Walking & Writing

Today is not about keeping track of time. Time doesn't mean anything to me anymore. Night and day merge into endless darkness, endless light, endless fog. Sleep isn't part of my regime, awareness isn't either. I had to get out, so I got on a bus. I do not know how long I sat there. I could probably estimate how long, but I am not dealing with figures now, with anything measurable. A woman ate an orange on the bus. Who does that? The whole bus reeked of sticky orange.
I got off near a mall in the city. I went in and looked for the toilets. I followed the arrows and ended up walking for miles, in a never-ending spiral, until I finally found them. They do that on purpose, the Mall People, so that you pass every single store in that monstrous mall while you're dying to pee.
Out of the street everything looked different from my town. Every other person was eccentric, bizarre, beautiful. They looked like cutouts from magazines I read, and they were all minding their business. No one looks you in the eye here. I like the anonymity of this situation. I am a mysterious alien and I have time to think. No one asks questions.
I saw a girl sitting on a bench and writing in a notebook. Just like I had done an unknown amount of time before her and just like I am doing now. We are the stars of our own lives, me and her.
Every inch of this city's concrete is plastered with vibrantly coloured posters and scribbled with rebellious graffiti. I think it's beautiful, it evolves, it breathes.
It's amusing how I am strung on no sleep at all. I don't even feel the heaviness, I am numb. I crave to lock eyes with people to know that I exist, that I am not just a whiff of carbon monoxide (Dougles Adam reference).
I am sitting in a dog park. Or at least it's a park, and there are a lot of dogs. Maybe this is just a meeting point for gay men. I spy a lot of couples.
There are catalogue people here. Great bone structures, great eyes, clean. They catch the light. I love their interpretations of fashion, and the way they all bike around, busying themselves with movement. I love how I am lost right now, in the dog park. Every street here leads to a junction that leads to more streets and junctions. My sense of direction is equivalent to that of a blind person. I am fumbling in the dark.
Being in love looks good here, or maybe it just photographs well. Tinsel Town for the masses, multi-cultural Hollywood Boulevard.
I feel myself disintegrate here. I like the feeling. Even if it is just my hair and nails, the dead parts of me. Losing myself is good.
It's all forbidden fruit. Everyone is stunning, but you can't look them in the eye because that it against the rules. Never linger. We are all untouchables.
Even though the atmosphere has defiantly charmed me, somehow it seems fake.
The story of my life.

floating islands

Oh shite, I am Lady gagging too. I thought I had somehow avoided this international obsession but ah, what the heck, she's freaky and I like it.

Yesterday I saw Avatar in 3D, and I was surprise to find it completely awesome. It's clichéd fantasy and as far from reality as you can get, but somehow I was charmed with the concept and found myself wanting to live among those towering blue-skinned feline-faced and tailed creatures that were undeniably sexy in their own way. I loved the whole idea of connections in the world, and how everything has energy which it must use and create and that all elements are breathing and beating. Most of the film had quite a familiar foundation, I found many motives that matched those in movies like Pocahontas (even the hero Jake Sully's initials are the same as John Smith's) and Star Wars. I read an amazing critique by Jonathan Romney that stated "Avatar also creates a jungle-planet environment in astonishingly dense detail: every leaf, every droplet of water, every scale and hair on every bizarre creature is manufactured to order. The film is like an anti-Darwinist's wet dream of intelligent design." Other than that he commented about how kitsch the whole morality of the film was, and how it lacked in true ground-breaking imagination, which I totally agree with. But apart from the movie's many content-related faults, what was exhilarating was the imagery. Glow in the dark neon colours radiating from every plant and creature, it all seemed like some heavenly psychedelic trip into a pure spirited world. According to Romney the film is "Visually, the motion capture is seamless; the clarity of the 3D is remarkable, and it's all undeniably dazzling. Big Jim's Rainforest Adventure is like David Attenborough's Life on acid – and pardon the cliché, I do mean on acid. This is a neo-hippie experience par excellence: Pandora's fauna and landscapes, especially its extraordinary airborne mountains, will look oddly familiar to anyone who remembers the LP sleeves of Seventies prog-rock illustrator Roger Dean." I sat towards the front of the cinema with my friends, and when we looked behind us we burst out laughing. It was just rows and rows of people wearing thickly-rimmed 3D glasses with pink and green lenses, looking like mad ogling aliens. By the end of the three-hour picture I felt completely sick though, the whole three dimension aspect of things seems to make me a little nauseas.

Apart from wanting to be a blue alien and listening to the very epitome of pop (and quite camp pop at that) I am now part of the formspring.me community, if that's what it is. It's this nothing-but-useless site where you can ask questions. Mine is www.formspring.me/bluefloyd, so if you want to ask me anything you can and it won't cause you any effort.

wave goodbye

Today I couldn't think, I could only cry. So I got on my bicycle and peddled and peddled, until I found myself at the seaside. The sea was silver-blue, a mirror reflection of the white winter sky. I took off my shoes and walked along the shoreline, the ice water splashing at my ankles. I walked for a long time, taking in my surroundings, seeing what there is to see. I saw sail boats sailing peacefully on the horizon, bright sunrays peaking through the clouds like God. I saw people walking and running, and even locked eyes with a guy in a green hoodie skating on an electric skateboard with his two dogs running along at his side. After a while I went a sat down on the sand. I had so many thoughts and yet had none. I felt myself sinking; into my thoughts, into the sand, into a depression. I let the wind blow away anything I was feeling. I took out my book and read. A few hours went by, and I felt like I should head home. I biked back home, and as I turned the key in the front gate of my house, I looked up to the sky and felt the rain.

vanished in smoke

I am going to invent an ever-lasting cigarette. It will have the classic cig look as you know it; a thin white sausage that fits snugly between your fingers with a burning ember at the tip emitting smoke. It works the usual way, you light it with a lighter while inhaling deeply and then simply puff away. The difference is that the white rolled paper doesn't burn and the sausage doesn't shrink. You can take as many drags as you like and the fag remains intact. You can stub it out but always relight and carry on smoking. This will eliminate the only problematic issue there is regarding smoking – the financial toll. This way every young rascal can afford to be a heavy-weight chain-smoker. Genius, isn't it? It's a shame everyone will die so young, so beautiful. Or maybe it isn't.

our bodies break

It seems as though anyone who's ever made it big has come from some sort of 'broken home'. "I had this problem," or "I had that addiction," and that is what ultimately pushed them to be incredibly passionate about something and succeed. It's the common Cinderella story, written in a thousand different versions.
I can see it now, my future. A few years will pass and I will find myself leading a terribly normal life, doing horribly normal things in an awfully normal place. I will be hating it all and most of all hating myself and every mediocre thing about me. I will turn to drinking and promiscuity to fill some imaginary void that I think is inside of me, and I will never be satisfied. I will watch ten million movies, the good ones and the completely crap ones, until my eyes turn square and my heart turns soft from all the choreographed emotion on the screen.
Who will I have to blame? My current self; the self I am now, writing this. It's not that I don't have to deal with all the things you read about, I do, but I am so numb. Not metaphorically speaking, not terminologically speaking, but actually emotionally numb. It just doesn't move me anymore, the cancer, the hostility in my house, anything. I just go on, thinking about really shallow things, and nothing else. Can someone tell me if that is fucking normal?
Help me scream.

Our bodies break
And the blood just spills and spills
But here we sit debating that
It's such a shame
My hand just kills and kills
There's got to be an end to that
There's got to be an end to that.

[Breaker – Low]

mojito drops

It’s raining really hard right now, proper Europe-rain. It sounds as though if I'd open the window the entire room will flood and I will have my own private swimming pool. I like it. I like wearing my jeans and my boots and my periwinkle knitted sweater and going out in the nipping cold. Next time I'll bring my umbrella.

Current gossip has evolved. Nowadays, sex just doesn't seem to cut it like it used to. To our eighteen year old selves, sex is just something that happens and, as far as gossip goes, no one gets excited about it anymore. The new thing, apparently, is guys who seem to be very straight having gay sex. That's right, the buzz going around at the moment is that best friends are doing it, and how. As we sit at a coffee shop sipping our frothy chai-lattes, we cease discussing fashion or movies or whatever, to talk about how some guys we used to hang out with (I even had a crush on one of them) have now found sexual satisfaction in each other. What will the youth be talking about in ten years?

On the other hand, a few days ago my friend and I were mooching pointlessly around in an art store when an idea hit us. Immediately we started buying supplies in a somewhat frenzy. We got neon coloured balloons, googley eyes, feathers, superglue, a black marker and a packet of flour. Then we went over to another friend's house and set to work. We spent the next two-or-so hours cutting and sticking, customizing and styling, until we had created a nice bunch of those stretchy flour-babies you play with when you're a kid. So really our maturity levels are reaching both ends of the spectrum.

shine like millions

I feel like a leper. I am an island, and I am stranded on it. I am succumbing to addiction, as is the rest of the free world. All though j'adore books, and sometimes think my methods to be old-school, I find myself entangled in the web. The ultra fast, super revolutionized, World Wide Web. Don't fear for my health though, I'll surely rehabilitate when the weather clears up.

My brother's Thrash-Metal band, Beerage (www.myspace.com/beerage), has been featured in a Swedish metal magazine. They actually answered each question in the interview with an entire paragraph, going into dates and detail-overload. I gave him some interview advice for the next time, tips about being savvy and cynical. And basically keeping it short, and narrowing it down to catch-phrases. When his band gets blown-up and shitfaced-famous, his die-hard fans will dig up this old teenage interview and laugh their heads off. In the meantime I doubt anyone will survive through the third question.

I just came back from a standard house party. It was the usual; people, music, drinks. I'm not supposed to drink alcohol, since the kissing disease affects your liver. It's quite refreshing seeing the scenario through sober eyes. Anyway, a friend of mine who was recently recruited to the army as a combat soldier was telling me how at the base he doesn't seem to feel the urge to, well, fuck. "I wake up, and it's just not up!" he explained. He found out that they put soda in the food, to prevent morning boners. "But when we get home on the weekends, everything just goes back to normal," he ensured. While they are at it, they should spike the girls' food with something to stop their periods. It would just make things a bit less messy.

shuffle

I'm a bit of a mess. Not that this is a new thing, but now the mess seems to be leaking out, really gushing, from some tear in my seams and I'm drowning in my insides. Pretty bloody shitty, literally. I know that making absolutely no sense is in right now, extreme randomness and bollocks and all. But I do think that there should be sort of rhythm in there, secretly keeping time. Maybe I'm just pussy. On that note, it's like ipod-shuffle. You're leaving your whole musical experience up to chance, and I can't get enough of it. I'm overloaded with tracks and hits and bands and artists and musicals and genres and I don't know who I am anymore so you, mister ipod sir, you decide. Good choice.

By the way, no sense and nonsense are entirely different matters. Nonsense does have structure, even if you lot are not aware of that. For example, in Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, which is modular nonsense lit, Alice exclaims; "Oh, how I wish I could shut up like a telescope! I think I could, if I only knew how to begin." Hope you caught my drift.

Wow, this is sad. As I'm new to blogger.com, I was surfin-an-turfin a little, to get the feel of the community and all, and most of the blogs I came across (99.9%) were of young mothers, dishing about their fresh tots. I hope this chain of parent-bloggers is just some freak accident. Honestly. I do encourage literature, in all shapes and sizes, but posting about your kids seems a somewhat ridicule. It just demands a big WHY? And we'll leave it at that.



I think that when we're young we convince ourselves that we are meant for greatness; Nobel prizes, curing HIV, rock-stardom, saving the planet, sex tapes, the whole deal. With age and possibly maturity we detect the illusion in our beliefs. We realize that we are all floating down the same mainstream; watching telly, midnight-snacks, dishwashing, walking the dog. No one is special, so fucking special.

december ember

I am utilizing this grossly empty void that has formed in my life for utter mental masturbation. If some illegitimate virus is attacking me physically, I will not be defeated mentally. I will develop my mind in all fields of knowledge that man has conquered, and when I reappear on the scene I shall be virus-free and pseudo-intellect.
To conclude my findings, on this voyage of worldliness and so forth, I now am aware that short dark hair and perfect white skin are in, and so are heavy leather boots. Indie music is too, all though you must not define the genre as such, because indie is 'undefinable', or at the least, 'cannot be labeled'. Nowadays what counts is your look, at least according to 'it-girl' 'it-boy' status, and that is because we are all so visually obsessed with eachother. We do shit that looks good on our résumé, and dress to look good on our facebook. I've learnt that saying nothing is sometimes better than saying something, as the pause in life adds a dramatic effect to the situation. Wet hair and drinking tea are good, and being in too much has been giving me severe writers-block as I haven't been able to write a single decent piece of shit for the last three weeks. I have turned to the culture's periphery for entertainment by surfing-and-turfing (basically, harassing) the web and watching b-list movies (Pretty in Pink – 80's influential or just no-point-at-all?). Oh, and learning to speak Skins lingo and now need someone to practice it with.
Mind you, I am no better than anything out there. I am one of the (insert insanely huge number here)'s of society's by-product. Or am I a consumer? Both, probably. I listen to all same crap you do, the same uber-alternative unknown bands. I probably know all the same facts as the next person; the dates of the major events and invasions of WWII and all my best mates' birthday. I think that if you sign in to someone else's youtube account and look up what is recommended for them on their homepage you can learn a lot more about them than a whole month of facebook stalking. Just saying. Anyway, what I'm really saying is, I need to get out.


On another note, what I have really learnt from all this, is that I shouldn’t bloody go around hooking up with every guy I meet. Nope, apparently kissing infects you with some complete mind-fucking Epstein-Barr virus and keeps you at home for a month at least.