Alright here I am again, and I have nothing more fabulous crip-femmish to report. But I have realised I shouldn't go around investigating that ambition too much. Rather, I have med the concious choice that whatever I write from now on is by default fabulosly crip-femmian since I have written it.
As I predicted in the previous post I will be deadly poor this spring, it's not fun and I do believe I am quite stressed about it. But I am sure I'll manage... (if I show up on you doorstep hungry and puppy eyed you mustn't refuse to feed me, okay...)
The cough still lingers, which is very tireing and makes me feel odder and odder, I am quite sure it's nothing more than a very slowly developing cold though.
Otherwise, I am quite at piece. However, I have realised a few new and perhaps not so healthy emotional obsession but for once I will not bring them out into the ether, again I think it's best not to investigate that as much.
Certain frustrations are stil growing and the sense that things are still very far away in this city is ever present.
Yesterday though, I attended a great lecture and stayed on to discuss my Pentecoastal upbringing and my intrest on what that environment does to the children and grandchildren of it's inhabitans.
I also bonded extensively with a older man from my course, we talked about all things, crip, political, narrative and access related. So yes, things are happening in this city, however slowly and perhaps not in the areas where I would want them to.
Anyhow, I wasn't supposed to stay long so to speak, I am off to bed to cure this cold off - and worry a bit about my financial under the sheets.
Visar inlägg med etikett future. Visa alla inlägg
Visar inlägg med etikett future. Visa alla inlägg
onsdag 3 mars 2010
söndag 28 februari 2010
On resistance and success....
I know I said last year that this blog would grow to be less private and more of my comments, on all things femme and crip and fabulous. Yes, I realise that that involves a certain amount of private, but I no longer wished for this space to be the selfabsorbed rant that it was. I wished for my life to get better than it was this fall and winter. And I had great hopes, I really did.
Right now I am not sure though. It could be this cough that I have been draging around with like a wheelbarrow of tiring pain, it could be the fact that I have had to reduce my student loans and that I am financally not safe at all. Or it could be the feeling that there is very little reciprocity in my life. Don't get me wrong, there is a lot of it in some places and from some people, and I am hoping to get remarkably more of it from others in my life. And I am grateful nowadays for all that comes without a fight.
However, last night I reduced was to a wailing mess. There was very little understanding and I felt the pit that I had been in for all of winter open up again. Things are so far away here, I never seem to do enough, or be well or focused enough to do enough. And aparently it's my fault. There is very little understanding of what my body and I need in order to form that team that other peoples bodies form everyday, all the time, from birth. And it hurts the most to be less than understood by someone I imagined would be close.
I have only just realised this myself. How much I need rest, how much I need activities that fit me and make me feel good, how much I need activities in my life that work for me instead of againts me. That invigorate me instead of draining me. I have just now begun to realise myself just how hard I have always pushed myself to keep up, and what a rest it has been to be around people who genuinly understand, especially since the people who really do aren't even disabled themselves.
It's uncomprehendably painful then, to be told
Especially since I have just been out, especially since I had no need of getting out. And you know what it doesn't matter. I have coughed my heart out, I have an exam next week and I will stay in as much as I would like. You see I don't go for a walk all that much, in fact I don't walk all that much, or well, in case you hadn't noticed.
Lately I have been thinking about a wheelchair. I haven't told anyone, but right now I will tell the ether. I haven't told anyone since it is such a lifechanging descion. It will limit me, limit where I go, where I live, who I see and when, it will limit my sense of my body, of agency and saftey and it's a descision you will never have to make.
I am far too nice, I know. I am far too generous, no I am not generous at the worst of times, I am stupid. It's true I am a died in the wool provider, and I care through giving and put others ahead of myself. And it's truly one the assets that I am most proud of when it comes to myself. However, right now I just wonder whenever I will get back, and why it always comes to this, why I work my providing knees to the bone paving the streets with gold for other until I realise.
I don't really have time to write this post though, eventhough I needed it. I need to hit those books again, because you see, yesterday, bawling between the sheets I realised that true work and progress is the best kind of resistance. Success' the only thing I have got, and it will demand hard work, and it will demand prioritizing - me!
Right now I am not sure though. It could be this cough that I have been draging around with like a wheelbarrow of tiring pain, it could be the fact that I have had to reduce my student loans and that I am financally not safe at all. Or it could be the feeling that there is very little reciprocity in my life. Don't get me wrong, there is a lot of it in some places and from some people, and I am hoping to get remarkably more of it from others in my life. And I am grateful nowadays for all that comes without a fight.
However, last night I reduced was to a wailing mess. There was very little understanding and I felt the pit that I had been in for all of winter open up again. Things are so far away here, I never seem to do enough, or be well or focused enough to do enough. And aparently it's my fault. There is very little understanding of what my body and I need in order to form that team that other peoples bodies form everyday, all the time, from birth. And it hurts the most to be less than understood by someone I imagined would be close.
I have only just realised this myself. How much I need rest, how much I need activities that fit me and make me feel good, how much I need activities in my life that work for me instead of againts me. That invigorate me instead of draining me. I have just now begun to realise myself just how hard I have always pushed myself to keep up, and what a rest it has been to be around people who genuinly understand, especially since the people who really do aren't even disabled themselves.
It's uncomprehendably painful then, to be told
Well dont you think you need to get out...?
Especially since I have just been out, especially since I had no need of getting out. And you know what it doesn't matter. I have coughed my heart out, I have an exam next week and I will stay in as much as I would like. You see I don't go for a walk all that much, in fact I don't walk all that much, or well, in case you hadn't noticed.
Lately I have been thinking about a wheelchair. I haven't told anyone, but right now I will tell the ether. I haven't told anyone since it is such a lifechanging descion. It will limit me, limit where I go, where I live, who I see and when, it will limit my sense of my body, of agency and saftey and it's a descision you will never have to make.
I am far too nice, I know. I am far too generous, no I am not generous at the worst of times, I am stupid. It's true I am a died in the wool provider, and I care through giving and put others ahead of myself. And it's truly one the assets that I am most proud of when it comes to myself. However, right now I just wonder whenever I will get back, and why it always comes to this, why I work my providing knees to the bone paving the streets with gold for other until I realise.
I don't really have time to write this post though, eventhough I needed it. I need to hit those books again, because you see, yesterday, bawling between the sheets I realised that true work and progress is the best kind of resistance. Success' the only thing I have got, and it will demand hard work, and it will demand prioritizing - me!
tisdag 12 januari 2010
On here and now
I haven’t blogged in ages, and right now I am not wearing my glasses (it’s something about this apartment, I never wear my glasses…)
Anyhow, I have been home in Hälsingland, it was lots of snow and minus 30 degrees Celsius for more than three days. I saw my family which was lovely but slightly turbulent since a lot decided it had to happen in the days between Christmas and New Year ’s Eve, but all is well now.
I struggled with my DI application for the directing course all of the time I was there and as my computer decided it didn’t want to live anymore as I was in the middle of writing I have just now finished it – some of it by hand, oh my God, and sent it in today.
I try not to think about it ‘because when I do, I only come to fear that I fucked up majorly and that they will laugh at me when they read it. Although I have hope, and I hope that they will see what I envision for my directing work in particular, and for theatre in general. And like that.
So now I am back in Stockholm and the heating in my apartment is a little schizophrenic and doesn’t really know if it should be freezing or sickly hot, mostly it’s freezing though. I am really beginning to think that this apartment isn’t doing all that it should be doing for me in a disability access kind of way, and I hope to relocate this spring.
Future-wise I have really no idea what to do if I don’t make the DI course. I guess I will need to get at job, or enroll at University again after summer, even though academia really isn’t my cup of tea. Blood-less pretentious ramblings at most times.
But I should like to be able to work at my monologue seriously again at some point, and write a lot. So I will try and make that happen.
On directing and the process of that, I long to finally get to work with that Death piece this spring. I know that it will be a slightly stressed period of time for my actress, given the finishing time of her PhD. (How awesome is that? That is so awesome! Go girl!)
And I will try to blog frequently about what we do with that text and the things we explore in our bodies as we bring it to flesh. I am so excited sine I know I will be brutally swoon by that glorious muse-actress of mine every minute of that process and I am not sure I will be all sane from having her working my words.
I do hope for this time in the capital to be freer from stress that comes from just plain living as I have had to worry too much about getting around in this city and living here. As I have now got my taxi card I do hope I will be able to create some more of a social life.
So in short for this spring I long to do what I do best, I long to make words into flesh with one of the most beautiful people I have ever met, I long to make personal sense of academic ramblings, I long to write and escape the mundane the way I have always done. I long to make use of all the facet’s of myself on stage at some point and feel the current of the stage as it throbs in my veins.
And of course I long to descend those crazy stairs to the warm belly underground, and I long for bent necks and girls in neat dresses. To be able to put the color back on shivering pale cheeks.
Well that was that then, some kind of report of how have I been, and how I want to be.
Tomorrow I intend to go shopping for birthday gifts and try and see if I can’t get hold of the taxi card people and see what they are up too.
Survival was my theme before Christmas. Now I do hope for a bit more living.
And for this blog again to not be the howls from the darkest of pits but the crip femme contemplation resistance that I wished for it to be.
söndag 27 december 2009
On this fall
I am not keen on making this, my blog, a place where I wring myself and all my innermost feelings inside out and put them on display.
I am not keen on how this, my blog, has become a pit of the darkest of loneliness, cold feet and doubt.
When it was supposed to be a profound and burning masterpiece on all things fair, femme, crip….
Well, the truth of that matter is this. I am not really okay these days. This has been one of the most bizarre falls in my entire life. I have made progress, at least on the map. I relocated from A to B, from the rural to the anti-rural from roads made from grovel to the Capital, and people told me it was brave and mature and that I was doing something extraordinary, and under my breath I muttered… fuck you… kindly but sternly… fuck…fuck you..
And I made my way, from close proximity with a very fiery landlady and her bratty cat to my own chilly and draughty apartment, made more and more my own, and less and less and anonymous set of walls.
I struggled; I can’t say I didn’t do that. But I kept my head up. And they said I was brave again, and they wondered how I was doing, like really doing…and I whispered fuck….fuck you…kindly but sternly fuck you all…
For a couple of weeks all was blissful between my new four walls. My very own room. Katarina came from Oslo and we indulged in food and drank beer and laughed till we cried like we always have. And she went away again and I was strong, I kept my head up and I was fucking going to make this…kindly but sternly I said fuck…fuck you…
I got straight B’s, I read all my books, wrote all my papers. Drank rivers of tea. Marvelled my own work as in throbbing words on paper, as in striped backs, as in smiles on other peoples’ faces. And I dreamed of lifting that very strong butchy chin and whispering kindly but sternly…fuck you….please let me…
Slowly but steadily and not at all kindly, confinement dawned on me. I was still brave, I was still strong and determined and I still knew how to do it they said.
I remember calling her, telling I could never do it, that they would never pick me amongst thousands and thousands…she laughed in that sniggering manner and said she would have to humbly disagree with that.
But it’s true, the deadline is creeping up, and I am not even halfway there and I am not sure, I am not ever sure I will do it. I worry deeply that I just can’t.
There is only a tiny sea between us, it’s not even a sea it’s a lake. And she came to visit, and she left me a shivering, shattered mess of girl. And it’s pretty much downhill from that, I couldn’t make it out. They said I had been too nice, that I’d given too much, I said I should have listen to my mother…and I still dream of plucking up the courage to say. Fuck you, perhaps a bit unkind and maybe not all that stern, but fuck you…
I don’t remember December much, confinement hogtied me. I remember the 5th of it. A bunker, razzle dazzle, short short skirts, silk blouses, crosses, laughter, shivering knees, success.
Then I think I just slept and slept, and sometimes people visited me. And I made my way out and up on that stage, and transfixed my gaze on to her and her striped shirt was the most gorgeous shirt I had ever…. And she said, were you nervous? And I said no… and they said I was brave, and I was strong and determined and I filled my lungs with victory and held my tongue…fuck…no …bless you, kindly but sternly…bless you.
Now I am back at point A and last night I was snowed in at my cousins house, and all was warm and funny, and we spoke of my grandfather who would have been a 93 years old yesterday, and I told them how much I worried and they didn’t understand why, because people very rarely do… and didn’t care about they fact that they didn’t get it….
I am back up tomorrow. Because I am always back up, bouncy me, right? And I am not giving up now. Because that would mean that this fall the most odd and heart-sickening of falls would be it, and that’s not fair! I am worth a lot more as any last chapter of anything….
I am not keen on how this, my blog, has become a pit of the darkest of loneliness, cold feet and doubt.
When it was supposed to be a profound and burning masterpiece on all things fair, femme, crip….
Well, the truth of that matter is this. I am not really okay these days. This has been one of the most bizarre falls in my entire life. I have made progress, at least on the map. I relocated from A to B, from the rural to the anti-rural from roads made from grovel to the Capital, and people told me it was brave and mature and that I was doing something extraordinary, and under my breath I muttered… fuck you… kindly but sternly… fuck…fuck you..
And I made my way, from close proximity with a very fiery landlady and her bratty cat to my own chilly and draughty apartment, made more and more my own, and less and less and anonymous set of walls.
I struggled; I can’t say I didn’t do that. But I kept my head up. And they said I was brave again, and they wondered how I was doing, like really doing…and I whispered fuck….fuck you…kindly but sternly fuck you all…
For a couple of weeks all was blissful between my new four walls. My very own room. Katarina came from Oslo and we indulged in food and drank beer and laughed till we cried like we always have. And she went away again and I was strong, I kept my head up and I was fucking going to make this…kindly but sternly I said fuck…fuck you…
I got straight B’s, I read all my books, wrote all my papers. Drank rivers of tea. Marvelled my own work as in throbbing words on paper, as in striped backs, as in smiles on other peoples’ faces. And I dreamed of lifting that very strong butchy chin and whispering kindly but sternly…fuck you….please let me…
Slowly but steadily and not at all kindly, confinement dawned on me. I was still brave, I was still strong and determined and I still knew how to do it they said.
I remember calling her, telling I could never do it, that they would never pick me amongst thousands and thousands…she laughed in that sniggering manner and said she would have to humbly disagree with that.
But it’s true, the deadline is creeping up, and I am not even halfway there and I am not sure, I am not ever sure I will do it. I worry deeply that I just can’t.
There is only a tiny sea between us, it’s not even a sea it’s a lake. And she came to visit, and she left me a shivering, shattered mess of girl. And it’s pretty much downhill from that, I couldn’t make it out. They said I had been too nice, that I’d given too much, I said I should have listen to my mother…and I still dream of plucking up the courage to say. Fuck you, perhaps a bit unkind and maybe not all that stern, but fuck you…
I don’t remember December much, confinement hogtied me. I remember the 5th of it. A bunker, razzle dazzle, short short skirts, silk blouses, crosses, laughter, shivering knees, success.
Then I think I just slept and slept, and sometimes people visited me. And I made my way out and up on that stage, and transfixed my gaze on to her and her striped shirt was the most gorgeous shirt I had ever…. And she said, were you nervous? And I said no… and they said I was brave, and I was strong and determined and I filled my lungs with victory and held my tongue…fuck…no …bless you, kindly but sternly…bless you.
Now I am back at point A and last night I was snowed in at my cousins house, and all was warm and funny, and we spoke of my grandfather who would have been a 93 years old yesterday, and I told them how much I worried and they didn’t understand why, because people very rarely do… and didn’t care about they fact that they didn’t get it….
I am back up tomorrow. Because I am always back up, bouncy me, right? And I am not giving up now. Because that would mean that this fall the most odd and heart-sickening of falls would be it, and that’s not fair! I am worth a lot more as any last chapter of anything….
söndag 22 november 2009
On paralysation
This is not what I have been intending to post here. There should have been a fabulous post on my mother life, or more so the way I picture my mother’s life, a couple of weeks ago.
But then I had to study really hard for this exam, and while doing so let other things slip (i.e all that wasn’t my exam).
And recently I have been feeling quite down from being so far behind on my paper, I feel like I haven’t written shit, it’s true I haven’t and the deadline is Tuesday.
But then I had to study really hard for this exam, and while doing so let other things slip (i.e all that wasn’t my exam).
And recently I have been feeling quite down from being so far behind on my paper, I feel like I haven’t written shit, it’s true I haven’t and the deadline is Tuesday.
I don't know how I ever got to be in this pit, I was pretty chirpy about this all last week. I felt like I was getting my life together finally, I even got the flu shot.
And yes, due to that I had fever and couldn't get out to bed for my Doctors appointment on Thursday and then I was right back on the slope.
Today I experienced, even though I don't like writing it I must, angst. Real angst. I went to lie down for a bit and had set my alarm on my cell phone in order to get up and continue my reading for the paper. And the alarm rang and rang over and over again and I just let it do it. I couldn't make myself to get out of bed. I wasn't tired, and I knew very well indeed how much I needed to write that paper and read those articles.
I felt a sensation I haven't felt for years, that one when you feel like there is carbonic acid in your chest. And I just laid there and felt the tingle of angst in my chest, and there was nothing I could do about it.
So having tossed and turned for almost two hours underneath my duvet and having serious thoughts of just giving up and going to bed for real right then and there, I got up and hade a real late dinner (well, at least by Swedish standards..)
I am intending to make this an early night and try my best again tomorrow. I am not getting a B on this one people. Let’s just pray I hand it in.
I think it’s the theory that gets in the way. I could write a hundred thousand papers on clothing and external objects worn in popular culture that restricts the human body and their influence on the performance of their wearer, if it wasn't for feeling the pressure of always having to reference the most adequate theory that deals with that. Bloody academia, set me free!
Maybe that’s the way to do it, just ramble my heart out and look up theories that fit that later…God, I don't know.
I just hate myself for having procrastinated this so much, this is insane. Truly. I did have an exam for sure, but I have had five days!
I am going to pull it off, of course, I pull everything off. And furthermore, this is just the way November is, and certainly the way it is right now. I am just going to do it.
But I just can’t help but hate the fact that I am not doing as well as I could be.
And I wonder, this city, this new life. It’s has only been a semester and I try to convince myself of that, things will pick up, things will be working later. Still….
Ah, never mind, never mind. I should go to bed now, and try not to be paralysed by the mind any longer.
Saviour visit Thy plantation
Grant us Lord a gracious rain
All will come desolation unless Thou return again
Lord revive us, Lord revive us all our help must come from Thee
Keep no longer at a distance
Shine upon us from on high
Lest oh Lord of Thy assistance every plant shall droop and die
Lord revive us, Oh revive all our help must come from Thee
tisdag 13 oktober 2009
On crip concentration
I am trying to concentrate. Trying my best to write a paper of the notions of dressed and dressed up. It is going very slow, I have all week but I wanted to have it done by now.
The reason it’s slow is not my own, I have read up on all the literature I have made an outline, and I have written half of it already. No, it’s not me; it’s what’s around me these days.
You see a concentrating as a crip demands a different kind of attitude then concentrating overall. Right now I need to concentrate despite being confined in this apartment until I get my new taxi card, which I so slow I haven’t even gotten to sending in the applications yet. You see, before I actually do that I need a medical permit, and to get that medical permit I need to go see a doctor, and to see a doctor I need to leave the house, and yes when leaving the house I might need a taxi-card.
I have arranged things with my PA’s so that I at least can get my self to and from University for my lectures. Otherwise I have no idea. And all the people I call and ask about this, the people I assume should know how things work and be able to give me straight answers about when and how and why and where, they seem to know just as much as me or even less.
It always puzzles me how they can say things that are so bizarre you wonder if your life is a sitcom or it the person on the other side is an alien with no manners whatsoever.
Now follow, an authentic conversation just had today…
What in heavens name is that! Well know I don’t know what to do when a hurricane hits, you know we don’t get that often. Oh you say you’re dying, oh well that has never happened before.
You are saying you are unable to leave your apartment other than together with your PA’s and only at the times that you have scheduled them to come and pick you up…oh well, you are saying there is from now on no spontaneity in your life. You worry about being isolated. Well you see, I couldn’t help you even with the simplest questions about that, people don’t move here often so I wouldn’t know.
Well, let me tell you why people don’t move here often. It’s because this bureaucracy of Babylon is a set of bondage ropes around my shivering arms, it’s because you cripple me and make me invalid. You make sure my studies are not worthwhile, you make sure my concentration is lacking since I need to take breaks to cry and scream with worry.
You make me question if my time is well spent in this city when there is nothing but trouble here. You make me stare at this screen at the black words hammered down on the electronic whiteness through a haze of tears and anguish.
I am not built for this, I worry too much anyway. My heart is that of a rabbits, jumping quickly under collar bone. My constitution is one in need of safety and warmth. Uncertainty makes me ill.
Somewhere I do realise that this is a dam breaking. I haven’t cried about any of the hardships I have encountered since I moved here, I have only pondered through stoically, so I should have seen it coming now. When am partially safe in my own home and most of the things work out for me, then there is a space for me to crash like this.
I came to this town with visions, and I do still keep them. I am sorry Babylon but there is now way in which you will break me. I know you aspire to do that, even if you haven’t verbalized it for yourselves yet.
You think that crip girls like me are satisfied with little. Well, dearest Babylon – listen up when I say I am never satisfied. That is also part of my constitution. That of the escapist dreamer who saw herself dressed in Victorian velvet walking through the vast room of a mansion when she grew up. You say that is way too much. You say I should settle in with a day job and a few swims in the heated disabled people’s pool for leisure activities.
I say give me that mansion. Give me that an apartment in the city. Give me spaces to write and perform within. Give me my lovers’ heated kisses on my neck, give me the traces of my presceans across their bodies. Give me whisky; give me the force of darn good song. Give me the softness of tea and milk and the warmth of my army.
Give me all the heavy scented perfumes there ever was in the world.
GIVE ME MY LEATHER!
Bless my family, my army, my muses and my flexible PA’s when all is madness as it so now.
And I know there are loving people above me, who brush away the clouds gently as they look down, there is a face that looks like mine, there is curly hair and swelling hearts and there is a great uncle.
Who looks at me as he smiles, because he knows what fighting is, and perhaps he wished he could have gotten all that I have know. I wish I could have met him, we could have sang songs; he could have told me it was going to be hard, this crippled life.
But now, as she his fringe falls in his eyes, and I recognize the shape of my own lips on his face I know that he’s saying.
På dôm lisch jänta!
(Go get them little girl!)
The reason it’s slow is not my own, I have read up on all the literature I have made an outline, and I have written half of it already. No, it’s not me; it’s what’s around me these days.
You see a concentrating as a crip demands a different kind of attitude then concentrating overall. Right now I need to concentrate despite being confined in this apartment until I get my new taxi card, which I so slow I haven’t even gotten to sending in the applications yet. You see, before I actually do that I need a medical permit, and to get that medical permit I need to go see a doctor, and to see a doctor I need to leave the house, and yes when leaving the house I might need a taxi-card.
I have arranged things with my PA’s so that I at least can get my self to and from University for my lectures. Otherwise I have no idea. And all the people I call and ask about this, the people I assume should know how things work and be able to give me straight answers about when and how and why and where, they seem to know just as much as me or even less.
It always puzzles me how they can say things that are so bizarre you wonder if your life is a sitcom or it the person on the other side is an alien with no manners whatsoever.
Now follow, an authentic conversation just had today…
I: But how do I make this work? I am stranded in my apartment otherwise!
Bureaucracy of Babylon: Well I don’t know, people don’t move here often…..
What in heavens name is that! Well know I don’t know what to do when a hurricane hits, you know we don’t get that often. Oh you say you’re dying, oh well that has never happened before.
You are saying you are unable to leave your apartment other than together with your PA’s and only at the times that you have scheduled them to come and pick you up…oh well, you are saying there is from now on no spontaneity in your life. You worry about being isolated. Well you see, I couldn’t help you even with the simplest questions about that, people don’t move here often so I wouldn’t know.
Well, let me tell you why people don’t move here often. It’s because this bureaucracy of Babylon is a set of bondage ropes around my shivering arms, it’s because you cripple me and make me invalid. You make sure my studies are not worthwhile, you make sure my concentration is lacking since I need to take breaks to cry and scream with worry.
You make me question if my time is well spent in this city when there is nothing but trouble here. You make me stare at this screen at the black words hammered down on the electronic whiteness through a haze of tears and anguish.
I am not built for this, I worry too much anyway. My heart is that of a rabbits, jumping quickly under collar bone. My constitution is one in need of safety and warmth. Uncertainty makes me ill.
Somewhere I do realise that this is a dam breaking. I haven’t cried about any of the hardships I have encountered since I moved here, I have only pondered through stoically, so I should have seen it coming now. When am partially safe in my own home and most of the things work out for me, then there is a space for me to crash like this.
I came to this town with visions, and I do still keep them. I am sorry Babylon but there is now way in which you will break me. I know you aspire to do that, even if you haven’t verbalized it for yourselves yet.
You think that crip girls like me are satisfied with little. Well, dearest Babylon – listen up when I say I am never satisfied. That is also part of my constitution. That of the escapist dreamer who saw herself dressed in Victorian velvet walking through the vast room of a mansion when she grew up. You say that is way too much. You say I should settle in with a day job and a few swims in the heated disabled people’s pool for leisure activities.
I say give me that mansion. Give me that an apartment in the city. Give me spaces to write and perform within. Give me my lovers’ heated kisses on my neck, give me the traces of my presceans across their bodies. Give me whisky; give me the force of darn good song. Give me the softness of tea and milk and the warmth of my army.
Give me all the heavy scented perfumes there ever was in the world.
GIVE ME MY LEATHER!
Bless my family, my army, my muses and my flexible PA’s when all is madness as it so now.
And I know there are loving people above me, who brush away the clouds gently as they look down, there is a face that looks like mine, there is curly hair and swelling hearts and there is a great uncle.
Who looks at me as he smiles, because he knows what fighting is, and perhaps he wished he could have gotten all that I have know. I wish I could have met him, we could have sang songs; he could have told me it was going to be hard, this crippled life.
But now, as she his fringe falls in his eyes, and I recognize the shape of my own lips on his face I know that he’s saying.
På dôm lisch jänta!
(Go get them little girl!)
lördag 3 oktober 2009
On laziness...
Instead of getting to that read-athon I had planned for now, I figured I would have some more of this delicious brown sugar-cinnamon coffee and write a blog post.
I realised I hadn’t blogged in quite a while. There has been a couple of rushing weeks, I needed to study for a written exam and settle a few PA related issues, as well as hang around with great people and have some great talks and so.
But nowadays I enjoy solitude in my own apartment on Cherry Road, in the middle of the upper-class area Östermalm. It’s rather silly, these apartment are not jolly at all, and if I had a choice I would live further out of the city and enjoy a bit more of good grocery stores and green areas. But I love how close my apartment is to University, and how I walk by these beautiful 19th century houses just when I go out to by milk. Buying said milk is not as cheap as I would have wished though. My plan for now is to look around and see where the closest and cheapest store is for further life in this up-town hood not to ruin me.
My PA’s are so far a very good bunch of brainy and sweet girls. There is one them who still haven’t worked with me, the gorgeous butchy one, I am not sure about just how I will react around her. My God she is hot!
From my “kitchen window” I look out over the lovely yellow and terracotta 19th century houses with massive poise and French balconies they sigh under blushing evening skies as I write. This morning I so smoking coming out of it’s chimneys, I assumed there was a stove being lit. My mind wanders to my writing and the semi-Victorian realm. I have neglected that a lot lately, but I am thinking I will get to it tonight.
After I have finally read through all that I need to read through. It is a good thing I am a good reader when apparently I am an incurably lazy schoolgirl. Next week is going to be a bit of rush too; I am having lots of lovely visitors. So I will really need to read through all these texts now in order to be able to spend time with them.
The rural matriarchy has paid a quick visit too, my mother and my aunt came here for Thursday day and evening, it was lovely to see them but I really wished there could have been more time.
Even if so, I still don’t feel isolated. Being just by myself is lovely for now. It gives my imagination the space it needs to twist and turn and wobble in my mind. To stretch itself and widen as think about what to do with myself.
Time moves really quickly here though, it feels like I have only just got here and it feels like I have been here for a hundred days. But I guess I live here now, for real.
My aunt asked me on Thursday, how long I would live in Stockholm? I said I didn’t know, but I couldn’t see myself having kids in this city.
So ‘til I get knocked up I’ll be here. Inshaallah!
Now, even though I really don’t want to. I must read.
I realised I hadn’t blogged in quite a while. There has been a couple of rushing weeks, I needed to study for a written exam and settle a few PA related issues, as well as hang around with great people and have some great talks and so.
But nowadays I enjoy solitude in my own apartment on Cherry Road, in the middle of the upper-class area Östermalm. It’s rather silly, these apartment are not jolly at all, and if I had a choice I would live further out of the city and enjoy a bit more of good grocery stores and green areas. But I love how close my apartment is to University, and how I walk by these beautiful 19th century houses just when I go out to by milk. Buying said milk is not as cheap as I would have wished though. My plan for now is to look around and see where the closest and cheapest store is for further life in this up-town hood not to ruin me.
My PA’s are so far a very good bunch of brainy and sweet girls. There is one them who still haven’t worked with me, the gorgeous butchy one, I am not sure about just how I will react around her. My God she is hot!
From my “kitchen window” I look out over the lovely yellow and terracotta 19th century houses with massive poise and French balconies they sigh under blushing evening skies as I write. This morning I so smoking coming out of it’s chimneys, I assumed there was a stove being lit. My mind wanders to my writing and the semi-Victorian realm. I have neglected that a lot lately, but I am thinking I will get to it tonight.
After I have finally read through all that I need to read through. It is a good thing I am a good reader when apparently I am an incurably lazy schoolgirl. Next week is going to be a bit of rush too; I am having lots of lovely visitors. So I will really need to read through all these texts now in order to be able to spend time with them.
The rural matriarchy has paid a quick visit too, my mother and my aunt came here for Thursday day and evening, it was lovely to see them but I really wished there could have been more time.
Even if so, I still don’t feel isolated. Being just by myself is lovely for now. It gives my imagination the space it needs to twist and turn and wobble in my mind. To stretch itself and widen as think about what to do with myself.
Time moves really quickly here though, it feels like I have only just got here and it feels like I have been here for a hundred days. But I guess I live here now, for real.
My aunt asked me on Thursday, how long I would live in Stockholm? I said I didn’t know, but I couldn’t see myself having kids in this city.
So ‘til I get knocked up I’ll be here. Inshaallah!
Now, even though I really don’t want to. I must read.
måndag 14 september 2009
On this morning....
Good morning Capital, good morning blog. It’s a rather pretty sunshiny day. I am chirpy even though I slept four hours or so. I woke up by the door slamming and Landlady returning from the shops, in a white moment of fear I worried it was eleven o’clock or so. She said it was about twenty minutes past eight. And since then I have been up.
Even though we do disagree about my identity, even more so after discussions on femme and crip that took place yesterday, I really like living with her.
Even more I enjoy that she is (it seems) the only one unable to see my femme identity as a valid identity. I am glad so many glorious brainy femmes cover my back.
The time difference between Stockholm and London made things rather late last night, but so much fun had. And I am delighted to see that the much overdue episode of Fishy Femme Fiction is still coveted. And I’ll take images of close proximity muses with me all over today. I am sure I will be a smiling girl indeed.
In fact I am thinking my martial arts muses need to fight each other at some point. Oh, come on girls! It could be my birthday treat, please? Or for Christmas or New Year’s or whenever, any day is a partying day, right?
I am going back up north on Wednesday. I look forward to seeing my parents and my brother and his family. I long to see those mountains again, to breathe air free from smog. And travel through a country that is my heart, were the roads are my veins and arteries. Those roads are inside my skin now, dirt roads and crackling paving. The house. The strong tall trees that grow around these people for protection that protected me as I grew up.
I long for my father’s language, his storytelling. My mother’s fiery comments and loud laughter. My aunts’ care. Jesus. My grandmothers just steps behind me wherever I go.
I’ll rest when I am home, I might crash for real. I need to read a lot though. I figured I’d do most of it on the bus on Wednesday; four hours should get me far I think. I need to write a lot too. I wonder if I shall bring this laptop or if my parents stationary will do? Am I greedy if I want a tiny computer for my writing? Perhaps not. But I am not rich these days. For Christmas?
I have realised I need to write more cohesively in Swedish as well. As I have said earlier in this blog I have existed mostly in English these days. It’s nice, but of course a bit distancing at times. Even though it’s a language that’s close to heart it is not mine, as such.
I’ll need to work on that “Jesus-piece” for the stage too. That’ll be in Swedish so that will be good. I am thinking it’s well needed. The Pentecostal woman is all you never thought she would be. Indeed. Or more so I am perhaps.
I should get dressed now. I need to ‘femme up’ especially since I am having a meeting with a PA agency this afternoon. Two potential girls for me to interview, I really hope they want to work with me. My personal ass.’s as Kicko would say.
After the meeting I’ll have to sit around at Uni for ever to wait for my lecture. The taxi cards are a bit confining when they run low. I need to get hold of that man today too. Wish me luck.
Watch out for me while I am in you today Capital. I think I might like you now.
Even though we do disagree about my identity, even more so after discussions on femme and crip that took place yesterday, I really like living with her.
Even more I enjoy that she is (it seems) the only one unable to see my femme identity as a valid identity. I am glad so many glorious brainy femmes cover my back.
The time difference between Stockholm and London made things rather late last night, but so much fun had. And I am delighted to see that the much overdue episode of Fishy Femme Fiction is still coveted. And I’ll take images of close proximity muses with me all over today. I am sure I will be a smiling girl indeed.
In fact I am thinking my martial arts muses need to fight each other at some point. Oh, come on girls! It could be my birthday treat, please? Or for Christmas or New Year’s or whenever, any day is a partying day, right?
I am going back up north on Wednesday. I look forward to seeing my parents and my brother and his family. I long to see those mountains again, to breathe air free from smog. And travel through a country that is my heart, were the roads are my veins and arteries. Those roads are inside my skin now, dirt roads and crackling paving. The house. The strong tall trees that grow around these people for protection that protected me as I grew up.
I long for my father’s language, his storytelling. My mother’s fiery comments and loud laughter. My aunts’ care. Jesus. My grandmothers just steps behind me wherever I go.
I’ll rest when I am home, I might crash for real. I need to read a lot though. I figured I’d do most of it on the bus on Wednesday; four hours should get me far I think. I need to write a lot too. I wonder if I shall bring this laptop or if my parents stationary will do? Am I greedy if I want a tiny computer for my writing? Perhaps not. But I am not rich these days. For Christmas?
I have realised I need to write more cohesively in Swedish as well. As I have said earlier in this blog I have existed mostly in English these days. It’s nice, but of course a bit distancing at times. Even though it’s a language that’s close to heart it is not mine, as such.
I’ll need to work on that “Jesus-piece” for the stage too. That’ll be in Swedish so that will be good. I am thinking it’s well needed. The Pentecostal woman is all you never thought she would be. Indeed. Or more so I am perhaps.
I should get dressed now. I need to ‘femme up’ especially since I am having a meeting with a PA agency this afternoon. Two potential girls for me to interview, I really hope they want to work with me. My personal ass.’s as Kicko would say.
After the meeting I’ll have to sit around at Uni for ever to wait for my lecture. The taxi cards are a bit confining when they run low. I need to get hold of that man today too. Wish me luck.
Watch out for me while I am in you today Capital. I think I might like you now.
söndag 13 september 2009
On northern livings and stories, and muses...
Yesterday morning, or day since I don’t get up in the mornings these days, my actor-wifey-muse My had written a great comment about this blog on Facebook.
I was so touched seeing that she reads my words and that they have an impact on her. It made me miss her madly and I spent most that day reminiscing about the time we spent up-north.
Rambling about the poor quality of our education at the moment, opening up like we had never done before, outlining the future and realizing that there were no ‘plan b’s’.
So, fröken Ström, this is for you:
I miss you.
I miss the miserable sate of our kitchen; do you remember that pan that everything stuck in? Do you remember how the heating system used to howl, that sofa with that iron piece in middle of it, how my back used to hit that as I threw myself down a bit too bravely?
I miss your cooking wifey, I miss that wasabi-lime spice, do they have that in Finland?
I miss the times when you stopped smoking. How the sparks would fly around you, how your green eyes would burn deeply. And I used to giggle. I am sorry.
On that black floor we shaped our dreams. And we spoke about them in that sofa, in that grimed kitchen. We frowned upon the exercises we did, we reached deep within our aching, acting souls…
We marvelled all our odd neighbours, I wonder what happened to them, like Anders? Is he still there, does he still look like he was brought back straight from the 80’s? Has he found love? Does he still eat that crappy food?
And why did he really move back from Australia?
I used to wait up for you when you were at taekwondo practice. You’d come back all bulky, in that white suit and eat with a passion. I had never met anyone which such a sense of routine. I could never beat you to that “let’s break it up, I need my sleep…” thing. You’d eat noodles and I’d ramble, ramble, ramble.
I shaped myself through those ramblings with you, if it wasn’t for those talks that we had I wouldn’t know half that I know about myself now. If it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t have written all that I wrote. It was because I could share it with you that it broke out, that river, that flood of words.
You were my mirror; you were the actress on which I could base my ideas about directing. On that black floor, in that kitchen and that canteen, I saw a vision in your acting. I saw a fire under your skin, and you made my knees weak and my skin shiver with joy as I saw you.
Do you remember the Tudors, the cinnamon rolls? How we fattened up when you could practice and we just ate and rambled.
Do you remember all that red wine that would make our hearts widen? Do you remember my speakers and your mp3-player? The chilly winds under our coats as we smoked on the balcony? The drunken kisses.
My notes on your door? That I made coffee while you crept out through the corridor, your brain shattered by that hang-over?
The snow. The silence. The Nordic light. How I used to read you scary stories from the Bible.
My name is legion, ‘because we are many….
Spring. Dreams of Finland of, dreams of leaving. Your cargo pants. My dresses.
“Oh wear that one your daddy brought, the chequered one”
(Haha, aww! Sweet you!)
You brought me back from that ‘acting is dirty’ crash. You told me that it was beauty, pure beauty.
I missed you when you returned to Malmö to do those tests, I was sure you were back in bad habits when you got back, all skinny and sun-kissed and happy. But love had touched ground.
I still keep that poem you wrote me, as you studied me on the floor, do you remember that night? One of the best, we played cards. You wrote about me, you wrote about the veil that covered me. That my beauty was only for certain people to see.
Do you remember you used to unzip my dress when I couldn’t do it myself?
The manly men would give us puzzled looks as you’d follow me to that. Do you remember you’d say that hugging me made you feel huge and tiny at the same time? Do you remember you and me and Isak all those nights?
You two were my test, and you assured me I had done well. That I actually could make words into flesh.
You remember we still have stuff do to, don’t you? We still have projects to work out; I still want to direct you again, and again, and again. You still need to cook for me again. I still need to share cigarettes and sips of deep red wine with you. I still need to look into your eyes as they glisten from sedation. I still need to see you on stage ‘til I die.
I know you’re busy, and calling is expensive. I hope you take care. I have mailed that letter now but it will take a few days. I hope you feel you’re doing all the best you can in a good place. I hope your fire burns as deep as ever.
And if you ever feel the need to quit smoking, please tell me and I’ll tell all your new classmates what they can await. ;)
But more importantly, fröken Ström, remember I love with all my heart. Remember those days of work and evenings of talking; remember the yogi-tea and the chocolate. Remember what we made then, the land that we measured and mapped, the rooms we built, the stories we shared, and the stories we wrote and acted.
The stories we lived.
I was so touched seeing that she reads my words and that they have an impact on her. It made me miss her madly and I spent most that day reminiscing about the time we spent up-north.
Rambling about the poor quality of our education at the moment, opening up like we had never done before, outlining the future and realizing that there were no ‘plan b’s’.
So, fröken Ström, this is for you:
I miss you.
I miss the miserable sate of our kitchen; do you remember that pan that everything stuck in? Do you remember how the heating system used to howl, that sofa with that iron piece in middle of it, how my back used to hit that as I threw myself down a bit too bravely?
I miss your cooking wifey, I miss that wasabi-lime spice, do they have that in Finland?
I miss the times when you stopped smoking. How the sparks would fly around you, how your green eyes would burn deeply. And I used to giggle. I am sorry.
On that black floor we shaped our dreams. And we spoke about them in that sofa, in that grimed kitchen. We frowned upon the exercises we did, we reached deep within our aching, acting souls…
We marvelled all our odd neighbours, I wonder what happened to them, like Anders? Is he still there, does he still look like he was brought back straight from the 80’s? Has he found love? Does he still eat that crappy food?
And why did he really move back from Australia?
I used to wait up for you when you were at taekwondo practice. You’d come back all bulky, in that white suit and eat with a passion. I had never met anyone which such a sense of routine. I could never beat you to that “let’s break it up, I need my sleep…” thing. You’d eat noodles and I’d ramble, ramble, ramble.
I shaped myself through those ramblings with you, if it wasn’t for those talks that we had I wouldn’t know half that I know about myself now. If it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t have written all that I wrote. It was because I could share it with you that it broke out, that river, that flood of words.
You were my mirror; you were the actress on which I could base my ideas about directing. On that black floor, in that kitchen and that canteen, I saw a vision in your acting. I saw a fire under your skin, and you made my knees weak and my skin shiver with joy as I saw you.
Do you remember the Tudors, the cinnamon rolls? How we fattened up when you could practice and we just ate and rambled.
Do you remember all that red wine that would make our hearts widen? Do you remember my speakers and your mp3-player? The chilly winds under our coats as we smoked on the balcony? The drunken kisses.
My notes on your door? That I made coffee while you crept out through the corridor, your brain shattered by that hang-over?
The snow. The silence. The Nordic light. How I used to read you scary stories from the Bible.
My name is legion, ‘because we are many….
Spring. Dreams of Finland of, dreams of leaving. Your cargo pants. My dresses.
“Oh wear that one your daddy brought, the chequered one”
(Haha, aww! Sweet you!)
You brought me back from that ‘acting is dirty’ crash. You told me that it was beauty, pure beauty.
I missed you when you returned to Malmö to do those tests, I was sure you were back in bad habits when you got back, all skinny and sun-kissed and happy. But love had touched ground.
I still keep that poem you wrote me, as you studied me on the floor, do you remember that night? One of the best, we played cards. You wrote about me, you wrote about the veil that covered me. That my beauty was only for certain people to see.
Do you remember you used to unzip my dress when I couldn’t do it myself?
The manly men would give us puzzled looks as you’d follow me to that. Do you remember you’d say that hugging me made you feel huge and tiny at the same time? Do you remember you and me and Isak all those nights?
You two were my test, and you assured me I had done well. That I actually could make words into flesh.
You remember we still have stuff do to, don’t you? We still have projects to work out; I still want to direct you again, and again, and again. You still need to cook for me again. I still need to share cigarettes and sips of deep red wine with you. I still need to look into your eyes as they glisten from sedation. I still need to see you on stage ‘til I die.
I know you’re busy, and calling is expensive. I hope you take care. I have mailed that letter now but it will take a few days. I hope you feel you’re doing all the best you can in a good place. I hope your fire burns as deep as ever.
And if you ever feel the need to quit smoking, please tell me and I’ll tell all your new classmates what they can await. ;)
But more importantly, fröken Ström, remember I love with all my heart. Remember those days of work and evenings of talking; remember the yogi-tea and the chocolate. Remember what we made then, the land that we measured and mapped, the rooms we built, the stories we shared, and the stories we wrote and acted.
The stories we lived.
lördag 12 september 2009
On making it here and everywhere...
It’s eight minuets past midnight. I should go to bed since I have been getting very little and odd sleep lately. Landlady is dozing of in her bed beside me, there’s some odd film on the 1920’s depression on TV.
I have been up reading through old diary posts. I have done that a lot lately, reading through writing in Swedish since I feel like I need to regain some kind of power over that language again. Hence, writing this blog in English right now might not be constructive. But I think it’s cause I have moved, extended my roots to an environment I don’t know if I’ll find my place in after all, that brings me to expressing myself mostly in a foreign (…but perhaps not as foreign…) language.
My progress in this town has been great. I now have a fully furnished apartment which I move in to on the 21st. Next week I have a meeting with two girls that will hopefully be my new PA’s. I feel like I am on top of Uni for the most part. As always I struggle with my body but it seems alright even though I am in rough state right now.
I get along surprisingly well with Ulrika, my landlady. I have come to see so many great qualities in her during the time we have spent together. And I am getting quite sad about the fact that I am moving out and won’t be seeing her as much.
Still, I know it will be great to have my own place. To try and make a routine that will work for me and to spread my winds in this city.
To return to what my initial point was with all this though. As I have read through my old diary posts I have come to see how determined I have been about all this. Of course there were a couple of projects that I had to get rid of this year, for example that monologue didn’t happen. But it is alive and well and I will play it.
But over all I managed to write a lot, I worked my ass of as an artistic leader for a group that was so messy I tore my hair for the most part and didn’t think they liked me. Then I met a few of them in a clothing store up north, just before moving here, and they were ecstatic about my work. Telling me I had lit fires, opened their eyes, made them feel safe!
I long to do that again. I long to work and it feels good that I have been able to keep certain ideas and projects running in peoples minds even though we have been far away from each other. At a distance I have tented to what I know call my ‘home’ in this city. A social sphere of people I know cherish me, and I cherish them. Due to everything being a bit hectic since I got here, I haven’t had time to see them all. But I am really longing to see all of them soon. And bringing them together in my new home.
I guess I mostly started writing this post because I needed to spell it out for myself. To wrap my head around the fact that I am actually here, and I have made it possible to stay here. It is not a spur of luck, although a few things might have to do with luck or more so things coming together at just the right time to make my life work. I did, and I am keeping on doing it.
Anyhow, I should get that sleep now.
And for the record.
I did it- STEEEEINWWWAAAAAY!
I have been up reading through old diary posts. I have done that a lot lately, reading through writing in Swedish since I feel like I need to regain some kind of power over that language again. Hence, writing this blog in English right now might not be constructive. But I think it’s cause I have moved, extended my roots to an environment I don’t know if I’ll find my place in after all, that brings me to expressing myself mostly in a foreign (…but perhaps not as foreign…) language.
My progress in this town has been great. I now have a fully furnished apartment which I move in to on the 21st. Next week I have a meeting with two girls that will hopefully be my new PA’s. I feel like I am on top of Uni for the most part. As always I struggle with my body but it seems alright even though I am in rough state right now.
I get along surprisingly well with Ulrika, my landlady. I have come to see so many great qualities in her during the time we have spent together. And I am getting quite sad about the fact that I am moving out and won’t be seeing her as much.
Still, I know it will be great to have my own place. To try and make a routine that will work for me and to spread my winds in this city.
To return to what my initial point was with all this though. As I have read through my old diary posts I have come to see how determined I have been about all this. Of course there were a couple of projects that I had to get rid of this year, for example that monologue didn’t happen. But it is alive and well and I will play it.
But over all I managed to write a lot, I worked my ass of as an artistic leader for a group that was so messy I tore my hair for the most part and didn’t think they liked me. Then I met a few of them in a clothing store up north, just before moving here, and they were ecstatic about my work. Telling me I had lit fires, opened their eyes, made them feel safe!
I long to do that again. I long to work and it feels good that I have been able to keep certain ideas and projects running in peoples minds even though we have been far away from each other. At a distance I have tented to what I know call my ‘home’ in this city. A social sphere of people I know cherish me, and I cherish them. Due to everything being a bit hectic since I got here, I haven’t had time to see them all. But I am really longing to see all of them soon. And bringing them together in my new home.
I guess I mostly started writing this post because I needed to spell it out for myself. To wrap my head around the fact that I am actually here, and I have made it possible to stay here. It is not a spur of luck, although a few things might have to do with luck or more so things coming together at just the right time to make my life work. I did, and I am keeping on doing it.
Anyhow, I should get that sleep now.
And for the record.
I did it- STEEEEINWWWAAAAAY!
onsdag 9 september 2009
On doubt...
I wrote this while waiting to attend a lecture at University. I guess I was not so chirpy yesterday.
Recently I have been feeling so shattered, and recently it has been so slow. So far from what I imagined it to be.
Recently my skin has been giving up on me.
Recently I have been existing solely in English.
I have fenced myself in by everything that is foreing.
There is a vacuum, I don't know when and how and why.
There is very little respite for me here. I am often just tired, sluggish, slow and feverish. I should get some engery, I should get some chocolate, I should get some love.
I worry about ending up outisde of the system. I worry about becoming lonely- isolated. A shattered piece of glass shivering in bed while the forever ongoing sounds from the road right outside my window just keeps pounding and pounding in my templates.
I worry I was not built for this kind of life after all. That there is a rural failure, built in from birth.
It has soon been a month, I have neglected the fact that I am behind on so many things.
It is fall, and I am detergerating, dying.
Moody, why am I so moody? What is this drive that forces me to exist outside my own cultural frame? There is a certain alienation that comes with posessing these 'abilities'.
I worry that I am fake, nothing but a fraud. Nothing but a dreamer.
Am I only good with words? Only good with the internal and what goes on inside my own head.
I must learn to become a maker, a doer.
I am wondering wether I am only an academic person because I have been forced to. If I read and wrote out of necessity rather than interest.
Where is my body in all this? Where is the validity of physical experinces this? Where are the people, the sweat, the blood, the tears, the laughter - the wailing.
Do I fit here?
Recently I have been feeling so shattered, and recently it has been so slow. So far from what I imagined it to be.
Recently my skin has been giving up on me.
Recently I have been existing solely in English.
I have fenced myself in by everything that is foreing.
There is a vacuum, I don't know when and how and why.
There is very little respite for me here. I am often just tired, sluggish, slow and feverish. I should get some engery, I should get some chocolate, I should get some love.
I worry about ending up outisde of the system. I worry about becoming lonely- isolated. A shattered piece of glass shivering in bed while the forever ongoing sounds from the road right outside my window just keeps pounding and pounding in my templates.
I worry I was not built for this kind of life after all. That there is a rural failure, built in from birth.
It has soon been a month, I have neglected the fact that I am behind on so many things.
It is fall, and I am detergerating, dying.
Moody, why am I so moody? What is this drive that forces me to exist outside my own cultural frame? There is a certain alienation that comes with posessing these 'abilities'.
I worry that I am fake, nothing but a fraud. Nothing but a dreamer.
Am I only good with words? Only good with the internal and what goes on inside my own head.
I must learn to become a maker, a doer.
I am wondering wether I am only an academic person because I have been forced to. If I read and wrote out of necessity rather than interest.
Where is my body in all this? Where is the validity of physical experinces this? Where are the people, the sweat, the blood, the tears, the laughter - the wailing.
Do I fit here?
söndag 6 september 2009
On life just now...
Clear your mind, just be real shallow.
Alright, here is the thing, I am struggling a bit with my other writing and I haven’t written a real update about my life in the city in a while. So, that’s what I am going to do now, for whomever it might interest.
I still share generous landlady’s Ulrika’s one room apartment. It has been very good indeed. I thought it would much worse, and that we would nothing but quarrel. We haven’t had any serious quarrels, but I don’t know how much of that I should credit to not speaking about certain matters.
Even though it has been lovely to stay I think that the close proximity is taking its toll in a somewhat subconscious manner. I sense that I tense up, since I feel constantly monitored and I am quite sure she does too. It’s not that we don’t like each other, just that one needs privacy.
However it’s only a matter of another week I would hope, since I now have my own apartment, a tiny tiny place on something called Cherry Road. It will not be large, but I hope that well furnished and lived in it will at least be mine.
I am looking forward to some kind of refuge there a place were I can rest and reach out from. Where I can schedule my own time and making things work for me.
I long to invite people to my place and drink tea and ramble, I long for winter there, smells of saffron and cinnamon. Christmas cards, decorations, laughter.
I am going there to look at it tomorrow. And moving all my stuff on Wednesday, I hope I have calculated everything right so my things will fit.
Babylon proved to be kind in the end so I am hoping to meet a new PA soon too. In a broad sense all is fine. I am happy about what I have managed to make in the short time I have been here. It has just been a little more than three weeks, so a lot has happened even though I haven’t thought about that so much.
There has been a refuge for me. An apartment with more than one room, where one can eat meat, and were a deep blue sofa, like my Sistah has, will swallow you. The newlyweds Mrs and mrs Krieg have taken me in, and I am so, so happy and grateful for that.
I look forward to make art in this city. I am writing, but I am always doing that, I long to work on my words and that shared reality with above mentioned mrs Krieg. I am thinking it will be fabulous more than fabulous; it will be strong, vibrant, and glorious. Once we get started…
So that’s it. I have cleared my mind. I have other posts planned for this blog soon but I need more time, and some kind of solitude again.
Love people, bless your hearts.
Alright, here is the thing, I am struggling a bit with my other writing and I haven’t written a real update about my life in the city in a while. So, that’s what I am going to do now, for whomever it might interest.
I still share generous landlady’s Ulrika’s one room apartment. It has been very good indeed. I thought it would much worse, and that we would nothing but quarrel. We haven’t had any serious quarrels, but I don’t know how much of that I should credit to not speaking about certain matters.
Even though it has been lovely to stay I think that the close proximity is taking its toll in a somewhat subconscious manner. I sense that I tense up, since I feel constantly monitored and I am quite sure she does too. It’s not that we don’t like each other, just that one needs privacy.
However it’s only a matter of another week I would hope, since I now have my own apartment, a tiny tiny place on something called Cherry Road. It will not be large, but I hope that well furnished and lived in it will at least be mine.
I am looking forward to some kind of refuge there a place were I can rest and reach out from. Where I can schedule my own time and making things work for me.
I long to invite people to my place and drink tea and ramble, I long for winter there, smells of saffron and cinnamon. Christmas cards, decorations, laughter.
I am going there to look at it tomorrow. And moving all my stuff on Wednesday, I hope I have calculated everything right so my things will fit.
Babylon proved to be kind in the end so I am hoping to meet a new PA soon too. In a broad sense all is fine. I am happy about what I have managed to make in the short time I have been here. It has just been a little more than three weeks, so a lot has happened even though I haven’t thought about that so much.
There has been a refuge for me. An apartment with more than one room, where one can eat meat, and were a deep blue sofa, like my Sistah has, will swallow you. The newlyweds Mrs and mrs Krieg have taken me in, and I am so, so happy and grateful for that.
I look forward to make art in this city. I am writing, but I am always doing that, I long to work on my words and that shared reality with above mentioned mrs Krieg. I am thinking it will be fabulous more than fabulous; it will be strong, vibrant, and glorious. Once we get started…
So that’s it. I have cleared my mind. I have other posts planned for this blog soon but I need more time, and some kind of solitude again.
Love people, bless your hearts.
torsdag 20 augusti 2009
On living in the Capital
Here is an open letter to my new home town
Bye for now then new home, look out for me while I am in you.
Love, Kittin.
Hello Capital,
I am here now. But I am sure you have seen me around and out and about in you. I mostly get around in yellow cabs, but it doesn’t make me feel like a New Yorker. You may not have known that but I wanted to live in
I longed to grow up, I long to write whenever I wanted to – and have the chance for others to read it. I longed to walk down a street with red and yellow autumn leaves soaring above my head. To open the door to any kind of room where art happened, to step into the dark of theatre, the serenity of a writers den or the messiness of an artists studio. Then it was just as much the images that those ideas conjured within in me as the actually activity that took place in these spaces, that intrigued me.
And you see Capital, it’s happening now. I am here and I soar in cabs. I get asked to speak my mind at dress rehearsals of friend’s productions and I must say you, dear Capital, spark my imagination. I see people I want to tell about, I hear conversations I want to finish in text. There are places that need to be filled here. There are venues that I can use; there are people who want me to use them.
I feel awaited now that I am here in you Capital. People are happy to have me here. It feels good when actually getting to live here is still hard. Because you see Capital I am still struggling not only to survive here. But to live.
The people I have been in touch with have a hard time wrapping their minds around how I want to lead my life in you. They say:
“What… are you saying you don’t know how your days will be scheduled from day to day?”
“Ah meetings you say, talks about creative processes, lectures, rehearsals….and you want that to be flexible…oh yes…”
I don’t know in what kind of life these people live, if them and I even share the same city. Dear Capital, you for one should know, do we?
I want to ask them if they plan every day to the minute, if they would feel okay with not deciding about their own time.
It’s a struggle, this really is.
But I keep confidence that once all this struggle is over and I have finally settled down here. All will be as I wished. I long to make art in this city. I long to work with people who love me and respect me and se me for who I am. And I know I will…I know that the projects that I have planned and the subjects I want to dive down into with my studying. Thing are coming together really good in that sense.
And I think that is necessary to keep my head up during this time. There is an army for me and it’s a damn good army.
So Capital, for the two days that I have made you my home here a lot of things have happened. Good things and not so good things. I soon have my own home and I hope that once I really fight
I know this is a fight but I always fight – all art is fighting all fighting is life.
Other people have travelled this before, they have made it and I will make it. There are memories from these people sprinkled along the path, there is a history for me, voices produced by throats in bodies with tensed muscles that whisper “It can be done…and it can be done well.”
So for my next meeting with the
Bye for now then new home, look out for me while I am in you.
Love, Kittin.
tisdag 11 augusti 2009
On my army
In my large novel style project ’The Mermaid’, which has rested this summer and rightfully so, I write about the gathering of an army. An army which sets out to fight death. Usually when people set out to fight death in fiction I just get the feeling they are really seeking it. All the dare-devilistic things that people come up with as exciting and assume is living life to its fullest is often just really stupid. Not to say that you wouldn’t be slapping death on its fingers now and then by doing really crazy stuff, but I would guess that’s mostly of out luck.
I have tried to focus the attention of that army that I am building on making the most of every moment and trying to build a collective that would withstand all deaths trials. And I think I have done pretty well in building an interesting mixture of characters that from the outside doesn’t seem to have any thing in common at all (that was also my major theme for the text, to show that even though we don’t think we share anything we all share as much as we are willing to admit we share…) but that ends up beings closely intertwined for one major reason.
They have all suffered loss: Loss of ability or an appearance that they used to have, loss of a beloved or loss of a place or time. Death is the one who possesses all these things, and hence, in order to, not so much regain them but to teach It that It cannot go around nicking other peoples abilities just like that, they set out to fight It.
Anyhow I wanted to say, that as I wrote that text I began to think that it would be really nice to be part of such an army (even though I do have a flare for taking the lead I wouldn’t have to be the rallying force ;) ) that it would be amazing to be part of such force and such determination.
I realise now that I was very foolish in having these thoughts. Since the truth is that I am already part of such an army.
These past days I have realised that even more. Since I struggled to be able to survive in the Capital I began to see that so many people cover my back. That even though I didn’t know if they understood truly what my life has been about they give me proof again and again of knowing just what I am, and loving me dearly for it.
In this maze that bureaucracy is and amongst all the vipers in the grass that the bureaucrats are I know they walk ahead of me and behind me. To smash their machetes against growing branches threatening to choke me and pick me up when I fall.
I am sorry if I am making it out to be like I didn’t trust you to understand me, it is not so! Just that when I deal with these people telling me my disability isn’t major or consistent enough I wonder if anybody sees that within me.
If anybody sees the struggling that this is. I have known all the time that you have, I am just so grateful to see it now. In my time of need.
So this blog post is to be about my warriors. Those who walk ahead and behind of me and the people that have made up the army I longed for but didn’t see until I was desperate for it.
I have already spoken about my brother in this space, but I will gladly speak about him again. My brother Carsten and his fiancée Emma deserve all the credit they can ever get for always sticking by me and telling me to keep my head up. My brother deserves multiple thank you’s for his never ending fire within, for taking time to ramble in anger with me about how unjust all of this is and for keeping me on the ‘take no crap’-path.
The following where already part of my army before I knew I needed one. They are spoken about as a unit because I really think we are.
Katarina, Kicko and Marie. Thank you for always being interested in what I do. For brining forth your righteous anger with me when it’s needed, for helping me lay down my burdens by the whisky-cokes and the throbbing dance floors of tacky bars. For laughing with me and making comparisons to other well known crips such as Timmy and Jimmy from South Park and the magnificent Andy Pipkin from Little Britain (if Andy get’s a PA as good as Lou then I must be okay in the end…)
Thank you for seeing above and beyond my disability but never neglecting the fact that it’s there. Tämmy! TäKåKå!
My soon to be land-lady Ulrika, thank you for opening your home whenever it’s needed and especially in such a desperate time, for allowing me to bring all the mess that this has been into your life too and welcoming me with such open arms. True generosity.
Vata-Sister, Hillevi. Thank you for understanding from just the same spot how important a well balanced body is. Thank you for allowing me to ramble for hours on end about spasms and anxiety. We are so alike it scares me at times, but it’s very comforting to know that whatever I say you have felt it too. Long live the achy-shaky vata-hearts!
Last but not at all least my muses. My and Josephine. (in a way you are all my muses but I like giving people titles…okay ;) )
Firstly thank you both of you for an ongoing feast of inspiration whenever I come to think of you. You both share an aura of force and vulnerability than intrigues me deeply and sparks all my artistic fires.
Thank you My, for all your love and your support. For understanding what the important things are and never minding sharing them. For including me in what’s important to you and cherishing my thoughts and ideas. Thanks for bringing me to lovely places to see lovely people for making me part of their lives as I have become a part in theirs. For believing me when I say that I can do this. And reassuring me when I doubt. For sharing faith and strength with me and making me tea when I needed it the most.
And finally, thank you Josephine. For seeing all the facets that make me up and telling me that they are valid. For bringing a somewhat holy wrath to this fight and offering a very hands on support, for sharing ideas, thoughts and memories and building me up. Thanks for allowing me to be vulnerable when I need to and for seeing the absolute force that is me too. Thanks for your never-ending support of my work and your brilliant witty mind.
I have faith; after all I was injected with a massive load of faith growing up, that we shall conquer this. If you stand ahead and behind me now I promise cross my heart that I will do the same whenever you need me! Thank you again – the academy, Gawd, my parents, and my army!
Xoxo, Kittin! (Timmy, Jimmy, Andy Pipkin, Sally, Anne Bonny!)
I have tried to focus the attention of that army that I am building on making the most of every moment and trying to build a collective that would withstand all deaths trials. And I think I have done pretty well in building an interesting mixture of characters that from the outside doesn’t seem to have any thing in common at all (that was also my major theme for the text, to show that even though we don’t think we share anything we all share as much as we are willing to admit we share…) but that ends up beings closely intertwined for one major reason.
They have all suffered loss: Loss of ability or an appearance that they used to have, loss of a beloved or loss of a place or time. Death is the one who possesses all these things, and hence, in order to, not so much regain them but to teach It that It cannot go around nicking other peoples abilities just like that, they set out to fight It.
Anyhow I wanted to say, that as I wrote that text I began to think that it would be really nice to be part of such an army (even though I do have a flare for taking the lead I wouldn’t have to be the rallying force ;) ) that it would be amazing to be part of such force and such determination.
I realise now that I was very foolish in having these thoughts. Since the truth is that I am already part of such an army.
These past days I have realised that even more. Since I struggled to be able to survive in the Capital I began to see that so many people cover my back. That even though I didn’t know if they understood truly what my life has been about they give me proof again and again of knowing just what I am, and loving me dearly for it.
In this maze that bureaucracy is and amongst all the vipers in the grass that the bureaucrats are I know they walk ahead of me and behind me. To smash their machetes against growing branches threatening to choke me and pick me up when I fall.
I am sorry if I am making it out to be like I didn’t trust you to understand me, it is not so! Just that when I deal with these people telling me my disability isn’t major or consistent enough I wonder if anybody sees that within me.
If anybody sees the struggling that this is. I have known all the time that you have, I am just so grateful to see it now. In my time of need.
So this blog post is to be about my warriors. Those who walk ahead and behind of me and the people that have made up the army I longed for but didn’t see until I was desperate for it.
I have already spoken about my brother in this space, but I will gladly speak about him again. My brother Carsten and his fiancée Emma deserve all the credit they can ever get for always sticking by me and telling me to keep my head up. My brother deserves multiple thank you’s for his never ending fire within, for taking time to ramble in anger with me about how unjust all of this is and for keeping me on the ‘take no crap’-path.
The following where already part of my army before I knew I needed one. They are spoken about as a unit because I really think we are.
Katarina, Kicko and Marie. Thank you for always being interested in what I do. For brining forth your righteous anger with me when it’s needed, for helping me lay down my burdens by the whisky-cokes and the throbbing dance floors of tacky bars. For laughing with me and making comparisons to other well known crips such as Timmy and Jimmy from South Park and the magnificent Andy Pipkin from Little Britain (if Andy get’s a PA as good as Lou then I must be okay in the end…)
Thank you for seeing above and beyond my disability but never neglecting the fact that it’s there. Tämmy! TäKåKå!
My soon to be land-lady Ulrika, thank you for opening your home whenever it’s needed and especially in such a desperate time, for allowing me to bring all the mess that this has been into your life too and welcoming me with such open arms. True generosity.
Vata-Sister, Hillevi. Thank you for understanding from just the same spot how important a well balanced body is. Thank you for allowing me to ramble for hours on end about spasms and anxiety. We are so alike it scares me at times, but it’s very comforting to know that whatever I say you have felt it too. Long live the achy-shaky vata-hearts!
Last but not at all least my muses. My and Josephine. (in a way you are all my muses but I like giving people titles…okay ;) )
Firstly thank you both of you for an ongoing feast of inspiration whenever I come to think of you. You both share an aura of force and vulnerability than intrigues me deeply and sparks all my artistic fires.
Thank you My, for all your love and your support. For understanding what the important things are and never minding sharing them. For including me in what’s important to you and cherishing my thoughts and ideas. Thanks for bringing me to lovely places to see lovely people for making me part of their lives as I have become a part in theirs. For believing me when I say that I can do this. And reassuring me when I doubt. For sharing faith and strength with me and making me tea when I needed it the most.
And finally, thank you Josephine. For seeing all the facets that make me up and telling me that they are valid. For bringing a somewhat holy wrath to this fight and offering a very hands on support, for sharing ideas, thoughts and memories and building me up. Thanks for allowing me to be vulnerable when I need to and for seeing the absolute force that is me too. Thanks for your never-ending support of my work and your brilliant witty mind.
I have faith; after all I was injected with a massive load of faith growing up, that we shall conquer this. If you stand ahead and behind me now I promise cross my heart that I will do the same whenever you need me! Thank you again – the academy, Gawd, my parents, and my army!
Xoxo, Kittin! (Timmy, Jimmy, Andy Pipkin, Sally, Anne Bonny!)
måndag 10 augusti 2009
On my brother, Warren Zevon and I
Below is the song ”My shit’s fucked up” by Warren Zevon.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D2aUJF3gdog
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D2aUJF3gdog
I heard it on the radio yesterday and it instantly stuck. It is by far the best song ever written about having a body that (by age or other reasons) doesn’t work the way you would like it to…
“Let me break it to you son your shit’s fucked up… the shit that used to work it
wont work now.”
Recently as I have been planning my move to the Capital, which has been a very emotional ride, I have spent a lot of time crying in the bath, but equal time being picked up and pepped by glorious friends and family, I have come to think more and more about my body and the illness that it inhabits.
I have found that they way I speak and act, the articulate and verbal mind I have worked hard to gain and take pride in using often clouds the real state of my body. That my physical lacking gets shadowed by the way I express myself… It puzzles me that it doesn’t seem to be obvious that I am disabled. I wonder if my crooked legs and tensed hands are overpowered by my seductively unbuttoned blouses and pink lips. If my frame and my shaky way of walking doesn’t show cause I tell people I believe in
“a Theatre that resurrects and builds a community… that through the
juxtaposition and commonality of words and flesh aims to give all people a sense
of strength and pride. A Theatre that rattles as well as it dazzles...”
Today I met with my brother. We were born three months too early and the lack of oxygen through our underdeveloped lounges to our brains marked us permanently. It gave us a brain damage known as cerebral pares made our legs spasmodic and stiff and our balance poor. Growing up we never dwelled on this. Even though we spent months in hospital and hours after hours in sweaty gymnasiums with out physical therapists. We were happy, smiling and safe kids. Brought up to believe that we lived because of a reason but never sheltered from the injustice that come to those who are different but taught to fight through it. Taught that everybody has a something that is painful in their life, and that it didn’t have to be physical.
My brother is one of those intentional beauties. He’s hot- I can say that because he is my brother. Well groomed and casually smartly dressed in a way that I can only aspire to become. When I saw him today, sheltering his stepson in his tattooed arms and kissing his forehead, I came to think about how we view our disabilities and what it has come to do with the way we view others.
I have often been told I am very ‘Zen’, that I accept all that come my way are not very easily aggravated when thinks are not what I want them to them. I think this has a lot to do with my inability to move freely while growing up. Acceptance of the status quo was crucial for my survival – if I had blown every small thing that wasn’t the way I wanted up and become angry about it that would have taken so much energy.
Being this mindful also made me very aware of my own body. I wonder if my brother and I share that. If he too knows exactly where every stiff spot is, where every joint is when it aches and what every muscles does when it spasms. If he wakes up in the morning feeling run over, with pain rushing through like waves hitting the white sands of pain.
The paragraph above is also something I have been told I do a lot, I write about pain. I write about bodies and dirt and blood, other people say it’s icky and strong. I never see that. Sometimes pain is like an axe splitting your backbone, sometimes is like a pair of hands pulling the joints of your elbow in separate directions until it clicks. It’s not my fault; it’s the way things actually feel.
I have thought I didn’t dwell on my disability. But I have realised now how much of the work that I do that really is body centred, how my disability has given me a fascination of the able-bodied body and what it can do. How that has driven me into directing and acting, how my exploration of my own body and it qualities has given me a greater sense of what is perceived as normal and what is perceived as deviant, and what I ascribe to these two concept. My body has forced me into being still but given me a vivid imagination and an understanding of the written word because of it.
Because of my disability and the way others perceived me due to it, I felt the necessity to well articulate and driven. To rise above what other people saw as the sweet disabled girl. But it’s only recently and from others telling me about it, that I have begun to see the juxtaposition between these two images an how well I use them and thrive on using them. I like to think of myself as a mindfuck. I thrive on not always being what you perceive me as. I love how my awareness of my body and its sensuality succeeds not only in drawing people in, but also in rattling the close-mindedness that I too often meet while out and about.
But recently I have wondered. When being told I am too well to be given a PA when I move to the capital and having to tell people that I assumed knew what my disability meant for me in real life, once again, that I cannot mange on my own. I worry about passing as able-bodied even though it is very very visible that I am not. It puzzles me, and I don’t know what to do. What to change about my appearance and the way I act in order for them to give me what I need to survive. Of course I know that the answer is nothing, of course I know that it’s not a disadvantage that I am this verbal and driven. I know I have fought hard to become that and that it what has made me me. Still I wonder what they want a disabled person to be, who they see when they think of one, and what that person’s everyday life is like.
I wonder if my brother worries about this. If he too worries about the rapid decay of our bodies and if our liking of fitted clothes and dressed up appearances is an act of resistance against death. I know we could do better, exercise more, eat healthier, and sleep better. But we’re not like that, at least not now. Now is all about fighting the decay best we can anyway. It’s about unbuttoning the top button on my blouse before I meet with the municipality’s disability conslour; it’s about marking our beloved deviant bodies with needles and ink, about sheltering the kids that are important in our lives. To tell them what others taught us. Your body is only yours. Your mind is solely your mind. And your life is worth living.
Dearest beloved brother, my darling beautiful.
The paragraph above is also something I have been told I do a lot, I write about pain. I write about bodies and dirt and blood, other people say it’s icky and strong. I never see that. Sometimes pain is like an axe splitting your backbone, sometimes is like a pair of hands pulling the joints of your elbow in separate directions until it clicks. It’s not my fault; it’s the way things actually feel.
I have thought I didn’t dwell on my disability. But I have realised now how much of the work that I do that really is body centred, how my disability has given me a fascination of the able-bodied body and what it can do. How that has driven me into directing and acting, how my exploration of my own body and it qualities has given me a greater sense of what is perceived as normal and what is perceived as deviant, and what I ascribe to these two concept. My body has forced me into being still but given me a vivid imagination and an understanding of the written word because of it.
Because of my disability and the way others perceived me due to it, I felt the necessity to well articulate and driven. To rise above what other people saw as the sweet disabled girl. But it’s only recently and from others telling me about it, that I have begun to see the juxtaposition between these two images an how well I use them and thrive on using them. I like to think of myself as a mindfuck. I thrive on not always being what you perceive me as. I love how my awareness of my body and its sensuality succeeds not only in drawing people in, but also in rattling the close-mindedness that I too often meet while out and about.
But recently I have wondered. When being told I am too well to be given a PA when I move to the capital and having to tell people that I assumed knew what my disability meant for me in real life, once again, that I cannot mange on my own. I worry about passing as able-bodied even though it is very very visible that I am not. It puzzles me, and I don’t know what to do. What to change about my appearance and the way I act in order for them to give me what I need to survive. Of course I know that the answer is nothing, of course I know that it’s not a disadvantage that I am this verbal and driven. I know I have fought hard to become that and that it what has made me me. Still I wonder what they want a disabled person to be, who they see when they think of one, and what that person’s everyday life is like.
I wonder if my brother worries about this. If he too worries about the rapid decay of our bodies and if our liking of fitted clothes and dressed up appearances is an act of resistance against death. I know we could do better, exercise more, eat healthier, and sleep better. But we’re not like that, at least not now. Now is all about fighting the decay best we can anyway. It’s about unbuttoning the top button on my blouse before I meet with the municipality’s disability conslour; it’s about marking our beloved deviant bodies with needles and ink, about sheltering the kids that are important in our lives. To tell them what others taught us. Your body is only yours. Your mind is solely your mind. And your life is worth living.
Dearest beloved brother, my darling beautiful.
We know of pain and monotony we know of dread and bondage in its true sense. We know of deep fires and heavily beating hearts. We know of scars and casts and plastic tubes. But mostly we know of love. We know of laughter you and I. We know of freedom and rushing speed. We know that bodies are but bodies, muscles are but muscles. We know that weakness is needed in order to be strong and stillness is needed for there to be force.
As Miami Ink’s Ami James put’s it “WE FOUGHT TO MAKE, NOW COMES THE FIGHT TO STAY ON TOP!”
As Miami Ink’s Ami James put’s it “WE FOUGHT TO MAKE, NOW COMES THE FIGHT TO STAY ON TOP!”
fredag 17 juli 2009
This day has been really really odd. I think it has much to do with last night future despair, I sat around in this empty manison looking at my messages from Uni realising they wanted me. I looked at all the forms for apartments and PA's that I had printed out and I worried, worried, worried. I worried about not getting an apartment- that all the benefits I had been told I had due to my disability wouldnt do. I worried about the fact that there is pretty little time until the courses start and I know just how tricky all these kinds of things are. It will take time, and I will likely just have done before I start.
I don't talk much about this, but it's true- right now things are unfair. And only unfair because I am a disabled. I can not go down to Uni thinking it will work out, there is no such thing as
"it's okay I can stay a bit with Jane Doe and then see what I can do about that once I get there. For me things have to be:
"Okay, I need an apartmen that is set up to work for me, it needs to be close to Uni and the tube. I need a PA (or several) that work for me and listen to my needs in order for me to study well. I need a taxi card
...and I need money...what if I cant study full time, can I fund my life in the city by other means?"
Because I dont talk about these kinds of things alot with able-bodied friends I dont think about it much myself either. Therefore, I think it has just now struck me. And it makes me so nervous. To think that all these things might not work out and my courses start at August 25th.
I have been in touch with all kinds of people (who of course are on vacation an will return on Monday) and I have done what I can with all of this for now. But still- I am known for worrying a lot and this really eats away at me.
Making vain attempts to put my mind elsewhere I have been trying to write a new chapter for my Fishy Femme Fiction, pretty needless to say it hasn't worked out well.
And that's also why I wrote this post. I needed space to ramble and I refuse to stare at that more or less empty Word document for much longer.
I really do have faith that all these things will work out one way or another. Still, I hate this feeling of being hog-tied by my own disability. I just want to able to crash down into this city and take it by storm.
Now I'll see what I can do about the state of this kitchen, and enjoy another night of freedom in the rual mansion. And I want do write. In opposite to- I will write
I don't talk much about this, but it's true- right now things are unfair. And only unfair because I am a disabled. I can not go down to Uni thinking it will work out, there is no such thing as
"it's okay I can stay a bit with Jane Doe and then see what I can do about that once I get there. For me things have to be:
"Okay, I need an apartmen that is set up to work for me, it needs to be close to Uni and the tube. I need a PA (or several) that work for me and listen to my needs in order for me to study well. I need a taxi card
...and I need money...what if I cant study full time, can I fund my life in the city by other means?"
Because I dont talk about these kinds of things alot with able-bodied friends I dont think about it much myself either. Therefore, I think it has just now struck me. And it makes me so nervous. To think that all these things might not work out and my courses start at August 25th.
I have been in touch with all kinds of people (who of course are on vacation an will return on Monday) and I have done what I can with all of this for now. But still- I am known for worrying a lot and this really eats away at me.
Making vain attempts to put my mind elsewhere I have been trying to write a new chapter for my Fishy Femme Fiction, pretty needless to say it hasn't worked out well.
And that's also why I wrote this post. I needed space to ramble and I refuse to stare at that more or less empty Word document for much longer.
I really do have faith that all these things will work out one way or another. Still, I hate this feeling of being hog-tied by my own disability. I just want to able to crash down into this city and take it by storm.
Now I'll see what I can do about the state of this kitchen, and enjoy another night of freedom in the rual mansion. And I want do write. In opposite to- I will write
söndag 3 maj 2009
On being crip (sometimes not all that hip)
Recently I have been in the Capital and done things that only the Capital can offer for me. I try to make that place my new home in the future, hence I spread my roots there. Make shops, streets and people mine (in the novel I am writing there is a chapter on how to eat a city - if you are ever moving somewhere let me give it to you, it's very useful.) in doing that I try to get to know my future home.
Hence, I used the subway alot. There's a green line, a red line and a blue line. I know alot about the red line, and close to nothing about the green line, this time I tried the blue line since I was staying with someone who lived along it.
It was dreadful. I hate the blue line with a passion so deep I can feel my fingertips hitting the glossy keys of my keypad somewhat furiously. The blue line was very aesthetic - soothingly bluecolored it made me think of the Swedish childrens book Loranga, Mazarin and Dartanjang where one of the characters dwells in an all blue room.
The falsely soothing blue line had lots of elevators, great you say that the Capital provides means of transportation for it's more vulnerable habitants. Hypocracy I say!
In order for a mean of transportation to be useful it must transport its user. The elvators on the ever so soothin (is it a trick, an act to relief tension build up from travelling in such conditions?) blue line did not.
So I climbed, I don't really mind climbing stairs I do it in the comfort of my own home everyday. I only mind climbing them when I know I shouldn't have to. When there has been an opportuinty to move in a more suitable manner, but that opportuntiy is no more.
It's called climbing a stair in this text cause that is what I actually do. I climb the slippery and dirty stairs of the subway up and down, inside and out. My sweaty plams grip the shiny chrome that a thousand hands have gripped before me.
Some of these might have been crooked as my own, hanging on for dear life on to a shiny piece of metal that reflects their hard working face.
The only difference between abled and disabled bodies is that moving a disabled one is work.
Beside me abled bodies swooshed by. Heels tapping the stairs as light as feathers, hands soaring above the infected chrome.
I study them, they study me. My plaited cotton skirt covered in blue roses, the lace knee-highs making their way down my tensed muscles. The somewhat too transparent t-shirt. (This is the femme part of this text)
They have time to study me since my climbing up the stairs gives them that. I only have time to catch glimpses of them. In these glimpses I must make up my mind about them. Who they are, where they come from, where they are going and why they are going there.
When climbing these stairs I find I am on display. I try to make a room where I feel comfortable being displayed. A perfomance.
I try working my body up the stairs with force, I do not shun my gaze when those patting heels and the eyes of their bearers look at me. The situation make me as overt as I have ever been. There is no way I pass for ablebodied right now and there is indeed nothing I can do about it.
Visability has a price, invisability an even higher one. If making everytime the elevators wont work and climbing is a fact a perfomance is the only way to remain true. Do it!
Remember: it is not the body that cripples a crip but its enviroment.
When I have climbed all the way up. I brush my hands on my skirt, draw a deep breath and enjoy the security of my walker again. (Mind you mountain climbing only works if someone is behind me carrying my walker.)
As always my head is held high, my back is a straight as it can be. I make my way through a crowd that will never known I just perfomed to save my life!
Hence, I used the subway alot. There's a green line, a red line and a blue line. I know alot about the red line, and close to nothing about the green line, this time I tried the blue line since I was staying with someone who lived along it.
It was dreadful. I hate the blue line with a passion so deep I can feel my fingertips hitting the glossy keys of my keypad somewhat furiously. The blue line was very aesthetic - soothingly bluecolored it made me think of the Swedish childrens book Loranga, Mazarin and Dartanjang where one of the characters dwells in an all blue room.
The falsely soothing blue line had lots of elevators, great you say that the Capital provides means of transportation for it's more vulnerable habitants. Hypocracy I say!
In order for a mean of transportation to be useful it must transport its user. The elvators on the ever so soothin (is it a trick, an act to relief tension build up from travelling in such conditions?) blue line did not.
So I climbed, I don't really mind climbing stairs I do it in the comfort of my own home everyday. I only mind climbing them when I know I shouldn't have to. When there has been an opportuinty to move in a more suitable manner, but that opportuntiy is no more.
It's called climbing a stair in this text cause that is what I actually do. I climb the slippery and dirty stairs of the subway up and down, inside and out. My sweaty plams grip the shiny chrome that a thousand hands have gripped before me.
Some of these might have been crooked as my own, hanging on for dear life on to a shiny piece of metal that reflects their hard working face.
The only difference between abled and disabled bodies is that moving a disabled one is work.
Beside me abled bodies swooshed by. Heels tapping the stairs as light as feathers, hands soaring above the infected chrome.
I study them, they study me. My plaited cotton skirt covered in blue roses, the lace knee-highs making their way down my tensed muscles. The somewhat too transparent t-shirt. (This is the femme part of this text)
They have time to study me since my climbing up the stairs gives them that. I only have time to catch glimpses of them. In these glimpses I must make up my mind about them. Who they are, where they come from, where they are going and why they are going there.
When climbing these stairs I find I am on display. I try to make a room where I feel comfortable being displayed. A perfomance.
I try working my body up the stairs with force, I do not shun my gaze when those patting heels and the eyes of their bearers look at me. The situation make me as overt as I have ever been. There is no way I pass for ablebodied right now and there is indeed nothing I can do about it.
Visability has a price, invisability an even higher one. If making everytime the elevators wont work and climbing is a fact a perfomance is the only way to remain true. Do it!
Remember: it is not the body that cripples a crip but its enviroment.
When I have climbed all the way up. I brush my hands on my skirt, draw a deep breath and enjoy the security of my walker again. (Mind you mountain climbing only works if someone is behind me carrying my walker.)
As always my head is held high, my back is a straight as it can be. I make my way through a crowd that will never known I just perfomed to save my life!
Now is the time when MacGuywer would have made a cableway for himself using an
old gum and his sholaces. Sadly I have none of his skills.
-From my soon to be finished monlouge "Jonathan!" on surving as a crip!
måndag 27 april 2009
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.
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.
torsdag 23 april 2009
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.
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.)
onsdag 22 april 2009
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.
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".
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?
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.
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