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Notes06/08/2021
4ajbukoshka
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4ajbukoshka
7
4ajbukisja. Or: Orient meets Occident. A hint of home
4ajbukisja was a belly dancer.
And she was beautiful, the most beautiful young woman in her home village, it was later to be said.
Even when she had her hair cut tomboyishly short at the nape of her neck to a few millimeters and growing longer towards the top (up to three centimeters), and she was of slender stature, one perceived her femininity from a few meters away. Today, twenty years later, one would perhaps take note of her appearance without any emotion.
Perhaps - for she is no more.
She, whose appearance left no one cold: her belly dance in the kindergarten of 4ajbukoshka, who is a little ashamed of her, but then let herself be carried away.
4ajbukisja is wrapped in colorful scarves, with which she plays around and decorates a bikini of Verena. Her belly undulates and makes wacky movements in all directions. She can, it seems, direct her hips and belly with her hands and has bones made of rubber.
The song for the performance, Tarkan's "Şımarık," 4ajbukoshka will repress for a long time, storing it in the back of her mind as "Mwah mwah" and muttering "Tshinga dadinga tshickahaha..." when someone asks, couldn't be more Occidental. And yet, it's actually Turkish.
A hint of vanilla blows around 4ajbukisja as soon as their dance kicks in - leaving the audience as the last audience member, after a thunderous applause.
This performance was to be one of the last times 4ajbukoshka encountered her:
this non-classic for her, but regardless, exceedingly beautiful woman with the wavy black hair, the prominent, perfectly symmetrical eyebrows, and the subtle tan that her moles most likely still lend her.
She looks oriental - and yet she's not.
Actually, most of the time she tries her hardest to be as German as possible (if it wasn't for 4ajbukoshka's multilingual upbringing).
Her temper she can not always hide and so you often bite on granite or get the full broadside pepper in the face. A sweet (tangerine), she is not. She is a cheeky little fruit who uses her sweetness only sparingly: enough to turn men's heads, but not enough not to be taken seriously by everyone, women and men alike.
Next to her, the most radiant orchid looks pale, and even the fresh bouquets of flowers that 4ajbukoshka or many a suitor as well as many a suitor shyly hands her cannot drown her out.
She with vanilla skin and lips like rosewood.
4ajbukisja: a piece of the Orient in the Occident. One. Meter. Fifty-six. Full load of power.
Somehow she seems out of place wherever she goes: in the Orient she is Occident, in the Occident Orient. At home foreign.
She may give the appearance of calm and strength. What it is like inside, no one will ever know.
Isn't it usually the case that you take things for granted and that only changes when they are no more?
The monthly appearance of this one woman who is no more.
She had the evil eye, but a kind heart, somewhere beneath what you saw, smelled, heard.
And all that will remain in the future is the memory and the information "has been discontinued".
And she was beautiful, the most beautiful young woman in her home village, it was later to be said.
Even when she had her hair cut tomboyishly short at the nape of her neck to a few millimeters and growing longer towards the top (up to three centimeters), and she was of slender stature, one perceived her femininity from a few meters away. Today, twenty years later, one would perhaps take note of her appearance without any emotion.
Perhaps - for she is no more.
She, whose appearance left no one cold: her belly dance in the kindergarten of 4ajbukoshka, who is a little ashamed of her, but then let herself be carried away.
4ajbukisja is wrapped in colorful scarves, with which she plays around and decorates a bikini of Verena. Her belly undulates and makes wacky movements in all directions. She can, it seems, direct her hips and belly with her hands and has bones made of rubber.
The song for the performance, Tarkan's "Şımarık," 4ajbukoshka will repress for a long time, storing it in the back of her mind as "Mwah mwah" and muttering "Tshinga dadinga tshickahaha..." when someone asks, couldn't be more Occidental. And yet, it's actually Turkish.
A hint of vanilla blows around 4ajbukisja as soon as their dance kicks in - leaving the audience as the last audience member, after a thunderous applause.
This performance was to be one of the last times 4ajbukoshka encountered her:
this non-classic for her, but regardless, exceedingly beautiful woman with the wavy black hair, the prominent, perfectly symmetrical eyebrows, and the subtle tan that her moles most likely still lend her.
She looks oriental - and yet she's not.
Actually, most of the time she tries her hardest to be as German as possible (if it wasn't for 4ajbukoshka's multilingual upbringing).
Her temper she can not always hide and so you often bite on granite or get the full broadside pepper in the face. A sweet (tangerine), she is not. She is a cheeky little fruit who uses her sweetness only sparingly: enough to turn men's heads, but not enough not to be taken seriously by everyone, women and men alike.
Next to her, the most radiant orchid looks pale, and even the fresh bouquets of flowers that 4ajbukoshka or many a suitor as well as many a suitor shyly hands her cannot drown her out.
She with vanilla skin and lips like rosewood.
4ajbukisja: a piece of the Orient in the Occident. One. Meter. Fifty-six. Full load of power.
Somehow she seems out of place wherever she goes: in the Orient she is Occident, in the Occident Orient. At home foreign.
She may give the appearance of calm and strength. What it is like inside, no one will ever know.
Isn't it usually the case that you take things for granted and that only changes when they are no more?
The monthly appearance of this one woman who is no more.
She had the evil eye, but a kind heart, somewhere beneath what you saw, smelled, heard.
And all that will remain in the future is the memory and the information "has been discontinued".
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