Jeg begik en dum brøler i aftes. Jeg så reality og spillede min stedsøns smølfespil lige før sengetid. Med det resultat, at jeg hele natten har drømt mange forskellige drømme. Alle om Linse Kessler og Smølferne. På alle mulige måder. Linse var iført små, skriggrønne børnesandaler med velcro fra Skofus. Hun stod op, og Smølferne hoppede rundt på hende. Altså på hendes udspring for og bag, som man som smølf godt kan finde fodfæste på. Alt var forkert på så mange planer. Jeg er helt forstyrret i dag.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Wednesday, April 04, 2012
Radio Talk
Her kan du høre
en times radiosnak.
Knud Romer, Jørgen Callesen og jeg taler om normalitet og afvigelse.
en times radiosnak.
Knud Romer, Jørgen Callesen og jeg taler om normalitet og afvigelse.
Friday, March 30, 2012
Radio på tirsdag
Siden jeg er begyndt at skrive på dansk, giver det for første gang mening at skrive den slags her;
På tirsdag snakker undertegnede med i et program om normalitet og afvigelse i Radio 24-7.
Programmet hedder Romerriget og det er klokken 15-16.
Håber det bliver sjovt. Ellers undskyld reklamen.
Jeg har tidligere været i nogle radioprogrammer på P1, hvor jeg skulle være detaljeret omkring mit arbejde. Som jeg husker programmerne sidder jeg og udreder langsomt og højtideligt hvad jeg spiser til morgenmad, hvordan jeg sidder på stolen, hvor meget tekst jeg skriver ad gangen, hvor mange browservinduer jeg har åbne imens, hvad der sker uden for mit vindue, hvornår jeg holder pauser, hvordan jeg researcher (det giver jo god nok mening), om jeg stryger mit venstre knæ i tænkepauserne mens jeg skriver, hvor stærk min kaffe skal være, den slags ophidselser, der naturligvis hører hjemme i prime time public service radio. I øvrigt husker jeg, at jeg fik sagt en masse om, at forfattere generelt bare opretholder deres mytiske og isolerede status for at dække over særheder, alkoholisme og andre mere jordnære fortrædelser .. At det ikke er spor mystisk eller mytisk at være forfatter. Det er jeg sådan set stadig enig med mig selv i, at være forfatter er især hårdt arbejde forbundet med at tænke over tingene og være i stand til at koncentrere sig. Og være selvkritisk. Det er ikke specielt mystisk, synes jeg.
Nå, men på tirsdag er jeg så heldig, at emnet som udgangspunkt ikke er moi, men mere generelt almindelige og ualmindelige almindeligheder.
På tirsdag snakker undertegnede med i et program om normalitet og afvigelse i Radio 24-7.
Programmet hedder Romerriget og det er klokken 15-16.
Håber det bliver sjovt. Ellers undskyld reklamen.
Jeg har tidligere været i nogle radioprogrammer på P1, hvor jeg skulle være detaljeret omkring mit arbejde. Som jeg husker programmerne sidder jeg og udreder langsomt og højtideligt hvad jeg spiser til morgenmad, hvordan jeg sidder på stolen, hvor meget tekst jeg skriver ad gangen, hvor mange browservinduer jeg har åbne imens, hvad der sker uden for mit vindue, hvornår jeg holder pauser, hvordan jeg researcher (det giver jo god nok mening), om jeg stryger mit venstre knæ i tænkepauserne mens jeg skriver, hvor stærk min kaffe skal være, den slags ophidselser, der naturligvis hører hjemme i prime time public service radio. I øvrigt husker jeg, at jeg fik sagt en masse om, at forfattere generelt bare opretholder deres mytiske og isolerede status for at dække over særheder, alkoholisme og andre mere jordnære fortrædelser .. At det ikke er spor mystisk eller mytisk at være forfatter. Det er jeg sådan set stadig enig med mig selv i, at være forfatter er især hårdt arbejde forbundet med at tænke over tingene og være i stand til at koncentrere sig. Og være selvkritisk. Det er ikke specielt mystisk, synes jeg.
Nå, men på tirsdag er jeg så heldig, at emnet som udgangspunkt ikke er moi, men mere generelt almindelige og ualmindelige almindeligheder.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Navnet er Bruun. Irma Bruun
Efter et frisørbesøg i går er alt nu anderledes.
Jeg kom ind med langt hår. Et godt stykke ned ad ryggen.
Jeg skulle have klippet spidser.
Der var en ny frisør i salonen. Fuld af tillid havde jeg bestilt en tid hos hende.
Jeg har brugt cirka fem år på at få langt hår. Det var lykkedes fint, omend striber og så videre havde slidt lidt på det. Nu skulle spidserne lige klippes.
Frisøren meldte klart ud, at hun syntes planen om spidser-klipning var lidt kedelig, og at der kunne (læs: skulle) ske noget mere. Indsmigrende fik hun fortalt mig ting, som at mit ansigt ikke skulle gemmes i alt det hår.
Jeg var delvist modtagelig.
Vi blev enige om at tage det et skridt ad gangen.
Hun klippede fem centimeter af.
Så kiggede hun på mig og spurgte, hvad nu? Jeg syntes egentlig, det var helt fint, men hun signalerede helt klart med hele sin krop, sit blik, sine ord, at det kun var den første grovklip, hun nu havde gennemført.
Jeg spurgte, hvad hun syntes, og hun svarede, at hun syntes det skulle 'op til skuldrene'.
Det accepterede jeg, da hun tydeligvis var i gang med en større plan.
Men her fik kvinden med saksen uheldigvis et anfald af spontan ADHD og til min voksende forundring bare klippede og klippede hun.
Pludselig hvæssede hun en ragekniv og skrabede de små, bløde hår af min nakke. De er ikke blevet rørt i årevis, da jeg jo altså har været langhåret. Det var nok i det øjeblik, det gik op for mig.
At.
Det er jeg ikke længere.
Nu ligner jeg Irma-pigen.
En fucking fem-årig lillepige, der står med en kurv med æg.
Eller spørger, om jeg må få en figenstang. Jeg er stadig helt vantro.
Hun tog omkring femogtyve centimeter af. Uden at have aftalt det med mig først. Jeg har tænkt meget over, hvorfor hun ikke sagde rent ud, hvad hun ville.
Hvorfor hun kaldte det 'op til skuldrene'.
Det er fordi, hun kunne mærke, at jeg aldrig var gået med til det, hvis hun havde vist, at næste længde nu skulle være små svips lige under ørerne.
Jeg betalte mange kroner for det. I trance. Med tårer lige bag ved øjnene.
Jeg er rystet. Korthåret og rystet.
Voldført havfrue.
Nu.
Lille frøken Irma.
Jeg kom ind med langt hår. Et godt stykke ned ad ryggen.
Jeg skulle have klippet spidser.
Der var en ny frisør i salonen. Fuld af tillid havde jeg bestilt en tid hos hende.
Jeg har brugt cirka fem år på at få langt hår. Det var lykkedes fint, omend striber og så videre havde slidt lidt på det. Nu skulle spidserne lige klippes.
Frisøren meldte klart ud, at hun syntes planen om spidser-klipning var lidt kedelig, og at der kunne (læs: skulle) ske noget mere. Indsmigrende fik hun fortalt mig ting, som at mit ansigt ikke skulle gemmes i alt det hår.
Jeg var delvist modtagelig.
Vi blev enige om at tage det et skridt ad gangen.
Hun klippede fem centimeter af.
Så kiggede hun på mig og spurgte, hvad nu? Jeg syntes egentlig, det var helt fint, men hun signalerede helt klart med hele sin krop, sit blik, sine ord, at det kun var den første grovklip, hun nu havde gennemført.
Jeg spurgte, hvad hun syntes, og hun svarede, at hun syntes det skulle 'op til skuldrene'.
Det accepterede jeg, da hun tydeligvis var i gang med en større plan.
Men her fik kvinden med saksen uheldigvis et anfald af spontan ADHD og til min voksende forundring bare klippede og klippede hun.
Pludselig hvæssede hun en ragekniv og skrabede de små, bløde hår af min nakke. De er ikke blevet rørt i årevis, da jeg jo altså har været langhåret. Det var nok i det øjeblik, det gik op for mig.
At.
Det er jeg ikke længere.
Nu ligner jeg Irma-pigen.
En fucking fem-årig lillepige, der står med en kurv med æg.
Eller spørger, om jeg må få en figenstang. Jeg er stadig helt vantro.
Hun tog omkring femogtyve centimeter af. Uden at have aftalt det med mig først. Jeg har tænkt meget over, hvorfor hun ikke sagde rent ud, hvad hun ville.
Hvorfor hun kaldte det 'op til skuldrene'.
Det er fordi, hun kunne mærke, at jeg aldrig var gået med til det, hvis hun havde vist, at næste længde nu skulle være små svips lige under ørerne.
Jeg betalte mange kroner for det. I trance. Med tårer lige bag ved øjnene.
Jeg er rystet. Korthåret og rystet.
Voldført havfrue.
Nu.
Lille frøken Irma.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Søde Valentiner
Så er det Valentins Dag igen. Skønt, sødt, rødt og blødt. En hjerternes og kærlighedens dag. Mange er sikkert på kvalmegrænsen bare ved tanken om at være tvunget ind i et romantisk mode, som de ikke fungerer optimalt i, for ikke at sige, decideret mistrives i. Mænd som kvinder, pardimser som singler. Hvad kan jeg sige? I love it. Og jeg er not sorry. Jeg synes bare, det er ædelækkert.
Valentins Dags-haderne har det nok som væsentligt argument, at man ikke bør fejre kærligheden på en særlig dag, men have det som en naturlig ting at gøre hver dag. I kombination med hadet til den kommercielle side af sagen, for det er jo ikke gået mange chokoladeforhandlere og blomsterbikse næsen forbi, at der er gode klichépenge at høste i dag. Har du glemt at sige jeg elsker dig de sidste par måneder? Heller ikke lige lyst til at sige det i dag? Giv en buket i stedet, så slipper du for det, men hun vil forstå, at det er lige akkurat det, du forsøger at sige i stedet for at sige det. Paradoksernes logik. Sig det med blomster. Sig det med chokolade. (Sjovt nok skal kvinder altid sige det med oralsex - hvor fanden er retfærdigheden i den fordeling, hun kan blive tyk og glo på ubrugelige langstilkede roser, han kan få nydelse på et sølvfad med hænderne bag nakken??) Nå. Hvorfor ikke bare sige det med ord? De er da fine til formålet. Eller sig det med vasketøj, det er da utroligt kærligt sådan at ordne fire maskiner, så den anden slet ikke behøver tænke på det den næste uges tid. Sig det med afløbet, jeg hader at rense afløb, og synes det er en langt større kærlighedserklæring at få gjort det, end at man har stukket hovedet ind i en Interflora og bestilt et dusin cheap love på formel.
Jeg køber i hvert fald ikke argumentet om, at Valentins Dag som sådan er noget pjat eller ligefrem noget forkert. For Valentins Dag skal jo ikke nødvendigvis hverken bruges til aflad for dagligdagens forsømmelse af kærlighed, ej heller til at booste de handlendes kasser. Den kan jo meget fint bare blive brugt til at være sammen, huske at elske lidt mere, være opmærksom og kærlig, nærværende og søde ved hinanden. Give gaver, hvis man har lyst, eller gå en tur hånd i hånd, gå ud at spise, elske, give en kompliment. Lukke laptoppene og se lidt længere i øjnene end på de andre travle dage. What's not to like?
Hvis man er single, hvilket jeg selv har været og været meget glad for at være i rigtig mange år, er man jo altså ikke udelukket fra kærlighedens skønne univers, bare fordi man ikke har en udkåren at dele dagen i dag med. Jeg køber heller ikke noget synd-argument. Man kan dyrke kærligheden til sig selv, omend det lyder ensomt. Det behøver det ikke være. Der er masser af luxus i at tænke, at alle de penge, man nu kunne få brugt på en gave og en middag for to, dem kan man nu i kærlighedens navn fyre af på sig selv. Med god samvittighed, det er jo en kærlighedsdag. Få en massage, køb drømmegaven til én selv, spis ekstra lækkert, crack champagnen åben og del den med en kær ven eller hunden, snak om kærlighed som noget vidunderligt før og efter lige nu, hvor man så er så heldig, så man også er foruden alle kærlighedens kvaler. Som single kan man tillade sig kun at drømme om det lækre og smukke ved at have en kæreste, og virkelighedens triste dagligdag, hvor den elskede ikke altid er så elsket er langt væk. Sæt musik og film på, drøm om kærlighed, eller tud inderligt over ensomheden i dag - med det smukke for øje, at man er et så kærligt og sødt et væsen, at man netop smægter efter kærlighed og ikke er kold og ligeglad på en kærlighedens dag. I øvrigt kan man jo dyrke sin kærlighed til så meget andet end et andet menneske, hvad som helst, og bare nyde at huske, at de ting, der får os til at føle kærlighed som regel gør os lidt gladere, og det er det, det handler om i dag. At lade kærligheden gøre en lidt gladere. Så kan man sidde og elske sin stuepalme intenst, kun spille yndlingsmusik, gå en ekstra time til fitness, bunde en flaske whiskey med nydelse og kærlighed til højlandets tåge, spille wii hele aftenen, knytte et gulvtæppe eller sætte billeder i album. Bare gøre det, der får kærligheden og livets fylde til at varme brystet. Ikke sidde fast i, at kærlighed kun er parforholdet forundt. Være Valentinssød ved sig selv.
Jeg forstår modstanden som en parallel til den, jeg selv føler til Mors Dag. Det er bare en billig vej ud af at udnytte mor hele året, for så er der jo en dag, hvor vi siger tak. Nu må lillemor prøve at have benene oppe, og vi fumler både en morgenmad sammen til hende og sætter blomster i vase. Tænk, hun har det da slet ikke så ringe endda, hvad? Nu kan hun rigtig se, hvor meget vi sætter pris på hendes indsats alle de andre dage. Dér må jeg kaste op. Det er virkelig en gang pis. Jo, der er kommet en Fars Dag også, men det hjælper ikke. De er ikke lige. For Mors Dag udspringer og bunder stadig i noget helt andet. Og det er et problem. Mor skal ikke have en dag. Mor skal have et liv.
Men Mors Dag er altså en anden diskussion. Jeg tager den gerne en anden dag. Hvem ved, måske bliver det relevant til maj, når jeg selv synes, vi skal til at fejre Mors Dag herhjemme, og jeg må æde mine ord. Haha. Det må der komme en blogpost om, og jeg lover at være ærlig. Men altså, Valentins Dag handler ikke om at udelukke eller negligere kærligheden i øvrigt, men om - også - at fejre den særligt en dag. Jeg kender faktisk til mennesker, der ikke rigtig bryder sig om fester, og ikke holder noget særligt i forbindelse med for eksempel fødselsdage. De synes, det trækker hverdagen ned, hvis man ligesom skal markere, at den ikke er god nok på de særlige dage. Så kan jeg næsten ikke forestille mig, at man kan blive mere leverpostej end det. Øv.
Jeg forstår godt Valentins Dags-modstanden fra de venner og veninder jeg har, som oplever planlagt romantik som et enormt pres. Som har prøvet at sidde der i bilen på vej på kroophold og nu skal der bare knaldes og nusses og gås lange ture og spises foran pejsen i kroens hyggeligste krog, og allerede der i bilen er der et rockerskænderi i gang, som først lægger sig halvanden dag senere, når halvdelen af ferien er gået. Med en meget stor fiaskofølelse omkring romantikken. Jeg har modtaget mange desperate mails og beskeder fra Venedig, Paris, Sorø, Stockholm, kærlighedsoaserne, hvor presset for lige pludselig at være toplykkelige sammen og ikke behøve inputs fra andet end hinanden i endeløse stunder på et baggrundstæppe af idyl og stilhed bare bliver for meget.
Sådan har jeg det bare ikke selv. Heldigvis synes jeg, det er vildt romantisk at lave den slags. Fordi 1) Jeg elsker kærlighed. 2) Jeg elsker ham, jeg har giftet mig med og gør den slags med. 3) Jeg har ikke en opskrift på, hvordan det skal være, så hvis jeg er ked af det den dag romantikken skal løbe af stablen eller synes det er kedeligt, fordi ingen af os har oplevet noget nyt siden vi sad sådan sidst, spørger jeg bare, om man må læse eller om vi skal se en film. Og han er cool og kan finde på det samme. Vi ved jo begge to godt, at hvis begge ikke er i romantikkens hjørne, så bliver det kikset og presset. Så der er frihed til at se, hvad man faktisk vil, når det er planlagt, at nu skal vi rigtig ville hinanden.
Og skal man skændes, så skal man jo skændes. Har man en god fornemmelse af hinanden, mærker man jo øjeblikkeligt, hvis der er ugler i mosen, og de flyver ikke væk uanset hvor mange hjerteformede frikadeller, der ligger på tallerkenerne og hvor mange lys, der blafrer og stinker af vanilje rundt omkring badekarret. Så må man skændes. Og tage revanche en anden dag. Faktisk har den slags skændes-kroophold det jo også med at være forløsende og virkelig vigtige, selvom de ikke følger opskriften på idyl fra afgang til hjemkomst. Tit er det jo heller ikke tilfældigt, at man arrangerer sådan et ophold, når romantikken længe har haft det rigtig trængt og alle problemer bare er blevet fejet ind under dynen på grund af tidspres. Så er det nok det allersundeste at gøre, udnytte ferien til at få snakket ud - og så forhåbentlig have lidt tid tilbage bagefter i idyllen til at nyde morgenluften. Og igen opdage, at man vil hinanden på den rare måde.
Desto heldigere er man jo, hvis man så sidder der. To mennesker, der faktisk ikke hellere vil noget som helst andet end at se ind i hinandens øjne. Og det er da bare mere sandsynligt, at man gør det når man (eventuelt har fået skændtes færdig og det bliver i dag og man så) lige for en aften undlader at sidde med hovedet i hver sin smartphone og i stedet har skabt tid og rum med musik og lys og omsorg til at huske at holde af livet og vise kærligheden og sødmen mellem to elskende. Jeg er i hvert fald taknemmelig for, at der er en sød Valentin, der synes jeg er hans søde Valentine i dag. Meget. Ham bliver jeg helt fuld af kærlighed ved tanken om. Og i dag har jeg ham sjovt nok i tankerne hele tiden, ligesom jeg har små, søde sommerfugle i maven, bare fordi dagen i dag er dagen i dag er Valentins Dag. Tænk, jeg har min helt egen Valentin, og er endda også hans Valentine. Så heldig har jeg åbenbart lov at være i dag.
Glædelig Valentins Dag.
Valentins Dags-haderne har det nok som væsentligt argument, at man ikke bør fejre kærligheden på en særlig dag, men have det som en naturlig ting at gøre hver dag. I kombination med hadet til den kommercielle side af sagen, for det er jo ikke gået mange chokoladeforhandlere og blomsterbikse næsen forbi, at der er gode klichépenge at høste i dag. Har du glemt at sige jeg elsker dig de sidste par måneder? Heller ikke lige lyst til at sige det i dag? Giv en buket i stedet, så slipper du for det, men hun vil forstå, at det er lige akkurat det, du forsøger at sige i stedet for at sige det. Paradoksernes logik. Sig det med blomster. Sig det med chokolade. (Sjovt nok skal kvinder altid sige det med oralsex - hvor fanden er retfærdigheden i den fordeling, hun kan blive tyk og glo på ubrugelige langstilkede roser, han kan få nydelse på et sølvfad med hænderne bag nakken??) Nå. Hvorfor ikke bare sige det med ord? De er da fine til formålet. Eller sig det med vasketøj, det er da utroligt kærligt sådan at ordne fire maskiner, så den anden slet ikke behøver tænke på det den næste uges tid. Sig det med afløbet, jeg hader at rense afløb, og synes det er en langt større kærlighedserklæring at få gjort det, end at man har stukket hovedet ind i en Interflora og bestilt et dusin cheap love på formel.
Jeg køber i hvert fald ikke argumentet om, at Valentins Dag som sådan er noget pjat eller ligefrem noget forkert. For Valentins Dag skal jo ikke nødvendigvis hverken bruges til aflad for dagligdagens forsømmelse af kærlighed, ej heller til at booste de handlendes kasser. Den kan jo meget fint bare blive brugt til at være sammen, huske at elske lidt mere, være opmærksom og kærlig, nærværende og søde ved hinanden. Give gaver, hvis man har lyst, eller gå en tur hånd i hånd, gå ud at spise, elske, give en kompliment. Lukke laptoppene og se lidt længere i øjnene end på de andre travle dage. What's not to like?
Hvis man er single, hvilket jeg selv har været og været meget glad for at være i rigtig mange år, er man jo altså ikke udelukket fra kærlighedens skønne univers, bare fordi man ikke har en udkåren at dele dagen i dag med. Jeg køber heller ikke noget synd-argument. Man kan dyrke kærligheden til sig selv, omend det lyder ensomt. Det behøver det ikke være. Der er masser af luxus i at tænke, at alle de penge, man nu kunne få brugt på en gave og en middag for to, dem kan man nu i kærlighedens navn fyre af på sig selv. Med god samvittighed, det er jo en kærlighedsdag. Få en massage, køb drømmegaven til én selv, spis ekstra lækkert, crack champagnen åben og del den med en kær ven eller hunden, snak om kærlighed som noget vidunderligt før og efter lige nu, hvor man så er så heldig, så man også er foruden alle kærlighedens kvaler. Som single kan man tillade sig kun at drømme om det lækre og smukke ved at have en kæreste, og virkelighedens triste dagligdag, hvor den elskede ikke altid er så elsket er langt væk. Sæt musik og film på, drøm om kærlighed, eller tud inderligt over ensomheden i dag - med det smukke for øje, at man er et så kærligt og sødt et væsen, at man netop smægter efter kærlighed og ikke er kold og ligeglad på en kærlighedens dag. I øvrigt kan man jo dyrke sin kærlighed til så meget andet end et andet menneske, hvad som helst, og bare nyde at huske, at de ting, der får os til at føle kærlighed som regel gør os lidt gladere, og det er det, det handler om i dag. At lade kærligheden gøre en lidt gladere. Så kan man sidde og elske sin stuepalme intenst, kun spille yndlingsmusik, gå en ekstra time til fitness, bunde en flaske whiskey med nydelse og kærlighed til højlandets tåge, spille wii hele aftenen, knytte et gulvtæppe eller sætte billeder i album. Bare gøre det, der får kærligheden og livets fylde til at varme brystet. Ikke sidde fast i, at kærlighed kun er parforholdet forundt. Være Valentinssød ved sig selv.
Jeg forstår modstanden som en parallel til den, jeg selv føler til Mors Dag. Det er bare en billig vej ud af at udnytte mor hele året, for så er der jo en dag, hvor vi siger tak. Nu må lillemor prøve at have benene oppe, og vi fumler både en morgenmad sammen til hende og sætter blomster i vase. Tænk, hun har det da slet ikke så ringe endda, hvad? Nu kan hun rigtig se, hvor meget vi sætter pris på hendes indsats alle de andre dage. Dér må jeg kaste op. Det er virkelig en gang pis. Jo, der er kommet en Fars Dag også, men det hjælper ikke. De er ikke lige. For Mors Dag udspringer og bunder stadig i noget helt andet. Og det er et problem. Mor skal ikke have en dag. Mor skal have et liv.
Men Mors Dag er altså en anden diskussion. Jeg tager den gerne en anden dag. Hvem ved, måske bliver det relevant til maj, når jeg selv synes, vi skal til at fejre Mors Dag herhjemme, og jeg må æde mine ord. Haha. Det må der komme en blogpost om, og jeg lover at være ærlig. Men altså, Valentins Dag handler ikke om at udelukke eller negligere kærligheden i øvrigt, men om - også - at fejre den særligt en dag. Jeg kender faktisk til mennesker, der ikke rigtig bryder sig om fester, og ikke holder noget særligt i forbindelse med for eksempel fødselsdage. De synes, det trækker hverdagen ned, hvis man ligesom skal markere, at den ikke er god nok på de særlige dage. Så kan jeg næsten ikke forestille mig, at man kan blive mere leverpostej end det. Øv.
Jeg forstår godt Valentins Dags-modstanden fra de venner og veninder jeg har, som oplever planlagt romantik som et enormt pres. Som har prøvet at sidde der i bilen på vej på kroophold og nu skal der bare knaldes og nusses og gås lange ture og spises foran pejsen i kroens hyggeligste krog, og allerede der i bilen er der et rockerskænderi i gang, som først lægger sig halvanden dag senere, når halvdelen af ferien er gået. Med en meget stor fiaskofølelse omkring romantikken. Jeg har modtaget mange desperate mails og beskeder fra Venedig, Paris, Sorø, Stockholm, kærlighedsoaserne, hvor presset for lige pludselig at være toplykkelige sammen og ikke behøve inputs fra andet end hinanden i endeløse stunder på et baggrundstæppe af idyl og stilhed bare bliver for meget.
Sådan har jeg det bare ikke selv. Heldigvis synes jeg, det er vildt romantisk at lave den slags. Fordi 1) Jeg elsker kærlighed. 2) Jeg elsker ham, jeg har giftet mig med og gør den slags med. 3) Jeg har ikke en opskrift på, hvordan det skal være, så hvis jeg er ked af det den dag romantikken skal løbe af stablen eller synes det er kedeligt, fordi ingen af os har oplevet noget nyt siden vi sad sådan sidst, spørger jeg bare, om man må læse eller om vi skal se en film. Og han er cool og kan finde på det samme. Vi ved jo begge to godt, at hvis begge ikke er i romantikkens hjørne, så bliver det kikset og presset. Så der er frihed til at se, hvad man faktisk vil, når det er planlagt, at nu skal vi rigtig ville hinanden.
Og skal man skændes, så skal man jo skændes. Har man en god fornemmelse af hinanden, mærker man jo øjeblikkeligt, hvis der er ugler i mosen, og de flyver ikke væk uanset hvor mange hjerteformede frikadeller, der ligger på tallerkenerne og hvor mange lys, der blafrer og stinker af vanilje rundt omkring badekarret. Så må man skændes. Og tage revanche en anden dag. Faktisk har den slags skændes-kroophold det jo også med at være forløsende og virkelig vigtige, selvom de ikke følger opskriften på idyl fra afgang til hjemkomst. Tit er det jo heller ikke tilfældigt, at man arrangerer sådan et ophold, når romantikken længe har haft det rigtig trængt og alle problemer bare er blevet fejet ind under dynen på grund af tidspres. Så er det nok det allersundeste at gøre, udnytte ferien til at få snakket ud - og så forhåbentlig have lidt tid tilbage bagefter i idyllen til at nyde morgenluften. Og igen opdage, at man vil hinanden på den rare måde.
Desto heldigere er man jo, hvis man så sidder der. To mennesker, der faktisk ikke hellere vil noget som helst andet end at se ind i hinandens øjne. Og det er da bare mere sandsynligt, at man gør det når man (eventuelt har fået skændtes færdig og det bliver i dag og man så) lige for en aften undlader at sidde med hovedet i hver sin smartphone og i stedet har skabt tid og rum med musik og lys og omsorg til at huske at holde af livet og vise kærligheden og sødmen mellem to elskende. Jeg er i hvert fald taknemmelig for, at der er en sød Valentin, der synes jeg er hans søde Valentine i dag. Meget. Ham bliver jeg helt fuld af kærlighed ved tanken om. Og i dag har jeg ham sjovt nok i tankerne hele tiden, ligesom jeg har små, søde sommerfugle i maven, bare fordi dagen i dag er dagen i dag er Valentins Dag. Tænk, jeg har min helt egen Valentin, og er endda også hans Valentine. Så heldig har jeg åbenbart lov at være i dag.
Glædelig Valentins Dag.
Friday, February 10, 2012
Første danske post
Det føles meget jomfrueligt at skrive her på dansk. Langt mere nøgent end på engelsk. Måske bliver det for meget for mig. Så må jeg jo stoppe. Switche tilbage igen eller erkende, at jeg ikke kommer til at blogge meget mere, hvis hverken på dansk eller engelsk. Jeg gider jo ikke stå med røven bar og føle mig udstillet, fordi jeg absolut skal skrive noget. Hvis det føles for intimt på dansk, stopper jeg igen. Det lover jeg mig selv. Alternativt begynder at overveje tysk som en mulighed.
Næste udfordring er, at jeg ikke har så meget at skrive om. På engelsk er det ikke så vigtigt, der synes ordene bare at komme alligevel. Damn. Har jeg nu sluppet det sprog, hvor det var muligt for mig i snart seks år bare at pludre afsted, til fordel for ét, hvor der ligefrem skal stå noget, for at det giver mening at skrive på det? Selvmål. Når man nu ikke lige synes, man har noget at sige.
Nå. Nu kom der til at stå noget alligevel. Jeg har i øvrigt overvejet et dæknavn til min mand her på bloggen, så jeg kan skrive lidt om ham uden at han behøver være her med navn. Jeg foreslog ham Musklen. Det blev han faktisk overhovedet ikke smigret over, som jeg havde troet enhver mand ville blive. Han kiggede mere på mig som om jeg havde foreslået, at han i daglig tale fra nu af kunne hedde Tomhjerne!? Så jeg tænker endnu.
Min fem - om to uger seks-årige - stedsøn skal måske også introduceres. Han er lige skiftet fra at være R2D2 til at være Yoda, så det kunne han passende hedde. Han har også lige størrelsen. Og sødmen. I min mangel på noget at sige, kommer her et billede, hvor han for at gøre forvirringen komplet er Darth. Vi er på vej i Legoland i sommer, og der skulle han selvfølgelig være i kostume. Dagen før vores besøg gav udklædte børn gratis entré, men den oplysning kunne vi jo bare smile stift af, da vi langede stakken af hundredekronesedler over disken. Og alligevel stolte fulgtes med denne lille fyrste rundt i parken:
Næste udfordring er, at jeg ikke har så meget at skrive om. På engelsk er det ikke så vigtigt, der synes ordene bare at komme alligevel. Damn. Har jeg nu sluppet det sprog, hvor det var muligt for mig i snart seks år bare at pludre afsted, til fordel for ét, hvor der ligefrem skal stå noget, for at det giver mening at skrive på det? Selvmål. Når man nu ikke lige synes, man har noget at sige.
Nå. Nu kom der til at stå noget alligevel. Jeg har i øvrigt overvejet et dæknavn til min mand her på bloggen, så jeg kan skrive lidt om ham uden at han behøver være her med navn. Jeg foreslog ham Musklen. Det blev han faktisk overhovedet ikke smigret over, som jeg havde troet enhver mand ville blive. Han kiggede mere på mig som om jeg havde foreslået, at han i daglig tale fra nu af kunne hedde Tomhjerne!? Så jeg tænker endnu.
Min fem - om to uger seks-årige - stedsøn skal måske også introduceres. Han er lige skiftet fra at være R2D2 til at være Yoda, så det kunne han passende hedde. Han har også lige størrelsen. Og sødmen. I min mangel på noget at sige, kommer her et billede, hvor han for at gøre forvirringen komplet er Darth. Vi er på vej i Legoland i sommer, og der skulle han selvfølgelig være i kostume. Dagen før vores besøg gav udklædte børn gratis entré, men den oplysning kunne vi jo bare smile stift af, da vi langede stakken af hundredekronesedler over disken. Og alligevel stolte fulgtes med denne lille fyrste rundt i parken:
Friday, February 03, 2012
Time For A Minor Change
Something is about to happen. I don't know how to break this. I might continue writing this blog in Danish. This is partly because I sometimes miss writing stuff, that can only be written in Danish. Partly because I'm really not like exactly maintaining this blog very carefully anymore anyway. So I think. Something. Must. Happen. And maybe continuing in Danish will do the difference. If not, the blog will probably soon suffer a slow death anyway, but then at least it'll be bilingual.
So it's worth a try. It's a scary try for me. Almost 500 blogposts. Since 2006. We're approaching the six years for this blog's little existence. I don't have a clue if it'll thrive in Danish soil. Believe me, Danish is a fucked up language. Danes are crude readers. It's very intimate for me to just imagine spilling anything here in my mother tongue instead of the for me wonderfully blog adequate and tiny bit estranged English. Oh dear. Am I about to talk myself out of this?
Here's the tip for anyone, who might miss understanding in the future. Google Translate. If it comes out horrific what's in the post, write me a comment, and I'll rewrite the whole thing properly in English for you. Compromise?
Så er det gjort. Bloggen er hermed på dansk. Velkommen til nogen og farvel til andre, det er tid til at prøve noget nyt i blogospheren.
So it's worth a try. It's a scary try for me. Almost 500 blogposts. Since 2006. We're approaching the six years for this blog's little existence. I don't have a clue if it'll thrive in Danish soil. Believe me, Danish is a fucked up language. Danes are crude readers. It's very intimate for me to just imagine spilling anything here in my mother tongue instead of the for me wonderfully blog adequate and tiny bit estranged English. Oh dear. Am I about to talk myself out of this?
Here's the tip for anyone, who might miss understanding in the future. Google Translate. If it comes out horrific what's in the post, write me a comment, and I'll rewrite the whole thing properly in English for you. Compromise?
Så er det gjort. Bloggen er hermed på dansk. Velkommen til nogen og farvel til andre, det er tid til at prøve noget nyt i blogospheren.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
One Last Note To Self
I was once thinking about going to India to walk with a backpack and no goal. (I was also thinking about becoming religious. I was clearly losing my mind.)
It's cheap to go to India. I would do yoga and look at poor people and elephants all day long. Eat spicy food. Could it get any better? See some rainbows and dolphins and hippies dancing in the moonlight. Let my hair grow.
It made me wonder about the word family man. Why is there a word for family man? What about a family woman? Is that a pleonasm? Is it in the word 'woman' that she's a 'family person'? Whereas a man can be any kind of man, and then if he's into the family thing, he's that kind of a man. What kind of a woman walks around in India with no goal?
Note to self: Be any kind of woman you want.
It's cheap to go to India. I would do yoga and look at poor people and elephants all day long. Eat spicy food. Could it get any better? See some rainbows and dolphins and hippies dancing in the moonlight. Let my hair grow.
It made me wonder about the word family man. Why is there a word for family man? What about a family woman? Is that a pleonasm? Is it in the word 'woman' that she's a 'family person'? Whereas a man can be any kind of man, and then if he's into the family thing, he's that kind of a man. What kind of a woman walks around in India with no goal?
Note to self: Be any kind of woman you want.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Create Your Own Reality
My stepson at five is trying to sleep. He turns to me and whispers with his eyes closed, "I just imagine that I'm R2-D2. Dad's Luke Skywalker and you're Princess Leia. You're both dropping me off at kindergarten. And all my friends there think I'm really cool."
Friday, September 23, 2011
Quotes I Dig
An author is a fool who, not content with boring those he lives with, insists on boring future generations.
Quote: Charles de Montesquieu
Quote: Charles de Montesquieu
Monday, September 19, 2011
Good Reviews
Someone reviewed my book. You can read it here. Isn't that amazing? I do believe, I owe this kind reader a kiss .. And I can honestly tell you, I know it's not my mother.
This blog is celebrating its five year anniversary this month. I started writing here in September 2006. I'm pretty happy with the fact, that it still exists. To start blogging is far from the same as still blogging five years later. And in spite of breaks and dryspells, I still do put things out here with joy and the same thrill as I did in the first years. I have much love for this blog and those reading it, though I know hardly any of you. I have clues of a very few of you. Some who over the years have revealed to me, that they read this blog. One is an English teacher on the East Coast with Italian background. Another is a cool lady writer living close to San Francisco. A third is a secretary in Santa Cruz and a fourth is a retired engeneer near Aarhus in Denmark.
The rest of you are mysterious. But I think of you like distant friends in a strange anonymous realm. We don't know each other. Will probably never meet. Wouldn't recognize each other if we did. But there's a communication here that we maintain. We give something in each our end.
It's all good.
This blog is celebrating its five year anniversary this month. I started writing here in September 2006. I'm pretty happy with the fact, that it still exists. To start blogging is far from the same as still blogging five years later. And in spite of breaks and dryspells, I still do put things out here with joy and the same thrill as I did in the first years. I have much love for this blog and those reading it, though I know hardly any of you. I have clues of a very few of you. Some who over the years have revealed to me, that they read this blog. One is an English teacher on the East Coast with Italian background. Another is a cool lady writer living close to San Francisco. A third is a secretary in Santa Cruz and a fourth is a retired engeneer near Aarhus in Denmark.
The rest of you are mysterious. But I think of you like distant friends in a strange anonymous realm. We don't know each other. Will probably never meet. Wouldn't recognize each other if we did. But there's a communication here that we maintain. We give something in each our end.
It's all good.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Women On Top In Denmark
Today it's certain. We get our first female prime minister in Denmark. Election day was yesterday.
Since we're a monarchy, we have a queen or a king and a prime minister.
Our queen is Her Royal Highness Margrethe II.
She's here:
And today it is certain that our next prime minister will be a woman. She's the first female prime minister in the history of the Danish democracy. She is Helle Thorning-Schmidt.
She's here:
I can't help being proud. Two women on top of this country. Could be no big deal. But it somehow is. Maybe just because it's the first time, but that's enough to make it. It's historic. Still so many firsts. First female priest, first female bus driver, first female marathon runner. And now prime minister.
Maybe if I were black, I'd think a black president was the biggest. That was big, is big, even here on the other side of the earth. But being a woman'n all, for me it's bigger to live under the first Danish female prime minister. A woman. For real. In top of aaaaaaall the guys. It's cool. Luckily she's not a mean heartless ice cold man in disguise bitch Margareth Thatcher type. She's just a cool woman. She's good. And she's the leader of the pack now.
Since we're a monarchy, we have a queen or a king and a prime minister.
Our queen is Her Royal Highness Margrethe II.
She's here:
And today it is certain that our next prime minister will be a woman. She's the first female prime minister in the history of the Danish democracy. She is Helle Thorning-Schmidt.
She's here:
I can't help being proud. Two women on top of this country. Could be no big deal. But it somehow is. Maybe just because it's the first time, but that's enough to make it. It's historic. Still so many firsts. First female priest, first female bus driver, first female marathon runner. And now prime minister.
Maybe if I were black, I'd think a black president was the biggest. That was big, is big, even here on the other side of the earth. But being a woman'n all, for me it's bigger to live under the first Danish female prime minister. A woman. For real. In top of aaaaaaall the guys. It's cool. Luckily she's not a mean heartless ice cold man in disguise bitch Margareth Thatcher type. She's just a cool woman. She's good. And she's the leader of the pack now.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
An Amazon Available For You Now
One of my early books is now available as e-book on Amazon. It's very cheap. It can be downloaded to all electronics, Macs, Kindle, Ipods and pads, pcs, whatever you have.
Here it is in the US. And here in Europe. The rest of the world must figure out where of these two places to go. If they want to read. My fantastic. Little. Book.
Most of my books live a very secret life, either in the libraries or still unpublished. This is one of the first moves I've made to make one of them available. I'm not into self-promoting, which is also why I don't spread any word about my published books and this blog and such. When I'm used as an expert, for instance in magazines with full page interviews and pictures of me, I only tell my mother about it.
I still live in the happy world of 'the writing is enough'. But I consider moving into 'someone reading it would also be nice' .. My children's books are published at a press where they also think, my books for now do best only in libraries. They sell very well .. to libraries .. which means, you can find four book titles - this month it will be five - by me in the libraries. But not a single one in the book stores.
But no more!! Now you can have this book 'I Will Tell You My Story But Only Once' on your own computer or device less than one minute from you order it! I'm so fortunate that readers of it kept asking me insistingly 'Why is this book not for sale?' Finally I figured, it could actually be rather easily if I just spend the time getting it out there as an e-book. I have all rights and it's only been published very small in California a few years ago. It's totally underground material emerging, this.
I set the price to the minimum demanded by Amazon, the rest is tax and fees. I'll get one dollar for every sold book. Please spread the word if you like the book.
And about moneys - things will actually change! I've been to a clairvoyant recently, who said I'll be big on e-books. I also spoke to a woman last week who told me very convincingly not to worry about a single thing, because I had big stuff ahead of me - also financially. I found a place on the net and made a long and thorough numerology prediction for myself yesterday, and it kept saying, that my destiny is prosperity, recognition and success. So I finally made those great foresights possible now by spending some days html-coding and preparing this book for you to find now on the internet. I if you purchase it yourself, you're also allowed to lend it for free to a friend (or enemy, of course. I guess that depends on how you find the book). So not only can you buy the book, it comes with a present you can send as a link to someone and say, Hey, here's a funny book for you. The free loan is for two weeks, I believe.
If you read it and even write a review comment or rate it, I will 1) Buy you a beer and a shot and hear what you thought of the book 2) kiss you tenderly 3) give you my autograph on your forehead. With a kiss. Your choice. I'll appreciate it. Hope you will too!
Friday, September 02, 2011
Quotes I Dig
Sex. In America an obsession. In other parts of the world a fact.
Quote: Marlene Dietrich
Quote: Marlene Dietrich
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Pippi – A Queer Snail. Pippi Meets Foucault. And Goes To Germany
My thesis is very asked for these years. I made a book of it, which is pretty much sold out by now. The Danish libraries have mostly bought it and some book stores. There are by now very few copies left of the small edition.
Ok, here it goes:
The main focus of the thesis is to examine the potential of queer theory. The main theory is that queer theory today has been narrowed down from the original potential which is contained in its theoretical roots. The central question is: ”Of what is queer theory capable?” This question is sought answered first by examining the theoretical fundament of queer theory and the basic aspects found there. The main theorists are Michel Foucault and Judith Butler, and also Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick. The main aspects of Foucault’s and Butler’s theories upon which queer theory is based are: Power, subjection, gender, and drag. Sedgwick mainly contributes with her analysis of homosocial desire or simply homosociality. Secondly the question is sought answered by applying certain queer theoretical aspects to Astrid Lindgren’s works about Pippi Longstocking. In order to test queer theory’s boundaries and potential field of usage, non-queer theoretical aspects are tried out as well within the frame of a queer theoretical text analysis.
The thesis examines queer theory as a theory self-claimed to be critical towards heteronormativity. The basis for queer theory’s critical position is revealed particularly through an examination of Foucault’s and Butler’s critical relation to normativity as the theory’s critical theoretical platform. The thesis further looks at Danish queer theory today and its way of using queer theory in literary analysis.
In the analysis of Pippi Longstocking both the more traditional queer theoretical concepts of gender and identity are applied to the text. Then in an attempt to expand the usage of queer theoretical criticism, other not traditional queer theoretical aspects of Pippi Longstocking are treated in the analysis. The subjects are ways of living, authority, the education system, and the police. The aim is to test a possible expansion and a strengthening of queer theory from a narrow focus on heteronormativity to a broader focus on normativity.
The thesis takes the critical stand that queer theory itself has become normative and thereby has lost its position as an unsettled position; a potential point in the theory’s original stage where it held a strong possibility to criticize and compromise heteronormativity. Finally the thesis contains critical reflection over its own treatment of normativity and includes the Danish theoretic Frederik Stjernfeldt as an example of a theorist with a clearly normativity-positive stand.
University of Copenhagen
Department of Arts and Cultural Studies
Modern Culture and Cultural Communication
Was that a teaser or WHAT?
Yesterday I received a phone call from the Danish book store, which buys internationally for different foreign clients. Last time they called me, it was because a client of theirs wanted to buy the book. I curiously asked who was their client. They wouldn't tell me. I insisted, but the nice lady on the phone acted like she was Kobayashi, covering for Keyser Söze himself. I didn't get it. In the end, after a nerve wrecking conversation, I somehow made her tell me, that it was a library in the Faroe Islands, who wanted to buy my book, and I agreed to sell her a copy.
Yesterday, we repeated the situation. She calls and wants to buy another copy. I ask for whom? She answers, For my client. I ask, Who's your client? She says, Someone, who'd like to buy a copy of your book. Now I smile and suddenly remember. Oh, this is Mrs. Mysteriously Mysterious, whom I spoke to about six months ago, when the Faroe Islands wanted the same. Why the mystery? I mean, was she really protecting the Faroe Islands because they were going to wash some dirty money clean in the international transaction of approximately $75 to my bank account for my book about Pippi Longstocking? Shit, I know the global crime economy works in mysterious ways, but that would be beyond me, though.
Yesterday I tell her, I have so few copies left, so I'm not selling to anyone. This kind of information black mail apparently had the completely wanted effect on her. She this time immediately says, My client is from Germany. Who is it? I ask. It's a German library, she says. Oh, where? I ask. In Germany, she says. Now I laugh out loud, because she's dead serious and I found it to be great humor from this dry sixty-year old woman to reveal to the curious me, that the German library was really, actually in Germany. I laugh very loudly right until I hear very clearly, that only I am laughing. Her end of the phone is seriously quiet. I compose myself and say with absolutely no more laughter in my voice, Well, I found that to be funny. Ahem, with the German library being situated .. in .. Germany. Well, all right, where in Germany are we talking about? She says, My client is a German university library. Goddamn. I have to give her: She's stone cold, especially for a an old lady book dealer. I've rarely met this kind of fuck you insisting no info dealer attitude. Not even when dealing with weapons, drugs, children.
I now return to the first strategy and kindly say, I have so few copies left, that I'm really not willing to sell to just anyone(!!!!!!!!). She suddenly breaks and whispers, It's .. in .. Kiel. I say, All right, I'll sell you a copy. We nod secretively in each end. And end the phone call with a quick glance over our shoulders. I'm sure we're both up in high pulse at this point in time. At least, I am. Book dealing across borders is a serious matter.
Anyway, since the thesis is so popular - here in Denmark, it was reserved in the libraries for a year into the future when it first came, and now Germany has also discovered its great qualities - I will publish a short abstract in English here for all of you dear people to see, what you're missing. Unless you speak Danish, then you can just call Mrs. Kobayashi and have her buy you a copy of 'Pippi - A Queer Snail'. If .. you .. dare .. get .. into .. this .. business ..
First, check out the book cover .. Foucault with Pippi's braids:
Yesterday, we repeated the situation. She calls and wants to buy another copy. I ask for whom? She answers, For my client. I ask, Who's your client? She says, Someone, who'd like to buy a copy of your book. Now I smile and suddenly remember. Oh, this is Mrs. Mysteriously Mysterious, whom I spoke to about six months ago, when the Faroe Islands wanted the same. Why the mystery? I mean, was she really protecting the Faroe Islands because they were going to wash some dirty money clean in the international transaction of approximately $75 to my bank account for my book about Pippi Longstocking? Shit, I know the global crime economy works in mysterious ways, but that would be beyond me, though.
Yesterday I tell her, I have so few copies left, so I'm not selling to anyone. This kind of information black mail apparently had the completely wanted effect on her. She this time immediately says, My client is from Germany. Who is it? I ask. It's a German library, she says. Oh, where? I ask. In Germany, she says. Now I laugh out loud, because she's dead serious and I found it to be great humor from this dry sixty-year old woman to reveal to the curious me, that the German library was really, actually in Germany. I laugh very loudly right until I hear very clearly, that only I am laughing. Her end of the phone is seriously quiet. I compose myself and say with absolutely no more laughter in my voice, Well, I found that to be funny. Ahem, with the German library being situated .. in .. Germany. Well, all right, where in Germany are we talking about? She says, My client is a German university library. Goddamn. I have to give her: She's stone cold, especially for a an old lady book dealer. I've rarely met this kind of fuck you insisting no info dealer attitude. Not even when dealing with weapons, drugs, children.
I now return to the first strategy and kindly say, I have so few copies left, that I'm really not willing to sell to just anyone(!!!!!!!!). She suddenly breaks and whispers, It's .. in .. Kiel. I say, All right, I'll sell you a copy. We nod secretively in each end. And end the phone call with a quick glance over our shoulders. I'm sure we're both up in high pulse at this point in time. At least, I am. Book dealing across borders is a serious matter.
Anyway, since the thesis is so popular - here in Denmark, it was reserved in the libraries for a year into the future when it first came, and now Germany has also discovered its great qualities - I will publish a short abstract in English here for all of you dear people to see, what you're missing. Unless you speak Danish, then you can just call Mrs. Kobayashi and have her buy you a copy of 'Pippi - A Queer Snail'. If .. you .. dare .. get .. into .. this .. business ..
First, check out the book cover .. Foucault with Pippi's braids:
Ok, here it goes:
The main focus of the thesis is to examine the potential of queer theory. The main theory is that queer theory today has been narrowed down from the original potential which is contained in its theoretical roots. The central question is: ”Of what is queer theory capable?” This question is sought answered first by examining the theoretical fundament of queer theory and the basic aspects found there. The main theorists are Michel Foucault and Judith Butler, and also Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick. The main aspects of Foucault’s and Butler’s theories upon which queer theory is based are: Power, subjection, gender, and drag. Sedgwick mainly contributes with her analysis of homosocial desire or simply homosociality. Secondly the question is sought answered by applying certain queer theoretical aspects to Astrid Lindgren’s works about Pippi Longstocking. In order to test queer theory’s boundaries and potential field of usage, non-queer theoretical aspects are tried out as well within the frame of a queer theoretical text analysis.
The thesis examines queer theory as a theory self-claimed to be critical towards heteronormativity. The basis for queer theory’s critical position is revealed particularly through an examination of Foucault’s and Butler’s critical relation to normativity as the theory’s critical theoretical platform. The thesis further looks at Danish queer theory today and its way of using queer theory in literary analysis.
In the analysis of Pippi Longstocking both the more traditional queer theoretical concepts of gender and identity are applied to the text. Then in an attempt to expand the usage of queer theoretical criticism, other not traditional queer theoretical aspects of Pippi Longstocking are treated in the analysis. The subjects are ways of living, authority, the education system, and the police. The aim is to test a possible expansion and a strengthening of queer theory from a narrow focus on heteronormativity to a broader focus on normativity.
The thesis takes the critical stand that queer theory itself has become normative and thereby has lost its position as an unsettled position; a potential point in the theory’s original stage where it held a strong possibility to criticize and compromise heteronormativity. Finally the thesis contains critical reflection over its own treatment of normativity and includes the Danish theoretic Frederik Stjernfeldt as an example of a theorist with a clearly normativity-positive stand.
University of Copenhagen
Department of Arts and Cultural Studies
Modern Culture and Cultural Communication
Was that a teaser or WHAT?
Friday, August 12, 2011
Tuesday, August 09, 2011
Quotes I Dig
A child of five would understand this. Send someone to fetch a child of five.
Quote: Grouchu Marx
Quote: Grouchu Marx
Saturday, July 02, 2011
The Shattered Marble of Athens
I came back from Athens yesterday. Once again I found myself in one of the hotspots of the world. In all of Europe, there's no place where things are taking off these days as they are in Athens right now. My boyfriend was there with me the last week, and we experienced the demonstrations and street fights, which were the worst Athens has seen so far this year. Since he's a journalist and the uproar over the past weeks moved closer and closer to our apartment until teargas was on our roof terrace and chasing police motor cycles were in the streets right underneath us, we had to go down there these last days and be close to it.
Some days we didn't go near the parliament square Syntagma until midnight when the fighting would be over. But then we'd find and walk through the scenery of a recently fought civil war. Burned out ticket kiosks and news paper stands, burned out TV coaches, burned out trash containers, trash, and worst of all; trashed street environment and marble pieces in different sizes shattered all over. The marble from fountains, stairways, stair stones, street plant pots, the pavement of the streets themselves - broken and used for throwing. In certain areas of the city, the streets were paved with these pieces of marble, the aesthetic treasures of the past, now broken into tiny bits up to the size of a fist, used to throw at the police.
In the daytime we sometimes walked the streets with the demonstrators and waved back and forth according to the teargas thrown by the police. Back and forth. Luckily, the wind often helped, so it was bearable. And we didn't move to the front row, after all, this was not our fight. But the crowd was not made of the few angry young men. We moved constantly amongst all kinds of people - except the very rich and the very old - and they were all prepared to be there. This was not a shock to them, the street confrontation with the police. They came to show their feelings and beliefs, and were prepared to take this with. Housewives, ladies in their fifties, sixties. They all came with masks and white zinc salve on their faces to try and withstand the gas from the police. They were prepared to be thrown teargas at. The women who would typically be pacifists and try to keep their sons home from war. Now they showed in the streets with white painted faces and masks over their mouth and nose. They were angry.
Hordes of Greeks and hordes of police troops. I walked one night a few weeks ago, I'd been in Denmark for a weekend midway through my stay, I came back from the airport, and walked past hundreds of police men. The airport bus wouldn't ride any closer to the center, so I was dropped off forty-five minutes from where I lived. I walked for so long past motor cycles parked by the side of the street all the way to Syntagma, where the demonstrators were. I asked an officer, What way would you recommend me to walk, how many are you, and where are you from? He told me, there were three hundred motor cycles right there, waiting.
That night, I walked another way home. I lived close to the Syntagma Square, and didn't want to get caught right between the police troops and the demonstrators. But it was like that. Walking home on a quiet boulevard at 1AM in a cool breeze. Only difference from any other night was the passing six hundred concentrated police men in the quiet night, all of them awaiting in black battle uniforms, helmets, and ballistic vests, they were two on each bike, armed, taken in from the entire region of Attica, probably to be enough but also so they wouldn't know the demonstrators personally and have a problem beating them up in case. Focused and excited. Intense tension and intention in the night air.
One of the days where the demonstrating and fighting was at its worst, we had no choice. We were in the middle of the revolution, we were not really a part of it. We wanted to show our sympathy, but this would never be our fight. We didn't want to risk ourselves to be in this. We didn't want to be war tourists getting a kick out of other people's misery and real problems. But we were there. Stuck in the middle of Athens - I was given this grant stay more than six months before going, and we'd both ordered tickets back then. What could we do? It was 91 degrees outside. It was the middle of an afternoon. The city all around us was in complete chaos and constant uproar. The streets full of fires and teargas and shouting and clapping masses with white faces and gas masks, dust masks, surgery masks. The air full of gas, sirens, battle cries, smoke, anger, tension, fear, colliding wills, and collective frustration.
We went to the kitchen of our apartment and made a tray with little bowls of fresh cherries and nuts. Put a bottle of champagne and glasses on it. Went to the bathroom and made ourselves a hot tub with drops of Jojoba oil in it. Brought the laptop out and found Martha Wainwright singing Edith Piaf. We lit a few candles. Turned out the light. Shut the door.
We laid in each end. And for those hours, we couldn't hear the police nor the ambulance sirens. We couldn't taste the gas. Couldn't feel the constant anger in the city's air. We drank champagne, massaged feet, fed each other cherries, smiled blissfully and laughed pleasurably while we listened to French cabaret evergreens in the quiet and romantically candle lit bathroom. And we spread a little love in the middle of all this.
I guess it's what bohemians do, when there's nothing else for us to do. We surrender to decadence. Fight our own little battle against the system and the rules. We drink champagne in the afternoon.
The fights were still on when we came out, teargas still lingering in the air on our roof terrace. Later that night we walked over the Syntagma Square. I picked up a piece of marble and walked with it in my hand for a while. Someone had thrown that piece at a police officer's shield earlier that day. After it being smashed of a fountain, which may easily have been in the square for centuries. We moved silently through the scene. All of these events, from the white painted mask wearing housewives to the bathroom bubble of love and laissez-faire. It's all equally real and unreal, two different worlds in the same world, existing side by side, or rather one inside the other, a capsule of soft and sweet love inside the Athens capsule of roaring and struggling masses and armed police forces, all inside a quiet summer Europe, all underneath the same wide, huge blue sky.
Two years ago I was in Helmand. I crossed the Helmand River by a rope because of the strong undercurrent, with water up to my chest, in helmet, ballistic vest, ballistic eye wear, carrying my own morphine and a tourniquet, while more than thirty soldiers were pointing their guns in all directions to protect the river crossing. I still haven't written anything here about that trip. I don't know if I ever will. The impressions of the war were strong. I guess I'm still digesting.
Athens is for now over for me. Today I'm back in Copenhagen. So is my love. It's 2PM. We're still eating breakfast.
Some days we didn't go near the parliament square Syntagma until midnight when the fighting would be over. But then we'd find and walk through the scenery of a recently fought civil war. Burned out ticket kiosks and news paper stands, burned out TV coaches, burned out trash containers, trash, and worst of all; trashed street environment and marble pieces in different sizes shattered all over. The marble from fountains, stairways, stair stones, street plant pots, the pavement of the streets themselves - broken and used for throwing. In certain areas of the city, the streets were paved with these pieces of marble, the aesthetic treasures of the past, now broken into tiny bits up to the size of a fist, used to throw at the police.
In the daytime we sometimes walked the streets with the demonstrators and waved back and forth according to the teargas thrown by the police. Back and forth. Luckily, the wind often helped, so it was bearable. And we didn't move to the front row, after all, this was not our fight. But the crowd was not made of the few angry young men. We moved constantly amongst all kinds of people - except the very rich and the very old - and they were all prepared to be there. This was not a shock to them, the street confrontation with the police. They came to show their feelings and beliefs, and were prepared to take this with. Housewives, ladies in their fifties, sixties. They all came with masks and white zinc salve on their faces to try and withstand the gas from the police. They were prepared to be thrown teargas at. The women who would typically be pacifists and try to keep their sons home from war. Now they showed in the streets with white painted faces and masks over their mouth and nose. They were angry.
Hordes of Greeks and hordes of police troops. I walked one night a few weeks ago, I'd been in Denmark for a weekend midway through my stay, I came back from the airport, and walked past hundreds of police men. The airport bus wouldn't ride any closer to the center, so I was dropped off forty-five minutes from where I lived. I walked for so long past motor cycles parked by the side of the street all the way to Syntagma, where the demonstrators were. I asked an officer, What way would you recommend me to walk, how many are you, and where are you from? He told me, there were three hundred motor cycles right there, waiting.
That night, I walked another way home. I lived close to the Syntagma Square, and didn't want to get caught right between the police troops and the demonstrators. But it was like that. Walking home on a quiet boulevard at 1AM in a cool breeze. Only difference from any other night was the passing six hundred concentrated police men in the quiet night, all of them awaiting in black battle uniforms, helmets, and ballistic vests, they were two on each bike, armed, taken in from the entire region of Attica, probably to be enough but also so they wouldn't know the demonstrators personally and have a problem beating them up in case. Focused and excited. Intense tension and intention in the night air.
One of the days where the demonstrating and fighting was at its worst, we had no choice. We were in the middle of the revolution, we were not really a part of it. We wanted to show our sympathy, but this would never be our fight. We didn't want to risk ourselves to be in this. We didn't want to be war tourists getting a kick out of other people's misery and real problems. But we were there. Stuck in the middle of Athens - I was given this grant stay more than six months before going, and we'd both ordered tickets back then. What could we do? It was 91 degrees outside. It was the middle of an afternoon. The city all around us was in complete chaos and constant uproar. The streets full of fires and teargas and shouting and clapping masses with white faces and gas masks, dust masks, surgery masks. The air full of gas, sirens, battle cries, smoke, anger, tension, fear, colliding wills, and collective frustration.
We went to the kitchen of our apartment and made a tray with little bowls of fresh cherries and nuts. Put a bottle of champagne and glasses on it. Went to the bathroom and made ourselves a hot tub with drops of Jojoba oil in it. Brought the laptop out and found Martha Wainwright singing Edith Piaf. We lit a few candles. Turned out the light. Shut the door.
We laid in each end. And for those hours, we couldn't hear the police nor the ambulance sirens. We couldn't taste the gas. Couldn't feel the constant anger in the city's air. We drank champagne, massaged feet, fed each other cherries, smiled blissfully and laughed pleasurably while we listened to French cabaret evergreens in the quiet and romantically candle lit bathroom. And we spread a little love in the middle of all this.
I guess it's what bohemians do, when there's nothing else for us to do. We surrender to decadence. Fight our own little battle against the system and the rules. We drink champagne in the afternoon.
The fights were still on when we came out, teargas still lingering in the air on our roof terrace. Later that night we walked over the Syntagma Square. I picked up a piece of marble and walked with it in my hand for a while. Someone had thrown that piece at a police officer's shield earlier that day. After it being smashed of a fountain, which may easily have been in the square for centuries. We moved silently through the scene. All of these events, from the white painted mask wearing housewives to the bathroom bubble of love and laissez-faire. It's all equally real and unreal, two different worlds in the same world, existing side by side, or rather one inside the other, a capsule of soft and sweet love inside the Athens capsule of roaring and struggling masses and armed police forces, all inside a quiet summer Europe, all underneath the same wide, huge blue sky.
Two years ago I was in Helmand. I crossed the Helmand River by a rope because of the strong undercurrent, with water up to my chest, in helmet, ballistic vest, ballistic eye wear, carrying my own morphine and a tourniquet, while more than thirty soldiers were pointing their guns in all directions to protect the river crossing. I still haven't written anything here about that trip. I don't know if I ever will. The impressions of the war were strong. I guess I'm still digesting.
Athens is for now over for me. Today I'm back in Copenhagen. So is my love. It's 2PM. We're still eating breakfast.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Celebrating With a Fish Foot Food Feast
I'm through another rewrite of my novel script. That's what I came to Athens to do, and now it's done. I have at least one more rewrite, so the script is not done yet. But major changes were made this time, and I believe to the better. The next will smooth out things even more .. one more may even finish it .. or the one after that might .. For now, I'm happy to have come this far. The script is definitely different from when I came to Athens a few weeks ago, and I feel good about its progress.
I thought I'd celebrate, so I went today and stuck my feet in a fish tank to have them nibble on my feet. The place is called a fish spa. The fish are about an inch long. You put the feet into a tank with about a hundred fish, and they tickle and caress you by sucking and licking your feet. It softens the feet and rids you of hard skin. I asked, is this actually the fish food they get, like do they only get foot food here? No, they told me, they also get food. This, for them, is just a foot snack. Not to confuse with a food snack, I suppose. At a point, I stuck my hand down there. Never have I as literally felt, that I handed someone a hand snack. It tickled in a very pleasant way. I figure they were having as much of a party as was I.
Tomorrow I'm flying back to Copenhagen for a long family weekend, lasting till Tuesday. I simply can't wait to see them and hug them and give them all the cheap crap presents I've bought for them down here. With good stuff in between. Oh, the love. Never forget to give it away.
I thought I'd celebrate, so I went today and stuck my feet in a fish tank to have them nibble on my feet. The place is called a fish spa. The fish are about an inch long. You put the feet into a tank with about a hundred fish, and they tickle and caress you by sucking and licking your feet. It softens the feet and rids you of hard skin. I asked, is this actually the fish food they get, like do they only get foot food here? No, they told me, they also get food. This, for them, is just a foot snack. Not to confuse with a food snack, I suppose. At a point, I stuck my hand down there. Never have I as literally felt, that I handed someone a hand snack. It tickled in a very pleasant way. I figure they were having as much of a party as was I.
Tomorrow I'm flying back to Copenhagen for a long family weekend, lasting till Tuesday. I simply can't wait to see them and hug them and give them all the cheap crap presents I've bought for them down here. With good stuff in between. Oh, the love. Never forget to give it away.
Tuesday, June 07, 2011
Greek Wedding Underneath My Balony
Last night, a wedding took place right beneath my balcony outside the little church on the square. They put an alter outside with big candles on each side. Cute, but man. I can't help it. I have a hard time taking religious ceremonies completely seriously.
The priest is dressed in a funny costume, here in the greek orthodox church it's a high black hat with a veil down his back. Over a black gown to his feet. He made the couple kiss the bible and stuff. They moved a lot around, now stand here, now there, now back again. A girl had to put rings with long, white strings on their heads, then switch them, then switch them back, and again, and she messed up, so the priest had to correct her way of moving those props around over the couple's heads. The priest was moving his arms into different designed positions. A lot of stuff like that, moving the rings for the fingers from one to another and back - I just find it all to be a bit of a circus. They're obviously trying to make something magic and sacred by all those ritualized actions.
I of course loved that she messed up with the rings, because it makes it the more obvious, that something quite absurd is going on. Is the holy ghost supposed to enter the scene because of some rings moving around over some heads? Will the ghost now be confused and not appear or will it come to the wedding, even though the ring movement was out of order? What does it then matter, in what order and with which hands over and under which, the rings are moved around, if the ghost appears anyway? Will it maybe appear and be a little pissed off, You KNOW I only come in a good mood, when you do this with your RIGHT hand OVER your LEFT, and FIRST the groom, THEN the bride, and THEN back, and this time, you took the GRRRRROM'S ring UNDER the bride's ring, and you KNOW, how I hate that!!!!! Oops, an angry holy ghost at your wedding, you don't want that .. better get those circus tricks right the first time.
Anyway, they got married. And probably felt more special and connected to something big because of all the performance with costumes, props, choreography, and gestures. Blessed are the believers. I guess.
The priest is dressed in a funny costume, here in the greek orthodox church it's a high black hat with a veil down his back. Over a black gown to his feet. He made the couple kiss the bible and stuff. They moved a lot around, now stand here, now there, now back again. A girl had to put rings with long, white strings on their heads, then switch them, then switch them back, and again, and she messed up, so the priest had to correct her way of moving those props around over the couple's heads. The priest was moving his arms into different designed positions. A lot of stuff like that, moving the rings for the fingers from one to another and back - I just find it all to be a bit of a circus. They're obviously trying to make something magic and sacred by all those ritualized actions.
I of course loved that she messed up with the rings, because it makes it the more obvious, that something quite absurd is going on. Is the holy ghost supposed to enter the scene because of some rings moving around over some heads? Will the ghost now be confused and not appear or will it come to the wedding, even though the ring movement was out of order? What does it then matter, in what order and with which hands over and under which, the rings are moved around, if the ghost appears anyway? Will it maybe appear and be a little pissed off, You KNOW I only come in a good mood, when you do this with your RIGHT hand OVER your LEFT, and FIRST the groom, THEN the bride, and THEN back, and this time, you took the GRRRRROM'S ring UNDER the bride's ring, and you KNOW, how I hate that!!!!! Oops, an angry holy ghost at your wedding, you don't want that .. better get those circus tricks right the first time.
Anyway, they got married. And probably felt more special and connected to something big because of all the performance with costumes, props, choreography, and gestures. Blessed are the believers. I guess.
Friday, June 03, 2011
Pics From My Balcony in Athens
I believe these photos are very authentic, as they do include accidental moving around for photo session moments captured as well as posing with view behind me shots. I'm in all the pictures for you to believe, that I'm actually here. I have this lovely balcony, from where these shots are taken, and also a beautiful roof terrace upstairs. From there the view is gorgeous and there's plenty of space for barbecue parties and such. If only I had friends here. I've been working up there under a parasol these days. Tonight I'm on the balcony.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Work Mode In Athens
I'm leaving for Athens tomorrow early morning. I have scholarship housing for one month, an apartment in the old part of Athens, right below Acropolis. I will once again be exiled, alone, bored, and hopefully extremely efficient. I bought new sandals today. I will go and get my suitcase in the basement soon. I have sunglasses. A book. My laptop. I will bring my vitamins. Lose, bright colored dresses.
And I will work. And work. And work.
And then be interrupted. I'm actually going home for five days in the middle of the stay. I have my very dear stepson here, and I couldn't leave him for a whole month. Besides, I knew I couldn't concentrate, if I didn't know I'd see him again soon, and two weeks is tops. So a small interruption there. Then my boyfriend will come for the last week and we'll take some vacation time together. I expect to work in the daytime while he's there though. He'll be on his own which I'm sure he'll enjoy. I really want to bring home some completed text, and I know pretty much exactly what I will consider a success.
Wish me work.
Thursday, May 05, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Quotes I Dig
Woman is the nigger of the world
Yes she is, think about it
Woman is the nigger of the world
Think about it, do something about it
We make her paint her face and dance
If she won't be a slave, we say that she don't love us
If she's real, we say she's trying to be a man
While putting her down, we pretend that she's above us
Woman is the nigger of the world...yes she is
If you don't believe me, take a look at the one you're with
Woman is the slave of the slaves
Ah, yeah, better scream about it
We make her bear and raise our children
And then we leave her flat for being a fat old mother hen
We tell her home is the only place she should be
Then we complain that she's too unworldly to be our friend
Woman is the nigger of the world, yes she is
If you don't believe me, take a look at the one you're with
Woman is the slave to the slaves
Yeah, alright, hit it!
We insult her every day on TV
And wonder why she has no guts or confidence
When she's young we kill her will to be free
While telling her not to be so smart we put her down for being so dumb
Woman is the nigger of the world
Yes she is, if you don't believe me, take a look at the one you're with
Woman is the slave to the slaves
Yes she is, if you believe me, you better scream about it
We make her paint her face and dance
We make her paint her face and dance
We make her paint her face and dance
We make her paint her face and dance
We make her paint her face and dance
We make her paint her face and dance
Quote: John Lennon
Yes she is, think about it
Woman is the nigger of the world
Think about it, do something about it
We make her paint her face and dance
If she won't be a slave, we say that she don't love us
If she's real, we say she's trying to be a man
While putting her down, we pretend that she's above us
Woman is the nigger of the world...yes she is
If you don't believe me, take a look at the one you're with
Woman is the slave of the slaves
Ah, yeah, better scream about it
We make her bear and raise our children
And then we leave her flat for being a fat old mother hen
We tell her home is the only place she should be
Then we complain that she's too unworldly to be our friend
Woman is the nigger of the world, yes she is
If you don't believe me, take a look at the one you're with
Woman is the slave to the slaves
Yeah, alright, hit it!
We insult her every day on TV
And wonder why she has no guts or confidence
When she's young we kill her will to be free
While telling her not to be so smart we put her down for being so dumb
Woman is the nigger of the world
Yes she is, if you don't believe me, take a look at the one you're with
Woman is the slave to the slaves
Yes she is, if you believe me, you better scream about it
We make her paint her face and dance
We make her paint her face and dance
We make her paint her face and dance
We make her paint her face and dance
We make her paint her face and dance
We make her paint her face and dance
Quote: John Lennon
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Cold Cuts
I've exiled myself again. I'm staying in my mother's apartment while she's in China. Last night it was 3 degrees F outside here. I'm in the far North of Denmark, only half an hour's flight away from Copenhagen, but much more snowy and freezing up here. People have different hair up here, and more dogs. I'm driving my mother's car in the snow, it's like fun park with a risk. Trying to control the out of control, slightly sliding freely, like being in a Cohen movie, hoping it's only a transportation scene.
I'm going to work for one week here alone. Focus, not get disturbed by anyone or anything. It's always good to be isolated in order to concentrate. I want to get some serious editing done on my novel script. I'm going to knife it down. A lot. It'll get better and stronger. Compact. Concise. Cut to the bone of the story. Cold weather is good for creativity. Cools the brain, helps see clearly, crystallizes thoughts.
The roof tops outside are white. The cars drive slowly, even emergency vehicles move by loud and flashing in a ridiculous paradoxical slow motion. There's snow in the air. The sky is heavy with gray and silver golden light inside the clouds. Words. Thoughts. Solitude. Catching knives in mid air. Work.
I'm going to work for one week here alone. Focus, not get disturbed by anyone or anything. It's always good to be isolated in order to concentrate. I want to get some serious editing done on my novel script. I'm going to knife it down. A lot. It'll get better and stronger. Compact. Concise. Cut to the bone of the story. Cold weather is good for creativity. Cools the brain, helps see clearly, crystallizes thoughts.
The roof tops outside are white. The cars drive slowly, even emergency vehicles move by loud and flashing in a ridiculous paradoxical slow motion. There's snow in the air. The sky is heavy with gray and silver golden light inside the clouds. Words. Thoughts. Solitude. Catching knives in mid air. Work.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Angry At God & New Valentines
-Angry, I whisper through my gritted teeth. -Angry, angry at you, angry at you, God. Unwillingly am I clenching my fists against the sky. I'm alone with heathland to all sides. I feel it drawing in, it's a storm and it's coming this direction. Twenty minutes the most, it'll be here. I can't outrun it in any direction. I know the heathen well, my legs know every distance, my feet every bump and small bush. The sound now, thunder bursts are roaming towards me from over the southeastern horizon. I know I called for it. I wanted it. I was on my knees and elbows for hours, begging God, asking for answers, pleading him to tell me about this anger. Why there has to be so much in my world, in the people, all the sorrow that he leaves all over which turns into anger because we can't handle the sorrow, its' so much easier to be angry at someone, look at what they've DONE and stay angry at that, because the sorrow that might be right behind the anger, it may have been there first, it might be hiding inside the anger, but no, it's much harder to explicate to even one self that it may be breaking around in there in the inner, the anger is manageable and has a comfortable aim. Should it be overcome then comes the next hurdle, to explicate the sorrow to the all world, or at least maybe just to those who caused the sorrow, not to hurl angrily at the person what he or she has done to cause you sorrow, no, no. No, that's not it. In that moment, if you actually managed to get to the sorrow instead of just throwing more anger out into the already poluted atmosphere, if you have managed, stay with that sorrow. And then, stand by it.
The sorrow is the hardest part. Have you ever seen a person in deep sorrow yell angrily? It's a shield. Also frequently used as a weapon in a first attack because the best defense is an attack, especially in emotional warfare, so even an anger attack can be called self defense. Pure and justified anger is great. It's pure force full of power and will. Anger moves stuff around. Which is per definition good. Sorrow doesn't move stuff around. Sorrow is more a state to rest in as a part of a slow process. It's the staying in the sorrow, not the sorrow, which will move things, and it will so absolutely. But sorrow and anger mixed up don't work right. Too often the sorrow is massed up in some solid figures while the anger flows all over. And it confuses people, they can't bear to feel the sorrow so they walk around angry or they can't feel sorrow and think they're actually angry, or they're spoiled by Disney and the consumer culture and are actually angry that they have to experience sorrow in life.
The storm draws over me. The lightning is crashing around me. I lie flat out on my stomach. I cry down in the mud with grass under my palms and my knee bent around a blackberrybush. I ask, God, why don't you control the sorrow, why all this anger? I spit and raise myself on my elbows, Why, I cry and the rain pours over my face, the mud travels in small streams. I lift my hands and sit on my underlegs in the mud. I raise my arms toward the sky. I hear the thunder. God aims and sets a light right in my chest. I'm a burning bush. I call for Moses, but he hides his face in his hands.
That was actually an old text so far. Other people's wild running anger has always freaked me out. Been able to make me very small and very quiet. Particularly when they just throw it out in random directions. I believe I wrote this for an ex-boyfriend's ex-girlfriend who seriously thought she was angry at me. Come on, please. But it makes me sort of second time around angry to read this, see, I never got to be angry the first time. Now I actually feel like feeling and releasing a bit of that old anger, since anger is such a strange guest in my world of peace and love - so actually, now that we're here, and you're probably freaky (and angry) enough to still read this blog, let me tell you what I think: 1) You were angry with yourself! (For a good reason, you failed on crucial points.) 2) You were angry with your ex-boyfriend! (For a good reason, he really let you down.) 3) You have had no reason to be angry at me. (Though it would've been neat in your world. But eat your own bull shit and stop taking it out on strangers. Grow up.) 4) Conclusion: You were too much of a coward to blame yourself, your ex-boyfriend, and your bad relationship for your sorrow, so you blamed a stranger - me - for your personal sorrow! How pathetic. 5) If you have a problem with any of this - STOP the fuck reading my fucking blog!
My own thunder storms inside I'm much more used to. And have become quite good at very rarely taking out on others, since I've found that it's actually never really necessary for a civilized person living in the modern age to do so - and if it has to happen, I'm goddamn sure to take it out on only the one I'm angry at. I don't really get angry at God, since I don't believe that I believe in God (I do, but I deny it.). That makes it sort of an awkward fight, I guess. No, if I'm angry in the undefinable, I make myself a sandwich. Or bat my eyelashes strongly a few times. Or write a book about something very, very bad. Or something.
Those who followed this blog over some painful Valentine's Days will be happy to hear, that I yesterday had not only one - but the two - most lovely Valentines imaginable. Two handsome and gentle Prince Charmings, who completely treated me like their Princess ValenTine. I and one of them decorated the living room with red and soft pink heart shaped balloons and candles, while the other prepared us all a lovely dinner. He's just the better chef of the two, while the other is more the balloon type. After we all enjoyed the dinner together, we shared romantic presents and slow danced all together before one of them had to go to bed early. That was the one who gave me a red heart shaped bead plate and a drawing of two beautiful ferries with a heart between them. He'd made it all in kindergarten and was so happy to bring these love gifts. He and his father and I are so lucky and happy here in our little home. It's actually a love miracle.
The sorrow is the hardest part. Have you ever seen a person in deep sorrow yell angrily? It's a shield. Also frequently used as a weapon in a first attack because the best defense is an attack, especially in emotional warfare, so even an anger attack can be called self defense. Pure and justified anger is great. It's pure force full of power and will. Anger moves stuff around. Which is per definition good. Sorrow doesn't move stuff around. Sorrow is more a state to rest in as a part of a slow process. It's the staying in the sorrow, not the sorrow, which will move things, and it will so absolutely. But sorrow and anger mixed up don't work right. Too often the sorrow is massed up in some solid figures while the anger flows all over. And it confuses people, they can't bear to feel the sorrow so they walk around angry or they can't feel sorrow and think they're actually angry, or they're spoiled by Disney and the consumer culture and are actually angry that they have to experience sorrow in life.
The storm draws over me. The lightning is crashing around me. I lie flat out on my stomach. I cry down in the mud with grass under my palms and my knee bent around a blackberrybush. I ask, God, why don't you control the sorrow, why all this anger? I spit and raise myself on my elbows, Why, I cry and the rain pours over my face, the mud travels in small streams. I lift my hands and sit on my underlegs in the mud. I raise my arms toward the sky. I hear the thunder. God aims and sets a light right in my chest. I'm a burning bush. I call for Moses, but he hides his face in his hands.
That was actually an old text so far. Other people's wild running anger has always freaked me out. Been able to make me very small and very quiet. Particularly when they just throw it out in random directions. I believe I wrote this for an ex-boyfriend's ex-girlfriend who seriously thought she was angry at me. Come on, please. But it makes me sort of second time around angry to read this, see, I never got to be angry the first time. Now I actually feel like feeling and releasing a bit of that old anger, since anger is such a strange guest in my world of peace and love - so actually, now that we're here, and you're probably freaky (and angry) enough to still read this blog, let me tell you what I think: 1) You were angry with yourself! (For a good reason, you failed on crucial points.) 2) You were angry with your ex-boyfriend! (For a good reason, he really let you down.) 3) You have had no reason to be angry at me. (Though it would've been neat in your world. But eat your own bull shit and stop taking it out on strangers. Grow up.) 4) Conclusion: You were too much of a coward to blame yourself, your ex-boyfriend, and your bad relationship for your sorrow, so you blamed a stranger - me - for your personal sorrow! How pathetic. 5) If you have a problem with any of this - STOP the fuck reading my fucking blog!
My own thunder storms inside I'm much more used to. And have become quite good at very rarely taking out on others, since I've found that it's actually never really necessary for a civilized person living in the modern age to do so - and if it has to happen, I'm goddamn sure to take it out on only the one I'm angry at. I don't really get angry at God, since I don't believe that I believe in God (I do, but I deny it.). That makes it sort of an awkward fight, I guess. No, if I'm angry in the undefinable, I make myself a sandwich. Or bat my eyelashes strongly a few times. Or write a book about something very, very bad. Or something.
Those who followed this blog over some painful Valentine's Days will be happy to hear, that I yesterday had not only one - but the two - most lovely Valentines imaginable. Two handsome and gentle Prince Charmings, who completely treated me like their Princess ValenTine. I and one of them decorated the living room with red and soft pink heart shaped balloons and candles, while the other prepared us all a lovely dinner. He's just the better chef of the two, while the other is more the balloon type. After we all enjoyed the dinner together, we shared romantic presents and slow danced all together before one of them had to go to bed early. That was the one who gave me a red heart shaped bead plate and a drawing of two beautiful ferries with a heart between them. He'd made it all in kindergarten and was so happy to bring these love gifts. He and his father and I are so lucky and happy here in our little home. It's actually a love miracle.
Tuesday, February 08, 2011
Jaws Of Steel
Certain things are extremely scary. Lacks of certain things are even scarier. People without a face for instance. People without a shadow. People without a conscience. People without self-reflection. People without the ability to love.
The last, I've wondered a lot about. What does it take for you to be able to love? What is it in you, that makes you not just like, but actually able to love something or even someone? Is it genetic to lack the ability to love? Is it socially inherited?
Is it even possible to be human without the ability to love? Would that not be the exact prime feature of a beast? Who knows, if someone is able to love or not? Does anyone but the person him or herself? Say, wouldn't Adolf have said, he loved Eva? Didn't he? Was he a beast, capable of loving? Would anyone else really say they know better than the man himself and come up with some explanation, that he didn't love her, he only got something out of it, and wouldn't that be from a certain interpretation of love; the whole altruistic idea, that if you love, you're not allowed to be in the love for yourself, you're actually not really allowed to get anything out of it at all. I believe Adolf loved Eva. As well as Winifred Wagner at a certain point. With his heart. I believe he was perfectly capable of loving. He had also just developed his darker sides quite competently. But I won't deny him also having had the ability to love.
So, Adolf might have been a great lover in the regard of women like Eva Braun and Winifred. What if a kind man claims not to be able to love? Who else than himself would know if this is true? Wouldn't he know better than anyone if his heart is actually made of stone? If nature treated him so unfortunately, that the ability to feel love for others just didn't fall into his body?
I don't think anyone could convince Adolf, that he wasn't capable of loving. And no one could convince a kind man, that he is actually capable of loving. I don't think any humans can't love, and here I won't say that autists are not human, they're just out of category here. But I think love is difficult.
Is love not difficult, and why do we assume that we're all able to love from nature's hand? Couldn't there be schools for loving? Courses? Maybe it would mean fewer divorces. I'm in Advanced Love Level 4 now, yes, took me three years to get there. Man, every Monday and Wednesday, and that's without the tests and practical rehearsal classes.
Maybe love is difficult until you find the ones, that make you feel, that they're easy to love. Some people will be to you. Those, who for some reason become your friends in life. The ones you want to be with. The one who just feels right. You may discover some day, that your own children are easy for you to love, but hard to like. What makes the heart capable of loving? Even able to love in spite of not like.
They always say stuff like, Everybody's able to kill if they have to. But are all able to love? Are all hearts really capable of loving? What would be more scary than someone not able to love? What would make you run faster than someone saying, I'm not able to love, as if they informed you, I have diabetes. What greater disability, what greater sadness, what inhumanity. What a beast. Would make Adolf look good, that is, of course, if he actually did love, not only the women, but just felt the love in his heart. Maybe it's more about practice. Maybe it's about clenching those jaws in determination. Or about losening them up. Or a miracle encounter. Or about learning to notice the tiny little smile inside the heart and understanding what it's about. Note to self: Love is a skill.
The last, I've wondered a lot about. What does it take for you to be able to love? What is it in you, that makes you not just like, but actually able to love something or even someone? Is it genetic to lack the ability to love? Is it socially inherited?
Is it even possible to be human without the ability to love? Would that not be the exact prime feature of a beast? Who knows, if someone is able to love or not? Does anyone but the person him or herself? Say, wouldn't Adolf have said, he loved Eva? Didn't he? Was he a beast, capable of loving? Would anyone else really say they know better than the man himself and come up with some explanation, that he didn't love her, he only got something out of it, and wouldn't that be from a certain interpretation of love; the whole altruistic idea, that if you love, you're not allowed to be in the love for yourself, you're actually not really allowed to get anything out of it at all. I believe Adolf loved Eva. As well as Winifred Wagner at a certain point. With his heart. I believe he was perfectly capable of loving. He had also just developed his darker sides quite competently. But I won't deny him also having had the ability to love.
So, Adolf might have been a great lover in the regard of women like Eva Braun and Winifred. What if a kind man claims not to be able to love? Who else than himself would know if this is true? Wouldn't he know better than anyone if his heart is actually made of stone? If nature treated him so unfortunately, that the ability to feel love for others just didn't fall into his body?
I don't think anyone could convince Adolf, that he wasn't capable of loving. And no one could convince a kind man, that he is actually capable of loving. I don't think any humans can't love, and here I won't say that autists are not human, they're just out of category here. But I think love is difficult.
Is love not difficult, and why do we assume that we're all able to love from nature's hand? Couldn't there be schools for loving? Courses? Maybe it would mean fewer divorces. I'm in Advanced Love Level 4 now, yes, took me three years to get there. Man, every Monday and Wednesday, and that's without the tests and practical rehearsal classes.
Maybe love is difficult until you find the ones, that make you feel, that they're easy to love. Some people will be to you. Those, who for some reason become your friends in life. The ones you want to be with. The one who just feels right. You may discover some day, that your own children are easy for you to love, but hard to like. What makes the heart capable of loving? Even able to love in spite of not like.
They always say stuff like, Everybody's able to kill if they have to. But are all able to love? Are all hearts really capable of loving? What would be more scary than someone not able to love? What would make you run faster than someone saying, I'm not able to love, as if they informed you, I have diabetes. What greater disability, what greater sadness, what inhumanity. What a beast. Would make Adolf look good, that is, of course, if he actually did love, not only the women, but just felt the love in his heart. Maybe it's more about practice. Maybe it's about clenching those jaws in determination. Or about losening them up. Or a miracle encounter. Or about learning to notice the tiny little smile inside the heart and understanding what it's about. Note to self: Love is a skill.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Momentum And Focus
I'll be writing in Athens during the entire month of June 2011. I'll have an apartment in the old, cosy neighborhood Plaka, just below Acropolis. The Danish Institute in Athens has granted me this, and I expect to get a lot of work done. I'm working on a new novel. Developing characters, plot, storyline.
One of the basic themes of the novel is feelings between siblings. I find this very interesting. I have three siblings myself, and just the dynamics there are worth many books. Especially when you take into account that we don't all share the same parents and haven't grown up in the same home. But we're siblings, we love each other, and we're very, very different. That's an interesting basic fact of many family relations, I find. In this novel two very different sisters with a common father, this will make the anal reader object that they're only half-sisters, well if it makes you feel better, yes, they are, well those two sisters inherit a big house after their father. And they have to come together around that. They've never been close, hardly know each other. They are full of prejudices towards each other and loving each other as two grown up strangers isn't easy. But what if you really need a sister? And there is one, though she may be so very different from you? She's there. And she's your sister.
Just like I value friendship a great deal, a lot of us with tough family backgrounds do, I also value siblings very highly. There's something about those people your own age whom you've grown up with or at least parallel to having had intense feelings for the same parents, which is completely priceless. They know you differently from all others and can please or tease you like no others. They can feel like friends on a level above all friends, and they can feel completely strange to you one moment and like an arm of yours the next. Bad feelings between siblings are so common, estrangement, jealousy, disappointment. Often siblings are complete strangers forced to feel close. An arranged marriage between children of completely different tempers, values, and paces. Yet a sense of belonging will often make siblings know each other all life through, though none of them would've picked each other out voluntarily. There's often such strong love in spite of everything else. It's a magic relation in many ways, and I'm really looking forward to try to write about it.
What I focus on in my storyline now is momentum and focus. Here's what my notes tell me: Momentum is when one scene leads to the next scene and that scene leads to the next scene. One scene implies the development of the next scene. Or we might say that the seeds of a scene are contained in a previous scene. When scenes are connected in a cause-effect relationship, every scene advances the action, bringing us closer to the climax.
It's somehow the same in life, though I find it generally dangerous to think you're working your way towards a big climax. Like in sex, too much focus on the climax will flatten out everything else and usually also devalue - or downright thwart - the climax because of the pressure. Expectations and demanded reward quality, THIS is it, THIS is why we've been working this hard, THIS is - - - oh come on! Just be in it for the fun of it, not for the damn climax as an achievement or a medal or something. As in life.
To feel momentum and focus in life, as well as in sex, is a great satisfaction in itself. That one thing naturally leads to the next, that there's a sense of things going somewhere. It may not be a climax, maybe more a feeling of a good state. Focus on noticing, recognizing, and maintaining the good states of life. Of sex. Of the story. In good momentum you'll realize how the little climaxes've snuck in there anyway. No chasing the climax. Just stay focused - and enjoy the ride.
I expect my new novel to be finished in about two years.
One of the basic themes of the novel is feelings between siblings. I find this very interesting. I have three siblings myself, and just the dynamics there are worth many books. Especially when you take into account that we don't all share the same parents and haven't grown up in the same home. But we're siblings, we love each other, and we're very, very different. That's an interesting basic fact of many family relations, I find. In this novel two very different sisters with a common father, this will make the anal reader object that they're only half-sisters, well if it makes you feel better, yes, they are, well those two sisters inherit a big house after their father. And they have to come together around that. They've never been close, hardly know each other. They are full of prejudices towards each other and loving each other as two grown up strangers isn't easy. But what if you really need a sister? And there is one, though she may be so very different from you? She's there. And she's your sister.
Just like I value friendship a great deal, a lot of us with tough family backgrounds do, I also value siblings very highly. There's something about those people your own age whom you've grown up with or at least parallel to having had intense feelings for the same parents, which is completely priceless. They know you differently from all others and can please or tease you like no others. They can feel like friends on a level above all friends, and they can feel completely strange to you one moment and like an arm of yours the next. Bad feelings between siblings are so common, estrangement, jealousy, disappointment. Often siblings are complete strangers forced to feel close. An arranged marriage between children of completely different tempers, values, and paces. Yet a sense of belonging will often make siblings know each other all life through, though none of them would've picked each other out voluntarily. There's often such strong love in spite of everything else. It's a magic relation in many ways, and I'm really looking forward to try to write about it.
What I focus on in my storyline now is momentum and focus. Here's what my notes tell me: Momentum is when one scene leads to the next scene and that scene leads to the next scene. One scene implies the development of the next scene. Or we might say that the seeds of a scene are contained in a previous scene. When scenes are connected in a cause-effect relationship, every scene advances the action, bringing us closer to the climax.
It's somehow the same in life, though I find it generally dangerous to think you're working your way towards a big climax. Like in sex, too much focus on the climax will flatten out everything else and usually also devalue - or downright thwart - the climax because of the pressure. Expectations and demanded reward quality, THIS is it, THIS is why we've been working this hard, THIS is - - - oh come on! Just be in it for the fun of it, not for the damn climax as an achievement or a medal or something. As in life.
To feel momentum and focus in life, as well as in sex, is a great satisfaction in itself. That one thing naturally leads to the next, that there's a sense of things going somewhere. It may not be a climax, maybe more a feeling of a good state. Focus on noticing, recognizing, and maintaining the good states of life. Of sex. Of the story. In good momentum you'll realize how the little climaxes've snuck in there anyway. No chasing the climax. Just stay focused - and enjoy the ride.
I expect my new novel to be finished in about two years.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
The Lovely Kind Of Violence
I spoke to a friend of mine. She just came out of a relationship. Both that one and her last relationship were very tough on her. I saw her cry her way through them both. As different as the two men were, something very significant was the same in the two relationships. She was not happy in them.
The men were nice and tolerant guys, open, friendly, fun, loving, attentive, and passionate about her. But in both cases, she'd been remarkably sad a lot of the time the relationship lasted. She complained and asked, What am I doing wrong, what kind of men do I seek, why do I feel that their love is somehow violent to me, so that I spend a lot of time crying over them instead of being happy with them? We started looking at the typical pattern of violent relationships and the mechanisms, that make a woman stay in a violent relationship.
There are three phases in a violent relationship. The tension phase. The violent phase. The reunion phase. They circle, so now it moves back or on to the tension phase, and on it goes.
In the tension phase, you're close, but you also feel things building up. You start fearing the next move. In the violent phase, the next move will occur, one of some kind of violence. It can be drinking, jealousy, anger, rejection, or physical violence. It can be break-up, it can be threats of suicide, extreme reluctance, breaking promises. Anything that will be hard on the partner and feel like taking a beating somehow. Physical or emotional. Then the third phase in which you reunion. You say and do all the necessary things to confirm, that this is really love, that the relationship is right, even though you just went through something painful and rough. From the reunion phase you circle right into the tension phase. The relationship is once again tense, you've just established it's love, but at least one part, the one who is the violated part, will fear the next move. The one, that'll feel violent. The new rejection, jealousy outburst, punch, anger attack, break-up, which will be hard and unbelievable. But then you reunite and confirm, that you only go through all this because it is love that holds you together.
My friend told me how she isolated herself more and more in these relationships. Mainly because her friends eventually all started blaming her. You know what's coming, they told her. Why do you keep going back to him? Why do you stay? She couldn't bare the shame because she knew they were right. She knew what was coming, all though in the reunion phase she chose every time to believe that he would improve, not do it again, that they just had the worst happening that were ever to happen between them, the experience where he could really see how much it hurt her and that now it would never happen again, from that he learned, from his assurances she could tell that now they were going to be together for good. But it wasn't true. She was tense. She knew, something easily could happen again. Something violent. Tension, violence, reunion. Tension, violence, reunion. It's a classic pattern.
When was it ever good with those two men? I asked her. She said, I guess when I was careful. I didn't think of it as careful, but I can tell now that I was. How? I asked. Well, if the problem was jealousy, it was when I didn't talk to anyone else or go anywhere. Like never expected to be able to dress nicely without Hell breaking lose, never laughed with other men or women without seeing the anger in his eyes, never talked about anything besides him with joy or excitement. If the problem was rejection, it was when I didn't ask for anything or any promises. If there were any promises, I was careful in the way, that I didn't expect them to be kept or didn't get disappointed when they weren't. When I never expected to be invited to join him anywhere. To be included in his plans for his homes and travels in the future. Then we were ok. Stuff like that.
So, things were ok if you compromised with your needs? Yes, she said. Looking back, it was always when I paid attention and didn't trigger the reaction that would hurt me, that the relationship was good.
So, I tried to explain, what you were actually doing was trying with all your abilities to stay in the tension phase. If only you didn't trigger the violent reaction, you two were great. But not on your terms? No, not really, she said. Not on my terms. I was holding my breath. I knew both times, he wasn't at ease in those periods of time, so neither was I. We were never truly calm with each other, we knew something would come again.
These men are in a category of men with commitment problems. Apparently she finds them, and they're not at all what you'd consider violent types. I know both these guys, and they'd never hit anyone. Never. They're sweet, and the violence absolutely doesn't occur out of meanness. It's out of intimacy problems. Which is also why they don't act violently to anyone else but the girlfriend. They probably couldn't think of anything worse than being called violent, since it's probably important to them to be nice and kind and loving.
As a matter of fact, men with commitment problems can be the very nicest of all and lots of women are attracted to them. You also have to expand your idea of violence from a fist in the face on purpose, in order to understand this. Violent behavior is also rejecting someone over and over and over again, when you see the damage it's causing, but you insist on repeating your pattern in continuously doing so.
Pulling someone in yet keeping them out repeatedly - is violent. Getting angry repeatedly out of jealousy - is violent. Threatening to leave repeatedly - is a violent action, when you're intimate and vulnerable in a love relationship. Expanding violence as a phenomenon in a relationship from hitting and kicking to involve also this kind of violence is a mean to understand the nature of the hurting love. And to recognize a pattern in getting involved with good men who somehow violate your limits so you actually don't feel good.
My friend said, I was so shocked after the first of these boyfriends. I thought it could never happen again. And then I found myself again in a very different relationship, but once again, I let myself be beat around emotionally all the time. Why do they come off like that? I'm sure they mean well. Well, I told her, you need to stop blaming yourself and stop excusing them. It's not your pattern. You just don't see the pattern for a very long time, and the guys don't know that their way around love is so painful for others, even though they do their best. And they can mean well, yet be violent encounters in love.
I've even heard of a man who broke up with his girlfriend saying, that he knew, he couldn't commit, and how disappointing that would always be for the girlfriend. Out of love and understanding, for her and his own lack of ability, he would sweep the girlfriend out. I love you so much that you should have someone who can love you better than this. Very noble. Sacrificing. Irresponsible - or very responsible if his intention was to actually learn to commit before being involved like that.
Roughly, these are the same kind of guys who get extremely close with girlfriends, symbiotic, over-attached, super attentive. And then, they break it off. Why? Because there just wasn't time for their own life anymore. No friends, no sport, no independence. They just needed to get out of the claustrophobia. But she wasn't the one who needed it that close. For her, he could've gone out much more with his friends. Made it work, both the separate lives and the common life. But for him, all or nothing.
Also the kind of guy who can get extremely insecure from the girlfriend prioritizing so that he's out of the picture sometimes. Who can draw away or make a scene, because he feels rejected and not important.
These kind of men often get a depression when they have a child. Because it's the biggest commitment, that they can't get out of at all, ever, never, again.
Men with commitment issues also often have affairs and make all kind of shit to fuck up in their relationships.
What's it about? Deep down it's about fear of losing. It has to be so close, to convince him how unlosable it is. How much she's really his. He has affairs so that he's not dumped, he asked for it, it was just a matter of her having had enough, it was a back door, one he opened himself.
So how does that relate to my sweet friend with the sweet boyfriends who most of all loved her and wanted to be good to her and instead ended up having her in one huge crisis after the other and feeling somewhat violated from love?
Because they suffer from the same. Fear of commitment. Fear of losing. And they can only deal with it in a subtle psychologically violent way. By making her play by their rules, or the violence will strike again.
The circle of violence will tear up a person. Waiting for the sky to fall is an unstable condition. But she tells me, that then they lie there on the bed again, looking at each other, oh, this is life and they're in love, and she can take it one more time. She thinks. But in the long run, she can't.
I asked her how they finally ended, these two relationships? She said, that she'd asked for dialogue. About how they could also meet her needs. And it exploded. She did it again. It exploded again. I tell her, You did good. That's what a sane person does. When she'd done it one too many times, stood by her own needs in spite of the predictable reaction, it eventually ended.
A neurotic person will do anything to stay in the tense phase, anything not to trigger the anger or the other violent reaction. Behave more and more neurotically to stay on good foot, thinking she's learned how to be in this love relation. But she's not. She just adapted a neurotic pattern in a violent relationship.
A sane relationship only goes between phase one and three, and then we can call it something else, because without the violent phase, the tension won't be there in that way. But there can be something tense, and you can solve it with dialogue. If you can't because the tension ignites a violent reaction, a rejection, a suicide threat, a rampage, a silent treatment, the violator who does this has a problem, and it's not a solution, that the violated part learns how to compromise with everything not to provoke it.
So, I tell her, she was sane to insist on not avoiding the second phase for as long as possible, because she could have done so forever. But she wouldn't have been happy. She would've been tense.
Even if it cost both relationships, it was the right thing to do. She wasn't happy in them anyway. But she asks, How will I know next time not to get involved with a sweet man with such commitment issues, how will I avoid once again getting hurt like this? I'm tired of love feeling this way.
I tell her, Men with commitment issues will drag you down and screw you over, and you can't change that. Find one who can commit. It's not like all men are like this. First time you feel tense about something, talk about it. If he then violates you, walk away. If he keeps having good excuses to violate you, and you're still there, walk away. You'll know that you should've walked the first time.
Need I say, that even though this friend is a woman and we usually think of men being the violent part of a violent relationship, this is not based on gender. I know just as many men who are violated in these ways by their girlfriends. I know just as many women who are the violent ones in their relationship. Just as many women with commitment problems. Men are not the bad guys. The bad guys are the scared ones, male or female. This way of looking at violence in a relationship in fact opens up much more to see, how women are just as often violent as men are in love, they just don't hit as much, but often get their boyfriends down with emotional violence.
Love and violence don't go together. Commitment is a beautiful thing. Only those controlled by their fear of losing will not understand this. They don't know love. In love there is no fear of losing. Love and fear don't go together either. They eat each other up. Find someone who knows and loves love.
The men were nice and tolerant guys, open, friendly, fun, loving, attentive, and passionate about her. But in both cases, she'd been remarkably sad a lot of the time the relationship lasted. She complained and asked, What am I doing wrong, what kind of men do I seek, why do I feel that their love is somehow violent to me, so that I spend a lot of time crying over them instead of being happy with them? We started looking at the typical pattern of violent relationships and the mechanisms, that make a woman stay in a violent relationship.
There are three phases in a violent relationship. The tension phase. The violent phase. The reunion phase. They circle, so now it moves back or on to the tension phase, and on it goes.
In the tension phase, you're close, but you also feel things building up. You start fearing the next move. In the violent phase, the next move will occur, one of some kind of violence. It can be drinking, jealousy, anger, rejection, or physical violence. It can be break-up, it can be threats of suicide, extreme reluctance, breaking promises. Anything that will be hard on the partner and feel like taking a beating somehow. Physical or emotional. Then the third phase in which you reunion. You say and do all the necessary things to confirm, that this is really love, that the relationship is right, even though you just went through something painful and rough. From the reunion phase you circle right into the tension phase. The relationship is once again tense, you've just established it's love, but at least one part, the one who is the violated part, will fear the next move. The one, that'll feel violent. The new rejection, jealousy outburst, punch, anger attack, break-up, which will be hard and unbelievable. But then you reunite and confirm, that you only go through all this because it is love that holds you together.
My friend told me how she isolated herself more and more in these relationships. Mainly because her friends eventually all started blaming her. You know what's coming, they told her. Why do you keep going back to him? Why do you stay? She couldn't bare the shame because she knew they were right. She knew what was coming, all though in the reunion phase she chose every time to believe that he would improve, not do it again, that they just had the worst happening that were ever to happen between them, the experience where he could really see how much it hurt her and that now it would never happen again, from that he learned, from his assurances she could tell that now they were going to be together for good. But it wasn't true. She was tense. She knew, something easily could happen again. Something violent. Tension, violence, reunion. Tension, violence, reunion. It's a classic pattern.
When was it ever good with those two men? I asked her. She said, I guess when I was careful. I didn't think of it as careful, but I can tell now that I was. How? I asked. Well, if the problem was jealousy, it was when I didn't talk to anyone else or go anywhere. Like never expected to be able to dress nicely without Hell breaking lose, never laughed with other men or women without seeing the anger in his eyes, never talked about anything besides him with joy or excitement. If the problem was rejection, it was when I didn't ask for anything or any promises. If there were any promises, I was careful in the way, that I didn't expect them to be kept or didn't get disappointed when they weren't. When I never expected to be invited to join him anywhere. To be included in his plans for his homes and travels in the future. Then we were ok. Stuff like that.
So, things were ok if you compromised with your needs? Yes, she said. Looking back, it was always when I paid attention and didn't trigger the reaction that would hurt me, that the relationship was good.
So, I tried to explain, what you were actually doing was trying with all your abilities to stay in the tension phase. If only you didn't trigger the violent reaction, you two were great. But not on your terms? No, not really, she said. Not on my terms. I was holding my breath. I knew both times, he wasn't at ease in those periods of time, so neither was I. We were never truly calm with each other, we knew something would come again.
These men are in a category of men with commitment problems. Apparently she finds them, and they're not at all what you'd consider violent types. I know both these guys, and they'd never hit anyone. Never. They're sweet, and the violence absolutely doesn't occur out of meanness. It's out of intimacy problems. Which is also why they don't act violently to anyone else but the girlfriend. They probably couldn't think of anything worse than being called violent, since it's probably important to them to be nice and kind and loving.
As a matter of fact, men with commitment problems can be the very nicest of all and lots of women are attracted to them. You also have to expand your idea of violence from a fist in the face on purpose, in order to understand this. Violent behavior is also rejecting someone over and over and over again, when you see the damage it's causing, but you insist on repeating your pattern in continuously doing so.
Pulling someone in yet keeping them out repeatedly - is violent. Getting angry repeatedly out of jealousy - is violent. Threatening to leave repeatedly - is a violent action, when you're intimate and vulnerable in a love relationship. Expanding violence as a phenomenon in a relationship from hitting and kicking to involve also this kind of violence is a mean to understand the nature of the hurting love. And to recognize a pattern in getting involved with good men who somehow violate your limits so you actually don't feel good.
My friend said, I was so shocked after the first of these boyfriends. I thought it could never happen again. And then I found myself again in a very different relationship, but once again, I let myself be beat around emotionally all the time. Why do they come off like that? I'm sure they mean well. Well, I told her, you need to stop blaming yourself and stop excusing them. It's not your pattern. You just don't see the pattern for a very long time, and the guys don't know that their way around love is so painful for others, even though they do their best. And they can mean well, yet be violent encounters in love.
I've even heard of a man who broke up with his girlfriend saying, that he knew, he couldn't commit, and how disappointing that would always be for the girlfriend. Out of love and understanding, for her and his own lack of ability, he would sweep the girlfriend out. I love you so much that you should have someone who can love you better than this. Very noble. Sacrificing. Irresponsible - or very responsible if his intention was to actually learn to commit before being involved like that.
Roughly, these are the same kind of guys who get extremely close with girlfriends, symbiotic, over-attached, super attentive. And then, they break it off. Why? Because there just wasn't time for their own life anymore. No friends, no sport, no independence. They just needed to get out of the claustrophobia. But she wasn't the one who needed it that close. For her, he could've gone out much more with his friends. Made it work, both the separate lives and the common life. But for him, all or nothing.
Also the kind of guy who can get extremely insecure from the girlfriend prioritizing so that he's out of the picture sometimes. Who can draw away or make a scene, because he feels rejected and not important.
These kind of men often get a depression when they have a child. Because it's the biggest commitment, that they can't get out of at all, ever, never, again.
Men with commitment issues also often have affairs and make all kind of shit to fuck up in their relationships.
What's it about? Deep down it's about fear of losing. It has to be so close, to convince him how unlosable it is. How much she's really his. He has affairs so that he's not dumped, he asked for it, it was just a matter of her having had enough, it was a back door, one he opened himself.
So how does that relate to my sweet friend with the sweet boyfriends who most of all loved her and wanted to be good to her and instead ended up having her in one huge crisis after the other and feeling somewhat violated from love?
Because they suffer from the same. Fear of commitment. Fear of losing. And they can only deal with it in a subtle psychologically violent way. By making her play by their rules, or the violence will strike again.
The circle of violence will tear up a person. Waiting for the sky to fall is an unstable condition. But she tells me, that then they lie there on the bed again, looking at each other, oh, this is life and they're in love, and she can take it one more time. She thinks. But in the long run, she can't.
I asked her how they finally ended, these two relationships? She said, that she'd asked for dialogue. About how they could also meet her needs. And it exploded. She did it again. It exploded again. I tell her, You did good. That's what a sane person does. When she'd done it one too many times, stood by her own needs in spite of the predictable reaction, it eventually ended.
A neurotic person will do anything to stay in the tense phase, anything not to trigger the anger or the other violent reaction. Behave more and more neurotically to stay on good foot, thinking she's learned how to be in this love relation. But she's not. She just adapted a neurotic pattern in a violent relationship.
A sane relationship only goes between phase one and three, and then we can call it something else, because without the violent phase, the tension won't be there in that way. But there can be something tense, and you can solve it with dialogue. If you can't because the tension ignites a violent reaction, a rejection, a suicide threat, a rampage, a silent treatment, the violator who does this has a problem, and it's not a solution, that the violated part learns how to compromise with everything not to provoke it.
So, I tell her, she was sane to insist on not avoiding the second phase for as long as possible, because she could have done so forever. But she wouldn't have been happy. She would've been tense.
Even if it cost both relationships, it was the right thing to do. She wasn't happy in them anyway. But she asks, How will I know next time not to get involved with a sweet man with such commitment issues, how will I avoid once again getting hurt like this? I'm tired of love feeling this way.
I tell her, Men with commitment issues will drag you down and screw you over, and you can't change that. Find one who can commit. It's not like all men are like this. First time you feel tense about something, talk about it. If he then violates you, walk away. If he keeps having good excuses to violate you, and you're still there, walk away. You'll know that you should've walked the first time.
Need I say, that even though this friend is a woman and we usually think of men being the violent part of a violent relationship, this is not based on gender. I know just as many men who are violated in these ways by their girlfriends. I know just as many women who are the violent ones in their relationship. Just as many women with commitment problems. Men are not the bad guys. The bad guys are the scared ones, male or female. This way of looking at violence in a relationship in fact opens up much more to see, how women are just as often violent as men are in love, they just don't hit as much, but often get their boyfriends down with emotional violence.
Love and violence don't go together. Commitment is a beautiful thing. Only those controlled by their fear of losing will not understand this. They don't know love. In love there is no fear of losing. Love and fear don't go together either. They eat each other up. Find someone who knows and loves love.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Leaving Leaves
It's still the most beautiful time of year here. Fall in full color range. I saw a leaf a few days ago which made me stop on the path and, I kid you not, it literally took my breath away. I stood and looked at it for very long in pure admiration and touched state. Finally before leaving it behind and continuing my walk I actually considered bringing it with me home.
The leaf was huge, but it was dirty and I was far from home, and I ended up thinking, that it belonged in the park and would possibly lose some of its leaf magic, coming with me home, leaving the afternoon fall sunlight falling through the trees, the surrounding fallen leaves on the path, the sandy path background tapestry that it had so beautifully fallen upon. I left the leaf, but I still remember it.
How amazing it is, that a leaf can make such an impression. It still lingers days after. It was like a painting, with greens, reds, yellows of a kind I've never seen a painter find. Stronger, softer, clearer, blending, caressing, crashing, celebrating, loving. Crazy colors and perfection in shapes and expression. All in a leaf. I almost miss the leaf, maybe I should go back and try to find it. Yes, I will do that. I'm sure I will recognize it in an instant. Or come home with a big bag full of leaves, new loves, more wonders of life, love, and the season. Or maybe I should learn to leave a leaf behind and let it live its own life, eventually leave its' present shape and form and return to soil.
My first illustrated children's book is coming out these days. I have seen the drawings but not the final book yet. The cover background color is green. Not leaf green, though. More kitchen cabinet green. It's good. I'm excited and happy.
I finished my novel script over the summer. The month in isolation in Finland was highly efficient. The past months I've been adjusting and completing small incomplete parts. It's there now. It's complete. A couple of years' work have turned into my debut novel: End of The Night.
I'm working a lot these days. I just finished another children's book about a mouse called Cheese, a goat called Fur, and a horse called Ella. It's a wonderful story where the three friends set out to find Cheese's parents. He was lost as a small mouse. The story is called: Ella, Fur, and Cheese Find The Secret Mouseland. Then I'm working my way into a new novel, a slow and long term process.
I will go for my walk soon. In the park, where there are elephants. And leaves. I love both, but will leave them there today. I will look, love, and admire, and promise not to bring any home. Leaves nor elephants. Sure the boyfriend will appreciate that.
The leaf was huge, but it was dirty and I was far from home, and I ended up thinking, that it belonged in the park and would possibly lose some of its leaf magic, coming with me home, leaving the afternoon fall sunlight falling through the trees, the surrounding fallen leaves on the path, the sandy path background tapestry that it had so beautifully fallen upon. I left the leaf, but I still remember it.
How amazing it is, that a leaf can make such an impression. It still lingers days after. It was like a painting, with greens, reds, yellows of a kind I've never seen a painter find. Stronger, softer, clearer, blending, caressing, crashing, celebrating, loving. Crazy colors and perfection in shapes and expression. All in a leaf. I almost miss the leaf, maybe I should go back and try to find it. Yes, I will do that. I'm sure I will recognize it in an instant. Or come home with a big bag full of leaves, new loves, more wonders of life, love, and the season. Or maybe I should learn to leave a leaf behind and let it live its own life, eventually leave its' present shape and form and return to soil.
My first illustrated children's book is coming out these days. I have seen the drawings but not the final book yet. The cover background color is green. Not leaf green, though. More kitchen cabinet green. It's good. I'm excited and happy.
I finished my novel script over the summer. The month in isolation in Finland was highly efficient. The past months I've been adjusting and completing small incomplete parts. It's there now. It's complete. A couple of years' work have turned into my debut novel: End of The Night.
I'm working a lot these days. I just finished another children's book about a mouse called Cheese, a goat called Fur, and a horse called Ella. It's a wonderful story where the three friends set out to find Cheese's parents. He was lost as a small mouse. The story is called: Ella, Fur, and Cheese Find The Secret Mouseland. Then I'm working my way into a new novel, a slow and long term process.
I will go for my walk soon. In the park, where there are elephants. And leaves. I love both, but will leave them there today. I will look, love, and admire, and promise not to bring any home. Leaves nor elephants. Sure the boyfriend will appreciate that.
Monday, October 11, 2010
When Fall Falls
As I waded through yellow leaves on the broad boulevard in the Sunday afternoon's tightening darkness yesterday, I realized: Fall has once again fallen upon us. I hadn't thought about it, not even from the name of the new month, the most beautiful of them all; October, only in competition with the all time positive and optimistic May. It is October and I am in Denmark. I didn't go out and find the job I thought about finding this fall. I don't think I will anyway. I enjoy the writing, that is, I struggle with the writing, but it feels right to stay with that. As I wrote in the last post, I look enviously at my man leaving in the morning. To go to a real job. But I'm not envious of the job, more does it seem nice to me to have something out in the real world that feels as right to him as writing right here by my desk does to me.
I can dream of a work place to move myself to every day and feel, that I'm in the right place, surrounded by colleagues and all morning excited about the canteen's offer of the day. But right now, my right work day is to kiss goodbye and move straight for the home office. There are days where I'm lucky if I have any business out of the house at all. Which easily leads for a comfy somewhat lazy person like me to the natural conclusion; Why get dressed? So there are days when the man comes home and finds a troll with the same bird nest hair as he left in the morning, wearing the same t-shirt and sweats that I put on for breakfast, grunting because I forgot how to talk to real people, and with a wild look in my eyes until I recognize him and remember why the fuck he has a key to my cave. But hey. I'm getting my writing done. Sometimes.
At this time of year in the Northern hemisphere, melancholy seems to be the most persistent suitor to much a many people. The darkness wants to get its grip. The decay make its point. In Greenland the sentence for murder is reduced if the murder is committed during the darkest months of the year. Lack of light does something to people.
I suppose it's been fall for a long time now, I just didn't see it till yesterday. September is also a month of fall, Indian Summer, fall. Falling leaves, drifting by my window. Autumn leaves of red and gold, forests exploding on fire.
I can dream of a work place to move myself to every day and feel, that I'm in the right place, surrounded by colleagues and all morning excited about the canteen's offer of the day. But right now, my right work day is to kiss goodbye and move straight for the home office. There are days where I'm lucky if I have any business out of the house at all. Which easily leads for a comfy somewhat lazy person like me to the natural conclusion; Why get dressed? So there are days when the man comes home and finds a troll with the same bird nest hair as he left in the morning, wearing the same t-shirt and sweats that I put on for breakfast, grunting because I forgot how to talk to real people, and with a wild look in my eyes until I recognize him and remember why the fuck he has a key to my cave. But hey. I'm getting my writing done. Sometimes.
At this time of year in the Northern hemisphere, melancholy seems to be the most persistent suitor to much a many people. The darkness wants to get its grip. The decay make its point. In Greenland the sentence for murder is reduced if the murder is committed during the darkest months of the year. Lack of light does something to people.
I suppose it's been fall for a long time now, I just didn't see it till yesterday. September is also a month of fall, Indian Summer, fall. Falling leaves, drifting by my window. Autumn leaves of red and gold, forests exploding on fire.
Monday, July 05, 2010
Job, Jobs And Rats
I just discovered that the last two posts here are about spiders and cockroaches. What a strange coincidence. Mainly because I was just thinking about writing something about rats. Maybe there's something I should be looking into these days. Do I have an issue with small gross animals, since they're what's coming up when I go for the keys? I will now not write and share my thoughts and recent experiences on rats with you, as I don't want this to be a theme. Instead it will now be a cliff hanger. Now you know it's time to be excited. Something about rats may follow soon. Aha.
This summer is moving along beautifully for me. Weather is good, at least some of the time. I moved to a new part of town and am loving it. My sister is visiting town these days. I'm in love. My novel is really progressing and I look forward to write in Finland. I expect to start in a new and exciting job in the fall, which will be a nice change from working all alone to once again have colleagues and work projects together with them - and just with other people in general.
Writing is wonderful and to many people it would be the greatest luxury to wake up and only have to open the laptop and write every day. And it is great, writing is a job to appreciate, absolutely, but after a while, I've realized I look enviously at my love leaving in the morning and go, Wow, what a lucky man, he's going to hear people say funny things at meetings and have lunch with other people today. And I realize, that I already look forward to him coming home and sharing with me. Eh, I believe that calls for a house wife ALERT! I look forward to finishing the script at least at some level in Finland, and come home and enter the fun and challenging work market once again. Luckily, I've always loved to work, I just also wanted to get some books written, and I found I had too little time besides a job.
So besides a great summer so far, the rest also looks very attractive to me. Another week of preparation, I have some research meetings, some planned reading to get done, and some final outlining of the writing. Then three weeks of intense and isolated work in funky Finland, land of goth, knives, saunas, trees, intellectuals, Nokia, lakes, moose, great design, and completely gone wrong language. Oh, and did I tell you, I've got a huge villa to myself by the ocean, and it'll be midsummer for the weeks I'm there? Last ten days there will be of working together with my boyfriend and a bit of holiday in Helsinki. Then I'll soon be back to having a real life job again. It's wonderful to be in a situation where that's the next dream. Can't think of a better motivation for getting up in the morning. Yeah, I've got a fun job! I meet real people. Do real things. Get on with my carreer. Have lunch. With others.
Now just admit it. You're curious about the rats. Well, good for you. There's nothing to appreciate in life as one's curiosity. When curiosity's lost, everything's lost. What was it, I was going to tell about those rats ..? Oh, yes, I remember.
This summer is moving along beautifully for me. Weather is good, at least some of the time. I moved to a new part of town and am loving it. My sister is visiting town these days. I'm in love. My novel is really progressing and I look forward to write in Finland. I expect to start in a new and exciting job in the fall, which will be a nice change from working all alone to once again have colleagues and work projects together with them - and just with other people in general.
Writing is wonderful and to many people it would be the greatest luxury to wake up and only have to open the laptop and write every day. And it is great, writing is a job to appreciate, absolutely, but after a while, I've realized I look enviously at my love leaving in the morning and go, Wow, what a lucky man, he's going to hear people say funny things at meetings and have lunch with other people today. And I realize, that I already look forward to him coming home and sharing with me. Eh, I believe that calls for a house wife ALERT! I look forward to finishing the script at least at some level in Finland, and come home and enter the fun and challenging work market once again. Luckily, I've always loved to work, I just also wanted to get some books written, and I found I had too little time besides a job.
So besides a great summer so far, the rest also looks very attractive to me. Another week of preparation, I have some research meetings, some planned reading to get done, and some final outlining of the writing. Then three weeks of intense and isolated work in funky Finland, land of goth, knives, saunas, trees, intellectuals, Nokia, lakes, moose, great design, and completely gone wrong language. Oh, and did I tell you, I've got a huge villa to myself by the ocean, and it'll be midsummer for the weeks I'm there? Last ten days there will be of working together with my boyfriend and a bit of holiday in Helsinki. Then I'll soon be back to having a real life job again. It's wonderful to be in a situation where that's the next dream. Can't think of a better motivation for getting up in the morning. Yeah, I've got a fun job! I meet real people. Do real things. Get on with my carreer. Have lunch. With others.
Now just admit it. You're curious about the rats. Well, good for you. There's nothing to appreciate in life as one's curiosity. When curiosity's lost, everything's lost. What was it, I was going to tell about those rats ..? Oh, yes, I remember.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Writing Around Wild Life
I'm working on my novel again. It's been resting at page 230 for a while. I haven't known what to write to continue. I've known where it should be going, but word by word not how to get there. Now, I'm writing again. It's great.
I'll be going to Finland soon to stay for three weeks. I'll stay in an artists retreat, a 5000 square foot villa designed by Alvar Alto, right by the sea. The villa has ocean view over the flat rocks that continue out into the sea. The first two weeks I'll be there alone. Then my love will join my villa life and we will stay there together for another week. No one has ever read the novel yet. Expectedly when he arrives around August 1st, I'll have a first draft of the novel ready for him to read. I imagine how I'll sit breathlessly and watch him read. For a week. Only interrupted by an occasional whisper; What, what? What did you read? What happened? Why did you smile? You did smile, didn't you? What page are you on? Do you want a glass of red wine? Do you like it?
Now this is quite something, and I'm exited about this prospect. This novel has been on its way since I developed its main characters and basic plot in a short story in 2006. My boyfriend has already read the prologue - and been very positive. Had he not been, I'm not sure he should be the first to read the whole thing, and probably, no definitely not, in complete isolation in Finland, the land of weird and crazy shit and dark moods and goth atmospheres and saunas and axes. It is, need I say, a matter of great trust whom you let be your first reader of your first novel.
I have three books out now and a children's book coming in November. But this is my first novel. I've always considered novels the greatest achievement. I don't think they're the hardest to write in comparison to short stories, essays, and poetry, but they've always for me been the most luxurious reading experience, and therefore also stand as the greatest writing challenge. I've published one book of poetry, one book with a mix of poetry, short stories, letters, and lists, and one theory book, originally my master's thesis on Foucault, Pippi Longstocking, and queer theory. My first children's book of a series will come in November, so before this novel will be published, I'll have at least four quite different books out already. Still, this will feel very much like a debut to me, I'm sure.
I had the pleasure of encountering a large number of spider kids in my living room today. I've just recently bought a big rose bush, it's beautiful and though it's an outdoor plant, it still lives fine in my living room. Today I watered it in the big tray, it stands in, and a piece of soil floated around in the water, I just poured in. I watered some other plants, and for some reason went back to check on the piece of soil. And what do you know, the soil had unfolded itself and now had eight legs. And what looked like a big, fat body, by a closer look was a bagpack full of, ahem, a LOT of small spiders. Eggs, I think it's called at that stage, but maybe it's the warmth of the Danish summer these days that instinctively gave me the feeling, that these eggs were more at the point of ready for pre-school or their first warning for being drunk and missing their Friday night curfue.
I got some paper and the roll of card board inside the kitchen towel roll, which was empty when I'd taken the last papers. I went to the tray with the bush standing in the middle. I figured, she might have drowned, but I didn't believe that. She was more floating unconcernedly, like at the beach underneath a carressing sun, looking like she was professionally blocking out the sound of screaming seagulls and excited children with air-filled animals and cuffs, than oh, I just drowned and my hundred babies with me, what a pity! No. She was too relaxed. I got her into a piece of paper with the cardboard, quickly out of the water, folded the paper, mashed her a little inside. Why only a little? you're thinking now, why on earth not with the big hammer straight away? Well, because I was curious and self-confident, so I opened the paper and yes, she was cramping and a zillion baby spiders were out of their mother's boring rucksack, I heard them yell, HEEYYY, look at this, I found the WWWOOOOOOORRRRRLLLLLLDDDD; guys, over here!!! They ran of the paper very fast, and I shut it again, now I mashed mother and everyone else inside of it, oh yes, I DO kill babies in the morning, then I mashed every spider baby on the floor, they were cute but I'd just seen their mother and knew, they all wanted to be like her some day, and she was long passed the state of cute, so there was no mercy, then I threw them in the garbage, took the tray with the bush, wiped it off for spiders, emptied it into the zink to drown the last ten or so, that were swimming desperately in the water, then followed them with some boiling water down the drain and zealed the garbage bag quite thoroughly.
Now, this story is the most fun if you realize, how much aracnhophobia I suffered from as a child. For some years, there were nightmares and neurotic behavior when it came to taking on shoes, taking showers, being in rooms with furniture you couldn't see under, etc. And this morning, I was doing all of this spider fun naked, because when I walk around my own house in the morning, watering my plants, alone, I of course take advantage and do it naked - so here I am, the living evidence of human development. Back then, I couldn't have done what I did today dressed in a space outfit. Now, I just checked that not too many had run up my leg or something.
I must admit though, hadn't I seen her float happily around in the water like that, I don't like to think of what had happened. Fine with me that she's been living in my rose bush. But. She would've made a hundred babies in my living room, and they would've started looking for other plants. I might have found spiders, growing in size, everywhere over the next weeks. That's a creepy thought. Even as a cured arachnophobic, I don't want to live in Spider Zoo or even worse, Spider Village, with such a large population, that they'd start building their City Hall next to the Rose Mall and carve out a subway underneath my floors. I do look around the living room a little more today, and when I see my rose bush, I do itch a little in spontaneous places.
I'll be going to Finland soon to stay for three weeks. I'll stay in an artists retreat, a 5000 square foot villa designed by Alvar Alto, right by the sea. The villa has ocean view over the flat rocks that continue out into the sea. The first two weeks I'll be there alone. Then my love will join my villa life and we will stay there together for another week. No one has ever read the novel yet. Expectedly when he arrives around August 1st, I'll have a first draft of the novel ready for him to read. I imagine how I'll sit breathlessly and watch him read. For a week. Only interrupted by an occasional whisper; What, what? What did you read? What happened? Why did you smile? You did smile, didn't you? What page are you on? Do you want a glass of red wine? Do you like it?
Now this is quite something, and I'm exited about this prospect. This novel has been on its way since I developed its main characters and basic plot in a short story in 2006. My boyfriend has already read the prologue - and been very positive. Had he not been, I'm not sure he should be the first to read the whole thing, and probably, no definitely not, in complete isolation in Finland, the land of weird and crazy shit and dark moods and goth atmospheres and saunas and axes. It is, need I say, a matter of great trust whom you let be your first reader of your first novel.
I have three books out now and a children's book coming in November. But this is my first novel. I've always considered novels the greatest achievement. I don't think they're the hardest to write in comparison to short stories, essays, and poetry, but they've always for me been the most luxurious reading experience, and therefore also stand as the greatest writing challenge. I've published one book of poetry, one book with a mix of poetry, short stories, letters, and lists, and one theory book, originally my master's thesis on Foucault, Pippi Longstocking, and queer theory. My first children's book of a series will come in November, so before this novel will be published, I'll have at least four quite different books out already. Still, this will feel very much like a debut to me, I'm sure.
I had the pleasure of encountering a large number of spider kids in my living room today. I've just recently bought a big rose bush, it's beautiful and though it's an outdoor plant, it still lives fine in my living room. Today I watered it in the big tray, it stands in, and a piece of soil floated around in the water, I just poured in. I watered some other plants, and for some reason went back to check on the piece of soil. And what do you know, the soil had unfolded itself and now had eight legs. And what looked like a big, fat body, by a closer look was a bagpack full of, ahem, a LOT of small spiders. Eggs, I think it's called at that stage, but maybe it's the warmth of the Danish summer these days that instinctively gave me the feeling, that these eggs were more at the point of ready for pre-school or their first warning for being drunk and missing their Friday night curfue.
I got some paper and the roll of card board inside the kitchen towel roll, which was empty when I'd taken the last papers. I went to the tray with the bush standing in the middle. I figured, she might have drowned, but I didn't believe that. She was more floating unconcernedly, like at the beach underneath a carressing sun, looking like she was professionally blocking out the sound of screaming seagulls and excited children with air-filled animals and cuffs, than oh, I just drowned and my hundred babies with me, what a pity! No. She was too relaxed. I got her into a piece of paper with the cardboard, quickly out of the water, folded the paper, mashed her a little inside. Why only a little? you're thinking now, why on earth not with the big hammer straight away? Well, because I was curious and self-confident, so I opened the paper and yes, she was cramping and a zillion baby spiders were out of their mother's boring rucksack, I heard them yell, HEEYYY, look at this, I found the WWWOOOOOOORRRRRLLLLLLDDDD; guys, over here!!! They ran of the paper very fast, and I shut it again, now I mashed mother and everyone else inside of it, oh yes, I DO kill babies in the morning, then I mashed every spider baby on the floor, they were cute but I'd just seen their mother and knew, they all wanted to be like her some day, and she was long passed the state of cute, so there was no mercy, then I threw them in the garbage, took the tray with the bush, wiped it off for spiders, emptied it into the zink to drown the last ten or so, that were swimming desperately in the water, then followed them with some boiling water down the drain and zealed the garbage bag quite thoroughly.
Now, this story is the most fun if you realize, how much aracnhophobia I suffered from as a child. For some years, there were nightmares and neurotic behavior when it came to taking on shoes, taking showers, being in rooms with furniture you couldn't see under, etc. And this morning, I was doing all of this spider fun naked, because when I walk around my own house in the morning, watering my plants, alone, I of course take advantage and do it naked - so here I am, the living evidence of human development. Back then, I couldn't have done what I did today dressed in a space outfit. Now, I just checked that not too many had run up my leg or something.
I must admit though, hadn't I seen her float happily around in the water like that, I don't like to think of what had happened. Fine with me that she's been living in my rose bush. But. She would've made a hundred babies in my living room, and they would've started looking for other plants. I might have found spiders, growing in size, everywhere over the next weeks. That's a creepy thought. Even as a cured arachnophobic, I don't want to live in Spider Zoo or even worse, Spider Village, with such a large population, that they'd start building their City Hall next to the Rose Mall and carve out a subway underneath my floors. I do look around the living room a little more today, and when I see my rose bush, I do itch a little in spontaneous places.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Extracurricular Writing
I've made a list to the right to some other stuff besides the tons of words on this blog. The books are sold out, so I put links to the few libraries who have them. Sometimes someone kindly asks for this or tells me how impossible it is to find, and it's true. Now I've made it easier for you. Oh, don't thank me. I thank anyone who'd ever care enough to read any of it.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Hearts. Heads. Hands
I have a longing for anchoring myself these days. And strangely enough, while it's all about finding a job, an apartment, a direction, there is only one thing which truly feels like the right anchor to me. It is of course love. Where I live, how I get money, all these things are formalities. The only real thing which the rest are only settings around is to feel and stay with whom I love and what I love. My heart is my only reliable compass in my life. Love is my anchor. Passion is the chain. The world is my ocean. I am of course a mermaid with my long, blond, curly hair and bits of sea weed decoratively covering some private parts.
There's an amazing fact, that has only recently come to my attention: A cockroach can live for weeks without its head. And furthermore: The head can also live on for hours after the decapitation.
The basic reason is, that cockroaches don't have blood circulation like humans do. They have a so-called open circulatory system, which means that cutting of the head won't cause the kind of blood loss, that it would to humans, which would be the killing part. Along with the fact that we need mouth and nose to breathe. But the cockroach's neck would just seal off by clotting the blood. They don't breathe through a mouth in the head, but through spiracles which are tiny holes in the body segment. Then there are the facts that the cockroach's brain doesn't control the breathing, and it doesn't use the blood to carry oxygen to the body. Instead, the spiracles provide oxygen directly to the tissue through some small tubes, trachae. And they're coldblooded, poikilotherms, so they need very little food. That makes it possible for them to survive for weeks on a meal. There you go. Cut off the head. Still a body, that'll live on for weeks on the last meal and still be able to get the necessary oxygen and blood flow. Eventually, because it can't eat anymore, it'll die of starvation.
Because it has clumps of ganglia—nerve tissue agglomerations—distributed within each body segment, the cockroach will still be able to perform basic nervous functions without its brain. It can stand, react to touch, and move.
The head. The lonely head can also stay alive for hours after decapitation. If its refrigerated and given nutrients, it can even last longer. It can wave the antennae back and forth. Probably also think a last thought or two. Remember glory moments of great cockroaching. Cockroaches actually have great memories. That is, they remember really well.
There are hands, that can stay with you for a long time. I have hands, that I miss. I vividly remember my grandfather's hands. On their surface a beautiful net of thick, blue veins was spread out. I was allowed to sit and press them down, one by one, and I recall the soft and warm feeling of his hands and the veins giving in to my finger's pressure. He had such delicate skin, and such an elegant touch. I can see him bent over and moving around stamps, coins, letters, see him adjust his glasses, all so gently. I remember how my mother's hands were, when I was a child. They were alike my grandfather's, the same with the blood running so superficially under the skin, that you could follow every stretch in the pattern. I remember her touching my cheeks, calling me Peach Cheek. When I look at my own hands now, I often come to think of my grandfather and my mother, and I know, that I might some day have a child on my lap, who loves to sit and press down my veins on the back of my hands. I remember my grandmother's hands. She had arthritis, and her fingers folded in more and more over the years. She had a loom, and I can still see her hands move swiftly and focused over the warp threads, intersecting them with changing yarn all the time, different colors, confidently holding and moving the shuttle, in and out and over and back, with her small, curled hands creating the large, beautiful tapestries, that hung on the walls around the house. When I see my brother's hand held to his mouth, I see my father. When I read or think, I catch myself in the exact same move. I wonder if my brother sees me and ever thinks the same, that it is actually our father's way of holding the back of the outer finger joints lightly to the lips.
All these hands have stayed with me and I hold them close. I've seen strength, courage, and wisdom in these hands. I know how warm they are, how soft they are. I know the precise feeling of their surface against my skin. I know their age, their way of holding a pen. I know how tight they hold my hand, how relaxed they lie in a lap. I know how they tell a story, how they move in the air. I know how hard they grab my shoulder when a car is coming. Some of them I know how they feel in the moment life leaves them. I held my grandmother's hand when she died. I sat with both my grandfathers and my Aunt Grethe when they were dead. I held their hands, stroked their hands. They all once held me. Now in my heart, I hold their hands.
There's an amazing fact, that has only recently come to my attention: A cockroach can live for weeks without its head. And furthermore: The head can also live on for hours after the decapitation.
The basic reason is, that cockroaches don't have blood circulation like humans do. They have a so-called open circulatory system, which means that cutting of the head won't cause the kind of blood loss, that it would to humans, which would be the killing part. Along with the fact that we need mouth and nose to breathe. But the cockroach's neck would just seal off by clotting the blood. They don't breathe through a mouth in the head, but through spiracles which are tiny holes in the body segment. Then there are the facts that the cockroach's brain doesn't control the breathing, and it doesn't use the blood to carry oxygen to the body. Instead, the spiracles provide oxygen directly to the tissue through some small tubes, trachae. And they're coldblooded, poikilotherms, so they need very little food. That makes it possible for them to survive for weeks on a meal. There you go. Cut off the head. Still a body, that'll live on for weeks on the last meal and still be able to get the necessary oxygen and blood flow. Eventually, because it can't eat anymore, it'll die of starvation.
Because it has clumps of ganglia—nerve tissue agglomerations—distributed within each body segment, the cockroach will still be able to perform basic nervous functions without its brain. It can stand, react to touch, and move.
The head. The lonely head can also stay alive for hours after decapitation. If its refrigerated and given nutrients, it can even last longer. It can wave the antennae back and forth. Probably also think a last thought or two. Remember glory moments of great cockroaching. Cockroaches actually have great memories. That is, they remember really well.
There are hands, that can stay with you for a long time. I have hands, that I miss. I vividly remember my grandfather's hands. On their surface a beautiful net of thick, blue veins was spread out. I was allowed to sit and press them down, one by one, and I recall the soft and warm feeling of his hands and the veins giving in to my finger's pressure. He had such delicate skin, and such an elegant touch. I can see him bent over and moving around stamps, coins, letters, see him adjust his glasses, all so gently. I remember how my mother's hands were, when I was a child. They were alike my grandfather's, the same with the blood running so superficially under the skin, that you could follow every stretch in the pattern. I remember her touching my cheeks, calling me Peach Cheek. When I look at my own hands now, I often come to think of my grandfather and my mother, and I know, that I might some day have a child on my lap, who loves to sit and press down my veins on the back of my hands. I remember my grandmother's hands. She had arthritis, and her fingers folded in more and more over the years. She had a loom, and I can still see her hands move swiftly and focused over the warp threads, intersecting them with changing yarn all the time, different colors, confidently holding and moving the shuttle, in and out and over and back, with her small, curled hands creating the large, beautiful tapestries, that hung on the walls around the house. When I see my brother's hand held to his mouth, I see my father. When I read or think, I catch myself in the exact same move. I wonder if my brother sees me and ever thinks the same, that it is actually our father's way of holding the back of the outer finger joints lightly to the lips.
All these hands have stayed with me and I hold them close. I've seen strength, courage, and wisdom in these hands. I know how warm they are, how soft they are. I know the precise feeling of their surface against my skin. I know their age, their way of holding a pen. I know how tight they hold my hand, how relaxed they lie in a lap. I know how they tell a story, how they move in the air. I know how hard they grab my shoulder when a car is coming. Some of them I know how they feel in the moment life leaves them. I held my grandmother's hand when she died. I sat with both my grandfathers and my Aunt Grethe when they were dead. I held their hands, stroked their hands. They all once held me. Now in my heart, I hold their hands.
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