For some reason that I cannot see right now why I feel so exhausted. Meditation is getting difficult and I might be slightly overworked since I am sitting for long periods of time at the computer or over books and write and concentrate very much onto different issues that I am researching. The Glassbeadgame is coming along really slow and gets more and more complex, beautiful is the research about the beads. I discovered that beads come from the Anglo-Saxon word bidden which means German "beten" or English praying. Strange to find little beads of my childhood suddenly rolling over my desk and silently falling until I try to weave them into the carpet of my mind:

It is a sunny day on the 14th of June 1976. I play under my fathers desk, hiding between the two stacks of drawers were he keeps his files. My father just finishes typing something and I listen to the sound of his machine descending through the wood of his writing table. I play with pieces of paper that he threw away, open some of those paper balls, rip out certain words and glue them with spit onto my legs.

" What were you writing, " I ask. "I just typed a story for your mom's birthday present" he says and carries away a little package for her. Some of his handwritten and typed words still stick to my legs. I try to make out the story but I was never able to read my fathers handwriting. Then go into the garden were it is still a relatively cool and windy morning but sunny. I blow some of the words away but then decide to pick some flowers and roll the words into small rolls and stick them into the heads of the flowers. I decide that this will be part of my birthday present for my mother: a bouquet of my fathers words and flowers. I had written and drawn a little comic for her, that I found in my album a decade of years later. I cannot remember whether my mother liked my presents or not.

I saw my mother often very early before we had to go to school sitting at her typewriter...I remember the pling when she had created a new line, the takatakatak takatak tataakk, those sounds melting into the music that she was listening to. When she unwrapped my father's package at her 50th birthday and discovered the story and a long pearl necklace, she said: "Pearls, I hope this doesn't mean tears." I don't remember the whole story, that my father wrote, but as far as I know it was a story of a man, walking through the desert and suffering from hunger and thirst. Finally shortly before he is near to death he sees a little leather purse in the sand. He grabs it and opens it but he looses all the rest of his energy and says: " ...only pearls." The whole family went to the "Frauenberg" in Bodman were we elder-marmalade bread and melisse tea...For each of us children there was one little linen rucksack to carry and I had one with little ladybugs embroidered on the top.