Creative Writing, Paula

Here I collect drafts of writings I'm working on to get a grip of what interests me and finding a voice in this particular practice. I practice writing as a creative practice in addition to my image making and I hope that at some point I can bring these two paths together.

Short Stories: The Bruise - April, 9

I was 28 and lived in a small town in western Germany where I studied at the time. One sunday morning during spring I woke up with a giant bruise on my upper left leg. It was perfectly round and had the size of breakfast plate. Its main color was yellow-green and the circle was outlined by a dark red contour. The pain was immense. I had no idea how this bruise had gotten there.

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Short Stories: The plastic cup - April, 9

I was about 21 when I went to an urologist to be examined due to an ongoing series of bladder infections. I heard about a certain vaccination that was supposedly able to solve my annoying problem. It was a hot summer day and everyone in the doctor's office was dressed lightly. The nurse in her white lab coat at the front desk gave me a white plastic cup and asked me to return it to her with a urine sample pointing towards the bathroom. Passing the other waiting patients in the open waiting room in font of the front desk, I followed her instruction. I was alone in the bathroom and filled up the plastic cup with tap water. I drank it all, waited a bit and peed in the cup as demanded. With a pretended feeling of easiness I passed by the other patients on my way back to the front desk trying not to spill anything and wondered if they really needed that much of a sample and why they don't provide covers. When I passed the cup over to the nurse I noticed a big deep red lipstick stain on the border of the cup edge full with urine. The nurse turned around to carefully place the cup on the tablet for the doctor. I left the office and never went back again.

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Not Invited - February, 17

Once again I'm not invited. I thought this happens only when you are a child or a teenager at most. Not at this age. Not again and again and again. Once again I'm not invited. Not invited to share my thoughts. To turn them into words and speak them out loud. But what if I do have something to say? Who will I tell it to? My alien friend. Will you be my companion, my pal? Will you, dear unknown stranger, stick with me? Just for now - that's all I'm asking for. Together, we can confirm our existence to one another. I need you to do that for me. Confirm me. Comfort me. Be my witness. For I cannot confirm myself. I cannot comfort myself. I need you to do that for me. I need you to be the witness of my last words: For tomorrow I will fall silent. And I will remain silent from this day forward for the rest of my life. I refuse to speak again once and for all.

To say goodbye to the speaking part of the world I prepared a list of my favorite words for each letter of the alphabet. I will read them to you: Amnesia, Boredom, Claustrophobia, Delusion, Ether, Fukushima ...

I'm inviting you to let me guide you through this. For there are rules to be obeyed. Rules I need to tell you, Rules without which I cannot continue.

Rule Number One: Be present. Don't leave the room. Don't check your phone. Give me your full attention. I need it. I long for it. I deserve it.

Rule Number Two: Watch this by yourself and share it only with people who you know also decided to fall silent.

Rule Number Three: Erase this video after watching it.

As these are my last words, you might think I must have chosen them carefully. I did not. I will not pretend to hold some kind of wisdom ready for you. I will neither have advise, nor answers. I just want you to share this with me so I don't have to be alone. You are going to be my last audience.

I've been wanting to quit talking for quite some time already. But I'm never satisfied with my last sentence. It has to be something special, something deep and meaningful. I can't stop talking before I haven't found the right last sentence. I just won't accept anything mediocre. I did have it once but then there was nobody i could share it with. That obviously doesn't count then. So you have to stick with me tonight until i find it again.

One word for each letter of the alphabet. For the POV of someone doing a video confession.

What it means to have no audience From tomorrow on I will never speak again. Decide to remain silent Silence as resistance Roleplay The healing power of words

I need you to mirror me. To compensate, to comfort. For I can't confirm

Witness

Memory

Maybe only writing because never having to read it In fact i chose this form in order to avoid audience urge to perform but not in front of people, tension between outgoing and introverted What would my life be like if I remembered all the things my body tried so hard to forget?

Steffen L.

I get into my car and start driving. The streets are crowded and the traffic is hectic. I drive almost automatically. Changing lanes, stopping, accelerating - it feels like a meditation. I planned enough time to get there on time: at a parking lot outside Berlin. I place I have never heard of before. My thoughts are circling around the upcoming encounter. S. suggested time and place: 4pm at the parking lot of Lidl, right after he finished working. Last week didn’t work out, he had to postpone our meeting due to a business trip. I didn’t mind. It gives me more time to find out what I’m actually expecting. I don’t know - I still don’t know. That postponed week doesn’t give me any answers. His wife thinks he will be at the gym, that gives us a time span of one and a half hours. I’m excited, my heart beats faster than usual. And I think about what he might look like. I've only seen some images but my guess is they are not very recent. We have talked on the phone before but only the settle date and time of our meeting.

We meet and he instantly starts talking about his wife, their marriage troubles and their how their sex life has faded out. He also talks about the education of his kids. He doesn’t ask me anything. While he nervously talks on and on I’m looking out the window. We are passing fields and a small river. I’m absorbed in thought, wondering about the image I’m about to take. I’m curious how he will present himself.

Ist es möglich, dass ich es vielleicht doch der Treffen wegen mache? Dass es mir gar nicht wirklich um das Bild geht. Sondern um den Puls, die Aufregung, das Geheimnisvolle? Nutze ich die Kamera und ihn aus um mir meinen eigenen Kick zu holen? Um mich lebendig zu fühlen? Ich schiebe den Gedanken beiseite und versuche mich wieder auf das Gespräch zu konzentrieren.

• Ich ärgere mich über die Bemerkung und die frage mich warum Typen sich immer das Recht herausnehmen einem zu sagen, wie attraktiv, nett, hübsch oder streng sie einen finden. Danach habe ich doch gar nicht gefragt. Ich komme doch auch nicht auf die Idee ihm zu sagen, dass er nicht „meinem Typ“ entspricht. Was soll denn das? Wie sind doch nicht auf einem blind date! Oder doch?

-> Ein Fotoprojekt ohne Bilder. Den Voyeurismus unbefriedigt lassen. Spannung durch Text aufbauen. Bilder lösen sie aber nicht auf. Fetish of being photographed. It's his secret. I want his image - he wants me to take his image = perfect match.