And it is so that you could not appreciate me.
The new mother. The real mother. The holding mother. So many moments I was all fissured and deferred.
2023, June
For so long I thought I only had to face my repressed fear of showing my works, and then life would just slide loose like an avalanche or clogged pipe. Now I think differently. What I do really is, from the inside out, entirely incompatible.
They don’t want to get involved, for understandable reasons. I want to stay with them nonetheless, or precisely because of that.
We only truly value people in their death.
It stands at the very center of life, to separate with feeling the right from the wrong.
It is clear that, when you are sized up for your looks from such a young age, you come to think in these categories and judge others by them.
Life does unfold along a self-conception.
How does flying music relate to actual life.
People give me money, voluntarily or involuntarily. And are angry with me, want to see something. Are interested in agreements.
The desire to find a steady job is at odds with my artistic work.
She was one of the few people toward whom and with whom I simply wanted. I simply wanted. And this wanting desire, also in full awe of my survival struggles, wherever they may come from, forces a seriousness that brings about every memorable thought, makes it graspable in the eye of life, and lets it shine forth in the memory of our love that was and always is.
Life is the seriousness of wanting to live. And laughter and humor too can express this seriousness, when it exists on the ground of the wish to live. It is now a matter, in this all-decisive seriousness, of becoming, for society as well, a speaking mouth and a touchable body.
You become stupid without an institution. And you become smarter when you speak through one.
She would need someone who is all gentle and silent like herself. Who falls silent with her and understands in unison with her the echoing of soundlessness as life.
My circle can only be broken if I can live off my art.
You do have to introduce robust ideas into life.
One idea of late was to let reality dictate my brushstrokes. But now I asked myself to what extent it is a matter of editing the strokes, choosing, selecting, recombining them.
You take the chaotic tangle of the real, unravelable in its complexity, and hold it in an understandable image, in order to find love in this shared perception.
Being together is characterized solely by like-spirited forces. So with which people can I conduct an analogous play of composing and re-showing the real.
Is it like that with sex too? A sex reality?
If I do hate a space, or a world, for whatever reasons, justified or not, how then should people who are essential to these spaces, who draw their soul-blood from them, be suited to interact with me on a substantial level?
Nobody is to blame. Not I, who walks this path, and not those who make it impossible.
I will never fathom her coldness. Not in this life anymore. She is a person who in certain areas somehow switches away, switches over, switches off.
When the curtain falls, it falls swiftly, with all its might. But above all, it falls.
Here at the café, lashed to the busyness of laptop work around me, and the collective effort toward a functioning life, I no longer feel the melancholy.
Is it only pretended here that a life is being made to function or does it actually function?
This place is a hub of money. The people may not be real the way they are here. But as long as they are here, clinging to their laptops, they are.
Life, as I fear it, keeps shooting to pieces a momentarily believed security. And in this agonal fear I direct my entire capacity to love at the soft, blood-pumping bodies.
My reality is Bürgergeld.
On the way here I thought: Will I now smother every fear in work again? The way I grew up. And the way the world
demands it of me.
I was in a 10 year slumber. 10 years without tracks.
You walk through the streets hoping for a liberating idea. But it doesn’t come.
A haze of loneliness.
[A letter from the authorities that threatened to strip me of my livelihood.]
What a horror I am living through with the letter that reached me yesterday. Of course everything can still get worse.
Love doesn’t get stronger when someone dies, it just gets less dangerous.
Nothing can be loved as well as dead people.
The longest weekend of my life.
Most people underestimate life. It is much more serious than you think. And in this seriousness there is no time for leisure and lofty plans.
Burning up in the shadows was what I always wanted, after all.
How does a social group of perpetrators actually come about.
Legal advice tomorrow. Today I was already much calmer because of this confidence. I am exhausted, tired. Have eaten little the past few days.
That’s how my life goes: I think I’m awake while sleeping, as if numbed, hovering above the only true truth. I cannot look at it because it is a painful truth. Because it is a truth that would change my life decisively for the worse. And yet only a life in the face of this truth is possible.
A life that doesn’t allow for an art career.
A sad and lonely idea of life.
My parents didn’t like me. I experienced no love through them.
I lie here on the floor and marry loneliness.
You are right, I violated your boundaries.
Public administration has a violence all its own. This is the only admissible term for it.
How can we take everything from people?
No formal education, and it shows (in a good way).
I am driven and hounded by a foaming wave that the constraints of capital and the public administration (yes, who exactly?) pile up behind me.
Trustfall yourself through life.
Drop by the party for a bit. Be all shy and hope it goes well with someone. A body standing in bliss, taking pity on me.
A singing whale
Sincerely wanted summer memories. Of what was, a piece of sunset cut out of the sky and sewn together with us.
As the full and bleeding body that we, without knowing it, are. And in whose hidden-away love we forget what a stream, pouring as life, our affection actually is.
Life is a shivering will to wanting-to-be-here, to not-passing-away. It shows and figures itself as love. Which we carry within us as potential and compass.
The world wants us to grow cold and to forget about that.
My wondrous life. How terrible that I ever wasted a single second scolding myself and not believing that everything is meant to be exactly like this.
The success has to be big enough to cover all the pain.
When you know that you are watched, the actions take on something performative.
Absurd, when two bodies want each other sexually. What happens then.
Altogether, sexuality as the most difficult thing in our lives. The most powerful, most destructive, most wounding.
It would be nice if there were a singular narrative. But often there isn’t.
It now stands out that philosophical writings, unlike literature, want to communicate a thought, and that the unfolding and the eventual understanding of the thought is what keeps the readers hooked.
The suspense of knowing.
Academic life, or the people in academia. Many of those I met are conservative in a way. Maybe all people are conservative if they want to persist in this world in the long run.
It was also nice to hear that many of those working in the field don’t have a glittering life, work precariously, suffer from it, and that my approach of having another job outside my writing seems to be a good idea.
No backbone, or not enough color in public expression.
People hide. People are alone.
I suppose one has to jump. From floe to floe and from world to world.
An unbearable situation.
Still have to give time space. Its wondering and unfolding.
Suicide is less of a topic. But sometimes, with setbacks, also of a monetary nature. There are flashes of the thought: how is this supposed to go on.
Sometimes, experiencing serious interest isn’t that great.
When I say “fear of oneself”: the self consists of the others who create you. What is bundled there is a group that should love you but doesn’t.
Doing things for social reasons is futile. You won’t be rewarded.
Doing things for economic reasons is okay.
There is only one life. That of work.
Only what hands can bring forth gets said and thought.
What do you call it when abyss and normality lie close together. Money arriving on time or not being able to pay rent. Having a partner or being completely isolated.
The bourgeois mentality has a habit of standing up for what it wants without words: things are supposedly the way they are, they can’t be changed. It’s difficult, they say.
Part of me doesn’t want to participate in public places at all.
I can’t believe how good it is, what I wrote. She read it and didn’t like it.
To all the people that rejected me or showed blatant disinterest.
It is hard to bear that people are so different.
You do have to try to be good at something you can be good at.
A moment of timidity. No roof stretches over my sea.
People exist through capital. I don’t (yet).
I am glad about my body. How my pupils contract, how my muscles are, my skin, my hair, my face. All of it, simply. How I can move, how far I can run. What I can think, how I can love.
Love as a bodily property. As an achievement of the body.
Walking through the streets and nobody sees the hole. Here a meatball, a few potatoes. Standing at the checkout, how dumb. Quick across the street, the light is red. And nobody sees the hole.
The permanent job any day now, don’t worry.
It’s the events of time. Weather phenomena, political processes. Migration movements of reality.
Writing like a DJ set. In my small apartment on the edge of Neukölln.
I feel violated and disgusted by my job search.
