ah, the glittering mess of New Year’s eve; the atmosphere drunk on all those promises that will never come to pass, the absurd carelessness of dancing barefoot on multi-coloured splinters of glass, primitively bouncing up and down. one girl that I befriended in the bathroom was shipped to hospital with a piece branching awkwardly from her heel. blood swelled across the living room floor, slowly advancing like a contemptuous river of lava down a mountain-side. at twelve I kissed all my friends under a booming sky. I moved through spaces where anything’s allowed.
let’s do this forever. let’s all go back to the preadult days tinted with bittersweet bluish nostalgia and drink and eat and see old ghosts in corners of old clubs and feel the constant pressures of the new regime wash off in the cold knife-stabbing wind, the cleansing bleakness of Kattegatt shaking my thin indifferent bones alive.
can’t wait to go home and assemble all my beloved allies – homebound and emigrants, the driven and confused, students as well as workers (and an unemployed brother) – in one confined space and indulge in meaty delicacies, alcoholic beverages and general Christmas carnage. I’m currently writing an essay on urban modernity, staring at my laptop all day and feeling very much disconnected from the 19th century opium-crazed vagabonds and prostitutes. and the flâneurs, the lucky bastards, whose only mandatory preoccupation seems to have been to saunter across major metropolitan locations, producing lots of top class literature and art in the process. in my current postmodern condition of persistent fragmentation from friends and family these early modern experiences are seductive to say the least.
when I get home I’m determined to wildly articulate some of my feminine primitivism (another popular modernist idea) on the streets of Gothenburg to make up for these months of total isolation.
Jag är en sprattelgubbe, en krakel spektakel, hänger och slänger fastän en till synes skör tråd ständigt tycks hålla min nacke upprätt. Tiden och blodet springer bort från mina fötter och jag kom försent till den här hösten. Jag hade en plan, omsatte den i praktiken men glömde bort att göra avkall på det som inte längre angår mig.
Folk talar om att förlora kontrollen men hur vet man. Hur skulle jag kunna veta. Det behärskade lugnet försätts allt oftare av vansinnet med det förståeende leendet, det som sakta sipprar in genom varje por. Så jag blundar och tar mig över de glatta övergångsställena i sidled, krackelerad utvärtes och invärtes. Tänderna är kalla bakom tungan och varje dag öppnar jag och stänger samma dörrar utan att veta varför.
I stare at Cambridge Companion-pages on Ibsen all day long whilst jealously being aware of recently uploaded colourful pictures of friends partying on the beaches of Mexico. they might not know anything about Ibsen and his campaign against the old ideals of the bourgeoisie, but they nevertheless seem extremely happy.
right now I’d love to trade all my Ibsenian knowledge for a proper night out in London/Paris/Berlin/New York. even drunkenly leaning towards something solid in Gothenburg’s Stars N’ Bars at 2 AM counting the change for a tequila shot of certain next morning-misery and making nonsensical conversation with some hairy smellers sporting Metallica t-shirts who went to the same school as me would do.
a crooked, brittle wasp still remains in the windowsill, a vague reminder of summer that once was. the house is silent except from the usual creaking and sighing in the timber beams. outside the sky is steel gray, an impenetrable haze. still it lets through a thin and spiky rain.
when the heather is blooming, the summer is over, my grandmother always used to say. but the heather is now wilted and gone like everything else. an era always relieves another, but it’s hard to notice the transitions unless life-changing events occurs. something did occur in my life. but time has not moved in any direction, it is only we two who no longer concern each other.
so I tell myself it’s important to sit down in new corners of the floor. I drum my fingers on the cat’s belly, allowing my brain to take its course. dullness of mind. throbbing eardrums and dumb jaw joints.
I am going to be whole again. recreate an ego, an ego you can cup your hands around and say yes, there you are, I can really feel you. build towers and red lights out of my annihilated person. turn my tentacles outwards and then inwards, in convex and concave movements. recreate receptors to my fingertips. recognise myself alone with plastic gestures.