Sunday, May 28, 2017

Not

  Reaching a state of free association, no matter the method is always a blast of creativity. You may not like all the thoughts assaulting you, but you will always gain something from it.
  Free association isn’t hard. I sit here writing this. Twelve years from now I’m fucking a young girl. I’m older, but in some way I’m also fucking her as a young man. And on that very same moment twelve years from now I’m also living in London and I am fairly wealthy. In another variation I’m fairly poor and can’t travel much. In yet another I’m nowhere, dead as a doornail.
  It isn’t difficult, not difficult at all to imagine the various alternatives, even those not very likely not mentioned here, or those very likely not mentioned here. A horse is running in circles on a racetrack. At some point, in one story it breaks all four legs the first two steps and never leaves the wheelchair. In another it leaves the fucking racetrack and flies off into the sunset, flapping its strong wings without ever tiring. The cat is growling at the much bigger dog, scaring the poor mutt shitless. A mouse hides squeaking in the lion’s mouth, not daring to make a sound in fear of making a sound.
  Yes, the world is like that, exactly like that.
  All in all, the moon is the strongest, most well-muscled bulb in the sky, and the sun is merely a burning torch with a monster ego.
  This is existence inside and outside the nut and the nutshell. I love hearing the sound of boulders rolling up the mountainside. It’s such a magnificent sight and exciting experience. An avalanche is nothing but flames dancing on the precipice of a shaking casket. Those spending a lifetime inside that clammy space won’t ever wonder about the world outside, never wandering off-track or off-base, never pushing the keys of the rainbow into ultraviolet and infrared or even beyond.
  Is time parallel or a tree branching out from a central point… or both… neither?
  In a time and a place unbound by time and space, you’ll find out, find out everything you ever and never wondered about, and still know only a tiny sliver of reality, of the big, bad Universe without beginning or end.

Monday, May 15, 2017

Streets of Fire (I)

  Here are some snippets, big and small events from my life as a radical political activist and enthusiastic human being.
  The first few major protests I attended was in Oslo in the eighties, among them during an official Margaret Thatcher visit. In a statement to the media she said with her usual «flair» that Norwegians did everything to make her feel welcome, like she was at home, including protesting against her.
  During one protest one of those hot Oslo summers, I watched four cops gang up on and beat up a young girl. Several people protesting that act was also arrested and brutalized.
  I was never truly an integrated part of the activist/squatter «Blitz» group, but among the many coming from all over the country in order to support them as best we could.
  In Copenhagen in 1988 I attended yet another protest where the police attacked us unprovoked. Many were arrested and taken to a small, fairly small station used to cage protesters. The evening ended up with a small group of protesters setting fire to that station and all the protesters escaping custody. Very few of the protesters I spoke with felt bad about that.
  We had all realized years ago that the usual establishment media headline: «protesters attack the police» was pure bogus and establishment propaganda. No protester with his/her wits intact would even dream of attacking a superior force in armor and armed with clubs and shields and worse.
  I had moved to London and was further radicalized, thriving in an environment filled with subversives…

  The five years I lived there, where I wrote my novels Dreams Belong to the Night and ShadowWalk were among my best ever. The street theater, the squatted house, the downright inspiring group I was a part of all conspired to make it so, constantly stoking my already burning heart. We encountered Jeremy Corbyn among many other great people during the many protests outside the South African embassy. We celebrated Thatcher’s fall, Nelson Mandela’s release from prison and a lot more. The first witchnight of ours was celebrated with abandon in Hyde Park in June 1988. There would be many more all over the world, both small and big in terms of scope and attendance in the decades to come.