Ist es die 
A n g s t 
vor dem 
Ende der Zufriedenheit, 
die es uns                    verbaut, 
                                öfter glücklich zu sein? Rosa

ruhrpottsommer.

donald miller "through painted deserts"

Part Two

I remember the sweet sensation of leaving, years ago, some ten now, leaving Texas for who knows where. I could not have known about this beautiful place, the Oregon I have come to love, this city of great people, this smell of coffee and these evergreens reaching up into a mist of sky, these sunsets spilling over the west hills to slide a red glow down the streets of my town.
   And I could not have known then that if I had been born here, I would have left here, gone someplace south to deal with horses, to get on some open land where you can see tomorrow's storm brewing over a high desert. I could not have known then that everybody, every person, has to leave, has to change like seasons; they have to or they die. The seasons remind me that I must keep changing, and I want to chance because it is God's way. All my life I have been changing. [...] Everybody has to change, or they expire. Everybody has to leave, everybody has to leave their home and come back so they can love it again for all new reasons. 
   I want to keep my soul fertile for the changes, so things keep getting born in me, so things keep dying when it is time for things to die. I want to keep walking away from the person I was a moment ago, because a mind was made to figure things out, not to read the same page recurrently.
   Only the good stories have the characters different at the end than they were at the beginning. [...]

effi, i am gonna visit you wherever you may go.

donald miller "through painted deserts"

Part One 

IT IS FALL HERE NOW, MY FAVORITE OF THE FOUR seasons. We get all four here, and they come at us under the doors, in through the windows. One morning you wake and need blankets; you take the fan out the window to see clouds that mist out by midmorning, only to reveal a naked blue coolness like God yawning.
  September is perfect in Oregon. [...]
  I come here, to Palio Coffee, for the big windows. If I sit outside, the sun gets on my computer screen, so I come inside, to this same table, and sit alongside the giant panes of glass. And it is like a movie out there, like a big screen of green, and today there is a man in shepherd's clothes, a hippie, all dirty, with a downed bike in the circle lawn across the street. He is eating bread from the bakery and drinking from a metal cup. He is tapping the cup against gus leg, sitting like a monk, all striped in fabric. I wonder if he is happy, his blanket strapped to the rack of his bike, his no home, his no job. I wonder if he has left it all because he hated it or because it hated him. It is true some do not do well with conventional life. They think outside things and can't make sense of following a line. They see no walls, only doors from open space to open space, supposedly, to the mind of God, or at least this is what we hope for them, and what they hope for themselves.

We haven't the money so we've got to think.

Ernest Rutherford

het is waar.

da sitzt man mit zwei freundinnen bei einem konzert unter freiem himmel, schaut dem wolkenspiel zu, riecht das frisch gemähte gras, spürt die letzten sonnenstrahlen des tages auf der haut, um am ende des konzertes festzustellen, dass alle drei über die gleiche liedzeile gestolpert sind.
danke, kim.
ik hou van je.

sommertagebuch: erster eintrag.

Sieben Mädchen, ein Bus, irgendwo in Polen am Meer. Was zu singen bleibt:

Etwas Mut, etwas Geld, ein bisschen Organisation,

und dann liegst du am Strand und denkst dass ist die Sensation,

nirgends sonst wollte ich jetzt lieber sein, 

auf los kommt ihr mit ins Wasser rein!

Only Fiffi can go seaside.

Genau jetzt, genau hier, genau mit dir,

will ich sein, will ich leben, will ich gehn!

Genau jetzt, genau hier, genau mit dir,

kann ich das Paradies schon sehn!

(Rosas Weltschlager)