Life is an article

Frost

2011-10-26T09:06:00.001+02:00

Frost had formed on the quay. Someone had scraped together a small amount of frost on the board walk ahead of me, forming a little white ball. I picked it up, thinking of how it must have been a child, longing for the first snow, shaping a would-be snowball in its little hands. As my fingers made their way around the white little creation, I noticed how it was not a would-be snowball at all. It was someone's used snot tissue.

Ponder me this

2011-09-06T06:58:00.004+02:00

Shared joy may be doubled joy,

but shared madness is definitely halved madness.

Happy endings take a bunch of effort.

The fading life

2011-09-02T06:08:00.003+02:00

He found her lying on the pier, cold and alone in the morning mist. B'Naan! He stopped in his tracked, shivered, then hurried to pick her up. Her yellow shell had gotten brown bruises in several spots and he knew that she wouldn't last long in there. He started to carefully and methodically strip her from her battered suit, and could see that the damage had not yet been collateral. He knew that this was not a moment to hesitate. There was only one thing he could do, to avoid further decomposition. He put her in his mouth.

Breadcrumbs

2011-08-13T04:39:00.005+02:00

I had been walking for hours. I almost felt like I had dedicated my life, my soul, all my waking energy, just to follow the path ahead of me. I didn't know for certain, but I might even have spent several days scrambling down that silent forest path.

It had begun with a breadcrumb. I had found it there, at the edge of the forest. At that time, I had gone hungry for at least a week, never anticipating I'd be eating anything for a long time to come. Still, there it lay. A small breadcrumb, nestled in between an odd rock - shaped like a petrified frog - and a wild fern. I picked it up, smelled it, and instinctively knew that it was part of something big. Something new. Something that - should I find its source - would feed me for years to come.

I looked around. There had to be more of them. And indeed there were. Not far ahead, a little bit further into the forest, lay another crumb, this time quite visible on an old tree stump. I quickly made my way over to it, picked it up, and put it in my pocket. There was no time to eat it now. No point in eating it now. If I kept eating one crumb at a time, I might lose focus on the larger goal ahead.

And on it went. One crumb led to the next. Sometimes they were well hidden, at other times they were out in the open. My anticipation rose with every crumb, for I truly felt that the more of these crumbs I collected, the further along the right path I would come. A strange sensation had filled me up - I felt that if I collected enough crumbs, they just might feed me for the rest of my life.

But then, all of a sudden, the pattern was broken. Just as I spotted the next crumb, a rather big one lying straight in front of me on a twig shaped like a snake, something else caught my attention. Just behind the crumb was a large neon sign. It flashed eagerly, with clear colours showing an indisputable message; "Free cookies". On one of its sides was a neon arrow, pointing towards a small table, set up clearly, there on the side of my forest trail.

I hesitated. Surely I had set out on this quest of picking up breadcrumbs with a goal. With a purpose. I had started to collect the nourishment of my life. Still, there lay a whole plate of cookies. More cookies than I could ever eat in a whole year, or two. The sure looked delicious. Maybe... Maybe if I just enjoyed those cookies for a while, that would do it for me. Maybe I wouldn't ever have to continue this never-ending quest of picking up breadcrumbs, should I decide to sit down and just bury myself in these delightful-looking sweet breads.

The temptation got the best of me. Led from my trail, I made my way over to the plate of cookies and started to eat. They were delicious. Truly, I had not realised how starved I was, until I took that first bite. Rich, soft and with a deliciously crisp exterior, these cookies were truly a piece of art. I stood there for a while, eating cookies, feeling the sun on my back and enjoying the calm of the forest. It almost felt like I could stand there forever, with this never-ending plate of perfect cookies. However, after a while, I started to feel that something was amiss.

I hadn't started this track looking for cookies. I had set out looking for breadcrumbs. The breadcrumbs of my life, that would nourish me for the rest of my days, even if this would mean that I'd have to spend my whole life collecting them. I lowered my hand, staring at the half-eaten cookie tucked in between my thumb and forefinger. It sure was a nice cookie. But I wasn't looking for cookies.

I put it back on the plate, brushing my hands on the side of my trousers. I said a quiet "thank you" to the neon sign and whatever benevolent force that had decided to lay out this marvellous plate of cookies for anyone passing by. Then I started to look around for the next breadcrumb.

At first, I couldn't find it. A strange fear started to fill me up. What if someone else had found the trail during the time I spent eating cookies? What if a stray bird had decided to pick up one of the crumbs, while I was distracted with my short-term goal of stuffing myself with sweet bread?

I almost panicked. I had acted on a shallow whim. A whim of just taking the sweetest - and perhaps the most clearly available - thing I saw, hoping that it would fill the hole in my stomach and not considering what I would do later on, should I run out of cookies or grow tired of their sweetness. I had been acting like a child.

But then I saw it. Far, behind the neon sign, in a small clearing. There lay another little crumb, warm from the sun and ready to be picked up. I almost had a sensation of the crumb silently telling me "That's right. You could have lost it all by now, but it looks like you will get away this time". But of course, that was just my imagination. As I picked it up, it was just one more of the crumbs. I could see another, further ahead. Filled with relief and gratitude of having realised what would be best for myself in the long run, I took one quick glance back at the neon sign and the pile of cookies.

The amount of cookies didn't seem to have diminished at all from when I first found it, and at the back of the sign I could now read the words: "Should you change your mind, here will be cookies".

"Thank you, but no thank you", I thought to myself. "I'm not looking for cookies. I'm looking for breadcrumbs."

A night with Mr. Berringer

2011-08-11T08:51:00.014+02:00

It was a weekend of dreams. A smog clearing away from my heart and a spark in the dark, leaving a dancing glow on my retinas that seemed to last forever. That weekend, I entered the dilemma of this life.

As it occurred, we had both found it fitting to check in some extra hours that Saturday. Not that we'd get paid for it - we never get paid for extra time - but both Mr Berringer and I loved our work and took great pride in giving as much of our time as possible to our research.

So there we sat, working out calculations, trying different approaches to our problems and pondering if there was any mass-solutions available for the many unwanted thistles that seemed to pop up up in our virtual garden. Since we both loved our work, it was not before long that afternoon had turned to evening and darkness started to fall outside our laboratory. I slowly started to feel a little hungry, and a wiff-waff of delightful aromas had already begun spreading through our work complex, from the preparations of a company party that was to take place in the same building. Freshly baked crayons (that had been thoughtfully prepared in the company's viral hatching apparatuses!), newly boiled parapamun superfish with tons of dill, and a full array of delicacies were being prepared by Mr Mahmut in an all too nearby room.

Mr Mahmut took great pride in his cooking, even though his ambitions at the company was far from being its chef. He was normally the supervisor of the accounting department, sometimes helping out with burning the ticks from our lab cats, but never was he as enthusiastic as when it came to spawning ideas for the next festive occasion that would bring the company's employees together in ridiculous rituals of wild feasting, carnal revelry and undulant merrymaking. His baked crayons, carefully wrapped in colourful bits of neoplastic papers, were especially appreciated.

It was not that Mr Berringer and I did not approve of such festivities. We just weren't invited. Nobody knew why. But as it was, Mr Berringer had thoughtfully prepared small packages of fermented selles d'escargot, for just this type of occasion. Neither of us had the mildest interest of abandoning our work - we had experienced too much success already that day - so even to consider going back to the outside world at that point seemed like a ridiculous notion. Of note here is that I had just an hour before managed to purge 58 (!) bugs in one manic stroke of stealth and well practised discipline. Both me and Mr Berringer both drank heavily of the Mem'Quan-Quan spirits, the company's cleaning fluid, to stay sharp and merry, even through seemingly hopeless odds. If it was the spirits or our endless stream of creativity that took us through that night, I swear I'll never know.

After enjoying a good meal, we both got back to work. However, we had not sat long before Mr Berringer's phone rang. He flew up to quench its annoying signal, but as it turned out, my phone started ringing as well. Mutually stupified, we both just stared at each other for a short moment, before forming a silent agreement that we both see what the outside world wanted our feeble carcasses to achieve on this darkening evening. As it was, we both were invited to parties. On one line was my sister, Ms Sarkula the third, and on Mr Berringer's phone was Mr Ehkeel, an old acquaintance of his.

Mr Ehkeel wanted us to join him and a couple of friends for drinks - they had already begun mixing up a deadly cocktail of moldy maple syrup and sunflowers - on the other side of town, while my sister was pushing hard for us to take part in a fête de relocalisation not too far from our workplace. Dizzy from our successes in the laboratory, we decided to leave our work and check out the most nearby of the festivities. We could always make it a polite visit and return to work - or get over to the other side of town, should it turn out to be a dull and filthy happening. Either way, we loaded up with a big canister of the old Quan-Quan and got on our way.

There had been a horrible storm of mixed snow, hailstones and desperate downpour earlier that afternoon, while we had rested comfortably in our work station, but now it seemed to be clearing up. Mr Berringer considered bringing his umbrella as a precaution, but he could not find it. It might have been left at the post office, where we spent the last night opening forbidden letters and drinking apple soda. In sympathy for his lack of protection, I decide not to bring my coat.

So there we went, dressed in summer clothing and with only the canister in hand, when it suddenly started pouring. The rain was so intense that we couldn't see our own hands, should we hold out them in front of us. We were soaked in seconds, and I was lucky to be able to switch of my newly acquired phone (it was the latest BioCell Xhscre'Csha and I know not what electrical havoc it might have created, had it been turned on).

Feeling macho, we decided not to run for the bus. What good would it do? We were already soaked to the bone. When at last we arrived at the bus stop, the bus - with my sister on it - had already left. Blast and damnation! Now we would have to walk all the way upp to the North Furlad, which was the district where the party was being held. It took us all of fifteen minutes to get there, but since the rain had suddenly stopped, this brought along some advantages as well; as we finally approached the grounds of the party - we had started to dry up!

I had never seen so many beautiful women in my life. The air was filled with scents, laughter and good spirits. Our host, Ms Fempah, had made a delicious beer cake, stuffed with sweet soil and baked until perfect smudginess. My sister greeted us both with warm hugs and jolly exclamations over how happy she was that we decided to come and made it through the rain alive. We quickly decided not to rush back to our laboratory.

As I was mingling through the party, meeting a whole array of Sarkula's friends, I suddenly saw something that took me completely out of the blue. The world slowly seemed to melt around me and there I was, standing on the edge of an invisible cliff and just stared at the marvel ahead of me. "That has to be the most exquisite dimple I have seen in my life", I remember thinking. And what a dimple it was. I could not control myself and suddenly I had given it a loud compliment without barely registering its owners name. When I shook her hand, I noted she had a firm grip and an intense gaze. Her name - was Em'Reeka. Jolly as I was feeling, I took note of three things in a quick succession. Her height - she was nearly as tall as I, even without high heels, and here I must admit it was an absolute raffle just to have such a beauty's eyes on the same level as mine. Second - the dimples, which just wouldn't let me settle down on earth again. Third: Her perfume. She smelled like... Magic.

I had earlier that week smelled something of similar exquisiteness, so I asked her if she might be wearing that same perfume that I had just learned by name; The young mistress of the Channel. It turned out to be wrong, and I felt a bit ashamed. But instead of letting my misstep show, I quickly leaned in, took a deep breath and gave her a compliment. Somewhere in my brain I had decided that if I ruin this moment, I shall at least enjoy it as much as possible.

I was the casanova. The Quan-Quan was surely doing its part and I had no boundaries. I was floating around the world, chatting with pretty girls and having more beer-cake. Life was good. Before long we were heading out. Some had not acquired the migrational allowance passes, and mine was out of date, so we decided to try and get into a legal bar for students and if that should fail, we'd seek other parties souterraines.

Since both me and Mr Berringer had arrived on foot, we borrowed the speeder bikes of Em'Reeka and Athunia, another girl at the party who had caught my interest. We let them sit in the back, while we took the wheels. Athunia kept saying that she was a rather good driver, but I had a hefty amount of confidence in my own leg muscles and would hear none of it. As I started to fall behind, Mr Berringer called me from Em'Reeka's phone - his had gone haywire from the rain - and checked to see if everything was up to speed, and I had to put some extra muscle into the bike in order to catch up with them.

When we reached the student bar, my not-to-valid migrational allowance pass turned out to do just fine. My sister did not share my luck, so she took her whereabouts to another city with a few of the other girls.

I stated earlier that Athunia had caught my interest, and I tried for a while to make some good conversation. This turned out disastrous, however. While we had a bit of fun chatting about old friends that we had in common, I could not stop thinking about Em'Reeka. Why was I chatting to this girl, when I knew that I wanted another girl's attention? "It's those goll-darned dimples", I thought to myself, "I can't stop thinking about the dimples!".

There was dancing. There was drinking. The student association served spirits in an infuriatingly limping pace and me and Mr Berringer stood for a very long time, just waiting for our bark beers and cherry berry shots™. Once we got them, Mr Berringer in all his drunken fury, happened to pour his cherry berry shot™ all over the counter. I urged him to get a new cherry berry shot™, but he would have none of it. This surprised me, as he was the one proposing the cherry berry shots™ in the first place. The drinks went down and so did we. The bar was closing up for the night and we followed a small delegation downstairs and underground. It was easy to find an after-party with such beautful girls in our midst!

Now, things started to get blurry. There was a whole lot of dancing. Em'Reeka seemed to be everywhere. She certainly was everywhere in my mind. Things didn't make sense anymore. I arm-wrestled a strange girl whom I barely remember the name of. She talked to much and stole my phone just to add her to my list of contacts. It was all rather confusing and I didn't feel that it took me anywhere. Still, I had great fun. I was thankful. What a delicious night this had turned into, from the successes at work to the amazitacular people I had met. Most of all, I was happy about having met Em'Reeka.

Suddenly, however, she had to leave. Still, I was in such a euphoric rush at having met such a wonderful example of biological ingenuity that I didn't take time to mourn. Instead, we wound up in a perfect kiss, both saying our good byes without words and with hearts full of hope. To this day, those beautiful dimples are on my mind. Ah. What dimples. What a scent. What a woman.

As you might recall, Mr Berringer had called me from her phone, which left me with her number. Short after her departure, I sent her a grateful text, just saying how happy I was to have met her. I might have snuck in a compliment or two. Either way, I quickly got a response loaded with hope of a second meeting. I was close to delirium.

The dilemma was - so was Mr Berringer. As we met the following evening, it turned out that he somehow had gotten her number as well. For some reason, be it out of gratitude and happiness, I decided to let him have his hopes. He knew about the kiss, but wouldn't be brought down. I was happy for him as well. But the next day came, and the next, and I couldn't get her off my mind. I decided to let it wait. Let them meet up. See if he still thinks they have a chance of becoming Mr and Mrs. If they don't, I certainly would not let the chance slip.

Then, it all turned a bit foul. She sent another happy message to me, this time hoping that I might join her meeting with Mr Berringer. It was too much. I knew that he was hoping for a romantic meeting between four eyes, and I could not accept. She might have taken offence at my not proposing another meeting, for I have not heard from her since.

Tonight, they meet. I await with eager anticipation. How will it turn out? Will I be able to see the dimples of my life again, before I leave the county next week? So many questions. So much hope. So much gratitude.

Ah lah lah lah lah lah lah lah life is Wonderful...

A short, contemplatory note

2011-08-02T18:03:00.002+02:00

Nothing turns into nothing

Everything changes

Nothing lasts forever

Everything remains

The Decided Blurters

2010-12-01T08:49:00.003+01:00

It's strange, how some moments come alive and wash you over like a bucket of colours. You sit there, in the couch that she lovingly picked out, and consider.

Consider whether or not what you think is real.

Whether or not what you feel is real.

Whether or not it is rational.

Do all thoughts and feelings deserve to live, grow and take root in your mind? When thoughts of jealousy and injustice surface, should they be held back or just let out? For some people, these aching guts need to be spilled the moment they start to ache, in order to be sorted out. Not until everything is out there are these people ready to go on and see whether or not these mind ghosts are worth putting more effort into.

And yet, for other people, thoughts and feelings need to be considered for a while, before they are ready to surface. These people have the very handy ability of grabbing a thought before it grows and can then see whether or not it's something they need to mind.

This way, when the blurting kind meets the pondering kind, a collision is inevitable. The blurters need to have their thoughts and opinions out there in order to manage them, whilst the ponderers assume that these thoughts are the final products of careful consideration. While the blurters need to discuss in order to sort out their thoughts and come to a logical conclusion, the ponderers might easily and naturally make the mistake of assuming that these thoughts are a final product and not up for discussion.

So how do these two parts meet? The blurter will need to make it clear to the ponderer that what he/she says is just the draft of what could become a conclusion. The blurter will in this way need to ask the ponderer for help, because he/she can not come to a conclusion in his or her own head. The ponderer, in turn, need to be able to detect whether or not the blurter needs help or has come to a final conclusion. This can be a very difficult task, since many blurters are completely unaware of how they need to blurt and discuss, and easily might confuse themselves with ponderers. These are the decided blurters.

A decided blurter is completely unaware of their own inability to see things clearly in their own heads. They think that they come to the most logical and best conclusions on their own, that all their thoughts and feelings are final and justified, and can become immediately hostile when their ideas are being discussed instead of accepted. These persons face a very difficult situation, as do the people around them, and some decided blurters will never admit that their ideas need discussion, as they perceive themselves as well-reasoning and logical.

Are you a blurter? Are you perhaps even a decided blurter? Consider whether or not you need to discuss your idea, before throwing it out there.

If you want to spawn ideas that aren't up for discussion, you might want to be very careful with what ideas you actually spawn.

Or you might want to become an unquestionable dictator.

Or you might want to be alone.

Mina vågskålar

2010-11-12T10:03:00.004+01:00

Jag fick besök av sorgen

igår

Han kom så sent på kvällen

och vaggade mig till sömns.

När jag vaknade tycktes han ha gått

men när jag vände mig i sängen

visade det sig att han låg kvar där

ändå

Det knackade på dörren

och sorgen gick och öppnade.

Det var hans vänner hatet och självföraktet som gjorde oss sällskap

där vi satte oss ned vid frukostbordet

De hängde av sina ytterkläder på mig

Ute hade det regnat

När de sedan gick

var det sol ute

och deras kläder fick hänga kvar

Jag reste mig då

och lade kläderna i min vågskål

-Där lägger jag allt som lämnas kvar hos mig.

Det som är hårt, klumpigt och väger tungt

ligger i den högra.

Det som är mjukt, skört och lätt

ligger i den vänstra.

Ibland tycker jag att det är synd att det som är tungt

är så tungt

när man väger det

Jag hatar den här världen och det här livet.

Jag föraktar mig själv. Jag är en lögnare och en svikare.

Det kommer naturligt för mig, eftersom jag är det utan att tänka.

Men jag älskar min familj, mina vänner och min flickvän.

Jag ger kärlek och njuter av det som är vackert omkring mig.

Det kommer också naturligt för mig.

Det som är vackert väger kanske upp det som är fult

men om det aldrig blir mer än jämvikt

vad är det då för mening?

Jag antar

att det går att älska andra, även om man inte älskar sig själv

ändå

Det är väl det som ger det mening

Stuck in the hole

2010-05-04T21:45:00.006+02:00

The intention was good; the line of thought, weak. He neither saw the consequences, nor would he realise how much they would hurt him until he had stepped into his own hole.

How big was the hole, now that he was there? He let his fingers sweep against the dark walls, looking for a handhold or perhaps a way down. Should he be looking for something to climb up on or a way to dig himself out? Was the answer up or down?

Above him a dark sky loomed, full of stars that didn't shine. He knew that his only wish was to climb up there, and spend his entire life lighting those stars again. Nothing else mattered in his head, or in his heart.

Suddenly, he glimpsed something through the dark. Was it a handhold, or a hole leading downwards? The thought of finding out frightened him to the bone.

2010-04-26T22:05:00.007+02:00

Under a sky, starry as an inverted cheetah, He slowly started to crawl out from under the muddy hole that was his home. He hated leaving it almost as much as He hated living there. The only reason He lived at all was probably because his instincts simply wouldn't let him die. He was hungry now, and He had to feed. He just had to, even though just lying still and waiting for death seemed like a tempting alternative.

And so it had always been. Something inside him just wouldn't let him die. Whether it was hope for something better coming up around future's corner, or if it simply was the disgust he felt at the thought of giving up, it made little different. He didn't want to know. He didn't really want anything. He just did what he had to do, just like he had done the previous last three years, living in the filthy hole. He poked out his head under the bare sky.

"I'd rather be sailing"

The voice came from just outside. Probably above. His head jerked around with a sense of foreboding.

"Who said that?", he croaked, his throat dry as parchment from a forthnight without a single drink. Speaking. It was a strange and somewhat familiar sensation. How long had he been silent? Two years? Maybe two and a half? He had given up the usage of his vocal chords about the same time that the rats stopped coming to visit him. He was almost surprised to hear himself utter a real sentence. He was surprised to hear that his vocabulary somehow, after all this time of silence, still clung to his backbone like an old rug to a moldy floor board.

"I said I'd rather be sailing.a", the voice repeated, "Wouldn't you?"

The voice was that of an old woman, thick and strong and with a small lisp. He stopped short, waited, and listened. He could hear the waves beating relentlessly on the cliffs outside. There was the sea; the big blue, an unforgiving pounding of nature's hammer on all that man would create. That was where he had spent most of his life, up until this point. He fumbled for words.

"Why yes.." He started croaking, contemplating something he had left behind a long time ago. "I suppose I'd rather be sailing..."

The voice outside didn't say anything further, but he could feel it considering the reply. He heard a sound of someone tenderly kissing something soft, then an exhalation and the scent of marijuana brushing by his dried and shrivelled up nose. The voice outside clearly belonged to someone who enjoyed a good smoke. From a pipe, he decided, by the sound of puffing and sucking. He felt an urge to continue the conversation.

"I uh.. I used to be quite the sailor, you know" he tried.

"Did you, now?" the voice replied, sounding almost fatherly.

"Why yes. Yes." He licked his lips, but no moist came to easen his flow of words. He started to become agitated, his past hitting him in the forehead like a small bird smashing into a closed window. "Yes, I... I was... I was a captain. And would still be, if I hadn't..."

He fell silent. The voice waited for a while.

"If you hadn't...?"

If I hadn't been turned into a Vampire Gerbil!

But no, he could not say it. Instead he leaped out of the hole, turning towards the voice, and found himself staring into the face of God. He was dumbstruck.

"You, my friend", said God, "are indeed the incarnation of premature ejaculation"

There fell an eerie silence over them both. The Vampire Gerbil once again fumbled for words.

"I.. Uhh.."

Had he just been insulted by God?

"I wanted something for you", continued God, "I wanted you to be the perfect Prophet of the Sea. I wanted it so badly that when I got the chance of blessing you, on that horrible day three years ago, I stumbled in my fervor. I screwed up and came too fast, so to speak"

The Ex-Captain Vampire Gerbil remained dumbstruck. God came too fast?

"Yes, my furry fangy friend", God said as a reply to his thoughts, quickly continuing with "Even Gods cum too fast from time to time. I just thought I'd apologise and... well.. offer you something in return".

Finally the Ex-Captain Vampire Gerbil's voice and brain came up with him.

"Oh, well, I guess it's all right.", he squeezed out.

"Really?"

"Well, not.. Not really, really, but standing here in the face of God and all.. Well.. I guess it's something of a comfort, knowing that even you can misbless and you know.. Screw up from time to time."

"Yeah, well it wasn't easy to admit," God cleared his throat, obviously not because he needed to, but as a conversational break, before continuing "The reason I came here today, is that I figured out what I did wrong that day. Believe me, I've been working hard on this one. And I've figured out how to turn you into that Prophet of the sea, that I intended for you to become so long ago."

The Ex-Captain Vampire Gerbil's pulse started to raise.

"You mean.. You mean I can become normal.. I can become human.. Again?"

"Why no, not really. You'd still be an Ex-Captain Vampire Gerbil, but not only that. You would become the Ex-Captain Vampire Gerbil Prophet of the sea!"

"Oh. So you mean I still can't sail.. Like I did as a human..?", he replied with desperation, feeling his heart sinking like a stone.

"Nope.", said God, seeming a little disappointed at the lack of exaltation from the small rodent. He tried to start over "But you will become an Ex-Captain Vampire Gerbil Prophet of the Sea!"

"Oh. All right. Well, then.. Thanks, but no thanks", said the Ex-Captain Vampire Gerbil, turning his back on God and starting to head back towards his filthy hole. "If this was my second chance, I guess it just wasn't good enough."

He sighed heavily.

"I think I'll just go and die now."

Staring after the small critter, God slumped his shoulder and turned away.

"Oh, well, I thought it was a neat idea, anyway."

Cold as blue

2010-03-25T23:07:00.002+01:00

She stood there silently

Under moon as cold as blue

The night was all she wore

in a shivering icy hue

Blue as the eye of a wolf

whose hunger gnaws within

Blue as the hottest flame

that burns away all sin

So innocent she stands

in pale and silvery light

And born she was from love

but filled she was with night

Blood and spearpoints

2010-03-24T13:13:00.006+01:00

He started to get distracted. The blood, constantly dripping from the ceiling, started to get to him. The thousands of hearts, hung up on millions of the tiniest fishing hooks and tiredly pumping an endless amount of blood, created a never-ending drizzle in the dark room.

How long would he have to wait?

He was growing restless, his thoughts seeming to bounce against the drops falling around him. The constant dripping seemed to create a liquid wall around his mind, encasing it in dark notions. Then, something different suddenly swiveled on the surface of his thoughts. Something strange. Something new. Something old.

Why not just go home, open all the windows and sit down with a cocktail and a game of chess with a good friend, like you used to do?

The thought struck him like a blow to the head. Suddenly it was all clear. He got to his feet.

I've had it. Time to quit. Time to start.

Stupid

2009-09-17T09:39:00.002+02:00

And now, one of my inspirational quotes:

"Hellre två romflaskor i njuren än Rolf Lassgård i buren"

transl. "The rum flasks the better"

Chaos at the company

2009-09-15T00:14:00.008+02:00

No one could say who had ordered the whale. But someone had. I stood there with a signed form, unreadable as it was, clearly giving us the ownership of this two ton colossus. And there it lay, lodged in between two rows of cubicles, sedated and hopelessly in the way.

"How are we supposed to work with a whale in the office?" someone shouted.

Included with the whale were two trainers, keeping the huge thing sleeping; two attendants, keeping the whale wet and feeding it with some sort of liquid nutrition. None of them seemed capable of uttering a single word in English. Together with the papers claiming ownership was a small package containing. As our receptionist had received it, he had found a small rubber figurine portraying a smiling cartoon killer whale, with the text "my first whale" on a plaquer on the side. There was a small button on the side of it, which made the cartoon whale dance and sing the song "Northern Whale" by The good, the Bad and the Queen. The joke was almost as stupid as the whole situation.

"Our current budget clearly doesn't support a whale", someone said, clutching his forehead.

Strangely enough, the creature was all paid for and neither the keepers nor the trainers seemed to expect any sort of payment, as long as they were allowed to do their job.

The whale had been there before anyone arrived in the morning. I arrived late, as usual, not having woken up properly in the morning. I was bull-rushed by shouting businessmen the second I entered the building, none of them speaking sense. My cell phone lay forgotten on my table and no one had been able to contact me. Our lead economist approached me as I headed towards the escalators. She was clearly shaken and didn't seem to know where to start.

"Sir, we have a ... situation" she said, taking of her glasses and looking very serious.

The graduation parcel

2009-06-16T15:46:00.008+02:00

Suddenly, as my name was called, a strong feeling of doubt came over me. I had sut there, waiting for this to happen, for - I don't know how long. It felt like years. The isolation of The School had done wonders for my training, my focus as well as my general knowledge. I had gotten to know so many things and learnt innumerable new techniques, many the like of which I hadn't even dreamt of before. I had spent so much time preparing for the outside, yet now that I could feel it, just some hours away, I felt scared. It all felt too real.

I stood up and met the proud gaze of my mentor as I went down the great hall to where he stood. I could feel the jealous eyes of my fellow students following me. Most of them were spoiled brats, with no sense of knowledge and true power. Some of them hadn't even bothered to learn to read properly. They never realised what a privilege each hour at The School had been. True enough, I had gained some "friends", but they were really all just vultures, longing to get to what I had. If they had the chance to make money on my downfall, they would be over me in a second, like crows on a dying fox. But I wouldn't have been able to make it through these three years on my own, so they had been a necessary evil.

My mentor had assigned Doff, a dim-witted student with whom I had had little to do, to call the names of the graduates. Even after these three years together in the same class, he had had trouble reading and pronuncing my name. I could feel him getting nervous as I approached him and my mentor, where they stood next to the altar. My mentor handed me my parcel, and Doff eyed me nervously as I reached out to receive it. I gave him a glare, and he seemed to be on the verge of wetting his trousers. I then turned back to face my mentor, who nodded his approval of me opening my parcel.

I basically already knew what was in there; my mentor had told me. He had great plans for me, he had said. He had been in contact with a prominent person in the Industry, someone who wanted me to become the head of a new factory in Lethsburg. It was an incredible honour, but thanking my mentor for it would have been a show of weakness. In the parcel would be a contract or a letter from this "prominent person", along with some trinket from the school. Since we weren't allowed to communicate with the outside, there would also be any confiscated letters from my family and those people whom I had called friends. Some students had tried to cheat the rules of communication, because of their ridiculous homesickness and any pathetic, lingering feelings that would do them no good here. Some had tried to sneak out, just to post a letter. Some had even tried to crack the mailbox open in search of anything addressed to them. No one had ever succeeded, of course. My parents knew that I couldn't communicate with them during these three years and had most likely sent nothing at all.

And yet this feeling of doubt hung over me, like a hailstorm cloud waiting to burst. What if they had sent something? What if I was about to see my father's handwriting again for the first time in three years? My little sister, Joanne, would have learned to write by now. I started to feel an obsession not to open the package. But I had to. I tried hard not to start shaking. I had stopped thinking of them the moment I first entered the school hall. I had done all in my power not to think of Joanne's happy smile, blonde hair and the cute white ribbon she would always wear. Pictures of the past entered my head as I fumbled with the wrapping. I remembered how proud my father was, the day I got the message of acceptance from The School. I remembered my mother, trying to hide her tears as we were forced to separate, three years ago. My best friend, Shent, had stood there too, wishing me luck with her ever laid back smile. I had been so sad, to be separated from them all. Had I changed so much since then?

I felt a pat on my shoulder and turned to see my mentor holding out a pair of scissors for me. He must have noticed my hesitation, even though I tried my best to hide it. I pulled myself together and turned back to the parcel. I cut the cords wrapping it. They fell silently to the ground. Then I opened my parcel.

Take life by the throat

2009-05-05T13:01:00.002+02:00

As I lay there, my legs being crushed by the huge trunk, and hearing my steed run off in the distance, I knew I was going to die. And for the second time in my life, I didn’t know whether I cared or not. The pain became too much and darkness came upon me.

For the first two days I just waited there, feeling how I gave up more and more of my resistance. I fell in and out of a restless sleep, dreams of the past haunting me along with the pain from awakening and feeling my crushed bones. I had expected to die from inner bleedings long before the third day came.

But as dawn came on the third day and I admitted to having stayed alive and awake to see yet another day, other thoughts entered my head. I remembered the people who had admired my way of life; how I threw myself at every challenge and how I seemed to enjoy every day with the double vigour of that of my younger friends. I used to tell them that I aimed to live hard and die young. Well, just look at me now. I’m basically just getting what was coming to me. I would have turned six and twenty this year. If my aim was to die young, then why wouldn’t today be a good day to die?

Lying there, I started chuckling to myself. It was a bitter laughter, mocking my whole existence. Somewhere in the distance, magpies took off, cawing away as the lifted. I laughed at how I had thought that life wouldn’t be enjoyed unless I burned all the way through it. I had encouraged my comrades to live like me, to take life by the throat, kiss it hard and then throw it away. I had expected them all to envy me for my insane ways of life. It all felt ridiculous and pointless, as I thought about it.

Then it hit me. There was actually someone I had always envied. The one person who seemed to enjoy life more than I did; Brother Borrel. “Brother Barrel”, we had called him, laughing at his slow ways and his impressive belly. But Brother Borrel had always laughed with us, never taking offence or falling for “base temptations” like anger. Instead he had gone up to his tower and taken another slice of cheese, enjoying the grey weather outside.

He was the calmest person I had ever known. Rather than take life by the throat, he would stroke it calmly and sit down next to it, enjoying every aspect of it, be it past, present or future. Where I would hold a grudge against myself for making mistakes and constantly trying to rectify them, he would just smile at them and try to do better next time. It seemed that life had many things to teach me still. Things I probably wouldn’t have been able to take in, had I not been lying there, under that cursed log.

“Cursed?” I thought to myself, “This log is the most blessed one I’ve ever had the pleasure to be crushed under”.

Once again, I started laughing, but without the bitterness I had felt before. Instead, I felt renewed, lying there in my seemingly unprovoked mirth. I drew in a large breath of the dank, musty morning air, then clenched my fist, filled with new purpose, yet with a calm I hadn’t felt before in my life. I felt my hand burning, and almost thought I heard a crackle from the smoldering determination of my blood. Then I threw myself at the log with all my power and new strength of will. There was a loud crack as the wood gave in, in a blinding flash of light and flame. My whole body was filled with new strength as I got to my shaking feet. Seemed like they weren’t broken, after all. I was free. Free from my own shackles.

Whalpurge

2009-05-01T13:29:00.006+02:00

We celebrated that night. Mohammad had gotten us rats. He had even brought out some of old Jareem's sauce to marinade them in. We barbecued them hard on an old one-use grill that Mohammad had modified, letting it be used over and over again. I hadn't had meat in what felt like a decade and as the grease ran down my chin I felt like I melted inside.

We sat there for a while, watching the sunset and the other people around us, downing a few beers and roasting candy and roaches. We then made our way back to the hideout. After another round of beers and a burning round of tequila, we decided to get out and find a Whalpurge fire. There were fires like this burning in parks all over town, in honor of the old springtide rite. We decided to get to the closest and biggest of them, down in Castle Woods. I brought a case of condoms and my cell phone.

On our way to Castle Woods, we dodged several groups of drunk and jolly people. We even saw a parked ambulance, where the crew had given up the hard life for the night and joined in celebration at a nearby pub. They were even wearing their workstuff, neon yellow shining through the front window. I told Mohammad that I felt like making this a night worthy of a short story. I wanted to join in the anonymous celebration, meet people that I'd never see again, make temporary friends and have wild sex. Mohammad laughed and said that the Castle Wood probably was the best place for all of that. He said he knew of a shortcut, so we turned away from the main street and the pretentious safety of the street lights.

The shortcut was through several dark alleys and the few people we met there were probably as afraid of us as we were of them. We went up a long hill and suddenly the buildings made way for an old, broken down gate, welcoming us to Castle Woods. It was side entrance to the park, without street lights lighting up the way, and no one with their wits with them used it during night time. It was with a small shudder I decided to leave my own there for the rest of the night. The trees closed in tightly around us as the uphill climb continued. At some point the ground evened out and we came to a clearing. It was an old lookout spot, from which we could see lights and fires, sending their warmth out in the chilly spring night. The view sent out a feeling of hope, remembrance and renewal. There was a distant banging of drums. We made our way downhill, past moonlit glades and onto an asphalt road.

We were near the heart of the park, I realised suddenly, as streetlights and people once again started to show up around us. The mainstream party animals had already started to make their way from the park, along with the last straggling families. We greeted some of the friendlier-looking ones and wished them a safe trip home. Left were those looking for something special, and there were many of them. A confused and drunk girl approached me and asked if she could pet my dog, pointing at my beer can. As I held it up to the street light she gave me a look of disappointment. I asked if she needed a friend for the night, but she claimed that "without the dog I'd not be more interesting than her boyfriend". I left her with a shrug and we made our way towards the main fire, which looked like little more than a smoldering heap of ashes by now. We stood by it and watched for a while, chatting idly with some youngsters who probably should have left for home several hours ago, had it been any other night. Firemen were starting to put out the remaining ashes of the fire, and we decided to try and find some interesting company. Since it hardly was likely that I or Mohammad would know anyone there, we decided to just stop at some of the more interesting groups and see what would happen. The drums could now be heard all over the park, making us eager to dance, as well.

The first group we stopped by were some Portuguese guitarists and their friends. We stood and watched for a while, enjoying the music. A girl asked me for a light, but I didn't have any. Suddenly, out of the darkness, came a reeling bike with a drunk man on it. He seemed to be a friend of the company and tried conversing with us in a couple of different languages before giving up. I didn't even try to bring up the old Spanish phrases I had learned on my trip to Costa Rica, back in the nineties. We decided to move on towards the drums.

A girl greeted us on the way and tried to get us to give her drugs, which we probably wouldn't have given her, even if we'd had any. We walked along and found two other girls who sat a bit separated from the other groups. They wanted to sing us a song. So we let them. Turned out they were really good. Then they asked us to sing something in return, but Mohammad only knew ancient, anarchadelic child songs. So we sang one of those. When we finally found something we all could sing on, I got caught up in the whole thing and ended up sitting there howling for a good while. After finishing the tenth song, we raised our glasses to the sky and moved along. A couple of policemen came up to us, asking for IDs. Mohammad showed his to one of them and I tried sweet talking the other. It went well. He turned out to be a really nice fellow, talking with a voice that sounded like a baloon stuck in a throat. As I patted his back, with my beer in the other hand, he wished us a pleasant evening.

We were now just next to the drums, which were somewhere in the middle of a large, dancing crowd. We joined in the dancing for a short while, but were distracted by a strange girl playing an only vaguely stranger instrument. It made a weird, hypnotising sound and we stood there for a while watching. I asked what kind of instrument it was, but she claimed that it wasn't an instrument at all, but a bow. I figured she probably just lied because she didn't know. I asked her where the fuck she kept her arrows, but she just gave me a bored look and left.

Next to her stood a normal-looking fellow with blue hair, a pair of poi and some cute friends. He complained over not having brought his other, more fiery, pair. Of Poi. Not friends. We chatted for a while, until his friends decided that they wanted to move on. They were an interesting bunch, so I invited myself and Mohammad to join him and his friends some steps away.

So we did. He introduced the group; Yaleen, Ghash, Frinda, Bombast, George W Bush and Smirk. He himself was called Stripe. We sat down next to George W Bush and Smirk. Smirk was called Smirk because he always did, and George W Bush complained over not being able to start a facebook account, because the facebook crew believed him to be an impostor. Smirk handed us beer and Bombast gave us a taste of something stronger. We sat there for a long while, chatting, getting to know each other and enjoying the night air. Later, George W Bush's girlfriend Minstk joined in as well. I then took notice of George W Bush's amazing bow tie. It was an incredible piece of work, ordered from a distinguished manufacturer who only delivered to those with enough positive karma, and George W Bush obviously was one of those. Smirk had found a strange little black flask with a skull and crossbones on it. We drank from its mysterious content, which tasted strongly of peppermint and liquer, then he decided to make a gift of it and handed it to me. As I held it up toward the street light later I noticed that it was entirely made of crystal, with small, genuine diamonds in it. I wonder if he knew.

As the clock turned past midnight, we and our new-found friends decided to hit the road and find a pub. I admitted, a bit ashamed, that I only had my mobile and a pack of condoms, but Smirk seemed eager to bring us with him and offered to pay for our drinks. We were very happy about this and so we got up and away. We found a bag of more beer, and some enchanted Bastard Baguettes. With those we started a small brawl, which ended with me throwing a broken baguette in the back of Yaleen's head, which she somehow mistook for an invitation and started to become interested in what other pieces of bread I might be offering that night. I considered her for a while, but decided that I'd let the next couple of drinks decide what would happen. Lost in the city, me and Mohammad just tagged along the little party. We learned that Stripe and Frinda were engaged and were to be married during the summer. We congratulated them.

Suddenly we entered a familiar neighbourhood and it turned out that the pub that we were headed for was one just next to the place of one of my classmates; Linga. I tried calling her, but with no reply. We entered the place, and in a couple of minutes were engaged in some heavy drinking involving strange, coloured liquids of unquestionable potency. Mohammad, who had been on top until now, decided to take some steps back and get a drink of water. After a while, when that wasn't enough, he threw in the towel for the evening and started to head home. The rest of the crowd grew stranger and stranger by the minute. They revealed amazing, intricate tattooes, the like I had never seen before and somehow this lead to us biting each other in our arms. Hard. Freaking hard. Bits of my skin came off, but I didn't start to bleed. I started to worry about where this unhindered exchange of body fluids might lead. But that was just the start of it. My mind started to grow real foggy by the time we left the pub and I had no idea where we were going.

Frinda, Stripe's fiancée, started chatting with me. She tried, for a good while, to convince me that I was gay. It didn't go very well. Then she started to try and convince me that she would totally dominate me in a bedside situation. I wasn't convinced. So she decided that she wanted to take me home to their place. I asked if her to-be husband would be all right with that, but she claimed that they had a so-called open relationship and that this was the usual way to go. So the two of us separated ourselves from the rest of the group and started to walk towards a trolly station. Somehow walking turned into foreplay and somehow she was up against a wall. Good thing I brought those condoms. I took her, there, in the middle of a street. It was glorious. The world around us - the lights, the cobble stones and the drunken party animals - it all disappeared as I entered her. I am not sure of how long it lasted, but by the time we were finished, the scents of morning were already upon us. We stood there for a while, just breathing in the fresh air. Then, after a short moment of confusion, we decided it'd be best if we just parted ways.

I started to head home, exhilarated from the night's many twists and turns. I felt like just telling someone about it and heard some noise from a window a bit off of the ground. I climbed up and peeked in. There were some people in a neighbouring room, but no one else. I looked around and found a jar of jalapeños and an enormous bag of chili nuts. Since I had forgotten about my trophy of that night; the crystal flask, I felt I needed something more. I grabbed the chili nuts and ran. I started calling friends to tell about the night's accomplishments, but none would pick up. Since I stayed at Mohammad's place, I tried calling him, but even he wouldn't answer. I started to get a bit worried and tried several more times, but then his phone seemed to have been turned off. This, of course, made me even more worried. What if someone had stolen his cell and knocked him out? As drunk as he was he'd have been easy bait. I awkwardly made my way to his place. Once outside, I had to climb the mountain on the back of his house to get a view of his bedroom. No one there. I climbed a tree and made my way towards the window, when at last Mohammad came into view, practically falling out of his bathroom. I drew a long breath of relaxation and tapped the window, for him to let me in. He was sick. I was tired. I told him about the street lay and the nuts and somewhere through the story fell asleep on my floor mattress. It was indeed a night of celebration.

2009-04-20T18:43:00.002+02:00

Good that I'm finally getting results in all subjects. Got some real acknowledgement for my dancing, singing and acting at school today.

Thanks for letting me have these wonderful friends, who give me support and cheer me up all the way. Makes me realise that I don't need the other kind of friends. Friends that I wished cared, but actually don't.

Help me get the rest of my preparations done for the auditions in Gothenburg and remove this unneeded fuzziness that has entered my brain! Get out you cuddly, comfy thoughts, you!

22 March 2009

2009-03-22T14:22:00.003+01:00

Good that I decided to be happy about the closing performance yesterday night. It's over.

Thanks for letting me have such wonderful friends and family, who spend their time, money and love on me. You're so good to me, you are.

Help me figure out how to spend my own time, money and love right. It's messy right now.

18 March 2009

2009-03-18T20:52:00.005+01:00

Good that I folded my elbows back in. My friends don't deserve to be treated as competition. We'll all do better as a team.

Thanks for kick-starting the beginning of the end at this school. I'm gonna turn myself up another couple of notches before finishing here.

Help my voice to recover. It's completely cracked when I speak, but somehow my singing is unaffected. At least that makes me happy. Results!

14 March 2009

2009-03-14T00:41:00.002+01:00

Good that I (was told I) did a nice save, after toppling over in a dance during a lift in tonight's show. It's all a black out to me, though.

Thanks to my acting instincts, for keeping me focused all the way through tonight's performance. There were tears.

Help me get rid of this cold until tomorrow. My voice is keeping together amazingly, but I want to dance!

me tonight - someone else tomorrow

2008-12-14T04:00:00.003+01:00

(Warning: Another drunken posting)
I should stress down. I should get to sleep, forget what's happened and let myself wake up to new circumstances on a new day. I know I'll feel good about it when I get up.
What makes a person different from one day to another? The amount of adrenaline, hormons or alcohol in your bloood? Everyone goes crazy from time to time, just because their buttons have been triggered. If someone pushes the right buttons at the wrong time, a person might go from being the luckiest guy in the world to feeling like he has been shot through the heart, as well as his brains and like all his logical reasoning has been pushed off a very steep slope and tumbled down the sharpest rocks possible.
With experience and an open attitude people can learn to see when they are out of their minds, thinking illogical or just being plain stupid. But even if they understand that their situation is fucked up and their thinking is bent beyond recognition, it's not always that they feel like they can do something about it. So what does one do, when one's heart is broken, the brain won't respond and the body feels nothing but numb? Eat. Go to sleep. Hope that things will be better when you wake up. Most likely you'll be fresh and you might even be able to laugh at your silly way of thinking the night before.
But what happens if you're stuck in that silly way of thinking or just refuse to go to sleep? Sometimes it might even feel easier to just stay inside your head, turning your friends into enemies and turning love into hate. Why sort things out when it's easier to just let them lie around and turn into dust? Well, there's a long way in between. For one thing, there's the moldy part. It stinks. It'll make you sad. It'll make you think things are worse than they are, because you refuse to deal with them. It could even make you sick of life.
An advice: Eat, sleep, think, and then act. Never forget those who love you and that you never chose them. They chose you.

Cheerio.

Addictive ideals

2008-07-10T20:15:00.020+02:00

Who decides whether an addiction is bad for you? How can something that you love and makes you happy be an addiction? Is it when it feels like sticking with is bad for you that it's bad, or is it when being without it makes you unhappy that it's bad?

"I love computer games", says multi-purpose vacuum cleaner Hjalmar Nordén, as he takes a large chew at the fresh just-out-of-the-oven newspaper in his hand "But I wouldn't go as far as to calling it an addiction, because I don't feel bad without them and I never let them get in the way of things that need doing in the real world."

He claims that he has gotten out of the bad habit of evading social life and pushing away seemingly impossible dreams, as he did as a lost adolescent. We all have things that need doing around us; cleaning, washing up, managing your household etc. and realising that a computer game won't make those needs go away is probably one step in the right direction. But then again, if you keep these things in line with your own conscious ideal, is it still really healthy to sit six hours straight, pretending to be a jedi in a fictional world? Is your ideal healthy?

"Make yourself" said the alternative rock group Incubus on their album in 1999, trying to reach people who know that they want to do something but avoid doing it because of fears, habits or ideals.

As he slows down and reflects on his mental life, Hjalmar realises that as of late he has become increasingly frustrated at work and when he is not spending time in front of the computer screen. So where does this seemingly unprovoked and most likely pointless anger come from when he is realising his ideals, keeping physical condition near tip-top, trimming his acting skills has gotten into a well-reputed musical theatre school? "I thought about this for a while", he says "and it's not when and because I'm playing the computer games that I feel frustrated, but nor is it because I'm not playing them. I realised that my real source of irritation came from me thinking of the things I could have done instead of playing, when I'm not playing."

Most people have an ideal. Hjalmar's does not play computer games. It does read a lot though. "I really really like gaming, but I can't get this ideal out of my head and it's starting to bother me. I suppose you could say that I've become addicted to an ideal."

The frustration here comes from Hjalmar thinking of how he could have practiced piruettes instead of helping his fictional friends escape from the Sith aboard the Leviathan. But then again, if he had been working instead of relaxing in between standing on stage, eating, commuting and sleeping, he would strain his brains out. So why isn't he allowed to play the computer games? -Because his ideal wouldn't. His ideal would sit down with a good book, perhaps down a small whiskey or let his creativity flow in his blog or in the book he's writing himself. "Sure, I like doing all those things, but if I'm more in the mood to play a computer game, should I not allow myself to do so?"

But perhaps we don't always need to do things that give us a sense of fulfillment, that lets us create something and that will create order in our lives. Instead, perhaps we all need to do things that we don't need to do. Hjalmar tries to wrap it all up; "Right. While fulfilling your dreams and ideals is a goal as admirable as any, it would of course still be destructive, should it turn into an addiction (or obsession) of always getting better and not stopping to enjoy the things that are just fine". In other words, we should pay our ideals just enough mind so that following them won't make us unhappy.

It can be quite a pinch and a constant problem in the developed countries, deciding on whether or not one should allow oneself to relax and enjoy things one doesn't need, or if one should keep on fighting for one's ideal all day long. Admittedly, the latter does seem a bit dry. But then again, if the ideal is dry, then one is probably on the right way.

Conservative wasps

2008-07-04T00:34:00.021+02:00

Even in a small town, there will always be people who want to bring about change. But the smallest ones will always try to keep it as it always were.

As professional train commuter Hjalmar Nordén was walking towards the central train station of Hässleholm today, he noticed a small group of wasps taking down propaganda from the local activist groups. "It would seem as if they were not partial in their removal, but carefully mounted down both the liberal- and the right-wing propaganda that have been put up on the street lights", said the astounded on-looker to local media.

When confronted, the wasps replied fervently that they "just like Hässleholm the way it is, and neither of these two extremists will bring any good change to this town". The conservative insects then eagerly went on and took another chew at the paper. The wasps, it would seem, share the view of the narrow-minded small town residents. "Well, at least they're not all Nazis", says a provocative, anonymous social studies professor in Lund, who has been taking note of the extreme right-wing attitudes that have started to rise up in many of the small villages in the southernmost region of Sweden.

Will fewer people always mean more fright of change?

Hunted

2007-01-10T16:13:00.000+01:00

He was running naked through the dark corridor as he heard the echoing tapping sounds gain on him. He knew that if It caught up with him it wouldn’t hesitate to stab him in the back, so it was all he could do not to turn around and look. Even though he barely felt how tired he was, and that these last few hours almost had drained all his energy, he knew he couldn’t stop. The vague, pulsating red light around him seemed to encourage his heart to beat faster.

The sounds were now right behind him and he could feel the acid smell of Its poisonous glands. He knew he had to do something drastic and flung out his arm to tip over one of the small metal stands that stood along the corridor, to delay his pursuer. Strapped along the top of the stands were small bags of meat, looking almost like torn out stomachs. He had seen Them store things in those, but the thick meat prevented kept him from seeing what might be inside them. It fell over with a clank and a splashy thud, and as he heard the sliding sound fall another meter behind he lunged for the meaty package on the next stand in front of him. Please, just something to throw at the cursed thing! He had always been a superb thrower and even in this state his aim most likely wouldn’t fail him. Maybe he could even knock it out if he was lucky.. All I need is to break through that carapace…

He plunged his hand inside and found.. A dagger! Suddenly he didn’t feel naked at all. It was made of a shiny crystal and as he swiftly pulled it out he saw a quick glimpse of doubt in Its eyes. A second of doubt can mean a lifetime of regret! That was all he needed. He took one nimble step forward and leaped above the creature. A mid-air somersault and he landed behind it, once again unarmed. He knew the blade had found home, as the beast gave of a shrill shriek of agony. He quickly turned around and saw it collapse where It stood. Some minor twitches from one of the eight legs and the corridor fell silent, except for the howling wind that could be heard from the outside. He jerked the knife free from where it sat, deep into Its abdomen. One down, a colony to go.

As he stroked off the thick blood from the blade onto his arms and legs, he couldn’t help asking himself how he ended up like this. Alone, naked in a whining corridor, hunted by spiderwomen… If only they had made it in time before the gates closed. If they’re not dead, they’re still down there. He didn’t get more time to think. Somewhere ahead several warcries sounded as the smell of blood had attracted more of Them. He knew he had to free the others, or he wouldn’t stand a chance. One is never a problem, but starting at two… They weren’t exactly intelligent, but their hunting tactics were not to be underestimated. The sounds of footsteps started to echo again. There were three of them, and they were coming along the ceiling this time. Before they could see him, he darted into a sideways corridor, out of sight. The smell of blood should keep them off my track for a while. He pushed on.

Holding back ourselves

2006-08-20T13:45:00.001+02:00

In Neils Strauss's The Game (Copyright 2005) , one of the characters - with the alias Mystery - describes how our sex drive not only reflects our urge to find a mate, but also is the key to creativity and career.

As the seducing expert Mystery goes tripping on sleeping pills, but still finds himself unable to sleep, he posts a comment in his forum - Mystery's Lounge - urging his fellow seducers not to masturbate more than once a week, since it would spoil their motivation of doing things. Real things. According to Mystery, continuous sitting at home and drooling over internet porno won't get you very far. It'll just get you depressed and keep you focused on unnecessary things like the pain of not having a 'real' sex partner.

"There is truth in what he writes" comments neurological scientist Hjalmar Nordén, "the substances released from sexual pleasure are meant to make us feel dozy, inactive and make us want to rest". Probably to keep the male and female together and create a bond between them, for future care of the to-be-born child. Perpetual over-stimulation can thus lead to general ineffectiveness, irritation and in some cases depression from the feeling that you aren't getting anywhere in your life.

For many of the expert sex-hunters, masturbation would be the same as admitting defeat and letting the world know that you no longer have the ability to attract a partner. Some people who either aren't interested in the game and the hunt or just haven't dared to step into it, see it the same way. Low confidence and uninterest keep many at home when others seek out the citiy's night life or the local barn fiesta. "Sexual saturation make people inactive and keep them from testing themselves" coninues Hjalmar with a sad smile, "whether it's on the dance floor, the social club or in their boss's office". They just give up.

One of the things Neill Strauss would like to say through The Game is probably that everyone can take a step in to the social circles and succeed. What you need is the ability to watch, listen and adapt. People who get stuck in a pattern will forget how it is to grow and evolve. If you always talk, try listening. If you always think that everyone else have better things to say than you, try thinking through your ideas and say what you feel is right. If you don't dare taking a swing on the dance floor, try a salsa course. Once you have set your mind on trying something, go through with it! Everyone will try to judge you, but do you need to take offence if a singer judges your dancing?

Melancholera

2006-08-03T20:48:00.001+02:00

The thought of the choice between a good friend and a girl, as being a tough decision, is surreal.

soft/ adj.
2 >not rough< having a surface that is smooth and pleasant to touch

A strange cup of tea (revised)

2006-07-28T02:19:00.001+02:00

"Sorry guys, I'm not coming back with you, I've been promised some sex". Not a very expected comment when you have been hanging around with the filming team all night and everyone seem to be on the verge of falling asleep where they stand.

And of course those weren't the words Magnus Pedersen really used, because who is even mentioning sex, when it's for real? When walking by a café, you might overhear someone commenting their extraordinary experience last night, how they took this and that home and went all the way in a couple of minutes. So people talk about it in public, who cares? It's in the past! But then again, if it were the other way around, and they were actually about to go somewhere and get intimate, would they say it? Probably not. Pedersen gave the perfect example: "Sorry guys, I'm not coming back with you, I've been promised some tea".

Let's say your younger sister - that you only see once every other month - comes over from Stockholm to stay with you for a week. You'll have the responsibility for her during this time - and hey, it'll be really nice but... You will get NO time over for your boyfriend. Your sister will know this, and when you leave her in the kitchen with a schizophrenic actor/waiter/student, to go and "sort some books" together with your boyfriend behind closed doors in the other room, she won't need a calculator to figure out what you're really doing.
Or how about the time when the clock is growing closer to half two AM, and you're making your way past your house together with this really hot girl you've been dancing with the whole evening. You know what you want, and maybe you'll ask gently if she wants to "join in on a cup of tea, before going home"? It's all so very innocent. But it's a game.

Some people believe it to create some kind of excitement in denying what they're really after. This way they can pretend that they won't know if their partner is thinking the same way as they, until they stand there undressing each other. Others would just call them "hypocritical twats", who don't dare speak their real mind. Who are they kidding? "You won't drink one ruddy cup!" chuckles a hearty voice in the back of Hjalmar's head as he heads for his car.

The most hilarious, and at the same time the most tragic, thing is when they come back the next hour to say that they just had a really nice cup of tea or whatever, and that they just sat there discussing life and salad. Of course you did. You just chose not to use words. So after leaving her sister in the kitchen for an hour, in the company of this multiclass personality, she comes back with her boyfriend as if nothing has happened. The younger sister asks "Where were you?". Why does she ask that? To dare her to tell the truth? They both know that they both know. So does the lunatic and so does the boyfriend. And it turns out that the boyfriend is the first one to speak; "We sorted books".

"How about it, hot stuff, want to go sort some books? I got a really big book shelf. Yeah, the books just keep on coming. (Or is that spelled with two m's and a u? I never get it right) See, I've been sorting a lot of books and I know where to place them so.. You on? Great!" Go screw a dictionary. There is no tea.

Choose your destiny

2006-07-06T00:13:00.001+02:00

Let's say you just get three choices. They will decide the entire outcome your life and there will be no turning back once you've chosen. The other option is to choose one and excel, or all and be someone in between.

Hjalmar Nordén, actor, honest worker, explorer or whatever. Due to the recent successes, raining down upon him from seemingly every direction, he finds himself lost among all the golden roads sprouting around his feet. "I definitely don't want to brag. It would be so much easier if I had simply failed with most things so that I could focus on the one that I got away all right with", he says with a tired smile. "Until now I've just enjoyed triumph after triumph and felt happy with doing so many things at one time".

Still, when one notices how the people around him seem to put so much energy into their one passion, you can't help but wonder how far you can get with one foot on the throttle and the other on the breaks. "This is people who seem to know what they want to do. They do their work during the day, then put their full energy into doing a great performance during the evening. They prepare, build up and unleash. Myself, I want to perform well at my part-time job, on the set and at my other part-time job. I need set working hours for my hobbies as well to be able to take them seriously, because once I get home to my computer I just waste my time and there's no satisfaction to it either way".

Let's say you get three choices:

Become a star actor. Friends and family compliment your acting skills and say that they like your work. You love standing on stage, entertaining people, sending emotions and receiving their response. This would involve great risks in an insecure business and you would miss the opportunity to get a steady position at a good working place.
Do prominent environmental work. You have participated in international environmental conferences on four continents in more than eight countries, you have a part-time job at an environmental institution and only need a couple more years of studies to start working seriously within the field and help the earth become a healthier planet. Doing this would nail you at home for several more years to come.
Explore the world. You have studied the language of an exotic country for two years and now you get the opportunity to get a full-time job there with a great pay and lots of opportunities to travel around the other side of the globe. This way you'll leave everything back home behind for a long time.

"I got a compliment the other day that I resembled a famous actor. I was happy to hear it, since I fancy that particular actor myself. But when I think about it, how far would I get from resembling someone else?". Maybe most important of all is whether someone really could enjoy a victory that has already been taken by somebody else, especially when you don't have to fight for it, like the person before you. "I believe in hard work. I want to feel that I've fought for my successes. And I feel that I have, this far. But now they're starting to turn somewhat mediocre. The compliments I receive seem to be out of date". Grades are going down, quality time is scarce and he barely knows his lines for the film he has been longing so much to be a part of. It meant so much for him, yet he neglects it along with his studies.

"I simply have too many choices right now. I get to decide my own working hours, I decide when or whether I want to study and I decide when I want to improve my acting skills. With no time put aside specifically for these things, they seem like precious things put in tidy boxes, waiting for their time to shine. I love doing all these things, so what I fear most right now is that someone would feel that they are down-prioritised". So when will he give them time? Now? "Yes. I'm going to do it right now. This battle is far from over and I'm going to study my lines for the rest of this night if that's what's needed. Tomorrow there will be a fire and I plan to be in complete control of it. Some might call it being stubborn and impulsive, I call it me".
As you might have noticed, I need to have these key points in my life when I decide to do things for real. Over and over again.

A town so small that the world around it gets even smaller (Drunk posting)

2006-06-24T08:09:00.001+02:00

Warning! This particluar post contains rude language due to the state of mind I was in when I wrote it. If such things offend you, please just skip it. (See, I couldn't even spell particular)

He gets up at 06:30 on a Saturday morning, after a hard night of partying. It's now 08:07 and by hitching a ride from outside of the microscopical community of Staffanstorp to the inside of the microscopical.. Yeah.. Well, from Staffanstorp he takes the bus to Dalby and then to his home - the sprawling metropolis of Lund.

Here, the city still sleeps. The professionally stupid fuck Hjalmar Nordén is sitting by his computer and is taking some notes from the night before, but mostly from the morning after. This morning. "Turned out that the guy whose ride I managed to get into, is doing military services together with my sisters - recently made - ex-boyfriend" he says drowsily, getting up to get himself a cup of cocoa.

08:20. "All right, I'll tell you" Hjalmar Nordén says as he returns with a huge glass of steaming cocoa, putting on the Max Payne Soundtrack in the background. "It's really weird, how this little town - Lund - seems to grow smaller over time, although huge amounts are put into the building of new residental buildings. Even the minor communities outside of town seems small, all of a sudden". What he refers to is that the drunker you get, the more you tend to talk bucketloads of shit.

Taking a small sip of his cocoa, he goes on. "Then, once I hit Staffanstorp and say good bye to the nice guy who gave me a ride there - I never remember a name introduced to me when I have alcohol in my blood (unless it's a real hottie) - I sat myself down to wait for the bus to Lund". It soon turned out that he was waiting for the wrong one, since it wouldn't be leaving for another 50 minutes. Suddenly a childhood neighbour, Maria, from Lund turns up, looking really tired. "I hardly recognised her myself until I realised that it was her. I was babysat - can you say babysat? - by her older sister a couple of times and we never met much just the two of us". As it turned out, she had some good tips about getting to Lund and they ended up on the same bus. "She told me how my mother had been speaking so proudly about me - I was a bit touched at that - and wanted to know what I really was up to nowadays. I told her about my application to work at IKEA in Japan and how much of a turning point in my life that probably would be". Maria had been working all night and had some problems keeping her eyes open and her mouth shut (by this we refer to her way of yawning loudly as Hjalmar was speaking), "but we were in quite the same position and it didn't turn out to be a problem".

"I didn't know anyone at the party I was at yesterday except for the ones I came with" he says after being mildly burnt several times on his all-too-hot cocoa. "I guess it's because it was too far off from Lund. The question is" he says with a close to weary expression "When I tell a guy that I'm from Lund, and he mentions ONE girl's name that he knows from there, how come I know just that one girl?". Maybe a 100'000 people town is simply to small for you, Hjalmar Nordén. He drinks up, smiles vaguely, then clicks to publish another entry in his blog and falls into his bed.

The smell of burnt meat

2006-06-19T15:11:00.000+02:00

Note: The real Stephen Somerville has nothing to do with this story. His name just popped up in my head as I started to write.
There was a very tense atmosphere in the hallway. Stephen Somerville hadn't even noticed the beads of sweat forming on his forehead, but the fact that he had to strain himself not to let his legs start shaking, could hardly go unnoticed. He looked up at the man standing in front of him. It was as if he was standing face to face with the devil himself. The devil had a black suit with a red tie, and a cigar was in his mouth, stuck there seemingly as hard as concrete. The smoke from it was dancing seductively in the dim light. The bad ventilation caused the aroma of cigar blended with expensive cologne hang in the air, as a fly trapped in a cobweb unable to get out even if it wanted to. The expression on the devil's face was not hard to read; pure satisfaction was reflected in every gleaming tooth of his wide smile.

With a hand that seemed able to easily crush a human skull, had it wanted to, the devil removed the cigar from his mouth and began to speak in a barely audible voice. "So, Mr Somerville" he began, "you have decided to stand above the rules applying to everyone else in my beautiful student villa". It was amazing how that almost silent voice could be born so easily across the hallway. It seemed to glide on the silvery strings of tobacco smoke forming their way toward Somerville. He opened his mouth to respond, but no word came. He hastily moistured his lips with his tongue, but before he could try again he was met with a cold laughter. This too was in that low, close to non-existing voice. The devil raised a finger as if about to speak, and Somerville could feel his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth, pretty much like it stuck to the street post outside his house that cold winter so long ago. He felt a sting of horror, pretty much like he did back then. He had been left home alone for the day, with no neighbour around for miles, while his parents had gone to town for shopping. Just like that time, there was no one who could help him now. "What's that smell?" Chuckled the Devil. "I think it must be the scent of regret, seeping out of you, like it would from a dying mouse in a trap. Is that how you feel? That you are dying?" Somerville just stared. Nothing he could say now would turn the situation any more to his favour.

Obviously tired of the game, the devil went straight to business, as he always would when he noticed that there was no way the situation could be a loss to him. "As you may know, you have broken one of my rules. I suppose you would know which one it is?" He did not wait for an answer to come. There would be none, and he knew it. "Indeed" he went on and pointed towards a sign on the wall. It spelled "NO BURNABLE OBJECTS IN THE HALLWAY". The devil turned his attention to his cigar, pretending to study its faint glow while going on, "Mr Somerville, in this context NO means none". He held up the cigar in front of him and seemed to speak to it. "Would I stand here, if I was burnable?" Suddenly a small hissing noise came from behind him, and up stepped another man - or maybe a woman. It could be a big bear walking on two legs for all he knew, it was dressed in a huge metallic suit - who held something that had to be a flamethrower in his hand. It purred gently as a mechanical kitten, as a small flame danced in front of a gaping hole, supposedly where the big fire would come out. Somerville had never seen anything like this in reality, only in the movies. Maybe it was this filmic sensation that suddenly made him feel calm. An icy cold calm, as the 154th bead of sweat started to make its way down his forehead. He opened his mouth and started to form a sentence "I...". It was the breath before the plunge.

Click.

A roar filled his ears, as hellish fire erupted from the orifice and engulfed the devilish man standing in front of him. Somerville threw himself to the ground as the bright beam of flame shot by him. He looked up, terrified and unaware of the crack from his arm that had hit hard on something spiky on the floor. All he could hear was the thumping pulse in his ears and, once again, the gentle purring of the flamethrower. "Glad you decided to join in on our little conversation" said the Devil. Somerville had to blink several times before his eyes got used to the darkness that once again had returned to the hallway. He had not expected the devilish man to be more than a smoldering pile of ashes by now, yet he stood there, seemingly unaffected by the hundreds of degrees that had just swept by him. Small strings of smoke rose from his contour, the ground around him and from his cigar. They mingled and seemed to dance a seductive dance with each other before merging into one solid beam of smoke that made its way up to the ceiling, slowly fading away. Around him the corridor looked untouched, showing no sign of fire damage. It was all just too unreal. The only thing that had been affected seemed to be his shirt sleeve, which had started to smolder. Panicking, He started beating it against the floor to stop it from smoking. He let out a yelp of pain as his already damaged underarm snapped in two pieces against the rough surface of the floor. Far away he could hear an almost silent chuckle in that low, devilish voice. With tired eyes he looked up at the two dark figures, the dancing beams of smoke and the little blue flame on the flamethrower's mouth-piece. He heard the laughter of the Devil, the purring flame thrower and the distant sound of a microwave oven's "ping" merge together as his vision blurred and the world started fading out. "Please" he said, exhausted. The Devil just smiled.

Click.

Fears of commitment

2006-06-17T18:55:00.001+02:00

Relationship after relationship is falling apart all around you. Some of the 'important' break-ups turn up in your newspaper, others you hear from the street just outside your window. Amateur of relationship studies Hjalmar Nordén comments to how he is still having nightmares about his last long-term commitment.

"It was a lovely two and a half year-story with ups and downs of all their kinds. I learnt tons about myself.." he mutters something indistinguishable about girls, then continues "Either way it was an amazing experience that I hope I will never have to suffer through again if I can avoid it". He admits to having bad dreams about slipping back into relationships with old routines, bad compromises and flights from reality inside role-playing games.

"Most of it was my fault really. That's what I fear the most you know, how easy it is to escape and simply stop thinking about one's own needs within the relationship." He explains how many of his friends have done the same mistakes, "It has been done before and it will happen again; people lock up their own problems in the back of their brain, then go mad (or simply admit defeat and break up), simply because they ignore dealing with themselves and their partners." he says with a grimace.

"Remember this" he finishes, "It's not a war you are dealing with out there. It's love. And there can be two winning sides. Just make sure you are a part of your own relationship."

Outside the Asylum

2006-06-17T18:33:00.001+02:00

Recently recovered mental patient Hjalmar Nordén was proclaimed as sane by psychiatric experts last week. Today he releases his first book; "My dichotomy and me", about the time he spent "on the other side" of his mind. His comment about the book's content is "I tried living my own life for one day and the life of the one I wanted to be the next, for more than five years". When asked about where he learnt an advanced word such as "dichotomy" he mumbles something about educational computer games and Diablo 2.

When only the forbidden tempts

2006-06-08T22:18:00.001+02:00

The gadget you get all fired up about, just because buying it would leave you without cash for food the rest of the month. The girl you want just because she is by far "too hot for you". The relationship that you would gladly be involved in, when a moment ago you would do anything not to be tied up. Do you even deserve giving it a try?

Rings a bell? Everyone is looking for something, it's simply a part of human nature. Even those who claim that they have no wants or need at all, strive towards keeping it that way. Should this natural curiosity be taken away from us, life would be gray, monotonous and to some people unbearable.

So what's the deal? Why want something that you know you can't have? Leading psychiatrist and expert in human sciences Hjalmar Nordén gives the following example: "That girl you have been checking out the whole night - Yeah, you never knew they grew that hot - she most probably wouldn't fancy your style. No way, she would like someone like... Him. Yeah, he who is going up to her right now and - was I right or what - is leaving with her within five minutes. Well I'm sure he will have a nice evening, and you can go back to bed. Well fought". What he means by this, he explains, is that many people have a tendency to underestimate themselves, when overwhelmed by the attractiveness of someone that has the "perfect visage". They also have a tendency to have no doubts what so ever, that every one else in the room would consider him/her just as perfect.

"But to your left" he goes on, "stands your best mate, hitting on a girl you wouldn't bring back home even if you were paid for it". He pauses for a second. "That came out wrong, don't print that. But you get my point, eh?" He takes a deep breath and tries to refer to the 'old saying' "Your taste is like your ass, just mind your own and let everybody else have theirs" (Swedish: "Smaken är som baken, kluven").

The point Hjalmar is referring to, according to lingual specialist Claes Ek, is that if you think something is too good for you, that is reason enough for you to deserve it. "Because then you can give the appreciation it, he or she deserves" he comments. The guy who is coming in and grabs the girl in front of you might think not think that she is more than just OK, but picks her because he believes he has a chance. If you consider yourself better-looking than somebody else, you might believe yourself to have the upper hand, and maybe you do; you act more confident and give a straight-forward impression that you are interested her. But still, maybe you would be more interested yourself, yet you don't show it because you still stand there and consider her "too good for you". She IS too good for you, and that is why you deserve her.

If you don't get what you really want, you might accept it, but you would be happier if you had it. There you have it - materialistic happiness. Some people never get satisfied until they have the most expensive clothes, the perfect jewelry, the fastest computer and so on. But how far does our sense of possession stretch? Obviously, some will even see other people as their belongings and - since they're belongings must be tip-top - try to estimate the value of those people to make sure they have the best. Others see them simply as means of getting more expensive belongings. "The difficult part is to decide when to give up and be happy with what you've got. Generally I make that decision after I have tried to get the best, but failed. If you believe that the grass is greener on the other side, check it out for yourself - for what it's worth - and you will know."

(Note: I'm NOT encouraging infidelity, if that's how you interpret it, but if you feel that you are longing for the other side of the fence you probably have a problem - deal with it first.)

Hjalmar Nordén wrestles his director - "I always gave up too easily"

2006-06-06T12:40:00.000+02:00

Seen yesterday evening was the rising star in film industry, Hjalmar Nordén, armwrestling his own director in a vain attempt to compensate for not being in control over the scene. While seemingly no damage was done, the vague scent of wounded pride could be noticed throughout the rest of the evening.

LIMHAMN In a back yard with a grand pool, a yapping dog and several beers and ciders, we find the team behind the famous "Leonardo - ett snillerikt spex" that were set up during the carnival of Lund some weeks ago. Surprisingly enough, there are only a handful of the crew assembled and less than half are actors. "I loved the spex, but seeing how the actors always make the most noise I'm glad that so many were missing today" says a grateful neighbour, who supposes that the rain earlier that evening might have been the reason why so few people were attending the small reunion of the team.

The relaxed atmosphere is broken quickly, however, when the seldom-quiet Hjalmar Nordén bustles out of the house and dives into the warm water of pool. The air is starting to get chilly and soon enough a crowd of shouting spex-girls joins him and they start splashing around so violently that the camera man has to take his distance. Behind the camera today is Claes Ek, the rising young director who is behind an upcoming movie into which several actors from the Leonardo-crew (Hjalmar Nordén, Sofia Oldbring, Ingrid Sandström) have been adopted.

Moments later the very same can be seen armwrestling his to be-movie stars. While putting up a good fight, but losing, with his right hand against Hjalmar Nordén's, Claes easily brings down Hjalmar's left one. "Since I am a 'lefty', it's no surprise, really" comments Claes as he with a satisfied expression faces his next challenger Lisa Hagman, director of the Leonardo spex, with a result not much different than the last one. However, Hjalmar refuses to give up and with several warcries manages to beat Claes even on his left arm. "It was interesting, hearing his shouting" says a sulky Claes, leaning back into his chair with a cider in his slightly reddened left hand, rubbing his chest with his other.

Hjalmar confesses that he has never been that much of a fighter, easily giving up and being over-sensitive to pain. "But this time I just knew that I could win, if I really really wanted to. I've had a hopelessly positive attitude as of late. I'm even watching old tragic films and hope for a happy ending, even though I'm aware that it couldn't turn out that way" he says. As an example he gives the moment where Gandalf holds the bridge in Moria against the Baelrog in The fellowship of the Ring, one of his favourite movies. He admits with a smile that he has found himself thinking "maybe this time Gandalf will have time to avoid the whip and will manage not to fall into the darkness below". Being positive even though you know it's not going to end as you hope must be the most obvious the mark of a hopelessly wishful thinker. He takes a sip from his cider, then adds "Some call it being naive, I call it being me".

Life is an article

2006-06-06T02:04:00.001+02:00

It really is. The things that you and I do are just as scandalous or business-like as we want them to be. All that matters is how we want them to look.

If I'm a bad writer, chances are good that I'll make an adventure look just as grey as the dust - that keep sticking to my feet every bloody time I try putting them in that warm, cosy spot - just behind the subwoofer. At least this way it's evenly distributed in the room.

If I'm good, a rainy day might turn out just as colourful as the puddle of puke somebody gratefully left next to my toilet. You almost made it this time!

My life is an article, and I just discovered the scoop of my life. I'd like to address the following issues:

How many of us convince ourselves that being ethical just gets you knackered
How low density chicken farming equals 7 hens per m² and if that could be applied to the density of babies in a daycare home
How a nunchaku can be used to fan away unwanted gases from under your bed cover
How everyone wants to talk about their jobs but no one wants to hear about it
How your really creative moments only turn up when you need to be in bed
How dull it all gets when you're not the main character in your own life

There will be no more things that I want to do or ought to try. I'll just bloody well go and do them. My life will be my article.