Slapped

Mexico

I’m grateful for the headache that nags the space between my ears. Because it was caused by too much sun. I’ve been drinking tall glasses of it. I don’t have a sunburn yet. But I’m working on it. I feel like I belong here. In comfortable limbo. A place where time moves slowly. Where grilled meat and heavy cakes are plentiful. Where car alarms and exhaust fumes are music to the senses. Where people speak poetically and aren’t afraid of expressing love.

Fuckin’ Frankfurt

Her eyeliner was as heavy as her tone.
“Please pay attention,” she announced on the loud speaker. “All passengers on the 13.50 flight to Houston. Four toilets are broken on the plane. Some of you will have to stay in Frankfurt over-night. You will get a hotel, food and vouchers,”I walked up to the woman and told her I didn’t mind staying. “Thank you,” she said, looking relieved, “You must go to the exit and find desk 552.”I’ve never seen a deserted airport before, I’m usually one of the bustling people walking frantically to a faraway gate, but after I made my way through the thick mob of complaining Americans, I found myself to be quite alone.
I was surrounded by steel, glass and neon lights. I slowly followed the exit signs as I trampled along the glossy airport floor until I reached a pudgy man in a blue uniform sitting on a tiny chair. He told me that the exit was actually on the other side of the airport. I trampled along the glossy airport floor until I reached the other side of the airport. A friendly man at an info booth told me that I was correct the first time, the exit was indeed behind the pudgy man. I trampled along the glossy airport floor until I reached the other side of the airport. The pudgy man told me that his exit was closed and I had to go back to the other side of the airport once again. I trampled along the glossy airport floor until I reached the other side of the airport (this time with a little less zest.) A tiny woman with excellent posture informed me that I had to take the metro one stop in order to get to the exit. “I just wanna get out of here!” I rode the metro and found the exit. I had to go through customs again, and the officer was quite flirtatious. He asked if I wanted to hang out with him until tomorrow. I blushed furiously. He asked if I step-danced, and I said yes. He laughed, and asked if I wanted to sit beside him. I walked away nervously. I’ve just checked in to the hotel. The view from my room is a vast, wet pit of sand adorned with two rumbling highways. I’m listening to a overly jazzy rendition of Rudolph the Rednosed Reindeer in the hotel’s restaurant, my bright pink meal voucher sits in my pocket. There are two other people in the restaurant, whose expressions are as miserable as can be. Every bite they take looks like pure agony. Am I dreaming?

He told me he hates humans & doesn’t even like himself sometimes. That everyone is dark inside. We waited in line. I held a sack of potatoes & a carton of eggs. The carton was wet & smelled putrid. I ran down the isle to change them. The elderly couple behind me said “Schnell!” Their faces were wrinkled & their hair was white & pulled back with grease. I was quick. I paid in change. Every coin I used came from a different person. “You’re making people happy,” a man with a moustache told me after we played a song. He had a dirty hat and smelled sweet, like beer. I felt a dull light in me chest.

Occupy Wall Street

My mom is a hippie. I grew up going to protests and demonstrations of all kinds. As a teenager, I attended a protest every week. I’ve even been pepper-sprayed and kicked by police officers for marching peacefully. Anti-corporation slogans became somewhat of a cliché for me because I started to forget what they really meant.
But recently I’ve been obsessively watching Occupy Wall Street videos from my home in Berlin. I began to remember why I felt so passionately about screaming in the streets: because it was the only way I could be heard. The manifestation near Wall street symbolizes how fed up Americans are with how their lives, their homes, their health care, their education, their government, are all being controlled by corporate greed. I feel happy that the 99% are finally standing up for themselves.

I used to hate onions, I only ever wanted dessert, I hated spaghetti sauce, and loved spaghetti. But now I go to dinner parties & talk about nothing. I used to love to run. I used to love eating popcorn without using my hands And picking up crayons with my feet Now I drink coffee & laugh nervously I’ve become an adult. nipple breast navel pubis

Kino Berlino

I took part in Berlin’s Kino Kabaret. I directed 2 films in 6 days, (with a lot of help.) The kabaret attracts a certain type of person. One I can relate to. One that cares about creativity more than money. Collaboration more than sleep. The editing room smelled like sweat & anxiety. The theatre was buzzing with excitment. The final screening lasted till 5am almost everyone stayed, leaving the theatre droopy eyed & satisfied. I feel inspired.

I’m in Hamburg & It’s My Birthday Tomorrow!

Golden Disko will be running all weekend at Valentinskamp 28 a, with guests like Mark Boombastic. (Facebook Event is here.)  For more info about the Gangeviertel, go here. Tomorrow is my 28th birthday. If I die today, I can still join the 27 club. But it wouldn’t be worth it, cause I’m not famous enough yet. This weekend is also the gangeviertel’s birthday. (Biggest artist’s squat ever.) I’m in Hamburg, helping friends prepare for the 3-day party. There will be art everywhere, many exhibitions, a zillion djs & hundreds of dancing Germans. If you’re in Hamburg this weekend, you should stop by. I’ll be at the Golden Disko, having the time of my life.

(Don’t worry Stephen, you’re still my soul-mate.) Photos by Richard.  I found a love letter on the street today. It was for a boy named Sultan, from a 10 year old named Petek. She desperately wanted Sultan to come to her garden party. I think Petek has a thing for Sultan. And I think I have a thing for a boy in a wheelchair. We met on the bus & hung out all day. When I think of him, my stomach hurts. When I’m with him, I’m confident & funny. But I’m not the strong, independent person he thinks I am. I fall in love too easily. I didn’t know what to do, so I spiraled into an existential depression. I didn’t know who I was. Then my friends came over, we painted fuck on our faces, & danced to techno in the streets of Berlin with thousands of other people. I feel better now.

  We went to an Iris Van Herpen exhibition that left me breathless. She designs extraordinary clothing with innovative materials for opera singers & people like Lady Gaga (my hero). THen we went to the Dick Bruna huis, where sketches of Miffy (a.k.a Nijntje) made visiting children happy. He drew the iconic bunny for 50 years; & still got nervous when he was asked to make a new book. Videos of him showed how slow & disciplined he was when painting her outline. Like he was painting her for the first time & she had to be perfect. Then I took the all-night bus back to Berlin. Hours were spent talking to the charming Dutch fellow who sat beside me. His face shone with uninhibited joy when he told me that he loves the ocean but hates the beach. I’m home.