~ < < < t i m e s w a p s > > > ~

^ ^ ^

game of repetition known as _A Loop_ or _Digitalised Delay_

Room with in a room, looking through lenses of time spent between staircases glaring into buildings that do not belong to me. Nor you. Beds in which one seeks the like|ness of self. Creative. Non linear yet questionably relevant. Reality. Somewhat tangled non identifiable section of innards where buzz of friction lives. Have wished for time to be gentle. When one sinks in brightly lit room with echo of voices. Pushing keys covered in blood sacrifice of self. sTill. Too present. You. By accident. Or chance. Somehow. In yet another bed. This time with mattress too hard. Reminds me of gaps filled and those that failed to do so. All that this body has occupied by accident.

< Moments Before > 

Washing feet levitating on the balance point in an oddly stretched position. Catch glimpse of self in the mirror. Body twisted. Fingers trapped. Blood and charcoal in swirls like jam dripping on concrete floor. Hugging porcelain. Heavy. Ruining towels as a feedback loop that my voice projected just 15min ago.

She. Stood in the middle of that room, not realising / recording / registering / the cold. Temperature changes coinciding with frame ration. It. Felt. Nothing.

< while. thinking of <...> / nothing >

Grinding teeth. Clenching jaw. Evaluating gag reflexes and propositions. Paradigm. Parallel version of Id. Perhaps somewhere between anima and animus. Lost pendulum swing. Between time-zones, time switches, time saving in unholy collision. We are infected with time. Injected into shift of noise that word projections transformed into voices. Proposed. In backrooms reaching goal. Through shallow concrete corridors with wristbands and Id / Iq / Queue / checkins and lineup sheets printed in "Times New Roman” 16. Barefoot over broken glass. Flower rot. Bottles and corkscrews. Migraine cured with light opioids and forceful handshakes. Itineraries, taxi coupons and sound-check callouts. Bread-rolls in tinted vision of AM hours. Press repeat. Backing self into walls and crawling behind coatracks. GPS trackers with pins dropped where cotton fabric left body parts. Rooms scattered between locations mapped out by store fronts. Thought flashbacks. Doses of integrity merging from one platform to another. They pay - you obey. Baby!

Men in suits. Man in a suit. Man. Suit. Wearables. Whereabouts.

< imagine >
> > > And now, we watch < < <
One another. From distance in images and words. Non expecting to see what time will become. While passing, old factory staircases trying to see life in windows of others. Catching smell of food cooked in walls that been alive longer then us. Stepping onto tiles that supported feet of many as they crawled out of baths clumsily fighting with gravity. In colour swatches of ceramic tile cracks one occupant to another. Cold weather in heated moments of passion, kneeling on same floor in pain. Ending life or waiting for new life to be born. Breaking away. Corners that chip away while preyers where given and expectations not met.

 

Corridors where lightbulbs and fuses blew failing to support our need for constant gratification. Through illuminated concrete blocks. Wooden handrails that where later replaced with metal versions softened by rubber and plastic covers. Replicating one another we became rooms injected into each-others faith. As birth and existence that twists into joy, possession, happening, loss, and eventually last breath. In a heartbeat. Exasperation. It is all in a heartbeat my love. Just one step away. From a blowout. Fire, ultimate ignition of sound and speed. From a window to a door. From a spoon hitting the table and a blanket that covers our cold feet that where washed in a sink, somewhere, middle of Hamburg. In cold water where pipes are tilted to coincide with planetary levitation battling betrayal of gravity.

 

Collecting leftover lilies and burned wood. Covered in warm red liquid, half naked, balancing on one foot while I think of <…>.

My misanthropic agile trophy of sorrows trapped between 17 postcodes and 47 connection attempts. Burning rubber of the handrails swiping cards between 3 lands. 3 time-zones. 8 towards 9 identities. Dreaming of concrete playgrounds and tasting forest smoke. Simmering in shifts.

Good Night and god Bless,

Queen of Disorder,

Sonia Dietrich

± The Journey ||| Towards ||| Creative ||| Export ±

Movement is a trajectory calculating possible time allowance to be late. As no one really wishes to leave the premises of blissful comfort of home. Home is something that has been deliberately debated in "Tetris" themes. The notion of attachment is more of a transference forwarded to clippings of grass patches and trees growing in the distance covered in snow. Where from an old bedroom window one could see somewhat distant idea of freedom. We do not change. Not really. We accumulate pain and experience mixed with rare but memorable glitches of joy. That then, with brave faces and determined wrist action we transform into shape and sound, hoping to detach shame of the passing hours. Years. Clothing scattered from one postcode to another. Paintings and framed lovers with leftovers they conjured inside my veins. Their encoded messages became graveyards filled with flyers, tour dates, shared sheets and bleeding texts. In those moments of change that we imagine will transcend us. We meet the side of self we all are running from. We had it all. We have it all. We know how it’s done. We salute face that meets us in the mirror. One more day. One more step. One more pay check. It will all be worth it.

In passing. Always in passing. In distance where the haunting decay of buildings and memories lay. In the texts never send and pages never printed. Finding similarities with 10 years ago. How can one string of faith carry so many coincidences. Should have. Could have.

From afar. But had too. Chose to. Come closer. Loosing those dear to me. Memories shared. Easier to bury love not granted. This is not sadness that touches pages but glory of silver and coral ashes. Twined together crow feathers and rough, manila rope. Cruel reminder of times given. Making mistakes is easy, observing consequences is not that hard to. They flash before you within seconds while you update your system. Shivers down the spine. Face. Nothing is forgotten. With each key strike the line of metal string tightens. Feel parts of me detach. In variables. Have been more. In words of 'Daughter' she is a suffocate|or. How interesting the paradigm of shifting air.

Watching grammar as a collection of words inside the passages of imagined sensations and languages. All that needs to be said is somehow attached to empty white spaced windows and multitude of tab options. Looking at the text in few different angles makes all very clear.

//Authors note: The story of creative process is commonly the same. All great work we enjoy comes from immense suffering, loneliness, dread and addiction. And we relate to it because on different levels we all suffer. We combine our experience of levitating fear and panic, that then gets hidden under projected expression of calmness. And while we all must exude a calm interface, it gets torn and shredded in the oblivion of creative circles that move towards hell of self. 

Worlds colliding. It is a privilege to see a warrior without their armor gifted rarely to chosen few. You are perfect. Inside my mind. Where within passage of your own, you keep shifting. Rewriting pages. Somewhat violently. Fountain pens tears through. Pressure. You start over, and over and over again. Notebook after notebook. Softcore to hardcore. Destroying 4 pages at a time. Blessed in loops. Books keep the covers hard and words painted, time runs out in sand and glass. I shall return to this. Somehow. One day. It will all make perfect sense in reverse.

Banshees and digitized serpents. Melt the sward. Quantum. Lighter. Spin self in. Every pill has a number and a disgusting color match of pink to white. I encapsulate self in its divine vision. While wearing stripes that change to silk dresses for pay. We are all prostitutes spinning in our own virtual boxes assigned by day time | night time ratings. When hotel rooms and tech riders join the game of presentation. I delay email responses. No stage fright. Come across clean. Border patrol and itineraries. You should work on sound and video overlays. Penetrating voice of self doubt. Delay pedal is your best friend darling. Don't forget to press save. Rooted into main channels.

||| B R U T | U S |||
 

• byyruvribyhblqyhbjhblyyegrzebheezan •

Sometimes. It happens, on a molecular level. Loss. Or. Something in between. PAUSE. There is so much nicotine in me. Air between missing parts. Bit weird. Bit dull. Bit tempered. Too many needles pierced skin in past-thence ideology. I miss. Gaps. Chemicals provide sharpness and lightheaded flashbacks. Panic attacks. Letting go. Repetitive thoughts. This is just a road block. Would have taken it back. It vibrates in just the right frequency. Don’t go. When touching face lilies die from water shortage. Can do it again. Picking self up. Force-feeding flesh. All is going to be ok. Watching pitch shift from green to red.

Branches stood still, the air stooped. Hovering over the dead of the city. Sky was purple. Silence was penetrated by piano keys. Hunger grew in a distance. Body was exhausted. Mind keeps pushing pictures of faces unseen. Touching parable of self navigation. Reciting words. Staid and left behind. So many things are left in the ether. Wanderers inside boxes. One dim circular light switch. Nothing is lost. We are in this together. Hating today while rejecting tomorrow. Focusing on one day. Day is as exaggeration trapped into 86400 seconds. That in approximation of 10 gr of tobacco, 1500 ml of caffeine. In human form. While waiting to the last minute for frocks and stockings to be pulled up. This is why we do not participate in today between tomorrow bending on yesterday.

Warriors without skin. That is how I see us. Missing outer layers we mold our-self with source material made out of wax and concrete. Upgraded to a rubber version on which we wear latex for the chosen one. Medicate on command then lay in bed chain-smoking, wondering how the outer layers fits into the other to protect self. My arms stretch across the mattress grasping at smoke and burring face in pillows.

Be strong the outer layer voice projects in echos. We project reels of film through my eyes back unto walls and computer screens. Sound software and blank pages that get filled with paragraphs of someones care hidden under indifference.

It’s only at night and in moment of pure untouched digitalized vibrations of connectivity when the movie reels shine back inside. You inspire me. The reader. A common ground seeker in the realm of wax structure. My outer shell keeps loosing its shape. I grab onto ribs and sunken-in flesh. The way of the artist. The fight of the decade inside the realm of head-space that understands no time. No physical or mathematical expression of existing. If there would be an advice, it would be not to loose one another. It will not repeat itself. The accident of non accidental exhilaration towards body and text.

//Authors note: When curtain falls and viewer stops to greet the reader, I begin to breathe again. Suddenly. Suspended inside a box where I knew. We shall meet again.

//Your note: • | • 

Good Night and god Bless,
Queen of Disorder,
Sonia Dietrich

B E R L I N 1 0 1

Voices in the distance of relatable presence. Somehow one is missed, too much. Too little time given. Have you been away for long? If this would be my realm, would stick my teeth in. Harder. Following the motion of a hand touch in again while imagining skin. Softly. Distantly reaching the surface. Are you there yet? Place to stay, polishes skin on silk covered coffin leads. I burn candles in relevance to fires one burns to eat the ashes of past realms. Smiling.

 

1919 | floor 4 | East Berlin | cracked paint and pausing watches. Ticking. Wonder where the stoking line would go in the apartment with windows inside out. Fitted sockets and locks on cabinets. Whitened walls. Have you. Tasted flesh that never burned. Wooden chairs in disorganised matter of proportion to the space given.

There was a rumble inside the dead space. Check in's and check out's. The time is now. Devil rings a door bell. Battery checks and candles leaving traces on the skin. In this business there are no ifs, or haves or have-nots. There is no call-ins and no joy rides. Happiness is a beast one desires but is never sure off. Like blood that runs out of you once a month, process is a certainty but joys are few. There is evil in the emotion of joy, the fear that it never repeats itself, comes back. Happens again. We fear the joy and happiness because we cling to it, like addiction. The purity of that feeling, that sacrifice of pessimism, the trust that one wishes for. Deep in desire while loosing control. Sounds and patterns of water killing fires burned by the shore.

Water inside planted circles I open-up for you. Saving Jesus from Devilish temptations of Lilith. Change the real of joy, gold dust inside the morning hours that given witches poisoned fruit to feed to the children. Turn up the turbulence inside the building that rocks from side to side levitating from the core. Seen what it does to men old and young inside the tip of possession. Words put into motion, what fear can do to the strong and wilful. 

Twist inside the veins I cared too much for while watching candles jump in reflection of fogged mirrors and heat damaged walls. In misty windows devils present the sacred dance. Clinging to heritage, strong blood lines. Non of women in this line gave up easily. When war is war not only on the flesh but onto chaos focus narrows. This is not a story my friend, this is war. As rings in the water that paints pictures of glory one could have had. Berlin 101 - are you still listening?

While light bulbs crackle and fuses blow, one inch from the ground we rise. It spins itself inside the ether of water and fog. I knew how one is called behind the veil. Answering questions with questions. Show me how it is called inside the line of your entity while I burn my fingertips off. Gentle skin, hardened surfaces. 

. G l o w .

Sharp objects swallow, soft flesh burns. It is all gathered inside the parallel. Pile up, colour-code, shuffle-up and burn. All of it. With no remorse? Have you made a binary assessments? Let me be the narrator. The levitating house with elevated furniture and picture frame peeling off while paint and carpets combust is just a begining. Let's walk together, crows seen the distance. Not scared of the night light, walked the streets alone inside the dream you forgotten. Too many gurus. Spinning from side to side. The night business is our business. Divine. The slums you fear is just a projection of joy not reached. Twist the battle. We are all legal here.

///now smile girl the day is young and fires are wast\\\

 sign in / sign out

Good night and god Bless,

Queen of Disorder

Sonia Dietrich