Lobe den Tag

Mojacar Playa, Andalucia mi corazon mi alma mi madre cuando el amor es enconces se trata de la concentracíon, no otro, no te distraigas el mente es un patio de recreo concentracíon un juguete todo es posible te quiero mucho pero te dejaré ir el aplomo no actuar por necesidad la fragilidad de amar y no agárrarse fuerte la generosidad para abrir mi corazón a la verdad que veo cada corazón es un cielo me gusta el moviemento constante las estrellas todo es un milagro todo milagro es un explosíon nada queba como estaba te quiero mucho te dejo ir no sé quien eres el momento ha paso pero tu eres parte de mi mi cara es tu cara mi piel recuerda tu piel tu cara es en mi corazón es el cielo es una estrella fugaz es este poema   Museum Kornelimünster, Selfie vor einem Werk von Heinz Mack my soul              ...

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.         ...

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, 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

„…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 ...

You are like a foreign country. I do not speak your language. Drowning in your eyes, which I can not read. What you do, goes right through me, cuts me open, I think, I might lose myself in you, which is a story about you, which is myself? The first time we sat in a train, you sat across from me & told me about your life. I knew, I would rather not leave the  train again, ever. What feels like home? Is it home? Riding around Berlin in a train, listening to your story, swimming in your eyes away from what I knew as home, but was not. Never could be, because I moved in, when I was a stranger to myself. Every plastic flower on the table, in the vietnamese restaurant, remember? was the most beautiful thing, I ever laid my eyes on. Of course you. The shabby plastic table itself. The pho was very good! Best soup, I ever tasted, while locking myself into your universe. You are like a foreign country. I travel yo...