In the morning

The call for the pray wakes me up every morning at 5 a.m. The voice from the Mosque does not annoy me. That’s strange, because I don’t usually want to be disturbed in my sleep.
The chant in Arabic somehow comforts me.
I’m not a religious person -in fact I have a bad habit of disbelieving everything- and I’m sure not to get any mysterious or euphoric sensation listening to the prayers in the dim morning light of my bedroom.

I should be irritated by the shriek and scream in a language I don’t understand, but I’m not. It makes me feel safe to know that somewhere there are people, who are awake at the same time as I am.
I’m not alone.

Maybe there’s someone next door who unrolls his mat and kneels to a prayer. Someone whose mumble will lull me to sleep again.

Or maybe not. My room is in a hotel and probably the sixteen years old English blonde is crying in her sleep, that’s more likely. She’s been drinking beer all day with her mum and when I last saw them before retiring to my room, they hugged each other and the waitresses in the hotel bar. Mum and daughter, both drunk in their miniskirts and tight blouses, printed “don’t touch” on the breast and “cheeky” on the bottoms of their way too shirt skirts.

The thought of them snoring bottoms up doesn’t comfort me as much as the sound from the Mosque. I concentrate on the incomprehensible, monotonous pray and fall asleep.

Fly me to the Sun

Fly me to the Sun
and let me rest forevermore.
The Sun is all I long for,
all I worship.

Never more

Coldness.

Grey

HPY challenged me into something, but I must pardon my French, didn’t understand much. I presume that I should tell something about my peculiarities, was it so, HPY?

I like to be quiet. That’s sometimes difficult, especially at work, because I speak for living. At home it is also a bit odd, because I don’t live alone.

I like to travel, but I don’t want to leave home.

I love to sleep, could do that always.

I like musicals and hard boiled detectives.

I’m not a social drinker, if I drink something.

I don’t want a pet, never have wanted.

Well, I’m not odd at any rate. There are much weirder people than me. Or maybe not. Who am I to tell? The older I get the better I realize that the world is neither black nor white. The world is made of different shades of grey.

The greyness demands light to glisten, to live and to love. On Sunday I’ll fly towards light.

I'm phoning you

if you won’t answer me
get me jesus on line

hallelujah
I love you so

you’re
walking the line in black
black is beautiful

and black

the line white as snow
snow white
so are you
white
dear and prudent

dearly saving your beauty

let me
like a beast
rip it off
tear you down

low and blue

in the night
I heard the blues
coming to get me
and my shadow

remembering your smile

Having fun is a hard thing to do

I tried to party last night. It was difficult. Once again.

It almost always goes the same way: I sit in a restaurant, drink some wine or beer, eat something, talk with my friends and suddenly I get the urge to run away. Go home.

I drink a little more, try to get in the mood. I look at people having fun, ordering more to drink, getting drunk and at the same time I feel myself sliding away from all the merry-going-around. I feel isolated, I feel tired, maybe even a little bored.

At this point I have two possibilities. I can either drink more and try to get on the same level with that happy-go-lucky-feeling that frenzies my friends or I can get up, say “see you” and walk away.

I walk away and while doing that I wonder what’s wrong with me, why can’t I enjoy an evening with my friends? Why don’t I get excited when people start to reveal their secrets, when they begin to yearn to tell their truest thoughts and facts about their lives, their beings, their opinions, their children, their relationships? Why don’t I get thrilled by music that leads other people to the dance floor and makes them dance like maniacs?

Is it because I’m afraid that I’ll do the same? Be something that I’d regret next morning? Or am I just tired of listening to other people? Should I really be a hermit?

Or am I just a bore?

The tap-dancer

Can you hear the music?
Do you feel the rhythm?
Let your pulse take control, feel the blood oozing in your veins,
wildly throbbing through your limbs.
Listen, listen, listen to the beat.

And let it go, let it loose.
Be the drums, be the rhythm, be

the tap

and dance, dance, dance. Twirl around, spin on your heels and inhale the vibration, let the pounding of your heart move your legs.

Dance.

Too cold

It’s too cold to write. The temperature is 20 degrees below zero and the north wind is blowing painfully. My words are surrounded with ice, my thoughts are freezing. I long for the golden sun and the warmth of the lazy, sunny days of summer.

I don’t want to write. This happens seldom. Words make me shiver and all I want to do is to crouch under the blanket and sleep and maybe dream about nothing.

I don’t understand people who enjoy winter, who find pleasure in skiing, skating and walking in the crisp wind. But I know they are lucky and I envy them. They will survive the winters yet to come, while I, year after year become more aware of the fact that to be able to live in a relatively sane state of mind, I must do something to my dislike of winter.

Any suggestions?

The magic of music

My upstairs neighbour has bought a slide trombone.
He’s still learning to play.

Listening to him is interesting and it brings to my mind an old song by Eddie Cantor. “If I give up the saxophone (will you come back to me?)”

Music really turns you on or off.

Heaven and hell

this could be heaven

love is like a song

if you’d only

love me tender
love me do

LOVE AND MARRIAGE!

all for love

love touch
true love

all you need is love
just a little lovin’

moon love

YOU’D BETTER LOVE ME!

this is hell