Ten Little Missions
Summer arrived the moment I bought neon green yarn for a project I’ll never finish. That’s how it always goes—you buy materials, full of hope, and the season turns against you.
I’ve been thinking about the weekend, which is actually only two and a half days if you’re being honest about it. My brain keeps landing on small absurdities. Organizing a coordinated Twitter earthquake hoax—everyone in Berlin announcing seismic activity at exactly 3:15 PM Saturday, then watching how many minutes before some news outlet picks it up as real. Writing an actually hostile diss track about mosquitoes, because those things need psychological warfare. Skipping the whole going-out thing and instead performing a one-man show in your apartment, safe in the knowledge that nobody gets hurt except you. Giving drum and bass a genuine shot despite knowing I’ll despise it for the first three songs before becoming completely addicted.
There’s the random stuff that surfaces when you’re not busy with real life. Calling Steve Jobs just to ask how he’s doing. Getting unreasonably angry at tabloid journalism, which somehow continues existing. The logic that makes perfect sense in the shower at 2 AM—the sink-pissing thing, where it all goes down anyway, so what’s the actual objection.
Get yourself naked. Or your cat. Or your grandmother. Take photos. The weekend will be ordinary. But somewhere in those couple of days, if you’re willing to let your mind drift, there’s the possibility of something genuinely strange.