It was a long way from the city center to the outskirts and across the fields until they finally stood in front of the said stable. The moon was shining brightly so they could see every detail. They paused for a few moments. Then Rebekka headed straight for the entrance. Carefully she reached for the handle, pushed it down and, to her great surprise, found the door unlocked. Then she waved to Paul, who had stopped in the field and looked as if he did not want to move a step forward. Rebekah was angry. „Who doesn’t dare to come here!“, she thought as she walked over to Paul, roughly grabbed his arm and pulled him behind her. „I don’t dare,“ she growled as she opened the door.Weiterlesen
“We don’t want to see meat from abroad on our supermarket shelves!” Is the tenor, “Not even at the trusted butcher, who you know anyway that the animal lived happily before it was sausage and filleted. You know everything. The animals in Austria are doing well, very well in fact. After all, we are among the countries with the highest animal welfare standards in the world, as announced by Minister Köstinger, Minister of Agriculture in our beautiful country. And she must know. So it’s also true. Because politicians never lie.Weiterlesen
It is normal to bring a felled tree into the house shortly before Christmas and slowly watch it die while the so-called festival of love is celebrated. From January 6th you can see the dead trees lying around everywhere, disused, thrown away and all that for a few days of prettiness.
It is extreme to look for a tree in nature that is hung with a number of delicacies for the wild animals. Extreme, because you let the tree live and do the prettiness not only for yourself, but also to do good to others. But the most extreme is that you don’t want to buy the tree and own it, you just leave it alone.Weiterlesen
Ms. M. is sitting on the window sill on the sixth floor in a community building somewhere on the Gürtel in Vienna. She has a bloody knife in her hand.
The cars roll through the streets.
One big sheet avalanche.
An avalanche that lasts now and then.
Then it rolls on again.
Indolent and indifferent.
People sit in the cars.
Protected by the sheet metal around them.
People walk in between.
They almost all have a goal.
And if not, then pretend.
They try to avoid each other.
Look at the ground.
Everyone goes about their own life.
Slaving through, between the others.
As if they were obstacles that need to be avoided.
Beautiful and ugly,
Thick and thin,
Successful and unsuccessful.
It doesn’t matter from up here.
They all look like ants.
Small, hectic ants.
Busy and driven and scared.
This is how they spend their lives, their time.
And don’t see how pointless it is.
In the morning they close the door and go out.
To go in somewhere else.
They close a door.
Doors are carefully closed.
So that nobody sees what’s going on behind it.
If they give her the baby right after birth
tear away from the chest,
so you can drink their milk
and she screams out the pain of a mother
for hours, for days.
Are you so blind with greed
so numb with selfishness.
Where are you?
Isn’t it wonderful to see how the pigs, big and small, gallop across the meadow, visit the cow, chat with her. We know it from the yes-of-course piglet. It’s a delight and pigs, especially the little ones, are so cute too. We know the pictures from advertising, and if you search long enough, from reality too. They actually do exist, the pigs, the sweet pink ones, who by now everyone knows that they are intelligent like three-year-old children and are therefore far superior to our domestic dogs. They play and dig and enjoy life. They build nests for the babies and experienced old sows support the young, inexperienced in rearing. And they have a separate area in which they relieve themselves. So much for the idyll. So much for the illusion. Not quite. For 1,500 pigs in Austria this idyll is actually a reality. For 1,500 out of 3,000,000. So it’s 0.05%.Weiterlesen
And I paint crosses. 220 crosses. 4 min 24 sec for 220 crosses. I blink. Involuntarily. Every blink 220 dead. It is impossible to paint 220 crosses in a hundredth of a second. The time they die. 220 extinguished lives. With a blink. I blink death. It takes me 4 min 24 to paint 220 crosses. Lined up in order. 4 min paint 24 crosses, just 220 are 5,808,000 dead. Without the collateral damage. Without the committee.Weiterlesen
It was one of those days when I couldn’t cope with life. This is not unusual any more. Not at all remarkable. It happens to me, sometimes. But this time I had a reason. Even one that others would accept that you can’t get on with life. At least as long as the others are not one of the strictest, who have such a well-intentioned and unnecessary “pull yourself together” in their standard repertoire and who cheer anyone who wants to hear it. Even those who don’t want to hear it. But my reason was damn good. I saw my marriage go down the drain, and just as it is impossible to make the water suddenly flow uphill, so it was impossible to reverse it again. Or is it? Had I really tried everything?Weiterlesen
Tim walked past the mill pond every day when he went home from school. Not exactly, to be completely honest. Rather, he took a detour of about ten minutes to visit his friend. He had called it Red because it was a rudd, a small fish with distinctive features. It may seem strange, but Tim, at just ten years old, had a keen sense for nature. He felt deeply connected to her. Most people probably don’t put that down until later in life. In any case, Tim was still able to simply perceive nature as it was, without making any claims. So long ago he had made it a habit to linger on the jetty for a while and watch the water. One day something happened that few people were allowed to experience, but most people would not have had the patience or the lack of intention either.Weiterlesen
It happened in one of the harshest winters sometime in the 19th century. in Austria. One family suffered from cold and hunger. The summer harvest was meager and so the hermit family, the parents and the six children sat around the table and knew neither in nor out. Father couldn’t hold it anymore. He got up from the table in silence, took his shotgun out of the cupboard, and went out to the house. Nobody said anything. Nobody tried to hold him back, even if everyone knew what he was up to. Poaching was a serious offense. And that’s what he would be guilty of. The wild animals that were there belonged to the owner of the forest, the Count, who was allowed to shoot as much as he wanted, just for fun and to drive away the boredom.Weiterlesen