Things you probably don’t know about me. Part 6 of 16.
There are people who are amazing on making mixtapes/cds/whatever (mix LPs, that’s what I want to see). They take time and the end result is you sitting there, mouth agape, the music ringing in the ears and your brain splattered across the wall because the selection and order is so mind-blowingly good. Me? I’m decent. I got another card up my sleeve.
The booklets are my kind of thing. Thick and lots of text and images, some tied together with string, others made like a giant jigsaw puzzle. While I take time to choose songs and order — because you have to, it’s the law — it’s nothing when measured in time I take with making the booklet. Especially when dealing with mix cds, without a proper booklet, what’s the big deal? It is too easy. This way, it’s adds a difficulty level when choosing songs, there has to be something I can write about. I have to think and be articulate about what otherwise might had been intuitive
And besides, I love booklets with bought cds as well. Really love them. So I always get saddened when it’s just a small paper with song titles and copyrights. Fuck that. Give me texts! Give me stories! Give me photos! So there’s no way I could do that to anyone, no matter how much longer it might take to get finished because I’m too lazy.
As a firm believer in the expression “the street will find its own uses”, this is a new addition to my camera gear. It serves as light table and a portable light source. Who needs a proper* spotlight…
*) I must agree that a real lamp is more… space efficent. But more boring at the same time.
Differences between left and right.
- Left hand warm, right hand cold.
- Left index straight, right index has a callus
- Left used to have some burn marks from a battery, right used to have more paper cuts.
- Left is a bit weaker, right has wobbly wrist.
- Left is always left, right might sometimes be “the other left”.
(Nikkor AF-S 50f1.4 | 0-5s | f3.5 | ISO100)
GPOYW — “I should be working so I can afford a tripod and don’t have to place the camera on piled up books”-edition.
And really, I should be working because I’m visiting friends for a week starting tomorrow, so the deadline must hold. Must! It’s a new kind of feeling really, when the deadline can’t be budged, run over twice and then burst into flames.
Source: Flickr / carboncopy
Should I write something about the Oscars? Fuck no. There are more important things I’ve been thinking about. Like the Official Rules of Night Badminton! Exciting, yes? It should be, any game where you get to use the phrases “that was close!” and “there it is!” is amazing. Since I got no real clue about sports at all the rules will be sketchy. Also, they’re a work in progress.
- A game of NB must be played at night, outside, in the dark.
- Light sources of fire close by or on the field is okay.
- A game is five rounds where-in a round is a arbitrary concept which the combatants agree on beforehand.
- There are four combatants in each game. The field is four areas in a square.
- Two points when you hit the ball, one point when you’re close to hitting it, and minus one if you have to look for it when you’ve missed. Three points if you hit the ball on someone else’s area.
- You must hit the ball towards the other combatants but there are no rule about which one.
- If it’s windy, your arms will be sore the morning after. There will be masturbation jokes.
- If a combatant dies during a game, it will win automatically. Because really, it’s a shitty way to go. While it’s still embarrassing, at least this way their family can say they won.
- A tournament needs the following equipment besides a field and a fistfull of rackets:
- A whiteboard
- Pens in different colours
- A flashlight
- A drunk judge
- Talk about other things during the game by the combatants are encouraged. So are drinking beer.
- If you play to win, you’re doing it wrong.
Since I can’t sing — really really, that monotone howl is not singing. Perhaps it’s just a hell of a lack of discipline and practice and vocal co-cordination, but still. There are moments where the hubris can’t even gain one ounce of momentum.
However, there are other people out there that can sing. And play. And do all those things that I myself isn’t so good at. Aron is one of those (his brother is a bit better on writing things in his tumblr though). He knows the lyrics I’ve written far better than I do, and he can sing and play and even record it properly. Amazing person really.
I began writing this song during Kontext in Uppsala and finished it a few days later while I visited said Aron and his woman. Short timeframe for being me, but since I wrote the first words during the last weekend in October and was finished in very early in November, I can claim it took me a month.
When the stars come tumbling down
the debris burning up the sky
wish we’ll dance in the fires af armageddon
or at least that we’ll try
because with out that
what’s the point of getting by?
Today he sent me this recording of my song In the Firelight of a Smile. Far far better than I anticipated. Amazing person, really.
Things I worry about when I lie in bed and tries to sleep.
- Will people like me less in the morning?
- I might suffocate and not be able to do anything about it if I’m asleep.
- What damage will I cause to myself tomorrow?
- What if that “we’ll talk more tomorrow” turns into a few months?
- What if there’s a flood? I can drown or be washed up ashore in Agunnaryd. Not sure which is worse.
- Wonder what’s worse than a mime with a nuclear bomb? A mime and a clown who shares a bomb? Ewww.
- Did I break another pair of socks?
- If the house begins to burn, which books should I try to save first?
Took a short walk down by the lake. Apparently, it seems they’ve cleaned it up a bit and got a sign and all proclaiming this to be A Bathing Area. Who knew?! Not me obviously. My thumb is not on the pulse of this area, but the opposite is true as well.
No, not me being stone cold dead and lacking pulse all together. If you want to get weird looks, wear headphones. It doesn’t take anything harder than that. As long as it’s not the kind you stuff into the ears (in Sweden: “tops-lurar”) people will stare at you. I bet you can get people here to crash cars just by spreading out headphone-wearers along a street.
Stuff plaing in the mp3-player: the Walkabouts. Just now realized the walk-theme, that’s rather… embarrassing really. Can I excuse myself by mention that I’ve been listening to them all day even before I went outside?
Anyways. This is a picture of said lake. There’s ice but I wouldn’t try to walk on it even if it was thick and cold and frozen solid to the bottom. Lots of water in the same place. It’s evil. Can’t you feel it too?
There’s a Swedish gangster movie — I will not link to it and yes, both Mikael Persbrandt and Kjell Bergqvist is in it — and the official site made me blow a funny fuse. The descriptions, the still gallery, the… No, that was as far as I got before I almost died. It looks like plot porn, it reads like plot porn, but my god, I hope there’s no porn at all. That’s a trauma we as a society don’t need to experience. How the fuck did we manage to make Let the Right One In after this? How did the film industry survive this assassination atempt? Hopefully nobody paid money to see this…
There are do’s and don’t about this just like in everything else, my approach is a bit like the higher levels of Mr Do’s Castle. Remember that game? Higher levels look exactly the same as the one before only everything is faster. In the end, you know where things are but the speed, it makes any plan impossible. It’s only about jumping into the fray, close your eyes and hope for the best. Since this has nothing to do with sex I skipped the ”wagging the joystick”-reference, it would only confuse you into thinking it is about naked bodies or self-love. This is about something far worse. It’s about doing other—stuff. With the brain.
This is my curse, the way I work means I stress and fidget and blow past deadlines. I can handle the stress, it doesn’t affect me as such. All it does is make me do odd things as I write — I wave with my hands and tries to solve imaginary Rubik’s cubes in the air. It’s the deadline thing that makes me feel bad, really bad. I don’t mean too do it, but as soon it swivels past my head I ache and I feel sick. The head wants to fold inwards in a possible attempt to realize its dream of being a meat origami horse. The eyes want to pull the eyelids over their heads and sleep. I hate this state, and yet I unwittingly walks into that dark infested alley of a nightmare time after time. There are rats there too, and I’m sure they want to club me to death and make me into a soup.
Not this time though, damn if I’m going to let it happen now. I’ve started translating, and I will not forget to continue. I hope I can discover and get it into my thick but glorious skull that this works and gives less problems. The thing is what they say about old habits and folded paper. I work the same what when people ask me to do other things as well, unless they give me a damn interesting task.
Perhaps I got some motivational disorder that prevents me to start it up. I have a fanzine I want to finish any year now. But I’d rather see it done in months or weeks. Lots of stuff that lies there; ideas never realized, texts never reaching their destination. This can’t go on. Damnit, I got an old convention report in verse to finish and t-shirts to design. Let’s do this.
Faked Thai For Evenings When Everything Is Closed
While Fred was still reading this, Abelardo passed him over another card, this on for the Full Chicken Richness Canned Soup Company. “You must visit me,” he said. “Most of the time I am home.”
— Avram Davidson, Full Chicken Richness
- Boil a cup of rice or whatever quantities you want.
- Cut the chicken into bits and fry them. Right now, I used leftovers. It was much faster.
- Cut the yellow (or in worst case scenario: green) paprika, and use the scissors on the onion leafs, and then cut the red chili pepper — one is enough, not one bit but one chili pepper fruit.
- In a frying pan, pour a bit red wine vinegar and some oil and mix in cajun spices, coriander, garam masala (careful! Not too much damnit!), red curry, ground roasted garlic, salt, sugar, black pepper, and some crushed peruvian pepper. Stir about a bit so that it’s this… brownish paste. Turn on the heat and when it’s a bit hot, pour over the newly boiled rice.
- Stir about even more, add turmeric for colour and some Japanese soy. When you’ve stirred and the rice has gotten this yellow colour and has fried a while: add the paprika, onion, and chili peppers. Fry! Fry some more! Then add the chicken bits.
- Eat it.
The eyelid, the one on the left, is heavier than normal. Not from lack of sleep, no, this is sabotage. Sabotaged by orders from the big cheese: Springtime Allergies.
For a while I thought I’d hit upon the big Gouda and that all allergies where on the decline, but that turned out to be wrong. So in my lonesome, I opened a bottle of Brooklyn Black Chocolate Stout. The thought was that if my eye gets swollen and teary, the other senses should work to make up for the loss. Hence good things to drink — later I plan to hit my leg into stuff and smell the garbage cans while I listen to the Old 97’s.
Help me fight this symbolically by eating lots of cheese. Together we’re bigger and better than these hoodlum tyrolean grey cheese’s.
(CALLmeKAT, outtake from last October.)
I’ll be… Fucked. Only not literaly. This weekend CALLmeKAT is the opening act for Au Revoir Simone in Stockholm. It would have been great to watch and listen, but no. It’s on Sunday. On sunday at the very same time this person here is at another venue to watch Woven Hand. It would have been great to be able to be at both places. FUCK.
Stem cell research people, stem cells! This wouldn’t have been a problem if we could do some fast and temporal cloning. Split a person into two and then merge it when it isn’t needed to be duplicate. It possible, I’ve seen it in comics.