Not much you can do wrong with a Strammer Max.
So you open up a new cafeteria in the Körnerkiez, where everything is real and sanguine, plus still quite convenient: Why don’t you stick to the good old recipe and go Gräfestyle instead?
Debauched directions are being taken in the neighborhood.
Besides, say Progress, it is surely not just that “Nobody’s at Wheel” – before anything else, it is the Progress itself which is scarce Good, i.e. there is always less than what you had previously expected or hoped for.
Go cover the stretch between Mainland and the Svalbard!
Viking rafts were much faster than whatever ferry at this moment of time.
Idle thoughts while having breakfast, flickering on the one book I got from Eri, which is pretty technical stuff and mainly about how you build a house on a tree.
We are convinced that you are not human if you don’t feel the urge to build one yourself, at least once, with at least that same urgency of lightning up fires to warm up or cry for light in the darkness –
or any of those other long red lines connecting us to ourselves through Times.
But treehouses have even more to them and that has lots to do with Statics, a fascinating, very original and truthful discipline whose axioms are grounded on the original capability of Things to hold Things. You see those trees and houses and you are amazed and ask yourself: “How can such trees possibly hold such houses and such tangles of ropes and chains and logs?“
Such a burden?
And even if the wise man recommends that you always go for the Big Picture, zoom-out from the trees to the forest, nobody ever prescribed to do so from above. So how is it with the roots – like, how could they possibly hold such big trees?
Those trees holding such a burden?
And how about the ground that they are also constantly pressing together? And everything else that the ground is normally holding itself, say, the Holding Ground holding everything else?
There are plenty of inconceivable, tremendous forces, absolutely beyond imagination, that achieve the fullest and most perfect expression in utter immobility. Which is mystical: All of the weight that is being hold day by day by the Things Themselves, die Schwere, constantly overflowing, going ecstatic in trees and forests, the botanical building industry and people, too,
and why not.
Except / excerpt:
Maybe soccer players.
But if they are particularly good we call them things like acrobatic and thus switch to Circuses’ semantic field already – fly over pile up stretch down, lightly.
If he is good, a good soccer player is expected to manage Entertaining, part of the entertainment being Wag(s), sport cars and annexes. But it takes many more hundreds of mildly-talented English writers to squeeze some drops of literature out of that.
Plus say we are actually out for the Truth, way more Ολυμπιακή?
Thinking of a Pivot in some big NBA Team. What is the weight there, the Resistibility der Widerstand, and here we mean, net of emancipation involvement ghetto rise-ups and further topoi, and provided that we are all still ok with all of that in the 2020ies?
I am good myself at telling kids it is better they do not do drugs.
But that is not True.
And so it goes: The very-sexily-screaming tennis Champion, what is she yelling about human and/or the divine nature?
What is the Truth or what is The Forest for that matter, which the F1 drivers or the climbing cyclists are dealing with eventually? They are mere tension which is there and gone, leaving behind trails or stench of classist commonplaces, the Rich and the Glory, the Poor and his Redemption,
But in the one enchanting moment a big guy arises, a rough cut-out from the lowest skyline,
Ukraine, Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan.
He jumps out of the back of a truck, unloading hundredweights of watermelons by himself. Sticky fingers perpetually.
He collects something in his duffle at the end of the shift, goes down in some cellar to work out.
One day he is at the Olympic Games, Sidney, Beijing or Rio de Janeiro.
Some place he has absolutely no clue.
A full load of Paparazzi and Journalist Wannabes in the Sport Hall already, they are all after voluptuous thighs and breasts, sprinters, ice skaters. Asking swimmers about their sexual lives, who do they sleep with, do they really eat fast food sometimes?
Big Guy is alone, on hold, sitting somewhere, staring on a spot between his knees.
A voice calls out loud and he moves on to the platform. His barbell is much heavier than the one of the other guy before. He lifts it squinting, together with hundreds of viewers including you.
Suddenly, we feel the pain.
Unexpectedly, overwhelmingly and in the deepest heart.
Big Guy is a Tree, the Ground and all other Forces from below that you would usually ignore. The whole Universe relies on him alone: He is holding your life safe, right on the rope if you are about to fall down or get killed or to be crushed or washed away by the Dark Storm.
He is Pause, the Balance, Pain and Misery, Joy and Delight.
All that matters.
Everyone implores him to stand strong for an instant more and just please another one. And then the weights crash down loudly and that was enough for a gold medal.
His trainer / callous in- and outside / he does barely congratulate.
Which is fine so.
Is there anything worth celebrating in the first place?
“Did not score no goal”
(The Hornschaft website is up and running).