Look what you´ve done to yourself! Just a while ago you were beautifull. A picture of life, lust an happniess. And now look, look what you did to you. Your wonderfull, intelligent eyes, freakishly green, full of curiosity and rouge. Now their dull. Just dull can´t even say more, cowering so far back in your face, like two sunken stars. It really saddens me. Now stop beeing stupid and start drinking coffee again.
Archive for the 'Two for one' Category
First, as the title my indicate, I wrote harmless knife. Showed it to the friend I mentioned earlier. He told me something which was sadly absolutely right. I missed the point. The aim of metaphor writing is to create a picture of those two words. A picture one might not see at the first glance. If you do that, it helps you to find metaphors for situations, objects or whatever which are surprising and still good.
In harmless knife I just wrote whatever came first into my mind about harmless knife.
Harmless knife 2 is a second try on those to words. I tried to get back to what I eventually want to do with metaphor writing.
Harmless Knife:
Knives are harmless. Really. Absolutely harmless. After all it´s people that kill people and not knives. Knives don´t kill people. Knives are for cutting. You can´t shoot people with knives. Guns shoot people, but not knives. You can´t club people with knives, or that you got – clubs. You can´t strangle people with knives. Hands strangle people, but not knives. You can´t shock freeze people with knives, Nitrogenium does that. See? Knives are harmless.
Harmless Knife 2:
Words spat in spite, accompanied by dishes flying right past my head, you scream at me. Yet every curse you throw, a harmless knife. Why the hell should I care? The oceans big! And sorry to tell you that, but your colors ain´t as bright and shiny as they used to be.
This one is of a friend of mine. Same technique I use, just in German. Enjoy.
Wenn ich zurück denke, kann ich es immer noch nicht glauben. Ich hatte nicht erwartet, dass sie an dem Abend noch vor meiner Tür stehen würde. Eigentlich war ich schon dabei den Fernseher aus zu schalten und den Pizzakarton in den Müll zu werfen, als es auf einmal an der Tür schellte. Die Klingel klang eigentlich wie immer. So als ob sie nicht wüsste wer sie benutzte und aus welchem Grund. Oder sie wusste es und wollte es absichtlich für sich behalten.
Also nichts ahnend slappte ich barfuss, gähnend zur Tür. Als ich den Türknauf umdrehte konnte ich sie schon riechen. Es war dieser vertraute Geruch. Der Geruch, der mich immer runter holte, wenn ich mal wieder gestresst von der Arbeit kam. Genau der Geruch, der meine Sorgen vertrieb, wenn sie in meinen Armen lag. Eben dieser es-ist-alles-in-Ordnung-Geruch. Und da stand sie nun vor mir: Meine Freundin, meine Muse, meine Göttin. Alles wie immer…..dachte ich! Plötzlich begann sie zu sprechen, aber so anders. Doch konnte ich all ihre Laute gar nicht so schnell verarbeiten wie sie ihr aus dem Mund vielen. Ich stolperte schon über ihren 2. Satz: „ Ich weiß gar nicht, wie ich es sagen soll, aber du musst mich verstehen.“ Ab jetzt verstand ich gar nichts mehr, außer ein paar Wortscherben, die sie mit jedem Schritt, den sie in meiner Wohnung machte, fallen ließ. Sie erzählte was von „Freunde bleiben“ und „schwere Entscheidung“, von „mal ne Auszeit nehmen“ und „es liegt nicht an dir“. Aber irgendwas war merkwürdig, stimmte irgendwie nicht. Trotz dieses verbalen Amoklaufes roch die Luft so harmlos wie immer…Als hätte sie nichts von alle dem gemerkt.
„One day, I´ll be a full blown restaurant.“ the dreamy chippy thought. The other chippys laughed at him, but the dreamy chippy clinged to it´s dream. The dreamy chippy had many dreams. It dreamed about a new chip pan. It dreamed about a new cook. It dreamed about getting cleaned some day. And it dreamed about becoming a restaurant. With tables, a good cook, a dish washer, clean toilets - without rats and a waitress. „Yeah a waitress“ the dreamy chippy thought while his tragedy of a cook threw in the next load of chips.
He sat in his car an waited. His hands were sweaty and his heart was beating just a little bit faster than it should. He remembered when he got his first. Back then he wasn´t the big shot he was today. And yet he had already some political weight. It was back then when it started. When he got his first black suitcase. First it felt wrong. He felt guilty about it. But this feeling faded, after the second and third suitcase. What was left was the pleasure, the thrill of the forbidden and the craving for more. As he barked and yapped his way up in the food chain of the hyenas he got more suitcases, more regularly. He got so used to them, he couldn´t go on without them. He barley lived through nights, wandering up and down, waiting, desperately for his suitcase. Sometimes he asked himself, if his decision was wrong, to take the suitcases, but those questions dried out as soon as he got his next suitcase.
They sure took their time today. Where were they? Where was his suitcase? God dammit! He needed this black suitcase. NOW!
Those who don´t do it, can´t understand it. Mountaineering. Even if your not one of those people who climb up the Mount Everest, mountaineering still is unnecessary exhausting. The thin air, the cliffy and rocky trails, snow and of course some dangers like falling rocks and sudden weather changes, the list goes on. It is most certainly unreasonable to climb a mountain. But still there is a very good reason to do so. It´s not as you might think just the view. There are other ways to get a great view. It is the feeling, of conquer, the feeling of “I, the tiny dust speck compared to this colossus, did climb it.” it is the feeling of “I WAS HERE!”. It may be stupid, but that´s the reason there´s a summit book on top of most of the mountains, that´s the reason those mountaineers train hard, torture themselves and risk their lives. This feeling of “I was here!” compensates for everything.
I can smell it. It´s not always the same smell. Sometimes faint, subtle almost like a weak perfume, sometimes it´s more like vinegar, strong and importunate, but still it smells the same. Sure it´s easy to see or hear it. Voices get louder, higher. The gesture gets wider and more erratic. But I can smell it. I must admit, even if I don´t like it for what it is, I still kind of like the smell. The smell of an arriving argument.
Well now the first post. It´s an older work new one will follow. Let the commenting beginn…
In a rundown shady bar, in wich the three regular customers, wich by the way seemed to be the only customers, had to plough their way through lingering smoke, worked an unhappy man. He remembered when he still was in highschool. Played on the football team, good too. He had his whole life still in front of him. Today? Well now he stood here, in this rundown bar, wokring day in day out sevendays a week, wasn´t nearly able to pay his bills, his back hurt like hell, was alone, turned 53 last week and was nothing else than a mangy bottle opener for the same three fucking drunks everyday…who didn´t pay their bills!