Monthly Archives: august 2012

Spor

Standard

 

Snøen hadde føket igjen

Over sporene du hadde satt i meg

De kunne anes når lyset falt

På den rette måten

Små skygger, fordypninger

Nesten usett

Som kunne vært bare forskyvninger

I muldjorda under

 

Slik at helhetsbildet på en eller annen måte

Ble litt skakt

Hele jeg, litt skakk

Hele jeg, aldri mer helt hel

 

Du så deg ikke tilbake

Det er min jord.

Venus og hunden

Standard

Nå følger den meg som en hund, depresjonen.

Liggende ved mine føtter, snerrende i mine drømmer

Armene mine, omfavnelsen, fylt av angst

 

Om natten er hun meg, statuen uten armer

Om natten er du ikke lenger deg

Eller jeg vet i hvert fall ikke

hva det betyr

 

Hunden puffer meg med snuten

når jeg glir mot mørket, mot lyset

Våker, verker

Skal jeg stryke den?

Blir den hos meg da?

Sparke løshunden er ikke i min natur

Eller er det nettopp det jeg er redd for

 

Jeg prøver å sy armer til Venus

Prøver i fortvilelse å feste dem

på hennes glatte, hvite skuldre

Blikket hennes alltid bortvendt

Hjertet hennes råttent, mistet

 

Om morgenen går vi ut, hunden og jeg

Jeg vil ikke kalle det fredelig sameksistens

heller mangel på muligheter

den er visst også lei av meg

jeg liker ikke øynene dens

rødrandet, kalde

 

Venus tenker på havet hun engang steg opp av

Lurer på hvor det ble av det

Ellers prøver hun stort sett å la være å tenke

Jeg er ikke sikker på hva hun gjør istedenfor

men ønsker at jeg fikk det til

Hvor lenge kan hun vente?

Og er det først og fremst fingertupper hun savner?

Husker hun følelsen av

Hud

Svaberg

Leppene dine

mot dem?

 

Fins det noen vei dit

hun sist hadde dem?

Det håper jeg ikke.

Det stedet bør man ikke besøke uten hund

Så kanskje var det derfor

jeg en dag fant den liggende ved min seng

 

Venus våkner

Hun liker det ikke

Livet klemmer og strammer i marmoren

Og hvordan klatre ned uten armer

Hvordan fly

kan ikke kjenne presset av luften mot håndflatene

Og egentlig er bena litt tunge

 

Jeg hvisker til henne når hunden sover

Det er noe som venter på deg

Det er et sted der du mangler

Hennes stenansikt uten tårer

tror meg fortsatt ikke

 

Jeg bare må klare å sy de armene

og klappe den jævla hunden

freedom faith music love

Standard

Rhythm slow like lovemaking

Driving again, the light piercing my eyes always now, I’m protecting my brain behind sunglasses. Can hardly look at anything, need darkness to have a moment of peace.

Sucking in every hour of comfort whenever the pain eases up; meanwhile training myself to focus my eyes far away, thus resting my wired, overworked, screaming brain. Pulling myself up, out, walking, soothing landscapes rescuing me, slow moving rhythm of my feet balancing my screwed-up nervous system. Giving in when I must, hours disappearing in fetal position.

Still, even this far down the road, there is sometimes music. This time, my newly found favorite song, and as usual, I’m obsessed. Sets me free for moments. Music cutting behind words, behind reason, straight into the wordless insides of me. The force of his voice and its emotions, the darkness and beauty of the words, the rhythm is pulling on me like tide….. Slow like lovemaking.

«…all the things she grants me
Freedom is not among those things
And freedom is by no means free..»

This is what I want. Freedom. But, oh, it is by no means free.

I want all the history that mars my body to be erased. I want to know who I am again. I want to be able to stay in myself without fear of the next pain, the endless cycles emptying me, over and over. Who would ever recognize what this is like for me? I can hardly grasp it myself.

* to mar:

1. To inflict damage, especially disfiguring damage, on.

2. To impair the soundness, perfection, or integrity of; spoil.

 That’s it: it has impaired the integrity of me; so that I don’t, any longer, know exactly who I am. My images of me, the stories of who I am, no longer really believable, when no one is a witness. Do you, does anyone, know my name?

Nights; awoken by aching, I twist, sweating and cold, in the covers.

«..the night pulled tight around me…»

Sobering to observe how coolly I now evaluate my symptoms at four in the morning, how without emotion I tell myself not to be afraid, because fear won’t help me, it is a luxury I can’t afford any more  (it shreds me to shaking, to panic). I tell myself that I will have to sleep now, and if the pain gets so bad I need hospital again, I will wake up. The phone is next to me, so now, sleep. Repeating like a mantra, «you’ll be okay. Believe it.»

How I, bleakly, on countless nights and days try to evaluate the strength, position, temporal development of my own symptoms, before administering (with a shudder of disgust) the drug of choice. Always, now, in a haze.

I am falling so deeply, so hard, where is the rock bottom which will catch me, stop me, crush me or bounce me back flying? The rock bottom; faith.

Trying to find faith. How do humans manage to believe?

Never religious, this is something I know nothing of, and yet, it is what it is now reduced to, as the only road to travel. They tell me; believe in the healing power of your body and mind, believe in the drugs, believe that there is a future. How? My immeasurable strength now diluted to homeopathic concentrations.

Can anyone tell me how to remember to keep the faith,  throughout the day: at 12 o’clock, shopping for groceries, when in the shower, paying the bills, when you’ve been turned down, you’re alone, or too much surrounded by others? At three in the morning, sleep evasive.

«…freedom is impossible, this I know

I can’t find it in no bedroom

Or wherever it is

I run and hide

No, I never did find it

By any one’s side…»

But…. I do find a measure of freedom in company, in belonging to someone and something, in giving myself over to what I love (dancing, the slow hip circle. Singing, when coming in on cue almost too late, the tardy rhythm so organic, bodily). Struggling so hard to believe, to have faith, is this where I will manage it? Moment by moment, refusing to feel the fear. Allowing only joy. Pleasure sweet like honey. Love, body, tears, friendship. I write lists of names: these people are my friends. I hold onto the slip of paper. Please speak my name.

Freedom; impossible. Still. But not always.

Faith; necessary.

(lyrics are quoted from Madrugada’s brilliant song, Sail away).