writing is a strange thing. you rarely want to write the things going on right at the moment. it's like composting. someone told me last night the pertinent things you have to say right then and there. but i can't i said. she answered, thus you write. yes.but it's too late then. writing is for yourself mostly, not for the one you're thinking of. they need to hear what you have to say. but i think that maybe it's not true. maybe writing is for those who cannot handle the here and now and need to read it later.
i had a strange summer. one day i went out by myself to have a beer at an irish pub. supposedly the english club was meeting there so all i had to do is watch out for the english speakers. but in this town, no one was inviting or open. i got myself a beer. it was a beautiful night, even in germany's north one gets nights like this, mild and soft and sweet. i looked around me and all the seats were taken. i didn't hear any english either and there was no inviting gestures from any of the groups so i sat down at the only seat available at the far end of the outer housewall beneath the electric beer sign. i thought here i am going out having fun. ha. next to me was a group of middle aged germans having an intellectual talk i was glad not to be part of. so i pulled out my little notebook and began writing. when my beer was gone i got up and walked home. a house shrouded in darkness whispered its secrets to me and it made me cry and cry. this was not the way to have fun. this town was no longer my home. when you try to capture your past, do it in your head, don't seek out the real places where it all happened. it will eat you alive. it will spit you out and deny you access. it will deny its own history. all it will tell you is to shut up and take your proper place. if you cannot find it, get out. so i did.