just terribly busy, little to no time to write something in here, but
I’ve been preparding some stuff ( which means: should I ever finish
these texts I might up em)

 (this is part 2, part one is here)

The door opened.
Decisions are hard to undertake, especially if either side of the decision would result in a drama for one.
A minimal feeling of cold  could be sensed coming from inside,
approaching the boy like a slow tiger, resulting in an exaggeration of
goosebumps on his arms. Even without looking, one could actually “feel”
that a dark hallway lay behind the now open door. Small spots of light
fought their way through layers of dust in the air so they could play
their little patterns on the floor. Several dead and stuffed animals
would serve no other reason but to additionaly decorate the corridor.

The boy hesitated to turn around. Hesitation can be a very
time-consuming process, because it directly relates to the
above-mentioned decisions; causing disturbances in human logic-fields,
questioning values, inducing confusion, lowering self-esteem. And thus
the boy not only determined what to do next, but above all he had to
conclude IF there was a next. And at the moment it seemed that his
brain cloaked, abandoned, those thoughts. It started with little
details fighting their way through, until they greased into his
attention, filling his little metaphysical reaction-veins like stale
motor oil. The veranda’s color was suddenly more than interesting, the
structures on the floor seemed to become increasingly addictive to him,
little gnats, previously seemingly lightyears away, were just
commencing an admirable performance right before his eye, forming
delightful compositions in the air.
Driven by extraordinary fear, the boy slowly lost contact to the
momentous thoughts breeding that very fear, followed a neverending
stairway deeper and deeper allowing the tenacious oil to defile every
feasible corner of his mind, – until all at once, appearing out of the
darkness with the rapidity of a snake attack, a voice appeared and
broke the tension – more like a brutal bloody butcher and less like a
cautious butler.

“What ya want boy”
Its sound was comparable to dark and dry wood, it left no room for
higher frequencies, squeezing every possible frequency of the lower
spectrum through another lowpass filter and multiplying the final
result with the outcome of a very resonant sawtooth wave. The voice
seemed to not incline to any sort of emotion, something people loathe
as it hampers to reveal details about the person behind the voice. You
wouldn’t even want to reveal details about the person behind this
particular voice – the boy knew that very well.

He turned his head so he could spot the man. With every bit of his
heads movement his fingers shivered in exasperation. His heart gaining
speed, his lips seemingly loosing control over the situation as they
started to twich more and more. A warm feeling arose in his body,
ascending from the area around his genitals through his waist up into
his chest. It didn’t feel good, started to choke his breath, made it
impossible to move his feet, increased the anxiety. His brain began to
flicker, reminiscenting moments from the past – but walking through
this past even alloyed his condition as his past had been many a thing
- but livable. It had been a continuous struggle, several scars around
his body could narrate more than one horrific story.

Everything reverted back to now. Like a video playing backward he
suddenly jumped back into the situation around him, oil left his
veins,  thoughts left his brain, his body stopped moving.
Propelled by surroundings anger moved in, ascending into every area of
him and empowering him with unnatural feelings and supersonic audacity.
He stood face-to-face in front of a man, watching him lurk in the
houses shadows like a moraine. The man wore an yellowed white shirt
that seemed to have little spots of blood on it’s upper parts, little
holes and fissures enlarged the impression that discipline or
orderliness were strange to him. A black jeans could only be surmised
as the shadows cloaked most of this area, where a faint smell of old
grease seemed to linger in the air. He  had a light beard, black
hears and the word gross came to mind when one saw him for the first
time. He held a half-full bottle of whisky in his left hand.
“What ya want ya lil’ pice o shit, I ain’t buyen a frickin’ fuck from
that retard whoever ya fuckin work for. and now bugger off!..damnit”
Silence elevated slowly as the boy just stood there, looking at the
man, and seemingly compiling all of his energy into what was coming up.
The man winced with his arm, moving it up and down, probably in a
decision process whether he should take another sip of whisky or not. A
light wind strode over the scene, twisting the boys hair, swirling the
gnats, dehumifying the sweat on the man’s skin. Every nerve in the boys
body stood to attention, collected feelings, transformed them,
extracted energy and send that energy directly into his left
brain-area, where it all summed up, filled his psychical chambers,
increased his energy, courage, boldness and suddenly, with the feeling
of a flash, exploded into words, fizzing out of his mouth.
“I wanna speak my mommy. I want you to give me my mommy back”
The words burst like bullets out of a russian Kalashnikow, cut the air,
broke the paralyzed field between the two humans. They reached the man,
hit him and continued their way into the dark hallways of the house,
reverberated from walls, pictures, stuffed animals and blotched tout le
monde with a tensed form of electricity.
Even before the man could react a scream came from behind, dull paces
appeared in the environmental soundscape, gasping noises accentuated
the setting. “Brian! No! Leave! find safety!” Just as the man,
eventually overwhelmed with the current situation, turned around, yet
hesitating in his actions, a woman entered the hallway, wearing a torn
dress, whose flower-like blood-stained texture made one SEE her pain. A
black eye accompanied the dress, partly hidden behind smudgy, greasy,
blonde hair. As she saw her son, she stumbled, stopped, started to shed
tears.
“Brian…”
“Momy…”
The boy shook. His young mind wasn’t proficient and cruel enough to recklessly handle such situations.
“Mommy..”
The devastated appearance of his mum felt like a nausea taking over his body.
Wavering, the man walked for the woman, who appeared to dwindle closer
to the floor every second. Apart from that she didn’t move or evade at
all – life had long since killed any seditious or survival instinct in
her.
As he had almost arrived he strode out, came closer, and hit her
stomach with his fist.
“You be silent darn bitch. Another fuckin word from ya and I swear I be
kickin you damn worthless piece o’ meat to death” he slightly slobbered
out of his mouth.

The woman didn’t scream, or shout, she not even muttered. With an
anxious impression of pain, she sank to the ground, curling up and
pressing her lips together. The man paused, light from an upper window
fell onto his neck, and thus one could see a small tatoo which had been
inked there, it read ‘HATE’. He took a sip from his whisky, held it for
a second in his mouth and then spit it into the woman’s face.
“Bloody bitch, I’ll teach ya mither me”
He took another sip of the whisky.

“Mister”
The feeling that even more violence could fill up his day grew in him.
There’re humans who condone their miserable situation through insulting
or injuring other people. He could have been one of their leaders. He
tightened his grip around the Whisky bottle and decided that it would
be a worthfull alternation to throw it at that boys head, especially as
the boys mom was watching.

While he was turning around something alarmingly awoke in him. He
wasn’t sure as how to react to it so he searched the near environment.
He noticed the dust in the air, he observed the light, coming in from
the open door, he saw the green gras in the garden, and then he
observed that the ground had kinda changed. About 4 feet from the boy
lay that little bag the boy had been carrying. The bag was empty. The
man steadily looked up, unwanted cogitations didn’t even dare to shine
until he saw it.
The boy hadn’t really moved. His eyes were filled with tears, but still
he could aim. His feet shook in gloom, but still he could aim. His
hands shivered, but still he could aim. Impelled by angst he aimed at
the man – with a .45 Magnum Desert Eagle Stainless. His logic, ethics
were long gone, and moral had been crowded away by that man slapping
his mom in the stomach. Now he was a dangerously chased angst-filled
recklesness 9 year old boy whose current state of mind was tatooted on
the man’s neck.
“ya lil’ fucker, ain’t scarin me with toy guns” said the man and walked towards him.
His mom looked up.
“Brian..”
Brian pulled the trigger.

Porque apprendo espagnol? Quiero apprender espagnol porque tengo
algunas amigos espagnol o argentinian. Para mi, es difficil de habler
con estos amigos porque estos amigos solamente hablen  espagnol, y
no  hablen ingles o sobre todo no hablen aleman.
Pero habler con estos amigos es importante para mi y no es possible sin espagnol.
Si claro, solo escribir espagnol en esto blog, sin habler espagnol, no
es bastante para apprender espagnol bien, porque el pronunciacion es
muy importante tambien. Por eso quiero practicar hablar espagnol con
Kathrin, un grande (y linda ) ami de mi que hable espagnol muy bien.
Pero en primero quiero apprender el syntax y muchos palabras
importantes.

In a kamikaze attempt which serves to improve my spanisch language
skills (which currently linger slightly above 1 on a scale from 0 to
100), I decided that I’ll from now on try to write the one or other
blog entry “en espagnol”. Equipped with Dictionary, Translator,
Syntax-Handbook and a couple of (hopefully) helpfull Spanish-Speaking
friends I aim for the high goal of being able to at least participate
in basic spanish conversations within a years time. Wish me luck.
Ah yes, if you know spanish, I’d love to get syntax corrections from
you for one of the preconditions for improving language abilities is to
learn from others and to inhale their knowledge through opinions and
corrections.
Thanks – y muchas gracias por leer este texto.

I took these pictures several months ago to learn more about macro
photography. They’re not special at all, but still, I wanted to share
them.

(Click the pictures for a bigger version)

I’ve been attending the first German International Ladies Polo
Tournament last weekend. Yes I’ve been watching Polo, that game which
looks like Golf on horseback, has a reputation like really dusty books
and isn’t actually known for it’s gigantic pool of followers. There’re
quite some reasons why I, over the course of the last years, grew an
interest in polo, mostly though because I live right next to a polo
club.
The venue lasted over three days, and the lucky coincidence that the
tournaments manager is a very good friend of mine allowed us to stay in
a castle-hotel for free over these three days as the polo club paid the
hotel for us.
The hotel was a totally restored castle from the 16th century which had
been rebuild as to serve as a hotel about 8 years ago. The castle was
surrounded by other related dark-age structures like stables or even
cannons. Right in front of our room, that is directly visible through a
big window, was a beautifull lake seizing the corn fields, reflecting
the morning sun, drawing people and animals who wanted to enjoy the
calm atmosphere. Especially in the morning, when mist still covered the
lake in light layers, the view was more than awesome.
But back to polo itself. The tournament itself was nice, we had really
intriguing conversations, met kind people and – which has to be
stressed – got drunk with “ain’t cheap bud” champagner.
On sunday (after recovering from a slight headdache, probably caused by
an extraordinary amount of alcohol on the previous evening), we
continued our journey to Usedom, a german island, in order to visit
relatives of mine who own a little cottage there. However, I just
figured that I’m really bad at writing travelogs, thus I’ll stop here
though not without concluding that it was a really awesome weekend -
albeit I wasn’t home before 3am just to get up for work again at 7am.
PS: The next Ladies Polo Tournament will be held in Russia, I wonder if
I’ll once again have the option to go there for free. That’d rock.

Mom has a room. It’s her room. It has not always been her room, several
years ago it was my parents room. Mom and Dad used to sleep there, keep
their clothings there, refresh their boundaries there. If you share
space with someone it’s common to part; organize belongings so they
mostly don’t interfere – there’re always interleaves, mind you, there’s
always at first glance the impression of an unified entity, but if you
look closer, look behind the curtain, sort the individual parts, you’ll
see some sort of pattern-like structure.
Everything in life is based on structures, that’s what most mathematicians like about life.
Now, when my Dad suddenly died, some years ago, the structure broke.
The organization broke. Mom would still keep his belongings during the
first months, as death alone doesn’t mark the end of everything the
deceased person has been. But his belongings didn’t evolve anymore,
they just stayed and deceased themselves. The patterns between moms
stuff and dads stuff crippled away, over time mom’s stuff took over,
just like algae slowly absorb clean beaches. The process itself is even
invisible to the human eye; one could inspect the room each day,
without notifiying a significant change – and suddenly, after weeks,
the whole room looks different.

Now mom’s stuff took over, mom took over. The space, previously a
symbol of the shared existence between my parents love, wasn’t a symbol
anymore. Filled with memories and deceasing stuff, hosting more sorrow
than ever before, the room evolved, transformed, into moms very own
space.
There’s still the old bed in the middle of the room, dominating the
functional aspect, shaping the rooms value by sheer existence. This bed
already existed when I wasn’t born, and considering its very important
role in the process of my creation adds a special feeling  to it -
add least from my point of view.
On the left side one finds a brown/black chest of chambers which, much
like the bed, expresses the school of english colonial style quite
well. Much like a cherry Tree in summer, the chest is saturated with an
astounding amount of all these little odds and ends a women collects
over the years. Ranging from earrings over golden watches to bangles,
passing rings, purses, makeup, multiple variants of lipstick and the
innevitable capsule of glitter, the chest clearly looked like a giant
mess, while still preserving the actual feeling of a deep and
sophisticated structure behind it. And observing mom as she dresses up,
the chest seems to expose a tool-like functionality, enabling her to
grip a ring here, fetch a bangle there, nick some makeup from over here
and everything so fast that a comparison with really fast typewriters
comes to mind.

Above the chest a big mirror is mounted to the wall. Gross golden
borders exaggerate it’s value, misplacing it in the context of the
actual room as even Snow White’s evil grandmother wouldn’t want to own
it, considering it’s decadent look. The mirror  hosts  many a
kind picture now, lovely nostalgic  debris from those events in
space time that had once fulfilled mom’s life. Debris from things we
look back to if we experience one of our little moments. Terry
Pratchett declared hope as mankind’s greatest treasure, and these
pictures are all about it. Hope doesn’t stop in your dreams or
imagination, hope doesn’t need a reason, hope doesn’t even work in a
pragmatic way. Even though someone is dead  – the hope of reunion
still comes up everytime we think about him, still fills our heart with
these warm and fuzzy feelings that are to invoke tears.

So as I watch mom in this area, with all these nostalgic additions and
see her using the room much like a tool, I can’t but wonder whether we
dominate space or whether space dominates us. Do all these nostalgic
belongings and small tools define our behaviour, relate to our
decisions, or are these expressions result of our behaviour and
decisions. Or is it a dualistic process, morphing from state one to
state two over the years, like someone who owns a pet and doesn’t
realize that he automatically rearranges his schedule so it fits with
the pets walk & food schedules.
Just like the transformation from my parents room to moms room and just
like mom grew older over time, passing those events which are now
nothing but a mere black-white-picture on the mirror, this process too
can’t be defined but still happens.

I think that this is a dualistic process that starts in a state where
we dominate the environment, while it ends in a state where our
environment totally dominates us.
Starting from this point I’ll soon try to interrogate basic human
behaviour, and find reasons for those behaviours which can’t be
described by social interaction alone.