Category: 4 DIARIUM (“blog”)

As so many people, I have kept a strict, if not intentional and logical, border between my private and public life. “You can’t come closer than this!”

In a way I am even more strict with this nowadays, in this eaves-dropping, wired-tapped world. None of your concern where I am at the moment, who I am with or how I feel.

But at the forking of the roads, our society chooses piracy [state controlled] before privacy.

In another way I am more and more letting go of my privacy, the part of it which has to do with… let’s call it embarrassment, maybe shame.

PARENTS AND TEACHERS: “There are certain things you shouldn’t talk about or admit. Don’t expose your vulnerable neck; keep your dark (or even light) secrets to yourself.”

There is some wisdom in this, and some folly. It definitely has a tinge of war-logic.

Going to the other extreme, I am also NOT interested in the rather embarrassing and unseemly public confessions that media figures and celebrities are making, seemingly to boost the sales of their books or music.

Exposing your sex-life or delivering juicy gossip will find a large audience, but then the confession was just mercantile. The goal was not to get rid of not-needed, hindering armor and defenses — just boosting sales.

So obviously I am not going to tell you all about my life, nor trying to lure you, as a fly, with sweet and sticky stories from my private sphere. However, getting rid of no longer needed coverings and defenses are not only in order; they are a necessary step.

In this I am guided, and inspired, by a saying of Cyril Connoly. “Art is by the lonely for the lonely.” The art in question here is my current monologue, to an audience of presumable, and at least partially lonely people. I am not addressing the masses, so that they will buy my book or CD.

And IF my audience is a mass audience, I still address its lonely part, not the collective, imitative tendencies.

Am I building up to an awful let-down here, as Fred Astaire sang? Maybe.

I wanted to talk about pain, a subject best avoided in “cultured” circles. Embarrassing. Maybe. But part of so many people’s lives, so one can question the wisdom of making it a taboo subject.

I am in pain now and my thoughts go to the question of acute versus chronic pain.

Acute may be sharper but is definitely shorter. I take some pride in not asking for anesthesia at the dentist. I can at times suffer harsh treatment for an hour without resorting to chemical help.

That’s acute.

Chronic is something different. I know, and know of, people with chronic pain. The few times I’ve had it, I see frightening things happening to my psyche. It becomes dark; thoughts, feeling, impulses… all turn dirt grey-black.

This is not unavoidable but it takes much effort to stop this darkening. And that is perhaps the virtue of chronic pain; it lets you gather your forces against a strong(er) opponent. After having lifted only 10 kilo, you now have to lift 50 or 100.

In this process something else happens; a demarcation, a division, a separation: between my lazy and comfortable sides, and my inner let’s say Jedi. If I am to not drown in the swamp of negativity that the pain generates, I need to summon my best and strongest inner forces. Less will not do.

If I am somewhat successful in this I might come to the point where pleasure and pain, pleasant and painful, lose their antithetic qualities. They are no longer opposites; both are part of how life feels.

We learn early in life to divide experiences into light and dark, pleasant and painful. But this division seems to ensure that while we are in some kind of pain, we do not really exist; only the pain and the complaining about the pain exists. Seen logically it is a pity that bodily pain (or psychic pain, can be just as bad) should have the power to make us non-existent.

So this text could also be called breaking the pain barrier.

I sometimes say that if I get into a situation of really drawn out chronic pain, I will commit suicide. As a sober observer remarked, the thought (sic) of suicide has helped many a man through many a difficult night.

Question is also, drawn out for how long? I now think there is a virtue in resisting the pscyhe-darkening tendency of  bodily pain. In the long list of different kinds of fasts (from food, drink, talk, sleep, etc) this could be called pleasure fast; not asking or requiring life to be pleasurable (to the body).

There are some people who punish dogs who shit in inappropriate places by forcing their head into the shit. That’s cruel, but I think life sometimes does something like that to humans. Making us “eat” what we have considered un-eatable, nudging us towards the state of omnivore.

PS: There’s more to say about being secretive. Another time. Let’s hear what Spirit has to sing about it.

I haven’t felt well for the last two days and I know exactly why: I went out into cold weather with too little clothes.

The result is fever, insomnia, pain in most of my body, including head, jaws and teeth. Been there before, it’s over in two days.

What is interesting is that dreams are also affected; they turn boxy and repetitive.

Now hell is not something that I think a lot about. It’s a four letter word, maybe there is no reality corresponding to the word. However, dreams such as these — the same or similar chunks of action repeating again and again, assembled as LEGO bricks, turning round and round, not getting anywhere, as being stuck in a roundabout — are my idea of hell.

You are inside a box and there is no way you can get out. At least so it feels. In such a case the thought and realization “nothing lasts forever” comes to the rescue.

Sundays nowadays make me think of my time in New York.

When Sunday meant the Sunday edition of The New Your Times (almost a kilo of reading matter).

That’s because I only read Facebook comments on Sundays. Their weight is open for discussion, but my Slim Line means that I don’t do my usual Log and Run in 5 minutes-routine. I stay a bit longer.

In this way Facebook almost becomes fun. Instead of drowning in a steady stream of attention-stealing distraction my Sunday turns into a little orgy, a slightly longer dip in the social media ocean.

As Paracelus said: Everything is poison and nothing is without poison. The dosage decides if it is poison.

My activity nowadays is not here but at pluriver.se . Enough “poems” and such.

However, my old newsletter FIMUM is going to have a renaissance.

I recall from the days before my book Offensiv Nostalgi that I didn’t want to write a book but rather publish a magazine. I now see the upside and benefits of both.

A book, I reasoned, is like a raven. It just sits there on the bookshelf. while a magazine makes a thud on the floor every time it arrives. The thud is now digital but the frequency is still higher than with books.

There is something of the newspaper-man within me. I will release him from his cage and let him ROAR.

I practically never visit Starbucks, but the other day I did. At the counter the following fragment of a conversation takes place.

–Customer, C (foreign man around 30): Give me a smile. Can you smile, man?
–Starbucks guy, SG: (Continues with the customers credit card)
–C: Really, you need to learn to smile. What’s wrong with you? Give me a smile!
–SG: (Politely) Is all okay with you, sir?
–C: With me, terrific! With you, I am not so sure… Hey, forget it, cancel the buy.
–SG: (Cancels, and gives him back his card).
–C: (at the door) You really need to learn to smile, man.

There are so many interactions taking place in a big city every day, but this one I will remember. Why? I am not sure.

Of course my written words are not the very exact words, also they cannot capture the whole event. There was also tone of voice, body language, faces and the very bodies of the two persons involved.

The insistence of asking for a smile could have been rude or arrogant. It didn’t see it that way. It was more like a benign but stern and demanding teacher scolding a student. Almost like an oracle speaking.

I am sure the young man behind the counter will remember this episode, at least I hope he will.

The main thing I took with me from this was an energy of generosity: Somebody does not accept your second best, your 99 1/2 or 67 1/2. Somebody ask you to be your best. We didn’t ask him to coach us, but he does anyway. (And maybe our soul did ask for it, but we forgot that episode.)

I have this recent habit of waking up around the “wolf hour”, four in the morning.

Insomnia and not sleeping well can be very frustrating, especially over time. But at least part of the problem is a thought: “I should be sleeping now”.

Well, I am awake so I rise and write instead. Might take a nap in the afternoon.

So let me use this time well. Let me gather my thoughts, once again as usual, at a less usual hour.

The thoughts on my mind these days (and nights) are very much our modern world: how we communicate, express ourselves, behave, love, what we say and don’t say — and who is listening.

“Talking to the wall” is a classic expression for being alone but still having thoughts on your mind that you want to formulate, express, whisper or shout.

Who would have thought that a blog is a kind of wall nowadays? A different wall, of course. The neighbors are different. Your physical neighbors are probably not hearing your “wall-talk”; on the other hand strangers from the other side of the planet might. Or nobody might, that is yet another soundproof possibility.

Strange changes, these.

However, loneliness remains, I think that hasn’t changed much. People still feel isolated, forgotten, unheard and worthless. Blogging, Facebooking or Twittering, I believe, are no real solutions to this, though if you are born into the SOC-MED-system (social media), and even if you aren’t, you might think that they are. I ascribe this belief to the different STROKE-phases that Eric Berne has written about in Games people play.

As far as I remember in my dozing state he says that infants get (we hope) hugs and stroking. This is essential for human life; children wilt if they are not held and hugged.

As we grow older we get less and less of this kind of warm physical contact. The need for stroking remains, but we need to find other channels for it. We start to sublimate, even though (I believe) nothing can beat a warm, fuzzy hug, preferably from someone who likes or loves you.

All our SOC-MED — well, not all but much of it, so it seems to me — is a surrogate for hugs. Some of us get real hugs real often, others less often, and then there are those who just aren’t hugged. For them SOC-MED can become a hugging machine.

Another thing has to do with writing. As I am a writer who writes more or less constantly (much more than I publish) it is important to understand the role and function of writing. And the relation of writer to reader.

Once upon a time, not long ago, the result of writing was presented in books (and of course in papers and magazines).

Now there is a very interesting time aspect to writing books. As a rule you need a publisher for books. You send them your manuscript, they accept it, then they print it. This process can take months or years. Contrast this with what happens now.

These words are going to be on the Net in maybe ten minutes. Years, months, minutes, that’s an enormous acceleration.

This also changes the question of audience. Who read a book formerly? Well, all kinds of people. But as a rule there was a basic motivation to read a specific book. You either borrowed it in the library or you bought it in a book store.

This is very different from surfing the Net. When you surf the Net and find something to read then that reading matter is surrounded by a lot of things, mainly digital clutter.

We have gotten used to multitasking, which is a way of being more or less present / absent. I think one example is enough to explain the difference between then and now:

Imagine that you have this new book in your lap. You just bought it and you look forward to reading it. You open it and it rings. What? A ringtone is heard. Where does that come from…?

You continue to turn the pages, and now it rings again. “You have mail” a voice says. You turn another page. “CLICK HERE to win a free iPhone!” is written all over the page. What the hell! I am trying to read a book.

You turn the page and the book finally begins. After four pages it starts again. “Adam liked your post” it says. What post? I am reading, damn it, not writing on Facebook. Oh but you ARE! This is not just a book, you see, this is your mailbox and Facebook and all the SOC-MED you are involved in.

Enough. I think you (whoever and wherever you are) get the picture. Besides, I am tired of this. I will watch “Vargtimmen” (The hour of the wolf) by Ingmar Bergman on YouTube and then try to get some sleep again. OAO.

One of the funniest persons I know is me. I have spent a couple of hours tonight reading old texts and articles of mine. If it is true that laughter lengthens life I will live several seconds longer now.

But I don’t only laugh. I also half-cry, observing how I was some 25 years ago. What a brave, lonely freethinker I was, not caring about the opinions of the world but still trapped in that strange cage called “Swedish life”. Much of what I read is a reaction and protest against it, a way of banging on the walls of the cell.

I am out of the cell now, even though I feel like I am trapped again, only in another way. That is probably not true. These days I am banging on the walls from the outside. Let me in, let me in! I can’t handle this freedom…!

I wonder what my 25 years younger version would say about me today. Probably: You came this far; you survived. You must have done something right.

Even though I feel alienated from the literati (who themselves are alienated from so many things) I do keep a book of Cyril Connoly by my bed. This evening I was reminded about something he said about masterpieces. I found the quote:

“The true function of a writer is to produce a masterpiece, no other task is of any consequence.”

Why was I reminded? Because I logged into Facebook for five minutes, of course. If a masterpiece is cruiser then “social media” is a bunch of torpedoes, or let’s says prayers:

“Pray dear Sir, do NOT do, or create, anything great, memorable or astonishing. But do tell us how you feel, and have you seen our new collection of cool emoticons…?”

This is like Eden with snakes hanging from the trees and one single apple. If it was different to withstand temptation back then, how is it now?

The answer, the solution is radical. One must be radical, not “social”, at least not how Facebook would define the word. No, radical as Jesus, Huysmans or Papini were. Not giving a shit about fashion, trends and search engine optimization.

Connoly puts it well and has to much to say to authors. Here is a bittersweet bouquet:

“A writer is in danger of allowing his talent to dull who lets more than a year go past without finding himself in his rightful place of composition, the small single unluxurious retreat of the twentieth century, the hotel bedroom.”

In this true life of Cyril Connoly keeps me company tonight, as I perhaps will keep somebody company a hundred years hence.

“Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self.”

“Art is made by the alone for the alone.”

“Slums may well be breeding-grounds of crime, but middle-class suburbs are incubators of apathy and delirium.”

“The artist secretes nostalgia around life.”

Yes, this is one of those nights. But let’s close with a wistfully romantic thought, before I go back to writing a masterpiece.

“There are only three things which make life worth living: to be writing a tolerably good book, to be in a dinner party of six, and to be traveling south with someone whom your conscience permits you to love.”

When strolling in Rome many years ago I came upon some wildly romantic graffiti. Not on a wall but on the pavement, which is more radical, closer to roots.

It said (in Italian) “Roberta, how does one NOT love you?”

Loving can be an art. So can not loving.