A Thousand Plateaus

this afternoon, starting to work-out on the machine, this song started to play. and when the guitar and the finger flips surrounded me, i had to chuckle, loudly; in fact, i had to laugh out loud. don't ask me why. it simply forced more than a smile on my lips. even though i didn't feel like smiling or laughing, even though i was tired and my eyes ached from proofreading articles of professors which – if they were term-papers by students – we would hand them back because they are full of formal inconsistencies and lacking sources. anyway, i had to laugh, because of the rush of joy. of course the next second i was thinking how on earth i could manage to write a song that is so joyful.

and then also THANKS a lot to the fucking moon. i lay awake for four hours the other night, its blueish light so bright on the floor that i could have read a book in the middle of the room. the beams were so full of uncanny and restless energy that they made the curtains bulge as if the wind was caught in them.

what is it about this song? it's not even *that* special. and the melody is not *that* jubilant at all. and, frankly, the electric guitar is not outstanding, either. nor are the lyrics.

i don't know.

princess superstar's back in town.

when i walked home from a farewell party for a colleague tonight i crossed the open field behind the university, and there were stacks of violet, bulky clouds announcing a nearing thunder storm, but behind them, at the horizon, the sun was sinking, and the soft light was setting the bottom of the clouds on fire, and it was so massively beautiful that i forgot to breathe for a moment and then i felt the loneliness fill out every square inch between me and the people passing, and all across the wide, empty field the two polar bears came galloping, and i turned the walk-man louder and hoped they'd pass me and run straight on, but they didn't.

for reasons i can't really go into here and now i was listening to james yorkston's "woozy with cider" tonight and each time i listen to this particular song i remember the week-end i spent with s. in brussels, and i opened the folder with the photos i took back then and looked at them for the first time. actually for the first time since the break up in 2005 i looked at pictures of s., and it didn't hurt, even though it felt strange and i was sad and i wished myself back to the moment the photo had been taken so i could change history and undo the alienation and the unloving.  

johnny jewel commented : but how about creating an infrastructure? what do you think that would take? how would you go about doing that? are there things you feel are keeping you from it and if so, what are they, and how could they be changed?
i am asking these questions because the "loop" of how to process inspiration adequately is very familiar to me.
i suspect academia and literary studies, at least a certain mentality that prevails in some places within that field, is unhelpful: it inflates the "inner censor" and teaches you to think in impossibly big terms you can't "live out" yourself.

hm, these are very interesting questions which i think i would like to answer here.

not good. not good. not good. not good. not good. not. good. not good. not. good. not good. not good. not. good. not good. not good. not good. not good. not good. not good. not good. not good. not good. not good. not. good. not good. not good. not. good. not good not good.

"are you never truly happy?" c. is asking our protagonist [back then that night @ the café]. he takes too long to answer.
"is that a 'no', or are you still thinking?"
"you know..." he eventually answers "the sort of tragic thing is that the things that make me happy simultaneously make me sad. there are two things that make me happy, that give me joy : encounters with people whom i love and good music, good literature, good images = good expressions. in the first case there's always the fear of losing that loved person inscribed in the encounter. in the second case it's the too-muchness which i cannot cope with. good expression is by definition one that 'inspires' [unfitting term] me and makes me restless. but as long as i have not created an 'infrastructure' so i can use this 'inspiration' and restlessness and make it work for me, it turns bitter and stale. therefore, right now, i don't think that there are moment of 'pure' enjoyment."
"you think too much."
"i don't know. honestly i don't think i do. i might feel too much, though. there's a constant sense of overflowing and i don't know where to... hm... the closest thing to 'using' this restlessness is the gym. but it's dead energy that i create there, i only feed the machine, nothing more. but it's the only form of acceptable transition, because i'm not 'wasting my time'. in the gym i do something for my health (like a good citizen subjecting himself to biopower) and hence i'm doing something that's socially allowed and valuable. plus unreflectedly buying into cultural stereotypes of youth and well-formed bodies always secures acceptance from mostly everybody."

this week-end, jamie and sharon spent a couple of days in berlin. they took some 200 lurkers stickers with them. here are some of the results:

when i'm walking through the exit of the university long after they have switched off the escalators and i'm feeling the warm evening breeze that is blowing across the square playing with the fabric of my shirt and pants, a memory that is more vivid than the actual event is shocking my bones like an electric current. so badly that i cannot take one more step forward, but have to hold on to the concrete wall for support and then have to sit down on the ledge were, during the day, the smokers sit in groups.
i see you in front of me with your v-neck shirt.
"this is my favorite one!" you said proudly, and i in turn was proud that i was favorite-shirt-worthy. it was orange, and it didn't really fit you, you looked kind of awkward in it, but i loved you for that awkwardness that so contrasted with the grace you radiated otherwise. it takes several minutes until i get up, walk to the bike and ride home.

on the way, i'm stopping at the café to have a coke and check how jodie's doing. it's empty and she is reading the paper behind the counter when i'm walking in, shouting at me:
"what do *you* want here?!?"
"i love you, too!"
"are you coming straight from the office?"
"STRRRAIGHT from the office!" but my pathetic kramer-impersonation is lost on her.
later, while i'm peeling the label from the empty coke bottle and she is washing glasses, i'm saying
"jodie?"
"hm?"
"you're studying medicine, you must know..."
"...must know what?"
"i am weirdly tired the past weeks, i could sleep 12 hours a day and 14 hours a night. i can't concentrate and right now i could put my head on the counter and fall asleep. i think i fell asleep shortly in the office this afternoon. even though i slept tonight for 9 hours. if these are the symptoms, what is the disease?"
the answer is coming even before i've finished the question.
"sounds like a depression to me."
i'm laughing about her joke but she's not laughing back.
"no, i mean seriously..." i'm insisting.
"seriously."
"get out! i'm not having any depressions! and besides i want to have something organic. something that you can take a pill for and you're feeling better the next day."
the bell in the kitchen is ringing and jodie's switching from talking- to working-mode, rushing off. suddenly i'm feeling two hand on my shoulders in an unsuccessful attempt to embrace me.
"hi!"
"hi, c.!"
"saw you sitting here and thought i'd drop in!"
jodie's walking past us with two dishes in her hand in a hurry. but she's got enough time to stop shortly and shout:
"oh bloody hell! you, *too*?!!?"
"she's in a good mood tonight!" i'm informing c.
"seems so."
later i'm asking c. what her diagnose of my sleep-the-clock-around-state would be.
"sounds like a depression to me."
i'm giving up and change the subject.

tonight gorgeous victoria is working, standing by the sink, washing glasses, putting them orderly in growing rows between me and her, and her hands and fingers become increasingly fragmented with each new row of glasses i have to look through. her golden wedding ring is blinking.

johnny commented: (asking in curiosity, not in judgment...) are you hurting her?

i'm afraid our protagonist is. even though he tried everything to avoid this and to not create a situation in which he would. this, also, is a reason why he didn't stay that night. because it would have sent the wrong signals. and he had made it clear from the start that he had no intention and no capacity to get involved emotionally. he had made this clear repeatedly. but this, of course, was theory.

in the distance the many colored explosions create abstract patterns in the sky behind the cathedral.
"these are the most beautiful..."
our protagonist is nodding silently.
"...they look like giant palm tress."
the boom from the explosion arrives long after the sparks have burned out spectacularly. three, four, five explosions follow, painting red, blue and green bouquets over the river, intense pulsing lights, that are reflected in the wine glass he's raising to his lips. looking straight down from this unusual height is giving him vertigo, and he clutches the balcony's banister for some real support.
"you know, we could go there and have a closer look."
"hm..., no. i don't really feel like being among a large group of people tonight."
the answer is a kiss and a whisper "i'd rather not share you with anybody else tonight, too."

hours later they quarrel mildly.
"but you said yes."
"oh no, i did not say yes." he had foreseen and feared this argument the entire evening, knowing that there was no way to avoid it.
"you said you would stay the entire night and sleep over."
"i don't think that i said that."
"but you didn't say no either, when i suggested it. not saying no means yes!"
"not saying no simply means to postpone the conflict as long as possible."
a sulking face and the fingers that have massaged his back retreat to the body that owns them.
"just give me *one* reason why you're not staying!"
"i'm sorry, but i just can't." sometimes there just isn't a rational reason that would be communicable or understandable by another person.
"i knew it! you *do* have wife and kids at home!"
"no, stupid! that's not it!" but he couldn't say that all night long – starting with the shower of light in the sky – he had been thinking of other bodies he had rather caressed and slept with, of other voices and other smiles.
"if you're going now i'll never call you again!" the threat is enforced by a slight slap on his shoulder. whether meant seriously or not, it didn't stop him from tying his shoelace.

more here...

i'm sitting at the café, jodie has just stopped throwing things at me from behind the counter ("booooooring!" she had been shouting ceaselessly). i've been looking through some notes and notebooks and a wave of happiness swept over me (really unfounded, but still!) when i realized that i've got ideas and material for eight or nine good songs. at least for the lyrics. add to that "dialogues" and you have a whole new album. now i just need the discipline to order, structure and shape the material. "go slowly" for the 376th time today. happiness and good restlessness, something ringing inside me like a promise – and then frustration and resignation again.

jodie is opening another diet coke for me, puts it in front of the laptop and when i'm looking up from work our eyes meet. her face is beaming with warmth and sympathy and understanding in this moment that i catch her off-guard. i know we could sit next to each other the entire night without saying a word, yet understanding each other. today is suzanne's birthday and tomorrow she's playing in a city in north-germany. it feels strange that she's around but that i won't take the chance to say hi. i remember last year when she was in cologne and we were backstage, only three of us, and all the talking was left to me because the other two were too shy. i didn't complain, though ;-). and for half an hour i had her undivided attention.

to other people, jesus christ or the virgin mary appears on a piece of toast or on a slice of cheese. to me, a mutant evil-spongebob appears on the bottom of a pot...