--Index--
One night at my parents' place, I cleaned my ears with two cotton swabs right before going to bed. The swabs
became all yellow from the ear wax. I placed them on the nightstand, and the next morning, I put them into
the pocket of my pyjama pants in order to throw them away.
Yesterday, I pulled out my pyjamas from the washing machine. I had forgotten to throw the cotton swabs away.
The washing machine had cleaned them thoroughly, they looked great.
blabla bla bla.. bla bla. bla bla, but hey, bla bla blablabla? Grz...
My take on X:My take on everything right now: X
(My take on everthing right now: cringe. My take on drawing little drawings with everything that's going on atm: cringe. Cringe having become my take on
things that used to be fun because of everything that's going on atm: apparently also cringe.)
Trying to formulate a differenciated take, but I don't want to scare rundgang people away. Welcome!
Okay and then this mood of being driven by outer forces, The Bureaucratic Forces, and you just need to go through all this shit, writing contracts and
reading them (cringe), working money-job, applying for shit, finishing this, finishing that, throwing away all your crap... (cringe)
Sometimes I am really excited to leave. Sometimes I am sad about the reasons why. Sometimes I wanna kill That Fucker. (just kidding :p) Right now I feel like a little
robot that is here to fulfill bureaucratic tasks. And I have three arms. Left, right, cola. I never spill it though. I am careful. Careful and content and really done for
today.
Nora S and Christiano R
A coordinate system with cool-axis, cringe-axis and whatever-axis. YL 100-100-100.
Weekend wrap-up: hundreds of thousands of euros, but unfortunately, that's not quite enough to be happy. Cold weather, cold feet, cold ears. Small ears and normal ears and small thumbs. Brachydactyly Type D. Adding people to the list. Adding friends, but I don't have a list for that. Super many cool people with cool scarfs. X Factor with Jonathan Frakes. A glass bottle on a head. Lære dansk. Thank you for yesterday. Thank you for the past 1,5 years. Diploma plans. Future plans. Not many plans.
I deactivated my Instagram account and it was dope. (Apparently deactivating doesn't count, but 100% whatever). I feared being lonely and disconnected but actually, I think I have'nt been more connected with others and happy with being present for a very, very long time. I read a fucking book. I don't know if I can hold this up. But so far I haven't missed much. Except for David Lynch's death. Not knowing much of his work, he seemed to me like the kind of person that could have been dead for a long time already, but somehow they never really die anyway and there will just be more and more Lynch movies coming until the end of time. But yeah. 60% whatever rn.
In bed with a flu or so since Monday. I have been doing nothing else than watching Supernatural.
Also this guy said I would get more ach blablabla i am getting exhausted over this
While I am working on this - I correct, while I am trying to find a reasonable access to any work-like action - my mind wanders all the way to Louisiana, where we sit on this bench in the dark and watch a video - I correct, you try to watch something, and I don't care about it. All I see is your beautiful face and your neck, and I take your hand, and I touch your face, and I smell your neck and I kiss it, and I glide my hand down your body, and I can feel your x pushing against your x, We can't do that here, but you're hard anyway, so you drag me to the toilet, and you push me down on my knees, and you grab my neck, and I lose my head, and I do it like you want it for the very last time.
So no, actually, I am not working on this or that. All I did for the past 7348 hours was think about that grip of yours - or, I correct, I've been doing anything but this and that for the past 7348 hours.
While I am writing this, I can feel time running through my fingers, time that could be used to produce a crazy bronze, a weird drawing that could be framed or sold, an insane sculpture that would make people in cool jackets say What the fuck. Yet still I lie here in my bed, writing this, not doing that, and worst of all: my head is neither here nor there, it is in Louisiana constantly, on the toilet, hip-height, safely kept in place by your tight grip.
While I am writing this, I am in the backroom, sorting out my working material. No, I am actually in the backroom of my old apartment in L., still sensing the energy you left when you moved away. While I am writing this and sorting out my stuff in the backroom, I think about the black-ink-traces you left all over my body, mapping you, preserving you inside my body like a second skin.
While I am writing this, I am somewhere else already with nothing more than a suitcase and a bicycle.
While I am writing this, I am scratching my left Oberschenkel, and I see dry skin coming off, white dandruff, protecting the black-ink layer underneath, a map of yours, like a second skin, mapping you, black ink preserving you inside me until my skin falls off for good.
Alternatively:
While I am writing this, I am scratching my left Oberschenkel, white dandruff coming off,
third skin removed,
second skin carefully preserving the map made of black ink you injected into it,
first skin is keeping it all together...
Packing List D.
- Favourite clothes
- Important documents
- Devices and cables
- Tattoo stuff
- Care products
- Medicine (pill, ibuprofen, x)
- Douglas
- Bike
- Danish books
- Wawwi
- Towels&sheets&bedding
- Sportswear
- Pencil case and notebooks
- Material?
Went back to writing in my journal a little. Might not archive this for some time. I'm happy to step a bit away from this blogging format. Still don't know what is the right thing to do right now, but I guess that will change.
N. said that it's sometimes touching to find a small note someone has left in a moving box between all their carefully sorted materials. Because within this whole big meaninglessness we seem to live in, someone still took the strength to make something, and this something can always only be unique in this time, made by this person, can only ever be unique.
N. also said that sometimes you do this one thing, and then you're left with the feeling that you already did that before, and what does that mean, doing the same things over and over again, maybe that means that this thing you're doing, that is truly what you are in that moment, that is what you are as an artist.
I don't know how to find answers on what to do. I recently experienced jealousy to be a big motivation, but I don't aspire to make this a central aspect of my production.
In a half-asleep state in the train, I can sense that the A. culture is finally beginning to thin out. A female (read) conductor with a C. dialect, short purple hair and a sparkling blue stone on her nose. Not a single beige MK bag in sight. How I missed this!
Later: a hard stop, the train comes to a stand. Police, fire department, emergency doctors, but none of them seem to be in a rush. Full closure, no trains pass in any direction. After two hours comes the final announcement: we are going to drive 200 meters forward and then the front of the train will be cleaned; after that, we can continue our way.
In the plane now, I get woken up by a random drunk guy in his 50s trying to tuck me in with my blanket. WTF?
X is soooo beautiful wtf. I walked around with a big smile all day. Cola is expensive here, bought a few bottles for 4$ each, But what's 4$ anyway, right. M. says the city is surprisingly quiet, and the taxi driver says so too. We saw sea lions and we ate nice Pad Thai and we went to MoMA. I saw AM and CT and MR (so x) and M. said some funny stuff about some artworks. I like hearing her straightforward, humbling opinion, and I like that she is opening up to my world. We went to a rooftop bar and had a view over the whole city. It's so sad that we have to leave so soon already; I could stay here so much longer than this. I also slept 12 hours tonight which is crazy for me. Now it's 9pm and I am really tired. I hope that I'll have some really nice x when I move to X.
Very cute&sexy dream about X and vegan yoghurt cake and XXXXXXXX... -> now very h. (h. stands for horny in this case)
P. S. I think I am finally done with xyz. Last c. was totally not as bad as expected (actually a bit disillusioning and thus ironically funny), and now I feel like I start really not to care anymore. I'm SO ready to fuck off now!!!
It is hard coming to a new place. Excitement has settled, now I am just pissed about everything that is not
working out. Maybe not the smartest idea to constantly move where things are getting more and more expensive when
all you wanna do is make art. Maybe smart though to take every opportunity to learn more about life and art and other
people if you wanna make good art. I am happy to be far away from X. though, and I will try not to take up so
many conversations about
Also P. said that there's always a reason to be sad, but the key is not to have anything or anyone spoil my fun.
Books I wanna read again:
- Writings by AM
- Alphabetical Diaries by SH
- (x...
I have always been living two lives. One here and one there. When I think about my life as a child, not too
many memories come up. What I remember though is this hint
towards a second life, a life that I never actually lived, but that has nontheless followed me every day.
Fantasy life.
I've been trying to cultivate real life recently. I think I have become good at it. My other life is not
so present anymore, only when I walk through the streets listening to music, or when I lie in bed at night; but there's not much
space for fantasies in my bed atm, and I just got a bike, so no more walking everywhere.
Somewhere between real life and fantasy life must be memory. Or maybe memory covers them both, like a wet, shimmery
layer of slime. Memory is such a weird thing. An absurdly big pile of non-objects, growing every day, yet most of it stays buried forever, never tangible, never archivable.
I am also trying to cultivate memory, but it is so hard to sit down and remember, so sad and
painful, or rather so overwhelmingly beautiful. I have this urge to reproduce memory, I am looking for ways, but memory
cannot be reproduced in perfection. Only memory is perfect, not the reproduction of it. Only the idea is perfect,
not the reproduction of it. (AM Writings)
A few days ago, S. said If you feel like you might be too close to someone else's work, you probably are. Have been thinking about this. This and that, that time
in L. and everything that happened there. Everything I learned from it and everything it made me become. I am happy about who I have become. It is just so tempting to close my eyes
and dive into all these moments (cigarette after cigarette in front of the tilted kitchen window. It couldn't be opened because it was blocked by the kitchen sink.)
I am happy to be someone else now, more like myself, happier, more precise. But these lonely evenings in the apartment, this feeling of real emancipation...
- Giant pile of cake mass, painted black, shiny.
More cake mass, no oven to bake cake mass, imagine warm, fresh cake mass, ready to be formed, but you have to be fast, it starts crumbling already...
So much l. building up in my body. I just need someone to pass it on to. I have a placeholder as usual, but X. is basically a stranger to me. A mystic figure in r. life, a hot, salty-tasting fucker in f. life.
I'm asking Why do we ask the same questions over and over again without ever finding an answer to them and you say (something like) The whole point is making something
that communicates without words, works in a different sphere... or whatever, and I think Yeah, that sounds reasonable, and now I am sitting in my bed, (tired), writing about it, using
WORDS.
And also this thing again about when it will ever be enough, but apparently no one really gets it here...
Like I could make a million drawings and you could look at a million drawings but aren't we just gonna go INSANE. And yes, you can always quit, but withdrawing from the dilemma
does not fix it, quitting is not the answer
Statens Kunstfond granted me a huge monthly payment for the next three years. The only two things they asked for in exchange were a nude picture and my firstborn, wich comes in handy because I basically came here to get impregnated.
X.X. almost got beaten to death by a group of japanese schoolgirls in Düsseldorf. Now he has Takumi-Verbot.
Enough with all the cynicism. I smoked a Bubatz and I am going to work hard for my new cardboard-dream.
P.S. M. reminded me to let things be what they are. Imitation he said, and I forgot what came next, but it was probably important...