Tuesday, September 29. 2009
Commercial Power
My friends around the world don't understand me. Whether they are US American, Brazilian, Chinese or Japanese, or European, such as Italian, French or British, they all are proud of their countries. Not me. I have never been a nationalist, no pride whatsoever.
Even when I was little, I knew that it didn't agree with me when people were waving flags or playing a national anthem. I couldn't even tell you why. Of course, there is always the German Nazi past, but that's not the whole story. It's just not in my blood to be proud of blood.
But - isn't their always a "but"? - there was in fact one occasion, when I finally realised that I could do it, that I could be proud of the land I was born in.
It was in England, many years ago, when I was watching TV with some British friends of mine. In the commercial break we all, more or less attentive, watched a bobsleigh rushing through an icy rink. And when the bobsleigh had finished its round without losing track for a second, you could see that what had come to a stop directly in front of your eyes, wasn't a bob after all. It actually was a hoover, a very modern cylinder vacuum cleaner.
And into a silence, now that I could make out three quite familiar letters at the front of the hoover, a voice spoke voice over, and suddenly pride struck me like a bolt of lightning, when the voice firmly said: "Advanced Engineering Germany".
Even when I was little, I knew that it didn't agree with me when people were waving flags or playing a national anthem. I couldn't even tell you why. Of course, there is always the German Nazi past, but that's not the whole story. It's just not in my blood to be proud of blood.
But - isn't their always a "but"? - there was in fact one occasion, when I finally realised that I could do it, that I could be proud of the land I was born in.
It was in England, many years ago, when I was watching TV with some British friends of mine. In the commercial break we all, more or less attentive, watched a bobsleigh rushing through an icy rink. And when the bobsleigh had finished its round without losing track for a second, you could see that what had come to a stop directly in front of your eyes, wasn't a bob after all. It actually was a hoover, a very modern cylinder vacuum cleaner.
And into a silence, now that I could make out three quite familiar letters at the front of the hoover, a voice spoke voice over, and suddenly pride struck me like a bolt of lightning, when the voice firmly said: "Advanced Engineering Germany".
Monday, September 28. 2009
nevertheless
while sub-par, flawed and taxing
are nearly choking me to death
the world is nothing but a freeze
that burns my bones, before my breath
has lifted up my upper limbs
my hands directed to the keys
still drawn to pander all our whims
and now my chin is rising
© 2009
for mi
are nearly choking me to death
the world is nothing but a freeze
that burns my bones, before my breath
has lifted up my upper limbs
my hands directed to the keys
still drawn to pander all our whims
and now my chin is rising
© 2009
for mi
Sunday, September 27. 2009
How to Become a Writer
"Completely wrong", she says. "Anyway, I'm not buying it, that you don't remember anything. It wasn't that long ago!"
Should I try to placate her? I don't know how. I really don't know much at all anymore.
"I'm sure, I would remember", she says with a hiss, "if my best friend had a black eye. I had to be sewn up. Five f* stitches!"
When she has fallen into the f category, it is definitely too late, to bring something up.
But she has more.
"You quote Irving seven years after reading the stuff. But you can't remember what we were talking about two months ago."
That is true. But I try to call her attention to the fact that no one would be too concerned about a medic memorizing human anatomy, or a lawyer, who does not forget laws and provisions - even if they forgot a certain conversation.
"After all, I'm a scholar of literature", I say.
"Exactly", she says and puts the phone down.
I would like to ask her, why her affirmation made her cut off the conversation. But whenever she is so angry, there is no use in asking for reason.
I had written a story. A funny one, I thought. But since the backgrounds of the story were true and declaredly "not funny at all", I had attracted my friend's resentment.
That's the way it goes with fiction. Kurt Tucholsky knew it then, writers lack imagination. That's a skill of businessmen, he said. When they're not willing to pay their debts, they have a lot of ideas.
Alright. So I have become a member of this guild, eventually. It doesn't matter, whether you're not satisfied with your own writing, or whether you can't even make a living of it, nothing will disqualify you as a writer. As long as your writing annoys someone.
Should I try to placate her? I don't know how. I really don't know much at all anymore.
"I'm sure, I would remember", she says with a hiss, "if my best friend had a black eye. I had to be sewn up. Five f* stitches!"
When she has fallen into the f category, it is definitely too late, to bring something up.
But she has more.
"You quote Irving seven years after reading the stuff. But you can't remember what we were talking about two months ago."
That is true. But I try to call her attention to the fact that no one would be too concerned about a medic memorizing human anatomy, or a lawyer, who does not forget laws and provisions - even if they forgot a certain conversation.
"After all, I'm a scholar of literature", I say.
"Exactly", she says and puts the phone down.
I would like to ask her, why her affirmation made her cut off the conversation. But whenever she is so angry, there is no use in asking for reason.
I had written a story. A funny one, I thought. But since the backgrounds of the story were true and declaredly "not funny at all", I had attracted my friend's resentment.
That's the way it goes with fiction. Kurt Tucholsky knew it then, writers lack imagination. That's a skill of businessmen, he said. When they're not willing to pay their debts, they have a lot of ideas.
Alright. So I have become a member of this guild, eventually. It doesn't matter, whether you're not satisfied with your own writing, or whether you can't even make a living of it, nothing will disqualify you as a writer. As long as your writing annoys someone.
Friday, September 25. 2009
a fortnight's pun
(Page 1 of 6, totaling 23 entries)
next page »