Know the room like a sleepwalker.

I’ve been called heartbreaker
for doing justice to my own

(Julie Byrne: “Follow My Voice”) Posters on the walls, movie stills from fictive fictions from across the great blue; palms and persons; a clock, a disturbance. Books in the windowsills. Candlelights in the windowsills. A view the only thing missing from the windowsills. There are numerous spices, used and unused, on the racks in the kitchen. That’s a metaphor, by the way. And the sweet taste of music in the evening. Music is a mineral, like salt, used to enhance the flavors of life. Things become more present by falling into a haze of half-closed eyelids and wide-open ears. Tones melt, memories are distorted, waves break.

There is no use
falling for me

(Julie Byrne: “I Live Now As A Singer”) A scene is rarely seen from above. This one is no exception. “Keep your feet on the ground,” and I do. I do.

Even lines break unevenly.

Searching a soul is no easy feat
and besides, I’m altogether too
hot in all these clothes, these
shirts and pants, and pants and
shirts are overheating body,
mind and beyond so it all eva-
porates, turns into air or some-
thing less dense, less visible to
the naked eye, stripped off what-
ever clothes it was once wrap-
ped in. And I’m trying to keep a
straight line, but the line breaks
unevenly even when I try my
best. Often the best we’ve got is
not good enough for what we
strive to do. Striving: a human
endeavour to which outlook is


I go looking for a space inside myself where I’m not afraid of the world. But it’s all darkness. It’s all darkness behind closed eyelids. And the dark frightens me. It’s home of the depths and drownings. It’s desolation at its most extreme and it’s always here. Even through the blinding rays of the sun comes darkness creeping as spots in my visual field, slowly deteriorating the light that shines on the leaves around me. They become black trees, black mountains, black crows in the air. They become hidden against a dark background once such a calming blue, as if a volcano had erupted not two miles to the west; as if lightning was the world’s substitute for the burned-out sun, and we had to make those half-seconds count for days worth of light; as if winter meant something deeper and colder; as if a season was a century; as if light was lost. And it feels like I’m fainting. And it feels like I’m faking. And the earth is on fire at minus twenty degrees. My feet are melting. My legs are melting. My heart is forever melting. And my head is just there, freezing, watching me disappear. Knowing full well that I’m doing this to myself.

No words.

You’re the only one who thieves away my words before I even begin to look for them, leaving this emptiness when I want to impress with the right words to express the beating of my heart when your eyes cause my body to react to life like a movie or a big silly love song that just keeps growing, growing, grown always a size too small compared to my dreams my wishes for eternities but of course who can, who could ever escape time for more than a fleeting moment in your arms when the Earth keeps pulling with its big sad gravity, sad down-to-earth attitude to skinny levitating loves pining for the sunny side of clouds, wanting forever to be a jumping mess high above all the people who are high above everything, being masters of snow and rain, angels and buckets of it holding hand-in-hand on the handles because we’ve finally got a handle on life, if only I could find the words a sentence anything a letter even, just an a or a y, or a u and i, these big dreams, silly ideas I keep returning to, the lake scene, the tent, the crowd, keep wondering if they happened or maybe I just imagined them as I imagine every little detail around those pictures, the sound, the smell, the taste of lips on lips on lips, I found your old scent again today blowing in the wind when I walked along the parked busses, coming from a girl in front of me–thought for a moment, but she was nothing like you, and your scent is not like that anymore, you’re so different now, we’re all so different, and only the memories stay the same, but do they really? or are they changed along with us, leaving in dust what we ourselves have shed from our lives, or are they that one thing that remains, the hopes of a younger generation along with embarrassments and complications and wonders, oh the wonders of a new feeling, a new sound, new albums always shaking us, making us see the world anew through the eyes of Brooklyn, so far away and yet resting deep inside our minds as if we were the ones who had lived all those lives not so much older than us, and yet wiser, everyone’s always wiser because we only notice the things they know that we don’t, never all the things we know that they don’t and vice versa, it’s the great deception of this world, this masquerade ball of a planet, it’s the same thing over and over and over again.

Subtle stubble.

The weather is too grey even for a grey day. Big thick clouds keeping the sky far from us. Sad rain drowning us through the cold hours from dawn till dawn. People are coughing, hitting themselves to fight off the cold one step at a time. Even the roof opposite me, seen through the window at my desk, seems to be freezing in this weather. As if the tiles need their own insulation to make it through the week. And it’s only Monday.

At least I know the temperature will rise later in the week. If not outside, then in here.

I shaved yesterday. I love the first day after shaving, when my face is at a sweet spot between smoothness and beginning stubble. I feel very attractive like this. The day I shave is too baby-face-like. I love the definition subtle stubble gives, and the way it evolves over the next few days. I sometimes wish I had stronger facial hair, but the plus is that I only really have to shave once a week. It doesn’t really give me a continuous look, since I keep going from a slight beard to freshly shaven, but I think everything in-between that looks pretty good on me. If I am to be my own narcissistic self: I love me, I always have.

Now what is that I spy with my little eye! There’s a spot of blue at the very top edge of my window! Stretching my head forward, it’s obvious that the clouds are beginning to dissolve above me. Fresh weather, fresh life. It will be cold tonight, but it will be worth it.

My brother asked me what Brave New World is about earlier today. It stands in my windowsill, a beautiful old, blue edition, and I stumbled over every word I tried to say about it. I have never been good at telling (or retelling) stories. My main narrative is the one I keep to myself. That’s a strong narrative. There are worlds of unreleased potential life in the discussions I keep with myself. But I have a hard time getting them out. However much I love words, they always hold me back.

Why can’t we speak three sentences at once? I’ve talked about this recently, I know. But it’s becoming more and more evident to me that my problem is not finding something to say, but choosing between the options I come up with. I’m a horrible decision maker.

I’ve just read Julian Jaynes’s fantastic book The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind. Which is to say that I’m still reading it. I feel like that’s the kind of book you never stop reading once you’ve started. His theory is so grand, yet so down to earth and (at least to me) commonsense. Of course, I have been studying metaphors for the past year; that is bound to have primed me for Jaynes’s theory. But I can’t help but feel like this is something that more people should read.

There’s a great understanding of what it feels like to be conscious (again: at least to me). And a very sympathetic view towards both science and religion, which I think would benefit us all. Trying to trace the steps of your own world view is always an interesting exploration. I have never believed in gods, and I don’t see why that would change, but I have become gradually more sympathetic towards people who do. The thing keeping people apart — the atheists who don’t understand religious people and vice versa is, I feel, a simple lack of understanding. And I don’t necessarily blame people that they have a hard time understanding those who are not like themselves. There’s great difference. Much greater than a simple decision to go to church or not.

What do people who see a god see? That’s the question that always comes up, and it’s bound to be ridiculed by those who have never had an experience like it. I have never had an experience like it. But Julian Jaynes does a great job of explaining how our consciousness, our entire mentality, is based on and within the culture in which we grow up. That sounds all good and relativistic, but what he explains better than any other I’ve come across is how all-encompassing that shaping of our mentality is. That it really is able to form the way our minds work.

My best bet is that people who see a god, or people who get in a trance from voodoo, or people who face demons on a daily basis really experience these things. It’s not delusion, it’s a real event happening to them. The real question is what that event is created by.

The conclusion here is that the person who is able to experience these things has a different shaping of the mind from the person who cannot achieve those things. And I’m not sure who’s better off.

But yes, this is still a firm disbelief in any kind of deity from my side. But I fail to see the discrepancy of a world in which there both are and aren’t gods. And I most certainly fail to see the problems that this apparently causes. Beliefs in deities are not evil, and nor is belief in a science-bound world view. They are all religions; they are all ways of explaining the world in terms we can understand. They are all metaphors. It’s what we do with these world-views and metaphors that determine whether they become evil or not.

We are lost consciousnesses in an unconscious world. And we all just try our best to understand it.

Jeg leder efter evigheder.

Jeg mærker din stemme
i min nakke
et skud fra klods hold
med en magic bullet
som skyder mine knæ i sænk

Din hånd har taget
greb om mit hjerte
som ikke kan bestemme sig
om det skal dø af at stoppe
eller af at løbe sig ihjel

Jeg ser lysene foran mig
selvom mine øjne er lukket
frygtsomt kæmpende
mod virkeligheden i alting;
fiktioner forsvinder aldrig

Men jeg mærker dit åndedræt
varme min øreflip
midt i februaraftenen
og forbander den tarvelige virkelighed
langt væk

Hvad godt gør fem minutter nu

Hvad godt gør fem år nu

Hvad godt gør en livstid nu

Når jeg for evigt leder
efter evigheder.

Winter, again.

Looking out the window, I see rain falling now. The beginning of the 3rd winter this winter. In a couple of hours, the rain will have ceased being rain and started falling as snow instead. Frosty downpour, as you call it. It will shelter me, at least for tonight, and I will light candles and play tribal music as we do when we welcome spirits–and when we ask them to leave us again.

The spirits of winter have a difficult time letting go this term. Really, though, it’s just us who have forgotten how long they used to reign in our bodies and minds, our societies and nature. All these small breaks from them, they confuse us. We don’t know what to expect, and we’re frightened when even the world plays with its cards close to its chest.

We’re used to other people trying not to let us know what is on their minds, just as we keep things for ourselves. But as frustrating as that is, it’s what we use to separate us from other beings and objects. We have a mind of our own that no one can truly know. We’re more than mere causation.

But what happens when nature starts breaking down these barriers? When the winter spirits no longer act according to the rules once established? We prepare for the depression, the darkness, the cold, but always in expectation of the summer ahead. We prepare for problems, because we know things will move easier once we get through to the other side.

Where is the other side? Where is the other side that we should have reached by now? We’re still stuck here, in our own minds, our own hearts–if we can even call them that.

My young heart
Chose to believe
We were destined.
Young hearts
All need love,
Call it a lesson

(The xx: “On Hold”) They say rain is a sign of rebirth. Now, I don’t know anything about that, but I can’t help but wonder if maybe I can wash the winter off me if I go outside now.