The Hoax of the Gay Girl Wanting Freedom.

“Now freedom must be fundamental, in Johannesburg or South Central” Rage Against the Machine sang on their debut album from 1992.
Or should we say; in Syria, Egypt, Iran, Libya and in every other regime governed by narcissistic madmen. But also in any country where democracy stands on the town square as a pillar of truth.

A hoax or not, people are still being persecuted for wanting freedom, for demanding democracy and for their different views or sexual orientations. You have to fit the bill or else you're out.

But then again, in a democratic county they killed of Socrates some 2000 yrs ago.

Thoughts on the missing girl of Damascus.

What freedom exists when the words of A Gay Girl in Damascus sends madmen into the street searching for her? What freedom exists when you can’t open your heart and tell the world how you feel? But then again, who wants freedom when Totalitarianism is working so well? The Savage Beasts roam the fields in search of naughty sheep’s to barbecue on the fire of innocence. The scavengers of the ‘regimish’ mind peck on the bones of live prey, tearing the freedom child apart. Gay Girl in Damascus, may freedom find you before the hyenas get hungry. Today my words go out to you, wherever you are. Stay safe.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2011/jun/07/damascus-blogger-syria-detained

http://damascusgaygirl.blogspot.com/

Few post in 2011, but have a nice summer.

2011 has not been a blog year for me. I am currently enjoying my writing too much. A publication should be complete sometime during June, and I am writing on a new story, so blogging falls down the list. But I hope what I have written in the past might be worth reading. Dave at the Octoberfest and The Savage beast… are some of those I had the most fun writing.

Have a nice summer.

Ida Maria and the Gainsbourg connection.

I’m diving head first into a dream of fresh lunacy on a night of no writing at all. At best this is what comes out on a stretch of wordless beats at the keyboard. I’d like to use the word typewriter here, it seems like such a warmer, more nostalgic word when it stands beside the cold, sterile Keyboard. But what can I do, we’re no longer in the days of Hemingway now are we. It’s the time of broken hard disks that’s upon us, just wait; your fucker will soon crash too.

Enough of the nonsense, get to the business, stop twitching and get the words going.

Visiting the fortress of Ida Maria is nothing like going to the Norwegian pop oriented meat market displaying fresh but oh so sour meat on retail. The mill that produces music in this country is grinding the corn, but the bread isn’t always that tasty when you slice it up. Ham won’t make the bread better, but mustard may drown the bad taste.

An artist that don’t need to be drowned in mustard or mayonnaise to get the taste-buds going is our, yeah I say our, Ida Maria, born and raised in some nowhere town in Norway called Nesna, far off from the so called hip community and beggar capital Oslo. They do know how to make music elsewhere too.

The moat that surrounds her fortress is filled with attitude and the birds flying over the walls are colorful creatures. The town folks sing-along to “I Like You So Much Better When You’re Naked” and on her throne she sits like the evil queen, offering an apple like a fairytale witch. And by God do I let myself slip into that realm of hers, longing to sink my teeth into that apple.

I do want to be naked with her when the town folks sing her song, and aren’t we all “just another guy”? Don’t we all want to be that guy when we hear that song? Well, it’s a song showing how to dress up with a sexy attitude without almost showing “some mo’ pink” like every other female artists out there are doing, fronting the F**k-fantasy concept just to get the shallow flash of the spotlight in their direction. And again, mustard and mayonnaise is not needed here as we speak of Ida Mari.

The next song the troubadour lines up for us on the stage at the market square is Oh My God. Like some acid inspired frenzy he screams the lyrics into the air, spits each word out at you like it’s a chameleon tongue hunting insects. Beside him a fiddler stumps his feet on the stage floor and rips at the stings like the damned thing is trying to escape his cutting bow. But it’s all for fun, Oh yes it is, fun for the madman as the town folks try to analyze the song to death, but there is nothing to understand here folks, just sing along to the words and scream at the end.

From the tower another song crawls down the brick wall like a spider, another song is scratching its claws on the stone wall. Bad Karma is its name and I try to catch it like the little devil was a butterfly instead of this creature sticking its tongue out and smiling like a Joker.

At the end it’s the Homage I appreciate the most. Gainsey, sweet old “Rest in Peace” Gainsey, stains the song with his greasy voice on Cherry Red and I remember, or would like to remember, his escapades with Brigitte Bardot, lying naked on a grand piano in some Paris hotel, fucking, singing, creating, throwing great pieces of music into the air, pieces those tabloid gulls can choke on as they try to stir up yet another fake scandal. IT’S JUST A SONG, god damn it! When Cherry Red enters the Gainsey zone, I flash back to a time and place I’ve never visited but if you saw the movie it is a substitute, if nothing else. Watch it, the man with the nose is hysterical.

One thing is for sure, the castle makes me hungry. I wander inside the dream looking for a place to eat but weirdness comes blending in like watercolor on a blank sheet of paper. A bistro materialize before me and all I can think is; Give me a Rob Zombie on a stick, give me a plate of little kittens swimming in grease, a glass of piss smelling beer and couple of Chinese Baluts to top the dinner off. Boiled embryos inside the eggshell, that’s what I call a treat. The speakers inside the bistro is blasting all my favorite tunes, bare breasted women serve raw meat and the dream ends with the awakening sound of the alarm; The Black Keys’ Next Girl drags me into the post-sleep phase and all I can think is: Whatta fuck was that dream all about? Man, I gotta get some rest.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Balut_(egg)

I once said about writing...

I once wrote that writing is my medicine. That is not like a psychology thing where I lay my head in the Fraudian lap, but it makes me happy and at the same time it’s hard shit to write, or at least writing good stuff. It’s a great experience and it’s a freaking hell. It lifts you up in the air like you’re on an albatross and it drags you to hell like a bad horror movie rip-off. Writing is the most important activity in my life, regardless of how the product is received in the end. The process of writing is what matters. Anything after that is pure bonus.

The Epic Run of Charlie.

Everything is epic now, after Charlie said it. Every lip out there is quoting the fella who said “The run I was on”. More than 2 million people grabbed the bandwagon with both hands, gripping the railing like it was the Ark of All Time, clinging to his profile on the “Haiku”-site of personal messages; Twitter. The way to salvation goes through the Bi-Winning freight train philosophy roaring past the Establishment Town Hall like a mental patient on meth.

Man, the Charlie Sheen saga is that kind of reality show we all have been waiting for since the lame, castrated The Osbornes, At the Hogans or At Runs House tried to cash in on late fame. What we want is some pure, hardcore, mental stuff presented in a Henry Miller/Hunter Thompson-ish way, mad but entertaining babble that you almost can relate to.

I do raise my flag of Sheen-mania on my boat, ‘cause this “Epic”-run of his is pretty hilarious from a distance, I would not like to be on his little island when he starts going but I sure can take a seat on the stand and cheer this crazy horse down the track.

Ustream it, interview it, buy a freaking Go-Pro cam and get yourself a High Definition broadcast when you call up the poor bastards surrounding you, man. Compose fabulous Tweets for the Haiku people. Serve 15 minutes of Sheenish rambling, put your anecdotes on silver plates and stir it up with that mescaline, coked up energy we see wherever you pop up. Come on, we’re having fun here. This kind of entertainment haven’t been broadcasted since the nation was populated with one channel-people, when the shots rang out in Dallas. TV has become a dead, boring medium, the internet is overflowing with so-called social networking pages like Facebook, Myspace, Linkedin and all that crap. And then, in the middle of internet porn, world catastrophes and civil war broadcasts, revolution marches and sport controversies, a self-proclaimed Rock Star of an actor pops up with what will be called the Event of 2011. An event that will overshadow everything else, because people low a celebrity field day.

The seagulls follow the trawler to sea, the jackals lurk around what they hope is a soon to be decaying party and flies are waiting to lay their eggs in the meat. Toothless sharks wag their fishy tails, almost dead dogs crawl to the dry waterhole.

Me, I gotta get of the bandwagon now, end this opportunistic effort of a post, dig my claws into fresher meat without coming across as some kind of ruminant out on the plain. But you sure did put a smile on my face, Charlie, you sure did.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h5aSa4tmVNM
http://www.ustream.tv/charliesheen

I am not one of you.

I’m no sensationalist, god damn it, and I do not identify with the tabloid driven news desks drooling for more virgin blood on the stakes like a hungry Vlad Tepes clone. Take that shit to the field and burn it like a witch in the heights of the Middle ages. Burn that news desk, baby, burn it to the ground before the Savage Beast comes along. I do not walk among you. I stand on higher ground, looking down on the plains where you hyenas hunt small pray. I am on the boat when you flock around the trawler for fish guts. I want to tell a story, while you want to make everybody believe the Shock-factor is a part of every story. I am not one of you.

The village idiot.

The village idiot has an epiphany
and sees as clear as water flowing down the stream,
just what it is he has become.
He closes all borders,
becomes a tongueless mute and
withdraws into himself like a hermit.

Like a regime hitting its communistic peak,
the idiot rolls out the barbed wire.
Hammering the bolts into the woodwork
just seems like such a good idea.

I am that idiot
I am that tongueless mute
I am the Hermit
I am that regime at its communistic peak
I am the one hammering the bolts into the woodwork
I am that idiot and
I am the one closing all borders.
Let the barbed wire roll into the sunset
Let the idiot walk blindly into the sun
like the idiot he is.

Choking on my own overdramatic melancholia.

It’s early morning and the sun is rolling over the horizon, as if Sisyphus had changed to something new, kicked the dung beetle of the hill and grabbed the glowing ball with fresh enthusiasm. But somehow it’s hard to get out of bed, to put my feet on the rug free floor. Outside a flock of birds has gathered on the wire, singing tunes unknown to any man, songs only found on radio stations unreachable to us all. Flakes of paint are hanging from the sealing, ready to fall to the floor and the autumn is preparing a subpoena for plagiarism as we speak. It tells the story of undone work. If I don’t get up soon, the flakes will cover me up like leaves on a dead squirrel in the park. I sit up and a breeze caresses my feet like a pestering kitten, horny for attention. But I manage. I do get out of bed.

The next scene is filled with the smell of poorly grinded coffee and even though I enjoy the smell, I can’t drink it, I don’t have the will to poor it down my throat. I light a cigarette as the caffeine filled brew is getting cold and my cat starts to play with my feet, still trying to seduce me without any luck. I just sit there, smoking, trying to decide what to do, trying to not sit around all day and when the time comes I slip out of my fluffy slippers and step outside, into the sun, into the sweating heat. I don’t have no place to go really, all I do is walk slowly down the road and try to look casual, as if this stroll is of importance but this pace fools no one, I have nowhere to go to.

The road to nowhere is going slow, dirty dogs bark at my slow pacing, they don’t understand me at all, but I’m not bothered by them, I just have no place to go to. At the end of the dry road I stop and wait, can’t decide what I’m supposed to do, have no will to decide. So instead I lay down under a tree to catch some shade, light another cigarette and search the clouds for hope, for comic strips, for newsworthy bullshit. A car comes by and asks if I need a ride but all I want to do is catch some shade. All day I stay under this tree, entertained by the nothing happening in front of me. It’s hard, actually, be entertained outside my head these days and when my head feels this empty, I mean, what else is there. I just listen to the birds singing, the dogs barking and the cars vrooming by, staying here forever, in this dried up hole of a place, under the tree, with no feelings at all, having made no decision, made no plans. I have nowhere to go, there are no more roads to be walked, no more shades to be sought. This place, where I sit right now, is all that is left of the world.

The Test.

I often ask Maggie if she knows what makes a person crazy. And Maggie says she donno, so I made this here test you see, to help me tell what makes a person crazy. The idea is to ask the folks back yonder what makes a person crazy, 'cause I really don't know myself. But I'm not so sure my test is that good, and the people back home is not that bright, like less educated kind of folks, but that don't mean they can't tell what makes a person crazy. The thing that makes the people from back home qualified for this here kind of test is that they do have a lot of crazies livin' around, you know, just some old farts livin' in shacks and stuff. These crazy people are the ones that the folks back home have to compare with and I think they will be just fine in that department, telling what makes a person crazy.

But I had a really hard time making this here test, 'cause whenever I asked someone what they thought of my test, they just said I was crazy, and I don't wanna be crazy, I wanna be just like everyone else. Being from Hicksville and living in the big city makes it kind of hard for me being like everyone else, but I try, I try real hard but still I don't know how to be like everyone else and not being crazy 'cause I don't know what makes a person crazy. It hurts my feelings is what it does and I don't like that. So this here test is gonna help med determine what makes a fella like me crazy, as they say.

Some people don't think I am crazy, I know that, but they don't count. My mama, she don't think I am crazy. The priest don't think I am crazy and Maggie she currently don't think I am crazy 'cause she don't know what makes a person crazy in the first place. It's just everyone else that keep saying this here hick is a crazy person and I don't wanna be. So this here test is like gonna help me find out.

So when I get back from the hospital, or the institution, I will know a little better what a crazy person is, even if they don't understand this here test that I have made. Even the kind doctors will have to answer them, even God will have to help me with this here test and I hope he can help this here poor fella, 'cause I don't wanna go asking the devil this here kind of questions 'cause I think he is mighty crazy in the first place, burning souls the way he is. No, I put ma trust in God in the end, after the doctors are through with me and then I will know what a crazy person is. But I hope they will say I am not a crazy person. Who wanna be one anyway? Can ya tell this here hick from back yonder, can ya? Well, at least I have this here test with me and that will be just fine. I know it will, 'cause I ain't crazy.

Feeling depressed and paranoid.

I have an appointment today and somehow the thought of a draft is in my head, you know, that kind young men get before they are called out to war. Somewhere in the future we all face the Grim-faced fella leaning on his scythe, that guy calling our names like a herdsman, like a nightmare version of The Pied Piper of Hamelin. I know, this is paranoia and like painting the walls with catastrophes and bad premonitions. But what can I say, it gets me rambling and hoping my time ain’t running out sooner then I’d expected (don’t we all expect to live until our kids put us in the old folks home?). Most probably it’s nothing at all, but when you sit there waiting, not knowing, it’s like hell, like being in purgatory, in the limbo hoping to be sent out with a leave of absence slip in your hands. A deep voice, stereotypic like a bad comedy says “Not yet,” and the door closes as cold hands push you onto the doorstep.

Well, I might be overdramatic and seeing devils in every shadow now, peeing my pants like a sissy and I can take that kind of blow to my masculinity, but a date with the bastard is a case that would be hard to swallow.