faber at last
m is here and again it strikes me how deeply this friendship is built into us: though we haven't met for three, haven't written for two and a half years, it feels as we're just carrying on where we parted on koh tao beach, like no time has passed ever since.
among all that i know, m is one of the persons who compromise least on what they are feeling, marvelling at whatsoever comes to her precious mind. she just can't go over these creepy little emotion beasts chasing each other within her head, she loves each one of them alike.
the way she talks, soothingly slow, interrupting sentences to let their endings pour into her head; how she grabs her lower lip with her childish front teeth in the meanwhile, curiously letting her pale green eyes wander around the room; how her fingers clutch, her body winds, her eyebrows jump with sincerity, to get a point across, which in this moment is the one and only thing that matters to her in the world: her point.
constantly she's going for moods, soaking up every slightest nuance of what's bothering people around, which thoughts underly the constructions she's faced with, the transport she uses, the places she sees. with senses so sharp they cut through the slightest wrap around reality, m goes for the truth, and nothing but that.
unspoken remain most of her thoughts, and only the vivid lines on her face tell there's thinking going on, which will burst into conversation soon.
we went to this "east of eden" bookstore, which i can really recommend. tourists see the sights, we look at books to understand the world we are living in. i bought m a translated copy of homo faber, which she still hasn't read. it is the key piece of writing to how i felt travelling next to her in spain: old, wasted, over the rim of the saucer hosting those who compete for whatever their environment defines as success. i was twenty-two back then and couldn't stop racing, runaway, that i was.
still i can't stop and still i don't know where i'm going to. if the path is the goal, as they say, mine is growing, tangling, never arriving at a stable and functioning human interface.
still m is sleeping till long after noon, moans in her dreams and insists on her sacred resting hours.
we stomped through the iron faces of the memory void. the jewish museum around us had turned silent and it felt as we were the only ones left, sending solemn kling klangs up the concrete walls. m fell silent for a while after that. she had drawn me with kids' crayons among the exhibits, together we had watched this 1926 cartoon "alice and the fire fighters", climbed up the plastic pomegranate tree and placed our wishes.
though she's an atheist, m's roots are jewish and she identifies a great deal with jewish life. she's growing twenty-two and feels responsible to talk back to her people what she has learned from them. on that i must admit i never get down to an actual point, while she has just written fifty pages on israel exporting surveillance and repression technology it first tested on the palestinian minority.
yesterday night we took two and a half hours to whisper in the candlelit kitchen. words flowed like silver creeks under the full moon and i told her again how badly i was in love with her when we travelled, how i had to accept her allowing no one closer than a certain range of shell around her self.
"maybe we were just meant to be friends?", she smiled. i wouldn't take that and she burst out laughing.
if you love a thing, let it go; if it comes back to you, it belongs to you forever.
that must be how it is, i believe.
among all that i know, m is one of the persons who compromise least on what they are feeling, marvelling at whatsoever comes to her precious mind. she just can't go over these creepy little emotion beasts chasing each other within her head, she loves each one of them alike.
the way she talks, soothingly slow, interrupting sentences to let their endings pour into her head; how she grabs her lower lip with her childish front teeth in the meanwhile, curiously letting her pale green eyes wander around the room; how her fingers clutch, her body winds, her eyebrows jump with sincerity, to get a point across, which in this moment is the one and only thing that matters to her in the world: her point.
constantly she's going for moods, soaking up every slightest nuance of what's bothering people around, which thoughts underly the constructions she's faced with, the transport she uses, the places she sees. with senses so sharp they cut through the slightest wrap around reality, m goes for the truth, and nothing but that.
unspoken remain most of her thoughts, and only the vivid lines on her face tell there's thinking going on, which will burst into conversation soon.
we went to this "east of eden" bookstore, which i can really recommend. tourists see the sights, we look at books to understand the world we are living in. i bought m a translated copy of homo faber, which she still hasn't read. it is the key piece of writing to how i felt travelling next to her in spain: old, wasted, over the rim of the saucer hosting those who compete for whatever their environment defines as success. i was twenty-two back then and couldn't stop racing, runaway, that i was.
still i can't stop and still i don't know where i'm going to. if the path is the goal, as they say, mine is growing, tangling, never arriving at a stable and functioning human interface.
still m is sleeping till long after noon, moans in her dreams and insists on her sacred resting hours.
we stomped through the iron faces of the memory void. the jewish museum around us had turned silent and it felt as we were the only ones left, sending solemn kling klangs up the concrete walls. m fell silent for a while after that. she had drawn me with kids' crayons among the exhibits, together we had watched this 1926 cartoon "alice and the fire fighters", climbed up the plastic pomegranate tree and placed our wishes.
though she's an atheist, m's roots are jewish and she identifies a great deal with jewish life. she's growing twenty-two and feels responsible to talk back to her people what she has learned from them. on that i must admit i never get down to an actual point, while she has just written fifty pages on israel exporting surveillance and repression technology it first tested on the palestinian minority.
yesterday night we took two and a half hours to whisper in the candlelit kitchen. words flowed like silver creeks under the full moon and i told her again how badly i was in love with her when we travelled, how i had to accept her allowing no one closer than a certain range of shell around her self.
"maybe we were just meant to be friends?", she smiled. i wouldn't take that and she burst out laughing.
if you love a thing, let it go; if it comes back to you, it belongs to you forever.
that must be how it is, i believe.
ruebefrei - 13. Mär, 11:18
