long overdue update
Sorry for being so uncommunicative for so long. I've been burning the candle from both ends for weeks now. So today I crashed. Hard. Slept for a long time, and although I've been reflecting and plan-adjusting and recharging as much as I could before, too, this stolen day obviously did the trick.
I've been at my father's place in Kiel since my last entry (that counted), I had a nice visit by Gerdi and Eric, went for an awesome weekend with al_pha in Hamburg and went to London again.
I started going to the gym regularly, by now it's four times a week. I can watch my body... contract. I'm not losing that much weight, it's just distributed differently, and changes from fat into denser muscle. All this is just a nice side effect though. The workout itself is what actually makes me... well, not "happy", but since I go there right after work, it kills off any residual stress I'd normally carry back home with me. And now I smile on my way home, and my whole body feels warm and relaxed and healthy.
I also tried out a few more "system modules" like visualising goals first thing in the morning, establishing some new daily routines to ground this crazy way of life I chose. Make it into something that feels at least marginally safe to me. Some didn't work out at all, but most did - exceptionally well, even. I hope I'll find the time to elaborate on this some time.
... and this is completely without any kind of structure. Oh well, I'm happy it gets written any way.
In London. Hmm.
Jessica had changed her mind a lot in the last two years. When I first (!) met her she'd talked about me inheriting her foundation, managing her B&B and yeah, "I know I met someone who's going to be very important in my life". Okay. I didn't believe a word of course. Next time I met her it was all about poem translations, later the introduction of Emma, a dash of anarchistic talk, but none about anything more. Then I went back with Elia, and suddenly she expected me to move in to her house in Brixton, playing housekeeper for the five beedroom house/flat there. Umm. I talked her into letting me try to do some admin for her then, and that is what we did on this occasion.
For two days I battle through knee-deep paperwork, find the long lost lease for the Ashley Garden's appartment and her library card. (Didn't find the birth certificate though). I run through St.James' Park in the early morning and don't think. Don't think.
Then I crash. Late at night I stumble to the loo and hear someone tearing up paper in her back living room / office. So I peek in and she smiles at me: "Go to bed! Leave me alone with my new toy!"
She want's me for "at least one day a week, if you can!"
I meet André, who does her email correspondence (great guy), whose job I get next year. I meet a friend of hers who'd just inherited everything from a 60s pinup star and plans to do books and movies about her. He also does a book about modern Japanese art and, leaning onto Jessica's dining table, overflowing with vintage porn, asks if maybe I could be his expert on this and write a few lines and stuff. O-kay.
I walk to Food for Thought and sit for more than an hour in a Nero's in Covent Garden, just watching people and doing nothing, thinking nothing.
We went to a concert in St.Martin's-in-the-fields, where John Landor conducted that evening. Jessica had prepped me. "He desperately needs what you can do for him. But don't intimidate him! Tell him I'll pay you serious money, he'll know how very highly I think of your work."
So afterwards, when we went out for a drink, Jessica left us so as not to interfere. Just John and me, and a pile of musicians and their loved ones. Russians who speak French and German (but not English), French who speak bad English (and not much more). And it's Saturday right before Halloween. London is full of spooks and we lose half of our group to the street fair on our way to the bar. John doesn't even meet my eyes, and I hold back, hold back, with a growing feeling of resignation. And right when I believe that this will not work (who am I to even try to freelance, and with what - tidying up other people's offices?!), he turns to me. "So you stay at my mother's?"
When I lead the Russian family back to Jessica's, the father and son hang back, and the tiny, pretty Russian mother, who speaks neither German nor English, talks to me in simplified French, and I answer in simple and clear English and we understand each other perfectly. We reach St. James' Park and I have to lift my hands and skip a step and exclaim: "God, I love this city!" and she laughs and does a turn from classic dancing and shouts: "Oui, oui! J'adore London!"
On sunday, there's an impromptu brunch, and she sits down at the piano in Jessica's salon to accompany her elder son (who stayed out partying the night after his solo at the concert ), who plays motown on his violin. Then the father steps behind him and, with one bow each, they play on the same violin. Wild, gipsy music. Afterwards the big, friendly Russian tells stories about his mother, who kept all the bad parts of growing up in Russia from him and helped quite a few dissidents out of the country.
Around 3 in the afternoon there's scrambled eggs, and I slip up and tell John in a low voice how hungry I've been since morning - in German. He blinks at me and I shake my head, grinning, and apologize.
In the evening, he looks just as burned out as I feel, and says: "We have to do at least a consultancy when you're here after Christmas."
Later Jessica hands me 1.000 Euro in cash and says: "Count it. Money is for counting." It's for what I did so far, and for sorting through her books at a later date ("Whenever. There's no fire there.").
I fly back home, sleep for a day, and scramble around hectically to make up for the lost days. There's a course to teach, the first one I teach all on my own ("Art and Daily Life", in Japan, of course), and I love it. Can't help but give 300% on it. And there's so fucking much to do at university to keep the institute able to work even when the next two of us have to leave.
I don't even find the time to process, much less report any of this. When there's a ray of light in the storm of activity, it gets instantly used up by sleep, sleep, sleep and empty-brain-ness.
Two weeks later I've sent my CV to John, who mails back, resulting in a skype call last Friday, where he, predictably, acts exactly like his mother. Changes his mind at least two times, jumps from topic to topic and is at the same time utterly commited ("I've been desperate to find someone like you!") and oh so reluctant to talk numbers.
But in the end, there's this: "I'd like you to work at least one day a week for us." Us meaning the London Musical Arts Orchestra (and if you look them up online, you'll see why their website is one of their priorities). And, as had been decided in the beginning, too, there's gonna be the "consultancy" after Christmas.
Which will eat up the next possible holiday. If I look at the last two years, all my holidays except one were eaten up by tasks. In London it was one pseudo-job-interview after the other, even in Kiel and Hamburg I helped sort through books and do some handiwork. Now Christmas and New Year's go to John and Jessica.
January, which has the course, but not the university job, looks chillin' in contrast.
February might be spent in London, working for J&J and finding other clients. And why do I still want to put clients in quote signs? Because I can't believe this.
In March I have to collect papers and grade them - which in itself would freak me out much more if London didn't trump it already.
And then?
Jessica has a bed and a desk for me in the back part of her dining room. (Anybody know someone who'd like to get the front part for 100 pounds a week?) There are movable walls and tall, tall window doors to the balcony. And a working fireplace.
Jesus.
Elia will take care of the boycat while I'm there.
The 1.000 Euro will carry me through January. And then?
The focus is this: Writing. Storytelling. Distributing realizations and beliefs through catharsis. All this is awesome, yes. But it's for a cause: It's so that I may find time and energy to do what only I can do in this one special way.
I'm jumping from the supposed security of a steady job to have control over what I spent my time and energy on - and when. Working for artists has this advantage: They know what the priority is.
My little chalkboard says: "Fail harder." There is no trying. There's only doing, and if I fail, I do it like this: Having invested everything, having tried my utter best. Strangely liberating thought.
I've been at my father's place in Kiel since my last entry (that counted), I had a nice visit by Gerdi and Eric, went for an awesome weekend with al_pha in Hamburg and went to London again.
I started going to the gym regularly, by now it's four times a week. I can watch my body... contract. I'm not losing that much weight, it's just distributed differently, and changes from fat into denser muscle. All this is just a nice side effect though. The workout itself is what actually makes me... well, not "happy", but since I go there right after work, it kills off any residual stress I'd normally carry back home with me. And now I smile on my way home, and my whole body feels warm and relaxed and healthy.
I also tried out a few more "system modules" like visualising goals first thing in the morning, establishing some new daily routines to ground this crazy way of life I chose. Make it into something that feels at least marginally safe to me. Some didn't work out at all, but most did - exceptionally well, even. I hope I'll find the time to elaborate on this some time.
... and this is completely without any kind of structure. Oh well, I'm happy it gets written any way.
In London. Hmm.
Jessica had changed her mind a lot in the last two years. When I first (!) met her she'd talked about me inheriting her foundation, managing her B&B and yeah, "I know I met someone who's going to be very important in my life". Okay. I didn't believe a word of course. Next time I met her it was all about poem translations, later the introduction of Emma, a dash of anarchistic talk, but none about anything more. Then I went back with Elia, and suddenly she expected me to move in to her house in Brixton, playing housekeeper for the five beedroom house/flat there. Umm. I talked her into letting me try to do some admin for her then, and that is what we did on this occasion.
For two days I battle through knee-deep paperwork, find the long lost lease for the Ashley Garden's appartment and her library card. (Didn't find the birth certificate though). I run through St.James' Park in the early morning and don't think. Don't think.
Then I crash. Late at night I stumble to the loo and hear someone tearing up paper in her back living room / office. So I peek in and she smiles at me: "Go to bed! Leave me alone with my new toy!"
She want's me for "at least one day a week, if you can!"
I meet André, who does her email correspondence (great guy), whose job I get next year. I meet a friend of hers who'd just inherited everything from a 60s pinup star and plans to do books and movies about her. He also does a book about modern Japanese art and, leaning onto Jessica's dining table, overflowing with vintage porn, asks if maybe I could be his expert on this and write a few lines and stuff. O-kay.
I walk to Food for Thought and sit for more than an hour in a Nero's in Covent Garden, just watching people and doing nothing, thinking nothing.
We went to a concert in St.Martin's-in-the-fields, where John Landor conducted that evening. Jessica had prepped me. "He desperately needs what you can do for him. But don't intimidate him! Tell him I'll pay you serious money, he'll know how very highly I think of your work."
So afterwards, when we went out for a drink, Jessica left us so as not to interfere. Just John and me, and a pile of musicians and their loved ones. Russians who speak French and German (but not English), French who speak bad English (and not much more). And it's Saturday right before Halloween. London is full of spooks and we lose half of our group to the street fair on our way to the bar. John doesn't even meet my eyes, and I hold back, hold back, with a growing feeling of resignation. And right when I believe that this will not work (who am I to even try to freelance, and with what - tidying up other people's offices?!), he turns to me. "So you stay at my mother's?"
When I lead the Russian family back to Jessica's, the father and son hang back, and the tiny, pretty Russian mother, who speaks neither German nor English, talks to me in simplified French, and I answer in simple and clear English and we understand each other perfectly. We reach St. James' Park and I have to lift my hands and skip a step and exclaim: "God, I love this city!" and she laughs and does a turn from classic dancing and shouts: "Oui, oui! J'adore London!"
On sunday, there's an impromptu brunch, and she sits down at the piano in Jessica's salon to accompany her elder son (who stayed out partying the night after his solo at the concert ), who plays motown on his violin. Then the father steps behind him and, with one bow each, they play on the same violin. Wild, gipsy music. Afterwards the big, friendly Russian tells stories about his mother, who kept all the bad parts of growing up in Russia from him and helped quite a few dissidents out of the country.
Around 3 in the afternoon there's scrambled eggs, and I slip up and tell John in a low voice how hungry I've been since morning - in German. He blinks at me and I shake my head, grinning, and apologize.
In the evening, he looks just as burned out as I feel, and says: "We have to do at least a consultancy when you're here after Christmas."
Later Jessica hands me 1.000 Euro in cash and says: "Count it. Money is for counting." It's for what I did so far, and for sorting through her books at a later date ("Whenever. There's no fire there.").
I fly back home, sleep for a day, and scramble around hectically to make up for the lost days. There's a course to teach, the first one I teach all on my own ("Art and Daily Life", in Japan, of course), and I love it. Can't help but give 300% on it. And there's so fucking much to do at university to keep the institute able to work even when the next two of us have to leave.
I don't even find the time to process, much less report any of this. When there's a ray of light in the storm of activity, it gets instantly used up by sleep, sleep, sleep and empty-brain-ness.
Two weeks later I've sent my CV to John, who mails back, resulting in a skype call last Friday, where he, predictably, acts exactly like his mother. Changes his mind at least two times, jumps from topic to topic and is at the same time utterly commited ("I've been desperate to find someone like you!") and oh so reluctant to talk numbers.
But in the end, there's this: "I'd like you to work at least one day a week for us." Us meaning the London Musical Arts Orchestra (and if you look them up online, you'll see why their website is one of their priorities). And, as had been decided in the beginning, too, there's gonna be the "consultancy" after Christmas.
Which will eat up the next possible holiday. If I look at the last two years, all my holidays except one were eaten up by tasks. In London it was one pseudo-job-interview after the other, even in Kiel and Hamburg I helped sort through books and do some handiwork. Now Christmas and New Year's go to John and Jessica.
January, which has the course, but not the university job, looks chillin' in contrast.
February might be spent in London, working for J&J and finding other clients. And why do I still want to put clients in quote signs? Because I can't believe this.
In March I have to collect papers and grade them - which in itself would freak me out much more if London didn't trump it already.
And then?
Jessica has a bed and a desk for me in the back part of her dining room. (Anybody know someone who'd like to get the front part for 100 pounds a week?) There are movable walls and tall, tall window doors to the balcony. And a working fireplace.
Jesus.
Elia will take care of the boycat while I'm there.
The 1.000 Euro will carry me through January. And then?
The focus is this: Writing. Storytelling. Distributing realizations and beliefs through catharsis. All this is awesome, yes. But it's for a cause: It's so that I may find time and energy to do what only I can do in this one special way.
I'm jumping from the supposed security of a steady job to have control over what I spent my time and energy on - and when. Working for artists has this advantage: They know what the priority is.
My little chalkboard says: "Fail harder." There is no trying. There's only doing, and if I fail, I do it like this: Having invested everything, having tried my utter best. Strangely liberating thought.