fragments

Fragments - June 6, 2012

a) So you say, I say, listening to someone (can't remember who as he/she lives in a parallel world) telling me something so obvious that I forgot it before it reached me. Like: oh, the sky is blue …

In theory I'd love to have a checkered floor.

b) There's a full moon tonight. Someone writes: “there's a full moon tonight”. I think we've evolved.

c) I scratch my balls.

-*-

I stopped thinking about trains a long time ago. Trains per se. Or as having colours. I ride them.

The automated toilet seems to flush 3 times. So it sounds. I think about reading the Odyssey and remember: “and in this charming car, this charming man” for no reason.

A retard (just a fact) goes through every waste bin for bottles and cans. I have no way of earning a living and wash my hands.

-*-

my thighs stick together it's hot and I'm only human what can you do with the hypothesis that the number zero actually is an existence and therefore is more than nothing except yawn a bluebottle flies like crazy (do they know any other way of flying) in schizophrenic patterns through my room

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paradoxicality

ambivalence

double-whale

etc.

I'd rather not have it but I got it and it hurts but obviously alters brain chemistry

I see and hear layers I normally wouldn't but then again it could just be an altered sensitivity or really just an unusual emotional response to otherwise accustomed inputs

ham & cheese and some mustard and then milk and

-*-

Quote: “Birds are the living descendants of dinosaurs because dinosaurs have living dinosaurs ...” and then a bit more babble. With an accent. Probably Eastern European. The light on the oven indicates – by not being active; something to think about later – that the temperature in there (the oven) is now 200C. I unpack a couple of pita breads. An actor prefers his women skinny I read in the queue at the super yesterday and therefore his famous wife is depressed. I can do that, be depressed, that is.

The visiting cat has a tick in the v on the underside of his jaw. I shove him out the door with a foot or two.

-*-

Man loves guessing. Big Bang, dinos, god, why he is pre-ejaculative … or what it's called. The couple living downstairs smokes filter cigarettes. They have a distinct smell.(The fags not the couple). Not like decent tobacco at all.

I counted four white butterflies today.

-*-

I have to live with “Time” (don't worry, I don't think I'm special).

It takes up a lot of space. Everywhere.

I have watches for that reason.

Triptane - the thesaurus suggests “triplane” - works miracles on migraines.

Around here everything is yellow. At times.

It's rapes, not rabies.

-*-

To be able to write: I light a cigar and … I light a cigar and ..

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Raving - September 30, 2011

Kæmper mig gennem avisen. Ukoncentreret. Selvom den kun kommer én gang om ugen, er jeg alligevel 3 måneder bagud. Min slumrende, halvt ubevidste, afvisning af avislæsning står stadigt klarere – og mere nomalbevidst – efterhånden som jeg bladrer mig gennem ligegyldighederne.

Først tænker jeg: ”Hvorfor er dette så interessant at skrive om?” Så tænker jeg: ”Skal artiklerne i virkeligheden bruges til at vise, hvor indsigtsfuld journalisten er?” Og så: ”Hvordan kan det være, at der er mennesker, der kan leve, og leve fedt, af at kommentere på, hvad andre mennesker gør og siger?” Er dét en produktivitet i sig selv? Ikke i mine øjne. Det er snylterliv. Det er ligesom kunst- og litteraturanmeldere, der enten aldrig selv har haft en pensel i hånden eller skrevet noget, andre gad læse. Hvordan kan det være, at de fylder så meget, de mennesker?

Må hellere vaske bordet. Kaffeglasset hænger fast.

*

I fight my way through the paper. Unable to concentrate. Even if it only arrives once every week I'm 3 months behind. My slumbering, half conscious, rejection of reading newspapers become even clearer, and normal-conscious, while I skim over the mindless trivia.

First I think: “Why is this an interesting subject?” Then I think: “Are the articles in reality meant as a showcase for how insightful the journalist is?” And then: “How can it be that there are people who can make a living, and a good one at that, from commenting on what other people do or say?” Is that productive in itself? I don't think so. It's a parasitic life. It is like art and literature critics, who never have had a brush in their hands or have written anything of interest to others. How can it be they take up so much space?

Better wash the table. The glass with coffee sticks to it.

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Fragment - September 16, 2011

”When I talk in front of an audience and straight from my heart I can't help but being emotional over my emotions. And then I become aware of being emotional and I sort of watch the situation from the outside. That is a very emotional scene. All in all I'm a very emotional kind of guy”.






*

”Når jeg taler foran forsamlinger og siger noget, der virkelig ligger mit hjerte nær, kan jeg ikke lade være med at blive berørt over, hvor rørt jeg bliver. Og så bliver jeg opmærksom på, at jeg bliver berørt og ser det hele sådan lidt udefra. Det er en meget følelsesfuld scene. I det hele taget er jeg en meget følsom fyr”.

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September 15, 2011


Konkluderer, at jeg ikke er god til at være frelst. Det er o.k. at søge det uendelige, hvad end man vælger at kalde det, men det bliver så hurtigt så korrekt, så ordentligt. Der kommer nye spændetrøjer til. Dét kan man, dét kan man ikke. Lev sådan og ikke sådan. Men jeg er som vind eller og vand og véd ikke, hvilken vej jeg løber eller blæser og kan ikke opføre mig korrekt. Verden er ikke éntydig, men alt er muligt. Hele tiden.


I conclude that I'm not good at being saved. It's o.k. seeking the infinite – whatever you choose to call it – but it very quickly gets so decent, so correct. New straight-jackets comes along. You can do this, but not that. Live like this, not like that. But I am like wind or water and don't know how I'll run or blow and really can't be correct. The world isn't one-dimensional, but everything is possible. All the time.