On being ill

I have yet to blog on Christianophobia, there is a draft and my thoughts on that will soon be up.
Being ill I really haven't had time to do anyhting but be miserable and groan.
However, I refuse to be ill anymore. Going off to the Capital tomorrow onthe fabulous yellow bus.
Lovely club nights and discussions on Femme. Vintage shopping and what not.
When back I mean to direct, write and map coming projects again. I am sickly behind on all of that, but let's not worry.

On ruralness

I made my way around some very well known surroundings today. My village.
It is all very rural - I describe it best by saying that it is a 15 minute ride by car whenever I want something from a shop. If I want a latte it's 45 minutes. There you have it.

I have lived here all my life, except 3 years in high school and 2 years away studying in other places. I choose to move out at age 16 thinking I wouldnt survive if I stayed. I assume I was right back then. In fact, I know for sure I wouldn't have emancipated the way I have now had I stayed.

Unlike others who moved out of here when I did, I always knew I would come back.
I look for houses now when I am on my way out again. Ask my father: who owns this? Who owns that?
I want to come back here with a caravan of people I have gotten to know while out and about in the world. I want to dwell here, bring my future partner and kids. Teach them about the bliss of silence.

Because it really is silent here, rigth now I only hear myself tapping the keyboard of my computer. If I listen carefully I can hear birds twittering. Nothing more. At night there's not even birds.
There are no street lights, no neon-signs, no cars roaming the streets. There is no street, mind you.

The silence is a bit of a fear factor for city people who visit my rural haven. They listen eagerly to hear if anybody's coming, when trees creek they jump high!

I laugh at the thought of silence being such a scary thing.
I have never been a city-girl. I have never enjoyed roaming streets for more than a period of time. Now, imagining myself living in the Capital, I must take this into consideration- it will never be silent.

How will I react to that? I have never lived in a city worthy of its name. I have always been a visitor. Always gone back to silence and untouched dirt roads.
Today when being out and about for one and a half hour I saw one- ONE- person. I know him. He has been around all the time when I grew up, he's the son of my neighbours. I said "Hi" he said "Hi".
Here no-one is anonymous. If you live here I know who you are. Who you parents are. Who their parents were. The chance is quite big they knew my grandparents, we might be related. In the end we all are. Unless you're a newcomer. Then I know of you as one.

To survive in the Capital I assume I will have to wear my rural identity on my sleeves occasionally. In periods, speak my dialect, sing my songs, wear my traditional clothing. I wouldn't talk about a Swedish identity since I don't what constitutes such a thing. But I would talk about being from Delsbo (or more so being a Dellbo) and being brought up in Hälsingland as my identity.
Language of course plays a big part in that. I didn't like my dialect when growing up, I didn't want to be made apart by it. I had a strong yearning to be a cosmopolitan person. Dialects don't fit that kind of personality, unless it's a cosmpolitan one, a mash of several ways of speaking.

In my posh, bilingual, high school English class I was asked how many languages I could speak. I said I spoke four. Swedish-English-French-and-Dellboska (my dialect). My teacher ,a scottish air-force officer made linguistic nerd was amazed. He wanted to know more about it and he encouraged me to ask my parents what their attiude to the dialect had been growing up, and if it had changed during the years. Never before had I encoutered a sincere interest in my rural identity, mostly since all the people I knew shared it.

Now I find myself an advocate for the children in my village and the area of our dialect, I speak our dialect with them, and I speak it anywhere I find fit.
I teach my brother's step-son words he has never heard of.
(He lives in the town 45 minutes away, so yes the area of the dialect is tiny)
Growing up I was always jelaous of children who could speak a foreign language, now I know I speak one. Below is a sample:

He gjänt nå öm du änt ferståår va jö sääger, ä.
Jö läär däg, ja'.
He ha vörte sa laangt mella' mäg å däg, hä ä f'att du änt ferståår va jö sääger.
Visseru!

(It's alright if you don't get what I am saying.
I'll teach you.
The distance between us is quite big, it's because your not getting me.
You see.)

On (a)muse(ment)

I promise this is my last blogpost today. :) I felt the need to put up lots of thing as the blog is re-birthed now.

I am known for having lots of muses, really being my muse is not as difficult as it may seem.

There needs to be a certain flare around you, a sense of force and vitality combined with something vulnerable. I need to feel a sense of beloning but also a sense of being apart. That I can study and be studied. See and be seen.

Usually I know instantly if there is something there. I can not hide from the force in me, telling me to be inspired.

This post is on one of the most important muse's these days. My actor-muse My. We met when we both studied up-north. She was an actor, and a damn fine one, I was a director trying to make my way through. We lived in the same corridor, we shared a kitchen so out-of-standard we were scared, we cooked in crocked pans and drank tea from broken mugs. We shared wine and dreams. We spoke of the only thing that is important. To make art. Art that creates brotherhood and meaning. Art that serves as a connection.

I directed her in a play I wrote called "Christmas- the return" a story I wasn't sure of, a role as a director I was even more unsure of. It was something special, she was great and I was spellbound. Directing in that process was never easy, but the result was true meat. Words and flesh combined. She was my muse.

Recently, I visited her in Karis, Finland. Where she had studied and worked with the director Anna Allgulin. Allgulin's work deals with the mystical, with the actor as a link between the human and the divine. The played Oidipus.

A sweaty, screaming, angsty kind of play, dealing with destiny and free will.

It was an explosion, involving it's audience in a story told here and now. I was childlishy happy and I loved seeing My on stage.
At the after party (seen in picture above) we spoke of projects to come and what we felt we needed to do.

There we made up something we now call "Obs(!)scen."
As in obscene but also as in, "Mind you! A stage".

Having pondered it today as I struggled with a feverish heart and an aching body. I want it's theme to be the boarders between actor and audience, are they necessary?

Is it necessary to only be watch or to watch?

It it necessary for the stage to be a closed room, what happens if we are all involved in creating that room- at the same time both actors and audience?

If a stage is public can we choose not to watch what goes on there?
If a stage is public can I choose not to be on it?

We plan to bring the stage to the public and the public to the stage. We plan to bring the audience to the story and to bring the story out of the audience.

I will update as we go along, now just writing to see what is in it.

Bring us your ideas, stories, longings, and shortcomings. Obscene or not- we will try and make them a base, a stage.

On faith, queer-ness and prayers

A text orginally written in Swedish for http://www.queerteologi.com.

To come to terms with our faith, we must examine our faith through ourselves. We must, in some way measure ourselves and find out what we consist of. I have done it many times. First as a child in a family of religious parents and relatives, then as a teenager in a group of other teenagers who believed, but not as I did, and finally as an adult all alone with only myself as a reference to how I wanted to live.

My birth is based on faith. It is a miracle or a mistake, a sin or a blessing, for both believers and non-believers. For my religious parents, there is meaning in mine and my brother's disability and that is how I am raised. Believing that God wished me well on that summer morning when I was picked out by a Caesarean-section three months premature. That he held his hand over us when we were fighting our way in to life. That he wanted us to live.

I was brought up to believe, without doubt, that:
"Jesus loves all children, all children on earth, red and white and yellow and black - doesn't matter, he said."
Therefore, my disability was an asset, a blessing and a gift to the world so it would remain diverse.

But in the Christian tradition which I am partly raised in, and which my father and mother belonged to, but left, physical shortcomings are often seen as an evidence of sin. Either I have sinned or my disability is a penalty for my parents' sins, whatever they might be.

As an adult, during a Sunday service in a Pentecostal church in a city where I lived, the members of the congregation asked if they could pray for me, I said yes. Then I thought we would pray for my studies at the time, and for a continued blessed life in the arts. Perhaps the members, which kneeled and put their hands on me thought that my career-choice was a pity. That the acting and the performing could lead me on paths away from the straight and narrow leading to the Pearly Gates.
However, they said nothing about that and when they prayed for me, in that charismatic way I have seen and heard so many times before I felt at home and secure. In these "excesses", in this sweaty jubilation and prayer, was a style of worship that I loved.

After the intercession one of the people who prayed for me asked me if I did not want intercession for "my legs".
I was very puzzled, never had I received this question before. It stood in contrast to all I had been taught in the past. That my legs were a sign of God's diversity, yes, a blessing from him, even. The man who asked me did it based on something he thought was right. He wanted me to be healed, and he thought it would be so. He justified his question by saying he "believed that Jesus wanted us to be healthy."
I replied that I believed that Jesus wanted diversity, and then we left the subject and he continued to play Christian tapes in his car while he drove me home through the sunny spring day.

But there in the car just that spring day, something happened. Something that I came to wrestle with a long time. The faith which I wanted to be a part of would not accept me as I was. My childhood-faith full of confidence in a good and accepting God who loved everyone
"and therefore gave his only son so that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life" did not match anymore.
I feel most at home in what is called the Pentecostal Curch, that's where my my mum grew up and where my grandparents had their Christian faith. I have played there and glued Jesus pictures on cardboard, amongst lots of other children, sang songs and eaten cinnamon-rolls .

I have also seen a prayer and worship so strong that the people wept and spoke foreign languages. Shooked, laughed and rejoiced. All in the name of Jesus.
I wanted to dwell in that church.
But I also knew that I had to hide myself. I could not tell them everything about myself. I would be forced to sweep a big piece of my personailty under the carpet. Such as the fact that I sometimes fall in love with women. That I could imagine sharing a life with a woman I loved as much as if I loved a man. That it is perfectly possible for me to have children with this woman or this man and that I want our love to be blessed. Then there's a no-trespassing sign.

You can not live like that for the Old Testament says "you shall not lie with a man as a man lies with a woman because this is a sin."
Still I believe that all love must come from God since God is love. Still I believe that we must respect each other and not judge sinceJesus says,
"with the measure you weigh up for others it will be measured for you"
and as long as we act in love for ourselves and our fellow humanbeings, we do the work of God.
So, how to behave then if you are initially excluded, if the way that you love is not only unacceptable but a sin so great it is a as a cancer in the body of society, according to some.

I remained silent, it's stupid I know and to some extent un-Christian because Jesus says that "the truth shall set you free".
I did not lie, I just did not tell the truth.
Kept quiet and spoke only under my breath if someone asked something about boyfriends or so. In my bisexuality, I could of course choose to show the relationships I had with men, just mention them and everything was "normal". I remained silent in youth meetings and evenings, during the exultant praise meetings and Sunday services.
I had a great time with Jesus and loved to be so vibrantly and personally saved.

However, during all of this something ate away at me. I knew I could not continue to live in this congregation, not if I lied and certainly not if I told them how it was.
Fortunately, summer came and I finished my education and moved from the congregation without the need to come out.

Back home I made the decision to never lie about something in my life that I felt was right. If it was not possible to live in that type of congregation I had done in the past if I was open about everything about me, then I was not meant to. From now on "the truth shall set you free" became my favourite Bible verse and my beacon.

Under that guiding principle I was also "forced" to be true to my faith. Everywhere and everytime my queer orientation and my faith in Jesus came hand in hand. And it confused, not least other LGBTQ-people.
That somewhere along the way, had learned that the Christians were narrow minded and quick to judge. My Christian faith was something very exotic, and my yearning for the Pentecostal sweaty and charismatic worship left people very puzzled. I explained that it was the faith I had grown up in and that this was they way I wanted to celbrate
Yet I find that I often have to defend myself and sometimes even excuse myself for my Christian faith. Emphasizing that even if other Christians feel this or that, it is not my faith. That the Christian group is not at all streamlined but made up of individuals, as much as the LGBTQ movement (which I also belong to).

The Christian Church has a history marked by persecution and terror, the early Christian congregations were forced to hide themselves and to communicate with symbols to avoid the risk of being found out about and murdered. They were forced to hide and ridiculed for what they believed.
That also happended in the earliest days of the Pentecostal Church during the 1920's. The members were called heretics and gabblers and there were psychiatric examinations to assess their health.

Thus, both the early Christian movement, the Pentecostal Church and the LGBTQ-movement share a history (and a present experience)of being persecuted and hated because they chose to follow the only thing that seems important in life, to live being true to themselves and to show love!
For me the common ground is easy to see, even if I did not stand with one foot in the LGBTQ -movement and the other in Christianity, it would probably not take me long to see these similarities

How did I do then?
Why, good, thank you. I stopped being silent. Now I come out about as often as a Christian among LGBTQ-people as I do a bisexual among Christians. Usually the reaction is positive.
But still I havent told my former congregation. I presume they would like to pray for me and I would have to say: thanks, but no thanks, I think Jesus likes diversity because he loves all the children on earth.
I can imagine how they would respond but I do not want to speak about that now.

On passing as ablebodied, and the dangers of it

One of the dangers of being such an ablebodied crip as I actually am is that of being too able.
To not be seen for what I really am. I don't often speak about my struggles with my body and my overall health. I find it personal and private, and plus, I don't want to be seen only as a disabled/ill person.
However, sometimes I am low. Sometimes my body gets the better of me.
Right now is such a time, and I have tried to describe it below.


I dress warm. I drink blueberry soup that my mother bought. I stuff my system full of paracetamol, vitamin C and esberitox.
I believe in natural medicine, rest and heat. In short , I care for my house. My body is far from my temple now. (Rather a rugged registrar's office as the joke puts it.)
At least I am free fom fever and hope that tomorrow will be the worst day, that it is the turning point, so I can go to Gävle and beyond.

It is such a strange time now, as always in spring, I dream about the autumn to come. About a life so burning with anticipiation it blackens my sight. Never about the possibilty of rejection.

Directed with a feverish throat and sluggish thoughts on Monday. It went very well after all. They like me and it feels good. Outlining project ideas and writing in solitude today.

Honestly, I have had a rough time throughout all April, my body has been spasmodic and tired and it has required lots of "pure desire" to do the most basic thing. I would like to go into hibernation for a while. As Grenouille in Perfume: The story of a Murderer, lie there in the cave and sip groundwater until my body is healed.
It costs so much to travel, but I do it because otherwise I would just sit at home and grow in to the escapism.

I am always so happy and driven, it is true.
I manage most of the time, it is true.
I do so much on my own, true.
Manages to walk around in Stockholm a whole weekend, true.
And get shitfaced and dance all night, also true.

But no-one sees me on the Monday following those days. That weekend. When I am weary, weak and aching. The mind wants everything. But the body pays the highest price of them all.
Of course I don't want to speak about this then and there.
In the midst of it I want to run as fast as I can on the streets. Drink wine and dance. I am like that too. But I pay a price none of my friends pay. Pain.

I never dislike my body. But it does irritate me that this is always so inconvenient. The tire and the fever, the throat burning.
That it always happens when I have other things to do.
That I always feel as if I pull out.
Postpone.
Bail.
I want nothing more than to be healty. Have energy and force.

I hope I will be well enough to go to Gävle.
If not, that is okay too. It is not my fault that I am sick.
Not my fault that my body always starts on minus, and never on top.
Meanwhile, I care for my house.

On absolute identies

Recently I performed. It had been a while and truthfully I was nervous about performing a piece so obviously about my struggle with Femme and identity, about the concepts of girhood, womanhood and power.

My audience was blank sheet of paper to me. Mostly middleaged or older, mostly realtives of others who perfomed that same night. I was sure they didn't know much about the identites I "claim", and they didn't know much about me. It was a test, but a healthy one, for the piece and for me.

I had longed to be on stage it had been so very long since I last made a point. Since I last made words into flesh. I am mostly a writer and a director these days. Somehow I see these roles, even though I love them dearly, as passive. I am a bystander, a watcher, a creater of surrondings and ideas which I don't get the chance to embody myself.

I did what I had to do. I wrote the piece entitled "Är det där min kvinnlighet?" ("You call that my womanhood") circling around the ideas what makes a woman rather than a girl.
I spoke about my body, my tits as cupcakes when they were made to fit the woman I was becoming. I spoke about odd bits and pieces wanting to fit all in me. All in the girl and the woman.
I memorized the piece, I pounded it into the walls and swirls of my brain. I took it into my body I accompained it with gestures and movements. I made it into flesh. It was seperat from its text, it was a twin to its text. And I perfromed it.

Not knowing what the audience would make of its raunchy and sexual nature, what they would make of me in my tuell skirt my firey make-up troubled me back stage. But as always, on stage all of that vanishes. I am a vessle. Truly being on stage is a supernatural experience for me.

I realized while standing there, feet held firmly down, head held up, that I took that space. It was mine, time was mine and I could lead it either way I wanted. I was a wizard, a magician of words and bodies, and I loved.

In the audience, right in front of me, were three men dressed as cowboys. They weren't drag-ing or playing with that identity. They were cowboys. It was an absolute identity and they owned it. They knew they were manly men, they knew their manhood was power. I didn't know what to make of them. They smiled when they looked at me, they sniggered.
So I decieded, as I have always done, to focus on them.

I brought them my piece. My raunchy, cripp-femme, power-journey, from girl to woman to a girlie kind of woman. Possesing place and time, turning to them demanding to know:
How about that, is that my feminity?

They were shocked. Squriming in their seats they didn't know what to make of me. I didn't fit their box, I didn't fit their mind. But they smiled, eventually they laughed. In the end they were soft. When I got off stage they YEEEHAA-ed.
Success was mine. The cowboys loved me!

Having wine and left-over cakes with the other performers when it was all over, the cowboys approached me. They wore spurrs making a distinct sound when they moved. Telling us they were coming, taking up space, sound, room. They were daunting, tall and strong. They shook my hand, and they thanked me. Said it was "the best they had ever seen". Then they left swinging their hats they way cowboys do.
(Even though I am a writer- this is the truth.)

Thinking about it now, it's not such a strange thing. My cripp-femme identity is an "absolute thing" to me, close to my heart and something I have put a lot of thought in to in some aspects, and only learned to embodied in others.
The cowboys identity seemed to be much the same. There was a brotherhood between us. A link of understanding between the girl and the manly men.
The sister and her brothers.