I Am The Legend Of Briar Rose

image source: howarddavidjohnson.com

“Fairy tales are more than true;


not because they tell us that dragons exist,


but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten.”


[ G. K. Chesterton ]


What an awesome title, huh?! Pretty presumptuous albeit. I can just hear you saying: “What is she thinking? I mean we’ve all heard about the dangers of fairy tales, waiting for your own Prince Charming to rescue you and all that, but this?! Does she really believe she’s a fairy-tale princess?”

Well, yes and no.

I’m pretty sure you all know the sweet Disney Version of Sleeping Beauty. Equally you all know that Sleeping Beauty was named Aurora Borealis by her parents and dubbed Briar Rose by her guardians (or rather guardian).

What you might not know is that Sleeping Beauty is a original German folk-lore collected (not written!) by the Brothers Grimm. You might have guessed that the original tale is not as sweet as the Disney interpretation of it.

Again, what you may not realize is that all German folk-lore (to a certain extent) is not a compilation of fictional entertaining stories, but was actually used to teach children important lessons, such as “Don’t walk into the woods on your own and don’t talk to strangers. You never know who might be a wolf in disguise praying on you!” (Little Red Riding Hood).

Well the original tale of Sleeping Beauty holds a similar moral for the little girls of past times: Don’t have sex before marriage!

“Really?”, I hear you mutter again, “She can’t be serious?! What in the world does this have to do with premarital sex?” ;- and to a certain extent your right.

It’s not necessarily premarital sex, but more careless decisions that can diminish your reputation or worse set your life up on a wrong course, leading everybody around you into shame and humiliation. Back then, the ultimate careless decision for a girl was premarital sex. I understand it still is largely that way in the U.S. even though it may be (at least a bit) different in large parts of Europe including Germany.

But I am digressing. The moral of the story, although it might be hidden today, was blatantly clear to the children of earlier days who were used to this kind of imagery. And this is the story they would have heard:

image source: metalfactory.ch

“Once upon a time, there were a king and queen who for a long time could not conceive a child, although they loved one another very much. Then finally, the queen gave birth to a beautiful little girl. This girl was so precious to them (and to the kingdom, being the sole heir of sorts), that they feared for its safety having it grow up inside the walls of the castle.

For the King beloved as he was by his people was not without enemy. There was a powerful Queen (who by all accounts could only be a Witch, because such intelligence and strength is not common in the gentle and sweet nature of a woman!), who had long since wanted to take over his kingdom and was just waiting for the perfect opportunity, a moment of weakness in the King.

image source: muenchner-theater-fuer-kinder.de

So the King and Queen decided to send their daughter secretly away with her trusted wet-nurse (who was so schooled in the art of natural remedies, that some also considered her a witch, but a good witch, more like a fairy) to be raised until the day she was old enough to marry and thus could not be harmed anymore in an attempt to harm the King. And so it was done. Carefully a spot was chosen away from the public eye and most importantly away from eager young men already besotted by the beauty of the little girl and the promise of power she held (men=spindles).

Alas the powerful Queen never gave up searching for the princess, determined to find her and use her against the good King and his Queen. But the years past and with it a feeling of false security came over the good King.

Then on the eve of the princesses 16th Birthday her trusted wet-nurse told her the truth about who she really was. The princess who had come to love her nurse like a mother was distraught at the idea of leaving her and cried greatly. This outburst was overheard by one of the powerful Queens spies, who had disposed all over the land in search of the princess and he hurried back to the Queen to tell her of the good fortune that he had finally found the Princess.

The Queen knew that the easiest way to destroy the King was to destroy his only heir to the throne, but even she did not dear to kill the Princess at the Kings court. However she knew that if the girls virtue was lost no suitor would be found to marry her, thus guaranteeing the continuance of the good Kings kingdom.

image source: frauen.wueste-welle.de

So she sent her trusted spy to destroy the Princess virtue. The Princess who had been raised without the knowledge of mans charms and deceptions naively followed the spy into the dark towers of the castle and succumbed to his sweet words and promises of true love, but after the spy had pricked her (= had sex with her) he did not as he had promised marry her, but left her to face her destiny alone. So shamed was the princess after the loss of her virtue, that she and with her the entire Kingdom withdrew from the outside world, that shunned them. It was almost as though the entire kingdom had fallen into a deep sleep.

The years past and no eligible suitor was able to master the walls of thorns of social spite that had enveloped this kingdom, no matter how hard they tried. And try they did for not only was the Princesses beauty without compare, but the Kings kingdom was famed for his riches and a similar favorable prize. The powerful Queen waited patiently. She knew it was only a question of time until the King would become old and weak and without a worthy heir his Kingdom could easily be conquered.

image source: bunte-welt.forumprofi.de

Then one day a young prince arrived from a far off kingdom, who had heard of the tales of the beautiful princess disconnected from the world in a seeming slumber. He too had to face the thorns, but were others had given up he pushed on, because he had seen the true picture of the princess in his heart. And then when he reached the princess and gave her the kiss of true love (= marrying her although the princess had already been pricked), the spell of the powerful Queen was lifted and the kingdom awoke to new life. And – of course – they lived happily ever after.”

This is the tale as the Brother Grimm heard told in many German village while they were travelling the country. Again you’ll ask “But what has that got to do with her? Is she trying to tell us she had pre-marital sex and destroyed her family in the process? I don’t get it.”

Well, like I said before, yes and no.

I did have pre-marital sex, but seeing as I am thirty years old, unmarried and living with my boyfriend that couldn’t come as much of a surprise, but that’s not what I mean.

What I mean is that I’ve made more than my share of bad choices in my youth (which ultimately led to more or less dire consequences and also, naturally, effected by family, especially my father).

What I also mean is that Phil is the first person, who ventured beyond the walls I had erected around myself, because somehow, behind all the masks, he caught a glimpse of the true me.

In many respects he did save me from a long slumber. Without his patience I would probably have never understood, how wonderful the true me really is and that I don’t need to hang my head in eternal shame because of bad decisions I made when I was 13 years old or 14 years old or well probably up until I was 23 years old.

And you see, I think that’s the true beauty of the moral. No matter what you do (but yes, it would be better you don’t do it in the first place), there is always hope.

It only takes one person to see you for what you truly are and the spell is broken.

Image source: van-ham.com

If one person sees the good and truth in you, you too can recognise it and in the end, you become your own Prince Charming.

[ “September” – The Shins ; – performed by James Mercer (live version)]

I Was The Little Girl With The Lunchbox

“Like everyone else I am what I am: an individual, unique and different, with a lineal history of ancestral promptings and urgings; a history of dreams, desires, and of special experiences, all of which I am the sum total.”

[ Charlie ChaplinMy Autobiographie ]

I haven’t talked a lot about my mother lately. In all honesty I have been to busy rejoicing in my new-found freedom.

Today I remembered something I didn’t even know I had forgotten.

I remembered the first time I distinctly realized that I was the girl who was different. I was the girl without a mommy.

The German School system is different from the American School system, so when I tell you I was in pre-school, I mean I was in my last year of kindergarten about to enter first grade and I was only one long summer vacation shy of being seven years old.

(No, I wasn’t held back a year. I’m an October baby and the deadline is in August, so … you do the math. You’re probably better at it than I am. Come to think about it, maybe I was held back a year?!)

Tradition wants that the last day of pre school is celebrated by taking on the little boys and girls on a glorious outing or in my case on a field trip to the local zoo.

The kindergarten teachers sent out information packages to the parents specifying what the children should bring a long on the trip and when to drop them off and where to pick them up.

I know it specified us bringing lunch in a backpack. The reason why I remember this so clearly is because my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Pich (pronounced “Peach” – sweet, huh?!), reminded us to bring our backpacks that our mommies would give us to kinder garden the next day.

The next morning, I didn’t have a backpack. It must have slipped my father’s mind. Somehow I knew it was vital for me to bring a piece of carry-on-luggage. I didn’t have a kiddy backpack, but I had something so much better. I had a pink sparkly care-bear lunchbox in which I stored all my favorite toys. So that morning, backpackless, I grabbed my pink lunch box filled with my most prized possessions (including but not limited to a toy car that changed colours when you rubbed it long enough with your sweaty palms) and walked myself to kindergarten.

I always walked myself to kindergarten. It was just across the park and it was the 80s so my father wasn’t too neglectful that way. A lot of kids walked themselves to kindergarten back then. Well at least preschoolers did.

When I got there not only was I the only kid who arrived without special parental attention, but I was also the only kid without a backpack.

For a moment most mothers just looked at me. Then my Mrs. Pich took be aside and asked if she could see what I brought for the special outing. When she saw that my lunchbox was filled with toys and other inedible items (including but not limited to a dried up marker), she asked me if I could do her a favor. She told me she had stupidly brought her lunch for today and for tomorrow. She wanted to know, if I would leave some of my toys behind and help her carry all the lunch she brought. Also she quickly tied a jump rope to my lunchbox so I didn’t have to hold on it around all day, but could instead carry it like an overgrown purse.

I don’t remember much more from that day. We saw animals, I think. Afterall it was a zoo. But I don’t really need to.

I have photos.

In all of them you see 12 happy children, smiling, laughing and having a great time.

All of them have little kiddy backpacks on their backs. Except for one. The brown-eyed girl with two dark thick braids carrying a glittery pink care-bear lunchbox tied awkwardly to her with a jump rope.

I remember sitting on the jungle gym for the group shot holding my lunchbox.

I distinctly remember feeling different.

But I also remember feeling special: I might not have had a mommy drop me off that morning, but I was the only kid that got to share Mrs. Piches lunch with her.

[ “Soul Killing” – The Ting Tings ]

62 Of 365 (366) For 2012

[ All credit to Guib-Did, whose lovely picture may be found here. ]


“The main thing I feel is a sense of relief.

That I can give up this game [for now].

That the question of whether I can succeed in this venture has been answered,

even if that answer is [may be] a resounding no.

That if desperate times call for desperate measures,

I am [might be] free to act as desperately as I want.”

[ Suzanne CollinsThe Hunger Games TrilogyCatching Fire ]

61 Of 365 (366) For 2012

[ All credit to Neya*… every portrait is a journey, whose lovely picture may be found here. ]

“Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion.

I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning do to do afterward.”

[ Kurt Vonnegut ]

Longing For The Ides Of March – Or Why I’ll Only Be Lurking In The Shadows For A While

“Fatigue is here,

in my body,

in my legs and eyes.

That is what gets you

in the end.

Faith is only a word, embroidered.”


[ Margaret AtwoodThe Handmaid’s Tale ]


I’m beyond exhausted. I’m drained. Actually, being drained sounds too euphoric. I think being drained would up my energy level by 1/12th now (maybe more, maybe less: y’all know how I am with numbers).

I’m pretty sure most of all have read a comment of mine saying something along the lines of “I’ll deal with that come march.“.

Why march you ask?

Well, because starting the 23rd of february and ending the 2nd of march I will spend my morning (8 am – 1 pm) sitting in a too small room, with too many people, with too little knowledge and too much cause for a nervous breakdown in the Courthouse of Cologne, Germany.

I will sit there for five long hours every day for 6 days (Saturday, Sunday and Wednesday’s off) and try to write a judicial report on a made-up international legal scenario including a bunch of ludicrous characters named “a”, “b”, “c”, “d” and sometimes even “e”, “f”, “g” (etc.) for the most entering into business ventures or any sort of legal relationship no person with half a brain would ever even consider.

I’m not entirely sure, why solving a case, you will probably never come across in the real world would tell anybody anything about your legal ability, but that’s the rules of the game.

I’m too tired to tell you how much time I’ve spent studying for this and especially how much time I spent worrying about not passing it (Oh did I mention only roughly a fourth of the candidates pass the written and are accepted to the oral? Did I mention those aren’t random people of the street, but people who have for the most part spent 8 years studying and working and not sleeping?).

I’ve done a pretty good job at “working against the panic”. Just staying super occupied and busy – just like my little hamster “Flash”, who ran in that wheel like his life depended on it (well actually he spent more time sleeping than running, but I liked the image).

Today it caught up with me.

I cracked.

I didn’t just cry.

I was hysteric.

It was not pretty.

This is probably not going to be as funny for you as it is for me, but one of the measures of legitimate surpassing of self-defense is, if you did it out of “fear, frustration or confusion” (as opposed to “anger, rage, revenge”).

“Fear, frustration and confusion” is exactly how I would describe my mental state.

So (and now I finally come full circle), I realized I’m not up for reacting to your posts the way they deserve. I’m too – everything.

So although I won’t be gone, I might not always make myself know.

I’ll be there.


Lurking in the shadows.

[ “Release Me” – Oh Land ]

It’s only fitting that one of Erik’s post should be my first reblog. It was Patrice you found me, but it was Erik, who brought back.
Maybe it would have been more fitting to reblog a post in which he isn’t singing my praises among those of others, but I really didn’t have words to tell him how much that ment to me and I thought: Actions speak louder than words – so I’m going to let him be my first 😉
In any case should you not know Erik yet (which I highly doubt) you NEED to head on over to his blog NOW (If I were you I’d start with the resiliency series, but everything out there’s an awesome read).
Also, please engage, comment, get to know him, let him get to know you, trust him (yes, he can be trusted!) – you’ll feel so much better about yourself and about life for having let this man in
– Thank You

My Boring, But Absolutely Pleasing, Not Danceable Saturday Night Playlist

“Old age is like everything else.

To make a success of it,

you’ve got to start young.”


[Fred Astaire]

I’m old.

Not in years.

Considering that 30 is probably the new 20 and with a bit of luck even the new 15 (which would explain the unhealthy shine my skin has taken to over the last couple of days – weeks?), I’m really not old in years.

I know that.

Sometimes, when I see the fresh faces of 25-year-old enthusiastic law trainees right out of law school, I have to remind myself of it, but deep down inside I really know I’m not old.

However, sometimes, that doesn’t stop me from realizing I’m old in the demographic way. The way that advertising companies decide what age group you belong to. The way that fashion designers decide what shirt your supposed to wear.

This age-awareness isn’t a new thing by the way. I think the first time it hit me, was when I was barly nine-teen and all of my first phonetic party memories were sold of to people as “Classic Party Hits”. I hadn’t even begun to live yet, how could anything that had been novel and hip to me only two seconds ago, be considered classic?

But that probably wasn’t the first time I stood out as being old. I was a reader growing up and I quickly progressed from “The Chronicles Of Narnia” to “Love In Times Of The Cholera”.

I raided my father’s study and read everything I could get my hands on (“Joy Of Sex” being among them when I was around eight or maybe nine, which saved my father from having “The Talk” with me, which I’m sure he secretly appreciated).

But wait, I’m digressing.

What I mean is, that I’m not out there clubbing and living it up big time on night streets of Cologne or Düsseldorf. I don’t know the bouncers of the in-clubs. I don’t even know which the new in-clubs are.

I won’t wake up tomorrow with a hang-over.

When people ask, I tell them it’s because I can’t afford it. Because I have another practice exam tomorrow. Because I need to be fit and awake in the morning.

All of that is true, but the real secret is, I enjoy lazily lying on the couch reading blogs, playing little adventure computer games (nothing too exciting) and listening to my own saturday night playlist, which is completely un-danceable and maybe even a bit boring.

This is my favorite night of the week. Ah the crazy hedonism of saturday nights for my old soul.

[“Nothing Like You and I” – The Perishers]

[“Go Outside” – Cults]

[“Love And Some Verses” – Iron And Wine]

[“Paperweight” – Joshua Radin]

[“You and I” – Ingrid Michaelson]

[“Forget Me Not” – The Civil Wars]

[“From Where I’m Standing” – Schuyler Fisk]

[“Marry Song” – Band Of Horses]

[“Better Times” – Beach House]

[“Vinalhaven Harbour” – Stephanie Dosen]

[“Rebellion” – The Arcade Fire]

[“My Dream Girl Don’t Exist” – Neutral Milk Hotel]

[“The Engine Driver” – The Decemberists]

[“Find Home” – The Honey Trees]

[“Who Knows, Who Cares” – Local Natives]

[“Awake My Soul” – Mumford & Sons – Goodbye India Tribute Series]

[“Don’t Ask Me Why” – Laura Marling]

[“Light A Way” – He Is We]

[“Steal His Heart” – Emily And The Woods]

[“Sparks” – Jesse Woods]

[“A Night Like This” – Julie Peel]

[“Quelqu’un M’A Dit Que” – Carla Bruni]

[“Sink In” – The Paper Kites]

[“Cherry Tulips” – Headlights]


[“Good Man” – Josh Ritter]

[“Tell Me In The Morning” – Cold War Kids]

[Sidenote: I’ll let you go with my one of the best encores I coud think of – Unfortunately you will have to follow it to Reverbnation and hit the play button to the left of the screen – it’s to indie to be imbedded here: “Young Goodman Brown” – The Scarlet Furies ]



German noun.

Translates to “flight of fancy”, but with an arrogant, cocky touch to it. 

“Cocky flight of fancy”

(rough translation)

This is an unusual post for me for several reasons:

  • It doesn’t start (or end) with a quote [only my second post so far to break that rule]
  • It’s not about an immediate feeling of myself, but more an invitation to free association on “cocky flight of fancy”
  • It’s centred around a German rap/ hip hop song (not my musical genre at all) by the well-known artist Samy Deluxe (well at least well know in Germany)

So why post this?

I’m not really sure to tell you the truth.

It could have been, because I enjoyed the air-travel related posts by Paprika (here) and Worrywart (here).

via Wikipedia: Samy Deluxe

Or maybe something about the lyrics caught my eye.

It put a different spin on what I usually would associate with people indulging themselves in a “cocky flight of fancy”.

I started wondering, if – maybe – you could earn the right to fly high? Kind of like a first class ticket to your own indulgence?

These are the lyrics (or at least my best attempt at translating them – if you want to see the original lyrics for yourself, you may do so here)


[sidenote: The clip to this song can be found at the bottom of this post, should you care to listen to it, while you read through the lyrics]


“Höhenflug” – Samy Deluxe (Cocky flight of fancy)

(Voice over: Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.

You’re travelling agency “Ego-Trips in association with Delux-Air”

is pleased to welcome you on board this flight.

Now please welcome your pilot from the cockpit with more detailed flight information)

I’d like to welcome you all to my cocky flight of fancy.

Please fasten your seatbelts and take a minute to listen to my further instructions.

Please move and fasten your trey-tables to their former position and bring your seats to an upright position

(Voice over: We are ready for take off)

Mind you, I’ve always been on a roll, that’s why I’m flying high up here.

I don’t do being grounded very well.

Today you have the privilege of flying with the first-rate star pilot of deluxe-airs.

Yes, that would be me. I could spend the entire day singing my own praises.

I don’t deserve niceness, I deserve the best there is since I’m the best there ever was.

This sounds so overused, so let’s say “I’m the all-time greatest” instead.

If you see me in a magazine, it’s always the “glammest” spread of all.

In my day-to-day life I’m overly polite and humble,

but as a rapper I try to evade that at all costs.

That’s why the others are pissed at me and offended,

because they are screwed and I’m back on top.

You see I always keep my eyes on the road ahead, I never look back.

We have reached our maximum altitude.

I have been informed that many of the passengers are starting to look pale.

Airsickness bags may be found in the seat pocket in front of you.

(Voice over: Oh no, we are free-falling!)

Ha ha, I’m just kidding.

But you might want to nurse this shock with a drink,

obviously overpriced, but you’ll feel better if you don’t read the fine print.

We’ll be experiencing a bit of turbulence now, because the wind is turning slightly.

This is my “cocky flight of fancy” and nobody knows exactly where we are heading to.

The only thing of importance is that I’m flying high.

[Chorus: I like the view from up here.

People tell me “Come down from the clouds, Sam!”

“Nah, why should I?

You’ve never reached these heights!”

Repeat 3x]

I hope you have enjoyed your journey up until now.

And as you can see I’ve turned off the fasten-seatbelts-sign.

So you are now free to roam around the cabin and use the restrooms.

The only thing is, I forgot to clean them.

On the up-side the flight attendants will serve you a splendid meal shortly

and after that we can all rap along a bit to the chorus of Big and Tupac.

Please also feel free to shop at our duty-free inflight shop.

What exactly did I want to tell people with this song?

Right, this is my “cocky flight of fancy” and your my passenger.

And the way I’m rapping might sound a bit crass

but all the others are just talking while I’m getting stuff done.

I feel comfortable in lofty heights, never suffered from flight anxiety.

It’s me doing the steering, no autopilot and no other rapper is as aerodynamic as I am.

I’m going to fly so high, I will need a house on the moon.

I can’t transform water into wine, but you can collect frequent flyer miles with me.

Well this is it once again we have reached our destination.

I know your itinerary said Hamburg, but I opted for Amsterdam instead.

Please turn off your technical devices at this time.

Thank you for flying with us this time and we hope to welcome you back on your next travel.

[Chorus 3x]

(Voice over: The captain and his crew would like to take this opportunity to thank you

and we hope to welcome you on board again soon.

If this is your final destination, we hope you enjoy your stay, otherwise we hope you will reach your final destination shortly.

When opening the overhead compartments, please pay close attention to the extra-smart lyrics that might have gotten juggled around a bit during this flight.

Lastly, let me conclude by saying, -ähhh – never mind.)

[“Höhenflug” – Samy Deluxe – SchwarzWeiss (BlackAndWhite Album]

What My Mother Said Next

via "Mothers Are Home" @ blogspot.com/

“Mother’s love is peace.

It need not be acquired,

it need not be deserved.”

[Erich Fromm]

I previously shared a snippet out of my mother’s journal, which she kept in anticipation of my arrival, in “From My Mother’s Lips”.

Whenever I feel the need for motherly warmth, I return to it. As someone commented rightly on the above post, she left me the most amazing gift:

” A glimpse into her heart.”

This entry, to me, holds a sense of strength and continuance. I share this not only so you may know me more through her words, but also so maybe – just maybe – this may make you smile.

I share this for you, my dear Patrice and everybody else in need of a motherly touch:

“Today is the 27th day of August. We are in the 35th week. You are expected to arrive on the 2nd of October, in approximately 6 weeks.

Are you getting excited? What sorts of preparations have you made for your coming? Are you anticipating the journey out of darkness?

Well, just don’t be afraid, we’ll all three be there helping each other.

Oh! You’re hopping about in me again. Are you happy? Do you feel the warmth of the sun upon you? Do you want out?

I had a dream last night and when I awoke, I felt great – so strong and unafraid.

Well as dreams go it was complicated and intricate and rather illogical.

What I remember of it is driving home in Concord. It was a dark night, maybe even raining. As I turned into the driveway a white cat ran across the way caught in my headlights.

I stopped, got out and picked up the little kitten. As I stroked it and loved it, it no longer was a kitten. I was holding a baby, my baby. You had lots of dark brown hair and eyebrows already closely knit.

Then we looked at each other and we laughed. I’ve never known anyone to laugh so much. I carried you into my old bedroom at home and we laughed some more and anyone could see that we were meant to be together. We really liked each other.

Then Rose and others from the hall gang came by to investigate,  and I showed them my new baby. Well, Rose didn’t approve at all. Realistic as she is, she assured me, that it couldn’t possibly be my child and that some half scared mother was probably searching frantically for her lost child. I didn’t want to believe her. But together we went out on the driveway and lo and behold the real mother did come and joyfully took you home.

So now I’m back to waiting.”

[ “Your Song” – Ellie Goulding (Elton John Cover) ]

“She’s Slightly Strange”, She Said.

“I used to think anyone doing anything weird was weird.

Now I know that it is the people who

call others weird that are weird.”

[Paul McCartney]

Enter my mind. Dim lights. Open Curtain:

A monday mid afternoon. Closer to four than to three. In a fading grey light. Not an unfriendly, threatening grey. Rather a grey, that can’t be bothered with being anything apart from being. A grey, that wakes up in the morning and says to itself “I’ll be a blank page.”

An italian restaurant on a busy shopping street. Little bistro tables clinging to the old brick wall. The wall’s earthy red fat and satisfied. Swollen with the passing years it has swallowed. Too much, too fast. A greedy, though not unfriendly, dark red brick wall.

The tables don’t mind. But than again, they wouldn’t mind anything keeping them from falling. Their placement on the dark charcoal pavement, with all its lumps and gasps, doesn’t allow for a secure footing on their sturdy metal feet. So they embrace the wall, who in turn leans in onto them.

Tiny bistro chairs. All huddled together in a corner. Each trying to hide behind the other. Each trying to evade the energetic breeze, that in its delusionment, believes to be a wind. As the wind it believes itself to be, it tries its voice at a vibrant roar, much like a child trying to converse with the lion at the zoo. Whereas the lion has no sufferance for little children and goes back to counting paces behind iron bars, the old oak branches in the trees above stifel a chuckle.

Passerby’s shuffling the sounds with their leather soles. Filling the void left in between honking cars and opening doors, gracefully, with a deeper bass of activity. At times, some voices may find their own frequency in disturbance of this subtle rhythm, but since there is no purpose to this disturbance, the setting decides to overlook the rude interruption of its being.

Afterall, it is occupied with its own excitement.

Centre Stage, just slightly to the left. Enter two young women. Not young enough to be blissfully unaware of the ever ticking ticks and tocks of time, but young enough to still believe they have endless of them left to hear.

As they settle at a table, one of them drops her scarf. I know this without looking. It’s one of the things she does. Almost like a tribute to the ground, she is about to rest her steadied feet on.

The scarf, which is not light and airy, but firm and honest wool, honoring the rules of gravity, drops where her fingers disconnect with it. It cuddles together in a comfortable heap. Knowing it will remain there, until she parts from this place, swooping it up from the ground once more and slinging it around her pale, frail neck in one fluid motion. Thus it can practice the art of patience peacefully and quietly, in unspoken affirmation, that it won’t be left behind until the first crocus break through the dried skin and emerge like golden rays between a grassy green heavens.

The two attend to their coffees reverently. One lump of sugar? Maybe two? Just a drop of milk. And then the stirring commences and doesn’t falter, until the creamy liquid in the cups will turn without their assistance. Swirling around despite itself. Chilled hands clutch the cups. Letting the warmth seep through the china and enter them through their fingertips.

Red lips turn upward placed vis-a-vis from each other. Automatically. Unisono. Then one of the pairs may open and politely inquire in regards to suitable, expected matters. To which the other will reply with an equally apparent perfect pronunciation. They don’t know each other well enough, nor do they feel comfortable enough with each other, to swallow a vowel or good forbid omit a word.

Time passes, through the streets. Through the bustle and the noise. Through the quiet and the darkening.

It may stop shortly to greet the oak for they have known each other for more than a second, but not too long. Passing time is like a shark. It can only exist in motion.

The gray, tiring of its paleness and feeling overlooked, claims more attention through the application of a darker shade around its rim. It smushes it a bit. Blends it in. Artistically.

Moving eyes set in moving heads on moving figures change their movement upwards in recognition of a slight change in pattern. The light falls darker on the charcoal pavement. The grey, having thus received its desired reverence, contents itself once more with fading, lazily, into the background.

Two luckless bistro chairs carry on carrying two women faithfully. If it weren’t for them, they could be huddled up with the rest. Comfortably boring themselves to sleep. One of the trembles slightly. The years have made him less tolerant to the cold.

This goes unnoticed by the two occupants, which are forced to direct their concentration exclusively on one other. Otherwise the treasured custom of politeness could crumble, revealing

– faint boredom. This is a womans sense of duty.

So after the exchange of the required amount of syllables, both instinctively twitch their bodies homewards. Swiftly kisses are breathed on stone cheeks. Greetings exchanged strung together with faux promises.

And here it ends. Here it could end. If not one suddenly halteres her step and turns. The other feeling the ripple, mirrors her movement.

“Dear, I’m sorry. I ment to ask you. Are you still in touch with her?”

“Yes, I am. I’m seeing her tomorrow, actually.”

(A question lingering won’t come to life, because the other smiles. Dark dimples in her cheeks. You could hide the world inside of them and never find it again, if she so wished.)

“Really? I’ve always found her to be slightly strange.”

And then she turns, calling out regrets over her shoulder – ah the limitation of time! – to the other one still standing. Staring. Stuttering thoughts inside of her.

Swiftly, carelessly, the dimpled she flings her airy silk scarf around her pearl covered throat

(for this delicate throat cares not for the earthiness of wool),

– taking me with her in her dimples.

[ “Dumb”  –  Nirvana (In Utero) ]