4th and 5th adventure: morrison's american dream.
1 dj not knowing how to make me dance
3°celsius
1 maturing brother
1/4 pound of gingerbread and eggwhite glue
2 best friends
...monday evening, remembering a person telling me that weekends are more fun than weekdays. in my opinion: they're equally melancholic. maybe the fromer case promises a more generous use of sex, drugs & hildegard knef.
following the rules of that classical holy trinity, i am supposed to spend sunday afternoons in the kitchen with my best friend H, whilst bestest friend D is burning the sugar for us.
...additional yesterday: roasting 8 pounds of meat and building our art deco house out of gingerbread with cloudy eyes. an architectural disaster, but not a culinary one.
but rewind, rewind....
...as i am someonewho knows how to find fun wherever i go - well, someone living in a theoretical bubble, trying to move through this cold, cruel world, i shall here tell about a weekend that tried hard to burst the bubble with neo-realistic mundanities.
it was friday - whereas i was holding my head on monday, stayed in bed tuesday and wednesday, starred on walls on thursday, my brother visits me for a glass of вода and a fair & hurting bit of philosophizing about my return. as if i wasn't already convinced that he's my 10 years younger visual alter ego with a beard, he now even tries to steal my place on the pedestal of dialectics.
astonished i follow his remarks why i am still not able to unpack my stuff, why i still pick fresh clothes each morning out of bags rather than out of my wardrobe. the point of freshness of course, is that it has a natural end. i start thinking of what i'll be wearing on the first real saturday's night out....
...being monitored by the usual art university fashion police.
...heavily controlled by the expressionist free dancers of vienna, if there's enough drama in the moves.
- extraordinary dirty, artsy new venue. the organic beer is surprisingly cheap and good.
still, it can't belie that i am as always the most censorious person, feeling more alienated than ever:
seriously, are you still wearing the viennese uniform of 1. skirt over trousers and 2. broad black framed glasses, 3. smoking in the clubs and dancing to...4.uninspiring house? [yes, doing 1. too . but definitely not 2 , 3 + 4]
after, i have to admit, a nice genderfuck-performance, a first re-encounter with the excited custodian professor of my MT, and a couple of repetitive small talks how brechtian my life seems to be here, i get my bike and try to remember the last time i returned home on a saturday already at 3.30...
...where are the feasts / we are promised / where is the wine... we need great golden copulations!
- what i don't need: snow. not on my 5th expedition out of the bubble building on a sunday morning on my way to brunch; not in damn-its-the-worst-month-coming-to-austria-november and definitely not when i'm thinking of deserts.
[only thing in common: i get lost in whiteouts here like there, left alone with cogitations and the courage to find my way alone.]
...heavy flakes falling. i catch them with my tongue, let them mix with mascara and tears.
calmly i stand on the street and feel the weight of the snow on the bubble surrounding me.
keeping myself warm, it starts melting, first dripping, than running in streams, washing away the once more upcoming pain...
...i catch approximately one litre of the melting water, disregarding the sediments of desperation, aspiration and alienation, i heat it up with a bouquet garni of allspice, cardamon, cloves, and cinnamon. cut a hokaido squash into big pieces and let it cook in the broth til tender. i blend it with as much of the spiced water, as it needs to become a creamy but drinkable liquid.
whilst the squash is boiling and absorbing my emotions, i cook a caramel of 2 teaspoons honey, a vanilla bean, 6 tablespoons of balsam vinegar. for serving i take a big drinking bowl, drawing threads of caramel over the pumpkin boisson hibernale. right before drinking it, wrapped up in my purple kashmir blanket, i top it with a spoonful of double cream.
...i wish i could bath my mind in this liquid, as its healing qualities for an undercooled body are truly magical...
3°celsius
1 maturing brother
1/4 pound of gingerbread and eggwhite glue
2 best friends
...monday evening, remembering a person telling me that weekends are more fun than weekdays. in my opinion: they're equally melancholic. maybe the fromer case promises a more generous use of sex, drugs & hildegard knef.
following the rules of that classical holy trinity, i am supposed to spend sunday afternoons in the kitchen with my best friend H, whilst bestest friend D is burning the sugar for us.
...additional yesterday: roasting 8 pounds of meat and building our art deco house out of gingerbread with cloudy eyes. an architectural disaster, but not a culinary one.
but rewind, rewind....
...as i am someone
it was friday - whereas i was holding my head on monday, stayed in bed tuesday and wednesday, starred on walls on thursday, my brother visits me for a glass of вода and a fair & hurting bit of philosophizing about my return. as if i wasn't already convinced that he's my 10 years younger visual alter ego with a beard, he now even tries to steal my place on the pedestal of dialectics.
astonished i follow his remarks why i am still not able to unpack my stuff, why i still pick fresh clothes each morning out of bags rather than out of my wardrobe. the point of freshness of course, is that it has a natural end. i start thinking of what i'll be wearing on the first real saturday's night out....
...being monitored by the usual art university fashion police.
...heavily controlled by the expressionist free dancers of vienna, if there's enough drama in the moves.
- extraordinary dirty, artsy new venue. the organic beer is surprisingly cheap and good.
still, it can't belie that i am as always the most censorious person, feeling more alienated than ever:
seriously, are you still wearing the viennese uniform of 1. skirt over trousers and 2. broad black framed glasses, 3. smoking in the clubs and dancing to...4.uninspiring house? [yes, doing 1. too . but definitely not 2 , 3 + 4]
after, i have to admit, a nice genderfuck-performance, a first re-encounter with the excited custodian professor of my MT, and a couple of repetitive small talks how brechtian my life seems to be here, i get my bike and try to remember the last time i returned home on a saturday already at 3.30...
...where are the feasts / we are promised / where is the wine... we need great golden copulations!
- what i don't need: snow. not on my 5th expedition out of the bubble building on a sunday morning on my way to brunch; not in damn-its-the-worst-month-coming-to-austria-november and definitely not when i'm thinking of deserts.
[only thing in common: i get lost in whiteouts here like there, left alone with cogitations and the courage to find my way alone.]
...heavy flakes falling. i catch them with my tongue, let them mix with mascara and tears.
calmly i stand on the street and feel the weight of the snow on the bubble surrounding me.
keeping myself warm, it starts melting, first dripping, than running in streams, washing away the once more upcoming pain...
...i catch approximately one litre of the melting water, disregarding the sediments of desperation, aspiration and alienation, i heat it up with a bouquet garni of allspice, cardamon, cloves, and cinnamon. cut a hokaido squash into big pieces and let it cook in the broth til tender. i blend it with as much of the spiced water, as it needs to become a creamy but drinkable liquid.
whilst the squash is boiling and absorbing my emotions, i cook a caramel of 2 teaspoons honey, a vanilla bean, 6 tablespoons of balsam vinegar. for serving i take a big drinking bowl, drawing threads of caramel over the pumpkin boisson hibernale. right before drinking it, wrapped up in my purple kashmir blanket, i top it with a spoonful of double cream.
...i wish i could bath my mind in this liquid, as its healing qualities for an undercooled body are truly magical...
mironja - 12. Nov, 21:52
