March 16, 2013

NEW MEMORIES // I DON'T KNOW WHY


Two stories, together and apart; working it both ways.


Pt. I

From the juvenile, coffee-tinted pages of the past & present; today he plays another part, back then he was a soldier. Never forget why you are young only for a certain amount of time. These days are always remembered. But sometimes you purposefully forget things. Because you've been burned. J. says that she is a teenager in her late twenties, I think perhaps I am just a pensioner with freshly colored red hair. So then I go and rummage through these pages I just told you about, and I find treasures and feelings that I've kept hidden for the longest time. I purposefully forgot. I decided it was time to face the demons. So I met the people who could help me remember.
Here I walk through the city alone and careful, there I slip, because my new boots are not made for all the ice on Berlin streets. A week full of new memories. I meet you. We just lie around and talk about the past. We just lie around and feel the comfort in knowing one another. We just lie around and know that these are the better days. We just lie around and have no regrets. Even after eight long years. Then alone on the streets again. My friends have grown up too. It didn't seem possible, but it's happening to everybody. I helped them remember too. I did. And we made new memories, my old friends and me. And then there are also new memories with new friends. There is not much to remember. But they must have been young once too. I wonder how they managed ten years ago, when I was just setting foot into the big city. Hello. I am a teenager and I want to belong. Do I belong now that I am 26? And maybe J. is right, and I am a teenager in my late twenties, still. Life is this cycle in which we keep acquiring memories, just so we can suppress them again afterwards. And then, years down the road, when we have made enough new memories and have forgotten all the old ones, purposefully, because of all the pain they caused, we meet with them again and remember that the fire that scarred us, when we were young, was a friend and helper.





Pt. II

I like your touch, I like it, but I don't know why. I like to grab your hand while it's in your pocket, and hold on to it when walking with you and I don't know why. We pass by places we've been before and I remember, but you don't and I don't know why. We go my way and not yours, because I know the way much better, and you kiss me in the snow, and I don't know why. I tell you my story and my secrets and about all the things I like and you are listening and I don't know why. I feel like you understand but then again I feel like you don't, and I don't know why. When we sit next to each other, I feel moths blindly and wildly roaming through my belly. There is no space for butterflies, and I don't know why. Your hair is soft and I don't know why. I wish I didn't know your name, and I don't know why. I want to disappear under the sheets and I don't know why. A five minute walk is no coincidence and most certainly not fate. I don't know why. You have a lot of secrets, and I don't know why. I started to listen to music again, and I don't know why, but likely it's because of you.



March 10, 2013

// TO LEARN FROM HAL HARTLEY


Life lessons to be learned from Hal Hartley's film 'TRUST' (1990), which is being re-released right now
The world needs to see this. Because Hal is a genius and nobody does it better.





March 03, 2013

LITTLE GIRL LOST, LITTLE GIRL FOUND

Sometimes, when jetlagged, lying in bed at 5 am on a sunday morning, reading William Blake under the blankets, cause that's what I do, I start to wonder about how to make songs out of all his poems...

 In the Age of Gold, 
 Free from winter's cold, 
 Youth and maiden bright 
 To the holy light, 
 Naked in the sunny beams delight. 

 Once a youthful pair, 
 Filled with softest care, 
 Met in the garden bright 
 Where the holy light 
 Had just removed the curtains of the night. 

 Tired with kisses sweet, 
 They agree to meet 
 When the silent sleep 
 Waves over heaven's deep, 
 And the weary tired wanderers weep."

(A Little Girl Lost) 

It's a song, indeed.

Back home, back where I started my journey a very long time ago, eight or nine years ago, I try to remember certain days where I made decisions that eventually changed my life. A very long time ago, for some strange reason, I walked into this book store and bought a book, and for probably the same reason, I am reading it right now.

Oh, this green little book, I've been carrying it around with me for 7 years, wherever I would go. I bought it at a tiny book store in Greenwich in London when I was 19. London was my home then. I didn't dare to touch the book. It stayed in my brown leather bag for a good while. From there it went with me to Berlin. The first time I opened the book, I ended up reading it in one whole session. I do prefer to read in the bathtub. It's a safe place. I poured some red wine and opened the first page. I was smoking rolled cigarettes while the water got cold, added some hot drops, had my foot open the faucet, ash kept landing on my shoulder. I was all wrinkly after. The world was circling above me - T. had installed an old globe we found at the flea market as our bathroom lamp on the ceiling. It didn't give much light to the room, so I had put up tea lights on the edges of the tub. I never wanted to leave this place. The book is wrinkly now too. It moved with me from Berlin to New York in 2009. It was the only book I brought. It was there for me when I endured loneliness, homelessness, heartbreak... It was there when I tried to come up with lyrics, but couldn't. It was there when I needed a friend.

I do feel like I need a friend. The little girl lost, she is still creeping under the sheets. But I remember she was found, too. London is on the opposite page. Maybe this is a sign. Perhaps I need to return. Perhaps I need to return the book. Maybe I will take a walk to Primrose Hill on a Monday morning in May, and will read my favorite poem while watching over the city, then accidentally leave the book in the grass. And whoever finds it will have a similar journey. Maybe I will meet this person, and they will tell me their story. I want to hear more stories. People don't tell enough stories anymore. They meet to talk about trivialities. The don't look each other in the eyes anymore. They don't take the time to feel a stare, to catch a story this way. I love stories more than anything. Tell me your story. How did you get here?

And throughout all Eternity
I forgive you, you forgive me.