“My soul bleeds and the blood steadily, silently, disturbingly slowly, swallows me whole.” 

Fyodor Dostoevsky

gestern im zug traf ich auf eine merkwürdige person

    ...die mir sofort lang und breit erzählte, dass sie eigentlich tot war. auch
    über ihre todesart redete sie gern und ausführlich. ich dachte bei mir, mein
    gott, es kann nicht angehen, dass jetzt schon die toten aus ihren löchern
    krabbeln und auf der welt herumgehen bzw. wie es in diesem unserem fall war,
    herumreisen. wir sassen zusammen in einem zugabteil, das äusserst schlecht
    durchlüftet war und ihr geruch - ich möchte nicht allzusehr ins detail
    gehen, aber sagen wir mal so: sie roch abgelegen - ihr geruch erfüllte bald
    das abteil bis in die letzte nische. als ich das fenster öffnen wollte,
    musste ich bemerken, dass es derartig von rost bewachsen, ja befallen war,
    dass ich keine chanche hatte, das vermaledeite ding auch nur sagen wir mal
    einen inch zu bewegen.


    ich rüttelte an dem nutzlosen fenstergriff, bis mein
    secondhandmantel von dior - sie wissen, werte freundin, wie sehr ich
    secondhand-haute couture mag - bis besagter altrosafarbener mantel (der mit
    dem schwarzen spitzenkragen, mein lieblingsstück) über und über mit rost
    befleckt war, der sich in grossen flocken von der korrodierten metallschiene
    löste und schon überall im abteil verteilt war. die kleine tote person, die
    es sich mir gegenüber bequem gemacht hatte, lachte inzwischen auf eindeutig
    hämische manier, ein unerzogenes kind, aber bildhübsch, also verzieh ich ihr
    die kleinen unartigkeiten und anstatt sie zu tadeln suchte ich in meiner
    handtasche lieber nach zuckerwerk, das ich für die lange reise in einem
    kleinen bonbon-laden im stadtzentrum von paris erstanden hatte.


    die kleine person wurde so zutraulich, dass sie sogar ihren sitzplatz wechselte und
    sich neben mir niederliess und nach einiger zeit spürte ich ihre kleine
    hand, die nach meiner griff. ihr geruch störte mich nicht mehr, ich war
    davon überzeugt, dass auch ich inzwischen schon genauso roch wie sie....



[lila von rittersbach: reisebriefe]

Not everything is lost

“
After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,
Please come to the gate immediately.

Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.
Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her
Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she
Did this.

I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?

The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—
She stopped crying.

She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late,

Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and
Would ride next to her—Southwest.

She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it.

Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and
Found out of course they had ten shared friends.

Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.

She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering
Questions.

She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered
Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—
And was offering them to all the women at the gate.

To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,
The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same
Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies.

And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—
Non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight, one African
American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice
And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too.

And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—
Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,

With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always
Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.

And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,
This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.

Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped
—has seemed apprehensive about any other person.

They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
This can still happen anywhere.

Not everything is lost.”


Naomi Shihab Nye (b. 1952), “Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal.”




http://oliviacirce.tumblr.com/post/48486628148/after-learning-my-flight-was-detained-4-hours-i

Philip Glass - Opening (from Glassworks)

irgendwo hier zwischen den noten ist meine seele gefangen,
wie ein vogel in einem silbernen netz

Koyaanisqatsi

When night comes I stand on the stairway and listen,
the stars are swarming in the garden
and I am standing in the dark.
Listen, a star fell with a tinkle!
Do not go out on the grass with bare feet;

my garden is full of splinters.


Edith Södergran

“Alone is walking along a street, just you and your city, taking things in that you often don’t take the time to appreciate when you’re busy with other people. It is allowing your senses to be your company, talking to you with a million different voices of how good this smells or how wonderful that feels. It is taking the time to soak in your surroundings, instead of just existing blindly within them.

Lonely is seeing something so beautiful that you feel your heart cannot contain it all by itself, that it is going to burst from the radiance that it is longing to express. It is wanting to turn to someone, anyone, and say “Look at that. Isn’t that wonderful?” and realizing that, as with so many other memories of late, there is just no one there to share it with."

Chelsea Fagan


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