It´s Three Word Wednesday. The words: advance, pander, shuffle.
Climbing the Ladder
There wasn´t enough alcohol on the table, he thought. He gulped down his latest drink and motioned for another one.
She was dancing. Floating gracefully across the dancefloor in the arms of Rex Higgins, a Navy Officer whose uniform went well together with her sleek Ginger Rogers look.
Higgins escorted her back to the table afterwards. She laughed breathlessly and fanned herself with a menu. She always looked her best a little flustered, it made her seem less intimidating.
”Rusty, honey, having fun?” She put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it affectionately.
He took a sip of his new drink.
”I´m having a blast, Eve,” he replied glumly. He was never any good at playing this game; never carefree, gay, manipulative, like her.
She shrugged and turned away. Went off with her Marine, out to ”get some air”, he supposed.
There was still not enough alcohol on the table when she returned, but he was working on it.
She slumped down next to him, still elegant, but her eyes looked haunted. She took one of the roses from the centerpiece and started ripping off its petals. Rip, rip, rip; the sound seemed unnaturally loud.
”Having fun, Eve?” he said mockingly.
”Getting drunk, Rusty?” came the swift reply. Beneath the glamour she was furious.
”Really, Rusty, you agreed to this!” she continued. ”I don´t see how we can get anywhere, advance at all, if we´re not willing to work for it!”
”I never said I wouldn´t work!” His own anger surprised him. ”I´ll work as hard as anyone, you know that! Just say the word and I´ll go down to Bill tomorrow and ask him for a job. I´m sure we could make a decent living…”
She shuffled the petals from one hand to the other.
”Except decent´s not enough, is it?” He suddenly felt very tired.
"You never listen to me. You have no respect for my opinion!” She sounded like a spoilt child and he couldn´t take it anymore.
”Respect, Eve? I´m no more than a pander and you´re nothing but a …”
She cut him off.
”Stop it, Rusty! I´m leaving!” She stood and collected her things, two ugly red spots on those perfect porcelain cheeks.
She turned to look at him.
”I´m not coming back, you know. Frankly, I think we have different ambitions in life. I´m sure neither of us would want to stand in the other one´s way.”
Rusty watched her leave, her head held high. Despite all, he really wished her well.
On the dancefloor Navy Officer Rex Higgins laughed with another beauty in his arms, pressed against him as they slowly moved to the music.
onsdag 24 november 2010
lördag 6 november 2010
On Trunk Strength and Other Issues
I copy your writing from some site and I translate it. Fast. Without thinking. And it gives me a hard-on, the fact that I´m able to do it. Without thinking. Heee…
I get rejected again. But this time, the person signing my rejection letter is one of my favourite authors, a woman so unbelievable good at interpreting humankind and putting her thoughts into words you wouldn´t believe it. And when rejected by her, I´m hard again. Instantly.
If you were here what would you do? Dance with me? The naprapath says I have to improve my gait, he wants me to walk regally. But his hands are sweaty and he sucks at small talk. He´d be better off piercing butterflies. Seriously. This is not just me being mean.
I drink wine and I give blow jobs. Would you like one? I wouldn´t mind and you wouldn´t have to feel bad, I´m not a damaged person. In fact, I´m surrealistically undamaged, I grew up as one of the children in ”The Children of Noisy Village”. So when I say I´m game, I´m game, no strings attached. Liberating, huh?
”Can I go play with E.?” the son says. It´s eleven in the morning and I say yes. ”I want to go play with O.” says the daughter and disappears. And so they´re both at the neighbour´s. I make lunch for the girls in a basket and they eat outdoors in the frosty woods and I think it´s a good childhood. Really good. At five in the afternoon I make pizza, but the son comes hurrying home, he´s going to see a movie and can he get some money and no, he´s already eaten. The daughter comes a bit later, she´s in makeup and glittery stickers and can she go too? Pretty, please! She skips away with a slice of pizza in her hand. I put her favourite cheese on it.
This leaves me and my husband. I dress in black lace, leather and pretty stockings and, you know.
Good thing, neighbours.
I´m sorry about the melting permafrost. I really didn´t intend for it to happen so fast.
I get rejected again. But this time, the person signing my rejection letter is one of my favourite authors, a woman so unbelievable good at interpreting humankind and putting her thoughts into words you wouldn´t believe it. And when rejected by her, I´m hard again. Instantly.
If you were here what would you do? Dance with me? The naprapath says I have to improve my gait, he wants me to walk regally. But his hands are sweaty and he sucks at small talk. He´d be better off piercing butterflies. Seriously. This is not just me being mean.
I drink wine and I give blow jobs. Would you like one? I wouldn´t mind and you wouldn´t have to feel bad, I´m not a damaged person. In fact, I´m surrealistically undamaged, I grew up as one of the children in ”The Children of Noisy Village”. So when I say I´m game, I´m game, no strings attached. Liberating, huh?
”Can I go play with E.?” the son says. It´s eleven in the morning and I say yes. ”I want to go play with O.” says the daughter and disappears. And so they´re both at the neighbour´s. I make lunch for the girls in a basket and they eat outdoors in the frosty woods and I think it´s a good childhood. Really good. At five in the afternoon I make pizza, but the son comes hurrying home, he´s going to see a movie and can he get some money and no, he´s already eaten. The daughter comes a bit later, she´s in makeup and glittery stickers and can she go too? Pretty, please! She skips away with a slice of pizza in her hand. I put her favourite cheese on it.
This leaves me and my husband. I dress in black lace, leather and pretty stockings and, you know.
Good thing, neighbours.
I´m sorry about the melting permafrost. I really didn´t intend for it to happen so fast.
måndag 1 november 2010
...and introducing Ingrid as "The Dad".
Shut the fuck up about my diary! It´s. My. Diary. I write it and I say anything goes.
I´m a gay man with a gay lover and it´s the first time I´m at his place. He shows me the kitchen. The dining area -- he´s got a diiining aaarea! The living room. And then, when my mouth´s all dry: the bedroom. ”And here´s the hobby room,” he says as we enter and his bed is a homemade composition of aluminum pipes dressed in black leather. ”The stuff scenographers use on stage,” he says, ”it´ll carry anything.” And I love him even more when he shows me the swing he´s made from seatbelts. The guy´s a stellar handyman and he´s got this ability to never lose focus on what´s important in life. I spend the rest of my days naked in that swing between four aluminum posters, and do you know; that´s all it takes to make a man happy.
A cake. It´s my birthday and I want a cake. ”Let´s get one with orange marzipan and a chocolate spider,” says the daughter. ”We always have one of those.” No, I think not. This is the first time in ten years that I get to celebrate something resembling a grown-up birthday because the son, with whom I share my birthday, has already had his party so I´m not reduced to witch-mom-who-live-only-to-serve-big-bunch-of-Halloween-dressed-kids-who-crave-scary-food-and-clever-treasure-hunts. I want a cake that thinks it´s royalty. I want fancy dark chocolate, sculpted cream and meringue with perfect texture. And I want to be Marie Antoinette when I let it melt in my mouth.
This and phone calls. Search your minds; have you phoned me today to sing and cheer and say you love me and are in awe over my brilliant existence?
My grandson is named after the greatest Swedish director of all times and he´s painfully cute. He gives me a necklace that he´s made himself from an old spoon and I immediately take off my favourite one, the El Día de los Muertos–one with the dancing skeletons, and put his on and I feel blessed. Truly blessed.
I´m rich. So frekkin´ loaded you wouldn´t believe it. In the mornings I take out my favourite horse and go for a ride, I only ride Icelandic horses, that´s how eccentric I am, and her name is Stjarna which means star. We go up the mountain hills and down, the dogs running happily around us, shitting all over – oh, the smell of healthy metabolic systems! I´ve paid someone to train my horses to pick mushrooms for me, so every night I come back with loads of yellow gold; chanterelles that go into a stew suitable for kings and gods. I eat it and I chew and I laugh, chew and laugh, ch nd ugh
Okay! Let´s finish this off with a poll:
I´m heavily sedated/bored/equipped.
Your guess is better than mine.
I´m a gay man with a gay lover and it´s the first time I´m at his place. He shows me the kitchen. The dining area -- he´s got a diiining aaarea! The living room. And then, when my mouth´s all dry: the bedroom. ”And here´s the hobby room,” he says as we enter and his bed is a homemade composition of aluminum pipes dressed in black leather. ”The stuff scenographers use on stage,” he says, ”it´ll carry anything.” And I love him even more when he shows me the swing he´s made from seatbelts. The guy´s a stellar handyman and he´s got this ability to never lose focus on what´s important in life. I spend the rest of my days naked in that swing between four aluminum posters, and do you know; that´s all it takes to make a man happy.
A cake. It´s my birthday and I want a cake. ”Let´s get one with orange marzipan and a chocolate spider,” says the daughter. ”We always have one of those.” No, I think not. This is the first time in ten years that I get to celebrate something resembling a grown-up birthday because the son, with whom I share my birthday, has already had his party so I´m not reduced to witch-mom-who-live-only-to-serve-big-bunch-of-Halloween-dressed-kids-who-crave-scary-food-and-clever-treasure-hunts. I want a cake that thinks it´s royalty. I want fancy dark chocolate, sculpted cream and meringue with perfect texture. And I want to be Marie Antoinette when I let it melt in my mouth.
This and phone calls. Search your minds; have you phoned me today to sing and cheer and say you love me and are in awe over my brilliant existence?
My grandson is named after the greatest Swedish director of all times and he´s painfully cute. He gives me a necklace that he´s made himself from an old spoon and I immediately take off my favourite one, the El Día de los Muertos–one with the dancing skeletons, and put his on and I feel blessed. Truly blessed.
I´m rich. So frekkin´ loaded you wouldn´t believe it. In the mornings I take out my favourite horse and go for a ride, I only ride Icelandic horses, that´s how eccentric I am, and her name is Stjarna which means star. We go up the mountain hills and down, the dogs running happily around us, shitting all over – oh, the smell of healthy metabolic systems! I´ve paid someone to train my horses to pick mushrooms for me, so every night I come back with loads of yellow gold; chanterelles that go into a stew suitable for kings and gods. I eat it and I chew and I laugh, chew and laugh, ch nd ugh
Okay! Let´s finish this off with a poll:
I´m heavily sedated/bored/equipped.
Your guess is better than mine.
fredag 29 oktober 2010
How I usually get through the day
I read someone´s blog and when I closed it the last word I saw was ”stroke”, then I had to re-open it and read another one because otherwise I might have a stroke. The new last word was ”bagel”. I hope I get one.
The man I live with brought home a massage armchair. It´s gigantic and in fake leather and I hate it and I said ”Why´d you take that thing home, you promised me no more fuckin´leather!” and he said ”It was only 60 bucks!” and I´m like ”What?” and he´s like: ”It´s broken.” Me again: ”What?” Now it´s in my living room laughing its immobile ass off, and I have to find a way to kill it.
I pour my favorite detergent on a rag and I inhale deeply and that´s how I get through the day.
You know you´re heterosexual when even stupid ugly guy that you really despise makes you think about sex. You wonder what his cock looks like and if it would stretch you and if his ugliness would somehow be an advantage during sex like some sort of exotic addition to spice things up. And then you have to focus on work and you´re all like ”What´s wrong with me?”
Well, maybe you´re ovulating?
I can´t be bothered to wrap gifts so I take aluminium foil and sort of squeeze it around the presents and if it breaks I cover the hole with some more foil and tell myself it´s artsy. I go into the bathroom and take the towels down to wash them and the acoustics is profoundly changed. I stay in there for half an hour trying it out. But I can´t be bothered to wrap gifts and I put the towels somewhere and I´m pretty sure it wasn´t in the washer.
I put two eggs in a bowl to make an omelette and I log onto my computer and write something and when I come back it´s dark and the eggs have dried and have a kind of jellied surface and I find it fascinating but maybe not edible and this may be the reason why I´m thin.
I should not be left unattended. The dog knows this and the children and even the baby with his I´ve-seen-it-all look and his greedy little mouth. I let myself go when they´re all asleep and as I drift off into space I look back on Earth wishing I´d have been compatible with it. I kick myself out of orbit taking nothing with me, except for that sweet-smelling rag.
The man I live with brought home a massage armchair. It´s gigantic and in fake leather and I hate it and I said ”Why´d you take that thing home, you promised me no more fuckin´leather!” and he said ”It was only 60 bucks!” and I´m like ”What?” and he´s like: ”It´s broken.” Me again: ”What?” Now it´s in my living room laughing its immobile ass off, and I have to find a way to kill it.
I pour my favorite detergent on a rag and I inhale deeply and that´s how I get through the day.
You know you´re heterosexual when even stupid ugly guy that you really despise makes you think about sex. You wonder what his cock looks like and if it would stretch you and if his ugliness would somehow be an advantage during sex like some sort of exotic addition to spice things up. And then you have to focus on work and you´re all like ”What´s wrong with me?”
Well, maybe you´re ovulating?
I can´t be bothered to wrap gifts so I take aluminium foil and sort of squeeze it around the presents and if it breaks I cover the hole with some more foil and tell myself it´s artsy. I go into the bathroom and take the towels down to wash them and the acoustics is profoundly changed. I stay in there for half an hour trying it out. But I can´t be bothered to wrap gifts and I put the towels somewhere and I´m pretty sure it wasn´t in the washer.
I put two eggs in a bowl to make an omelette and I log onto my computer and write something and when I come back it´s dark and the eggs have dried and have a kind of jellied surface and I find it fascinating but maybe not edible and this may be the reason why I´m thin.
I should not be left unattended. The dog knows this and the children and even the baby with his I´ve-seen-it-all look and his greedy little mouth. I let myself go when they´re all asleep and as I drift off into space I look back on Earth wishing I´d have been compatible with it. I kick myself out of orbit taking nothing with me, except for that sweet-smelling rag.
onsdag 20 oktober 2010
The Story of Someone´s Aunt
It´s Three Word Wednesday. The words: effect, immense, shimmer.
The Story of Someone´s Aunt
”I´ll kill you,” he said. One time, ten times, a hundred times. Over time it lost the desired effect; she no longer believed him.
She cleaned the house and then went to her lover. She worked and then went to her lover. She said she´d come to the cottage, but she didn´t, she booked a trip to Greece for her and their daughter. When she came home she made dinner and then went to her lover.
She assumed he stopped caring, at least he stopped commenting, he actually stopped talking altogether.
He got a new job and she was glad; maybe now he´d move on and she´d be able to divorce him without too much fuss. But one night he took out his rifle to clean it and the look in his eyes told her there´d be fuss.
Their daughter moved south, met a man and started a life of her own. And nothing changed. ”I´ll kill you,” he said. Sometimes she believed him, sometimes not.
In September she was diagnosed with cancer. Their daughter came home and cried, it seemed like an appropriate reaction.
Chemo makes one´s hair fall off. She preferred scarves to a wig.
In December, December 6 in fact, he went to a Christmas party. He came home drunk and hung himself in the downstairs closet.
When she came down the next morning, she wanted her shoes to go get the newspaper. But he had brought them with him, into the closet, so that she would have to come into the closet to get them. So that she would have to see him, all on her own. It struck her then, how much he must have hated her.
They buried him on December 22, they wanted it done before Christmas. Fresh snow had fallen and there was an almost virginal shimmer over the landscape as they followed the coffin out of the church. Their daughter cried. She wanted a large grave stone, due to guilt, maybe.
The lover was supportive through radiation and chemo, but he didn´t leave his wife.
Two years later their daughter had a daughter and they baptized the child in that same church. It was a joyous day and it finally pained her; their immense lack of sorrow.
That evening she called her lover and said: ”No. No more. Never again.”
The Story of Someone´s Aunt
”I´ll kill you,” he said. One time, ten times, a hundred times. Over time it lost the desired effect; she no longer believed him.
She cleaned the house and then went to her lover. She worked and then went to her lover. She said she´d come to the cottage, but she didn´t, she booked a trip to Greece for her and their daughter. When she came home she made dinner and then went to her lover.
She assumed he stopped caring, at least he stopped commenting, he actually stopped talking altogether.
He got a new job and she was glad; maybe now he´d move on and she´d be able to divorce him without too much fuss. But one night he took out his rifle to clean it and the look in his eyes told her there´d be fuss.
Their daughter moved south, met a man and started a life of her own. And nothing changed. ”I´ll kill you,” he said. Sometimes she believed him, sometimes not.
In September she was diagnosed with cancer. Their daughter came home and cried, it seemed like an appropriate reaction.
Chemo makes one´s hair fall off. She preferred scarves to a wig.
In December, December 6 in fact, he went to a Christmas party. He came home drunk and hung himself in the downstairs closet.
When she came down the next morning, she wanted her shoes to go get the newspaper. But he had brought them with him, into the closet, so that she would have to come into the closet to get them. So that she would have to see him, all on her own. It struck her then, how much he must have hated her.
They buried him on December 22, they wanted it done before Christmas. Fresh snow had fallen and there was an almost virginal shimmer over the landscape as they followed the coffin out of the church. Their daughter cried. She wanted a large grave stone, due to guilt, maybe.
The lover was supportive through radiation and chemo, but he didn´t leave his wife.
Two years later their daughter had a daughter and they baptized the child in that same church. It was a joyous day and it finally pained her; their immense lack of sorrow.
That evening she called her lover and said: ”No. No more. Never again.”
lördag 18 september 2010
Visitors
Me? I´m stuck in Insectopia.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Visitors
I see
a ship in space
-- trembling, wobbling,
frail as an autumn leaf.
And out fall
a thousand green and silvery dragon flies.
Hungry!
Who comes first?
Closer, closer…
They feed on
me.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Visitors
I see
a ship in space
-- trembling, wobbling,
frail as an autumn leaf.
And out fall
a thousand green and silvery dragon flies.
Hungry!
Who comes first?
Closer, closer…
They feed on
me.
torsdag 9 september 2010
Prospects
It´s Three Word Wednesday. The words: charm, robust, feast.
Prospects
”She´s strong, this ol´ gal,” he patted the iron cylinder lovingly. ”Robust constitution. Russian originally, they don´t make ´em like this anymore.” He wiped his hands on a checked towel and went on with his tools, adjusting stuff, humming cheerfully.
The boy wasn´t impressed. It was the middle of the night and he shivered in his worn cotton shirt, his skin sickly pale. The air was dense, smelling richly of rotting vegetation, flowers and moss. Its dampness condensed on everything. He really, really didn´t want to die in these Southern woods.
The old man continued, hopefully mending his crazy flying machine, and the boy slept, exhausted.
Dawn came, red and weary, an ancient sun heaving itself over the edge of the horizon.
The boy woke up, covered in sweat, hot with fever. Ants crawled over him and midges feasted on him. No strength to move and nowhere to go, he thought nonsensically. Too weak to manage hysteria he surrendered to the vermin of land and sky. Everything crawling, flying, buzzing seemed to recognize the scent of his warm skin. He was reduced to a stash of food, existing only to provide those who fed on living blood.
He began to understand the deeper meaning of dying in woodlands like these. He would cease to function, yes, but in some ways he would be more alive than ever. Flies and beatles would lay their eggs in his still warm body, and those who live on putrefying flesh and juices would come to enthusiastically drive their haustella through his decomposing skin. Trees would stretch their roots, enter him from underneath, penetrate his intestines, wind around his bones and crush his heart, drinking what was left of him. And finally he´d be soil, nurturing future growths. Such a loathsome prospect; to merge with these woods, to become one with the source of this sweet smell of rot.
”You hangin´ in there?” The old man loomed above him, a defined solidness against the ruthless sunlight.
”Here, have some water,” he said, lifting the boy´s upper body and forcing a bottleneck between his lips. The water was warm and tasted of sewage, but he gulped it down nevertheless.
”Well, I´m done, she works like a charm. I think we´re ready to take off,” he continued.
The boy, in his feverish haze, managed to marvel at the old man´s easy happiness, his light tone of voice and the brightness in his eyes. Such an absolute confidence in himself and the future. His kind will save this world, the boy thought as strong arms enveloped him, lifted him from the hungry grounds and carried him away from the cursed light into their last fragment of civilization.
Prospects
”She´s strong, this ol´ gal,” he patted the iron cylinder lovingly. ”Robust constitution. Russian originally, they don´t make ´em like this anymore.” He wiped his hands on a checked towel and went on with his tools, adjusting stuff, humming cheerfully.
The boy wasn´t impressed. It was the middle of the night and he shivered in his worn cotton shirt, his skin sickly pale. The air was dense, smelling richly of rotting vegetation, flowers and moss. Its dampness condensed on everything. He really, really didn´t want to die in these Southern woods.
The old man continued, hopefully mending his crazy flying machine, and the boy slept, exhausted.
Dawn came, red and weary, an ancient sun heaving itself over the edge of the horizon.
The boy woke up, covered in sweat, hot with fever. Ants crawled over him and midges feasted on him. No strength to move and nowhere to go, he thought nonsensically. Too weak to manage hysteria he surrendered to the vermin of land and sky. Everything crawling, flying, buzzing seemed to recognize the scent of his warm skin. He was reduced to a stash of food, existing only to provide those who fed on living blood.
He began to understand the deeper meaning of dying in woodlands like these. He would cease to function, yes, but in some ways he would be more alive than ever. Flies and beatles would lay their eggs in his still warm body, and those who live on putrefying flesh and juices would come to enthusiastically drive their haustella through his decomposing skin. Trees would stretch their roots, enter him from underneath, penetrate his intestines, wind around his bones and crush his heart, drinking what was left of him. And finally he´d be soil, nurturing future growths. Such a loathsome prospect; to merge with these woods, to become one with the source of this sweet smell of rot.
”You hangin´ in there?” The old man loomed above him, a defined solidness against the ruthless sunlight.
”Here, have some water,” he said, lifting the boy´s upper body and forcing a bottleneck between his lips. The water was warm and tasted of sewage, but he gulped it down nevertheless.
”Well, I´m done, she works like a charm. I think we´re ready to take off,” he continued.
The boy, in his feverish haze, managed to marvel at the old man´s easy happiness, his light tone of voice and the brightness in his eyes. Such an absolute confidence in himself and the future. His kind will save this world, the boy thought as strong arms enveloped him, lifted him from the hungry grounds and carried him away from the cursed light into their last fragment of civilization.
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