The Freitag Curse.

Most of the time when I read one of these it sounds like I’m reading the back of a wine label. That’s because this is an impossible question to answer. Even if you do, it’s not going to make any sense. Who are you? What is this? And what are you doing? You can’t even answer the first question and I understand, because you can’t tell the truth. I can’t just be like I’m Peter Pan Bruce Wayne that was a lost Gypsy baby who was given a couple of crystals, raised on Grove Street and these are my X-Men cards.

I was an Ausländer. Just a baby boy born in some strange never land, abandoned and on the run with the Gypsies. We’ve run so far now there’s no more home. As far as I know there’s been three of us that have kept the curse alive. A series of first and only born sons, the last of their name. Marking as many beads off their necklace as they can. I hope there’s enough of them left over to keep after they’ve all been sold. It was the megalomania that took the last two down. But I recon I can just keep flicking the beads out of that window from the buddhist centre. They fucked up, too much Himmel Schloss and not enough time in the greenroom to make it real. They didn’t have the crystals though so it’s not really their fault. I could be just as fucked as them though because now I know it’s all made up from here.

I was told that photography died when everyone got cameras on their phones. But fuck it whatever I’m still the best. Just like how martial arts is the practice of movement without thinking, fuelled by strapped ambitions. This finesse is the practice of stillness and thought. So I’m just going to do what the Gypsy Queen told me to do when I painted her coffin. Because without her I’d be exactly what everyone thought I’d be. I’m going to go to the beach with my literal reality device, and when I’m driving I’m going to come up with the reasons for it. The driving thing has to be some type of trauma passed down from Werner’s time in the Wehrmacht or it could just be home. So this is it, the biggest curse of them all. The boy who sold the world: a comedy drama filled with dick jokes, some fucked up shit and stories of painfully stolen moments so sad that they should make big boys cry.

This is just like Gustav and his beautiful catastrophe, cursed by a big dick bet of his existence with pieces of paper that aren’t worth shit until they are. Maybe it’s broken when all the numbers add up and I unlock the second crystal on Friday 13th from up in the sky castle. Maybe I can get the suitcase back and I’m able to hold onto some of it without losing it all in the process or maybe that’s just what it costs. If I can’t save the boy then I’m just a bullshit artist too. Just a thrown out photograph of a dead man that no one remembers the story of.

See, I told you. You can’t tell the truth, even though at its core that’s what photography is. The oracle probably couldn’t tell the truth either, otherwise there wouldn’t be any heart break art. It’s crazy town, but now I know it all makes sense.