life bubbles

We’ll do a post-graduation career despair survey! Write down three things you can never hope to achieve! All you have to do is write down your three most impossible, hopeless future paths, and rank them from most hopeless to least hopeless (but still hopeless). / Uh…what should we do again…? Koji Kumeta: Sayonara, Zetsubou-Sensei. The power of negative thinking. Volume 1

in the world of edith bergfory

This is where the world of Edith Bergfory begins; and hers is a bohemian world. I wonder: how long can one remain outside normality, can remain in between, can remain keeping life open? For how long does this feel of creativity and inspiration – and when does the hunger for peace becomes overwhelming? Is it possible to know where to belong to in a bohemian world?

…and the executioner said

And the executioner said, “Thou dost not know who I am, I fancy? I strike bad people’s heads off; and I hear that my axe rings!” “Don’t strike my head off!” said Karen. “Then I can’t repent of my sins! But strike off my feet in the red shoes!” And then she confessed her entire sin, and the executioner struck off her feet with the red shoes, but the shoes danced away with the little feet across the field into the deep wood. And he carved out little wooden feet for her, and crutches, taught her the psalm criminals always sing; and she kissed the hand which had wielded the axe, and went over the heath. Hans Christian Andersen: The Red Shoes

blood of a poet

What is a poet? An unhappy man who hides deep anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so formed that when the sigh and cry pass through them, it sounds like lovely music…. And people flock around the poet and say: ‘Sing again soon’ – that is, ‘May new sufferings torment your soul but your lips be fashioned as before, for the cry would only frighten us, but the music, that is blissful. Søren Kierkegaard, Either – Or

teddy dreams

Es war einmal ein arm Kind und hatt’ kein Vater und keine Mutter, war alles tot, und war niemand mehr auf der Welt. Alles tot, und es is hingangen und hat gesucht Tag und Nacht. Und weil auf der Erde niemand mehr war, wollt’s in Himmel gehn, und der Mond guckt es so freundlich an; und wie es endlich zum Mond kam, war’s ein Stück faul Holz. Und da is es zur Sonn gangen, und wie es zur Sonn kam, war’s ein verwelkt Sonneblum. Und wie’s zu den Sternen kam, waren’s kleine goldne Mücken, die waren angesteckt, wie der Neuntöter sie auf die Schlehen steckt. Und wie’s wieder auf die Erde wollt, war die Erde ein umgestürzter Hafen. Und es war ganz allein. Und da hat sich’s hingesetzt und geweint, und da sitzt es noch und is ganz allein. Georg Büchner: Woyzeck

little innocent things

The most haunting item showed on the recent Tracey Emin exhibition in the Hayward’s Gallery was two or three pieces of baby clothes, beautifully knitted, warm and fleecy, genuine tokens of her love. It, however, appeared that the child had been aborted , and the clothes were all which had ever existed of it, giving it a painful reality. Underneath was written the text “You will never know me but I’ve made these things for you”.