Memoria House / Huset Memoria - haibun

Memoria House

”It's raining hammers, it's raining nails, it's true there's nothing left for you down here.” You add yours to a song about time as you ring the bell of the Memoria House. Asylum, rather. Refuge or Retreat if you buy into the lingo of the their journal. It's a place for people buried in their past, reluctant to deal with the present. It's an anonymous structure. A little fog and you would have missed it all together. For a long time nothing happens but then you hear soft steps approaching. A narrow slot in the door opens and you're handed the proofing print for the next issue of the journal. People in this house only writes down what they remember, or what they think they remember, from times long gone. It's occupational therapy but the inhabitants don't know that. They're writing down induced memories, not their own. They think they're storytellers, historians, novelists and what have you. But you cannot tell them they're not and why would you? They're happy that way and it's none of your business anyway.

below the new white the old black

Your job is to take that print to some editor across town. You haven't met him either but rumour has it that he's almost as far gone as the inhabitant of Memoria House. Not quite, but almost. “Bring what you receive at Memoria House to this address and take the rest of the day off,” was the message. No more, no less. The rain keeps up its vigour and you imagine it building a structure reaching above the smog, a structure that would support a brand new city shiny and flawless … but Buster Keaton enters the scene and nothing gets completed.

at the end of the string the idea of a kite

Huset Memoria

”It's raining hammers, it's raining nails, it's true there's nothing left for you down here.” Du lægger lidt af dit eget til en sang om tid, mens du ringer på hos Huset Memoria. Asylhjemmet, er måske mere passende. Refugium eller Retrætehus, hvis du køber sproget i deres tidsskrift. Det er et sted for mennesker begravede i deres fortid og modvillige med hensyn til at forholde sig til nutiden. Det er en anonym bygning. En smule tåge og du ville være gået forbi den. I lang tid sker der ikke noget, men så hører du bløde skridt nærme sig. En smal låge i døren åbnes, og du får rakt korrekturtrykket for det næste nummer af tidsskriftet. Menneskene i dette hus skriver kun, hvad de kan huske, eller det de tror, de kan huske fra tider, der for længst er borte. Det er beskæftigelsesterapi, men det véd beboerne ikke. De nedfælder plantede erindringer, ikke deres egne. De tror, de er historiefortællere, romanforfattere, historikere og hvad véd jeg. Men du kan ikke fortælle dem, at det ikke er sandt, og hvorfor skulle du? De er glade for det, de gør, og de rager i det hele taget ikke dig.

under det nye hvide det gamle sorte

Dit job er at bringe det dér tryk til en eller anden redaktør i den anden ende af byen. Ham har du heller ikke mødt, men rygtet siger, at han er næsten ligeså langt ude, som beboerne i Huset Memoria. Ikke helt, men næsten. ”Tag imod, hvad du får overrakt ved Huset Memoria og aflevér det på denne adresse,” var beskeden. Hverken mere eller mindre. Regnen er i fuld vigør, og du forestiller dig, at den bygger en konstruktion, der kunne holde til en helt ny by over smoggen, ren og fejlfri … men Buster Keaton træder ind på scenen og ingenting bliver fuldført.

for enden af snoren ideen om en drage

back into the silence / tilbage ind i stilheden - prose poem

“It's free to die in Poland so I'll go back there,” he said while walking a disused rail-road track in a largely disused part of a country largely populated by people no one had any use for. She said his eyes were dark green when he was sad and bright green when he saw a piano and almost black and inquisitive when he was dying. “But who can you ask?” she asked rhetorically. The dried out little fig tree in the corner stayed silent as did the umbrella and the worn boots. She drew a sad face in the dust between the cups, books, bottles and ashtrays and whistled one of his unwhistleable melodies. “He always said that his music wouldn't work without the images.”

“Det er gratis at dø i Polen, så jeg tager tilbage dertil,” sagde han, mens han gik langs et nedlagt jernbanespor i et en stort set nedlagt del af et land, der hovedsageligt var befolket af mennesker, ingen havde brug for. Hun sagde, at hans øjne var mørkegrønne, når han var ked af det og lysegrønne, når han så et flygel og næsten sorte og spørgende, da han var ved at dø. ”Men hvem kan man spørge?” spurgte hun retorisk. Det tørre lille figentræ i hjørnet forblev tavst, ligesom paraplyen og de udtrådte støvler. Hun tegnede et trist ansigt i støvet mellem kopperne, bøgerne, flaskerne og askebægerne og fløjtede én af hans ufløjtelige melodier. ”Han sagde altid, at hans musik ikke ville fungere uden billederne.

The Following Day / Den følgende dag

The Following Day

About detours in all things

      The following day - and there will always be one of those (inasmuch as such a term makes sense) as long as the Sun exists and the Earth orbits around it and keeps rotating around itself, and there is some kind of consciousness (human or non-human) that finds it useful and is able to name the difference between the lit and the darkened half of the globe - we chose the street to the left. The previous days or eternities, it seems to me, but that part is a bit hazy, we had chosen the street to the right. It didn't take us to the desired goal of our quest (likewise unclear) but had always, as far as I remember, ended up in to cul-de-sacs, barbed wire fences, pitfalls, mine fields, canon emplacements or snake pits, where we lost consciousness and by uncertain roads and means were taken back to our point of departure: a sleazy and lousy room in an otherwise luxurious lavishly equipped hotel. Or was it just a guest house; or a B and B? Or maybe a shelter in a more humble part of the city. Whatever the case, it was from here we each day began our search for that which we now had no idea of what was, or any recollection of why we wanted to find it. I can see that now, as I think back and now that I have the time to contemplate the past as the sun burns out. Back then it was like starting afresh each morning without any noteworthy memories of the failed excursions of the past and passed days. They - the memories or rather: the snatches, fragments, thereof - only began popping up along the way and then only as mirages or vague deja-vus, which only helped to make our bewilderment greater. Maybe we had gotten used to the repeated black-outs between cul-de-sacs, barbed wire fences, pitfalls, mine fields, canon emplacements or snake pits and the in an unconscious state un-sensed home-bringing that our brains registered something anyway and saved those impressions somewhere in Amygdala or Hippocampus, where they over time accumulated into data huge enough for the thought process to handle … and then the guessing could begin.

      Anyway, we chose the street to the left instead of that to the right. Or was it the other way round? The street we walked was one built in the middle-ages, paved with cobbled stones, moist and dark. It smelled from garbage, human waste products - just as we sensed the urine from cats, dogs and rats - and didn't at all fill us with excitement and encouragement in as much as it (perhaps) was that street which was supposed to take us to what we have to assume we imagined we wanted to find. Such a search is often accompanied with the thrill of anticipation as you - and I'm speaking in general terms - expect reality, life, death, everything will change for the better once you have found what you are looking for. I sensed a tiny bit of discontent with my winged companion, but he stayed silent. It sort of was in the air, where a lot of other things already floated, that we shouldn't call down Hybris to this endeavour, this exception from what we assumed was our previous exertions - always choosing the street to the right or left (or however it was) by the corroded bronze statue of a young prince who supposedly were killed in a battle that had never taken place - the lad had died from a fistula that caused gangrene in his intestines, but that wasn't considered a heroic death and a people need heroes - but was invented for the occasion. Allegedly he had slaughtered 475 enemy soldiers and mercenaries before he was killed in ambush of the most cowardly kind. She, Hybris, we vaguely assumed, wouldn't be a nice presence. She can be a “bitch”, as the young say these days, and we didn't have the strength to battle that as well. You have to understand that the many excursions day and night (or eternity after eternity), the repeated episodes of being unconscious and the incipient despondency caused by the likewise incipient awareness of the Sisyphus-like in our undertaking had worn away on our strength. Neither did it help that the only thing we had to eat in our tiny room was a thin water-like soup of unknown origin. The food we came across in the city fell apart between our hands and lips as soon as we touched it, why I assume that we were practically a little more than skin and bones and very soon would be as transparent as poor parchment. Considering everything (and that's quite a lot) and none the wiser we moved forward down the street partly intoxicated by excitement, partly dazed by fatigue. A faint mist filled the street and it was impossible to see where it ended; if it indeed did have an end. By then it came about that my companion froze and began to shine and said: “I truly am sorry. We've finally gotten this far and I'm sure this walk down this street would solve the matter for us, but I'm being called back to HQ to ...” He didn't have time to finish his sentence and that was all I could hear before he ascended in a column of light.

     I'm still walking down the street with no (as far as I know at the present) end in an eerie twilight waiting for something to appear in the mist.

Den følgende dag

Om omveje i alle ting

      Den følgende dag - og sådan én vil der altid (for så vidt dette begreb giver mening) være, så længe Solen består og en Jorden kredser derom og sig selv, og der er en form for bevidsthed (menneskelig eller u-menneskelig), der finder det hensigtsmæssigt og er istand til af navngive forskellen mellem klodens belyste og mørklagte side - tog vi gaden til venstre. De foregående dage eller evigheder, forekommer det mig, men står lidt uklart, havde vi valgt gaden, der drejede til højre. Det havde ikke ført til det ønskede mål for vor søgen (ligeledes uklart) men havde, så vidt hukommelsen rækker, altid endt i blindgyder, pigtråd, faldgruber, minefelter, kanonstillinger eller ormegruber, hvor vi mistede bevidstheden og ad uvisse veje og ved uvisse midler var blevet ført tilbage til vort udgangspunkt: et sølle og beskidt kammer i et ellers overdådigt udstyret hotel. Eller var det blot et gæstgiveri; eller et B and B, som man siger nu om dage. Måske et herberg et sted i et af byens mere ydmyge kvarterer. Hvorom alting er, var det herfra vi hver eneste dag drog ud for at finde det, som vi nu ingen erindring havde om, eller nogen erindring om hvorfor vi ønskede at finde. Det kan jeg se nu, hvor jeg tænker tilbage og hvor jeg har tiden til at grunde over det forgangne, mens solen brænder op. Dengang var det som at starte på en frisk hver morgen uden nævneværdig erindring om foregående dages mislykkede ekskursioner. De - erindringerne eller rettere: brudstykker, fragmenter, deraf - begyndte først at dukke op hen ad vejen, som man siger, antager jeg, og da kun som synsforstyrrelser eller deja-vu'er, som kun forvirrede os. Måske var vi blevet vænnet til de gentagne black-outs mellem blindgyder, pigtråd, faldgruber, minefelter, kanonstillinger eller ormegruber og den i bevidstløs tilstand usansede hjemførelse, så vore hjerner alligevel opfattede et eller andet og sparede indtrykkene op et sted i Amygdala eller Hippocamus, hvor det med tiden akkumuleredes til helheder så store, at tankevirksomheden kunne håndtere dem og dermed begynde sine gisninger.

      I hvert fald drejede vi til venstre i stedet for til højre. Eller hvordan det nu var. Gaden vi kom ned ad var en i middelalderen anlagt gade med brosten, fugt og skygge. Der lugtede af skrald, menneskelige affaldsprodukter - vi sansede også hunde, katte og rotters urin - og var i det hele taget ikke særligt opmuntrende for så vidt det (måske) var den gade, der skulle føre os til det, vi må forestille os, at vi ønskede, så frem til at finde. En sådan søgning ledsages ofte af en forventningens glæde eller spænding, idet man - og nu taler jeg helt generelt - forventer, at virkeligheden, livet, døden, tilværelsen vil ændre sig til det bedre efter, at man har fundet det, man leder efter. Jeg fornemmede en smule mismod hos min bevingede følgesvend, men han sagde ingenting. Det lå ligesom i luften, hvor der i forvejen lå så meget andet, at vi ikke måtte nedkalde Hybris over dette forehavende, denne afvigelse fra hvad vi formodede vore tidligere bestræbelser - altid at vælge gaden, der gik til venstre eller højre hvordan det nu var, ved den irrede bronzestatue af en ung prins, der vistnok var omkommet i et slag, der aldrig havde fundet sted knøsen var omkommet ved en ubehandlet fistel, der gav koldbrand i tarm- og maveregionen, men det var ikke særlig heroisk og et folk har brug for helte - men som man havde opfundet til lejligheden. Her skulle han være omkommet efter at have nedlagt 475 fjendtlige soldater og lejesvende og efter at være faldet i et grueligt fejt baghold. Hun, Hybris, havde vi en vag formodning om, ville ikke være en behagelig tilstedeværelse. Hun kan være en 'bitch', som de unge siger nutildags, og det havde vi ikke kræfter til at slås med. Man må forstå, at de mange togter dag efter dag (eller evighed efter evighed), de gentagne episoder af bevidstløshed samt den gryende modløshed afstedkommet af den ligeledes gryende bevidsthed om det Sisyfos-agtige i vort forehavende havde tæret på vore kræfter. Det hjalp sikkert heller ikke, at det eneste vi fik at spise på vort kammer, var en tynd suppe af ubestemmelig herkomst. Den mad, der var tilgængelig for os i byen, smuldrede mellem vore hænder og læber så snart den kom i berøring med os, hvorfor jeg formoder, at vi ikke var meget andet end skind og ben og temmelig sikkert snart ville være gennemsigtige som dårlig pergament. Hvorom alting (og det er ikke så lidt) er, bevægede vi os ned ad gaden halvt i forventningens rus, halvt i en døs af udmattelse. En svag dis lå i gaden og det var ikke til at se, hvor eller hvis den endte. Så var det, at min bevingede fælle stivnede og begyndte at lyse og sagde: ”Jeg er altså ked af. Nu er vi nået så langt og jeg er vis på, at dette, denne tur ned ad denne gade, ville løse sagen for os, men jeg er blevet kaldt hjem til hovedkvarteret for at ...” Mere nåede han ikke at sige, mere fik jeg ikke fat i, før han fór til himmels i en søjle af lys.

     Jeg går stadig ned ad gaden uden ende (såvidt jeg véd lige nu) i halvmørke og venter på, at noget dukker frem af disen.

alone / alene sci-fi haibun/prose poem

A note of yellow in the first light; it's either the sun or the fluorescent phosphorus desert of Nayapal. You watch a hair move in the wind from the open window. It's hanging down in front of your left eye too close to see clearly and you rub your forehead just to witness bits of it falling into the can. You flush and praise The Constructor for creating floors. And gravity. At least they're a kind of stability in this fleeting stream of 1s and 0s. Temporary, but what isn't?

from who knows where

“In and Out of

the Red Balloon”

:::

There's a message on the phone. You avoid putting on your glasses. Might be urgent but you can't deal with 'urgent' right now. The dust from Nayapal adds an eerie aura to the stuff in your room. You're alone and you roll a smoke and turn on the tv and there's nothing on it; nothing but with a smiling face. You're alone and the building sings its own mad tunes as it sways in the storm from the desert.

curved bananas

did Oppenheimer stop

seeing atoms?

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

En tone af gule i dagens første lys; det er enten solen eller Nayapals selvlysende fosforørken. Du betragter et hår, der bevæger sig i vinden fra det åbne vindue. De hænger ned foran dit venstre øje, for tæt på til at kunne ses tydeligt, og du gnider din pande blot for at se stykker af den falde ned i lokumstønden. Du skyller ud og priser Konstruktøren for at have skabt gulve. Og tyngdekraft. De giver i det mindste en slags stabilitet i denne flygtige strøm af 1-taller og 0'er. Midlertidigt, men hvad er ikke dét?

fra hvem ved hvor

”In and Out of

the Red Balloon”

:::

Der er en besked på telefonen. Du undlader at tage dine briller på. Måske er den vigtig, men du kan ikke håndtere 'vigtigt' lige nu. Støvet fra Nayapal forsyner tingene i din stue med en uhyggelig aura. Du er alene, og du ruller en smøg og tænder for fjernsynet, og der er ingenting på det; ingenting med et smilende ansigt. Du er alene og bygningen synger sine egne vanvittige sange, som den svajer i stormen fra ørkenen.

krumme bananer

holdt Oppenheimer op

med at se atomer?

things / ting

when I've been alone

for too long

                                  and that's an individual measure

things take on

personalities

or thoughts

and possible speech

as I donate

that gift to them

                                   this month's lost gem taken home

                                   to the haunted philosopher's pocket

                                   he who sees Arabs everywhere

                                   and calls them scaffolds

                              

                                   strange to think a clay siren

                                   was released

                                  - under the radar -

                                   into a blond crooner

                                   his sister holds it in her stainless steel hands

                                   those hands that scratched away at the blue

                                   of the sky until it fell like flecks of paint and

                                   silencing snow unaware blissfully unaware

                                   of the slow but steady unravelling of the horizon

                                   and what's beyond

                                   such is life

                                   I suppose

training them

is another matter

of dealing

with matter

temporarily bound

in the form of pencils

cups

lamps

brushes

skillets

and faucets

that's for the host of saints

of which I am not

a member

(blond or not)

når jeg har været alene

for længe

                                       og det er et individuelt mål

begynder ting

at få personligheder

eller tanker

og mulig tale

efterhånden som

jeg giver dem

den gave

                                         denne måneds glemte perle tages hjem

                                         til den hjemsøgte filosofs lomme

                                         ham der ser arabere alle vegne

                                         og kalder dem stilladser

                                        mærkeligt at tænke sig at en en sirene af ler

                                        blev sluppet fri

                                        - under radaren-

                                        ind i en blond crooner

                                        hans søster holder den i sine hænder af rustfrit stål

                                        de hænder der kradsede løs i himlens blå

                                        indtil det fald som flager af maling og tystnende

                                        sne uvidende lykkeligt uvidende om den langsomme

                                        men uophørlige oprulning af horisonten

                                        og det der er bag den

                                        sådan er livet

                                         antager jeg

at træne dem

er en anden måde

at omgås

materie

midlertidigt bundet

i blyanters

lampers

penslers

stegepanders

og vandhaners

form

dét for helgenernes skare

hvoraf jeg ikke

er medlem

(blond eller ikke)

harlequin ladybird / harlekin mariehøne

on the back

of a harlequin ladybird

a fountain springs non-stop

with advice

on how to live

your life

what to do with

ginger

prayer

wi-fi

and an unfortunate

reincarnation

should you have turned out

less happy

than you imagined

when you first

became aware

you're you

and alive

having exactly

that size of feet

that fits just you

                                 might as well launch the kite from the cemetery

                                 at one level paper, string, glue and wind were as

                                 one and thus we can safely assume they will do

                                 what they can to become one again or at least

                                 they'll act according to quantum entanglement

                                 when you tickle one the others will dance when

                                 you launch the kite the wind will blow that wind

                                 that once was in the same egg/cradle/soup as

                                 the paper, string, glue and your own subtle

                                 intention to make the kite fly

the harlequin ladybird

is an invasive species

in these parts

and the fountain

will run dry

once winter

sets in

then we will melt

snowmen and -angels

down to their yellowgrey essence

på ryggen

af en harlekin-mariehøne

springer et springvand

non-stop

af råd om hvordan

du skal leve

dit liv

hvad du stiller op med

ingefær

bøn

wi-fi

og en uheldig

reinkarnation

skulle det vise sig

at du er blevet

mindre lykkelig

end du havde forestillet dig

da du først

blev bevidst om

at du er dig

med præcis

den størrelse fødder

der passer til dig

                                    kan lige så godt sætte dragen op fra kirkegården

                                    på eet plan var papir, snor, lim og vind som eet og

                                    således kan vi formode med en vi sikkerhed at de

                                    vil gøre hvad de kan for atter at blive eet eller i det

                                    mindste at de vil opføre sig i overensstemmelse med

                                    ideen om kvante-forbundethed når du kilder den ene

                                    vil de andre danse når du sætter dragen op vil vinden

                                    blæse den vind der engang var i samme æg/vugge/suppe

                                    som papiret, snoren, limen og din egen subtile intention

                                    om at få dragen til af flyve

harlekin-mariehønen

er en invasiv art

på disse kanter

og springvandet

vil løbe tør

når vinteren

sætter ind

så vil vi smelte

snemænd og -engle

ned til deres gulgrå essens

to be given a word / at få et ord foræret (flash-fiction-haibun)

Twilight of the Gods

He was just passing through, that foreigner with the tired eyes.

”Wow, it's really dark and cold up here. I can't afford to pay for the coffee but take this instead,” he said and left a word, one word, on the table. A big word. ”Götterdämmerung”. On could easily - and with some right, I think - have expected a fanfare or a cacophony of trumpets and horns to go along with it, but there was nothing. Just lying there by the complementary piece of 3^rd rate chocolate was a vibrating, blinking … lump(?) ... of a word. I didn't think much of it at first but took it home and put it on my table. I sat looking at it. It looked like it was breathing or there was a flame inside it; a flame that grew bright and faded in the rhythm of what I imagined would be a pulse, a beating heart. It didn't do anything and wouldn't eat or drink. Guess, it didn't need it. All winter it worked fine as a cosy sort of light and I saved a lot of money from not having to buy candles. Then in the spring I opened the window on a bright and slightly warm day and a magpie rushed in, grabbed Götterdämmerung and off it went over the trees and the neighbouring houses.

Kind of sad, really. My white cat Baldur turned black from disappointment.

from parasite to kissing ticket transformation of the mistletoe

Gudernes tusmørke

 

Han var kun på gennemrejse den fremmede med de trætte øjne.

”Wow, det er virkelig koldt og mørkt heroppe. Jeg kan ikke betale for kaffen, men tag imod dette her i stedet,” sagde han og efterlod et ord, eet ord, på bordet. Et stort ord. ”Götterdämmerung”. Man kunne sagtens - og med god ret, efter min mening - have forventet en fanfare eller en kakofoni af trompeter og horn, men der skete ingenting. Den bare lå der ved siden af den medfølgende 3de rangs chokolade, den dér vibrerende, blinkende … klump(?) … af et ord. Jeg tog mig ikke særligt af den, det, i starten, men tog det med hjem og lagde et på mit eget bord. Jeg satte mig og kiggede på det, den. Det, den, klumpen så ud til at ånde eller som om der var en flamme indeni; en flamme, der blev lysere og dæmpedes igen i en rytme, jeg forestillede mig måtte være en puls; et bankende hjerte. Den/det foretog sig ikke noget og ville hverken spise eller drikke. Måske havde klumpen, ordet, ikke brug for det. Den, det, fungerede fint hele vinteren som en slags hyggebelysning, og jeg sparede en del penge på ikke at skulle købe stearinlys. Da foråret kom, åbnede jeg vinduet på en lys og lun dag, og en skade skyndte sig ind, greb Götterdämmerung og afsted var den over træerne og nabohusene.

Ganske sørgeligt, egentlig. Min hvide kat Balder blev sort af skuffelse.

fra parasit til kysse-billet misteltenens forvandling

identitrivilaty / Identitrivialtet

Identitriviality

”Ich glaube … no, I think that there's an overall resistance or dislike to be who and what you are rooted in our upbringing. I mean, why would you begin to become something or someone you're not already in your teens. And it doesn't stop there. Grown people spend a lot of time trying to look like someone else. THERE lies the downfall of humanity, I guess.”

“You really shouldn't watch that much reality tv.”

“No?”

K. takes off his Dolly Parton costume, fake tits and all.

“Maybe I should try to be Japanese instead.”

“Well, your complexion will come in handy.”

Dead whities get a little yellow with time.

“Nah, I can't stand raw fish ...”

kimonotously an autumn rain with no end

Identitrivialitet

”Ich glaube … nej, jeg tror, at der er en overvældende modstand mod eller mishag ved, at være den og hvad, du er rodfæstet i vores opdragelse. Jeg mener, hvorfor ville du anstrenge dig for, at at blive til nogen eller noget, du ikke er allerede som teenager. Og det stopper ikke der. Voksne mennesker bruger en masse tid på, at fremstå som en anden, end den de er. DER ligger menneskets fald, vil jeg tro.”

”Du skulle virkelig ikke se så meget reality tv.”

”Ikke?”

K. tager sit Dolly Parton kostume af; falske patter og hvad véd jeg.

”Måske sku' jeg prøve at blive japaner i stedet.”

”I det mindste vil din hudfarve være praktisk.”

Døde hvidlinge bli'r en smule gule med tiden.

”Næeh, jeg kan ikke udstå rå fisk ...”

kimonotont en efterårsregn uden ende

words from November / ord fra november

words from November

They compete over a murder worth millions.

”He had his slippers on.”
”He wasn't wearing pants.”

One 7 track motorway to defy superstition among party members.

This cucumber isn't green.

”The Arch of Happiness got built at last.”

25 years later we fence in Europe.

“They suffer.”

Lift the needle and start over.

There's a town by the ocean.

She's not a fork.

Fingers grow cold, it's in their nature.

ord fra november

De konkurrerer om et mord, der er millioner værd.

”Han havde sine sutsko på.”

“Han havde ikke underbukser på.”

Een 7-spors motorvej for at trodse overtro blandt partimedlemmer.

Denne agurk er ikke grøn.

”Lyksalighedens Bue blev omsider bygget.”

25 år efter sætter vi hegn om Europa.

”De lider.”

Løft nålen og start forfra.

Der er en by ved havet.

Hun er ikke en gaffel.

Fingre bliver kolde, det ligger i deres natur.

Ingrid-Marie

if I could

I'd sink my teeth

into the flesh

of Ingrid-Marie

but as my fathers

before me

I have to use a knife

to get my fill

and the taste

of a bygone

summer

hvis jeg kunne

ville jeg sætte tænderne

i Ingrid-Marie

men som mine fædre

før mig

må jeg bruge en kniv

for at få en bid

og smagen

af en sommer

der er forbi

Ingrid-Marie is a Danish apple

25 stars - but who's counting / 25 stjerner - men hvem tæller

I bought a packet

of 25 glowing stars

to stick on the wall

or ceiling

I thought of them as

small pieces of plast

ic holding a bit

of daylight

and let it out at

night or during tho

se days the sun is

but a whis

per or a sigh. what

was my Spanish

ancestor thinking

off settling

up here in the Nor

thern mud but of cour

se he was fleeing

poverty

and famine back then

when Napoleon

thought he'd be empe

ror of all

poor man and poor

men, women and chil

dren who'd suffer at

his bloody

expense. But now they

're there the stars on

the table by the

vitamin

C tablets (500 mg)

sickly green and a

lien-like, like stars

should be. I

now let's see if I

ever get them out

up ...

jeg købte en pak

ke med 25 selvly

sende stjerner til

at klistre

på væggen eller

i loftet. jeg tænk

te på dem som små

stykker pla

stik der ku holde

på en smule dags

lys på de dage

hvor solen

blot er en hvisken

eller et suk. hvad

tænkte min spanske

forfader

på da han bosat

te sig heroppe

i det nordiske

mudder men

han flygtede self

følgelig fra fat

tigdom og sult da

Napole

on troede han

skulle være al

les kejser stakkels

mand og stak

kels mænd kvinder og

børn som skulle li

de på hans blodi

ge bekost

ning. Men nu er de

dér stjernerne på

bordet ved siden

af C vi

taminerne (500 mg)

kvalmegrønne som

stjerner skal være

så må jeg

se om jeg får sat

dem op ...

new shoes / nye sko

time / tid

the time it takes

to drag a stuffed whale

on a wagon

built from corrugated iron sheets

across the puszta

with a tractor

is

the time it takes

to drag a stuffed whale

on a wagon

built from corrugated iron sheets

across the puszta

with a tractor

just like

brewing coffee

finding a fuse in the drawer

in the darkened kitchen

at night

and again you think about

getting a torch

(but you'll probably put that

in a place you'll forget)

finding that bear hair

that tickles your

left nostril

getting your feet

used to new wellies

those feet

that have enjoyed

the freedom from

socks and shoes

all through summer

the time it takes

to dig up the title

of a film

that made a deep

impression on you

30 years ago

and now you

suddenly want to watch it again

(and it's not like you

not to be able to remember)

is the time

it takes

time takes time

getting used to

and that takes

the time

it

takes

den tid det tager

at trække en udstoppet hval

på en vogn

bygget af bølgeblik

over pusztaen

med en traktor

er

den tid det tager

at trække en udstoppet hval

på en vogn

bygget af bølgeblik

over pusztaen

med en traktor

ligesom

at brygge kaffe

at finde en sikring i skuffen

i et mørkelagt køkken

om natten

mens du atter tænker på

at anskaffe dig

en lommelygte

(men den vil du sikkert

lægge et sted som du

ikke ville kunne huske)

af finde det skæghår

der kilder i det venstre

næsebor

vænne fødderne

til de nye gummistøvler

de fødder

der har har nydt sommeren

fri fra sko og strømper

den tid det tager

at finde titlen på

en film

som gjorde et dybt

indtryk på dig

for 30 år siden

og nu vil du pludselig

se den igen

(og det ligner dig ikke

ikke at kunne huske

sådan noget)

er den tid

det tager

det tager tid

at vænne sig til tiden

og det tager

den tid

det

tager

the stuffed whale scene is taken from Bela Tarr's "Werckmeister Harmoniak"

October note / en note i oktober

gotta use that insomnia for something

last October

was bit like this one

or

this one is a bit like …

you know

just warmer

there's still

a war on out there

making things odder

here

still some religious fanatics

making life hell

for others

for their version

of paradise

same as always

same old

#

oh, the wolf returned

(or did it? no one has said anything

for quite a while)

to our Northern Mud Bank

#

between

Satantango and Damnation

I find a dead beetle

quite fitting

really

I keep saying to myself

“It's time you set aside

a day for that tango”

and maybe this winter

I will

gotta use that insomnia

for something

eh?

jeg må da bruge den søvnløshed til noget

sidste oktober

var næsten som denne her

eller

denne her er næsten som …

du véd

blot varmere

der er stadig

en krig derude

der gør tingene mærkeligere

her

stadig nogle religiøse fanatikere

der gør livet

til et helvede

for andre

for deres egen version

af paradis

det samme som altid

det samme gamle

#

åh ja, ulven vendte tilbage

(eller gjordet den? ingen har sagt noget

i et stykke tid)

til vores nordlige mudderbanke

#

mellem

Satantango og Damnation

finder jeg en død bille

ret passende

egentlig

jeg bli'r ved med at sige

til mig selv

”Det er på tide

du sætter en dag af

til den tango”

og måske sker det

denne vinter

jeg må da bruge

den søvnløshed

til noget

ikk'?