‚‚Und was machst du so?”
‚‚Ich?
Ich bin Künstlerin.
Was keine große Überraschung ist, denn ich
komme aus einer Künstlerfamilie.
Bei uns zu Hause legte man großen Wert auf
Kreativität
und war den schönen Künsten zugeneigt.

Nein, nicht Oper und Theater.
Ausstellungen? Fehlanzeige.
Auch nicht Film, Fotografie oder
Schriftstellerei.
Aber, man war den schönen Künsten zugeneigt
und traf sich abends im Kreise der Familie,
um gemeinsam seine Hobbies zu pflegen.

Meine Mutter strickte.
Und strickte und strickte,
Pullover, Pullunder, Mützen, Schals, Handschuhe,
nee, keine Socken,
aber sie strickte Kleider
für meine Barbiepuppen
und klitzekleine Jäckchen mit klitzekleinen Ärmelchen,
die saßen wie angegossen
und weckten den Neid meiner Barbiespielfreundinnen.

Und
sie sammelte,
vornehmlich
Porzellankatzen.
Denen baute sie kleine Regale
und stellte sie somit
der interessierten Öffentlichkeit
zur Verfügung.

Mein Bruder war eher der sportliche Typ,
Fußball, was auch sonst.
Seine Sport- und Kunstfertigkeit bestand darin,
sich vor dem Besuch eines Spiels
die Farben seine Lieblingsvereins
ins Gesicht zu malen -
Borussia Mönchengladbach, was auch sonst,
denn das war Familientradition.
Seine Abende verbrachte er damit,
gemeinsam mit André Lütke-Bohmert
die Vereinswappen der 1. Bundesliga
abzupauschen,
um sie dann auszumalen.

Dabei durfte ich helfen,
denn ausmalen,
das wurde selbst einer 5jährigen zugetraut.
Verräterin, die ich jedoch war,
malte ich am liebsten
den 1. FC Köln,
denn der war rot und rot liebte ich,
und außerdem liebte ich Pierre Littbarski,
denn der war hübsch, fand ich.

Hübsch
war auch das, was mein Vater so fabrizierte,
z.B. wenn er malte.
Abend für Abend für Abend
malte er Bild für Bild für Bild.
Malen nach Zahlen, wohlgemerkt,
was mir später unglaublich peinlich war,
denn er besaß den Größenwahn,
diese Werke auch noch aufzuhängen,
im Wohnzimmer,
neben die Porzellankatzen!

Sein Lieblingsmotiv
waren Schwarz-Weiß-Bilder
von 50er-Jahre-Liebespärchen
- ich sag nur Kuschelrock -
und die gab es in zig verschiedenen Ausführungen,
in unserem Wohnzimmer,
neben den Porzellankatzen
und den Bahnhöfen,
auch die ein Produkt
der Feierabendentspannung meines Vaters.

Denn sein größter Traum war - was auch sonst -
eine Modelleisenbahn.
Die war jedoch ziemlich kostspielig,
also dachte er sich,
fängt er erst mal mit den Bahnhöfen an,
denn die waren schließlich unerlässlich.

Filigrane, frickelige und liebevollst hergestellte
Miniaturbauwerke,
Klebstoff auf Zahnstochern
und Farbe auf klitzekleinen Pinselchen,
BAHNHÖFE:
München, Hamburg, Bremen, Bonn,
Frankfurt, Düsseldorf und Köln,
aufgereiht auf dem Wohnzimmerschrank,
in dem Bücher standen von
Heinz Konsalik,
Harold Robbins,
Rosamunde Pilcher und
Marie
Luise
Fischer...

Und ich
hab mich so geschämt....
ich hab gelacht und mich lustig gemacht,
wenn ich Freundinnen zu Besuch hatte,
vor allem die mit dem
Klavier-, Klarinetten- und Reitunterricht,
deren Brüder tatsächlich Sport trieben
und nicht nur dabei zuschauten,
und die schon längst nicht mehr neidisch waren auf mich,
denn die glorreiche Zeit der Barbies,
die lag hinter uns.

Jetzt gab es Step-Tanzen
Für 75 Mark im Monat,
Standard-Tanzkurs
für Anfänger, Fortgeschrittene, Bronze, Silber, Gold,
Skiferien in der Schweiz und
Theater,
Lesungen
und Oper.

Schöne Dinge allesamt,
keine Frage...
aber nur ICH
komme aus einer Künstlerfamilie,
und deshalb bin ich heute auch Künstlerin.

Und was machst du so?”

This is a sad poem.
I’m truly sorry,
but this
is again a sad poem,
cuz sadness doesn’t scare me,
I’ve said that before.
I hope
it doesn’t scare you either.

Or are you one of those people
who rather want to see me smile?
Which is ironic, c’mon!
Cuz I smile a lot!

I once said to my friend who’s from the UK:
‚‚I don’t wanna be one of those grumpy looking Germans,
those Berliners who run you over on the street
and bark at you when they speak!
On their face this look of
frustration, bitterness and mistrust.”
And I said to her:
‚‚I guess, I wanna be a smiling German...”

And yes, I smile a lot
and it’s not even fake.
You can see it,
because I smile with my whole face,
mouth and cheeks and eyes
and even my ears, can you see them glow?

I smile at the people on the street, the bus,
the supermarket, bakery, Karstadt, Rossmann, Bioladen
and sometimes
they smile back.
And then my heart makes a little hop,
I can feel it.
And sometimes
I make a little hop then, too,
like a happy 7-year old
coming home from school
and eating the Milchschnitte
she was craving for all day long.

‚‚So, when comes the sadness?”
you might say.

The sadness comes
mostly
on a sunny Sunday afternoon.
A day bright and shiny
when everyone else is cheering and happy,
running out of the house 10 seconds
after they got up und could find
their sunglasses and a blanket
grab some food, Badminton rackets and a football.

I
hate those days
and mostly
I try to avoid leaving the house then,
even if friends call and ask me out
and wanna have a picnic or such.
I prefer to hide inside
and watch the sun wander over the sky,
first shining brightly into my face,
singing sweetly:
‚‚Move your fucking ass, girl!”

Until she gives up
and rather throws her tempting beam
into my neighbors’ window
and I’m sure
they’re gonna be much more cooperative.

Because Sundays
are meant to be happy days,
family days, children days, couple days
or at least first or second date days,
friends days
one or two or a whole bunch of friends.
Meeting in the park spontaneously
laughing and eating and drinking,
forgetting all their worries
and especially
the Monday, that is lurking behind the next corner.

So what in the name
of the holy spirit of fucking craziness
is wrong with me?!
Why do I play the lost and lonely puppy?
Why don’t I just call someone
and play ping pong or eat ice cream
or at least ride my bike a little?

I rather take a workshift on those days,
riding home fast afterwards,
telling myself:
‚‚I need to rest now, I can’t go out!”
Secretly wishing
that the sun
stays a little longer.

Because Monday
is my day off,
Monday is MY day
and when I get up,
I look for my sunglasses and a blanket,
grab some food and my bike
to enjoy a day in the sun alone,
happy
that the rest of the world
is working today.

slow
is not who I am
late
is not what I like

but still my hands hurt
tired of grabbing where there’s nothing real to grab for

slow
is not who I am
late
is not what I like

but still my eyes lose focus
tired of looking where there’s nothing real to look at

panic
is what I feel when I am just
slow, late and tired

but tell me
is there something real after all?
something firm and palpable
sharp and clear?
something that makes my heart race
just because racing is so much fun
no better reason needed

if I could choose my life
it would be like
COLORED LIGHTS
like Christmas lights or the lights at the side of the tarmac
when your plane is ready for take-off

once I saw lights in the middle of the Atlantic
somewhere where no lights were supposed to be
they glimmered like dying embers
of a fire once burning high and mighty
embers so promising
even if pretending to be
shy and humble

but oh, you should know better than that
cuz it takes only one tiny little spark
a split second of a breeze
that somehow got lost
in this middle of nowhere...
and shy becomes roaring
and humbleness will keep the pie herself!

slow
is not who I am
late
is not what I like

but still my heart aches
tired of pumping blood into places that are nothing else
but functioning

slow
is not who I am
late
is not what I like

but still my
...
but still my
...
but still my
...

argh!
this story is so OLD
it’s old and worn out like a record
THIS RECORD
is not who I am!

because I am NOT slow
and I am NOT late
I am just living in a
parallel galaxy
with my own rules
my own gods
and my own fucking rhythm

in my galaxy
the main task for everybody would be
to have fun
yeah, you think that’s easy
but have you tried that?
just plain and simple fun
in school the most important subject would be
time-wasting
and for productivity
you would get a bad grade

for multi-tasking
you would get a life sentence
the punishment of course would be
something like bird watching
on a nice riverside
or what about
just breathing and sitting still?

and if you think that’s easy
and if you think you wouldn’t panic at all
and if you think slow and late
is what you have in your back pocket

if that is the case
please tell me
why the fuck do I still feel so lonely
on my little sparkling island?

there’s one thing
that I don’t like about Seattle
and I know it’s a shame, because the one thing
that I don’t like about Seattle
is what is actually the most appealing, is:
the hills

and I tell you WHY I don’t like them
the hills
it is because
I’m a cyclist
a somehow frenetic cyclist
not like Tour de France cyclists with their super technical bikes
and their tight pants and fancy glasses
who on flat ground can reach a speed of over 40 mph
and climb the Alps and the Pyrenees like little flea,
which is why you call them also
mountain flea

no, that’s not me
a mountain flea
even if with my 5 feet 1 people sometimes
mistake me for a flea
but I don’t like hills
because I’m a Berliner which means I am used to
super flat, super fast streets
where even with a 3 gear ridiculous looking so called ‚‚city bike”
you can rock the streets
as if there was no tomorrow

which sometimes can lead you into dangerous situations
when you think way to high of yourself
and forget about the vulnerability
of a city cyclist
the vulnerability
that once cost me a broken arm
and made my lover force me to finally wear a helmet
him, coming from a city - Seattle -
where wearing a helmet for cyclists is prescribed by law
which absolutely makes sense, BECAUSE
of the hills

there’s only one thing I like about hills
and that is
going down, far far down
like one day in San Francisco
when I went over the bridge that they call golden
which is a little confusing
because actually it is red

after passing the bridge
I turned right and down to Sausalito
so far down, so fast and far down
feeling a rush in my body that I am sure cannot be caused by ANY existing drug in the world
screaming of joy!
even if it was only a silent scream
because I’m not a screamer

unfortunately
after 10 to 15 minutes of silent screaming
I reached the bottom of the hill
the end of the hill
which - in San Francisco as well as in Seattle -
always
is the beginning
of another

so I was kinda stuck there
because as much as I love going downhill
I hate going up
because I’m not speaking of tiny little Northern German hills
where you can only pretend to be out of breath and - to be honest -
your super fancy 24 gear carbon bike...
looks a little ridiculous
I am speaking of actual hills
20 degrees and more, that feel like mountains!
that, when looking up to them, indeed can make you feel
as tiny as a flea

which down there in Sausalito
made me panic quite a bit
because going home
meant going up
a fear that made me forget my pride and embarrassment of taking the BUS back home
poor little bus climbing uphill, reaching maybe only a tenth of the speed that I had
when going down

so, speaking of hills
Seattle has 7 of them
beautiful, beautiful hills
with an amazing view
not only in rich neighborhoods like Queen Anne or West Seattle
but also in modest and quiet Beacon Hill

where there’s you, my love
who, that I can feel, would like to drag me
to this place with the helmets and the mountains and the ocean
this nice little city where everything is a little bit slower
than hectic capital speed Berlin
and the people are a little bit nicer
and a little more relaxed

and I admit, the temptation is huge
because transatlantic romance
is something that can be nice for a while
but after this and that and another while
it’s only frustrating and exhausting
and you’re starting to feel tired and hopeless sometimes
like standing at the bottom of a hill
looking up and thinking
‚‚How is that supposed to work?!”

so it seems I have to choose
between one hill
or another,

don’t I?

Mein androgyner Körper
ist eine kleine Wundertüte
wunderschön
auch wenn die Stimmen in meinem Kopf
mir immer wieder widersprechen wollen
pfui, geht weg da!

Mein androgyner Körper
ist nicht klein und zierlich oder gar asketisch
sondern klein und kompakt
nicht 52 Kilo auf 1 Meter 62, sondern eher 62 auf 1,52
reich auch an Gendermerkmalen
den sogenannten

Mein androgyner Körper
hat nämlich Kurven
die als eindeutig ‚‚weiblich” gelesen werden
‚‚dort, wo sie sein sollen”
und
er hat Haare
‚‚dort, wo sie nicht sein sollen”

Nämlich auf der Brust
nein, den Brüsten
mit Körbchengröße 80C
- ‚‚unatürliche Körperbehaarung bei Frauen” -
auch Hirsutismus genannt
hervorgerufen durch
- na, was wohl? -
‚‚zu viel Testosteron”

Mein androgyner Körper
hat langes, wallendes Haupthaar
und
Geheimratsecken
androgene Alopezie
auch für die hab ich nicht das ‚‚richtige Geschlecht”
oder bin zumindest zu jung

Mein androgyner Körper
hat kleine Hände und Füße
und
ein breites Kreuz
erstaunter Blick des Orthopäden
‚‚Was machen SIE denn für Sport?”
...
‚‚äh...Yoga...”

Aber Muskeln
bekomme ich bereits
wenn ich eine Hantel auch nur anschaue
nein, nicht die langen, schlanken
Figurzirkel-Mythos-viele-Wiederholungen-bei-wenig-Gewicht-Muskeln
sondern Muskeln-Muskeln

Androgyn ist auch meine Genderperformance
ganz butchy Femme und femmy Butch
bottoppy, bottom UND top
freundlich lächelnd
mit den Haaren spielend
die Lippen spitzend

Und dabei an den nächsten Baum pinkelnd
mein Revier markierend
Bodycheck auf dem Bürgersteig
denn ICH geh dir NICHT aus dem Weg
manchmal steh ich auch extra da
nur, damit ich dich anranzen kann

Denn ich bin kein Golden Retriever
kein Windhund, kein Dalmatiner,
auch kein Dobermann, Bulldogge oder Terrier
nein
ich
bin ein Kampfdackel
klein, kompakt und meistens unterschätzt
...denn meine Blicke können töten
auch wenn ich das Köpfchen dabei schief lege

Und androgyn ist nicht nur Tilda Swinton,
nicht nur
Cate Blanchett, Ville Valo und Shane Dingsbums
aus du-weißt-schon
nicht nur lang und schlank
und möglichst wenig
und damit
angeblich
‚‚neutral”
hm...

Da geh ich doch lieber aus dem Krieger
in den aufgehenden Mond
in den Hund mit dem Gesicht nach unten
und den Kopfstand
spiele mit den Muskeln
laut schimpfend
bis über beide Ohren grinsend
und pinkel dabei
an den nächsten
Baum

I am living in two worlds
worlds so different
and similar at the same time
time passing by
and changing me into someone new
new life, new friends,
new way of thinking
thinking
until my head drops down

growing up poor or working class means
that there’s always something
missing
money or time or both
because when you have to work your ass off
to make a living
there’s barely time for anything else
but still the holes in the socks
don’t mend themselves

in my world
in my own and personal world
connected though
to what you call political
this world
was full of potential
potential
to leave the other world behind

the world of
TV instead of books
everyone eating alone because of different work schedules
hanging around on Sundays
in the famous jogging pants
instead of dressing nicely
and going out for a family walk

but what does all this have to do
with working class?
the truth is
I have no idea
I haven’t figured out
this whole class thing myself
and I am thirsty for
hm, let me guess: books
to tell me, teach me, tear me upside down

I am living in two worlds
worlds so different
that the one hand doesn’t trust
what the other does
full of scepticism and
fear
fear of not belonging
of being too little
or too much

worlds so similar at the same time
when the people who read books
judge the non-readers
of being dumb and narrow-minded
narrowly putting them
into a tiny little box

and the non-readers
HA!
they fight back
because that’s what they have learned
and they got their self-esteem, too, you know
proudly shouting:
WE DON’T LIKE BOOKS
BOOKS ARE NOT US
WE ARE BETTER THAN BOOKS

but I liked books
but still I didn’t get them for my birthday
unless I wrote down exactly what I wanted
spelling correctly and finding my own way
not waiting for inspiration or care
and hell no
not for the money to buy them
working after school
washing dishes
and already getting the irony of that

all this made me a little resentful
and pouting
I WANT I WANT I WANT I WANT
but I didn’t get it
so I hated the ones who should take care of
my upbringing
my education
my
potential

but I didn’t see the fear and sadness in their eyes
of not being enough for me
not being able to give me what I needed
lacking the words to reach me
because I already walked
10 feet above them

time passing by
and changing me into someone new
someone
critical, political, theoretical and book-nerdy
working with paper and computers
and sometimes
wishing for the dishes
if it just had been paid better

new life, new friends
happily together, forgetting
all the differences between us
because right now
in this grown-up world
we are all broke
whole Berlin is poor, but sexy
and it doesn’t matter
where we came from, does it?

edges getting blurry
and giving me a sense of belonging
finally
and money
doesn’t mean a shit
yeah it doesn’t
but only if your parents have opened a bank account
on the day you were born

oh yes, and I forgot
THE HOUSE
the house that one day you will inherit
oh no, your sister will take it
living her ‚‚narrow, provincial life̵
and paying you off
so you can be free
the free spirit
that you wanna be
and focus
on the real thing

until then, admittedly
being a little poor
but ain’t that sexy anyway?

I WANT I WANT I WANT I WANT
your life
your courage
your way of thinking
this attitude
that the whole world belongs to you
reaching out for opportunities
and taking the risk
of failing and crashing down
and this way you grow even bigger
than you already are

but I’m not a victim
I know
If I want that, I can have it
because free spirits
should be fucking free

so I’m sitting here
with my jogging pants
no house, no bank, no car, no net
and deep down I think
I will never really belong
to this world of books

until I realize
I
am not books
books are me
and they should talk about me and my world
and if they don’t
I guess I’ll have to take a risk
of failing, crashing and figuring out
how to overgrow
my own self-hating shadow
and while doing that
I am thinking
thinking

until my head drops down

somebody tried to kill me once
or rather twice or 3,4,5 times
they tried hard, they tried well
getting smarter and sneakier every time
and they nearly got me
and every now and then I think

they will never leave for good

and I remember those moments
every single one of them
those close-to-death moments
those very close and very dangerous
and very, very frightening moments

I havent’t forgotten you

but TODAY
is one of those days
you know,
one of those indescribably miraculous days
those once every 4 or 5 months days
when your body feels like it’s turning into a
glittering superball

because all you wanna do for the rest of your life is
BOUNCE
like Bugs Bunny or one of the Gummi Bears
bouncing here and there and everywhere
because sheer walking or dancing or even running
is not enough
is not capable
is not appropriate
to express the fire inside you

it’s one of those days
when you cannot NOT smile
you’re getting weird looks
secretly asking ‚‚what drug is SHE on?”
but you don’t care
and you can’t even imagine
that your mouth would ever wanna do anything else
but lift its corners up up up and upper
and your tongue and vocal chords
they just NEED to be moved
because you absolutely NEED
to hum, to sing, to whistle, to YELL!

and, of course
it’s one of those days
when you are in tune with just
everything
so it doesn’t surprise you at all
that this woman who’s crossing your way on the street
you see, that one over there in the red coat
she will say something to you
and you’re even close to predict
what she will say
so you have to hold back, not to ruin it
not to answer to a question
that she hasn’t even asked you yet!

I love those days
even though they’re kinda exhausting
you know, bouncing and singing and laughing
and talking to a lot of people on your way home
is not something I would wanna do every day
because I prefer a regular heart beat
and my feet
need the ground

and I mean
I’d go CRAZY
if I was in tune with just
EVERYTHING
EVERY DAY?!?

but today
is one of those days
one
of those days
when
- yeah, fuck you, anti-spiritual Berlin left scene -
when I feel guided
by something bigger than me

something like my own private vampire Bill or Eric or Pam
- and trust me, they do exist, not kidding -
my own private protection force
my guardians, my heroines
my own personal pep squad

keeping me up
pushing me along
and helping me restlessly
to kill
the killer in me

in the rear view mirror I see
CARS
what else do you see in a rear view mirror?
especially when you’re on the highway
using the car pool lane
overhauling all the rush hour victims
who wouldn’t get stuck there
if they weren’t alone
because it says 2+ on the sign
a lane reserved for those who are smarter

and this is why I don’t like cars!
all that fuss,
metal, gas, dirt, danger
just to move one single person from one point to the other
freedom of mobility
a freedom that I never really understood
because I grew up without a car
memories of family bike tours
hearing my Dad’s voice in my ear:
‚‚There’s nothing that you can’t transport on a bike–

but sitting here with you in your car
is nice
and I allow myself to enjoy it
being a 2+ with you
the air smelling like fake vanilla
which also is NOT my favorite
because I’m sensitive with smells
but with you even the artificial odor
that you use for covering the cigarettes
just smells like home never did but should have
and I relax, lean back and let you take the lead

Mukilteo is our destination today
we are late for the ferry
eating fish and chips while we’re waiting
for our take-off
to the island
the one place where we don’t fight
which seems like a vow we made
or maybe like a wish from a fairy
holding her hands over us
sprinkling gold dust and whimsically smiling

Whidbey,
our haven
the nice little cottage in the woods
paid by your boss,
financing our little honeymoon
and hoping that I don’t hijack you across the ocean
I know that
even though you’re not telling me

the inside of the cottage looks like one of those miniature huts
from the fairy tale park
in Teutoburger Wald
Snow White sitting at the table
the 7 dwarfs surrounding her
a tinny voice from the loudspeaker reciting the tale...
it’s TACKY in here and I LOVE it!
little bears sitting on a rocking chair near the fireplace
pictures with little girls who remind me of sarah kay dolls
bright red blush on the cheeks, big eyes, blonde curls

and
the heartshaped cushions on the bed...
the huge bed with billions of cushions
and the red patterned blanket

the blanket where I made love to you
for the very first time
yes, I made love to YOU
because you’re not a stone butch, never were
always yearning for the soft touch of your lover’s hands
even if you didn’t allow them
but I’m not your first
and you give me a strange look when I ask you
‚‚are you serious, asking me this?”
and I laugh and pout a bit
wishing that I had been

but in many ways I am your first
and you are mine
you are the first
who I didn’t land in bed with on the first date
the first time
that I dare pronounce my lack of physical desire
the first
who I lay my heart open to
and my desire to be loved the way I am
with all my quirks and lacks and annoyances

but I learned
that showing this desire
for being loved unconditionally
doesn’t turn rain into gold dust
and I found out that love means,
NOT loving everything
but still sticking around

and I know there’s lots of things
that you don’t love about me
things that you miss
like, yes, my physical desire
me being passionate, crazy, romantic as hell
my cheeks blushing from the speed of the pirouettes
made of pure joy
and your desire,
your one desire is
to see me losing control!

me missing the tracks
that I carefully layed out for myself
when exactly knowing what I can and can’t do
will and won’t do
all clear yes and no
but nothing inbetween, never
afraid of trying new stuff
if suggested by someone else
always me behind the wheel
taking the lead

but now that you stopped sticking around
just like the fading vanilla smell
on your baseball cap
that I secretly hijacked
across the ocean
I say PLEASE,
don’t underestimate
my desire

for a car pool

Ich schnitt sein Haar ganz lang
ich wusch ihm den Dreck unter die Haut
und baute einen Käfig aus Marmelade
klebrig und rot und verführerisch

Dort schubste ich ihn hinein
und ehe er bis drei zählen konnte
krallten sich die Kirschen
nee, die Erdbeeren
ach quatsch, die Pflaumen, Quitten, Him-, Stachel-, Brom-, Blaubeeren
von hinten an ihm fest,
ritzten feine Bäche fruchtenen Wahnsinns
in seine Gleichgültigkeit

Und lachten ihn aus

Nein, an

I read in an interview with Lydia Lunch
that the perfect age is 35
that her perfect age was 35
because then her life finally started to blossom

until then she had been to busy
with destroying herself
so busy
that she had forgotten
how to learn to live
cuz life was plain surviving
of old an new pain

but with 35
these days were over
and she no longer revolted against life
and learning about it

when I read that interview
I was maybe 25
my heart was POUNDING
when I read the word LIFE
combined with the words
GOOD and JOYFUL

but I wasn’t ready yet
that was for sure
still being a little Ninja fighter
fending off old and new enemies
and most importantly
the hallucinated ones

so I made a list
of how I wanted to be
when I would turn 35
what I wanted to learn until then
I wrote down goals and wishes
wishing for a life
that was just my own

and even if I wasn’t ready yet
I was ready
to work hard for it
because the one thing
a fighter is best at
is working your ass off
and pretend it’s nothing!

and I wanted this life
I desperately did
because until then the one song
I had played on my birthday
each and every year
was a song from an old German punk band
singing in a chorus:
‚‚This is the day of your nightmare
this is the day of your birth”

oh man, I loved this song
and it was perfect
for my little cult around life
and how I didn’t wanna live it

birthdays were doomsday
reminding me
of the one choice
that absolutely wasn’t mine!

I mean I had tried
I really had done my best
little sullen girl
that I was and still am sometimes

first I came 3 weeks late
3 weeks of torture for my Mom
being heavily pregnant
in burning midsummer
which she didn’t forget to tell me about
each and every birthday

then, during my birth
I was clinically dead
for a few seconds
the umbilical chord
having found its way around my neck
a little misplaced
or
my first little rebellion, screaming:
NO! WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE?!

my Mom also never forgot to tell me
how she refused to get an epidural
to soothe her pain
her face turning soft
when talking about it
telling me
how good a mother she was
she enduring all this pain
just for me...

thank you, Mom
and also thank you for telling me
for the trillionth time
how you did NOT abort me
how you accompanied your sister
when she took this path
but that you could never had one

which is a little funny
because you also told me
that with both children
you tried everything
to get rid of us
jumping down the stairs
bathing in hot salty water
and what else there was
to lose a child
by accident

and every year on my birthday
I think of my Mom
and how she may think of me
and of this one day in hot summer 1974
the year when Germany won the football championship
my planned date of birth being exactly on the day of the final
which nearly gave my Dad a heart attack!
not knowing what to be more excited about
not knowing that I already had planned
to torture him
a little longer

but I don’t wanna be unfair
they did love me, kind of
in their own weird and twisted way
just another 2 kids from 2 dysfunctional families
having kids on their own
my Mom’s first child bearing
at the age of 17
not knowing anything
about life and its choices

and of course she thinks of me
maybe she’s sad
maybe she has given up on sadness
at least that’s what I wish for her
because this little girl got the message right
and where I am not wanted
I don’t waste my time
it’s that simple
and not dramatic at all
just a good old choice of my own

which doesn’t mean that it was painless
and it took me nearly 2 decades
to finally set myself free!
needing an outer distance to grow the inner one
soothing the hate and the rage and the fury
after letting it burn bright to the sky
proud and strong and fighting
for my life and against it

but Lydia was right I’d say
life tastes good and even better than honey
when you just allow yourself
to get bored by the fighting
cuz this hard worker here
is coming to get what she has planted

the list that I wrote 10 years ago
got lost or torn apart in the chaos of growing up
but I don’t need it anymore
because the main goal anyway
was just to write it down
and yes, believe me,

it’s that simple
how a choice can be

I am NUTS
totally crazy
not made for this world
definitely
not made for living around people

especially neighbors
or the people on the train
who eat their sandwich out of a paper bag
wanting to be a good kid
not leaving crumbs on the floor
of this beautiful, beautiful metro train

taking little tiny bites
of their sweet little
Mozzarella-Schinken-Camembert-Ruccola-Tomate-Salami-Sandwich
and with every bite
I wanna kill ’em

when their polite little paper bag
dances its little dance
making little polite sounds
grown-up sounds
maybe bourgeois sounds
- I haven’t decided that yet -
ANNOYING SOUNDS!
driving
me
crazy
finding their way into my hypersensitive inner ear
crawling down my spine and synapses
and waking the killer in me...

so, DEFINITELY
I am crazy!
and if you’re not quick enough to get out of my way
I will give you the evil eye until you’re down on your knees
and beg me for mercy!

the good thing though is
I’m easy to be found
because I have the craziness inscribed into my body
little marks that make everybody see
right away
this girl is nuts
why is she walking around?!

but they’re not saying it loud
of course not
because they’re polite
it’s in their face
when they look at me
when their gaze wanders from my
‚‚Oh, she’s a nice young lady, so friendly and smiling” face
down to my neck and shoulders
until
they get stuck
eyes freeze
jaw drops
and politeness
flies away like a birdy bird who found the way out of the cage door

they stare
and stare!
and STARE!
and I can see how their brain is close to a meltdown

‚‚What did she do? She’s so pretty!
How could she blemish herself that way?!”
‚‚Oh man, that shit must hurt!
Maybe she’s in one of those cults I saw on TV”
‚‚Poor thing! Maybe she needs help.
I bet she’s bipolar. Maybe I can help her.
As long as she doesn’t touch me, of course.”

and so the lady flinches
and her husband mumbles
and their kids point with fingers

and you know what?
I let you stare!
I allow you to stare
you got exactly 10 seconds
to notice, screen, categorize and back off again
and I count them down
with every second
feeling creepier and crazier and lonelier

if you then stop and find back to your
politeness
we can forget about it and go back to ‚‚normal”
so my evil eye can have a rest for a while
because she’s exhausted, you know

and I know what you wanna say...
‚‚But isn’t it a little bit your own fault? Couldn’t you at least be so
polite and wear a long-sleeve when you leave the house?”

yes, I could and yes I do
from time to time
not because of being polite
but simply because of being privileged
the privilege to hide
cuz even if it’s getting on my nerves
to always make sure I have a jacket in my bag
and to sweat like hell when it’s 35 degrees on the out and inside
I am still a white person, cis-gendered
and with no further visible variation from the normative
I can choose if I get stared at or not, I know

so when do I decide not to hide then
and why?
because
sometimes
it’s 35 degrees on the out and inside
sometimes
I just forget about it
only to be painfully reminded 5 minutes later
and sometimes
- and I know this is the one you’ve been waiting for -
sometimes
it’s a statement

cuz I am not and never was ashamed
to be a crazy person
a survivor
a person who is beautiful and strong and happy most of the time
- apart from the moments when I freak out on paper bags maybe -

ok, who am I kidding?
being crazy can be a fucking hard job
unpaid, of course

but to me it’s also a gift
that has taught me crazy fucking fantastic things
that most people
don’t even know exist in this world

and because I know that you don’t know
cuz I know that you can’t know everything
I am so polite
to let you stare at me
10 seconds tops
my secret little agreement
with the world of public transportation

but to the person who told me
that seeing me on stage
only with a T-Shirt on
is provocative, offensive
and hurting their feelings
I just wanna say
very politely:
PLEASE
go
and fuck yourself!

Frauen können nicht so gut schreiben wie Männer
also wenn man das so vergleicht
sagt er zu mir, so ganz nebenbei
und doch, mit einem leise entschuldigendem Lächeln

Also, wenn man das so vergleicht
es gibt einfach keine guten Schriftstellerinnen
und doch, mit einem leise entschuldigendem Lächeln
sieht er, wie mir das Lächeln im Gesicht gefriert

Es gibt einfach keine guten Schriftstellerinnen
nicht umsonst ist der Literaturkanon so männlich
und auch wenn er sieht, wie mir das Lächeln im Gesicht gefriert
ein Fakt ist ein Fakt ist ein Fakt

Nicht umsonst ist der Literaturkanon so männlich
Oh ja, da geb ich ihm Recht
denn ein Fakt ist ein Fakt ist ein Fakt ist,
dass diese Welt ohne Macht nicht auskommt

Oh ja, ich geb ihm Recht
auch, wenn es mir das Herz bricht
denn diese Welt kommt ohne Macht nicht aus
auch nicht zwischen ihm und mir

Auch wenn es mir das Herz bricht
und ich mir wünschte er würde verstehen
wie zwischen ihm und mir
sich - innerhalb von 2 Minuten - eine Wand aufbaut

Ich wünschte mir, er würde verstehen
warum ich so wütend werde
und sich - innerhalb von 2 Minuten - diese Wand aufbaut
aus Schweigen und gefrorenem Lächeln

Warum ich so wütend werde
und mir die Worte im Hals stecken bleiben
Schweigen, gefrorenes Lächeln
weiß ich ganz genau

Die Worte bleiben mir im Hals stecken
und es kommt mir so bekannt vor
denn ich weiß ganz genau
was ihn und mich trennt

Es kommt mir so bekannt vor
dass ich mich so unverstanden fühle
denn ihn und mich trennt
trotz aller Gemeinsamkeiten, der große weite Horizont

So kann ich mich nur unverstanden fühlen
wütend, traurig, sprachlos sein
der große weite Horizont, trotz aller Gemeinsamkeiten
scheint manchmal unüberbrückbar

Wütend, traurig, sprachlos
sitz ich nun neben ihm und kann ihm nicht erzählen
denn es scheint nicht nur unüberbrückbar
sondern auch unaussprechbar zu sein

So sitz ich nun neben ihm und kann ihm nicht erzählen
weil Frauen eben keine guten Schriftstellerinnen sind
unaussprechbar bleibt es mir ihm Hals stecken

dass ich schreibe

‚‚I WANT MY BODY BACK!”
was my first choice for a title
but that would sound too...
direct, abrupt, clichéd, wouldn’t it?

but that’s not what I want
I want beautiful metaphors
complex thinking around trillions of corners
I want to speak between the lines

I want to take you
my beloved audience
on a mysterious journey
blindfold over your eyes
not knowing left or right
in or out
where is up
and where is down

I want to be smart and funny
SO smart and SO funny
that you don’t get the joke
until a week later
I want to trigger your brain activity
that you just can’t stop thinking
about this one little sentence
that you take it everywhere
to work and to school
back home and
into your dreams

Yes, this!
is what I want

but what I also want
is to speak what needs to be spoken
no matter how direct, abrupt and clichéd
it may sound to you

and this one thought that has been following me
for quite a while now
- although I’ve been trying to suppress it
over YEARS and YEARS and YEARS
under binging and puking
depression and cutting into my skin -

is

I want my body back

and even that is a lie
because what I actually mean is:
I want my sexuality back
the one that got stolen around 1981
which is a fucking SHAME!

so yes, I’m a survivor
like probably one half of the planet’s population
and probably
one half of the people
everywhere I go
and if you are a survivor
or the friend or lover
or child or parent of one
you know how hard we work,
don’t you?!
and aren’t we all heroes
each one in our own color and melody?

but I admit that the term survivor
can be a little misleading
cuz immediately we think of
life threatening situations
extreme physical violence
loud and dramatic pictures
a life at stake!

and if you have survived
people tell you that
at least
you are alive
at least
you have healed in a way that a
- whatever that means -
normal
life is possible

you don’t hang over the toilet anymore
your depressed days only happen in a ratio of 1:10
and the scars on your body
are more than 10 years old

but hey...
I’m a LEO!
I want more than that!
and I know exactly what I want...

I
WANT
SEX!
sex with you and you and you
that is with you for you
and for myself at the same time
sex without feeling dirty and guilty!

I want mind blowing orgasms
and lick my fingers afterwards
smiling and satisfied
until
I want it again

but
what I also want
is to find all that in my own rhythm
and yes, I know I am slow
slower than a turtle on sleeping pills
and I know that the waiting can be hard
and frustrating for you

but don’t you dare
tell me
what I should and would and could do
don’t tell me what is healthy or not
don’t give me new rules
about what is sex positive
and what isn’t
DON’T YOU GET IT?!
I want
MY
BODY
BACK