Diary of an artist

A ship sailed on the high seas – some words that were burning on my palette

“A ship sailed on the high seas” – a ship in the high waves, a flying Dutchman, an all-pestroying cruise tower, whalers on a bloody mission, a poor little fishing boat or the white luxury yacht. Up there, they tell us, there is someone, with knowledge and experience, who will rock the ship, they say.

On the high seas even small boats drift, dilapidated, unseaworthy. And we are their inexperienced, unscrupulous captains of every gender.

We close the ports that could provide security and send people out into the unbearable thirst, the consuming hunger and feed them with fear. We burned the steering wheel of our conscience, even out of indifference.

And then we turn away, we don’t want to watch how the burning salt water burns the children’s eyes, throws blisters and the babies die – no, we scold a little the puppet of a state leader, pleased that the brown brood of evil immediately takes responsibility.

Yes, the devil likes it particularly hideous, and those who do not believe in him, should have a look into the dictators’ pupils. Again we duck away, barely arguing, planning, not debating, struggling for solutions. The criminals sent to us by the representative of New Absolutism are the reason, the excuse for our neighbourhood ambition and anger.

That is comfortable, and we are a little indignant, while, as always, we don’t let them spoil our fun, lying on the beaches where the dead were washed up at night, where we were guilty.

And then we pop the corks, deaf to the shots from our own weapons from which these families flee. We hurry to the Captain’s Dinner, the slaughter feast of our consciences. And so empty boats sway on the high seas, always, always further, always up and down, you are their captain, I am. And in the light of the lanterns, which are supposed to attract the few remaining fish, we watch as the huge ship full of celebrating, cheerful people is steered ever closer to the needle-pointed rocks by its captain, because he just wants to wave to his girlfriend…

Translated with the help of www.DeepL.com/Translator

Caprifischer

King Football – some thoughts that are burning on my palette

When I look into my computer these days, I am immediately asked to identify myself as a fan by means of football decorations. This is completely absurd for me, of course.
It is not my intention not to identify myself with ball sports in all their fun, but rather not to apply for a mass hype, let alone one with all my “friends”, which has no other purpose than to satisfy a huge injection of capital into the football industry and to stimulate masses of fans whose sport is above all to drink and mob – in a bad case. On the bright side, they buy bravely fan articles and national jerseys the size of beer jugs and cheer about barbecue sausages.
But how can I cheer for a championship of corrupt officials in a country that persecutes, imprisons, tortures and even sometimes murders homosexuals? A country where artists, intellectuals are oppressed and people are starving? On whose orders thousands and thousands of dogs and cats were slain, poisoned, so that the cheering tourist does not see that they are made to starve? The blood of the thousand poor dogs of Sochi is not dried in my memory yet, there is kicked on fresh suffering. I am aware that even if gas chambers were built in Russia, the fun of football would not decrease. The joker doesn’t care where he spits on the floor, worldwide. Precisely because I appreciate the beauties of Russia, the landscape and culture and don’t feel far from the communist idea, that’s why I feel particularly horrified before this event.

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