buewhale

Bus Ride and on the bus you get to sit next to a lady whose head suddenly cracks open and lets out a myriad of friendly youkai and you're forced out through the window riding a kettle heading for the purple door between a preacher's eyes the rest of the day you're a vending machine for calories nobody really needs “you'll be late late for mass,” she shouts smelling of mints and lavender water November Sunday some trees refuse to shed their leaves . Bustur og i bussen kommer du til at sidde ved siden af en kvinde hvis hoved flækker og slipper en myriade af venlige youkai ud og du presses ud gennem vinduet ridende på en kedel der har retning mod den lysrøde dør mellem en prædikants øjne resten af dagen er du en købeautomat for kalorier ingen har brug for ”du kommer for sent til gudstjenesten,” råber hun duftende af mentolbolsjer og lavendelvand novembersøndag nogle træer nægter at smide bladene … file date: November 16, 2014

  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...