01.11.2024
I cut into my own head with a saw and tell someone that I must have had nightmares. I speak to an older man who looks after me. Two others are there as well. I keep sawing, feeling nothing.
02.11.2024
I am with C. The dining room is being furnished. She has ordered built-in furniture that I feel doesn’t fit the rest. I speak to the tradesman; cancelling would cost a thousand euros. The floor has an edge, like a step. Large white furniture is carried in. It’s okay.
I phone my mother; it’s her birthday. P. and F. have already spoken to her. Later there’s a party in the kitchen on Terschurenstraat. I isolate myself under my headphones — the melody doesn’t fit; I want to remix it. The phone connection with my mother cuts out. I dial the Belgian number again, mistyping repeatedly. Then I am at my car boot sorting documents — old clothes I pack into a suitcase.
03.11.2024
I am at N.’s educational-psychological school. I feel comfortable there. N. leaves me in the canteen and tells me what to do. It is pleasant; we joke — intimate yet distant. I fill a mug with coffee and milk foam. I thank T. for letting Y. stay with them; he thanks me for my list of psychology questions. I walk with N. to my flat. She says she likes my jacket. I jump upwards trying to float to my flat; it doesn’t work. I tell N. it would be my dream to fly that high. She wishes me luck.
04.11.2024
I am with someone else. In front of us lies a naked woman we have killed, using her as a sexual object. I touch her body, see the fine hairs. How do we dispose of her before she rots? In the sea, the fingerprints and DNA would be washed away. We put her into a large black plastic bag. A small damp stain remains on the floor. I drive along a street looking for a woman who is visiting. I’ve seen her face in a photo but cannot find her among the stalls and restaurants. She sends me a message; I try to reply that I’m coming to look for her. In a large hall a performance takes place: a huge plastic construction like a spider’s web. I watch it with children. It lowers to the floor. We glide through the room producing sounds. I play on glass tubes. A spring hook tears. A girl who wanted to dance comes to me naturally; together we move back. She becomes a boy and cries because he couldn’t dance. A woman comforts him. I say he saved the scene with his spontaneous move.
05.11.2024
We drive past G. and honk; he is startled and later apologises. I lie on a bed with Y. We’ve taken a high dose of drugs and are catapulted upward — an experiment. The bed crashes down. We are dazed. I cycle with C. to her flat. I think I recognise my old flat on Friedelstrasse and R.’s flat next to it. My psychoanalysis makes the connection clearer. At C.’s place I carry a book of Büchner’s poems that R. took on tour. A page falls out. I leave through a garage door, then return to leave my bag, but C. says I should take it with me. Outside I look for my bike, confused about where I parked it. Two young girls and an older, very short woman stand nearby; my bike is next to them. I unlock it and cross the street into a department store — completely the wrong direction. I decide never to enter department stores again and will tell my therapist, not to show off but because it is true. At the top of the escalator I walk on, then realise I’ve forgotten my bike again. I hurry back, hoping no one has taken it. Cyclists ride past me acrobatically. I hope my bike is still there.
06.11.2024
07.11.2024
I enter a flat. Through the walls I hear two people having sex — a man and a woman, or two men? I search for something and hurry. I put on jeans that feel too small — the length is 31, not 32. I have to leave but first go to the toilet. I pee so much it runs over my shoes; luckily they are old, so I can wear the newer ones. A valve on the toilet leaks; will it flood the flat when I leave? I try to tighten it; the plastic part breaks, but the water flow decreases. I wipe the floor, which is almost dry. Through large windows I see neighbours. The woman has small breasts with clothes pegs attached — they are playing an S&M game. I watch through the slatted back of a chair so I am not seen.
08.11.2024
C. shows her stomach. You can see a slight six-pack.
09.11.2024
I am on a beach. M. notices that my body is thin and muscular.
In a crowded room, a woman gives a far-right speech, surrounded by children. I cannot stay silent and protest loudly. Others tell me to be quiet — it’s a democracy and everyone may speak. The woman becomes louder and more aggressive.
10.11.2024
I am composing a film score. Some tracks need to be replaced; other composers are involved. In a white factory loft full of people, the door opens and I. stands in front of me. She is surprised. S. is behind her. I. greets and kisses everyone on the lips. I think she should see the factory loft in Berlin where I live. In another flat a white board is supposed to come with me, but I lose sight of it immediately. I search everywhere but cannot find it. It should have left a wet trail from the snow, but I only see the wet traces I left myself.
11.11.2024
I play electric guitar — pretty rocking and good. Then I ride my bike. A policeman on a bike is in front of me. He sees me, rides ahead and wants to intercept me. Although I haven’t done anything wrong, I turn off onto a side path. Then I am in a room with a long corridor. I am supposed to record guitar and my Electribe drumbox for an advert. Another guitarist is working at the end of the corridor. I switch on the drum machine at a table in a side room and record the guitar in another room. The layout already sounds good. A producer from the company thinks the guitar is too sad and not positive enough. I wonder how to switch from minor to major. I speak with a producer who says I can’t play that loudly. A window is slightly open — I will probably have to use headphones.
12.11.2024
I am at a party but don’t want to talk to anyone. The host speaks to me. The hostess is there. I am so tired I lie down everywhere and try to sleep. C. is there too, talking to people. We go outside to a tennis court and stand diagonally opposite the hosts. I have a strange racket and am supposed to serve. I can’t play tennis at all anymore; I can’t even bounce the ball in my hand. It’s not important to get it over the net, but I still fail. Something gets caught on a dead branch in a tree and stays hanging there.
13.11.2024
I go into the guest room on Terschurenstraat. I need to pee. There is no toilet — it has been removed. I stand at the sink, facing the door so no one can surprise me. The door is made of glass. I pee into the sink. Then I turn around and see C. sitting behind me with others. I’m annoyed I didn’t pay more attention.
14.11.2024
I am in a cake shop and must pull out large bowls with a pizza peel. There are holders underneath but the peel doesn’t fit properly. A woman is looking for something; the bowl belongs to another restaurant — it should have been delivered there. I pull it out. C. has booked a trip to New York for Christmas or summer, as a surprise. Again? We were just there, and we can’t afford it. I am angry but don’t want to ruin her excitement. S. asks where we can meet. How does she know we’re going to America? In New York, C. holds a map; I unfold mine as if it were wet. I drive behind cars into a closed street and get flashed by a speed camera. It will be expensive — I was flashed just before. The sign was low down, so I turn back to photograph it and argue I couldn’t see it. At the police station I want to file a complaint. Y. sits with another child, explaining that at their school there are no fives, only sixes. The teacher laughs maliciously and places a television back onto a shelf. I search for the police address and almost write the wrong one.
15.11.2024
I see that new hair has grown on my forehead, and I am astonished.
16.11.2024
I walk down a road in a forest at night, passing a nightclub called “P.” It will be crowded later. A man stands in front of me — the camera moves from his feet upward. He isn’t muscular, not fat, wearing only underwear and one sock. I pass C., touch her back; she is angry and pushes me. P. watches us. I go into a bathroom; the laundry rack makes the room small. I put on a transparent black shirt. Outside I see Y. drinking from a tap in a square, moving as if she knows the place well. I meet L. on a street we want to cross; we smile at each other. A tall woman with long legs and garters sits on the street in front of her shop. Another woman bends forward — I see her cleavage. I walk the same route again. The woman with long legs now sits in a café, watching that nothing gets stolen. Again the woman with the cleavage. I stand next to L. again. I wonder whether C. is the right woman for me. My therapist will be interested. That is the difficult question.
17.11.2024
A feeling that I have to let go — it reminds me of my nightmares.
R. appears in front of me wearing a coat. I see him from behind and rise up.
A man sits opposite me — on a train, on a boat? He shows off. I change seats and sit next to him, holding a newspaper. He presents a winner; I fear people will think it’s me. He moves to the other side. How am I supposed to interpret that? A woman enters the train; then a second woman. One has her breasts exposed. I look at her. More women arrive.
18.11.2024
I go with C. and Y. to a swimming pool in the stands. It is also a prison. I lean over and see R. — is he a visitor or a prisoner? I go down holding a brush with white paint. Some paint lands on my jumper; I tell myself it doesn’t matter. I ask about R. The paint keeps running over my hand. Later I ride a scooter with C., steering; N. rides a bike. In a park I am supposed to be suspended from ropes. I ask how I should act — no clear instruction. The director fills small bags with cocaine from a glass box. I am to play a corpse. That is not hard, I say, trying to let myself hang, eyes open or closed. The man hanging me asks if I am 33 or 43. Ten years younger than I really am — I say yes. A. and others listen and watch. I follow a man to the toilets — like a labyrinth. A woman makes room; many similarly dressed women leave.
19.11.2024
I am with J. We discuss tidying up and appointments. A dinghy passes. I hurt my foot and bleed. We go to her place to change. She wants to give me a black dress; I refuse, though I like the idea. I wash my hands at a tap; the pipes are held together with plastic plugs that keep coming apart, water leaking. We sit at a table; I place a hand on her arm — we are close. The neighbours arrive for the communal clean-up. A tall Black man starts making music; I join in by shaking and striking a large box with coins on it. The sound is good.
20.11.2024
I go to my second therapist. I actually have analysis twice a week with a woman. I am in the therapist’s flat with my brother and others. I cannot find my trousers and get upset — only two minutes left. Then I find them, put them on and walk through the flat. Do I need the toilet before the session? I look for it and run into the therapist. The flat has many rooms. A door closes — another entrance to the therapy room. I continue, finally entering the room. I sit. Another boy comes in. The therapist — an older man, like my university professor — wears extravagant sunglasses. He says it is hard to write a referral for the boy; then notices he has the wrong form. I say something; the therapist replies: yes, he has aggression problems. Time passes and I think: isn’t this my therapy session? We are sitting on a lawn now; more and more people arrive until I get annoyed. An older woman and others sit aside and listen. I consider ending therapy — it’s pointless. The therapist says I experience the world as if through a glass window, not really living. I think he is right, but it won’t change.
21.11.2024
I am at C.’s flat. She has a contact with a composer she will work with on a film — a fee of 30,000 euros. I spend the night there and wake up to smoke coming from the kitchen. I go in and try to wave it away. I put a large log onto the fire, now just smouldering, but the smoke isn’t coming from there. I lie on my back in another room, looking out of a window. On a tall antenna sits an animal I can’t recognise, swaying back and forth. Then suddenly a black, white and grey cat is on the mast. I’m unsure what to do. A man pulls the mast closer through the stairwell with a pole to get the cat. The unrecognisable animal is now a large bat trying to come through a window; I fend it off, and it flies away on wide black wings, swaying in the air. I tell C. about the animals; she doesn’t believe me. I remember messages from M. saying he’s looking for his cat — he must have brought it in. C. gets dressed to go out and admits she takes drugs. Her mood shifts; she’s no longer friendly. I walk around in my underwear, making tea, and tell her I’ll go home. She’s now wearing a short skirt. Her friends arrive, including a Polish actress with short blond hair. Another woman reminds me of D. I slip an egg into C.’s sleeve. I tell her to check the smoke in the kitchen — I had foreseen it, or am I imagining things? I find my trousers. R. notices that I hung the large picture from our flat back in her flat instead of a poster. What will C. think of me giving that picture away? A bit much, maybe. I awkwardly kiss the women on the cheek goodbye and leave.
22.11.2024
23.11.2024
I go to a meeting in a large hairdressing salon with big studios. There are goths everywhere and I’m wearing brown shorts. Maybe I should buy one of the black trousers for sale here, although they’re a bit baggy. Others arrive and talk about the musician Marteria and about injustice. I look out of the window. Below is a canal; seals lie on the grass and in the water. They look up. I move my mouth as if to feed them. They become excited, snapping in joyful anticipation. My daughter laughs.
24.11.2024
I cross a bridge with my bike and leave it beside a man; the passage is too narrow for the bicycle. On the bridge is a snack bar. I join the queue and see a pretty woman looking at me — she seems lost and asks for food, so I buy it for her. Another woman has a huge cleavage. I meet G. His mother owned the house where the snack bar is. I follow him, but my bike is still back on the bridge. He tells me where he’s going and asks if I know the place. I fetch my bike and try asking Siri, but I’ve already forgotten the name. One of G.’s employees arrives. We are now in another place that will be a studio. G. talks about his company. I say the employee is very good. I see G. on a screen — someone is filming him. He is a woman, or his wife is filming him. He speaks about colours and shows a print of mushrooms that look like phalluses. David Sylvian, wearing narrow tinted glasses, speaks to an audience. He says they are not mushrooms but phalluses.
25.11.2024
I am in a new flat, two cubes on the former wall strip. I sleep downstairs; all walls are glass. I still need to get used to it. Upstairs I want to project a film, but everything is full of clutter. I ask a child to tidy with me, careful not to be strict. S. is working on a sculpture called God’s arsehole, spraying a cloudy liquid into the anus as secretion. I look for the film I want to show. Two children prepare subtitles; I tell them to put them into envelopes. We now have my brother’s dog. It will be strange when we see him with his dog again — the dog might be confused. Or does my brother simply want me to look after him for a while? I miss an appointment at university; now I’m too early. I’m with my psychologist. We get close and begin to fall in love. Are we allowed to? I hold back. Should we start an affair? She strokes my bum.
In New York I meet Lou Reed and tell him I want to move there. He asks what I need help with — maybe finding a place to live. I want to record something: a cable like a string. I wait for him as he stands in line and enters a supermarket. I leap high onto a huge concrete pylon with a wind turbine on it — grey, massive, frightening. Lou is supposed to strike the cable so I can record it. I have my camera; I could take good photos. The structure terrifies me. I turn the rotor blades; they begin spinning. The lens is fogged on the inside. I take it off and try to clean it with my T-shirt. My mother is next to me. M.’s wife arrives; I ask for a tissue. My mother snaps at her. She gives me one anyway. The water on the lens turns into a milky smear.
26.11.2024
Someone is holding two photographs. It is impossible to tell what they show. Then the person finds their place, like in a puzzle. The photographs must be rotated to fit exactly onto the backrests of two sofas facing each other.
27.11.2024
I’m inside a walk-through sound design installation with R. We come to a creepy spot with a dark corridor. Something menacing approaches us. The scene plays twice. At another point you can hear my voice — we will remove it. Everything still needs reworking. We arrive in a large hall.
28.11.2024
K. kicks R. out of a project. I try to argue he should stay — without having a say — but it’s useless. I go outside to a standing table. There are patent leather shoes and trainers. T. comes towards me; we greet each other. She is tall. A handsome young man from her group talks about sex cinemas next to concert halls. P. has sperm all over him.
29.11.2024
Someone only does what they must, even though they have all the information to act — like in front of the sports school hall. The caretaker wants 1100 euros for his work and an old chair that probably belonged to him; too much, I think. He is now in some kind of massage or treatment. I sit on a chair in front of the piano. It’s a music project I’m part of. G. needs a kick drum for his composition. The music feels too dense and nervous. I don’t want to go outside now to bring him the drum. What would he say about my flat if he came? What would he think walking up the stairwell? Would he still give me work?