Western…

And every day on my way to work I meet Jesus in a camper van…

Well, it's not really a camper van. It's more like a rusty, old, green Volvo car. Not a small one. A station wagon. But surely not a camper van.

And I don't really meet Jesus. I just see him or rather spot him behind the wheel. And I don't even know him well enough to give him a short nod or any other kind of greeting. And there is no sign of recognition on his side either.

And last but not least I don't even really think he is Jesus. He is just a middle aged man with long, brown hair and a long and curly beard. Not a hipster for sure because he had this beard long before all these young dudes were even able to grow one.

And the hairy guy in the not camper van on my way to work will not resurrect from the dead three days after he died. At least that's what I hope – or believe in – for that would be rather scary.

Who was this Jesus guy anyway? First a corpse nailed to a wooden cross. And afterwards? Was he a walking dead? Was he a zombie?

That would be very disturbing.

Think about it…

Don't let the sun catch you cryin'…

Fetch your raincoat and face the sun…

A ghost of a mist was on the field

The Gray and the Green together

The noise of a distant farm machine

Out of the first light came

A tattered necklace of hedge end trees

On the southern side of the hill

Betrays where the border runs between

Where Mary Dunoon's boy fell

Easter here again, a time for the blind to see

Easter, surely now, can all of your hearts be free

Out of the port of Liverpool

Bound for the North of Ireland

The wash of the spray and horsetail waves

The roll of the sea below

And Easter here again, a time for the blind to see

Easter, surely now, can all of your hearts be free…

…

Oh you know

…

What will you do?

Make a stone of your heart?

Will you set things right

When you tear them apart?

Will you sleep at night

With the plough and the stars alight?

What will you do

With the wire and the gun?

Will set things right

When it's said and done?

Will you sleep at night

Is there so much love to hide?

…

Oh you know

…

Oh you know

…

What will you do?

Make a stone of your heart?

Will you set things right

When you tear them apart?

Will you sleep at night?

Is there so much love to hide?

Forgive

Forget

Sing 'Never Again'

Well...

Well…

Let's see how this works…

If question marks bring me next to blogs about mental illnesses and malfunctions maybe I should change the title of my blockblog…

Done…

Back to the roots…

Well, halfway through…

And maybe to bring me out of the corner of German psychiatry camps and ADHD and burnout and borderlines I should change my background…

Enough space…

Where are all those fluffy honey-bunnies all dancy and jumpy?

Where are all those flowery meadows and the fresh green springtime grass?

Where are all the singing birds in the blue skies?

Where have all the cowboys gone?

Careful! Too many questions marks all over again...

Done…

There they are…

Well, halfway through…

But I still don't know where Bromford Bibble is…

Bromford...

Couple in the next room
Bound to win a prize
They've been going at it all night long
Well, I'm trying to get some sleep
But these motel walls are cheap
Bromford Bibble is my name
And here's my story, here's my story.

My father was a fisherman
My mama was the fisherman's friend
And I was born in the boredom
And the chowder
So when I reached my prime
I left my home in the Maritimes
Headed down the turnpike for
New England, sweet New England

Holes In my confidence
Holes In the knees of my jeans
I was left without a penny in my pocket
Oo-we I was about destituted
As a kid could be
And I wished I wore a ring
So I could hock it, I'd like to hock it.

A young girl in a parking lot
Was preaching to a crowd
Singing sacred songs and reading
From the Bible
Well, I told her I was lost
And she told me all about the Pentecost
And I seen that girl as the road
To my survival

Just later on the very same night
When I crept to her tent with a flashlight
And my long years of innocence ended
Well, she took me to the woods
Saying here comes something and it feels so good
And just like a dog I was befriended, I was befriended.

Oh, oh, what a night
Oh what a garden of delight
Even now that sweet memory lingers
I was playing my guitar
Lying underneath the stars
Just thanking the Lord
For my fingers,
For my fingers.

666...

Coffee...

I am sitting in a business meeting. Drinking coffee. Black without milk but with three pieces of sugar. Or is it the other way around?

Who invented coffee? And who connected it to business, meetings, offices and suits? Are coffee stains worse with or without milk? All these questions again.

And I could tell you and myself a short history about coffee, how a shepherd in Africa discovered how vivid and awake his goats became after eating these certain bean-shaped fruits from that plants around the meadows, how he learned to use it and how he and his village invented and used that black, hot beverage.

But I am too tired to even think.

It was in Ethiopia I think. But do you call him a shepherd even if he didn't look after sheep but goats in those days? Some family but different species.

I am too tired. These meetings upset my sleeping cycle. If I don't close my eyes within the next 20 minutes I won't be able to fall asleep within the next 90 minutes. Insomnia is knocking at your door. Or is it the window?

And if that guy across the conference table doesn't stop talking within the next minutes I will put my pencil – never mind, it's pointless – in one of his ears, ram it into his brain and make it reappear in and out of his other ear.

All that mess. Coffee stains all over shirt and table. I think it's that cocaine inside the coffee that keeps you awake. Or what is the secret ingredient of coffee called?

And while the talking and thinking goes on my spoon stirs black coffee and white milk to a brown mass. In a little whirlwind in a cup. Round and around. This is not your cup of coffee.

I don't drink coffee I take tea, my dear.

I don't drink coffee I take tea my dear

I like my toast done on one side

And you can hear it in my accent when I talk

I'm an Englishman in New York

See me walking down Fifth Avenue

A walking cane here at my side

I take it everywhere I walk

I'm an Englishman in New York

I'm an alien, I'm a legal alien

I'm an Englishman in New York

I'm an alien, I'm a legal alien

I'm an Englishman in New York

If "manners maketh man" as someone said

He's the hero of the day

It takes a man to suffer ignorance and smile

Be yourself no matter what they say

I'm an alien, I'm a legal alien

I'm an Englishman in New York

I'm an alien, I'm a legal alien

I'm an Englishman in New York

Modesty, propriety can lead to notoriety

You could end up as the only one

Gentleness, sobriety are rare in this society

At night a candle's brighter than the sun

Takes more than combat gear to make a man

Takes more than license for a gun

Confront your enemies, avoid them when you can

A gentleman will walk but never run

If "manners maketh man" as someone said

He's the hero of the day

It takes a man to suffer ignorance and smile

Be yourself no matter what they say

I'm an alien, I'm a legal alien

I'm an Englishman in New York

I'm an alien, I'm a legal alien

I'm an Englishman in New York

Today is...

INTERNATIONAL TEACHERS DAY !!!

CONGRATULATIONS !!!

One Day...

Tweedledee has lost his twin...

This clock is running slow. Thirty-nine minutes, I presume. It chimes at every full hour. There were five beats just now but it is already thirty-nine past five. This clock definitely lives in the past. Way, way back...

One day

the people will say

that everything's okay.


I am happy as a clam. Oysters, clams and cockles...

And believe me... it's always 43%...

One pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small
And the ones that mother gives you, don't do anything at all

Go ask Alice, when she's ten feet tall...

And if you go chasing rabbits, and you know you're going to fall
Tell 'em a hookah-smoking caterpillar has given you the call

And call Alice, when she was just small...

When the men on the chessboard get up and tell you where to go
And you've just had some kind of mushroom, and your mind is moving low

Go ask Alice, I think she'll know...

When logic and proportion have fallen sloppy dead
And the white knight is talking backwards
And the red queen's off with her head
Remember what the dormouse said
Feed your head, feed your head...

*
 *
  *
   *
    *
     *
      *
       *
        *
         *
          *
           *
            *