Chapter 1: Max

I wrote this in a frenzy last week:

Four days ago they had been sitting by the kitchen island enjoying their usual friday ritual: Thai food. After they had finished their take-away he had made coffee. It was then she had annonced she was leaving him. Evidentaly she had meet him at work, banding over their tendancy for working late nights. Late nights had apparently evolved into over nighters. His name was Alexander, and she was moving in with him. She had left him that Sunday. His record collection had diminished significantly. Today it was Thursday. He could see himself tomorrow, sitting by the kitchen island having ordered Chinese in an attempt to break what had been their tradition. Realising there were no difference between the two cuisines, the fried chicken was not enough to extinguise the memory of it all. No, that could not take place. Instead he tracked down the address book they had used before technology had replaced it. It was filled with columns of: two surnames, one lastname. Until he reached M and found Max. Max was a friend from his collage years, although he may not really be refered to as a friend anymore. Since he had gotten married their "catching-up" meetings had become less and less frecuent, until a couple of years ago when they had stopped taking place. Max was a wild card, or had been when he still knew him. It would have been the least surprising if he still were. He sat on the chair next to the hallway table taking a minor trip down "memory lane". He could recollect the life-style of never ending partying, crazy girlfriends (very hot ones though) and insane adventures. A lot of it was covered in an alcohol/drug haze, as the collage years often were. Still, he had not been on the party mill as much as Max. I mean, he had meet Cindy in the end of his second years and from there it had been a straight path towars marital status. Max had from what he could remember always ended up in trouble, avoiding worst case scenario by an inch or so. Once he had almose got kicked out of the univeristy due to a drug incident, in which the details could not be remembered. From these facts many might have drawn to the conclusion that he was an idiot or something. This was not the case, not at all. Max was smart, unusually smart actually. And the fact that he got through collage despite innumourable incidents and missed classes and exams illustrates that pretty well. Now, the attributes in which you could describe Max often contradicted themselves, which was one of the reasons to why he was so interesting. So yes, he was smart, he knew stuff about stuff he would never had heard of. Although he never displayed his extensive knowledge as to show how educated he was, he usually just used this to outwit booksmart fellow students when he felt like it. The weird thing is he had never seen Max actually read a book. Whenever a discussion would deepen and pseudo-intellectual people would gather to discuss the failure of the Bush administration or the philosophical aspect on the meaning of life, Max would roll his eyes and leave the party with an odd exit phrase. He wasn't against talking about deep issues in society, he was just against the way his pretentious classmates had to get into these sort of matters at wrong occations, as an antidote to having fun on a friday night. Also the way many of them talked to hear their own voices, never really listening to others, not drawing closer to a conclusion, just reciting already made expertise statements on the subject. The fact that they could not think for themselves, they were to heavily sedated by how smart they thought they sounded. But he could also remember Max as something of an idealist at times, shouting revolutionary ideas along the stone-walls of the univeristy campus. Just because he could he would engage in demonstrations, and not seldom winn the hearts of the participants, becoming something close to a Che Guevara of University matters. Always ready to strike with wit and intellectual irony. Fighting battles, although often without serious engagement. Because although generally very admired, as well of fellow students as of staff, he would often change opinion and direction. A characteristic which at times got him into verbal fights (and physical) and added fire to some disagreements with the faculty. But it also made him popular with the ladies, which was the main reason for getting into gravel. Multitasking worked until it didn't, due to girls habit of chatting about lovers and boyproblems amongst each other. He could recollect that at several occations Max would not leave his bed for days, not to eat, not to study. How he emptied his blatter still remained a mystery. He could never really figure out the cause of this phenomena. Sometimes the triggering factor would involve a girl, cause although he might be refered to as a cassanova, he was sensitive in many ways. Somehow he got the idea that Max actually loved these girls he played around with. Maybe not in a traditional sort of way, but as one falls in love with the beauty of things. Just that he loved several of them at the same time, which made it hard to really practise due to the lack of exclusivity he showed the girls he dated. Back to the presence, the corners of the past fading, he dials the six digit number hoping it's still in usage. 3 signals and:
- Max speaking.
- Hi, it's Tony.
There's a silence in which Tony pictures Max's facial expressions trying to connect the voice to Tony and then to Tony his best friend from collage.
- Tony, wow, Tony, really is that you? Shit, ages huh, since we last talked i mean. What are you up to these days?
- Oh not much, just getting divorced.
- Cindy and you, really?
- Yes.
- I'm sorry.
- Thanks.
They talked for a while, exchanging short phrases and polite condolences, before they decided to met and talk more. It was to take place the following day. A friday evening. And with that Tony had broken the tradition he had though he would continue with for the rest of his life.

That's about as far as I've gotten. It's not perfect and there's a lot of spelling mistakes and so on, but overall I like it.

Wednesday nights

Ser att det var ett tag sen jag skrev här. Kan inte riktigt säga varför. Har tappat mina rötter och ramlat omkring: försökt hitta mig själv antar jag. Tror inte jag har publicerat några långa texter här precis, inte på ett tag i alla fall. Här är i alla fall en jag skrev för ett tag sen. Vet inte om det är något bra, men vill dela med mig av något.

The rush of blood to the head as the alcohol makes it's way through the body. One after one his limbs goes numb. The first drink has settled in his body, lifting his mood a level. Feeling the small euphoria. There's a long time to the introvertiveness of the second, the blurryness of the third. He notices a woman staring at him from the other end of the bar. Is she flirting with him or merely observing his ways? He notices a hint of pity and turns away his head. Why is he ashamed? There's nothing wrong with nursing your nerves a wednesday evening. He deserves it, he tells himself. With this internal statement he leaves the subject, feeling that further argumentation with himself will only make truth to her eyes. No need for explaning myself, no no. Instead his eyes wanders from item to item in the bar. There's only five people there. Two in company, they look like businessmen discussing tactics for the thursday morning meeting with clients. The other two are there by themselves, including the woman with the eyes full of pity(or is she just shortsighted or something). He takes another sip of the Gin & Tonic in front of him. An old Miles Davis tune is playing in the background, echoeing between the black-painted walls. He feels insightful, like he knows something other's doesn't. The emptyness of life perhaps, no not exactly, more like the fleetingness of it. Like he's already moved past this moment, seen the future, smiling at the people not knowing what's to come. He feels as if his life has led up to this moment, as if him being here is a sum or subtraction of all his previous escapedes. 40 years and this is what he's accieved. Maybe he's exagerating, maybe he only feels that way because this is one of those self-reflecting moments, being among old jazz records, drinks, darkness and all. Him being in this bar in an October night in the beginning of the 21th century is the natural result of a serious of events. He could not for the love of his life point out or illuminate certain places in his life where he should have made a slighly different decision. He doesn't regret anything, still he regrets it all. He was handed, he chose, life had him by the balls. Forcing him forward despite his objections. So here he is, this man, not quite a failure, definitely not a success. Average in most ways, ordinary you might even say.

För tillfället är det så långt jag kommit. Skriv mycket gärna vad ni tycker.

the bug who left

A creature who once was known as an termite grew extensively bigger and now lives in the distant forest of Yrk. From time to time you can hear him uttering inconclusive words to himself. This is the only way he could display his loss of friends and family. This particular termites reason for leaving his natural habitat was that he did not wan't to be a textbook example of a destuctive bug. He often went for hikes in the nearby mountains called rocks. On a particular day he was accidentaly squished by a lonesome wanderer, a man who liked to refer to himself as an animalfriend. And so that was the unfortunate death of the bug who suffered from some sort of mental disorder.

random pics.

2011 so far.

what the hell are u saying?

mindgames are the nature of my world. fuck.

oh boy.

trusting the machiney.
blessings of the soul.
pain and youth and hurt and flags of armor.
darkened illusions of something once known.
a story of condolence.


such a teenage wasteland.


behöver lite kärlek från fel sort och sympatier från fel håll.

warhol silk screen

dränk mig dr. mugg

mår slaktad gris.

RSS 2.0