Someone had to take some pictures: Gustav

- I love hugs but I hate those fake hugs.

- Yeah, like American hugs.

All pictures taken on the 2nd July 2016 at Gustav-Radbruch-Haus, Hamburg, Germany.

Auf Kosten der Gesundheit Teil Vier

Found the dead body of a toilet with neither a seat nor a lid (not so sure about the brand, though, kind of difficult to determine with certainty due to the fact that nobody gives a shit about toilet brands, turd intended) in Uhlandstraße U-Bahn station, Hamburger home of the small performance, while talking to my mother on the phone at around 22:45, the second best hour of the day just surpassed by the hour you accidentally wake up at to realize you still got two hours left to sleep. The utilitarian-item-made-into-urban-sculpture was at the entrance of the tunnel that leads to the platforms (sensibly not surpassing the crossing bird-excrement line) because some currently-retired-former-punk-anarchist couldn't even bother to leave it in a junkyard, probably due to various reasons, usually hip replacement surgery. I'm sad that nobody happened to be passing by at that time and looked like the kind of fellow man who would agree to sit in it while I took the ultimately decadent portrait of contemporary humanity. But the cold, coldhearted, Hank Williams style abandonment of this sanitary piece of furniture looked like the most creative, fearless thing I saw that day. One can never be thankful enough for the useless and the art.

All pictures taken on the 11th May 2016 in Uhlandstraße U-Bahn station in Hamburg, Germany.

Bayern München contra Atlético de Madrid

No sé muy bien por qué, pero me gusta la sensación de saber que todo el puñetero mundo está viendo el fútbol menos yo. Me produce un sentimiento entrañable y perezoso, como cuando es Navidad o San Pedro y se reúne la familia y voy a casa de mi abuela; no me interesa mucho y me aparto un poco, pero me da ternura saber que están todos juntos, hablando de cosas que me parecen idióticas. Escucharlos de lejos hace como que la noche pase más lenta y no se acabe el día, y es que la muerte de los días, o más bien su contemplación, ver cómo se van y no vuelven nunca más, me pone melancólica y encrespada. Es reconfortante sentir que están ahí, buenamente tirando su tiempo a la basura mientras yo les paso la mano por la cara mentalmente, reviento Internet, me hago más sabia que ellos. ¿Será, en el fondo, un alegrarme de la desgracia ajena en el entendimiento pedante? ¿Soy una despegada? Sí pero no lo siento así, aunque no sé explicarlo mejor. Creo que al final se trata, simplemente, de que el hecho de oírles gritar a la tele me recuerda que no se han dormido todavía y que, si no están conmigo es porque, claro, tienen que ver el partido. No es que esté sola ni despierta a horas que no debería, no mientras ellos también lo estén.

Todas las fotografías tomadas el 24 de abril de 2016 en Immenhof Flohmarkt, Hamburgo, Alemania.

Someone had to take some pictues: ov-silence Summer Opening, Elbpark Entenwerder

The plastic bag in the photo above, with a 60s/retro-style-illustration of a football player, was the most inspiring thing I found in this ov-silence Summer Opening party. Because of that, I wanted to dedicate a song from my country, the Kingdom of Spain, written and performed by Almodóvar & McNamara and called Satan, S.A., from their fabulous and only 1983 debut album ¡Cómo está el servicio... de señoras!,  to the 3 euros I freely and voluntarily flushed down the toilet last Saturday evening. And, why not, also to my """so-called friends""", who shamelessly refused to tell me where the fuck they were in that fucking goddamn Elbpark Entenwerder. Say good bye to the invitations for the baby shower of my first-born child, """friends""". This one goes for you:

            
                                     Satanasa, Satanasa,                              She-Satan, She-Satan,

                                     Yo te invoco, yo te invoco,                      I invoke you, I invoke you.

                                     Desde casa, desde casa,                       From home, from home,

                                     Con un moco, con un moco.                  With a booger, with a booger.

            
       

Six of these people were very cool, laid-back looking and had lots of ice-cream and I bumped into one and took pictures of him twice in three days. To the latter, I'd like to say this: would you like to come have some coffee and pie with me?

All pictures taken on 7th May 2016 in ov-silence Summer Opening 2016 in Elbpark Entenwerder, Hamburg, Germany.

Well I always play russian roulette in my head

"Yes'm," The Misfit said as if he agreed. "Jesus shown everything off balance. It was the same case with Him as with me except He hadn't committed any crime and they could prove I had committed one because they had the papers on me. Of course," he said, "they never shown me my papers. That's why I sign myself now. I said long ago, you get you a signature and sign everything you do and keep a copy of it. Then you'll know what you done and you can hold up the crime to the punishment and see do they match and in the end you'll have something to prove you ain't been treated right. I call myself The Misfit," he said, "because I can't make what all I done wrong fit what all I gone through in punishment." 

There was a piercing scream from the woods, followed closely by a pistol report. "Does it seem right to you, lady, that one is punished a heap and another ain’t punished at all?"  

"Jesus!" the old lady cried. "You've got good blood! I know you wouldn't shoot a lady! I know you come from nice people! Pray! Jesus, you ought not to shoot a lady. I'll give you all the money I've got!" 

"Lady," The Misfit said, looking beyond her far into the woods, "there never was a body that give the undertaker a tip." 

There were two more pistol reports and the grandmother raised her head like a parched old turkey hen crying for water and called, "Bailey Boy, Bailey Boy!" as if her heart would break. 

"Jesus was the only One that ever raised the dead," The Misfit continued, "and He shouldn't have done it. He shown everything off balance. If He did what He said, then it's nothing for you to do but throw away everything and follow Him, and if He didn't, then it's nothing for you to do but enjoy the few minutes you got left the best way you can, by killing somebody or burning down his house or doing some other meanness to him. No pleasure but meanness," he said, and his voice had become almost a snarl.

Excerpt from A Good Man Is Hard to Find, by Flannery O'Connor

All pictures taken at Hamburger DOM (Hamburg, Germany) between 18th and 20th March 2016. Inspired by Tom Waits' Blood Money (2002), the play written by Georg Büchner he wrote the album for, Woyzeck, and A Good Man Is Hard to Find (1955), Flannery O'Connor's short story that titled its last song.

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Good bye to a little man who, at least for the last 30 years, could only run a competition in bigness with himself. His stilettos were so high above us that we could not even see him at times. Sleep well Prince, your Texas blow dry and most-awkward-love-scene-ever in Purple Rain (1984) will haunt me for ever, but let's go crazy.