On how I don't even think
about not feeling a thing. On suicide.
Preventing my own. On gratitude.
On how life took my friend.
And me soon after. On the child
on two. Both born from this belly
under this page and this pencil.
That they don't need a mother. Not this me mother.
That there is nothing. That it all poured out
said fuck you. That's it. Find something
to lift you up. There was nothing. A single
straight line without colors. Scent. Taste.
And what to do with you line. Nothing. What. Stay
inside down here. Eat yourself. Outside
nothing matters. No sun. I don't need it anyway.
On this. Not on high heels. Not on skirts
tended bodies nice cars houses furniture
kitchens cups. Not on veganism not on lacto-ovo
paleo bullshit. No. On flip-flops. I want to wear them
with colorful nails to brighten your view. On my bike
speeding with vertigo on the one-hour swim
to sweat and pee in the pool on the stretching
of my body and on music. On life. On David.
On you. Your pain is foreign to me. I feel
my own. You are one of them. This horrible pain
forever. Pain is here not the right
word. Emptiness. No. A hole. Yes a hole
David. You threw the stone and a hole appeared
where your heart used to be. And then.
Then I saw two kids and one boy.
All this mine. My g(G)od what now?! I said.
Rise up woman. Even if I feel still
as a child. A child who is old since it was born
an old man or an old lady. But yet a child. And then I
went and took Ariel from the shelf. And now I read her in a different way.
People this is all so crazy. Man do you really know what
happens to your woman when she gives birth?
When she is in labor before she gives birth?
Hell, purgatory, paradise. There is no pain. Two arms two legs
stomach head breathe in. Cry out. Breathe in breathe out
wheezing. Blood umbilical cord. All filth. Aesthetic
filth coming from the inside. A new woman
is born to you. To herself. And her child. Who is yours.
This is only a photograph. As a conception for you
who still has to go through it and as an archive for you
who have already ex-pe-rien-ced it.
Life hurts. Life. Hurts. And one of the prettiest tricks
my brain can process is the fact that the body
and the mind remember only the beautiful things. Which are more rare
than pain and nastiness. Those can sleep. They do not disappear.
And yet they are mine. Even the secrets. They only sleep.
That is enough. Love. Is beautiful. Hope. Is beautiful.
Faith. Is beautiful. Faith not Faith. The moments that happen.
When the child gets his first tooth. When you wait more than he does
to poop himself. To wake up. Because you are already bored
because everything is quiet. So much about this photograph. The next one is
MUSIC. My techno which you do not forgive me
which my best girlfriend does not forgive me.
What is techno to me. To me techno is earth. Heart.
The prime principle. Pre-history. When everything was one
giant beating of the heart. And when techno beats my heart beats.
My love my rhythm. My skin my everything.
That is when I am me. Techno is my drug
on the bike in the sprint up the mountain when above the vine
sprayed with sulfur the sun rises and the birds awaken
while I am already completely here. Alive. And the tears nearly throw me off my bike.
Sprint. Techno. Love. The warm thoughts that you are safe
that you are waiting for me. That I am waiting for you. That you have me that I have
you that we have each other. Love each other. That we yell at each other
when we get too close together. That is love. What is faith.
Faith is techno. What is hope. Waiting on techno
in this shitty depression. That you can handle as much
life as this will mean at least as much as it once did.
People?! I was not there. But I still was. And I was not.
That is horrible. When you are not to yourself. When you lose yourself from you.
You stay in the cellar. In the cellar number two. Below the cellar number one. There
in the shelter. Which once you close it remains
impermeably closed. And they can open it only from the outside.
So I found a gasmask. And a shovel. David threw it my way
and said dig (!). And I dug. I cut into the concrete like into
the soil in the garden. A milimeter. And another. And my dear
techno is when you take your clothes off. When we take our clothes off. Techno is sex.
Techno is techne. I need this. Out of the cellar to the ground floor with a shovel.
And now I am here. And you three. And us four. Me with a nearly broken
leg. It is pain. Pain makes me nervous and annoying.
But alive. And so I nag and am alive and I can laugh
and cry and cry and laugh and you have to understand me.
And when you give birth you give birth to the whole world. That's how it feels. Magma lava
oil rosemary stars earthquake lavender torrent flood
landslide sage. Smell taste touch sound. Sight.
All in a couple of hours.
Evolution and revolution. My experience.
Translated by Jasmin B. Frelih