Wednesday, July 24, 2013

Poet’s secret word

  When I reread Secrets, this collection of poetry I rekindle my dark passions. My poems and stories are more than anything honoring the night and the savage human being.
  What is misplaced is once more found. Each morning we wake up in today’s dead society we lose a little bit more of what we truly are. My poetry helps me and will help you recover from that.
  They are openers, shining a dark in the gray light of day, moonlight and mist and shadow and fire revealing what civilization and a thoroughly oppressive society keep from you.
  When we are strongly encouraged and forced to work and stay awake during the day, where oppression is at its strongest we lose something infinitely precious.
  Well, this is a place where you will find the opposite and different effect, the opposite desires and stirrings. I am proud, I am, so very proud.
  I write, partly to inspire people, especially those walking the shadows to empower themselves, and at least it works for me… and also for a few others I know about. That also feels good, so very good.
  These thoughts crystallized in my mind (you guessed it) late one night, but also while I was groaning half asleep after the alarm clock had sounded the next morning.
  I had no intentions of writing a back cover text, for instance, but planned on only displaying the words, the subtitle «descriptions of what cannot be described».
  When I reread these poems my ambitions on their behalf and on the behalf of the publication grow. Perhaps I didn't fully understand and appreciate what this was about until I read it through. And I hadn't, until recently.
  But that night something… clicked and it keeps clicking.

  With this all the poems I have written in English have been published, except those that came to life and dishonor in South America and Thailand in the latter quarter of 2003. They were inscribed in my Diary of a Traveling Man late 2003 paper notebook and that one is more than likely lost forever at some hot and moist beach.
  I have made several attempts at recreating them, but it just doesn't work. Can I recreate the sound of the wave hitting the shore at exactly the moment I wrote a particular line, or the distinct and unique echoes of a door slamming in the soft wind from a shore in Pataya or a reef in Tierra Del Fuego? No way!
  You will find strains, pieces of them in this collection, though, inevitably, since they never really go away.

  I finished this two years ahead of schedule. It was done. The last poem had been engraved. The puzzle was complete, or as complete as it will be.
  On the maxi collection containing all the other collections up to August 2003 I used small fonts and tight spacing in order to reduce the number of pages and the sales price. I wanted this one to be different, to be big and spacey, easy on the eyes and spirit (but demanding on the mind and heart).
  This will probably, the way it looks right now at least be my last collection of poems. I have said all I can say and will say with my four hundred and thirty-one pieces of poetry, with this particular method of expression, and any more would be to repeat myself both in form and content and I try extremely hard to not do that. At this point I feel like I have covered every single piece of my interests and passions extensively. If I should even attempt to write another, it will have to be something completely different. Even ideas for single poems will be ignored if they don’t bring something radically new to me.
  If I live to be a hundred I will most certainly return to poetry, in one way or another, though. For now a prolonged break feels very right. What started in 1989 as hesitant and coincidental steps has at this point run its course. And it feels strange writing that, but not wrong.
  The problem is, as you might guess, even as I sit here writing this, that the ideas keep flooding me like a waterfall.
  I expected nothing less…

  One Sherwood Forest
  2013-07-18
  210. night 12068, in the 13. year in the time of the Twilight Storm.


Monday, July 22, 2013

Outlook

  I have a rare, even unique outlook of existence and life, and I bring that with me into my writing and art, creating something that is clearly, unequivocally original.
  I've read thousands of books, watched thousands of films and still have yet to find any even close to what I have done and want to do.
  Most writers and artists are unfortunately pretty much average, well-adapted citizens. Originality and striving for it isn't their strong suit, and the results show in their writing and art.
  What I love to read, watch, listen to and experience is truly independent and original work, thoughts and actions. It is really that simple. Too bad it is almost totally absent today, rare as birds flying in the night.
  I want mature, truly mature books, films, music and art not insulting the reader with tons of censorship and social conventions. Censorship, both overt and concealed makes finding such items difficult, to say it the least.

  I write the kind of books and make the kind of art I love to read, listen to, watch and experience.

Sunday, July 14, 2013

My life as cycles (III)

  My life as cycles (II)

  The next cycle was from 1997 and four years ahead.
  I inherited the house and the property and decided to make an attempt at keeping it. It needed a lot of fixing, of work and money, but my stubborn streak prevailed.
  So, I became a businessman…
  Like earlier, with the vacuum cleaners I realized that I was good at it. We sold books, music and comics, and I think I sold far more of our products than most others would have done.
  But it still wasn't enough. I realized that I was only good at the art of selling, not at business. We never actually went bankrupt, but we didn't really earn much money on it and discontinued the company.
  I spent most of the year outdoors in 2000, in order to do research for my novel Thunder Road: Ice and Fire. It was an amazing experience. I had always enjoyed spending time in nature, in the forest, but that segmented it. I found that I could survive, almost without help from civilization at all, and in a place where there is very little game left. I mostly fed on roots and herbs and the occasional, rare visit to the local grocery store. I spent eight months outside from March to November, writing on an old laptop and carrying lots of batteries.
  The first year I did it because of research. The next I did it because I had to. There was not much money left, not even to pay for electricity. I lost myself in the forest, and it hardly felt bad at all, but on the contrary like the right, the perfect thing to do. Even if I started out fairly unskilled I still managed. That tells me all of us can do so, if we put our minds to it.
  One «break» from that, one more highlight, was when I sneaked onboard the train to Gothenburg without paying and participated in the protests, the «riots» (mainstream media strikes again). We activists had a shared experience there, with a value that can hardly be measured.
  I sold the house and the property not long after my return. The sale was finalized in October. I traveled to London to find a place to stay, but the prices had increased so much in the eight years since I had lived there that living there and paying for an apartment was totally unfeasible. So, I returned to Norway and moved in with a friend, until I found a place to live three weeks later.
  I had started playing poker in earnest, on the web during that time. My first small wins were in August, even though it wasn't sufficient, even close at being sufficient as a living.
  My new, rented place felt strange at first, but I quickly made it my own and found the nearby forest and mountains to roam. I found myself fairly wealthy, even though I knew my small fortune wouldn't last that long if I didn't add to it.
  The next cycle lasted from that moment until December 2003 or perhaps February 2004.
  Three things struck me more or less simultaneously: The digital age had come and I could publish my books fairly inexpensive. I could travel, travel the world. And I could play poker at a fairly high level.
  And I did. I began my travels across the world in late December, making preparations for the publication of the Norwegian edition of Dreams Belong to the Night. And I played poker, live poker and on the web, where an entire new world created itself for us all.
  Two old and «renowned» British betting companies wanted in on the emerging poker craze and sent out words to their customers, imploring them to join in. In what I and friends call the New Klondike there was an enormous influx of new poker players both online and offline… that couldn't play poker. In the period of January to April 2002 I won approximately $150.000. You just had to sit down by a table and chips (and thereby money) would literally flow your way.
  I published my novel and began my Journey across the Earth, one that should, with a few breaks and interruptions last two years.
  It was definitely the best part of my life so far. It suddenly struck me: I had, through time and patience achieved all the goals I had set for myself when I was twenty. It was so beyond satisfying all of it. Sitting there with my published novels in my hands, all the great places I visited and experiences I enjoyed. This was indeed the life I had envisioned for myself when I was twenty.
  I basically made two important mistakes. I wanted to publish my book before leaving Norway, but in the digital age I should have realized that I could have published it from Antarctica and it wouldn't matter. So I didn't move my base of operations, so to speak, which would clearly have been beneficial later. And I presumed the New Klondyke would last forever, which was stupid, of course. It wasn't like I threw away money. Compared to how others would have spent it I was quite modest, like I have always been.
  But I still ended up suffering from what should have been a predictable situation. New Klondyke ended. The really bad players didn't have more money left to play with and the rest got better, improved their game. Things evened out. Nothing lasts forever. Even though I could travel around the world and play poker with a solid profit I couldn't win enough to cover all my expenses and still keep playing poker on the level I needed.
  So I decided to stay in Norway for a while and play only online. I kept winning but not enough. So, I scaled it down more, with only about $10.000 left.
  In a way I was fortunate. I still had money left. Many I know ended up with large debt, while I ended up with $10.000 to spare, if you will.
  Two years, seven-hundred-and-thirty days where I basically lived out my dreams.
  I wouldn't have missed it for the world.
  And I keep living out my dreams, just at a smaller scale, even as I keep trying, in various ways to return to the bigger. I keep telling myself, either true or false that the best is still ahead of me, and my persistence and stubbornness and hunger for life keep bringing me great moments.
  I ended up living on welfare from February 2004 to August 2005. During that period I didn't visit the local town at all. I couldn't afford the bus fare… I bought lots of food each time I did my foraging and filled the fridge, so I wouldn't need to forage often. I couldn't afford to go job hunting, except on the Internet, since I didn't have money for the bus fare. So, except for long excursions into the forest I mostly stayed at home.
  In May 2005 I did manage to fit in a London trip. The airplane fare had become so inexpensive that even I could afford it or at least make myself afford it. It lasted only forty-eight hours, but it felt like a lifetime. I couldn't afford to pay for a hotel room the second night, so I didn't sleep at all the last period of darkness, but enjoyed the London night all the more because of it. I wasn't tired at all, and all of it felt like a miracle.
  What I did do during those eighteen months was writing, writing more than I had ever done, before or since, about five hundred thousand words. I wrote on new stuff and I translated, rewrote and expanded on my first novel The Defenseless, the one I had started on when I was twelve.
  When I finally got a job and returned to town in August the town actually looked different, looked changed and actually was. Many things improved. I no longer needed to be afraid that I wouldn't have money left for food at the end of the month. With more money to spend I could play poker at a higher level again and win more.
  I was fearful that working, even though I didn't work fulltime would affect my writing negatively, but it didn't. I realized then, if not before that nothing could or can. I will always write, no matter my economic circumstances.
  The next time I traveled to London I did so in style and stayed for a week. I slept sixteen hours the first night there, exhausted from too much working, no longer working part time, but fulltime plus, 1.5 day. Instead of the usual 28 hour week I worked twice that. It was only work, eat and sleep for a while. I kept writing (in my sleep), though.
  In August 2008, after months of problems I had what amounted to a physical and «mental» breakdown. My neck and mind just said stop. No more work for me. I was on sick leave, while undergoing treatment for my physical ailment, my poor neck and recharging my empty batteries of spirit. I had a rather well-filled bank account once more and that felt good when I was recovering. I suddenly found myself with lots of free time again, which at the time actually felt strange, alien to me. I, who had been a stranger to ordinary work for most of my life and wished it so, had been working nonstop for three years. No wonder I was down and out.
  I tried returning to work the next summer, but I was unable to work more than one day each week. Then the company closed down its local branch and I was unemployed again. I have been on disability support ever since. I have undergone five different treatments, to no avail. My neck is permanently fucked.
  But that free time was not wasted. I used it, as I always attempt to turn a bad situation to an advantage. My novels had been pretty much ready for publication since 2006, but at the time I had neither the time nor the necessary enthusiasm to get on with it. Now, I did. In spring 2010 I had The Defenseless ready. It was published July 21. Your Own Fate followed a month later. Eight more would follow in the next two years and three months.
  I am self publishing. Twenty years earlier I had become pretty much convinced that no established publisher would ever publish my books, not the way I wanted them to be. Not long after that I decided I no longer wanted any established publisher to touch my novels with anything (not even gloves). I didn't know how I would be able to publish my books then. I only knew that I would.
  The digital age came and progressed and now traditional publishers have become obsolete. They haven’t quite realized it yet, perhaps, but they have. Anybody can publish whatever they want today without kneeling before the landlord, and I love that, of course. And I do.
  I haven’t become wealthy during those three years (and that has never been my primary objective either), but the possibility that I will actually earn money on my art is always present. And it feels great to know that they’re out there, for people to procure and read, and will probably be for as long as I live.
  And the digital age has brought more wonders, more possibilities for me to fulfill age-old dreams. Filming and music have also become inexpensive to make and publish. I am on it.
  And it does feel great to be alive. In December last year I was diagnosed with cancer in a mole I had had removed. In close to two months after that I didn't know if one of the deadliest cancer types in existence had spread (ninety percent mortality rate), but it hadn't. So far there has been no sign of anything resembling a reoccurrence, which is always a possibility, though slim, I’m told. I have written more during these seven months than I have ever done before during the same amount of time. My creativity works like that. It can draw inspiration from anything.
  Life, in spite of the many snags remains beyond interesting and wonderful.

  «He who isn't busy being born is busy dying» - Bob Dylan

  I've been arranging or participating in witchnights annually or several times a year in quite a few countries since 1988. One of my more memorable travels was also Europe by train in the spring of 1997 and a beyond memorable poker game between Berlin and Amsterdam, where I cleaned the table completely. I have participated in numerous protests around the world, including the anarchist conference «Ten nights that shook the world» in London in October 1994 and the «anti-globalization» protests in Gothenburg in 2001, where the police shot and killed a protester without the slightest provocation. I have taken LSD eight times in my life and at least five of them were memorable, one beyond what any words can describe. Both here and out there, in the whirlwind I've encountered and befriended countless interesting people, witches, rebels and other players in the night, most of them more or less in opposition to everything modern society is about. If I should mention one person it would have to be Dorothy. She showed me more than anyone else what life is about and we shared everything that is to share. We met briefly in eternity, met again some time later, easily rekindling our passion and then went our separate ways without regret.
  My reincarnation dreams began early, in my teens, but I didn't understand their significance until much later, but when I did an entire new and bigger world opened up to me. The discoveries that I was a witch and shaman had similar effects, of course. My eyes, my consciousness remain open, far beyond any narrow chinks of your cavern.
  Yes, in spite of necessary and wonderful contemplative moments life is a rollercoaster ride of some kind or/and it should be…
  I feel alive, so very much alive.

Thursday, July 11, 2013

Remembering what we will never forget

  Today’s oppressive local, national and global society takes many things from us, but after rereading my new, upcoming collection of poetry I have reaffirmed to myself something that isn't always altogether clear to me, but should be:
  What the oppressors most of all take from us, remove us from is the night, the ability to truly and often enjoy our dark and wild passions in explosive and abundant ways. The true, savage human being is still with us, inevitably, but muted, seen through mist and ongoing and present poison. My poems, especially my upcoming collection remind me of what we truly are.
  It’s safe to say that I know about it, know it well, but the memory of it still turn dim in my consciousness after a while without those crucial reminders and revisits. To know something intellectually, if you will isn't sufficient. The emotional memory fades after a while. It isn't or doesn't seem to be an innate part of our lives anymore and it should be.
  When we are constantly strongly encouraged and forced to work and stay awake during the day, where oppression is at its strongest we lose something infinitely precious.
  With «Secrets - descriptions of what cannot be described», I’m delighted to say you will experience the complete opposite desires and stirrings. I am proud, I am, so very proud.

  If all goes well the book will be released August 21.

Saturday, July 06, 2013

Propaganda 2.0

  Even though this particular post is prompted by the conflict Wikileaks, Julian Assange, Edward Snowden and countless other whistleblowers currently find themselves in with the authorities; it could just as well be about any similar situation. It’s a great illustration of how those in charge successfully divert our attention and distract us from everything that truly matters.
  According to those in charge it is the fact that the whistleblowers have exposed horrible secrets and actions that is criminal, not the secrets and actions themselves. This is all an often used tactic on their part. They lay blame on the messenger and make many of us do the same. It’s an age-old tradition. Please, don’t fall for it anymore. We will all lose if you do.
  Not one blatant and often brutal crime exposed by whistleblowers lately has led to criminal charges. Not one!
  These days virtually all editors and journalists in mainstream media engage in a massive campaign against those mentioned above and against countries like Venezuela, Bolivia and Nicaragua, those few and proud that has actually supported Snowden’s bid for asylum, for a modicum of safety. When they «break the news» that Twitter and independent media have already broken hours, even days earlier they always feel compelled to point out any lie and distortion about the given people and countries currently very unpopular in the halls of power.
  Yes, Joseph Goebbels, the infamous Nazi propaganda minister is small potatoes compared to today’s propaganda masters.
  The truth of the matter is that it is indeed those residing in the halls of power that are the true enemies of mankind. NATO, their foremost military tool has been one of the most aggressive military powers in history. The surveillance, totally unacceptable by any standards of truly free beings is unprecedented. Prism is merely the latest of countless surveillance programs. The Echelon project, for instance has been active since the eighties. The oppression is already massive. What is planned for us all is far worse. If you take sides in favor of mainstream, for the average and its blind acceptance of narrow thought these days you’re the enemy of freedom.
  It’s quite «funny». Any wet dream conspiracy theory hasn't only been proven true these days, but inadequate to describe what is happening.
  Barrack Obama has long since become just as much an enemy of mankind that Bush was. Any support given to Obama is, by now a support of oppression, of massive surveillance and persecution and killing of children. If you think that is harsh you should promptly reconsider your life and your opinions.
  It’s time for us all to say a resounding NO to those in charge. That means, in case you’re wondering to stop supporting both the Democratic and Republican parties in the United States and virtually all members of parliaments all over the world. It means total transparency in government and big business and no more clandestine services anywhere. It means we stop other people from poisoning our food and water and soil and air, from serving us poison, physically and mentally from the moment we are born. It means no more rich and no more poor people.
  It means we finally abandon a sick system and get on with creating that new world with true freedom and human dignity. It’s long past due.
  Don’t let those in charge get away with it this time, and stop accepting tyranny, in any form.

Thursday, July 04, 2013

My life as cycles (II)


  The next cycle was the next two years until my first London visit. Autumn 1981 I made it through one short and ultimately sweet military service. It lasted ten days until they realized I was allergic against being ordered around, that I would always be a security risk. I was dismissed after ten days, in such a decisive way that it was clear I would never be recalled or even join the civil part of the service (which have always been a sham anyway), not even during war. If war ever comes to Norway they will detain me and possibly shoot me, if they get the chance, but they will not recall me…
  It was such a rush. I was high for months afterwards, during the entire long winter. I had beaten the system at its own game and I was ready for more. Resistance was possible. A recruit hating the very idea of war, of militarism, one they would love to break and make to confirm escaped their cold clutches, their dead, bony fingers. I was ecstatic!
  I terrorized my hometown with excitement that long, cold winter.
  No military service? Another negative nick on my CV and my nine to five career prospects…
  That didn't really dawn on me at all and it certainly didn't bother me.
  July 19, 1983 I arrived in London for the very first time, and it changed my life even more. I confirmed for myself during those seven days and nights what I already knew: life is so much more than we are told. I experienced the world that short/long week.
  I continued to earn money through poker playing in the upcoming years, not much, but sufficient for me to not need a nine to five job. The next cycle lasted two more years. In September 1984 I visited London for the second time and it was even more an experience than the first time, sixteen days and nights of wonder and joy. In May 1985 I won the national Double-or-Nothing competition, and earned enough money to pretty much, within limits do whatever I wanted. During the next three years I didn't really use much of that money. I could travel to London and elsewhere without using them, and I did, several times. I became a Traveling Man.
  It wasn't until June 1988 I decided to spend more of them. I traveled to London for what was meant to be a month, but that ended up being five years, five of the best in my entire life.
  I met witches and rebels and the mothers of my children. The first Witchnight was celebrated June 21, an event of infinite magnitude we have repeated and done our best to repeat endlessly since. We moved into an old house with lots of room, an act straight out of my books and lived out our dreams.
  And then some… I know I will never be able to properly describe it all, put it into words.
  We began doing magick, began playing street theater and I wrote on my novels, novels I ended up dragging around half of Europe in an old suitcase. They were in jeopardy and suffered horrible hazards several instances during that time, but survived. I still have the originals of Dreams Belong to the Night and ShadowWalk in my possession to this night.
  We didn't earn much money on our art, so we had to take various jobs. Fate and greatness intervened again and most of us got jobs as vacuum cleaner salesmen. This was expensive, industrial vacuum cleaners. We traveled around to various offices and companies, to places where we had an appointment and it was mostly nice work.
  One reason for that was our employer. He was almost too good to be true. He treated us as human beings and not slave labor, and then he truly began his genius approach to business:
  When we had enjoyed several successful weeks and sold lots of industrial vacuum cleaners he gave us a few extra days off.
  And then:
  «Hey, guys, let’s spend the weekend in France, my treat».
  The first time we scratched our head and quite couldn't believe our good fortune, but it repeated itself many times. And the thing is: his actions inspired true loyalty in us. He still kept most of the money he earned, but more than any other businessman or «boss» I have ever met he gave us an undeniable feeling that we were valued. We weren't his slaves, but his true associates. He became very successful.
  And I realized, to my astonishment, that I was good at it, too, at selling stuff. My big forte, if anything is honesty, I think. I never try to make a given product better than it is, don’t even attempt to stretch the truth.
  Unfortunately for us, not for him he sold the company and started sailing the seven seas. Things never became the same after that. We quit after a few months with the new management.
  I returned to Norway in 1993 with a considerable sum of money in my suitcase, though. It was meant to be a short, very short visit, but my mother grew ill, very ill and I stayed to help my father out with her. It wasn't pleasant, wasn't pleasant at all. She died in 1995, after suffering constantly the entire time, hardly even alive at the end, making her passing a «blessing». He followed her into death in 1997. Before I knew it four years had passed. My father had found a kind of peace in his last years, and we had come to a kind of understanding, one that hadn't been there earlier. We hardly quarreled at all the last few years.
  I kept writing. I never stopped. I had long since realized that it was one of the few things that gave my life meaning.
  My first computer, bought in 1995 revolutionized my writing, made the very process easier, making it easier to focus on the «purity» of creating. In the midst of death there is life.