not another artist...

start up meets. start up: overheard in a kreuzberg cafe

2012-02-10T08:16:00.000-08:00

I l ove it when you don't even need to satirise a situation, because the subjects serve up themselves. I overheard this conversation in a cafe in kreuzberg. This is exactly what was said.

word for word.

Most of the time I see art in Berlin…And I don’t…understand it… Artists here have no incentive to sell. They don’t need to, because they have Hartz IV…Its all so.. The art here it’s not.. idealistic or conceptual its its… self entitled.

mmm (sage nodding )Have you thought about holding talks? I mean consulting? Consulting on social media? We thought about it… But it became a side project… and we have like 800 side projects now… So just go and run with it!… Right.. right..

My thing is bad English. It like kills me. ..There is a big difference between writing something in german? and putting it into google translate and sending it? Can’t you just pay someone ten dollars to write me a paragraph?? …Something that needs to be accepted is that everyone speaks English, so there is a certain level that has to be... accepted. If you create a phrase and it;s not exact..It's just one statement to get right.. It's important. That’s it… That’s one of my big things…

I can’t I can’t can’t…. You can’t take someone seriously if they don’t know how to check something before sending it. I mean if you have a web site up? That text on your website…? Should be… correct. I’m not saying perfect but… Yeah I agree I’m not saying perfect but… I go to museums here all the time and their text is terrible… I mean their translation text is terrible! In a museum… ? That is embarrassing…

Yeah that is embarrassing. …

Yeah..

Yeah..

Yeah well I think this is going to work. We really like where you guys are at. You’re like.. normal.

Yeah we’re not hipsters

(they all laugh)

We’re not naïve but we’re not pushovers, but we’re not bad people you know?

Hey.. (noticing someone at another table)

Oh god everyone knows everyone here!!! This is the place.

Oh I’m meeting him um (checking watch) now. Hi…

Well thanks guys. This is going to be great!!

the power of art, intention and consequence

2012-02-09T07:32:00.000-08:00

I like my work to be entertaining, being entertaining is a force that often drives my writing. Creating work for performance, particularly in the audience led world of poetry slam, means a lot of thought and consideration goes to the reception to your work, to what others think. This is very critical as far as comic work is concerned. If you write something to amuse, and it fails to amuse anyone other than yourself, you go back to writing it again..

Now, moving cities has made me go into one of my existential "what does it all mean" states.

I've been asking myself a number of questions: What is the art I am making? What are my themes? Why do I care about them? and perhaps most importantly, Why make art anyway?

There is a danger as a performer, of falling into a trap of writing what audiences want, or more dangerously, what you you think they want. There is a balancing act between going outside of yourself enough to escape self indulgence, while expanding the audience perception of what they are ready for. When you really nail it, you can change the way people think. This is one of the most exciting aspects of making work, and a difficult thing to achieve.

Recently I've come across an artist who has been successful in doing exactly that. His name is Mike Daisey. I've been making more use of my twitter account lately, and a post by beardyman led me to this podcast. I was utterly captivated by this twenty minute excerpt. His story and the telling of it moved me, enough that I became deeply interested not only in him and his play, but in the responses they generated.

This piece of theatre, adapted for radio, instigated a level of investigation in working conditions he encounters, that had thus far had little coverage in the mainstream press. This was not new news. I have a friend who is a political activist, who told me that many things, such as the matter of the suicide nets had been written up on socialist websites years ago.

What made it news now, what generated an outpour of interest, was a story, and the performance of it. The story and the art of storytelling, had humanized the issue for the public. A public who had been unaware, but now cared and wanted answers. What had instigated all this? A piece of theatre. Yes I thought, art has power.

I have since gotten hold of a number of recorded monologues by mike daisey, and seen video clips. Unfortunately being so far away from New York, I can not see him perform. But from what I've heard, the excerpt from his new show is the most powerful. And I don't think it is only because it is his most recent, and thus from the top of his form.

I think it is partly to do with him having a sense of responsibility to deliver a message. A sense of responsibility, not just as an artist, but as a human who has compassion for other humans. His talents as an artist just serve to better deliver the message. Once again, art has power.

As artists, particularly struggling and emerging ones, this is easy to forget. What you put out there has weight. This doesn't mean everything you put out has to be weighty, but maybe it is worth it every so often, to not just think about what you want to say, but about the affect that saying it, has on others.

Ages ago, I can't remember when, I kept hearing rumblings on the internet about a rap collective called odd future. I like to get in on music people like to rumble about. I like being an early adopter of new sounds. But the problem with odd future was, every time I saw a comment about them being the most exciting avant garde group in hiphop, it would be coupled with a footnote saying they were really overtly homophobic and misogynistic.

I love hip hop, and there may be a lot of it that is both, but i don't listen to that. I can just about tune out the n word and overuse of the word bitch (but hey even girl mc's i like drop that) but when lyrics sink into rape fantasies and and musings on killing f**gots I have to draw the line.

This is why, as much as I appreciate he has a great flow, I have never and can never buy an album by eminem. Yes I get that there is a character, that many lyrics are meant to shock, are not sincere. Odd future may be similar. It is notable that only press comment to ever have offended Tyler the creator is being called a homophobe. But I'm not sure how that makes it better. Spout enough that is hateful, and you have the power to incite hatred. Art has power.

I have said before that I am only responsible for what i say, not for what you understand. I still think there is some truth in that, but I now think a little thought as to how something could be understood, never hurts . In any case I was happy to ignore odd future, even when in the summer I felt their empire building, when tyler the creator got signed. The reveiws still didnt' make me excited about the music.

Then there were new rumblings about the impossible to google group
the internet

they were an odd future off shoot made up of producer matt martians, and the crew's only girl member syd the kid. I had so avidly avoided the hype about odd future, that I had never noticed they had a female member. How did that rhyme with all the misogyny in their lyrics? Before i could question that further , I read on to see she was an out lesbian. What?? In hip hop? Any debate about the fact was apparently settled by their latest video. which due to gema I couldn['t play.

Until now Syd the kid has happily been in the background of Odd future.

Now in a very short period of time she had become the subject of scrutiny not just because of fame, but for being the lone female in an all male crew, and lesbian. But these facts also piqued my interest, so I am guilty of the same. More importantly, she is a talented beatmaker, engineer and singer, who is very clear on the music she wants to make. She takes her craft seriously. Interestingly, after the live performance debacle of Lana Del Rey, all questions about when the internet will tour have been met with this reply from Syd: after I get more vocal training.

And autotune or not, it has to be said, this girl's voice is something else..

I fell in love with their sound. Pychadelic soul they call it, and it fits. Although just for fun I'd describe it as Sade and Aaliyah making out to the Neptunes. So a week ago I bought the album, and I've been listening to it pretty constantly ever since. Reviews have been mixed, and every one I read was taken aback by this video I couldn't' see. I stumbled across a blog that suggested it had angered some of the queer community. I wanted to make up my own mind, so i finally tracked it down.

Internet (OFWGKTA) "Cocaine" Music Video Dir by Matt Alonzo from Matt Alonzo on Vimeo.

Ok... I don't completely agree with the blogger at after ellen. I'm mystified by her presuming the "intended audience are obviously men." ???? I can see that the intention of the internet is clearly meant to make taking drugs look bad. No one could watch this and want a line of coke. From reading Syd's tumblr it's clear that promoting use of drugs or negative portrayal of gay women is not her intent. By making her character in the narrative a girl who likes girls, she is attempting something like empowerment. But then there is a power to visual media that can be underestimated, when the failure of intention can become problematic.

I think in the passion to show an out gay character, and to pass on the message that drugs are bad, other signals have been lost in the mix. Like the fact that the syd character in the video with all her cool swagger, cooly discards women. Sure the point is that the other girl takes a risk and faces the consequence. The track is dark enough to underline the message. But then at the end syd gets away unscathed. And as much as I love her talent and sound and look, It does irk me that her, being more boyish, more conventionally lesbian in appearance, is the one shown discarding a woman in this way.

Of course queer people can be just as mean and messed up as anyone else. It would be stupid to say we are saints. But maybe part of why the video has caused such a furor, is when there is so little queer representation in media, what little there is, people want to be positive. But if there was more representation in the media in the first place, there wouldn't be so much pressure on what there is to be representative for all. You can't ever represent for all.

For the internet, who had full creative control of concept of the video, they may have thought that syd's character being queer in the video could be incidental. Unfortunately, another reading of the video says that women are disposable, and/or queer people are predatory and abusive.
I don't feel that seeing it, but I can understand how that can be an interpretation. I was most disturbed by comments on one site regarding the video: Syd got some swag!!!.

Odd future's answer to criticism has always been, our words are meaningless, you are stupid to take us seriously. Syd the kid has said the same. I guess she needs to feel that way in order to connect with them. But while it is true that the more you hear a word, the more you can be numb to it saying "It's your fault for taking us seriously" as a defense, is seriously lame.

Yes we as artists have a right to make work in our own way, with our own intentions. But as soon as we put that work into the ether, audiences and critics have a right to respond. Yes journalists can play cruel games of taking our words, and placing them in context otuside of our intentions, but as soon as we are interesting enough for journalists to take interest in us, as soon as we enter our work into the public realm, this is the game we play.

Internet (Odd Future) "Fastlane" from Matt Alonzo on Vimeo.

As artists we must not underestimate the power we have not only to entertain and engage, but to influence and affect change. So as I'm going all introspective, I'll be carrying forward into my work a new sense of care about my themes and their meaning. I will be much more aware of the power of and intentions behind my work, and the form that responsibility takes.

dreams of a life

2012-02-09T05:08:00.000-08:00

In 2006 Joyce Vincent, aged 40, was found dead in her flat in Wood Green, north London. She died of natural causes. The tv and lights had been left on. There was a pile of Christmas presents she had been wrapping. An ocean of unpaid bills had stacked up in the hallway. Joyce Vincent's dead body had lain there for three years.

How could this have happened? How could her dissapearance have gone unoticed? The story came and went in the press. Filmmaker Carol Morley, was particularly moved by it, so much so that she set out to make a documentary to piece together who this woman was, and how this could have happened. The film is called Dreams of a Life.

When you hear the story of Joyce Vincent, you may be driven to demand why her friends and family did not step in sooner, to note why she had so long been away. What Dreams of a Life makes clear, is Joyce was the kind of woman who kept a part of herself from everyone, who liked to keep up appearances, who did not want to be known.

Zawe Ashton, the actress who gives a captivating performance in the beautifully shot dramatisations in the film says "It's such a difficult thing for women, especially, to admit when we're not coping, because we're supposed to be all right with all the different roles we're born with and are piled on us later on," she says. "You're always supposed to be managing, and I suppose I let myself imagine what it would be like not to cope."

For those of us who move from suburbs and small towns to the cities, one of the elements that drives us to the city, is to cast aside the restrictions of small town mentality. We escape the village that is aware of our entire history, knows our every movement, a place where all of our actions have faced constant comment and scrutiny. The city, and the anonymity it provides, gives us new scope for privacy and space. Here we can choose what we reveal and to whom, all on our own terms. (The only exception perhaps being when one becomes a celebrity, but as most of us are not celebrities, this is hardly a general problem.)

Having moved away from our villages, we find we miss certain aspects of them and recreate them, whether they be through work, or through places we frequent with regularity, or within scenes and subcultures. We also miss and need certain aspects of the families we've left, and so create a new family through our friends.

This new family come without the life long shared histories that can strain, that can question changes. The new family, the one born of friends accepts us at our current state, fully formed. They are there for us when we need them, they are more understanding than family can be when we do not, when we choose to slip away.

But as much as we muddle the anonymity the city brings by creating new families of friends and new villages within cities, we are also here to have the option of that anonymity, to make use of when we choose. Having lived in London for most of my adult life, I feel the option for this anonymity there most acutely.

When people tell me they could never live in a city as big as London or New York or Berlin, afraid of being lost in the size of it, I often answer it is exactly for that size that I love the city. While it is true that if I walk around certain areas and places in Hackney and Shoreditch that I have frequented for years, I am likely to run into someone, simply crossing the town to west London, I might as well be another world away.

London, like any major city, is a place where people are busy and move at a rapid pace. It is not unusual to not see a close friend for months at a time. People get caught up with "life" , with the constant struggling juggle of work, romantic relationships (or the seeking of one), family, and friendships.

Sometimes we manage to juggle better than others. When you don't see someone you like for a while, you assume they are busy, they are away, they will get in touch when they can. We can also fall out of sync, go back and forth with oneself or one's friend being busy, never both being available at the same time.

But it is so much more easier now to be connected you may say!If you don't have the time to visit, to call, you can still keep up with people via social media, comment on someone's picture in a way that says, we are still connected, we are still involved. and then when the time comes we can meet up, or not, because the other thing is, more levels of connection are available now than ever before.

I used to be a big advocate of the above sentiment. And I do still think the varied ways we have of keeping in contact are great. Home is often a complicated question. I have friends and family that are dear to me across the globe. I've been in a few long distance relationships and have had to find different ways to stay connected.

What I've learned is: yes all these additional forms of contact certainly help, but fundamentally, nothing can ever take the place of face time. For a relationship to progress all the social media and skype and even phone calls will never be enough.

In cities we live apart from one another. Never more so when we live alone. I have lived alone for years, in London and Berlin. It is rare when I've known my neighbors, and when I say I've known them: I mean I say hi to them in the hall. I have lived for years next door to people who I would never invite into my home, who have never invited me to theirs, who I might not notice if months pass and I don't see them, and even if I did notice there absence, I probably wouldn't think much of it.

Perhaps it is notable that Joyce Vincent died in a time before social media had become pervasive as it is now. Perhaps then even as she was a private person, who would sometimes fall from contact, a lack of her online presence would be noticed.
More likely however, is that people would assume she was on to other things, or not using social media anymore.

I have no desire to go back to a time when I lived in a suburb and our archetypical nosy neighbor (ours was a woman who lived across the street) would come by and knock at our door at anything she deemed suspicious. So please do not think I am in any way romanticising the concept of the small town. However, there is a trade off to living in a place where one does not ever question the movements of ones neighbor, with fear of being invasive. If someone does not have close friends, if someone is single, if someone is no longer close to their family (which is often the case of those who move to the city) it is much easier to go unnoticed than any of us would care to admit.

The truly poignant thing to me in watching Dreams of a life, was not a sense of "How strange for this to happen" but more "How likely this is" because whatever you say, if you live in a city, and you haven't seen a friend in a while, particularly if the friend is the kind known for dissapearing from time to time, (and I think many of us have friends like this), the chances of most of us going round their house to see if they are alive are pretty slim.

Maybe you might call them after time, or write them, or ask after friends in common, but even then, this is not the kind of thing you think would happen. You are more likely to invent reasons why they are too busy. Which in the case of Joyce Vincent, is exactly what happened.

There is also something about her being a woman, about her being by all accounts a very attractive, sexually appealing woman. It is almost as if her attractiveness and inherent glamour enhanced the distance between those who knew her. It is as if they felt something bad could never happen to someone as alluring as her. There are preconceptions that for someone to go missing, they must be introverted, visually unappealing, when actually the act of being outgoing can also be a mask, a far more powerful one.

Maybe the other thing is, for those we lose touch with, those that we like, in some way the idea of the friend and friendship lives on in our head. We like to imagine they are going on and living well and that at some point we will meet again and pick up where we left off. Or that even if we don't meet, at the very least we like to think that they are well.

But by not making the effort to maintain contact, whether we like to admit it or not,we hamper our ties with the friend. Friendship, like any other relationship, demands effort and care. We choose to forget this at times, and when we learn of bad news of a former friend, we our plagued with regret . This happened to me recently, and it is a complicated thing to grieve.

Dreams of a life is a heartbreaking and poignant documentary , that makes a strong comment on relationships in contemporary urban society. It leaves us with more questions of answers, but manages a powerful task: that of commemorating an elliptical real life character, who thankfully to the film, will now never be forgotten.

An exclusive screening of Dreams of a Life followed by a discussion and Q&A with Director, Carol Morley, and leading actress Zawe Ashton will be taking place at the Babylon Kino in Mitte on Monday 13th February. This event is the second in a series of events in english for Berlin Black History Month .Limited advance tickets can be reserved here.

the voice that called out from the dark

2012-02-05T12:43:00.001-08:00

Having said I have lived in Berlin for four years, I have to make an embarrassing confession. My german is terrible. Well I sometimes put it like this:

Ich habe Deutsche gelernt fur zwei Monaten, und fur das Ich denke, meine Deutsche is sehr gute!

Und Wann Ich sage das, manchmal the Deutsche Leute sagst

Jah. Stimmt!

Aber. Ich habe in Berlin Gewohnt fur vier Jahre, und fur das, meine Deutsche is sehr sehr sehr sehr Schlect.

It is sooo schlect that the Mensch can not believe how schlect it is. It is embarrasing. I know. And I can tell you this, it is only in Berlin one can get a way with that. And it is still very hard at times, and I am often ashamed of the fact. But I'm moving back to London and so now I can only say it is what is.

In the mean time, I am part of a vibrant poetry slam community here, that has been above and beyond welcoming, despite me performing in English. I am very grateful to that. I am often humbled by it. I only ever perform somewhere because I have been booked, because I have been invited. The promoter decides if their audience can handle it. With our generation I'm lucky, most can. Most speak english very well. You can always gauge it with comic texts, when at the right times, the punchlines, they laugh.

But for some, the act of someone speaking english in their scene is not a welcome. I sort of understand. I guess its like deciding you want want to see a hollywood film, and then suddenly watching an art film with subtitles. You want to be entertained, you don't want to think. Or maybe it has more to do with feeling like english language culture is so pervasive, in music in television in film, and wanting to have a break from it. All I know is none of that is my fault. I just go where I am booked, where I am paid to go. mostly the response is great. and I never take that for granted.

last Friday night, I make my way through crowd of excited hundreds, all devoted slam fans, in an amazing venue, the oldest techno club in Leipzig. I have been introduced as being from both Berlin and London. I get to the mic and say in my broken german Jah, Ich sprache diesen bizarrische dialect aus Berlin... heist English (Yeah.. So I speak this bizarre dialect from berlin... called English)

This is generally when the crowd warms to me and sometimes laughs... No one laughed. But its not a joke really, so that's ok. I begin to make an introduction to my first piece, now speaking in English, and just as I am about to start my text, someone near the back calls out, football hooligan style, from the darkness

AUSLANDER!!!

Now for the non german speakers, this word means foreigner. It's not an insult or a slur. It's just the german word for foreigner. But it is a word that when shouted, has a sharpness . The emphasis on the first syllable, which sounds like another german word: Raus!, which means Out!, Go, Leave.

For the briefest of moments, it felt a bit tense, I decided best not to rise to it and carry on like nothing had been said.

Soon enough people were laughing along with me at all the right parts. The eye contact I had from the audience suggested they were with me, enjoyed my stories. I nearly made it into the final round. By all accounts I had gone down really well. How did I think it went? I was asked by the promoter. I didn't mention the awkwardness of that brief moment. Neither did he. The evening that followed was wonderful. I got on well with the other poets. I had some nice chats with people in the audience. no one mentioned that moment.

Now writing this, I still almost feel as if it didn't happen. I wonder why anyone could be so angry at simply hearing someone speak another language. I can only imagine, it comes from feeling threatened. But as that man never came up to me to explain why he shouted it out, I will never understand, I will never know.

unexplained inspections

2012-02-05T07:26:00.000-08:00

Happy Black history month!

I was on a mini tour of two cities here recently. Last Friday morning in Dresden, after great gigs with wonderful people, I got a text from my boyfriend asking how I was. I responded

Sunny. I feel great.

In March, I will have lived in Germany for four years. I have loved it here.Though I couldn't say I have toured here extensively, I have a fair bit, and in that time I have seen a little of this country. It is important for me to note, that what happened later that morning had never happened to me before.

Trains in Germany are almost never late. You can usually set your clocks by them. But on this icy -10 day, standing alone on an empty platform , my train *was* late, and every ten minutes, announced as later still.

Ten minutes late became
twenty minutes, became thirty.

I was freezing.

I was so cold all I could think about was how cold I was.

Out of the corner of my eyes I saw them.

Two tall police officers, approaching up the stairs with no sense of urgency, talking to one another. I kept focused on the display board hoping there would be no further delays.

The policemen approached. As they drew closer I still didn't think they could be coming over to me, until there they were asking, politely I should add, where was I going?

Leipzig.

In the pop quiz I wasn't aware I was taking, this was the first wrong answer. Why was i going from this platform, when I should be going the other direction?! ah, because of a problem with the trains, I had to go change at the main station. ok, fine. Was I living in Dresden? No? Ok. Did I understand German?

I smiled. This struck me as a funny, as it was in German that we were speaking.

English?!

He questioned/demanded. In German I replied.

Yes, perhaps, better we speak in english.

And then he asked.

Can I see your passport?

In Germany, the police have the right to stop anyone at any time and ask to see their id. If you're a foreigner this means carrying your passport. You hear that you can carry a drivers license or a photocopy of your passport, but this isn't true. By law you must carry your passport with you at all times. In Berlin, many foreigners I know that live here, don't.

I always reckon its more likely my bag get stolen or lost than a random cop asking for id, so i risk it. It was luck that I had decided to take it with me this time. I have toured many times in Germany having left it at home. I didn't feel great about this random check, but instinct told me to be polite and cooperate. That way it would be over with quickly.

They both peered closely at my passport, passing it back and forth between them a few times. The first started to bend it back at the sides. Then he flipped it to the front page, inspecting the biometric chip. He flipped it to the other side, gave me a long look that suggested comparing me to the picture within it. He asked, suspiciously

You were born in washington dc?

Yes

You also have an american passport?

I used to but it expired. I moved to Europe as a teenager, Since then I havn't needed it.

I am used to official people being confused about dual citizenship. a lot of people, even people working in customs and passport control don't get it. I would be happy to explain, what I didn't expect was for him to change his tone and ask sharply

Why do you have this document?

Sorry? I don't understand?

I really didn't.

How do you have this passport?

my father is english.

this also appeared to be the wrong answer.

You do not have an american passport?

I did. I stopped using it. I have lived in europe since I was as teenager.

He nodded. unconvinced. Passed my passport back to his colleague, who flipped through the pages at various speeds, stopped, played the front page back and forth in the light, checking the hologram, took out a small magnfying glass and scanned the small print.

What were they looking for? Why were they doing this? What would they do next? How long would they keep it?

And then I understood...

They think my passport is fake!

The guy who had been inspecting it now walked off a couple meters, calling someone on his phone. I watched with concern as he walked away further. His colleague kept close to me. I asked him

Is there a problem?

No. Don't worry. nothing is wrong.

(unexplicably, he was smiling.)

The sentiment seemed to be, it was silly for me to be concerned. As if them checking my passport didn't suggest that they thought something with it might be wrong.

I watched the board. Ten minutes later I was given back my passport, with no apology or explanation as to why it had been taken and inspected. They just walked to the end of the platform and had a cigarette.

Mercifully, my train came. I was confused as to what had happened. When I got back to Berlin days later, I did a little online research. I wasn't really sure what I was looking for. I tried the key words: police passport check racist germany.
I found a few horrible stories.

I stumbled on some relevant german words: Rassistische Polizeikontrolle
which really helped my search. It seems that this kind of thing doesn't necessarily happen often, but it does seem to be common.

It sounds funny in english, but the act of police doing this is called: controlling. So you are controlled by the police when you are asked for your passport. Weirdness and darkness of that phrasing aside, it is clearly a form of racial profiling, that many deem to be institutional racism.

The way it works is this, in a place like Dresden for example, where people of colour are scarce, when a policeman sees someone who doesn't look ethnically german he or she thinks, ah, there is a chance they are an illegal immigrant, particularly when that person or persons are spotted at and around train stations, or in trains. So the police carry out a check.

I thought this kind of thing couldn't happen in a place as diverse as Berlin, so I was horrified to discover that in the last years Berlin's airports and certain so called "dangerous" areas of Berlin, police had been actively encouraged to utilise racial profiling. Which I suppose in the case of airports doesn't mean so much, considering all they are doing is sanctioning something that tends to happen anyway...

But back to being controlled in and around trains and train stations, in most of the stories I read, the people who had been controlled, had all asked why they had been approached. Always the police response had been to either:

Ignore the question and ask for the passport again, or
Act offended/angered at being questioned. It was in their right, they had no need to explain.

Before writing this blog, I spoke to a friend of mine, a dj and a woman of colour, who tours the country frequently. I asked if she had ever been asked for her passport by the police, she told me of a time it had happened . she said

What really bothered me, is that he refused to tell me why he wanted to see my passport. Yes I think I know why he would want to see it, but at least it would be good to have confirmation of that.

Would I have felt better if they explained to me why they wanted to take my passport? Maybe not. But knowing that the police also have an obligation to explain their actions, particularly when one has not done anything wrong, might at least make those that are *controlled* feel less powerless.

Funny thing is, in the moment, as I felt myself get angry and upset, I thought:

This would never happen in England!!!

And then I remembered the reports after the riots. All those kids stopped and searched, sometimes daily, in their own neighborhoods. Sadly I thought, no, even there something like this happens all the time.What must it feel like to endure it regularly ? Near your home? How uncomfortable had it made me feel, having happened this one time?

When I think of those two policemen, for the most part they were nice. Abrupt but not aggressive, kind of polite. It may never occur to them, how what for them may be a routine action, could unsettle someone in such a way. But isn't that the point? Shouldn't they be made more aware ?

On the art of Reinvention

2012-01-29T03:56:00.000-08:00

In the film and novella Breakfast at Tiffany's, OJ Berman utters the following about Holly Golightly

"She may be a phoney... But she's a real phoney. She's a real phoney because she honestly believes the phoney junk she believes in"

Ladies and Gentlemen ... Lana Del Rey..

Lana del Rey Shooting by Sean & Seng from Interview.de on Vimeo.

Reinvention can be a powerful and beautiful force. It comes with a freedom not just to be seen differently, but to perceive yourself the way you would like to be seen. You can become your own artwork. In freeing yourself of the limitations you have carried previously, you can become more yourself than you were before. Sometimes the new self is somehow more honest. Much in the same way that often you can be more candid with a stranger, than you can with your closest friends.

Pop music is full of this and has always been. It is the same with Hollywood. It's part of the game . So what I'm wondering is, when did we get so obsessed with authenticity ? What does is it mean to be *authentic* anyway?

I think part of the thing with the backlash of Del Rey (and I do feel it's all been much nastier, her being a woman) is her *character* was meant to be indie. Sure there was a sense that the legend was too quirky to possibly be true, the trailer park, the love of hip hop and rockabilly, the homemade films cut with super 8 footage, but even that in the beginning was endearing to the indie press. They wanted to believe it. They wanted someone with a back story like that, who looked like that, who dressed like that, to be *real* And then of course, was her sad sultry voice, and the lush cinematic music production that backed it. She even had blogger ready jargon for her look (gangster nancy sinatra) and her sound (hollywood sadcore)

Those who love to spot the latest greatest underground thing bought into it fast, and promoted it even faster. The trouble was that those very people who bought into it, felt tricked when the mythology began to fall away. None of it had been lies exactly, but there were details that hadn't come up before. Yes she had lived in a trailer, but not because she was poor. Her style may not have been entirely her own, had been reworked, maybe with the help of others, to match her sound (which to her credit, I must admit still sounds very much the same).

And then that greatest of offenses,

LANA DEL REY... was NOT HER REAL NAME!!!

Blogging culture and social media attract strongly expressed opinions. These are often delivered in rapid debate: fervently for or passionately against. Then there is the inevitable follow up: a discussion about the discussion, questioning why there is any hype at all. Now those who had previously promoted Del Rey, felt embarrassed for having bought into her in the first place.

By promoting an artist that wasn't *authentic*, their own taste and sense for authenticity was called into question. Hipsters don't mind embracing pop music, as long as they are clear that the music is pop, so they can then choose to be ironic or gleefully indulgent about it. What they don't want is to be tricked into liking pop, thinking its Indie. They needed to backtrack, and quickly.

It wasn't just about her background, or her look. Now people were listening to the lyrics and questioning what she was saying. What was the tone of the character she had created? She longs only for her man, will do anything for her man. She lives for him, even when she is ignored.This makes some men and women annoyed with her, genuinely horrified by the stepford wive-ness of it all.

Then there were a series of underwhelming televised performances. More than anything, on stage she looked scared. This provoked some people to question not only her image, but her talent. This is a little unfair. Here is someone who had all this hype built up around her, without the experience to confidently rise to it. And as for sounding different recorded, this is hardly a matter of auto-tuning.

Some artists are better live, some are better in the studio, Just as some actors are better in film, than on stage. These are different disciplines and can be complimentary skills, but not always. Regardless, these appearances were damaging, giving her critics something else to feel vindicated for. It was still weeks and weeks before the album was due out...The backlash machine fired into fifth gear. One blog in particular, took it to ridiculous levels.

Perhaps she may have been forgiven for remaking herself, if it didn't appear that there was a team behind her reinvention. Perhaps for many the real sticking point, was that her team included a rich father, quite likely a stylist, and A&R men. But do we have any idea how much the musicians and actors we love have been advised on their reinvention? Sometimes these decisions are pragmatic, a way of distinguishing one self, in an industry where standing out means everything . Pop culture is about the dream. The dream is by and large manufactured, and why not ?

I caught onto Lana Del Rey early, and was immediately drawn in by Video games. I still think its a stand out track from last year. The album is released tomorrow. I'm very excited about hearing it. Despite all of this negativity towards her, presales have been high and reviews have been very good. Perhaps the backlash tide is turning. As for what goes on behind producing the persona and sound of the album, as long as I'm feeling the music, frankly, I really don't care.

In Memory of Claire De Rouen

2012-01-28T11:46:00.000-08:00

It is not often in life that you meet someone who gives a sense of being iconic, just by being themselves. Shortly after graduating from film school, I got a job working in a graphic design bookshop, and I met someone like that. Her name was Claire De Rouen. She was the partner of my manager, and ran the store several shops up. Since moving from London, I’ve often thought of going by her shop to visit her. I really wish I had, as recently I was sad to hear that she passed away. I’ve been thinking about her since, so wanted to write a few words about her.

Claire De Rouen, was someone that if you met even briefly, you would not soon forget. That razer sharp fringe, the kohl lined eyes, the designer clothes (that on her modest salary I'm never sure how she afforded), the gold jewellery, the high heels. Walking down the street briskly to and from lunch breaks, she was often accompanied by Tara, her willful little pug.

*illustration by Hormazd Narielwalla

She was a charming, glamorous woman. She spoke several languages fluently. No one knew her age. She believed in the artists she admired, and knew the subjects of fine art and fashion photography inside out. She was a valuable resource to all those around her. She counted many famous photographers (Maplethorpe is the one I remember) and fashion designers as friends. She was as patient with and passionate about the young aspiring artists who worked for her, as she was to the established artists and fashion professionals who frequented her shop.

Her store was the best kind of specialist bookshop, carrying carefully selected books that often, you couldn't track down anywhere else (whether they be out of print, or in some limited edition, or by a small press) . Amongst the hard to find, were also the newest ,glossiest, and fresh off the press. You see, publishers and distributors loved Claire too.

Her store then, was one of a small chain of four art bookshops. You could even argue, that it was the success of hers, that propped the others up. She got away with ordering what and how much she wanted, even when the company was struggling. Finally when it did go bust, it was her character and vision, which led to her being approached to run a shop in her own name. It was no surprise to anyone who knew her, that it turned out to be a success .

I know and respect a lot of artists, but the success of any artist, comes not only from their own talent and drive, but for everyone along the way who has supported that vision. Claire was one of those kind of people, and above all else I will remember her for that .

the english riviera

2012-01-11T09:15:00.000-08:00

*play this while reading*

I was little, maybe age six or seven. I walked over the grey pebbles and waited for my grandpa to buy me an ice cream. And then I saw her sitting on a bench. This little red headed girl sitting with her gran. And on her grandma's arm I saw something that made a great impression on little me. On that flaccid sunburned wrinkled skin, was a tattoo, faded.

I'd never seen one before. I cant' remember what it was of, but it hadn't aged well. The woman who wore it looked so sweet, smiling at her granddaughter. the tattoo seemed incongrous. But I remember thinking it added something, a quality. whatever it was, I liked that. Maybe that's why I got my first tattoo when I was fifteen.

But this is not about tattoos. Twenty six years later and I am back in this place again. And now we, my friend and I, we were chatting and this.. this was not small talk.

She had made the transition from smiley smiley chatty two or three drinks ago. Now she was fired up, oblivious to comic book wallpaper and spotty teenagers and the acid green lukewarm drinks on the table with bendy straws. Her caramel locks shaking and her hazel eyes flashing. Closer and closer she edged across the table. She considered the drinks for a second

Thought better of it.

She was talking about fighting and falling and nearly making, when everything falls into place and then the one piece goes missing. Or the puzzle morphs, or someone starts another just as you had one piece left. You had been putting it together for some time, can see the image clearly, perfectly. It's just one detail missing, you just want to finish it, its only fair, you've put the hours in.

I looked at her and said.

If I think of what I want to be doing, you're doing it.but then where you are there's just more frustration, so when does it end? or lessen? I mean... at least you're surviving from your work. That's all I want I and

She cut me off.

I don't want to survive!!!!!!!!!!!????????? I WANT TO LIVE!!!

And with powerful insistence she added.

We are Gods!!!

What she meant was, we are here with a purpose, a purpose to fulfill. There is more to what we are doing than career and entertainment. We have a power to make people think, to change people. We can make people identify, to understand. We are the everythingmen. We can see all sides and connect them. Our power is observation, our gift is in the giving of it

I thought about how all of us matter. How our words, our stories matter. Everyone may not have a novel in them, but everyone has a spirit that is valuable, a chain reaction of people they have touched are touching, even those of us who are most difficult, we have people who will miss us when we are gone.

She sized up our green drinks with irritation

I want to drink nice drinks. We are gods you and me, we are gods.

But what is the world we are gods in? Look past the wall paper, and tune out the Stevie Wonder. Look out the door that everyone who leaves forgets to close. Look to the street.See the girl in the hot pants and platforms and sheer blouse. Her legs are nice, but she can barely walk in those heels. She's leaning on two of of her friends. She's giggling. Too drunk to be taken seriously, too young to be sexually interesting. A fight is starting, or what looks like it, but its really just two boys shouting. So this is what its like being a teenager in a seaside town, like the suburb I grew up in, but with sea air and more pubs.

The boy who sits down next to me passionately goes on and on about how he can't get used to this place, having moved to Brighton. He's used to no limitations, more people who are more interesting. He's used to bars that close as late as four in the morning. I could trump him by telling him I'm from Berlin, where some of the bars don't close until after the next morning, but I don't have the heart for it. It's more fun for him to let him tell me how worldly he is.

I was incognito. I had deliberately made no effort at being pretty at all. I didn't want that kind of attention then. I wasn't interested in speaking to new people that way. I liked not being interesting. I didn't want to reveal anything, nor appear like there was anything interesting I had to say.

And then there was the model, the model who tried to convince my friend they'd had a foursome once. He wasn't that tall. Didn't seem tall enough to model. He told me he would only pose nude for charity, but had done shoots in boxer shorts. He had been spotted in London of course. He had just come back from New York. He couldn't believe he could have ever lived in Hastings. I ask him if there is any work he wouldn't do, clients he wouldn't work for? He looks at me as if I'm insane. That he'd do anything (with the exception of nude non charity work I guess?)

Well that's the job innit?

He wryly adds.

The teenagers keep arriving . But now there are also people in their early twenties. The model has gone back to trying to seduce my friend. I end up telling a random girl how much i like her jacket, and she reminds me of my friend Rosalie in Berlin. She wants to dance.

I end up dancing with her. A guy joins us. I start partner dancing with her. The guy wants to join, but she doesn't seem interested. Another boy, so drunk his head lols on the table, looks up at us with childlike wonder. Two other guys start dancing. the dance floor fills, so I say to her.

Just remember, we started this. This is because of us.

She smiles at me and then shoots a dirty look at a blonde girl dancing beside us. She is cute and leggy, dancing with what looks like her boyfriend. All the boys on the floor are looking at her. My dancing partner scowls.

At closing time I leave the others and go back to bed. Her friend walks me up to the room. He says his father is eighty,and to be very very quiet. There is only one bathroom and its downstairs, so please if I need to go, could I not use the bathroom and use the tin pail he'd left in the room instead?

When I wake up hours later, after something like a nightmare, I am once again in that familiar position I seem to find myself in, of not knowing where I am. I calmly take pause, trying to understand what room I'm in and why. Oh ok, I remember now, are they here yet? No? better fall back asleep then.

At 7 or 8 am I am awoken by their stumbling up the stairs. So much for being quiet for the 80 year old dad then. Something shatters, and there are many FUck!!!'s shouted out.

There is talk of the model, whose house they'd gone to. He had ended up falling on his face, busting his lip,lying in own blood. She gets next to me and pulls the covers over her. The others scuttle under their blankets, until one by one they snore. Literally, all of them. Snoring. A symphony of snoring. Cartoon like, one nasally gravelly moan intercepted by the other. It gives me a strange sense of calm.

We had made plans for brunch, but at noon it was clear by the snore cacophony, that brunch would be more of a late lunch. My stomach growled. The sea gull calls peaked my curiousity. Quietly as I could, I dressed and snuck out. Walked down hill to the sea, sat on cold pebbles and watched early morning fisherman sitting quietly by their dark green tents.

There were no grans with tattoos, but it was still pretty perfect.

after the show

2012-01-09T03:07:00.000-08:00

She sat near the front and when You looked at her, she was the only one who gave your look back. Unafraid. Or mocking maybe? You thought with a look like that she would come up to you after. Would say she liked the gig or maybe just liked what you wore or, maybe she’s too cool for that. She’d probably be more the kind to just come over and say *hey*

But she did not come over after. She was now deep in conversation on the other side of the bar. You were stuck in a corner signing autographs on books and napkins and cards. It always struck you as funny that anyone would want an autograph of anyone, let alone yours.

Who were you talking to? Oh yes, that guy, the aspiring poet. He really wanted to tell you one of his poems right now. He had hinted at it several times, he said his work was dark, sad, and Was that ok? Yes that was ok. His poems were short, he almost, he kind of, he could almost just tell you one right now (in Danish?, in German? In Polish?)

He was Russian/German/Polish, a student, ridiculously young. Barely nineteen, barely. A little intense. You did not want to hear his sad dark poem. No now. Maybe not ever. You’d had enough poetry for the day. You left the venue with the other performers.

-----------

The bar we ended up in played nothing but 90s indie music... for hours. I had enjoyed this in the beginning, but in the last hour it had gotten old.

To make matters worse, they were now out of wine. Beer was the only real reason people came here. Beer here was cheap. But I hate beer, so I ordered a cuba libre instead.

How much was that?

70 Kroner.

What!!? Are you serious? Here?! That’s way too much.We#re going.

What?!

Quick, get your stuff. Now!

I cast a quick glance at the bar. As we ran off, my guilt was laced with adolescent pleasure.

We make our way through the masses of drunken teenagers. We are winding along Jomfru Ane Gade, this infamous street of so many terrible looking bars.

So what do you say in Copenhagen about people who are from here?

We talk about all the seagulls they have…And maybe about them being not very sophisticated

The seagulls?

The people...

And what do people here say about people from Copenhagen?

Probably that we are all latte drinking metrosexuals

Aren’t you?...

My eyes turn skyward, to the sea of white wings filling the air.

There are a lot of seagulls

When I was younger I dated a girl from here. I told myself when we talked on the phone, that if the seagulls were ever quiet it would mean she was cheating on me.

Based on?

It was just my theory

And?

One day I spoke to her on the phone, I couldn’t hear any seagulls

And?

I found out she had been cheating on me.

Fuck...you were right.

We were now on a mission to find something to eat . It was proving difficult. Even the the kebab shops were closed. We walked in endless circles, until we had to choose between starving or or… had it really come to that?

We walk by the golden arches and pause.

I can’t,

No me neither.

We walk to the burger king and linger

It’s the only other option

I guess its slightly better than mcdonalds?

In the line I count my change.

67 kroners exactly!!!

I have the exact amount for a meal. We are both thrilled about this. Small change has never been so exciting.

Someone in front of us turns and asks where we are from. They assume my friend is also a foreigner. This is the casualty of speaking English.

I mumble that I am from England. I don’t feel like having the where I’m from conversation. When asked where he is from he says

Ghana

The dane who has asked him is noticably perplexed. The answer is not going well with his drunkenness.

Gh... ?

Its in west Africa…What…? You think there are no white people in Africa?

Um,, no. no I guess um….So she is from England and you are from Ghana

My friend nods.

You would think it is the other way round.

He shrugs

You have a good football team

Thank you

But what's up with all the tight shirts you wear

I’m sorry?

On your team

What?

Do you like Denmark. Do you... Do you like it here?

I’m not sure. Maybe not. Is everyone like you here?

Our new acquaintance turns to me

People from Ghana are very difficult aren’t they?

I’ve always gotten on with them.

I say.

My friend smiles. Our meals are called out. We collect them and walk off.

By now it was sunrise.

alwyas back somewhere (on tour!)

2011-10-06T07:07:00.001-07:00

Now I know I'm always saying i'm always back somewhere, but now I really will be going back to a lot of places, as I am setting off tomorrow for the glorious shores of England, Scotland, Belgium and of course Germany.

I'm lucky to have had Pushit Artwork design this lovely tour flyer.
Have a looksy.
If you still frolick on facebook i've put together links of all the events here just to make spreading the word ever so easy.

looking forward to coming *back* and to seeing you somewhere.

xxx miss v.

Music Video "Award Tour" by "A Tribe Called Quest" from Marcus Lebov on Vimeo.

merch!!!!!

2011-10-04T08:51:00.000-07:00

hey hey hey.......

as I'm now days away from setting off on my most ambitious tour to date, dotting up and down england and even getting out to Belgium in between, I've been putting together various things to sell at gigs.

its all looking so pretty that i got my mate joe to take these photos on his balcony.

there are books

postcards and stickers

and of course cd's.

and if you buy something, I'll give you something extra for FREE

(like if you buy a book, you'll also get a postcard,
or a sticker, if you buy a cd)

so if you want any of this stuff

holler at me at one of my upcoming gigs,
details of the tour coming here in the next days.

xxx miss v.

the secret life of teacups (part two... )

2011-05-31T04:48:00.000-07:00

the secret life of tea cups - part one

2011-05-30T02:08:00.001-07:00

NOW HEAR This!!! filament stanza on the radio

2011-03-15T06:45:00.001-07:00

Tonight at 22h on 88.4 mhz in Berlin, 90.7 in Potsdam, and everywhere else in the world at... http://reboot.fm

Now Hear This opens its studios doors to the world of Altes Finanzamt, where we encounter the evil geniuses behind a curiously named monthly literary event: *Filament Stanza*

is one of the best kept secrets of Neukölln.

Though it's hard to find and though the logic according to which the opening days are fixed may not seem evident, it's cozy and friendly inside. You can get Portuguese wine or beer, usually served with lupines - which have nothing to do with Spanish tapas - while you listen to experimental music or to a reading.

Filament Stanza is an anagram of "Altes Finanzamt" and the title given to a monthly literary event. It is curated by Mário Gomes, Jochen Thermann, Eirik Sördahl, Joana Bértholo and John Holten. Apart from readings, "Filament Stanza" proposes literary duels, writing marathons and scenic literary performances.

Jochen Thermann lives in the wrong neighbourhood in Berlin. In winter he therefore spends a lot of his time looking out of the window of the Ringbahn to Neukölln, thinking about the poetry of the goals that Borussia Dortmund has scored this season. Now he is riding his bicycle again. To make a professional appearance he has published a book on Kafka’s animals suggesting a metaphorical model of the mind. He writes texts for Netzreporter and talks about history on Montagsradio. Among others, he pleads guilty for the invention of Philosophical Football. Together with Mario Gomes, Eirik Sördahl, Joana Bertholo and John Holten he is in charge of Filament Stanza, a monthly night of literature at Altes Finanzamt that he warmly recommends.

Joana Bértholo still denies she lives in Berlin after 4 years and many pauses - Buenos Aires, Lisbon, London, Marseille. She was born in Lisbon in 1982, studied Visual Arts and Design, ran marathons and played at being a professional triathlete most of her teenage years, and only payed writing any attention when her silly ramblings started getting awarded. She has published a novel, a compilation of stories, many other short stories in different media, and a script for comics. She insists her next novel as well as her PhD dissertation is about the topic of "Shadows" - though nobody else agrees. more or less: http://www.unscratchable.info/.

Mário Gomes still has not decided, whether to write his name with an accent on the *a* or not. The version with the accent would be the Portuguese one, the version without it, a German or rather international spelling. Whenever he dedicates to academic work, he avoids the accent. In the credits of his films, he usually appears as "Mário" with an *á*. To avoid excessive reflexion about this question, he makes up new names to stand as the authors of his literary publications. He is a Philosophical Football referee, one of the co-founders of Altes Finanzamt in Neukölln, where he organizes the monthly literary night along with Jochen Thermann, Eirik Sördahl, Joana Bértholo and John Holten.

very far from berlin...

2011-03-01T09:48:00.000-08:00

I am leaning outside the windows of my bedroom at my parent’s house. A ladybird explores my window ledge.

It is quiet except for the distant rush of cars passing on the nearby motorway, and some sporadic birdsong. The birds are deep in conversation. Perhaps he is right, it may be spring after all.

My eyes drift along the plume of smoke I exhale, seeing only one bird perched high in the tree across.

It is orange breasted and moves its head with a quick and sudden sharpness. It seems the most delicate thing. When it chirps the tone rises up like a question. It is anxious. Uncertain, neurotic.

You’re always anthropomorphising everything

He says.

Perhaps he’s right, I am projecting my feelings onto it . It could be perfectly happy there, serene, content. I wish I knew what sort of bird it was.

He thinks I’m allergic to nature. This is not true. I grew up with it. Came of age on long walks, picking berries, sipping nectar out of honeysuckle flowers, collecting baskets full of pine cones to burn.

I liked the lavender in our garden best, not because of its smell, but because the butterflies and hummingbirds would always hover there.

When I first moved back to London, what I missed most about the place I’d left behind was the seasons.

Distinctive seasons, magical for a child.

Snow in the winter that fell heavy from the sky and stuck fast to the ground until it came up to your knees.

Breezy springs where crocuses and daffodils would bravely break through the frost .

the summers were almost too hot but then it meant you could run with your friends through the sprinklers and have fights with water balloons or water guns.

And autumn,maybe most stunning of all , leaves in every shade of the rainbow, I liked to pile them up and dive into them, their softness breaking my fall

I finish my cigarette, its cold now, I should close the window. I don’t know what the bird sings about. I cannot speak its language. But why should I? It’s song is not for me after all.

stansted...gateway to london (the first 20 minutes..)

2011-03-01T09:43:00.000-08:00

Waiting at the very short queue at passport control the man who looks at my passport has an accent that is really too posh for his occupation. Did something go wrong after Eton? As he gives me my passport back, the chinese man who sits at the desk next to him shouts out

NEXT!

The man serving me shudders, shakes his head while casting a pained look at me, leans over and says to him

No need to shout… it’s not as if we’re in Germany.

The chinese man looks embarrassed. I take my passport back

Waiting at the stand to buy my coach ticket to London, the twenty something Spanish girl who serves me is less interested in the transaction, more interested in how her hair and make up appear in her reflection. She’s cute so I forgive her for this.

I leave with my ticket to buy a sandwich and a coffee at pret and over the tanoy someone says

Carlo Fanni please come to the information desk. Carlo fanni.

I catch the eyes of two burly security guards in flouro jackets . Their faces are lit up like gleeful school boys. I also can’t help from smirking.

Carlo fanni.

I hear a girl say to her friend

He must have really enjoyed making that call. Carlo fanny..

her friend can’t stop laughing.

When I get to the coach stop,, I’m accidentally (I hope ) pushed aside by a group of Italian girls who seem lost. They ask the guy at the bus something in italian, and as I am thinking, Italians think they can speak Italian everywhere well..The boy replys, in Italian. Actually, he is Italian. The girls don’t’ seem to appreciate their luck.

He tells me I can’t take my coffee on the bus but I have nine minutes. I step aside and ask the bus driver if I can take my suitcase on the bus. He says no (in an accent I think is polish) but offers to put it into the boot for me now while I smoke.

When I finally get in I attempt to hide in the back but am soon surrounded by a class of dutch students. I look out the window. Its warmer here, but also greyer and wetter. Why didn’t I pack an umbrella? I should know better. It’s nice to be home.

departure..

2011-03-01T09:36:00.001-08:00

I am about to give him the password to my email account. I was hoping he could print something for me when he went to the internet café

I would be too tempted to look at your emails.

But there is nothing I’m scared of you seeing.

I’d rather not have it…I’m the type who if I found a diary…would look through it. But at least I’m honest to myself about that.

I understand. But I’m not that type.
As much as I am weak at any hint of temptation, I draw the line when another is involved.

I mostly don’t do what I shouldn’t …mostly

That morning was much more difficult by his presence in the bed. I was finding it almost impossible to slip myself away from him in that moment. The minutes ticked over and passed, drawing perilously close to when I should have already left.

Finally I forced myself up.
Pulling on a purple vest that lay on the floor, I asked if I could turn the light on. He sleepily murmured

yes.

All of my movements are misdirected, overwhelmed by clumsiness. Bleary eyed , my limbs too long, stumbling in his room. I am the bull in the china shop... I thought.

But at least I am dressed now, have everything packed now, just need to get my phone from the wall. I go to unplug it, but misjudge the space in the back corner of his room, turning only to narrowly miss knocking a stack of papers on the window ledge. But even half asleep I have cat like reflexes , so catch the pile just before the first layers slip to the floor.

As I shift the papers back into their disordered order, the corner of an image is poking out. I can’t make out what it is, and I don’t know what makes me do it, I think it must be a postcard, and I instinctively think its best to leave it alone.

But I pull it out ever so slightly anyway and I see it’s a photograph of him. This is the first photo I’ve ever seen, that looks exactly like him, s I know him now. It could have been taken last week, it could have been taken yesterday.
I think he looks beautiful.

But then he is not alone in the picture. There is a girl, I’m not able to look at her for long. I couldn’t’ really tell you what she looked like. Fair skin, dark hair. Maybe she had wavey hair or curls? I can’t tell you what her facial expression was. I didn’t look long enough, but I instantly knew who she was. I know it is the girl from before. And I feel guilty for seeing it, and awkward for seeing it. I gently push the photo back into its place in the pile.

And then I feel… I don’t know exactly how I feel. I feel strange and confused and…jealous? No…not jealous. This is a feeling I have no word for, all I know is it isn’t pleasant. Why…why am I effected this way? By a relic from a life before me? When him and I are always telling *war stories* , when I’ve even played with the idea of showing pictures to each other of all we’ve been involved with before?

But I shouldn’t still be here now. What would he say if he woke up and saw me there. Just standing there. Twenty minutes longer here than I’m meant to be. All dressed and standing staring out his window, into the empty hof. If I don’t go now I could miss my flight. I look back at him, curled up in bed peacefully. I look back out of his window and floating through my head is this one sentence

*they were happy then*

And all I can think about is ending. Their ending. The ending of the life he lived with her before I was known. And he is always quick to point out the mortality of things. And I know he’s right, that nothing lasts forever and…I don’t have time to think about all this now. What good is it? I have to leave. I go to him. I kiss his mouth and then again kiss him gently on his cheek. I whisper in his ear that I love him. Outside the air is brisk and it is beginning to get light. I close his door gently behind me. Its time to leave. It's time to leave...

night on the town

2011-03-01T09:30:00.001-08:00

I go out on a night with myself. I am taking myself out on a night on the town…my way…no compromises. I will go to as many places as I like, stay for as long or as little as I like. There will be no one to consult or argue options with.

I am acting out with a serious case of (a term my mate b-ski invented) F.O.M.O

Fear

Missing

Out…

Why else would I attempt to go to four events in four hours? And how will I know when is best to be at each space?

When I arrive at trash city limits at the diamond lounge, my first thought is: Waiting on my own is not so much fun. I get more than a few stares. What do people think of me in this turquoise dress, on my own, writing in a lime notebook? Maybe they think I'm a journalist?

And then a woman's voice says

Excuse me

I move aside to let her pass, miss her face but catch her walking off, all long legs and tight black vinyl knickers, fishnet hold ups. Yes… I've come to the right place.

A dj moves to the dj box, a mic is adjusted. Something must be happening. The lights dim and then, to a pulsing hard rock soundtrack, a curvy brunette performs a striptease down the runway shaped stage. Her every move executed with precision, perfect. The act culminates with a dance with firey wands, which she juggles and swallows, occasionally stopping to take a sip from a pitcher of fuel, occasionally spitting out a spray of fire.

After her act I walk out into the street and decide I need to give myself some games to make things interesting, like if at this very moment I turn my head, and see a cab then I am allowed to hail it.

Bingo

I tell the driver the address he says something in german that sounds to me like

*what hour of the street is it?

I give him the number again

I havn't understood, he asks again

What hour is it..?

I say I don't know, apologise for my german. He says its ok.asks where I'm from, apologises for not speaking English. And then I say in german

Um do you mean which corner? Its between this street and this street

Yes, that's what he meant.

When we arrive at the gallery I'm disappointed. I've been to this space many times before. Each time was heralded as the best party ever. Each time I'd walked in to the two packed rooms you could barely move through and left shortly after.

Why was I here again? Oh yes, an exhibition, with an after party with a major dj, and the clincher, everyone would be wearing masks.

As I push through the doorway and look to the dj I realise I have no idea what this major dj looks like. So it could be him spinning,or not. And yes everyone is wearing masks, but by now they have all been pulled back to their foreheads. Giving everyone strange hair, with the impression of metallic headbands.

I consider getting a drink, then pretend to be looking for someone. Then I actually make the effort to fight through the crowd to look at the art, and many people give me pointed glares for this effort. If I wanted to see the art, why did I come now?

There's not much point in staying. I invent a new mission. I will not leave until I have a mask. This is slightly tricky as it appears they are no longer giving them away, so getting one means taking one from someone else. How will I manage that?

I will wait for the first boy who smiles at me…no that could get dangerous. No I will wait for the first boy who smiles at me…shyly. Yes. I will pretend to be looking for someone, and then the first boy who smiles at me shyly, I will go up to him and say very politely

Enshuldigung... kann Ich deine Mask haben?

And after a few smiling boys, I see the one I'm after. The one who meets my eyes, smiles and then immediately looks away. He seems very surprised when I go over to him. And when I ask. He smiles again.

Naturlich...

Grinning now as he takes it off and hands it to me, as if he's happy to have done me this favour. I wait for him to disappear out the door way, before counting to five and then walk in the opposite direction out the door.

After the fourth event, a cabaret night at the kookurburra comedy club, I leave with my friends to an anarchist bar nearby. The bartender looks at me like I'm insane when I order a jackdaniels with soda on ice. He modifies this to a jamessons (without ice, anarchists find ice offensive apparently) and another glass beside it with seltzer water.

I consider joining a friend across town at the club wilde renate, but think better of it, and traipse back in my highheels to the ubahn to finally make it home.

something needs to happen...

2011-02-23T08:18:00.000-08:00

I know where its going, where I want it to go, but I’m not sure how to get there…This I mean. This thing you’re reading now. This thing that I’m writing…

Oh.. but see it’s not just a blog. I mean yes of course it’s a blog. What you’re reading now. But its also part of something else… A show. A performance.. yes I know its not one now but just wait. That will come later.. or at least I hope so.

The problem is, what I’ve realised is, if you are basing something on real life well, its not like writing fiction, when I can sit back godlike, look down at my characters and say..

what do I with you now?

Only… I guess that doesn’t make for great fiction either. The best stories come from a place I don’t really understand, like they are being dictated to me by someone, as if I am not the author at all.

About what you are reading now, the larger form of it. I’m so excited about reaching that final scene, that I am distracted from getting there. Because I don’t want you to be reading this from a screen, I want to skip to the part where you are in a bar or a small theatre and I am performing these words for you. But how do I get there. How do I take you with me?

I said all of this to him last night. He is also a writer so I felt like he may understand. He asks me what I’m writing, what I’m writing about. I try to explain it to him, but when I tell him it comes out jumbled. I’m embarrassed to admit, even to myself that I’m not sure what it is about at all.

I don’t know how to get to the end. Its been based on reality, but now….

maybe… I need to fabricate something…to push it forward

He grins, pauses…saying only

Patience. Something will happen…you just have to wait…

2011-02-23T08:17:00.000-08:00

When you walk into the front door down the hallway you will come to a closet, open it and you will see shelves and shelves of our high heels (Hers are the highest). To the right, enter the living room. there is a cabinet from my parents house, we painted it black in their back garden and inside you will find all of our cd’s. mixed up in four wallets. Our books are also mixed up, on the shelves in the bedroom, but we’ll go in there later…

When we unpacked our boxes, our first argument, possibly our first ever argument in years of being together, was about our books and cd’s. She did not want to mix my books with hers, my cd’s with hers. She wanted to keep her things separate. I was offended. She felt silly. So we arranged them together by type, by genre, by artist.

But where were we? Oh yes the living room. The sofa is black leather with white piping, a two seater. It was hand made in brighton by a small company that specialises in art deco remakes. We went down to the shop to go through leather swatches and styles before we ordered. Next to it is a swivelling glass and chrome table, by the white leather bibendum chair. (Not an original, but as stylish as it is comfortable. that company sent us two by accident, and we deliberated for ages as to whether we could get away with keeping the extra one. )

There is a cocktail cabinet,, where my collection of martini glasses are kept, and the matching flasks we got at work, when there was a jack daniels promotion at the bar. We found the dining table beside it in a tiny antiques stall in the south west of England. We took a train out for ages in the pouring rain, to get there.. The couple who sold it to us, advised us how to clean it, how to prevent the surface from scratching. When we agreed to buy it, we made a little toast, the four of us. They asked us about our new place, they liked us I think, they said they wouldn’t charge us, to deliver it over.

She organized everything in the kitchen, I can never find anything but the glasses. There are red wine and white wine glasses, champagne and shot glasses, brandy balloons, All the plates at her request, are large and white. There are heat resistant placemats we bought at john lewis, to protect the dining table from marks.

Walk out of the living room and down the hallway to our bedroom. There is a low dark wood double bed. We got so giggly trying out all those mattresses. The sheets white, white like the walls, the plates, the placemats. The duvet and pillows are filled with goose down feathers,. The two wardrobes and vanity, are a suite from the 40’s. We found them on ebay, amazed at their beauty, their craftsmanship, when they arrived. We liked the idea of putting on our make up sitting at that vanity, until she finally pointed out, in that corner, there was never enough light.

When it became clear it was over, for a few weeks we thought we could still live together until she found a new place, or at least we tried. And then I took a bag to a friends place, and then she took a bag to a friend’s place, and she emailed me, with a tone that was exceedingly polite, asking when would be convenient for her to collect her things, asking to arrange a time.

I stayed away on the day. On next morning, when I arrived, I walked through the flat, , convinced there would be something she’d forgotten, one thing she left behind. But the removal of all that was hers had been meticulous. Every cd, book, notepad, poster, card, photograph, dress, belt had evaporated from sight.

Thinking I’d catch her out, thinking I might stumble across something she had missed I looked under the beds, behind the desk, along bookshelves. But all she’d left behind was her absence, and all of the many things we had found together, chosen one by one.

box

2011-02-23T08:14:00.000-08:00

He is waiting for a box. A box is being sent to him, full of things, artefacts of his previous incarnation. His past life with her.

When she packs his books sometimes a card or a silly note fall from the pages. At first she looks at or, reads these things, and then decides it is best not to, to place them back, unseen.

And its not that she is sad now for what can never be, but maybe just a little sad about the end of what was.

Because that’s the heart of it, even when something feels so final, so past tense, there is the memory of that time when it was filled with promise and hope.

Nevertheless now, she will pack his things into the box, fold and pack things neatly, all of that he left behind with her. When she takes it to be sent, watches it carried away, maybe she feels some pang of sadness. The last physical remnants of him are gone now, forever. Maybe she keeps some small thing behind, a sketch? a photograph? A note?

When the box arrives, she, the current she, asks if he is ok and tells him to call her, if he feels strange about it later. Maybe.. Is he sure that he? Doesn’t want her to go with him, to pick it up?

He doesn’t seem to understand all her emotional commotion about his box. It’s just his things, his things that were left behind. He’s getting them back, because they belong to him, that’s all.

When he unpacks it he finds, that jacket he liked, and those shoes he forgot about, and damnit the tripod is broken but, he will dryclean the jacket to wear this weekend, on his birthday.

And when she, the current she, walks into his room, seeing that empty cardboard shell on the floor, gaping open like a hungry mouth, she will feel a little down. She will not be able to explain to him why…

date

2011-02-23T08:05:00.000-08:00

they have a date together...

No...

not a date.

A meeting,

platonically, over drinks.

Him and him. They who have never spent any time together without me before, who may have only met a handful of times, in another city. Remember, you can not assign people to places, they move and connect, with or without you.

It was no surprise that they had met. It was only a matter of time until they did. He saw him pass by a café, and ran after him. Ran after him three blocks, ran after him to give him his card. In less than four minutes had said

yeah we broke up… and it was because of…and it would be really great to meet you

to… talk about it.

In less than four minutes… to someone he barely knew…

Neither of them are so big on drinking. They both do it more to be social. But I guess this event is social, in a way.

He will arrive first I think. He will want to make a good impression. He will be keen to get certain things off his chest, to explain. Maybe to get help, to understand.

And he, well he doesn’t have an agenda really. He just feels empathy. Thinks he can help, wants to. Don’t we all. Don’t I?

I have allowed for this to happen, I have been asked permission for it to occur, and when I say it has nothing to to with me, he says

Its obvious he’s still in love with you –

I’m unsure what to do with this information. It feels like a liability. If he never moves on, it will be my fault, somehow. The result of something I did. It aggravates me, that only the end has clarified it, has made it certain.

And so I wonder, what is the measure of someone moving on? How do you know when someone has resettled? And the puzzle is, is it best to wait for someone to have moved to that place, before you communicate? Or, do you need to communicate, to enable them, to move?

collaboration

2011-02-23T08:02:00.000-08:00

When we collaborate our ideas interlace in a pattern of yes’s and no’s. Our suggestions debating and challenging,but always ending in agreement.

When we are devising I am the one who is cautious and afraid. He is the one who always wants to elaborate, take it further . Somewhere in between we find one other. My seams are loosened by him. I push to draw his in tighter, to give them more form.

And this is why, when I find myself, wrestling on the floor with him, in a small gallery, with a small audience of onlookers, I am not phased. I am floating above us watching, intrigued. I am watching our playfulness, and my aggression, knowing that even if I leave scars he will understand.

In some strange way this is our creative process performed, our friendship manifested.

Orbit/orbiting

2011-02-16T08:48:00.001-08:00

First he said, he talked to her about orbits in berlin, constellations of people. She liked this idea. She had thought about it often. How you can circle around someone until you are closer and closer, until you collide.

Then the other one, in a separate conversation much later, he told her she had been in his orbit for some time.

For some time ?

She pointed out they had met only a few months ago.

Oh but you were on my orbit, for six months before that

(and did he say *in my orbit* ? Or did he say *on his radar* now trying to remember she's not sure)

…?

All those nights at ping pong bar…

Every Tuesday night she was there. It was the only bar she would go to by herself. There would always be someone she knew, and iff she was broke the bartender might give her a free drink, and then there were …the boys.

It always amounted to nothing. She never hooked up with anyone, but there would be weeks and weeks of flirting. Weeks where she would be excited by the possibility of…something. Weeks where she never paid any attention to the music, to the dj, at all.

You always had on all this animal print.

You always looked all…Cleopatra-like.

She was somewhat perplexed by the comment *Cleopatra like* She decided to take it as a compliment. But what was it before that he had said? He had been aware of her for some time.

This phrase used to be…fatal. It was the catalyst for almost every relationship she had ever had, dating all the way back to high school. It was part of:

the pattern.

There were only two documented cases of the pattern ever being broken. Summer 1998 and most recently in winter of 2010.

For every other relationship that had transpired, the other had made it clear they were interested, and then waited and months later made it clear again.

Or the other variation, when someone made it clear not only that they were interested, but had been for some time, the magic number generally being: six months. Whether or not the person would be considered before uttering these words, was not important. In saying them, they had potential, they could be her type. The pattern was larger than her. it was fate. But why she thought this, she was never quite sure.

Now she was hearing these words again. Only something had changed in her. Now they had no effect. And she thought of how, the person she did love, was in love with, before that moment they met, had no awareness or interest in her, at all.

And then with no small ammount of amusement, she recalled that first night he had gone home with her, the first night she had taken him home with her, and it happened to be that one evening, when she had taken him, to that ping pong bar…

breathe

2011-02-16T08:42:00.001-08:00

It starts with a desperate need to have my neck bare. I must quickly rip away any scarf, necklace, unbutton and open coats, dresses, shirts. Then my pulse feels frighteningly rapid and I'm scared, scared it will only speed up. I have to focus on breathing, just breathing, the act of breathing.

How fast is your heart going now? How fast? Too fast. Knowing this, thinking this makes breathing even harder. I start to gag and I need to sit down and I can't do anything but wait , wait for

Breathe . breathe in, breathe out. Just sit still and breathe

(But I'm late most likely and I can't tell him because his phone isn't working properly. He'll be sitting waiting for me thinking I don't care about making him wait when I do its just I can't get up right now I, its hard to breathe now and I )

Don't think about that. Just breathe. Ok now, maybe you can stand up?

You can't . Finally its happened. Your body is protesting. Stop thinking, stop worrying, or else maybe your breathing really will stop.

Just breathe ok?…

Breathe.

Breathe…

Not so small talk

2011-02-16T08:40:00.001-08:00

I'm always self-conscious at dinner parties. Dinner parties like this, where I kind of know people, but only enough to add a shade of warmth to our small talk. All the eating and drinking makes me anxious as well.

I'm always worried I will eat and drink too much. So I eat very little and smoke too much, punctuating awkward statements and questions by igniting ciggarette after ciggarette.

I get talking to the only other girl who looks as left out as I feel. She tells me about the last decades in berlin, what it was like when she was growing up here, the techno club she liked when she was 16, the impact of squat culture and gentrification and she is studying media and she wants to make a documentary about her Jewish ancestry in Greece. It is a somewhat unknown history she says. I ask her if she has read the book everything is illuminated and immediately after, hate myself for the question.

She hasn't read the book but she has seen the film. I explain the book is very different, probably in too much detail,almost apologising for it. We end up talking about concentration camps and the complications in how to present them sensitively without sanitizing their tragedy. I say I've never been brave enough to visit one, but that I went to a slave fort in Accra.

And she's asking me questions and I'm answering them, but also wondering why, how did we end up talking about this at a diner party, and we could crash another conversation, I think they're talking about living in London over there, or otherwise we could talk to those two about their new office seating plan.

Is she as uncomfortable as I am? Is she even interested, or is she just asking questions to be polite? We are interrupted by the first girl in berlin I ever fancied. She never took me seriously, and there is a girl who says we met before in London but she looks embarrased when my face makes it so clear that I don't remember, and next to her I notice a dj who once kicked me off a stage ( I wasn't meant to be there,) at a music festival ( but one of the backing dancers had taken me on with her) but she doesn't remember me.

why would she?

And then not long after, the girl I'm talking to leaves. Doesn't say goodbye to me, or anyone else I think. Two more people I know arrive and our conversation is all quite silly. But I don't' feel playful anymore., so as the others put gears in motion to go clubbing and make a big night of it, I grab my things call him with his phone off, and him who doesn't answer, and within an hour I'm in bed, wishing I stayed home.

What I wanted, what he wanted…

2011-02-16T08:36:00.001-08:00

When I woke up all I wanted, was to do something for him. I woke up with one desire only; to do whatever he wanted. I would do whatever he asked of me. In this moment when I woke, he was all that mattered.

So I reach for the phone hiding under a dress discarded by the bed. He tells me when he answers, that he is also in bed. We talk a little about this and a little about that, and then I tell him about my desire, to do something for him. What did he want today?

He appreciated the sentiment, I think he understood, but then he told me,what he wanted today, was to be left to himself. I appreciated that, and understood. So I left him to himself, and was left feeling a little lost, a little confused, not about what he wanted, but what I had…

chain

2011-02-16T08:29:00.001-08:00

We are all tangled. We form a chain, arms linked, hands clasped, stretching across

piles and piles of all of those others, all of the ones that came before.

fleeting

2011-02-16T08:27:00.001-08:00

I sit in a café' writing until all I want is to go out and smoke. So I go out to smoke, but its bitterly cold. My hand trembles as I open the pack. I wish I wore a warmer coat. I idly watch all the passerby.

I'm only half way through my cigarette but I drop it, run back in the café' , wondering if anyone notices how I race back to join myself at the table. Do they think I'm crazy? I don't care.

I have to write these words down before they float away from me.

I start to wonder if these thoughts are even mine?

Because if they are, why are they always leaving?

why is it so hard, to hold on to them?

Now Hear This?! A Tale of Three Cities.

2011-02-16T08:10:00.001-08:00

Tonight 22h berlin time, 9pm london time live and direct
on http://www.reboot.fm

Now Hear This! Paula Varjack invites the creators and contributors of the Berlin chapter of an exciting new literary journal: Tale of Three.
www.taleofthree.com

With their first issue on the horizon, these cosmopolitan creatives ware also about to launch their first live event, where stories *donated* from the public will become inspiration for prose, poems or art.

GIVE STORIES // FRIDAY, 25.02.11 // KAUFBAR,

Gärtnerstraße 4 // 17.00 – 21.00--------------------------------

A Tale of Three Cities is the first printed arts journal to get down on its knees and kiss the ground before Europe's golden triangle: London, Paris and Berlin.

Launching in early 2011, A Tale of Three Cities will showcase work from the best emerging – and also more established – writers and artists in each city. It will only exist in real, touchable, paper copy. Good content should be matched not only with good design, but high quality paper, ink, printing and binding. A poem or photo is not the same on a computer screen. Divided into a London section, Paris section and then Berlin section, the journal will be released simultaneously in galleries, boutiques and bookshops across all three cities.

Ralph & Ruth (Berlin editors)

Originally a Sarf Londoner (leafy Dulwich actually), Ralph currently lives in Mitte with a stupendous view of the Fernsehturm and Adonis, the kebab shop. He spends his money on ties, flowers and aftershave; he's probably spilt white wine on you in a club. A collection of his short stories appeared in Ganymede Magazine, a New York based arts journal, others were published by the Fun and Beautiful Journal last year and his story Assassins was published in Litro's December issue.

Ruth relocated to Mehringdamm for the antiques, falafel, and to avoid life in a friend's warehouse in North London. She has also lived in Paris, but feared that a return would put her in AA. She spends her days in Berlin pretending that she is Sally Bowles and drinking soy coffee. Currently a journalist with Berlin-based news site, The Local, she has also been published by The Mule, Index on Censorship and The Riveter. Most importantly for TOT, she is a full-time lomography nerd.

Listen in tonight to hear a taster of the first issue's contents featuring readings from the following contributors..

Helena Rosebery

Switzerland was too sterile for this Swauzzie, and she thought freezing her tits off in Europe was better than baking them on a beach in Sydney. Satchel overflowing, she haunts East-side candlelit cafes, scribbling lousy prose and loading up on free biscuits. Helena uses her 'If there was…' project as an excuse to strike up conversations with beautiful strangers. A blog? Of course she's got a blog.

Inna Selipanov

Inna has lived in a number of places – all of which feel a bit like home, along with other places she has never lived in nor visited. She is fluent in English, Russian and German, and can't remember which one is her native. When she's not working on her collection of short stories, she's busy playing mom and wife to the cutest people one can possibly envision, objectively-speaking. Blog? Why yes, thanks for asking.

Kev Alson

Possibly the most mysterious expat in Berlin; internet searches just throw up dead ends and confusion. He writes the lives and deaths of hipsters and Bobos (probably your friends). If anyone knows him, get in touch...

Closing the show, and complimenting all the literary wonderfulness, a music especially chosen by the Berlin Tale of Three team: Benjamin Pates.

Benjamin Pates

Benjamin aspires to resemble a 19th century French composer and even writes some music for cello too. He can be found touting an antique tripod between Kreuzberg cafes, speaking more Turkish than German, and sneaking shots of discarded high-heels and dirty bathtubs. He's the one on the U7 with Shostakovich shrieking from dangling earphones and staring at you in the reflection. Blog blog blog.

no requests...

2011-02-09T08:56:00.000-08:00

No I don’t have any minimal… No sorry no techno…No , no Madonna. Sorry… No I don’t have… No I don’t have…Ahhh I wish I did.. I really like her but I don’t have any of her tracks with me. Sorry… sorry.

I've given up. I've reached the point in the evening when I have dropped all pretense, of being cool.

I am not a dj after all, and the software I’m using is really just a slight advancement on i-tunes, and it’s a house party so…

F*** it. It’s time.

It’s time to dive straight into… unapologetically mainstream pop music.

Rhianna, Justin Timberlake, Sugacubes, Beyonce...

Bring it. I don’t’ care anymore.

And then comes this one girl. This blonde girl with short hair, her eyes staring past me to my laptop. Her hands practically straying to the keyboard, without so much of a hello in my direction. Her first words to me are

Where is the music?

Sorry?

How can I see it? your music? Where is it?

I show her where the archive of tracks is kept. She’s distracted for a second. I light my cigarette. Her expression changes. She’s found something she likes.

Ratatat. You like ratatat!!!

Ah musical bonding. Our friendship is cemented...

I love ratatat. I saw them at maria last year.

Does she want to hear something by them?

No.

Oh.. ok.

She smiles and walks off. I’m not sure what happened. But it makes me feel very self conscious about playing all this pop. Maybe i should be playing something, something, something... Balkan? Or maybe some electro swing? Or maybe...?

But scrolling through my msuic I stop when I see her that blonde girl...dancing. Hands in the air totally into it, singing along and dancing. And I'm baffled because of the tune that is now playing...

Brittany spears - toxic!!!!

This is what she wanted? Maybe there is some kind of science to these things but, Now I really don’t understand.

Anyways how am I to know? I am not a dj after all.

overheard in the ryan nash smoking room...

2011-02-09T08:52:00.000-08:00

Seriously!….I had to carry him.

I smacked him hard !!!

(laughing)

Really! I didn’t know what to do! so I just kept drinking…

There is no midweek for me. I’m a pornstar baby.

I’m a rockstar and a pornstar…

No… No..

Not a rapstar.

I would never be a rapstar.

Rapstars don’t have taste.

Usually they have gold teeth gold chains and fat sneakers…

I don’t want that…

seriously…

Dining experience...

2011-02-09T08:48:00.001-08:00

Wanting to do something different, or… unique, or that even more overrated adjective special … I make reservations for us, to go to a gourmet pop-up restaurant .

When the day of our booking comes, we walk into what used to be a vault I think?

And more than anything… I am.. embarrassed.

Embarrassed by the product placement of 4x4’s and Smeg refrigerators. Embarrassed by the crowd, the prevalence of suits, everyone in the queue, the act of queuing itself.

Waiting for our first course, we our sat side by side at a ridiculously long table.

He tells me how it reminds him of being at a wedding and then, details to me, just how much he hates weddings.

And then I, and then all I wanted, was to disappear under that long table, and into the floor.

best left untitled..

2011-02-09T08:43:00.000-08:00

What if one day I wouldn’t be able to read anymore? I don’t mean decipher words from combinations of letters, I’m sure I could always make out signage and stories on websites.

No I mean, what if my restlessness became so great that I could never settle into the peace of reading a book again? When a book would be opened, only for its text to blur into meaninglessness?...

I bought flowers today . Tulips… red.

I set them on the table in my kitchen. My flat has a funny layout because my neighbor has to pass by my kitchen window and then my bedroom window to get to the hallway.

He’s older, german, polite, friendly. He never complains of noise, or of any of the random people he must have noticed coming in and out of my flat or sitting in my kitchen.

I like to think he respects my privacy, or better yet, just isn’t interested. But then, what if tomorrow, when he passes my kitchen, seeing those tulips, will he wonder, who bought them? (I would) Or will he know, from having lived next to me these three years, that I am the kind of girl who buys herself flowers? Maybe he might have noticed in the first year, that I had different flowers every week. And even if some of them had been bought by someone else (none of them had), no lover would buy you flowers every week. Or would they?

I worked for a man once who bought his wife red roses every Monday. He set a weekly reminder to buy them in his blackberry. Every week with a card, with the same message.

I can't remember what it said. But it definitely ended with I love you... and..? I wondered if she appreciated it, or if it just became a routine like anything can become.

On Mondays he sends me roses, red, cut slanted at the stems…thornless.

And what if someone did buy me flowers every week? But what if it happened when that restlessness settled in. What if I met someone who bought me flowers every week precisely at the time I forgot how to read, and then I would never know, what he or she wrote, on the card attached.

man's best friend?

2011-02-09T08:39:00.000-08:00

I can’t forget him, that man last night, at the Hermannplatz platform of the U7. He looked like a sheriff out of an old western, with a star shaped badge on his well worn jacket, and heavy boots . But instead of a cowboy hat, he wears a faded baseball cap, two dirty dreads snaking out the back. his beard is rough looking, jagged, it would sandpaper your skin off if you dared to touch it. But you wouldn’t dare, not just because of his countenance, but the company he kept.

Walking with him is an aging Doberman, mouth caged in a clunky muzzle. He looked miserable that dog, the saddest dog I may have ever seen. I suppose he would have seemed menacing otherwise. He was the size of small horse.

His owner, this urban sheriff, walked him with a heavy chain lead. Shook the chain forcefully, beat him against his neck as they walked the platform. The dog, unable to take it, began to limp. I wanted to cry out for the owner to stop.

I looked to the platform, so many onlookers, watching this pair.

All of us staring in that way you do when you ought to look away but can’t bring yourself to. Some more than others, disturbed by these actions that looked unwarranted, and cruel.

But then I have no idea of the backstory of that dog, the reasons for that muzzle.

I remember how one summer, for no reason whatsoever, my uncle’s dobermann, had turned violent on my aunt.

Very suddenly, without any provocation at all, the dog ripped a chunk of flesh from her thigh. With dogs like these, trained to attack, one never knows..

But walking into the train towards rudow, I find myself sitting along and across from this man and his dog. The chain lead is smashed into the dogs head once again, who stumbles a little, before crumpling onto the floor. He lays his head to the side, and his eyes look out into the distance.

And when I leave the train, I’m grateful for only needing to ride for one stop, and even more grateful, for not having to watch it anymore.

skint...aber...

2011-02-09T08:28:00.000-08:00

I remember not long after living in Berlin, A friend once took me to rote rose. We’d just left a fairly glamorous party in mitte, and were looking for a local night cap in kreuzberg at five in the morning. It would be funny there. he said. I’m not even sure I really wanted to keep drinking. It would probably be more truthful to say I was avoiding going home.

When we walked in, there weren’t so many people. We sat at a table. He asked me what I wanted to drink, and looking at the grim decor and grimmer people, all I wanted was water.. Two boys were poised on the brink of fighting. An old woman on her own was staring hard at the nicotine stained walls. A man rambled to himself. Even the bar staff looked angry. I drank my tap water quickly and looked at my friend, who without a word, drained his drink . We left. We were silent walking the two blocks until we had to part ways. He said “ it can be funny there sometimes...”

Until something in my eyes made him trail off.

=======

When I first went with him to his new place, just past the boundaries of the up side of his up and coming district, I remember mentally marking the building, by its placement between a triad of the kind of tacky looking bars you would probably only suggest going to, if you were joking. On the corner opposite his was a bar named Korner (yes spelled with a cheeky k). Each time I passed it and the others, I thought of how we would most likely never venture in. Its like the kneipe next door to mine, the one I would like to check out, but intimidated by the midday alcoholics stumbling in, am never brave enough to dare.

Months later, for reasons I won’t explain, we are walking right into one of these very bars. A cheery blonde in a lame dress stamps my hand, London all over her accent. On we go into the heaving throng, Hipsters all of them. No one over the age of thirty. The music and conversationg at full volume. For the first half hour or so, all I can hear around me, is english.

He and I have both lived in Berlin for some time, before that we lived in London. Surveying our surroundings, trying to make sense of it all, our eyes meet and then almost silmultaneously we say “ this is like… Shoreditch?”

I overhear someeone say “ they have old people serving???”

The bar staff do look ancient. The joke more than anyone is on them. Most likely paid no more than a regular shift, but with a heavier workload. They are pushed by a less than patient crowd, continuing to ask for drinks they do not have, while most likely leaving no tips. The joke in fact, is possibly also over their head. But what is the joke?

A super trashy setting for young privileged decadence. A hipster party in a kneipe, in the middle of nowhere, with old bar staff! Fantasticaly ironic Isn’t it? Its like….

flash gentrification.

The bar, the area. gentrified for one night only! Don’t miss out!

So here’s what I’m wondering.

when did irony become such a cherished characteristic?

When did irony become so synonmous, with cool?

My old local in london, the dolphin, had much of a smiliar formula. Take an old grotty pub, much loved by locals who are actually from the area, and have the odd night with hip dj’s and their followers, to mash it all up. I did love it for this. But when I took friends there up from brighton, they kept saying it didn’t at all seem like my kind of pub,. I liked that, but I also worried that they had called my bluff.

Was the reality that there were only so much of real that I wanted.? Because if I really wanted east london authentic, why would I never go to the wetherspoons on the street across?

I’m not entirely sure, but as for this kneipe party we went to, all I can say is, it did end up being a brilliant night out. And there is no irony in that. So maybe the truth of it is, when the party is a great party, where it is, is of no relevance at all.

the problem with projecting...

2011-01-26T08:43:00.000-08:00

One night when he was out, his eyes met hers across a crowded dancefloor. As much as he was trying to avoid being with anyone, in spite of himself, he felt it happening. As their eyes met once again, he lost himself in a montage of romantic projections. Do you know the kind I mean? It's the future one can paint, between oneself and a stranger.

I think of writing to my friend, of saying to stay clear, to proceed with caution. And yet...I can't blame him. My views may have changed on such matters, but I'd be lying if I said i didn't understand.

It's like when I hooked up with him, who I don't even talk to anymore. Waking up the morning after, wishing I had something other to wear than the cocktail dress from the night before. I remember, hazily recounting in my head, what was not an altogether satisfying sexual experience, and yet still, I was doing it again...

I watched myself making polite conversation in his minimalist mitte flat. My mind was elsewhere. I was secretly fantasising about future mornings. We would sit at this table, sip dark strong coffee, lazily finishing our breakfast while listening to nu soul or hip hop. He would talk about what meetings he had to get on with that day, and I would talk about gigs I had coming up.

Maybe days after we'd meet at some film screening, and I would be his exotic new girlfriend. I'd get on so well with everyone, they wouldn't even mind that I didn't speak much german. When he came to my gigs and met my friends, all the auslander girls would be impressed that I scored a german boyfriend. Everyone would remark on how compatible we were. It would all be so easy, so effortless. We'd be perfect together, obviously. .

And I would think all this, after I'd known him for barely 24 hours , just after walking through his door.

But this was just a way of fooling myself, embarrassed by the reality. This was just one in a series, of inconsequential one night stands, with someone I had met in that least romantic of places, a night club. In weeks to come, him or I, would consider the other's number, once on our phone display, as something to ignore..

The truth is, you don't have any idea of a future with someone when you meet them. And if I've learned anything, it's very very dangerous, to project.... Yes you may feel a click , a connection, a chemistry, but when its really relevant, charged with true potential, in that very moment, all you're feeling... is that moment.

You can't begin to think beyond it then.

It is those moments, with that person, where there's no room in your head to consider, to conceive what will follow: That in five months time, the hand that just extended for you to shake, will be curved around your waist as if it belongs there...

Because by then, it does.

grocery shopping

2011-01-24T15:14:00.000-08:00

There is rarely any food in my flat. Usually I would overcome this matter by eating out or at least buying takeaway, but it being the end of the month, I was pretty skint.

so he suggested that he could cook for us instead. But cooking requires groceries, and at the suggestion of grocery shopping together, his eyes turned... frantic.

You don't want me to go with you...

What?!.. No...

grocery shopping together...its too...domestic?

He laughed, attempting to deny it. I was unconvinced.

And when.. when you first encounter someone, when you find yourself attracted to them, you will imagine that first kiss. Then you may envision the embrace, the discarding of clothes. You may think of mornings after, that are cozy rather than awkward. Or maybe you think of being out with them, seeing them across the room, animated, talking to friends, thinking, I can't wait until we get back into bed...

But you do not, you do not fantasise about.... grocery shopping together.

Well, what if you go instead?

I'd go but I'm not cooking. I wouldn't know what to get.

A lull follows.

He pulls on his coat, plays with his hair, adjusts his glasses,

I guess.. it's just... It's been a long time since I've been grocery shopping with someone.

And I think about another person.. How he always needed to go to Tescos, just as I'd arrived in London. And how, any sense of joy in seeing him,was soon after obstructed by the frustration struggling to follow, laden down with my luggage. When he would always ask

Do you want anything?

As I'd mumble

not really

As it became clear to him, that the only thing I really wanted, was for him to make his way to the check out, so I could make my way with my heavy suitcase, out the door.

And then I think of how for my mother, going to the supermarket, was some kind of social event. How she knew every single sales assistant by name, and how they knew hers as well. How she loved it if I went with her, because then she could introduce me to all of them, until i wanted to crawl under her shopping cart, begging to wait outside for her on the pavement.

My father never did the grocery shopping then. But now mum has no interest in driving, so every week he gamely he makes it down the aisles, squinting at my mother's list, often failing to find some of its contents. When I go with him, he is always impressed that I understand, what to him is a mysterious logic. How is it that I know what and where all of it is? He considers me clever, treating me like a supermarket shopping genius.

But back to how my story began...

In the end, I do go with him. And when we walk in, I get distracted by red wines on offer, and he goes off to buy vegetables or spatzle or something, And actually, the whole expedition is over fairly quickly. Its all really quite painless. We remark on this on the way back to my place, amused at making it through this new threshhold of our relationship, as we once again, return through my front door.

inscription

2011-01-24T11:03:00.000-08:00

I wanted to show him an excerpt , a few lines of dialogue that I felt rhymed with me. When I found the book, tucked in the back corner of my battered book shelf, I flicked through the front, searching not for the quote, but curious to see if there was an inscription (most of the hardback books i have are inscribed, generally being gifts from friends or family, or former lovers)

But the title page, and those that followed, were blank. As I look for the quote I want to share with him, I am thrust back into the romantic context of purchasing this book. I had bought it at a reading, and had it signed by the author for a girl i was seeing at the time. I couldn't afford to buy two copies then, so only hers had the inscription. i must have bought this one later, meaning no inscription from the author, meaning mine... was blank.

I think of her, this ex lover, and think of her having the book signed by one of our favourite authors. we're still on good terms the girl and I, but maybe not quite friends.

Suddenly thinking of her owning the signed copy, I feel irritated, jealous.
I try to shake the memory off.

He's asking me if I've found the excerpt i wanted to share. I find the quote, and read it to him.

sounds like you

he says.

This cheers me up. I'm happy he sees that.

Days later, I'm tidying the living room. I come across the book, and before I find a place for it on my bookshelf, I open it again. I flip through the front pages. This time I notice something. On the very first page, inside the cover, very faint as it had been written in pencil, is an inscription.

"Whoever tries to find refuge in any one place, in any one moment, will
never be where they think they are. xx N."

And then I feel guilty. I had completely forgotten him, this long lost
friend.

Now more than ever, this quote feels especially poignant. I put the book back on the shelf, wondering on the whereabouts of this long lost friend, thanking him, for this perfect missive from the past..

addictive...

2011-01-24T10:55:00.000-08:00

He makes it so easy, so pleasurable, so simple and wonderful to be, exactly where I am, with him, present. Present in moment after moment. But then those moments with him are so delicious, so addictive that it becomes very difficult not to push, to make them extend.

Last week he said, he needed time apart to focus. he needed to get back to working.

And i did too. It seemed logical, beneficial for both of us.

After all, It would only be until the weekend.

It would only be for a week.

Of course we could handle that.

But in days, he was calling, and as for me, it took no consideration to find myself walking into the rainy streets, winding towards him again.

Then days later he was saying again, he needed to take a little break, get focus. And I agreed.

So today I am writing, and cleaning, and organizing and planning. Today I can congratulate myself on being terribly productive but, i can' t help it, i'm still thinking of, being with him again. And I tell myself that sometimes, sometimes the waiting, is part of the pleasure .

not *another* artist...