Once and for all, the swine flu

There’s no point copying Niklas’ words, check it out for yourself: right here. We are brainwashing ourselves and I have nothing more to add. I am so very tired.

What is wrong with you people!?

When Aftonbladet publish an article about Morrissey and his so-called suicidal thoughts, I am not surprised that they consider this news of importance. What shocks me, but probably shouldn’t, are the comments this article has received. “So, what? What is stopping him?!?” and “I wouldn’t be sad. He seems to be an inflated idiot” and “Another outburst by this Morrissey that has nothing to do with his music” and so on. What is it about Morrissey that upsets you so much?
It makes me so tired. Back to bed it is then. ‘Cause sleep is the brother of death.

Living in a world where people are cruel just because they can and for no apparent reason, you have to be insane not to contemplate suicide at least once. Every day.

The little prince (and the fox)

When I was younger my favorite story was Flickan med svavelstickorna (The little match girl). As a grown-up my favorite children’s book is The little prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. When I have a child of my own I will read The little prince every night, as much for my child as for myself. It’s easy to see why:

The fox became silent and gazed for a long time at the little prince.
‘I beg of you… tame me!’ he said.
‘Willingly,’ the little prince replied, ‘but I haven’t got much time. I have friends to discover and a lot of things to understand.’
‘One can only understand the things one tames,’ said the fox. ‘Men have no more time to understand anything. They buy ready-made things in the shops. But since there are no shops where you can buy friends, men no longer have any friends. If you want a friend, tame me!’
‘What should I do?’ asked the little prince.
‘You must be very patient,’ replied the fox. ‘First you will sit down at a little distance from me, like that, in the grass. I shall watch you out of the corner of my eye and you will say nothing. Words are a source of misunderstandings. But every day, you can sit a little closer to me…’

Magnetic poetry: monday

Niklas and I got ourselves a set of magnetic poetry which is absolutely perfect for someone like me who wants to write poetry but never finds the right words and gets all awkward around it. With the words already on the fridge half the work’s already done and I get creative instead of shy and awkward. I thought I should share some of my nonsense. What do I have a blog for if it isn’t for this?

This is today’s very concise poem: monday between hope and almost anxiety

Too good to be true: Magnetic fields

Magnetic fields will be playing in Stockholm March 24. At a church. I die a little.

Christmas tradition à la Hökarängen

Yesterday Niklas and I had a crazy idea. Maybe the craziest we’ve ever had. While reading the local newspaper we stumbled across a gigantic ad for a local grocery store. The headline welcomed us to join their Christmas tradition. The tradition was, basically, a sale on selected items. Niklas and I, loving anything that celebrates our local community, decided to go and so we did – even though we both were ill. I don’t know what I had expected, Christmas music, maybe even a Christmas choir, someone selling hot dogs or mulled wine, more locals being proud of being part of such a cosy community, more laughter and party party. But all I got was a long queue in the cold and greedy people pushing me around. While both Niklas and I think this is hysterically funny, I doubt anyone else finds it funny. Oh well, at least we have oranges to last us until next time…

The Guardian on Marcel Proust in 1922

This is what The Guardian had to say about Marcel Proust and his death in 1922:

PARIS, SUNDAY.

Marcel Proust, foremost of “young novelists” of France, died yesterday. He was fifty years old and had been in poor health from childhood. It is probable that he was as well known abroad, especially in Holland and England, where Marcel Proust Societies have recently been formed, as in Paris, where his work was enjoyed by a select minority. His style was difficult and obscure, and his intricate, exquisitely delicate meditations and analysis of emotions could never have appealed to the mass of readers. Outwardly and in his habits he was a strange being. Very pale, with burning black eyes, frail and short in stature, he lived like a hermit in his home, which was open to a few privileged friends, amongst precious furniture. Yet by fits and starts he loved to re-enter the fashionable “night-life” of Paris. His apartment was lined throughout with cork in an ineffectual attempt to keep out the uproar of the noisiest city in the world. Most of his best-known work was done after he reached the age of forty-five years. Of all idols and masters of present-day literature in France he is most likely to have won a place which time will not take away. (November 20 1922)

If anyone would ever try to describe me, especially after my death, this is how I would like to be remembered. Pale with burning eyes, frail and strange, with difficult and obscure style, living like a hermit amongst precious furniture and a few close friends, constantly writing and never appealing to the mass. Perfect.

Important message: call & txt me again

My cell phone is alive & kicking, fighting fit and able! All it took was some TLC and a week of drying up. So now I’m within reaching distance 24/7 again, yey.

The return of the SingStar (I hope)

This weekend we gathered a few of our closest friends for a party at our place:

Show you what all the howlin’s for

While you’re all obsessed with vampires and Twilight and True blood and whatnot I’m holding on to Wolf like me tighter than ever but god I like it.