il pleut étoiles filantes...

 There are always these moments when you realize: Damn no one told me that or prepared me for this kind of situation.

So I stand there in the middle of this colourful mess, that life is most of the time unprepared and a little naiv and in the end it may not be perfect, but alright.

 Wouldn't it be simpler just to teach children right from the start that life is absurd and weird and there is really nothing that can prepare you for all of the things that are thrown at you,

but what would we be without our fairytales and strange dreams.

What would we be without cottoncandychildhoodmemories and sugar rush weeks?

Probably more bitter than sweet.

I have finally concluded, maybe that's what it is about:

there's a lot of despair, nostalgia and weirdness, but also the odd moments of beauty, where time is no longer the same, where especially music - more than any other form of art -  can create a sort of interlude in time, an elsewhere that comes to us while listening to a melody or tune.

photography corinna kern and martin munkácsi

"winterwunderkerzen"

Even in Paris winter is starting now. People are wrapped in fluffy scrafs and coats and you can buy knitted clothes everywhere.

  I prefer winter over all the other seasons right now, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape, the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter. 

Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn't show yet, but there is a promise somewhere.

I can't wait to see my breath raising in little white clouds in front of me or living on hot tea with indian flavours.

Go scating on ice some place near and discover new winter soundtracks and books.

Somebody once told me

"The colour of springtime is in the flowers, the colour of winter is in the imagination."

and she is right.

 photography by Corinna Kern

studying the art of getting by...

"Night is leaving and I stand at the window and I watch. Orange and pink streaks sail across the blue of the sky, large birds silhouette themselves against the red of the rising sun, clouds inch their way toward me. I can feel my heart beating and I can feel the weight of life beginning to drop and I realize why dawn is called mourning. I climb into bed and I climb under the covers and I close my eyes and I try to remember."

-a million little pieces-

James Frey

photography by Jack Stone , Adolph de Meyer, Audrey Leighton Rogers,  a boy 
and me

find some beautiful place to get lost

It has been a while. 

A good while to be honest.

A while where I discovered new music, got lost in literature and daydreams on the metro and everywhere imaginable and unimaginable in Paris. Sometimes accompanied by a friend, a beutieful boy or 

tune.

Sometimes completly alone.

There were such events as the fashion week, brass concerts, flea markets and wine coloured nights and eventhough everything seems beyond belief, nostalgia hits me somedays out of this autumn-clear sky 

and it makes me wondering:

when you are a child, you say things like, my life will be like this, this and this...

  somehow such an attitude towards life and expectations turns into something else over the years. 

Into "C'est la vie."

I'm not there yet, but even cottoncandytime ends someday like the amazing Lemmy Killmister said:

"The older you get, the less you can believe. It's not your fault, you know. It just comes to you that everything isn't corn flakes and skittles and beer."

and  all we can do to not go there is...

 photography Cecil Beaton and me

...dancing in the street



... is a little trashy song by David Bowie and Mick Jagger.

The kind of trashiness invented by David Bowie and he is probably the only human being in this universe, that looks good while holding and keeping it.

It's a weird and strange late summer. Still inhabiting some magic and august sunshine.

 I blew the last dandelion lately, wishing something almost impossible and I catch myself whispering a farewell to every butterfly that crosses my way while wondering where this year has been and why time is always passing way too quick, when you don't want it to pass at all.

Just to stand still in other moments.

All we can do is play music and dance in the streets of Paris or wherever in the world as long as this late summer-early autumn season lasts

and

get lost in daydreams.

photography by isabelle küster and jason nocito and me

related bands mad noise and not even maybe

we are always in stories

Stories in stories in other stories and you never know where one ends and a new one starts.

Everything is a frictionless flow.

Just in books stories are seperated proper.

Sometimes I start to miss a passed plot line and the people that belonged to it,

but you never know, if a story is already over,

maybe it just hasn't found the right time yet. 

photography manuela domantis and many others