Writings

One of my biggest passions is storytelling. I will be sharing more on that and my vision concerning (organisational) communication inbetween language and cognition soon. In the meantime, please find a selection of my writings here that I hope to inspire you with. By the way, most of the writing I’ve been doing the past years has been social media-, institutional- and copywriting, which you will not find here. 

We think we tell stories, but stories often tell us, tell us to love or to hate, to see or to be blind. Often, too often, stories saddle us, ride us, whip us onward, tell us what to do, and we do it without questioning. The task of learning to be free requires learning to hear them, to question them, to pause and hear silence, to name them and then to become the storyteller,” Rebecca Solnit – the American writer, journalist and feminist that we should all know. 

PS: The girl in the header – attentively taking in the moment, is me, but that’s a different story. 

Articles (Selection)

Here you can read more articles (in English and German) for klimareporter.in, the project of the youth-led climate-NGO CliMates Austria providing journalism training to young people in Austria as well as the space to unfold their creativity to share stories and infos that matter. Here you can find a press release that I wrote. 

From the article: The danger of a single climate story

POEmS | SHORT StORIES | SCENES

For the first time, you can read some poems and short stories here off Instagram and outside of the circle of my friends patiently nodding, laughing, crying, sending heart emojis or leaving a peculiar voice message commenting on the texts. Do you have any feedback? Reach out to me at hello@adrianabascone.com

YOUTH (2021) – A POEM

We, search beyond the frontiers of time, 
in between centuries and beyond the straight lines. 
We, search for what is life, our place in it and ourselves. That is where we belong, this is where we feel held. 
                                   And felt.
 
Searching __ for our pain, peace and power.
Our most daring dreams.
Our darkness and light.
Our kindness and screams.
 
Searching __ for our baggage and seeds.
Our belonging and needs. 
Our joy and our compass to build something big.
 
We question, we reflect, and deflect what we can’t take. 
We shape, we think up, and we de_monstrate
That we NEED to make changes,
And we demand we make them NOW.
We have everything to lose and a better world to win, we can do it and we’ll get there somehow.
 
We talk, we break the silence, though sometimes we’d rather weep,
We pause, dig up emotions that are buried deep. deep. deep. 
We’re there, we listen on, and on and on and on. We learn__
To whisper in the nights, to shout it from the rooftops. We’re loud as we are intimate. We’re tough as we are vulnerable. We’re strong.
 
We have those conversations that nobody dared to have. The loving ones and passionate. The angry ones and defiant. The lost, confused, destroyed. Repairing and remembering and daring to transform.
 
We walk along in footsteps __ and then we step aside. 
We learn to be ourselves, we learn to be WITH others, we keep an open heart.
 
We, take ourselves so seriously like no-one’s ever done. In between our bold demands and hard work we have begun. 
We, question our securities and cope with the unknown. We just don’t look away, fight for our common home. 
 
Radical __ in our frames and our names. 
Our belonging and needs. 
Our choices and deeds. 
Radical __ our sense of justice, outspoken.
 
We, curiously clear. Clearly determined. 
We, determinedly direct. Directly disobedient. Disobediently resilient. 
 
Radical __ Our hope, love and depth. – Our joy and our compass to build something big. 
 
Cause so much is still needed, 
While so much is still possible, 
Now we are planting seeds. 
Taken from the Photography page, more info there.
Empty Street (2017) – a short story
This is about finding the strength and living the moment to go deep inside yourself, let go and start again. 

Wobbling and limping along an empty street, scuffing his feet and casting piercingly
suspicious glances in all directions imaginable, he was as impenetrable in his character, repealing in his appearance and wayward in his moves as an old charred and gnarly oak, battered by weather and time. He was keeping firm to his way, shuffling along without much diversion, but there was a sense of utter perturbation and deep-set anxiety around him. Although he seemed hostile though not far from the ordinary he had a thunderstorm around him, or that is what a dweller occasionally peering through a window of one the too ordinary houses into the late evening would feel.

In broad daylight no one would have noticed him, him who would have easily blended into the undefined crowds flowing through thestreet with grim faces, laughing frantically or with relish, yet definitely moving along – not forward – and not caring much about anything outside. Private universes. But here in this quiet drive the man radiated a gloom. His person. Human feelings becoming visible in the calm of night, with time to think and no one to see. The man was clearly wallowing in his thoughts, tossing and turning, maybe writhing with pain without showing. Only once he shook his head violently and a shiver traversed his whole lean body. A weight seemed to have fallen on the street, though unnoticed or almost, people in their homes trying to create a feeling of cosiness in their working lives, with home and family. Existences.

By now, the man had reached the end of the street. No way out but back. He seemed to hesitate. A dim and feebly trembling light was gleaming in one of the windows on the second floor. Unattainable it seemed, or maybe so were the feelings of the man. Distinction is hard to draw after so much time or space from then and there. No one approached the window; all of a sudden the whole street seemed to have gone dead. The world. The man din’t seem to care. After a brief glance above him he remained standing, his sight set into indefinite space.

All of a sudden a wind came up and tore at the man’s robes, entangling his hair, hurtling leaves and debris through the air. The gust of wind released him, then tore through the night with renewed force. Then man remained standing. He might have flinched, might have cursed the wind, the night and everything in it; but after indefinite moments he remained standing as before. Maybe changed inside, unperturbed by the adversities of nature; I can clearly remember him smiling though it was almost pitch dark. Time had clearly passed and the night progressed. Yet – maybe it’s just my imagination. He retrieved a piece of paper from his pocket, big enough to hold a message, a life story, or nothing at all. With grace and personal solemnity he tore it apart and cast it to the wind. Another gust, then silence. He walked a few steps back without turning, with closed eyes, as it seemed to me. Then, upon slowly turning on the spot, he started retracing his steps out of the alley.

Now a dreamy state had enveloped him, his peaceful smile just briefly flashed in themoonlight. The moon disappeared behind a curtain of greyish black smoke, not to returnthat night. This seemed like the end of it. Taken aback, I closed my eyes; I might have closed my mind and remained looking, but this amounts to the same. It wasn’t a dream I thought. Looking again I wasn’t sure. The street was empty. A life had been mended and one left behind. The importance of those moments I can’t judge. All I can say now is this: All this happened a long time ago. I was the man and the street is still there. Whether it was really night I don’t know. I haven’t been there since, having moved away right away, but I heard it is as ordinary as before. Empty at times for those who go for a gust of wind, a lift swept blank. A beginning.

what we call friends (2020)

This is a very simple text that I extracted from my Instagram stories cause I thought: wow, I still feel this so much! I love language, but I prefer meaning.
We listen to crazy stories, bizarelly funny anecdotes from our lives. Even if they’re objectively-ridiculously-stupid. A lighthouse in the storms raging inside.
 
We share our insecurities and passions, and we feel safe all along.
We realize how many struggles we have in common. Seeing.
We help each other to regain our worth. Indestructible.
We exchange advice. No constructs of our brain, but the voice of our heart in those moments of utmost presence. Unfiltered.
We see all that is still possible and we make plans. Bold.
We build each other up to stand tall. Whatever may come. Cause we deserve it. 
 
Together, feeling lost or overwhelmed becomes human. 
Breaking the rules becomes a necessity.
 
Compassion and really, really listening are our compass. Surprise and discovery our fuel. In all of of it we give ourselves the permission to love deeply and make mistakes. Non-linearity. Like being a coach while being coached yourself in all those special spaces and moments. Picking up a conversation wherever, whenever we left it off. Developing together, watching ourselves grow up and bloom. Because we can.
 
We trust. We connect. We create a space and hold it together. We’re radical.  We’re not afraid of being ridiculed by opinionated minds. I’m no longer accepting what I shouldn’t ever have accepted.

Living. (2021)

2.10.2021. Planet Love: Climate Care in the Digital Age. Vienna Biennale. MAK (Museum of Applied Arts, Vienna)
 
Living moments in awe in the place where the real magic happens: museums.
In those  d e e p  solo nights, tasting freedoms in art, architecture, design.
Autumn night with the song of the glacier, click-crackle-melting, I shiver.
Feeling sounds, hearing smells. The ideas and stories swell out of their shells.
We go follow the spell of solutions out there, and foretelling our future break out of our cells in pastel.
We rebel.
 
I’m afraid to grow old without seeing beyond, without learning what’s alrady there. 
I refuse to go on building things that won’t last, building things that I cannot build fair,
        or are merely hot air, while my mind is elsewhere, things I will soon outwear.
 
“More-than-human care.” Caring, I care. Too much or not at all.
Love. For the people making a change. Architects and sustainable builders. Sound artists. Public space activists. Bold law-makers. Engineers. Curators and custodians. Personalities and changemakers.
Why am i thinking of pottery now.
 
Fragile. “Pathways of hope” in the art of charred trees.
Visionary. “Vision of life flourishing amid ruin” in the pool in the middle of the black forest in the exhibition space.
Interdependent. “the Biennale is calling for a new relationship between people and planet – not simply decarbonising our economies, but entirely reassessing our connections to the earth and how we view ourselves as part of it.”
 
What is education without innovation. 
What is art without purpose or genius in creation.
Tell me, what can a museum be.
Show me, the solutions while in school, the soil to put down roots.
Spare me, so many theories – frameworks – concepts – metaphors.
 
Messy instead of stale. What is the opposite of numbness:
Messy feelings, curious presence, piercing grief, racing mind, divergent worldviews, a million paths;
Art that strikes, projects that surprise, encounters that shape;
Fragments of a new governance, why.s and why not.s. Passion to live. Love stronger than rage.
Connection to history. The memory of how our world view shapes everything we see.
Space for the echo of thoughts and moments lived. Room for contradictions, apparent or real.
The guts to call out injustices, guts to admit that we were wrong, guts to build and embrace change beyond ideological boundaries. Living for things worth fighting for.

City – a love story  (2018)

Light-yellow wall. Stretch of pavement. A jagged bit of sky. The singing bird in the wavy tree. A flight of stairs, the blakc cave of a passage. Footsteps, light and dark. A carousel of lights, sounds, colours. Syllables of talk. Bits of ends and beginnings. Bits of yesss and don’t. Maybe or maybe not. City. More people. More matter(s). On and on. Endlessly.
 
I look around. In every beam of light and particle I see your smile. In every sound in the cacophony of sounds I hear an echo of your voice. In every step I take I take a step with you. In every thought I’m free but I think of you.
 

beyond the curve of the road / And if I forgot my name? (2017)

The usual afternoon walk. A couple of houses, meadows, shrubs, the camping space. The abandoned swimming pool falling apart. The forest leaning in, beckoning to the walker, invisible to the passer-by. Lush or barren fields all around and in the distance, at the mercy of the caprices of winter. And finally the old chapel, tinged by the awe-inspiring light of a setting sun. Then the road winds itself into a curve, a sharp turn, and it disappears behind a mass of rock. This is as far as the casual wanderer ventures. While he still feels the warmth of the settlement, of home(s).
 
Beyond the curve lies…nothing. Nothing. Nothing special or terrifying. No friend or foe. It is the nothingness that terrifies and the merciless loneliness that leaves so much room for thought, doubt, worry. Hope of ever getting somewhere dissipates fast. The forest and meadows seem to know no measure of time and space. It could give man wings to come out of a forested gallery and look out to the horizon, alone with the wonders of nature, unaware of the indelible mark of man. It could make man fly freely, think freely, for a few sunsets and sunrises.  It could. The man wants to return, to the boundaries of daily life around him, bonds, settings ready to take a seat in, a position, a name. His ownership, his ways and his certainties. His social net and his character. The emotions and the gossip, the friends and foes, the us and them. Here behind the curve, no one cares about his name. The wind carries it away when he shouts it to the world, afraid to forget it. No one knows his crimes and achievements. No title, no privileges. It all just is, to love and to work. Hard work. Deep freedom of mind.  
 
The man is afraid. It’s standing at the cliff and looking oneself in the eye, in what an artist might describe like a hyperrealistic painting of one’s own soul, what makes the strongest men shrink and tremble; cry out in fear and sorrow and gratitude.
 
How simple, how protecting is home.
How it always manages to make man a prisoner for life, and a happy one.
 
Info: this scene casts a male character, “man”, to represent humans. Please note that this was a stylistic decision and not meant to discrimate against any gender.

[German] Stadt – ein Auszug (2021)

Stadt. 
 
Am Abend von einem Noch-Anfang-Jänner-Tag. Alles scheint noch möglich, Superpowers2021 wollen angeblich endlich geboren werden und dann nichts wie raus, um schnell bei der Rettung von dieser Welt dort draußen mitzumischen (oder von sich erlebst, wär ja auch nett). Wenn nicht gerade alles zu anstrengend, unverständlich, unerreichbar wird. Synonym: einfach zu viel. Selbst die eigene Fütterung und ach ja die Last der Existenz. Und der Co-Existenz.
 
Stadt.
 
Die Nachtstadt lädt zum abheben ein, abstoßen und los, los, los. Es atmet sich größer, wenn man den Wind spürt, und in sich mitträgt. Wenn die Grenzen der Wahrnehmung auftauen und zum Spiel auffordern. Wenn man innerlich lachen kann. Wenn das Tanzen sich in alles reinschleicht, weil es zum legitimsten Fortbewegungsmittel wird. Vielleicht als Gegengift gegen alles. Wenn man nur mit sich selbst in dem Moment ist und es so passt. Momentaufnahmen im Staccato. Häuserblocks, Parks, Graffitis, Schatten und Lichterketten. Lichterbahnen. Lichterrahmen. Kies, einfach überall. Quietschende und donnernde Straßenbahnen.
 
Die erleuchteten Auslagen, in denen die Zeit nich bis morgen oder in einer halben Ewigkeit stillsteht, präsentieren die Leere der Stadt. Unfiltered.
 
Stadt. …..
 

[GERMAN] Permanent abwaschbar (2020)

Ich erinnere mich. Fragmente, Schmerz-Hurrican, nicht mehr atmen können. ich denke, nein es kann nicht sein. Warum.seid.ihr.noch.immer.da,
                                   ist mein Leben in permanent marker geschrieben?
 
Nachtstadt. Zwei Menschen. Dazwischen das mächtigste Gebirge der Welt, unerforscht: hoch an die Wohnzimmerdecke geschmiegt “Unausgesprochenes”.
 
Familienversammlung: die Cousins “Schuld” und “Ab-lenkung” treffen ein und erzählen einen lenkschuldigen Witz; “Eifersucht” hatte niemand eingeladen und jetzt hat er sich schon am Sofa ausgebreitet; “Erwartungen” spielt mit dem Stressball rum und hats in 2 sec geschafft, die halbe Wohnung zu zerstören. Weil er unsichtbar ist, stört ihn niemand dabei.
 
                                                         Es flackert, das Licht geht aus. (curtain)
 
Die Zeit hat sich aufgehängt. Momo hat die letzte Stundenblume in der Hand, rennt durch die versteinerten Straßen, um die Welt noch im letzten Moment zu retten. Leben in mir steht still.
 
Ich wollte immer ein Wuschelkopf wie Momo sein (und eine magische Schildkröte sein, oder haben); nein, ich eigentliche wollte ich genau Momo sein. Nur dass ich jetzt nicht Momo bin, sondern ein versteinertes “jemand” in einer versteinerten Straße. Ob ich denken und fühlen kann macht wenig Unterschied. Mein Herz steht still (aber das ist eine andere Geschichte), wenn ich nicht das teilen kann, was mich bewegt.
 
Das, was Menschenaugen zu Sonne, Mond und Sternenhimmel macht.
Das, was Worte zu einem magischen Netz verwebt, in rauschenden Wipfeln, dort wo es keine Zeit gibt.
 
Das, wofür noch niemand Worte erfunden hat.
 
Das, was zwei Seelen verschmelzen lässt, wenn man sich nur traut, zu teilen und zu spüren.
Das, was in einem wächst – was man wachsen hört, wenn man mal endlich die Notbremse betätigt und aussteigt.
Das, was die Flamme nährt, den Stein spitzt, den Wind dreht, die Welle bricht, den großen Gesang trägt.
Das, was keine Erlaubnis zum Sein braucht, und sein lässt.
Das, was im Leben einfach das Wichtigste ist.
 
Lade mich ein. Nicht zu dir.
 
Lade mich ein, zu mir nachhause zurückzukehren, in meine tiefste Stube, um mich sanft wachzurütteln. Lade mich ein, vom Herzen zu sprechen und zuzuhören. Lade mich ein, im Film zu spielen, statt den Nachspann zu erzählen. (Und übrigens: Das Leben ist keine Serie, eher Diapositive, Szenenbilder, Film Stills). Lade mich ein, meine Handlungen aufzugeben, aber nie mich selbst.
 
Und lass mich dich einladen, zu all dem und viel mehr.
 
Lass uns zulassen.
Aussprechen. Statt absprechen.
Raum geben. Und weitergehen.
Morgen versuchen. Nochmals. Und nochmals. Und nochmals.

Fragmente (English / German, 2020) 

With this section I hope to invite you to walk through the world with open eyes, reflect upon your own experiences and breathe in the little things. To smile to yourself. I hope to inspire you to write. 
 
[English] How do you find the balance between living and creating. (2021)
Between doing nothing and fighting for what you believe in, breaking and building, reflecting and acting.
Between running for cover and standing in the rain, enduring the feelings.
Between the radiating warmth of intimacy, and the determination and courage to do things that matter. Or are less socially accepted and definitely scary, just like writing this text. But in a nice luring scary way if you know what I mean……
 
…Friends playing. We are the kids. We are life. How much do you need to share, how deep do you need to go? Playing together can be the deepest of connections, I don’t think that we are made for words. And still I write them. And now I miss dancing with people. Diversity. Diversifying communication. Language. How little we think about it, the thing that shapes our whole existence. I feel numb and far away through words sometimes, if they’re my own.
 
[German] Diese Nachtspaziergänge. (2020)
Endlich die Stille einatmen, zusammen mit dieser feuchten Abendluft. Klarheit. Die eigene Stimme hören und ganz weit weg ausschicken, spielen, wieder einholen wollen. Wie ein Drache im Windstrom. Singen ohne je wieder aufzuhören. In Welten wie in ein offenes Buch hineinfallen. Das Gefühl zu bekommen, diese Menschen, in deren Räumen man hineingeschaut hat, ewig zu kennen. Der Klavierbauer. Der Künstler. Der Lokalbesitzer. Erinnerungen. 3D Erinnerungen an fremde und nicht so fremde Orte, sie kommen nur zurück, wenn ich sie rufe und mich auf die Suche mache.
 
[German] Ich geh auf Wortejagd, ab und zu. (2020)
Wie ein Puma mit funkelnden Augen zwischen den Regenwaldblättern lasse ich alles an mir vorbeiziehen. Und irgendwann nachts klick und ich schnappe zu. Ich kralle mich in meine Beute: das Wort “Nahtstelle”, das Wort “Momentaufnahme”. Wörter, Sprüche, Gedanken. Auch wenn ich losgelassen habe, lässt mich das Wort nicht los. Gegenseitige Anziehung, Sinn, Fragezeichen. Die Geschichte vergeht, die Sprache bleibt. Und ich bau mir weiter mein Haus aus Worten.
 
[German] Corona-Autopilot. (2020)
Autipilot. Angst. Verbrannte Nudeln. Suppe ohne Salz. Nachtspaziergang. Musik, ganz viel davon. Schmerzen – überall. Liebe – ganz groß. Geschichten und Podcasts. Tief. Worte. Aktivismus. Freude. Belonging. Estrangement. Überforderung. Erschöpfung. Katzenfell. Katzenfotos. Einfach Katzen. Kopfhörer. Familie.
Letztes Wochenende und Sonne – Erinnerungen, aus einem anderen Leben fast.
Ah ja, und Lockdown.
….
Raum geben,
Raum zum Klingen,
Raum zum Denken,
Raum zum Fühlen,
Raum nehmen.
Veränderung. Was heißt das schon.
Ab wann bin ich ein neuer Mensch. Ich optimiere mich, einfach besser, ein besseres Ich. Man muss ja an sich arbeiten. Bin ich nun 2% schöner, 4% dünner, 8% lässiger. integrierter. eigenartiger.
Wie weiß ich, dass ich einen Schritt nach vor gegangen bin und nicht gleichzeitig zwei zurück. Wie weiß ich, dass ich nicht in einer Illusion lebe, nur um darauf zu warten, dass sie sich von allein auflöst. Warten.
Ab wann. ab wann. ab wann.