I was walking through the streets with my violin. Flares around my legs. Those days they hunted the terrorists. I looked at their faces on the posters at the post office and at the advertising pillars. I considered what it would be like to be the little daughter of a terrorist. I thought what it would be like to be the daughter of my friend´s parents who were much younger than mine. Would there be anyone whose daughter I wanted to be?
One day one of these war veterans saw me walking in the street and asked, if there was a machine gun in my violin case. I had never seen a machine gun. I told it to my father as he knew about weapons. He said, sometimes someone askes something, but in reality he wants to know something else. (Sometimes I really liked what my father said.)
I recognized the veterans at first sight. I saw the war in their eyes, the war lived in their face and I could see it in the way they moved. It was like an illness they would never get rid of. I hated the war. Everything else was less important.
Playing a violin means trying to be perfect. You have to create every single tone. You have to use the violin bow in the correct way. You have to think so much about it for years that you cannot enjoy. The world is full of possible mistakes. But making mistakes means vividness and adventure. It bores me to be perfect. I only fall in love with guys who were bad at school. I always loved the objectors.
If you are an early violinist you can force your brother to listen, even if he lies on his bed behind the wall between your rooms and tries to read an adventure novel for boys over 15. You can force your neighbours to listen. You listened to the girl from the third floor exercising on the piano, too. Every afternoon. There was no space for a piano in my room. This is not a story about playing the violin.
Is this a poem? Who cares? Who defines what a poem would be like? If it inspires you, it´s good. No? I couldn´t have written this text in German. In German it never could be a poem. Is it a true story? Who cares? You just want to listen to a story, campfire friend. Of course this is not a poem.
I was walking through the streets with my violin, the other day. I wanted to sell it. I showed it to the violin maker himself. He held the violin in his hands, looked at it from various angles. I told him about my teachers who were famous violinists. He knew them. Mr. H sat at the piano and he would play two tones. I should carefully listen and distinguish which one was higher. Mrs. A would always chew chewing gums which should help her stop smoking. In a way I was proud of walking through the streets with this violin even I had not played it for so many years. There aren´t so many people with their instruments in town these days.