July 3rd, 1999 (saturday)
It was warm yesterday. It is hot today. That's why I'm listening to
Coventry Carol and Suzanne's voice accompanied only by a few chords on
the piano.
Yesterday was the panel discussion. All went pretty well except
that the recorder did not tape the first 40 minutes for some unknown reasons...
It was pretty interesting with all those people: Nieswandt: cool, edgy
and without his black rimmed glasses only half as trendy - (almost the
same as DeLanda a year ago). Gierke: ungepoppt. Meinecke: unpretentious,
nice. Niemann: ? Röggla: shot dead by the photographer.
The reading afterwards was strange. I was tired, it was surreal
and the texts were mediocre. especially Röggla. Thought: I can do
that...
Can't get any eMails. The server is down.
Wednesday, July 7, 1999
Man muß einfach anfangen ist ein guter Satz - ein T-Shirt Satz
gleichsam - lange Pause - die benjaminsche Drehung: ich glaub' es geht
schon wieder los... so gegen 10:50 sitz ich in der Uni und lerne Brinkmann.
Neben mir Uwe, auf der anderen Seite Girke, dann noch Christiane und Ecki
redet. JETZT Hörspiel von Brinkmann von 1973. Die Wörter sind
böse. A. Schmidt ist auferstanden und spricht zu uns und macht Geräusche,
macht Krach, wiederholt Worte + sich Helge Schneider like - Beschreiben
was man hört. Die Putzfrau geht an der offenen Tür vorbei. Ihr
Schlüsselklingeln mischt sich mit Gedanken und Geräuschen und
Gerede über Sprache und in Italien und wenn das nicht alles gestellt
ist dann weiß ich nicht - Loss of words - pubertäre Sprache
und 70er Ästhetik. Versuch zu provozieren, Versuch eklig zu sein,
Versuch abzustoßen. Tradition und Wörter -> Fixierung auf Wörter.
Bei mir Laurie Andersonesques Sehnen: heute morgen wieder Tränen vergossen
bei Rosemary und tote Fliegen liegen auf dem Fensterbrett (Uwe gestern:"Auf
dem Weg zur Uni habe ich vorhin einen kleinen Vogel überfahren...")
- sich explodieren lassen in Töne Zärtlichkeit kennt keine Grenzen,
Zärtlichkeit kennt kein Pardon und wer zärtlich ist hat mehr
vom Leben und darum geht's in diesem Ssong. Grausame Zärtlichkeit
gegen die man sich nicht wehren kann, der man ausgekiefert ist, diese scheiß
ansteckende Zärtlichkeit die überrumpelt und keine Wahl läßt
but . Sie treibt einen die Ruhe aus & das ist das Schlimmste.
Und man fragt sich how did I get here. But David never asked: And how do
I get away? Aber: ist doch alles schon da. Nur Worte machen mich glücklich.
-lange Pause - Blauer "Eastpack" auf rotem Stuhl: Ecki liest und
gleich ist Schluß - Luce fühlt sich an Roland Barthes erinnert
und Christiane ist in der Pause schon gegangen. Ich habe für Inga
ein Buch gekauft, kriegt sie heute geschenkt, kommt sie nich drumrum: Monographie
über Mary Wigman.
July 8, 1999 - Thursday
This morning: "Teardrops" on repeat again, rhythm like heartbeat, soothing
when I miss Inga in the morning. It's dark outside, feels like fall although
people are running around in T-Shirts and Shorts. Bad night, schlechter
Schlaf. Hatte komischen Traum, merkwürdig und real, almost
f Bin morgens unausgeruht (jeden) werde nicht wach, tagträume
vor mich hin und kann nachts nicht in den Schlag kommen. Unruhige Gedanken,
wie beschrieben ende Juni. Aber nun zu meinem Traum: SWERVING I know I'm
not doing anything new - ist das ein Makel? Ist auch kindisch. Kann nicht
mehr denken und sollte mich mehr auf mich denn auf mein Program berufen.
Blahsalat. Sowenig wie man sich der Sprache entziehn kann, kann man sich
der Zeit entziehen. Das Reale bei L. spiegelt den Augenblick, welcher Gegenwart
aber trotzdem nie erreichbar, fixierbar, beschreibbar ist. EGAL. Jetzt
aber der Traum: Inventar: 2 Autos, Uwe, Christiane, ich, SuzyV. SWERVING:
Goetz: Praxis ist 95% Rezeption!!! Keine Beschreibung sondern "unmitelbares"
Erfahren (?) -> "Wie Fußball aussieht weiß ja jeder, man will
den Lärmpegel hören, will wissen, was los ist..." Wir hören
Goetz: Vorlesung in Frankfurth. Er sieht Fußballspiel verschlüsselt
auf Premiere. Der Text verliert beschreibende Funktion: Goetz: Ich bin
Punk - No-Future.
-lange Paue-
Das Licht belndet. So schnell ist Sommer. Natürlich ist mir
die Scheiß Bahn vor mal wieder vor der Nase weggefahren. Morgen treffe
ich mich nach dem Seminar mit Ecki. Fühle mich wie ein nichtskönnender,
blöder, zurückgebliebener Idiot. Mit Distelmeyer in den Altag,
mit meiner Angst in die Zukunft. Die alte Bahnstreck zurück an sicherheitverprechenden
Hintergärten vorbei, Gitarrenriff im Ohr.Um 14:21 will ich im Schreiben
aufgehen. Jetzt aber zu dem Traum:
Friday, July 09.1999
Early Friday. Woke up, couldn't get to sleep again. Got my mail. Hanjo
sent the Chaosmosis article. Then quarrel with Inga: unnecessary, childish,
left without saying goodbye. Sitting in the Cafeteria now, watching people,
listening to last nights recordings from the rehearsal. New chord pattern
with minimal shift: very good, very calm: versönlich. Starts like
a Neil Diamond song. Who cares? Got to make so much text. Hope I'll have
enough words to fill out the music, to inbet the music. Long notes, calm
notes, peaceful notes. Shift to D-minor? Thinking about Inga. Was a stupid
thing to leave like that. Music so unlike what my life is like this summer.
It will be hard to finish all those songs, to make what them they promise
to be. Tha#s why I'm not writing anymore. Want to sit in the sun with Inga.
I should be more narrative
[Ich habe nix gesagt und die 2x wo (sieh an, sieh an!) ich was
gesagt habe hatte ich hinterher das Gefühl - man kennt es, das Gefühl:
es stellt sich im Moment des Sagens selbst schon ein - also das Gefühl,
daß das was ich gesagt habe ein dead giveaway ist für wie dämlich
ich doch bin. Und sich über sowas überhaupt Gedanken zu machen
zeugt vom status quo.]
Jetzt: Neumeister, Hörspiel. Laurie Anderson läßt
grüßen, Gähnen und White Noise und Tautologien und White
Noise und Kalauer und White Noise und unterdrückter Dialekt und White
Noise. Note: vorgespielte, nein:besser vorgetragene, vorgestellte Aktualität.
Luce redet wirr und jetzt??? "Man muß offen
sein..." jetzt wird sie plötzlich politisch, jetzt verweigert sie
sich der Syntax jetzt hat sie nix mehr gegen Linearität. Vulgärsoziologische
Einsichten über die Menschheit. Ackerbau und Viehzucht Literaturwissenschaft:
was lerne ich vom Buch. Blah
- nach der Pause -
So, Christiane is weg, ich bin alleine und habe auch gar keine
richtige Lust mehr. Jetzt Referat zu Brinkmann. Von Girke.
You're like the pilot: you make the metaphor come true. So schreiben
können (seufz)
Girke: namedropping: Kaf(f)ka, Hegel, Goethe, heidegger, Bergson
- Klopfen. Gut aber zu dicht. Gut aber zu selbstverliebt. Gut aber zu wertend
(got the joke?)
Jetzt-schreiben als sich entziehen, als Revolte, als pures, noch
unmarkiertes Schreiben, schaffen, das noch ganz dem Schreiber "gehört"->unmittelbar,
rein, natürlich, quasi unreflektiert, nah an den gedanken.
Luce: ein vergleich zum leben kommt jetzt: "Der Hypertext ist wie
das Leben: manchmal kommt man weiter, manchmal bleibt man stecken." Ecki
schaut betroffen drein. Wenigstens endet das Seminar auf einer humoristischen
Note.
13.07.1999
"Big My Secret" from Nyman's The Piano and i remember how you told
me about the CD and how you loved this track, exactly this point da, da,
da...da, the pause, diese verhaltene Note die so ganz überaschend
die Harmonie auflöst und in diesen melancholischen Akkord leitet.
Ich bin über so viele Akkorfolgen gestolpert seit letzten herbst aber
ich kriege einfach nicht fertig, can't finish anything since last fall.
So many great chord patterns - but all sad and slow. Rehearsal was a deep
disappointment yesterday night (again). I'm hating myself and all the things
I'm doing because they have made me stop writing. I don't have the discipline
and time anymore to write. But I feel like this is the only thing and the
most important thing I want to do. But the days are passing by and I'm
learning and I'm hypertexting and I'm working but there are no songs at
the end of the day, the week, the month.
and the only comfort is her voice and your voice in my Rosemary
and the feeling, the vague hope that you still exist that you still are
there, somewhere inbetween the songs. spasms so bad that I can't breathe
~ later ~
Strange mix in my ears of music & sounds & noise from people
& trains. I'm waiting for Inga to arrive. It's hot. The smell of fresh
coffee and urine. Had an idea yesterday during Frank's new song - and what
a song it was!! - about something like: the letter always arrives, the
letter never arrives, Jacques says, Bartleby: I prefer not to, verweigerung,
von was? Symbolischer Ordnung? I wish I knew more. Diestelmeyer again.
Es könnte viel bedeuten. It could mean very much. The music fits perfectly
to the trains, the sun, the dirt, the people. I want to sit here forever.
In anticipation of an arrival. In anticipation of something, knowing that
it will come. Not now, but soon. And if not soon then later. But it will
come. I'm sitting right at the tracks, at the way, there's noway around
me. Trains are rushing in, screaming, alive with people who get off and
rush to the stairways. Doors are slamming. The next song starts. Rewind.
It could mean very much again. Next to me an old woman, looks like Frau
Topp. she stinks. Has dirty and bitten down fingernails. Carries three
Aldi plastic bags. Is wearing gruesome clothes. Has gray skin, unhealthy
skin. Skin that looks sticky. The ICE arrives. She's shouting for her husband.
Gesticulating. Mouth open. Mouth shut. It could mean very much. Takes a
look at her husband's ticket. No - it's not their train yet. Mirrored windows.
Doors slamming. Little kids looking in passing at little kids like they'd
never seen a kid before. New song now. That's the way I'm living. In my
room. No single case. Traveling music. weeds between the tracks. I am thinking
of your voice. Suddenly: ein gegenüber. The train has gone: people
on the platform across me. Reading the newspaper, sitting in their luggage.
Half naked women in the adverts. Test it. In two minutes Inga will arrive.
just listened to our "old" recording of "Cultural Studies II" from
...a star after me. It has such a really poor sound quality, but the dynamics
are great! What a great song!!! And there is nobody, nobody, nobody in
this world who has ever had such brilliant guitar ideas such as Rob was
playing in this song. It's simply overwhelming!
it's July 16, 1999. Friday morning, 10:45
I know it's pathetic to write something like this, but I think this
record is really good stuff!
July 19, 1999
it's raining, with occasional lightning from time to time. It's 23:22
and Inga's in bed already. I don't think that I can sleep yet. It'stoo
hot and too humid. It's monday night and I'm listening to Philip Glass.
Metamorphosis II. I've been trying to *do* something all day long. Something
which can diminish this feeling of wasting. Of wasting precious days, precious
hours. There's such a long list of things I want to acomplish - it so long
that it scares the shit out of me. It has grown so long that I do not dare
starting to work on the things that it lists. The term papers, the final
exams, the web-pages, the songs, the novel, the music, the correspondance
with Suzanne. I'm afraid that I simply have not enough time to do all these
things. And this day, too, went by without a result, without aything I
could present, without anything that writes me. The less I do the more
I vanish. I wonder whether anybody is reading this. Reading this right
now. I wonder whether this is of any use other than being a record
of how I have wated my life. If you're reading this I'd like to know
of you. We have played some cover songs at tonight's rehearsal. feedback,
please. "Fake Plastic Trees" and "Disneyhead". Songs
to remeber. Atmen heißt hoffen. Jochen is wrong. Songs
to remember. Atmen heißt verlieren.
We were playing "Disneyhead" and it was still there, the chords were still
there in my hand and the word were there in my mouth just like this.
So how can we be close when you're so
far away
your skin touches mine but you're lightyears
away
Sometimes when it's dark, I think you're
very near
when the light comes on this is all I hear
Got a mail from Eve Andrée Laramée
today. The CDRom about the Hollow Earth that Uwe and I have been designing
has arrived in NY: Unfortunately it does not run on her Mac. Shit. I was
thinking immediately: what if Suzanne has a Mac, too. Then SISV will not
be running on her computer and this would be very, very bad. The incident
brought me back to the ground, showed me what I really can. Then my inability
to write. All day long I was staring at the screen and I could not formulate
a single sentence. All these thoughts were making a terrible noise inside
my head and all this heat did not let me think. Does
SV have a Mac? I could not concentrate. It
isn't the singer that kills you, it's the song. I
couldn't even read properly. Something is going on inside my head and I
would like to know what.
Inga is asleep already. The rain has stopped.
So has the lightning. I am becoming something that I am losing control
of. Of both: the process and the result. Can you tell me whether Suzanne
has a Mac???
Subject: Nicht kurz ...
Date: Tue, 20 Jul 1999 16:33:35 -0400
From: <USchwagmeier@compuserve.com>
To: "entropic.empire@bigfoot.com" <entropic.empire@bigfoot.com>
Blumenmuskel, der der Anemone
Wiesenmorgen nach und nach erschließt,
bis in ihren Schoß das polyphone
Licht der lauten Himmel sich ergießt,
in den stillen Blütenstern gespannter
Muskel des unendlichen Empfangs,
manchmal so von Fülle übermannter,
daß der Ruhewink des Untergangs
kaum vermag die weitzurückgeschnellten
Blätterränder dir zurückzugeben:
du, Entschluß und Kraft von wieviel Welten!
Wir Gewaltsamen, wir währen länger.
Aber wann, in welchem aller Leben,
sind wir endlich offen und Empfänger?
july 22, 1999 (Thursday)
I'm hungry. Rehearsal's over and I'm hungry. It's 22:36, it has stopped
raining and I wish some shop was still open so I could get a box - no better
three boxes - of chocolate. I'm listening to "...a star after me". Yes,
there are a few very good song on it. <Smile. Proud smile.> We were
playing some coversongs today. "In Liverpool" and "Fake Plastic Trees"
and "Disneyhead". Frank presented a new song. I feel like it is throwing
us back. Years back. But there is no alternative. There is no feeling like
when you're in the middle of a song like, let's say: "Cultural Studies
II" that is simply right, that works, that sounds, and the music
carries you away and hits your belly and shakes you and you are shaking
and you are shaken at the same time... I had forgotten about those backing
vocals already. And those guitars. Now "Ohne Dich". Now
the waiting starts again. Summer's coming and you are gone. And I'd never
thought that one could be so alone. I remember
how Rob played this second guitar on the acoustic Yamaha. And his fingers
hurt afterwards. And then Daniel got the snare drum and we recorded the
snare with this massive delay. And I remember how Rob was playing the bass
for "The nerves end..." 'Just some basic notes' he said and ended up playing
two bass lines, two brilliant bass lines. And I remember how we were recording
"Suture" and we tried to find something for the percussions. We tried some
forks and knifes, the kitchen pots and finally we took an old shoe box.
We three sat around it, the microphone, turned the box upside down and
put the microphone underneath it. And then we started drumming. Each one
with just two fingers. And Rob was so excited, he said:'Yes, great, we
just have to use a lot of delay, it's great'. And it was great. You
are so distant that I miss you. Maybe "Suture"
was the best song we have ever done. It was the last song, however. And
we never played it since. How could we? 90% is your guitarwork so how can
we play it, ever? And it's so peaceful, so calm, so at peace with everything.
I will never feel that way again. You've been such a gift to my life. You
have showed me ways I could have never gone alone. And I never thanked
you for it.
I'm remembering too much. No news from Suzanne
about SISV. My term paper is growing. And I'm a wiser and a sadder boy.
July 24, 1999
It's saturday morning, 03:47.
I cannot sleep. And what's even worse: I cannot get a connection to the
server. Fuck. Christiane & Uwe were here until 01:00 and we had a very
nice evening. Uwe has been cocking - as usual very, ver<y good. The
only problem is that I did not know when to stop. and now I'm so stuffed
that I feel like throwing up every second. Fuck. I cannot sleep. I feel
sick. Don't understand it. Inga can't sleep, too. Why can't I reach to
server??? I wanrt my mail! I'm feeling dizzy. 03:54 is no time for me.
Good advise for you: never mix zucchini and beer! Cars are driving by and
I can hear people walking down the road. What a strange, restless night.
July 27, 1999 (Tuesday)
Got my new ID today. Well, there's potential
for some self reflecive thoughts about me being me and me not being me
and me wanting to be me...
July 28, 1999 (Wednesday)
I'm sitting at the smokers - great! In front
of me a guy with a BVB baseball cap. Looks stupid. It's hot. No clouds.
Clear blue sky only. I'm listening to Gene. Great melodies! Great arrangements.
Screaming kids in my back. Screaming in a language I don#t know. I
know your taste but I can't supply. Next to
me an old woman eating sandwiches. The doors are slamming, the train starts
moving. We're passing backyards and bridges. Strange to see the city from
this perspective. The back of buildings I usually see only from the front.
More tracks. Rusty, with green inbetween. We've left the city behind us
already. The kids are shouting while I record a life which is hardly worth
being recorded. Love is the most beautiful
killer of them all. American Music Club now.
I made this MD for the trip to Dortmund: Gene, AMC, Radiohead, Suzanne
Vega. Now we're passing woods and fields already. The woman across the
aisle is still eating. More kids. Now they are in front of me. Smoking
chimneys. We're stopping. The kids are getting off. It was strange yesterday
when I went to the station to pick up Inga from work. There were so many
people, so many small things. Limb by limb
and tooth by tooth, ticket control. So many
small things I saw yesterday. The light was so smooth - if light can have
this quality? It was 6 pm and it was warm and a perfect summer evening.
There were all those people on the streets you only meet in books or songs.
Perfect people, you know: the old woman, the drunk man, the
beautiful young woman. They fade out again.
This machine will not communicate the thoughts and the strains I am under!!
Listening to this is what makes a perfect summer day more perfect. Instant
jump in Time and Space to when and where I was standing in front of the
microphone and I was singing these lines and my fingers were playing this
pattern and how Rob played the second guitar effortlessly and the motion
became a wave and then a storm when the rim shots set in and it was like
the ticking of a clock and faded out again.
I never understood why they weren't playing this song at his funeral and
there are so many songs I must not listen to any longer they
scram as they fight for life and fade out again.
Cornfields, farms, bright sun and gleaming tracks. Immerse
your soul in love. Rob said this was the best
part: Immerse your soul in love. Now even better: fake plastic trees. We've
been playing this song, too, making it our own. Taking possession of it
as much as it takes possession of me now. A song to hurt yourself - no
pain, just sweat running down my back and my upper lip and the clenched
fist makes writing impossible and Rob where are you? Through the rocking
of the train, the smoke from the cigarettes, the heat from the sun the
answer in my ear. It won't do to long for
you. More houses, more construction sites.
Suzanne is singing about her husband. Outdated songs. Outdated life. More
rusty tracks, more broken windows. On the platform men walking by wearing
their cellular phone attached to their belts, hanging loosely around their
hips like cowboys wearing their colts: communication weapons. Men drinking
beer. Girls smoking. I am still listening to the music. It will take me
another 30 minutes to get to Dortmund. I will meet Inga there. Falling,
falling. Hey! I don't see the bottom. Are you gonna be my last harbor?
When I have written down something I feel like the day has not been wasted.
Wish I would write good stuff again. Another rif that Rob played. It's
like that wherever is music there's memory. I think I've got to get used
to it. So have you. The trick is to turn the hurt into healing. The trick
is to turn the memory from something painful into something powerful: the
magic transformation. Let the pain fade out
again and turn it into gold and grace and
immerse
your soul in love!!
The knife around my neck has almost become
a part of my body: sharp on my breast and giving me comfort whenever I
touch it. Will you turn back and see? Will you remember me?
Yes! Make it tear open my ears! and make
it blow up my brain! and make it shoot open my veins and let my lungs explode!!
That's what it does to me!! And it wears me out. I repeat: Had I written
a song like this I would die at peace with the world.
The rocking of the train almost in rhythm
with the music: Honeymoon Suite now. I'm wondering how one could get such
a sound. So close to the ear, almost like from inside my head. When
we sleep so close together that our hair becomes entwined...
Trees like curtains. No distinct shape while the train is rushing by. A
belfry. More backyards. I'm hearing World Before Columbus with a cello.
We'll arrive soon.
And if your love were taken from me
all the light that's bright would soon go
dim
it would be as dark as the world before columbus
down the waterfall and I'd swim over the
brim
Friday, July 30, 1999
It's still pretty warm outside and inside, although it's 22:35 and
the sun has long gone. It's almost completely dark now - but a nice dark,
a cool dark, a dark you welcome because it gives you that breeze of fresh
air that you need after such a long, hot and dusty day. The counter on
this website says that there have been 1141 hits. Wow.
The first draft of my term paper is ready. That's good news. Bad
news: no news from Suzanne. The concert series in the States will start
today so *fat* chabce chance that she'll have a look at
SISV in the next days. Maybe she has alreday forgotten about it.
<SELF REFLECTION>
I'm listening to Gene. Great music. Doing this online journal is
strange. It's so different from my usual journal. First: I'm writing so
much stuff that is simply no good. It's crap but I am writing. And the
feeling that I am writing gives me some kind of satisfaction. It does not
matter what I'm writing. Which is not a good thing since I need to write
good stuff again for the band. I have to start writing good songs again.
We have so many chord patterns and whole songs which are finished musically
and which only need the lyrics. But I'm sitting here writing about my unexciting
life and about my memories : always backwards, always backwards. I need
movement that goes in the other direction: straight forward: steady on!
The other thing is that I'm bringing the events to the machine.
Meaning that I am sitting in the train and I'm writing down what goes through
my mind and then I take this script and type it into the machine. The machine
is not with me. She#s here and she won't move. The pen and paper are with
me. But the machine is not. She can't move. She can't come with me. And
that's why I have to feed her, I have to bring the memories, the feelings,
the thoughts to her.
</SELF REFLECTION>
Inga#s watching Alien 2. We've been in town today and bought a present
for my mother's birthday on Sunday. I wish I could write something important.
I wosh wish I could write something beautiful.
"I'm only writing corny crap" Inga said this evening sitting next
to me and staring in her journal. "I'm listening to this music" (it was
Blumfeld) "and I want to write. But I cannot express what I'm feeling.
It's just corny crap..." I wish I could comfort her. I wish I could help
her. I wish I could give us the security that we need to do what is raging
inside of us. See - I'm also only writing corny crap. This is no night
for great sentences. This is a night to be very, very quite, listen to
the music and sit in a dark room whoich is getting cooler
and cooler the darker it gets. And to think so passionately about you that
you'll waking up in your sleep and think about us too.
