Heh!

Det vi alltid har saknat! Nu kan vi bli riktiga medborgare!

Saker man inte vill tänka på #14

Vad i helvete har ni tänkt er att jag ska göra i nyår?!

Dagens Urklipp #saker man vill höra varje dag

"Du ser ut som nån slags konstigt superhjälte."

Dagens Urklipp #saker man inte hör så ofta

"Så vad vi har här är alltså två separata svin?"

Claiming land.

As my romanticist soul needed fodder I decided to avoid the capital this weekend and spend my time in the countryside; walk in a fairytale forest, fall asleep to the sound of birds and bumblebees and wake up with a bad conscience for getting up way too late to really make use of the spring morning. To repent my horrible sin of sleeping in I took the decision sometime after lunch to crawl up into a flowerbed and dig my fingers deep into the dark dirt. Half nude in the sunshine I encountered plants, worms, centipedes and a thousand yellow ants. As time in the flowerbed went by, I felt the boost of making difference. The difference consisted of me tearing apart homes, exposing roots and insects to the scorching sun and meting out punishment for the plants I found to be weeds and making room for the ones I considered flowers. I felt the omnipotence of my sheer fingerwork and I smiled to myself, excited by my recklessness, feeling the gentle pressure of dirt under my nails, carressing the lovemarks I had inflicted on the ground and despising the weakness of the weed plants spread out around me at an arm's length.

Naturally, the humanist in me is ashamed and frightened. Which only makes the satisfaction more intense.

And what will Lindsay Lohan think?

For months now, I have, from time to time, been detecting an ill-boding and unidentifiable smell. Since I cannot seem to find its source I have had to assume it stems from me, and possibly from the back of my head. This because I cannot reach there with my nose and thus not exclude the possibility that it is in fact the back of my head that smells. I am just waiting for someone, somewhere, someday to give me an awkward look and a “Hey, I think the back of your head is rotting.” And I will have no other choice but to reply with an “I know. It’s been going on for months.” And at that point, I won’t exactly be lying. In a way, it might even be relieving.

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

Om du var vaken, skulle jag GE dig!

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".

Lord Henry OK'd it, once again.

Perhaps DIKT:APRIL was doomed to fail from the very start. Instead of sitting alone typing nonsensical words in sheer desperation, we decided to come together last week and create life poetry in the form of sunshine, people's beer and boffer sword production. This collective dream state went on for some days and in the meantime, DIKT:APRIL vanished like volcanic ash in the wind. And we would all rejoice, put on our most picturesque outfits and start thinking about future beautiful failed projects to come.

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

Saker man inte hör så ofta;

"Ja, du är ju i fertil ålder så det bör du nog inte göra."

Mentioning things in my room a Friday night/Saturday morning

Letters and legs and pictures of all
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.

Havre, sport, delikatess...

Mot hunger, förstoppning och stress
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

Dikt om en hemlighet

En mörk låda
med blåa ränder
orsakar klåda
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.

Rot.

...
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!?

I'll live my next life as a male Bollywood star

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.

Marry me! (I'll be your housewife)

and maybe I should be despised
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

Buy!

death by sword
light by candle
light by mysterious creature

movement by body
shine by odds
misinterpretation by mind
nudity by Americans

N°5 by Chanel

Sju.

7 7 7 7 7 7 7

Alive. How about you?

And a random youtube post, because I am too tired to do anything else. So so tired. So tired I had a religious experience watching the Voyager intro. Yeah, that's how tired I am. However I do feel like I should update a little. Sorta let people know what I'm up to lately. When I'm not so tired I become religious that is.

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?

the nude poet.

Naked. That's what poetry makes me feel. Completely and utterly naked.

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.

no words.

I enjoy words. They are my friends, my concubines. They travel through my mind as if it were Grand Central Station.

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.

Nooo zest!

264 gallons of human blood on the street
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

Request.

Could someone please write something about pie!?

Zombies or aliens? (If I were a rebel)

Call me when the apocalypse comes
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.

En bit choklad,
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?

DIKT:APRIL

We are currently experiencing DIKT:APRIL, an event introduced by Ape. Ape claims that this is poetry month and that someone somewhere has encouraged the masses to create a poem a day for this whole month. I have failed to find hard proof of this, but then again, I haven't tried that hard. Even defining the word "proof" would take such a long time that I would eventually have to take a food break, causing me to forget about it all and having to start defining all over again, after food break. So I decided to simply trust the Ape and make it happen. So far, we have created/quoted four poems, which might look bad, seeing as this is the sixth day of April. But if you take into consideration The Oddballs' History of Failed Projects, I'd say it looks almost promising. Let's show ourselves that poetry doesn't have to be good in order to be fun.

Guidelines/wishlist:

• 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)

To spring!

splashy, sneering, the first flowers approach
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!

Butler reduced to poetry

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)

An Ideal.

Looking back at our two creations I can't help feel as if there is something missing to our poetry, besides style and reason. I think we're missing the secret ingredient. While we ponder this I shall leave you with a little something...an ideal perhaps?

Rester från igår.

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)

Ode till hamberger

En fjäril kunde inte flyga

utan landade lättmpå min tunga

Oh nej! Oh ja! Det var hamburgerdressing

Det är ett brunt blad i salladen

men allt förs framåt av kritik

Kyparn! Kyparn!

(Jag älskar)

[Well it sounded a lot better at the time. A lot.]

Not so much of a wicked game as a frivolous pastime.

As I'm sitting here on my lazy bones day, trying to decide whether to watch yet another episode of Dollhouse or rewatch the Wicked Game documentary, I was suddenly hit by a bolt of realisation. I realised my life is a Family Guy episode.

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.

And this is where I'll stay

Today’s question: Is irony just a way of getting away with being stupid? And do ironic representations in popular culture do good or bad? Black Eyed Peas’ music video for Meet Me Halfway is today’s object of analysis. Watch it:



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.

Even cowboys

It's Friday evening and the kitchen is currently hosted by a band of brothers, a gang of boys. They're peeling potatoes, and trying to make sense of something I would probably refer to as the matter of homosexuality and hegemonic masculinity:

- 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!?

I'm an animal.

Since no one seems to be particularly alive I hereby allow myself to ponder freely upon whatever I feel like. For example, inspired by my dad and Ape’s family: The immorality of mixing meat from different animals in one sole dish.

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.

Alive 31/1

I am. But it’s not a particularly glamorous life. Today I deep-fried an enormous amount of food and fed until I felt sick. Then I accidentally fell on my dog, who squealed, but she survived. Then I took a hit at an innocent-looking spruce, pricked my fingers on the deep-frozen needles and left blood marks in the snow. Also, it appears I haven't taken a shower since last Thursday.

Anyone else feeling alive?

Ouch

Ape is gone and all is darkness. Proof of the darkness was earlier today provided by tiny, who were convinced that the sole reason Spotify was malfunctioning was because Ape had left the country. And me, I've been forced to socialize with people who aren’t Ape. It proved difficult. Yesterday night, an *acquaintance* approached me and, apropos of nothing:

- You damn imperialist swine!
- What…? I thought we were friends!?
- That’s only on Facebook.
- Oh.

Your body is a wonderland

Meeting tomorrow, and Lolly advises us all to wear the stripy Rocky mouth t-shirt. While waiting for the magical hour, I advise you all to dress and undress Britney Spears. Don’t you just adooore the mini size eagle top? I wish they would enable us to change the color of her lips, I’d give her some shade of lusciously whorish pink. Or even better, enable Jennifer Connelly; Hey, tiny! *high-five*

Anyway. Tomorrow.

Oddballs, perfume, curse of the mousse

Ape puts on perfume and smells like one of those sunshiny, flowery, fairytale spring mornings, where clean isn’t simply a description, but a 4-dimensional cartoon, which you can smell.

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.