went to a garden party of a friend i know from highschool. played some songs there with philip. when we finished, it started to rain
practising some orlando gibbons and other early music keyboard stuff on my casio sa-77. because it’s vacation time i can do silly things. and because i can’t afford something like this: http://vimeo.com/20405863
changing identities from reblog to reblog
When I started this tumblr blog I wanted to post more personal stuff. Now I’m not sure what to do with it. Or perhaps I should say, I don’t know what to do with me. Every blog is also a tool to construct your own persona. And your tumblr is almost like a big shop window advertising that frail part time identity you have put together. (The fragments sticking together with nothing else than some cheap glue and you’re constantly afraid that things will be snatched away.) Maybe it’s not necessary to have a complete identity. Identities evolve and change from reblog to reblog. So maybe I shouldn’t worry about anything.
last week a lesbian couple asked me what i would say if they’d ask me whether i would like to become a father
Yes, I do think of you. You come to my mind on various occasions. But of course that’s not you. It’s just thoughts about an image of you. When I think of you it’s some memory transformed into a tiny animated GIF in my brain – it has no breath and it has no soul. And then some invented caption appears from nowhere. Those images keep flickering in my brain but the truth is you’re not a part of my life any more.
books: it’s just made up things
When I was a kid, a teenager, a student I read a lot. It was not only that I struggled to take part in European culture and be received into German society by soaking in all their literature. I just loved reading, I just loved books. They were my friends. But then I lost interest in reading after studies at the university and the music conservatory.
Plato was not very fond of art. He had this idea that everything is an image of an archetype. For him art then is a copy of a copy. I suppose I have a similar distrust towards things being doubled. There are enough made up stories in my head (what I would do, if I’d meet you again, how I would ignore you and your wife, how I would respond to racist comments in the tube, how cool I would act on stage playing the piano or the melodica, how I have this crush on that older guy who sometimes has depressions, and how I would just like to kiss him next time etc. etc.), – why should I be entranced by made up stories by a stranger who wrote them down, found a publisher and sells them to me?
No word is reality.
ah … there should be someone to take care of me. i suppose i’d have to be that someone myself …