Beat the Monday Blahs!

With Music!

From the Hamburg band, Honeyheads’s album “Live at Wimbledon”
an animated dance performance by
Jul Gordon (,
Marie Hamm (,
Kathrin Klingner (,
Martina Lenzin (;


Beat the Monday Blahs

Filmmake Neels Castillon caught thousands of starlings participating in a spectacular dance-like movement known as murmuration on film. I was privy to a similar performance of much smaller scale last autumn when I spent a week on a bio-dynamic farm in the Eifel region of Germany. Moments like that technology is really tempting. Nonetheless, the moment is safe in my memories where I can access it infinitly. Thanks to professionals like Neels, who have the craftiness and equipment to capture life’s more unexpected moments, I can also access the beauty and share it with you. Happy Monday.


Saturday Morning Routines

1. wake up to sound of phone ringing, turn about trying to locate it near the bed and finally it stops ringing when you finally get out of bed.

2. shock and awe: discovering and remembering confetti and glitter at the party- most of which has ended up in your hair, floor, hallway clothes and most internal organs.

3. shower, try to remove said glitter.

4. emerge refreshed but with the realization that the glitter has prevailed against the most frightening of scourings – decide to go with it. think up a good explanation: christmas cards and crafts. ’tis the season

5. eat leftover salad for breakfast. think of it as antipasti and it’s quite gourmet.

6. check social networks and hope for a certain friend who isn’t around much these days.

7. too lazy to grind coffee beans. discover a bit of espresso left in the cooker . boil water. leftover espresso americano.

6. realize you have 5 minutes left to go but are blogging about bull-shit you do when you’re hangover and decide that it doesn’t matter: you’re publishing this.

fish with scales

last night I had the pleasure of visiting The Forsythe Company at Frankfurt Lab in Frankfurt and witnessing Study 3, featuring music by the Dutch composer Thom Willems. 

aquatic animal you are into the night slippery like the mist on the tales of my companion. unprejudiced, unprecedented, we retreat equally into the meltdown you are experiencing, thin scales on your fingers, you have

a very nice way of spreading out your exhales, you have

a very fine way of slipping out the window.


we are reacting to innate reflexes that show our insides on the periphery, we are experiencing the calls of mammals in our blood vessels and calling them visions, we are contracting strange interactions from the carpets and we are receiving the soft stories they propel

invertebrate you are still, licking the air for compelling arguments for your kitchen like the scales of your companion. misinstructed and misshapen, you lay quietly upon the mantel in the morning. sharp teeth in your hands, you have

a very nice way of balancing your shoulders, you have

a very charming way of shedding all your skin.


inside a circle, you are outside the structure like old moss on the sculptures in the garden, infatuated and inebriated, they move synchronistically around the clock face in the centre, belly up and flapping on the floor.

incandescent you are inserting punctuation, testing the room for nervous gestures for your stories like the twitching of a stallion. synergistic and sympathetic, you are nowhere on the stage or in the background. Quick veins in your head, you have

a very nice way of picking up on Zeigeist, you have

a subtle way of pretending you don’t care.

acephalous \ey-SEF-uh-luhs\


after their journeys, months apart, the antic fellow and the lady gathered at their starting points and began tugging on coloured strings: his he tied to faraway tree tops and icy mountain peaks in other seasons and promising climates; loose ends were quickly directed towards one or many of these precipices and others were snipped off with a quick movement of the wrist. The lady’s reached out about her, no further than her eye could see. These she’d twist between her fingertips, slowly and distractedly as it seemed there were infinite amounts of fine threads that would split out from the chords and all of these needed to be examined and considered before twisting them back into a chord, snipping them into a pile destined for stuffing rag dolls, or otherwise redirected towards one of the many potted plants on the windowsills of the lady’s home.

This is a conversation about life in which processes and results are laid  out before the participants, one in which they are permitted to lay out the subjects and themes and direct them towards or away from the other participants.

There is no mediator in this conversation. It’s been going on for years now by means of will – not duty – where’s the sense in assigning a moral imperative when there’s been no sense to ’till now? Establishing one now would leave room for the mind to trail off, leave time for collecting the bits like casualties and transporting the threads to collective graves or to receive intensive treatment, where restoration is applauded and celebrated as successfully as rehabilitation.

Yet there’s no surplus of concentration as far as this fellow is concerned for it takes much of his talents to keep his binoculars trained sharply on the pedestals upon which he has focused his attention, and he sets the tension of these and tunes them daily to the proper pitch and frequency of the notes he hears vibrating down from the places they sit perched. They dance for him alluringly, and he is mesmerized by their promise.

The lady, she is nearsighted and needs to touch her threads for reassurance, she tests the pitch and tension constantly, comparing them to the vibrations of her body, for if a thread is dissonant, if it’s tension breaking, she is likely to snip it prematurely, but only to strengthen another that might strive or die just them same, but it’s the game she needs, the daily motions of plucking and checking, of listening and tuning, the twisting and refining, the spontaneous dancing and daily musing.

This is a conversation about life and these threads sprout out of their bodies with each palpitation of their hearts. They are connected to different places and take on different forms each day. The fellow and the lady are trying to cast them in the right direction. They are listening to different tunes and they are producing multicoloured threads, infusing them with intentions that are thought and not said.