Mass Effect 3

Allow me, pretty please, to change the subject:

K pees blood. It has happened three times during the last two weeks and it´s not a urinary infection. Two likely scenarios: it´s cancer in the unirary bladder, it´s cancer in the kidneys.

Would you like to learn those words in Swedish?

Cancer in the uninary bladder – cancer i urinblåsan.

Cancer in the kidneys – njurcancer.

BTW, if it´s really cancer, I might kill myself. I hate cancer.

K is a nice guy. No really, he´s one of the best. I strive to be kind. For me, it´s a learning process, for K, it comes naturally. You would love him, because he would love you -- he´s the best.

Oh please dear god, ohpleasedeargod, pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease

I will drink wine and have sex. If there´s another way, I haven´t heard of it =(

Another thing: apparently I sit on the second largest uranium deposit in the world. Well, not me personally, but my people. I don´t know if I´ve told you, but we´re all about mountains and forests and untouched lakes. It´s all nature, nature, nature with us. But now companies from all over the world are drilling for uranium in our land and they like what they see. So top mining then?

Cancer and top mining.

Two of my least favourite things.

I could say I bet we´ll survive but HAHA! Never ever! Come see me now if you want to see me, I´ll be dead whenever from whatever.

So sex it is then.

This I made today:

Fry salmon in 1 centimetre cubes and add spinach (spinach beet? I´m confused). Then add chili and garlic and salt and black pepper and crème fraiche and lobster broth. Serve with pasta.

When you eat, avoid thoughts on cancer.

Being human is so much more than I ever imagined. Maybe I made it all up. If I were Batman and you were Alfred, you´d keep my secrets. I´m deeply uncomfortable with all of this, but have it your way. Call me if you´re interested in coitus.

I Don´t Draw Like That Anymore

Don´t give up on me just yet.

In front of this assembly and in the name of God, I swear to love you until I get bored.

To be able to leave, to be able to come and go as one pleases, that is the most important thing in life, and you can´t do it if you have a family. I would have liked children, I have to admit that, but one has to choose… We sold ourselves to the tourists at the Spanish Steps and every memory is crystal clear.

The house, as I remember it, was made of Russian larch wood. It had over-sized windows and the pine trees grew so close their branches knocked on the glass when it was windy. It was always windy. The sea was very close and it brought wind. We used to take walks on the beach before breakfast. Lack of coffee gave you a headache, but you always indulged me. I loved those walks.

You would tell me all about how you made movies down there. You´d run around explaining everything, trying to recall camera angles. I know you did, but I can´t seem to remember it properly. Nowadays I only remember Death. Your Death -- how you portrayed him -- right there on the beach. Death and seagulls.

A few days ago I walked past three basket players. They were impossibly tall. I found it arousing. Last night I dreamt of basket playing vampires. Their capes got in the way.

When you were old and I had long since left (was it you who left?) -- did you masturbate thinking of me? I thought of you. Still would, I believe, if I could remember. You had that crazy energy paired with so much intelligence and talent. How could I not be drawn to you?

I have eighteen children now, thirteen of them were born in 2008, five in 2009. I have no time to regret or remember. I fry sausage for lunch and fight to keep my nails pretty.

”Where you keep… grim?” Ana says and I show her the makeup cupboard, feeling slightly embarrassed at its state; the foundations and eye shadows have all gone old and smelly, but she doesn´t seem to notice. I love her sketches, the one she makes of my character´s dress is divine. ”I will present it to you!” she shouts happily and it only takes me a few seconds to deduct that she means to give it to me as a present.

My intern is a transsexual satanist. I kid you not, it´s true! I love my life.

Abandoned

Less than a week ago, I went to Rugen and found Prora. I adore abandoned places. I crave them. It´s appalling, I know, but the drama of it all, the history, the nostalgia, draws me in and fills me with emotion. And I indulge. Like a rich princess in a poor country: ”Qu´ils mangent de la brioche!”

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prora

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P39prep8b0M

I get the idea. A nice holiday resort for the people, that´s not such a strange concept, is it? But put it in context and it´s suddenly chilling; the Third Reich materializes before my eyes and it´s filled with happy families on holiday. Can you see the mothers sunbathing? The fathers helping the children catch shrimps? Where is the evilness in this picture, I ask you? And where am I? Who could I have been in a different context?

My father had seven aunts. So my great grandmother had eight children, her sister had none. The sister was married to a nice German man and one summer they came to visit her family. My great grandmother had so many children, so very many… Such hard work! And with the farm and all… When the sister and her husband went back to Germany they brought with them one of the many daughters. They raised her as their own.

I think she was probably blond and athletic. We tend to be like that.

Was she popular in school during the 1920´s? Did she have friends? What ideologies was taught to her?

When the war broke out she was engaged to a pilot. She was sent to her biological parents in Sweden to get away from it all. I don´t suppose she knew the language all that well. Her fiancé was shot down over the English Channel. When she got the news she committed suicide. That evening my great grandmother claimed she saw an angel.

Do you suppose we all have the ability to grow wings? Do you think that words can change the future?

The devil knocks on my door and his face is familiar. He bends to kiss me goodnight and I want to say no but it´s so much easier to go to sleep. I do so love that lullaby.

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.

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.

Blueprint

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.

I Spy with my Little Eye...

Things are slowly moving towards normality. The weather gets an outstanding, although some days it´s been sort of wearing me out with all its bright cheeriness.

I tried to get some painting done, but my husband went north of the polar circle and brought with him our only key to the garage so -- no paint access! Then I simply have to endure some more coffee and reading on the porch…

Hm, on reading and writing: I´m happy to say I seem to be able to concentrate on finishing a whole book again, I have had some problems with that recently (flash fiction has been my best friend!) and I was thinking maybe I suffer from some kind of concentration disorder (ADHD? Tourette´s?), but now I´m back on track =)

I haven´t been writing. I know I´ve had other things on my mind, but it still puts me out of balance. And I have to question myself: why do I feel the need to write? Why do I invest all this time and energy in it? What do I hope to get out of it? Sometimes I really do imagine myself being a writer, a real one, but then I don´t know if I want to be a writer for the right reasons. When I really think it through I think my main reason for wanting to write a book is to prove to myself that I can. To prove I can really do it all by myself and to prove to myself I can make interesting things happen, that I can make radical changes. But that´s not what drives me when I actually write, then I do it because it´s so much fun and because it thrills me to tweak language in a way that truthfully communicates my thoughts (or something?). Oh! Do you see the discrepancy? And meanwhile life goes on and I keep choosing to stay in my imaginary worlds instead of participating in what´s going on around me. What if writing is BAD for me???

I often can´t bring myself to talk to people about my writing. This is terrible, but I think I guard my ideas with jealousy. Like I think someone would steal them if I put them out there =( And I think I´m more this way when I don´t write that much, when I feel insecure and doubt myself and my abilities. And yet I know I´m better when I get to bounce my thoughts and ideas against other´s brains, and I believe that´s true for most people. Yet another area in which I need to improve…

And insecurity… suddenly everyone else is so much more talented and have so much more fun and accomplish so much more than me…

No! Back to the porch it is!

Trifolium Spadiceum

Found it on my lawn. Everything grows there, it´s a very liberal lawn. Put small stones in a circle around it, so my husband won´t accidently kill it.

Tread carefully. Makes one´s steps seem dancy, that, like I´m some kind of fairy or something. Am too old to be fairy. Not too old to be fair.

Flies crawl all over me. It feels nice when they crawl on my arms and legs. It´s wrong of me to think so. I hide it from people. Flies only get to crawl freely when I´m alone.

It´s an unexpected thing when someone stops eating. Please, just one more bite, you say, and then you go to McDonald´s and you order a happy meal with six chicken McNuggets in it and a small burger and three cokes – for a whole family. You make him eat two of those nuggets and you only drink a coke, but you tell yourself it´s just because it´s so bloody hot right now, has nothing to do with worry, no.

Midsomer Murders on the telly and you can´t concentrate. I can´t concentrate? We?

That man with dark hair seems really nice. A tremendous crush on him seems appropriate. Will he smile if I ask him to? Will he eat?

That and also: tell me all will be fine.

Lost in Space

I just realised I feel utterly lost. For no reason at all. I suppose it´s just another one of my luxury problems. Things Being Wrong With My Brain while I´m perfectly warm/fed/loved. I despise myself. I´m so afraid someone (mum, dad or T) will die. If something happens to Th or M I´ll bleed. For real. I´ll use a knife. I try to sleep but my thoughts won´t leave me alone. Why is this? For what reason? What´s the purpose? What´s the architecture of my brain? We already know languages come fairly easy to me, as do math and other intellectual subjects. But I´m utterly incapable of keeping myself sane. Maybe that makes me disposable. Yes, I think so. But that´s just another one of my pretentious attitudes because I would fight for my life, my right to life, until the ugly end. Obviously I would kill to live.

I watered the hedge and I thought about my reasons. I want attention and I want people to think I´m good at what I´m doing. I checked out the homepage of the university founded in 1477 and the stuff I´m seriously interested in (neuroscience seen in an educational/didactical perspective) is not available to me on the level that I want. Shit. Shit. Shit. I totally should have gone for a Ph D back in the days.

I fought with my son and it´s not his fault he´s as stubborn as I am.

I. Know. What´s. Right. Why can´t I use it on myself?

Quick is pretty so I tone my muscles (define in my language) with tuna and rice only. No salt. I run Stockholm marathon in under four hours and that´s good but it´s not enough for me. I paint my house and I write the novel of my generation and my kids are perfect. But still. I miss. I´m afraid. I despise and I loathe. And it wasn´t supposed to be like this. Maybe if I adopt a too-old child from some eastern country? You think? Yes? Giving birth is spectacular. You should try it. It keeps your mind occupied and for once, just this once, you´re totally focused. And then it´s gone. Back to the luxury problems. Maybe I should leave for Africa. Maybe I´m the crown princess. You wouldn´t really know now, would you? Think JT Leroy.

Then T says You need sex. Just like that. I love him. He´s for real. Really. Do you know how rare that is? At least I´m able to appreciate realness. I had a goat named Kisa. You can´t pronounce it, the first sound doesn´t exist in your language. She had eyes like the devil and she craved my presence. I hope I gave enough. I know what I crave. Someone I know doesn´t. She´s really lost. She pays good money to go to expensive spas and she comes back unsatisfied. Her kind and mine will be the end of this planet. Do you believe in God? In something bigger that yourself? I tried, but I couldn´t. The second law of thermodynamics owns me and that´s it.

I do appreciate life. I know it´s spectacular beyond belief. But as I live the life of goddesses my heart beats in the chest of a fallen angel. I wanted to know everything and there was a price to pay, and yet I could never turn my back on knowledge. Love and knowledge. So why not happiness? Too greedy? Okay, maybe.

Will you stay? I don´t blame you if you don´t. If anything I´ve learned to let go. You do your best from your point of view and I do my. It won´t be enough but I would NEVER blame you. At least this. I hope something bigger than me will show up.

I sat in the shower with my small breasts and one of them were twice as big as the baby´s head and I cried and said You´ll have to go to the hospital and bring me one of those babies born too early because this has gotten out of control and I thought of Sarah in the Bible and when I stood in front of the bathroom mirror milk spurted uncontrollably and stained the glass and I was so unprepared for the more physical aspects of life. Have you seen a dead person?

I´m also lazy. Know this. I feel I have a right to be entertained. If (if at all) I check this for spelling and grammar it´ll be because I´m proud, I suffer from hubris and I want you to think I´m good at English. But prolly I´ll be too lazy. Try to sleep now. No one´s here. There´s nowhere to go but space. Space is a dry and lonely place. I´ve seen worse.

Abra tes ojos!

Cierra sus ojos la última surrealista. Leonora Carrington had 94 years of exploration, so I won´t be sad, but she took a strange and beautiful universe with her.

My time is being consumed, but my mind is in love with shades of gray. Because of that, watch this:

Woodkid Iron

I Always Travel In Odd Numbers

Hello, come in! We´re on The Space World!

(why do they re-invent the use of prepositions?)

(can space be spun by yarn??)

Press ”bird” then!

The concept of collective consciousness have grown immensely in my universe since 1996. I now see my strings intricately entwined with yours all over the planet, and obviously, continuing into space. I find your art, so stunning, and it saves me and I want to thank you but how? How?

What I´m looking for I know. I rarely find it. I´m beginning to think I´m old enough to create it myself. Why? Aha! This is what I´ve discovered, this is what I know; if someone creates something new it will appeal to other kindred spirits and then some of them will start their own projects, being inspired by the first one but taking it further and then the first creator will get what she wanted and more! SEE THE CUNNINGNESS OF THIS PLAN! Can´t do it by myself though, creative minds collaborating rules! I know this. I´ve investigated these matters for decades.

Sometimes she likes to stress her ”bodily being”, OD on caffeine and nicotine so that her head hurts and her stomach gets upset. It reminds her, you see, of her place in this universe. It´s something concrete, substantial as opposed to the electrical current that flows through her mind when it´s inspired, infected by that previously mentioned art. The electricity makes her think she´s immortal, detached from flesh and able to ride the loa as she wishes. She is too far gone for this, she is no longer fourteen and she knows the smell of her own blood.

Bombed by strange particles,
she opens her eyes, to the marvels of Jupiter dawns,
and dissolves, into stardust, again.

”Lookit! I´ve got I girly corner! It´s pink!”

SQUEEE!!!


I need you to see my point. We have this cultural TV program called Kobra and it´s kept me sane through many times/many comforting-unbearably-sad-baby-moments, since it assures me I´m not an alien (I LOVE public service TV!). Anyhow, some years ago they had this feature where two completely different kind of musicians were invited each week and given about three hours to make a song together. Here is my favourite, creative minds collaborating indeed:

Freddie and Frida

Revolution

You tattoo yourself, like you were never meant to last.

That´ll look like crap, I say, in twenty years. And you smile.

An ancient smile -- you´re not going beyond this revolution.


What would it take, you say, to make you like yourself?

Oh, I dunno -- a size zero appearance?


Is it eating you, the discrepancy between real life and your dreams?

Obsessively watching english Al-Jazeera doesn´t make you interesting.

Or interested.

Just pathetic.

Where is my revolution?

Damn, I think it´s televised.

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

Mood: 90 degree angle

Music: The Revolution Will Not Be Televised

@ This Is Where I Spend My Summers
 

Flight 69

Shit, ovulating!

sexpornsexpornsexpornsexpornsexporn

I don´t mind having a cold as long as I´m being cuffed and used.

Writing, as I´m sure you all know, can be a real bitch. For me, it´s like this: I start writing something and maybe initially it´s good. Fresh. New. Then I continue and I fiddle and I polish and it sort of dies in my hands. Like it´s only good before I´m tamed by what I´m doing, when everything´s wild and new. Conclusion: I will never be a true writer! I´m only good (goodish?) when I improvise! Leavemeleavemeleaveme! No, stay! And forgive my short-comings.


The dilemma: I did not raise you to tell lies, young lady!

The possible answers:

 This is the truth.

 I´m merely bending reality.

 I´m telling a story.


I. Will. Not. Feel. Sorry. For. Myself. I have health food house love.

This you need to hear. Please chose ”Flight 69”. F*ck Force Five Welcome to Sweden, darlings =)

Catching the Cat Bus

It´s Saturday and I´m faced with choices.

I know an animal that breaths through its back!

A whale, obviously. What about anglerfish?

They have gills.

So they don´t need to breathe?

It´s like this; it´s the oxygen we need and oxygen exists in air and water. Our lungs can extract it from air but not from water, it´s the opposite for fish.

I know. You told me.

Quit drawing on the living room table!

Do you know you mess with me when you remove stuff you´ve written from the internet? I go back and I try to find something and it´s gone. And I don´t care if you´ve evolved and moved on. That stuff meant something to someone and I´m not here to evaluate you on maturity or wit, I couldn´t care less actually -- be anyone you like, I´m here privately. And you never know what piece of information was important to me; it might have been the way you described something, your desperation or something you recommended. But now it´s gone. Well, copy stuff and keep them, you say, but I´m not that anal. Just leave things the way they are.

Ah, release it into the wind, you say, let it go! You´re right, I know, so why does change upset me? Why does loss, even the loss of some stranger´s internet thoughts, make me sad?

A man from another country moved to a small village and met someone´s schoolfriend. They had a baby boy and the man bought the village gas station and learned the language. He worked very hard, people respected him for that, came from a real working culture, someone´s dad said. He and the schoolfriend split up, but he stayed in the village, improved the gas station, built a pizza restaurant next to it, became part of the community. Eleven years later he took his son back to his home country and two of his male relatives held the boy while a third man performed a circumcision on him. Much against his will. When they came back to the village the boy caught an infection and had to be hospitalized to get well. Lots of sympathy was offered to his mother on facebook. No one shops at the gas station these days. Seriously, someone´s parents drive like 30 kilometres to get gas. The man will be out of business soon. That´s how small villages operate.

Somewhere the sport´s holiday just started. A family´s hosting a massive cold. The daughter´s lived in her pj´s for a week now and the son´s dizzy with fever, the dad´s got a sore throat and the mum´s got an eye infection. Some sport´s holiday! Although, they´re watching My Neighbour Totoro so you shouldn´t feel sorry for them.

And then she bought some new mittens, because her old ones were all worn out.

Choices. I ask myself; what would Charlie Sheen do?