F.F.

2 augusti

Jag skulle kunna lösa en biljett ur automaten på stationen och hoppa på första tåg – någonstans. Jag skulle kunna se alla städerna susa förbi längs spåret. Och jag skulle nog kunna få en lägenhet någonstans – en egen lägenhet – om jag jobbar på det. Långt borta från alla förutfattade meningar och roller man har fått sig tilldelad. Jag skulle kunna starta ett nytt liv. Jag skulle kunna inreda, jag kanske skulle kunna bry mig om det. Och kanske med lite tur så kunde jag träffa nya människor. Människor att prata med – nya vänner. Jag skulle kunna utbilda mig – bli kock eller bankir eller vad som helst. Få ett jobb med riktig lön. Köpa nya kläder – fina dyra kläder kanske, som jag gillar. Och sen kanske jag träffar en tjej där som gillar mig och som jag gillar. Vi skulle ha en tid tillsammans när det bara var hon och jag. Långa mornar i sängen, helt uppslukade av varandra. Glömma allt annat, och bara prata vårt eget språk. Det blir kanske bråk – men vi löser det – snackar ut och sen flyttar vi ihop. Vi kör bil ut med havet, bygger bo, och sen skaffar vi barn. Tre, fyra stycken barn vill jag ha. Roliga, starka barn. Och jag ska älska dom, ge dom ett hem, ge dom en farsa. Och sen skulle jag säkert vakna mitt i natten och tvivla på mina val och min kärlek och gå den där lilla promenaden ner till vägen och se bilarna susa förbi i mörkret och låta mig bländas av helljusen och känna kylan och ensamheten där ute. Och sen återvända till sängen, hålla om henne, hata mig själv och mitt mörker. Jag ser hur det lösgör sig nått ur dimman långt där borta, och sakna den stad jag föddes i, min hemstad. Den där lilla staden vid havet, som jag kanske aldrig lämnar. Kanske blir jag kvar här. Kanske väljer jag det. Kanske åker jag ingenstans. Jag stannar här. Jag väljer det. Jag väljer det.

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"She's not crazy, she just want it all"

There's no acceptable argument to keep gazing at your computerscreen anymore - a matter of fact - as a citizen of the swedish community you've probably been kept in your cage long enough to easily break your bars by now. You've changed, and you are fully aware of it. It's due to the weather, no kiddin'. Rosseau presented this idea a long time ago - that is - that the human personality was a direct result of the climate he lived in. That would explain the spirutal feeling you got when the birds began to sing for you a couple of weeks ago, or the similar feeling you got when the sweeping-machine swept away all the gravel from the streets. So go out and walk a street you've never walked before and be amazed by it all.

Exhibition

Sitting on the tram on my way to an arty-party in the west side of town - sipping on my Harboe Genuine Dansk Beer. A disfigured man gets on, he is wearing black, having a sad expression. If you’ve seen Rocky Dennis, you’ll know what I’m talking about. It’s that kind of people that only shows after the break of dark, hiding his repulsive face from the world. Suddenly it’s not me (drinking beer on a tram on a Monday night) that is the saddest person on this tram; it’s the man in black. Somehow, I can’t get my eyes from his face. He has got a story to tell, I know it. The girl in front of me is beautiful. Red leafs dancing, even though it’s not spring, snow falling, even though it’s not summer.

Loneliness is a tricky thing. I remember a wise mans way of putting this: “I remember once you told me that you’ve been lonely your whole life, and I think all your fellow creature-people know what that’s like. But if you get caught up in mythologizing your own loneliness you’ll be trapped in a perpetual cycle of self-defeat. Go into the world on a sidewalk you’ve never walked before and have a holiday from your own thoughts.”

A few weeks later I went to the Sanja Ivekovic´ exhibition at the Gothenburg art-gallery. Her art were staggering simple, cut-out magazine models with a sensational text underneath, a video-installation with a woman doing her make-up, and so on. In the 1970’s Sanja set about with one of the western worlds greatest issues in our time, ideals. In postmodern Sweden this subject has been more or less torn into pieces by every rag you could think of, it’s feels watered-down in some way. Still, with the man on the tram in mind, it couldn’t be of more importance. In a greater perspective this may appear like a luxury issue – but then again – everyday life isn’t very often seen in a greater perspective. It was very much real for him.

Letter

Dear Reader,

Due to a longer series of unfortunate and irrelevant events, the latest writings has vanished and reappered in a new shape. In the Chinese year of the golden pig, when everything feels a bit twisted , it’s time for this blog to put one foot to the ground and take a political stance.

For quite a time now the swedish mediaclimate has revovled around the issue of human impacts on environment. This is essentially a nice gesture. But, like any other Hollywood film there has to be some kind of a threat (this is hotstuff journalistic people!!), where the swedish media has labeled this threat The Climate Threat. To smother this bad villain the swedish government decided to appoint a commission. Commission comsmishooon. It’s with laughter and sorrow in my heart one establish the fact that the whole thing feels like some kind of wierd part from Franz K.’s Das Process. Hey, let’s hide all of the worlds environmental issues in a bureaucratic web of commissions. Yeah, why not.

Anyways; the core of this discussion is that the swedish government are bastards with double standards (Mr. Fredrik R. would do more for the environment if he let his fuelswallowing SUV stay in his garage), and the swedish media takes common people for uncritical fools. Let’s examine the latter more closely. It’s a known fact that such a diffuse subject as the climate change never would have got so much attention if it weren’t for this mild swedish winter. The logics of media involve that journalists do not report about an event if they can’t twist, simplify, concretize or impersonate it. The issue of climate change is neither of this. So how come this issue is all over the swedish newspapers? A guess is that high-position editors suddenly noticed that ski-season was in danger and they no longer could take their SUV’s to the scandinavian mountains. And as we all know, this is of great importance for them, so they can keep on spew whatever crap on us. Is this cyncial? Let’s first talk about how human race is the only species that are destroying their own possibility for survival, then we can talk about cynical.

Sincerely yours X

Position

My girlfriend is lying in the sofa - talking with her cats on the phone
They are breifing her about the world economy situation
General index – down 0.1%

A foreboding atmosphere
Memories – flickering on the computerscreen
It’s cynical in a way
Was it meant to be?

the burghers of France

1.
La belle epoque was according to mystics and historymakers a period of positive moods, greiflessness and a belife of better future to come. The conception is roughly translated into the good ol’ days. If the days actually were good or not - we’ll never find out - what matters is our idea about this period of time in history. Nevertheless the the burghers of France were sipping on the sweet nectar that a long time of peace and prosperity had given them. You imagine that the burghers were taking their Sunday walks on the boulevards in their white linen costumes and strawhats - just to sit down at some random café and quench their thirst with a fine wine. In such a climate, when survival no longer were hanging by a thin thread, there was time for contemplation and self-fulfilment. One started to question one’s place in existence here on earth, the meaning of life if you so want it. To mitigate the monotony that comes with spare time and find a meaning in existence people turned to art – for it’s beauty and surperficial values. Soon people realized this was perishable and they turned to the hazardous green absinth instead – and so a world of denial. Much of the following chat must therefore be regarded as pure bullshit.

01.35 am, close to a century after this moods reached their definite peak (some consider the shipwrecking of Titanic as the point were the uncritical belife of a better future finally was buried, some the outbreak of World War 1) they re-appeared through a revengeful french zombie on a dj-set in the insignificant town of Gothenburg.

2.
Killed in a car crash back in 1986, Kavinsky is now a zombie in need of revenge. His records are the story of his first steps in the world of the living dead.

The plot is a necessary element of conceptual music such as this. Kavinsky is telling his story – a story from a zombie-perspective. He has returned from the world of the living dead to perform a playful dance with the contemporary world’s Faustian autoerotic automobile fetish. And by using song titles like “Testarossa Autodrive,” he begins his tale with one of the 1980’s most easily recognizable symbols of cultural status, technology, mobility, and the need for speed: the Ferrari.

01.00 am. Standing in an apparently neverending queue to and old and respected jazzclub – which after midnight is transformed to the most hard-core house/techno/electro-club you’ve ever seen. Pulse, beat. Smoking a cigarette, thinking of better times. The cool hipster-kids on the balcony has put on their most scornful smile, thinking – I’m inside, you’re not. Later on - twenty or something minutes later – even I was let inside, however having a different kind of smile on my face.

The dancefloor pulsating. Very soon this pulse is in my veins, I’m feeling every inch of it. It’s an undescribable feeling. In the middle of this drunken haze a familiar tune is reaching for me. A hundred and twenty something beats per minute, “Testarossa Autodrive” starts in epic 80’s cop-movie style with only a beat and the arpeggios that flutter above before a quick move of the synth’s pitch shift fakes a whammy bar and everything explodes. It smells like burned rubber from a red sportscar and a rotten zombie in a collegejacket, it’s an excellent fragrance.

3.
As I take the tram home to my student-appartment I realize that I’m living in la nouvelle belle epoque and tonight I was trying to find some kind of meaning of existence in art. Did I just touch it?

MANIFESTO!

Even though we burn with the desire to find solid ground and an ultimate foundation in our attempts to reach the infinte - we must understand that the desire itself is the very foundation of our existence. The search for knowledge - with the insight that knowledge is a variable object - is what driving us to the ends of this world (and others); to the end of windswept and dark nights and beyond. These are senses that has driven same spirits to the the 1930’s Montparnasse - the 1960’s Greenwich Village, and in our time – to the streets of Berlin. Though - the truth is forever elusive. You never quite find it but the search for it is compulsive. The search is clearly what drives the endeavour. The search is your task. More often than not you stumble upon the truth in the dark, colliding with it or just glimpsing an image or a shape which seems to correspond to the truth, often without realising that you have done so. But the real truth is that there never is any such thing as one truth.

So, you may ask yourself then, are there no such things as timeless ideas? Yes and no. Some ideas may appear as timeless, but if you fully believe in that you are just decieving yourself. Ideas live for one day, or for a lifetime if you want them to, and are re-born each time a thought is reaching for it - it’s as simple as that. So learn from this; Newton got struck by an apple while sitting under a tree, giving him the idea of gravity, this is a widely spread tale. But instead of sitting under the tree you should climb it, and gather all the apples you can reach. The rotten ones isn’t always a bad pick, but you’ll figure that out yourself. Futhermore the choices you make will reflect in your everyday decisions as a consequence of this. Thus, if you one night are finding yourself singing video killed the video-star to a human karaoke machine, with a smile on your face, this isn’t a result of a decision made by God almighty, it’s a decision made by you. If you really believe in it, this may feel like an act of God, and that’s just excellent.

Extract from D. Berman's Actual air & N. Bauer contemporary writings

The moon hung solid over the boarded-up Hobby Shop.
P.K. was in the precinct house, using his one phone call
to dedicate a song to Tammy, for she was the light
by which he traveled into this and that.
And out in the city, out in the wide readership,
his younger brother was kicking an ice bucket
in the woods behind the Marriott
his younger brother who was missing the part of the brain
that allows you to make out with your pillow.
Poor kid.
It was the light in things that made them last.

So - standing in the middle of this abyss called Gothenburg - it makes you wonder; is the rain everfalling, is it going to stop, ever? I, or someone else must have angered the Gods, I think for myself sometimes. Then, suddenly I remember that I’ve left my heart downstairs, free for all the neighbours to stomp on it. I find it bad damaged, nevermind, I’ve never liked them anyways. The worldworm, which on day is going to gobble us all, is knockin’ on my window. I’d let him in if it weren’t for my parents which are sittning on my fancy sofa. They are pretty finicky about such things. I’m the first swede in space. I’m Christer Fuglesang waving to everybody, seeing it all from a new perspective, from above. I’d love that. Floating away. 3, 2, 1, take off. Memories from the past. Watching the worlds greatest televison-series in my boyroom. The feeling of recognision, to belong. The past have a negative impact on you, I tell myself loud. And so I open the window.