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on the beach

Sunday morning, a walk on the beach, little rocks under my feet, the green & the blue, sky & water, they are born anew with every sunrise, luring me into a new day, life is good. Which it is. I know it is. Yet, I can not stop thinking about
the feast, we are not willing to share. How many do you hold in your arms, you perfect one? Thousands & I still love you! My love is fierce. Does your green & blue fill them with serenity, while their breath leaves your tender, watery grib? Do they feel you, promise? A life of dreams seemed almost close.
(At least six humans die in the mediterranean every day. I will be here for thirteen days.)
So, while collecting about 50 pieces of plastic garbage on the empty morning beach,  I feel like a steward of the earth for just a second & think about a line of poetry by Wendell Berry,
There are no unsacred places. There are only sacred places. And desecrated places.
Bending over for yet another piece of plastic, I think: How much …
Letzte Posts


Eine Zeitfalte insgesamt, Bruchteil des Sommers, auf dem Wasser verbracht, umgeben von Freundschaft, geschwommen in dem milden Wohlwollen des sich Kennens seit ewig. Nichts kann einen mehr aneinander aus der Fassung bringen. Man hat alles schon gesehen, bis auf den Eisvogel, der mit einem lauten Kreischen zwischen den Bäumen eintaucht.
Wo jeder er selbst sein kann, ohne Rückspiegel, ohne Notbremse.
Die Kinder springen vom Dach, in die Tiefe eines neuen Sees, kopfüber, täglich den Wagemut bestätigend, der eine Freundschaft ermöglicht, die alle Zeitfalten entlang gedauert hat. 
(c) Susanne Becker

Could I hold you in my silence

Could I hold you in my silence, where words no longer mean inner certainty, mean anything.
It is this moment, caught in midair. What is, is good & the only gift, we can offer each other, is to let go of every word - a prison, unable to catch the inner landscape, vast like the mesa, the ocean.
A million words can never say, what I want to tell you. Can never say, what I want to tell you.

(c) Susanne Becker

Writing at the Fundacion Valparaiso in Mojacar, Spain

„…and you too have come into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled with light, and to shine.“ Mary Oliver

I am home from my first writing residency with other artists. In Herekeke, three years ago, I was alone with Miss Lilly and my endlessly talkative mind. There were also the mesa, the sunsets, the New Mexico sky, the silence and wonderful Peggy Chan, who came by once a day. She offers this perfect place for artists, and I will be forever grateful to her. The conversations we had, resonate until today within me. It was the most fantastic time, I was given there, and the more my time in Spain approached, I pondered second thoughts: Should I go? Could I have a time like in Herekeke somewhere else, with other people? It seemed unlikely.
When I left the airport in Almeria with my rental car, I was stunned to find, that the andalusian landscape is so much like New Mexico. Even better, because, it has an ocean too. I drove to Mojacar and to the FundacionValparaiso and I could n…

what i learn here, qué aprendo yo aqui, was ich hier lerne (a poem, una poema, ein Gedicht))

what i learn here 

language is my playground
but also:
i learn beyond language
no words needed
words can be a wall

everything is a poem
a piece of green glass
age is a myth
a rock
a snail shell
my face is your face
my face is a cloud
is a poem
could i put a coat
of my words around you
it would be a poem

what i find here
now i am very clear
the object of art is freedom
the subject too

never for money
always for love
can we share this?
yes: because poetry
is in everything

qué aprendo yo aquí

la lenguaje es mi patio de recreo
pero tambien:
aprendo más allá de lenguaje
mis palabras no son necesarias
palabras como un muro

todo es un poema
un vidrio roto verde
la edad es un mito
una piedra
una concha de caracol
mi cara es tu cara
mi cara es una nube
es un poema
yo me vesti con mis palabras
como un abrigo
sería un poema

qué me encuentro aquí
ahora soy muy clara
el objeto de arte es libertad
el sujeto tambien

nunca por dinero
siempre por amor
podemos compartir eso?
si, porque la poesia
esta in…

Amanda Palmer - The Art of Asking

A few days ago, I finished Amanda Palmer's book The Art of Asking.
It is not written too well. The text is not really one piece, but many many single pieces, sewed together a bit randomly, I felt, while reading. Though, they all point in the same direction. The language is not special, or especially good. It is the kind of language, simple, in which people talk about this and that.

All this was pretty much clear from the start. She is not a writer. But she is an artist with a message. This message is the point of the entire endeavour of her book. To bring across a certain point.
The message is something like this: You deserve to be loved. You deserve to be supported. You deserve to go out there and ask for love and support. You  might be surprised, how much of it you get. Even from strangers. Even from friends.
The message is also: create as many random acts of kindness and love along your life path, as you possibly can. So it is a double message in my eyes: ask for what you want a…

Buch der Woche - Das Museum der Unschuld von Orhan Pamuk

„It was the happiest moment of my life, though I didn’t know it.“
Kemal wird sich bald mit Sibel verloben. Das ist abgemacht und die beiden mögen sich sehr, sind ein, nach den Maßstäben der reichen Istanbuler Gesellschaft, perfektes Paar. Sie haben einen großen Freundeskreis, gehen fast jeden Abend im Istanbuler Nachtleben ihrem Vergnügen nach, und haben heimlich in Kemals Büro vorehelichen Sex nach Dienstschluss. 
Bei einem gemeinsam Spaziergang entdeckt Sibel in einem Schaufenster eine Tasche, die ihr unglaublich gefällt. Kemal möchte sie überraschen und betritt am Nachmittag den Laden, um die Tasche für Sibel zu kaufen. Im Laden arbeitet Füsun, eine junge Verwandte dritten oder vierten Grades. Eine wunderschöne junge Frau von 18 Jahre, deren Eltern nicht so reich wie Kemals sind. Die Mutter hat für Kemals Mutter Näharbeiten verrichtet, als Füsun noch ein Kind, Kemal bereits ein Teenager war. Sie kennen sich also. Eine Verkäuferin, die einmal, Skandal in der reichen Istanbuler Gese…