this is personal

flips

This is personal. Stop reading here, please.

Thanks. Haha.

So I’m sitting here, having by now downed nearly a complete bag of what we call flips here.
This is, I presume, normally called emotional eating, something I have not done in centuries. Eating something just because it’s there, available, and you don’t necessarily want to eat it, but you want to eat something, you’re not actually hungry, but only eating can satisfy you in that particular moment. Yeah, really forgot what that’s like. Not too bad.
Great, so where am I getting at now? Nowhere, completely pointless, those last sentences.

Why is it that we always seem to lose that drive to stick as much of that junk into our mouth as fast as possible when the bag is not yet empty, when there’s only still this small mound left.. Might be the same phenomenon you can observe when drinking beer from a bottle – nobody wants the last half an inch left in the bottle either. Or we just don’t want to get our hands dirty (I’m back on the chips bag). Well, I don’t mind. Which is how I justify that I did not stop when I observed that that drive was abruptly ceasing to be a drive, but continued through to the very end.

less flips

Goodbye, flips. Kind of nice seeing you, but not more than that, thank you very much.

Alright, I’ve got to organize myself a tiny bit here, I’ve been here for probably almost an hour by now and have done the following:

- eaten a bowl of porridge
- eaten peanut butter
- eaten two turkish Oreos (meaning cookies that look like Oreos a tiny bit on the first glance, cost one euro for a pack of about 40, don’t taste at all bad at first but then quickly get quite bland and overly sweet) and milk
- eaten that bag of flips
- checked my financial situation and declared it to be more acceptable than I had deemed it to be. In 5 days all that will be over. I think.
- made a mental note for the 13th time in the past 2 days that Jamie Cullum’s version of Singin’ in the Rain blows my mind. That kind of re-arrangement of harmonic and rhythmic structures is … I have no words. It crosses that thin line beyond which musicians can actually be classified as artists.
- taken the above photographs
- now also had a cup of lukewarm “hot” chocolate
- not really thought about the fact that it is now a quarter to six in the morning and I am past feeling tired
- neither am I drunk the slightest bit anymore, if I was ever drunk in the first place.
- that wasn’t an action, but a thought. So is this.

I am not getting anywhere at all. So much for being “personal”. If you just continued to read when I told you to stop – probably because you thought I only wrote that so you would continue reading at all – you might be able to tell by now that this is, in fact, so personal that my head is so messed up and over and around (with) that I have to push everything that isn’t exactly what is really going on out of there first in order to be able to communicate on that personal level at all, even if it’s only with my computer keyboard at present. I need a cigarette.

So. Berlin Film Festival. A couple of short films, today two Forum films. I don’t want to talk about the films, just about what they did to me. For reference, the first is called FIT, the second Territoire Perdu.

FIT was awful. It left me empty – with my mind simultaneously full to bursting with questions, feeling for characters that didn’t deserve it, analyzing stupid little fidgety details nobody should care less about in a concept that is so clearly just no good. What really frightened me though is how I just stop talking under these circumstances. I might have quite a bit to say, but the more there is, the less I can actually hold onto tightly enough to be able to spit it out. I wander about staring at the ceiling with this indifferent, resigned but slightly melancholy, sad look on my face and am truly under the impression that I do not have anything to say. And when I do say something, it’s only a dumb, unnecessary little comment about something someone else said or did. Actually I feel exactly like those comments – dumb, superfluous, dispensable. And I can’t explain it. This state. I can only say how awfully close I feel to those extremely awkward characters, those bad actors, that screenwriter that might have had a higher intention, that director that might have made his movie in such a mediocre way … on purpose?

But then it’s so blatantly bad there can be absolutely no purpose behind all of those elementary school level structural fails, horrible lighting and sound and overall disconcerting atmosphere – but embarrassingly disconcerting. Not the kind where you get goosebumps because the director used some extremely well-played tension-building devices. This was the kind that hurts because most of it is obviously not intentionally disconcerting. And still..

And then I find myself feeling for that slightly retarded, uncomfortably emotionally straightforward woman. Because the whole thing is just plain horrible. I feel for the director, I feel for the actors, I feel for all of them. They’re close to me because I can see what a waste of time the whole thing is and was for everyone; cast and crew and audience. And them? Do they see it? The audience maybe. Some might find it just alright, maybe not worth the 8 € ticket price, but ok. For others it’s unbearable. Most of those vent their frustration at whoever produced such a shitty motion picture. I take it in and stir it around in my head, stir it up with all my own problems and questions and uncertainties.

Then we have a beer and a couple of cigarettes and I find a glass of wine on a bookshelf in the foyer where we’re waiting to get into the next movie and take it because it doesn’t seem to belong to anybody and every time I do something like that I feel like I’m showing off – whatever it is I may be showing off, I don’t really understand myself – but I’m also just being honest to myself and the people I’m with because hey, if there’s a glass of wine and nobody wants it and it looks clean; there’s no immanent danger of catching some incurable disease if I drink it and in this state wine can only pick me up so here goes…

The next movie was gorgeous. I regained my ability to laugh and smile normally, but my voice was still rather non-existent. Afterwards, as I was listening to a discussion about philosophy and what it means to know and accept certain rules and restrictions, in this case put there by the teacher, in order to be able to think beyond those rules, I was thinking again about how little I know of the world, how little I think about the world. Because I’m so caught up with myself and how I function and the way my mind works and how my emotions can take me over so completely sometimes that whatever I’m supposed to be doing, I can’t do it, no matter how harshly I tell myself to just pull through for once, for God’s sake.. that is why I feel so dumb sometimes. I know so much about myself and so little about everything outside of me. I went to the washroom and thought about that, thought that’s why I sometimes find myself unable to take part in conversation actively – I have to be carefully and lovingly lured out of my snail’s house – and then I came back and was greeted with the news that the group had just unanimously agreed upon the fact “Esther is cool.”

Then I put a smile on and didn’t take it off again until some guy fainted in the bus on my way home.

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