I came here to write a post and my thought was, that I have a weird feeling. Then I see, that I wrote a post five days ago, ironically enough about appreciating my body, and called it a weird feeling.
Ironic, because I learned today that I have Borrelia. In an early stage, so it shouldn't get serious. But it's so strange, if it wasn't for a dog with a tick yesterday, it could've become. Seriously. Serious.
The disease is transmitted to humans through ticks. I had a tick bite about seven weeks ago. Here's a description of the disease:
During early stages of the disease the bacteria is localized in the skin and manifests itself as a characteristic bulls-eye rash, called Erythema Migrans (not in all cases, some people develop no rash). If the disease is caught in this stage and treated, further complications can be avoided. If the disease is not treated, symptoms can include arthritis, cranial neuropathy (specifically facial palsy), and meningitis (abnormal cerebrospinal fluid). Over years, an untreated Borrelia infection can cause chronical skin infection, brain infection or hepatitis to develop.
Yesterday, I was at a reception with some colleagues. One colleague's dog is there, he has a tick, and they remove it. I say, I had a tick recently, which was really weird because I was in central Copenhagen, and I don't get how a tick lives there. A colleague asks if I've developed a ring where it bit me. I didnt even think about where it was, but just said no. I mean, I know that ticks carry these horrible infections, but I was just certain that there was nothing. I probably figured, that I would've felt bad or something. So he seriously asked me to pay attention. I laughed a little and asked if it was like a Devil's burned ring I should look out for. I don't know why I found it a little far out, but Borrelia seemed too serious to be relevant.
Then today, I'm scratching my thigh, on the back side, probably the place where I look the rarest at myself. I realize, I've been scratching there some times lately. I remove my pants, I happen to be very bendy, so I just put my leg up and my head down, and there is a red spot. In the spot, there's a ring. The skin is just edged in a small ring. Of course it dawns upon me, as I look at this itching ring. This is where the tick bit me.
I remember getting out of bed one night, because I reached my hand down to scratch my leg. And felt something strange, attached, or blurted up. Went to turn on light and look on my back thigh with a food on the zink, and a second later stood with a tick in my hand. Kinda strange, it had just been eating of me. I remember not knowing what to feel, as if I was in my right to shout something ugly and hateful at it, like, you little bloodsucker, you're gross, who allowed you to dig your jaws into my body? I didn't, didn't figure he/she'd get the bigger message anyway. And I was also a little fascinated, like a child that finds an animal in its hand rather interesting. I don't run into ticks often. And they do have quite a way to make their living, that makes them pretty wild. Imagine a diet of blood only. Wow.
I read about it on the net, I definitely have the Erythema Migrans. I figure I better see a doctor, and I call. My doctor asks a lot about the recent stiffness I've had in my neck and shoulders. I had an appointment for a massage tomorrow, because lately my neck and shoulders have been stiff and hurt like hell. That's a symptom, and can be a sign of meningitis. We agree, that it's not necessarily related, the stiffness has come since the tick, but I say it doesn't feel like anything as acute as meningitis pains. We agree that I'll come see her tomorrow. If anything should feel bad tonight, I'll find a doctor. But most likely, I'm in such an early stage, and it won't develop from this between today and tomorrow.
But the weird feeling is, that the ring that tells that I have Borrelia is so tiny, the size of a quarter, it's just a little flaked skin, and it's in a place where I might have never seen it. Besides, had I seen it, and not yesterday because of that tick on that dog and the colleague telling me about Borrelia symptom ring thing, I would have never paid attention to the ring as dangerous, but just thought my skin had dried out a little right there and expected it to pass. I would've never asked anyone or suspected anything serious from a little redness and a tiny dry ring on the back of my thigh. And the next stages of this infection are so not funny. If not caught and treated, facial paralysis, dementia, all of that. Brain infection, come on?? And sneaky things, developing over years. I don't know. It's just too weird to know, that this very dangerous bacteria is in my body. And that it's such strange luck that I'm getting treatment for it now.
So. I feel a little fragile. Like something dangerous was just close. Maybe it wasn't at all. It could have not spread and developed further. But I have a weird feeling.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
I Was Afraid My Father Would Fall
I was afraid my father would fall asleep again, so I rode with him in the front seat and watched. That morning there were shooting stars over the desert. The mountains changed from pink, to red, then chalky white as the sun appeared. We crested a hill, and saw the wreckage of a car. A man sat weeping into his hands, and another man pulled a body, small, limp, and twisted, through the shattered windshield. Don't look, my father said, but I had to. I was already looking. I'd been looking all along.
From Braver Deeds by Gary Young
From Braver Deeds by Gary Young
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Still Dumber Than My Frontdoor - And Sexier Than Ever
As promised yesterday, here’s the republishing of an old blog post. The new addition and justification for this re-posting is yesterday's realization, that this easily can be read and interpreted as genuine porn fiction. With focus on the pornographic level of stupidity unfolding here, I believe that it's actually quite an arousing small piece of literature. The blog post "Dumber Than My Frontdoor" was first published July 25th, 2007:
Dumber Than My Frontdoor
This day has two ends. Right now, at 11.26am, I'm still too absorbed in the morning one of the two. I went on my morning run, and went by my bank, Washington Mutual. I am a person with much love, and a belief in living with love instead of focusing on the well, not-love things, that life is also full of. But. This bank, Washington Mutual, I by now passionately hate. I have done so for months, since they have been brutally feefucking me over and over again in the most sneaky ways, and with big dumb ass smiles always blames it on somebody higher in the system than themselves, and lets me pay and pay and pay for fucking stupid nothing errors.
I am leaving the country soon, and have therefore not kept many funds in my checking account. I am told daily by email how my balance is, and it's been fine. Untill yesterday, where a check tried to pass, $25,20. It was so long ago I had issued the check, that I had not remembered it, and got an email that there were insufficient funds. There was only $23 in the account. I came to the bank this morning with cash to fill into the account. They had charged me $27 for bouncing the check. Now, there are -$4. The check is still not paid. And they now charge me an overdraft fee for the -$4, another $27. For me missing $2,20 (two dollars and twenty cents), they charge me $54. This is for one day (1 day).
I look at Armycut Idiot behind counter. I say, Do you think this is cool?
He says, Npemifhlkeruhqfgie urfghiwue, hcidfjhj fhawebafglch fhjlag, eflyjyageclfgyalsdlfbn scdlsaueygfryuwegrflc snsfdbza, shdfbalwhfc vfgrbhebyssbjkdsjbgksadjhfguerghdnv jz, in other words, can I call my manager, because I'm too stupid to think for myself?
I don't answer, I just look at him and wait for him to take a stand.
When manager comes, 22-year-old Dumb Stupid Fuck Girl In Blue Shirt With Ugly Logo, Hey, I'm Really Important 'Cause I Read Two And A Half Books And The Entire Index Of My Micro Econ Reader And Passed Two Classes In Three Months In Cabrillo State Junior College To Get To This Position, she comes up and looks at me with a look, that says, "I'm in uniform. You're in running clothes. I have a fresh perm in my hair. You have a ponytail. I'm wearing tons of eye make-up to look older than I am. You're running and look younger, than you are. What seems to be the problem (apart from these horrible inbalances, of course)." I look back, with as much love as I can administer. (Not too much, ok. I am not Ghandi, nor Dalai, I'm pathetically pissed and afraid that if I respond honestly to the situation right now, Mr. Security That's Me overthere by the door will come running because I'll be hanging by my teeth in someone's throat, and if Armycut Idiot and 22-year-old Dumb Stupid Fuck Girl In Blue Shirt With Ugly Logo, Hey, I'm Really Important 'Cause I Read Two And A Half Books And The Entire Index Of My Micro Econ Reader And Passed Two Classes In Three Months In Cabrillo State Junior College To Get To This Position look stupid, let's not go to the level of intelligence, that radiates from Mr. Security That's Me. I like to imagine his brain is just meditating, and is really, really Indian professionally good at it. Like, gone to next level where the rest of us can't follow.
I say, I missed two dollars for one day. My check is not paid, right?
No, the check is returned, she says.
I say, So, I pay $27 for having it rejected?
Yes, she says.
And that takes me into -$2,20 overdraft, for which I pay another $27?
Yes, she says.
Is that fair, do you think? I ask.
I can see we've already returned over $130 in fees to you, I'm afraid we can't return anymore, she says.
I say, these fees were out of a bunch of fees, and they were charged for a delayed transfer, which caused small overdrafts for short periods of time.
There was more than $300 in fees, she says.
I look at her. These fees were charged, and they returned less than half, in spite of the fact, that it was a matter of less than $20 for less than two days, and there were fees of more than $300. This reminds me of going to Kinko's, where my last bill looked like this:
Co-worker breathing fee: $11
Paper jammed in machine fee: $17
Greasy hair fee: $4
We could be playing Dungeons and Dragons at home fee: $26
We're ugly fee: $14
We can see you're a dumb blonde so we're totally going to fuck you over fee: $230
Extra fee for being a foreigner fee: $6
You're smarter than us fee: $18
Turning on the machine fee: $10
First second machine running fee: $8
Self-service fee: $24
5 sheets faxed: $0.50
Total: $368.50
I am not going to ask her, if she thinks there might be a better reason for the $130 returned fees, than for the $300 fees charged in the first place. I look at Idiot Armycut. I realize, my frontdoor is smarter than him. He looks dumber than wood. And my frontdoor, which is also wooden, at least has a window in it, revealing that there's anything behind the wood. It also has a doorknob, which indicates there is an access, to what is behind the wood. Idiot Armycut only signals one thing. Wood. Dumb as wood. I'm scared now, these two together are dumb enough to threaten Kinko's in taking bottom place of Dumb Staff and Happy FeeFucking Customer Service.
It is clear to me, that they have been hired here in Washington Mutual because they were to stupid to check out movies in Blockbuster, let alone the challenging task of laying sliced pickles in hamburgers at McDonalds (I know that, because McDonalds are very particualar about only hiring people, who can stay with one pickled cucumber slice per hamburger, and none of these two have that kind of math/precision/consistence skills tracable anywhere in their four eyes).
I ask her, Does it matter to you, that I have a ton of money on my other account with you guys, you know, the normal bank deal where you would've just taken the $2 missing in the checking account from that savings account, sort of let me spot myself from one account to the other - you know, the normal bank way?
She says, No, then we couldn't really charge you $54 if we'd let you cover yourself, now could we?
I ask, Do you think it's a reasonable way to treat and punish a customer, who has thousands of dollars in and out of accounts, to charge $54 for lending me $2 for one day?
She says, That's how we do.
I swallow, find some big smile and say with a shaky voice, How fast can I get out of here if I just pay the $54?
Perm looks at Wood and says, I think you can take it from here. Wood closes his mouth. He's drooling. I think, Oh my God, he has a condition. Something is wrong. These people are in charge of my money.
I RUN for the exit.
I could hardly even run home for anger and fear filling my body. Now, it's time to change focus. That was this morning. Tonight is tonight. We have a Wednesday night event at this house. We're going to elect an official mascot for the upstairs of our house. The election is between Friend, my fish, who is now in foster care by the friends of mine living here, and a dear friend of the house, she goes by the name Strap-on Spice. I will be spokes person for my fish Friend, and represent him in the disciplines, where he might get in trouble himself, like the ball gown contest. The swimsuit contest, I believe he'll win over Strap-on any day, even though she's hot.
It's going to be a ton of fun. I'll tell you tomorrow who won and will in the future be the mascot of our house. I hereby let go of bad feelings from this morning. And start being excited about tonight.
Have a great day.
Dumber Than My Frontdoor
This day has two ends. Right now, at 11.26am, I'm still too absorbed in the morning one of the two. I went on my morning run, and went by my bank, Washington Mutual. I am a person with much love, and a belief in living with love instead of focusing on the well, not-love things, that life is also full of. But. This bank, Washington Mutual, I by now passionately hate. I have done so for months, since they have been brutally feefucking me over and over again in the most sneaky ways, and with big dumb ass smiles always blames it on somebody higher in the system than themselves, and lets me pay and pay and pay for fucking stupid nothing errors.
I am leaving the country soon, and have therefore not kept many funds in my checking account. I am told daily by email how my balance is, and it's been fine. Untill yesterday, where a check tried to pass, $25,20. It was so long ago I had issued the check, that I had not remembered it, and got an email that there were insufficient funds. There was only $23 in the account. I came to the bank this morning with cash to fill into the account. They had charged me $27 for bouncing the check. Now, there are -$4. The check is still not paid. And they now charge me an overdraft fee for the -$4, another $27. For me missing $2,20 (two dollars and twenty cents), they charge me $54. This is for one day (1 day).
I look at Armycut Idiot behind counter. I say, Do you think this is cool?
He says, Npemifhlkeruhqfgie urfghiwue, hcidfjhj fhawebafglch fhjlag, eflyjyageclfgyalsdlfbn scdlsaueygfryuwegrflc snsfdbza, shdfbalwhfc vfgrbhebyssbjkdsjbgksadjhfguerghdnv jz, in other words, can I call my manager, because I'm too stupid to think for myself?
I don't answer, I just look at him and wait for him to take a stand.
When manager comes, 22-year-old Dumb Stupid Fuck Girl In Blue Shirt With Ugly Logo, Hey, I'm Really Important 'Cause I Read Two And A Half Books And The Entire Index Of My Micro Econ Reader And Passed Two Classes In Three Months In Cabrillo State Junior College To Get To This Position, she comes up and looks at me with a look, that says, "I'm in uniform. You're in running clothes. I have a fresh perm in my hair. You have a ponytail. I'm wearing tons of eye make-up to look older than I am. You're running and look younger, than you are. What seems to be the problem (apart from these horrible inbalances, of course)." I look back, with as much love as I can administer. (Not too much, ok. I am not Ghandi, nor Dalai, I'm pathetically pissed and afraid that if I respond honestly to the situation right now, Mr. Security That's Me overthere by the door will come running because I'll be hanging by my teeth in someone's throat, and if Armycut Idiot and 22-year-old Dumb Stupid Fuck Girl In Blue Shirt With Ugly Logo, Hey, I'm Really Important 'Cause I Read Two And A Half Books And The Entire Index Of My Micro Econ Reader And Passed Two Classes In Three Months In Cabrillo State Junior College To Get To This Position look stupid, let's not go to the level of intelligence, that radiates from Mr. Security That's Me. I like to imagine his brain is just meditating, and is really, really Indian professionally good at it. Like, gone to next level where the rest of us can't follow.
I say, I missed two dollars for one day. My check is not paid, right?
No, the check is returned, she says.
I say, So, I pay $27 for having it rejected?
Yes, she says.
And that takes me into -$2,20 overdraft, for which I pay another $27?
Yes, she says.
Is that fair, do you think? I ask.
I can see we've already returned over $130 in fees to you, I'm afraid we can't return anymore, she says.
I say, these fees were out of a bunch of fees, and they were charged for a delayed transfer, which caused small overdrafts for short periods of time.
There was more than $300 in fees, she says.
I look at her. These fees were charged, and they returned less than half, in spite of the fact, that it was a matter of less than $20 for less than two days, and there were fees of more than $300. This reminds me of going to Kinko's, where my last bill looked like this:
Co-worker breathing fee: $11
Paper jammed in machine fee: $17
Greasy hair fee: $4
We could be playing Dungeons and Dragons at home fee: $26
We're ugly fee: $14
We can see you're a dumb blonde so we're totally going to fuck you over fee: $230
Extra fee for being a foreigner fee: $6
You're smarter than us fee: $18
Turning on the machine fee: $10
First second machine running fee: $8
Self-service fee: $24
5 sheets faxed: $0.50
Total: $368.50
I am not going to ask her, if she thinks there might be a better reason for the $130 returned fees, than for the $300 fees charged in the first place. I look at Idiot Armycut. I realize, my frontdoor is smarter than him. He looks dumber than wood. And my frontdoor, which is also wooden, at least has a window in it, revealing that there's anything behind the wood. It also has a doorknob, which indicates there is an access, to what is behind the wood. Idiot Armycut only signals one thing. Wood. Dumb as wood. I'm scared now, these two together are dumb enough to threaten Kinko's in taking bottom place of Dumb Staff and Happy FeeFucking Customer Service.
It is clear to me, that they have been hired here in Washington Mutual because they were to stupid to check out movies in Blockbuster, let alone the challenging task of laying sliced pickles in hamburgers at McDonalds (I know that, because McDonalds are very particualar about only hiring people, who can stay with one pickled cucumber slice per hamburger, and none of these two have that kind of math/precision/consistence skills tracable anywhere in their four eyes).
I ask her, Does it matter to you, that I have a ton of money on my other account with you guys, you know, the normal bank deal where you would've just taken the $2 missing in the checking account from that savings account, sort of let me spot myself from one account to the other - you know, the normal bank way?
She says, No, then we couldn't really charge you $54 if we'd let you cover yourself, now could we?
I ask, Do you think it's a reasonable way to treat and punish a customer, who has thousands of dollars in and out of accounts, to charge $54 for lending me $2 for one day?
She says, That's how we do.
I swallow, find some big smile and say with a shaky voice, How fast can I get out of here if I just pay the $54?
Perm looks at Wood and says, I think you can take it from here. Wood closes his mouth. He's drooling. I think, Oh my God, he has a condition. Something is wrong. These people are in charge of my money.
I RUN for the exit.
I could hardly even run home for anger and fear filling my body. Now, it's time to change focus. That was this morning. Tonight is tonight. We have a Wednesday night event at this house. We're going to elect an official mascot for the upstairs of our house. The election is between Friend, my fish, who is now in foster care by the friends of mine living here, and a dear friend of the house, she goes by the name Strap-on Spice. I will be spokes person for my fish Friend, and represent him in the disciplines, where he might get in trouble himself, like the ball gown contest. The swimsuit contest, I believe he'll win over Strap-on any day, even though she's hot.
It's going to be a ton of fun. I'll tell you tomorrow who won and will in the future be the mascot of our house. I hereby let go of bad feelings from this morning. And start being excited about tonight.
Have a great day.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Readers, Masturbators, Workers!
I sometimes wonder who reads this blog. Not much, because to me, it's like pondering the end of the universe, or, what's going to happen after death, or, why did I choose these fucked up parents and not someone loaded, loving, and a little more Larry Davidish? (Sorry, Memsahib President aka My Holy Mother, I didn't really mean that. And you actually are pretty much like Larry David. When you get to know you.) Anyway, who reads this blog is most of the time a huge mystery to me, and I don't try to drive myself insane by figuring out the impossible. I imagine a very good deal of the hits are some fucked up idiots with a hard on in their hand, who get so disappointed when they type "fuck" or "asshole" or "bukkake", or "Mother Mary goes down on the Lord", and then they end up in here - fucking eh; Am I going to masturbate to this wordshit, where are the pictures, lady, and what's it about sexy cows being bullies and all this WORDSHIT??? - this is not what I was looking for, fucking fucking fucking Google fucking HateGoogleFuck!!!! I imagine all these poor souls getting directed in here because of my dirty language, and all the disappointment and all the shrinking dicks it has caused. I'm sorry. I mean, I could be sorry.
Actually, I don't think I ever wrote bukkake before. Now I did, even twice, and expect it to get the hit counter to go beserk. WELCOME BUKKAKE SEEKERS!! But guess what? This is not a bukkake blog! Hahahahahaha, you wasted your precious horny time reading this, oooh, aahahahaha....oh, ahaaa, yep, I'm a small person, who enjoys not satisfying horny people. Coined.
Then once in a while, it happens, that I meet someone, who tells me that they occasionally read my blog. It's usually combined with the phrase, When I'm really bored at work. Or, When I should be studying. Or, When I'm breastfeeding (love that one, that's like supersubtle petting on some sophisticated level, much better than masturbation as an activity in front of a blog, I mean. Like, I would be really ANGRY if I found out, that you were naked right now, reading this. It would just piss me off. Do NOT read this blog naked. Just DON'T! For fuck's sake. Is that too much to ask? But, ok, you can breastfeed. I like that.)
This week I ran into an old friend who said that she reads my blog. She did the other usual follow ups to the phrase; told me it's a huge blog, almost excusing that she's not reading all of it, secretely checked my paleness-level to see if I ever do anything else in life than sit indoors and write this huge blog (at least she did not, as I've tried before, at all get accusing and hostile about this volume fact - som people react as if I'm trying to force them to read a phone book or something extremely massive and horrible. That is the point where I usually very humbly try to point out, that they typed the address in the little funny window and stayed there, and I really appreciate it, and I try to stop myself before I hear myself make excuses for all this blogging I force onto them), then she not so secretely looked at my teeth to see if I actually do floss as I say I so wish to do, said she really enjoyed the blasphemy and the posting about the bank - actually, that was a really funny one, the one about the tremendously stupid blonde and the doorman, I think I'll repost that one tomorrow as a celebration of a time I was really funny, I think I've been blogging long enough to do that, I mean, how many repeated editions are there not of Bob Dylan songs, not to mention Leonard Cohen, and how many times in how many collections have the same old tedious Hemingway short story about a man and a man, and a man, and maybe another - oh, here it comes - man, not been published over, and over, and fucking over again, can I not republish a single blog posting to manifest its greatness, I think I can and will tomorrow, and by the way, it'll probably be the closest I can get to satisfy those horny bastards confusing their way in here anyway, I mean, stupidity does after all seem to be the most solid turn-on factor and basic ingredient in all porn, the one thing they never let down or leave out of the movies is the amazingly mindblowing stupidity they display in every facial expression, every dramatic curve, every set-up, and every grunt in every fucking porn movie ever made. In the right mood, at the right level, with the right attitude and intention, I believe tomorrow could be a good posting for a good jerk-off. Just focus on the sexy aspects of being completely emptyheaded - and working in a bank, administering other people's money!! I'm almost turned on myself now, better stop and save my energy for tomorrow. Mmmm.
So, I know now, that she sometimes stops by here. I'm happy and proud to know that. Whether or not it's because she's bored at work, I'm just happy to know she enjoys to read. And whether or not she masturbates while doing so, that doesn't really make the difference either. And then again. What would actually thrill me would be to know, that the core reader of this blog generally was the bored, masturbating person reading at work. What an interesting segment of the population to have a hold of. Anyway. Thanks for reading, whoever you are, whatever you're up to.
Actually, I don't think I ever wrote bukkake before. Now I did, even twice, and expect it to get the hit counter to go beserk. WELCOME BUKKAKE SEEKERS!! But guess what? This is not a bukkake blog! Hahahahahaha, you wasted your precious horny time reading this, oooh, aahahahaha....oh, ahaaa, yep, I'm a small person, who enjoys not satisfying horny people. Coined.
Then once in a while, it happens, that I meet someone, who tells me that they occasionally read my blog. It's usually combined with the phrase, When I'm really bored at work. Or, When I should be studying. Or, When I'm breastfeeding (love that one, that's like supersubtle petting on some sophisticated level, much better than masturbation as an activity in front of a blog, I mean. Like, I would be really ANGRY if I found out, that you were naked right now, reading this. It would just piss me off. Do NOT read this blog naked. Just DON'T! For fuck's sake. Is that too much to ask? But, ok, you can breastfeed. I like that.)
This week I ran into an old friend who said that she reads my blog. She did the other usual follow ups to the phrase; told me it's a huge blog, almost excusing that she's not reading all of it, secretely checked my paleness-level to see if I ever do anything else in life than sit indoors and write this huge blog (at least she did not, as I've tried before, at all get accusing and hostile about this volume fact - som people react as if I'm trying to force them to read a phone book or something extremely massive and horrible. That is the point where I usually very humbly try to point out, that they typed the address in the little funny window and stayed there, and I really appreciate it, and I try to stop myself before I hear myself make excuses for all this blogging I force onto them), then she not so secretely looked at my teeth to see if I actually do floss as I say I so wish to do, said she really enjoyed the blasphemy and the posting about the bank - actually, that was a really funny one, the one about the tremendously stupid blonde and the doorman, I think I'll repost that one tomorrow as a celebration of a time I was really funny, I think I've been blogging long enough to do that, I mean, how many repeated editions are there not of Bob Dylan songs, not to mention Leonard Cohen, and how many times in how many collections have the same old tedious Hemingway short story about a man and a man, and a man, and maybe another - oh, here it comes - man, not been published over, and over, and fucking over again, can I not republish a single blog posting to manifest its greatness, I think I can and will tomorrow, and by the way, it'll probably be the closest I can get to satisfy those horny bastards confusing their way in here anyway, I mean, stupidity does after all seem to be the most solid turn-on factor and basic ingredient in all porn, the one thing they never let down or leave out of the movies is the amazingly mindblowing stupidity they display in every facial expression, every dramatic curve, every set-up, and every grunt in every fucking porn movie ever made. In the right mood, at the right level, with the right attitude and intention, I believe tomorrow could be a good posting for a good jerk-off. Just focus on the sexy aspects of being completely emptyheaded - and working in a bank, administering other people's money!! I'm almost turned on myself now, better stop and save my energy for tomorrow. Mmmm.
So, I know now, that she sometimes stops by here. I'm happy and proud to know that. Whether or not it's because she's bored at work, I'm just happy to know she enjoys to read. And whether or not she masturbates while doing so, that doesn't really make the difference either. And then again. What would actually thrill me would be to know, that the core reader of this blog generally was the bored, masturbating person reading at work. What an interesting segment of the population to have a hold of. Anyway. Thanks for reading, whoever you are, whatever you're up to.
Monday, June 09, 2008
Quotes I Dig
Alcoholics build defenses like the Dutch build dikes. I spent the first twelve years or so of my married life assuring myself that I "just liked to drink." I also employed the world-famous Hemingway Defense. Although never clearly articulated (it would not be manly to do so), the Hemingway Defense goes something like this: as a writer, I am a very sensitive fellow, but I am also a man, and real men don't give in to their sensitivities. Only sissy-men do that. Therefore I drink. How else can I face the existential horror of it all and continue to work? Besides, come on, I can handle it. A real man always can.
Then, in the early eighties, Maine's legislature enacted a returnable-bottle and -can law. Instead of going into the trash, my sixteen-ounce cans of Miller Lite started going into a plastic container in the garage. One Thursday night I went out there to toss in a few dead soldiers and saw that this container, which had been empty on Monday night, was now almost full. And since I was the only one in the house who drank Miller Lite--
Holy shit, I'm an alcoholic, I thought, and there was no dissenting opinion from inside my head - I was, after all, the guy who had written The Shining without even realizing (at least until that night) that I was writing about myself. My reaction to this idea wasn't denial or disagreement; it was what I'd call frightened determination. You have to be careful, then, I clearly remember thinking. Because if you fuck up--
If I fucked up, rolled my car over on a back road some night or blew an interview on live TV, someone would tell me I ought to get control of my drinking, and telling an alcoholic to control his drinking is like telling a guy suffering the world's most cataclysmic case of diarrhea to control his shitting. A friend of mine who has been through this tells an amusing story about his first tentative effort to get a grip on his increasingly slippery life. He went to a counsellor and said his wife was worried that he was drinking too much.
"How much do you drink?" the counsellor asked.
My friend looked at the counsellor with disbelief. "All of it," he said, as if that whould have been self-evident.
I know how he felt. It's been almost twelve years since I took a drink, and I'm still struck by disbelief when I see someone in a restaurant with a half-finished glass of wine near at hand. I want to get up, go over, and yell "Finish that! Why don't you finish that?" into his or her face. I found the idea of social drinking ludicrous- if you didn't want to get drunk, why not just have a Coke?
Stephen King, "On Writing"
Then, in the early eighties, Maine's legislature enacted a returnable-bottle and -can law. Instead of going into the trash, my sixteen-ounce cans of Miller Lite started going into a plastic container in the garage. One Thursday night I went out there to toss in a few dead soldiers and saw that this container, which had been empty on Monday night, was now almost full. And since I was the only one in the house who drank Miller Lite--
Holy shit, I'm an alcoholic, I thought, and there was no dissenting opinion from inside my head - I was, after all, the guy who had written The Shining without even realizing (at least until that night) that I was writing about myself. My reaction to this idea wasn't denial or disagreement; it was what I'd call frightened determination. You have to be careful, then, I clearly remember thinking. Because if you fuck up--
If I fucked up, rolled my car over on a back road some night or blew an interview on live TV, someone would tell me I ought to get control of my drinking, and telling an alcoholic to control his drinking is like telling a guy suffering the world's most cataclysmic case of diarrhea to control his shitting. A friend of mine who has been through this tells an amusing story about his first tentative effort to get a grip on his increasingly slippery life. He went to a counsellor and said his wife was worried that he was drinking too much.
"How much do you drink?" the counsellor asked.
My friend looked at the counsellor with disbelief. "All of it," he said, as if that whould have been self-evident.
I know how he felt. It's been almost twelve years since I took a drink, and I'm still struck by disbelief when I see someone in a restaurant with a half-finished glass of wine near at hand. I want to get up, go over, and yell "Finish that! Why don't you finish that?" into his or her face. I found the idea of social drinking ludicrous- if you didn't want to get drunk, why not just have a Coke?
Stephen King, "On Writing"
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
Back and Forth
Almost done with the translation of No Other Life, a poetry collection by Gary Young. 162 poems, now existing in Danish as well. So far I've had two people read and edit my translation. I have one final guy about to edit them, he's a linguistics guy, a Danish friend from University of Copenhagen and UC Berkeley. With a great interest in poetry. I'll be completely confident when he's done. My mother reminded me yesterday: Translations are like women. Either they are ugly and faithful or they're beautiful and unfaithful.
I could write long and tediously about the challenges of translation. Like, punctuation. I love commas, but often they won't work in Danish. The English comma often has to be replaced with a : or a ; or a " or a . - not to confuse. It can hurt, like really hurt. Visually, breath-wise, timing, flux, oh, it's so different. Commas are like dear little pets, like, you know, fleas or ticks I suppose, but then really sweet and well-educated ones, the kind you want to keep and can't help adoring and feel gratitude towards. But the replacement can be necessaary, you don't want to activate the many layers of thought in the reader, going, Oh, ok, this was in English where it made sense, now in Danish you mean, yeah, ok, I get it, I'll just read these lines again, now that I know what to get from them. I neither want to perform violence upon the Danish grammar to insist on some originality, some word, some wonderful, magnificent comma, which otherwise would be lost. I will loose it. Something will always be lost in translation. I definitely avoid being overly creative in Danish in order to keep everything as close to the original as possible, because I sense the constant risk of some weird and constructed Danish taking focus. I abstain from really using my own originality in replacing irreplacable meanings and experessions, simply because it feels too unfaithful and immediately would - for me - involve a thought about the translator, aha, smart translation, mhm, something like that. I don't want anyone to think of me while reading Gary Young. No, I want you to read smoothly and pleased. Not think it's a good translation, not be confused, but just enjoy the language and get the content, the athmospere, and the poetry, without ever thinking about it coming from another language in the first place. Actually it was Gary who once said to me, your readers don't read the story. They read the writing.
I've done this translation for fun and passion, I still don't know if anyone wants to publish it. They should, I think it's great. I'd want the Danish people to read this. But poetry is hard, people don't really read it. Maybe there's not enough crime and thriller in poetry. Maybe it can be too good, too sensitive, too into your heart to bear. If a Danish poetry collection sells more than twohundred copies, it's a huge success. Anyway, I did it for my own pleasure of working with the wonderful poetry of Gary's, and the challenge of re-creating it in Danish.
A poem from the book- in English and Danish:
I discovered a Journal
I discovered a journal in the children's ward, and read, I'm a mother, my little boy has cancer. Further on, a girl has written, this is my nineteenth operation. She says, sometimes it's easier to write than to talk, and I'm so afraid. She's left me a page in the book. My son is sleeping in the room next door. This afternoon, I held my whole weight to his body while a doctor drove needles deep into his leg. My son screamed, Daddy, they're hurting me, don't let them hurt me, make them stop. I want to write, how brave you are, but I need a little courage of my own, so I write, forgive me, I know I let them hurt you, please don't worry. If I have to, I can do it again.
Jeg opdagede en dagbog
Jeg opdagede en dagbog fra børneafdelingen og læste: Jeg er en mor, min lille dreng har kræft. Længere fremme havde en pige skrevet: Dette er min nittende operation. Hun siger: Sommetider er det lettere at skrive end at tale, og jeg er så bange. Hun har efterladt en side i bogen til mig. Min søn sover i værelset ved siden af. I eftermiddag pressede jeg hele min vægt ned over hans krop, mens en læge førte nåle dybt ind i hans ben. Min søn skreg: Far, de gør mig ondt, lad dem ikke gøre mig ondt, få dem til at holde op. Jeg ønsker at skrive, hvor modig du er, men jeg behøver lidt mod selv, så jeg skriver: Tilgiv mig, jeg ved, jeg lod dem gøre dig ondt, du skal ikke være urolig. Hvis jeg bliver nødt til det, kan jeg gøre det igen.
Gary Young, No Other Life/Intet andet liv
I could write long and tediously about the challenges of translation. Like, punctuation. I love commas, but often they won't work in Danish. The English comma often has to be replaced with a : or a ; or a " or a . - not to confuse. It can hurt, like really hurt. Visually, breath-wise, timing, flux, oh, it's so different. Commas are like dear little pets, like, you know, fleas or ticks I suppose, but then really sweet and well-educated ones, the kind you want to keep and can't help adoring and feel gratitude towards. But the replacement can be necessaary, you don't want to activate the many layers of thought in the reader, going, Oh, ok, this was in English where it made sense, now in Danish you mean, yeah, ok, I get it, I'll just read these lines again, now that I know what to get from them. I neither want to perform violence upon the Danish grammar to insist on some originality, some word, some wonderful, magnificent comma, which otherwise would be lost. I will loose it. Something will always be lost in translation. I definitely avoid being overly creative in Danish in order to keep everything as close to the original as possible, because I sense the constant risk of some weird and constructed Danish taking focus. I abstain from really using my own originality in replacing irreplacable meanings and experessions, simply because it feels too unfaithful and immediately would - for me - involve a thought about the translator, aha, smart translation, mhm, something like that. I don't want anyone to think of me while reading Gary Young. No, I want you to read smoothly and pleased. Not think it's a good translation, not be confused, but just enjoy the language and get the content, the athmospere, and the poetry, without ever thinking about it coming from another language in the first place. Actually it was Gary who once said to me, your readers don't read the story. They read the writing.
I've done this translation for fun and passion, I still don't know if anyone wants to publish it. They should, I think it's great. I'd want the Danish people to read this. But poetry is hard, people don't really read it. Maybe there's not enough crime and thriller in poetry. Maybe it can be too good, too sensitive, too into your heart to bear. If a Danish poetry collection sells more than twohundred copies, it's a huge success. Anyway, I did it for my own pleasure of working with the wonderful poetry of Gary's, and the challenge of re-creating it in Danish.
A poem from the book- in English and Danish:
I discovered a Journal
I discovered a journal in the children's ward, and read, I'm a mother, my little boy has cancer. Further on, a girl has written, this is my nineteenth operation. She says, sometimes it's easier to write than to talk, and I'm so afraid. She's left me a page in the book. My son is sleeping in the room next door. This afternoon, I held my whole weight to his body while a doctor drove needles deep into his leg. My son screamed, Daddy, they're hurting me, don't let them hurt me, make them stop. I want to write, how brave you are, but I need a little courage of my own, so I write, forgive me, I know I let them hurt you, please don't worry. If I have to, I can do it again.
Jeg opdagede en dagbog
Jeg opdagede en dagbog fra børneafdelingen og læste: Jeg er en mor, min lille dreng har kræft. Længere fremme havde en pige skrevet: Dette er min nittende operation. Hun siger: Sommetider er det lettere at skrive end at tale, og jeg er så bange. Hun har efterladt en side i bogen til mig. Min søn sover i værelset ved siden af. I eftermiddag pressede jeg hele min vægt ned over hans krop, mens en læge førte nåle dybt ind i hans ben. Min søn skreg: Far, de gør mig ondt, lad dem ikke gøre mig ondt, få dem til at holde op. Jeg ønsker at skrive, hvor modig du er, men jeg behøver lidt mod selv, så jeg skriver: Tilgiv mig, jeg ved, jeg lod dem gøre dig ondt, du skal ikke være urolig. Hvis jeg bliver nødt til det, kan jeg gøre det igen.
Gary Young, No Other Life/Intet andet liv
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