Filed under: alltag, art, made in berlin, streetart | Tags: bronco, graffiti, poetry, streetdoodles, ubiquitous streetart
..S+U Alexanderplatz..
Just wondering cuz mm sometimes, don’t you have days where you’re like, is that anything i should worry about getting or is it just like whimsical as all fuck.
..Petersburger Str…
Sometimes ppl make stuff like this trying to be ‘deep’, or maybe they were just waiting 15 mins for the ubahn on sunday and had a sharpie in their pocket?
anyway isn’t trying to be deep like the least interesting thing
or maybe they are just trying to be cute
But a wall doodle takes way more time/energy than a paperdoodle, so would you only do it if you had quote a message unquote. What about writing on bathroom walls, or scratching big messy words onto ubahn windows with your keys. How long do these activities take, comparatively? R ppl then proud of what they made, after? Do they consider themselves ‘creative people’.
Do they want ppl walking by to look at their lil arts&crafts and like poke their friend and be like ‘hey, a weird thing’ or ‘that added just a little magic to my day’ and then clickclack away in the internet cafe, ‘berlin is a city that is full of streetdoodles’. Do they want ppl to write about it in their blogs?
What about ones that obv took lots of work, pre-street:
..Warschauer Str…
Does preparation validate/elevate a streetdoodle from the obscurity and irrelevance of the other streetthings, or make it less gritty and authentic
is that a poem, ps?
& what about when they turn out to be just lyrics from a Neutral Milk Hotel song:
..U Rosenthaler Plz..
All I know is, i sure like Otto
..U Rosa-Luxembourg Pl…
Otto is not even cute at all. he probably wishes he didnt have to be a streetdoodle and his sad cavernous eyes make me rly think about what kinds of €€€ i will withdraw today before i punch in the numbers.
Filed under: bar, club, getting dancey | Tags: CdV, drinks, partyy, poetry, pooristhenewrich, prater
Well so now we are in Berlin for good land of adventure home of the trashy chic sexy poor, purportedly at least. They (ehh, Newsweek) say, incidentally, it’s a luminous bastion of stoned optimism and impromptu dance parties in these times of economically induced global existential gloom because nobody here ever had money anyways and nobody cares.
And so the adventures have begun.
Last night was about my boots, really.
Red geometric marching machines. Cleveland thrift treasures.
It began on the U5, the motley girlcluster across from me obviously indicating them, chattering about them in Portuguese (?) I’m sure they said they were awesome and wouldn’t it be nice to have such a pair of lovelies?
Yes and then to Prater because we had some USA guests and Prater is where to take USA guests. I had never been, not being a beer lover obv but it was a nice night and so a nice place to be although a little chilly and honestly not much of a crowd. Perhaps more lively in the daytime hours?
After that the question was zu mir oder zu dir ODER zu that nameless websiteless BAR on Pappelallee (KdR, as it turns out) in what seems to have been a second floor storefront with the globular orange lights like a 1950s spaceship (ie Berlin). SO we said both and KdR was first because I had been wishing to go there ever since they went there in a stupid episode of Berlin Berlin and I remembered cigarette-burned benches and Slavic dooormen and the question how sweet jesus do you get IN answered: fire escape. E had been wanting to go there since last time when a crazy lady passed out on the bar. Yes and so we asked no questions when there was a 1euro cover, no questions when the crowd was sitting ominously spectatorially before the DJ and a projector (BEAMER ha) was turning the far wall into an advertisement for surfpoeten.de. Ahem. So I learn too late that this is a weekly Wednesday ritual, who knew. We sat through a poetry(?) reading–one man’s conversation with a goofball God about doing strange things to animals such as hedgehogs and frogs, God, he explained firstoff, not being able to attend that night but having given permission for the poet(?) to read in his place–before agreeing hey didn’t somebody say something about zu mir oder zu dir that was a good idea.
So off we went, the place full of Americans of course it being a soccer night meaning no European would leave their house to go anywhere not having a TV, the closest approximation of which at zu mir being a wall-sized projection of the view through a rotating kaleidoscope. And so we drank Aldi wine from IKEA glasses and participated obligingly in (retrospectively random) promotional games administered by strapping young representatives of Philip Morris, eg, without asking questions, the loot of which finally being free tickets to a party at CdV & Freischwimmer on June 5&6. hm
Some new South African and Russian friends, a gay techno dance mistake and falafel later my boots were echoing their way through the empty Alexanderplatz arcades looking for the night bus stop that never materialized, and finally having decided to get a cab I fumbled coins from my purse and dropped the change that should have been the tip but didn’t feel bad after the driver dropped me heartlessly a block from my WG at the beepy insistence of the kurzstreckometer. Thinking, well so he can just find it himself. Undressing at the birds’ first sleepy tweets, a clink on the hardwood; it had fallen out of my boot.
