The era of the Hippopotamus.
It’s been awhile.
It’s been months.
A new year has arrived
and in a sense a new era has begun:
The era of the Hippopotamus.
It will be good tidings.
The age of the queen is long gone.
The ice has melted,
the shadows scattered.
Left is happiness, pink fluffy clouds
and the jumpiness of Tiger.
One might think the age of writing is over.
It is not.
It lies dormant.
Exhausted from years of pen wrestling.
But fear not!
Within each hippopotamus lies a purple dragon
always ready with a fiery pen.
But for now…
So much to do!
Busy busy busy.
There are feelings to feel.
Jumps to jump.
Laughters to laugh.
Cuddles to cuddle.
Paintings to paint.
Hugs to hug.
Kisses to kiss.
Cookies to eat.
The Hippopotamus has dried up from
years of being locked up in ice
or burnt by dragonfire not yet controlled.
It is time for it to soak for awhile.
- And you know,
all the ice and fire has formed a rather well tempered pool
complete with pink cocktails and umbrellas. –
The age of the Hippopotami is bright and playful.
You are all welcome to join in!
Happy diving!
The boy that wrecked her world.
Once upon a time,
or so we’re told,
there was a blond little girl.
Her hut was a castle
and her world was a dream shrouded in pink.
The wee lass walked through life believing the best,
ofcourse she read the headlines and watched the daily news,
but her world was pink and fuzzy so all those terrible things must happen elsewhere,
in some other place, in some other world.
Naïve, say some.
Idealistic, says her.
The world was a beautiful place.
And so one day,
the little girl came to work temporarily at a school hidden beneath the leaves.
It was like all the other schools she’d come too,
a little noisier, but that was the end of it.
As she was trying to instruct a class in the art of
“how-to-sit-down-and-be-quiet-whilst-listening-to-the-teacher-and-pulling-a-thread-through-a-needle”
a group of youngsters crashed into her classroom,
trashed it in seconds with wet paper towles
and ran off.
As the pedagogic sub she is,
she went after them to ask them to clean up their mess.
On this day,
the sun shone through the windows with the warmth of a summers last effort to beat the oncoming autumn,
the leaves left on the trees rattled in bristling colors of red, orange and yellow.
It was a wonderful october day and she was looking forward to a nice stroll in the fresh air after classes hand in hand with the prince.
Instead this day ended in panic and tears.
As the youngsters were told off,
the got angry.
Not used to being told what to do,
the smallest of them – a thin, blond kid of fourteen or so -
exploded into a cascade of foul language.
He spewed up the dirties words she’d ever hear
- she couldn’t even in her darkest imagination think them up -
and they were all directed at her.
As the words came to an end,
his body took over.
With his fist an inch from her nose,
he threatened her to life.
And threw her into a locker.
The lass was fine with the defamation,
with the threats,
even with being thrown into a locker.
What she wasn’t fine with was the notion,
the realisation,
of the world as it is.
Not as she perceives it,
but as it truly is.
As she crashed into that iron locker
every bad thing she ever read, saw or heard about the world
became true.
Instantly,
everything the papers said was real.
The violence,
the insolence,
the intolerance,
the lack of respect,
the degeneration of our kind.
All of it became utterly true.
The bony kid came back awhile later,
his head hanging in shame,
and he apologised.
Said, he was sorry, that he knew he was wrong and out of line and that he was aware that he had a problem with anger and control.
She accepted, and the shook hands.
Peace.
And that apology was important.
It gave her the hope he momentarily robbed her off.
It gave her hope,
that people can change.
That this world isn’t fallen, not just yet.
There is still hope of tomorrow.
But what is irreversible,
is the burning of her safe, fuzzy world.
As he spat the word whore to her face it came crashing down and broke into a million pieces.
She will never get it back.
And now as she walks through the world,
the shadows are no longer shapes she can play with or not even belonging to trees, houses or animals,
instead the shadows are dangerous, treacherous and watching.
Now,
the world is filled with evil.
Filled with ugliness.
In a sense she should thank him for opening her eyes.
But it is yet too soon.
She do not wish to see.
Once upon a time
there was a girl who saw the good in life,
the love in people,
the hope in the air.
A few days ago,
she kissed her world goodbye.
Jig-saw puzzlement.
As you finally find that one piece that’s been missing,
the one you’ve searched with torches and fire for ages for,
even looked under the carpets, lifted a few heavy furnitures, asked your neighbours and consulted with both husbocken and hustomten,
never to have found nothing.
As you finally find that and fill that empty blank space that’s been glaring at you for so long,
as you fill it,
in an instant at least one of the other pieces go missing.
You find a corner, and the centerpiece disappear.
You find the window, and the door has suddenly wandered off.
You find the oaktree, and the forest has been burned to the ground.
It’s never easy, is it.
You will never hold all the pieces at once.
Life just don’t work that way.
Atleast she’s found the centerpiece.
The big red rose in the middle.
She has no corners.
But she’s got the rose.
1+1=One
It’s been awhile.
A summer’s gone by.
In a haze.
A complete haze.
A scarecrow and a queen.
An open fire and a candle.
An old shop smelling of camphor and a less old one with cold tiles.
Happy faces.
Happy feelings.
Dressed up, dressed out, dressed off.
Roses and trembling fingers.
Laughter and sunshine.
See, ladies and gentlemen,
sometimes it comes to you
- if only for a short time -
Happiness.
It smacks you in the face
as you sit on a bridge with your feet dangling over the water
watching the never setting sun with your head on a shoulder,
or as you wake up with your hand being clutched by another hand,
or as you forget yourself completely at work
and start to giggle infront of a huge group of germans
or as you sit in your little 1800s shop poking the fire
and listen to the sound of rain hitting the cobbles outside
or as you look into someone elses eyes
and see yourself reflected as a brightly shining star
or simply as you go to bed with a smile and wake up exactly the same.
Yes, it’s been awhile.
She’s been busy.
They’ve been busy.
I am THE fag-hag. Hear my roar.
Tomorrow is the beginning of Euro-Pride 2008 here in Stockholm.
The kick-off will take place at the fag-hags workplace – Skansen.
A fabulous party.
A manifestation of love.
Of people being proud of who they are.
This feat naturally causes some debate.
And ignorant people may possibly be somewhat frigtenned of things they have a hard time grasping.
But there’s a difference between being ignorant and being insolent.
Somewher we must draw a line and put our fists down.
Let me set the scene for you:
A bus.
A silent bus.
Stopped to wait for the boats to pass by.
An old lady.
Talking to the busdriver adout the word Pride. How wrong it is for “them” to use that word. How childish and immature “they” are. How “they” ought to grow up. How “they” should be thankfull.
The fag-hag sitting at the far end of the bus, hearing every word, growing more and more insulted for every dispicable word the lady spat out. She cannot remember them all by now. Her boilng mind has blown them all away.
In the end it was the spitting upon everything she stands for, about the disrespect for love, and the despising of so many of her friends and loved ones that made her put on the armous and step up to the fight.
So the fag-hag got up. Walked the long line towards the front of the bus, feeling every head turn in the silence that only a bus with the engine turned off can produce, came up to the old lady, looked her into the eyes and said:
You know you should be careful with what yousay. You never know who can here you and get offended – and get wounded by it. You just called me and my loved ones immature and childish. What gives you the right to deem people you’ve never met.
The lady shrunk back. Tried to find her footing and make the fag-hag an exeption to her misguided rule.
She failed.
They got off discussing and fag-hag really tried to be dipomatic but in the end she was shaking by rage by all the stupidity the lady had blurted out.
To the fag-hag, love is pure.
Sex, now that’s another thing. Secondary.
Love comes first and is beautiful in every form.
Marriage has to do with swearing truthfulness and love to your beloved one.
Now, according to the lady – and this was BIG news to the fag-hag – the society at large views marriage as a sexual union between man and woman. A sexual union. At this, the fag-hag only felt sorry for the lady.
But as the lady continued and said that “you people” disrespect a thousand year old cultural history… the fag-hag had it with diplomacy!
Fortunately she was shaking too much with rage that whe was unable to punch the lady in the face.
“You people should find your own semantics and don’t go take ours!”
(Sometimes the fag-hag is embarrassed to call herself heterosexual. Especially when folks like that open their mouths.)
It is that kind of people that makes the fag-hag, the queen, the dragon, the coala and the rest of her loose faith, loos heart.
The lady asked her to respect her opinions. But if it’s all down to respect – how come the lady can’t respect such a large part of the society and yet craves respect from the ones she despises?
Ofcourse she’s allowed her opinions. But how can she demand respect when she clearly lacks it herself? Everyone is to have their own mind, but they should eb aware that that opinion might hurt people when spoken out loud and in public.
What happened to everyone being alike and worth the same?
All alike – all unlike?
‘Why should we be greatful to be tolerated – as the lady so nicely put it? Should we not demand tolerance, acceptance and respect? Why shouldn’t we have what everyone else takes for granted? What makes us – who so strongly believe in love – sp unworthy of it?
Next time the fag-hag won’t stop at wearing armour. Next time she’ll bring out her shining lance too.
But tomorrow, let’s forget about the sad sad insolent people.
Tomorrow, let’s be fabulous!
Saknad.
Blott en dag.
Och ändå,
en outsäglig saknad.
Bra förvisso,
men tillsynes bottenlös
och oändlig.
Ett hav av tid framför oss,
och ett stilla hopp
om att det som sägs ska vara sant:
Tempus fugit.
Det måste vara sant.
Medvind.
Ibland,
när det är medvind,
blir man alldeles paralyserad
av att man för en gångs skull har vinden i ryggen och inte spottandes i ansiktet.
Det är så pass att man stannar upp,
förundrad,
och undrar vad som hände,
istället för att ta tillfället i akt
och låta vinden bära en framåt,
istället för att flyta med.
Å andra sidan kan man likasågärna stanna upp en stund och lukta på blommorna.
Dawn.
The queen lay on the scarecrows chest
and watched the morninglight spread through transparent curtains,
his one arm around her, clutching her naked shoulder and her hand,
his other arm draped around the rest of her, his hand on her head,
softly caressing her with featherlike fingers,
his nose in her hair, snuffling gently.
Right then and there she realised it was worth it.
It is all worth it.
She fell asleep with a smile.
Flowers with happy faces while growing.
Happy days.
Older days.
Sunshine and rain.
Bus strike and promenades.
Camphor and underskirts.
Birthday and congratulations.
Surprises and strawberries in champagne.
Smiling flowers with bubbly hearts.
The queen has a good feeling inside.
It might be summer.
It might be age.
It might be flowers.
It might be something else.
Either way, it’s good.
It’s good.
The Scarecrow and the Queen of Selfdestruction.
Her pale cheek against his naked forearm.
Listening to his soft snores.
Starring into the pink sheets.
Turning the events of the early morning over in her head.
Unable to sleep.
A night when a rockstar became a scarecrow
and a ragdoll turned into a queen once again,
only not of ice this time, but of selfdestruction.
Two scared children at a deserted bus stop after a wet night out.
She’d carried him out of the pub.
He was babbling away the early morning light.
With just a flick of his wits,
he pushed one of her buttons.
A comment about nothing, and the box was open.
A push, and her tears came streaming down.
All her low self esteem,
so skilfully hidden beneath the surface of her smile,
burst open with just a little tug.
She knows she’s not beautiful,
she needs not be reminded of it.
It’s all but shallow, and yet…
All her insecurity wallowed up from inside.
Craving answers.
All her confusion mixed with alcohol and tears.
Begging for more.
He spoke.
And as he spoke he slowly turned into a scarecrow.
Lowly and frightenned.
Holding on to what once was.
Refusing to let go of the old and bad.
Afraid to walk into the new and the good.
Afraid of the string.
Afraid of the promise.
Afraid of the feelings.
Afraid of accepting, acknowledging, of facing himself and his heart.
Afraid of facing her and her way too big heart.
And as he spoke she slowly turned into a queen.
Desperate and scared.
Holding on to what could be.
Refusing to let go of the new and good.
She should have turned her heel.
She should have walked away.
But she stayed.
Thanks to that which he despises the most
- her lack of self preservation
- her lack of self esteem
- her lack of self.
She stayed.
Listened to him ranting on.
Understanding him and yet not at all.
Hating herself for staying.
Hating herself for listening.
Watching herself washing down the drain.
Hating herself for waiting.
For accepting.
Afraid that once the scarecrow has made up his mind,
once he’s come around,
that there will be nought left of her.
The strong person she really is,
means nothing at all without security.
And now there she lies,
next to a snoring scarecrow,
with her heart on the outside.
Feeling his naked skin against hers,
trying to grasp the notion of someone wanting so badly to be with her,
without being with her.
Trying to sort the signals.
Fascinated over how perfect goes to imperfect at the flick of the eye.
Amazed at how quickly it turns.
From feeling loved with every fibre of your body,
to complete loneliness,
despite the fact that his hair tickles your forehead,
that his arm lies around you,
that his nose snuggles your neck,
that his hand hugs yours.
As the light darkness of a northern summer falls over yet another night,
the Queen sits alone by her large window,
watching the bats fly about.
Conflicting feelings.
Confused feelings.
the Queen of Selfdestruction will wait.
Will continue.
Will go on hoping.
Will dry her tears and let him have his way.
Will delude herself for a little while longer.
But in the shadows
awaits the Queen of Ice.
Ready to step up to the challenge.
Ready to freeze it all away.
Ready to put up the walls.
Ready to become a hedgehog.
Ready to come to her rescue.
She stands by for now.
But when does “now” end?
the Queen of Ice knows it to be soon.
the Queen of Selfdestruction instead pretends to be oblivious.
This morning,
a ragdoll and a rockstar died.
This morning,
a scarecrow and a queen took their places.
