On The Road - Blog Posts

tarantula-typo

6 months ago

What will life look like 2 years from now?

Can I hear the train whistle between the brush of trees?

The howling of coyotes and roars of mountain lions,

Maybe I’ll be cruising down the golden coast.

I’m hungry for it.

Dry toast and black coffee from a waitress named Diane

It’s not just surviving anymore

I’ll feel at home once the ocean breeze hits my face,

Once it takes my hair between its salty grasp.

I’ll feel whole

Unrecognizable

Unknown.

On my own

No one to please

Just me and a couple sand fleas.

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cybergardenities

1 year ago

journal entry from the road, 1AM 13.08.2023, Istria, Croatia.

Inspired by Keren Cytter’s „White Diaries” I’m launching an irregular series of journal entries from the road (I am on the road pretty much the whole time, since last June). May these entries contribute to my monography or at least to my graduation movie.

I’m in amok. For the most of the day I’ve been in amok. I’ve been calling my friends frantically, talking with them about my next, September journey. Planning things isn’t as exciting as it used to be. Today I’ve committed a faux pas. I gave in to my inner greedy goblin. My friend Joffroy told me that he’s got a spot for a vintage near Lyon. I, blinded by vision of being 1800 euros richer enthusiastically signed up, even tho I’ve dropped out of it almost a month ago. Five minutes before that I’ve been bitching to my parents that I feel like I’m being fucked over by my friends, cause I try to make everyone feel good and combine their busy calendars with my urge to go to Latvia to see art and drop acid and whatever else do nomadic art students do when they don’t attend universities. As soon as I announced my decision to leave for a vintage in France, to my Latvian crew they got angry, rightfully. I lacked empathy for my koibito, since we wouldn’t see each other for over 4 months and I didn’t even tell them in a separate call or message bout that. They told me they felt very sad. They were right, it was too sudden, but I was in amok, just today W420’s aunt told us she wouldn’t be hosting us in Berlin, which derailed our summer plans for 7th or 8th time. I took the occasion as it happened, but than I reflected on it realized I could’ve done it more smoothly. I apologized, we sent each others some music we found, it’s better now. Mediatized communication sucks ass. Tomorrow I’m gonna text my koibito I got kicked out anyway since I can’t work for the whole duration of the vintage (that’s 100% true). We’re gonna go to Riga. My parents told Riga is cheap and cool. I don’t have a joint like Cytter does in her diaries, but maybe for the better? It would hurt my lungs and I would get stoned too much, I have weak tolerance. I’m currently living in something that resembles a very luxurious refugee camp, with almost no POC, only rich, white german kids. Imagine 2000 people in tents and vans, crowded, laying almost on another with pitches among those little 5 meter pines. All the way from the mountain to the sea. My dog is getting mad over people walking near the tent. Swimming has cleared my mind. Deep blue of sea depths does its job. I need to sit down and write down some of my research notes for my new movie. I’m gonna build a dirty video mixer. Hopefully with my koibito, we’re gonna play something together. Soon I’m gonna write an analysis about “Parable of the Sower” by Octavia Butler and “Diamond Age” by Neal Stephenson with their implications for further research and my upcoming movie. The landscape is very cowboy here. It’s dry, cut in half with a big road. It’s very sharp and high resolution, like a photo taken on a quality color film. With colors so bright it deceives you at first, that it wasn’t taken on a Texaco station in 1985. This is a landscape Rango wanted to die in.