Here are two drabbles that I wrote for Lily´s Friday Prediction but never posted. The first one was supposed to be an interpretation of HC Andersen´s ”The Little Match Girl”, but came out more as a summary. The second one was written in the last minute and when I was going to post it my internet connection died (don´t sit too close to fire with a laptop, people!) and when it came back it was already Friday! The next Friday! This day, today! So I´m posting it here =)
The words: waif, lie, inanimate.
She watches, inanimate and pale, her breath forming ice blossoms on the window.
Inside cheeks blush with punch and laughter. A small hand, sticky with chocolate, pulls a red velvet dress. The candle light shatters through crystal prisms and dances in glazed-over eyes.
The waif crouches under the window and lights one of her matches. Just one.
When her Nana smiles inside the flame, she knows it´s a lie, but she still sets her remaining matches on fire and reaches for the loving embrace they offer.
Snow covers her tiny body as the party turns to dancing. It´s Christmas.
The words: priory, gold, shift.
It´s an old priory and she restores it, seemingly respectful, keeping as much of the outer structure as she can save. She paints its chapel golden and laughs when a friend refers to the golden calf and calls it blasphemy.
Years pass by and she´s rarely seen anymore. The letters to her mother become random and confusing.
An angel takes her in the chapel, seduced by her gold. He´s weak, a fallen soul, but his eyes shift faster than the endless sky, so filled with emotions.
”This. Only this,” she says as she kisses him. ”I prefer my soul mortal.”
Happy New Year, friends! I´m so grateful for the past year, so happy to be here and I can´t wait to see what the new year will bring! I´m sure I´ll be surprised =)
fredag 31 december 2010
torsdag 23 december 2010
Trial with Time
It´s Three Word Wednesday. The words; educate, object, silence. Thanks to Thom, 3WW is great but I hope you take a Christmas break if you feel like it!
Much inspired me this week. I´m sure you can even find some literary references here if you want to ;)
Merry Christmas, friends and followers!
Trial with Time
They went into the depths of Africa, not to explore and bring back, but to educate themselves, to understand.
The man in charge of the expedition was known as The Cardinal, I´m sure he had a real name but I can´t seem to find it. He held morning meetings. In the middle of nowhere when things had started to go awry, he still held morning meetings at exactly 0800 hours. You were supposed to pay very close attention to what he said during those meetings, but more so you were to listen to his pauses. Things happened during those pauses, the silence was heavy with meaning and you had to be very concentrated.
In the beginning people were enthusiastic, had energy and visions. They came equipped, their boats travelling up the river filled with objects with which to observe, measure, analyse. They were going to sort out and comprehend this disorderly part of the world like their kind had with so many places before. They were sure of their abilities. They came to conquer.
When things changed it was subtle. At first there was only the understandable desire to submit to authority, people turned to their leader for guidance. And then came the obvious ordeals; the heat and the humidity, the ever-growing vegetation, rust on every metallic surface, condense on everything made of glass and parasites in all intestines.
When they lost contact with the outer world they succumbed to utter despair.
The Cardinal had a watch, a very precise instrument, an atomic clock in fact. It allowed him, and only him, to keep track of time -- a very significant power in their situation.
Many fell ill but they kept working according to The Cardinal´s schedule: collecting samples and analysing them. When the results became increasingly bizarre no one questioned them. The schedule, the structure, was superior and the fevers weakening.
During a morning meeting, during one of those pauses, it was suggested that some people were too weak and might hold the expedition and its glorious purpose back.
People started dying. ”The fever,” The Cardinal said, ”feeds on those feeble in mind and flesh.” Funerals seemed illogical, throwing bodies in the river or using them for nutrition also worked.
A woman, M, awoke a man, R, one night, suggesting in brief whispers that this might be wrong and that they would have to take matters into their own hands should they wish to survive. It was the first sign of mutiny.
”Survival of the fittest,” said The Cardinal and touched his clock. His speeches became more and more pompous, he was an emperor talking to his troops and he was frightening. ”Do you know,” M´s voice ghosted over R´s ear, ”that no one has ever been able to construct an exact watch. There´s no such thing as measuring time precisely.” She said it casually, but it sounded like a religion, like faith and salvation.
R started to invent results, no one paid attention and the fact that he could get away with lying was exhilarating. He learned then, there´s much time to be collected in between. The structure demanded absolute obedience and dedication to the purpose, but if you chose to ignore that and reclaimed your own mind, no one would really notice because that was an unthinkable scenario, so inside the structure there was a lot of time to be used by those who found it.
R stole medicine from The Cardinal´s private supplies and watched over the sick during the gray morning hours when so many seemed to die.
M watched The Cardinal, learned his routines, mapped his every move. She wrote reports, told the truth about the expedition, and R hid them.
”We need an anomaly,” she said. ”That´ll be our sign.” Sometimes R thought her just as insane as The Cardinal, she too was working after some master plan visible only to herself.
The turning point came in two parts. One: M fell ill and became delirious with fever which left R alone and out of time. Two: The Cardinal killed a man, openly in the middle of the day, and there were no objections.
R sat by M´s bed and she thrashed her head, sweaty and pale, mumbling something unintelligible, and then, suddenly, she clutched his hand and said ”You have to take his watch.” Only that, very clearly.
That night R sneaked into The Cardinal´s tent. R had been paying a lot of attention to time. He had grown up with the safe feeling of time as a linear motion, something that exists from point A to point B, something that is defined by and becomes visible through change. But recent events had shaken this picture. Time, he now knew, was extremely unstable, the experience of it very subjective, and it consisted of a variety of components. Time can accelerate and stop, and then there´s the concept of eternity. And it was this that came to R when he entered The Cardinal´s tent during the darkest night hour, with his senses enhanced, exceptionally aware of everything; the whisking sound of the canvas as he entered, the dusty smell, the rhythmical snoring in the darkness.
Eternity exists within time. When you live your life floating along with the linearness of it, there might, occasionally, randomly and if you pay very close attention, emerge a period of eternity. And inside it, fear ceases to exist.
R stood beside The Cardinal´s bed and watched him sleep. It is impossible to describe for how long he remained there, since it was a moment of eternity.
There was no fear and the possibilities were endless, but in the end R settled for taking the watch, thus sticking to M´s plan. It felt heavy in his hand and he wondered if this was due merely to its metallic structure, or if the responsibility, obligations and power that came with it also had mass, also had weight that could be measured.
Without his atomic clock The Cardinal was nothing. He raged and screamed and made everyone turn everything upside down but it couldn´t be found. When R came to talk to him, he was resigned.
”We are leaving,” R said politely. He stood in front of The Cardinal´s chair, a simple thing but it made him think of a throne, there was still such an air of sovereignty around the man.
”I don´t suppose you´d consider giving it back?” The Cardinal said. No pretenses.
”This expedition has not been properly conducted,” R said. ”There will be a scandal. What can be done to avoid it?”
”What do you want?” The Cardinal looked haggard and it came to R that he thought himself right. He really did believe he had done the right thing.
The survivals left. A diminished troop. The official report stated that the expedition had been unsuccessful due to insurmountably difficult working conditions. The Cardinal was listed among those lost.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
I never saw M again. We had no right to each other, no common grounds in real life, and when we parted it was a bit like she ceased to exist. I handed her the watch, squeezed her hand shut around it -- the bigger responsibility was always hers.
I kept her reports, keep them still, in a secure place should anything arise.
Sometimes, during the gray morning hours when I can´t sleep, I imagine him still out there, speaking to our shadows. Maybe it´s true, in some time. But I don´t think about these things too much, I don´t own the truth or the time, I´m not entitled.
Much inspired me this week. I´m sure you can even find some literary references here if you want to ;)
Merry Christmas, friends and followers!
Trial with Time
They went into the depths of Africa, not to explore and bring back, but to educate themselves, to understand.
The man in charge of the expedition was known as The Cardinal, I´m sure he had a real name but I can´t seem to find it. He held morning meetings. In the middle of nowhere when things had started to go awry, he still held morning meetings at exactly 0800 hours. You were supposed to pay very close attention to what he said during those meetings, but more so you were to listen to his pauses. Things happened during those pauses, the silence was heavy with meaning and you had to be very concentrated.
In the beginning people were enthusiastic, had energy and visions. They came equipped, their boats travelling up the river filled with objects with which to observe, measure, analyse. They were going to sort out and comprehend this disorderly part of the world like their kind had with so many places before. They were sure of their abilities. They came to conquer.
When things changed it was subtle. At first there was only the understandable desire to submit to authority, people turned to their leader for guidance. And then came the obvious ordeals; the heat and the humidity, the ever-growing vegetation, rust on every metallic surface, condense on everything made of glass and parasites in all intestines.
When they lost contact with the outer world they succumbed to utter despair.
The Cardinal had a watch, a very precise instrument, an atomic clock in fact. It allowed him, and only him, to keep track of time -- a very significant power in their situation.
Many fell ill but they kept working according to The Cardinal´s schedule: collecting samples and analysing them. When the results became increasingly bizarre no one questioned them. The schedule, the structure, was superior and the fevers weakening.
During a morning meeting, during one of those pauses, it was suggested that some people were too weak and might hold the expedition and its glorious purpose back.
People started dying. ”The fever,” The Cardinal said, ”feeds on those feeble in mind and flesh.” Funerals seemed illogical, throwing bodies in the river or using them for nutrition also worked.
A woman, M, awoke a man, R, one night, suggesting in brief whispers that this might be wrong and that they would have to take matters into their own hands should they wish to survive. It was the first sign of mutiny.
”Survival of the fittest,” said The Cardinal and touched his clock. His speeches became more and more pompous, he was an emperor talking to his troops and he was frightening. ”Do you know,” M´s voice ghosted over R´s ear, ”that no one has ever been able to construct an exact watch. There´s no such thing as measuring time precisely.” She said it casually, but it sounded like a religion, like faith and salvation.
R started to invent results, no one paid attention and the fact that he could get away with lying was exhilarating. He learned then, there´s much time to be collected in between. The structure demanded absolute obedience and dedication to the purpose, but if you chose to ignore that and reclaimed your own mind, no one would really notice because that was an unthinkable scenario, so inside the structure there was a lot of time to be used by those who found it.
R stole medicine from The Cardinal´s private supplies and watched over the sick during the gray morning hours when so many seemed to die.
M watched The Cardinal, learned his routines, mapped his every move. She wrote reports, told the truth about the expedition, and R hid them.
”We need an anomaly,” she said. ”That´ll be our sign.” Sometimes R thought her just as insane as The Cardinal, she too was working after some master plan visible only to herself.
The turning point came in two parts. One: M fell ill and became delirious with fever which left R alone and out of time. Two: The Cardinal killed a man, openly in the middle of the day, and there were no objections.
R sat by M´s bed and she thrashed her head, sweaty and pale, mumbling something unintelligible, and then, suddenly, she clutched his hand and said ”You have to take his watch.” Only that, very clearly.
That night R sneaked into The Cardinal´s tent. R had been paying a lot of attention to time. He had grown up with the safe feeling of time as a linear motion, something that exists from point A to point B, something that is defined by and becomes visible through change. But recent events had shaken this picture. Time, he now knew, was extremely unstable, the experience of it very subjective, and it consisted of a variety of components. Time can accelerate and stop, and then there´s the concept of eternity. And it was this that came to R when he entered The Cardinal´s tent during the darkest night hour, with his senses enhanced, exceptionally aware of everything; the whisking sound of the canvas as he entered, the dusty smell, the rhythmical snoring in the darkness.
Eternity exists within time. When you live your life floating along with the linearness of it, there might, occasionally, randomly and if you pay very close attention, emerge a period of eternity. And inside it, fear ceases to exist.
R stood beside The Cardinal´s bed and watched him sleep. It is impossible to describe for how long he remained there, since it was a moment of eternity.
There was no fear and the possibilities were endless, but in the end R settled for taking the watch, thus sticking to M´s plan. It felt heavy in his hand and he wondered if this was due merely to its metallic structure, or if the responsibility, obligations and power that came with it also had mass, also had weight that could be measured.
Without his atomic clock The Cardinal was nothing. He raged and screamed and made everyone turn everything upside down but it couldn´t be found. When R came to talk to him, he was resigned.
”We are leaving,” R said politely. He stood in front of The Cardinal´s chair, a simple thing but it made him think of a throne, there was still such an air of sovereignty around the man.
”I don´t suppose you´d consider giving it back?” The Cardinal said. No pretenses.
”This expedition has not been properly conducted,” R said. ”There will be a scandal. What can be done to avoid it?”
”What do you want?” The Cardinal looked haggard and it came to R that he thought himself right. He really did believe he had done the right thing.
The survivals left. A diminished troop. The official report stated that the expedition had been unsuccessful due to insurmountably difficult working conditions. The Cardinal was listed among those lost.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
I never saw M again. We had no right to each other, no common grounds in real life, and when we parted it was a bit like she ceased to exist. I handed her the watch, squeezed her hand shut around it -- the bigger responsibility was always hers.
I kept her reports, keep them still, in a secure place should anything arise.
Sometimes, during the gray morning hours when I can´t sleep, I imagine him still out there, speaking to our shadows. Maybe it´s true, in some time. But I don´t think about these things too much, I don´t own the truth or the time, I´m not entitled.
onsdag 24 november 2010
Climbing the Ladder
It´s Three Word Wednesday. The words: advance, pander, shuffle.
Climbing the Ladder
There wasn´t enough alcohol on the table, he thought. He gulped down his latest drink and motioned for another one.
She was dancing. Floating gracefully across the dancefloor in the arms of Rex Higgins, a Navy Officer whose uniform went well together with her sleek Ginger Rogers look.
Higgins escorted her back to the table afterwards. She laughed breathlessly and fanned herself with a menu. She always looked her best a little flustered, it made her seem less intimidating.
”Rusty, honey, having fun?” She put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it affectionately.
He took a sip of his new drink.
”I´m having a blast, Eve,” he replied glumly. He was never any good at playing this game; never carefree, gay, manipulative, like her.
She shrugged and turned away. Went off with her Marine, out to ”get some air”, he supposed.
There was still not enough alcohol on the table when she returned, but he was working on it.
She slumped down next to him, still elegant, but her eyes looked haunted. She took one of the roses from the centerpiece and started ripping off its petals. Rip, rip, rip; the sound seemed unnaturally loud.
”Having fun, Eve?” he said mockingly.
”Getting drunk, Rusty?” came the swift reply. Beneath the glamour she was furious.
”Really, Rusty, you agreed to this!” she continued. ”I don´t see how we can get anywhere, advance at all, if we´re not willing to work for it!”
”I never said I wouldn´t work!” His own anger surprised him. ”I´ll work as hard as anyone, you know that! Just say the word and I´ll go down to Bill tomorrow and ask him for a job. I´m sure we could make a decent living…”
She shuffled the petals from one hand to the other.
”Except decent´s not enough, is it?” He suddenly felt very tired.
"You never listen to me. You have no respect for my opinion!” She sounded like a spoilt child and he couldn´t take it anymore.
”Respect, Eve? I´m no more than a pander and you´re nothing but a …”
She cut him off.
”Stop it, Rusty! I´m leaving!” She stood and collected her things, two ugly red spots on those perfect porcelain cheeks.
She turned to look at him.
”I´m not coming back, you know. Frankly, I think we have different ambitions in life. I´m sure neither of us would want to stand in the other one´s way.”
Rusty watched her leave, her head held high. Despite all, he really wished her well.
On the dancefloor Navy Officer Rex Higgins laughed with another beauty in his arms, pressed against him as they slowly moved to the music.
Climbing the Ladder
There wasn´t enough alcohol on the table, he thought. He gulped down his latest drink and motioned for another one.
She was dancing. Floating gracefully across the dancefloor in the arms of Rex Higgins, a Navy Officer whose uniform went well together with her sleek Ginger Rogers look.
Higgins escorted her back to the table afterwards. She laughed breathlessly and fanned herself with a menu. She always looked her best a little flustered, it made her seem less intimidating.
”Rusty, honey, having fun?” She put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it affectionately.
He took a sip of his new drink.
”I´m having a blast, Eve,” he replied glumly. He was never any good at playing this game; never carefree, gay, manipulative, like her.
She shrugged and turned away. Went off with her Marine, out to ”get some air”, he supposed.
There was still not enough alcohol on the table when she returned, but he was working on it.
She slumped down next to him, still elegant, but her eyes looked haunted. She took one of the roses from the centerpiece and started ripping off its petals. Rip, rip, rip; the sound seemed unnaturally loud.
”Having fun, Eve?” he said mockingly.
”Getting drunk, Rusty?” came the swift reply. Beneath the glamour she was furious.
”Really, Rusty, you agreed to this!” she continued. ”I don´t see how we can get anywhere, advance at all, if we´re not willing to work for it!”
”I never said I wouldn´t work!” His own anger surprised him. ”I´ll work as hard as anyone, you know that! Just say the word and I´ll go down to Bill tomorrow and ask him for a job. I´m sure we could make a decent living…”
She shuffled the petals from one hand to the other.
”Except decent´s not enough, is it?” He suddenly felt very tired.
"You never listen to me. You have no respect for my opinion!” She sounded like a spoilt child and he couldn´t take it anymore.
”Respect, Eve? I´m no more than a pander and you´re nothing but a …”
She cut him off.
”Stop it, Rusty! I´m leaving!” She stood and collected her things, two ugly red spots on those perfect porcelain cheeks.
She turned to look at him.
”I´m not coming back, you know. Frankly, I think we have different ambitions in life. I´m sure neither of us would want to stand in the other one´s way.”
Rusty watched her leave, her head held high. Despite all, he really wished her well.
On the dancefloor Navy Officer Rex Higgins laughed with another beauty in his arms, pressed against him as they slowly moved to the music.
lördag 6 november 2010
On Trunk Strength and Other Issues
I copy your writing from some site and I translate it. Fast. Without thinking. And it gives me a hard-on, the fact that I´m able to do it. Without thinking. Heee…
I get rejected again. But this time, the person signing my rejection letter is one of my favourite authors, a woman so unbelievable good at interpreting humankind and putting her thoughts into words you wouldn´t believe it. And when rejected by her, I´m hard again. Instantly.
If you were here what would you do? Dance with me? The naprapath says I have to improve my gait, he wants me to walk regally. But his hands are sweaty and he sucks at small talk. He´d be better off piercing butterflies. Seriously. This is not just me being mean.
I drink wine and I give blow jobs. Would you like one? I wouldn´t mind and you wouldn´t have to feel bad, I´m not a damaged person. In fact, I´m surrealistically undamaged, I grew up as one of the children in ”The Children of Noisy Village”. So when I say I´m game, I´m game, no strings attached. Liberating, huh?
”Can I go play with E.?” the son says. It´s eleven in the morning and I say yes. ”I want to go play with O.” says the daughter and disappears. And so they´re both at the neighbour´s. I make lunch for the girls in a basket and they eat outdoors in the frosty woods and I think it´s a good childhood. Really good. At five in the afternoon I make pizza, but the son comes hurrying home, he´s going to see a movie and can he get some money and no, he´s already eaten. The daughter comes a bit later, she´s in makeup and glittery stickers and can she go too? Pretty, please! She skips away with a slice of pizza in her hand. I put her favourite cheese on it.
This leaves me and my husband. I dress in black lace, leather and pretty stockings and, you know.
Good thing, neighbours.
I´m sorry about the melting permafrost. I really didn´t intend for it to happen so fast.
I get rejected again. But this time, the person signing my rejection letter is one of my favourite authors, a woman so unbelievable good at interpreting humankind and putting her thoughts into words you wouldn´t believe it. And when rejected by her, I´m hard again. Instantly.
If you were here what would you do? Dance with me? The naprapath says I have to improve my gait, he wants me to walk regally. But his hands are sweaty and he sucks at small talk. He´d be better off piercing butterflies. Seriously. This is not just me being mean.
I drink wine and I give blow jobs. Would you like one? I wouldn´t mind and you wouldn´t have to feel bad, I´m not a damaged person. In fact, I´m surrealistically undamaged, I grew up as one of the children in ”The Children of Noisy Village”. So when I say I´m game, I´m game, no strings attached. Liberating, huh?
”Can I go play with E.?” the son says. It´s eleven in the morning and I say yes. ”I want to go play with O.” says the daughter and disappears. And so they´re both at the neighbour´s. I make lunch for the girls in a basket and they eat outdoors in the frosty woods and I think it´s a good childhood. Really good. At five in the afternoon I make pizza, but the son comes hurrying home, he´s going to see a movie and can he get some money and no, he´s already eaten. The daughter comes a bit later, she´s in makeup and glittery stickers and can she go too? Pretty, please! She skips away with a slice of pizza in her hand. I put her favourite cheese on it.
This leaves me and my husband. I dress in black lace, leather and pretty stockings and, you know.
Good thing, neighbours.
I´m sorry about the melting permafrost. I really didn´t intend for it to happen so fast.
måndag 1 november 2010
...and introducing Ingrid as "The Dad".
Shut the fuck up about my diary! It´s. My. Diary. I write it and I say anything goes.
I´m a gay man with a gay lover and it´s the first time I´m at his place. He shows me the kitchen. The dining area -- he´s got a diiining aaarea! The living room. And then, when my mouth´s all dry: the bedroom. ”And here´s the hobby room,” he says as we enter and his bed is a homemade composition of aluminum pipes dressed in black leather. ”The stuff scenographers use on stage,” he says, ”it´ll carry anything.” And I love him even more when he shows me the swing he´s made from seatbelts. The guy´s a stellar handyman and he´s got this ability to never lose focus on what´s important in life. I spend the rest of my days naked in that swing between four aluminum posters, and do you know; that´s all it takes to make a man happy.
A cake. It´s my birthday and I want a cake. ”Let´s get one with orange marzipan and a chocolate spider,” says the daughter. ”We always have one of those.” No, I think not. This is the first time in ten years that I get to celebrate something resembling a grown-up birthday because the son, with whom I share my birthday, has already had his party so I´m not reduced to witch-mom-who-live-only-to-serve-big-bunch-of-Halloween-dressed-kids-who-crave-scary-food-and-clever-treasure-hunts. I want a cake that thinks it´s royalty. I want fancy dark chocolate, sculpted cream and meringue with perfect texture. And I want to be Marie Antoinette when I let it melt in my mouth.
This and phone calls. Search your minds; have you phoned me today to sing and cheer and say you love me and are in awe over my brilliant existence?
My grandson is named after the greatest Swedish director of all times and he´s painfully cute. He gives me a necklace that he´s made himself from an old spoon and I immediately take off my favourite one, the El Día de los Muertos–one with the dancing skeletons, and put his on and I feel blessed. Truly blessed.
I´m rich. So frekkin´ loaded you wouldn´t believe it. In the mornings I take out my favourite horse and go for a ride, I only ride Icelandic horses, that´s how eccentric I am, and her name is Stjarna which means star. We go up the mountain hills and down, the dogs running happily around us, shitting all over – oh, the smell of healthy metabolic systems! I´ve paid someone to train my horses to pick mushrooms for me, so every night I come back with loads of yellow gold; chanterelles that go into a stew suitable for kings and gods. I eat it and I chew and I laugh, chew and laugh, ch nd ugh
Okay! Let´s finish this off with a poll:
I´m heavily sedated/bored/equipped.
Your guess is better than mine.
I´m a gay man with a gay lover and it´s the first time I´m at his place. He shows me the kitchen. The dining area -- he´s got a diiining aaarea! The living room. And then, when my mouth´s all dry: the bedroom. ”And here´s the hobby room,” he says as we enter and his bed is a homemade composition of aluminum pipes dressed in black leather. ”The stuff scenographers use on stage,” he says, ”it´ll carry anything.” And I love him even more when he shows me the swing he´s made from seatbelts. The guy´s a stellar handyman and he´s got this ability to never lose focus on what´s important in life. I spend the rest of my days naked in that swing between four aluminum posters, and do you know; that´s all it takes to make a man happy.
A cake. It´s my birthday and I want a cake. ”Let´s get one with orange marzipan and a chocolate spider,” says the daughter. ”We always have one of those.” No, I think not. This is the first time in ten years that I get to celebrate something resembling a grown-up birthday because the son, with whom I share my birthday, has already had his party so I´m not reduced to witch-mom-who-live-only-to-serve-big-bunch-of-Halloween-dressed-kids-who-crave-scary-food-and-clever-treasure-hunts. I want a cake that thinks it´s royalty. I want fancy dark chocolate, sculpted cream and meringue with perfect texture. And I want to be Marie Antoinette when I let it melt in my mouth.
This and phone calls. Search your minds; have you phoned me today to sing and cheer and say you love me and are in awe over my brilliant existence?
My grandson is named after the greatest Swedish director of all times and he´s painfully cute. He gives me a necklace that he´s made himself from an old spoon and I immediately take off my favourite one, the El Día de los Muertos–one with the dancing skeletons, and put his on and I feel blessed. Truly blessed.
I´m rich. So frekkin´ loaded you wouldn´t believe it. In the mornings I take out my favourite horse and go for a ride, I only ride Icelandic horses, that´s how eccentric I am, and her name is Stjarna which means star. We go up the mountain hills and down, the dogs running happily around us, shitting all over – oh, the smell of healthy metabolic systems! I´ve paid someone to train my horses to pick mushrooms for me, so every night I come back with loads of yellow gold; chanterelles that go into a stew suitable for kings and gods. I eat it and I chew and I laugh, chew and laugh, ch nd ugh
Okay! Let´s finish this off with a poll:
I´m heavily sedated/bored/equipped.
Your guess is better than mine.
fredag 29 oktober 2010
How I usually get through the day
I read someone´s blog and when I closed it the last word I saw was ”stroke”, then I had to re-open it and read another one because otherwise I might have a stroke. The new last word was ”bagel”. I hope I get one.
The man I live with brought home a massage armchair. It´s gigantic and in fake leather and I hate it and I said ”Why´d you take that thing home, you promised me no more fuckin´leather!” and he said ”It was only 60 bucks!” and I´m like ”What?” and he´s like: ”It´s broken.” Me again: ”What?” Now it´s in my living room laughing its immobile ass off, and I have to find a way to kill it.
I pour my favorite detergent on a rag and I inhale deeply and that´s how I get through the day.
You know you´re heterosexual when even stupid ugly guy that you really despise makes you think about sex. You wonder what his cock looks like and if it would stretch you and if his ugliness would somehow be an advantage during sex like some sort of exotic addition to spice things up. And then you have to focus on work and you´re all like ”What´s wrong with me?”
Well, maybe you´re ovulating?
I can´t be bothered to wrap gifts so I take aluminium foil and sort of squeeze it around the presents and if it breaks I cover the hole with some more foil and tell myself it´s artsy. I go into the bathroom and take the towels down to wash them and the acoustics is profoundly changed. I stay in there for half an hour trying it out. But I can´t be bothered to wrap gifts and I put the towels somewhere and I´m pretty sure it wasn´t in the washer.
I put two eggs in a bowl to make an omelette and I log onto my computer and write something and when I come back it´s dark and the eggs have dried and have a kind of jellied surface and I find it fascinating but maybe not edible and this may be the reason why I´m thin.
I should not be left unattended. The dog knows this and the children and even the baby with his I´ve-seen-it-all look and his greedy little mouth. I let myself go when they´re all asleep and as I drift off into space I look back on Earth wishing I´d have been compatible with it. I kick myself out of orbit taking nothing with me, except for that sweet-smelling rag.
The man I live with brought home a massage armchair. It´s gigantic and in fake leather and I hate it and I said ”Why´d you take that thing home, you promised me no more fuckin´leather!” and he said ”It was only 60 bucks!” and I´m like ”What?” and he´s like: ”It´s broken.” Me again: ”What?” Now it´s in my living room laughing its immobile ass off, and I have to find a way to kill it.
I pour my favorite detergent on a rag and I inhale deeply and that´s how I get through the day.
You know you´re heterosexual when even stupid ugly guy that you really despise makes you think about sex. You wonder what his cock looks like and if it would stretch you and if his ugliness would somehow be an advantage during sex like some sort of exotic addition to spice things up. And then you have to focus on work and you´re all like ”What´s wrong with me?”
Well, maybe you´re ovulating?
I can´t be bothered to wrap gifts so I take aluminium foil and sort of squeeze it around the presents and if it breaks I cover the hole with some more foil and tell myself it´s artsy. I go into the bathroom and take the towels down to wash them and the acoustics is profoundly changed. I stay in there for half an hour trying it out. But I can´t be bothered to wrap gifts and I put the towels somewhere and I´m pretty sure it wasn´t in the washer.
I put two eggs in a bowl to make an omelette and I log onto my computer and write something and when I come back it´s dark and the eggs have dried and have a kind of jellied surface and I find it fascinating but maybe not edible and this may be the reason why I´m thin.
I should not be left unattended. The dog knows this and the children and even the baby with his I´ve-seen-it-all look and his greedy little mouth. I let myself go when they´re all asleep and as I drift off into space I look back on Earth wishing I´d have been compatible with it. I kick myself out of orbit taking nothing with me, except for that sweet-smelling rag.
onsdag 20 oktober 2010
The Story of Someone´s Aunt
It´s Three Word Wednesday. The words: effect, immense, shimmer.
The Story of Someone´s Aunt
”I´ll kill you,” he said. One time, ten times, a hundred times. Over time it lost the desired effect; she no longer believed him.
She cleaned the house and then went to her lover. She worked and then went to her lover. She said she´d come to the cottage, but she didn´t, she booked a trip to Greece for her and their daughter. When she came home she made dinner and then went to her lover.
She assumed he stopped caring, at least he stopped commenting, he actually stopped talking altogether.
He got a new job and she was glad; maybe now he´d move on and she´d be able to divorce him without too much fuss. But one night he took out his rifle to clean it and the look in his eyes told her there´d be fuss.
Their daughter moved south, met a man and started a life of her own. And nothing changed. ”I´ll kill you,” he said. Sometimes she believed him, sometimes not.
In September she was diagnosed with cancer. Their daughter came home and cried, it seemed like an appropriate reaction.
Chemo makes one´s hair fall off. She preferred scarves to a wig.
In December, December 6 in fact, he went to a Christmas party. He came home drunk and hung himself in the downstairs closet.
When she came down the next morning, she wanted her shoes to go get the newspaper. But he had brought them with him, into the closet, so that she would have to come into the closet to get them. So that she would have to see him, all on her own. It struck her then, how much he must have hated her.
They buried him on December 22, they wanted it done before Christmas. Fresh snow had fallen and there was an almost virginal shimmer over the landscape as they followed the coffin out of the church. Their daughter cried. She wanted a large grave stone, due to guilt, maybe.
The lover was supportive through radiation and chemo, but he didn´t leave his wife.
Two years later their daughter had a daughter and they baptized the child in that same church. It was a joyous day and it finally pained her; their immense lack of sorrow.
That evening she called her lover and said: ”No. No more. Never again.”
The Story of Someone´s Aunt
”I´ll kill you,” he said. One time, ten times, a hundred times. Over time it lost the desired effect; she no longer believed him.
She cleaned the house and then went to her lover. She worked and then went to her lover. She said she´d come to the cottage, but she didn´t, she booked a trip to Greece for her and their daughter. When she came home she made dinner and then went to her lover.
She assumed he stopped caring, at least he stopped commenting, he actually stopped talking altogether.
He got a new job and she was glad; maybe now he´d move on and she´d be able to divorce him without too much fuss. But one night he took out his rifle to clean it and the look in his eyes told her there´d be fuss.
Their daughter moved south, met a man and started a life of her own. And nothing changed. ”I´ll kill you,” he said. Sometimes she believed him, sometimes not.
In September she was diagnosed with cancer. Their daughter came home and cried, it seemed like an appropriate reaction.
Chemo makes one´s hair fall off. She preferred scarves to a wig.
In December, December 6 in fact, he went to a Christmas party. He came home drunk and hung himself in the downstairs closet.
When she came down the next morning, she wanted her shoes to go get the newspaper. But he had brought them with him, into the closet, so that she would have to come into the closet to get them. So that she would have to see him, all on her own. It struck her then, how much he must have hated her.
They buried him on December 22, they wanted it done before Christmas. Fresh snow had fallen and there was an almost virginal shimmer over the landscape as they followed the coffin out of the church. Their daughter cried. She wanted a large grave stone, due to guilt, maybe.
The lover was supportive through radiation and chemo, but he didn´t leave his wife.
Two years later their daughter had a daughter and they baptized the child in that same church. It was a joyous day and it finally pained her; their immense lack of sorrow.
That evening she called her lover and said: ”No. No more. Never again.”
lördag 18 september 2010
Visitors
Me? I´m stuck in Insectopia.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Visitors
I see
a ship in space
-- trembling, wobbling,
frail as an autumn leaf.
And out fall
a thousand green and silvery dragon flies.
Hungry!
Who comes first?
Closer, closer…
They feed on
me.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Visitors
I see
a ship in space
-- trembling, wobbling,
frail as an autumn leaf.
And out fall
a thousand green and silvery dragon flies.
Hungry!
Who comes first?
Closer, closer…
They feed on
me.
torsdag 9 september 2010
Prospects
It´s Three Word Wednesday. The words: charm, robust, feast.
Prospects
”She´s strong, this ol´ gal,” he patted the iron cylinder lovingly. ”Robust constitution. Russian originally, they don´t make ´em like this anymore.” He wiped his hands on a checked towel and went on with his tools, adjusting stuff, humming cheerfully.
The boy wasn´t impressed. It was the middle of the night and he shivered in his worn cotton shirt, his skin sickly pale. The air was dense, smelling richly of rotting vegetation, flowers and moss. Its dampness condensed on everything. He really, really didn´t want to die in these Southern woods.
The old man continued, hopefully mending his crazy flying machine, and the boy slept, exhausted.
Dawn came, red and weary, an ancient sun heaving itself over the edge of the horizon.
The boy woke up, covered in sweat, hot with fever. Ants crawled over him and midges feasted on him. No strength to move and nowhere to go, he thought nonsensically. Too weak to manage hysteria he surrendered to the vermin of land and sky. Everything crawling, flying, buzzing seemed to recognize the scent of his warm skin. He was reduced to a stash of food, existing only to provide those who fed on living blood.
He began to understand the deeper meaning of dying in woodlands like these. He would cease to function, yes, but in some ways he would be more alive than ever. Flies and beatles would lay their eggs in his still warm body, and those who live on putrefying flesh and juices would come to enthusiastically drive their haustella through his decomposing skin. Trees would stretch their roots, enter him from underneath, penetrate his intestines, wind around his bones and crush his heart, drinking what was left of him. And finally he´d be soil, nurturing future growths. Such a loathsome prospect; to merge with these woods, to become one with the source of this sweet smell of rot.
”You hangin´ in there?” The old man loomed above him, a defined solidness against the ruthless sunlight.
”Here, have some water,” he said, lifting the boy´s upper body and forcing a bottleneck between his lips. The water was warm and tasted of sewage, but he gulped it down nevertheless.
”Well, I´m done, she works like a charm. I think we´re ready to take off,” he continued.
The boy, in his feverish haze, managed to marvel at the old man´s easy happiness, his light tone of voice and the brightness in his eyes. Such an absolute confidence in himself and the future. His kind will save this world, the boy thought as strong arms enveloped him, lifted him from the hungry grounds and carried him away from the cursed light into their last fragment of civilization.
Prospects
”She´s strong, this ol´ gal,” he patted the iron cylinder lovingly. ”Robust constitution. Russian originally, they don´t make ´em like this anymore.” He wiped his hands on a checked towel and went on with his tools, adjusting stuff, humming cheerfully.
The boy wasn´t impressed. It was the middle of the night and he shivered in his worn cotton shirt, his skin sickly pale. The air was dense, smelling richly of rotting vegetation, flowers and moss. Its dampness condensed on everything. He really, really didn´t want to die in these Southern woods.
The old man continued, hopefully mending his crazy flying machine, and the boy slept, exhausted.
Dawn came, red and weary, an ancient sun heaving itself over the edge of the horizon.
The boy woke up, covered in sweat, hot with fever. Ants crawled over him and midges feasted on him. No strength to move and nowhere to go, he thought nonsensically. Too weak to manage hysteria he surrendered to the vermin of land and sky. Everything crawling, flying, buzzing seemed to recognize the scent of his warm skin. He was reduced to a stash of food, existing only to provide those who fed on living blood.
He began to understand the deeper meaning of dying in woodlands like these. He would cease to function, yes, but in some ways he would be more alive than ever. Flies and beatles would lay their eggs in his still warm body, and those who live on putrefying flesh and juices would come to enthusiastically drive their haustella through his decomposing skin. Trees would stretch their roots, enter him from underneath, penetrate his intestines, wind around his bones and crush his heart, drinking what was left of him. And finally he´d be soil, nurturing future growths. Such a loathsome prospect; to merge with these woods, to become one with the source of this sweet smell of rot.
”You hangin´ in there?” The old man loomed above him, a defined solidness against the ruthless sunlight.
”Here, have some water,” he said, lifting the boy´s upper body and forcing a bottleneck between his lips. The water was warm and tasted of sewage, but he gulped it down nevertheless.
”Well, I´m done, she works like a charm. I think we´re ready to take off,” he continued.
The boy, in his feverish haze, managed to marvel at the old man´s easy happiness, his light tone of voice and the brightness in his eyes. Such an absolute confidence in himself and the future. His kind will save this world, the boy thought as strong arms enveloped him, lifted him from the hungry grounds and carried him away from the cursed light into their last fragment of civilization.
torsdag 2 september 2010
Flattened, Burned and Mummified
Time for Three Word Wednesday. The words: break, negative, surface. I had fun with these words =)
Flattened, Burned and Mummified
”What you readin´ ?”
”A photo magazine.”
”What´s with that guy? He looks creepy.”
”It´s a negative. It´s sort of the opposite to an ordinary photo; where the colours would normally be dark…”
”He looks dead.”
”Yeah, I suppose.”
”Lynn thinks everyone becomes flat when they die.”
”Really? Why?”
”She thinks the only way to die is to get run over by a car.”
”Huh?”
”Grandpa said we´d all become stamps, then.”
”What?”
”If we´re gonna be flat. He said we could´ve used Great Grandma as a stamp and put her on a postcard. Would´ve been nice for her, he said, to do some travelling, and she´d have made herself useful as a stamp.”
”He didn´t say that!”
”Did too!”
”Yes, well, he didn´t mean it, obviously. I´ll talk to him.”
”Do you still wanna be burned when you die?”
”Cremated, yes.”
---
”Do you find that sad, talking about me dying? Hey, don´t cover your face. Baby, are you crying?”
”No. It´s just… I thought maybe I could have you, you know, when you´re dead. To make you into a mummy. I´ve never actually seen a real mummy.”
”Right! Of course. But no, that´s not possible. One can´t do that. We bury our dead properly.”
”In graveyards, I know. I saw the hole for Great Grandma´s coffin, it was deep.
”Yes, they have to be deep.”
”Why?”
”Well… We don´t want the coffins too close to the surface, I suppose… In case they´d come up again, or something. I dunno…”
”That´d be better for the people digging up skeletons, though, easier for them.”
”Don´t say that. No one takes dead people´s bones. That just doesn´t happen.”
”But maybe wolves would come digging for the bones. They like bones, and they´re strong. I bet they could break the coffins.”
”Right. That´s it. We bury people deep down where no one can touch them. End of discussion.”
”Oh, okay. But… If you´re going to get burned…”
”Yes…”
”Well, can I do it? Over a bonfire?”
”No. But go ask Grandpa, maybe you can burn him. Run along, this Mummy needs a drink.”
Flattened, Burned and Mummified
”What you readin´ ?”
”A photo magazine.”
”What´s with that guy? He looks creepy.”
”It´s a negative. It´s sort of the opposite to an ordinary photo; where the colours would normally be dark…”
”He looks dead.”
”Yeah, I suppose.”
”Lynn thinks everyone becomes flat when they die.”
”Really? Why?”
”She thinks the only way to die is to get run over by a car.”
”Huh?”
”Grandpa said we´d all become stamps, then.”
”What?”
”If we´re gonna be flat. He said we could´ve used Great Grandma as a stamp and put her on a postcard. Would´ve been nice for her, he said, to do some travelling, and she´d have made herself useful as a stamp.”
”He didn´t say that!”
”Did too!”
”Yes, well, he didn´t mean it, obviously. I´ll talk to him.”
”Do you still wanna be burned when you die?”
”Cremated, yes.”
---
”Do you find that sad, talking about me dying? Hey, don´t cover your face. Baby, are you crying?”
”No. It´s just… I thought maybe I could have you, you know, when you´re dead. To make you into a mummy. I´ve never actually seen a real mummy.”
”Right! Of course. But no, that´s not possible. One can´t do that. We bury our dead properly.”
”In graveyards, I know. I saw the hole for Great Grandma´s coffin, it was deep.
”Yes, they have to be deep.”
”Why?”
”Well… We don´t want the coffins too close to the surface, I suppose… In case they´d come up again, or something. I dunno…”
”That´d be better for the people digging up skeletons, though, easier for them.”
”Don´t say that. No one takes dead people´s bones. That just doesn´t happen.”
”But maybe wolves would come digging for the bones. They like bones, and they´re strong. I bet they could break the coffins.”
”Right. That´s it. We bury people deep down where no one can touch them. End of discussion.”
”Oh, okay. But… If you´re going to get burned…”
”Yes…”
”Well, can I do it? Over a bonfire?”
”No. But go ask Grandpa, maybe you can burn him. Run along, this Mummy needs a drink.”
onsdag 1 september 2010
Happy Birthmonth!
How bold to proclaim an entire month one´s birthday ;)
It´s September, so, for the B-month girl, some rawr!haiku:
Men come inside me,
like trains on quality speed.
I dream of tigers.
Liquid opal eyes.
Silken paws of heavy grace,
peeling off my skin.
Untamed tigerman,
sliding through smelly allies.
Fuck my liliness.
The fact that I´m able to communicate with you amazes me on a regular basis =)
It´s September, so, for the B-month girl, some rawr!haiku:
Men come inside me,
like trains on quality speed.
I dream of tigers.
Liquid opal eyes.
Silken paws of heavy grace,
peeling off my skin.
Untamed tigerman,
sliding through smelly allies.
Fuck my liliness.
The fact that I´m able to communicate with you amazes me on a regular basis =)
onsdag 25 augusti 2010
A Sign
It´s Three Word Wednesday. The words: abstain, halo, prayer.
I´m not playing it safe this week, using expressions, words, prepositions etc where they might not fit very well... Anyhow, it´s a good thing, I´m out of my comfort zone =) It might have messed with the fluency of the text, though, as things might come off as awkward or plain weird. If so: I´m sorry, and please tell me where I´ve got it wrong so that I might learn!
A Sign
I leave in the morning smog, my trolley loaded with raffle. I sell at the big market Wednesdays and Saturdays, and at the smaller one nearby on the other days. Sometimes, if it´s busy, I get to help out with the vegetables and then maybe I can take some home with me.
When I come home my sisters and brothers are playing on the dump. Someone told me it said in the newspaper that kids shouldn´t be on the dump because the junk might be toxic, radioactive even, but where would they go? This is where we live and anyway, they need to collect my raffle.
I sweep our shack and go to get some water, when the kids return I have the porridge ready. Afterwards we do the dishes and I make them wash themselves and clean their teeth, I will nag about this because we´re not bad people, mamá used to say.
They say their prayers and go to bed and I sing to them as I do the final tidying for the night. It´s nice, peaceful, and I listen to their breathing slow down as I put the cloth on our box table. It´s a pretty piece of cloth, purple with red stripes. I was lucky to find it, almost untarnished and brightly coloured, I try to keep it clean. María picks those yellow flowers that grow all over the dump and I keep them in a glass on the table. The yellow goes well together with the purple, I think.
Before it gets really dark I step outside and go through the raffle they brought home. I make two piles, and then I put the useful stuff in the trolley, the other pile goes back to the dump. As the kids grow, they get better at finding good stuff, but they still drag home lots of fancy, worthless junk. María´ll take anything that glitters and Miguel likes big things with shiny surfaces. But, as I said, they get better, they have to, the competition for things easy to sell is tough on the dump.
When I think I´m finished, and it´s too dark to see anyway, something weird catches my eye. It´s very small and I could easily have missed it, but it´s pulsating with a dim light and I freeze, suddenly spooked.
I take some deep breaths to calm down and I tell myself I´m being stupid, but when I reach out to touch it, it moves! Sweet Jesus, my poor heart skips a beat and in an instant I´m all covered in goose-bumps.
But then I hear the rattling sound as it moves over the concrete surface and I recognize the step of the cucaracha. I deftly catch it, no cucaracha is too fast for me, and then I get to examine it closer. It looks like an ordinary one, hard and oval and dark brown, only it´s surrounded by this light, a green halo that glows softly around it. It´s surreal, supernatural and I can´t stop watching it, this beautiful creature caught in my hand. I find myself hoping it´s a magical sign from mamá.
I keep it in a matchbox beside my bed and I sleep like a baby, feeling so safe.
When I come home the next day it´s dead. The kids played with it and the taste in my mouth is bitter when I touch its broken body, the halo still intact, but I abstain from punishing them, what good would it do?
María´s been playing with it the entire day, making a house for it in the box, with tiny furniture made of paper and pebbles and pieces of glass and metal. I let her keep it.
Darling María, she´s getting so pale, I must try to get some vegetables soon.
I´m not playing it safe this week, using expressions, words, prepositions etc where they might not fit very well... Anyhow, it´s a good thing, I´m out of my comfort zone =) It might have messed with the fluency of the text, though, as things might come off as awkward or plain weird. If so: I´m sorry, and please tell me where I´ve got it wrong so that I might learn!
A Sign
I leave in the morning smog, my trolley loaded with raffle. I sell at the big market Wednesdays and Saturdays, and at the smaller one nearby on the other days. Sometimes, if it´s busy, I get to help out with the vegetables and then maybe I can take some home with me.
When I come home my sisters and brothers are playing on the dump. Someone told me it said in the newspaper that kids shouldn´t be on the dump because the junk might be toxic, radioactive even, but where would they go? This is where we live and anyway, they need to collect my raffle.
I sweep our shack and go to get some water, when the kids return I have the porridge ready. Afterwards we do the dishes and I make them wash themselves and clean their teeth, I will nag about this because we´re not bad people, mamá used to say.
They say their prayers and go to bed and I sing to them as I do the final tidying for the night. It´s nice, peaceful, and I listen to their breathing slow down as I put the cloth on our box table. It´s a pretty piece of cloth, purple with red stripes. I was lucky to find it, almost untarnished and brightly coloured, I try to keep it clean. María picks those yellow flowers that grow all over the dump and I keep them in a glass on the table. The yellow goes well together with the purple, I think.
Before it gets really dark I step outside and go through the raffle they brought home. I make two piles, and then I put the useful stuff in the trolley, the other pile goes back to the dump. As the kids grow, they get better at finding good stuff, but they still drag home lots of fancy, worthless junk. María´ll take anything that glitters and Miguel likes big things with shiny surfaces. But, as I said, they get better, they have to, the competition for things easy to sell is tough on the dump.
When I think I´m finished, and it´s too dark to see anyway, something weird catches my eye. It´s very small and I could easily have missed it, but it´s pulsating with a dim light and I freeze, suddenly spooked.
I take some deep breaths to calm down and I tell myself I´m being stupid, but when I reach out to touch it, it moves! Sweet Jesus, my poor heart skips a beat and in an instant I´m all covered in goose-bumps.
But then I hear the rattling sound as it moves over the concrete surface and I recognize the step of the cucaracha. I deftly catch it, no cucaracha is too fast for me, and then I get to examine it closer. It looks like an ordinary one, hard and oval and dark brown, only it´s surrounded by this light, a green halo that glows softly around it. It´s surreal, supernatural and I can´t stop watching it, this beautiful creature caught in my hand. I find myself hoping it´s a magical sign from mamá.
I keep it in a matchbox beside my bed and I sleep like a baby, feeling so safe.
When I come home the next day it´s dead. The kids played with it and the taste in my mouth is bitter when I touch its broken body, the halo still intact, but I abstain from punishing them, what good would it do?
María´s been playing with it the entire day, making a house for it in the box, with tiny furniture made of paper and pebbles and pieces of glass and metal. I let her keep it.
Darling María, she´s getting so pale, I must try to get some vegetables soon.
onsdag 18 augusti 2010
Groupie Ambitions
It´s "Three Word Wednesday". The words: grimace, phase, stumble.
Groupie Ambitions
Looking back at it, I can clearly see I was going through a phase. I would like to call it my ´troubled teenager´ phase, but to be honest, it was more like a ´I crave sex with musicians´ kind of phase.
That night, my favourite local band played and I was determined to earn true groupie status by sleeping with one of them, anyone of them.
I wore my favourite black top, some skirt with bohemian ambitions and heels, of course. The party was held in the basement of the place where they had played, and had the right worn down, rocker kind of look. I was thrilled when I entered, when I had my first glass of red wine and when the deliciously bad boys of the band arrived. Thrilled, thrilled, thrilled – this was going to be my night.
An excessive amount of alcohol later, I approached the pretty, dark one that always wrote their lyrics. I don´t know why I thought I had to impress him, honestly, to just reveal my intentions would probably have worked like a charm.
”Have you ever thought about the words ´passion´and ´illusion´,” I spluttered, ”I think they´re great together, I think you should use them.”
I leaned closer to him, showing some cleavage and feeling pretty good about myself. The faint grimace of repulsion that ghosted over his face was probably due to some bitter tang in his drink or whatever.
” ´Burn´ is a good one too,” I continued, my movements growing wilder and my personality scattered all over the place. ”You should definitely use that one.”
I tried to look at him, but found that I really couldn´t focus. He turned away and started talking to someone else. I think I probably stood there for a good five minutes before I got the hint.
At least no one laughed when I stumbled away, I´m sure no one noticed.
Groupie Ambitions
Looking back at it, I can clearly see I was going through a phase. I would like to call it my ´troubled teenager´ phase, but to be honest, it was more like a ´I crave sex with musicians´ kind of phase.
That night, my favourite local band played and I was determined to earn true groupie status by sleeping with one of them, anyone of them.
I wore my favourite black top, some skirt with bohemian ambitions and heels, of course. The party was held in the basement of the place where they had played, and had the right worn down, rocker kind of look. I was thrilled when I entered, when I had my first glass of red wine and when the deliciously bad boys of the band arrived. Thrilled, thrilled, thrilled – this was going to be my night.
An excessive amount of alcohol later, I approached the pretty, dark one that always wrote their lyrics. I don´t know why I thought I had to impress him, honestly, to just reveal my intentions would probably have worked like a charm.
”Have you ever thought about the words ´passion´and ´illusion´,” I spluttered, ”I think they´re great together, I think you should use them.”
I leaned closer to him, showing some cleavage and feeling pretty good about myself. The faint grimace of repulsion that ghosted over his face was probably due to some bitter tang in his drink or whatever.
” ´Burn´ is a good one too,” I continued, my movements growing wilder and my personality scattered all over the place. ”You should definitely use that one.”
I tried to look at him, but found that I really couldn´t focus. He turned away and started talking to someone else. I think I probably stood there for a good five minutes before I got the hint.
At least no one laughed when I stumbled away, I´m sure no one noticed.
torsdag 29 juli 2010
Grand Dessert
Trying out "Three Word Wednesday" =)
The words: abuse, cramp, hatred.
Grand Dessert
The first sign was dull. A familiar cramp in her lower abdomen and she stiffened, ever so slightly, a frown marring her delicate features.
Calmly she finished whisking the lemon cream she was preparing for her grand dessert, rinsed the whisk and put it in the sink. She put cling film over the bowl and placed it in the fridge, second shelf. The frown deepened.
As she hung her apron on its hook on the door, she felt the cramps intensify. She closed her eyes and took a moment to longingly sniff her beautifully starched apron, its lavender scent soothing her.
But there was no turning back now. The corners of her mouth twitched uncontrollably as she walked towards the bathroom.
She undressed. No clothes would be soiled by the toilet. She tied her hair in a firm bun in the back of her neck. From a cupboard she took out a blue bath sponge, a bottle of transparent nail polish and a roll of paper tape. Carefully she opened the bottle of nail polish and painted a small amount on the rough side of the sponge. She left the bottle open on the washbasin, the strong scent emerging from it seemed purifying. She pressed the soft side of the sponge to her face, covering her mouth and nose with it, then she wrapped the paper tape around her head, securing the sponge with it. The smell of nail polish was overwhelming, dizzying, and evoked her intense gratitude.
The cramps were becoming impossible to resist and with a profound feeling of hatred she filled the clean toilet bowl with paper, its shiny surface would not be touched by… it. She sat down, closed her eyes, pressed her hands against her stomach and inhaled her chemical relief. Then she let the enema do its job.
She shivered with disgust as she wiped herself, flushed and cleaned. Scrubbed, cleaned, scrubbed.
Abuse, she thought, this is abuse. Why? Why these repulsive needs? To be nothing more than a slave under the filth of this despised flesh.
Back in the kitchen she continued with the preparations for the dessert, the red skin on her hands burning from the scrubbing. She forced herself to breathe slowly, composed herself and pushed back the memories of her previous actions to some obscure place in her brain. At least, she thought, there´s now a whole week until I´ll have to go through it again.
She smiled.
The words: abuse, cramp, hatred.
Grand Dessert
The first sign was dull. A familiar cramp in her lower abdomen and she stiffened, ever so slightly, a frown marring her delicate features.
Calmly she finished whisking the lemon cream she was preparing for her grand dessert, rinsed the whisk and put it in the sink. She put cling film over the bowl and placed it in the fridge, second shelf. The frown deepened.
As she hung her apron on its hook on the door, she felt the cramps intensify. She closed her eyes and took a moment to longingly sniff her beautifully starched apron, its lavender scent soothing her.
But there was no turning back now. The corners of her mouth twitched uncontrollably as she walked towards the bathroom.
She undressed. No clothes would be soiled by the toilet. She tied her hair in a firm bun in the back of her neck. From a cupboard she took out a blue bath sponge, a bottle of transparent nail polish and a roll of paper tape. Carefully she opened the bottle of nail polish and painted a small amount on the rough side of the sponge. She left the bottle open on the washbasin, the strong scent emerging from it seemed purifying. She pressed the soft side of the sponge to her face, covering her mouth and nose with it, then she wrapped the paper tape around her head, securing the sponge with it. The smell of nail polish was overwhelming, dizzying, and evoked her intense gratitude.
The cramps were becoming impossible to resist and with a profound feeling of hatred she filled the clean toilet bowl with paper, its shiny surface would not be touched by… it. She sat down, closed her eyes, pressed her hands against her stomach and inhaled her chemical relief. Then she let the enema do its job.
She shivered with disgust as she wiped herself, flushed and cleaned. Scrubbed, cleaned, scrubbed.
Abuse, she thought, this is abuse. Why? Why these repulsive needs? To be nothing more than a slave under the filth of this despised flesh.
Back in the kitchen she continued with the preparations for the dessert, the red skin on her hands burning from the scrubbing. She forced herself to breathe slowly, composed herself and pushed back the memories of her previous actions to some obscure place in her brain. At least, she thought, there´s now a whole week until I´ll have to go through it again.
She smiled.
torsdag 15 juli 2010
Barren Land
I never expected to end my days in a barren land. I, who always took pride in keeping a flourishing garden. I came here looking for something, I´ll admit, and in a way, it seems I found it.
On the third day I stumbled upon it, the grave I mean. It´s a sad story; simple wooden cross, once painted in cheap colour, now withered and worn down by the endless wind that roams these lands. Some sort of inscription I believe, but of course it can´t be deciphered now; fairy letters on milky mist.
I touch the cross. Run my fingers along the creases and crevasses of the dry, dead wood, and it seems to communicate with me, someone´s story pouring into me, eager to be heard.
She came here with expectations, promised a life improved. A man I assume, dazzling her with the prospect of a house, a family, a life. She must have been a daft creature to settle for that, to agree to come here to these impossible outlands in search of nothing more. And then something went wrong. An argument. A quarrel. A brutal and shocking ending. Some digging and here she lies.
But why the cross? Why bother with that kind of civilized detail? He must have had regrets, I imagine. Maybe he was seduced by their dreamed-up prospects too, maybe more than her life ended in this godforsaken grave?
And here I lie. On barren land, my hands on the cross. She had such lovely, glossy curls, all covered in sand now. I wish I´d have had one of the roses from my childhood summers to put on her grave, but they´re all long since gone. No one will rise a cross for me but hers will suffice for both of us. In a way it´s a comforting thought.
The sun is very present here, the sun and the wind, with me. Always.
On the third day I stumbled upon it, the grave I mean. It´s a sad story; simple wooden cross, once painted in cheap colour, now withered and worn down by the endless wind that roams these lands. Some sort of inscription I believe, but of course it can´t be deciphered now; fairy letters on milky mist.
I touch the cross. Run my fingers along the creases and crevasses of the dry, dead wood, and it seems to communicate with me, someone´s story pouring into me, eager to be heard.
She came here with expectations, promised a life improved. A man I assume, dazzling her with the prospect of a house, a family, a life. She must have been a daft creature to settle for that, to agree to come here to these impossible outlands in search of nothing more. And then something went wrong. An argument. A quarrel. A brutal and shocking ending. Some digging and here she lies.
But why the cross? Why bother with that kind of civilized detail? He must have had regrets, I imagine. Maybe he was seduced by their dreamed-up prospects too, maybe more than her life ended in this godforsaken grave?
And here I lie. On barren land, my hands on the cross. She had such lovely, glossy curls, all covered in sand now. I wish I´d have had one of the roses from my childhood summers to put on her grave, but they´re all long since gone. No one will rise a cross for me but hers will suffice for both of us. In a way it´s a comforting thought.
The sun is very present here, the sun and the wind, with me. Always.
fredag 9 juli 2010
Me Being Nice
Wait! Did I mention I´d wait for you?
If you wanted to find yourself first, that would be fine. I´d wait.
Dream. I´d dream of you too, I´m sure.
And I´d be prepared for your return. I´d make everything very easy for you.
Serve. You know I´d serve you, don´t you?
Lie? Sure, I´d lie for you.
Steal? Hurt? Kill for you? I believe so, yes.
Die for you?
No.
But I´d kill you. For an amount of reasons.
If you wanted to find yourself first, that would be fine. I´d wait.
Dream. I´d dream of you too, I´m sure.
And I´d be prepared for your return. I´d make everything very easy for you.
Serve. You know I´d serve you, don´t you?
Lie? Sure, I´d lie for you.
Steal? Hurt? Kill for you? I believe so, yes.
Die for you?
No.
But I´d kill you. For an amount of reasons.
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