Late at night when the lights of the city reflect orange off the clouds, the wet pavement glistens like fire. The rain has washed away the impurities of city life and it is as though my passing there is the first passing on the virgin pavement. The silence on these nights is deafening. The clouds
I close my eyes and pinch my nose closed as I take the sardine between my teeth. There is a wet squoshing sound, like a muddy boot tracking on carpet, as I grind the unfortunate specimen between my back molars, doing my best to guide its wet flesh away from my taste buds.
How would your life story sound as a melody? Based on a class session about songlines, a term which describes the Aboriginal Australian’s practice of finding one’s way in the land through music, I wrote an autobiographical poem with a special focus on Berlin that I guide with a variation of Yiruma’s “River Flows in
This week, as the leaves turn color, the days grow shorter, and there’s simply no more denying the end of summer, Die Bärliner has prepared a special treat to warm the cockles of your heart. We’ve looked into the treasure trove of our archives and dug up some of our favourite pieces on Pankow and
The concrete, steel and glass goliath that is Berlin has many wounds. Berlin bleeds Green. In some places this verdure oozes from the parks: places explicitly set aside for the leisure of Berlin’s inhabitants; places to go to feel a connection with the Earth; or to barbecue in the warm summer sunlight. These wounds are
Plunge into the bowels of Berlin the spiderweb system of iron rails and screeching brakes that connects the far corners of this city. Like some piecemeal Frankensteinian monster brought to life Berlin has been cobbled and stitched together animated to act like a grotesque whole. Each district is like a living, pulsating organ of the
I am my umbilical cord My mother’s sleepless nights My father’s long drives I am the scent in my mother’s wardrobe The high heels I never fit I am the ingrained institutionalized religion Founded on fear. I am the shame and the guilt The vagina I am the black eyeliner I draw around my eyes
My mother never eats toast on a plate, she holds the bread in her long hands and eats over the kitchen sink. I think these are the moments she prefers, looking out to the garden, morning sun dim and blue and made of all the forgiving in the world easier here in morning’s two-part