Dienstag, 10. Januar 2017
A theory starts forming

Through the numbing mourning

That fact that something's missing

Crawls through the reminiscing

Something that I forgot

Somewhere where I am not

A vital organ of some kind

One I'll never ever find

My feet in the tide?

My lungs in the wind?

My nose in the sea?

My eyes in the sand?

It can't be my heart

For I feel it start

Whenever I think of you.

June 2016

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Montag, 5. Dezember 2016
“Excuse me?” a quiet, nervously high voice sounded through the small office.
The man looked up from stacks of paperwork. The view of the door was normally obscured by his huge partner on the other side of the double desk, but Keaton had called in sick two days ago, and so the view of the doorframe was clear.
“Detective Rye?”
“That's right. How can I help you?” He eyed the girl over. Sixteen, he guessed. A black leather jacket over her blue and white school uniform, and unruly mouse-brown hair, waved in a way that hinted she had worn it in a braid earlier. A dark red scarf was draped around her neck in several layers. Her backpack, which was covered in buttons, was too small to hold the thick red folder she was carrying under her arm. Straight from school, he figured, and checked his watch to see if that fit with the time. Doing so he realised he had missed his lunch break, and also that he was hungry.
The girl looked around, hesitated for a bit and then pulled Keaton's chair around the desk to sit closer to him. She placed the folder on her knees. Rye caught himself trying to read the label on it in search of a name, but it just read Dull, Boring, Predictable.
“I wanted to talk to you about the case of Mrs. Salinger,” she began.
“Case?” he paraphrased laughing. “Not much of a case there, love.”
Her eyes narrowed. Rye immediately felt bad. Especially regarding that he had had the feeling that there was more to it from the beginning. He had definitely spent too much time with Keaton, talking down to a youngster like this. He hated it when his seniour partner did it, and now he'd done it himself. Maybe this time apart from him would so him good.
“I'm sorry,” he said, rubbed a hand over his pale face and caught a glance at a coffee stain from this morning on his rolled up sleeve. “I didn't mean to make fun of you.” Rye smiled at the girl's surprise at his apology. “It's just that the case was closed several days ago.”
“But I think I know what's happened. I know it won't be much of a help to her now, but didn't you yourself say it was strange?”
The detective frowned. Then his memory kicked in. “You are the girl that came past the crime scene when we were called in, aren't you?”
“That's right, I was coming home from school,” she nodded, and extended a hand. “Stacey Machliss.”
He smiled and shook her hand. “You already seem to know my name. So what is that theory of yours?”
“I don't think she was poisoned.”
The detective leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “And what makes you think that?”
“Hang on, how do you even know about this? That information wasn't released to the press.”
Stacey shrugged. “People talk.”
Rye raised his eyebrows, but motioned her to continue.
“Think about it,” she continued, “who would have had reason to kill her?”
“No one said that she was killed.”
He noticed that he had caught her off guard with that. The red folder slid half an inch down her thighs before she remembered to tighten her grip on it. “But I thought...”
“Look, first of all, you shouldn't believe everything that people say. I grew up in a small town myself, I know what folks can be like. Secondly...” He paused, knowing that he telling her would be sort of unorthodox and probably against some regulation, but he would be lying if he said she hadn't sparked his curiosity. Maybe it was fate that Keaton wasn't in.
“Secondly?” Stacey asked.
Rye leaned forward, resting his arms in his lap. “Secondly this doesn't look like murder. We're fairly sure that she took too much of her medication. Whether by accident or on purpose is not my place to say, but-”
“Bloody right it's not you're place to say!” For the first time, Stacey's voice got something like loud. “She would never have killed herself.”
“Did you know her?” the detective asked compassionately.
“I live down the street from her.” That made sense, Rye found. They had only talked to the immediate neighbours. “I sometimes helped her with her garden for some pocket money.”
“Look, Stacey, I know it can be hard when someone you know is suddenly gone, especially when it happens in such a rather drastic way, but look at the facts.” He hated himself for sounding so much like Keaton. Why was he doing this instead of just listening to what the girl had to say? But despite his thoughts he continued, “Mrs. Salinger was old, she was on medication for her heart condition, and she had been through quite something, with losing her husband and all that. It happens.” He shrugged.
Stacey's eyes narrowed again. “You're just arranging everything so that it fits the way you want it. Mrs. Salinger wasn't old, she was fifty-nine, for Christ's sake. I mean, sure she had the heart thing but she wasn't senile. And her husband already died like ten years ago, and from what she told me he was a dickhead. So I doubt she had a sudden fit of missing him and killed herself over him.”
“You-” Rye attempted to interrupt but she wouldn't let him, she had really worked herself up about this.
“Also, if you wanted to kill yourself and decided to OD, wouldn't you rather do it at home, somewhere private, and then wait until shit kicks in? You honestly think she popped the pills and then said to herself, Oh I better check on my husband's grave one last time and bring him fresh flowers, so that she would collapse in front of the cemetery gates for dramatic effect?”
“You done?” he asked.
Suddenly she looked embarrassed. “I'm just saying,” she replied, back to the quiet voice from the beginning of their talk.
“Listen, I'm afraid sometimes people just die. Sometimes there is no bigger mystery to it.”
Stacey's face tightened. “Fine.” She stood up and tucked the red folder back under her arm. “I'm sorry to have taken up your time, detective.”
Before he could say anything more, she had closed the door, and he realised that he hadn't even heard what she'd wanted to tell him.


Rye had used his own car rather than the Astra. He didn't want to raise too much attention, parking a police car this close to a school. He sipped his coffee while he was waiting. It was already getting dark. That was the part he didn't like so much about autumn, all that duskiness in the middle of the day only to be night outside by four p.m. He got out of his car when the first students came out of the building, the younger ones running around, unbearably impatient to leave school grounds, the older ones more relaxed, cherishing talking to their friends before they would all go home and have a nice warm meal. Rye was hungry again.
Amongst that latter group was Stacey Machliss, her red scarf and folder giving her away. He watched her wave goodbye to another girl before they took off in different directions. The detective approached her without hurry.
“Stacey,” he called when he'd caught up with her. The girl flinched at someone suddenly walking next to her, and Rye realised she was listening to music. Now she yanked the earbuds out and met his eyes.
“Detective?” She slowed down, unsure whether it was appropriate to keep walking.
“I wanted to talk to you. About Mrs. Salinger.”
Stacey stopped short. “Did you now?”
He considered addressing this attitude of hers, but actually he felt that she was justified in her tone, so he pretended he had not caught it. “I requested to see the reports of her post-mortem.”
Stacey grimaced.
“While it was true that she had taken too much of her medication, it was not nearly enough to kill her. So that can't have been the reason.”
“Then why was the case closed?”
Rye shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. The case had been closed because Keaton had said so. He, Rye, had believed his partner when he told him about the dosage of medication in Mrs. Salinger's system, and considering all of the other evidence, or rather lack thereof, the case had been closed – and Keaton could add another one to his impressive record. Even though today it didn't seem as impressive to Rye anymore than just a few days ago. “That's complicated.”
“I see,” Stacey said. She tugged her hair tie out of her braid and combed through her hair with her fingers to loosen it. It seemed to double in volume as she did so.
Rye sighed when he realised that was all he was gonna get. “Look, the thing is, nobody really cares. I know it's rough, but that's the way it is, my superiours are happy with the way it got solved and send me to do the paper work, and most likely that's the way it's gonna be. But you were right with what you said, and to be honest, I need to know.”
Stacey smiled. “I can show you.” She readjusted the folder she was carrying, as always, and started walking again. Rye followed. “Have you seen her house?”
“Excuse me?”
“Have you been in her house? Have you seen it?” the girl persisted.
“Yes, why?”
He caught a side glance from her, as if he was supposed to understand everything from just that bit alone.
“She was extremely superstitious in case you hadn't noticed. She always played it down, as if everything was a joke, but I think she was actually serious. Like, she had garlic hanging from her windows. Against vampires.”
“All right?”
“You've seen all the crosses, haven't you? All the nazars, against the evil eye?”
“A lot of people have these in their houses,” Rye gave to consider while streetlights flickered to life around them.
“Please,” Stacey said. “This was way more than normal. I'm not saying she was crazy, but there was a bit of an obsession about that stuff. Not in a creepy way, but she seriously believed in all of that. You should have heard her when she talked about the time she went up to Loch Ness, she sure could tell a story.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I'm trying to say that Mrs. Salinger firmly believed in werewolves, monsters, and demons, that kind of stuff.” She took a sharp turn to the right, into a narrow alley with high walls to either side.
“Hey, where are you going?”
“This is my way home. It's way shorter than going around the whole block.” She kept walking, and the detective didn't have much of a choice but to follow. To the right the wall reached about the height of his shoulders, and trees growing over it hinted at gardens behind. The wall to his left was almost exactly as tall as he was, and he couldn't look over it. The light from the main street faded out, and Rye noticed that there weren't any streetlights in this one. Only at the far end he could make out the glimmer of the next one, even though it seemed to flicker.
“That's the cemetery behind there, innit?” Rye jerked his thumb to his left.
“Yes. Next left and were in my street. Or rather in front of her house.”
“All right,” he said doubtfully, not sure where his unease was coming from. He wasn't the easily spooked type. “So demons. Carry on.”
“She had tons of books about stuff like that. First time I noticed that I was kind of creeped out, but she was always really nice to me.”
“You know this isn't The X-Files, right?”
“Yeah, I know that, but Mrs. Salinger was probably Agent Mulder's biggest fan. So, just for the sake of understanding, imagine you were really into creatures of the night and whatnots, and then you go out over the street to put fresh flowers on your husband's grave, probably dazed on whatever it was she took too much of, and then you see this.”
“Holy shit,” Rye exclaimed, and flinched back before he got a grip on himself.
They had made the corner, and the stone wall had abruptly ceased, giving way to a low gate that led onto the cemetery. Right here, where they were standing, Mrs. Salinger had collapsed one week ago. Even at roughly the same time.
“What the...?”
“It's a vase, but it's slightly see-through, and red-tinged. I've looked at it by daylight. Believe me, first time I passed it in the dark, I jumped way more than you just did. Don't worry I won't tell anyone. But it really does look like someone sitting on that grave staring at you, doesn't it?”
“What's with these candles? How-?”
“It's one of those fancy shrine-like grave stones, It had niches to place small candles. Hell of an arrangement, though.”
“Nice pun,” Rye mumbled, and stepped closer. Now he could make out edges, it really was just a tall vase, flowerless, but with a thick candle burning inside. But the way the light fell on the plants and stones that decorated the grave it did look like a torso. A body half inside the grave and half outside, probably in the process of heaving itself back out, and with too much fantasy the two smaller candles on the notches incorporated in the gravestone could look like glaring eyes at first glance.
Stacey chuckled into her scarf.
“So she comes out here when it's already dark, sees this with her mind entirely set on the supernatural, and thinks... well.”
“And that's what gave her the heart attack. Not some mistake about medication,” Stacey concluded with a hint of triumph in her voice. The lamp nearest to them flickered rapidly.
Detective Rye nodded slowly.
“If you don't mind, I'm gonna go home now. My mum is probably waiting already.”
“Yes, of course,” he said. “I'm not sure if I can change anything about the case. But it might affect how her will is treated, whether she was sane. But I won't promise anything.”
“That's cool.”
“Thank you for bringing this to my attention, though. At the very least I'm gonna have peace of mind about this case now. I knew there was something to it we were overlooking.” He smirked.
“Well,” Stacey smiled, and readjusted the folder under her arm, “the truth is out there.”
And with that she turned around and walked home.

Case closed.


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Mittwoch, 3. August 2016
Raspberry Clouds
“Is it raining down there?”
“No, just windy,” I answered, playing around with the phone in my hand.
“As usual.”
As if to prove his point the wind sped up a bit that moment and caught the edge of my scarf. I tucked it back, and closed the topmost button of my coat as well, effectively sealing it in place.
“Does this mean you wear your hair up all the time?”
I laughed. “Yes. Unless I want it over my sandwich.”
“Mmmmh, remoulade hair,” he cooed.
I had to laugh again, because that stirred up memories.
“We had drinks on you last night, you know?”
“Aw, that's sweet.”
“Well,” I said lamely, “you know us.”
“You should have ice cream on me, too. Wait, you went down to the pub without me?”
“It had to happen at some point,” I said, attempting to catch out old messing-around tone. “I miss you, you know? We all do.”
“I know. I wish I could be with you.” He sounded sad now, and I regretted saying it.
I was silent for some time, because I didn't know how to continue.
“Tell me about it,” he asked.
“About what?”
“Everything. What you see, what you hear. I'm trying to be there.”
I swallowed, but had to smile. “The sea is calm today, which is weird, but pretty. I can't see the beach, I sat down, and the cliff is too steep. The sun's already setting, it's ridiculous. But the light's fantastic, the sea is one huge diamond. Like, the sky is still very light, but the bit just over the sea is this really bright orange and the clouds – man, I wish you could see that.”
“What about the clouds?”
“They're very fluffy, sort of creme-coloured, but where the sunlight meets them they're so pink they're almost red, they look sort of flat, like... like pancakes, but out of whipped cream, and with raspberry jam.”
“Raspberry Clouds – good name for a band,” he stated.
“You should write that down,” I laughed, and then I sighed. “What are we doing here?”
“You're making me hungry with delicious cloud-descriptions, and I...”
“I don't really... know.” He sounded incredibly sad when he spoke again. “Tell me more.”
My heart broke that moment, and I continued with tears running down my face. “The air's not as salty as usual today. Most of the tourists have gone. I drink a lot of tea.”
“How's the writing going?”
“Good.” I nodded, even though he couldn't see it. “No, yeah, really good.”
After we had been quiet for a whole minute, I heard his voice again. “We're not gonna start with awkward silences now, are we? It's just... distance.”
“I know it's annoying you, but you should wear your hair down. It looks nice when you do that.”
I swallowed again, but before I could respond I heard a different voice behind me. Old Mrs. Svenson, who had sneaked up on me.
“Are you all right, lille?” she asked in her creaking, adorable voice.
“Yes, I'm fine Mrs. Svenson.”
“I just came for the flowers... I'm not sure you should be sitting here in the cold, love.”
She looked at his gravestone, and back to me sitting in front of it, and for a while all I could hear was the sea murmuring softly, and all I could see was the date from three months ago etched in stone.
“I'm okay, really,” I answered, and went to get some ice cream.


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Donnerstag, 28. Juli 2016
Storm Story.
I'm not being mean when I say I never understood her. It's just the truth. Like now with the thunderstorm. But I liked listening to her, and I think she liked that.
So now we sat in my car, rain pouring down and drumming against the roof, and she was terrified because there was a bit of lighting on the horizon. She said she knew it was childish, but she was afraid. Like hell. I said that a car was like the safest place you could possibly be during a thunderstorm, and so we remained where we were. We counted the seconds between lightning and thunder in order to see how far it was, but either we kept missing the thunder or we did something wrong. The motor cooled down and so did the car. We saw some motion some distance away, and I don't think it was a person out in the rain, but I knew she'd convince herself that it was some mass murderer, so I locked the car. She looked relieved and grateful and cold. Our jackets lay on the backseat, so I reached for them and we wrestled our way in. The storm got closer and more worthy of her fear.
I actually like thunderstorms, as long as I'm inside, but by then I could kind of see. We scrambled to the backseat to have some more space, and she leaned back against my chest so that we both could stretch our legs. Also, maybe she was still cold. Don't get ideas. I knew she didn't think of me that way. I didn't think of her that way. She was just too spaced-out. And I too down-to-earth. But it was still nice, holding her.
“Do you ever get homesick?” she asked.
“I am home.”
“Yeah, but when you're not home. Do you get homesick?”
I knew she did. And I knew I couldn't possibly understand, which was why I didn't try. “I guess,” I said.
In that moment thunder rumbled, quite loudly, and she flinched. I didn't tease her. I've never liked teasing people.
“Maybe it's the other way round,” I said. “Maybe you have to count after the thunder, until the next lightning.”
“I don't think so,” she said, and right on cure the next bolt flashed and lit up the entire sky. It was awesome.
We counted, but no thunder came.
“We're safe, right?”
See. I never understood her. I'd told her we were safe, and I'm pretty sure she knew this herself as well. The thing with the earthing of the tyres or whatever. Why did she need me to say it again? I had to smile. I actually needed to speak up because the rain was so heavy by now. “The storm can't get us here.
Lightning flashed again and the sky seemed yellow for an endless second. Then the thunder followed almost instantly, incredibly loud. I got my arm around her for real and she seemed grateful, considering that she nudged herself a bit closer still. It was kind of nice, this. Sitting out the storm of the year with my best friend.
“You know, actually it wouldn't be so bad to die now.”
“Sometimes I don't get you, you know that?”
“I know,” she said. “But that's okay.”


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Donnerstag, 9. Juni 2016
The Difference.
I lit a candle and sparked up hope
No more that I could do
Small red reflections in flickering eyes
Made me feel proud and blue

I lit a candle and thought of you
Like I do everyday
Sparked up the mem'ries of when you where here
Made sadness go away

I stand in ashes and look around
With feelings that I fight
Boiled things that were once beautiful
For I lit a candle
And everyone died


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Samstag, 28. Mai 2016
A Love Letter.
With the sweet mystery of dark romantics fading
I prepare myself for dawn
Who'll punish me for dreaming
When loud colours strike me back
And fanciful darkness stops concealing
That's when I feel desires
Longings different from the nights'
Longing for the foamy softness
Of my one true friend once light
For when our lips meet
Things always feel less dreadful
Less routined
And the liquid hope makes me believe
I just might make it through
What would I be without you
My faithful love
Coffee to go ♡


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Sonntag, 18. Oktober 2015
There is this genius poem by John Betjeman called "Slough". I am kind of in love with that poem ever since January (when I was watching BBC's The Office, which is how I got to know of it). I finished school in June, but the couple of months before that were pure torture. I was already so done with everything that I mostly sat in class drawing or doodling - or writing poems.
I wrote this one in style of "Slough". So maybe you should read that first to fully appreciate mine. Your decision :) The link is here. Have it as a belated Back To School present. You'll get through this. I promise.

Looking around I understand
This poem of another's hand
'bout friendly bombs that meet the land
And leave some air

So friendly bombs, come take the school
Where some might think they're born to rule
Turning the brightest into fool
And cause despair

My bombs, I dare you to be bold
Disrupting this pretentious fold
With foreheads hot and tears so cold
We cry at home

End daydreams that are no escape
And end the pencil's pointless scrape
And end the bleached out minds they shape
And burn their throne

And smash the blackboard, hurt and stained
With chalk scars as all that remained
Teacher's been for murder trained
To play with fears

Mess up this mess they call a town
And tear the dirty buildings down
Just leave the dust the rain may drown
In coming years

February 2015

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Montag, 24. August 2015
Open Window.
Outside the rain meets precious soil
My window's open wide
Soft wind is ruffling sleeping trees
The village's fucking pride

Behind the peaceful atmosphere
I reckon a façade
See spite and murder everywhere
which might be just too hard

Just what's your problem, so they ask
And hold me by the wrist
I'm fine, I say , though mentally
I'm sending them the list.

They'll remain happy as I can't
Be the one clearing the fog.
Just someday my window shall be open
And I'll be smelling smog.


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Montag, 18. Mai 2015
Das passiert mir zu oft :/
Ich geh mit dem Hund raus. Den Weg bin ich schon tausend Mal gelaufen, aber heute ist dieser besondere Tag, wenn man auf einmal in Shorts und T-Shirt dasteht und sich erinnert wie man in Anorak durch den Schnee gestapft ist und sich verflucht, die Handschuhe vergessen zu haben. Dieser Tag, wenn dein abiturgeplagtes Gehirn, in dem sonst nur Speicher für Serien und Filmzitate frei ist, endlich in der Gegenwart ankommt und du verstehst - es ist Sommer. Und eigentlich ist es doch ganz schøn hier. Komm, sei ehrlich, Liv, es kønnte weitaus schlimmer sein. Das Gras am Wegrand ist kniehoch und in diesem perfekten Grün, mit diesem kleinen lila Blumen dazwischen, was wunderbar harmoniert, ab und zu eine flauschige kleine Kleeblüte in Pink. Ein einsamer knallroter Mohn blüht mitten im Feld, der eklige gelbe Raps ist endlich abgeblüht, und mein Lieblingsgetreide wiegt sich wie ein hellgrünes Meer im Wind. Die Sonne scheint, mein Hund freut sich, und jetzt wo mir endlich auffællt, dass alles grün geworden ist und blüht, sieht das Tal herrlich aus, mit dem Fluss und allem, und das Wasser glitzert. Das volle Programm. Nicht mal das Kernkraftwerk am begrenzten Horizont størt mich heute. Ich singe meinen aktuellen Ohrwurm vor mich hin und schau dem Hund beim Spaß haben zu.
Und dann kommt ein Traktor und mæht das halbhohe Gras am Wegrand ab, mit lila Blümchen und allem. Mein Hund ist angepisst weil sie pløtzlich an die Leine muss um den Traktor vorbeizulassen, und natürlich hab ich Versøhnungslerckerlis vergessen. Und wenn ich ehrlich bin, ist der Raps doch noch ziemlich gelb.


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Sonntag, 3. Mai 2015
Fünfte Stunde.

Read in English.

Da, in der ersten Reihe, haben wir Mary Anne. Sie passt tatsæchlich auf, was der Lehrer zu erklæren versucht, und macht sich fleißig Notizen.
Neben ihr, nicht wirklich sicher was mit ihr los was als sie diesen Platz in der ersten Reihe neben Mary Anne für den Rest des Schuljahres gewæhlt hat, ist Colleen. Ihr Notizblock füllt sich stetig mit Band Logos. Neben Led Zeppelins Four Symbols schlængelt sich der Schriftzug von Yes! in der Gesellschaft eines Nirvana Smileys. Dazu kommt, dass sie das Intro von Thunderstruck die gesamte Zeit als Ohrwurm hat.
Mit einem freien Stuhl zwischen ihnen, finden wir Nicholas. Innerlich bewegt er Kameras durch den Raum, zoomt heran, filmt durch die Fenster, macht elaborierte Schwünge des Zimmers. Er fordert sich selbst heraus, wenn er ein Regisseur wære und eine Szene einer wirklich langweiligen Schulstunde drehen müsste, wie würde er die Aufmerksamkeit des Zuschauers halten, nur durch Anwendung einer interessanten Kameraführung.
In der zweiten Reihe, neben der Wand, liegt Cals Kopf auf seinem Mæppchen, das er nur auf den Tisch gelegt hat um es als Kissen zu benutzen. Er schlæft, træumt dass er durch einen Wald læuft, irgendetwas suchend, aber er kanns ich nicht erinnern, was.
Zwei Plætze rechts von ihm, versucht Lilian verzweifelt sich zu konzentrieren. Aber sie hatte heute noch keinen Kaffee, weil ihr Bus zu spæt und heute Morgen keine Zeit war, und in der Pause hat sie irgendwie verpasst welchen zu kaufen, da sie nochmal dieses Arbeitsblatt durchgehen musste. Jetzt bereut sie es.
Clara, ihre Freundin, stupst sie ab und zu an um sie davon abzuhalten, einzuschlafen. Aber ihre Aufmerksamkeit ruht hauptsæchlich auf den Seiten ihres Taschenbuchs, das sie neulich im Antiquariat ausgegraben hat. Der Hund von Baskerville.Sie hat die Sherlock Holmes Bücher fast durch.
Hinter ihr sitz Phil. Er starrt Colleen zwei Reihen vor ihm an, bewundert, wie ihre Haare sich bewegen wenn sie ihren Kopf bewegt, wundert sich, was sie wohl kritzelt. Er ist sehr verliebt.
Derek, sein bester Freund, hat keine Ahnung von seinen Gedanken. Er hørt Musik, seine Kopfhører von Zeit zu Zeit richtend. Thunderstruck, von AC/DC. Er würde gern nur einemal jemanden finden, der den Song genauso sehr mag wie er.
Matt beginnt sich zu fragen, warum er überhaupt aufgetaucht ist, wo sowieso die halbe Klasse fehlt. Dieser Tage ist Schule die Mühe nicht mehr wert. Sein Kaugummi neigt sich dem Ende zu und er hat die Deckenplatten schon drei mal geszæhlt, jedes mal mit einem anderen Endergebnis, was genug war ihn zu dem Entschluss zu bringen, seine Mathehausaufgaben nicht in dieser Stunde zu machen.
Wieder mit einem leeren Platz dazwischen, ist Kelly das einzige Mædchen in der letzten Reihe. Sie zeichnet ein unglaublich detailliertes Raumschiff vor einem wirbelnden Nebel mit zwei Planeten im Hintergrund, die Farben schockierend kræftig vor dem Schwarz des Weltalls. Niemand beachtet sie.
Zach markiert die Ecke. Er wird spæter sterben, obwohl er das natürlich noch nicht weiß. Autounfall. Fahrer hat nicht aufgepasst. Er wird unglaublich genervt sein, weil er außer Schule nicht wirklich was gemacht hat in seinem Leben. So nah dran.
Niemand redet, nur der Lehrer, aber er zæhlt nicht. Ein Gewitter kommt næher, Wolken schwarz am Himmel und eine gewisse Elektrizitæt in der Luft.
Ich hasse solche Tage.


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Dienstag, 28. April 2015
Maths Lesson
Kick in, Coffee,
I wake up
Staring at my paper cup

Misty probability
Goes towards infinity
While integrals may look quite smart
They still remain some secret art
I like the point B (2l2l1)
But still get vectors always wrong

The trees that had to die stand tall
In front of me: bricks in the wall

I highlight stuff (it's all pretense)
Still, actually, I'm quite content.
Then I get called, What is it? Go!
Standard answer,
I don't know.
My confidence just disappears
The thought of finals causes fears.

Stop using points in 1.6 -
Language, Liv! - What equals x?

I must confess, I do not care
That's the problem, see, right there.

My notebook fills with splendid things,
Lyrics, quotes and colourings,
Drawings, poems, symbols (four).
Just what am I waiting for?
Five minutes - I start counting down,
seconds (nano, micro) drown,
in - four! - the endless way of time,
I pack my things, I see no crime,
Speaking of crime, where is my book?
Two, the clock, where else to look.
It rings, my watch is going slow,
The lesson over,
I may go.


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Samstag, 18. April 2015
Eltern xD
Vorwissen: Wenn nicht grade 30cm Schnee liegen, trage ich praktisch immer Chucks. Normalerweise bin ich auch eher der Jeans-Typ, aber als wir diese Woche für zwei Tage Sommer hatten, hab sogar ich mir mal einen Rock erlaubt. Früh bin ich unten in der Küche und such mir Essen, damit ich in der Schule was zu tun hab, wæhrend diverse Eltern frühstücken.

Mum: Oooooooooh, ein Rock!
Ich: In der Tat.
Mum: Welche Schuhe willst du dazu anziehen?
Ich: Mmmmh, mal überlegen...
Dad: Nimm doch die hochhackigen, die roten Lackschuhe.
Ich: Oder diese Pinken, die bis zum Knie gehen.
Dad: Oder die Fransenstiefel, fænd ich auch gut.
Ich: Nein, die haben viel zu wenig Absatz, das geht auf keinen Fall.
Dad und ich kønnen uns kaum noch beherrschen, als Mum vollkommen ernstgemeint fragt,
Mum: Welche Fransenstiefel?

Er und ich brechen in frühmorgendlichen Gelæchter aus und ich bastle Mum ein "Sarkasmus!" Schild, bevor ich das Haus verlasse :)


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Freitag, 3. April 2015
Gønnt euch Ostern :)
Und die haben mir 'ne drei in Kunst gegeben.
Ich muss sagen, wie einst Pygmalion bin ich meinem Werk nicht abgeneigt.
Inspirirert von James Rizzi.

Macht das eigentlich sonst noch jemand? Eier anmalen? Ich finde, je ælter ich werde, desto besser werden die Dinger. Von wegen zu alt.
Falls ja, dann sagt mir mal was ihr so malt. Oder schickt Bilder :)

Hier geht's zu den nerdigen Ostereiern x)

Frohe Ostern, gønnt euch reichlich!


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Donnerstag, 19. Mrz 2015
Drei Affen.

Read in English.

Der Tag, an dem alles zu viel wird, kommt pløtzlich und unerwartet. Fünf Jahre lang ging alles gut, und nun fællt ihr auf, dass sie das alles nicht mehr sehen kann.
„Der Bus bringt mich noch um“, sagt sie morgens zu mir. Redet von Alltag und Routine, dass alles immer gleich ist.
„Was willst du denn dann?“, frage ich, und bin mir nicht sicher, ob ich ihr Problem verstehe.
„Ich würd' gern nach Frankreich“, sagt sie træumerisch.
„Nach Frankreich?“, frage ich unglæubig, weil ich mir nicht ganz erklæren kann, was sie da will.
„Ja.“ Auf einmal schaut sie mich an, als ob ihr klar wird, dass sie grade ein Geheimnis ausgeplaudert hat. Sie læcherlt frøhlich und ist wieder wie immer. Ich frage mich, ob ich mir das alles gerade nur eingebildet habe. Sie wechselt das Thema, sagt sie hat Kopfschmerzen, und dass sie morgen auf die Kontaklinsen verzichtet. Wir reden über naheliegendere Themen, die Schule, über die Klausur morgen, und ich vergesse das anfængliche Gespræch.
Am næchsten Tag hat sie ihre Brille zwischen zwei Knøpfen ihrer Bluse hængen.
„Ich kann's alles nicht mehr sehen.“ Sie gestikuliert nach der Brille, sagt, dass sie so hergekommen ist. „Aber man merkt den Unterschied gar nicht. 'n bisschen verschwommener, das ist alles.“ Sie seufzt, und inzwischen nervt sie mich, ich will nochmal für die Arbeit lernen. „Macht's auch nicht besser.“
Eine Woche spæter hat sie die Erkenntnis ereilt, dass, wenn man die ganze Zeit auf den Asphalt vor einem schaut, man überall sein kønnte, ob Paris, Lyon, oder eben hier. Man dürfe sich nur nicht auf die restlichen Eindrücke einlassen.
„Heute hab ich im Bus gelesen“, fængt sie an, „und hab die Haltestelle daran erkannt, wer aussteigt, und das ohne auch nur aufzusehen. Alle machen alles immer gleich, seit fünf Jahren, und nichts verændert sich, wie halten die das aus?“
Was soll ich da sagen? Ich fahre meine Strecke auch seit Jahren, und sehe keinen Grund mich darüber aufzuregen. Das ist nun mal so.
Wenig spæter fængt sie an, franzøsische Musik zu høren, und kommt mit Kopfhørern in den Ohren und Brille am Kragen in die Schule, wo ich über meine Notizen gebeugt sitze. Sie hørt nichts, sieht nichts, scheint keinen Grund zu sehen, die Musik abzustellen, obwohl Lehrer in Sichtweite sind. Ich bin still.
Die Tage vergehen. Sie wird immer blasser, und ich beginne mir Sorgen zu machen.
„Vielleicht“, schlage ich vor, „solltest du einfach mal einen Tag zu Hause bleiben. Ein gutes Buch lesen, oder einen Film schauen, einfach mal abschalten. So kann das doch nicht mit dir weiter gehen, bald fangen die Prüfungen an.“
Sie læchelt, irgendwie müde. „Vielleicht mach ich das. Mal einen Tag lang runter an den Fluss, was lesen... du hast schon recht.“ Sie nimmt die Brille ab, reibt sich die Augen. „Ich ertrag' nur diese Busfahrt nicht mehr, ich hab die Strecke einmal zu oft gesehen.“
Ich trete næher und umarme sie. Sie umarmt mich zurück, fest, und ich spüre, ich hab das richtige getan. Sie læchelt wieder, ganz kurz, und wir verabschieden uns für heute.
Am næchsten Tag ist sie nicht da, und ich freue mich. Im Moment verpasst sie nicht viel, und das bisschen kann sie aus meinen Notizen erarbeiten. Und morgen sieht die Welt schon wieder ganz anders aus.
Am Tag darauf ist sie wieder nicht da. Auch gut, wenn es ihr hilft.
Die folgenden Tage taucht sie auch nicht auf, die ganze Woche fehlt sie. So hatte ich das nun auch nicht gemeint, aber ich will ihr nicht bøse sein. Am Samstag rufe ich sie an, ob sie meine Notizen haben møchte. Ihre Mutter hebt ab. Ihre Stimme ist sanft, leise und fertig mit der Welt.
„Sie hatte vor vier Tagen einen Unfall.“ Schlucken. „Sie wollte über die Kreuzung Richtung Schule, weiß der Himmel warum sie gelaufen ist, anstatt mit dem Bus zu fahren. Ein Auto ist bei rot über die Ampel...“
Worte, zu viele.
In mir gefriert etwas von dem ich nicht wusste, dass es exisiert. Ein riesiger Eisblock in mir. Mit erstaunlicher Ruhe erfrage ich das Krankenhaus.
Wie sie da liegt, blass, die Augen geschlossen, kommen mir die Trænen. Fast eine Stunde sitze ich einfach nur neben ihr, meine Hand auf ihrer, und weine still vor mich hin. Sie hat nichts gehørt, nichts gesehen. Sie wollte nichts høren. Nichts sehen. Nur den Asphalt, denn der Asphalt kønnte überall sein, Paris, Lyon, oder eben hier.
Ich besuche sie so oft die Schule es zulæsst. Ich kaufe mir franzøsische Musik. Ich sehe im Bus aus dem Fenster und starre lang auf geteerte Straßen, aber mich überkommt kein Verstændnis, ich muss etwas anderes sehen als sie.
Ich mache weiter und warte darauf, dass sie aufwacht. Und es mir erklært.


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