Like Being in a Black Hole

Wind from a Black Hole (Illustration, M. Weiss, NASA) – What a romantic notion!

Missing this special guy – yes this lovely Welsh guy who I have seen five months ago –  is a bit mad, so I will be told by you without doubt. I still dream, not that often anymore, of his touch and our kisses and I am longing for this intoxicating chemistry called lust or love or desire. I wished that dopamine and oxytocin would flood my system and flush me into the sea. I remember his neckline and the blood flowing through his veins, the trust he must have had in me, a virtual stranger, as he slept so well and happily, while I was waking over him and watching his nostrils going up and down. He might sleep like this every night, alone or with a lover, just sleep like nobody else were there, while I cannot sleep because I am overwhelmed by the beauty of another breathing being, lying besides me in semi-fetal position, having one arm wrapped around me. So, I am a romantic, still feeling the touch, still seeing films, these visual memories,  of us undressing and making love, touching and kissing each other,  ALL  time getting lost in a black hole. Condensed and far too heavy is this now, gravity drawing me in and not letting me go. I have fallen into this virtual black hole and spin there like a chaotic thunderstorm coming to rest occasionally, doing things like watering flowers, cooking a meal or writing a text.

Music: Muse. Supermassive Black Hole. 2006.

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Far away throwaway

Poems are like lovers; they fold into each other with great rhythm throwing away the endings and starting afresh. Like my grandmother’s fox around her neck you were wrapped around mine. I felt the smooth silk and remember that not so dead eyes had looked me up and tried to drink me like you would drink your fruit smoothies and never a glass of wine. Poetry schmoetry rests on my cushions with eyes so wide open and sparkling with words not coming out of mouths that are such lazy kissers; such funny little kisses exchanging their tales about pheromones and saliva. What is beauty, did you ask me; and my beautiful body is in demand far more than my mind, you told me with a smile in your eyes and a giggle coming out of your oyster mouth, while my cockle lips got stuck on the rocky parts of the beaches you might have strolled along when you were a child; and even now you might occasionally search for the clams, tasting their flesh and throwing away the shells. No pearl found today, the reader is told; and off you wander into other lands to find a pearl not embraced by vulnerable flesh as no shells can protect pearl or flesh from the sea of desire.


Charles Budelaire/Neonirico. La mort des amants.

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Can One Drown in a Fata Morgana?

Walking through the desert in rubber boots with an umbrella and a tissue sticking in HER nose, she noticed a waterhole quite far away. It was so seductive, so mercurial and beautiful. She had wandered for a long time and was thirsty. The puddle told her softly, ‘Come nearer, I will give you whatever you need and even more’. The nearer she came, the further away the puddle seemed to move. HIS siren-like voice promised her richness, while she was dying of thirst.

The world had been told that she had drowned in a Fata Morgana.


Sting. Desert Rose.


Werner Herzog. Fata Morgana. 1970.

Erik Satie/Rene Clair. Entr’Acte. 1924.

Photo source: Gudrun Bielz

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In Limbo

Her hands are bound; and in limbo she drives in a lemon-yellow limo through space-time and doesn’t feel free yet. Though yellow limos, especially the pale yellow 1970s Ford Mustang, are dream cars made in another time that had promised so much and ended in so much less.

In limbo the Limbanese, these are the people who live in limbo-land, will tell us that limbo is the only way of life; and they walk around binding our hands and minds and tell us that we have to live our lives in rigour and with numbers tattooed on our foreheads. They ask you which number you are.  If the answer is the more refined one, who is allowed to keep two lovers and a house with lemon trees and orchids, then you are a member of the 1% who rule the world.

No sleep tonight, as in limbo she stays. No message came from a loved one.  The line is dead, and telepathy does not work yet. She dreams of lemon trees with lemons so rich and yellow that she mistakes them for little suns. So many suns are out there orbiting around themselves. She wished that her lover were a lemon. She could take a bite, be refreshed and dream clean yellow dreams of juices that flow in other contexts than love and lust and hunger for more.

Oxford Dictionaries. Definition of  ‘limbo’.<>.


In Limbo. Radiohead <>.

Seawhatweseas. Never say never. <>.

Photo source: Christina’s home remedies.

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A feeling of mortality – Allergies 6


Fluff lover wore this soft and cuddly yellow angora jumper, keeping her warm in winter and making her feel like a soft yellow duckling. Never mind that somebody had told her that she looked like a corpse, the yellow not going well with the paleness of her skin. Never mind that her lover, the winter-man, was a lover of wool and angora, of cashmere and finest merino wools. Never mind that he did not mind that every time she kissed him  colourful fibres invaded her body, went into her nose, stuck to her skin and blurred her vision. Perhaps this was an advantage, as she did not see him that well, hidden behind a flurry of fibres that  made their dedicated way into  her system with the message: KILL. Her runny nose showed no mercy; and beauty is in the eye of the beholder, she was told – so runny nose, red and covered in woolly stuff, could not have cared less.

Red runny nose screamed for Vaseline and looked like a shiny example out of a medical textbook. Runny eyes stared angrily red at the world and tried to focus on an image of beauty and reality that had turned into the dance of fibres embracing the world with their dangerous moves. Her airways started to swell and ticklish stuff went down her throat and made her cough at the wrong moment. So she swallowed a bit of her food, while the other bits went down her trachea, normally a place reserved for air pumping through.

If she only could fall asleep, forgetting about fibres and wool, about winter and summer lovers, about spring and autumn loves. If she only could find a way out of allergy land. Saltwater sprays to clear her nose, antihistamines to make her feel better, regretfully having stopped drinking red wine, nebulisers and other fancy stuff have made her tired of wearing wool. Not wearing wool is one solution and carefully choosing a lover not wrapped in fluffy wools a necessity.

Allergies against lanolin or chemicals in wools are most common.

Are allergies for real?

Wool allergy.


WOOL Remix

Implantation. Choose your lover 1984.

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Art does not want to be top dog

The world appears more unstable and fuzzy to us; and so we are told it all breaks down into bits. We are invited to contribute with new ideas about these uncertain times, and we seem to have forgotten that times have always been uncertain. Certainty is an illusion, and uncertainty and chaos are nothing new. Though they are new every time these questions are asked, as this is part of uncertainty. Everything is new all the time, as it is also eternal or immensely old, Methuselah-like.

On my journey I am encountering some nice ideas and futuristic movements that tell me that science is the master of all, perhaps a bit of a utilitarian doctrine is mingled in between or a Buddhist take of all-encompassing life; and we artists are here to underline the idea or make it understandable to the world. Why, oh great renewers of the world, do you forget that art is an idea itself? It is many ideas. It does not need to illustrate or send political messages the way you want them to be sent, as sub-ordinate slave of bigger ideas. So you tell us about democracy and a new form of not so equal equality; and all of you have this understanding that the world has to change by putting all of us into positions already defined. So certain you seem to be in your uncertainty.

Art is master or mistress of all of this, as are science and philosophy or whatever you fancy. If there is a unified idea, then I’d rather see art as top dog, because even unified ideas seem to comply to hierarchies. I’d rather see art up there, smiling down at you and saying: “Friends, art does not want to be top dog. Art is.”

Music: Cherry Poppin Daddies. ‘Masters and Slaves’. <>

Photo source: Gudrun Bielz

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A feeling of mortality – Allergies 5

Dangerous food:

Torta della Nonna is a custard filled cake topped with pine nuts, a delicious tart full of sweetness and danger. After having swallowed a bite of this sweet dream, Anonymous felt a tingling sensation in his mouth. His airways seemed to tighten up; and he gasped for air. He looked horrified. Strangely enough, he had known all along that he was allergic to pine nuts, but he wanted to show that he could overcome this.  So it went on: pesto in and pesto out, Torta della Nonna in and out of  the system. He did not mind the rash, the shortness of breath, the tingling sensation in his mouth and airways, the swollen glands, the swelling of tissue, the sickness and even once the danger of anaphylactic shock. Perhaps, he had a form of  self-hatred, the wish to overcome every obstacle, or he just wanted to prove that he was stronger than all hindrances, be they small or gigantic. Obviously,  he had the wish to die before his time. He saw himself as James Dean, food allergens being his motor bikes.

The most common food allergies are against milk, fish, shellfish, peanuts, nuts in general, eggs, soya and wheat. Pine nut allergy hero had also stuffed immense amounts of soya into his body and had developed Hashimoto’s thyroiditis, an autoimmune disease. There is some controversy about soya and hypothyroidism, so more studies are needed.

Anonyma had always loved the taste of ripe strawberries, squashed and mixed with vanilla sugar and a tiny amount of rum,  sprinkled with almond flakes and powdered with a hint of cinnamon and a whiff of nutmeg. Her mother had introduced her to this sumptuous, reddish and somewhat erotic dessert. So, many years after her mother’s death, she went to a famous patisserie in Vienna and ordered strawberries with cream. She ate them with gusto; and in the middle of the process, she seemed to get stuck. Her breathing got shallow, her skin felt hot, her airways narrowed, her eyes got watery; and she needed the help of the pharmacy located near the patisserie. There is an apothecary in every street in Vienna. It is Freud’s city, after all; even if London had acquired Freud, and perhaps rightfully so, as he had not been appreciated by the Viennese and had to leave the country because of Hitler and his supporters.  A. had developed an allergy against these wonderful, sweet and red life-berries. Perhaps, there was a psychological reason for this, as she had been thinking about her mother while happily tucking into the rich dessert. She saw herself as Ingrid Bergman, who had become an orphan in early childhood. Food allergens had replaced the mother.  Freudians, please note that this is food for thought.

First aid for allergies:

Music: Nonna nonna (old Italian song).  Interpreted by Gennaro Pasquariello.

Film 1: Ingmar Bergman. Wild Strawberries.  1957.

Film 2: Nicholas Ray. Rebel Without a Cause. 1955. With James Dean.

Film 3: Roberto Rossellini. Stromboli. 1950. With Ingrid Bergman.

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