Melodies of life E-Book

Stefan Pinter

• Herausgeber: novum pro Verlag
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

"Sometimes the pearls inside us are small and ugly, but they are precious because they are real. But what can they do against the big, cheesy imitations that the world clamors for and can never seem to get enough of." You think that and keep silent, and an insurmountable power keeps you from giving away your pearls. Hidden they lie in this book, waiting to bring out yours too. To make you laugh, cry and think.

Leseprobe

StefanPinter

Melodiesoflife

Thefaceofart

Is it real, or just represented? Is it truth or fantasy?

People are trying to figure it out, try to read in this face.

And sometimes they get on your case, come ominously close to the truth.

That's why you keep changing it, this face. You're always one step ahead of them, their thinking, their understanding and their Want to understand.

You show them one laughing, one crying, a sad, emotionless face.

And sometimes it's even real.

Thefuneral

From everywhere, from the hotel complex, they came streaming, the children. The bright voice of my sister had attracted them. It was cruel when a mother bird let her young one starve to death because it was smaller and weaker than the others, and now threw it out of the nest, right in front of the balconies of the vacationers. "Look, quick ..." And how quickly the children came.

Naked and bare it lay there, the baby bird, on the white marble tiles. Some tried to touch it, to turn it around, talked softly, but none behaved conspicuously. Nature had united them.

I then took a plastic shovel, which children usually use to build sand castles, and carried the tiny body on it across the damp, blasted green lawn to a row of flowers next to the garden wall. There I buried it. The children stood beside it, peacefully, talking quietly. They laid a petal from the pink flowering oleander on his grave.

children. Then they went back to their nest.

Thecupoflife

" What have you done?"

"You drank the cup of life?" "Yes, I was thirsty."

"Say, you must be crazy. The cup of life is not meant for drinking!" "Then what's the point?"

"But now it's empty, your cup. Your life is over." "But I am alive. Look! I am alive!"

"But not for long, you'll see!"

"I wouldn't have lived any longer either if I still had the cup."

"You'd have something to show for it, though. A full cup. Your life. But how do you look now? Like a greedy man who can't even keep his life in a cup."

... they speak to me in such and such a way, the people who pretend to mean well with me.

But then someone comes along - he's one of the few who are different - and says freely, "It's not true at all what they're saying about you. You didn't drink it yourself. Someone else drank your cup."

You gave it to him because you loved him and because he needed it. Now you cover him and also draw the ridicule and contempt for the empty cup.

"You're a smart kid," I answer him. or better yet, sensitive enough to recognize and understand that. And sensitive enough to stop drilling into me. Another walks around with my cup. one day it will not stand like a vase on my grave, my cup, full and yet useless, it will live, somewhere, with another person to whom I gave it because I loved him.

TheeruptionofVesuvius

If it happens quickly - as it did a few hundred years ago - everything remains as it was. For archaeologists a found food: People sitting at the kitchen table, asleep in bed, children in class, livestock in the barn. As they were, they were surprised, preserved in glowing lava fly ash.

Today the stalk of a lady's slipper broke. It happened on the Reichsbrucke, not far from the boat landing. As it was, after the break, preserving, as it were, the last step of its wearer, it remained there on the sidewalk, on the bridge not far from the boat landing.

No volcano had surprised her, the woman, only the hectic pace of our times.

Theadvertisingcolumn

I leaned against a rotating advertising pillar, simply to get to know the feeling of leaning against a rotating advertising pillar. People - so the advertisers say - should be able to see more when the advertising pillar rotates.

And they did.

Thecurdsoap

The G string of a piano is used to cut it. Because this string is strong and supple and can withstand the tension needed to cut the core soap made biologically, without heating. Several G strings are stretched side by side for this purpose.

When the large core soap section is completely drawn through, a melodic, slightly soap-muted, bright G is heard. Perhaps this is why it is called a soap opera.

Headless

A young man had put his head to one side, or so it seemed. It was the head of his girlfriend, on his lap. His head, lying on its side, was not visible. That's how it looked, as if he had put it to one side.

Maybe that's what you do when you're in love.

TheB-sideoftheCD

There used to be, on the singles, the 45-ies for record players. A big hit was on it, on the A-side. That, what could be sold. But what the artist had designed creatively, what he liked to bring among the people, but was embarrassed to do so, perhaps that's why he didn't polish and refine it so much, what he thought wasn't intended for the general public, that's what he put on the B-side.

He did not ask for a special price for this. Originality, naturalness, away from the mainstream. A- and B-side. In and out.

Bonus track, they say now. They're trying again, the creatives. They try it again to bring originality, naturalness among the people. There you buy something market screaming and have in the Korber! simplicity, something that you did not suspect.

Does he look so hungry, the modern buyer, so longing, greedy for originality? Is he only pushing the A-side because he doesn't know how to formulate it, his desire for the B-side, and therefore only uses the cliche of the A-side?

The A-sellers watch over the fact that author and consumer remain strictly separated, communicating with each other only via cliche. The B-side suddenly creates closeness and intimacy. Despite market economy and capitalism.

Theeroticismofthe"L

What would fashion be without the "L"? After all, it gives sensation to emptiness, life to dead matter.

nylon knee socks with cuffs. Kitschy pink pointy shoes. Candy pink sweater, overflowing with porn porns. A pearl necklace, wrapped not around the neck but around the wrist. "Coco Chanel" titled. Clue to its creation.

Every "normal" woman would be asked, which old clothes container they take this from. The coco-Chanel-clad one does not. She even looks prettier than before in the modern look.

I call this process "the eroticism of the L". The letter L. If you add it to the word fashion, which is sober in itself, you get the same effect.

Thewhistle

She whistled for me, there in the birch grove. A deep aisle had been cut into it. A new path, muddy, tracks of caterpillars, excavators and trucks, dirty snow, barely thawed ground.

She, in loose linen pants with patch pockets, a backpack on her back. Ahead running the dog. Of course, she whistled for him, not for me, who - in the springtime jogging mania - had pushed myself between them.

But she whistled well. So well that it would have fit, the whistle, for me, and that I could indulge in this illusion.

Requestedlicenseplate

"!Life," on his car. His vanity plate. Did he wish for it, his life? He doesn't know. But he wishes it to be a life, and for everyone to see it, just like his wish plate now.

"!Life" is punished. One smiles about it. One is annoyed when it robs one of the right of way. One praises the creative idea behind it.

"!Life" is on the move. Too fast, too superficial, too cautious. It is perceived, but only by those who are in its vicinity at the time.

"!Life". In this semicircular thing made of tin, to which we give far too much importance, too much meaning, too much attention, although its content is the most precious thing: a life.

SaveVenice

The coffee is small and black. Plastic bottles and Styrofoam float in the canals. From the Adriatic side, the waves spill over the sidewalks. on small side paths there is often no way through. Wet feet and brightly lit Murano glass. Stores with masks in front of the door.

I bought two red Murano glass roses for you. Red, because you are so fond of colors. From them you think you can read feelings and the future. Red like ...

Everything rests on rotten pillars, like Venice. Beautiful to look at. Damp walls, hard to live in. One longs for dryness and solid ground under one's feet.

Whether you are happy about it, about my souvenir. Do I have any intentions? Do I want to save Venice?

Walking over footbridges, in alleys and squares, knowing that underneath there is water, mud and silt and pillars. Pillars, invisible and yet meaningful, ugly and musty. Paying attention to what is above, but not to what it rests on.

In one corner, boxes have been piled up, old lettuce, vegetable scraps waiting to be taken away. Life goes its way. Exchanging and passing on so that new things can follow. Do I want to change you? Not yet. You are worth it.

Onestar

An airplane has lost a star, in the night sky, as it flew by, brightly lit, lights flashing. The star is left behind, twinkling, far away.

Thequestionoftheway

Not only once did it happen to me that I was supposed to give information to someone who thought I was competent and knew the way. But I had just arrived and was just as foreign as he was.

For the first time, just like him, I read street names I didn't know in passing. Nevertheless, I answered resolutely and sounded competent. And he, the inquiring stranger, felt well advised. Perhaps it is my appearance that makes me seem so competent. I wonder if he would have believed any answer I gave.

In any case, brave and strengthened by my answer, he strode in the direction I had pointed out to him and turned the corner, returning a short time later beaming with joy. Waving to me, he thanked me effusively, because my answer had led him on the right path.

Where

"The first half," the coach summed up after the game, "they weren't there at all." "Then where were they," I ask myself. Footballers, can they separate body and mind so perfectly? Where were they mentally, in the first half?

As a spectator, one likes to believe the fairy tale of honor, sportsmanship, the will to win and the hunger for success. But what do you get to see? Dulled, tired-looking, overtaxed semiprofessionals or full pros who simply don't take every game seriously anymore, who can't be fully involved everywhere.

Why then get angry about it and blame the players and not those responsible, the organizers, the officials and sponsors, who all want only one thing: more and more!

Makeyourselfathome

I say these words to you in your apartment. You smile, almost laugh. But I mean it. I express what I feel when someone comes to my home. Then I feel constriction. It's a different feeling than when I'm alone at home. And so it is a different home for me.

And this, my self-consciousness, unsettles my visitors.

And because I assume you have a similar feeling, I would like to resolve the tension that arises in advance. Tell you to behave as you normally would, as if I were not there.