IDENTITY CRISIS...ES

Well, well

Haven't been writing here in a while. I have no brilliant punch as to why that's so, but perhaps nothing much has happened.
No... looking back at the posts I realise it's pretty much status bloody quo. As far as writing goes, I've been writing one or two movie reviews, but I wouldn't consider it much. But hey, anyhoops, we're off to March and I'm planning one or two tours across the country and after a couple of fairly busy weeks I'm actually starting to conjure up one or two serious plans.

Had a class today. Hadn't slept one second. First thing Vic did to me upon arrival was to burst out in laughter, hit me on the arm and say "Well, you seriously look like shit". It's been raining like some kind of boring painting off a cheap hotel room. Grey is the word for it. I sat half-asleep during this semi-interesting lecture by some Random Dry Guy, while writing one or two lines in a secret black book of mine, and provoced by nothing I started scribbling down philosophical notes. Pretty interesting things. Like for instance how everything in existance follows a pattern of circumstance. Like, it was a shitty weather today. But yesterday was all sunshine, and entering March gives one or two expectations of spring, which makes the weather today even more shitty. But had it been 2nd of April or not to mention 2nd of May, it would be considered far shittier. And let's not forget social circumstances, if you had planned a picnic today it would be the worst fucking shit weather imaginable. By the same token, if you just planned an in-door day with your girlfriend, it would be ideal.
Got a bit depressed over my ideas, when I stretched them further. Like how everything really is separated from everything and nothing really exists - you don't have a true identity, nothing is "true", your identity is a character composed by experiences, emotions, thoughts, personal beliefs (which are, in turn, totally replacable give or take further experiences). These things are in fact totally separated, it's only when you try to put them together you have to cut and paste and mold it all together in a character; and as if that's not enough, that's only identity no.1. The second identity is the one that people around you will give you - and since they are in turn just as unique their judgement will be different. What does it even mean to be someone in other people's eyes? You are fifty persons to fifty people. Then we of course have the third identity, that being your public profile, where people you've never met judge you. All in all, there is no truth. Everything is separated. Even your family members have their separate identites and you are a separate individual, divided from yourself and all the other versions of you, to each individual member of your family.

Eeeerrr.... do I have to mention these are all thoughts spawned out of sleeplessness?
Didn't think so.

SINGLE

Alright, I'm back

Seems I've been busy, who would have thought. My sister came over, stayed from Friday until now, that is Tuesday. A bunch of days, all in all enough for me to get used to her and miss when she left and also, enough to feel the relief of solitude after five days of activity. Or well, activity, we really just spent the days buying good looking crap and the nights making elaborate food and watching The X Files, since I bought the first season on DVD. A pretty nice show, that. And I actually think Dana Scully is my ideal woman and I think, in fact, perhaps she became that when I was a kid, watching the series on exciting late hours. Fox Mulder was an early ideal man for me too, it all makes perfect sense, that was the guy to be - an intelligent nerd, boyish but bold, always right. Scully is the sister, mother, lover - you know, the usual bullshit - elegant, good looking, secretive but intelligent and above all, a wonderful partner to argue with. So stubborn! I mean, how much proof does she need be at least slightly more into believing in some kind of supernatural events? She just doesn't want to believe. I love that. I can only argue with brick walls.
But siiiigh, look at me, writing away slightly too dreamily about a fictional character. Hm. Story of my life, I guess.

Spoke some over the MSN with The Eagle, we talked some about financial crisis, generation problems and love problems and what they have in common. I think it's fascinating that most people I know would love to spend the rest of their lives in one great city, with one great job and one great paycheck and a couple of great friends - but have no interest whatsoever in having one partner. Monogamy is fucking underrated. It should become an indie thing or something.

As for me, I don't know. I'm really not giving it any heart and soul anymore, this whole "finding somebody" thing. As it is now, it would surprise me beyond belief if I actually fell for somebody. But it doesn't really end and that, I've lost interest in the whole spectacle. I'm a rusty and lazy pickuper, saying like "Oh really? Not into conversation? Well, as a matter of fact, you might as well fuck off, I need another beer".
It all probably has something to do with the fact that I've actually had my share. I've been occupied six years. Six years! That's like a quarter of my entire life, thus far. Not only does the horrific demolition of the latest relationship still haunt one or two heart chambers, and not only am I fixed upon the notion that nothing will really compare to it anyway, but I've also got no strength left for another shot at it. I mean, fuck I am tired. Being single is exotic enough, I barely know what it's about. I think time is my best ally now. I've got other things to do. Of course, I'm open for any kind of smash-and-grab-type of affair, but those things are fucking rare. You read about it all the time in books, they are quite common in movies but I wonder if they are not the biggest fantasy of all fantasies. That two people in urban life could just have a little thingy and that would be the end of it. There are always ties that bind. Then again, if you want to prove me wrong, I don't mind.

And there are one or two exceptions of course. I still wonder what The Queen of Arkansas from the Island days is doing. And I would really love to see the woman across the water again. And then again, perhaps The Scully Is Out There. Who knows. As Mulder put it, I want to believe.

MAYBE BABY

Alright, I'm a lot better today. Went off to the University, not much happened there. Went on a wonderful shopping spree after that, bying albums (Yeah, that's right! Actual CD's!) combining winter's darkness with some raw light, that is to say I bought collections of post-punk, ballads from the 1700's and brawly beer-filled rock music from old men with the blues and the brawl in their veins. Upon this I also bought a bunch of clever posters, and started getting some greater image ideas while being in the store. I just bought me a Hidden Depths for the bed, to reign upon my sleep, and on the opposite wall Kissing on VJ Day to greet me upon awakening. Also, I bought a big WALL-E for the bathroom. I'm a genious, I know. I told the girl at the counter I was interested in the more expensive stuff also - a classic Beatles shot, one Marilyn and one Audrey, and probably a Michelangelo and quite possibly that Van Gogh café to. Upon this, I will also order myself a Rocky poster to hang upon the desk - keeping the working moral going - and most definitely an Image Duplicator by Lichtenstein. Always been a favorite of mine.

I've got a funny mail today. Let's just call it a little... funny.
And yeah, bought some DVD's too. Nirvana at Reading Festival and Ryan Adams in Jamaica (?!). Coming home with some insane amount of grocieries - yes, I'm making dinner for myself tonight, I'm really going for this payday hubris - I'm started making some lunch and figured I might aswell go down to the Owl's Second Hand down the street. But currently, I'm watching the weird sensation of Ryan and the Jamaicans and feeling a little too convenient.

Later, friends

OH WELL WHATEVER NEVERMIND

Alright, I've had it.

Where's the fucking Sun King? Upon reviewing my current life at the moment, I realise there's quite a lot you'd perhaps want to wish for. I start to realise that this is really just about the worst fucking winter of my life. Not that I'm in a hell hole, but I can't actually recall having a more bitter, cold, lonely, piece of shit grade-B time. It's like a rock 'n roll band who've just crashed at the height of their time, waking up in the worst fucking Sunday ever and realising that they've become yesterdays news and all they've got is a hungover and a cold turkey depression. It's not that I'm having any obvious problems. It's quite the opposite, not a fucking thing is going on and I can't even remember the last time I felt any lasting joy. I guess I should be somewhat happy, given that it's "better" than this time round last year, when I was basically going through a breakdown. But as fucked up as it may sound that at least was something.

Met Milos anyway, as it was somewhat planned. His train arrived three hours late and he managed to take a night train to his farmhouse home. We took a walk to my place though, there and back stopping for a coffee. Inevitably we had a smoke indoors, it's Milos after all, and I became paranoid, since I don't own the flat. When I was opening the window to air it out afterwards, I also happened to break some sort of thin wooden pole that was laying about, and I guess it has some sort of point with the drapes or something. After that I really became depressed, paranoid thinking that my, in reality very kind, landlord would show up and throw me out the streets like the scabby dog I am. I also wondered whatever happened to my rock 'n roll view of things like this. The truth is that it's all fucking going straight down the toilet right now.

I mean, come on!

Fuck it. I'm going to bed, no matter what sleep I get I'll be up in the daylight and off to the Factory of Academics if for no other reason than to share a smoke with somebody. Furthermore, this weekend my sister's coming to town. So is CC. That'll be nice. Other than that, I can't see any damn consideration from anything. If I'm whining than you better believe it's worth whining about. Now: Sleep. See you in my dreams.

TO PLAN AND NOT TO PLAN

I'm giving the suspicious look, and Milos' being a happy fuck, dressed up as Brandon Lee. Picture taken by Miss C at Halloween '08.


Internet's a funny place.

I've been having this blog for nine days and according to bloglovin.com I've got one subscriber - unless of course they by one mean "me" - and something like 100 profile views - yet not one single comment! Either it's been 100 really unimpressed people, or something like 50 sneaky ones. Who can tell.

Thought I was getting the dough today, but alas! It's not until tomorrow. Spent the night writing, getting closer and closer to the finish line of a collection of short stories that are bound to make me rich and famous. Heh. Well, perhaps not. But I'm sure it will get published one way or another. I don't write shit. Been living like a little shit for way too long, I could have reached my goals at seventeen but I guess I wasn't interested back then. So the flat is going to remain white and pale for another day, won't be able to buy any kind of proper household stuff until mañana. And as far as that goes, it's another day of doing jack shit I guess. Keep working the mines for gold.

Well, no there's an attraction of the night when I think about it. Milos is finally returning his ass from the Capital. Apparantely, he'd need a place to sleep when the train arrives, since he figured it would be late. Good enough. I think I will purchase whatever alcohol I can afford, I've been missing my little Sancho. These windmills are tough enough when you're on your own.

THIS LIFE, THIS LIFE AND THEN THE NEXT

Murky shot from the Capital Days



Different stories...

Upon waking up this Sunday, after a couple of fairly entertaining weekend nights (beer goes a long way) I realised that isolation will fuck you up. If you're alone for long enough time, you will start to think in strange manners, you will start to act randomly and you develop a great sense of paranoia. The big turd in the shitstorm is of course that you start to imagine that this is a totally unique experience and that everybody else is off living their lives in perfect fucking harmony. That everyone's invited to the party, except for you, and that nobody gives a shit about it. When in fact, we are all just as sad and lonely.

Took a walk, figured I'd round it up with a movie and a pizza (yeah! Actually rent a movie! Let's just say that the network in this building of mine is not up to any modern standards). To be Sunday, there was a lot of activity out there in the darkness. People everywhere, hand in hand, talking with shopping bags, kids walking around with candy bags, older kids sharing cigarettes, even older kids walking around with big posters and protest signs, heading for some shout-out-gathering I guess. I'm not living in a hole or anything, but it's not really the city that never sleeps either. Maybe it's some kind of collective subconscious reaction on the spring vibes I felt earlier today.
Anyway, didn't find one single movie of interest, but the pizza guys were nice. I often get the feeling they despise me from the time I accidentaly gave them less money than I was supposed to, as if to cheat them from a coin or two. The headlines screamed of SCANDAL, now about what? Could it be the Middle East Crisis? The recent hidden-camera-footage of racism within the police force? The right wing politicians and their new Nuclear views? No, it was naturally about the ESC quarter finals, and how the new system of rules are incomprehensable. I laughed, thinking Thank God I don't give a fuck. I did catch the show though, last night as Miss L's place, I had five beers and started to think that the Britney Spears-ish eurobeats were quite catchy. After that I went to the 90's club, hooked up with some class mates and basically just got wasted as a fucking dog. Don't remember how I ever got home. I litterary woke up today saying, "Mmmbop I've got a headache"

Other than that, I've been cleaning up to the sound of Working on a Dream, Bruce's new one. I don't know though, had I been "The Boss" so to speak, I'd get rid of Brendan O'Brien, who makes all of the songs feel like cup cakes. But maybe it's just a mean's end, Bruce does seem quite laid back these days. There has been a long time since he did an album that once it was finished, you really had to catch your breath. Without that uncencored darkness, and that frustration around the borders of violence, Bruce becomes a little... I don't know, flat? Maybe it's just me. The man's sixty. Perhaps that's why the album says close to nothing about my life. I do love Outlaw Pete, the opener, that one works, a big canvas, big drama, a lovely production and a bold opener. The rest of it just kind of passes me by, a nice production whopper here (Good Eye) a nice tune or two there (Tomorrow Never Knows, The Last Carnival) and you know, the E. Street by-the-numbers numbers (My Lucky Day, the title track, etc.).
Besides, it has a song called Queen of the Supermarket and that one I just fucking despise. Bruce is joyfully spitting me in the face with that one. Not that that's his fault, and I'm sure it's a great song. But it just reminds me of a Capital Girl who, in a sense, left me for a job with a smile and a name tag, sitting at the end of the beeping aisle. As far as I know, she's still there. But who knows. Some people over there give reports of having seen her with some guy. As Bruce did say, deceit and betrayal are bitter fruit.

A couple of years ago I lived in the Capital. Hellofalot younger it seems now, even though back then, I couldn't imagine getting any older. Looking back, I can't remember doing anything spectacular there. Me and The Eagle walked the streets drinking 7 Eleven-coffee, until daylight, just talking the nights through. That's what I remember to be good. That and that I had a girl.

When I think of those times, I think of darkness and rain. It's like a vision in my mind, all of the darkness and all of the rain. When I think of today, I think of brightness and cold. None of it means anything. Time has passed that's all.
I do miss her. But she's gone now.


PS
Yeah, The Last Carnival is a great song too.

Why So Serious?

This joke isn't funny anymore

Last night could not have been more of a letdown. Not that it was a shit night all the way through, but all in all it ended up so pointlessly nowhere, with such bitter randomness, that I really felt abandoned by any lucky stars imaginable.
It all started out well enough, I had me a few cold ones at my place and felt all in for anything. Turns out that there's some kind of costume party at the Red Dane's, everyone's dressed up as a "hero" or "villain". So I enter with Spider-Man, Afro-Man, Ellie Driver, The Joker, The Wiz, The Weather Man (huh?... Danish people) and whatnot looking at me as if to say "Well who the fuck are you supposed to be?". I tried to laugh it off, saying I was Bruce Wayne and that Batman is my secret identity. Don't know how many people got that one.

Anyway, spent the entire night talking to a pretty girl dressed up as The Joker. Or, at least as far as I could tell she was pretty, if you imagine away all the shit she was wearing. She seemed a little off the walls, but a nice person from what I could gather. We were in her room when everybody started to leave, and I did quite the fuck-up when I didn't leave with the rest of the party. There was that one taxi, that was going to the club in time before it would be impossible to get in. As it was, I stuck with the Jokeress and her crew, who went looking for an inhouse-party since one of them weren't a student. Damn fool I was to tag along, they found a jammed house with that feeling of a hundred people and loud music yet nothing going on. They ditched it too, but I was obviously the fifth wheel. Upon taking my jacket, I also checked out my pride and went home, by some junkfood. It was barely midnight when I got back to the flat, wondering whether I should go to bed or wait for Friday the 13:th part V: A New Beginning on TV. Miss L came online and asked what the fuck I was doing back home. I told her the story. C'est la vie she said, and there's always tomorrow.

Yeah, so how about tomorrow? Today that is. We shall see.

LEARNING TO FLY AGAIN

I'm blocked.

That's the word for it. Blocked. And what does that mean? Well, a hard thing to explain and a tough nut to crack. But I've got a headache that just won't give up, a small one, the very annoying kind. And beneath that, I don't know, feels like my mind is just a wall. I should be all up in creativity and inspiration, but it's all stone. Had I been into New Age, I suppose I'd need some meditation. Perhaps I just need some normal kind of sleep? Tomorrow I'll be cleaning the place up and getting myself some beverages to place in the cooler. If there's time, I'll see if I can go to the Big Building I mentioned earlier to see just what the fuck is going on over there. Jiminy Cricket's full of it and I had to rob the bank today. Then come nightfall, I'll be off to the Red Dane's place and hook up with whatever guys and dolls there to be found. We'll hit the night and such. I imagine it to be quite the revolation. Been like a god damn hermit this week.

Isolation is quite the mindfuck. But I can deal with that, I've never felt alone while being by myself, only in crowds and with other people. At most I've felt abandoned some weekend nights when I've stayed at home. But such feelings are a waste of emotion. As John Huston said: "If you want it kid, go and get it."
No it's not the isolation, in fact it is not the lonliness either. It's just a slight fear that it will all continue like this forever. This is the first time in my life, ever, when I've felt that nothing's going on. I mean, sure, there has been times when life has bored me, specially around winter time, but there's always been some kind of process, I've always been dealing with something. Some idea or some emotion, some relation or some kind of everyday obsticle. There's always been a movement. I'm now experiencing the most quiet stillness ever. And just about everything seems new, I'm even as a human being new to myself in many aspects, so there's nothing to compare it with. "Don't think too much" as JJ keeps telling me, with a wink and a smile to be sure. Specatcular woman. Maybe that's what I like about her the best. There has been all to many girls in my life. Not enough women. Whereas I've been preaching to younglings, she actually makes me feel like there's so much more to discover. Too bad she's on the other side of the Baltic Sea, though.

Maybe I've just been reborn, and just haven't got that old yet. I believe in the spring. I believe in the possibility of change, that from time to time, you have to come to the last chapter and start writing a new book. And sometimes you finish some real heavy books, and the first pages of the new ones are bound to feel weird. All new words about all new worlds. You still in the leading role, that's all.

ANYTHING YOUR HEART DESIRES....

Dostojevskij, another great example of how being broke as fuck doesn't have to break your spirit. At least, if you suffer enough, you might get a statue after you die.





Another day

Not one of the better ones, though. It's a quarter to three in the morning and I'm thinking of giving it up, in a bold attempt of sleep. That's a sign that it's not been much of a day. Since I went to bed at ten in the morning, I naturally woke up at four p.m or something and I don't know what's worse, that the day was wasted or that I didn't care very much. So no school. I've been a lazy slacker this entire week actually, and now the quite unpleasent vibes of isolation start to creep up on me. Kind of like that first story in The New York Trilogy, the one where the guy spends his life alone in a flat and eventually vanish. Or if that was the second. Anyway. You get the idea.

Been trying to make something interesting work today. Not much going on. It bugs the shit out of me that I'm broke as shit, and that the people responsible for throwing me the financial breadcrums are silent as if dead. Long story. Beurocracy. Fucking despise it. Have to take manners in my own hands of course. Just wonder kinda how. It's a web of shit trying to get a hold of people working in high buildings. It's all computers and formalia, and if you actually talk to somebody it's always somebody elses problem. Eventually you end up at the computers again, and you're basically fucked. And if you haven't got one single penny to pay the rent? Tough shit kid. Your problem. Right. Perhaps I should rob a bank? Given the logic of beurocracy it's the best option. At worst, I'd end up in jail but as far as society's concerned I guess I'd be better off in jail. I mean then I'll be doing the country a favor by entering some kind of purpose. Somebody has to be behind bars too.

I really hate my unability to shake off money. As long as the bank account is dry, so is my damn soul. The genious light spreads poor light with a weak flicker. Looks like I might be missing the party on Friday, unless somebody hands me some heavy charity. The whole thing starts up at The Red Dane, as tradition holds it. That's a funny girl. I love Danish people in general. Danes do have more fun.

Yeah well, cash is king. If they'd just cut me some slack from behind the desks in the offices over at the buildings. Some kind of nice phrase, some kind of human response. I don't really trust them, but if me and Jiminy Cricket here are allowed to wish upon a star, I'd hope there won't be any complications and that some extra digits could appear on my account. Cross my heart and hope to die, I'd be a less whiny fuck about everything and I could start to live life again. You know, get a well-needed haircut, have a beer once in a while, get some groceries other than Oat Meal and noodles (in this household, milk is currently a luxury), go to the Capital and make a demo, finish my literary "wingtester" project and, who knows, eventually make some money myself.

Yeah... High hopes, right?

I'M A POET DON'T YOU KNOW IT

Dirty and ragged, hard-working culture worker


Well how about that. Spent the entire night, right up until eight in the morning or so, writing poetry in English. I know! It's a fucking cliche. And I'm not even a classified poet, by a long shot. I usually don't do poetry. But I guess it was one of those black holes you fall into sometimes. You start up and you just can't stop. I even had to make an entire blog dedicated to whatever random waste of artistery I could conjure up. But I guess it was better than nothing.

Well, now the coffee's ready and I'm going to check out the morning paper which arrived a couple of hours ago. The million dollar question: School or Sleep? I'm feeling quite fucked in the head honestly, my arms feel like two pieces of tired meat and I can almost feel sparkles around my brain. Way too much activity. Then again, I don't know if "tired" is the right word.

Well, we'll just see I supposed.
The entire work of art (is it any good? Fuck if I'd know) can be found at the new place, but if you don't have the energy to read eleven damn poems, colorfuly illustrated with insane perfection by yours truly, at least bear with me with this one poetry-single from the collection, called The Things That Only Glow in the Dark.



Oh it's one of those nights
all lay silent but
the shadowlands rumble

all the things you've hidden so well
emerge into a fog
carving out the shadow of an old friend

standing in the mirror, staring back
a friend of yours, so close
the silence is the attack
and the memory of those
you've left behind
"i'm sorry, i was blind"

Oh the night time show
it's out of control
and a memory of daylight

reminds you of control
the madness and the power to say no
yes, you can always seize the day
but in the night time play, there is a role

you are to swim
with every silent shark
in a pool of things
that can only glow in the dark

CLOCK SAYS CARACAS

Oh fuck

This is bad. I'm fucking sick of waking up in the afternoon. What makes me turn off my alarm without further ado, every morning and go right back to sleep? What the fuck am I thinking? What's the subliminal messages I'm giving myself?
I went out checking time zones, turns out it's 10 in the morning in Venezuela. Yeah, now what the fuck am I doing with my days and nights. Why do I believe I'm in Venezuela?

You shouldn't judge negatively beforehand, but I have a distinct feeling this will be one of those days when you either do what you do, by yourself and keep any restlessness out the door - or, alternitavely, you perish because there won't be nobody at your door to cheer you up.

JUST LIKE STARTING OVER

So what about today?

Looking back at my life, it's astonishing to me how little of the past that seems to matter today. Just, say two years ago, I felt if not old - I guess that's quite unreasonable - then at least clearly torn and frayed. Walking around with a burden of past, chained to experience and just tired. Like there was really nothing left to discover, no reason to be found and no new hights to be climbed. Anything resembling "youth's glory" was already seen and done. Conquered. Above all, I was tired.

Lately, I've experienced what anybody would agree to be a shit period. Frankly, all of last year, starting in December of 2007 and still running on the final strophes I suppose, has been like some kind of nightmare opera. But perhaps it was all just a matter of taking out the trash. Quite a lot of trash, too. What could be a shittier job?

I found myself, suddenly, walking around not with a burden of past, not chained to experience and not tired - but walking around with a burden of bullshit, chained to crap and not so much tired as, in fact, nearly dead. But as Ian Malcolm wisely said, "Life finds a way". If you won't keep your eyes on the road and keep moving ahead, you can guarantee there will be some heavy bags of shit to carry around. And as Noel Gallagher also said some years ago, "Everybody has a shit period, hopefully we've had ours".

So it's funny. When I was younger I didn't give a shit about anything. I wanted to roam the fields, drink unrecommended amounts of alcohol and tumble in festival tents and whatnot. Then I started working, writing, making songs, stories, started to study philosophy - in private, in school and in my writings - getting into life dead-on, entering the very core of it or whatever the fuck you'd wanna call it, and when it all was said and done, it was really all said and done. I've even managed to have two ongoing and serious, arguably over-the-top-serious, relationship during the course of six years. I wanted all kind of experience and knowledge, and I basically got it. But all things must pass. And what I find genuinely amusing, what I can just barely believe, is my total uninterest now. It's like I give fuckall about anything. Guess I'm just looking for a surprise around the corner nowadays, come what may and I do mean that: Whatever, I've been picky but I don't give a shit now, I don't have any ideas on what's a prefarable life or what's a prefarable set of rules, I don't judge and I don't neccesarily praise. I'm just waking up every morning with a feeling that I'm up for it. So watcha got?
What you might be sniffing in this entry, regarding the pasture of your's truly, is a long story, lots of episodes, chapters and charachters. Ah, well. There's a time and a place for everything. I like that these blog writings will just start up in medias res, like the first Star Wars movie. You don't follow all the lines in here? Tough shit. I can only recommend that you see Hidden Fortress.


Funny. Not much going on, here and now. It's all fairly bleak and perhaps even hollow. An age of lonliness for me. Or perhaps solitude. Or exile. Or, well, who knows, next week I might be in paradise by some odd chance or who knows. I genuinely have no clue. The slates are wiped clean and the tables are empty.
But that's exactly what starting over is like.

FRIED EGGS AND TRAINS GONE OFF

Monday.

Be that as it may that it's winter and all, but I'm having my biggest spring cravings ever. Don't know why, it's not like me. I've never had a complaint about the winter. I'm more of a winter's man than springtime guy, and I'm definitely not hailing summer. Things have changed, it seems. But they have. A lot of things have changed. Not sure I recognise myself anymore. It all used to be quite easy. I just looked myself in the mirror and said "That's right, there you are you fucker" and that was that with that, but now nothing is definitive or certain.

Went down to the Factory of Academics so to say. One hell of a fuzzy morning, I went for a snooze in the morning but instead of putting the alarm on 8.30 i changed the actual clock. So I was all fucked up when I got there and everybody were behaving like it was half an hour later than it was. Which, it was. Well uh, nevermind.
Met Vic and Mister H. Didn't have a lot to say. Monday. Tommy G spoke about media society and intertextual patterns in movies. He spoke a lot about the Terminator movies, he even wore a SkyNet T-shirt! He's the Tominator. Also, Cherry gave me a toothbrush, saying I dropped it at her place last Friday. I have zero recollection of this, but I did recognize the toothbrush.

Went home and had myself a colesterol lunch, a mountain high piece of toast with two fried eggs and a bunch of cheese. I watched the latest episode of The Cinema Snob on Youtube. Love that guy.


I have two things to say this afternoon.
1. Not a fucking thing is going on
2. I need coffee


Good thing about the snow, though: It brings on the light, it's almost three in the afternoon now and the sun is giving the, albeit deceptive, impression of not going down anytime soon. Thought about giving Milos a call but I quickly remembered he had put himself on a train to the Capital. The entire week, he'll be gone! He's hooked up with a girl and now he's all inside-out. Love is a fucking anarchist.

Speaking of which, I saw a redhead today. If there's a story to be told, I'll keep you informed.

INTRO

Good morning.

Or, actually, it's more like good evening from where I'm sitting right now, but it's good morning as far as this blog's concerned. I've been tossing myself around quite a bit over whether or not I should create one or not. A blog that is. Not that anybody gives a shit about whether or not I would write a blog, it's been a conflict in me that's all. Me, myself and I, that's what blogging is all about anyway, right?

So before getting started, I'd just like to point out the whole nature of my writing. First off, it's all going to be in English thank you very much, and how come? Why not? It's a funny language, and I've been looking for a place to write in English for quite some time and while no forum has shown itself to be proper, I might aswell do it here. I've always wanted my own site anyway, but I've got no cash and no time on my hands. The day has but 24 hours and a man's got but 2 arms. You can't have it all.

As for the entire blog culture, I don't know. You want to call me a blogger now? Go right ahead, I couldn't care less whether or not I reach out to anyone. I'm writing all kinds of shit all the time, and it's never really been my idea to write for anybody in particular. It's a force, a flow, it just needs someplace to go. This is just another creek where the same water flows. Some of that water ends up in very special places, there are secret ponds and lakes, some of which have dried out by now, and then there are greater oceans where I encourage anyone to take a dive. It's all writing, it's all me. I've got nothing to hide, anyway. And nobody should think that this is about "me" anyway. It's not. Whatever is here to read, at this page, it's not me. It's not who I am in my head, it's not who you'll meet in real life. It's me in third person, perhaps even forth. Does that sound fucked up? I guess it will just have to sound fucked up then.

This, then, is the first entry of this site. Do I fancy a grand opening? Not quite, this is not the room where I place my pretentions. Or well, at least not my follies. I have no real opening speech, this is really just created speaking of nothing. Yeah, I was out having a smoke just half an hour ago and figured I'll make a blog because, in this third forth second language persona it makes some kind of sense. I was born roughly 23 years ago. I can't start there, now can I? It's already been. I could start today. Today it's been Sunday. I've been doing jackshitnothing but watching a rock n roll documentary, drinking coffee and cleaned up my table, since it welcomed me this morning with a paperbag full of trash from McDonald's, 10 empty bottles of beer, some equally empty bags of crisps, two packs of cigarettes, etcetera.... Quite a party last night, you'd say? Actually it's not more than it seems: junk food, beer and hamburgers. Miss L was over and we had ourselves a pre-party which ended up nowhere, had a lot of late 90's music going and we just talked bullshit and, yeah, drank beer. When I went to get my drunk weekend's night of meat I walked out into a snowstorm. It was actually snowing. So much for anticipating spring any time soon. The wrath of God, I could here him laughing as he's been laughing for millions of years, never getting sick of the same old joke. Pestering the people, enjoying the vices of being the all mighty one. Am I religious, you might ask? Am I? No. But I am curious. There's a difference. Most people are just plain dummies, stubborn anti-people. I'd like to see the faces of the non-believers when Jesus Christ himself accends. Not that I believe he would, not more than I believe John Lennon or JFK would re-appear to enter their post-mortum image in flesh and blood, but still. I always enjoy a good wtf-face on stubborn anti-people. One lesson in life, kids - the only thing that is a guarantee in life is the element of surprise.

But anyway, I'm far off the target here. Whatever the target was supposed to be. Oh yeah, starting up. Well. Since we could start just about anywhere, we might aswell be starting here. In a flat. One room, one street, one city. Where? Oh, there's a destination, surely. There's an adress. But we're all sitting in our little flats and our little rooms and our little cities and I suppose that's why I'm writing in English in a sense. I could be just about anyone, anywhere. Concider me your friend in the night, your little beacon in the midst of chaos, in the middle of nowhere and thus, in the centre of everywhere.