My parents spent their honeymoon in 1964 in Ibiza .... so did I in 2005 with D..
Event though I always tried to escape being the same as my mother, I ended up doing many things exactly the same way she did .... the honeymoon in Ibiza was one thing, another one was that D. and I bought a house near Berlin in a place that belonged to a village called Gielsdorf .... the place I grew up in in Luxembourg is called .... Gilsdorf ....
There was much, much more of this .... I wonder how it was possible that while trying to be different I tried at the ame time to be the same.
As if trying to get in contact with her that way, maybe also in order to understand, or to avoid betraying her ....
Up to the point where it became unbearable and I had to admit that I was really different after all .... Or not. Or only to the point where I broke out of something she should have broken out of as well. I will never know.
I can look at a million pictures and read all the letters I have from her, I have no idea who she was. Never really had. There is this blur. No definite identity. When I think of her, the words disappointment, anger, illness, cancer, death, lost opportunity, confusion, frustration come to my mind. Nothing really positive ....
She was angry all right. But at what and at whom?
And who was this woman I can see in these Ibiza pictures? Was she happy then? Happy to be married? I know they drove all the way from Luxembourg through France and Spain and then with a ferry to Ibiza with their 2CV ... and that my father was totally exhausted afterwards. And that they brought chairs back with them. On the roof of the car. I know facts, but I know nothing.
