Wise Beyond My Years

a giant big tooth is boring its way up through the tender flesh of my jaw. a wisdom tooth, they call it and it has me on a mashed-only diet.

mashed banana for breakfast
mashed potatoes for lunch
mashed macaroni for dinner

and suddenly it makes perfect sense to me, the way tiny children cry inconsolably.

will write more when back to solids.

Dead Poet’s Variety

When I was fourteen (allright then, 23 and three quarters) I wanted to be a poet. Then I sort of realised that I did not want to kill myself so very much anymore so there was no real point, I could write fun stuff instead. Like press-releases.

But now four years of writing press-releases have taken their toll, have made me sort of want to kill myself again. So tonight, for your enjoyment (I mean, for your nail-biting, tea-drinking, black-clothed, Cave-listening pleasure): a few poems. Inspired by the great miracle that is life.

Ode to Death

In stores have I walked, the aisles pacing
From cooler to cooler drifted, searching
But never have I found a more perfect death
Than that which has blanched these greens of summer
and turned fresh buds in their husks to dust

Oh, produce section at Ica on Ringvägen
Your deadly grip does turn the stoutest growth
To frail and bitter, weak and wilted endings
In your hollow hand lies all life, panting

—————————————————————

Constructionwork on platform: De-constructed

No train.
Dog barking.
Baa arking.                 Ba ba bab                arking.
Train de de de                                DE BA
Lay De De
Train                          delayed.
Barking.
Barking.
Delayed! Delayed! Delayed!
Barking.

—————————————————-

Still Wet / Stranger on a Train

Your wet wool, mirrored in my wet gaze
Your elbow in my gut, a knife, is turning
I can still recall you armpits over my nose
And the way your breath, from deep within
Would envelop me.

But you don’t see me, anymore
You are lost to me, behind your large paper,
And your umbrella
Which used to be folded against my leg
Has sprung it’s cords and sprayed me
Now with cold beads of your discontent.

Getting My Hands Dirty

When Luca Brasi slept with them fish, what kind of trunks was he wearing? If my recent experience of synchronized maffia swimming is anything to go by, they were double. But let me start at the beginning.

Due to the fact that

A) I am borderline midget at a workstation set for the borderline giant
B) I sleep on the floor with the arm of the Better Man for a pillow 
C) It is so frigging dark here, jogging outdoors is the equivalent of blasting Rape me at top volume

I have experienced some back-aches lately. Alas, last night, I decided to take myself to the public baths for a swimming session. The first thing I noticed on arrival was a sign notifying the public that only three lanes were open, since the men’s swimming team were using the rest of the pool for practice.

 This I did not mind. In fact, trying not to salivate over the idea of sharing a bath with a school of Michael Phelpses – Michael Phelpai? – I quickly showered, changed, and got into the pool, ready to gawk.

Imagine my disappointment, then, when it turns out professional swimmers keep their bodies, while training, for the most part hidden under water. No matter how hard I tried ogling, all I could catch was the occasional flash of rubber-clad scalp, or glimpse of be-goggled eye…

Either way, I soon realised I was in no position to look out for anything except for my own personal safety. The three lanes left open for the populace was teeming, boiling, crowded with struggling bodies. And what bodies these were. It turns out I had chosen for my swim a time when two very specific demographics were hot in the water. Elderly, stout women. And Russian gangsters – not the slimmest of otters, either*.

Babushkas to the left of me, Mobsters to the right, I was left with very little wiggle-room. After 40 minutes of close contact with little old ladies and hit-men alike, I can assure you that they are both slippery when wet. They are both covered in a fine fur. And they are neither of them keen on elasticity in their elastics. Suits sagged and trunks poofed. Straps floated and strings too. The only diffrence between them in fact, is that mobsters swim as though they were swimming for their lifes, arms flailing, lots of kicking, and grunting. The little old ladies float like leafs downstream, like leafs downstream to that great water beyond, like leafs very, very slowly.

When I finally tired of being kicked in the groin by Oleg and stopped mid-stroke by Edla, I got out, throwing a last regretful look at the enticing heels and elbows of the Phelpses, I made my way home for dinner. Served in front of the news by a loving Better Man, I was just swallowing my last bite when the news came on. Which story do you think got top billing:

A) SAAB is not doing so well
B) Obama is not doing so well
C) The Swine-flu is doing a bit too well
D) The weather is doing a fine job of driving us to an early grave 
E) Matters in Stockholm swimming-pools have reached a critical state. The city is now launching a Major Campaign to change public behaviour in said pools. The problem? Male bathers do not change out of their underwear before getting in the water, merely pulling on swimming-trunks over regular (well used, at end of day) briefs. “The level of bacteria” says expert “contained in a single pair of unwashed shorts is very high.” “Imagine the amount” continues expert “if you pool the dirty laundry of all Stockholm criminals”.

* What makes me so sure they were Russian mobsters, you ask:

1) tattoos a go-go
2) getting out of water to practice punches and kicks
3) wearing furry hats in water
4) speech heavy on consonants

Your Funeral, My Knitting-Pattern

We were sitting at lunch today, two of my colleagues discussing crocheting. Advance level crocheting, of things with arms and eyes. They were in agreement, they both enjoyed crocheting more than knitting, because knitting is a bigger project and if you start on a cardigan in October, apparently you might not be done until Christmas. 

This is not a problem for me. If I start knitting a cardigan in October, it will for sure be done five hours later when I throw it from my hands in disgust, a malformed specimen full of holes, in an on-sale-shade of taupe and persimmon. Many are the strangely shaped lumps of wool that have gathered over the years in the corners and cupboards of my life: indistinguishable from the surrounding dust-bunnies, except the dust-bunnies are better dressed…

The same goes for all things art-and-craft. If a thing is supposed to be glued together, mine always somehow ends up held together by sticky-tape. If a thing is supposed to be cut from cardboard, mine seems cut from cardboard by a vaguely dysfunctional three-year old. Easter chickens and Christmas gingerbread men interchange their limbs, festive squiggly lines resemble fevered charts of heart-failure, the fancy greeting-card print spells disaster – and all is covered in a fine smattering of crumbs and failed ambitions.

In short, I am not a natural at Do-It-Yourself – am much better off getting done by someone else. And I suspect this failing of hand-scissors coordination is the reason for my grumpiness. If I were a creative person I could circumvent the imperfections of life by improving on them. As it is I only get to comment ill-naturedly and wish for designer originals.

Case in point: my ongoing tiff with Mr Kamprad of IKEA. I Do Not Dig His Stuff. To my mind, a bed shouldn’t be evocative of the kind of screwing together that calls for tools and leaves you knuckles bloody. But perhaps some of my discontent stems from the fact that I am left so completely in the lurch by my own hands: if I were able to re-paint OUSKAELIG or ad-lib a cover for KNEULIG, perhaps I would like them better. If I could team the non-descript OHAULLBAR with a personal, quirky quilt or liven up the death-warmed over HAUFSVAERK with a few hand-embroidered pillows, maybe I could forgive him his bland materials, drab colours and his faulty approach to screwing…

Like this woman, (who it turns out lives in South Africa and have never been confronted by the actual physical presence of a EULANDIG sofa or stubbed her toe on a FAUNSKAP table) who takes her own brand of IKEA dissatisfaction and makes it into a really rather nice print, which would go great with my OPOLITTLIG kitchen hangers…

But then again, no kind of sewing know-how could save the sort of colour-scheme I have in mind for my own IKEA print…

Lights On

Surely, there must be those that do not live in Sweden. I mean, for Pete’s sake – please tell me there are those that do not live in Sweden. That not all of us are reduced at this time of year to pale, withered wraits, torn between a longing for the sun and a fear of the strange, bright light that shows itself for minutes every now and then. Stockholm, in November, had an official count of four hours of sun*. Please tell me there are those who live in Aruba.

Surely, there must be those that do not live in Sweden. And since those that don’t can’t possibly feel the same need I do, I think they (yes, I am looking at you, though you can’t see it due to the permanent dusk that envelopes me) should all send me your lamps, lights, chandeliers, candle holders etc to light up my sorry, sorry life. In return, I can send you my will to live, which deserves a better fate that staying cooped up here, swaddled in down comforter.

However, as I wait for your care-packages to start pouring in, I ponder the possibility that we might have to buy/make/steal ways of lighting our new apartment. Each approach has it’s own merit:

Steal Nice lamps are bloody expensive. This is reason enough to steal them. Easier than go rob a store, then, is to rob an elderly relative. How hard can a father, let’s say he’s approaching 80, really hold on to his Poul Henningsen lampshades? I am thinking, not so very. From his flat, I am thinking to collect one of those, and also a bizarre pumpkin-coloured clay candle holder, for which he can have no possible use, except for the fifty-odd years of emotional attachment invested in it…

Make Last night we went over to the Better Man’s brother, the painter, for a birthday supper. The table was set, not in their itsy bitsy upstairs living area, but in the amazing basement studio. This is where I fell in love with a cheap solution to ugly lighting: simply make a screen of translucent japanese paper by attaching it to a steel or wooden frame, and place the screen in front of the offending lamp. This is a way to make even IKEA lighting forgiveable – out of sight is out of mind. I am thinking the inevitable globs of glue, rips and tears, and crooked alignment that are the inevitable results of me trying to DIM (do it myself) will add character and charm.

Buy Some lamps you can buy. For example, broken ones. Having the Better Man on hand to redo the electrics, I am happily shopping away for early 20 century fixtures, easily transformed into things of beauty by a good clean and a new shade. And if we go up in flames due to faulty wiring – well so be it. At least it will be a well-lit way to die.

* If I remeber correctly. Also, I think at one time they might have counted the searchlights from the control-tower at Arlanda airport.

Baby Blues

Great music can convey any depth of emotion, enhance or dispell it. For example, Willie Nelson is making me forget, right now, about the approx 3 hours I have left at the office before being on the road again… And so it is to great music I must turn, when trying to describe my experiences last night. Baby-sitting for two under threes. Both screaming their tiny blonde heads off for three hours straight, gearing each other up with each new piercing, snot-drenched yell. I won’t get into the details, but let’s just say this song is for all the toddlers in the house. I’ve made it a duet, with a little help from BB King, Metallica, Usher, Bob Marley et al…

Babysitter:

When the night has come,
And the land is dark
And the moon is the only
Light we’ll see
You act like you don’t want to listen
When I’m talking to you
You think you outta do baby
Anything you wanna do

I don’t know what to do
I’m always in the dark
Help, I need somebody,
Hear the children crying

Baby:

When the night falls down
I wait for you
And you come around
And the world’s alive
With the sound of kids
So now we see the light (What you gonna do?),
We gonna stand up for our rights! (Yeah, yeah, yeah!)

Somewhere after midnight
You say “Yes”, I say “No”.
You say “Stop” and I say “Go, go, go”.
I twist like a corkscrew
I drink from the bottle, weeping.
Ooh ooh ooh ooh ooh oooh
Ooh ooh oooh (can ya feel me burnin’?)
Ooh ooh ooh oooh ooh oooh

Babysitter:

Maybe I have been here before
I know this room, I’ve walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you.

I don’t want to hold you and feel so helpless
I don’t want to smell you and lose my senses
You drive me crazy, I just cant sleep
Baby, thinkin of you keeps me up all night

It’s a heartache
Nothing but a heartache
Love him til your arms break
Bad boys,bad boys whatcha gonna do whatcha gonna do?

Baby:

Can’t walk, can’t talk, can’t eat, can’t sleep
Every now and then I get a little bit helpless
and I’m lying like a child in your arms
Every now and then I get a little bit angry
and I know I’ve got to get out and cry

And I need you now tonight
And I need you more than ever
And if you’ll only hold me tight
We’ll be holding on forever

Babysitter:

Every now and then I get a little bit tired of listening to the sound
Every now and then I get a little bit nervous that the best of all the years’ve gone by
Every now and then I get a little bit terrified (when) I see the look in your eyes
Every now and then I fall apart

I have lost the will to live
Simply nothing more to give
There is nothing more for me
Need the end to set me free

Baby:

It ain’t wise to need someone
As much as I depended on you
Rock me baby, rock me all night long
Rock me baby, honey, rock me all night long
I want you to rock me baby,
like my back ain’t got no bones

Babysitter:

Thank you for this bitter knowledge
Guardian angels who left me stranded
And I’m thinking uhh huhuu
Why can’t I sleep with my eyes open

Close your eyes and I’ll kiss you
A little darlin’, don’t shed no tears
cos when you worry, your face will frown,
and that will bring everybody down,

Exit, light
Enter, Night
Don’t say nothing, don’t say nothing
Oooooo … Hush
Don’t say nothing
Oooooo .. Hush
Don’t say nothing

Baby:

Darling leave a light on for me

Boho Boo Hoo

Garance Doré: read this and weep. Malheureusement, il y a -aussi- des filles comme moi:

My sense of dress is a finely tuned instrument for the gauging of my level of social commitment. If I expect to interact with relevant others/strangers I tend to make some sort of effort. However if the others are limited to man in mailroom and boyfriend, I might easily slip into something more comfortable…

This morning I did not shower. I was not very enthusiastic about combing my hair. I did not give a damn about the coffee stains on my jeans, or the hole on my elbow. I just slipped into the most pyjamish things “in my wardrobe” (read: from the heap on the bedroom floor) and stumbled into work.

Which was fine, till three-thirty rolls around with a phonecall from the Better Man, “reminding me” of cocktail ballyhoo straight after work. (read: appraise me of for first time.)

A fashionista could no doubt pull off the disheveled look. But I never look casually tousled. Instead, to speak in fashion lingo – I channel gutter-nutter. My complete lack of glamour is not helped by any sort of lint. If I were Mary-Kate or Ashely, I’d be surrounded by a swarm of pigeons, not paparazzi. If I were Helena Christenssen on that long ago Isaak beach, my nose would be peeling and there’d be sand lodged in…places. For christ sake: I’d make a Grace Kelly get-up look like I were just about to put on the kettle for another cuppa.

My outfit would stand a better chance if I were, at least, wearing comfortable shoes. And by comfortable, I mean shoes that make my feet ache and my back burn, but that give that little bit of height needed for me to look down my nose at people. But instead of purple superhigh wedges or blue velvet stilettos, today I am wearing decidedly dodgy old Stan Smiths. Returning to the analogies: they scream locker-room, rather than whisper club-house.

Solution? Simple really. Sure I’ll meet the Better Man straight after work. After a short detour to the shops, courtesey of his bill. I am thinking it will take at least three inches to glam up my thrift-store self. And I am thinking, also, that a fur might be a valuable lesson – teaching him the economical benefits of not springing surprise interactions….

Cliniqually Depressed

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that there are those who have their shit together and those who have not. Tonight, as I was lathering myself, my pants, and my bathroom with industrial strength Ajax, I came to the realization that my shit is most definitely scattered.

Every so often I decide to make something of myself. With “of myself”, I mean that I decide never again to skip washing my hair in favor of toast, never again to leave cleaning the flat for so long you need a pressure hose to get it in shape, and most importantly, never again to be wandering the streets at 8 on a Sunday night, desperately hunting for clean undies.

There is something deeply demoralizing about having to buy clean underwear from the polite gentleman at the corner shop – yet again – because you haven’t been arsed to do your laundry.

Well, every time the zeal comes upon me, I spend a lunch-hour blowing half a months pay on expensive skincare products and white cotton slivers. I usually throw in something whole-grain for good measure. I come home, apply the products, fold the slivers, and then attack dusty corners of apartment with vacuum. My boyfriend looks on curiously and eats popcorn while I bask in sense of self righteousness.

And all would be well if it ended there.

But then life seems to expect a repeat performance. And I may be many things, but a fan of sticking to my guns I am not. The next day dawns, with it’s endless possibilities of a) watching TV instead of rinsing dishes b) eating bite-size chocolates with my afternoon coffee instead of not eating bite-size chocolates with my afternoon coffee c) reading Candace Bushnell instead of doing laundry and d) falling asleep on boyfriends lap instead of scrubbing with a loofah.

And so the shit that was scraped into a tidy heap slowly spreads over apartment, skin, and booty over the course of the week. Till Sunday, when I stand once more, desperately trying to dislodge clumps of toothpaste from bathroom mirror and washing tattered and gray, yet garish, H&M panties in the tub.

They seem made of some strange material I do not recognize. Maybe it is moral fibre.

Honey, I’m Home

Surprising news today. Jersey-Girl, that 2004 “can’t belive it’s not Hallmark” atrocity, is actually Gospel: a story Biblical in it’s themes of sin and redemption.

The reason I know this is that I couldn’t sleep last night, and it was the only thing on (on being on one of the two dvd’s in my dvd collection, the other being, for unclear reasons, Girl With A Pearl Earring).

If Ben Affleck lets himself get sucked into carreer, into the wine and the dine, and neglects the Basic Relationships with Down to Earth People who are the Salt of the Earth – he shalt suffer and the Salt of the Earth shalt be trowsth in his eyeth, in the shape of a very poutyth and neglected Liv Tylerth.

Now imagine you, Dear Reader, as the big lipped Miss Liv, and I, your humble and penitent Affleck.

I am returned from the big city to spin you round and round in dingy bars until you forget I am a negligent bastard.

I am returned to playfully cram ugly knitted hats on your black tresses until you forget I am saddled with the spoiled spawn of Jennifer Lopez, and tend to dump it with you at first opportunity.

I am returned to drive my garbage truck in t-shirted glory.  And if that wont make you pucker up then nothing will.

Or more realistically, I am returned to tell you all about my friends sex lives, thinly disguised as recipies for chocolate cake.

 

….And the first one to correctly analyse how come my only two dvd’s star women who do no service but sucking-lip-service gets a hand-embroidered Palestininan purse.

Harold Says

Bloom would argue this blog has literary merit, far greater than the general modern output, in that it is no longer being written.

But bully for Bloom, it is lack of time, not lack of inspiration, that’s keeping me away. Be sure, I am storing up a great big number of posts, anecdotes, what have you, for times when no longer submerged in work.

Which will be roughly June 3:d.