click here for:
'I forgot to mention that I will be out of town.'
I usually get woken up by the neighbours in their kitchen, right next to my bed. Every morning they fight! Or that is at least how it sounds like through the brick wall, while someone is putting something back onto the shelf with a short tick-sound, twice. Then some more fighting, followed by silence till at least lunch time. I stack up the pillows under my head (who needs eight pillows snarling around?), my eyes stay closed.
The blanket follows any of my moves with that sound of breaking waves, never letting me out of sight. Any revelation of skin is immediately covered. My skin feels numb and soft when I rub my legs. The birds discuss relentlessly, meanwhile picking the last seeds and I drift off to some small dreams that won't last long. Something like a commercial break.
The eyes feel heavy and dry, while the light hesitantly slips through to my brain. The fridge is playing his cold-blooded melody for a moment, brr zzz pff brrr brrrrrrrrrrchhrrrrrrrrrrrrrr, as the thoughts start to come in and the heatwave, that is a result of that, is forcing one leg from under the blanket.
My view is blocked by a white mountaintop, when I open my eyes. I play god and move the mountain to lavishly gaze at the framed drawings on the wall.
The upper part of my window is covered with pieces of coloured foil (left-over from a retired love). Together with the fake crystal, hanging faintly off a sewing thread, they perform a ravishing play, if the sun hits the right point of view (around 15h). The arid and harrowed branches, outside my window, form shapes onto the facade of the opposite house. The facade is broken by two windows that cover the staircase and show nothing but black glass. I wonder at times if somebody is looking back. Something seems different today. 'bright, jazzed, clear, animated, expansive'
I hear the neighbour leaving the house, his shoes crush through the snow.
The immense walls were made of the finest concrete from the region, so smooth, the uneven surface must most
certainly be procured mechanically. They would use cork ladders to reach the top of the walls. The cork eases each step of the climb, when carrying up buckets full of apples.
Once they reach the highest platform there would be no need to enjoy the vast and far away view of the landscape,
but instead be seduced into the random labyrinth of caoutchouc pipes. (If one would be able to see the labyrinth from afar, they might believe observing a porcupine loosing bits of its 30.000 quills).
Thousands of pipes, red and white striped lances, piercing the blue, being thick and fleshy at the bottom and thin like a needle higher up. The spikes growing all along their sides are used for the main transport with ropes to climb hand over hand, to feet and back over hand. The choice of climbers in the village is already decided in the youngest age and the switching moves are trained almost immediately. The helmet, that is obligatory, is made from a folded crown cap, scratching the lobulus auriculae from time to time. Notes are written down on their paper shirt and the trousers are filled with helium. The wind would blow strong and whenever they make the attempt to scale through to the middle,
you could hear them whisper
„Part of that power which would
Do evil constantly, and constantly does good“
the sword that is bright
flow prima materia
shell of face limits the view
a book that is old
yellow as the shelve can be
all is coeval
The major devision of a long poem started to play about 45min ago and it gently reaches Elsa's ears while she is folding her hands to rest her head, when realizing how thin her fingers are, perhaps only skin covering the bones.
And that idea of two hours of 'nothing' is stuck in between her thoughts.
Elsa's shoulders are pushing her body back and forth and she is persistent to go back into these moments when rhythms are getting entangled to then drift apart again like a sunrise:
'The eager ballerina is performing her erudite jumps and her tutu has no choice but to bounce with it. Just one cube is falling from a staircase, before a whole bunch get shoved down.'
She remembers the calmness in that site trailer when she heard the continually repeated musical phrases for the first time, the flat acres surrounding her, with barely any tree to be found except the satellite-station not far.
'A fish that hides in a coral-tube, looks out for an instant and disappears again. Fat raindrops that disrupt the playfulness of tiny ones. Two vortices that irrationally clean the floor. '
Elsa sadly states that this is randomness that pretends an interaction. It is still a mystery to her how it is possible that it only takes two minutes to forget what had just filled the room.
There again, the sunrise where no sunset is needed.
She exhausts her cigarette, without additives, like candy with fake sugar, while she imagines him bending hazed branches to chip off the dry leaves. Until the apartment door opens with a vibrant approach. "Honey I’m home".
"In classical antiquity, memory was considered the > mother of the muses <. Up until the Renaissance, a number of sophisticated techniques for the training of memory have developed and been handed down.
They are all based on the fact that a basic repertoire of places and images is impressed on the memory in a certain order, to which any and changing circumstances can then be associated. »The art of memory resembles an inner writing. Anyone who knows the characters of the alphabet can write down what is dictated to them and then read them from memory again. Likewise, those who have learned mnemonics can take what they have heard to places and recite it from memory.«
(Frances A. Yates, Memory and Remembrance, Berlin Edition, 1994).
Fludd distinguishes between round and square mnemonic art. The round art uses fantastic and magically charged diagrams with which it tries to draw down heavenly influences. The Square art is the classical mnemonic technique that makes use of real existing places and natural images."
(Alexander Roob, Das hermetische Museum – Alchemie und Mystik,
Bibliotheca Universalis, p.460, Taschen 2016 / unofficial translation)
There are plenty of places, at this moment, where I would rather be. Instead I am sitting at my window with a curtain blocking the sun and a face that is burning for sugar, which I just did slightly satisfy with a scone from the small bakery down the street, without any feeling of remorse, because the need for compensation is possibly the strongest feeling for a fanatic.
The thoughts about what would be left, if any prejudice or biased description had to be avoided in identifying an object, are carefully knotting my brain.
An object can be viewed from an infinite number of perspectives. And each taken perspective would cover another possible perceptual side of the object. How come we are able to understand an object
in its entirety if we ever only see a fraction?
Because of the consciousness we have of a spacial object, we do 'with-mean' the rest. The perception is therefore the result of a context of reference, the result of experience.
Deception is inevitable.
From the reductionistic description of an object, to the believe that intentionality is a characteristic of the mental, towards the application of reduction to interpersonal relationships, only to find that to consider the exclusion of world-existence as inevitable, seems to me unavoidable.
I ask you to bare in mind that this is just a sunday's scratch onto the matters of existence, knowledge, values, reason, mind and language. Also, the final soccer game of the world-championship is starting in 15min.
The air is saturated. Almost scintillating, like the air in Sao Paulo during lunch-time. A grey glimmer is covering every surface in this city on a warm evening, after it rained forever.
The sky between the houses sizzles and the yellow butterflies nibbling from a rare puddle on the street, gathering like a hand full of corn-chips. The cicadas are nowhere to be seen, striking with their canon. A sound that reminds me of these unbearable hot summers in a rural landscape.
Barely any tree or human soul to be found, only the evening sun that casts shadows like she does on an Edward Hopper painting. Explicit and ruling, but kind in its warmth.
I walk down the cobbled pavement halting at the house with painted shutters, blue, chipped off by wet wind, with a vine tendril almost reaching the roof. I follow the vine with my eyes, looking up and see him standing in the window putting on the finest red lipstick.
It is not the first time she heard that story and probably not the last time either.
What is it in the tap water, that triggers the same behaviour? What is the average amount of layers necessary, before the pattern is revealed, to then be buzzing through the air like a stung balloon (in reference to my story 'Famous').
The question is not 'who are you?' but rather 'what more can you be in relation to the other?' Which sounds convincing and devastating at the same time.
She remembers this room, it changed a bit since, the red curtains must be new. Not sure how they ended up in bed together that night, but there were times when she wished nothing more.
He resembled the real artist that lived on plain bread and coffee, drawing paper and pencils everywhere and strangely calm about the standards of live, believing in taking no part in it as an observer. The leafs have the shape of that kind you find on paintings of rain forests, they dance right in front of her face separated only by a thin piece of glass. The shadows tickling her skin.
Her hair-tips feel too much dark-matter floating between them and anything, in order to be at all clear on what to do next. The projection is in full fumes and still no sign of a bursting bulb. There is no end to any one thing! Let's bridle the horse and transform within
“But today we barely think of doing anything that has no purpose at all.
That it is possible, desirable and above all beautiful. That the most beautiful thing in life is to express one's own powers, not for a purpose, but where the act itself, the action itself, coincides with the purpose.
Love too has no purpose, although many people say 'of course it has a purpose', the purpose of either leading to sexual satisfaction or to get married, to have children and to lead a normal bourgeois life.
This is why love is also very rare today. Because love without purpose, love in which everything that is important is the act of loving itself, where being, and not hunting for something / not having something / consuming something, but the self-expression of a human being, the expression of his/her abilities, thus that is the only purpose. That goes away, with such external goals, successes, production of things,
consumer-oriented culture as ours, yes, that goes away. So far away that you don't even think it's possible anymore.”
(Süddeutschen Rundfunk 1973, Hans Jürgen Schultz im Gespräch mit Erich Fromm)
Translated with www.DeepL.com/Translator
“I hardly know why, but I have seldom seen anyone
—[...]—to whom I have taken such an immediate liking. “
(George Orwell, Homage to Catalonia)
#window #diamond #fireworks #purple #upsidedown #blue
#paint #museum #table #noanswer #action #noreaction #kreide #xy #gardinen #perspective
#triangle #fragile #brain bow #rainbow #awake #asleep #moskito
#wtf #lamp #gold #weapon #city #busstation #charlois #rotterdam
#trolley #balloon #flying #home #new #stuff #emotions #universe #does #not #answer
#no #place #like #cloud #bed #sun #sneak #space #float
#friedel #fine #notfine #clue #noclue #she #mirrored #projection #inmotion
#skalitzer #bvg #ubahn #bath #chicken #love #city #daydreaming #somewhere #else
At the time (15.11.18)
The floor is as dark as it always was, the smell of the cleaning-soap is long gone and the walls block the view to something that is about to reveal itself.
Possibly not so much of a revelation, but rather a still unexpected outcome of something that has been polished for a vague time. Its hard for me to describe what I do not see. Black matter matters a big deal.
We all arrived and ready to set the tasks to start and then finish this, before we can continue with the new. It does not take long and the sound of drilling, pushing, dragging and destroying fills the entirety of the space. The round table is covered in paint and books, the megaphone standing on its mouth. The chairs around the table are empty, the PVC-pipes bending through the space holding Albert's bags and the microphone on the speaker is not in use. A box with a bunch of wooden laths is leaning towards a TV-screen, some laths hold masks with faces (reminding me of stiff flags), others simply try to reach the cocktail-bar on wheels. Several couches and armchairs being anything else but to sit on, surrounded by cables, tape and chicken-wire. The two red petrol canister standing neatly next to each other, just as two bit-part players waiting for their call. Like busy ants we frizz us from one object to the next.
I notice a pink line. The air, in an instant, is saturated with vibration and I feel a force of curiosity that intimidates me. It seems as if the pink line has only just been sprayed on the walls, leading to a sentence that is written in mirror script ' ɿɘɈɈɘd ɘm wonʞ υoγ ' and beaming off everything, good and evil. For a second all objects in that room pull together with a force of attraction of that kind, that if hold on to any longer, it would leave nothing to tell the story. I walk out through the colossal door, over the grid-floor, a short breeze is waving my hair and I can only assume that even today I still don't know what I would answer.
December is not January. *
*I just want you to read this short sentence very carefully.
This series is my contribution to the monthly text-battle 'The secret diary of somebody else' with artist Aino el Solh.
a more detailed memoir
writings I draw