Moving 2

Halfway. Emptied the corridor and the living room from this pest. Now they hyde in the study, deceitful bastards they are. Looking nice and neat in their cloth, dusty most, brownish or clean white untouched – even strangers I find: NO MERCY! I’ll get them all. They do nasty things in the night and breed … I have to put an end to this!


This time it is different. I did not very often change my surroundings, move, to a new place or destination. I changed my social surroundings some times and one and the same city can be a very different place when you, for example, work at night or have to be at other places to different times. It is different when you socialise with other people than “normal” – in this “normal” is a big lie, but I am too tired now to get angry.

I was moved when I was six years old. It was my personal drive-away from paradies – from the country to the city, into a new language (they did not understand my dialect, I did not understand their’s, my best friends became Italians and people from the Balkans – we created our own language) and into school – horribile dictu!
I hated all and everything and became a very violent child. I really know what rage means and I know the red veil before one’s eyes when going berserk: It is a kind of ekstasis I never had afterwards (not even under influence of strong poisons) – but the pain afterwards is terrible too. When puberty set in a lot changed, my violence became selfagressive; having survived some bullshit I finally moved to another city. It was an escape, or at least a try.
I started to study and lived in a student-home together with a lot of crazy idiots, two of them became real friends for life. After some years I moved to an one-room-appartement to regain control and to study for real – id est to get a certificate. What I did, hence the pride in my degree.
I stayed in this appartement for some years, things went their way. It became a little narrow by the time and wooden bookcases tend to collapse, as I found out empirically. I moved to a three-room-appartement, the one I am leaving now.

What is different? It is the first time I move really voluntarily to a place I choose. The first time I go to a place that is not larger than the one before: It is actually circa 20 squaremeters smaller. I have to get rid of things – and for the first time in my life I want to get rid of these things: Personal items from people that are no longer with me, things I inherited from my family (they are all dead now, no more heritage for me!), books I thought I could not live without – a lot of nonsense I accumulated, including roughly three meters of literature for my never-written thesis: Doctor philosophiae mago? Bugger … Sorry.
Time to clear out, to reduce, to loose fat.

Smoke on the water

Thundering down an autobahnlike city-highway in a friend’s 18 year old Passat with Deep Purple in full cry, made me feel real good. It was a busy day, other friends painted my new appartement, tomorrow will see me carrying a lot of banana-boxes, empty and refill them – but it gets a shape, a figure, things start to “plop” at their places. And the small escape at the end of the day was the reward.
ACDC does it too …
The new “Catch of the week” is “Nobody here”. It is cool, peculiar, well made. And comes in Japanese too, what probably Proxima will enjoy, who currently offers a word-game.

Real witchcraft

Comments and comments on an innocent remark I made at the end of ” about mago”. Amanda spoke of the “good feeling”, “das gute Gefühl” – it is a formulation I did not expect to come up here. It is close to what I mean: We have an additional possibility to sense, working or not, trained or not, developed or stunted. I do not know how it works, and I do not care about this, I think this ability is simply human and belongs to us. It was stronger when I was younger.

Let me say something about my family, especially the side of my mother. They come from a pretty remote area in upper Franconia, Thuringia. I was born there and grew up in this area for a good part of my childhood. Within the family, the women held it together and were the strong and powerful persons. I am not sure whether I saw my great-grandmother, the children had to be presented, naturaly I can not remember this. She stood in the reputation of having “powers”. The farmers sent for her when people were hurt, ill, she cured animals. She was asked by women in labour. She knew every little gras by name, she definitly knew what to do with herbs and anything the forrest could offer. She had a dark side too, but I always heard people “say good” about her. She died high in her 80ties in the 1960s.
Her eldest daughter inhereted the dark side, or did not want to contain it or whatever. She once publicly put a spell on a man. She saied he would turn black before he was allowed to die in the next months. He did and litterally rotted away alive. She had a kind of reputation and was called “the black”, “die Schwarz'”. It happened in the 1940s, still in wartime.
My grandmother was an other daughter, younger. She was whiter, more friendly, helped people and animals. My mother was her eldest daughter. She left the area as a young girl, returned for a short time and than left totally.

Reality is what we make. Our senses are limited – we can trick our eyes, our ears, and of course anything else. I like books about optical illusions. The baroque masters used their astounding abilities in painting for such “playful games”. When you have a picture in front of you, you have to read it, analyze it: How did he do, what he did and why? When you have a written source in front of you, similar questions arise. The purpose is to find out, what this text/source can tell me, how it can help me to answer my questions – of course I should have one or two. In a way the source determines the research: I can only get out what is in – the alternative is called lying or decption. Looking at religious artefacts makes it necessary for the researcher to interpret the world of thought and feeling this artefact origined out. There are tricks, limits and dangers – no more hermeneutics here.

I have no doubt that for my ancestors the witchcraft of these women – and it is nothing else what I am talking about – was reality. As student in the 80ties I talked with my grandmother (she was born before WWI) about these things. Her sister allowed no communication on this point. Their reality was still there, died with them, but left traces – up to the web. Simultaneousness of the Un-simultaneous – sorry for this homemade translation of: Gleichzeitigkeit des Ungleichzeitigen (german words tent to be long).

The fact that for 90% of the population 99% of their realties match, is fine – so we can communicate. But it does not change the fact, that every individual has, produces, his own reality. The term “witch” means a woman that is able to “do magic”. Witches are found in any culture that is worth a name. The christian concept of “witch” origins in the 15th century in western Europe and is explainable out of it’s time, is an historical fact that leeds to the processes, the inquisition and what is connected with it. The last witch was burnt at the stake here in the 18th century. One can argue whether it is possible to use the term “witch / Hexe” for nonchristian, magical women (“Zauberinnen”) – the problem is the original latin term “maleficae” (which means “those who do bad”): it is applied to all, the new 15th-century-concept just grabs the word and kicks out the old meaning. We had this discussions in the 1980s, when magic and witchcraft was the big theme in the cultural sciences here in western Europe, powered by the women movement.

So what about mago? I have deep respect for the supernatural, and I think that one should not start to fumble in unknown mechanics causing unwanted, uncontrolled actions. It is of no interest, whether there actually is something like an supernatural “action” in this world or not – it is in a person’s head, in an individual’s world and in this sense it is reality – and can be shared: The spell of my grand-aunt worked.

As Proxima saied, fumbling with these things can make one visit the ward, or worse. As I saied, the art is to close these doors.