soundtrack: The Mamas and the Papas - California dreamin'
jag märker av hösten som sluter sig runt skåne som en mjuk omfamning. mitt huvud börjar vänja sig vid alla arbeten och projekt som, för mig, far fram i ljusets hastighet. efter en skolvecka blir jag mörare än marinerat kött. helgerna sovs bort, helt enkelt.
jag har börjat göra skalor på hur mycket jag tycker om olika grejor (skägg, filmer osv.)
från ett till fem så ligger du på en fyra, gränsar till en femma. resten får du klura ut själv.
imorgon är det officiellt höst...
sayonara !
söndag 31 augusti 2008
tisdag 26 augusti 2008
On Seeing the 100% Perfect Girl One Beautiful April Morning
(text: Haruki Murakami)
One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighbourhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.
Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.
Maybe you have your own particular favourite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.
But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird.
"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.
"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?"
"Not really."
"Your favourite type, then?"
"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts."
"Strange."
"Yeah. Strange."
"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"
"Nah. Just passed her on the street."
She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning.
Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.
After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.
Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.
Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.
How can I approach her? What should I say?
"Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?"
Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman.
"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighbourhood?"
No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that?
Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me."
No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about.
We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had.
I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd.
Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.
Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?"
Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.
One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.
"This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me."
"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream."
They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.
As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily?
And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?"
"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do."
And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.
The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.
One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible influenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank.
They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.
Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.
One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighbourhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very centre of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:
She is the 100% perfect girl for me.
He is the 100% perfect boy for me.
But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fourteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.
A sad story, don't you think?
Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her.
One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighbourhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.
Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.
Maybe you have your own particular favourite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.
But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird.
"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.
"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?"
"Not really."
"Your favourite type, then?"
"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts."
"Strange."
"Yeah. Strange."
"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"
"Nah. Just passed her on the street."
She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning.
Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.
After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.
Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.
Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.
How can I approach her? What should I say?
"Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?"
Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman.
"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighbourhood?"
No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that?
Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me."
No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about.
We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had.
I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd.
Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.
Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?"
Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.
One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.
"This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me."
"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream."
They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.
As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily?
And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?"
"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do."
And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.
The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.
One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible influenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank.
They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.
Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.
One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighbourhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very centre of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:
She is the 100% perfect girl for me.
He is the 100% perfect boy for me.
But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fourteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.
A sad story, don't you think?
Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her.
torsdag 21 augusti 2008
måndag 18 augusti 2008
so long ago, was it just a dream?
john lennon - dream #9
nyckelord: fotografi, adoption, barndom, uppväxt, dövhet
återkommer !
----------------------------------------------------------
hur vet man ifall något verkligen har existerat eller ifall det bara var en dröm? duvet när man vaknar från en dröm som var otroligt verklig och är helt övertygad att det verkligen har hänt? så känns det. flyktigheten lurar mig ifrån verkligheten och tiden blir lurig.
idag kom en kille fram till mig och sa "hello, my name is Fred. here is my number, call me sometime and i might take you out for dinner" och gav mig ett visitkort med ett nummer på. malmö är fullt med spännande och konsigt folk. indeed.
(p.s hur vet man ifall något man har gjort är fel? när jag var liten snodde jag en plastanka från mig dagmamma. var det fel?)
Destination Jamaica vs. Scotland !
nyckelord: fotografi, adoption, barndom, uppväxt, dövhet
återkommer !
----------------------------------------------------------
hur vet man ifall något verkligen har existerat eller ifall det bara var en dröm? duvet när man vaknar från en dröm som var otroligt verklig och är helt övertygad att det verkligen har hänt? så känns det. flyktigheten lurar mig ifrån verkligheten och tiden blir lurig.
idag kom en kille fram till mig och sa "hello, my name is Fred. here is my number, call me sometime and i might take you out for dinner" och gav mig ett visitkort med ett nummer på. malmö är fullt med spännande och konsigt folk. indeed.
(p.s hur vet man ifall något man har gjort är fel? när jag var liten snodde jag en plastanka från mig dagmamma. var det fel?)
Destination Jamaica vs. Scotland !
lördag 16 augusti 2008
torsdag 14 augusti 2008
bonjour journal
soundtrack: I'm sorry I love you - The Magnetic fields
det tar inte lång tid innan jag börjar sakna.
ge mig tillbaka kvällar med parkscen, prips blå, ösregn och soldis om vartannat, kasettband och rökiga ateljéer!
snart bär det tillbaka till pendling, scheman och överkokt pasta... fast jag saknar lite struktur och ramar i vardagen, så suckar och gnäller gör jag inte. ännu.
fast morgondagen skall förhoppningsvis vara späckad av trevliga grejor! återkommer...
au revoir kära vänner, ovänner, djur, odjur, skräcködlor etc. (no offence till er icke nämna, jag har varken tid eller lust att skriva ned alla)
det tar inte lång tid innan jag börjar sakna.
ge mig tillbaka kvällar med parkscen, prips blå, ösregn och soldis om vartannat, kasettband och rökiga ateljéer!
snart bär det tillbaka till pendling, scheman och överkokt pasta... fast jag saknar lite struktur och ramar i vardagen, så suckar och gnäller gör jag inte. ännu.
fast morgondagen skall förhoppningsvis vara späckad av trevliga grejor! återkommer...
au revoir kära vänner, ovänner, djur, odjur, skräcködlor etc. (no offence till er icke nämna, jag har varken tid eller lust att skriva ned alla)
tisdag 12 augusti 2008
sleeptalkin'
soundtrack: Belly - Sweet Ride
inatt är det natt igen. och jag känner mig som en ut-och-in-vänd strumpa.
jag ska försöka posta färre inlägg som är skriva på natten, jag märker att jag börjar skriva som jag tänker (och det vill vi inte), illa, illa.
god natt, vackra människor!
inatt är det natt igen. och jag känner mig som en ut-och-in-vänd strumpa.
jag ska försöka posta färre inlägg som är skriva på natten, jag märker att jag börjar skriva som jag tänker (och det vill vi inte), illa, illa.
god natt, vackra människor!
torsdag 7 augusti 2008
vind i segel
soundtrack: Beirut - Nantes
nattens storm verkar ha lagt dig och det börjar lätta ute nu.
biljetten är bokad, så imorgon vaknar jag runt klockan fem på morgonen. helt galet tidigt.
jag går inte ens upp så tidigt när jag ska till skolan. men jag klagar inte. med en iPodis klarar jag av det mesta. min iPod är en bra uppfinning.
inatt skulle min syster gifta sig på ett pågatåg. hon fick kalla fötter och grät inne på toan, och jag målade mina läppar med rött läppstift.
min kompis dumpade sin kille och vi rymde från skolan genom ett fönster i mitt rum. jag satt på skoltaket och smsade.
ett fönster var ombyggt till bikupa och var fylld med döda bin. äckligt, tyckte jag. vi gick inte genom det fönstret.
nattens storm verkar ha lagt dig och det börjar lätta ute nu.
biljetten är bokad, så imorgon vaknar jag runt klockan fem på morgonen. helt galet tidigt.
jag går inte ens upp så tidigt när jag ska till skolan. men jag klagar inte. med en iPodis klarar jag av det mesta. min iPod är en bra uppfinning.
inatt skulle min syster gifta sig på ett pågatåg. hon fick kalla fötter och grät inne på toan, och jag målade mina läppar med rött läppstift.
min kompis dumpade sin kille och vi rymde från skolan genom ett fönster i mitt rum. jag satt på skoltaket och smsade.
ett fönster var ombyggt till bikupa och var fylld med döda bin. äckligt, tyckte jag. vi gick inte genom det fönstret.
jag har ett styckte katt sovande på benet
hej då !
tisdag 5 augusti 2008
me, myself and talkie-walkie
soundtrack: Know your chicken - Cibo Matto
idag funderade jag lite och min slutsats är följade;
jag är inte bara jag.
"talkie-walkie" valde jag först för att det låter grymt och det är lånat från ett av mina favorit album.
men nu börjar jag bli osäker ifall det inte är mer.
det finns jag. och så finns det talkie-walkie.
jag fick ett mail ifrån Kumi idag, så jag åker troligtvis till Göteborg den 11e
idag lagade jag tagliatelle med paprika, zucchini och hemmagjord pesto
och idag kom en förvirrad äldre herre med ett glas med bajs till mor när hon hade lunch
och jag bestämde mig för att jag troligtvis inte ska satsta på en karriär inom sjukvården
god natt, mina medmänniskor och läsare (vadå, typ 3, pers??)
idag funderade jag lite och min slutsats är följade;
jag är inte bara jag.
"talkie-walkie" valde jag först för att det låter grymt och det är lånat från ett av mina favorit album.
men nu börjar jag bli osäker ifall det inte är mer.
det finns jag. och så finns det talkie-walkie.
jag fick ett mail ifrån Kumi idag, så jag åker troligtvis till Göteborg den 11e
idag lagade jag tagliatelle med paprika, zucchini och hemmagjord pesto
och idag kom en förvirrad äldre herre med ett glas med bajs till mor när hon hade lunch
och jag bestämde mig för att jag troligtvis inte ska satsta på en karriär inom sjukvården
god natt, mina medmänniskor och läsare (vadå, typ 3, pers??)
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