Symbolic disorder.

I found a blood-red petal at the foot of my bed, and I judge it either to have flown in through the window on a stray gust of wind, or to have been laid carefully by your wandering ghost that’s still roaming these parts, or to be the simple sign of nascent love so new in existence it’s still too new for me to recognise.

Sometimes explanations are remarkable only in their limitations of explaining.

And sometimes a blood-red petal at the foot of the bed is just a blood-red petal at the foot of the bed.

And sometimes it’s the beginning or the end.


Are you mine, my heart.

More than just a face amongst faces, I’ve come to know this face, and I’ve come to miss your precious heart. Dug deep into the sand, there’s no water for a hungry soul. As the sun sets I cannot keep the night from coming. And I turn my back away. Leaving the horizon to celebrate itself until it loses sight of its boundaries. And I miss your precious heart. Flowers in your hair tied to imagined memories, bells ringing in my ear. Bells ringing forever more. I miss this previous heart, until only there was mine. In trains going in the same direction. In trains going nowhere near. Clutch the broken edges of the picture. All fades. All erodes. Slowly. Clutch a notebook of reminiscences. And I miss your precious heart. It may be madness, but our souls won’t separate. Chained, we’re chained again. We put our hands forward, and we’re chained again. Blind in the future with the comforting weight of each other. You brought me a harp I couldn’t play. I bought you a house, but you couldn’t stay. Inhaling the love you lent me. Restless things on opposite sides. The dusk has a tendency to light little fires. The dawn comes consoling each morning. Mending our wounds with the dew. The sun rises, but the night isn’t over. The night is never over. And I miss your precious heart.

Silent lips.

Disappearing is an exquisite feeling,
drawing atom from atom,
the sky filling with parts that are no longer

Eyes peeking past,
I turn to look,
eyes peeking past

Asking into the room,
is this what ghosts feel like?
But even ghosts get noticed, dragging their sheets

Even undisciplined children get noticed,
dragging their feet,
the ground transforming misbehaviour into noise

But I wear silent lips,
speaking up for nothing,
only savouring your kiss

I wear silent lips,
as I disappear again,
my arms clutching the memory too tight

The fabric of language.

Your hair has grown too long
Been away for such a long time
Just can’t find the words

Lonesome fools build lonesome walls
To hide behind and cry behind

But I can’t hide
I’m hurting babe
But I can’t cry

Lay your love on me
Lay your love on me

(Mojave 3: “Sarah”) Summer has returned after its hiatus, and grassy knees are back in fashion, just like the light salad, the bike and the social life. I can only imagine how healthy I might be if it was summer all year round — if I was living in the tropical paradise that we Northerners always imagine.

Today’s topic, brought by the religious studies students coming from class, was Atlantis. The lost island with the lost civilization. Sunk into the Atlantic Ocean. I’m reminded how a place like Atlantis changes meaning from each new retelling of the story. How it was the antagonist state in Plato’s original telling of the tale, eventually to be out of favor with the deities and thus banished from the possibility of population. And how it was just a great fantasy place in Disney’s depiction, a place made for adventure, for research. A place of dreams and drama. That was my childhood understanding of Atlantis. And I suppose, even now, it’s the most predominant in my mind. When I hear anyone talk about Atlantis, I’m drawn into longing for expeditions to faraway places.

Places and symbols change their meaning by context and utterance: where, who, and why is something said. One of my favorite things about language is the bendy fabric that it’s made up of. Language is never too rigid, nor ever too loose, unless you’re in a situation where there’s no common tongue.

Language both has rules, and at the same time functions in an ever-changing landscape, making up the rules on the fly, which must be considered as there not being rules. We change them when we need to change them, or when we want to change them, on a whim.

I have a different language with each person I talk to. Some are highly reliant on abbreviations. Others are dependent on pronunciation. Some again are based on symbols, and some languages are pure poetry. Having been away from a certain conversation for an extended period of time doesn’t erode the common tongue that has been built.

I also enter into a specific language when writing here, although I’m prone to change it if I’ve been recently influenced by a different language that takes a strong hold on me. I’m forever prone to the fast-paced language of Jack Kerouac whenever I dive into one of his books, visibly ending up changing my own language, making it more swift, less abstract, being more to the point while at the same time accepting any digression that might show itself to me, as long as it’s communicated in the here and now, not ever letting the sentence die.

Speaking of Kerouac I’m reminded how language forms our thinking. How those digressions I run into after reading even just a few pages of him get me to think in a new pattern, where usually I can go into an almost paralyzed state of my thoughts whenever I hit a speed bump, when I’m under the influence of Kerouac I just write my way through it, spitting new sentences left and right, until suddenly I’m back on track again.

There should be a mandatory reading of Kerouac before those writing workshop assignments of speed writing. Speed writing is 900 % easier when drugged up on Jack.

But that’s another way of getting into a specific language, other than talking to people, reading a book by an author with a strong sense of his or her own language. I suppose this spills into the whole idea of “talking with the author” when you’re reading a book, as if we’re keeping a conversation with the writer of these words as we read along. Communication is always an action involving at least two parties. One to make an utterance, and one to perceive this utterance and understand it. Books are silent as long as no one’s reading them.

I miss some of the languages I’ve lost over the years. When bridges are burnt, all the good things burn with them as well. All the common secrets. All the shared understandings. All the language.

But it leaves traces, and sometimes I wonder how something from an old language reappears in a new one, showing up from either a sense of a like vibe, or because some trick of the mind brought it forth and it was accepted.

I guess it’s like that with most of our past. It’s hidden from view, until suddenly it comes back in tiny bursts. Like the fictive Atlantis, sunk to the bottom of the ocean, but nevertheless an ever popular place whenever it resurfaces, bringing together the new and the old, leading the memories from the childhood into an adult world of a more comprehensive understanding.

Like in the old days.

Okay, let’s try this old thing. Writing my way to the right words through first writing a bunch of the wrong ones here. I’m finding myself more than stuck with my thesis these days, and it’s quite easy for me to just blame this lack of progress on all kinds of circumstances around me. But I don’t want to do that, ’cause that’s what I do too often. I want to find a method of shutting all that down when I turn on my computer and tell myself that it’s time to write.

I’ve been quite prone to self-pity. Even more prone to just pure old procrastination. Watching a bird as I speak. Thinking it’s being more industrious than me, even just standing on a rooftop, fighting against the Eastern wind trying to blow it off the sharp edge of the tiles. Its tail constantly changing, its head shifting around, on the lookout for something.

Some days I find a loophole and a bunch of words come flowing through, and progress feels real. But the next day I feel like I’m back to square one, not even knowing how to write one more word. The thing is, I keep blaming the circumstances around me, when honestly I know I should just pull myself together.

Pull myself together for the thesis and for life.

I’m sorry I suddenly got so selfish with you earlier today. There’s no real excuse for that. Even the excuses I threw were just poor attempts at explanation. I care so much for you, and I get so ashamed when I act in a way that might signal otherwise. I care so much for you.

The bird has left the building. And my words are flowing. I’ll redirect my attention back to the thesis. I think I’ve said what I really needed to say now, even if it was short. Short is good.

Hard work is better.

Pathos, again.

I start off by ticking the box, placing the post in my category “Everything”. I only have that one category, so I choose it by default; as a consequence of the lack of options. It might be argued to be a redundant task, placing everything in the same category. Why even keep a category then, when the search for the category “Everything” will bring up the same, as when you would search through everything?

This blog keeps being the fullest representation of my life. Most of my posts, my choices, my categories (or lack thereof) seem to suggest something that has its real counterpart in the way I go about stuff. One of the hindrances to many of the things I want to do is that everything is filed under “Everything” in my memory.

When something new begs to be planned, I only have that one place to store it, and you can probably imagine how cluttered that place must be. As soon as a task becomes less-than-acute it drowns in everything else in Everything.

Originally, I believe I did it from a holistic ideal. Imagining everything coexisting to reveal the greater truths of each separate thing in unison with everything else. Sometimes this works. But more often than not things get lost. The gems I should be unearthing remain hidden underneath four feet of unrelated ideas.

It’s at this point I tend to turn the post into the self-improvement post. Outlining how I will progress from here, how I will, yet again, strive to be a better person in all areas. And I will. But I’m tired of turning posts around. I’m tired of positivity.

All my life I’ve been trying to keep the positive wheels spinning. But all my life I’ve been melancholic, wanting to reach for a future full of memories. All my life I’ve been closing my eyes and let the music in. All my life I’ve disappeared into books. All my life I’ve been keeping calm. All my life I’ve kept the family together. All my life I’ve tried to stick to principles. And all my life I’ve kept making choices and non-choices that I knew would make me less happy.

I don’t want to be a negative person. Because I hate the persons who can only spread negativity. But I’ll allow myself the full force of the melancholy. That part of me has been kept at bay for too long the past years. It’s seemed to me that I didn’t have time to dwell on those thoughts of mine, the heavier ones.

“Now that I’m older,” Sufjan Stevens sings over and over, relating to a barrage of realisations that have come with age and distance. It’s a coincidence that I’m here tonight, with my candles and The Age of Adz. But it’s also the most fated thing to happen to me today.

The Age of Adz is the album that colored my late teens, drew me to poetry, to prophetic art. It was the album that opened my ears once more, and perhaps for the last time, to a truly unique sound that I would clench to my chest like my lover home from war in a distant galaxy. I swore to never leave it, to never go a week without listening to it. But as I grew older, the listening faded away, as it always does.

I started reading Oliver Sacks’ The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat last night, and it brought this album back to mind. I dug it out from its hiding place between my other records and looked at the artwork with fresh eyes. Seeing everything as if for the first time again, I’m mesmerized about these future visions. Listening to it tonight it fills me with a calm and excitement I haven’t felt in years.

This to me is the only truly emotive album.

And, I’m afraid to say, the only truly emotive thing to me. The rest of the world has always gone by as a bit of a façade. I smile. I nod. I’m there, but I’m not there.

With The Age of Adz, I’m there. In melancholy.

I’ve lost the will to fight
I was not made for life

(Sufjan Stevens: “Age of Adz”)