Knock! Knock!

- Knock! Knock!

# Who's there?

- Broken pencil.

# Broken pencil who?

- Never mind. It's pointless.

# Why in English, Sir?

- Why not?

# This is not your mother tongue, I presume.

- And this is my fatherland neither. But I

keep repeating myself.

# Do you, Sir?

- I don't have my mother's tongue. And I

certainly don't have my father's eyes. Not in a

box. At least not in a fridge nor a freezer.

# That's kind of disturbing, if you want my

opinion, Sir.

- I got hit by a bus – an English one, red,

double-decker – when I was just a very little

beaver. And now every now and then and

from time to time I turn into an English

speaking and writing were-bus. But you can

call me Bromford. Bromford Bibble.

# Is that your real name, Sir?

- Who knows? You can call me "Deatheater"

if you like.

# "Death eater" like in JK Rowling's and

Lord Voldemort's death eaters?

- If you like. Although they are named after

the beefeaters.

# So you are Guard of the Tower of London

and Her Majesty's Royal Palace, Sir?

- Never said that. And let's come back to

"Deatheater". Sometimes I feel like an

invention of a guy who uses or used to use

that nickname in a chat. And it had something

to do with Harry and Potter.

# But where are you, Bromford Bibble?

- Who knows.

And shut up! I'm not inside your bar anymore.

# I'm your bartender not a plot device, Sir!

Borderlines...

I am straying the neighborhood. The digital one. Not the real one.

By pressing the "Next Blog" button on the top of this page.

Blogspot / Google where are you leading me? What surroundings do you put me in?

Where have all these blogs about handicraft gone? About knitting and quilting?

About sewing and crocheting and children's fashion?

Instead – Blogs about psychiatry and psychological illnesses.

About burnout and ADHD – the Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder.

I am just a little bored guy and might be a little lost in the interweb. There might be a slight deficit of attention on my side. But I am not hyperactive for sure. And what is a disorder?

And my paranoia asks me why THEY – the internet, the powers that are, the authorities, the companies, the owners, the public opinion makers – why THEY always direct me to these pages and in the end back to my own little block of blogs again. Which technics are THEY using? Which routines? Which search algorithms? What do THEY search for, anyway? And what did I write to bring me here?

Am I classified already? Am I boxed?

And then I found this guy writing about his borderline disease.

And again another song by that little old Irish man came to my mind and made me wondering.

Is he famous in Ireland? Successful? I doubt it. But he wrote some remarkable lyrics.

At least to me they are...

Borderline – Chris de Burgh

Standing in the station

I am waiting for a train

To take me to the border

And my loved one far away

I watched a bunch of soldiers heading for the war

I could hardly even bear to see them go

Rolling through the countryside

Tears are in my eyes

We're coming to the borderline

I'm ready with my lies

And in the early morning rain, I see her there

And I know I'll have to say goodbye again

And it's breaking my heart, I know what I must do

I hear my country call me but I want to be with you

I'm taking my side, one of us will lose

Don't let go, I want to know

That you will wait for me until the day,

There's no borderline, no borderline

Walking past the border guards

Reaching for her hand

Showing no emotion

I want to break into a run

But these are only boys, and I will never know

How men can see the wisdom in a war...

And it's breaking my heart, I know what I must do

I hear my country call me, but I want to be with you

I'm taking my side, one of us will lose,

Don't let go, I want to know

That you will wait for me until the day,

There's no borderline, no borderline

No borderline...

I guess I didn't understand the borderline disease.

Nore the refugee crisis…

Is this getting personal now?

Is my mind wandering or wondering?

Goodness may bless the homophones...

Family business...

I heard a battle raging
On the other side of the wall
I buried my head in a pillow
And tried to ignore it all

Every night when I hear you
I dream of breaking down your door
An avenging knight in shining armour
To rescue you from it all

From this family business, family business
How long does it stay family business?
It's nobody's business, this family business
But tell me how long it should take family business?

When I see you in the supermarket
Sunglasses in the shade
Averting your eyes from those staring questions
How were those bruises made?

The children clutch tight to your legs
They've got so much they want to say
But daddy's sitting home, drunk again
So they bite their lips and pray

'Cause daddy don't like people crying
Poking in his family affairs
And anyone ask from the social, well
You fell down the stairs

It's family business, keep it in my family business
Can you tell me how long it remains family business?
It's nobody's business, this family business
Can you tell me how long it should stay family business?

No, no, no, no, no
No, no, no, no, no

She's waiting at the bus stop
At the bottom of the hill
She knows she'll never catch it
She knows she never will

The kids are all she lives for
She's got nothing left to lose
Nowhere to escape to
But she knows she's got to move

'Cause when daddy tucks the kids in
It's taking longer every night
And the heaven that she's waitin' for
Through the hell it lasts all night

It's family business, keep it in my family business
Can you tell me how long it remains family business?
It's nobody's business, oh this family business
Can you tell me how long it should stay family business?

So I become an accessory
And I don't have an alibi
To the victim on my doorstep
The only way I can justify

It's family business, family business
How long do we keep it family business?

Look What They've Done To My Soul, Ma…

Look what they've done to my soul, Ma
Look what they've done to my soul
Well it's the only thing I could do half right
And it's turning out all wrong, Ma
Look what they've done to my soul

Look what they've done to my brain, Ma
Look what they've done to my brain
Well they picked it like a chicken bone
And I think I'm half insane, Ma
Look what they've done to my soul

I wish I could find a good book to live in
Wish I could find a good book
Well, if I could find a real good book
I'd never have to come out and look at
What they've done to my soul

La, la, la…
Look what they've done to my soul

But maybe it'll all be all right, Ma
Maybe it'll all be OK
Well, if the people are buying tears
I'll be rich some day, Ma
Look what they've done to my soul

Ils ont changé mon âme, Ma
Ils ont changé mon âme
C'est la seule chose que je peux faire
Et çe n'est pas bon, Ma
Ils ont changé mon âme

Look what they've done to my soul, Ma
Look what they've done to my soul, Ma
Well they tied it up in a plastic bag
And turned it upside down, Ma
Look what they've done to my soul

Ils ont changé mon âme, Ma…

Look what they've done to my soul, Ma
Look what they've done to my soul
Well it's the only thing I could do all right
And they turned it upside down
Look what they've done to my soul

Not even in Klingon they use the original lyrics of
Melanie's "Look What They've Done To My Song, Ma".

Who is Melanie? Hannilein's sister? Bromford Bibble's ma?

Who is Bromford Bibble's ma, anyway? Barbarella Bibble?

Maybe? May it be…

How I Met My Mother... Revisited...

*

Hi, Ma!

Hi, son!

Bye, Ma!

Bye, son!

*

Always be torn apart…

I keep getting notes from a Brimstone Bibble who claims to be my brother.

He wants to know where I am.

And he wants me to come home or at least back to where I came from.

But is he real?

I don't think so.

He is more like the little devil sitting on one of my shoulders.
The dark voice that always gives bad advice. And smells like brimstone.

But if he is the devil who is the angelic figure on my other shoulder
wearing its halo and singing those heavenly chorals?

What do they want me to do? Where are they pulling me?

I am in heaven and hell.

"Your time may come.

Do not be too sad, Bromford.

You cannot be always torn in two.

You will have to be one and whole, for many years.

You have so much to enjoy and to be, and to do."

Ah, hug yourself!

Ulysses…

I am not in the Himalaya mountains. Not on the top of the world.
And I think Bob Geldof wasn't singing or talking about that neither.
He definitely wasn't singing or writing about that top the world.

I am sitting in an Irish pub. Drinking that good old Irish ale.
Dark and foamy. Or is it beer? Ale? Beer? What's the difference anyway?

I am sitting in an Irish pub. Reading 'Ulysses' by James Joyce.
Not understanding one word.

And I'm in search of something.
Not knowing what exactly.

Well, I sit and hear sentimental footsteps. And then a voice say "Hi, so?
So what you got? What you got this time? Come on, let's get high.
Come on Lexxo what you got next-o? Walking twenty five miles-o?
Well, I'm bored, I'm bored. C'mon, let's get high!

Come on, let's get high!
Come on, let's get high!
High!"

Well, I found a new way. I found a new way.
Come on, don't amuse me.
I don't need your sympathy.
La, la, la, la, la Ulysses!
I'll find a new way.
I'll find a new way, baby.

Am I Ulysses? Am I Ulysses? No, but you are now, boy
So sinister, so sinister. But last night was wild.
What's the matter there? Feeling kind of anxious, that hot blood grow cold?
Yeah, everyone, everybody knows it. Yeah, everyone, everybody knows it.
Everybody knows I...

La, la, la, la, la Ulysses!
I'll find a new way.
I'll find a new way, baby.

La, la, la, la, la Ulysses!
I'll find a new way.
Well, I'll find a new way, baby.

Oh, oh
Then suddenly you know
You're never going home
You're never
You're never
You're never
You're never
You're never
You're never
You're never going home.

I'm not Ulysses, baby, no.
La, la, la, la, wooh!
You're not Ulysses, wooh!
La, la, la, la, wooh!