Wednesday, 12 November 2008

The journal of today will show administration and its dark beauty. The passion of form-fillers or, even better, the form-makers is one of almost unbearable intensity. Outlines, emboldened rectangles, sections, bulleted points, little fences for those all-important numbers. There is a beauty in these things, the many forms that come to me from the local financial department, or the health insurers, or the tax bureau. They are all singular, tailored, bewildering testaments to unseen processes - little pockets of culpability and indictment that have the invisible power to facilitate one's movements through the corridors of citizenship. I am always told by Cara, that when talk turns to tax it is time to leave and I suppose it must be this way.

Last night, in the vaulted Kreuzberg hall replete with chandeliers, mezzanine and curtained stage, my talk of tax was our cue to ride home. We tore through the districts, up through Mitte and Prenzlauerberg, towards our home. The streets were deserted and a fine frost had begun to climb onto the pavements. We rode quickly and arrived before expected, buoyed by the night's music.

Each band complemented the others well. Lightning Bolt's frantic thrash brought waves through the tightly pressed crowd, stretching to see them positioned -as always - on the floor, away from the stage, hidden beyond rows of ever-tumbling onlookers. Before this all other dynamics of loud guitar music were covered by the other bands, a concurrent theme of masquerade holding each performance together and in its place. It was an evening where fun was to be had, where the over-intellectualisation of music was omitted for a thankful change, and people just played and moved.

For now, the evening seems short ahead of me. Having written to friends and resolved to no more work tonight, submissive to the beauty of forms, maybe I will turn to reading or some other mindful distraction. There are rows of volumes on the shelf, I stutter through chapters at the moment, all too ready to think of occupational matters.

Instead, as the old man on the radio just said, I should be thinking that everyone has a story to tell, and each one tells it differently.