The pretty ballerina armed with a cutting scythe

To write or not to write? Judging by this snow-covered landscape below, slowly but surely turning into marching soldier ants on ice I have in fact chose to do the technicolor yawn and discharge my interrupted soul into the gazing eyes of whoever the hell is reading this. As far I can remember everything I’ve ever written was with her stripping, sitting, knitting, shining and dying in the attics of my mind.  What is to follow, is not.

In the prime of my underdeveloped youth I remember wishing to have a certain army figurine; god knows it spoke to me in sounds of gunfire.  It shot ammunition with a proud soul and leopard crawled endlessly in the fertile gardens of my mind.  I wanted it so damn bad that my wet dreams ceased and instead of waking up on semi soaked linen I up woke with a soldiers’ beret on my head and dried out tomato sauce squirted  on my naked chest.  One day, as the sun broke the cold wintery night it was right there next to me, accompanied by familiar songs of celebration and family kisses. After a while my toy got old and forgotten and I had wet dreams again.  I packed my once beloved soldier away somewhere between old forgotten fluffy toys, dimensionless eye patches and broken swords.

I got a little older, reached puberty, overcome it to a certain extent and then I saw her, beauty itself, in the form of a then flat chested girl still mastering the art of ballet.  Insecure as I am, was, I never told her about the unfamiliar, purely transcendent feelings that she awakened inside of my then unaware and ignorant soul.  I shouldn’t have, chances are we would have fallen in love, tried it out, had some fun, screwed around and failed.  Now it’s around two thousand six hundred and ninety days, a couple of broken hearts (among some other pretty things) later and I don’t, I really don’t feel any different whatsoever.  It feels good to be able to hold on to something pure, drenched in hope, potential devastating happiness. Believe me I don’t want to put her away to cuddle with my once beloved soldier figurine.  One day, come what may, time might become ripe. I might be clearheaded, closer in distance and fresher than a newborn bird.

Dam swan

 

I saw you in a dance once

Drawing raw red circles with your feet,

Speaking the language of winged creatures with your hands,

Love is patient, love is neat

 

The way you moved, moved my soul

The way you spoke broke my throat

Bended body, arrow animus

Snow shoulders, snow coat

 

Oh, keep on dancing

Keep on being beautiful

Reach your dreams

But protect your soul

 

One day we will meet again

Each on our path

We will smell like physical chemistry

In the garden of telepathy

 

-          Ruann Weidemann

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Photo by Aleksei Germanski

Peace and love,

Ruann

The angelic zebra and his answer to life

“There are no answers in this life form for this confusing questions that you exhale, flesh-skinned human”, said my new friend.  He had pulchritude written all over him in the form of yin and yang stripes, rigid teeth like stoned erasers and a mohawk that scared crows.  Damn he looked good, like a creature straight from heaven. Okay, he was some form of a zebra, but he shined like an angel nonetheless.  He had purple wings made from the finest eagle feathers, painted purple with moss from earths’ deepest caves.   I admired his strong reeking beauty like I’ve never admired any damn thing ever before.  I spread my ears and listened to the voice of this newly created figment of my imagination.  Of course he’s real, if I am, so is he.

I climbed onto his back and we took off into the air from the stationary position that we were in.  I laughed at first because I’ve never seen a zebra pretending to be a dragonfly but when I felt the incredible  resisting force of his powerful speed against the air, I realized the seriousness of the situation.  It started off like a conversation between a father and his pubescent son.  I felt insecure, uncertain.  He cleared his throat.  I knew something was up, and when he started to speak his thundering voice overpowered the deafening sound of wind rushing through my ear canals.

“All your life you have been asking questions:

‘What is a human being?  Are we spiritual beings living human lives, or are we humans with spiritual souls? Why are we even here? Where do we come from? What is the meaning of life?’ the list goes on, and on, and on.”  The angelic zebra coughed. Fairy dust escaped from his well structured mouth and then he continued.

“I don’t know, and statistically, in this life form, neither would you.  If it was even a wee bit possible you would have been able to type it into that godforsaken magical electric typewriter of yours.  If all the worlds’ a stage, where is the audience?  Everybody is asking questions; it is obvious that no one will ever be able to answer them, yet”

“But Sir, what is the meaning of life then?” I asked without thinking.  He didn’t get angry.

“Happiness is the answer, Son.”

“Then how do I achieve happiness?”

“First you need to make peace with yourself, humanity and this world we live in.  Also with the fact that you are incomplete and will never be godly enough or know all the answers.  Then you need to find out what will make you happy all by yourself, then strive for it, create a goal.  The key to achieving it is to dream bigger than that goal.  Let’s say a strawberry will make you happy, strive for a strawberry tree, and then plant the seed.  It’s as easy as that. Plant a damn seed and make sure you water it accordingly.  If you fail, plant a new seed.  Sometimes it won’t even come up, but you will always be able to try again.”

There was no zebra.  I was talking to myself like a crazy mental kid.  For the first time in my life I truly have a goal and God knows I’m feeling happier already.

Do you have an answer to life?

Art by Dennis Frick

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Photo by Ren Rox

Peace and love,

Ruann

Wolves, electronic dance moves and the lady of the sky

 

“Metamorphosis”, whispered the sky as I lay naked on the itching grass below her space-covering skirt.  She was beautiful and shy with perpetual light grey clouds giving way for a mouth filled with stars.  She closed her gap and wet my body with her soft spittle, speaking in breezes, moonlight and rain, hugging me with her cold aired breath.

We had a conversation about compassion, life, love, death.  I told her my deepest, darkest secrets which she already knew as birds with eyes fluttered in her whirl winded soul.  Suddenly she changed.  Her voice became raging thunder.  Her clouds turned dark, hard and threatening.  I started to doubt her femininity.  I kept on talking but my words were masked by earthly sounds, like a chirping bird inside the stomach of a diarrheal lion.

I started to run into an open field.  Running away seemed like my only escape, but she was everywhere, hanging from the clouds, crawling beneath my feet.  My soul was overflowing with filth, my head a birds nest inhabited by self aborted eggs. Everything was a goddamn dead end.

She struck.  Firing lightning came down like scars.  I dodged them, sidestepping every flash but I knew that soon my human capabilities would hit the dust.  I ran pretty fast, masculine calves bulging, and tip toeing the moist from the earth.  My horizontal streaks of hair combed the pouring rain, me, one on one, on a racetrack against mother nature.

She hit, electrocuting me as if I was a goldfish sharing a bathtub with an old radio, dancing shamelessly on electronic beats.  Completely gone, spread out like an octopus that fell from the sky. Days, weeks, maybe even years went by.  The excruciating pain that I felt on that peculiar day is indescribable with ink.  It tore my soul from my flesh and fed it to the wolves.  They seemed unsatisfied with its taste.

I woke.

Life was beautiful, the air was sweet; reset, refreshed and reborn.  I was given a second chance to become stronger and groovier than ever before.

 

Sexy wolf cub

 

Your voice was calming

Like dead crickets on a summers’ morn,

On a flagpole outside

hung the sheets on which you were born

 

You hummed me to never land

While drawing birds on my chest

Tonguing me into purity

Undressed, caressed

 

How could you:

Sexy wolf cub,

Sing me to sleep

And not wake me up

-          Ruann Weidemann

Photo taken by Monica Brand

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Click for source

Photo taken by Taylor james

Thank you for all of the unexpected feedback and support.

 

Peace and love,

 

Ruann

 

 

 

 

 

Growing darlings in fertile ground

“Lo and behold”, said the old man with the pearly white beard.  “You possess the greatest gift of them all.  To love a human being so much that even when she crack your bones with her words and spit the death of a fairytale in your face it doesn’t affect your love in the slightest.  “That, son, is pure”.  That, child, is the love of gods”

His beard didn’t catch fire although it steamed like earthly geezers.  The stench of wisdom and alcohol brought mist from his mouth and reeked like the breath of a prehistoric owl.

“You know what love is son, few get the chance to get to know the pleasurable, dark and deep side of love”

The sweat on his forehead was shining like the purest of stones in colors that I’ve never seen before; Pigeon-blood red, balsamic blue, peppery purple and ghostly see-through.

“But sir, it hurts” I said.

“To hell with that, you insecure pre-damned human. Be honored, be grateful, and be happy that you can love as love is what separates you from being dead.  You are alive! You can feel!  You know what love is, son.”

He wasn’t an illusion, a mere man in the mist.

“I am you” he said. “But you are empty” I replied,

“Then forget, forgive and move on.  Don’t change but find, don’t ponder but run, don’t wonder but know.”

“Amen sir, Amen” I said and ran away.

 

 

Cheers, darling

 

Her eyes were like the sun through clouds on a misty cliff

Her feet like perfect sculptures on unfound lands

 

The fog on her skin danced in the moonlight oh so shy

Her hair was dark and deep and beautiful like spun and tainted gold

 

She was my lamb, she was my light

Askew thoughts, pretty sights

 

But her head was hard and her soul was cold

She didn’t believe in Jesus or the sevenfold

 

I didn’t care, I didn’t mind

She was strong, she was kind

 

Fly my dear

Break a leg

Shoot ‘em down

Shoot ‘em dead

 

One day when you wake

And wash your face in the morning lake

 

Look up to the skies and you will see

That there was beauty in our disagree

-          Ruann Weidemann

Click on photo for source

Click on photo for source

Photo taken by Caitlin Worthington

 

Peace and love,

 

Ruann

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Elephants with makeup and the dead moonlight girl

I love, I hate, I were born and I’ll die.  All we really have to do is to flourish.  What makes me thrive is writing from the depths of my soul.  Even if (for now) it’s a deep dark pit filled with frog intestines and pretty dancing daisies drifting in blood.  So for now I’ll lavish you with rose-water saliva and kiss your shining forehead with my dirty mouth.  When I’m happy again, however, I’ll fill the pit with triple distilled and swim naked in the passages of mother earth.

 

Moonlight girl

 

Get on your stinking white elephant and ride it to me

Wear a cape and some heart-shaped glasses

Respond to my call

And then we’ll fall…

 

So deep in love

So deep in soul

 

You’re a mere piece of cloud in the chambers of my heart

A penetrating needle in the apple of my eye

Cute as hell in your silky white dress

Goddess of the skies, more or less

 

I’ll rock you to sleep in my shaking arms

And bath you in oils when you’re weak

I’ll brush your teeth with my thumb

And perfume you when you reek

 

Moonlight girl, godsend

Rhythm of my heart:

 

Is your compass needle bent

Or have you died

Falling of your elephant?

-          - Ruann Weidemann

 

national geographic

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photo taken by Kenvin Pinardy

national geographic

 

peace and love,

 

Ruann

 

 

 

 

 

There is angels’ breath in my oxygen tank

The aroma of angel breath is in the air as I’m standing in front of the big ass-gates of Heaven.

“Go back home” said a thundering voice, rattling my ear bones.  “You are not dead yet.  This is a place for dead people”.    I smirked.  “Happy dead people,  I suppose?”  Trough the electrocuting silk fence of heaven I saw a young Stevie Nicks riding a unicycle with a unicorn on her back, smiling as broad as ever. I would have loved to be that unicorn.

“Sin” I screamed, pointing in the reciprocal direction of which the guardian angel is facing and made a break through the gate as he turned around.  He stopped me dead in my tracks without even looking.

“Enjoy your life while you’re still alive, son, which is not for eternity, this will be when the time is ripe”.  Still he wasn’t looking at me. The angel slapped me so hard on my left cheek with the force of turning around that I woke up screaming godless thinks about bombing heaven and saving Nicks.

I have to go back to the city for a while. I never knew that I could miss a movie cinema, bikinis, people, red lights and nightly gunshots so much.  In fact I didn’t know that I can miss them at all.  I’m a traveller, I believe in nature, peace, nothingness and being away.

Point is I’m confused and although my world is an oyster and as oysters have no sense of direction I do not know where to go.  I will experience nothingness and sleep when I die.  Right now I need to see places, meet people and write.

Maybe it’s just the girl sitting on a silver chair knitting the wires of my mind who is driving me so insane.

Who knows where I’ll be in a month, a year, I always seem to surprise myself to quite a degree.  All I know is that I’ll have to make the most of what is to come.

Future

 

You might bring me flowers

Maybe even a corpse

You might take me to rivers of honey

On the back of a horse

 

But do not confuse me

As I’m a man of the mind

You are endlessly clouded

I’m one of a kind

 

Give me love and a rusted Bentley

A pocket of rubies and an old guitar

With air my hair and her on my lap

I’ll follow the northern star

 

If I screw up

I’ll have no one to blame

For my recklessness nature

And pockets of shame

 

So do me a favour

And do what you do best

Stay an unrevealed mystery

And leave me the rest

-          Ruann Weidemann

Peace and love,

Ruann

Love hung on a palisade to dry

A letter from Marc Harvey, found close to his body in the hospital garden of Jefferson 13:

“To Lisa and everybody that I never knew:

I can identify the rhythm of your walk when you’re tripling through my mind.  You leave behind a scent that erects my brain cells and water my dying crops.

Just like sweat dripping from your fragile cheekbones my bloody heart ran dry. Drop by drop it fell on cold sand and became one with earth.  Just like rain, just thicker.  It ran down an imaginary path into your perfectly sculpted feet.  A few breaths later your ankles were covered in my most treasured body liquid and I thought that was it, more blood than that I couldn’t possible have.  You felt useless, but at ease, I could see that look in your eyes that screamed purity.  My heart couldn’t stop producing blood. It reached your neck. You cried for help but I denied. I watched you drown in love that I never knew I had.

Soon that rhythm was gone and all that was left was a forgotten land that reeked of your compos. The ground  was as fertile as birth.  The prettiest flowers sprouted at the break of day.  It brought colors to my land that were so bright that it belonged in a unfounded universe.

But the pretty reminded me of you, and that was my weakness.  One cannot simply cut out a piece of your mind.

So even though you were gone I shaped you out of cardboard and I  drew you a new face.  It was hard to  perfect as I only had a rusted nail but it seemed somewhat similar.  I took you to the playground and we kissed, you didn’t kiss me back.  We shared the night in my hospital bed, you lay so still.

People call me crazy but they don’t know, Lisa, they have never experienced love like us.  And even if what they say is true, that you turned me into what I am now, I do not care.

Before I go I want you to know that love is not to be tampered with.  Share it carefully and wise as it’s the purest gift of them all but most importantly cherish it.  Bring it to life, because if you keep it inside it will eat its way out.  If it changes you, make sure it’s for good, because you don’t want to end up like me hanging from a fence to dry.”

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, and always perseveres.

-          1 Corinthians 14:4-8

 

I Guess Marc didn’t read.

 

 

From the George Eastman House Collection (1856)

From the George Eastman House Collection

 

Peace and love,

Ruann