A loveletter to the neighborhood: Old Blood Noise Endeavours Headphone Amp

While most people enjoy sleeping late till dawn I´m an idiotic early bird. I love to start my days around six, do Yoga one hour, meditate and breath for 30min, then just chill out in my underwear, drink coffee and masturbate. This is also my prefered time to grab my guitar and lovely effect pedals and drown in noise.

After beeing requested repeatedly to stop waking the squatting community up before ten a.m. I was lucky to find this beautiful piece of musical apparel. The crew of old blood noise endeavours has a heart for harmony and invented this great-sounding headphone amp. It s created as simple as it gets. The design even allows you to share the sound with beloved company, offering a second headphone entry. You will basically hear the very authentiv pure sound coming out of your pedal board. Clean and bright and simple. I love it so much and am forever greatful to be able to keep up my internal schedule.
I bought the pink valentines edition. The regular design is a simple black and white combo. Price round about 130$.
Also check out their impressive effect pedals and corresponding demos. Some also featuring the she shreds magazin. My favorites are the Procession Reverb and the Black Fountain Delay. Promising company with nice characters.

Imagine talking to yourself...

and there s noone listening.

friendly fire

I wrote you a letter 
With fireworks in the sky
"You shine brighter than galaxies 
I love you 
Good night, good bye" 
The clouds danced in colors 
Then saddled the dust 
The air smelled of fire 
And we knew we must 
Move on 
I was Dancing in sunday shoes with short bangs 
the pavement blues 
With stray cats and small town ghosts 
The streetlights our noble hosts 
A celebration of things we lost 
I ll leave second hand flowers on your doorstep 
And wave you farewell 
Dress homeless in ballgowns 
the truth s hard to tell
You re one of a kind kid 
Stonecold like the moon 
Sleep tight in firework blankets 
we ll meet again soon

Growing up

means turning from bitter to sour.

my pleasure, my pain

I had not seen it coming but you must have planned the entire scene in your head.

We listened to sad folk music in your room. I had been there before, without you. It was a different place now with all your stuff laying around. Socks, boxers, tissues, shirts... I remembered it plain, mysterious and inspiring but I also enjoyed your presence in this mess. You had forced me to sit down as you sensed I was scared. A smart move to lower the probability of leaving.

Then everything went pretty fast. One long intense look led to a fight. You understood immediately that your physical force turned me on. I liked your weight on my body and the submission it lead to, while you enjoyed the superiority and power over my skin, my legs, my arms, my uterus and my face. My body got wet and felt intense pleasure, which made me angry. My hand slapped your face with full force. You obviously did not expect this as you payed me back with double power. I could feel the memory of your fingers burning a mark in my face and the blood pulsing, creating a crazy heat that made my head numb. Clothes flew and we got naked in no time. It was obvious that you would love to eat me out. Not to pleasure me but to prove something to your own ego. I would blow you for the same reason. What a bloody mess you created. You bit and scratched .. and we kept pushing each others limits. I saw blood on your lips and teeth and the scratches all over my hands. Hitting, spitting, moving, pushing... No mercy and  a constant power play. You found my weak spot and fingered me till I came, squirting heavily all over your arm. When I came, you pushed me down to ensure even in this moment that you were in charge, that you were running the scene, whiping the juice all over my face. My knees felt post orgasmic weakness, too soft to stand up. Sitting on your dick, I got into an insane rush of rhythm and sweat. I loved to see your body flinch and twich in orgasm and my vagina fill up with hot cum. I stood up and let it drop back on your belly just to smear it all over your chest, sticking my fingers in your mouth to make you taste your own weakness.

Hate raised in your eyes. You pushed me back down and fucked me mercyless, never breaking eye contact. Harder and harder with the will to destroy this entire scenario and me. I enjoyed the pain, always remembering that I d rather feel too much than too little. You came a second time, this time on my belly. Your left hand was feeding me with the cum while you gently choked me with your right one, biting my neck and spreading my legs to side so I could still feel your hard dick on me.

It took me a moment to realize: You had written the entire play upfront, directed it with force and persuation. I hated you and hated me even more for giving in. Slowly I took my clothes and went to the bathroom, saying i would be back in a minute. I left without saying goodbye,  without a shower and with the smell of piss and cum to guide me back home.

You left some bruises as souvenirs, making sure I would not forget about my submission too soon and who the boss in this game was. It s obviously blue that reminds me of you and blood that reminds you of me.

the challanges of growing a bush

I don´t really remember the last time I wore a full grown bush. It must have been one and a half years ago when my best friend and me took a several weeks long van trip along the atlantic coast. As most of the beaches along the spanish and partugues coast are nudist beaches I felt that a bush would give me more comfort in my body and a stronger sense of beeing a woman rather than a girl. Simular to tattoos bushes make you feel less naked regardless the amount of clothing on your body. Quite early in the trip the decision to let it grow was made. I disposed off my shaver and was curious where it would go. My secret wish was a huge black bush with glossy hair, that would reflect water drops in the sun and equal a very tiny bikini bottom. Unfortunately my pubic hair has a simular color as my eyebrows and my childhood hair (a dark blonde ginger tone, that s far from the dark brown or black I had imagined when starting).

The first three weeks were so incredibly annoying: it was itching stratching stitching! I could not recall that my bush hair had the feeling of thin wire and did not follow any direction, what a beasty behavior. Growing curly and twisted with a huge volume it managed to stitch through my underwear and create a weird look. The feeling was incredibly uncomfortible but from an esthetic perspective it started to look cooler by the day. Also the crazy amount of body fluids caught in there during sex is a nice erotic feature.
But do you know what the best part about growing a bush is? It s the discomfort it creates in other people! Whenever you go skinny dipping, drop your pants in the van or your bathing suit in the shower people would just stare with disbelive. Guess our internet porn education got us used to perfectly shaved vaginas that remind you of 12 year olds.
Two months in the game my bush had reached quite a size and challanged my nervouse limits. On a weak day this limit was reached: I just gave in and shaved it off. Beeing a queer chick I obviously get the advantages of a shaved pussy: no hair in your mouth while eating people out, cleaner, softer... but still there is always the feeling of sticking your fingers either into a child or a turkey (both definitely mess with my head...).
Images of women with insane dark bushes arouse me very easily and fill me with envy. So one month ago I decided to give it another shot. This time I´d write a bush diary to capture all the discomfort awaiting this project. My friend Matty sais you can t put a price on style and that I should just deal with it ( but he also added that he gets confused beeing presented this amount of hair on a womans vagina). Four weeks in the game I m already close to struggeling again: still blonde, still itchy still annoying.... but even if my fellow bed mates don t appreciate the curly nest inbetween my legs, the strength and unruliness of the hair feel crazy cool during masturbation. And there is one more month to go. I m exhausted and a little proud. Keep in touch for final results, whooppp.

 

And there is magic

in almost every damn thing.
Especially in stairways, tooth-paste lids, spoons, kerbstones, wood and windowdust....
Please be aware: there s no magic in rainbows or yoghurt and there never will be.

rats

this spaceship´s full of rats
mend with the vicars gown
ducktape, plasters, mull
fueled by boredom
fuel by dread
sour milk on wooden floors
broken jars and unlocked doors
chaos caught in sturdust clouds
flying by
flying far
flying high
crashing cars
is all that s left of us
we need a stop at the tentacle station

swimming pool at night

and you re like a swimmingpool at night
cold and calm
bold and strong
the center of the universe
an untouched mirror
a leathal trap
my favourite surface
water and skin
sink or swim
water and moonlight
skin and sin
safe in distance
safe in distance
empty within

 

picture by Andreas Mühe 

too tired to sleep

I am too tired to sleep
too tired to sleep
I am too tired to sleep
just too tired to

I am too tired to sleep
way too tired to dream
I am too tired to sleep
way too tired to

I am too tired, too weak
the way s too long and too steep
I am too tired to
and way too tired of you 

caught in my mirror

You´re a mermaid
strange and powerful
mystical animal of the see
but I drowned you
in subjectivity
I never saw your beauty
I only saw me

Picture by Aleksandra Waliszewska

lust > loyalty

and when you´re lying there covered in preorgasmic sweat you realize one sad truth: gratitude is always weaker than regret

the annoying kind of art

I seriously think that photography is the most annoying kind of art. Not only do you destroy every valuable moment by pressing your camera knob rather than being present in it + spoiling the moment for others as well, also your reality is filtered through plastic and glass. There are a lot of other art forms too, where the result is influenced by chance and external variables. In photography a lot of it is not even influenced by you rather then controlled. My relationship with photography is a very love-hate one. Thanks to Andreas Mühe and Yann Stofer for restoring my love for it and convincing me that not everyone taking pictures is an incredible asshole getting on my nerves during or in situations i would just love to dwell in.

Picture by Yann Stofer

good times

if you got nothing in life
but you´re having a good time
then that s more than enough
then that s pretty fine

done

emptyness is rather soothing, why would someone dislike it?
merry christmas

soaked

bit a hole into the roof
and realized I don´t like blue
now clouds fly by in soda skies
carpet pillow
wooden ceeling
borrowed purple
borrowed feeling
feel too much but not enoug, same old story
orange thoughts
litterbox
smell of piss and unwashed socks
first bit your tongue now i bite mine
you re wasting time,  time n time
lost all touch
skretched your skin
tension made it paperthin
I am the place
I am the place
just a place not a home
a concrete kingdome of my own
wear my crown through this dead end town
urban sadness, smalltown dust
misery made of sex and lust
villain and victim
victim and villain
not my fault
not your fault
not your fault
soaked in thought

Group S

People feel good in categories.
But you can keep your label:
Vegan
Feminist
Punk
Artist
Anarchist
Vegetarian
Goth
Nihilist
Man
Woman
Hippie
Antichrist

I´d rather keep my window open.
The only thing I wanna be is an individual, I´m not a notion, on a good day I´m just me.

Appreciation of evil

what good is a villain if he does no harm?
embrace the distruction and fall for his charm
...

The beautiful kind of boredom

And I miss the beautiful kind of boredom, that slowmotion sunday feeling from childhood days, when there was nothing to run after or think about. I really miss beeing bored.....

Tribute to Bulgakow

Moving to L.A. to make a living as a photographer, musician or painter is not a commitment to art. It´s the proof a strategic and structured commercialization of artistic approaches. Making a living on art requires investments from people who concider your work worth of their monetary attention. The term investment pretty much states it by defintion: it´s a transformation of monetary capital into goods of various nature. Then again goods are definied by a limited quantity, which adds to their value. Well, so someone is obviously interpreting you as production capital. This seems like a very weird interpretation of an artist.

While moving to a specific city or country for networking and synnergy purposes seems like a good argumentation, realilty usually demasks other motives. Ever since the 40s european artist have been moving to the US to make a living with their art (Eva Hesse, Marina Abramovic, Louise Bourgeoise..), just as have US artist who moved to various cities (Patty Smith, Robert Mapplethorpe..). This implies the transformation of a passion to a profession and by this work.

Concidering the approach of art for arts sake, that by definition makes an artist, this leads the whole case obsolete. What about people like Bulgakow who wrote their entire life without even the slightest chance of getting published? Not for money, not for fame or recognition or other ego-inflation, for pure intrinsic motivation of creating something of value for your own spirit. Persistence and stamina gain special attention in this scenario. The master and margarita is one of my favourite books ever, an emotional counterpart to Goethes Faust that also donated the famouse phrase for Ciorans poem „der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland“, based on Bulgakows Prof. Voland. I cant prove this but it´s way too matching to be incidental. Writing on it for 26 years he did not live to see it published. I hope one day you will be able to read it in the original russian version as there are just no words that include this amount of spirituality and emotion in western languages.

Tribute to Bulgakow, a true artist.