hugger i sten -- lars winnerbäck

Jag dricker glögg med balkongdörren öppen inatt
och låter vinden komma in ifrån väster

som en virvlande vår, som en dansande storm,

som en galen orkester

Jag dricker ur mitt glas och alla dörrar är öppna
Det är dimma över mig och över England

I don't have any mulled wine and I haven't got any fog either, so I'll have to be content with drinking Belgian beer and having the windows open to be able to listen to the rain. Yes, it has started to rain again. Nothing to do about that but to stay inside and enjoy the sound of water trickling down the roof.

I'm longing a little to get up to the forest this weekend. It will be some nice and rather well-needed meditation, I believe. Me, a few long walks, the water, the trees, the sky. None of the sounds of civilisation, no interruptions from the surrounding world. It is hard to explain the wonderful thing about it to someone that hasn't experienced it, but it is worth trying.

In fact, when thinking about it I remember an episode that took place two years ago; my sixteenth birthday. By mid-afternoon I walked out into the forest with nothing but my cd-player, a pair of headphones and a notebook. I walked -- for once I didn't take the quad -- to the largest clearing, the part we cleared when we needed money to move to civilisation in 1999. I walked to the highest point and climbed onto a large stone, large as in three meters high -- it has most likely been lying there since the stone age.

Sitting there, watching the trees stretching in all directions around me, overlapping each other all the way to the horizon and at the same time being warmed by the late afternoon sun I felt all worries, problems and pressing matters float away with the wind. I scribbled a few notes in my notebook, but they were inconsistent and unimportant. No, the important part was the nature surrounding me, and the acoustic guitar in Winnerbäck's Elegi. With those two factors in my back, I felt that I could take on the problems of the present as well as the future.

A few weeks later I left Ystad for Lund and life has never been the same again. Even if there are no life-deciding matters to take care of this time, I am still looking forward to some lone-time with nature.


you brought a knife to the gunfight -- stone gods

I just don't care about money,
I've been ripped off all my life
I ain't scared of you sonny
It's not the first time I've seen a knife
And so the story goes there's a lesson to be learned
If you fuck with a six foot German punk you're gonna get hurt,

You're gonna get hurt!

I keep thinking I've got a ton of things to do, but when I sit down to actually do some work I don't seem to find anything else than WL2 -- meaning I have to re-read Hamlet, which takes a lot of time -- or math and those wonderful logarithms that I'm not getting anywhere with anyway. Instead I've been walking around yawning all day until I finally decided to lie down in bed for a semi-awake nap and some listening to my latest addition to my mildly legal but oh so cherished collection of audiobooks. I don't feel productive but at least it is something. Hell, it's a holiday. I wouldn't be able to work my arse off during a holiday even if I was in a desperate need to. No: I'll continue reading Hamlet, I'll ask someone for advise regarding the logarithms, I'll correct my Extended Essay and find some peer reviews for it, and then the rest of the time I will just sit around and do whatever I do.


I've felt generally restless these past days. Goddamnit, I can't say I enjoy it much. Worrying --or even going over in your mind -- about some things simply is not very good, and a general overdose of thinking is never too proper either. I'll need to straighten up some.


In other news, we found out that they have Kilkenny (!) 3.5% on can at ICA. I am overjoyed! Although it seems as if I will be able to keep some "real" Kilkenny for myself when my family goes to the forest. Well, I'm not complaining, although it will never reach the same levels as the Kilkennys we were sitting and sipping on to the sound of a liveband, somewhere in Kaiserdamm, Berlin. Ah, the memories. I'd give a lot for another week of Berlin sometime during the schoolyear.

Out of pointful as well as pointless things to say.


the promised land -- bruce springsteen

On a rattlesnake speedway in the Utah desert
I pick up my money and head back into town
Driving cross the Waynesboro county line
I got the radio on and I'm just killing time
Working all day in my daddy's garage
Driving all night, chasing some mirage
Pretty soon little girl I'm gonna take charge.

The dogs on main street howl,
'cause they understand,
If I could take one moment into my hands
Mister, I ain't a boy, no, I'm a man,
And I believe in a promised land.

Well, I am back. Four and a half day in Istanbul, ol' Constantinople. My general idea was to go there, suffer through the TOK, parasite on some touristing and then go home.

What did I get?

A conference that was actually rather interesting, a tour through Istanbul that held good class but above all, above any materialistic or cultural desires, I also met a score of people that I hope that I will count as friends also a few years into the future. I am already suffering withdrawal symptoms for everyone from alcohol-drinking Italians to insane cabrides through Istanbul with Ameer and James to a whole lot of interesting discussions with Thea to... gwach, I could continue forever.

My point remains, the past few days have been extraordinarily awesome, as have the people involved. If any of them would happen to look by my humble collection of thoughts -- which is not at all impossible, since I have been forced back on Facebook -- then here is my love to all of you. These days have been too good to be forgotten.

So what now? Business as usual, school again tomorrow. The semester will go on, and in a few days I will have a holiday. Lot of lone-time planned and received, alone with thoughts, music and perhaps a few GT's. I might spend some time typing out the notebook, and for that I need to be alone -- I don't want all the memories hidden in that book to be disturbed by something as pesky as siblings. We'll deal with that by then.

Goddamnit, still withdrawal symptoms. I've never been good at goodbyes, no matter how temporary. But by all means, this time I'll make an effort to keep the contact alive and going.

Before thatm however, I need sleep. And a lot of it.

So here's to you, readers and conferencees alike; cheers.


perjury and sanctity -- falconer

Your sins are not redeemed
by swearing perjury.
Your sense of self-esteem
has miles to go to sanctity.

Got home as late as 1930 due to a three and a half hour long ToK-planning with Alex at that Japanesy café next to school. The off topic-discussions stretched on for far longer than our planned pauses from the work, but likewise, we got things done. Constantinople is closing in, and we are leaving Friday morning. Hell yes, I say, although I will of course find a more civil phrase to express my joy to our host family. Some cultures don't seem to take too kindly on expressals of happiness that at the same time are rude.

Drumbeat, drumbeat... If there is one truly good factor of metal of various sorts, it has to be the pounding beat of the drums. Not the fast-paced and hysterical drumming of power metal though, but the times when there is a steady and clear pounding in the background. The chorus of Perjury and Sanctity, the finale of The Boy Who Wanted to be a Real Puppet. I do not know and do not care what chemicals it releases in my body, but it sure has an effect.

I've got psychology pages to read, and other things to do. I have a few ideas for short stories or feeble attempts at poetry. I have got a WL2 to write, and a Hamlet to read.

Lappri and sod it, I'll play Hearts of Iron instead.


the eton rifles -- the jam

We came out of it naturally the worst:
Beaten and bloody, and I was sick down my shirt.
We were no match for their untamed wit,
Though some of the lads said they'd be back next week.

Hello-Hurrah - it's the price to pay to the Eton Rifles.
Hello-Hurrah - I'd prefer the plague to the Eton Rifles.

I like Paul Weller. Not only is he the Modfather, he's also quite damned sarcastical. This sarcastic homage to the armed squadron of the public school and upper class kennel Eton says it all. "We were no match for their untamed wit..." Music like that simply isn't made anymore.

It's gotten cold by now. Damned cold actually, enough to cause shivers when biking home. Slept unsurely at the bus, almost as usual, and was home around six o'clock. Luckily, commuting is not driving me mad; if it was, I would have been lost a long time ago.

Observation: I am no poet. Nor do I dwell on severe self-criticism when it comes to my writing, and by that you know that I am telling the truth. The confinement, the general artiness of poems is something that I can find very appealing, but likewise confining and restricting. I can't save myself with my usual vomiting of words; every word needs to say something. Forethought and planning is needed. Humbug!

Likewise, I am signed on to the class' new poetry blog. I cannot guarantee that I will ever submit something, but in the end it will at least stimulate that fairly unused part of my brain. Who knows, maybe I'll actually do something.

I'm rambling about nothing. Sure sign of it being time to call it quits.


we'll live and die in these towns -- the enemy

You spend your time in smokey rooms
where haggled old women

with cheap perfume say
"It never
happens for people
like us, you know"
Well nothing ever happened on its own.
And well the toilets smell of desperation,
the streets all echo of aggregation
And you wonder
why you cant get no sleep,
when you've got nothing to do,
and you've had nothing to eat
your life's slipping
and sliding right out of view
and there's absolutely nothing
that you can do well

And so I am crawling to the cross, for what time in the row I do not know. My memory permitts me to remember that I have revived this oh-sacred-place-of-contemplation for the third time. Third sounds, and feels correct at least.


To start with, I don't even know if I am talking to myself, or actually to someone reading. The difference is that this time, it is irrelevant. Vomiting ink and words over hapless papers in the fluorescent light of a reading lamp is stimulating, but will never be anything else than scribbled notes and observations of a world that will keep on rotating whether I do it or not.

I need my outlet. I need to vomit adjectives and twist sentences inside out. Just by writing this, I'm on my way to fulfill it.

Onwards into the breach, onwards once more.
Misquoting Shakespeare might make me a bore;
But it also shows individuality,
and an apparent lack of spirituality.

Yes. For now, I am indeed back.


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