For that, I give you Haruka's magic and bid you good food porn night, all without making a big deal of my having baked super attractive bread today.
But this is not merely a post about soul-searching, or the idea that perspective is bound to be subjective and objectivity thus nowhere to be found since it has no place in the human consciousness. No. This is, as many times before, a post about Lindsay Lohan. See, I’m pretty sure I’ve heard it rumored that the girl lacks a soul. Now let’s assume those seemingly foul rumors are true (very unlike the admittedly foul rumors linking Lohan to theft). This would presumably make Lindsay Lohan the very key to absolute and sheer objectivity. It’s a grand and frightening thought to us mere mortal soulful persons. But at the same time an undeniably tantalizing opportunity.
Of course, she couldn’t share any of this with us soulfuls. Lohan simply wouldn’t notice any of the sheer objectivity since all this would mean she has a total lack of perspective. Oh, woe.
Again, the undying storm named Lindsay Lohan strikes me. As a riddle. The more I try to solve her, the greater a mystery she becomes. And all the more distinguished from the rest of the world she appears.
More or less.
Let me add and clarify that there is absolutely no need to wait for a whole conventional week to announce a new Tag of the week. All tag weeks are separate units that can and should exist alongside each other in individual cycles of one to seven thousand days.
2. Food porn night
4. I wish I was a...
5. Tag of the week
Naturally, the humanist in me is ashamed and frightened. Which only makes the satisfaction more intense.
But until that fatal day when the world is exposed to my rotting skull once and for all, I will make sure to wear my beret whenever I go out. Naturally, I curse the spring heat.
Music: LCD Soundsystem - Drunk Girls
I currently obsess over the band Kite and my approaching midnight deadline. It's an OK combination. That time when I obsessed over cheese and jelly candy was a much worse combination, according to some. Or that time when I obsessed over having my left foot removed in combination with buying leftover right shoes to some highly affordable prices.
Anyway, the above video is to be watched as a tribute to me and tiny's dream version of our time in Paris back in spring -07, with the introducing line "wake up, you fucking dyke".
The only artists I have ever known, who are personally delightful, are bad artists. Good artists exist simply in what they make, and consequently are perfectly uninteresting in what they are. A great poet, a really great poet, is the most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely fascinating. The worse their rhymes are, the more picturesque they look. The mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets makes a man quite irresistible. He lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realise.
Lord Henry, in “The Picture of Dorian Gray” by Oscar Wilde
the modest arts that grace the wall
curry and tea cups and Christ in thorn
all of this by a fifties shelf borne
staples and sweetness and spoonfuls of lotion
placed and balanced on a table in motion
crumbs and cables and clothes for poor
these are most often found on the floor
a lamp, a lamp, a lamp and a lamp
light and scattered as a small town tramp.
ja, det kan till och med bota tristess
en sorglig tunn liten skiva
som nästan vadsomhelst kan bliva
vissa kallar det magi
men egentligen är det bara god fantasi
för detta har jag äntligen fattat
Wasa, det är grovt underskattat
med blåa ränder
hur man den än vänder
men du! du! du!
nu ska du få höra
i den bor en gnu
med stora ögon och ben sköra
det är därför det låter så konstigt om natten
som ett monster i garderoben
det är därför hon vaktar den noga som skatten
och försiktigt sköter om den.
I indirectly blame Ape's recurrent, delirious and positively outstanding Cara/Kahlan subtext-posts for my somehow coming across and enjoying this song and video. But seriously. How is one supposed to be able to study when there is so much YouTube filth to surf!?
And if I'm not able to pull off those moves (1:25, 1:56, 3:33, 3:45 etc.) plan B is to become a dancing Indian condom.
I know telling is too much
so maybe i'm not listening
about me, watching, they touch me
people won't talk to me
music doesn't speak to me
I get up, I walk around
and really, I should be calm
it's all so very tidy
there should be room to breathe now
cleaning, arranging, dusting
I've been making such good sweeps
breathing as from running a hundred stairs
I sit down, still restless
I'm having a fictional love affair with the Old Spice Man and his horse. I'm also infatuated with the music to this trailer and Tabrett Bethell.
And in my spare time I am Sire Gork who finds the idea of a book of Mormon battles hilarious, but does approve of boffer swords.
In what little time there is left I'm reliving pubertal memories in the form of blonde borgs, unitards and just generally loving the Star Trek universe.
And you? Can you sum up your life with the aid of youtube?
I put my words to the screen and suddenly I feel the breeze of self-conciousness sending a shiver down my spine. Goosebumps along my naked arms, legs and mind.
I frequently part with the innermost thoughts of my brain, but when there is no intent. When the words must hold up as their own little island without reason. When they are not part of a journey, but rather a goal in themselves.
Naked. Naked as we came.
But now. But now all I have is nothingness.
I sit here watching the cursor. I watch it blink. I watch it taunt me as no words will come.
Frustration turning into anger turning into numb.
No words. Not today.
a million electricity bills for Kyrgyz heat
a good portion of passion, I dare say
a little bit of justice, make it before May
for a final touch, the very best
twelve juicy lemons, no zest!
all I asked for was a sugar high
what came out was a very, very sour pie
for zombie attack, press one
for alien invasion, press two
for instant death, please hold
Call me, and I will tell you this
the zombies? they will eat you
the aliens? they will rule you
but no, they won't exactly kill you
Call me, and I shall listen
as the zombies devour your brains,
as the aliens push you to the ground,
as you cry over your own lost dignity
And then call me again, as you understand
zombies make for great spouses,
aliens rule with care and devotion
and golly, you're somehow still alive!
You call me, only to say
that your brains were meant for fodder
that your back was made to bow
and you laugh at yourself, having tried to resist
Call me, sometime before you die
and tell me about it all
that it wasn't so bad, going under
and I WILL put you on hold
Because if you call me, I will tell you
I still fear the zombies
I won't ever trust the aliens
And apocalypse will be my only truth
Det är möjligt att den här dikten skulle bli mycket bättre om jag läste den högt för er.... Å andra sidan, kanske inte.
kan väl inte skad'?
så motsatsen, att avstå,
och ersätta med selleri rå,
borde väl inte vara så svårt?
beslutet var ju ändå vårt!
en rutten kyckling i min kyl,
möglig philadelphiaost, och dyl,
kan inte ersätta en ferraribil röd!
speciellt när allt man har är hårt mjukt bröd.
nej, mina vänner, snart får det räcka,
hur länge kan en månad utan socker räcka?
- Quantity over quality (better one a day than one a week)
- Quantity over quotes (better write your own cheap shit than quoting Baudelaire)
- Any language (even Elvish or Webdings)
- Any topic (even spring!)
- Any shape (or non-shape)
don't look so smug, snow counters, rash
a dandelion slut wouldn't stand a chance
had i not let you near by my own damn will
Are we not oozing wounds to your white perfection?
the flowers reply with their smugness unchanged
you crumble as black dirt unfold in the sun
and we revel, and we tango (oh, how we tango!)
Now snow rolls its eyes and makes the flowers squint
the sun has nothing on me, never
see, i'm its mirror on earth, itself in cool white
and recall it is me who hide the dirt!
you do make for a fine parody, flowers admit
but you will die now, as we tango (oh, how we...)
while really, says snow, YOU have been dead for months
that is one way of looking at it
giggle the flowers, watching snow melt
thinking of all the winters to come
stepmotherly, indulgent thoughts
then, all those springs, all that tango!
She is, in her own way, dispossessed in the moment of acting as its site of transfer for me.
What am I calling on her to be?
And how does she take up that call?
What my call recalls for her will be the site of the countertransference, but about this I cannot know.
Vainly I ask, "Who are you?", and then, more soberly, "What have I become here?"
And she asks those questions of me as well, from her own distance, and in ways I cannot precisely know or hear.
This not-knowing draws upon a prior not-knowing, the not-knowing by which the subject is inaugurated, although that "not-knowing" is repeated and elaborated in the transference
without precisely becoming a site to which I might return.
(About the incommensurability that accounts for the countertransference)
(by Judith Butler, in Giving an Account of Oneself, Diacritics, no. 4, 2001)
Jag saknar ord
när jag spiller öl på mitt bord
fjärilen landar lätt
sträcker ut sin tunga nätt
en blommig kjol, en liten flicka
fjärilen särar på sina läppar och börjar slicka
(I had no idea it would be so graphic, or so crude, but since no one else has written anything today...crude is the word)
Utterly frivolous. Strange and indescribable relationships. Quotes and references to such a degree there is a clear lack of comprehensibility and coherency. Unpolitically correct in a major way. Meanwhile being riddled with flashbacks and fictional memories and occupied with characters that can only be described as characters.
Yes, my life is a Family Guy episode. I don't think I mind. A little anti-climactic now with all that spirituality and religion buzzing around claiming all kinds of complexity and depth. Not to mention meaning. Still I don't think I mind. I'm quite comfortable. As a matter of fact I'm actually quite happy.
With a title like Meet Me Halfway, one would think that they should put an equally large effort in getting to each other. But no.
To start with, throughout the video, the Man is depicted as several indivduals. The Man is as versatile as he is active. He conquers nature in what feels like countless ways; he rides an elephant (domestication of animals!), he reads maps (literacy!), he goes to space and he uses various tracking devices (modern science and gold-digging!). Clearly, he’s a Man with a plan and he has the know-how and the determination to get where he wants.
Meanwhile, the Woman, one body, one individual, placed in Nature, doesn’t seem to make any effort whatsoever of getting her halfway to the Man. Her job is to lie passive on a tree trunk, surrounded by flowers and magical mist, gently carressing her body while keeping her legs together (she’s holding out!). And when she claims that “I can’t go any further than this” she has successfully managed to crawl on the ground a distance of… nowhere. She is not only placed in nature, she IS nature, wating to be conquered. All he needs is a location, and to get there first. All she needs is to wait.
In conclusion, and since no one else seems to hang around this blog, I guess I should answer my own questions. But I won't. I don't know if I should laugh with them, at them or cry because of the unoriginal/ironic depictions of Man/Woman. No. Instead I shall watch it again and now focus on why the elephant is wearing black and how that is possibly related to chocolate. Hej.
- That is so gay. One is so obviously gay, looking like that.
- No, there’s no such thing as 'looking gay'. You can never tell! Have you not seen Brokeback Mountain!?
You should know, that for the Ape family it is something of a challenge to put as many different animal meats in the same dish, and get away with it (something which they don’t always manage). As for my dad, he brought me disgust and inspiration when telling me of an extravagant dish consisting of a large turkey, in which there was a goose, in which there was a chicken, in which there was dove, in which there was a quail. And in the quail layeth an egg. Yeah, an egg in a bird, in a bird, in a bird… Or something along those lines. This is something that the old Romans used to eat. According to my dad.
Like the Janssons, I love food-related challenges. And like some of the more spoilt Romans, I adore gluttony. But there is something absolutely unethical in putting meat from different animals in the same dish.* I say we lose a portion of our humanity for every bacon-enfolded chicken breast we cut into.
Let’s say I was killed for food. I died for you. Then at least make me the star of your meal. I gave my life for your fucking jambalaya, don’t throw in a damn chicken next to me! Or a pork sausage. Or something else dead with a potential soul that isn’t mine. And don’t you dare eat me on weekdays. At least not my good parts. You're just shoving me right into your mouth without really tasting. Have my intestines for a hasty Tuesday tv-dinner, but damn you if you consume my fine buttocks in front of Days of our Lives! See me, see my value! Invite your friends to indulge me. Or better, have them watch you indulge in me. Make a sauce béarnaise to go with my inner thighs or smoke my cheeks with juniper berries. I don’t care exactly how you prepare me, as long as you do it with love and devotion. Think of me, who laid down my life to satisfy you.
One dish, one meat, one life, one soul, one love.
*Some of you out there might consider it absolutely unethical eating animals in the first place. And let’s not forget, we do have a former vegan in our midst (however, these days she’s *only* militant). I too, find it a somewhat weird and questionable custom, killing for food. But it is how I was brought up. The problem is that meat and the animals who bring it to us are way underrated. Cherish the meat, cherish the animals.
Anyone else feeling alive?
- You damn imperialist swine!
- What…? I thought we were friends!?
- That’s only on Facebook.
Lolly puts on perfume and smells like the oriental mistress, whose comforting touch and libido is woven of silky embraces of musk and oranges and obscure passion.
tiny puts on perfume and smells of inexplicable and unearthly perfection and something supposedly ephemeral, for no matter how much you smell her you can never fully grasp its complexity.
And me, I put on perfume, which as it hits my skin reacts, evolves and smells of something sticky, unbearable and ill-boding. Almost like the way you might detect an assertive-smelling smell, not knowing what it is and wonder whether it smells good or bad before you realize it’s rottening garbage you smell. Or zombies. That’s me using perfume. Any perfume.
Anonym Sjuksyster: Han ollar den hela tiden! Och det blir ju alltid så jobbigt då.Tog mig en bra stund innan jag förstått att jag tjuvlyssnat fel och att Doktorn inte alls ollade maskinen, utan nollade den. Men det var mycket underhållande medans det varade.
Idag har jag frenetiskt imdb-at och kommit fram till att:
Det är samma skådespelare som spelar Prästen i Emil i Lönneberga och Tengil i Bröderna Lejonhjärta!
Den (typ) bäst filmatiserade (om inte Birk hade spelat över så frenetiskt) Astrid Lindgren-sagan är regisserad av Tage Danielsson.
Mio min Mio är en internationell (med stor rysk influens) produktion med Christian Bale, Christopher Lee och Timothy Bottoms. Dock heter den " The Land of Faraway".
Jag måste ha varit alltför ung för att förstå att den var dubbad.
Det är synd och skam att man inte kan få tag på "Jim och Piraterna Blom" på dvd.
Eller få tag på den alls.
Här är del 1. Resten hittar ni på youtube!
Until that day, I will keep on living my life as I know it. Lately, I can’t seem to walk anywhere without imagining myself falling. Everything I walk by that looks stumble-worthy; a sidewalk; a rock; a small child, I picture myself tripping over, falling headlong, dropping everything I hold in my hands, leaving my body spread out on the street as an animal shot. People stare and I usually hurt myself badly. By the time I reach the imaginary hospital, I have since long passed the initial obstacle on my way to wherever. And in between, I imagine walking into signs, and tree branches, only to destroy my eyes by ripping out the cornea. My dad, who earlier this year underwent eye surgery, claims that the cornea is one of the most pain sensitive areas on your body.
Other than that, I spend hours each day reading about sexual violence, mostly in the form of rape. Rape in woods, rape at home, rape in history, rape today and rape as an instrument of war. Some days, I take lonely walks in the dark. Funny thing is, I never do my mental falls when it’s dark, which is more or less obvious, since all the obstacles are hidden in darkness and I am busy contemplating sexual abuse.
Today's music: The New Pornographers
The year of "förpuppning" is coming to an end, and we like sums. Sometimes it is even fun to summarise. Therefore lets each provide a mathematical term to describe the past 12 months of our joint, or not joint life. Or we could just describe our year in a series of 12 more or less pointless, arrogant or plainly plain pictures.
Pressure, but good pressure, like in a steamy jacuzzi with glistening and tanned and flexing and pumping and....yeah, nevermind. In reality this is just a mindless attempt to fit a few more posts into the 2009 archive of this blog. If you feel like this is a worthy cause then upload your 12 pictures describing the past year and lets all look at them and laugh ourselves silly while we engage in a brilliant example of virtual exhibitionism.
- Send Her a message!
- Write on Her wall!
- You haven’t talked on Facebook lately, sen Her a message!
- Reconnect with Her!
- Write on Her wall!
- Send Her a message!
- Help make Facebook better for Her.
- Poke Her!
For what feels like several weeks now, Facebook has been placing a small picture of tiny in the right column of the home page. Never anyone else. The picture shows tiny looking at me from below, somewhat hunchback-like, and Facebook continously attaches subtle messages to her picture. The words change from time to time, but the original message still remains. tiny doesn’t fit into the Facebook Dream. For that I love Her.
And the Facebook shall never know.