WIR KINDER etc etc 

 

“Immer werdend, nie siend” 

<> 

to Berlin, my tireless lover.  

Intro

Something has changed since the last time I gave voice to a bunch of characters …giving them pieces of my ego, but keeping the best parts just for me. I would never become a piece of paper, or even worst, black signs on white crystals. This is for me, a consequent workpiece with a glorious precedent which I had never never the guts of publishing (Gosh, I actually did! That is GGG, in Italian). I did not because Italian, which is a deep and classy language, gives to much space to my soul. The public does not deserve yet such a large part of myself. Differently, I can surely concede my words in a foreign language -that I barely speak- to a distracted public. This tale will tell you dear about all these things that I have learned, in the past year. Most of them, are useless, boring and nonsense. Few are worth. Shalla. 

Linguistic Intro

For those of you, whose wide knowledge permitted them to read those of my works in my mother tongue, are yet aware of my position about gender. I will repeat shortly the part concerning the language used. Readers would probably agree with me that once one empathizes with a character the whole pureness of the story is fucked. It is even worst concerning weak readers who start speaking as characters, wearing their sneakers and suiciding time by time, like they do. This happens ten times more if that character is your same gender, you will become a weak bitch and cry as your favorite character did in that novel even if you give no single fuck of breaking up with that loser of your boyfriend. To be sincere, all this is something I would like to avoid. In the sake of this purpose, I will use a general neutral “id” to refer to characters when not named. I will use “id” also for possessive adjectives and pronouns because I would like not to bore you readers too much with Latin. Hereunder an example for idiots.

e.g. Id was completely unable of recollecting id thoughts in tranquillity even if, id was a big fan of daffodils.

Hope it makes sense.

Chapter One / Purple (Pizza)

Speedy-Pizza, whose job is made clear by the nickname, needed to put some gas inside id prehistoric scooter which decided to become an attraction for tourists on the side of the street. Speedy took the plastic bottle inside id backpack and started looking for a gas station. This was a routine for id, a routine which seemed to be more frequent than managing to drive the scooter for the entire way. The reasons for that were several: the indicator for gas was broken, Speedy had no cognition of time passing and of gas running out and more, some mudafuckers in the hood were stealing gas out of the tank. But Speedy was a Yogi and did to give a single fuck about mean people and thieves. Id forgives all of them and pray for them in a language id did not understand. Shanti, Shanti id was saying. Peace to all, id was saying. In the end, id thought that this was the reason why id was such a mess with the gas: maybe id thought that someone would also put gas inside the scooter instead of stealing that all the time. Maybe sometimes this also happened but, because id was such a junkie that id could not even remember if id drank a beer or filled the tank with that money, the truth remained unknown.

Going back to the events, Speedy reached the gas station and saw a nice figure. To be sincere, it was not clear if id was a vagina or a penis person but for sure id was human. And this helps the story. This human was holding a plant with all id force, but id was sweating so much that id could had solved water scarcity in the world. The plants, Speedy realized after a while, were actually two, the other was held by another person -even id for sure human-  that was few meters behind. This second person came with all face red and a bit stoned laughing out loud all id guts. The reason of the laughs, must had been, Speedy thought, that id was stoned. Sometimes flat people with no fantasy cannot give any another explanation to happy and creative laughing humans. The first sweaty person sat on the pavement. The stoner, came across the cars queuing and shook the hand of the gas-person with grace. The gas-person must have came from Bangladesh cause id was shaking id head as Indians do, but id did not look Indian. This was all a theory Speedy built to convince idself id was not a racist who saw all foreigns the same. Speedy heard the name of this red-face pot-user person, who said proudly: “I tell people to call me Steroid, but they always forget to do so”. Then id opens a big smile and kept carrying the plant, followed by the sweaty human. This person, this “Steroid” as id liked to be called, seemed overwhelmed by affection. Id hugged the plant as it was a kid, then they both turned and smiled at Speedy as id was a dear friend. Id was not. Maybe a club-friend of last week-end. But that was an unsolvable mystery. The nights and days in dark buildings were absorbed and puked out as surreal dreams. Shaking id hips as a dancer, Speedy reached the scooter, filled the tank and went back to id job. Cold pizzas would mean no pay. The city was dull. When id got home a few hours later, id put a few records of id father and start listening. Id laid down on the bed as a dead leaf. Id burnt id thoughts lightening a joint. Id took a mirror, started a monologe.

“What if, this is all true? The inconsistence of my beliefs will bring me to a black hole which will give me nothing but an ordinary life. What do we see in extraordinary? Why do we need to be so different? Where do I need to put my ambition? In a terribly-written tale or inside my ass?”

Id scratched id ass, just to be sure nothing was inside. It was empty. At least of ambitions. Id breathed in, out, in, out. Started again. “What have we received from past generations? Did we get a world with lot of constructional workers and no engineers?” Pause. Turned id voice into a robotic tone. “The ethics of our century: politically correctness. It pushes merely to a superficial recognition of values not to a real possession of those. If we keep promoting this attitude new generations will think that saying something or believing something is the same thing. Political correctness is a mere formalism of a wanna-be democratic world, is not democracy. It is not respect of the others. It is not any kind of ethics.” Id still felt melancholic. With something more to say. Id stared for a few minutes at id book of Political Science. The book was not responding. Such a mute and pointless book. It held the tip of id joint and started burning the front page of the book. It seemed more realistic now. Studying political science with all those black holes. It put a new record on. It was a gift from one of id relatives, id was depressed. Or id would like to be so. The track that started was something by Steve Reich, Music for Mallet instruments, id thought. The track was 16 minutes and 58 seconds. Two times Francesco Guccini’s Eskimo. Impressive. The song had the sound of a owl repeated. Speedy focused on the owl. Id put idself on the branch of a tree. With eyes closed. Breeze on the skin. The world silent. Void of life. The track ended, it stared that annoying noise of records when the record-player is low-quality. Id turned it off. Started looking once again into the direction of the Political Science book. It grabbed the mirror. Breathed in. “ Democracy is so boring. If you wanna change something you have first to become what you wanna change and then change it. But it can happen then, that while your doing your bureaucratic procedures, your paper work, you forget your initial aim. Then you adage on the nearest seaside, sunbathing, and you adapt. Adaptation, this seems our new survival. Does it really make sense then? All these efforts, all those hours and lives given to the construction of a democratic spirit? Maybe this is the reason way a war will start soon. We are bored. I still think that the best way in order to change this world is not changing it at all. Rather create a few chemical substances that were realizing our interpretation of people’s will. It will be a better solution, indeed. Nozick why didn’t you built that damned machine? Aren’t we loosing too much time? Let us think about environment. Have you a bare idea of how many people discuss environment everyday? C’mon. Environment. One second to pollute centuries to save the earth from dead people. How can I be so pacifist and see no pacifist solution to these murderers? How can I tell them to stop? Can someone of you donate me your strength? I am human acting as a dead leaf, swallowed by the wind.” Speedy felt id body as an ancient ruin in a silent room. It could not be removed. It was protected by UNESCO, but still if you really wanted to, you could spit on it, or let your cats walk on it in spring nights..

Id still felt something, as a weak breeze inside the lungs which did not let him die for that night. The mirror started wheezing. It wanted attention. “Is our society still able or willing to create revolutionizers? Are they giving space to real change or just directing anyone to their idea of change? Will a top university now accept a whatever Martin Luther King or Simone de Beauvoir? Are revolutionizers now forced to create themselves a plan B? Are they marginalized? And can they emerge?” The flesh-entity died for nine subsequent hours. Then id dreamed loud music, naked bodies, teeth gnashed.

Chapter two – Blue (Bastard) Rachmaninov – The isle of the dead 

“Dear Chuck Palahniuk,

This is not a fan email, even if I am a big fan of yours. To be more precise I am one of your favorite students. You taught me so much. Well, I was thinking when will come in my life that moment in which Basquiat meets Warhol. I wanted to create it emailing you. That’s how modern times should work. Any time and place in the future to catch up?”

Nevertheless, there was no place where that email could be sent. Blue’s tech skills were definitely lacking and id was too lazy to be a stalker. Another draft in the mailbox. Id took a pause from him, the writer because he was for id like a long-distance mother. But yet too invasive and with maniac control over id writings. Now, he (I don’t dare to deny denying Palahniuk’s gender) was for Blue like an ancient memory, like those times when Math was taught in class and id was composing poetry on a dirty napkin. He is like a parent to which one cannot distance idself, because he is too much intertwined with one’s manners and thoughts. It was almost three years that id was not reading Palahniuk. Before that time, he was the Bible.He taught the cruelty and sweetness of the world. A way out. Blue was terribly afraid of reading him once again. What if id was better now? Id digested his cynicism and developed theories. Is Palahniuk just a destroyer? Was Blue a creator? One thing is sure: Chuck Palahniuk is the father of the pope literature.”

Chapter Three -Yellow (Yogurt): Franz Liszt – Liebestraum

Everybody should have been proud to be Yellow, yellow was a bright and hopeful color, id was same-gender oriented person. And your must be proud of it, because there is so much to cry about. Pitiful things are worth respect.

Yellow was unsure of the plans for the night, in the meanwhile id was taking a random train to a random direction. It was already late night and there were a few trains passing, every 20 minutes or so. Yellow had a magnet for homeless people. Not all of them, just those really wasted and maddening. Her magnet could not be switched off, but still id could have dressed in a less showy way. All in yellow as imaginable. The guy started talking, drooling, singing, falling apart. Standing up, staring at Yellow, with drained and drunken eyes. Speaking a foreign language. Yellow was repeating idself the good manners id grandmother taught id. Id was smiling, answering with modesty, lowering the gaze. The bum took the train with id, of course, id did, id starts saying how much they loved, in that train, that night. Yellow told id to leave, to go home and stop drinking so much, id cried a bit, as children do, and left the train. Yellow embraced id legs and started thinking: “God was severe to me. Made me a historical misfit genius. If id would make me a-historical I would fit anywhere, making great things. But my literature is sterile due to irradiation of x rays. I cannot emerge. I cannot be found”.

Chapter Four – White (Wine) Innuendo- the Queen 

Empathy is a strong and deep feeling. Feeling together should be our primordial status, nevertheless is a reality created by alteration. Alteration is a compulsive lier truth.

The night looked to be surreal. The night unifies people. It creates synergies among people with the same heads. What is like to have the same head in times where no ideologies are held? Where no class matters? Where no nationality is relevant? Do we have same heads when we cry for love and strive for power?

White Korea is a type of human that survives in a couple, and the couple inside a group, and the group inside a city and the city inside an over-populated world. White Korea is a couple sharing a bipolar love: in the sake of the survival of the couple itself and in the sake of sociality. Their stage is a two-floor bar with a dance floor and lot of mannequins with boobs off. Posters with something like “fears over obese kids” and porno movies playing in last century-screens. The motto of the night was: “there is too much creation and not enough appropriation”. This super poetic maxim was also applying to money. Buying is a creative act, stealing is an appropriation. Walking the street is a creation, taking a bus is an appropriation. Kissing a person is creation, raping a person is an appropriation. Black is creation, white is appropriation..appropriation of light, sunlight, artificial light, acrylic (say a color of white acrylic), paper, teeth, cocaine.

Chapter Five- Purple (Passion) and Violet (Vanity) Beirut – Postcards from Italy

Sometimes in life, you’re exactly like others. And I swear God these two characters were so unique, so original, so eclectic, that you would never never imagine that they could fall in love as normal people do. But it happens. It is shitty in the same way. It is sweet and pathetic in the same way. We are all the same in our weakness; let me tell you something about them.

They were both broke as fuck, for different reasons. Nevertheless, they were often exchanging gifts stolen or found somewhere. At first Violet gave Purple a diary to write on. The same id had, so that every time id was seeing id writing on that diary, id was getting a bit pissed for the invaded privacy. But it was not the case*. The second present they exchanged was Siddhartha, a book that as imaginable Violet loved desperately but that id could not bring with id in that new adventure of living abroad. Well, this book has essential pillars for the survival of the soul in the body. A crucial and inspiring one is that concerning ascesis in the sexual field. Sex, they both concordantly thought, was meaningless, as drugs were meaningless, as violence was meaningless. Sometimes beautiful things can be meaningless, or maybe this exact characteristic describes beauty. There was nothing wrong with self-erotism. For sure it needed a reduction, but a total elimination would be insane. I ask superficial people to do no keep reading these words. There is nothing they can see in what I am saying, because sex, together with other several addictions, were given to them to keep them superficial. This is what the love they feel is all about. Addiction, dependence, fulfilling. We can be the same in love, but we are not the same in life. And if today I am the one who is wrong, I must tell you that I am extremely sorry. Because I could not trust you people, that empathically feel what I feel. I don’t really believe that we are all the same in love. It can’t be. A racist, violent, meat-eater rapist cannot love as I love. I may never love as Frida Khalo did. Nonetheless, there is no universal judge for love and we must accept we love the same.

(but I still will be an exclusive bitch, with exclusive feelings)

 

Chapter six-  Black (Bouncer) 

It is stunning to realize the multiformity of earthly heaven. The very moment in which one’s self-realization is tailored by the atmosphere something is going more than well.

Nevertheless, the power of feeling something completely new can haze our perception of reality. More than ever if you’re an artist because, as Osho greatly explained, we fall in love so often, because we dare to love so desperately. We empty our guts out.

Chapter seven – Celeste (Clockwork) 

We are the less violent society with the higher degree of violence.

Often I think, and with reason, that it is a great fortune that we got so many distractions. Well, that our lives can be fulfilled by so many useless and useful things: becoming a delegate of UN or a teen idol and in either way feeling satisfied, heard, idolized. I leave to you which is the useless one and which the useful).

Our democracy gives us so much attention that we do not have to ask for it. So much that we do not need to cut our veins off, or at least not with an excessive effort, we do not need to take a gun to feel observed.. it’s enough to post a video with our fingers in the nose and maybe we also get some sexy followers. (Btw I don’t think your mutilate victims would sleep with you, dear Norwegian freak.) As in that book I read: Schlafes Bruder by Robert Schneider. That book questioned how many artists has history lost simply because those were misfit in time and space to develop their genius. How many of our friends would cut in pieces their neighbor if they wouldn’t have Netflix and ecstasy in the weekend? How many criminal freaks does the society suppress? Is this a victory or a defeat?

Cheers to Quentin Tarantino, man that, distracted by the era of post-materialism, avoided prison creating masterpieces. He gives us violence, we are glad, and no one can blame us.

Long life to violence!

Chapter eight – Green (Garage)

Do you mind if a read out loud a few notes?” Said that person that was dressing as Black Mamba and standing on the bed as in a work of David Lachapelle. “I need to discuss these things with you”, Green Garage was a receiver, rolled a cigarette, stretched the back, nodded. The other started: “theories are not killed by actions, not completely, as a boat will not sink just for too many passengers climbing aboard.. okay clear: Karl Marx and the USSR”. Next. “Social order is (a) fragile call for renewed thought about collective freedom and cement of social life.. and more.. “social science cannot breathe in a conceptual vacuum”. Next: “what is unfashionable may not be mistaken”. Next: “nature is independent”. Id laughed: “nature cares so little about us!”. And Leopardi laughed is guts out, with nostalgic pain, in the gloomy backyard.

 

Chapter Nine — Silk (Strive) [is Silk a color?] The Apl Song – The Black Eyed Peas 

There were never be enough hymns to beauty. It is still on earth, the sweetest fruit, the sourest strive for existence with a decent cage for our souls.

It was a rainy day, foggy, like too often in Berlin, I woke up early to go running in Gleisdreck park. After a while you live in this city, it does not matter how the weather decides to be, it’s always time to live something. The park was silent and I walked more than actually run, but I absorbed enough energy for all day. I went home, on the other side of the bridge, took a fast shower, kissed my lover laying on the bed, change my clothes, changed in a gloomy mood, took to M29 to the center of xberg.

The Markthalle was still empty, I start walking around, I take an expensive soy cappuccino, buy an industrial techno vinyl, sit outside waiting for the DUO.

The DUO came after less than five minutes, exactly when I stood up to go back in. I looked one of them in the eyes, but I did not see them, they said. I was overthinking. I missed my lover to be with me. But they were great companions of life, so great that being the third pole of their daily life gave me no problem. They were so young, so beautiful and so in love. This statement sounds so weird said by me, the only things I have been known since now in my life regarded being young, beautiful and in love. But I have so much sensibility about the things of the world that I felt that I already know what their opposite meanings were.

 

Chapter Ten – Nutella and Goat Cheese Eminem- Till I Collapse 

I let my body adhere the mattress. I hug my bed sheets. Hug my black sheep, which is an old puppet. My body shakes. I can’t reach a pen and a piece of paper to write down. I can’t call friends. I grab my phone. Start recording.

<> Deep breath. I can’t breath. The best view of the city skyline is in front of my eyes. It is dark. The center of the city seems a desert periphery. The light pollution is so strong that the lights seem on. But there is just me. And my black sheep. <>

My body encloses on itself as a dead insect. <> I stand up. Put my body on the big shelf in front of the window. It seems it would fall. I scratch my wounds. <<Then, who will win? Me? My Ego? My damned ego? Or my ethics? You. Will you win? Will you manage to sub-miss me? Will you take me with you? Will you make me part of you? Or will my ethics prevail and therefore I will die at its feet?>>

 

Chapter Eleven – One hundred red balloons 

 

I

To kill a body you need a soul

 

II

Everything changed.

My exclusiveness is expired.

My love is the sharpest knife.

My strength is the health insurance I have not paid.

My eyes are red balloons.

My words are filthy friends.

 

III

I received my shiny throne for less than 48 hours.

I got wasted.

I puked on my throne.

They kicked me out of the place.

I met a bum on the train

we kissed

then id died

I did not have flowers

So I puked a bit next to id tomb

 

IV

My soul committed suicide.

 

V

A soul can commit suicide

with a sole poem

my body needs heights

a high-speed train

a poison

a gun

some sharp shit to cut my veins off

lots of courage

 

V

My soul committed suicide

not too long ago

I should have gone with it

 

VI

to kill a body you need a soul

 

 

Chapter 12 – Roasted Nuts and Wet Leafs 

“You never know how much your existence is worth till they make a meme out of it,” thought Nut. Id was waiting for Leaf to come. Id was scrolling the Facebook wall of some sexy human that was liking id pictures pretty often those days. So id liked one of id pic. Tactic. Then, id suddenly felt bad. Dunno why. So id hurled the phone against the wall. It didn’t make any sound, the music of the record player was too loud.

So id took id diary and started writing something that sounded poetic:”I miss art as it to be my lover, friend, enemy, ghost, dust, dirt under fingernails, snot, earwax, aura, sparkling soul, etc. I miss it, most of all, to be etc.”

Short after, Leaf knocked the door. How did id enter the house? Was that an episode of Gossip Girl or what?

Nut was going nuts that night and here the reason: there was this person id really wanted to have sex with and that was Leaf. Id was, you know, a person to have sex with. Not sexy, sexish. Anyways, these two started showering together and it went great. Nut’s mom had a giant shower as she had to bath rhinos daily. You could dance there. Then, in the utmost moment of sexual desire id felt the water roaring. The noise of water should make id feel excited. Naked bodies, hot water, soap. Well.. hell no!!!

WATER WASTE!! USELESS WATER WASTE!!!

So id stopped, tell Leaf to leave the house immediately. Then Nut went back to id room: id masturbated that night. No liters of water were wasted for that. Erotism was cool but surely was not worth water depletion. Masturbation was an easy way of holding the burden of climate change, overpopulation, and stuff.

Masturbation was great.

 

 

Chapter 13 – Roasted Nut and the Bee 

Waking up in a hotel room is always kinda cheesy. Stretch out your legs and arms, kissing the pillow next to you as it is your last night lover. Showering with the wanna-be-shower-gel, wanna-be-shampoo, wanna-be-conditioner.. putting the shower cap on even if you are bold. Then feeling bad cause you wasted plastic just to look rich to yourself for a second in front of a clouded mirror. Dressing up cool, putting sunglasses on. Waiting for the elevator to come, grumbling while staring at your dirty nails. Elevator. Music.

There it came up the thought: you could feel useless in life but never, never as useless as the human that was composing lounge music. This type of music you listen to in the elevator or when the library is crowded and noisy and you really need to study. This type of human was just waiting for you to exist in order to supply your ears with some relax. What a useful task for a useless human being (or what a useless task for a useful human being?)

The utmost realization of your life will be a shitty article on Vice about your shitty wanna-be art.

 

 

Post Scriptum 

For those of you who read these pages with the same concentration that one burns out watering plants, here is a title’s explanation. The whole thing was set or at least partly set in Berlin in the second decade of the twenty-first century after Christ. The title refers to the work: ‘Christian F.’ translated in movie scenes under the name of ‘Wir Kinder von Berlin Bahnhof’. It’s a movie you see because drugs movie always looked cool. The message is: the stuff in it is cool and kind of sad, doesn’t matter if you don’t get the whole thing..that is stressed by my usage of etc. etc. That is the why I write.

Bye carrotheads!

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