Not tonight

I've got a headache
I'm tired
I forgot to let in the dog
Or was it the cat
Or the bird I forgot
to let out
Not tonight, darling
You know how I swell up
Too much poetry
Too much too much
My head my feet my fingers
The empty bed
The disk, the words on the disk
Grasping my ankle my wrist
Tonight I will listen to the voice
Of a man whose voice I want
To grasp my ankle my wrist.

Ceci n'est pas une pipe

The other day I saw Stalin's Cows by Sofi Oksanen described as a novel about bulimia. I'm reading the book at the moment, and I can't say it's a wrong description. But it reduces what the author just extended.
That's why I've always been uncomfortable when asked what my books are about. If I act like a normal person and answer the question, I betray my novel.
Next time I'm asked, I will act like a normal and call attention to Magritte that painted a pipe and told us that this is not at pipe. In many senses that's what literature is all about.

Ships and houses

Seen a lot of ugly houses.
The rich, ugly houses get easily vulgar, so eager to show how rich. Rich, ugly houses are somehow more ugly than poor, ugly houses. Different with ships. Even when excessively equipped a ship keeps her beauty. Being a skipper seems to be a more sensual way to be rich than parking a million dollar car in front of a castle.

The lady and the guide

We went for a walk, followed the shape of the island and ended at the old Fort Berkeley, once guarded the entrance to Nelson's Dockyard, now a good place to sense the wildness of a breeze from the Atlantic Ocean. It's a ten minutes walk from the harbour, no climbing, just a hill with a busy goat now and then. A lady with a singing man passed us on the way back. He wore a yellow t-shirt like guides sometimes do. He sang a little of Michael Jackson, answered a question, sang a little of Bob Marley.
- Funny place to bring a guide, I said to my son.
- Do you think she hired him?
- Well, I don't think he hired her, I said.
- Of course not.
He turned around and glanced at the couple, still a child, curiosity comes first.
- Maybe she didn't hire a guide. I think she hired a radio.

Overruled

Sometimes it's so nice to be overruled.
Even though I did the right and reasonable thing. Like I did when I packed my hand baggage and decided to put Homo Faber by Frisch in the bag because my copy is a paperback and weighs almost nothing. Plenty of space in the bag, very comfortable to carry, no marks in the shoulder. Untill I realized I had ten minutes to spend in Copenhagen Airport before boarding. I didn't run, I rather cruised. Took me seven minutes to load my bag with additional 900 pages from the airport bookstore.
In a funny way I felt more safe, heavy but safe.
After I had carried my extra weight and extra safety for many hours through transfer and endless corridors, I left the 900 pages on the plane and kept my Frisch novel. It's not easy to keep up with Homo Faber.
But still, sometimes it really is generous to be overruled.

Downsizing

I love my suitcase.
It's not particularly fancy, but recognizable, brown with turquoise zippers, soft shell, light. I love the whole idea of a suitcase: downsizing my needs to 20 kg. That's what I'm aloud to carry. No matter where I'm going and for how long.
I'm going for several months, to Caribbean, Antigua first. My needs? It has been a long day's discussion. Not easy to choose the books in danish. I won't be able to find any in that part of the world. So, I've decided to bring Johannes V. Jensen's Myter (Myths), awfully heavy, and Knausgaards Min kamp (My Struggle), pretty heavy, Max Frisch Homo Faber, suitable for hand baggage, I read it many years ago. And of course empty books for my own writings.

Hello moon

I don't remember the lull before the storm. Didn't expect a storm. It's gone now. Where to?
It's calm yet cold, very cold, the sky is full of stars and a fat, full moon. I don't remember the lull, I don't remember the storm, I don't have to remember the moon, I can see it. Don't have to touch it, it's all mine.

Facing the cash machine

Pin-code, password, enter, enter, enter. Come on, love, don't be sullen. I need access, to my life, it's not personal, it's my life, don't forget who decided the pin-code in the first place, you wouldn't know what to ask for, if I hadn't told you, December 06, I made certain accounts, and closed some, remember? It's a little embarrassing with the line behind me, a dog keeps sniffing at my legs, excited, proud? I might be a good catching, if you forgot about December 06, of course you haven't, no one ever will, there it is, your sigh! The little friendly sound I long for every time I need access to my life.

Permafrostlink

I run with the litter bag, I run back to the house from the dustbin, I give up the gas station, I hope the car will understand, I drive too fast, I slam the door shut, I almost cry when the firewood basket is empty again.

Weather report

Everybody talks about the wind and the cold, especially the wind. It tears the thoughts apart, I spend days calling them back. I've got this idea that my thoughts belong to me.

From my Moleskine

Birds in the old oak. Hundreds of them, twittering together, all at once, a frail sign of spring. How can I not look up from the frozen soil? I sing their song, calling for my wings.
Answer me! I hate to be shut out.

Doesn't matter. It's too cold outside anyway. Here in my cottage I've got my twitter.com...

Ten second prose

I came across a very young woman at Twitter, Katie Anderson, Atlanta, @kdidd. She has got a certain ability with words, that I don't meet very often.

During her mother's hospitalization:
"Lying on a couch, reading harry potter & eating a caramel apple lollipop. It's just like home, except for the elevators in the living room."

And another from today's twit:
"Babysitting today & the kids are playing doctor's office. They've had me sitting in the waiting room for 15 min."

Ten second essays

The poet James Richardson introduced, what he called Ten second essays in 2001. Now he is back with new ones. This is a nice cut:
"The reader lives faster than life, the writer lives slower."
It's from his "By the Numbers". I found it in Books of the Times. Thanks.
The concept is born for Twitter...so I'll copy this post right away. Maybe I should make it a #. And maybe I should hesitate a second. It's much harder than it looks to write a Ten second essay that makes the reader live faster than life.

Bookstore customer

I barely remember what it is like to enter a bookstore not being an author. It's only a vague feeling, almost too distant to catch. Every time I go to a bookstore I concentrate on it, trying to reveal this inside peal, I know of. I never took one of the books and slapped myself in the face with it. I took it in my hand, flicked through the pages, caught a sentence, dreamed of buying it.

From my Moleskine

Near Copenhagen feb 2011
Drove through the suburb, slowly passing from one red light to the next. I know all the streets and their names, pointed them out, silently of course, nothing to say about it, we were talking about other things, my eyes scanning the shops to find just one that I recognized. They had all changed since then. I expect them to change, still I had this little unspoken wish to find the ice-cream man, who at that time was a woman, and she received coins from children at all ages never smiling at any of us. Or the fishmonger in the tiny shop who sold salmon to those who had something to celebrate.
 - Look, I interrupted my friend eagerly. - There is BeeLee!
- Beewhat?
I pointed out a gloomy fashion shop where I've never been.

Once you go Twitter

...you will soon need a blog. I went Twitter about a week ago, I'm about to publish my first post, and it's really very public. Sending a novel or a column to your editor remains a secret between the two of you until a certain point. In a little while I get right to this point with no one to be secret with. That's the whole and generous idea, isn't it? 
I added Nicholas Kristof  to my Twitter Following list the other day and shortly after he wrote this tweet: "Count down to my 1 millionth Twitter follower." I looked at my 6 and I thought, well yes, when I published my first book, a collection of short stories twenty years ago, I was surrounded by people with great records and never since have I been in a more privileged position.
Welcome to my blog.