Old People

Today I was working with my grandfather with some machines. He destroyed them all. I knew, that this was going to happen - but I couldn’t stop him. Everything boiled down to destruction since the first moment. But this didn’t bother me too much.

What bothered me really, is that I think I will one day be exactly the same. Destroyings thing without meaning to do so - actually I start to think, that I’m already like that. You can’t believe what I destroyed in my life, there the short list goes:

Plants, Shoes, Trees, Relationships, Cars, Airplanes, Motorcycles, Bones and
amazing Meals.

The more I’m trying to remember, I find out, that there is NOTHING (besides myself) I didn’t destroy so far. But this sounds really depressing, which I didn’t ment: maybe it’s just what we’re ment to do. Destroying and creating until we’re dead, and finally nothing new remains. Oh, no, this sounds even more depressing.

But assuming that, my grandfather must have had created a lot of things. And this makes me smile again.

This weeks painting:

Unsocial Days in Seekirchen aka Churchtown

So spending now already 10 days at home became one of the unexpected experiments of loneliness. “Summer is really what happens in your head.” That became true actually, if you don’t meet people, everything exciting has to happen in your mind. But to be honest.

It’s the time of silence, whichs sound I totally can’t stand. Is it easier to learn to bear it, or to change it? Depending who you are I guess. The funny thing is just, that I used to stand it for a long time and it was totally ok for me in the last years and even decades. I don’t know what happened. Any ideas? Maybe the age, the tons of things in your live make you wanna forget, or better neglect. Neglecting is just impossible when you’re alone. But on the other hand, when you try to forget and neglect and you decide to surf on the wave of sociality, you collect even more things that you wanna forget. Logically not solvable. So another stupid choice to take. Collecting memories is so difficult.

To bring in something funny: Yesterday I was riding a bike at 4 in the morning, cycling trough my homevillage, the girlfriend of Luca Toni as my bike bitch, crying out loud: “Where is Ben Kilmister?” Now one answered and eyes glazed as we were dancing naked in the snow.

Therefore another stupid painting, let’s call it: “The lonely brain watching a passing Ship”.

Two amazing Agains. Holisundays

Sunday. Again.

Holidays Again.

So sundays in holidays are somewhat extraordinary. First because sundays itself are just nice. If you combine square them with the term holdidays they are going to be extrapolated somewhere into indefinite relaxedness. If easy-goingness was invented on a special day, it must have been a  holiday sunday. The sun was shining bright and a homo somethingus decided to let time pass.
To talk to his relatives. Spend one days painting his favourite cave in France. Sleep for hours below a tree. Have a nice meal. And espacially. Enjoy just the fact of being here.

Holidays are the time of growing. Everything grows and after them you are even able the recognize something new in your eldest friends. That’s why they are beautiful - they give you time to do what you want to. Mostly. Even if it’s nothing - it’s by the way the hardest to do. I can’t do it, even if i try hard.

Zkar’s last invention: Since he failed again in doing nothing (Don’t know how many times he tried) his new plan is to do a very tiny stupid thing and a big nothing. Like cutting tomatoes and nothing. This started to work out pretty well for him. He will train his abilities and get illumination finally. In between being awake and sleeping.

Where have all the flowers gone?

Da war eine Zeit, in der man sich ohne langes Feiern, ohne durchtanzte Nächte noch einmal kurz in die Augen blickte, vertraut zunickte und dann jeder seiner Wege ging. Meist war es Anfang Juli und irgendwie lagen Sommer und Welt vor den eigenen Füßen ausgebreitet.

Mitte September trudelten dann alle wieder ein. In diesen zwei Monaten lagen Jahre verborgen in denen viele gewachsen waren. Die Gesichter trugen stolz schlechte Bärte, die Köpfe ebensolche Frisuren. Die Haut gegerbt von Sonne und Salz und der Kopf übervoll mit Geschichten, die erzählt wurden als ginge es um den Bachmannpreis. Doch selbst danach, wusste man nie so recht, wo denn nun das Neue genau entstanden war, wo das Andere jetzt schlussendlich herkam, das man da plötzlich tief versteckt in seinem Gegenüber fand.

In den Jahren dazwischen wurde im Akkord in Fabriken und bis spät in die Nacht in Hotels gearbeitet, Marokko mit dem Bus bereist und ins Surfcamp nach Thailand geflogen. Heiß begehrte Praktika wurden abgespult und begonnene Bücher verworfen. Doch da war doch noch irgendetwas, vergraben hinter dem jährlichen ferialen Studententriathlon bestehend aus Kohle auftreiben, Etwas-von-der-Welt-Sehen und der Königsdisziplin: die semesterlang beschworene praktische Erfahrung sammeln.

Der Sommer ist dabei abhanden gekommen, hält sich versteckt und wird zum seltenen Gast. An lauen Abenden ist er noch anzutreffen, wenn alle draußen sitzen, sich in viel zu große Jacken hüllen und noch mal irgendwer losradelt, um ein paar Getränke aufzutreiben und vielleicht noch ein paar Decken. Man sieht ihn einem zublinzeln, wenn man trotz einer viel zu kurzen Nacht aufsteht, um mit Freunden was zu unternehmen, bloß um des Draußen - Seins willen. Er gesellt sich gern zu einer Grillfeier, bei der dann plötzlich jemand auftaucht, den man schon Jahre nicht gesehen hat.

Aber von diesen wenigen Momenten ist nicht mehr viel übrig, wenn man sich im Oktober in die Arme fällt. Das Neue in uns nimmt ab, die Geschichten wollen zwar nicht versiegen, haben aber aufgehört zu sprudeln. Doch er flaniert da draußen herum, der Sommer, leise aber ständig und am Ende hat es sich immer noch gelohnt, ihm ein wenig zuzuhören: nicht zuletzt in so mancher trägen Vorlesung im Spätherbst, wenn er dann wie auf dem Nichts wieder neben uns sitzt und die Pläne für die nächsten Ferien wachsen lässt.

What happened to this blog?

I decided to write just on sundays. But I don’t know what has happened today: Did I get a link on the Google Main Page, is there a little button on The New York Times homepage which leads straight to this weekly expression of horrible English - I don’t get it. Maybe it was the last painting, but, oh gee, I feel like a superhero…

So there is another thing to intertpret, maybe it’s that what smashed the stats:

About Misinterpreting the World

The sad story thing with interpreting is, that it’s all in one moment: no one needs it, but everybody has to do it.

But then the funny thing: everybody is supposed to be right, the only one to know the semiobjective truth is the creator himself; how come that we speak of knowledge or truth?

So interpret this:

Let’s search for the objective mind then! There we go! Jump and dance! Celebrate!

Holy Endorphines! Sad Tiredness!

How come that when you’re the most tired your the most happy. I’m shocked by endorphins, want to dance, to rock the night, sprew fountains, draw circles. But all we can do is smile happily and idiotic und try to keep our eyes open.

What I have done?

I cycled on my mercury arrow, faster than a thought.
I saw a certain smile, heared a certain laugther.
Had amazing food.

These lecture is free folks, but these three points can make your day, every single one. Imagine them together, all of them. To content to sleep.

Time of the muddy lagoon

Long days have gone. Days of carrying. Sleeping. Driving, flying, freezing.

But there we are, where we have been so often. Just now, the road is bumpy and I’m coming straight out of the water of the deep blue lagoon close to venice. Muddy water, folks, that I can tell you.

I stopped counting the Spritz and the red skinned yelling tourists, each at fivehundred. Until a certain number this all is so funny. Lights are blinking and Sunday is waiting.

But just a few word about my lagoon: As mentioned already, it was muddy. Muddy and cold. And there were big fish who worship dirt. The now logical question, why it’s still dirty: Friends, I have no idea. There was a crab called seamus. He lost one eye and spoke lousy italian. From time to time I joined my friends at the “Caffe rosso” to have a chat, but after a while I longed for the silence of the sea. Again.

Long gone are the times

Too long entries make you tired so short one’s: what is beautiful?

breath that you can see.

selfmade useless things.

time and time.

pianos with drinks on it.

colourful food.

and to hear from friends, who were far away in your mind.

why do we need our weekends to relax? what an idiotique idea. what are holidays for, if we like what we do? why isn’t it always that easy?

Why I hate social networks - der Eremit und das Erdloch

 

Ok, so don’t know why but I became lazy. Lazy and off the way and my plans to write some stuff faded so far away. But let’s stop doing nothing and continue with this here now.

So whilst writing nothing I found something. It was in a senseless, “I don’t know what to do with myself”, White Stripes memoriam moment: I found myself in a social network, in the one that is most ridiculous - and most German. Originally I just had to look up an old friend for something urgent, but suddenly I was surfing like on a wave of sociality. I gone was totally trapped in this spider web. As the Frankenburger said one day, when the social wave got you once you’ll never run away. But then the Beach Boys feeling faded away, all gone was my beloved California.

What took its place was the deepest desert, filled with dark sand - so call it central Northern Iceland. Or so. In between all this persons, in between all those guys I called friends one day, there was deep lonelyness. Maybe it were the stolen moments that squashed the Beach Boys. The moments when you’re having a drink and your old friend tells you about special moments in the last years, about what you missed out. This gets so unnecessary now. Maybe it are these moments that make you enthusiastic and help you on to go forward in your life. That help you back when you’re off the track.

Or the moments when you just stop in a bakery to have a coffee to go and the girl in front of you in the queue is the one you had a crush in your frog year. And you start to talk again and tell your about life. What you’ve done in the past years. Where will alll these stories go? Why should she smile about a story you tell her, when she’s already seen the pictures?

Then, after surfing for one hour and after having seen everything, even things in I never wanted to see, I was totally exhausted. And all that is left is anger. Besides you’re empty.

 

Und dann geht man schlafen. Voller Eindrücke. Wenn man sich wieder sieht hat man das Gefühl eine Person zu kennen, mit der man vielleicht noch nie gesprochen hat. Und weiter schweigt man sich an und belächelt in seinem Kopf die anderen. Viel schlimmer ist es bei Menschen die man schon zu kennen glaubt. Dann kollidiert das Bild, das in seinem eigenen Kopf von einer Person entstanden ist, frontal mit dem Bild, das jemand gerne für die Welt sein möchte. Was bleibt ist dann Bewunderung oder Spott. Beides unverdient, weil basierend auf Ideen und Wünschen. Wie viele Menschen haben nie miteinander gesprochen, weil sie ihre Profile sich abstoßen wie gleiche Pole eines Magneten? Nun zurück in den Norden. Nachdem mir nun schlussendlich der Schlüssel zum Mikrosondenraum entzogen wurde, weil ich mein abendliches Dreh und Drink gern im flüssigen Stickstoff kalt gestellt habe, und Susie gerade läufig und somit schwer einzuschätzen ist, habe ich mich schlussendlich in ein Erdloch am Hilmteich zurückgezogen. Während ich tagsüber immer fleißig Eichenäste sammle und nach Schwarztrüffeln grabe, werde ich nachts zum Heimwerker. Ein altes Ruderboot, weil angeblich nicht mehr fahrtauglich, konnte dem Hilmteichfischer für ein Butterbrot abgeluchst werden und wird nun fleißig umgebaut. Die Eichenäste (von ihnen verspreche ich mir besondere Stabilität) bilden die Außenwand meines nun schon beinahe fertigen Hausbootes, in das ich bald einzuziehen gedenke. Vorschläge für die Innenaustattung werden hier gern entgegengenommen, Anfragen seitens der beliebten Sendung “Lebensräume - Lebensträume” liegen vor. Doch nun auf, frisch ans Werk. Die Sonne geht unter und die Arbeit ruft.

 

Besides that, there was something happening really from the far North this week. I was doormen (yes me) at a party. I had to put stamps on peoples hand and make them smile. And there many smiles and even smugs, but oh how i liked them. I became a dancing stampguy.