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How wonderful a Saturday morning is. Tea brewing, paper crackling, cat yowling for treats and neighbor stomping through her clunky morning polka. Tea, bread, jam and cheese. Radio playing, neurons slowly firing up, coughing, stopping, catching. Look groggily through window, still snow and frost. Cat maintains to be starving to death. So many possibilities, so much to do. But still, the day is open and free. Library, perhaps? At two, a race to be run. And tonight? Keep plans open, see what happens. Cleaning must be done, clothes washed. But still, the day is mine. How perfectly lovely a morning.
As much as I love Saturday mornings, I distinctly dislike Sunday evening. The week looms ahead like an extended visit to the dentist. One with a penchant for stuffing your face with all kinds of hissing, whirring and decidedly pointy gadgets. On top of that, I always have trouble sleeping the night between Sunday and Monday. As if this was not fun enough, I have started coughing again and it is still cold, wet and dark outside. And now, my tea is cold. And my life sucks, in broad terms and in specifics. I got to go do laundry. Sigh.
How eloquent the language of flowers! Not just the symbolic meaning of red roses, a white lily or a sunflower – love, purity and joy – but also the context in which they appear. The dried remains of potted plants in an office speaks volumes of neglect and stressed priorities. The little windowsills in small villages, overflowing with exuberant color and vivacity as they are tended by brittle ivory hands, speak of love and patience. For a grave… K-Mart tulips or silken peonies from a florist? Elaborate figurines, or a hand-picked bunch of straggling backyard delphiniums and homegrown roses, thick with scent?
Tears burn. Sulfuric vapors of a hidden, malevolent conflict, Betray the mountains' stony, strength, hissing of fractures and hollows. No mountain a cone of granite, cold and whole. The mass may hold windy, ringing voids. Think folded sheets of battered rock, disgracefully rumpled. A glacier serves as my memory, cooling under my rocky feet. Coldly, it holds on to ancient past and recent memory. Within, rivers run and fish swim like unfinished thoughts, Eyeless in the deepest dark, the clearest waters. When this, my hearts' blood, touches the hot gashes of recent wounds, I weep. And the steam rises, keening.
Votes, voting and choosing the right leader is a big deal in Denmark. Practically everyone who can do so, does vote. Imagine my surprise when I learned that citizens in the U.S, presumably the leader of the free world, sometimes choose not to register to vote. Puzzling. Cause the people who are elected to office are then not necessarily the real favorite for the job. I genuinely, truly like America. Really, I do. But why would you choose not to voice your opinion? I hope I do not offend anyone or seem obtuse, but why would you not do that?
Oh Hell, the sun is going down, and I am about to venture into a most boring and unappetizing dinner, and then into a cold and unappealing darkness – going to work. Why me? Why, God? I mean, there must be an explanation for why it is moi, who has to get the shitty end of the stick. Or maybe there is some reward waiting. Oh boy, it better be good. Winning the lottery or suddenly being declared only surviving heir of a recently deceased trillionaire. Maybe I just need to lighten up? Naw. Being pissed off is somehow quite fun.
Let us say we have this woman, a cleaner. She works late in a huge plant, and has to go through long, damp corridors. She passes storage rooms, bomb shelters, machine rooms and rooms labeled "No Entry". A strange smell pervades the corridors, one of moldy cement. Heat and noise emit from the enormous machines, and naked tubes and pipes run along the ceiling. Always, there is someone close by, working on some obscure project, but she only sees their shadows, or hears them murmur. Suppose she came upon an open door, light spilling out, and two voices arguing loudly.
Maybe, just maybe, she turns to see the lights flicker and the walls darken to an earthy, sodden color. The air might thicken around her, becoming watery and hard to breathe. The wagon with her supplies of rags, buckets and soaps would then become hard to push, sticking in puddles on the surprisingly wet and boggy surface. She hears the rustle and sigh of wide fields of tall grass, ferns, and something small, behind her. About her, strange corridors of trees and rock stand out. Small gusts of light flicker, illuminating two figures in front of her. She looks back.
So – we are on the brink of war. As a woman and Christian, I think that this is unwise, and a defeat of sorts in itself. My city – every city in the world – is full of memorials to the fallen of wars. My kin buried fallen soldiers in their own garden, out of respect. Their pain and sheer number cry out to us today. Soldiers have died for the best and the silliest reasons everywhere around the world. Died alone in ditches, terrified on beaches and stressed out of their collective minds in jungles. Need there be even one more?
She walks through the rustling grass, still pushing her damnable cart of cleaning supplies. It writhes and jumps under her hands, and she finally lets the thing tumble to the side. In front of her, the two figures have stopped their argument and moved straight on to a regular fight. She turns to where the door should be – behind her – but there is only a large stone, triangular and bearing the mark "alpha". So there she stands, under a moon in a boggy field, looking at two heavyset, bearded men fighting in what appears to be furry diapers. One screams.
Come on – life is quite nice after all. Stars shine, I got most of my cleaning and cooking out of the way today. Not too shabby for someone who slept till noon. Have just returned from " The Lord of the Rings II" to find out that the computer, into which I just this morning poured a really large cup of coffee, still works! How about that! Now I am battling with the remnants of a little of the bad blues, listening to Garth Brooks yodeling on about "Standing outside the fire". Cat is still convinced, I am starving her.
Oh dear. Almost - almost - forgot to write my 100 words. But not quite. Today has certainly been an interesting day. Some people will go to great lengths to preserve their integrity, others feel no need to battle it out over some slight, real or imagined. These are of cause the ones with real integrity. On the tube, Ripley is battling it out with some monster. Which monster will be attacking our integrity Tomorrow? Certainly, monsters will soon be afoot in great numbers, as Fastelavn starts in a couple of weeks. It is like Halloween, only in the spring.
Just before twilight, in the last moments before the sun went down today, everything became laced with gold and pinks. Set on the background of clear, frosty sky, the ancient church, the towers and spires of the city and every roof and tree became a golden treasure, a testament to the fire of the sun itself. Although we are deep in winter, the power of the sun showed through for a few moments, sparking hope of an early spring. Who knows, it may be. But today, everyone and everything took on a halo of gold and roses. Almost like angels.
Gadgets, doohickeys, thingamajigs … Late – or early – TV is part of a bio-technical evolutionary process, the growth of “stuff”. The items are always easy to use, astounding in their versatility and simple to clean up. Some products are for people who enjoy cooking – their cars. It can also be implements calculated to make cooking easier and healthier. Or we can buy that critically crucial item which allows us to look really hot and tuned. And they always fit very neatly under your bed. With all the other gadgets, doohickeys, thingamajigs and … then they become “stuff”. Later, it becomes “junk”.
A marriage proposal. By the post office. In the glare of streetlights. Suddenly, a strange man turned my helpful attitude into an inappropriate talk about marriage. All I did was answer a question about the mailboxes, and suddenly he is enamored with my face. Weird little middle-eastern character. I lie myself to a fiancée and refuse to give my name. But the situation was so weird, and I got curious. Of cause, if he had touched me, he would have had to pick his teeth out of said mailbox. I flee, certain that this man, professor or not, is potty.
Sometimes life is just a bit too real, know what I mean? I wish I could see the world through the eyes of a fictional character, preferably Stan Laurel of Laurel and Hardy. Such kindness, innocence and compassion, always capable of forgiving his friend and companion. Somewhere in there is the true Buddha nature. I would also like a short visit behind the lovely eyes of one of the really sexy female stars of the old days, sweep down a spectacular staircase in a magnificent gown, bat my eyes and have men fight over my kerchief. Sigh. Such is life.
There is a certain wisdom to staying on the middle path; extremes bring varying forms of chaos or destruction, absolutes bring not order, but dissonance and discord. Look at the Jonestown or Hitler’s Germany, who tried to create the perfect society, and ended up being their own executioners. Flexibility and moderation is always a good idea, as I myself am learning. I have always been a perfectionist, always afraid om making mistakes. From now on, I will allow myself to fuck up on a regular basis. Hell, I am human, am I not? Maybe then I will get something written.
I have in my care a little cat, Mille. The first two years of her life, she managed to raise four kittens, finagled daily meals from an old lady, and survive cold winter and hot summer in the wild. Then she was caught by people from a local sanctuary, where I found her. Little Mom, they called her. She just waited, quiet and collected, while all the other cats mewled and meowed. She looked steadily at me, green-eyed and shy. That was three years ago. Now, a little chubby character is fast asleep in my best chair. My little survivor.
There is a lot to learn and do. I have challenges to meet, opposition to defy. Cat is not really interested, but I have talked to a good friend today, about self-esteem and self-worth. It appears that I need to confront a family member about polite conversation and manners when visiting. I need to be shown respect in my own home, and I will not have people sitting like frozen rocks with their coats on, quite obviously waiting to bolt at the first chance. I do not want visitors who do not wish to be here. After all, who does?
I can grieve for lost chances, lost opportunities and loss itself. Now I am miserable, horrified at the prospect of having to carve my way through the world at minimum wages, in order to be able to write. It positively looms, snarls and threatens at me, challenging my impetuous hope. Samsara - the storm of unimportant snags, details and trivialities swirl and trap my feet. Oh, dear, why does life have to be so hard? Or am I just being a ”glass is empty” kind of person? Where can one find hope on such a day, of enmity and indifference?
Strange day, to be sure. My resolve to start writing more is growing, but resolve is nothing in itself. Action is required. So - I better get moving. I may even get something published, but only time will tell. My province, my preferred theme, lies in the area where the rational stops and the weird and fantastic step through. A sort of twilight zone, if you will. It is not necessarily scary writing, but it addresses the very thin and quite flexible membrane with which we surround our lives. Do we have a perfect barrier? What is it we fear?
I believe I have had a really good day. Woke up to a languid Saturday morning with a pleasant breakfast, did brief chores and then continued to a long and entertaining party in my rowing club. Now it is rather late, but I have a whole Sunday in front of me, a few odd ends to fix around the house, and that is all I have to do tomorrow. Ahh. Could be worse. Cat is still convinced that I am trying to cheat her of someting, so she drinks out of my cup. Just for balance, I imagine. Cute, really.
I am pissed. At myself, that is. I am – although I have always thought the opposite to be true – a coward. Yes, a catastrophic coward, afraid of everything, a pipsqueak with no backbone. Everything scares me – opening windowed envelopes, dealing with money, following my dreams, not following my dreams, arguing with my family and friends and not having them to argue with. Locking doors, not locking doors. Being afraid has come to be my axis, but no more of that! No more Buddhist bullshit either, I am here to be seen, heard and felt, not to be somebody’s understanding doormat.
Sleeplessness. A recurring curse of so many, also mine. I believe there is a certain time at night, the wolf’s hour. It is not a specific measure of time, rather an extended moment, stretching across hours and seconds. Sometimes I wake up, between midnight and before the earliest morning. At such a time, I always find it hard to go back to sleep. Half-remembered dreams and worries - wolves - close in, making a cup of tea and the company of the cat essential. Sometimes, it refuses to find me again; pillows, covers, books, cat and soft music rendered useless.
End of the month. Sigh. I scrape the bottom of my wallet. Actually, I am quite pooor at the moment. Sigh. But Friday is payday. Today is Tuesday. So it is merely a matter of making do with what is in the cupboards. Flour, sugar, cocoa, oatmeal, salt, rice and tea. Potatoes and celery, jam and bread. One lousy egg. Milk, plenty of that. Onions and a huge steak in the freezer. Hmm. Maybe it is not so bad after all. Cat is irritated, she is displeased with her catfood. I wonder if she would like oatmeal. She probably would.
Maybe the sun is still shining behind the clouds? It probably is. Will it be shining on Monday? I fervently hope so. As for the weekend, I am looking forward to rowing with my friends, baking cake and relaxing in good company. Today I will be going to the city in a little while, just need to get some bread out of the oven. This has been a pleasant day, full of little pleasant surprises. I hope it will last throughout the day, I sure could use it. Maybe a trip to the hairdresser? I will probably check it out.
This is how Danes speak English if they want to be funny or just plain are funny – in the head. Every day from December 1st. to the 24th , we would have a bit more of the story. So: Evri dai Ai will go down to the howl. Means: Every day I go down to the cave. One translator – I saw this myself on TV – managed to convert the QE2 to a queue. Oh well, everybody fucks up occasionally. The point is: Sometimes we use words that apparently have the same meaning … And I am making absolutely zero sense …
Let me weave a web of shining tales around your mind. I will make you the hero of your own tale, The axis of a thousand valiant days and nights. Hours of glory and delight will be yours for the taking. Wreathe you a sword of starlighted steel,d A shield of oak and banded iron. The world of imagination await you, Complete with foes and enemies, Friends and lovers. Come on, the sun is rising on your new adventure Your steed is saddled and dances in a cloud of steam; A path beckons, ringed with trees, hiding trolls and treasure.
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