Das erste Jahr Babybuddha jetzt auf:


Nothing is perfect. Less than ever. Every day, disorder and chaos are not far off. Our baby crawls through the apartment, into all the rooms, everything at the distance and height of his reach, everything on baby-level, can end up in his clutches. Then it is pulled out, examined, torn or broken or not, thrown to the ground or put aside, dragged away to some other place, rendered unfindable and for that reason alone unusable. I thought the baby would bring order into my life (order in the sense of participation in the great web of things), but now disaster threatens in the form of a previously unknown (but no, it must known to me from long ago!) chaos! I’m exaggerating, I tell myself by way of consolation, an attempt that immediately fails. Because to be honest, I am attracted to chaos, produced with such willfully gentle, concentrated intent, a disorder that soon starts to look to me like a higher degree of order, a previously disguised beauty (which examines differences intently in order to reject them as irrelevant after a short time). What is this you are wreaking, great baby? (And then I clean up after him, clean up, by the day, by the hour, bringing order into chaos, that too is my destiny, I cannot do otherwise.)



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