Some beast has wrapped its claws around the right side of my brain with ”the intent to cause damage”. The pain originates from my neck and it sends beams of anguish to the command center. As I write this my stomach threatens to start some projectile protesting against this neck-based antagonist, the eye below the pain area will soon flee from its socket and leave me half blind. That’s what it feels like. I hate these headaches. Too much time spent in front of the computer and too little time (non in fact) spent at the massage parlor to fix the source of the neck problem that haunts me with the sensation a coming explosion. Fuck, I gotta do something about this before the breakdown, or meltdown, is complete.
Christmas is coming up, reading Bulgakov and trying to keep the house warm. -20 degrees Celsius outside. The tree is up and the gifts are honking their horns behind the cheesy red paper with Santa-, snow flake- and reindeer decorations. I’ll be cramming down as much fat food as possible over the next nine days. Gaining a couple of weights that I’ll need to run of sometime next year. Have to end this now, Mr K is here and his Talk Bonanza is on. The fucker talks like an amphetamine fueled engine. Enjoy the rest of the year (I’m being neutral here), folks, I’m locking down for the holydays. Next yr. 2011.
onsdag 22. desember 2010
tirsdag 14. desember 2010
All I ever wanted to do is write.
I’ve reached a point in my life where all I wanna do is write. If I can’t, well, drops of depression drips on my head like a Chinese water torture. But I guess it’s not as bad as waterboarding, these drops just keeps feeding me with a desperate need to write and to keep writing. Waterboarding is after all a drowning experience, so it ain’t that bad to have these drops hitting my head like a constant reminder of what drives me forward every day.
I’d like to walk away for this dusty desk and get the hell out of here, burn every bridge and lock myself up in my study. I’d like to bolt the doors like Renton did in Trainspotting, do a cold turkey form the world and just “concentrate on me writing”. But I can’t. Life is so full of details, so many crappy obstacles that trips me over on my En Route to the Path of Narcissus.
When I write I have fun, even when the words gather around on the surface of this blog I know that this is all I ever wanna do. Since I was a kid I liked to create stories, loved to write essay and exercises in school when I was in my teens, wrote poems and thought a poet was my way. I finally grew out of the poetry style, or maybe it was all the drugs I crammed into my body in my late teens that killed the whole poet thing of, I don’t know. But the stories still had its space to grow in my mind, characters came to life, scenarios unfolded in my mind and I began working on them.
Since my early twenties and up until this point I guess I needed to mature a bit, to evolve and to find my place inside the writers booth in my mind. Still probably need some more growing before I reach a spot where people will appreciate my writing, but it’s good to know you can do better, to know you still have time to explore the wheat fields, that harvest time is in front of you.
So how do you get to that point, to the place where you are good enough for people to want to read what you write? What can I say? I read as much as I can, write as much as I can, even in a foreign language and keep working to become the best writer I can be. With best I don’t mean compared to others, you can only reach as high as what you have within you, but try to move forward, have fun, be honest and don’t deceive yourself. If you write stuff you don’t believe in, dishonesty will shine through it.
Well, this is what I believe at least. I know that I have evolved since my first attempts to write a serious story and I know I still have some miles to go on that desert road before you reach the crowded cities with your text, but what a joy it is to walk those empty and dusty roads, where only the wind and singing birds are your companion. I hope it’s a city that sticks it spires and steeples up on the horizon, but you never know until you get there, it might after all just be a mirage waiting to drag your hopes down.
But as long as you have fun when you write it doesn’t really matter if you are published or not. The time you spend doing it is all that matters. If you are published and people like your stuff, well, that’s a bonus.
I’d like to walk away for this dusty desk and get the hell out of here, burn every bridge and lock myself up in my study. I’d like to bolt the doors like Renton did in Trainspotting, do a cold turkey form the world and just “concentrate on me writing”. But I can’t. Life is so full of details, so many crappy obstacles that trips me over on my En Route to the Path of Narcissus.
When I write I have fun, even when the words gather around on the surface of this blog I know that this is all I ever wanna do. Since I was a kid I liked to create stories, loved to write essay and exercises in school when I was in my teens, wrote poems and thought a poet was my way. I finally grew out of the poetry style, or maybe it was all the drugs I crammed into my body in my late teens that killed the whole poet thing of, I don’t know. But the stories still had its space to grow in my mind, characters came to life, scenarios unfolded in my mind and I began working on them.
Since my early twenties and up until this point I guess I needed to mature a bit, to evolve and to find my place inside the writers booth in my mind. Still probably need some more growing before I reach a spot where people will appreciate my writing, but it’s good to know you can do better, to know you still have time to explore the wheat fields, that harvest time is in front of you.
So how do you get to that point, to the place where you are good enough for people to want to read what you write? What can I say? I read as much as I can, write as much as I can, even in a foreign language and keep working to become the best writer I can be. With best I don’t mean compared to others, you can only reach as high as what you have within you, but try to move forward, have fun, be honest and don’t deceive yourself. If you write stuff you don’t believe in, dishonesty will shine through it.
Well, this is what I believe at least. I know that I have evolved since my first attempts to write a serious story and I know I still have some miles to go on that desert road before you reach the crowded cities with your text, but what a joy it is to walk those empty and dusty roads, where only the wind and singing birds are your companion. I hope it’s a city that sticks it spires and steeples up on the horizon, but you never know until you get there, it might after all just be a mirage waiting to drag your hopes down.
But as long as you have fun when you write it doesn’t really matter if you are published or not. The time you spend doing it is all that matters. If you are published and people like your stuff, well, that’s a bonus.
fredag 3. desember 2010
The savage beast on "Being Him"; A man with contempt for journalism.
We met the savage freak of nature at his hide-out around midnight on a not so particular night. The moon bathed the scene with cold light and the whole crew was freezing like flamingos taking a wrong turn and ending up at the North Pole. No one was dressed for this weather and no one kept their mouth shut about it. It was like working with whiners straight out of kindergarten. I was nervous enough already and this bickering bunch of unprofessionals did not make my evening any better.
Four guards loaded with ammo was each holding a Kalashnikov and staring at us without even trying to conceal their disgust. I would not be surprised if they wanted to rally us up for some execution practice. That sort of thing is good for moral, The Savage would later tell us as he escorted us to the other side of camp for an exit through the back door.
When we entered the room of the interview the setup was ready; a beat-up chair, much like the ones used in classrooms sometime in the late forties, stood under a lamp hanging from the sealing as a poor excuse for a spotlight. The Commander, as he like to be refered to, greeted us with a bleached smile that nearly blinded me on the spot and shook my hand with the strength of a professional heavy weight boxer. I was not allowed to say my name, he would maybe have to kill me later if the interview made him come across as an “imbecilious”, as he put it, and not knowing my name would make it more of an effort to locate me to execute the smalltime assassination. It would not be newsworthy, he said, and no one would care at all.
Then he sat down on the chair under the lamp and tried to look like a mean bastard but he looked more like he was copied on a broken Xerox machine, the image of him was distorted and made you feel uneasy. My photographer started to do his thing with the camera, the light guy was kicked in the stomach and my makeup girl was thrown out of the room with threats of multiple rape and long hours of sodomizing if she ever tried such physical slander on The Commander again. Somehow I knew that we had to get this over with fast.
“The first thing I have to ask you, Commander, is how you managed to get an interview with such a prestigious magazine as (……).” (Red.- We are not allowed to mention the magazines name due to ongoing allegation and upcoming court dates).
“Well, it was a pure case of a hostile takeover of the newsdesk with AK-47s pointing in every direction,” The Commander says and puts his hands on his knees. “Then I simply said; It’s time for an interview boys, let’s get it over with, shall we.”
“Very impressive and innovating indeed, Commander. What was the reaction in the room at that point?” I felt a need to play my cards in favor of his ego to get some points in his good book.
“A couple fainted, one guy urinated on himself and the chief editor seemed to have a stutter problem. They all looked scared or maybe star struck, it’s hard to tell sometimes.” Yes, indeed, I thought.
The Commander has a history of slaying, excessive murdering and having a trigger happy troop at his command. If you want to stay alive around the savage bastard, you better stay in line and follow orders.
“What was the reason for this, shall we say unexpected, demand for an interview?”
“I had a need to put these people back where they belonged, scared shitless and getting a piece of the action, how it feels to actually be on the brink of being killed. I would say they have a very boring life and this kind of experience will make any man appreciate the fact that he is alive.”
“Why was a staff member executed before the interview started?”
He looked a bit dejected at this question and he set his tone of voice as if he was about to correct a naughty wild boor of a child on how to wipe his ass.
“If you don’t start of by killing an innocent bystander you will be treated disrespectfully from the start and no one will take you seriously. And besides, it’s good for the moral of the company to loosen their tight fingers once in a while. ”
For some strange, hypnotic reason The Commander has a way of getting into your brain and every bit of information seems like divine messages. He tries to cover up his thuggish ways with a plastic personality and the “Made in Taiwan” imprint is labeled on the backside of his skull like a warning in neon.
“Do you feel that nervous tick in your brain right now or do you have a sensation of euphoria,” The Commander asks me and this sets me a bit off. Is this a test? Can I answer this wrong? How do I get out of here alive and why didn’t I bring any hand grenades or wire myself up like a suicide bomber? Sweat starts to trickle down my forehead and my vocal cord malfunctions with every effort to sound normal.
“I most certainly feel the need to pee and get some fresh air right now,” I answer and the scrutiny begins with the hopes of finding a good prayer for my last minutes on this earth.
“What made you feel this way?”
“To be honest, you had the effect on me.”
I never learnt any good prayers as a child so I hope my imagination won’t go out on me and not be able to come up with a substitute.
“There you go. Another journalist cured.”
Next his gang of hoodlums shuffle us up and push the butts of their AKs in our backs in a gentle effort to show us the door. At the gate The Savage Commander, the mad hellhound or plainly put; Mad Bastard (I can’t say bastard enough about this guy) shakes my hand and flash his way too white teeth at me and says, “I sure hope we won’t meet again.” Me too, I think to myself and start to rummage through my list of secure houses to spend the rest of my life in after this not so charming piece of extreme journalism has come out.
Four guards loaded with ammo was each holding a Kalashnikov and staring at us without even trying to conceal their disgust. I would not be surprised if they wanted to rally us up for some execution practice. That sort of thing is good for moral, The Savage would later tell us as he escorted us to the other side of camp for an exit through the back door.
When we entered the room of the interview the setup was ready; a beat-up chair, much like the ones used in classrooms sometime in the late forties, stood under a lamp hanging from the sealing as a poor excuse for a spotlight. The Commander, as he like to be refered to, greeted us with a bleached smile that nearly blinded me on the spot and shook my hand with the strength of a professional heavy weight boxer. I was not allowed to say my name, he would maybe have to kill me later if the interview made him come across as an “imbecilious”, as he put it, and not knowing my name would make it more of an effort to locate me to execute the smalltime assassination. It would not be newsworthy, he said, and no one would care at all.
Then he sat down on the chair under the lamp and tried to look like a mean bastard but he looked more like he was copied on a broken Xerox machine, the image of him was distorted and made you feel uneasy. My photographer started to do his thing with the camera, the light guy was kicked in the stomach and my makeup girl was thrown out of the room with threats of multiple rape and long hours of sodomizing if she ever tried such physical slander on The Commander again. Somehow I knew that we had to get this over with fast.
“The first thing I have to ask you, Commander, is how you managed to get an interview with such a prestigious magazine as (……).” (Red.- We are not allowed to mention the magazines name due to ongoing allegation and upcoming court dates).
“Well, it was a pure case of a hostile takeover of the newsdesk with AK-47s pointing in every direction,” The Commander says and puts his hands on his knees. “Then I simply said; It’s time for an interview boys, let’s get it over with, shall we.”
“Very impressive and innovating indeed, Commander. What was the reaction in the room at that point?” I felt a need to play my cards in favor of his ego to get some points in his good book.
“A couple fainted, one guy urinated on himself and the chief editor seemed to have a stutter problem. They all looked scared or maybe star struck, it’s hard to tell sometimes.” Yes, indeed, I thought.
The Commander has a history of slaying, excessive murdering and having a trigger happy troop at his command. If you want to stay alive around the savage bastard, you better stay in line and follow orders.
“What was the reason for this, shall we say unexpected, demand for an interview?”
“I had a need to put these people back where they belonged, scared shitless and getting a piece of the action, how it feels to actually be on the brink of being killed. I would say they have a very boring life and this kind of experience will make any man appreciate the fact that he is alive.”
“Why was a staff member executed before the interview started?”
He looked a bit dejected at this question and he set his tone of voice as if he was about to correct a naughty wild boor of a child on how to wipe his ass.
“If you don’t start of by killing an innocent bystander you will be treated disrespectfully from the start and no one will take you seriously. And besides, it’s good for the moral of the company to loosen their tight fingers once in a while. ”
For some strange, hypnotic reason The Commander has a way of getting into your brain and every bit of information seems like divine messages. He tries to cover up his thuggish ways with a plastic personality and the “Made in Taiwan” imprint is labeled on the backside of his skull like a warning in neon.
“Do you feel that nervous tick in your brain right now or do you have a sensation of euphoria,” The Commander asks me and this sets me a bit off. Is this a test? Can I answer this wrong? How do I get out of here alive and why didn’t I bring any hand grenades or wire myself up like a suicide bomber? Sweat starts to trickle down my forehead and my vocal cord malfunctions with every effort to sound normal.
“I most certainly feel the need to pee and get some fresh air right now,” I answer and the scrutiny begins with the hopes of finding a good prayer for my last minutes on this earth.
“What made you feel this way?”
“To be honest, you had the effect on me.”
I never learnt any good prayers as a child so I hope my imagination won’t go out on me and not be able to come up with a substitute.
“There you go. Another journalist cured.”
Next his gang of hoodlums shuffle us up and push the butts of their AKs in our backs in a gentle effort to show us the door. At the gate The Savage Commander, the mad hellhound or plainly put; Mad Bastard (I can’t say bastard enough about this guy) shakes my hand and flash his way too white teeth at me and says, “I sure hope we won’t meet again.” Me too, I think to myself and start to rummage through my list of secure houses to spend the rest of my life in after this not so charming piece of extreme journalism has come out.
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