Life at the horrible kangerhaus continues. Yesterday was Ascension Day, no work, so i slept in till 1800, then got up feeling like i’d been changed into a cockroach and then hammered with a big hammer, then thrown into the garbage and half-eaten by rats. My landlady started screaming at me as soon as i ascended the perilous stairs from my bunker, demanding that i clean the yard (this is in my contract, though i didn’t realise when i signed it).

i loathe her more and more. She isn’t, i would say, a bad person, just deranged, permanently frenzied, devoid of human sensitivity (e.g. she walks around with her fly undone, no pants on, or emerges from the toilet half-naked), plus she sounds like Hitler when she speaks, which is quite disturbing.

i considered using up all that’s left in my credit card to get a room in a student flat, but then i thought of the asshole hippy back in Kassel, and decided i might be swapping one monster for another. My plan is to save up, get more work, and then get my own flat, but it looks extremely unlikely to happen, given the cost of living in Munich. i am unsure how long i can survive like this; already i am physically disintegrating, i have bad insomnia, averaging perhaps 3 hours’ sleep a night, and there seems no escape, except by death. Today i found myself praying for death, merciful god, but it seems a distant hope. i know i lack the resolve to kill myself, weakling. Instead i drink ginger tea, posted to me from Kassel by Juniper, and try to think of her beauty, to hold something against this ugliness. Pictures of the corridor outside my bunker (there is a mouse, by the way):

and one of the bathroom:

All pretty horrible. My friend the Viking wouldn’t mind it, habituated as he is to chaos, filth, clutter, and madness, but for someone of my disposition it is an appalling prison. i increasingly feel that a house reflects the psyche of the owner, becomes a physical extension or manifestation of his/her character. So in this insane house i feel i am trapped in my landlady’s insane mind. The house itself seems to be physically fighting me, as i have to battle through the cluttered corridors, knocking things over, bags swinging from the roof at my head, mice scuttling unseen, crates mysteriously left in my path (it is common to return home and have to shift crates full of deodorant or dog food to get to my bunker, as my landlady randomly moves her belongings about); the stairs are a grave danger and almost impassibly narrow, bags of clutter hanging from hooks on each wall. It is dark and damp and cold and horrible.

On the other hand, i like my job. A photo i took of Carla, my photography student, in our last lesson:

Without this beauty, only horror.