Here is a fictional story called "Moonman". It's about a dreamer who is walking the streets of Gothenburg after the break-up with his partner. Its under construction so to speak. Enjoy. /Anders
Waking up. A greyish light. Sunday. Nobody cares. Union street. Modern or post modern times.
Question marks seem to rain down from the sky; What have you done with your life? why this tragedy and loneliness?
On the internal projector there is a version of myself running desperately down the street.Why?
a rage against emptiness itself, against lovelessness. And there's hatred , for Lily, for the rigid careerism and for alienation... aggressiveness turns inwardly – there is no-one here in the room except me, myself and my fantasy figures - to accuse myself seems more objective this moment, good work. I see another image, a dysmorphic young wolf who has been ostracised. Is that the image of my destiny?
Fragments of memory; Paula's story about that backpacker who never wanted to settle down. He became a nomad, an outsider. Eventually he travelled to Tibet and was never heard from again. Did he commit suicide? did he die on the mountain? on some level I kind of identified myself with him. It made me blush. We were undoubtedly related - at least that was what I felt when Paula told me his story. But all I uttered was "what a loser". I can see him clearly before me; the anguish of returning home to boring Sweden when all the money is gone just to slave on a deadening day-job for six months in order to stack up the cash for a new trip. And in the meantime live on noodles and meet all the stable health-, food and excercise fanatic middle-class swedes with all their careers, children, mortgage loans, clubs and dinners and God knows what while he himself was like a degraded misfit, a lost cause, constantly adrift with no plans and no goals, an extraterrestrial being just visiting. Maybe in the midst of all that, he thought to himself, why not disappear in the mountains and see what happens?
I live inside the feeling of being persecuted; afflicted by a compulsion to become somebody, an eagerness to show off trophies and conquests. What kind of poison of greed and shallowness is roaring in the soul? My inside is a corrupted state. How did it become that way? Have I confused outer pressure with my own will, is that the simple nature of this conspiracy?
A newspaper tumbled in the wind down the street. An old chestnut tree stood outside the cemetery. Dark envy-green leaves. And I thought also of what I could not see; the root system; a hidden existence under sane asphalt. Masks, mud, "multnad", middle age remnants, metamorphosis. And mom. Rest in peace. Shrew.
Life is slow and taken for granted, like the asphalt and the institutions. I have to change something.
The summer night came. Alone in the room. A butterfly flares around in blue darkness. From time to time it stops like a strange prehistoric sign on the wall - a triangle with rounded corners and a chic colorful pattern in the middle. After a long time tripping with an umbrella I manage to roll out the butterfly through the window. It flickers toward the street lights and the leaves and disappears.
I fall asleep and dream of a big tree whose leaves are made of yellow post-it papers. I show the tree to an old man in white hair. The old man smiles in recognition and then points to a large forest of similar trees. We walk for a while in the big forest of trees with green, yellow and red post-it papers. We come to a large meadow where a magnificent tree spread out its branches
The man takes a piece of paper out of the tree's foliage and reads aloud ..."step out of this shadow ...."
It is now several months since Gina broke up with me. I'm still crushed. Amazed at my own reactions. I am thinking of leaving the country.
She said at the beginning "You're the only good thing going on in my life right now," (and now I have reached the same sort of ghastly emptiness that makes people speak in that way). I remember when we were lying in the grass in the park. It was at the end of the summer as now ... the cloudy gray-blue sky above us and the sunlight hit a slip in the clouds. Someone had lost his helium balloon and we saw the single red entity rising upward though the airspace.
I know this route. Playing all kinds of games in order to create distance to the occurred. In the dream I sit and cry at a black lake in the woods and the image appears of a creepy dog with glass splits in his fur.
I resigned from work and planned to travel to the Faroe Islands. It was not that smart.
Some reviewers said about me that "the most important thing to him, that is to escape himself".
A psychiatrist with a high forehead named Jon Grimberg wrote down his thoughts about me in his notebook;
"Self-contempt blooms ... from an initial dissolution of self-worth with a perception of inferiority as a core. Or after ineffectual fruitless megalomania. In short, the patient has a disturbed sense of self-worth. But what are the components of self-worth? Both a liberal and a conservative?.... this may sound too easy, but is it gardening of oneself mentally- and respect for oneself,, and is it also attending to the truth, no matter how painful? "
The fountain at the Iron square is like an octagonal crow airport, almost anyway.
I met Gina for a coffee at the Cigar Cafe. It was the first time we saw each other since our split.
"Where to fixate the eyes?". A short nervous ride in a crowded tram and I was there, ten minutes too early. The café owner Thuram doesn't like me, I can't break the social code around here. Maybe my recent misfortune makes me even more repellent.
Gina has a slight scent of mints, freedom and flashy entrepreneurship. I'm wearing black and smoke. Gina tells me she's going to move; something about Stockholm. The late August sun shines strongly in the blue but it does not heat well.
After almost twenty minutes Gina says "I have to get going ..." She is lost forever. We hug and say goodbye. I am a factory working hard to produce just the right amount of breezy indifference, but I know that my pale stare reveals me and that I will cry when I get home.
Gina walks over the lunchtime square. She moves her hips. I think of Switzerland and neutrality - Imagine if I could be forever neutral ... a sexless observing neutrum, then everything would be good, free from desires. Mister Switzerland. She used to call me that. I remember we walked up a lush stairway which leads up to the gray buildings on Upper Fogelberg street. What did I answer her, maybe I'm a middle child ... just like you by the way.
Gina disappears in the crowd. She's among the hopes of humans. Looking for the privilege. Her swaying movements continue in me like a fiery aftermath. The sum of despair never seems to reach its limit. I have to kill the desire for her. That's my job now.
I got up straight away and left the cafe. When I got home I tried to put myself over my emotional life and think about it as if it were a math problem. Yes, just like grandfather who had the hobby of solving clever equations on Sundays.
"An incorrect amount can be corrected ... just by going back until you discover the error and starting from there you start adding again"
I wake up at night. Sweaty sheets shaped like mountain chains by the worried being. I dreamed of a morning in a world dependent on the constellation of the twins. It's world news when the constellation collapses; for some reason, the twin stars in the night sky can not be sighted anymore. The newspaper headlines outside the store read; "Castor and Pollux have finally fallen apart." And cyclists lurk between the dewy houses. Tall poisonous plants grow in the windows.
I got up, put my clothes on and walked down to Seven Eleven to buy some cigarettes. I find out it is Friday night and people are out to enjoy themselves. They all seem so far apart. Atomised. At Pustervik I drink beer and pick on a girl in the bar. If only I could get a little fuck. But I'm not successful. I can hear someone singing "Baby has got the bends and do I have any real friends?"
Self-loathing seem to be increasing for every day that goes by. And in the bar, the whole universe seems to avoid me; even the peanuts seem contradictory.
Jon Grimberg writes in his notebook; "Was Hannes dependent on Gina for his sense of self-worth, like a cling-up/climber that depends on a host tree to get nutrition?"
The beard grows and I'm still wearing black and smoke. Relatives and friends have begun asking questions; "Whats going on with you?" "won't you get a job? " "What are you doing with your life?". Some ideas about doing the right thing and being useful to others cause my cheeks to blush at these quizzes but I try to keep the personal utilitarianism at bay (as if I tried to shovel a few liters of darkness). However I can not resist the thoughts of Gina, they are pouring down like rain. Since she moved, she has been living as the "highest" inside my head. Every thought takes the trip past her.
I have set up a formula; I = hellish, she = angelic. I sit at the kitchen table and look into the grayness. The leaves have begun to turn yellow on the trees. A tram is whizzing metallic somewhere far away. Life seems to be happening elsewhere. I remember a woman I once worked with whose husband had died and the only thing she talked about was that she wanted to be lobotomized, she wanted to forget her love. No, lobotomy is nothing for me. There must be another resort. Speaking of lobotomy and memory, Paula just got a job as a research assistant at the psychology department. She was to help out in a project investigating the effects of alcohol on episodic memory. Interviews and transcription. I set up a new formula; I = unemployed, Paula = employed. What happens to us little people when technology is so advanced that much of production and service becomes automated and we're all out of jobs? Are we gonna live on welfare or will there be such a thing as universal basic income? (which at least would kill the shame of being unemployed) .
I went for a walk. I've got a penchant for streets that nobody walks on, I'm drawn to deserted places and I like to listen to monotonous and mangling kraut music.
At Little square I sat on a bench and watched the statue of Jonas Alströmer. Thanks for bringing the potato here man. The statue depicts a man on the move, a man with a mission, who had something wise to do. I wish I could be like that. I'm thinking intensively for a minute, trying to find my life project, which will make me happy and new. But I'm disturbed in the concentration by the clatter of the jackdaws.
"You do not want to be who you are, you want to be the one you wish to be."
A magazine from SJ is on the bench. On the front there is a portrait of a smiling successful person. I immediately toss the newspaper. Thinking of burning it. The song Atlantic City is playing in the brain's jukebox "Down here it's just winners and losers and don't get caught on the wrong side of that line" . Yes, but it's too late now.
When I fall asleep in the evening, I dream I'm a miniature man inside a bottle gliding on the bay in the radius of the moon. On the other side, glitters of light. The gated community is sleeping. Satellite dishes on the roofs pose for the starry sky. Further on, a small guest house is sighted. Are they renovating? The house is stripped to a stony ground with a skeleton of wooden planks on top of it. Low cellotones vibrate in the air.
Some nights are long journeys into the feeling of uselessness. Some nights I get up to masturbate and afterwards I sit and stare out the window. Watch the flickering street lights and contemplate the crystalline enigma of the ceremonial religious animal. The blind spot of the soul is playing tricks on me. Maybe I feel this resentment and bitterness because I can't get anywhere in the hierarchical system? A low status being with an urge to dominate ? or am I only the result of an unfulfilled greed? Megalomaniac all over. I check facebook - everyone is doing incredibly well. Examine the Twitter feed - everyone is either rightous, witty and/or indignated/outraged. Social media doing what it does best; cultivating mob mentality and generating outrage. I am a prisoner of generalization and simplification. Just like you my handsome friend.
When I wake up in the morning, I have a stomach ache and my head is like a buzzing beehive with voices from all sorts of enemies. I hear Peter Höök say, "You will never be as successful as your father." Nothing good or uplifting inside that brain at the moment.
I remember a party where I tried to charm Gina, it was long before we got together, and the attempt failed miserably and was crowned by the subsequent commentary of Peter .."Game over Kiddo". I can hear the comment repeatedly throughout the day "Game Over Kiddo". He got me there. I'm trying to remember a good feeling, a hot streaming breeze ... the extravagant experience on that first flight on my own, and the wonderful banality when getting the extra play on flipper ...the perfect golf shot...whatever. I try to medicate myself with the memory from all those little events . But it does not work. I'm probably depressed. The brain circuitry wanders every dark trail it can find.
I get up. Still haunted by Peter Höök's ill-minded spirit. Fucking schoolyard marauder.
Breakfast takes two hours. At least. A magpie is rustling among the leafy networks outside the window. The sound of annoyed rasping mussels. Like the irritated throat clearing of the schoolmaster in middle school when you had not done your homework.
After breakfast I try to counterattack against the inner slanderous voices. I make a list.
People I despise in alphabetical order;
Andersson, Mattis - Narcissistic bully-type, sucking up and kicking down, these qualities make him an exemplary sadistic middle management executive. He can say the right things at the right moments but if you look close enough you'll discover the soulless coldness under the veil ... I want to operate a container of helium in his lungs so that he never again can be taken seriously
Aaron - Roughly trimmed talkative type and ardent capitalist who always teased me at work, made fun of my words ... a classic antagonist ... wish him an chainsaw-awakening every morning for the rest of his life
Höök, Peter - Do not know anyone who will enjoy my defeats more than him. Should have a permanent companion with bleating voice.
Pause. To jot down hatred on paper is pointless. It does not help me transcend the pain, I just become more like them. The emptiness of space. A buzzing fridge. I still feel as low as before. "Game Over Kiddo".
Thursday is a diabolical node of memory in my consciousness. She/he/it broke up on a Thursday and scenes from this nightmarish day of origin are being replayed over and over. I noticed in the doorway that her face had changed, as if it was wandering through the steel bath of indifference. The eyes were alpine and more blue than before and it was as though the eyes were the place where I was pushed out of her dreams. And everything was planned to the last detail. The clothes that I had at her place was properly folded in a brown paper bag. Toothbrush, razors and magazines lay on top. Even the week-old orange Gerbera plant was in in the bag. I was to be eliminated. The vertigo-like symptoms are what I remember the most. The memory of the dialogue is more fragmented. There were claptrap phrases and clichés "it's not you ... it's me." "I don't think we should hear from each other for a while". "You'll be better off with someone who can help you fulfill your potential". Then echoing steps down the stairs and out into the fresh air. I could feel the universe expanding and the tears running down the cheek. I took a wobbling bicycle ride home with the brown paper bag dangling under the handlebar.
I walk the cobblestone of Postgatan in the darkness. It was here, about 150 years ago or so, that people walked to ships that would take them to America. The Wilson line to the land of opportunity. I can fantasize about the poor drone who remained on the dock, who saw others who dared while he remained. "The West is the best .... give in, and we'll do the rest".
The movement of the continental plates causes the North American continent to slide farther away, a constant move is taking place. I make a new formula, even if it's ridiculous; Gina = America, I = Europe afflicted with crop failure. "She's outside where the companies dream and the money goes round and I'm still here, tragic as the son of a superman".
I wander on the quay towards the twilight sky. There are white fringes on some of the river's waves. Rough yellow light shines among the cranes at the shipyard on the other side. I keep telling myself that resignation is just ridiculous and that I will find the spirit again. "Get rhythm when you get the blues".
How can my brain assign such importance to her? Is it because I have a tendency to torment myself?
If the soul is made up of a color spectrum, it is as if a combination of colors - (some crucial coefficient in the psychological matrix) - associated with vitality and lust for life have disappeared - they seem to have gone away with her. How is that possible?
I dream of a little man who frenetically drills in the urge for color or something that can be called a life force. But nothing happens. The fury only intensifies.
When I get home I put on a terry bathrobe. Hesitate a long time on mixing a drink but decide instead on making coffee. At the kitchen table I start drawing the flow chart of my life on a large paper . It must be possible to see where it has gone to hell, where the original offense occurred, where it all turned pear-shaped? Some things have had to happen earlier in life that foretold this crisis.
I created a timeline and small images of events that I think may have had an impact. Then I fell asleep.
In the dream that follows I have intercourse with Gina on the kitchen floor. A yellow light is filtered through the blinds. We quit in the middle of the act and she says "this doesn't work anymore, you have to get up". As I wake up I notice that the hand had painted a keyhole on the paper while I was sleeping. A new formula is made up; keyhole + comment "you have to get up" = The end of my victim mentality. I pour a cup of coffee and I see it clear as glass, I have to stop being a victim! ... I have to take responsibility for my suffering. Easier said than done she said. For a few hours I had the assertiveness, and sorrow and anguish didn't clog the nervous system. I cleaned the apartment, threw out the trash and went for some groceries. The setting sun looked almost hopeful in my eyes.
The Faroe Islands are an archipilago cast out into the North Atlantic like a couple of oblique lines that runs from southeast to the northwest. There are no trees according to the travel guide and it is the foggiest place in Europe. The Greenlanders have many words for snow, the Faroe Islanders probably have many words for fog. The weather is capricious and changes quickly and it often causes people to dispose of the word Kanska (maybe); "Maybe we can get together today, it depends on the weather." It is "maybe-country".
I sit under the awning at the cafe Cigar and read in the guidebook and dream away. But the money is running out and I can't afford to go there anyway. And soon I have to look around for a new job. Waitress maybe? Here at Cafe Cigar? But Thuram hates me, he thinks I am to artsy-fartsy. A pretentious bastard.
Suddenly, I see Peter Höök. He leads a bicycle across the square. It would be great if I became invisible now.
- well well well ....Hannes! Peter exclaims
I try to hide the guidebook.
Peter laughs a little bit more and scan the surroundings with a hawkish gaze.
- yes ... and here you are ... do you have lunch break ?
I try to look relaxed.
- Yes you could say that
- gö-ött ... what are you doing nowadays?
Peter measures me with his eyes again.
- ehh, I don't have any job or so right now .... I resigned...gonna try to find something new.
I try to speak as low and as composed as possible, but I feel transformed from the peaceful rumorous daydreamer to a tense little boy who is under the microscope of an evil stranger.
- so, you are unemployed? Peter says loudly. Some extra emphasis when he pronounce the condemnation that is unemployment. It's as if Peter really said "so, you're worthless" so everyone in the cafe can hear it.
I blush severely. A red color on my face and some remnant of it seems to remain for the rest of the day; Taint! The redness of shame.
During the conversation that follows, in which Peter, fortunately, doesn't ask about Gina, I think of mountain top fog and that I would like to travel really far away. The Faroe Islands and its green-hilly mountains seems more inviting than ever. The great escape.
Just before we part ways, Peter, my best fiend, asks, suprisingly, if I want to tag along on an afterwork session this Friday (or "Av-ee" as he says). My will; his will that fronts me. Seas between. Send a postcard from the land of compromise.
- sounds nice , maybe... thanks for the invitation...I'll consider it...
- yes .. speak to you later...
- see ya
- Take care!
It seems contradictory to go to After work when you're out of work. There should be something called "Before work" where unemployed customers meet and try to relieve each other's social stigma.
When I lie on the couch later in the day, the feeling of worthlessness has painted me on the inside. "Forget this cruel world where I belong. I'll just sit and wait and sing my song". Outside the window the leaves of the chestnut tree trembles in the wind. The sun is sparkling through the glimpses in the leafage.
Sleep arrives. Rendez vous at the stranger zoo. In the dream, I walk barefoot on asphalt. I'm going to a forest grove and follow a path down to a beach. Wading over to an island. The water is shimmering light green and the bottom is a mosaic of seashells and rocks. Suddenly a part of the bottom loosens and walks away. It's a crab that runs away laterally, like quick fingers over a guitar's fretboard. The crab resembles a shield filled with small eyes . I come across to the island on the other side and enter the dark forest. The pathway leads to a clear-cut where a boy sits and cries.
A lightning conductor is sitting on rooftops to protect a building from the harmful effect of the flash. The flash is led down through a wire and spread out into the ground. A similar device, firmly invisible, should protect a person's soul from mockery and insults. If every human being is like a house, my lightning rod on the roof has failed passing on mocking lightning out into the ground. Every derisive lightning has been uploaded within me and turned into hate and spiteful lust for revenge. I'm ready to explode.
On Wednesday I walk along Third long street. I stroll past what used to be a police station, old apartment buildings, a chestnut tree and a patisserie with a red and white neon sign. The road ends in a path lined with rowan trees.
The leaves of the rowans are under the weight of ripe berries. Two opposing yellow brick buildings seem to squeeze the way - I'm standing there in between. Between Scylla and Charybdis. Smash against the hard rocks of safety or drown in the whirlpool of extreme freedom? Make a choice. Grimbergism; "The liberal component upgrades the conservative component, but the conservative is protecting the liberal component". I'm under pressure from two different perceptions; "One gets to hate" is up against "one should not hate". How are you doing? We need each other but I'm not there yet. I feel such hatred.
The red color of shame has been reinstated, now manifested like a big stamp over the throat. I turn the other way around and walk up Warmland street and sit in one of the cafes in the intersection below the church of Oscar Fredrik.
The daylight is dull. The sun shines like a foggy dot behind blue-gray veils of clouds.
Order a cup of tea. Borrow a pen from the waiter and go and sit in the shadows. Paint little devils, demons and dead men on a napkin.
I soon finished the tea and headed home. Suicidal thoughts flashed inside.
There was no wind. Fog in the air. Did not see any sky. Somewhere in the distance hollow laughter could be heard. The windows on the other side of the street look like sleepy gray eyes.
In Jon Grimberg's notebook there are several thinkers' thoughts about artistry:
"To the extent that I managed to translate emotions into images, an inner calm came and entered the stage", "The purpose of art is to make the individual free, it does so by awakening, using and developing the individual's ability to keep the material world at a distance of objectivity."
I have begun to feel uncomfortable in the apartment. The couch and the red armchair have become like tumors and they remind too much of myself, or at least about an era that is over. I want to move on. Some phone calls and hours later. Removal men from Gold Moor in dark green sweaters come and pick up the furniture to drive to the dump. I'm going with them. It feels kind of productive. I get a free tip card as an individual but the companies have to pay. Tellus; an extraordinary waste station. Just sit back and watch the clash between ecology and economy. But you have to sit on the floor.
In the truck I talk to Tobias, one of the movers. He says he likes his job because "you get to go around and meet new people", "I can not sit in an office all day." The roaming Life of a mover. Sounds nice.
I don't want to return to the stale office landscape. And all those moronic telephone calls; a mockery of the intelligence. As creative as a stone reading from a list.
At the dump in Högsbo people in bright orange overalls move around and help customers loosen their garbage into the proper container. In the grey air over the containers large well-fed gulls circle around.
Perhaps more noisy, joyful and prosperous here than in the city. They're in their essence, in their correct element, keenly interested. "Interest" , inter and esse, Latin language, to be in the midst, be between, be involved in, encircle. What are my interests?
After the sofa and the armchair have been throwed into the container marked "combustible," I get a lift with the movers to Markland street. It's in their direction. "Thank you". Then I take tram number 8 towards the center. "What is my interest?". A pushed pendulum swings back. Imagine if I had the guts of the gulls and circled as jauntily as them around my key interest. But what's there in the middle? a hollow room with a spiteful comedian dancing around a pole . And even if I find what I like there's always the money issue ... damn the money! what if I can not afford to do what I like best. A speakervoice on the tram declairs "next ... Crossroad!". I take the next and get off at Berzelli street.
The fog has lifted over the city. Some clouds have yellow splashes from the sun. Leaves are whirling around in pirouettes on the sidewalk below Lorensberg Theatre. "What is my interest?". Nothing is revealed. I stop at a window to an art gallery. Should I try to paint more?. The wind is a bit chilly. What if I'm just a tragic figure who'll never find out what he or she should do. Yes, think about it. But We're all tragic in a way.
At the library. Browsing through some books in the art department. In an illustrated biography on Yves Klein, poet of the void , I wade through single-colored images; superpinkred, moss-green and eternity-deep blue. It turns out that Yves Klein first was very interested in Judo and then became very interested in color. I was first very interested in Gina Söder, football and drinking beer with the lads ... but what now? I flip eagerly through the pages of the book as if a burst in the heart told me that I've possibly found a distant soul mate who can inspire. I also feel the great emptiness ... maybe I can do something with it.
Back home in the apartment I sit on the floor where the sofa stood before. I want to paint something. But what? To paint emptiness itself is like trying to paint that metallic beeping sound of a heart machine-monitor that buzzes when a patient's heart has stopped beating. It seems too difficult. The only thing I can think of painting is a seagull flying over a dump.
From Jon Grimberg's notebook;
"The Austrian Viktor Frankl had a concept he called the Sunday neurosis. With that he meant that kind of depression which afflicts people who become aware of the lack of content in their lives when the rush of the busy week is over and the void within themselves becomes manifest. It is the moment when a human being get sight of the treadmill he is caught in and he does not like what he sees". For me the universe has transformed into a Sunday afternoon.
I walk down Gibraltar street . Far away in the background, beyond the brick of Hvitfeltskas school buildings, I sight the Vasa Church tower as a green pen tip against blue-gray cloud banks. What happened to faith? Is it in the grip of religious people giving it a bad reputation? and who only use it for social control, consciously or unconsciously. Ideologies and religions. I'm not really a believer but I can't deny the supernatural possibility altogether, that would be way too arrogant. Is it true that everybody has a belief system or an ideology and that it would be impossible to act in the world without it ? You might say you're a nonbeliever but your actions makes the opposite claim. In any case, there are vicious hardliners in every camp. Infected with Ideology locked-in syndrome. Caught in a feedback loop in their echo chamber. But what do I know I'm just pidgeonholing again. Remember she used to say that there isn't a proper box for every phenomena. But she was super fast when it came to point to the fact that someone was a white male and as such inherently privileged. "You don't get to complain". Now there's a proper box you can't get out of. Maybe there's a thing called Identity neurosis? - a game they play on the far left and the far right and where individuals are downtrodden and subdued, based on their group identity, to serve a collective madness. Nothing new really. I would like to ask now how my logic and my conclusions are undermined by my membership of a certain statistical group ? - why can't I just be an individual with whims and interests and not an agent for an evil power structure? . Is Postmodernism the dominating religion in Sweden. High priests dying in the webs that they spin.
Earlier today, during a mini episode of depression, I wrote a postcard to the Swedish Academy:
I have questions about dignity. I feel that I live an undignified life.
In your word list, the explanation says "rise to high dignity, positions etc". This is unsatisfactory to me. I seek to find a more exhaustive explanation, a psychological semantic network, you could say, to this word. For example , what does it mean to live a dignified life? Can you answer this or do you have any tips about other sources where I can find answers to these questions?
Grateful for help. Answer to. Hannes@zerogravity.com
Best Regards Hannes Tallby ".
Of course I felt super-ridiculous after posting it. I tried to walk it off. Crisis then walk. Patterns of behaviour. Everyday I return to the same shipwreck in my mind and I cannot solve the puzzle there. Can't upgrade the unconscious. Unable to patch the correct link to catharsis. Wrong code, lost keys... and some sinister magnetism of the soul is working against me. The void laughs in my face. And my friends seem to subtly avoid me. I don't blame them really.
After awhile I sit at a bus stop on Teacher street. Coffee mug in hand. The Sundays - Here's where the story ends. Yes but what happens next. Mica once picked me up here at this adress. The car was his church in a way and he almost always drove it on sundays. The freedom of travelling to your choice of locale in an enclosed metal entity and being the one behind the steering Wheel. God, Guns and gasoline.
"Hello" he said. I entered the vehicle and we drove away.
"Do you remember when we went to Stockholm to look at Sweden - Paraguay and we stayed at that shady motel in Solna?"
"Yeah that was fun, Linda was with us... and we listened to Page Hello Hallå Månbasen .... Who was the one who decided the match? .... was it Andreas Andersson?"
"Yes..... awesome times ..."
We went out to Hisingen. Mica called it devil's island. A peculiar silence occured. It was as if we had exhausted our shared bank account of nostalgic anecdotes. I sat and felt the smell of flame retardants. Remember I wanted to get off. Nothing in here moving really. And I can almost never socialize with others for more than fifteen minutes at a time. Brain overload kicks in. He quietly drove. One hand on the wheel and one around the coffee mug. Sometimes he gazed out over the docks,, the cranes and the towering buildings. Squinted eyes in smooth daylight. We came to Eriksberg. The clouds were ridged like fluffy blinds in blue and gray. Then passing through dark tunnels. Near the City Golf we stopped. People stood on the terraces, with varying degrees of seriousness and concentration on their faces, and hit golf balls out over a green field. It swished and popped. "We should hit some balls " Mica said as he was watching one of the golfers. I said sure. We hired some clubs and bought a bucket filled with balls and went up to the terrace . We started to swing those clubs. I tried to make a golf ball land in a big net basket a hundred meters away. From idea to realization. From idea to basket. "Plop!".
Don't know what this memory of Mica in an automobile going to the driving range is supposed to mean. Perhaps there isn't a meaning to it, just the daily whims of the brain. Check mate little brother. Chances are the meaning is that I'm not supposed to find a meaning. Would that be considered nihilistic? No, even if I say that there isn't a meaning to life there might still be great value to it.
It was almost dark when I got home. I shivered in the chilly wind outside the house gate. I also quivered from a sense of meaninglessness that I could not get rid of. It is a curse to think about the meaning of life. If I lived in a country subject to the conditions of misery instead of being, as in Sweden, subject to the conditions of boredom, the thought of the meaning of life would never have occurred ..or would it? .. striving for basic necessities had not given me any time to ponder. To strive against misery ... maybe I should help others in need, work at the Red Cross or something. But I feel uneasy when I think of being absorbed and ruled by an organization .... No I would like to have my own little business in some way ... but how is that going to happen? I don't really have any talents I could monetize. The money. Damn. Another train of thoughts that crash into the money issue.
In the dark apartment the TV set is flickering, projecting a cold blue light against the wall where the sofa stood. Some program about genetic engineering. Turn off. Darkness settles like a blanket thrown over the floor.
Remember a hotel room paid with money inherited from grandfather. New York, in march 2000. He turned in his grave. The year before the twins fell. And just after I dropped out of university. End of an era. I had a compact disc walkman as a constant companion. There was something different in the air. A sense of blue-eyed wonder. What did I do? Coffee shops and diners. Walking around buying postcards. I was only 19 so I couldnt get beer in the pubs- couldn't neutralize my perpetual shyness so I mostly stayed in the hotel rooms. Reading, jerking off and listening to music. I am one of those who can say I have masturbated on all the major hotel chains in America. When I phoned home, yes phone booths were still common, I told them I visited the museums and played chess with Stanley Kubrick in Central park ( mom had no idea who he was)
Morning light flowed through the blinds. Just awakening and in the drunk passage between dream and reality a question about the people who first met in a record store in Athens, Georgia, in 1980, what did they sing about? The song The Great Beyond' bubbled somsewhere outside in the corridor . I got up and looked out the window. Saw a strip of magnificent blue sky above and in between the buildings. And powdery white strokes of condensation from morning airplanes. "I am looking for answers from the great beyond". It became the soundtrack on the shy boy's backpacking tour around the World. Burning that inheritance on extended adolescence. But I found no answers only more questions and nothingness.
What is it ... to be aggressively set towards nothingness? Some twelve years since that essential discovery I still feel a terrible antipathy towards the empty, why can't I just accept it and relish in its perplexing weirdness It's as if the empty is a way of life I despise. How can I be mad at emptiness, which is nothing.? The brain says no and the blood and the viscera says yes, there must be something.
The sky was the bluest I have ever seen and it seemed like I laid eyes on it for the first time and it sang of a wild flora of possibilities, and something beyond the blue seemed to shout on me ... to fall ... to fall into the nameless ... "the nameless".
Emptiness is the unconditional cavity, in a mind that suddenly does not aim for comprehension ... thoughts just spin around the void like flies around a pond in the summer ... they can not be attributed to anything more than their own whimsical movements ... .in quintessential triviality.
The butterfly is fluttering in my mind. But there's another kind of emptiness - the one when futility shows up ...like a flower blossomed out of the assertion ... the empty stands near the stupid ....Am I just stupid? ... Do I move foolishly in circles around a crack in my own essence ? Also there is a light blue version of emptiness, like the glossy sky ... it allows the lack of understanding, it is a bitter jewel. What more can be said about emptiness ; a sense of vacuity that is nevertheless saying something.
Grimberg once asked "Is it you or the world that you perceive as empty?." Maybe I should just go to bed. Is emptiness the disinterest that settles as a filter over the eyes and that is preventing me from entering into a relationship with the outside world?
Buzz from the kitchen fan. No room service available on Union street. I'll have to take some sleeping pills now. I can't calm down. My mind is not right. I'm a gibberish machine.
Emptiness fills me. Proof that I have been drained. On/off what? Love, value and meaning, what more? I have wandered around in a gluttony of experience, wasting the inheritance from grandfather .. yet I am empty. In the dream I sink . First through water then through clouds. Plunge down from heaven. At first I was a diver and then I was a skydiver. Far down I see the ruins ... And how I wish that someone will meet me when I land or embrace me in the fall.
A boxer dog sits outside the doorway to Pink Panther Café. Hazel brown eyes squinting in the sun. The stoic registry; nothing new under the sun, yet content. People and leaves pass by along Vasa street avenue. The wind is strong and flags and haircuts wave and flutter. When will I see the stock market listing for the left behind?. Mumbo Jumbo mind but you don't have to make sense, rationality isnt everything. What is the worst? to worship Reason or a God? . I'm walking in the wind's direction, along a column of trees, next to the rollin' leaves. Dear co-drivers. Bear with me. Inquisitiveness and confusion have increased and coincided with wild autumn circulation.
There is something about Vasa street. As if when I walk in the direction towards the School of Economics I inhaled not only refreshing cool air but also ions from the economists' hunger for money and profit. They pray to Mammon. No wonder. I am uncertain whether I despise these efforts or if the contempt is a symptom of a deeper vein of envy that the less fortunate can direct toward the wealthy. "Do you care for the poor or are you just focused on hating the rich?." Good question Borewell.
The night set the tone for the day. I woke up shaken a few hours too early. I dreamt of a prison built of shopping carts, storefronts and abandoned plate. People were ruled by huge corporations who drained their souls and their bank accounts. I was trying to escape from something but was shot. Heard murmuring voices. Friends were missing. Saw dead women and children. Almost no vegetation; just sheet metal, shopping carts and shop windows.
We're many who are crossing Haga park in the blustery wind. Like spiders. We're all tiny spiders on the world wide web. Under the watchful eye of big brother. Or the giants Google, Facebook, Apple and Microsoft. All that information in streams of code stored in a data center in Horndal outside Avesta. In the majority of cases a female spider kills and eats a male spider before, during, or after copulation. Classic fear. I hear Gina's voice after a boring party "Hannes, stop being a damn namedropper ...it's so lame and tiresome ...and stop quoting....think for yourself". Memory distorted and shaped by the here and now. Be here now. In some sense she has killed me. A walking dead spider. Its quiet company.
The sun shines sharply through a breach in the clouds above the library. Inside people sit and read books. Two women and a man, all in Converse shoes and Wayfarer Raybans, stand and contemplate the Raoul Wallenberg Memorial. I go and sit on a bench.
A view of a park somewhere in Jante's country. Polite and silent in a hypocritical miracle of humility. Jante and the consensus Dragon will ostracize anyone who speak up against the ruling narrative. You will be blacklisted and deemed social pariah in no-time if you challenge the holy cows of the public discourse. To disagree is, in itself, enough to be categorized as politically and morally suspect. I bet people would label me as a right-wing extremist simply for thinking this. Better not tell anyone. Censorship runs deep. The real contrarian is a rare bird. Just like the genius. Who dare's to be one in this milieu?
The phone rang. It was Paula.
- Come down to the Cigar and have cup of coffee
- ahh maybe later I have to walk around for a while and clear my head
- I can clear it for you
- alright speak to you later gloomy
Any attempt from another person to actually meet is likely to be postponed. There's something that causes me to push people away, as if they could worsen my condition. But what is my condition? Suicidal-envious-bitter ?. Plus stomach-pain. The Messenger of Allah asked Asma Bint Umais Radi Allaho Anha, How do you deal with constipation? She said, by using Shubrum.
Perhaps I should be more nuanced. What are Jante's upsides ? cooperation, team-spirit? parliamentary trade-offs and compromise, equality, sort of,... not everybody gets to win Eurovision but everyone gets free health care, right? I'm way out of line. My days are littered with perhaps and maybes. Fair enough.
The restlessness is like thousand little itchy ants in the flesh and it's the motor that keeps me walking these streets. What am I going to do? After a turn up the heights I stand and hesitate outside the liquor store on the Landala square. Car bodies glitter in the sun. A street musician is playing accordion. Music from dreams inspired by the Army of the Twelve Monkeys. A bottle of wine? No, it's too cliché. The contempt for the cliche was something that we shared, me and her. At least that's what I think. But what did it mean? Cliche, a worn stiffened expression.. language dying in its failure to reproduce the experience. A cliche, she saw me like that in the end, as a stiff dead figure. And that's how I view myself now. It's no suprise she left. Bloodless anemic man. I try to shake the thoughts off by moving on. The wandering impulse, both enemy and friend.
I trek past Wawrinsky's place and down the slopes past the dirt-yellow hospital area, down the cycle track, across a bridge, and into the Castle forest. The last couple of days I've found myself thinking more and more about painting as a potential road to resurrection. A spiritual gamechanger and a mood-stabiliser. Transform and transcend. But I've not been able to figure out what I want to paint. I just have that image in my mind of a seagull gliding over a garbage dump. Yves Klein even found his own custom color that he patented; International Klein Blue. He seemed a lot more outgoing and extroverted than me. Lucky bastard. I can't even buy a hot dog without blushing. Neurotiscism - everywhere I go. Mutate now. Jon Grimberg wrote in his notebook; "Once you climb the dominance hierarchy neuroticism will decrease". Screw his hierarchy. He makes it sound so easy. There's too much focus on the vertical life; to advance upwards, to climb to the top, go get that promotion, defeat the others and win!...my nervous system is hardwired to Time and Becoming.
Speaking of painting and artists. I ran into Paul Littner the other night. A poacher's face under the hat brim. We were waiting under the street lights like two gunmen before a duel. Say something, you first. Once the dearest of friends. We were conspecifics except that I was the one in denial. I became some kind of institutionalized clerk while Paul followed his calling, plunged into art school and was now giving exhibitions far and wide. Making his way through the world with imagination and the color and the shape. His latest outings were a bizarre series of paintings of transsexual tug boats. The press adored him and he was hailed as Gothenburg's Dali or something. I feel disastrously envious. And I felt so fake when I met him, "here I come, the biggest scam in town ... I never bloomed, coz I never dared". We finally exchanged the usual small talk phrases; what do you do and where do you live? The conversation was brief and almost formal as if we quickly wanted move away from each other so as not to run the risk of having ones own sphere of thoughts tainted with the others. We have not been close for years. The quirky humor that glued us together dissolved. No more going around the town and hanging old shoes on the tram line wires. No more cheap lager parties and philosophical debates in his kitchen on Vega Street. No more habit of painting his neighbour's door with shaving foam " I Love you Kenneth". I can't explain. When he asked me what I was doing these days I should have replied "I'm carrying a whole continent of melancholy inside that I'm trying to paint". He studied me with an elusive impatient gaze. Probably extremely indifferent. He said oh well take care and disappeared light-footed into the night. Paul and I could sit in that red dimness at Café Java and chat in the evenings. Coffee, snuff and remnants of sandwiches strewn across the table. When the cafe closed we continued out to the bars. Neon glittering on young people with potential. I was a cocky visionary on coffee and liquor but when morning came I put on my shirt and headed listless to the customer support cubicle in the suburbs and started to answer those menial telephone calls. At the coffee break when the others were talking about holidays and wage levels I submerged into thoughts and tried to justify to myself why I did what I did ... "If everybody did what they wanted society would not work, there would be anarchy bla bla bla... I am among the ninety-five percent that has to be sacrificed for the sake of convenience and functionality ... by the way, I'm not even sure of what I want ... so maybe this is the best compromise? ".
I'm strolling through the park area. Past the seal pond. Joggers and cyclists and dog-walkers. False, might as well write the word with ink on the forehead. Why did I never become an artist? Intense unsatisfaction in the heated oven that is the now.
At "Fjällgatan" I take tram number 11. Thinking of Paul. A feeling of little needlesticks all over the body; imagine if it's the malicious joy of Paul registered on the psyche litmus paper. A delayed physical reaction. More likely there is a mechanism, in the blind spot of the soul, that must be addressed.
The tram howls like a distant singing whale and lurch down the Stigberg hill. Sand yellow brick facades stand heated and gleam in the sun. The sky is brilliant blue. How the hell can it be this hot in September?
Get off at the Masthugg square. Walk past the pawnshop and sit on the square. Large brown-black pillars stand between the trees. Grave Architecture. It's my own enviousness that itch in me. Crystal clear brother. Discomfort in my own skin. Bag of bones. I have the desire to be someone grand. It was this desire that sparkled in Paul's presence. Two persons, with the same aspirations, had measured themselves with each other, and I had fallen short. That this measurement even occurs is a faulty connection of perception. If I envy him, wanting what he has, then I have blurred the boundaries between us and equaled our desires ... but my desire can never be identical to someone else's ... or is that idea just a delusion? ..Fragments of thougts crammed like crowds of people entering the subway. I am calling for philosophical clarity but I feel like an insect on the surface of the lake which can never penetrate into the depths because of the surface tension. What a pity ... am I just an envious jealous bastard?
But what is given in terms of experience? that every human being is at the same time universal and unique? yes that is clear enough ... she is commonplacel due to the fact that there are seven billion others who to a varying degree remind her of herself ... unique because her exact experiences will never happen again. A short burst of weird synapse electricity in the lonely universe. A singular bio-electric pattern. The Hannes of 1910 had been different, perhaps a despot in the future. During a war I had undoubtedly been cannon fodder. It's likely that every epoch rewards a certain type of personality ... who is rewarded today, what characteristics? the uber-extroverted media savvy person? whatever. But the difficulty, the difficulty lies in not placing too much emphasis on any of the approaches ... thus neither being too collective or individualistic, maybe I have been too collective, have I reduced people to a number of sociological phenomena and thus equated our desires and given free reign to envy? There is a collective streak in me that strives for equality. But equality can also legitimize enviousness ... envy is the downside of the equality idea, the other side of the coin. However I'm missing something something,what is it? ... is it the individual mystery? that every individual's psychological universe revolves around what she lacks and what she thinks is missing and the roads that leads her to the missing content must be as many as there are stars. It's important for heaven and earth to unite in the philosophical word... is the truth half way? ... but with the truth so far off what good can it do?. She is looking for her lost word that confound her like a memory, an opiate of the past . "You and your questions". This doesn't make sense.
Further away on a bench a woman, or a man, is reading a newspaper. What a rarity in the city, a being not hunched over a cellphone. Serenity seems polished over the forehead.
Envy is not fair. It's a kind of intoxication of the psychological vision, psychic mobility and movement freezes, it's a dialectical breakdown of sorts and a crime against the flow of life. I look outwardly, but not inwardly. I have to try to see what I have and what I can give and stop comparing myself with others. Even if it sounds too dead and cliched.
I sit here now and think about what I have to offer and the seagull floating in the air over the dump is reappearing on the internal projector.
Last night I dreamed of wild boars. A woman sat in what resembled a lotus position on a five-cornered earthy surface. It was inside a fortress somewhere deep in the forest. And she told me how a hungry wild boar could eat a human in thirty seconds and if it was extra hungry you could see the eaten man translucently mummified in the stool. So it was important to be careful when leaving the fortress and going home through the woods. I shivered in fear and wondered about the meaning when I woke up. Was the boar an incarnation in the dreamworld of someone I met during the day, in reality? some hardliner who, greedy and wallowing in hatred, would attack me viciously if I did not keep my distance?. Or perhaps, in a more contemporary passive-aggressive fashion, would start up a demonising smear campaign against me on the Internet. All day I've been trembling in the aftermath of this dream. Some strange evocative symbolism is haunting me, pulling me in, the heraldry of the soul. What does it mean? And also I was struck by the terrible insight, as I stood and looked in the mirror, that I undeniably resemble the boar. The pig/swine/boar ; I think of it as a symbol of gluttony and ignorance. I fear its power over me, and it's the one that only wants me to escape , that makes me dissolve into fragments.
Later in the afternoon I read on Sleepculture.com that If one encounters a boar in a dream it is likely that you are learning to face your fears. It is an ancient symbol of the hero and the warrior. Elsewhere on the web some interpreter writes that if one sees a boar in a dream it means that you must fearlessly search within to discover new things about yourself and how you view the people in your life. Fear and courage seems to be the key here. A dream of a wild boar also represents assertiveness and confrontation; it's a message to be honest in what we do and have the balls to challenge the problems in our life that seem dreadful and uncomfortable. Time to face the demons and the truth or be "boared" to death I guess. Maybe I could start with saying I'm sorry.
Come to think of Wittgenstein's tour of guilt where he traveled around and apologized to his friends. Yes I'm guilty of swinish behavior. During the tour there was a woman who suddenly interrupted him
- What is this ... do you want to be perfect or what?
The philosopher replied quickly as lightning
- Of course I want to!!
Maybe I don't set the bar as high as him but I see that I have to differentiate between actions and people. Striving for perfection in actions is one thing, but the danger is when one, like the pig, plunges into ones own illusory perfection ... spotless. That's what I've done. I think I've become this shady judgmental figure. Too much unbalanced correspondence between the the brain hemispheres.
The boar; a symbol that bubbled up in myself. The family's arrogant and self-satisfied emblem? Remember Peter Höök's words about us in the Tallby family "you are divas, you are". Always so entitled. For the sake of my soul, I have to withdraw from this identification in order not to succumb to family patriotism. They say that patriotism is the last refuge to which a scoundrel clings. "And For the love of god, stop quoting!".
What is required is self-examination. But that's the hardest thing. Facing a sewage system of radiant shame and guilt, the raging resentment, the envy and the nasty perversions. Ludwig says that it is even more difficult to think about, or try to think truly sincere about ones own life and the lives of others. And the kicker is that it's not exciting to think about such things, but often downright disgusting. And when it's disgusting it's most important.
Friday in October. A few nights of frost and tree defoliation accelerates. The leaves dips down to the ground in the cold evening. Like discarded ideas. If only the fanatic could let go of his concepts in a similar undramatic fashion. The leaves of the ash tree have dropped in one go and during the day you could see how a squirrel scampered and crisscrossed between the bare branches. I'm out on the streets wandering about. The paintings I've made so far are mostly rubbish. Just like modern life? I don't even know what modernity means, constant progress and to deny ones past? good riddance. The paintings resemble colorful oil spill. The simple guilt and then shame, everything is a wreck inside my frame...I walk down Engelbrekts street past the Vasa Park's orange and yellow leaf piles. Further down I'll cross Avenyn, the broad mainstreet. Shops, bars, restaurants and night clubs are glittering and pulsating to drumbeats tonight. I'm out of my comfort zone alright. Inside the Cafe Tintin it is packed. I don't go inside. At a shop window to a material store I see brushes, tubes of paint, easels and small wooden dolls. Inside my head I'm being scolded; "you're one of the privileged ... you are white, male, and, I assume, straight ... you have nothing to complain about!" "Oh, so you have to be black, woman and gay in order to complain ? but it seems unreasonable ". As a matter of fact I'm a bisexual without any homosexual experience, does that make me a little bit more qualified as a complainer? Identity politics. Pitting groups against each other. And only the supreme victim gets to speak freely. Where will it end. The university is churning out brilliant bureaucrats who are marinated in gender science. Mind the web they cast out.
Wait. Maybe I'm doing it again. Seeking out an imaginery enemy to whom I will project everything that is damaged within me. Just like Grimberg seem to do with Postmodernism in his inflammatory youtube videos. And it's not even accurate. Wasn't I suppose to gaze internally ? But the culture in which I live is affecting me nonetheless and I have to become aware of it's workings. The streams of tendencies.
I recall another exchange. The discussion broke down when I said that it's not interesting to talk about class. We should talk about individuals. Vanja were a bit more reddish in the face and more biting in the tone:
- It's only the wealthy and the well-off who talk like that! ... You only think of yourself!
Words sharp as razor blades when I think of them now. Perhaps they'are close to the truth. Of course she feels marginalized and discouraged. She is more gay than me. On top of that, she's a woman trying to make a career in the backstabbing world of academia. Sweet angry sister. I can see her, giving lectures at the ethnological department with a decadent scarf around her neck. Every time she formulates an important point she shape the hands like she measured the most important of salt between her fingers. "The Salt of Life". And the rigid structures of the patriarchy.
I go further. Across the avenue. Two black-dressed girls stand and smoke outside Locatelli. Pearls of colored lights hang above them. They seem to talk about a mutual acquaintance. "Oh, he's so dismissive! ". At the bottom of the street there is a strong violet shine against a facade. There is something about this light, the color is saying something in my time of indignation and indifference. Violet, strong purple what does it mean? . The ambivalent colour. Unbinary bliss, I could live inside this, here I can accept cognitive dissonance but first a few pints.
On the quiet Wadmans street I look at the houses. On one of the French balconies there is a silhouette of two bodies standing opposite to each other surrounded by the yellow shine from the window. Finally, I see that it is a bird cage, with a rag on top, hanging in the window. Irony -the song of a bird that has started to like its cage ?. Are you gonna break your rusty cage?. Outside on Engelbrekt street, traffic is roaring and I hear the screams and exclamations from the nearby football fields. Players, coaches and bystanders let's you know that the game is on. "Mark him!, do not let him go". A thought like a claw, Hitler was also, like me, a failed and desperate artist at the beginning of his career. Do I also carry the possibility of becoming a mass murderer?. What does it take to become a fanatic like that? A bitterness over the Treaty of Versailles?. The dehumanized spirit. That guy is too much of a mystery - he is like the archetype of evil now, while Jesus is perhaps to some the good archetype, these are the two limit cases of the psyche. It all keeps adding up. Luckily I'm just a basket case.
Take a cab. Where do we go from here, the words are all coming out weird where are you know when I need you. I don't know if it's nostalgia reshaping and modulating my memory or not but I feel like Gothenburg was once a more magnetic city full of life. Gina's dark allure back then. Institutionalised. Different clinic than me. I have to be so pretty when I meet her. Fuming euphoria no sleep and neglected food intake. Trädgårn, the electronic pulse and the resolute urgency of now. The Knife Silent Shout. Redbull and Vodka. And what happened to that bar on Magasin street? Upwards and forwards. Fooling around in the bar and Matti Alkberg was singing right in front of us and said in between one of the songs, that one day it is all over. All the people that I didn't get to know. So many things in life overlooked. Barred by neurosis and time itself. I come home. I stand outside the apartment door. A perplexed space monkey. Letting the days go by. How did I get here? In to the blue again after the money is gone. I go inside and sit by the window. Black cars and blue cars go by down on the street. Backwards and forward. The names and places I know. Alright I cross the same old ground, yeah. Automobile noise.
Faulting, folding, crack, tectonic foliation and magnetic susceptibility. Concepts that occupy his attention. Leo the geologist. I know he's doing fieldwork in chart area 26 J Jokkmokk to investigate the bedrock of Norrbotten. Somewhere in the coniferous forest, he stands in too big pants, the cap tilted backwards and with his eyes meditating over measuring instruments. It was clear from the outset that he would devote his life to the wonders of stones and minerals. When grandmother asked us to send her drawings Leo always sent her pictures of rubies, emeralds and sapphires together with the appropriate information. I remember sending her an underwater view with a big shark and a fleshy human leg bleeding amidst thickets of seaweed and bladderwrack. Remember Leo's neat room, the meticulously labeled stone collection in small wooden shelves on the wall and his snappy irritation which often rose to fury when I crossed the threshold. "Go away!" "You bother me... severely!". I was chaos to his order. I often imagined that I was the one who caused his epilepsy. His brain finally went syntax error when it couldn't make sense of the mean-spirited havoc his little brother thrust upon him.
When I fiddled with the stone collection Leo sometimes went haywire. If he caught me he would bang my head against a wall or, if it was a more mild punishment, he'd turn around the wrists or to drive up my arm behind my back and push my face against the floor. And then I had to take the oath "I am a stupid wanderer who promises to never touch my brother's stones, stamps or tapes ever again... I swear." But the prohibition only made it even more attractive to enter Leo's forbidden domains. In his room was where I secretly discovered Lou Reed and that there was a country called Papua New Guinea. In his haven he colour-coded everything and his collection of tapes was streamlined alphabetically. The rug had an exact position that was not to be displaced. The fish in the aquarium were fed at precise time points. I never found any pornography, I suppose he outsmarted me there. Or perhaps he was asexual. Sometimes I would ambush him and lie in wait with a peashooter and the moment he'd walk by I'd shoot a grain of corn into his body and awake the sleeping beast. The subsequent howling frenzy of Leo was, as long as he did not get hold of me, my intoxication; I totally devoted myself to the destructive euphoria that Leo's outburst endowed me.
It's a hazy day. Light and grey. A bit cooler than yesterday. I walk around the city, it has become a routine now. Here I slide, the baron of idleness. I come from nothingness and I shall return to nothingness, is that how it is?
Sad to think of Leo. It feels like it's too late to reach out him now. We've been fighting too much over the years. Should I call him? What would we say to each other?
Down by the quay seagulls are hovering lazily in the wind, over old boats and rocks . Their message; "It's business as usual in the Sunday republic". A person in a green jacket stands with a casting rod at the pier. Dog sits by his side. I think the name of that dog is Chance. Hoping to find one circumstance, of dignity.
I pass a Mongolian restaurant. Leo and I sat there once. He had that questioning pitying look that finally, after some attempts at conversation, led me to resign myself to silence. Fragments from the dialogue swirl up like bubbles from the bottom.
- I see myself more like a japanese really ... because I share their fear of both emptiness and fullness ... and I certainly share their fascination with the bonsai tree and other miniature worlds
Leo put the fork in the chicken wing and grimaced as if he had heard something extremely discordant. He said slowly
- that sounds like pure nonsense to me ...do you think you can be more specific?
- Well ... it's just about the same as saying that you're equally afraid of both congestion and desolation
- just about the same? ..... but do you have to be japanese to feel that way?
- Ah ... I don't know .... It just sounded kind a cool and strange ....
- yes, that was strange
To change the schedule, to uneconomically and spontaneously circumvent a plan is for Leo to swear inside his church. And perhaps that's the reason why we never will find each other. I will always be an impossible scatterbrain in Leos eyes. Or am I the one being too categorical now?
Narrow Tailor street. An artist weaves and unweaves his own image. A cat on the steps. Mr Cat, he who only knows his side of the case, knows little of that. Pretentious bastard. Lynx Lynx. If you meet a Lynx cat in a dream the message is that you have to evaluate and share your secrets in order to learn something new about yourself. If the lynx in your dream is black, it means you need to approach a situation with objectivity. When I masturbate I often think of voluminous women. Very few know about that, and very few would mind if I do.
Back to Leo. I have condemned him in my mind many many times... He's an empathy-weak technocrat bla bla... he will never see the value in anything I undertake. I'm the parasite of this town.
Approaching Nordstan. The gray in the sky has begun to darken. The murmuring and buzzing symphony of the city increase in strength. Sirens, gulls, tires against the streets, bus engines idling at the stops, trams creaking in their tracks, an exclamation! and scattered quakes from formations of jackdaws over roofs and towers. The statue of Gustav Adolf stand green and admonishing on the square.
I stand at a borderline, which I have to pass. Leo. Have I focused on the differences rather than the similarities ? His almost fanatical pursuit of objectivity is perhaps not so remote to me after all. Just think of all the strange little formulas I made since the breakup with G. I seek firmness, a bright spot of explanation to hold on to when everything around is split and scattered like a deck of cards in the wind. Gina, friends, work ... lost platforms that only concealed the black depths below.
Passing over Queen Square. Four blue flags with motifs of yellow lions tremble in the wind above a cluster of parked bikes. Entering the central station. The commuters are in serious motion. An old clock above the wood panel shows twenty to five. The Lioness. Mother. I grew up in a matriarchy, I can't complain about that. Served you well you spoiled brat. Me and Leo strolled here the last time we met. His train was delayed and we were killing time. Leo stopped and looked at the maps high up on the wall in the waiting hall. Bohusbanan, Roslagsbanan... He broke the seal of silence.
- Maps, they are good ... because they are objective
- Oh, really?
Standing on the platform asphalt. Trains come and go across the switchyard. They disappear in a clutter of wires, pipes and lights. I give every leaving train a name. There goes Gina, Leo, Paul and there goes Sheragim. Who I really am to them I will never know, And I cannot grasp the fleeting evolving substance of their personalities; their obsessions and their particular flaws. I just have my onesided version, a view that is filtered through my narcissism. I hear their mumbling voices , like auditive stamps on an inner mass of sound; "Hannes, when will you stop talking shit?" "Do you do what you really want to...?" "Checkmate little brother ". And, sailing from adolescence, the groaning words of a confirmation priest "and here we have another man ... lost in the wanderings of the intellect ". Throw a coin down the well of memory and see the fading shimmer ..." and there we have one more man ... lost to religious superstition". No later undoing will undo the first undoing. I still love you redhead. You are not an essence, you are your memories plus more, in essence. But memory is horse-trading with imagination. It's time to leave mr Balderdash.
In the evening gray-violet clouds roam across the sky, some glowing on the fringes in a memory of the sunset.
On the Melancholy continent there are no butterflies, at least no day butterflies, as they require a lot of sunlight to survive. No, the only flying inhabitants over this dreary landscape are the crows, the jackdaws and the vultures - and these have here the ability of speech and have an unprecedented memory; they use every word a person ever uttered and throw it back at him/her/it in the most scornful of ways, which in itself is the reason why people here are so terribly quiet. One could say that the crows & co represent the continent's temperament and political ideology that seem to strip the words of their healing potential and instead, through an unknown diabolical doctrine, convert them to tormentors. If the birds do not succeed in destroying the healing power of words, they are instead made to ash by combustion in huge blast furnaces. The main words are put into combustion units where they first are being scaled off and humiliated and then inverted to their opposite meaning... so love becomes hate and so on and so on ... then they are cooked to produce energy for the coterie in power on the Melancholy continent.
Somewhere far out, among burned farmland in a gray haze , there's a train stopped under the curved "T" of an electric pole .Two men are outside the rust red figure of the locomotive in an eternal dispute about the direction of travel. They both serve the financial elite but they just don't know about it. The railroad is falling apart just like the rest of the infrastructure but the population's raging discontent is directed elsewhere towards an abstract other. And if even if they could speak up it would be really hard now when the words have been defused and transformed.
On the melancholy continent Shame and Guilt holds you down like some menacing supernatural force of gravity. You feel naked, destroyed and humiliated and Time is dragging you slowly back'n forth through a hall where scenery from your failures and fears are repeatedly projected onto the walls.
The Lie thrives as a plant (The Plant of Deceit) here and secrete a musty stuffy odor and a bland black gas-like material that prevents sunlight from reaching the ground.
On the only radio station, which is in cahoots with Blast Furnace Holdings, they only play the HD Symphony Orchestra (Hopelessness and Discouragement Symphony Orchestra). Their sounds are created to corrupt the thinking capacity and to weaken the words and the butterflies. Authorities and experts around the world are asking What is the solution for the Melancholy continent?. According to some ancient sources The Melancholy continent was once the continent of the sun and words and butterflies where flying free and living rather prosperously. The question is how to dispel the darkness, the scornful vultures and the total domination of Blast Furnace Holdings?
The outside world is speechless and bewildered facing the problem ...
"We can not just let them die over there". Aid consignments of "love" and "truth", in combination and individually, have so far only had very little impact on the deadlock. Foreign negotiators involved in the matter are now wondering if it is a change of strategies that must be achieved; "Is it time to play hardball now ? our more pragmatic and diplomatic negotiations seem to have stranded"
On the wall, just above where the couch was, I nailed a piece of hardboard and covered it with cloth. I'm trying to paint the continent. Leo has, in his way, inspired me to start mapping the melancholy continent.
Everything has to be there; vultures, crows, the locomotive, the two quarreling men and in the distance the smoking chimneys of Blast Furnace Holdings and last but not least the Plant of Deceit. Sometimes I disappear in some focused yet meditative activity sometimes it just feels silly.
One evening after two days of eager work I stand emaciated and hungry and look at the coloured jumble that now adorns the wall. Cars rush past outside the window. It's cold and draughty on the day of Insipid men. What a horrible painting. I roll up in a fetal position on the bed.
During the night, the fetal position becomes a capsule submerged in an azure sea. Streaks of light like diagonal spears cut down through the surface. Someone similar to Gina swims farther and farther away. The capsule floats up on a beach and I get out. A black dog delivers a paper on the promenade of a city that looks like Nice in southern France. There is a message written in ink on the front. "In the dusty city ... the ongoing counterfeiting of the heart ...".
I'm lying on the floor listening to the Coltrane disc you sent me a few years ago. All idiotic ideas and fragments and taunts are dissolved in jazz incantation; the unnecessary, that has clinged to me, dissolved like an effervescent tablet in a glass of jazz after another day of wandering about - thank you for installing this opportunity. I do not know if you've heard what happened to Gina, but we broke up and I've been trying to remove myself from the crime scene and the terrible radiation that now encircles Gothenburg, this Chernobyl of love. At first I thought of going to the Faroe Islands, but the economy has been tough, so now I plan to immerse myself in painting.
You may have heard from Gavin Dowe that I resigned from work. I remember you asking me, "why don't you do what you want to do ?" and you probably knew how much I really hated my job. I'm like the rest of us, I dare not say what's really on my mind. But now I have come up with the answer to that question, I simply have not dared to break the circle until now ... I also did not have a clear vision of what to do ... until now! .. I'm letting the colors speak again!
The things you said are coming back to me now. "You're just envious if you don't do what you really want to". Perhaps that's not entirely true but it serves as a starting point for me.
I have to "kiss my fate", find my path and stop envying Paul Littner because he, and not me, has become Gothenburg's Dali in contact with the underworld. Here a crime has occured ... the role model and the hero has been reduced to the envied object because I could not stand the critical comparison between us-it will not happen again! Maybe this oscillation between role model and envied object happens all the time and especially if you are friends. I think that I often envied you when I instead should have been taking notes and be learning from you.. (this may sound flattering and false, but this is how I see it now). Possibly the key to the split with Gina is connected to the previous thoughts; she distanced herself from the person I had become ... one solidified cliche of envy and resentment, a motionless and stunted office rat inside a psychological cage of inhibitions ... and seen in this light I really should thank her, she gave me a chance for renewal and revolt ... (I would have called and thanked her but there are limits to the pathetic maneuvers)
The last thing I can write is that I'm not too distressed, the most stressful thing is the financial drain on the money from grandfather - I can see him turning in his grave and cursing me from the kingdom of Death.
So, until the next time, thank you for inspiring me,
Now I'll try to paint myself into freedom!
Best regards Hannes
(sorry for the psychological mumbo jumbo :)) "
Drip drop drip drop. Water droplets slowly slide down the windowpane. A dead fly lies bent inwardly on the disc next to an empty blue tube of paint. The sky is gray like industrial smoke and the lights of the quarter begins to light up in the afternoon's descent towards evening. A woman in an oilskin coat strives in the wind with a red umbrella. Along the asphalt water flows into the wells. "Lenny Bruce was not afraid". A dog barking, abandoned and needy, in humid airspace. His or her sound mingled in the whirlpool of engines and the sleepy beat of the rain. Outside a restaurant the flashing warning lights from a poorly parked old Volvo. On Faktum's editorial page a writer has written that Gothenburgs information policy should be transparent and cooperative but that the reality is different. Taxi driver underscores his mustache and speak with the passenger of the horrors of the war in Iraq and that almost nobody talks about death in Sweden, not in cafes anyway. In a classroom at Schillerska there is a teacher who says... ".... and with great difficulty, the philosopher must, in his system thinking and criticism, seek to avoid the allure of utopia ..... but Heidegger couldn't avoid this ...I think it has to do with him being excessively sexual but that there is just my personal opinion". Why is my neck so stiff ? it must be that I sat for a long time in front of the computer. Or is it because I have censored myself too long. Never speaking my mind. I have unconsciously trained my psyche to take endless detours.... into the not so quinetessential trivialities. Or I could be wrong. What should I eat tonight. I have to stop ordering take-away Bibimbaps.
Flickering silent TV-screen. Droning song "Night falls on Hoboken" sounding from loudspeaker.
To interpret. A person who disapproves of the meaning of subjective interpretation, referring to a universal truth when regarding experience, runs the risk of embracing ideological dogmatism or blurry history philosophy ... he denies himself as a co-creator in every knowledge process. And also denies his loneliness with his conscience when he confuses the latter with morality, collective norms, fashion or even God. But what is it to follow ones conscience and to make "interpretations"? it is a tightrope between prejudice and perception and if so it is important to highlight ones prejudices and beliefs, and in this light, in parallel, never believe to be clean and free from prejudice. Nothing is clean in itself. Only the dogmatics believe that. The hovering volatile ideal has stiffened inside them. And no-one is allowed to break their mental ice. What is the Fall but the pursuit of a truth and the assurance that you have found it. And then the eagerness to pass it on, to share your fullness. I have to keep the mind vigilant. That is, as far as perception is concerned, as if I did a parallel indian dance - intellectually there has to be two tightrope-walkers walking at the same time and in opposite direction to one another. It is analogous to the poet's verse "one truth comes from outside and another comes from within, and when they meet, you can catch sight of yourself". What happens when this dual direction of the knowledge process is forgotten? I think especially of domains where the natural sciences cross the humanities - such as the increasingly biologically oriented field of psychiatry, where man is more or less reduced to an animal. Drives, desires and neurosubstances. One might imagine that for some people who have an overproduction of, for example, dopamine in the nucleus substantia Nigra, they have fallen for congestion, exaggeration and 'overinterpretation' ... this could be the case with myself ... I have since G's departure become a devoted nicotine user. Nicotine specifically stimulates dopaminergic circuits in nucleus accumbens and might generate an overinterpretation plus a hypersensitivity of external stimuli and can then contribute to thoughts, images and events that may seem strange and alien. And the strange interpretation is then dismissed as sick, pathological, horrible, vulgar, bizarre. How many synonyms for stew are there ? I sound confused. I have to question perception more. And remember Simone Weil calls for love for the truth, the pursuit of humility .... humilitas .... the dual direction of perception must not be forgotten ... just as the pious religious mind can not confuse the light with the powers of darkness.
When I stop painting depression returns with that evil bird in my mind. It's the end of the line. The hand has not been able to transfer the dream to the cloth on the wall. The gap between the vision and the result breaks my spirit. I want to disappear into the paintings and sometimes, for short sleepy moments, I believe I'm doing it. But the fall back to reality makes me freeze and shiver to the bone.
It's a tuesday afternoon early October. I sit and smoke under the awning at the cafe cigar. Burned-out after painting a board I call the Plant of Deceit. It was lousy.
Here I sit. A crass and indifferent westerner. The tip of the cigarette is glowing and blue smoke is meandering calmly away in cool air. Smoke; the transition of matter into spirit. The soul leaving the dead body and becoming a ghost; one who has faded into impalpability through death, through absence, through change of manners. Mother is dead and gone. A phantom in our hearts and minds. I guess it's too late to say the things that you needed to hear me say. Did I ever became what you wanted me to be? And vice-versa. Death by pancreatic cancer, just like Pavarotti. Pancreatic cancer - afflicting people with too much pathos? What happens to the indifferent ones? early onset dementia? . Objection, your Honor, the question calls for speculation!
Dad is on my tail about getting a job. When he's calling everything gets tense. My voice turns insipid and stiff and utter words that are not mine ... it's as if I dissociated from myself during those occasions and silently drifted away in a balloon. Being yourself is not really accepted. I can not in his presence - shame! . He is like a customs officer or tax collector I try to avoid. I remember that year after she died. Silence and long gray hours. Sitting and painting in my room and he came through the door.. an austere face. " Have you found yourself an education yet? ....What are you gonna do with your Life?". I was 21 and twice a college dropout. What is it that makes me hate myself in his presence ... what is he doing?
I dipped a brush in foamy water and looked out the window
- ... you know, you can not just sit here and mess about all day, ...
No answer. The desire to be elsewhere reached a new record level. If I could become a bird.
- ... I have also been twentyone years old and believed I could paint paintings ...
Persist in silence, but the rage ís rising and I want to scream ... old bastard! why can't you leave me alone ?
The pigeons huddle around the little cabin-like building containing Pressbyrån. I smoke. The memory of anger is mixed with the present. A red stamp of redness returns to the throat . What if the old man is right? "We are copies of each other" . But I'm not an esteemed engineer and entreprenuer eager to mold my ideas into business. He is less stubborn these days, and more appealing even. When he phoned me the other day he said that he could hook me up with the right Contacts. Maybe set up an internship. But at the first glance, I knew there was no chance, to come into contact or to find a new compact. Unidentified men. I have to think about it, I said.
Fumbling. I light another cigarette and head off on a hike up Linné street. Yellow leaves lay like stamps along the rain-soaked pavement. Blue buses roar past. The dining area outside the speckled bricks of the Haga cinema looks deserted. Parasols are rolled up. The playful summer cruiser is wrapped and stored ... hard is the autumn's armory. Over copper-red roofs rays of weak sunllight is beaming through the grayness. The windows on the Linnea church tower look like charred eyes, ravaged by fire.
The most Swedish of things is to supress your feelings. Hence the awful silence between us. Everyday phrases and high trust keeps the machinery intact. Feelings are like radioactive waste safely hidden in deep geological repositories. We can never let them out ... except on fridays and saturdays when we drink ourselves senseless. Speak for yourself god dammit! Repressed llttle boy.
Tears want out. The street shimmers in watered lenses. And here's an impulse to quickly seek out mother's grave. As if someone would be there.
I turn left to Djupleds street. Dizziness and breathlessness. Stop and look back one last time. The church tower stands with charred gaze above yellow leafage and a group of women with baby strollers walk past. Moma issues. I have them. A titman rather than an assman?
The fire is out in me or perhaps I've never had it in the first place, it was just an illusion ... I'm just normal after all. Windy thoughts and cliches. Psychoanalysis... "X must completely submit himself to the mother in order to attain her goodwill and the father had been absent and unable to protect X against the influence of the mother". There's a sickening feeling that I am attached to her, as if I was tied to a sinking ship in the ocean. I have not been able to wriggle myself out of her grip. Caustic grip. Abuse. I only managed to deny the grip by fleeing, constantly escaping without really solving the dilemma. And I jump from one idealized person to the other. But the chains between us meanders like roots and her shadow is still over me. Spoiled anguished narcissist born in the 1980ies. Death by subjugation. Couldn't break free. Lost the keys in Göta river. She was hungry, she required me entirely.
Keep walking. Djupleds street merges into Risås street which is sheltered by the lushness of Skansberget. Alcohol. I have to have alcohol. as soon as possible. Old brick buildings and a stretch of black balconies lead the way down to Upper Husar street where traffic is roaring. I visit her in the kingdom of Death. I've come to return the prince halo you gave to me ... it has not helped me in any way ... it just made me far too frail and airy fairy ... but thank you for trying to make me feel loved ...... in exchange for the Halo I want the colors you stole away from me ...
At the crossing. Sorrow paints the silence.
"The plant of Deceit" is drying on canvas on a wall in the apartment. I have opened a bottle of wine. Daylight is fading. Through the ventiilation duct I can hear Boswell speak about Samuel Johnson
"the most important thing to him, he said, was to escape himself."
If this seems incomprehensible, it may be because of the wine.
Today I think of fire or lack thereof. The fire has died down in me and a large steamroller has flattened all imperfections, squashed a surface of asphalt over the green frills and sprays - it is the asphalt of the modern consciousness that has flattened me and it does not want to know any limitations (or deviations from the linear), limitation is a word that abuse its intrinsic and bulimic quest to take possesion of everything. But I can still remember the entrance to the forest's restful theater and how the asphalt's gray-black tongue transformed into the gravel, pine cones and stumps of the path.
Did the poison of lameness occur when calculation and numeration polluted spontaneity? Hear the bank adviser's voice, see his ironed salmon-red shirt.
- one thing of importance is to ensure a reasonable return on investment. (and Believe in constant growth. Nature is there to serve. )
The fire need not only be associated with spontaneity; it can as easily be linked with bureaucratic zeal and the desire for order, purity and rigor - which finally constructs an image with symmetrical lines of black, white and blood-red that we recognize, it resembles a swastika symbol.
In the dream, I found a burned-out fireplace in the forest. A thin gray column of smoke was slowly ascending up in the sky as if it was hoisted home from outer space. In all senses it felt like the game was over. A giant crow on the outskirts gave me a quick watchful eye and then flew away.
Perhaps I could not master the fire given to me. Gina's disappearance is another indicator of that. If the fire symbolizes power, warmth and vitality then I have misused the faith of the godhead and instead been ravaged by the seamy side of it ... depression, destructiveness, sadism ... what more?
I was nine years old and I can easily recall the excitement of the text "Extremely Flammable" which was on the back of the acetone bottle I found in the kitchen cabinet. And then the ideas came to me, sweet and phosphorous, filled me with the devil's crooked smile. A few minutes later the shed in the back was on fire with crackling flames. I see the adults around the burning shed with water hoses and buckets , trying to stop the fire. The fire ran amok that afternoon. Was it a result of my desperate cry for motion and power ?. If I can't create anything then I will at least aim for destruction. I still get that pyromanic impulse from time to time. I can't explain. All those passive moments are interconnected. Forming a disturbing pattern. I see how I've been sitting still for ages, almost paralyzed. I was like a spiky ornament that the grownups brought to and from family reunions and dinners ... and I hear a comment from G a long time later, "Hannes, you never say anything". And everything seems interlaced in a terrible manner. Gina was just another version of my mom ... the horror!. It was the same ... evertyhing supressed was building up until the pressure became unbearable. "Are you going to be a silent mussel just like your dad ???" said mother. Some kind of expression might have saved me. Instead an erratic burst of madness kicks off when the pressure cooker of the self-censored mind explodes.
In secondary school it became a popular activity to build small fires that were just on the threshold of what we managed to extinguish on our own; we called it "lunta". And in the days after a session we used to return to the black burned landscapes and nostalgically relive our work; we measured the nature and extent of the inferno and asked the question "was this the coolest fire?".
I fly in an airplane at low altitude and I see the black charred areas among the rock hills as black spots on a carpet. It is as if they were enclosures with signs on which it stood: "Areas for the full expression of rage". Men seem to need them. The airplane and its scenes are smeared, become the campfire's swirling smoke and the equation is still clear to me; lost fire in the dream = lost part of myself.
And I have to find it to not die.
Sincerely Hannes "
Monday night in October. Few leaves remain on the trees. The rest are going down. Dismissed in the Cold. Silent treatment. Chilly clear air over the city and the sounds and colors are sharper tonight. At the end of Aschebergsgatan a bus provides a snorting sound when it stops. The windows of the houses are glowing portholes under the starry sky. Filter bubbles, how many are there? I cross the avenue and walk down Raoul Wallenberg street. Just spoke to Peter Höök on the phone.
- why are you not on facebook?…
- ... Internet gives me epilepsy
- joker ... why don't you have your phone switched on? ... it is near impossible to get a hold of you ...
And so on and so on.
At the intersection a big heart-like stone lump under the chestnut. During the day it is a playground and in the evening it's a urinal for drunkards. For everyone! A chance to begin again in the off-world colonies. A chance to reconnect with the real Self that has been lost because of childhood trauma. A lump in the heart that transformed me. This is who I became.
Facebook and smartphones… constantly connected to a large world consciousness… constantly available… supervised… i don't want to play anymore. The era of Million Distractions is preventing me from taking the necessary journey. The wrong connections.
The lights hang on wires down the street, it looks like a stalled ski lift. Hotel Flora's green neon shines strongly on the other side of the river. I stop on the bridge. The water is shiny and reflects a tram that travels over the Victoria Bridge further afield. The suicidal thoughts have degenerated or just been postponed. The most striking thing that sings in the nervous system is "the ridiculousness ...".
If I previously felt like the largest scam in town, I'm now the biggest joke. The creation of the Plant of Deceit has not been able to counteract these feelings. And the yearning for G has returned. Remember how I was lying next to her on Saltholmen's rocky slopes this summer in a nightmarish heat with a feeling of being rotten in my apple-snufkin-body while she was vigorous and vigilant and subject to the gaze of the "real men". I see it clearly now, it was just a matter of time before she would find someone in her own league.
"Hannes, you're such a damn underdog".
"... is it because you're such a damn topdog?"
The desire for her is, and was, like a nerve poison and an ominous magnet that made me loose the course from all sensible activities. But today an ounce of acumen could shed some light on the secret ... the great scar tissue in my heart. I get a singing vertigo when I think of her, it is ridiculous.
I see my reflection in the water. A masochist ... haunted and deformed ... and every distinct sadist has, like a predator, a sharp eye for the one who is the victim. That's why it was me and her. Is this the night when I swallow the most bittersweet of tablets ..."to be yourself".
Well can't you see
You can only be
What I want you to?
I close my eyes and see how someone dives into an ocean to turn the id-documents that flicker down at the bottom. But they whisper to him and say "grow up sometime, self-mortifier". Yeah, it is about time.
Flutter in my mind. A formula for the end of the victim-mentality. So I can die easy, well well well, come down easy.
Is murder required of me ? ... a symbolic matricide? ... or should I kill a proud psychiatrist?
At Ekelunds street I look inside an empty restaurant. Monitors display a football match. Further in, two guys are standing at a pool table, one chalking a pool cue. Win or disappear. Hunt or be hunted, have I become digital? "Day in ... day out ... day in ... day -aoo-out". A two-stroke rhythm, like a sexual intercourse ... an ongoing negotiation in a haze .... when the words run out, at the border of language .... Yes, we fucked best after we quarreled. It was like fucking to reclaim an equilibrium long since lost or to express aggression. Afterwards, there was emptiness and a kind of sorrow (like a peculiar sweetish swirling smoke) and the discussion was over, I had not won and soon I felt dirty, disgusting, beyond rescue and I ran into the shower and showered for a long time. I have begun to assume that I was raped during my early years, it was so early in development that it's almost impossible to remember it... why else would I feel so dirty and disgusted after having sex? Someone has dirtied my sexuality. Planted this or that in me. A squalid soul tattoo.
While I was with her time often passed slowly and I was like a sleepy drone, a lunar man, mr Jaded ... a passive fellow on IKEA-excursions and dull sittings who dreamed intensely about distant backwaters in the south sea .... Pitcairn Islands! .. .full of relatives to the mutineers. But once she disappeared, the chaos of despair and a dazzling mix of emotions aroused in me. I long for her and I hate her at the same time.
Just like in that Hellström song "I hate that I love you". But I have never said "I love you" to her. Never dithered over such combinations of words, perhaps because they did not represent the truth or maybe because I was too much of a coward. One time, in the garden association, another lunch date under green foliage, then I had hesitated… " I'm gonna say it now…” But the moment itself failed, folded and flew away. How was it? the astute exercise of power fascinates but tenderness and affection seems too vanilla and mild ... is that the case of men? or just the case of me? And cynicism comes from Xuvos, which means dog. I said I wanted to be your dog.
I go to hotel Riverton, nod to a nice suit-wearing receptionist and take a silvery gleaming elevator up to the top floor sky-bar. Inside the elevator there is music murmuring from tiny loudspeakers. Looking in the mirror I see lovesick dog eyes, too much beard and a half-open mouth that signals oral fixation. Will I get oral cavity cancer just like Freud? Or get a stroke like Söderberg? The look when I look at myself in the mirror is the same that i unknowingly send out to a woman, and it seems to ask ... can you take care of me?
Inside the bar, black-dressed waiters glide around and serve between tables and couches. Through the windows I can see the canal's winding lead-shimmering water and the city's glittering dots of lights and further away, towards the sea, the Älvsborgs bridge is towering like a vaguely neon green arch. There is smoke slowly puffing from a nearby chimney. I order a Sidecar-drink and go and sit in an armchair.
" Dear Gavin
Michelle who works in the sky bar at Hotel Riverton is a survivor of the Rwandan genocide. I know her quite a bit, she is a classmate to Paula. In the light of her history my problems seem directly banal and petty. To live is to lie and to be blind to your own dimensions. Her story is beyond harrowing; neighbours lining up with machetes and killing other neighbours, colleagues and friends and even relatives.
No Tutsi was to be spared. Everyone of that ethnicity was to be eliminated; women and children included. Michelle sneaked through the bush, hid under dead bodies when the militia passed by, she ran through the banana plantations and saw the roads filled with corpses and she slept up in the trees at night and cried and cried and cried. In the end she paddled to safety by crossing Lake Rweru in a stolen canoe. She has experienced some really extraordinary events. I am also telling you that she makes the best Sidecar-drink in Gothenburg.
I sit in an armchair and sip on the evening's third Sidecar drink and I am in the process of investigating my troubled mind. To the sources! The origin! and the watchmaker's hidden clockwork! But my attention is contradicted, repelled by the idea of self-examination and it is instead magnetically drawn to the Y-shaped figure of the orange cocktail; The idea is a comet stuck in orbit around the object - what does it mean? denial step one; everything that is disgusting and revolting about oneself requires attention, the truth is in a way on the other side of humiliation, "you have to travel through shame!" ...but precisely these criteria seem to reinforce the tendency of the mind to come up with new ways and explanations that rather put the blame and focus on someone or something else. Taking responsibility for one's actions is fiendishly difficult. How many war-criminals can really carry the guilt and the shame? When unable to accomodate various feelings I guess people tend to use different escape hatches, one of mine is definitely alcohol and tonight I happen to be drinking Sidecars.
The origin of the Sidecar is disputed. The first published recipe came in 1922 in Harry MacElones book "Harry's ABC of mixing cocktails". MacElhone and another source, Robert Vermiere, both believe that the originator was a popular bartender at Buck's club in London named Pat MacGerry. But a third source states that the birth and naming of the drink should be accredited to an american army officer during the First World War who came driving a motorcycle with a sidecar and stepped into the Ritz in Paris and asked the bartender for "something that warms ”. My interest in the cocktail is based on the refreshingly sour taste but even more so because of an inciting psychological semantic link; the name - Sidecar! -
have a sound and a meaning that really strikes a chord with me ... I am and have always been, the little shy guy in the sidecar, I have been the camp-follower, a turncoat even, just riding along with others, not daring becoming my own authentic self ( if there is such a thing ). Two recent dreams illuminate this tendency; in both cases I am the passenger - in the first I go with mom in the car to the shopping mall. When we get to a bend with a bus stop, she stops the car. She turns around, her face is painted bright blue as on the Aztecs who were to be sacrificed to the sun Gods, and she asks me to step out of the car.
I stand amazed at the bus stop and then see her drive away, the leaves swirling in the blaze of the tail lights. In the second dream I travelled with dad. He had the outfit of a white-dressed Arab, perhaps a Taliban, and this time I was more urged to remove myself from the vehicle. I sat in the back seat, shaking with nervous tension, and I finally opened the door and threw myself out on the go and tumbled like a mitten down a hill. I woke up and realised I had thrown myself out of the couch and down on the floor.
In both cases the story is about stepping out of something, which can be associated with the original meaning of the word "exist" which is "to step out". The sidecar can thus be said, for me, to be a part of the symbolic act of coming out of the psychological sidecar, to exist! and to make my own decisions. I give this drink a meaning, like a shaman's sacred brew during the youth's liberation. "First conversation, contemplation then communion" ... so ... conversation, contemplation, then Sidecar.
One might wonder whether there is a "country of the Sidecar"? Rwanda could be such a place because it has that "culture of obedience" thing just like perhaps Germany in the time of Hitler. During the Rwandan genocide neighbours did not kill neighbours at first; it was only when the extremist government decided the killing was too slow when they urged citizens to kill other citizens. And they went to work. Of course if they didn't follow suit they ran the risk of getting murdered themselves. Michelle told me that the Hutu husband of a Tutsi cousin of hers followed an order from militiamen to kill her (the cousin) in front of their children. Maybe this obedient propensity lies in Rwandan language itself; “Order” and “law” translate the same: “itegeko.” And a “law-giver” an “order-giver” and an “authority” are each an “umutegetsi.”. Another chilling maxim is “Umwera uturutse ibukuru bucya wakwiriye hose” which means that orders from above spread quickly, in the form of rules. Unquestioned and destilled, ready for execution; it is like a recipe for mass-psychosis.
In encounters between people (and between people and things) - ideas arise in the cross-breeze between the wills and personalities, which can carry the interaction and the transaction further towards the creation of a work of art. I think of the spur of the moment, the spark that arose and which sowed the seed to the sidecar's creation and which has become a family tree, a bustling branch of drink mixes, all of which have come from equal parts Cognac, Cointreau and lemon juice… 1 + 1 + 1. Every bartender inspired by the Sidecar has then transformed the formula to access the perfect balance, the harmony between the three parts. The branches that emerged from the mother mix often differed from each other by replacing the Cognac base; for example, Chelsea Sidecar was born using gin as a base, Pisco Sidecar simply came up by employing Pisco instead of Cognac.
What I discovered tonight is simply the psychology of the Sidecar ... I have been a camp-follower to my parents and I unconsciously brought that principle into my relationship with Gina ... but now, after I blow up the bubble of symbiosis, I have years of emptiness and paranoia to plunge through .. I can feel it ... I must psychologically go through all the stages of development that I have missed, get myself my own mental and moral backbone ... there is a lot of work to do, right now I am yet another wandering amoeba ... We'll stay in touch
Take Care !
Back in Grandma's brick house. Rivers of light. A large rectangular window in the living room. An elderly gentleman sitting in a black leather chair and bask in the light that illuminates dust swirls and streams of particles in the air. Many unspoken rules here. The twin ghosts of Jante and Schartau. Important not to think that you are particularly good. Streams of grains in your brain that remain. On a table there are empty wine glasses, cigarettes, tin soldiers, black and white photographs, a receipt from Travemünde and a nail clipper. Uncle Roger took the opportunity to live a little while Grandma was away. Even though he was chairman and CEO of this and that he never really stood up to her, and he kept returning. I enter the room and see Uncle Roger's costume-styled figure in the armchair, water-combed hair, a protruding Marlon Brando chin and big matted eyebrows. He always said that he could hear everything because he had big walloon ears.
By the window there is a buzzing transistor radio with wooden frames. There is some sort of panel discussion beyond the noise.
… .. and here we have another text mass that comments on itself!
- What does it really mean, why is it so?
- ... it reflects ... the contemporary man who is imprisoned by his self-consciousness, he is incapable of getting out of himself and approaching the other, this is extremely regrettable as it is precisely the meeting with the other that he so deeply longs for ... he is looking for a connection ... but all he receives is this disconnection notice...yes, this makes him pay tribute to the instincts and the lost life of intuition, makes him vulnerable to nostalgia .... the explosive popularity of the competition phenomenon and the body fixation in our culture is a symptom of it and so on and so on. I believe that in our time we dare not fantasize anymore; therefore literature becomes more and more self-reflecting autobiography ... I also believe that it is the result of a disassembly of the spiritual dimension of man ... spiritual, or should we say shady?, experiences are failed by the modern consciousness that now increasingly puts focus on finding errors, judging and criticizing ... the logically questionable, the contradictory and the dreamlike have no place in society anymore ... we just close our eyes to the paradoxes ....
- Have we become fascist rationalists?
- No, I did not say that ... now you are making an interpretation there .... you have to be careful with those
Through the window you see the garden and the bushes where we played hide-and-seek and beyond them the parking lot which was our ocean when we played pirates with the rolling toy ship. Even further afield one can sight small bended windswept trees, the rocks and finally the glittering sea under the sun.
Roger has lit a cigarett. He says nothing. He smokes. I remember cracked tennis rackets and the tense atmosphere in the car after I had screamed at him ...
- I'll never be like you!!
- good for you professor Slip
Long silence followed. Driving by the snotgreen and bluesilver sea. Seaspawn and seawrack and a seaside shack. This is where a lack of understanding might take you. When I start my new life, I won't touch the ground.
A long freight train with lime green locomotive passes by in my brain. It is loaded with nitroglycerin; the flammable fragments of what we have said, screamed and insinuated. And years worth of accumulated scorn.
Roger sits quietly in the armchair. He seems more concentrated now. Smoking in drowsy sunlight while the transistor radio mumbles.
"Everywhere there is talk of a transatlantic connection ... a cross-border communication that would satisfy the increased needs of the clientele ..."
I remember he murmured .... "Inter'net.!? ... what is it good for?"
In the afternoon I stop outside the entrance to the Haga Theater. Pete Shelley's "Homo sapien" sounding in headphones. I am walking, I am blocked and I can't paint and it makes me horrified and it's as if "pretentiousness" is a big taboo I want to avoid but my paintings still stink of pretension. I can't make a single brush stroke without being disgusted. I have that cursed pretentious strain in me, only it's injected the wrong way.
Above the door of the theater there is a motif depicting the sun and the moon
composed of green and orange glass shards. The sun looks scornfully at the moon. Pete Shelley and Margaret Thatcher. The balance of power. In the next song that flows through the ear canal the singer sings "Are you looking for the mother lode?" He answers himself "No, no my child, this is not my desire and then she said I'm digging for fire". I think of Yves Klein again. And the patent for International Klein Blue. And now it's obvious ... I have to find Tallby Orange ... it's the color I dig for ... it's the color I have lost! .... it's the way to survival, to my transformation!
In the evening, spend hours with different shades of orange on old milk and egg cartons. Oh rubbish. The thoughts come again. Life is a dance among empty forms.
What is hiding on the bottom of the soul? ? The fear itself disguised as the ghosts of the past? Or is it bottomless? Is it the spirit of Schartau who plagues me at night ?
It is as if the diverse concepts that represent the chasms of the soul are on the collision course tonight, like ridiculous asteroids in my own space; reality and ideals, integrity and openness ... activity and inaction and chaotic waves of aggression outward and inward, crisscrossing. And the contempt that turns out to be self-contempt, because it originates from my nervous system's booming convulsive reflexive defenses, it is the dragon who blindly eats up his own tail. Uroboros!
The rage ... I wear it under a calm surface of crackling skin, a kind of serviceable servility hides anger and sensuality. I lie to myself and others about an entity in balance, but the reality always seems to tear me to pieces. As soon as I see the newspaper headlines for example I feel the rush of blood and the anger rising. I am not suited for this world.
A down-to-earth farmer from Boshulän speaks in my head. I should give up my ambitions and go gardening instead. These ideals burning inside my mind are not even mine. They are someone else's luggage, I should stop carrying it. Dead-weight really. Why is it so hard for some to let go?
I am devoted to spiritual waffle while trying to find the way to the home psyche, my rebirth and the new human being and so on ... But I seem to have lost my foothold. Behold; a hypersensitive individual who is spinning around in the distant space of abstraction and who is having escalating problems with just being in the here and now.
"On the escalator we shit paracetamol
As the ridiculous world goes by"
Back to the rage. This central risk; the forces of rage wants to be directed outwards, wants to open and crack others with the consequent risk of humiliation, destruction of social bonds and the environment and so on. And everything is working according to the principle of the absent-minded country: “It is not me that is wrong, it is He! She! The!" . But there must be a way to transform this energy and use it in the fight against meaninglessness and emptiness, yes in a strong attempt to counteract the internal decay. The rage is in this case the tool with explosive force for the inner journey ... a kind of positive anger will light up the obscure hegemonies that rule in the depths of the psyche - but I only see two idiots in my head right now ... two versions of myself that stand and yell at each other down there in the sewer:
- I hate you Hannes!
- ... I hate you too! self righteuos bastard!
It is the evening of the shards. It is the ninth day ... number nine symbolizes the end of a cycle; birth and death at the same time ... "It is now! ... it is now it begins!". Thomas Öberg roars from the speakers. And what will it be, breakdown or liberation, awakening or suicide?Close your eyes. Start over.
I see that brick house from childhood again; plum trees in the garden and a large willow tree with hanging silver green foliage on the other side of a dark brown fence. The illumination can begin, I must travel inwardly now, wander through the purgatory, not blame anyone else, it is about becoming an adult and taking responsibility, it is either that or dying. "Look! Move!". "Does he want to raise awareness of the past so that he doesn't unconsciously live inside it? What a powerful egotrip!". First lets have another drink.
- Cheers to you Hannes, you arch-symptom of the narcissistic age; lonely, isolated and monumentally self-absorbed, which seems to make you even more lonely and isolated.
But this inward journey has to be done, you baron of idleness! … The external desperate vagabonding and drunken nonsense will be replaced and the voyage will start towards another center point. You are no friend of Luther but he said that many people live as if curved inside themselves and live in denial, they never bloom ... they fear the stranger just as they fear themselves. Small wonder then that so many fall prey to xenophobia and her close and distant cousins. Exactly, I am curved in myself. Bent out of shape. Kkkkkrrrrrrrröööööööökkkkktttttt !. Give me a sensible superlative for this horrid feeling that rages in my body. It is not just the booze talking tonight. It is something else too.
Walking around in a bathrobe among brushes and painting paraphernalia. Dissatisfied with shaving. I want to evacuate me from myself. Some sort of electric campfire music crackles from the computer. I still try to paint individual paintings of the details in the Melancholy continent.
Almost the whole morning passes and then the painter stops. Mild sunlight enters the room. The shade of window sills marks a cross on the floor. Painting feels pointless again. It is the second attempt with the "Plant of deceit" - the attempt to create an external image of an inner sensation of being an immense scam.
Today, tuesday, bright blue skies and almost no clouds but I saw when I was strolling along Archive street a thin oblong formation of clouds and they reminded me in full about the disintegrating mid-Atlantic ridge and in the extension of that the clouds reminded me of my own so-called mental spine ... the one I still lack.
I find no firmness, no point of harmony, I am like an empty plastic bag blowing over the square. A weather vane at your service. And I am stuck in an emotional pendulum movement between the gloom of emptiness and a rushing cognitive chaos where all sorts of nonsense masks itself with "the greatest significance". When emptiness comes in, work ceases and I drift out into the streets.
I'm meeting Lilly on Pustervik for a soup lunch, but I do not feel like it .. her conformism, inspired by the Pentecostal movement, is exactly the opposite of what I seek.
Every time we meet she will start talking about God and sometimes she may ask with a disturbing voice "Hannes, do you believe in God?". And then I want to answer that, no, not that kind of God you worship anyway. It is a chimera of spiritual concern from her side. She is actually self-centered ... she is like a greedy child on a children's party screaming "Me first !, only I get!" when it is time for cake and sweets. No, if there is a God then it is something very personal ... as if every person's soul is a serving part of the creation, like a little sharpen in a tremendous vase, but first it should become clear what one has to give . But then againg that would be too utilitarian and elitist. Lilly doesn't see it that way either, she really just wants to be engrossed in a warm vibrant collective where, once inside the community, one can judge "the others" and at the same time, inside the heap, be freed from shame, guilt and responsibility ... and for that I hate her. She's a full-blown collectivist. I know all too well what I'm talking about because I have spent my entire life up until now just being a brainwashed acolyte and I carry great fear of being hit by a relapse that would make me fall back into the miserable entrails of the psychological Sidecar. And because my soul is corrupted in the psychological Sidecar I cannot confess myself to any ideology or religion, neither atheism nor christianity or anything else, I would just become a crazy fanatic.
But it is contradictory that I still have contact with her at all. Yes, it is idiotic and I also see that I am as ingratiatingly pleasant and fake as her when I agree to meet. But how to terminate the contact in a good way? And is the termination of such a contact something that promotes the creation of a mental spine?
Haga Östergata is a slightly sloping cobbled street that leads a walker from Haga park down to Iron Square. It is a quiet shady parallel to Haga Nygatan's bustling café- and vintage-shop atmosphere. I don't know if it's the street character of backyard that makes me think of fantastic B-sides like "Sea of Sin" , "where angels play" and "where the pigs don't fly". Anyway. I just met Lilly and I feel annihilated. Our meeting was yet another example of how easy I slip into the role of the smooth and flattering cavalier. But under the friendly surface, the war was raging. And for a flashing second there during the conversation I got the same impulse as with Gina. I wanted to break all her bones when she dismissed, with ridicule, my ideas about the symbols in the Melancholy continent. She herself goes to a rigid institution like the church and ascribe meaning to the symbols of the father the son and the holy ghost. Moreover, when I used a word she didn't understand, she called me snobbish and felt reduced - she is the symptom of what I see everywhere ... anti-intellectualism!
Octavio Paz writes about sadism; "Sadism begins as a vengeance for the female closedness or as a desperate attempt to get answers from a body we fear is insensitive ...".
A feeling of infused yellow sickness on the tapestries in the old motel. It feels shabby to be confronted with this, with my own sadism. My early aggression and desire for destruction undoubtedly had a pyromaniac branch which fortunately has waned. But the aggression is alive, the beast is crying out and wants an outlet for its energies - but where to transform and transcend? At the gym together with all the bald guys? I never assaulted G but the momentary fantasies where I wanted to beat her to a pulp was still frequent. Thank you Globus Pallidus for the impulse control! Paz says that sadism is a fruit of the despair and frustration that comes when we are confronted with the mystery; we want answers, certainty, a line of clarity as a foundation in existence. Nothing can be left unexplained and untainted by the mind.. Such anxiety is not tolerated by the intellect! And the unknown and the alien seem threatening.
Sadism is also the desire to take possession and control the other and the uniqueness of the other appears as an obstacle to be overcome and eradicated. Sadism involves the destruction of boundaries and the other is henceforth being reduced to a servant ... sadism is integritys enemy numero uno.
Trying to see inwards tonight, looking for the answers. What do I see in this murky domain?
I see the strangeness of nature; pine trees with their bohemian hooks and hairstyles for branching, rock hills that plunge into the water, a white boat laying still at a jetty and a golden burning twilight. From the forest above the houses one can hear rumbling and hooting sounds and in the bushes the persistent theme of scissor music is sounding from the grasshoppers and their associates. Here is a duality and a voice that says "come on, give yourself some slack, don't be so hard on yourself" and another voice that seems to urge for a merciless self-examination. Is the latter voice the ghost of Schartau?
Is it ever possible to get rid of this feeling that something fundamental in me is wrong, the vibe that there is an unresolved crime somewhere? and can I ever be liberated from the tomb of the past and its grip on the psyche?
Fury, rage and waves of aggression. Perhaps the rage in this case is the rage and anger over life itself. "Timeless terror is taking over... Don't crash".
Erik Lindegren whispers somewhere "I know that I will die in rage and that I will never find myself". Self-help writer X wants to revert the concepts a bit. I see how he stands
on a lecture, dressed in white with an immaculate set of teeth, and speaks luminously from his revivalism; "If the rage can be transformed into the positive wrath, it is the optimal tool to find oneself, to decipher the inner code, save the injured bird and liberate the inner child. My friends!… Positive anger… that's the answer!".
Reproaches sprinkle down like heavy rain and I hear Peter Höök
- Hannes, you are thus an envious sadist ..., as Swedish as Sandviken's sawmill!
His comrades is standing behind him with pitchforks and mumbles "navel-gazer". They are waiting for the moment when they can beat me up. The voices merge into a choir that speaks
unanimously, all the critics I've ever had has hijacked the telephone switch of conscience:
- stop writing, stop painting!, resign back in line, you are a nothing, a twat ... you're a self-righteous zero ...
The psychiatrist Grimberg is looking concerned in his doctor's coat and is taking notes beyond the glass of the interrogation room. "Self-contempt blooms ... from an incipient disintegration of self-esteem with the perception of inferiority as the core. In short, the patient has a disturbed sense of self-worth. How to solve this?…. Start with Haldol and Lithium… and then we'll try to talk to him. Hypothesis to bring to the conversation; the patient's absence of 'healthy' narcissism?"
A strange feeling of being stuck appears and the explosive force of aggression fades.
The sidecar drink starts to run out and I see the brick house I grew up in. The shadowy side, the part of the garden where the grass was damp and where I trampled on rotten plums.
No evasive escape now ... I feel stuck here in this house and in the surrpunding garden, in this sphere even though it was a long time since I moved out. My mind seems to start from here, I will return here in my dreams and in my daily thought outings in the same way as the flying dragon will return to a brightly colored plastic handle after a day of air trips in the park.
Do I have to come to terms with childhood to find the source of everything that has gone to hell in my life; terror starts at home, they say. It's like a mess, a dark cunning net with sharp barbs that I have to force through in order to move on.
I stand there on the shadow side of the brick house and everything has got a dark blue gloomy glow. No one seems to be at home. A text fragment from Erik Lindegren comes swirling in the sky on a piece of paper;
“An urgent PS; eventual funeral speechwriter probably died of lucidity."
I walk into the house. When I open the door at the kitchen entrance, the whole house roars and I can remember my mother's whirring; it was a kind of harkling that always accompanied her in her chores, it was like the sounds of the factory, the everyday factory that signaled that the work was progressing despite ailments and torments, it is business as usual. The intoxicating joy I feel when she meets me in the hall makes me think of the strong bond between us and how much I love her.
- You gave me so much love ... I can never pay you back!
- You don't need to... you're moms prince!
This little boy was enveloped and cherished, perhaps even adored. How could he top that in the real world, in the adult world? Is he not forever dispatched to the fictionalized landscape of fantasy to endure with the unbearable fact that he is not the star his mother told him he is?
"Shelter, here I come for your alcohol-fueled dreamy film".
Was this strong bond between the two a way of betraying life? ... Have I not succumbed to donjuanism after this and looked for a worthy Madonna figure to replace my mother with?
Time and time again it has turned out that the goddesses had clay feet and I have wandered from one idealized person to the other.
I twist myself out of her arms, she gives me a kiss on the forehead and I see through the windows on the other side the icy blue sky, a picture of the emptiness that persecutes me. Lindegren whispers in my ear;
- I've knocked out the middle column in the Axiomatic house and I'm back where it all started.
Somewhere the clocks seem to have stopped. And the sidecar is finished.
Silence flows slowly through the rugs of the yoga assembly. An ID document turns back and forth on the bottom of the sea. A woman smiles chlorophyll. Step into the dream. Is there a crest beyond the fog? Violet blasted into the Baltic Sea smoke, where we shoveled last year.
A shadow flickers past the miniature land under the courtyard lamp. The mogul's engraving is on the stone ... "here rests Olof Tallby".
- if you are Osiris, Seth will try to chop you up into thirteen parts .... this is how it works .... no one goes free ....
- I'm not Osiris .... my name is Hannes!
I walk into the cafe where only forewords are written, where the the dagger in the back are the sinister tones that floats in the desert fog of memorabilia.... it is similar to the cafe where Hitler got his notorious outburst.
Two flies orbit around the incandescent light bulb of inanity. A cracked rat skin hangs on the wall next to an Arab saber. Nietzsche sits at a table and says;
- the seal of the attained freedom .... is to no longer be ashamed of oneself
The philosopher Kalle Andersberg pushes the knife into the wooden table
- do you mean one should be shameless !?
Nietzsche turns high red pulls his knife. Kalle Andersberg pulls his.
- I will NEVER submit to your ubermnensch ideal!
Fredrik Böök at the next table drops his cigar in the brandy.
- .... You just want to form an aristocracy of intelligent who govern the plebeians! .... You have lost the way of man out of your sight .....you are too hooked on individuals!
Nietzsche spits Andersberg in the face and rushes out. "Ljubljana, Take Me Now", the homecoming song, sounds from a staircase .... the sheep are in wolf clothes and vice versa .....
"Arrange the visor ... or not .... because we sink like Estonia ...."
A demon rushes into the cafe and with him a flying carpet resembling a swedish flag. ... it is psychiatrist Grimberg
- You are insane! .... he cries to Andersberg ....
-You should be locked up!!
-I am looking for the spring of truth! .... and then you have to go outside the hockey rink and the backslapping and what is considered normal!
- Ahh, you talk ... you suffer from persecution mania! ..... you are sick ... I listen to you and it does not sound healthy
- What are you hearing ....? say exactly .... and try not to lie .....
The flag turns into two snakes, one yellow and one blue, and they approach Andersberg who is throwing chairs and tables on the two reptiles. I go outside, no one has seen me, for I am invisible... in a smoke screen of ambiguities.
I walk through a wall ...step into a lead-shimmering hall, noting the confusion . weird fusion... on the wall hangs a black and white portrait of Erik Lindegren, wolfgrinningly smiling, an enriched glow is over him ....... He whispers .... "on the other side of futility ..... a star woman ...."
I fall through the floor .... wake up dumbfounded, yet in a dream ... on Carl Grimbergs street.... A magpie caws and eat silver spoons on conveyors belts .... I start running ... chased by an eerie shadow along a street lined with burning rowan trees ....
Grandpa Olof .... stands indolent by his Jaguar, watching ..... "how is it going to be boy ... is it Russian roulette or atheism?" ...., he has seen and heard everything, he is "Mentally tired." How is it? Thomas Oberg stands on a rooftop .... "what are you going to do ... little lad? ...." ... he dissolves and becomes a howling prairie dog .... Someone is trying to tune in a radio station ... .. "somesinn, is missin ... Henry Kissinger .... the last of the barracudas ..... help me help you ... zzzz ...."
The desert smoke becomes redder ... rusty red ...red tennis court clay ... I lie on my back gaping at the sky .... Kundera .... is talking from the judge's seat .... "the poets! ..... the skies of their mothers arches over them .... they will never be free from her .... "
A cracked tennis racket is thrown up into an oxel tree .....
Out at sea, the clock is ticking. A coffee cup rattles in a cabin aboard the ship Atalante. Darkness has settled over the dunes. The moon wanders through streaks of clouds. It is an expedition to an unknown destination. The philosopher Kalle Andersberg is devastated. There are not many who wants to pay him for his services anymore. There is something extreme and twisted that makes people afraid of him. As in all times. And he has no accurate coherent system of thought. The brokenness is central. He has begun to nail his coffin filled with old manuscripts. He is still shaken after Nietzsche spat him in the face. On the table there is a yellow copy of the Vänersborger Birger Sjöberg's book "Crises and Wreaths" .... Kalle has underlined with a pen
" Singing ....? ... are you chirping for positions
in a battle for honor, in the sweat of competition? ....
then sweat and cramping in your tones,
dead alarm - and nothing more has shown ”
Kalle tries to think
"Is there anyone who are reading my creations ? Do they ask why it all became this way.... why I smashed glass after glass and became an enemy of everything and everyone. I will try to see the truth in eye and .... " .Clearly drunk. Someone seems to play harmonica out on the deck under the night sky "down through the lonesome rain ..." and a blind man bluffs with the keychange. The night itself talk of the bittersweetness of goodbye kisses. In the engine room, the machinists quarrel over the last drops of rum. No sweet love here only in the longing sounds of the harmonica and the blue track dogs.
Kalle Andersberg try not to lapse into sentimentality. "It is my mother who is my wound .... what tied me so hard to the mother? .... Was it the absence of a father? .... was it out of fear .... fear of loneliness and loss of love" Diffuse memories. No rainbows in the dream. Time to throw this coffin overboard.
" how to describe a relationship between the two of us? ..... how to remember the dialogue in the fleeting light of the now? .... But there was never any dialogue! .... It was entirely on that gossipy woman's premise! .... ..what happens to a person who continually abide by others' monologues? ..... WRATH! ..... It's the key to my thesis that Philippe Drager neglected ... that is soon thrown down on the cold ocean floor "
One of the machinists, two meters long, bends into Kalle's cabin, ....
- Tjena Balle ... are you going to smoke with me?
- No ... I'm not going ....
The tabby-patterned cat is meowing in the corridor.
“I remember one face .... red and bursting with anger....it was the Janus face of love .... .... damn bitch .... she said, 'do not go against me, do as I say!' ....! we defenseless Lilliputians had to suffer for her raging outbursts..."..
Kalle walks out into the corridor and looks at the cat, it lays sated and swollen on the floor. The machinist has probably thrown it a fish. Kalle enters again and sits down at the desk.
"My mother's anger is like a physical memory - and every time I think about the mare, this scream of discomfort rolls, a chill down my spine .... and every time I ask myself the question .... What have I done wrong .... I look like the panicked radio telegraphist on this ship .... An original attitude of guilt ... says ... that I am the one responsible for the Madonna being turned into a witch! ..... What wretchedness! What hopelessness !. . ..... I could hear her start whirring and swearing somewhere in the house and it was like the volcano beginning to rumble and crack before the eruption, before the cascade of fire and glowing grains came rushing in ones general direction ....whoever was the originator of the offense (if there even was any offense) ... you could trust that everyone present in the house would get a scolding ..... The word 'present' is illuminating; no one wanted to be present during these eruptive explosions of anger - maybe that's why many in my family have developed a disturbing trait of absentmindedness and daydreaming escapism. I had a kind of behavior that said 'I'm here, I'm sitting right next to you .... but for safety's sake I'm not contactable' ........And I was constantly prepared for emergency, like a moving bird that is sensitive to the shifts in the environment and which after a certain key stimulus flies way ..... is not also my preference for the odd and the rare also a symptom of this inclination to escape .... Somewhere in the distance ... where the horrible woman's rage can not reach me .... yes, there is where I want to go .... "
The ship starts to roll even more. The cat has stopped meowing. Andersberg is thinking of going and looking for the machinist to take that cigarett now. In the opened newspaper there's an obituary for a blogger, or was it a joker .... Clarence Vingbygge .... ("Grotesque humorist, in clamor with life itself" .... ). The fourth person in the dream was always more of a shadow, the unrealized potential, your life's secret second route.
The dawn sky has a chilly blue color.
"But what I dare not respond to, and what is nearby, it is really my own anger .... and that is what really should have been my response to her rage .... (the response .... I have carried it within myself, as in a Chinese box, like forever, every now and then it has exuded into bitter remarks and error reports in the newspapers ... the missed answer .... XXX ...)
I wake up on the floor.
A shadow of mine has been out during the night drinking Fernet and screaming pacifist slogans in Gothenburg's port district.
A stuffed crow is sitting on the wall.
Self-help author X is depicted on a wall chart bleeding in his narcissism.
The ratskin and the Arabian saber are casually thrown on the floor.
A statue is swaying while someone in the neighboring room hooks up "Just We, are hitting on it again"
Jean Starobinski asks what imagination should be good for. Yes the line between fantasy and reality is sometimes thin as a soap bubble.
Color fanatic Saul Callenberg replies that imagination is there to gain perspective on the present and to try to create an image of the absent ... it is a plunge among the question marks. And it is an oscillation between the parts in Oscar Wilde's quote "Life is a tragedy for those who feel and a comedy for those who think".
In one part of the room there is a journalist with questions to self-help author X
"What was it you wanted to do really with your text? ... advertise yourself? ... or did you want to be a helper ?"
- I wanted to be quick-witted and rude ... and explore how long you can think of Göring without going crazy.
Owe tells X that humor can be the bad writer's weapon in his escape from the seriousness he can't express and that he suffers from compulsive laughter syndrome and should be medicated.
Jean Starobinski asks if psychiatrists Grimberg exists in reality. No one answers.
The journalist asks X "What is the meaning of all this? ...."
X says that reference seems to be missing, and that is a part of the absurdity of being alive .... it's a bizarre experiment at times, even in the country of Lagom.
A neurologist sits on a chair and smokes. "Nervus Vagus! ..... tenth cranial nerve ..... the wandering nerve ... heart, throat and esophageal nerve ... tell me, what makes some people extremely prone to regurgitation? Sometimes I wish I was a cannibal - less for the pleasure of eating someone than for the pleasure of vomiting him. ”
Belinda writes in her notebook; "The dying algebra of my life, everything will disappear"
Julia thinks "the Western subject often becomes an atheist and / or a smartphone addict"
René Girard spins indifferently on his fan. "Taste is distaste for others' taste ... in all eternity ... Amen ...."
A prickly coniferous forest pointer on the wall clock, 150 years old at least, murmurs
"All this rubbish points to the fate of the Scorpio ... which is to exterminate itself ...."
I go to sleep.
I sit at Olof Palme's place outside Folkteatern. Trying to calm me down. The light is changing in the movements of the clouds. The worst hallucinations and ideas are letting go.
Clouds, why are my thoughts always drawn to them? .Their constant transformational movement is contrary to my preference for more fixed things like brushes, tapes and bicycles.
I remember the white-haired shaman-like figure in the dream and his ethereal whiskey-whispering voice "You must want something ..... you must want something .... and you must not be afraid .... but you must not be too curious .....".
Open my eyes in the night. Woke up by a silvery sound from the street.
In the dream there was an iodine pool and a woman sitting next to it reading Delblanc. Around the basin hung hoses and there stood the coffee table and a ticking seismograph. "Validation?" someone asked, tripping with the radio inside the control cabin. It was mostly a maelstrom of scratchy noise. But I tried to make sense out of the sounds coming from the loudspeakers
"Billy word bit! .... Puss in Boots .... pons asinorum ... locomotive .... cancel immediately! ... It's a must"
The man in the white hair had disappeared in the dream. But outside the swimming pool-area I met Sigfrid Siwertz next to a flashing tow truck. He said "Who knows where this gentleman belongs?". He walked down the stairs and was gone. There was a green container with sticky decals next to a postcard collection that was growing.
How am I going to get out of this? Is it through a trip to the continent? I think I'm on the verge of a psychosis. My mind is not right.
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