About the author

It does something

Writing is a funny thing. It doesn’t really do something, you know. There is no magic to the process itself; fingers typing letters, a hand writing words. Writing is not the most brilliant idea man invented in a gazillion years. It doesn’t kill poverty, it doesn’t cure cancer, and it sure doesn’t burn rotten trees.

Writing can do something, it can help you not getting mad. But that is depending on the person doing it. It can not make you a better person, but it does stand a chance of preventing you from going out to kill someone. Many things alike in life can serve as your therapy.

Talking about what you write, hey, that is a completely different story.

What you write can heal the world. It can as well make it mad at you. Writing can make people kill other people. You don’t think so? Someone once wrote there are weapons of mass destructions in Iraq…

One of my favorites on the list, writing could potentially stop people from buying SUVs.

But I don’t look at writing as the new messiah. It doesn’t really do something, you know. What you write makes all the difference.

The country I was born at never became my home country. I am not from a place, but I am going somewhere. And writing helps me a great deal going there. I am evolving, finding, exploring, healing, and I am stunned, sometimes in a wildly mixed up order. Writing is a process of incubation for me. It’s making me grow with experience, and burn up my energy. It does something to me, which is sometimes hard to write about.

I used to have a friend who visited me on a random base. Walking in on me, the first thing he did was looking what I had in the fridge. If he found old spaghetti, he ate them. All I can offer you is, do the same. No, not the spaghetti, but feel free to dig in my fridge. Just don’t talk with food in your mouth.

species

newborn

So beautiful

This night is like a Howling Bells song. For some reason I go better with those nights. Soft rain hitting the streets and putting that special effect filter over everything. People in the bus have this look on their face, a haze in their eyes, their thoughts captured elsewhere but here. A girl in an orange dress sitting in the pale light of a bus station, her eyes fixated on a far spot beyond the curve of the street. So beautiful. And I almost didn’t go out.

nursery

Stop right here

When I was little, being sick had this appeal to me that made it a cool thing. Of course I didn’t like really being sick, but over time every young boy learns how to fake it. You’ll learn that it takes little to trigger that turning point in your parent’s mind for them to decide “you’ll stay at home today”. All it takes is to make them worry just a little.

Rocks at the river

I grew up not far from a river. It was a broad, dirty green water stream, not at all as romantic as in Huckleberry Finn. But as a nine year old you are not picky about running waters. Every place that provides a hideout to stroll around and play with your life is a magnet to a boy.

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Wo der Teufel wohnt

Die kalte Nacht war erfüllt vom Sturm. Sie fühlte ihre Ohren nicht mehr, und ihre von Regen durchtränkten Haare peitschten ihr ins Gesicht. Der Wind blies in ihren Mund. Tränen vermischten sich mit dem Regen auf ihren Wangen. Kaum noch spürte sie ihre Haut, die Kleidung eng mit ihr verklebt. Die Haut war blass und blau. Ihre Hände, zu Fäusten geballt, zeigten ihre weissen Knöchel.

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