Surrealis Cinematographicus

Surrealistiske opplevelser anno 3 januar.

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire:

Doctor'n som SKURK.

Doctor'n, det vil altså si David Tennant, som Barty "Slikk-munn" (pun intended!) Crouch junior - filmens mest utspekulerte og, faktisk, lengst tilstedeværende überskurk - i tillegg medfølgende stigende Anakin Skywalker-tendenser. "Hellooooo faaaather...."

Det faktum at jeg gjenkjenner David Tennant selv om han har panneluggen langt ned i fjeset og sitter halvveis gjemt bak stolen til Ralph "You-Know-WHO-Vortevold-sorry-Voldemort" Fiennes og fremstår i en blålig utgave av svart-hvitt og ikke sier en dritt. Nuvel.

The Boondock Saints:

Willem Dafoe. I dameklær. (På et tidspunkt med greit innsyn i, vel, "det aller helligste". I allefall nesten. Og blond Roger Taylor-parykk. Noen som har sett videoen til I want to break free? Den er herlig!)

Billy Connolly. For alle dem som har sett "Mrs. Brown": .... hahahahahahahaha!!! Og dett var dett. Ellers er han en strålende skuespiller og gjør seg veldig godt i...bur. Men ja. Som sagt; hahaha. Og det er noe problematisk, for jeg kommer aldri til å kunne se en film med den mannen igjen, uten å tenke på DEN scenen. Hahahahaha!

Which reminds me of Gerry. Og når vi snakkes om kjekke menn:

At det kan være fysisk mulig å gjøre 2 stk. temmelig besatte og intenst religiøse leiemordere så utrolig likandes. Og elskelige. Og bedårende. Og fullstendig uimotståelige, spesielt når det gjelder hvor man som publikum skal plassere ens personlige preferanser og sympatier. For å gjøre en lang utredning litt kortere: Jeg ELSKER Macmanus-familien og jeg ville blitt med dem på deres personlige, lille rettferdighetstokt anytime! Tro meg!


Furthermore:
I live and breathe for the magic of moviemaking. Still and forever.
And - "I love our new job!"

Velkommen til et nytt år...

[Første posten i 2007!!!]

NYTT ÅR, NYE MULIGHETER!

Rart å tenke på at man nu har trådt inn i et nytt år, 12 nye måneder, og allverdens med spennende og skremmende og bent sagt superuforutsigbare hendelser & utfordringer i vente. Slikt jeg ser frem til, og gruer meg til, å ta fatt på. Når det gjelder nyttår så er jeg ikke verdens største tilhenger av nyttårsløfter, fordi jeg har en grunnleggende svakhet - evt. elementær mangel på disiplin, kall det hva du vil - når det gjelder å skulle gjennomføre og holde dem.

Vi har f.eks forsøkt den populære "kutte ned på sjokolade og koffein" (her kunne det også vært naturlig å legge til nikotin, men jeg røker ikke - praktisk nok & heldigvis!), noe som resulterte i regelrett tvangsspising av melkesjokolade første nyttårsdag, sammen med uante mengder svart kaffe. Og, videre, "aldri mer påføre seg selv kjærlighetssorg"; noe som fungerer dårlig i kombinasjon med min totale besettelse når det gjelder kjekke, mannlige og fullstendig uoppnåelige filmstjerner. OG (så videre og så videre) har vi jo den berømmelige "trene mer" - og jeg trener mer enn nok, etter min smak og lyst og ork og mer gidder jeg uansett ikke, sånn er det med den saken, point taken? - og den fantastiske "studere mer", jeg studerer mer enn nok som det er, og akkurat nå frister det mest å se en film, for i bunn og grunn: jo mer man stresser at man bør stresse mindre, jo mer apatisk og stresset blir man. Nemlig. Til slutt kan man legge til "spise meget sunnere, ha en bedre og mer fornuftig døgnrytme, drikke mindre alkohol, tenke før man snakker, revurdere humor og pengeforbruk og legge realistiske planer for fremtiden" - hvorav jeg har gitt opp samtlige punkter (og de dertil hørende, alternative livsførsler) for lenge siden, og på det området er jeg faktisk temmelig fornøyd. Regelrett tilfreds. SÅH!


Nei når det gjelder disse nyttårsløftene, la meg heller sitere Verdens Tøffeste Svenske Rockeband - Kent - fra deres album "Hagnesta Hill" og sangen "Cowboys":

hon vinkar genom ett fönster
hennes mun är som ett sår
så går hjärtat mitt sönder
det har varit ett ensamt år
jag ska aldrig ignorera dig igen
jag ska aldrig ignorera kärleken
mina nyårslöften

(Copyright Joachim Berg, text och musik - tack så mycket!)

Og hvis man bytter ut hon med han så kan det helt greit fungere som mine nyttårsløfter, likeså. Det hjelper meg muligens ikke til å unngå den overnevnte kjærlighetssorgen, men hva gjør vel egentlig det, og dessuten:

"I wear my heart on the outside, for everyone to see
and to tell you the truth, it's the only way I know,
to find real happiness, and to feel and to know,
thus, the only way I can be me."

Compensating for Blogger's lack of virtual balloons and fireworks and such...

As promised and prepared and mentioned beforehand:

My gift - to you. Or, to myself. Or both.
Happy New Year, everyone! Be good, stay better, become the best!
And as for music in the coming twelve months of 2007:

My favourite band in all the world is called Queen.
And this is (one of, I should say) my favourite picture(s) of my favourite band in all the world, Queen.



From left to right: Freddie, John, Brian, Roger.
Promoshot for the album "News of the world".
In a word: Beautiful!

Heroes and villains and Queen

Quote Brian May;
"...well, it's always a bit dodgy meeting someone you have really adored from a distance..."

"Ahem*

(Reckon he'd know what it feels like, then!)

And, furthermore, these...well...recognisable words were spoken about a certain Catherine Tate - by whom all Doctor Who-fans were of course totally and happily surprised on Christmas day; when she featured in this year's infamous Christmas Special of the show, "The Runaway Bride". Which again, for the record, was absolutely brilliant. Loved the flashbacks, the Rose-references in general, the dancing, the very special ring-ceremony on the roof, the car-chase, the Empress of the Racnoss (spider-queenie!) and the Doctor-produced snow. Loved it!!! ...and this is, of course, totally and completely non-sensible for all those who haven't seen the episode yet, but still. As a fan, one must comment on such important events!

*Ahem*

(And if I had met Brian May... I hate to admit; I would have been unable to speak, move or do anything at all - for that matter - I would have stood there, then, like some utter idiot and gaped and stared and groped for words. But apparently - and fortunately! - he would have understood. Really. It IS dodgy, even just to think about it. That being said; I would enjoy to meet him, though! A lot!!! So Brian, if you're reading this, please feel free to invite me out for coffee one day!)

Julestemning (lille julaften!)

Har bakt pepperkakker, skal se obligatoriske episoder av Doctor Who (noe med Christmas etc...!), har mumset julemarsipan, åpnet angitte kalenderluker, gleder seg intenst til Grevinnen og Hovemesteren...OG NÅ, for å komme i enda mere stemning:

ÅTTE-PÅ-TOPP JULESANGER!!!

1. THANK GOD IT'S CHRISTMAS & A WINTER'S TALE - QUEEN (selvsagt!)
2. CHRISTMAS EVE - CELINE DION (med gitar-riff, tro det eller ei...!)
3. ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS - diverse artister, men vi foretrekker LOVE ACTUALLY-VERSJONEN!
4. HAPPY X-MAS (WAR IS OVER) - JOHN LENNON MED FRUE & FALSK BARNEKOR (kloke, fine og veldig...søte...sangen)
5. WHEN YOU WISH UPON A STAR - DISNEY-VERSJONEN! (og vi snufser og vi hufser og det er ENDELIG jul!!!)
6. WALKING IN THE AIR - ALED JONES (er det en julesang? tja. får jeg gåsehud? JA!)
7. SONG FOR TEN - NEIL HANNON (as heard and seen - ehem - in a certain - ehem - Christmas Special...)
8. Og ellers: NOE MED SISSEL (fordi hun er hele Norges julesangerinne, og uansett hva hun synger av julesanger kan det umulig være ille), musikken til "Tre Nøtter til Askepott" - og Disney-sanger generelt!

Da blir det en god og musikalsk jul!!! :)

Song about a mom

...inspired by ABBA, of course!

"Absent mother song"
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et

does your mother know
when you're out playing
with the naughty kids and
you don't even come home

you don't come home no more
will your mother ever know
when you're laughing behind
your mother's crooked back

does your mother know, and
more importantly, does your
mother even care, I don't think
so, cos she's got a new husband

now

and you're not coming home
no puppy eyes to blame her with
your mother doesn't know and
if she knew, oh would she care

chatting with an invisible doorframe

"persistent piss"
...and tired of it!

By Scaramouche, the slam po(t)et who keeps on dreamin'!

it's just a lot of talk
empty words
and sorry doesn't mean sorry
anymore
no excuses
just plain and sheer
shallowness
the only true thing about them
is the continuity
of their
nonsense

and my anger
poses as an
lasting factor
caused by someone
who asks me for
forgiveness
for causing my anger
and thus contributes
to it's ongoing
existense

I have a dream
and that dream is
peace
from those who think my
peace
is something absolutely
free
for them to
invade

soon they will be chatting with an invisible doorframe from which I have descended and retreated, only

Another little something before bedtime:

As we all know: being a Queen-fan, one must have access to almost every single photoshoot the fabulous four ever took part in. And they did a lot of them, to put it mildly. Anyway, it IS a fact that some of the sessions were damn good and some of them weren't...THAT good. Queen is, I believe, the only band capable of creating only completely superb or completely horrid photoshoots. Nothing in between, nothing mediocre. It's impressive! Take the "News of the World"-promo, for instance. Pure and absolute brilliance. And then this 70's-classic-circus-thingy from which there exist no useful images whatsoever. Even more impressive! So; however much I adore Queen, I do realize - and admit - that some pictures that were taken of them are barely viewable today. I mean, to the common eye. The...unconsecrated, or something remotely similar. For then again, these "lost" faces in a way makes me love mye cutie-Queenies even more. I've got clips from (almost) all their photoshoots and I can watch slideshows of them over and over and over again and it doesn't hurt my eyeballs the slightest bit and curse whomever thinks differently!!!

Helpless, that's what I am, BEYOND helpless. And I love it!

Anyways. Just though I'd mention this. Also, it substantiates the argument that Queen is a band you either love or hate, you can't stay indifferent. Not for long. And my love is an ever-lasting devotion which I hold very dear and will never depart from, as previously stated. With not a flicker of a shadow of a glimpse of doubt.

(Is this a kind of hinting forward to an upcoming post? Hmmm...likely. I do that a lot these days, now, don't I? Keeping you excited, is it? Yeah...? Yeah? YEAH?! Haha...oh well...Being secretive is an art of moderation. At giving away information.)

"If you're not on the edge of your seat, you'll be hiding behind it!"

A little for everyone...regardless of lingo!

English:
And...more on people I wanna be like! Madonna...my goodness, how amazing is she! I just watched her concert in London, from the Confessions-tour, on TV - and I must say...well...nothing compares to the Big M! Singer, actress, dancer - and now, rock-GUITARIST!!! Guess she isn't a new Brian May just yet, but she was good... And if it was simply an act of playback, which I seriously doubt, she is REALLY clever at mimicry! What a show, and what a lightning, and what a crew, and what beautiful music, and what a gorgeous lady! In my next life, wherever and whenever that might be, I wanna be a regeneration (...) of Madonna. Definately!

Norsk:
Jeg HATER Tide-trafikk!!! Det skal ikke ta 25 fordømte minutter før det kommer en fordømt buss til det utvilsomme gjennomfartsstedet der jeg bor! Tide er herved omdøpt til uTide! Møkkamennesker! Og når bussen endelig kom var den stappfull...Og sjåføren brukte ørten nye minutter på å lukke dørene og få ut vekslepenger til utålmodige folk som skulle til by'n. Pluss at jeg nesten kom for sent på kino og det regnet. DRIT!! Altså: Jeg bor i en BY! Jeg betaler penger for å være miljøvennlig og benytte meg av kollektivtrafikktilbudet! Jeg vil ikke måtte beregne 30 min ekstra når jeg skal ut fordi Tide ikke vil samarbeide! Skjerpings!!! ...og det var dagens raseriutbrudd. Nå til:

Deutsch:
Ich habe "Die fabelhafte Welt der Amelie" auf Französisch mit Englishen Untertiteln gesehen, mit meiner Deutschen Freundin, die Norwegisch sprechen kann, aber trotzdem mit mir gern auf Englisch redet. (Puh.) Der Film war natürlich (und wie immer) sehr gut und alle beide haben sehr viel gelacht, ein bisschen geweint und noch mehr gelacht...Audrey Tautou, ich liebe dich! Und wenn ich jetzt auf Deutsch schreibe, und du nichts Deutsches sprechen kannst, verstehst du bestimmt ebenfalls...nichts...dennoch muss ich es sagen! Die Music, die Natur, die Schauspieler, die Farben, die Themen & Gespräche; alle sind ganz und zweifellos WUNDERBAR! Ach, wie ein guter Film dies ist...Macht mich glucklich - und froh!

Français:
Bienvenue, tout le monde! Je parle non Francais! Toutefois, j'aime bien jouer au piano...tel gross manqué! ...eh, tout ce qui! Et de toutes manières! MERDE!

Italiano:
Più vantaggioso...probalimente! Vorrei una croissant con cioccolato e uno birra! Per favore! Combinazione grande, va bene! Lalalala *sniff* Marlon Brando *sniff* lalalala Il Padrino, molto caro, mi amore lalalala! O sole mio, truddelidu!

(Why am I always doing that?!)

OK; I'll call it quits, for today. It's late anyway. And now, I'll leave it up to you guys to have a go at guessing what my native tongue REALLY is...pretty hard, right? Please - at least tell me it ain't too evident!

BUT, must add: Another adaptation of the rock musical from which I've collected my infamous nick just premiered in Zürich...with a German cast. Wow. It's spreading across the globe, and we should all celebrate! Weee! The contagious effect of GlobalSoft...ouuiii....and maybe we'll get a movie too, in a couple of years? I'll be more than happy to perform "my own character", if anyone proves kind enough to ask me!

FRIED CHICKEN!!! ALL THE WAY!!!

Love, Madam Scaramouche!

BEST ACTING-PERFORMANCES EVER (according to Scara!)

TO BE EDITED...AND UPDATED...CONTINUOUSLY:

Det var med en viss indignasjon og stigende AGGRESJON at jeg ble sittende å lese på følgende liste over Premiere's vurdering av tidenes beste rolleprestasjoner på film... http://www.listology.com/content_show.cfm/content_id.23334/Movies

Mest fordi Premiere er slikt et prestisjetungt og VIKTIG magasin som siteres både her og der, f.eks. på Imdb, og fungerer som referanseguide for drøssevis med filmfolk...og casting-agenter og...ja, tenk på skuespillerne selv...på deres forbilder...på alle menneskers forbilder...og hva faen er det de tenker med?! Hvor er....ja....alle de andre??? Uansett, til saken: jeg ble såpass arg over denne listen at jeg bestemte meg for å sette opp min egen...! Rett og slett fordi jeg syntes det var en del som MANGLET!

*

So, here's Scaramouche's own list of people she finds should have been included and should have reached a HIGHER rating on a list of best acting-performance-in-a-movie ever...I admit that they are all from favourite movies of mine, but seriously - there is a reason why they ARE favourites! (And I am also in the making of an all-time-favourite-moviescenes as well!!! Hang on in there - more to come!)

• Gerard Butler in Phantom of the Opera (Hello...! SHAME ON YOU!!!)
• Uma Thurman in Kill Bill 1&2 (WHERE was the OSCAR-commitee?)
• Marlon Brando in The Godfather (...he obviously should've made them an offer they couldn't refuse!)
• Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean (I mean, 79th place? What the heck???)
• Christopher Walken in The Deer Hunter (...and even worse: 88th place!!!???)
• Charles Bronson in Once Upon a Time in the West (Obviously)
• Steve McQueen in Bullitt (The look says it all!)
• Jean Reno in Leon (!!!!!!!)
• Natalie Portman in V for Vendetta
• Willem Dafoe in Platoon
• Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca
• Ewan McGregor in Moulin Rouge (Puppy eyes in person)
• John Travolta in A love song for Bobby Long
• Scarlett Johansson in Lost in Translation
• Nicole Kidman in The Hours
• Warren Beatty in Bonnie and Clyde
• Sandra Bullock in Murder by Numbers
• Pam Grier in Jackie Brown (Big mistake, Premiere! BIG TIME!)
• Meryl Streep in The Bridges of Madison County & Out of Africa (...come ON!)
• Clint Eastwood (generally, too much ABSENT!) in The Good, the Bad & The Ugly
• Omar Sharif in Doctor Zhivago
• Juliette Binoche in The English Patient
• Mark Hamill in the Star Wars Trilogy
• Kevin Costner in Dances With Wolves & The Bodyguard
• Audrey Tautou in Amelie (I AM APPALLED!!!)
• Anthony Hopkins in The Mask of Zorro
• Patricia Arquette in True Romance
• Jack Nicholson in The Departed (Might be excused, since this was after the list was made...but still included by ME!)

and I could go on like this...forever! Premiere Magazine, you SUCK! AAARGH!

"Everybody should see our Ten"

...cos he seems worthy of a fair chance, you know!

I mean, there are worse alternatives. And this doesn't look too ugly:


(copy-copy youtube)

Plus; I really try. I do. I try hard, and I am in a process of succeeding.
So I'm giving Mr. DT, also called TENnant, after-Chris, Teite-Tennant, or whatever, an opportunity to prove his capabilities. Prove what he's good for.

9 days to go.
10 days 'till we're gonna KNOW.

"Excitement" is an understatement!

Seemingly...broken

"BREAK/UP (OVER)"
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et

afraid to break
glasses
and throw things
onto the floor
ruining them
and maybe
splintering glasses
like smashing pumpkins
all the shattered pieces

afraid to slip
off my feet
and fall, keep falling
down tunnels
full of sand
and dust and
breaking
apart
with heavy blows
afraid to lose hold
and lose

slippery
slipping

letting go

when you're given something, it's handed over, and you just can't keep it up right, just fails and it all stumbles over, so sad, you might ask why they keep giving the clumsy a chance, for you know they'll be getting angry, managing to foresee the worst, constantly, you're almost preparing your excuses in advance, nowadays

so afraid to break
rules
my own
especially those
about
breaking

From watching American action dramas...

"Saviours"
By Scaranouche, the po(t)et, in a slightly political mood

At the end of a long, dark corridor
Lies a man, on the floor, hardly breathing

I wondered what he was thinking

Shadows running across his face
Every muscle tensed, a precipice before him

I wondered if he'll ever hurt again

Guards are running toward his door
Weapons heaved, grim faces, vigilant focus

I wondered what they were feeling

Twelve o'clock sharp, as they pick him up
And carry him to a hospital bed, then returned

I wondered if he'll ever believe again

A lesson about self-esteem

picture yourself;
being loved for
just who you are
how wonderful
and let yourself know;
there are people
who think of you
every single day
open your eyes to;
looks of admiration
and to own abilities
feel safe in your skin


I want to declare
hereby
how the time for disregarding compliments and praise
as plain clichés
has passed!

In need of a REAL man. Sorry, men.

It's not easy.

I want a man like John Travolta in "Lonely Hearts", for instance, who is so intensely serious.
And - who is a real man.
Down to the bone and in every, minute detail an honest, complex and mysterious human being.

True to an own identity.

Also, I want a man like Robert Redford in "Out of Africa", who is thoroughly independent. And strong.
Another - real man.
When he smiles, it's not forced on. Sadness, joy, hatred, anger, happiness, fear. It all comes naturally.

When they laugh, one can laugh with them. Not always have to explain. When they step into the room, there is a sense of purpose. And when they leave - there is a similar, immediate loss. And want. When engaged in conversation, there will be no plain nonsense. No low-standard crap; actually, one never has to lower oneself to a humiliating level of silliness. At all. The dialogue flows without too many of those embarssing moments where you feel like you're talking to a great, ignorant rock - or like there's a brick wall staring blankly at you.

One might attempt at escape, and one might fail to reply. One might look down. But when looking back up again, there is always a pair of eyes to meet. And they watch you, deep into the soul, deep beyond. Beneath. Into the heart, and that's where they stay. They might agree, they might disagree. Bewildered, understanding, confused, caring. But these eyes never shun yours.

Additionally (and furthermore), there are strong arms to hold and be held by. However, there are no strong arms to prevent you from, etc, or to hold you down. I'm talking pretty in general here, and it's true that nobody's perfect. But there's something about the overall impression. The mark one leaves on the world or with people one meets. There's something about the attitude, that I find missing in so many possible candidates with whom I have found myself being acquainted. The certainty and the follwing ascertainment. Safety, perhaps. And still, the freedom of choice and direction. The importance of, and respect for, one's own will. Desire; in every way.

And then, love. Most of all, real love. Emphasizing on it, also through silence. Contemplating and confirming it, through a single gaze. And a mesmerizing second of linked hands and an energy being shared, thereby, to live from and to live on. An energy of true emotions.

I want a man I can adore, and despise, and still find interesting after a million years together. A man I will be desperate to meet again, when he's gone; but whom I can just as well be away from, without fearing to lose part of myself. A man I can learn to forgive, and - who can forgive me. To love this man so much, I could die for him and yearn to kill him. Simulatenously.


This goes for both of them.
This goes for all the men I love, and seek. All the men I long for.
And it's just so...too...hard to find.

Perhaps I demand far too much, perhaps it's just dreaming again.
I tend to dream a lot.
It's a living, and at the same time - it's to die from.
A fertilizing, yet destroying irony that can only be labelled -
yeah. You guessed it.

LOVE.

Time spent

"Time spent - aka 60 minutes"
by Scaramouche, the po(t)et

one hour to spend
and to live
through it

one hour to watch
and to persist
through it

one hour to endure
and to seek
through it

one hour to enjoy

to believe that you'll get

through it

just

through it

one hour, is all

and

soon gone

already passed,

(even) before you noticed

Even better!

Even when the world starts spinning and everything's starting to fade into a dark blur. Even when you're scratching your elbows in order to stay alert, and similarly shaking your head like a madman in order to stay focused. Even when you can barely keep your eyes half open, far less sit up straight. Even when your body thus shrieks for a pillow and a soft mattress and your head feels heavy like a sack of potatoes sinking into mud.

Even then. Just one more picture.



A picture of Queen - simply because I love Queen.
And even when I'm so bloody tired I could DIE, they still make me smile.

That's why.

Mosses for an old man

A story that came to me as I was on the bus the other day, watching people getting on and off, sitting next to this middle-aged guy who looked confused and hateful and depressed and seeking, even pleading, for a companion. At the same time. So, I wrote the following text, and in order to avoid any confusion; I've written it in General American. For the record, I mean. It'll probably be up for some editing, later on - regarding typo's and additions/extractions - but for the moment it goes like this:

"Mosses for an old man"
(with extra credits to Nathaniel Hawthorne for title inspiration)

"Can I sit here?"

One of those ordinary girls, again; the one who wears her jeans a little too tight and her jackets a little too short. Blonde hair, also. And - she had a pair of these light eyes that never give away anything. He tried to stare into them for a moment, to get a sort of idea and grasp what lurked behind, but then she flinched. Thus, he settled with a fair compromise.

"Yeah sure."

Of course she could sit. And, as an escape from possible boredom, he would get a chance to study her better. She flung her bony, teenage ass (which he had a hard time trying not to picture, in detail) onto the springless bus chair. Slightly torn, the cover matched the youngster's grungy dressing. Complete with a rugged attitude and all, at least no-one could blame her for not being thorough. Fucking whole-hearted. Speaking of which, he wondered whether it was his heart that kept him from expressing his feelings out loud. Whether he was turning soft for not commenting directly on the nuisance that the neighbor-seat inhabitant personified. These pranks; he used to go at them with a wry smile and a resigned annoyance, oh yes, always pointing his finger at their being useless. But nowadays he stayed quiet. Did not even grimace at his own face, mirrored in the panorama window next to him. Did not pout conspiratorially to the old lady passing their double-seat, heading for the doors as the bus slowed down. During the short pause at a stop near the Herrington High School, he instead caught an unnoticed glimpse of the girl's face – while still staring intensely into the window reflections. She was, on her hand, looking straight ahead. Into nothing. And in the old days, he would have murmured to the back of his right hand, in whose palm he placed his chin striking a pensive pose, how the nothingness of focus found for the eyes resembles the nothingness of focus found for the soul.

It took him ten seconds to realize what craziness his mind had, in fact, uttered. Then he swore. "The old days"? Hell, no! He was not nearly that old, not yet. And these concepts that constantly snuck into his thoughts were starting to fret him. Moreover, he was wrong. The facial features of this girl showed no ignorance at all, nor any "see-me-care"-arrogance. She appeared straightforwardly innocent. Simply...indifferent. And additionally; a tiny pinch of sadness. Not more than a hint. But it was there. A furrow near her left temple, a hint. She moved, shifted positions and bent her leg sideways over the other. Closed her eyes, and reminded him once more of all these kids, the type as such, and their tiredness. Always lacking the energy to go that extra mile and they never hesitated to confirm it. To state it and to prove it. She leant backward, and took a deep breath. He was not watching her through a blurred, dirty glass anymore. He looked straight at her, unyieldingly. And she turned to face him, with her small face and blonde locks. She even smiled.

“Nice hat.”

So this was how it started, his inner voice concluded, this was what it felt like to meet a stranger and to be surprised. He saw her lips move, and an urge to mimic them came over him. In order to gain some more time and consider the alternatives, however, he first gave her a quick nod. He shrugged his shoulders, making the fabric of his dark blue winter coat tighten just above the over arms. She smiled again before she turned away. What a silly game. Trying to maintain his concentration, he studied the pattern of the bus chair in front of him. Ugly, diamond-shaped figures in gaudy colors overlapped, covering the entire chair in a patchwork quilt of nausea. We could talk about the design, his inner voice continued, and whereupon he condemned it for its distracting effect, people always enjoy disregarding the surroundings when they can find nothing else to talk about. The girl twisted a strain of hair around her little finger, another matter of disturbance. Thus far, his head and body had remained clear and he found no reasons to suddenly lose control over any of them. Not at this point. Therefore, he answered the girl’s remark with a polite “thank you” and made sure his voice was very calm. Neither rejecting nor inviting, but quite plainly that of an old and distinguished gentleman who would prefer to spend his bus ride in silence. Still, it was of minor help. He realized with a certain discomfort that it was not up to him to declare any wish of being left alone. She hardly took notice of him now, yet he wanted her to. That was the main issue, the problem. The case. In the old days, which he refused to acknowledge, he would have left and avoided any further contact. Be it verbal or physical. No more accidental brushes of his hand across her jacket, no more knocking of knees. How old was she, eighteen? Maximum twenty; and on a completely different stage in life, anyhow. As for himself, he was younger than he seemed – of course – and he did not have to wear that ridiculous hat. Though, she had described it as nice, but it was probably all part of these teenage phrases. She was one of those kids and she had grown up using their lingo. Their style. She was part of a world he hated, but was it thereby necessarily implied that he had to hate her? He decided he must ascertain his subconscious, along with all its worries.

“Where are you going?”

The only way possible and, similarly, the worst one. To her credit, she handled it exquisitely. She told him the truth. Or, if it was not the truth, at least she gave him an honest-sounding reply. She explained how she was going to town to meet with some friends; they were going out for some pizza or burgers. That was what she said, word-for-word. And it all came across so casually, her life so uncomplicated; he was almost brought to tears. Simultaneously, he was overwhelmed with massive frustration, when considering how surreal the situation had become. You do not talk to strangers on the bus. There is no room for conversation in a place like that, save – perhaps – insignificant everyday nonsense, concerning the weather or whatever. Or both. This was an agreement he had lived with and lived by, since way back, but now there was a shake in the foundations on which he had built all his convictions. She had just asked him where he was going, and he had no idea. Not of any directions where he could possibly be heading, and not of what he could possibly say to her. Hell, no. Hardly able to bear the increasing conflict, between the two of them and between his own selves, he shook his head and sighed. He waited for a moment, hoping she would disappear, vanish into thin air, dissolve into atoms, or simply get off. When neither happened, he resumed his hesitation and tried to disguise it as natural slowness. Anyone accepts an old man’s flaws, essentially because he is old and thus excused. But she was not ready to give up on him yet. Before she arose and lifted up her bag and indicated that she was leaving him, for good, she took a deep breath, one last time. Her voice was solemn, as she spoke, and her eyes shone like crystals. With an appearance that struck him as altogether serious, she declared;

“I think there’s always something left to discover, but you don’t always have to seek so hard.”

And indeed, he knew.

Quote of the day...from a wise guy named Brian!

"I live in my head too much"

yes, Brian May said that, or is referred to as having said that, reportedly stated or whatever, and I can't help but recognizing that feeling, and feeling that same way perhaps a little too often, and I guess it just defines who I am, as a person; furthermore, if it makes me just a bit - an inch - similar to my Greatest Hero of All Time, then it can't be any better, now, can it? :)

"Face to face"

The "I'll start writing and see where it takes me"-project, part...infinite.
Possibly, and probably, up for some editing later on. But for the moment, and the time being, here goes:

The woman sat down in front of him, sporting the body language of an unloaded garbage container. He reckoned it was mostly due to her being ordered to sit her bloody ass down on a quite unsteady spindleback chair, close to the ugly, long side wall of the narrow and almost claustrophobic interrogation room. The only way she could demonstrate her contempt: behaving like an unwilling, little bitch. No less than he had expected, and his preparedness pleased him. She would not manage to completely put him off this time. Hopefully.

The target for today’s massive questioning was wearing a grey hood, ten sizes too big, and some truly unfitting, black jeans. He never seemed to understand how a woman with such a nice, slim figure could dress so carelessly. It was as though she deliberately made an effort to look clumsy and even unattractive, despite her lean features. Perhaps it was just a matter of self-defence. Posing as cool and untouchable or something like that; anyway, he could not fathom the slightest bit of it. And she did not really succeed, either, for that matter. Her looks were describable as nothing short of beautiful. Plus, the sloppiness had little effect on the unceasing sparkling of her brown eyes in the dim light of the shadeless light bulb, just above her mass of brown hair. Also intensely shining, the curls fell loosely around the symmetrical, slender face. In combination with her blood-red, full lips and immaculate skin, this resulted in the angel-like appearance she had become immensely famous for; in the minds of numerous (lest to say all) police officers over the later years. When referred to during their archetypical and serious cop-to-cop-conversations, she always came out as "the angel". A significantly merciless one, though; an angel of death, in order to waste another cliché. Regardless of the cruel context, and regardless of how the cruelty increased, the policemen spoke of her in a manner close to awe. Reluctant to define it as actual respect, because they all hated her too much, he still found the resemblance to it being pretty close. And of course, she never ceased to amaze him. In fact, he had yet to meet a more – whatever implication the word might lead to – fascinating killer. Her personality captivated him, and her background history was horrid enough to flabbergast any cold copper-fuck; which again was the label she had chosen when addressing them during interview situations. Her hardcore-lingo equalled that of any colleague he was acquainted with. Similarly, her variety of “past experiences” and thereby long-developed “abilities” to handle copper-fucks like him, for instance, were more than disturbing.

The angel could handle them and she could handle them well. Based on their mutually despising each other, any solution to the conflict between the two parties had so far been impossible to find. But after all those weeks and months of exhausting work, long hours on the night shift and buckets of coffee, he had told his seething anger and brooding frustration that it was about time he gave her one, last chance. He deserved a little co-operation now. And when he stepped into the interrogation room earlier that morning, he had – in consequence of this decisiveness and the pathetic, high hopes – yearned to watch that perfect face of hers turn pale. Desperately longing for some success, to finally penetrate her shield of insufferable non-response; he was prepared to destroy her. At least figuratively speaking. He would crush her, beat her, defeat her.

Oh yes; that was what he kept telling himself. But however promising his intensions and tireless preparations had seemed to him, prior to the meeting itself, he ended up heavily disappointed. Once more, he came to find himself met with silence, and silence only. A repetition of their previous moments together; down to the last, fucking detail. There was no help in her persistent equivocation; she had never given them any assistance. Too bright, too clever and too…unsettling. Such were his guesses. But neither his own actions nor her methods were really explainable to him. He observed her hostile movements; her aggressive lighting of the cigarette which a young delegate offered her, the steady thumping of her boot soles against the linoleum floor. Her ever-so-closed face. Her entire attitude was indeed reserved, to an extreme extent, and he realized getting close to the truth remained an act of absolute improbability. What’s underneath will stay underneath, as his friend Jonah had put it. For the moment, he was simply too tired. And - although he was aware it would prove difficult, he intended to call it quits with a minimum of dignity left. Hence he lifted his pen, pointed it at her with a somewhat shaky finger, and looked down at his desk while he spoke. “That will be all for today.” She lifted an eyebrow. She lifted an eyebrow and kept looking at him, while he was continuously staring at the edge of the dirty table. Her non-existing shyness, her strength, her total, disrespectful arrogance out-manoeuvred him.

The only response! Two hours of his precious time; two hours of uncomfortable, seizing-her-up stress, and all she offered him was a bloody lift of an eyebrow! “Get out”, he whispered, his voice stinging with the awareness of their unfinished business. She did not blink. “Or”, he continued relentlessly, “I swear, I’m gonna kill you.” And then he understood what he had just said, and he condemned his own stupidity, his thoughtlessness. So unbelievably unprofessional! No wonder she gave him that icy laughter. A puff of breath, more like it; a clearing of the throat, or even a croak. But no; it was not really any such. There was nothing accidental about her actions, he knew too well, and this was plain laughing. She was mocking him and unfortunately, she was quite right in doing so. Unable to stand her celebration of inevitable victory, he therefore repeated his order. Get out. And she did; she rose from the unsteady, old chair and gave him another, vague grin. The corners of her mouth hardly moving, yet it was so evident to him, he could have cried. “Bye-bye, Anderson”, she told him. “See you soon, then.”

And he knew the angel was right. Her precision was irreproachable and she was inexorably...hauntingly...right.

As always.