Archive for the ‘Anja’ Category

This is a shout out to those of us who have lost a parent (or two),

whether to death,

something divine,

or by ugly human betrayal,

perfidy (things which should not be!).

Love, respect and understanding to us,

we who are left behind,

in pain and confusion,

the orphans, the denied.

 

A Pole once told me that I was lucky to be a szkop in Russia. Castrated? Yes. He said try being a Pollack or a black arse.

Stick with Nemsty.

Indeed, Nemtsy means mute and refers to the lack of communication and comprehension, the language barrier between early Hanseatic Germans and Russians. The name stuck. Yes, some twist this to mean Russians think Germans are dumb. But, really, the days of potato and sausage references are long gone irrelevant (Russians love their Kartoshka and Kolbassa!), and allegations of neat gardens amongst shit-heaps, well… And unlike the Western Allies, Russians and Soviets generally didn’t seek to degrade their German Nazi enemy with collective slurs. Perhaps excepting Damn Germans, and individual (understandable) expletives and profanities which didn’t linger. … Unlike “us”. … We lingered long, woven into the fabric, sometimes freely, sometimes forced by circumstance, surprising to outsiders, quite the extent: Germans in Russia.

… 

Weighed down by reality,

we struggle to find ourselves.

Too tired to dream,

we are old before our time.

Sleep, need to reset, recover…

And those times when you are “lucky” enough to dream, it is a horrible, polluted landscape, negative scenario, with banalities, people and stupid things you’d rather forget.

Imagine instead, what a wet dream must be like, a luxury wasted on stupid teenage boys, future abusers, presidents and kings.

Sigh.

Sick, sad things.

Unfair world and system.

 

“Fotzegeschicht!” she said loudly and with an agitated voice. Not because it was particularly helpful, but because it was appropriate.

 

No one understood.

 

So, you had the idea and determination to follow through,

to do the right thing.

So, you find yourself beset by complications and knots that are beyond Gordian.

And, to distract yourself, you listen to the radio news

and then you realize that it’s all futile.

Humanity is screwed.

So, you get tired.

The best you can hope for is to sleep and remember the past, when there was hope and the possibility of progression (pleasing to the soul).

Waking moments, you pray in indiscernible whispers of pain.

Hoping for some hope.

… 

Thoroughly modern, you like what you like, personalized and unique,

well, at least, you thought so,

until that weird episode of that TV show which you normally like, with the weird guest star who said we’re all manipulated to like things by “the powers that be”, to sell advertizing and products we don’t really need, to suit someone else’s agenda.

It confused you but it made sense for a couple of seconds when you were high one night, vibes still playing on your mind, and you realized that you like *all* the popular things, the same as *all* your yuppie, millennial friends, and that there’s nothing personalized or unique about your likes at all.

And, now sober, that thought still vaguely haunts you, every now and again. And you don’t know, but you pretend you do and, for safety’s sake, you make sure to follow the direction of the style gurus and like what you’re supposed to.

After all, who wants to be so unique

as to be an outcast?

Depleted, in a fundamental way.

Like a cannibal has taken a bite out of my soul.

… 

Long day.

Exhausted.

Long week.

And the promise of more to come.

Sigh. Such is life (would you really want it to be short?)…

No matter the demands, the drain and strain,

I feel different somehow,

within myself, a better place, perhaps,

like I’ve turned the corner

(or maybe I’ve simply gone around the bend)…

… 

Mythical yet fully material entity,

human construct born of dreams.

Enigmatic and difficult to explain,

impossible to define.

The Sphinx.

The who, what and why of its existence meant nothing to me as the police baton came crashing against my head.

Noble endeavors, beaten back into the soil by man and his infinite wisdom …

part of the system.

… 

Да, я понимаю

Perhaps so.

But that doesn’t mean I like it.

Like, blood from a stone, some things just shouldn’t be.

Persecuted and desecrated.

Да, я понимаю

… 

Newsradio and overheard conversations on the bus,

whispers of love in your ear and familial banalities,

the more you hear the more you know that none of it really matters.

The more you hear the more disengaged you become, the more different you feel, the more lies which are revealed.

Talk is cheap, near and far, deafening.

Yet, you keep listening,

ever hopeful that one day,

perhaps,

it will be worthwhile.