today,
it hit me. i am not satisfied. i am not satisfied with apparent sense of dullness and lazyness that seems to have infected my blog. i dont know what it is. living in the states fired up numerous issues. maybe it was the mere fact that more stuff seemed to be at stake. or more untamed nature. or more untamed people.
but that sucks: there is always issues. and somehow i have been reluctant to touch one of the most illuminated ones that have ever hit denmark: the ongoing soap of the muhammed-drawings. and i admit: it is a complex matter if you listen with both ears. and i do that. thats how i was brought up, and thats how i understand the finer mechanichs of the body to be used.

but then, which doesnt mean here i go, but then
today,
at my studio
I was reading. reading stuff to brush up a series of new paintings, when i read this, written by brasilian philosopher PAULO FREIRE. He writes in his book PEDAGOGY OF THE OPPRESSED (first published 1970):

"An epoch is characterized by a complex of ideas, concepts, hopes, doubts, values, and challenges in dialectical interaction with their opposites, striving towards plenitude. The concrete representation of many of these ideas, values, concepts and hopes, as well as the obstacles which impede the people`s full humanization, constiitute the themes of that epoch. These themes imply others which are opposing or even antithetical; they also indicate tasks to be carried out and fulfilled. Thus, historical themes are never isolated, independent or disconnected, or static; they are always interacting dialectical with their opposites. Nor can these themes be found anywhere except in the human-world relationship. The complex of interacting themes of an epoch constitutes its thematic universe.
Confronted by this "universe of themes" in dialectical contradicyion, persons take equally contradictory positions: some work to maintain the structures, others to change them. As antagonism deepens between themes which are the expression of reality, there is a tendency for the themes and for reality itself to mythicized, establishing a climate of irrationality and sectarianism."


Though clearly a tad marxist, I think Freire states the framework of the ongoing Mohammed crisis precisely and also states to the point, where to concentrate on a solution, the reflection that could move us out of this gridlock.

I guess that kind of sums it up. Happy spring come staurday.

more info on Paulo Freire
http://www.infed.org/thinkers/et-freir.htm

NEW AT NOTES OF A SECOND RATE...

With generous help from Lennard over the weekend, we added a flickr account to this here blog. Click the ARTSHOTS link for vivid snapshot from the life of a second rate poet and his attempts to make it...

Mostly the ARTSHOTS flickr-account are thought of as a documentation of my paintings but very symptomatic for my handling of such logistic matters my flegmatism has delayed the first file, but I am working to finish it.

ouch. two days in the company of succesfull swedish novelist mr. ejersbo makes your breath scruffy but very alive and the claim for fame a minute shorter. if I could sing it would be of wine and roses, but I am too busy cleaning awaiting the next visitor, my spiritual president, my blog-mate Lenanrd Grahn, and the vision has almost come true: all I wanna do is having a night on the town with jakob ejersbo and lennard grahn but....one by one is good enough though.

come sunday, senior techno fetichist Bobo has lured us, Lennard and I, to watch a handballmatch, the first of three danish championsships games, staging Viborg against Slagelse. And on top of that, rumour has it, that a Yoko Ono art event will open the match.

So crazy shit just happens in Viborg. Round and crazy as a fuckball...

alaska volcano augustine activity documented by webcams. havnt felt the ground shake for a while.

http://www.avo.alaska.edu/activity/Augustine.php

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

idiots. it a doublewhammy!!! how naive can you get dear members? you have been buttplugged by Brians culturewar since day one. He squirts you swallow! Thats all there is too it.

bro bro bille klokken ringer...!
http://politiken.dk/VisArtikel.iasp?PageID=443642

TO BE CONTINUED part 10

A TALE OF WATER..

It smells like chloride
said Julius yesterday and I told him about once when water didnt smell
at all
which made me think of
Kenny
who didnt like water but prefered bananamilk over
water anytime
I didnt tell Julius how we then
frequently broke into his dads
grocery shop storage
cause Kenny`s dad was a groceryman
and drank so many banamilks and broke so many bottles
that Kenny ultimately accumulated traumatic nervous stress
which ment that he would and could
piss his pants off
when we asked him to
and when we didnt ask him to
Kenny most of the time
went home
and didnt drink water

tonight,
surfing the net for some ideas of how to draw a house in tight 3d, I came across this web-site promoting the 2004 production of 1989 movie "Roadhouse". It emphasizes, and I quote:
The Stage Version Of The Cinema Classic That Starred Patrick Swayze, Except This One Stars Taimak From The 80’s Cult Classic "The Last Dragon" Wearing A Blonde Mullet Wig.

A blonde mullet wig. Oh lordie, what a rush, bleach me, scorch me..and please check out the pressphotos too. The ghost of Limahl?

http://eljallartsannex.com/Road%20House.htm (the pressrelease and photos)
http://fuckthatjob.com/archives/000357.php (the review)

Went to see LARS H.U.G in concert yesterday. Had I been a reporter the headline in my review would be: An expensive, but boring night in the rehearsal room with H:U:G.

But I rest my case in emphaty for the very talented mr. HUG. He was confronting a somewhat simpleminded audience. Entering the stage he first sat down with his guitar, and halfway into his introduction of himself and the two man band (of whom brilliant guitarist ROLF HANSEN stood out as the peak of the evening), one of the local heros interrupted him, shouting: “My name is Jørn. Who the fuck are you?”
Mr. Hug and band then played various hits in his newfound cafe-latte-kind-of-I-have-my-lifelong-fonding-from-the-state-in-the-bank-so-I-travel-to-Brasil-to-get-inspired-with-some-layed-back-bruch-samba-feelings style, which came out boring and not very convincing.
He never scratched the surface what I find is his most interesting material from the heydays with KLICHE and only played one song from the groundbreaking album CITY SLANG.

Not until he introduced his cover version of the 70s John Mogensen hit “Så længe jeg Lever” did the audience live up. HUG, however played it in his newfound cafe-latte-kind-of-I-have-my-lifelong-fonding-from-the-state-in-the-bank-so-I-travel-to-Brasil-to-get-inspired-with-some-layed-back-bruch-samba-feelings style, which didn’t go down well. Playing an acoustic concert his interpretation of the song was totally drowned by the audience who tuned in and sang along accordingly to the original. Never had dissonans had a clearer voice, and never have I mentally moved my belongings and family that fast.

Conclusion: So much for Mr. Hug and so much for Viborg. May 1 we are out of here.

A little aberdabei: back home in the flat I watched the movie: "It´ s all gone Pete Tong" http://www.itsallgonepetetong.com/.

A hilarious and druginfected tale of Ibiza DJ Frankie Wilde and his deroute caused by a serious occupational hazard: deafness. It comes strongly recommended.

some links
http://www.dr.dk/rock/klassiker/0411_kliche.asp (kliche article)
http://www.litteratursiden.dk/sw5849.asp (of City Slang and Søren Ulrik Thomsen)
http://hjem.get2net.dk/Ridder/sang3.htm (lyrics: Så længe jeg lever)

well if that isnt just what we need?
the freedom of speech issue have been reduced to a question of whether you are a muslim or not.

http://politiken.dk/VisArtikel.iasp?PageID=442363

today,
I needed the distraction and I stumpled upon thisa nostalgic claim for fame:
A 1998 hitlist written by swedish novelist Jakob Ejersbo and a less humble Mr. Alsinger. Though 8 years old...and in danish for fuck sake....the hitlist still contains absolute do`s on the literary scene:


Fuel-Injected Dreams af James Robert Baker- Den ultimative Rock 'n' Roll, Wall of Sound-roman. "The Final Phil Spector Psycho Massacre."
Sad Movies af Mark Lindquist- Selvmorderiske Zeke prøver at komme overens med medie-pesten og kærligheden. Morsom, ironisk og præcis.
Festen ved den violette flod (antologi), redigeret af Marie Tetzlaff. Udsøgt karske og bidske noveller fra russernes dagligliv, uden politisk fernis.
Admiralens sne af Alvaro Mutis- Topgast Maqrolls dystre oplevelser på floderne i de sydamerikanske regnskove. 'Mørkets hjerte' parret med Corto Maltese.
Blod og sne af Peter Nissen- Om den finsk-russiske vinterkrig 1939-40. Alle tiders bedste krigsroman. Ingen store ord. Masser af realisme og power.
God's Little Acre af Erskine Caldwell- "White Trash" i amerikas sydstater. Hylende morsom, sjælsrå og grovkornet.
Syndens sold af William Bradford Huie- Anden Verdenskrigs flittigste prostituerede, der tjente en formue på 600.000 dollars. Slam-litteratur i topklasse.
Drengenes by af Junot Diaz- Stærke fortællinger fra en hård opvækst i Den Dominikanske Republik og New Jersey. En lysende forfatter.
Tusind mil gennem Sahara af Otto Zeltin- Fra Algier til Dakar på ridedromedar i 1923-24. Skide god rejseskildring af en hvid mand med et åbent sind.
Øglereden af Francois Mauriac- En gammel mands had til sine slægtninge, der kun ønsker ham i jorden, så de kan arve hans penge. Dyb og klar.
Trombone af Craig Nova- Småforbryderen Dean Gollancz og hans teenagersøn Ray. Kærlighed, bedrag og brandstiftelse. Kompromisløs og overraskende.
I djævelens vold af Bernard-Henri Levy- Blændende belysning af en rig venstreorienteret europæers storladne idioti.
Man gav Johnny et gevær af Dalton Trumbo- Den ultimative antikrigsroman, skrevet i kølvandet af 1. Verdenskrig. Fortælleren er blevet blæst til 100% grønsag og har kun sine sanser tilbage som eneste aktiv. Bogen inspirerede blandt andet Metallica til nummeret "One" på LP'en "...and Justice for All." Tjeck også Dalton Trumbo's "Den store mand." En forretningsmands opkomst i en vestamerikansk by, fulgt af sammenbrudet under depressionen. Fængslende.
Guldkuglen af Hanne Marie Svendsen- Frodig og fantastisk fortælling om en ø. Læs den...
Sidste udkørsel til Brooklyn af Hubert Selby- Brutalitet, seksuelle afvigere, forfald, deprivation, deroute, i 1950'ernes USA. Fantastisk sprog, der plastrer læseren til i virkelighed. Bogen udkom i 1960'erne på Stig Vendelkærs Forlag (SVF), som del af en udgivelses-serie kaldet: Farlige Bøger. Serien omfatter omkring 15 udgivelser af forfattere som William Borroughs, Pauline Reage, Alfred Jarry og Jules Feiffer.Alle novellerne er koncentrerede fortællinger om yder-eksistenser, og man kan ofte finde eksemplarer hos antikvariater til en rimelig penge. De genkendes på deres lommeformat og stilsikre design.
Raskolnikov - en roman om forbrydelse og straf af Fiodr Dostojewskij- Den dybeste thriller skrevet. En klassiker - banebrydende for moderne erkendelseslitteratur. Han er IKKE tung, men lysende intelligent og observerende.
Mesteren og Margarita af Mikhael Bulgakov- Djævlen går amok i Moskva; besynderligt okkult og visionær. Denne roman var 12 år om at blive skrevet, og udkom første gang i vesten i 1968 årevis efter hans død, da en hel generation af russiske forfattere var tvunget tavse under Stalin-regimet. En ypperlig bog.
Uskrevne regler af Bret Easton Ellis- Andet bind af trilogien, der begynder med "Under nul" og sluttede med "American Psycho." Ellis' oversete mesterværk om livet på et amerikansk college i sen-firserne. Majet-ud-til-pul! Kynisme, nederlag, ambivalens, stoffer, nederlag... og vi venter stadig på hans femte roman.
Miss Lonely Hearts / A Cool Million / The Day of the Locust af Nathanel West- En anbefaling af hele Nathanel West's forfatterskab er på sin plads. Han nåede kun at skrive disse tre forholdsvis korte romaner, inden han i 1935 tog til Hollywood, hvor han arbejdede som filmmanuskript-forfatter. I 1940 blev han og hans kone dræbt i en bilulykke - den amerikanske sjæls forbandelse - der også var udgangspunktet for det meste af hans arbejde.
John Barleycorn (Kong Alkohol) af Jack London- Den mest interessante fra forfatterens overflødighedshorn af titler. Det er kort og godt alkoholiske memoirer, der som alt andet i Jack Londons liv nåede heroiske højder.
Triumfbuen af Erich Maria Remarque- Vansmægtende smuk kærlighedshistorie, Paris, 1939.
Spanky af Christopher Fowler- Helvede er en del af den menneskelige tilstand. En guide til "the dark side of life."
Brian Wilson: Wouldn't it be Nice(biografi)- Beach Boys. Geniets egen historie. Obskur fortælling om vanvittig barndom, sindsyge patriarker og producere, bandet, tour'ene, op- og ikke mindst nedturen. (Anbefaling: hør Beach Boys-albummene "Pet Sounds" + "Sunflower").

today,
I will say one thing. When death strikes, the ladder works. Step Up or Step Down.

http://www.tky.3web.ne.jp/~ffactory/photo/ladder.jpg

One of my first childhood memories was wetting my pants in public. But that isn’t the case here: One the first vivid childhood memories I have of my dad, was driving from Viborg to nearby city Holstebro to the Alfred Christensen music shop. I think it must have been around 1968 or 69. Apart from being the brilliant piano player he was, my dad had also eairlier on been messing around with guitars. As my mother told off when she met him at Askov Højskole in 1952, he was in fact the only one who played guitar and therefore could jazz up the social gatherings. And I have seen the photos to prove that point. My dad in the midst of a crowd, mostly dames – a wall to wall dames situation, playing the guitar, smoking his pipe and wearing his classic islandic sweater and brown shoes. The dames, my mother told me, was aroused by the modern tunes, and she among other girls she had to fight off for example this one http://www.macnyt.dk/editor/imagecatalog/picUploads/11061612997472297.jpg before she could get to him.
Anyhow: now a good 20 years later he was in a music shop with his son and purchased a beautiful Hohner jazzguitar, much like this one: http://tanabe-mitsukuni.com/barney/guitar/CIMG0149.jpg for the shocking amount of 800 kr.
Thinking back I don’t really remember him playing it much. I remember it hanging on the wall, and I remember me trying to play it. At one point, the guitar broke its neck, I do not remember how, but I remember it being fixed at my Uncles furniture-factory, leaving a characteristic scar.
Years passed, as they do, I left home, grew bigger, more stupid and less humble, and one day – round 1987, I was home for a visit when I noticed the guitar wasn’t there anymore. I asked my dad what had happened to it, and he told me he gave it up for a Red Cross collection Campaign.
Me at the time playing in a band felt a stint of bitterness. Howcome he hadn’t thought of me first? I don’t really remember if it led to any crisis, or we just stigmatised the distance between us that over the years had snuck in.
Then more years passed, and in the summer of 92, I and a bundle of friends was invited to a party somewhere out in the country. The party was super cool, drugs at hand, girls, live music, we were somewhere near the water, we walked, scored, fucked and talked all through till morning. I was sitting at a bonfire very early talking about music with one the guys living there. He was a musician, and at some point he started raving about this guitar he just bought at a flea market for 300 kroner. It was a bargain he said, for a guitar like that, and he raced into his room to get it. And what he brought back was nothing less than a Hohner. Very much like the one my father had. I asked if I could play it, and something felt familiar. The sound. And there, it was, the scar in the neck. I felt it carefully, looked it over. I had no doubt: It was my fathers guitar, and I felt inclined, no, I demanded it back. For a price. But this guy had spend hours fixing it, and I could in no way pay what he asked, so we left it at that, and jammed for a while. Strange Fruit, I remember us playing. The Billie Holiday lynch mob song.

But it was my dads guitar, now it’s the guitar of somebody else`s dad.

My dad was buried yesterday. It was a good funeral, as good as a funeral can be. It was very comforting to meet and greet so many of his old friends in particular that could broaden the perspectives of my dad, and in general on being one.
Being a soulsearcher, and not the least the ”son of a preacherman” my dad spent a good deal of his last years coming to terms with his very protestant upbringing. He found comfort in around the freechurch Unitaren (http://no.wikipedia.org/wiki/Unitaren), which was kind of an akward thing to tell the priest, planning the funeral. The situation itself did leave much energy for discussions, but during the ceromony in the church it struck me over and over again how feeble a construction Christianity is. A fixed part of the danish funeral-ritual is reading from The Easter Evangelica. You know, the cruxifixtion of Christ, his burial and his Houdinian escape. That coupled with his birth from a virgin mother, just came out way to metaphysical. As I said: feeble, fragile. But a brilliant contruction for gaining power of the numb masses. In fact, everything you don’t need a at funeral. I craved for something solid.
Then lowering the coffin into the ground: how Calvinistic can it get? Being my mothers choice I wont protest, but apart from that it seemed more like a punishment than setting his soul and body free.
Though a heavy goodbye, the funeral was a reconsiliation in many ways and even though death is the last man on the ball, I think love came out as the winner.

Dad would have turned 78 today.