sophisticated jailbird

There once was a woman who wrote an article about adoption. She had been praised highly for it, and her editor insisted that she write another immediately. But the poor woman was suffering from writers block; she had emptied her bag of imagination, so to speak. Her editor refused to believe this, and ordered her to have (at the very least, a draft) ready the next month. (The editor was a stern fellow, and believed that the pressure would get her creative juices flowing.) The woman, worried that her job was endangered, brainstormed from dawn till night—it was, however, fruitless, and she had zero ideas to work with.
She was in her fourth week when she went to the store. As she neared her destination, she watched a man kiss the little boy accompanying him on the forehead before disappearing into the store. She noticed the lack of similarities with interest; after all, she’d written an entire chapter about affection in her article. So she took the risk, and quietly approached the little boy standing to wait by the entrance.
“What a nice daddy you have.” The boy turned towards the sound in surprise; and though he was told not to talk to strangers, the woman did not look very harmful (he was too young to get intimidated by her odd stare). So he smiled and nodded, replying with a clear voice: “He’s the best.”
The woman, excited at their confirmation of their relationship, continued skillfully (though she did not talk to many children on a daily basis, her wife had majored in psychology, and the woman had often helped her with her assignments); “You don’t look very alike..?”
The boy met her eyes, as if daring her to object to his words. “He’s adopted.”
“He?” the woman echoed, (pleasantly) surprised. “Don’t you mean you?” (It was clear she was not the one majoring in psychology, as she was far too blunt to talk to damaged minds.)
“No,” the boy answered with resigned patience, as if he had been forced to explain this quite a lot. “Me ‘n ma wanted a daddy, so we went ‘n looked for one. An’ then she had to ask him a lot of questions that she said could only be asked at restaurants. And then they made a big ceremony and ma asked if he wanted to be adopted, and he said yes.”
“That’s nice,” the woman said, taken aback by his lengthy (and rather odd) explanation. Then the inevitable happened; she got an idea. “Thank you,” she said to the boy, just as his father walked out the front doors. He caught the woman’s words, and gave her a questioning smile. “You’ve got a nice son,” the woman told him (she didn’t like to use the word nice, as people put far too much in it; but this time it was unavoidable). The father’s smile turned genuine. “I know.”
The woman nodded again, offered a polite goodbye to the pair, and hurried home to write her heart out.

(Though it is mostly irrelevant, I feel it should be noted that the woman was forced to return to the store mere hours later, as she ran out of coffee.)

______________________

Not the style I usually write in. Change is good ~

(taken from Tsuru, by Sacrophagus: http://www.fictionpress.com/s/1242766/1/Tsuru )

“What is it like… being the way you are?”

Tsuru sniffled and wiped his eyes with his fingers. “No one understands what I think. They don’t see what I see.”

Chitaka nodded again.

Tsuru’s eyes scanned the area around them, and finally focused on something in the distance, just as a cold breeze swept by. He lifted his hand and pointed in that direction. “Look over there. Do you see that tree?”

Chitaka glanced up, and his eyes settled on a large deciduous tree, most of the leaves of which had turned a copper color and were on the verge of falling. “Yes.”

“Do you see the leaves dancing with each other?”

Chitaka stared long and hard at the tree. The request from Tsuru almost sounded silly, something that he wasn’t sure whether to take seriously. But no matter how hard he looked, he couldn’t see the leaves actually “dancing,” only their movement itself, as another breeze made itself known. “I just see the wind blowing,” he said quietly, looking down at Tsuru.

“That’s what I mean,” Tsuru said softly.

Chitaka could only barely try to sympathize with what Tsuru must have felt like. He had never been placed in a position like this, himself. “Is it hard… seeing things that no one else understands?”

Tsuru paused, biting on his lip, bringing some color to the pale flesh.

Chitaka almost thought twice about asking. But then Tsuru spoke again, very quietly.

“It’s like having a lot of secrets, that you can’t tell anyone. You can see things that are magical, but things that are… are also bad. And it’s not good, being like this. It’s like you know everything about the world, and everyone else knows nothing-and you want to share them, these secrets, with the ones that you care about, but either they don’t want to hear them, or they can’t hear them.”

(dikt skrevet sent. Seriøst sent. Og postet mainly fordi jeg er stolt over at alt rimer.
Ikke forvent at det skal være logisk.)

The bouquet consists of a single flower
“Well, you should probably take another shower
You did learn to dance?
Good, though you’ll have to work on your stance.”

She’s stunning
Indeed, your parents have been cunning
(she does another twirl)
to choose such a beautiful girl.
You take her hand
And you’ve never felt a sensation this grand
As you lead her away
to another carriage-coloured ashtray.

You position the flower
(in her hair)
it’s obvious, she likes power
(but will she share?)

With soft lips and plum hips,
not an ounce of fat to spare
No one’s surprise she’s got gold in her hair.
Her eyes are green
and oddly serene
they match perfectly with your tux
You can’t agree with your best friend as he exclaims, “This party sucks!”
“It’s not a party, it’s a dance!”
“Do you want one, per chance?”

People separate you
(and your girl)
Oh, why do you have to be so new?
(she looks like she’s gonna hurl.)

Music blasts from giant cubes
You take a second to imagine the tubes
You remember your mother’s odd advice
as she shook another dice
“Feel, kneel, then seal the deal!”
You still don’t know what she meant
But then again, she’s always been kind of bent.

You watch your friends get pummeled with dirt
Too bad, that was his nice shirt
Well, maybe that’ll teach them to think
Before they order that second drink.

“I’m telling you; if swallowing pride was all it took,
she already would’ve read that second book.”
You ignore the stranger as he begins to talk
You decide to go for a walk.

You make your way
(towards your girl)
she’s slightly asway
(she probably did one too much swirl.)

It’s getting late
You start to get that feeling you hate
As you approach your date
And hear yellings of “Don’t go, mate!
The party’s just about to start!”
No, you want to look into her eyes as you part.

You both sit in the carriage;
you hope she’s contemplating marriage.
“Did you have a nice night?”
She looks at you with delight,
“Oh yes! It erased my fright.”
Your mouth is tight,
“Incredible, what you can do with just a little might.”

The carriage shakes,
the flower in her hair awakes.

Som de fleste vet, er vi på begynnelsen av en ny finanskrise. Den forrige finanskrisen på samme skala var i ‘29–og varte til ‘32. En av de store problemene ble arbeidsløshet, og de få kvinnelige ansatte ble sparket for å gi plass til mannlige ansatte; for det var menn som forsørget familien, og de var derfor de som trengte penger mest.
På grunn av det gikk feministbevegelsen tilbake 20 år.
Er det mulig at det skjer igjen? Kanskje ikke med kvinner, denne gangen–kanskje med innvandrere, som sliter med å finne jobb allerede. Vi, hvor mange prosent av befolkningen vår er innvandrere, vil spesielt merke det.

På en sidenote vil jeg gratulere kvinner verden over. Selv om det snør som bare faen, håper jeg dere går i tog. Jeg skal hvertfall ikke.

I think, maybe, that if things were different–things were normal–we could have survived.
We won’t, though. Not now.
“You’re always such a pessimist,” you say, laughing. But it’s true. I know this every time I find you crying, fresh holes by your elbows; I know this every time Mark calls me, because you’ve once again passed out on the street. I know this every time you show how broken you are.
And maybe, if I were more capable, it would work. But I’m not. I do what I can, but it’ll never be enough.
“I just feel so helpless,” you whisper, voice roughened by hours of sobbing. I don’t reply. I never reply. Even when you scream, and shout, and yell – the neighbours are used to it by now – I don’t answer. After all, what is there to say?
But even though it feels like each day burns a part of me–burns a part of you–it always feels worth it when you stand up in a moment of lucidness, take my hands and look me squarely in the eye as you say: “Don’t give up.”

And years later, when I visit your absurdly clean gravestone, I can proudly claim that I never did. I held on till the end. Because, in the end, that was what you needed, wasn’t it?

Sommeren er over. Farvel til døgning, sms-ing til langt på natt; strender og blått hav. Farvel til grønne skoger som må utforskes neste år. Farvel til is, båt og sol. Farvel til forjævelige fjellturer, syvtimerslange bilturer, isolasjon og utedo.

Skolen har derimot begynt. Man trenger linjal, blyant, bokbind, viskelær, blyantspisser, “mamma, husket du å kjøpe passer?”, bøker, papir, ordbøker og vett. Skolens berte har blitt goth, nerden blitt sossen og hun stille jenta som kan alle svarene og aldri sier en dritt viser seg å være mer punk enn folk flest trodde. Gamle vennskap fornyes, nye vennskap stiftes, og man finner ut at “hey, han fyren der var egentlig en egodritt, hvorfor i helvette er vi venner?!”.

JEG LER AV DEN TRAGISKE BINDERS-REKLAMEN.

“Såret, tom, en anelse sur
innestengt i sitt trange bur

Kropp og sjel lider
vil forsvinne til andre tider
vil forsvinne til andre steder,
men veien ingensteds leder
Om hjertet er dannet en stålsterk mur
– en råtten, men midlertidig kur

Mange har det med å mene
at det er grufullt å være alene
noen løfter i det minste blikket
likevel bryr de seg ikke
Nok en fredagskveld
– ensom for seg selv

Men det er bedre å være ensom i fred
enn at folkegjenger følger med
Dette sier asketen

Verst er andres observering av ensomheten
Være midt i et rom fylt av latter
høre de andre prater og skratter
Det å vite at DE vet
du er mørklagt i din egen ensomhet

Sinnet det er ungt
ønsket om å være et midtpunkt,
men ikke en gang få være skyggen
smerten er plantet i hele ryggen
Ikke noe behager
pinen i magen gnager
Å være i et menneskefylt rom
tømmer sjelen til den blir tom

På evig søken, på evig leten
fanget i buret med ensomheten.”–Anne Berglynds Ensomheten