“There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy and the tired.” ― F. Scott Fitzgerald

Awww I love/hate the part of my character formally known as reckless impulsive and adventurous and now being categorized as adhd. Sometimes I think our popular culture is drowning simply because so many creative people turn to anti-depressants/Ritalin/etc. Oh whatthef… I will keep this blog for a tiny little bit longer. As soon as the reality of Oxford hits me, things will surely change. (They might do in general but i think won't be keeping up a blog like this any longer then) Did I ever mention suicide? Me? Bullshit! Rubbish!

 I saw the great Gatsby last night and it taught me again what art is for. To teach people who want to listen that there is beauty that there is always a way and there are great things to be done and great persons to become. I think I just have to get up and away from the easy time consuming “yak and wow” instant reinforcement of the world of nothing. I never thought I would admire Jay-Z and Baz Luhrmann this much. Popular culture has saved my life countless times in the past. I guess that working in the communication department of one of the biggest pharmaceutical companies on (deleted)K a year while not even 25 has twisted my little mind to its disadvantage. I stopped believing in it. Stop believing that a compilation of sounds and images could ever save anyone. But the movie told me that there is still a whole other world. A life. Choices. Endless possibilities of beauty and creation. Of images surfaces sound and speed. Of love, of life life life, this endlessly precious colorful utterly unpredictable thing. And to all the people (this includes me sometimes) who call success chance and life something that can be predicted – sry mates, get your ass off your social networks (yak or wow, yes Susan Greenfield, yes, yes and yes) and out of your nihilistic prozac zone of lies and - start WORKING!!!!!!!!!

It was a movie that changed the way I walked. It was one of the movies that has the potential to make oneself more elegant for a while. When I left the cinema all the heads turned - i an good way, in a delicate precious priceless way. Although I just walked. So i might still....Hate me for it, I do not care. Appearance, ha! Minor flaws, just minor flaws that can be eradicated easily. It is the mind that needs a little more effort.

But I refuse to be scared any longer.

IF

If I could speak the truth for just one day, I would admit that I still think about suicide everyday, and if you ask me why, the honest answer is that I have such a crazy greedy lust for life that nothing can full fill and that this is hurting me; like craving for something like heroin, like strong physical pain, like something dark!suffocation!threatening! If I could tell the truth I would tell you that I am numb to the sight of atrocities apart from functioning well facing severed limps and pain and screams and war. That I stay calm and know what to do that I am able to find the right words for victims relatives that I know when to be silent that I can console and give hope, when the worst comes to the worst. (don’t tell me I do not know because I haven’t. I HAVE. Been. There.) Most people don’t they freeze into shock and cannot move, experience PTSD later. My problem is that this can be forgiven. To stop functioning completely and entirely facing normal everyday life is socially unacceptable. But that is me.

If I could speak the truth for once I would tell the respective “you all” that I know that you just want to fuck me or imagine fucking me or telling your friends you have finally fucked me. So don’t call it anything else. You disgust me, but that I can deal with. What I cannot deal with is you calling it love or falling for whatever.

If I could speak the truth I would have to tell you, yes you that you do not know me. I do not know anybody either but at least I do not pretend. I would tell you all that nobody’s behaviour could be measured or predicted according to a scheme as long as they are NOT on antidepressants. Have you ever asked yourself why there are so many people on antidepressants but the actual rate in people being mentally ill has risen? Does anybody want to see that this is just the pharmaceutical industry creating a demand for something that has become the “ultimate product” as Burroughs called heroin once? And that the product itself causes numerous conditions it can be prescribed for? I hate it when people generalize. Be a person and say I think, I do, I believe instead of us or one…

I would tell you that for me losing weight is the easiest thing. I am just too vain to completely starve myself. I also have this newly acquired obsession with being healthy and fit. Pointless i do not go out except for work-outs.

If I could speak the truth I would tell you that your most basic need after food water and shelter is to feel alive. But that a person with adhd never feels alive unless being in an immensely stimulation situation. This does explain why I cannot stand everyday life. It makes me feel dead. It sounds harmless. But it’s enough to make me suicidal.

If I could speak the truth I would tell you how bored I am and how sad. I would tell you that I am the most insecure person on the planet if not in situation that is generally perceived as mentally or physically demanding.

If I could speak the truth I would tell someone that I still love him and still would love to live forever as a family. This track sounds like me. Someone would understand.

I hate liars. They are so disgusting. I hate liars so much. And I hate drinkers. I studied them just to hate them more. Yep, not fair.

I also hate people who lie to themselves all the time. Just because I am jealous that I can’t.

I believe that if I were destined for great things I would have done them by now. I have written two novels and a million short stories and poems. That is nothing. Having had them published and them being successful is something. To me.

And I would show you my face:

removed

And write a proper diary. The truth is I have nothing to tell you. Apart from my greed for life that makes me suicidal. I guess this does not make me a nice person. At all. Although this was just a lame beginning.

(What if the most threatening idea of all is true after all. What if he loved me. What if he still does)

Ennui

What shall I do? I really want to stop keeping this blog up, but as you can see I can't.  Is it soiled ground? Do I just want to start again? Do I miss the “old crowd” (yes, I do!!! I miss Isobel, Helen, Ioana, Haze, Bella, Our Youth, McKenzie and Adeline and Belle and I do not care if the latter were even remotely real! And all the others I might have forgotten now). My boyfriend, basically apart from my dear friend C. in the US the only person I talk to on a regular basis has just put a German magazine article on my desk; it’s about Bret Easton Ellis. Its starts “sometime in mid January in the drought of palm springs, the fear returned and Bret Easton Ellis was no longer able to get out of bed…”

Ok that is precisely my current state. Period. I cannot get out of bed. I cannot talk to people. I cannot narrow this state down to anything, not even a disorder or a depression (which might be the reason, how boring). I started writing this before even taking a closer look at the article. I am undecided. Shall I rename the blog a third time – o magic three – and start again? Would I feel different if I would sit on a patio at the Chateau Marmont typing this? (A 99 percent probability I would not). I said the Lana marketing department stole the inside of my mind, of my image and turned it into something a million times prettier and better. Which is not true. I am most definitely not trailer park material although we all know she isn’t either. Plus I haven’t managed plastic surgery or hair extensions. Yet. So now, so what. I will do a creative writings program at one of them. Oxbridge. You know. The one for graduates. Despite my rotten colloquial subjunctives and all the typos here. Although I am almost at an age where rock stars used to kill themselves. One of my very few dear friends said she thinks I do not need the glam or the recognition. I will always need the glam and the recognition. That’s my tragedy. Tell me yours.

Love, L.

Authenticity: 1, Loulou: 0

Outside it is still light and next to me they sit in the cold with their mac books on their coffee tables and their beards and glasses and they talk about a magazine that has been around for 33 (and a third? whoever gets this will be loved! and blessed) years in Germany called “Spex”. It is something like the Face must have been for England. The Face –the Indie-arcadia of the Suede, Pulp, and “trash at the end”- followers. And countless other beautiful people before them. The most beautiful people on earth. Where are they hiding?

It seems I have missed about almost anything, just like the editors of that German magazine Spex missed to close the title. As we have missed to have anything of our own. As I miss to have someone to relate to. I know I have become increasingly bitter on here and despite having discovered some really amazing people even recently, I still feel like in a bad high school phase where everyone turns their backs because you start seeing through their games and stop playing along.

Yes, a word on blogger. While my blog still focussed on Ed I did not feel alone, my brain was mashed and retarded by the lack of glucose and so were the brains of my friends (maybe less then mine, no offense darlings) and at least here I felt sometimes almost comfy and cosy and not alone. How easy it sometimes seems to go back. But back – where? To the 40sth men (not you bath, you have always been honest) who claim to be 30 (well babes THAT still sounds ancient for most girls on blogger!) and raid the ED blogs because these girls are especially vulnerable? Or to the “follow me I follow you back” culture? To the “you write so beautiful, check out my blog?” To the “don’t like it don’t read it” quotes? But I have a voice, a brain and I mean my comments and I do not follow people I do not read. Why is saying that out loud (or writing) so bad? So against the rules? Made by who?

But why, then, you might ask, am I still here? Because I like writing? In my opinion I have met only one single real writer (and a few potential ones) on blogger yet, and she is my friend and she is something I do not expect to have the courage to let anyone on here become anymore: she is REAL. But once I left the ED focus behind I have also met cheaters and high school clichés cliques and facebook behaviour and pathological liars who pretend to be 15 years younger then they are and copy Martin Amis. Not quite worth the effort. Or the time. Let’s put it that way: vanity kisses me deadly still. Or boredom. Both. (These quotes are copyright protected).

And if you stop following now and tell me to leave, you probably got the right piece of advice for me. This was not addressed to ruby, maija, lulu, haze, mich, helen, etc etc etc btw you know who you are!

Yours;

awarded

Maija of The Sequined World has nominated me for the Versatile Blogger Award and I am really flattered - especially because it was her (as you know I love her blog!) and furthermore I am in such great company considering her other nominees. There were two conditions, first sharing 7 facts about myself and second to nominate some of my favorite blogs.

Blogs first: I would love to name Lulu of Breakfast after Ten and Maja, but they have already been nominated, and I am sure I will forget someone, i will regret to have forgotten by tomorrow. Anyway… so here comes my list:

Bellearmed 

Dark, rare, beautiful and witty. My female Bret Easton Ellis. 

And then she disappeared 

it's about ED, it says, but then it's not, its very well written by a very brave girl and it offers her unique view of the world 

Life's Perceptions 

S.P. 's life in perfect poetry 

Sick B*tch 

sometimes dark, but so smart and hilariously funny 

Herzschrittmacher 

perfection (I know you don’t do awards, hun) 

And seven facts about me: 

My favorite movies will always be Wings of Desire, Donnie Darko, Velvet Goldmine, Blade Runner and The Doom Generation- if you know those, you know me. 

I love music more than I will ever be able to phrase. I tend not to write about it too much, as I am afraid it would be too boring for most people (except Erol A. and my friend C. from the US and the other C. whose blog I mentioned above). Music is the one love of my life. As silly as it sounds. But then again the truth mostly does. 

Apart from the music I have been in love in my life twice which I consider to be a lot (I guess I have half quoted Julian Barnes here).

While doing my Graphics BA at London University of the Arts, CSM College, I had the best time of my life so far.  And yes I did get a degree.

I own 15 pairs of miu miu shoes (THAT is embarrassing)

I would still (I mean he is ancient) have an affair with Nick Cave (THAT is even more embarrassing) if I had the chance. (Which I never will, so this is easy to say…) 

I do NOT look it, but I am quite tomboyish, clumsy and incredibly shy; I am an ok dancer but I cannot walk in s a straight line or sit still for more than 10 mins. 

deterioration

Too much half-knowledge, too many ‘I can relate too’s. To this post, I promise not many will be able to relate. And if they will they might be lying. Madness. I can feel it creeping up on me, I can feel it in my stomach, on my scalp, it is there, it is slowly, slowly taking possession of me. I guess this might be the worst time period before going insane. You know you are slowly slipping into another world. Once you are there it won’t hurt anymore I guess. Once you are there you won’t know where you are anymore. It’s the energy this completely untamable energy and wildness that is so utterly out of place in this world and that is such a crucial part of my nature that got me here. It’s the hunger for speed, for insane adventures, for instant satisfaction of the most urgent need I can think of – the need for sensations, incidents, events. The drug is not available anymore. New media was what I grew up with, but in it there was a promise of the real world. There were still the remains of the real, the pop culture, behind every written line; every picture was a promise of a real event. But the more these got copied, reposted, reblogged, stolen from, cited, the lesser the actual event seemed to shine through. It was all a hoax, a picture stood for a picture - nothing else. The iconography of the simulation. But of what? The rise of half knowledge casts its long shodows, while I sit at pop culture’s grave. Past cultures were my reference, I could not find anything in the current one (as they seemed to be just an endless melange of repetitions of what has been anyway) so I went back, to the 1980s, 1990s, there was the promise of real life. Sex was dangerous, murder forbidden, drugs harmful and not on prescription. Love still existed and did hurt and once a love ended, a life ended, potentially, as a heart was broken. And music, oh the music, it sounded unheard of, brandnew, it was a glimpse of the other side. But these were stories, stories I could never actually verify. There were tales told by others, their past, brushed up, polished. These pasts became utopia, as they weren't mine. Then these pasts became images again, icons for another image. That stood for an image. And now as I am writing this, I can feel insanity coming, it’s creeping up, it cannot be denied no matter how hard i pretend. (Me, who needs others more than anything has alienated everybody especially the loved ones.) But as soon as it arrives, this won’t matter anymore, too. But being me, I am still considering to check out before it does.

ULTRA

 (Bowie, still from the BBC documentary "Cracked Actor" 1974)

I fall in love too easily. I fall in love with a city, an image, with a tumblr, with a quote (from this article). I suffer, a lot, so moi might think, but all my mental illnesses could be narrowed down to narcissism. God cannot be such a bad person he has created David Bowie after Ziggy Stardust, he created Bret Anderson, he created us at the best club night. He cannot be such a bad person.

Another city, known as the coldest capital of the world. We are looking down on it, down on the nightlights, then up to the night sky, different from all the nightskies I have ever seen. After. The steppe, crossed on horseback. He would have been proud of me, Nikki, he is watching, I know. And the stars fall, the stars fall, glittering, shimmering, whispering; all your mental illnesses are narcissism. And that itself is the worst one. But it’s bliss, you know, so much bliss, as if we would live for this one moment of solitude, when the girl shimmers, walks into the room, just to be – the centre, the silence, she created. And the bass beats roar and the bass beasts roar, are my heartbeat. A glance, on something no picture in this world would be able to reproduce. We share the same memory that has already been somebody else’s. Beauty. To own it. That’s why we throw anything and everything away. That for. And fall in love. With ourselves, so of course, in your black eye. But if god created Bowie after Ziggy Stardust, hey, what’s the worst that can happen?

(this one's for you, C.)

(please don't tell me alan vega & suicide did this first)

my ever changing moods

(the source of the image is on the image, I am such a sucker for old music, but we all know that)

Me and my silly posts. Maybe I should not stop. Maybe this is my outlet. Nothing else, and as I have never seen it as a medium to publish my REAL writing (heaven and hell forbid, the thieves are lurking, always, always) I could just carry on. Or not, but either way, I guess it is not a big thing. (It’s just me who cannot stand the petty, that’s why I have the tendency to blow simply everything out of proportion). Another precious girl told me stay. I love her blog as well. Visit: here. She owns all the real wisdom that most people lose sooner or later, although they call that experience. I call it disillusionment and will avoid it as long as possible.

I do not know if I have any German readers apart from lovely h. and some other weird person who knew I could write German as well, and who was so very happy to point out that I was using a colloquial subjunctive (as if to say: see! Don’t even PRETEND you speak English, I mean I do and I can see you make mistakes, so don’t even pretend) instead of a correct one. You know, hun, you should see the slips I make when writing German, before proof reading, but furthermore I regret having to  inform you that just a year ago I was writing the speeches for the CEOs of business units of one the biggest “global players” out there – in English. Yeah me, evil’s kiddo-ghostwriter. Yep, I have stopped. Left corporate hell, but still, I did it. (I do rate my privacy very high, but this had to be said). So please, ok, C’mon...  BUT if you like to read something I enjoy reading (while I continue to have nothing to say) in – gasp – German – try this person. He is vain, young, annoying, male, but really one of a kind. And speaking of the devil – an apology to those Berlin hipsters. Yesterday I fainted, near my house, for no particular reason but fainting - that’s what I do, and two typical Berlin hipster guys, independently from each other, wanted to help me up, asked me if I was ok, if I’d hurt my self etc etc. I assure you I was really nice to them. And I felt good afterwards because they were so nice to me. And I felt guilty for hating Berlin this much. Maybe, just maybe, somebody else is right for once, I am reading far too much negativity into what people say or do. And maybe I am the only one who thinks THAT low of ... me. Well, just a thought.

i don't know what it takes to survive, but somehow I am questioning again whether i have got it. at all.

currency effects

Information was the highest-valued currency unit not so long ago. Believe me, soon it will be secrets. Being known and talked about was another one, nearly as valuable. Soon it will be being able to hide.

"You have got something to say" somebody almost dear by now wrote, adressing: me, being: the only reason that made me consider coming back here. If you can read any German go and visit her blog fast. She is worth reading. Although I know I should keep her secret. With a smile.

Life changing events took place in the meantime. Maybe too life changing for this place. Here. Where I have made one gorgeous precious friend, I have to admit. And met some really lovely people. Great story tellers, but also a lot of thieves and liars. I do not think Martin Amis would care. But I do. I do not like copycats and liars. My problem: I am far to vain to copy and lie. My very own fault. But believe me, soon privacy and secrecy will be the highest-valued currency unit.

So is having something to say still a reason to do so?