May 27, 2017

Loreley, reloaded!

Well, my Mama told me
'Loreley, listen to me!
Don't you trust a seaman,
if you wanna stay free!'

But on the seventh month,
On the seven day, 
On the seventh hour,
The seventh sailor swayed...

He swayed my waters,
Those deep blue streams,
He started sweet-talking to me,
Tried to capture my dreams.

'Cause I'm a woman,
Yeah, a hoochie coochie woman
And he's man, oh!
He's a trouble-newsy man!

Well, the tides keep turning
And it won't be long
He's gonna hear me singin'
That same old song... 

I'm gonna sink my voice
Deep into his mind
I'm gonna swirl up that river
Drown him down to his kind!

'Cause I'm a woman,
Yeah, a hoochie coochie woman
And he's man, oh! He's a ---
A cozy smoothie man!


Alice McDuff ~ 28 May 2017

November 25, 2016

The One

You were the one
The one I wasn´t ready for
You were the one
The one who shook me to the core.

A parc in spring
Wild parrots flying high
Did you see what I saw
When you pointed at the sky?

Blindfolded, you made me scream
With a cruel smile, you tore me upside down,
inside out, into the dark night of the soul...
You made me feel. I might have drowned.

I cut myself with your knife
Deep, deeper, too deep!
Sweety, you gotta embrace your pain
You gotta bleed if you wanna be free!

An easy dance for you?
Acedia... ennui... you do as you please
A fickle game for you, that is
but not for me -  I had to leave!

Today I am moving, floating
Flowing towards the sea.
The Universe is shifting fate,
The skies are embracing me.


Alice McDuff ~ 25 November 2016

May 15, 2016

Hello. Recognise me?

Hello. Recognise me? No? Well, you see me all the time. You read my books, watch me on the big screen, feast on my art, cheer at my games, use my inventions, vote me into office, follow me into battle, take notes at my lectures, laugh at my jokes, marvel at my successes, admire my appearance, listen to my stories, discuss my politics, enjoy my music, excuse my faults, envy me my blessings. No? Still doesn't ring a bell? Well, you have seen me. Of that I am positive. In fact, if there is one thing I am absolutely sure of, it is that. You have seen me.
Perhaps our paths crossed more privately. Perhaps I am the one who came along and built you up when you were down, employed you when you needed a job, showed the way when you were lost, offered confidence when you were doubting, made you laugh when you were blue, sparked your interest when you were bored, listened to you and understood, saw you for what you really are, felt your pain and found the answers, made you want to be alive. Of course you recognise me. I am your inspiration, your role model, your saviour, your leader, your best friend, the one you aspire to emulate, the one whose favour makes you glow.

But I can also be your worst nightmare. First I build you up because that's what you need. Your skies are blue. Then, out of the blue, I start tearing you down. You let me do it because that's what you are used to. You are dumfounded. But I was wrong to take pity on you. You really ARE incompetent, disrespectful, untrustworthy, immoral, ignorant, inept, egotistical, constrained, disgusting. You are a social embarrassment, an unappreciative partner, an inadequate parent, a disappointment, a sexual flop, a financial liability.

I tell you this to your face. I must. It is my right, because it is. I behave, at home and away, in any way I want to, with total disregard for conventions, morals, or the feelings of others. It is my right, because it is. I lie to your face, without a twitch or a twitter, and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it. In fact, my lies are not lies at all. They are the truth, my truth. And you believe them, because you do, because they do not sound or feel like lies, because to do otherwise would make you question your own sanity, which you have a tendency to do anyway, because from the very beginning of our relationship you placed your trust and hopes in me, derived your energy, direction, stability, and confidence from me and from your association with me. So what's the problem if the safe haven I provide comes with a price? Surely I am worth it and then some.

Run to our friends. Go. See what that will get you. Ridicule. People believe what they see and what they see is the same wonderful me that you also saw and still do. What they also see is the very mixed up person that you have obviously become. The more you plead for understanding, the more convinced they are that the crazy one is you, the more isolated you feel, and the harder you try to make things right again, not by changing me but by accepting my criticisms and by striving to improve yourself. Could it be that you were wrong about me in the beginning? So wrong as that? How do you think our friends will react if you insist that they are also wrong about me? After all, they know that it really is you who have thwarted my progress, tainted my reputation, and thrown me off course.

I disappoint you? Outrageous! You are the one who have disappointed me. Look at all the frustrations you cause me. Lucky for you, I have an escape from all this, and fortunately my reputation provides enough insulation from the outside world so I can indulge in this escape with impunity. What escape? Why, those eruptions of rage you dread and fear.

Ah, it feels so good to rage. It is the expression of and the confirmation of my power over you, my absolute superiority. Lying feels good too, for the same reason, but nothing compares to the pleasure of exploding for no material reason and venting my anger with total abandon, all the time a spectator at my own show and at your helplessness, pain, fear, frustration, and dependence.

In fact my raging is precisely what allows me to stay with you. Go ahead. Tell our friends about it. See if they can imagine what it's like, let alone believe it. The more outrageous the things you say about me, the more convinced they are that it is you who have taken a turn for the worse. And don't expect much more from your therapist either. You may tell him this or that, but what he sees when I visit him is something quite different. So what's the therapist to believe? After all, it was you who came for help. No! That's what this is all about. No! That simple two-letter word that, regardless of how bad I am, you simply cannot say. Who knows? You might even acquire some of my behaviour yourself.

But you know what? This may come as a shock, but I can also be my own worst nightmare. I can and I am. You see, at heart my life is nothing more than illusion-clad confusion. I have no idea why I do what I do, nor do I care to find out. In fact, the mere notion of asking the question is so repulsive to me that I employ all of my resources to repel it. I reconstruct facts, fabricate illusions, act them out, and thus create my own reality. It is a precarious state of existence indeed, so I am careful to include enough demonstrable truth in my illusions to ensure their credibility. And I am forever testing that credibility on you and on the reactions of others.

Fortunately my real attributes and accomplishments are in sufficient abundance to fuel my illusions seemingly forever. And modern society, blessed/cursed modern society, values most what I do best and thus serves as my accomplice. Even I get lost in my own illusions, swept away by my own magic.

So, not to worry if you still do not recognise me. I don't recognise me either. In fact, I am not really sure who I am. That's probably a question you never ask of yourself. Yet I wonder about it all the time. Perhaps I am not too different from everyone else, just better. After all, that's the feedback I get. My admirers certainly wish they were  me. They just don't have the gifts I have, nor the courage I have to express them. That's what the universe is telling me.

Then again THE universe or MY universe? As long as the magic of my illusions works on me too, there really is no need for distinction. All I need is an abundant fan club to stay on top of it all. So I am constantly taking fan club inventory, testing the loyalty of present members with challenges of abuse, writing off defectors with total indifference, and scouting the landscape for new recruits. Do you see my dilemma? I use people who are dependent on me to keep my illusions alive. So really it is I who am dependent on them.

Even the rage, that orgasmic release of pain and anger, works better with an audience. On some level I am aware of my illusions, but to admit that would spoil the magic. And that I couldn't bear. So I proclaim that what I do is of no consequence and no different from what others do, and thus I create an illusion about my creating illusions.

So, no, I don't recognise me any better than you do. I wouldn't dare. Like my fans, I marvel at my own being. Then again, sometimes I wish that I were not the person I am. You find that confusing? How do you think it makes me feel? I need my own magic to stay afloat. Sometimes others like me recruit me into their magic. But that's ok. As long as we feed off of each other, who's the worse for wear? It only confirms my illusion about my illusions: that I am no different from most other people, just a bit better.

But I AM different and we both know it, although neither one of us dares to admit it. Therein lies the root of my hostility. I tear you down because in reality I am envious of you BECAUSE I am different. At some haunting level I see my magic for what it is and realise that people around me function just fine WITHOUT any "magic".

This terrifies me. Panic stricken, I try all my old tricks: displays of my talents, unnecessary deceptions, self-serving distortions, skilful seductions, ludicrous projections, frightening rages, whatever. Normally, that works. But if it fails, watch out. Like a solar-powered battery in darkness, my fire goes out and I cease to exist. Destitution sets in.

That is the key to understanding me. Most people strive for goals and feel good when they approach them. They move toward something positive. I move in the same direction but my movement is away from something negative. That's why I never stop, am never content, no matter what I achieve. That negative thing seems to follow me around like a shadow. I dowse myself in light and it fades, but that's all it does. Exhausted, I ultimately succumb to it, again and again.

Where did it come from, this negativity? Probably from before I learned to talk. When you were exploring your world for the first time, with the usual little toddler mishaps, your mother kept a careful eye on you, intervened when she saw you heading for danger, and comforted you when you made a mistake, even if you cried.

Well, that's not how it was for me. My mother's expectations of me were much higher. Mistakes were mistakes and crying was not the way to get her approval. That required being perfect, so that's exactly what I became. Not the little awkward toddler that I was, but my mother's model child. Not the brave and curious little person that I really was, but the fearful personification of my mother's ideal.

What you were experiencing through your little mishaps and mistakes were small doses of shame. What you were learning from your quick recoveries was shame repair. At first your mother did most of the repairing. Through repetition, you gradually learned how to do it by yourself. Shame repair brain circuitry was being laid down that would carry you for the rest of your life. I had no such luck. I simply did not acquire that skill when nature had intended my brain to acquire it. No one enjoys shame. But most people can deal with it. Not me. I fear it the way most people fear snakes.

How many others like me are there? More than you might think, and our numbers are increasing. Take twenty people off the street and you will find one whose mind ticks so much like mine that you could consider us clones. Impossible, you say. It is simply not possible for that many people – highly accomplished, respected, and visible people – to be out there replacing reality with illusions, each in the same way and for reasons they know not. It is simply not possible for so many shame-phobic robots of havoc and chaos, as I describe myself, to function daily midst other educated, intelligent, and experienced individuals, and pass for normal. It is simply not possible for such an aberration of human cognition and behaviour to infiltrate and infect the population in such numbers, virtually undetected by the radar of mental health professionals. It is simply not possible for so much visible positive to contain so much concealed negative. It is simply not possible.

But it is.


I am, as I said, my own worst nightmare. True, the world is replete with my contributions, and I am lots of fun to be around. And true, most contributions like mine are not the result of troubled souls. But many more than you might want to believe are. And if by chance you get caught in my web, I can make your life a living hell. But remember this. I am in that web too. The difference between you and me is that you can get out.

Ken Heilbrunn, M.D.
Seattle, Washington, USA

Note to self: when you dance with the devil, 
you don't get to pick the tune! 

December 27, 2010

Degrees of Seperation

Photo: The Delta by ecstaticist on


`Did you know that you are acquainted with Barack Obama?´, Eric asked me.

Eric is a friend of mine. None of these`online friends´that you will pick up by the dozen to pimp up your MySpace account - no - a real friend, of flesh and blood, who doesn´t disappear but will meet and bear with me even on bad hair and bad mood days. I didn´t find him on the web, I simply found his door plate ... isn´t that old fashioned?. It said Conflict Manager. Everytime I drove home, I passed this door plate and heard an inner voice repeating conflict manager, conflict manager... Not having conflicts, but being a conflict at that time, I ended up ringing his doorbell one day. I met the man, his giant cobra snake (the snake, a SHE, was enthroned it her terrarium like a Queen, in the middle of the living room, sun-bathing under her infrared, lazily gazing at me with despise when I winched), his messy practice (which instantly gave me a feel of home), his huge collection of fossiles, his brillliant mind. Eric´s hourly rate: 60€. The first session took us 2 1/2 hours and cost me 60€. The second took us almost 3 hours (we also started talking about his own conflicts that were related to mine) and cost me another 60€. I started feeling uncomfortable - didn´t Freud say that a psycho should always, always, without fail!, respect the legendary 50-minutes-slot?

At the beginning of the third session (I had already crossed the magic border that is crying in front of who I believed was my psycho), I told him that I wondered how I would be able to afford him - or how he would be able to afford me - if we went on like this. `Remeber, I´m not a psychoanylisist´, he replied, `I´m a conflict manager. I studied theology, physics and archaeology, then I trained myself to help people and companies out of their conflicts and problems of communication. Usually not the kind of problem you´re presenting, but your conflict is not only of relational but also of communicative nature, and very interesting to me as I happen to be in the same situation as you are, so forget about the 50 minutes. And don´t worry about the payment.´ I gave in. But at the end of that session, I handed him a little stone that I found in my left pocket (a stone my son probably offered me) and reminded him that this would meet the need of symbolic payment , just as in children psychoanaysis.

He took the stone. Then looked at me for a while, in silence. I glared back at him. Then he started smiling and asked: `How about friendship?´ `OK´, I said, `if you lower your cigarette consumption to 5 per hour when we see each other.´ That´s how we became friends.

`Me, acquainted with Barack Obama? Sorry Eric, I don´t get your point...´

`Alice. You are acquainted with Barack Obama, just as you are acquainted with every Chinese rice farmer on this planet, by just six degrees of separation


`The Small World Phenomenon, Six degrees of Separation Theory, also referred to as the "Human Web"... It refers to the idea that, if a person is one step away from each person they know and two steps away from each person who is known by one of the people they know, then everyone is no more than six "steps" away from each person on Earth. The easier way to understand this is that person A only needs a maximum of five people in between to connect to person B. (Supposing person A and B don't know each other.)´

`Ah. You mean that everybody knows somebody who knows somebody etc....?´

`Exactly. MySpace, Facebook, StayFriends, Skype, LinkedIn, all those hundreds or thousands of "new" so-called social community network are based on the old concept of the Human Web, they are a modern manifestation of it, which proves that Frigyes Karinthy was a visionary.´

`Who was Frigyes Karinthy?´, I wondered.

`Well, he was a Hungarian author and has been regarded by some as the originator of the notion of Six Degrees of Separation. After World War I, statist theories on optimal design of cities, city traffic flows and neighborhoods and demographics were in vogue. These conjectures were expanded in 1929 by Karinthy, who published a volume of short stories titled "Everything is Different." One of these pieces was titled "Chains," or "Chain-Links." The story investigated in abstract, conceptual, and fictional terms many of the problems that would captivate future generations of mathematicians, sociologists, and physicists within the field of network theory. Due to technological advances in communications and travel, friendship networks could grow larger and span greater distances. In particular, Karinthy believed that the modern world was 'shrinking' due to this ever-increasing connectedness of human beings. He posited that despite great physical distances between the globe's individuals, the growing density of human networks made the actual social distance far smaller.

As a result of this hypothesis, Karinthy's characters believed that any two individuals could be connected through at most five acquaintances. That was the basis of the theory, as it has later been propagated by Stanley Milgram , John Guare, Duncan Watts and others. There´s a charity network website nowadays called, and last year Facebook launched a platform application named “Six Degrees” that has been developed by Karl Bunyan (London network), which calculates the degrees of separation between different people.´

`That´s amazing, Eric. But you know what? Evenif we´re able to find or contact almost anyone by a few mouse clicks today, I don´t think communication has become easier or less complicated in either case... Look, what if a person you love, someone you care for, is just one degree of seperation away from you (by the mere fact of being the other one, a different one than myself, in the sense of Sartre´s concept of L´Autre - as in "l´enfer, c´est l´autre", but also in a positive sense, as a mirror of soul or even a genuine source of love - ), what if you know 20 ways to reach that person, but can´t use any of them, simply because none of them is used by your vis-à-vis?´

`You mean the old who-calls-first-dilemma?´, Eric asked.

`Yes. I mean no. Well, more or less. It is more about non-communication, the lack of synchronicity . How can I explain better? Oh, have you read "The End of the Affair" by Graham Greene? One of my favourite novels! London at World War II, a man (Maurice) and a woman (Sarah) obsessively in love, she´s married to someone else but doesn´t want to divorce, he´s a writer. One night, while making love at his house, they are hit by a Blitz bomb... he is badly injured and nearly dies. After this incident, she breaks off the affair with no explanation. He mourns the loss of her for two years, and when her husband (Henry) contacts Maurice because he (Henry) has become suspicious that Sarah has a (new) lover, Maurice hires a private detective to find out. But once the detective gets Sarah's journal for him, he learns that Sarah made a promise to God not to see her lover again when she thought he was dead after the bombing, if only he would survive. Maurice realizes that his jealousy is misdirected; he should really be jealous of God. He understands Sarah's actions now, so he can't hate her anymore. He realizes that Henry didn't win her back after all, so there's no point hating him neither. Maurice ends up with all this pent up emotion and no where to direct it.

Sarah herself is struggling mightily with her ambivalence towards God and the promise she made Him in a moment of desparation:

A vow's not all that important--a vow to somebody I've never known, to somebody I don't really believe in. Nobody will know that I've broken a vow, except me and him--and he doesn't exist, does he? He can't exist. You can't have a merciful God and this despair.

Finally Sarah agrees to meet with him again. But, already stricken with a cough, returning home from their luncheon in the rain she becomes quite ill, sickens and dies of pneumonia... there is a sort of half-hearted attempt here to defend the lovers and minimize their sin, as when Maurice contemplates hiring the detective:

It isn't, when you come to think of it, a quite respectable trade, the detection of the innocent, for aren't lovers nearly always innocent? They have committed no crime, they are certain in their own minds that they have done no wrong, "so long as no one but myself is hurt," the old tag is ready on their lips, and love, of course, excuses everything--as they believe, as so I used to believe in the days when I loved.

But we don't really believe that's how Greene feels. After all, the heroic figure is not Maurice, who wants to continue sinning, but Sarah, who stops even though it kills her. After her death, a few heavenly miracles occur, and even Maurice is conveyed to belief in the end.

Well, there´s a much more in the book - within this setting, Greene methodically explores themes of love and hate, faithfulness, "the nobility of the struggle with sin and he moral heroism of those who can conquer it" (as a critique puts it) , and the presence of the divine in human lives.. - But the point I would like to make in relation to that six degrees of separation thingy is:

Although today, everything has changed (in terms of communication techniques), nothing has changed (when it comes to people´s moral and emotional ability to communicate with each other). We are still Sarah and Maurice. If we don´t even know, simply can´t make up our minds, whether or how we are morally allowed to intimately communicate with someone who matters (matters a lot! Like someone we love), who cares about the degree of seperation? One degree is equivalent to a thousand degrees, then! It is even more cruel, because we can´t cheat on ourselves anymore ("maybe the stage coach has been raided and the courier was killed, maybe her/his letters got lost and sank with the post ship, maybe he´s lost my phone number, maybe she can´t make a phone call because her husband is observing the telephone...?").

Come on, face the truth: if you get no news, your vis-à-vis wants to stay silent, for whatever reason (and there you go again, wondering why, struggling with yourself, the oneself, with love, faith, morality, truth, pride...).´

Eric looked at me in silence, then nodded.


October 29, 2010

So Far Away

Alice liest aus "Die Liebe am Nachmittag" von Ernó Szép

5. Nacht

Also dann komm jetzt, kleine Iboly.
Dass mich das Mädchen am Theater aufhielt, das geschah etwa anderthalb Jahre, nachdem ich angefangen hatte, die Dame [=seine derzeitige Geliebte, Anm. der Vorleserin] kennenzulernen.
Drei Tage später rief mich diese Iboly an.
Immer wenn das Telefon klingelt, fahre ich zusammen.
Ich hatte gearbeitet. Ekelhaft, wenn man so aufgeschreckt wird. Wer spricht? Ich erkannte die zaghafte Frauenstimme nicht.
Iboly. Was für eine Iboly? Den Namen hatte ich nicht parat.
Ja, ja, im Theater. Bitte.
"Sind Sie mir böse?"
Ach woher, meine Liebe. Aber Sagen Sie, worum es geht.
Sie begann damit, dass sie schon gestern bei mir angerufen habe, leider erst nach eins, als die Schule aus war; von der Schule aus mag sie nicht telefonieren, man kann da nicht reden, die Mädchen hören alles mit. Ich war nicht zu Hause.
Gestern Mittag musste ich bei einer Zeitungsredaktion vorstellig werden, weil mir das Geld ausgegangen war.
Ich versprach, ihr die 20 Heller zu ersetzen, die sie gestern umsonst hinaus- beziehungsweise eingeworfen hat.
Sie lachte neckisch, ach, das ist doch nicht Ihr Ernst.
Also dann, was hatte sie denn auf dem Herzen.
Das möchte sie mir gern persönlich sagen. Schon seit Längerem wollte sie mit mir sprechen.
Ich spüre, wie heftig sie atmet, zwischen ihren kurzen Sätzen stockt sie. Am Ende hüstelt sie ein wenig, war wohl ziemlich aufgeregt.
Wieviele Sekunden dauert es, bis man ein solches Mädchen taxiert hat und dann entscheidet, ob man etwas davon begehrt oder nicht? Ist dieses Mädchen hübsch? Ich kann mich jetzt nur an etwas Blondes und jugendlich Ungestümes erinnern. Von ihren Augen weiß ich gar nicht, ob sie blau oder braun sind. Mit den Beinen gibt es, soweit ich mich erinnere, kein Problem.
Vielleicht ist mir das Wort schneller entschlüpft, als ich es ihm gestatten wollte.
Also gut, gern. Heute Nachmittag, wenn sie aus der Schule kommt, falls sie auch nichts Besseres vorhat.
Nein, da hat sie nie etwas vor. Sie hätte sich´s auch so gedacht. Um sechs ist die Schule aus, sagen wir um achtzehn Uhr zehn. Wo ich warten wollte, sie würde da sein. Freue sich schon so!
Die Schauspielschule liegt am Anfang des Leopoldrings. Am besten träfen wir uns an der Margeretenbrücke bei der Haltestelle der 16er.
Ich kann unmöglich an der Schule vor den Augen aller auf ein Mädchen warten.
Als ich den Hörer auflege, starrte ich eine Minute lang den stummen Apparat an. Lauschte in mich hinein, ob mein Herz etwa so vernehmlich schlug wie der Gong vor einer Feierstunde. Ob mein Gesicht heißer geworden war? Und die Augen auffälliger strahlten? Doch ich spürte nichts dergleichen. Weiß nicht, ob ich etwas merkte. Denn irgendetwas musste ich doch fühlen? Was wollte dieses Mädchen? Täuschte ich mich, wenn ich annahm, es ginge um Protektion bei irgendeinem Theater oder Kabarett? Im letzten Jahr beispielsweise, da schrieb mir ein kleines krankes Girl, das ich nie gesehen hatte, und bat um zehn Pengó. Und ich, was will ich von diesem Mädchen? Bin ich denn neugierig auf so eine Dutzend-Iboly? Hat mich irgendetwas an dem Mädchen beührt? Warum habe ich mich nach ihr umgedreht, ihr nachgeschaut, wo ich doch den Kopf voller Sorgen hatte? Möglicherweise nur, weil dieses Gesicht zufällig in meiner Erinnerung aufgetaucht ist und mein Blick sie ganz unwillkürlich traf; und hätte ich dieses Mädchen nicht sogleich wieder vergessen, wenn ich nicht von ihr angesprochen worden wäre? Welches Novum habe ich von dieser Schauspielschülerin zu erwarten, was für eine neue Stimme, einen wie merkwürdigen Geschmack auf der Zunge, in welche Träume kann sie mich versenken, mir welche Sterne vom Himmel holen? Ein eiliger Seufzer, lass uns weitermachen. Wo waren wir doch gerade?

Aus: "Die Liebe am Nachmittag" von Ernó Szép 
(1884-1953 / Foto rechts)

April 17, 2010

How it was, how it might have been, how it is, how it could be, how it ought to be...


Best Picture
Best Actor
Best Film Music
Best Screenplay 

Highly recommended!!!



April 13, 2010

April 07, 2010

Spring Is In The Air

Hello Sunshine!

There you are, finally back! Ushering spring in! How wonderful!!! I love spring time. It is my favourite time of the year, really.

Temperatures are rising, birds are singing, flowers are peeking, people are falling in love all over the place - isn´t it wonderful?

Well! I have to make a confession: I am getting that spring feeling too. And I have just fallen in love, head over heals. To be honest, it already happened over the winter (that endless, dreadful, fucking cold winter). My intriguingly good-looking colleague from work asked me out for dinner last Tuesday, but I had to decline: "Sorry, I already have a date."
"Do I know him ?", he asked?
I blushed, answering: "Oh well, yeah, probably. He is quite famous, ya know?"
"Oh really? What´s his name, then?"
"His name is House. As in house. He´s a doctor", I proudly exclaimed. "Dr Gregory House!"
My very nice-looking colleague (tall & slim, Greek profile, full hair elegantly turning grey, unhappily married - of course) just stared at me.
"You mean that Dr. House, the one from the TV soap?"
"It´s not a soap!" My voice was close to hysteria. "It´s a cult programme!"
Silence, another stunned glance. But my temper had been unleashed.
"In case you didn´t notice: the programme itself is cult, it´s subversive, intelligent, inspired, genuine entertainment at its best, and Dr. House himself is the sexiest male character in global TV ever!"

That was bound to raise his eyebrows: "Are we talking about the same person - that vicious, limping, drug-addict psycho with the haggard face pretending to be someone special, someone different from the infantry, phhh...! "
"Right! He´s edgy in every possible sense, and that is exactly what makes him so attractive!" My face was glowing with excitement. "But you are a man, you simply can´t understand."

The next day, that same colleague entered my office room, waving a sheet of paper in front of my nose:
"Do you know what this is, eh? It´s survey result, saying that Dr. House has a viewing rate of 33% amongst the 14-49-year old. And 66% of them are bored females in their pre-menopause! Let´s face it, Alice: Dr. House is plainly mainstream, he is mainstream, and you are in the middle of mainstream!" He didn´t say that I was actually mainstream myself, but he surely meant it.

Right. OK.

I generally do not respond to this kind of cockiness. I know it´s all impudence out of jealousy and conceit. I stand by my doctor. I´m even willing to share him with all the other females. Maybe I´ll meet him one day, or at least another male being of his kind... who knows? I won´t stop looking for it, I´m sure it will happen one day, maybe this year, maybe at the rest home.

Wherever, whenever... heaven knows! But hey, Sunshine! I´m keeping my eyes peeled:-)

February 26, 2010

Discovering Robert Frost

“The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.”

Robert Frost (American poet, 1974-1963)

February 23, 2010

Every Day Without Fail

Every single day
I wake up and I fall asleep
I play it down, I´m just skin-deep
I´m fighting with my creep fatigue
I´m watching golden comets fleet
Every day without fail

Every single day
You wash your face and sing aloud
You tune the strings, you chase the clouds
You´re struggling with a little doubt
You´re wondering what it´s all about
Every day without fail

Every single day
My legs transport me to some place
Whereas you´re busy filling space
Two souls entangled in a race
Would you misgive me, face to face?
Every day without fail

Every single day
The quality of mercy isn´t strained
Make glorious summer of our discontent
To do a great right, do a little wrong
If music be the food of love, play on!
Every day without fail


Alice McDuff ~ 23 February 2010

Photo by forestgladesinwander

Last stanza inspired by William Shakespeare

February 10, 2010

About Love

When did YOU last hear somebody tell you "I love you" - for the first time?


Last week was a difficult, an exhausting week! The cold, the snow, a lot of work, many deadlines, changes, multiplied lack of sleep, piercing eye teeth and the terrible twos didn´t make it easier.

And the day before yesterday, it seemed as if everything reached a peak: So I literally passed out, at least momentarily... that happened in front of my computer at work, not in the car, thank God!

In the evening, I tried to put my little girl to sleep. But she obviously had something to settle at first. She was excited, and though she already speaks quite well, even 3 or 4 word sentences (sort of "sentences") she´s only 21 months old. So she obviously had to centre herself, and concentrate. First of all, she forced me to calm down. She said (in German): "Mama da liegen!" (Translation: "Lay down here Mum!") and pointed at my bed. Then she climbed the bed, cuddled up to me as close as possible and exclaimed, with a deep sigh: "Meine Mama! MEINE Mama! MEINE MAMA!" ("My Mum! MY Mum! MY MUM!"). Her rosy, little face came even closer, she put her cheek to my cheek - peaches and cream

February 03, 2010

Nothing Broke

Nobody knows
Nobody cares
Nobody bothers to ask
Nobody dares

What an easy answer
It would be: inside of me
Nothing broke, you see?

If the key got lost
I have the double
I kept it through
Any kind of trouble

I wear it on my chest
Close to my heart
Between my small breasts

Right there it is:
Warm, full and clear
It´s alive, it´s real
It doesn´t count or deal

It is simply love
Nothing more or less
It´s an imperative feeling
Not a game of chess

So truly, by now
Guess it´s needless to say:
Nothing broke forever
Today is just another day.


Alice McDuff – 3 February 2010

photo by squeakypeach4

January 01, 2010

Im Altenstift

Heute war ich dann dort
Bei Dir, an diesem Ort,
Nach langer Zeit einmal wieder.
Draußen tönten Weihnachtslieder.

Du liegst in Deinem Bett.
Gewaschen, gekämmt, adrett.
Eigentlich alles am Platz,
Der Kranz, die Kerzen, der Latz.

Ich erzähle Dir dies und das,
Hoffentlich macht Dir das Spaß.
Und doch mit Scham im Gesicht,
Denn so einfach ist es nicht.

Du aber schaust durch die Wand
In ein anderes, fernes Land.
Vielleicht gerade noch essen,
Es ist leichter, den Rest zu vergessen.

Minuten zerfließen wie Jahre.
Bist Du böse, wenn ich bald fahre?
Vielleicht noch ein einziges Wort
Von Dir, denn gleich muss ich fort?

Es heißt, Du könntest nicht reden,
Doch die Lippen kannst Du bewegen.
Einen Satz kann ich darauf sehen:
„Es ist gut, Sie können jetzt gehen!“


Alice McDuff – 22 Dezember 2009
(Besuch bei Großtante Gerta)

November 26, 2009


Ich träumte von Dir
Ich kann nichts dafür
Wir liefen am Strand
Hand in Hand.

Deine Stimme ganz nah
Vielleicht war es wahr
Wir probten das Glück
Stück für Stück.

Die Luft noch kühl
Doch da war Dein Gefühl
Es hüllte mich ein
Nicht mehr allein.

Ich hörte Dich lachen
Wir können es machen
Wie Möwen fliegen
Dämonen besiegen.

Die Haare im Wind
Das ewige Kind
Solange man lebt
Ist nichts zu spät.

Du drehst mein Gesicht
Zum Morgenlicht
Du brauchst nichts zu sagen
Ich werde es wagen.

Ich träumte von Dir
Du kannst nichts dafür
Wir liefen am Strand
Hand in Hand.


Alice McDuff ~ 19. November 2009

Photo: Dora Maar by Man Ray

July 21, 2009


~ A Figment ~

Little Boy, let me wipe the clouds off your face,
Look, I wanna offer you a smile for free.
Let´s share a laughter in your father´s backyard,
Let´s be just the way your heart yearns to be.

Hey Dude, take your glittery glove off that hand,
Come rock with me, or just walk´n´talk.
Please show me around your magical mind,
Open a gateway to your soul, I won´t balk!

Tell me, what do you think?
Don´t you think that could do?
Do you think that could feel alright?

Tell me, what do you think?
Don´t you know that would do?
Do you think that would be just fine?

Wizard Man, let me blow the dust off your eyes,
Now, don´t you point your wand at me!
It´s not the reflection of fame I seek,
It´s the man behind the mirror I wanna see.

We may sit in the dark, switch off and relax,
If the spotlights should burn all-too bright.
And if bizzo truth-tellers haunt you too hard,
We´ll fight back at them, side by side.

Did you notice the tulips still blossom at night,
When you happen to dance around?
Did you notice that migrant birds turn back north,
When you happen to sing aloud?

Good Lord! Step back and take a good look,
It´s your happiness that is at stake!
Get rid of that pack of goldvorous rats,
Kick them out, before it´s too late!

If you make up your mind to fight your ghosts,
You can tide over blood burning rain.
I´ll be there to heal your stiches and wounds,
To seal all those scars and pains.

Tell me, what do you think?
Don´t you think that could do?
Do you think that could feel alright?

Tell me, what do you think?
Don´t you know that would do?
Do you think that would be just fine?


Alice McDuff ~ 21 July 2009

April 23, 2009

Vom Fluch und Segen des Wollens

Eugen Roth ~ Ein Mensch

Ein Mensch erhofft sich fromm und stil,

daß er einst da kriegt, was er will;

bis er dann doch dem Wahn erliegt

und schließlich das will, was er kriegt.


Kurt Tucholsky ~ Ideal und Wirklichkeit

In stiller Nacht und monogamen Betten

denkst Du dir aus, was Dir am leben fehlt.

Die Nerven knistern. Wenn wir das doch hätten

was uns, weil es nicht da ist, leise quält.

Du präparierst Dir im Gedankengange

das, was Du willst - und nachher kriegst dus nie...

Man möchte immer eine große Lange,

und dann bekommt man eine kleine Dicke -

C´est la vie - !

Sie muß sich wie in einem Kugellager

in ihren Hüften biegen, groß und blond.

Ein Pfund zu wenig, uns sie wäre möger,

wer je in diesen Haaren sich gesonnt...

Nachher erliegst Du dem verfluchten Hange,

der Eile und der der Phantasie.

Man möchte immer eine große Lange,

und dann bekommt man eine kleine Dicke -

Ssöhalih -!


Wenn mir die Augen tanzen

von wild durchwachten Nächten

und gejagten Traumgedanken,

dann nehme ich meine zehn Finger

- diese meine spitzen Lanzen -

und forme meine Wirklichkeit

aus Worten und wie andere ihr Brot zum

March 25, 2009

Through The Looking Glass

Alice has left this blog.

It is not known whether she left deliberately, or whether she was forced to leave - or simply faded... Some state that she has been abducted, but this remains mere speculation with no available factual support. According to a another, more likely (yet controversial) version, Alice has been observed as she stepped through her looking glass, whilst singing the following verses:

Lady Alice was sitting in her bower window,
At midnight mending her quoif;
And there she saw as fine a corpse
As ever she saw in her life.

'What bear ye, what bear ye, ye six men tall?
What bear ye on your shoulders?'
'We bear the corpse of Giles Collins,
An old and true lover of yours.'

'O, lay him down gently, ye six men tall,
All on the grass so green,
And to-morrow when the sun goes down,
Lady Alice a corpse shall be seen.

'And bury me in Saint Mary's Church,
All for my love so true;
And make me a garland of marjoram,
And of lemon thyme, and rue.'

Giles Collins was buried all in the east,
Lady Alice all in the west;
And the roses that grew on Giles Collins's grave,
They reached Lady Alice's breast.

There blew a cold wind of dishonesty,
And severed those roses in twain.
Which never there was seen before,

And it never will again.

Or was it another song she sang, maybe this one?


"Still she haunts me, phantomwise,

Alice moving under skies

Never seen by waking eyes."

March 20, 2009

Tribute To A Pen Friend

I have a pen friend, he´s American and his name is Gavin, George or Gideon (for editorial reasons, I will say that his name is Gideon, I like this name, Gideon as *Gideon Bellefleur*).

Gideon is a talented poet and imaginative man who pretends to be a real estate manager (although he´d surely be insistent that he´s a talented and imaginative real estate manager who tries to be a poet). He alternatively spents his days putting other people´s homes to the hammer (a very lucrative business in the U.S. these days!) or watching the californian sea (at least that´s how I like to imagine him), and his nights writing poems, watching thunderstorms or pondering about me!

HAHA, joking aside - let me rephrase this: he spents a relevant part of his nights writing pretty interesting stuff. Well, some may say that men aren´t multitasking but Gideon surely is, as he is able to make money, write a handful of beautiful end rhymes that would - each of them - perfectly work as song lyrics, and at the same time send me two e-mails in one hour - one filled with agnostic theories about the Creator he pretends not to believe in but calls the *Big Guy* (how do you know God´s a guy, Gideon?), and the other one with fantasies about inventive salad creations and other yummy things.

Gideon is someone who doesn´t hide. He´s not afraid of advancing his opinions. When he thinks or wants something, he spells it out clearly (which can be pretty wild sometimes, but he knows I can take it!). Still there are many things you won´t know about him at first sight, things you have to fight your way through to get to know about. When he doesn´t want you to get to know about certain things, he cuts them short though, but won´t just sweep them under the carpet. Just like me, he likes to control and settle things at his own pace, that is: quickly! He has the ability to see things from different angles and to empathise with things and people. It´s this special mixture of qualities that makes talking to him so interesting. He´s American in an Obama-like sense, in the best sense of the word American.

So I feel I can believe him when he says he likes me. I like him too:-). He´s the only men who will answer an average boring letter from me by sending two entertaining masterpieces of his own! He takes the time to care and make me laugh. We have spent over two years carefully getting to know each other (though right from the start, it was pretty clear to both of us that we are cut from the same cloth!), and have now come to a point where we trust each other. Our penpalship works because we know about its strengths and possibilities, but also about its riks and limits. Moreover, because we decided to respect its taboos (however, taboos are a matter of constant re-definition here).

What I admire most about Gideon though is the way he can write a soundful lyrical pearl in just one hour, using a language that is unique but at the same time accessible to a broader public. No clichés whatsoever though. Whereas my poems probably have too much of complicated "thinking outside the box" (and therefore mostly fail), his writes always offer a light bulb moment without ever being ordinary. A difficult tightrope walk that he brought to perfection! Example: I was thinking about writing a poem about vampires when I bumped into one of his latest writes: Vampire´s Memories. When I read it I instantly thought `OK, forget it Alice, there can be no better way to put this subject into poetry! Dark but exciting, instinctive but perfectly structured, complex but comprehensible. One of your best, Gideon! It is pinned down in my memory.

So this was a tribute to you, G. Thanks for being out there and holding on to me!:-)

x Alice

December 20, 2008

Midnight Pages (The Solstice Blog)

I took a walk into the woods this morning, with my daughter against my heart in her ergo baby carrier, looking down at the remains of what formerly had been foliage, pondering about the volatileness of time and things. Suddenly, something very strange happened: I saw a timid little hedgehog that, instead of hibernating, had obviously but unexpectedly woken up and was now cautiously peeking out from under the bushes, gazing at me. I paused for a moment in order to hide my surprise and take a second look at it, but there was no doubt about it: the hedgehog was looking at me, suggesting a smiling! Although I had made my own painful experiences with that species some time ago, which had taught me to be very cautious, I couldn´t help but trust my instincs... so I plucked up my courage and smiled back. A few precious moments we shared, during which time stood still, and then the moment passed by and we went separate ways again. But when I stepped out of the deep woods to go home to my daily duties, I realized that something had changed: Finally, days are getting longer and brighter again!

Hedgehog by phitar/ Source:

It almost seemed to me as if spring had sent a herald of warmth. I noticed that after all, the world around me was pretty green and shiny in december. Not due to the fir trees and the light decorations all around; simply the nature by itself. Evergreen bushes braved the cold, small water crystals reflected the soft winter light. Somewhere, a blackbird chirped. It even seemed to me that a crocus had grown on the clearing nearby (in fact in was just a little piece of violet bin liner – I suppose I should have taken my glasses along with me! Anyway…) I breathed in the clear icy air and felt more alive and comfortable with myself than I had been feeling in donkey´s years. A thought crossed my mind: What if I chose to enjoy the rest of the winter? Christmas time, New Year´s Eve, my birthday in January, Carnival in February, all that remaining time until the first crocuses would peek out for real and I might meet that little hedgehog again, in thoughts or for real, whatever way?

Metaphorically speaking: Why not replace determinism by libertarianism or –for a lighter start! - compatibilism ?

Well, that´s how my personal winter solstice passed by, this year. After all, black and white are quite close to each other, just as love and hate (and this not only on Eddie´s aka Meat Loaf´s fingers!)…. I learned that a change of heart can occur when you least expect it, and that it is true that the owls are not what they seem. So don´t you ever again claim that those daily additional seconds of brumous winter daylight that are heralded by the winter solstice are of no consequence!

x Alice

Hedgehog Mosaic by kathrynnivy
Find out more about the solstices here

December 02, 2008

Evening Pages (The Gossip Blog)

Cologne at dusk by AdamJL

I´m pretty sure that Julia Cameron had no kids when she stated `Never ever departure from rule no. 1 that is: write daily morning pages!´ At least not two kids under 6! Otherwise, she would have ruled something like `Write as often as you can, whenever you get a second...´

Anyway. These next pages where started on december 2nd in the morning, and will probably be finished tomorrow the 10th in the evenig.... therefore, they are not even supposed to be very coherent.... ahh, what the hell!:-)


I´ve come to the conclusion that English husbands are gentlemen! At least in comparison to French or German husbands. Take Blake (Amy´s ex), or Guy (Ritchie): Not only do they praise their famous (ex-)wives to the skies, they are also taking all the guilt! Blake says`It´s all my fault that Amy got addicted to drugs!´ Aha. And at Madonna´s 50th Birthday, Guy calls out `My wife is the most amazing person I´ve ever met; I´m so proud of her!´(That was three weeks before their official split up). Look, he could have told us - the global public - that she sleeps under cellophane to stay fresh, or that he was forced to eat lemongrass with Kabbalah mushrooms every day or the like to justify himself. But he didn´t (unlike a few of his buddies who spread the rumours instead...) What did he do instead? He said he would do without any monetary dispense (as long as he could see the kids). That he wished her all the best,`Good luck and have fun with your baseballer!´, and didn´t seem offended at all regarding her taking 2/3 of the kids away to the U.S.!

Or look at Blake (Our Blake, now out of jail). Not only did he prefer to stay for a second round in prison, he deliberately chose to stay away from Amy for good in order to protect her, so that she can finally say `Yes, yes, yes!´ to rehab´. Of course, he doesn´t want any of her money either! Poor Amy, she lost a gemstone!

And now picture a German or French husband, in the same situation: Let me tell you that the German would put the blame on his ex and squeeze out as much money as possible. The French one would have already spent the bigger part of his wife´s money for his mistress anyway. But not the English husband, who is loyal to the bitter end. Very honorable, that is. This being said, there remains a faint doubt... could they be veiling something to us? Maybe it´s just their way to say ´I´m up to whatever she asks me, as long as I get rid of that b****´... ??
The problem is: They might be able to get rid of their ex-wives this way, and leave in proper style, but how will they get rid of their I love Amy or Madonna is ma Donna-Tatoos? You don´t think they have a tatoo? Of course they have! Almost all British men have one (except William and Harry, maybe, but who knows....) ! They all love tatoos!! You can eyeball them at Spanish and Greek beaches, containing all sorts of precious statements, ranking from `I love mum´ to `Harley forever´. I pity those guys when comes the time their passion is running dry and they have to remove them. Outch! Love hurts, for sure!

Except for Ronnie. The rolling one. The one who rolls around with that Russian model (or was she working as a waitress before she met him?). He´s sincere to the bitter end (to himself, not to his wife), stating that in the end, he got bored at home from 5 pm. Poor Ronnie, I´m so sorry for him! He´s invited to come to my house for some action if he doesn´t know what to busy himself with. I´m a quarter Russian too! And I used to work as a half-model-half-waitress as well, in ancient times. What a coincidence! But I suppose that´s not exactly what he is looking for. I´m 37, I´m too old for him! Too old for a pair new kids... But he´s a Rolling Stone, I´ll always love him, whatever he´s doing. After all, he has a lot to tell the truth and be what he thinks is true to himself. Even against Mick´s paternal advice (HAHAHA, Mick is advising him... hm! I see! Really!) Ronnie, I wish you & Ekaterina good luck! You´ll need it.


What else? Oh well, this morning at 6 a.m., my 5 year-old son woke me up and said: `Mum, just 1.375 more days and I´ll be 9 years old!´ It took me an hour and a an online-calculator to find out that he was right.

x Alice


P.S. December 14th: Today, I read that Blake (our Blake, finally out of prison....) claimed 1,4 pounds from Amy! So he´s a half Scotsman, or what???

December 01, 2008

Morning Pages (The Blogit! Blog)

Photo by Alice McDuff

Yesterday, a friend called to lift me up. I needed some uplifting, because I have a tendancy to feel downcast when the days get shorter and the nights get long. Which is the case right now. Not exactly in the sense of the Stones song where this line was stolen from, but in the truest sense of the word: In my world, the sun starts to sink at 4.30 p.m. It only rises at 8.15 a.m. In between, I have two little kids who want to have fun and don´t want to sleep - at least not simultaneously. This doesn´t need more explanation, does it?

So my friend who was calling from Munich asked: "How are things with your writing"? "My writing?" "Yes, your writing! Your poetry and all that?" "Oh, that... I barely ever find the time to write properly. Kids keep me busy. My head is empty, or too full with words. I am prone to autumn depression. All I manage to write are dreary poems about cemetaries." (I pass a lot of time at the huge local cemetary around the corner, because this is where my little daughter sleeps best in her pushchair. At least this gives me time and room to think, somehow. Virginia Woolf once stated that in order to be able to write, a woman needs money and a room of her own. Well for the money thing I don´t know whether she´s right (J.K. Rowland has proven us that black is white, if we may believe the myth of her success), but as for the own room concept, I totally agree. The problem is that my daughter still sleeps in our bedroom at night, and that we have banned the tv up to the upper maisonette room. So I have to get by with the cemetary to form my creative thoughts. And after all, Virgina chose to go into the water, despite her money and room of her own. I have neither, nor, but at least this can´t happen to me at the cemetary, there´s no water in miles around. Admittedly, she left us some precious literary artworks. Which, in all likelihood, I will not. Which proves that in any way, Life is unjust! Everything in life has its price! Talent and madness go together like night and day! or something like that... ha!)

"Why don´t you try to write something lighter than this melancholic poetry stuff?", my Munich friend suggested. "Something that helps you to discharge your every day life thoughts."
"But who wants to read everyday life stuff?", was I about to retorte, but then her little son woke up and she could add before hanging up was "Why don´t you open a blog?"

A blog??? Does she mean this modern thing that is keeping a diary on the web? Ten years ago, people would have been staring at you disapprovingly if you had told them "Hello, my name is Alice, I´m 37 and keeping a diary." Aha, and she´s probably still sleeping with her stuffed animals.

Nowadays, everybody has a blog. My ten year old godchild Theresia has one, and my 75 year old uncle Luis too. He lives on the island of Menorca, in a turn of the century villa. One year ago, he didn´t even have a pc. He used to type his columns and articles (the ones he writes for a local newspaper - mostly torrents of hatred agains the German and British polluting his island) on an old Remington typewriter. Well maybe I´m overdoing it, and it wasn´t a Remington. It was probably an IBM Executive. Anyway, everytime I told him that he should defenitely buy and install a PC, he used to blow a rasperry and reply: "Only over my dead body!"
You can image how surprised I was when I received an email from him lately, saying: "Hello Alice, how are you, I´m fine but have no time for further rambling, if you want to keep yourself updated, just visit my blogsite at" "OK", I told myself, "after all, I too have a blog". But I´m not blogging. I´m posting poetry and pictures on a blogspot. That´s different. But it might be the same as well. Nobody (except a handful of loyal strangers I met on the poetry side where I usually post my english poems) is reading or mentioning anyway. So why not *blog* for a little while. All is better than autumn depression.

Therefore, it fits snugly that I got hold of a book again that someone gave to me a few years ago, a book called The Artist´s Way - A Course in Discovering and Recovering your Creative Self by Julia Cameron. I had never managed to peruse that book so far, because in the past, I have obstinately rejected the thought that creativity could be taught. I prefered to believe in the illusion of genuine talent (although being perfectly aware that the word artist derives from artisanry, but what you know and what you want to believe are two different pair of shoes sometimes).

In the book, Julia tells us that we´re all creative, that we are all channels for creative output and she will teach us how to free our creativity and that rule no. 1 is that a creative person should write the so-called morning pages every early morning before dawn. Three pages of longhand writing, strictly stream-of-consciousness. And she insists that this has to be done in the morning! In the morning, before dawn?? I´m trying to get some sleep at dawn, then I´m busy with the kids in the early morning, and then... Darn! I´m not a morning person anyways... Though it all depends on the definition of the word morning person. Are you a morning person when your best creativity time slot is between 0.30 a.m. and 2.00 a.m.? This is in the morning too, after all? I decided to be rather flexible regarding this point, and not to worry any more.

So here they are, my first blogged morning pages. I already have some for tomorrow in my head. Some about Blake and Amy, Guy and Madonna and the bounteousness and decency of british husbands in general and particular..


x Alice

October 17, 2008

Auf dem Herbstfriedhof

Inspiriert vom Leben der Marianne Wirtz,
*1876 +1956

4. Entwurf

Ich wandele manchmal bei den Toten,
oder zumindest dort, wo Ihre Gräber steh´n.
Ich lese in den Zahlen ihres Lebens
und suche diesen hin und wieder einen neuen Sinn.

Denn wie blickt eine Frau nach achtzig Jahren,
mit Glück auf ihre Lebenszeit zurück,
nachdem sie, ohne Hilfe oder Trost,
den Mann, das Kind und den Soldatensohn begrub?

Und doch: Viellecht hat Sie mit ihrer Mutterbrust,
oder vielleicht mit ihren bloßen Händen,
ihr Baby vor der Hungerkälte abgeschirmt?
Gekämpft und hat gerufen: Bleibe bei mir, kleines Kind?

Hat sie in Vaterlandes Morgengrauen
die Listen der für´s Reich Gefallenen studiert?
Der hoffnungsjungen Söhne dieser Zeit,
die für drei Meter Erdenmatsch ihr Leben ließen?

Oder hat sie im Glauben an des Himmels Schutz
darauf gehofft, dass weder Mann noch Kinder
sich unter namenlosen Steine legen müssten?
Hat sie geglaubt, dies alles hätte einen Sinn?

Und wie hat diese Frau noch vierzig Male
nach Winterkälte Krokusblüten ausgehalten?
Hat sie gewagt, den Sommerabend einzuatmen,
oder im Herbst im Blätterwind zu tanzen?

Ich suche in den Augen meiner Kinder,
sie strahlen Liebe, Glaube, Hoffnung aus.
Sie tobend lachend zwischen Steingemäuern
und laufen glücklich und erschöpft nach Hause.


Alice McDuff ~ 19. Oktober 2008

Source of all photos:
(name of photographers will be added soon)

September 26, 2008

Bold and Beautiful

Sea, old sea,
Please hear my plea,
Wash over me, all over me.

Sea, bold sea,
Come speak to me
And tell me of your mystery.

Sea, deep sea,
Take back that key
And make a clean sweep of me.

Sea, green sea,

Unleash your gleam
Roll over and enrapture me.

Alice McDuff ~ 2008


Work in progress

Tausend Tage
Tausend Fragen
Tausendmal lieben
Tausendmal Stille ertragen
Tausendfach darüber nachdenken
Tausendfach ein Lächeln verschenken.

Tausend Tage
Tausend Gedanken
Tausendmal wünschen
Tausendmal leise wanken
Tausendfach das Herz befragen
Tausendfach ins Träumen geraten.

Tausend Tage
Tausend Visionen
Tausendmal leben
Tausendmal Illusionen
Tausendfach nach Glück streben
Tausendfach dem Schicksal begegnen.

Alice McDuff ~ 26. September 2008

Calendar page - Deceleration von Multiple Personalities
Calendario Septiembre 2007 / September 2007 Wallpaper Calendar von ton3vita

"The mystery of love is greater than the mystery of death" (Oscar Wilde ~ Salome ~ 1905)

September 25, 2008

Most Of The Time

by Bob Dylan

Most of the time
I'm clear focused all around,
Most of the time
I can keep both feet on the ground,
I can follow the path, I can read the signs,
Stay right with it, when the road unwinds,
I can handle whatever I stumble upon,
I don't even notice she's gone,
Most of the time.

Most of the time
It's well understood,
Most of the time
I wouldn't change it if I could,
I can't make it all match up, I can hold my own,
I can deal with the situation right down to the bone,
I can survive, I can endure
And I don't even think about her
Most of the time.

Most of the time
My head is on straight,
Most of the time
I'm strong enough not to hate.
I don't build up illusion 'till it makes me sick,
I ain't afraid of confusion no matter how thick
I can smile in the face of mankind.
Don't even remember what her lips felt like on mine
Most of the time.

Most of the time
She ain't even in my mind,
I wouldn't know her if I saw her
She's that far behind.
Most of the time
I can't even be sure
If she was ever with me
Or if I was with her.

Most of the time
I'm halfway content,
Most of the time
I know exactly where I went,
I don't cheat on myself, I don't run and hide,
Hide from the feelings, that are buried inside,
I don't compromise and I don't pretend,
I don't even care if I ever see her again
Most of the time.


My all-time favourite track by Bob Dylan. Always a source of inspiration.

Silence Reveals Where We Are by T1855
Sea Birds Sky by Pesi

August 16, 2008


Dieses Dorf, dieses Dorf--

So begrenzt,
so schräg in den Berg gekeilt,
dass einzig der Glockenschlag
den Tag zerteilt,

wo man Hunde begräbt,
weil die Zeit verweilt,
und die Toten sich drehen
vor Unzufriedenheit.

Dieses Dorf, dieses Dorf--

So vertraut,
so sanft an den Hang gelegt,
dass die Stille Tagträume
aus Blüten webt,

wo die Steine atmen,
wenn die Sonne sich regt,
und die Lebenden hören,
wie das Herz Ihnen schlägt.


Alice McDuff – 5 August 2008


August 11, 2008

Wer bist Du ?

Für meine Tochter

Wer bist Du, mein Mädchen?

braun und seidig
in mein Herz
und hast es aufgedeckt,

locktest die Liebe raus
aus ihrem wohlgehüteten Versteck
und brachtest unverfälschte Freude im Gepäck.

Wer bist Du, mein Mädchen?

Flaumig zart,
mit kleiner Faust,

Dein Engelslächeln
hat die Kälte aufgetaut
und alle Zweifel in mir abgebaut.

Wer bist Du, mein Mädchen?

ein süßer Schmetterling,

Du trägst das Leben
als kostbaren Zauberring
und schenkst durch bloßes Dasein allem neuen Sinn.


Alice McDuff ~ 5 August 2008