Stille

#tbt: Stille

„Du erträgst die Stille nicht.“ sagte sie zu mir. „Deshalb hast du immer Musik im Ohr, das Handy in der Hand und den Fernseher laufen. Du erträgst die Stille nicht. Die Stille, die so schön ist.“

„Du meinst die Stille,“ sagte ich, „die sich schwer um dich legt wie ein nachtschwarzer Mantel? Die Stille, die so laut ist, dass du meinst, du hättest den schlimmsten Tinnitus im Ohr, den man haben könne? Die Stille, die schwer wie eine bleierne Röntgenweste auf deiner Brust liegt, sodass du kaum atmen kannst?“

„Nein.“ erwiderte sie. „Ich meine die Stille, in der man zu Bewusstsein gelangt. In der das Innerste wie ein Meeresrauschen erklingt bis es abebbt und man sich den Wogen hingeben kann. Ich rede von der Stille, in der man in sich kehrt und zur Ruhe findet, bis die innere Ruhe eben dieser Stille gleicht.“

„Ach so.“ sagte ich. „Du meinst die Stille, die so ohrenbetäubend ist, dass all das laut wird, was man zum Schweigen zu bringen versuchte. Die Stille, die Platz lässt für all das Unausgesprochene, all das Ungedachte, das Unausgereifte? Die Stille, die so schrill wird, dass es wehtut.“

„Ich meine“ sagte sie „die Stille, die den Schmerz lindert, die sich beruhigend um die Seele legt, damit diese sich eine Auszeit von all der Hektik, all dem Lärm gönnen kann. Die Stille, in der man sich selbst hört, bevor auch dies still wird und man inneren Frieden findet.“

„Du meinst“ antwortete ich „die Stille, die Leere repräsentiert. Die Stille, die dir mit ebendieser Leere vor Augen und vor Ohren führt, dass diese Leere dein Leben ist. Die Stille, die dir zeigt, wie still und leer es um dich ist. Die Stille, die du nicht füllen kannst, weil du nichts hast, was zum Füllen dieser leeren Stille oder dieser stillen Leere dienen könnte.“

Wir schauten uns an. Irgendwo zwischen uns lag die Wahrheit.

Doch zwischen uns und der Wahrheit lag vorerst nur eins: Stille.

Gina Laventura © 2013

One night in February


Photo & Editing: artaquis

#tbt: Once night in February

One night in February, after I had followed my never resting thoughts for way too long, I decided to do what I had been wanting to do for days, no, for weeks, and prepared to take a walk. I promised myself to only take paths that were illuminated by lamps. For safety reasons. And safety gives freedom for creativity.
So I was walking down the street, passing the houses that I pass nearly every day when driving the car, passing the lamps. At the end of the road I turned left and passed houses that I normally don’t pass that often. Past one of the big paddocks, past the farm that sells firewood and during advent season Christmas trees. Here I made a halt and wondered whether I should walk on or turn around and go back. Because the dead end before me attracted me somehow and because I realized that I have never walked it until the end, I decided to follow this feeling and to walk the path between the riding stable and the paddocks. While I was walking and dwelling on thoughts, the typical scent of horses came into my nose. I turned my head to the right and let my glance wander over the paddocks and behind them I saw the houses that I pass every morning by bus. How peacefully they were lying there, those houses with their warm lights. After having passed the extensive buildings of the riding stable, my glance fell upon an old wall and trees covering a house that stood behind. Shortly afterwards I came across the illuminated driveway to that house and that was exactly the moment where I stopped and wondered “Isn’t that what everybody is wishing for? A house in a country side like area but still not too far away from the city? A little house in an area that resembles the landscape in ‘Midsomer Murders’ and when you lift your glance a bit you can see the distant city lights? Wouldn’t this be the perfect location to live in? Finding contemplation in your little house, lying quiet beside a paddock and green fields, calmness in its pure variation and when you feel the need to get in touch with people, feel that hectic life in a city where you sometimes seem to be anonymous and sometimes just too well known by the people you meet, you just walk some minutes, take the next bus and there you are, in that beautiful, dirty, loud, pretty, familiar city of mixed odours, mixed impressions, mixed audiences, mixed shops, mixed feelings and mixed thoughts. How come that I never realized the beauty of this area so much? How come that there are paths directly beside me and still I’ve never walked them before? How can I pass all this beauty and tranquillity without even really perceiving it? Did the hectic of the city dull me so much that I had become unaware of what was going on right next to me? Does it really matter? Now I am here and this moment is just here to be enjoyed, the air is just here to be inhaled and this feeling is just here to help me find contemplation and get my restless mind sorted again.“
I walked further on, letting my glance wander around the paddocks, the green fields, the quiet houses with their illuminated windows until I finally came to the end of the dead end. Here I turned around and stood there for a while, letting all these odours, the fresh breeze, the picture of the sky with stars and everything that I perceived in that moment enter my soul. Then I slowly made my way back the road that had led me to the dead end. Past the illuminated driveway of the house that lies behind an old wall and trees, past the riding stable, past the farm that sells firewood, past the paddocks. After thinking about taking a different way back home, I decided to walk back on my own trail, a bit like a dog. Well, it wasn’t a real decision, but I just did what my inner feeling told me. So I walked past the houses that I normally don’t pass that often, looking around the green meadows and the houses and the small street with parked cars on it. As I walked further on, I watched my own feet making one step after the other, I examined the pavement as I walked on it further and further on. Shortly before the junction where I had turned left before, my look fell upon a small ball lying on the pavement. A small pink and green ball.
As I lifted my head again after having stared on that ball for minutes, my eyes were filled with tears. And out of a sudden a thought entered my mind. “You are not dead! How could you be dead when I still carry you with me in my heart in every step I take, in every decision I make, in everything I do, in everything I am? You are not dead! How could you? How could somebody dare to tell me you are dead when I feel you with me every day? When I can see you in my dreams? When I’m talking to you right now? How could you be dead then? That is ridiculous! You. Are. Not. Dead.!
How could somebody ever tell that somebody is dead? Nobody is ever really dead as long as there are people remembering this person. As long as there are memories, as long as there are photographs, as long as there are texts, diary entries, poems, stories, little notes and emotions that trace back the existence of that person, this person can’t be dead! As long as there are memories shared at a table, as long as there are conversations about that passed away person, as long as the texts are read and the photographs are watched, as long as the memorizing heart is beating and the missing tears are flooding, you can’t be dead! Isn’t that an amazing idea? How about building a house and making a room for everyone you love, designed with all the things this person is attached to? A room for mother, filled with books and green plants, with mild music and everything she loves. But wait, no, just one room for one person wouldn’t really fit to the existence of that person. This room has to be linked to another room, to the room of somebody this first person is attached to. And how you build this house doesn’t matter, whether it is done in texts or photographs, in paintings, in thoughts, in memories or really built as a small model of a big life. As long as there is a trace of your existence, you can’t be dead! Shakespeare isn’t dead, Wilde isn’t dead, Woolf and Austen are not dead because their works are still read, their biographies are still discussed, their works are still analysed, still read and people talk about them, have discussions, fall in love with them and become fans. How can Shakespeare, Wilde and Woolf be dead when the trace of their existence is still so present and vivid today? Isn’t that what every author is wishing for? Immortality.”

Gina Laventura © 2012

Dear Brother

#tbt: I once submitted this one to a flash fiction competition with the given topic of “a lie”. Unfortunately, I didn’t win, but I hope you like it. 🙂

Dear Brother,

Probably you’re going to call me a liar, as everyone else does in our neat and
narrow-minded neighbourhood.
But you’re old enough now. Happy 21st birthday, little one!
I’m not going to put all the cards on the table. I’m going to make the whole house of cards collapse! The house you call home. The house you call your life.
Where do I start? I didn’t run away like Mum and Dad told you. They threw me out. Because I didn’t live up to their expectations. And failure is forbidden in this family.
How funny and paradox, when I think about it, as our beloved parents did fail on so many levels.
Mum isn’t as perfect and loyal as everybody claims her to be. That’s why Dad isn’t your dad.
Are the thin paper walls already shaking, brother?
You wonder why I didn’t celebrate your 18th birthday with you? They told you I left everything and everyone behind me when I ran away, right? Even you. But I didn’t.
They wouldn’t let me enter the house anymore. So I climbed the neighbour’s tree to watch you celebrate in the garden. Eating colourful cake and sipping soda. By the way, Mum didn’t bake the cake herself as she told you, she bought it at Cosmo Cupcakes down the road. I sat in that tree and saw you eating cake while Dad was filling up his tea with booze and Mum was locking herself in the shrubbery to call one of her lovers. Oh, and while you were enjoying your perfect party, I saw your oh so perfect girlfriend making out with your best buddy behind the hedge.
What a lovely party it was!
Remember when Mum and Dad told you they wouldn’t like you to participate in those BMX competitions because they were afraid you would get injured badly? Well, actually they thought you weren’t good enough.
And failure is forbidden in this family.
Dear Brother, you’ve been living a lie.
And that’s the truth.

Yours faithfully

Lying Lucy, the shame of the family

Enough

#tbt: Enough!

Nobody ever thought that she’d leave them.
But she left them all.
They fought too much or not enough.
Why she left them? Because they didn’t have the right perception of her. And she couldn’t convince them to change their view.
Is it now her fault because she was incapable to show them what she considered the right view? Or is it theirs because of their incapability to change their view because they were stuck in their narrow-minded boxes? She doesn’t know.
Maybe this isn’t about fault at all. But sometimes she wonders why they perceived her like they did. How could they think that she’d never leave? Never go away? Never get sick of all the arguments, all the little heartbreaks, all the aspects that caged her in a personality that wasn’t hers? How did it occur to them that she was for granted?
She never took any of them for granted. Nothing was sure for her.
And yet some of them left. Well, not actually and really, because they didn’t tell her that it was over. But they separated from her before she made the final cut.
In their minds. There the process of separation started. As it is always the mind where things start. And the heart of course.
Her gut always seemed to be smarter than her. But she didn’t listen.
She kept on doing what she did, endured what she didn’t have to endure. Because she thought she had to learn to stop being a little runaway and learn how to endure.
Until one fine day it was enough.
And then she left.

Gina Laventura © 2013

Taking a shower

Dieser Beitrag ist auch auf Deutsch verfügbar


Photo & Edtiing: GOTOX, 2011

Today a result from a writing exercise I had to do in one of my courses.
Basically the exercise was this: Normally you handle adjectives and comparisons carefully, just like stereotypes, but this time, think about something that you did today and try to compare it to anything and use many adjectives. Exaggeration helps to become aware of stylistic devices.

Taking a shower

This morning I woke up and my back was hurting like hell. I felt as if I had been run down by a lorry.
I knew the only suitable pain relief I could get was a hot shower, so I took my towels and my peeling gloves which remind me of goose-bumps on a shivering body when I touch them and opened my door which made a similar shrieking noise like me after having noticed the severe pain in my back. I tiptoed over the blue carpet that was leading my way to the shower from one edge of the hallway to the other just like those tunnel visions people have when they are about to die. I could even see the white light at the end of the corridor. While I was tiptoeing the blue carpet tickled my feet and it felt as comfortable as the grass did back in my childhood days when I ran across the green of our back garden.
When I finally reached the bathroom door I opened it as quiet as I could to not be reminded of that shrieking sound again. I entered the shower room and closed the door, put my towels on the doorknob and started undressing myself like in slow motion. Although for me it felt as if I was moving like an old woman who was suffering from some severe disease, I imagined myself as undressing with a sexy slowness as if I was about to seduce somebody with this striptease. I let my clothes drop like leafs of a tree in autumn and entered the shower. Then I shut the door and despite the fact that this shower room is more reminiscent of a cabin in a psychiatric clinic and unsuitable for claustrophobics, I just felt protected like a pearl in a shell.
I turned on the hot water and let it run down my aching body, stretched my arms and reached on tiptoes for the top of the shower door in a position that reminded me of some random BDSM story where the victim is tied up, about to being whipped.

Gina Laventura © 2012

funny anecdote: I read this story out loud in class and my lecturer said “Well, your story seems to work as all the boys, the further you went in your story, blushed and started watching their feet.”

Dusche

This entry is also available in English


Photo & Edtiing: GOTOX, 2011

Heute ein Ergebnis einer Schreibaufgabe, die ich mal im Zuge einer meiner Kurse machen musste. (Dies hier ist nur die Übersetzung, da das Original auf englisch verfasst wurde und bis heute unübersetzt blieb)
Die Aufgabe war Folgende: Normalerweise dosiert man Adjektive und Vergleiche eher vorsichtig, genau wie Stereotypen, aber diesmal sollten wir an etwas denken, das wir an dem Tag gemacht haben und es mit irgendwas vergleichen und viele Adjektive benutzen, wirklich übertreiben. Übertreibung hilft eine Achtsamkeit gegenüber Stilmitteln zu entwickeln.

Dusche

Heute morgen stand ich auf und mein Rücken schmerzte wie die Hölle. Ich fühlte mich, als sei ich von einem Lastwagen überfahren worden.
Ich wusste, dass die einzig mögliche Schmerzlinderung, die ich bekommen konnte, eine heiße Dusche war, also nahm ich mein Handtuch und meine Peeling-Handschuhe, die mich an Gänsehaut auf einem Körper erinnern, wenn ich sie berühre und öffnete meine Tür, die ein ähnlich schrilles Kreischen von sich gab wie ich selbst, nachdem ich den heftigen Schmerz in meinem Rücken bemerkte. Ich lief auf Zehenspitzen über den blauen Teppich, der mir meinen Weg zur Dusche von einem Ende des Korridors zum anderen wies, ganz so, wie dieser Tunnelblick, den Menschen haben bevor sie sterben. Ich konnte sogar das weiße Licht am Ende des Korridors sehen. Während ich auf Zehenspitzen lief, kitzelte der blaue Teppich meine Füße und es fühlte sich so gemütlich an wie das Gras aus meinen Kindertagen, als ich über das Grün unseres Gartens rannte.
Als ich endlich die Badezimmertür erreichte, öffnete ich sie so leise wie ich nur konnte um nicht wieder an das schrille Geräusch erinnert zu werden. Ich betrat den Duschraum und schloss die Tür, hing mein Handtuch über die Türklinke und begann mich auszuziehen wie in Slow-Motion. Auch wenn es sich für mich anfühlte, als bewege ich mich wie eine alte Frau, die an einer schweren Krankheit litt, stellte ich mir vor, dass ich mich mit einer attraktiven Langsamkeit auszog als wäre ich dabei, jemanden mit diesem Striptease zu verführen. Ich ließ meine Kleidung fallen wie der Baum die Blätter im Herbst und betrat die Dusche. Dann schloss ich die Duschtür und auch wenn dieser Duschraum eher an eine Zelle in einer psychiatrischen Klinik erinnert und ganz sicher nicht für Klaustrophobiker geeignet ist, fühlte ich mich beschützt wie eine Perle in ihrer Muschel.
Ich stellte das warme Wasser an und ließ es über meinen schmerzenden Körper laufen, steckte meine Arme und griff nach dem oberen Ende der Duschtür und stand nun in einer Position da, die mich an eine willkürliche SM-Geschichte erinnerte, in der das Opfer gefesselt und hochgebunden ist, kurz bevor es ausgepeitscht wird.

Gina Laventura © 2012

witzige Anekdote: Ich las diese Geschichte laut im Kurs vor und mein Dozent sagte “Also, deine Geschichte scheint zu funktionieren, denn alle Jungs, je weiter du vorgelesen hast, sind errötet und haben angefangen ihre Füße anzustarren.”

#tbt: Commitment and Confession

#tbt; a poem from 2013

We say it too often, we say it too less
we often commit, but never confess,
we think it right, but discover it wrong,
we’re fragile, but we pretend we’re strong
and strong we are indeed
but too proud to say when we’re in need,
too shy, too insecure,
waiting for someone to cure
us.
What’s all this fuss
about?
We scream, we shout
but never let it all out,
we hide away
and never say
what’s ought to be said,
whole life a gambling bet,
pointing our fingers at sins and sinners,
just wondering who’ll be the winner,
but guess what: There’s no one to win and no one to lose,
it’s all about which step you choose.
With every loss you gain something
and probably you lose something each and every time you win.
This is life, it goes up and down,
don’t complain and don’t you frown
at least not too often
cause after every storm the wind will soften
the waves.
We’re stuck in a pace
that’s out of the rhythm, out of the beat,
we ignore the achievements but we see the defeat.
What’s wrong with this world, we are all one
and we should do what needs to be done
to make it a better place,
get out of that unhealthy pace.
Take a look around yourself
and dare to tell
that it’s not beautiful, dare to find an excuse, another one
to explain why things can’t be done.
Don’t you dare to tell
that your life does not deserve the best version of yourself.
We complain too often, we do too less,
we often commit, but never confess.

Gina Laventura © 2013

#tbt Große Liebe, kleines Herz

#tbt
Heute mal ein Gedicht noch aus Schulzeiten.


Photo, Editing & MUA: J.|B.|P.

Große Liebe, kleines Herz

Große Liebe
kleines Herz
kleine Gesten
großer Schmerz.
Der großen Liebe
kleiner Gesten,
die zuletzt das Herz verpesten,
zu großer Schmerz
für das kleine Herz.
Das kleine Herz,
das so groß liebt,
für dessen Schmerz
es keine Gesten gibt.
Kleine Gesten
werden zu großem Schmerz,
die große Liebe
zerreißt das kleine Herz.
Große Liebe,
die in kleinen Gesten versinkt
bis zuletzt das kleine Herz
in großem Schmerz ertrinkt.

Gina Laventura © 2006