"Behind every system, behind every rule stands a corpse and laughs. You can't tell me who I should sleep with. I don't work for wages. My life is a revolution... My life is a beautiful life... What you call freedom, I call waste... I will continue to love my own voice. If everyone becomes me, everything will collapse."

Bruno K. Öijer

Friday, August 27, 2010

Silencio



The echo is powerful… leads the children to beds. Small animal walk the fields of soft autumn ready grass. No more labels, no more voice vibrations. All had wrapped it self in everything. All is nothing and nowhere. All is space. We get smaller. As every flake in it's own being. Mass murders are left for past generations. 100 years ago. Smoke tickles the toes. Mist of the dusk is on it's way. Sleep is an irrelevant, untameable being. Time capsules. Curls in the hair. Flowers bring the indescribable calm reflection. Numbers. Numb…bers. Skin. All is nowhere. It covers as a snowstorm. Goes deep. Stays. Blows out. Mist covers the erratic brain. It is everywhere. No need to think. Dive in. The smell of peonies. Most beautiful flower in the world. 1000 petals. A 1000 stories. 2000 characters. Miles and miles or roads. No more sacrifices. No more bullets. Just fields of peonies. Endless. Non Saint-Exupéry. Slightly white hint of crimson.



Fields of peonies
Llorando



Good night,
Sonia Dietrich

Oral Fixation

Self control. The sense of usefulness and using. The ego and the ID. Pure identity. The super ego. The parallels. The hidden patterns. The wishes and needs. Burning slowly. The trought in suffocation not by choice. Skin to white. She is beautiful. The tabloid shows connected. Are you sure about that? Sickness is spreading. It is in the lungs, head, hands, fingers. It occupied the body. Every cell speaks, mumbles, interrupts each other. The DNA had reached the twisted end. Spirals spirals spirals... Blood group: AB (IV) Rh (D) +



There is no savers. Singing so silently… SO gentle… Will you come to my hole, six feet under. I want to hear that song again. Keypads feel trapped and raped under the fingertips. Nails. Dig in. Who gave me the right. Sometimes. Wake up and don't know where I am. Walking shadows on the walls. No reflections of the dream land. Church bells every 15 minutes. He has a weird car. Dream diaries need to find the place. Foot steps. I know. Edit. Delete. Swoop. Quote. Replace. Random. Target. Practice makes it perfect. Speed. Mania. Tubs. Back of the head turns purple. Blood rush. I know the timing. Shift. Intimidated. Swollen. 3 stages of development. Hallelujah. Bending fingers. Wire tightened around the wrist. Pressure. Relief. Stop. Never. Don't! The feel of power brings angels down to earth. More. Again.

And then they start. Looks from the peep holes. Spy holes. Whore holes. Digestion. Do you have a club card? A VIP badge. A secret. Bag. A stash. Substances. Memories. Icons. Bibles. Endless galleries of forgotten ashes. Mascara. Eye liner. Powder. Don't forget the bone. They are ready. No surprises. Not looking for company. Offers. No thank you. Go away. Get lost. This is the time with no pulsation. Dive in. Mirage. Recovery time. Skirt to tight. Don't think. Women's world. Push. Pull. Door handles are screwed off. Hate mondays - fridays. All the same. Differences on the golden platter. Tubes. Constant blood checks. Have you taken. Yes. Doses. Does it works for you. Make next appointment at the front desk.





Dj Skinhead - Extreme Terror (terror mix). Come ON! The way it was. The way it sucked you in. The way the basement had no oxygen. Stroboscopes. Strobe phobia. No faces. No water. Perfect emptiness of suffocation. God bless the rave times. The happiness of not knowing. The perfection of low experience. All gone. Now and today all is used up. Memories bring the sweet undertaste. Too much light. To much buddhists. To much door to door advertising. Silicone walleye. Chipped children and army forces. Ampules at daintiest office. Here comes the low. Time out.



Plug your self



Good night and god bless,

Sonia Dietrich

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

Garmonbozia


A perfect assassination takes the melted glass and puts it in the tub to see throw the elimination. The smell of autumn is already here. Take the cote out of the closet. Lets dance to the smiling cats in the fields. The grin has a rhythm. Delusional heaven. The rays of enlightenment. It is a cloudy morning. Silent. 06:57 am. Rangers are at hunt. We should hide. Walk by the rails. Enemies are in hiding. Don't forget the cote of the shadow play.


Delusions in the taste of maple syrup. Cotton candy and pink ribbons. Tiaras and miles of moving pictures. It will lullaby me to sleep...violins and pianos. Toes of red and strawberries. Raspberries and glass bowls... Mornings and numb stares throw the window. Lets take a ride. No emergency exits needed. Lizards will move in the swastikas swirls directly to the sun. Blankets. Close the eyes of terror. Welcome...


But what happens when the monster does not leave. When the sleep does not come. When time does not move. When every line is like the last one. When every word is a puzzle. When diagnosis are taking over the field. I have painted it all in earth colors. Never was a fan of fauve. Fairy tales. Where is the next stop. 38.7. And it just keeps growing. Pin me down.


The shoe size 38. A pair of perfection. So glamorous on the outside, so terrifying from the inside. Black. Shiny. With every stitch and every line. With every land mark. We open a folder of sounds and images. And tomorrow. Lets just say it never happened. There is no one to judge. Tho all is simple. If you are not scared to watch.




This was the beginning of post-mortem journal



Good night and god bless,

Sonia Dietrich

Monday, August 23, 2010

Tightening a Cherry Knot


Empty, domestically perfectly chaotic bed. Out side limbo is inviting me to every possible fair there is to please my self. They scream and scream. Monsters. Thinking it over. I sit in my bed listening to the silence that is so unusual in this city. The festival is tacking over every inch and every corner... but sometimes lets go. And at this moments there is pure silence mixed up with construction workers mumbling and sound of metal. Engines of excellence. We fear what we do not understand. Crave the unreachable. Still. The mind of the one is wonderland. So many things left unsaid. It seems that there is one head to share. It feels so familiar and safe. Hope I make you happy. Lets go round and round on the Ferris Wheel. I will tell you all the stories of the future. Never mind the attachments. Never mind the voices. Never mind ...


Fever kicks in. Perimeter of the room is covered in tissue and cups. Ginger. Lemon. Honey. Paracetamol flows in rivers of eternity. LemSip. Get a hold of every possible pharmaceutical miracle there is. Walking streets at night. The amount of people is horrifying. Living in one of thous old, strategy, computer games. The look the same, talk the same, walk the same. Stop. The banality of language pressures the brain tissue. Inspiration. The song brings memories from the front desk to the back yard. I hum along. Icicles and Raining Blood. Remembering the questions. How much are you wiling to put in the vault dear. Will you run away from all of them... Beautiful garden. Seeing rain. Not on the forecast. Resistance to self. Resistance to wishes. Inches. Fools gardens. Eyes tell more then words. Don't crucify your self over the gift that is given.






One centimeter from the black sea. Dust. Half empty. The sky.... is waiting. Do I imagine or is it really happening. Finely. Out side is on hold. Air does not move. Gelatin. Twisted pictures on the walls. Antique post cards of churches and girl school buildings. The echoes of past brings the will for tomorrow. This was suppose to be your day - the voice told me. Like in the "dark city", someone is messing around with the memories. So it feels like the timing is perfect. Tightening the knot. Cherries. Lets play.


Pick it up. Put the red on. Brush throw. Find the second shoe. The evening s waiting.



With scent of magnolia...
Good Night,
Sonia Dietrich

Sunday, August 8, 2010

The cold floor of Yesterday

It comes inside slowly. Never asked why. Frightening. To demanding. To personal. Somehow you know there is only one question that could ruin everything. Only one thing said wrong and the army will march upon you. I missed him. The one who talks at night. 6.14 am. Edinburgh. My eyes do not close, body does not listen. Fingers are in compulsive relapse. Needs. Forgot how seagulls are hunting the morning for me. Never liked how some called them flying rats. Gorgeous creatures. But rationalization comes. This is pure ignorance. Something needs to be changed. I want to know why and how it all happened. Is it revisable. Do it, drag it, fuck it, screw it, nothing make seance. Spins in the ceiling. Ground feels like the acid pool. Endless spiral of lasting hookers. Mega mega white thing! The beat takes you to the roof top. Forget the dreams. Forget the wishes. You will end up like all of them. Stupid stupid decisions. This fucking ship has nowhere else to sail.

And somehow I am stuck. To this chair and the walls that are to thick to let the air it. THIS IS A BOX! A box we call computer room, and leave trace mark of coffee stains, just like Hazel and Grethel, for our savior Jesus Christ. The room is black, no windows. One door and screens. It seems here, at this point, other type of living form exists. I wonder how long it will take me, to loose it. A homeless record lady. Not so bad. Alto, where will i plug my turntable? coffee cup number four and still no result. Streets are dirty. Don't want to. No. Walk out/in/on.




The right side. Something in my organism is killing the substance. The donor. You can have it. My isolation. Eating grapes of the wall paper is not the worst thing that could happen. The sky is collapsing in the middle, as no one bought the ticket back. Then told imagination, where is the key. Black is saving the watery substance. No seance make seance. The vibration of the sound brings hope and forgiveness. Mentally. Slowly. Throw the veins and fingernails. Near, near, near. I need a change of skin. Somewhere. Come and tell me all that you know. Run run run cute rabbit, I hold him. Run to the perfection of exemption and dignity, run to the fields of memories. Run and wish you never been here. Where the fields change colors and breathing gets hard and Heavy. You wasted all of it. Not me. You put the dagger in. You have greedy fingers. I am suddenly afraid of water. Cant do it. Cant face it. Cant look it in the eyes.



Playing the game of not talking to save the moment. Coping mechanism. As he once told me, deep cleansing breaths... two sentence exchange. Getting ready. Sings on the wall. Travel. Empty beds with no emotional connection or impact. Lost. Touch is a loaded automatic weapon. Escaping. Hoping. Dreading. It feels like blanket is turned. It feel cold. Watching never felt so damaging. Escaping. Look at the creator! Needs. Give me something, to shoot it. Never card for calibers. Just turn it OFF!

Lying on the floor listening to his cd's and you...where as cold as yesterdays coffee and the floor it self. Obsessed. Does it takes so much or little? Drawing lines on the thies. Slowly. Selfishly. As not to. Escape, as not to be, feel, think. As not to...make it stop. Make it all go away. Let the army of the pigs suffocate inside the vomit of the prophets. Churches fallow me like the headlights. Train is zigging. I wish it would fall. Slip. Skip. Choke. yes.....
Redress me, brand you look. Play as wished. Adjust to the mood and the type of the evening required. Endless sea. My heels where downing in the sand. Moments. Multiple personalities. It was 2000 of us. And you. Lets jump the gun.

Bang Bang!



Never fear the rails.
Good Night,
Sonia Dietrich

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

Hunt the Hunter





Dream hunters. An everyday ecstasy of time. The luxury of wasted moment and cigarette buts. Beds and sheets are singed to the owner. Heaviness of the pillow is stacking the neck. Strangulation. Enemies are lined up. Slow motions. I reached a new level. Crush and burn. I can see, how it happened. One word, and you are hooked. They talk in slow motion, blurred images. A pillow between the legs. Waiting for a resurrection. A cleansing holly water down the throat. Savers in the gutter. There comes a beat. Take the favorite shovel and shove it deep. All suggestions lost there appetite, I am shocked by your passivity. Just do it. He told me, if you ever would need to burn down some steel, call me. Rage was growing. Mixed up messages with subliminal white powdery substance underneath. High is taking it's low. One.... Enter.


Where is my AK 47 when I need it. She sings give it a try. Repeat. Squeaking sound of metal. Change your layout. Personalize. Indigestion. Have to, need to, must, should, maybe, somehow. Wash off the dirt! Smile! Smile! Smile! So in this perfect world of my, where ashtrays lie in bed with laptops, cigarettes and smudges of yesterday lipstick shade rad, I think about the time. That passes me buy like the bus numbers I never got into. Like the coffee that I drink one day to late, as it taste better next morning. About the little creature that likes to curl on to my pillow, here in the place called home. That soon, in 1 days, I will take yet another
airplane and fly back to the world of dish washing, emptiness and routine. And I wonder, how. How did it happened, that the information didn't reach me at the point of necessity. And how did the world that felt so useful suddenly became so foreign and unnecessary dull. About possibilities and things need to be dun. And so, as the sounds of morning violence are mixing up Pink Floyd "Wall" with "Isolation as Intent", it strikes me. Paperdolls. Road maps. Rented happiness. Screams of the pleased for force rescue, comes from the poisoned mouth. Price tags on the shivering fingertips. Drowning. Commitments. Puzzles. Wishes. Pragmatic.


We are what we create. First impressions. Prices are growing. Sick! No judgment, no judgment, no judgment. Good god is hard to find. In search of the instinct. Make notes on the desktop. Old icons are awake from the endless sleep. Christ brings me water. Never the gun. I see evolution. Don't hide, all is simple. The sea of used unpeeled dicks with the hint of prosperity. Requests, post codes, stamps, snow cards. Spellchecker. Did not passed the exam of human
contact. Inside the big thing that some carry on the shoulders, I have completely different scenarios. Manuals and dictionaries are not attached to the product. Colliding worlds are missing the meet-up point. There is a trigger. There is a shift. There is a point. There is a hole.


Don't forget you 10 hail marries before bed.



Good Night,
Sonia Dietrich



Sunday, August 1, 2010

Cerberus

One. The bridge. I needed to say that 5 years ago. No. Now. Perfect timing. A dream. A silence. A plan. A spot. I am out. Cosmos. Do not understand. Two hands = Order. Four hands = Disorder. Shifting ceiling. Windows. Deep breath. Numb territorial looks in to nothing. Lets freeze the moment. Yes. This page is still blank, as the mind is trapped. Days keep wrapping them self's in safety blanket. The reader is curious or maybe the ego of the writer got to big. It is 5.22am. Sleep does not come back to me. Words feel empty. Officially. Means of the end. Check points. Morning glory.
Waking up with falling. Asleep. Expired documents burn the hole for the industry. Habits die hard. Share a bullet not the news. I cant.
What does it bring. The wheel keeps turning. Freeze. Blank. I give advises to everyone. Incomplete.





Want to loose my self in the silence of the endless library. To hear the pages talk and tremble. To swing in Greek Methodology till the endless sunset wash off all the dirt. Guilt is playing it's part. I watched them today.From a corner of the eye. Somewhere far. I know ...
This thing called world keeps sniping around. Too fast. To much.
Hip movements in latex heels. The guilt will kill you. The shade of red lips is a match. Fingernails. They do not speak. I have a thing for same spot. Wallpaper has a stain. Smudges. I can imagine how it was. Black. Last time there was a card game. The Queen of Hearts. She lives with me now. Stupidity. Control the territory. Property. Stock market. Investments in time, back yard, gods, goods, dogs-cats and antique furniture. Times of rave have left us in the past. The story ended. How did it happened that everything touched is left frozen. This path is a freezer with no doorhandles.



I reread the stories I used to adore. Missing the essence of the eternity. Dance. Rotting flower roots never lie. All the priorities are scattered. Eyes ere burning like the album of MZ.4 12. Temple of god hanged it self in the endless sea off bad judgment. The light in the end off the tunnel will come. But not from will, soul or high voltage IKEA light bulbs, it will shine from this laptop.
The machine that could tell a thousand stories but will keeps them to it self. A selfish device constructed to keep us in the cubicles and will for the bitter end with health insurance. We are afraid of nakedness, confessions and truth. Tho fight for it as it means something more then just phrases on the paper. So how did it happened, that every thought was already digested by someone. That all there is could be packed to a box size 2 by 2. Home is replaced my liqueur cabinet and usb hard-drives. We, the ones of tomorrow and yesterday have no today. So if, it is really possible, that the phones bills would bring more then numbers, maybe the layout would change. And just maybe, the endless labyrinth would not be guarded by the mighty Cerberus.




Don't drown in your cubical.



Good night,
Sonia Dietrich