Batman!

Simon, Caroline and I saw The Dark Knight yesterday. Afterwards I invited Caroline to visit me in my kitchen for a while and on one of our papers we drew batman figures. She created such masterpieces as Batman in a Hammock With Drinks and Slippers, and also The Joker Kitten.

Sun

Now that it’s summer it’s so light outside, from early morning till well into evening. When I walked out of the door this morning I thought I had stepped right into a zombie nightmare; there were no sounds, no people, no cars, only this brightly sunlit street. I turned my head and saw this creepy guy on a bench.

I leave my window open at all times, I want to suck these rare summer days into my skin.

These are from Denmark:



Our house




Tasty food



Tree at the beach where I hung my stuff so there wouldn't be too much sand in them.

The doing

My feet hurt again, pink and red they make creaking sounds in my mind, but I haven’t got the money to fix them. I’ve read four books in quick succession, written a hundred useless words and decided I disagree with Kant’s reasons for helping people out.

I’m like this huge open door that I need to fill with something.

Stranda

Jeg har brukt en tåpelig stor andel av livet mitt på å være redd for å gå til legen, fordi jeg tror de vil mislike meg når jeg ikke har blitt frisk for det de behandlet meg for sist gang. Men i går endte legen og jeg opp med å diskutere south park mens han skrev ut resept og det var egentlig ikke så verst.
Etterpå var det stranda på Nesodden og bringebær i hagen.



Jeg skriver, jobber, skriver, spiser pai og drikker likør. Dette er alt jeg gjør. Jeg er slank, sterk (dette kunne jeg brukt til å være sint på deg) og merket av sola: Jeg absorberer alt og lagrer det i en gyllen flaske innenfor ribbeina.

Stuff

Stadig disse nederlagene. I går våknet jeg med vissheten om at romanen min er håpløs, hjelpeløs. I dag slitt meg gjennom jeg vet ikke hvilket utkast av kapittel to, til den siste samtalen da jeg nesten ga opp. Her revnet språket, hele romanen var ved å gli ut av hendene på meg.
Jeg merker denne motstanden i meg hele tiden, som en kattetunge. Jeg har egentlig lyst til å skrive noe helt annet, noe mørkere, saktere, men denne fortellingen har opptatt meg for lenge til at jeg kan gi den opp nå. Jeg har jo akkurat fått taket på den.

Litteratur stuff

eg reagerer på ord og setninger litt som med mat. Når jeg leser et ord eller en beskrivelse jeg synes er vakker spiser jeg den opp, assimilerer den inn i meg. Stopper opp i lesingen et øyeblikk for å dra alt jeg kan ut av det, før jeg fortsetter.
Det er det samme med dårlige setninger. Jeg kan sammenligne det med denne situasjonen: Å sitte og spise nøtter som er lagt på rekke bortover én og én, og for å komme videre til neste er man nødt til å spise den som kom først. Så da sitter man der og spiser, og plutselig merker man at det smaker skikkelig vondt i munnen - det var en dårlig nøtt - og man har lyst til å spytte den ut, men vet at hvis man gjør det kommer man ikke videre til den neste.
Når jeg leser en dårlig setning smaker det litt vondt i munnen, men hvis jeg skal videre i boka må jeg jo spise alle setningene, også de dårlige, jeg vet det. Så hvorfor har jeg så vanskelig for å svelge for tiden?

I går natt drømte jeg at jeg var Leonard Cohen.

Leaving, hah!

I’ve watched both No Direction Home and I’m Not There with a short interval and am developing a sort of Bob Dylan obsession. A man who resembled Dylan only without the curls came into my shop the other day. I imagined our fiery romance.


I’m leaving for Denmark tomorrow. Train through Sweden and then boat to the island where we’ve got our summer house. I’m looking forward to the train ride, to stare out of the window and watch how the landscape is moving and not I. And I’ll read my new book, whichever one that will be. I’ve got five to choose from.

I’ll meet my family there and talk with them in Danish, we’ll get up late and eat breakfast forever. Maybe go down to the cliffs and swim. I’ll try to write as much as I can, at least finish chapter three and begin chapter four.
And in the evenings we’ll eat huge dinners, Greek-style, and it will be brilliant.

Mostly red

I want to be somewhere that is not here. Instead I just sleep, write and try on my new clothes.

End

So. I broke up with my boyfriend, got briefly back together with him again and now it’s over. Finished.
Sometimes I wonder if this relationship has been anything but a pile of hurt, but I’ll try to remember the good things.

Tree

The tree

I’ve worked for a week now, I enjoy working in a bookshop. Even unpacking deliveries and pricing them is alright because it’s (mostly) books and then I get to read all the blurbs and get an idea about them, and afterwards find out where to put them. There’s something that just feels good about putting books into shelves alphabetically. I like to stroke my fingers over them, to feel their square backs and straight lines against my hands.
And I like selling them, making sure the books go somewhere where people can read them. I try to see if people match the books they buy. Sometimes when they don’t the person ask to get them wrapped and then I know why.
In-between this I write. It feels good.

Yesterday I hung out with Maria, and she helped me climb a tree I have wanted to climb for ages. Just when I had got up there So Long Marianne was being played loudly from a window across the street. These two things have nothing at all to do with each other, they just happened at the same time.