Blogs

Sorry about the show of anger below, but there was no way of making it sound remotely funny. Funny meaning anything that cracks me up, which by definition includes just about anything. Better luck tonight, I say. No-one should be allowed to mess with your good vibe of the day.

Decided to add a little sub menu including a couple (read 2) of the blogs I frequent. Frequently.
Will probably e changing these on a regular basis.

About Pip - Charming blog about Pip and the father and mother of Pip - politics & the politics of being a parent in exile.
What's new Pussycat - My rolemodel. About being an Aussie in exile. Writes blogs in a way that makes every entry sound like a short story and has me in stitches half the time.

Night folks.
And Sweet Dreams to you All.

They Only Come Out at Night.

[The ANGRY Blog.]

I usually take the night-bus in to town when I have morning shift. It swings by my place at 02:45, and gets me to where I'm going at 3:20 or so. Last night was no different from any other night, except for that a girl with two suitcases and two baggies asked me to help her with her bags as she was getting off the bus.
"Sure, no problem," I said. "I'm heading the same direction myself, I work here!"

Since neither of us were due in until 3:30, we stood outside and chatted for a while. Pleasant girl, aside from her bleached beard - she enjoyed Kung fu, loved her freinds, lived near me. She told me that she was 28, and on her way to Italy and had been too excited to sleep for two nights in a row, since she was meeting a prospective beau. I understood her. Someone paying your ticket to Italy with hopes of romance is enough for one to give one a bit of the jitters. If not second doubts because of a reality check.

The conversation evolved in a nice enough way, I told her what I worked with and she told me that the job suited me, since I seemed like the social type. I'm not the social type. But this girl seemed to think differently - very differently, as it turned out. We headed in at 3:30. She was going to take out some money, so I told her that I might as well take her bags with me since I assumed she was heading my way anyway. Everyone comes my way sooner or later. Okay, she says, and I open my little shop.

Ten minutes later, she comes to my booth and is hysterical. Apparantly, someone had stolen one of her bags. I felt sorry for the poor girl. I told her to run around and look for the person - if she didn't find her, I'd call the gaurd and ask him to help. But I'd try to keep an eye open for the 'theif' while she was searching. "It was a girl, about 1, 60, with a piercing in her nose. Dark-skinned", she informed me.

Five minutes later, she turned up again, empty handed - which was sad, since she was a lovely girl and on her way to an exciting adventure, too bad her trip start out in such a foul way. And too bad my first morning of night shift turned out to be one of witnessing tragedy. She was getting more frantic by the minute, pummelling words at me a mile a minute. "I can't beleive I was so stupid! She seemed nice enough, offering to help. Then she just steals my bags! What a jerk!"

I shook my head sadly. A thought did cross my mind though - could she be referring to me? I gave her the benefit of the doubt and started dialling the gaurd's number. While it rang, I grinned at her, and asked what I thought to be a stupid, though perhaps tension-releiving question. "You don't mean me, do you?" She jumped back a meter. Anger flickered in the eyes that had been blank the second before "It was YOU?! YOU are the one who took my bags?" I didn't quite know how to respond to that one. She sure knew how to continue though, and proceeded to chew me out for being such an asshole.

I sincerely hope she really was stark raving mad, and that this was not a temporary loss of sanity.
After a while she apologised for her getting so upset and confided that I simply had to understand how worried she had been. I raised my finger and pointed to my right.

"Leave. Your gate is that way."

I can't recall ever being that angry during my four months working there.
Just not sure if it was because I'd just been called an asshole by a girl who'd forgotten my existence in the space of two seconds or if it was because she said that the perpetrator had been 1,60cm tall.

Stupid wanker, get a shave.

It rhymes with DVD

Today I got the glorious idea of buying my freind a dvd box set containging a trilogy of Ringu.
(Not to self - check to see if these exist) Naturally, I called him as soon as the idea was hatched. He knew why I was calling. I could already hear a tired ring to his voice at his first "Hello?". This was my fifth try in just as many days to think of a surprise that would stay a surprise despite number of guesses.

"It's something you can use...."
"Please. No."
"Don't wanna make one single guess?"
"Not particularly."
"Aw, c'mon!"
"A dvd?"
"Nevermind."
*click*

I'm thinking that they're probably never gonna call me and ask me to be the new host for Jeopardy.

"A term associated with the Stone- hey, let's just cut to the chase. You guys! IT'S PALEOLITHIC!"
"What is Paleolithic?"
"Now how did you do that. However did you do that?"

Besides, the creepy little Swedish guy who hosts Sweden's version of Jeopardy is not likely to keel over anytime soon. It's the good ones that always are the first to go; you could roll this man in cheap Dutch cheese and he wouldn't be no gouder. (I'm trying, I really am.) I'm sure he's a very nice person when he's all alone but put him on tv, and he laughs like a little schoolgirl. "Oh? You're from Sundsvall? I been there! Aaaaaahaha." I would hate it if my foot was being eaten by gangrene or something equally disturbing and he or something equally disturbing was my only freind. "Oh, lemme have a look at that foot. That does not look good! AAAHAHAHAHA!"

if gangrene doesn't get me, the long wait till Christmas will. But I kinda enjoy it. The festive lights, the decorations, hell, even the dwarves come out now that it's socially accepted. The more the merrier, I say. My only gripe is tha tit's a bit unholier than thou to decorate shop windows and homes in wee November -says the girl who Christmas shops in October -but in a way, it sets you up for a giant anti-climax. You get worked up over the little Santas that are put out in the snow and keep hoping, against the better judgement you think you've gathered during your 24 years of life, that if Santa is ever going to visit you, then by jove, it will be this year. Christmas comes, Christmas goes. The oreos you've put out the night before are still there, though a little softer now. There is no sign whatsoever of a big fat white guy having squeezed himself through your kitchen fan. (Stranger things have happened!)

I wouldn't mind a big fat white guy squeezing himself through my stove fan on any given day. Any little thing for a laugh, you know? Told M that I was working extra hours so that I could afford Christmas presents this year. He said that there was something seriously wrong with slaving away (I sit in a booth. On my ass. Occasionally, I press a button) - just to buy material things. But it's not that, it's not that. It's that if you give someone a gift at any other time of the year, they think that you want something. Like "Oh, you give me a Lady Bic now, but you want sex later. Don't you? Bi-atch!" Can't say the thought doesn't cross my mind or that it disappears during Christmas - but the most important thing to remember about Christmas is that this is the sharing, caring part of the year when no-one will suspect a thing.

Allright, enough. Christmas is about celebrating the little miracles. Like Love, Tinsel and Gretel. Be as cynical as you like, but don't tell me there's not something special about this season. Please. I think the reason why this time of year brings out all the jumpers is because it's the time of year when everybody seems to have somebody. And some people are not that lucky. the time of year when you wish you had at least one near, or one dear, someone just to wish merry Christmas, while meaning it. Someone. And i figure it's also the time of year when you expect a little miracle of your own, even though your cold twisted callous adult heart has rationalised that probability away years ago. maybe there's still a tiny part of you who holds on to the hope you know? Be it a GI Joe, a fat man in a red suit and his entourage of vertically-challenged people, a prince on a shining horse, hell, world peace if you will. I don't know.

I know I keep wishing for barbies after a childhood fillled with various versions of 'I-can't-beleive-it's not-barbie! ' - which in some cases, was very easy seeing as how barbie is NOT furry with beady eyes. (You're not completely daft just because you're six and still haven't been house broken.) That and the fact that one of these- a Cindy, no less - was used as a bargaining chip in this sordid ordeal with playground maffia when I was in infants. Pretty Cindy. Told me mom this some half a year ago and she got that funny look she gets on her face when she does this spawn-of-Papa Smurf-and-Freud thing.

"Creep? Are You....depressed?"
"Ma," I says. "I still quiver when I see fat girls with pig tails and Catholic school girl uniforms."
You might as well have queued the violin right there. She smiled bravely and threw her arms around me, a week later I got the Rapunzel Barbie. 2002, a good year indeed.

But I digress. My point was that I kind of beleive that there's a spark of hope in everyone, no matter age. Maybe a DVD box-set doesn't cut it as a miracle, but since I'm not good at sticking around for the wishy-washy feelings part of Christmas morning, I'm hoping that maybe a lady Bic, a DVD box set, what have you, will maybe like- keep that spark going, you know?

Enough Soggy for one evening!
Peace out.

La Cucina

[Listening to Dot Allsion's "Cover Me" off Afterglow.]

"....'Like this,' he continued, 'I can feel the texture of food with my fingertips. I become much more intimately involved with the dish. The hard metal fork is not for me. No. I like to touch food, to smell it.' - here he inhaled deeply - 'I like to feel it against my skin, not just in my mouth. Food is such a sensuous thing, eating is such a sensuous pleasure. Eating good food, signora, is akin to lovemaking. It should be enjoyed, not rushed. We should abandon ourselves to its sensuality, signorina. Now I take again a piece of this wonderful timballo. I feel its warmth between my fingers; I feel the soft succulence of the filling, the glorious crust of the pastry. I place it on my tongue, slowly, lovingly. I draw it inside my mouth and experience the frisson as my taste buds go to work. I lick my fingers to enjoy every last bit of it. My fingers brush against my tongue, my lips, flesh against flesh. Now Signora, I want you to try it.' "

The quote above is taken from Lily Prior's La Cucina. Needless to say, each of the characters are as colorful and beautifully portrayed as L'Inglese, as he explains the pleasures of eating with one's fingers, to Rosa, who has just become his teacher in the Culinary Arts of Italy.

I fully realise that what's good for the goose is not always good for the gander - but there's just something about that Lily, at least from where I'm sitting. And I've sat with it some five times, reading it front to back - turning each page is - as L'Inglese puts it - a sensory delight. It's a beautiful - quiet - novel, that follows Rosa, who is as colorful and rich a character as the little miracles that come out of her oven. A story about passion, pain, and the texture of pastry between one's fingers. The love of food, the love of life, and the love that endures all.

if that last line doesn't sound like the generic movie tagline, I don't know what does. But there was no other way of putting it.

21:34

I've got it though.
It's not the coming winter that gets you - it's the nothingness in between.

From the mouths of babes and relatives

Meanwhile according to a newsletter I receive, part of the western wing of my family has decided to have this great big family bash in Florida next year. It's a part of the family that my nuclear one is excluded from for some reason. For an even stranger reason, they still keep us on their mailing list. This is not the issue. The issue is that they have chosen quite the unfortunate party-committee title. I'm not sure if I'm the missing link, or if they might want to spend a few moments pondering their choice in label, but there is something very strange about getting a letter signed "Your freinds The KOCS" every once in a while. And yet so strangely stimulating.

I won't disclose what the letters stand for since it might compromise my relatives (deeply religious to boot), but it's all very innocent. Commenting their choice in names would be seem unecessary. Redundant if you will. Much like their mailing adress - kocstaff@xoxo.com.

Good night, good people.

Neil by night.

Well, it's only fair. Some people get shingles, I get brain rot.

And today was Neil Gaiman all over again.

Neil: "So, what do you do?"
Me: "I take this course at the University."
Neil: "Oh? What course is that?"
Me:"...uh?"

My eyes darted towards Andreas with what I hear was a look of absolute pain on my face.
He got the message and mouthed the answer. I swung back to Neil Gaiman.

"Uh....Creative? Writing!?"
"Oh! Really! And who is this 'Magnus' you're having me sign this for?"

For some reason, the only logical solution here was - naturally - to try to compensate for not knowing what course I'd been taking for the past months by giving as long and as pointless an answer as humanly possible.

"A freind who I haven't met for three years yeah he lives in south of Sweden yeah he's in love with words too think some are magic, hey, well, three years thought I'd surprise him since we haven't talked for almost as long so yeah words he likes words a really good guy he's my freind oh look you're drawing a picture for him too I see that's nice."
"Well that's nice. Thank You for coming."

Today:
"Why are you taking this course?"
"...uh?"

Andreas, Andreas, why didst thou forsaken me?

Nights

This is the second time this week an evil twin of Dan's pops up and tries to kill us all.
I was lifted off my feet and thrown across the room, landing on the couch. The back of my head crunched into the glass table. Having 'officially' been knocked unconscious and taken out of the game, I saw the dream change from first to third person perpective.

An advantage to writing in third person perspective - you are a god. No-one can touch you. When I was a kid I could conjure up mountains off which to jump, or creep into a ball and cover my eyes, ears, nose and hold my breath. If you die, or lose consciousness of what is happening around you, you wake up. By proxy. Then you grow up and somewhere along the line, that freedom of choice is taken away from you. Doesn't mean that you don't darn well try. In waking and in sleeping state.

Blasting A Perfect Circle's "Blue" off Thirteenth step.

Olé.

Ho Ho Ho

I can’t wait for Christmas. I’ve made up a Christmas list already –
I want all the versions of A Christmas Carol to be aired on TV, and want to see "It's a wonderful life" at least two or three times. And I want Swedish TV to co-ordinate their bulk-bought TV series so that the Christmas episodes are aired near Christmas, and not in the middle of a heat wave when you're busy trying to pick a bathing suit that says "Please don't roll me back into the water."

I want patience. November is usually spent figuring out what to buy/buying Christmas presents. By December first, I ask people to guess what they’re getting. If they don’t get it, I tell them by December second. Meaning that I have to give them their present the same day and or go out and buy new ones because otherwise the element of suprise kinda dissappears. I just can't help getting a little too excited.

Think I set a record with Andreas in mid-November this year:
“Guess what you’re getting for Christmas!”
“I don’t want to guess. I hate Christmas.”
“It’s a nightstand.”
“...Oh.”

So no nightstand. Just like Dan guessed his way out of owning this new kick ass snowboard game and a couple of tickets to the machine head concert that’s rolling round the bend. Bummer. But it still kinda does the trick, because when it’s the time of year when it’s the thought that counts, I’m good for a million. "Darnit! But all I say is it’s got wheels and that it rhymes with Borche' . Well. So much for that."

Then you just give everyone these really creepy presents you've made yourself because you're a cheap yet creative sod and they have to smile anyway. Ka-ching Ka-ching.

And so, blog, we meet again.

To answer a question - how I handle four nights in a row of nighshift, I've decided to describe how your attitude towards it shifts from day to day.

Day 1 - Stuck in a box.

Oh kill me with Fire. Your life is completely meaningless. On top of that, some random taxi driver turns up and thinks that him being the only person in the building except for you makes him just as attractive as he might have been had he been forty years younger and relatively sane. You find yourself wishing that aliens tried to abduct & impregnate you riiight about now and realise that one is already at it.

Day 2 - Spitfire in a box.

Your taxi driver hasn't turned up and you find yourself hoping that aliens have abducted and impregnated him. Your life is still completely meaningless, but just you wait till you get your record contract. Juuust you wait. People will remember the girl in the box. And they will wonder why they weren't nicer to her. Or why they didn't even bring her cookies.

Day 3 - Jack in a box.

You get hit by an immense power rush, and you sometimes even start dancing to Pablo Picasso, until you realise that you don't even need the music. You don't need nothin! You are no longer stuck in a box, you are the KING of THE box. Studio 54, eat my box. The box is my tool. The box could not exist independently of me. What would you little people do if you had to run to the bathroom more often than you did. What would you do.
MY box. Mine!

Day 4 - Buddha in a box.

During which the high from yesterday and the fact that this is the last night leaves you with immense peace and turns you into confuscious, buddha, and a chinese fortune cookie all at once. And then you try to demonstrate this to people.

"You gonna be working here long? Doing this for the rest of your life?"
"My box is just a metaphor."
"O - kay then. Well...I'd like to go to X please. How much is a ticket?"
"Your ticket is a metaphor too. Now go in peace, child. Spread the word."

Day 5 - Oh Box, where art thou?

In a way it makes day five, the day I'm off, an anticlimax. I find myself trying to follow the same routines I follow while in the box. Have a cup of coffee before breakfast, keel over from the pain of the holes being burnt in my unprotected stomach, complain about people I meet during the day, to whoever cares to listen. Meaning Dan, and well, Dan again.

And finally - sitting down and writing about it all in front of...well. A box.

Que (?) Reloaded

NO, Andreas, this is NOT an angry poem.
BAD, ANDREAS! BAD!

Poem 36 Revisited

I don't want you talking of your eternities apart. No-one has
Ever died of loneliness while stepping out for ice cream.
I don't want to hear your breathless sighs,
Better spent on busses being late
Or the price of milk rising
-again-

I do not care for your coos of sympathy, they sound
More like the braying bovine I find
More suitable on my plate with
Some garnish or the other.
Thyme, perhaps.
Maybe dill.

Do not pat me on the shoulder and tell me that time
Heals all wounds because there is a grand canyon
Hole in my head where my heart should be
Through which your words pass like
A vacuum, in through one
Emptied the next day

together with the random hamster. Never liked it anyway,
too many paws. Too any concerns, too many concerned
Too many when are you going to get
A haircut, a job, a life, a lover
A child become a mother
I don't know.

Do not waste your tears on me your whispers in
The night as you settle down to the comfort
Of your own bed, own pair of arms
Extra pair of legs, two headed
Monologues, I don't care for
These.

But I care for other things, I see what you lovers see -
I dig them little things yes even the freaking Daffodils
Swaying in natures own socially accepted
Flatulence. And eclipsed by bluebirds
And children with ice creams
and such revelations.

I smile when the sun shines I smile when the sun doesn't
I see the small miracles you do, from my own
Private box I see stars collide and
Beauty unfolds in everything.
Even in the Mormons,
Et tu, Brutus.

And I see you. And I see your hand reach for his, I see
How this feels, I see how you feel, I see
The fragility, the complexity, the love.
So tell me I am cold, tell me
I have nothing to offer
But

I am no Rumpelstiltskin; I will not steal your first born
And in its place place a cabbage by your head where
It would lie redundant anyway. I am no snow queen,
No evil stepmother, I will not feed you Poisoned
apples because the world loves you
I only wish to watch.

Because the birds sing for me too. And the sun sets for me too.
And the spring, when it comes, it is for me too.
The smiles may not all be for me, but
I claim some. The sex in the city
Women may not know me but
I could be one.

I could be two.
We could be two.
And we could kiss breathlessly
And weep before I skip out to the store for vanilla,
Chocolate, whichever you'd prefer. I would never complain
Of the prices of milk or late busses, I would not complain at all.

Pictures of Me

By Eliott Smith. Who I wish hadn't passed away.

Night shift tonight, setting the alarm for 2 a.m.
Please God, please God, don't let anyone try to socialise with me tommorow.
Regardless of if they are mentally stable or not. Do not pass your time with me, do not pass your time with me.I do not want to hear song medleys. Music is a gift you give, not force upon someone else who stops smiling as you approach. I do not want people wanting me to try to help them fight some court case confined to being fought inside their minds. When people talk in their telephones, please let them be holding telephones against their ear and let there be someone on the other end. And please let all the taxi-drivers have customers until their shift ends. Please God Let someone need a ride to Gothenburg, if possible.

Amen

Tuesday

Tuesday is just another one of those days where you blast Penny Lane at full volume and love the world.

Despite the four night shifts that are just around the bend.
And the kooks that come out at night and never bother any other of the nightshift people but me. And the drunk taxi driver who sings Elvis medleys and talks about his sex life and the homeless man who will talk coherently if you distract him from talking about the voices he hears and the security gaurds who stand and stare at me and hope that Iwill talk which I never really do since well, I don't.

On some days, and all nightshifts, I wish my blog was a collection of half truths, embellishments and stories my ancestors have passed down to me.

Penny Lane is in my ears, and in my eyes.
There, beneath the blue Suburban skies.

Disclaimer.

[Beatles - Andreas In the Sky With Diamonds]

About four weeks ago, Andreas and I tested out this cool new game he'd bought. Soul Caliber II, as mentioned below. According to ME, what happened was that Andreas won two sets straight, whereupon I proceeded to let the games end and the asskicking begin. I beat him at the following two sets. Andreas grew increasingly tense. My women's intuition told me that the vein bulging in his forehead foreboded not only great evil but danger as well.

When I refused to play another set with him, he quickly pressed that "Start" (New Game) button after which he grabbed my control, and chose the wussiest brittlest character the history of gaming has ever produced. Against this character, he pitted his chosen character Spawn, which he apparantly thought was the meanest thing since New Kids on The Block.

He did not Win.
I won.
Me.

After reading my earlier blog mentioning this slightly incomparable act of greatness, Andreas claimed that there was no reason he, nor anyone for that matter, should beleive this ever occurred, since (he claims) my blogs are a collection of half-truths, embellishments and stories my ancestors have passed down to me.

Well. What can I say?
I am big enough to admit defeat. I don't suppose there is much of what I write that you can beleive. In which case, I am more than proud to admit, that it was, indeed, Andreas who kicked My ass.

Andreas by the way, is also the Great Lord and Leader of Us All.

Honest.

Monday bloody monday.

[Beatles - Strawberry Feilds]

Found a bag in the dumpster yesterday. It's amazing what people will throw away and what other people collect. Half of my cosmetics collection comes from the ground. I've never really used them, I just like having them. I'm not too good at buying cosmetics of my own, things usually wind up with me almost breaking down into tears or just dropping everything and running. There's just something about a herd of salesladies swarming over you screaming "Aubergine-Cherry! Aubergine Cherrry!" "No! Pink Pastel Passion!!" that scares me - it scares me bad. Hold Me.

Like being surrounded by a bunch of born-again-everything.

Anyway, the bag is currently hanging outside my balcony, drying after I washed it out and scrubbed it down. Not that I'm a neat-freak in any way- you might have gathered this already. And if you had your doubts - this is my room, on any given day. And this is the white boy I live with, on any other.

If You were the Last High

[Dandy Warhols - If You Were the Last High]

Go Rebecca go Dylan and go Ari.

Do-Re-Mi-Screwit

[Dandy Warhols - We used to be Freinds]

Right. just came back from a gruelling session over at Fyrek's.
First off, the initial shock of hearing your own rickety voice is like having a pair of your own dirty underwear rubbed in your face. It doesn't matter how many times it's touched up, or how perfect the take is. it's still something that you'd rather press down into the mostest underneathest of the clothest hamperest.

Second off - letting people hear you sing is like - well, it's bad. Apart from the fact that my nostrils flare in a very disturbing way when I sing - or rather- especially when I sing. there's also this : when you really really get your groove on, and get swept away by the music, the whole experience becomes incredibly erotic. And personal. You show a side of yourself that is not supposed to be seen, save only by the one you choose to share your bed with. I might not need to mention that I prefer both singing and making love in the dark. The latter not being so much for my own insecurities, though they are legion, but moreso because people have a general tendency to look like morons when they have sex and they also have a tendency to deny you sex for weeks at a time when you accidentally start laughing in the heat of the moment.

[For real. I don't think many people appreciate eye-contact when they feel emotionally naked]

But I sing, ergo I know how I look. And if I recall correctly, 30 Trinidadians will never forget either. I was twelve, the class had been split up into groups, each instructed to write a calypso, which is..yeah. Seeing as how no-one in my group seemed to want to do the lead, I took it upon myself, half-white and therefore half-conquistador by birthright, to lead the natives at what they did best themselves. Hey, I was twelve. And scared of failing the class. The song I performed was not quite what it was meant to be- meaning a calypso. Think country music would be more descriptive here. And the dance that accompanied it - well. As far as my dancing goes, my current "electrocuted-barbarella" isn't so bad as compared to the "bad-bladder" shuffle of my youth. ( And present. )

When the song was done I emerged back into the world of the mortals and out of my singing daze with a post-orgasmic smile on my face and realised that everyone else was grinning as well. Well, not so much grinning as laughing. My teacher had slammed down her piano lid somewhere half through the song and her upper body was now positioned on top of it, convulsing with laughter.

Fives years later, after graduation, people were still running up to me, doing my shuffle dance and singing "Let us rise, let us rise let us rise, let us rise to the o-kay-john." Kids can be so cruel. And so can teachers. And gremlins, you don't want to like mess with gremlins.

So forgive me if I won't let you see me sing.
And forgive me if I stutter when I talk.
And forgive me if I don't talk at all.

And forgive me Andreas for not calling, but I kinda forgot I'll make it up to you what say you about me letting you win next time we play Soul Calibur. Hey, I'll even be a chick this time. And if it makes you feel better, I can stroke your bicep admiringly everytime I lose and you win by proxy.

[And goodnight to you, K-Girl, wherever you are. Oulu, was it? I love You. Come home]

Chance meeting with M.

We sipped our drinks, each intently staring at the disco ball as if it might hold the answer to why the words had run out.

CW10 again

I have to comment the stories I've handed in to CW10.

Story 2
Sam wasn't half as scary as I first thought it would be - well. it wasn't scary at all. I think it was the frame of mind I disliked, rather than the story itself.

Story 1.
I got feedback two days ago. I glanced at the papes once and quickly shoved it into my bag. Later on I pulled it out (carefully) and eyed it again. I've known criticism to be scary. This criticism wasn't. It was constructive. And hence the state of writing limbo. When showing people examples of my writing, there are two things that will definately make me stop dead in my tracks and not write one more word. "It's bad" and "It's good." Donna just went past all that and told me to move home after reading one of my things, but since she's always telling me to move home, I didn't quite take it too seriously. I didn't continue writing either.

But here comes a piece of constructive criticism, and for the first time in a long time - it felt like "Heeeeeeey. What. Is This?" Hence the fear of rescuing my paper from the bag I'm keeping it in. It is useful. Which means that I now have the oppertunity of rethinking & reconstructing my form of writing. Because if I do, I might just have a shot at doing something kinda good. And that's what I want, isn't it? It is.

I suppose it feels like I've got my dream - or at least the seeds of one - sealed up in that bag. The only question left now is - do I have the courage to open it?
Hum.

In other news, that which was discussed in the class I missed was "benifits writing in first/third person & limitations." I suppose it depends on how you look at it. Third person view gives you the writer this omnipontent overview of his characters. On the other hand, it limits your own personal views, even if you have your characters express them. Or I suppose it depends. Writing in the first person form demands that you put yourself in a certain frame of mind - the mother, the father, the serial killer - which might also force you to limit yourself. You're seeing through eyes that aren't yours. And you are seeing other people from a very limited first person perspective. Which also means that there's a greater risk of falling into the trap of focusing on this I and failing to describe the surrounding environment - like I seem to have a tendency of doing. It's a delicate balance.

So why do I opt for writing in first person?
Writing in third person presents a greater responsibility- and skill. You have to be able to make many people come alive in a way that I haven't been able to do - it takes time, and patience, and caution, so that you don't let your opinions influence the different characters in such a way that makes them all run together in a gray messy mass.

But no, I'm sorry. I do not see any benefits or limitations with one as opposed to the other. I don't want to make a pro's and con's list. It all depends on your style of writing, skill and dedication. And personal preference, of course. as a writer, you control how deeply under the skin you want your reader to go, regardless perspective.

11:10 p.m

Today passed in waves. In waves? You say- In waves I say.
Getting up was hell. Going to work was hell. You know that thing that people say- you use less muscles when you smile, as opposed to the thirty million you use when frowning? They lie. But I did it, I smiled. Later on in the day I did more than that.

When you work in a little booth, and are surrounded by glass windows, there's not much you can get away with without people stopping and staring, pointing and wondering who to pay to see the bearded lady and the monkey-boy as well. In other words, you might just want to wait with picking your nose until you are in the privacy of your roommate's room. And don't get me started on the potentially lethal hazard of having beans - ever. Your gas will hibernate, for days at a time - until it finds itself safely cushioned on the seat of the swivel chair it has grown to know and love.

Somewhere around three, accompanied by David Bowie's Pablo Picasso, things changed. I started smiling. And laughing. See, if you don't have a student card, you don't get a student discount. Fortuntely, the company's decided to accept expired cards since about 70 % of the students haven't received theirs. A girl comes up to my window and shows me her card, which has, of course, expired. "Oh, well, I haven't received any new card" she says, apologetically. "Really?" I say. "WELL I GOT MINE" followed by maniacal laughter. There was no real reason for this laughing spell, but my philosophy is that there shouldn't have to be one. Laugh and the world laughs with you, right? So I did it again as she gathered her bags to walk away. Apparantly the world didn't include this girl in particular.

Also spent a considerable time dancing around in the booth, which looks pretty much like- well. Picture ten thousand Japanese people fighting over one karoake machine after too much sake. That funny. Except this psuedo-Chinese person doesn't just sing, she dances as well. Well. Dancing might be a bit of a euphemism. Picture my booth as this one giant conductor and The Creep being hit by lightning, repeatedly. Think it was popular back in the fifties, when you had the teeny-bop, the monkey, the oh-my-god-I've-just-been struck-by-lightning-and-I'm-still-alive dance.

Course you don't need to go dancing around any booth to make your workplace an enjoyable place. As a matter of fact, you don't even need a booth. Andreas, for example opts for a cubicle. He tells me that at his workplace, the employees make a sport out of running into each other's offices, passing gas, and making a quick getaway thus leaving their roommate trapped in confusion and a now less-than-pleasant workplace.

Of Course, this might be just another Swedish thing, up there with eating rotten fish and the summer tradition of dancing around phallos symbols while pretending to be amphibians. The point is, my pretties, is that there is always something, some little thing, that can get you through the day. Even if it's just smiling at your own weak attempts at smiling. Because at least you're trying - and - come to think of it, You can Make it.

Cause you rock.

[Heard I had a Yorkshire dialect today.
Well. Will you look at that.]

Fyrek, my Love.

Allright, it's been a while, apprantly.
Not so much because I haven't written as that I seem to have deleted the blogs that dealt with things deeper than pee-stains and such.

Which was stupid. Why censor yourself?

Have to share this piece of news: Fyrek has given me one of the most beautiful gifts I could ever wish for, so beautiful even that I didn't bother to wish for it in the first place. I was only supposed to hang out at his place for an hour or so, but after hearing what he had to show me, I couldn't help but take over his computer and write down text as fast as my little fingers could manage. Two whole lines. Then four, then eight, then three verses.

Let me tell you, I could not be more grateful to Fyrek than i am now. There is no greater gift than letting me a piece of music from which to lure words. Except - as with Fyrek - for giving me a piece of music where I don't have to coax any words out, they just fall into your lap as the song plays. And it was so tragically beautiful that it had to revolve around the Midas touch.