Donnerstag, 28. April 2011
Once there was a little boy called Petal. He lived in a small village on the far side of a little, tiny country in the north-east of a huge continent, which constantly swam on the surface of an even huger ocean that surrounded an even huger planet. All the other children in his village were scared of Petal as his eyes were silver and his hair was blue. So it came, that Petal was a lonely boy, because his parents had died years ago when he was still little. As the years moved on, Petal became more and more sad, sorrow filling his heart and soul. He did not like anything anymore. Not even the sight of the most beautiful flowers in his little, wild garden could make him smile – not even a little bit. He always used to sit on the front steps of his crooked house at the end of the smallest street, which led out of his tiny village, just to watch the flowers move in the wind. Stupid flowers - he thought - so weak. Why cant they be like trees? All strong and mighty! Flowers are beautiful, but useless. They blossom one day and disappear the next. Opposingly, trees grow over years and last for centuries! But then came the day, it was a Thursday, when a thundering storm swept over the whole country and in particular through Petal's tiny village. It was devastating! Cows flew through the air and people were hiding deep down in their cellars as their houses were ripped into pieces and their shredded bits carried far away until the landed in the ocean like wooden raindrops. The next day, it must have been a Friday, the village was a pitiable sight. Major Branson's house stood atop of Sergeant Muffter's and no one had seen Charlie's candy store even though everybody especially the children – spent long hours looking for it. The only house in the whole village, which was just the same as before the storm was Petal's. This was quite strange as Petals's house had been crooked in the roof and every soul knew that its wooden structure was not worth ha'penny. Petal was wondering about his house, too, but one thing made him marvel even more. All the trees that had always been so strong and stout were gone with the wind, but the flowers – so delicate in their appearance – showed no signs of harm at all. It took Petal many hours to figure out what had happened. The flowers – so weak and soft – had been able to bend in the wind. Instead of opposing nature's brute forces with resistance and stubbornness to move like the mighty trees would do, the flowers gave in to the superior powers of the wind and played merely more than a lustrous game with it. The same was true for Petal's house. Its crooked roof had navigated throughout the continuous attacks of the thunderstorm like a proud ship would do in the ocean. The poor wooden structure had made it possible to endure the endless embraces of the storm by adjusting its shape and letting bits and pieces of wind run through the many cracks and never fixed holes. At this moment Petal fell in love with the wind. Even though some folks might find this quite strange, it has to be said that Petal in his very nature was quite strange. The wind had shown him that all his anger and sorrow had made him very, very hard and stubborn. He now understood that – even though his life had been much of a trouble with many unfavourable circumstances – not strength nor power were the keys to happiness, but weakness and softness. For the first time in many, many years Petal started to laugh from the bottom of his heart! He roared with laughter so hard that all the other villagers finally took notice of him and his crooked – but intact – house. It isn't hard to guess that they were shocked at the side of both – Petal and his house. It took them not more time than it takes an honest egg to boil hard to count one and one to two. Petal, with his silver eyes and his blue hair must be a wizard of the most mischievous kind! He had summoned the storm and destroyed the entire village. It took all of them a few blinks of an eye more to form into a wild and thundering mob of outraged people, who had lost everything – even their morals. No one knows what happened to Petal on this day, neither has anyone ever looked in his eyes evermore. But there is a myth – only told by parents to their little children in stormy nights - about a blue haired boy, who is sometimes seen when a big storm forms in the endless skies. It is said that his laughter of pure happiness is even louder than the most boisterous thunderclaps.
the entourage (still in hamburg)
Freitag, 8. April 2011
You wake up one morning and realize: you have been run over by a train. It's getting even worse, when you also realize that this same train had been honking and making noise for quite a while before it finally hit you with such a surprising and devestating impact. You could have seen it from many kilometers away, but all along you believed that you have been sitting in this same train and you would be perfectly safe. But what you didnt get was your fall off the train some time ago, while you were fast asleep. You slept so immensely thight that you didnt feel all the rocks and trees breaking your bones whilst rolling down the hill after you had fallen out the last wagon of that same train. So, when you wake up at the bottom of the hill and see that same train is approching you from the distance, you are even ignorant enough to yell out its name in delight. You lift your broken arm to embrace it. It would never occur to you that you have fallen off the night before. But you cant move. The fall has broken all you bones and your outcry of love is nothing more then a whisper - unheard to that same train, which now moves at its own speed having a new conductor since a while ago. The moment before it hits you, you might realize your faulities, but the headlights of that same train are just to bright for you to see it clearly. All the same, the train has accepted its new course and speed, but its breakes dont work properly yet as breaking is more compilcated and difficult than accelerating. After the hit you might feel dead or whatever. That same train might have felt a bump at the bottom of the hill. It might feel sad, too. You still cant move. You always thought that ghosts are able to fly and move freely, but you cant move.
I saw the picture of the beautiful girl [above] at the Triennale of Photography in Hamburg. Out of all pictures I have seen around there this is the only one I had to take a photo of, which doesnt do justice to its beauty to be quite frank. The photographer's name is Thomas Schweigert – from Hamburg, Germany - and his website is called www.purephotography.de. He took this photo for a story about two peolpe living in a long distance relationship. The longing and love, the memory and hurt. So many differnt layers of emotion... so much inability to move. But why?
Have a good time my friends,
„If you – for example – come by at four o'clock in the afternoon, I can already start feeling happy at three o'clock.“ [the fox]