18.4.1999 Ryfflihof. I'm here. A human, a saleswoman, no idea. I have a card number, belong to the world again, do a service. I have a face? I have eyes? Nobody saw me. Should I be happy about it? I ...
Retro: With Lillie in the papillorama (from my insatiable, 3, 2003)
The butterflies are like snowstorms. Your home, as tiny as a circus arena, is with tropical plants, artificial water source and red rocks. The temperature is thirty-five degrees Celsius. Die Schmetterling ...
Memory: Gate to the Emmental 2
When I was twenty I hiked on the Egg. Together with Henry, the warmest and most vital person, I've ever met. It was May, but already warm in summer. One of the most beautiful fragrances, that exist, the smell of hay was in the air . ...
Memory: Gate to the Emmental
In October before 30 Years ago I was in the potato field with Clara. The field was on the slope, steeply below the farmhouse, where Clara lived with her parents and four brothers. Claras Bruder Johann trug einen blauen Overall und ging schon mal mit dem Tra ...
Diary, 29.10.2020 (with a scene “the Piano”)
In a state of complete loss of consciousness, I could watch, how someone stretched out his arm several times towards a complete stranger; I. A voice called, I heard it: "Give me your hand, please ... please ... give me your hand .... please ...! ...
Early diaries, 2004
6.9.2004 Blue Coast. Saw the sea. Its noise; a dark tone, like artillery, which bursts on the rock. It was so wild, far out, maybe even between Tunis and Marseille storms. Wind, der die Wellen bis an unsere kle ...
Early diarys, 2004
26.7.2004 The little Iraqi girl plays hairdresser for my hair. A mysterious sermon flits over her lips. Your little world. Your huge little world, spun in my hair. (Get a taste of the Tscharnergut in the day care center)
Early diarys, Olympiastadion Berlin, 1998
Olympiastadion Berlin, 1998 Shadow falls on the stairs, which border on the sky. The places, brown plastic benches, die von weiten wirken wie in die Luft gebaute Springhürden oder rostige Haarnadeln, they are evacuated. It's Sunday. There is a, ...
Words, Poem by Silvia Plath
by Sylvia Plath: Axes after whose stroke the wood rings, and the Echoes! Echoes, travelling from centre like horses. The sap wells like tears, like the water striving to re-establish its mirror over the rock. The drops and turn ...