translations XIII

About Frau Körb:

Once upon a time there was a decision made by a lady sharing your neighbourhood. She is fed up with whining complains and tries to find constructive solutions for a better living together in the hood, the country or even the world.

She also tries her best to find appropriate expressions in foreign languages but if you have any better proposals to make please be invited for a nice cup of coffee and a talk about. If you want the very understandable privacy for that, use the following e-mail address: fraukoerb@web.de

Surviving in communal society – the freshest comes first:

 

XIII: In the heat

When I’m hot
go to pot
it is not
very amusing.

So:
up I get
soon I’m wet
and I will let
it flow like a river.

On the ground
it will sound
round and round
like the deep blue sea.

But the sand
on the strand
in my hand
is even hotter.

Well I stay
and in a way
like a play
happy ending story day.

Hoping for rain yours with love
Frau Körb

 

XII: Doing the dishes at the end of the year

Right in the moment I wanted to cure my dislocated vertebra with overheat the bell rang. I let go the red-hot poking hook and went to the door. Through the wood I heard a heart-melting sob. Opening the door I had to catch my neighbour soaked by tears. “Frau Kö-höö-höö-hupsöörb“, she sniffed and wiped away a good portion of slime with her sleeve. “Two-hu-hu-tsnd-fiv-te-hen wllbe real shi-hi-hi-hitty-i-iihiii”. I dragged the crying misery into my kitchen, put it on a wooden chair and a heated Slivo in front of its dripping nose. “Off and away and now you tell mama!”, I saluted to my neighbour. Ugh, how it pulled the innards so heavenly, a shake, a short crack in my back and all vertebras were able to move in freedom. After an elephantastic nose blow my neighbour started to talk:

“You know Frau Körb you dream how the next year will be in the internights.”

(The ancient people believed that the dreams you had in the nights between Christmas and New Year  would come true in the following year. Those nights were called the internights – may be because you were lost somewhere in time between the years. Or somewhere between your neighbours with all their cakes, cookies, gooses, dumplings, mumblings, rumblings and of course all the schnapps. Well but ancient people also believed that Earth is a disc. How could they! Earth is not a disc – Earth is a record! Every child knows Vinyl rules the world and will never die!)

“Superstition I know,”, my neighbour continued, “but since four nights I am visited by people I haven’t seen for years. Suddenly I am back at school having examination, I smoke and drive blind a car and and andandahahauhuhuhuhuhu-“ I was able to find out the rest of the 2015-forecast with the help of the bottle of Slivovice. A typical case of bad-conscience-at-the-end-of-the-year was sitting in front of me with all its forgotten dates, people, possibilities, holidays and chances to change live.

And while my neighbour now is snoring softly on my sofa, on behalf of her I want to congratulate with all my heart those who had their birthdays in 2014, as well as those who are fresh married and lucky divorced, those young parents and old hands, those examination passers and lottery winners. On behalf of her I thank all the holiday card senders and consolation words donors, the helping hands and emergency services. Belated I ask all those she forgot twelve times how they feel, are and grow.

“Ja Himmel Herrgott noch eins (watch out here it comes again, the needed one to one translation of “God damn” because – well you already know and/or you just continue reading!) – who is asking how I feel?”, it slips out of my mouth. Yes, even a Frau Körb is only human. I thoughtfully look out of the window, where it becomes darker and darker. Snow, blast. White flakes are whirling outside the window, taking forms. There is a lion dancing, becomes a dragon; a tiny little kitty, a fire engine. An engine that speeds right up to my window – hoots and rings the fire bells stupidly but heads straight up for me! I can see the driver screaming and waving, raising his fist, a thunder, a flashlight, I close my eyes with my fingers and-

With a big bang I must be fallen from the wooden chair I think. At least I am lying here in my kitchen next to the oven and a long missed voice thunders to me: “Oi Frau Körb you old wrinkly winkle – how are you?” The fire fighter lifts up his visor and Mr God is grinning brightly under the stupid helmet from melting snow. Pointing his finger at the bottle of Slivo he announces: “I am with you in 2015!”

Well my dear readers, Mr God is back on the field again, it only can get better – so up up and away into a Happy New Year!

Yours with love
Frau Körb

 

XI: Autumn on a lake

Trees are getting red
oak nuts on my head
summer is dead
only boats on the water

Cold and wet and gone gone gone
the year the year is done done done

Didn’t get no peaches
heavy grey clouds reach its
spider fingers after me

Days are getting shorter
kisses from Jack Frosts daughter
jump in the icy water
life is not endless

Swim sunny swim
right up to Australia!

 

X: Emergency room

While working undercover I came close to the local hospital. What an ugly building made of steal and concrete was spat in the woods! The screams of fear and pain were tied tight to the inside of the colossus by a ribbon of outside steps. The whole thing seemed more like a prison than a place of recovery. “Nee!”, I said and wanted to leave. Suddenly there was a push from behind and with a small crowd I was washed into the bottom entrance of the building. My throat constricted. I gasped for breath, like a fish out of water. Coughing and retching I grabbed my throat and sank down on the floor. I saw some legs moving up to me then it became dark.

When somebody turned back on my light, I was lying on a bed. I had a plastic ribbon around my right wrist with my name, a number and a bar code written on it and in my left hand I held a paper with a number on it. 143. I looked around. Many people were sitting on wooden chairs in a waiting zone similar to an airport one. Some of them stared at a soundless TV set on the roof, most of them gawped into their mobiles. Next to me a lady was talking quite loud into her one, repeating all the time how bad her leg was and it hurt and the leg yes uh yes the leg. The piece of body she was talking about laid next to her and was looking actually normal. When she finished her call and realized my look she started to tell me the story of her leg too. I heard the leg hurts then a next faint saved me.

Getting back my consciousness I found myself in the back part of the waiting zone. I still held the number 143 in my hand. Next to me there stood five beds right in order. All empty. The wooden chairs in the front of the room were filling. Thick wrapped arms, legs and heads, walking sticks, sounds of permanent blood pressure measurement, needles in backs of the hand and throats, bloody trousers – there was something for every taste. Above the door I discovered a black box with a blinking number on it: 142. And suddenly: – – –. What should that mean? Again my throat constricted. “Ha – lo!”, was the last I could say. I fell from the bed with a loud bang and it became dark around me, not really dark actually but dirty grey as the colour of the floor was.

A gong woke me up. A friendly voice said from a speaker: “Ladies and Gentlemen, we are closing in ten minutes. Thank you for visiting the emergency room, we hope to welcome you again very soon!” A murmur went through the room, feed pawed, wheel chairs were moved, sticks and heels clattered. Then it was silent. I tried to get up. Hopeless! I stacked under and behind countless hospital beds all fixed as supposed to. “Hallo?”, I shouted with a broken voice and coughed. My eyes were watering and air did not want to go into my body at all. “Hallo?” The light was turned off. “Hallo,” I whispered with last breath. “He – elp.”

Did I mention I am allergic to hospitals? My dear readers, if you are around in the next days, could you be so nice to pick me up from the far corner of the emergency room? You know, where all the beds stand.

Thank you very much and yours with love
Frau Körb

 

IX: Sophie

On Thursday last week I was really late on my way home. Half past nine in the evening the landlord of my working place wished me a Good Night. This was very strange because as the best German Indian I know he normally watches like a pit bull the accurate closing of both door locks, rwaff!

I released my bicycle from its Sleeping Beauty rest and pushed it some meters. It seemed unwilling to move. The few people I met walked strangely slowly and with awkward moves too. Like they were rusted. I did not think about it. With temperatures going down to zero it is quite normal to develop little disorders of gait. In front of the train station the trams were piling up, all empty except the drivers inside who seemed asleep. A strange silence was over the town; even the traffic noises were swallowed. All of that reminded me on Holy Night, when the snow pure and innocent is covering everything and swallows any noise. An involuntary shudder sat on my neck. In the big tunnel next to the post office my Sleeping Beauty bike threw me on the ground. It had shied. An old lady lay on the ground directly in front of or rather now next to me.

“Hello? Everything’s all right? Do you need help?”, I asked. The lady answered: “Brrr.” I crawled to her on my knees and touched her arm cautiously. With a shock I pulled my hand back. The lady was cold as ice! “Brrrrr.”, she said and stared at me from her light blue eyes. I looked hectically twinkling in the blue like a deer by the lights of some headlights and the lady said: “Brrrrrrrrrrr!”. Again and again and again. It was some kind of muttering which crawled into my head. ‘Oh God dammit!’ was my last thought, than it became dark.

“Frau Körb? Frau Köhörb – Frau Körb!”, a voice thundered, something smacked and short after my right cheek began to glow. “Ouch!”, I mumbled and rubbed my cheek. Something wet touched my lips, burned in my mouth and I swallowed quickly. Ui! This schnapps I had already tasted. I tried to open my eyes but the lids lay heavy as lead and did not let lift. “What-”, I could not continue but had the next sip in my mouth. It run hot through my innards, from the stomach right into my back, on to my arms and legs and finally into my head. The leaden weight got lost and I could open my eyes. I blurred saw a face above me, behind it the bright orange lights of the tunnel, next to me my bike – “Frau Körb? Back again?” The face above me got outlines. “Mr God again!

It is necessary for the understanding of the story to translate the phrase “God damn” word by word into English, just as usual.

You – here? And me here? And – the lady?” Mr God helped me up. Goodness me, I was cold. I shook myself. “So, another sip?” he asked and reached me his bottle. I drank. Gods schnapps saved my backside again it seemed. “Are you o.k.?”, he asked. “Hmbrr.”, I muttered. “Frau Körb you old bag, you were so bloody damn lucky that you can swear that good, you know?” Mr God hit me friendly on my shoulder that I was willing to go back on the ground for a moment. “The Cold Sophie is a serious matter! She takes whom she feels like to and you were nearly gone!”

The 15th of May is the Day of the Cold Sophie who is one of the Holy Icemen – to be political correct I actually have to say one of the Holy Icemen and -women. At this time of the year cold northern winds regularly blow and it is said not to plant sensitive plants before the Holy Icemen – and -women – to save it from frost.

Right now I can move all my body pieces nearly fluid again except my right food. It is still a little lame. But if I learned something out of this it will be the following: a swear with respect warms up your hard and peasant rules must be followed! It is said for a reason: The Cold Sophie kills thing every.

It is always the same with those peasant jerks – they are not able to speak correctly.

Yours with love
Frau Körb

 

VIII: Brave new world

Another year is nearly gone. Again it is time to resume. Free from all conventions I will do this at the beginning of May this year. Where did the year 2014 get? Well, at least somewhere I guess. And what did it take? This already started in January. At first the governmental authority knocked on the door and told its saying: “Open up the door, open up the gate, give us the tax, it’s nearly too late!” It was followed closely by insurances you have to have. Then another state authority surged in between and quacked: “My name is Billy, I play with your Willy, I pull it real hard, pay in back tax smart!” And right behind it there stood firms no citizen can be without:
GEZ
In Germany you have to pay a charge to use television and radio even if you do not watch TV because it causes brain damage. It is now more than two hundred bugs for a year and you cannot escape. The authority will chase you to death, pull out your finger- and toenails and cut your hair like Justin Bieber.
ENERGY
German people support alternative ways of energy production. So far so good. The government likes to leave traditional ways of producing energy like coal and nuclear power – it says so. So people have to pay for this because peoples wish shell be the command of the government. But only private persons count as the people of Germany in that case. The industries do not have to pay more if they use more energy – no! They are subsidized by the state to save the jobs the government argues. So in the end the private person has to pay for the industries too but, well, the peoples wish was to produce energy out of water, sun and wind – so people will see what they have from that hippie shitty!
TÜV
Every two years you have to bring your car to the car doctor of your trust. He will check every single screw and give the ultimate judgement if your car is allowed to drive on or if it has to go to car heaven. It only costs hundred and something bugs.
PUBLIC TRAFFIC SURVEILLANCE
You have to pay 15 Euro if you drive 10 km/h over the allowed limit; you have to pay 10 Euro if you park your car where only a stop is allowed and so on. May be in some days you even have to pay when you fart in your car.

Right behind those enterprises there stood in line several necessary measures of reconstruction and buying to further the career. In summary since the First of January it is said: money. Give money. Give much money. Give all the time much much money.

The desperate citizen goes on working because work brings pay, pay means money and he can throw it in the jaws of the starving pack. To even out the rapid decline in money he works harder and more. For more work he has to give more to the government but the more he does not have anymore because it is already fed. All the insurances and other authorities rub their hands and stroke happily over their round tummies. There must be justice, in 2014 everybody has his turn and we start at the bottom. Only the desperate one is turning in his bed with a rumbling stomach at night.

In addition to these results of a thorough questioning of my neighbours it shows that 2014 is teeming with interpersonal malice. There are doors slammed on noses, dogs poisoned, expensive tools stolen, bills cheated out, cars scratched, bicycles taken away, golden rings torn of the fingers of old ladies in their beds and so on. And all that happens in the name of money. If I do not have it, I take yours, ‘cause I earn it as well as you!

So my dear readers I ask you: do you want that war – that cold monetary war? Let us rather collect all the swords and bring them to the recycling centre! And from the coins we get we prepare a nice soup for everybody. Yes, you read right! The only way out of the circle of money is to destroy the money. To destroy it in a way it cannot be used anyhow, no, my dear readers: we have to eat all the money! If you have nothing no plaintiff can take something and you can resist the enemy much better with a filled stomach. The ancient Greeks already knew this in front of Troja. I myself will prepare now a big portion of Sour Fifties.
This definitely does not mean a bunch of old men and women over the age of fifty, which are really frustrated with their lives. Honestly, how on earth could that taste?
Later on I allow myself a soufflé of short fried Five-Euro-notes and for dessert I will not miss a bowl of ice cooled Twos.

Of course the whole money will be ultra-high-heated in milk. This guarantees sterilisation and because of the connection between protein and metalhydrates a consistence is reached which is suitable for consumption. But you should not feed other organisms with money too. The sensitive stomachs of children and pets as well as those of Negros and other Indians are not made by nature for the handle with money. And it is really no pleasure if your cat or your Indian poos in your bed.

I wish you successfully cooking and stay hearty feasting
Yours with love
Frau Körb

 

VII: The essential goodness of human nature

I am a positive thinking human being. Honestly! I believe there is a good core in each person, sometimes it needs just a little force to break the shell. At moment though it is harder to loosen the covers carefully than simply stamp on that empty nut which is blocking my way again and again.

To my concerning I realized that the states of our society did not change since the times of Rosendorfer (a German writer from the last century), nah! what do I say – since Mr Montesquieu! Stupidity, laziness, power, envy and greed still stop a peaceful surviving in society. Of course, in the present days it shows up clearer and clearer that the big wheel is turning into nothing. The little humans slumber in their shells, lullabied by the apparent things that made everyday life a lot easier. My honoured neighbour Mrs S. always says at this point of view: “War. This world needs a war. It cleans the society and leads to reduce and modesty.” Well, I must add Mrs S. knows what she is talking about. She witnessed the last big one.

So the question is how to lead this war. We are in the state of the Old Testament in our everyday feud in front of our doors. The ancient “eye-for-an-eye” counts more than the word itself. I thought and I thought and I thought forwards and backwards, I even thought around the corners and I came to the conclusion we have to turn increasingly to the beauty. For that reason today I will show you only the goods my neighbours and citizens did last week. I am sure you will listen in astonishment to the following words. You will be blinded like a mole in the sun. So please make sure you sit well. Hold tight if you need to. Read slowly and with care. If a sudden headache, dizziness, nausea or something like that comes up please interrupt reading IMMEDIATELY and pause for at least two hours!

The real beauty of the last week in surviving in society is:

 

 

 

Sheer madness, isn’t it?

Yours with love
Frau Körb

 

VI: Pimp my nerves

Last week I met my neighbour and she did not look very well at all. To my question of the matter she took a deep breath and me into her kitchen and started the following monologue:

“The next longer holidays will be at Easter and my beloved husband has this nice little plan to make up the children’s room in that two weeks. Pimping the room will be easy, he said: one day to get all the furniture out, one day to get new colour on the walls, one day to rest, one day to get all the furniture back in and that’s it. It is absolutely eaeaeaeaeasy honey bunny ­– four days and gone, he said.

But ha ha ha I say! Reality bites, darling! It will surely be like this: one day to get the children to collect their stuff. One day to get them to sort out their stuff. One day to build down the big wardrobe made in the 1920s. One day to build down all the loft beds and bookshelves. One day to cry because the wallpaper is coming of the walls with a nice portion of sand and other wall material collected in the days after World War Two. One day to realize the birds are still in there, somewhere under the wall material. One day to get a brush in the paint bins, one in each. One day to get the children out of the paint bins, one out of each. One day to get at least half the paint on the walls. One day to clean the children. One day to build up a brand new loft bed. One day to calm down and not to burn down all this fucking shitty wooden stuff called a brand new loft bed. One day to rebuild the other two beds. One day to realize, that there is a new carpet in need. One day to get one. One day to forget, that actually holidays are over by now. One day to put in the new wardrobes and the bookshelves and the boards and the birds-“

At this point my neighbour’s husband interrupted her. “No baby, the birds will not come into this room again!” – “Yes they will, honey farty!” – “Oh no, they won’t!” – “Oh yes, they wihill!”– “No, they won’t!” – “Yes!” – “No!” – “Pumpkin, I’ve got a gun!“ – “Me too, gherkin!” – “Fuck.” – “Yeah. Let’s play a game, sugar noodle: the one who’ll shoot the most birds in the cage will-“

“Pst, Frau Körb do you want to see something real cool?” The two neighbour’s boys were grinning at me. “Of course!”, I said and followed them into their room. But sugar gherkin noodle was faster than us. “Honey pumpkin chocolate farty!”, she screamed, “Did you put the cat in the bird cage?” At this point I decided to leave as soon as possible. I hid the boys under my skirt and we moved slowly but steady like a Russian Matriyoshka to the secure area of my flat.

My dear readers, beware! If the person next to you starts up giving you pet names like a teenager in love, run as far as you can, otherwise you will end up in the final war!

Yours with love
Frau Körb

 

V: Christmas special:

The sixth of the 12th

“FRAU KÖÖÖRB!” By that scream of my neighbour I shocked let go of the black irony scissors. Mr. Mijago my bonsai-tree looked on the ground where the scissors were stuck in my right food. “FRAU KÖÖÖÖÖRB!” Five dogs were howling on the street and tearing themselves to pieces immediately. “FRAU KÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖÖRB!” The neighbour from the opposite house stepped on his white balcony and jumped himself down to death along the red bricks.

I limped to the door and let my neighbour in. “Frau Körb Frau Körb Frau Körb! You must help me! You are my only hope! Last way out! I cannot stand it any longer!” She fell in my arms with a sob. After I put her on a kitchen chair, I gave her some “Heimat”-medicine from Snow White’s Ministry of home which came to me on secret ways across Debrecen.

You must know that there is a Ministry of home in Bavaria now which cares about the needs of peasants in the countryside like free internet for each farm. I prefer to call it the Ministry of Snow White because the minister, towaritsh Markus Söder is a ribbon in the dress of tiny stupid Snow White which waves in each wind and the Ministry itself is far behind the seven hills of reality.

After drinking my neighbour shook her head and said: “Wuoa, what the heck is that?” “Traditional medicine, franconian.” She took another glass. “Does it help against whiningitis too?”, she asked. “Whining- what?” I pulled the scissors out of my food and poured a little “Heimat” on the wound. Disinfection is the mother of healing. And so I disinfected my inside again. My neighbour sat on the wooden chair like a picture of misery and said: “I cannot find a Nikolaus.” “Oh my God.”, I replied and understood her desperation.

The Nikolaus, the holy man from Turkey, the Bavari- European Santa Claus who comes each year on the sixth of December – he is the last authority of parental revenge! 364 days the beloved youngsters can do stupid silly things which make parents cry silently in their pillows. They can stick their boogies on the walls, can cut mother’s five years well cared plant to death within five minutes, can light a fire on the window silk, can moan about the food, can scream, fart, not listen to anybody and saw the table – December the sixth is the day of reckoning! Then the red man is coming with the golden book of good and bad things you did. Then the red man decides who will be forgiven and who will be punish in the labour camp on the North Pole by cleaning the snow that comes back from the world. And then mummies and daddies are grinning in their polo necks when the beloved children are hiding in the fridge because of their guilty conscience. And the red man does not do anything but appearing a little emphatically and saying: “Well, let’s see what is written down here.”

Flooding away in her tears my neighbour told me that all – really all of the men she asked to do the Nikolaus clapped their hands on theirs heads with a scream and just ran away more screaming. Those were real men she asked: a fighter, a metalworker and even the neighbour’s Don refused immediately. We shook our heads and glasses. “Well I would do it”, I said, “but your children will recognize me in the darkness. But- wait a second! That’s it!” I rushed to the telephone. Two minutes and five sentences later I had a Nikolaus and my neighbour lost consciousness and sank on the floor. I fanned herself  with a little water and air. “My dearest, Mr Schmidt – is doing it.” “Mr Schmidt?” “Yes.” “That Mr Schmidt?” “Yahes.” “That Schmidt who signed up at the USK
special force of the German police which is fighting for money against footballs and other demonstrators
and got the hand-to-hand fighting education in gold?” “Yapp.” “Dear Mr God again!
very necessary word-by-word translation; means “Goodness gracious me!”

Frau Körb, you are an angel!” The bell rang. I limped to the door. “If you talk from the donkey he shows up.” I smiled and asked Mr God to come in for a little glass of “Heimat”. When we came back into the kitchen my neighbour laid on the table with a delighted smile in her face and slept. Mr God opened up his poetry trash book and declaimed: “All the good we do returns in our heard.” “Well then if so-“, I answered, “a toast to the Bavarian Ministry of home and his sense of traditional medicine!” “And a toast to the Nikolaus that old garlic squeezer!” Mr God grinned and licked his lips.

My dear readers, if you want to distinguish men from whingers just ask them the question: Would you do the Nikolaus?

Yours with love
Frau Körb

 

IV: The Holy Trinity part II, End of April 2013:

The Call of the mountain

“What a nice weather!” the whole republic was moaning and I decided to escape the general nagging up into the high again. I snapped the neighbour’s children, because their parents had to work and we moved to the mountains. How happy the children were, when we stood on the bottom of a low mountain range hill of a considerable high: “Maaaaaaaaaan, honestlyyyyy?” I told them about the big may-celebration, for which we urgently had to practise the way up and the gang got into a move. With a slide smack on three bums under the addition of “Huppi huppi!” I could make them move their feet faster, at least a little. I gave the couple next to us wearing transalpine outdoor fashion the same jump-start, for free and without asking for money. When the weather is that nice I am the same and so I cared as well for a group of old ladies on an elderly people trip. The ladies swore at me and were screaming for police but I am used to the ungratefulness of people in this part of the republic. It did not make any difference that there was a “B” on the number plate of the old ladies’ bus.

Well so we started our way up. In my rucksack the summer temptation “Almdudler” was waiting cooled and we trudged uphill over stone and stone.

Almdudler is a funny German lemonade maid out of every green growing on the way to Heidi’s place. The children love it because it looks like beer and they can pretend to be an adapted Bavarian adult. Sometimes if they are a little too annoying I put some real beer in, but do not tell their parents! They will not understand that as a good Bavarian you have to get used to beer as early as possible.

The asphalted way was hurting the feet. The sun was burning. The motorized kite plane above us made sounds like German Wind Music after having a bog portion of Mexican beans and we sank down on the first bench with high reddish cheeks and refreshed ourselves with some water. “Do we really have to go up there?” the children were moaning. I said: “’Cause – Almdudler –“ I did not have any breath for more. The air was thin already on the mountain’s knee. But we marched on bravely. Next to the first gate a brand new pure white sign with a bright red edge and a bicycle in the middle was shining on the way. ‘Fine!’ I thought, ‘No kamikaze-cyclists today!’

Honestly I like to ride my bicycle. When I have to go somewhere in town it is faster and more comfortable than any other way of transportation but I will never understand how you can speed aimless in the landscape. The kamikaze-cyclist goes up to the limit of his fitness and over dead bodies,

Which means he is utterly ruthless.

He does “business boxing” and “summer active workout” and wears screaming coloured “high tech outdoor fashion dress”-clothes with automatic air conditioning.

You must know that the more English words you put together to describe a German stupidity the better it can be sold.

The cyclist also takes a bath in a deodorant named sportive-insistent before he jumps on his 6000-Euro-bike. But nevertheless he pulls the rotten smell of sweat on plastic after him like a flag. And of course the real cyclist wears a helmet. Every bird falls silent by the appearance of such a cyclist. He clings to the handlebars with grimly purple reddish face. The thin head hair of the mostly male creature flies lonely through the air conditioning slits of the ultra light materialized head protection. And the bird in the tree breaks down with the whole branch it sits on because of laughing about the stupid look of the modern hobby cyclist and how he behaves like this too. What does he care about the growing of orchids or common ramblers on the hill! He flattens everything when he “downhills”-

Means driving down a bike on no way in the landscape. The worse the no way, the better the “downhiller” and the best no way might be the one goes down straight 90 degrees but I am not sure because I can not speak to those kinds of infectious fools.

When he has reached the ground in one piece the rest of his brain is gone with the wind through the slits of his helmet and he returns happily and completely empty and thick into his office. There are orchids in every flower shop and ramblers, well. The world is overcrowded anyway and so the hobby sportificist does it a huge favour! At least biking means freedom, freedom needs space and space you just take yourself in the present days.

So after I only just could drag the two little neighbour’s children out of the way of such a downhill fool, the next one already appeared. I took the walking sticks of the children. “Mr God again!” I shouted.

Please remember the double bind of this phrase from the last story, exchange “Mr God” with “God dammit”.

A dark cloud appeared and quickly was coming closer. I stood in the middle of the way and lifted up the sticks slowly. The two-wheeled idiot headed straight for me. “Will you stop, you!” I shouted outraged. He drove on. “Stop!” I screamed and the hill gave me an echo. He drove on. “Neger.” I said and-

In Germany this is an absolutely political incorrect phrase, which is not allowed to use and if you say this word in front of other people it makes them freeze immediately.

He stopped nearly ten steps away from me. “What did you say?” he asked breathless. “What do you mean?” I asked back clapping the sticks rhythmically in front of me. “Well that one.” He climbed down from his bike and pumped up his tiny chest. “What do you mean?” I repeated fixing the outdoor fool with a classical Körbish eye. The dark cloud was right above us. “You have used a forbidden word!” he said. I slowly moved around him. “Well well well. what a nice bike you own. And you are politically correct, respect my dear. It is such a pity my two sticks will slide out of my hands now because I get shocked so much by the speed you have, young man!” I stood very close to him and could smell his office dustiness. “And do you know what? Mr God is on my side!” Right at that moment a lightning flashed out of the cloud and short after it stunk like burned rubber. A well-known voice thundered out of the dark of the cloud: “Polacks, gypsies and the niggers are better than those hobby diggers!” The voice laughed its booming laughter and moved on with the cloud. The biker broke down on the sad rest of his spare time activity and the children and me happily reached the top of the mountain. There Mr God was leaning on the small chapel with a big smile in his face. “Well done Frau Körb you good old Tshushy!” he said. “Well done Mr God!” I smiled back and added: “You good old hooknose!” And we took a big gulp of his schnapps with the cooled “Almdudler”.

In German “Tschuschen” is a bad word for the inhabitants of the Tsheckoslovanskoviczkaja Csokolavodtsky Respublika and  “Hakennase” is a bad word for a member of the Jewish religion, as well as it is not allowed to say “gypsy” ore “polack” for a polish person in public anymore. If you want to speak political correct it is the best to talk about the weather or just be quiet.

My dear readers, if you really want to move something use good old bad words next time. They are blessed from God and the last remedy in our verbal overcrowded society!

Yours with love
Frau Körb

 

III: In between:

Public musical drama

I must admit I hate to go to the opera! Two years ago I went there to see the „Nutcracker“ by Tchaikovsky, which is my absolute favourite peace of music before Christmas. So I bought a medium expensive ticket and asked the lady who sold it: “Will I be able to see from up there the ballet?” “Yes of coooourse!”, she answered, “the opera is built for everybody to see from eeeeeeeeevery seat!”

So far so good, but she lied. Right into my face. I did not see a thing because the seat was in the left gallery right next to a big column. At least I caught some views of a huge mirror and sometime one or two dancing legs. Well, I do not like modern ballet anyway so it did not bother me that much. I tried to enjoy the music.
I tried.
I tried hard.
I tried my best.
But no chance. The trumpets had the flue, the horns could not keep the beat, the harp did not only have crossed eyes but crossed fingers too and the “Oboe” –
I don’t know the English word, it makes that squeaky mashed sound of a mistreated dug – It is oboe in English too. – Oh thank you very much! – You’re welcome! – Oh don’t mention it! – Never mind! – O.K. Enough now. – Sure? – Absolutely! – Well… – Yes! – Bu… – Scht! Thank you. – Oh you are wel- *#/{|[¢¶“*

Anyway: the oboe tried to swallow the reed and always was a tiny little tune to high or to low, just those kind of dissonances which make my toe nail rolling up and down. I suffered. And it was impossible to get out of the house because I was stuck in between the audience where thousands of people try to see the dancers and stretched themselves and leaned over the reeling and stood on each others shoulders and it was getting hot and hotter and people started to sweat and the sweat started to stink and no fresh air – closed doors – no exit – no escape. And at the end? STANDING OVATIONS!

I was completely shocked and not sure if it is possible to cry so loud and intensive that all the stupid simple people and the whole orchestra just would be flushed away. And so I promised never to go to the opera again. I rather listen to a CD where Tschajkuovsky’s mjusic is played bai a god raschian orkjestra wis all thear raschian harrd and no blad** schit** nejborr will disturrb me wis his stinkstank stunk.

Yours with Love
Frau Körb

 

II: The Holy Trinity part I, sometime in February 2013:

Come on men go back

My dear readers. My appreciated readers. Ladies and Gentlemen I am shocked. The pope is resigning! But a – no THE deputy of God on earth cannot lay down his duty so easily! It would be as if Little Red Riding Hood says: “So that’s it, I am too old for this hopping around through the forest.” And the worst thing of all is: the first storyteller leaves and it is my fault!

It all started when I went on a hike with the children of my neighbours on a holy Sunday. I chose a way suitable for children out of a recommended hiking guide, which should bring us after 45 minutes to an enchanting ruin of a castle. We just had to follow the red cross marks. If I only would have paid attention to those omens! ‘A ruin of a castle’, occupied until the 16th century by noble men without nobility – they have resisted a long time the Catholic Church and have shit on their Called-by-God-to-be-higher-than-the-ordinary. ‘Follow the red cross’ – a heavenly emergency call to find back to the right path and I missed it! Prompt we got on a path with an amazing gradient of felt 70%. It was actually only to be walked on with spikes because of snow and ice. But we despised the impossibilities just to escape the carnival, which spite its frightening Huffdadah- music from the village near by into the picturesque valley. So we pushed each other uphill sized like organ pipes. It was marvellous! There was that sparkling deep snow everywhere with footprints all over from little bunnies, bambis, foxes and wild boars. It took me twenty minutes to calm down the youngest of the neighbour boys that wild boars only come out in the twilight and there is absolutely no reason for him to be afraid of them, after all they are just as big as his father and only just three times stronger than him. Besides we were in the forest and just in case we could climb a tree. We looked up. The lowest branches of the trees were about three meters high up – but children, do the robbers ladder and every thing is fine!

The robbers ladder is a way for German thieves to escape by stepping with one foot on both hands of the mate who is forming an ‘U’ and jumping high on top of a wall, a tree or a horse. The robber who formed the ‘U’ is the looser of course and that is why there are no films about spectacular robberies committed by Germans like for instance  ‘Oceans Eleven’. But there is no ocean in Germany anyway. But back into the frosty forest:

And there was the signpost we were despaired for. A big stone stood there and it was chiselled in not as we expected ‘500m to our ruin’, no, Jesus himself carried his cross and looked very affected at us. And so we did. And we took our cross too and continued to climb on. At least castles always stand on top of a hill and perhaps we came out right next to the ruin, everything is possible here in castle-land. Meanwhile the children were heavily breathing like a steam engine and they were winging for water.  And we reached the next stone. Jesus broke down under his cross. “He was as thirsty as we are, for sure!” the middle boy said. I allowed the children to ease the pain by sucking some snow. Here in the wood the snow was as pure as a child’s soul. We brave marched up and up and passed stone by stone. All stations of Christ’s Passion Way were heavily depressing on my shoulders. With pain they reminded me over and over again that I did not know anymore if that Veronica was a Saint and who was that guy who gave the cloth to Jesus. Perhaps it was only the rucksack with the provisions; anyhow I had to carry my bundle.

On stone number VI the oldest of the neighbour kids suddenly was screaming loudly: “Schschschscht be quiet – down there!” We looked into the abyss and saw some dears running away frightened. The up to that bright blue sky became dark immediately. The youngest clung to me: “Is this the twilight? Now the wild boars will come and get us!” and then a voice thundered through the forest: “This will have consequences!” The children were hiding behind the laps of my coat and I stood there armed with a rucksack filled with tea and salty sticks and stood my knight in front of the voice: “You! You listen exactly to what I have to say now, you! It is absolutely not possible, that in the middle of God’s free nature a voice thunders around and frightens small children!” A little less loud the voice agreed and apologized many times to the children, which were still hiding behind me with white faces. After I asked the voice to speak quietly and switch the light back on, we started a conversation and the children came out from behind my coat.  The voice introduced itself as Mr God and I asked him why he was thundering so lonely in the wood.

In German you can use “Mr God” as a light way to swear. So to show you the double meaning of this phrase just imagine “God dammit” instead every time it is mentioned.

“There is still respect and believe here. If no pig is interested in what you do, this is not funny any more!” The youngest dared to ask the Mr God, what he was doing so far. “Everything.” he answered and the youngest looked at me quite confused. “It’s all right,” I whispered, “I explain it to you later.” Mr God continued to complain: “You know it is a drama! More and more people only believe the earthly storytellers and their rotten rituals.” “But dear Mr God,” I answered, “the earthly storytellers are called by you!” “By me?” Mr God pulled out of his robe a flachman and offered me a gulp.

 A “flachman” (flat guy) now exists in English too and means a flat bottle made of metal where you can carry a small amount of schnapps around with you and of course drink it hidden behind your jacked.

“I would know something about it!” He grinned and I shortly had to hold on a tree, God’s schnapps had many turns. “What would I do without you!” he said and stroked his flachman. “I hardly can stand the stupidity of human beings soberly.” I was surprised. God was one of the good people! In our talk we discussed several possibilities to improve the general society. Meanwhile the children were rolling big snowballs down the way, which for sure would make a big noise down in the village. “That’s it!” Mr God suddenly thundered and we all were frightened. “We need a avalanche!” He thanked us hearty, pinched the children’s cheeks and rolled away.

And now the pope will be resigning! Honestly, you do not really believe the story of his bad condition? This resignation is the holy snowball, which comes downhill with a great noise! Today the pope, tomorrow the priests and the day after the whole dusty structure of the Church! My dear readers, be prepared for a revolution! I myself will have a drink now with Little Red Riding Hood; maybe the wolf will join us.

Yours with love
Frau Körb

 

I: Hilodays

As I was lying in my room my view went out of the window into a steal blue sky and I thought to myself: ‚Frau Körb’, I thought, ‚Frau Körb, go on a holiday trip, you haven’t done this for ages!’

The sun was shining heavenly 25 degrees Celsius in the town, the neighbours from across the street were fighting nicely their spring drunkenness and I decided to go to the sea. There it is always much wormer with a pinch of salt in the air and the fishies they are dancing on the sea waves, well actually under but I felt so poetic. So I packed my shirty in a case, put a sandwich on top, sat in my car and off it went. After seven hours I stood on the sea. It took only a ferry to set over on the island of relaxation. But the people on the sea absolutely did not feel like doing anything. They had decided it is lunchtime now for at least three hours. And so they sat in their caverns, got drunk by the salty air, drank schnapps and laughed at the tourists, which were waiting and starring stupidly into the blue sea. There was no fish dancing, no boat and no ferry, only an ice cold wind around my nose. So I sat back in my car, gave the inhabitants of the sea “the bird” (that old American way to tell somebody with your pointed middle finger please to disappear very quickly if it is possible) and drove off. Nine hours later I stood at home in front of my door, my neighbour looked surprised at me, I said: “Forgot my jumper.”, packed a winter coat, cap, scarf and gloves and because of the yearning look on my neighbours face he sat a little later next to me in the car and we drove into a joint venture holiday. This time I was prepared for everything. I thought.

Five hours later we stood in the middle of the mountains. It was snowing, I slid into my nice and comfy winter clothes, smiled into the clouds my breath created and threw appr. two kilogram of snow on my neighbour. After he kindly dug me out of his five-kilo-revenge-package, we moved into a transalpine heating-back-room where the landlord passed some medicine against the cold and that was really burning. Later he showed us our rooms with beds built by smurfes – they honestly had the gnomic size of 1,70 meter. But if I put my sleeping bag diagonal, there was enough space somehow. Next morning the sun was already shining, the children of our tourist neighbours were fighting directly under our window about the order of using the sledge and about: “But he was” – “No, he was” – “No he” – “Not true” – “Arsehole” and I thought to myself: ‘If this isn’t like it is at home hurray.’ After breakfast I rent a sledge and climbed the run.

There is really nothing nicer in the world than riding down a sledge like a child, getting the left foot under it, driving with all the weight you have over it and getting the foot not broken but stopping at the end so hard on an iced hill that you cannot sit properly for the next three days. For the second run I borrowed the two fighting neighbour kids and pushed them with so much energy downhill a lady can do. To the hyperventilating mother I gave a big swig of the landlord’s medicine he put in my thermos flask and then she stood calm and peacefully with reddish cheekies and was waiting patiently for the return of her children.

My neighbour didn’t care much about uphill walking or landscape. So I trudged all for myself through deep and not so deep snow, once I stepped on Ötzi’s wife who was stuck in a gap in the rock – it turned out to be just a died mountain goaty, but in the middle of the wild nowhere the original instincts get crossed. I saw animals everywhere, potential food, whereas my neighbour stayed in ironly with female guard’s flesh on the bottom of his back and dedicated himself to the stormy drinks. Of course we met frequently in our holiday, sometimes we even agreed in conversations. After a while I fed up with cold and snow, especially because the lasting in and out brought wetness into the clothes which was eating itself constantly through all five layers right down to the bones and if I absolutely cannot stand one thing it is coldness. Because of the uncounted glasses of medicine my neighbour had developed a great inner heat you could smell and he did not understand my shivering. He wanted to share his heat with me what I immediately refused with thanks. He was my neighbour! Although I had the impression this man there could not be my neighbour at all. He was looking like him, but his manners absolutely did not resemble to those I knew. So it could have been he was starring in the falling snow for half a day just to turn his head in the afternoon and ask: “What’s for dinner?”. Or he was busy with opening and emptying numerous tins of beer to get literary thoughts sometime. What kind of thoughts this should be I was not quite sure, but Hemingway was told to have a heavy problem with alcohol too.

When at least I was shouting for departure my neighbour said: “What a nice holiday!”. I was the same opinion since after twelve hours driving I finally laid in my own huge warm continental quilt, had slept many hours over it and had in detail exchanged words about the impossibility to go on a holiday with a man. And as I remember now all that closer and less closer male friends with who I ever shared a tent, a car, a room, a beach or just a night so I must have had known this: there is no holiday for man and woman! For this reason I appeal to our appreciated German minister of work Frau von der Leyen to insert for emancipated leisure activities and a female quote in holiday too!

Yours with love
Frau Körb

2 Kommentare zu “translations XIII

  1. Pingback: Wurstfabrik | Frau Körb

  2. Pingback: Hitzwitz | Frau Körb

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