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?

Spring-Clean Attempts

It´s March and we need to spring-clean them brains!

Where to start? Where to start?

I could give you some advice, but as life move along I´m leaning away from that sort of behaviour as it seems to enhance the amount of guilt in people´s lives, not the amount of quality.

Recipes? You want recipes? I bought fenugreek in an enthusiastic attempt to become more apt at African cooking. So far, well, we´ll just have to see -- strange can become delicious! I have other recipes, I have written down things I actually know how to make, but ah bleh sudden loss of interest...

Writing then. Nothing I can teach you, but we can always inspire each other. Some time ago I submitted four very short stories to ”Short, Fast and Deadly”. I was fairly certain at least some of them would be accepted, but they all got rejected and I got disappointed. So. Silly. I thought I´d moved beyond that, but no. Well, I applied one of my favourite strategies on this situation: I rearranged reality to better fit my needs.

This is what I came up with: the editor, a sensitive, real artistic guy, read my work and was so taken in by my talent he found it unbearable. Therefore, he had some wine, got thoroughly pissed and when he woke up the next morning my writing was gone! Vanished! From real life and his computer. Oh, the tragedy! The poor man now roams the Earth, starved and pale, glass shoe in hand, in search of me and my awesome work -- he can´t live without any of us! This is now how I remember it, yes it is! Fixed memory!

Whaddya mean? ”What about the rejection email?” Get with the story line, people! He was drunk and completely beside himself! Jeez…

I don´t think the stories really fit anywhere else though (with that very specific S, F & D rule they can´t be more than 420 characters) so here they are. Maybe they can be of some input use to some of you:

Power Dreams
On my lampshade there´s a pattern of dragonflies. So pretty those creatures; nicely shaped and completely symmetrical. As I fall asleep they come alive and I imagine myself reaching out for their fragile bodies and picking them, one by one. I collect them into a bouquet, their shimmering wings flutter helplessly as I put them in a vase. Now wouldn´t they make a master piece on any fancy old dinner table?

Tentacle Love
He´s got a very special talent; he can grow as many arms as he likes. He´s holding me tightly against himself, my bum against his erection, and I mold myself after him as he parts my labia, pinches my nipples, fists my hair. More arms; I suck on his finger as I offer him my wrists to hold, secure, restrain. He brings me off with the talents of a god and if, in the end, he happens to strangle me, I won´t object.

Perfect
Nothing´s cleaner than the first snow. In spring, she planted marigold by the stones in his backyard. They laughed and kissed. Her tomatoes grew during summer; she served them with mozzarella and he thought maybe, just maybe. Come fall she harvested carrots, silent and angry. The frost bruised the rest, like he bruised her. She said she´d leave but he put her where she belonged -- in his pure winter garden.

Family Photos
There´s a reluctance in the way he regards the world. ”You have to accept it for what it is!” she laughs, and frames her photos. Family photos. His smile is always forced and she laughs again, condescending, when she watches it.

In the last photo he takes of her she´s lying still on the floor, a pale beauty with hair drenched in red. He thinks she finally communicates some truth. He didn´t know she had it in her.


Bim, tiddely pom, tralla la la la… Oh, you still here? Very sweet of you! Let me share one thing: there´s a woman with a music project called ”Hello Saferide”. She´s from my hometown and you might not like the music or you might get really annoyed with her for having an accent (much like my own I imagine) but if you can see beyond that, I really think she´s got some special talent when it comes to writing. And she´s serious about it, which makes her a kindred spirit and an inspiration because she actually does this for a living. And she gets it out there, even if some of it isn´t correct or perfect… Her Swedish writing is more nuanced of course, but we can´t share that so… Bla bla bla "Hello Saferide", lyrics. Check it out if you want to.

And Becky, this is for you! The first photo ever taken of me as I arrived here!

You do know I´m taking you with me when I leave, don´t you? Your talent is expected elsewhere =)

February Femmes Fatales!

I´m thrilled and honoured to be one of Lily Childs´ February Femmes Fatales! Thank you, Lily -- love goes to you for this =)

Abnormal Growths in My Plastic Mind

Don´t! No, seriously: Just. Don´t.

Ok, have you seen Ingmar Bergman´s ”Fanny and Alexander”? It´s a damn good movie but that´s not my point. There´s this character in it called Gustav Adolf Ekdahl played by Jarl Kulle, and he´s a rich, horny guy that shags maids.

So here´s a vision: a Nineteenth century house, lit up with candles and chrystal chandeliers. It´s Christmas Eve and there´s a big party going on. Everyone´s at the table; gala dresses, pretty hairdos, jewelery, lots of noise and laughter. Outside: poor people, skinny and badly dressed, in blueish light, looking in on the festivities.

And, and, and, here it comes: the centerpiece of the table is a girl, a maid, dressed up as a turkey but with a red apple in her mouth. She´s on her elbows and knees and her neither parts are bare, framed by fake turkey feathers – U get the pic. She curves her back and shows her fanny to everyone. Behind her is Gustav Adolf Ekdahl, also on his knees on the table, pants down, erection up and laughing together with his dinner guests who all seem to think this is so much fun. The he takes her. Everyone at the party´s happy. The poor people press their noses against the window glass and watch.

Is this someone´s vision? Did the someone have this vision during sex? Really? For realz?!! Why? WHYYYYY???

Happy New Drabbles!

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 =)

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.