19 C
Vienna
More

    Hardly anything

    Hardly anything

    There is more to this whole charade than a kind of succinct observation of how the mask got drunk then and now. Looking back, I seem to have been born to endless reflection as a teenager; what I could have become with the right support is one of the points that I therefore push so much in the here and now ejaculation in mentorship and coaching.

    But as an introduction and in the conquest of the meanwhile cultivated field of opposing disgraceful provincial but intelligent and sometimes strong-nerved Austrian

    Contemporary provincial narrow-gauge literature

    I can dare to do this.

    In this country, toads often cook with stale water, so I no longer have to hide in student dormitories and council housing indifference, I am easily welcome in the club.

    And I also see things less angrily, in my revaluation, my Nietzscheanism, my Rimbaud-like flight to Africa, thirty years later I can love a thousand times more things, on the one hand because there are a thousand times more things worth loving, on the other hand because this dull Austria may still exist, but fortunately has to share its place in the sun with a Mediterranean Austria that celebrates the art of living and thirsts for knowledge and sustainability, which sometimes just lacks doing the right thing at the right time.

    And not to let the small-town, soup-clad clown of the crony economy-farmers' cathedral country win again just because he controls the funding drip. Where the opium of the liberal Green artist's heart and do-gooder(s) quickly creeps into the moneykink of bicycle courier service satisfaction.

    Where are the audible voices of our younger generation of writers, my age? Are they bleeding away in silence, or are they all work-abroaders, as I imagine? A Kohlmeier must save the day together with Menasse, while modernity is going to the dogs, drinking at the feeding trough. Sometimes Zobelt and Mitterrerd do it, but all in all it is the great nothingness that describes Austrian literature.

    There is no end to alcohol and no dog to be found, spirits are divided. The old school is a runny-nosed dreamer who is easy to see through, and the liver prefers other things, the body tells you when you have to grow up when it comes to drugs.

    EXCESSION HAS TO BE LEARNED, I REPORT ON IT IN THE PSYCHEDELIC GARDEN, IN THE OBSESSIONS, WHICH ARE ALSO CONFESSIONS, AND ELSEWHERE. AND THEN SUDDENLY THERE ARE NO LONGER SUCH A ONE, AND THE DOLCE BECOMES THE VITA. IT'S CALLED MATURE NATURE

    Also that it is language that captures us, that we always fall back on it, in close harmony, writers rule the world, in instruction manuals, in screenplays, in interviews, in public speeches, in speeches, advertising slogans, in FAQs, in Wikipedia, in X-Files and in the text of laws.

    In dialogue, in internal dialogue, a visual artist will rebel, a filmmaker will resist and try to use what he is based on. Silent films are still rarely made, and I am willing to compromise, in the same spirit, in a dance of word and image, what we create is our choice.

    I don't think that the new mask of the writer will be such a thin one; it's been too easy for me since the dam broke, especially in a way that seems fateful, but I need precision and organization, even in the act of writing itself.

    WHEN THE RED SQUARE OF INVENTION PUTS YOUR KREMLIN INTO YOUR PERSONAL HARRODS LIKE A BARBIE DOLLHOUSE, WHEN ENVILIABILITY SUPPORTS NEW HEIGHTS, WHEN THE OPERATING SYSTEM ATTAINS LUCIDITY, THEN RIMBAUD HAS RETURNED HOME FROM AFRICA. AND I AM NOT LACKING A LEG.

    Where they hide they may perish

    But in the meantime, perhaps something can emerge, a linguistically keen new approach, beyond the otherworldly limitation to minimum conditions and cheap standardisation in the lazy bed of the next Messe Süß.

    The mask of the failed potentate, the sensitive field of the flaming inspection of the flesh, there is so much more in these spring waters of inbreeding, here in the high house you want to be bald, you want to pee in a big-headed manner. The old booklet in Barbara's cellar, thawed out in concern for your loved one, there is the final form of the declaration of war.

    HERE WE SNOW HO-FREE. HOUSE FREE.

    Language is a man of lies, a menagerie of words, I can assure you, dear operetta of neurons, in no case has this one failed favorably. I push myself forward unbridled, but so nicely that no one seems angry.

    The bailiff advises me to do some magic. The queen in front of the fantasy camper van is chattering. A thousand bookworms later, I'm lying on the carpet of my choice with the local version of Close Forever.

    I am willing, I am free.

    The 1TP7Dgende Interpreter, the approach to recovery. Dominant, final. Only revealed to the demons whose gifts beguile your being.

    The spontaneous loyalty of today's followers is a shitty morsel to me, go to hell with your consumer addiction and the whole useless society with you.

    I WILL DO IT JUST LIKE I WILL BE ABLE TO LOOK AT THE MIRROR EVEN AS A WHITE-HAIRED PERSON, AND THE SAND SNAKES WILL RIGHTFULLY FIGHT BY MY SIDE WHEN WE ASCEND THE THRONE OF WHAT WE TAKE FROM THE COLLECTIVE WHICH WE ALL HAVE A DNA IN COMMON

    Check out our other content

    A New Beginning

    Current

    Deep Stuff

    Minimalism

    Support Me

    Master tape

    Be the Difference

    Minimalism

    Support Me

    Master tape

    Be the Difference

    Check out other tags:

    Most Popular Articles