Tomgang

Jeg hader dette lortehul. Jeg hader denne møgmudderpøl der kalder sig Brøndby. Otteårige børn tegner hagekors med kridt på asfalten. Jeg kan og vil ikke vænne mig til at blive antastet af nogle spader på vej til stationen, fordi de har en mening om min frisure. Jeg knuger Mikkels blå trøje ind til ansigtet, for den er fra den flyvske og forgangne periode, hvor han ikke røg og stadig lugtede godt. Ved hver omfavning tænker jeg nu ufrivilligt på min mormor og snuskede værtshuse og dumme gymnasieduller og slap hud og sorte indvolde. Så jeg vasker den ikke, for selvom han må gøre, som det passer ham, så savner jeg hans duft, mere end jeg troede, jeg ville. Jeg svinger ind og ud af gamle sindstilstande; angst, håbløshed, ensomhed. Jeg havde forventet, at jeg ville være kommet videre nu. Måske er det for tidligt at sige. Måske holder det op, når mit studie begynder, men det føles som at springe ud uden at kunne se bunden og så bare håbe på det bedste. Jeg har jo praktisk talt ligget på sylt i halvandet år og har næsten helt mistet evnen til at handle logisk og velbegrundet. Det bliver nødt til at blive bedre, når studiet starter. Ellers er jeg fucked.

Golden skin

As I look down my arms and stare at the pale and veiny hands clasped to the handlebars I come to the conclusion that they can't possibly be mine. The tint of these hands resemble the skin you'd find on a piglet after a rough beating, a greasy pink with a touch of blue-ish and yellow bruises. These hands can't be mine at all because my skin feels like it must be a shade of gold, perhaps even golden silk, wrapped perfectly around every finger, every limb of my body. For six hours I haven't taken off my headphones and even though they are forming a sweating ring in the hair behind my ears, they feel like they've grown stuck to my head in a way where the mainstream radio hits blaring into my brain seem like a completely natural and synchronized appendix to my being. I race away on my bike, so smooth and easily that it would seem like someone is tugging at each end of the asphalt to straighten it out just for me. My thoughts center around what would have been a mandatory holiday visit to a foreign museum to look at generic foreign art, had it not been for a certain painting from which I could not tear my attention. I'm sure my imagination has provided additional colours and textures to the canvas but I clearly recall my instinctive fascination of this one piece, and even though it was riddled with ambiguous and otherwise repulsive imagery of biblical characters, to my relief referring to Irish history and not to praise the superstition itself, I was struggling with a beguiling urge to carefully lift the painting off the wall, bring it back home with me and hang it on my ceiling to stare at every night before I go to sleep. Besides the faceless imaginary saints and what I remember as being smeared Irish flags and other generic symbols of Irish and Northern Irish nationality, the painting had two or three lines of writing on it, of which I sadly only remember the first but keep very dearly to my heart, and on this day in this very moment, I feel with everything I am: I see now that there is a different kind of love. 

Alien: You're my motherfuckin' soulmates!

19 år og lidt til en side

Jeg er begyndt at skrive igen. Jeg kan skrive igen, fordi jeg er faldet til ro. Jeg har det godt, mine følelser er under kontrol, og jeg har det som om, jeg ikke behøver at distrahere mig selv, fordi det, jeg ville distraheres fra, ikke er så slemt, som det plejer. Bredager føles også næsten som hjem. Det lugter som hjem, og så er vi i hvert fald kommet et langt stykke vej. De hvide vægge er stadigt bare, de holder ved, men det skal nok blive bedre. TV-signalet er inteteksisterende, men det er alligevel okay, radio og Netflix trækker en del af vejen; selvom jeg har opdaget, at jeg savner at se reklamer. Jeg spiser hjemme en gang om ugen. Det er svært at acceptere, at livet går videre i Søborg parallelt med Bredager. Min lillebror ringede til mig i dag fo rat fortælle mig om et Playstation spil. Ikke andet, han ville bare snakke. Det er tæt på at være første gang. Station Next ruller mod enden efterhånden; vi er ved at lægge sidste hånd på Ude Af Takt, bl. a. i form af en foley section i studiet i dag. Pyh. Selvom jeg ikke kan mærke lykke eller glæde i min krop, som alt dette glider igennem, så tror jeg, jeg er tilfreds. Jeg har det bedre, end jeg har haft det længe, og jeg tror, Mikkel og Rune og Tone smitter. De smiler sgu hele tiden. Jeg har det okay. Først skal jeg bare flyde lidt i det. Så kan jeg udnytte det senere.

Alice kommer på besøg

Det brænder under huden, kradser, kribler; uroen i fødderne vil ikke lægge sig. I seng klokken fem, jeg får ikke tømmermænd, op klokken syv, lur klokken ti, lur klokken fire, lur klokken seks, alt for meget flimmer og jeg er ikke i seng endnu. Det er selvpineri, det er selvynk, det er hvad du gør det til, lille pige. Hvad jeg gør det til, jeg gør det ikke til noget, for der er ikke noget at komme efter. Det ville han sige, om jeg spurgte: Der er ikke noget at komme efter. Det ville hun også sige, drop det, det er for sent nu. Men når jeg kan mærke myrerne lige under huden, så er det svært ikke at blive ved med at svinge pisken, billeder og ord, du er ikke poet, og du er ikke cool. Ingen er gode nok til hinanden længere. It's All About Love, Sean Penn to gange på en dag. Kan vi ikke tale om det? Spørg mig lige, fordi jeg har lidt for ondt af mig selv til selv at bringe det op, mor. Det burde være så nemt nu, hvor du er så sød ved mig, men jeg synes ikke, der er stille nok. Der er aldrig stille mere, og lige om lidt bliver der alt alt alt for stille, når min (samlever) rejser bort i flere dage, og jeg stadig nægter at arbejde, så bliver der rigtigt stille. Tænk tænk tænk og planlæg at stikke af. Men når man bor alene, hvad fanden er der så at stikke af fra? Mand dig op, mand, det går over. Alle de ting der, det går over. I morgen kan du igen bilde sig selv ind, at der er noget, der betyder noget for dig. Og klap så i, så Alice kan forsvinde igen.

Calvin Candie: Jesus Christ, Stephen! How many people run away while I was gone? 
Stephen: Two.
Calvin Candie: Well when did she go?
Stephen: Last night. They brung her back this morning. 
Calvin Candie: How long she been in the box?
Stephen: How long you think she been in there? All damn day! And the little bitch got ten more days to be in there.
Calvin Candie: Take her out.
Stephen: Take her out? Why?
Calvin Candie: Because I said so, that's why! Dr. Schultz is my guest, Hildi is my nigger. Southern hospitality dictates I make her available to him. 
Stephen: But Monsieur Candie, she run off!
Calvin Candie: Christ Stephen! What's the point of having a nigger that speaks German if you can't wheel 'em out when you have a German guest?!

Early morning phone call

"Goodmorning, dear!" "..." "Did I wake you up?" "... mnaaahh..." "Good! Now listen, I was thinking. For your birthday, I'd really like to give you a great present so I thought that the two of us could take a few days in Berlin together. Y'know, museums, cafés, culture. What do you say?" "Berlin? Y'know, uhh... I like Berlin, I've been there a bunch of times..." "Yes...?" "... mmhh..." "... okay, let me call you back in a moment." /// "Hello, it's grandma again!" "Yes...?" "Look, I'm going to Ireland soon to visit an old friend of mine, would you like that better? You could tag along, wouldn't that be something?" "Ireland? Like Dublin?" "Of course!" "That would be amazing, seriously!" "Great, we take off in three weeks from now!"
And that's how my grandma grabbed me, wrapped me up, put me in her suitcase and flew me to Dublin for a week. I really had no idea of what to expect, now at all, I didn't even knew where we were going to stay. On the plane she told me that we were going to stay with an old friend of hers, she told me briefly about him and how he had a bunch of sons and how one or two of them might be about my age by now. I couldn't possibly write down anything about how the trip went because it'll all sound horribly dull. I only took one picture, too. People have palm trees in their gardens. In Dublin. Would you believe it...

Jef trr def på tid je læærer a vær alen... mmsæl.

SCENE 1: Jeg havde kendt John i over tyve år. Jeg havde kendt hans datter, så længe hun havde været til. Jeg huskede hende bedst, da hun var en halv meter høj og havde det røde hår flettet. Men den lille pige var som forsvundet nu; hun var blevet voksen, mens jeg kiggede væk. "Hold øje med hende", havde han sagt. "Sørg for at hun ikke roder sig ud i noget". Jeg sagde 'ja' til jobbet, fordi han trods alt var min bedste ven – hvad det så end måtte indebære.John kender ikke til byens mørke underverden. Det er det de færreste mennesker, der gør. Den er mere grusom og kold, end nogen aner. Kun få steder kan man finde noget, der dulmer den smerte, man påfører sig selv, når man dag ud og dag ind færdes i mørket. I en sprøjte. På bunden af et glas. I en kvindes arme. Da dukkede hun op, næsten som ud af det blå. Med sin røde hat og sine røde læber var hun fløjet forbi mig, og selvom hun var fremmed, følte jeg, at jeg kendte hende med det samme. Mit job, min pligt, min vens ord hang som en tung sky over hovedet på mig, men det var som om, hun trak i mig. Ikke med hænderne eller med sine ord, men duften af hendes ånd, der strøg forbi mig, en duft, jeg ikke kunne ignorere.Alligevel var der noget, der ikke var, som det skulle være. Der stak noget under. Hun var for fin. Ikke et hår på hendes hoved sad forkert, og dem der gjorde, var omhyggeligt placeret sådan med al intention. Jeg vidste, at jeg ikke burde, men jeg kunne ikke lade hende være. Jeg måtte vide mere. SCENE 5: Med ét var hun væk. Da vidste jeg, at der var noget, jeg skulle have ryddet op i. Så vi har lavet en film. Jeg er mildest talt lidt nervøs for, om den holder til at holde vand. Jeg er ikke ret glad for mit eget stykke arbejde, men meget tilfreds med det visuelle udtryk. Om ikke andet, pyh, jeg har lært noget. Halvdelen af de replikker, jeg skrev, fungerede slet ikke, når de skulle siges. Halvt på grund af, at de bare ikke var gode, men også halvt fordi lydkvaliteten blev så ringe. Så nu måtte vi pille dem ud og smide en speak ind over. Heraf ovenstående. Suk. 

Silva: Ooh! Look what she's done to you.
Bond: Well, she never tied me to a chair.
Silva: Her loss.
Bond: Are you sure this is about M?
Silva: It's about her... and you and me. You see, we are the last two rats. We can either eat each other... mmm?... or eat everyone else... How you're trying to remember your training now. What's the regulation to cope with this? ... Well, first time for everything.
Bond: What makes you think this is my first time?
Silva: Oh, mr. Bond!

Looking right, looking left

And just like that, another year passed by. And by just like that I mean 'fuck, that was a struggle'. A ton of so called milestones were reached and left behind in 2012 and I suspect 2013 is going to have just as many in store for me. The first milestone being my turning 18. For me it wasn't so much a big deal as it seems to have been for everyone else. Don't get me wrong, my birthday was great fun and I very much appreciate that so so many people showed up both during the day and in the evening (I don't think I've ever had so many friends gathered at the same time), it's just that I didn't begin my drivers licence and the next election isn't before three years and I don't really go out much, so I don't exactly have much use for the newly gained adulthood. The only thing I've really felt so far, is that my parents demand that I save some money and that I can actually write my own birth date in order to view "explicit" content on YouTube. And I've signed up for organ donation. But I'm sure being legally adult will make sense and show its usefulness soon enough. The next milestone is obviously my graduation. I ended up coming out on the other side with an average of 10,4, which juuuust qualified me to get into the stand-by list of Film and Media Studies at The University of Copenhagen. My admission to Film Studies came as a total shocker since I had scored horribly on my big high school project. With the awful grade I got on it, I had actually completely shut out the idea of studying film, as it seemed out of my league and I only applied as a sort of 'why not'-thing; turned out doing that was the best decision I made in a long time. But I graduated and that was wonderful and thank fuck it's over because I wouldn't have survived another year. The third milestone of the year was, that I had my first job. I admit people looked at my funnily when I told them I worked in an ice cream shop/tattoo laser removal clinic. As much as I pulled in some good money the four months or so I was there, I really got an experience of what the real world can be like and I taught myself how to interact with people I wouldn't otherwise have chosen to be around and I honestly consider that a wonderful lesson learned. As it turned out, opening an ice cream shop in August isn't the best business idea on Earth and my boss had to close the shop again in December and couldn't afford to keep me around as an assistant in the clinic either. But that was that, and boy was it an experience not to be forgotten any time soon. The last milestone isn't so much a milestone as it was something that gradually came to be; I got myself a set of brand new and absolutely fantastic friends. The weirdest thing to me was that I came to pick them up in the last place I would have imagined I'd make actual friends - at my stupid school. Thing was that I had met these two brilliant lads, lads with actual companion potential, but I only had about a month left of school before I'd be kicked out in the cold, real world and they'd still be in school for another two years, making tons of friends of which I would just be one of many. Turns out I was completely wrong. These guys actually stuck around after I wasn't there anymore, we hooked up on Skype, in Minecraft, for films and tea at 3AM. I plan to keep these guys around me for a time to come. Another small thing about the year - my Steam library has grown from having one game in it - Skyrim - by last new year, to 55. I like the direction my waste of time is going. That makes it for the 2012 milestones. In 2013, shit is gonna go down. I'll begin my (hopefully) five years of tough study as a proper adult in September. As I sit here having played video games all day and barely even having gotten dressed, that's something I have a hard time imagining - but that'll come when it does. Another very possible milestone could be my moving out. I have set up a deal with a very charming gentleman, my soon to-be roomie, and we'll be sending out applications together during the next few months. But all in good time, I'm sure this year will have a ton of stuff in store.