01.12.2024
I’m in Constance with C. The city looks modern and clean, not like Berlin. C. has scars on her face that I hadn’t noticed before. We go to the rehearsal. I could go to the university, but I follow C. We walk through changing rooms with showers. I close the door carefully. Then I go to the toilet to change. There is a sticky stain on my body. I should undress and take a shower. My socks are stuck and hard to roll off. I go outside again, where an elevated table with two chairs stands. I will sit there for the rehearsal. I am nervous.
02.12.2024
I’m in a café with C. in New York. I once left a book there. I show C. a sentence in it and find a page marker I had left — handwritten. T. has to shoot holes with three bullets each. He shoots very precisely. Finally he shoots into a pipe — only once at first. Is water dripping out? A woman has a closed stand; she is supposed to sell expensive watches. In a shop they explain how a frame should look — slightly thicker at the bottom. We are served food. I thank the woman in Spanish with “Señorita” and walk through three men. What will they think of me? I want to sit at a small table — or farther back? I choose the small table in the sun. C. comes and wants to sit somewhere else, but I say we will stay here. My dreams are to be exhibited alongside the luxury watches whose brand names are removed beforehand.
03.12.2024
I want to open a film music agency. A. is supposed to work with me; she also knows S. and G. We are in a large room. I go outside to a jetty where I cannot go any further. I wonder whether I should stop a boat. Then I am with J. A policeman arrives and arrests us both. J. and I must place our feet together and he chains them. I say I haven’t done anything — emphasising it even though J. is also innocent. I say it is strange that we were together this morning and now he puts me in chains. The policeman taps on the box of chocolates as if to say I should have given him more. He leaves, planning to pick us up tomorrow for transport. J. and I walk off. First to his place to collect his things, then to mine? I realise we will have to sleep in the same bed. One of us will also have to wait outside the toilet. The chain is long enough for me to lie down upstairs while J. does something.
04.12.2024
05.12.2024
I’m at a Nick Cave concert. What happens with Warren Ellis and Nick Cave at the end? I ask ChatGPT. The picture of Nick Cave is painted in sand. I drive along winding roads to my psychologist in a village. I am standing outside naked, showering. There isn’t much time. Then I realise it isn’t my psychologist but a holiday replacement — on a Sunday. It won’t be the usual hallway. A different person. I get dressed. My sock is inside out. What will I tell this other psychologist? It’s Sunday; there is no emergency. Time is running out; I don’t want to ring too late. I turn the sock the right way. The alarm rings.
06.12.2024
A large freighter. Another diagnosis. One of them has cancer.
07.12.2024
I’m sitting next to G. — in a gondola? I touch his leg. He says he also wants to talk to me. I’ve had several gin and tonics after three years of abstaining from alcohol. I say I don’t know why I drank after all that time. I don’t like the buzz but I’m not particularly disappointed in myself. An experiment is taking place in front of us. One boat emits a signal or music. The other boats align themselves with the signalling boat until they form a row. They don’t look realistic — more like symbols. All line up except for one boat.
08.12.2024
I’m in a room with a man. An Asian woman visits. She shaves hair from a mobile phone with a knife. I stare at her cleavage; it is very erotic. I have an orgasm. We get closer and sleep together — I come a second time. The man walks the woman out. Is his wife asleep? Shouldn’t he be careful not to get caught? The man and the woman don’t care. The woman, who wasn’t pretty before, now looks attractive and leaves. The man’s son stands at the door. I get hungry and fetch bread from a bag in the corridor. Then I go into the kitchen, open the fridge and spread hummus on my bread. The man’s wife comes in — European-looking. I devour my bread. Old dishwater stands in the sink. I wash the knife in it.
09.12.2024
A picture of F. with small black pupils. He says he took Skunk and asks whether I know it. He grabs my anus. I don’t want that. He lets go.
10.12.2024
11.12.2024
I am in a car with C. and M. We are driving to a race. When we arrive, I apply a very thick layer of cream with a brush. Is the sun shining? The others go ahead while I search in the car for my black running shoes. I can’t find them — instead, I’m holding my mother’s shoes in my hand. I don’t want to drive back to get mine. Eventually I find them. M. returns; he has forgotten his shoes at home. He doesn’t want to take part in the race anymore, but it’s important for the team. I stay calm and offer to drive him.
12.12.2024
I am standing on a street with J. and others. J. makes a sign; a group of men feel provoked. They approach him. One man carries a baseball bat and hits J. in the stomach. I go over with the others to protect him. The men threaten us, but our posturing defuses the situation, and we return to the women in the café. Later I’m on the beach with C. and M. Then I drive along a motorway. A friend sells things online, including boat stands. I think my brother could sell things online too. I am at the bow of a large sailing boat, steering along a canal. I can’t see the water — is it deep enough? I pass close to the walls and fishing rods. Suddenly it becomes pitch black; then light again. My father is behind me. I turn the boat and we scrape over the ground. He quickly hoists a small spinnaker, and the wind pulls the boat over the earth until we reach the water again. We celebrate.
13.12.2024
14.12.2024
We are driving on the motorway. We overtake, then the front right wheel jams — dangerous. I switch on the hazard lights. A police Porsche drives past and doesn’t help. C. and I look for a garage and see a petrol station below. We run down the stairs, together with two women, overtaking each other as if floating. At the petrol station I ask the employee for a mechanic. The woman beside me says her son could help, but I’m not convinced an amateur could really fix it.
15.12.2024
I’m with Y. We walk across a field toward a dance. I push the ears of corn aside so she has a clear path. A neighbour appears, asking questions. Y. answers. He asks whether we’re from Neukölln. I say we’re from Prenzlauer Berg. The neighbour seems strange. Men for Y. Someone is looking for other penises for her — very odd, but not anal. Then I walk through Berlin with F. I talk about a film about someone who hates Berlin — I could play the role. V. walks ahead. Everything is terrible. I see a tower block that looks like a concrete tree.
16.12.2024
I am with J. and S. A kind of competition among gay men. The men in the back wear only army trousers and are shirtless. I cancel a rehearsal with K. at the last moment. I stand at a table waiting for the others to plan. Then I go to a hotel in Brussels to cancel my room. I walk through corridors, past a doctor’s practice. A woman stands there. At reception, a man with long hair and a beard says something about a boring name. Does he mean me? I ask. He replies: “Compound name.” I take many notes out of my wallet. I seem to be the nineteenth person to cancel. He asks if I have a nice flat in Brussels. I say no, but I used to live here. I have to pay 75% of the room rate.
17.12.2024
C. jumps down a ladder — or did I not hold her properly, or even push her? She falls onto her side. I hope she hasn’t hurt her hip. I show her how she should have jumped.
18.12.2024
I put a lot of cream into my ears; it dissolves quickly. Then I trim my pubic hair.
19.12.2024
20.12.2024
We are at H. and A.’s place. H. throws himself onto a bed as if he can’t go on. What is wrong with him? Why is he behaving so hostile towards us? We leave; C. walks ahead, angry about his behaviour. I call Mrs R. She asks whether I have the price of the boat stands for her tax return. I’ve forgotten, but it shouldn’t matter — it’s only around five hundred euros per stand.
21.12.2024
22.12.2024
More than the sum of its parts. I am with G. and congratulate him with a brief hug. G. talks to others. C. listens and understands why I couldn’t and didn’t want to continue working with him. A show is taking place. Someone dances in a jacket. During the performance, an advert is shown on a large screen, irritating the audience. The dancer brings me my jacket — it smells; it needs washing. The advertising is new, and I think the concept will be successful. The back wall of the stage is open, revealing a dark harbour. Dancers leap across the water in wide, high jumps; one even runs across the surface. I think they should use a strobe light. The audience is redirected. Y. finds a lawnmower, but G. says no. I look for a toilet, go past old doors into the basement. The toilets are covered with white sheets — not to be used so the show above remains undisturbed. I go back up; a woman approaches. I almost tell her the toilets are closed but say nothing. Upstairs I walk to tables where people are playing chess. I want to sit with Y. and C., but a man is already sitting there.
23.12.2024
A concert or music for a performance is taking place. I fly through the halls of an industrial complex. The piece is called “Israel”. I ask too loudly why. I look for something fitting — perhaps a poem — but then think we should simply keep the word “Israel”. The industrial area used to be an airport. Someone else flies beside me. I turn around myself as I fly.
24.12.2024
A man as a teacher? A series of tasks to be done. J. spells an English word incorrectly. I fold two short-sleeved shirts at a white counter in front of a seller who pays no attention to me. Stickers cling to the counter. A performance is taking place. The question arises whether we should also be on stage for the final performance. A man with a French accent objects. I say it wouldn’t change anything since we would all be sitting behind our computers anyway — nobody would perform anything physically.
25.12.2024
I make live music for a dance piece together with other musicians. I play the piano. Afterwards we talk. David Bowie is there, dressed in black. Someone is speaking to him; I laugh falsely and leave so as not to disturb them. We rehearse the piece again. I am alone now, creating sounds with water in a large glass vase — loops with delay. It sounds different from before. Someone had even done a stage dive earlier, screaming loudly and jumping into the crowd. I keep playing. Water spills from the vase. I worry about the electronics, but the water evaporates on a hot object. There is a cue where I have to push the glass carafe to a dancer. We discuss the second run-through. The music wasn’t like before.
26.12.2024
The hairdresser comes by because I have questions about the bill. He checks several points and looks around my large flat without saying anything. Is he the father of one of my daughter’s friends? I thought he was gay. N. says he is not the biological father. We then ride bicycles. A woman talks about objects kept by parrots, but S. can’t find them anymore.
27.12.2024
I park my car in a narrow parking space. Can I really leave it here with all my instruments inside? I am with O. — we are making music for a piece by F. The stage has two balconies. I need to go to the toilet; everything has been renovated, including the toilets, but I don’t want to go in wearing only socks or barefoot. O. is elegantly dressed and stands outside with his mentally disabled sister. F. helps her by employing her. She tells me where she lives and that they can see auroras there. I wonder what kind of music I’m actually making here — I’m not playing an instrument. In the car there is a lot of toilet paper. A car honks as if I’m not allowed to park here. The same car returns and scrapes along mine. It’s my father’s car.
28.12.2024
I sweep up rubbish in a corner and get upset. Then I prepare the tax return for two people. Mrs R. says that she and her colleague have never managed that in a single day. I hope I haven’t made any mistakes. I think I entered everything correctly — but the final step of the tax return is still missing. I walk to a meeting in my socks. It takes place in a large building where several events are happening simultaneously. A gallery owner explains the statues he is exhibiting. I thank him and continue walking. At one point I turn around — I don’t want to remain in my socks any longer.
29.12.2024
We are on the sailing boat. We want to sell it. C. casts off. The sun shines as if it were night. We try to leave the harbour but cannot — other sailing boats block the exit and we can’t get past the bow lines. We reverse; I steer from inside the cabin. More bow lines block the way. Did we really come through here? C. says yes. When we reach our mooring, all the spots are free. Which one is ours? I keep shifting into forward gear to slow down. The engine is loud, louder than my father’s boat. I recognise our spot by the doormat on the jetty, with a small potted plant on it. Is it from the buyer who won’t come, perhaps as an apology? I moor at an angle, but we manage to straighten the boat. A woman on the jetty pulls on the line. I ask her not to pull so hard so that my daughter — standing at the bow — doesn’t fall into the water. The woman says she knows what she’s doing. We didn’t really want to sell the boat.
I am with R. — he is making music for Einstürzende Neubauten and is also producing this record. It is hard for him. A piano stands there. I hold myself back so I don’t overshadow everything with my activism again.
30.12.2024
A new flat. I am there alone and find an old wooden music stand that belonged to my father. At first I want to throw it away and burn it, then I place it in my studio where it fits nicely in a corner. I am happy about it. It is already 6:30 pm. We were supposed to go out with H. and A. Then I have no time to masturbate — and you could see into the flat anyway. I go outside into a kind of lift or carousel. Two men are beside me; one has something between his teeth. The other speaks to me — we apparently know each other. He talks about my music and asks how best to describe it, which festival it would fit. I can’t say; it isn’t important to me. I try to slide out of the chairlift, but it gets stuck; then it moves again. H. wanted to come — I wonder what C. would say. Did I lock the front door? I can’t remember how I left the flat.
31.12.2024
I’m talking on the phone with a woman. Is that Sophia Thomalla’s voice? She sounds nice.