An Icelandic Xenophobe, floating in the void over black sands, between the mountains. My heart is in these mountains. An echo of my grandparents chanting the rhymes.
I can hear ghosts breathing,
My absolute.
My heart pumps lava.
My fire living in Ice.
We are the hidden people,
Eve's rejects,
Living proudly within nature.
We are Iceland, the closest thing
you have
to the ghosts of harmony.
An expressionless man, and a stern woman. Having seen the noon and eve of their lives.
Living along side their treasures,
their magic in the world.
We have lost our appreciation for silence,
for the distant wind howling between the lava beds,
we have dismissed the hidden people
the keepers of our heritage.
Mid-wives, light-mothers, to our identity
An expressionless man, and a stern woman. Having seen the noon and eve of their lives.
look at the sand, with depart in their eyes
their magic in the world.
My roots deep in the mountains
feel the pulse from the wound
where we were cut away
holding on the the ghost pain.
A child standing cold and alone
with nothing but a knife
too young to loose them.
A howling gale in the void
and within it
my grandfathers voice
and my grandmother's requiem.
Friday, September 02, 2011
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
In a green hill there is a lake, running slowly and freely. Therein are the most breath-taking prismatic schools of fish.
My favorite are the violet ones, they recurrently swim when the sun is at ten hours flight. I dip my toes in and lean back and let the sun blind me as it pokes through the leaves in the breeze.
I feel between worlds on these moments, engulfed in two worlds of colors. The chill of the green, turquoise and grey and the soft, warm brushes of orange and yellow. The red in my veins thrusts out, at these moments, to the surface. A sign of embarrassment completely misinterpreted. Misrepresented.
Here in my solitude I remain fully clothed at all times. It is not from shame that I hide my skin from nature. But rather allowing myself to anticipate it. To excite myself with the prospect of one day returning there and enjoy the utter fulfillment. But now, at this moment, there is always that little left. A road left un-taken.
My little hill, my little stream and the grass. Warming my toes as I step around the trees, droplets seeping from my feet in to the soil. A thick green tapestry, every green known by my eyes. By my skin. Bare-feet filled with my hearts blood.
I lean against the trunk, lay my hands against the thick and warm bark. The creases and cracks showing time passing. A photograph of a life lived and yet to have been lived. An old soul rising up. The top is so far above me, and there it is so frail. Down here with me, the roots are thick and the body is strong. I can feel my essence blending with the tree and I can feel my hill. In my breast. My gift from the world and from myself. Here there is no need to climb because here I am content on the ground. Here I am grateful for the sky above me and the ground below me. No shame, only, anticipation.
...
to be continued.
My favorite are the violet ones, they recurrently swim when the sun is at ten hours flight. I dip my toes in and lean back and let the sun blind me as it pokes through the leaves in the breeze.
I feel between worlds on these moments, engulfed in two worlds of colors. The chill of the green, turquoise and grey and the soft, warm brushes of orange and yellow. The red in my veins thrusts out, at these moments, to the surface. A sign of embarrassment completely misinterpreted. Misrepresented.
Here in my solitude I remain fully clothed at all times. It is not from shame that I hide my skin from nature. But rather allowing myself to anticipate it. To excite myself with the prospect of one day returning there and enjoy the utter fulfillment. But now, at this moment, there is always that little left. A road left un-taken.
My little hill, my little stream and the grass. Warming my toes as I step around the trees, droplets seeping from my feet in to the soil. A thick green tapestry, every green known by my eyes. By my skin. Bare-feet filled with my hearts blood.
I lean against the trunk, lay my hands against the thick and warm bark. The creases and cracks showing time passing. A photograph of a life lived and yet to have been lived. An old soul rising up. The top is so far above me, and there it is so frail. Down here with me, the roots are thick and the body is strong. I can feel my essence blending with the tree and I can feel my hill. In my breast. My gift from the world and from myself. Here there is no need to climb because here I am content on the ground. Here I am grateful for the sky above me and the ground below me. No shame, only, anticipation.
...
to be continued.
Monday, January 31, 2011
a lonely maggot, eating his way through the big-toe.
He chews slowly and resolutely at the firm skin...
softening with the days, getting more supple... more juicy
The worm pulsates with every step he takes, up the calf and up the leg
A red line as a slug-trail after him, following him...
his tiny teeth gnawing away at the flesh... the food
A wedding between nature and demise, a walk up the isle.
A pulse in the leg, a pulse of digestion. Pellets of excrement.
To the sex. Meaty parts. No bone. Only... juicy food
A cold platter, a slab of post-raw meat, all you can eat.
Sitting alone at the buffet, his work cut out for him... by him.
Taking the pleasure trail onwards and upwards... inwards.
For a brief moment he pauses, contemplating and fearing.
Wondering why.
And then his gut makes him aware. And he takes a bite.
His path has become soft, almost liquid. And he feels like an eel would.
Each bite bigger and fuller. Each bite easier and quicker.
He feels as if he has crossed a hill, everything is downhill from there.
Ambition rises in him. His bites become more violent. haste.
Even though the flesh is sweet and moist. He doesn't realise. He eats.
He swells with passionate ambition. And he eats.
Coming to the hardest muscle. Challenging its structure and fighting. Eating
Each bite more resigned, each effort more concise.
Until he has crossed it, triumphant.
His path is long and now narrow. Only one way to go.
feeling so close, so proud and so tired...
mouth still working and bit by bit he keeps on.
edging past the mouth, crispy flakes on liquefied lips.
sliding past the nose, across the bridge.
where he stops.
mouth exhausted.
belly full.
He sleeps.
He flies away.
He chews slowly and resolutely at the firm skin...
softening with the days, getting more supple... more juicy
The worm pulsates with every step he takes, up the calf and up the leg
A red line as a slug-trail after him, following him...
his tiny teeth gnawing away at the flesh... the food
A wedding between nature and demise, a walk up the isle.
A pulse in the leg, a pulse of digestion. Pellets of excrement.
To the sex. Meaty parts. No bone. Only... juicy food
A cold platter, a slab of post-raw meat, all you can eat.
Sitting alone at the buffet, his work cut out for him... by him.
Taking the pleasure trail onwards and upwards... inwards.
For a brief moment he pauses, contemplating and fearing.
Wondering why.
And then his gut makes him aware. And he takes a bite.
His path has become soft, almost liquid. And he feels like an eel would.
Each bite bigger and fuller. Each bite easier and quicker.
He feels as if he has crossed a hill, everything is downhill from there.
Ambition rises in him. His bites become more violent. haste.
Even though the flesh is sweet and moist. He doesn't realise. He eats.
He swells with passionate ambition. And he eats.
Coming to the hardest muscle. Challenging its structure and fighting. Eating
Each bite more resigned, each effort more concise.
Until he has crossed it, triumphant.
His path is long and now narrow. Only one way to go.
feeling so close, so proud and so tired...
mouth still working and bit by bit he keeps on.
edging past the mouth, crispy flakes on liquefied lips.
sliding past the nose, across the bridge.
where he stops.
mouth exhausted.
belly full.
He sleeps.
He flies away.
Friday, November 19, 2010
He dreams of a glass of water
he sits still in his chair gazing out at the window
he sits with his hands in his lap, between his legs
the sides of his soles are up against each other and his head is tilted
he watches birds, leaves, clouds and garbage
he breathes heavily, sitting there
every now and then he feels the impulse to stand up
but he sits there and watches
intense enjoyment
as the birds hop from twig to twig, butt in the air
the tiny little dark beads that stare at him from time to time
stare at his window from time to time
so blissfully organic/mechanic
he wonders if this is the time to stand up
another impulse, a sharp twang of a string, to stand up
but he sits there and watches
he dreams about a glass of water
but he can see himself letting go of his molecules
he sees himself disperse in to millions of dust particles
getting carried by the wind out through the window
getting into those tiny black beads, absorbed
Irrational fear
he grabs hold of his molecules and glues them together
just in case...
twang
But he sits there and watches
the grass is brilliantly green and the sun is shining
the birds open their slits and bare their throats
the sound seems out of place in them, but there you go
a mechanical orchestra of chirps and beeps
they have no conductor but still this sound touches every ones heart
in one way
or another
when the next twang comes, he gets up
he walks to the sink
he picks up the glass
he turns on the faucet
he gathers water into the glass
he turns off the faucet
he takes a sip
he walks back to the chair
he sits down
he takes another sip
he puts the glass on the table
and he watches
he sits still in his chair gazing out at the window
he sits with his hands in his lap, between his legs
the sides of his soles are up against each other and his head is tilted
he watches birds, leaves, clouds and garbage
he breathes heavily, sitting there
every now and then he feels the impulse to stand up
but he sits there and watches
intense enjoyment
as the birds hop from twig to twig, butt in the air
the tiny little dark beads that stare at him from time to time
stare at his window from time to time
so blissfully organic/mechanic
he wonders if this is the time to stand up
another impulse, a sharp twang of a string, to stand up
but he sits there and watches
he dreams about a glass of water
but he can see himself letting go of his molecules
he sees himself disperse in to millions of dust particles
getting carried by the wind out through the window
getting into those tiny black beads, absorbed
Irrational fear
he grabs hold of his molecules and glues them together
just in case...
twang
But he sits there and watches
the grass is brilliantly green and the sun is shining
the birds open their slits and bare their throats
the sound seems out of place in them, but there you go
a mechanical orchestra of chirps and beeps
they have no conductor but still this sound touches every ones heart
in one way
or another
when the next twang comes, he gets up
he walks to the sink
he picks up the glass
he turns on the faucet
he gathers water into the glass
he turns off the faucet
he takes a sip
he walks back to the chair
he sits down
he takes another sip
he puts the glass on the table
and he watches
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Sunday, November 07, 2010
It's been a while since I posted anything here. At least just to talk and not "express" something arguably artistic or "vital". It's been a year and a half since I came back from England... I think... It feels like ages since and a lot has happened.
It's been a pretty rough year.
I had to leave my studies because of the economic crash, it hit us Icelanders pretty bad but I don't think it's as bad as we are meant to believe. Of course it's incredibly hard on some people, some people less fortunate or who had made some silly decisions (but seemed quite normal at the time). But most people still have a job, still have a home, still have family and friends. The world isn't ending.
I stopped watching the news some years ago and stopped reading the newspaper. It could be that I am just naive and lost on some things that are happening in the world and in Iceland because of this. But all I can see is that my immediate surroundings aren't changing that much but for good.
People are re-evaluating their lives and their values and friends are becoming closer and families as well. People enjoy the company of other people more in these times of uncertainty.
Personally I've had real problems re-evaluating my situation.
When I realised I had to quit my studies because of money I couldn't believe it. A big part of me was distraught, to have to leave what I had been working on for two years, to leave my preferred education that had given me so much. But a part of me felt incredible relief, the pressure of having to succeed had been lifted.
You see, I have never really believed in myself, not in the 'go-getter' kind of way. I believe in my humanity and my values towards other people but I've never considered myself a success. I've always been mediocre in my academics and have never excelled at anything before. I left college because I couldn't see myself ever graduating. I got accepted into my university as a mature student and thought I had fooled the Icelandic educational system (which I severely disagree with).
Anyways, having to come back home to live with my mum and work at my old job and break up with my boyfriend at the time... I felt like a loser. It's pretty much the definition of loser in the "social structure dictionary" (if there was one).
At first I was still powered by my practice as a Buddhist and kept a strong front. Smiled and believed that something good would come out of this and that I would find a new focus or a real focus. I was firm in my belief that since this was FATED to happen that the fates had something better in store for me.
As the weeks went by and my confidence dwindled this soon became an act. The smile became a mask, an incredibly heavy mask.
For those who know me, I am probably a big whiner I know. But I try to keep my suffering to myself, and that is what I have been doing: suffering. Mixed up with all of my complexes with self esteem and anxiety was big philosophical ideas I had studied. Existentialism. It became a disease in my psyche. At night when I would lie in bed trying to fall asleep I would constantly think about the pointlessness of it all, how unfair it was... It was supposed to be MY big break... to finally prove myself to my family and friends and not-friends. I had been so close to validate my existence to the world and show everyone that I was just as good as them and I could stand proudly next to my siblings and say "I am equal". And it had been taken away... taken away from me. Me the loser. I the Loser.
It just grew and grew in my stomach and chest and head and until recently I have been very depressed. Old thoughts I thought I had long since outgrown came back. A deep want to not be anymore. This feeling of utter helplessness.
Needless to say, my relationships with other people started to unhinge. I stopped being able to be around people without having spiky butterflies in my stomach. Any attempt at romance became a catastrophe that just left me even colder.
Something has to change.
It's funny thinking about human feelings and perspectives. How quickly they can change.
At this moment right now, I am not better. But I feel good tonight.
I have resigned myself to face myself. To deal and to become fully me. Me!
When I think about my emotional/mental self I see an image of a body that was thrown out of a car during a crash. I see a bloody mess on the side of a street. It took me a while to see this but now I see my wounds and breaks. I am intent on retrieving this body and give it the proper care so that it will become a healthy and whole being. This is why I feel good tonight, this idea of progress.
My name is Haffi, and I am going to be whole. I am going to enjoy life. I am going to love life. This is all that matters.
It's been a pretty rough year.
I had to leave my studies because of the economic crash, it hit us Icelanders pretty bad but I don't think it's as bad as we are meant to believe. Of course it's incredibly hard on some people, some people less fortunate or who had made some silly decisions (but seemed quite normal at the time). But most people still have a job, still have a home, still have family and friends. The world isn't ending.
I stopped watching the news some years ago and stopped reading the newspaper. It could be that I am just naive and lost on some things that are happening in the world and in Iceland because of this. But all I can see is that my immediate surroundings aren't changing that much but for good.
People are re-evaluating their lives and their values and friends are becoming closer and families as well. People enjoy the company of other people more in these times of uncertainty.
Personally I've had real problems re-evaluating my situation.
When I realised I had to quit my studies because of money I couldn't believe it. A big part of me was distraught, to have to leave what I had been working on for two years, to leave my preferred education that had given me so much. But a part of me felt incredible relief, the pressure of having to succeed had been lifted.
You see, I have never really believed in myself, not in the 'go-getter' kind of way. I believe in my humanity and my values towards other people but I've never considered myself a success. I've always been mediocre in my academics and have never excelled at anything before. I left college because I couldn't see myself ever graduating. I got accepted into my university as a mature student and thought I had fooled the Icelandic educational system (which I severely disagree with).
Anyways, having to come back home to live with my mum and work at my old job and break up with my boyfriend at the time... I felt like a loser. It's pretty much the definition of loser in the "social structure dictionary" (if there was one).
At first I was still powered by my practice as a Buddhist and kept a strong front. Smiled and believed that something good would come out of this and that I would find a new focus or a real focus. I was firm in my belief that since this was FATED to happen that the fates had something better in store for me.
As the weeks went by and my confidence dwindled this soon became an act. The smile became a mask, an incredibly heavy mask.
For those who know me, I am probably a big whiner I know. But I try to keep my suffering to myself, and that is what I have been doing: suffering. Mixed up with all of my complexes with self esteem and anxiety was big philosophical ideas I had studied. Existentialism. It became a disease in my psyche. At night when I would lie in bed trying to fall asleep I would constantly think about the pointlessness of it all, how unfair it was... It was supposed to be MY big break... to finally prove myself to my family and friends and not-friends. I had been so close to validate my existence to the world and show everyone that I was just as good as them and I could stand proudly next to my siblings and say "I am equal". And it had been taken away... taken away from me. Me the loser. I the Loser.
It just grew and grew in my stomach and chest and head and until recently I have been very depressed. Old thoughts I thought I had long since outgrown came back. A deep want to not be anymore. This feeling of utter helplessness.
Needless to say, my relationships with other people started to unhinge. I stopped being able to be around people without having spiky butterflies in my stomach. Any attempt at romance became a catastrophe that just left me even colder.
Something has to change.
It's funny thinking about human feelings and perspectives. How quickly they can change.
At this moment right now, I am not better. But I feel good tonight.
I have resigned myself to face myself. To deal and to become fully me. Me!
When I think about my emotional/mental self I see an image of a body that was thrown out of a car during a crash. I see a bloody mess on the side of a street. It took me a while to see this but now I see my wounds and breaks. I am intent on retrieving this body and give it the proper care so that it will become a healthy and whole being. This is why I feel good tonight, this idea of progress.
My name is Haffi, and I am going to be whole. I am going to enjoy life. I am going to love life. This is all that matters.
Friday, July 02, 2010
A god once grew flowers, he watered them and stroked them. He changed the soil in the pot and fertilised them. He tended to their limbs with a very gentle scythe. He made the sun shine on them so that their beautiful colours could flow into the world and he made the stars come up when they grew tired.
This god cherished his flowers. They were his only friends. He loved them so much that he gave them small pieces of himself. To the rose he gave a piece of his heart. To the sunflower he gave a piece of his eyes. To the daffodil he gave a piece of his humour. To the orchid he gave a piece of his pride... to all his flowers he gave a piece until there was nothing left of him.
The flowers mourned their keeper, their friend. But they took solace in knowing that they each had a piece of him. To honour him the flowers took over where he left off. They asked the sun to come out and shine on the earth, they asked the rain to come down and play and they asked the moon and stars to shine and speak to them. They created life of their own. They gave the earth living things and the flowers watched over them.
And they still do.
This god cherished his flowers. They were his only friends. He loved them so much that he gave them small pieces of himself. To the rose he gave a piece of his heart. To the sunflower he gave a piece of his eyes. To the daffodil he gave a piece of his humour. To the orchid he gave a piece of his pride... to all his flowers he gave a piece until there was nothing left of him.
The flowers mourned their keeper, their friend. But they took solace in knowing that they each had a piece of him. To honour him the flowers took over where he left off. They asked the sun to come out and shine on the earth, they asked the rain to come down and play and they asked the moon and stars to shine and speak to them. They created life of their own. They gave the earth living things and the flowers watched over them.
And they still do.
Monday, April 26, 2010
I stand, facing the wall I stand with my hands in the air. Red paint splattered across my backside silhouetting my form on the wall.
Its arms are down.
The wall stretches very high, so high I can't see the end of it. I look left, then right and note the end of the wall about 4 meters away from me on either side. But I look up, and I start to climb.
Its arms are down.
The white paint that covers the brick is a thick kind of paint. It covers the edges of the bricks and making them smoother and shiny. The paint drips of my back and the drops hit the ground under me. I have ascended 2 meters from the base.
Its arms are down.
Its gaze moves up.
My body is more muscular than it really is. My arms are thicker, they are as thick as arms of other men, so are my legs and chest. I have no hair and I have a tattoo on my lower back. A tramp stamp. My surroundings are gray and there is no wind.
Its arms are down.
Its eyes are on me.
I keep on climbing, my fingers worming themselves into the creases of the wall. My toes try to do the same but can not. They support me while my fingers do the real work. My thoughts wander to birds: amazing, huge cranes with billowing feathers of white, blue and yellow. My nails are breaking and ripping. The red drops below me are not only paint. I keep climbing, focusing on the (never) end.
Its arms are down.
Its eyes are on me.
Its palms open towards the sky.
Around me the horizon is white, in between there is gray and above me there is a black dot where the wall (never) ends. 200 meters above my comrade. The paint has dried on my back, crusted and cracked it flakes and drifts down. Dust. My face is turning white and my eyes are sinking and my fingers find their way still into the folds. On either side the wall stops, below me it starts but above me it goes on. My lips part for air.
Its arms are moving upwards.
Its eyes are on me.
Its palms are open.
Its knees are bending.
Its embrace is open.
My feet slip and so do my fingers. I fall away from up. My eyes now firmly focused on the start. Now there is wind. Images of cranes come back to me.
Its arms are ready.
Its eyes are on me.
Its palms are open.
Its knees are bent.
Its embrace is open.
A sky of stars is rushing towards me. Red stars in a vast white space. Billowing feathers come to my mind, I look down and I see the (never) end still the same. And I close my eyes.
Its arms are down.
Its eyes are on me.
Its palms are closed.
The knees are straightening.
Its embrace is empty.
Its arms are down.
The wall stretches very high, so high I can't see the end of it. I look left, then right and note the end of the wall about 4 meters away from me on either side. But I look up, and I start to climb.
Its arms are down.
The white paint that covers the brick is a thick kind of paint. It covers the edges of the bricks and making them smoother and shiny. The paint drips of my back and the drops hit the ground under me. I have ascended 2 meters from the base.
Its arms are down.
Its gaze moves up.
My body is more muscular than it really is. My arms are thicker, they are as thick as arms of other men, so are my legs and chest. I have no hair and I have a tattoo on my lower back. A tramp stamp. My surroundings are gray and there is no wind.
Its arms are down.
Its eyes are on me.
I keep on climbing, my fingers worming themselves into the creases of the wall. My toes try to do the same but can not. They support me while my fingers do the real work. My thoughts wander to birds: amazing, huge cranes with billowing feathers of white, blue and yellow. My nails are breaking and ripping. The red drops below me are not only paint. I keep climbing, focusing on the (never) end.
Its arms are down.
Its eyes are on me.
Its palms open towards the sky.
Around me the horizon is white, in between there is gray and above me there is a black dot where the wall (never) ends. 200 meters above my comrade. The paint has dried on my back, crusted and cracked it flakes and drifts down. Dust. My face is turning white and my eyes are sinking and my fingers find their way still into the folds. On either side the wall stops, below me it starts but above me it goes on. My lips part for air.
Its arms are moving upwards.
Its eyes are on me.
Its palms are open.
Its knees are bending.
Its embrace is open.
My feet slip and so do my fingers. I fall away from up. My eyes now firmly focused on the start. Now there is wind. Images of cranes come back to me.
Its arms are ready.
Its eyes are on me.
Its palms are open.
Its knees are bent.
Its embrace is open.
A sky of stars is rushing towards me. Red stars in a vast white space. Billowing feathers come to my mind, I look down and I see the (never) end still the same. And I close my eyes.
Its arms are down.
Its eyes are on me.
Its palms are closed.
The knees are straightening.
Its embrace is empty.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
In it's yellow eyes it holds a block of cement, its is heavy and it has rods in it. It is a thing of construction... the broken Tower. Once a magnificent thing... it once was a glorious thing but now it is a gray lump. Where is the glamor?
The heart is a strange, fluid thing. It is not fluid in the meaning that it flows... but that it is a fluid, it seeps and follows the gravity. Like fluid it runs into the cracks and holes and imperfections of the skin. It is fluid in the way that you can not, no matter how hard you try, hold it in the palms of your hand.
Yellow eyes follow every drop as it falls down towards the ground, towards gravity, and the slightest grin appears on its face. The shame is unbearable... the humiliation of loosing yourself, the overwhelming, undeniable fact that the only thing that is truly yours... you can not hold it. And that smug grin on its face! The shame, the vulnerability, the nudity and those eyes bearing down on you.
You can only hope, as you stand there naked, that just maybe... possibly... the universe willing! That your heart, dripping away from you into the dirty ground, will find a seedling. You can only hope that something good can come out of it, that there will be life that can feed from it. That your hearts liquid will create something. While you stand there, desperately trying to slow the leak, back bent, knees buckling, brow clenched and your eyes staring into those yellow, cold pools.
And that horrid grin..
The heart is a strange, fluid thing. It is not fluid in the meaning that it flows... but that it is a fluid, it seeps and follows the gravity. Like fluid it runs into the cracks and holes and imperfections of the skin. It is fluid in the way that you can not, no matter how hard you try, hold it in the palms of your hand.
Yellow eyes follow every drop as it falls down towards the ground, towards gravity, and the slightest grin appears on its face. The shame is unbearable... the humiliation of loosing yourself, the overwhelming, undeniable fact that the only thing that is truly yours... you can not hold it. And that smug grin on its face! The shame, the vulnerability, the nudity and those eyes bearing down on you.
You can only hope, as you stand there naked, that just maybe... possibly... the universe willing! That your heart, dripping away from you into the dirty ground, will find a seedling. You can only hope that something good can come out of it, that there will be life that can feed from it. That your hearts liquid will create something. While you stand there, desperately trying to slow the leak, back bent, knees buckling, brow clenched and your eyes staring into those yellow, cold pools.
And that horrid grin..
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
Sunday, November 08, 2009
it's wonderful
outstanding
releasing
in water we have wings
I feel like it feels to be superman
I feel like it feels to have superpowers
I feel like my body is agile and beautiful
I feel like my mind can focus and gather like a pearl
I can't breathe
in water we have no weight
I feel the connection with my world
I feel like other people around me are with me
I feel like my influence extends further than I can tell
I feel like i understand the integral fluidity in the world
I can't see
In water things are so clear.
I swim
I get air
I swim
I get air
I swim..
outstanding
amazing
it's so scary
how close it is..
water is life and water is...
if we stay under long enough
if we stay superman
if we keep the power
.
outstanding
releasing
in water we have wings
I feel like it feels to be superman
I feel like it feels to have superpowers
I feel like my body is agile and beautiful
I feel like my mind can focus and gather like a pearl
I can't breathe
in water we have no weight
I feel the connection with my world
I feel like other people around me are with me
I feel like my influence extends further than I can tell
I feel like i understand the integral fluidity in the world
I can't see
In water things are so clear.
I swim
I get air
I swim
I get air
I swim..
outstanding
amazing
it's so scary
how close it is..
water is life and water is...
if we stay under long enough
if we stay superman
if we keep the power
.
Friday, October 16, 2009
A traveling salesman,
he is dressed in a brown trench-coat
dark blue, red pinstripe underwear
shiny brown shoes
black socks with white markings
pale brown trousers
white t-shirt
pale blue shirt with a breast pocket and clear buttons only they have tiny swirls of white in them, a white string attaches them, the needle must have traveled so many circles in and out. Each round making the button safer and stabler. Not unlike the salesman.
Notice his face?
can you see it?
his face is cut by shadows
hard shadows hollow out his face.
I wonder if he has wrinkles?
He seems not to have ever made a facial expression in his life.
He must have...
When he had is birthday last year,
when he saw his mother last week,
when his daughter gave him a picture she drew,
when his wife ... well you know.
He must have...
When he stubbed his toe,
when he lost his father,
when he lost that hand,
when he ... well you know.
But still,
those shadows cut him
and his face is hollow
his step quickens
his gaze moves forward
his hand moves away
"WAIT!"
white markings,
on the floor, down that street
definitely leading down to there. down there. down, there.
There is always that pavement
brilliantly glazed by street-lamps and traffic lights
it's almost like the northern lights
a road paved with... electricity.
oooh! OOH! DOWN THERE! THERE HE IS!
Look! can you see him!? there!?
RIGHT THERE!
look at him run. Not unlike a gazelle no?
light brown legs, shiny hard shoes
OH! he is beautiful!
His face never changes but those eyes...
Those eyes have been cut 300 times and 300 times more for every cut
he's gone... around the corner.
he is walking still
his hand firmly gripped around the handle
his chest completely still
and his face ... well you know.
A traveling salesman
but his face,
he must have...
he is dressed in a brown trench-coat
dark blue, red pinstripe underwear
shiny brown shoes
black socks with white markings
pale brown trousers
white t-shirt
pale blue shirt with a breast pocket and clear buttons only they have tiny swirls of white in them, a white string attaches them, the needle must have traveled so many circles in and out. Each round making the button safer and stabler. Not unlike the salesman.
Notice his face?
can you see it?
his face is cut by shadows
hard shadows hollow out his face.
I wonder if he has wrinkles?
He seems not to have ever made a facial expression in his life.
He must have...
When he had is birthday last year,
when he saw his mother last week,
when his daughter gave him a picture she drew,
when his wife ... well you know.
He must have...
When he stubbed his toe,
when he lost his father,
when he lost that hand,
when he ... well you know.
But still,
those shadows cut him
and his face is hollow
his step quickens
his gaze moves forward
his hand moves away
"WAIT!"
white markings,
on the floor, down that street
definitely leading down to there. down there. down, there.
There is always that pavement
brilliantly glazed by street-lamps and traffic lights
it's almost like the northern lights
a road paved with... electricity.
oooh! OOH! DOWN THERE! THERE HE IS!
Look! can you see him!? there!?
RIGHT THERE!
look at him run. Not unlike a gazelle no?
light brown legs, shiny hard shoes
OH! he is beautiful!
His face never changes but those eyes...
Those eyes have been cut 300 times and 300 times more for every cut
he's gone... around the corner.
he is walking still
his hand firmly gripped around the handle
his chest completely still
and his face ... well you know.
A traveling salesman
but his face,
he must have...
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Volcanic, eruption.
Fucktarded progressive spewing epitome praline!
tíkar tussu drulluhala fokk skít drasl kráarskráargat skellur rass gróft blek krítar kall!
hlaupa og hlaupa og hlaupa á vegg og blæða í jörðina, brjóta bein, hvítt flass af ái!
þrusa hendinni inní stein nema að hann gefur eftir og grípur svo, vera fastur þar til að hann slær tilbaka.
horfa svo stíft á sólina að augun frjósa og litlar sprungur koma og sýra flæðir niður kinnarnar niður í tær og inn í merginn!
Rauður, hvítur, dökk brúnn og króm litaður stafur ítrekað þrykkt í höfuðið.
steinvölur í hundraðatali að þjóta um loftið eins og smástyrnabelti sem hringsólar í kringum lítin postulíns hund.
ennisholuþrýstingur, litlir naglar, þrýstingur þrýstingur það til allt brotnar og springur.
hnefi í hurð, litlar flísar inná milli naglanna að éta sig í gegnum holdið.
FOKK IT!
Fucktarded progressive spewing epitome praline!
tíkar tussu drulluhala fokk skít drasl kráarskráargat skellur rass gróft blek krítar kall!
hlaupa og hlaupa og hlaupa á vegg og blæða í jörðina, brjóta bein, hvítt flass af ái!
þrusa hendinni inní stein nema að hann gefur eftir og grípur svo, vera fastur þar til að hann slær tilbaka.
horfa svo stíft á sólina að augun frjósa og litlar sprungur koma og sýra flæðir niður kinnarnar niður í tær og inn í merginn!
Rauður, hvítur, dökk brúnn og króm litaður stafur ítrekað þrykkt í höfuðið.
steinvölur í hundraðatali að þjóta um loftið eins og smástyrnabelti sem hringsólar í kringum lítin postulíns hund.
ennisholuþrýstingur, litlir naglar, þrýstingur þrýstingur það til allt brotnar og springur.
hnefi í hurð, litlar flísar inná milli naglanna að éta sig í gegnum holdið.
FOKK IT!
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Ég er alveg að pissa á mig!!! við erum að ræða 3 klósettferðir á sama klukkutímanum... nema náttla er búin að sitja hérna heillengi að sötra og surfa, kanski er ég búin að fara 3svar á klóstið á 3 tímum eða meira :S I dont know.
en allavega, ég þarf á klóstið núna.... aftur. nennir einhver að fara fyrir mig?
Ok ég skal sjálfur
*fer*
AH! þetta var gott!
Ég sakna íslenskunnar svo mikið! hafið þið fengið þessa tilfiningu? að þegar þið eruð búin að tala ensku í X langan tíma að þið farið að finna fyrir froðu uppí munninum? Ég fæ froðu og verki í munnin eftir of mikla ensku.
Ég man síðast þegar ég kom heim, ég var beðin um að vera með kaffikynningu, og ekkert smá góður í því b.t.w. seldi ca. 50-60 pakka a einum degi ;) hehehehe. Anyway anyway anyway, ég var að kynna kaffi og ég var spurður oftar en einusinni hvaðan ég væri á hnettinum, ég var farin að tala svo bjagaða íslensku að ég var eins og mjööög duglegur nýbúi. FÁRÁNLEGT! fólk hló í opið geðið á skömm minni yfir þvoglumælginni. Ég sagði jafnvel við einn mann "þetta kaffi sker frammúr".... ég missti andlitið! FUSS!
Það er alveg ótrúlegt hvað maður lærir mikið á því að fara útfyrir landsins steina, ég hef svo miklu meiri virðingu fyrir öðrum löndum. Það er magnað hvað önnur lönd (sem og ísland) hafa ríka menningu og sögu sem blæðir framm og aftur í sögu þeirra. Við tökum mörgu sem mjög sjálfsögðum hlutum, orð og orðatiltæki og þvílíkt án þess einsuinni að velta því fyrir okkur hvaðan þessi setning og þetta orð kemur. Við njótum ekki okkar ríkulega arfleiðar, mér er ekki furða að Afi minn fussi og sveii yfir slakandi íslenskukunnáttu dóttursonar síns!
HAHA! ég man hvað amma mín var yfir sig hrifin þegar ég sagði við hana "ég er að fara í geim" en ekki "ég er að fara í partý" það var ótrúlegt brosið á þeirri gömlu!
Mikið hrikalega þykir mér vænt um hana Ömmu mína, hún er svo falleg kona, hjarthlý og góð. Hún myndi aldrei nokkurntíman gera nokkri manneskju það að dæma hana fyrirfram, hún er skilningsrík og leynir á sér! Ég held að það sé ekki neitt sem maður getur ekki spurt hana um, hún er alvitur og það ætti að vera mynd af henni í orðabókinni við hliðiná orðinu viska.
Orð: Viska
Skilgreining: Ketty Ellen Snorrason (Amma Bitten)
Man eftir því að ég var að velta því fyrir mér hvað ég ætlaði mér að gera fyrst að ég kláraði ekki MH, ég ætlaði mér náttla út til Englands í leiklistarnám. En hún Amma mín! hún ætlaði mér sko aðra hluti! ;) hún ætlaði mér til Camebridge eða Oxford í enskar bókmenntir! Þessi kona vissi líka alveg að ég þyrfti að spila á mínum styrkleikum, og þessi enskusýki mín gæti sko spilað sterkt í þessu fagi!
Getið þið ímyndað ykkur?! Ég! Bókmenntafræðingur í enskum bókmenntum! :D HAH! Ég verð að segja að ég er soldið uppi með mér á þessum metnaði í Ömmu minni gagnvart honum litla mér :) bókmenntafötluðum einstaklingnum.
Ekki það, Afi minn er líka voða merkilegur einstaklingur :P algerlega höfuð fjölskyldunnar. Ég man eftir því að ég og Afi vorum einusinni að rífast. Við skulum hafa það í huga að Afi minn er fyrrum forseti lögmannafélag íslands. Hann er hardcore rökræðari og þá sérstaklega hvað varðar lög. Við vorum að rífast um fyrningu kynferðisafbrota. Ég var andstæður og hann meðfylgur. Við rifumst þanga til að hann varð rauður í andlitinu og ég farinn að skjálfa og Amma og Mamma (eða Didda) þurftu að draga Afa inní næsta herbergi til að róast og ég að hætta að tala.
Amma sagði svo seinna við Kristján minn í einhverju boði "tjah, hann Hafsteinn okkar, ég get sagt þér það að það hefur enginn staðið í hárinu á honum Sveini (Afa) eins og hann Hafsteinn" við erum að ræða að ef stolt væri mælanlegt á richterskala að þá hefði ég fellt 2 til 3 stórborgir :D. Það er fátt sem getur gert mig eins stoltan og hrós frá henni Ömmu minni. Hún er eins og englendingarnir segja "The Dogs Bollocks!" algert flippin' ÆÐI!
Mér finst svo mikil skömm í íslenskunni minni, ekki dagsdaglega sko, en þegar ég er að skrifa Ömmu og Afa e-mail þá verð ég svo stressaður, ég þori varla að skrifa neitt af því að ég er alltaf að reyna að skrifa sem réttast. Ég er svo hræddur við að skrifa þeim eitthvað og þau fara bara að kúgast af móðurtungunauðgun. Ég vil ekki að þau missi virðingu fyrir mér eða haldi að ég sé heimskur eða eitthvað.
Talandi um það! ég á tvö systkyni, ég elska þau mest í heiminum, þau eru aðal tengill minn við fjölskylduna. Eftir og á meðan gelgjuskeiðinu stóð þá fjarlægðist ég fjölskylduna eins og heitan eldinn. Ég hef ekki guðmund um af hverju ég gerði það, kanski var það skömm yfir samkynhneigðinni fyrst um sinn eða það að ég vildi ekki að neinn vissi hvernig mér leið eða hvað ég var að gera (djamma, lifa kynlífi, drama, læti) þannig að ég forðaðist. Síðastliðin 2-3 ár þá er ég búin að finna til mikils missis, ég er að fara á mis við svo margt. Ég á erfitt með að hafa eðlileg samskipti við Mömmu, Ömmu, Afa, frænkur og frændur. Ég get bara ekki spjallað við þau án þess að vera með SVOOOOOOOOOOOOONA stóran stresshnút í maganum. Þett er fjölskyldan mín, fólkið sem mun elska mig hvað sem á dynur en ég kemst bara ekki hjá þessari stresstilfiningu yfir hvað þeim hlýtur að finnast um mig. Anyway anyway anyway! Þetta allt á sér punkt.
Ég á tvö systkyni sem ég elska, þau eru magnaðasta fólk í heiminum, eilífur brunnur krafts, þekkingar, blíðu, ástar og knúsa. Þau eru líka bæði ÓTRÚLEGA greind og dugleg og hæfileikarík og sterk.
Don't get me wrong, ég veit að ég á líka margt til brunns að bera en það er alltaf þetta "yngstabarns syndróm". Mér finst ég svo oft vera að keppast við þau. Þau eru bæði með stúdentspróf, þau eru gagnkynhneigð og eiga börn, þau geta skipulagt, þau kunna stærðfræði! það er ekkert sem þau geta ekki gert og hafa ekki gert. Stundum líður mér eins og strumplings við hliðiná tveim risum.
Þannig að í sambandi við ömmu mína og afa þá get ég ekkert gert að því að bera mig saman við Diddu og Svein í augum þeirra, Þau eiga fjölskyldu og vinna sjálfstætt og hafa tekið nám í mikilvægum hlutum og fengið mjög góðar einkunnir og staðið sig vel. Sem og þau stunduðu bæði íþróttir og félagsstarf sem unglingar. Bróðir minn er fullkomin eiginmaður og systir mín fullkomin eiginkona and then some! Ég er soldið svarti sauðurinn, leiklistarnörd, hommi, dramtískur og eyddi bestu árum ævi minnar í þunglyndi svo ég ræði nú ekki að hafa algerlega fjarlægst fjölskylduna mína.
Ég hef fundið þetta mynstur í mörgum aðstæðum í lífi mínu :P
Þetta með að missa af fyrstu aðstæðunum, fyrsta tækifærinu til að kynnast fólki og svo þarf að reyna að komast inní það seinna meir.
Það er þetta með familíunna, að kynnast ekki fólki á þeim tíma sem maður er að komast að því hver maður er (gelgjuskeiðið) en ekki að finna tækifæri til fyrr en núna.
Og svo líka skólafélagar mínir núna í Bruford, fyrsta árið mitt þá bjó ég leeeeeeeeengst útí buska þannig að ég missti af öllu fólkinu að kynnast fyrsta árið, sterku vinasamböndin að myndast. Allir (flestir) bjuggu saman í skólaíbúðunum og þannig að þau kynntust og urðu náin, kynntust veikleikum og styrkleikum og solls. Núna er ég að reyna að kynnast fólki, en það hefur enga þörf lengur til að kynnast fólki,ekki það að það VILJI ekki kynnast manni en málið er að þau eiga vini, fullt af þeim og ÞURFA þessvegna ekki að eignast nýja vini. Það er getur verið soldið erfitt að brjótast í gegn. EN ÉG SKAL! Bæði fjölskylda og skólafélagar.
Jæja... ætli maður sé ekki búin að væla nógu mikið ;) hehehe
Ef einhvert af ykkur þekkir þessar tilfiningar, þá væri ég mjög sáttur við að heyra um það :)
~Spookyo_O familiar
en allavega, ég þarf á klóstið núna.... aftur. nennir einhver að fara fyrir mig?
Ok ég skal sjálfur
*fer*
AH! þetta var gott!
Ég sakna íslenskunnar svo mikið! hafið þið fengið þessa tilfiningu? að þegar þið eruð búin að tala ensku í X langan tíma að þið farið að finna fyrir froðu uppí munninum? Ég fæ froðu og verki í munnin eftir of mikla ensku.
Ég man síðast þegar ég kom heim, ég var beðin um að vera með kaffikynningu, og ekkert smá góður í því b.t.w. seldi ca. 50-60 pakka a einum degi ;) hehehehe. Anyway anyway anyway, ég var að kynna kaffi og ég var spurður oftar en einusinni hvaðan ég væri á hnettinum, ég var farin að tala svo bjagaða íslensku að ég var eins og mjööög duglegur nýbúi. FÁRÁNLEGT! fólk hló í opið geðið á skömm minni yfir þvoglumælginni. Ég sagði jafnvel við einn mann "þetta kaffi sker frammúr".... ég missti andlitið! FUSS!
Það er alveg ótrúlegt hvað maður lærir mikið á því að fara útfyrir landsins steina, ég hef svo miklu meiri virðingu fyrir öðrum löndum. Það er magnað hvað önnur lönd (sem og ísland) hafa ríka menningu og sögu sem blæðir framm og aftur í sögu þeirra. Við tökum mörgu sem mjög sjálfsögðum hlutum, orð og orðatiltæki og þvílíkt án þess einsuinni að velta því fyrir okkur hvaðan þessi setning og þetta orð kemur. Við njótum ekki okkar ríkulega arfleiðar, mér er ekki furða að Afi minn fussi og sveii yfir slakandi íslenskukunnáttu dóttursonar síns!
HAHA! ég man hvað amma mín var yfir sig hrifin þegar ég sagði við hana "ég er að fara í geim" en ekki "ég er að fara í partý" það var ótrúlegt brosið á þeirri gömlu!
Mikið hrikalega þykir mér vænt um hana Ömmu mína, hún er svo falleg kona, hjarthlý og góð. Hún myndi aldrei nokkurntíman gera nokkri manneskju það að dæma hana fyrirfram, hún er skilningsrík og leynir á sér! Ég held að það sé ekki neitt sem maður getur ekki spurt hana um, hún er alvitur og það ætti að vera mynd af henni í orðabókinni við hliðiná orðinu viska.
Orð: ViskaSkilgreining: Ketty Ellen Snorrason (Amma Bitten)
Man eftir því að ég var að velta því fyrir mér hvað ég ætlaði mér að gera fyrst að ég kláraði ekki MH, ég ætlaði mér náttla út til Englands í leiklistarnám. En hún Amma mín! hún ætlaði mér sko aðra hluti! ;) hún ætlaði mér til Camebridge eða Oxford í enskar bókmenntir! Þessi kona vissi líka alveg að ég þyrfti að spila á mínum styrkleikum, og þessi enskusýki mín gæti sko spilað sterkt í þessu fagi!
Getið þið ímyndað ykkur?! Ég! Bókmenntafræðingur í enskum bókmenntum! :D HAH! Ég verð að segja að ég er soldið uppi með mér á þessum metnaði í Ömmu minni gagnvart honum litla mér :) bókmenntafötluðum einstaklingnum.
Ekki það, Afi minn er líka voða merkilegur einstaklingur :P algerlega höfuð fjölskyldunnar. Ég man eftir því að ég og Afi vorum einusinni að rífast. Við skulum hafa það í huga að Afi minn er fyrrum forseti lögmannafélag íslands. Hann er hardcore rökræðari og þá sérstaklega hvað varðar lög. Við vorum að rífast um fyrningu kynferðisafbrota. Ég var andstæður og hann meðfylgur. Við rifumst þanga til að hann varð rauður í andlitinu og ég farinn að skjálfa og Amma og Mamma (eða Didda) þurftu að draga Afa inní næsta herbergi til að róast og ég að hætta að tala.
Amma sagði svo seinna við Kristján minn í einhverju boði "tjah, hann Hafsteinn okkar, ég get sagt þér það að það hefur enginn staðið í hárinu á honum Sveini (Afa) eins og hann Hafsteinn" við erum að ræða að ef stolt væri mælanlegt á richterskala að þá hefði ég fellt 2 til 3 stórborgir :D. Það er fátt sem getur gert mig eins stoltan og hrós frá henni Ömmu minni. Hún er eins og englendingarnir segja "The Dogs Bollocks!" algert flippin' ÆÐI!
Mér finst svo mikil skömm í íslenskunni minni, ekki dagsdaglega sko, en þegar ég er að skrifa Ömmu og Afa e-mail þá verð ég svo stressaður, ég þori varla að skrifa neitt af því að ég er alltaf að reyna að skrifa sem réttast. Ég er svo hræddur við að skrifa þeim eitthvað og þau fara bara að kúgast af móðurtungunauðgun. Ég vil ekki að þau missi virðingu fyrir mér eða haldi að ég sé heimskur eða eitthvað.
Talandi um það! ég á tvö systkyni, ég elska þau mest í heiminum, þau eru aðal tengill minn við fjölskylduna. Eftir og á meðan gelgjuskeiðinu stóð þá fjarlægðist ég fjölskylduna eins og heitan eldinn. Ég hef ekki guðmund um af hverju ég gerði það, kanski var það skömm yfir samkynhneigðinni fyrst um sinn eða það að ég vildi ekki að neinn vissi hvernig mér leið eða hvað ég var að gera (djamma, lifa kynlífi, drama, læti) þannig að ég forðaðist. Síðastliðin 2-3 ár þá er ég búin að finna til mikils missis, ég er að fara á mis við svo margt. Ég á erfitt með að hafa eðlileg samskipti við Mömmu, Ömmu, Afa, frænkur og frændur. Ég get bara ekki spjallað við þau án þess að vera með SVOOOOOOOOOOOOONA stóran stresshnút í maganum. Þett er fjölskyldan mín, fólkið sem mun elska mig hvað sem á dynur en ég kemst bara ekki hjá þessari stresstilfiningu yfir hvað þeim hlýtur að finnast um mig. Anyway anyway anyway! Þetta allt á sér punkt.
Ég á tvö systkyni sem ég elska, þau eru magnaðasta fólk í heiminum, eilífur brunnur krafts, þekkingar, blíðu, ástar og knúsa. Þau eru líka bæði ÓTRÚLEGA greind og dugleg og hæfileikarík og sterk.
Don't get me wrong, ég veit að ég á líka margt til brunns að bera en það er alltaf þetta "yngstabarns syndróm". Mér finst ég svo oft vera að keppast við þau. Þau eru bæði með stúdentspróf, þau eru gagnkynhneigð og eiga börn, þau geta skipulagt, þau kunna stærðfræði! það er ekkert sem þau geta ekki gert og hafa ekki gert. Stundum líður mér eins og strumplings við hliðiná tveim risum.
Þannig að í sambandi við ömmu mína og afa þá get ég ekkert gert að því að bera mig saman við Diddu og Svein í augum þeirra, Þau eiga fjölskyldu og vinna sjálfstætt og hafa tekið nám í mikilvægum hlutum og fengið mjög góðar einkunnir og staðið sig vel. Sem og þau stunduðu bæði íþróttir og félagsstarf sem unglingar. Bróðir minn er fullkomin eiginmaður og systir mín fullkomin eiginkona and then some! Ég er soldið svarti sauðurinn, leiklistarnörd, hommi, dramtískur og eyddi bestu árum ævi minnar í þunglyndi svo ég ræði nú ekki að hafa algerlega fjarlægst fjölskylduna mína.
Ég hef fundið þetta mynstur í mörgum aðstæðum í lífi mínu :P
Þetta með að missa af fyrstu aðstæðunum, fyrsta tækifærinu til að kynnast fólki og svo þarf að reyna að komast inní það seinna meir.
Það er þetta með familíunna, að kynnast ekki fólki á þeim tíma sem maður er að komast að því hver maður er (gelgjuskeiðið) en ekki að finna tækifæri til fyrr en núna.
Og svo líka skólafélagar mínir núna í Bruford, fyrsta árið mitt þá bjó ég leeeeeeeeengst útí buska þannig að ég missti af öllu fólkinu að kynnast fyrsta árið, sterku vinasamböndin að myndast. Allir (flestir) bjuggu saman í skólaíbúðunum og þannig að þau kynntust og urðu náin, kynntust veikleikum og styrkleikum og solls. Núna er ég að reyna að kynnast fólki, en það hefur enga þörf lengur til að kynnast fólki,ekki það að það VILJI ekki kynnast manni en málið er að þau eiga vini, fullt af þeim og ÞURFA þessvegna ekki að eignast nýja vini. Það er getur verið soldið erfitt að brjótast í gegn. EN ÉG SKAL! Bæði fjölskylda og skólafélagar.
Jæja... ætli maður sé ekki búin að væla nógu mikið ;) hehehe
Ef einhvert af ykkur þekkir þessar tilfiningar, þá væri ég mjög sáttur við að heyra um það :)
~Spookyo_O familiar
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Ég er í Prag, geturu ímyndað þér?! Ég er hér í miðri Bohemíu og er að elska þessa borg.
Ég helt alltaf að fyrst að ég hataði London og elskaði Reykjavík að þá væri það einfaldlega þannig að ég gæti aldrei fílað aðra borg.
en nei.. ég er Bóhemi og er að fílaða.
Það er kalt eins og heima, það er töluvert hreinna loft en í London, vatnið er drykkjarhæft og útum allt er merki um fegurð og sögu. London hefur orðið nýja new york og reykjavík hefur alltaf verið að skríða eftir ameríska draumnum þar til núna.
Þeir sem þekkja mig vel vita að ég er alltaf stressaður og með áhyggjur af gersamlega öllu. Ég held og vona að ég sé farin að chilla soldið, ég held að ég sé farin að taka í sundur ábyrgðartilfininguna fyrir veröldinni stykki fyrir stykki en það sem ég óttast (þarna kemur þetta orð aftur, sástu það?) er að með því verði ég tík. Ég vil ekki vera tík.... þannig að ég verð það öruglega ekki en þúst... það sem maður forðast á það til að koma upp að manni að óvörum.
Enska hefur orðið mitt fyrsta tungumál núna, ég tjái mig betur á því máli og finst ég hafa helvíti betri tök á henni heldur en íslenskunni, ástæðan fyrir þessu held ég að sé það að mín kynslóð og eflaust sú næsta á undan og á eftir séu soldið týndar. Þegar við ölumst upp þá erum við marineruð í ensku, enskuslettum, cúltúrflði og INTERNETINU! Við fengum mjög takmarkaða "kennslu" um þann ríka kúltúr og fegurð sem fylgir íslensku tungunni. Hér er ég ekki að tala um kennslu af kennurum af því að það er eðli nemenda og kennara að nemendur mómæli kennslunni og reyni ítrekað að fara í gagnstæða átt við hvert kennarinn reyni að fylgja manni. Ég er að tala um kennslu af öllum sem er í kringum mann, fjölskyldu og samfélagi, þetta er Ameríkuástin sem íslendingar (sem þjóðfélag, soldið generalisation en þú skilur) hafa, við erum eins og táningur, við neitum að horfast í augu við það sem við erum og höfum, allt það góða og fallega við æskuna okkar og orkuna. Við þráum að verða stór og takast á við heiminn, það er ekki fyrr en við fullorðnumst sem við getum séð styrkinn í okkar þjóðfélagi. Vonandi er þessi massívi vaxtaverkur sem við erum að upplifa núna að benda okkur á eitthvað, að við erum ekki stór eins og Pabbi og Mamma, við erum ung og orkumikil en við erum eitthvað allt annað og við höfum aðra eiginleika. Ef við gtum fundið stoltið aftur af því að vera íslendingar og stoltið af því að vera lítil, þá kanski gætum við staðið sterk og falleg. Vonandi munu börn dagsins í dag tala góða íslensku og hugsa til okkar "eldri" kynslóðarinnar með vott af "oooH! Pabbi! þetta "BÖGGAR" þig ekki heldur fer þetta í taugarnar á þér eða angrar þig! Jeminn!"
Ég fer stundum í svona fílíng, að vilja tala við einhvern um allt en það er eitthvað svo klént að tala um þá hluti við fólk því að það mun segja eitthvað ótrúlega rökrétt og maður bara "DOJ!" og líður eins og kjána. Ég fíla soldið það að maður getur postað allskonar svona og getur verið frekar viss um það að einhver lesi en maður þarf ekki að heyra kjánaskapinn sinn opinberaðan, nema að einhver leggi það á sig að commenta... sem fæstir nenna hvort sem er ;) hehe það er fegurðin við þetta!
Þetta hefur verið mest boring post á ævi minni, átti að vera rosa revelation, endaði sem bullcrap.
Ég helt alltaf að fyrst að ég hataði London og elskaði Reykjavík að þá væri það einfaldlega þannig að ég gæti aldrei fílað aðra borg.
en nei.. ég er Bóhemi og er að fílaða.
Það er kalt eins og heima, það er töluvert hreinna loft en í London, vatnið er drykkjarhæft og útum allt er merki um fegurð og sögu. London hefur orðið nýja new york og reykjavík hefur alltaf verið að skríða eftir ameríska draumnum þar til núna.
Þeir sem þekkja mig vel vita að ég er alltaf stressaður og með áhyggjur af gersamlega öllu. Ég held og vona að ég sé farin að chilla soldið, ég held að ég sé farin að taka í sundur ábyrgðartilfininguna fyrir veröldinni stykki fyrir stykki en það sem ég óttast (þarna kemur þetta orð aftur, sástu það?) er að með því verði ég tík. Ég vil ekki vera tík.... þannig að ég verð það öruglega ekki en þúst... það sem maður forðast á það til að koma upp að manni að óvörum.
Enska hefur orðið mitt fyrsta tungumál núna, ég tjái mig betur á því máli og finst ég hafa helvíti betri tök á henni heldur en íslenskunni, ástæðan fyrir þessu held ég að sé það að mín kynslóð og eflaust sú næsta á undan og á eftir séu soldið týndar. Þegar við ölumst upp þá erum við marineruð í ensku, enskuslettum, cúltúrflði og INTERNETINU! Við fengum mjög takmarkaða "kennslu" um þann ríka kúltúr og fegurð sem fylgir íslensku tungunni. Hér er ég ekki að tala um kennslu af kennurum af því að það er eðli nemenda og kennara að nemendur mómæli kennslunni og reyni ítrekað að fara í gagnstæða átt við hvert kennarinn reyni að fylgja manni. Ég er að tala um kennslu af öllum sem er í kringum mann, fjölskyldu og samfélagi, þetta er Ameríkuástin sem íslendingar (sem þjóðfélag, soldið generalisation en þú skilur) hafa, við erum eins og táningur, við neitum að horfast í augu við það sem við erum og höfum, allt það góða og fallega við æskuna okkar og orkuna. Við þráum að verða stór og takast á við heiminn, það er ekki fyrr en við fullorðnumst sem við getum séð styrkinn í okkar þjóðfélagi. Vonandi er þessi massívi vaxtaverkur sem við erum að upplifa núna að benda okkur á eitthvað, að við erum ekki stór eins og Pabbi og Mamma, við erum ung og orkumikil en við erum eitthvað allt annað og við höfum aðra eiginleika. Ef við gtum fundið stoltið aftur af því að vera íslendingar og stoltið af því að vera lítil, þá kanski gætum við staðið sterk og falleg. Vonandi munu börn dagsins í dag tala góða íslensku og hugsa til okkar "eldri" kynslóðarinnar með vott af "oooH! Pabbi! þetta "BÖGGAR" þig ekki heldur fer þetta í taugarnar á þér eða angrar þig! Jeminn!"
Ég fer stundum í svona fílíng, að vilja tala við einhvern um allt en það er eitthvað svo klént að tala um þá hluti við fólk því að það mun segja eitthvað ótrúlega rökrétt og maður bara "DOJ!" og líður eins og kjána. Ég fíla soldið það að maður getur postað allskonar svona og getur verið frekar viss um það að einhver lesi en maður þarf ekki að heyra kjánaskapinn sinn opinberaðan, nema að einhver leggi það á sig að commenta... sem fæstir nenna hvort sem er ;) hehe það er fegurðin við þetta!
Þetta hefur verið mest boring post á ævi minni, átti að vera rosa revelation, endaði sem bullcrap.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Monday, January 19, 2009
an old room, filled with nothing but a sourceless, dim, light and her,
her knitting in the dark and grey matters only slightly illuminated by her absence
she hasn't seen what she had wanted and she hasn't heard what she needs, her baby has been bought and sold and given a new home
it has no need for her anymore.
there are shiny buttons lying on the floor, spread wide, spread like the stars in the sky only not of star material
grey matters wafting through a crowded room, they mix with cigarette smoke and whirl in the upwind of candle-lights.
ashprints dotted around the floor, the small prints are that of a child's and it carries the hue of a rainbow
the flame cannot bother these anymore, it has already consumed and given the world light
ashprints up the winding staircase.
there is a breeze coming through the cracks of the jewelry box, there is a glint of light inside, warmth that only matchsticks can provide
flimsy, weak, pieces of wood destined for a moment of combustion, a moment of acceleration, of epiphany, a moment of eternal light
where is the key?
she knits, she dreams, she is lost, she has been cold for so long
the halls are filled with paintings, they have been cracked by time, time is the destroyer of worlds and creator of life
black, mauve, green and grey
old eyes staring blankly at the wall, without voices and without warmth
her braided hair falls down to her waist, she walks as if in water, crisp and clean water, lighter and softer
wings beat far away from her and she listens frightfully as they carry on, beating, fluttering
then they stop
the silence brings a shockwave, a brick wall of shadow
the dim light illuminates, her eyes shimmer in the same way as a pearl
ashprints turn a corner and she follows
where is the key?
tattered piece of fabric, coarse against her heels and the tone of her footsteps change into a noise
if she could hear she would become frightened, the touch of skin and strings of twine
there is a staircase leading to a room, down a dark corridor, there the mice have their domain, her tenants
joy of joys to find them, to hear laughter again, to share food again, to kiss and speak and love again
she quickens her pace and she skips steps, the footsteps change back to a beat, now only quick and light
a flutter of wings
and glimpse of her teeth as her lips part stretching towards her ears, laughter, again, one more time
she reaches the bottom of the staircase, her feet are bleeding, there are shards of bones that have lodged themselves into the soles of her feet
pain of realisation, pain of logic, pain of reality, pain of the way things are
grey matters surrounding her, like clothes, a dress, fit for a queen
only a humble body within a grand building, built by her forefathers, it is beautiful
only a humble body within a holy mind
within a stained glass window
within golden snowflakes
standing alone
where is the key?
her knitting in the dark and grey matters only slightly illuminated by her absence
she hasn't seen what she had wanted and she hasn't heard what she needs, her baby has been bought and sold and given a new home
it has no need for her anymore.
there are shiny buttons lying on the floor, spread wide, spread like the stars in the sky only not of star material
grey matters wafting through a crowded room, they mix with cigarette smoke and whirl in the upwind of candle-lights.
ashprints dotted around the floor, the small prints are that of a child's and it carries the hue of a rainbow
the flame cannot bother these anymore, it has already consumed and given the world light
ashprints up the winding staircase.
there is a breeze coming through the cracks of the jewelry box, there is a glint of light inside, warmth that only matchsticks can provide
flimsy, weak, pieces of wood destined for a moment of combustion, a moment of acceleration, of epiphany, a moment of eternal light
where is the key?
she knits, she dreams, she is lost, she has been cold for so long
the halls are filled with paintings, they have been cracked by time, time is the destroyer of worlds and creator of life
black, mauve, green and grey
old eyes staring blankly at the wall, without voices and without warmth
her braided hair falls down to her waist, she walks as if in water, crisp and clean water, lighter and softer
wings beat far away from her and she listens frightfully as they carry on, beating, fluttering
then they stop
the silence brings a shockwave, a brick wall of shadow
the dim light illuminates, her eyes shimmer in the same way as a pearl
ashprints turn a corner and she follows
where is the key?
tattered piece of fabric, coarse against her heels and the tone of her footsteps change into a noise
if she could hear she would become frightened, the touch of skin and strings of twine
there is a staircase leading to a room, down a dark corridor, there the mice have their domain, her tenants
joy of joys to find them, to hear laughter again, to share food again, to kiss and speak and love again
she quickens her pace and she skips steps, the footsteps change back to a beat, now only quick and light
a flutter of wings
and glimpse of her teeth as her lips part stretching towards her ears, laughter, again, one more time
she reaches the bottom of the staircase, her feet are bleeding, there are shards of bones that have lodged themselves into the soles of her feet
pain of realisation, pain of logic, pain of reality, pain of the way things are
grey matters surrounding her, like clothes, a dress, fit for a queen
only a humble body within a grand building, built by her forefathers, it is beautiful
only a humble body within a holy mind
within a stained glass window
within golden snowflakes
standing alone
where is the key?
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
"I can't wait to get out of here"
There was an urgency in his voice as each word fell over the other in their daring escape.
There was a genocide in her mouth and it cried for vengeance.
Their solace would not be found.
I never used to pride myself in my use of key-holes but there I was still panting heavily as I witnessed a rainbow of sounds and textures.
A long thin white cloth hung from the ceiling held a noose and inside it was a brush.
A brush I had used the previous day, it was a helping hand for me and the white picket fence had no holes.
A picturesque statue, the famed cat-woman on the prowl searching for her litter.
A generation of blind mole-like creatures had entered the world. Relying on a sense of smell and the colour of life.
They seeded the earth and the earth gave an orgasmic quiver.
Soon s/he would erupt in a violent convulsion of his/her anus.
A penetrative thought entered and searched for a long lost love of words and agility.
I wanted so to reach the finishing line but instead I wasted away with my tea and cakes.
It is such a sad moment when you have to give up your children, even worse when you get nothing but a ball of yarn to comfort you.
The kitten has claws and they tear the flesh, the blood flows freely and organises colonies across my body.
The rhythmical dancing of the tribe shamans build a rising flow of molecules. Outside myself I create a new body, free of thought, emotion and drive.
I pray to thee, I don't know who, Jesus Christ I hope...
It is a tentacle invading every orifice of my cerebral cortex. It mutates my biomechanics so that my electric webbing catches not flies but but but but flutterbies.
The flea may bite and the dog my howl as a cat may sing and a owl will growl.
Exchange of loving sentiments, a mother caressing her sons hair.
Exchange of loving sentiments, a father caressing his daughters hair.
It is a smell I will never forget, a smell you have under your nose at every waking moment and pray it will go away as the aerosol fumes burn your skin. Smoking flesh and still the shaman dances and sings.
She never gave what she got and never loved what she had she never wanted what she hated and continued to prance about and flinging her excrement across her shoulder hoping that it would never reach her god. Her mother of course lent a helping hand and continually bent over backwards and screamed. The god the god the god the god the god the god was mine and mine and mine and mine and his his his his loving loving loving loving loving caressing and making my stutter so much worse. Fuck me and leave me dry so that when the rain finally falls I might finally sprout something other than a decaying body that cannot move a mountain across the vast desert of a growing field.
The cat maliciously chases a mouse, not malicious because she intends to eat it but because the chase is the thrill and it is a never ending pull and grab. The tail never breaks and the hair never rises as high as the clouds gliding across a pale moon sky, dark blue like the deep waters where the fish grow their corn.
A living breathing industry, not breathing air of course but oxygen.
Industrial chemical warfare is not on the hands of the poor or the rich but on the hands of the little cockroaches, little do they know that cockroaches do not die, tests have been made, we have tried stabbing them, hanging, bombing, poisoning and over feeding. Nothing will kill them and they will outlive humans a thousand times over.
As I panted and panted and panted I noticed my pants had not been loosened, the hooker had died from pre-coital exhaustion. The steam built up on the window, it made little droplets and they ran across the window, not vertically but horizontally. The finishing line was the edge of my mouth and as the droplets catapulted away from the window towards my face I took a moment to close my eyes and enjoy the thought and taste of their massacred bodies and lives blood between my teeth. But, alas, faced with the horror of what was to come the droplets changed their trajectory in mid flight and changed position with airborne dust-mites. The taste, I was to find, would be dry, bitter and full of sorrow.
The sorrow had its own colour which tinted the colour of my eyes. No longer were my eyes the shocking grey and yellow but a meld of love, light and peace.
I would never find happiness again.
There was an urgency in his voice as each word fell over the other in their daring escape.
There was a genocide in her mouth and it cried for vengeance.
Their solace would not be found.
I never used to pride myself in my use of key-holes but there I was still panting heavily as I witnessed a rainbow of sounds and textures.
A long thin white cloth hung from the ceiling held a noose and inside it was a brush.
A brush I had used the previous day, it was a helping hand for me and the white picket fence had no holes.
A picturesque statue, the famed cat-woman on the prowl searching for her litter.
A generation of blind mole-like creatures had entered the world. Relying on a sense of smell and the colour of life.
They seeded the earth and the earth gave an orgasmic quiver.
Soon s/he would erupt in a violent convulsion of his/her anus.
A penetrative thought entered and searched for a long lost love of words and agility.
I wanted so to reach the finishing line but instead I wasted away with my tea and cakes.
It is such a sad moment when you have to give up your children, even worse when you get nothing but a ball of yarn to comfort you.
The kitten has claws and they tear the flesh, the blood flows freely and organises colonies across my body.
The rhythmical dancing of the tribe shamans build a rising flow of molecules. Outside myself I create a new body, free of thought, emotion and drive.
I pray to thee, I don't know who, Jesus Christ I hope...
It is a tentacle invading every orifice of my cerebral cortex. It mutates my biomechanics so that my electric webbing catches not flies but but but but flutterbies.
The flea may bite and the dog my howl as a cat may sing and a owl will growl.
Exchange of loving sentiments, a mother caressing her sons hair.
Exchange of loving sentiments, a father caressing his daughters hair.
It is a smell I will never forget, a smell you have under your nose at every waking moment and pray it will go away as the aerosol fumes burn your skin. Smoking flesh and still the shaman dances and sings.
She never gave what she got and never loved what she had she never wanted what she hated and continued to prance about and flinging her excrement across her shoulder hoping that it would never reach her god. Her mother of course lent a helping hand and continually bent over backwards and screamed. The god the god the god the god the god the god was mine and mine and mine and mine and his his his his loving loving loving loving loving caressing and making my stutter so much worse. Fuck me and leave me dry so that when the rain finally falls I might finally sprout something other than a decaying body that cannot move a mountain across the vast desert of a growing field.
The cat maliciously chases a mouse, not malicious because she intends to eat it but because the chase is the thrill and it is a never ending pull and grab. The tail never breaks and the hair never rises as high as the clouds gliding across a pale moon sky, dark blue like the deep waters where the fish grow their corn.
A living breathing industry, not breathing air of course but oxygen.
Industrial chemical warfare is not on the hands of the poor or the rich but on the hands of the little cockroaches, little do they know that cockroaches do not die, tests have been made, we have tried stabbing them, hanging, bombing, poisoning and over feeding. Nothing will kill them and they will outlive humans a thousand times over.
As I panted and panted and panted I noticed my pants had not been loosened, the hooker had died from pre-coital exhaustion. The steam built up on the window, it made little droplets and they ran across the window, not vertically but horizontally. The finishing line was the edge of my mouth and as the droplets catapulted away from the window towards my face I took a moment to close my eyes and enjoy the thought and taste of their massacred bodies and lives blood between my teeth. But, alas, faced with the horror of what was to come the droplets changed their trajectory in mid flight and changed position with airborne dust-mites. The taste, I was to find, would be dry, bitter and full of sorrow.
The sorrow had its own colour which tinted the colour of my eyes. No longer were my eyes the shocking grey and yellow but a meld of love, light and peace.
I would never find happiness again.
