english
JVA Köln, 28th June 2018
PAGE ONE#1 I’m not sure what is on my mind there’s a saying in English, “sage advice” the little grey green herb in a lid of sugar watertight soaking up the last of the sun leaves pointed upward resting gently against a bar perhaps the evening breeze might just topple them over. I think of the visit this morning three people one new face could I have said more? Probably? Today is a low low low one sentenced, two years another denied a visitors the only chance to catch up with her two teenage daughters “you cannot save anyone” (did I mean “everyone”?) I know but I wish I could do more than give a hug “I’m sorry” and my time what am I going to do when I go free and they’re left behind?#2 Where is my head at? Why is it so hard to find? What am I doing here? And who is going to walk out of here when I’ve “served my time”? It won’t be who walked in, head high. My mind is hard and my heart more still what is left of “me” honestly if I can't even recognize myself.#3 It’s not all “woe is me”. I promise. There’s good things, too. Stuff to light a fire in. What feels like a husk of burnt out heart and soul a bar of chocolate thoughtfully given, an old line of poetry in a book to pull away the walls. “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately.” (From dead pets society.)PAGE TWO
#1 In art group they told us “this circle is your heart draw the things that live inside it.” But what are they exactly? Do I draw my friends the forest a hundred faces for every act of support and each “stay strong, hold on, you will go free one day” Hambi bleibt in the houses up the trees “real anarchists wash dishes or it creates hierarchy” or do I draw the life I had wage slave weekends cooking steak in a kitchen all so I could afford a little flat’s rent but it was my space a place just for me no “expectations” bullshit foraged furniture, a friend an escape to just “be” how strange it is when I think of home, I only see trees with the smell of aged and ancient earth sitting cross legged, mouth full of chunky ginger tea.#2 I wrote a poem perhaps I’ll find it rewrite it here or in a following letter my late March heart when I could still believe another few days maybe a week of how I miss the mud rustle of the leaves it’s nearly Summer now no Spring in the forest for me and how I miss my filthy hands the responsibility for things water canisters carried slowly along a lane wheelbarrows full of tofu and a few tired humans groaning “not for dinner again!” sleeping huddled together slow breathing, a snore that one day I woke early ecstatic to see snow on the floor laughing madly, leaving tracks all overcooked rolling slush into haphazard spheres being told “if you dare throw that ball…“ (It’s not my fault, you stood so near.)#3 Moments like this help keep the fire alive the world still exists, and one day I’ll be outside “Ich hoffe für dich, I hope for you” eventually this will all just be a long, crazy bad dream for me and all those here stuck in the inbetween sleeping and waking (or so it seems) “the worst isn’t my body, it’s my head that’s a prison” (a friend said to me) “there’s too many thoughts and they won’t let me leave” at least I can get out of my mind a dozen photos to flick through so many letters to read this poem to write which I’ll finish here, with endless love from UPIII.