Stockholm, son.
Been here one and a half weeks now and I know this city like the back of my ankle. It's beautiful, yeah yeah, whatever. But it's really beautiful and depressing. Today is overcast and grey and unhelpful so it is a good day for being outside and not giving a shit about what happens to appear next in this latrine I have designated for my spontaneous thinking. The height of arrogance, this is, but at least it's not religious. Thank god for that. Click next a couple of times and read. Go on, you'll thank me. They have a divine lack of originality. At least my lack of originality is all my own.
An old looking man with no teeth in the front of his lower jaw got talking to me earlier. I sat awkwardly on the edge of a fountain feeling nothing much like anything but writing about it. He talked at me in Swedish and I watched for a little while interested in the deposits of orange grime on the edges of his mouth. His glasses were alright really, not the stuff of street urchins, but they had metal arms. The left arm didn't rest on his ear, but on a large mole pressing out the side of his face. The glasses pushed down on this mole so that I wandered when they would cut it right off. I wanted to move the glasses, but he might have gummed me. He was a press photographer. A well reknowned one, actually, I have looked at his pictures from Pressens Bild in Stochkholm. I took his photo with his camera and mine and he went to drink some tea.
I love being alone in Stockholm. It is a delightful place to be depressive and lonely. I love it because I have no choice but necessity is the mother of invention so I will not be alone for long. Then I'll really be lonely.
The only thing I have not liked about Stockholm is the fetid little amoeba that crawl out from under their nintendos to group themselves in neat little categories of social rebellion at night, Fridays and Saturdays. I'm glad they keep well to their schedule though. They are dangerous because they are so insecure and some of them are beautiful enough to be truly abhorrent. The instinctive ability to slot themselves into a stereotype bewilders me. Are there schools for this? How the hell does that girl know she must turn the sides of her lips down in a pompous glare when she's wearing a fluffy flourscent blue pair of pyjamas and squeezing a lump of stomach out the top of her pants? And the pale fellow with a perfectly manicured pinstripe goatee painted black. His image is magazine quality, but how can he act? Surely he disappoints himself that he has never cleaved a man's head from his shoulders with a battle axe? Would sure as shit piss me off, if I'd pointed to that image in the guidebook at the generational studies and stereotyping office. I've never seen it, but it must be next to welfare. Just down the hall, sir. Good luck with the earing in your testicle - it'll fit you in really well, we'll all be proud of you.
Now, just what the hell do I think I am doing observing all of this? I eat in McDonald's yesterday and Burger King yesterday night. I choose orange juice with my fries and I read Oscar Wilde and listen to Robbie Williams. I can talk to anyone but who knows what I say? I don't know who these people think they are meeting, because I don't know where I am.
That man over there in the home improvement shop has it down pat. He's bald and wears a creme plaited jacket. And he knows who he is and where he is going and who he is going with.
Dear god. Show me the light, that I might avoid it. Forever for me the delusion of self-doubt. Back to the future had it profoundly. Find yourself and the universe may end.
An old looking man with no teeth in the front of his lower jaw got talking to me earlier. I sat awkwardly on the edge of a fountain feeling nothing much like anything but writing about it. He talked at me in Swedish and I watched for a little while interested in the deposits of orange grime on the edges of his mouth. His glasses were alright really, not the stuff of street urchins, but they had metal arms. The left arm didn't rest on his ear, but on a large mole pressing out the side of his face. The glasses pushed down on this mole so that I wandered when they would cut it right off. I wanted to move the glasses, but he might have gummed me. He was a press photographer. A well reknowned one, actually, I have looked at his pictures from Pressens Bild in Stochkholm. I took his photo with his camera and mine and he went to drink some tea.
I love being alone in Stockholm. It is a delightful place to be depressive and lonely. I love it because I have no choice but necessity is the mother of invention so I will not be alone for long. Then I'll really be lonely.
The only thing I have not liked about Stockholm is the fetid little amoeba that crawl out from under their nintendos to group themselves in neat little categories of social rebellion at night, Fridays and Saturdays. I'm glad they keep well to their schedule though. They are dangerous because they are so insecure and some of them are beautiful enough to be truly abhorrent. The instinctive ability to slot themselves into a stereotype bewilders me. Are there schools for this? How the hell does that girl know she must turn the sides of her lips down in a pompous glare when she's wearing a fluffy flourscent blue pair of pyjamas and squeezing a lump of stomach out the top of her pants? And the pale fellow with a perfectly manicured pinstripe goatee painted black. His image is magazine quality, but how can he act? Surely he disappoints himself that he has never cleaved a man's head from his shoulders with a battle axe? Would sure as shit piss me off, if I'd pointed to that image in the guidebook at the generational studies and stereotyping office. I've never seen it, but it must be next to welfare. Just down the hall, sir. Good luck with the earing in your testicle - it'll fit you in really well, we'll all be proud of you.
Now, just what the hell do I think I am doing observing all of this? I eat in McDonald's yesterday and Burger King yesterday night. I choose orange juice with my fries and I read Oscar Wilde and listen to Robbie Williams. I can talk to anyone but who knows what I say? I don't know who these people think they are meeting, because I don't know where I am.
That man over there in the home improvement shop has it down pat. He's bald and wears a creme plaited jacket. And he knows who he is and where he is going and who he is going with.
Dear god. Show me the light, that I might avoid it. Forever for me the delusion of self-doubt. Back to the future had it profoundly. Find yourself and the universe may end.
Comments
you're losing it