Contentual2

content-creation start-up

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Latoya Dunn

Latoya Dunn posted a video to her timeline.

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PHILOSOPHY - Epicurus

This Greek philosopher, one of our favourites, spent his life arriving at fascinating answers to the largest puzzle there is: What makes people happy? If you...

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Cafeteria I

The air was filled with information. Compressed, composed, choreographed, one thing. Only the the crashing, metallic cutlery constantly cut that solid piece of sound and turned it into a bunch of marbles in a youngster’s hand. The smell of heavy-spiced food, greasy, was soaking from underneath into everything that was breathing, exhaled and inhaled from another person’s respiratory apparatus. Breath of deep fried chicken wings, breath of fire. People are fine when they talk about inhaling food. There was a constant stream of people coming and going, while the coming was a mysteriously halting process. One could tell from people’s faces how grueling it was to find the position in which they wanted to spend their lunch in. Once seated, the degree of relaxation indicated by facial expression was allowing a more or less precise prediction about the time they would spend on having their meal. Leaving seemed to be intuitive, bodily easy and releasing. Besides highly intimate items, the employees were balancing their individually composed foods on deep-drawn grey-ish trays through the table rows. In pure wholeness, most of them were firmly holding the tray in both hands in order to grant the same groundedness to the dishes as their rectangular arms were telling. Make them feel safe. And the little bowl filled up with green beans was grateful all the way down to the puddly bottom. A solo-sitting guy, thin, with a sacky face and flimsy grey hair was just about to leave. Sally and him had entered the cafeteria almost at once. Now, he was smiling at Sally and he answered with a warm smile because the sacky guy appeared haggard and he felt pity for him. He had a tuna salad. All of a sudden, he was standing in front of him, with an even brighter, pleasant smile. “It is an honor to be a part of Sammy J.’s. Especially when you get the chance to enter the orchestra. Have you heard of it?” “Not yet, Sir”. “I see … ” The guy murmured. “I played the bassoon for over 20 years and I got to see many places around the world. Maybe you wonder about my body condition. The bassoon is a wasting instrument but beautiful.” He glanced at Sally’s plate with a cheeseburger and fries. Then discretely examining his physique. ”Try to enter the orchestra and you will become even more successful in your job. Guaranteed. I am sorry, I forgot to introduce myself! My name is Fat Frederic. People still call me fat because when I started here I was pretty weighty. I was just about your age, young Mr. The name just sticks to me like an unfortunate spell”. He giggled. “I’m 17, Sir. My name is Selly. I was assigned to the ranking department but I haven’t seen too much, so far. But I will, I guess.” “Selly”, Fat Frederic said, “let me tell you one thing. The orchestra is a real thing in this company. So if you want to make it in this branch I recommend you to join that department, too. It’s a place of excellency and fame! Do you know how to play any instrument?” “Not really, Sir. My parents wanted to make me play the violin but I thought it was for girls so I stopped after two lessons.” Fat Frederic’s friendly expression changed slightly. The corners of his mouth turned even more up and it seemed almost unnatural. The change made it harder for Selly to keep eye contact with him. He was looking at two black cracks underneath two sacky eyelids. For a moment both of them were just looking at each other, while Selly tried to keep a smile but it seemed rather inappropriate, now. “Don’t be too shy, little boy.” With a snuffling sound he pushed himself from the table next to Selly’s tray off his chair where he had briefly rested to take a closer look at a 17 year old boy who was now feeling weird about not having taken violin classes any longer than two times. Fat Frederic was slowly disappearing between people. Selly took a deep breath.

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C Session II

Yes, I consider myself a mean person, I am a nine-to-five kind of mean guy who is filling up that 8-hour-container, which I like to call my personal operating range for ass kicks, with showing everybody around me how tiny their self esteem can become. So what?! Are you still aware, Mr. CFO, of the fact that we agreed on these sessions as taking place in a room of non-violence? Offering you my service does rely on a certain self-effacement regarding spontaneous ejaculations of negative emotions which might lead to the destruction of our professional relationship here. Sighing can be a sign of relief as much as of pain. If it is both at the same time it maybe that pain has its very own dynamics in which pain is only enabled through the release of prior pain. Do you feel pain a lot? Really? No. I don’t, pain is when you fight against the most profane reflexes of the mind. So no, I don’t because whenever I feel pain I become a boat. What kind of boat, Mr. CFO? Any kind. It doesn’t matter. It depends on the kind of pain but it always has a mast peaking out of its hollow hull, with it my head is surging around. When you see a face in pain you can be sure the boat has already been scrunched down to pieces. Frankly, I see you as a man who’s constantly trying to resist the things that make him appear human. I see you stressed out by any contingency. That’s what your eyes are telling me and I am trained as well to analyse the window to the inner self. Keep on. I’d like to try something with you. I will use this gong and I am going to strike it. After this first stroke I’d like you just to listen to the sound. When I strike it the second time you will tell me what you think about the past hour. But I haven’t told you the air gun story. I’m sure you will remember it!

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At the HR office, awareness, initiation for full potential commitment

I tried to make myself comfortable on the visitors chair of the HR in front of a wood panelled varnished massive U shaped escritoire that dedicated itself to worshipping the soul placed behind at it, accepting its fate and the wearisome exercises of being a human resources manager at Sammy J.’s. The big computer screen to my left was resembling a flat tv from the early 2000s, serious and inwardly whispering ‘I B M’ in my direction, a matt grey, designed to coolishly reflect the particles coming from the neon tubes above me apparently isolated from the rest of the room, in order to provide enough light to the open-plan office’s activity areas. The millennial shift had meant a state of professional catatonia for the I.T. service because they were afraid of a binary thousand-yard-stare and the loss of time, on time. ‘A drink, Sally?’ A profound voice was placing itself in proximity to myself, behind me, rushing past me, trailing a whiff of no-perfume-perfume. The HR took a seat in front of me, means, behind the desk, bending backwards with the chair’s ergonomic back rest, panning a little, his eyes pricking randomly around the place for a second without holding onto something specific and finally, raising his leaping eyebrows, saying that the hypothetical instant could cost the company a shit load of rankings if I would knowingly misconduct my potentials at The J.’s. ‘You decided not to accept my offering. If that’s resistance or modesty is yet to prove.’ I tried not to look sweaty by moderately inhaling the sizzling air. The room was brimmed with carbon dioxide and I was completely stuck. ‘Listen’, the HR started through his nostrils, in a straight forward tone, straight into the spot between my eyes, I was drowning, ‘the company hires me for over a decade now because I make decisions in the interest of all the shareholders. Aesthetically … I make aesthetic interventions, I’m aesthetically engaged in this company.’ He sounded persuasive through the nose. I had learned this in college. Each time we were close to a political debate our economics teacher Mr. Lip used to come up with how artistically crafting consultants are actually working throughout the country. ‘Thinking the company as a whole ... Like in a landscape with people, plants, animals and water, stones, insects all crawling around, doing stuff, purposeful, productive and less productive, sometimes you cut some branches of a tree if they become too much, sometimes you don’t because you want your garden to prosper … you even cut off a head, if that’s a promising sacrifice. It’s all depending on your idea.’‘ Did he say that? He bounced. ‘Ha ha ha haaa!’ I took a second, then I laughed, too. “I’m joking, I’m joking Selly. You want a drink now?’ I felt like in a Turing test, the HR incarnating the human and the computer. His hair was a deliberate grey, he had had black hair when he was young, black and solid, black and straight forward, one of those types you twirl between your fingers and you think a bunch of them would make a good brush or one of those things people chase mosquitos with and I tried to figure out who was speaking and at what time. The other day, Lil told me about a dream and the Turing thing just popped up. She was caught up in a computer and she had to make a test but in order to start she had to first decode the other peoples codes to their computers. She said, she didn’t figure it out. At that time she just dropped out of school and started taking big amounts of High Trust. Probably the HR’s mission at Sammy J.’s was to provide passcodes to all the propositus but maybe Lil was not registered. Maybe that was the head-off thing. The thing you say to mean something else, or to mean something at all because it’s illustrating and exemplifying like the HR used the titanic thing once in a commencement speech for the new interns. I was one of them. He applied that stigma of cinematic stucco to all of us whereby we suddenly meant a fucking lot. A Whole new self between two syllables. - phonet- Not really but potentially. For about an hour, then the speech was buzzling away but, while remaining on the rostrum to organise his thoroughly carried out speech’s sheets, his coat sleeve grinding the directional mic, left a repulsive noise. Then he walked off the pop-up stage in the cafeteria.

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Squid

With a wine. Sitting in front of the computer screen waiting, again, for his mother, whom he liked to call Moringa, back then, when he was an Africanology student for those three wasted Semesters, to answer his message. It never went any further besides him accepting her friends request. Maybe it had been a rather desperate sign of Moringas concerns about maybe losing her only son’s attention after his moving to the city, and him being less and less available for long term-conversations with a good glass of Pinot Grigio and some four hours talk about intellectual spirituality. This time he decided to really quit. Not the job, not - not yet - his bank account nor his offspring of a relationship with the 22 year old Christina from Denmark who happened to be an intern at Sammy J.’s two years ago. With the age comes wisdom and the understanding that you don’t have to cross the oceans to explore something new. He was about to quit his social media profile because of many reasons, of which some made him feel paranoid about his every-day-life routines and also the amount of advertisement he received mimicking another user’s interest in stuff on the internet, about what he got more or less upset depending on how much the other user’s friendship with himself on the social media correlated with his perception of the real. But finally it was his mother not reacting to his messages what made him feel most disappointed about the her reaching out for him. He poured a new wine in his christal glass. Their relationship had ever been so precious to him but still he couldn’t refuse a slight resentment inside about Moringa being somehow possessive about their past and doing so she revealed a certain awkwardness. Zib …………. Zibb was the sound of tiny little portions of wine carefully accepted by his pursed lips and desire for something else. Not yet available.

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Clustering

The water started to get cold so he pulled out the plug a little in order to add some hot water to the bath he made himself after a long and disturbing day. This time in a soothing sense because for him there were basically x types of disturbances a person could become a victim of or affected by. The substrate added to the bath by himself beforehand was unfolding as a) tiny little bubbles. as foam on the water surface b) a blue-ish tone of the whole water appearance although this one he only realised after having already left the bath tub but it made no difference because he was pretty certain about his speculation on the substrate-added having tinted the water not him physically being in or surrounded by the water or the fact that he had spent 27 minutes in the tub which could have led to further more keen assumptions for a numerologist or just someone being pareidolian about random events or phenomena. He happened to be somehow proprietorial about the water-thing and it bothered him but in everyday-life performance, being surrounded by persons whose physical and biochemical configuration plays rather a minor role during a psychological air raid in the office, at school, in homes, or on the streets. Inside one’s own body a certain awareness can ease some of the heavy vibration. Adding the substrate to the water became - after reconsidering and synchronizing with his latest adjustments in personal hygiene - erratic, what made him feel in a way disappointed about himself. Not thinking about any of that at all, he waited for the water level in the tub to lower a little bit so that he could start adding hot water again. He first started to observe only the water level decreasing around his hairy, tattooed legs until his average genitals were peaking out over the water surface piercing the foam evolved from the substrate, some minutes ago. Then he started to feel a burble at the plug hole speeding up and for a blink he was gone.

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st / in for lil

Your garden is a square But i wanna dare Risking makes me always feel so I love your summer breeze Please give me a squeeze Sunset is a temporary Hands not like every hands Just give me a chance Sundays i don’t need to go to Strands not like every other Black is but a color I want you to sit like you do Behind my wrecked face I have a good pace believe me when i say i’d love to let’s go for a walk dad is just a fraud i got much time so let’s have a hands-on- I know so much already but not enough to steady a lifetime seems to fit just one life

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After Sex Scene (Alpenszene 2)

“I feel humiliated only by your presence Hans as if I’d try to do my signature with a broken hand in front of many people.”

Their sweaty bodies are lying in a bed in a hotel room with wood paneling. A bright light shines through the window but is held back by a thick red curtain. Hans is playing with a little magic cube.

“Have you ever thought about all the possibilities we’d have, Hans, if we weren’t trapped in our bodies and time?”

“Klaus, I’m afraid, I can not think about a single dream no more, we all have things to do that are more important than playing a dangerous game with our fantasies. Even when the day is bright and I’m lying here with you, my Klaus, I am slipping into darkness, nevertheless, and it’s too painful to except that you can make a living from your grief and play my fiancé while I’m in fact just a sloppy whore for you.”

The enormous fruit platter next to the bed had already started to get old and the whipped cream on top of it bursted out in little streams being swallowed up by the holes between pine apple slices, strawberries, bananas, papayas, chunks of coconut and pears and apples. Klaus was staring at a halved apple, he felt sad about this all. The fact that he had hooked up with Hans although he knew so well that the financial differences between them had always made Hans feel as if he had hit on Klaus only because he was councillor but no matter how much they had talked about it, there was a certain distrust on both sides that they might not had been honest about the mutual assurance that all of this doesn’t matter because love is what brought them together. In fact, Hans was feeling like a whore in Klaus’ arms much more often than the few times he had admitted and because of that always when they met in the hotel room he became more and more cynical about their relationship and faithless about promises.

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He was walking down the street, that one he had walked down a trillion times in his life already. And because he became tired of doing nothing while walking down the street, one day, he started to count things. There were 1274 paving tiles, 65 trees, 123 houses, 20 red doors, 57 power poles and one day he counted 123 parked cars plus one driving. Sometimes he would define certain rules relating to his quantified environment. For example he forbid himself to step on certain tiles or to look at white cats and so forth. He had counted everything there but he was never been able to count the stars when he walked home at night and it used to bother him a lot. Sometimes he felt uncomfortable about his hobby because he was afraid his mother would think he might have a sort of premature neurosis and would try to send him to a therapist or at least she would start to cringe inside every time he would count stuff which would have had produced in him a certain feeling of guilt. He decided to not give a shit about the stars, after all. Suddenly, he saw an abundant black horse about 20 meters in front of him, carrying a member of the KKK on it’s back. ‘It had to be’, He thought, ‘at least once’. The horseman went on and -- really slowly -- past Sally who looked at them, the horse and the member, strongly pressing his tongue against the back of his upper incisors. It made him look silly but he didn’t care. Not this time.

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Alpenszene 1

Klaus tollt in Lederhose die Alpenweide entlang. Er tänzelt wie Heidi über das Feld. Mambo! Seine Mutter missbilligt seine Homosexualität. Sie züchtigt ihn mit harter Arbeit. Er bürstet die Kühe als Hans vorbeikommt. „Hallo Klaus wie geht es dir?“ „Ach Hans ich stehe den ganzen Tag weil die Mutter mir gesagt halt ich soll alle Kühe zweimal bürsten.“ „Oh, kannst du mir vielleicht die Haare bürsten. Auf dem Weg hierher hat der Wind sie ganz strubbelig gemacht.“ „Ja, Hans.“ Klaus geht auf Hans zu und bürstet ihm das Haar. Sie küssen sich. „Ich muss jetzt weitermachen.“ „Tschüss Klaus.“ „Tschüss Hans.“ Klaus hat blonde Haare. Hans hat braune Haare.

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with missing elements like sally and others

Every so often, Lil used to roam around in a beautiful garden far off from the technological and social confusions of the cities. This garden was filled with joy and splendour. It’s purpose had always been - if there was any purpose at all because it was a magical place with no restrictions and almost endless possibilities - to constantly reframe the limits of belief of it’s guests and inhabitants to make sure that no one would ever try to posses the garden, since it had been founded some three years ago by Mr. Shweez along with the renovation of the Sammy J’s office campus. A firm that was engaged in the distribution of Ion Energy.

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CFO C Sessions 2 (aftermath)

I only know if you work hard sometimes you get what you deserve and sometimes you are simply very lucky and you get to realise that nothing in this world is to be earned and chance is simply another word for that feeling … when you … I mean … Which feeling? Can you give me a metaphor?? (lost in his thoughts, his eyes piercing the air, the atmosphere now is very dense) You know when you stand in the line and your anus is leaking a fart. Just like that. You don’t do nothing against it. I mean chances are fifty fifty if it’s going to be the devil creeping out your ass polluting the atmosphere of the person behind you with toxic segregation or simply nothing. A I R. H 2 O. How do you know?! It depends on fucking everything that in any sense streaking your digestive tract and even beyond because you have to consider every parallel reality. Then you go home still embarrassed and if you are one of the lucky ones you have time to hop on the yoga mat and do some exercises so that next time chances might be more like thirty seventy. To be precise. That’s what makes a successful cfo. Preventing the company from making toxic mistakes with dangerous aftermath for the company’s strategic environment. There are other mistakes that are quite harmless. Like stretching your point so far that I could have planted rosarium in the meantime. Yap, exactly. That’s pretty innocent. Even if someone dies from the infinite boredom of your bullshit?! Well, you have to consider each case individually. I mean, if that person who - most unlikely - died from “infinite boredom”, how you call it, had a good life insurance it could even be a pretty ... lucky investment. But that’s not the point. The point is that you suck at talking about your psycho-pathological condition. I’m here to help you. And I’m here to help you. You suck at analysing my condition - and your office’s rent is soon going to decuple. Wha .. What?! Yap, my company bought all the fucking estates in motherfucking doctordoof town ... Shithead. (upliftng jingle: cfooooooooooo)

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Round Table - My Text & My Text 2

“It’s not worth losing only a thought about them.” “We see a room in a dim light. Four figures are seated in the middle of the room … cozy living room situation. we are dealing with manhood. They seem to be in a relaxed conversation situation but truth is they are not … Not at all because they have nothing to tell each other.” “There was another bombing that night, haven’t you heard? Do you even care?” “One of them maybe mid-fourties face with a spasm like wearing a mask peaking cheeks, nutorious smile with tight lips thin like the oldest moon, a fragile nose and a furrowed forehead. The little light in the room is sufficient to reflect on the highest parts of the face to shine brighter than anything else in there.” “explanations for that are hidden farther than our eyes can see. Before we doubt after not even a glance and let distrust grow in our heart we ought to open ourselves to a better world which lays bare a secret wisdom. In order to have acces to this world please choose one of the following options: Recreational forces - parallelogram - secret energy activation training.” When I write about my life I prefer to pick some of life’s more humble examples like a dream. “The other figure is a manorial older man. He's wearing a suite, opaque, sitting straight but relaxed as if the word straight for him was synonym with relaxed, legs loosely crossed. He Seems to be deeply convinced of everything he does even that time where eveything about that situation is odd. Part of his life he was the successful personnel manager for a multinational oil company and he’s a damn good player.” “You’re a damn good player.” “Did you look at my face only once? It's a whole universe unfurle, right in front of you. I change expression and another hit vanishes into a hollow, mythical, erected part of your brain. Btw the pineal gland is what scientists think of today as the actual center of happiness. It's really important you keep that part clean. Some yoga might help and a good portion of green smoothie once in a while.”

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Chapter 13

Pitter-Patter in the night. A knife through dark wind. Tounge out, breath in. Yellow strobe lights on the floor. Cold floor crushing against claws. Robert is flying and kicking. Chasing the smell of freedom.

“Where is the fucking dog?” 

“Oh, no! The door is open. I must have left it open!”

“No, no, no, no, noooo!”

The street stares at Tammy and Jake in disappointment. A cold sweat floats from the door through the hallway into the backs of the two.

“Robert is gone”

“And it’s my fault. I am sorry.” Tammy replies.

Heat bursts out of Roberts muscles. Breaking off the collar he was forced into by birth. “Is this all I was made for? To love my fucking humans?” He screams in agony. 

Have you ever seen a dog crying… of joy? 

“Yep we found him.” the Police officer said.

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10.10.2016

Filled with a hand full of dice

Downsizing feels weird in the 21st century

Are you drowning too?

Playmate became Playwrite

Is there a system of thought that can handle my workload?

Today I saw the Ex-boyfriend

Does that make me a toy, friend?

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