02/02/08
I’m lying there, staring at the ceiling. In my bed. The sun has risen hours ago, around eight o’clock maybe. Now it is 23 minutes past 12 a.m. The clock has gone on and it is another minute later. I am too slow for time to follow and I have always been. Life has passed me by since my early childhood and only now I have realized what a waste of time it has been.
Usually, people should have those kind of thoughts at the age of eighty, but at least I have one thing finally achieved at the age of nineteen. There are too many abilities I should have developed and too many feelings that I should have gotten used to that I actually am glad to have settled one of the many things that define life.
Only lately I have realized that I should have started living earlier and should have realized what life is really about many years ago. At the age of nineteen, people either are socially integrated, politically active (which they have been ever since their parents told them stories about life), completely satisfied or too intellectually restricted to realize the misery they’re in. But I am a different case. I am neither of those types. I have been vegetating since I developed the ability to speak and to walk. It is normal to do that before. But ever since, there has been no sign of human ability concerning my person. Ever since, I detested what I have been so carelessly thrown into. Created by the union of two human beings that could have never been any different from each other. My parents.
One terribly aware of what is happenening and ceaselessly trying to correct faults and never fully capable of understanding how a person can be so full of faults and incapability just as I am. The other not understanding the world around and not able to comprehend the concept of society as it is, and finally being trapped in the mental illness generally known as shizophrenia. What is supposed to be the result?
Unfortunately, I have more character traits of the latter, just without the shizophrenia, which I am still expecting to appear in my being. Usually, people see it as generally helpful to be like one of their parents, but with me and my father it is different. Now that his mental illness has completely developed, he imagines me to be a CIA agent spying on him and reporting to said underground organisation. As I said: Shizophrenia. And there is no one to help us in our situation as a family. By the way, my mother has just come in to deliver my weekly supply of freshly washed clothes. As she always does. Never thrown into misery by recent developments and talking while she is putting away the clothes, as if we weren’t tortured by my father’s comments and as if the knowledge of her mother who is going to die soon didn’t matter to her at all. The most surprising fact is that she cares about it more than other people would do. But I have never managed to understand her.
The support we get comes from colleagues and our German relatives. The other part of my family that lives in Ethopia only knows scraps of information from my eldest Ethopian aunt who my father used to talk to still a few months ago. Now, whenever she calls, he throws abuse at her, but I don’t know the details, as they are talking in a language that I don’t understand. He says one or two sentences and then hangs up on her. I don’t believe that she knows what is REALLY going on. I don’t know what it is like to be rejected by your brother who you used to be on good terms with only a few years ago.
As if I didn’t have enough abuse thrown at me from my father that I have to cope with, I feel myself reminded of the relationship between Roger Waters and Syd Barrett. There are only slight differences, such as that there were no drugs involved (although he does consume alcohol on a regular basis), that Syd Barrett and my father are two persons VERY different from one another and that the relationship between a father and his daughter is different from the one between best friends, although Roger Waters never had the chance to know what is like to actually have a father, what he refers to in many of his artistic creations.
We might now look at the topic of love because love in itself is a highly complex phenomenon, what we are not fully aware of. Society has simplified its meaning and its use for societal purposes. If we talk about love nowadays, we think of romantic encounters it a perfectly stable world. Just that none of these facts are true.
Truly romantic encounters rarely exist because relationships are only there to keep society stable. Very few of us have the opportunity to experience the true meaning of romance. Most of us only do as society wants, even if we don’t want to admit it. But then again, the creation of fake love only comes from us, human beings. Probably because we believe in a higher being that tells us to do so.
And the perfectly stable world… Now… Actually we all know that it doesn’t exist. Our world only came to be as it is now through instability and the slightly more stable factors to produce some actual progress. Hello, you lovely world, arms open to misfits and dropouts and all those other queers and weird human beings that simply CAN’T exist. Oh my God.
Now, there are still people to give us hope. Just that most of them are murdered, quietened in other ways or simply die away. And this again reminds me of 1984, a truly fascinating book because it actually tells us that our modern world is not so very different from the new world he describes in his popular novel. But why then are there so few of us who actually against injustice? The answer might be that there are too many people who develop into my position of human apathy, what the song of Shoegaze band Ride “I Don’t Know Where It Comes From” refers to. And didn’t Bob Dylan sing us a happy catchy song called “Blowin’ In The Wind”?
So here we are now in our super-developed technological world and there is no outcome other than the one of people taking advantage of others because of better intellectual or societal advantages. Or maybe because they are Presidents who kill people to get some more oil and if someone pipes up they go down the drain with those people, ah, what were they called again, you know, somewhere there in Asia. Or maybe we just don’t know better.
The fact is that to me none of this exists and that is the reason why I spent so many hours of my life staring at my ceiling and eating all this wonderful stuff because, ah, isn’t that what’s real? These things are no projections on television screens or concerts where you feel out of place because they seem so unreal and so do you. These things are no lies and they don’t make you feel bad. But the reason why you keep repeating those things is that the world is no nice place to live in.
Other things that are unreal are… Stories. Fiction. You know, that stuff that you can read in books. But only if they are not talking about mitochondria or George W. Bush. But these things seem real to me. They seem to be the only real thing because there… People are acting. People actually live and life seems like a possibly thing to master. Or not. Because those stories often tend to reflect on reality again. Exceptions might be stories about little elephants or about a tiger and a bear who are looking for a country that smells of bananas! Yes, that kind of stories is real. Those stories are human and they as the content don’t aim at making money. Just the author is. But what does it matter when you can create those stories yourself?!
My latest self-made creation is about Bob Dylan and Donovan. Wow, isn’t that incredible? And what they are doing is simply unbelieveable. They could NEVER do that. But they can! And again, I am lying here, staring at the ceiling and making up a real world.
I am strumming on a guitar as my husband passes me by. He very much likes folk music and classic rock. Isn’t he adorable? It’s just a shame that I won’t have a lot of time for him today. I have to do my work, just as other musicians have to do. Our children are with the daily nurse who we are happy to pay because she does her job very well. Without her, we wouldn’t know how to manage or daily life.
Peter and Mary Ann are giggling about a joke the nurse has made and I smile to myself again. I won’t be able to hear much of that today. I have to go to the studio soon and record another one of my new songs.
Love. Love is only a treat for people who are not irresponsible and who actually have a life. To me love is something basic, although it shouldn’t be. Love doesn’t simply come along and tell you that things are going to be fine. Love is a way to ignore all evil happening around you and maybe it doesn’t even exist.
The beeping surrounding me doesn’t seem too pleasant. I am waiting for new customers to arrive because no customers means no money. Ah, fortunately there comes the lady with the little girl. She has bought fruit and cranberry juice. And who comes after her? No, it’s impossible. A thoroughly grumpy Bob Dylan talking to a cheery Donovan. Now, what are they doing here, in a random supermarket like this? They have purchased pineapples and plain sheets of paper. I wonder what they are going to do with that.
Oh yes, the lady has handed me the money and I wave her away with a friendly smile on my face and now all my attention is focussed on the two gentlemen in front of me.
“Now hello there, average supermarket assistant, what are you doing on a beautiful day like this?”
He leaves me speechless as he is turning away again and utters another sentence towards the other man who is listening intently and nodding in agreement. Then he looks back at me and asks,
“Now, why don’t you sell us those wonderful pineapple and the plain paper pad?”
I don’t know what I am doing there at all and simply stare at the two men in front of me.
“Do you like Scottish folk?”
The other one has spoken. Finally.
“Yes, indeed. I do.”
I need to do something for school today. I promised my mother and she believes I am going to do that. But how am I supposed to do so when I didn’t manage to read more of the Joan Baez book that I got from the library yesterday than the first three pages before I couldn’t read on and buried my head to sob quietly to myself? I actually had intended to work on the presentation about the 18th sonnett by Shakespeare for my German A-levels, but I guess I won’t be able to that again today.
“Satan” is what my father calls me. And he still calles me “beast” from time to time. At least there wasn’t only change but there also remained a habit. If you ignore the fact that the mental illness develops through the numbing habits of everyday life and the problems you didn’t talk about in the past. Your whole family is proud of you because you are the only one who went to university in a European country and who even managed to stay there, married to a German wife. You have two daughters. One is quite plump and a bit slow, but the other one is merry and properly sized and an innocent little brat, just as all the children the world is used to. Like all the children the world wants. Happy and fully capable of integration.
My sister has developed habits that split her personality into two. She is protecting her father from negative input from the exterior world, she tells her older sister when to go back into her room when her ill father is about to return from one of his daily smoking journeys on the balcony. On the other hand, she is one of those arrogant and talented little girls who I had enough of in my childhood. But at least that shows that she is human and can adapt to the world that surrounds her. Just very unlike the monster that retreats into its cave together with its laptop that it can write stupid little stories on, just like this one.
But can you still call it a story when it is talking about life?
“Oi, Peter Dennis Blandford Townshend!”
“David Jon, would you mind to shut up?”
David Gilmour is grinning back at his songwriting buddy. Pete Townshend is another one of those unhappy human beings in this big big world. Maybe David is not so very different from him. Only that one of those two doesn’t need to play five minutes progressive rock guitar solos. But we all had our ups and downs. Uppers and downers in other cases.
“Pete. I wanted to ask you…”
“Do I CARE what you wanted to ask me?” he replies abruptly in this nasal voice of his.
“Well, I thought you might…”
He has always been haunted by Syd, but managed to keep most of it on the inside. And Pete… Pete admires both him and Roger Keith Barrett who has died away one and a half years ago.
Thom Yorke hates badminton. Always has. And what does he hate even more? Exactly. Chris Martin. And now they are here playing this stupid game.
“Awwww, Thom, you missed another one.”
Why is he so good at this. Maybe it is his height. Damn, I wish I was taller than five foot five.
“Can I believe what I see, looking through all kinds of windows? And the war drags on.”
“Oh noes, Thomas Edward, you missed another on.”
“Yeah, come on fuck the world!!!!”
“I don’t believe that it helps to swear, my dear.”
Chris Martin plays on, happily and absolutely content.
“I can see you’ve had your fun.”
“Yes, yes, that is very true.”
He laughs. Laughs again.
“When I look out of my window… His head did no thinking, his arms didn’t move. Who will show the stranger around? We’re just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl year after year.”
“What’s that you’re saying?” Chris Martin asks me and I have to answer him.
“Don’t pretend that you know me ‘cause I don’t even know myself. It’s only teenage wasteland. Uppers and downers. Is he really just after my ass?”
“No, no. Oh no, my dear.” Now he is laughing. “I am not gay or anything of that kind, don’t worry.”
“You make me wanna shout and shimmy. I can’t count the tears of a life with no love. Honey, don’t.”
“Oh, whatever. You sure are a nice guy, political activist and stuff.”
“I’m on the pavement, thinking ‘bout the government.”
“Oh, shouldn’t you do that someplace else?”
He is laughing again. Or still laughing. That bastard.
“The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind.”
“Oh yes, yes, of course. I should have known that.”
He loves Bob Dylan, just like Bobby Gillespie. So he should know what he is talking about.
“Ah, baby don’t you do it. Don’t do it, baby, don’t you break my heart…”
“Oh, but why should I do that, Thom? I am no evil person…”
“Evil… is what you are.”
“Oh really?”
“Bitch, please.”
“I steal your soul, k?”
“Nigga wut?”
“Wut do you mean, Santa’s not real?”
“DIS SRS BSNS.”
And now we are quiet again. And I don’t know why.
I think I need something to eat now. But how am I supposed to do that without meeting my shizophrenic father. But ah, I am selfish again. I am constantly thinking about eating. But maybe that’s because it is real. The real thing.
“I wanna be your man,” says Mick Jagger to Keith Richards and they both burst into laughter.
“Oh really, do you want to? This could be the last time, the last time, baby, I don’t know.”
“I can’t dance, I’ve got ants in my pants.”
“Hey do you, do you do you wanna…”
“No.”
A couple kissing on the cover of TIME magazine. Maybe that is something worth to read. I read half of the article from the February 4 issue. Oh, it is the second of February already.
How is it possible to have no artistic talent at all? It is indeed fascinating because things do work inside my head. God bless my imagination. I can’t play that stupid guitar. It actually is my mother’s guitar, but she let me take it. The problem is that whenever I take the instrument into my hands I feel that indestructible emptiness inside of myself. I love music and I know a few chords. I can read music. But shouldn’t that be enough?
No. I’m not there. When I should be there… It took me twenty years to realize what people realize at the age of five, still in the kindergarten. So… It would take me fourty years to be like a ten year old. Sixty to be like people at the age of fifteen. Eighty to be like a twenty year old. Maybe if I do manage to get as old as 100, I would practically only be 25. That means I would die at the age of 25. Sometimes I love mathematics.
I have nothing to say only that I didn’t manage. I probably am too slow. Oh, it seems so laughable to other people, doesn’t it? Oh, look at this miserable fat old sun. If she lost weight and could play the guitar very well, she could be David Gilmour. But unfortunately she will never get there.
Maybe I shouldn’t have gone to grammar school, so I wouldn’t have discovered that there actually is a life worth living. Maybe I would be too dumb to understand things now what other people… Well, I said it. Five year olds…
I would be such a bad drug addict. But I don’ need drugs. I have never taken them, not even smoked a cigarette. I have only had a try at three drinks in my whole life and I didn’t like them. I feel as if I had been on drugs for all my life, draining all intelligence from me. But I did that all by myself? Shouldn’t I be proud of myself? I am human waste… And a burden to everyone in a way. I can do what rich bank managers need to develop over years and years to finally corrupt people. I feel like a homeless person. Literally. Used and thrown away. Finally used up and you are not needed any longer.
Get stuffed.
“Graham Coxon is such a poof!” Liam Gallagher mutters under his breath as he is sitting across from his brother, sipping on his drink.
“Nah, come on. You don’t mean it, as usual.”
Liam grumbles quietly and brushes through his hair. “Whatever…”
David Gilmour seems so far away. So distant. Almost intangible. Some… rock icon that I cannot relate to.
What I can relate to is… my empty breakfast bowl. I have had some muesli together with my vegan soy vanilla milk. Isn’t that incredible? And I feel as if I was constantly quoting “Death of a Salesman”.
“Until We Sleep” sounds so terribly 80s that I wonder WHY exactly I am listening to it. A bit like “Empty Spaces”, just more 80s. Naturally. Not ’79, but ’84. Isn’t that the year Orwell was talking about. The song reminds me of 1985’s Live Aid and all that stuff. Not so much of “White City Fighting”.
“Murder” starts of like another one of those 80s songs… Actually… Almost pleasing. And it sounds like Nena. Just like the other song… Wait… It was… Something I listened to recently. Wasn’t it something off “Division Bell”. Now that is progress. 10 years passed (Terrible guitar that ís… Another 80s cliché…) and the music is the same. Even WITH Richard Wright. Damn. But didn’t he write the song as well? Ah, now “Murder” doesn’t so much like Nena any longer… Rather… Is it the Scorpions? So, if it REALLY was a song from The Division Bell… It can’t be “Wearing The Inside Out” though, it sounds like Xavier Naidoo. And now “Murder” took another one of those turns. Actually better than the second part of the song. A bit less cliché. It could be “Cluster One” that sounds like Nena. I have to listen to it again.
Anyway… What I meant were those lullaby-like songs. If you take away the progressive guitars.
Oh, “Love On The Air” and another one of those terrible guitars. And Pete Townshend lyrics… Let’s listen to them. “It’s a habit so hard to weaken”. It’s a shame that I don’t really know what the song is REALLY about. As always. I hardly understand anything. At least I can make fun of David Gilmour because it makes so much fun. “Contradicted, desired”. “Reception is hazy when you put your love on the air. Always knew it was crazy to put my love on the air. But I can only communicate…” “No one will hurt me again, no one will cause me to lie.” And yes… It is fun to make fun of Mr Gilmour because… Isn’t he laughably contradictive. On one hand absolutely terribly average… Wait… The guitar of “Blue Light” could be still from “The Wall”. On the other hand… Not average at all. I think that defines his personality very well.
“Going always where she pleases…” A great Waters lyrics. And now we have his former bandmate releasing his album in the same year that Nick and Rick have released their own albums and in the same year Pink Floyd’s “The Final Cut” was released. Amazing, isn’t it? That means that David Gilmour has played on four different albums that year. And the year after that he co-wrote “White City Fighting” and played on Pete Townshend’s album. This guitar is there for the whole of the song and isn’t it unbelieveable?
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crazy
chipper
exhausted
