everything you ever wanted in a xmas video

stylee sped up shots of the city?
check.
quirky character in pin stripe suit and bowler hat?
check.
strange lo-fi special effects?
check.
choreographed, jump up, drum and bass sequence???
check. check. check. check

by way of apology

Right so it really really annoys me when someone ( say an ex or an old school friend ) comes to a city (london for example) and says

oh my gawd... London is, and London is, and I don't like it
because I find it soooo, I mean its just very, and i could never, its just not
my kind of, its so, you know, i don't know, what i'm trying to say is, its just-

even though, they've been there a total of two, maximum three days. have certainly never lived there. and in their short visit met hung out with, no one who lived there. but...

still happily made a myriad of assumptions just from walking twenty minutes around their west end hotel, maybe might have ventured down a few blocks of brick lane, or around hoxton square for a drink or two, only so they could complain the night life isn't sooo cool, but the tube is kind of straightforward to use, i mean it was sooooo easy for them to get around.

they tell me all this, hurl forth all these rapidly made, ill informed opinions, based on practically nothing, other than ideas they had about the city that they brought with them, the minimal wandering they've done,basically just to back it up. and i listen and listen and get more and more wound up until i'm like

SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!!!!!!!! you have NO idea what you're talking about! Cities are not so easily revealed. You MIGHT get an idea if you LIVED here for a few months, but just an idea!!
! and maybe not even then. cities have all kinds of sides. sooooo i recognize that...

actually...

I still haven't seen Paris.

for what it is.

for what it could be.

for what i could like about it.

and i probably can't...

unless i live here, learn the language, meet people, sink in, and and and.

I've probably been looking for the wrong things. i've probably had the wrong barometer for making comparisons. (I mean nightlife i have covered in Berlin, why look for it here?)
i probably shouldn't have been comparing in the first place.

Every city should be seen for its own particular charms, in its own context. Maybe its just that with paris. Paris.. seemingly THE european city, the only city that new york (the most arrogant of all cities) fears. I expect more .

Last night I was surprised. I saw a side of Paris i'd never seen before. Warmer, more relaxed, less glossy. Girls in Doc martens. A barman who actually asked where i was from with a smile, rather than glaring at hearing my accent. (and when i stuttered back L'angleterre, he seemed interested, but maybe he was just chatting me up?)

so hey, maybe its not quite my city. but there is more i'd like to scratch the surface of. i'm can't see myself living here (hmmm also said that about berlin once...) but as far as return trips next year go, i'm definitely not writing it off.

*real* heartbreak and loss

The heart can lie...

she thinks back to when she tried to explain the pain of heart break. she said she felt as if as if something inside her had died. As if someone had died. She had no idea. She didn't know she was lying. at the time it felt true. It was entirely a new kind of pain. a an ache. At times it would dull, but never truly go away.

it spiked as she moved .when she recalled something particular, when she remembered.. For weeks she lowered into this pain. For days and days she had no interest in leaving her room, in getting out of bed, in eating, in speaking, to anyone. For days she was perfectly content staring at a corner of the wall.

And then she got out, she thought she;d had enough. She attempted to engage again with the world but she couldn't. There was no energy or interest in creating a facade. Maybe she just had to accept it for a while, nothing could be done but to feel it. And so she let herself sink into it, expressed it when she could. Until she started to claim herself, see herself, to function in the world, again.

But she lied to herself about one thing. This was not, as if someone had died. She hates herself a little now for even making the comparison at the time. She didn't know how better to express it, but she couldn't have been more wrong. the sense of loss then, was nothing at all like someone dying.

Because when you separate from another, there is always the chance of reconnecting, at least as individuals, as two who have shared something . Or maybe time passes and you realise you weren't really ever meant to connect in the first place. You never truly lose someone in that way. They are still out there. but that is not the way, with death.

Real heartbreak, is knowing you will never ever have the chance to see someone again. Real heartbreak is when you must carry all the things you never said. Real heart break is the regret you feel for all those potential plans, and the parts of her, qualities you took for granted. That is the real break up, That is the only time you can say the feeling is something in you that dies , comes from someone that dies.

The other feeling is painful, hurtful, but it is nowhere near the same.

she's just not that into you...

I think I just don't fancy her.

Don't you think she's beautiful?

Yes.

Charming?

Ummm, in her way

Romantic?

I'm not sure if romantic is what I'm after any more...

You haven't really given yourself a chance to get to know her

True. But we have met quite a few times.

Hmmm

Honestly, I think she's just not my type

Maybe you just need to give it more time.

No. I think you know pretty quickly. I think generally right away you can tell.

Yeah. I guess you're right. But-

But what?

You've got it wrong before

Twice. The first time I was very young.I was romantic. Probably the result of listening to too much pop music or, watching too many forties films. The second time... The second time I was distracted. There was another involved.

Sounds confusing.

It wasn't. It was more a matter of timing.

So what if this is the wrong time?

No. No I think I'm just not that into her...

Well, she's nothing like the other one.

Not at all...

So Paris just isn't your type then?

No...No I guess not.

Wherein she decides to be reintroduced to society.

As much as all this intensive contemplating and writing has been fascinating, eating on my own in the evening has been less than interesting. When i put this in an email to a mate in berlin, her response is

ha! i like to go out and eat on my own, thinking about what they think about me. am i a celebrity, a business woman, a criminal, a food journalist - who knows ;).

when you are out in the world on your own
you can be anybody you feel for, no-one is there to tell you who you are.

and its fun to ask the staff when you leave "where's the closest stripbar?", "where can i change my yen into euros?", "is it allowed to carry a gun here?", "where can i get a a playmobil pirateship at this time?" etc. It gives them a good story (maybe) and you a good laugh

She may have a point. But i'm not nearly rock and roll as her. And it has been a few days. And i have been spending what feels like a lot of time on my own. And perhaps i forgot to mention i that I do know people here. Not many, but a few. it felt like time to reconnect with society. I'm getting too serious. i break into the the eve, to meet a dear friend.

We catch up outside a very cute bar near gare de l'est, huddling outside under a heater, (because i've yet to cope with the reality of the smoking ban). After five or ten minutes of talking, an ancient looking man sat alone beside us, requests we talk quieter. I apologise, lean in closer to my friend. We are now practically murmuring to one another. Ten minutes later, he's ordered another wine and is tapping my shoulder again. I'm apologetic but exasperated.

My friend explains (in german so our table neighbor doesn't understand) this is typical here. Its like the issues we have in berlin with noise and neighbors but worse as it happens everywhere. The people beside us leave, we move one chair away from him. Five minutes later ...He's sleeping... Maybe we've had enough heart to heart talking. After all, I am bent on finding the soloution to the question my travels have failed to answer thus far.

Ou est les hipsters?

And not long after I find myself thinking

Ahhhh there they are.

In bar/club/bistro la fidelite' .

upstairs, in the restaraunt, which is gorgeous, and appears to have great food, is some kind of private party with a black white dress code. Fitting really, as colour isn't something fashion here dabbles with easily( but more on that later. )

This the city synonmous with chic, where they have mastered the art of artfully posing, and created the perfect soundtrack to pose to. Electronic, chilled, not too beat heavy, the odd 90s hiphop/pop track thrown in for ironic good measure. Is it cruisey? I'm not sure. A lot of people talking, not really dancing, but then strictly speaking i suppose it isn't a club.

I'm reminded of stockholm. inititally the fact that you are in a room where everyone has perfect bodies and bone structure and dressed like they have walked off a fashion shoot (not edgy enough for vice, or i.d. But maybe vogue, or another magazine?) is overwhelming. but it stops being intimidating, when you realise perfect or not (my mate calls this crowd average by paris standards) everyone starts to look a little the same.

Toilet ques are generally a good place for the style and posing gaige, and at this place they don't disapoint. I subtly survey the line up of ladies and gents in front of me (its unisex here you see ) the ladies are a little black dress brigade, in four to six inch heels , bags and belts in this season camel and leopard , perfectly applied red lips (all in a nearly matching shade). They are girly, sleek, porcelain skinned, Doe eyed, but... dare i say it, in their silmilarity, not that striking.


i learn my first paris style lesson, its easy to stand out in the crowd, all you need is a bold dash of colour.








When i descend down the stairs only one woman in the vast restarunt catches my eye. She is the only girl in the place who dares to wear red, a floaty loose scarlet maxi dress, belted with some gold cord.

She stands like the beacon of style she must feel like, and she does look amazing in the sea of black and white attire. I watch her walk down the stairs to the club and follow her at a cautious distance.





The crowd in the bar/club/smoking area is also ridiculously good looking. it appears every single man has perfected smart casual, urban, smart, but loose with it, all have beards, dark hair, one out of four have glasses. teh girls with cropped pixie cuts, or shampoo commercial shiny long tresses.



They have painted on skinny jeans and blouses, or more likely, short stunning, dresses, well cut, fit to form. The ratio of men to women is definitely in a lady's favour. But wait, i've lost the girl in the red dress. How did that happen? The room is so small?

Of course, there she is. Djing. Thats where her style bravery stems from then. The dj set up is interesting . There appears to be five or seven or ten different people spinning. Men and women, they all play for a track or two, before swapping out, lingering aroudn the dj box, dancing, drinking, a few light up ginormous spliffs. (Oh yeah i forgot to mention, for some reason i can't understand, you can smoke here.) The real party, as much as this place parties, is definitely the dj box.


Drinks are served in plastic cups and are ludicrously expensive. Apparently the place shuts at one, even at weekends, which usually would be an hour i arrive somewhere, but tonight despite the lovely company of my friend , i kind of want to go home. One more drink she says. I don't feel like another long drink, and i've had so much wine in the last days i feel like its coming out my pours, so i suggest a shot. I don't realise they don't really do that here. She goes to the bar, returns with two tiny plastic shots of vodka, tells me a minor stir was caused at seeing and hearing her order them. But the real punchline was the cost, five euros for a shot? Gosh we are spoiled in berlin.



I walk home. no more or less impressed wtih paris night life than any previous trip here. I get a little lost, and take longer to find my way home. And as I down the streets and try to remember where i'm going, the snow falling under the street lights is silly gorgeous. It's almost unreal. It looks less like snow and more like silvery confetti. It doesn't stick to the ground, or my coat. It makes me think, even the snow here is high heel friendly.
How terribly appropiate..

heartbeat, pacing, am I in sync?

On arrival, the airport is the buffer zone. where everyone pauses for no apparent reason. Pauses, asking questions, figuring out maps, taking painfully long to buy train tickets. This is the first and last time the city will allow you this. The airport is not the city, is nowhere near the city. As you make your journey closer and cross city limits, the real rhythm of a place comes.

Pick three cities. Draw lines between the points of them.


Here is your triangle: berlin- paris – london.


Which is the head? Which is on the right and left? Beware, these points can move sometimes. They can move when you think that they're assigned. You can't assign cities after all. You definitely can't claim them. A true metropolis, belongs to no one. It belongs to you as much as to them. They move and cross it, with or without you.

The joy of a big city is anonymity, the sadness is, the loneliness that anonymity can bring. Leaving town is not necessary. I used to always say, if the city gets you down, there is always a new side to discover, there is always a borough unfamiliar. You can start over easily enough if you want, leave your village, cross town. Get a new job, hang out in new places, get new friends. If you like you can even change your name. Give birth to yourself again. As long as you avoid those from your past, your history can be erased.


Can it?

I am no one here, I have no history. I don't need a name. The language confuses, creates more distance, takes me away, prepares me for the next journey. Going to london used to feel like homecoming, but now it has been displaced. I do not have a place there. My ties have loosened. It is another home yes, but only transitional. For now homecoming is saved for berlin.

What is this place you are in now? Who is it? You wonder, if a city is a person what does it wear, how does it walk? If a city is a person, how do you know them? How familiar are you? Do you sit together, walk together, do you feel an attraction or repulsion? Your opinion can change with time but really, you know in those first minutes. What is the sound of its footsteps?

What is the sound of its heartbeat?

I think of sleeping with someone, only sleeping. How do you sleep with someone? I think of lying on my side, their arm, their body curled around me. Or maybe you rest your head on their chest, feeling the rise and fall of their breath, listening to their heartbeat. sometimes your breathing follows their pattern naturally. somtimes you allow your self to sense the tempo, slipping into peaceful . But sometimes you can't. sometimes you can't even sleep..

When you arrive its always a little like swimming upstream. You can't keep up. You don't belong. You don't have anywhere to go particularly, any reason to rush. Those that live here, they have plans and schedules. They are moving to schedule, along paths and routes familiar to them. They do it without thinking, they do it automatically. They don't think of looking up at the buildings, of studying the shade of blue of the sky.

You you are also like this in your city,. Although berlin is a funny kind of city, because in your kiez, even those who live there, seem to breeze around, reject the a frenetic insistance of pacing, a sense of it all being pressing. You have more time. You take your time.

Every day here i go out for a walk. Walk for the sake of walking. Every day I pace myself a little differently, slip closer into a collective rhythm. play with this idea, even as an outsider, of walking in sync.

we'll always have...

the last time he came to berlin, when we were on the verge of ending, he said he needed to get perspective. so i gave him a map, told him to go out for the day .i asked him to let me know if he wanted to meet up later.
i gave him a map, and walked away.

he went as far from my kiez as he knew how to get to. he liked alexanderplatz, all that space.
he didn't find me, but then i don't think he was looking.

I'm ok with maps, but my sense of direction is terrible. i can remember places. but when i walk out a store i've just walked into, my impulse on leaving is always to turn the wrong way., its like maths, my brain jumbles, i panic, i need to really stop and pause and concentrate. but i'm not scared of getting lost. i trust in the fact that even with a confused sense of direction, i tend to find my way. the scenic route may take longer, but its often far more interesting.

I told him last night i wanted to get a map, preferably the paris equivalent of a london a-z. , so i could spend today getting lost, he laughs and says its not getting lost if you have a map to find out where you are. I think about this as I go to sleep. and when i wake i think about walking, and running into myself..

i set out between four and five. , i walk for hours and hours. i feel resolute in not taking along a map. i will find my way somehow. i feel convinced by that. i have set myself a mission. to get lost, to wander. to allow myself to be aimless. its ok here, this is the only reason i'm here. i don't have to be anywhere, there is no one who will call me, there is no one to see. i don't want to see anything specifically. i just want to walk, walk and feel like an outsider. enjoy it,all the foreignness.

i am getting used to certain things. to the awkwardness of my nonexistent french. and people see and hear me struggle, but don't groan, are more patient than i expect. the second day in the tabac the man corrects me, but not only does he correct me, he smiles after. like the cab driver nights before whose amused bonsoir greeted my overwhelmed bonjour at ten pm, he seems to be saying, its ok, but get it right.

i follow impulses to walk down various streets and am annoyed by the smoking ban here. Don't undsterstand paris with a smoking ban. consider bars and cafe's and decide not to sit in any of them. and its all ok. all of it is ok. whatever i do by myself is ok. I only have myself to answer to. as i walk my thoughts race and raise in volume. i wish i could upload the thoughts directly to my laptop. walking is another kind fo writing. when i'm walking i am always writing. i walk and i think about travelling and tourism.

you want to discover something different. so you are cautious about anything not french, any menu or sign in english, or worse yet menus with pictures and numbers. you try to steer away from anywhere you hear much english spoken. search out the authentic. you find one bar with a smoking area, opulent velvet red and crystal chandeliers and art deco signage and it looks like the dream of what you want your french cafe to be until you walk up closer and yes, the sign is in english, but then you're by the place de republique. you should know better.

authentic. authentic is the area you stay in. so many streets far from the idea of postcard pretty paris. it reminds you more of parts of london you've lived in and loved. north african restaraunts and chinese places, as many places to buy noodles and couscous as baguettes and brioche. but it feels grim . you want something....sparkly, shinier. you find yourself caring less about authentic, you are here partly for the ideal, the dream. and part of you, loyal to your own city even says, the grimey bits of berlin may be dirty, but they're so much more charming than this... or are they?

i advise anyone walking around a city on their own to make a language learning lesson your soundtrack. its both calming and strange. i am reminding myself of french, a language i tried to learn and completely forgot. I am amused again by that pesky word friend, the translation of friend. in french it appears the same problem as german. mon ami, my boyfriend... mein freunde, my boyfriend. no difference between boyfriend and boy friend. suits the french really, i'm sure they like their ambiguity, but the germans? i always hate it when i'm seeing someone and they introduce me as a friend. i always feel awkward introducing someone as a friend who is much more than that. but its that inbetween stage, its tricky..
what do you say?
\this is (insert name) is probably best.

"Une bouteille de vin blanc” helpfully plays just as i linger outside a wine shop. I take it as a cue, but buy a bottle of red instead. And then walking out, (which way am i headed?) small talk, polite conversion. my least favourite questions.
for example: what do you do?
possible answers given.

I am in education,
I am in finance.
I am an architect.
I am a writer.

She calls me on skype that night. She has her gleam back, is fulll of brilliant non sequitors, says: no one has a relationship with an artist. artists have relationships with themselves and occasionally let you in for a threesome. and i think she's right really, but it can just as easily apply to me. in my temporary home. drinking wine and stuffing my face full of macaroons, i relax in her kitchen. i think about cities. my relationship with them. i treat them like people. and like people i'm not always good with first impressions. sometimes those i resist are the ones i should spend more time with. put more work into, as he likes to say. I hear this one saying

I don't need you, but there is something for you here. find it, and take it with you.
if not, i will be here when you come back again.

I don't need to find myself here. i brought myself along. Which way do i turn next?

It doesn't matter. After a year of so much travelling, i've finally learned something.
Sometimes the destination is less important than the journey...

memory, familiar and foreign, the limitations of words..

what am i supposed to feel? no. what am i supposed to be doing? i didn't mean to run away this time. i actually just wanted a space, a dissconnected space. a space for myself. but the timing. the awful timing of things.

i wanted to come here by train. i'm always flying and wishing i came by train. when you travel by train you go from center to center. you feel the distance of the journey, the rumbling of the carriage over land and water. you arrive thinking yes its about time i've arrived.

but an airplane is a curious thing. you travel out to an airport, a space itself that feels abstract. not as much as her sudden absence feels abstract, but still distanced, unreal, strange. you go out to a place outside of a city full of people waiting only to rush at the last minute to board. and maybe there are problems with security, and you're rushing only to wait again. until you board, and in the air in two hours or less you are thrust into the heavens thnking. remembering.

he said : its all a bit irrelvant that now
he said: if we learned anything about this its how incidental certain things are.
he asked: why are you going there then?

i agree,

yes I think so,

i don't know.

I walk down rue de belleville thinking every chinatown is a bit like every other chinatown. i walk side streets towards the republique thinking hollywood only ever shows the pretty parts of paris, this american idealised dream of paris. it never shows the grimey bits and ghetto bits or the edge you feel from some of the men. the way some of the men strip you down with their eyes, not flirtatious, not at all. more like, directly invasive. i tried to tell him but he didn't understand. he said, you must like that.

I walk through the streets of the marais listening to language lessons . i meant to set it to french but even my ipod is confused. french and then german and then english. it starts mundane. in theory stays mundane but as it goes to conversation it , it grows existential in tone, in its delivery.

Tomorrow will be...?

Is it usually?

Will it be warmer tomorrow?

the speaker female, calm, hopeful, uncertain. hopeful.

Will it? Will it?

we are not invincable. its crazy that this was ever a new thought. but i know i treat my body as if it is. i push it past its limits and why? a silly theory of mine from teenage days, the worse you treat your body the less it demands. the more it can take. but no thats a lie, all it leads to is a loss of conversation with your body. a complete lack of clarity of how it functions. what it wants. until it suddenly breaks down, shouts out, says: You can no longer speak, or breathing is tricky, or pains or noises, or maybe you can't run, or maybe you have to lie down, until it tells you otherwise, sometimes long after you'd like. its drastic, but its the only way to get my attention, so many times i've said, how can i tell the difference between the flu, a throat infection, or maybe just a hangover, or maybe i've just smoked too much.
why do i do it to myself? why?

but its his story to talk about bodies. i don't talk about bodies, my body, her body. but now when i walk down streets that more than anything make me feel overwhelmed, in the way, unecessary, i think of her body when i last saw her. i think of its lightness in my hands as i held her, helped her to stand up, to walk her to the restroom. the standing wiht her in the cubicle. the difficulty for her to even.. even... standing there, trying to be normal about it. somehow i was, because being with her i forgot myself. she was more important. i waited for her to tell me when she was ready for me to walk her back again. at least there was something now i could do for her.
somehow she got a little strength when back in bed. she was telling us about boys in school and skipping school. getting drunk at sixteen. caught wiht him on some go cart thing. she got expelled. even then i said. you were that kind of girl even then. and the three of us smiled.
before she went to bed she told us that physical contact was good for her. so we each took a foot in hand and massaged. and i teased her, said oh lady, i always wanted to get you in bed but not like this. he played along ahhh now she admits it. she disoriented, but happy, face questioning, eyes like a child. what? you're joking right? and i said. oh darling, i guess you'll never know

she laughed. and it was a beautiful sound, but not at all like her ussual throaty laugh. it was a new laugh with the same lightness of her new frame. musical, glassy, like hanging chimes. i kissed both of her cheeks, and maybe her mouth., i can't remember, but she hugged me after, we had to do it gently as she was so frail. we watched her fall asleep. she'd used up all her energy for the evening. we would be the last visitors that night. in my head, I planned to see her again. I had no idea it would be the last time.

but any memory or eulogy doesn't seem right now. i find myself in a new place. i know there were reasons to come here but i lost them on the way. tomorrow i think i want to spend all day getting lost. understanding, or maybe allowing myself to not understand it at all.

devin, yvette, the kinsey scale

I've been thinking lately.
My memory has been jogged recently.
I've been thinking about...
a bus trip I took in high school. A coach ride back from Muncie, Indiana to Vienna, Virginia. I remember that coach ride, and a conversation I had with my then best friend devin. A conversation we scribbled in a notebook. I was fifteen. I went every summer to theatre camp. For some reason it always happened in this college in the midwest. On day two or three of camp I met this girl. Her name was Yvette. Yvette Robinson.

She was a few years older than me. She might have been a senior. All I remember is when I met her, I was struck. Struck by, I'm not sure what. She was petite, curvy as hell and had this immaculate cocoa butter smooth, chocolate coloured skin. I was not myself around her. I couldn't be. I was known as a ringleader of sorts with my friends, the chatty one, the outgoing one, the cheeky one, flirtatious even.
But with her all I seemed capable of was laughing and agreeing with everything she said.
She liked having me around though.
Or at least she didn't object to me spending as much time as with her as I did.






I remember walking with her every day, into the very lacklustre town centre, to buy cigarettes. I have no idea what we talked about on those twenty minute walks back and forth. She was terribly addicted to smoking she explained, I was so lucky not to be chained to such a habit,After one of these cigarette trips we walked back to her dorm. She had to get changed for a party in the evening. In her room she told me, she had a girlfriend. She watched my reaction carefully, perhaps thinking I might be shocked. I wasn't phased. She seemed impressed . And then, and then she said she needed to get dressed.

And then. And then she was, she was stripping off her clothes and browsing through her suitcase full of dresses and I, I had no idea where to look. Was flustered and shy and awkward and confused. Maybe I, maybe I looked out the window? Maybe I looked back fleetingly at her and looked away again. I might have looked at her pack of cigarettes, briefly considering taking up smoking. I was suddenly aware of this sense of not being sure what to do with my hands. She had asked me something. She said it again. Could I zip up her dress?

Uhhhhhhhh.. lost in every second of the pause before my yes. But she couldn't tell. Or could she? It was a cocktail dress, black, it fit perfectly. It fit her.. perfectly. She was... and I wanted... I.. I had no idea what I wanted. I felt incredibly nervous. She turned to face me, paused . Did I want to borrow anything of hers to wear? I thanked her for the offer. said I’d go back to my dorm. And I left, kind of abruptly. Feeling ridiculous and anxious because of... what?

On the last day, the final walk we shared to buy cigarettes. She was smoking on the way back. She had to finish the cigarette before we got back to the campus. We stopped walking for a while. She had been talking and talking and talking but I hadn't heard a word she was saying. I had noticed however, her mouth. A perfect mouth, a voluptuous mouth. A mouth that smiled and smoked and spoke to me. A mouth with lips that seemed to distract me from all the words that spilled from them.

I don't get it...

I tuned into her words again.

Sorry?

I couldn't care less about this camp. But you, you want to go to these
workshops and performances and.. so why? Why blow them out, hang out with me
instead?

I uh...

She inhaled. Smiled, waited... smoked. And again I thought.. that.. mouth

hey? Are you ok?

Yeah, I don't know. I just like hanging out, with you. I guess.

She shook her head, smiled quizzically. Put out her ciggarette. We walked back to camp. On the last day we exchanged addresses. But she lived on the other side of the country. I wrote her but she never wrote me back. I would never see her again.
------------------
ON the five houer coach ride home. I am sitting in the back with my then best friend devin. He is gay, this is relevant for me to say because I knew if I explained my confusion about yvette, he would understand. I knew he'd been through this with straight boys before. And until this episode I had been pretty certain I was straight.

Its late and we're not allowed to speak on the bus. Else we disturb other students, or more likely teachers and chaperones sleeping. So we write notes to eachother. Pass back a spiral notebook back and forth.

But what does it mean?

he draws a smiley with raised brows. Out of a voice bubble he writes

“ you have a crush... on.. a GIRL!!!”

He draws another smile with its mouth wide open, a cartoony shocked face.

But i'm not gay ?

He rolls his eyes, writes

NEWSFLASH:!!! Having a crush on a girl does not make you gay.

This information, in the height of nineties wave of importance of sexual identiy, knocks me for six. I start to write something, The confusion of my face almost makes him laugh out loud. He takes the notebook back.

If it makes you feel better, I had a crush on a girl this week too

.

This excites me. I quickly write.

Does this mean we're bi?

maybe, not necessarily.. look

he flips over the page, draws a long line, divides it up into sections. Looks at me again. Makes a gay symbol on one side, a hetro symbol on the other. Makes sure i'm paying close attention. Then writes

I don't think sexuality is so black and white. I think maybe its just we all are
on different sides of this scale. So maybe you like girls now, or once in a
while, or just today. It doesn't matter...
Was it a nice feeling?

I'm not sure? I'm just trying to understand it.

Well maybe when you stop
trying to “understand it”, you might like it. Or not. Wait and see..

I nod my head, rest it on his shoulder and drift of thinking about this as we drive back all those hours home.

Now Hear This Number 7!!!

One dark wintry night in Neukölln, Paula Varjack ventured into an artist run space curiously named the “Altes Finanzamt” . It was there she would have the the great pleasure, in stumbling across a striking trio of writers from Norway, Northern Ireland and Ireland: Bjarte Alvestad, Alan Cunningham and John Holten. On this week’s episode of Now Hear This, we draw you into their worlds of words, alongside the easy banter that can only come from very good friends.

Expect a lively discourse on everything from sex to death, dada to desire and perhaps even ponderings on bluebells in winter. Please note: this literary conversation may well have a more than a little red wine between the lines.

Tune in tonight to our live stream at http://reboot.fm/

23h in Berlin, 10pm in Londinium, and everywhere else, you can figure it out..

-----

Bjarte Alvestad

born 1979 in Oslo, Norway is a poet and sometimes photographer.

He writes mostly about love, the universe, detachment and war. So naturally most of his photos are aestethic renditions of sunshine and flowers.

He has done photo exhibitions in Oslo, Copenhagen and Hamburg, but has yet to be discovered in the city he currently resides in, Berlin. Here he has been working mainly as a journalist and researcher within photography related subjects, and was last published with an article about Sao Paulo for Statoil's art programme.

He likes nature and anti-nature, and staying up late discussing the difference between the two in expensive bars. He has written quite a few poems, published in some online poetry magazines and Norwegian newspapers, and is currently working on a collection of short stories

http://halfpastsamurai.blogspot.com

----

Alan Cunningham is an Irish writer living in Berlin. He is currently finishing the third (At The Foot of The Crossing) in a series of three, very loosely connected novels, after which time he will endeavour to get published and continue the work he has started on something very new and different and....all that...called

Count from Zero to One Hundred.

Read his writing, fictional and otherwise, at http://issueyourthought.wordpress.com/

---
John Holten, born 1984 in Ireland, studied in Dublin and Paris.

Since then he has published fiction and poetry in a number of journals and magazines, the most recent of which appeared in Blind Mirrors, edited by Thierry Decottignies (Sep 2010 AADK Press)

In 2009 he co-established Broken Dimanche Press as a vehicle for trans-national book projects, for which he also edits the journal Kakofonie. In 2010 You Are Here, the anthology he co-edited and published with BDP represented Ireland in the Charlemagne European Youth Prize and came second place out of 27 countries.

He has worked as an editor and translator for a number of projects and institutions across Europe. His first novel The Readymades is due for publication in 2011.

http://www.johnholten.com

on beauty

she was what you might call good looking
she was used to being looked at

the lines rung out in chorus of his voice and hers. i suppose they could have come across as a compliment but mostly they stung

her looks were something that sometimes confused her . she knew she was attractive, she’d been told often enough by that those that did and didn’t have an agenda. comparatively within the ordinary conventions of beauty she could say she was attractive, striking...enough. but she was well aware she was not in the echelon of breathtaking. she had enough friends who chased after breathtaking to know she was not of that club.

her strong point was her sense of style, of knowing her attributes and highlighting them, or carrying herself with a certain boldness, grace. but she didn’t easily photograph for example. Made static from her energy she knew she wasn’t so striking at all. Then there was the critique she took from others. the one who said he’d wished she was less skinny, the other that suggested she wasn’t skinny enough, the nineteen year old who lay beside her tracing the arc of her back saying he’d slept with other *older* woman before and she was lucky her body wasn’t like that yet. the nervousness his words created in her.

those who had looked her over and called her hot. “ objectively” two had said. and her involvement with women had taught her that feeling as sexy as your lover found you made you sexier still. you had to claim it. how you adorn myself, what you wear is a statement, a claiming of self. i am beautiful, i am different, notice me, notice me as the boldness of my walk covers up that as much as i crave your glance it makes me shy, uncomfortable. there’s a fine line between the right and wrong kind of attention, and she’s dancing on it all the time.
But why did his words effect her?

in high school she dressed suggestively. genuinely because she liked the way it looked. was confused and upset by the attention it drew, confused if she wanted the attention at all. her body did not belong to her if it was dressed in that way. the tight fabrics and sheer fabrics, the heels, the mini skirts, were all license for anyone who wanted, to make comment.

or maybe it wasn’t about being suggestive. sometimes it was a matter of style. later the piercings, the tattoos, the sharp bob shaved at the back, bone straight hair that framed her face with stark highlights, coloured green coloured purple, bleached white blond.

this means i want you to stare at me it says. this means i want to stand out. and it is unfathomable to those that stare that maybe she coloured her hair purple because all the natural shades seemed to plain, too dull. or simpler still maybe she just liked purple?

so step away from standing out she thinks. better to look in a way that doesn’t draw attention. assimilate into another kind of tribe, maybe undo all that is feminine.

trade dresses for carpenter jeans, trade heels for trainers, trade contact lenses for glasses, give up make up, be attractive in a new way to some women, become completely ignored by men.

become androgynous, so much so that other women willl stop her in the ladies rooms anxiously telling her it wasn’t the gents, until they looked at her just long enough and apologised, and she said it was ok, but felt anything but.

after a while it was clear this wasn’t her, so gradually she became feminine again, paid more and more attention to fashion, and years later employed in her first real job something with responsibility and decent pay and the dubious honour of being regarded as “ a client’ the beauty question reared its head again.

here in england where raising the question of sexual harassment made you square or repressed or worse yet “ american” . comments on her appearance, welcome or not, came with the territory. she didn’t mind the compliments, what bothered her was a sense that making an effort to look pretty meant she didn’t take her work seriously..

and yes she is used to being looked at. but that doesn’t always make her feel good looking. one might be surprised how often it doesn’t. she has no desire to be any more or less attractive than she is, only to be accepted and appreciate for the way she is. as that is the only way she knows how to be.

pocket warmer

Do you know those?
Have you ever seen um...those?
Pocket warmer...things?
Do you know what? A pocket warmer? Is?

It’s a...It’s uh...
Its this...thing
Fiilled with some kind of substance.
Some kind of chemical substance.

You get them in the winter
to keep you warm.
They fit...
In the palm of your hand.
---

He had a thing about hearts. Heart shaped things. So I gave him a box full of heart shaped things for valentines day, a heart shaped holiday. I spent a whole afternoon making that box. Sat in a cafe’ writing literary quotes about hearts on the back of postcards with images of hearts on the picture side. There was silvery glittery confetti, confetti hearts all along the side.

When I gave it to him. I watched him open it gingerly. revealing all these hearts i had assembled for him. He seemed....mystified. Maybe my gesture was too much? I felt embarrassed, silly, childish. He said

“Thank you”

sincerely enough. But he had to admit that maybe i’d taken this heart thing too far... The one thing he did like in the box, was this pocket warmer...heart shaped... He was really excited about it. He liked to keep it with him, in the cold. Do you know what a pocket warmer is? Have you seen one before? You put it in your pocket when its cold, to keep your hands warm. to keep you warm. The one I gave him was heart shaped.

Do you know how they work? Ok well, the first time is kind of magical. There’s this little metal disc inside. When you press on it, it starts a reaction. A reaction that spreads through the substance inside. It literally courses with energy. It makes it warm. And it stays like this for hours... Until it cools, and then the substance hardens.
And it isn’t warm anymore...

After that you can use it again. It will work again. But its different, its not so easy. It’s a little more complicated. You can’t just press on that little metal disc and wait for a reaction. You have to heat the thing, slowly, in a saucepan of bowling water, until its warm enough, to take out into the cold. I didn’t know this when i gave it to him... I thought you could always press on that little silver disc in the center. I didn’t know that kind of magic only happened once.

-----
Last night he came to see me. It was raining. I saw him arrive through frosted glass. I had a gig that evening. I was talking to the host. She was asking me about myself. About what I did. What did i want people to know, about me?


I am not a good person

“Oh um say....”

I am afraid

“I’m from a lot of places”

I hurt people

“I have an album coming out..”

I hurt people I love

“Its free, you can download it for free”

I hurt people who love me.

“Call it postmodern cabaret...Excuse me.”

I go to him. He’s wearing his favourite coat. It’s silver. There’s a pocket over the chest. He puts my hand there. It’s warm. I try to make light of it.

“You’re like the postmodern tin man”

I try to pull my hand back, but he holds it there, opens the pocket, hands me... this heart. this heart shaped thing. the pocket warmer.

I know where this is going. I’m a poet. I don’t want all this symbolism. Don’t give this to me. please. Please don’t-

He’s pressing it into my hand and looking at me. It’s heart-breaking. Right now I even hate the word heart-breaking. How can a word so painful be as cliche’d as overused as that. Heart...breaking...

He’s asking me if I have any pockets. I panic.


“No, no no, I don’t. I’m- I”m wearing a dress. I’m wearing a dress. I don’t have-”



“Your coat?” He says. I’m shaking my head.



“ I-have-no-pockets.” I say (with my hands thrust firmly inside them)


I want to scream. Because I know what will happen. He will put it in my pocket and it will be warm for hours. And later it will cool and harden into some horrible crumpled shape. I will look at it crumpled and hard in my hand. i will look at it and think of him giving it to me, of it being his and think. this is my fault. he gave it to me and this is what i did.

And this will happen after we’ve left.
After I’ve begged again and again for him to let me go until I can’t say it anymore. Until i can just about make out the word please. Until i let my eyes beg instead. Don’t give this to me. I don’t deserve it. I don’t want to hold onto it. You should keep it to yourself.
It’s all so sillly.. Its only a pocket warmer? But he made it symbolic, romantic.. when romance becomes dirtier than that other four letter word: love.

When I find it again (in my bag now, long since moved from the pocket of my coat) I am outside london bridge train station, smoking. I find it, cold and hardened. Above me a flower bed hangs. A droplet of condensation, cold and wet, lands on my face, slides down my cheek, resembles how it feels. It’s fitting because though I feel like I want to, I am unable to cry.

Do you know.. um.. Have you ever seen those pocket warmer things? You get them in the winter to keep you warm.

They fit... in your palm

Why i miss london cab drivers

it was only a short journey. i had been having a naughty early afternoon prosecco at hoxton square bar with my mate nicola when i realised i may have lost track of the last twenty minutes which meant i may be running late to meet my friend’s fiance’ to give the keys back for the house i’d been staying in. the cab driver could tell i was in a rush, and without mentioning the matter, duly drove through a number of crafty east london short cuts. we were making brilliant time and perhaps this is what caused him to be suddenly chatty

“ good weekend then?”

“yeah... and yours?”
(I love when cab drivers ask you a question that is really a prompt to allow them to talk about themselves)

he goes into how he usually doesn’t drive, is usually in the cab office, how he works for four days and then has four days off. he then tells me that he’d taken up more driving shifts of late “to get ahead of christmas” as he was “behind last year... know what I mean?”
(uh... no?)

He’s very glad its the weekend. It’s been a very long day. At four in the morning he had a heathrow pick up. For those unfamiliar with london, heathrow airport is over an hour from the center of town, two hours from east london where his office was based. There had been a mix up. The cab was actually booked for four thirty in the afternoon, but the controller hadn’t realised the mistake until the driver had got there. Was he paid for the trip anyway I asked?

“No, but these things happen some time” He shrugged. I was genuinely sympathetic. He asked me what I did for a living. I gave the answer i generally do in situations where i don’t know the person so well. I told him I was “ a writer” (which sounds slightly more employed than “poet”)

“What do you write?”

“Stories and poems mostly”

“What about?”

“Strangers, Cities, brief encounters”

“oh... such as?”

My brain races through a series of scenes and images. dark corners in night clubs, kissing along walls of bars, dancing at open air parties, more kissing, the sudden moment of making eye contact across a room, walks home across bridges at sunrise. a girl passing out from a drug overdose being carried out a door, more kissing, sex... I then realise i’ve paused too long.
The cab driver is still waiting for me to say something.

“Well...?”

I don’t want to tell him anything i’d been thinking about. what fits to tell him, what suits the situation? what have i? cab.... cab driver... ah... I tell him the story of my graduation film, about a woman who’s relationship is unravelling, who is given advice from a number of strangers in the city of london, including a cab driver. He likes that.

“Yeah cab drivers are generally an opinionated lot.”

“Yes.”

“ you’re lucky, you’re doing what you love. how’d you get into that then?”

I tell him how i used to work in kids animation. and that I hadn’t really been operating with much of a plan, and somehow had ended up in berlin.

“ why berlin?... Love? “

“No...”

“Why then?”

“ Why not?

“Say you’re a very good looking cab driver in German”

I realise I have no idea what the german word for cab driver is. all i can hear in my head is the word for car: auto. and i’m going through words i know for profession, and i get stuck on “autorin” (writer). hmmm well, he’d never be the wiser.

“Du bist ein sehr schönes Autorin”

This feels like an in joke with myself. I also feel cheeky for adressing him in the informal. In any case he’s made up.

“Wow. whisper that in my ear any time you like” he laughs. “ next time you’re back and fancy taking a ride in a cab from a short fat cockney driver, you know where to find me.”

We pull up to the door.

“Great things are ahead for you. I wish you all the best”

I thank him, pay the fare and walk out and close the door. before he drives off he calls out

"hey maybe you'll write about me one day?"

I smile.

"maybe..."

Now Hear this! Broca Areal, Maria Maddalena, Claudia Bierschenk

On this week’s episode of Now Hear This! live and direct at 23h on 88.5 mhz in Berlin or everywhere else as a live stream on http://www.reboot.fm: Two writers who take pleasure in writing in a language other than their own, poet Claudia Bierschenk, and performance poet Maria Maddalena. Closing the show a musical guest unlike any who’ve graced the studio to date, spoken word electronic band: Broca Areal. Intrigued? You should be. Here’s some words from the artists themselves about who they are and what they create.

Claudia Bierschenk started writing poetry and short prose in English while living in Britain. Her work has been published in various online and print magazines, such as in the first issue of SAND, Berlin's English language literary journal.

Her first chapbook of poetry "Perestroika Silence" was published by Erbacce press, Liverpool in March 2010. She currently lives in Berlin.

Maria Maddalena ist mein Name, geboren in Cattolica, Italien. Ich bin tatsächlich dort aufgewachsen, bis ich den Flucht nach Deutschland unternommen habe aus Liebe für die deutsche Sprache

(und genau wie bei der

Liebe weiß ich immer noch nicht, was ich zum Teufel mir damals gedacht habe!!!) In Erfurt habe ich dann zum ersten Mal in meinem Leben masturbiert mit 22, denn die katholische Religion doch mich sehr ausgeprägt hatte. Um die Sünde zu mindern, habe ich aber die Tat im Doppelzimmer begangen, während meine Mitbewohnern schlief und ich dabei ihre Poster von Hundewelpen und Pferden an die Wand schaute.

Nach dieser Positive Erfahrung bin ich in Deutschland geblieben, habe mein Studium in Germanistik abgeschlossen und den Titel erfolgreich als Toilettenpapier benutzt.
Seitdem habe ich als Kellnerin, Promoterin, Dolmetscherin, Italienisch Lehrerin gearbeitet, dazu kommt das notwendige verdammte Schreiben, wenn ich nicht gerade mal arbeite oder in meiner Band singe.

Broca Areal machen Arty Shit in your face: Liveliteratur im Songformat und gesprochene Songtexte, begleitet von harten Beats, reduzierten Flächen und eigenwilligen Samples. Dabei entsteht kein beliebiger überladener Mix aus den hippen Elementen Spoken Word und Electro. Vielmehr eine wohlüberlegte Umsetzung der anarchischen Texte des Berliner Poeten Wolf Hogekamp, der sich humorvoll mit der alltäglichen Liquidierung der Metaphysik und den gängigen Exit-Strategien aus neoliberalen Kaffeekränzchen befasst.Die elektronischen Ergebnise von Lino Ziegel und Wolf Hogekamp klingen mal noisy und mal jazzy,mal nach dem Postpunk der 80er und mal nach einem verschallerten Sonntagmorgen in einem dunklen Berliner Club.

Oh my gosh what a line up!!!! The studio is going to buzzing with all that multilingual experimental musical poetical energy. Let me get my breath back. Well also dont' forget that should you not be by your berlin radio or your everywhere else computer tonight at 23h (ten pm for the londoners) we'll be uploading the show as podcast to the reboot fm site in the next days. oh and btw it seems since the last ep, we've had a nice little shout out from berliner magazine Tipp, have a looksy!!

call it cross promotion.

So as an up and coming alternative artist, you got to promote yourself until you're big enough for it to be someone elses job to do it, but sometimes, actually often, its a tricky task. a strange one at that, my mum after all raised me to be modest so it always feels weird to give myself props.

if only someone else would do it for me. recently i was discussing this with my mate b-ski, AKA comedian David Deery, and we stumbled on a brilliant idea, why not team forces and combine writing skills to big each other up???!!

and so, without further ado i present....

Motherf**kin David Deery.................




Its no secret that I’ve always had a thing for skinny hipster boys with glasses, especially if they’re funny. But David Deery is NOT a hipster.

Don’t be deceived by the glasses, the bike, the hoodie, the ironic t-shirt, the admiration for Dilla, Dylan and dubstep, the fact he lives in Berlin, the jeans that may be tight sometimes but are not, I repeat NOT skinny. Are you listening?? I’m here to set the record straight ok!!

DAVID DEERY IS NOT A HIPSTER!!!!!!!!!!

But believe, this boy is most definitely hip, insanely funny
and very very angry…

Angry? Yes angry, about all sorts of things... but particularly..

1. Grocery stores that close on Sundays. (Germany are you listening?!!)
2. Protesters/Demos. (If he had his way he would put on one big Demonstration to protest all of the protesters once and for all.
3. Girl’s boyfriends. (Dude get over it. I mean its not his fault she wants him ok??!!!)
4. Bands without instruments. (Because really kids, without your American apparel, twitter, your iphone, and your hairdresser, where would you be?
5. The word “Hipster” . (Do not, I mean really do not EVER get him started on this. I can’t possibly warn you enough. )

David Deery is like a hip crazy indie comedy superhero. He may not be invincible but he is what like to call ROCKET SOBER!!!

The only man in all of Berlin’s seething narcotic alcoholic nightlife that never ever drinks.

I know I know, I don’t believe it either, but then again, between his passion for knocking back club mate’s and his insatiable sexual appetite, he more than makes up for it.

And ladies he may even let you call him a hipster, if you’re hot, and willing to go home with him enough.

David Deery will make you believe in reincarnation. What am I saying? Let me clarify, this man has had too many lives to count. Go on ask him, ask him.

Buy him a mate’, let him tell you about:

• The hip hop dj days
• or the time touring with that indie rock band
• or any of the major musicians he’s supported
• or go further back to when he was a graffiti artist
• or further still to the skateboarding

Maybe that’s why he laughs at hipsters, because most of them really aren’t hip enough.

Oh by the by ladies, did I mention that his record collection is (I have to take a deep breath here) GI-NORMMMMMOUS!!!!!!!!!!!!!! What it comes down to my darlings, is this…

David Deery is probably funnier than you, a lot funnier than you, probably funnier than ALL of your friends.

But don’t be intimidated by that, because you couldn’t find an easier guy to talk to. You can ask him anything, better yet, just get him a mate’ , prepare to laugh yourself blind, as he talks about well...whatever he wants...

Only remember this, he is not, most Definitely not....

A hipster . ==========

oh and by the by, in case you wonder what that comic wonder wrote about me,
click on the link here...