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been wondering where i've been?



i've been just here, trapped in time. i don't even really have a moment to write just now, there are plenty of things waiting, a girl with a blurred face wrapped in a raspberry coat sits on a bed and misses a foot i've been overpainting an endless amount of times for lack of satisfying results. wonky reference lines suggest a coffeehouse in desperate need of costumers who's passionate chattering to come still echoes on the tiled art nouveau walls, their impending presence lingers in the rough sketchbook texture of the cushions. adjourned duties are neglected as books pile up to shaky towers. a paper dwelling upon the reciprocity of actor and character yawns a blank white. it was due in august. i get more time. it's due til christmas. i'll get more time. it's stretchable like a rubber strap until i rip at the seams, submerged by my own inadequacy.

i'm just taking the few minutes right now to update my online existence, because my neighbour just interrupted my work flow by ringing the doorbell to tell me she doesn't like my music. yes i know that it might not be everyones cup of tea, but it's early evening, the volume's low and the basses are turned down, not one of my flatmates is bothered by the irregular thuds escaping my room and i have to admit they're not too hot on that type of sound either. i guess you can't expect to live in an ample appartement as students and not bear the restrictions of middleclass mediocrity.
this irrelevant incident irritates me ever so slightly and i don't feel like going back to my paints and brushes immediately.
so here i am.



what has happened in the last days? nothing you could report, watching from the outside. inner lacerations, anticipating bursting, but never, never culminating. perpetual motion that equals a deadlock. i'm tired, i'm wide-awake, i don't remember. i get fits of emotional overload, and then switch to cold-blooded detatchment. i feel like i'm overstrained, yet doing nothing. full to the brim and empty as wire. racing like a madwoman on a treadmill with the imbecile belief that i might arrive somewhere.

yet.
it's calm in here.



paint. walk. dream. write. cough. sing. sigh. kiss. eat. struggle. sleep.

the uniformity of constant ambivalence.
i'm unsure wether there is too much time ahead or not enough, slipping through my fingers as i turn around too look back on it. i curse my youth prematurely for the repetitions to come while on the other hand it still might be over before it's even begun.

but you'd much rather see some tits than hear me rant about how i'd like to be an old lady, surrounded by cats, maybe some storybook grandchildren cut out of catalogues (for i couldn't possibly have anything to do with their conception), pouring out a cup of tea to her placid self.

so here you go.



(c) arcado (and me. my flesh and postproduction in these)


i 'm smitten by my not-so-new flatmate. we share a home, a school, some ideas, quite a few beliefs, diverse concepts. i read short stories aloud to her while she bakes cakes. we study phenomenology. we kiss and make out. i cook dinner. she sews the holes in my gloves. we make plans to redecorate the bath. i say it would be nice to make some music. she says it would be good to make a play. i show her sketches, she tells me her ideas. we discuss. we rant. we thrive. we yearn. we feed on ice cream. we drive to the sea.

in this non-existent alienation, we'd be on a similar degree of foreignness.

this is the sea.

















we drove to that tower because it's on the sleeve of this album.



we are nerdy like that.
we don't need reasons.
it's pretty good.

i'm going back to this rare moment of reclusion and to resuming my tasks.
take care and don't miss me too much - i'll dish out another round of pictures soon enough.