Zaar Riisberg (Zaarchasm) // Moonimalism & The Reality of the Internet.

I am currently mooning you with my moonimalism. It's a prop to me, just like to the flat earthers. It is not real you know? The internet is, and everything on it, is for real. You can totally construct a reality online that will hold up- nah, you'll end up writing suicide notes to fickle followers and voyeurs that'll just move on should you and the pill bottle succeed in your anguished cry for help. Don't let them have the satisfaction. Don't bare yourself to the bottom feeders, let them wallow and rot in their own festering mentality. Also, have a nice week.

What? You want more? Yeah - so do I, what do you suppose we do about that?

Zaar Riisberg (Zaarchasm) // Hipster Scheister

I remember the first time someone said to me ‘but you’re a hipster’. The glare I sent the person in question, almost sent him to an early grave. Hipsters are retro fakers in my book - it is just a fad, just modern morons thinking it makes them authentic. All these soft men with long beards and tattoos coming out of every crevice, trying to convince you they are ‘pain addicts’. Yeah, try living with the gout, pussies. Pain becomes very relative then.

Both women and men buy clothes in second hand stores for prices that would make Solomon blush. When they’re studying, an old type writer is positioned in front of an MacAir which, when you check their screen out, rather often, either is working hard on an empty Word doc or being very creative on Facebook. Hipsters SUCK - hence I scoffed, when I was likened to one.

Shit man, be different, I get it, but be you. Donning someone else’s visage or craving what others have, or indeed are capable of, is not you. And if you want to provoke, have substance and be clever about it - and most important of all: do not be a copycat.

Why are you letting yourself be ‘influenced’? ‘Omg, that’s so cool’ - no, it is not. Cool is Quentin, cool is knowing your shit, cool is knowledge - cool is not some rich trouser stain telling you what to buy, who to emulate and what to think. But we already had this discussion at the cusp of entering 2000, and look where we are. Harrrruuuumpff.

I am shooting myself in the foot not branding my stuff on IG, or being my own person. I remain insignificant to most, but I will just dig my heels in. One thing, though. Well, actually two. I am not a hipster and you should get a shave, manchild.

Lasse Fischer // Window Pains

Come closer, squish your face against the windowpane, and let me trace the pale outline of your cheek with my finger.

Doesn’t it feel safe?
It does for me.

And when you remove your face from the glass you leave behind a greasy stain, and I can continue fingering your outline for hours on end until you return.
Sometimes I pace around my room in the dark while I frantically, and with a harsh jerking of the neck, look at the window to check it every time I pass.

It glows with a cool blue light, and it is filled with outlines of the faces, the faces I caress.
Whenever I lie on my side in the bed, with my legs tugged up under me, resting my head on my stretched out arm, and my hand in a ninety degree angle, I do not surrender willingly to sleep.
I keep my eyes on the glass.

I lie in fear of blinking.
I lie in fear of absence of the light.

When I finally close my eyes there is nothing but an unending parade of rooms.
The faces do not press themselves up against the windows in here, in here I am alone, and I have no outlines to trace. I am separated from the light and the glass by the lids in front of my eyes.

Bathed in sweat I awake.

I keep my mouth open, ready to scream, but nothing ever comes out. My breathing is too shallow to create the explosion, so instead I chew on the air, like a fish lying on shore. Trying to make sure that the mechanics aren’t broken I feel for the rising motion of my chest, resting my hands on my ribs. The sensation of touch confirms that the function is maintained.

The blue window attracts more faces.
Their breaths fog op the glass.

‘Something is not right. Something seems off.’ The thought is fleeting, and even though the feeling lingers longer than the thought it too soon dissolves over the faces in the blue light. I take my hands off my increasingly protruding ribs and press them against the light making two stark silhouettes of something human on top something less than that.

There is something between the face and my hands, something that draws my finger to the cheek every time. It pulls on my elbow, it commands my sinew, and it makes my brain fire its neurons. I slip my tongue over my lips and spread saliva on the dried skin, feeling the rough edges as the organ goes from one end of the orifice to the other.

Nothing else lies outside my room and the surface of the window.
I continue living, forever haunted by the thought that the blue light one day might fade and disappear.