Climbing the Eiger´s North Face. Not.

I´m so disappointed in myself. Have been for awhile now, cannot imagine why anyone would ever like to spend time with me.

Went to a party anyway. Took pink, furry pills, just to feel cute, you see. Mixed gin with wine and ended up asking everyone about their sex habits – not as popular as you would believe.

I made a big creamy cake and served it on the terrace – success! But then I sat on the vicar´s lap and it was all back to normal.

My husband says ”Let´s go home!” I ignore him. He leaves and I end up feeling confused. What do I really want? L says ”Let´s watch Croatia versus Italy!” and I´m all ”Yes!!!” (I hate football) and then I furiously cheer on Croatia and end up not knowing who won (probably Italy, right?). J makes meatballs and watch with her husband´s friends, she´s afraid to say she wants Sweden to win so she just shuts up, but is that right, I ask you?

Sometimes I think the veins on the back of my hands grow as I watch them. They´re thick as ropes now and maybe they thrive on my gaze! I want to look away, but I can´t and so they grow and grow… I imagine I can feel some kind of pressure when they want to break free from the skin and suddenly I panic and have to bang my head against the wall. But I´m all alone, no one is here with me, so it´s all in vain.

Do you think I should wear vintage Schiaparelli or something from darling Vivienne? Do you think I care? Lalalalalaaaaaa…

I got lemon trees in pots for my birthday. They died. Not because of the temperature (that I would have accepted) but because of the wind! Apparently it´s too windy here, everything pales and withers. I´m becoming rather pale, although, that´s probably because I abuse sunblock.

Stupid ugly guy upsets me. He´s so very stupid. And ugly. And his voice has a weak whispering quality, we´re talking no stomach support whatsoever, and I want to claw at his eyes every time he uses that voice. But I  wonder about the size of his cock and I despise myself.

I strip and write cool things on my chest and then I take photos of myself through the mirror. The photos turn out average so I throw myself on the floor and scream, but there´s still no one here.

My husband prefers work to spending time with me. And then he wants me to be cheerful, willing and uncomplicated. I should shout ”No!” but the fact is I want that too. Hm, maybe some more pills. Or maybe I should replace my husband with George Clooney? My live in exchange for a coffee commercial.

Zlatan, Zlatan, your hair looks appalling! We are going to lose this, I can´t say I´m surprised. I gave up the right to feel surprised a long time ago, it´s such a fresh, young feeling! And I´m used to losing. I really, truly believe all is lost (sure, try recycling, see if that helps, knock yourselves out).

Do you think I´m cute? I´ll scream if you say no.

Message from Solaria

It´s not that I can say I know for sure I´d prefer robots, it´s just that I can´t say I wouldn´t.

I was walking to the bus stop very early one morning. As I was nearing the end of the road, where I have to turn right, another woman appeared from the left. She was walking fast, clearly going to the bus stop too. I slowed down so I wouldn´t have to get awkwardly close to her and, as we continued, I ended up about ten meters behind her. That´s when I discovered I had misjudged her pace, she walked slower than I expected and I had to slow down unpleasantly much to stay far enough behind her. She really was annoyingly slow. I shortened my steps and started to worry about missing the bus. She was all dressed in black except for a bright blue cap which seemed like an odd fashion statement. By the time we reached the bus stop I was really fed up with her. None of us pretended to notice the other.

P is my favourite coffee place. Their coffee is the best and I know what I´m talking about, I´ve had coffee on three continents and I pay close attention to detail. So my favourite barista at P is E. She makes me coffee every week and we smile and make small talk. She is the daughter of my childhood best friend, she knows this and so do I. None of us has ever mentioned it.

There are times when I might tell people a little bit more about myself and let them in. Afterwards I usually feel like I have a bad taste in my mouth -- a combination of scared and upset (light). You´ve read Asimov´s The Naked Sun, right? I think I´m becoming a Solarian.

I care. I care about you. I care about you not knowing my name. We´re estranged.

From Russia with Love

The center of this tarte is still slightly runny.

I´m not depressed, just a tad sad. Tad sad, tad sad, tadsad. And then I can´t sleep properly, Haha.

…and small pebbles are placed on her eyes. Those are annoying, they get in the way.

I miss you. I made pasta, would you have eaten it? Like, I made it from scratch, in an ideal world you would have loved it.

Okay, then. All right. Or: alright? Who knows? Not me, I´m foreign. Not Russian, though. That would have been cool (think Metro 2033).

I shoveled the porch. So heavy. Went through half of it and felt exhausted. See, if I´d have done it properly, like directly after every snowfall, it would have gone smoothly, but no, I let it sit, and now it´s all heavy and packed and shaped into symmetric flakes. The story of my life; postponing, postponing, postponing. Don´t you just love it when I repeat myself. Sort of requires U loved me from start -- hehe, u:r bad. Can I do this without vowels? Cn I? I is a vowel

My son is playing Hedwig´s Theme on the keyboard. Don´t you find it fascinating that it´s part of their context? Like all of it. They´ve never lived in a world without cell phones. Remember Neuromancer.

I can´t make the music come into my phone. That´s a really bad thing. The computer won´t recognise the phone (cell phone, obviously). So no music. Makes my walks boring. All that silence, I can imagine almost everything, but I can´t make music come alive. Music rules. I want my music back.

Am sad and tired. Tried sleep. What now, then?

I bite through the crust, I bite through your skin and it´s all so runny, such a delightful mess. I don´t think blood tastes of umami, you just made that up! If we make everything up it stops making sense! Gravity is a force of its own, you can´t make up new rules to mold it into the rest of the system, that will only move you further away from the truth. Don´t you see that? You say: there are no truths, and I agree, but making up your own truths is still not the answer, I´m sorry, but it just isn´t.

Release me now. Enjoy. Be my guest. Thank you.

I´ve killed without repercussion. It´s all about context. There really are no truths. Bend down and touch me, please.

Sex with Sixten

I´m going to try something new and tell the truth. T says I lie when faced with an audience and he´s right, but only because the audience respond to my stories and if I make them better, funnier, larger than life, I´ll get such incredible feedback and that´s obviously better than crack.

So, audience, shall we try for some truth?

Last week was an unusual one. A dance company, The Vanaver Caravan, was in town and I took some classes. Very brave of me and very much fun. Also, we went to their performance and I now pretend I´m cool woman from ancient Senegal music-family. My kids are embarrassed and so would you be if you could see my living room dance act.

I also wrote and performed a short monologue for doctors attending an education in insurance medicine. Again, very brave of me =) It´s been ages since I did something like that, but it was so much fun. I love the adrenaline rush! (And I love getting praise!)

Then I read something I liked. And I remembered why I love writing. It´s so strange that I sometimes forget. Like everyday life puts a grayness between me and my creativity and I forget what excites me. The things I´ve been writing lately have been too practical, I think, like that monologue. The freedom in writing escapes me. But maybe that happens when I don´t have enough time to devote to writing, I don´t know. I will have to find time and balance between the hard work that writing also is and the lust that makes me want to do it.

T enthusiastically phoned me from the supermarket telling me that he´d tasted horse meat and it was brilliant, so was it alright if he bought some? I really think we have to be able to eat all sorts of stuff in order to save the planet so I said ”yes, of course,” thinking horse couldn´t be that bad (meat is meat ismeatisnutrition).

He cooked the horse beef and I ate some, objectively agreeing it was good, but my mind screamed nooooo! And I felt sick and why am I like this? I´m killing Earth! Yes, you can blame me! Rational people will eat rats and cockroaches.

I´ve moved into the subway system that snakes under my house and the creatures living here are something else, I tell you. Björn, the pale radio guy broadcasts at secret frequencies and if you tune in next Thursday you´ll get a delicious recipe on horse and baked root vegetables. The kids down here hare off in all directions at the sound of my laughter, I think it must be a forgotten human expression, but they´ll be back in a second if I sing. I´m digging a hole. I might have lost heaven, but I won´t give up on valleys! I´m thinking I can probably manage an ocean given enough time. Oh, that and water -- I also need to find water. Woodlice sometimes come to help me. Gigantic ones that scared me initially, but do you know, they´re the friendliest creatures I´ve ever come across; so gentle and interested. ”Why hole?” one of them said and when I explained they just started to dig =) Sixten, the one whose carapace has a certain shimmer to it, comes everyday and stays when the others have left. I think he´s into me. Will I invite Sixten to share some fermented potato soda in my tent tonight? I think so. And if I let go of my fading flashlight and he crawls over me in this stale darkness that has become my world then so be it, stranger things have happened.

Oh, well. Small steps, friends, small steps.

Effusion

Sometimes I feel I´m too sensitive. That sounds like absolute rubbish, but hear me out: it´s like my skin is a membrane too leachy for this kind of reality.

I let anything through, I let anything in. And I can´t defend myself. Intrusion is expected and I´m eternally caught by the fragility of mankind.

If you want tears, I´m your girl!

I try to practise writing, but I´m sad to say it will only take me so far. I. Will. Do. It. On. Lust. On inspiration. Because I love. IloveIloveilove. And that´s it.

Sappy.

I know.

I´m not

sorry

anymore =)

iloveyouforsharingthiswithme

Please meet my girl Laleh

Two Short Stories

The first one is for Erin Cole´s Of the Night Contest:

Predator Instinct

Maybe there´s a ton of fun in this, watching this; women writhing shamelessly, naked and displayed on stage, their oily skin glistening in salmon filtered light.

Maybe.

All the men seem to think so. They´re all raw cheering and heavy eyelids. Strangely focused through the beer-haze.

Alexia brings another round and tries to ignore them, their looks and insistent hands. She waltzes effortlessly through the crowd, that´s the trick; never stop, never hesitate.

Her concentration slips when midnight is long since gone and her feet are bleeding tales of pain. She´s in the bathroom trying cold water on the blisters when he enters. Too fast. Too determined.

He´s fat, drunk and in one of those checked flannel shirts that smells of sweat and dust and predator instinct. She grabs his ear and tries to rip it off, but that only seems to fuel him and her tights are torn and he´s pounding, pounding. Her forehead hits the mirror repeatedly and she feels that, only that, and then he´s gone and she´s on the floor, her teeth clattering in a way that could have been funny in another time and place.

She disciplines herself and exits.

The next round she brings is on the house. And the next one after that. The men cheer. He´s still there and there´s a shadow of uncertainty in his stupid, wasted eyes, but she gets Vodka and then there´s nothing more than intoxication.

Come dawn they´re all too drunk and sleepy, they want to leave.

So she locks the door, undresses and climbs onto the pathetically filthy stage. Does her waltz around a pole now. And they forget about sleep, excited gleams in their eyes as they watch her, respond to her.

They drink Vodka from her Cinderella shoes and she offers her breasts for touching, licking.

When they pass out she drenches the old wooden floor in spare gas she finds in their trunks. It´s more difficult to set on fire than she would have thought, but she´s persistent.

She leaves in that checked flannel shirt, a strange trophy, high on predator instinct.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

The second one is my winning entry =) from last week´s Lily´s Friday Prediction:

A Profound Mistake

”We are grateful,” said the Japanese empress, three years old, and returned to her tea.

The interpreter nodded, uncertain.

”You do realise, you can´t own it, the Stonehenge, I mean,” said the Dealer.

The slant of a smile as she accepted her third cup.

”You´ve already given it to me!”

The Dealer exchanged looks with the interpreter, a pasty man draped in too bright red.

She laughed, a chilling sound, betraying her immortality.

”It´s already been placed in my garden. It fits perfectly.”

The Dealer paled as he realised his mistake; ancient magic should never be revealed to a vampire.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Happy Halloween, everyone =)

Pop! Goes the Weasel.

Don´t ask me to define freedom, it´s such a spectacularly grand concept, just realise we don´t want to be tyrannised like the Europeans.

Here´s how this would work: in real life, I would never introduce you to my sister because you might like her more than you like me and that would not be my preferred cuppa.

I watch a documentary about the Egyptian pharaoh Achnaton and there are these reliefs that show his belly, I think it looks rather like my own. Halfway through they present a theory stating that he might have been disfigured based on those reliefs and ain´t that just peachy.

Angst! But I buy new towels -- petroleum blue ones, so pretty, so pretty, with hems in complementary colours. Only they shed copious amounts of fuzz. Petroleum blue fuzz. On the floor, in the bathtub, on me, on my contact lenses. I now vacuum twice a day. I fucking hate it. Petroleum blue hate it.

You and I need so much therapy. It´s not only the way we both obsessively pretend we´re someone else, with different careers and different prospects, while our normal lives carry on as usual. It´s the mood swings, the borderline hysteria, the mental pain that we can´t learn to defend ourselves against. I brush my teeth and I put the head of the toothbrush on my right tonsil and I press hard and white lumps come out of it and land on my tongue and I gag as I scrape them out. I then rinse my toothbrush with chlorine.

Flaming Swords Ahead:

Wha´d´ya mean ”you´re back?”

What´s with your voice? All that breathlessness carrying strangely in the air -- kinda creepy, actually.

And you look like hell, sort of like a pale sponge drifting in and out of sight.

Stop sighing! And stop slapping your forehead like an effing drama queen!

Wha´d´ya want?

No! We´ve been over this; we don´t do ghosts, we do angels. And them downstairs do devil stuff.

No one does ghosts. Ghosts. Do. Not. Exist.

Now go dissolve yourself. Don´t let me catch you here again!



And maybe there´s nothing about me that you fancy, nothing at all. I look at you; your confident laughter is what saves my mornings and your ass in those jeans brings me off before ten a m and the way you run your hand through your hair makes me despair. You´re so young and where does that leave me? I can´t live like this and you compliment me on my experience, my knowledge! You want me to teach you and I want you to touch me.

I menstruate but I put one of my new towels on the floor and I lay down and imagine a Nazi clinic with blond psychopathes impregnating Norwegian women and I come fast and hard.

Never mind me, I like to randomly click on links.