Bad news

​Old men doing their cocksure manipulation again. It’s unbelievable and I’m truly worried for what is to come over the next years. 

We desperately need to find ways to deal with „post fact“ communication in order to make sure democracy, solidarity and tolerance, human rights and nothing less but a peaceful society for generations to come do not fall victim to the antics of some evil old souls. 

Closing time

Train ride at late hour. Tom Waits is singing a melancholy closing time, putting me in the right mood to roam in between thoughts.

Slowly, the train crawls though the grey suburbia of some German town. No housing. Just fields. The odd factory building, at hazy night light assuming an almost portly stature. Around it there’s empty space. Anywhere, yet nowhere. Can’t see what’s in front of me or what I’ve left behind.

… and a lazy old tomcat on a midnight spree, all that you left me was a melody …

It is dark outside. Wafts of mist close in on the autumnal surroundings. Funnel-shaped, they billow in warm, orangey street lantern light. The atmosphere is spectral. Serene. Shapes born from my thoughts gently roam in rhythm with the train’s rattling.

Tom is replaced by Bruce whose words speak my telltale heart.

… may your precious blood bind me, Lord as I stand before your fiery light …

There’s always been darkness.

As well as all exceeding, joyful light. Noone‘s ever known my fantasy world. Of imagination, peace and trust. Of love and rhythm. Of pictures and stories, of playfulness and blinking awe before the vast knowledge to be gathered in this boundless universe. Of an all embracing love for the natural world and the possibilities of human imagination and creativity.

… may I feel your arms around me. May I feel your blood mix with mine.
A dream of life comes to me; like a catfish dancing on the end of my line …

Long gone.

Bruce again. Ol‘ boss always finds the right words to save a life within 180 seconds.

There‘s a way to come to terms with one’s own melancholia. I’m sure. Must be.
Maybe you would understand. Would I?

Aren‘t our ways of being haunted – our beliefs in calmer times, equally vast?

Your demons sure are different from mine. Could you share yours with me? Would you be prepared for mine? In a world we create of our own?

… sky of blackness and sorrow. Sky of love, sky of tears
sky of glory and sadness. Sky of mercy, sky of fear
sky of memory and shadow. Your burning wind fills my arms tonight
sky of longing and emptiness. Sky of fullness, sky of blessed life …

A fooled heart, beating fast in search of new dreams.

​Fear and loathing in Venice Or, No Grandi Navi

Some might say they had warned me and they were right. However, I wanted to take a look at Venice on my way from Trieste to Munich, although I had a foreboding that I might not be alone there on a sunny Saturday afternoon.

Indeed, I was not! 🙂

Lemmings of tourists from all over the place crowded the alleys. Vendors had plenty of “all original” glass beads, Venetian masks, magnets, postcards, ice cream, puppets in robes etc. on display. No alley that doesn’t go without the capitalistic promise of an everlasting memory attached to a fridge or lamp or cupboard or what not… or so the delighted lemmings thought and made me stumble over them in their abrupt group stoppings in front of kitsch shops.

Seriously, how overrated can a place be? Of course, I took most of the nice pictures that every virtuous tourist does. I used my elbows to punch my way to the first row on Ponte dell’Accademia. I waited patiently until I was in line for a quick shot at the Canal Grande, down at Campo Salute. I even waited in line until it was my time to cross the Rialto bridge with a multitude of other people. All more or less happy to be there, it seemed.

What a pity, I thought, that all this once grandeurish town is being subjected to decay and capitalistic exploitation. What  a beautiful backdrop it once must have been to stories like Romeo and Juliet. Or Voltaire’s Candide. Or Byron’s „Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage“: „She looks like a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, / Rising with her tiara of proud towers / At airy distance, with majestic motion / A ruler of the waters and their powers.“

Of course, it’s difficult, maybe even impossible to maintain the “tiara of proud towers” over centuries. And standing in water. Hoards of tourists, however, will only add to the quick and fierce decay, which has only a fading memory of patina and elegance. It’s sadly rotting. Its soul being sold to the multitude of people that are being swamped over the city with each cruise ship harbouring there. To the city itself and to those who adore the “sea Cybele” I wish from my heart that the citizen’s campaigns I saw in the streets will be successful: No grandi navi.