2023, May

It should be meant for you. You should be sucked into it like by a vortex.

Life lays its fortune into my hands. Not so that I may guide it. But so that I fall and always fall, to lose the controlling gaze upon it.

What do I want to do beyond the jobcenter?

In order to adapt or be carried away as part of an existing movement, self-sacrifice is necessary. In order to participate in positive techniques and disciplines, to be their part, areas that were previously smoldering and recognizable as potential are forgotten.

This is not perceived as a loss, but as a birth. What came before was undefined and unmotivated. Now, as part of a technical (i.e., theoretical-technical) environment, existence gains momentum.

But the dead flesh of my aspects that are not contained in this new discipline does not hide its smell.

It cannot be that this being-a-part overpowers all doubt and anxiety. It cannot be that my newly gained being-understood (and coming into being) in this new whole glosses the remaining childish tumbling.

I am not living. I am screaming. I am dead, doomed to death, in its concept, or it is dragging me down. Here it is not right, here in this field, in these ways of understanding. I am lost, something is missing.

A new approach to reality cannot be so intoxicating that these screaming doubts are appeased or fade away. They live on, they are there.

A new access to knowledge can’t be so intoxicating that these screaming doubts are appeased or fade away. They live on, they are there.

Just as we crave human flesh, and even more so the promise of understanding that emerges from it (and the resulting bond and the resulting security), this craving is satisfied by the fact that this promise also springs from our own flesh.

If we are (in a social sense) the person we long to be, people come to us because their multitude—as a society and, more precisely, as the binding force of family—already dwells within us. They mingle with us and enrich us into a comforting unity.

First, the black drink, the poison, enters me. Bitingly sharp blood flows through my veins. And the air turns into a stinking gas. I begin to cut myself loose, and blood floods and splatters everywhere.

The flaps of skin are loose, my skin still sore and littered. I crawl across the floor. But I live nowhere. There is no roof. And no real world outside of what I just cut myself away from.

This is how an animal cuts itself away from the living organism it came from and almost bleeds to death.

Now there is a change of scenery: we are in a school, the floors are shiny. The teachers have swollen eyes and walk strangely. And then there are the girls. The boys are small shadows under the benches at the edges of the hallways. But the girls stand there unscathed. Their backpacks are new and fragrant. And their jeans are tight and pure.

There is this life to which they belong. They absorb the school, try to master it. As the most dazzling figures of this downfall.

If they were to cut themselves off from this world, they would lose their girlhood and become human beings. But it’s not that simple.

The other basic motif is how man forms in the eyes and mouths. There is a rupture. Otherwise, one could extract the positive and develop it further. But that is not possible here. The world has become a war zone. And in it, the shed blood is swelling.

Spoken sentences are also a distance traveled. If I don’t walk outside, I walk in my thoughts.

I never doubted your wondrousness. And now, in the midst of silence, its sound is missing.

Also children have the evocing force that speaks to us from their outward appearance.

Have I already written this? For a long time, I thought that if I were to study art (which I never really wanted to do), that time would consist of breaking away, arguing, scratching, and hissing, saying that I didn't want this and that mine, i.e., my art, was entirely different.

Because if you take the struggle out of the confines of a singular institution and let it play out in the boundlessness of a societal everything-is-possible, it becomes productive.

The demarcation must not be made in relation to a specific discipline or concrete people (with whom one doesn't want to have anything to do anyway), but through the open pool of society.

Because here, in a resonance space such as this, it is most beautiful to remain attached to this society and these people. Here, I cannot do without you.

Life is society.

When you form long sentences, you run the risk of babbling, mentioning the unnecessary, giving it space, and forgetting what is important, no longer having the energy for it.

There are no people where I am. Everything revolves around the same: making money.

Maybe programming is the sorrow I must inexorably drift toward, so that it divides me, so that it appeases me; so that it shows me where I really need to go.

What bothers me about art: pseudo-scientificity and a peculiar relationship to truth.

The scientificity is not deep, it is not systematic. It alludes, it is effect.

The truth is put on display but not fully lived. It’s a position, a point of view, something put on show that doesn’t have to be taken seriously in everyday life and interpesonal relationships of the creators.

Art is simply fundamentally unsympathetic to me.

All relations of meaning are kept discernible in their dissolution.

I make up for my lack of intellect with aggressiveness.

Number one health indicator are people, good relationships.

It could be that what is conceiving in its becoming is starting to be here.

Driving of a wedge into the realm of theory.

(Physically) outlasting summer.
Perhaps life is actually outliving.

The people are where the money is.

Describing the city. Watching a YouTuber trying to buy Rolex watches in Abu Dhabi.

The office buildings. They stand. Why are they there, what is there? Today I went out to eat outside the city. Sad, no people.

You actually have to financially be rooted in the city. Trading in it, renting an office, building and renting. Generating revenue. Being in demand. That is life.

I have no ideas. I am buried in rubble that I have been unable to move for years.

A new idea I have is to let myself drift more and try more things. It is also true that I am making steady progress in my baby steps. But they are really tiny steps.

Another idea I had is that of confrontation. It aims not to pluck my “dream friends” out of thin air or encounter them by chance in an enchanted place, but to create them by turning over the clods of earth of existence, so to speak, in order to turn their fertile underside upward and grow with them in this moisture.

I am more disappointed in people than I currently allow myself to admit. I am to blame for many things. I contributed to the fatality of all my failed relationships and bear significant responsibility for them. Nevertheless, there are specific moments that hurt particularly badly. Being lied to, being sexually “cheated” on, being incomprehensibly thrown out of someone’s life, and much more.

My honest opinion is that I think people don’t know any better. They can’t deal with me, their conflicts, and their lives better than in this messy way.

And for the very reasons I seem to be almost buried in, I can’t manage to separate myself from them when time demanded it. I often read the warning signs for such an outcome very early on. But I stay.

That is art in backwards: reality settles as sediment. And time does its work.

And then there is art forwards: we strenuously condense forms and the feeling dwelling within us into something that is externally tangible. And as such, it radiates in power. Many call it a artwork. It plays with our experiences and we are moved.

No one can know if I am good.

Thinking back, although fortunately not yet obsessively, about M. And I hope that this new keyboard will help me with my life.

Speaking with the body. I am naked. You can see my body. It tells a story. The girl sees it and is enchanted.

Theory often has something “theoretical” about it, as does art. It is as if they took place completely detached from life, reflecting on it and meddling in it, primarily through these views and observations. But they are not fused together. This has also been proclaimed many times. Or if art/theory were one with life, then it would be like how school or teaching prepares us for life, “guides” us to it, but happens independently of it.

This is very evident in events that relate to texts. The protagonists are at the front and the audience sits at their feet.

I have a religious longing. I miss the real presence of life in art and the real presence of art in life.

Or that the event truly transforms into an artistic event or art into an event of life.

I want to meet and swear oaths. Recite suras. Sing together. And also music not as a non-binding “performance,” but as a real mass.

I want to meet and swear oaths. Reciting surahs. Singing together. And also music not as a non-binding “performance,” but as a real mass.

If I want to remember something forever: say it publicly.

No one can give me an answer to the feeling of not being understood and not having a place.

For a long time, I thought the internet was a substitute sociality.

In rhythm with the never-ending sadness, I do my work. It is its sound that presses the seeds into the soil.

The possibilities to live lie there in pieces. What motivation should tie them together? The mournful swallowing will not go away.

It is night in the world of my being understood.

The reputation of his beauty preceded him.

A consignment of my assembly.

Every hope is knocked to the ground at some point.

The feeling of my innate qualities. Waiting eagerly. To be seen by the light of the world.

There is no single answer to what ought to be.

Our fields of conversation arched hopefully. The cathedral was a blink of an eye away from completion.

Benjamin was right not to say “I”, inasmuch as this I is often furthest from reality, and we rather blend into something greater than ourselves that is beyond our control.

If I were declared terminally ill, I would try to express the love I never expressed, to express the truth about the world and society that I never could express.

In the absence of the social, there is not nothingness.

The “feminine” – one may forgive me – seems to follow such a formulaic process that revolves around whether or not I should be partnered. It’s like a job application process that may or may not result in an employment contract. Am I part of the company, working on its internal concepts, its future, and its market assessments? Or do I walk through the customer entrance during regular opening hours for appointments where a counter separates us?

Lose 10 Pounds and the world will be mine.

With every separation, one must make amends.

Art is perhaps similar to philosophy in that it gives time a face.

In doing so, it is not an artifact that places itself in the action like a conception of the self, willingly trying to access it.

It is a human – with its skin. With sprouts on its face. And distinctive hair. It looks at us. In the blue-green of his uniqueness.

How can we leave it behind? How can we walk away from it?

This essentially means that the process of approaching, before actually being together, i.e., before reaching a state of stasis of unity, is the actual togetherness.

The good thing is that I can imagine a professional future for myself.

The girls I’m with. I don’t want to judge them, they have their reasons. But they really have no idea what they’re doing. It’s very impulsive, crashing, I don’t know.

I just have to write to her. Because that is the fabric life is made of.

An »invisible borderline«.

For a long time, I thought that being there for others was the most important thing in life, the basis for everything else. (That includes having children.) Right now, I'm greatly afraid of the combination of material constraints, care work, and the desire to make art.

If I’m not a handsome man, it’s a betrayal of my class. As a man, you have to be handsome in order not to be cis. A truly handsome man is no longer cis.

One thinks it should be manageable. But then it is not, and one falls and falls.

The body is relcutant.

This isn't about building a few muscles, losing some fat, being found attractive by girls, and losing myself in them.

This is about what every beautiful woman is concerned with: the conception of something that is greater than all of us and that is not primarily intended to enter into direct relationships with others.

It is about the creation of a world. About a play of figure, materiality, language, and future. And in this world, we exist together (albeit in unequal positions). As a person becomes beautiful, human bodies rise to the surface from its depths. Suddenly, it is populated and overflowing.

Let the terms work. Not “I” think This and That. Rather, This and That beat each other up, reconcile again, etc.

When I say something that is close to my heart, and it is understood and even affirmed by someone close to me, it gives me a feeling of happiness, and the rarer or deeper my words are, the more penetrating the warmth of the moment.

But how well can I remember such moments? Specific moments when I said something, it was understood, and my body, which had just been held together by skin, dissolved and melted into the room.

I can’t remember any specific moment.

What seemed always seemed more powerful to me was when someone else said something that had previously been inside me. Is it because this other person pours what is loosely present in me but not articulated into sentences of truth that, in their clarity and power, even surpass my own awareness of a thing? Or is it because this other person usually speaks publicly or from the anchoring of a work, and thus my constitution and inner truth take their place in the public arena, are exhibited in it, occupy a self-confident space? So that it is spoken for me among others?

I don’t know. But what I do know is that the greatest being understood comes through the utterance of others, and that with my utterance being understood of others can occur.

I have an obligation to speak.

As much as I am influenced by what I read and the voices that surround me, I have always wanted the building blocks of my artistic work to be the indissoluble social moments that I experience and that are my life. There is something inexplicable and an inscrutable tension attached to them that is inherent in everything human—no matter how often it has occurred in endless variations and will continue to occur.

As a teenager, I had internalized this completely. That creating a work, a world, an idea was everything.

And I sometimes miss that when coming into contact with others. I think we are so special, everything is so magical, now would be the time to elevate ourselves to a work of art, to completely lose touch with the mundane and everyday, or to transform everyday life and elevate it. Instead, there is often a network of friends that is stronger and, above all, more normative than the vision that our togetherness actually entrusts us with.

This morning I laid weak. When there are no people around, I lack courage. My life lies there as before. But I cannot enter it. I cannot get up and participate in it.

What is missing is the human affirmation from which it could be built.

I don’t know if I would like conventional public attention.

Fortune gets written into the work. It has to exist beforehand. It can’t be prophesied in the work.

I cannot condense what is not there. And every creation must actually aim at a context for which it exists.

Isn’t it strange that we disembarked from the same pond and yet we are so different? Why is it so difficult to find someone who matches us?

My lonely path. Sometimes I forget why I am even on it.

We look into each other’s eyes. The most beautiful face half an arm’s length away. Love unites us, we are completely divided. Last night we slept together, or maybe it was tomorrow. And when we are apart, the warm gas of yearning missing each other pounds within us. Where are you, and why aren’t you with me? Everyday life tears at us. It takes us here, pulls us there. Until our imminent reunion takes away the sweet pain of mutual craving.

We don’t really want to be together, and then again we do. We are incompatibly destined for each other. The world has chosen us as perfect opponents to test the deadly game of union on us.

The impossibility of our being together is a meaning of life that I don’t know where it is taken from.

The impossibility of our being together exceeds our ability to materialy overcome it.

The impossibility of our being together recedes into the background of true love and destiny for one another.

The impossibility of our being together arises from a desire of life to produce fundamentally different people and to then unite them.

The art of dumping at the right moment.

Understanding is the secret spice of all togetherness. Understanding means speeding through life in shared movements. We are together; not as coexistence, but as choreography.

Nothing is really given to us at birth – or is it? Certainly, we are shaped by the structures around us. But isn’t the most human trait to feed off each other’s energy? As if we all possessed understanding and meaning, attention and interpretation. And we huddle together like piglets at the trough, snatching at what is beautiful and gives us strength. However prissy and righteous we may appear in doing so. In restriction and decency, we perform the greatest dance to be recognized.

Isn’t it the same in love? In the midst of constant change, we ramble on about stasis, we process it with marriage. As a safe space from the otherwise overwhelming impermanence. I am not against it. But is it really the truth?

I have been betrayed several times. Admittedly, by people I knew would not make long-term plans with me, but who pretended with every thought to seek secure bonds and live for them.

Isn’t it rather the case that every relationship, if not an eternal trial of strength, is a negotiation for attention and validity? As if we were playing a board game forever, having to negotiate a new round with every roll of the dice.

All fame fades. As if it were a life unto itself, which also dies with the continued existence of its carriers.

Moondog was a socialite.

The worst enemy is the visual arts. But indie music is close behind.

Thought about taking classes at the university. Now I'm at home and have slept. I don't think that anymore, or less.

It is easier to be paid than to be loved.

Our profession is the only effective means of self-expression that we have.

One might believe that money only needs to be present in a minimal amount, and that people then have the freedom to embody the full truth of their uniqueness in the rest of their time or abilities. As if money were a necessary evil, hidden like water pipes in the walls, merely part of the infrastructure of our modern world, very important in this function, but that a life outside, beyond, and above it existed. I do not mean to say that the spirit and logic of money is evident in every word we utter, in our reflections, and in the forms of our social relationships. Rather, that the value of every human life is measured by what (paid) activity it can pursue, how much it earns in the process, how much and in what way it had to transform itself to achieve this position, and to what extent this way of life is embedded in a larger social reference system of fellow human beings who are kindly disposed towards it.

And also. When you see people on the streets. Everyone derives their identity from the way they earn money. It is so much more than just a sum of money in an account. It determines our social status, the life we can lead, the places we are allowed to be.

A pain you don’t know you have.

A form that arises from life is always more exciting than one that is planned.

In money, people are contained. Money means: people are in it.

Money is also a medium of communication. Of course, it provides us with life, shelter, and food. But it also carries a certain appreciation: you are okay, you can stay. And also: I can participate in you, I can be with you.

Money is extremely social in that it gives us dignity and a right to exist, as well as making us capable of participating in society, of being people among people.

The financial support I received from my parents for almost 10 years was always structured in such a way that this feeling never arose. I was wrong, living at their expense, not a full member of society, and did not have sufficient means to participate effectively in it. The waterline always remained a few centimeters above a tolerable level. I was too young to free myself from it, was depressed (probably because of it), and had no family from whom I could learn about a real life.

Things got better from the point when I confidently “took” this money.

Women’s cuteness is always designed to exceed mine.

The absence of people only results from the absence of activities. And these activities must be properly connected to the world.

Not socially – but financially.

Just realized again: reading Schelling and finishing reading Schelling are two different things.

In a way, philosophy should not be possible. It is a land grab of the social and the material in equal measure.

Well. A new era is beginning for me. I have recognized the material structure of artistic work. As if it were about recognition, appreciation, and community building.

No. Artistic work (including philosophical work) is all about material interests. The reputation of a certain group, success, which is supposed to carry you.

All publications and forms of publication are structured accordingly.

All finished products that are needed in order to be able to circulate in the public sphere according to the rules of the game are, in the first or second instance, monetarily pre-determined. If not directly for end consumers, then in the B2B world of ideas, the university, adapted to the forms found there, which in turn are based on monetary interests (permanent positions, funding).

Ideas are always weak and fragile. That is their nature. There is no such thing as strong and weak ideas. All that matters is what becomes of them.

The more women love me, the more I hate them.

A good sentence. When I read my entries, I thought it could be interpreted as misogynistic.

Too tired to explain.