Zarkoff’s Summer Report – Part 1


Zarkoff has been keeping a summer diary for us, just so that we didn't miss any of his exploits across the warmer months. In this two parter, we follow his latest adventures and once more gain an insight into his complex world. There's also a track of his to be heard at the end which isn't too shabby;

Part 1: Vodice

After all the work, came July, time to play. I withdrew the little cash I could muster from all my bank accounts and hit the road. I was lucky enough to be invited by my dear friends who own property on the coast. I love friends with property.
The first 2 days on the coast were spent in a whirlpool of „balcony-bar-club-afer party-after after sort of barely surviving party-then finally some sleep“ routine. The usual thing for anyone who needs to blow some steam off. So I behaved like a typical adriatic techno tourist until I crashed into comatose sleep of unknown duration. Then a rude awakening by extremely loud and horrible music at 8:00 – some sort of fitness programme for the not-techno tourists. They waddled, out of sync with music and each other, the ungraceful  baboons. They belong in a zoo.  Scenes from the past days and nights flash back in front of my eyes – was he climbing on that expensive BMW? Oh, I found some money in front of the club, where is it?  Hmm, some people left us a bottle of grape vodka in that bar… Grape vodka? Does that even exist? Or were we drinking gasoline? My head certainly feels that way… Go to hell, fucking baboons! Where the fuck did I put that tab of Xanax?  

Melancholic brasilian music is quietly playing in a beach bar. It's a relief to sit on this wall and write down my thoughts. A relief from the forced spasm of seaside entertainment. Adriatic Saudade. I like it. Normally, the prostitution of seemingly festive mood is too much to bare. The sleazy salesmen, energetic, but life-weary, maintaining the overall artificial image of tourist hotspots. My field of view is constantly being defiled by stuff I'm supposed to buy to have a good time – because that's what you do here, you buy a good time. I feel like a square trying to squeeze into a round hole, softening my edges to fit in. Sure, I know how retract my claws and purr like a good kitty, beg for treats, wait under the table. I'm not much of a tiger, but at least a lynx or some other half sized endagered species. Give me at least that to build my self-respect on. I demand it! Not fucking cotton candy, ice-cream and disco house. Or am I a just a housecat? It's extremely difficult to know thyself in tourist places. The enviroment is distracting. I'd need a cave or a monastery, at least a peaceful spot on the beach under a tree. This unholy colorful playground is no place for serious people. 

The thing is, after 2 days of partying here, I begin to see a darkness. Johnny Cash comes to mind. The crash is inevitable after so much fun and frivolity. Doubt about some situations creeps in. Was it really that harmless?  Was there an intention to it, an attempt to convey a message? Why didn't I react? And ultimately – wtf am I doing? It usually ends with that same question. It was all a controlled misunderstanding. In Baudelaire's words: “ It is by universal misunderstanding that all agree. For if, by ill luck, people understood each other, they would never agree.“  Expertise at controlled misunderstandings is crucial for successful socialization. Nobody wants to feel discomfort and I think most people don't like to cause it either. I play along for now. 

But the general conclusion of this morning is that this place is simply delusional. Not even a  glimpse of reality here, except maybe underwater.

Not that I meet them often, or that any of my friends are of that sort, but here is a certain kind of women that insist fiercly on „being positive“. Furthermore, any kind of generalized weltschmertz annoys the hell out of them. They hate weakness, especially male weakness. If a man is careless enough to display it, they dart meaningless phrases with a characteristic intonation, expressing resent, anger, sheer madness. Their menacing righteous auras shall cleanse the world like Zyklon B. No one shall be sad. Cheerfulness will be enforced. Melancholic male cunts exterminated. 

I'm bringing this up because I'd say the percentage of such cheerfulness enforcers is slightly higher on the coast. Sun and all that shit.

If you play hard, there will be moments of confusion, doubt, discomfort etc. It's important to recognize those moments, keep yourself under control and not overreact. One common impulse is to leave, which is perfectly fine unless it causes distress to drivers, guests, friends.. Leaving can be very complicated. So if you're a leaver, have your own transport and no passengers.. Plan your escape route. Another reaction may be to do more drugs. Sometimes it's just what the doctor ordered, sometimes it can make situations unbearable. More drugs in situations that are stuck or finished usually do more harm. A dead end is a dead end. Pills do a lot of things, but they don't reanimate.

People with serial numbers and barcodes, produced in absurd quantities, pure victory of form over content.  How can I know what they feel? What, from my own experience? I can't tell what would really be my own as every thought is littered with other people's expectations and beliefs. In that respect we are one being. What a repulsive idea.


It was good fun, but now we're all wasted and tired. Time to pack the mule.

You can even hear some of Zarkoff's sounds right here;