Sortert under: Hva det handler om.
Rekk opp hånda. Alle som venter. It’s me, listen. Vet du hva det er du venter på. Jeg venter. I didn’t meen it. Det er dette bloggen min handler om. Å ta det tilbake. Det du mente. Look, I’m not upset alright. Jeg har en svart topp, der kunstvenninna har brodert inn EMO med et perlekjede. Are you there? Jeg vil at du skal være der. For meg. Are you listening? Hører du. Hva jeg sier til deg. Det er til deg, jeg sier det. Jeg vet bare ikke helt hvem du er. Det er dette alt handler om. Det var ikke meningen å såre deg, sa han., er en setning som i innføring i norsk syntaks blir kalt en Type C setning. I setningen er det subjekt, og å såre deg potensielt subjekt. Vi kan skifte om på leddene, og sette Å såre deg i forfeltet, og da får vi setningen Å såre deg var ikke meningen, sa han, og da er Å såre deg, blitt subjekt.
På Checkpoint i går var så iskalt, at jeg trodde jeg skulle besvime. På tirsdag drar jeg til Oslo. Dagen etter skal oppgaven inn. Jeg mangler ord.
24 mars, 2008 klokken 02:40
Jeg rekker opp begge hendene.
26 mars, 2008 klokken 02:40
The two cross facing benches were too close to the entrance of the building for anyone to actually use them. But still
we sat down. ”let’s not go inside yet”. And we sat there for a long time. Among the dying leaves on the dried out
grounds. Underneath the beginning lights from the windows of the building as evening came close to us. And I’m
looking at him, but I am not saying anything.
The dream of you and me hit the front of a bus yesterday. It went so fast – the incident. All the planning and the thinking; all the luxury of life – lost in one go . Not even a lasting thought.
Squashed like a bug on the window – the stain can be there forever, and one day you just wipe it off. And it’s like it
was never there.
I feel that when I’m the only one here, it’s empty.As if when there is nobody else around there is no
one there at all. I ignore myself. I feel that if I’m not working, If I’m not doing or creating something – I’m not there.It
doesn’t have to be a lot – a word, a sentence, a memory or dream for the future – so that this here now can disappear
– why is it that I try to escape my life all the time. Always running – always chasing – away from myself. : When she
comes back she enters without switching on the hallway light. The entire flat is dark, and dark is blue. Dim shadows
of her as she passes the lampshades and interiors of her home. She’s not going to take a shower. Not tonight. : She
sits down and looks out through the window. She has no view. : BEEP. It’s ehm, it’s me. Listen… (pause – she
hesitates). …I know we said a lot of things… I know I said a lot of things – I didn’t mean. Look I’m not upset all right?
(pause) Are you there? Are you listening? (She waits) I love you. (Soft voiced) Good night.:BEEEP.Hei det er meg.
Skulle bare si at mamma kommer på Torsdag og…Vi har planlagt middag hjemme hos meg og…Ja, jeg håper du
stiller opp… Kan du ikke bare ringe meg, det var så lenge siden…Ja. Ring meg. BEEEEP.
I saw you walking towards me. I felt, .. I was convinced it was you. Then I looked up and…. Well it wasn’t you. God I must have been all wasted I
was just crying and crying. I don’t even know how I got home. Please don’t hate me.I love you.
Until the sun burns out? I went to the park, ate my lunch, but then I didn’t leave. I just sat there. And I watched the entire park
repopulate itself. A fornication of itself. The park was not what is was, it was a constant changing, altering, version of
itself.: You were standing in the doorway. You were waiting.I didn’t have anything to say. I didn’t say anything. We
were looking at each other. You were waiting. I waited for you to stop waiting. Your handbag swings form your hand
in and out of the room through the suspended doorway. We are still, but the world turns around us. The sun streaks
through the quiet room – lands on the sofa, licks the dusty pillows before it drags across the carpeted floor and
disappears behind a cloud..-say something.
-THE SECONDS RAGE ACROSS TIME LIKE THE NUMBERS ON
A STOPWATCH
do you want me to leave?-where were you last night?-what am I to you?-I love you. the questions
and answers tumble about each other in the turbine of a large-scale kaleidoscope. I look though it trying to see you,
but only to find another beautiful configuration of our waiting, worry and deception. I … love you too. You have
already left the doorway:Listen I’m sorry. Your sorry. Listen. I can’t hear you. Listen. I’m gone.
Vi tar bilder, fotografier, dokumenterer og viser fram. Jeg ser glade mennesker som smiler til hverandre. På veggen henger julen fra i fjor
eller året før og tre venner fra kontoret. Vi fortsetter å gå forbi hverandre – på kjøkkenet ligger lapper til meg og jeg
legger lapper tilbake. ”Har gått og lagt meg.” ”God morgen – ikke tenk på middag, jeg spiser ute”. Når vi ringer har vi
ingenting å si. Og vi venter – i stillheten der er vi nærest – langt borte på telefonen legger du fra deg ditt nærvær og
jeg møter deg i ventingen som oppstår mellom oss. I den svakt forvrengte tynne spede forbindelsen kan jeg lese deg
tydeligere. Jeg hører at du er der, at du puster. Og jeg kan kjenne pusten din bak øret mitt som når du hvilte pannen
din mot nakken min. Du? Lang pause.Ja? Lang pause.
4 steps and a long reach to close the door. The room is
smaller. The world is dimmer. Daylight is a dry tear that disappear as night sets in at 7 o’clock. Evening vanished –
passed unnoticed.–It was at night. We had just come home. It was a 4 hour drive. We were all tired. Driving back
home was like driving into a storm. The was such weather that night. We switched on a couple of lamps placed in
corners. The room was dim. Terrible winds – if you are one of them who don’t like wind. It was a lot of wind. You
could hear the rain on the window. And I just sat there wanting it all to go away. But it couldn’t. I wanted to forget. Let
what had happened not be apart of me. But it is.I still had that nervous jitter in my legs from too much coffee late at
night and that nasty drive by that left us all happy to be alive; my hands were numb like from some blood clothed over
arm or some neural damage. I tried warming them twice over in steaming hot water, but my hands were still cold.
Pinkish, prickled and cold.She placed her hands on my shoulder as suggesting me to go to bed, but I was in no state
for sleeping, no state for let’s-go-to-bed-I’m-tired-as-an-excuse-to-fuck. Her hands were warm.
Jeg vil gjerne sitte litt til. Jeg hører han romsterer ovenpå. Han pakker ut. Og når jeg ikke hører none lyder sitter han helt stille på sengen
og gjemmer hodet i hendene. Jeg vil at han skal bli der oppe for alltid. at han forsvinner der inne på soverommet som et skip I
Bermuda-tåke. Og jeg vil at glasset mitt aldri skal bli tomt, slik at jeg aldri må gå å legge meg. Aldri våkne til en ny dag.
it was like driving into a storm it was like driving into a storm – but we were the storm, we had brought it
with us. And the car had been dense with that loud silence that lingers over the wastelands as the clouds gather for
the rumble. But the storm had yet to rain. Still brewing.
Yes let’s have a drink. But inevitability was climbing the stairs
and I could hear her asking from the landing what he preferred to drink and I could hear how he added a smile to his
voice to cover up his nervousness and added odd soft spaces between the words as he searched for the right answer
– attempting a natural response. But he was fake, and I was fake and she was fake how she behaved abnormally
distant for a close friend, never looking in his direction, except when she thought I was sleeping. But I could see her
reflection in the car window on the background off the streaky rhythmic streets, how her head tilted the wrong way as
their eyes locked – dilating messages through the humdrum car, I could imagine her voice in his privacy – “with you I
just feel different. I feel like everything about me is awake, and I am alive. Not because I have to, but because I want
to.” I was curled up against the window of the backseat like a little boy coming back from summer camp after a long
long summer. A curled up pathetic little shadow of a grown up – “my wife is cheating on me”, “well boo hoo mister,
don’t you have a sorry little excuse for a life”. Feeling sorry for myself the way only a true self-absorbed know how
too. But the whisky will give me the courage I need.–Dusk dwells over the landscapes we pass, and I want to leave
the car on the freeway. I want out. We drive in silence from afternoon to darkness. From wonder to Wednesday –
wondering, watching, waiting.I linger my head on the cold damp window on the passenger side only lifting my gaze to
see you – driving through this life that is ours together. The wipers brush past the constantly wet window – the rhythm
of us – from patchwork to quilt – tossing the responsibility back and forth or simply moving it from side to side as we
head from a drive without direction. Passing past tense and sentences unspoken. I don’t know if it’s the wetness of
our car that attracts all the light or that it respells it. The surfaces are shiny, but the smiles are restrained. Several
castles between Lucca and Livrono. Where are we? I love you. I lack you. I am in want of you – right next to me.
-what if I didn’t excist?
-what do you mean? -If I was not here to occupy this spot. If I didn’t excist. If I had never happened.
It’s bleak, I know. Your thinking “he’s bleak. I shouldn’t say such a thing. But, I know somehow I feel I don’t matter.
Nothing matters.
I think of that big overcoat of yours – when I’m cold. You know the big fur coat you have? And I
pretend I`m wearing it. and It’s bigger than me and I’m inside of it. In a way I don’t excist then.
-what do you mean? -I’m
not here. -I love you. -I know. But I’m gone already. What the hell are we doing?
I can’t remember if I ran after him
or if he ran after me.
Or if it was me or him who went outside first to calm down.
-Talk to me. Calm down. We get wet.
Outside is raining. I don’t know how to express this.
Jeg vet ikke om det er han eller jeg som holder paraplyen. Vi blir
våte. Ute regner. Vet ikke om det er han som snakker eller jeg som tenker det han ikke sier. Vi venter og blir mattere
og våtere i regnet, mens gaten og den svarte verden rundt oss blir blankere og blankere. Biler som kjører fort
forbi opplyser ansiktene våre. Vi står til anklene i nummenhet. Korte sekunder etter er jeg borte. På flukt gjennom
tankene og inn i den tiden vi delte før, eller dit jeg drømmer om at vi drar. Sammen og alene. Til sommer midt på
vinteren, eller forbi høsten der du står og venter. Bak døden. Og jeg trenger ikke være redd lenger. Være var og være
varsom. Jeg er glad i deg. Jeg vet det.
Hey. It’s me. I’m here. Your late. There was traffic. I’m sure. How are you. I
missed you. I missed you too. I love you. I love you too. Do you wanna play hide and seek. I’ll look for you. Like you
always do. Like i always do. And we start something we never finish.
Jeg står ved siden av badekaret og ser det fylle
til randen og renne over. Jeg stikker hånden ned for å trekke ut proppen og skolder armen opp til albuen. Det ryker.
Nå er det flere år som ligger bak oss. Som renner over og renner bort. Vi leker gjemsel uten å finne hverandre –
desperate I vår leten vender vi på alt I livet. Min personlighet er en sånn leilighet på film som blir vrengt og knust på
jakt etter en eller annen hemmelig hemmelighet. Etter krangelen med deg er setetrekkene skåret opp og ut av de
åpne skuffene velter alle detaljene og ubetydelighetene som jeg vanligvis setter pent på plass. Nå er de flekker, rot
og fortvilelse på samvittigheten. Var rommet tomt var det bedre. Jeg ser ned uten å svare. Snakker uten å si noe –
katatonisk og lite elskelig fører jeg deg videre inn bygningen hvor du eller jeg sier eller tenker at det er til det beste.
At hvis ting hadde vært annerledes,- så kanskje.
26 mars, 2008 klokken 02:55
Tusen takk Åsmund.