Allgemein, Poetry

frz. rosé beim asiaten

Das Telefon klingelt

War die Suppe scharf genug

Ein alter Mann starrt durch seine


In eine leere Ferne

Seine Frau schnattert

Unter ihrem knittrigen

Sonnenhut um die Wette

Mit seinen Gedankenkreisen

Dreht sich dabei ebenfalls um sich

Ganz so wie der Säugling im


Nach seiner Mutter ruft die

Nach Primark Ausschau hält

Auf Wunsch auch vegetarisch sagt

Der Kellner als kenne er

Meine Beißhemmung

Allgemein, Poetry, Writing


An deinem Traumbild

Zerschellten Millionen


Bautest sie in die Höhe

So laut

Stößt du ihre Namen


Aus deinen Vierteln

Erfindest du dich neu

Schaust niemandem

Auf die Füße

Der Weg hierher ist egal

Gleich deinem zerteilten Wesen

Du singst wie

Eine Säge

Von Funken stählerner Hoffnung

Und verglühenden Sternen



Vergilbt und geweißt

Nie aufgeräumt

Kratztest du stets

An Fassaden

Bunt, glucksend, hupend

Vorbei aus Stein




Last night I woke up from one of the weirdest dreams my subconscious has ever shared with me. Maybe it was due to a cold that started creeping up my throat. Possibly, it was the distance of an ocean between me and my home that created a void sucking out clotty ideas stuck on duty and daily routines like outflowing water through the drainpipe of a bathtub. The speed suggested there were actually someone sucking with a force that resembled the urgence of an addict or a really hungry person. What am I hungry for? I hear myself posing that question, as I have so many times. It is my profession to listen and ask good questions. Have I been a vessel for others’ feelings? Have I forgotten my own ‚chimney sweeping’ as Anna O. once put it? The dream had mixed a cinematic experience, Alice’s wonderland, Miss Marple and Tim Burton, creating a vortex of such speed that even my rapid eye movements could not keep up and the ‚guardian of sleep’ (as Freud once designated the dream) kicked me out and made me wake up in the kind of bewilderment Dorothy must have experienced when realizing that ‚this’ was not ‚Kansas’ any more. Had I just killed a witch?

However, I woke up. On a couch in San Francisco. My throat and my sinuses agreed that I was awake. I touched my very own modern Toto to check the time. A brief flash of brightness. 4:39. Great. My lagging mind trying to make sense of the situation was interrupted by the idea of me writing a blog. Even the title popped up, reminding me of that one poem from way back when. Very peculiar (an English word I like very much by the way). Should I?

This year I stumbled upon the decision of just saying yes to things I had not tried before, or at least not for a long time. 2014 had developed into a comatose nightmare that 2015 slowly helped me recover from. I had always functioned but things had not worked out. So I decided to reduce myself to the healthiest core I could find within me. That included taking close looks without taking myself too seriously. This is what this blog will be about.

I am a cis-female. I write. I was born in Europe. My cultural background is German. I work as a psychologist.

I will talk about norms I overcame, new ethical standards I found and books or poetry that accompany me. Topics and language (English or German) will vary accordingly. It will be political. Most likely radical.