A series of unfortunate coincidences that made me think of amor fati and my own self-representation (a serious case of bad PR) has caused hell and havoc within the confines of my mind. That I was somehow grossly throwing out slanders into the world and hurting people in ways I didn’t even know. That somehow even though my physical presence wasn’t there, this person could still feel me lurking around trying to pick a lock (okay maybe this is true). That I was using sacred and meaningful words and attaching them to the river Po or a peach pastry so that if you took the association two steps further in the wrong direction, it’d be covered in shit and I’d be eating it. That simply knowing I’m out in the world eulogizing a remembrance not even my own but of someone else’s love story had to be stopped, silenced. That I was some Louise Joséphine Bourgeois spider trying to weave myself into a narrative I was left out of and seeking young blood.
Paranoia, as though everyone was in on it, friends and strangers alike. When your upstanding friend’s 2-year-old daughter and a Greek art blogger with sexual tendencies both start telling you hand is foot, something is up. This innocuous and rather naive blog with writings of E. M. Forster daydreams, came alive in the most macabre fashion. And these people seemed angry, ready to send me to prison.
I kept looking where I shouldn’t, it had become an habitual tick. It had been going on for years but things changed last year when more antagonists entered the picture and I soon realized I wasn’t the only one who knew some version of the story. The general consensus seemed to be “You’re Calypso thinking you’re Sicily.” I can see how insufferable my IG account would be to someone who believed this. I kept looking in the same place for a different answer, but the light in which I was seen never changed but the way I was seeing myself was changing. I was starting to feel the most negative and at times positive emotions in the most real ways.
The entrance to the prisons of the Palazzo Ducale are blocked with lines of shore excursion tourists from the steady stream of cruise boats parading into Venice. It’ll be a long time on the Bridge of Sighs before I ever get in. That is why I couldn’t see the catacombs of Gente di Palermo by Gordon Douglas.
As my friend saw me off on the train back to Berlin, she wistfully said, ” I hope your train ride is like Before Sunrise.” To which I replied, “You haven’t seen the people who sit next to me on trains.” Instead, my Deutsche Bahn train got delayed almost until sunrise and so I got a 9 EUR refund.
I had spent part of the weekend in Frankfurt asking her to help me deconstruct a music video in which a wolf was following a lady in a blue dress. Then I threw in an extra variable of Phrygian mythology into the mix in which a man becomes like a woman or dresses like a woman. Listening to myself, I realized this is really hard to explain. I had the feeling I must be the wolf scared off by the sound of music and then left on the road as the car drives off. And if one wolf wasn’t enough, I saw another one looking straight into my eyes, telling me sweetie pie, you’re the wolf honey bun. The second she-wolf was this pseudo-cinematic poster for Ed Aktins’ Corpsing exhibition at MMK.
When we walked into the exhibition, my friend noticed the artist was born in 1982 and said, “He was born in 1982 and already in a museum. Johanna, we’re losers.” I replied, “He’s ‘one of the greatest artists of our generation.’ ” I told her it might be difficult in the beginning to understand but after about 20 minutes, it will start making sense. Every 5 minutes, I checked in to see how bored she was, “Are you okay?” She said, “This guy is the king of depression but I like the song.” Song went something like this,” I didn’t know… I didn’t know how deep I had gone…” The avatar sang this as he sank deeper and deeper into acts of depression while his body started to decompose until finally a sinkhole (that was unknowingly present the whole time) opens up during an earthquake and swallows him and his world whole. The next day while we were driving through the city, I heard my friend humming a tune and realized it was the depressed avatar song.
Her son was now 3-years-old, so after I bought him some coloring wall stickers and a coloring poster I asked her, “Does your son like to color?” “I’ve never seen him coloring.” “Oh, what does he like?” “He wants to be Darth Vader.” So when my wonderful coloring gifts were revealed, all three of us (Friend, Dad, and Me) made an effort to get him to start coloring. He made like three rough up and down motions with a green marker outside the coloring lines and then started yelling, “Badminton, badminton!” However, I didn’t want to stop coloring but felt I had too. Then, the dad got out the badminton rackets, but the boy kept missing the birdie. My friend then turned to me and said “See, can’t color or play badminton.” “So much energy…” “This is nothing.” Then, the son started yelling, “Darth Vader, Darth Vader!” So the dad got his black cape, mask and lightsaber, fastened the cape, handed him the mask and the lightsaber, and then he presented himself to me as Darth Vader.
The next day the whole family and I went to brunch at a Japanese/ French cafe. After a few bites of peaceful eating, the son’s head erupts. He starts coughing, then his nose starts running, then tears start streaming down his cheeks and then he vomits. His dad catches the vomit in his hands as I quickly pick up a plate for it to be disposed. The two of them immediately head home but my friend barely even freaks out. “Your son’s head just erupted!” “Happens all the time,” and she goes back to eating. Just the two of us now, I start telling her of this video I posted on Facebook and got a Durex condom advertisement in my newsfeed. But right as I start telling this, my friend calls which I ignore because I specifically told him I would be busy visiting a friend but accidentally took the call so he hears the first half of the story. Astonishing how much I was able to communicate in just under a minute.