Lobe den Tag

This text has been published on Valley HaggardsLife in 10 minutes, but I wanted to also publish it on my own blog, so here it is again.
I feel like I can not shower enough to get rid of this negative stuff, clinging to my skin, inside and out. Something seems to be lost. There is, for a year now, a dirt creeping up, an emotional dirt, which so far I only knew from history books or stories about far away places. I knew, they existed, but somehow I was naive, I never thought, they would come so close to me during my lifetime, that they would directly enter my heart, my soul, my entire being on a level, that forces me, to confront this shit every day, every minute. It started with the so-called „refugee-crisis“, which actually were syrian people, bombed by their own government and russians, attacked by the IS, trying to somehow make it to a safe place, which they only could on illegal routes, because nobody really wanted to take them in. Not so many, at least. So, all those boats and ca…

„…jeden Morgen mein Malbuch aufgeschlagen und viel gemalt = geraucht, brauche kontemplatives Leben : keine Aufregungen, keine Veränderungen, Beherzigungen des Lamms (Goldauge gerissen mit Schleier); …“ Friederike Mayröcker, cahier
Am Montag las ich das Mayröcker-Buch weiter. Begonnen hatte ich es vor Monaten, es dann aber irgendwie nur selten wieder hervor geholt. Ich  lese ja stets mehrere Bücher gleichzeitig, was manchmal überhand nimmt, auch eine Oberhand über mein Bücherregal gewinnt, dasjenige gleich neben dem Bett, das sich beinahe biegt unter all den Büchern, die ich noch lesen möchte. So voll war es kurz vor Weihnachten noch nie. Wie kann ich mir da, ohne dass es peinlich wird, überhaupt neue Bücher dazu wünschen? Da könnte ich mir auch gleich ein weiteres Regal dazu wünschen.
Die verschiedenen Bücher, die ich gerade neben der Mayröcker lese, sind eine Biografie der Malerin Agnes Martin, die ja auch sehr viele Jahre ihres Lebens in Taos verbracht hatte, dennoch tue ich mich schw…

possibly I am here
or not the point whatever or whatever is possible or not                                        (me in so and so many variations) when the almost winter novembers me I retreat into myself                                   (or sometimes misery) to find the harvesting of truth to be done or lies  from all that living  which was me or not me                             (whatever)
sometimes it novembers in october like this year the harvesting of truth or lies happens alongside my picking of quinces and apples in a grey dribble not yet rain my beloved trees wintering away early the tanned and swimming summer self retreats into
darkness quietude once again
to listen to whatever comes up 

(c) Susanne Becker