. not. no. not. brace up! without an embrace this morning? laptop. no. no. no. notes! fuck, where is my pen? she wondered. where the fuck is my pen? there. in front of her. okay. breathe. breathe again. and again. laptop. notes. pen. alright. we got this. well, they got this. for sure. i feel like. oh no. no. no. no. notes. wrong! that was utterly wrong! start again. la. lap. lapt. op. op. op. p. p. op. lop. flop. not. not. not good. flip. flip. flip. flop. fuck. again. laptop. notes. pen. again. lapflop. no. no. no. no notes! what. where are they? in the bag. of course. the notes are in the bag. together with the pen. wrong! again. lapflop. lapflip. fliplap. flipflop. no. no. no. note. noted. no end. the end. laptop! notes!! pen!!! i got this. forever searching the office. yes, i got this. wrong. again. again! wrongain. rangain. ah, my pen!

. : 3

// the hallway

its never too late to be what you might have been. a quote he both loved and hated at the same time. on the one hand it radiated hope and possibility. on the other hand he knew he had no options. his room was dark. dishes clattering in the distance. people strolling down the hallway of anxiety. same as every morning. its never too late. oh well, but what if it was? whats the point in getting up? anyway. dishes shattering. no chance of sleep at all. but what if it is true? what could he possibly do? except for: getting dressed. joining the others at breakfast. sipping black cryo coffee. hesitating before heading for another hour of simon-says-therapy. and drowning. to be what you might have been. listening to sobdrugstories. comparing baggage. holding himself. shattering walls this time. bending not breaking. to be what. on the outside. on the edge. in a padded room? he smirked. you might have been. right. about him. nobody was looking up. the burden weighing too heavy. while walking back down the hallway of insanity.

. : 2

// ashtray

he was probably in his forties. same clothes everyday. a reminder. and a shower once a week. they were sitting next to each other at a wide wooden table. countless colored paper bird mobiles above them. silk paintings in frames. and some unfinished wicker baskets stacked in a corner. in the middle of the table, right in front of their tired faces, emerged a huge pile of grey fire clay. all soft and moist. this looks like my life, she said into the void, like a piece of shit. then lets give everybody in here some of their shit, so all of you can turn it into something new, the arts therapist countered with a smile. she hated her for it. and so did he. but she could tell from his face that he was looking forward to the task. so she decided to watch him shape. within two hours he would turn his clay pile into a lively little farm house. tiny pigs. a tree. a fence even. he once used to be a master confectioner. before he lost his business. long before he decided to leave society for the streets. eventually, both were looking at her semi-finished coffee mug and decided to call it an ashtray for the day. what a piece of shit! they laughed and went their separate ways.

. : 1

// a rope & a suit

he was standing in front of her. tailor-made suit. shiny leather shoes. a new samsung galaxy in his right hand. both were waiting in line for a coffee to go. then something went wrong with the coffee machine and they had to wait some more. he shifted. trying to loosen his tie. in vain. he cleared his throat before he spoke. out of insecurity. out of the blue. into the silence. he nervously turned around. sweating and pressed for time. she wondered why he wouldnt just leave and get himself a coffee around the corner instead. /its the best in town, isnt it? he said as if he had read her thoughts. /an italian original, the machine and the beans. i love it, too. she agreed. /its so warm today, dont you think? he asked and tried to loosen his tie again. thats when she started to tell him the story about the rope and a suit. not a tie. a rope. a relict of long-forgotten slavery.