My travel to Kraka

Wolfgang came and brought themselves different strange things also. From Berlin. Pile of old newspapers. From another world. Then we drove streetcar. It pulled us in the cinema. We did not want to see the film „the march to that pin GUI ever “. I am penguin-crazy for some time. And find that we think much too little of penguins, about it speak. They unimportant to us. The world functions in the best way without it. For example there is hardly Kinderspielzeug in the form of penguins. I did not succeed in until today buying a Quietschepinguin from plastics for the bath tub which a typical Piguinlaut of itself gives, if the child includes it in his small fist. There are only yellow Quietscheentchen. And the children learn in their first bath days that in the bath tub only a Waltdisneyente can swim. I wish myself a bath tub penguin. Although nor I am neither a child one have. Still at present in the mansion in a bath tub to bathe can. But I have a Engelin with watering can. Penguins are flight-unfit birds. They rudders with the wings in the Antarctic sea and steer with the short legs and the swimming fins between the toes. My Krakauer Engelin cannot fly also. It hangs here over me, under the roof, and seems to be completely content. It walks rather by air. With decided steps. Legs. Marches it. In their felt boots. It floats. On wings. We drove thus with the streetcar. With the number 1. In the backpack my penguin sat. My small soft material penguin, which I got some years ago given. In London. In the natural history museum. To the Themse. By evenly that Wolfgang. With that everything began. And now we drive together into the cinema. Into an inhospitable world. To a Unort. Into an enormous shopping centre. With business, which is to be found everywhere. With Fressbuden, which are to be found everywhere. With cinemas, which are to be found everywhere. With films,… a French film, version synchronized goods, Bigmacs, Imax' s, None' s. Thus Polish. Wolfgang is inspired. The language will not affect it. It read in the newspaper, while it flew to Krakau (Wolfgang can fly contrary to the penguins) that the pictures are beautiful and the text stupidly. That the words a agitate-blessed Hollywoodstory to tell want. An empty hall. Well cooled. At the beginning only we sit three in it. Then still another family with a correct child comes. And actually - the words, the synchronized texts under the pictures, try to form a human dear history. With long, out-living journey to beginning, two-hundred-one hundred march to breeding place, with following dear dance, dear singing, dear contact, dear fulfilment, which promises of eternal loyalty, with which waiting for the egg, with which ritual delivery ice delivers to the father, who out-breeds it, in the lower belly fold. And already the loving must separate. The nut/mother watschelt back to the polar sea, because it is hungry and exhausted. It returns after two months, in order to feed the Küken and replace the flared out father. Allegedly - in such a way the words say it, not the pictures - the mothers in the accumulation of some thousand penguins without problems recognize the correct partner and the own Küken, which slipped during their absence out of the egg. Christian virtues in the Antarctic. And so on. The father wankt from dannen, because now he needs urgently food. The wisdom of the Pinguinküken culminates in the statement that the world consists of a black side and a white side. The black side means parting, separation, pain. And the white side means return. Combination. In the circle of the family. This is a poetic view of the world. And the poetry is human sex. As the Kitsch. Or the romance. I am not safe me whether on the Antarctic luggage ice time for poetry is. Or place for a pictorial sunset. There it concerns rather lives or death. Exclusive. Around hunger and fodder. Around nothing else. Around warmth and cold weather. Around ruggedness. Like much time Kaiserpinguine in their life with dormant waiting spend. Also boredom is human sex. We however return to normality. At the night. With our small soft penguin in the backpack.