“civilly disobedient telepathy”

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erlebt, ehrlich wahr

Thinking through an old article again (in which to causal relations are slightly off from the perspective of today), I re-read the full interview with Susan Howe, published in the  Paris Review, from which I had borrowed two, three lines as entry to the argument. Grand words: “There’s a level”, she had said, “at which words are spirit and paper is skin. That’s the fascination of archives. There’s still a bodily trace.” Hey, Susan Howe. And she delivers an apt description of the luring books within the bliss of a decent university library ….

What I love about university libraries is that they always seem slightly off-limits, therefore forbidden. I feel I’ve been allowed in with my little identity card and now I’m going to be bad. I have the sense of lurking rather than looking. You came in search of a particular volume, but right away you feel the pull of others.


Don’t you quote Dickinson, “Luck is not chance”?


That’s right. “Luck is not chance—/it’s Toil—/… the Father of/the Mine/is that old-fashioned Coin/we spurned.” That sense of the spurned book, the hidden one, is intuitive. It’s a sense of self-identification and trust that widens to delight—discovering accidental originals or feeling that you’re pulling something back. You’re rescuing or bringing them into the light. You could call it civilly disobedient telepathy.”

diese tür.

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ehrlich wahr / erlebt

Manchmal, manchmal, manchmal ist unsere feine Veranstaltungsreihe “sübkültür” mehr als was sie ohnehin ist: Wunderwerk, Zauberkammer, gute Stube, Heimkommen, Knistern. Manchmal nämlich ist dann einer wie der letztwöchige Gast Tim Köhler vor Ort, nein: da. Und spielt seine Lieder in die Luft. Sie schweben dann durch die Straßen und machen Calvinos evergreen der ‘Unsichtbaren Städte’ wiederholt wahr. Es ist ja alles möglich.

In guter Gastmanier ließ Herr Köhler eine seiner Platte zurück, die klingt jetzt nach in Herz und Seele, insbesondere dieses eine Lied, Nummer Acht auf dem jüngsten Werk: “Diese eine Tür”. “Halt Dich fern von dieser Tür ganz hinten”, singt Köhler da über die nie ganz fragmentierbaren Zeiten. Und auch wenn man sich kennt bis ins Mark,  auch wenn es ja stimmt: “Ich hab Dich gerne bei mir”. Die Freiheit, einige Türen geschlossen zu lassen, die reist immer mit mir; die ist auch Teil der Heimat.

Hier kann man Tim Köhlers Lieder kurz anhören. Und dann gleich im Gesamten erwerben.

for the sunday mood.

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aus der welt gefallene worte

“Stop worrying about your identity and concern yourself with the people you care about, ideas that matter to you, beliefs you can stand by, tickets you can run on. Intelligent humans make those choices with their brain and hearts and they make them alone. The world does not deliver meaning to you. You have to make it meaningful…and decide what you want and need and must do. It’s a tough, unimaginably lonely and complicated way to be in the world. But that’s the deal: you have to live; you can’t live by slogans, dead ideas, clichés, or national flags. Finding an identity is easy. It’s the easy way out.”

Zadie Smith, On Beauty

in case of loss

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a poem a day

(…) , poet Phillippa Yaa De Villiers posted yesterday on Social Media, as if she knew: that we face loss this summer, we breathe absence and we touch the cold cheek of our beloved again and again to affirm the unbelievable; we stroke the hair while searching for the difference. As if she knew, the poet wrote:


In case of loss

In case of loss please return
to your bed. Sit quietly
and let the void 
swallow you up.
Do not attempt to replace
the irreplaceable.


And she knows.

what love does.

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erlebt, ehrlich wahr

In Defence Of Adultery
by Julia Copus

We don’t fall in love: it rises through us
the way that certain music does –
whether a symphony or ballad –
and it is sepia-coloured,
like spilt tea that inches up
the tiny tube-like gaps inside
a cube of sugar lying by a cup.
Yes, love’s like that: just when we least
needed or expected it
a part of us dips into it
by chance or mishap and it seeps
through our capillaries, it clings
inside the chambers of the heart.
We’re victims, we say: mere vessels,
drinking the vanilla scent
of this one’s skin, the lustre
of another’s eyes so skilfully
darkened with bistre. And whatever
damage might result we’re not
to blame for it: love is an autocrat
and won’t be disobeyed. 


Sometimes we manage
to convince ourselves of that.