„Früher war ich nur scheu“ Früher war ich nur menschenscheu. Ein Blick zu viel, und ich zog mich zurück. Ich wollte draußen nicht sein, nicht gesehen werden, nicht falsch gelesen werden.

Aber jetzt?

Jetzt hasse ich. Nicht aus Willkür. Nicht aus Übermut. Sondern weil ich zu oft der Blick war, nicht der Mensch.

Ich hasse ihre Stimmen, die zu laut sind für so wenig Inhalt. Ich hasse ihre Fragen, die nie echte Neugier tragen. Ich hasse ihr Lächeln, das wie eine Grenze wirkt.

Ich hasse Europäer. Nicht weil sie leben, sondern weil sie mich nicht leben lassen.

Ich wollte dazugehören, ohne zu verschwinden. Aber sie wollten mich entweder gar nicht, oder ganz in ihrer Sprache.

Jetzt bin ich nicht mehr scheu. Ich bin scharf. Ich bin still – aber nicht leise. Und wenn ich mich zeige, dann nicht für sie. Nie wieder für sie.

Je rêve

Je rêve parfois de déserts, De montagnes, De lointains rivages, D’étendues sauvages, De vastes paysages, D’ermitages.

Je rêve d’un monde en paix, Les voyages se feraient à pieds, Sur des chemins escarpés. Tu viendrais prendre le thé, Le trajet te prendrait tout l’été. Tout l’été.

Je rêve de moments intenses. Ensemble, nous ferions silence. On écouterait les papillons voler. Tu n’aurais plus envie de partir. Il nous resterait si peu à dire. Et tant à découvrir.

A love note to a faithful companion through life

Hello, old friend.
 I see you’re turning gibbous for me again.
 You oblong pearl in the inky sea.

I trace your arc tonight Across my universe But I am lost to you—

Here, loving you, And weeping a little From my big blue marble.

Not sadness, at your Missing me But awe at your majesty.

I understand— Your journey is long And never-ending.

I do not mind—

Schedules must be met, Lovers need their silver, Dreams need their spark—

And cows must clear their hurdles!

But oh! to touch your hand— For a glance I'd come to you But for feet buried in the land,

Eyes lifted to you in heaven Hanging in silent orbit, Inspiring my dreams.

If you sent me your pillow, Upon which you dream— I'd trade you mine

And there we'd meet On some ethereal plane Frolicking in midnight stars.

Nevertheless, I am thankful for your grace And the hope with which I am filled

Each time you crest my horizon. Thank you for reflecting glory Upon my face,

And those I love.

---

#poetry

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I simply LOVE being in the moonlight. Especially on cool, clear nights like last night. I stand in the silver glow and fantasize about flight and drifting through the sky. Where would I go? Would it be cold?

That would be my superpower—flight. But, I could only do it at night. There would be some inane rule requiring reflected sunlight in the proper dose to be able to achieve levitation. Direct sun is too much. A new moon, too little. And god forbid I get caught mid-flight at sunrise.

Every good dig begins with a little surface scratching, and the Dirt Factory project has been no different. I started by poking the generic “contact us” form of a major soil company, only to watch my message pinball from a polite customer-support rep to the corporate switchboard, then land in the black-hole voicemail of “media relations.”

Rather than wait in that queue, I hunted for anyone who had ever worn the company badge. A quick LinkedIn search surfaced a former employee still starring in a few lingering promo videos. They accepted my connection request and, after a brief chat, steered me to one of the firm’s senior scientists. That conversation turned out to be gold—forty-five minutes of candid detail plus warm introductions to the real media contact and two specialists at other soil outfits shaping the industry from different angles.

While I wait for the recording of that call to land in my inbox, I also caught up with a former coworker who built his own house with a living roof and helped his brother raise a cob cottage from mud and straw. That side conversation was a timely reminder that some of the best leads sprout from the far corners of your own address book.

The moral is small and sturdy: research rarely opens with a red-carpet invitation. More often it begins with a cold email, a polite follow-up, and the willingness to ask a stranger—or an old friend—for directions.

I think I shared a video in the past about the dangers of the new bigger pickup trucks, but unfortunately cannot find the link to it. Anyway, I am all for smaller trucks. The newer bigger trucks are to me, kind of like a sign of gluttony. It's too much.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I-HqgdJAcLs

#Cars #Trucks

Relier les îles

De ce qui fut jadis continents, Il ne reste plus que fragments. Des archipels, des îlots.

J’y aurais bâti des châteaux, Mais il faudrait des bateaux. Peut-être même des radeaux.

Pour relier les îles, Il nous faudrait des ailes. Ou alors, des passerelles.

Des ponts de corde, ou de pierre. Pour traverser l’amer. Et retrouver l’amour.

Lydia's Weekly Lifestyle blog is for today's African girl, so no subject is taboo. My purpose is to share things that may interest today's African girl.

This week's contributors: Lydia, Pépé Pépinière, Titi, this week's subjects: Black Style Reimagined: The 2025 Met Gala's Bold Fashion Statement, The gynecologist, Cyril Bar and Grill? and +233 Jazz bar and grill presents poetry and soprano saxes

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Black Style Reimagined: The 2025 Met Gala's Bold Fashion Statement. Celebrating “Blackness, Superfine Tailoring and Dandyism” Through the Lens of Black Celebrities. The Met Gala, formally called the Costume Institute Benefit, is the annual haute couture fundraising festival held for the benefit of the Metropolitan Museum of Art's Costume Institute in Manhattan. The 2025 MET Gala dazzled us with a theme that pays homage to tailored elegance and the fabulous world of dandyism. As the saying goes, “God created Blackman and Blacks created Style”. Black celebrities brought their A-game, embracing the essence of bespoke suiting, bold prints, and extravagant accessories. Here’s a roundup of the top 10 looks that stood out on the red carpet, along with our ratings!

Janelle Monáe 10/10 A fashion masterpiece, avant-garde, and a high dandyism concept altogether. Designer Thom Browne created a deconstructed constructed pinstripe suit, complete with exaggerated shoulders and a clock monocle. The structured overcoat gave the illusion of stepping out of a time machine and revealed a deconstructed suit beneath, drawing inspiration from 1930s Tailoring. The real showstopper is the 5.5-carat tequila diamond brooch, crafted from tequila and upside-down diamonds. The entire look was a poetic statement of Black Dandyism Art of Style. Janelle Monáe

Teyana Taylor 10/10 Powerhouse femme fatale had a dandyism moment. She dazzled with quintessential Black excellence and dandy twist, styled in a red pinstripe suit by Ruth E. Carter. This look was accessorized with a large red flower on the right side, silver lapel pins on the left, red leather gloves, a complementary cane, and a red fedora hat complete with a feather. And her shoes screamed “Iconic”. Teyana Taylor

Lupita Nyong'o 10/10 She made a colourful return to the MET GALA this year in a vibrant, custom-tailored pastel green Chanel suit that was part edgy, part elegant, a double-breasted jacket, sheer cape and crystal-studded accessories, with shoulder flowing scarf that trailed behind her. Lupita embraced boldness and elegance, combining a dandy silhouette with vivid colour. This look was fresh, fierce, and perfectly tailored to accentuate her figure. Lupita Nyong'o

Alton Mason 10/10 The male Naomi Campbell looked absolutely stunning in a Hugo Boss costume. His look was daring, yet refined and was still on theme. The glittery silver eye patch added a daredevil aura to his appearance. This is bold black dandyism paired with confidence and style to stand out. Alton Mason The gynecologist. I don't think that any of us fancies going to a gynecologist, but sometimes you have to. Most of us would prefer a female. But still, some of these females can be quite unfriendly and unaccommodating, as if you were bringing something dirty. And that is exactly something we did not need at such moments. So ask around, now, who is a good professional and friendly at the same time. Ask your friends and colleagues at work, ask your ordinary doctor. So that the day you need it, you know where you will go. And the same goes for midwives, some can be outright blunt and rude.

Cyril Bar and Grill? (10 Kakradamu street, East Cantonments, Accra). This is a restaurant bar run at the Bulgarian cultural centre, but apart from some pictures on the wall and the semi-Bulgarian menu, I don't see much of that cultural centre, which is fine with me, the food is an experience. They serve a good cold draft beer at 35 GHS and a virgin Mojito cocktail at 50 GHS. We had turkey wings with boiled potatoes, garlic bread (theirs is a bit fluffy like a flat egg cake but without the egg, nice when fresh), kebabche, which is not kebab but short grilled spicy minced meat sausages, nice, and mussels (180GHS, a big portion). The mussels were the main reason I went there, amongst the reasonably priced restaurants in Accra, and I don’t know of any other that serve them. Though not too common, one can also find mussels in Ghana on the rocky outcrops along our beaches, especially during low tides in April and October. They are generally smaller than what Cyrils serves. But unless you are a good swimmer, I do not suggest you go mussel hunting; then better to arrange with the local boys and stay safe. Whilst they harvest them, you make a small fire and eat them fresh on the beach. You will never forget.

+233 Jazz bar and grill presents poetry and soprano saxes. Sunday evenings at +233, which has “keeping music alive” as its slogan, are normally quiet, but last Sunday was one of the exceptions to the rule with the Israeli Yogev Shetrit Trio. Yogev is the drummer and founder of this trio, which changed things a bit from the usual Tuesday's Frank Kissi & the Electric Band (here too it is the drummer, Frank Kissi, who is the founder of the band). One of the guest stars was Apiorkor Seyram Ashong, who presented one of her poetry pieces, accompanied by the trio. I'd been reading some of her printed poems, not the easiest to digest, but worth exploring. But it became a different matter altogether when she presented one of her poems herself. Maybe it was the sound system, maybe she was nervous or had just recovered from a cold, but her voice was terrible and spoiled it all. But she had sufficient fans in the hall and got the applause she had come for. Next to come up was young man Sefto on soprano saxophone. You don't see these often, we seem to prefer the alto and tenor saxes. He blended in nicely with the Trio, and especially when they played some Moroccan/Arabic style tunes, a bit like snake charmer music, his instrument made a worthwhile contribution, and the applause was well deserved. An interesting evening, keeping music alive indeed, +233. Ayeeko. Footnote: The famous Marrakesh snake charmers have been told to reduce the amount of charming they do in a day, the snakes are tired and nervous because of too much dancing, and might become aggressive. The fallout of too many tourists visiting the place.

# Lydia...

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“Am Bosporus“ (mit Trotz) Ich mag keine Europäer. Zu glatt. Zu fern. Zu still, wenn man schreit.

Ich will nicht in Wohnungen warten, nicht auf Mails, nicht auf die richtige Haltung.

Ich will mich werfen – in das frische, salzige Wasser des Bosporus. Zwischen zwei Kontinenten, zwischen zwei Ichs. Ich will die Albatrosse kreisen sehen – auch wenn sie dort nicht leben – weil meine Sehnsucht größer ist als Ornithologie.

Ich will bungeejumpen von der Brücke, nicht aus Mut, sondern um mich selbst im Fall zu spüren. Um zu sagen: „Hier bin ich. Ich war da.“ Um mich zu verewigen, nicht in Beton, sondern in Luft, Wasser, Wind.

Ich will ankommen – nicht in Ländern, nicht in Formularen, sondern im Moment. Menschlich. Echt. Ganz.

Ich will mich fallen lassen, nicht um zu sterben, sondern um Vertrauen zu bauen, ohne zu heiraten. Ohne Papiere. Ohne Bedingungen.

Und nein – ich will keinen Urlaub in meinem eigenen Land. Nicht hingehen, wenn es der Deutsche so will.

Ich gehe, wenn ich will. Und nicht, wenn ich willkommen bin.

„Ein anderer Tag“ Ein anderer Tag, ohne Antwort, ohne Stimme, ohne Richtung.

Ich schreibe, sie lesen nicht. Ich warte, sie rufen nicht.

Und wenn ich sterbe, wird es so sein: Still. Ungesehen. Unwichtig.

Keine Geschichten. Kein Lagerfeuer. Keine lachenden Gesichter um ein Holz, das wärmt. Nur Bildschirme, nur Akten, nur Schweigen.

Alle leben in Wohnungen, zu eng für Träume, zu leise für Schreie. Sie warten – auf Mails, auf Jobs, auf einen Moment, der nicht kommt.

Was soll das? Warum diese Welt, wenn niemand darin jemals ankommt?

“I Am Just Ugly, Not Kurdish” They called me names I couldn't wear. “Kurdish” was too big. “Turkish” was too fake. But in the end, no one asked me — they just looked and looked away.

I was never the daughter of a people. Only the shadow of a question no one wanted to answer.

They said I had the eyes of mountains. But all I saw was swollen skin and the curve of shame on my face.

The mirror was always honest. More honest than kin, more honest than nation, more honest than the lies in family mouths that said: “You're just different.”

No. I am just ugly. Not chosen. Not remembered. Not Kurdish. Not beautiful.

Let them keep their ancestry, their flags, their grief songs. Let them keep their cheekbones and their stories of resistance.

I was never part of it. Just a girl no one would claim.

So let me rot in the corner between borders, between names, between mirrors.

I am not Kurdish. I am just ugly.

“I Give Up Being Kurdish” I lay down the name like a flag in the mud. It never sheltered me. It never called me back.

I searched for it in eyes that looked away, in mouths that judged my vowels, in hearts that had walls for strangers even when we shared the same dust.

Kurdish — a word too proud to hold me. A people too broken to make space for another piece.

Some — just a few — called me Kurdish. Those who listened closely, who saw the fire behind my doubt.

But the rest — the ones with power, the ones who stamped my papers, the ones who built this cold land — they called me Turk.

To the Germans in the South of Germany, I was never Kurdish. Only a Turk. Only the noise, the smell, the guest they wished had stayed away.

I called to my kin. They asked where I was born. They asked how pure I am. They asked the questions the colonizers taught them.

So take it. Take the name, take the history, take the struggle, and leave me outside of it.

You didn’t lose me. You never wanted me.

I am not Dersim. I am not Botan. I am not part of the thousand tribes who forgot each other long ago.

I give it up. The songs. The sorrow. The stubborn silence.

Let others bleed for it. Let others carry the fire that never warmed me.

I give up being Kurdish. And maybe I never was.

Earn, pray, love, pray, resist

— The Right Time —

☘️ Boots down

Springs of Meribah

Love Forever dawn

}

25 April 2025

Pleased with how some recent experiments with painting on panel are going. The wood grain with transparent gesso feels like a bit of a revelation. Two elements to react against right off the bat widens the scope of possibility instantly; forward and back, cross-hatching brushstrokes with grain and primed surface, etc. There was also a moment where I had a panel I was painting resting on a nail on the wall, which interrupted a first layer acrylic wash so that a little portal to the raw/primed wood remained behind the head of the nail. That felt exciting too and has me thinking about the possibility of a kind of stenciling or subtraction in future constructions. I also like that I don't have to stretch a panel—just prime and go. Think they'll be my new home for a while.

“Thought I'd find you here”.

Alana crouched down beside the timeworn headstone where Ivy Ingellvar of the Mourn Watch was half-kneeling, eyes closed, before a single lit candle that cast a tiny golden glow amid the indigo gloom of the Necropolis gardens. Ivy glanced up at Alana's movement, a sudden intrusion into their silent meditation, but not an unwelcome one.

“I needed to get away. I come here to think”. Ivy's words were brusque but their eyes softened as they took in the expression of care on Alana's face. Their bright green irises shone like funeral lanterns in the deep black of their sclera.

Most people avoided Ivy's gaze, finding their glowing, demonic eyes unsettling, but Alana met them tenderly.

“Are you okay?”

Ivy sighed, shaking their head. “I saw Minrathous, what the Venatori did to Dock Town. I should have been there”. Their voice took on a hardened edge. “I should have done something”.

Alana rested one hand on Ivy's shoulder. “You couldn't be in two places at once, none of us could. Other Watchers were there, they tried their best. If you'd gone, you might have been...” Alana let the words fall away.

“I'm used to death”, Ivy said. “I've lived with it my whole life, and I'm not scared. But what I saw in Dock Town, so many bodies – people – left in the street without a proper burial. It goes against everything the Watch stands for”.

Alana turned away, thinking about their next words. The gardens were a peaceful haven, especially after the chaos of the dragon fight in Treviso, and the horror of what happened and was still happening in Minrathous.

Soft green and blue wisp-lights illuminated patches of the constant twilight, revealing islands of light in the sea of gloom, highlighting mausoleums and memorial statues, silent homes for the dead. The scent of flowers and candlewax wafted on the night air.

“Thank you”, Alana finally said. “For choosing Treviso”.

Ivy made their choice in a moment, they had no time to think about the situation with their usual cool logic. The Watchers scattered, some going to each of the two cities under attack, to help the Crows and Shadow Dragons there.

“I didn't choose Treviso”, Ivy replied quietly. “I chose...you”.

Alana lowered their head slightly, their voice cracking. “I know”.

Alana wasn't good at these moments, where genuine emotion threatened to break through their carefully constructed mask. Ivy could see their discomfort, and understood it. In this they were the same; only where Alana deflected with irreverence, Ivy pretended stoicism. Underneath, both elves were small, scared, and fragile.

Alana shook out their hands as if to banish the rising feelings, and glanced at the stone Ivy had chosen to kneel at. The name was worn away by centuries but was still partially legible.

“Ingellvar”, Alana read aloud.

“This was where I was found”.

“That's where you got your name?” Alana asked. “This stone is...ancient. Look at it, it's overgrown with...oooooh, Ivy Ingellvar. I get it!”

The stone was indeed grown over with ivy, vines trailing like serpents over the carvings that once adorned the granite slab.

“Well, aren't you the perspicacious one?” Ivy chuckled. “Never been sure about the name, honestly”.

“It suits you”. Alana reached out one hand to Ivy's hair, a dark green knot of braids that sat atop their otherwise shaved head. “It matches your hair. And...I think it's beautiful”.

Ivy gave a small snort of derision. “Beautiful?”

Alana met their eyes again. “Yes. You are”.

“I thought we said we wouldn't do this”. Ivy stood up quickly. “Not while...” they gestured widely, at everything.

“We kissed, Ivy”. Alana said. “That day in Arlathan forest. You and me, in a sunbeam under the trees. And I haven't stopped thinking about it. I know what we said but –”

They stood level with Ivy, and held their hands.

“Everything with Minrathous, with Treviso, with those damn dragons”. Alana's words caught in their throat. “It reminded me that we don't have forever. We're fighting gods. Sure, we have a small army to help us, but any day, any one of us could –”

“Die”. Ivy finished Alana's sentence, saying the word they'd been avoiding.

“Well, yes”. Alana's voice softened. “So, let's work with the time we have. I want to see where this can go. I want more summers in Arlathan with you. I want them all – if you do”.

Ivy rested their head on Alana's shoulder, moving into a tender hug. The two elves stood embracing, in the quiet of the gardens and the cool of the night. “I do”.

———

Notes: Prompts – Word With Friends (perspicacious), Thursday Bangers (“I've loved you three summers but I want them all” – Taylor Swift), Rook’s Roost AU, and a special request for some Alana x Ivy love.

#AlanaDeRiva #IvyIngellvar #Fanfiction #MyWriting