Kunst og håndverk

Scheherazade – debatten om sløret

Scheherazade (persisk; ‏شهرزاد‎ šahrzād, betyr «av høy byrd») er den kvinnelige hovedpersonen og eventyrfortelleren i rammefortellingen i den arabisk/persiske Tusen og én natt. I denne samlingens fortellinger møter vi en persisk konge som krever å få en ny jomfru til kone hver kveld, men som halshogger den nye konen når morgenen kommer fordi han mener at alle kvinner er utro. En kveld ber kongen om å få en tjenestemanns datter, Scheherazade. Da de befinner seg i kongens sovekammer begynner hun å fortelle en historie. Kongen ligger lys våken og lytter spent, og når historien er ferdig, vil han høre en til. Men Scheherazade sier nei, dagen gryr og de har ikke mer tid. Hun lover å fortelle en ny historie natten etter, enda bedre enn den første og på denne måten overlever Scheherazade, natt etter natt mens kongen venter i spenning på neste fortelling. 1001 netter senere har ikke kongen bare blitt underholdt, men historiene har også gitt ham visdom og bedre moral. Og ved å fortelle eventyr redder Scheherazade ikke bare sitt eget liv, men også livet til alle de kvinnene som spares for kongens morderiske vrede.

Som barn elsket jeg historiene fra Tusen og én natt og kanskje var det nettopp gjennom disse historiene og andre eventyr at jeg lærte meg hvor viktig innholdet er i det jeg selv skaper. Jeg har sjelden laget noe bare fordi jeg vil lage noe fint. Det er alltid en historie bak. En mening jeg vil ha frem. Unntaket som bekrefter regelen er strikking. Jeg lærte som så mange andre å strikke allerede tidlig i barneårene på skolen. En tålmodig lærer lærte meg å strikke rett og vrang og resultatet ble en liten, brun bamse med knappeøyne. Som tenåring begynte jeg igjen å strikke på skolen. Jeg lærte å strikke patentstrikk og mønstre med flere farger. Men når jeg nå strikker er det som regel med et nytteaspekt. Jeg strikker for å lage noe fint til meg selv, eller som noen andre kan bruke. Så ville jeg gjøre noe annerledes. Jeg ville viske ut det skjøre skillet mellom det som tilhører kunsten og kunstens verden, og det som tilhører vanlige menneskers hverdag og den “virkelige” verden.

En venn av meg kom nylig hjem fra Afghanistan og rakte meg et kjølig, himmelblått stykke tøy. «Prøv denne.» sa han. Det var en tradisjonell, afghansk burka. Jeg dro den over hodet og kikket meg i speilet. Den var ubehagelig å ha på seg. Sømmene foran ansiktet klorte på øyebrynene og øyevippene mine sveipet borti gitteret foran øynene hver gang jeg blunket. Alle former og gjenkjennende trekk var visket fullstendig ut, og jeg følte meg provosert over å bli visket ut på denne måten. Muslimske kvinners hode- og kropps-bekledning har vært en integrert del av samfunnsdebatten om innvandring og integrering de siste par årtiene. For det meste har det handlet om hijab, det muslimske hodeplagget som dekker hår og skuldre, som representerer det mest alminnelige form for muslimsk slør i norden. Men debatten har også i høy grad hatt fokus på niqab og burka, slør som dekker både hele ansiktet og kroppen. I debatten forhandles og konstrueres kategorier som rase/etnisitet, kjønn, seksualitet og nasjonalitet. Debatten er også en plattform hvor definisjoner på vestlige samfunn springer ut fra.

Kvinner skal tilsynelatende være fysisk tilgjengelig for å være integrert og deltakende i fellesskapet. Debatten fungerer som metode for å gjøre kjønns-messig likestilling «hvit» og vestlig og er et uttrykk for det teoretikeren Gayatri Spivak kaller; «white men wanting to save brown women from brown men»Debatten om sløret spiller derfor en rolle for konstruksjonen av Norden som et «etnisk hvitt» samfunn med likestilling. Likestilling blir også brukt for å kritisere muslimske minoritetsgrupper, og etniske minoritets-kvinner blir fremstilt som undertrykte i norske medier. En integrert del av nyhetsmedienes fremstilling av  etniske minoritets-kvinner som undertrykte, er fremstillingen av nordiske kvinner som frigjorte. For mange jeg kjenner er slør kun et tegn på undertrykkelse, et skille mellom «oss» og «dem», og jeg må ofte minne meg selv på at en kvinne som bruker slør ikke nødvendigvis er tvunget til det. Slør er også en del av vår egen kultur og moteverden som symbol i bl.a. ritualer som bryllup og begravelser. Katolske kvinner bruker slør til messe, og jødiske kvinner bruker slør i synagogen. Dette virker glemt i debatten om muslimske kvinners bruk av slør i forskjellig grad. Det finnes flere definisjoner av slør, fra det tynne, gjennomskinnelige stoffet til de løst hengende, slepende og til de tykke. Det har også blitt brukt som sørgeflor på menns hatter og rundt ermet. Nonners hodepryd har også blitt kalt slør. Slør har vært en betegnelse på stoff som dekker deler av eller hele ansiktet, deler av eller hele hodet, deler av eller hele kroppen.

Burka er en ankellang kvinnedrakt som har et heklet gitter foran øynene, slik at det er mulig å se uten selv å bli sett. Burka forbindes ofte med Islam og forveksles av mange med niqab og hodeplagget hijab. Normen om bruk av både niqab, burka og hijab har en sømmelighetsverdi, men om det kan forbindes direkte til religion hersker det uenighet om. Dersom det er tradisjon, kan man spørre om denne tradisjonen er akseptabel eller uakseptabel innenfor Islam. De fleste muslimer ser på bruken av burka som en akseptabel tradisjon innenfor Islam. Ifølge Islam finnes en lov som tillater at ansikt og armer er utildekket, men det er også viktig at kvinner ikke skal lett gjenkjennes av andre når de er utenfor hjemmet. Et argument for burka blir da at den skal gjøre det umulig for menn å se kvinner i ansiktet og gjøre det mye vanskeligere å gjenkjenne kvinner og dermed begjære dem. Kvinnene skal derfor bære burka for å unngå å vekke begjær hos fremmede menn. Men et argument mot burka er da siden religionens regler sier at kvinner får lov til å la ansikt og armer være utildekket, blir burka sett som en slags bid’at (en forandret lov eller praktisering i islam, som er mot dens opprinnelse, er forbudt i islam), og er dermed ikke lov. Nobelprisvinner Tawakkol Karman fra Yemen skal ha sagt at mennesket i tidlige tider bar lite klær og at mennesket kledde seg mer og mer ettersom de utviklet seg intellektuelt. At hennes hijab derfor er et uttrykk for det høyeste stadie av intellekt og sivilisasjon. “Døm meg for hva som er i hodet mitt, ikke for hva som er på hodet mitt!”.

In memory of Luca Skywalker

In memory of Luca Skywalker

In this little poem wrapped in tears and bad rymes, I give to her so ever lasting present, the gift of eternal life…

You would think she was born on a stormy night with angels of death falling from the sky. She was in a rush, you see, cut out of mamas belly faster than a gipsy can lie. But Luca was born just a little to soon on a varm and smooth april afternoon, while the sun was walsing with cottonball clouds on the watch of a jealous full moon.

Luca og Lawrence

She hated people everywhere, for staring at her bananadress, her funky tattoos and her bright, cyan hair. But still her heart was full of them all. Them poor, them different, them sick, them lonely. And to them evil, she felt compassion, cause that was the purpose to her soul.

But in the end we killed our friend with too much love and too much laughter. We shipped her off to Neverland where she’ll transform to Peter Pan. So now you know that from now on, Peter Pan is no lost boy. The king of fairies in Neverland is now a fierce, young woman.

Two years has passed since we saw her last, that awesome witch, that anarchist bitch, a chill, but sunny afternoon. She was a poem, a song that came alive, a flower who just had bloomed. She was put in a coffin, but she didn’t fool me. I could see her eyes rolling. I could see her breath. But we locked her up in that blue, wooden box, our rainbow flavoured hippiechild, and in it I laid for her this pearls;

an apple for her wisdom, lemon for her bad mood, kiwi for her exotic taste. Melon because she was so refreshing, strawberry for her sweetness, orange because her smile was like sunshine, lime for her longdrinks in heaven and pieces of apples for her funeralcake.

MAY THE FORCE BE WITH YOU, LUCA SKYWALKER!

Varsling er en risikosport!

Nylontauet og Sylvi Listhaug

Dagen etter at jeg ble kvinnelig Blystadlia-mester i spikerhamring på fotballbanen som igjen var dagen etter min 48’ende bursdag, våkna jeg opp til noen frier-meldinger på søndag morgen om hvor det ble av meg kvelden før. Jeg svarte som sant var, at jeg ikke visste hvor det hadde blitt av meg. Etter sporene i leiligheten min å dømme hadde jeg gått på butikken for å rekke å handle loff og leverpostei før den stengte klokka 23.00, og så glemte jeg vel bare å gå tilbake til puben. Jeg har nok hatt det ganske hyggelig og avslappet. Bevisene lå strødd rundt i hele stua. Loffen på en kommode, leverposteien i den ene sofaen, en tallerken med matrester i den andre, en sko her, en annen der, en sokk i hvert hjørne + noen fine, nye blåmerker jeg ikke kunne forklare med noe annet enn at jeg generelt er ganske klønete. Det ble en ellers ganske slækk søndag. En behagelig slækk søndag før pliktene skulle møtes på mandag.

Pliktene består da av en dullion juridiske tvister mellom meg og bl.a. det fastlegen min kaller Mafiaen i Blystadlia, (hun har vokst opp her og kjenner denne gjengen der), meg og en tidligere advokat, jeg mener burde fratas advokatbevilgningen, og meg og Politi øst som nekter å ta imot anmeldelse av forbrytelser jeg blir utsatt for. De mener jeg burde gå til en psykolog og ta medisinene mine istedet(?). Jeg skjønner ikke helt hva astmaen min har å gjøre med at telefonen min kontinuerlig blir hacket, men gutta på Protech anbefalte meg å legge inn en anmeldelse på nettet i stedet for å oppsøke det lokale politihuset da anmeldelsen da blir behandlet sentralt og ikke lokalt.

Javel…

Jeg flykter ikke fra en krig. Jeg væpner meg til tenna med det jeg trenger, være seg det er sverdet eller pennen og samler min hær av gode venner og allierte. Du kan måle styrken i meg som kvinne ved å ta en titt på fiendene mine, og jo større fienden er, jo mer levende føler jeg meg, men… Jeg er først og fremst kunstner! Kunstner, dagdrømmer og håpløs romantiker. Utsiktene til å bruke enda mer tid av det ene livet jeg har til timer og dager og uker med avhør og forklaringer, år med rettsaker, anker og nye rettsaker ble jævlig heavy å tenke på i de sene nattetimer. Du vet den tiden da alle andre sover og krisetelefonene er så opptatt at du bare blir satt på vent. Så kom jeg til å tenke på rullen med nylontau jeg kjøpte i fjor. Jeg ruslet ut i boden, som virkelig trenger desperat en opprydding, og fant den. Holder 700 kilo. Virker sterkt nok for meg. Jeg så for meg toppen av en høy ås, med fantastisk utsikt utover vakre Østlandet. At jeg kunne henge meg opp i et tre der så jeg slipper å tenke mer på alle de forbanna rasshøla verden er full av. For ikke å snakke om de flyvende apene deres med iq under 90 og cojones på størrelse med torskerogn. Det virket så fredelig å bare henge der og dingle mens nøtteskriker og skjærer hakker i seg øynene mine og slafser i seg min skarpe, opphovnede, forhatte tunge til en stakkars turgåer finner meg, eller til jeg er så råtten at kroppen befries fra hodet og deiser i bakken mens skallen min triller nedover lia fra den fine utsikten til den treffer en maurtue og sakte men sikkert blir inkludert som en del av byggverket. Tenk grønt! Bli ett med naturen! Kanskje ikke helt innafor å bruke tau av nylon, men man tager hva man haver.

Så ligger Truls der da. I veien for meg. Og breier seg. For han breier seg. Etter at jeg bytta ut senga på 120 cm bredde til en regulerbar på 140 cm tar han mer en halvparten av plassen. Og han skal aldri ligge inn mot veggen. Nei, han skal ligge i veien for meg, så jeg må snike meg opp, unngå brå bevegelser og klatre forsiktig rundt ham for at han ikke skal bli drit fornærma hvis jeg vil ut av senga. For ellers så hopper han ned, og han kommer ikke tilbake. På lenge. Jeg pleier å sette vekkerklokka til å ringe en halv time før jeg egentlig skal opp så jeg kan kose med ham før dagen begynner. Men jeg må bare klappe der, og litt der, men ikke der og ikke der, for da får jeg føle hans vrede og blod vil flyte. Ihvertfall en liten dråpe. Og så tenker jeg på alle de deilige kattungene jeg aldri vil få se, eller nusse på hvis kråkeslekta har spist øynene mine, og all blåbæra jeg ikke får spist til frokost og svømmeturene om sommeren og at jeg skal lære meg å hekle i vinter, og så begynner jeg å lure på om jeg skal henge opp Sylvi Listhaug i det tauet i stedet, men selvom hun er en katastrofe for norsk politikk, så er hun bare en marionette for Erna som har plassert henne der, sikkert som en kontrastpolitiker så de andre i regjeringa vil se litt bedre ut til sammenligning. Dessuten synes jeg ikke hun fortjener status som martyr, og jeg regner med at Moxnes tar knekken på henne før eller siden uansett. Han har jo gjort det før. En fornøyelse å bevitne. Vi feiret på Blå. Så kommer jeg på at det ikke var mennesker jeg skulle henge opp i trærne med det nylontauet. Hverken meg selv eller Listhaug eller noen andre. Det var hengekøyer. Dessuten flykter jeg ikke fra en krig. Jeg væpner meg til tenna med det jeg trenger; pennen eller sverdet og gode venner.

Let's make it art

I want a picture of your privates!

Yes, you read me right! I want a picture of your private parts. Or to be more correct; your penis. Your erected manhood. For an art project. I want to eternalize your heat-seeking moisture missile hopefully at an art event, or some fancy, big museum of modern art. Who knows? I believe the topic of dickpics is here to stay for a long time. Because let’s face it; as long as men have cameras on their cellphones, they will keep on taking pictures of their boner and send them to women, wanted or not. So please feel free to send me a picture of your beaver basher, your meat sword, your ding dong or fuck stick if you like. I promise it’s not a hoax, and I promise to be descreet! Send it to: dickpicsart@gmail.com

I remember my first dickpics all too well. It was about fifteen years ago. It wasn’t asked for. Not at all! I barely knew the guy. I didn’t even know he had my number. I certanly couldn’t recognize his. I just recieved a message, opened it and BANG! There it was. The dickpic. In my face. Burned into the back of my eyelids for a very long time. And he didn’t send just one. He kept on and on, and I was like “Okey! I get it! You’re spanking the monkey. Frequently! Thank you for the notifications!”. The man was also a drug addict with a certain affection towards amphetamine. I don’t know if you guys know what that drug does to your joystick, but I can assure you it doesn’t make it any more desirable. Because size do matter! Most grown women are not attracted to the peckers of eleven year old boys, and that is what the pep pill does to your wiener. From danger noodle to ding ding needle on a dusty mirror with white lines. And the pubes, man! It was like a ginger jungel with a single, misplaced mushroom sticking out of the middle of this out of control growth. If you absofuckinglutly have to send a picture of your beef whistle to a stranger of the opposite sex, trim that land of grass, man! You’re sending a selfie of your sweetest spot. Make it pretty! Well, the unwanted photo sessions stopped suddenly when the masturbationist went off to do some time. For burglary and vandalisme though, not sexual harassment.

When that’s said I believe there’s something a little valiant and hopeful about sending a picture of your family jewels to a lady of your desire. It is after all the most precious part of your body. She could share it with her girlfriends, and you could be ridiculed for all eternity, or banned from all kinds of sexual intercourse for years to come. To face that risk is bravery. Or just stupidity. I think there’s a very fine line between those two traits in the search for some lovin’. One thing is for sure: if you don’t risk any, you won’t get any, stupid or not, but perhaps it’s for the better to wait until she actually asks for it.

I am! I’m asking for it! I want you to send me a picture of your disco stick! Really! Please do!

I want a thousand pictures of them drum sticks out there. I want pictures of your white, your pink, your black, your yellow, your brown and your purple one-eyed soldiers, at attention, ready to be displayed as glorious art at an exhibition. And I want your stories. It’s not required in order to send a picture of your fudge sickle that you tell me about yourself, but if you like, I would love to hear how you find the courage to expose to me, a stranger, your love muscle. Just because I wonder why men would dare to do so. Most grown woman wouldn’t send pictures of their snatch to other than their husbands if at all, or paid for. I say grown women because a lot of young girls don’t know that sending a picture of their blooming flower to men is not a very good idea. Sending pictures of your genitals to someone whom you’re not married to is in general a bad idea to both men and women, but for different reasons because men and women are not equal! We are as different as our reproductive organs. As are every single individual custard launcher. They are as different as your faces, your personalities, your childhood, your background and your experience of exposing or not exposing your spawn hammer, your yogurt gun, your quiver bone, third leg, schlort, baby-maker or whatever you prefer to call your cranny axe. You can trim your pubes if you like to, but it’s not required. It’s not for my personal use. (Or maybe it is if I really enjoy the image of your excalibur). The main point is to expose them as art. So if you feel like getting your cherry slammer made into art and eternalized at an art exhibition, please send me your dickpics to dickpicsart@gmail.com.

Ps: All personal information will be stored on an external hard disc and locked up at a secure place for my eyes only, and destroyed within the year of 2021. Thank you in advance for your contribution to modern art!

Anger issues

Hostage

I’m being held hostage. In my own home, in my own body by my own heart, my own emotions; my own damn sentimentality. I feel soft as a marshmallow. A soggy, sticky marshmallow melting in hot, sweet chocolate and devoured by unsentimental creatures from an unsentimental world I don’t understand, where the pain and ruin, downfall and tragedy of others, is entertainment and subject off mockery, cynical analyzes and obvious exploitation. Beings from an indefinable world inside my head somewhere I can’t quite set my finger upon. Like shadows in the farthest of my viewing edge which disappears when I turn my head to see who they are, what it is. They are whispering lies and truths and unfinished stories back and forth til my mind is in caos of intangibles. Can I survive if I let my heart die? Can I still remain my humanity if I sell my soul for peace? If I sell my soul for safety?

I close my eyes and soar away. I clothe myself in wings and carry off into the unknown, pitch black universe. Darkness surrounds me with millions of miles to the nearest star. I wonder how I can find my way back home, without stopping, without turning, without looking back over my shoulder. I end up on a strange planet, dimmed enlighted in the absence of colours and warmth; devoid of kindliness and care. I find myself lying on a dirt floor, naked, but not cold. Struck down by gravity, locked in behind walls of faded wood. Kept prisoner by enemies surrounding me without showing their identity. And I say to my self in a calm, lowered voice: “Remember: You are never alone!”. And I answer without a sound: “I’ll remember”.

I open my eyes, grab my phone and log in on facebook. Looking for someone else awake, for a chat, or to call. For every time I miss I feel more alone, betrayed by all, with no friends and no hope. A girlfriend at Vestre Gravlund, a comerade at Ullersmo, another on rehab. I have noone I can call four o’clock in the morning. That sucks! My life sucks! I don’t want to live it any more. There is too much sorrow, too much suffering, too much scuabbling and too many schemes. I start to erase my pals and block my gals on facebook. Throw people out of my life in cyberspace. Realize there’s no point in doing so and decide to deactivate my account instead. I’ve done it before. It silences the hellish noice between my ears. At least a little, at least for a while. I get up, walk into the livingroom and sit down on a hundred year old footstool, embroidered by an old aunty, and cry my eyes out. Let tears and snot run freely. I need someone to talk to. I open my phone again and google the word “crises” and several numbers appears. There are two of them which are operated around the clock. One is church, the other is not. It’s something about religion and insanity I personally think are joint together like popcorn and movies, and I don’t feel like talking to a priest, so I choose the other option. I need someone that can get me grounded, not someone who will shove me off to heaven.

A machine velcomes me, tells me that I have the right to two conversations a day and asks me to please hold the line.

Tuut, tuut! “You are number one in line. Please hold!”. Tuut, tuut, tuut, tuut. “Our counsellors are occupied. Please hold the line, or try again later. If life is at stake, please dial 113.”. Nope! It’s not that bad! My life’s definetly not at stake. I smear myself in patience like I would marinate a steak and let it soak for a day before I let it fry, and hold the line. Tuut, tuut, tuut. “You are number one in line. Please hold!”. What the…?! I’m crying here! Tuut, tuut, tuut. “Our counsellors are occupied. Please hold the line!”. My tears stop, and I get annoyed. Tuut, tuut. The machine tells me they can call me back if I choose not to wait. I will lose my anonymity because I have to give them the number to my cellphone, but not to worry; their counsellors are obligated to confidentiality. I will keep my place in line, and they will call me up between the hours of 08.00 a.m and 13.00 p.m.. I take a deep breath and let it out hard from my flabbering lips. It’s four hours till 08.00 a.m.. Tuut, tuut, tuut. “You are number one in line. Please hold!”. I have forgotten what I wanted to talk about, and hang up.

Fuck! It! All! I google the word “lobotomy” instead. I wonder if it can be done to someone who’s awake, or if I have to beat him unconscious. I know more than one who would be better off without their need of control. People without heart, personalities without souls. Those who believe they have the right to do harm if they don’t get what they want. Men who believe they have the right to force themselves upon women. A small hammer and an icepick, and suddenly the world would be a better place to everybody. Or at least to me.

I go back to bed. Fall asleep the moment my head hit the pillow, but before I close my eyes and sink into the warm forgetfulness under the duvet, I conclude after all that I still trust science more than church…

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Hitting rock bottom

A disastrous birthday

This was the day of regret and shame. Regret, not only because I haven’t been able to stay sober for many days at a time, perhaps not more than three or four tops after the first week, but also because I spent the money I was supposed to spend on my japanese course, which I mentioned early on. Now I had to pay for that out of my travel account. My all so hollow travel account. Shame because I did something as ambitious and egocentric as blogging about my pledge to do 365 sober days, and then break my vows before two weeks had passed. Talking about throwing myself to the lions, or the trolls of cyberspace. From social anxity to social pornografi and back on a tray of assorted shots.

Yes, it was a wonderful birthday! Beautiful weather, one dillion greetings on facebook and messenger and so on, and a lovely picnic at the local pond where I fed my self enough food to saturate every worker at an average clothing factory in Bangladesh. Unfortunatly I wasn’t just overfilled. I managed to food poison myself to the extent that I spent the rest of the day in the bathroom where I was amazed by my bodys ability to empty it self out of two outputs at once. At the same time I was very thankful for the size of the room which allowed me to sit steady on the porcelain throne with my head in a not to uncomfortable angle in the sink, before I collapsed on the ice cold floor using the doorstep as a pillow after working out my abs that much I could still feel the burn a week later. And that was probably the only reason I didn’t drink more than one beer that day.

At least I got a rubber chick for my birthday. It wasn’t til the moment when I was standing there in the middle of the night with that thing in my hand, after I had recovered just a little from dizziness and nauseating contractions, and I heard the sound of that, to say the least ugly piece of rubber, that I realized that I had wished for this piece of crap, exactly this, for years. I’m sure I’ve wanted it for as long as I’ve been reading comics. That means as long as I’ve been able to read; 41 years. 5 years less than I’ve been loving cats. I have no idea why, but now you know: the cat was here before the chick.

This must be the most pointless ending I’ve ever written…

Anger issues

In karma we trust

I no longer understand what my psychologist want from me. Off course it was a lot worse when I had a therapist who didn’t understand me, but it’s pretty darn frustrating not to understand your therapist either. That eternal ongoing nagging about getting intouch with my feelings. I don’t get it. I feel like getting up and walk away, that’s what I feel. I think I’ve said that a couple of times already. But it seems like she means something else. To get intouch with my feelings is obviously not what I’m thinking of. What I would like to do, what I imagine. It’s not about what’s hidden in the darkest depths of my inner self.

There has been said and written a lot about forgiving and reconciliation. Meaningless phrases about forgive, but not forget. That you have to forgive to find peace of mind. To be able to move on. That you have to forgive because that’s what you do if you’re a good person. There are many things I can ignore. Out of love. Out of laziness. Of wisdom. Because I can’t have kittens in prison. Because there comes another day tomorrow. Because it’s insignificant. Because it serves me more to let it go. Because there’s no point in running around searching for vengeance towards someone who dies all by them self, or just ruin their lives without my help. Because I don’t kick downwards. Because I simply just have a life to live, but forgive?

It’s when I consider a hammer versus an axe that I run off to the pub. It’s when I catch my self pondering about how I can find out someones where abouts without leaving traces that I’m willing to accept almost any company or interlocutors because almost anything appears innocent and nice and acceptable compared to my own brains ability to figure out methods of torture. And believe me; I’m very inventive! I lifelong studie of creative processes as well as reading forbidden books since my parents hung the key to our house in a string around my neck, has prepared me for almost anything. Before I was ten I knew how to arrange a car accident which would release me from those individuals whos dna I was made of, but hardly could be claimed to be particularly suitable nurturers. I don’t know why I never did tha, but it’s a long time since I stopped imagine different accidents for them to die from. After all, I doubt I would get less pissed by experiencing even more shit. Or traumas, that is.

I believe there is a very thin line between pleasure and pain. I don’t believe the line between fantasize and realize is equally fine, but I do believe that all of those who claims they never even once have fantasized about performing ruthless, violent actions, or that they are incapable of hating someone, are lying. And those who claims they have never felt schadenfreude when somebody they would like to rip the head off, fucks up big time, are lying. This I BELIEVE! What I KNOW is that there’s no satisfaction in fantasizing about revenge, about violence. Imagening twisting a corksrew into the eye of some asshole I despise, even if I see the picture before my eyes a thousand times, wont give me any liberation nore comfort from my inner hell. And anybody who claims they don’t understand what I’m talking about, are lying!

That is what anger issues is all about!

It’s about knitting obsessivly instead of piercing someones testicles with my knitting needles even though it has been called for. It’s about not doing what the instincts of every single cell in my gut urges me to do. It’s about bathing in my own sweat, my own tears, my own blood, my own pain whilst I torment my self with questions with no answers. Why did all this happen to me? What did I do to deserve this? But I didn’t do anything wrong. It wasn’t me. Everything was just coincidences. A hell of a conglomeration of the traps of life. Who we are borned to be, and what life we are borned to live, is all a matter of luck or misfortune. So where do forgiving fit into this? There are no more forgivness than there is free will. I just need to find something else to think about. Something that makes me happy. Something that gives my life meaning, and my days contents until the moment comes when I se an oppurtunity to satisfy my darker side. Like seeing my eks tread on a rusty nail, get blood poisoning and staphylococcus aureus, and be forced to amputate from the neck down. It’s all about seeing why being so bloody furious really is kicking my own butt as well as kicking somebody who are already lying face down like they did when they did what they did. And the sweetest revenge is living well. That’s when I can get in touch with my feelings and tell my psycholigist that I sincerely are breathing with my stumach and my shoulders at ease. Or maybe I’ll just stop feeling…

Anger issues

#metoo

It is said that the devil loves secrets unspoken. Particularly those which gnaw like demons on a tormented soul. Can this raging demons be defeated without taken them by their horns? Can evil be killed with silence? Can I restrict the demons in my heart by not talking about them, or just forget that they are there if I never mention them again? Can I protect myself and feel safe, if I keep quiet about the abuse, or do I only protect the abuser?

It was a cold and dark february night in the year of 2001. I was visiting my boyfriend at the premises of his club in Oslo. I woke up by the door very carefully being closed. The only light in the room came from the blizzard on the screen of a small portable tv a few feet from the bed where I was lying next to him. The first thing I noticed was that he was lying under the duvet, while I was lying on top of it. I was cold. Or rather; my upper body was cold. I couldn’t feel the lower part of it. I tried to pull out the duvet from underneath me, but I couldn’t move anything but my arms. I was paralyzed from my chest down. I could lift my head a little, and I saw that my knees was bent all the way up and forced down flat to both sides like I was placed like this in some kind of perverted, lying lotus position with my abdomen completely exposed. This was wrong! This was more then just wrong!

I grabbed a hold on the bedside with my left hand so I could twist my upper body in a way that made me able to get a grip with my right hand as well. I pulled myself over on the side and rolled out of the bed. My feet bumped into the floor while I still held on to the bedside. I was standing in a position like a sumo wrestler, ready for fight, but when I let go of the bed to stand up straight, I turned uncontrollably around my own axis, and had to grab on to the bed again so I wouldn’t just fall apart like an empty sack. My hole body was trembling. I couldn’t straighten my legs, nor my upper body, and in the light of the blizzard from the tv I saw the picture of what had been done to me. White glowing rage lit behind my eyes.

I could’ve murdered him at the spot if only my body had functioned properly, which it didn’t. In any way. To the extent I could move at all I buckled around and slammed a foot into his fat belly. There was no strength in the kick, or in my bare foot, but he had been awake all along. “Auch!”. He squeaked like the rodent he is: “If you can’t behave, you can go home!”. He pulled the duvet over his shoulders. I was unable to answer, or move, or do anything, and even less go anywhere. I let my ravaged body drop on the bed and fell asleep immediately.

I rised from the mattress into sitting position as I woke up. Sitting like that, on the bedside, looking down to the floor, my head was empty of thoughts, words, and images. Everything at that moment was an endless, hellish feeling which scattered from my chest to every, singel cell in my entire body. It was leaking out of every pore of my skin like fat, stinky soot, and my heart was filled with an ice cold emptyness.

I stopped smiling. I stopped laughing. I stopped dancing. I ran ill from heartbreak and rage. I started screaming. A furious, irrepressible howl emerged from my aching uterus, through my darkened heart, and my torn soul. I screamed at him. I screamed at his friends. I screamed at my friends and my neighbours. I screamed at the wall. I screamed at the tv. I screamed at the prime minister and the queen and the king. I screamed at the silence surrounding me. I screamed at the past, and I screamed at the future. I screamed with all the power of my lungs. I screamed without a sound. I screamed with all the strength that I had while my life went past and my youth was gone.

For ten years I screamed like that until the rescue finally entered my life. A tiny savior; a furball with four paws, big, blue, playfull eyeballs, sandpaper kisses and a heart of unconditional love. He curled up in my hair, in my armpit, under my chin, and patched together those pieces of my shattered heart with his purrs, and his meows, and slowly, bit by bit, that big chunk of ice in my chest melted and disappeared.

Latskap og andre dyder

52 dager i året! På å røyke?!

Jeg var ganske så tøff i trynet der jeg fortsatt lå under dyna med varmelakenet på hakk 2 og tenkte romantiske tanker om årets første skitur dagen før og la ut i det vide og breie på Facebook om skituren jeg skulle ta senere på formidda’n, men så fort jeg stakk det samme trynet utafor døra utkledd som en svartmalt michelin-mann for å ta en kjapp tur på den lokale dagligvaren og kjente hver eneste av de 15 kuldegradene herje med mine skakkjørte bihuler, så tenkte jeg at det egentlig var helt greit å ta en Gro-dag fra alle nyttårsforsetter om å reise tempelet og alt det der, og heller slite litt på sofaen og drikke te med honning og ingefær. Jeg skyldte på dårlig impulskontroll og et stadig økende, narcissistisk behov for likes på Facebook og ble hjemme med sjefen; Truls lille elskling. Og Netflix.

Jeg kjeder meg. Jeg trodde at det å slutte å drikke daglig skulle oppta meg i mye større grad enn det gjør. At jeg måtte gjøre noe med det annet enn å bare la være å drikke, men jeg må ikke det. Det er faktisk bare å la være å drikke. Det er akkurat som da jeg slutta å røyke. Veldig behagelig. Men i tillegg til de åpenbare fordelene ved å slutte, som bedre helse, mer penger, mindre angst og depresjoner, bedre søvn, mindre drama og intriger osv., så kommer den ikke fullt så åpenbare nyvunne tiden. Da jeg slutta å røyke regnet jeg ut at jeg hadde brukt i snitt 52 dager i året på bare å røyke ca. 20 om dagen.

52 dager i året! På å røyke!?

Jeg har med andre ord brukt nesten 4 år av livet mitt på bare å sitte å suge på en jævla Prince! Det funker jo ikke engang. Jeg har aldri følt meg noe annerledes etter at jeg har røyka tobakk enn jeg har gjort før jeg tente på en røyk og dro tjære og nikotin og 4000 andre giftstoffer ned i lungene. Snakker om bortkasta tid! Det er ikke noe særlig annerledes når man drikker hver dag. Bortsett fra at man bruker enda mer tid på det og får gjort enda mindre fordi alkohol faktisk virker. Ingen tåler alkohol! Vi blir drita fulle alle sammen når vi drikker. Jeg liker ikke den jeg er når jeg drikker hver dag, og de jeg omgås når jeg drikker interesserer meg ikke lenger når jeg ikke drikker, så plutselig står jeg her med enorme mengder tid jeg ikke helt vet hvordan jeg skal bruke, eller hvem jeg skal bruke den sammen med. Jeg har slutta å gå på puben. Hva skal jeg vel der? Briefe med min nyvunne edruelighet? Utfordre min svakhet for gylne bobler på fat? De har jo ikke vørterøl en gang. Ikke det at jeg ser noe mening i å sitte på en pub hver dag og drikke vørterøl heller. Allikevel skal jeg innrømme at hver gang jeg går ut av døra og gjør noe, så kjemper jeg en liten kamp med meg selv om hvorvidt jeg skal stikke innom puben og ta bare én øl. Spesielt etter jobb. Når jeg er sliten og sulten og hjernen istedet for å fortelle meg at jeg skal reise hjem å spise middag og hvile, skriker ØL ØL ØL ØL!!!! Men det er ikke noe som heter “bare én øl”! Alle som har rusa seg mesteparten av livet vet det. Det finnes ingen “bare én gang”! Så jeg snur i døra og drar hjem. Legger meg på sofaen med beina høyt, setter på Netflix og spretter en vørterøl og ser dypt inn i gardinene til jeg har opparbeidet nok initiativ til å gå ut på kjøkkenet og lage middag. Netflix ble min frelser, men helt ærlig så tviler jeg på at jeg kommer til å angre på at jeg har sett for lite på tv den dagen jeg skal dø, så jeg må finne noe annet å fylle tida med. Fortrinnsvis noe jeg kan tjene litt ekstra på.

Jeg har gullsmedutdannelse. Jeg fkk ikke lov til å ta svennebrevet, eller fagbrevet heter det vel nå, da jeg var over 25 år på daværende tidspunkt og hadde derfor ingen rettigheter. Akershus fylkeskommune mente det var billigere/bedre/mer fornuftig for alle parter at jeg heller gikk på attføringspenger, som det het den gang, i 13 år til før jeg ble uføretrygdet av ren utmattelse etter å ha slåss med systemet siden jeg var 21 år, enn å la meg fullføre utdannelsen som gullsmed og være ute i jobb i ’05. En lærlingeplass koster fylkeskommunen ca. 200 000 for 1 år. Jeg hadde litt problemer med å se logikken i det regnestykket. Synd, ikke sant?!

Gullsmed1-1

Nei, jeg kan ikke lage sånt som det der hjemme. Jeg kan ikke sitte med gasstank og åpen flamme ved spisebordet i stua, men det finnes selvfølgelig andre ting jeg kan gjøre. Så jeg har funnet frem tegnesaker. Skisseblokk og blyant, maling og pensler og staffeli. Jeg har like mange bilder som jeg har uskrevne historier i hodet, og det er på tide å få dem også ned på papiret. Eller lerretet. Eller hva jeg måtte finne på å bruke av medier. For alle vet jo hva de sier de som har greie på det:

Those who can’t teach, and those who can do!

Anger issues · Love

This fierce and violent infatuation

So I’m lying here, in my bed, sleepless, tasting my own garlic breath, with only a castrated, male cat as my company, wondering where that great love took off. I met him in another town, in another world, in another life, in another millenium. He sat down next to me and said: “What if me and my brothers took you to a room and gang raped you just a little?”. I looked at him with my big, blue eyes and smiled. “Now you made me think of something. I don’t know what it’s called. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”. He paid curiously attention to what I was about to explain. “It’s this little thing that women wore during World War II. A kind of tube, and on the inside of this tube there where knives sharp as razor blades,” He swallowed. Heavily. “and this tube the ladies stuck up in their vagina, because you see: if they couldn’t prevant rape, it should at least not go unpunished.”. I smiled like a cat licking cream of her whiskers while watching his reaction. He thought long and hard whilst his jaw moved back and forth, looking up at the top shelf in the bar. At last he took a deep breath and sighed before he answered. “On the other hand we might as well not.”. He left without a word. He just slipped off the barstool and disappeared into the shadows of their clubhouse.

red-hearts-wallpaper

My thoughts are wandering like ghosts through the night. Sometimes I talk to him like a lonely child talks to an invisible friend, but I’m not a lonely child. I don’t even feel lonely. I feel comfy and varm, wrapped up in a bed with linen of soft flannel. Washed and made late at dawn just yesterday. The bedroom is parfumed with the scent of peach coloured roses. They’re standing on the floor in a cracked crystal vase. Breathtakingly beautiful, soft as velvet, delicat as an angels heart. They remind me of his voice so long ago. A witness of love silently wispering “I see you!” between those lines unspoken.

Fløyelsmyk

It’s getting to warm under the duvet and I stick my feet outside it and regulate the heat on the electric sheet. My cat, mon petite ami, is stretching his body in all his length, (which is quite long, his a cat after all), purring and smiling at me with his yellow, oblique eyes. His hind paws are touching my thighs, and I pet his soft ears and silky fur.

It’s nice to have company when you can’t sleep, something that at times happen frequently. I get lots of advice about which pills to pop, but I’ll rather pet my fury petite cherie and weave pretty dreams of love until the tricks of the Sandman makes my eyelids fall. And there, in the dim light of a small bedside lamp, I see the reflection of my own fierce infatuation. My common sense says no, I’m wrong! I’m not inlove with the man. I’m inlove with the idea of being inlove. But my body tells me that my reason is mistaken. It’s very confusing, and yet it isn’t.

Live, adventurous images from times gone wild flickers behind my eyelids in the darkest hours of the winter night. I see his lips against mine, his tounge, his arms around me, hands and fingers across naked skin, his body between my thighs. I enjoy every delightful, impassioned second, and I hate him for this just as often.

May he burn like a fallen angel! May his wing roast as a Kentucky fried chicken! I will cut off his hair while he’s sleeping and weave ginger lingerie that will drape around my breasts and caress me in secret places under my dress where noone can see. I’ll tattoo his toes in psychedelic colours and sacred symbols, and polish his toenails with shimmering glitter before I cut them all off with a poultry scissor, thread them on a string and wear them like a queen as a talisman of horror for my admirers to see. Maybe I shall sacrifice the heads of animals on his doorstep, and make his mistresses disappear? Or maybe not.

‘Cause it’s only a nightflight to an imaginary paradise, a fairyland in my mind tripping. I keep the illusion to close to my heart to hinder the dream from disappearing. I’ll lock it up in a blood filled chamber and let it drown slowly, but forever. And as I release myself of a good morning fart so hot it almost causes my quilt to ignite, I think to myself that it might just be okey that this love kept me wait. For what use do I have of a man who doesn’t even dare to walk up my stairs? I have places to go, things to do, people to get to know, and you know what they say those who know?

Don’t fall into the dicksand, chicas! You know; like quicksand only with dicks!