A Heart of Gold

“Bite my ear”, the man said. I’d had never seen the man before. He was short and had huge cheeks, like really really huge. But his brown eyes were friendly. “I bet you’re an oaaauuuu kind of woman” he said, “a real fucking tiger”. I’d six different layers of cloths on, skitrousers and a helmet under the arm. It was freezing outside. I’d never felt less tigerous. But the stranger kept on peering at me. “Common” he urged me, “bite my ear tiger, I know you like that kind of stuff”. What the fuck did he know? Nothing. But he did pull the right string. What a pity he was so ugly. Well, he did have friendly eyes, but that was all. The rest was not worth even considering.

I tried to imagine him the next morning. How it would be like to wake up next to him. Without ears. His ears would be somewhere in his room spread around like confetti. He had asked for it and I’d done it. He would smile and be the nicest guy in the world because he was a satisfied man without ears. He would ask if I wanted an omelette and I would say yes. He would be supersweet but still naughty and we would stay in bed until it was getting late and it was dark again out side. I thought I could stay there, under his blanket. Protected against all evil and stupid days. It would be nice and dark in his house and we would listen to good music. He would cook for me until the fridge got empty and we actually had to get out of the house because we were hungry.

I looked into his eyes again. He had a heart of gold, I knew it just by looking at him. An ugly man with a heart of gold. Then I bite his ear. Hard. He didn’t say a thing. It got scary. A bit harder and yes, I would have had half of his ear in my mouth. I stopped, feeling like a bad player.

He looked at me. He was excited. “Tiger” he said, “I knew you were a tiger”.

Ab Fab

The food is delicious. The sunset is gorgeous. The dolphins are amazing. The cocktails are fantastic. I'm feeling Absolutely Fabulous.

Health Card

On the platform while waiting for my train to Goa I observe a machine with an irresistible little machinery with bright lights inside. It reminds me of my childhood in Stockholm, where you could find similar red and blue machines on the subway platforms. I wonder where they all went...then I insert a coin and it makes funny sounds and the machinery is moving and the lights are flashing. I'm as excited as an eight year old and then, the best of all, the machine is spitting out a brown card! On front side I read; "Health Card. Kilograms 62. Keep fit." On the back side there is a personal message, just like inside a Chinese fortune cookie. I read: "You are a natural leader with the courage, energy and originality to inspire followers." I put the card in my wallet and decide to keep it there for the time being, just in case.

The Worst I’ve Ever Seen

The worst I’ve ever seen is a woman living on the train station in Ernakulam. She is almost indescribable and I'll never forget her for as long as I live. Her body, her face, her whole being is covered with huge....how you call it, boils? It's like stones sizes of walnuts that are trying to get out of her body. There are hundreds of them.

I look into her eyes. They are filled with infinite pain that goes beyond my comprehension. I start to cry when I give her some money. It's just too much. Why is nobody helping her? Is it contagious?

I stumble away, smashed, defeated.

The Real Thing

I always thought I wanted the real thing. The real authentic real thing, as real as real can be. But here in India I'm slowly changing and adjusting and I realize that a touristy paradise, far away from that what I always considered to be the real thing, but the fake and the shallow and the un-real thing, all of a sudden is just as real and authentic as anything else.

And I realize that The Real Thing is everywhere. The Real Thing...can be Any Thing.

A New York Thing

"Put your sheets in the freezer honey" my friend Cynthia told me one night. "Que?" I said. "That's what everybody is doing here before sleeping, it's a New York thing." It was summertime in New York, the town was boiling and the moment you left your A/C building you just grasped for fresh air. The heat was thick and densed like a wall, massive. I decided to do what Cynthia had told me and I put my sheets in the huge freezer half an hour before sleeping. And yes, it was lovely, the cold sheets on my body, giving some temporary relief.

Two and half year later I'm wailing for a freezer in India to put my sheets in, but I don't even have a fridge.

Every Day. Is a Too Hot Day.

Red Reunion

We decided to meet in Prague, somewhere in between us on neutral ground without memories. We hadn’t seen each other for more than ten years and now was the time to make up for it. Z. took the train from Budapest and I was flying in from Amsterdam.

The first unfamiliar but very familiar hug. Bodies that remembered, minds that didn’t know what to think about it.

The inspection of each other. He had lost his wild thick hair and was now a bold man. I was exactly the same.

The first conversation. Small talk about weather, wind, snow, ice, airplanes and trains.

The search for the apartment in Prague. The bus, the tram, the walk.

The hunger. We needed food.

I stopped outside a small shop in a basement. “Let’s go in and see what we can find” I proposed. We went in and I looked around. Then I took a couple of big red beets and hold them in front of my breasts. “Shall I make a Borscht?” I asked. Z. looked at my beet-breasts and swallowed. “I hate Russia and Russians and everything that reminds me of Russia. But if you want to make a Borscht, go ahead. I won’t mix politics with your soup and anyway I’ll eat everything you make.” He took one beetroot in his hand, as if it was my breast, and touched it gently. Then he played with the butt of the root, as if it was my nipple. I looked at him and felt how I got more spit in my mouth. This is how it used to be.

His eyes were green with small strikes of gold in them. “Go ahead. Borscht it will be” he said. I took a walk in the small shop and found everything I needed; onions, parsley, salt, pepper, bouillon, thick yoghurt, carrots and a nice orange.

The interior of the apartment was typical eastern European style with a mixture of socialistic furniture’s from the 70’s completed with some new things from Ikea. “I’ll do the cooking” I said, “do we have some music here?” He looked around and found an old radio-cassette recorder in the cupboard. “What about Fela Kuti?” he asked. Fela Kuti? I couldn’t believe it. I knew this guy as a hardcore heavymetaldude. I realized that we hadn’t seen each other for a long time and that he might have adjusted his ears in the meantime.

I peeled the red beets. I chopped the carrots. I squeezed the orange. I cut the parsley. Fingers lingered with fingers.

Pink hands.
Red stain.
Sweet steam.

“Now” I said, “close your eyes”. Z. closed his eyes. I took the two fragile crystal glasses with delicate ornaments and a golden edge that I had brought with me. To celebrate. Exactly what was unclear. “Listen” I said, and took the two glasses and made a toast for us. The sound of fragile crystal that met in the air spread like rings on water in the kitchen.

Hunger.

Questions.

Memories.

Bodies.

Unhandy intimacy.

The Borscht was dark and red in front of us. Dark like the January winter night, dark as a muddy hole in the ground, dark as the history of heaven and hell.
Red like blood, red like love, red like the furious despair of lost days and opportunities

Desire

We met at a party and he asked me if I wanted something to drink. He didn’t have any money but still. I said yes and paid our drinks. He said he is trying to drink less and I told him that I knew he was an alcoholic. “Really? Is that what you think?” “Yes”, I said. One hour later he asked me to marry him.

Some time later we met again. He said that although he didn’t really know me he already loved me very much. Every time he thought about my moustache he became very happy. He was talking too loud and there were too many people around us and he was drunk. I decided to leave as quickly as possible. Then he was standing in front of me again. “Go home”, I said, “You’re drunk”. “I have no home”, he said.

We met again. Why and how was not important. It was always by coincidence. He asked me for fire and I said that I didn’t have any since I’m not smoking. “But you could also be a pyromaniac, carrying around a lighter while burning down houses”, he said. I had to laugh. I’d never thought about it that way, that I could be a pyromaniac. And I decided to always carry a lighter with me, just in case.

Another meeting. He turned up in the bar around three o’clock in the morning, looking fresh like a springrose. He said, “I love you. Do you have one euro?” I gave him two and realized that I wanted to hold his hand. “Let’s go”, he said. “Let’s get out of here.” Then we were just looking at each other. “Let’s go”, he repeated. “No”, I said. But I still wanted to hold his hand.

“You’re terrible” he said. Then I lost him in the crowd.

An Angel

After three years of compact silence I suddenly got an email from an ex. He called me an Angel and told me that I’d made the most amazing chocolate cakes. And that was that.

Seeds and Sorrows

The summer of 2005 was almost over. There was no flowers in my garden. Not even one out of 3000 potential seeds that he had given to me had become a flower. The phone was silent. Later on I heard from a friend that he was off to a place far away with another woman.

17 years later

He picked me up at the airport. Although it was years ago we saw each other for the last time it felt like yesterday. We went to his house. The first thing I saw was a familiar hairbrush on his drawer. I said ”What’s this?” He said it was my old hairbrush. I was silent. Then I said “From when, like, 1990?” He said yes and told me that he use to brush his daughters hair with it, just like he used to brush my hair. I was astonished. I’d forgotten about that part, that he used to brush my hair 17 years ago. “Do it”, I said. “Brush my hair.” He took the hairbrush and started to brush my hair.

It was lovley.

A cocktail

A curator looked at my work. He said “Your work is like a cocktail of Marina Abramovic and Charles Bukowski”. I swallowed a couple of times. Instead of feeling flattered I felt small and almost stupid. He proposed an exhibition for next year. I said yes. And felt less small and stupid.

Flower Power

Autumn 2004. I knew he had a garden and I thought about giving him some seeds or bulbs. Maybe something to put in the earth that would grow and become beautiful in the summer? Then I thought that was too symbolic, what if we wouldn’t see each other in the summer and that something beautiful would become something ugly? I decided to prepare a matchbox instead with an invitation written on it. I wrote “valid for one bbq” and added my phone number on the other side.

We met. It was nice. I stayed over night. It was nice. I woke up in the morning. It was nice. We had breakfast and listened to music. That was also nice. Before I left he spontaneously decided to give me 15 bags with 200 flower seeds in each. 3000 potential flowers for my garden on the roof. I thought about my first idea for his garden and smiled. And I imagined how we would have a bbq on my roof in the summer and how we would be surrounded by 3000 flowers in all colors.

Art

My Dutch doctor told me that I’m not a real artist, since real artists are earning money that they can LIVE from. He said that I’m a hobby-artist, the kind of artist that is…not an artist. He told me to not wear black cloths and to take long walks in the park and to relax a little. So…artists that doesn’t earn their living from art are…no artists. The pressure is growing. First of all, since when did money make the art? Don’t we all know it’s a circus where it’s hard to say who’s the clown? And what is art anyway? And who, apart frtom my Dutch doctor, has the right to say what art is? I detest money, as much as I unfortunately depend on it. If I were a dictator I would rule the world with a firm grip and for sure money wouldn’t be a part of my agenda.

Money is evil.

Life

Why do I have a feeling that I’m doing exactly the same things as I did the first six years of my life that I spent in the kindergarten?

Red, yellow and blue

Woke up with bruises all over my body. My back looks like a topographic map with red, yellow and blue highlights. Everything hurts. What did I do last night?

Real Love

It was the time of the year that day by day turned colder and darker. One day I said that I wanted a christmas-tree. In his house, because mine was too small. He looked at me like; "?". I repeated my wish and explained how wonderful it is to have a real tree at home, full with shining lights and shimmering glass-balls. He then said that he never had such a tree at home. And then added; "Maybe next christmas?" I felt how I shrinked, next christmas was impossible. It was now or never.

I said "Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease." He remaind silent.

The next day he came home from his workshop carrying an iron christmas-tree foot with three screws and a solid plate welded to the bottom. He had spent the afternoon welding a christmas-tree foot! I was amazed. And I thought; this is real. Real Love.

Yes

A week after our first sleeping-together he asked me if I wanted to be his girlfriend. I felt like I was ten years old and I said…”Yes, I want!” And then we hugged each other on his ugly worn out brown leather couch.

Good Girl

It was the first time that we slept together. I didn't really intend to get him in bed, in fact it was not my intention at all. But I had drunk too much of his delicious wine and too much of my own vodka that I'd kept with me in a small pocketbottle and of which I'd been taking little sips from in the car while he was driving.

Before I knew it he quickly undressed and jumped into my bed. I said '”Okey. You can stay. But I don't want to have sex with you. Comprendo?" He smiled happily and replied, "I'm just happy to be here, next to you." We cuddled up next each other, he hold me tightly from behind in a firm grip while he kissed my neck softly. Which was very comforting and nice until I realized that he had taken his underpants off, while I still had mine on. I could feel his stiff dick pressed to my buttocks. And I could feel how I got wet in my own panties, slowly but present as a little river that kept on streaming downhill. I put his hand on top of my panties. Then I put my own hand under his, inside my panties. He started to move his hand gently on top of mine. I entered a space where booze mixed with excitement and sadness, vodka met sticky fingers in a dance on the top of the hill. There was only one way to go, the hot and wet way filled with desire and confusion. And then, a small explosion of liquid and a sudden tiredness that made my body sink even further into the bed and his arms.

Then he said, "Good Girl" and kissed me gently. Good Girl? His comment made me feel like a horse, like a merry that just had made a nice gallop through the woods. The next morning we repeated the ritual from the night before, but this time I somehow managed to take my panties off since they were still wet from the night before. This time he said, "That was sooooo sexy."

And it was.

White

There was a smile and a twinkle in his eyes. I asked for a kiss and it was mine.

Let’s watch a star fall down. Let’s dance. Let’s misbehave. Let’s sing. Let’s touch. Let’s be ridiculous. Let’s sleep. Let’s stick our tongs out while catching raindrops. Let’s be sensitive and intelligent. Let’s cruise around town at night while listening to cheesy music. Let’s hold hands. Let’s be desirable. Let’s cross intimate borders. Let’s be horny. Let’s eat. Let’s fall under the table in a synchronized movement. Let’s run until our lungs fails breathing. Let’s jump up and down while head-banging back and forth. Let’s dim the lights. Let’s drink. A lot. Let’s be super-annoying. Let’s let our hair down. Let’s shout an unison melody in disharmony. Let’s aloud ourselfs to loose face. Let’s fuck, fuck, fuck. Let’s be hot and wet and soft and tender. Let’s scream. Let’s whisper. Let’s look each other in the eyes while making love. Let’s be curious. Let’s dream. Let’s be vulnerable. Let’s be patient. Let’s suck on each others big toes. Let’s improvise. Let’s make no plans. Let’s be openminded. Let’s cry a little. Let’s spoil each other. Let’s go for a ride destination unknown. Let’s make a moon-walk backwards. Let’s lay down in the wet grass while watching the clouds. Let’s pretend. Let’s be animalistic. Let’s dive. Let’s be angry if necessary. Let’s caress. Let’s cook. Let’s gamble. Let’s turn a timeglass upside down. Let’s compare our fingerprints. Let’s fly. Let’s suck on each others earlobes while pretending they’re oysters. Let’s watch B-movies without embarrassment or shame. Let’s indulge in expensive chocolate. Let’s be unpretentious, still ambitious. Let’s be attentive. Let’s hang around. Let’s surprice each other. Let’s be wild. Let’s be overwhelming. Let’s listen to each others heartbeats. Let’s be silent. Let’s take our time. Let’s be in love.

I’m here. Where are you?

Aspirin and Sunglasses

I immediately recognized him when he entered the living-room. It was the same man that I’d seen in the same living room ten months earlier. I went up to him and said “Hello. I’m going home now.“ He looked at me and smiled politely. “It’s far away and I’m tired”, I continued.  “If you want you can sleep in my place”, he said. I looked at him. I measured his thoughts. Then I said, “It depends. If you’re a good kisser I’ll go with you. Otherwise I prefer to go home alone. To my place.” He didn’t hesitate. We kissed. After the kissing I said “Okay. Your place.”

The day after we woke up next to each other. I had a terrible hangover. It was late afternoon. I asked for an aspirin and pair of sunglasses since I couldn’t stand the sunshine. We didn’t say much. It was good to be next to him somehow. Just like we had known each other forever and ever.

The world

One day I woke up and realized that it takes a hell of a courage to participate, to open up doors and to engage. I looked at my self in the mirror and said;  “Hello escaper. When are you going to participate?” The girl in the mirror looked away, not sure what to answer. Damn.

I decided to stay inside for the time being, while I’m looking for evidences to be found and tracked down to the bone, playing my own private detective. My work is a dialogue with my self, where thoughts and feelings are captured into a visual frame. It’s a diary that is keeping me focused on the experience, whatever that experience might be. It’s a close examination that is reminding me of what I did, when I did it and with who.

I desire the world. I’m excited.