Wednesday, 14 January 2015

Erratic Corridors

The strings of destiny, rolling up lives in fast forward motion from the back in reverse, like a spiderweb, where the faulty particles got lost in erratic corridors and catapulted in a chaotic ball of mosquitoes over a muddy lake. all back to the centre and eaten up by the big spider -- a ghastly moment, when you put a bun in your mouth, and a fly starts vibrating on your tongue... Am I dead?

Monday, 12 January 2015

Dextrose (part 1)

He had met his wife in New York, on a roof terrace Champagne social, at one of these semi-formal gatherings for German ivy league graduates in international banking.
She had great table manners. Not acquired by tardy attendance at finishing school, but received effortlessly from a naturally elegant family, with a fine selection of relations. He could see that right away, he was smart that way.

She was blond and well-proportioned, a muted violet dress flattering her shoulders, raspberry lips and a pearl necklace complimented her fresh skin, her nails were healthy and clear. Already he was dreaming of her crawling towards him, between white bedsheets in a loft apartment, flicking her hair and softly running her hands over his legs. He clasped the starchy napkin on his knees, threw it over the back of a chair, and moved towards her like a dolphin, so friendly and intelligent.

 “You know, banking is a good thing. We are good people. We shouldn't feel guilty about what we do. What is bad about banking is just how some people have abused it in a way to further their personal profits and the profits of their firms, rather than guiding the world's economy on the path of equality and to the satisfaction of everybody's needs,” he said to her. That was his edgy pick-up line, it never failed to spark debate.

As she turned around, she saw him for the first time, tall and blue-eyed, clean shaved in a dinner shirt, with Harvard cufflinks, given the occasion.
“People who say that banking is evil are just envious that they aren't able to work as hard as we do. We deserve our money. We work hard, on highly complex problems, and we work long hours”.

“Do you think the Euro will survive?”, he asked.
“No”, she answered. They smiled, and looked towards Ellis Island.
“I disagree with that. You know, all that needs to be done is, the fiscal agreements need to be adjusted”.
“What part of Germany are you from?” she asked.
“Frankfurt”, he said.
“I'm from Mainz”, she said.
“Do you want to live there again in the future?”
“Yes”, she said. “Isn't that the most natural thing for us to do, especially now that the German economy is on top?”
“I suppose so”, he said, “but, as I'm sure you know, it's just a bubble. It will burst”.

They left the party in his car, a silver 4-4, and drove to his loft.
Months later, they took the 4-4 to visit apartments. They wore white leather jackets and white leather gloves, and white leather trousers and boots to the visit. They wore flu masks and white nets in their hair, and yellow sunglasses. She had blue glitter on her face, and his face was painted with silver face paint.
The estate agent was helpful and courteous, and soon they signed a lease for an open plan apartment in Manhattan. They acted as if they were musicians, because that would help them justify their need for soundproof isolation of their new apartment. Styrophone cubes padding the walls inside, a double ceiling, double flooring, and double doors, that was what they needed.

Thursday, 8 January 2015

Dear Youtube,

I am a 29 year old woman. The adverts I am getting are ALL about pregnancy. This is so extreme, I consider it sexual harrassment.

This customized media sh*tstorm surrounds every young woman at her computer. From every angle, little messages pop up suggesting that I should be getting pregnant, assuming that I want to, or need help in the process of getting pregnant. NO.

Let's say over an hour or two of watching youtube clips, I will see 20-30 short videos; almost each of these is preceded by adverts for "Clearblue baby test", "Persona fertility management device", etc. These adverts are full of bigoted assumptions on the role of women in society, the life and psychology of young women.

Unlike the women in the adverts, I'm not a housewife (women portrayed having tea with their female friends in the kitchen in the middle of the day).
I don't know if I want to have kids. If I will one day, I probably will do as my own mother did and wait until my career has taken shape. Also I would contemplate getting married first.

As you can see, the adverts you have tailored for me are completely inappropriate. But this is no coincidence; it is happening on a grand scale and it's the bigger picture that disturbs me.

Tuesday, 6 January 2015

Quirky Artist as a Mass Product

Twas the opening night of an art week, and I stepped out of my friend's cab, the street was packed and she too drunk to go on or even discuss the ins and outs of our evening with T.C. Boyle, and hiccuped up the stairs to her haven of elegance and pop art.
I snuck in with the most fashionable sardines in town to sip camparis with my favourite raspberry lipstick bar fly, in the arts bar at the corner. Who could imagine my disappointment when upon locating the suspect, she was seeing and being seen interlacing with yet another prince v.i.p. she had only just met! 
As I turned around to order a softdrink, i was already being invited to a cosy dinner a trois with the cutest blonde and her dirty old knight, so i soon realised that conversing with the ice bucket was now my most reasonable option. 
Oops! a drunken Englishman in cream suit and fresh out of St. Tropez was shouting, drinking white wine from a bottle, attempting to make a phone call through the bar's intercom. Oops! American artists, cigarette in hand, asking about friends' couches. 
And, of course, a few people in crazy wigs, to complete the picture. A familiar face popped out of the jungle, said hello, disappeared. A lot of beards, a lot of peroxide, a lot of odd jumpers and men in cardigans. 
Hello again ice bucket...

Friday, 2 January 2015

Goodbye Sailor

October, 2013:

Scented candles on my home-made shabby chic bedside table and a blank and fragile, indefinitely knowing nod from the silver Ophelia on the art nouveau mirror stood on it. Down duvets in washed out, grand-aunt florals , lilac though they were once purple. And minty teeth. And eucalyptus shampoo. So fresh. The expansive feeling that I have actually written the one book I always wanted to write, and I can tell it goodbye sailor .