Ghazal, my cat, you are a bad liar. I knew right away when you send me your sick note on Friday that you were well off. Didn"t I tell you that whenever you feel good, I feel good as well, and when you feel bad, I feel the same. And on Friday, we were both o.k. Don"t worry, I know you went to Sweden to see your family.
Maybe you have been a bit confused about the story I told you, how I met your family with their 4-year old daughter Ghazal in the year 1989. I was working than as a part-time waiter in the Berlin-Lichtenberg station bistro, in the very eastern part of Berlin, serving the transit-travelers that arrived on the Scandinavian night-train a simple breakfast or their first beer. Your family, like most other travellers ariving on this train, came to east-Berlin just to cross the boarder and to visit friends and relatives in the western part of the city, for me lightyears away on the other side of the wall. Your parents were extremely generous, and paid for a cup of coffee, a pair of Wiener-Würstchen and some slices of fresh toast with a 2O DM note, for which I did not give them any (except our east-german aluminium-coins). Do you think your parents will remember this encounter in 1989, with a german boy, now a man, who still owes them some change. Will they acknowledge that I with pleasure return what I possesed for 21 years, now to the daughter of the persian family, whom they gave the name Ghazal, meaning ghazel in Farsi, but to me it is phonetically close to Azur, the colour of your eyes. Will they hear with some suspect, that not money was returned, but instead an orchid flower ? Maybe they, as parents, did not realized that her daughter meanwhile grew into a young goddess, for they saw her day after day, over weeks, month and over 25 years. For my eyes however, you have been invisible for so long like a butterfly in a pupal stage, which only now released the devine creation of Ghazal, who in 1989 was this 4-year old baby girl on the arms of your parents, a kid like all kids of this age with blue eyes and full of innocent wildness.
Now, you entered my life a second time, and your eyes have not lost their amazing blue colour. Now you leave me spell bound and you make my hands shivering when I see you, and when you are away, all my thoughts are occupied with restless doubts. My eyes can"t stop to compare every face I see on the road with the shape of your eyes and your lips and your nose and all my thoughts are cought in an endless loop trying to locate a bit of your voice among all the sounds and voices on the street that enter my ears. My soul is running an uncontrollable repetition of fictional talks with you and is building dream castles which we explore together.
Yesterday, I took one of our old bikes to repair it for you, so you could drive every day to work. This morning I found out that it had been stolen from the S-Bahn station where I locked it. Never before I felt this anger and this unjustice, since it was not an ordinary old bike any more, but I loaded with so many love for you. Every screw I tighted, every piece of chrom I polished, every bearing I lubricated, carried a piece of deep attraction that I feel for you. This bike was not a bike, it was a shrine of my love. No I feel as if barbarians have destroyed my hooliest temple, only to use the bricks for building a supermarket. (24-05-2010)
Maybe you have been a bit confused about the story I told you, how I met your family with their 4-year old daughter Ghazal in the year 1989. I was working than as a part-time waiter in the Berlin-Lichtenberg station bistro, in the very eastern part of Berlin, serving the transit-travelers that arrived on the Scandinavian night-train a simple breakfast or their first beer. Your family, like most other travellers ariving on this train, came to east-Berlin just to cross the boarder and to visit friends and relatives in the western part of the city, for me lightyears away on the other side of the wall. Your parents were extremely generous, and paid for a cup of coffee, a pair of Wiener-Würstchen and some slices of fresh toast with a 2O DM note, for which I did not give them any (except our east-german aluminium-coins). Do you think your parents will remember this encounter in 1989, with a german boy, now a man, who still owes them some change. Will they acknowledge that I with pleasure return what I possesed for 21 years, now to the daughter of the persian family, whom they gave the name Ghazal, meaning ghazel in Farsi, but to me it is phonetically close to Azur, the colour of your eyes. Will they hear with some suspect, that not money was returned, but instead an orchid flower ? Maybe they, as parents, did not realized that her daughter meanwhile grew into a young goddess, for they saw her day after day, over weeks, month and over 25 years. For my eyes however, you have been invisible for so long like a butterfly in a pupal stage, which only now released the devine creation of Ghazal, who in 1989 was this 4-year old baby girl on the arms of your parents, a kid like all kids of this age with blue eyes and full of innocent wildness.
Now, you entered my life a second time, and your eyes have not lost their amazing blue colour. Now you leave me spell bound and you make my hands shivering when I see you, and when you are away, all my thoughts are occupied with restless doubts. My eyes can"t stop to compare every face I see on the road with the shape of your eyes and your lips and your nose and all my thoughts are cought in an endless loop trying to locate a bit of your voice among all the sounds and voices on the street that enter my ears. My soul is running an uncontrollable repetition of fictional talks with you and is building dream castles which we explore together.
Yesterday, I took one of our old bikes to repair it for you, so you could drive every day to work. This morning I found out that it had been stolen from the S-Bahn station where I locked it. Never before I felt this anger and this unjustice, since it was not an ordinary old bike any more, but I loaded with so many love for you. Every screw I tighted, every piece of chrom I polished, every bearing I lubricated, carried a piece of deep attraction that I feel for you. This bike was not a bike, it was a shrine of my love. No I feel as if barbarians have destroyed my hooliest temple, only to use the bricks for building a supermarket. (24-05-2010)
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