Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Tyngden af 100 år
Fortiden og alle dens mennesker ligger lige bag mine lukkede øjenlåg. Den suser forbi som et tog med mennekser der vinker , råber, græder, ler og snakker ud af de åbne vinduer.
Min gamle bedstefar som snart bliver 100 er ved at dø. Han sidder paa sengekanten inde i sin tynde oldingekrop, og de blå øjne er så fulde af mennekser og steder at han ikke har plads til mere.
Jeg udspørger ham; Hvordan var det, da du var landvæsens elev på herreårdene. Da du gik med hestetræk på marken i solen og red ud i havet med de svedige heste ved arbejdsdagens ende.
Fortæl mig om da du mødte Christian den 10 og Stauning. Dengang du mødte min bedtsemor i højskoleforeningen, og lånte hendes sangbog. Dengang din lillesøster blev bundet til et bord i den lille lejlighed på Nørrebro, så hun ikke skulle komme til skade når begge dine forældre var på arbejde, efter du var kommet til at brænde familiens gård ned i en leg. Fortæl om øllebrød og krigene og piger i kjole og prælimenær eksamen.
Men han vil ikke sige mere. Nej, nej, siger han og ryster på hovedet. Så smiler han til mig som for at sige "Det er min historie min pige. Jeg har fortalt dig den før. Gør nu med den havd du vil".
Tænk at have så lang en historie.
"Det er en afskrækkende høj alder jeg har fået" siger han, men jeg kan ikke forstå det, jeg omfavner ham og siger "tænk at du har fået lov til at opleve så meget! Bare jeg også bliver 100 år."
Men når jeg tænker på alle de mennesker, der presser mod mine lukkede øjenlåg om natten, kan jeg forstå tyngden af 100 år.
Min gamle bedstefar som snart bliver 100 er ved at dø. Han sidder paa sengekanten inde i sin tynde oldingekrop, og de blå øjne er så fulde af mennekser og steder at han ikke har plads til mere.
Jeg udspørger ham; Hvordan var det, da du var landvæsens elev på herreårdene. Da du gik med hestetræk på marken i solen og red ud i havet med de svedige heste ved arbejdsdagens ende.
Fortæl mig om da du mødte Christian den 10 og Stauning. Dengang du mødte min bedtsemor i højskoleforeningen, og lånte hendes sangbog. Dengang din lillesøster blev bundet til et bord i den lille lejlighed på Nørrebro, så hun ikke skulle komme til skade når begge dine forældre var på arbejde, efter du var kommet til at brænde familiens gård ned i en leg. Fortæl om øllebrød og krigene og piger i kjole og prælimenær eksamen.
Men han vil ikke sige mere. Nej, nej, siger han og ryster på hovedet. Så smiler han til mig som for at sige "Det er min historie min pige. Jeg har fortalt dig den før. Gør nu med den havd du vil".
Tænk at have så lang en historie.
"Det er en afskrækkende høj alder jeg har fået" siger han, men jeg kan ikke forstå det, jeg omfavner ham og siger "tænk at du har fået lov til at opleve så meget! Bare jeg også bliver 100 år."
Men når jeg tænker på alle de mennesker, der presser mod mine lukkede øjenlåg om natten, kan jeg forstå tyngden af 100 år.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Just so fucking immature and bad tempered
I hate it. The fact that I am so incredibly proud and immature.
I just can't deal with missing my boyfriend so much, and having a greater need for talking to him than he has for talking to me.
I know he misses me as much as I miss him. That he loves me, as much as I love him. He's just not a big a talker as I am. And he doesnt need to hear my voice every day to feel certain that everything is fine.
I do. I'm just so in need of reassurance, of love and support, every goddamned day. If I'm with him, I need him to BE there.
When I'm single, i'm fine, because I rely on myself. But part of a relationship is relying on each other. if I just stop relying on him altogether, and rely on myself fully, I also stop taking him into consideration. I stop loving him. I might not stay faithful.
Maybe it's not the same for him, maybe he can rely on himself and still love me wholeheartedly. Is that a personlaity issue. a male/female thing, or maybe I'm just wrong, maybe he does rely on me, and maybe him relying less on me IS a bad sign.
Whatever it is, I just act like a 4 year old kid who's been left by its mum in kindergarden, and when she comes to pick the child up, it screams and cries and is angry, because it's been left alone for a while. Instead of being happy that the missed person finally shows up.
Everytime. I can't just say I miss you, it's great to talk to you. I have to be angry, because it's been TOO long. He doesn't care about me enough. Obviously. Love is measured in phonecalls everybody learns that when they're 14 and they never change their mind about it later, right?
Fuck, I have to deal with this ridicolous pride and insecurity, and remember what love's fucking about.
I want to do this, I want to make this work. I decided that when we met, or rather, I started to beleive in miracles and real eternal, glittering, falling stars, soulmate love. And then I'm still here, acting like a teenager.
Because I get so scared. What if it ends. What if this love can die, fall apart, be worn down. What if not even this, the one thing I was ever sure about in my whole life, is wrong? I always change my mind about things. Everything, apart from this man.
From the first night I met him more than 2 years ago, to this second, I never really doubted that was it. I questioned him, and our love and our relaionship a million times, like I do with everything. But in my heart, I never belive, and still don't believe, it can die, it can end.
I fear the end of this love like death, and like death, I want to spend my time thinking about it, I just want to spend my time thinking about life and love I believe in.
But then this fear creps in: If he stops loving me. If he stops treating me right. I'm so screwed. Cos I really did put my whole heart and soul and money and time and educationa and belief into this, after having suffered 2 fucking dramatic broken hearts, I told myself, this is it, this is third time lucky, this is magic.
And that's too much pressure for a relationshop to carry, I can see that. He's just a human being, and so am I, imperfect and weak, and we can't be gods. He is not the meaning of life, he's just a beautiful man who loves me and makes me happy some of the time. I need to relax about this, and stop seeing this as the centre of my life. It'slove ad its great but it's not the only thing in life, adn it's not magic, its just two drunk people who met at 5 am in the morning next to a fridge.
I just can't deal with missing my boyfriend so much, and having a greater need for talking to him than he has for talking to me.
I know he misses me as much as I miss him. That he loves me, as much as I love him. He's just not a big a talker as I am. And he doesnt need to hear my voice every day to feel certain that everything is fine.
I do. I'm just so in need of reassurance, of love and support, every goddamned day. If I'm with him, I need him to BE there.
When I'm single, i'm fine, because I rely on myself. But part of a relationship is relying on each other. if I just stop relying on him altogether, and rely on myself fully, I also stop taking him into consideration. I stop loving him. I might not stay faithful.
Maybe it's not the same for him, maybe he can rely on himself and still love me wholeheartedly. Is that a personlaity issue. a male/female thing, or maybe I'm just wrong, maybe he does rely on me, and maybe him relying less on me IS a bad sign.
Whatever it is, I just act like a 4 year old kid who's been left by its mum in kindergarden, and when she comes to pick the child up, it screams and cries and is angry, because it's been left alone for a while. Instead of being happy that the missed person finally shows up.
Everytime. I can't just say I miss you, it's great to talk to you. I have to be angry, because it's been TOO long. He doesn't care about me enough. Obviously. Love is measured in phonecalls everybody learns that when they're 14 and they never change their mind about it later, right?
Fuck, I have to deal with this ridicolous pride and insecurity, and remember what love's fucking about.
I want to do this, I want to make this work. I decided that when we met, or rather, I started to beleive in miracles and real eternal, glittering, falling stars, soulmate love. And then I'm still here, acting like a teenager.
Because I get so scared. What if it ends. What if this love can die, fall apart, be worn down. What if not even this, the one thing I was ever sure about in my whole life, is wrong? I always change my mind about things. Everything, apart from this man.
From the first night I met him more than 2 years ago, to this second, I never really doubted that was it. I questioned him, and our love and our relaionship a million times, like I do with everything. But in my heart, I never belive, and still don't believe, it can die, it can end.
I fear the end of this love like death, and like death, I want to spend my time thinking about it, I just want to spend my time thinking about life and love I believe in.
But then this fear creps in: If he stops loving me. If he stops treating me right. I'm so screwed. Cos I really did put my whole heart and soul and money and time and educationa and belief into this, after having suffered 2 fucking dramatic broken hearts, I told myself, this is it, this is third time lucky, this is magic.
And that's too much pressure for a relationshop to carry, I can see that. He's just a human being, and so am I, imperfect and weak, and we can't be gods. He is not the meaning of life, he's just a beautiful man who loves me and makes me happy some of the time. I need to relax about this, and stop seeing this as the centre of my life. It'slove ad its great but it's not the only thing in life, adn it's not magic, its just two drunk people who met at 5 am in the morning next to a fridge.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
All you women, eating youghurt natural, throw your hands up at me
Danish women are often praised for their health and beauty.
I don't agree that Danish and Scandinavian women are prettier on average than women from other countries, but in case you do, here's their secret:
95 pct. of women between 20 and 30 eat youghurt natural for breakfast (aka A38).
This statistic is purely based on my own experience of Groundhog day, everytime I go to one of my Danish girlfriends' houses and open their fridge, and see the same youghurt staring at me out of each and every one.
Now I eat it myself in the morning, imagining how many other Danish women are eating excately the same white substance (wait, maybe there's a sexual undertone here, perhaps Danish women really aren't as liberated as they're known to be, since their brekfast has an uncanny likelihood to sperm) at the very same moment, in their kitchens around the country.
Blood is thicker than water, and youghurt natural is thicker than flighty flirtations with foreign countries.
I don't agree that Danish and Scandinavian women are prettier on average than women from other countries, but in case you do, here's their secret:
95 pct. of women between 20 and 30 eat youghurt natural for breakfast (aka A38).
This statistic is purely based on my own experience of Groundhog day, everytime I go to one of my Danish girlfriends' houses and open their fridge, and see the same youghurt staring at me out of each and every one.
Now I eat it myself in the morning, imagining how many other Danish women are eating excately the same white substance (wait, maybe there's a sexual undertone here, perhaps Danish women really aren't as liberated as they're known to be, since their brekfast has an uncanny likelihood to sperm) at the very same moment, in their kitchens around the country.
Blood is thicker than water, and youghurt natural is thicker than flighty flirtations with foreign countries.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Lokale radiostationer og forår i København!
Ja, jeg er skitzofren.
Der skal ikke mere end en enkelt solskinsdag til, før jeg forelsker mig i Danmark igen, og vågner op med "Kom maj, du søde milde" for fuld udblæsning i hovedet.
Med radioens pigekor, tror jeg, det lød ihvertfald sådan på min indre FM-frekvens.
Den opfanger ellers Nørrebros radio for tiden, altså, den radio der står på gulvet i mit værelse. Ved et tilfælde fangede jeg denne lille station, og er nu blevet så glad for dens hæse ligefremme værter, tekniske uheld og fuldstændigt uforblommede socialisme, at jeg ikke har fundet tilbage til P1 eller P3 siden.
Jeg elsker de amatøragtige indslag, og åbenlyse dagsordener og Kim Larsen sange.
Det får mig til at indse, hvor umenneskeligt og overproduceret kommerciel og professionel radio virker. Som en glat overflade som man bliver præsenteret med, hermetisk lukket og så professionelt præsenteret, at det virker afskrækkende for at gå i dialog med programmerne.
Nu hører jeg, at FM båndet skal omlægges, så der bliver mere plads til kommercielle radio stationer. Hvis jeg havde tid, ville jeg starte en underskriftindsamling imod tiltaget, men har på nuværende tidspunkt drligt tid til at spise andet en nudler og toblerone, og har ikke støvsuget i en måned, så opfordringen er hermed givet videre.
Der skal ikke mere end en enkelt solskinsdag til, før jeg forelsker mig i Danmark igen, og vågner op med "Kom maj, du søde milde" for fuld udblæsning i hovedet.
Med radioens pigekor, tror jeg, det lød ihvertfald sådan på min indre FM-frekvens.
Den opfanger ellers Nørrebros radio for tiden, altså, den radio der står på gulvet i mit værelse. Ved et tilfælde fangede jeg denne lille station, og er nu blevet så glad for dens hæse ligefremme værter, tekniske uheld og fuldstændigt uforblommede socialisme, at jeg ikke har fundet tilbage til P1 eller P3 siden.
Jeg elsker de amatøragtige indslag, og åbenlyse dagsordener og Kim Larsen sange.
Det får mig til at indse, hvor umenneskeligt og overproduceret kommerciel og professionel radio virker. Som en glat overflade som man bliver præsenteret med, hermetisk lukket og så professionelt præsenteret, at det virker afskrækkende for at gå i dialog med programmerne.
Nu hører jeg, at FM båndet skal omlægges, så der bliver mere plads til kommercielle radio stationer. Hvis jeg havde tid, ville jeg starte en underskriftindsamling imod tiltaget, men har på nuværende tidspunkt drligt tid til at spise andet en nudler og toblerone, og har ikke støvsuget i en måned, så opfordringen er hermed givet videre.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
o'oh, spring in London
Oh to be back in London. To speak English again. Where all the Japanese cherry trees are already blossoming. To feel free. I know it's silly. I know I complained no end when I was here, over the tube, the weather, my job, the pushiness and aggressiveness. But is it fair, I ask you, for London to slap me in the face with three days of brilliant sunshine, spring green tree, happy friends and cheap tapas bars?
No, London is using dirty tricks on me. And London always has new tricks up its sleeve, whereas Copenhagen just keeps repeating the same old songs: Sitting in Christiania, singing "you can't kill us, we're part of yourself" and I think yes I feel at home here, but am I not singing the same songs my parents did when they were my age?
Is there nothing new in Copenhagen, or is it just me, who refuses to see the new things, whose mind shriks back everytime someone starts to talk about anything not strictly personal, thinking please please don't say what I expect you to say, surprise me! and then they say that sweet, familiar, logical, and ooooh so Danish thing I expected them to say, and my heart sinks in dissapointment.
It gives me no pleasure to feel that I belong and to feel at home anymore. It makes me feel trapped.
No, London is using dirty tricks on me. And London always has new tricks up its sleeve, whereas Copenhagen just keeps repeating the same old songs: Sitting in Christiania, singing "you can't kill us, we're part of yourself" and I think yes I feel at home here, but am I not singing the same songs my parents did when they were my age?
Is there nothing new in Copenhagen, or is it just me, who refuses to see the new things, whose mind shriks back everytime someone starts to talk about anything not strictly personal, thinking please please don't say what I expect you to say, surprise me! and then they say that sweet, familiar, logical, and ooooh so Danish thing I expected them to say, and my heart sinks in dissapointment.
It gives me no pleasure to feel that I belong and to feel at home anymore. It makes me feel trapped.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Outlawed happiness
"Yes, I'm a complete outlaw, but I'm true to myself, and I'm happy". The fact that he can say this, over a distance of 6 years and a lot of space, makes me believe in the possibility of real freeedom and real happiness.
A life which isn't controlled my the market powers, other people's influence and uncontrollable desires.
A life which is free and where I don't have to be afraid of failing somehow.
Because what should I fail in? I decide the criteria for success in my life, nobody else does. If I am stressed about something, I am letting myself be stressed, because I have decided an issue is worth stressing about.
I can just let it go, and fall and watch it shatter on the ground and see how little it relly meant. If I want to.
There really is a way to live honestly and truly and turning 40 without beginning to think that sofas and the colour of curtains are important. There really is a way not to care about the criteria for succes that society imposes on your mind.
There really is a way not to give into materialism and career bullshit and fear of being alone.
And for that, no matter what else he ever did to me, I am so grateful to him.
Most of all, because he laughed when I explained all my stress and my worries and said "you're the same as you always were. You may think that you are tangled up in all these worries and obligations, but it is only on the surface. Look closely at your life: You do, ultimately, do what you want. You ARE true to yourself. And you sense it, immidatey, when you're life is on the wrong track. Don't worry, you'll be fine I you just let go". And I did.
A life which isn't controlled my the market powers, other people's influence and uncontrollable desires.
A life which is free and where I don't have to be afraid of failing somehow.
Because what should I fail in? I decide the criteria for success in my life, nobody else does. If I am stressed about something, I am letting myself be stressed, because I have decided an issue is worth stressing about.
I can just let it go, and fall and watch it shatter on the ground and see how little it relly meant. If I want to.
There really is a way to live honestly and truly and turning 40 without beginning to think that sofas and the colour of curtains are important. There really is a way not to care about the criteria for succes that society imposes on your mind.
There really is a way not to give into materialism and career bullshit and fear of being alone.
And for that, no matter what else he ever did to me, I am so grateful to him.
Most of all, because he laughed when I explained all my stress and my worries and said "you're the same as you always were. You may think that you are tangled up in all these worries and obligations, but it is only on the surface. Look closely at your life: You do, ultimately, do what you want. You ARE true to yourself. And you sense it, immidatey, when you're life is on the wrong track. Don't worry, you'll be fine I you just let go". And I did.
Så blev det lyst
Der er glæden over den måge
og bølgerne der hvisker
til småstenene
og den mand som lever fredløs og fri
på den anden side af det hav
og bølgerne der hvisker
til småstenene
og den mand som lever fredløs og fri
på den anden side af det hav
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Revising memory lane
Imaging if somebody suddenly shows up on your messenger after 6 years, and says he is still thinking about you and that he always has been, and that he really did always care for you. Even though it didn’t seem that way at the time. Even though he is still millions of miles away. Imaging if that man was the first person you ever had sex with.
Are you then allowed to believe the sweet-talking, just to carry this sweet little memory with you that the first man you slept with really was mad about you – or should you remain your usual cynical self and think that he is full of shit?
Are you then allowed to believe the sweet-talking, just to carry this sweet little memory with you that the first man you slept with really was mad about you – or should you remain your usual cynical self and think that he is full of shit?
Saturday, March 03, 2007
What women want
Snippets of conversation:
”I just want a working-class man who slams me up against the wall and loves me” said one of my girlfriends ”I don’t want no sticky academic hands on me”
“I ONLY want stick academic hands on me” said my other friend
“I just want some one who’s both down to earth and smart” said my other friend
“I just want a faithful, stable, romantic kind a guy” finished the fourth friend
I though for a long time of all the men I’ve been attracted to in my life and could find absolutely no pattern of a certain type.
Until it occurred to me
“I just want a man who’s COOL”.
Cool is someone who is so self-confident that he dares to be himself in any situation, and who has guts to be fragile and wrong sometimes as well.
GUTS. That’s it.
I don’t care what his job, passions and interest are. He just has to have guts.
I think everyone’s got a certain quality they’re always attracted to.
”I just want a working-class man who slams me up against the wall and loves me” said one of my girlfriends ”I don’t want no sticky academic hands on me”
“I ONLY want stick academic hands on me” said my other friend
“I just want some one who’s both down to earth and smart” said my other friend
“I just want a faithful, stable, romantic kind a guy” finished the fourth friend
I though for a long time of all the men I’ve been attracted to in my life and could find absolutely no pattern of a certain type.
Until it occurred to me
“I just want a man who’s COOL”.
Cool is someone who is so self-confident that he dares to be himself in any situation, and who has guts to be fragile and wrong sometimes as well.
GUTS. That’s it.
I don’t care what his job, passions and interest are. He just has to have guts.
I think everyone’s got a certain quality they’re always attracted to.
