buewhale

  Memoria House ” It's raining hammers, it's raining nails, it' s true there's nothing left for you down here.” You add yours to a song about time as you ring the bell of the Memoria House. Asylum, rather. Refuge or Retreat if you buy into the lingo of the their journal. It's a place for people buried in their past, reluctant to deal with the present. It's an anonymous structure. A little fog and you would have missed it all together. For a long time nothing happens but then you hear soft steps approaching. A narrow slot in the door opens and you're handed the proofing print for the next issue of the journal. People in this house only writes down what they remember, or what they think they remember, from times long gone. It's occupational therapy but the inhabitants don't know that. They're writing down induced memories, not their own. They think they're storytellers, historians, novelists and what have you. But you cannot tell them they...

  Identitriviality ”Ich glaube … no, I think that there's an overall resistance or dislike to be who and what you are rooted in our upbringing. I mean, why would you begin to become something or someone you're not already in your teens. And it doesn't stop there. Grown people spend a lot of time trying to look like someone else. THERE lies the downfall of humanity, I guess.” “You really shouldn't watch that much reality tv.” “No?” K. takes off his Dolly Parton costume, fake tits and all. “Maybe I should try to be Japanese instead.” “Well, your complexion will come in handy.” Dead whities get a little yellow with time. “Nah, I can't stand raw fish ...” kimonotously an autumn rain with no end . Identitrivialitet ”Ich glaube … nej, jeg tror, at der er en overvældende modstand mod eller mishag ved, at være den og hvad, du er, rodfæstet i vores opdragelse. Jeg mener, hvorfor ville du anstrenge dig for, at at blive til nogen eller noget, du ikke...

  Wind He kissed the wind as it passed him. He stood on a hill waiting for the far end of it and it sighed past him. At one point he considered taking a bike ride to get closer to it, to get into it, but both tires were flat and he settled for being patient. Now it's gone, the wind. From what he can deduce it may now be enjoying the broad boulevards of St. Petersburg and that's not bad. He looks it up on the internet, sees a lot of blood-gold and hopes the wind knows Russian well enough to manage. Though, while it was here it never stopped long enough to chat. Soon it'll get to the vast plains he imagines lie beyond the city and it will die down utterly confused by all that space. What can you do? He lights a candle for it and prays. into the mush of time and tiny fish the eye of the Father . Vind Han kyssede vinden, da den passerede ham. Han stod på en bakke og ventede på den fjerne ende af den, og den sukkede forbi ham. På et tidspunkt overvejede han, at ta...

After taking stock the foreman comes to the office. ”Yup, just as I thought, we have a lot of faulty empty spaces left.” ”How many?” I asked. ”It seems that only one in ten of those we had manufactured in Taiwan is actually working as intended. The rest are just taking up space. I don't think we can sell them.” ”No, I guess not. Can't we fix them somehow?” ”Of course, but the cost of fixing them would exceed their production cost and the room for profit is too narrow for that.” “Throw them out, then.” “O.k. but it's not gonna come cheap either. They're considered hazardous waste so we need a specialised company with specialised tools and specially trained guys to come and get them.” “Can't we just bury them somewhere?” “Bury empty spaces? Man, think of the ground water! Do you plan to poison our grandchildren?” two steps forward one back night frost … file date: November 23, 2014  

  Voodoo Absent minded I drop a herbal tablet on the glass table. I can hear it roll and stop but I can't find it. It's not behind the mug, the fruit basket, the ash tray, the tobacco pouches or the empty Cinderella video cassette. Maybe it's because I can't do two things at once: taking out a tablet and watch James Bond trying to avoid being killed by a sneaky voodoo man at the same time. Probably. almost spring I check the pollen count to make sure it's o.k. to sneeze . Voodoo Fraværende taber jeg en urtepille på glasbordet. Jeg kan høre den trille og standse, men jeg kan ikke finde den. Den er ikke bag kruset, frugtskålen, askebægeret, tobakspungene eller den tomme Askepot videokassette. Måske er det fordi jeg ikke kan gøre to ting på én gang: tage en pille ud og se James Bond forsøge at undgå, at blive slået ihjel af en lusket voodoomand på samme tid. Højst sandsynligt næsten forår jeg tjekker pollentallet for at sikre mig det' o.k. at nyse ...

Without warning “they” begin renewing parts of my body, exchanging bits and pieces following a system I can't make head or tails of. I say “they” because I sense more than two hands but I can't see who or what they belong to. One pair of hands is working on my right lower leg. It rips out the pieces of muscle that has sorta made knots of themselves and feel sore. I watch gloved hands put in glass marbles in nice colours and toy soldiers (the kind you're meant to paint yourself) while the toes on my left foot are being capped with steel caps with claws that would fit a dragon's feet. “How am I going to walk in those?” I ask. “You aren't,” says a voice coming from who know where. “You are meant to fly!” “Oh, well ...” I don't know what to say. Who doesn't want to be able to fly. “But I haven't got any wings.” “Patience, boy, patience.” steady rain it seems sleepless too … file date: October 21, 2014