TO BE CONTINUED part 8:

TALE OF THE UNBEAREBLE PRESSURE ON MODERN PARENTHOOD...

This note was given to the parents of my youngest sons kindergarden about two weeks ago:

"Tuesday 31st of january our cook, Jane, has a day off. Therefore we ask you to bring your kids a lunch pack for this day in kindergarden. We firmly believe that the kids are very interested in lunch packs and that it could be a new and exiting learning experience to bring a lunchpack along, and thus teach how to h a n d l e one.
Another reason we ask you to bring a lunch pack for your kids is, that we therebye will have more time for the kids as opposed to us making them lunch this day."

I leave it open for interpretation.

second set...

http://members.aol.com/sportsfn7/sexy1.jpg

TO BE CONTINUED PART 7:

TALE OF LIFE IN A 2ND RATE POETS ROAM IN 15 MINUTES INTERVALS ON JANUARY 27TH 2006 WHICH IS MY 366TH POSTING…

0645: Get up. Coffee and cigarette. Its too fucking early to think anything, but is it also too late?
0700: Sons, Carl and Julius, wake up. Double shower.
0730: Breakfast. Eat that oatmeal boys! Agin and again and again.
0745: Getting ready to leave. Lunch packs, check up on back pack, at least 25 pieces of clothes to cover the needs for this winter day.
0800: Car refuses to start. Dead battery.
0815: Get hold of friendly neighbour, aka Hi-Fi Robert: He has the jump cables, I don`t. The car starts.
0830: Arrives at kindergarden, drop off Carl. Back at the car with Julius waiting in it, it has stalled. Dead again. Convinces teacher at Julius` school in the biblical proportions of helping me out with jump caples. It succeds. The cars starts.
0845: Takes the car for an approx. 15 km spin to charge the battery.
0900: Arrives at my parents place, to deliver back cellphone my mom forgot in the car driving back and forth to Aarhus yesterday. Coffee and 2nd cigarette.
0930: departure, I wish. The car stalls.again. Desperation.
0945. Borrow Moms Skoda to drive downtown to buy jump cables. First two shops are sold out, due to “the extreme weather conditions” as the one shop owner states with a content smile the fucking leach.
10.30: Back at Parents place. 3 attempts, and still a no-go engine. Call the friendliest caretaker in the world, Mr. John Klein.
11.15. John arrives with the proper tools and knowledge.
11.30: My car starts. I drive to studio.
11.45: Connect supercharger to battery. A three hour task.
1200: Walks up town to finish boring Union stuff.
1230: Lunch at Brænderigården/ studio.
13.15: Back in studio. Can`t concentrate on the 5 1x1m paintings thats otherwise almost finished. I build 6 new 80x122cm masonite frames. Work up a good potential on three of them.
15.30: Checks up on the car. The charger has generated very little juice on the battery which indicates the need for a brand new battery. Nervous that it cant make the drive to Aarhus Airport later tonite, I call up mom to book her car…again.
16.00: Finish mad-muslim-monkey-stencil and Pagan Queen. Not satisfied. Too…clean.
1645: Home. Cleaning. Carl comes home with mum-in-law. She leaves. Multiple activities.
17.30: Cooking and eating. Got to break an egg to make an omelet.
18.30: Mum-in-law arrives to nanny Carl while I pick up my moms car.
19.00: Pick-up and arrangements
19.15: Shopping for late-nite nannys.
19.45: Home. Julius comes home.
20.00: Tug in Carl.
20.30: Nannys arrive.
20.45: Shower.
21.15: Departure for Aarhus Airport to pick up wife. Tricky drive in freaky fog.
21.45: Moms car stalls with 18 wheeler up my rear bumper. Light panic. The car starts again.
22.15: enter pathetic 20 km stint of freeway.
22.30: Wife calls on cell. Her plane is 40 minute delayed. “Could I pick her up in Karup Airport instead?” NO.
2300: Arrive at Aarhus Airport. Always wondered why this infrastructural embarresment, about 50km from Aarhus is in fact called Aarhus airport and not Tirstrup where its actually located. A complex result of small town politics I guess.
23.15: Coffee and cigarette in non-smoking area. Strikes up a conversation with 4 arab cabdrivers about smoking. We are all smoking. A man enters. Finds a cigarette but is out of light. Of 5 smokers smoking, guess who this Caucasian ask for a light.
00.00: Plane arrives…and wife.
0030: The drive back. The fog is gone.
0045: Wife sleeps in car. I speed up.
01.00: During overtaking at freeway I look over my shoulder and see the ghost of my dead brother. Denial never helped anything.
01.45: Home is where your jamon is.

anyone for tennis?

maria sharpova...
http://www.strangepersons.com/images/content/110919.jpg

today,
I remembered:
after having just moved to Copenhagen I once met a somewhat intoxicated genuine inuit, who I at some point during our conversation asked to characterize Copenhagen, to which he replied:
"You are never more than a 100 meters from a rat."

Now - years later - living in Viborg, Jylland, I have learned, that here you are never more than hundred meters from one of these: http://www.konkursbil.dk/images/IMG_3233.JPG

And...if you measure it out, it holds just enough space to encapsle the much talked about full package of the danish kulturkanon, and drive it where...well, fuck: I shit in the face of culture.

TO BE CONTIBUED part 6:

A TALE OF FLYING …

We have stalled in the vortex somewhere over UK. It s my fifth and last stop in a week. My ticket, my FlyAmeirca roundpass expired yesterday after having flown crisscross domestic America for 5 days because that more or less was the only way I could get something to eat.
Not before I land in London will I know if I can actually make it to Denmark, my hope is I can make a timely call to my bank and make them open my VISA. On my right an overweight fat americana have been sleeping for the last 7 hours straight. I sit in the middle annoyed by my long legs, that cant find any rest. My feets are killing me with sweat and fungus that has hit like a thief at night. The boots I bought secondhand for my last cash in Minneapolis seems to small, but I had to buy them as I hadn’t considered the fact that October is winter in Minnesota but not in Vegas. It felt like my feet had grown two sizes after having warn noting but sandals for two months. On my left, in the windowseat sits a weelkept middleage woman who has tried to strike up conversations with me, but my situation as such is all reluctance.

“Is it your first time on plane?” she asks and looks at me, worried.
“No, it cant very well be can it?” I reply, degrading, but hey, it could have been, so I immediately excuse my tone.

Dinner is served, and I try to finish a meal of: Chicken, cordon bleu, over cooked broccoli. Somehow I am nervous to come home. My meal lies wasted, spread out, greasy and messy on the serving tray.
She on the other hand, it seems, have made it into a science eating on planes. She has a 100% overview of the meal, the way its structured and packed and foiled, the rationality, functional logic.
”It is like a game of chess” she says “everything is a matter about being conscious of the rules.”
First she had opened the main dish on the plate, she took of the foil lid and placed the 4 room plasticplate on top. She then took knife and fork from the little bag, and left the rest of the service in it. The side dish, the pasta-salat is then opened and eaten while she leaves the main dish a while “for cooling of because they have a tendency to overheat the food trying to keep it warm enough to make it for the whole serving of the plane. And”, she says with emphasis “then subsequently I can use the pastacontainer for leftovers. As I always travel economyclass I consider it a duty to eat everything that is served free”:

With the pasta salat away she makes room for the desert before starting the main dish. “Its essential” she says “to be able to keep the whole meal on the serving plate.”
When she finished the main dish, which she eats calmly, she takes the rest of the service from the little plasticbag. Wet-tissue, sugar, spoon, and toothpicks. Then she downs a glass of OJ in one go, and signals the stewardess.
Before she starts eating the dessert she meticiously gathers the little trash left from the two first meals, and wets her finger and vacuum the plate and the table for crumps.

The empty pasta bowl now sits in the empty dessert bowl. They are of the same size and “they constitute exellent minature- trashcan” she points out.
The dessert, a little pudding with cherry sauce that shakes as only gele-like substances can shake because of turbulence. Turbulence which means that I can hardly hold anything on the serving tray, or any of the food in me. But her timing is sharp. Just as she takes the first bite of the pudding with a very even amount of cherry sauce, the stewardess emerges with a smile and one question: “Tea or Coffee?” It is perfect. Her, consuming the meal seems to be one continuously movement.
She prefers tea from coffee, and a calvados. She pauses for a bit after having finished the dessert and then unwraps the cracker and a small piece of cheese from a bag, before she puts the sugar and sturrs the tea, and then finally puts the teaspoon in the bag it came.
“I got to have somewhere to put the spoon” she syas and continues “the question now is n o t to think of smoking a cigarette. I have in fact stopped, because my job means I fly a lot, but anyways…Do you smoke?”
I cant answer it. But hell yes, I smoke. I can`t answer it, because I am in no mood to explain the complexity of my situation. I havn`t smoked for days, but hell yes, I smoke.
“Did you know that an individual swallow approximately 300 times during a meal?” she asks, clean and full, and smiles wide at the stewardess as she takes her perfect orderly tray away.

We land.

I call my bank in Denmark, for money I bummed in the transit-area. When I finally gets through the bankier remembers my name, but seems baffled, and in the background I can hear a John Denver tune playing from a radio.
“He is dead” she says.
“Who is dead?” I ask.
“John Denver”.
“Oh god, I didn’t know that. How?”
”In a plane chrash” she answers and coughs just enough so she cant hear me giggle, or my relevant question about the possible reopening of my VISA account. The connection then fails.

I so miss the sound of bare feet slapping over my apartmentfloor.

TO BE CONTINUED part 5.

A TALE OF DARKNESS...

"Jesus its dark in here", said the one guy to this here other guy, who replied:
"My God, yes. the lights must have been turned out for quite some time now."

This is the only joke my mother ever told me.

TO BE CONTINUED part 4:

A TALE OF INVASION...

Then we all look like silent old men. 14 days it took us to even start communication, and it would take the presence of a powerfull Weber-grill, welltanned and underdressed women, to sit us down around the table.
Camping in my book have never ment being social, but here I bent over for those trying. And trying was exactly what made us look like silent old men. Camping in Spain, Costa Brava, Caella de Parafrugell, 2002.

Not before the beers had loosened up we began to talk. Little aggresive ants had taken their tow on more of us, pissing or biting our angles, that would be scratched all through the night, halfasleep and you would wake up in bloody sticky sheets in a hot tent. But someone at the table could inform us that these ants - original descenting from Argentina, suddenly had appered on the eastcoast of Italy in the early nineties. From there on it had only been a matter of time before their disciplined march would spread them mostly west towards France and Spain. So there we sat, scrathing and icthing, but impressed by certain modern principles for evolution, which ofcourse among the danish guest and houseowners at the table, turned the focus the mystrey and presence of the Iberian Killer Snail. Here we were, at the Iberian Coast, not a killernsail in sight but plenty of ants. The discussion of evolution - the snails really get us fired up, but it also stops the disussion, because evoltuion is happening as we speak and nobody can foresee consequenses or understand - really - the history of it. Its like deep space. Dont start thinking of it.
So we end up silent:
Silent like sad old men. Some with wives. Most wives alone.

So really we look like sad old women.

A TALE OF ACCESSIBILITY...

(a somewhat confusing kick-in in the on going but not finished part 1 and 2 of "To be continued". This posting should clear up some confusions, but to keep the confusion (an excellent mean of power) at hand this is part 3 in "To Be continued", however not to be associated with parts 1 and 2. Alas, an independent account)

While a good part of under-Denmark sits paralized watching the christening of the little prince, only emphasizing the inescapable structure of a genuine classsociety (the further away the stars the better the high...), I will try to account for one of my life more unfortunate choices.
Yesterday I had to make it to Copenhagen in my born-again Volvo: I had been looking forward to this little outing. Quizmaster Puttes birthday party, a visit to my favourite blogger Lennard, a sleepover and long drinks at Jakobs place and so on.

To keep the expenses down as I in my 42nd year still am so poor I deserve to die, I had through the innovation of www.gomore.dk hooked up with a cyber-hitchhiker from Aarhus, who in this account, due to his heavy dating pattern, will remain not-mentioned-by-name more than X.
The weatherforecast was troublesome, no, the weather was troublesome, the weatherforecast was merely an account of trouble, but I set out becuase the grey thaw had set in and I had a feeling that the roads would be run dry due to heavy salting and rain. An so it was. The driving was no problem, I made it to Aarhus in time to pick up X.

We greeted, bought refreshment for the ride, turned on the radio, only to hear the the proud symbol of togetherness, the main artery of Denmark, Storebæltsbroen (http://www.highways.dk/danmark/broer/images/bro_storebaelt_snestorm_375x475.jpg), had been closed because of thee before mentioned severe weatherconditions. However, said the news, the bridged would open again at 6pm, and maybe even before. It was now 3pm. We decided to race by the quarry to see if we could get on the ferry: We could only chance-it, but there was no ferry untill 4.30pm, so we decided to make it for the bridge.
The weather was bad, but the fierce: A thick rain made it hard to distiguish wether it was winter or summer. X was talkative, a nice guy, wellkept and young, fit and tatooed, 24. A testorone bomb, who in a matter of minutes turd the convervastion to the finer art of scoring. He was going to Cph to meet a chick he had been chatting for 6 months on-line and now it was time for showdown. His accounts of netdating was stunning, I was so distanced, so old, uptight. The amount of pussy, the amount of sms`s he recieved was out of this world: the astonishing network of horny sweet woman made the conversation in the car very free.
Passing Lillebæltsbroen, we called up the trafficinformation who informed that the bridge now would stay closed untill 8pm. We decided to make a stopover in Odense to eat, and we did, my concerns for a long night on the raod though grew intensively and the regrets of not having stayed behind, waitíng for the ferry.
We ate an average slize of pizza. X was continously on his cellphone with dates and friends. Then, downing the last bite of my pizza X handed his cellphone over to me and said: "You gotta see this!" More ottershit, I thought? A 12 second videoclip of a 19 year-old miss from somewhere in Jylland, dildoing herself, and to be blunt, dildoing herself and being good at it. What could I say? Then some more pix of tits from other parts of the country, and finally a picture of the date that awaited him in Copenhagen, 26 year old Pia, dressed in a latex nurse uniform. The birthdayparty grew pale.
At 7.15 we left Odense and set out for the bridge, spirits high. A 20 min run, and IT happened. We hit the Q, didnt make the timely thoughtfull exit from the freeway and got stock in the far left lane, next to a bussfull of finish students and a big ass truck, just as the newsflash said: the opening of the bridge had been prosponed to 22 maybe even midnight. Somehow, it seemed the first to hours passed quickly. We talked, called friends, informed of our situation. X speeded up to a nearby gasstation and brought back shitty burgers and overboiled coffe, chocolate, cokes, water, a few beers and cigarettes. 20pm became 22pm, where we were informed that the opening weas prosponed to midnight. Huge icepieces - up to 200 kilo - had formed on the cables holding the suspensionbridge, and they - the ice - was falling with serious risk obviously. So whether or not the bridge could be opened, was not an issue.
Time was at a standstill. Every perspective of cunt and getting laid, even thinking about it, time couldnt work for us. We were as such stifffrozen and nonexistenst, out of context. The nagging and the complaiing started almost simoultaneously. Not only with X and me. In the Q. People were getting out of their cars, their trucks, the busses, depeches to and from the gasstation and McD. Random conversation with random people in the q of the situation. German, finish, turks, swedes, brititsh in a rare bond of anger. Ach die dumme daene.
Then 30 minutes after midnight the Q suddenly moved, the relief! The relief had never been more shortlived. We moved 600 feet and then stopped, and then nothing for another fucking hour. X was getting pale, a serious unrest, he was freezing, underdressed. I wondered seriously if we were safe, there was no information, the absence of police or nationalguard members puzzled me. I knew that about a mile up the Q was an exit that could take us off the freeway and head back for Aarhus. We had long given up on making it to Copenhagen. In the distance I could see a blue flickering light. I had to do something, we were on the 7th hour and desperate, and a few cars past us in the emergencylane. So I got out of the car and walked the mile up to the policecar where a overdressed single cop sat and had coffee, and the only thing he could inform me was that it was ok if I could mengle the cars blocking my access to the emergencylane away. I ran - no skated - back to the car, pushed and shuffled three cars out of the way, and we then squeezed through, made it to the emergencylane, the passage under the freeway. We turned around and headed back for Aarhus. It was 130am. The mere sense of moving after seven ours in the Q was exillarting. The fuck up, the waste of time almost forgotten, the energy with which we rationalized our unfortunate choice was exuberant and effective. We had done nothing wrong, we were at the mercy of nature, we were only humans with an immense sexdrive, modern cribbles in a risc-society.
At 4am I unloaded X at his apartment in Aarhus, at 430 I almost fell asleep driving, reached out the the last sugary chocolatebar who boosted me for the remains of the drive. At 5am I unlocked the door to my apartment in Viborg, my puls racing.

And the prince has a name.

art is in some way like news. a researchfacility on reality. Originality, consequense, identification, and actuality is some of many charecteristica, I in my book is looking for in art to distinguish good shit from bad shit.
So if art communicates news, are artists reporters per se? No, first there the question of credebility. Artist in general are fighting an un even struggle, and after 30 years of long hair and superpluralism are just beginning to merge as more than drugged up hungry and ugly do-no gooders, as the general sceptisism towards media (TV, newspapers, radio) is everyday chat, though the consumption is at a historic high.

(here comes the youngest son ... he ispuking.... I leave it the thought hanging over the weekend if I make throught the blizzard to Copenhagen...my god more puke...sorry for the inconvinience dear reader...)

captivated
the consumer merges into an instrument
to measure out the amount of consuming that defines the amount of freedom that decides the amount of choice that defines how human run but not always with the choice of where

today,
at the studio merete helelrøe who runs the graphic workshop next to my studio walked in an invited me over in the cantine for some wine, cake and coffee, as it was her 40th birthday. At the table also sat sculptor john olsen http://www.clausenskunsthandel.dk/kunstner/olsen_john/. The conversation quickly turned to the wonders of nature, john olsen clearly is a bona fide naturelover. John and his friend had just come in from a trip to one of the few natinalpark-like areas in denmark...i do not remember which as I these days a pretty far from anything natural though the fact that I live in Jylland.
Anyways, Johns account from his trip was vivid and before I noticed anything else and as I was downing a piece of mazzarin-pie, he stock something green and smelly up under my nose and said: "Here! Smell this! Even though its shit, it doesnt smell like shit does it?"
I smelled it, and no it didnt smell like shit, but it didnt NOT smell like shit either and I passed it on to the other guest at the table, and John presented the thing as an otter-shit, that he was very proud to posses.
The cake slided down heavy, the conversation went on.

Nature at hand, nature at demand.

today,
work
tomorrow more

bruegel the elder had the idea.
http://gallery.euroweb.hu/art/b/bruegel/pieter_e/painting/cockayne.jpg

today,
advantages of living in rural denmark: lets call it another kind of simple living: housing is way cheaper, insurance, mechanic, schools and daycare too, jobs are eaisier to come by and if not everyone knows someone who can fix you up with any problem you may encounter, cheaper, moonshine is a rural middlename, and on weekends when the demand is hard the supply is precise.

http://www.dr.dk/Nyheder/Indland/kriminalitet/2006/01/14/072311.htm

happy birthday lennard g....

its has now been eleven years since I first met you bent over a pc performing some early wulfenstein killings. From there on, the subtlety has just grown.

http://www.lg-c.dk/flottenheimer/len_star.gif

Dads home from the hospital today, better but not well. my car is getting the final run over after having failed inspection yesterday, julius is home from school, troublesome third grader, sine is interviewing a thai mail order pride is Vroue, DK in distress.

we are trying to fxx the stuff that means stuff and hold stuff together to achieve stuff that means stuff.

ren besked. vi vil ha ren besked.

http://www.buyong.com/guide.gif

today,
it`s beginning to look like a major incompentence.

today,
another visit to dad still at the hospital. I had loaded the camera with film to take the shot of the roadsign I mentioned the other day. In the car with me I had my mother and Julius. Trying to explain the superficial details of my erinn, stopping at the sign to take the picture, my mum got baffled and sad, and I pissed myself for even trying.
I noticed however the writing on the sign didnt say www.mirakel.dk but in stead www.mirakelper.dk, which didnt win my trust. hit and see.
Dad was better, but still in and out of serious moodswings and still severe loung-infection. They have decided this time to keep him there untill this infection is all gone and he is stabile, which makes both me and mum fell more safe but also prolongs the pathologie.

From the hospital I drove my mom home and me and Julius drove off to the danish alps of Dollerup Bakker to do some serious downhill sladeriding. Though freezin cold the view from the hill overlooking the slopes, the valley and valley the lake was stunning, the rides furious.
20 years ago we called it The Magic Valley, because of the excessive presence of magic mushrooms in the fall.


the view from the slopes, only a summerview
http://www.haervej.dk/Billeder/sbn-dollerup2.jpg

the magic only a faint memory
http://www.magic-mushrooms.info/images/magic-mushrooms.jpg

dont blame me oh creator. im merely acting under the whim of my genetic programming.

the streets!

http://www.streetsy.com/streetsy/tag/spaceinvader/

today,
driving to see my dad at the hospital in the nearby town of Skive. My dad is hospitalized with chronic bronchitis, also known as smokers longues and severe depressions, . Halfway there I passed a somewhat rundown roadside farm with a big homemade sign stating that here miracles occured: They could cleanse longues, away depressions, cure cancer...is about what I had time to read, but I did spot their website. cursed myself for not bringing a camera which I will for my next visit.
Once at the hospital, the communication with dad was feeble as it has been for years. Hospitals doesnt make it any easier There allthough a sense of contentness. It felt right being there. It was short, he was tired, but somewhere between me coming and going, dad uttered: "Sometimes I think I need a fucking miracle to get well..."
I couldnt get myself to tell him about the sign I just saw, I cant say that I am a ferm believer in miracles, whereas dad...I mean he is open to anything right now.

So back home, I instantly fired up the computer to check out the site. This is what I found: http://www.mirakel.dk/main.asp, and I really cant pass it on. Dad, whose dad was a priest of the black old school, spent 65 years of his life to get rid og guild and Jesus! If it is actually the site connected to the farm I spotted is still to be revealed.

Get well soon Dad.

greed, water and deadlines. the stepping stone into deep space.

between chritsmas and newyears eve, the night dk was covered in virgin white snow I hooked up with newly wed and old rocker Johan at quizmaster Puttes place in Copenhagen.

Johan, the persistant rocknroll bartender is up and coming with his surf twang soloproject LUGER, music and a site here that definitely is worth a hit.

www.lugertunes.com

today,
the small apocalyptic feeling of a passing year, newyears evening is over:
alas the grey knights mount their horses in a early winter morning mist. ride on proud horsemen over the hills and into the forgotten valley. send the depeche of green and lush, of promise and love, of empathy and time of wine and roses of sweet sweet music and electric drums wired all to our pleasures...