I shall kindly decline food from people.

I don’t need it.

If someone offered me food, I used to always take it.

Even when I wasn’t hungry.

But I wouldn’t even think twice.

And therefore make the unconscious decision to always say Yes Please.

Without pausing a moment to assess if I needed it.

Free food.

I love free stuff.

Actually I used to pride myself in finding amazing bargains.

But free stuff is not necessarily free.

Free food, access, is ballast.


Access of one thing.

And free stuff is access too.

The access of others.

= Clutter = weight


If you pay for things, the decision to acquire it is conscious.

A transaction taking place.

Action both ways.

With cheap or free food, you clutter and because of in(trans)action gain weight or un_health.

At your expense.

Therefore expensive.

Cheap can be expensive.

That must’ve been the reason why I always adored free/cheap stuff.

Charity shops

Discount supermarkets.

I always wanted to be wealthy (have worth).

Curiously, I seem to have perpetuated poverty throughout my life.

The opposite of wealth.

And the wealth (worth) I had, I ignored.

Wealth was/is my obsession.

The reason being that as a child I always felt underprivileged.

I felt we never had enough money.

Which is strange because we were fully supported.

My younger brother and I.

We lived in a house on the outskirts of Hamburg in a safe neighbourhood.

The house had a large garden with a nature reserve nearby we could disappear all day in.

I had a lot of freedom.

Inschi gave me that.

And we had 3 weeks of summer holidays in Austria each year which was nice.

My stepfather gave me that.

Many of my contemporaries didn’t have any of it.

I believe I had a happy childhood.

I guess I was lucky

Compared to others

But it didn’t feel lucky at the time.

The reason being that I was always acutely aware that many of my contemporaries had more.

I always felt we were poor.

Our house was built in the 60s.

And old school small white classic lego house with red slanted roof and a fir tree:

Ground floor hallway, living room, kitchen and bathroom and two bedrooms upstairs.

There was also a basement and a garage.

Straight forward, no frills.

The furniture was an array of old or given items.

Stuff of dead people. Discarded stuff which had belonged to the now deceased.

We lived in a House of the Dead.

House FOR the dead?

Housing the dead?

I remember Inschi (I) loving that shit which my brother and I tolerated but secretly loathed. I remember us making endless wicked fun of a big floor lamp and its bright 70s orange ceramic club foot.

A constant eye sore within a living room full of 50s and 60s eye sores.

Especially all of my brother’s loathing for that kind of environment went wholeheartedly into this lamp.

I didn’t mind so much, just thought it was funny.

My brother insulting the lamp.

If the lamp had had any feelings, that would’ve made me witness and an accessory to a bully scenario.

If that was the case, I apologise.

I wasn’t aware that lamps had feelings.

Do they?

Anyway, all furniture deserved our discontent equally.

It was all decrepit.

Not totally bad or anything, just veneer corners peeling off, DiY shelves, an reupholstered totally uncomfortable sofa, a mixure of laminate and reproduction Persian carpets, a badger fur wall hanging, religion and plants which needed regular defestation.

Nothing matched.

A junk shop.

Shop Of No Worth.

And the whole of it later got obliterated by our free roaming African Grey.

Hence I felt poor.

Food I liked was never enough, however, food which I didn’t like was in abundance.

Food I liked was free but never abundant or the way I preferred it.

Our holidays were free (literally as the government paid for them) but never the way I preferred.

We only ever went to Austria, never to Spain or Portugal or Italy.

We stayed in German speaking countries I guess. For convenience. Comfort for Inschi who only spoke pigeon English besides German.

Fair enough.

And my mother might’ve thought that because the government paid for our holidays, it might’ve been taking the piss by taking us to Spain.

Fair enough.

At the time I believed we could not afford more.

OMG, I just realised that we probably spent more money in the mountains of fucking Austria than we would’ve spent on the beautiful beaches in Italy.

With all the food I loved.

It was mum’s choice.

I should’ve advised her.

At the time, however, it didn’t occur to me that I could.

Inschi was old school.

She stuck to the past.

To everything connected to my stepfather I presume.

I remember watching endless slide shows of their holidays in Austria.

They would always go to the same hotel. It was like home from home and they had a good time there. They were young then.

My stepdad was an invalid so going to a place they knew well was practical.

Fair enough.

I wonder …

Inschi didn’t seem adventurous.

She always went from home to home.

And her cooking was like that too, homely and repetitive. Meat, veg and potatoes. I always felt she hated cooking and thought I inherited her loathing for it.

But I only hate washing up.

I remember doing it as a kid standing over the metal sink. I hear the sound of my hands fishing for the dishes in the dirty water. I see the soaked Pril stickers on the splash back and the little plastic loops with the claws on suction hooks holding dish cloths by the side.

All the bits of food getting stuck in the plug hole.

Ha, in those moments I felt like Cinderella.

But I remember being pissed off at my mum for always making me do chores while my brother got away with murder.


He got spanked quite a bit.

And my mum never laid (*eyes_typo) hands on me.

Fair enough.

My brother could be a pain in the ass sometimes.

I presumed that as a single mother she needed help and might’ve been overwhelmed occasionally and would lose the plot.

Fair enough.

As I said, mum lived in the past.

The furniture, the holidays.

I wonder if she made it some sort of a shrine for my stepfather who died when I was a child.

Of alcohol.

There must’ve been some guilt feeling with her.

Consciously bearing two black children into a white marriage must’ve been taxing.

Fair enough.

The only time my mum got adventurous was when she was planning to immigrate to Ghana.

We spent 2 months there with my dad to check it out.

It was exciting and exotic and beautiful and raw.

And cruel.

But fun.

Off school.

But it didn’t work out.

And I didn’t get to know my dad really.

He was working.

While my brother and I were playing.

Why our mother tried to navigate the cooking.

We had a cleaner so I was off the hook.

I always believed that my dad preferred my brother.

I remember the belief defining moment very well:

My brother and I were in the hallway of the Takoradi house fighting over the last bottle of Fanta.

Considering there were no sweets at the time, this thing was beyond precious.

I remember us both tugging at the bottle and then simultaneously letting go.

And it smashed on the stone floor.

And I got the blame.

My dad came and shouted at me.

Blame for no fault of my own.



I was always told that because I’m the oldest, I should’ve …

Known better.

Acted better.

Been better.

So I presumed that (starting with the job of ‘being the oldest’) I was never good enough.


Yesterday I wrote about how to encourage and motivate students.

I explained that by saying “I know you can do better” instead of “not good enough” student performance can be improved, however, it means the same thing and someone perceptive like a creative will spot no difference.

I need to check that.

For me it definitely meant the same.

And in that moment, with the powerful threefold combination of loss (sense of lack) of something precious (sense of worth) and blame (sense of guilt) the belief in my worthlessness was given birth.

And so I continued to breastfeed this bastard child of mine with constant over performance, to service my need to be needed, to make myself indispensable.

In order to not be discarded.


The child’s name:

Fear of lack of support.

Yep, that’s me to a T.

To the F. To the R. To the E. to the Y. To the A.


I was also born a bastard.

Ha, and this shit goes even further as it also includes making excuses.

Always for others.

Never for myself.

Being hypercritical with myself but letting others get away with murder.

I would make excuses for others and they probably also made excuses for me:

“I know she can do better, but if she doesn’t see it herself, and she seems happy, I won’t push.”

If someone is kind and understanding (=stupid) and wants to serve, let them.

Fair enough.

So by saying to students “I know you can do better” are they not simply being excused for being lazy and unfocused?

Lazy eyed?

People need to realise themselves.

They cannot be pushed and should not be nannied.

To gain independence.

Freedom of Need.

Lack of sense of worth is slavery.

If praise (sense of worth) comes cheaply, it is of no value.

So how about saying to students:

“I know you can do better, but do YOU?”

This could work.

And there was the whole sexual abuse thing.. but I can’t be bothered going into that today.

I need coffee.

Never copy and paste.

Always customise..

Copy and personalise.

No need to re-invent the wheel.

Even nature only mutates.

Copies and twists.

There is no excuse for adultery.

For not being faithful to the one You.

Having no faith in yourself.

No excuse for lack of self-worth.

Ditch the other bitch.


I shall decide each moment what is the most beneficial (=fun) for me.




AMSTERDAM DIARIES 2020+ Daily Philosopher Notes — Alchemy of Words. Creative Direction & Life Concept Creator

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Freya von Bulow

Freya von Bulow

AMSTERDAM DIARIES 2020+ Daily Philosopher Notes — Alchemy of Words. Creative Direction & Life Concept Creator

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