1 bike
1 woman with a strong image of summer on her mind
1 slippery road



...those were the first dangerous words in english, exactly 1/2 a year ago.


well, where did this bike, my fucked up bicycle with bad-working breaks and failing gears, where did it bring that woman with strong images on her mind? - it took her for a ride through her dangerous mind, along that slippery road lined with confessions instead of trees: a strenuous tour de miriam that now, as planned 6 months later, takes a well-deserved "end".

"an END?" - i hear it echoing across the world. yes, "end", the natural "closure" of a one-way street. and as someone who is always coquetting with radical transformation: i will be the only one breaking through the wall at this deadlock and leave you with the debris, the pieces of me - au revoir, "c'est fini". [and by all the importance in music history of the foregoing links, of course this is my ending. shot in black and white, slushy soundtrack, protagonist with a slight squint. oh oui! ]

...the road changed from slippery to dry, confessions became advices first, and now doings, the dangerous mind turned into a dangerous existence, which takes place off the online-world from now on: in the night, and in the sun, in trouble, and within LIFE!


so before both, the credits, and your tears start rolling: let me do my little oscar speech.
my gratitude goes out to your attention. not only confessions lined my way, but the interest of a handful of spectators: some of them cheering and encouraging, some of them excoriating, some of them watching quietly from the rear. with all of you i walked the line: a marathon through kitchens, pop cultural history, emotions, art institutions, platonic caves and childhood memories.
thanks for being the audience of my paper chase: it's me i found/won in the end.

- putting together the paper chips narrating the story: i told about my passion for "dancing", my obsession with "music", i wrote about my mania for "food", i told about the "vocation" that never lets me sleep, about my necessity to hide behind "trees" to give vent to my literally conflicting nature.
...anyone mentioned vienna here? jaja, i told about "my" city, too. - the metropolis i, heavily wounded, had to return to, the city which needed 6 months to reclaim its aspiration of being a home to me. a place which knows me "up and down", a place which suits me so perfectly because it combines both, the "monstrous" and the "seraphic" [in diesem saft die kraft, die wiener glut...].


...and like the blog header, a picture you became so familiar with, i will now turn my head.
turn my head towards the sun, entering another way of freedom, leading me not only east, but west [hopefully...], north [tomorrow!] and south [soon!]....




for this dry road, i don't need no bike. not even boots. i can go barefoot.
START WALKING...!








the events, groups, and people depicted and referred to in this blog were fictitious.
any similarity to any event, person, group, living or dead was merely coincidental.
no animals were harmed in the making of this story. i'm not so sure about people though.

rated: NC-17.
genre: slasher-romance-fantasy--comedy-film noir-musical-porn, ergo: grotesque.
director: MSK
story: MSK
producer: MSK
protagonist: MSK
setting design: MSK
cinematography: MSK
soundtrack: MSK
costume design: MSK
special and visual effects: MSK


dedicated: to a better tomorrow. und all jenen die daran arbeiten.

[ - denn natürlich gibt es ein sequel, dear german speaking ones. verkopften theorietransfer und visuelle referenzialitäten, also artsy diskursscheiße galore!
how to get there: ich lege euch den faden der ariadne richtung pandoras box aus, und freue mich, wenn ich die ersten über den hades schiffen sehe. folgt also dem orakel....

und kombiniert...
- die gängige österreichische abbreviatio für [vermeintlich? ja, natürlich! glaub ich da noch dran!] nachhaltig produzierte lebensmittel....
- mit der ebenso abgekürzten umgangssprachlichen bezeichnung eines stammlokals am berlinsken hippen unteren ende einer straße des 6. wiener gemeindebezirks [another clue: t. gottschalk pflegt den namen dieser stätte der intellektualität, des visuellen wie dionysischen vergnügens, gerne in seiner show auszurufen]...
- nahtlos daran angefügt soll der genitiv eines bestimmten artikel im neutrum stehen...
- und abgeschlossen wird das ganze von einem nomen, das sich auch im titel einer maßgeblichen erzählsammlung eines denkers der moderne, der am 10. september 1897 in billom geboren wurde, findet. das wort, welches sich in dessen - 1972 erstmalig deutsch erschienenen - sammelwerk als adjektiv verkleidet, bedarf nach der transformation in ein substantiv noch einer weiteren wandlung: eine internetkompatible zwiespaltung eines umlautes.

- das ganze findet, wie bisher gehabt, in einem "zeitgenössischen" netzwerk statt.

...und wer mir jetzt, nach diesem ausflug durch wien, die deutsche grammatik, und die französische literatur, immer noch folgen kann, der folgt mir auch tatsächlich: in die gefilde der transgression, in ein gewächshaus des grenzwärtigen. watch me gardening, auch falls es nur mit request for entry via email gehen sollte.

- i see you when you see me! -

R.M., 24, london's exceptional investigator and future BA in journalism, freelancer for LT magazines and outstanding frequent online publisher, in dialog with the notorious austrian illusionist M.S.K. on the recent replay of her self-reflexive piece "how to...wash hands of".



APPLES AND CHEAP EAST END COFFEE ARE THE BETTER DENTAL HYGIENE
Why real writing and journalist skills are more fresh than vanilla and cinnamon, and how the shy and elusive MSK can be challenged with in-depth questions in an exclusive interview.
R.M.




















picture secretly taken at the celebration of the "how to...wash hands of" premiere.




RM: MSK, thank you for being here with me tonight. I have to admit that I wasn't part of the premiere of your latest piece, but fortunately, your work usually is accessible through its universality and general public. After watching the piece, I was surprised to be confronted with such an explicit rejection and debasing of smth many other people would call fun and reason for good mood. Now let me ask a person with 1.) a high awareness of social issues, and 2.) with an eclectic knowledge about music, or maybe more interesting: asking a person who usually preaches the sensuality and sensation of dance: why are you not willing to mingle with the lower classes for the sake of the outstanding music of Mr Hawtin?

MSK: A good question indeed, I may answer it with a counter question: If I'd believe in a traditional "God" - would I seek to meet him/her/it in "Hell"? I'm very willed to mingle with people of all ethnicities, genders, classes - but do I want to mingle with people whose IQ and EQ is anti-proportional to the horsepower of their cars? Besides, I neither have a white t-shirt, nor a jeans mini-skirt to adapt with the crowd, and I definitely know about the dangers how one looks "like" after encountering with Mr. Hawtin.


RM: Asparagus just now? In our theatreland, you can have it in September, January and April. Trimmed by Peruvian hands, of course, and shipped half-way around the world. But now I feel inspired to get some fresh organic seasonal ones and eat it on ciabatta with parmesan and whatever not. How do I grill it - is the question.

MSK: As you are very accurate in your research for interviews, you might know about my politics of supporting both local, and seasonal products. And although my theatreland provides the same Peruvian perversions - I strongly recommend to skip asparagus the rest of the year, and rather freak out on the first organic one each spring. Special things, like people, have to make themselves scarce...
As for your question: get yourself a decent "equipment", but more important is the smoky flavoring you want to give your asparagus: grind coriander seeds with some dried chili, cumin, maybe some hickory salt, garlic and olive oil. You can give fish, meat, vegetables a nice little treat with this mixture - either as a marinade, or as the base, together with green tea e.g. for a chinese-style smoked duck/salmon.


RM: Looking at the basil pot in one scene of your play, I can't stop thinking about my recent disillusion with fresh basil pesto. I have not tried a home-made fresh pesto in my life until I was given a jar of it recently. I have to confess that I've been very disappointed. The taste is very strong and grass-like. What is your opinion on that?

MSK: As you probably remember from previews interviews, I'm very appreciative of strong flavors. Salt, pepper, grass, you name it. But I know to which problem you are referring to, and as an addict of pesto, esp. home-made ones, I might have an advice for untroubled enjoyment.
As everything in [other people's] life, pesto is all about harmony. You need to balance the grassy taste of basil with the saltiness of parmesan, and the sweetness of pine nuts. Garlic will give all ingredients a nice kick in the (gl)ass, and the olive oil will contribute to the creamy texture. To prepare such a balance, roasting the nuts is a good trick to enhance the flavors, as well as adding a hint of lemon.


RM: - Majonnaise? You mean mayonnaise?

MSK: No. In this piece, I particularly refer to Majonäse. You know how important the Brechtian approach is for me, and like him, I intend to express my social consciousness with dialectic teaching plays. Therefore: as you expressed yourself congenially, "the purpose of your play is to inform and teach" - what more could I ask for, than the audience leaving the theatre with a new German word in their repertoire?! And by the way, whereas I wouldn't eat it with other typical carbohydrates like Erdäpfel and such, Majonäse fits perfectly with Brot, imho.


RM: Needle within hay = "needle in a haystack" is the idiom.

MSK: So you reckon everyone who uses the wording "needle within hay" is an idiot then? Next question, please.


RM: What makes the protagonist think other persons read something different from what she writes? I would like to clear this one first, if possible.

MSK: I would like to clear this one last, if you don't mind. Well, obviously this disbalance between writing and reading was already the case with you, as your previous reviews on my work showed. The reason that made me blush, as mentioned, and even lets me drop plays from the program every once in a while. But my intention with the latest self-reflexive play was to thematize this very mechanism - the differences of expression and perception - differencies which neither party can be blamed for, but is natural result of every dialogue situation. Simply given by socialisation, education, interests, etc pp - a "code" or "message" only exists in the relationship between sender and receiver, not as an objective "matter of fact-truth". The father of Cultural Studies, sociologist Stuart Hall, developed a very descriptive modell which you might want to consider for your question. The delineation behind this link [which doesn't want to work integrated into the text: http://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sender-Empfänger-Modell] should answer it actually - and if your German doesn't reach beyond carbohydrates, Majonäse, Honig - simply think about the moment of japanese whisper and its dynamics. The message sent is mostly a different one than the message received....
True though, I of course play with misunderstandings and allusions. From the creative point of view: it's the very part I gain pleasure from - besides of writing my plays in a Möbius strip-like associative flow and encrypting the result with hypertexts, which make it even harder to declaim it onstage... a tricky paperchase online I enjoy being the only one winning, always. As it is a lonesome, but joyful chase, you may want to call my program autoerotic, but don't call it narcissistic.


RM: As far my narcissism goes, I think my glasses are perfect, I see well with them, and I would like to inform you that I could identify myself with one of the characters in your work.

MSK: Good on you. You and your sexy tropicalismo glasses thankfully found entrance to my world - all the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players...I guess you are the second protagonist actually, the other one without exit from this stage - and our existentialist play: "Waiting for Godot"....


RM: As a final question: If not better glasses, do I need to acquire more cognition over the time to see the invisible in your work?

MSK: Actually I think you sometimes write your own texts into the space I leave open and vague for the invisible. Maybe we should rather think about combining your cognition/perception with my confessions/perfectionism?! Bringing together the two versions of messaging, which we both represent, for the sake of one mutual code...


RM: Here comes my narcissism again....
MSK, thank you very much for taking the time and giving me one of your rare interviews. I guess my paper can use one of your countless self portraits for the illustration of this article...!

MSK: Most definitely. Maybe you want to choose one without posing this time, where several cocktails force the protagonist into a post-celebrational fatigue slackness? And unless you are going to publish on Page 3 - the pleasure was on my side.


---
references & bibliography:
1. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F3O9xEZUEDM&feature=related
2. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Rgbg0INRD4
3. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=10q96IPlm70

you may want to use some cold and clear agua,
maybe a bit of soap...
get a fleece to dry your hands....
= et voilà! you're bathed in innocence, comme moi.


..."someone" who gives mashed potatoes w/ lime & garlic, and life in general a name, someone who would rather borrow me a garter belt than a chastity belt, tells me about her latest perceptions in her role as a regular recipient in this splendid epic theatre. me, the director, protagonist, dramaturge, scenic & costume designer, and my own critic all in one - confronted with speculations of a season card holder, this loyal playgoer in the first row: she perceives naturalism, where i stage brechtian distancing effect, she sees me as raging medea in a grillparzer piece, where i play the prostitute jenny in the threepenny opera.

simplified: she reads something different than what i write. well, i guess that's the norm with the rest of the audience, who is sneaking in after the bell's ringing, too - the usual mechanism that stuart hall verbalised in his reception theory. i don't mind most of the sneakers. her cognition though, makes me nervous and blush with shame underneath my rouge. me? blithely blunt? explicitly suggestive? really? yeah but no but yeah but no but yeah. but. we all know that function follows form, ja?! i'd probably sell my soul for a savory wording, but the content is usually as harmless and disinfected as a toothpaste kisses. behind allusions and associations: nothing but toothpaste, soap and innocence. and if all, toothpaste, soap, and innocence happen to have a scent of vanilla, or maybe cinnamon, is it my fault? i didn't invent either of them!

true, sometimes i could do a bit more of straight talking and expose the ennui. but if i'd change the cadence, would i still like the sound?
e.g. "[...] why i have a massive problem with affirmative action these days [...]." <-- quite an academic sentence, followed by a dangerously characteristic blurry reference to my paragon of intellectuality, a personal description painted like a vague aquarelle. should i rather continue with "j.b., PhD, maxine elliot professor in the departments of rhetoric and comparative literature, berkeley/california, highlights with her appearance what she expresses with her trenchant thinking and writing. but whereas her militant outfit captured my interest only for a brief moment, it was her combative work that changed my life, and gave me answers [helpful approaches to a problem], where there were only questions before."

^ boring. boring boring boring. last week's lesson told us we are all not here for straight, and if i'm here in the limelight for entertainment, i, of course, want my piece of fun, too. and if it's only to make cinnamon taste like sarawak pepper, i definitely enjoy myself. and hope that the audience uses their opera glasses, watches carefully, reads only what's written.
- and that's usually nothing that leads to misinterpretations, nothing that would make me blush, worry about my dignity [ ≠ reputation] and make me hide chastely behind virginal trees....!



yeah, it's a maple. definitely the right moment to grow first leafs now.


...but maybe me and my ablushed cheeks are more safe behind a pink magnolia?




...honestly, to detect smth obnoxious in such an innocent place like this, would be like finding a needle within hay, or me within a mass of people in a park on a sunny day [hint: i might be found behind the camera, so put down your loupe].




- sunshine! did i mention it's finally spring? just in case i didn't: it is that time of the year i try to find a new recipe for asparagus each day [today: grilled with coriander, served with lemon-pesto-majonnaise, salmon, poached egg, parmiggiano].




yeah, that time of year when "good mood" is getting more tangible by each day....



- no, this is not my definition of having fun [calligraphy, and location both scream "plebs!", but this is vienna of course. where fun only happens in the graveyards and please, only laugh in cellars].


...mhm, i think i mentioned this before. time to literally spring up from the tombs, spread wings, and resist the tickling in the fingers to write ambiguous things...





- did i stage a fair amount of diversion now? enough distraction?
...or do people still think i'm a whore anyway?




whatever your perception is, audience, whatever theatre you think you visit here weekly: get your coat at the wardrobe, please, i'm closing curtains for today.
write your review on this whatever-play in a newspaper, in emails, in blogs, or nowhere, honestly you could put your opinion into a bag and throw it in a trash can. i still don't give a damn.


[just yours, skordalia-girl, i pull out of the bin, and think about the content, too much as always, as you can see, making a dramatic entry out of it, even. get some new glasses, i reckon, so that you might see better!]

end of act.

...didn't i write last week with idealistic assurance that i would avoid the tempting darkness?
- und ja, spring definitely nurtures my current passion for living, surviving.

like each year, my mood rises respectively to the increasing temperature. instead of blackening the skies, my darkness slowly changes from grey to blue....

- bored of paying horrendous bills for my sadness -
cheap entertainment i want, cheap entertainment i get. - cheerful? not yet.
i might be well/happy/having fun/blah as the temperature goes beyond 25°C. but at least now, as i hear the first beloved swallows sing [in their chanting a magic spell i hear, like a LP played backwards] at terrific 18°C, i open doors to madness, step into the limelight and cough loud:





...got the unsurprising answer to last week's open question:
raging in the light - simply more interesting for everyone [inc. myself]: losing cool in public, sharing my heat...! i would share my first icy cold cone of the year, too - harsh citrus flavors galore! - but hell yeah, it's alright to be mean [i, for one, might enjoy it actually, or forgive easily, not being a resentful person], i buy myself a second one, and only tease w/ a picture of the indulgence:






















no, i can't survive on ice cream.
yet i only survive on monologues. i scream "GIVE ME MORE LIGHT!", sick of the bastille of social graces, convinced that there is not only silence and me breaking through it, but a whole choir wanting the same: being it citrus flavors, being it southern sun, or, most probably: lunacy, as claimed concisely by the kills above.

....'cause it's boring to be straight, stupid to be sane....!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

postscriptum: waiting 10 days, just to read that i'm eating ice cream and blunt enough to paint it as significant act of resistant subjectivation?! - excusez-moi, but sunday didn't only turn clocks to summer time, but my mind too. the strengthening bright sun makes me run: finally with a tshirt only, ja!, and hormonally amok. strongly recommended, if not advised: change the rays of the computer screen for those of the sun...good bye, melatonin - welcome back, life...!

...i spontaneously have to descend deeper into last week's generic epitome of my portfolio.
- imagine a classical zoom in, a vertigo-style focus, where the rest blurs for the sake of a revealing close up. in medias res, as us latin scholars call it.

a) open question I: refusing the light, choosing to rage in the dark?

b) reznor gibt den brian eno aus dem darkroom. --> hilfe, das will ich geschrieben haben!


aside from a) being a serious question, why i'm always surprisingly couraged to make a fool of myself in the limelight, instead of blustering in my usual murkiness, and b) being a quote from a newspaper review, which i admire for its intellectual brashness --> what have those sentences in common? - an expression.

now, dark is the joint where both statements get connected, the apposite keyword, the focus i was talking about earlier. because: apparently, everyone is stepping outside of his/her/their darkroom lately. or, maybe let's put it like this: doors are opening to let in a little light, enabling a glimpse of curiosity into what has been closed for a while....

after reznor, vital signs of kindred spirits circumnavigate the globe: i receive emails with hysteric "back to life!!"-messages. and, as i can state after convincing myself by viewing quite expressive evidences, back to life with the usual striking performance....

like bela lugosi from his grave, bauhaus rise from the dead to release an ultimate breath of life. resurrection, indeed....


...but what made me want to crawl back into my winterish den of black & blank despair, were news from the blue pagoda. a place where fragility usually meets ardor, now embraced by progressive dash....





i am seriously bewildered.
by all my respect for the hearable references - my mind runs its fingers through my inner encyclopaedia of music, highlights causal relations from kraftwerk to hextatic to knife to alec empire to several experimental/drone/industrial/noise/whatever entries to....
- this is godammit unique.

...but how can something astonishing like this be released on march 18, 3 days prior to the beginning of spring? - post-production of the soundtrack to the silent movie my life has been the past 4 months....

and now, as i was about to realize that i can weather the cold, because i carry the heat [still, always] inside me [in the depth of winter, i finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer....]: i'm slapped by a hailstorm. according to the current temperature swing it has 1°C/34°F, listening to the machine guns that synchronize with the hammering in my head, i'm supposed to feel like -100 on every thinkable scale.

the difference is: 4 months ago i would have thrown all my senses into the cold storage, whereas now i am resisting the tempting dark fog i could cover myself with. i wipe away the clouds, simulate i never heard this masterpiece, "pretend that nothing ever happened, and make some plans instead." singing, screaming, going north by northwest, for example, where it's not that cold. original plans of dancing to feverish -10 today have to be caught up asap....

but instead of even more tickets, i buy some more eggs for the upcoming holiday weekend. whilst waiting in the checkout line, i start pondering about a salient phenomenon: the worrying amount of views into the dangerous darkroom, which i determine each week. being the only one knowing whom i opened doors for, and calculating the according arithmetical average of entries into these splendid apartments: erm, alarming, is the word i'd reckon. check your own addictive behavior, please! shouldn't y'all rather be fighting with pillows, eat barszcz with polish aunties, or host hedonistic easter brunches, like me...?!

5,50€, bitte.
i pay, put my groceries into the black basket i have as a carrier on my bike.
black, i am back to the keyword.
zoom out.

i return from last week's family outing to my own computer and to my jammed records.
usually i'm inextricably linked with my little portfolio: i would leave the house without my purse, but not without my categorized gallimaufry, divided in thematic sections: from philosophical thoughts to every day's life issues, from current emotions to lists with unplayed songs and possible picture subjects, to interesting urls and overheard quotes. pretty much all ingredients to draw the weekly dangerous storyboard. together with the real life-categories, such as to-do-lists, sketches, poems, recipes, sentences from or for emails, several clippings for the actual nightlife, and drafts for work: c'est moi, es/ich/über-ich, i'm basically screwed and adrift without it.

being separated from my alter ego for a couple of days was a disaster, as i immediately started writing and drawing on scruffy scraps of paper, which i will loose before i can transfer them.




....warmth spreads through my body, as i am able to open it again: comparable to the heat that crawls up the spine and explodes somewhere between your neck and skullcap - caused by the consumption of, well, horseradish for example. a feeling i would pay for. and radish is one of the cheapest versions i guess. a.n.y.w.a.y.

i look through my notes, as i know: i not only forgot my portfolio, but forgot to include a note into march 8th's entry. the most important association actually, as i recognize sufferingly perfectionist.
appendix to last week from the real log book: a quote, and a song. imagine the quote somewhere near the passage about an influential person with dark boots and a bright mind, and the song as a hyperlink to the "men" with lip stick.


We need to think a world in which acts, gestures, the visible body, the clothes body, the various physical attributes usually associated with gender, express nothing [or everything].






...want more from the sprawling anthology? i need to tick off some items anyway, as i explode with new inspirations and ideas each minute. collected, but not used/done/worked off, communicated 1:1 from my notebook.


from the category to-do-list:
- barney exhibit, ja!
- kuchen backen für herbert.
- tickets!!

from the category music für den blog:
- stereo total
- mazzy

from the category nachdenken, vielleicht blog:
- periphesenz / eugenides
- open question I: refusing the light, choosing to rage in the dark?
--> only happy when it rains blabla.
- himbeeren schmecken wie das parfum, das die nacht mit morgensonne besprüht.

from the category daily life - notable:
- quatschen, lachen, gaffen, streiten, weinen, staunen, schweigen.

from the category quotes - to be used!! --> arbeit - video/installation?:
- We are the squeak in the door of normalcy. The heart murmur that's easy to dance to. The safari guides for a landscape which few people know exists. The vital spirits of cultural fermentation.

from the category a sentence, which made my day:
- glad to see you [...] --> email von Y, bringts in ihrem subject wie immer auf den punkt: bin ich denn sichtbarer nun?
- reznor gibt den brian eno aus dem darkroom. --> hilfe, das will ich geschrieben haben!



tbc

being rebellious: putting on a bikini in march.

i'm jumping into frightening deep waters, swimming from one pisces to the next, this time to celebrate in persona and therefore even more elaborate than with "just" a long-planned blogentryphonecall3emailsvideoandaconceptualparcellightinweightheavyinmeaning.



in this case a computer and an envelope are not enough to deliver my attentiveness towards west. i need the boys car to pack all my love, groceries, half of my kitchen, utensils to live it up, my sis and her boyfriend. i put in the 5th gear, turn on some music, and enter the highway....

...as it is 7am only, streets are as empty, as my mind is full. i go through all my to do lists, i run through my provençal menu again and again, pre-cooking everything mentally, as the courses are a challenge in time and severity.

...who worth keeping my mind insanely busy? - la mama. blessing the world with her wonderful existence for 50 years now. celebrating her birthday: champagne for breakfast. being surrounded by nature, enjoying the early spring warmth. dancing eccentrically on the terrace not minding the neighbours watching. indulging sensually in food - as if it would be the first meal, every time.

a tough game indeed. let's guess where i got me genes from....
not from her, in terms of cooking. before the whole family falls asleep by the fire in the early morning with my father percussioning [pretty much the same groundhog day-ending of fiestas de la famiglia K ever since]: they had to eat what i've been feverishly fantasizing of the past 2 weeks, from a vague idea to a fancy french 3 course menu - get your local french wo/man of trust for the translation [bisous to my personal one...!]:

- tartare de thon sur son lit de mousse de cresson relevé à l'ail
- lapin confit aux herbes servi acev une galette de pommes du ciel à la truffe et recouvert des sauces au pissenlit & safran
- sorbet de rose, figue glacée au porto, mousse de tomme de chèvre aux miel d'orange, sablés provencaux.

not to forget: a postmodern bouquet des fleurs, and my newest invention in terms of patisserie, a postmodern 5-layers-passionfruit/physalis-cake.



...speaking of my mother and postmodernity: due to its natural proximity to the 6th, she always wants to celebrate her birthday on the 8th of march.
maybe it hurts her, that i nowadays resist to revel 2 days later with her, but she knows why.

- as it was of course her watching me grow the past 28 years - from a little tomboy to a big rebel girl, with poster subjects in my former bedsit changing from "men" [welcome to my world, where identities are apostrophized] with lipstick, to a powerful fist, it was her who drove me to my first political meetings and parades, and finally it was her, who offered me her sewing knowledge for pleated trousers, as she heared me screaming "fuck womanhood!" when i was ~23. by all extremism she supported - from that point on it was hard for her to follow my post-postmodern politics of action. but still, she understands, that behind my brusque "no!!" when asked if i am a feminist, is something more radical.

....usually i'd state "fuck yeah!" until i know people a little better.
you need to know the rules, before you can break them. in my case: you need to know my - oh, this is so on purpose - herstory, before you can understand why i have a massive problem with affirmative action these days. after someone w/ a witty mind, dressed in heavy boots & combat trousers from the SF bay area changed my life. j.b.what a turnabout it was to welcome you in my life, how you made me understand myself....

i only curtailed my disposition on 1 occassion [read the last sentence here, if you want to know what i was saying], probably because i 1.) was terribly high from a unique gathering with my above mentioned role model and 2.) because i thought that i'm in a sort of safe haven of understanding.
now, one third of that haven was maybe surprised, to find out over the time about my socialisation, but even more i was surprised to receive a "stop your feminist shit!"-response during a random conversation once.

although i'd agree in the end, as my agenda is to smash restricting labels such as "female/male", and support as much diversity as possible: i had to ask myself, if it is the approach of a younger generation than mine, to say things like "history has no gender" with ease. feminism seams to be a swear word, sometimes even for people who float in a liberal bubble above the ordinary world.

to me it is the basic rule which i learnt, and am now able to break - necessary for my own deviant self-image, a better/equal future, and as a foundation for explanations, that rebellion is still necessary, and the only legitimate life style.

- the mentioned specialist in terms of un-gendered history lives my rebellion unconsciously anyway. otherwise i wouldn't call her my counterpart.

the same serenity applies for my mother, as i definitely appreciate her fight for the freedom which i now find restricting; i'm fine if she sticks with celebrating her birthday in purple overalls.

and i'm so damn fine, if my rebellion stays misunderstood. i don't mind being opaque. i don't need clarity. i don't need a transparent, fixed, coherent identity. it could be easy to label me with feminist, postfeminist, as a typical modern guerilla girl, a boring postmodern subject with the usual insecurities: in the end i don't give a fuck about my reputation. - as long as i can scream it out loud, when i'm not occupied with eating, and my voice is heared.

the revolution can be danced, and i definitely do so!

another issue proving how antiquated my views are.

the answers are short & simple:
- personally, probably loaded with utensils to live it up...
- a card or parcel, smth to hold in hands.
i'd only call if i wouldn't end up as a deleted message on a voice mail, which is pretty much the same reason why i think felicidades vía email son un vicio and quite impersonal.

so, if i stick with my usual dusty & rusty vintage behaviour, why using a modern and fashionable medium like a blog to show sincere attentiveness? - when the aforesaid seems unadjusted, or when you know the birthday person will have an eager look if there are any dangerous revelations in his/her honor, probably expecting virtual confessions like "how splendid that you are alive!".

therefore. most of you can skip this. its gonna be unbearable syrupy, and if you already think my mind is stuffed with millions of noxious thoughts - this is gonna be the utter unhealthy sugar shock.

this one goes out to the one....

- personally: i guess soon. utensils to live it up: most definitely!
- smth to hold in hands: hopefully already or within the next days.
- on the phone: i shall be waking you up in a couple of hours with a hysteric call from a box.

...but i know you will have a look here as soon as you get up. your head heavy from last night. no one to cook you soup, but you are hungry. and as the real stuff will come through all the other channels, sooner or later, in my usual minimalist ways, why don't i feed you with some exuberant kitsch meanwhile? i could do it only here, on a place where i am not myself, but others/several, and principally grandiloquent. only here: words as sweet as a butter cream cake with heavy fondant icing and sugar flowers, with heaps of whipped cream.

and what a better association could there be, than a culinary one?

you are the icing on the cake. you are the icing to a cake i usually find hard to eat, merciless friendship, seductively you cover my reluctance to open my mouth & heart with a treacly hug.
honey: you are like the sugar i don't need in my coffee. slowly you sprinkled yourself over my life, as i realized i became addicted to your taste.


[interposed question: does that hurt like caries after too many sweets to others too, or just me?! seriously! where i go for salt & spices, the one & only is graving for chocolate. so i've to continue.]

honestly: why do you always make me do things i don't want to do/am not supposed to do?
- you tell me to stay when i am meant to leave. quite impressing performance.
- you tell me to fuck the system which i set up for myself long before you stopped playing with dolls.
- you make me write, talk, although i want to be quiet.
- you make me want, always more, although i rather prefer a restrained frugality.

i am not a person who needs much. not much more than myself. and if i want something: than please: best quality. food, music, fashion, words, [...], movies, work, love.

you are.



you are a really weird person.


we have: a really weird relationship.

only with you i can do really weird things.

the past 6 months with you have been really weird. even more than my life usually is.
my life with you: filled like a brand new box of mints. and like a real red/golden one, this box doesn't only provide the expected refreshing taste, but a little surprise every once in a while.

you know what surprises me most? - not your generosity. not your empathy. not your nursing.
i am amazed by the candid naturalness you gave yourself to me, expecting that you grow in my hands like a sprout to a plant. others would feel challenged in their integrity, maybe sense a step towards a dependent existence. but you want to be taught. you ask me to explain you things, you watch me to learn. you not only want to grow in the same forest, you want me to be fertilizer to your earth, you want me to be the soil for your roots.

i don't know what the future holds for us. the past already brought us from heaven to hell, and backwards. probably we will end up in a small chalet by the sea in iceland. editing mutually our writing. an old espresso machine constantly on the oven, collecting peach, plum, pear and belladonna, preserving cranberries to jam and liquor, picking each others gray hairs. a sustainable, self-sufficient life, in sweet harmony, peace, and insanity....

not sure if i am sufficient. but i'm convinced this blog entry is adumbrating the breadth of what your friendship means to me, as it is already leading away from the syrupy gateau de la mégalomanie towards my very real astonished gratitude for your existence.

and when i'm real, i usually become very silent....but not before i sing you a birthday serenade, of course. and it wouldn't be me, for you, if it wasn't melodramatic.
the chocolate coated cherry on top of a multi-layered cake called raminta m.

...caught my eyes: the wonderful diablo cody's earrings, nice, as well as the one's of my favorite irish man. tilda, you rock my world anyway, what a dress!; and baby, don't you cry - safe your tears for the day when you receive the award for your lifetime achievement!

...am i supposed to write something?
just because i'm austrian und - jajaja - filmwissenschafterin?



maybe "welcome to h-wood, österreich, i've been there long before you!" ?


having a strong oppinion & knowledge on austrian film, i'm not jumping into the pool where everyone is bathing themselves in complacence and national pride this monday morning.
me: always the first avoiding the mainstream, and patriotism.

this denial, ignorance, sneer: that's truely austrian though.
maybe i should think about my conflicting nature, and write smth about how to be 100% austrian.....