Thursday, March 30, 2006

Yeah, so like, fuck you!

I wrote this reeeeally weird sort of monolog-thing some time ago and I re-read it today. It was about this guy who had just broken up with his girfriend and was sort 0f going on a rant about various things he hated about her. At one point he showed the fictious audience this really grotesque self-made rendition of his late girfriend's vagina and said:" This is a picture of the only part of you worth having a discussion to" and then he went on reading from this list of things he hated about her written on toilet paper whilst he was taking a dump, but he had no more toilet paper, so he ended up wiping his ass with the things he hated about her.
And then there was this totally bizzare musical number and something with a cheese-hate...
I have no idea what was wrong with me when I wrote this and I just pray it should never get out in public. Why don't I delete it, then?
Because it was really funny, but only to me.

I feel like there is this massive library of things I have said and written which makes me look like an ass, so maybe I am an ass.

In other news, Hitler is dead.

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

Magdalene Launderies

"I'll never talk about it at this level again, but let me ask you. Why have I survived that kind of night, when other women didn't? How am I alive to tell you this tale when he was ready to slice me up? In the song I say it was Me and a Gun but it wasn't a gun. It was a knife he had. And the idea was to take me to his friends and cut me up, and he kept telling me that, for hours. And if he hadn't needed more drugs I would have been just one more news report, where you see the parents grieving for their daughter. And I was singing hymns, as I say in the song, because he told me to. I sang to stay alive. Yet I survived that torture, which left me urinating all over myself and left me paralyzed for years. That's what that night was all about, mutilation, more than violence through sex. I really do feel as though I was psychologically mutilated that night and that now I'm trying to put the pieces back together again. Through love, not hatred. And through my music. My strength has been to open again, to life, and my victory is the fact that, despite it all, I kept alive my vulnerability."

Tori Amos


There is not much left to write in the first draft of the book. The climax is half-finished, and it was much easier to write than I thought, even though it will be better when I have finished the second draft and have the weight of everything else on my finger-tips.

It feels like only a few weeks since I started writing when everything was vague and conceptual and shady and just thinking about all the things I had to think through, all the times I thought:"What the fuck is the point of this? who the fuck are you, with your limited life experience to sit down and write something that is supposed to be real?", well, it's just numbing.

So here's to me!


Thursday, March 16, 2006

Man imitating cloud

This is "Limbo" by Odd Nerdrum and I am shocked still by its beauty.

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

Oh my sweet God, this is just too fucking perfect!

Watch that link before reading on. It's not too long, just about 5 min and it is taken from that Fox show "Trading Spouses". I want you to have seen the entire thing! It is so fucking perfect that it almost makes me hard just to watch it.

I honestly don't really know what to say to top that film and that woman ugly as sin. I just don't have the power to overdo her...

Monday, March 06, 2006

I just can't shake the disgust of ugly TV programs

Things I hate and why I hate them:

- "Three Wishes"

Just about five minutes with passive television watching made me feel dirty and ugly and meek. This show is mastubatory aid for WASPs where the single mother feels guilty about being single and her last wish is she gets to go to the local church and her father tells her that she is proud of her. God, what dribble!
How can anybody stand this complete desecration to anything sacred?!

- "Desperate Houswives"

The reason I hate this show is basically because my mother loves it and told me, in such overwhelming confidence it was disgusting that the "wives" resembled Six Feet Under a lot.
I mean, this show is just so fucking empty! These old women just stay the same! There is no emotional or spiritual evolution, just the same lame whimsical music in the background that tells you how to fell, just that very familiar thing where the plot focuses on some criminality so to create excitment and an illusion of forward motion where none exists.
The fact that is so easy to see which sort of group this show is marketed and made for, this sort of wounded, middle-class, white with three kids and a husband that does not care sort of woman makes it even worse.

There is NOTHING fundamental here! There is NOTHING even remotely beautiful, touching, painful or even funny in this crappy shit-show!

- "LOST"

I reeeeally like the formate. I really liked the idea when I heard it. I thought it was going to be some sort of modern Lord of the Flies, only without the predictable end. I thought it was interesting in the beginning, but as soon as the show started to focus on all that wierd crap to create a diversion from what I was really interested in, I just stopped watching.

The characters are very predicatble. The hero is a doctor who is kind, the female counterpart is a good criminal... I HAVE SEEN IT BEFORE!
I really liked that Asian couple though. But I hated the fat guy. It was very obvious why he was there. Not on the island, but in the show.

And to now over to the things I currently love:

- "Angles in America"

It is still fucking good!

-" Chuck Palanhiuk"

Or in whichever way one might spell his name.

-"Little Britain."

"Yeah I know!"

Saturday, March 04, 2006

Caught in my head...

As always follows when I reach the end of the first draft of anything, I go back and re-read and hate myself for trying to think I can pull anything real off, much more so an entire book.
After some time, sometimes longer times than other times, I finally get over myself and itch to start re-writing and gather the millions of turbulent threads flickering everywhere.

I have some chapters left, I guess I can count the amount on one hand, and for some reason I just read this paragraph now and thought I should post it.
It is from the 13th chapter and to the three people who read this blog, not counting the Asian people and the women, here it is, completely out of context.

It is painful to me to post it because I know how entirely unperfect and unpolished it is. But hey, it's okay to be fragile too. Sooo...Here it is:

Laurlyn was sitting on her bed inside the small yellow house in her room. She was naked. Her curtains were open and outside she could see the brilliant starry sky, a half crescent moon luminously white, visible if she lay back.
The top of the world was a big lump of sheer blackness in the horizon, a breast or the back of a curled-up fetus. In an open palm she saw three shards of glass.
The first one was long and thin, its edges razor sharp, thin layers of olive running through the concurrent hue of bottle-green. The second was larger, flatter, the color of a remorseful blue, almost sapphire. And the third…
Laurlyn looked at it in her open palm, stared at it, tried to comprehend its full meaning.The shard was the only shard of the three that had been intentionally created rather than the other two which had been brought into conception through destruction. This shard had been meant to be a shard.
The shard had been formed into a delicate icicle of furious burgundy, edges softened and polished with meticulous care.
And of the three shards, this was the one she felt with greatest weight in her open palm, felt it deepen into her hand as if it was a cold lead bullet.
He had been an apprentice glass-blower, hard, rough and aglow like the molten sand he twirled around at the end of the iron tube he used to heave air into.
Laurlyn had seen him do it many times, create glass. She had seen him dip the glowing spheres of liquefied sand into different types of color-dust, coloring the glass with random patterns, with stripes that ran through it. She had sat transfixed and seen him sweat; see his great body in wetness by the air and the humidity and the sheer warmth of the fire and the exhaustion of constantly having to fill his lungs and empty them again.
In her memory of him, she saw the fury which he poured relentlessly into his work. She saw his great, hovering body sleek and glossy in sweat and soot.
And yet, when she thought about him in this way, Laurlyn could not help but remember those rare times she had seen him blow gently into the tube, a tender breath that created the smallest sphere of air inside the thin glass. She could not help see him with gentleness as he delicately worked the material, as he softened edges by polishing and as he held the finished product with an almost obscene amount of carefulness.
Nevertheless; him standing there, heaving and sweating before the great fire was the most potent image she had of him. As well as the time he had raped her.
It had taken her years to understand that he had raped her. Laurlyn had thought it was normal, that this was what sex was, that the dominating weight of his body pressing against her, forcing her to oblivion was the way it was meant to be.
It was always painful for her, but she never said anything. She never fished for something better. So perhaps it was willing rape he was guilty of.
He never said much to her, in or out of bed. He never told her what he was thinking. Perhaps he didn’t think at all. Perhaps he just existed whenever he either breathed life into the glass or was on top of her, pressing, moving, making no sound as he pounded at her with fury.
Laurlyn did not know.
The shard she now held in her hand seemed to drag light into it, casting strange reflections on her skin. Stains. Taints of blood, small smears and blotches and blemishes.
He had created that shard as an exercise, trying to see on which scale he could operate. He had put the sand and melted it to an almost incandescent liquid, cut a small portion off and colored it red with dust.
He had failed in his experiment and the sphere had collapsed into itself. But nonetheless, he had formed the failed piece of glass gently, his brow furrowed in concentration as great balls of sweat fell down his strong, bull-like neck.
Later, when the glass had cooled he had polished it meticulously and formed it into what always looked to her like a newly budded leaf.“You can have it if you want,” he had said when he had finished.” Or else I’ll throw it away.”
Laurlyn had taken it, amazed by how cold it felt in her open palm.
That night he had been especially violent with her, dragging her by the hair, throwing her around as if she was a rag doll, using her, driving her under and pushing her, kneading her as if she was the glass he worked with. His fingers were always rough and cracked from the material and the scalding heat, his hair seemed always wet as did his colossal body.
She had thought that in a way, she was like glass to him.
But he never treated her like he treated the glass, except perhaps the phase where he was blowing air, rough, angry air from his great lungs which expanded to monstrous proportions before emptying themselves to small flaps of skin.
She thought he had hurt her badly, that he had ripped her up. She was sore and there was a little bleeding. She told him. He let her be alone for a while.The wound healed, eventually, and he became a little gentler. But only a little, and only for a small period. It all went back to normal sooner than later, but the last times they made love he refused to wear a condom and Laurlyn did not know how to obtain any sort of birth-controlling items. It was another time.
The abortion she took was agony to her and came to haunt her as much as the death of Neil Asstor did. She named her dead child after him.
Laurlyn hated herself when she was with that man who created the glass. Laurlyn hated him. The inexhaustible sexuality that he kept vigilantly alive as he did the flame he used to melt the sand in, the roughness of his fingers, the stains, the sweat, the acrid smell of that fire and those sands and dusts…She hated all that.
But there was something, something she felt when she was under him, when his entire body was pressing her into a small dent in the bed… In those moments she never regretted it. She loved him in those moments, when he seemed to compress her and break her into tiny pieces.She was more glass then than she had ever been before or ever would come to be.But those moments were rare. Not the moments she was under him, but the moments she loved him whilst he was on top. Mostly she just felt the hate, the disgust, the anger with him, with his stilled tongue and with the way he moved. He was a big, slow animal. He was an elephant. An elephant working with glass.
Laurlyn hated him and she hated herself. Forgiveness was rare to her, and pity was rarer. There was not much left to break when they ended it for reasons he left unexplained, and he was not the one who had lead her to the top of the world to kill herself.