I put this moment… here.

UPDATE:
Another negative response, another re-response from my end, and another response from Eventim Customer Service asking me to confirm that I want my name on my ticket, an answer from me in the affirmative, and:
“I can confirm that this will be actioned by our head office in due course.”
I don’t know if it was persuasiveness, persistence, or perhaps the fact that I wrote as well to Fish People, Kate’s label, who may be the promoter of the gigs, but in spite of still feeling in the right, I am more than grateful.There’s a story there, I’m sure.

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Original entry from 29 March:

Re. your not being able to “change the name” on my booking. You say it all there. “My booking”. I am David Lee Smith and if my name is not on the booking, you have attributed the booking to the wrong person.

Moreover, the online account I had set up with you [sic] booking system in advance – so that I could expedite the process on the day of the fan pre-sale – by default changed that info to what I typed in the billing address for this order only. Though I promptly changed this info back to reflect that the account is still mine, it is clear that your system is not set up to handle such orders properly.

Along with the divergence in terminology as it relates to “booking” and “billing” – it is clear that you did not take this into consideration when you received the instructions from the promoter.

My friends XXXX & XXXXXX [redacted here only] – whose credit card I used for this booking – have further pointed out, they could not have booked this anyway, for I was the one with special access to the ticket for the fan pre-sale.

Put simply: Printing David Lee Smith on the ticket would not be “changing the name” – but merely putting the name that should have been assigned to it in the first place.

That was in response to this:

Dear Customer,

Thank you for your email regarding tickets for Kate Bush at the Eventim Apollo, London this summer.

Whilst we sympathise with your request, we are unable to change the name on your booking as the promoter has set strict limitations on this event.

“The name of the lead booker will be printed on each ticket. The name cannot be changed once the booking has been made. The lead booker will be asked to present ID to gain entry into the venue. Failure to adhere the terms and conditions may result in the customer’s order being void. There are no exceptions to this rule.”

Please accept our apologies.

EVENTIM UK Customer Care Team

They call me “customer” – which I’m sure is customary. Or perhaps they dare-not say my name. What is in a name, after all? Culpability? Responsiveness?

The promoter was explicit that they wanted firmly established non-transferable tickets to avoid the gouging of fans upon their otherwise potential re-sale. That much is understandable. But this is not what they had in mind.

How often is “our hands are tied” or “it was them, not us” a pale substitute for “the world is a cold and rigid place which we do not intend to improve upon”?

It is not necessarily the robots we have to fear, but those who choose to ignore their shortcomings. In a world where there are countless many with problems much greater than mine, I hope nevertheless with shivering, nauseated desperation that this one gets resolved.

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HELLO EARTH
by Kate Bush
Hello, Earth.
Hello, Earth.
With just one hand held up high
I can blot you out,
Out of sight.
Peek-a-boo,
Peek-a-boo, little Earth.
With just my heart and my mind
I can be driving,
Driving home,
And you asleep
On the seat.
I get out of my car,
Step into the night
And look up at the sky.
And there’s something bright,
Travelling fast.
Just look at it go!
Just look at it go!
Hello, Earth.
Hello, Earth.
Watching storms
Start to form
Over America.
Can’t do anything.
Just watch them swing
With the wind
Out to sea.
All you sailors,
Get out of the waves! Get out of the water!
All life-savers,
Get out of the waves! Get out of the water!
All you cruisers,
Get out of the waves! Get out of the water!
All you fishermen,
Head for home.
Go to sleep, little Earth.
I was there at the birth,
Out of the cloudburst,
The head of the tempest.
Murderer!
Murder of calm.
Why did I go?
Why did I go?
Tiefer, tiefer.
Irgendwo in der Tiefe
Gibt es ein licht.
Go to sleep little Earth.
- from The Ninth Wave (side two of Hounds of Love, 1985)
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Before the Dawn is the title of the imminent residency of shows for which this photo was taken. Only a fan would be able to intuit what this signal foretells of the concerts themselves. Woof!

 

Google Glass Can Bring Unwelcomed Attention

Seeing is believing. And believing is seeing whatever you want. Since when is it a crime to believe? Internet denizens unite! There’s a new tyranny in town, and it’s called The Invasion of Irony.

“I literally ended up saying, ‘I can’t believe this,’ over and over again the whole night. I just… it was the only thing that could come out of my mouth. It was the weirdest event.”

Leaving aside how weird it can be literally to end up saying stuff, hearing a repetitious loop of the explicit expression of dissociative disbelief run roughshod over one’s own breath has got to be downright disconcerting.

The event in question concerns the here-throughout-quoted social-media consultant’s night on the town, and how other patrons in a bar she was visiting stole her innocence. At least temporarily.

You see, she was the target of negative attention simply because of her choice of eye-wear. Why people might feel animosity towards someone because of their glasses is a mystery.

“And at that point I turned on the video, on Glass. So I started recording them.”

Fortunately, her glasses just happened to be able to record the harassment. What is not pointed out in the story, but is evident from the video footage below, is how everyone just keeps staring at the victim. You’d think she was handicapped, or something. More creepy, though, is how they continually invade her personal space.

“They were trying to shield themselves as if I was recording them. And I wasn’t even… you know, it wasn’t on, I wasn’t using it. You know, they clearly didn’t understand it. They didn’t know how it worked.”

Clearly, she is either telling the story out of sequence, or the news outlet edited it so. Unfortunately, there is no video available of before she started recording.

“I’m glad, though, that I can hopefully help bring and shed some light on the fact that this is a great technology that can be used to prevent these types of incidents.”

Just as soon as everyone understands that you aren’t recording them until you are.

“Ninety-five percent of the time my experience is 180 degrees different… Whatever fear that people might have about them is usually diminished once they actually try them on.”

What most people really want to do is direct.

Der Parkbank Pinkler, Kapitel IV: ein Spielchenswert

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Es macht Spaß, den Verdächtigen vorzutäuschen. Sitze am Platz der breiten Strecke von der Frankfurter Alle, lese, tue als ich lese, schaue unauffällig langsam vor mich hin und her, und beobachte flüchtig, als die Geldtransporter ihr dicken Panzerwagen die zehn Meter direkt vor mir am Straßenrand parken.

Die Sonnenbrille verraten mich nicht, doch verraten tun solche sowieso. Soweit wir es wissen – ich und die zwei spiegelbrillten Geldschlepper -, starren wir einander lange an, gegenseitig und verdächtig. Mit den Kopf verfolge ich sie nicht, schaue runter auf diesen Text.

Um das Spiel ernster zu machen, könnte ich realistische Ängste hervorrufen, fast von allein. Wenn ich mich tief genau an irgendeine Peinlichkeit der Vergangenheit erinnere, zum Beispiel eine zu der Zeit im Voraus nicht klug durchdachte aber erst rückblickend peinliche Äußerung – wird Zack! – abrupt aus dieser Alpträumerei wach erschüttert, als wäre ich wahrlich wieder da gewesen, als hätte man nicht nur die nicht zurückzunehmende Realität der blöde Aussage in Erinnerung aufgerufen, sondern, bestätigend wiederholt und zugleich das erste Mal dahergeredet.

Dagegen will ich hier cooler spielen, eine Mischung aus innerem Übermut und äußerer Gelassenheit. Ich fühle es von tief in mir heraus strahlen, ganz kräftig und einzigartig berauschend dieses, und ganz gelassen lese ich weiter, als das Paar den silbernen Koffer an mir vorbei tragen und in das hinter mir stehenden Gebäude hineingehen.

Bald wird ich ihre Rückkehr spüren, sie ausschließlich mit meiner Bewusstsein verfolgen, als sei ich der unsichtbarer im All schwebenden Satellit, und sie, ein GPS Gerät aus dem billigsten neuen Plastik, befestigt am Behälter des Gelds fürs Leben.

Unsichtbar bin ich doch plötzlich nicht. Der Penner auf der Sitzbank neben mir glotzt mich ahnungsvoll an. Ich lasse sie also gehen. Mit meine Beute.

Vielleicht spielt der Penner mit. Vielleicht die Geldträger spielen auch nur. Ich ziehe weiter. Richtung Möllendorf. Sitze gegenüber dem Ring-Center.

Hier ist die Sonne am Rücken, ziehe meine Kapuze zum Schutz hoch. Wahnsinnig früh im Jahr ist es, vor der Sonne schützen zu müssen. Will eigentlich im Moment nicht mehr den möglichen Täter vorführen, da spricht mich einer an. Warum bei diesem Wetter so zudecken, wolle er wissen. Ich nehme ihn zunächst als nerviger Statist wahr, der mich in der Pause stört, anstatt der böswillige Einmischer zu wahrhaben, was er tatsächlich ist. Ich blicke ihn schweigend an. Auch gegenüber schleierhaften Linsen weiß man genau, wenn einer angestarrt wird. Gerade deswegen gibt es ein noch stärkeres Empfinden: ohne zu sehen, erahnen Bescheid. Blinde haben auch schärfere Spitzgefühle, durch die Erblindung erhöht.

Ich starre ruhig weiter, bis er sicher bestimmen kann, dass ich zwar die Frage verstanden habe, fühle mich ihm doch nicht eine Antwort schuldig. Da zieht er von unter dem Pulli die an Hals geketteten Ausweis heraus und will sich nun als Verantwortliche vorstellen. Hängt jene Frage mit dieser Verantwortung zusammen, sage ich ihm, ohne die Blickwinkel zu ändern, hätte er die beiden lieber andersrum dargestellt.

Jetzt will er behaupten, erst ab die verweigerte Antwort verdächtig worden zu sein. Klar, sage ich ihm. Aus reiner nachbarlichen Neugier hat er mich zunächst angesprochen, meine ich weiter. Also erst der bekümmerter Mitmensch, dann der zufälliger Beamter. Ironischerweise, führe ich fort, hat er sich etwas zusätzlich verraten.

Der versucht an dieser Stelle selbstbewusst zu wirken, wirkt aber verblüfft, alldieweil sein Selbstbewusstsein zwischen Wissbegier und Überlegenheit pendelt. Er will wissen, wie er sich verraten hat und, noch wichtiger, was überhaupt aus versehen verraten wurde, gibt jedoch vor, sich über diese ach so absurde Idee schlicht zu amüsieren. Er lässt mich also weiter erzählen.

Ich sage ihm, entweder ist er eigentlich ein zweiseitiger V-Mann, da solche machen gar keine Sorge, von wegen Protokoll oder so, oder aber trägt er den Stempel der V-Männergedankengut in sich, von Rechts wegen, wisse er was ich meine, sage ich ihm, und nun ganz geheim, also als nur unter uns: So einer bin ich auch, aber im höchstmöglichen Dienst. Zu sehr gedeckt, um einen Ausweis unterm Pulli tragen zu dürfen.

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Teil III << >> Teil ??

 

Between is a Bad Word

Nothing new to say. ‘Cept there’s no between this and that, notionally speaking. Shit’s all over the place. The neuro-blitz doesn’t rest on the line between social-anxiety and misanthropy, to take a personal example, if such a line exists.Even if such a line exists, suffer this or suffer that. All along that pathway is more of the same of greater or lesser quality of this and that. What’s that got to do with between? No wonder the touted solution to choose not to suffer. What a grand, if grandiose, idea!Go with the flow; mind the gap.
Go with the flow; mind the gap.
Go with the flow; mind the gap.

Yet even torn between this and that, I’ll always end up one place or the other. The place between how I imagine it will be and how it turns out to be remains stubbornly either how I imagined and/or how it turns out, not somewhere in the middle, though how it turns out is ever so briefly located between how I imagined it and what it is after it is over and done.

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So, yeah, naturally, the word can give you a fairly clear idea, when trying to imagine where an event falls chronologically, that it’s before and after two respective more familiar others; it is perfect for identifying the location of the middle object of three standing against a wall; and we know when they say the truth lies somewhere between two versions of events that they mean the objective version contains elements of both.

But a conceptual-between retains too much of the originals not to be flawed, let alone, as it relates to persuasion, not to be doctrinaire. Reality resides elsewhere, would necessitate a preposition other than one whose connotation being so vague, will necessarily rely too heavily on aspects of the one thing or the other, between which the thing in question is said to lie.

Moreover, I imagine the habitual use of this denotation might hinder breaking free of a perceptual paradigm fraught with predispositions that rear, for example, the conviction that politics can be repaired, that somewhere between being broken and being fixed, there’s a healthy compromise, or that along the line of left and right, a desirable moderation exists.

Those two versions of what really happened, or the way it really is, do not arrange themselves with a goal post on either side; the motivations of the negotiators are represented and reinterpreted by and by way of data points of life experience too vast in quantity & location to plot on one grid.

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₫-mar-kr-€-C$-¥ UPDATE:
Amongst oppositional forces (as always a mix of democrats and fascists and democratic fascists cum chambers of parliament and heads of state); “NGOs’” financial support of elements therein & there-out and their financial partners in government(s) (hence the scare-quotes) and higher-and-more tightly-chambered cooperative & de-cooperative unions & commissions & public-private partnerships without which we couldn’t, like, you know, “build the roads”; the forever other side, those other Slavs, those who still want to pay their protection and those who don’t and those who really don’t know what the fuck they want and the overlapping monetary concerns therein & there-out & thereabouts (and let’s not forget there-between); the journalists and their funding and claims to independence and “this is nothing new” and simultaneous criticism of the “this is nothing new” argument lies your broadly sprayed journalistic logorrhea of a Sunday Paper, demonstrating that there are plenty of problematic prepositions when you try to wedge them into the abstract.

Here’s the link that brought that about.

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Zwischen Hanna Schygulla un’ ‘nem Kaugummiautomat. .  .

Petersburger Straße 73, Berlin – 2014

Der geschenkte Gaul

Excerpts from the autobiography of Hildegard Knef:

Er spielte Klavier wie ein Autofahrer in Gefahr, er hupte verzweifelt mit viel Pedal und sang düster von sich hin blickend rätselhafte Texte.
pg. 16

Sie liebte zwei Soldaten, die ununterbrochen nicht in Berlin waren.
pg. 37

Lampenfiebergerötet rannten wir um Meixner rum, wie Hennen um den Hahn.
pg. 48

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I’d need to be kitty-cornered & upper-storey’d to get a modern-day match for this month’s calendar picture. Until such time as I muster the wherewithal to seek out & ask from residents with these views if I can come in & shoot some snaps from their windows, such as this ‘ll hafta do:

Proskauer Straße 21, Berlin – 1905

Proskauer Straße 21, Berlin – 2014

 

Synecdochly Embedded Seppuku

I can feel the point of departure like a bleed warm and pleasant in the upper region of the brain – quite sudden but not a kick, rather a diffused, comforting energy. I’m sure it’s inspiration-driven and don’t want to make too much of this neuro-chemical aspect, it’s just that there’s been so much talk of the destructive effects of heroin lately.

What maintains the enticingly beautiful image of this substance in spite of its filthy reputation, and how much access have its fallen victims had to this beauty outside of the syringe, apart from the powder? And how long does it last and where does it go when it’s gone?

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I can’t write anything but highly pure shit when I’m depressed, which is the rule – ergo, my window of opportunity is teensy-weensy. When I feel that warm swell in my head, sparked by whatever brilliant or inane idea, if I don’t run with it toot-sweet, I may as well sign on to yet another significant fraction of my life spent creatively constipated – this out of a resignation so self-defeating, you’d have to have lived it to imagine actually choosing the path; words are wholly inadequate.

For sure, someone somewhere at some time has expressed this better than myself, but not as precisely as one might believe is possible; for the resignation, short of which one can’t have lived the experience enough to describe it, precludes the concurrence of motivation required to get it down when it is fresh with sense, and, frankly, a chosen regret so recursive is not something anyone wants to hear about until it’s titillatingly too late, and even then it’s only the prurient periphery that’s of interest.

And I’m just a nobody, whose passing would not have so massive a ripple effect, at least beyond dreams of butterflies and chaos. How many of us feel empowered enough to imagine our lives as tragic as those so-deemed based upon assumptions about the glory that’s garnered from an abundance of attention that’s assumed to’ve been sought only to be sacrificed? Why would someone of immense talent and acknowledgment thereof find “an out” so attractive?

First of all, drugs get a bad rap; likewise guns and books and religion and rock & roll, and reality shows. It’s humans who are so god-awful, and we know this, yet still lend these little props in our melodrama entirely too much meaning. Blaming drugs for stopping one’s heart makes as much sense as cursing the heart for not keeping the beat.

And it’s not just that we are forever identifying and managing symptoms. These are symptoms of symptoms at best.

Clearly, most people should not do heroin. I am one of those people, which is why I don’t do it. But the reason someone would do it in the first place is closer to the core of this problem too hastily covered with the addiction sticker, the physical dependency, on the other hand, is just a most cruel passenger on this already torturous trip.

People make assumptions about the lives of others: how their professional success and family life are supposed to be on the left side of life’s grand equation, then comes an equals sign, and on the right you get “everything”. They ask, “Why, oh, why would someone with seemingly everything throw it all away?” and answer this complex problem with “addiction” without considering the falseness of original assumptions.

Even the clever come up with nothing better than an “in spite of” factor. Why can’t it be both “because of” and “in spite of”?

Oh, yeah: The ultimate taboo is the suggestion of suicide… even/especially when it’s an OD. I don’t speak here of any one particular person, but about a whole mass of mindful human heads that found their way free before the mature date imposed by their peers. But “it was that horrid addiction” is easier to swallow. One dare-not credit the evil substance for providing the sought release – a release sought both because of and in spite of the beauty and horror of everything, not just the drugs.

Users can apparently hide it well from some of the people all of the time, for drug use is something to be ashamed of, though evidence would seem to indicate otherwise: that the admission to addiction is part and parcel of the popularity contest, an occasional badge of honor. You could say the same thing about depression; indeed, I am often dubious of others’ claims to medically mediated misery. Neither of these views is fair, but they stem from humankind’s tendency to get stuck in its own being full of shit. Why would I be any different?

The reason nobody ever tells you they’re gonna shoot up later – unless you’re tying each other off – is the same reason you don’t hear your fellow travelers fess up that they think an awful lot about killing themselves: Admitting unrelenting unhappiness ranks way up on the embarrassment index, and beyond this, implies the inadequacy of dear friends and family, an implication the suicidal are well aware of: that the hurt goes beyond simple loss; it’s an indictment, even if it’s unintended. There’s this thing about people expressing anger at someone else’s passing by their own hand: it’s taken as the ultimate slight.

When someone does make such an admission or, further, the attempt on their own life, what are the chances somebody else says or thinks they were just looking for attention? Go about your life, but try not to be so loud about it.

I seriously doubt there’s an example under the human species that relishes going through this journey entirely unnoticed, even if they like to keep a low profile; more than that, though, virtually all of us are seeking attention of some kind or another – otherwise, like, why would we bother?

Still, the reticence to reveal one’s all-too-real misery is a resistance to the humiliating attention, but implies the ultimate: “I’d rather die than discuss this with you,” or no less hurtful a thing to share than “Nothing you have to offer will change how I feel. No offense, but just leave me alone.” And they’ll come round eventually; how do you feel about them then?

A posthumously revealed explanation and apology, no matter how painstakingly scribbled, could hardly ameliorate such a betrayal if it came to pass.

Why, oh, why, would someone who has all the attention in the world keep shooting what he knew would eventually kill him? Who of us ‘ll admit that we know the answer to that question better than we’re letting on?

Frankfurter Allee, Lichtenberg – 2014

Uhrknall: big clang theory tolls the smell

If you think it’s taking them forever to admit the Earth’s not flat, just imagine how long it’ll be before you let go of your own illusions.

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I’m the synesthete, the anti-creature, maybe an ant, whose facts are olfactory. I don’t see the clamoring of our feet, though I perceive the pavement of the road we laid. I can’t hear the gears, though I think I hear the music past the sound in my ears.

I send, I send, I send. The transmission’s crank is constant, like the grinding voice in the teeth of my works. I think I’m thinking when, in fact, I’m just receiving what I’m sending, receiving what I’m sending, receiving what I’m sending…

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If smell is the most evocative of the senses, it is remarkable to imagine that the sound of that train whistling in the distant night air, however vague or detailed the associations it creates, might be nothing less than the result of another sense that evokes the sound; that I don’t hear, I don’t see, I certainly don’t speak, merely tune in and tune out.

Being led around by the nose is the metaphor that represents having half of one’s soul pulled out through the nostrils – the soul becoming then a sinuous tether between the vital organs and what’s pursued until the end of the journey.

O! what a smell it must take to channel visions of structures lining every path.. . buildings that don’t exist, I know now, because I didn’t build them, or that only exist because I’m the one that did.

The ultimate denial must be the acceptance of these visions.

Accepted: that I wake and I sleep and I sit and I eat.

Accepted is that I know and I don’t; that I’m headed somewhere and I know where I’m headed, and I don’t know where.

Accepted is that I wait and that I can’t.

Accepted: that butter is wrapped in thinly formed alu-paper product, costs 1.15 per kilogram, is bought in the supermarket, stored in the refrigerator, spread on a disc of meal and eaten in the kitchen. The wrapper is then thrown in the mini-dump.

The extent that the acceptance of this vision varies is whether or not the alu-paper is wadded into a tiny ball and stuffed into some other vision, or just tossed, as was, into a bag of plastic.

The aluminum emerged from a mine in my mind. However nonsensical, this is also accepted.

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Here I crawl in and out and around this mound of dirt, with my fellows – though, I like to think I reject life’s little paradigms – I assume they’re fellows, though I can scarcely prove the truth of their existence anymore or anyless than my own.

My only constant contact is with myself.

Still, this we – for this time I think “we” and choose to say “we” – pursue in and out of this mound of dirt no extraneous communication, nothing more than for the carrying out of an unknown task never complete. The tedium must be a nightmare made so much more arduous in pursuit of relief, uncertain whether or not it’s just a distraction: either the pursuit or the relief. For if I were an ant, I would certainly dream up something less dreadful than my own existence.

I take this smell for a beautiful woman – but I don’t veer from the path even though I’ve so completely forgotten I’m on it, carrying a cargo from here to there and back, that I swear that nothing I don’t see is real.

My need to identify requires categorization, and as I receive the signals that deduce the smell, I broadcast to my central notion system that even the pheromones are phony.

Of course I just made all this shit up.

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