His eyes were the color of the sand and the sea

I have hated New Year's Eve, for like, ever. In many ways, its like Christmas. Christmas and New Year's are like freaky twins both with matching interesting skinillnesses. Christmas, like the greatest of the twins, is the subject of intense and toiling planning, analyzed and scrutinized and planned and mapped so much, expectations rising like blood to the head, churning and burning, and so, when the day finally arrives, everything is just, slightly... off. And it is never really as magical or mystical or beautiful as projected by your own mind or stupid TV shows.

And so you sit there, mopping up your broken dreams along with the firneedles from the tree you chopped down, illegally, because you waited too long to buy it(if your like my mother, that is).

People act like New Years Eve should be this culmination of the year, like that single arcane moment when everything comes together, all the moments in a whole year, every moment of laughter and joy and all that shit, coming together, materilizing like a multicolored mist, swallowing you like a cockhungry Asian freak.

Now wonder it always turns out to be boring and shitty.

Last New Years, I spent listening to Little Earthquakes at twelve, completely alone.
It was wonderful.

And then I wonder, and I do this all the time, is it reality that makes New Year's shitty, or is it the fact that I might have convinced myself it will be shitty. i don't know. But I'll try to make it cool. i'll try.

And New Years should be a time where not only the laughter and the joy meet together, but also the pain and the anguish and feeling like shit and hating and fretting and being thin skinned, like covered in eggshell, like naked and vulnerable. Because that is a part of life.

And the joy and the ardor and the pain meet, like silver and metal and gold.

And there is only the memories and who we once were.

People I love

I love Terry Goodkind. To be thirteen again and discover him, to really trully and utterly let him again open me up to the greatness of the written word. I think Terry Goodkind made me want to read, not only for the pleasure of reading, but for some higher purpose as well. He was the first author to crack me open, to show me the strenght of the story, and even though I do not agree to the extremistic nature of objectivism, I certainly can relate to the basic notion of the beauty of life. And I just finished Phantom.

I love Neil Gaiman, because he is kind of wierd, because he has the capacity to shroud reality with fantasy in a way I don't know if I will ever be capable to, not that I would want to write the stuff he does; I like to stick to the contemporary stuff. It simply does more for me. But I love Sandman, both from a writer's and an artist's point of view. Not that I am neither, but you know. I can pretend.

I love Haruki Murakami, because he is kind of wierd, and he kept me up all night analyzing(ha ha, anal) Lederhosen and all the other strangely titled short stories of the Elephant Vanishes. I like holding his hand and letting him help me ease my own head. Like learning to let go to your own creativity and not always knowing, in painstalking detail, exactly what every faucet of your writing means.

I love Thomas Dybdahl, because his music exists on a totally fundamental level.

I love Laurlyn and Avan. In all their guises.

Its coming on Christmas...

Just a little thing

If I'm ever going to post anything here, I'll have to be a little more uncritical. Or else nothing will ever be postet. From now on this blog will be a sketchpad, okay? Here is a wierd thing I wrote:

My penis is clean, okay?

Okay, so I have a really intense relationship with pee.

This is not an amazing thing, given that I have a really intense relationship with many things. For one, I have an intense relationship with porn of any kind. The wierder and the more spesific the porn, the better. Like twins both with one leg wrapped in bublewrap whilst they sing ba-ba-blacksheep, or six men building something, and you wonder what they are building, and you get so wrapped up in what they are building that you forget that they are hot and kinda naked, and everything that goes around in your mind, churning and churning, blending and mixing and shaking is what are they building?

Turns out, they are building a bed. And then they have sex on the bed, and in some small way, you feel let down.

Like the wierd porn-thing, I can’t really say why pee is fascinating to me. Like the porn, the intense, magnetic attraction isn’t really sexual. It’s not like I secretly want to be naked in a brown tub whilst some fat Swedish man pee on me. Or pay someone to pee in a bottle and send it to me. Someone asked a friend of mine to sell him a bottle of pee. It was to be sent via mail. And I kept wondering, when this bottle of pee turn up at this freakish stranger’s place; what is he going to do with it? Is he going to just stare at it, keep it in a shelf and feel delight in knowing that this is someone else’s discared nutria? Is he turned on by urea? These are the things I think about and find strange. Of course, the fact that a stranger asked my friend to send him his pee: well, that’s just normal.

On further reflection, and I find an amazing amount of time to reflect upon these things, it’s not even the pee in itself that attracts me. It might be just the thing that it comes out of someone. Like puke. And sperm.

Both of these are things I am interested in.

It’s like there is something amazingly intimate about something that has passed through the somebodys individual catabolism. It’s like there is something astoundingly remarkable about matter that has been digested or modified or sucked the energy and nutria out of.
Like a hair, only more personal. Like a kiss, only more individual.

Whenever I am talking and forget my point or a word; instead of just laboring endlessly, flicking my fingers and shaking my head, doing gross overracting to establish that I just can’t think of what it was I wanted to say, I just fill in with the words sperm or pee or puke. You know the way kids say thing all the time to fill in for other words? Like, you know that thing in the thing? Well, I do that with pee or sperm.

This allows for all sorts of strange episodes, like telling your mother to fetch the sperm or telling a friend to pee a little louder and not puke on the sperm.

I mean, sperm is really gross. It’s this sticky, kinda chunky guey thing that spurts out of you and hits you in the eye so it swells up and turns a viscious red, a big sign that tells the world:” Yes, I am a lonely freak that wanted just a few minutes(hey, who are we kidding?) of not feeling pathetic and envious of everyone actually having sex with bodies, and now you all know.” If you ever see a guy with one really red eye, you know what it means.

Sperm can also hit objects and the wall. If it hits the wall, it might be hard to get it off, especially if you wait. Now, no one will have sperm hanging on their walls for long, unless that is like a wierd sex-thing, but sperm has a tendency to sort of clump, coagulate, when out of your penis. And that just adds to the whole general yukiness of sperm. Even as a gay man, I can’t really find joy in getting sperm all over my face. In fact, it’s kind of annoying, like the byproduct of sex, like sex’s answer of the lactic acid. And it has a really strange smell. And someone tells me it tastes salty. Not that I would know anything about that. I mean, if you masturbate and the sperm hits your eye and the wall, it might end up in your open mouth, in which case you are seriously fucked. And you catch yourself in thinking:”Oh my god, I just swallowed my own sperm.”
Pee is also kinda gross, but not nearly as gross as sperm. I actually never really feel the real urge for washing my hands after peeing. People always get really freaked out when I tell them this ( I often introduce myself to people by telling them that I rarely wash my hands after peeing). They argue with eyes round and big with disgust that you get pee on your hands. This is true only if you pee on your hands. Which I rarely do. And when I say that, that look, that particular, very recognizable look that I know so well, the look like the penultimate judgement before complete and utter social outlock flare up, and they say that, well, I touched my penis. Which is really kind of an insult. It’s not like the penis is dirty. Sure, bacteria might flourish there, but I wash every day. My penis is clean, okay? And then they say, scoffing, that pee is dirty. Well, its not! Pee is completely sterile! If it was dirty and boiling with bacteria, you would be dead, okay? Freshly squeezed pee is one of the cleanest things ever. You could totally use pee to clean surgery tools. Just have a man stand by with his penis hanging, and someone could use it like a tube and just hold it with two fingers and lead it around to where something has to be sterilized.

Then they leave, these strange people with their strange limitations.

So much for that friendship.

At least I have my porn.

My penis lives its own life. Not really in normal, day-to-day life. Then it just sits there. There aren’t really that many arousing things that happens studying chemistry. It’s not like I am turned on by relativistic effects, or orbital theory, or the stabilizing of protein structure. And the gym is just old men and old women. And work is just freaks.

But when I drink, my penis’ head grows larger than my own, brain-wise, and it becomes an independent part of me. Sometimes, dancing or something, I might accidentally touch myself and think:”Oh my god, I am hard” and this comes to me like a complete surprise. Worse is it if I am at a toilet, and the one booth is taken(see, I also have a really intense relationship with urinals, mainly, I hate them) and I end up standing next to a billion other men, their slack penises hanging out and clear to brown pee singing down the metall, and I suddenly, as I yank it out, realize that it is erect.

Now that allows for extremely akward situations.

And it’s not like I can say:”Hey, I didn’t know I was hard.” That’s like Hitler saying he thought concentration camps were health farms or Pauling saying he really didn’t know proteins.
So then I just stand there with my absolutely enormous erection sticking out in a sea of drunk men peeing.

Now I just check sometimes.

Hello Mr. Penis, are you hard?

A few pics