[LISTEN ON SOUNDCLOUD. Soundpiece for Studio for Immediate Spaces "Autoradio" broadcast on Red Light Radio 20-03-2015]


I hear someone snoring softly. Is it me?
Autobiographical anecdotes on different states of concentration. Part of thesis 'In the scene'.

Spaces your parents don’t know about. There was a mini-ecosystem between the roots of the plants at home, where I lived in. I remember many spaces that didn’t exist to grown-ups, but did exist to me: There were secret pathways under the bushes, behind furniture that’s placed against a sloping attic ceiling or a diagonal wall. And if there were no paths between the old junk in the attic, I made some. There’s a space behind and under hanging clothes in the wardrobe, and on top of the closet. Two clothes horses were a tea room. I could hide in the bunker under a bed or couch, or even inside the couch. There was a camper made out of the cushions of the couch. I could fit in the corner of a curving staircase. I become invisible as I get under a mosquito net or when I climb in a tree. A piazza appears when I lay down in high grass.

Rollercoasters. I like to follow electricity wires with my fingers or with my eyes (when in company). Laptop chargers or tangled headphone ears become huge rollercoasters. Launch off, drop, looping, twist, turn, brakes, and back in to the adapter station. My favourite dreams are the ones in which I fly like a rollercoaster train without rails.

Doodle. There is a drawing –more like a doodle- coming out of my pen. At the same time, tiny men are polishing my fingernails with heavy machinery. The gnomes are using metal workshop equipment to cut off my toenails, which makes it physically extremely hard to finish my doodle. I’m not even sure if I have to, but I can’t think of other options.

My life became easier when I got diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD). Having an excuse for not being able to read as fast as my classmates felt peaceful. My mother even stopped calling me lazy.

Rumours. There was a big children’s playground. Every now and then old and dangerous play sets were replaced by modern certified ones made of plastic, which were annoyingly safe. The last adventurous play set standing was a huge fort made out of big wood beams. Only the toughest boys dared to climb more than one third up the towering structure. Rumours were spreading among the kids that the upper beams were rotten and dangerous (which was true), and many kids died.

Alarm. My babysitter forgot to pick me up from kindergarten. I cried because I felt abandoned. An alarm went off; it was one of the most beautiful, hysterical sounds I’ve ever heard. Since then, the alarm goes off every first Monday of the month.

Monday. They filled their cups as if they expected a long morning. Life is hard for people who don’t like coffee. My body falls asleep when my mind is not triggered. While the teacher is talking about studium and punctum, my mind floats off to booster seats at the theatre. Footnotes make me dream of bar aprons. A text on Schinkel makes me munch pills.

Cheat. There was a pill that made me a super human. It gave me the ability to read faster, write longer, and converse in crowded places. But the pill made me sick. — There was another pill that made me a super human. It gave me the ability to hear what’s hidden between the notes, to feel what my senses could never perceive before. And the pill made me sick.

Tatters. I keep falling asleep while trying to watch movies. Five years after my first attempt to watch Spirited Away, a Japanese anime, I tried to watch it again, but floated off twice. It’s been a psychedelic dream to me for years. The story continued in my dreams, what made my memories of the movie even more surreal. Watching the end didn’t satisfy me; I enjoyed the mysteriousness of the infinite fairytale, the memories of my dreams interwoven with tatters of the real images.

Sneeze. My body has the odd habit to sneeze about 12 times in a row every now and then. That used to annoy me, until someone told me that sneezing bothers the same nerve as ejaculating.

My inner engine was stammering, so we had to operate me. My drive chain was made of gold plastic beads.

Smoke. There are many smoking chimneys on cold days. When I look out of the window on the seventh floor, my gaze is directed towards the inhumanly big factory on the horizon. It’s hard to distinguish the border between smoke and cloud. The created cloud even casts a shadow upon the factory itself.

Deprivation. There was a white cloud and I was skiing in it. It was hard to distinguish where the snowy landscape ended and where white air began. After being afraid, I decided that this sensory deprivation was pretty interesting. I wasn’t even sure if I was moving (back or forth) or standing still. I didn’t know until a hump in the ski slope made gravity pull me down.

Magpie. My mother used to call me a magpie, because I’m attracted by anything shiny. — When I say I love kitsch, I’m not sure if I’m ironic, if I’m laughing at low culture, pretending to like it, really appreciate it, or if I actually am low culture.

I hung up a disco ball above my desk in front of the window. The sun fills the whole studio with reflections. The dots close to the ball are square like its mirrors; the dots on the rear wall are round like the sun. In the dots on the wall I see branches from the tree that stands between the sun and the window. Where the little searchlights cross a glass bottle, they turn into lightning.

I feel like I don’t even understand English anymore. I separate the parts of pineapple equally over the plates. The white balls floating through the air in the distance turn back into seagulls.

Preach. I climbed on top of an electricity box. Two metres above the rest of the street, I just stood there for some time. People in cars looked at me as if they expected me to preach something or jump off. I caught car drivers in their private moments. A baby ignored me.

Predator. On my route from home to the theatre I counted the amount of broken umbrellas laying exhausted in the street and sticking out of trash bins, raped by the wind. There were 14. — At 7 pm a cat jumped on my lap. I pushed her off. At midnight a predator ran away from me and hid underneath a car. We looked each other in the eye and grinned. We were both up to no good.

Ray. Peeking through the shutters, a small ray of light lit the hotel room. The light did not come from the moon, and neither from a street lantern. The ray was peeking through an opening in the curtains of a hotel room across the street. A bright light bulb lit their room, and ours.

Not for humans. The man behind the counter greets me with “Bonsoir”, so I know I’m still in France. Does this man know where he is? He is on his own, guarding a huge piece of land, a huge gas station, a supermarket, sanitation, and a restaurant that’s closed because it’s 1 am. He’s far away from the rest of the world, in a place only reachable for cars, not for humans. I decide not to tell him.

There is a bus with 50 people in it, shoving through the night like a flat. The people try to sleep. With my headphones I listen to a trance mixtape with no beginning and no end that I never listened through before. I lose track of time. An hour passes and the mix is over. I listen to the beat in the windshield wiper. The sound is like the squeaky breathing of a person with pieces of snot in his nose. The more I listen to it, the more human it gets. — I hear someone snoring softly. Is it me? The wipers sound mechanical again; snoring gets more intense. The driver coughs; snoring stops. I put on a cow’s mask. It doesn’t help; it’s just confusing. — Through my eyelashes I look at the many lights outside. Every light point and every reflection becomes a luster. Rays of light gleam to each corner of my horizons. My eye fluids deform everything. I open my mouth to yawn but stop myself from breathing in oxygen; I want to sleep. — I hear the wind whistling above me. I’m pretty flexible; I turn off the overhead air conditioning with my toe. I peel off the speaker sign from the reception phone. It doesn’t help; it’s complicated. I bite off a bit of loose skin from the top of my finger. — I should have brought ketamine on the bus to help me relax. I think about what my dad would think of me if I had. In my head I sing a song to the rhythm of the windshield wiper. I can’t recall which song my melody is from. My friend Rik takes the cheap wine glasses off the table, unused. The octopus is no longer dead on the street; it climbs on a wooden shed on the corner. — There are voices in the ventilation when I’m on the toilet. They’re also in the water when I’m doing the dishes.