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Imaginary Joy Division, barely audible in the background of Pro Quadratmeter, now in Almstadtstraße1, as the empty streets of this particular, unglamourous apocalypse remain wind-swept and rainy. Jackpot. Ich kaufe Miamification von Avanessian, so ein Stream-of-Consciousness-Ding bei Merve. Das scheint mir die einzig mögliche Handlung. (13. März)

  1. Seen from my inner 2005.

In my life, in moments of clarity, in moments of being close to myself, the world has felt abstracted, foreign and incompatible. In these moments, I have felt akin to the patterns of eroded signage paint on tar, to the shapes of the clouds, to insects resting on a sun-basked leaf. I have felt disconnected, yet at home in the cracks and ends, at home inscribed into the patterns, nowhere to be found but somehow. (010717)

I grew up in a small town at the end of a country. There were few people like me. I learned to live inside my head for long weekends and days that failed to make a connection. I left the town the first chance I got. I don’t think about it much, but I still carry the worlds I made there. In a way, I have been casted from that place: its entire opposite, its negative form, but sharing every wrinkle in great detail1.

  1. Ich schrieb diesen Text für Craig Mod’s Ridgeline-Newsletter, der sich mit dem psychologischen Zustand des Gehens auseinandersetzt. Er ist ein Beitrag zur Sektion Fellow Walkers, zu der Craig fragte: What shell have you been torn from?. Er erschien in #38.

The Heathrow Hilton is my favorite building in London. It’s part space-age hangar and part high-tech medical centre. It’s clearly a machine, and the spirit of Le Corbusier lives on in its minimal functionalism. […] Inside, it’s a highly theatrical space, dominated by its immense atrium. […] Most hotels are residential structures, but rightly the Heathrow Hilton plays down this role, accepting the total transcience that is its essence, and instead turns itself into a huge departure lounge, as befits an airpot annexe. Sitting in its atrium one becomes, briefly, a more advanced kind of human being. Within this remarkable building one feels no emotions and could never fall in love, or need to. — J.G.B, Notes on Love, Death, Architecture and Modernity. Kompiliert von Studio Muoto.

Marseille: a landscape overrun by infrastructure, flowing, abruptly ending on geologic barriers. Inhabited caves and machines, steep cliffs of built limestone, a sea of lives lived extending into the horizon, up and under bridges, weaving foot traffic through houses and below kitchens and gardens. A drawn city, a pastiche on paper, all colorful dust and complex views. A decidedly non-urban urban space, a grown stone organism, a Moebian landscape, a Cité Obscure.

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