The Difference
I am dew, the morning meadow,
meandering moonlit amber flow.
I move to sit, sinck into Yggdrassil’s shadow,
paint leaves, grow brittle before I go.
You are fire, the violent high,
Hysteria’s heaving breath, a newborn cry.
Up your tears have fallen, you freed the night,
with white dreams and slow-drowning purple skies.
Shut up and fly
Dear reader!
This is a love letter and I invite you, to join me in admiration of my muse.
Don’t worry if you’re the jealous type: she’s promiscuous, perhaps, but that’s just generosity that will undoubtedly rub off on you, if indeed you also grow to desire her. If so, there is one thing I can absolutely assure you: she will love you back with equal intensity, for ever ready and willing to warm your chilly heart.
She is a symphony.
I remember the first time I came across this masterpiece, six years ago at the least. It often seems I was an entirely different person then, which I cannot utter without a measure of nostalgia - melancholia, even. One thing to remind me that I’m still EXACTLY who I’ve always been, though, I have found in this blissful immortalized moment, which I happily give in to whenever I feel its pull, and (more impressively) also always allow to drift away again without attempting to cling to it, to drown myself in its richness to the point of oversaturation - like I tend to do with awe-some music. I am so careful, because I am so grateful to have it in my life. I hope you will allow me to share with you.
You will find what I’m talking about on YouTube, when you search for the following: ”Ólafur Arnalds and Nils Frahm live improvisation at Roter Salo”.
There she awaits you. And she deserves your full attention too, yet I know that eventually she will grab a hold of you regardless, and show you that you were not going to be done with her after the first exploratory date(s) anyway. If you are like me, she will give you wings, and you will wish to fly.
Clearly, this will be especially liberating for whoever gravity drags down the most.
I, for one, can certainly get horribly stuck in the relentless, merciless feedback-loop-vortex, certainly fucking WAY more often than I used to. And I recognize it in my peers, too. Let us be frank and just admit it: We walk the earth with eyes wide shut. There is more beauty on this planet than we could experience in a thousand lifetimes, and yet we spend most of our time looking at our own reflection, counting and recounting again our possessions and our debts. That sad treasury of failure and accomplishment is just another room, though, and a dark one, that will never see the light of day.
What Olafur and Nils managed to do, for me, is to show something of infinite worth, something that will never be locked away in a cage of fiction. Because it is true, even in the Cartesian sense: behind all the concepts, all the strife and worries and uncertainty, lies something that is simply, undeniably true, and I feel it take a hold of me whenever I watch them perform. That’s precisely what it is, actually: a feeling, undiluted, inexplicable, revitalizing. It burns bright and hot, but it never hurts - unless you try to touch it. It lifts me up as long as I allow it to flow freely through my veins, fills my lungs with soft excitement and my mind with a lucid, concentrated sense of peace. Under its spell, I begin to wonder: What the hell are we afraid of? That we’ll never find the words? Get rid of them! Be quiet instead, listen.
We’re all dialogues, after all.
Are we not so busy building and nourishing our sense of “self”, that we forget we are also “other”? If every man is an island, they are at least islands of driftwood. Self is a synthesis of others! We exist in an ocean of parallel universes, each face a single drop of water. Those nearest to our hearts are at once our greatest source of security and our greatest source of confusion. So close and yet so far... Michelangelo understood! We require each other’s ghostly touch like we do food and drink. Therein lies the grave danger, the mortal sin of vanity: the vain man slowly starves himself to death with his cocky smile... You can just hear the sad jangling of bones as our fellow skeletons switch poses in front of their shiny mirrors, wondering why they feel so empty inside.
Look at a stranger and see yourself. Is this not precisely what Ólafur and Nils are doing? The fact that they are improvising on the spot is stunning. Their performance is like a carefully choreographed dance, yet it is not. It simply appears, crystallizing seemingly out of thin air, suddenly perfect, like a snowflake on a windshield. And what precedes it is equally impressive, as a feat of mutual attentiveness, a careful, conscious interaction between two artists who attempt to forget themselves as their universes come to revolve around anticipation of the other’s patterns. Oh, sweet empathy! Only by means of such unwavering focus and openness were they able to reach the ultimate climactic high, where finally their minds really collide to create something that transcends them both, something singular and unique that spreads its arms lovingly, offering only to make you whole again.
Will you accept?
Bloody Stupid
1.
It all began on a night like many others. The three of us lay scattered around the great marble floor, amongst a mosaic of muddy footprints, (half) empty beercans, and cigarette-buds. It was still kind of dark out, but I could sense the gray of morning slipping in through the tears in the thick, once crimson red curtains that covered most of the side of the room across from me. It made it hard to distinguish the features of Frederick’s face, whose slightly sinister silhouette emerged right in front of me, head bent and motionless, long hair dangling, like a weeping willow. The whole scene filled my soul with equal measures of nostalgia and regret.
‘Did I ever tell you about my father?’
I watched Frederick’s head turn slowly towards the far end of the completely busted-up couch, which I myself sat lazily leaned against with my left flank. We could see Jackson’s legs, from the knees down, stick out from behind it.
‘Did I?’ His voice was hoarse and low, and he articulated slowly, but I noticed a certain urgency in his tone that felt unusual.
‘The skipper?’ I replied.
‘Yea, well, uh...’ it came after a moment of silence, ‘I lied. He’s never set foot on a ship in all his days, far as I know.’
My brain being the way it was, I could not come up with a sensible reply. Luckily, the paragon of solitude that was Frederick decided to engage as well.
‘What, then?’
‘Something way worse. He’s a soap-merchant.’
I laughed, Frederick chuckled. ‘Scoundrel!’ I cried, softly.
‘Yeah, it’s not that. It’s just that he... he loves it. He loves it like a fat man loves... well... fat. Cared more for it than for me, that much’s for sure.’ He stated it slightly hesitantly, but nonetheless very matter-of-factly, like he was reading from a newsitem that lay just outside of his sphere of interest.
‘W’makes you say that?’ Asked Frederick.
‘Man, there’s no question. Thing is, I even kinda get it, too. My grandparents were poor, poorer than you know. Dad didn’t even get to high school. Educated himself, though. Worked his ass off, bought some soap or something, got rich. The business gave him everything he has. Including my mom.’ We heard him exhale. ‘Even me.’
‘Hmm...’ I felt the sound escaping from the bottom of my throat. It was a meagre conclusion to Jackson’s sudden confession, but I had not the capacity to add anything to it. It was not that I did not feel for him, or even that I was surprised. For all the years I had known him by then, he’d hardly ever talked about his family (nor had Frederick or I, for that matter) - which is usually a pretty clear sign. It was just too much to process after a long night of alcohol, marihuana, and the occasional bump of cocaine. And so I fumbled the surface of the floor for my pack of cigarettes, and lit one in quiet resignation.
As I watched the wisps of smoke circle upward, curling themselves around the arms of a rusty chandelier like the ghosts of snakes, finally something hit me.
‘He gave you this place.’
Jackson laughed, and his face finally emerged from behind the couch.
‘Have you seen the state of this dump?’
‘It’s huge though,’ I defended myself, ‘and it’s not like a little effort wouldn’t have made a difference.’ I could see Frederick’s silhouette nodding in agreement from the corners of my eyes.
Jackson mumbled something inaudible.
‘Hmm?’ I uttered it like a question this time. It took a while for him to respond.
‘Look, man... Might be so. Still, he didn’t allow us in here for the love of me, you can believe it.’
‘W’makes you so sure?’ Asked Frederick.
I saw Jackson shifting his weight, throwing his arms over the side of the couch and leaning forward. The messy curls on his head had lost much of their vitality over the hours, and now hung slickly from his temples and over his forehead, partially obscuring his haggard eyes. He made no effort to change it as he gestured around the room.
‘He’s probably been here once, to inspect the property. I know what I told you, but we didn’t inherit a thing. He got the place as a downpayment from a down on his luck business partner, is all. He had his secretary tell me to move in here, over the fucking phone. I’m telling you, he’s just happy we’re keeping actual squatters out until he can sell for a decent profit. The market is shit right now, you know.’
‘Still, he might care more than you think.’ I don’t know why I tried to argue with him. I knew firsthand what it felt like to have a parent despise you, even though in my father’s case it wasn’t for a blinding reverence of wealth or status, but rather an aggressive yearning for booze that, like a tornado, did not hesitate to destroy whatever stood in its way. I recognized in Jackson’s voice the same familiar mixture of pragmatic acceptance and blunted anger that stirred silently in my own gut, yet I hesitated to admit it. I hesitated, knowing that my disbelief would hurt him, but I hesitated all the same. I could see the truth of my sympathetic failure reflected in Frederick’s averted gaze, too.
When Jackson suddenly got up, I half expected it was with the intention to hit me. Luckily, given that he has at least three inches and a good forty pounds on me, he came to a halt a few feet away. There, he turned his hands, palms facing towards me. Both his forearms were covered in ink; the tattoo on his right arm consisted of a solid black surface that covered his arm from front to back and stretched from about two inches above his wrist to about two inches below his elbow; the tattoo on his left arm started right from the wrist and went up to the level of his elbow cavity, and depicted a foggy forest, with thick dark lines depicting the trees in close proximity, and thinner, grayer lines those further away. I’d always liked the second one.
Jackson bent over and grabbed my hand. He made my finger trace the lines of the grayer trees first, which felt smooth, normal. Then, I started following the darker lines. The first one was not smooth, the second one even less so. Every so often, I encountered strange little bumps on his skin, like tiny moles. Focusing my eyes as best I could in the grim morning light, I noticed the skin there was more wrinkled and weathered as well. As it started to dawn on me, he put my hand on his other arm. Here, the marks were everywhere.
‘Shit, man.’ I felt a pang of emotion behind my eyes, and started blinking. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Cigarettes?’ Asked Frederick, almost like a statement.
Jackson nodded once, faintly, as he let himself fall back onto the couch. He pointed at the pack at my feet, and I handed it to him. While he lit one, a silent but true smile appeared on his face. He started flat out laughing while inhaling, which caused him to cough profusely, but did nothing to stop his loud chuckling. I could not help but join him, as did Frederick. We laughed for a while; afterward I stared at the ceiling.
‘Can’t believe we didn’t know.’ I said.
‘Yeah, well, it’s not that interesting, really.’ Came his voice. ‘Went on for about seven or eight months, then it stopped. I’m pretty sure he had a lot on his plate right then, and it coincided with my grades dropping, and me telling him I could care less about fucking soap, and all that. So... yeah.’ He shrugged. ‘Paid for my ink, though.’
‘Hmm.’ I replied. It felt right that time.
We sat listening to the carefree chittering of a blackbird outside for a while; I took a few sips of stale beer; Jackson stretched out on the couch; Frederick reached underneath it for the plate with the powder and started preparing three royal lines. My heart bled for my friend, but all was good in the moment.
As he sat staring at the plate in front of him with the same intensity in his eyes with which a sculptor looks at a piece of limestone, Frederick broke through the near-perfect silence.
‘Why did you tell us?’ He asked.
I could see Jackson hesitating, but after a few seconds he made up his mind.
‘I wanna ask her to marry me.’ He replied.
I was dumbstruck.
‘Jane?’ I asked, stupidly. Of course he meant Jane.
‘Obviously.’ He echoed my thoughts.
‘Damn!’ I uttered.
‘Congrats man. That’s awesome.’ Said Frederick. I agreed enthusiastically.
It took me some time to realize that the connection with his dad’s abuse was not quite clear. So, I inquired.
‘Thing is, I don’t have the money to buy her the ring she deserves.’ He looked at us. ‘Dad does.’
2.
That afternoon, we moved like sheep in wolves clothes through a world that was dyed in the softest shades of orange, red and gold, yet had never seemed more strange and hostile. Fortunately, we were all well acquainted with the feeling of paranoia, and were able to welcome it as one would an old friend. It took us just short of an hour to walk to Jackson’s father’s warehouse/office building, as we preferred to stay on the outskirts of town.
‘I know this place.’ I said, as we stood in front of the structure in the increasingly dim light of the dying day, with our sunglasses on our pale noses and our cigarettes on our cracked lips. It was an imposing building, in the most unappealing possible sense of the word. It was large, square, soulless, angry. It seemed to suck all the color even from its surroundings, like a black hole made of concrete and steel. It was the suburban manifestation of the face of the antichrist, and the huge fence with its aggressive barbed wire was its unmistakable crown of thorns. Certainly not the first place you’d think to break into.
‘One of your dad’s colleagues appreciates the occasional large pepperoni.’ I explained my previous statement. I did not exaggerate either.
‘How the hell will we get in?’ Asked Frederick, practical as ever.
Jackson gestured and we followed him. It was a Sunday; the streets were desolate. We crossed, and stopped at the gate I’d stood before dozens of times. It had a control panel, and Jackson started punching in the numbers. I gazed at Frederick, he looked excited. I myself felt mostly nauseous - yet I was all in. I felt like a dopey Robin Hood.
It took Jackson three tries to get in. At each wrong try, the panel made an annoyingly loud, beeping sound. Both times it caused me to look nervously around, which did nothing to make the three of us look less shady. I sighed in relief as the gates finally opened.
‘How did you know?’ Frederick asked.
‘Corny fucker,’ said Jackson. ‘It spelled sesame.’
I was impressed he guessed that.
‘Your dad must be quite the character, huh?’ I noted, as we hurried towards our destination.
‘You bet.’ He almost sounded proud.
There was a large door in the front of the building, but we walked to its side, more or less out of sight from the street. There was another solid wooden door there.
‘What now?’ I wondered.
‘Watch and learn.’ Said Jackson. He took a roll of scotch tape from the pocket of his coat, and started taping off the sides of the window pane closest to the door’s lock. I shared a look with Frederick, who lifted an eyebrow in acknowledgement of my surprise. After finishing all the sides, Jackson connected the opposite corners of the window, creating an X-shape.
‘Beautiful.’ He said, taking a step back.
‘Done this before, then?’ Asked Frederick.
‘Nah, man. Netflix.’ Jackson replied, as he turned to us.
‘This is definitely a stupid plan.’ I said, with a smile that was meant to be encouraging.
Jackson nodded and returned my nervous smile, then started rolling up his sleeves. He put his bare elbow to the center of the cross, practiced his swing once, and then broke through the glass with excessive force.
‘Ah, shit!’ His voice echoed over the empty lot. It was good as dark by then, but I could clearly see the gash that had appeared right above his elbow as he staggered back. The window had been completely busted out, except for one long, bloodied shard in the upper left corner.
‘You okay?’ I asked.
‘Think so.’ He did not sound very sure. ‘It opens from the inside.’ He gestured impatiently.
I reached inside, fumbled the rotary lock, and swung the door open. With his hand pressed against his wounded arm, Jackson took the lead. Like shy kids in a school play, Frederick and I shuffled after him. The door opened straight into the storage area, where huge cabinets towered over us like giants, all stacked with dark brown boxes that read Vandenberg Soap. The automatic lights flickered as we passed them.
‘Here it is.’ Said Jackson. There was a small adjacent office, door unlocked. It featured a dusty carpet, a plain wooden table with a pretty large aquarium and a coffee machine on top, some chairs, a small bookcase, and a calendar and some framed pictures on the wall. Jackson moved straight for one of the larger frames, took it off, and shattered it on the ground. Behind it was a small black safe.
‘You guys trash the place.’ Jackson urged us on, as he started twisting the lock.
‘Huh?’ I asked.
‘Gotta look like we were searching for a while.’ Explained Frederick, as he pushed the bookcase over, which came crashing down right beside me.
‘Ah.’ I understood, and started tearing up the calendar - a completely useless act that sent a jolt of adrenaline through my body that had me cry out in laughter like a madman. This is awesome! My inner demon yelled ecstatically, as I threw the coffeepot against the wall. I slapped Jackson hard on the shoulder.
It made him hiss out in pain, but did not break his concentration. As I looked closer, I saw the blood dripping down from his limp arm. It had drenched the side of his shirt, and the carpet around his feet.
‘Fuck, that looks bad.’ I said, suddenly sobered up. ‘We should get out of here.’
‘Not yet! He changed the damn combination.’ There was anger in Jackson’s voice as he kept turning the thing ever more frantically. I was starting to get worried, and looked at Frederick for support. He seemed entirely oblivious of our entire interaction, however, and was in the process of flipping the table upside down.
‘Stop, man!’ I jumped forward to stop him. ‘You’ll kill them!’ I pointed at the innocent goldfish. He froze, and released the table.
‘Woops.’ Sounded his apology.
‘We have to leave, dude.’ I whispered, pointing at Jackson’s shirt. I saw the look on Frederick’s face change, and he nodded. We both looked around desperately for a moment, until I saw his my friend’s face light up.
‘There!’ He pointed at a dark fabric that lay between the shards of glass, wood splinters and trampled books. As he grabbed it, I saw what it was: a large, black sports-bag.
Thank you, God. I thought.
‘Jackson, let’s move! We take the whole thing!’ Screamed Frederick.
And so we did.
3.
The next morning, our entire adventure felt like a crazy dream. Under the cover of night, we had managed to make our way back to the mansion without too much trouble. Maybe twenty minutes after we had slipped out of the warehouse, we encountered two police cars that hurried past us with lights flashing and sirens off, and laughed away our anxiety as they disappeared in the dark. Ten minutes later it began to rain, which I was thankful for because I had feared the police following the bloody trail that Jackson had left them - like a sinister Tom Thumb. When we arrived home we were all tired out of our minds, either from carrying the relatively small, but surprisingly heavy safe, or from slowly bleeding out. Admittedly, it had slowed down somewhat, but Jackson was still actively bleeding at that point, and I had never seen someone so pale. And so we urged him to call Jane - who works as a nurse - and she came to pick him up despite the hour. He left Frederick and me with the safe, and we fell asleep staring at it from the couch.
The next morning, the familiar sight of the sliver of the universe that we called home was too much for my poor, beaten brain to bear. Mercifully, Frederick had not touched the curtains, and yet the whole entire mess shone painfully bright.
As it rang again, I realized what had woken me up: the doorbell.
‘Its Jackson.’ Said Frederick, who sat squatted down amidst the chaos, turning the lock. ‘You get him?’
As I opened the door to the hall, I heard a clicking sound that made my heart jump. I turned towards Frederick, and his eyes were big as cannonballs.
‘Holy shit.’ I whispered. ‘Wait for us!’
I flew across the hall and threw the door open. Jackson looked like shit, his arm in a swing and his face darker than death.
‘Come in.’ I said impatiently.
Jackson didn’t move.
‘Look.’ He said, holding up his phone.
And there it was, in the ugly yellow font of our local news-site:
Criminally Stupid: Burglars Take Empty Safe, Leave Thousands of Dollars Lying on Top of Office-aquarium