A Breath From the North

A man and a man in a room with a name unknown.
Some people call it a house of terror, some
they say it’s a place of fun, of drug and liquor,
of smoke and needle. Then he’s come, alone,
from far away to feel the frenzy. – What?
– Away! Away!
– May I help you, sir?
He asked while opening the door – he had no right
to ask, the Smurfs this time were close to get him.
– I thought there was a bar, here around.
Dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo duh
– There’s none. Now come. You’re mine. – he shut the door.

– Come out! – We know you’re there! – Show yourself!
– I do not wish to come.
– I don’t wish to come!
– Come out! – We know you’re there! – Free him!

Unharmed a man and a man from a room unknown
came out. Unknown what might have happened inside.
The side of right, the side of wrong, unknown
to all involved.

The situation resolved
in nothing still, still in nothingness,
uneducated paths of fullness.

Imago Nationis

A format mistake
opens to etymologies new and false.
This is no matter of State,
the state of things being matter,
peoples and nations.
Combinations of figures,
figuratively configured
in deeper imaginations.
Be it Mont Blanc, Plato’s cave,
a haunted house or an armchair,
these lines project shadows, thin air,
cautious delineations of uncomplete projects.
Images on images, not yet imagined,
not fully consciously integrated,
form not forms, not shapes, but lines,
thoroughly forming nations.

Review: “Dexter”


By Natalia Messmer

Until recently I was a fan of typical “women” series such as Desperate Housewives and Grey’s Anatomy. Yet a couple of months ago I joined my husband when he started to watch new series on cable TV. The first episode was quite shocking and I was not sure I wanted to see another one: there were crime scenes with lots of blood and a young creepy forensic technician who looked pretty much excited when it came to blood pattern analysis. However, that was the first impression. After the third episode all I wanted was more of Dexter.

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Review: “Harry Potter and the Cursed Child”

Harry Potter and the Cursed ChildBy Alan Mattli

WARNING: This review contains major spoilers.

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Review: “High-Rise”

By Gabriel Renggli

High-RiseThere’s a tall building. Some people live at the top. Some at the bottom. Do you get it?

If you don’t get it, don’t worry, director Ben Wheatley has you covered. Before long, the people at the top will dress up as French aristocrats for a party (and where’s a guillotine when you need one?). If that’s still too cryptic for you, there’s an excerpt, at the very end of the film, from an actual speech by the Iron Lady. Which is silly, because very few people will be moved by this of all films to exclaim in genuine surprise: “You know, I think Thatcher may actually have been wrong! Well, I never!”

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Observation #2: Empty Threat


(Graffiti, Chicago, 2009, artist unkown. Photo: jb)

We want to buy new phones with higher resolution cameras.

We want to ban Styrofoam cups. They damage the environment.

We want healthy- and good-looking bodies.

We want to be relaxed, so cool and nonchalant.

We want fast internet everywhere and all the time.

We want a cure for cancer. It only happens to others, but we fear the lack of guarantees.

We want our food to be organic, regional, and inexpensive.

We want avocados, shrimp, coconuts and dragon fruit.

We want quick, prestigious degrees.

We want to be recognised for our intelligence and depth. We are not the superficial generation. Continue reading

Observation #1: Invisible Friend (Hometown)

(picture: jb)

The sun is setting, going down in a blaze of glowing reds, purples, and golds, as it often does during those early weeks of July. A hot and dry day is preparing to pass the reins to a warm, ink blue night, as I find you sitting by the side of the road, leading down the hill and towards the street named after the men who grow grapes for wine making. With a bit of luck you can still sometimes see an older gentleman tending to a small slope covered in barely two-dozen vines at the end of the lane. A smile inadvertently opens up your face whenever you walk past him – the winegrower of winegrower’s lane. Those chance encounters don’t take place regularly or often; you live on the other side of town. You wonder what will happen to the street when the winegrower stops tending to his vines, once the vines will have disappeared. Will the name stick? – probably, cartography makes certain demands. Will people come up with histories and anecdotes to explain the oddity of the street sign? – likely, human nature has a way of wanting to know.

Tonight, however, you have not got that far down the road yet. I find you with your arms wrapped around your legs, your body tense, facing the burning horizon. Your back is turned towards me, a plaid backpack and your camera hanging from your narrow shoulders close to the warm, dusty asphalt, forgotten. You are strikingly immobile, facing the immensity of a passing day, considering that a little over an hour ago, you left the thick, stale air of an empty flat, a place of living, because sitting still no longer was an option. Continue reading