A SMALL TALE OF A SMALL REALITY BUT ALAS BY JOVE IT ROCKS

Four cuban exchange students, 3 thais, 1 out of slovakia, one romainan, one italian, a slovenian have for the last three months be living and studying in viborg. thats basicallly it. the transport. the stratification. they have been hosted and they have hosted. no surprise, the cuban exchange students fired up the remains of the old school socialistic romantics. the laid back back bona fide ethnic joy de vivre, the rythm, the dance, the...in other words...the salsa, the salsa nights, the salsa events the four cubans organized, were local cultural highlihts. and not without reason, as Retroville per se is desereted from anything with a ryddim!
What I want to say? I want to say that tonight was the last salsa night of three. Everybody is leaving anyone always. But I was there to bid my farewells. I was there to drink, I wasnt there, as it turned out that I would be, to surpress the tears or to dance.
About 60 people had gathered tonoght for this last dance. The cubans had been living with, the thais had, the slovakians had, the italieans had and the slovenian had. For three months they had been living with us, in the houses, bed-nesting and shaking their scary tanned asses to the wet dream riddim of the predominant caribiean dream. But nonetheless...They there were, the cubans on stage, stating their farewellss and appreciation, the open hearted yet limited linguistic far cry. But Oh Lordie, how we cried, and oh my, how the shit worked: For a minute there or more, the beers to come, the rum, the beauty of their farewell, the feeble but consious strive to grap globalization, the momental feel of control, the return of youth and idealism, the going going gone lust of kitchen and houses and favourite gardens. I swallowed. The shit worked. It was real, adresses was exchanged, hugs and kisses and sincere plans of more travels, of small revolutions: Me, wrapping up yet another apartment for a short term project felt right, bonded with the thai, because going to Thailand I wanna look as thai as I can thai get, I baffled, I borrowed I blurred the world, the systems, the random factors dispite, the beers, the last jack I shouldnt have downed, the kareookee song I should never do, but I do, and I dont care, the samll stuff that means stuff that is the only stuff that will ever mean stuff and the only way that you will ever make sense of suff: I mean, I cried: I drowned in my tears, I drowned between A and B and the alphabet have never been enough, its just a small tale of a small reality thats rocks.

oh egypt.

the undisciplined squads of emotions. at the still point of the turning world, human kind can not bear very much reality. the intolerable wrestle with words and meaning the houses are all gone under the sea, the wounded surgeon plies the steel, footfalls echo in the memory, teach us to care and not to care because I do not hope to turn again because I don not hope, because I do not hope to turn, this is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but with a whimper

hell is oneself hell is alone
there is nothing to escape from and nothing to escape to one is alwyas alone
between the idea and the reality
between the motion and the act


(todays lecture are based on writing by T.S. Elliot, torn witout respect from context to fit a contemporary situation, an almost therapeutic action, but in particular elaborating my status as a second rate poet)

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/T._S._Eliot

as the international community raves further east banging the drum and waving the flags while the hords of migrants slips like sand through fingers to the west, the status is a gridlock north and south, todays quote goes as follows:

"there has been an accident!" they said,
"your servant`s cut in half, he is dead!"
"Indeed!" said Mr. Jones
"and please, send me the half that´s got my keys."

Harry Graham (1874-1936), from Ruthless Rhymes (Mr. Jones)

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harry_Graham_(poet)

about my last posting about assholes. well it almost go without saying but there are ofcourse exceptions to the rule: here is one.
i once worked at a cafe where i met this guy, lets call him Allan. He called himself Allan, though I doubt it was his name. Allan The Goldtooth. It took me good amount of time to even want to talk to him, because he frequently entered the cafe with bruces, black eyes, swallen lips, limping...clearly marks of a violent life, which just basically made him not very attractive to even try to get in contact with.
Then one night, as I was closing the cafe down, Allan entered with yet another black eye, sat down at a table and humbly asked for a glass of water which I couldnt deny him. And then, I didnt ask him - he started to tell me of how he for the last three years had been trying to get rid of his very violent reputation and behaviour, by getting into fights and letting himself be beat up, and how he now slowly was losing his streetcred for being the one to watch. he was now the one you could beat up, the pussy, but still not the violent asshole he used to be.

and to quote myself:

Assholes always grow to become even bigger assholes.

Preparing a three month journey to Thailand and Vietnam and a one million kroner expansion of our Copenhagen apartment, moving from Retroville and what not, I am to say it blunt, pretty preoccupied, why I for the next couple of weeks will limit myself to stealing and quoting from other peoples works and minds, samples that fits the tapestry.

Today, I steal from one of my all-time favourite writers ALDOUS HUXLEY`s "Cynthia":

"I can sympathize with peoles pains, but not with their pleasures. There is something curiously boring about somebody else`s happiness."

http://storiestogo.blogspot.com/2006/02/cynthia-by-aldous-huxley.html

fear is the best way to get rid of fear. fear leads to understanding. I have now gained this provincial understanding: everything build of red bricks is done so to make it easier to understand.

the more complex interpretation: its a symbolic suicide on reality.

FEAR II

Driving home tonight, I have just entered the flat, my pulse hardly down. I had hoped the status of things had changed. And I cant stress that enough, that things means things. Stuff. It had changed and it hadn`t. There were people on the streets. And many off them. Too many. Even in the dark they looked the same. Its not fair of me too say for two reasons: 1, I cant possible know, and 2, the old saying that goes "in the dark all cats are grey" just doesnt count here.
It should be more complex, and it is. But the only way to overcome fear here is to assume they look the same. The fewer the colours the easier I seem to understand stuff. Simpe reasons I do understand, when we drink and oust overselves accordinglythe occasion, when culture is nothing more than a a way to maintain order.

They weren`t there yesterday but they are to day? And tomorrow? Thats the only saying I can accept: Tomorrow never knows. And it aint even a saying. Its a song. A song that became a saying. The streets tonight didnt hold one tone.

A TALE OF FEAR

I`m scared.
I found that out yesterday cycling home from the studio at 0130 pm. I am sheep. A good little yellowish piss ant. Shaking like a leaf, I was afraid of the dark, I was afraid of being mugged by a psychotic luna patient from the neighbouring mentalinstitution. I was afraid of jerks in cars wanting to rampage an old semi punk on a thrashed bike. I was very afraid.
But there were none. No people out or in the streets and I told my self that`s a good reason not to be scared. But it didnt help. I was still scared. Cause basically I like people, and I am no easy scare in the company of people. Maybe, I thought, really I am addicted to people, and the vastness is what scares me, and people make me feel like people. A deep anxiety of open spaces and no directions. It was fucking scary; considering the fact that Viborg is no longer a typically smalltown, what scared me was the lack of life, I got worried, I got scared of death: Had anybody died while I had been locked up in my studio? Did the world blow over? I was afraid I had misssed out on something big. But I hadnt. Not for a long time, and that scared me too. Noone.

But these towns scares me the most: they are like shops. Openinghours and working ethics, and so it ends. Scared. And so I move to where there is more people. People who can scare me shitless. But at least they are people.

Though I once voted stratigically for the danish poiltical party, The Socialdemocrats (and, I tell my self, thats how they won the 1998 election), have I ever been a socialdemocrat.
However, it puzzles me to see how the political movement and consiousness that build up the danish Welfare-society now lies shattered and burned. I am well aware that it is a long serie of incidents and historic terms that have led up to the decaying status of the (now) opposition, and that leading the socialdemocrats have never been an easy task.
But, with Helle Thorning Schmidt fighting the uneven battle these days, I cannot stop thinking, that of all the pole`s, the one I would like to see is a research on how many male voters have left the socialdemocrats behind, how old the are, and who they vote for now. I strongly suspect, that the modern woman leading the batlle (though her battle is weak and she is somewhat of a machine) the mere fact that a 39 year old woman is heading the opposition have scared of a saddening patrialistic group of working class heros, and thus the question remains to be answered: Is this how far feminism could take it without being populistic?

I am afraid so.

respect
http://www.localeyes.dk/pixpax/edl_16597a.jpg

Jesper Langballe of Dansk Folkeparti (Danish Peoples Party) is enraged. The always wellmeaning and dangerously sharpminded Birte Rønn Hornbech from the danish goverment party Venstre (Left), quotes Langballe in her new book ("Tale er guld") for having said:
"The muslims are a plague of Europe".

Langballe corrects, illuminated by rightouesness: "I didt say muslims was a plague over Europe. I said islam was a plague over Europe..."
If Rønn Hornbech in two weeks havnt publicly corrected the quote, Langballe is dragging Hornbech to quort to set the record straight.

And Judas was in fact the nice guy, and Jesus didnt walk on water, he surfed on thin ice. Happy easter bunny.

R.I.P GENE PITNEY 1941 - 2006

Only love can break a heart.
Next to Roy Orbinson, Brian Hyland, Gene Pitney have always been my favourite white boy high school romance intepretor.

http://politiken.dk/VisArtikel.iasp?PageID=447391

A REAL TALE OF THE REAL TATOOIST BEHIND THE CHARACTER AND WOULD-BE TATOOIST ASGER IN THE NOVEL ”NORDKRAFT” (2002) by SWEDISH NOVELIST JAKOB EJERSBO.

In the summer of 1994 I decided to get had my first tattoo. During a visit to the Nationalmuseum in Copenhagen, I got fascinated by the patterns artfully crafted at an axe, that had been dug out near my hometown years ago.

Me, at the time acting out the part of an atheist whore found the motive stunningly suitable. A friend of mine hooked me up with a biker called Jimmy who at the time rode with a gang called Jolly Roger, and who had just begun tattooing. He needed lab rats for practice. He wasn’t good my friend said, but he was cheap.
So I arrived at the Jolly Roger clubhouse and met up with Jimmy, who turned out to be a perfectly nice and easygoing biker. He performed the routines smooth, and during the two hours it took him to finish the simple black outlined tattoo, he was surprisingly open. But what I remembered most about the visit, was when he told me that his first try out with the noble art of tattooing was practicing on a pork roast. The consistency of the meat piece was the closest you could get to human skin, besides humans.
At some point after someone told Swedish bestseller novelist Jakob Ejersbo about the incident, that later became the lay-out for the practice of the would-be tattooist Asger in “Nordkraft”.

Then on Monday I met up with Martin, who introduced me to Jimmy, and I asked Martin about him, how he was, his tattoo business and his biker life. The following is an attempt to reconstruct the telephone conversation Martin had with Jimmy, just days ago:

“Hey Jimmy, Its Martin here. How are you?”
“Good”
“I`m just calling you to bullshit, but there is however one thing I guess I never told you…”
“About my wife..?”
“No, Jimmy, Conni is all yours. But have you heard about this novel called “Nordkraft..”?
“I thought it was a movie..”
“Well yes, but first it was a book”.
“OK, and what about it?”
“Yea. Do you remember this guy Asger, the tattooist in the movie…?””Yea, its funny you say so, it kind of reminded me of when I started doing tattoo`s”.
“Hold on Jimmy, it is you…You remember doing a tattoo on this guy years ago? He told the writer of Nordkraft about your pork roast routine, which inspired him to write it into the book…”
“Nice. Why are you telling me this? Whats in it for me? Is there some money coming my way or what?”
“No..no, I just thought it was, you know, a funny anecdote…”
“Its allright…”
“So, Jimmy, what else is up?”
“No much”
“Still riding with Jolly Roger”
“No, I am kind of riding with these guys called Hawk Riders…”
“What do you mean…kind of?”
“Yea well, I know this other guy. He is a Hells Angel. His son is riding with Hawk Riders. He invited me to be a hanger, a hang-around…””Like a prospect?”
“No, a hanger…”
“What does that mean, really?”
“Well it basically means I wash the floors in the clubhouse every Monday..”
“Aren`t you a little old for that Jimmy?””That’s exactly what the wife said…Conni, you know…”
“Yea, but is that all you do there..”
“I get citated…”
“What?”
“Two weeks ago when I was washing the floors right, these young hip-hoppers walk in with a warrant and claiming to be cops. I thought they where taking the piss or from another gang, so I didn’t exactly at first fold to their wanting to search the place. But then they flashed their badges, and a senior officer convinced me it was the real deal…So they searched the garage, but found nothing. Then they insisted on searching my car, which was parked out front. Couldn’t very well stop it, so I let them do it, knowing it was spotless. So this young hip hop fuck cop finds my folding knife in the glove compartment and goes beserk. I tried to explaining them I only used it for work related stuff. You know I have this new job with the disabled in a nature-prohejct right?””No”
“Well, but I do. And these fucking hip hop fuck cop idiots gives me a citation: 3000 slackers. Right there…”
“Jeese…So you are basically 3000 slackers poorer because you are a hanger washing the floor at the Hawk Riders Garage…That’s pathetic Jimmy…”
“That’s exactly what the wife told me…but then again I havn`t told her of the moonshine money the tattooing is paying me, so basically I don’t give a fuck.”
“There`s a word for it isn’t there…?”
“Stupid…?”
“Yea”
“Can I be one?”
“You can get one stupid ass beating for calling me up before noon…”

Having read “Nordkraft” by swedish novelist Jakob Ejersbo more than one time, it goes without saying that this conversation could have been foreseeable in the life and crime of Asger, the pusher slash would-be tatooist in “Nordkraft”.
We will however never know. I for one do not await a “Nordkraft 2”, and in the meantime Asger, played by danish actor Thomas Corneliussen (http://www.danskefilm.dk/index2.html) has spun off to more acting, while Jimmy continues to be Jimmy and comforting it is to know that he actually made it as a tattooist.

the axe
http://home19.inet.tele.dk/strejf/billeder/mammen.jpg

today,
is Susanne Lana`s 60th birthday. Check out her tourplan. Thats one hardworking artiste. Respect.

http://www.lanaband.dk/