Went to a therapy session today. When it came to Esther, I cried. I didn’t want to talk about her. But then the therapist asked me if I was thinking about killing myself.
And the only thing I felt was the pain of parting, the sadness of the broken relationship with her.
Every person who does not participate in the majority society, cannot or does not want to, does not belong to it.
I want to constiute loneliness as a something of care.
A cool scarf of tears wraps around my skin.
When you are yourself, the world sorts itself.
Esther’s abuse was the only way for her to keep head water in our relationship.
I can’t think certain things because the truth it would provide suffocates me in my saying.
Today met Ida for the first time. She has something dangerous, which I already know. (Difficulties opening up.) But it was good. I like her. It will ride me through the day.
Yesterday on the bike still thinking of Ida. So that I felt I had to tell her everything that was happening to me. As if she were my first contact person. But we saw each other only once.
I woke up with a desire for her; a feeling of love. She had written to me at night. I saw it when I checked the time.
A great fear is in me. I hear Angeles by Eliott Smith. It’s like I have to break up with her before I even get to know her. A preponed pain. (I love her so much).
We meet at the Carp Pond. I meet her friends and all are quite tense. Kisses on the meadow a little away from it. I successfully throw her back into the grass. After a while, too many people are watching us. I put my head in her neck.
She wants to go to Plänterwald. The air is sweet and permeated with scent of the leaves beyond the paths. We sit on the riverbank and look out over the water. Baby ducks bob on the waves of the boats.
She has grown tired of the sun. (Not having drunk enough.) We drive to Lidl and I buy her water and a pint of smoothie. She waits by the shopping carts. Worn out, in her light shirt.
We drive over Grenzallee to Hermannstraße. A wide, asphalted route – oversized company logos slide through the sky. The highway murmurs in the distance, and below us lie junkyard and harbor. At a table in front of Pho Phan, she orders me a curry with udon. The sidewalk becomes the floor of a lounge. She hands me the food and we drive to her place.
A big fight in the night. It is about my name. When I tell her about the different meanings, the alienation, martyrdom and holiness, she starts to cry. She thinks I am delusional. Just before that, I told her that I really like her.
I go home.
How often I have sat here. Anchored to the dusty earth of Hasenheide. It looks bad with Ida. I should break away, I should renounce.
I don’t know why, but too much safety is not good for people.
Ultimately, only wordless language decides.
It is better not to speak. Not to speak consciously. What comes here, through conscious speech? Nothing.
What speaks and urges is something within us. A communication of attraction.
A human being, when it takes care of us, gains complete control over us. It slips into our body and lives as us.
If my mother does not stop my tears today, how could she have done so in the past?
So much porn centers on the idea of not being wanted.
Ida came over.
It was damp when we went out, and the sun was shining through the trees. I got cake from Bio Company and ate it with her.
The poem by Ida is beautiful.
I want to be smarter again. Talk smarter, speak more intelligently.
How deeply can I commit to a person? I don’t know. And it may not be important for the moment.
I’ve been editing a video of me talking to Ida all day. She sits next to her guitar, and shows me songs. Unfortunately I am not allowed to publish it.
I (too) have a pretty sad set of survival mechanisms.
Listening to the tracks from Ida. I have to scream out because I can’t believe how good they are.
When I think about what I'm hearing, I’m in awe of the magnitude that is appearing to me.
The problems will not go away. But maybe we will find a way. I hope so.
Because being speaks – and I have no control over it.
My life does in fact consist of the flourishing of my art.
I have too little time to pursue it.
We belong together.
I want to keep trying until I am no longer able to.
Feeling sad. So little time. My appearance cheers me up.
It rains tears of business.
Driving to her place at night after work. No changing clothes. It’s good to see her. Exhausted, I fall asleep.
You have to sit with people, and create a forbidden zone.
When Ida presses herself against me, and I see her child heart climbing into me. We lie there, nestled, on the mattress of her bed supported by pallets, enclosed in the low ceilings of a social housing complex, to breed from there as a nucleus the understanding of the city buzzing around us.
Berlin pumps like a heart. The streets vein into the land. And as the stars turn above us, we germinate as the texture of this collective temporality.
There is nothing to plan, nothing to solve, nothing to heal.
Anyway, it is interesting how close I am to Winckelmann in the sense that art needs a historicity in order to be understood at all. It is embedded in the principles of how people think and live.
Current art tries to expand the realm of the ordinary and to renew it. I, on the other hand, want to stabilize the ordinary and, in a broader sense, constitute it in the first place.
It is striking that what I find most meaningful in my notes is often not what I find most important while writing. Often, the whole evaluation and understanding of the notes is completely different from the time of writing. The subconscious in it – or should I say the being? – speaks, has its own logic and way of thinking. Something going beyond of what I intended.
It’s over with Ida, as it has been over so many times before. She writes it to me via text. This time I do not cry.