Julia Schiefer is reporting on the OMNIBUS Reading Tour – without actually partaking personally, of course! A blog somewhere between fiction and reality: she will be taking us on her own Hop-On Hop-Off bus tour with real insights instead of the usual sightseeing! Her excursions – open to all – are designed for everyday life (but mostly out of range). If you look to your left, you may see a dog chewing on a skirt; to your right, a scooter transporting a bucket of water as a chariot carries a peacock off to a jolly good show. Continue reading Travel log. 50 percent pictures
Küssnacht, 31. Mai 1803
Ich bin in Eile, weil ich mich schleunigst nach dir sehn! Tut mir leid. Auch wenn Du geistig da bist, bist Du doch nicht präsent. Ach bitte, Heinerli, komm doch wieder in die Schweiz.
Answering Kleist – Michael Spyra
Kleist’s Achilles Das Klopfen stiller Tränen auf’s Papier war, was den Meister aus dem Schlummer zog. “Ein Sturm, vielleicht? Das Dach nicht dicht? Ach was! dann hätten doch die Fenster auch gescheppert. Schon wieder also irgendwas verschüttet, das durch die Balkenbohlendecke sickert, um mir das Manuskript zu ruinieren.” So geht’s ihm durch den Kopf, schon ist er auf, zu seinem Schreibtisch, stockt, reibt sich die Augen. Da sitzt Achilles selbst, der Herr der Klingen, auch Meister aller Zungen, wie es scheint, und Lazarus der Myrmidonen, liest die jüngsten Verse Kleist’s, Penthesilea, hochkonzentriert, dass er das blasse Nachthemd und nicht das Wasser an den Linsen merkt. “Ist also von den Toten auferstanden” schießt es dem Herrn der Federn in den Sinn: “und hier und heute Nacht mein erster Leser!” Doch näher wagt er sich nicht an den Geist, verharrt, wie angewurzelt auf der Schwelle, bis sein Besuch im Morgenlicht verschwindet, bevor er eilig jede Seiten prüft, um mit der Tinte schleunigst nachzubessern.
Kleist’s letter answered
Dear Henry. Or is it ‘Dearest’? I hardly knew ye. To whom it may concern. I remember eighteen-o-five as a time. As a matter of fact. As you were. The average year would be 1910, I guess, just between you and me. Would this be a Germany both of us could be comfortable with, at least a little, the best of both worlds for a meet and greet? When the bus came and stopped at the bus stop, when the doors opened I entered, then showed the driver what must be shown. Always. And I thought of you, ‘thought’ in the broadest sense of that term. I wanted to write something. I saw streets like you wouldn’t believe, through the windows in this little city named fittingly Berlin. Most if not all the trees you ever saw aren’t here anymore. Carriages are automobiles now and pigs can fly. Would you wonder out and about, wandering through the parks, with its nature unfolding, with that grin you could have been known for, if you were here with me? It was January, when you wrote Earnest. It must have been cold that winter. As every winter. I’m not a good conversationalist, but I’m quite the listener, drifting ever further away from you, into my own mind, never listening in this endless suburb, the bus halting neither here nor there. There is a Kleiststraße in the city I grew up, certainly, and I never thought about it. There was a girl I liked, perhaps loved, in my own silly way. She was a looker, but when I saw her I don’t think I was ever reminded of Europe, ready to get fucked by the metamorphosed Zeus, bull virility and all. Poor Earnest, being a canvas your feelings could sublime themselves on. No wonder he didn’t write back. But i jest. I did the same thing. It’s evening now. As it must be. Time to move on. I left the bus at the Kleistpark. Shadows grow here between the columns, there’s a rectangle of green, being green and nothing else. It’s not easy being green. A muppet once sang that. It could make you wonder why. But why wonder, why wonder. So there’s that. I hope you’re well when this letter reaches you.
You speak of my destiny like you own it
or have seen stones set,
like my path is yours to pervert.
You speak of my youth like it’s yours to gorge on,
like a sweetness that quenches only your thirst,
eases your pangs, without a delay of gratification.
Hallo lieber Freund,
ich schreibe Dir bereits aus Warschau, wo ich gestern bereits angekommen bin, denn auch ein ostpreußischer Offizier muss wenigstens einmal die internationale Buchmesse besuchen, welche diesmal im verdachten Fußballstadion „Narodowy“, dem Nationalstatdion, stattfindet, stell Dir mal vor!
Slowly it is starting to seem to me that in Poland there are plenty of resources and a nutritious basis for establishing a new genetic cultural code of the local literary scene there. At least it appears to me like that when I listen to Aleksandra, vice president, coordinator for international PR and a translator at the NGO Ha!art, who nonetheless says that the Polish experimental scene is still in development. Continue reading Aleksandra Małecka (PL): What is still missing on that map?!
SARDAM, deriving from the word σαρδάμ («verbal slip» in greek), is an annual, out of the box, literature festival, based in Cyprus that was founded in 2013 by the writer Maria A. Ioannou and the artistic group aRttitude. The festival presents the work of writers from Cyprus and abroad in alternative, mixed media ways.
In order to participate in the 2016 edition ….
Poetry Moon is a literature festival based in Helsinki, Finland, which will be held from 21st to 27th August 2015 – this is in two weeks, crowdies!
What is special about the festival is the diversity of the events and approaches ranging from events for children to a poetry marathon up to poetry as “fire prevention”. It is a festival aiming at assembling new and other ways of presentation of and participation in literature. Radiophonic collages, creative writing and improvisation or poetry swallowed up by it all: the picture, sound, movement, smell, taste, touch. I would say: get your suitcases ready!