Envy #TheDailyPost

Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.



The fools, if only they knew! As we run along the path, near the canal, early in our morning routine, I see them, their eyes on you, on the golden girl, sometime on me… I can read their puzzled minds, jealous, tortured to see what must be a very happy, if odd, couple. Their imagination must run wild.

Our routine takes us all the way to the river. There we undo our running shoes, store them safely in our rucksacks, and we swim to the other side. Then we follow the time honoured path we have for so many years. Back along Unter den Linden, across the Tiergarten, and then down toward Kreuzberg and our small home, our shelter.

The first time we did this we were much younger, if this could make any sense. All around us were ruins. The conquering soldiers could not see us then. We hadn’t yet taken our present forms. Just ghosts, the pitiful remains of two lovers, victims of absolute war.

Why did we stay? Well, it’s our city, we have nowhere else to go. Here are our memories, our friends, hidden, deep in the ground, unlike us, who keep passersby intrigued by the sight of an athletic pair in old fashioned 30’s sport gear.

#VisDare 124: Unexpected



Mum knew you were on duty, and aimed to surprise you. I know how much you must have waited for those short moments, stolen from the tedium of the day, your little girl appearing, playful, so small…

And there you were, my very big daddy, pretending to arrest me. Such laughter! You could never catch me, onlookers wondering why the huge policeman should be running so hard after that little thing, all legs and smile!

Then time seemed to stop, the sky was clearer, I can still see you, Mum, laughing, secretly admiring the big guy in your life, my father.

But this was before he went away, away from that beach, toward other sands, deeper, and then we only had the short, sober, letters.

I am now bigger too, big enough to stand still by his grave. A hero, a big man. And me, on my own.

photo source

#DailyPrompt: Oil, Meet Water

LumièreWe stopped on the path, near the canal, our preferred running lane in Faust’s metropolis, under the chestnut trees. The air was already much cooler, prelude to the cold wind that soon would blow from the plains of Poland and beyond.

“You’re getting too good for me,” I said, nearly out of breath, with the smile of a slightly puzzled male, faced with exquisite female beauty, and superior strength in one.

You smiled and blew a kiss: “Come on, I have to justify your admiration, and, besides, were we not a bischen different it would not work would it?” With the Köpenick accent, how could I ever resist you?

#Valleys: the Runner #Fifty

LandwehrkanalShe runs along the path, admiring the green edge of the canal: this is her territory, austere and silent, in the morning light.

On the bank, the tall trees observe her, recognising her sombre and exquisite beauty.

Soon she reaches the small bridge, where she seduces and kills her victims.

The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Writer

“The world was now dimmed, a shallow island of light floating in a vast darkness, even though it was noon…” ~ Lunar Park


Our heads contain worlds. Or is it just the one over and over?

People pop out to smoke cigarettes,

simper, gossip, fuck and pray.

Maggotty ideas fester – let them die –

voices assault us daily.

What is real I cannot say.

He’s tried to flirt with the mainstream.

His world always out of kilter

at an angle only he can measure,

drumming beats no one will follow.

There is no shared vision,

yet we wish horses of belonging for us beggars.

Come inside, ladies and gents!

If only you’d discover that underneath I’m much like you,

a gentler man of erudite barbs.

One read and you’ll be captivated.

I know I’ve worked so hard for this:

how can I share that knowledge, that wonder with you?


How do you keep your balance as a creative person?  That is the question that Joe Hesch would like us to consider…

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Saturday morning musing…

Futures It looks as if our morning run might be disrupted – sigh. I am a morning person, for me best time to write, observe the world pursuing its business in the garden – ah the crows! -and generally meditate on the state of the planet (still there, still beautiful, and still threatened). This morning a sudden realisation of what a mess my blogs are pushes me to this rambling post.

In the blogosphere (is there such a thing?) some of “us” are very organised, sticking to one location, one book, or more evidently, one general outlook on life, and some solid certainties – may be. Others are, well, like me, or I am more like them. Erm… Very dispersed for a start. No kidding: in this case dispersed over no less than five WP locations and two tumblr ones… Isn’t this madness? Of course there is some logic (po-faced). This place, where I write now, is not the original blog: this honour belongs to the other one, the one I started in the distant year when I withdrew from active service, so-called (giggles in the background). Then came this, and the photo blog which witnesses our travels, discoveries and the odd pic of something worth capturing, in our view. The magnus opus has its own blog – a good thing too – and its aim is to deliver (really?) a first draft at the end of this year!

Coffee is brewed… Ah…

Tumblr comes in two parts, one – Musings – is a collection of mainly pictures and quotes that I have found attractive in my wanderings (I quote friends often there). The other is a piece of risqué writing (definitely 18+ and “NSFW”!) reflecting another type of ambition (or is it obsession?) This leaves the last born, which emerges from my attempt at returning to my own sources, and draws on the multilingual nature of our household. “Sisyphe sur le Rivage” is mainly a comment on some of my favourite spots in French literature dans le texte. Voilà.

Where does that leave the structure of what I want to say? I am not sure there is one, or, if there is, it is in the making: the essence of work in progress. And there lies the pleasure of an endless adventure. At the risk of boring my readers…

#AtoZChallenge: April 19, 2013: Q = 九

1Q84 In the Japanese numerals system the number “9” is 九, and its name is kyū, or ku, or kokonotsu, identical to the letter “Q”, so that ichi-ku-hachi-yon, 1Q84, Haruki Murakami’s masterpiece, is also “1984”, a reference to George Orwell’s masterpiece.

There are three main alphabets in Japanese: Hiragana, Katakana and Kanji, plus the phonetic version of the western alphabet: “romaji”.  Hiragana consists mainly of Chinese syllables, and until the 10th century AD was used solely by women.  Katakana is a subset of Kanji, originally developed by monks from the Chinese syllabic alphabet.  Kanji is the written alphabet of 5,000 to 10,000 symbols.


Images: 1Q84 ~ © Julien Pacaud Art & Illustration, 1984 ~ © A-GC.com

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#FiveSentenceFiction: Joy

 You made the decision, and I knew it was final, reading your determination in your eyes, and knowing my place.

The half marathon would be probably the toughest this season: hilly country, atrocious weather, and very fit competitors.

But you trained all year, and I, your training partner, knew the hundreds of miles this meant, the Saturday’s work-out, the pain, the mountains running…

So that cold morning, we were there, your beloved face the image of will power: in the cold mist we kissed, and as usual I admired your beautiful and toned body, already tensed on the effort.

Thirteen miles later you finished in the first four, the first woman out of five hundred participants: in your eyes I read the pure joy of achievement, and I fell in love all over again.