...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.....

i won't ask whys.







...i wouldn't iron clothes, i wouldn't shine shoes, i wouldn't make the bed,
i wouldn't cook the food, i'm not familiar with the concept of "never cheat",
still, i'm the best person one could probably meet...




...tja. reversing lyrics for an appropriate intro only, of course i would cook. but that's not the only reason why i'd deserve the title "desperate housewife" lately. shocking: i didn't leave my own 4 walls the past 6 days, nurturing my pain and wailing with nothing but a book and water o.t. rocks.

....sounds peculiar?
i don't know why most people picture me like a modern anita berber [sorry, english speaking people, may i introduce you....!] born slippy 80 years later, living it up in the land of milk and honey, with my mouth wide open for flying pigeons, dancing til the sunrise with no sleep at all, bathing in champagne, being regularly seduced - together with the boys upstairs - by a lady dressed in green with strong perfume....



....people confront me with their picture of me: cherishing the life style of a suicide girl, just without tattoos [long-term commitment? eternity? OMG!!]; lavishing time either between a brother and a sister in darkrooms [friday? aber musst du nicht demnächst post-magistralisch die hucke in meiner anwesenheit weg-komatösen?] or strolling from disco to disco, spending too much money on water; coloring nails and lips red, packing hip flask and ambiguous attitude to fly out with the 2 other protagonists of the blackbird trinity [a label matching with our appearance, yes, but of course the original german "amsel" attains distinction from a former minimization of my name, now referring to all 3 of us, mire, ewe and vere]...




yeah, hm, well, a-hem, yes.
...if there are, apparently, photos existing, and i just picked the innocent ones, maybe the signifier is congruent with the signified after all: i am the picture others have!
another picture that exists in several different prints: me, in the middle of significant monetary troubles.

just today [my first day out after monday's surgery, which left me with only 23 + 4 half wisdom teeth and seams all over my palate] i was part of a serious fight between 2 strong antagonists: my purse and a shelf full of tempting 30s style lingerie. certainly none of your business, but let me take this mnemonic back to the headline "housewife":...my last thought before i faint on the battlefield was smth like: "fuck it, at least i feel empowered and self-confident when i face my bank clerk next week!" i wake up with a little paper bag, and a huge headache...shopping hangover? i decide that my purple-yellow-swollen left cheek is to blame, and its evil, literally defacing existence justifies the slaughter of a credit card account.

...rushing back home, somehow uncomfortable with my current looks of an abused matron. a suchlike existence is not part of my agenda of course, i'd rather kill me as a housewife than die as one....

probably i'd kill myself with the same knife i am applying the cream cheese icing onto 35 little banana fairy cakes in this very moment, wearing my frilly apron and a flowery headscarf to avoid hairs on the topping.



a picture of the week, but definitely no picture of the left cheek. quel visage, quel dommage!
but calculate this: tooth gap + nose + eye color + ruffled thatch + writing blog entries as opaque as engimatic incantations = seems i'm prepared for walpurgis already.

now, from wood and forests, moving on to...
butter. butter, that's me, freezable, yet meltable.

...and, actually, it's one of the main components to answer the question of the day.

first, of course, i have to create a field of understanding, before i recount what made me melt lately.
S, more an acquaintance, due to her busy job at some reputable media place that makes her rich and famous. and, confabulating last night, makes her drive down h-street in a stretch limo to do an interview on the middle part of the 60's trinity, with a med c. patient as conversation partner.

...one of the usual suspects i generally fancy as friends, as you can see. actually, she fancies me, intellectually, appreciates my work, my taste, my life style. crucial for me to struggle with my shadow in my self-imposed closet, reason enough for her to assign a cook & restaurant critic to host a sophisticated soirée for me.

...i know, having a personal cook is quite common these days, still, i'm at ease that for one night i don't have to be my own. but of course i'm too much of a control freak to simply eat what i'm being served. i request to assist the procedure of preparations, and i end up with a sharp knife in my hand, cutting fillets out of a dove. yes, dove, and yes, first time in my life, as i rather cherish a modest cuisine, and yes, i felt terribly pity for that naked bird, although i don't mind blood, sweat & tears, sorry, blood, bones & sinews. by then i thought "it's fortunately only part in 2 of 4 courses!":

hors d'oeuvre - marinated parsnips with petit petit dove legs.
entrée - dove breast with caramelized figs, glazed salsifies and a jus of the carcasse.
main course - monkfish medaillons with young garlic and raddicchio au lard.
dessert - tartes aux poires with fresh goat cheese, rosemary, honey.

...every day stuff? true. i surely need no pro to have a dinner like that, except of...well, that dove. that cute little dove, worth every damn euro per gramm, which i would never have bought myself. that bloody flying rat coming all the way from france probably, i should move there! - i surprisingly start thinking, tasting the creamy texture. it was definitely worth biking to the other end of vienna for that dinner, worth spending 2 nights preparing the presents i brought for both, cook and host.

a minimalisitc japanese dream of flowers from my favorite shop, a potpourri [i hate this word, but i love amphibologies] of music in extravagant wrapping, ja, and, some of you know i am terribly oldfashioned, a self-made bonbonniere. another premiere, admittingly.

...instead of myself, who wouldn't get a certificate anymore [grown on heavily polluted emotional soil, über-consumption of "pesticides" and definitely not well-maintained], i melt heapes of real organic butter in my bain-marie. if you want to end up with divine truffles like me, do this with some real good high % chocolate. add double cream and the flavorings you desire. maybe coat those sweets after rolling w/ couverture. or, for some this would be the perfect combination, w/ a bloom....



i combined each flower with one specific fruity component and ended up with...
- rosehip / rose blossom in 72%
- lavender / apricot [here the white chocolate ganache is the filling for marcipan ravioli]
- marigold / orange in 88%

host and cook assume i bought the confectionery, a compliment melting like butter on my ego, just like the chocolate on my lips and the soft meat of the dove on my tongue...