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Es werden Posts vom November, 2013 angezeigt.


to believe in miracles in the idea that things you really want to happen will happen mist covering the city everything wet though it is not raining you have to be open to be afraid of death ultimately means to be afraid of life it is November                                   after all what kind of miracle get real could possibly happen in November? clothes covering people in layers upon layers until Christmas there will be no people left, just clothes carrying bags with gifts and rain or snow what kind of miracle could happen in November of course one wants to withdraw totally from everything to become human again in the depth of ones own thinking people really cover me in layers upon layers of bad feelings between November and March if you can keep your heart open even in November even under all those layers of clothes of wetness of mist of bad feelings (I saw you in November I did not look at you

My friend Sheridan Hill

is a wonderful person I have met about 18 or so years ago during a creative writing workshop in New Mexico. It actually took place on Ghost Ranch, the former home of Georgia O'Keeffe and was taught by Natalie Goldberg. I adored Natalie Goldberg at the time. And I must say, I've learned a lot from her in regard to just writing, keeping my pen moving, filling one notebook after the other. I learned there to trust my own voice. What intrigued me most though wasn't Natalie, but Sheridan, who got really really excited about everything I wrote there. I was german. I just dared writing in english, just like I still do, and she gave me sooo much positive feedback. We have been in touch ever since, though we actually never ever met again in person. Sometimes we exchange our writing, we comment on our blogs or just tell each other, what is going on in our lifes. She still is a writer and besides writing her own stuff, she does biographies for people, who can hire her. Just recent

These trees drive me crazy - a text about aging

"You think that it will never happen to you, that it cannot happen to you, that you are the only person in the world to whom none of these things will ever happen, and then, one by one. they all begin to happen to you, in the same way they happen to everyone else." from Winter Journal by Paul Auster (his is the translation of a text I wrote in January 2013 in german, it is not a verbal translation, but it is as close as I could get with my english) A few weeks ago I had to sneeze while getting dressed in the early morning, and suddenly I couldn’t really move anymore without suffering the gravest pain. Something had snapped in my body. Something that felt like an electric shock and it shot into my lower back and sent more and more little electric shocks into my right leg. Walking became a sort of limping, while I basically dragged my right leg behind. I dragged myself down our very long hallway to the bathroom by simultaneously trying to hold on to the walls with both h

quiet - rewritten

quiet ‎"When one gets quiet, then something wakes up inside one,  something happy and quiet like the stars." The Hour-Glass, W. B. Yeats I am humble (irony) lets face it I tend to react never just listening never quiet like the stars trying to find out what I feel what I should feel (and while we are at it: I really like to think about what others should do - but thats  maybe a little too personal for this poem?) I want to get quiet  like a glass of water to hear myself to feel myself to see my truth what to do next never to know for sure I want to get quiet until I know what I feel without words until I know what is true beyond every thought humble no reaction © Susanne Becker

shooting stars and fishes

we sat by the fire and waited for shooting stars all summer long you saw many I saw none I never knew what you wished for I wished for our friendship to never end I wished for this summer to never end but I didn't see a single shooting star so I knew it could not be  like I knew everything else in advance and like everything else I did not admit this to myself of course not, how could I have when every shooting star before I mean my whole life, every f*****g shooting star had been greeted with  a wish to meet a friend like you I swam in the lake and counted the fishes eager to find a sign to prove that we were meant just like that meant, as whatever, care did I not every form would have been fine with me the only thing I knew for sure was hooked to "forever" seventeen fishes, none of them touched my belly which was not a good sign fishes should swim so close to touch you if they wanted to come close to being a good sign yo

it was a summer of black and blue nights

it was a summer of black and blue nights stars so manifold it stopped my breathing to look into the sky obviously we were part of a larger pattern we always are in the end so unimportant and yet the centre of what is supposed to happen nothing is ever personal and still it hurts © Susanne Becker