(Merike Estna in the middle)

Nebula of endless mistakes

Christian death metal made me hardcore​

Feeling a bit woozy from my first snus of the day, I started my morning with the usual Dutch hardstyle mix which made me feel as if I had just injected at least seven shots of espresso. Retinal trash was bursting through the open windows. Kenny G was breathing through his nose and blowing at the same time - I wish I knew how to do that. A bit later, with a sense of silence and doom, we were hunting for EVP voices and drinking coffee. The Koreans were skating, the Americans were flying. Living Sacrifice. Lines and inscriptions outlined bodies moving in the speed of flying monks. We were eagerly waiting.

Yes, Mr. Paik, books were the most advanced of technology. But then hierarchy, stairs, and pyramids, all of that blew up. Trains were no longer going from point A to point B; if necessary, they just appeared and disappeared at random places on the tracks. Each story could begin with an epilogue or even a voice from the afterworld. Love stories began with stalking and ended with a thoughtless cookie. But a moment before the end of linear life, I was pressing FWD and listening. The first chords, the first manoeuvres with the drumsticks. A and B sides. From one to thirteen. It wasn't hard, patience wasn't something exclusive. Information was travelling like measles, like an old man with bare feet, like a recipe of tasty rye bread. Step by step I was cultivating my limbic system, my amygdala. Hair dye was replaced by nail polish, and so on. Biathlon of knowledge, skeleton of experience. When in 1895 August Strindberg wrote to Gauguin, it is possible that the ears of the documentarian of Tahiti caught these words: “for the moment you were approved and admired, [your supporters] would classify you, put you in your place and give your art a name which, five years later, the younger generation would be using as a tag for designating a superannuated art, an art they would do everything to render still more out of date.” Even if this line has not disappeared, it is now shining on the cover of Vogue. It bends through the Italian serpentines, it breaks in the Neapolitan landscape, like a window cleaner it stretches down the facade of the Empire State Building, it extends through the 242 bus route in Shoreditch and draws out the restaurant network in Belleville. Like a Peking duck, the line is golden all through, though it differs in the hands of a skilled chef, mimicking the sound of a piano in a hotel lobby, a crystal radio or the latest skirt fashion. Patience breaks like a tennis racquet, like an Insta Story, like an ankle, like a tail of an airplane. I am watching bobsledding, I am looking at an exhibition in Prague, I am reading about Guggenheim, I am messaging a friend in Rotterdam, my lunch is 20 minutes away - let's hope the snow will not delay it. Where do the potatoes with egg go? Where does the wooden cross in the Beberbeķi graveyard go? A text from Mom. Where are the doves? The prophets of these last days. My dial button is hidden. Hit with a leg.

Farewell, sailor!