Logging off

Just a short note to let you know that it might be a bit quiet around here for the next couple of days – unless Serge decides to post. I’ll be flying to Cardiff (capital of Wales – no, that’s NOT England ;)) tomorrow morning for a prolonged weekend.
Wish you all a nice end of the week and an enjoyable weekend.

Een Opruff

Elo grad ass mer eng Email an d’Haus geflattert vum Philippe Schockweiler (porte parole vun Déi Jonk Gréng), dee mech op den äusserst graven Probleem vum Zübeyde Ersöz higewisen huet. Deenen Leit, déi elo net direkt wessen, wien dat ass a wat et mat där Affaire op sech huet, sief gesot, dass et sech em eng kurdesch Journalistin a Fraerechtlerin handelt, déi vun der Türkei duerch internationalen Haftbefehl gesicht gett, an déi am Moment zu Schrasseg agespaart ass, wou se Karsamsdes an een Hongerstreik getrueden ass. Firdrunner hat onsen Aussenminister, den Jean Asselborn, hieren Antrag op Asyl ofgelehnt, woufir en vum UN-Flüchtlingswierk UNHCR staark kritiséiert gouf. Och de lëtzebuerger Ombudsmann, Marc Fischbach, huet sech fir den Asyl ausgeschwat, wouropshin den Jean Asselorn d’Asylprozedur nach eemol gestart huet.

Der Ersöz hieren Affekot, Maitre Yakisan, ass sech zwar momentan sécher, dass den Antrag des Kéier ugeholl gett, Hoffnungen déi senge Wieder no och vun der Staatsanwaltschaft scho soll bekräftegt gi sin, mee trotzdeem wier et wenschenswert, wann des Hoffnung kéinnt nach weider bestärkt gin. Op dem Internetsite vun Déi Jonk Gréng fennt een dann och een oppenen Bréif un d’Regierung, deen se opfuerdert, d’Zübeyde Ersöz op kee Fall auszeweisen.

Fir des Initiativ ze ennerstetzen, gouf dann och eng Online Petitioun gestart, déi een hei fennt.

Et wier fein, wann der dat hei kéinnt duerch d’lëtzebuerger Blogosphär verbreeden. Merci.

Raison d’être

Thou can see our immobilized faces,
Thou can see our deadened eyes,
Pain silenced us, but thou can hear our cries,
And feel us suffer in thy unending mazes.

If memories could forgive and the wind could sing,
If angels could cry and fall could become spring,
If pain could be healed with a single touch of a hand,
If a heart could forget and glass could screen sand,
The world would finally be without thee.

Tell us, as thou has forsaken us and we got rid of thee,
What exactly is thy raison d’être in this day and age?

fuzzy view on something pin sharp (or backwards)

tousled black hair and a couple of blue streaks within,
some gold and silver glistening at crack of dawn,
a greyish sweater and pastel leggings well-fitting:
if perfection existed, i wouldn’t be surer that you’re true.

a few tears dashed away by the acid or beneficient rain,
a body drowned in stiff whisky parched but well-preserved
if you are quite ready to acquiesce that the scars are too.

and i,

i’m scribbling worlds away, running over vivid recollections,
rambling haphazardly through thoughts of black and blue,
touching on a bit of nostalgia here and some melancholia there.

strands lost in oblivion, obviating any reminiscence,
someone wandering around, a stray (bullet maybe),
bloviating, blasting, bleeding, slipping back, bogging and
wondering why my fingers burn through my heart’s roistering

while my mind is crying.

O M F G

No! No! No! No! No! No! No! No! No! No! No! No! No! No! No! No! No! No! No!

It’s official, after the dead of Star Trek, it just got worse: the franchsie resurrects with the most stupid idea in Hollywood ever:

The proposed story will focus on the early days of James T. Kirk and Spock, including their first meeting at Starfleet Academy and their first mission in space.

Nobody! No! No, absolutely nobody wants such a movie! Blimey, if you have no ideas, then let the franchise rest!

I would rather have seen Eric Jendersen’s script to be realised, even if that one wasn’t perfect either, but at least it could have worked if done well. This is sheer heresy, no fan would ever want to see Kirk or Spock played by other actors. And the story of their meeting has been told at large in many books.

Think it over!

(startrek.com)

Hush

(Here’s the story based on the introduction proposed by Serge. If you haven’t voted yet, you can still do so.)

The wall was not there. But it should have been, right there under the pourring rain, under the wet foggy cloak that the downfall was provoking. Instead there was nothing, only suspended waterdrops in a void.

Was he losing his mind, here in the typically bad English weather? Surely some missing bricks (and in a bad condition as is) would not endanger his mental balance, not after what he had been through before.

The raindrops intrigued him. He slowly turned his head and looked at the one frozen in front of the point of his nose. He had the feeling of moving through a strange sphere where neither time nor any other law of physics applied. He clearly had taken leave of his senses.

A moment later, or hours – of that he was not sure -, the raindrops were released. The water streaming down his cheeks felt like tears, and maybe there were tears melted within. A drop hit his opened right eye and burst. The driving rain had already formed a wall that made seeing difficult, but the drop in his eye still intensified it all. He was standing in front of an uneasy nothingness, the few things he could catch a glimpse of were washy. As the present was flowing away, he suddenly saw the past clearly in front of him: there it was, the wall. There he sat on top of it, dangling his legs.

He had given himself the solemn promise that he would never become like him. He had promised her that he would never treat her like he did. Who was he? By then, he was merely a vague image of what he once saw as the greatest evil in the world. He was the one that hardly ever vouchsafed a reply to the simplest questions. He was the one he had never been able to avoid yet loathed.

Deceitful peace was everywhere, but he was in front of that wall. He had come because it would have been her anniversary. The rain couldn’t wash his blood off his hands. Nor clear his conscience of her blood. He didn’t want to succumb to grief. His head was turning faster and faster. He noticed he was bogging down, but the sludge was a problem he didn’t have energy to consider. Maybe he was drowning himself into self-pity, though if he could have drowned himself into anything, it would have been the rain coming down in sheets. The drops teemed down so fast they felt like bars, though he was unsure if he was being imprisoned or saved from the outside.

The wall. Dangling. A promise. Again and again it hit him. If he hadn’t abandoned her, maybe he wouldn’t be standing there. He wasn’t even really mourning her. Was he selfish? Perhaps, but the fact that he slightly asked himself this very question was proof enough to him that he wasn’t. A strange demonstration, he knew that, but he had to occupy his mind with something other than the reason why he stood here. It all felt wrong: Her having been abused by him and die. But it was his fault and that feeling was right. He had left her behind when he had run away from him. He had been severely mistreated and had taken the first opportunity to flee. Of course he would have come back for her – that was his empty excuse.

The raindrops began to feel like Santoku knifes. Death was preparing its dinner and his flesh was to be the main course that wouldn’t even be tasted. He rejoiced: he had been quicker than sudden death, he wouldn’t let anyone else decide when it was time to die.

The blood on his hands was washed away by the rain. When the police found him lying in the sludge all that proved his suicide were a few sleeping tablets in his right hand and a broken bottle of whiskey next to it. He had gone quietly. Just like he did a year ago, in the middle of a moonless night when his little sister slept in their adoptive father’s bed.

life is beautiful

i read through my diary. do you still call it that way even if it’s word-processed or is there a special word for that kind of journal? the last entry was on february fifteenth last year. i’m lucky i remembered the password, it’s quite a high security one.

i wonder how i survived all of that. my misery seems to have been abysmal. i had obviously suppressed a lot of it. and now that i remember, i know why. the following lines hit me, because i still remember the day, the setting and every other detail may it ever appear so insignificant these lines talk about: standing next to her, a distance that seems so short, yet is so far. i see her (…) but the distance is getting larger every second. she’s gone. we lost. i guess she was nothing less than the love of my life. no, i don’t guess. i know. ‘accept that she really is the love of your life and move on. you can’t do anything about it anymore.’ i never wanted to accept this advice.

about an hour ago i read wirres.net’s post about memories. the only memory that came to my mind was an image of that girl putting her hair in a ponytail. is that something extraordinary to remember? my subconsciousness seems to have decided so. and i won’t do anything against it. i love that memory for its simplicity and all the feelings that i still have when i remember the scene. blooming! i’d immediately fall in love with her again if i saw her. but i have no idea where she is.

oh, why do i write in lower-case? perhaps because i feel picayune. but i don’t mind, the world is big and there are people with far greater problems. nevertheless i don’t feel nugatory. perhaps because i know there’s someone who loves me and who i love. platonically, but somehow that’s the beauty of it.

it’s around five o’clock in the morning and i’m not tired at all. after an eternity, i feel really alive again, this week has been absolutely great so far. and now i’m wondering that i’m not thinking that the easter holidays are nearly completely over but that there are still three whole days left to be filled with life.

is it really over? finally, so many months later? if not, i hope i will remember this day, it will give me hope. for the first time ever, i want to move forward and my body and soul are not screaming, hitting, clawing to make me stand fast. ‘you do not have to stop loving her, but you should seriously consider altering your love.’ that’s what i was told by a friend of mine. it took me a long time to realize that necessity.

i can see people who know me in real life headshaking and/or being confused. but that’s it. this is what occupies my mind (most of the time) when i’m not in a good mood. and i just had to let it out now. i feel too good to suppress all these things right now. consider me an idiot, forget what you have just read or ask yourself a bunch of questions. anyway, don’t ask me about it. it was hard enough to write about it. and i will not go through some kind of interview answering questions for which i would probably need days to give a complete answer to. but perhaps some of you now know me a bit better.

and now if you’ll excuse me, i’ll let this night die away with a bit of hank jones. when i wake up in a couple of hours, who knows, maybe i still want to leave this all behind. because life is just too beautiful to stick to pain.

Who could this be?

He doesn’t look anything like you would imagine the character he’s playing, he doesn’t like guns, he can’t handle the gear shift in sports cars, wears a lifejacket on a boat and doesn’t know how to play poker (though that’s a crucial aspect of the movie)? And anyhow, I just can’t imagine this woman as his girl.

Oh, and yes, you’re correct, the answer is Daniel Craig, the most controversial Bond ever. He’s not a bad actor, but why the heck did they choose him as Bond? He’d have been perfect as the villain! Who plays that one anyway?

Disgust

I hate him. I really do. Oh, I know, hate is a big word. But I really do loathe him. I’m feeling totally sick already when I simply think about having to be in the same room as he.
What’s the end at the other side of love? Indifference. And I’m livid that I haven’t gotten there yet.