Home.

Are many posts of mine titled home? I found one…that’s ok…

My father is not hugely great in showing emotions. He cooks for me and makes large cakes and sends me cut out newspaper articles. It’s some form of love, I’m sure. He lives in a pink cave, my father. You can see it here. I love him a lot and I love the newspaper snippets he sends me. They are never crinkled. This one became a bit wavy – of course: in my house.

The article is about an old school friend who’s published a couple of books and was interviewed few times about plagiarism and Axolotl Roadkill. He lives with wife and toddler in Zürich, he runs an exquisite picture collection of his home town Haßloch – which translates hate hole – on Facebook and we spent some days and nights at a pool and in a cemetery. You do that when you are 13.

What I love about the article is the fact, that it features a live between books right next to the read-meat ads of SBK supermarket. “Selbst-Bedienungs-Kauf” their homepage informs us and we see there, that “Fleisch und Wurst aus eigener Metzgerei” – own butchered meat and sausage – is for SBK of main concern.

It reminded me one of the images I took in the series of my filmschool application back in 1994: No teenager wants to be a butcher was the headline of the paper on the day I took that image. The entire series was about “Home” and inspired by a poem fragment of Pablo Neruda: The House, part of his Canto General. Since I could neither find the Spanish original nor the English Canto General Translation by J.Schmitt, below the German bits and English fragments of the fragment, that I found.

The House

“My house, the walls whose fresh,/recently cut wood still smells: dilapidated/homestead that creaked/with every step, and whistled with the warrior wind/of austral weather, becoming stormy/element, strange bird/beneath whose frozen feathers my song grew.” (translated by J.Schmitt and found here)

“My house, the walls whose fresh, recently cut wood still smells… sullen scars, men without money, the mineral claw of poverty.” (translator unknown, found here)

Das Haus * From Canto General by Pablo Neruda

Mein Haus, die Wände, deren frisch geschlagenes junges Holz noch duftet: ein unwohnliches Haus an der Grenze, das knarrte bei jedem Schritt, heulte mit dem Wind, dem kriegerischen, der australen Wetter, zum Element des Sturmes wurde, unbekannter Vogel, unter dessen Eisgefieder mein Gesang erwuchs.

Plötzlich schlagen die Türen: Es ist mein Vater. Ihn umringen die Streckenarbeiter: Eisenbahner in ihren durchnäßten Mänteln; Dunst und Regen überfallen mit ihnen das Haus, der Eßraum füllt sich mit heiseren Geschichten, man leert die Gläser, und bis zu mir gelangen von jenen Wesen, einer abgesonderten Schranke gleich, in der die Schmerzen leben, die Sorgen, die düster drohenden Narben, Menschen ohne Geld, die erzerne Klaue der Armut.

3 thoughts on “Home.

  1. Thanks for linking my picture collection of Hatehole (which has not been fully uploaded yet, there are still a lot of incredible things to see).
    To correct your remarks on “life at 13”, I have to add that we were not 13 at all, but older. The only 13 I remember is the yellow 13 printed on your bathing suit (about which I wrote the famous poem). The cemetery story is a particular episode in my mind still, since I got in some trouble with my parents for burning all that money. Somehow there is too much politics and embarassment in these memories and much less erotic than it seemed to promise back then. Anyway, when you’re a boy from Hatehole, you have to take what is given to you.
    The Neruda passage is well chosen, it almost seems that he knows your father. Frochenmol.

    • We were 14?? …15?? Shame on me I can’t remember dates well…but times!! I never saw the famous Hatehole 13 poem but I am still keen to hear it one day. More than all I remember very hot stones, lucky they put them on the graves flat there on the hill…and the smell of trees and Christian Rost and oh yes, the burnt money (did you tell your parents that German banks replace it as long as the number is still to see there? – This does not work when you carry all your cash to Switzerland…) and you and bicycles and lots and lots of sun. Funny that it never rains in memory, no?
      My father and Neruda… “A jo, der war doch in de Kelder letscht Johr.” – He will remember him after enough Gluhwein.
      See you at Christmas? 24th of December is my fathers birthday. We will sit in the pink cave (images see link above) and look at a 15cm high plastic tree, he probably scored for free from a friend. Wanna join us? We can recite Spanish poems all together.

  2. Pingback: Seed. Saat. Samen. « ⠁⠁⠁ I love light. I love air.

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