deskology

A clean desk. Light wood, birch, presumably. Matte varnish, not a scratch. The only items are a bonsai tree in an dark green earthenware pot, a Mac, a notebook, a stack of clean post-it notes and a Montblanc pen that looks like you could easily swap it for a small car. A hand places a plain white cup with the remains of a formerly hot espresso on the immaculate surface of the desk - hand and desk both belong to Harrison. Harrison is man in his thirties, works on Wall Street, sports glasses and a 24/7 poker face. Sometime today he will have achieve an important career goal by arranging a deal between two rapidly growing companies in the sportswear sector.

A cluttered desk. Not the good sort of cluttered. Tissues, food crumbs and the occasional cigarette butt. A book about the mesozoic period. Broken pencils galore. Graph paper, a small plastic jar of glitter spilled over a burger that, for this obvious reason, has not been finished, and library books bound in cloth filthy from too many casually dirty, greasy fingers. Paper, paper, more paper. A small picture of Galileo Galilei in a seashell frame. Several dead bugs. This desk belongs to Rufus. Rufus is an archeology student with dark and very curly hair, and a loud laugh. He loves the subject but not the academic means. Today he will fail an exam for the third and last time.

A dark, heavy desk. Several tax office letters. Letters from someone called Gwendoline Rutgers. Neat stacks of notepads, a little china vase with pens, a yawning cat on a burgundy leather desk pad. A tiny bit of dust and last weeks' Financial Times. A hardcover copy of a Sherlock Holmes collection, and three zoo tickets. This desk belongs to Arthur. Arthur is a retired stock broker, a serious man who replaced taking care of national finances with managing the desperately unstable financial situation of his daughter and her husband, two entrepreneurs, which oscillates from 'okay' to 'absolute catastrophe'.

And then there's my desk. It's plain and black with pseudo victorian legs, slightly scratched and fairly empty - objects with decorative purposes have failed to stand their ground with my cat as their opponent, who throws around everything he can reach when he feels like waking me up at night. A clay pot that used to contain some fancy mustard and now holds pens, several tin boxes that carried chocolates and biscuits now filled with pencils, brushes, nibs, inks and colour tubes. A notebook, a sketchbook. A box of Kleenex. That's it.

And then there's your desk. And you probably don't see adventure behind it, either.

Why? Because the first three desks were storytelling. They can be desks in movies, or desks in books. Books and movies have a beginning and an end. Everything they let you see is found within a framework of events, visuals, music and characters - characters you grow to love, characters you loathe, characters who are nothing like the people you know and those who are just exactly like them. You see Rufus' desk and you know that this desk is going to tell you something. Rufus is going to do something, to make decisions, to feel certain ways, to move ahead, to be part of a somewhat rounded story. 

You  and me? We don't know if our stories are rounded. For us, our desks are just desks. Plain desk, practical desks, aesthetisized desks, beautiful and alluring even, but always only just desks. They are not part of a narrative. We know that we have approximately one and a half hours to get to know Harrison and watch him develop, but we don't know if tomorrow something exciting will happen to us and change our lives, or how many bland hours, days and years we've got ahead before we will die in a freak accident, unexpectedly and unglamourously. Or if neither happens, and we will live normal, balanced lives, sometimes happy and sometimes not. Cinematography seeps into our consciousness. We see a skyline, streets lights, and we're excited for life, excited for what lies ahead and humbled by the presence of millions of fellow humans who all live their little stories. We feel like part of something big. Almost like we're in a movie. And why? Because we recognise the establishing shot - the first frame of innumerable scenes throughout the history of cinema: city lights, the eternal promise of the 20th century.

I sometimes catch myself feeling a bit sad about the fact that my own experience of life will never reach movie life level, simply because I am no work of fiction and therefore subject to a boring kind of chaos. It seems like life has long ago started imitating art. But plenty of these people in movies are just living the lives of normal people. Only the fact that we watch them on a screen makes their walk to school, their job interview, their neighbourhood, their desks seem special, different from me and what I am surrounded by. Rufus could be any archaeology student at my university. Harrison could be absolutely any accountant. Shouldn't I take it from there and decide that, yes, life is, in fact, just like a movie? And my life is, too?

[check this out, it's just in the spirit of what I'm talking about: click.]

haze I

Everything was in a haze. The other day he had gone out with some people he knew and had sat quiet through a lengthy conversation about appartments and landlords and rents before leaving early. All the exclamatory remarks and compliments on low prices and great numbers of square metres, together with exaggerated approval and encouragement in one issue or another across shiny woodboards holding numerous glasses of mediocre beer- it choked him in boredom and loneliness, and reeked of pretense. "This is it- youth," he thought walking down a dark and narrow street, past brick walls and shady entrances, hoping there'd be a train station somewhere in a few dozen metres. The whole world suddenly had a tilt-shift effect to it, everything was so small and unimportant and disgusting. He shuddered. Young people came together and had nothing better to discuss than issues of housing, in the most biedermeier way possible. He found it slightly difficult to breathe and that feeling didn't pass when he entered a train, avoiding everyone's eyes in the neon light, and ducking away into the corner of an almost empty compartment. He wasn't any better though- he was a goddamn coward. He had sat there and stared at his coffee. He hadn't asked anyone to tell about the last book they read and thought was significant, or special. He hadn't suggested to change the topic to what everyone's biggest dream was. He hadn't suggested to change the topic at all, even though he could have. He had just smiled politely when he'd felt addressed and answered a few question. He had practised invisibility and then disappeared completely.

a story

He was watching her intently. She was strolling around the room and absently flicking off the ash from her seventh Gauloises every now and then, which came down in big flakes right on the worn persian carpet. "Maisie Gallagher. I can't believe this." "What is it that you can't believe?" She looked at him in bewilderment, not noticing that quite evidently, to him, whatever Maisie Gallagher may or may not have done was clear as glass. He might not approve but he sort of understood her motives. "George! I can't believe George is still a thing! I cannot. How can she stick with him like that? He's always been a moron, but that's like, a matter of taste, I reckon? Or ignorance? Whatever it is, now the whole world is aware of him being a complete douche, too, so why would she- oh, Christ's sake! I can't believe this!" She stopped for a second, another portion of ash tumbled sadly to the ground. The cigarette seemed aware that it wasn't being smoked and the realisation of the utter futility of its existence must've been hard for the poor thing to bear as it died out slowly and inevitably. 

"Not that I cared too much, mind you," she resumed, "I'm so over trying to tell her, and everybody else actually, how they're wasting themselves on bullshit. Because they always know better, don't they, the little sweethearts." He chuckled. She furrowed her brow. "Why'd you laugh? What you laughing at?" He sighed. "Nothing. It's just funny how worked up you get about this." "Oh God." She stood with her eyes closed for a moment, to open them like drawing the curtain in a theatre, like she always did, as if it was the overture to a sermon she was about to deliver, as he'd witnessed often enough. "I don't get worked up- it enrages me. Mostly because I am usually the one she comes running to with a backpack full of tears, when something happens," she said dryly. There was a silence and he thought she was being unexpectedly brief. "Well, did you tell Maisie?", he asked. "Tell her what?" "What you think." "The hell I did! I have tried a hundred times before. She says I don't understand," she added theatrically and shook her head in complete and utter disapproval. He felt a bit bad for poor Maisie Gallagher who had probably tried to explain herself using terms such as 'love', or 'feelings', and cried whilst saying things like 'for the sake of what we had', or 'it's something special'. 

He tried to catch her eyes for a minute or so, but she was staring out the window. "You wouldn't be taking any hits, would you." She gave him a pretty bewildered glance, as though his remark had insulted her by just allowing the possibility that she might. "No," she answered in a cocky voice. He sighed and she finally sat down on the armrest of a sofa and took a drag from what was left of her cigarette. "Well, tell me- would you?" He was now slowly stepping around the carpet in patterns. 

A record player was spinning quietly. The music was pretty mesmerising, swallowing the listener: layers on layers of seemingly carelessly arranged guitars and synthesisers, modified by just about every pedal in the world, and the sound of an omnipresent pad holding all threads together. He walked over and picked up the sleeve of the record. "This is good, isn't it," he said. "Oh yes, it is. I swear I've had it playing for like two weeks on loop. So good. Really something to get lost in." She sat with her arms crossed, watching the disc turn. "I think my brain just pauses when I listen to those songs." 

He adjusted the collar of his shirt as though it was hindering his breath, put the sleeve back and sat down next to her. "Can I ask you something?" She glanced at him briefly, tossed her cigarette butt into a nearby ashtray on the floor and lit another. "Sure. Go ahead." "You're not really into love, are you. And still you love those songs so much. That's literally all they're about, love. How come?" She gave off a little laugh, he sat still for a moment, wondering if that had been a smart move. "I mean, I'm just asking because I know that you despise Maisie's decisions about Georg first and foremost because she's in love, and that's her only reason to not give his butt a massive kick out the door, even though she should," he resumed. "I've heard you talk about it - remember, the other night at Greta's, when Georg and Van threw up all over the kitchen? And Mrs. Wazkovsky from downstairs threatened us with a frying pan because it was late and we just wouldn't be quiet? You literally gave a speech about how you'd never surrender your dreams and ideals to drives and hormones that people disguise as this crazy, mysterious, almighty thing; that you would never let it get to you this much - all that." 

He broke off, leaving space for a silence that was not as much awkward as it seemed to be picking up speed; that is, to him it did- she was merely sitting on the armrest, smiling to herself and carefully arranging an answer and the piles of grey flakes and powder in the ashtray that she picked up from the floor. "Well, first of all, they're also about breakups and moving on, and changing, and all that stuff. Primarily so, actually. Not to mention that I hugely enjoy the fantastic melodic composition. But you know what," she said, "incidentally, I've asked myself the same question as late as yesterday. And I'm not sure if the answer I came up with is satisfying to me, or will be to you. And if it's an answer at all, and not just a poor excuse." She finished composing a perfect circle out of the ash with her pinkie, sat down next to him and placed the tray back on the carpet between her feet. He watched her. "So? What's the faux answer?" 

She looked up from the floor and caught his eyes for a split second, then he looked away. "In brief, I probably parasitise other people's emotions." He snorted. The smirk on her face remained intact. "Is this it? This really is unsatisfactory. I mean-" He paused, apparently to compose himself for his next argument that brought about a slight bitterness to his face. "David..." She laughed out loud. "What about him," she said. "He's...You had a pretty massive crush on him, didn't you," he resumed. "Van said Dave tried to ask you out a million times and  what he got was a few very elaborate, very elusive replies that could only be read as It's Not Gonna Happen. I don't get it. You could have him, easily so. But you just wouldn't. Why soak up, and indulge in someone else's emotional experiences - or no, not even that- someone's artistic reproductions of their emotional experiences, rather than have your own?" He looked as though he wanted and didn't want to know at the same time. She blew smoke out of her mouth to inhale it back through her nostrils. 

"You ever read Jameson?" she asked. "Yes I have," he said, "but I-" "Look, it's very relevant, in case you were going to say it's just philosophy," she interrupted. "Hit me if I'm wrong but I think it was him who said that people these days prefer to experience a controlled de-control of emotions, and not to subject their entire being to affective experiences, all that kinda stuff." "That was about drugs, as far as I remember." "Yeah, but it's the same thing, essentially, isn't it? It's some funky chemicals going nuts in your blood and brain, no more. And I think I'm into that. I just borrow what went into the music for the few minutes I listen to it, then go ahead living my life. Don't we all? We want stories, we devour them in songs, in films, in books. That's not really a quirky thing to do, is it. Everyone does it." 

He shook his head. "It's not, it really isn't. And it's not that I can't follow you, all of this is actually quite apparent, really." She gave him an amused look. "But?" He sighed. "But I believe people mostly do it for a lack of worthwhile stories in their lives. You, on the other hand, seem to consciously avoid every chance of a story." Now she shook her head. "It's not like all stories revolve around being with someone. You know that. As of now, I believe I'm better off this way." "It's not like it's always already a commitment, you know." This came out of his mouth a lot more impatient or desperate than he intended. "I know," she said. "It's not about that." She turned to him, grinning impishly. "What are you trying to do, anyway, set me up with Dave, or what?" He, slightly flustered, met her gaze. "This is the last thing on earth I'd want to do, honestly." There was a pause that felt a bit like leaving a cake in the oven for a tad too long. "What the hell are you scared of?" he asked finally. She leaned back against the cushions. "Letters from the tax office, mostly," she said, "and polar bears being extinct." He couldn't help laughing.

Half an hour later she was swearing to herself about all the ashen traces on her beloved Persian carpet. At that same time, he was walking down Vanderbilt Avenue, wondering if there was a chance for him at all.

april fool / probably chemistry

It's the 1st of April, 02:13 am.

Last night has been spent entirely by me sitting over books about spiritism and new media around 1900 to finish a paper I had to hand in today in the morning. By means of napping I have caught up on sleep a little during the day, not that it has helped to relieve the feeling of a heavy head though - I feel really weird and pretty churned up inside. When its dark and I am to agitated too sleep I decide to just hang around, chill and do whatever comes to my mind.

I find something to read. It's nothing special, an easy read, some plain entertainment to relax from the intensity of last nights research and processing of 100 year old esoterics. Kind of an action drama story, with a good dash of cool-bad-guy-meets-cool-good-gal. It's surprisingly intriguing and perfectly caters for my strange current mood, which my brain reminds me to be at least a little bit embarrassed about every couple of chapters. It's the kind of story where you read and have thoughts like "...oh come on, suggest to cooperate already...come on, do it, I know it will happen anyway...YES" and "...ahaha wonderful, don't let anyone else creep up on her, well done boy..!" and "...aaw man, he's so obviously in love and everybody tells you he is, can you just stop questioning it already...?" and "oh shit?! no, he can't be dead now, don't gimme that, just no!"" and obviously "YIS omg this is so cute omg omg omg YAY". You probably know what I mean, the feeling when you really really really want your favourite characters from a tv show to get together and they struggle endlessly but finally do- that kind of story.

So, here I am, biting my nails for these guys and basically jumping up and down on my bed thanks to a massively fucked up sleeping pattern, various things going wrong a lot these days and dangerous amounts of caffeine. At 04:03 I get a text from a friend who was gonna meet some boy at a party this evening for the first time. Apparently she's home already, the text says "well...we did kiss eventually". So I text  a big "yaaaay!" as a cheers to those guys now. Then I pause, because suddenly it feels strange to be alone, to have looked forward to nothing but the possibility of spending a night just reading something. I feel weird.

I ignore the fact that my alarm will ring at 08:00 and read until 06:23. I feel great and horrible at the same time, I reckon that my brain is sending me cryptic chemical messages that are supposed to mean something like "girl, get some fucking sleep, and how about you tidy up your life to the point when you know what you have to do, have a plan, and don't just live from mission impossible to mission impossible for a change?" but maybe it doesn't, or maybe it sucks at chemistry, because I just feel like dancing and crying and drowning and laughing at the same time. In the final paragraphs, the cool bad guy says something like "I'm very disturbed when some particular thing is out of my control...someone". I feel like that 'out of control' fear hypothesis is pretty acurate for me, too - with the slight difference that literally everything is out of my control and that is indeed well disturbing. I can't fall asleep for a while because my pulse is too loud and ticks against my pillow, and that enrages me. I can't decide if I'm content for the moment or completely miserable. It's April Fools' Day.

24

Nun bin ich also 24 Jahre alt. Ganz schön unerwartet, ganz schön abgefahren. Obwohl das eigentlich noch kein Alter sein sollte, kann ich nicht umhin, zu denken, dass mir noch ein Jahr bis zu einem Vierteljahrhundert fehlt und dass sich vor 24 Jahren Dinge ereigneten, die jetzt in Geschichtsbüchern für arme Socken in der 7. Klasse stehen. Ganz zu schweigen davon, dass manche Leute mit 24 ihr Leben schon irgendwie auf die Reihe bekommen haben. Ich eher nicht so.

"Komm, jetzt reiss dich doch bitte mal zusammen," sage ich mir so ungefähr alle drei Tage. "Leben leben ist ganz einfach. Das kriegen täglich 7 Milliarden Menschen hin, also kannst du das auch." Ich vergrabe mich dann hochmotiviert mit meinem Laptop im Bett, schreibe eine kriegerisch klingende 2DO-Liste und fange an absoluten Schwachsinn zu googlen, der meinen Kampfgeist heben, mich aufraffen und zu neuen Schandtaten motivieren soll. Beispielsweise "Volontariat Köln", oder "guter Concealer für sehr helle Haut", oder "Rechtsschutzversicherung bei Bankraub". Nach 3 Stunden und einer sanften Landung entweder auf den Websites diverser Weibchenmagazine oder im Darknet schrecke ich dann hoch und erkenne wieder einmal, dass diese Schiene mich nicht in eine strahlende Zukunft mit einem coolen Job, Jetlags und einer metaphorischen Petrischale für Egokultivierung befördern wird. Ja mein Kind, du musst tatsächlich etwas Sinnvolles tun. Wie ist es, wolltest du nicht ursprünglich mal Journalistin sein? Wolltest du nicht ein Buch schreiben?

Ich scrolle ein bisschen auf Facebook, Twitter und in Whatsapp rum und überlege, wem ich, um nicht zu platzen, unauffällig meine Frust unterbreiten könnte. Tatsächlich, wenn ich ehrlich bin, niemandem. Was würde ich denn auch konkret beklagen wollen? "Irgendwie... ist alles so doof." "Ich hör hier gerade ein paar tolle neue Bands, aber die sind alle jünger als ich und schon viel weiter im Leben und das macht mich traurig." "Ich habe das Gefühl, ich kann nichts besonderes." "Ich kann nicht mehr schreiben." Ich kann tatsächlich nicht mehr schreiben. Ich hatte einmal die Angewohnheit, bei akuter Wut, Traurigkeit, Nostalgie und anderen kleinen Hormontornados leere Blätter absolut ehrlich und gnadenlos vollzukrakeln und diese Gefühls-Enzephalogramme sogleich zu vernichten, damit ihr Inhalt niemals an die Öffentlichkeit gerät. Kein neugieriger Müllmann der Welt hätte die je wieder zusammenbasteln können, so ausführlich und dramatisch war der Inhalt. Ich habe es in letzter Zeit mehrfach versucht, aber nicht eine einzige Zeile schreiben können. "Ich bin so sauer," fing ich dann an, "ich - " Pause. Rrrrrrratsch. Ab in den Papierkorb. Wollte ich  nicht ursprünglich einmal Journalistin sein? Eigentlich will ich das tatsächlich immer noch, aber wenn man nichts schreibt, ist das suboptimal. Auch dass ich 24 bin, Journalistin und am liebsten auch Autorin sein will, und nichts schreibe, ist so suboptimal, dass mir ganz schlecht wird davon.

Das Internet schreit geradezu danach, dass man da was rein schreibt. Ich hasse das Internet. Manche Leute heulen rum, genau wie ich, und plötzlich lese ich, dass sie jetzt einen richtigen Job bei einer Zeitung erschlawienert haben. Aber immer noch unglücklich sind. Manche Künstler haben mehrere tausend Follower in diversen Netzwerken und verkaufen stapelweise T-Shirts und Jutebeutel und Drucke, und malen für die Häuser ihrer Idole Portraits von deren Kindern. Manche haben einfach eine Katze, die schlecht gelaunt aussieht und haben somit für ihr Leben vorgesorgt. Manche streuen hin und wieder dezent ihre Erfolge in meine Facebook Timeline ein- sie wollen niemandem Böses, aber mir schnürt Panik die Kehle zu. Ich bin schon 24. Höchste Eisenbahn endlich 32 Jahre Berufserfahrung, mindestens zwei Bestseller, einen Grammy und einen eigenen Flur im MoMA in New York vorweisen zu können. Ja, für Ironie bin ich noch zu haben. Ich vergleiche aber viel zu viel. Ich mache zu wenig. Ich kann nicht mehr schreiben. Deswegen sitze ich hier, und schreibe all das. Ich lese auch nicht mehr so viel wie früher. Vor lauter Motivation, Inspiration und WikiHow mache ich absolut nichts, und wippe lethargisch vor 17 geöffneten Tabs auf meiner Matratze hin und her. Im Hintergrund laufen Iceage und Cherry Glazerr. Sie sind alle 18 bis 22. Sie stolpern von Festival zu Shooting, zu Festival, zu Welttournee. Ich bin 24. Ich stolpere am Eingang zum Supermarkt, wenn es regnet und die Räder vom Einkaufswagen zuerst klemmen, und dann nicht mehr. 

Ich sehe noch aus wie 15. Ich möchte gerade eher ungern 24 sein. Ach, 24... das ist doch kein Alter.

this and that forever

Have this portrait of danish delight & ICEAGE singer Elias Ronnenfelt- that's him in the 'Forever' video which I cannot embed thanks to various wonderful privacy settings on every stupid video on the web, but you can watch the clip/hear the song here.

Important questions to ask this week:

Where have I been? 
Just about everywhere I usually am, can't get my shit together but I swear, starting from today I'll try to post more regularly. (Can you believe this, I used to have problems with posting way too often when I started this blog? Where did I take the time from??)

Are there any cool new bands around that are, like, proper cool and original and exciting, and whose music would actually increase your will to live, and not drown you in a depressive void?
That's an actual question from me to you guys, I'm all open for links and stuff because if I listen to whatever is on my phone for one more week I will just dissolve into nothingness #saveascallywag

Should I murder Elizabeth Peyton?
No! That does not change the fact that she is the epitomy of almost everything I despise about contemporary art industry. Gal gets a spot at some fancy NY art college (probably wealthy parents), makes connections, paints a shit ton of GENERIC, PSEUDO EXPRESSIONIST portraits of rockstars and IT girls etc., that look like try hard fakes of Brücke or Bauhaus artists, that ANY advanced class art student could have done BETTER, and that EXPRESS NOTHING, and she gets exhibitions and recognition for what? - for making a ton of bullshit, with people mentioning her distinctive style. I'm sorry if she's anyone's favourite artist but there is NOTHING distinctive about her style, and NOTHING expressive or interesting or new about her paintings, and I'm just raging whenever I see her name mentioned anywhere alongside with the words 'renowned artist'. If you don't know who that is, just google and then cry together with me and Leonardo Da Vinci in heaven about what we've come to.

Should I get back to exercising/sort out my wardrobe/maybe consider washing my hair more often than once a week?
Yes! That might be unexpected (or maybe not) but I'm really, really, really, really focused on looks/appearance. This doesn't mean that Regina George is my role model, but I have pretty draconic ideals and if I do not conform to them, that's bad. I don't, right now, and I do feel bad about myself. That's obviously not the way to go for everyone, but to look like you want to look is, for me, always the best way to also take control over everything else in your life. I feel like before creating something, I need to first create a me that I like. If that makes sense.

Come on, be honest... Is there hope for this blog?
Yes! I am now proud owner of a Wacom Intuos Pro graphic tablet and I have promised myself to dedicate at least half an hour every day to slowly re-do the graphics on here and on my society6 shop and my facebook page, too. Use it for new artworks, too. I also noticed that as I go along, I have several blogable thoughts and ideas every day, but usually I'm just too exhausted in the evenings, or people ask me to do things, or my cat Johnny (who joined my in the daily woes of life in August and I haven't shown you yet) claims all my attention for himself BUT I also promised myself to not let that take up ALL of my time and dedication since I have realised lately that in this life, there is nothing for me other that to work creatively and I need to brace myself and put my stuff out there, join projects, create, create, create. I will draw, I will write. If I'm lucky I'll get involved with music, as I used to. Other than that, there's nothing here for me. (draaahmaaahh. no, I'm serious. This blog will live.)

Anything else?
Nah, not really. Don't forget to say hi.

untitled #19

"Sometimes, when I have a long close look at my own thoughts and emotions, I feel like the best thing to do would be to pull a brown paper bag over my head and head straight for the closest cliff I could throw myself off. I feel like picking up scissors and cutting a few connections in my brain. Like- Kira, what the actual fuck? Pull yourself together. I feel like that much of an idiot in what I feel that I'd destroy anything that might suggest I ever existed, and immediately leave for Tibet to pretend I'm a rock for the rest of my life, rather than admit what I actually feel, or think, or hope for. The big question is, should feel I as stupid as I do? The big answer is probably YES. The big problem is, the only opinion I can consider is my own because I will NEVER EVER tell anyone what this is all about."

shambles

I was gonna think of a cool introduction but my brain is not on the highest level of its performance abilities at the moment, so- I saw Babyshambles play on Monday. My infatuation with Peter Doherty dates back to a time when I didn't quite know what to do with myself and life in general, and the music of the Libertines and Babyshambles as well as Pete's solo work was the understanding friend, the fellow sufferer and the slight hope for the better to me. After having listened to him for ages it was kind of surreal to see him on stage, as the actual person he is and I won't lie, I shed a tear at "Delivery". I'm not very tall and not very massive so I had my doubts if I was gonna survive the front row, it certainly did give me a "mufasa and the gnus" kind of feeling- you're thrown about mercilessly by the crowd, but at some point you don't even care, because you're one with the sound, one with the people around you, and- alas- one with the mix of beer, sweat and dirt on the floor.

The gig was class, but (obviously, I should add) I wanted to meet the man himself, so together with a little crowd of 30 per cent normal people and 70 per cent ferociously annyoing groupies a friend and I were hanging around at the barrier in front of the backstage exit where the tour bus was waiting. That barrier, about 2 metres high and all covered up with some advertisement banner, was somewhat impossible to get around, but the gap on one side of it was perfectly cool for someone my size to look through, and I took the opportunity. This is how I saw Pete approach the bus, and I just called him. And HE CAME. He immediately started to explain that the band is tired and all that, but I said it's all cool and I don't want anything, I just want to give him something, and pulled out an envelope with these two drawings inside:

IN THE MEANWHILE HE TOOK MY HAND. Blame this lyricism of mine on the fact that I'm a literature student or on the fact that I'm embarrassingly deeply in love with this guy, but it was an event detached from time and space for me. It felt like, metaphorically speaking, the hand that has been holding mine for a long while, actually physically held it- for some glorious moments. (crying break for everyone, hehe.) Then other people noticed that I was talking to Pete in the corner, and started screaming, and he fled into the bus. I told him to open the envelope later, I hope he didn't forget to. I also kind of hope that he at least gets a slight idea of what I wanted to tell him. I'll probably never find out what actually happened after he let go and walked away, but I guess that, if anyone ever asks me where the originals are, it's cooler to answer "I don't know, Pete Doherty has them" than "Uh, at home". I also didn't sign the pictures with my name, nor did I write a note to Pete, let alone a letter- I am this much of an idiot. I mean, an envelope screams for that sort of thing, doesn't it? Well, I was deaf to that. If I had written something, I'd have probably said the following:

Dear Bilo, please take this as a "thank you" and a token of support and love- I'm behind ya, mate. K xx

Or, perhaps, not.

PS: These are my post-babyshambles shoes... yikes

PPS: I had my oral bachelor exam in english literature yesterday and I got a 1,0 (the best possible result, for the foreign readers), which I'm pretty psyched about!

how about no

"Well, at first I thought you were a bit strange, but cool. It felt like you didn't get emotional about anything, really. You probably didn't think anything in particular about me. I thought you were kind of puzzling. You probably thought I was completely mental. Maybe you were curious, but I was barely ever thinking about what you might or might not be thinking- back then. Maybe you thought I was striking. Insecure as I am, when you said hello I was afraid you were just sneering. When I learned that you weren't, I was flattered. But I thought you thought I was a weirdo, and I thought you probably wouldn't bother that much. I think that maybe you thought that I didn't bother, though I did. So did you. When I learned that you were even more intrigued than I was, I felt rainbows. For some time I thought that you thought of me what I thought of you, but I didn't consider that maybe you thought I didn't think what I was thinking. Maybe you decided to keep yourself to yourself, but maybe you didn't because that is just what I think. Maybe that's just you. All the sparks we kept sending each other may or may not have been sparks to you. Maybe you're sat somewhere wondering what the hell I am thinking, maybe you're drunk somewhere, not thinking at all. Maybe I am drunk with thoughts about what you think what I thought what you thought what I thought what you thought..."

untitled #17

Einmal habe ich für ein Seminar ein Drehbuch-Treatment entwerfen sollen, mittlerweile ist daraus eine Idee für einen Roman entstanden. Soll ich?

Es ist halb sechs Uhr morgens. Pinkie, wie immer ruhigen Gemüts, hat sich nach der Feierei im Arts Club selbst für seine Verhältnisse schnell auftreiben lassen, aber bis ihr Miles ausfindig machen könnt, rollt schon der Wagen der Müllabfuhr in die Straße. Kurz darauf folgt Miles höchstpersönlich- es wird dir auf ewig ein Rätsel bleiben, wie er es jedes Mal schafft, nach einer durchzechten Nacht das Trottoir entlang zu schreiten, als käme Dorian Gray nachmittags aus einem Kaffeehaus. Mit der ironisch anmutenden Arglosigkeit, die ebenfalls eines seiner Markenzeichen ist, erkundigt er sich, wie es läuft. „Miles,“ fängst du an, „du kannst nicht einfach abtauchen, uns fast zwei Stunden warten lassen und dann… ach egal.“ Pinkie reibt sich die Augen. „Ich brauch Wasser“, sagt er. „Mein Kippen sind alle. “ sagt Miles. Deine auch. Ihr überquert die Straße zu einem kleinen, schmucken Kiosk mit LED- Allerlei in den Schaufenstern und dem üblichen Arsenal an Touristenkitsch, Pinkie rieselt Kleingeld für eine gigantische Flasche St. Pellegrino auf die Theke. Bevor deine Zunge sich daran erinnert, wie man deine Lieblingszigarettenmarke ausspricht, sagt Miles zum Verkäufer: „Hey… du hast nicht zufällig irgendein Blatt Papier und 'nen Stift hier rumliegen, die ich mir ausleihen kann? Help a brother out.“ Der Kioskverkäufer runzelt die Stirn, kramt einen Werbekuli und Quittungspapier heraus. „Besten Dank.“ Miles beginnt ein Kardiogramm zu zeichnen. Natürlich ist es kein richtiges Kardiogramm, aber anders hast du seine Schrift seit Schulzeiten nicht beschrieben. Allerdings haben jahrelanges Training und viele gemeinsam bestrittene Klausuren aus dir den besten Zackendeuter des Planeten gemacht: „Die Begegnung mit dir hat einiges in meinem Kopf verändert-heute könnte der Tag sein, an dem ich anfange an ein Leben im All zu glauben.“ Mühsam wendest du deinen Blick vom Blatt ab und starrst deinen Kumpel in hellster Verwunderung an. „Was zum Henker hast du denn genommen? Und wo warst du überhaupt die ganze Zeit?“ Seelenruhig kratzt Miles weiter. „Im Notting Hill Arts Club. Ihr etwa nicht?“ 

yes I do

seeing the virgins

BOOM. So I've seen the Virgins last Saturday and it was the coolest thing ever. I just love this band! I really dig both of their albums and the show, well, let me put it this way- they ROCKED. But what ROCKED even more is that after the show, me and one of my two friends who I went with went over to Donald (the coooooolest guy ever!) who signed our tickets, and I told him that I got to write a review about the new album, and he was like, oh really, what did you write, and I told him, and after a while we ended up smoking outside and talking. The bands manager Ben (the guy in the denim jacket) and John, the drummer (the guy in the tartan shirt), joined, and as they wondered what else to do for the rest of the night, Donald said: "Let's just stay here, there's gonna be an 80s party later." Let's stay, to the guys and me and my friend. Can you believe it? This is how I spent Saturday night hanging with one of my favourite bands, having a few beers backstage and feeling pretty surreal. What I learned that evening: Ben is friends with Ryan Gentles (the Strokes manager, but also the Virgins are on Cult Records, the label that belongs to Julian Casablancas, so they quite obviously all know each other, but HOW FUCKING EXCITING IS THIS!?), Casio watches are difficult to get in New York and Warren Fu works with interns. A chance for me? Haha.

What shall I say, ever since Saturday I find my own life quite boring. Worst post-gig depression ever..!

And, hey, guys- is this the first picture ever of me on this blog..? I look fantastically horrible but I am just so excited about having met someone of those people I adore and I simply had to show off, haha.

xx

mis et re

Sometimes people invent other people. Authors invent characters, directors invent their actors, people like you and me invent people like me and you. People love to misunderstand, misinterprete, mis-match, misread, re-read, re-invent, reform, renounce and, in general, to do anything to avoid seeing what's there. Thus, people end up doing all the "mis-" and "re-" actions to themselves, to try and cope with the unsteady outcome of their attempts. If I was french, I'd say "mis et re". You get my point? Mis-et-re. Misery. Far fetched, I know, but fantastically, drunkenly well-fitting. Sometimes people are just too hard to work out. Sometimes the alleged subject should stop trying to examine and assemble the alleged object because roles are going to change so quickly that neither of them notices. And then they change again. And again. And again. On the list of life's nuisances this might be in the top 50.

cm

impressions impressed the impressive impressible

Yeah, thoughts go to infinity, dreams are high up in the sky, the rest isn't moving. A mind full of cats. A spring full of rain and green leaves. A startling need in colours and tea. Excitement takes turns with melancholy. It's strange, I just kinda want to lay down and ... I don't know, I just sit here and listen to music.

..."Look how the contours match, even the colours. We should have some pictures taken of us together, close-ups, you know, the ones where faces touch..." "You're quick to imagine things like that. I don't really see any resemblance." "Come on, don't be a spoiler! We're lucky to hang out, we might as well make art of it. We're artful on our own, we could be artful together. We would be beautifully artful together."

PS: Did you notice the new thingy in the sidebar? Make sure you check out the society6 thing and facebook and tell all your friends, haha. I've got new stuff up there, be curious and spread the word. xx

people in line

A 21st century alternative to spying on your neighbours is twitter: you can observe people without ever contacting them and, as a special treat, you can even choose your "neighbours" depending on interest. You just read their day to day tweets and watch them pouring their lifes into the internet in accurate 140-character-steps, never knowing that some creepy girl is actually reading what they write and learning something about humanity on their example. A few case studies:

1. A very intelligent boy who seems to be kind of lost in his own opinions, or rather struggling between doing what he wants, doing what others want him to do and doing what he'd like to want to do. I was intrigued because he loves classic music, but looks good (unusual combination) and tweets exactly what I think very often. We talked quite a couple of times. What I couldn't work out is his true opinion about himself and why he is actually so unsatisfied with his life. Also, I am not sure about his radicalism concerning a few social and political issues- I sometimes have the impression that he's only joining one or another side to belong somewhere. I would have liked to find out more but after being very interested in me he suddenly stopped talking to me about half a year ago. I didn't find out why, either, but we still follow each other. Peculiar? Yes, very, but also very captivating. 
2. A girl who made a very shallow first impression, I can't even remember why I decided following her (probably because she had the most perfect eyelashes I've ever seen). She posted tons of duck face selfies, but seemed very honestly very fond of her family which I liked because it's a rare thing these days. One day I decided to take a look at her tumblr- I was bored- and I was stunned about some of the things she reposted on there: quite intelligent art, some texts she didn't write but apparently liked. It made me realise that, apparently, people who put on tons and tons of make-up and wear snapbacks could, in fact, be undercover-philosophic. She seemed unhappy the last weeks before she deleted her twitter account.
3. Another boy who is plain cute in his attempts to be a deeper character. To do him justice, he's kind of progressing, when we started following each other he was just one of those kids who feel like they wanna be part of the alternative, cool scene- now, as far as I can judge, he is trying to discover what his talents and personality actually are, which is great- the more people engage in this process, the more splendid the world will be.
4. A girl who is just wonderful in how honestly she is interested in stuff she is interested in, and how she just kind of does her thing, not caring about pretending to be someone, or presenting herself to the world. We sometimes talk a little and we get along nicely, wish I knew more people like her in real life.
5. A boy who is just as much of a mystery as the first one, sometimes even more. I really can't work him out. He's very handsome and his style suggests an interest in fashion, and also him being a bit of a chav, but his tweets are often the complete opposite and written by a sharp mind (apart from tweets about girls which aren't that intelligent/original, but then again, I sometimes doubt he's being serious). He's, on the one hand, a happy-go-lucky kind of person, who just lives a carpe diem kind of life- on the other hand, there must have been a lot of shit going on in his life when he was younger and he's obviously still preoccupied by that. He loves and does things so contradictory to each other that I just don't understand how he even lives his life. There's two sides to him which, to my mind, barely go together, and I would love to find out which one is the real.

What do these observations tell us? Well, first of all- humans are incredibly complex. There's 7 billion highly complicated beings wandering around on this planet and this is an absolutely overwhelming thought to me. Second- you can never be 100% sure about the judgements you make about people. Third- somebody might be watching you and won't know. Somebody might actually be analysing the shit I tweet and, even worse, the shit I blog, and trying to imagine what kind of a person I am. Creepy? Yes, very. But what goes around, comes around, I guess.

The last thing they show is how much of a life I don't have. Spent the last days mulling over my existence and the universe, and crying over the song "It never rains in southern california", but that's a different story. I might tell you, someday.

head over heels - the first caught ideas

Ta-daa, first impressions of the ideas catcher. Turned out as a wee bit diary-ish, but I thought I'd just sort of let it flow, and kind of see where it leads me. So, reactions?
Oh, and I could claim that I didn't edit the scans to preserve an artistic, vintage-incompleteness-very-philosophic vibe, but alas, I was just lazy. Forgive me.

The other thing is that, as some people might have read in my bio on that site you should not click, I'm pursuing a career as a journalist, and basically this is my own magazine- I want to kind of use this space more as the micro-mag it is and would like to know your thought and opinions on this. So, please be nice and take a few seconds for the poll on top of this page and feel free to leave any comments, suggestions, demands, death threats, marriage proposals... (I also like presents, so leave a comment if you want to send me a present.)

thanks and luuv y'all xx (what the hell is this. I'm turning into a kind of Carles. But he's successful, at least, so I don't mind. Just wait till I start calling you guys 'bb')

what's the buzz

A brief update on the state of affairs (in case anyone is interested haha):

1. I'm done with 1 term paper. (1/3)
2. I've got two more papers to go; uni starts in April which means one more term paper, my bachelor exams and my bachelor thesis. Kill me, please?
3. As you can see, I'm having fun with silly photo apps on my phone. 
4. COMEDOWN MACHINE AND STRIKE GENTLY ARE PRE-ORDERED. EXCITEMENT.
5. In 5 days I'll be 22. Not looking forward to this - Peter Pan is protesting heavily - but I hope to have a nice day with my parents and my siblings.
6. The ideas catcher is working quite well, I've only missed two days. Do you want to see scans, anyone? There's a few texts, a poem, a scheme and some drawings.

octopus

Why do people get back to water that much when it comes to describing their lives? Like, we drown in sorrows, work or problems, we dive head first into an adventure, or into somebody's wallet; Shakespeare's Hamlet was already wondering if he should take arms against the sea of troubles and by opposing end them. And, most absurd, there's water dripping out of our eyes when we're sad, and sometimes even when we're happy. The river of life, the ocean of fantasy. Water is shapeless unless you shape it, does it mean we can shape life? If water is life, and we consist of water to 80 per cent, does it mean life and us can be friends? Or does it just mean that everyone is nothing but a drop in the ocean and will keep on sailing until they dissolve into smaller drops? I guess everyone has to figure out for themselves; and for mine own poor part, I'll try and pour my water-life into a baking form, the form of a cat, or something. I think.

untitled #10

Hello ze Strokes, or better say, ze new song of ze Strokes! Pretty much mindblowing, can't explain why so many people hate it. I've had it on replay tonight and I still have; there's something about it that makes it feel like a feather bed for the soul... or maybe I'm just getting emotional in my old days, but yeah, as I like to say, this tune plays my inner guitar. Ze Strokes are such a bromance, they just kill it every time. I'm ridiculously excited about the album now! What do you think?

Here are 4 pictures illustrating my life at the moment- hanging around at the campus from time to time trying to get my stuff done, being skint (and still ordering tons of topshop shit and paying a fortune for the shipping dkjfhsd), drawing pictures about my miserable existence and getting lost at the uni library, in search of books such as "Identity Between Deconstruction and (Re-)Construction in the Contemporary British Novel", "The Making of Modern Tourism" and "Conversations with Julian Barnes". F.U.N. 

For more trivialities and my breakfast/lunch/tea/supper/snacks stalk my Instagram.