(I really don´t care for those pictures above, I kept arranging and rearranging them again and again, nothing seems to work and by now they are actually annoying me.  The only two options were to just forget about them, letting them disappear from my memory, stored away on one of those hard drives, or to post them anyway, so you would have to look at some mediocre stuff.  As you can tell I went for the second option. They also have nothing whatsoever to do with the story you´ll find below, which I wrote for WEPSERT (WERBUNG, da Namesnennung, unbezahlt) - thank you so much for making me do so.) 




Mit den Händen arbeiten

Mein Ex-Freund, der wird jetzt Bauer. Der sucht jetzt einen Hof. Er will ein Pferd so dressieren, dass es ihm auf dem Feld hilft. Er sagt tatsächlich dressieren. Ich weiß nicht was ich sagen soll. Dann erzähl ich es allen. Er hat so ein Teil dabei, das schaut aus wie eine Taschenlampe, aber es ist Schnaps drin. Ich glaub, der Verschluss ist auch der Becher. Er hat jetzt auch ein Kind und kocht Marmelade. Die anderen sagen, sie verstehen nicht wie er das schafft. Ich kann da nicht mitreden, ich kenn mich da nicht aus. Sie sagen, wie ihre Kinder so klein waren, kamen sie zu nichts. Sie sagen, "Aber je mehr man macht, desto mehr schafft man." Ich sag, dass ich mich zu so was schon länger nicht mehr äußere. Sie sagen, seine Freundin hat jetzt so ein weiß-blaues Kopftuch für das Landleben, sie probiert das jetzt mal aus. Ich versteh nichts mehr, was probiert sie aus?

Ich sag immer alles falsch, immer anders als ich es mein. Wenn ich was sag, kling ich dumm. Wenn ich die richtigen Wörter such, find ich sie nicht. Wenn dann nur die falschen. Was gut geht, ist gleich von vornherein das Gegenteil sagen. Da bin ich überzeugend. Ich kann so gut lügen. Manchmal treff ich die Mutter von einem Freund, sie sagt jedes mal, dass sie sich so freut, dass ich sie erkenn. Sie fragt jedes mal, ob es mir so gut geht wie ich ausschau. Ich sag immer ja. Sie schaut auch gut aus. Wir heißen ja auch gleich.

Fahr ich aufs Land, krieg ich Panikattacken. Ich mag den Odel nur, wenn ich weiß, dass ich da nur durchfahr, dass es bald vorbei ist. Wenn ich aber wo bleiben soll, wo es ganz still ist und die Sterne in der Nacht angeblich so hell leuchten, dann kann ich nicht mehr. Wenn es nix anderes gibt außer Autofahren und Fernsehschauen, ist es aus bei mir. Die düngen da ihre Astern so, die schauen aus als tät es sie gleich zerreißen, weil so viel Kraft passt in ein Blütenblatt überhaupt nicht rein. Meine Mutter wollt aus irgendwelchen Gründen immer nach Sylt fahren und dann hat sie sich dort auch noch das abgelegenste Ferienhaus ausgesucht und wir hatten zu sechst nur zwei Räder und nicht mal ein Mietauto. Ich hab mich nach dem Aussteigen aus dem Taxi selbstverständlich vor Schreck sofort auf den Heimweg gemacht. Zu Fuss. Es war einfach zu furchtbar, das Nichts und die Dünen. Weit gekommen bin ich nicht. Scheißgegenwind. Meine Oma hat sogar ein böses Wort gesagt, weil ich abgehauen bin. Die war auch dabei. Ich hatte Zahnspange und meine Tage und meine Freundin hat mir zum Trost selbstgebastelte und deshalb extrem einfache Kreuzworträtsel geschickt. Ich glaub, meine Eltern haben mir sogar offiziell erlaubt die Bravo Girl zu kaufen, weil ich so unglücklich war, sogar Fernsehschauen war ok. Meine Schwestern fanden es super, weil: Schafe. Aber die eine ist ja dann auch da hingezogen, an dieses sinnlose Meer, wo man es "Baden gehen" nennt, wenn man bis zu den Knien im Wasser steht, oben rum Windbreaker. Die Alternative ist Sturmflut. Vor kurzem gab es da mal über 20 Grad - sie haben so geschwitzt!

Die Leute wollen mehr mit den Händen arbeiten. Das tut ihnen so gut. Den Körper spüren. Sie sind dann so schön müde. Affen. Mir tun die Arme so weh. Ich kann nichts mehr machen. Keiner weiß warum.

Sie sagen, "Das kann nicht sein. Das Schmuckmachen ist schön. Eine leichte körperliche Tätigkeit."

Und wie immer wenn ich mir selber explained werde - nichts. Nicht die richtigen Worte. Gar keine Worte, wenn doch, wieder nur falsche. Es rauscht im Ohr, aber - nichts. Ich werd rot, weiß, rot, weiß - nichts.

Sagen hätte ich können, "Darf ich Sie aufklären? Über das schöne Schmuckmachen? Das ist eine spanabhebende Tätigkeit. Geb ich einem Ungelernten ein Schleifpapier, kann der nach fünf Minuten nicht mehr. Mach ich das drei Stunden, stehen mir die Finger schräg von der Hand weg, ich muss die dann erst wieder hinrichten. Ich hab eine Hammerfrequenz von über drei Schlägen in der Sekunde. Metall auf Metall auf Metall. Da singen dir alle Nerven. Nerven, die kennst du gar nicht. Und dass die singen können, weißt du auch nicht. Leichte körperliche Tätigkeit! Schön ist es schon. Vor allen dann, wenns fertig ist. Da kann ich jetzt nichts sagen. Geht jetzt alles nicht mehr. Arsch, blöder."

Aber ich sag ja nichts, ich werd nur rot und weiß.

Deshalb, "Machen Sie was Anderes. Schönes."

"Was Anderes?" - ich.

"Schreiben Sie einen Roman!"

"Einen Roman?" - ich.

"Wollen Sie keinen Roman schreiben? Haben Sie eine Anpassungsstörung?"

Ich hab so eine Wut.

Mit den Händen arbeiten.

Roman.

Diese Affen.

So eine Wut.

Nie, nie, nie bin ich schön müde.

Den Körper spüren. Das willst du nicht. So ist das Handwerk nicht. Die sind alle froh, wenn sie möglichst wenig spüren, vom Körper. Die sind nicht schön müde, die fallen um. Die, die wegen einem Authoritätsproblem allein irgendwas in ihren unromantisch kalten Werkstätten machen, alles Muffel und Dreck, und die, die einen Scheißjob machen, weil sie einen Scheißjob haben - alle sind am Schluss so arm, dass sie fast keine Zähne mehr haben. Und dann will immer keiner zahlen, weil die Arbeit macht doch Spaß, weil eigentlich könnten sie das ja selber. Mit den Händen. Unsere Metalldrückerei findet keinen Lehrling mehr, nie haut es hin. Der eine hat nicht mehr kommen können, weil er immer Bauchweh hat. Wundert ihn nicht, sagt der alte Gsell, wenn der den ganzen Tag Spezi trinkt. Aus Flaschen. Des bapperte Zeich. Da musst du schon ganz hart sein, um mit 14 zwei alte Männer und die Metallkälte aushalten zum können. Den Flexgeruch. So viel Spezi kannst du gar nicht saufen. Wenn die in der Mittagspause draußen im Hof, auf der Waschbetonbank, ihre Plastikdosen aufmachen, willst du weinen. Dass du später dann die Werkstatt kriegst, ist dir da auch wurscht. Mein Vater sagt, in dem Alter haben sie zamkehrt, Semmeln gholt, weil drei mal am Tag war Brotzeit und am Freitag Maschinen putzt. Das war schön, das Maschinenputzen, am Freitag. Aber in der Früh, auf dem Weg hin, am Dom vorbei, da hats fei scho gscheit zogn.

Ich muss diese Bauernhofmuseen sofort wieder verlassen, ich hasse es in diesen kleinen Häusern. Das ist so schlimm da drin, diese Strohsackbetten, diese rachitischen Kinder auf den vergrößerten Fotos, die Holzschuh. Ich krieg vom Hinschauen schon die Schwindsucht. Meine Mutter sagt, das ist das Erbe. Deine Urgroßeltern sind alle vom Land in die Stadt abgehauen, die wollten nie wieder zurück. Und deine Großeltern wollten dann nie wieder in diese grawligen (modrig) Altstadtgassen in denen ihre Eltern gelandet sind, deswegen kannst du den Geruch da auch nicht ertragen. Die wollten dann in die Vorstadt und deswegen sitz ich da jetzt auch fest. Mir wurde mal eine chinesiologisch-psychologisch arbeitende Heilpraktikerin empfohlen, ich bin hingegangen. Ich hab ein Hemd mit Rüscherl angehabt und am nächsten Tag war mein Geburtstag. Die hat dann durch Armdrücken erfahren, dass ich eine Schuld mit mir herumtrag, die mich krank macht. Wahrscheinlich haben meine Urgroßeltern anderen Bauern ein Feld gestohlen, weil alle warns Bauern. Und ein erstgeborenes Kind war tot, das wiederholt sich jetzt immer. Ich wollt die ganze Zeit weinen. Sie hat mir dann eine lila getönte Brille aufgesetzt und ich sollt von links oben nach rechts unten schauen. Oder anders rum. Ein paar mal. Dann hat sie mir noch ein Engelspray empfohlen. Mein Erzengel war fast der einzige den sie im Reformhaus noch hatten, die anderen waren alle aus. Ich hab so ein Glück gehabt.

Ich geh zu Ausstellungseröffnungen, die kosten nichts. Da ess ich die zaachsten (zäh, hart) Brezen und die lätschertsten (aufgeweicht, gummiartig) Erdnussflips. Trinken tu ich nichts, ich trinke nie. Eigentlich trink ich sowieso nur daheim und dann nur Tee. Ich schau mich um, ziemlich schnell. Zum länger Schauen, also zum Verweilen, da muss ich mich zwingen, das liegt mir nicht. Deswegen geh ich drei mal durch und schau absichtlich lang, so lang wie ich kann, weil sonst müsste ich ja gleich wieder heimfahren. Es lohnt sich fast nie, meistens denk ich, "Mein. Gott." und "Ich geh nimmer hin." Aber ich geh trotzdem immer wieder, was willst du auch machen, jeden Abend allein zu haus. Aber manchmal gefällt mir ja auch was. Dann ruf ich gleich meine Schwester an und kichere ihr ins Telefon, dass ich jetzt in love bin. Schon auf dem Heimweg überkommt mich dann auf dem Rad der Selbsthass. Alle waren so shiny, hatten die Haare so glatt, sogar die mit den messy Frisuren, und dann diese Bodycon-Kleider über den Abs oder welche mit Schößchen und Blumenprint und drunter wars eher jiggly - gleich schön. Nur ich nicht. Meine Sandalen sind nie so golden wie die auf der anderen Seite. Wenn ich dann daheim meine Haare im Spiegel seh, muss ich sofort ins Bett. Das muss ich eh, es ist schon fast 10. Ich nütz es nicht so richtig aus, das Stadtleben.

(That iris I am awkwardly holding up in those pictures is not the one I am talking about later on, but a rather lovely variety, unfortunately with stems too weak to hold up the bloom.)




When walking is an option, I often take strolls with W and since the weather is so excellent these days, there is so much to see.  Of course we also prefer the weekend or holidays for maximun entertainment, during the week it might just be plain boring with nobody about. This time around we spot a tiny wiener dog puppy being trained. He is taking such an effort to circle around all these withered narcissus stems in his way when racing back and forth, it is the cutest thing ever. I try to make W write one of his poems about it.

Two weeks before my 35th birthday I buy a bottle of rum to soak some raisins in and get asked to show my ID - this is hilarious. Buying alcohol always makes me feel a bit guilty, even more so when I also buy a bag of sugar and it looks like I am trying to cover up the fact that I am indeed only out getting the rum. Later on I find out they actually do this all the time, probably to promote customer loyalty.

Oh, asparagus smelling pee time! How much do I love you! Since there is so much of that stuff grown in our area, you can get it really cheap now and most times there is an even better deal on the tiny slim green ones, which are my favorite anyway. Since I am quite into smalltalk and any kind of spontaneous banter, I now know that none of my favored asparagus sellers is ever eating any kind themselves, they also despise the strawberries they also have on offer and do not get what the fuss might possibly be about. They are more into cats, cats are huge for them. My cat looses so much fur these days, she is currently walking around in an aura of floating hair.

Getting my hair cut is an ordeal, almost the whole family is like that, which makes us a spectacular too long haired bunch. But by now it had gotten so bad, I just needed to get it over with. So I go to a place just around the corner called "Evelyn´s Friseurstübchen", where there are copper coloured wall stencils, a family of plaster marmots sitting in the window and the hairdressers wear apron dresses and get out their rolls stuffed with ham from a roll shaped Tupper box to snack on, while their ancient client is whiling away under the hood dryer. Every Thursday and Friday you can stop by without an appointment and I will now do so as long as I live here and they keep this establishment going, since I probably got the best dry haircut ever at Evelyn´s and it was so cheap it suited by broke state a lot. I tipped in abundance, I simply could not help myself, being so relieved to have it over with and so happy to have found such a treasure.

Despite he fact that I am in quite a bit of discomfort these days and sometimes in a foul mood, there are so many things I find delight in. First of all the smell - everything is just burning up in flower in such speed right now, the mixture being different every day. Heady with lily of the valley and lilac even - or especially - at night, and the elderflower is just waiting to join the chorus. I also enjoy things like the nerve racking, almost ultrasonic hiss of my recently decalcified tap aerator when the water is running. Also I really like to dress again, to put jewellery on - it never totally stopped, but it always needed to be something that would come off again in a second in case an emergency should arise. Now I like digging up stuff from my closet I got ages ago, things that feel like they have just been waiting for me all that time. I am so glad I never joined the Marie Kondo cult - in case some pieces just do not work anymore, I bring them over to my mum. It turns out she looks quite eclectic in turquoise pants, I just felt ridiculous wearing them. When the pain isn´t too distracting or frustrating, it actually can coexist with delight. This is fairly new to me, for a long time those two thing felt exclusive too me. In a few months I will celebrate a decade of being in massive pain. During these festivities I will not be able to share any wisdom with you, there won´t be slideshows, impressive before and after pictures, no inspirational tale of how I made it to the other side using only my iron willpower. There is no other side and the iron bits are rusty, flakey, crumbling away under the softest touch. I have not overcome a single thing, nor am I stronger than before - I have not risen from the ashes. I did the hospital stay that should have turned my life around and the diet that was supposed to change my existence, now it is probably all down to the fact that I haven´t had a hydrocolontherapy and never take a look at the organ watch. And maybe things just haven´t changed because I am simply not happy enough and not able to do any yoga, also I only meditate while riding my bike. And though I listened closely, I still have no idea what my body might want to tell my so urgently, or what possible use that pain could be for me. The answers making most sense to me so far, are "nothing" and "none" and being asked those questions sets a fire to my fury, has me reeling from hot red (or white, depending on the setting) rage. Also I do not think I am punishing myself with all this, for things that are not supposed to be punished in such a way, in any way. Things like lying to my grandmother about a singing and dancing game in the school yard that never actually happened in third grade or an ill advised hookup, leading to an undetected chlamydia infection that might have turned on my spine. My body does not strike me that vindictive and biblical and even if it would have turned all Old Testament and plage-style on me, you should think I would have atoned for my sins by now, leading a martyr nun life. I might get even beatified, if I wasn´t so pissed and angry, but of glorious endurance instead. 

I am tired and get teary eyed every time I read the obituaries and that line pops up with the way becoming to hard and steep and God seeing this, putting his arm around you, telling you to come home. This God seems so nice and I really like him. Also I really, really want to go there, home. Not dead-home, but pain-free-home. But I will admit that thinking about dead-home also gives me a lot of comfort, which makes this definitely not a saddening thing. Sometimes the sun shining outside is just not "true" for you, because you are in sick- and pain-land and this is not actually life. Life is what everyone else is doing, they own the sun and they also own Sun-days, to enjoy and be free. You do not have those. And every time you wish someone a happy weekend, you are wondering what that might look like. When you do not know where any of this is leading, or if it will indeed ever end and you feel so out of options, no solutions on the horizon and just going on, plain survival is definitely not one - bam - there it is! A new idea, one of those cherished light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel moments! You realize you can actually always put that end to it all - it is up to you, at last. Oh, that is a cheering thought! So you put on some high-waisted white jeans you will have to unbutton all the way down again when you are trying to sit down for the first time (you will never wear those again), but you do look like a very hot doctor and you meet up with your friends and go to an event in some park that makes everyone attending feel very fancy. Pants undone, looking profesh, thinking happily "I can kill myself any time I want, you fuckers - isn´t that just awesome?!". And let me tell you, that thought is so much more relieving than unbuttoning those pants and allowing that belly to expand in abundance, but just like that there is freedom and deep breathing again. An odd kind of happiness in this turmoil, a tiny bit of ease in distress.

In this neighbourhood the only excuse for an overgrown garden or even worse - lawn, is being gravely ill or indeed dead. But even then you are not totally excused for this disgrace, since what you should have done, when feeling the early onsets of old age, the shadow of death, is pouring concrete all over your place or at least fill it up with deranged zen-style pebble. Better yet, have the common sense and turn the whole thing over to someone young and neat before your decay sets in. The plaster covering my house is crumbling, my paths are covered in ornamental lichen, my fence barely held together by a clematis hard at work. My lawn is always parched and my hedges uncut (who would bother with giving their box woods a trimm, when the box wood moth is just waiting around the corner to take it down?). I (accidentially) breed escargots and tiny pink snails (my favorite) and the little yellow ones with the brown stripes, because my garden walls are made of limestone, which is good for building their shells. Thyme, chives and hollyhocks (and grass, of course, and dandelion) grow in the cracks between the paving stones and I won´t put an end to it. One of my neighbours is desperately offering me moss killers. No plant, not even the hundreds of shrill bright red 50s tulips can be contained to their beds. (Actually I am just about to tear those out every season, only stopping myself knowing they fade within a couple of days anyway. So far I haven´t found a way to tone them down with some kind of plant partners, neither the awful variety of two-toned violet bearded iris appearing a few weeks later.) This is an affront in the country of highly effective weed killers, flame throwers and high-pressure cleaners. Where the young and old can be found hurrying to the nearby cemetery at all times, carrying a watering can, since there is no greater shame then an unkempt and under-watered family grave. I´ll say - with a preachery gesture to match: "Let my grave be a wasteland." And I do not mean that in a poetic give-me-all-the-wildflowers that-will-be-so-good-for-the-bees, this-is-an-excellent-idea-I-am-going-to-be-bee-food-when-I-am-dead way, no, I actually mean wasteland. That nice God has taken me home and I do not feel a fucking thing, so why would I care if I am covered in trash, annoying the hood.

(I have to admit however, that there is indeed one resident who is by far surpassing my tame attempts at garden rioting with a property in such constant disarray, an everlasting construction site. Whenever I spot him taking on a new, and soon to be abandoned, messy and nonsensical project, I mentally applaud him. I am not badass enough to create or tolerate such a display of chaos, so he is definitely the king of suburban pandemonium.)

(These pictures of my after-winter garden basically show what is called an "Idylln" around here, in a very ironic but loving way.)

(I took the pictures of those golden ear rings to be with fancy stones in the workshop in early fall and they still aren´t finished - by posting these I hope to put a bit of pressure on us to do so.)

(This NIGHTSTAND made me want to give Anita Brookner an other try - I found her HOTEL DU LAC so cruel, but I am so glad I gave it another shot, because this one is just so, so good. Here is my favorite passage: "He would, he had long ago decided, be deliberately euphoric. It was a technique which he could practise and perfect, although sometimes it nearly eluded him. Thus, from his earliest days, he remembered scenes that might have been deviced by Proust." To be deliberately euphoric - what a way to lead ones life (despite the fact that he has been trough a lot of hardships), this seems hugely inspiring to me. I also love the fancy vintage cover and I am planing on collecting many of those. Oh, and that would be my own CRESCENT BRACELET, in case you were wondering!)

My Sundays are busy in a weird way. I do my laundry because I still have my Grandmother´s ancient electricity contract, where they don´t charge as much for electricity used during the night and on Sundays. It looks like I use as much electricity during the week as on washing and tumble drying days. Also I need to flip my mattress once a week, because I got tricked into spending a lot of money on it years ago and it turned out it is complete garbage and really sucks. After a week of sleeping on it, it feels like I have to crawl out of a valley each morning. So Sunday is when I flip the damn thing. My sister says I can´t call it being tricked, I was just being plain stupid instead, since it was one of those shops calling themselves a specialized mattress dealer in bold red and yellow letters, while  simultaneously announcing an eternal sale. The tumbler also doesn´t really work that good anymore, so I spend the day with a kitchen filled with chairs covered in clothes in the final drying stages.

I find a padded fancy leather jacket at my friend´s and stockist´s SHOP, when she is having a sale. I also fall in love with a black cashmere sweater with flowers on it. In the end I swap them for the most elaborate of our SILVER RECYCLING NECKLACES, which means I got a really, really good deal on them. They both smell like the also very fancy perfume she sells, which unfortunately gives me a  bit of a headache, so I have to air them out for a while. Which basically means wearing both a lot. I look almost sharp in that jacket, a quite disturbing sight.

I break the cup that wet with my tiny tea POT, all because when doing the dishes that morning I marveled at the fact that I had not yet broken it, even though I use it every morning since my sister gave it to me for my birthday a few years ago. Trying to put it away while simultaneously eating a shitty peanut-butter-seeds-and-chocolate-slice, I drop it a few hours later. My magical thinking is powerful and by now the facts are on my side. I had a premonition of dropping my phone in the toilet (only for the first time it happened to me, the second time it was a surprise) and even of my grandmother´s deadly stroke, I get a feeling about the tiniest and greatest losses - so don´t try to tell me otherwise. I can´t accept broken or lost things, so that damn cup was glued together again right away - you can´t drink from it anymore, of course, but at least it is not that broken anymore. However I also think when something minor happens, it means something major isn´t happening instead. So all of these plates breaking and there are a lot of plates breaking these days - sometimes they just sit broken in their drawer, broken by ghosts´ hands probably - keep the really bad stuff from happening. And I am very thankful for that. I even told my mother about this when she was mourning a broken antique jug and made her feel very good about it instead. 

A friend tells me she is pregnant while the dog she is currently watching starts to throw up violently. The poor beast heaves and shakes and I pity her a lot. She is a vegan dog, so the throw up is bright yellow. When I am riding home on my bike, I am wondering how a dog in the wild might come to the conclusion to lead a vegan life and I figure it probably goes like this: "Glaubst as, des Hoosn jogn bockt mi nimma - i friss etz Ruam!" This is absolutely untranslatable since that specific vegan dog lived in the Upper Palatinate, being a teenager around 2010, talking this era´s local youth slang. I ask my sister if it is weird to think my own joke that funny - she doesn´t have a conclusive answer.

I don´t know what is wrong with my Photoshop, the transformation frames leave traces all over the desktop and I have no idea where I am at at any point - it feels like going mad. Then I find some short cuts to press while rebooting the whole thing and it goes away. 

I am so pissed these days, carrying around some kind of anger, pared with so much tiredness and a feeling like I might come down with something any minute now. I had wanted to go to a screening by a quite successful DIRECTOR growing up in our town, visiting even the same school as I did, but I had written the date wrong and noticed it too late - made me scream. I also wanted to go to Munich and take a look at all those JEWELLERY EXHIBITIONS, but the day before I was so still so tired I had to lie down after riding the fold up bike I wanted take with me around the block. I will do so some other time, but it feels like I have failed. On the other hand, going to a bigger city always makes me feel depressed about the one I am living in. Of course I could just go visiting a lot, but I am just so immobile. Instead I feel like my life is wasting away, living at the lifeless outskirt of a narrow medieval town, with not that much to see. It is cute alright here, but I feel like I miss out on so much, the really beautiful things. But right now this is the only life I can afford and I am grateful for its advantages, but these days this irks me a great deal. I yell-tell all of this my sisters, they understand. They are not enough dates between meals to calm my mood and never any sweets in the house. My sister´s co-worker suggests I might switch to alcohol, everybody knows about my faul temper by now. Then I get an update on Facebook that one of the events I had dreamed of going to, a poetry reading at the Haus der Kunst, was cancelled due to sickness.

The seasons are changing again, my cat wants to be let out in the middle of the night, for a stroll in the dark. On her return she rattles at my door and covers my white bed sheets with earthy foot prints. The next day it feels like the first day of spring, she stays outside all day and comes home pumped, trying to pick play fights with me. It seemed like she had gotten old during the winter, but the warmth has turned her into a kitten again. It does sound odd, but I have really liked that winter, I am in no hurry for Spring either. I feel in tune with the seasons now.

(Scrolls - I´m seeing a pattern here: deep fried apple ones from the bakery and a tiny tray of miso cheddar buns sprinkled with with black sesame seeds from an issue of LUNCH LADY) 
(also it looks like I only want to eat green pasta these days)

I´m always flushed with relief when someone else but me cancels a meeting, then I feel lighthearted and do something silly, like getting a scoop of Bacio ice cream while a cute couple enjoying the sun watches my packed bike. That bag of very unwholesome tipo 0 flour from the Italian super market I only get because of the tacky packaging and because it makes me dream of being someone entirely different, a person who travels to Italy and eats only cakes and bread made of white flour without blinking an eye.

The change of seasons, the white-haired lady selling tiny dark grapes at the farmers market, a certain combination of spices - all of this makes me think a lot about that VISIT from a handful of "internet friends" a couple of years ago and when I tell NINA about it she writes that she is so amazed how carefree we have been back then - so much has happened since. I do miss that ease and those girls. So much seems to be so far away, so very much out of reach. Looking at my full closet I think about giving a lot of the clothes away or selling them, but in the end I can only part with very few items - my mum says she keeps so many pieces just to remember things. And I want that too, everything else goes, to make new memories with my sisters and friends.

There sits a heavy fog all over town in the mornings and it takes almost all day to finally lift and reveal a blue sky, it makes me feel a bit dizzy. Some days we only get about two hours of light before the fog closes in again, right before the sun sets - I go out anyway that evening. The light my bike headlights casts comes alive, consisting of myriads of minuscule dancing water drops - it doesn´t feel scary but safe, riding in the dark being wrapped up in a wet coat. My back hates it though and acts out like crazy.

At the flea market I find a rose quartz candle holder and now I light a bees wax candle in it every night, hoping for calming esoteric stone powers to make me be at ease. W says it hurts his heart to see precious stones cut and wasted so crudely, but I am so drawn to theses things and tell myself it is okay to get them second hand. Also I´m planing a collection of those SALT LAMPS, electrical or lit by candles - since everyone seems to want to get rid of them, you can find some on every single fleamarket, so this shouldn´t take too long.

Things I have in my fridge:

at least 3 tubs of Greek style sheep yoghurt at all times - that is six days of breakfast taken care of

frozen blueberries

ice packs for emergencies that are hopefully never happening

a bottle of linseed oil

ghee - not into the taste lately

Andechser cream cheese, as a base coat for rustic savoury or sweet galettes (made at least twice a week)

bits of cheese (putting cheap Emmentaler on top of these galettes ruins everything, definitely the wrong way to save money)

a packet of miso (when it´s not in my parents´ fridge - we share)

a tiny half full bottle of white wine that must have gone sour by now, since i´m currently not that into risotto style rice puddings

very long lasting feta cheese in case there is nothing else around

capers in salt (what do I do with them?! ideas please!!!)

jar of canned lingonberries, to go into cakes, quark and of course on top of those galettes

half a jar of rose hip jam, I think it needs to be thrown out

Crema Aceto Balsamico, since I found out it needs to be stored in the fridge

tube of tomato paste

a frozen log of peanut sandie dough from Ottolenghi´s "Sweet", when a pat of butter needed using up but I didn´t want to eat any cookies

lately some ready made chocolate pudding since I want some, but simple can´t be bothered making it from scratch

farmers market loot, depending on the season

How come I have never roasted the SEEDS when eating pumpkin?!

SWEET CABBAGE STRUDEL and APPLESAUCE RAISIN CAKE from a time BEFORE THE INTERNET EXISTED

MARGARET ATWOOD on her tiny Canadian Island
somehow GOLUBKA KITCHEN pulls at my heart strings right now
of course I´m really into THE LITTLE LIBRARY CAFE

my parents back yard

before they cleaned it all up for winter

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made Maria´s HILDEGARD COOKIES after i found the link over at FRL TEXT

(that pink stuff in my bowl? just a bit of Himalaya salt)

she also hooked me on spelt coffee again
(guess what - when you keep an open jar of that powdered stuff long enough it does turn liquid on its own and makes you scream looking at it!)

but i´m still on the hunt for a not so harsh, milder brew

any suggestions - also about other no-coffee coffees?
(oh - when i asked my mum for ground gloves she wanted to know what i was planning on baking
and when i told her so she looked at me quite shocked:
"but you know those are going to be doagbatzen (beautiful bavarian saying for very hard and dry baked goods)?!"
we´re such a charming family...)

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find us this weekend on DILLY DALLY DESIGNMARKT in case you´re in the Regensburg area

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and we´re very happy to be a part of BASTIS RIKE´s wonderful new ONLINE SHOP

we even have our own little SECTION

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TANZFAKTUR - when E and her boyfriend aren´t PAINTING, they are dancing

(i do not know what this piece is about, a bit of intimacy and perception stuff i guess

but it looks like i accidentally sponsored their dancing shoes - aka best sandals ever)