tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-998917955744512312024-02-07T17:54:57.658-08:00Cormorant CouncilKormorantrådethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232038146253579309noreply@blogger.comBlogger73125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-99891795574451231.post-48103239769981173242012-04-19T08:31:00.000-07:002012-04-19T08:33:06.186-07:00Red domains<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhScrKXRLUzf7Q4AHWog3lOIPiqlEKE5Jk6b1o4rZ6OIR3A7HnT70AlLXZTLuYJkSH8ZWlHPQXAIvPMaHUKn_Q26O8lHHXcif6dTSWd3gya_Kr-44tlQWGCyA6dA9j_O1UXwdPVid0wbNVe/s1600/geologislingan_porfyr.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 120px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhScrKXRLUzf7Q4AHWog3lOIPiqlEKE5Jk6b1o4rZ6OIR3A7HnT70AlLXZTLuYJkSH8ZWlHPQXAIvPMaHUKn_Q26O8lHHXcif6dTSWd3gya_Kr-44tlQWGCyA6dA9j_O1UXwdPVid0wbNVe/s320/geologislingan_porfyr.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733135121753482082" /></a><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">I DO NOT remember the dream itself, I only remember the INSIGHT with which I awoke from it: that there is an important analogy between the planet Mars and the Swedish province Dalarna (or Dalecarlia). It was based both on their place in their respective system and on the fact that both are RED and both are home to an endemic breed of vampires.</p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">(The redness of Mars is famous and comes from iron oxide (rust), but Dalarna is red mainly due to a local variety of porphyry rock – but not only, there are also red sedimentary rocks in the vast meteor crater around lake Siljan as well as famous mines where the iron oxide (rust) was harvested that was turned into the local red paint that coloured traditional cottages red in large parts of Sweden. Porphyry of course relates to porphyria, but that condition is traditionally connected with lycanthropism and not vampirism... )</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">MF</p>Kormorantrådethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232038146253579309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-99891795574451231.post-30147226055558717852012-03-17T12:59:00.003-07:002012-03-17T13:06:52.628-07:00Mitt SandarneEn sammankomst av något slag; nu ska vi förflytta oss. Jag kan inte vägen, vet inte ens riktigt var vi befinner oss mer än att det är någonstans längs Sveriges ostkust. Men den som kör mig, en av lokalbefolkningen, medelålders, talför, tar oss utan tvekan över ån längs en raksträcka som efter en rondell med gräll kommunal blomsterplantering försvinner in bland lövträd. Så, en gravgård. <br /><br />Ordningsföljden är otydlig, är det efter, eller parallellt med, ankomsten till gravgården som jag får se en karta. Jag kan inte lista ut var vi är. Det får mig tydligen att framstå som korkad, någon pekar på en enhetlig yta strax till höger om där jag tittat: ser jag inte att det är gravgården? Jovisst, nu ser jag. De stora grå ytorna, kolonnraden längs med det långa låga gråmålade kapellet som reser sig ur kartytan så jag kan se fasad och björkar i sen juniskrud. <br />Kartvyn zoomar ut och jag får en vidare geografisk överblick. Jamen, vi är ju alldeles i närheten av Sandarne. Och Sandarne som är mig så kärt. Jag är milt förvånad över att jag lyckats undgå att det är i dessa trakter vi befinner oss – trodde faktiskt att vi var betydligt längre söderut –, nästan som förväntade jag mig att mitt inre borde sjunga svagt av blotta närheten till Sandarne.<br /><br /><br />---<br />Milt förvånad över denna innerlighet specifikt gentemot Sandarne, som visserligen ligger i det landskap som för mig har den starkaste romantiska vidhäftning, men just Sandarne minns jag inte som exceptionellt betydelsefullt?<br />Följer jag för övrigt här Niklas i färden över en å i liten tätort? Och hittar en benträdgård. I den månad som jag ombetts konkludera. I konklusionen spelas fiol. I detta landskap spelades Hårgalåten.<br />/ IÖKormorantrådethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232038146253579309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-99891795574451231.post-77562427895126502192012-02-01T20:13:00.000-08:002012-02-01T20:24:35.160-08:00Try the dawn mothsI'm trying to find the Estonian word for 'you' (in plural, the object form). I'm using google to find out, but the search hit paragraphs soon turn into the streets and houses at the edge of an Estonian town. I walk up and down the streets reading the doorplates to find out.<br />And I do find it: <span style="font-style: italic;">kõidas</span>. Possibly at the house where a fit, middle-aged man with cropped hair, an expensive car and a dog, gets very irritated and tells me off. The dog stands barking a few steps behind. The man thinks I'm spying on him. I do a silly dance on the garden path just to annoy him even more.<br /><br /><br /><br />'Kõidas' turns out not to exist, but similar words include kõi (moth), kõit (dawn) , kõita (try). According to google translate, at any rate.<br />/ IÖKormorantrådethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232038146253579309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-99891795574451231.post-85554691441925610732012-01-01T06:14:00.000-08:002012-01-01T06:16:56.580-08:00Rediscovering Stockholm<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1STmlmigWmT459nqDQJWCk5Nu-syWgayPg9NyaDp1nEr9zC8rEVd8QJsQ5hDL0prE-jp8k64iaGqbe17K-6EhjnPCiEqifGuqcQJxDZxj0a0L7rW-6yF37tFhyY0kAY3CZLoRt2yStVVY/s1600/Stora_H%25C3%25B6ggarn_kajplats_industri.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 210px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1STmlmigWmT459nqDQJWCk5Nu-syWgayPg9NyaDp1nEr9zC8rEVd8QJsQ5hDL0prE-jp8k64iaGqbe17K-6EhjnPCiEqifGuqcQJxDZxj0a0L7rW-6yF37tFhyY0kAY3CZLoRt2yStVVY/s320/Stora_H%25C3%25B6ggarn_kajplats_industri.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5692667338640793698" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7a4IiHHXWshyphenhyphenSpoi4gEGvk51beaOt7qPnKsu62xvGTb3cdSsAuvj4rt2yjfZO7J4t85HfQ_v3AybJ5FOHK6noeOoPPraVuNxpxW-QNCwiHNdiRySSd1kODgVWllLX3XAK-jlbhcvgswuk/s1600/1288793222_4cd16c869dd62_7e6d3b048572748b4d6224418dbc218d_400_260.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">I am temporarily staying in Stockholm, in some cheap hotel, mostly walking the streets.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I am standing at Slussen, looking out over the Saltsjön. There are all kinds of objects or vehicles in the sky, but it's difficult to interpret the perspective and understand if they are close or huge. In fact, there is a bombplane which is both. It is shaped like a small shark or perhaps a cigar cylinder, its wings are remarkably small and the cylindrical body very very long. It swoops down slowly while spinning, actually dipping parts in the water, it is as big as the open water here, and its course is set for the big oil cisterns at Stora Höggarn (the ones in Nacka would be closer, but this east-by-northeast course actually points towards Höggarn and the aircraft is so huge that the distance isn't long).</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I am mostly walking the streets of Södermalm. As usual I am walking on S:t Paulsgatan, and I appear to have previously proclaimed this the "surrealist street" because walking there is the best way to avoid all people and superficial coincidences that abound on the street next to it (apparently Hornsgatan). I'm having second thoughts about this, maybe it's not such a good idea to avoid people. Especially when I'm only visiting anyway. This street has a notch in the middle, and continues westwards after a slight north-south deviation (apparently the second part is then Krukmakargatan). However this notch reminds me of a small square in the suburb where I grew up, and there was a dive of a cheap bar there (I remember a particular childhood anecdote about this place), now transposed into Blå Dörren at Slussen.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>It is a rainy early afternoon and I'm having a coffee at this bar together with some of the surrealists. /.../</p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:16px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7a4IiHHXWshyphenhyphenSpoi4gEGvk51beaOt7qPnKsu62xvGTb3cdSsAuvj4rt2yjfZO7J4t85HfQ_v3AybJ5FOHK6noeOoPPraVuNxpxW-QNCwiHNdiRySSd1kODgVWllLX3XAK-jlbhcvgswuk/s1600/1288793222_4cd16c869dd62_7e6d3b048572748b4d6224418dbc218d_400_260.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7a4IiHHXWshyphenhyphenSpoi4gEGvk51beaOt7qPnKsu62xvGTb3cdSsAuvj4rt2yjfZO7J4t85HfQ_v3AybJ5FOHK6noeOoPPraVuNxpxW-QNCwiHNdiRySSd1kODgVWllLX3XAK-jlbhcvgswuk/s320/1288793222_4cd16c869dd62_7e6d3b048572748b4d6224418dbc218d_400_260.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5692666804100685330" style="float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 208px; " /></a></span></p><div><br /></div><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">MF</p><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Kormorantrådethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232038146253579309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-99891795574451231.post-65755931132210310072012-01-01T06:07:00.000-08:002012-01-01T06:18:02.955-08:00three aspects of identity<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqKrTw_VEHDBxqIezikG9ARqaukyzWmYKhiVTIF1iMjduXu7KUnKmo8aP6bQ_B9qd0KHXpS1oTbFYnIFZY15YmxaFdeVfrzXT-IuT9fYeesOC9wOZceqoKt_iFDoRHCnhV1OtDVhnmX6Em/s1600/Diving_emperor_penguin.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">Three dreams (from two nights) in the genre of subverting the self as a fixed reference point for orientation in dreams:</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><b>memory continuity identity</b></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">A noisy mediterranean canteen/bar, which I claim is one of my favourite places, because they have a big photographic print on the wall of the memorable evening when I was the bass player at a reunion show of the 90s punk-ska band "Monster" (I was fat and barebreasted and happy). But at the bus stop outside, where I'm seeing my friend off, some evil truthsayers calmly inform me: that Monster show has never occurred, it was just a dream. First I completely deny it, it just has to be true, it is one of the few really bright moments in my life the past few years. Then I slowly start accepting the possibility, which is even worse. Since I remember it so vividly, and have been so sure it has happened, well if it is a dream, how can I be certain about any part of the entirety of my life experience? I wake up in panic. Even awake, for five minutes I don't know if I've played a gig with Monster or not. I fall asleep again and only after next awakening I have no problems accepting it's been a dream and I've had no close connection with this band.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><b>gender identity</b></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">A boring suburban square north of Stockholm, probably Täby, all my friends or fellow students are pushing themselves into a premise looking like an old tobacconist's, but is a very small education facility, it's going to be cramped, we're going to have to listen to a talk about incomprehensible computer/statistics stuff, there is going to be obligatory physical exercise, and I'm panicking about it. I just can't endure it, I have to leave that godawful place, I can't wait until my classmates are ready, because then it will be late afternoon and dark, and people will ask me why I've skipping school, and we will have to wait for so long in the dark for the crowded bus and not know which is the right one and it will probably take us not into the city but to some other far-off bus terminal where we must change again, etc etc, it is unbearable and I have to get away immediately. My best friend (female, though I don't remember whom) comes along with me, and we catch a bus which is probably the right one. But we don't get the seats next to each other; in front of me there is a teenager in heavy make-up and next to her my friend. My friend starts slowly singing "I'll be your mirror", to soothe me and cure the neurotic teenager at the same time, she sings with a clear and steady soprano; I join in with a deeply resounding humming bass, and the fact that I have a male voice is such a surprise, it seems my womanhood has been magically removed as a punishment for ditching school.</p><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUtZTSpAZt4d8JgoyJyNI-6QzuXa1ol8kesqixFrDUsXtXelc7jHKiVgTUj621bpXI_7Civy67CAWJmDqKc9CWgkbKBWmqfUXV9vBTMuFLs2bNSlScfKCxCqoVf50KzLMY93w-vMzCFWtv/s1600/killer_whale_jumping.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 183px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUtZTSpAZt4d8JgoyJyNI-6QzuXa1ol8kesqixFrDUsXtXelc7jHKiVgTUj621bpXI_7Civy67CAWJmDqKc9CWgkbKBWmqfUXV9vBTMuFLs2bNSlScfKCxCqoVf50KzLMY93w-vMzCFWtv/s320/killer_whale_jumping.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5692665700313393346" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqKrTw_VEHDBxqIezikG9ARqaukyzWmYKhiVTIF1iMjduXu7KUnKmo8aP6bQ_B9qd0KHXpS1oTbFYnIFZY15YmxaFdeVfrzXT-IuT9fYeesOC9wOZceqoKt_iFDoRHCnhV1OtDVhnmX6Em/s1600/Diving_emperor_penguin.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqKrTw_VEHDBxqIezikG9ARqaukyzWmYKhiVTIF1iMjduXu7KUnKmo8aP6bQ_B9qd0KHXpS1oTbFYnIFZY15YmxaFdeVfrzXT-IuT9fYeesOC9wOZceqoKt_iFDoRHCnhV1OtDVhnmX6Em/s200/Diving_emperor_penguin.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5692666106046551266" style="float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 141px; " /></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><u><br /></u></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><u><br /></u></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><u><br /></u></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><u><br /></u></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><u><br /></u></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><u><br /></u></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><u><br /></u></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><u><br /></u></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><u><br /></u></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><u><br /></u></span></div><div><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><b>life identity</b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">I am struggling to somehow reserve a place for myself in a summerhouse where several people live but all equally vaguely as me, under all kinds of conflicts. One old wino is coming in regularly, whom it seems I was the one to first invite and voucher for him, one of those guys who walks around swearing and ranting but is basically harmless. But this time he has a big black blotch over half his face, and it seems to be an indication that he is going to die very soon.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">The rest of us go bathing. With a couple that is just almost part of our company; someone's careerist brother who spends most time abroad and his american girlfriend. And the killer whale (big, beautiful and rather scary) that turns up is most eager to play with them. It swims around them, barely touching them with its back and its fluke. I am sitting on a small raft with some girl, and I am saying "just wait till it gets the idea of playing around with this raft", and of course soon it does. Mostly it just places its chin on one end of the raft, making it stand up vertically out of the water, my companion and I are struggling to remain at the top end. The killer whale likes this trick and repeats it several times. It also realises it can swim around with us in that position, and eventually it swims forth to present us to a giant emperor penguin, who embraces the raft with us in its small flippers. "Ok, I think now is the time to take a very deep breath" I say.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Next thing were all sitting in our collective house again, my companion from the raft is sitting next to me, she is one of these thin intellectual redheads, she is saying she likes a cartoon of mine (supposedly a political cartoon, an allegory about the nobility), I get horribly flattered and almost embarassingly so and I realise I am probably in love with her. But then I also start mixing things up and just because she mentions a cartoon about the nobility I suspect she is of a noble family. Yet I am primarily worried about the gap in continuity, and I ask "but what happened after we dived down with the penguin? Do you have a memory of ever resurfacing? Or are we perhaps dead?"</p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">MF</p><div><br /></div></div>Kormorantrådethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232038146253579309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-99891795574451231.post-88711747951114116442012-01-01T06:03:00.000-08:002012-01-01T06:07:01.491-08:00Under the bridge<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">An excursion to a big shooting range again, a nature reserve, a big ruderal area, Hampstead Heath, yet in Sweden (I've dreamt about this place before). It is adventurous to leave the road and enter the forbidden zone. The footpath windles between sandhills. We are brought under a railroad bridge. Someone gives a talk or reads fairytales. But we must all think fast and duck every now and then, because the railroad bridge is rather a cableway, and occasionally huge iron girders come swirling, which would decapitate us if we ducked poorly.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 14px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">(I had this dream in a hotel room in Philadelphia but remembered it only a couple of days later when standing under a railroad bridge at Harper's Ferry, West Virginia (though on the Maryland side of the river) and the train came.)</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">MF</p><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheGb0T6SXF7V-Uu2-T8IB3etttrQ6uUs_pUNn-wPXXAS1FiVj3TRbQuz4FpBcCqM34RHhTQVBDH3kAnuF0P4g3iwOeTfKw8XAjc0B5qGPfuPbOIY-7cT2kz7HMNl_9T9Zdmy-9tK22WLjn/s1600/351.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 133px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheGb0T6SXF7V-Uu2-T8IB3etttrQ6uUs_pUNn-wPXXAS1FiVj3TRbQuz4FpBcCqM34RHhTQVBDH3kAnuF0P4g3iwOeTfKw8XAjc0B5qGPfuPbOIY-7cT2kz7HMNl_9T9Zdmy-9tK22WLjn/s200/351.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5692664702401038002" /></a><br /><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:130%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></span></span></span></p>Kormorantrådethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232038146253579309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-99891795574451231.post-43583385223617439292012-01-01T06:02:00.000-08:002012-01-01T06:03:10.044-08:00Holography<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">While waking up I am looking for a really tiny insect specimen which is difficult to find in the ethanol vial. The hypnagogic solution to the hypnagogic problem is simple and elegant: just put the vial in the holographic viewer, and the entire contents of the vial will be projected in the free air of the room; the room will be transformed into an aquarium of the vial's content. Just go around the room and look for the specimen. It has the intimacy of the typical aquarium-reflected light, softly but idly bouncing-dancing-settling, but rather more marine blue than aquarium green. Especially if the vial is given a good shake before put in the visualiser, the contents will be slowly raining down like the snow of these commercial snowy landscape globes, and everything will be easy to find; it can be viewed from all angles freely in the open space of the room.</p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">MF</p>Kormorantrådethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232038146253579309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-99891795574451231.post-76253085594270290222012-01-01T06:01:00.001-08:002012-01-01T06:18:50.508-08:00A Foreign Land<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">The night before a journey, with uneasy sleep and the mind already on the way, projecting a generic foreign country:</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">* I am the only one who walks along the beach in a foreign coastal city; many walk along the road a bit up. I don't mind appearing as the pedagogic madman, so I holler at the children and ask them to notice the strange big pufferfish/crabs/horseshoe crabs living in the very surf zone, and may be mistaken for old plastic bags if one doesn't look carefully, or rather old canvas mail sacks, or fragments of seal mummies.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">* At some camp in a foreign country, I am sitting in a cafeteria in a big cottage in an opening in the forest, waiting for all the others to wake up and have breakfast so we can commence today's activities. An asian cook is working in the next room. One by one people drop in, and eventually I wonder if I remembered to eat anything myself; obviously we get freshly made thai food for breakfast here.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">* My colleague wakes me up in a hotel room in a foreign country, rather tenderly but not suggesting we would have an affair or so. But she is obsessed with something, jolts around looking for something, half-dressed; her presence is so vivid, rather uncomfortable, somewhat obscene and magnetic, intimate and rather incommunicable; the different smells of her are sharp and unresting.</p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">MF</p><div><br /></div>Kormorantrådethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232038146253579309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-99891795574451231.post-3431420504860056612011-08-09T13:54:00.000-07:002011-08-09T14:12:19.895-07:00Word monstersAs I´m currently writing an essay on the occurences of puns and word-playing in dreams, I´ve illustrated two examples from my own dream experiences. Both examples, that were seen as well as heard, were dreamed as pictures that I feel were derived from verbal puns or word-play.
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<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpe9KL5gGNcSCuGB0MJ6Q_DZ12NFwAPv8zgK5Br48aBOAb1weEM6PLWhRRttLyJgg_-39zQxJTvlZIpPSX7-Bt-bj3Sdb8-63gTWkguIwyox1EkfuhJrlESdSQOWVSYRD7N6_IkYEDcVtK/s1600/frankens.gif"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 311px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638962845066347218" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpe9KL5gGNcSCuGB0MJ6Q_DZ12NFwAPv8zgK5Br48aBOAb1weEM6PLWhRRttLyJgg_-39zQxJTvlZIpPSX7-Bt-bj3Sdb8-63gTWkguIwyox1EkfuhJrlESdSQOWVSYRD7N6_IkYEDcVtK/s400/frankens.gif" /></a><strong>FRANKENSTEINWAY</strong>
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<br />This image and its title came to me in a dream after having read a good book titled <em>The Methodology</em>. Around the "Frankensteinway" at the bottom at left I have also drawn the components of this invention, which read as a chain of associations around replicating processes: a Steinway piano, Frankenstein´s monster, a Komodo dragon (recently known for being able to reproduce parthenogenetically) and the greek Parthenon temple.
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<br />The word Frankensteinway is an example of what Max Ernst called a "<strong>phallustrade</strong>", which, according to the surrealist dictionary is defined as "an alchemical product, composed of the following elements: autostrade, balustrade and a certain quantity of phallus. A phallustrade is a verbal collage."
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<br /><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 306px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638962632870190242" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTAAQfSovTsAXq7Eqy4ISPtW_YGLa9Rqf29vHBPUzgvhiZv5TLCC2xvDuZiJfMbAVlO_iB-z8xqX3TvBAjA3O4zGVM3Hmhz8SgXoJ45HJ8Dh64c61wohbjnkBp42cFsC94wB3IkTD9oFYT/s400/crust.gif" /><strong>CRUST FAMILY
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<br />This image and its title is a pun trying to invert "nuclear family" by opposition; the earth or mud that stains the laundry seem to allude both to a geological crust and to the gritty crust-punk lifestyle (crust is perhaps an onomatopoetical name for how this style of punk music sounds, but the name could in turn also have been chosen as a <em>pun by opposition</em> on the hard<em>core</em> influence upon the genre.)
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<br />The commentary section below is the right place to gather more examples of word-playing and verbal or visual puns in dreams.
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<br />/ NN
<br />Kormorantrådethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232038146253579309noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-99891795574451231.post-11598132282168141492011-07-01T07:05:00.000-07:002011-07-01T07:12:18.195-07:00Heating and defense of dream city"The big house" is in a rundown industrial area near the water, Norrköping or London. Above all, it has a magnificent ceiling height. The building didn't cost much, but heating costs are tremendous.<br /><br />Olof's sister is a beautiful and wise Iranian of zoroastric heritage. She knows that one's DNA can be stored in a bucket of raspberry juice. When the day finally comes, there will emerge a homunculus. He will take care of our interests.<br /><br />It will all work fine even when we are under attack, because the gutter system of the city is fully functional. If the sewerage is inverted it could be lead out through the gutters, creating an effective barrier of dirt, a moat.<br /><br />And even though the social habits in "the big house" is a bit stiff at the moment, people are rather overdressed, and it all feels like an official birthday reception a summer afternoon in a rented mansion, or like a visit to the Thiel gallery, still there will take shape something meaningful from here.<br /><br />MF<br /><br /><br />(When I told Christofer D about "the big house", he immediately recognised it as "Värmekyrkan" - a huge old heating boiler station in the industrial area in Norrköping which has served as a venue for cultural events. I have never been there awake and can't remember having heard of it before.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdhzFelNrDcYqz_rOO7YMwrd9pT9dw48X8sFKEoyIGLFBejIDjCDL9w-mJDVovhH5ovQdFshtOP_F10P_7jL93_ULRW9FmrLC7K6J5m1rchd-Y5TJQXAaZBmwoZfYE6woBpbngYp_9ouhs/s1600/800383_200_267.jpg.png"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdhzFelNrDcYqz_rOO7YMwrd9pT9dw48X8sFKEoyIGLFBejIDjCDL9w-mJDVovhH5ovQdFshtOP_F10P_7jL93_ULRW9FmrLC7K6J5m1rchd-Y5TJQXAaZBmwoZfYE6woBpbngYp_9ouhs/s320/800383_200_267.jpg.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624386413457940450" /></a>Kormorantrådethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232038146253579309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-99891795574451231.post-61081655194961202972011-06-27T08:36:00.000-07:002011-06-30T04:04:26.520-07:00New York er eyja í AtlantshafiThe plot is set. Years after my father’s death his top secret research project coincidentally is being revealed; and the intrigue evolves in a familiar thriller fashion:<br /><br />In our family’s summer house a hidden door has been found. After making the decision that it should be opened, it leads us down to an unknown basement where we make the discovery of a clandestine archive, full of dust and documents. The research material maps out the mysterious circumstances of the disappearance of a number of important persons. Now, unexpected facts come to our knowledge and formerly unknown connections of historical events emerge. As we study the material, including some shimmery, blurry images of old video tape recordings from the seventies, on which different, obviously nervous (and perhaps frightened) people appear, talking about strange matters, we slowly become aware of the proportions and the magnitude of our discovery, which leads us to the conclusion that—yet to hesitate—we must travel to New York.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW___cy9-N_6oRYF2ELv126K3u2Iy9cQxflnX11v6qVDZKlFgRNDVTnj0Swln8lfaTy1JV2rBROr2sMX0yLQtpfwgp79j9FLFKm-B7v7BgqCnIC1LFUBl9sj7wEa89jhk8AfqceznrCaHl/s1600/conspiracy.jpg"><img style="float: margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 294px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW___cy9-N_6oRYF2ELv126K3u2Iy9cQxflnX11v6qVDZKlFgRNDVTnj0Swln8lfaTy1JV2rBROr2sMX0yLQtpfwgp79j9FLFKm-B7v7BgqCnIC1LFUBl9sj7wEa89jhk8AfqceznrCaHl/s320/conspiracy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5622925735207524114" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Stanislaw Lem's Futurologial congress as percieved while being riddled by a nightmare</span><br /><br /><br />New York. A gigantic cosmopolis, even bigger than what the latest records show (apparently not quite up to date); it has failed to seize growing throughout the years, indomitable and heedless, in spite of governmental restriction programs, continuously striving upwards in celestial vain. Within this urban dream shape we experience an overlapping city landscape with ground floors reaching higher grounds and street levels interconnecting through exquisitely engineered pipe-tunnel roads enclosed with chrome and glass, spiraling their way through the sky. We stay in a luxurious hotel, thousand stories high, surrounded by equally high buildings. Our hotel room, at first glance, has a modest design—less furniture than space, more room, less gloom—yet exclusively ultra modern futuristic; the room shifts in colour, blending perfectly: from white to beige to grey, with a slight resemblance of mosstone. The shape of the room, not easily to define, could be described as a trapezoid semi-superellips and has an entire wall section consisting of a large window glass, and thin white draperies. The room goes with an Italian balcony; <span style="font-style:italic;">un letto matrimoniale</span>, a royal wedding bed; and an original Steinway, white and shiny. Built into the walls is an intricate system of small rippling rills of water flowing through lightly lit panels of frosty glass. A surround speaker system is part of the interior architecture as well: down from the beautiful cupola roof different sound environments and atmospherics are spreading out and filling up the entire room, mood by listener’s choice: Scottish highland, German forest, African savanna, Mediterranean coast, Catalan monastery, Swedish midsummer, misty moor with dancing fairies, deep ocean life on Mars … We fill our glasses with champagne and drink a toast to the bride and groom. The wedding cake is made of love, hope, cream and strawberries.<br /><br />Out in to the Jungle. Since we are newly married and hypersensitive, we are overwhelmed with the enormous traffic intensity; but what strikes us even more is the fact that the air is clean and that we can joyfully breathe. We fill our lungs and blank our minds—from that moment on our mission is forgotten. At first relieved, but then suddenly troubled again, it seems that what now is at stake is our marriage. However, that is a worry we chose to ignore. Futuristic figures of all sorts pass by, among ordinary 21th century people, as we stand there on the sidewalk, in sunshine and gazing amazement. The street, so it appears, is a reconstruction of S:t Eriksgatan in Stockholm. Not knowing what the next step should be, we decide not to make up any plans but to submit to the spur of the moment, and so it happens: we found ourselves involved in the rather dodgy act of following a queer-looking gentleman wearing white clown makeup, a red and yellow-striped sweater and purple trousers with blue suspenders, who is riding a 16 feet high unicycle northwards … in the direction of Brooklyn! Soon we are confused; the lack of bridges and water is what puzzles us, while the biking clown disappears around the corner of a fashionable and impressive brick stone building. As we compare reality with our own map, we come to the conclusion that we are no longer on an island in the Hudson river, called Manhattan as we presumed, but that this future version of New York city actually consists of a conglomerate of islands, a pseudo-continent, like a reversed minor Pangea. As a matter of fact, large parts of the North American east coast has been torn off from the mainland, melting together with other parts and nearby islands and then been drifting away, out to the sea. All of a sudden I remember the first line that I learned in Icelandic: “Ísland er eyja í Atlantshafi”—“Iceland is an island in the Atlantic”.<br /><br />At this point there is a shift of perspective: high from above, while the sun is setting, we look down on our dream named New York, where it lies like a tiny dark spot in the grand shiny ocean. One long, single railway bridge leads out over the water, away from the black island/continent.<br /><br />/μσλ<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAch3SsrgVEsLUhf6gSpDIuR3mVZ35llgMtY-PsXCGAIYbt2HL9AndJrWOJmyZcWvhw0EfThnOyc8SX8EXnnJQOlvDOk6lSUHwbjM2WzKzvaYe37l4dyPO06dWiLO4bjWZ_wbFFYIrWiaS/s1600/01.forfattare5.jpg"><img style="float: margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAch3SsrgVEsLUhf6gSpDIuR3mVZ35llgMtY-PsXCGAIYbt2HL9AndJrWOJmyZcWvhw0EfThnOyc8SX8EXnnJQOlvDOk6lSUHwbjM2WzKzvaYe37l4dyPO06dWiLO4bjWZ_wbFFYIrWiaS/s320/01.forfattare5.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623966909450579170" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Paul in Paris (syrup and carbuncles), 1978</span>Kormorantrådethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232038146253579309noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-99891795574451231.post-84403139534944889522011-06-26T03:59:00.000-07:002011-07-01T07:13:19.432-07:00The Wandering JewessThere is a red double-decker London night-bus called the Wandering Jewess. Tickets are free but you're only allowed on board if you have Jewish ancestry. I get on. It goes out into the countryside, among big arable fields. It makes brief regular stops, but no one gets on or off. At one stop my travelling companion and I get off to inspect the wildflowers by the side of the road, along the edge of a huge flat field. The bus starts to move off and we have to jump back on quickly before it pulls away.<br /><br />/MFlKormorantrådethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232038146253579309noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-99891795574451231.post-10143053364242355082011-06-22T09:43:00.000-07:002011-06-22T09:46:05.297-07:00The joy of not knowing where(Pater Noster Square)<br /><br /><br />I have an appointment in a part of Stockholm which I don't know. I find it very exciting, in an ambiguous way, that there is a part of town which I don't know. I am taking a particular bus, from a terminal I know, and will go only one stop, yet end up somewhere completely unknown to me. The terminal appears to be Jarlaplan (a bus terminal in northeastern part of inner Stockholm which was abandoned and destroyed in the 70s) and thus the unknown part of town must be in the eastern parts (the quiet and upperclass parts).<br /><br />During the short busride I am flirting with an ugly yet very attractive woman who is leading a crowd of little old ladies with walking difficulties.<br /><br />My appointment is at Fadervårtorget (Pater Noster Square). Fascinated by the existence of this unknown square I walk back and forth, pondering the environments, wondering which one of the strange pedestrians who might be the person I am supposed to meet. Most people seem to be small women in raincoats. Like a happy child I enjoy my disorientation; since I haven't seen a map, and the sky is overcast, and there are no natural landforms, I can't even tell which direction is which! At the neighboring streets there are all kinds of small stores and some big restaurants or bars, particularly fish restaurants.<br /><br />Half-awake, I start hypnagogically rationalising this remarkable dream. I'm trying to stick to the subject matter, but it seems elusive as I have to edit two volumes of Kafka stories, with all the emotional strain it involves to empathise with them in order to reconstruct their inner sequence. But Kafka always lived and wrote his stories in this tiny apartment in Helsinki, in an old building which is now accessible in the exotic eastern parts of Stockholm. I'm trying to write my signature on some applications, but all I can produce is Kafka's.<br /><br />It seems like I have several times hypothethised unknown parts of Stockholm and usually in the eastern parts. I get an image of explaining the Fadervårtorget to other people, claiming that it is one of the many swiss-cheese-holes in the otherwise socially homogenous eastern parts, this one specifically being a square around which the specifically degenerate branches of the upperclass families accumulated, those branches who were declassed, badly alcoholised or just perpetually sidestepped, who all turned small-shop-owners, bike-repairers, day-laborers or public square winos; still refusing to live in any other parts than their traditional eastern ones. And then recently, there had been some preliminary attempts to gentrify this exotic piece of land, hence the big bars-restaurants.<br /><br />Later fully awake, I seem to remember that whenever I postulate unknown parts of Stockholm they are always in Östermalm, the eastern parts. Indeed the quietness and often ghost-town-feeling of these parts as well as the alienation before its very distinct class character might be a good breeding ground for such ideas. In the few dreams I vaguely remember about this, there is always some larger north-south-street which marks the sharp boundary between the common central Stockholm and the Östermalm wilderness. Sometimes this border has been Birger Jarlsgatan (fits with this dream, since this streets starts at Jarlaplan where the old bus terminal was) and the unknown east is then often like a chaotic big city with old buildings, similar to parts of Paris perhaps. Sometimes it has been further west and has been Sveavägen. I remember standing at Sveaplan looking south, and the Vanadislunden hill to the left has been a "hic sunt leones" wilderness, where I have dared venture only briefly; it has always been abandoned, dry and overgrown.<br /><br />/MFKormorantrådethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232038146253579309noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-99891795574451231.post-49735859727964569142011-02-06T06:40:00.000-08:002011-02-06T06:49:59.739-08:00Nautical miles<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjriGWAbHmLHLwJrpLcULl1h0XcLUx_CcHLa03xreCavHp-gWaEVG2ROQuoudOQDh-tjFn6Sqq_m5sXB_dPMr-lg_XY8c2shBcOsDrU_SiDkrmU7YmG_BH1d-5tGsSb7Rw2pn14ReL3JQFX/s1600/vesterhavet.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 250px; height: 367px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjriGWAbHmLHLwJrpLcULl1h0XcLUx_CcHLa03xreCavHp-gWaEVG2ROQuoudOQDh-tjFn6Sqq_m5sXB_dPMr-lg_XY8c2shBcOsDrU_SiDkrmU7YmG_BH1d-5tGsSb7Rw2pn14ReL3JQFX/s400/vesterhavet.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570588644052985442" border="0" /></a><br />My friend N and I have been visiting London. He's heading back to Finland, I'm on my way to Stockholm but, because of the ferry routes, have to change ferries in Mariehamn. Bit of a daft detour, as Stockholm is closer to London than to the Åland Islands.<br /><br />/IÖKormorantrådethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232038146253579309noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-99891795574451231.post-37186942304123199172011-01-30T04:46:00.000-08:002011-01-30T04:50:09.966-08:00The landscape of our dreams<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">The cormorant council proudly announces that many of its early speculations on the theoretical foundations for its activity are now available – some for the first time in English, some for the first time openly – in a pdf anthology, which is one of the many suddenly offered to the reading public at merdarius's pdf library <a href="http://www.surrealistgruppen.org/Bibliotheca_onthoplanctorum.html">"Bibliotheca onthoplanctorum"</a> at the <a href="http://www.surrealistgruppen.org/">Stockholm surrealist group site</a>.</p><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica, fantasy;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></span></div>Kormorantrådethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232038146253579309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-99891795574451231.post-9624034633481438922011-01-09T04:31:00.000-08:002011-01-09T04:33:17.575-08:00The continent forgottenAnother version of not reaching Africa: I actually settled down in a house in Mali – but, apart from that general fact, I can't remember a thing!<br />… if you manage to trespass the southern border of (Scandinavian) imagination, the memories will be confiscated?<br /><br />/IÖKormorantrådethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232038146253579309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-99891795574451231.post-48996801758905428752010-12-16T12:08:00.000-08:002010-12-16T12:29:50.440-08:00Small town bar<p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">It is winter in Mjölby. I have just got to a newly opened bar near the train station. A troubadour called Loke is going to sing some old country-classics at this place tonight. I step into a small room with a bar and a stage. My clothes are wet and outside it´s dark and the snow is falling.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">I keep my outdoor clothes on because there is no place to hang them. At the bar, which is made of steel and looks like a buffet, some bearded men with leather-hats sits muttering over their glasses of beer. By my side is a tall women wearing a very short black skirt and black leather corset.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">The owner of the bar is a man from Linköping. He has opened this bar especially for those who moved to Mjölby and are having a hard time to make themselves at home.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">The background music fades out and the lights turns on. The owner enters the stage, he is a bit fat, wears glasses and a blue-checkered shirt. He welcomes us to the opening of his new club. Then Loke, the troubadour, comes on stage. The crowd applauds and the lights are dimmed. Before he starts the show he takes a look at the crowd and says: "I want to dedicate this song to all of you who moved here from Linköping, believing you would find a café where you could sit down with your new friends, but never found it. This song is for you…"</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">Ten percents of the population in Mjölby are alcoholics. I often see a bearded drunk man wearing a leather hat by the train station.</p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">// CD</p>Kormorantrådethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232038146253579309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-99891795574451231.post-84081837095131904972010-11-12T13:03:00.000-08:002010-11-12T13:09:30.382-08:00The baseline for coordinates<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Earlier here, we have been asking what kind of observations, what kind of parameters, one uses in order to deduce where one is in a dream. Of course very often the actual dream landscapes are created using scraps of several different locations from memory, and the actual <i>spatial semaphors</i> (signs signalling where one is) used might relate to just one of these, or several – or just additional signs added without being based in the biographical landscapes the dream landscape is built upon (an example: there is the devil so I must be in hell; or, there is a sign saying Mogadishu so I must be in Somalia). But often, these spatial semaphors can be secondary to the <i>immediate knowledge</i> of where one is, if the location is part of the explicit execution of the dream. This immediate knowledge might also contain a delimitation against places where it's not, and it may either coincide with, take sides among, or entirely contradict, what the spatial semaphors are saying. The little dream I'll be relating is just a small example of this more general observation based on a larger dreaming experience. And furthermore, it starts nicely with a spatial metaphor getting a material expression.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">As the conclusion of a long dream of idiotic joking, self-aggrandising, and amorous complications, I'm feeling frustrated over the whole mess, and in order to be able to get an overview, I take my bulldog and start climbing the steep hills of the little town. The bulldog is huge, with a spike collar and an enormous mouth; it is Maldoror's bulldog. The inclination is just like a Norwegian city (Narvik or so), but the vegetation is nemoral and the buildings are English; anyway I don't need to interpret such signs because I know I am in Greenwich, and I feel a certain need to emphasise that this is of course not Greenwich Village, New York, but the real Greenwich, the starting point of all coordinate systems.</span></p><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica, fantasy;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica, -webkit-fantasy;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px;">/MF</span></span></div>Kormorantrådethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232038146253579309noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-99891795574451231.post-22533507227790876592010-11-02T11:47:00.000-07:002010-11-02T11:52:01.323-07:00Watch out for the pelican council<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">On the childhood island, I want to take a bath, or I am just convinced that the water is a good place to be, but it is frustrating that the main jetty points to the northeast, which means that when standing in the water next to it, spying out eastwards, one is standing in the shade and it gets cold. I'm standing there anyway.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">A coot comes swimming towards me, and I notice common coots are beautiful birds. The next bird is a grebe, calmly sailing by me very close, and I'm thinking it's a good thing with the shade after all, when I stand there rather immobile I become like a heron and form a part of the general environment. When the grebe passes it changes, grows bigger and darker, eventually it becomes a cormorant.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">I am standing there in immobility and shade. Around mere there are huge birds, continuously and diffusely uttering a low uninspired cackling, indolently yet threatfully, like when one has to make way through a crowd of lazy large gulls occupying the jetty. I thought these birds were cormorants, but they are actually even bigger and have very long beaks; they are pelicans!</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">A small company of my relatives comes down to the beach, and walk out into the water next to me. It makes me angry, the pelicans won't stay calm; pelicans smell so bad, and they can be so aggressive, they will raise hell for this. But my relatives have a strange ability, in their resolute hostility, to drive the pelicans in front of them, they are just swimming away, towards the northwest in the strait. A beautiful cousin forms the rearguard, she is somehow the prisoner of the others, at least she can express her dissent by keeping her distance while slowly walking through the water. I keep her company, and tell her about the danger of the pelicans, but it is so pleasant so I'm thinking that if I could wade through life with her I could stand the pelican smell. Cormorants do smell worse after all.</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; ">/MF</p><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica, -webkit-fantasy;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: -webkit-xxx-large;"><br /></span></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaATdM5admuYXomwooMIR6wEfACnlqUNs_gTiYKXZ0meKCc9nwUP2fjqKwPC6zkjNmsQ5g9bG1xoZpwJbsHcvQZvICZRJTn3Zf5yrzkVvoGdL4qqg4cFBCZyBAl40TpYWDQnbGXoDX60Dp/s1600/CC-Pelicans-2-small.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 291px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaATdM5admuYXomwooMIR6wEfACnlqUNs_gTiYKXZ0meKCc9nwUP2fjqKwPC6zkjNmsQ5g9bG1xoZpwJbsHcvQZvICZRJTn3Zf5yrzkVvoGdL4qqg4cFBCZyBAl40TpYWDQnbGXoDX60Dp/s400/CC-Pelicans-2-small.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535026204719021506" /></a><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, -webkit-fantasy;font-size:130%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></span></p>Kormorantrådethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232038146253579309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-99891795574451231.post-30200859756818976202010-11-02T11:42:00.000-07:002010-11-02T11:44:01.300-07:00Towards the Tintin gate<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">/.../ The important thing about Tintin City is that you get there through a particular epistemological break, which is called the "Tintin Gate". The Tintin Gate is the centerpiece in a new school of mysticism, the prophet of which I will now become. The fact that I am now homeless will make it difficult for me to get into the restaurants to have breakfast and convince the tourists, but of course many other prophets have been poor and ragged creatures too. Perhaps someone will lend me a bike, and I can bike around and eventually find someone who offers me breakfast. I will have a yellow robe, and I will know six different words for snowball, this is very important.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">After other adventures, in a commuter train stopping halfway between stations, I open my computer as a book and read about life in sunken Atlantis. I am somehow struck between the similarities of social and architectural organisation between Atlantis and Tintin City, and I get very enthusiastic when I read that the most holy artifact in Atlantis is the "smoking heart of motherhood", a piece of ember issuing a long trail of bubbly smoke that looks like the seaweed forming the long hair of a medusahead. This is obviously analogous to the state of things on the other side of the Tintin Gate. There are engravings illustrating all of this, with pastoral lovers running around performing strange rituals in underwater ruins (the engravings look like 18th century post-alchemical preromantic mystic christianity emblems rather than actual alchemical allegories).</p><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica, fantasy;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica, -webkit-fantasy;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px;">/MF</span></span></div>Kormorantrådethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232038146253579309noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-99891795574451231.post-91048960794386694412010-10-24T07:45:00.000-07:002010-10-24T08:02:42.753-07:00In Arcadia<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhSspDu-UOaNBZvF37kkQGr0Ye1oUvWs73niAv3OJpmpZHRNqLfreUMzUkxhBPEKA8Nu0SgN-VrtKhXqeQ3uSLA5ekKIcCXKT6SVoJrZct3Xg2Uazfb41X0zcMyYD4OHfEpTzPxj8AZ2m2/s1600/arkadien.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531624035981868466" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 234px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhSspDu-UOaNBZvF37kkQGr0Ye1oUvWs73niAv3OJpmpZHRNqLfreUMzUkxhBPEKA8Nu0SgN-VrtKhXqeQ3uSLA5ekKIcCXKT6SVoJrZct3Xg2Uazfb41X0zcMyYD4OHfEpTzPxj8AZ2m2/s400/arkadien.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />To complete my posts about pastoral landscapes, I once dreamt about the mythological / utopian <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arcadia_(utopia)">Arcadia</a>. The sketch above depicts a water-terrace arrangement on the slope of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mount_Helicon">Mount Helicon</a>, which the dream situated there. I have written more extensively about the dream <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/31365259@N08/4722926704/">here</a>.<br /><br /><div><em>" /.../ at the vast terraced slopes of Mount Helicon (as I´ve seen it depicted in alchemical illustrations) with a bewildered look of concentration on his face, while the well-springs of the rock´s inspirational muses were bubbling and forming huge dandelion-like water globes behind him."</em></div><div><em></em> </div><div> </div><div></div><div></div><div>/NN</div><div></div>Kormorantrådethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232038146253579309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-99891795574451231.post-49469433226490111252010-10-22T10:33:00.000-07:002010-10-22T10:46:47.077-07:00Heaven and Tax-RefundI´m attending a political lecture, where Kristian Kristansson, editor of Kris, is just stating:<br /><br /><em>"People actually believe that the taxes they are paying somehow returns to them." </em><br /><br />He shows an illustration of this:<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530925364602612898" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 248px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLlB4qBm1dutAloxJ3jvR89pgDSZ8I7qNaxmLjTCaQXAHdMzluP4oQh-pgqG2BzIWVUVmGTaCrPoP8UstX2i7j3sN9-8OIE71hxEL2paqdnlYVZIrBYfv7vtJ6DNXuK_whkM4io8U8LXjW/s400/pan2.jpg" border="0" /><br />Then another illustration is shown. It reminds me of Waldemar Lorentzon´s <em><a href="http://www.boohgren.se/bilder%20till%20konsthistoria/waldemar%20lorentzon,%20kosmisk%20moder,%201938,%20www.mjellbykonstmuseum.se.jpg">Cosmic Mother</a></em>, but instead of that painting´s mother-figure in the clouds a flute-playing Pan-figure appears:<br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530925588957075394" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 270px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTWocsjcmEIwAfBBzfA8FZK7bUfqfyKNjIfXyZUznU5_G7J0JCHnerqzkvMA-0Mbk47FUDaOCFjxUuTEE0VxG_lIp1AZvBraIO0ihjyBSbXoSt9qWEmYJieh5lbbXrE503p-isT69Y5psp/s400/pan1.jpg" border="0" /><br /><br /><br />At the same time these words are accompanying these pictures:<br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><em>"Panpipe tones in the boy-depth</em></div><div align="center"><em>Clouds descend into the landscape</em></div><div align="center"><em>One rejoices at the soft sincerity of the sky"</em></div><div align="center"><em></em></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><em></em></div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left">/ NN</div>Kormorantrådethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232038146253579309noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-99891795574451231.post-74991373796312438942010-10-15T14:33:00.000-07:002010-10-15T14:54:14.478-07:00Looking Down<em></em><br /><em>Dream-sight:</em><br /><br /><div>An old woman sleeping in the vast landscape of her blue dotted dress.</div><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5528389497339173154" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 350px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUzlainBKVcX0vJNfaNRV80JAbuYrAvXeiCofc7vT8XmLuIsyrzOz4YoB58O4ObvFcGzEgROzslJs3E8Z2yFYFoTkXesdg9GOWS0RIsiJLZNMcffpI-9D6y45UA-9iia6tFoK2fonkjhPy/s400/bluedots.jpg" border="0" /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><em>Associations:</em></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>Habitable exoplanets:</div><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5528392564375479698" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 180px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 180px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht1NmfC48gaFTdHiGuzcE_QPP6EXtwMu78UVi1FovO7nafk_tLKEhsJhqQuuOhQBrjWvzGmZf_udfwKRXNAXRwCVdx38lAfe1cokSAI-_Wnof5FK6C2dV2yO83n_-gHV1pKs_AgTn-1ymI/s400/Pale_Blue_Dot_%2528uitsnede%2529.png" border="0" /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><em>Taeniura lymma. </em>An attractive bottom dwelling fish:<br /></div><div></div><br /><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5528392368675238242" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 216px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 144px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8foWOrMsOXaWnMoL9VPGgSaP7MgZOI1wC1tCKRLkJ-ks7DmI6b9tQFIgtVEQC2ADcVyrLwfXHTfHU3Hbg2X0GUTc63gFF0IAUBd5PivqMllkt0d28nJDws-GTr0lMR25tTEvhLCsCqvHO/s400/BlueDotStingray1.jpg" border="0" /><a class="image" href="http://sv.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fil:Pale_Blue_Dot_(uitsnede).png"></a></div><br /><br /><br />/NNKormorantrådethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232038146253579309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-99891795574451231.post-56974226171662177732010-10-13T01:28:00.000-07:002010-10-13T01:35:11.574-07:00The Hibakusha Free StateA dream of Africa from last night:<br /><br />My friend H and I find ourselves confronted with a map of Africa. There are only a few names printed on it, we are to come up with the names of all the countries. At fourteen, I wouldn't have hesitated, now we have to guess a lot. We start at the east coast, south of Somalia, with Tanzania and Mocambique.<br />Then there's a rather large country with a free state, named Hibakusha, in the middle. Liberia? No, no, I know where Liberia really is. Big country encompassing Hibakusha Free State? I have no idea. H produces the name, but I can't hear it properly, and don't ask for it, as we move on to the next one, between South Africa and Congo Kinshasa.<br />Again, I can't remember the name. We are told by a third person it's Zambia. That puzzles me: it's five times bigger than Zambia should be. And where is Zimbabwe on this map? The borders seem to have changed.<br />South Africa is easy, we pass over it more or less without a mention. And then, on the west coast, which one is that again? We get a hint from the third person: the misty mountains with gorillas. We hesitate. Namibia. I have a feeling something's fishy, those rain forests should be a long way up north, shouldn't they? Oh well. Angola is next.<br /><br /><br />[Madagascar is missing from the map, but in the dream I don't pay attention to that. And although Zambia is somewhat enlarged and the shape a bit distorted, the dream-me had actually mixed up Zimbabwe and Zambia, while the third person's information in that case was more accurate.]<br /><br />/ IÖKormorantrådethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232038146253579309noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-99891795574451231.post-28149652031155228802010-10-09T02:03:00.000-07:002010-10-09T02:25:00.756-07:00The coastal life of tomorrowIn the future, when the sea level has become prone to changing back and forth by tens of meters within just a few hours, the most convenient way to move along the coast – or indeed live by it – will be by kayak. The only situation bound to cause some confusion, is when you have stayed the night on a very narrow shelf in a vertical rock wall. You may wake up to find the sea surface has dropped by several meters, and the kayak, tied by its handle, is hanging straight down the granite wall.<br /><br />/ IÖ, 9.9.10Kormorantrådethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07232038146253579309noreply@blogger.com1