Kimmo Modig: Cool stories

2. 

I need to write out this fear. It's in my stomach, I mean that's where it seems to originate from. It travels to my fingertips, making touching things hard, and writing, too. It caps off few years from my life. I'll die younger because of the fear that shakes my body. But that's nothing, I think. I am alive now, here, in Tallinn, where the sun is setting, its last rays shining through the dusty windows into my studio, onto the greasy skin of my face. The warmth from the battery mixes with the radiation from the sun. 
I look at the text I'm producing and wonder why I can't get into it. Like I was left outside of my own soul. (erased something here)

I thought about the things I need in order to be OK again, quickly realising this fear is not about needs left unfulfilled. 

All the things I'm not writing about because I'm trapped in this body, no not this body but this projection. My mind control is at zero, I take every thought that goes to my body and worry over it. Like someone had figured out a way to use the films of Woody Allen as enchanced interrogation technique.

I started to write a play because I had a need to deal with actual matters, the human condition etc. This decision now seems like discrediting my own works. Anyway, I'm not doing any of those things, I am not tackling any issues. I'm doing the same thing I always do. I talk about myself. Look at this fucking text it's basically a series of I's with commercials in between.

I could tell you about things, but everyone and her mother knows that that's not what artists should be doing. 

These ideas, or lines, scenes, whatever, they storm my mind everyday, but I never write them down. I don't believe in my own ideas, although I think ideas is all there is. It's not that ideas are important, but that's just all we have in terms of stuff that makes life particularly human and civilized. After we're warm, full, healed, and safe, we want ideas. But are they really worth it? Should I not help everyone who don't have some or any of those things? Or is ideas actually that valuable that someone just needs to do them? There are so many pepole already providing the world with ideas and works. 
I guess my artistic career is about letting go. 

Am I just lazy, someone asked me a few months ago, while having lunch with me in a nice restaurant. Is that why I do what I do, these scetches and one-off things and art works that deal with doing those works, my companion continued. I might just be nothing more than a box with the sound of its own making. Though in my case, the box never gets built. I am Kimmo Modig with the sound of its own being.
I hastily press enter two times to start a new paragraph, move over from what I just said, fucking leave myself be there, I mean leave that thought there and hide it behind this stuff here.
You could say something about "in the long run", but I'm not even walking I'm taking the taxi. You could point me to the right direction but I would just ask "your or my left" and get lost. We could get together and build a new thing, but we would move to a shitty neighbourhood with people who want to wreck things. 

Do you know the story about the king with invisible clothes? I dont know how it goes in English (yes I noticed I just wrote dont instead of don't get over it's the internet), or what's it called I mean. There's that kid in the tale, the one who says out loud that the king has no clothes. I try not to say mean things about people, but since it's a fictional character let's skip the apology (well it's there now) and just say it: god, that kid is so dumb. I mean if the king wants to wear invisible clothes, there's nothing in the world to stop him from doing that. Additionally, invisible clothes sound so cool and I admire the designers who can understand context (king, power) so well and provide such a staggering yet elegant solution (naked is real, king should champion bold ideas). And that kid doesn't get it, he doesn't get contemporary art, conceptual thinking, or power games and social structures. He think he can go on through life with studied innocence, as if no one couldn't see through his cape of naïvism. He don't know how to be naked, he's so afraid of it that he needs to cover himself with naïvety. Then again, I respect him for getting into the game: he is using his position as a child to say populist, oversimplified, even insulting things to other people. Actually scrap that, I can't respect anyone from doing such things. That's not being in the game: that's staying on the sides (he is, literally, standing on the side when he yells his polished comment) and smearing other people for taking a stand. I would like to have a cultural minister in Finland akin to that fearless king. I'm sure that king didn't feel the fear I'm fearing now. 

This is my home, this text, and all the stuff I've ever publicly presented and put out there. The fear I think comes from the fact of knowing that I will publish this somewhere. This text suffers from pre-traumatic stress. 

I feel loved and I love. To be able to say that is great. It's so wonderful, it's the thing I'm most proud of. I have people and I want them to have me. Maybe that's why I have so very little to say. That seems like a very strange thought. It goes up to my throat and makes my breathing a bit harder, giving me the warning of a coming cold. So it can't be that. The love I feel around me, in the words and actions of my people, it is elevating. It is not expecting anything, really. I should regard it as a launching pad, not as a comatose drug. True love makes you active not passive. This love (and well yeah Finland, luck, position etc) makes me safe. It is the opposite of fear. 
I'm biting my finger nails now. Is that a sign of what exactly? I just cleaned my workspace and now the floor has bits of body excess on it. The whole place is so quiet. John is brewing beer in the kitchen. If I wouldn't feel safe with him or vice versa, I wouldn't be writing but contemplating, analysing, figuring it out, feeling the feels, trying to keep the body electric from malfunctioning. Here I am, and I think about the people who has made it happen, unconsiously or not, whether I've aggressively pushed myself through or if I've just let things run their course. I'm thinking about the people who I trust. It fills me with unexplainable, quiet joy, like reverberant noise that is so loud it turns into uncharacteristic ambience. What am I giving back, who am I helping, I think. I don't dig deep into those two questions. Letting them linger on in the tip of my mind, having them rattle my body a bit like surrendering yourself to an exotic treatment, I bite another bit from my left index finger, leave the piece of nail resting on my upper lip, stage left. I love that saying. It refers to theatre stage and it's something technicians would use to give orders to each other while working. Move that light litte to stage right. Things are seen from the viewpoint of the stage, through the body of the performer. They envisage the bodies and move the lights and other equipment accordingly, not the other way around usually. The life at stage left. 

I changed the paragraph although I'm planning to continue writing about love, somewhat. My mind processes all the possible criticism this text could face. My brain the sickly biased 3D simulator. The feeling of early symptoms of a cold returns to my throat, as always. A subtle pain occupies my right ear, some sort of feeble vibration runs through my forehead like scanning it or as a warning signal. 
The now uneven, sharp nails go touching the forehead, looking for understanding getting nothing and returning to the keyboard. My right wrist pleas for a rollaround or two, a shake the very least. There's something on my pelvis, but maybe it's just my body wanting to force my brain into writing that beautiful word. 
I do my favorite thing: I close my eyelid briefly by sliding the outer side of my right index finger over it. And another classic follows: I sort of clean my upper teeth by rubbing my left index finger back and forth on them. This means I need to show my teeth a bit. 
All these remarks on my physical being makes me feel like I'm drunk. I'm drinking something called GUARANA HUSTLER ENERGIZER ENERGIAJOOK. It tastes like Battery+. People should write my name with a plus sign, Kimmo+. It looks so good doesn't it. I press or hold the excess flesh around my left rib with my left hand, while the right hand fingers run together down and up through the back of head, hair so short there it resembles -oh, I dont those landscape words. While thinking what the Finnish word "aro" is in English, the middle finger of my left hand touches my dick somewhat quickly, not really scratching but plopping (?) it expressively, like a doctor pulling the curtains around a hospital bed, signalling the last stop on a routine check-up. But my body is never checked out, it's not a finite project or even one that has a structure to it. My body is the only thing that I don't need to structuralize. It is accepted by myself, by the normative-hungry society. My body is like a delivery to a promise I never understood.

I'm also recording a series monologues while I'm here. Here's the first one: