Post-ironic Penury

Well, it took a lot longer than anticipated for money to be transferred from my American paypal account to my German bank account with the result that the previous week has been pretty lean. I’ve been holing myself up a little, practicing German with my Rosetta Stone, which I think is the key to getting a job, as most places I’ve applied to are pretty insistent that I have good German.  Brighter news on that front; The Oscar Wilde pub is giving me a 2-day try out on Tuesday as a barman.

I am missing sunny Boulder and its sunny people a lot – they crop up in my dreams and linger in the mornings.

My manuscript was reviewed by a New York agent and he said it wasn’t enough of a page-turner. Nevertheless he gave me some confirmation of what I needed to do to make it more publishable, so food for though going into the second draft. I do gain some encouragement from the fact that my manuscript made it past an initial hurdle of actually getting an agent to read it, and surprisingly quickly at that. In effect, what he read was a first draft, and my only regret is that I perhaps should have waited until the manuscript was more refined before sending it off. I do hope I haven’t shot myself in the foot in that regard.

Today I went on one of Stuay’s tours – it seems there is no end to the big man’s talents. It was an ‘Alternative Berlin’ tour, taking in a lot of street art and interesting spaces, and peppered with Stuay’s ingenious and informative raps. Of particular note was the studio space at Tachelles Kunstmuseum in Mitte, which is in a bombed-out building in the heart of a now gentrified and commercial hotspot. There was not a solitary inch of the place that had not been griffiti’d several times over. A well-heeled woman took a few steps up the dark staircase and murmured ‘I don’t want to stay here, I don’t like this place,’ and promptly went back to snap photos of the Reichstag. The building’s upper floors house many artist’s studios that are open to the public. The art on display was much like grafitti itself; hopelessly cluttered, overwrought with symbolism, looking like the creator had simply vomited out a puzzling cacophony of noise in the hope of justifying his tenure in what I am quite sure is a highly-prized studio location, that, knowing Berlin (slightly) is probably awarded on some sort of dubious merit rather than the standard landlord-tenant monetary arrangement. A similarly unorthodox institution could be found in Weisseman House Squat of Kreuzberg, another tour highlight . The building is encased in four full-length satirical murals, depicting the downside of capitalism and the commonly held misaprehensions of former DDR inhabitants who idolized capitalism as the solution to all life’s problems. Taken over by squatters in the seventies, they were granted amnesty by the mayor in the nineties and allowed to legally operate a squat, with the proviso that they operate a open doors policy to any homeless who seek shelter there, and provide concerts to the public in the basement of the building. I may find myself knocking at their doors at the rate things are going, and won’t be just as an ironic statement.

‘Post-irony’ is the byword of my trendy German friends.  In all matters of fashion and taste, the correct path is to dress or gravitate towards items that are eccentric and absurd, as a ‘post-ironic statement.’ It is within such a paradigm that fixed-gear bicycles have been discovered to be too hip, and the trend is now moving towards fin de Siecle penny-farthing cycles, a wholly impractical but nevertheless perfectly ironic state of affairs. The one exception to this rule of course, is the Nazis and any sort of Bowie-like salute to the SS is strictly verboten, unless, of course, you are an Irishman, in which the case of my wearing of a black Bundeswahr tunic could be positively interpreted as another highly spphisticated take on post-irony.

Still relating to the Nazis, on Saturday I went to view the monstrosity of creation that is the Templehof Airport, a behemoth structure  the largest building in the world (Wikipedia it*). Dark and industrial, built during the war by the Nazis, its sheer size almost defies perception. I dragged along a stray American  to the sight who was singularly the most unattractive character I’ve met in my entire life, I’m quite sure. This man had spent the last four years in Berlin and was about to move to Japan. What made this man so repulsive was the fact that, in the previous four years of his life in Berlin, he seemed to have done little else than to hack into bank accounts or information systems(exact details deliberately obscure on his part) and had not even heard of Bar 25 or Berghein, smoked two packs of cigarettes a day and daily ate a doner kebap from the local kebap shop for dinner. His one friend in Berlin he had seen two months ago, an acquaintance from Starbuck’s who invited him to a barbequeue. His wife is in Japan, and he seemed to have mainained their marriage status simply for tax purposes. She was, however, demanding a child out of the bargain, and his concession to this idea was to suggest that the embryo be created in vitro and screened for biological superiority. He seemed to stand for everything that is wrong in the world, of how not to live life. It was so uncomfortable talking to him that it was, in fact, interesting.

Saturday brought what perhaps is about to become a typical Berlin night in that we went to several private parties attended by bored dilettante intellectuals before ending up in a mind-blowing club playing deep dub-step. About Blank, and I’m coming to the conclusion that I far prefer the intimate conversational atmosphere of homely houseparties to the post-technological creations of manic German scientists who are hangoblieben – basically took some self-engineered psychadelics and never made their way back. I retired at four A.M., much to the amazement of my German contemporaries.

Finally, we kicked off the week with Essi’s twenty-first birthday, and I finally got to see inside a genuine soviet-built apartment building. For 400 euros a month, Essi has access to 70 square meters of a fourth-floor balcony apartment that overlooks the peace and quite of a residential project in Weissensee. It reminded me of the kind of atmospehere one might find in a small to mid-size French town close to Switzerland. Both the exterior and interior of the building was very impressive, and Essi put on a very tasteful sushi dinner for us. Many bottles of fantastically cheap champagne later, I was feeling quite content listen to the alien babble of young and happy Germans, and the Kate-Moss-in-drag dress I wore with my Cavalli snakeskin pants and military shirt was a big hit. Did someone say post-ironic?

I’m living in an idea right now, a very powerful one.

(* I have not Wikipedia’d it and can’t substantiate practically anyting in this blog.)

journeying inward

I am on the path; but I am lost. I am seeking wisdom; but I am a fool. I am lonely; but I seek solitude. I have regrets; but I know I can’t go back.

I was fired from my job for plagiarizing which has put the heat on a little in terms of finding a job and brings into question how long I can stay here. It is really quite difficult to find work; however, I am learning German and enrolled myself in a TESOL course, which should enable me to become a teacher in English.

I joined a Bikram’s yoga studio which is good for my back and my wellbeing. I have been having back problems since I put it out at the gym recently. The class is in German but I find it easy enough to the class, as it’s always the same.

Monday night(last week) I went to the legendary ‘Bar 25’ of marathon-sessions fame. After queueing for about an hour, I paid ten euros in and the place was shut down by the cops. It is kind of like a miniature Burning man, all outdoors, wooden sets and stages and 19^th century carnival equipment, much like the opening scenes of Lynch’s Elephant Man. Everybody was on drugs which doesn’t appeal to me so much. I sat by fire on the sand and it felt good to look into the flame and feel its warmth in the middle of the cool night. And remember, this is all in a nightclub, in the middle of the city! Small wonder that people never leave.

The ‘Dazzler’ , Darren Harrisson, who I am replacing in the apartment, whose stints at Bar 25 have passed into the realm of folklore and myth, bade his farewell to Berlin. He makes his way back to Ireland for a tough grind of nine to five after two and a half years of escape. Taking acid on his last day, he unwittedly left behind a discreet envelope containing 10,000 euros in purple 500 euro notes.  I feel that in some way this incident sums up the madness of Berlin.

I went to the Mauerpark today, with Essi, a friend I have made, who turns 21 tomorrow. She’s very fond of wearing men’s blazer’s, and at the renowned Flomarkt ,(flea-market) which is a veritable makeshift city every Sunday in the park of all manner of hawkers and hipsters alike selling handmade jewellerey, bicycle locks, and recycled fashion items to name but a few, I purchased a girl’s t-shirt of Kate Moss in drag, for myself, so I guess we’re a match. It was a delight to stroll through the throng, in its beautiful phantasmagoria of every creed and colour of being on earth on display. So much variance in dress, so many exciting idiosyncracies, so colorful and eclectic the crowd assembled there. Such vibrant and genuine individualism gives one a sense of freedom.

 It was sunny and children played Frisbee in the park and I found myself looking at fathers with their children and wondering why the hell I amn’t back in Colorado with Sam? But time will reveal why. I learned this week of a deadline – in order to keep my Green Card active, I’ll need to return to America within a year. So there is time-frame for all tat can be seen and done here.

I’ve sent out query letters to a few literary agents, along with a portion of my book. It feels exciting to do this. I finally have a book, something solid, a real manifestation of my creative expression. But it’s odd in that I didn’t expect to feel this way about it, now that it is finished. To be seeking, having a goal, means not finding. To have found something and to be still means not having a goal.

I just came back from Stueart’s performance in Murray Shisgal’s ‘The Tiger.’ He did a great job, and I enjoyed the play, something I can rarely say for theater, primarily because I hardly ever go. But in another plus for this city, the oddly quiet and introspective Stu has found a great outlet in the zany persona of Ben, and performed tremendously. People here find a way to express themselves and it’s without any expectation of the outcome that they do it. They are genuinely motivated to produce, to create, to express.

Tuesday night I attended a raw-foods event, where ‘sun burgers’ – a slice of tomato, aioli, and iceberg lettuce served on a dense multi-grain flatbread – were served, and I promptly ducked out of the party to down a doner kebab with Essi. I think we may have been the only people at the party who weren’t starving. The company was fantastic though, and the art, the music, the space  itself – spacious basement of exposed brick, high ceilings, curtains segmenting one section of the venue from another, intimate, colonnaded alcoves and luxurious couches and armchairs with a mix of low and high-key lighting, all tastefully arranged to perfection. The party lasted long into the night and yet again I’m amazed at how respectable people, such as Eike, the urban planning engineer I met, think nothing of socializing until one and calmly arriving for work at eight. I don’t think Berliners are too enamoured by sleep.

For myself, I’m finding that the mornings are a difficult period for me – difficult to motivate myself to get up early and attack the day with a lust for life in the dark and grim apartment space – but in a way I have come to accept the difficulty of these mornings as just a part of life – and that’s all they are. This city has a soul, a beautiful one, and walking the tender nights I feel that it’s up to me to make the most of it – and I’m doing just that.

first week

Well, It’s now been one week since I first arrived in Berlin. I have to say it’s been a huge culture shock. I think all those years in Boulder have left me somewhat ill-equipped for the rest of the world, but Berlin especially.


My flat and the area in which I live is best described as similar to Trainspottingbut in black-and-white, and without the banter. Located in the East end of Kreuzberg, I am surrounded by tall, filthy graffiti-sprayed, concrete megaliths, with the U-Bahn roaring underground for nocturnal consolation. By both day and night, for in this city I have lost all sense of time - Turkish society adds its curious blend of East and West to the proceedings. The girls, some wearing headscarves, some in high street garb, chat in the fluorescent light of Hawker stands, enjoying a tasty and cheap doner kebab. Businessmen and youth alike sit in dingy betting shops, alternating between wagers on basketball games and football matches. The westerners for their part are mostly deadbeats and junkies, drinking openly in the street, howling upon deadened ears.

I’ve noticed that the most Berlin-lookingpeople tend to be Americans, which may only say something about my particular understanding of what a Berliner should look like. It’s as if Americans or expats get themselves the twenties haircut, the tight-fitting black or grey jeans, the handmade leather shoes and the trendiest flannel shirt or blazer and cart themselves off to Berlin. The real Berliners simply aren’t that concerned with conforming to the hipster stereotype, although there’s plenty of them around.

I’m literally staggered by the nightlife. The bars don’t close. Legends abound of ‘Club 25’ – a nightclub that has been open for the past two weeks, straight. People sleep in the place and you can order food in. Darren, nicknamed ‘The Dazzler,’ the Irish guy whose room I am availing of, has gone 52 hrs straight in Club 25, but his friend has done 64 hours straight. I guess part of the reason people stay there so long is that it’s so difficult to get into – the criteria for admittance is somewhat esoteric, with neither modeling credentials nor a 2010 Ferrari, nor an upcoming record contract being a guarantee, so once you’re in, you won’t want to leave. On my thirtieth birthday, last Thrusday, I went to a charming Moulin-Rouge decorated bar with an American Girl I had met through my Greek room mate, Xorgos. Xorgos’ sole ambition for the past five months has been to release 30,000 helium balloons into Alexander Platz subway station. The place was lit by candles, had Persian-style rugs and cusions, and the barmaid, dressed in a red and white polka-dotted blouse, served whiskeys generous enough to make a camel drunk.

Everybody smokes in the bars. A law, passed a few years ago, banned smoking in bars, whereby the bar owners promptly refused to pay any attention and the law was quietly taken off the books. Everybody too, seems to be an artist, writer, musician or journalist - though whether professionally, aspirationally or something in between is anybody’s guess. On Friday night I went to a gallery exhibition opening in some sort of post-apocalyptic setting called ‘Tape Modern.’ Walking through a low-ceilinged corridor wallpapered with stark black and white images of cassette tapes , I took a left into a massive warehouse space holding pieces of contemporary art while savage techno and dry ice pumped into the atmosphere. In another section, a tree made of painted 1x6s spread its ‘leaves’ over a throng of ravers dancing closely together in packs. Upstairs I found myself dancing to some friendlier House music.

I’ve had no trouble meeting people. English is the ubiquitous language of a town where on any night one meets Chilean, Colombian, American, Australian,Irish, Romanian, Russian, Spanish, Pole, French, English, Turk and the odd German. The party is always going on and it’s just a matter of when you want to go back to it. On Saturday I went to a barbe-q marking the end of summer, held by the great Minch, a gentle giant from South Dublin, and enjoyed many fine Wurst and marinated chicken. After drinking in the park we went to a film premiere and mingled with the trendies. I made the rather unorthodox move of trying to watch some of the movie, and after ten minutes, I discovered the people were actually speaking English in a scenario where ‘Art’ is banned, and gangsters peddle knock-off Mona Lisas and Lalique vases, avoiding the Gestapo-like authorities. Much of the movie was filmed at double speed and most people rightly paid no attention to it, instead browsing the ebb and flow of dilletanti. Afterwards the inevitable techno was aired, the quality of which was off the hook. Detroit-influenced, lots of syncopatic side-beats, very industrial feel. I danced to my heart’s content with a Chilean tango dancer and further exploring found an adjacent building with louder, housier techno and a makeshift bar in the basement. I met a pretty Navy officer living in Hamburg dressed like Tom Cruise from Top Gear, who really looked like a fish out of water amongst the bohemians, something I didn’t think was possible.

It’s a goal of mine to move into a new apartment, as where I’m living is literally sucking the life out of me. This is no mean feat, as the demand for a place in hip-heaven Kreuzberg means that landlords have a choice of tenants, and since I don’t speak German (yet) and have no credit history or proof of employment, I’m at the bottom of the pile. Although it’s a little against what I had in mind, I may have to move in to a shared acommodation.

Work is not going well, the different time zones and distance being a barrier to communication, and I’ve had two articles rejected for improper content. It may get better in the long run, but I think I will look into English-teaching or Tour Guiding, which seems to be a staple amongst the Irish guys I’ve met. The fact that I cant resolve the connectivity issues between my computer and the network in the apartment means I find myself writing the articles in a crowded and smoky Internet café, which is a little dreadful, if not completely hellish.

I am still a little perpelexed over the decision to move here. While partying is fun, I don’t think for one minute it can justify alone the decision to leave Sam, Erin and all the bright hopes of an American dream in sunny Boulder. Being surrounded by so many genuinely creative people, in a city that lives and breathes art, makes me want to just concentrate on that. And a week ago, I finished my book, so it’s a potentially exciting time and place to be. Some of you will be receiving the first draft soon for critique. I plan to send out query letters to publishers this week.

Stay tuned!

b.