Today I went to Munich’s Mineral Fair - the only fair I’ve ever attended. My partner’s dad is really into rare minerals, which is why he invites us every year to visit the fair with him.
I find fairs to be fairly overwhelming. The soundscape of multiple cubic halls echoing the voices of thousands of visitors, surrounded by hundreds of vendors, all showcasing sparkling gemstones - fighting for customers selling the work of (minor) miners at a loss.
What excites me most, however, are the artists, the craftswomen and -men displaying their beautifully handmade pieces, such as tables made from petrified wood or meticulously carved fossils. And there's the mineral exhibition.
Otherworldly formations that someone, at some point, simply dug from the earth. Some of them seem to contain entire worlds within them, whilst others look like the most beautifully made sculptures - though they’re nothing but an accident of nature. Pure chance.
There are organic shapes that evoke ancient coral reefs, and strands of silver that flow like waterfalls. Others look as if someone accidentally dropped ink inside them. Some resemble futuristic devices, serving functions that have yet to be invented.
When I was a kid I was expecting mailboxes to be playing a much more important role in my adult life.
I used to install my own paper-made mailbox in front of my children's room, trying to get my parents to write letters to me, resulting in a semi-success until I eventually started my own correspondences with penfriends.
One of them was the child of my mom's school friend. We saw eachother sometimes, but not too often. I must have been around 9 or 10, when at some point we kind of became friends. We used to draw a lot together and had sleepovers. I remember this must have been one of the first times I've ever played Minecraft in my life. She had this laptop running way too hot sounding more like launching a rocket than a game. She also had A lot of lego - like the entire spacious attic full of perfectly arranged lego sets. And at some point we decided to write letters to another.
I must have been even younger than that when I had my very first penfriend. She was a girl maybe 3 years older than me. To this day I still don't know how exactly I'm related to her. But she was at my great-grandma's house sometimes, where I used to spend a lot of time in my childhood. My mom worked in the same city, so when there was school holiday, she would go to work and drop me off there beforehand.
The girl lived in northern Germany near the netherland border. She was raised by her grandma, and both of them would sometimes come visit my great-aunt and her mom.
We got to like eachother, but as we didn't get to see eachother much, we started to write letters back and forth.
Our correpondance continued for many years until we reached a certain age where you have other things in mind.
However, as I was reminiscing about these friendships a while back, I started to gain interest in writing letters again. In the days of fast correspondence dominating daily life, I started missing the simplicity of writing for the sole purpose to write. The impatience of waiting for a response letter and the excitement of finding one in your own mailbox in times of instantaneous communication.
In Times of "Briefkastenangst" (fear of mailboxes), where all I ever receive in the mail are bills, notes from delivery to pick up my package as I wasn't home issued at a time that I've been very much at home, and boring advertisements I explicitly didn't ask for, there's a need for a good reason to open the letter box. Luckily a good friend of mine just recently bought a typewriter at the local flea market. After he started a correspondence with my mom - I have no clue how that even happened - I expressed my interest in exchanging letters. I was really excited when i received his letter in the box. Took me some time to write back but my response letter has now arrived. At my recent trip to Heidelberg I grabbed some postcards with me. One of them is heading to my great-grandma tomorrow, when I get to the post office. And ey - all that joy for less than a cup of coffee.
As you lay here before me in your bed - me on the floor
hand on your head
I see in you the wild mother and her child,
even in your anguish you're undefiled.
Tears running down my eyes
in the agony of empathy
while this antagony of man
keeps his empery of mind.
As I lay here before you in your bed
I feel like I've known you from dawn 'til death.
You feel like my mother, my sister, my breath,
whose soul is throwing up all red
from your gut and pleads
for you to stop gulping down hornet stings of dread.
As you slowly stop tossing and turning in your bed,
hornet only knows to live in denial instead.