En slags fornorsket versjon av den foregående Brian May-debatten:
Det finnes utallige skriveteknikker, og minst like mange kompetente meningsytrende som gjerne vil mene noe om skrivestil og hvilke sådanne som er gyldige, hvilke som er tilrådelige, hvilke som er akseptable i hvilke sammenhenger, etc. De bedriver en systematisk, for ikke å si hensynsløs endevending, nedstripping og opphakking av det skrevne ord, for å finne mønstre, dele inn i kategorier, sette i båser - alt dette de er så forferdelig glad i. De tenker ikke, for de har sett seg blind på sine egne behandlingsmetoder og for dem finnes kun ett system, de vil ikke vite av mulige unntak fra sine skrevne regler.
For disse folkene kan det virke som at reglene er opplest og vedtatt, endog før de har blitt fattet. Jeg synes de er regelrett herskesyke - og jo mer de fremhever sin kunnskap, jo mer synes jeg at de tydeliggjør mangelen på nettopp denne. De ser ikke skogen for bare trær. Og denne kritikken gjelder blant annet,for å spesifisere litt mer, lærere og professorer og generelt folk i vårt fantastiske, beundringsverdige, å-så-smarte utdanningssystem. Jeg vil ikke hevde at samtlige tilhørende denne bransjen deler et slikt syn på skrivearbeidet og på litteraturen, eller at de praktiserer en slik form for raljering med kunstneriske verker, men det er faretruende mange representanter for denne gruppen "utdannede mennesker" som blir lyttet til, og som dermed må kritiseres for at det skal kunne finnes en motvekt til deres høyt aktede og ofte gjenrefererte vås. Og vel, jeg liker egentlig ikke å dømme andre på denne ensidige måten. Derimot føler jeg for å ta igjen litt med samme mynt, siden disse såkalte ekspertene er veldig flinke til å kun se saken fra én vinkel og bedømme den deretter; de har et gjennomført snevert og misbilligende syn på stort sett alt de blir stilt overfor. Det være seg Mikas nye album eller Jo Nesbøs nye bok. Jeg skulle ønske - virkelig - at de kunne vise mer åpenhet. At de kunne ha litt mer toleranse, at de kunne prøve å forstå istedenfor å bare avskrive. Er det så mye å be om? Føler jeg har skrevet side opp og side ned om temaet dumme kritikere nå, men de dukker jo opp konstant og hvorenn jeg snur meg. De har ingen rett til å med overlegg utvise slik dumhet, lang mindre bidra til at den blir indoktrinert hos andre. (Jvfr. en studiesituasjon der de faktisk får betalt for å gjøre det!) De har en urokkelig tro på seg selv og at den veien de leder an på, er den eneste riktige. Derfor er det påvirkningsaspektet - det at de trekker med seg andre og lett overbeviste tilhørere - som vil være skummelt i denne sammenheng.
Jeg leser (til det kjedsommelige) bøker om sosiolingvistikk nå, og de har i det minste begrenset seg til å generalisere måtene vi snakker på. Enn så lenge kan jeg, med andre ord, få ha skriftspråket mitt i fred. Det jeg ikke har begynt å studere ennå, kan jeg ikke bli rasende på, for å omfrisere et gammelt ordtak. Her er uansett noen flere notater omkring temaet; nedtegnelsene basert fra virvaret i Scara's hode:
"...særpreg...vanskelig ord, umulig å gi en klar definisjon på...men oki, jeg føler at det er en stil man kan oppfatte som uformell men samtidig litt sofistikert...det er en paradoksal blanding jeg digger; det er dette overraskelsesmomentet og det uforutsette som skal appellere...at man blander banning med fremmedord, for eksempel, og muntlig slang med intrikate funderinger omkring livets viderverdigheter...sånt noe...og beviser at man trenger ikke være konsekvent for å være konstruktiv, eller gjennomført finurlig for å være fornuftig, og omvendt...at stilistisk, stram setningsoppbygning faktisk kan kombineres med lettfattelig, humoristisk dilldall uten at det nødvendigvis synes fordummende og banalt...altså pjatt er ikke synonymt med platt..."
Sunday, March 11, 2007
"No, you smiled!"
Et relativt kort og fryktelig lite objektivt essay om en av de fineste filmene jeg vet om! Whey!
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Den store Lost in Translation-dagen i går, da jeg gjorde alt annet enn å faktisk se på Lost in Tranlsation...hehe...det vil si; jeg kjøpte to My Bloody Valentine-album, jeg satt og glante på "La Dolce Vita", jeg sullet rundt i en regntung storby og jeg observerte rare mennesker spille rare musikkinstrumenter, jeg lastet ned bilder fra LiT og jeg hørte på soundtracket. Jeg leste endog i booklet'en til soundtracket. Men jeg så altså ikke på selve filmen. Nå skal det derimot sies at jeg hadde gleden av å gjenoppleve dette lille mesterverket på min fantastiske 17'' hjemmekino (pc'en min) forrige helg, ergo var minnet ganske inntakt og stod fortsatt levende for meg.
Slik de fleste av mine bekjentskaper er vel vitende om, er LiT en av mine absolutte favorittfilmer i hele verden og definititivt den som har hatt mest innflytelse på meg personlig. I etterkant av første gjennsomskuing har jeg blant annet fått to nye favorittband takket være regissør Sofia Coppolas glimrende smak og perfekte musikkvalg for filmen, nemlig Roxy Music og nevnte My Bloody Valentine. Jeg har blitt om mulig enda mer fascinert av Japan og hvis jeg endelig får reise til Tokyo, om forhåpentligvis ikke så altfor lenge, er det liten tvil om hvor jeg skal bo. Park Hyatt Hotel! Og gjett hvem som skal erobre det svømmebassenget! Det finnes faktisk reiseselskaper som tilbyr organiserte LiT-turer der man får følge i Scarletts fotspor og oppsøke stedene fra filmen...fancy... Jeg må også nevne at min aller første 6’er i norsk på videregående kom på en heldag der jeg skrev stil inspirert både av handlingen og stemningen i LiT, men også, ikke minst, av musikken..."Girls" av Death In Vegas...dét er koselig å tenke på!
Og - videre har jeg da adoptert Scarletts klesstil fra denne filmen, i sin helhet, fine fine duse-pastellfarger-koloritten...I tillegg til mine stadige forsøk på å etterligne hennes sjarmerende vesen selvsagt, hihi, host host, og jeg etterstreber også hennes måte å angripe problemer på...det høres muligens pompøst ut, og kan synes en smule overdrevent, men er ment i hjerteligste og mest respektfylte betydning...hun er for meg et lite forbilde, bokstavelig talt, og ikke nødvendigvis gjennom å lytte til "Finding your true calling"-CD'er, men i form av hennes søkende og granskende holdning, når hun utforsker Tokyo...dette blikket for alle de utrolige menneskene rundt henne, denne åpenheten for eksotiske og uforklarlige inntrykk... Likeledes, utforskingen av hennes eget selvbilde og behovet for å forsvinne i mylderet, litt som Johan Harstads Mattias i "Buzz Aldrin", bare se og ikke delta; og det er jo nettopp dét filmen handler om, hvordan en som er så unik og flott kan prøve å gjøre seg så innigranskauen usynlig, og hvordan hun må møte en som Bill Murray (rollefiguren hans, mao) for at hun skal kunne forandre innstilling og holdning til livet. Dessuten har filmen alle disse gjennomført gode scenene, spesielt mellom Scarlett & Bill, men også fra de nattlige lufteturene på nattklubber og på safari rundt omkring i japanske gater, med trafikklysene som lager musikk, de mørke skyggene fra skyskraperne, alle drosjene og alle neonlysene - jeg ELSKER neonlys! - og Sofia Coppolas varemerke; nydelige kvinner filmet utenfra bilvinduer; du kan formelig føle hvordan by-lysene glitrer i øynene deres...pluss alle vidsomsordene de forskjellige karaktene kommer med iløpet av filmen; eksempelvis den nydelige dialogen som etterfølger ”La Dolce Vita” + rødvin-seansen...om forandringene i livet etter at man har fått barn, og om det uvisse i unge mennesker fremtidsutsikter...det vanskelige i å skulle velge, og de umulige valgenes kval. Jeg siterer fra denne filmen i hytt og pine, og har opparbeidet meg et nærmest fotografist minne av de forskjellige scenene. Som sagt.
Jeg tror en av grunnene til at jeg elsker filmen så høyt er gjenkjennelsesfaktoren; at da jeg så den for første gang var jeg i en situasjon liknende den Scarletts rollefigur er i, at jeg fremdeles kan føle meg akkurat som henne når jeg vurderer meg selv og min egen tilværelse fra utsiden, og jeg har lyst å sitte en en bar på et fint hotell i en metropol langt borte og diskutere store og små verdensproblemer med en eldre, frustrert, men supersjarmerende skuespiller ved navn Bob Harris. Vandre rundt i Tokyo og småbyene rundt, alene eller sammen med ham, og tenke seg til fornuftige svar på de samme livets spørsmål...prøve å finne seg sjæl, så og si...iblandet litt geisha-romantikk, ikebana og hairproducts, mye karaoke og usannsynlig vakker cinematografi. At mange eldre og supersjarmerende skuespillermenn også kan ønske å treffe på en ung, intelligent og tankefull skjønnhet som kan gi dem noe av livsgløden og livsviljen tilbake er en annen, men ganske sannsynlig sak. Vil jeg mene. Å ha et "Lost in Translation-moment" har tross alt blitt et begrep i USA.
Summa summarum handler det om to fremmede som nesten helt ubevisst, og hver på sin måte, ender opp med å bli det aller beste som noensinne kunne hendt den andre...det handler om sjelefrender og instant connection to tilsynelatende nokså forskjellige mennesker imellom...om innvendig skjønnhet, om gode relasjoner og om ekte følelser...alt sammen formidlet innenfor den nette tidsramme av én og en halv time – som går altfor, altfor fort! Det positive er at filmen kan sees om og om igjen, og at den er innmari morsom. Selv om den er trist. Eller, sørgmodig. Underfundig. Den appellerer til hele spekteret av følelser, forutsatt at man har ett, og hvis slikt er mangelvare kan man lett opparbeide seg det av å se LiT ti ganger på rad. Bare et tips. Det lønner seg å være et følelsesmenneske! I lengden, i allefall!
Simpelthen en helt fantastisk filmopplevelse; må naturligvis anbefales for alle og enhver! ;)
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Den store Lost in Translation-dagen i går, da jeg gjorde alt annet enn å faktisk se på Lost in Tranlsation...hehe...det vil si; jeg kjøpte to My Bloody Valentine-album, jeg satt og glante på "La Dolce Vita", jeg sullet rundt i en regntung storby og jeg observerte rare mennesker spille rare musikkinstrumenter, jeg lastet ned bilder fra LiT og jeg hørte på soundtracket. Jeg leste endog i booklet'en til soundtracket. Men jeg så altså ikke på selve filmen. Nå skal det derimot sies at jeg hadde gleden av å gjenoppleve dette lille mesterverket på min fantastiske 17'' hjemmekino (pc'en min) forrige helg, ergo var minnet ganske inntakt og stod fortsatt levende for meg.
Slik de fleste av mine bekjentskaper er vel vitende om, er LiT en av mine absolutte favorittfilmer i hele verden og definititivt den som har hatt mest innflytelse på meg personlig. I etterkant av første gjennsomskuing har jeg blant annet fått to nye favorittband takket være regissør Sofia Coppolas glimrende smak og perfekte musikkvalg for filmen, nemlig Roxy Music og nevnte My Bloody Valentine. Jeg har blitt om mulig enda mer fascinert av Japan og hvis jeg endelig får reise til Tokyo, om forhåpentligvis ikke så altfor lenge, er det liten tvil om hvor jeg skal bo. Park Hyatt Hotel! Og gjett hvem som skal erobre det svømmebassenget! Det finnes faktisk reiseselskaper som tilbyr organiserte LiT-turer der man får følge i Scarletts fotspor og oppsøke stedene fra filmen...fancy... Jeg må også nevne at min aller første 6’er i norsk på videregående kom på en heldag der jeg skrev stil inspirert både av handlingen og stemningen i LiT, men også, ikke minst, av musikken..."Girls" av Death In Vegas...dét er koselig å tenke på!
Og - videre har jeg da adoptert Scarletts klesstil fra denne filmen, i sin helhet, fine fine duse-pastellfarger-koloritten...I tillegg til mine stadige forsøk på å etterligne hennes sjarmerende vesen selvsagt, hihi, host host, og jeg etterstreber også hennes måte å angripe problemer på...det høres muligens pompøst ut, og kan synes en smule overdrevent, men er ment i hjerteligste og mest respektfylte betydning...hun er for meg et lite forbilde, bokstavelig talt, og ikke nødvendigvis gjennom å lytte til "Finding your true calling"-CD'er, men i form av hennes søkende og granskende holdning, når hun utforsker Tokyo...dette blikket for alle de utrolige menneskene rundt henne, denne åpenheten for eksotiske og uforklarlige inntrykk... Likeledes, utforskingen av hennes eget selvbilde og behovet for å forsvinne i mylderet, litt som Johan Harstads Mattias i "Buzz Aldrin", bare se og ikke delta; og det er jo nettopp dét filmen handler om, hvordan en som er så unik og flott kan prøve å gjøre seg så innigranskauen usynlig, og hvordan hun må møte en som Bill Murray (rollefiguren hans, mao) for at hun skal kunne forandre innstilling og holdning til livet. Dessuten har filmen alle disse gjennomført gode scenene, spesielt mellom Scarlett & Bill, men også fra de nattlige lufteturene på nattklubber og på safari rundt omkring i japanske gater, med trafikklysene som lager musikk, de mørke skyggene fra skyskraperne, alle drosjene og alle neonlysene - jeg ELSKER neonlys! - og Sofia Coppolas varemerke; nydelige kvinner filmet utenfra bilvinduer; du kan formelig føle hvordan by-lysene glitrer i øynene deres...pluss alle vidsomsordene de forskjellige karaktene kommer med iløpet av filmen; eksempelvis den nydelige dialogen som etterfølger ”La Dolce Vita” + rødvin-seansen...om forandringene i livet etter at man har fått barn, og om det uvisse i unge mennesker fremtidsutsikter...det vanskelige i å skulle velge, og de umulige valgenes kval. Jeg siterer fra denne filmen i hytt og pine, og har opparbeidet meg et nærmest fotografist minne av de forskjellige scenene. Som sagt.
Jeg tror en av grunnene til at jeg elsker filmen så høyt er gjenkjennelsesfaktoren; at da jeg så den for første gang var jeg i en situasjon liknende den Scarletts rollefigur er i, at jeg fremdeles kan føle meg akkurat som henne når jeg vurderer meg selv og min egen tilværelse fra utsiden, og jeg har lyst å sitte en en bar på et fint hotell i en metropol langt borte og diskutere store og små verdensproblemer med en eldre, frustrert, men supersjarmerende skuespiller ved navn Bob Harris. Vandre rundt i Tokyo og småbyene rundt, alene eller sammen med ham, og tenke seg til fornuftige svar på de samme livets spørsmål...prøve å finne seg sjæl, så og si...iblandet litt geisha-romantikk, ikebana og hairproducts, mye karaoke og usannsynlig vakker cinematografi. At mange eldre og supersjarmerende skuespillermenn også kan ønske å treffe på en ung, intelligent og tankefull skjønnhet som kan gi dem noe av livsgløden og livsviljen tilbake er en annen, men ganske sannsynlig sak. Vil jeg mene. Å ha et "Lost in Translation-moment" har tross alt blitt et begrep i USA.
Summa summarum handler det om to fremmede som nesten helt ubevisst, og hver på sin måte, ender opp med å bli det aller beste som noensinne kunne hendt den andre...det handler om sjelefrender og instant connection to tilsynelatende nokså forskjellige mennesker imellom...om innvendig skjønnhet, om gode relasjoner og om ekte følelser...alt sammen formidlet innenfor den nette tidsramme av én og en halv time – som går altfor, altfor fort! Det positive er at filmen kan sees om og om igjen, og at den er innmari morsom. Selv om den er trist. Eller, sørgmodig. Underfundig. Den appellerer til hele spekteret av følelser, forutsatt at man har ett, og hvis slikt er mangelvare kan man lett opparbeide seg det av å se LiT ti ganger på rad. Bare et tips. Det lønner seg å være et følelsesmenneske! I lengden, i allefall!
Simpelthen en helt fantastisk filmopplevelse; må naturligvis anbefales for alle og enhver! ;)
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Falling cats & thunderstorms
"What we may and may not - be"
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et, based on true events, as presented by the true facts' storyteller
There was a cat falling from the roof today
I don't know how, but it didn't die, it hardly got a scratch
Guess cats really have nine lives or somehow
hold on to life much stronger than the rest of us may
There was a lightning striking my block of flats today
I don't know how, but it didn't get any damage done at all,
guess buildings aren't so easily destroyed, they somehow
hold on to their silent stature, stronger than the bendy may
A firm and lonesome majesty of such unshaken pride
Could land upon its two feet, without a quivering stride
The rings of bubbles in the water go calm at the sight of you
The storms quiet down, yet none can tell what it is you do
Unaltered, facial features and a shield I want to breach
Still; suppose I'll never get it, since you resist to preach
There was a raindrop crushed in my palm today
I don't know when, the water vaporised too fast;
condensing weather, guess it's purely unavoidable,
but the damp remains, longer than the toughest may
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et, based on true events, as presented by the true facts' storyteller
There was a cat falling from the roof today
I don't know how, but it didn't die, it hardly got a scratch
Guess cats really have nine lives or somehow
hold on to life much stronger than the rest of us may
There was a lightning striking my block of flats today
I don't know how, but it didn't get any damage done at all,
guess buildings aren't so easily destroyed, they somehow
hold on to their silent stature, stronger than the bendy may
A firm and lonesome majesty of such unshaken pride
Could land upon its two feet, without a quivering stride
The rings of bubbles in the water go calm at the sight of you
The storms quiet down, yet none can tell what it is you do
Unaltered, facial features and a shield I want to breach
Still; suppose I'll never get it, since you resist to preach
There was a raindrop crushed in my palm today
I don't know when, the water vaporised too fast;
condensing weather, guess it's purely unavoidable,
but the damp remains, longer than the toughest may
Women's day
"Directions" - since any form of communication is best executed through poetry
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et, who isn't quite sure if she knows what the feminist-label is all about anymore...and when do you stop being part of something you where actually born into?
Is this the power of the sisterhood?
Is this the magic that'll make us good?
The craziness with which the armies stood up
and then they backed back down again
Is this the beauty of the ladies' blues?
Are these the battles we'll see in the news?
The craziness with which the man pursues guts
and then he's forced to back down again
Is this the game the movements called for?
Is the the reason why one's called a whore?
The craziness due to which the differences galore
The craziness which caused confusion, furthermore
The craziness; we don't know why we're fighting, nor
will we soon understand these celebrations
Is this the independence that we say we craved?
Is this the purpose for which femininity was saved?
The craziness, the horror and the happiness; all played up
I think we all forgot where we should've stopped
And - I can't read the directions any longer,
but I hope we're heading for a place where something's right
I can't tell appearances from outrage any longer,
but I hope that inside, there's still left enough of something right
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et, who isn't quite sure if she knows what the feminist-label is all about anymore...and when do you stop being part of something you where actually born into?
Is this the power of the sisterhood?
Is this the magic that'll make us good?
The craziness with which the armies stood up
and then they backed back down again
Is this the beauty of the ladies' blues?
Are these the battles we'll see in the news?
The craziness with which the man pursues guts
and then he's forced to back down again
Is this the game the movements called for?
Is the the reason why one's called a whore?
The craziness due to which the differences galore
The craziness which caused confusion, furthermore
The craziness; we don't know why we're fighting, nor
will we soon understand these celebrations
Is this the independence that we say we craved?
Is this the purpose for which femininity was saved?
The craziness, the horror and the happiness; all played up
I think we all forgot where we should've stopped
And - I can't read the directions any longer,
but I hope we're heading for a place where something's right
I can't tell appearances from outrage any longer,
but I hope that inside, there's still left enough of something right
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
God påvirkning. God behandling. Og Mika.
Kunsten å være syk.
Eller - kunsten å gjøre det koseligste utav en ukoselig situasjon. Therapy for a Scaramouchesque cold. Harmoni.
1 stk nytt Nemi-blad (tenk at de skjøt Snøhvit!!! - eh, ja. host.)
1 stk nytt Modesty-blad (eller Agent X9, da, teknisk sett - men det er Modesty som er heltinnen min!)
1 stk rosinbolle fra Rema (godeste kjøperosinbollene som finnes, faktisk)
1 stk Mika: "Life in Cartoon Motion" - med en Happy Ending. Bokstavelig talt. (Freddie would have been SO proud! Mika rocker. Og sånt kan man jo nesten bli frisk av.)
1 stk Norah Jones: "Not too late" - når jeg er lei av å danse og synge og hyle. (Fordi slikt kanskje ikke er helt helsemessig tilrådelig over lengre tid.)
1 stk LG-tv med 24 kanaler og LCD-skjerm (mitt livs store kjærlighet, for tiden - i det minste én av dem! ennå en av dem! oh well.)
1 stk Jack London: "The Sea Wolf" - skrives ikke sånne lenger, dessverre. Fine mannen.
x antall kornmokjeks med gräddost, som er det beste jeg vet, og mørk sjokolade og te (jeg er så fryktelig sunn når jeg er syk...)
**
Everybody's gonna love Mika some day!
Ja, når vi snakker om Life in Cartoon Motion...Her er Scara's guide til Mika's univers:
Grace Kelly = Freddie!!! (Don't stop me now!)
Lollipop = Roxette (noen som sa barnekor?) og S Club 7 på speed (...)
My Interpretation = Robbie Williams
Love Today = The Darkness!!! (Girlfriend)
Relax (Take it easy) = Scissor Sisters (Comfortably Numb - jadajada Pink Floyd jadajada)
Any Other World = Pet Shop Boys og Per Gessle og veldig Scissor Sisters
Billy Brown = Queen (Seaside Rendezvous) og Elton John (vill, gal og en nedtonet utgave av Crocodile Rock)
Big Girl (you are beaiutiful) = George Michael og Queen og Fat bottomed girls
Stuck in the middle = Jake Shears (Land of a 1000 words!) og pianotonene til Laura (ok; DET var rent tyveri, Mika!)
Happy Ending = My Bloody Valentine (melodien?) og Atomic Kitten og Justin Timberlake (hjelp!) + Queen (Let me live) og Brian May (Furia-albumet)
Ring Ring = Mer Robbie, mer Freddie og litt Pink (?)
Er det rart jeg er fan?! *Smile*
Altså, denne fyren har seriøst skjønt det! Det beste av det aller beste; Mika har jo laget alle andres greatest hits - på sin helt egen måte. Og forbedret dem. (Med unntak av Queen...ingen kan forbedre Freddie...) Alt i alt er dette pretty impressive. Og: Robbie er på rehab, The Darkness er oppløst - hulk! - Freddie er død, Brian har nok med å holde styr på Paul Rodgers, Pet Shop Boys burde vurdere å pensjonere seg, George Michael har visse - ehem - personlige issues og Elton John er for mye Captain Fantastic og for lite tilgjengelig, Atomic Kitten er grusomt blonde og Justin Timberlake har å ligge unna Scarlett...konklusjon: vi trenger Mika!!
Eller - kunsten å gjøre det koseligste utav en ukoselig situasjon. Therapy for a Scaramouchesque cold. Harmoni.
1 stk nytt Nemi-blad (tenk at de skjøt Snøhvit!!! - eh, ja. host.)
1 stk nytt Modesty-blad (eller Agent X9, da, teknisk sett - men det er Modesty som er heltinnen min!)
1 stk rosinbolle fra Rema (godeste kjøperosinbollene som finnes, faktisk)
1 stk Mika: "Life in Cartoon Motion" - med en Happy Ending. Bokstavelig talt. (Freddie would have been SO proud! Mika rocker. Og sånt kan man jo nesten bli frisk av.)
1 stk Norah Jones: "Not too late" - når jeg er lei av å danse og synge og hyle. (Fordi slikt kanskje ikke er helt helsemessig tilrådelig over lengre tid.)
1 stk LG-tv med 24 kanaler og LCD-skjerm (mitt livs store kjærlighet, for tiden - i det minste én av dem! ennå en av dem! oh well.)
1 stk Jack London: "The Sea Wolf" - skrives ikke sånne lenger, dessverre. Fine mannen.
x antall kornmokjeks med gräddost, som er det beste jeg vet, og mørk sjokolade og te (jeg er så fryktelig sunn når jeg er syk...)
**
Everybody's gonna love Mika some day!
Ja, når vi snakker om Life in Cartoon Motion...Her er Scara's guide til Mika's univers:
Grace Kelly = Freddie!!! (Don't stop me now!)
Lollipop = Roxette (noen som sa barnekor?) og S Club 7 på speed (...)
My Interpretation = Robbie Williams
Love Today = The Darkness!!! (Girlfriend)
Relax (Take it easy) = Scissor Sisters (Comfortably Numb - jadajada Pink Floyd jadajada)
Any Other World = Pet Shop Boys og Per Gessle og veldig Scissor Sisters
Billy Brown = Queen (Seaside Rendezvous) og Elton John (vill, gal og en nedtonet utgave av Crocodile Rock)
Big Girl (you are beaiutiful) = George Michael og Queen og Fat bottomed girls
Stuck in the middle = Jake Shears (Land of a 1000 words!) og pianotonene til Laura (ok; DET var rent tyveri, Mika!)
Happy Ending = My Bloody Valentine (melodien?) og Atomic Kitten og Justin Timberlake (hjelp!) + Queen (Let me live) og Brian May (Furia-albumet)
Ring Ring = Mer Robbie, mer Freddie og litt Pink (?)
Er det rart jeg er fan?! *Smile*
Altså, denne fyren har seriøst skjønt det! Det beste av det aller beste; Mika har jo laget alle andres greatest hits - på sin helt egen måte. Og forbedret dem. (Med unntak av Queen...ingen kan forbedre Freddie...) Alt i alt er dette pretty impressive. Og: Robbie er på rehab, The Darkness er oppløst - hulk! - Freddie er død, Brian har nok med å holde styr på Paul Rodgers, Pet Shop Boys burde vurdere å pensjonere seg, George Michael har visse - ehem - personlige issues og Elton John er for mye Captain Fantastic og for lite tilgjengelig, Atomic Kitten er grusomt blonde og Justin Timberlake har å ligge unna Scarlett...konklusjon: vi trenger Mika!!
Monday, March 05, 2007
Rock on Brian May! Praising a Competent Queenie
Shame on me for not commenting on this before, but I wasn't sure if I really should bother. It's about ignorant critics, again, and allowing them a little - or any - attention might contribute to gaining them further audience and more sensitive listeners. Which they hardly deserve. But right now, I'm just fed up and I have to speak up. It seems that the news basically swarm with exclamations from these galoring, stupid twerps these days. The last one out to fall victim to their wrath is Brian May, who's been getting a hard time lately because of his (in every way brilliant) Soapbox of which I am a loyal reader, and have been so since the very beginning. This is Mr. May's method of communicating with his fans and supporters, and it's a half-private place where he writes anecdotes and comments on on-going events in the world, for instance campaigns and concerts, but he also provides updates on his professional life and whatever's up with Queen + PR. All in all; very wise, funny, lovable - and very harmless. That is, until now!
Brian's site was named Site of the Week in The Sun due to lots and lots of recent attention - since a couple of journalists suddenly had taken the time to read through some of what Bri had written and then found texts they didn't quite understand the complete meaning of. This, again, made them angry, and - believe it or not! - had them condemning and ridiculing the following: Brian's fight against cruel treatment of animals, his love for astronomy, his disapproval of smokers and druggers, his academic qualifications and his astronomy interest! The nerve - and the sass! - of these folks is just unbelievable. Even his career and friendship with Freddie is now brought into focus, amongst others by one James Donaghy in Brit tabloid The Guardian. And I recite; "How Freddie Mercury must have loved the outrageous camp of his fabulously crimped and tousled guitarist, the virtuoso Brian May." What can possibly give reason for such sarcasm?
These British journalists, with whom Brian has been in conflict for quite a long time - he even wrote Scandal as a "tribute" to them and their work - now gather up in a protest against blogging musicians; Brian in particular, but they also harass for instance Lily Allen. Whilst quoting wildly from Brian's blog, they are labelling him as a bygone, fallen Rock Star who has nothing better to do than encumbering the net with his silly opinions. Multiple essays and blog entries (!) - they state an even worse example themselves, in other words - treating the content of the Sopabox as something terrible, or laughable, something essentially unworthy of online space. And they mix this with critique of him as a person; they even continue their bullying of his hairdo. How dare they!! How can they not see that they have no right, nor any actual grounds, for writing this?
Brian May is one of a very, very, very selected few rock'n'rollers whose understanding goes faaaar beyond - literally - the one concerning ordinary, human issues like love, life and notes. He is a unique man, whom people can earn incredibly much from listening to. His occupations include exploring the beauty of dreams and the whole of the universe; writing books about it too! But most important of all; changing the lives of millions (myself included) with his amazing music... When, at the same time, these same journalists are stuck in a mud puddle of degraded confusion! What they claim, moreover, is but another example of plain jealousy; people trying to compensate for an own feeling of inability opposite someone who is their superior in any aspect of any discussion. Oh well.
Now, just SHUT UP; the lot of you bloody fools! PLEASE! And: Rock on, Bri! - someone tell these people to get a f*cking life. And that's all I have to say about this matter! Finito!
Brian's site was named Site of the Week in The Sun due to lots and lots of recent attention - since a couple of journalists suddenly had taken the time to read through some of what Bri had written and then found texts they didn't quite understand the complete meaning of. This, again, made them angry, and - believe it or not! - had them condemning and ridiculing the following: Brian's fight against cruel treatment of animals, his love for astronomy, his disapproval of smokers and druggers, his academic qualifications and his astronomy interest! The nerve - and the sass! - of these folks is just unbelievable. Even his career and friendship with Freddie is now brought into focus, amongst others by one James Donaghy in Brit tabloid The Guardian. And I recite; "How Freddie Mercury must have loved the outrageous camp of his fabulously crimped and tousled guitarist, the virtuoso Brian May." What can possibly give reason for such sarcasm?
These British journalists, with whom Brian has been in conflict for quite a long time - he even wrote Scandal as a "tribute" to them and their work - now gather up in a protest against blogging musicians; Brian in particular, but they also harass for instance Lily Allen. Whilst quoting wildly from Brian's blog, they are labelling him as a bygone, fallen Rock Star who has nothing better to do than encumbering the net with his silly opinions. Multiple essays and blog entries (!) - they state an even worse example themselves, in other words - treating the content of the Sopabox as something terrible, or laughable, something essentially unworthy of online space. And they mix this with critique of him as a person; they even continue their bullying of his hairdo. How dare they!! How can they not see that they have no right, nor any actual grounds, for writing this?
Brian May is one of a very, very, very selected few rock'n'rollers whose understanding goes faaaar beyond - literally - the one concerning ordinary, human issues like love, life and notes. He is a unique man, whom people can earn incredibly much from listening to. His occupations include exploring the beauty of dreams and the whole of the universe; writing books about it too! But most important of all; changing the lives of millions (myself included) with his amazing music... When, at the same time, these same journalists are stuck in a mud puddle of degraded confusion! What they claim, moreover, is but another example of plain jealousy; people trying to compensate for an own feeling of inability opposite someone who is their superior in any aspect of any discussion. Oh well.
Now, just SHUT UP; the lot of you bloody fools! PLEASE! And: Rock on, Bri! - someone tell these people to get a f*cking life. And that's all I have to say about this matter! Finito!
Sunday, March 04, 2007
At de tør!
Man kritiserer ikke Mesteren Ernest Hemingway ustraffet, i allefall ikke i Scaramouches påsyn. Dét er nemlig hva en fan med respekt for seg selv ikke kan forholde seg stilltiende til. Så her kommer litt...
"Panegyrisk rangel"
Av Scaramouche, po(t)eten, som digger Ernest og hater Dumme, Uvitende Kritikere - og de er det dessverre altfor mange av der ute...de som kaller seg bedrevitere og faktisk klarer å være stolt av det...de som indirekte hevder de vet mer enn alle andre og mener de er berettiget til å uttale seg nedverdigende, nedsettende og uten medfølelse eller dyptpløyende tolkningskompetanse - om det meste og de fleste. Fysj.
Dørklokken synger ut en slags melodi
for meg, mens jeg trykker på knapper
Trillende toner på løpende bånd, men
som bånd flest hakker det litt i blant
Jeg fatter ikke hvilken rett slikt skal ha
til å være mer sprudlende enn man er selv
Hva er vel et overstrømmende spill av
ensformige toner, mot de renere ord
Tegne et kart og skissere med streker,
men mangle retning og mangle kompass
Hva er vel en likhet, mot dette man aldri
vil kunne begripe og derfor kaller eksepsjonell
fornøyelig, fantastisk og skjønn;
verden sikter ei utover sitt eget,
verden er ikke så, verden er rå
lettfordøyelig, fabel-aktig, en drøm
sannheten skyter ei i vildensky,
sannheten er grå, men en sannhet likeså
"Panegyrisk rangel"
Av Scaramouche, po(t)eten, som digger Ernest og hater Dumme, Uvitende Kritikere - og de er det dessverre altfor mange av der ute...de som kaller seg bedrevitere og faktisk klarer å være stolt av det...de som indirekte hevder de vet mer enn alle andre og mener de er berettiget til å uttale seg nedverdigende, nedsettende og uten medfølelse eller dyptpløyende tolkningskompetanse - om det meste og de fleste. Fysj.
Dørklokken synger ut en slags melodi
for meg, mens jeg trykker på knapper
Trillende toner på løpende bånd, men
som bånd flest hakker det litt i blant
Jeg fatter ikke hvilken rett slikt skal ha
til å være mer sprudlende enn man er selv
Hva er vel et overstrømmende spill av
ensformige toner, mot de renere ord
Tegne et kart og skissere med streker,
men mangle retning og mangle kompass
Hva er vel en likhet, mot dette man aldri
vil kunne begripe og derfor kaller eksepsjonell
fornøyelig, fantastisk og skjønn;
verden sikter ei utover sitt eget,
verden er ikke så, verden er rå
lettfordøyelig, fabel-aktig, en drøm
sannheten skyter ei i vildensky,
sannheten er grå, men en sannhet likeså
Friday, March 02, 2007
True Stories and Love Stories - two poems in a row!
"Multicoloured dusk" - based on a true story! ;)
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et, now also autobiographical...
My favourite place in all the world
is a wooden swing by a solitary lake
Watching sunsets from an old car tyre
moving slowly to and fro, for my sake
I'm no little girl in some playground
I'm a grown woman in a purple cloud
The ducklings squeak as they cross over
Glossy, dark blue carpet is their velvet road
Suspending gravity, a rubber edge against my back
Seems like I, too, could float easily away
The ground below is neither black nor white
It's a rainbow reflecting the ending of the day
Families pass me, when I relax and ponder there
Children; overly curious, they ramble way too much
While I can sit just quietly, criss-cross my legs, and face
The slowly turning clode, in its long-lasting nighttime-search
The mountains rise as high as the clouded sky
My favourite spot; and then there's me
The lamps will lit, some benches fill with couples
A story beautiful as only love stories can be
**
And something else, about...something else...
"The Departed" - but it's still another one about sunsets!
By Scaramouche the po(t)et, who tries to forget
The art of villainy is not plain acts of evil
An enemy could be your new confidante
Mon ami, of such an amiable kind, yet
Out of a window and into a sunset you ran
The art of keeping close may be the art
of keeping distance to a closer presence
Mon amour, of such a curious disposition
Out of a doorway and into the morning you ran
The art of dissipations isn't always all about
getting drunker than the drunkard self
Au plaisir, et le revoila, déja pour moi - nul revoir!
Out of sight, I had enough, long ahead of your departure
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et, now also autobiographical...
My favourite place in all the world
is a wooden swing by a solitary lake
Watching sunsets from an old car tyre
moving slowly to and fro, for my sake
I'm no little girl in some playground
I'm a grown woman in a purple cloud
The ducklings squeak as they cross over
Glossy, dark blue carpet is their velvet road
Suspending gravity, a rubber edge against my back
Seems like I, too, could float easily away
The ground below is neither black nor white
It's a rainbow reflecting the ending of the day
Families pass me, when I relax and ponder there
Children; overly curious, they ramble way too much
While I can sit just quietly, criss-cross my legs, and face
The slowly turning clode, in its long-lasting nighttime-search
The mountains rise as high as the clouded sky
My favourite spot; and then there's me
The lamps will lit, some benches fill with couples
A story beautiful as only love stories can be
**
And something else, about...something else...
"The Departed" - but it's still another one about sunsets!
By Scaramouche the po(t)et, who tries to forget
The art of villainy is not plain acts of evil
An enemy could be your new confidante
Mon ami, of such an amiable kind, yet
Out of a window and into a sunset you ran
The art of keeping close may be the art
of keeping distance to a closer presence
Mon amour, of such a curious disposition
Out of a doorway and into the morning you ran
The art of dissipations isn't always all about
getting drunker than the drunkard self
Au plaisir, et le revoila, déja pour moi - nul revoir!
Out of sight, I had enough, long ahead of your departure
What Scara learnt at school today!
Eh, this was supposed to be a history lecture...but; so much for Thomas Hardy and World War I! This is my great Pessimism!
"The Loss - on the art of Human Shallowness"
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et; contemplator of the great, incomprehensible, and outraging things in life...as always...and just as puzzling...
The men and women scattered;
perhaps one formerly considered them bold
But not then, as a flock of casings
running spineless, enchanted, quickly sold
How could an individual framework
built as hollow as one blessed
be absorbed, just like the water,
into a sponge, so colourless?
Giftwrapped, looking glorious,
and sprinkled full with stars
The glitter's on the outside, love
the saviours behind bars
The hulls we fill with gelatine,
or ghosts of former hope
The writings prove a stock of drought
the thoughts a down-hill slope
You utter criticism, true, or accusations false
You lend an effort, help one out, 'till selfishness 'gain calls
The spangled taste of nothing filtered in through nostrils, sore
Inspires hardly senses, they grow indifferent with bore
The men and women can't decide
Perceptions, heavy-loaded, launched
Then easier, to join the crowd,
invaried stream, agreements forged
Enrich the heart of anyone with hatred,
multiple settlements of conflict
Our resolutions seem incompatible,
the loss will be our final verdict
"The Loss - on the art of Human Shallowness"
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et; contemplator of the great, incomprehensible, and outraging things in life...as always...and just as puzzling...
The men and women scattered;
perhaps one formerly considered them bold
But not then, as a flock of casings
running spineless, enchanted, quickly sold
How could an individual framework
built as hollow as one blessed
be absorbed, just like the water,
into a sponge, so colourless?
Giftwrapped, looking glorious,
and sprinkled full with stars
The glitter's on the outside, love
the saviours behind bars
The hulls we fill with gelatine,
or ghosts of former hope
The writings prove a stock of drought
the thoughts a down-hill slope
You utter criticism, true, or accusations false
You lend an effort, help one out, 'till selfishness 'gain calls
The spangled taste of nothing filtered in through nostrils, sore
Inspires hardly senses, they grow indifferent with bore
The men and women can't decide
Perceptions, heavy-loaded, launched
Then easier, to join the crowd,
invaried stream, agreements forged
Enrich the heart of anyone with hatred,
multiple settlements of conflict
Our resolutions seem incompatible,
the loss will be our final verdict
Mixed Nuts
Påskestemning og varmegrader og skyfritt i Bergen...det vakreste jeg så i dag; hele Bryggen badet i sol og Bergenserne som ser sitt snitt til endelig å få tatt sin første og etterlengtede utepils på Stuene, og studenter som titter på restaureringsprosjekter og barnevogntrillere an mass. Torvboder som begynner å dukke opp igjen, med de berømmelige fan-Tskjortene Et Cetera og et fiskeutsalg som snart burde kunne komme ut av vinterteltet sitt. Og Torvallmenningen; innhyllet i myriader av mennesker og deres skrål - og bekledd med et teppe av sneiper og lekende barn, med eller uten vogn, og tyggegummiflekker og Megafon-selgere og Amnesty-ververe og masse måkeskit. Sistnevntes opphav flygende rundt på alle kanter, skrikende på fôr og oppmerksomhet. Lukten av nytraktet kampanje-kaffe fra 7-eleven, nylagde focaccia fra Deli deLuca og gamle damers gammeldame-parfyme. Kjekke veiarbeidere i hopetall; den eneste positive siden ved all gravingen rundt omkring. Klokkene fra Johanneskirken blander seg med falsk sang og gitarklimpring fra "Han Som Kan Spille Men Ikke Synge" utenfor Cubus og synthfaenskap ljomer ut fra diverse mobiltelefoner. Et bokstavelig talt utrolig sammensurium!
**
Ellers må jeg få anbefale følgende; Sjokolade Noir på Moliére, diggedigg, og de lager konfekt selv i tillegg - som er supergod!
Pluss, mitt nyoppdagede poet-idol Gunnar Alme; med en bemerkelsesverdig variert og innholdsrik CV bestående av jobber som scenograf, akvarellmaler, kostymemaker, skuespiller og forfatter. Han reiste rundt i USA og drakk billig øl på slibrige barer og suspekte utesteder, derav diktsamlingen "One of a million midnights" som jeg kjøpte i ettermiddag. Er ikke mange norske poeter som skriver på amerikansk om storbymiljø og neonlysenes magi... O gjenkjennelse, for øvrig! Hehe... Han var uansett en gammeldags eventyrer ála Jack London, som jeg også leser nå; helt typisk meg å beundre slike. Fine, fine poesien. Dessverre er Eventyrerne av rang en utdøende rase, likesom oppdagelsesreisende er et yrke få anser som særlig seriøst nåtildags. Eller reelt, for den saks skyld; jeg mener, hvem kan da leve av slikt? Vel, det er synd med slike oppfatninger. For, å være Eventyrer handler da ikke om å tjene penger eller berømmelse, men erfaringer; å tilegne seg verdifull livserfaring og et grunnlag for formidling som ikke kan fremskaffes på noe annet vis; som aldri kan erstattes med slikt man tilegner seg fra bøker og filmer. Noen ting må man simpelthen ut og gjennomleve! Og noen opplevelser kan ikke beskrives på papiret! Men "One of a million midnights" er et hederlig forsøk og anbefales på det varmeste...fantastic...og jeg kan relatere til det han skriver, ja!
Dessuten - vil jeg slå et slag for byvandringen generelt (se øverst!), for det er særdeles spennende å observere mennesker i deres helt upåtatte utfoldelse og uanstrengte hverdagsliv. Det tillegger inntrykkene og synene man sitter igjen med en helt spesiell ekthet. Kan ta lærdom av slikt. Jeg vandrer begeistret gatelangs og danner bilder i mitt eget hode; skaper skjebner og fortellinger omkring disse individene som de ikke i sine villeste fantasier ville kunne forestille seg! Også i dette fine været, da...blir ikke akkurat MINDRE inspirert! Eller oppstemt! Berusende blå himmel...typisk poet-vær i grunn! ;)
**
Ellers må jeg få anbefale følgende; Sjokolade Noir på Moliére, diggedigg, og de lager konfekt selv i tillegg - som er supergod!
Pluss, mitt nyoppdagede poet-idol Gunnar Alme; med en bemerkelsesverdig variert og innholdsrik CV bestående av jobber som scenograf, akvarellmaler, kostymemaker, skuespiller og forfatter. Han reiste rundt i USA og drakk billig øl på slibrige barer og suspekte utesteder, derav diktsamlingen "One of a million midnights" som jeg kjøpte i ettermiddag. Er ikke mange norske poeter som skriver på amerikansk om storbymiljø og neonlysenes magi... O gjenkjennelse, for øvrig! Hehe... Han var uansett en gammeldags eventyrer ála Jack London, som jeg også leser nå; helt typisk meg å beundre slike. Fine, fine poesien. Dessverre er Eventyrerne av rang en utdøende rase, likesom oppdagelsesreisende er et yrke få anser som særlig seriøst nåtildags. Eller reelt, for den saks skyld; jeg mener, hvem kan da leve av slikt? Vel, det er synd med slike oppfatninger. For, å være Eventyrer handler da ikke om å tjene penger eller berømmelse, men erfaringer; å tilegne seg verdifull livserfaring og et grunnlag for formidling som ikke kan fremskaffes på noe annet vis; som aldri kan erstattes med slikt man tilegner seg fra bøker og filmer. Noen ting må man simpelthen ut og gjennomleve! Og noen opplevelser kan ikke beskrives på papiret! Men "One of a million midnights" er et hederlig forsøk og anbefales på det varmeste...fantastic...og jeg kan relatere til det han skriver, ja!
Dessuten - vil jeg slå et slag for byvandringen generelt (se øverst!), for det er særdeles spennende å observere mennesker i deres helt upåtatte utfoldelse og uanstrengte hverdagsliv. Det tillegger inntrykkene og synene man sitter igjen med en helt spesiell ekthet. Kan ta lærdom av slikt. Jeg vandrer begeistret gatelangs og danner bilder i mitt eget hode; skaper skjebner og fortellinger omkring disse individene som de ikke i sine villeste fantasier ville kunne forestille seg! Også i dette fine været, da...blir ikke akkurat MINDRE inspirert! Eller oppstemt! Berusende blå himmel...typisk poet-vær i grunn! ;)
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
More self-compositions...
Devoted to duty, as ever, I wrote a first draft of what would eventually become the following, during my Sociolinguistic class on monday - and finished it today...this is a poem for my mother, who makes the best out of heaps of snow and 30 cold ones, every single time!
"Decomposed"
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et, and please do not use the metaphor rotten in any context attached to of concering this poem! LOL...
Lay me down onto the mud, and in the grass
I am the frost
The stale, cold steam of winter silence
Muffled sounds of suppressed growth
Under a duvet
spring cannot pierce through
And as we all have ours to keep
A lot of feasts; arrangements too
Branches in a row, the farmers plough
Leaves of grass in line for you
My whitespread, glittering, reborn friend
And my immortal, glacial cover
A unmoving and frozen tide
With sunbeams casting drops that sparkle
on your endless surface
And as we all have ours to do
A lot of deeds; commitment too
Seeds be sown and grass be grown
I spent a summer missing you
And now as seasons change, which we shall bear
A chilliness approaches with the fresher air
The mountains closing up, the sky pressed down
My winter time, that pearly season, I will meet you there
"Decomposed"
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et, and please do not use the metaphor rotten in any context attached to of concering this poem! LOL...
Lay me down onto the mud, and in the grass
I am the frost
The stale, cold steam of winter silence
Muffled sounds of suppressed growth
Under a duvet
spring cannot pierce through
And as we all have ours to keep
A lot of feasts; arrangements too
Branches in a row, the farmers plough
Leaves of grass in line for you
My whitespread, glittering, reborn friend
And my immortal, glacial cover
A unmoving and frozen tide
With sunbeams casting drops that sparkle
on your endless surface
And as we all have ours to do
A lot of deeds; commitment too
Seeds be sown and grass be grown
I spent a summer missing you
And now as seasons change, which we shall bear
A chilliness approaches with the fresher air
The mountains closing up, the sky pressed down
My winter time, that pearly season, I will meet you there
Phantom's Lady - my new favourite amongst the self-compositions
Po(t)et's Precuation; the serious part; I have been writing these very personal poems lately, and here comes yet another one. Maybe there's some subconscious frustration that needs to be let out...I really dunno...readers are, anyway, urged to bear in mind the vulnerability with which one publishes such writings as the one below, and what they matter to the one who has produced them - and finally, with what efforts this (and others) was produced. In fact, all poetry should be read accordingly. This particular poem, moreover, deals also with the struggles of somebody else, but "entering" what I imagined to might have been his thoughts and feelings was a great big personal challenge indeed. I spotted this picture of him in the local newspaper on Saturday and started off from there.
Complete context; the not-so-serious-but-quite-serious-afterall-part; for almost 3 long years I have been hopelessly devoted to a guy with a burr and a mask and a passion for scaring the living daylights out of darling young sopranos. Then, after she and just about everyone else had completely fallen under his spell, happily and joyfully so, though crying their hearts out while still in the theatre and such, this Charming Scot went and did "Dear Frankie" which made him not the least bit less adorable; and it made loving him even harder, cause he's so so so far away and unattainable. Unfortunately.
And well. Gerry in three words; georgeos, talented, charismatic. He is, of course, in addition intelligent, brilliant, sophisticated, brave, stylish, mysterious, funny, even hilarious, a fantastic singer, a fantastic, eh, fantastic-in-general, plus - of what Emmy and Angelina know and the rest of us would like to know - kissing him probably feels divine. Thence, we journey on, and may he PLEASE bump into me in the street some day very soon! "Gerry I looooove you..." Ok, scared now. Both him and (possibly) others. But Fandom is hardship, that's for sure!
And - first - just to put you in the right mood...
an atmospheric idea!
"The Phantom's Lady" (Another one for G.!) -
the story, as seen from a masked man's perspective
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et
PART 1, extrovert
look here! a rose - for you, my love
for you are sweet
betwixt my sheets
the devil's voice men could not hear
but *yours* - did I
sweet face I, never, saw but pictured
alas
the danger's presence men should not fear
nor *you* - but I,
I waited far too long, in darkness
I could not see
the demon's skin men would not touch
nor *yours* - did I
sweet lips I, not, caressed
but - he!
he craved,
he owns you not!
and nor do I,
your beauty I beheld for just one night
yet you are mine
my
Phantom's lady
the Phantom's eyes,
they fill,
he cries
over, and for,
a teacher
that was you
yet so untrue
to him;
the Phantom's words -
afraid were you!
afraid to love, and yet
can I help loving you?
PART 2, introvert
I know not love in other forms than this,
than yours! thus, ours!
and though it may be whispered
there is but one for me to love
oh must I sing
my tornment is my music,
salvation comes not with
a soothing string to slowly twang,
the jerky waltz; piano keys
or muttered humming
as I do play, though
I'm by no means a child
A dragon's eye to watch
the man within the dragon's keep
in here, my lair, oh how I thee abhor
I must!
my tornment in my music, and then there's you
you were my music too!
my music took its flight, by you
it grew, took form, all thanks
to one, whom I adored
however strong
forgot me while you slept
and thus
forgive me when you sleep!
you were my mind, my universe,
and every inch of my unholy soul,
can you not understand?
the tortured one will not be free
yet sweet your tornment is to me!
seduced by fate, seducted by a nightmare,
could not be dreamt as real, or fathomed
I promised you, I tempted you, I cherished you,
enticed you here, my yearnings bottomless,
and yet
It means too little, say the wise
oh no - it means too much!
PART 3, extrinisc/inverted
mend my heart - works not!
it fixes nothing but a pure
placebo-effect on my insides
and they're still broken
my body built itself
upon your presence, my
existence only calmed by you,
dependent, too, upon
your song - which is the key;
the notes, the keys, my images
your life a stage, I put you there!
you dance before the phantom's inner sight
this lady of the night
a morning comes, curtains withdraw
the ancient sounds; portcullis rising
my doom, my grotto into view
there is no time,
yet time is all I have!
your absence - sickening,
I've lived through much, but it means not
that I recall with ease
my love, my only love
my love left me a ring and untold memories
my love is gone, her imprint on my walls
my love was pure, so true, unique
my love was me, and I; a slave
it left me in its wake destroyed
you left me, with a wave
destroyed
my love, my only love, my choice
and such impossible a choice!
a glance;
perchance - a *second* chance
but she cannot look back,
yet I am sure there's knowledge
it was worth it; to be all I have
and to be all I'll ever be
even more than I, myself, yes
she's a bigger part of me
and - I - I guide her so
look here! a rose
for you, my love
a token, of my love
for you; my love
my Phantom's Lady
Complete context; the not-so-serious-but-quite-serious-afterall-part; for almost 3 long years I have been hopelessly devoted to a guy with a burr and a mask and a passion for scaring the living daylights out of darling young sopranos. Then, after she and just about everyone else had completely fallen under his spell, happily and joyfully so, though crying their hearts out while still in the theatre and such, this Charming Scot went and did "Dear Frankie" which made him not the least bit less adorable; and it made loving him even harder, cause he's so so so far away and unattainable. Unfortunately.
And well. Gerry in three words; georgeos, talented, charismatic. He is, of course, in addition intelligent, brilliant, sophisticated, brave, stylish, mysterious, funny, even hilarious, a fantastic singer, a fantastic, eh, fantastic-in-general, plus - of what Emmy and Angelina know and the rest of us would like to know - kissing him probably feels divine. Thence, we journey on, and may he PLEASE bump into me in the street some day very soon! "Gerry I looooove you..." Ok, scared now. Both him and (possibly) others. But Fandom is hardship, that's for sure!
And - first - just to put you in the right mood...
an atmospheric idea!
"The Phantom's Lady" (Another one for G.!) -
the story, as seen from a masked man's perspective
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et
PART 1, extrovert
look here! a rose - for you, my love
for you are sweet
betwixt my sheets
the devil's voice men could not hear
but *yours* - did I
sweet face I, never, saw but pictured
alas
the danger's presence men should not fear
nor *you* - but I,
I waited far too long, in darkness
I could not see
the demon's skin men would not touch
nor *yours* - did I
sweet lips I, not, caressed
but - he!
he craved,
he owns you not!
and nor do I,
your beauty I beheld for just one night
yet you are mine
my
Phantom's lady
the Phantom's eyes,
they fill,
he cries
over, and for,
a teacher
that was you
yet so untrue
to him;
the Phantom's words -
afraid were you!
afraid to love, and yet
can I help loving you?
PART 2, introvert
I know not love in other forms than this,
than yours! thus, ours!
and though it may be whispered
there is but one for me to love
oh must I sing
my tornment is my music,
salvation comes not with
a soothing string to slowly twang,
the jerky waltz; piano keys
or muttered humming
as I do play, though
I'm by no means a child
A dragon's eye to watch
the man within the dragon's keep
in here, my lair, oh how I thee abhor
I must!
my tornment in my music, and then there's you
you were my music too!
my music took its flight, by you
it grew, took form, all thanks
to one, whom I adored
however strong
forgot me while you slept
and thus
forgive me when you sleep!
you were my mind, my universe,
and every inch of my unholy soul,
can you not understand?
the tortured one will not be free
yet sweet your tornment is to me!
seduced by fate, seducted by a nightmare,
could not be dreamt as real, or fathomed
I promised you, I tempted you, I cherished you,
enticed you here, my yearnings bottomless,
and yet
It means too little, say the wise
oh no - it means too much!
PART 3, extrinisc/inverted
mend my heart - works not!
it fixes nothing but a pure
placebo-effect on my insides
and they're still broken
my body built itself
upon your presence, my
existence only calmed by you,
dependent, too, upon
your song - which is the key;
the notes, the keys, my images
your life a stage, I put you there!
you dance before the phantom's inner sight
this lady of the night
a morning comes, curtains withdraw
the ancient sounds; portcullis rising
my doom, my grotto into view
there is no time,
yet time is all I have!
your absence - sickening,
I've lived through much, but it means not
that I recall with ease
my love, my only love
my love left me a ring and untold memories
my love is gone, her imprint on my walls
my love was pure, so true, unique
my love was me, and I; a slave
it left me in its wake destroyed
you left me, with a wave
destroyed
my love, my only love, my choice
and such impossible a choice!
a glance;
perchance - a *second* chance
but she cannot look back,
yet I am sure there's knowledge
it was worth it; to be all I have
and to be all I'll ever be
even more than I, myself, yes
she's a bigger part of me
and - I - I guide her so
look here! a rose
for you, my love
a token, of my love
for you; my love
my Phantom's Lady
it ain't easy
...and no-one ever said it was, either.
that's the morale, if there be any.
"Somebody's Voice" -
for all those who needs someone to listen
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et, who's often offered a hand to hold
myself
is a pretty fucked up place to be
sometimes
just like mine
is a pretty fucked up way to live
that's what the merciless claim
he claims it with disdain
says it pesters him to reside within his shell
he is unarmed
and life's a toil, my friend
when you are weak
most undeservedly so
and your existence is a troll
takes you to the limit
and beyond bearable, you fail
yourself
is a pretty fucked up example, to see
sometimes
just like yours
is a pretty fucked up tale to tell
although I know I must
for when I hear, and when I'm informed
my boldnesses come to an abrupt end
I pat your shoulder, when you sleep
I am the other, whom you wish you heard
I order you to fight, when you feel small
I looked upon myself, I say don't sink
don't hang your head and don't surrender
to whatever's close, available, whatever's dark
it helps,
disclosed I found an open mind
but was it yours or was it mine
how should I know, when we are one?
'Cos me
I'm a pretty fucked up case, it seems
sometimes
And
I need somebody's voice
that's the morale, if there be any.
"Somebody's Voice" -
for all those who needs someone to listen
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et, who's often offered a hand to hold
myself
is a pretty fucked up place to be
sometimes
just like mine
is a pretty fucked up way to live
that's what the merciless claim
he claims it with disdain
says it pesters him to reside within his shell
he is unarmed
and life's a toil, my friend
when you are weak
most undeservedly so
and your existence is a troll
takes you to the limit
and beyond bearable, you fail
yourself
is a pretty fucked up example, to see
sometimes
just like yours
is a pretty fucked up tale to tell
although I know I must
for when I hear, and when I'm informed
my boldnesses come to an abrupt end
I pat your shoulder, when you sleep
I am the other, whom you wish you heard
I order you to fight, when you feel small
I looked upon myself, I say don't sink
don't hang your head and don't surrender
to whatever's close, available, whatever's dark
it helps,
disclosed I found an open mind
but was it yours or was it mine
how should I know, when we are one?
'Cos me
I'm a pretty fucked up case, it seems
sometimes
And
I need somebody's voice
Notes on a Scandal and Impossible Love (of mine)
[writings in english, in order to ensure that certain sense of distance...again]
I have been to see the fantastic, cruel, movingm disurbing, beautiful and - simply - incredibly inducing piece about the whims of the human mind and the ever-unpredcitable psyche...no lunatics, just ordinary people, which made it even mpre scary. Plus, there was this amazingly hypnotizing music...by Philip Glass, one of my personal favourites among film-music composers. Alongside Morricone and the other masters. Whoa!
And to Judi Dench, the Dame above all, she RULES and REIGNS the kingdom of British entertainment! I humbly join in with the rest of the appraising crowd! And for once, Bill Nighy wasn't funny at all, he was purely brilliant and both he and Cate Blanchett delivered such sober, poignant performance which definately qualify for the uppermost of critics' appreciation. In a word: wow! And here's some inspired poetry.
"Rampant"
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et -
"I possessed not, nor could I possibly possess"
Impossible Love! and all the terms
that apply
to desire, and being desired, I guess
is more than glances
you thought you saw
and a wink, behind a half-closed door,
was more than footsteps
fading away,
'suppose it all fades; in time,
but does change grant us improvement,
does it make it any better,
does the tornment impair
am I introduced by beauty
do you see what I saw in the mirrors,
how should I learn, how should I ask
is that contempt or pure content,
with which you turn and step out of my range
yes, I watched over you
at least I tried
there were lots I did uncertain
without practise, so tell me if I failed
or
tell me not, my ears are closed,
as I am too, but long too much, without much longe,
to open up to you
why we let our children's play with guns,
and watch TV till repercussions may burst out
parents see not, it's no use
when heartbreaks will kill them after all
and that's no matter what we do
it's such a wicked thing
it's such a wicked world, of love and war
and everything's allowed
yet felonies are rampant, and
unlawfulness;
unlawfulness is all,
especially within this cube,
this cell they called a heart
we were meant to be torn, and torn apart
I have been to see the fantastic, cruel, movingm disurbing, beautiful and - simply - incredibly inducing piece about the whims of the human mind and the ever-unpredcitable psyche...no lunatics, just ordinary people, which made it even mpre scary. Plus, there was this amazingly hypnotizing music...by Philip Glass, one of my personal favourites among film-music composers. Alongside Morricone and the other masters. Whoa!
And to Judi Dench, the Dame above all, she RULES and REIGNS the kingdom of British entertainment! I humbly join in with the rest of the appraising crowd! And for once, Bill Nighy wasn't funny at all, he was purely brilliant and both he and Cate Blanchett delivered such sober, poignant performance which definately qualify for the uppermost of critics' appreciation. In a word: wow! And here's some inspired poetry.
"Rampant"
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et -
"I possessed not, nor could I possibly possess"
Impossible Love! and all the terms
that apply
to desire, and being desired, I guess
is more than glances
you thought you saw
and a wink, behind a half-closed door,
was more than footsteps
fading away,
'suppose it all fades; in time,
but does change grant us improvement,
does it make it any better,
does the tornment impair
am I introduced by beauty
do you see what I saw in the mirrors,
how should I learn, how should I ask
is that contempt or pure content,
with which you turn and step out of my range
yes, I watched over you
at least I tried
there were lots I did uncertain
without practise, so tell me if I failed
or
tell me not, my ears are closed,
as I am too, but long too much, without much longe,
to open up to you
why we let our children's play with guns,
and watch TV till repercussions may burst out
parents see not, it's no use
when heartbreaks will kill them after all
and that's no matter what we do
it's such a wicked thing
it's such a wicked world, of love and war
and everything's allowed
yet felonies are rampant, and
unlawfulness;
unlawfulness is all,
especially within this cube,
this cell they called a heart
we were meant to be torn, and torn apart
Monday, February 26, 2007
YEEEAAAAAAAH!!!!
Once again it was time for sliding gowns, stylish tuxes and - not least - superb people, to take their walk of honour up the red carpet...I am very, very sad not to have been there amongst them...just to watch! and applaud! and kiss mark wahlberg! who should have won! but apart from that; I can't believe the Jury actually got it almost right this year! Their heading for something better, if this continues! For:
MARTIN SCORCESE HAS FINALLY - FINALLY!! - WON AN ACADEMY AWARD!
...and when he first gotstarted, he didn't finish that easily either, he eventually ended up sweeping the Oscars totally and winning not only one prize, but four! It is my greastest pleasure to announce the for once justified distribution of Academy Award, year 2007, when "The Departed" one for; Best Achievement in Directing (Marty!), Best Achievement in Editing (for Thelma Schoonmaker), Best Motion Picture of the Year (for Graham King), Best Writing Adapted Screenplay (for William Monahan). YEY! Furthermore, to Jennifer Hudson, Forest Whitaker, Helen Mirren, to the costume designer of "Marie Antoinette", to all the others, and I AM a *little* pissed that "The Prestige" didn't win any, too, but most - most of all - importantly; congrat's to the great, Norwegian (!) Torill Kove, animator, for her achievement in winning an Oscar for the short feature "The Danish Poet"...med andre ord; masse, masse gratulasjoner til Norges første Oscarvinner siden gudene-husker-når... Whoo! Hasn't got too much attention here, back home, in fact the lack of fuss about this little brilliant piece has been total - and terribly, undeservedly, unjustly so! - therefore, I will spend an equally more extensive space on compensational emphasizing here! It's such a pity, however, that one must emigrate from Norway to Canada in order to pursue an envolvement of own true creativity and gain success...! I just hope she enjoyed last night's party and show, and I hope we will se more of her works in the future...it's just SO good for Norwegian movie directors and the business we call movie making but in reality is a beauty show with silly, silly, silly lines and impressively lagging behind the amazingly superior - quality-wise AND actor-wise - Norwegian Theatre. Just mentioning it. But for the time being;
GO HOLLYWOOD!
AND CHEERS TO THE ESTEEMED MR. SCORCESE, OUR FAVOURITE MAFIOSO-DIRECTOR!
MARTIN SCORCESE HAS FINALLY - FINALLY!! - WON AN ACADEMY AWARD!
...and when he first gotstarted, he didn't finish that easily either, he eventually ended up sweeping the Oscars totally and winning not only one prize, but four! It is my greastest pleasure to announce the for once justified distribution of Academy Award, year 2007, when "The Departed" one for; Best Achievement in Directing (Marty!), Best Achievement in Editing (for Thelma Schoonmaker), Best Motion Picture of the Year (for Graham King), Best Writing Adapted Screenplay (for William Monahan). YEY! Furthermore, to Jennifer Hudson, Forest Whitaker, Helen Mirren, to the costume designer of "Marie Antoinette", to all the others, and I AM a *little* pissed that "The Prestige" didn't win any, too, but most - most of all - importantly; congrat's to the great, Norwegian (!) Torill Kove, animator, for her achievement in winning an Oscar for the short feature "The Danish Poet"...med andre ord; masse, masse gratulasjoner til Norges første Oscarvinner siden gudene-husker-når... Whoo! Hasn't got too much attention here, back home, in fact the lack of fuss about this little brilliant piece has been total - and terribly, undeservedly, unjustly so! - therefore, I will spend an equally more extensive space on compensational emphasizing here! It's such a pity, however, that one must emigrate from Norway to Canada in order to pursue an envolvement of own true creativity and gain success...! I just hope she enjoyed last night's party and show, and I hope we will se more of her works in the future...it's just SO good for Norwegian movie directors and the business we call movie making but in reality is a beauty show with silly, silly, silly lines and impressively lagging behind the amazingly superior - quality-wise AND actor-wise - Norwegian Theatre. Just mentioning it. But for the time being;
GO HOLLYWOOD!
AND CHEERS TO THE ESTEEMED MR. SCORCESE, OUR FAVOURITE MAFIOSO-DIRECTOR!
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Dedications
(This is another poem on request! My study-friends asked me if I could write a poem inspired by them or something they like. And; just picking a random topic this first time, here follows a poem which is at one hand a very personal one, written in honour of a man whom I adore, but which could also apply to multiple others; for instance some particular idols, sport-wise and music-related, adored by (yep!) my study-friends. Not that the [*]-marks denote a change of rhythm. Hope you guys like it!)
"Eternal devotion!" - for G.
By Scarmouche, the po(t)et, true and loyal fan of The Butler!
Traces of an old affair, they linger
out the corner of my waking eye
Sometimes I find myself in wonder;
I can't escape, I don't know why
He crossed my way, by accident,
or so it seemed, I don't know how
But I tighten up, when he's on-screen
When that man cries; my tears, too, flow
*
And now others hardly match up to his ideal;
in comparison they all turn grey, instead
Every other boy is a puddle to avoid, next to him,
and if he were here, I would have said;
*
There can be only one, of all
And one is quite
sufficent
Seeing that the one is him,
Hence I won't be
reluctant
If he should one day
come to me, sincere, and ask
for my hand
I'm almost scared to say I'd be
just proud to call him
"my man" (!) - LOL!
*
'Cause
I would die for a smile
I would kill for a look
My imaginations so real;
Yet, I illusions betook
Embarked on a journey I
never knew where would lead
I wasn't prepared
Here I'm captured, no plead
I see there's a distance
One can't overcome
For below him there's many
But above him there's none
As for myself, I am longing
I'm a dreamer, resigned
Fandom's frustrating
Once you are aligned
*
If our paths intersect not now,
I'll be waiting persistently on
and forever
For a "no" is a "maybe"
and I don't believe "ever"
is an equivalent truthful for "never"
*
Thus round the corner,
my eyes catch
a glimpse, perhaps,
of this bloke
He's far out of my reach, for sure
but still, I smile,
let me hope!
Written with a certain sense of self-irony, I must confess. And stress. No worries, Gerry, I won't come and kidnap you or anything. I promise! ;)
"Eternal devotion!" - for G.
By Scarmouche, the po(t)et, true and loyal fan of The Butler!
Traces of an old affair, they linger
out the corner of my waking eye
Sometimes I find myself in wonder;
I can't escape, I don't know why
He crossed my way, by accident,
or so it seemed, I don't know how
But I tighten up, when he's on-screen
When that man cries; my tears, too, flow
*
And now others hardly match up to his ideal;
in comparison they all turn grey, instead
Every other boy is a puddle to avoid, next to him,
and if he were here, I would have said;
*
There can be only one, of all
And one is quite
sufficent
Seeing that the one is him,
Hence I won't be
reluctant
If he should one day
come to me, sincere, and ask
for my hand
I'm almost scared to say I'd be
just proud to call him
"my man" (!) - LOL!
*
'Cause
I would die for a smile
I would kill for a look
My imaginations so real;
Yet, I illusions betook
Embarked on a journey I
never knew where would lead
I wasn't prepared
Here I'm captured, no plead
I see there's a distance
One can't overcome
For below him there's many
But above him there's none
As for myself, I am longing
I'm a dreamer, resigned
Fandom's frustrating
Once you are aligned
*
If our paths intersect not now,
I'll be waiting persistently on
and forever
For a "no" is a "maybe"
and I don't believe "ever"
is an equivalent truthful for "never"
*
Thus round the corner,
my eyes catch
a glimpse, perhaps,
of this bloke
He's far out of my reach, for sure
but still, I smile,
let me hope!
Written with a certain sense of self-irony, I must confess. And stress. No worries, Gerry, I won't come and kidnap you or anything. I promise! ;)
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Kittens and Cravings and Cosmic Relief
Right now, I just love my studies. First and foremost because, as most people know about me, I LOVE Andrew Lloyd Webber and his musical "Cats", and when I heard we were reading T.S. Eliot, I did have some small hopes that we would read the one poem he wrote which actually became a foundation and main source of inspiration for this musical, namely "Preludes". And guess what? My homework for next week, is nothing less than - you guessed it! - and thus, here follows;
T. S. Eliot: Preludes (1917)
I
The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
Six o'clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimneypots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
And then the lighting of the lamps.
II
The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.
With the other masquerades
That times resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.
III
You tossed a blanket from the bed
You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.
And when all the world came back
And the light crept up between the shutters
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such a vision of the street
As the street hardly understands;
Sitting along the bed's edge, where
You curled the papers from your hair,
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
In the palms of both soiled hands.
IV
His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o'clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.
I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.
Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.
**
T.S. Eliot is a source of inspiration and knowledge for myself as well, and one shouldn't discount the possibility that I might write some poetry based on his publishings later on...in the near, very near, future...keep posted, and you'll know! ;) And go A.L.W!!!
___________
Other news; The (10th) Doctor, meaning David Tennant, is doing charity stuff for Comic Relief, My Doctor, Number Nine - Mr Chris Eccleston is doing great stuff in general, especially on "Heroes" - which I hope will reach Norwegian TV channels in an immediate future (that too) and also in "Perfect Parents", with Sarah Parish; who again stars in "Recovery" with - that's right - number ten, David Tennant! BBC is a merry what-goes-around (comes around), pun intended, where everything seems to evolve in sircles and hell, I don't mind! Speaking of which, the song "What goes around (comes around)", as you should know, has a video out now featuring Scarlett The Beautiful and it is completely wonderful and possibly the best Justin Timberlake song ever, In My Humble Opinion, and also - well - Scarlett looks great. If I ever started fancying girls, etc etc, but of course I won't, unless she is etc etc. Same old story.
Furthermore: Hugh Grant, of all people, was - I suddenly learnt, and realized - up for the part as The Doctor, at the time of planning Series One, or at least he claims that he was. (According to ultra-tabloid The Mirror; my GOD, why am I happily believing all this shit?! Haha...) And although I would have seriously hated him as the Doc, since he is as far from a proper Doc as anyone could imaginably be - I am very happy to announce that, apparently, he is up for a guest part on the upcoming series (in plural, probably series 4 if it actually happens) and he will play a baddie, because that's what he likes best. He says. And that's of course what we, his fans, like best too!!! Especially after his brilliant performance in Bridget Jones. Plus, if Hugh comes along, maybe Colin Firth and Bill Nighy will too??? And Billie? THAT would be an event to die for. Literally. I'd have to be careful to avoid a heart attack, yes indeed.
___________
So, that's all for now, and more than enough I think. Poetrie and Who-e-ie comin' up. As always. Starstruck-ness still lingering, though, I feel I could jump over the moon...and land on a puff. With a whiff. Cheers! And - read Brian May's Blog, AND support the Hedgehogs! (Sign petition!) He's smart and they're important!
Love, Scara
T. S. Eliot: Preludes (1917)
I
The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
Six o'clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimneypots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
And then the lighting of the lamps.
II
The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.
With the other masquerades
That times resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.
III
You tossed a blanket from the bed
You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.
And when all the world came back
And the light crept up between the shutters
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such a vision of the street
As the street hardly understands;
Sitting along the bed's edge, where
You curled the papers from your hair,
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
In the palms of both soiled hands.
IV
His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o'clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.
I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.
Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.
**
T.S. Eliot is a source of inspiration and knowledge for myself as well, and one shouldn't discount the possibility that I might write some poetry based on his publishings later on...in the near, very near, future...keep posted, and you'll know! ;) And go A.L.W!!!
___________
Other news; The (10th) Doctor, meaning David Tennant, is doing charity stuff for Comic Relief, My Doctor, Number Nine - Mr Chris Eccleston is doing great stuff in general, especially on "Heroes" - which I hope will reach Norwegian TV channels in an immediate future (that too) and also in "Perfect Parents", with Sarah Parish; who again stars in "Recovery" with - that's right - number ten, David Tennant! BBC is a merry what-goes-around (comes around), pun intended, where everything seems to evolve in sircles and hell, I don't mind! Speaking of which, the song "What goes around (comes around)", as you should know, has a video out now featuring Scarlett The Beautiful and it is completely wonderful and possibly the best Justin Timberlake song ever, In My Humble Opinion, and also - well - Scarlett looks great. If I ever started fancying girls, etc etc, but of course I won't, unless she is etc etc. Same old story.
Furthermore: Hugh Grant, of all people, was - I suddenly learnt, and realized - up for the part as The Doctor, at the time of planning Series One, or at least he claims that he was. (According to ultra-tabloid The Mirror; my GOD, why am I happily believing all this shit?! Haha...) And although I would have seriously hated him as the Doc, since he is as far from a proper Doc as anyone could imaginably be - I am very happy to announce that, apparently, he is up for a guest part on the upcoming series (in plural, probably series 4 if it actually happens) and he will play a baddie, because that's what he likes best. He says. And that's of course what we, his fans, like best too!!! Especially after his brilliant performance in Bridget Jones. Plus, if Hugh comes along, maybe Colin Firth and Bill Nighy will too??? And Billie? THAT would be an event to die for. Literally. I'd have to be careful to avoid a heart attack, yes indeed.
___________
So, that's all for now, and more than enough I think. Poetrie and Who-e-ie comin' up. As always. Starstruck-ness still lingering, though, I feel I could jump over the moon...and land on a puff. With a whiff. Cheers! And - read Brian May's Blog, AND support the Hedgehogs! (Sign petition!) He's smart and they're important!
Love, Scara
Skikkelig STARSTRUCK!!!
En utrolig dag.
Fantastisk minikonsert-opplevelse; da jeg og min gode studievenninne Tonje Elin tok oss en tur på Platekompaniet for å nyte en halvtimes intimkonsert med Mr Sondre Lerche, og hans råflinke bandkollega, som dro 4 låter fra sitt nye album "Phantom Punch". Vi hadde de beste plassene av alle, helt forest, og ble nesten døve siden vi stod rett ved siden av den ene høyttaleren...! Så, to meter unna min store helt fikk jeg servert fire kjempebra, tøffe rockelåter; alle potensielt slagermateriale. Han stod såpass nærme at jeg virkelig måtte ta meg sammen for å motstå fristelsen til å bare kaste meg over fyren og gi ham en diger klem. Han er søtere enn søtest. Og gift. Heldige Mona!
Videre; selv om lyden var litt hakkete til tider, viste Sondre seg fra sin mest superproffe side -som den rutinerte artisten han er blitt - og hadde full kontroll hele veien. (Selv om han klarte å erklære "Går alt til hælvete no?" da de fleste apparatene var iferd med å klikke...likevel, alle lo, og spesielt da han like etterpå begynte å fleipe med at nå var kanskje et godt tidpunkt for å teste ut sin nye karriere som impuls-standupkomiker...! Befriende uformell type! Og Erkebergenser på sin hals, tydeligvis! Yey!) Og etterpå, da fyren hadde signering i annen etasje i samme Platekompanibutikken, fikk jeg heldigvis sagt til ham hvor flink jeg synes han var - på tross av de nevnte problemene! - noe han satte stor pris på å høre. Jeg fikk også fortalt ham at jeg har vært trofast fan i 7 år og digge-digger den utrolige musikken hans. Og berømmelsen har åpenbart ikke gjort ham særlig blasert ennå, for det var et megret smigret fjes som smilte mot begge oss to jentene foran ham og takket hjertelig for komplimentene. Vi fikk personlige hilsener, gratis plakater (signert), han skrev endog bursdagkort til Tonje Elins venninne!! Og da han selv ble oppmerksom på at han ikke hadde skrevet "Til Hilde" på det ene coveret, gjorde han meg faktisk oppmerksom på det og tok seg tid til å signere på nytt. Køen bak meg var lang, for å si det sånn, men han var tålmodig og hilste ordentlig på alle og smilte og det var nok mange som oppdaget ham (også på ny!) i dag. Hvis han fortsetter slik, kan han bli en mest-bestselger! Uten tvil! Jeg mener - hvor mange norske artister holder på denne måten når de er på gratis promotur, selv når de er etablert i New York med Hotel Cæsar-kone og får julekort fra Tom Cruise? Nei, vettu hva, det er bare SÅ hyggelig med jordnære og vennlige popartistmennesker som tar vare på fansen sin! :) Heia Lerche!
Fantastisk minikonsert-opplevelse; da jeg og min gode studievenninne Tonje Elin tok oss en tur på Platekompaniet for å nyte en halvtimes intimkonsert med Mr Sondre Lerche, og hans råflinke bandkollega, som dro 4 låter fra sitt nye album "Phantom Punch". Vi hadde de beste plassene av alle, helt forest, og ble nesten døve siden vi stod rett ved siden av den ene høyttaleren...! Så, to meter unna min store helt fikk jeg servert fire kjempebra, tøffe rockelåter; alle potensielt slagermateriale. Han stod såpass nærme at jeg virkelig måtte ta meg sammen for å motstå fristelsen til å bare kaste meg over fyren og gi ham en diger klem. Han er søtere enn søtest. Og gift. Heldige Mona!
Videre; selv om lyden var litt hakkete til tider, viste Sondre seg fra sin mest superproffe side -som den rutinerte artisten han er blitt - og hadde full kontroll hele veien. (Selv om han klarte å erklære "Går alt til hælvete no?" da de fleste apparatene var iferd med å klikke...likevel, alle lo, og spesielt da han like etterpå begynte å fleipe med at nå var kanskje et godt tidpunkt for å teste ut sin nye karriere som impuls-standupkomiker...! Befriende uformell type! Og Erkebergenser på sin hals, tydeligvis! Yey!) Og etterpå, da fyren hadde signering i annen etasje i samme Platekompanibutikken, fikk jeg heldigvis sagt til ham hvor flink jeg synes han var - på tross av de nevnte problemene! - noe han satte stor pris på å høre. Jeg fikk også fortalt ham at jeg har vært trofast fan i 7 år og digge-digger den utrolige musikken hans. Og berømmelsen har åpenbart ikke gjort ham særlig blasert ennå, for det var et megret smigret fjes som smilte mot begge oss to jentene foran ham og takket hjertelig for komplimentene. Vi fikk personlige hilsener, gratis plakater (signert), han skrev endog bursdagkort til Tonje Elins venninne!! Og da han selv ble oppmerksom på at han ikke hadde skrevet "Til Hilde" på det ene coveret, gjorde han meg faktisk oppmerksom på det og tok seg tid til å signere på nytt. Køen bak meg var lang, for å si det sånn, men han var tålmodig og hilste ordentlig på alle og smilte og det var nok mange som oppdaget ham (også på ny!) i dag. Hvis han fortsetter slik, kan han bli en mest-bestselger! Uten tvil! Jeg mener - hvor mange norske artister holder på denne måten når de er på gratis promotur, selv når de er etablert i New York med Hotel Cæsar-kone og får julekort fra Tom Cruise? Nei, vettu hva, det er bare SÅ hyggelig med jordnære og vennlige popartistmennesker som tar vare på fansen sin! :) Heia Lerche!
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Kloke ord
Mennesker i min næremeste omkrets overøser meg med kloke ord og sitater for tiden...her er et lite utvalg;
Fra min kjære mor: Følelser er selv det levende livet - men det passer ikke for alle å kjenne etter - mange mennesker er ikke ordentlig levende.
Fra Ann Siri, min høyst uimaginære heltinne: Den dagen jeg glir ubemerket inn i mengden er jeg død. (Og husk at du kan få deg jobb som giftekniv anytime!)
Rebels till we die! Rebels stand united!
[possibly more to come...hvis jeg kjenner dem rett!]
Fra min kjære mor: Følelser er selv det levende livet - men det passer ikke for alle å kjenne etter - mange mennesker er ikke ordentlig levende.
Fra Ann Siri, min høyst uimaginære heltinne: Den dagen jeg glir ubemerket inn i mengden er jeg død. (Og husk at du kan få deg jobb som giftekniv anytime!)
Rebels till we die! Rebels stand united!
[possibly more to come...hvis jeg kjenner dem rett!]
flere tanker om tkid
Jeg tror folk vil ha mer tilgjengelig lyrikk. Ikke sånn påtatt merksnodig og altfor innviklet utforskning av sjelens krinkelkroker og hjerter som brister, men rett og slett god lesning.
Derfor, og dermed, skrev jeg - om selvrealisering i praksis og dobbel forstand;
"Å skrive er å lese seg selv, og jeg tok meg en erkjennelsesreise"
Av Scaramouche, en blivende, strevende po(t)et
tanker om tkid
og at man trenger et speil
ikke nødvendigvis
for å speile det dypeste av ens sjel,
og dens krinkelkroker
en utforskning og erobring
av det merksnodige
som er så meksnodig at det ikke blir annet enn
uforståelig til slutt, og det uforståelige
blir ikke mer forståelig av den grunn
kun bunnløse dyp
som rommer intet annet enn luft, og pompøsitet
der finnes ingen kjerne
selvsikkerhet og selvbevissthet går hånd i hånd,
men gavner ikke nødvendigvis noen
for man kan gå seg vill i hjerer som brister
selv når det er ens eget
dette å kjenne på egne følelser er vår forutsetning
symbolikken likeså, tidvis altoverskyggende,
de store største større enn det største - ord, og
alt dertilhørende kan samtidig bli vår bane
som når vi trår ut i klisjéenes endeløse hav
og nytenkningens tanker svinner hen
til fordel for de enkleste nødløsninger
det er et redskap som må benyttes med omhu
for da vil selv klisjéene fremstå tålelige
endog nyskapende, om brukt på riktig vis
likledes hater jeg dem som avskriver oss,
po(t)etene, det er oss,
for vår bruk av nettopp klisjéene,
og ikke ser skogen for bare trær, men i stedet
vender blikket innover og tror de har oppdaget skogens bunn
og finner en løvhaug i stedet
de som ikke forstår
og ikke lar seg berøre
de som ikke tror
og aldri kan bli overbevist
om å prøve noe helt annet
enn de mest opptråkkede stier
på alle måter
såh
jeg tror man trenger et speil
for å speile verden
akkurat så simpelt
som verden er simpel
og akkurat så utilgjengelig
at ved å gjenspeile den i det konkrete;
bare da kan den bli tilgjengelig
kanskje
om stunder og timer
og i en annen verden, speilet
hvori jeg er en virkelig
po(t)et
Derfor, og dermed, skrev jeg - om selvrealisering i praksis og dobbel forstand;
"Å skrive er å lese seg selv, og jeg tok meg en erkjennelsesreise"
Av Scaramouche, en blivende, strevende po(t)et
tanker om tkid
og at man trenger et speil
ikke nødvendigvis
for å speile det dypeste av ens sjel,
og dens krinkelkroker
en utforskning og erobring
av det merksnodige
som er så meksnodig at det ikke blir annet enn
uforståelig til slutt, og det uforståelige
blir ikke mer forståelig av den grunn
kun bunnløse dyp
som rommer intet annet enn luft, og pompøsitet
der finnes ingen kjerne
selvsikkerhet og selvbevissthet går hånd i hånd,
men gavner ikke nødvendigvis noen
for man kan gå seg vill i hjerer som brister
selv når det er ens eget
dette å kjenne på egne følelser er vår forutsetning
symbolikken likeså, tidvis altoverskyggende,
de store største større enn det største - ord, og
alt dertilhørende kan samtidig bli vår bane
som når vi trår ut i klisjéenes endeløse hav
og nytenkningens tanker svinner hen
til fordel for de enkleste nødløsninger
det er et redskap som må benyttes med omhu
for da vil selv klisjéene fremstå tålelige
endog nyskapende, om brukt på riktig vis
likledes hater jeg dem som avskriver oss,
po(t)etene, det er oss,
for vår bruk av nettopp klisjéene,
og ikke ser skogen for bare trær, men i stedet
vender blikket innover og tror de har oppdaget skogens bunn
og finner en løvhaug i stedet
de som ikke forstår
og ikke lar seg berøre
de som ikke tror
og aldri kan bli overbevist
om å prøve noe helt annet
enn de mest opptråkkede stier
på alle måter
såh
jeg tror man trenger et speil
for å speile verden
akkurat så simpelt
som verden er simpel
og akkurat så utilgjengelig
at ved å gjenspeile den i det konkrete;
bare da kan den bli tilgjengelig
kanskje
om stunder og timer
og i en annen verden, speilet
hvori jeg er en virkelig
po(t)et
Monday, February 19, 2007
Never cared for escapism that intensely, did I
expectations of a very rude Robbie in a box, as seen thru millions of lenses
"Escapism...these days"
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et, and number one punch line-pun-fan! :)
sneaking, snoping, scowling
there behind your back
are you
will you ever be
aware
but no - irreverent - I query;
the ones you loved instead
were they truly angels?
and
did they spread their wings for you
with heavenly grace?
was their devotion pure
or just corrupted by illusion
that image
far too much must lark behind
so problematic
a claustrophobiac would die
in such a crowd
but
never you, you carried on
if upside down,
selv-certain as magician
you were
constantly uncertain
and paradoxical
off course
you stood there, at the gates
when marlon brando passed away
you saw yourself that day
in future times
you live not then, but now
forever in the now
"Escapism...these days"
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et, and number one punch line-pun-fan! :)
sneaking, snoping, scowling
there behind your back
are you
will you ever be
aware
but no - irreverent - I query;
the ones you loved instead
were they truly angels?
and
did they spread their wings for you
with heavenly grace?
was their devotion pure
or just corrupted by illusion
that image
far too much must lark behind
so problematic
a claustrophobiac would die
in such a crowd
but
never you, you carried on
if upside down,
selv-certain as magician
you were
constantly uncertain
and paradoxical
off course
you stood there, at the gates
when marlon brando passed away
you saw yourself that day
in future times
you live not then, but now
forever in the now
Småplukk og ruskomsnusk
Det nærmeste jeg klarer å komme en "ordentlig" (proper) blogg...skremmende nok. Uten noe slags overlagt popmpøsitet eller innbilskhet. Overhodet.
Stolt av å være et skrivende menneske...finnes for få av slike...uten å ville høres blærete ut...for det kan i allefall ikke finnes for mange! - mener jeg...og damen med smilefjeset sier at det er litt skummelt for en iskald verden vi lever i, egentlig, hvor vi ser på at mennesker blir ødelagt og vi bare ler...og det synes jeg er kloke ord; jeg vil være som henne, jeg vil dikte i øyeblikket...en impulspo(t)et...hvis improvisasjon er en dyd, kan jeg være et dydsmønster? - håpet lever ennå...men er dydsmønster fortsatt et norsk ord? - jeg tror det...jeg liker det...er det ikke fantastisk med ord man liker? - jeg samler på ord...har en hel liten kolleksjon, faktisk...noen kommer ut, andre blir der inne et sted, noen ligger på tungen og hviler, andre sitter bom fast i bakhodet og synes det er bedagelig, noen irriterer meg, derfor, noen behager meg, noen provoserer meg, selv om de er mine oppfinnelser...jeg er et oppkomme av smått og stort og meningsløst og -fast til tider...men det gjør ikke noe, for ordene er vakre i seg selv, det betyr ingenting eller lite om de ikke alltid lyder like fornuftige og innholdsrike, om de ikke alltid har en sammenheng...jeg er ikke så opptatt av helhetsinntrykk, jeg foretrekker det løsrevne...det pleier å etterfølges av det løsslupne...og det er alltid udelt positivt...fange øyeblikket, det er viktig, være impulsiv og følge sine egne veier, sine egne lyster...det er derfor jeg ønsker meg den jobben, sant; øyeblikkspoet, som en naturfotograf, eller en stillebenskunstner...eller en stillebensfotograf...fotograf generelt...fotografere verden i en brøkdel av et sekund, gjennom ord...gjennom sansesinntrykk som gjengis og formidles i skriftlig form...finnes der noe vakrere? - jeg synes kunst er det vakreste på jorden, i alle former og fasonger...og mitt kunstneriske uttrykk, i likhet med alle andre kunstneres, er egenartet...unikt, om bare i form av å være annerledes enn det andre vil kunne kreere...men det er også tilstrekkelig...kunst handler, etter min mening, om å skape noe grunnleggende forskjellig, ellers vil det være meningsløst, siden det iboende innovative er selve kunstens nytteverdi...uten den finnes ingen hensikt, finnes faktsik ingen kunst...og jøsseball som jeg kan reklamere for mine egne produksjoner, gitt...hihi...nå begynner dette å flyte ut litt her, ut i det altfor finurlige...jo mer langdrygt, jo mindre fornuftig...sies det...derfor: en brå avslutning
Stolt av å være et skrivende menneske...finnes for få av slike...uten å ville høres blærete ut...for det kan i allefall ikke finnes for mange! - mener jeg...og damen med smilefjeset sier at det er litt skummelt for en iskald verden vi lever i, egentlig, hvor vi ser på at mennesker blir ødelagt og vi bare ler...og det synes jeg er kloke ord; jeg vil være som henne, jeg vil dikte i øyeblikket...en impulspo(t)et...hvis improvisasjon er en dyd, kan jeg være et dydsmønster? - håpet lever ennå...men er dydsmønster fortsatt et norsk ord? - jeg tror det...jeg liker det...er det ikke fantastisk med ord man liker? - jeg samler på ord...har en hel liten kolleksjon, faktisk...noen kommer ut, andre blir der inne et sted, noen ligger på tungen og hviler, andre sitter bom fast i bakhodet og synes det er bedagelig, noen irriterer meg, derfor, noen behager meg, noen provoserer meg, selv om de er mine oppfinnelser...jeg er et oppkomme av smått og stort og meningsløst og -fast til tider...men det gjør ikke noe, for ordene er vakre i seg selv, det betyr ingenting eller lite om de ikke alltid lyder like fornuftige og innholdsrike, om de ikke alltid har en sammenheng...jeg er ikke så opptatt av helhetsinntrykk, jeg foretrekker det løsrevne...det pleier å etterfølges av det løsslupne...og det er alltid udelt positivt...fange øyeblikket, det er viktig, være impulsiv og følge sine egne veier, sine egne lyster...det er derfor jeg ønsker meg den jobben, sant; øyeblikkspoet, som en naturfotograf, eller en stillebenskunstner...eller en stillebensfotograf...fotograf generelt...fotografere verden i en brøkdel av et sekund, gjennom ord...gjennom sansesinntrykk som gjengis og formidles i skriftlig form...finnes der noe vakrere? - jeg synes kunst er det vakreste på jorden, i alle former og fasonger...og mitt kunstneriske uttrykk, i likhet med alle andre kunstneres, er egenartet...unikt, om bare i form av å være annerledes enn det andre vil kunne kreere...men det er også tilstrekkelig...kunst handler, etter min mening, om å skape noe grunnleggende forskjellig, ellers vil det være meningsløst, siden det iboende innovative er selve kunstens nytteverdi...uten den finnes ingen hensikt, finnes faktsik ingen kunst...og jøsseball som jeg kan reklamere for mine egne produksjoner, gitt...hihi...nå begynner dette å flyte ut litt her, ut i det altfor finurlige...jo mer langdrygt, jo mindre fornuftig...sies det...derfor: en brå avslutning
Barbarianella
Inspired by "Waiting for the barbarians"...have a feeling this will only be the first in a row...Anywhooo; here goes -
"A dream inside a dream inside a lie; before the dawn" [very first edition]
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et, and dedicated to J.M. Coetzee
You caused upon yourself, to be so blind
lacking will-power, or was it fate
Was it the angels who told you not to speak
did you cut your throat, or someone else's
You fell into a state of drowsed oblivion
conviction lost, or were you superstitious
Some sign you got, which told you not to act
did you realize, all of a sudden, you were weak
A man cannot do, more than a man cannot do,
which means you can always do more than nothing
You did not dare, nor did you ever scream
opposition reserved, for a selected few
Words got stuck, although you tried to speak
did you send for one, or did you learn yourself
*
Her breath, your breath, her cold cold feet,
entangled, and adjoined, but - you;
You slept within her arms, you felt her skin
strains of hair caressed your naked arm
A safety you called trust, misunderstood
sacrificed more than you thought possible
You followed her as long as you could go
then, vanished into dim and desert light
Was it only shadows of a doubt you saw
existed more, there, that you sure disowned
"A dream inside a dream inside a lie; before the dawn" [very first edition]
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et, and dedicated to J.M. Coetzee
You caused upon yourself, to be so blind
lacking will-power, or was it fate
Was it the angels who told you not to speak
did you cut your throat, or someone else's
You fell into a state of drowsed oblivion
conviction lost, or were you superstitious
Some sign you got, which told you not to act
did you realize, all of a sudden, you were weak
A man cannot do, more than a man cannot do,
which means you can always do more than nothing
You did not dare, nor did you ever scream
opposition reserved, for a selected few
Words got stuck, although you tried to speak
did you send for one, or did you learn yourself
*
Her breath, your breath, her cold cold feet,
entangled, and adjoined, but - you;
You slept within her arms, you felt her skin
strains of hair caressed your naked arm
A safety you called trust, misunderstood
sacrificed more than you thought possible
You followed her as long as you could go
then, vanished into dim and desert light
Was it only shadows of a doubt you saw
existed more, there, that you sure disowned
The "Help Britney"-campaign
My contribution;
"Solar flare, startstruck"
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et; not-so-proud, former Britney-fan
Where is the common sense?
I actually remember what it was like
wanting to be like Britney Spears
Knowing the lyrics and singing along
to the hits she can't sing anymore
Cos now
it's all about tattoos
and hairdos
and custody for kids
It's all about stripping
and tripping
and hunting for hunkies
You're such a sad story,
yes you are
Throwing up out through
the window of your car
Parties with Paris, or
maybe that's over
One thing's for sure though,
you're still far from sober
I actually remember how she sounded
when she was 17, in white, and Lucky
Knowing too little perhaps, and foresaw
nothing at all of the wrong stuff to come
Cos now
it's all about bad days
and bald days (!)
and sunglassed disguises
It's all about driving
and striving
and fightings in court
How you're hiding yourself
while exposing too much
Protection from others,
though with no gentle touch
You forget who you are
and you slip once too many
K-fed is fed up, still
you're looking uncanny
I actually remember how she smiled
and shrugged off accusations in a Leno-chair
When will she ever be at ease, and beautiful
is there not enough left to break free again?
Behind your pale mask, lonely bungler,
do you see it coming,
Or was it all gone, long ago?
Is it too late for the butterfly-girl to emerge,
anew and painless,
Can the answers turn yes, end the no?
Cos now
someone must look at her
see through her
through to her
Someone take hold of her
reach out to her
reach for her
**
Someone must care...
if not, how could they face their own eyes in the mirror,
when after, it's all a disaster?
Someone must care...
they can't claim not to see, for we all can observe her, and
we know that young Britney needs help!
"Solar flare, startstruck"
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et; not-so-proud, former Britney-fan
Where is the common sense?
I actually remember what it was like
wanting to be like Britney Spears
Knowing the lyrics and singing along
to the hits she can't sing anymore
Cos now
it's all about tattoos
and hairdos
and custody for kids
It's all about stripping
and tripping
and hunting for hunkies
You're such a sad story,
yes you are
Throwing up out through
the window of your car
Parties with Paris, or
maybe that's over
One thing's for sure though,
you're still far from sober
I actually remember how she sounded
when she was 17, in white, and Lucky
Knowing too little perhaps, and foresaw
nothing at all of the wrong stuff to come
Cos now
it's all about bad days
and bald days (!)
and sunglassed disguises
It's all about driving
and striving
and fightings in court
How you're hiding yourself
while exposing too much
Protection from others,
though with no gentle touch
You forget who you are
and you slip once too many
K-fed is fed up, still
you're looking uncanny
I actually remember how she smiled
and shrugged off accusations in a Leno-chair
When will she ever be at ease, and beautiful
is there not enough left to break free again?
Behind your pale mask, lonely bungler,
do you see it coming,
Or was it all gone, long ago?
Is it too late for the butterfly-girl to emerge,
anew and painless,
Can the answers turn yes, end the no?
Cos now
someone must look at her
see through her
through to her
Someone take hold of her
reach out to her
reach for her
**
Someone must care...
if not, how could they face their own eyes in the mirror,
when after, it's all a disaster?
Someone must care...
they can't claim not to see, for we all can observe her, and
we know that young Britney needs help!
Romantic again
ererBEST ROMANTIC MOVIES EVER,
EDITED LIST:
Love Actually
Sleepless in Seattle
Léon ('cos it IS actually romantic!)
The Bodyguard
Lost in Translation
Casino Royale (can't believe I actually wrote that)
On her Majesty's Secret Service (better!)
Moulin Rouge
The English Patient
Before Sunset
Casablanca
Kate & Leopold (takk til Tonje Elin!)
The Mask of Zorro (takk til min mor, verdens største Anthony Hopkins-fan!)
Robin Hood - prince of thieves (nicest movie-wedding ever? AND a Connery-cameo!)
Tristan & Isolde (takk til Ann Siri!)
Receptive to more suggestions and ideas! Please!
EDITED LIST:
Love Actually
Sleepless in Seattle
Léon ('cos it IS actually romantic!)
The Bodyguard
Lost in Translation
Casino Royale (can't believe I actually wrote that)
On her Majesty's Secret Service (better!)
Moulin Rouge
The English Patient
Before Sunset
Casablanca
Kate & Leopold (takk til Tonje Elin!)
The Mask of Zorro (takk til min mor, verdens største Anthony Hopkins-fan!)
Robin Hood - prince of thieves (nicest movie-wedding ever? AND a Connery-cameo!)
Tristan & Isolde (takk til Ann Siri!)
Receptive to more suggestions and ideas! Please!
Sunday, February 18, 2007
simple pleasures
my 111th post!
Passenger. Buscards and blouses.
By Scaramouche, the travellin' strawberry po(t)et potato
And: you say potato, I say - no, actually, it's "po(t)et" and it's Norwegian!
Did you ever consider
not getting off?
Simply remain in your seat
and watch the rest
As passer-bys pass by
and windows clouded white
and silence falls
I was never one of the punks playing in the back seats
Did you ever consider
not getting out?
Simply stay in the coupé
and guard the place
As looker-ons look on
and doors opened dramatically
and shadows fall
I was always the one who sat alone with her umbrella
People yell, and they leave
they haunt you, yet only for a minute
are they there with you
People smile, and they're gone
they visit you, yet only for a moment
are they close to you
I am a passenger
on a bus, or a train
or on a walk through life
I observe
and am strictly observed
by possible others
I adore
oblivious to the adoration
of possible others
I won't give up my seat to an old lady with a rain coat
not because I'm bad
but because I want to sit
and just breathe
the warm air in a crowded means of public transport
feeling integrated, included
yet utterly insignificant
but for the time being, at least I may say I am -
I am a passenger.
Passenger. Buscards and blouses.
By Scaramouche, the travellin' strawberry po(t)et potato
And: you say potato, I say - no, actually, it's "po(t)et" and it's Norwegian!
Did you ever consider
not getting off?
Simply remain in your seat
and watch the rest
As passer-bys pass by
and windows clouded white
and silence falls
I was never one of the punks playing in the back seats
Did you ever consider
not getting out?
Simply stay in the coupé
and guard the place
As looker-ons look on
and doors opened dramatically
and shadows fall
I was always the one who sat alone with her umbrella
People yell, and they leave
they haunt you, yet only for a minute
are they there with you
People smile, and they're gone
they visit you, yet only for a moment
are they close to you
I am a passenger
on a bus, or a train
or on a walk through life
I observe
and am strictly observed
by possible others
I adore
oblivious to the adoration
of possible others
I won't give up my seat to an old lady with a rain coat
not because I'm bad
but because I want to sit
and just breathe
the warm air in a crowded means of public transport
feeling integrated, included
yet utterly insignificant
but for the time being, at least I may say I am -
I am a passenger.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Celebrating an old friend!
It's late. But I am a night person. That means the day isn't over, officially, until I go to bed. And I'm not in bed...yet. That also means that this message still counts as having been posted yesterday, although its being a quarter past one in the morning suggests it's techinally yesterday's news. However; the following is still on imdb, on the front page too, picture and all, so it does count.
Anyway! What I wanted to say was:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY CHRISTOPHER ECCLESTON!
Turning...43 on the 16th of February.
Nice man, nice actor, nice (former) job!
Anyway! What I wanted to say was:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY CHRISTOPHER ECCLESTON!
Turning...43 on the 16th of February.
Nice man, nice actor, nice (former) job!
Being...of course...My Doctor, personal favourite that is, and everyone's Number Nine. Also infamous for his personification of Leo in "Jeg er Dina" and for being a true badass-hero, trying to kill off both Nicholas Cage and his "brother" (Giovanni Ribisi) in "Gone in 60 Seconds". In a very cruel way, too, as it were. But what a villain! My hopes are, that Chris one day will recreate that stylish, evil character and gain a part in a Bond-movie. How cool would that be?! That being said, whatever the man does it usually ends up brilliant. 'Scuse me; FANTASTIC! Chris is Fantastic! And Doctor Who's newly-retrieved success is, without wonder, much thanks to this man. If it hadn't been for his interpretation, his plotting the future course of -and laying an amazingly complex and interesting, basic foundation for - The Doctor, I doubt anyone would have had faith in the series' durability - and credibility! And, of course, without him I wouldn't have started watcing Doctor Who in the first place, and it wouldn't have become so dear to me - plus I would never have discovered what a marvellous actor Chris REALLY is. Not just good like I new he was, but absolutely gorgeous and talented and charming. Love, now! Hence...many happy returns, manye good luck-wishes, and hope to see him on the telly soon again!
And remember, furthermore, that: An apple a day keeps The Doctor away, which is why I'll never eat apples again!
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
"Love is..." Considerably appropriate on a night like this
Best Romantic Movies EVER!!!
(Possible Editing to Follow...later!)
And yes, I know my romance movie preferences tend to imply a ceratin sadness-factor.
(Possible Editing to Follow...later!)
And yes, I know my romance movie preferences tend to imply a ceratin sadness-factor.
- Love Actually
- Sleepless in Seattle
- Léon ('cos it IS actually romantic!)
- The Bodyguard
- Lost in Translation
- Casino Royale (can't believe I actually wrote that)
- On her Majesty's Secret Service (better!)
- Moulin Rouge
- The English Patient
- Before Sunset
- Casablanca
And furthermore: The most romantic things I know about!
- Katie Melua and Norah Jones...cannot be avoided! And it's what I am currently listening to! ("When you left, I became a hopeless drifter...")
- Bryan Ferry singing old café-melodies, such as "As time goes by" and Leif Ove Andsnes playing the tingling, background piano...yes, preferrably combined...take a hint, guys? Or even better - make a deal? ;)
- Jane Austen-novels...preferrably filmed with Colin Firth...Mr. Daaaaaarcy!!! Me luva!
- The bar-scene at the end of the above-mentioned "L.i.T." ("Stay here with me, we'll start a jazz band!" Classic!)
AND the obligatory ones;
- Doctor Who and the hand-holding! ("Before I go, I just wanna tell you; you were fantastic. Absolutely fantastic!")
- The dancing scene in "Dear Frankie" (too sad and serious to qualify for a place in my purely romantic movie-category, though...! Yet, I LOVE that little piece of indie-film so much!)
- Chocolate and candles and live piano-music, by the fireside - also including a (fake) fur rug and a couple of good bottles of red wine...and someone who looks like the guy who's dancing with Emily Mortimer in that particular scene...! (Perchance could I get hold of the man himself???) In a tux, with that genuine Scottish burrrr....rrrr!
- James Bond. Whom I've always wanted (yearned...and longed...desperately) to marry. That being said; I would only marry him if he looked like (*cough cough*) Butler, Burkhard, Eccleston or Jackman. Preferrably combined. Well, actually; if he was James Bond, I would just marry him. Especially if he was Butler-Bond. Regardless where, why and how. Just marry him. Any time!
Did I mention I'm a hopeless Romantic? Guess I did, yeah. I love being in love. I love Love. Love is good. It hurts, occasionally, but it makes me feel and feeling (it) makes me feel alive. And there's not point in living, at all, if you can't feel...alive.
Enough said. Now sleep. And sleep to dream. Again. About a brave and handsome man. Who rides my way, on an amazing white stallion, accompanied by the sound of faint piano playing; he comes to take me far from here, and meanwhile sweep me off my feet with strawberry kisses. Hehehe. Now, that's the sweet escape of night-time!
Word from the Heart, spoken with Soul
Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!!
This is the day one should devote to honouring all those who love and are loved...which means, technically, all of us. Since (which I am happy to say that I have learnt from watching - perhaps - too many, too romantic movies) somewhere, out there, there is someone special and someone intrinsically right for each and everyone one of us!
And if you don't dream, you die. So dream on! For Love is Hope - and believing that some day, there will be a stranger on your door whom you'll instantly know your heart belongs to!
Love, Scaramouche; proud and devoted, hopeless romantic!
This is the day one should devote to honouring all those who love and are loved...which means, technically, all of us. Since (which I am happy to say that I have learnt from watching - perhaps - too many, too romantic movies) somewhere, out there, there is someone special and someone intrinsically right for each and everyone one of us!
And if you don't dream, you die. So dream on! For Love is Hope - and believing that some day, there will be a stranger on your door whom you'll instantly know your heart belongs to!
Love, Scaramouche; proud and devoted, hopeless romantic!
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Something about the way I look on things tonight
Newsflashes, lashes and clashes - listening to Elton John's "Song for guy"
R.I.P Anna Nicole Smith. Marilyn was her idol and she pursued a lifestyle identical to that of Miss Monroe's - even to her death. Maybe such an ending was for the best. What could another future possibly have held of opportunities and blessings for this woman? And if we don't get to know all the answers, if we don't get to learn the full and complete truth; what does it matter? I hope she's reached a state of peacefulness at last, wherever she might be now. And I hope there were no tears in Ms. Smith''s eyes the moment she entered her eternal sleep. God speed. It's sad how the entertainment business can turn out very little entertaining to the ones involved in it, sometimes. Contributors might gain a profit from what they do, what the commit to - but at the same time, they suffer a grave prize.
Which reminds me; is there anyobody out there who would mind taking more care of one certain Ms. Spears and just prevent her from doing silly things - for a couple of coming weeks? For God's sake, she's got children! Keep her away from drinks, drugs, lack of thongs, unstable short-time-boyfriends, Las Vegas poker parties, Burger King, Paris Hilton and fast cars which she can't drive. Provide her with a pair of decent-looking sunglasses, for a change, and get her into some kind of recreation facility. 'Cos, actually, I believe at the moment she's more of a danger to herself than she is to her friends or anyone else. Although she has been seen vomiting on them. It's been enough with one deceased celeb girl this month. And it scares me how progress is going the wrong way for BS as well, right now.
Local news; Dennis Storhøi, jeg elsker deg, du er en utrolig skuespiller og "Spellemann på taket" var helt absurd bra!! Gratulerer til Guri Schanche for å ha vunnet den norske MGP-finalen, men se å få på deg et ordentlig skjørt, og egentlig er jeg litt sur fordi Torhild Sivertsen ikke vant. Men jeg gleder meg til Eurovision-finalen. Det blir stilig!! ...som alltid. Problemet er når Trine Rein, Janniche Abrahamsen, Torhild og Guri stiller i én og samme, norske finale; litt mye på én gang, liksom. Men Grand Prix har fått seg et kvalitetsløft og det liker vi! Videre: jeg synes overhodet ikke synd på Se og Hør, spesielt ikke redaktøren - jeg synes det er bra at deres skitne arbiedsmetoder kommer for en dag, og jeg tviler på at noen andre skulle inneha et annet, motstridende syn. Savner et ordentlig, norsk sladreblad ála det fantastiske "InTouch" (USA & Canada). Et som kunne kombinere sladder, mote og underholdning - og benytte en grammatikk vesentlig over det ungdomsskolenivå der de befinner seg nå. Seher.no er en god side for å holde seg oppdatert på kjendisstoff, men gudbedre for et elendig skriftspråk de besitter!
And apart from all this; I hate winter; snow, fog, rain, bloody temperature. Don't know why I'm still residing here, in this godforsaken place of frozen, rocky ice age-remains and bad journalists. I try staying warm, calm and happy with Elton John and Le Doc. And I want to see Casino Royale again, but don't know if I should bother. Anyone knows when the DVD will be out? Better preorder on amazon, before everyone else realizes and gets the same idea. Hehe.
Last, but not least; on what I want? Well. I want a handsome, nice, smart and noble gentleman prince, a tropical island with a mediaval castle all to myself - well, technically speaking, all to the two of us - I want to enjoy sun and warmth and a relatively lonely, quiet and utterly comfortable life style. I want Queen as a private house band and an own, private cinema showing old classics 24-7; whenever and whatever I might please. I also want to travel to the moon and Gallifrey and have a Time Lord show me the magnificence of the millions of stars glowing unseen, out there in the extreme deep space. That's what I want. Whether I can ever achieve it is another and a far more difficult, complex and unpredictable question. It's beyond. There's a fly buzzing lazily above me, and the fire in my fireplace has completely gone out whilst I've been writing. Better get back to reality, catch up, and sort out some of my more possible, expectale bits of reailty - already present or soon coming up. I dread stepping out of the virtual world and view the actual one with these tired eyeballs. What an ordeal. But it sort of makes us human, doesn't it?
Fantastic Fantastic Rose!
"You saved me more than I could tell..."
Someone was kind enough to post this little piece of sweetness on YouTube lately - written specifically for the two lovebirds and everything...sweet...so now you know what I am listening to these days! The video isn't that good, but the clips are of course brilliant Doctor Who-cuts and the acting is superb, despite the lack of spoken dialogue...! Problem with fan vid's, that is. Anyway, this little item had me forgetting about David T.'s abhorrent escapades in a flash. Me luva YouTube! Entitled "Fantastic Rose", as should have been implied by my title; music by some genius called Geoff Smith, credit MrsCake. And somehow, you know you're not alone... Billie Piper just said in an interview that Rose might return, too. Dazed and confused? Hell, yeah. But indeed, it would have been wonderful.
Now, enjoy!
EDIT 20 FEBRUARY;
Some lyrics too!
If you walk away from me
Well you know that I hope that it would sure as hell be
Better than everything
And all that I've let you see
Tell your mom I said hello
Tell her sorry that I ever let you go
Far from the life you knew
And all that I put you through
But don't let the time that you knew
Break you like you broke me
Now that you're free
Rose
You're fantastic
You know if it can't last
You'll always be the one who knows
You'll always be my Rose
Fantastic Rose
Remember how it all began
All you had to do was hold my hand
And we've been running all this time it seems
But what does it really mean
It seems like a million years
So how's it all disappear
Are you still here
Rose
You're fantastic
You know if it can't last
You'll always be the one who knows
You'll always be my Rose
Fantastic Rose
All that I ever could show you was love
And Rose, you taught me how to let go
Of love
You saved me more than I could tell
Not that I'm desperate but you know just where to cut me
And you did
Right through the bone
But somehow I'm never alone
Rose
You're fantastic
You know if it can't last
You'll always be the one who knows
You'll always be my Rose
Fantastic Rose
Someone was kind enough to post this little piece of sweetness on YouTube lately - written specifically for the two lovebirds and everything...sweet...so now you know what I am listening to these days! The video isn't that good, but the clips are of course brilliant Doctor Who-cuts and the acting is superb, despite the lack of spoken dialogue...! Problem with fan vid's, that is. Anyway, this little item had me forgetting about David T.'s abhorrent escapades in a flash. Me luva YouTube! Entitled "Fantastic Rose", as should have been implied by my title; music by some genius called Geoff Smith, credit MrsCake. And somehow, you know you're not alone... Billie Piper just said in an interview that Rose might return, too. Dazed and confused? Hell, yeah. But indeed, it would have been wonderful.
Now, enjoy!
EDIT 20 FEBRUARY;
Some lyrics too!
If you walk away from me
Well you know that I hope that it would sure as hell be
Better than everything
And all that I've let you see
Tell your mom I said hello
Tell her sorry that I ever let you go
Far from the life you knew
And all that I put you through
But don't let the time that you knew
Break you like you broke me
Now that you're free
Rose
You're fantastic
You know if it can't last
You'll always be the one who knows
You'll always be my Rose
Fantastic Rose
Remember how it all began
All you had to do was hold my hand
And we've been running all this time it seems
But what does it really mean
It seems like a million years
So how's it all disappear
Are you still here
Rose
You're fantastic
You know if it can't last
You'll always be the one who knows
You'll always be my Rose
Fantastic Rose
All that I ever could show you was love
And Rose, you taught me how to let go
Of love
You saved me more than I could tell
Not that I'm desperate but you know just where to cut me
And you did
Right through the bone
But somehow I'm never alone
Rose
You're fantastic
You know if it can't last
You'll always be the one who knows
You'll always be my Rose
Fantastic Rose
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Why I go to school... University tales - and some allusions!
This is what the still obedient, youngster student Scara did for her literature seminar yesterday. It was a very interesting seminar, too. See: it inspired me! "Tintern Abbey" is beautiful...and I love William Wordsworth. In a pretty general sense.
"Transboundary verse" -
with thanks to my seminar leader who got me started
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et, slightly fixated with everything trans...sonic.
The visibility of a creator, in all that's visibly created
The solitary mind emerging, in all that's solitary mine
The truth of once eternal, in all that's eternally true
The stuation I transposed
Betrayal well transfixed
My closet I transformed in style
Denial I'll transcend
The parts will not transact
I long to be transported
I had a vision, he transpired
Transversed and left me lonely
I challenge, me;
Did I ever quit?
Did I ever stay, not cut?
I question, me;
Did I ever listen?
Did I ever ease, not hasten?
I reckon, me;
I never did, I never do,
I never could, for I knew who
and who would wait up on me
"Transboundary verse" -
with thanks to my seminar leader who got me started
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et, slightly fixated with everything trans...sonic.
The visibility of a creator, in all that's visibly created
The solitary mind emerging, in all that's solitary mine
The truth of once eternal, in all that's eternally true
The stuation I transposed
Betrayal well transfixed
My closet I transformed in style
Denial I'll transcend
The parts will not transact
I long to be transported
I had a vision, he transpired
Transversed and left me lonely
I challenge, me;
Did I ever quit?
Did I ever stay, not cut?
I question, me;
Did I ever listen?
Did I ever ease, not hasten?
I reckon, me;
I never did, I never do,
I never could, for I knew who
and who would wait up on me
Shiver and shake, shaken and stirred
Could someone please save these people from themselves?
Sometimes you find yourself in the midst of some freaked-out reality which you severely wish was just a crazed illusion. Then again, it rarely is. Like, yesterday, when I was looking for fan-vid's on YouTube and came across a "hilarious clip" of a certain Doc in a completely new role. Boy, do I regret taking the risk of watching that! And a few moments ago I was checking out The Sun for news on my fav. Brits, and guess what: Mr. Blonde has gone and done something silly - again. (Disclaimer: I do NOT trust The Sun! I don't necessarily trust YouTube either! But they both had photographic evidence!) Here follows another few chapters in the story of what nightmares poor Scaramouche has had to endure over the past days and hours;
PART ONE - DOC IN DRAG: Apparently, the Doctor's worst enemy these days is neither Slitheen nor Dalek, it's Mr. DT's appalling sense of humour. He recently visited the infamous Friday Night Project and there let fans induldge in a Doc Who-spoof featuring himself in a curly, yellow wig and a skimpy, black dress. And heels, high heels. Only an unmistakable, Scottish accent could overshadow the pitchy, atonal voice and the ridiculous gestures and reveal that this wasn't even remotely funny, this was David Tennant. (Hopefully not giving us a taste of the upcoming third season?! Please!) And that being said, had it been an ordinary, not-WHO-related, entertaining, transvestite-homage plot, I would probably have been first in line to praise the scene. Considering that I usually adore men in drag. (Long story.) But this was no such; this included a beard-o version of the Doctor, in an ugly grey suit and played by one Friday Night regular with horrible acting skills, set on the location of a so-called "Pink Planet", reminiscences of a not too bygone past; as we got face to face with a ghastly, wobbly-seeming TARDIS, and then David, most importantly and regretfully, as the "gorgeous time travelling assistant". Indeed; he didn't even have the decensy of playing himself! We were also "fortunate" enough to enjoy appearances from both the evil "Gay-Lord" and the silver-shirted "Car-leks", before the whole thing eventually came to an end. However, and as if we had not been through Hell and back already, they did manage to ruin the end-credits with some dreadful animation. AND they dared being disrespectful of the late King of Queen, Mr. Freddie Mercury somewhere in the middle.
Conclusion: the only Doctor Who + men in drag-setup that ever worked took place in the film "Breakfast on Pluto", which starred the cute, lovable Cillian Murphy and in which the Daleks looked like actual Daleks. As much as I might enjoy watching David Tennant make a fool out of himself, I can't stand his making a fool out of my favourite TV show. Shame on you guys!
(I did laugh a little, though - of relief! - for it could actually have been worse. Seriously. It could have been Chris!! *Shudders*)
PART TWO - MR. BOND'S A DUMB BLONDE: Craig the Clown has bought a new car, the only problem remains that he can't actually drive it. Reportedly, Daniel Craig made observers laugh their asses off as he unsuccessfully tried to park his brand new 4X4-drive monster the other day. So much for showing off your Casino Royalties. And just now, I'm reading that Sienna Miller and Craig are giving the Bafta-administrators a real headache as a previous love-affair of theirs makes it so embarassing for them to meet, that the organizers must organize for the two spoiled wretches to avoid bumping into each other during the entire evening of the awards. And he still doesn't claim to have taken on the role for any other reason except the money.
Conclusion: I know a couple of other actors who would be more than pleased to take over that part. And they can drive, too.
PART THREE - AT WAR WITH THE LOCALS: Og her hjemme, i gamlelandet, planlegger vi å sende Jenny Jensen til finalen i Grand Prix, i tillegg til at folk som Herodes Falsk får gi ut samlealbum og TV2 Zebra sender dokumnentarfilmer der Whitney Houston fremdeles er gift med Bobby Brown og Britney er på dater'n med Justin.
Conclusion? It's a mad, mad world. And cruel.
Sometimes you find yourself in the midst of some freaked-out reality which you severely wish was just a crazed illusion. Then again, it rarely is. Like, yesterday, when I was looking for fan-vid's on YouTube and came across a "hilarious clip" of a certain Doc in a completely new role. Boy, do I regret taking the risk of watching that! And a few moments ago I was checking out The Sun for news on my fav. Brits, and guess what: Mr. Blonde has gone and done something silly - again. (Disclaimer: I do NOT trust The Sun! I don't necessarily trust YouTube either! But they both had photographic evidence!) Here follows another few chapters in the story of what nightmares poor Scaramouche has had to endure over the past days and hours;
PART ONE - DOC IN DRAG: Apparently, the Doctor's worst enemy these days is neither Slitheen nor Dalek, it's Mr. DT's appalling sense of humour. He recently visited the infamous Friday Night Project and there let fans induldge in a Doc Who-spoof featuring himself in a curly, yellow wig and a skimpy, black dress. And heels, high heels. Only an unmistakable, Scottish accent could overshadow the pitchy, atonal voice and the ridiculous gestures and reveal that this wasn't even remotely funny, this was David Tennant. (Hopefully not giving us a taste of the upcoming third season?! Please!) And that being said, had it been an ordinary, not-WHO-related, entertaining, transvestite-homage plot, I would probably have been first in line to praise the scene. Considering that I usually adore men in drag. (Long story.) But this was no such; this included a beard-o version of the Doctor, in an ugly grey suit and played by one Friday Night regular with horrible acting skills, set on the location of a so-called "Pink Planet", reminiscences of a not too bygone past; as we got face to face with a ghastly, wobbly-seeming TARDIS, and then David, most importantly and regretfully, as the "gorgeous time travelling assistant". Indeed; he didn't even have the decensy of playing himself! We were also "fortunate" enough to enjoy appearances from both the evil "Gay-Lord" and the silver-shirted "Car-leks", before the whole thing eventually came to an end. However, and as if we had not been through Hell and back already, they did manage to ruin the end-credits with some dreadful animation. AND they dared being disrespectful of the late King of Queen, Mr. Freddie Mercury somewhere in the middle.
Conclusion: the only Doctor Who + men in drag-setup that ever worked took place in the film "Breakfast on Pluto", which starred the cute, lovable Cillian Murphy and in which the Daleks looked like actual Daleks. As much as I might enjoy watching David Tennant make a fool out of himself, I can't stand his making a fool out of my favourite TV show. Shame on you guys!
(I did laugh a little, though - of relief! - for it could actually have been worse. Seriously. It could have been Chris!! *Shudders*)
PART TWO - MR. BOND'S A DUMB BLONDE: Craig the Clown has bought a new car, the only problem remains that he can't actually drive it. Reportedly, Daniel Craig made observers laugh their asses off as he unsuccessfully tried to park his brand new 4X4-drive monster the other day. So much for showing off your Casino Royalties. And just now, I'm reading that Sienna Miller and Craig are giving the Bafta-administrators a real headache as a previous love-affair of theirs makes it so embarassing for them to meet, that the organizers must organize for the two spoiled wretches to avoid bumping into each other during the entire evening of the awards. And he still doesn't claim to have taken on the role for any other reason except the money.
Conclusion: I know a couple of other actors who would be more than pleased to take over that part. And they can drive, too.
PART THREE - AT WAR WITH THE LOCALS: Og her hjemme, i gamlelandet, planlegger vi å sende Jenny Jensen til finalen i Grand Prix, i tillegg til at folk som Herodes Falsk får gi ut samlealbum og TV2 Zebra sender dokumnentarfilmer der Whitney Houston fremdeles er gift med Bobby Brown og Britney er på dater'n med Justin.
Conclusion? It's a mad, mad world. And cruel.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Thoughts streaming
Don't get to write so much these days, I'm soooo busy and my head is just filled with thousand thoughts and ideas and obligations, duites that must be executed and business that must be attended too, school-stuff that must be written and books that must be read...pretty interesting but equally exhausting! Funny, though, how it seems to me that the more I have to do the more I actually get done...
Anyway, in the midst of all this, I at least managed to sort together a small piece of stream-of-consciousness, mind-reading, inner monologue, blabla, experimental poetry...rest home for a troubled mind and very healthy to get frustration out of my system, etc. Have perhaps watched too many bizarre movies; "Thirteenth Floor" was amazing, however! I mean, it might be a Matrix-inspired, low-budget, cult-scifi-time travel-apocalyse-thingy, but it was soooo cool! And it reminded me of "Strange Days", which is genuinly promising, because I really love that movie and anything with that same use of colours and meddling with time and spaces and featuring Vincent D'Onofrio can't be bad, in my opinion. In my humble-jumble-thumble opinion. It's like my mama always says; enjoy the good things of every day. And eat your spinach. I do and I don't.
And here goes:
"For my friend in the elevator" -
trying out some new stuff again
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et, who thinks too much and drinks too little (?) and hits her head against the walls repeatedly, a little much too often.
if I should make a list of things that make we want to squeeze you hold you crush you with my love I'd be a thousand years too late I'd never be along or gone I'd be so stuck but still inspired I'd be here but over there and all my consciousness retired I'd be shaken stirred and broken I'd be sleepy yet awake and that's the things you're doing to me that's the state you put me into that's the craziness you inflict that's the moment that I see you I go boom and body shaking I'd be jumping I'd be screaming but I don't I just go quiet and I stare I glare I whisper and I sniff and sigh and listen you might thing I'm such a nutter but the truth is I'm a sucker if I could I'd suck you dry love for whatever you can be I would give all I have to own and thus I'd kill to know you better and I'd die to see you often and I'd love to have you love me but I realise we're strangers so come closer don't stay shy love and I'll show you what I'm made of what the two of us could be and what the two of us must never so forgive my small intrusion and pardon my strong confusion but I'm tired won't be begging though I can't help go on nagging I'm a preacher for attention won't you see me won't you hear me won't you read my list of things that make me fall onto my knees and make me squeeze you make you love me make me love you always love you
Anyway, in the midst of all this, I at least managed to sort together a small piece of stream-of-consciousness, mind-reading, inner monologue, blabla, experimental poetry...rest home for a troubled mind and very healthy to get frustration out of my system, etc. Have perhaps watched too many bizarre movies; "Thirteenth Floor" was amazing, however! I mean, it might be a Matrix-inspired, low-budget, cult-scifi-time travel-apocalyse-thingy, but it was soooo cool! And it reminded me of "Strange Days", which is genuinly promising, because I really love that movie and anything with that same use of colours and meddling with time and spaces and featuring Vincent D'Onofrio can't be bad, in my opinion. In my humble-jumble-thumble opinion. It's like my mama always says; enjoy the good things of every day. And eat your spinach. I do and I don't.
And here goes:
"For my friend in the elevator" -
trying out some new stuff again
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et, who thinks too much and drinks too little (?) and hits her head against the walls repeatedly, a little much too often.
if I should make a list of things that make we want to squeeze you hold you crush you with my love I'd be a thousand years too late I'd never be along or gone I'd be so stuck but still inspired I'd be here but over there and all my consciousness retired I'd be shaken stirred and broken I'd be sleepy yet awake and that's the things you're doing to me that's the state you put me into that's the craziness you inflict that's the moment that I see you I go boom and body shaking I'd be jumping I'd be screaming but I don't I just go quiet and I stare I glare I whisper and I sniff and sigh and listen you might thing I'm such a nutter but the truth is I'm a sucker if I could I'd suck you dry love for whatever you can be I would give all I have to own and thus I'd kill to know you better and I'd die to see you often and I'd love to have you love me but I realise we're strangers so come closer don't stay shy love and I'll show you what I'm made of what the two of us could be and what the two of us must never so forgive my small intrusion and pardon my strong confusion but I'm tired won't be begging though I can't help go on nagging I'm a preacher for attention won't you see me won't you hear me won't you read my list of things that make me fall onto my knees and make me squeeze you make you love me make me love you always love you
Friday, February 02, 2007
Babes med briller - Kampen mot de forskrudde skjønnhetsidealer
Jeg slo av en film idag. Skrudde rett og slett av TV'en i rent raseri. Og dette var en film med Julie Andrews, så det sier litt. "Princess Diaries", het den. Forkvaklet Disney-møl. Hvorfor? Vel - det har noe med følgende å gjøre: Hollywoods oppskrift på hvordan man blir en "pen prinsesse"!
- av med doc martens, på med strømpebukse
- braziliansk bikinivoksing benyttet på "buskete øyenbryn", deretter på med agurker (!)
- krøller er lurvete, glatt og striglet hår er vakkert
- briller bør helst knekkes i to; kontaktlinser er en glitrende oppfinnelse
- rare jenter har rare mødre og rare venninner
- rare jenter er sjelden sportsatleter
- stereotyper er til for å brukes
- AAARGH!
Jeg skjønner at noe av pointet med filmen var å vise de negative sidene ved den forvandlingen og de "royale" idealene, men fortsatt; da kunne de latt være å gjøre et så innmari stort poeng utav hvor mye søtere og mer korrekt Anne Hathaway var uten briller og øyenbryn. UGH! Og neida, slikt forekommer ikke bare i filmer som "Princess Diaries"; det er et bransjefenomen. Jeg husker med gru slike ungdomsfilmer der helten falt for skolens minst populære jente; hvordan hun deretter ble forvandlet til en "svane" på slutten av filmen og fikk vist hvor undervurdert hun hadde vært, og hvor vakker hun egentlig var. Som oftest foregår en slik forvandling ved at vedkommende tar av seg nevnte briller. Og for å gjøre debatten aldeles dagsaktuell: HVORFOR må det som gjør denne Betty spesielt "ugly" på død og liv være briller og reggis?! Moralen i serien er visstnok at jenter skal tørre å være seg selv, utstråle naturlig skjønnhet, være stolt av den kroppen de har, bla bla bla. Ugly Betty kler seg som en kråke, lissom, ter seg som en klovn, haha, og - hun er belemret med den klassiske "femme fatale-i-nerdeham"-looken. Hun innehar en jobb hun fikk kun fordi hun var tilstrekkelig "lite tiltrekkende". Publikum ler fordi hun kolliderer med glassdører og fordi hun kommer utkledt på jobb når karnivalet er avlyst. Evt aldri har blitt arrangert. Og publikum aner at produsentene sikkert kommer til å stæsje henne opp til sesongavslutningen, også får hun drømmemannen og sjefsjobben, hun blir anerkjent og satt pris på, fordi alle plutselig innser at hun var faktisk ganske pen likevel. Vel - Ugly Betty er ikke særlig ugly nå heller, hun. Skuespillerinnen selv, America Ferrera, er for eksempel en nydelig dame med et fantastisk smil. Både i rollen og utenfor. Som Betty har hun kule briller, smilet blir ikke så skjemmet av den reguleringen at det gjør noe, klesstilen er eksentrisk, men ikke stygg. Klarer vi virkelig å se dette? Klarer vi virkelig å se igjennom det stereotyp-baserte forhenget som forteller oss hvilke formeninger vi skal ha om den aspirerende moteblad-medarbeideren?
Det er tradisjonene som påvirker oss; det er forventningene. Det er hva vi tror vi ser, ikke hva vi faktisk ser. Hvilke inntrykk vi gir, og får, hvilke konvensjoner vi er oppvokst med. Briller og reggis er tydeligvis ikke særlig sexy. Vel, her håper jeg at i allefall Ugly Betty gir oss en ny vri. Et alternativ. Jeg håper Betty får all den suksess hun fortjener, slik hun ser ut for øyeblikket. Jeg håper hun får en kjæreste som verdsetter henne for den personen hun er; både utseendemessig og personlighetsmessig. Jeg håper Hollywood-drømmedamer kan slutte å ha "stygge" venninner som blir fremstilt stygge fordi de har svekket syn. Jeg håper den kjekkeste gutten på skolen kan velge den smarteste jenten i klassen, ikke bare fordi hun er "annerledes og tenker mer", men fordi hun er skikkelig stilig som den hun er, og fordi det å skille seg ut - også intellektuelt - tilfører kvinner en andel skjønnhet menn burde finne attraktivt. Og mange menn gjør nok også det. Men vi blir fôret med det motsatte; en moral om at vi må kaste disse hersens brillene for å kapre ham vi liker. Kapre den beste jobben; for slikt kommer i naturlig rekkefølge, sant, og likeledes få et vellykket liv.
Slik verden fungerer nå er det ikke rettferdig. Det er kjempe-urettferdig, for å være ærlig, og derfor:
Jeg vil herved slå et slag for jenter med store øyenbryn, kraftige briller, reggis og viltert hår! Vi er faktisk ganske tiltrekkende vi også. Burde ikke vært nødvendig å påpeke det en gang. Burde ikke finnes en mulighet for at vi kunne bli ansett som ugly. Jeg er lei av å få høre at "du er i det minste smart" eller "utseende betyr ikke alt". Det er verdens verste, hvite løgn. Dagens oppskrift på hva det vil si å dolle seg opp er helt forvrengt! Hvem var det som i utgangspunktet bestemte hvilke kvaliteter dagens skjønnhetsideal skulle baseres på? Jeg har en følelse av at han eller hun - eller DE - må ha drukket noe meget sterkt og hjernecelle-drepende før de gikk igang med den avhandlingen. Skjønnhetsidealene har vært i en langvarig utvikllingsprosess frem mot dagens uttrykk, selvfølgelig, og de forandrer seg fortsatt - men de har aldri vært særlig sunne. Og kommer neppe til å bli det. Men jeg tar meg i undres, videre, på hvorfor jeg takket være dette fordømte, urimelige systemet skal bli avskrevet, helt automatisk og uforanderlig, som en "nerd", eller en annen klisjé, simpelthen en som ikke er pen nok?
De eneste som kan vise at det er tøft å være "annerledes" er folk som Ugly Betty. Og Anne Hathaway, hvis hun vennligst kunne få på seg de brillene igjen. Prinsesser kan også bruke briller, nemlig, det tar ikke fra en stilen. Briller kan bli det nye sex-symbolet! Og brillene er i bunn og grunn bare første steg, eller toppen av isfjellet; vrangforestillingene stikkere dypere enn dét.
Hvis man tar alle klisjéene og hiver dem oppi en bås og kaller dem "standard", da blir kanskje det å være "annerledes" ikke fullt så synonymt med det å være "rar"? Kanskje annerledes ikke blir annerledes lenger, kanskje det simpelthen blir helt og fullstendig normalt - i den forstand at det blir anerkjent? Det hadde vært en ideell stereotyp, det!
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Bond i Beijing, med mer
Siste nytt på den Scaramouche-relaterte delen av sladderfronten:
- Daniel Craig besøkte nylig Kina i anledning den kinesiske premieren på "Casino Royale". Og da Craig the Clown var ute på rekognoserings-tusletur i Beijing - ugjenkjennelig takket være hatt og solbriller, ifølge ham selv - ble han likesågodt tilbudt en piratutgave av filmen på DVD! Og jeg må holde meg veldig hardt for ikke å le her, nå. Det som derimot setter saken i et litt mer positivt lys er at: 1) CR er den første Bond-filmen som får lovlig kinopremiere i Kino, og da er det tøft at hovedpersonen selv tar seg en tur for å overvære og kaste glans over begivenheten - og 2) "...det gjør meg trist. Det er en fantastisk opplevelse å gå på kino. Du går glipp av den hvis du ser på en dårlig kopi av en DVD", sitat Daniel Craig, og jeg må jo si meg aldeles enig i det. Ikke noe mobbing der, nei. Men, puh, da kan jeg kanskje få lov til å le av de noe komiske, mentale forestillingene av Mr. Blond med flosshatt og digre, mørke solbriller...? Skumpf.
- Vokalisten i Norges Aller Beste Band, Briskeby, det vil altså si Lise Karlsens, skal pryde Vero Modas reklameplakater og -kampanjer for våren '07. Hun blir nå, fullt fortjent, fremstilt som Norges Stilikon Nr. 1 og den faste designeren hennes Nanna Heiberg (som jeg digger) får litt etterlengtet promo og jeg sier bare; HEIA LISE!
- Scissor Sisters skal visstnok besøke Quart-festivalen i år. Jeg vil helst ta del i den moroa. Noen andre som har lyst å bli med? ;)
- OG: hva jeg mener om The Valla+Yssen Catfight, Playboys Kelly Osbourne-nekt (i den rekkefølgen, ja), Mariah Careys Playboy-ja, Idol-Tones nettsjekking, Poshs klesstunts, Celeb Big Brother-skandaler - med mer? Njeee..."Kunne ikke brydd meg mindre", blir liksom ikke helt dekkende. Jeg får sitere Nemi i stedet; "EG GJER FANDEN!" (Ok, men jeg leser fortsatt Se Og Hør, da. Hyklerisk som jeg her. Hihi.)
Who would have known...
[THIS IS MY 100TH POST!!! WOOOHOOOOOO!!! CONGRATULATIONS TO ME; AND MANY HAPPY RETURNS! LALALALALALALA....]
...without artists producing lines like these;
largely inspired by her new album, "I'm not dead"...
"Being like you" - dedicated to P!nk
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et
when what you have become is
but the last remains of your poetic times
and you've traversed the seas
then you shall find yourself waiting, still
when what you have been taught
is transformed into vague reminiscences
and you cherish only subtle moments
then you shall find yourself wanting more
when what you have brought to life
confines itself to a volume none would read
you look no further than to your thumb
then you shall find yourself wishing it's gone
when what you can turn your back on
is a circle, and tomorrow'll promise no twirls
you break your pen and burn your books
but please don't, for
then you shall only find yourself wrathful
the world you make up, is what you make use of,
and what you make out of the rests
the changes you create, though may make you crazy,
are critical to your success
take it with a twist and just screw the scrubs, silly
for you are the only one who
can ever be only like you
...without artists producing lines like these;
And thus, here comes an ode to my favourite contemporary artist,"You talk real loud, but you ain't saying nothing cool,
I could fit your whole house in my swimming pool!"
largely inspired by her new album, "I'm not dead"...
"Being like you" - dedicated to P!nk
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et
when what you have become is
but the last remains of your poetic times
and you've traversed the seas
then you shall find yourself waiting, still
when what you have been taught
is transformed into vague reminiscences
and you cherish only subtle moments
then you shall find yourself wanting more
when what you have brought to life
confines itself to a volume none would read
you look no further than to your thumb
then you shall find yourself wishing it's gone
when what you can turn your back on
is a circle, and tomorrow'll promise no twirls
you break your pen and burn your books
but please don't, for
then you shall only find yourself wrathful
the world you make up, is what you make use of,
and what you make out of the rests
the changes you create, though may make you crazy,
are critical to your success
take it with a twist and just screw the scrubs, silly
for you are the only one who
can ever be only like you
*Lyspære over hodet*
Man er ikke en selvstendig voksen før man har blitt i stand til å fjerne, identifisere, kjøpe og skifte lyspærer. Har jeg funnet ut. Om ikke annet følte jeg meg i allefall ekstremt moden og fornuftig da jeg stod der ved kassen på Safari med den riktige pærepakningen i hånden, og -ansvarsfull som jeg er - umiddelbart tok fatt på å mekke badelamper da jeg kom inn døren hjemme. Men så begynte jeg å tenke. Hvis modenhet, eller i det minste en følelse av sådan, oppnås allerede ved gjennomførelsen slike nokså ubetydelige bagateller - gjør ikke det modenhet i seg selv til en bagatell? (Eller et resultat av en bagatell?) Og når bagatellene er unnagjort og man sitter der i stillheten og badelyset skinner som aldri før, hva skjer da? Hvordan forløper utviklingen videre? Hvordan vil min nye verden, sett med mine nye og modne øyne, fortone seg? Og hva slags påvirkning vil jeg utsettes for gjennom økt modning, etterfølgende ytterligere bagatellmessige, daglige plikter og andre "voksne" handlinger?
Jeg tror ikke modenhet er noe som egentlig oppstår eller skapes i løpet av et sekunds åpenbarelse. Jeg tror ikke nødvendigvis at modenhet er noe man må tilegne seg på et tidspunkt i livet og bør blir straffet for om man ikke behersker. Jeg er av den oppfanting at modningsprossesn er langsom og langvarig, faktisk kan den vare ut alle ens leveår. Og selv etter å ha gjennomgått mange nok lyspærutskiftninger, gjennom å utfordre seg selv på denne måten og teste egen nevenyttighet, teste ut egne kvalifikasjoner, vil man stadig og fortløpende modnes. Man får et annet verdenssyn og verdensbilde; en annen måte å angripe vanskeligheter på. Først var det å skifte sengetøy en utfordring, så mestrer man det, og når man da for eksempel skal gå løs på sying og reparering av nevnte sengetøy, blir dette enklere enn hva det ville vært om man ikke hadde lært seg teknikkene med å skifte og vaske det på forhånd. Simpelthen fordi man da allerede har kommet over bøygen som innebærer å stifte bekjentskap med begrepet/problemet/tålmodighetsprøvelsen populært kalt husarbeid.
Det er bare en tanke. Kanskje en del av en modningsprosess. Og definitivt et resultat ov omgang med husarbeidsmessige trivialiteter.
Jeg tror ikke modenhet er noe som egentlig oppstår eller skapes i løpet av et sekunds åpenbarelse. Jeg tror ikke nødvendigvis at modenhet er noe man må tilegne seg på et tidspunkt i livet og bør blir straffet for om man ikke behersker. Jeg er av den oppfanting at modningsprossesn er langsom og langvarig, faktisk kan den vare ut alle ens leveår. Og selv etter å ha gjennomgått mange nok lyspærutskiftninger, gjennom å utfordre seg selv på denne måten og teste egen nevenyttighet, teste ut egne kvalifikasjoner, vil man stadig og fortløpende modnes. Man får et annet verdenssyn og verdensbilde; en annen måte å angripe vanskeligheter på. Først var det å skifte sengetøy en utfordring, så mestrer man det, og når man da for eksempel skal gå løs på sying og reparering av nevnte sengetøy, blir dette enklere enn hva det ville vært om man ikke hadde lært seg teknikkene med å skifte og vaske det på forhånd. Simpelthen fordi man da allerede har kommet over bøygen som innebærer å stifte bekjentskap med begrepet/problemet/tålmodighetsprøvelsen populært kalt husarbeid.
Det er bare en tanke. Kanskje en del av en modningsprosess. Og definitivt et resultat ov omgang med husarbeidsmessige trivialiteter.
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