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