It’s 17:46

Its 17:46, the sun is taking its time, hanging above the humid fogs that cover the houses, the factory, the leafless trees, the students union’s president, on her bike, the vans and limousines. Our front garden is slightly elevated, about two and a half meters above the street. And there is music playing from our window, drum music, ethnic drum music, made in Germany. Where are all these cars going? I always ask myself. To every car there belongs a home, with, lets say, about three people. To every mohawk above the age of 20 there belongs what is called an extrovert, like the one over there. On the other hand, his expressive look probably only compensates his inability of expression in another realm. But then again, here I am assuming that the expression of a human realm always seeks to achieve something, so when one realm fails at doing so, another has to help out. And that might not be so. Ooh, the sun sends warmth through kilometers of coldness. My legs have been crossed for too long, and from the side my back is shaped like a C. Excuse me for a second, I want to smoke. This one should actually be nice. Here the description of “want” is actually suitable. I talk to a friend, in a chat, on my phone. He is far away. His mood is peculiar, he says. Discontent despite everything being ok. And when I ask whether there is something he would like to do, he affirms and says he will tell me about it tomorrow. He never likes to talk about these things, moods and all that. I haven’t seen him in a month or two. And even when I have, I had the feeling of there being something hidden, curbed before expression, habituated to be kept. I feel like a questionnaire, detached from the questions that I ask. Because I don’t know anymore who I am asking, who he has become. But then again, sometimes I feel like that with people I’ve recently been around. We seem to talk at each other, and when I try to enquire into something, deliberately empathetic, I feel like a questionnaire again, as if the questions weren’t mine. But I don’t know what to want to know, apart from the genuine answer to the question: “How are you?” Right now, I would want someone dear to me to sing about me. She would be wearing cloth trousers with flower prints on them, for some fucking reason, and if it was a he, he would be having dark wavey hair, a black leather jacket, and he would be playing the piano alongside singing. I imagine him to look like that asshole that I knew. He would be that asshole, with a different soul. I reckon, with some people, one could exchange their soul without great effect to their surroundings. “He’s just in a weird mood these days”, we would say. If I’d turn off my phone and hid in a box in our back garden, apart from my housemates, no one would look for me until maybe three weeks had past. And that doesn’t only mean that you peeps care too little, it also means that I am not influential enough. I need to affect more. Cause dependency leads to conflict, conflict is drama, and drama is life. No… just joking, I don’t mean that. Hang on another second, the music went off, I need to put something on. That was Miroslav Vitous. Now it’s time for Stenny. This shit makes me want to drink. Beer. One of those small green bottles. With those red flowers in the hedge. And no one else shall be here with me. Until they find me, lying in the grass, crumpled, because it’s getting cold. And they will ask whether I’m fine or whether everything’s alright. And the grin that my scenario creates on their face will make me feel alright again. And I will say that “yes, I am fine.” In my imagination I am smoking three cigarettes at once and I’m jumping up and down on that pole of that traffic light over there. And I will not be able to stop laughing. And there will be Techno playing and it will say “Move… Do what you want” over and over again. Fucking hell, that would be nice. Do you think some cool people would stop their car and have a beer with me? Would they ask me who I really am?, i.e. would they want to keep me or would they only want to be with me for a bit and then disappear? I can imagine the tone of their being so clearly, and the one I’d be attracted to. When were you last ecstatic or deeply impressed with other people, without being drunk? My unintoxicated ecstasy only appears when I’m alone. The unbearable lightness of being – I haven’t read that book, but that’s what I take it to mean. The unexcitement of just being there. To be honest, I now feel like stopping, but I don’t want to end on such a note. I should have stopped before, when I was still fantasising, not philosophising.



Does the trauma maybe not stem from that he could have scraped away, but from a more self-engaged idea that was had at the time, that the paradoxes of being in the world express themselves in a heart-ripping, downwards-ripping, unbearably vigorous sentimentality and sensitivity. – a sensitivity and influenceability of one’s perception that does not ever allow for identity. A sensitivity that changes the self away from the shared motherly mind. A sensitivity that changes the self away from the shared motherly mind?


When when when when when (scenario)

When I am proud, I have climate change written all over me. When I am proud, I have the overcoming of ourselves written all over me. When I am acknowledged, I am identified with the realisation of ideas. When I am acknowledged, I am a new form, united into one face. When I am I, i am you and me and he and her and he is she and i and he and she are me and we are me and us is you and her and… our faces would be too close to identify each other as each other. Our arms, would be crossing and loving, defending and inviting, pushing and shaping the movements of the other. i am in a love in an absence of distance. And i am in a love of an absence of its thought. and then, i would be in a love at a distance. and a love at a pace. and a love of a constructionation, of immediacy and textiles, of the black skins of your’s, of a paleness of mine, with contemporary states of mind.


To lean my heart towards someone

to shed my body fluids onto one

to see myself portrayed by someone else

Perspectivistically tragic how the one that appears is not a one I’d like

so pre-selective and needy


Tioli 1

Was there ever more or less? Or is it always only no or yes? Is there something fundamental, naturely fundamental in the mechanics of yes and no? Is geometry the human condition? Or is generalisation the human condition? Or is rather vagueness the human condition? Or is it rhetoric? Or is it language? Or is it order? Or is it cardio? Or is it mental statitude? Or is it Oi? Or is it makefulness full? Or is it is itty? – Or is it the “is” that carves the flow for ruthlessness? Or the bane of hardship and baths? Or just the marking of words that show a certain… arbitrariness? In any way, coming to know means komming to cash. And when the cool is over, the hand slips down the side of the bed, and buries itself among dust and skin particles, and it rests there for a while, absorbing and communicating – breathing. And then one comes to see that bathing in soft sheets is bathing in the untreated, the unfolded, the unconfedential, the impartial, the hardest, the pot. The pot of keys that mingles and shingles when moved. The slice of home that misses the lift. The foal that undoes what has grown, and the finch that blows: only once, then only in the next year again.

Overall, one might say that something was learned, something has grown: The dick and the ability to perceive patterns. Both move in straight lines or tilt in angles, as far as I can tell – juggling around among indecipherable greenery. A greenery that comes from the inside, not from the world. A juggling mastery at the avoidance of persistance.

(“Pretense!, pretense!”) Fuck you. Cause firstly, understand that nothing is the way one tells you, nor the opposite. And of course, secondly, understand that nothing is for you the way that I say. Thirdly, grammar is only important if you like it. Fourthly, truth is trash. But thirdly, reality does exist if you want it to. Additionally, fourthly, escapism is something you’re surely familiar with, while fifthly, disorientation is normal. And normal is good if normality was normally good for you. So treat yourself to something you know, and imagine something you don’t. Freedom will come my brother, like work tomorrow morning.


the devoid, exhausted, and lifeless human state of mind as the most intemperate of states

This live improvised music takes me, more securely than any other medium of free expression, to one of the outer circles of emotional strain. Much differently from any previously practiced peace, and of course, from any recorded peace of film or music, it is created with us listeners. Whether heads are nodding or leaning to the side, or whether eyes are closed or open, whether looks are tense or jokingly smiling: the whole locus is the peace.

– The music squeaks and shreds and then, in contrast, calms so gently. It is certainly a play of contrasts, which, by the blunt appearence of the non-harmonic as the standard state of things, allows for the conventionally beautiful to be conceived as such again, and for the unconventionally beautiful to be overwhelming.
It is in this sense, the perfect music for those stuck in apathy, in society’s categorisational thought and mankind’s routined life, willing to break out of it: Because it aims for an incomparable kind of mixture of stimuli: It aims for an unhuman landscape to be our normal habitat, and as such it is the music of beings that are discontent with their usual experiencial constraints. Undistortedly, such music portrays the devoid, exhausted, and incurious human state of mind as the most intemperate of states.


Commitment to healing

“It sometimes needs exactly that encounter, in which an open temper engages itself with lonely impoverishment and teaches it to support itself with human culture again, to squirm itself out of neurotic circles of thought; and then supportingly inserts itself, prolongedly, into the broken stature of the suffering one.”


Freedom Firms (Ch. 1)

On a tree that hardly could have grown any more slantingly, sits a woman, her feet hanging over the field.
It’s not quite right calling her a woman, as homey in herself she isn’t. And every time the last snatches of unconscious pond’ring emerge into what’s conscious, then that’s a proof of that, for her. Human dependency on the unconscious and the body is our symbiosis with the mute steed – and Being symbiosis with caprice.”
“Life is Dada because logic logically means nothing. And because logic stabilizes me, nothing does. Jakob does. There he comes, through the field. That wanker actually shaved his head.”

M: “Ah, fortunately it’s not completely bald.”
J: “Don’t you like it?” M: “I do, like this I do.”

M: “How long do you want to stay here?”
J: “Here, exactly here?” M:” No, here generally.” J: “Until we’re free again.”

Jakob looks enquiringly.

M: “And of which Konnektion were you thinking?”
J: “Hmm, it’s supposed to be quite lively in Daam. A lot of people are going there for renovation these days. And!… Gahs lives there! For two years already!”
M: “Leo Gahs?”
J: “Yes!”
Mara grins as she holds his face: “You seem to be all excited about that.”
J: “Somehow, yes… He was always someone special, always wrapping everyone around him into his mysteriously meaningful mood. Unfortunately it’s almost always cold in Daam…”
M: “Never mind, that will do us well.”


violent convincement

The more you belong to me, the more I belong to –

the more I touch you and caress the arm that lays around my torso I

– what does that show, that

what does it say that

I am speaking to myself about this

– that I believe in love connecting me and that potential you
to an extent of totally combining us
– that life has lead me not to trust any connection, in
that it is as interesting as pseudo-science

that whoever I find you in must convince me of reality by means of tools that –
cannot be suitable to do so but
smash rational consciousness in the most violent way,
must come along elegantly and
smooth, because
they are at home in ridiculous space


Everyone knows the theory of solipsism, but I presume that not everyone has felt it. And I must quite honestly say that it is the most horrible thing I have ever felt.

It means feeling the most sincere distrust of one’s senses that one has ever felt.

It means hoping that one will be in another world after the next sleep

It means saying thank you to one’s parents, in hope

It means sincerely appreciating everything that was before

It means distrusting doctors – It means distrusting friends. And it means loving friends at the same time. Thank you, Thomas.

It means feeling like life is in ruins

It means feeling like a simulation. It means feeling like being more intelligent than existence

It means a lack of freedom, replaced by biology, replaced by reactions

It means the most meaningless meaning.

This is not life, This is not life


considerate Erotica

							considerate Erotica

Your face is facing mine


and it looks like you are sad
but I know you're not

it feels like you sense that I sense what you feel
and I ask you whether that is so
and you say that that is so

you take my hand and watch the fingers intermingling
and you say that being here is being wish-less,

And somehow I share that feeling,
because we speak so little and there is no need for it at all

Of course,
just being with each other without speaking does not always

But with you I feel most often -
that need-less clear coldness
where desire is dry, not sticky,
considerate, not overwhelming.
And movements seek to rest

and voices seek to

And it stays that way for ages and ages,
and the longing for rhythm and commotion never comes,
and it stays that way for ages.

authentic Eloquence

							authentic Eloquence
							          by E.O.

E.O. sits in an armchair, in front of you
and tells you that

Authentic eloquence, my friend,
is the cure for your disaster.

Allow yourself some playfulness,
some ignorance, of the truths you feel inside.

has to be accepted, at first,
the transformation of what is in you
to something that in content is correct, but in presentation it is not.
Or something that in presentation is correct, but in content it is not.

You may feel like it is someone else, who is formulating what you think,
a wrong you, in other words, that knows your thoughts but does not know your style,
or does not know your thoughts, but can speak in your way.

But over time,
the essence of these frictions will reveal itself,
and expression will become a tool that is enriching,
rather then reducing.

there is this risk, 
that training through inaccuracy, 
may not lead to authentic virtuosity, 
but rather just delude your self-perception, 
to think that your expressions and your inner world
at last do represent each other,
when your inner world has really just become a symptom
and a servant of inadequate descriptions of itself.

E.O. smiles	reveals his yellow teeth		and asks whether,

once the process is completed,
is it still possible to turn back?
for you to leave your cosy self-perception?
that feels so warm, so strong and confident,
self-indulging, in this moment of complete unification,
Cheating yourself. lying to you. disrespecting,
and erasing what is real and so sincere?

Of course!
you fucking fool can't see
that there is a problem anymore!
And that precisely is an expression of the problem.