torsdag 22 september 2011

Make Sense!

”A surprisingly small part of what I write is made up,” said the spider to the fly, thus confusing it into immobility. Rhetorical spiders don´t need webs.

Truths about her hair:

- she has not washed it since last April, it´s now incredibly soft, feels like cotton,

- she has not been to a hairdresser since the turn of the Millennium.

These truths might be considered shallow observations, but they could also be looked upon as more profound cultural aspects. We are after all, all of us products of a cultural context, our (yours and mine) present one declaring that hair should be washed regularly and tended to by a professional hairdresser.

The nastiest thing about being a surgical nurse is not all the ick that emerges when patients are cracked open. It´s not the blood, the puke or the stuff that happens when people die. No, the nastiest thing is when you prep a patient for surgery and you have to clean their bellybutton. No nastier filth on the planet than the stuff that hides inside people´s bellybuttons.

September in pre-school: The child is a difficult one, she´ll scream and fight for no apparent reasons, she has no language and she won´t eat. These issues can be dealt with, but she comes with a woman that presents herself as a friend of the girl´s mother, the mother is apparently studying on another continent. Upon closer examination the case proves to be a more complex one; the girl has no legal guardian and no residence permit. Social services become involved and different scenarios are discussed. In the end the woman that claims to be the mother returns and takes the child abroad. Another interruption. Another uprooting. What happens to a brain that is never allowed some rest, to a soul that is never really loved, to a human that never has a chance to truly connect with other humans? Sometimes the girl´s face seems reflected in the mirror in the playroom. Her eyes appear inscrutable.

During day, when I go about being cold, getting colder, surviving a gray rain that slowly morphs into snow, I long for you. You open your arms and let me curl up against you every night and your love seep into my core like microwaves, warming me from the inside.

söndag 11 september 2011


Words I had to look up today: culprit, wrangle, transitive. Wrangle I sort of knew, but I wanted more. Translation of transitive was not satisfactory. U have used 55,8 GB of Local Disc C. U have 1,88 GB left before THE UNIVERSE IMPLODES! Just sayin´.

Toddlers had crackers on my floors. I hate that, they crumble all over. I had to smile and pretend like I don´t give a shit because they´re all cute and I love them. Zero minutes after they left I vacuumed.

Ferns keep growing on the table (not the one I love and want; the Newton coffee table for 1538,46 $ -- yes, google it!) and spill over the edges and grow into a dinosaur forest that haunt my dreams, not because it scares me, but because I might prefer it.

I do nothing that I want. I know nothing of myself. I work and I cook and I clean and Stepford, Stepford, Stepford. What if I lose myself in here and no one comes to get me? What if no one notices I´m gone and that´s it? That was my time on Earth?

I think a lot about time these days (too) and it´s possible that the concept of (linear) time is a purely human construct. T thinks no, but I´m uncertain. We had coffee and discussed it. Result: the coffee made me feel perky. That was the complete result, nothing more came out of this action. I have begun to store my coffee in the freezer, I hate it when it tastes flat. I should really go to Barcelona.

Things I want to tell you; I miss you, I can´t spend my time online -- it consumes me, I miss the me-ness that is me.

I could draw retro prints or write a children´s book. For whom would I do this? I could go out of business on every level. And you know, I don´t know.

I crave myself. We regret to announce that Local Disc C is now full.