18.4.1999
Ryfflihof. I'm here. A human, a saleswoman, no idea. I have a card number, belong to the world again, do a service. I have a face? I have eyes? Nobody saw me. Should I be happy about it? I am nothing, because I'm with the, what i'm no money can make. Wouldn't everything be bad, if I were tired in the evening and fell into a deep sleep, but with every half-awake night I seem more fragile as a cashier. I refuse, by the way, to attract the supermarket-internal Birkenstock. I just hate those castrating and sterilizing shoes, and why do i have to, to sell perfume, put on such a nasty asexual slipper? Am I not already that myself, what is called asexual? Too pure, to be physical ....
27.4.1999
I think I'm a lazy dog, since reading Artaud's letters on dealing with thinking. Ahh, dear saleswoman! Love would come true again, one week, two weeks, so that you can think about dealing with your thinking again. I can't veins, nor glands, still split glaciers or brain glaciers. Nevertheless, I too would like to scrub the thinking free of its contents. And I would like to have the opportunity to meet my thinking as a foreigner. But there is something more superficial: Busy with the slit of my dress for ten hours.
Artaud's efforts are terrible. Anyway, I don't have the feeling, to enjoy. The violence, with which he wants to do thought to his texts, makes the attitude to this thinking impossible. Artaud activates his mind, a ghost, but which only exists, because it relates to the flesh. This spirit leads me through an abstract surrealism, further and further away from that, what is commonly thought to be literature. I would almost say, what Artaud does is more:
"The words rot at the unconscious call of the brain."
“I've always noticed this stubbornness of mind, that he thinks in these dimensions and spaces and fixes himself on involuntary states of things, to think- that he's in segments, in Crystalloid, and that every mode of being sticks rigidly to a beginning, that the mind is not in instantaneous and uninterrupted connection with things, rather, that this fixation and that frost, this kind, to make the soul a monument, occurs before thinking, so to speak. "
And me: “I want to write a book, that confused people, that's like an open door, and that leads them there, where they would never have consented to go. A door, which is simply connected to reality. "
Or is it from Artaud??
2.May 1999
Ah, how tired is my brain, since I've been in the perfumery every day! I fight like a raspberry in a mason jar, but I don't care. In the evening I'm happy, Broken, hungry, irr, without my senses, while during the day I walk around the room like a clown by his number. I go back and forth, from one corner to the other. From the Armani hideout to the Saint Laurant stand. The question of money is only really serious, whom existence has become physically bearable.
The question, when and if I buy an armchair, a real desk becomes less explosive in the face of the fact, that this existence, so, is primarily not bearable for me. No, basking in the sun and planning summer vacation in these unexplained circumstances: impossible. In that sense, this sweet bubble of perfumery pushes me to the ground with its veil, the bricks are. What are these fragrances good for?? Confidence begins, When I come home and the magic walls close over me. I feel it exactly: Work is a cure, that restores the void. I fight against stupidity, but the weakened organism loses sensitivity. For large parts of my consciousness I am already functionally similar.
4.May 1999
Ain't crying some way, to make time stand still? You send a skeleton under the warming shower. Far away I perceive, that I put words together. But it is difficult. Gives, where I vibrated is the rigidity of houseplants. Tag, like an orphan.
- May 1999
Tears in the Ryfflihof. She burst into tears. You saw a feeling, I stared, as if it were a secret monster. her face, the coarse housewife's face looked smaller and more shriveled than usual. She wore no makeup around her eyes, the pain, I looked at her from my corner, suited her well, made her younger and somehow more human. It was no longer that vulgar mask, which the saleswomen sit down here. It broke, the vulgar, something sincere and desperate broke out of her, while the background noise continued to crackle and simmer, the background music trilled, the oxygen stank sourly over the ventilation pipes, the women continued to sell with their blue scraps of cloth slung over their necks, as if everything were as always. I still saw, how she covered her eyes with her hand and then scurried off. I looked after her, Until I couldn't see her anymore, even stood on my tiptoe for it.