Narcissus Street

I have a habit of sleeping on my stomach; they say it’s not good for your neck and back. But I cannot help thinking that one day there’ll be a demon or a monster watching me from the ceiling. He’ll fall down on me; stick his hand through my chest and rip my heart out. And I will think: “I have no use of it anyway.”
You remember when DeNiro did that to Helena in Frankenstein? After that scene a very unnerving and cold feeling had engulfed me. It felt like a part of me had died and I was only ten or eleven when I watched it.
But I’m not ready yet to have my heart stolen by the beast.
Sometimes when I feel brave, I do lie on my back, I stare at the ceiling, through the ceiling.
If there was someone sleeping next to me, I wouldn’t really care that much; I wouldn’t rack my brains over the face of the beast. The body next to me would distract me. He would run his finger down my spine; arouse an exciting traumatic chill and say: “I’ll help you face it.”
The two of us would lie on our backs, hold each other’s hands and stare at the ceiling together. I would no longer feel fear.
Just pretend he’s real.
At least this is what I think, but I doubt that I’m that kind of person in reality. As a writer I simply conjure up voices, invisible beings and then I pretend that my life depends on them and if others like them as well – fine. Otherwise I don’t see any other way to contribute to the world, not with that little power of mine. There is only a small voice evident in me and its words just don’t come out of the mouth.
The more alone you feel when with people the more you have drifted away from them – I know. I felt that way when we were in bed. I had wanted you for so long. But knowing that it was only a transitory moment like everything else, I just didn’t know how to behave, how to feel, how to make it last. So I just stayed awake that night. Staring fearlessly at the ceiling.
Do scars have an influence on your sensory system?
Something in me deadened, and feelings had no access to my body or nervous system like I wasn’t permitting them to flow naturally. But there was a reason of course.

There was this street called Narcissus Street. I wanted to live there. But instead I placed my protagonist there; the synonym of the street, however, is Fifth Avenue.
She made me realise that my feelings are only evident in my writing and not in interactions with people. It’s because, on the emotional front, I decided to add a big chunk of myself to her.
People have been calling her crazy, obsessed, weird, and fucked up.
Well, thank you very much.
I can’t help it. I believe that true emotions only flow through a certain arrangement of written words, sometimes enriched by alliterations.
Then there is music. E-minor touches a certain nerve in me that activates sadness whereas G-major unfolds a page of inspirations and hope.
Scars turn you into a robot on the outside. People either think you have Aperger’s or they think you’re a cold-blooded person.
And cold-blooded is correct. I have placed my protagonist in a world that she cannot comprehend; I have fuelled her with determination, hope and obsession that correspond with her creative acts – the only way to remain sane. She doesn’t know that I’ve put her in a maze where there is no way to get out of alive, even if you’re a successful surgeon living in Manhattan.
I am not successful in any way. And I’m too disoriented to even look for a way out of the maze.
I only pretend that I can open up a thorax. I lie to you about dissecting a pig’s heart, about attempting to extract a bullet that’s lodged in the heart, blood splashing onto my gown and mouth mask. I failed. The smell of blood is strong and rusty once it has gone dry. On your tongue it tastes salty like sweat.
I think when staring at his reflection, Narcissus wished he could have devoured himself.

Maybe love is merely a chemical reaction and you have to find the right person who carries the suitable chemical substance that corresponds with yours. You know you’re in love when you cannot control the motion of electrons in your body. And then, boom – you’re screwed.
Their chemical substance has a huge impact on you, but it doesn’t mean that they feel the same about your substance.

But you no longer care. It’s just a reaction.

Why you should hire me

I dreamt I had a criminal record. I couldn’t figure out what it was, but I knew that I had committed something very bad. The sense of guilt was going a bit too far there. I actually felt paranoid – anxious of getting caught. When I woke up I realised the ludicrousness of the dream, but I didn’t understand the meaning of it.
Weeks later I listened to Alkaline Trio’s ‘Radio’ and immediately remembered the one and only short story I wrote which involved murder. And not just any murder. It was a ‘first person perspective’-murder. I haven’t read that story in years. I remember receiving an ok-mark for it, although I think I must have made my tutor nervous. The story is pretty much based on the Trio song. Lastly I just have no desire to re-acquaint with my former English. I think I would crouch in shame.

Job hunt has been hell, especially because I’ve been postponing the flat hunt – ideally would be not having to travel to my future work place. Ah, Hamburg, Hamburg – meine Perle.
It’s quite daunting when companies or agencies ask you “Why should we hire you?”
Depending on the position that you’ve applied for, you start to think…The only answer you can come up with is “This is the question.” And then you freeze.

Anyway, my attempt to disappear from social networks’ surface this month failed. I wouldn’t have signed in on facebook, if the riots hadn’t got me so wound up. I suddenly felt necessary to communicate. Initially it was Alec Empire who came up with points that I undoubtedly shared with, but I didn’t want to worry about that shit, because I have a thesis to complete. Thankfully I’m less under pressure now. It should be finished in two weeks, I hope. The last two months have been a walking madness. Every step I took I sweated like a pig. My daily run is just not enough. There’s still this bursting energy that I need to release. I don’t know what it is.
So I’ve spent a year as a reclusive writer. I need to enjoy it to the very last day of being a student.

Don’t you hate it when diary keepers call their diary content secrets? Who says that the content of a diary is based on your secrets at all? Once it’s written, it’s been told. At very young age I understood that the purpose of writing was exposure – a signed agreement to unload the mind and a devoted commitment to keep your readers’ interest in high regard.
I never cared about the reader until now.
Then I realised that writing was the best thing ever invented. Now if you want to make money with your writing, for instance as a copywriter, they will all say you need to “SELL! WRITE PERSUASIVE COPY THAT SELLS!”
This kind of upsets me. Using words to coax people into things; persuading people to spend the money they don’t have. I think it’s more provocative than effective. You do aim at rich people, but don’t you hate them and their decadence? And then you’re told to enrich this decadence.
As a writer, I don’t want to trick people, and yet – unreliable narration is all I can offer. I can’t trick you in the way Nabokov tricked me, for instance. I don’t think I am THAT unreliable.

They all wonder why I stay in every weekend. Even if it wasn’t the thesis, I would stay home. I would only go out if I was back in Hamburg, though – where people are familiar and less intrusive, less persistent. I feel a lot freer in Germany, yes. But what’s freedom without challenge anyway? And this is why I am here. I’m doing something constructive, creative to revolt against boredom – the absurd, the meaninglessness of life. Do I care? To a certain extent I guess I do, yes, but overall no, I don’t care. But if I didn’t, I’d be doomed, right?
Think what you want. I know what I am doing, but you are right, I should get out more. I haven’t experienced another Londoner night life since New Year’s Eve. After that I told myself I wouldn’t again, but well, who knows? The experience I had about Londoner night life is that British guys want me for the night; Indian guys want me as their wife, Chinese guys think I understand mandarin, Austrian blokes refusing to speak standard German, etc. What all these men have in common is that they are DRUNK. There is nothing more off-turning than drunk people. I pretend I find them funny at times, but they are not, not one little bit. If you are not Bukowski, then don’t talk to me when you’re drunk. This is all what night life is about, I figured – no matter where you go in the UK. Only in Germany I can cope, despite my friends drinking stupid amounts sometimes, but at least I have a dance floor all to myself with decent music ringing in my ears. Germans give you space any time. Night life never meant socialising to me; it’s always been about music and dancing – and only my friends in Germany understand this. And here you can’t even dance without suddenly feeling a dirty hand on your waist or bum. Why are Londoner men so desperate? I’m desperate myself, but I am picky. Busy wanting those I can’t have. The emotions are always stronger then, aren’t they? Useful stuff…

A friend just called, asking ‘What’re you doing?’ – “I’m making the most out of the last month of being a full-time writer,” and trying to understand this agonizing energy.

You should hire me because I’m a cardiac surgeon. I’ll make sure that all four chambers in your heart are air-conditioned, I’ll help you accommodate whatever you want, suture each bleeding hole, unclog the coronary pipe, but most importantly, I’m good at lying in my writing – but in defence, you have to let me call it fiction.

Somewhat Damaged rewrite

Opening redrafted

So I have my head deep in a world where I do not belong. But we all love to draw certain parallels. And we love observing things that we will never have.

I'm sorry I haven't been putting up decent blogs these days. The heat has got me exhausted and emotionally drained. 'I'm only happy when it rains' Shirley Manson used to sing.

What exists is my thesis. My critical eye needs to be further developed; solipsistic tendencies need to be better handled. Character, plot and desire... - that's all there is. As far as non-fiction reading goes, I've had a lot of fun adapting fact to emotional metaphor.

Is a character's motivation best portrayed if it's based on his obsessions?

(Video blog in progress)