helga von porno

Tales of my fortunes in London involving philosophy time travel heroin addicted granny, prophesy, prostitution, murder, global conspiracy, friends, and personal finances. I am from east germany and fled to england when my parents where murdered and have been living here unofficially since.

Tuesday, December 20, 2005


It was near Christmas and I came back after working at the bar to find my Grandmother in an unusually good mood. She was drinking schnapps and crooning to herself. I found a small blue guitar in a skip and handed it to her as a gift. She took it up and started singing all her old songs and I had a rush of tenderness for her. It reminded me of magical christmas parties we used to have in my childhood, with Grandmother singing and playing and all the party joining in, smoking cigars laughing drinking joking with dimness filled with colourful light softened orange by happiness and warmth. I sang along and we looked into each others faces with laughing joy. It was a wonderful moment that stood out like a star in all this bitter darkness that filled my days.
But then came a pounding on the door. A large man in his thirties with a balding head and a dirty white vest confronted me as I opened the door a crack. "Stop that horrible howling guitar NOW, some of us have to work for a living." Was the gist of what he was saying, although it seemed to go on a lot longer.
Eventually he had had his say and went away. We were beaten. The complainers have inherited the earth. If you complain, you are always right. The orange glow vanished and was replaced by a pale blue. My Grandmother's face, moments before a radiant beacon a joyous love, crumpled it to a tired old broken rag, grey and used. She dropped the guitar despondently to the ground and bowed her head. The sound of my sobbing was drowned out by the sound of police sirens wailing, a heavey goods lorry idling outside the window, rattling the window pains. A train rumbling underground, vibrating the floor boards. Cars reving their engines and sounding there horns. The spin cycle of a washing machine. All these noises were allowed by the balding man. But our piece of happiness, that he could not tolerate. And the police and society is on his side. We must suffer in silence rather than rejoice together in musical harmony.

Friday, December 16, 2005

Happy Slappers

So now the gang have been arrested and imprisoned. I don't say I knew them, although I had been around them a bit. What is frightening, unmentionably frightening about them is that they are artists. They were into violence for its own sake. This transendence of means, this seeing something in itself, and not as a means to an end, is constitutive of Art in Kant's philosophy. They were not political, they attacked the poor and the weak for no reason other than that they made easy targets. They did not do it as a means of robbery, as a way of getting money so they could buy commodities. They wanted to represent what they had done on video and over the internet, as a "documentary". What is this Art?
Why is it so frightening? Now people, myself included, have become even more afraid of children and teenagers. The gang were black and white, male and female. But they were all young. They represented in graphic and recorded form the fear that adults have of children. By senseless violence they have widened the gap between two groups that is ever more coming to resemble a war. A cold war with frequent outburst of violence.
No adult organisation, no journalists, no broadcasters and no college or school will ever call what they have done Art, even though it represents something very powerfully emotional in our growingly isolated citerzenship, the fear of children. The war on children is fought on all angles. The police have been given new powers to arrest children for loitering, for talking to each other, for making political statements on walls, from accessing the internet. Children are forbidden to play outside in most areas, and have been forced off the road by aggressive car culture. These happy slappers are a great fear, people tremble in the street when they see the not-fully-grown in groups of three or four in hoods. It seems now that a man has been killed, and that all children are responsible. Art by its very nature makes some valueless acticity seem worthwhile, beautiful even. In the paranoid mind of collective adult consciousness, this happy slapping is something that all children are in on. A nationwide plot that has been whispered around the playgrounds (though there are few playgrounds left). But this is false. Happy slapping as a concept has been spread by the adult world of sensational reporting. Why? Because it represents a fear that the contemporary adult has for children. It is as if all children would like nothing better than to beat up an adult and film them on a video camera, and this is something that adults fill deep in their hearts. But what is the reality? Some psychopathic Artists beat and kicked a man to death. The media reported it like a sport event, comparing the kick to the head to a football kick. They said the victim looked like he had been in a car accident. Now adult lives are threatened by children. Not just black children, not just boys, but white boys and little girls as well. They are everywhere, on every street corner, in our homes on our busses. We must lock them up... all of them. But adults kill three children every day. When adults kill children it is always a particular kind of adult. A terrorist, a peadophile, a drunk driver. But this is not true. Three children are killed everyday by that huge cross section of the population who are into that stupid adult craze of driving cars. Cars are advertised on television, there is no talk of banning cars, even though it may well end human life on earth, as well as daily child murder. One adult gets killed by artists and all children are indicted. Police are justified, people walk the streets in terror, laws are past. It makes you want to beat someone up and video them on your phone.

Friday, December 09, 2005

On suffering

Hen commented to say that tears of suffering water the flowers in the Garden of art. There has often been a link made between suffering and Art. Why is this? One explanation is that in recognising one's own suffering expressed by another makes one feel not so alone. Another is that suffering leads to solutions whereas pleasure leads to apathy, the suffering artist can shew the way for the readers to overcome reoccuring human problems.
Wittgenstein says there can be no "private language" a language of one's private sensations. He talks of writing down "S" in one's diary every time one has a certain indescribable sensation. He uses scorn to show that this writing down of one's pain in one's diary is senseless and there can be no private sensations that are inexpressable. This is the green light for poets to express what seems inexpressable.
Here is my "S". I woke up in a strange part of London miles from islington after escaping from "S" in a bout of carnal pleasure, that I got into after drinking a half litre of vodka. I think the place was called Penge. I needed to be at the bar for eleven o'clock shift. I left the nameless man who I had allowed to debase me for momentary illusion of togetherness, in the midst of which I still felt pangs of lonliness. I didn't wake him, I had no time for coffee or bread. I cycled to Islington, it took two hours. Half way there "S" came upon me, an awful feeling of approaching death, but not pain, just a slight numbing on the side of my face, but that was not "S", "S" was the added judgement that there was something utterly fearful and dreadful about this slight numbness, something so dreadful that I would die if it continued, though logically I knew I would not die, but something worse, that my immortal soul would be torn assunder and the true nature of the utter evil heart of the universe would be forced upon me. This is not a good description of "S". It is hyperbolic.
I guessed for a while that "S" maybe just tiredness from cycling, but I had no sensations ordinarily associated with tiredness. Limbs - no pain - breath regular, although a feeling that my breathing was somehow wrong, causing gulping. Since I have had "S" before, I did not do anything. I knew that "S" would pass, I would not be dead, my soul not exposed to the evil heart,
I will be candid, rather than falsley modest as is requisite in English society for females. I am engaging in an artistic philosophical experiment, so there is no room for subjectivity that wishes me to present myself as underestimating myself. I am a young sexually attractive girl. I am 22 years old and I am very healthy. I am beautiful in a northern european way. I live in one of the richest cities on earth and a great treasure of culture. I am intelligent relative to my conspecifics. What right have I to suffer? What cause is there for "S"? Is it the dissappointment at the carnal quick fix that failed to assuage my spiritual lonliness? Is it that my parents were murdered? Is it that my grandmother is in need of care and thus sucks my fucking life like a vampire bat on a fucking cow. Am I that fucking cow, whining, unable to cope with "S" when, as Wittgenstein was at pains to demonstrate "S" signifies nothing? In HEN'S blog, he mentions that no one saw the mother's apology because they were all in their own private hell. It was satire because they had such pathetic problems in comparison to the dying lover who failed to join the foriegn legion. Maybe they all had "S" this awful feeling that something is wrong when nothing is wrong.
I got to work and there was the manager, a young dark haired man with a lot of machismo confidence. I know (or should I say I believe on the basis of his behaviour?) that he fantasizes about fucking me, sometimes even while he is giving me instructions. He would like to fuck me, but not so much that he will take any action. I feel that I should be able to use this information to my advantage, but I cannot. Even armed with this knowledge I cannot stop him from treating me like an inferior, from controling my thoughts and emotions with his looks, from delighting in telling me how I am not doing things correctly. There is a lull before lunch, and no customers. This is the worst time. I stand there, he looks at me, I feel a slave, I feel trapped, I cannot relax, I cannot help but be ravaged by "S". There are 7 more hours of this before I can escape. I must escape. "S" intensifies into panic and I must do something. I put my hands to my lips and dash to the toilet. I think in this way perhaps the manager will think I about to vomit and take pity on me. Being about to vomit is a shared feeling that has its place in language, "S" is not. I wonder up and down in the toilet. I climb through the tiny window and flee in terror down the back street. "S" subsides, and I walk back. I think of saying to the manager that I am going down with a stomach bug and need to go home. But will "S" go away if I go back to the furnitureless squat where my grandmother lies gibbering at demons? It may just as well go away if I stay in the bar. And I can't give in to "S" anyway. It is a nameless sensation, it signifies nothing, it is a wheel that spins freely.
Or maybe there is a psychoanalytic cause. Maybe everyone, or many people, or northern europeans, or women in their twenties, or women who have just had meaningless sex, or..... is "S" guilt in some way? I don't feel guilty.

Tuesday, December 06, 2005

Suffering spastic

I still have no phone. I still have no fop haired protector. I am still a zombie, a golem for my Grandmother. I don't know why it is so hard, these things that everyone seems to find so easy. I went into a mobile phone shop and after standing in what seemed to me like a hideous vision of dystopic future, and began to softly cry. I didn't know what I was supposed to do. Young men from India sat behind desks talking to young women from Essex. There was no counter, there were pictures of phones but no phones. None of these modern humans came to my assistence when I started to weep. When they saw my tear stained face they averted their eyes in embarassed disgust. They did not want to even witness my ugly inadequacy, my stupid suffering. I pulled myself together and hovered around the desk of one of the Indians. He was talking incessently and at length with a screechy voiced complaining girl. I was not uyp to this level of aggression. He seemed to be selling her insurance, and offering her a contract, and asking for a credit check from a bank. I began to cry again and ran from the shop in terror, I ran all the way to my Racer and cycled all the way back to my Grandmother, who has descended into hell recently on the most daring of all of her spiritual journeys. She has become possessed by some kind of devil, but is hoping to overcome the devil with a battle of the souls. Once she has consumed this devil, she will gain its strength. She then intends to go on snow balling her spiritual power until she is mighty enough to win the greatest battle of all and destroy the prince of Darkness, Satan. Then she will have freed mankind from suffering for ever. But she needs more heroin to achieve this and demands that I sell my belove racer. She is huddled up and skeletal in a brown fake fur coat on the bare floorboards of an abandoned house. She believes she will save the world, and wants me to sell the one thing that has brought me relief. I cry again, the same helpless frustrated tears. My blood is boiling. I storm out and slam the door behind hind me and cycle cycle cycle, unsure where I am going, car head lamps a psychedelic blear. I am in Soho, angry hositile faces looming out at me. I need vodka.