Heartbeats

To my beloved brother, if I had one

2008-06-30T06:05:00.003-04:00

He uses the body to do harm when he is in his periods of sickness. He still is the same body even if he is better; has the same arms and lips that in those dangerous occasions reached for me and poured hatred at me. And he uses the same eyes. His body made it possible to have a go at my smaller body. Didn’t it? Was it only my smallness? He had not eaten or slept much so he was surely physically tired: his skinniness and paleness testified of hours and hours of lack of nutrition, lack of rest. When my father’s body was present there were frightening situations too, but they were not focused on me. He has a bigger, but older, body. A safe body, in a ‘keeping himself and others safe’ kind of way. My little brother had at the time a very small one, almost never targeted by his older brother’s sickly anger. My mother’s body had a similar fate as mine. However, she has also a big body. If it is not (only) size… shape?

"It isn’t only size that provokes anxieties about the body among teenage boys. There is the question of shape (Connell 1983 [1979]:20)".

I have a profound problem with men. There, I have outed myself. I have a problem with not always and constantly being in the critical mode, of always (expected to) being affirmative when it comes to men. Of being endlessly understanding, respectful and nice when my history and my body reminds me of injustices, restrictions, limitations, abuse, violence. In the academia I am not allowed to say these things, not allowed to even think them. Easy equations are simplistic we are taught in feminist courses. The reality is more complex, more nuanced, more dynamic and fluid. I want to stand up and scream: fuck all that! Let’s riot! Let’s hold men responsible for the things they DO! Part of me strongly believes in feminist revolutions, in separatist organizing and sisterhood. I do not, however, stand up and scream in anger. Instead, I sit nicely on my seminar-chair and nod my head understandingly while discussing yet another disembodied text on men – or masculinities as they now are fashionably termed.

Prescription by wise men: separation of mind and body helps. Your brother is not his sickness, the wise psychiatrist tells me. Yet my body feels reluctant, becomes tense and reserved in my well-brother’s presence. Separation between deed and person is a must must, the wise psychiatrist adds. Yet my body remembers past and present violations, recognizing my brother’s well-shame as well as my idiocy of not being able to do away with my stupid stupid anger. There is no body I am allowed to dispose it on. His body is a sick body is a socio-emotionally and hence a culturally protected body. My body is now a distanced body is a materially protected body.

So perhaps target the body of academic work instead? Perhaps men and masculinities – as subject, topic, discipline? Maybe my material anger fits there? I am not allowed to scream. Not literally. I can write my anger, hide it in diaries and let it be the best darn kept secret in the world. Anger should not materialize into kicking and screaming, into torn papers and nasty words, into tears and broken bones. Yet I think I out myself constantly. It must be obvious, must it not? You all looking at me strangely, becoming silent in the seminar (hysterical woman, mad woman). And I go to enormous effort of not disposing myself as the rabid radical feminist. All my energy placed into picking the key board even harder as I feel my temperature rising, my blood boiling. The academic playground becomes my place for anger management.

The wise psychiatrist does not help me/make me wiser. Or my brother. There is no ‘we are dealing with this together’-situation. ‘We are not dealing with this ever, period’. It is literally my body against his in those painful moments. His presence, my shrinking non-presence. His expanding spatiality, my diminishing.

"To be an adult male is distinctly to occupy space, to have a physical presence in the world (Connell 1983 [1979]:19)".

Why did his body catch this sickness? How come he used his body in the way he did to exercise hate? Why hate? Why my body?

"The significance of the body in the formation of masculinity has mainly been discussed, under Freud’s influence, as a question of the psychological and symbolic importance of the penis (Connell 1983 [1979]: 18) ".

"[P]enises are particularly tangible symbols of masculinity (Gerschick 2005:374)".

This is all very well, I think, when and after reading. I put the book or article aside, I might even be a little exaggerated afterwards. Such brilliance! Such amazing analyses! Surely this in itself is revolutionary! So I get a new role model, another bright scholar to put on my growing best of-list. And then… yeah, then what? All this seems separated somehow. From my anger, my initial and immediate experience. It is as if I cannot feel the connection. Or maybe just do not know how to. Or even want to. Suddenly everything feels a bit too enormous to take in. The change always talked about in the final paragraph, the preface or conscientiously put into the text here and there, exactly how should it come about?

Man, male, masculinity.[1] Woman, female, femininity. Concepts Garlick (2003) urges us to use interchangeably. An act of change in itself? And how does this fit into the rigorousity of scientific practice, ie defining in absurdum, and keeping the categories neat and discrete? And all these nice notions of fluidity and non-fixity, of transgressed boundaries and (conceptual) messiness? What if I need some order, some sort of ‘realness’ to cling onto, so I don’t lose track of my goal, my motif, myself?

I started on a paper were my purpose and aim was to disentangle the concepts ‘man’, ‘male’ and ‘masculinity’. I did well, I thought. Had things to say (I always do). Yet, I felt uneasy, untrue to myself. OMG! This crap that I’m producing on the academic assembly line transforms me into a person I’m not sure I want to be. It’s like with sick people who do not want to become well (if we for a moment imagine this as a choice), because they are comfortable and secure in the identity of an unwell. I’m not sure if I want to be cured from my anger. My biggest fear is a state of emotional vacuum, of not being moved, touched by anything, emotionally disabled. Yet, bell hooks once fabulously wrote that “[o]pposition is not enough. In that vacant space after one has resisted there is still the necessity to become – to make oneself anew” (hooks 1991: 3). I guess I need to do this, “become anew”, without forgetting the reasons for me being here, doing this. You guys will keep me on track, right?

[1]Funny thing: this fragmented sentence is not underlined with green in my word processing program. The next sentence is (woman, female, femininity). Explanation: “Fragment (consider revising)”. Irigaray has a point: woman is that which is not.

You are the light by which I travel

2008-06-18T16:27:00.001-04:00

In tracing my own academic roots, I remember my encounter with Feminist Studies (as it then back in 2001 happened to be termed at The Centre for Women’s Studies) as a sort of epiphany. Not merely due to the fact that I for the first time felt the connections to my own life and could identify with the theories/lives that had been translated into text, but also because the itching, aching lump persistently residing in my body and under my skin during the disciplined/ing literature studies suddenly dissolved when I realised the possibilities for a different way of producing knowledge. Gone was the confinement to single theories, solitary methods and obsessions with singular male geniuses! For some years I lived, breathed, ate and dreamt feminism (professionally and in private life), nevertheless, due to various reasons I decided to retreat into the realms of a mother discipline. Although I at occasions found joy and challenge in conventional linguistics, my heart never skipped any beats for it. Like so many others, I genuinely thought that the crosscutting themes I was interested in could not be transformed into an academic career for real – this was echoed by my father’s voice inside my head that I also should be vary of becoming a “fackidiot” [pejorative term for a specialist in a narrow field]. So, the good girl writes her bachelor’s and her master’s, and thinks narrowly about her disciplinary future until an announcement for interdisciplinary PhD-positions in Gender Studies at another university suddenly catches her eyes.

Fast forward half a year (because I was appointed for one of the positions), the task for the course on interdisciplinarity is to reflect upon possibilities and restrictions when it comes to interdisciplinarity. Although in one sense I never consciously contemplated on interdisciplinarity before – I sort of took it for granted – I do recognize having a continuous, perhaps unaware, conversation with myself on the matter. Disciplinarity, for me, was proper science while interdisciplinarity (and hence effectively Gender Studies) was not. Me a doctor in Gender Studies? Haha! How on earth can I ever explain that for my parents (they barely understood what linguistics was)? And all the feminist critique of the positivist paradigm (with all its implications also on the structure of the universities) I had engaged in, contradicted my thinking on the necessity of disciplinary affilitation (cf Lykke 2004). Was disciplinary discipline not in fact a demand for surviving academically – and socially?

I do not think I fully understood what I got myself into when I accepted the appointment I now have. Nonetheless, to remain in a state of becoming gives certain comfort, and allow for openness: to explore, bridge, develop and invent. Intellectual mobility and “messiness” paradoxically brings forth security and stability. The remains of my disciplinary thinking (if I ever had one) rest now in peace. Instead I greet the freedom and inspiration of intellectual flexibility and of being able to think from different perspectives and angles (cf Pryse 2000). My current thought companion bears the name disciplinary reflectiveness (Pryse 2000) and challenges me to deploy several lenses in order to understand and responsibly engage, as well as identify commonalities and differences. I wish to grasp the potentials for building alliances and affinities, but also to remain respectful of possible restrictions and limitations. It is an extensive task, and I hope my companion will never leave my side. She has to continue to force me to be and remain updated, to dig deeper although my time does not allow it, to be always prepared (thank goddess I was a girl guide for twelve years!) and torture me to be specific, clear, stringent and up to the point.

My companion arrives in a time where the commodification of higher education and marketization of knowledge in Sweden has travelled far down the neo-liberal road. The changing nature of both the universities as institutions and the individuals attending them does not automatically entail that the interdisciplinary trend lands in the critical soil it perhaps is intended for. Interdisciplinarity per se is not critical, nor produce criticalness or different thinking, but can with the methodological help of my companion be defended as a strive-worthy mode of producing different kinds of knowledge (cf Gibbons et al 1994).

If, for some reason, my companion decides to retire, becomes fatally injured or, goddess forbid dies!, before I safely disembark in my first haven, interdisciplinarity meets a shaky fate. Everything’s presumed mixability (theories, ontologies, epistemologies, methodologies) is a slippery slope if not used ethically and responsibly. “Messiness”, creativity and eclecticism are, after all, dependent on rigour, order and stringency.

Reading:reverse

2008-04-28T05:03:00.002-04:00

I will begin from the rear end in this presentation. I wish to do that precisely because one of the points made by the author (Kamala Visweswaran – Fictions of Feminist Ethnography, 1994) departs in a belief of a chronology or time lineage to show continuities, divergences, contingencies and restraints. I wish to intertwine my reading story with the review of the book, thus “atemporally” scaffolding my reading and the text. I begin with the words of another critic, presented at the back cover of the book:

Textually innovative, theoretically vigorous, often lyrical, Fictions of Feminist Ethnography is both intellectually provocative and a pleasure to read.
(Dorinne Kondo, back cover on book)

This initial unsettling feeling I so often get when reading non-canonical, visionary and poetic academic work, has once again got hold of me. These initial emotions repudiate all the bright notions I’m sure the author wants to convey. First feeling: What the hell is she saying? (Fierce Anger, at her and me in stereo – why can’t she write more accessible or am I plain stupid?) “This book will enrage as many readers as it will engage”, another critic, Arjun Appadurai, boldly states at the back side of the book cover. Then comes the next feelings: Too difficult, just shut off. So I benignly transmute; at once become blind, deaf, stiff, rigid, catatonic, imperforated. Of course I could read the text again and again. And should. We always say we should, will, must. And then time reminds of itself. The text is placed back into the bookshelf, nibbling and itching on my bad conscience, cursing my reading in-obedience. I move on – spatially and temporally – with parts of the text’s grammatics etched in some remote backpart of my brain, probably finding light and oxygen sooner than I would have imagined.

We do not go well together, the text and I, we are incompatible at this conjuncture. I am tired, she awaits me. She forces me to alter my principles. I cry on red cotton sheets while I receive the shoulder massage I have needed for a week (on days that thoughts of her should not be). I do not understand the unfamiliar references, the language that is not mine, the difficult topic addressed (ch 5 in particular). Her syntax – phrases; syllables; letters – inaccessible. Reaction: tired tears. Language and thought so vex, demanding (time, which I do not seem to possess in the excess needed for proper reading-understanding; energy, which I appear to find so little of right about now; effort, something lacking; motivation, existing but hidden under all sorts of life-junk). Occasionally joyful; impinging; thrusting me to explore prescriptive dictionaries, new semantics trickling under my skin. Favourite word of the month in a learnt tongue (the hold ons, losses, re-f(o)unds – oh yes! I have known you before Mr Juxtaposition and Ms Rhizomatic, siblings of imaginary universes and imploded metaontologies). But you, words, merely touch the surface, fluid and fleeing, leaving scarce marks of nothingness. (Panic panic, what should I say on Tuesday? Why didn’t I read more: earlier, later, before? Good doctoral girl finally in break down, break up with university? I should of course write and present the traditional book review just to prove every conventionalist wrong, that I too, have attained Academia’s writing conventions.) I dream of her, while my stomach cultivates the gastric ulcer my Western social heritage and my fitness lifestyle quarrel over in (de)colonizing (1-0 to WSH). I curse at her for troubling my sleep and ruining my days off.

Time again. Had I had more of it, I would… have read differently. But what if I, just frankly, refused to read? Refused to read in a way designed for doctoral students?

Refused to read, properly? The amount of reading, the form and type of readings? Deferred to read? Betrayed the text, the authors, EVERYTHING? (When does this confusion end, or begin, and where do I enter, depart, arrive or exit?)

I have probably misunderstood everything, been too lazy, disengaged or failed to put enough effort and time in to the task. I have yet to disentangle the various forms of refusals, deferrals and antagonism texts such as these sparks in me. They surely do not stem from the same resistance cells, they do not all say the same things, in all occasions. I’m convinced that the texts are great, they always are. I just can’t see the greatness for all the trees – not now, not here. (Context of reading, reading-story; Richardson 1997, 2000)

Reading in reverse?

Next day. Proper work day, hence propensity for efficiency. Still however, these incompatibility emotions hovering. Birthday breakfast over, full office day ahead. Text in different (new?) light. “Feminist ethnography as Failure” – heart-success!

Maybe it is because I do not (wish to?) understand that I cannot get what she is after. Part of me knows, that part which also is ashamed of my (racial) privileges although it should rather acknowledge and act. It is a reminder of limitations and restrictions: of what I am allowed to speak of, of things I need to do my homework on, of always personal issues of ranges I cannot fully grasp.

Maybe it is due to me being in a continuous critical mode, not actually reading. Constantly countering, rebutting, finding pockets of this’s and thats, buts and rathers. I am not really READING: actively letting the flow of her syntax reach the inners of me, keeping it inside long enough so I can grasp her (pain, joy, sorrows, despair, anger, hope and delights). Keeping her at bay legitimates my refusal to partake, be occupied by and melt into what she actually says. (Then I realize that she has succeeded to engage, to provoke and stir up controversy through her text.)

Two weeks after, hindsight. Emotional reading inflicts emotional writing. Had I not encountered her, this text would not have been. I would not have been. Would not have wanted to become anew. Again. And again. Thank you.

2007-04-13T17:36:00.000-04:00

2007-04-06T13:07:00.000-04:00

I can spend my hours staring at the light bulb in my roof
I can watch her photo-
graphies at the flashy washroom downtown
I can take a chai tea to go
I can write an essay on the semantics of tears
I can buy myself a smile for five more minutes

but I don't
instead I disappear
into whispers, chlorine and reassuring uncertainty

The spring has arrived where you are
while I ride on dim highways to escape swedish sounds

I can barely recall the feeling of gravel underneath my converse's
under my bicycle tires
the taste of sunburnt tears in Bulgaria
the sense of safety
the white furry beauty

I'm moving too fast toward
dryness you real blood summer you sobriety

Why are you not crying big brother?

2007-04-03T18:55:00.000-04:00

Father drives you everywhere. Your tongue is unable to articulate the easier, the harder words, your sight is no longer sharp. Still your body continues being restless, runs back and forth, to places of intoxication, to friends with masculine chemicals, knives and shattered hearts. Father drives you everywhere, father drives you anywhere because that is what father does, has always done. No, brother is not sick. He gets seizures. No, brother does not have an illness. He has bad times. All states are non-emotional, all words derived from semantic universes without Is and yous.

Tomorrow my feet will once again pedal to institutions, hospitals, sterile coats and locked doors. Sudden head aches like flashes from unclear skies. I do not belong to this city anymore, to this time. I wish you could leave too, to another time, city, whatever. I wish you could leave with me (back to your untidy room, to the blue carpet and your Commodore 64).

You can leave during the days. But the nights are married to sleeing pills and surveilled corridors. Little brother is irritated over his lack of knowledge, irritates all over bigger brother (no knowledge shared to the small because we do not exist). What's wrong, why do you not cry big brother?

Through rain and cold. My body is smaller than ever, I have no blood in my fingers. Eyes burn. Skin burns underneath my cold fingers. No one notices if you're tired during the summer, even if you forget to breathe. And who breathes for you, big brother? I can barely keep myself alive.

But do you want to try this language with me?

2007-03-30T20:32:00.000-04:00

You want words that are discrete, right? Definitely defined. Words that can be placed in your ABC categorized bookshelf, where fiction is neatly distinguished from reality. And there are no weeks without weekdays, no golden gardens or lovers who only live for 350 pages. No room for passionate faints, for unreason, for mornings that lasts forever.

How can there be hope if there's no fiction? How can love survive in spaces where there is nothing beyond immediate human perception? Say, do you not wish for something (else than this) for queen and country, for children of the next generation, for yearning hearts and unreasonable passion?

I wish I could sleep
longer in the mornings
at least until the clouds ascends
I wish I had a dog
that never left my side
not even for washroom trips
I wish I had a thinking jukebox
that played love songs all day long
(except on Thursdays
because that is laundry day)
I wish I wouldn't have to
wake up with heartache
or at least not the subtle kind

I wish a trip to South Africa
could be done in half an hour
from the other side of the globe
I wish I knew how many more minutes
I will breathe
so I can plan my future
I wish the maple leafs could be
red in the summer
so I could watch them get stuck
under my bare white feet
I wish I was forced to lie on the side
because my belly's grown into proportion

I wish I somehow
was able to give you the words
you need to hear
on a rainy afternoon
inside my brown room
on the street with no name

I do not think my reality is distorted. It is enriched, by beliefs that does not have a material manifestation. I choose my words carefully (they reflect a politics of love). Yet I do not feel sure that you understand them as I do. I try way too hard and get disappointed when I accidentally realize that we do not share the same linguistic universe. I feel deprived, stripped of my language, my shield, my skin. How will I ever convey something that demands more than my words to describe?

2007-03-25T12:25:00.000-04:00

You call me promiscuous but that's clearly an understatement

2007-03-20T08:45:00.000-04:00

I might need you because you are not good to me. You leave me waiting by the phone, you turn to the world when I need you by my side (but only for an hour, I swear), you do not give me the attention I'm spoiled with, you let me know that this is not forever, that this is not even for the present. I subject to this, rationalizing the educational value in this degradation.

As I ask if you'd like to do something with/to me, your beautiful eyes rest solely on my unworthy face. "What do you have in mind?", you reply with a quirky smile. And I can't stop laughing, so I give myself away. You give me your phone number and when the night arrives I cannot fall asleep.

I hate these silences you force on me when we're apart, I cannot deal with them very well. I know they're supposedly useful, potential situations for testing my virtue, my patience or another fuckable category. You chastise me, enforcing virtuousity, when all I want is your body to indulge in. (And all my knowledge of you is put to shame, you never behave the way you were biologically determined to.)

I might need this rawness, your rudeness, your anti-love. I think I need someone else to do the hating for me, you see, the contempt. (Reason does not work when it comes to me and you, I'm pledged to this, I have to, I want to, won't have it any other way, I need you, I need you, I need you to tie me up, to leave me waiting, to let me down, to leave me, to tear my heart to pieces, to use me, abuse me, so I can leave this country with nothing more than bare shoulders and a picture of you.) I should revise my worldview anyway. I might get used to this lot, since my righteous benevolence-account ran out of credit.

I called you last Saturday to ask what you were up to. I hear your voice and want to send you small flowers in brightly packaged boxes, in golden wrapping, with chinese notes about how I [heart] you. I walk the streets with soul in my headphones, hoping I'll see your smile in the sunshine behind the corner, wishing for spring so I can walk the streets in my ballerinas so you see how small my feet are compared to yours.

And you let me know quite harshly that this is not forever, that my need for someone who is not good to me is just childish and stupid. I can't fight in English, I'm sorry. You give me roles I hate, but I play them well. You give me names I resist but I use them in secret. You categorize me and I wait for the next night so I can be close to you and feel your breath against my back when you're doing me wrong, when you're telling me my life story, my resemblance to daughters of the street.

Reason is not for this. You know, I need the feeling, but the feeling is you. Yeah, the feeling is you. Needable.

Meet me where the new cools & trends in pieces of the lives of others intersect

2007-03-16T13:55:00.000-04:00

I'd like to be one of those people who are in fashion without even knowing it. Alternatively, I'd like to be one of those who re-enters fashion without realizing they were ever out of date. I seriously considered giving you up, as a fashion statement, but that would probably not make me a better nor happier person. Yes, true. And self satisfaction is the current It.

So I need you, cotton laces and boy's underwear; satin bomberjackets; silk scarves and fishnet stockings. Must haves this season: New bracelets, diadems and cheap plastic pastel jewellery. A lighter shade of blueish skinny jeans, more green in, modesty out, purple for spring and babydoll tops reshelved to highest wardrobe status. I know we can get along just fine. (Conscience of the world, bear with me. I'm sure it's just another seasonal phase.)

Also: Moodshifts and Swedish pop in my headphones, The Mechanical Bride in my design bag, heart on the subway between Christie station and Ossington, Sushi with you on Bloor, chemicals on Fridays, sleep-in Sundays and waking up next to another you withour regretting the dress I wore yesternight. And yes, nearly forgot - friends with pancake skills.

My heart will never recount for all the missing days, but who cares about that when there are addictions to be refreshed. Please don't go, never leave me, buy me for free. It's okay, you'll stay for this round too. Just remember that charcoal or black pearl does not match sunlight or pale skin (except if you're in Finland).

2007-03-11T12:48:00.000-04:00

Kohti sydänkohtausta

2007-03-08T14:15:00.000-05:00

Father writes obnoxious small lettered words, asking if I eat enough. I do not know, fatherlove. I do not know. See, me dealing with life is the inverse version, the not-part. On those sadder days I tend to forget. The eating, the living. For my own well-being though, there are things I never forget. I do not know why these phenomena tend to stick on to me.

You see, haluaisin herätä edes yhden päivän sua ajattelematta, sua kaipaamatta. Jos saisin edes vähän etumatkaa, jos voisin edes hetkeksi unohtaa meidät, menneisyytemme. Sä et koskaan jätä mua rauhaan. Uus päivä, samat halventuneet vaatteet, tunteet. Etsin suotta sanoja(si) miten vähentää ikävöintiä, miten parantaa haavat vatsassa, rinnassa, sydämessä (vasemmassa käsivarressa).

Sunnuntaiaamu. Taas toinen viikonloppu takana, taas toinen sielu pelastettu (vaan ei oma), taas murskattu sydän liimattavana takaisin paikalleen. Ja jos sanon etten tiedä mitään rakkaudesta, sulje silmäsi, korvasi. Because I do.

Rakas, babylove, tää hiljaisuus ei taatusti sovi sulle. Onks mä koskaan pyytänyt sulta mitään, liikaa? Voithan suoda mulle edes sanan, joka pitää mut elossa seuravaan sanattomaan palkkapäivään.

Father does not know. But he continues to write, encapsulating love in small portions of virtual insanity. And I keep forgetting.

So you can commence us

2007-02-24T18:29:00.000-05:00

I want to sit around on the streets of Tokyo
occupy the art
for immense emotions
and create new slang

I desire bearing your new life
poke about in our japanese garden
until you come home
and love me away

I need to fixate my life
with swedish glue
and electric summernights
in our own future

I want to sit around on the streets of Tokyo
wear t-shirts with shady text
see the cherry mountains unfold
as morning arrives

I can't unsubscribe to your piano melodies
and the manuals of
how to do away with dependencies
does not prevent me
from imagining life before it happens

Wearing out the universe

2007-02-20T19:58:00.000-05:00

It is said that there comes a point of no return if nuclear reactions run amok. It is claimed that it is indisuptable that our solar system was formed through several explosions eons ago. I am Tjernobyl for you, and my path cannot be travelled backwards. I tried the steel brush to get you off my skin, but it only left me aching and soar. You won't fade – the only thing you succumb to is to enrich in my flesh (without me even noticing). I've lost my sight, because the sun has turned my eyes into a wall of dark bricks.

”Why are you wearing dark sunglasses?”
”To keep the darkness inside.”
”Why are your nails painted black?”
”To prevent the light from entering.”
”Why do you sit in the gloomy room all alone?”
”I am not alone. I am transcending.”

It is said that we can never fully understand the universe, that there are forces and matter that exist beyond the spectrum of intelligibility, beyond accountability.

oh chemicals

2007-02-14T15:51:00.000-05:00

Hey Jennifer, tell me

2007-02-07T10:33:00.000-05:00

(Phone signal.)

”Hello?”

”Jennifer?”

”Yes? Who's asking?”

”Was it only lust?”

”Pardon?”

”I asked you if you liked fucking him? Or was it more than that? Was it this masochistic drive of yours that made you do it? I bet he told you that you're kisses were sweeter, that you're body felt and tasted different.”

”I don't know what you're talking about.”

”Sure you do. You know perfectly well who I am. He fucked you and you let him do that. Right there in the bed where he fucked me just hours ago. Did you think about that, Jennifer?”

”No... He told me that you had problems... I thought...”

”Of course we have problems. He's fucking around. And I feel comfortable in knowing that there are noble persons like you, Jennifer, who's always ready to help a guy in need. He must've been devastated. Poor thing. But we all know that fucking always takes the pain away. So he must be cured now.”

”I don't know what you want...”

”I don't want anything. But we're sisters right?”

”I guess...”

”Then let's not kid ourselves, shall we? Did you think about me when acting his painkiller? Did you notice my belongings, my mark in his life? Did you care about the heart you were part of in breaking?”

”I'm not sure what to say...”

”You don't have to say anything. Just listen. Just tell me you'll join me. Just say you'll never act like this again. Ever. Just promise me that.”

(Pause)

”See. Now we've reached an understanding, haven't we? And by the way: I wear your earring sometimes and pretend I'm in your clothes, shoes, body. It gives me a sense of belonging, that we're not that far away from each other after all.”

(Click. Phone dead.)

honeymoon is over

2007-01-27T14:09:00.000-05:00

in need of a new mission
time to fill my gaps
another obsession
to erase the stains

and your face on TV
as the soft snow
colours the day
mellow mellow

sounds that erase
my longing
fingers that trace
my belonging

in need of any mission
flesh to fill my gaps
whatever obsession
to devour the stains

Fridaynightcandysugarhoney

2007-01-21T11:49:00.000-05:00

The train is arriving to the platforms of our city. I don't remember if it is Saturday night, if it is spring. Let's say it's Friday, let's say it's summer. The wine we had in Stockholm has made me softer, warmer, more contingent. The air is humid, but not overwhelmingly. Your familiar silhouette contrasts against the ugliness of the construction site. In that moment, everything turns beautiful, divine, extraordinary. I'm sure it is the wine, I'm convinced that it is the love.

There is no one else than us, we stumble out of the train, head for your place. The light of the lampposts makes the contours of the deserted market square dimmed, less frightening. ”I want candy, I need it.” You laugh, I love you. We laugh, while we clumsily run in order to make it to the store before it closes.

I choose my candy, the intoxication has removed my restrictions. The heartshaped marshmallows, the swedish berries, the flammable lips and the sour cherries. Too many, of course. You take the sweet chocolate, the square fudge, the yoghurt coated almonds, the arrack cones. Last call, pick your favourites.

We head out to the night again, the store security guy closes up the store behind us. A marathon of downloaded cheesy TV shows to accompany the candy? Yes, dear. Yes! dear. You know what makes me happy. The only thing I need for that is your company. And a bag of my favourite candy.

2007-01-20T10:00:00.000-05:00

On occassions, things rumbled her world and she felt obliged to act.

(Perhaps a new life wasn't the solution after all?)

Tidbits, glimpses, completeness

2007-01-17T19:56:00.000-05:00

To stroke with fingertips over the cover of favorite tunes, to sip on a cup of hot tea while the snow falls oustide. To notice the orange streetlights seconds before sleep takes me away, to yearn for melting springsoil. To decide to take driving lessons, to talk away an hour or two with a distant dear friend just because I want to hear her soft voice in my ear, to long for other homes across seas and times. To wake up and eat german bread while the morning news connects you to the world. To sit in armchairs, trading time for daydreaming, to walk alone on frozen sand, through thick pine woods and arrive at open seashores. To watch high waves form foam when hitting the waterside cliffs, to hear changed voices of distant younger brothers, sisters.

To lie with eyes closed on sunwarm rocks in lonesome archipelagos, to eat freshly boiled fish during sunset, to drink cheap wine on moist lawns, to fall asleep in lukewarm summernights on a blanket beside another body somewhere in a metropolitan park. To spend time on a longdistance bus with my favourite author, on my way to meet a dear friend. To sink into the words from an admirable professor, to write down my life in one of those red-black covered notebooks, pick it up years later and laughingly read about myself. To head to foreign countries, to sit with a fully packed suitcase and butterflies in the stomach at the airport while people passing occupy my field of vision for half a second before I let them go.

To wake up completely rested, to hand in the first paper for the term, to borrow a movie about love and/for wine and watch it among friends, to borrow a book I've wanted to read for too long, start reading it and put it beside me on the bed time table, to briefly think of you as if you were beside me, to go through tomorrow's lecture, to turn off the light and fall asleep assured of everything's sudden completeness.

Toward spring

2007-01-15T20:12:00.000-05:00

If I close my eyes and pause the music I can hear you talking in your sleep. I can smell your scent in the sheets, your salty moist warmth beside me. I can imagine biting your lower lip, gently kissing your ear. I can hear your arousal – clearly, vividly. How I push you against the shower wall, how the water molds us into one being. I can still feel your body waiting to embrace me, how my excitement increases as you place your hands, tongue, eyes on my wanting body. Having been loved by you gives me comfort, puts me to sleep into tender dreams (of hope).

I don't play the accordion

2007-01-14T08:46:00.000-05:00

I thought there was no falling below this point
until she started singing
leaving time and space behind
and my body on the wet floor

her words were suddenly mine to bear
in that vacant space
between skin and blood
closer to the past than I would have wanted to

I don't play the accordion she said
never catching my eye
her hands were white as lilies
with sharpened edges

please rest inside me a little longer
can I stay for this night
forever?
I'm short of other highs

This is for you (the awaited one)

2007-01-12T16:25:00.000-05:00

Daydream of you. You were still close, I made pancakes with maple syrup. We listened to rare soul, to spring in lightly packaged sun showers, and talked about art. Oh, how you've grown – from that fragile body in my narrow bed lightyears ago to this extension of life. My beloved (flesh and blood).

Nightmare with you. The room was cold and the outside world was banging on the door, screaming to let it in. I remember holding you until you fell asleep, lying awake watching you, your pale forehead, keeping track of the steps outside that door (the thin thing between us and fear, hatred, the unknown).

Future for you. Still unwritten. I feel nothing but childish pride: there will be no tomorrow like this.

Revolution checklist

2007-01-09T07:20:00.000-05:00

If available space in suitcase, also the following items:
* sunglasses
* baby powder (or an equivalent product)
* hair colour
* little brother
* exile ticket to Japan

Rules of attraction, of love lectures, of cafe life

2007-01-08T21:22:00.000-05:00

No. I wouldn't have caught your eye a second time. Intelligence has never been trendy, not in a bodily way. You wouldn't have stayed overnight if I hadn't tried so hard, worked so fucking good on my superficial performance. When the funparty make up is all washed off, when routine and everyday life becomes permanent tenants in our life... You liked having someone else, someone more modest, moderate underneath you, didn't you?

I feel nothing but contempt and disdain against you all - your false pretentions, your plattitudes and cheap rhetorics. There's nothing beyond those words, you never behave differently. (You claim that attraction reside in your body, your genitals, hence is natural, is right, is the only unchangeable way.)

You don't think I see all this? You think I'm so darn liberated that I don't care? And then the blaming sequences come, causing rivalry between my sisters and me. What's the use of pretending that beauty exists outside these rigid boundaries? I should use my energy for transcendence.

2007-01-07T14:06:00.000-05:00

2007-01-06T20:53:00.000-05:00

little you on a stage and the crowd cheering
summers on blankets with stars in my heart
hours between the shelves of my favourite record shop
your back soaked after a bike ride to our sanctuary in late spring
sweaty nights on the dancefloors of anachronistic beats

I think I'll burst

Warm light in a winter's day

2007-01-04T13:47:00.000-05:00

I tend to forget
about birds singing
about murmuring streams
the warmth of the sun

This day that belongs to spring
resembles chewed nails
young yearning hearts
swollen memories

It has slip my mind
that other lives
different beauties exist
outside these four walls

Summer should have ended long ago
Best friends change
a fresh fringe cut in the darkest hour
new black glasses

I suddenly realize
that the extended hours
were not mine
outside these four walls

I thought I belonged to the night

2007-01-01T14:20:00.000-05:00

It's one of those nights when it's minutes away from rain. Another forced night of demanding socialization. Still I need this occupation so I don't break completely, fall apart and lose the pieces. 4 am, walking barefoot in December, with her singing in my head (that this is the year everything will happen). And I never make promises I know I'll break, but this year is (going to be) different. This year I will be different. It's time to grow up, time to deal with baggage I've dragged around for too long.

And I wake up alone hours into this new year, wishing you were closer. You've told me not to be so sad, to find the light. You are that light. Forgive me, dear, can I ask you to relove me? I've lost every beat of my heart, to you, to your country, your melodies.

So, dear new year. Bring me fortune and fame, happiness and joy, love and new beginnings. Bring me the security I need. Make me different.

Sweet sweet child of mine

2006-12-30T14:09:00.000-05:00

While she's dancing with her yellow scarf, I watch her moves, how she works the room, unaware of her impact on my night.She radiates through my life, stumbles around with me on red latex high heels on unsecure streets in a city too big for us. It must be faith, nothing else would have brought us together like this. I become alive in her company, as we dress up like little girls: too dramatic, with excessive powder, extravagant make up, adapting theatrical gestures.

She just entered, not accompanied by any bright fireworks. We're melting (into each others lives), become sisters, lovers, friends, soulmates. She's kept me sane, always close, holding my hand when the day gets to complicated. She knows which words I need, I help her restless soul to calm down, dry her tears when reality blemishes her relentless skin.

”It's us against the world” she says, just as if she's discovered some new truth (because she's not old enough to know how many times those lines have been uttered before). She's just life, unspoiled, undamaged. And I have to stay close to her, just to get some of the electricity, magnetism, beauty.

Since I took my love away

2006-12-28T21:59:00.001-05:00

You call me on Christmas eve, you're voice is altered. You say you take your medicine, that you eat properly, that you feel your body again. I can hear the others in the background, their laughter... I want to believe you, I want you to be well, to feel again. You wouldn't lie to me, would you?

The days are grey, the windows stained by too many fingerprints. Dust on the ceiling, covering the yellowed white paint. No boundaries between seasons, the 70's curtains prevents the sun beams from entering, from touching your degenerated muscles, your pale skin. I leave the tray on your bedside table, you refuse to touch the food. I'll pick it up an hour later, everything is left untouched. I don't utter a word, you just lie there with your face down on the pillow.

I'm passed the stage of crying (but the dried tears still stain my glasses) and I don't do this missing shit anymore. From now on I will be rock, hard stone. I know it's a bad fit, but I don't care. And I (want to) drink too much, it's the only thing that keeps me sane, keeps me away from the feelings. I cannot tell you anything, not a single story. I imagine that I still know you, but I'm not sure. Have I ever?

Sometimes, I try to ask if there's anything you'd like. If there is something I can do for you. Mostly I do my duty in silence. This is what is expected of me, this is what my consciousness tells me I need to do. No one objects, no one asks any questions (about what I do, what you do, how we feel). Ever. Occassionally you do get out of that bed. Sometimes after hours of screaming and tired tears from my part, sometimes after hostile silences or (pretended) tender persuasion. "I have to wash the bed linen, you can't lie in your dirt. You have to wash yourself. Let me help you. We can do it your way. Please. Don't do this to yourself (or to me)."

So I detach myself. I leave you. I take my love away (at least the destructive parts). I let you visit me every once in a while, I let you visit my heart, my body, my new life. Of course I wish for difference, for change, for you to become anew. I've left the scene, yet await that you'll be the one who returns for the last act (in this neverending drama).

When it's cold inside

2006-12-27T00:00:00.000-05:00

City lights, speeding cars. Fast forward life. People walking like in the movies; fast fast. If I stopped right there, no one would notice. No one would hear my laughter (inside my head).Walk walk walk. One step after the other. Easy. You've done this before, haven't you?

This is what normal people do. Pick up the wallet, take out the credit card, hand it over. Get the bag, get the bag, get the bag. Sorry. Rewind. Do it again. Get the bag, thank the clerk (no looking into eyes, never), walk out. Move forward, never stop.

Eat lunch, stare out the window. People with big plastic bags passing. They smile – do they take pleasure in this? Are they laughing? At me? My hair must be weird, my acne's got worse? It must be the paleness of my skin. Bow the head. Crazy. You should have known that.

There's no leaving. No leaving alone. I adjust to the pace, start to see the stars through other's eyes. Start to see the city as conformity. Cold, cold. And I buy. I buy myself a new me (can it be exported?). I know this life is a state of emergency. I will return to sanity soon.

I see city lights, speeding cars, heavy trams. I see heights from scyscraper's rooftops. I notice the Others. I find peddlers and liquids with high percentages. I find forgiveness and oblivion. I find peace for another night. I've experienced the city's other lights, the darker shades (but I've known them before, dear old friends of mine).

Skip a beat. Skip a year. No one will notice. You've done this before, haven't you.

Serendipity

2006-12-22T14:33:00.000-05:00

I apologize for not being beautiful. Complete. Whole. For being ruthless, strange, egoistic. For being unable to deal with life. I apologize for hurting you constantly, all over again. For having no concept of what's enough, moderate. For not understanding your benevolence, your engagement, your love. For being intact, yet leaking. For being unable to receive, yet persisently give. For being unstable, unbalanced.

I apologize for myself and that my presence is demanding. For not knowing what I want. For constantly changing, being impulsive. For making myself lonely. For being unable to understand.

I apologize for my guilt, my shame. I apologize for my jealousy, for my envy. For my low self esteem, for my varied self esteem. For not seeing my worth, my worthiness, my dignity. I apologize for being me.

This science fiction helps to numb the feelings

2006-12-20T16:56:00.000-05:00

One one hand: Please rise above yourself, will you? Jesus Christ. Fucking unbelievable. Who are you to judge me or anyone? In what fucking position are you to tell me what I am, what I should do, who we should be? (Has it really come to this?)

On the other hand: Of course you're right. I'm a really bad person, of course you should hate me. That's the least you can do. It's not good for me to sit and view your space in cyberworld. I feel outside, excluded, feel like I don't know you anymore (still I want to so badly). I feel I have to save you from yourself (but that's not really my job is it?). I see you've regressed back to the person you once was: full of self pity, full of yourself, your feelings, your needs. It's not good for you honey. It never was. It never will be. I am.

2006-12-18T19:24:00.000-05:00

Every letter, syllable, word. Weighed carefully. Properly. From this angle? No, you don't think so? Perhaps you are right. Yes. You are correct, I see your reasoning. I cannot do it elsewise. Still, they become deficit in my use. Close to meaningless (I'm far too skilled, have had too much training, think it through too thoroughly).

All meaning begins and ends with me. There's no emotions beyond me, no other state, no other horizon. It's the point of departure and the zone of arrival. I can't be held accountable in this universe of me.

I wanted our understandings to coincide, yet I'm taken by surprise when you autonomously conclude, interpret. I continously underestimate you; forget that we're all brought up in this self centered society. Yes, they're rendered harmless on my tongue (by me). Haven't you got that? Have I failed to tell you? Have you been fooled so easily?

So I weigh every letter, syllable, word carelessly. And you draw all the right conclusions.

Twelve o'clock and the year turns around

2006-12-13T00:35:00.000-05:00

Me sitting in that small leather armchair with you, close. Last new years eve. Oh, how I loved you. How I tried to comfort you, telling you that me leaving wouldn't change a thing. Do you remember the time? Do you remember the smell of rubber, glass and metal (when you hit the floor months after)? And the xylophones softened the tense atmosphere, polished down your rough edges, viped away your worries, sent them into the night. Let them go, not tonight, let's not do this tonight.

You tell me I am beautiful, I just laugh and dance the night away. I can scarcely hear our music, but I do feel you (even though you aren't close at all). Someone sings that you're worth dying for, that you cannot come closer, that the minutes and hours will never suffice. I just laugh and my mind cannot imagine any endings. Closed eyes, spinning around on persian carpets. ”Doesn't miracles mean nothing at all?”

The lights over Stockholm pollutes the chilly night, the fireworks explodes the sound walls. Too many on the tiny balkony, a glass of champagne hits the icy street below. You stand behind me, you're all light, all beautiful. I cuddle up in your arms, close my eyes once again and mumble something about perhaps going to sleep soon. My warmth converts to smoke and disappears, just as my thoughts. My mind cannot predict any endings.

Home II

2006-12-11T19:38:00.000-05:00

Pic by AS

Auxiliaries/True subversion

2006-12-11T16:05:00.000-05:00

Of course you sit there silent/I do too. But you shouldn't/I tell myself that I lack other choices.

I find myself missing the things I thought these words do not capture/are these words more powerless than the hegemonic ones?. I find myself making distinctions where there should be none/can poetry ever be politics?. I find you taking the decisions for me/can silence ever be productive?.

Omission

2006-12-08T11:54:00.000-05:00

Far-nesses away, and I sit on the subway in a alienated city across the Atlantic, and reflect upon your only party blouse. The colours, the shape and the time. So 80's. I think about that. And how did you feel after you bought it, there in one of the few shops on our street that actually sold clothes (although embarrassly outdated, out of fashion)? Was it happiness? Expectations for the evening? Did you think of us, the ones left back home? Or did you just feel like twenty again: free, unrestrained, careless? (There must have been moments for yourself, times when your existence did not depend upon other's gratitude or benevolence, situations that did not determine your value, that did not place you in neat categories.)

It's one of those dreadful mornings, when everything is just wrong. Your voice wakes me up, connects me to the world again (like so many times before). You sound vulnerable, your voice is sore, open and endless. The distance between us is increasing; you're not reaching out to me (and I need that in order for me to know myself). It's ages since you've used that blouse (now it's those massproduced hospital gowns, in a light shade of blue). You probably don't even remember it anymore. But I do. I remember you, and I long for the times when I can hold you in my arms like you once held me.

The shape of me to come

2006-12-06T10:17:00.000-05:00

Something tells me that I can not continue like this (like your satellite). Feelings always get in the way, reshape and restrain me. And I find myself to be more normative than I wish to be.

Playback. Erase. Watching everything again with my inner camera. The bed, how you lie there, unknowing. I sit down beside you, pouring out those words without looking into your eyes. I rewind my feelings, can sense my body in that moment. How me and you fall apart, how there is no us from there onward. Remember your fear, the frightened gaze (I tried to avoid).

Miss arms around my shoulders, the closeness and warmth of another body in the intoxicated crowd on a Saturday night. Miss your words in my ear, your kisses on my neck, the tenderness in your touch, the silent promises of a joint day tomorrow. You gave me soul, right? Gave me pop with and for torn hearts. You gave me you in burnt software. Now all that has become me, with the difficulties of distinguishing me from painful memories. Should I have to abandon pieces that were me before we met, that has become us during all those years?

Mrs Dalloway, lifestruck

2006-12-01T14:00:00.000-05:00

Tell me about me, she said. Just do it. Tell me whatever. And I would start with her love. I would describe the easy mornings with french baguettes and marmalade. Bread crumbs between the sheets, in her grey hair, on her moist arms. I would continue by expressing my admiration of her way of arranging the parties, her famous gatherings, where everyone felt welcome, where everyone looked their best, was their best. Because of her. I would adore the flower arrangements, the setting of the tables, the mangled stainless tablecloths. She closes her eyes, relaxes her body into yesterday, into the parties and the intoxicated atmospheres.

There was always an open book beside her bed, sentences underlined by this anachronic neon marker, which didn't fit at all into the gloomy baroque room, stains of coffee on almost all the pages. Marked by life, hit by its brutality. She would always read the morning after, that was her way of debriefing.

She said that I would be alright, no sleepless nights anymore, no morning, no pain. I know my sight is blurred. I'm lying on the mattress on the floor, in her gloomy room. I don't remember if the sun is shining, or what day it is. Letters spread all over the floor, my arms can't reach them anymore. They're stained by tears, the only thing connected to the outsiders. (She's not far away at all, she'll be coming up the stairs to rescue me. She'll break the window if needed, if she for some reason cannot get in, to the green room, to the room where my body resides.)

That's all I know, feel, see. I have ink on my hands, arms. I'm Mrs Dalloway and I'm gonna buy the flowers myself. Don't worry, dear, I can handle it, she says (I say). Then she leaves the room. She has a party to attend to, her whole life rests upon its success.

Silencio (let the camera run)

2006-11-26T23:44:00.000-05:00

Something in these silences is uncomfortable (I tend to fill them with contempt and despise). How do you negotiate between the gaps and the visible, recognizable content? How can you even begin to understand if the one providing the answers deprives you of reconciling information?

Fivehundred stories of dreams and lies

2006-11-23T12:20:00.000-05:00

All the stories that constitute the world, the times, the spaces. Narratives, as my star would have said. Those that for her are broken, disrupted, not quite the same from one time to another. My stories, the ones residing in my body, are not coherent. I engage in their production, I love the tellings, I enclose myself in the representations. Yet, they are never universal, they cannot be bridged and they constantly transform – themselves, me (I, who embody them and yet never own them), my surroundings.

The one story I constantly reform, simply because I do not know how I should tell it, is the narrative about us. It never feels right, neither on my tongue nor in my body. It is my abject. It makes me, justifies my bad behaviour and my addictions (I have a collection of Others, of attention providers, of unwhole sex, of torn experiences I could have done without but did not want to).

The narrative about us constructs me as the helpless one, positions me far back in time. I sit in your lap, you comfort me because I have tripped and scarred my knee. You place your warm mouth on my hair, exhale. Rocking me back and forth, humming about the mother of trolls in a low voice. No evil exists, no protection is needed, I only know of this world, the unconditional and loving. There cannot be contradictions, no questioning, no distinctions between the world and me, no reality that hasn't already become a dream.

This is the story I miss, the one that can never be told as a documentary. But, please do not change this one. Leave it intact. I need it in order to perform the days successfully (which I sometimes do to an extent that amazes me). I need construction since I cannot have you.

Hello unborn

2006-11-15T20:57:00.000-05:00

I just stare at the doctor. This can't be I think, it's definitely... no. I touch my tummy, let my fingers push their way a bit further into the flesh. I can't feel anything. Nothing. There's nothing there. Nothing more than me.

I just stare at the doctor. You have the wrong file. Let me se. Yes look at that. It's not even my name. Silly doctor! Of course you've done a mistake. I'm only me, and I'm going to stay me for quite a while. Don't get me wrong: I do want you, but I want you when you're ready, when you've got the right other...

I just stare at you. The first picture. You don't even look decent enough. First thought that comes to mind. Bad thought. Bad bad bad. Bad mother. Nothing more than me. No right other.

How's your heart doing?

2006-11-13T23:00:00.000-05:00

I could feel the cigarettes and the alcohol in your outbreath. You swore that you'd never have one again, I manage to mumble. Last week. I'm too tired to really mind. I can sense your tender smile behind my back. Just hurry, love, lie down beside me. You put your bare feet under the quilt and I make one of these whimpering sounds we've developed through the years. You laugh and I hear you unbelt your pants. The bathroom light switch. Toilet seat. Brushing teeth while humming one of the newest Belle and Sebastian's. Door closing, lights down. You lift the quilt and say something. A breath of chilly air accompanies you. You kiss my hair, whisper good night and a dozen I love yous.

Morning arrives with your arms around my body. You're still sleeping and I watch you breathe for a while. Drawing the contours of your beautiful face, of your milky skin, your softness. Following the slenderness, every line that I've grown to know. All the freckles and birth marks. Carefully remove your arm, get up and dress myself. Bathroom, no lights. Toilet. Mirror. Tired, shadows beneath my eyes. Forcing a smile, no difference. ”I was so young when i fell for you, must have shaped my heart.” Back to bed, lie down beside you, watching you breathe, your innocence, your unawareness (of my inner demons). You feel my presence, even when sleeping, even while dreaming. Your arm finds its way around me, embraces my shatterness. You're my new secret I've found. Near you nothing can harm me. I fall asleep again, with you by my side.

All this is just a fasade you say. You have this shield that protects you from being entered. It's a lie holding you back, negating you. You're a lack you say, therefore you cannot be presented. And you say that it gets harder with the happysmiles, although they prevent others from asking questions about your mourning heart. You stay inside, it's the only way of ensuring no witnessess for your tears. I become enslaved to your pain. I will never reach you, not from here. And the falling asleep beside you part is already overdue. This is not our life, dear. (But don't worry, I'm coming to get you.)

Life revisited

2006-11-04T00:42:00.000-05:00

jag tror inte att du kan gå ur mig längre du är i mitt blod köttet lungorna huvudet tankarna vuxit in helt fastnålad ingrodd vad ska jag ta mig till jag har inte ens kysst dig jag vet inte hur du smakar doftar är det bränner i fingerhuvuden som inte finner svalka och all längtan i magen det gör ont svider rumlar som i en torktumlare och när jag kände dina armar jag bara skakar än och vattnet finns redan bakom mina ögonlock jag vet inte varför kanske är det som du sa att jag börjar känna jag har levt i dvala så länge du förstår inte alltsedan högstadiet har tiden bara flutit på i ett töcken dimma och historien har ätit upp mina minnen fanns det någonsin kärlek i mig mitt liv för mig och hur ska jag våga tro att du vill att du är

för åh! vad jag vill gå med dig hand i hand på stan krama om dig bakifrån när du borstar dina tänder när du lagar mat i ditt lilla kök sova med dig (få) se på dig och bli fullständigt berusad jag vill säga att du är min kunna räkna med dig ta dig för given (på ett bra sätt) jag vill ha dig och det skrämmer mig till astronimiska proportioner varför kan vi inte få existera i vakuum du och jag, säg vill du det eller är jag för mycket för dig för lite något hur ska jag veta lagomhet när jag inte vill begränsas, dämpas och tror att det är alla andra runtomkring som sätter ramar och upprättar lagar när det i själva verket är jag jag jag för jag är bara skiträdd för att leva fullt tillräckligt bara vara glida med

och jag vill inte kräva för mycket så det slutar med att jag inte kräver något alls jag har ju ingen rätt till det kanske jag förstör då igen men snälla säg att jag inte förstört dig jag vill inte brännmärka skönheten stympa vackerhet jag kan inte röra dig kanske är du inte sann en illusion ett luftslott byggt av mina lungor en hägring jag är så rädd att endast rädslan blir verklig och jag har ingått äktenskap med ensamheten men jag vill ha skilsmässa

är du verkligen sann finns du för mig snälla kan du inte röra mig, beröra mig ge mig något handgripligt att ta i att hålla i ha på byrån så jag kan se det något beständigt mer oflyktigt än stunden

jag sa ju alltid tidigare att det är stunden jag förälskar mig i situationen personen omgivningen stämningen och stunden tillsammans jag har fel nu jag har fel för det är dig jag ser inga soffor eller tapeter eller judith butlers eller kursledare det är du som är där mitt i stormens öga och allt omkring dig är fullständig kaos och ofärg och rörelse men du är alldeles stilla lugn säg är det ett tecken tror du är du sann för mig säg vill du vara det

och alla tankar om att jag saknar värdighet för skönhet ramlar över mig jag är inte värd din vackerhet du är för stor för mig och slukar mig alldeles jag vet inte hur jag ska bete mig i din närhet jag kan inte möta din blick för då kan jag plötsligt sprängas spricka och bara sjunka in

And she fell asleep because she couldn't remember the feelings from that long ago. As for her, they had never existed.

2006-11-04T00:34:00.000-05:00

No, dear, I'm not intelligent. I've just learned to work hard on imitation.

Make me docile, disenfranchised

2006-11-01T11:30:00.000-05:00

Discipline me. Make me aware of your boundaries, your limits. Order me, hate me, despise me. Re-tell, re-form my biography - you know where I begin, where I end, where I continue, where I fail. I only exist through your eyes, through your words. How shall I otherwise know who I am? Please place me right, make me docile.

There is no truth, no sincerity, no reality in my words. They have no core, there's nothing behind, beyond, they lack (your) meaning. And you cannot counterargue falseness.

Remaking history, transforming future, enacting boundaries (let's do it your way)

2006-10-30T19:52:00.000-05:00

A scenario never played out, never embodied.

”I don't need you anymore.”

(Crying)

”You're unappropriate, our frameworks don't match, you demand too much. I just want to live in peace, undisturbed by your agendas.”

(Crying)

”We're too different, it would never work out, never last. I want a calm and peaceful life.”

(Louder cry)

”You know, someone more predictable than you. Not too much analyzing. You bring too much questioning into my life and I can't deal with that constant stress, of always feeling like I'm absence, like lacking.”

(Cry; softer, submissive)

”And you see – I already have quite a convenient life. I choose that over passion. It's more rational I guess. Conforming to life.”

(Crying stopped)

"Actually it isn't because of you. I like you just the way you are, but you scare me. I'm afraid of what you will bring forth in me, I'm frightened of what I would become in your presence, of what I'd reveal to myself and the world if you and me become us.”

(A door closing)

”Because you know, I'm quite sensitive, I don't think you realize that. Of course I want you, but it's more complicated than that. I want you, I really do. Since the first time I saw you.”

(Silence)

”I can't just give up everything else you know. I think you have a distorted view of reality, too romantic. I can't give up everything for something this uncertain. I'm not like you, I need a stabilizing force, a comfortable sphere. You make me aware of my Pandora's box – I can't possibly open that, you see?”

(More present silence)

”I would like to love you, but my obligations are elsewhere. In a safe environment, in a world where the future is visible and clear.”

(Pressing silence)

”We could never be. We can never start, never end. We just have to continue like this, like we've done this far. Unspoken, unwritten, silently. My way or no way I guess. Love can never be enough.”

(The longest silence)

And the long hours, minutes, seconds of waiting. I restrain myself. You never wanted to become someone else for me. I do not engage in force, I cry resigned, for not being able to translate properly, for you not being able to read. There's no meaning beyong language you know.

Pockets of space, of time

2006-10-25T09:16:00.000-04:00

Talked to my star yesterday, heard her voice clearly though distances away. And we're right back on that blanket in that park in Helsingfors, discussing intellectualism, boredom, bonding hearts and minds. The sun makes us golden, the cider rosy. (Suddenly a call disrupts our flowery world, our dismantled reality.)

My star and I walk until our legs can't carry us anymore (but we'll carry each other). We laugh our stomachs achy, bike unsafely on cobblestoned streets in beloved cities through velvet nights. We make plans of our futures, of dark-haired children, of big dogs and hollow houses. "Not how, my star, when." So we fall asleep in the morning side of the night, when the city still smells of silence and salty water. Her body close to mine on the whitest sheets, keeping me safe (drying the tears that the call evoked), patting my head and whispering my ears full of silver dreams. Forever, my star, just forever.

Inside and out

2006-10-24T19:27:00.000-04:00

And I fall in this black hole again. Missing, longing, wanting to be somebody else, somewhere else (with you dear). I feel I have to make all these things you should bring home and just show, talk about, tell everyone about. That it was fucking amazing here, that I miss it so much, that I want to go back, that I had amazing sex, found a great lover, passed out and made theory and all that shit. That I just had a fucking awesome time, better than they had back home. Though the truth is probably the opposite, that they have better lives, they're more beautiful, that they have the most exciting lives, that mine is nothing compared to theirs...

I always return to you. In mind, in body, in existence, past, future. Was this all that was? Did you love me in that way? Did I return that love? You did feel loved, didn't you? And the country just reminds me of you, I have to force myself to forget. I have no other way to walk, this is it, this is my life. Will I ever encounter, experience love like ours again? Or will I always compare everything to you, to the way you were, the brilliance you was. Fuck fuck fuck. I screwed everything up didn't I?

Is it all wrong then?

2006-10-21T11:03:00.000-04:00

I would have wanted you to beg, to not accept my decision, to make me think it over again (to hurt me, hit me, hate me, love me). Can't we do it in a new way (this has been written thousand times, in different shapes, it won't ever be right in a right way, it won't ever fit you).

You just have to say the word and I'll do whatever. I don't get you, don't understand how you think, why you accept (life like this). Can't we do it in a new way?

Home

2006-10-19T17:38:00.000-04:00

Mikael Rantalainen "Jäämaailma"

She repeated my name

2006-10-17T17:35:00.000-04:00

I told her lies about my life, about how and when and by whom. There were these small windows, you could barely see through them for all the dirt. We sat close to each other, her hair was shimmering, I could almost taste it. Saturday night it was. "You beautiful". But there was no sincerity between us, no intention. Just life. There and then. Hers and mine.

Summer had wrapped itself up. Long gone. Her hands were still warm, moist, from the hours before. The last sun beams reflecting the glasses, purple diamond wine, the deepest colour of despair. Lipmarks on the glasses, small rays of wine had found their way down the foot. They've been there, near her skin, near her breath, close to her warmth.

She repeated my name in every sentence. It was the way she spelled it out, making me conscious of her voice, her softnesses and hardnesses, of her distinct way of placing her hand beside mine. My name couldn't possibly fit something as remarkable as she. "No please, do not. Say not."

She would lean on my shoulder, sighing and yawning. I would tell her more of my lies, fabricating excitements, journeys to other worlds, to parallell universes. She would get me all worked up just by revealing her wide open eyes, her exposed position. And the heat would come to us, place a thin layer of steam on the inside of the dirty windows. (She later said it was the wine, she couldn't resist the deep red colour, it made her weary. But she was wrong, she had the lies on her tongue as well, fooling me with the innocence of her appearance.)

The necessity of rage

2006-10-12T20:08:00.000-04:00

I do not recognize myself in your description, sister. I do not identify as such, not as you define it. I don't feel comfortable with the semantics, depraved of dynamics, differentiation, of meaning as I see it. Your analysis imposing me with guilt, assigning me to that shameful corner of non-existence. Your definition doesn't fit my skin, sister. Can I counterargue: I am not (like that).

But I'm indebted to you, sister, for revealing my true nature, for creating antagonism where I do not see any (patriarchy just scored its second goal).

I love you though, sister, for if you're not enraging me, if you don't turn my thoughts into turmoil, make me feel something, there will not be development. And this is precisely what brings theory forward, brings practics to its utmost.

Sister by soul, tell me about life

2006-10-12T11:29:00.000-04:00

Thanksgiving over. A rough weekend, too much reality escaping substances, behind me. Broken promises on catching up. I don't have the energy always, have to do other things, have to be able to breathe, must change scenery, must change myself. (All the dinners, lunches, demand an eversmiling, endlessly open, forward me, a me that isn't, a me that cannot be).

Lots to do, articles to read, analyses to commit to. Still I choose to write you, have to find a outlet for the strange anxiety I sometimes get here. It's not longing, but en overarching feeling of missing out of something (that there's a better life out there for me, but I'm too lost to find it). You know those wonderful things that are promised of life? Always on the run, constantly fleeing, incessantly this restless aspiration toward something else, someone else... I don't know, it's not sadness, don't read it that way, I just want you to read me (I know it's wrong of me, ruthless of always demanding your attention, demanding your availability, know that it's wrong and all that, hate to feel that I use you - do I?).

And you know, I miss X so much. Don't know what to do with the feeling, or if I even want to get rid of it. I see children, see happy families and happy futures. Damn. And still I live this parallell life - do I really want to? Do I want this? I don't get me. I have to try something new, experience something else, anything. Tired of being incomplete, inadequate, insufficient. Should I continue like this? Please tell me, tell me (anything).

Having it new

2006-10-08T21:01:00.000-04:00

Keeping the summer inside, keeping it at bay (I can't have you here now, I have to start brand new, start all over again, you're in a country far away, you are memories in my heart, you don't fit in here) , wishing for fall, wishing that the colours will come soon, the chilly wind and bright mornings.

Love does come stronger - not for us though, right?

2006-10-08T20:49:00.000-04:00

I should love, you say. Properly. Not in my way, not like I do it. I don't know love, not like you. Not like yours, the way you want, the way you need me to. So you say. (I see your back when you leave me. I see your tears, those you try to cover. I'm sorry, love, this was the only way, this was the nice way.)

I should do things differently, live life in another way, live so that you fit the equation. I tried, love, but it wasn't enough. Nothing ever is. I need warmth, arms around my body, hands in my hair, words in my ear. (And you didn't provide that for me?)

And still you haunt me, you that make my nights sleepless. Your words, your tears, the expression you left on my iris. It is you, it is grief, longing, belonging. I listen to too much emotions, too many of your songs (and I want more, I want your words, your music dedicated to me, I want it all now, I have to know how you suffer). How do you want me to react, how do you want me to forget? When I hear you through all these words, all these melodies, I suddenly realize: I'm not going to make it (You've already made it, love). Everything that is, is in relation to you (How can you miss something that wasn't enough for you?). You enter my mind, my heart, my body. And now you've outgrown me.

I don't know anything about love (don't believe me, I tend to lie). I know the drill, I've read the manual. I was wrong, love, I was your bad fruit, I was your third wrong. I tried to be the one for you, I tried so hard I almost believed it myself.

Tired of not...

2006-10-07T12:40:00.000-04:00

Then there was the apology. And you come again and again, return unproblematically, making me love you all over again, making me tired.

Your touch, your hands on my body, gently and almost invisible, making me shiver in a way I neverever... I want to be there again, in the moment where tomorrow didn't exist, returning to us, in that bed.

You and me, the sun makes us weary, there on the balkony that day in August. I'm warm and you hold me, tightly. You ask me what I want to do and we both know that the answer is already given. Last night didn't offer much sleep, no rest, only passion which leaks through the sheets, the walls, breasts and skin. The only thing I want, need, is you, all over again... and again. You've never been more soft and I love you forever in that moment. We're too tired, yes, but our bodies live their own lives, magnetical. And right there I don't want a future, don't want to know of other times, only want to be there and live the passion (be the passion), live the dream with you.

And when I'm alone now, I'm doing it and you're here with me again. I'm back in your arms, close to you, the sun is shining on the balcony and you're asking me what I want to do. We're the only ones in the world, in the room, in your bed - and suddenly you're not far away, and the time hasn't passed at all.

I'll be your protector forever

2006-10-04T18:11:00.000-04:00

Heavy rain all night, thunder and lightning. Sleep hasn't come to me tonight. You're in my head, in my room, in my bed, hindering me from leaving you, even for a second. I get up, make som tea and sit by the window, watching the 106 bus stopping across the street. People getting off, heading to warm homes, beds and arms. Next morning, you've sent me pain, you've sent me yourself - and I knew about it before you even told me.

And I try to mother you, try to be the lost one, the replacer: caressing your hair, humming one of those songs you used to love, holding you tight (so tight that our heartbeats can be heard as one). I'm here, my beloved, I'm here. Just beside you, so near, closer, just underneath your skin. I'm always here, nevereverleaver.

(I'm going to take the pain away, yes, come here and leave it in me instead. I know how to carry it, I've done it before, I'll do it forever, I'll do it for you.)

Ain't I a sister as well

2006-10-04T14:04:00.000-04:00

They say I shoudn't believe in sisterhood, not even the concept. That it is an contradiction i terms, that it is false per se - there are no sisters in the world, no sisters in history, none in future. Might be, I may be naive. But does the world become a better place just if I stop believing, hoping, longing (for you, something else, other than this)? And if there only is few of us, doesn't that count?

Life, non-refundable, time, non-recyclable

2006-10-03T09:16:00.000-04:00

You're just sitting there, staring at the wall. You've been sitting there, in your hospital gown, like forever. I'm sitting in front of you. I can't see you properly, my eyes are bleeding. Bleeding out the memories of a time when you were different. (Grab hold of some kind of fixation point, think it away, make it unreal. No, no, I'm not a satellite, am i dreaming? I need you, you're my soul, my past and my future, my child and my mother, you're my first love.)

And the rage, oh dear, it's not directed towards you (please anger keep inside). My body's getting smaller, my eyes seek yours, but your gaze is dead, somewhere else than in this cold white room.

So I leave. And when I'm biking home to hours, days and months of peaceul oblivion, my eyes are filled with dark blood, my heart with salty water. I forget you, I must. You also forget, you're prevented from remembering.

I think of your laughter sometimes, but as the years pass by it turns into a silent shout. (I heard you're sitting in your room again.)

I have killed us, darling

2006-10-02T19:00:00.000-04:00

Wherever I go, there's you. Always you. And I preserve your memory by reading your books, attending your concerts, listening to your music, paying attention to the things that mattered to you (becoming you). The only way, keeping you alive, keeping your love alive (you still do, don't you?).

I meet it everywhere - it pulls me forward when the wind is too strong, it keeps me company before sleep, it haunts me when I see the child beside her mother (our child will never be born). And I cry, I cry for the unborn, for the future that isn't ours anymore, for you, for me, for a life that has no joint place.

(I know you're my construction, you've become poetry now in a way you could never have been then. The only fuel I recognize is pain.)

Still, you gave me the warmth during the nights, the words during the days. The air I breathed was through your lungs, the love I felt wasn't love until you made it visible. It was your heart that gave me life. You were my antidote, my antiforce, even against myself.

Vs Patriarchy 0-1

2006-10-01T07:52:00.000-04:00

"Why do you always have to make things more complicated? Why can't you just relax for a minute, take things as they are?"
"Don't know. Sorry."
"Why does everything has to be such a struggle with you? Argh! I hate this! I hate the feeling of being constantly on my guard in case you change your mind about something!"
"Sorry..."
"Don't you have anything else to say than that? Is that supposed to make everything alright? How do you expect me to live with you?"
"I'm so sorry. I love you, I love you, I love you. I can't live without you."
"Don't say that! This isn't love, this is torture. I can't do this, I can't have it like this. Can't you see that you're killing me?"
"I'm sorry. I love you, I really do. I don't know how..."
"And the things you say - you're no better than one of those fundamentalists. Why do you have to be so complicated?"
"I don't know, but I love you."
"Why do I keep on? Why do I constantly find these people who stab me in the heart, remove it and step on it?"
(Silence)
"I can't do this. I have to go (preparing to leave). So is this it, is this the end then?"
(Silence)
"Fucking great."
(Silence)
"You really are a piece."
(Silence)
"FUCK! Say something for God's sake! What is this?"
(Silence)
"This is exactly what I mean! Sitting there like a freaking statue. I'm not gonna play this game... You're the martyr, huh?"
(Silence)
"Oh, fuck this! I give up. It isn't worth it."
(Slamming door. Silence.)

I don't deny myself anything. I deny myself you.

I need some bodies, something, you

2006-09-30T19:16:00.000-04:00

I need some passion, I need revolution, I need you and all the sisters in the world. I need something else.

Everything looks perfect from far away, I'm not in that picture

2006-09-30T19:04:00.000-04:00

It's strange because it is you that I can talk to, it is you that I want to talk to, want to pour my heart out and I don't know if that is appropriate (is it?). Should we talk about this? I don't know, I never know what's appropriate, I don't want to. I would like for the world to be different, to be a place where I can be just the one I want to be. I have these great ideas about life, love and loneliness, about passion, relations and forevers. But I never find anyone who shares them, I never find the other part, the person I can say these things to without being regarded as a weirdo. The world makes me sad sometimes, it makes me feel restrained and forces me to be common in a dull way. And the older I get (tomorrow I'll be halfway to 52) the more concerned I get – is this it? Is this the way it's going to continue, forever and ever? (There was a time when I just couldn't stand that thought, and tried to do some things that would relieve me from my agonies.)

I just wanna sleep beside you, feel the warmth of another body, of you, of something. Don't say no to me, just be. Just be the way you've been the last weeks, just be yourself, be me, be together, be something else than you've assigned to be. I don't know why, please don't ask me, i don't know any answers. I just feel this intense burning, craving, of being near you. Being in the same room or I'll just miss you. I wanna break boundaries, I wanna be in another way, but I don't want to do wrong against you. It's not a girl-and-boy-thing, this is on another level. There's no physical needs to be addressed, not in the conventional way. I just really feel like you're the one for me, you're the friend that I will need during this year. But I think we have to talk it through, I know that others think things about us that aren't there, that aren't we. Am I right?

I told you that I'm intense, that I'm passionate, I need other things than most other people. I need someone like you, someone who keeps me on the right track, someone who takes care of me when I've had too much to drink, someone whose shoulders always would be available. Say that it is you, say that you've found me for a reason! I don't believe in faith or anything, I just believe in living fully, to the utmost, keeping it real, keeping it insane. And it's all about love anyway, right?

My patience isn't that long, I have flawes, I do things that aren't always thought through in a way that they should be (passion have no counterpart in reason). I'm difficult, sometimes annoying and often I don't give damn about how other people perceive me. But although I feel this intensely, I don't want you to get hurt in any way. I don't know why I have to write this to you, I just feel that there is societal boundary that I'd feel like making visible for you, so that you know exactly where I'm coming from. If you don't get anything of the things that I've written about, just forget about it and we'll keep moving on towards another shared understanding of us.