Blue bottle

The month of the Taurus has just begun. Now I’m pointlessly smitten with something elusive – a star sign that I adore. At least this feeling navigates me towards hope and other lovely things while deep, deep inside I simply don’t care. I’m trying not to pay attention to this negativity.
Apathy on holiday or rain on hold.
Despite the beauty I see, I can’t help feeling attracted to Houellebecq’s obscenity, Ellis’s grotesque and Gallo’s spite.

How can you be so oblivious to beauty?

I’ve been doubting existentialism a lot these days. Can you really be who you want to be? Anyway I’m not heading to determinism. If we are all driven by psychology, then I’m afraid the soul is a little stronger and there is nothing that we can do about it.

I had another freaky hypnagogic experience and this time it was sexual. I was close to falling asleep on my stomach when I felt kisses on my neck. He said something, too, but I don’t remember the words. The whole experience of simulated warmth was ruined by my speculating of who it could be. I was still lying on my stomach, letting the caress happen. There is a high probability that I’d let out a loud moan in the real world, I don’t know. I was caught somewhere in between. My hand glided towards his crotch. Judging by the size of it, I knew it was neither of the two that I knew. My fear was ruled by the thought that it was him anyway and even before I wanted to find out, I twisted the dream into something else.
Just like that.
Like a keystroke.
I don’t trust dreams, you see.

I was asleep and I saw Saturn floating on water. A plausible image if you think about the planet’s low density. Or maybe Poseidon is merciful with his fat father.

I was looking at fat kids on the train the other day. Their mother was heavy, too, which already indicated that she didn’t care the slightest about health, especially the health of her children. They received their daily amount of crisps without having to ask for it.
The kids, mouths full of crisps, were smiling at me and I smiled back. They thought I found them cute while all I thought about was bouncing balls and the fact that in five years time they’d be 3 times the size that they were now. The thought of glutamate, “Schlacken” and other chemical substances in the body made me feel sick. Her daughter still looked fairly pretty, but let’s not go deeper into this, because in five year’s time it’ll be different. I was also imagining how their mother would devour them after learning that her children, in future, will cause her fall. Fat children will avenge.

London is a rubbish dump. How else have the flies become so monstrously fat? ‘Blue bottle flies’ sounds rather nice, as if it was another species. If they carry on feeding on our dirt like that, they’ll be feasting on us one day. One day when they’re 1000 times the size that they are now.
Blue bottle flies - it sounds like your favourite kind of Vodka.

Do I really mean what I blog these days or have the writing become entirely fiction, you reckon? I don’t even see the point.

Blue bottles – also known as Physalia Utriculus – look like blue dildos, poisonous dildos.

Misogynist

The latest unnerving hynpagogic moment: not being able to escape it.
It happened during an afternoon nap. I only remember roughly what I dreamt about, but the scariest thing was my attempt to wake up – my brain wouldn’t let me; my eyes wouldn’t open properly. Even when half-opened I saw images from my dream trying to seep through into reality. I groaned as though I was in pain. Why do I feel like a total freak when writing about these things? I’m sure at least 4 out of 10 people experience the same thing, except they don’t talk about it. They don’t care.

I just double checked and it’s true. I own 36 books in my room and only one is by a female. A friend recommended me Patricia Highsmith, so I bought it, but I have no interest in reading it just yet. I am surprised nonetheless. Even at the age of 12 and 13, when I was into romance and kitsch, I was primarily reading Nicholas Sparks and Ethan Hawke. A woman’s version of love and emotion or romanticism just seemed so unreal to me, I couldn’t build a connection, not to mention relate to what they described or what they were moaning about. It wasn’t until I first attended university that I was introduced to feminism. At first it seemed interesting; de Beauvoir I liked very much and I also understood her sentiments toward Sartre’s stance to polygamy. But the moment we approached angry lesbian feminists I began to shake my head. For fuck’s sake...! Just because you’re an angry lesbian, you believe that the world can exist without men? Reminds me of that episode of ‘Sliders’ where they arrive at a world that consists of women only. It made me cringe.
Ah, you selfish bitches! You’re a Christian but hate the Christian idea that we’re made of a male’s rib? Who told you to believe in the words of random disciples who all wanted a piece of cake? Jesus didn’t write these words neither did God and neither did...in the name of FUCK! I personally prefer autobiographies to biographies, don’t you?
You can be angry about a lot of things, but hating men won’t get you any further, you might as well hate humanity as a whole. Like I don’t hate women, I just wished women were more like Amanda Palmer. Never fear to show people who you really are.
The truth is that women are evil like the nurse in ‘One flew over the cuckoo’s nest’ who treat men like shit, and all men are evil like Dr Moreau for inflicting pain on people...and animals.
I kept distance from female writers for a while. Toni Morrison didn’t grab me from scratch. I hated the religious implications, but I enjoyed ‘Jazz’ and ‘The bluest eye’. I just wanted to read something either transgressive or NEUTRAL. Annie Proulx and Jodie Picoult – I liked. I have Poppy Z. Brite on the list, too; it just puts me off that she wrote Courtney Love’s biography.

Oh, I forgot Poppy is male.

Yeah, female writers. The only feminist book that I enjoyed reading during that module was ‘The Stepford wives’ by Levin. A serious feminist message, but brought along in a hilarious, humorous way. (Fuck Kidman’s ego in the actual film.)
Generally I like it when women don’t overemphasise their gender. Take Pat Barker for instance who says ‘I am not a sensitive lady novelist (only focussing on novels from 1990 onwards!). Overall I cannot say I have a favourite female writer, except Mary Shelley for having written ‘Frankenstein’. Other than that most write about things that I don’t believe in anymore. Kathy Acker is an extreme version of Anais Nin, except that Acker is uncontrollably delirious and a lazy bitch when it comes to structuring appropriately. This laziness is justified by the genre of her book which is “experimental fiction”. I am not a fan of automatic writing, but I like the idea of dropping down the exact words that are in your head right now – no matter how weird or fucked up. It’s something you write for yourself. Unfortunately, though, it’s not suitable for your readers out there. They don’t give a fuck. If there’s one thing that I’ve learnt this year at university is the significance of coherence, style, form and your audience. When you’re an unpublished writer, you are not allowed to do what you want. You have to think about your ideal reader. In the end it’s about delivering what you want with tact. How much I’d like to write like Acker, I won’t allow myself to. I noticed that your piece is so much more effective when you hold yourself back. Delirium can be used in a far better way.

Even if the female protagonist in my book is a misogynist doesn’t make me one. I’ve already heard some people considering it a feminist piece which it is not. And I will prove it to you sincerely (...out of spite).
Women call Hemingway a misogynist because of his detached nature. Why should a man express emotions when there are possibilities to deliver them through metaphors which is even sexier? ‘Men without women’ depicts the man’s world, the man’s pride and no woman is able to intrude. So what, women have their own world, too. And at least Hem is not saying or implying that he hates women. Not that I would care, but I think that’s important for female Hemingway readers to realise. Don’t you see that Tenente weeps over the death of Catherine? If you only read between the lines. Analyse what he’s doing, pay attention to the weather.

Whatever.

There are again two unpublished blog entries and this was supposed to be one, too. I’m not sure if my writing is getting out of order these days.
I am not angry or anything, people don’t think so, either. They say I should stop typing, stop reading, stop watching movies and that I should get laid instead. Funny. I think so, too, but I’m not doing it. I don’t know why. Maybe I’m leading the life of a celibate? Who knows...or maybe I’m just not like you.

“I’m ok” I told him in my dream, “there’s just a painful wound on my scalp” and then I opened my eyes and see blood in my fingernails.

That’s what I’d like women to write about. About washing your hands in the morning. Isn’t it the first thing you do?

Fallen

It’s only recently, during hypnagogic states, that I’ve been hearing people talk or whisper and I see grotesque images in my mind like I was playing a nasty film. The scene starts with bleeding voodoo dolls looking similar to the one on KoЯn’s Issues CD-cover, except that the voodoo dolls look slaughtered. One looked like it had its throat slit and the other had loose limbs. I’m not really sure what that place is, but I’m afraid, as it’s gradually dragging me into it, as though I belonged there.

I’m scared of falling asleep. Instead of finding silence I find myself in a noisy world that I deny. It’s not mine and it’s not me. This fiasco is making my scalp bleed. Someone put me some gloves on before I go to sleep? The next thing is hearing movements in my neighbour’s room, although he’s currently away. Do you know that moment before you fall asleep? That very moment before you get carried away into dreamland... the conscious part of you is still awake, it can already hear the music or voices, movements which are in dreamland. Very often you get a couple of hypnic jerks which don’t stop you from falling asleep, but to me, they are like a pinch in the body, as though signalling “Don’t fall asleep yet!” I prefer it this way. I need this reminder that I am, in reality, not falling.

Imagine I tell this to people! They’ll ask me “What’s your drug?” I realised it’s easier to lie than to tell the truth which simply is “Tea and biscuits.” Instead I say “Heroin” and show them the bruise on my vein which I got from my most recent blood test. A big thank you to rubbish female nurses causing that bruise. Male doctors, male mathematicians, male architects and all blind people have the most beautiful and skilful hands and they wouldn’t bruise me like that. Anyhow, do I even look like I do drugs? It’s biscuits, hence the ugly thighs. Fat pads inside out. Would you contemplate smoking a cigarette instead of eating a biscuit? Which one is the evil temptation anyway? Or is temptation always evil? I don’t know. I don’t know.

Maybe I want neither and only wish to dance with Fred Astaire to Tom Waits’ Dead and Lovely. I want no temptation that would harm my organs and damage my self-esteem. Would Fred even like the music or even understand the sentiments expressed in that song? Or swap roles – dance with Tom Waits to Astaire’s Puttin’ on the ritz. No! What a ludicrous scene. Ludicrous scenes altogether.

All answers are wrong. The building blocks of life are carbon and oxygen, they say. I’m not sure about that. I doubt the building of blocks and that they constitute anything. Something that came out of nothing ultimately is nothing. Why would elements combine together in first place? Inborn characters that know what they want and need. If only this characteristic was evident in all humans, there’d be more determination and less fear. How would you like that? So what we pursue is what our heart is? No. Do we pursue to feel alive? No.

Humanity is an undecided version of the Periodic Table. Our only aspiration is to become as perfect as our elements. Know our enemies, friends and family. The rest is merely untrue. I always thought what distinguishes us from everything is our undying love. Now I need confirmation.

Are my disturbing hypnagogic icons the result of calcium and magnesium deficiency despite the high amount of fresh produce that I consume? So the soul’s job is to look after the elements in your body...as if you haven’t already got enough problems.

My soul, my soul, Rene, touch my soul “thought constitutes the nature of thinking substance.”
Who wouldn’t want thought to be a substance that you can touch?

Being human and beyond human – what’s the real thing you wonder. I don’t know. Give me a kiss and we shall find out. If our lips transport a spark, that’ll be the magic of matter but what we feel inside is always a tricky one. Atoms would know immediately what the real deal is – we’re nowhere as perfect because we think too much about questions that lead us nowhere. If thought is more powerful than matter, then what am I going to do?

Killing Robbie

I just got back from Killing Bono. I should go to bed and think about things, but that’s, in fact, a reason to stay up and finish this. I just took my clothes off, now grabbing for the fat that has accumulated in my stomach – fat that made me look awful in my new dress. If only I knew what the hell happened. What’s the regular sweating session at the gym still good for? I don’t tell anyone I’m on a diet, as fat needs no flattery. Still I need to exercise to keep the anger from attacking my scalp any further. I wish you would ask me why I wear dresses and leggings so often, as my answer will be: my jeans don’t fit me at the moment.

Up since half six this morning and it is now that I have to think about last night’s dream. I dreamt that Robbie Williams had a revelation while walking through the woods with a piece of note in his hand. And you know what? It was my revelation that he was holding, but he fucked off with it.
Therefore tonight’s dream will hopefully be Killing Robbie.
I’d appreciate if you didn’t interpret this dream with Freudian approaches.

Not many people realise it, but the night smells so much better and fresher than the air during the day. Therefore the irregular menthol smoke tastes good and comforting.

It’s chilly and the cold tends to make me tired, so does heat. I just can’t find the balance and neither can the world. And that’s the only thing that makes me feel good about myself – knowing that something, which is bigger than me and anyone else, is not capable of control, either.

I’m noticing more and more cracks in my walls and on the ceiling. I’m pretty sure they weren’t there before. Or maybe it is now that I am getting to know my room better. Something that was previously nothing but merely familiar has grown on me. It’s a really daunting idea. Attachment always is.

Atmosphere

The more I write the more discouraged I feel. I just can’t find my way round this irony and neither can I accept this paradoxical way of thinking any longer. Also I fell in love with Joy Division’s music ten years too late. If you say there’s never a ‘too late for anything’ then you are wrong. People just say this to kindly encourage you.
If it’s too late – just you do it anyway. This is all that counts. Who cares about the time anyway? In reality they prefer ‘too late’ to ‘too early’, didn’t you know?

I find it fascinating how dark this room gets by the time it’s late in the afternoon. And the crow is still sitting on the antenna with no fear of height or danger. I wonder how much information is too much information. The crow is gone.

I don’t like Joy Division’s music that much to be honest. The only interesting thing they created is the living soul that dwells in their music. And I don’t mean Ian Curtis, because he was a coward. But at least there is always something heroic about admitting it in a poetic and tactful way, although a little part of me thinks that it’s just an excuse.
Self expression without having to talk, self fulfilment without having to talk. Just the silence in a rope.

I.R. - The writer's muse

1
Laurie stood there alone in the middle of the cemetery for miscarried children. She left as soon as she saw a mourning couple entering that place. It reminded her of a short story she had written a long time ago which included mourning couple. She missed writing. But getting back to work by starting from scratch was not easy. The journey of a story is tricky. You draw a destination and a starting point on a map and then you begin to sketch out the trip.
In fact, once you’ve had a long break from writing, you’ll feel anxious about planning out that inner journey again. They say a talent doesn’t vanish; instead it gets buried in the basement and it will become darker if you ignore it. Her confidence to write fiction isn’t the same anymore. Whom does she write for other than herself?
Stephen King calls the person he writes for the “Ideal Reader”. Laurie knew where her I.R. had disappeared to, thus she started packing and took the next train to Lübeck.

As she knocked on I.R.’s door, she heard him say “come in.”
The door squeaked. She smelt solitude in the hotel room, intermingled with the scent of dusty roses.
“Hello” she murmured.
I.R. was sitting by his desk, scribbling something onto paper. He still looked beautiful as ever, but the sense of loneliness floating in that room made him appear distant.
“I knew you’d come back crawling one day” he said.
“I am not crawling.”
“You would, though.”
She smiled. She knew that despite her honesty toward the entire world, he was the only one to ever hear everything from her, even the meanest and most despicable thoughts.
Awkward silence hung in the air, making the room appear even bigger than it already was.
“You know things haven’t been easy for me,” she sighed.
“I offered you help, but you needed some space, so I granted you that.”
He carried on scribbling words down.
“They detected water on the baby’s brain. He was sick,” she said.
She noticed a pile of paper next to him on the desk.
“What are those?” she asked.
I.R. looked at her and smiled for the first time since her arrival.
“Well” he began, “these are ideas still locked up in the back of your head.”
“Locked up?”
“Yeah, with me inside.”
The moment she approached him, he stopped writing after a nervous flinch. It felt like there was a shield between them, separating two delicate worlds that weren’t meant to fuse with each other.
“Don’t” he said.
“How can I open the door?” I asked.
“You can’t.”
There were traces of fear and desperation spread on his face, followed by an insecure smile.
“Only I can,” he said.
He turned back to his writing, as though she wasn’t there. She stood there in despair, unable to approach him, unable to put her hand on his shoulder.
She remembered they first met when they were eleven and how they had been inseparable since. Now was the first time ever she felt that the connection had been cut off. Only trust would let confidence and determination re-emerge – hard work and consolidated teamwork would rebuild that broken connection.
“You’ve just read what King wrote. Sort out your tool box now and get started.”
Now her heart began to fill with hope.
“So you’re still my...?”
He gestured at the pile of paper on his desk and started to laugh.
“Well” he said, “first revitalize your language, sort out your grammar and work on your style. They are appalling. Your stories need a hell of a lot of polishing and you know it. I can’t open the door for you if you don’t start putting your shoulder to the wheel.”
There was a long pause between them again. Though, this time the silence had dissolved the tension.
“Will you forgive me?” she asked.
He laughed. “You are writing this now. You’re gonna make me forgive you anyway! Have I got a choice? But honestly…” he paused and then looked at her in earnest. “Don’t you know me at all?”

2

I opened my eyes. The blurry tartan patterns were dissolving in the air. How weird to see the patterns during daylight instead in darkness or semi-darkness. I must have had a bad dream, but I could not remember. My neck felt sore as I arose from the bed which was not mine. I hoped I didn’t do anything unreasonable, but then on the other hand I didn’t feel hung-over.
There was a man sitting nearby the window with the blinding sunlight in his face. As he tilted his head, his glasses threw the reflection of the sunlight right at me like high-powered laser beams.
“I’m sorry” he said and took off his glasses.
“Who are you?” I asked and started looking around this familiar place. It was a small bedroom resembling that of a student’s. I smelt a rose-like scent and wondered whether there was a cherry tree outside his window.
He lowered his head almost in disappointment, but then a smile appeared and he put a book down on the table. I recognised my own notebook.
“You’ve been reading my notebook?”
“Secrets are no crime” he said. “Well, not in this case anyway.”
“Who are you? And where the hell am I?”
His face expressed disappointment again making me feel bad for shouting. I touched my chest, noticing that I was wearing no bra underneath that cosy jumper. I glanced over at the radiator where my clothes were drying.
“Good to see how quickly you’ve recovered. Out of date medicine seems to work!”
“Why, what happened?” I asked. My throat was dry and my neck sore, or it was the sunlight piercing through my brain.
“You had a high temperature when I found you in the rain last night.”
“You found me? Where?” I asked.
“There.” He simply pointed out of the window without further explanations. Instead of asking any more questions, I tried to remember what had happened. My mind was blurry. I looked at the little night table on my left and noticed a pack of suppositories next to some papers.
“You...”
“Out of date medicine does work” he said with a smile.
He stepped away from the light and came closer, his hands deep in his jeans trousers. I stared at him for as long as my eyes could bear without blinking. His dark hair and bright eyes bore a great resemblance to someone that I had once known, not to mention, loved. The scent of roses patently reminded me of it.
I got out of bed to get my notebook. “What else do you know about me?”
“Everything.”
The way he said it didn’t sound ominous, but rather comforting. I pressed my notebook tightly against my chest as he slowly stepped towards me. I took a step back.
“I understand your sentiments. Sorry.” He retreated to the bed, sat down and ran his hand through his hair. He stroked the stack of paper which was on the night table.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
He chuckled while shrugging his shoulders like an innocent defendant. “Call me Ian.”
“Where did you find me?”
He again pointed swiftly at the window. “There.”
As I moved towards the window, I found it to be a bright painting illustrating dunes and I recognised the sea and parts of a beach. There was a big cigar burn hole through which the sunlight was seeping through.
“I’m glad you’re writing about me again” he said.
“I’m writing about you?”
“Why are you here then?”
“I don’t know.”

As I was sitting on the toilet I realised that I had woken up in a hotel room rather than a student’s room. There was a sign saying “Please place towel on the floor if you wish to have a new one”.
The shower head had a dual system allowing the guest to choose from having either a full drench or a warm light sprinkle, rain-like effect. As the water drizzled onto my face, I began to picture myself running in the rain the night before. Tears had disappeared in the rain while I was sprinting down the beach, listening to the waves that looked like dark claws or the mouth of an octopus. Imagine the soapy foam at the shore as a mouthpart of the moving shapes of darkness. The lights behind the railings were dim and shaky and reminded me of a scene where a girl sits at a counter in a diner with a latte. We’re outside in the rain looking at her through the window pane. She props her chin with a hand while staring obliviously into nothing, whereas the boy next to her longingly breathes in the scent of her hair.
Like a cast away I fell unconscious on a small sand dune, a low-lying area vegetated with plants usually catching windblown sands. That night they caught me.
For a final rinse off I switched back to full heavy rain. When I got out of the bathroom I saw Ian sitting at a desk, typing. It looked familiar. I approached the window again, but this time I saw real dunes, the real sea and a real beach.
“Am I right, you came here to see me?” Ian asked, without giving me one single glance. Although convinced that it was a familiar situation, I couldn’t quite capture the meaning of it.
“I don’t know.”
“You know more than you think, but as usual your mind is opaque and the back of your head is locked...” He took a deep breath. “So you came to see me.”
“Why did I come to see you?”
He turned around, but as soon as his eyes caught me wrapped in a towel, he was speechless. I grabbed my clothes from the radiator and put on my underwear almost instantly. I grabbed the rest of my clothes which smelt fresh and clean.
“Wait, did you wash my clothes?” I asked.
“Yes, why?”
“Are you a nanny or something?”
Immediately he pointed at the door, the finger now looking firmer and angry. “Out! And get your story finished for God’s sake!”
I didn’t dare to ask any further questions, but the next thing I knew was that he had pushed me outside and slammed the door shut behind me. I hadn’t even finished dressing properly. There was a cleaning lady coming up my way with a cleaning trolley full of dirty towels.
“Hey!” I shouted and knocked against the door with my palm until it hurt. “My notebook and my money!”
Ian opened the door to hand me the notebook with a 20-Euro note on top of it. He had shut the door again before I could even look him in the face.
“Where’s my wallet?”
“You lost it” he mumbled through the fine mahogany.
The cleaning lady was still there, staring.
“It’s not what you think it is” I said.

The breakfast at the hotel canteen tasted plain. My favourite type of rolls is the sunflower seed roll which I always have with slices of turkey, cheese and tomato. I couldn’t taste the actual richness of the texture, not to mention the saltiness of the turkey. Other people seemed to be enjoying their breakfast tremendously.
After I had finished I walked over to the catering man to enquire about the food that tasted like paper. His broad smile looked like it was a big part of him, some kind of a pre-studied habit that he applied in order to get paid.
“Excuse me” I said to him, but he didn’t react; his smile was still solid like the hyperreality of a wax figure. I pushed his shoulder lightly after which he fell over like an imbecile. He was a life size standing card board with an image printed on the front. All the guests in the dining room had disappeared, too. All they had left me with were pale, stiff mannequins looking like unhatched human cocoons.
I pressed my notebook hard against my chest and left the hotel as fast as I could.
I walked towards the dunes and the beach, enjoying the fresh air on a midsummer morning. I could smell the brackish water of the Baltic Sea – similar to ocean water really. Then all of a sudden the air was invaded by the strong odour of turpentine and oil paints. I soon discovered an artist standing in front of the railing that separated the beach from the public footpath. From the back I noticed his extraordinary big head. His elegant arm movements reflected the delicacy of his fine brush strokes. I carefully peered over his shoulder and saw that he had painted the dunes in deep purple colours, the sand was pale orange and the sea was green.
As the artist turned around, I saw that his head wasn’t just big, but deformed and filled with water. His eyes were gazing downward; his twisted mouth indicated a sense of anxiety and vulnerability. The idea of having water on my brain made me feel like drowning or shedding tears. I immediately swallowed the lump in my throat.
He then vomited on his feet followed by a nasty convulsion that made him fall on his knees. I kneeled down to hold him, to prop his heavy head which looked like it was about to spurt out water. He raised his trembling hand and pointed at his painting which had fused with the real scenery. I watched the vigorous waves moving in the square frame.
“Hang in there, hang in there!” I said. The man’s eyes had turned white.
He mumbled something I couldn’t understand. I laid his head down carefully and started to look in his painting bag where I finally found his lorazepam injection. I quickly pushed the needle in his thigh, and then waited for him to gradually relax.
Thirty minutes later he regained consciousness on my lap and I realised that I’d been crying. He shied away from me as though disliking human touch. He started to pack up his painting utensils, squeezed them all in his bag and pulled the zip.
Leaving me alone with his painting, he began to walk away almost instantly. He looked back at me once, uttering through his lips: “Dshu neet to find ththe mishing reel.”
He pointed again at the painting.
I took it and climbed over the railing to the beach. It felt like I had just climbed out through Ian’s window. I walked a mile down the coast, marvelling at the beautiful horizon where Uranus was talking with Poseidon. I rested on the sand to watch lost bumble-bees crawling into nowhere and flat stones being washed ashore. The salty sea air felt good in my lungs.
About thirty yards away I saw that a big man was approaching me. I could tell that his eyes were fixed on me rather than the beach. Fifteen yards – I realised he was wearing a red suit with tartan patterns and I also recognised a smile at the corner of his mouth. The tartan patterns hurt my eyes and made me delirious for a while.
“It’s nice to finally meet you” he said.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Tautou – the film maker.”
He sat down next to me and lit a cigar. His voice was clear; it was soothing to finally hear someone in this town speak lucidly, apart from Ian.
“I help you to visualise your stories. “
“My stories?”
“Yes, I enhance the vividness for you. Let me show you something.”
He opened his bag and showed me his camcorder.
“I copied my latest short film onto this.”
Fade in. A woman travelled to find a man she knew in order to seek help. They argued a lot; mainly about her being clingy and bad tempered. One evening they went to a diner to find shelter from the rain. There he told her that they should stop spending so much time together after which she got upset and ran outside. She bumped into a man in red who placed his hand on her forehead. As he withdrew it, she began to run toward the beach where she lost consciousness on a dune.
The scene with the artist was laid parallel to the scenes of her previous miscarriage, depicting the death of her baby that suffered from hydrocephalus.
After that Tautou paused it for a while and placed his hand on my forehead.
Then we carry on watching in silence until the film indicates a missing reel. Afterwards it jumps straight to the end where the woman enters her car and drives off, whereas the man grabs for the ballpoint pen behind his ear and starts playing with it by pressing the spring quickly forward and back. He walks back into the hotel. Fade out.
“Why did you show me this?” I ask.
“I need your help.”
“What for?”
“You need to complete this story.”
I stare at the artist’s painting and hold it up against the sky, blocking the sun. Tautou, who is smoking his third, takes the painting and presses the end of his cigar against it until a big hole is visible. The sunlight is seeping through the painting now. I look at him in amazement.
“What did you come here for?” he asks.
“I have to go.”

I walk further down the coast until I notice dark clouds approaching the beach. I feel a sudden detachment from this place which incites me to think about Tautou’s question or what I.R. said this morning.
Slightly soaked through I reach the diner. Last night we had an argument in here resulting me to choose a rinse off by running through the heavy rain. It feels like last night hasn’t yet ended and that I’ve run back to the diner to apologise. I take a seat at the counter, grab for some tissues to dry my face and neck.
“A large latte, please” I say to the owner who smiles a familiar smile. He looks for something under the counter and then puts my wallet on the table. I open my wallet and see the picture of my ID with my real name written underneath.
My latte must have cooled down, but I feel no desire to drink it. I prop my chin with one hand while staring holes into the wall. I listen to people’s loud conversations until I only hear the echo of the words spoken. As if the noise somehow gets filtered through a long tube. All I can clearly hear is the rain outside. Waiters and waitresses dash by in a blur – fast and sometimes in slow motion. I don’t blink and suddenly see flickering distortions of the beach on the wall. Tautou is probably watching me from outside through a lens like a desperate stalker. I imagine the rain flowing across the lens.
I smell the scent of roses and feel warm breath tickling my ear. Immediately I turn to the side where I.R. grins at me with this “gotcha”-look in his eyes.
“I knew you’d be here” he says.
“Is it because I’ve told you?”
He shrugs his shoulders and folds his arms before placing them on the table.
“We’re great partners, don’t you think? I’m the architect while you’re the engineer and craftswoman.”
“And it will always be this way” I say quietly.
“Yes.”
He props his arms with his elbows and both of his hands meet – they clasp and open. He won’t look at me.
“But,” he continues, “you don’t belong here.”
I begin to draw circles on the table with my finger. The latte must be cold now. Warmth is not something that you can fathom for as long as you’d like, but you don’t want to consume it either, because it’s beautiful the way it is. Warmth, however, is a transitory degree of heat. Everything will run out of energy one day; heat cools down, water runs dry.
“I’ve had a really good time” he says, “it’s good to see you in writing mode. I like the way you get your hand dirty.”
It is now that I notice ink smeared all over the fingers of my right hand. I’ve been painting real circles on the table. I immediately cover up that spot with some tissues. I.R. holds my inked hand and carefully touches the calluses on my middle finger.
“You should at least keep your finger nails clean.”
I burst out laughing. He laughs, too.
“Have you finally let go of the water?” he asks.
“The water on the brain?”
“He is doing fine here.”
I look I.R. in the eyes and recognise the trust which I thought I had lost.
“I think I should go back” I say.
Both of his hands are now lying flat on the table, as if assuring me and him that he is real.
“Thank you for completing this” he says.
The noises in the background have faded and I wonder what has happened. I turn around to the crowd and see nothing but naked mannequins, positioned in a way that they appeared to be kissing or hugging.
“Knock it off” he says while shaking his head with a choking giggle.
“I really should get going.”
“I think so, too” he agrees.
“So you’ll keep the door open for me?”
“Only if you promise to get your hand dirty on a regular basis.”
“Deal. I have your window anyway.”




Paula Cheung, 2010 - 2011

Dedicated to King's On Writing

Sweet gore

I kind of ruined my appetite for dessert by watching Cannibal Holocaust. I didn’t throw up, though. I did throw up after twenty minutes of Blair Witch Project years ago. Motion sickness is always such a nuisance! I really like the score of the movie – it softens everything a little bit, gives the movie some sort of an emotional standard. I’m glad the UK version cut out the animal killing scenes; not sure if I would have watched it otherwise.
After that I watched Chung-King Express. Wong Kar Wai has a good sense for dialogue; you can learn a hell of a lot from him. You don’t often get true, honest emotions from the Chinese, because it’s not something they like to touch upon. They are very reserved people. To Kar Wai, a flooded apartment is a crying apartment and it takes a lot of work to clean the mess up, whereas when a person cries, you only hand them a tissue. Isn’t that brilliant? We’re not that sad after all. The movie made me want to eat bowl of strawberries. And I did. There is still strawberry juice on my desk and underneath my fingernails. I haven’t made up my mind yet about what it looks like. Mixed emotions. Sweet and bad memories.
Gotcha. <3

Memento mori [cut]

There are two unpublished blog entries from last month. I’m evidently not doing that bad with my eight blogs in a month. Spring has hardly started and all they talk about is the weather and … [cut].
Instead of redrafting work, I’ve been watching tons of DVDs thanks to my flat mate’s amazing Lynch collection. I wonder if I can list films in my bibliography and if so, there’d be more films than books. My attention span is still at low level – primarily get distracted by itchy scalp, sweet tooth or gardeners mowing the fucking lawn.
Kathy Acker and William S. Burroughs aren’t a good time to start.

Summer has always been the best excuse of being nocturnal. Cigarettes taste better at night time as well. Who the fuck enjoys smoking cigarettes in the sun anyway, especially when sitting anywhere nearby the main road in London?
Fortunately, I have recovered well from the migraine. It did cost me a little effort not to throw up the other day. But that’s the way I am, I’d do anything to keep that crap in my stomach, simply because I hate the feeling of puking, so it has nothing to do with endurance. It’s cowardice not to let it all out.
I neglected the gym for three days as well.

It’s April and I wish I could go back to Lübeck again like I did last year. If I could only make it an annual thing somehow. Might have to think of something new, I suppose.
In 2009 I wrote ‘Absinthe rush’ – an inexorable … [cut], a 6 hour trip to my heart and brain ending up in semi-cleansing. Nothing is ever enough.
If you want it all you first need to pack your bags and leave town for at least three days.
I did.
In April 2010 I travelled to Lübeck to overcome that infuriating fear of the dark. I remember as a child I could only fall asleep when it was pitch black in my room. The slightest trace of light would keep me awake. Back then I used to watch horror movies. I recall my dad sowing me scenes of Evil Dead (deutsch: ‘Tanz der Teufel’) when I was about 10 and he told me it was a banned movie. I still slept peacefully despite horror movies. I never feared sleep. Now there’s a difference between sleep and the course of falling asleep. I never was quite aware of the hallucinogenic effects of hypnagogia. And never did I have hypnagogic experiences as a child – not that I know of anyway.
I got my driver’s license in summer 2009 and I remember being terribly stressed out before the second test and how relieved I was when the examiner handed me my license … [cut]. It was straight after my driving test that I experienced my first proper hypnagogic moment. Just to make it short:
One day in the summer I woke up at 5am and saw a fat man wearing a red tartan suit, standing next to my bed. [cut]
Since that incident I had been sleeping with my night lamp on for a year due to fear of the dark.
So last year in April I made a little trip to Lübeck just to clear my head and as already mentioned: to face my fear of falling asleep in the dark.
I love hotel rooms.
At my first night in Lübeck I had turned the lights off and put The Cure’s Lullaby on repeat. I also opened my wardrobe … [cut].
I fell asleep.
I had decided to write something special on my three day trip, something similar to ‘Absinthe rush’. I even had a bottle of Desperado (not Absinthe) with me which I never opened … [cut]. Then it occurred to me that I should keep a video blog. I think I recorded three video blogs and a few tales on the beach.

So what am I going to do this April?
Why it has to be April?
I tend to juxtapose spring with autumn, like people juxtapose dark with bright. Autumn is bright; it always has been the brightest. If you have seen the golden hills of memories in Edinburgh during autumn, you’ll know what I mean.

No more life writing, I don’t think. I couldn’t care less about exposure; it’s the idea of telling people I’m the most important that throws me off. I am the most important. But do I have to admit it? I admit a lot of things, but I’m going to keep this pathetic child to myself for now. Only hints of truth are all you’re ever going to get.
And I still write about what I know – but the significance lies elsewhere.

Another dream about me saving a kid – this time the kid wasn’t mine, but I still risked my life to save it from drowning. I haven’t slept that badly in a while. Whenever I dream about kids whether or not they are mine, I never seem to see a father or any male figure nearby. I don’t like it. It reminds me of my unhealthy way of falling in love, loving what I can't obtain. Sometimes I already know we’re not meant for each other and still I cannot help feeling that spark. I even believe that if I was ever to get what I want, I will look for reasons why I don’t deserve it.

To all unhappy observers…don’t you hate being observed back? In a way where people have their preconceived ideas about you expressed through their eyes? Their eyes are suddenly larger and more analytical than usual. You know they know something, except they will not ask you about it. And when an expression such as sympathy seeps through, you know they feel sorry for you and you ultimately hate them. You wonder what it is that they know about you. Is it because they know you have your head in a cesspool? [cut]

The day Hendrix strums the ultimate chord will be the day that defines the rest of my life. I will sing one or two Amanda Palmer songs and weep against your chest. It’ll be warm, the spark will return and the daunting shadows will disappear. The next step will be certain then.