They've gone up into the mountains and built a city that stretches into the clouds. Any stranger who begins the climb will be shot before they get very far. But then we get the news that their leader has been killed. It's very cold, and they must be starving, the old people and the children huddled up in blankets up there. We invade. We bring the future. The future is for the women and those that do good. So we kill them when we find them, men of the past and old women so weathered by hardships they've forgotten how to be soft. Only those who can argue well that they have a place in the kingdoms of tomorrow are left alive and allowed to leave over the ocean.

We judge them worthy by their arguments, and let the Northern Wind live, as he declares himself shaped by Modernity, a figure of speech as much as an old force of nature. It would turn out to be a mistake, of course.

I'll kidnap you

and take you to the amnesia island

where we can live happily ever after

in ignorance.

I wrote my PhD application in a ring of salt.

The week that went

two bouquets of white flowers: roses and cloves.
lounging about in a fox fur and nothing else.
radical feminist manifesto performed by theatre students wearing hazmat suits.
work-wine balance, understanding photographs (momentality reappears), a book about flesh.
revolutionary contortions of impressive technical quality but lacking thematic originality. surely we can think of some new, non-french, non-communist ways to destroy society?
the quality of liquefied light.
memes about death or the death-drive or just the general human condition of persistent anxiety.
waking up several times between four and five in the morning having dreamt, for instance, that you were grieving deeply over a loved one and i couldn't do anything to comfort you.
sitting in bright lights saying things about fiction and the difference between women and lamps.
heavily objectifying friends.
smoking about nine cigarettes.
writing.
eating.
editing.
sitting in the shower concentrating deeply on not existing in the present.

my hands are always cold

tired little wanderings in weathered memory palace gardens
can I keep the keys?
suddenly finding yourself somewhere very calm, and the way the air turns crisp when it's cold like certain apples
softness
waking up many times in the night to readjust your understanding of reality

Recently I woke up and had forgotten who you were. Everything was new, it was the early still darkness of the coming day, and I spent several moments not knowing. I didn't know anything else either, nor myself, but it was your presence that pricked. It's a strange feeling, being so clean. Love came to me first. Not because that was the most authentic part of our relation. Perhaps it was simply something I'd dreamt? It was lucky, anyway.

I have a cold, and I'm summoning smells: candle light, melting butter, your skin post-sex.

From Friday I'll be working with frozen moments. Of course, in reality mornings like that one - the fourth time I open my eyes during five hours of uneasy rest to shift the connections of our skin - the taste of happiness in a dream of doing something which usually frightens - the creaking of wood as I walk over the floors of an emptying hall to say goodbye to people I love not for no reason - are more complex that what can be captured visually. But it's remembering that's the trick. Building rooms to visit later, with the tapestry of precious details. 

...and now the glasses are empty, the phone no longer rings

Photo taken by Bret Lehne at Inside Hamlet - insidehamlet.com

There's a new you in town.

Not my business

efter kl. 02 , før kl. 04

rød sportsvogn, kan ikke køre bil. På førersædet sidder lige nu en hysterisk kvinde som har lagt et halvt blodigt hoved på vores dørtrin fordi hun tror vi er mordere. Det er vi selvfølgelig også. fem kvinder på flugt fra de ældgamle jægere. Jeg så sjælesugeren ud i hans blå øjne og sang og bad om vores gaver, som vi fik, så vi kunne undslippe. Det var vores fejl at køre langs Miami Beach som om vi var på ferie og holde ind i dette alligatorbefæstede sommerhus, hvor vi efterlod beboerne som blodige lig på stuegulvet mens vi solbadede.

Jagtede af de umenneskelige, de urørlige skygger, men vi vinder tid fordi de ikke er vant til at være i live eller vant til verden og de bliver distraherede og ... ... som tiden går. Det er derfor vi havde en chance selvom de var nået ind og helt tæt på - og så pga turisterne. En af os måtte stå og stege kød og tale om, forsøge at distrahere fra lugten af menneske og fra lårbensknoglerne i bøfferne. Det gik fint indtil hende her mistede fatningen og inviterede militæret. Helt fint. Det er også min skyld fordi jeg lod mig genkende. Jeg er for selvoptaget.