On Aphorisms

“Art is the little cathedral in the big abattoir.”

—Pastor Prime St Augustine
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Word. I hasten to point out I remind diary readers of mine own kōan cookie collection that regenerates another as if anew each time one clicks upon either the black & white dash just below the kōan cookie at the top of the page, or the image all the way down at the bottom. Wait a minute. Are they kōan cookies or skōans? Does it matter? Ask an Asian. I’m not qualified for any of this.

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Image. September’s here again.

Grünbergerstr. 44-48a, Berlin-Friedrichshain – 1954/2018 (hover)
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Music. Photomotion.

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Youly

The ways to express the future in English are vast, but for course purposes it is best to stick with will and going to. Course purposes are almost always unfortunate, based on curriculum shaving to forge the division of labor. But what’re y’onna do?

Proskauer-Str. Ecke Frankfurter-Allee, Berlin-Friedrichshain – 1906/2018

Re. +49301785853304

Short answer (text-like version) in the 1st of the following sentences: No, I don’t. As a matter of fact, to begin the comprehensive explanation, I let it lapse only relatively recently after the pre-paid SIM card I had been using since my arrival in 2002 had its Terms of Use amended to limit using the minimum loadable amount of €15 within six months instead of what had been for over fifteen years a year-&-a-half. Ironically enough, the only chargeable offense I used the phone for was to write texts, which were 30 cents a piece, so the fifteen euros had over all those fifteen years lasted at least through a couple of terms just inside the entirety of their eighteen months.

Now one might ask (and, trust me, more than one has) why I never just purchased a contract, thereby enabling a more frequent use at a reasonable price, much more convenience, etc., etc. This question crucifies itself upon the assumption that I would have used my phone more if I could have. But it was precisely the way I was using it that led to the realisation that I not only didn’t need it but simply didn’t want it.

Nevertheless on 29 September 2017 at 1:49pm, I was loathe to load an additional €15 to prolong the first new expiry and to avoid losing the 15+ that was already on it. ‘Use it or lose it’ was the agitated cogitation until on 29 March of this year when I lost that entire thirty-something because I didn’t want to prolong the anti-ecological cliché any longer. Obviously I wasn’t using it to make many calls or write a significant number of texts. That last time it served an emergency is in a cloud of forgotten memories.

I have a landline. I won’t go so far as to make the hereditary affirmation that if it were up to me I wouldn’t even have that. It is at least partly up to me, it comes with the Net, and I wouldn’t have it otherwise. My ability to tele-connect makes the expenditure of both the fiat transfer and cognitive tax justifiable. The sometimes inconvenient convenience remains worthwhile. I am all-too aware that the industry I therewith support is manufacturing a world into which I will no longer be able to venture if I don’t change my immobile ways. So be it.

The sole subsequent mobile telephone that I purchased as a replacement of the first one (solely because the former’s display no longer displayed legible lettering) and into which I stuck the SIM card — which was what I’d really purchased on that summer day at a flea market — has become anyway little more than a camera, albeit digital and of quality quite limited, the bulk of primary evidence of which can be found in the hover images here.

The longer background (should this be (or remain) of any interest) is that basically I bought my first mobile telephone used at Boxhagener Platz Flohmarkt, not because I wanted it, but because the first guy I wanted to book T & me grimaced when I said, “No, but I got an email address.” I got the phone. We got the gig.

The most interesting tidbit of this tale only occurred to me as recently as a couple of days ago when I turned on my one-time to me embarrassingly chic flip-phone for its other primary purpose — to be able to track the time for the three hours that followed. A new message appeared. “SIM nicht registriert”. This displayed so prominently for so long that I actually almost wondered if I’d ever be able to see the clock again.

So from 29 March of this year, when my moola minima vaporised into an un-spendable pun, to apparently exactly two months later, I was nevertheless able to receive calls and texts. Now, the final expiry of expiration must have been last Tuesday, I’d wager, 1:49pm. I hadn’t turned it on from the previous Friday until Wednesday so I make this assumption based on the always accurate carrying out of the Terms which this time, seemingly arbitrarily, granted me an additional two months’ passive use. I’m sure in that time I would not have received those few texts in tact… but for some goddess’ grace period.

What occurred to me between Wednesday and now is that the SIM card was never really registered, at least not to me. Having bought it used, I even had to have its digital lock picked by the kind of pro who can do such things. Not that I hadn’t been trackable all this time, but at least in the court of law, I’d’ve had a better chance than someone who’d signed their name along a bottom line. Or I might’ve had the least of lesser chances and been locked up for purchasing a stolen phone and going so far as to assist in the achievement of its unlawful unlocking and, not least of worst, evading the law that says you’re not allowed to use your devices without allowing your being traced & tracked by name & number. At any rate, as far as I can tell, +49301785853304 is over & out.

The machine that houses it, however, remains reusable. Indeed. The following corresponding hover image comes by way of an inadvisable shimmy to the depth of this one-time riverside swimmery (I wudn’t walkin’ that plank, palms & knees for me) and the use of that former courtesy phone of persisting paltry pixelation. Quite conversely, it is only the row of postal addresses of the rooftops in the background that remain from this photograph:

“111” – Osthafen, Berlin-Friedrichshain – 1907/2018

Der Parkbank Pinkler: frucht-feife-ziehen auf de Jondel

„Ist die Ruhe um?“

—The Glam Squad, Gladiography (Veröffentlichungsdatum unbekannt)
.VX

Gestern ist der Zukunftsweg. Jeder einzelne Tunken Berliner, der neu in Donut-kreis der Hauptstadt auch-tauft, ist ein untrügliches Wahrzeichen dafür, dass diese Lokalkette ihre bettelarm Sklavenlohn-schufter auwacka-weise nicht nur mit Touris zu überhäufen hoffen. Nicht als hätten alle waschechte Berliner was gegen die Pfannkuchen-eintunkerei-erei, aber gerade in diesen Kaffee? Schrippen stippen? Wohl kaum, wa?

Doch, doch! Herrje, herrje! Man meinte, die sich nun nah dreißigjährig fortbestehende Kopp-kluft zwischen Ost und West innerhalb Berlin so gut wie nicht existierend einstufen läßt, von Akademikern, die nun ja mit sachbezogenen Stichprobe-berlinern geredet haben.

Stallgeruch: Mehr als jeder Dritte sowohl aus Friedrichshagen wie auch Friedenau findet die hierzu gratis Lorke aus dem Tunken Berlinern gut bis sehr gut — alle vier alt- wie neu-Friedrichshainer sogar hervorragend. Zumal Weddinger und Weißenseer treffen drauf gerne wieder. Na gut, deren Daten stützen auf Statistiken einer Marktstudie. Jedenfalls wurde willige Teilnehmer mit Anschrift diesseits Dahlem befragt. Ob dabei die ausstehende Mehrzahl ähnliches wie „Wat de Muckefuck”?! von sich gab?

Wer meinte, die Werbebranche schummelt nicht, verdient von der Zahlensalon seinen Lebensunterhalt. Wer glaubt, dass sich Akademiker Stories nicht aus den abzählenden Fingern saugen, sollte mal die Geschichtsbücher aus aller Herren Staaten via close reading allumfassend vergleichen. Die Leitfrage paraphrasiert, was und wer wird nimmer gefragt, wer gilt gar nie oder zählt überhaupt nicht?

Der Journalist möchte keinen Limerick aus ‘ner Tragödie machen, deswegen wird berichtet, im „Tümpel” werde es sein, woraus eine Leiche geborgen wurde. Im folgenden Absatz darf es wohl als Teich bezeichnet, allerdings nur in direkter Zusammensetzung mit einem Totem oder ähnlich irrendem Beschön-sinn.


Fruchtstr./Rüdersdorfer Str. 1960 / Str. der Pariser Kommune/Rüdersdorfer Str. 2018

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Gestalt in Yellow

Cool if crookedly capped dapper, the sailors wind as were all the room in the world their way down the bazaar stricture. By day they go muggin’ the mile with smiles like affable emissaries out of an Elvis picture. By night they take on a campy Capra-corn mash just before the Russell reel is loaded. The brutal dawn’s nightcap is tipped to Pasolini.The fog of war they say paves the way for their action, though their orders give cover to indulge sick satisfaction, at least through to their commission. These deeds are carried out as an investment bought in bellowing black & white with an aim to sell out in tortured technicolor.

No surface strafing can expose the underbelly of the beast buried in the misery of the razed rubble and dust. Paraded on the periphery, this principal is to be written off, hanged for posterity, or co-opted & reinvested in the theater coming just.

Lenachstr. & Sonntagstr., Berlin-Friedrichshain – 1911/2017 (hover)