WALLY'S BLOG 2007
  

December 10
ONLY A VAGUE IDEA
where all this is leading. Life vital enough, rich enough with art, creation, action, people. Good people. Super gallery. Rarely bored (boredom, the inherent fault in life since childhood). On the brink of something like success. Yet far more unaccomplished than accomplished, notwithstanding so much accomplished. Plenty of reasons for pride - healthy pride. Healing pride - after so many years lost in space, lost inside. Tides of satisfaction, in out, in out, in out. Inspiration, anticipation, preparation; immeasurable investment. Accompanied still, often enough, though less sharply than ever, with doubt - that doubt beaten down, drowned in guile - followed by reflexion, limbo: cynicism and void. Increasingly, the urge to

a) be lazy, watch tv forever, read an occasional book, retire; escape the sapping stress of running this idiotic fantastic project with only fluff in the pockets.

b) breakthrough and smash the world into its best bits.
​
What's it all for? Dumb questions, easy to answer. To suppliment all the chunks missing from the heart. Twenty years ago, most always in fact, that was impossible through art, or anything else. But now, claps on the back, at least. At last. "Hey Wally, great party!" Hearty and often. Winston's Dog, a rare visitor since Kopischstrasse began to function three years ago.

But not that rare. There is no magical cure. Only relief through activity.

ACTIVITY ACTIVITY ACTIVITY

Words are harder to organise. Need a lot more; more time, different drugs. Can't do it - can't write - used up somehow. Begin to hate all computer work. Seems impossible even to jot down major events, even fractions, of this year's history. So I hardly try.

The point of life is, continually and actively to search both universes, the inner and outer, for the point of life.

Better not stop to think.

(Still hungry most days. Not directly a factor in depression, but certainly contributes to lethargy, frustration, non-accomplishment.)

October 5
THE INTRODUCTION WHICH DIDN'T APPEAR IN THE 3 COPIES FINALLY PRODUCED:
"...NUTS is a new occasional guide to art & music events in and around Berlin's Gallery Wallywoods... Nuts. No it isn't. It is the monthly program of art, music & spoken word events taking place at Berlin's... Nuts. Gallery Wallywoods is now in Weissensee, which is just about in Berlin. Nuts. Weissensee is the cheap new, soon-be-trendy soon-be-thriving alternative bit of Germany's capital rich in three resources; empty spaces, low rents, and the notorious Gallery Wallywoods which has now settled at Weissensee's historic Peter Edel "Culture House"... Nuts. At least until the end of 2007, after which it is yet unknown whether Weissensee's historic Peter Edel "Culture House" will remain a house of culture or a shopping centre... until 31st December events at and around Weissensee's hottest new events & party location... documented... advertised... Nuts... Nuts..."

It is Friday 5th October. Release date is in 2 days. Am taking time out to write the Intro, but difficult without a j. In the early hours of this morning Alesh turns up, a bit less smelly after a dusch in Kreuzberg, to peer over by now extremely smelly Wally's shoulder while he begins (yes begins) to assemble in Photoshop the various bits of material scattered between his computer, the Red Monster, his head and the litter of his desk, destined to become the limp and Champaign-smudged object of information you hold (presumably) before you. Nuts... destined to mirror new underground trends, as they happen (or shortly before they happen), throughout Berlin and, come to think of it, anywhere else that takes the editors' fancy. The editors, by the way... Nuts. Forget the editors. Just send your material, whatever it is, adhered to the motto "any style, any language" and having relevance here at the new centre of Europe, right now, as Berlin booms again...

"Nuts," says Alesh, as Wally gets carried away with the fantasticness of it all.

'Alesh One' is Wallywoods' new partner since last week. Since he bothered not just to yap about it, but to stick around in Berlin until Christmas to aid a deserving cause, which deserves all it gets. "That's crap," he says. "You can't make a magazine in two days in Photoshop." "With no money," I added. "Is it that bad...?" and after a little consideration, "Ok, it's crap; but I told everyone it's gonna be crap, and not expect too much of the first one. It HAS to be black & white..." "Forget it," says Alesh, "Just cancel it for now, work on it later. Let's make a flyer for Sunday. I mean, if we make a magazine, it has to be a FUCKING GREAT magazine. And this... Well, I don't know if I want my name on it."

The problem was, as Wally gently explained, it IS possible to make a magazine in two days. But it is EXTREMELY difficult, indeed painful work, without a jointski in the house. An empty stomach has long since been neither here nor there... "Ah!" Alesh at last agrees. We gotta get you a jointski. But where from, at three in the morning, here on the edge of nowhere. Couldn't be sure the Pub (that mad mad Pub) is open, and anyway, Mad George, back from his rituals, took his bike back, so Wally can't even get to Dealer's Park. Even if he had any money. "Ah!" exclaims Wally, "let's phone Thingy and get her out of bed, she'll cross town from K-berg when she hears how serious the situation is." Problem was, loitering in the phone box outside with a few actual monetary coins found under the fridge or someplace, Thingy had knocked herself out with her own nightly ritual and could only, between snores, promise to visit the next morning.

Well, it's afternoon now. Still no sign. Wally spent the night battling with style, cheap technique and bad-to-boring taste in Photoshop whilst Alesh slept comfortably on one of the dozens of sofas now stuffing the gallery. In the morning Wally retired, absolutely sober and absolutely convinced he was on the right track...

"Nuts to the magazine," he mumbled, passing out on another sofa. It's the contents which count - and the contents are the gallery, and all the gallery gets involved with...

The current Wallywoods exhibition is (or was if you missed it) "Invention". After three hard months clearing the dirt of years of disuse (called "Hexenkessel" it was some kind of sex restaurant) and four successful, though under-visited, under-promoted, under-financed and absolutely un-supported by any cultural organisation outside Wally's personal dole-money and tit-bits from friends like Thingy, exhibitions entitled "10" (ten artists from 10 lands), "Spirit" (6 artists), "Apocalypse" (6 artists) and "Utopia" (6 artists - all in fact the same artists, due to general lack of artists who love the project but can't get their arses all the way out here), and umpteen performance, music, noise and reading gatherings including THE UGLY AMERICANS (naturally), GRAHAM CLAYTON FROM THE OTHER SIDE (UK & D & sober), RICHARD DE BASTION (UK & old-timer), LEE VIAJERO & THE EDGY DRIFTERS (USA & co-organiser of Wallywoods Rock Art week), HUGO RACE (Australia/Prague), LADY GABY (Australia/Berlin), THE FESTIVAL OF LIGHT (ditto), TIM MCMILLAN (from Naked Raven), MARACHOWSKA (from Siberia), GEORGE NICKELS (from Hell), GEFFEN3 & ALEX TORNADO (from Another Country), ALAN LAYTON (from UK & "Stories in Colour"), BABEL EMBASSY (Wallywoods Best Live Act in Berlin 2007), The INNENSASSINEN ORCHESTER (quite the opposite but fun-crazed German avand-gardists), INCAL (Astrosoph lectures), BORDERCROSSING BERLIN (English language writer's club), DAVID HULL (fellow ex-pat), BIG DADDY MUGGLESTONE & JESUS PRICE SUPER RAHB (escaped from USA), DJ FRANZ UNDERWEAR (brand new from Italy) & DJ JACK (Berlin, naturally), the *Leerstandsinitiativ-Weissensee's Benefit Party for Wallywoods with local incredibly loud primitive-rock band EKKE who now practice Thursdays at the gallery, Wolfe's birthday disco, a nice visit from Verushka (Blow Up,1966) who lives around the corner; and while we're dropping names, the Mayor of Weissensee...

NUTS. Only joking. Not even the lady upstairs who organises the scarce events program for Ghost House Peter Edel has popped in for a cuppa tea. She's still livin' in the DDR.

Whereas Wallywoods, described by a dear friend once as

"a classical punk art revolutionary movement based upon the 10 (actually 13) "Principles of Wallyism", which may be summed up along the lines, "everyone's an artist" or "even if you ain't, art improves your existence", involving all media, influenced by all other movements, adaptable to all environments, committed to finding spiritual, psychological and physical spaces in which creativity and positivity are encouraged to flourish beyond expectation, and solutions therefore, to all imaginable problems, are tackled and eventually, even easily, solved.."

lives everywhere and nowhere.

NUTS. If we're kicked out of this Utopia of an all-arts space, it won't be through lack of trying.

Paradox Paul

(Quick spell check, then back to Photoshop where 4 sides are already complete)
(Fancy that, Microsoft Word Spell-check translates Weissensee as "Essence")

September 29
ROCK ART WEEK
is taking form. One of the numerous and varied events Wally is up to his neck organising, now half way through the first and quite possibly last Peter Edel term. If Katja and I are any way successful in our new promotional attempts, the next three months should take off. Amazing stuff going down in Weissensee's "coolest gallery". The first three months have been too quiet. Mainly, it is the artists who are too lazy to come out all this way.
This to Phil H. today, who's organising with me R.A. week:

Hi Phil,

Yes, I like Prima Primo a lot. They could play on the Monday, Tues, Weds or Thurs. Hopefully Babel Embassy will also confirm one of those dates, they're also electronic sounding - the two could play on the same night..
Will you ask Prima Primo if they want one of those days?

Regarding your own doings, that's totally up to you - just tell me soon what to write, like L.V. for the 3rd and L.V.& the E.D.s on the 10th...?
And yes, let's persuade Dave Clemmons to play at least with drummer.

Last night, local Weissensee band "Ekke" played here with full drums - primitive rock - LOUD!!!! as fuck. No complaints. Not amazingly good, but friendly, fun, and only 5 songs or so. We should invite them for Rock Art week?

And don't forget to please (SOOON) get in touch with the bands who don't yet have the gig showing on their MySpace - if there are doubts, it's silly for me to put them in the magazine, which I'm putting together this week.

Otherwise, all hunky dorey.
Next year, let's do "Wallywoodstock"...

P.P.

September 17
STARVING
so Katja invited me to potatos and mincemeat rolled in black peppers followed by chocolate-coated vanilla sponge-cake. Chatted (about local literature, and about the Art Pub and that sickening Wieland, who has rediscovered it) and drank water because she's off the booze since the accident, whilst zapping through numerous movies interupted by tireless assaults of crappy German adverts.

Wonderful. Homely. Short-lived.

Hard times back here. Especially with Cecile, my unpaid nanny, off in the homeland for a month or more.

September 16
SICK
from financial worry and the resulting gallery challenge, so spent a long rumbling night sucking herbal tea-bags whilst clicking around that stupid-brilliant YouTube. My loose theme of the evening, for a healthy change: 9.11. Mentioning this to Tim McMillan, who has just confirmed a 'secret concert' at the gallery and one at the Pub (don't talk to me about the Pub, today at its one year anniversary), he asked me in all seriousness what I make of it all. I sent him this:

"As if another opinion matters:

I believe the Twin Towers collapsed as a direct effect of the planes hitting them. The planes were flown by America-hating religious fanatics. Whether any of them were double agents is beside the point, anyway I don't believe they were.

WTC-7 (overshadowed by other events - but in most other cities it would be one of the biggest buildings) was "pulled" on instructions from its owner Silverstein, who apparently made a massive fortune as a result of the whole affair. Impossible was clearly to have rigged the building to demolish it on that chaotic morning.

As for the Pentagon, no major pieces of that plane were found or offered in evidence (though that does not mean 100 percent that that plane did not hit it).

A conspiracy did take place. Mainly afterwards, to cover up enormous, costly, even ridiculous blunders made by the government and many of its major agencies for years before and since.

Among the endless outstanding questions, key for me is what happened with building 7.

Any clearer?

(Nope)

Wally."

Might as well qualify some of that (as if it matters).

It may well be that no other steel-structure building has ever collapsed through fire. But no other steel-structure building was ever so fucking big as the Towers - each about a New York block in area - and therefore as massively, unbelievably heavy. And no other such building was ever hit full-power by fully-laden passenger aircraft. As commonly quoted, it is true that steel only melts at x degrees. But it is also true that at a temperature of significantly less than x degrees, the steel, and therefore supporting capacity, is significantly weakened. With x number of core pillars destroyed on impact, and the following raging fires weakening and bending the steel skeleton, the incredible weight of all the floors above impact was simply too much to bear. Soon as one floor gives out, you truly have an unstoppable force, headed, where else, but straight down. As for the demolition "squibs" occurring shortly before collapse, refer again to the tremendous kinetic energy going on inside the guts of these buildings in their last minutes and seconds. Lift shoots, ventilation ducks, gangways, all outlets through which boiling air, liquids and gases will seek to escape under great pressure however they can, not to mention (to a lesser extent) technical units like generators and electronic equipment going up in secondary explosions at the climax.

But. Adding paradoxically to any sceptic's ammunition that the Twin Towers suffered a controlled demolition, Silverstein clearly and candidly admits giving the instruction to demolish, or "pull", WTC-7. Just watch that bit of interview footage, a couple of times if you need to. And in this case the film and sound footage, and all other evidence, including the pre-knowledge of the block's demise by numerous servicemen, points to a demolition by engineers. Later, attempting to cover his blunder, he stupidly suggests he was referring to "pulling" the firemen (out) because of the danger to them. This is clearly not what he originally says and means. Besides which, there were no firemen in building 7 to pull out.
Detracting slightly from the point - or maybe not - during the insurance claim, quite sure he is going to get a return of three and a half billion (from an outlay of some millions) he decides to go for double-money by calling the attack two separate attacks - and wins easily his 7 billion dollars. I believe this is called profiteering.
It's amazing Mr Silverstein he hasn't received the good duffing up he deserves.

Flight 93 apparently crashed in the woods. Maybe. Apart from one small crater, show me an engine, or anything in fact "larger than a phone-book" as one reporter early on the scene put it, expected to be found at any major crash site. Regardless of how far or locally spread, the fact that nothing but small shredded bits and pieces remained, put that "crash" into the ground somewhere between hardly likely and impossible. (Had it sunk in a lake, wreckage should certainly have been detected by now.)

As for the Pentagon... Well, apart from the same lack of great twisted chunks of plane, like two Rolls Royce engines, each big as a fucking bus, which would not melt or evaporate even in a super-intense fire, which there wasn't; the President should lose his job if for one reason alone. The withholding of evidence at a serious crime scene, i.e., the confiscation by his authorities and continuing withholding of all the videos in the surrounding area which they could quickly get their hands on. Add to that the almost inhuman speed with which practically all evidence from the combined sites was cleared away, sold, destroyed, or vanished away under lock and key...

Why? Incompetence? Tidiness? Panic? Fear? Fear of what?

Mr Bush's own fear of the truth, presumably. Or rather, his fear of others knowing the truth.

September 12
DISCOVERED
this write up referring to the grand opening on a website called Tulip Enterprises. No idea who they are...

"Impressions from the new Wallywoods location in Berlin Weissensee. The travelling art space/atelier/home of British artist Paul Woods has landed in a derelict GDR "Kulturhaus" (culture house) located deep in an unfashionable and slightly scary Eastern part of town. The local authorities don't seem to be able to fund art and culture at the "Kulturhaus Peter Edel" anymore, the future of the impressive set of buildings is now hotly disputed. In the meantime, as so often in Berlin, artists can create their famous 'temporary spaces' there. Good how flexible this is made possible, but bad how few of these kind of initiatives get proper funding. Also good how nobody expects "Wallywoods" to set some kind of gentrification in motion. A very busy idealistic sub-cultural impresario, Paul Woods works with a pool of some 150 maladjusted emerging talents; his taste in musical performers is superb.
The first exhibition at the new place, called "10", seemed decidedly "unfertig" (unfinished), unlighted and chaotic, the artists seemed a bit unconnected. Yet somehow the whole exhibition worked like one big brilliant art installation: Summer of Love meets squatter Outsider Art, Berlin 1980. You never knew if the whole set up was all very self-conscious or very naive. It sure made a great bohemian party setting, at a very unexpected place. My favorite art pieces were a series of austere logo mash-up paintings by Kai Pohl (Germany), and the truly eerie Lady Macbeth painting by Marie-Cécile Lutta (Switzerland) (*pictured above. Check out her poster work as well.) The musical program was unambiguously fine: the polysexual subversive electronic glamfolk act of Alex Tornado was amazing, at once re-inventing and parodying the classic singer-songwriter stance and mixing it with spoken word elements that require great memory and composure. The Ugly Americans played some great distorted punk-jazz."

"...Very self-conscious or very naive?" Spot on!
Tulip also posted this ugly nonsense (film) on YouTube, explaining:

"The Ugly Americans gave a brilliant concert at the opening of the "10" exhibition at the Wallywoods gallery.
This underground artspace, freshly relocated to a derelict GDR "Kulturhaus" in Berlin Weissensee is the closest thing to Warhol's Factory to be found in the city. Its director, British artist Paul Woods, heads about 150 maladjusted unrecognized local talents. The musicians are the best though. This is my first mobile phone clip; I'd like to dedicate it to Andrew Keen..."

September 9
NICE
Mrs so-and-so, who organises general running of events at Peter Edel (and gets paid for it), caught me sticking a poster for the gallery in the main entrance at the front (opening hours and an arrow to send people around the corner). Rolling her eyes whilst pacing up and down, she was concerned with the amount of sticky-tape I was using, murmuring through a pained look, "Not so much". That's all she has said to me since our first meeting (last paragraph, last entry).

This is indicative of the practical help I'm getting from the establishment here and elsewhere: None.

Kathrin met Frau Juretzka, boss of the Pankow Culture Ministry, last week and mentioned on my behalf the gallery's desperate need for assistance. Answer: "too late to bother applying this year, and next year you're not in the Peter Edel building anyway, so no chance."

I will continue inviting artists to make use of this fabulous space until they throw me out of it. The documentation (photographs, film, published articles etc.) as well as the attention and respect Wallywoods is at last receiving from scenes across Berlin and further, should help -
no, must help - land another gallery space as soon as possible in the new year.

September 5
THE WEBSITE
right now looks like this: (website snapshot)

Been here a bit over two months. Time spinning on by. Realised there are less than three months before the contract runs out. Is of course the possibility to stay on, formally or informally, a month or something longer. Six months would be great, though unlikely. Twelve months, and Wallywoods is definitively made. No question at all. But the bastards want to sell out, to some big bucks investor-in-the-community (sure); who cares who. Culture be damned, gimme the bucks. Politics and nonsense.

Why the snapshot? Clearly, I'm not getting around to writing. So many holes in these diaries, they reflect my life about as well as the article in ExBerliner this month: "..has lived in wonderful Weissensee since 1992..". Crippled financially, with time running out, all I can do is compute this series of imaginary events and try to get the people out here. Yes, crippled indeed, tied to the computer. Health diminished after every marathon bout - just like the old days. Am, however, reading in public whenever I can. Confidence growing - as I starve. Kai and I did on Monday at Burger what we should have done in front of a bigger, sexier audience that time at Bastard. We read "Scarecrow", just published in the new Floppy Myriapoda. Was fun. Fun too was reading from "Lounging Lad" at the English writers group. Went down a treat, Katja reckoned, watching the jolly faces. She didn't understand a word.
Well, so what if it's not getting written. I'm having so much fun, beating this new respectable path. And the rewards will fill all gaps.

Cécile is home on an Alp for a month. She sent me some cash in a letter. I can't afford the public transport fare to go pick it up. Only just paid off the last fine. No idea how. Meanwhile, I'm funding a high profile arts project, in a high profile arts centre (don't laugh, it's a ghost house, I know), with my dole money. Without a doubt - not only to my mind - the trendiest gallery-stroke-events-location in, honestly speaking, piss-limp Weissensee. Gateway to Nazi Land, some will insist. Have rarely seen one myself, as I rarely go out. Anyway, they don't visit art. Not so far, (unless those two creeps are the real Macoy: "Gallery wie bitte? Gallery wat? Vallyvutz? You are now in Germany!" He was a real creep. I said, "I am not calling my gallery, Gallery Hexenkessel.."). If I met one, so what. Wouldn't be the first. They are the smallest problem in the world.

Biggest problem is, how many poxy skinny black and white flyers can one print for a looming event on a budget of one Euro thirty (discovered with joy in the donations box, at the end of another twenty-four hour, stay-alive day). Forget it. Treat yourself to another mini-pizza.

A note on the Peter Edel Culture House. They said I should speak to nice Mrs so-and-so when she gets back from holiday, about putting a sign on the front of the house, and possible use of one of the three pianos in this building, (I heard one played through the ceiling once - just once), for kids lessons we want to start, and various gallery functions; not to mention my own desperate urge to play and practice. I heard she was back at work and went up to introduce myself. No, the pianos can't be moved, because being pianos, they might get damaged, and would certainly need tuning. I swallowed, but hardly flinched. I invited her to pop down and visit me in the space, which she hasn't seen yet, for a chat about this and that. She said she was busy at the moment, but would come by sometime. I swallowed again, and suggested an appointment. "The week after next," she said, and keeping to her word, she hasn't looked in since.

August 17
MINIMAL
Last night's Thursday reading at the gallery, a cosy affair amongst eight candle-lit die-hards (would have been ten, but Mr Grant couldn't change his shift and ExBerliner didn't turn up), comprised some camp-fire songs by Big Daddy Mugglestone, Clive (almost sober) and
Alan "SiC" Layton; and two short texts, from Cécile and myself. We had agreed to write about a particular evening last week, but neither had managed to finish. I had planned to expand upon her aptitude for exploding for no just reason, but in the end, never felt like putting the knife in. Cécile's piece is part of the massive diaries she's been scribbling every day for many years:

"Found my bicycle. It was standing in front of the King Kong Club, as I remembered. But the other day I was on the wrong side of the street.
What a funny evening. It started at Hazelwood. Leave my house and I feel I am in a strange mood. Like being in a bad mood, and aggressive. Don’t know why. But I don't take it seriously. Take the U-Bahn to get there. Arrive and call Paul, and he says we are there in ten minutes. I ask who is we? He says, Jack and me. I ask, why is Jack coming? That’s where it started. So they arrive and we enter the place. I was in a good mood. Paul was the first who read and the microphone was so shitty, you couldn’t understand a word. But Paul continued reading. After that I went to speak to Rob, who is the responsible person, about the microphone. I complained later again. When another reader started to read, I went towards him telling him he should work without, so we can understand him, with the microphone we can’t. I shouldn’t have done that, should have sat quietly and not interfered.
Went to the bar for a wine. Everybody was speaking in English. So with the barkeeper I spoke in English, he spoke perfectly. Then a waitress arrives and suddenly they spoke in Spanish. Immediately I started to speak to them in Spanish. And it turned out the barkeeper was from Portugal. And everybody thought I was from Argentina. When it turned out I'm Swiss, they were a little disappointed. But anyway, very nice.
I go to the loo. Come back and the young lady is already reading. I can’t go for another wine. So I stand behind her in a bad mood. But I didn't yell or scream or become loud in any sense, no, just stood and listened. Didn't like her text. But all these feelings just happened inside me, I thought.
But Paul took me outside, he had to talk with me.
He had to talk with me about my weird mood. But at that moment I felt ok, so what is the problem? My mood bothered him so much, that he didn't feel like going back to read his second part. He felt bad and too insecure to read more. Again, I was too much for him. Now we are outside and we will never go back. We walked through the park, we sat in the grass and we were arguing. I now got loud, and felt ridiculously attacked by him. Didn't understand why my mood can affect him so much. So much that he can't finish his reading night."

P.P.'s version:

"New poet on the block Robert Grant (UK) turned up at the Pub Monday before last, for a beer with Xarkos (US), who has read with us once before. They were there on other business, not for our little reading, which almost didn't take place, as it was late and almost no-one had turned up. Around eleven, that's a couple of hours later than usual, we were half a dozen, so with a nod from Thomas we strutted our stuff never-the-less, and the guys were happy to join in. Rob enjoyed the informalities so much, he invited Paradox Paul to take part in his new 'Beat Street' poet's night on Tuesday, a week later, at Hazelwood, that nice restaurant-bar diagonally across the park from the Pub. This flattery from Rob's blurb, describing himself, Andy Snelling, Xarkos Ataktos, and:

"Paradox Paul has just had two texts published in 'Bordercrossing'. This talented poet, writer and musician is a welcome guest to Beat Street and will be performing both in German and English. This clever, satirical poet is not to be missed!"

And indeed P.P. did take part, reciting 'Bucket' as the first to go on, accompanied by Jack, his new Lieutenant at the gallery and regular short-storyteller in German, who followed up with René's translation of the same story. After the others and after a break, Cécile and I would perform 'Scarecrow' together; though, we agreed, not using the hideous sound-system through which Jack and I had hardly been understood. The room is small and the audience perfectly attentive, and the crappy microphone had been seriously unnecessary. (My mistake and lesson learned: never perform first in a new situation.) But it didn't come to Cécile and I because one of us had a crises - which one is a matter of pure opinion - and we had to leave, without a word of excuse or apology to our polite host and all his polite guests.
In the street shortly after, Cécile's mood deteriorated from foul to full-blown tantrum with screaming fits, drawing looks of careless amazement (and a bit of sympathy for me, I like to suppose) from the surrounding coffee and cocktail-drinking Prenzlauerberg society, prettily massed outside the countless cafes in the warm evening. I was fairly sure she could yet be heard through Hazelwood's open windows, and painfully managed to lead her further away, ending up in Dealers Park, where she finally came down, on the soft grass, beneath a few wispy clouds and nine stars (she counted nine. I counted ten, but felt too exhausted to disagree)."

Besides that, tonight is the closing party of the first exhibition. The Tornado heads the show, supported by some Uglies and whoever else feels like making a fool of themselves. No money for drinks. Have advertised an auction, and may well get wrecked enough to sell Cliff Falls for fifty bucks - if anyone we know could be persuaded to part with such a huge sum...

August 6
SPIRIT
Coming down now, after a whopper of a learning curve, since the end of the Kreuzberg gallery. More than one curve, on various levels, making for a whopper of a roller-coaster ride, as I've mentioned here before, albeit in little detail. Moments close to flip-out, close to breakdown. Until, a little over a month ago I felt, indeed knew, everything would change again; fundamentally, spiritually, as the New Plan finally and neatly fell into place, to subvert and greatly improve upon last years New Plan. Though, of course, things we know now could not have been forseen last August and September. We were all learning together. Enthusiastic amateurs and friends, on a brave, mad venture. Those friendships quickly and severely tested.

I'm not the only one who's moved on; exhausted, then (now) relieved. As I suspected, and intuitively intended, with the appraoch of Peter Edel, everything did change. Life leaped to a better place. Yet, much remains the same. Basic hardships and worries in the pit of an empty stomach, at the back of a hyper-active brain, from which it seems there is never escape. But nothing intolerable. All stuff gone through, and survived, before. Again and again.

A new place to be at, this place, that's good. VERY good. Practically living in a pretty park; quiet mostly, healthy even, when I step beyond the terrace into the sunlight and the breeze. A stone's throw from the city we all love and only partly hate. The Pub <i>drained</i>. Turned me alcoholic. Was almost impossible from the start. But true to style, I rode it to the last. Battled for it like an idiot officer in an idiot army. No other options - until this one shot up. Optimistic until an inch before the Pub's end. If it <i>has</i> ended. Thomas is still there, doing his best, doing his damndest; and I really wish him well. Soon enough will tell. No longer my worry. Various reasons to feel detached, now, from the Pub; ...detached, nonchalent, after all those hysterics and let-downs. too many to list. Regardless of how good the good times were, the people, the events. The artists, musicians, writers and others, from Germany and everywhere else. Too many to remember (I wrote about almost none, the task too great): classic little evenings, intimate, thrilling, romantic, experimental, avant-gard, astounding, productive, drunk. Jason's birthday party. Marachowska's birthday party. Angel's birthday concert. The Jacobites without Nikki. Bruno's son on his debut, Bruno released from the hospital for it. Horse and young Zorro - Zorro, heaping shame on Wally, smashing the first Pub organ to a pile of wood, plastic and metal on the floor. Barman Karl, graffittiing bar and walls. The Uglies, blasting guests and neighbours into Wallywoodsian frenzy. The lady performer nights, all those stoned lesbians. Lee's stony-faced student friends in shock at that rude Alex Tornado. The antics of rare German comedy group Anarchopower, and the weighty words and steady presence of Papenfuss. The serious silliness of Stories in Colour. George Nickels' toilet party. Martina and Michael's 'Ex-Con' fortnight. Freespirit, arriving from Austria expecting bed and food, to play in front of approximately no-one - twice! And troups of other first class artists (always heartened by the quality of those we, somehow naturally, attract) who have exhibited and performed at the loved and disputed 'Fart Pub' since that crazy opening bash almost a year ago, during which Wally sieg-heiled everyone present and dear Cécile went missing.

As for the future of the loved and disputed Fart Pub, various scenarios have arisen, in reality or elsewhere. Some Indians will take it on, for a handful of peanuts, to make a restaurant. Well, I like Indian food. Or someone else; even someone close. Now she would do a super job. With a fresh start and a new lease of Wallywoods support, it could still be the hit it almost was at birth. But wait - it was a hit at birth. It just got strangled over the following hectic and strenuous months. Because Wally was not in charge. Truth is, Wallywoods should take the place over immediately. Turn it over and slap it back to life. Previously a form of mutiny, this has long been in my mind, if not in the stars. Cheap as cards, all set up, know the place inside out. Couldn't fail... Well, I don't have the dosh, and to date haven't found any such support. Incredible a fact as that still strikes me. But I'm here, now, and happy. Wait... Happy? At least, unusually content, unusually calm; and typically optimistic about... just about everything. As for that old case of wind, Money; of course I can't liberate the Art Pub. Wallywoods doesn't have a bean - never mind a can of Heinz Baked Beans (oooh, just don't think about them!). Not here, not now. Wallywoods has hardly ever earned a fiver. So fucking what. That will all change within the next two years. In three years time, five at the outside, I shall be a millionaire. That's the joke I share with my best and worst friends these days. I say it as if I believe it. As if it's clear as a comet I can see before anyone else, as it crashes its way towards us - towards me - through the stars.

The second exhibition here in Weissensee, to open (already!) in less than three weeks, I opted to call "Spirit" - for a convergence of reasons, foremost, my new astrologer buddy (an 'Astrosoph' actually), supporter and forthcoming artist, who calls himself Incal. I don't expect to write much about "Spirit" in these pages - I've written nothing about the first show, "10", as pleased as I am with the results. Eventually I'll post photos - if and when I find Holicska, who took tons at the first party, then dissappeared, more legless stoned than I've ever seen him. These exhibitions, and this space, should be visited. There is a peculiar energy here, already at least matching that of Kopisch Strasse, or the Pub on a good night. Regardless of creepy shopping mall investors, warnings and occasional hints of Weissensee Nazis, financial quagmire, and a new chapter on hunger I've hardly known since before Cécile; I find myself at peace. A well-deserved bit of peace, too, if I may say so.

Things are coming together in odd ways. Moving here has awoken much interest, not only from close aquaintances, a few bods in stiff suits and dresses, and drunkards like Mr Clayton, who lives too close by. I could never have attracted the attention the project is now receiving, had I stuck at either of the two previous locations. This is the perfect gallery space, as well as the perfect club space, within the perfect building, no matter if only till the end of the year. Until then I can do with it exactly as I please. And that's a lot - from just as soon as I get on the net (with big luck, later today). What happens after the end of December will clearly be seen by all who peruse the shifting, unpredictable heavens...

August 5
CREEPY
Sitting, reading crap, as like without a care in the world, in the rocking chair which René from Infamis recently donated to the space, drinking tea from the pot which Susan, of the doomed Tea Room, presented to me on the opening night - that mad and amazing opening night just two weeks ago - in the cosey sitting-room corner established to one side of the wide open gallery doors, beneath the Big Chairs picture which hung so long at the Art Pub - in desperate trouble again since Wallywoods moved on - half-listening to the insects, birds and families on the park grass outside.
A geeky looking, mildly stocky guy stands just inside the doorway. It is twenty minutes before closing time on a beautiful Sunday evening. I assume without much thought that he has been walking at the lake, soaking up the warm rays and pleasant Weissensee vibe - and it is very pleasant just now - and has dropped in out of good-natured curiosity, boredom or cultural interest, as others, loners, couples, small groups, regularly do. Clean grey tee-shirt, clean short hair, nerdy glasses. Clean jeans or baggy shorts (can't remember now - half an hour afterwards). Cocky smile, half-knowing, half uncertain. A step or two inside, and with hardly a glance around this fabulous new Gallery Wallywoods; he says to me, rocking in my chair, breaking off my Steven King with a smile of genuine welcome,

"Ah. They are your paintings, yes?"

German, or close to German, but could be Scandinavian. Immediately, probably without reason, I am guarded. His assumption I consider a stupid one. The many exhibits are blatantly various in style.

"No, just three of them are mine. It's a group exhibition."

"Ah."

He loiters on the threshold, without any inclination to come in further or examine the artworks. I decide quickly he's creepy, but remain, as ever these days, diplomatic, patient and friendly. Besides, I heard some marvellous news last night, a true revelation, whilst with Cécile at The Sameheads enjoyable, even inspiring, one year anniversary party at the new 'Kita' club across town. In very fine spirits then. (More about that revelation next year.)

"Oh yes, greetings from Maria," he says; and I think, oh great. Everything fine.

"Which Maria? Maria Marachowska?"

"No." He grows vague.

"Which Maria?"

I lose his sense, or he does, as he starts to converse in various languages.

"Parlez vous Francais?" (blah blah for a while in French), then "Espaniol? (blah blah..) What language..?"

The German I believe we were speaking was fine, but, "English" I say. Now I decide he is tripping, or a simpleton, or both, or who-cares-what. I've known him not two minutes, and only think, just fuck off out of here, I'm reading.

He says, still half smiling, "Ah English. Much better. That's much better."

After another short, tedious and apparently meaningless exchange, he then says, "But unfortunately, I want to construct a shopping centre here." Pause. Now I am listening. "And then you cannot stay."

"Well.." I pause, too, for some seconds dumbfounded. Absolutely can't tell if he is indeed the fellow we know is trying to buy this Peter Edel Culture House, with as many back-handers as it takes, to construct a fucking great shopping mall where none is needed, or if he simply heard the rumour and is making a cynical but harmless joke.

I can only say, clear as bells, through a wide and hardening smile, "So what?"

Because somehow, oddly, I believe him.

"So what? yes?" he repeats, and now he is slightly at a loss. He simply turns to go. With a "well, ciao," and a half-hearted wave to go with his half-hearted smile, he departs.

I watch him saunter off the terrace and down the steps, still rocking in my chair. Then I stop rocking in my chair and look at my stupid Steven King book, "Cell". It's crammed with telepathic zombie-creatures like him - like that - and then I look at Susan's nice tea-pot.

A little computer break, next, to jot down the bones of what passed between us, like a dream before it disolves. Still waiting to get on-line, so couldn't do much more than that. I spend half my life waiting to get on-line. Only then (early this week I hope, thanks to nice chap Ulrich connecting me to his little office at the top of the building) can I get this project functioning right. Very right, if the early signals are to be believed; and I believe them.

Darkness now descending. Done.

In peace again now, within the light of Jack's candles, stolen from some church, I shall finish both: the stupid book, instead of e-mailing, and the pot of tea, instead of eating.

July 23
SETTLING IN
What a week that was. And what a party. Thanks everyone. The ten artists, of course, and especially the performers, all of whom played for free: A.Tornado, Geffen, Babel Embassy, The Uglies, Lady Gaby, David Hull, Lee Viajero, Marachowska, Mr King, DJ Jack, Frau Phiasco, Johanna X, Stefan X; and Hugo Race for a surprise set. Photos coming soon. Wally's best opening. Wally's best place. Fresh air and endless space. With endless opportunities. Only for six months perhaps, but a leap up the ladder. Drop in soon.

Not on the net or phone yet. Impossible bills to pay. Burocrats to satisfy. Huge floor to scrub. Am as poor as ever. Don't have a kettle yet. So what. Onwards, onwards...

July 2
ENJOYED SENDING THIS:
Dear friends,

I am at last very pleased to announce the unofficial opening of the new Gallery Wallywoods in Weissensee (address at bottom of page):

Tuesday 3 July, 3pm - 9pm !!

I will introduce to the space the 10 artists who are working on the first group exhibition (details below) and begin to clean and quickly renovate.

"Galerie Wallywoods, Weissensee" is 300 square meters, plus terrace, includes lounge and art-storage areas, and is directly on the park. So it's a great opportunity to develop and expand the ideas and principles born at the original Gallery Wallywoods in Kreuzberg (now a legend, as you may have heard). The new gallery will be supported, in the beginning at least, through the generosity of the artists themselves, as well as a growing number of interested parties and sponsors.

Of course there is a lot to do, starting Tuesday(!) So I'll be MORE than happy to accept input or practical help from anyone who can spare a bit of time for a good cause. Sorry - for an excellent cause. Right now, the place is empty, as it has been for many years (like Wally's bank account); there is not even a broom, nor a Besen. Loan or contributions of the following items would be especially welcome:

a broom / all kinds of cleaning equipment / buckets / white paint / brushes / rollers / sofas / chairs / tables / lights / electric fittings / extension cables / a fridge / an electrician / a piano / good door-bolts / a bottle of Champaign!!

Wear old clothes - or none at all - if you want to help get dirty. If you want to drink or sit down, bring own drinks and a chair.

Regarding the first exhibition (in less than 3 weeks!) here is what it says on the website:

"THE NEW GALLERY WALLYWOODS IN BERLIN'S WEISSENSEE
OPENS AT 3PM ON FRIDAY 20 JULY
WITH THE GROUP EXHIBITION ENTITLED: "10"
Presenting 10 artists from 10 lands
with music, performance, DJ and VIPs.
Press release is on its way!"

What it doesn't say is this - hot off the press:

The "10" contributing artists are

Young-Sik Lee (Korea)
Nicolas Vargelis (Greece)
Holicska (Transylvania)
Timur Çelik (Turkey)
Marie-Cécile Lutta (Switzerland)
Zabo Chabiland (France)
TJ Korst (USA)
Maria Marachowska (Russia)
Kai Pohl (Deutschland)
Paul Woods (UK)

So far booked for the live entertainment on 20 July (I hope!) are:

Alex Tornado
Geffen3
Maria Marachowska
The Ugly Europeans

(Contact Wally soon if you wanna perform - just don't ask for any money. Ha ha!)

Drinks service will be performed by "Cocktails on the Road"

However, before Wallywoods puts on its fattist event, Wally needs help mopping the toilets!

So see you Tuesday. (If you would like a private viewing, please phone me first.)

Wally
Gallery Wallywoods
Kulturhaus Peter Edel
Berliner Allee 125
Weissensee, 13088-Berlin

June 28
FUCK
the Verein, enough other stuff to do.

Picked up the keys this morning, stinking of beer - after a long Wednesday booze-up at the now regular and, actually, practically thriving "Lady Chansons" evening-into-morning affairs at the Pub. One of our successes there. More and more lesbians every week. So many talented sexy young singers, of all persuasions and nationalities. Unbelievable. I've put Marachowska in charge as weekly hostess with the mostess. She's brilliant. Then spent the afternoon, with a just handleable hangover, with the lovely and helpful Kathrin and her lovely and helpful man Zottel, visiting burocrats, verging on politicians; chatting between-times at the beer and sausage stand. All fascinating stuff. Only understand half of what's going on. They're putting a lot into this, lapping up the forms for me. They call Wallywoods the flag-ship of their Leerstandsinitiative project. They've even lent me the money to buy a palette of cheap white paint for the walls. I could never in my best or worst dreams do the Amts alone. Thanks guys!

June 26
CONFUSED?
Not really. Just giddy. Overloaded with the burocracy which needs tackling after hearing yesterday that I can have the space in Weissensee for the rest of the year. That's fantastic news, assuming everything works out. What's 'everything'? Where to start... Went to the job centre today to tell them about the plan and ask for information and financial support. Got little information and no support. They said I should come back in July for the appointment which is already booked and discuss it then. Kathrin says I should go straight back and protest, as it's my right to go self-employed when and as quickly as I like. Like before 1 July, this coming Sunday, which is when the lease starts. Should start. I've already begun inviting people to the unofficial opening, though I can hardly imagine having the keys by then. Regarding the contract, which they tell me is pretty good, Kathrin recommends adding an escape clause for myself (there are enough on their own behalf) in case I can't make the thing function due to, for instance, burocratic blockages. Good idea. Let's see how long that delays the process. The people renting - I know by now vaguely who they are - want to be sure I will take care of the necessary Things To Do (their list, not mine), like security, insurance, fixing wires and loose paving-stones, registering with the fire-brigade, police, by-laws police, noise-police, god himself. Says in the contract I am pardoned from paying rent as such, rather basic costs only, which turn out to be 450 Euros a month. Although that's cheaper than we expected, everyone on my side, and some at the Peter Edel house itself, reckon I should pay zero Euros, which would suit my empty pocket better. The rooms, inside a long established 'house of culture', have been unused and empty, but for an inch of dust, for who knows how many years. Along come I with a dense and wide-ranging six month plan, funded wholly by myself as a foreign unemployed artist, detailing how to bring the place to life, injecting new and international art, music and energy into the tired Weissensee district. This at exactly the time it is needed, seeing as the house is sinking, i.e. losing funding (though no-one but Dr Nelken really knows what is planned for Weissensee's most important arts centre), and will probably fall out of state grip after December, to go onto the commercial market, or the top-buddies market, to get turned into a hotel or some bollocks.

Back to the point: Things To Do...

Apart from the above and more paperwork besides (I won't mention here the tangle I've got myself into personally), and apart from the fact that I can't pay my own rent this month let alone pay the materials and help needed to open a new gallery; I really have decided to form a Verein. Soon as possible. Much better chance at tapping, at long frigging last, a bit of that elusive sponsorship money someone keeps bragging is out there for the taking. I'm almost sure Bert will be a member, and that's a huge start.

And, if there's a spark left in my giddy brain, if and when it becomes clear I can move in, there is that little part-time, unpaid thing I do of organising a program of juicy exhibitions and events. People do enjoy them! Me too. Why else would I bother with all this crud? Everyone knows I fucking hate paperwork, applications, grovelling for permission to do Berlin a favour; destroying my health in the meantime. STILL often enough without the money for a pizza. Truth is, I should let the gallery thing happen or not, and go paint that restaurant at Kollwitz Platz - I saw today they've finally started renovating. Earn huge money for putting colour on walls, with meals and drinks and prestige thrown in.

Obviously I'm not normal, because I prefer owning only one pair of trousers and being a 'gallerist' - a word I can't even find in the dictionary.

*Footnote to the last entry: Fiona wanted me to read the "Notes", so I did, but re-wrote them beforehand. T'was my favourite reading till now. In front of a hundred or more people, my right hand and right knee shook so much I almost gave up after the first text. But my voice was calm - amazing! - and I ploughed on. Very pleased indeed. And a big success overall for Bordercrossing Berlin. That night, quite full of myself, I presented the single copy I had been given, proudly inscribed, to "Alan and Another Bookshop". They sell them at St Georges Bookshop, however, around the corner, so I'm saving up eight bucks till I can buy another one.

June 13
DEAR DIARY
Thank you, fairly well. Actually, very well. But often lethargic. I know, I should write more, but I keep getting sidetracked. Well... it's the social life wot's doin me in. Hard to get out of bed. Other than that, nothing to complain about. Summer in full blast. Berliners relaxed, or most of them. I just got another message from the "perhaps, perhaps not" new gallery space. Discussions now taking place within that esteemed house: I will be informed very soon. Going over with a toothpick, I don't doubt, the latest concept I wrote with Katja at her place a couple of weeks ago (click here). Included a list of 230 artists, photographers, bands, solo-musicians, writers and other performers presented by Wallywoods since October 2004. Got them down to ground & facility costs only, with Kathrin's essential assistance; five-hundred and twenty-five a month, which I ought just to be able to afford. Stop. Rubbish. I'm broke as usual. Must pay a couple of serious bills, one of them two-hundred bucks for electricity at Kopisch Strasse I never used - I apparently failed to inform the right computers I was moving out. This nice and irrelevant news from Gerhard, who I bumped into at the Bergman Street festival this weekend. Was living at Cécile's for ten days, while Lukas' mum came to visit at the flat. Just like old times. TV, bathroom, steak dinners and chain-smoked pot. Anyway, good man, Gerhard. Never deserved for a moment what those Sendelbach wankers did to him. Did to all of us. He's now out of the place, too, set up in Wedding or Neukolln or somewhere. Before he cleared out, he had to clear out my crap left behind in the gallery; a couple of sofas, chairs, posters, old food, A.P.S. socks; and Wally's big box of private photographs, I believe (can't find them anywhere); irreplaceable evidence covering twenty odd years of his previous lives. Oh well. They were exhibited once, strewn out on the carpet in the back room there. Wally's an idiot, if I may say so. Half, if not all that stuff, he should have rescued months ago. I need a sofa for my agreeable yet spartan room here in Prenzlauerberg, and another for brave new Weisensee - if it goes ahead. If it goes ahead, everything will change again. Good job. I've emotionally amputated myself from the Fart Pub by now, and need a new great challenge. One I can control fully, and therefore make function correctly. Starting with a group exhibition called "10", as described in the application, of ten artists from ten different nations. Bit of a cliche, but a good idea none-the-less. Will ask them each for donations, to go towards the first month's rent. Everything worked out, just need the damn space. And money. Dream on. Weisensee... Perfect place for a Big Chairs assault. Will design some monstrosities to plonk around the lake. But first the paperwork. Once again I'm thinking hard about finally setting up a Verein, a club or association, getting more bodies involved, with better chances for sponsoring, easier to promote. Easier to sell booze. Katja lives around the corner from Peter Edel, and went sun-bathing in the park yesterday (she gave up work recently, after years of feeding and washing handicapped people) and spotted a little man cleaning the filthy windows. "Them's Wallywoods windows!" thinks she, rightly or wrongly, and phoned Wally, who then wrote the e-mail which prompted today's response: please wait a bit longer, the gods are creating the paperwork.

On Friday I will read for five minutes in the garden at Acud, for the second issue-release of Bordercrossing Berlin. This evening is the pre-gathering piss-up of organisers and others included in the publication, in a flat around the corner at Kollwitz Platz. Besides Fiona, I don't recognise any of the names in the line up. That's how much I read. So, let's see who they are. Main aim of the evening; make sure I can present at Acud something other than the two texts they've chosen to print, "Note on Brown Paper" and "Note on Blue Paper". I sent in ten texts and poems, and they managed to select the two least well finished. Not that that matters - I am indeed happy and excited they accepted anything. (Had they not, a dumbfounded Paradox Paul would have stamped around town in quite a temper, for the rest of the year probably.) What matters, and this I've fast been learning at the Monday Pub sessions and elsewhere, is I read something I am confident is finished and/or good enough to be launched at the world. Otherwise, I stumble, and even foolishly give up before the end. The more I look at the two "Notes", as much as I like them (Dad always liked the Brown one - I imagine for the same reasons the Bordercrossing panel liked them), the more I regret sending them. For the book, they will be re-written in any case.

May 22
MONDAYS
now taking off, slowly but surely, with weekly writers and performers' open stage evenings at the Pub. The Monday after Fiona read, four of us sat on the stage, the only ones in the room, perusing various texts. Xandi's new translation of that old Broken Love Letter to Krisztina was a slog for him, but it turned out fine. Then went through odds and sods with Cécile, who volunteered to translate The Spy; both versions of which we read the following Monday, that's yesterday already, which was better visited and very pleasant. Civilised, like. Readers were chairman Alan Layton, Giles Schumm, Birgit Kreipe, Sir Thomas (he's suddenly started writing short riddle-poems), Jack of Tea Room fame (who read randomly from a book he found on the street that day), Cécile reading a story of Katja Koschmieder's (fabulously erotic, something about priests and petticoats: Katja said after that she had sent Cécile the wrong text!) and Paradox Paul.

Mondays, then, a new high point in Wally's week - especially as the last Kaffee Burger party (featuring the brilliant music and performance from Babel Embassy) was indeed the last, until September.

May 9
BEEN DOIN' A SPOT OF READING
around town, gettin' some practice in. Still don't like it; get too nervous. Took along two poems to the Creative Writing Group last Friday, out there in the West. Decided on the train somewhere over Parliament that "I, Your Bribe" is either slightly unfinished or totally bloody unfinished, and did "That Sticky Place" again, instead. One chap recognised it from the MySpace Bastard recording, which was a bit embarrassing, for uninteresting reasons. But the aim above all was to find a translator for it, and I reckon I did. The young German chap, looks about nineteen, sounds about Oxbridge, volunteered at the end when I mentioned it. He recited a humorous if tedious, tightly-typed, three page rock history of a naughty Spinal Tap-like band called... er... can't remember a thing about them. Cécile sighed and tutted while he read the damn thing, like half the group, who sighed and tutted more inwardly. The text was good however, his English first rate; reminding me and others how we used to write when we were cleverer than we are now. He even laughed at his own jokes, great stuff! Whilst I and Cécile wondered how many times he had ever even been back-stage, his critics gently rebuked him for bringing in a gender of rock'n'roll journalism better suited at "some young peoples place". Well, whatever. What else was there? A learned German, fairly elderly, read some learned German. Again the African lady read, two poems, and again got generally lynched, for the weakness of the first one. After the assault, the last of the lynchers muttered something about the second poem - in all respects, a beautiful little thing indeed - "...blah blah! Blah blah blah. As for the second poem... it's o.k."
After sneaking out at the break for a swig and a puff of something (the only ones needing air - we are rude) we returned, and then I done my bit; upon which a leaden silence descended. Someone mentioned Shakespeare for no reason I could gather; another wondered (rightly) if the thing was indeed a test. Someone else said, had he written it, he would have thrown it in the garbage. Pressing him on this, he conceded, that he wouldn't have been brave enough to leave it in that form. The bright bloke opposite was miffed that this brain-soup was hardly fathomable, "..one must, after all, consider the reader." Yes, yes. Then, gesturing wonderfully, a big old German chap thought "That Sticky Place" belonged somehow to music. He said it should be recited in a bellowing voice in front of a thousand people and then, with the last line, an orchestra should jump into action.
After the fray, forgetting to get the young guy's details, we nodded goodbyes to some of these good people, and left in good spirits. 

At 'Lauter Niemand' on Sunday, Katja read from an old Gegner magazine, A.Krohn's translation of the recently resurrected "Fish Fuck". It's fairly erotic, I don't deny. But Katja, at least, appreciates the pitiful romance, too. Three or four men (two of them younger than I) absolutely did not appreciate the overt and repeated references to sex. No no no no! Too much sex. This is poetry after all; please be a little dignified. With twenty people in the place, half of them women (half of them, fishy as any dream), not one lady complained about the sex. I have no idea what this means. I mentioned (fending off the men) the existence of cynical romantics, like Leonard Cohen. Then a politely accented man from Iraq, slowly known to me now for his abstract, if not absurd, comments, said there could be no such thing. I told him I come from London. The only technical input came from one of the older fogys from last time, the one who said I should chop of the beginning and end off 'Bucket'. This time, he is quite sure, 'Fish Fuck' would work better as a whole, if it lost all the first paragraph.

On Monday, we did another "Stories in Colour" writers open stage at the Pub. 'Twas the best yet. Extremely English despite her name, Fiona Mizani, brought guests (guests!) and gave us three of her extremely English Mr and Mrs stories. Alan, practising happily for his now two-weekly evenings as host, read typical bits and pieces, as did P.P., joined by Cécile doing some of Wally's first diary translations; Birgit read a story in German so touching and so serious, I wouldn't have understood it had it been funny. A young lady with wet feet (most of us arrived during a freak downpour, the sloping road outside gushing towards Mitte), I think she's called Natasha, recited two poems in English and two in German. Lovely jubely! Later, after a bit of piano and song, such as it was (P.P. and M.C.), two young guys stepped up, one after the other, to impress everyone in the smokey, damp and boozy Pub. One done Yeats. Right out of 'is 'ead. A bleedin' great long one, like 'e'd lerned it at some ponsy school. Good on yer, mate!"

I've been invited by Kai, tonight, to storm the K.B. stage, whenever I feel like it, and read that stupid bit of spam they've included in the new Floppy Myriapoda. Its about eight lines short. Hardly worth getting stoned for. However, I asked him to let me know when Bert was reading. And, after another however, with the green light from Cécile, I announced to those left conscious at the Pub on Monday, that I intend take and smash up that useless little synth I bought, sabotaging marvellously Bert's part of the show.

However, however. Don't feel like it now. Have mostly slept for two days, and feel I need a hair cut. Shall sheepishly wait for Bert to finish, shall sheepishly read the lines, then sheepishly leave the stage without a bang. If all goes well.

May 4
ACTUALLY
it was flatmate Lukas, the 3D engineer, who solved the problem and nailed the final version. The English was confusing. He thought the electric cables shouldn't really be dunked in the bucket of water. O.K. Therefore we now have:

"Zurück in seinem Zimmer nahm er die Drähte und Röhren ab die den Motor mit dem Gefrierfach verbunden hatten. Dann gab Er die Kühlelemente mit improvisierten Verlängerungen in den Zinneimer, der Kohlen entledigt und mit Wasser befüllt hatte."

and in perfekt englisch:

"Back in his room he disconnected the pipes and wires which linked the motor to the freezer compartment. He then fed the freezer elements with make-shift extensions into a tin bucket which he had emptied of coals and filled with water."

May 1
WELL UNDERWAY
to getting a bunch of texts, eventually ALL those I reckon are up to scratch, and that's rather a lot, translated into German for P.P.s first book, or books. Could take most of this year. Rubbish. It will take a bloody bit longer. Doesn't matter. As far as the diaries go, Cécile is bashing away at them every day, faster than I write. She says she's addicted. That fits her character as well as my schedule perfectly.

The texts must be checked again and again. (Click here to read some.) For instance, I thought René's version of 'Bucket' was faultless, and it almost was. Until Helge spotted some minor mistakes, now put right. Things I will never notice, including one glaring one. Helge's version of 'Manthing', recently finished after three nights' hard labour, I find a difficult case to decide upon. Technically it's tricky - starting with the title, which sounds perhaps silly in direct German. The perfectionist I am is doubtful about loose translations. The pictures in my head I am trying to describe are somehow too altered, distilled (or do I mean 'watered down'?). On the other hand Helge is one of the best in the business. He knows well my writing and my person. So I will stick with 'Dieses Ding' (a compromise title; Helge preferred simply 'Mann') until a better comes up, or rather, a more accurate. There can be no hurry in this work. Here's a big thanks to all helping so far.

Here's a little correspondence between two piss-head poets:

"Hi Wally,
This is a free translation again (I always prefer free translations). Maybe you should ask another German to compare both translations in order to get a third, neutral opinion: Zurück in seinem Zimmer klemmte er das Gefrierfach vom Motor ab. Er leerte den metallenen Kohleneimer und füllte ihn mit Wasser. Dann verlängerte die Kabel und Röhrchen am Motor, um ihn mit dem Eimer zu verbinden..."

(Compared to René Schwettge's: Zurück in seinem Zimmer klemmte er die Kabel und Röhrchen ab, die Motor und Gefrierfach verbanden. Er zog diese mittels Behelfsverlängerungen bis in einen Zinneimer, aus dem zuvor Kohlen und in den Wasser geschüttet hatte, and the original: Back in his room he disconnected the pipes and wires which linked the motor to the freezer compartment. These he fed with make-shift extensions into a tin bucket which he had emptied of coals and filled with water.)

"Also, I send you a happy German classical Springtime poem which I raped this weekend, transforming it into a depressive cripple bitch:

Er ist's
(Eduard Mörike, 1829):

Frühling lässt sein blaues Band
Wieder flattern durch die Lüfte;
Süße, wohlbekannte Düfte
Streifen ahnungsvoll das Land.
Veilchen träumen schon,
Wollen balde kommen.
– Horch, von fern ein leiser Harfenton!
Frühling, ja du bist's!
Dich hab ich vernommen!

Sie ist's.
(Helge der Hinterhofdichter, 27.4.07):

Schwermuts schwarzer Schreckenszwirn
schneidet durch die Frühlingslüfte.
Ätzend: wohlbekannte Düfte
martern schonungslos mein Hirn.
Teufel lachen schon,
woll'n mich bald verdrießen.
– Horch, ganz nah: der schrille Peitschenton!
Schwermut, ja du bist's!
Dich will ich erschießen!"

"Super Helge, thank you.
I will use it as it is.
Nice poems too. (I like the second one.)
Must run to the witches!
P.P."

"Wally,
What do you mean, nice poems? Of course, the original is nice, stupid!!! It's one of the most famous German poems of all time! And the adaption, written by Helge the Hinterhofpussyeater, is not nice at all!!! It's deep depressive brain-bullshit. But it's okay, I see that you're in a hurry. Say hello to the bitches, ah, witches, and tell them about the golden flower-shower that will run out of my pulsating power-tower when I think of them. A bientot!
Helge, l'idiot de l'inter'of."

"Ps Helge!
Actually, I think your Bucket translation in this case is TOO free! Do you think you could to try again?
Wally."

"Hi Wally!
No second try!!! I squeezed the best out of my brain yesterday and I am just not able to give you a better translation, sorry. However, the free translations are the best, I'm sure! Example: Paul Zech's translations of Francois Villons poems! If you prefer the first (René's) translation, never mind, it's o.k. for me. Ask the neutral opinion of a GERMAN!
Helge."

(Is Helge the Rearguard German in denial?)

April 30
"GOOD EVENING..."
That's how "Willy Blood" starts, which I began tonight, Valpurgisnacht, the German witches night. First bones of a short story attempted since don't know when. Hard to tackle such an over-used subject; perhaps because it comes so easily. Vampires. Ho hum. It's ugly, needs surgery, but never mind. It may one day live, in one shape or other. Regarding the witches, I did indeed meet some. Sexy as Hell they were, later that night at the King Kong Club.

April 25
ONLINE
At fucking last.

April 8
TIME MACHINE WORKS BUT STILL NO INTERNET
​Dear Sir or Madam,

My name is Paradox Paul. I am a conceptual artist from London, currently living in Berlin.

I have invented a Time Machine. I am serious, and it works. I have sounded out the theory on a scientist and an engineer of economics here in Berlin. The technology, as well as the theory and functionality, already exists. The idea is very simple; other entrepeneurs will slap their foreheads for not having recognised the opportunity themselves. It must be pointed out that no great number of years can yet be skipped, but certainly mili-seconds, if not seconds. That is a start. The Time Machine will be a developing and WORKING prototype, and something of an exclusive experience for anyone who can afford a ticket, which will not be cheap.

Again I will state that all the components already exist and are, ignoring my own financial constrictions, readily at hand. The project can be realised, offering "rides into the (very) near future" and generating profit within two years.

As important as the machine itself is a widespread and solid marketting plan and investment. I have some ideas as to whom to appraoch, and will first contact Richard Branson, asking whether he and/or Virgin would be interested in sponsorong the project.

In the meantime, I am testing the waters, hence this e-mail, regarding conceptual and commercial plausabilities; as well as keeping further details closely under wraps.

Whether you consider this correspondence comic or not, I would be interested in your response and/or advice, not least due to my interest in viral marketting.

Paradox Paul
Berlin
13.04.07

I noticed after sending this document that the fucking date is wrong. I did not send it next fucking Friday. Now they really think it's a hoax. Am sick and fucking tired of bumming between fucking internet cafes, rip-off merchants, Paki-shops, half of which can't even set their fucking clocks and calendars right. A few days ago, we actually got internet access here at the flat. Whoopie. Problem is my computer, the Red Monster, won't fucking accept it and needs a massive overhaul. Operating system reloaded, all that. Can't do it myself, too fucking technical. Easier to invent a fucking Time Machine. Can't afford a fucking technician. So Wally, after having no fucking internet since fucking Christmas - hence the booking service and god knows how many other fucking projects have all but fucking died - is fucked, fucked and fucked again. 

The e-mail is genuine by the way. The Time Machine works.

April 6
BASTARD
Decided the night before with Kai Pohl to take part, for the second time in my case and the first in his, in the Poetry Slam at Bastard. 'Scarecrow' we would read, I the English original, he the German translation by Ann Cotten, who I now know is not his sister. Meeting at the Pub at 8pm, Kai was already drunk, in fact still drunk from the night before. "You know, we may not go on till after eleven," says I, suggesting he take it easy. "Don't worry about me," says he, and I thinks, bollocks, who cares, and says, "All right, carry on," which he happily does. We get to Bastard and they are booked up since days, but one or two remember Paradox Paul from two years ago and he gets attached to the end of the list. Problem is, no-one knows in what order the speakers will go on. You can be called straight away, two hours later, or anywhere between.
The first act was three guys doing some god-awful poetry rap with a guitar and a barrage of schoolboy jokes. Kai hates it, me too. But they are the warm-up act, and the audience, mostly girls in their early twenties, react as if they like it. They clap and cheer this nonsense as if all present are old friends, which most of them are. Those three go on and on. It's hardly bearable, and far away in the back room P.P. is getting edgy. There are monitors hanging above our heads, but the picture is badly distorted and the camera, covering mostly an under-lit audience, is filming only half the stage. Then some guy from Dresden rants some stupid crap. Kai remembered performing with him in Dresden, recognising the stupid crap from then. We discuss the plan. I will introduce my colleague as a drunk German, which he likes, as he is unwilling to be named, serious writer and vehement anti-capitalist that he is, in this hall of cheap entertainment, expensive beer, yowling students and cruisers waiting for the disco. Then a lady is called to the stage, but she is still on a tram, and then some other guy, to whom we are also not inclined to listen. "I'm leaving," says P.P. "Absolutely not," says Kai, "you must read your text! It was your idea, that's why I'm here." Ok, maybe he's right. I can hold out a bit longer. Then the next freshman is called up for his five minutes of stardom (five minutes maximum, the rule in this first round), is marked by the jury, and the house is again asked to measure their favour by applauding, howling, booing, whatever. I only heard one 'boo' while we were there, it came from Kai at my side. I was neither stoned nor drunk enough to boo, listen or participate in any other way. "Don't worry, I'm sobering up," says he, over his fourth beer since we met. Another name is called, and it be not Paradox Paul's, so Paradox Paul gets up to leave. "You coming?" "Yes," says Kai, "this is total shit."

So we go to the King Kong Club where Lady Gaby is performing her punky texts in nasal Aussie-English, a black dood, whose birthday it is, leads some youngsters in a horrible jazz combination; and Sister Chain and Brother John, certainly the stars of the evening, get up to do there Gothic thing just as P.P. walks out the door and heads back to the Pub. No money left, no smokes, no patience.

When Paradox Paul was summoned to the microphone at Bastard, those few pregnant seconds of silence, before it became clear he was not in the building, were his poem for the night. A wordless ditty entitled "Bastard".

April 4
HOPEFULLY MARRIAGE
The Fatal Shore's record release concert at White Trash was groovy, though it seems I was the only twit who paid ten bucks to get in. Could have used the other door. Loadsa faces downstairs, including at the merchandising table, Orla's, which is odd, but very nice. I haven't seen it since Bruno's son's debut at the Pub, and only an hour before received and answered an unexpected e-mail. Conrad played this time also, with Chris R., and so did Infamis; but I the twit missed all that. Arrived in time to witness the Aussies' whole show, though, during which they proved again that they are one of the top 'underground' bands (i.e. not blatantly commercial) occasionally caught live in Berlin. A.D.III filmed; so did Bob, and so did Oli, Bruno's old Once Upon a Time comrades. Therein lie the makings of a great little movie. Rock'n'roll history.

Difficult of course to make the 11am meeting today with Kathrin and the mysterious Dr Nelken at the 'Bezirksstadtrat' (city council), a few minutes down the main road, in the complex of red brick buildings I hated so much when on the social there. Remember Frau Löffel? I wrote a poem about her. It was more than she deserved. Anyway, as top dog, Dr Nelken's office was bigger, brighter and more amiable than hers, furnished with antiques and sofas. I understood only part of the interview, which was conducted mainly between the other two (Kathrin's agenda was wider than mine - and less murky), but I was able to present the Doctor, who appeared tired or bored, a hastily made book of photographs taken at Gallery Wallywoods (outlay of seventy-five euros and two hours at the copy shop). We didn't reach the best stuff, how the gallery looked during the last three shows, of which I'm immensely proud; a few pages were enough, accompanied by stumbled, hungover explanations, upon which his comment was something like, "Ok, I get it. You've put on some events." But in the end, it seems there is more than the hint of a chance of using the old bar at Peter Edel for a temporary gallery space: only need to work out a little hillside of technicalities and paperwork. Oh fuck. Here we go again. However, still not yet having seen the interior in question (who knows, maybe it's a dump and I can drop the whole thing), I asked Kathrin if I could, soon as possible, and having a few minutes spare, she drove us over. Last time I saw it from outside in the freezing dark, this time on a sunny Spring midday. The caretaker let us in, and...

That's the place for Wally.
Will need all the help I can get.

April 2
MARRIAGE OR EXECUTION?
Hallo Wally,

ich wollte Dich darauf aufmerksam machen, dass man die Gastro-Einheit im Peter Edel durchaus besichtigen kann. Uwe ist dort heute (Montag) bis 16.00 Uhr und zeigt Dir gerne die Räumlichkeiten. Leider konnte ich Dich nicht telefonisch erreichen, da Dein Telefon abgestellt zu sein scheint. Kein sehr guter Zustand, um als Hoffnungsträger eines in Verfall geratenen Kulturhauses zu fungieren.
Bis Mittwoch, um 11.00 Uhr beim Bezirksstadtrat, Dr. Nelken in der Fröbelstr. 17, Haus 6, im 2. Stock.

Wir treffen uns ein paar Minuten vor dem Termin vor dem Haus 6, dann können wir zusammen hoch gehen.

Liebe Grüße,
Kathrin.

Explained that I still haven't worked out how to use my first mobile phone.

On another subject; I don't enjoy readings as a rule. But I did walk over last Wednesday to hear Mr Pappenfuss at Burger, special guest at the 'ExBerliner' English language magazine's regular evening there. Other featured guest was Alistair Noon from England - I heard he's on the 'Bordercrossing Berlin' panel of editors - who read some of his own stuff, some from someone else (it was often unclear who he was reading at any one time) and some English translations of Bert's material. I imagine the translations were good, but Mr Noon, although he read more, or seemed to, didn't have the master's mesmerizing touch, or gravity, (Bert casts off his phrases and meanings as if from a cliff-top, apparently not caring where they land), and I didn't listen much. The Northerner emphasises the importance and wonderfulness of every syllable, as if afraid we ain't gonna get the whole wonderfulness otherwise (fair enough, his technique worked for the Germans, like A. Krohn, who was surprised and happy he understood everything). Chatted instead to Katja, another active reading and writing fan (there are so many, sexy chicks and all), and irrepressible poet B.Burgess, who is forgiven for wanting to punch Wally out last month at the Art Pub for coming between him and his last beer, though he never apologised for it. When the band started, they were clearly awful and we ended up back at the Pub to get drunk. There, Brian arranged a literary evening with his friend Hal (not present, I've never met him yet) and Bert together, while I mentioned to the latter that I am now collecting translations of various texts to go alongside the originals in Paradox Paul's first book. He agreed I send him some, which I did the next day. They are among the best and worst; at least the most finished: Ribcage, That Sticky Place, Game Rules, Note on Brown Paper, and Bad Words. Curious to know which, if any, he will work on.

Inspired and disillusioned after Wednesday night, P.P. went with Cécile on Friday to posh Charlottenberg across town and a meeting of, something like, the Creative Writers Society, mostly in English language. Katja knew about the group and refused to come along, denouncing it as boring. Well, it was a bit, but not for too long. Surprised (but not very surprised) to find our own Sabine in the chair, which certainly helped as we knew nobody else (I was particularly nervous); then, in front of sixteen or seventeen pleasant and interested peers and professionals, the brave enthusiasts discharged their latest masterpieces and were then criticised one after the other; at times needlessly, at times quite painfully. But I suppose that's part of the sport, which they all agree to and support. The nice lady of African or West Indian heritage who first read her poem, an earthly, motherly thing full of wind, fallen trees and emotional caves, left the circle later on with hardly a word to the others and something like a scowl on her big motherly face. Eventually, butting in somewhat under the pretence that we hadn't much time to 'hang out', as fun as this all was, I was invited to recite my extremely short bit of nonsense, entitled 'Abducted'. It was the African lady who noticed first, a little indignantly I thought, that the spoken words differed slightly to those on her copy of the text (one must bring fifteen copies, if possible, for the others to follow and/or doodle on). In fact, no two copies I handed out were the same. This I put down to the fact that I have never yet finished a poem or a text (perhaps only the Jesus poem); I am always going back over them, so mass printing any one of them makes no sense at all. I explained that each sheet which came out of the printer, I read, disagreed with somehow, and slightly changed. But no noses were broken, and after a deserved break (a beer and a spliff in a posh restaurant across the street) Cécile and I returned in fine spirits. We were starting to enjoy ourselves. I handed Sabine one more text, Man-thing, and when the time came, happily sooner rather than later, a darling of an old English chap called John accepted my invitation to read it, which he fittingly did; he was theatrical and classy. Before Cécile and I departed, the guy to my left asked me to sign the Man-thing script (there were no copies), which most appeared to enjoy, or at least not to criticise into an early grave; and we decided we should come along next time. Maybe I should bring this text. Anyway, the atmosphere was finally friendly and relaxed, unlike the slightly more treacherous atmosphere at the 'Lauter Niemand' spoken word evening we attended on the Sunday after.

Sunday night was fun, though at times very mildly harrowing or mightily annoying. Started at the Pub, expecting to begin the first 'Tresen Theatre', or 'Bar Theatre' rehearsal, or preliminary chin-wag, co-thought-up and organised by Helmut Ruge, the distinguished stage and radio writer, director and performer, and active supporter of his favourite Art Pub in Berlin. Everyone was late. All activities in the first two hours focused on the chess playing between Boss Tom and barman A.Krohn. Kat's recent idea of sticking a performer on a stool behind the bar impressed me so much that I brought my new piece-of-crap synthesiser along to try it out. Yes, it certainly is a piece of crap, but the idea is marvellous and simple. Then Holicska with his psychologist wife and some friends turned up, and though I stopped playing, or because of it, more people arrived than a Sunday has long-since seen, including a brilliant English guitarist and songwriter called Justin Lavash who lives in Prague, recommended by Bob who caught his act the night before in Friedrichshain. Before Justin performed, dear old Helmut read on the little stage René Schwettge's translation of 'Bucket', the one intended for the Bastard Poetry Slam a couple of years ago (I decided then to read something else, chickened-out, basically). Initially I thought Helmut should do the thing behind the bar, following at least some semblance of our bright new plan, but his stint in the lounge was good practice for things to come. Earlier, I had stopped off at 'Lauter Niemand' (English version of their magazine is No-Man's Land) in the same street, to ask the pretty lady who organises it if Paradox Paul could bring by a text around 10pm, with maybe someone to read it. Perfect timing. Justin was done, Cécile had arrived with back-up, and at two minutes to ten she and I wobbled over with Helmut, his good Lady, Helge der Hinterhofdichter, Alan Layton and Sir Thomas, who was curious to know what we were up to.

With perhaps thirty people already there (the room fuller than I've seen it before), Helmut was on right away. Clemens, the quiet, firm and competent moderator, suggested I sit at the front - otherwise, how should I defend my piece in the resulting cross-examination? For in this place, novices and regulars alike are slaughtered every week. However, Helmut survived without being thrown off (sometimes they stop people in full swing, and not too politely). I was glad his rendition was slower, louder and more clear than an hour ago at the Pub (people were unsettled, the bar there was loud), and unusually, I believe, he received a nice round of applause at the end. I shook his hand as he left me in the arena, or on its edge, without a beer or a cigarette, and a long silence followed. Clemens again invited me to take a more centre stage, but I stayed put in the stillness, suggesting there were possibly no further questions. He said, don't worry, they're coming. And then they came, some erroneous comments concerning an apparent confusion at the beginning of the story, almost entirely from one member of the audience, a regular grey-bearded critic and lip-flapper who prefers always the words his own mouth produces and cannot let an episode go without commenting upon it until everyone else is snoring or gone. Joined later by another regular gentleman, they decided between them that the text should lose its ambiguous beginning and ridiculous end. It was all very German, and I had a little trouble understanding the exactness of a couple of minor points they could not seem to drop. My defence at these times is to become Paradox Paul, with his unshakable confidence in the work, something married to arrogance, unapologetic lust for ambiguity and anti-logic, and simplicity, where possible, on answering. With moral support and comic comments coming from Cécile at the back ("What you mean? Walt Disney is frozen in Disneyland!"), Helge at the front ("All right, the beginning and the end are shit, throw them out!"), Thomas from a window seat, normally shy, who enthused surprisingly, especially about the imagery ("You have to see that, it is about a man with a bucket on his head. THAT is the main point!"), and Helmut, retired to the back row with his Lady, who agreed before returning to the Pub that the text, and René's translation, is fine as it is.

The day before going on that mad weekend with Freygang, and right on the last deadline as usual, I sent ten texts to Bordercrossing Berlin, the English language literary magazine (Wallywoods hosted one of their opening events last June). Whether something is accepted or not, it is clear that Paradox Paul needs to continue with these appearances, quietly and roughly subverting dry occasions, challenging constrictions, and spreading the good word that seriously good reading events can be as absurd as you like, creative as you like, and FUN FUN FUN.
I mean, while that last guy at Lauter Niemand was telling us his Second World War fighter-bomber story (he was almost making the machine-gun sounds) Cécile in the back row couldn't stop laughing. As I had hardly listened, so intent was I at keeping her quiet, I asked Helge, was it a comedy, even partly? Certainly not, he said, and we all laughed the whole thirty seconds trek back to the Pub.

April 1
SPAM OR GOLD DUST?
"Dear, Greeting,
​
I wish to bring to your notice an offer to be our international agent for the sales of AU Gold.
My name is willie Frimpong and I hail from the royal family in Takwahregion, in Ghana which is naturally endowed with the highest quality of gold dust in Africa. I have been nominated to represent the whole of the village as the spokesman with the main objective of finding a reliable, competent and honest international buyer or agent.
We the youths of the village as taken it upon ourselves to find a lasting solution to the poor roads, cheap and standard education, rural infrastructure, good hospital and medical care and hygenic drinking water for ourselves and our entire villagers, despite the fact that we are blessed with rich natural resources like gold dust.
I hope you will be kind enough to assist us make this dream of ours a reality.

Kind regards,
willie Frimpong."

(I accepted, naturally, but upon a number of conditions.)

March 31
DEAR SABINE

Cécile and I enjoyed the writers group very much, thanks for the chance.

I came partly to test myself as a reader, something I'm still unhappy about, of course to test the material on living people, but especially here to meet some translators. I'm slowly putting together a selection of texts, to be published as a small book, each of which will be accompanied by a German version. I have five done already, that's a start, and would like to invite others to work on more.

Would you consider translating something? There are cynical pieces and fanciful pieces, and I would suggest sending you some of the latter, if you agree.

As for John, I would love to invite him to translate 'Man-Thing'. Do you think he has the time? I never met him before the writers group; do you have a contact e-mail or number?

In the end, I have so much to translate that the book will only happen if I can get a number of others interested. I could mention this at the next meeting, when is it by the way?

Best bald,
Paradox Paul.

March 26
MORE NIGHTMARES
Wonder if the room is haunted. Don't believe in ghosts as such, but if something terrible happened up here, could be I caught the residue again. First time was the night I moved in, or the night after. This time, goose-bumps in the cold (the oven had gone out) and dreams of a man in a long grey raincoat and Bogart hat, looking in through the window, like a Salem's Lot vampire, or standing near the door. A murder, a knife through a bleeding book, into an unknown victim. Teeth and jaws chattering uncontrollably with fear, turning to hysterical laughter and staged fun. A woman, don't know who she was, thought the book itself had been murdered, hence the blood which flowed from it. Somewhere there were children. I remember little more. Struggled, half awake in the dawn light, to shake it off, and not turn on the bedside lamp. Anything could have happened here. On the other hand, my rhythm and senses are all mixed up. Get feelings like this usually after going to bed not totally drunk.
Emotional brain-fuck.

Clocks went forward yesterday. After a late bout of freezing wind and sleet, the sun has arrived again with the Spring. Not that I see much sun. Sat on Lukas' balcony just now with tea and chocolate cake and almost dissolved into the pretty day. Opposite the Post Office on Prenzlauer Allee. All those busy people down there. Feels like Berlin. Will begin to use Lukas' second bike or buy a second-hand one. Need the exercise. Need the air.

Other good stuff include events like the opening of Holicska's abstract oil paintings exhibition "That There is This" at the Pub on Saturday. He's from Transylvania, so Rumanians, Hungarians (made me home-sick for Krisztina and Budapest), Russian songs by Maria Marachowska, in whom everyone is in love, improvised silliness by drunk Clive and Paradox Paul, guitar passed around among Mr Layton and various others in various states until morning light broke through the windows and destroyed the last of us. Two large bottles of Unicom consumed, umpteen bottles of cheap sparkling, a dozen baguettes and a huge wadge of cheese. After half a dozen friendly Poles arrived in the small hours, in Berlin to see Nine Inch Nails, Kim left things to me and I must have left things in a right mess; but I've stopped cleaning now. Peter's friend Kat, new bargirl from England and his replacement (he got a job in Erdbeer, or 'Strawberry', around the corner), does a bit of that.
Slept through the next day, missing an appointment with Martina in Friedrichshain. Was suppose to look at her paintings, which I haven't seen yet, so I can write a text about them. In three weeks she is putting on the next exhibition at the Pub, and her boyfriend Michel has lined up a healthy two-week music programme. They do a better job than I with publicity. I booked Bev Lee Harling through Michel and they brought a hundred people. Last Friday Steve Binetti played, but almost didn't because there were so few guests. In the end just enough arrived, though, and it was a fine evening (till Mad George, Maria, Stefi and I were thrown out to binge on elsewhere). The night before that, Klabunde and Fuse Empire performed before just three of four lucky guests, minus myself. But combined with Sabina's current work advertising coming shows in the right places, things will get busier. Thomas is finally doing some sound-proofing, too, after I nagged him for six months, and before the neighbours get together and close him down; and it's time to put some tables outside. Tables rescues from the Tea Room. Too cold until now. Eventually opening afternoons, park visitors will be able to enjoy coffee, cake and Kunst (Kunst is an anagram of 'art').

Far as the Summer goes, over a close game of chess the other day, Andrej forgave me for desecrating the Freygang flag (I scrawled 'Free' across 'Frey', which made good sense at the time), and with A.D.III we are again invited to join them, in August at a festival in eastern Germany. Want to practise in the meantime and conceptually do something with a piano.
​
I don't paint anymore.

March 25
CONCEPTUAL PEACE
Have decided to become a conceptual artist. Have always been one really, but now it's obvious. Will make things a lot easier; most of my ideas are too big to finance anyway. Paradoxically, realised this while considering how to paint an ant-shit sized Swastika for Birgit, i.e., whether to use one hair of a brush and powerful magnifying glass (paint would be too thick, so then ink, or don't paint but cut with a scalpel-blade) or just print it and stick it on the canvas...

Two alternatives came to mind, each saving time and precious energy. The first is best:

1. Don't paint it. Hang the magnifying glass, write the inscription, tell her there is one.

2. Paint a big one on the back.

March 23
HAVEN'T WRITTEN A
poem for yonks. Literally. Don't quite understand why. I mean, I like writing poems, man, even if writing poems is hard work, time-consuming and mostly pointless. Just don't like reading them. Not other peoples anyway. Never have. All a bit baffling. Over the last couple of years interests have been elsewhere, no doubt about that. Music for instance. Listening, now, here in my big white room below the eaves, to Lukas' jazz while he paints the kitchen white (so nice to live in a normal living-place), as much as I hates jazz, maybe there's a start. Is it possible to write a poem like improvised jazz, or better, like classic-modern keyboard bashing (more to the point, on just three beers)?

".. .. .... .. ... . . .. .. .. . . . . . .... .. ....,
. .. .. .... . ..... . .. . .. ... . . . ... . ... ...;
... .. .... . .. . . . ...... .. .. ...... .. . .. ...?
.... .. .. .. ... . .. . ... .... . ... .... .. .... .!"

...Just tried it. No. Not tonight.

What about a second great Swastika poem then. That should be easier. Let's see...

"Adolf, you old boy-fondling, boy-slaughtering Uncle von Shit!
Why do the boys still miss you?"

That's for the boys we filmed in Dresden city centre last weekend as they graffitied a wall. Good work, A.D.III and I agreed. Then one of them Sieg Heiled us.

March 22
INTERESTING
discussion this evening in a typical Prenzlauerberg bar (name irrelevant, cosy, darkish, warmish, pretty people) over a mountain of salad with Birgit, who is not fat. We meet a couple of times a week in various locations; I, glad to be away from the Pub, she the professional lady, squeezing in another coffee between the hundreds of things she does every day. Birgit doesn't drink or smoke or almost anything else; gave it all up the hard way. Therefore I limit myself as best I can. Otherwise we have many things in common, from favourite authors to historic battles, from her specialty as therapist in 'difficult' children to my having been one. Chat may touch upon her work-load, which can involve extremely disturbed children, my opinions here and there, which she listens to whether they are relevant or not, problems with co-workers, problems in her own past and present, problems in my past and especially present, her advice on them, whether I listen or not, problems at the Pub, my depression, addictions, aspirations; films we would like to see together. Easy in each others company, despite my reckless destruction of the physical relationship as briefly touched upon before, we seem to be taking time out from our very different real lives to compare notes, laugh at the passing world together, all that.

Topic turned for whatever reason tonight to my interest, purely as an artist I might add (already clearly on the defensive), in the Swastika. 'Heated debate' is cliché but a fair summary, although we later departed best of friends, fully to my relief. For I am on thin ice in this country saying things like, I'm an artist, I can paint what I like, I can do what I like. To which the answer comes, the Nazis also did what they liked. You see, gets tricky already. Her face dropped further when I admitted to painting a Swastika on stage at Dresden on Saturday, but of course immediately obliterated it with a heart filled in with blue. Her comment: yes that's great, make a Swastika and then paint a love heart as if you love it.. What about the those in the audience who saw it like that? Well, that, I never even considered. Typical. Exactly here we see things very differently. T'was a bit of a cold shower. I understood at one moment she questioned my morals, and naturally grew shirty. Either way we both agreed the discussion was next to useless; I, demanding she stop accusing until she see at least one of the works, which speak far better for themselves; she sticking to the point that I will never, ever, de-terrorize this symbol of irreversible evil by building one out of 'Gummibärchen' (the great German sweeties, wine-gums in the shape of little bears) or constructing one from the text "Sieg Art!". I harped on that the symbol is freely used in the States and elsewhere and wondered whether it is right that it is publicly banned in this country. Yes, it is right - and I don't necessarily disagree. Should I be able to display one within an art gallery space? No, I should not. And there we differ hugely.

I understood her disgust for the thing, and distrust in those who use it, and referred to a good friend, who here remains nameless, though he wouldn't care if I named him, who collects repulsive images which disgust me too, of severed feet, pickled babies, obscene deformities, necrophilia... That crap leaves me cold. Nor do I wish to see a series of excrement behind glass on a posh London gallery wall (the Hayward - since that impressionable age, I've never forgotten it. I was truly 'shocked'). Along those lines, who was that disgusting paedophile German artist and buckets of blood film-maker? I can hardly believe it, looking back now, but I asked Mr Evans, please NOT to show that movie with the woman fucking that dead swan at one of last years Wallywoods Kaffee Burger shows. He was certainly as miffed at my censorship as I am at being told I should not, and cannot, paint or make whatever I want.

After this banter, Birgit and I knew one another better when we parted. I knew my subject a little better, too. It's a more prickly and painful pet obsession than I fully realised, even after the great Hakenkreuz disaster at the gallery in April '05. I thought at a certain point this evening I had busted our friendship for good. But needless to say, I won't drop it till I myself have had enough, no matter how it bores or sickens others. It is both an unhealthy and healthy interest, and nothing to do with shock value and ego.

Am now working on a conceptual piece for Birgit to hang above her fire-place. After all, she's helped me a lot and deserves it. It's a little black Swastika painted in the middle of a large white canvas, with big inscription, "the best for Birgit, love Paradox Paul, Berlin, 2007". Attached to the picture frame on a bit of string is a magnifying glass. Only using this can she occasionally admire the tiniest little ant-shit of a Swastika ever painted anywhere.

Sieg Art!

March 21
FREE BUSINESS
Made it, albeit with little documentation and no idea what to expect, to the Peter Edel "Culture House" sponsorings society meeting, or whatever it was. Mostly older professional men, clever, serious, respectable, considering, among other things, under neon lights and over wads of paperwork how to spend their limited city grant. A couple of ladies, one taking notes. No drinks on the table, not even water. Kathrin Hülsse, who I've known and admired since her 'Experiment Lab at the End of the World' gallery housed my first Big Chairs exhibition in 2001, knows most of them through her developing 'empty spaces for art projects' scheme. She introduced me early on (I felt it dragging on for hours, though it can't have been that long) and I waffled awkwardly for a few minutes about the project and what I want. Quoting some figures of my own, I concluded that I and my hundreds of international Berlin-based artistic associates don't have two pennies between us to rub together. When asked how I ever intend to finance anything at all, I mentioned the fabled 'Friends of Wallywoods', in which I have complete faith, though the theory is yet to be tested. One or two board members were not much impressed, two or three were, as far as I could tell. Quote of the night, amidst all the bureaucratic verbage and non-conclusion, says one friendly old chap, "I think an artist from London around here would be sexy and bring fresh life." Good on ya, mate! I think so too. But only if independent from these meetings, budget discussions, internal strife, raise your hand to speak and so forth. Felt like a university student before his esteemed professors, most of whom know more about filling in tax forms than what is current in Berlin art today. The place would be absolutely perfect, though, with the Spring coming and right on the lake. Possible use of the old bar as a gallery-cafe, as far as I could work out, for between five and twelve months, at as little as no cost. Other spaces, too, eventually available, in this big old cluster of graffiti daubed buildings. Easy tram ride into the city. Should try to have a concept written and illustrated with past adventures (nothing too sexy) for the next meeting, if there be one.

Hard to separate this wonderful, if slim, opportunity from my old antipathy concerning all official art business, especially sponsorship applications and the such like, with which I've never had success. Official culture bods sense immediately my anarchic, sarcastic, offensive-defensive nature, and no matter what they may think of my art, which is more than good enough for any of them, I will always have difficulties meeting them in the mainstream.

March 20
TOTALLY APART FROM
pretty Australian Mary, whose forefathers come from Dublin, a small number of Ugly people showed up last night, whose forefathers come from Hell. We made music, scrawled on paper with scented kiddies pens a small exhibition's worth (to show next time?), got stone drunk and felt a lot better for the free therapy. I certainly did. The show was Wally's again, no pirates to upset or take orders from, and when the show is Wally's and he be jolly, he believe as right is wrong that everyone is jolly. And, as I endlessly, needlessly state, Wally is never wrong. On top of that, he had a brain-wave. 'Club Wallywoods' doesn't exist yet, and Sundays at the Art Pub (the last brain-wave), like all days, upset the neighbours. Jason and the Uglies feel at home at Burger, we all do by now, in fact our escapades are politely tolerated beyond comprehension; so next month's already advertised Art Therapy should be the last, followed by a monthly Club Wallywoods party, getting the membership idea off the ground at last.
Why does it take me so long to think of these things?
Answer: too occupied trying everything else first.

Supposed to go to a sponsorship info-gathering meeting-thing this evening. Take some documentation from the old gallery and present my idea for a new one. In Weissensee.
Still not convinced.

Message for Mum and Dad: I haven't forgotten you. On the contrary, I think of you every day.

The Dog is sleeping. Long last the Spring!

March 19
FREE GANG
On the road and two mad nights' rock'n'tomfoolery on the stage with Freygang; in Leipzig on Friday 16th where Paradox Paul on half a bottle of whiskey (no weed in Leipzig) paints a Swastika and the lights go out, and Dresden on Saturday 17th where Egon gives P.P. his electric guitar and Aloysious Dougherty III from Los Angeles (A.D.III from here on) is handed Tatjiana's bass, and they leave the stage. The drummer gives us five minutes and leaves the stage too.

Took easy goin' (but not always!) new-in-town painter and film-maker A.D.III to make the road movie, one of the few things planned; but left Bob and his keyboard and gimmicks behind. Bob was rightly pissed off. No space in the van. P.P. didn't take a keyboard either. Not a hammer, no red paint. Hints of Wally-bound organisational cock-ups to come. Huge lack of planning. Left behind, too, twenty meters of canvas Ceci was sweetly picking up at the Turkish market and also, as sour grapes were needed, a creative little bag of green support. Organisational masters Freigang (been doin' this for 30 years) arrived at the Pub on the dot and couldn't wait the vital ten minutes. But then why should they. Unlike P.P. the van is loaded and the crew only smoke cigarettes. Tons of them. And cigarillos. Five minutes on the road and already documenting the atmosphere, A.D.III announces he only has one hour of tape, connection to the video-beamer looks doubtful and there are no DVDs to burn on. He and P.P. need to go shopping. Captain of the DDR pirate band and living chess-playing legend, Andrej, reckons: sorry mateys, not in the stars. You'll have to wait till Leipzig. Paradox Paul half feels uncomfortable while his other half soon feels cold, and he left behind his extra clothes with his toothbrush. The window is open half the trip to let out some of the smoke. On the motorway the mood is cheery as A.D.III improves his Berlin slang, like how to say "got no weed man", but the temperature rapidly drops and the heater's not on or useless, and it can only be hoped that someone at the gig, like some chick, will donate half a joint, if shivering 'action artist' plank-walking Paradox Paul's biggest trip yet can be saved from titanic disaster. (He destroyed their sacred Freygang flag they've been hoisting up for years - at least one of them went to prison for it. (t.b.c.))

Returned on Sunday to move out of the Art Pub (come to think of it, left two days before with Freigang on the six month anniversary of our official moving-in party. Ceci, since then recovered, and Bob, getting over his disappointment, together made music and green smoke the rest of the night at the anniversary party I announced knowing I wouldn't be there). Moved into a pleasant, decent sized flat-share with an outside toilet and, inside, a coal oven, fresh white paint on the floor-boards and new flatmate, technical wizard and inventor in 3d graphics, Lukas. Top bloody floor above the old Tea Room, which is tragically deceased since last Tuesday, now a shell of a place for rent at around 1,700 euros, dollars or bum-licks.

Have heard, and this be no bullshit like most of above, the Mayor wants to sponsor Wallywoods a 300 square meter hall in a Weissensee cultural complex, the Peter Edel building, whatever that is, near the lake, with jazz club attached, for putting on, well, culture events presumably. "Neighbourhood-friendly" is a requirement. No Swastikas, no kids clothes in the window printed with KICK ME TO DEATH and no George Nickels pubic hair. Mr Bean cakes then. Starting with a big group exhibition and a punk band. Stop. Harp, flute and a grand piano to hammer on.
Crossed fingers touch wood.

The fourth Wallywoods Art Therapy at Kaffee Burger is tonight. Haven't organised a thing for it, not even sent an e-mail. Hardly organised a thing for the last one, and that was the best. Will put some paper and crayons on the tables and provide the bar staff and one or two other patients with some soothing noise of bearable nature (been practising with Freygang) on Kaffee Burger's synthesiser. The Ugly Americans may turn up. Been practising with them, too.

March 7
UPDATED THE WEBITE
with the first German pages. Should have been done long ago, but now Sabina is helping,
some kind of Praktikum. How nice. Will get some advertising done too.

Pushing on.

March 6
THE ETERNAL OPTIMIST
The world has stopped moving. In a hidden part of it I am swimming in mud. In a small back room filled with mud. Swimming, however, is an exaggeration. Swimming suggests productive physical and spiritual activity. I lie perfectly still in the mud, trying not to breath too deeply. At night, there is no-one on this side of the Earth. What has happened? Six months ago life was better than all right. The gallery was everything. The Pub was the future. Now things have ground to a halt. Drowned at the bottom of cloudy bottle of beer. Yet, at the same moment, within the few hours each evening I am conscious, even active, I am ceaselessly working, and things do not stop. That is never a bad thing. Ceaselessly working as ever and always to fend off the Dog. Inventing, plotting. Heroically, stupidly. Meeting an endless stream of people. But for what? With what result? Who gets paid? Should I pay them? Who, one glorious day, will pay me the mountain of money I've earned until now? And here, at the edge of the world, with whom do I belong? Friends, enemies, witches, saints, total fucking idiots all around. Time-wasters, vampires, children and wizards. Princesses, Goddesses, sluts. Keep me well occupied, they do. Occupied I am, too, whether sleeping or not, with imaginings, imaginings, imagenings. There is no end to my creation, yet nothing is created. At least nothing of handy weight, cast in concrete or bronze. There still does not exist a Big Chair larger than a single meter in height. Not anywhere. That's not ridiculous, that's scandalous. The spark never dies, however. Is in fact as strong as ever. But it seems right now that nothing catches fire. Living in the Mud Age. How long did it take to invent that first fire? And how long will it take for the world to budge? That final budge, when all is released, realised, accomplished and payed for?

Chronic depression, like ewige einsamkeit, alcoholism, colour-blindness or low intelligence, can't be healed. Faced and fought often enough in this mud-filled cell, it wins battle after battle. But so what. I am winning the war. This wounding, this cramp, this choking on mud, more annoying than painful, will belong to history soon enough.

Birgit told me, in my words here (it was just after my little 'episode' which almost finished us right at the start) that she's rarely met someone so ostensibly stable, socially adequate and whatever else, able to conceal below a fragile surface such a plethora of deep-rooted problems and crud. Correction, mud. She suggested I visit a psychologist, but how silly is that! She is one. And a prettier I won't find.

March 1
ON SOMETHING
more of an even keel right now, despite recent boozing, drug binges, breakdowns and half-fulfilled affairs. A dribble of money coming in. Looking at spaces, huge, tiny, grotty, dripping dungeons and flourescent office cells, top prices to not-exactly-bottom. For the new gallery, or whatever the place should be. Weissensee a sure option, but who wants to be in Weissensee, as pretty as it might be? Odd little spaces all over the place. Will find it before too long. American artist Aloysious Dougherty III is also looking. Off the plane a couple of months ago, living between hostels, only basic needs, space to work, a bit of tap water and a bunk. Will find it before too long...

Interesting Tarot reading by Cécile yesterday. What's your question, she says. What do you think: how can I make money? Not yet expert myself at making money or Tarot readings, this is what unfolded. First card: wheel of fortune. Second: the money card - no joke, pictured a bag full of fat gold coins. Cécile said: don't go straight for the money. Go through the third card. Third card: a man sitting down. She said, intelligence and distance. Work it out. Fourth and last card in this first session: interior of a room with barred window. Outside the window, what do you think, a whole bunch of money. She said, you won't get it. Mildly infuriated but a lot less cynical than years ago, I asked over what time period the reading is relevant. She said, oh, two or three months. So, no problem, everything clear. Carry on as usual; but as recently here suggested, concentrate on Paradox Paul, the performing, the art. Then Cécile performed a second set (her acting days as well as her gypsy roots shine through), a more general life and loves type thing. First card, a beautiful woman. Full blond locks, unquestionably Birgit! Later on Cécile said no, the card had had black hair. So, er.. wait a minute, Katja then! No, better still, Miss O., the girl from Dublin I've adored from a distance over ten years, until a few weeks ago when she turned up for Bruno's son's gig and stayed for an all night smooch and all next day get-to-know-you chin-wag. Not seen or heard from since. Poor Wally. The other eight cards, can't remember, except that they were true enough to life, understandable, playfully helpful. Until the last card, Death. I remembered ending on Death a year and a half ago when Mad George read for me at midnight after that Halloween party at the gallery. Of course, Death means CHANGE...

February 18
TOO MUCH TO REPORT
Apparently, unbelievably, the cooks, if I understand Boss Tom correctly, which is as likely as unlikely, want their jobs back. This while we (stand corrected, I) am considering legal action in the face of almost daily harassment... CENSORED... attempted blackmail, demanding money with menaces, extortion, whatever. Whatever it takes in fact, if push comes to shove, to get at least one of them deported, the very angry one, before something even more serious occurs. Mostly on the telephone, he screams at Thomas, still, that he ripped him off after promising the brothers, so they reckon, without a shred of evidence, a quarter share in the Pub each: which is blatantly ridiculous. If they believed it, they were mistaken. If they doubt there was good reason, fucking damn good reason, to have them leave the project after the first chaotic three months or so, they are again mistaken. If they doubt, since my discovery of the seriousness of the situation Thomas has landed himself in, in agreeing under huge pressure to pay them in irregular instalments a large amount of money, money which we don't have, that they can be touched by myself backed up by the full force of the law, then they will be mistaken for the last time.<br> The 'blackmail', if it worked at the beginning, concerned the lateness, not an unusual lateness in setting up a new business and certainly not illegal in itself, in getting everything declared and a bunch of paperwork sent off to the correct departments. Hundreds of them. Well, the paperwork and all licenses are now in order.<br> Thomas has still yet to pay, according to their strange agreement, which they consider some kind of compensation I suppose, some hundreds more before the figure is reached which, he and the brothers earlier agreed on, would settle the matter once and for all.<br> A couple of days ago I said to Thomas, do you think they will stop at the last pay-off? To say the least, he looked doubtful.
Wrote again today to lawyer friend M.M. There is a new law coming out in Germany regarding stalking. If push comes to shove, this will help. And a bunch of things besides.

Told Thomas this is the most difficult job I ever had. Now, my personal dilemmas, on top of everything else, have made it almost impossible. Had something like a panic-attack this week, more about that and private stuff later; too close to the bone now. Have pretty much stopped booking - cannot function here without internet, phone or money since Christmas - or helping out in practical ways. However, will NOT abandon the project. Too much of me in it, and I don't enjoy defeat. Am taking a 'holiday', time out to find a place to live (have been back in the Pub since leaving the flat-share, under no happy circumstances, unable to pay the rent there) and concentrate on the bigger plan.

Regarding the bigger plan, as murky as this all sounds till now, things are progressing amazingly well. Eternal optimist Paradox Paul has started, especially after advice from his New York astrologer Angel Eye, to take himself seriously as artist and stage performer and is now practising and performing, mostly on keyboards, occasionally with a hammer, at every opportunity. Highlight in his weird career so far occurred about a month ago at White Trash, which, in fact, he has otherwise boycotted, with darn good reason. Angel, in town for a week to celebrate her birthday (her concert-party at the pub was a Wallywoods all time classic, funny as fuck) invited him to join her and play the piano, up in the restaurant arena, along with Sid the Theremin player and a jolly old Berlin bass player who I never saw before, or since. We met on the stage, he said what do you play? I said, I don't really, I do a bit of this.. He exclaimed happily, rightly as it turned out, Hey man, they won't never have heard anything like this! In the place for the first time since the great Xmas concert rip-off, I mentioned the great Xmas concert rip-off to event organiser Wolfgang, who had nothing to say other than see boss Wally (White Trash's Wally - the one who punched Nigel the tatto artist in the face two or three times last week without warning for getting in the way by helping out on the door - lesson: don't get between Wally and his dodgy door income). I said, well whatever. Who does the piano belong to? Wolfgang looked nervous; he does every time I'm around come to think of it. He said it belongs to the club. I said, if you want our performance to be remembered long after I'm out of here, let me smash it to fuck at the end with my hammer. He laughed a nervous 'no thankyou very much' and that was that, until the subject came up again later. Extremely nervous backstage, then after a hasty marihuana binge thanks to sunny girl Mariko X, surprisingly relaxed, actually completely at home during the concert in front of a packed house. Angel's duelling with the Theremin was stunning, a match made in heaven and hell. I didn't do much musically, just banged away a bit sometimes. Thankfully, worried that I had wrecked the show or at least degraded it, Sid told me later they hardly heard what I was doing because there was so much going on, too much, indeed, he thought, including playbacks. For Paradox Paul there is never too much happening on the stage. To Angel's high anoyance, a second set didn't occur because Wolfgang suggested we were too loud. Relaxing afterwards on the kind of ship's poop-deck overlooking the restaurant, Angel, earlier sceptical at the idea, and by now pretty pissed off herself, agreed I should have hammered their fucking piano to shit anyway.

Regarding stage chaos, in fact a heap more chaotic, the open stage jam night at Burger a couple of week's ago was mad as nuts, but great fun for all involved. All stone-drunk and free wheelin. P.P. shared his keyboard with anyone who wanted it (actually Thomas' keyboard, which he found at the junk yard whilst dropping off the deceased Ugly American's 'Martian' piano which Wally was permitted to hammer to death for his birthday present in January), Maria M. and talented new friend Stefan wailed some kind of Siberian Blues opera and Johanna whatever-her-name-is (Streisand meets Maclaine) chain-smokes, loses and shares so many joints that no-one noticed when Ken unloaded his Farfisa for the grand finale. The youngsters, who arrive before midnight for the silly free disco that takes place every night, didn't know whether to dance or leave, never to return.
A repeat of the fun will take place at the next chaos jam on March 8, under the newly invented title: NUTS (New Underground Trends, Berlin).
Tomorrow night sees the third Wallywoods Art Therapy at Burger, with Birgit, Cécile and Farfisaman. All very fascinating. Mostly improvised on the spot. Why not. I always hated homework, Wally hates practising and Paradox Paul's love-hate relationship with chaos is probably the reason he has been invited by Freygang to appear on stage with them in March at Dresden and Leipzig, each time before 300 screaming fans. What will they make of P.P., what will he do? He hasn't a clue. Who fucking cares.

Urgent message for anyone still reading this blog:
Wally STILL needs a place to stay, cheap, with internet and phone.
Wally STILL needs a space, any suitable venue, to launch the next gallery-club-thing he has been formulating over the last two years or more. Stay tuned, some interesting options have very recently come to light...

February 1
HALLO WALLY
Ich freue mich immer von Dir zu hören. Schön, dass Du noch an uns denkst. Wir sind noch dabei und haben eine Verlängerung für ein weiteres Jahr erhalten. Jetzt soll es erst richtig losgehen. Die letzten Monate waren die Vorarbeit, jetzt wollen wir Vermitteln und Leute in Läden versuchen reinzukriegen. Unsere Aktion sieht kurzfristige künstlerische Aktionen für bis zu 5 Monate vor, möglichst günstig bis umsonst und Jahresverträge gegen Betriebskosten - zusätzlich soll schon eine Gegenleistung erfolgen, nur eben nicht monetärer Art. So weit unsere Idee, jetzt müssen wir die Hausverwaltungen noch überzeugen, das wird unser Geschäft sein und mir graut noch ein wenig davor.

Wir haben viel gelernt in den den letzten Monaten und Erfahrungen gesammelt, uns vernetzt und eine Reihe Ansprechpartner und Unterstützung erhalten.

Wenn Ihr Interesse habt, seid Ihr gerne zum 15. Februar in die Brotfabrik gegen 20.00 Uhr eingeladen. Hier wollen wir Interessierte einladen und unsere dezentrale Kooperative Weißensee mit weiteren Ideen befördern.

Erstmal Grüße,
Leerstandsinitiative Weißensee,
Kathrin Hülße.
E-mail: [email protected]

January 30
HALLO KATHRIN
Hope you are well in 2007. Long time no see, how time flies.

Are you still involved with the empty spaces project in Weißensee (or anywhere)? I know a number of artists now, including myself, very interested in finding gallery/atelier/events space(s) in Berlin.
Otherwise, do you know where else I can get some info?

Wally.

January 23
WINDY ANSWER
to the e-mail invites sent out this week:

Yes. Come all you proud slaves and females to Wallywoods, the place to be, the place one would have to invent hadn't some idiot done so already. The name 'Wallywoods' refers to Hollywood (severely untrue - Ed), a happy place in the United Shit of America. Here, films are made for the sole purpose of confusing its viewers. The concept of Wallywoods is similar. Only Wallywoods instead presents ART. Big Fucking Chairs, for example.

Nobody really knows why Wallywoods was created. Some people say it is an excluded part of Paul Woods' soul. Others say it mirrors the very chaotic lunacy of the dreadful contents of a little box, deliberately bound and gagged and sunken to the floor of the dark abyss that is the mind of Paul Woods. Again others say, it is the materialization of the ill-favoured thoughts of the ill-fated artist that is Paul Woods.

But. Whatever it is. Beware! Beware! Beware! You may encounter what you thought you had left behind: silly fat drunken old ladies with big tits and bad breath, arse-airing baldies accompanied by heroin addicted ghosts of Nicky Sudden and other intoxicated Old Nicks. You may ask yourself: Why is this place existent? Is it an adult playground? I do not know. But I go there. And it makes me feel fucking HAPPY! At Wallywoods we are ALL happy! We are so happy! So happy! We are so fucking HAPPY!

Alex Tornado.

January 17
POSSIBILITIES
Due to the number, range, quality or sheer wackiness of events, as well as the vibrant community of artists and local supporters which Art Pub Wallywoods is now home to; constant visual change and weird technical developments, often involving every bod who walks in the door with just about every aspect of running the place; Boss Tom's fanatically relaxed attitude and tireless commitment to his pet project of a lifetime; the charming but nutty-to-a-man-and-girl team of personalities who work in the bar; and I assume not least, my own ceaseless never-get-bored creative energy in spite of (or due to) a stack of personal worries; the Pub has more character and positively notorious history already than most of the trendy, or simple yet popular, bars which surround it. Man, are those places dull. They stick to one or two winning gimmicks and NEVER redecorate. But more bums on seats are needed, here, if bills are to be paid on time, or at all, in the coming year. People need to pigeon-hole establishments they enter before leaving, never to return, because nothing particularly stuck in the mind. Sure, the Pub is a NICE place to hang out for an hour or an evening; the walls, guests and happenings are coming along NICELY thankyou. Yet something fundamental is missing (I don't mean advertising, which I intrinsically don't hold with, although true enough, the slightest bit would certainly help). Something very simple. So I wrote a list of possibilities which I will present to Sir Thomas upon the new opening up time of 6pm this evening. My favourite is number ten:

1. Topless bar staff

2. A weekly TV show

3. Art Pub beer mats

4. Free drinks for black ladies

5. Fish & chips

6. Afternoon discos

7. 24 hour surveillance of lounge and stage over internet

8. Art auctions hosted by someone a bit famous

9. Dating service

10. Happy 5 minutes

Happy five minutes means, every day all drinks are free between 7pm and 7.05pm, followed by half price drinks until 7.30pm. We gotta get the people here earlier in the evening, simple as that. What do you reckon guys? (Boss Tom unfortunately reckoned: no thankyou, too crazy, too risky. End of widely agreed brilliant idea. One of countless classic examples.)
Here are the guys:

Sir Thomas (Boss Tom. Photographer, ladies man and debonair entrepreneur. Technical genius. Eats paperwork. Buries Wally's best 'trashy' ideas).

Prince Pete aka The Punk Scientist (Shy lad, came to visit and fell in love with Berlin, has since blossomed and decided to stay and make a family. Is now writing a play. Sometimes gay).

Maria (Beautiful young painter and velvet voiced singer of her own Siberian Blues. Mostly gay).

Frau Puschel (Shocking blonde hair with tongue to match, and mistress of rising importance. Sometimes gay).

Kim (Enthusiastic, large and reliable uncle figure, ideas man and cocktail specialist. Unobviously, but permanently, gay).

Guido (Struggling singer-songwriter. Once had a terrible accident. Slow but solid chap behind the bar. Girlfriend plays chess).

Xandi Krohn (Writer, artist, musician, quiet intellectual. The only local working in the bar. Girlfriend just kicked him out, but he'll get over it).

Zeppy the Art Pub cook (He doesn't know it yet. Had his first working shift last week and didn't turn up. Musician and Austrian, but well loved in the scene. Girlfriend is A.Moon, ex-girlfriend of Mad George).

Wally aka Paradox Paul (Most disputed member of the team. Both indispensable and completely superfluous. Has never had a boyfriend).

January 10
ART THERAPY
Changed the title of last month's 'Group Therapy' at KB to 'Art Therapy' and the theme from 'How to stop drinking' to 'How can an artist make money in Berlin'. Much more fun. Phoned to invite two dozen artist mates and acquaintances (also musicians, writers and Mad George the actor who turned up too late to get treated) and a dozen or more came along. That's more than twice as many as came along last time. They sat in the circle of chairs set out on the hushed dance floor (forming a perfect semi-circle of guests and an imperfect semi-circle of empty seats) to take part in the supposedly serious yet informal discussion, which Ken led. Infamis René later said the atmosphere was stressy and didn't wish to stay. Bert also sneaked off early, preferring treatment with his usual couple of beers a couple of blocks away at the Art Pub. But Joachim, also present at the first (and last?) Group Therapy, said it was far better and functioned well on the whole. Wally himself listened to the chat from the stage whilst painting on Cliff Falls, hauled over from the Pub, which will never be finished. The original plan was to offer it for a cheap price, like 800 bucks, which of course no-one in the room would have handy, being mostly piss-poor artists, then hack it into 80 pieces to sell off at 10 bucks each (a variation of events in Paradox Paul's "1001 Ways to be a Fashionable Artist"). May do that one day when the room is full, if ever that occurs, or if I get angy, which can occur any time these days; but decided to keep the thing whole for longer because, well, I'm starting to like it. I've always like it, really, in a dissatisfied way, but at last I begin to see a day when it may seem almost finished, which might well be enough; and then sell it on some sunny faraway future date for at least its 4000 worth. (Here is a compressed Photoshop enhancement of the centre of the picture, recently discovered in an old file usefully named 'Pauls folder'.) In the middle of the arena was plonked the pedestal made last year for the gallery by that social misfit Edgar, carried over too by good Art Pub colleagues, with scrawled upon its front face the words 'for Wally, the poor artist', on top of which was arranged in a minimal manner the gallery's old red cash box, opened wide and empty like a gaping mouth. Which is just how it stayed until the end, apart from the mysterious appearance of a 50 cent piece and, ultimately, a five dollar bill, thrown in by Kim, latest member of the Fart Pub team (Ugly's One's alternative name suggestion), who told me he thought it would encourage others to put in more. Ha! Little knows he about the paupers I invite to these things. So Wally felt guilty and wanted to give it back to him, but was gallantly refused. Encouragingly, Prince Pete, now back from England, said it was a super little set up, with Klausie among others plopping away therapeutically on the old Martian keyboard, Ken throwing in bummers to distract the otherwise seemingly useful discussion, Birgit the recent-met blond bombshell psychologist who did a grand job of spontaneously co-hosting, musical pauses advertised as 'Shock Therapy' with just about everyone banging on the Martian and Alan of 'Graham Clayton with the Long Name' on angry poet's rap; and, hardly surplus to the arty guests, a couple of Italian programmers or something just landed in Berlin for a beer, getting pressed by Ken, who's mind seemed pressed the whole time with one fundamental question, "..but what is your FEAR?". Whilst Wally, pleasantly stoned and unusually relaxed, highlighted his Cliff Falls away, back turned on the event for most of its oddish duration. Thanks also for their participation, Thomas Franz (singer-songwriter), Peter Hecht (sculptor, singer-songwriter), Johanna Martin (painter, sculptor) and Elvis Soundman.

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