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og jeg må kle deg av meg for å sove videre men som oftest blir jeg bare liggende tenker at denne knuten skal jeg ikke løsne på denne knuten skal jeg knyte dobbelt
før, da jeg var yngre og klokere kjøpte jeg alt jeg kom over av klassikere jeg leste på lesesalen, på kafeer på rommet i kollektivet, på bussen på trikken og båten og en gang klatra jeg opp i et tre på Bygdøy og leste ei bok om mayaindianere
jeg fylte hyllene mine med Shakespeare og Wilde Swinburne, Pater, Corneille, Racine, Flaubert, Joyce med Dante og Dotojevskij, og jeg kan med hånda på hjertet si at jeg mente å lese dem
men det jeg likte best var å stable dem opp ved siden av hverandre i hylla se på permene fra der jeg lå på madrassen min lage nye overraskende sammenhenger mellom dem som var såpass intrikate at ingen noen gang spurte
en gang jeg var heldig og fikk med meg ei jente hjem på hybelen skjedde det noe underlig, hun gikk rett bort til bokhylla tok ut noen av bøkene og bendte dem bakover så det knaste i permene ikke gjør det, sa jeg, vær forsiktig!
de er ikke dine før du har lest dem, svarte hun ingenting er mer patetisk enn bøker til pynt jeg gjør deg en tjeneste, sånn ar neste jente du tar med deg hjem kanskje velger å bli
hun gikk gjennom hele hylla, bladde, bøyde og bretta hva jeg gjorde husker jeg ikke tror jeg bare stod der, så på henne da hun var ferdig, tok hun jakka under armen og sa: nå har du lest Bauer, Solstad og Michelet du burde sjekke ut Petterson og Askildsen her er nummeret mitt ring meg i morgen så stikker vi og bader og du, pynt med noen friske blomster hvis du er hypp på at jeg skal bli over
den natta gjorde jeg noe jeg ikke hadde gjort før jeg skrev et dikt det bare kom og la seg over meg som en annenstemme
neste morgen skifta jeg laken på senga strøk begge skjortene og hang dem i skapet jeg vaska, støvsugde og satte en vase med tulipaner på hver av høytalerne jeg har fortsatt telefonnummeret hennes i lommeboka
[...]Nei, du vet, jeg har aldri kommet til å interessere meg for litteratur, og i dette lå det en beklagelse, og den var ikke deres egen, for de var jo så lite interessert i litteratur og Ibsens dramaer at de ikke så noen grunn til å beklage det, hva i himmelens navn var det de skulle baklage, for sin egen del?
Jeg skal slutte å reise hvis veien er målet skal jeg sitte her og være på vei
Snakker om barnet vi ikke skal ha og kysser du er der inne, vi kan sette deg sammen
"I'll always remember that hotel in Paris. we were all there. kaja, Nal Horse, Burroughs... the greatest literary minds of our generation." "do you think it helped your writing, Mr. L?" I asked. it was a stupid question. he looked at me sternly, then allowed me to watch him smile, "everything helps my writing."
[...] I realize I switch from present to past tense, and if you don't like it... ram a nipple up your scrotum. - printer: leave this in.)
she used to wear vintage dresses over her bikini
and flip-flops
ride to venich beach to read virginia on the sand
she used to make collages with images of the virgin
mary and roses she used to write poetry
she went to a ballet high
school and could have died
for beauty
not only from the eating disorder
but from the words of the mean mistress
she found her mother on the floor of the bathroom
with a bottle of pills
but still alive
her roommate in college was raped
and brutally murdered
another friend died the same way at a different place
and time
her terror turned into worry
about small things
like the overgrown cuticle on her little toenail
she married an artist and went to clubs
with scrawls on the walls called art
kept her collages private
intricate and glistening as hidden body parts
her husband stopped having sex with her
she doubted her poetry
because a mean bulimic woman
told her she couldn't write
she took up african dance and then brazilian
because they honored rather than denied her ass
helped her heal her marriage
and the scars of ballett and anorexia
she danced into the arms of the drummer
they coul have been brother and sister
he read her a poem on their first date
she was still married when she made love to him
left her husband almost right away
married again on the hills above malibu
dancing on the crest above the sea
with white flowers in her hair
she gave birth to two children
decorated her house in pink and green velvet
teaches thirteen year olds literature every day
comes home and cooks dinner every night
writes her books in the weekends
the war maked her so sad she needs meds
she's okay though
her husband still wants her whenever possible
still reads her poetry aloud
she has finally discovered
the brutality is not inside of her
however there are many roses, there are altars,
there are stories
running from the green-eyed lady
i got lost on the freeway in l.a.
i saw the mexican markets
i saw the train tracks
i saw the old bridge and the cement river
i saw the vast expanse of grayness
leading nowhere
i saw a dog zigzag thirsty
i thought of the woman with her eyes
like cold green glass
and her smirking smile
how she tried to eat my boyfriend and my mentor
and my house
i thought, what has happened to my city
with its roses and angels?
i thought, what has happened to my boyfriend
who was bowling with miss green eyes
just the day before?
after she ate his heart
he handed mine to her on a china plate
just like the one she used to serve him meat
in my vegetarian kitchen
and then left
so i dug in my purse for my cell phone
and i called my friends
sara and sera and maria
and they looked at maps and told me
which way to turn
and they helped guide me home
it is good to see the sadness of my city
without roses without angels except the ones
disguised as your girlfriends
it is good to get lost in her
it is even good to let envy hold her heart
in her mouth
but if you don't give in to her my darlings
she will release you
she will spit you out
i always believed if i had blond hair, pixie face,
big breasts
everything would be all right
not realizing that culturally idolized beauty
is not only foolproof
but potentially dangerous
if you believe un your own unconventional beauty
when you are young
you will accomplish twice as much and suffer half so
turn of the lightbulbs and light a candle
walk don't drive
plant a tree
wear sunscreen
dancing is an antidepressant
kindness is the new status symbol
every day please try to eat something green
and something orange
that grow on the ground
tell me how mad you are
that your father and i parted
i will always listen
though i can't ever take away the pain
expectations are for what you yourself create
they rarely work when applied to others
turn of the television
tv is a depressant
yoga is an antidepressant
don't feel guilty about wanting pretty things
they would not be so alluring
if you weren't supposed to want them
just don't value them over compassion
use your words even when you are a grown-up
and people no longer think it is entirely acceptable
when you say, that hurt my feelings
if you can digest chocolate eat it sometimes
same goes for ice cream
(i don't really need to tell you those things do i?)
do your homework because it is part of the game but
don't spend too much time worrying about grades
fall in love with someone kind who loves your body
and your mind
if you have a dream that won't let you go, that
tickles your solar plexus, heed it
turn dark feelings into paintings or poetry
or dancing
music is a kind of food
if you are sad talk to a happy woman who loves you
it will always help
move your body when you are sad or angry
avoid the following:
genetically modified ingredients
parabens
sodium lauryl sulfate
mercury in certain fish
neurotic thoughts about food
(is that a contradiction?)
love your curls though they tangle
your pale skin though it can burn in the sun
your nose though it is broader than some
your sturdy legs and feet
forget barbie she does not possess imagination
remember you are a botticelli angel
the planet we live on is perfection
love her like a goddess
love yourself as her daughter
there is a planet full of different kinds of beauty
the idea that only one type of woman is beautiful
is blashpemy
of everything i brought to the world in these
forty-five years
you and your brother are by far the most astounding
because of that i will always love your father
matter never vanishes, only changes
remember that when someone you love dies
your round head on my breast when you were born
is the memory
i will keep with me when i leave this body
when i am gone i will still be near you
this is how i know: when you were born
it was not a meeting
but reunion
she was a princess of the holy wood her parents brought her to a jungle when she was little to sit at the fett of a prophetic madman when she was older she performed on the stage the crowd put her in the stocks and threw vegetables at her da vinci face her brother the prince drowned in the sea she married a man everyone called genius it seemed like paradise she wept
alone in her villa while she flirted with actresses
she made
art won acclaim and her husband's jealousy he left
she wore
only short black or white dresses
some full some slim and elegant black flats
was named best dressed on every list smiled quietly
and like a cat
told a story about marie crowned queen at nineteen
dressed in magical shoes
showered with jewels
and cake not loved properly lost in a castle og gilt dreaming
of the natural world making babies finally beheaded
but this princess keeps dreaming her next dream
she has a lot of stories to tell
she knows that in times of danger it up to the girls
to overcome himiliation and grief even decapitation
and save us
I think I might only be happy when I'm productive.
Krystle prøver på nytt. Denne gangen plukker Bell gulrota fra håndflata og gomler den stoisk i seg. Knask, knask, knask, knask. For en fin lyd. Krystle forestiller seg at hun kan spise sånn, med tenner sterke nok til å knuse hva som helst, en gulrot i en jafs, knask, knask, en gulrot på tvers og gjerne en til.
[...] you say you feel this madness. what do you do when it comes upon you?
I write poetry.
is poetry madness?
non-poetry is ugliness.
what is ugly?
to each man, someting different.
does ugliness belong?
it's there.
does it belong?
I don't know, sir.
you pretend knowledge. what is knowledge?
knowing as little as possible.
how can that be?
I don't know, sir.
can you build a bridge?
no, sir.
can you make a gun?
no, sir.
these things are the products of knowledge.
these things are bridges and guns.
Da den første unge mannen skulle ta sin første legeeksamen inviterte han henne rett til sengs. Han leste til eksamen ved å telle hvert ben i kroppen hennes, pekte seg inn, talte og fant nye tallkombinasjoner sang alle navn på latin som en vokalkomposisjon over antikke tekster. Det var moro å bli tellet til 436 og likevel bare én hele tiden. Han ringte til en venn og la frem ideen til en musikal. Og dermed ble han ikke lege.
Hvis ikke det hadde vært for
global oppvarming
ville jeg fått barn utelukkende
for å bli den moren
som henter barnet
på en Harley-Dvidson.
Det er underlig at man tror at man kan spise og forsvinne samtidig, sa fotografen.
Der inne i kjellertunnellen lå et menneske hun åpenbart kjente godt, så godt at hun slo opp paraplyen, forsvant opp i luften, vi kunne bare ikke følge med, det nærmeste jeg kom Mary Poppins i mitt liv, den kjente barnepiken, litteraturvitenskapelig tolket som dyrenes dronning alias gudinnen Ishtar, og det har ennå ikke kommet noen Higgins inn i mitt liv.
Dørene gled til side. Vi stod der overrasket. Jeg klamret meg til en vilt fremmed. Det var det ene, det andre var at jeg sluttet ikke å klamre, aldri aldri aldri ville jeg miste ham, da ville jeg heller falle.
Nå lurer jeg på om han alltid kommer til å sitte i setet ved siden av meg, på vei opp i mørket.
Jeg har en skyld som jeg hver dag prøver å takle. Ikke en skam. Skam er for de feige. Skyld er for oss som virkelig vil overleve, som virkelig vil gjøre det godt igjen.