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..

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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

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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/

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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!!