Describing a Friend's Eyes or Hands ;-)
I. Christiane Jörgens
I think it's hard to write about somebody's eyes because I don't see any nameable things that make one pair of eyes look different from another. Of course the colours differ, but I've seen nobody whose eyes have the same colour all the time, in every light or in every mood he is in. Also the speed in which the eyes move or how often they twinkle are not static values; they depend on the time of the day and on how tired one's eyes are.
I don't want to say that there are no differences between persons' eyes; it's just that I don't see them. Maybe I don't want to see them, because it's said that "eyes are the windows of the soul", and I don't want to look into somebody's soul.
II. Dietrich Menn
Ulrike's Eyes
There is something dark and deep behind her eyes. What is it? In vain you try to immerse yourself in them. But it is not a threat which keeps you distant, is it? You wouldn't fear a warm summer's night, either.
III. Julia Albrecht
Dietrich's eyes
In the commercial of a famous washing-up liquid two women talk about how good it is for their hands. One lady accidentally puts her fingers into a bowl of this liquid. "You're just bathing your hands in it." says the other one. "In washing-up liquid?" -"No, in Palmolive!" They are trying to tell us that Palmolive is as good for their hands as body lotion.
Dietrich's hands are not bathed in Palmolive. They are bathed in the acids he works with in his job at the gas station. One can also see the stains from his hobby, restoring old cars. They are working hands, not the hands of a model.
Cruel people might call his fingers "sausage fingers". They are not the fingers of a famous piano player. He might even have problems playing a fifth on the piano. But these hands are perfect for playing the trumpet, one of Dietrich's hobbies.
The Barber, or a Fable of Logic
Ralf Siewer
They were a very peaceful people; they had not even heard of the word quarrel before. They enjoyed every day of their lives, every minute of the day, every breath they took. This village truly abounded in all kinds of fruit, meat and beverage. Without any exaggeration, it was legitimate to call it a paradise on earth.
Each of the inhabitants fulfilled their tasks with an unwavering devotion: Smith, the baker, provided enough bread for everyone; Moore, the butcher, yielded meat for each inhabitant; and Williams, the barber, shaved all those men who did not shave themselves.
One nice day, a very wise and young man came to that village. As a matter of course, the men and women gave him a warm welcome in offering him everything he needed. As days went by, the young man felt it was time to get shaved and immediately, the inhabitants showed him the way to the barber's. When the adolescent returned, he posed one question that was to change the people's life entirely.
"Does the barber shave himself?", he asked the villagers.
"Of course, he does!" responded many.
"Yes, but the fact that he shaves himself necessarily implies that he does not shave himself, inasmuch as he is the man who shaves those men who do not shave themselves", answered the wise adolescent.
"Then, of course, he does not shave himself", claimed the inhabitants of the village.
"Yes, but if this is the case, he does shave himself, since he cuts the beards of those who do not shave themselves...", replied the young man. After that, he disappeared.
But the problem was not yet solved; the inhabitants felt themselves torn between the two viewpoints, and, subsequently, even the first quarrels arose. The people seemed not to be able to cope with the situation, yet they were just too proud to simply ask the barber for the answer. The frictions escalated, and the whole situation spiralled out of control, resulting even in duels and assassinations. The people knew that they had to take action and wondered if it wouldn't be better to erect a huge wall within the village to separate the "better" human beings from the ignorant ones. Only one week later, one could discern a huge long wall within the village....
As time went by, they had become two different people and they did not see the faintest possibility of being reunited again. One day, when little John was playing outside and accidentally saw Williams, the barber, he suddenly yelled that Williams was wearing a long, long full beard...
A Downer
(based on the startling S.P. Morrissey song "November Spawned a Monster," 1989)
Daniel Kürzinger
Rita´s a cripple. Additionally, as if that were somehow not enough, she´s of the sort who constantly keeps reminding you of the fact that she is, y´know, in pain. Rita´s illness is neither debilitating enough to shut her up for good, nor is it lethal. Instead it has made her develop an impressive talent for making other people feel guilty and apologetic in her presence. Rita´s my younger sister and lives in our house, mine and my wife Moira´s. She spends her waking hours in an electric wheelchair and has a colostomy bag. Moira and I have a six-year-old son, James. Rita, on the other hand, has never had a boyfriend or a lover or anything like that; to be quite frank, I doubt that any sane person would want to touch, kiss or fondle her, given the opportunity. Sometimes, when we have guests for dinner (which happens only sporadically anyway), Rita, while still at the table, will ask the invited couple, "Does eating asparagus turn you on? I hope, I sincerely do, that you two are going to have smouldering sex tonight because my brother and sister-in-law surely won´t - in fact they haven´t been at it for 58 days! And counting!" or something like that, and she´s usually spot-on in her observations of our married non-life. Ours is not the biggest of semi-detached houses, and Rita´s room is right next to our bedroom. As Rita sleeps a lot during the daytime, she likes to keep us awake at night by crying over a burst colostomy bag or crying just for the fun of it. One of us has to get up and get her Rohypnol pills from downstairs or even wipe the floor whenever it´s not just a false alarm. For as long as Rita´s lived with us, false alarms have been far more frequent than any genuine disasters.
I am responsible for Rita´s well-being because of some arrangement or other in our mother´s will. Mother, who loved Rita dearly and blamed Father for her deformities, taught the misshapen child that superficially rejecting pity, sympathy and all forms of serious discussion of her situation would elicit the reaction that Rita always desired: even more pity, sympathy, and caring from all sides. People do regard her as someone who deserves attention not because of her "noble suffering", but because "the girl is so desperately bitter! Jesus, Moira, what embarrassing behaviour! But then she´s really been dealt a few harsh blows, hasn´t she? Oh, but of course I know you´re both doing the best you can... I suppose it does make you feel guilty about not having at least some illness so you could share something with her!" That´s why Rita defines herself only through her illness - it makes everybody believe that she´s a character and interesting, when she´s not. She´s just a nuisance.
Sometimes I want to hit Rita in her asymmetrical face, but most of the time I wish she´d realise no matter how she twists and makes our lives hell, she will never have the things she thinks she deserves as much as anyone else. She will never be beautiful, she will never be rich and she will never meet anyone who will love her uninhibitedly. Something she could realistically aim at would be to hold back her excreta long enough for us to take her into town, where she could choose some clothes for herself. This, in turn, would spare us another one of her whining sermons on how the colour of the socks we buy for her shows our insensitivity and brutishness, immediately followed by a wordy fit of self-pity detailing her being "a frame of useless limbs" or something. Maybe her watery eyes would even discover something so spellbinding that she wouldn´t say anything for about a minute. That´s the sort of thing I dream about these days - and who could blame me?
Cigarettes, Shakes, and Stars
Christiane Jörgens
At the beginning of this school year our headmaster had the famous idea to forbid us to smoke in the schoolyard. I don't think this was a bright thought, because now we have to meet before school somewhere (and that place is always so far away) to smoke a cigarette, and it might happen that we don't go to school at all.
Take last Monday for example. My best friend Ilena and I were sitting on a bench in a park near our school. It was a nice morning, with some wisps of early morning fog reflecting the sunlight that shone sloping through the young, light green leaves, promising to become a wonderful day. I told her about a wonderful boy whom I had met at the theatre the night before. And how we had talked about the stars and the universe and life and such things, and how we had forgotten to talk about such unimportant things like names, addresses and where and when we might meet again.
"That was the first and only time I've ever seen him, and I don't know where I can find him now. Do you have an idea?" I was almost sure that she did. She always knows what to do, and everything works out the way she expects it to. I sometimes think she is able to induce fate to do what she wants. Usually I appreciate this gift she has, but sometimes her suggestions sound so very funny that they arouse protest in me, and I never thought the plan she now came up with could work.
"Of course," she said. "We'll go to the ice-cream parlour, sit down and wait."
"Wait?" I queried.
"Wait."
"Wait for what?"
"For him."
"And he'll come?"
"He'll come."
"Sure?"
"Sure."
"Don't ridicule me," I grumbled. "You can't be sure. I don't think that's funny." "I'm not trying to be funny," she answered. "First : I would never ridicule you. I may sometimes be teasing you, - not now - but that is not the same I think. And second : why can't I be sure?" She smiled, and in her eyes there was that certain look that said Whatever you may say now, I will take it up and make it assist me. Though I tried. "We spend a lot of time in the ice-cream parlour, and we've never seen him there. How can you predict that we will today?" She chuckled. "You spend a lot of time at the theatre, and you've never seen him there before yesterday. Have you?" I shook my head.
"Does the possibility that you might be wrong intimidate you so much? You shouldn't let that hamper you from availing yourself of any opportunity you have to obtain what you want. If you don't believe that you can render your life perfect, you will never be able to do it." She sighed, seemingly weary from her 'sermon of the day'. "I spare no trouble to encourage your luck while you only sit and deplore and... Will you trust me or will you go to school and forgo Forgot-his-own-name-for-the-stars?"
So we went to the ice-cream parlour instead of to school. We wouldn't have left school if we had already been there. That just by the way to show that it is no good to try to prevent pupils from smoking.
When we arrived at the ice-cream parlour it was already quite warm, so we sat down outside on what used to be the street, but was now a pedestrian precinct. It still looked like a street. I leaned back, closed my eyes and delighted in the warmth of the sun on my face, while Ilena perused the menu. Then she looked at it again, till the waitress started to get impatient. So Ilena asked for Cappucino ice-cream with chocolate sauce - like every time - and I ordered a milk shake. The waitress went back into the parlour and on her way she stumbled over the kerb.
I lighted a cigarette. "You smoke too much," Ilena mocked and took one as well. So we smoked and Ilena ate her ice-cream and I drank my milk shake. I felt stupid because I was waiting for someone who wouldn't come, and Ilena was having fun - I'm sure about that, though I'm not sure if she liked the situation or me feeling stupid.
Then the boy I had met at the theatre arrived, with a black cloud above him and something has gone wrong today written on his forehead. I smiled at him, and he - though he didn't respond with any word or gesture - sat down at our table. Like a jack-in-a-box the waitress appeared next to us, and I asked for another milk shake, Ilena wanted a cup of coffee and he ordered a beer. He seemed to be busy with himself; I was unsure if I should ask him what the matter was and Ilena ... well, I never know what Ilena thinks if she doesn't speak about it, so we three sat there in silence until the waitress came and brought our order. (And on her way back inside she stumbled over the kerb again.) But he left his beer untouched and we shared my milk shake.
Alone in the Orient
(from a picture of a vaulted room in Oman; first paragraph of a possible novel)
Claudia Kettner
Night had fallen. Through the one tiny window she could glimpse the sprinkling of thousands and thousands of stars. It was silent except for the wind blowing, which would cool the sand outside. Space. Space outside. They had brought her some tea in the afternoon and since then left her alone in this room. She had seen the fronds of a palm tree when peeping out of that single high window, a wooden box under her feet. Was this how women felt in a harem? Or did they enjoy the chatter and company of the other wives?...
Her own decision
Kirsten Seelbach
Clouds were dancing in a sky of thousands of shades of grey. A soft wind was chasing them towards nowhere. On the green hill beneath those clouds that danced the wildest dance a woman stood, silently resisting the playful wind. She looked up to the sky as if asking the clouds to free her. Free her... But from what? She did not know, but she felt that something oppressed her. The wind took her hair and played a little with the long curls of gold, but she did not care. Everything around her moved, the grass, the flowers, the trees. Only she felt as if she was made of stone. Stone and ice, for she felt cold deep from her heart. And so alone she would have cried - but she was not used to crying. Why should she? She had everything she wanted. Maybe too much. And yet something was missing, and right now she wanted that something so intensely it almost hurt. But there were other times when she did not even notice that this something was not there. Maybe had never been there? The wind took her confused thoughts with him while she was still watching the clouds above her head. Suddenly a bird came out from between the clouds. She imagined to be that bird, to be so free.
At the same time she knew she never could be so free, and even if it had been possible she would have been too much afraid to take her chance. Again the wind came to her, as if wanting to soothe her running and irritating thoughts. He touched her face gently, took her hair so softly and tried to make her move. But all in vain. She resisted the silent wind, not out of choice, but because she did not realise his presence. The wind seemed to get angry at her. The sky turned to a darker grey. No longer were there clouds, only a wall of grey. The wind grew to a storm that tried to tear her clothes. As if waking from a dream she realised the trees bending to their master Storm, but she did not even sway. She looked around her, while the angry storm wanted to break her will. No, she did not want to follow the will of anyone else! Not this time. She had been obedient enough in her life, now it was time to make her own decision and to follow her own way. Why not start here, resisting this storm, master of all nature around her? So she stood on the hill, the only being not ruled by the storm, while tears were streaming down her cheeks. She did not know: Was it joy she was crying for? Or horror? Or pain? She laughed when she decided she had shed tears of joy. And when the first raindrops started to fall she raised her arms and began dancing with the grass, the flowers and the trees.
From Poetry to Novel
(Students wrote the first paragraph of a novel based on a poem from our website.)
I
poem: Pinboard
cars, flats, lifts, books, jobs
thousand students scream on sheets
Whose voice do you hear?
(N.B. and A.H.)
He indifferently scanned the pinboard on the off-chance of finding something interesting. It was one of his special habits when walking down the University corridors, like skimming the morning paper at breakfast. It was all the same every year, every week and every day. Somebody selling his car or motorcycle, or somebody searching for a room or an apartment.There were also jobs for students or students wanting jobs. He didn't want to buy a used computer or any old books - he just longed for something new on that board. Then he stopped. A small piece of paper pinned to the board attracted his attention. He couldn't believe what he read there. It didn't seem to be a joke because the special way that paper was designed made him believe its message. Just the very letters made him take it as the truth: "Souls for Sale"... (Dietrich Menn)
II
poem: What Looks Can Tell
Why d'you look at me? Your stares tell you've got problems with leading your life (M.P.)
Uncomfortable she felt. First she did not know the reason for that, wondered why suddenly the skin on the back of her neck was set on fire. Turning around slowly, she became aware of the source of her discomfort. There he was again, staring at her like she was a kind of creature he'd never seen before in his whole life. What's up with this guy, she thought. Doesn't he have anything better to do than to burn his looks into my skin? She sent a message in return: a noisy, not to be ignored NO.... Isabella Boboc
III
poem: Illumination II
all my empty thoughts washed away by the insight - an epiphany (O.S.)
With her arms resting on her elbows, she wraps her fat-fingered hands around the coffee cup and lifts it up to her squabbling mouth. Her flow of speech is momentarily interrupted as she takes a a self-satisfied gulp. "That short moment of insight, like, TOTALLY washed away all my empty thoughts," she continues. What a spectacularly stupid thing to think, let alone say! The coffee cup is still wrapped up in her fingers, just as she herself is wrapped up in recognition of her own spiritual depth. She holds the cup before her face with both hands, pondering. The other boys at the table all fancy her to death, so they don't laugh, but look away in embarrassed silence. As for myself, I probably stopped involving her in my fantasies when her coffee-drinking habits started to irritate me... Daniel Kürzinger