Creative processing

Alone again in the night. He sits in his sofa in his solitude. It's late and outside the autumn darkness has taken over. No longer does light seep in thru the blinds in the windows. Summers joyful season has finally ended. In front of him the huge screen shows a visualizer and in the speakers surrounding him a chip tune plays. He sits there staring at the ever changing patterns swirling and dancing in front of his eyes. If pressed to describe them he would perhaps say they looked like colored drops of milk laced with acid dropped into the vortex of water draining out of a kitchen sink viewed thru a kaleidoscope. His ears in turn being filled with triangles, squares and white noise. Simple sounds. Sharp and raw, yet beautiful and strangely soothing. Immersed in this sensory experience normal thinking is scattered and distracted. Not really thinking. Yet a thought, an idea, slowly starts to form in his mind. One of himself sitting at his computer writing a short story.
    The story being of a boy and a girl. They are not romantically involved yet they seem very close. A friendship that could be described as intimate. He picks a scenario where they are alone. Perhaps they've just seen a movie or shared a quiet dinner or simply talked about nothing and everything all at once just enjoying each others company. The story continues as the dialog reveals that she has a boyfriend or a date and that there is a problem. It could be the obvious like a cheating boyfriend or abuse, physical or sexual. It could also be something more subtle yet emotionally loaded like not feeling noticed or that she realized she is not in love with him and questions if she ever was. The boy being a good and caring friend does what every good and caring friend does. Listens. Really listens. That is until she turns the conversation around and says the words that hurt him more than anything. Especially coming from her. She looks at him and asks how someone as wonderful as he hasn't found a girl.


//Anders Öhlund - 2010-08-31

We all do it

He sits quietly. The music that was playing has stopped. The playlist is finished. Things are quiet but not silent. There is the humming and quiet clicking from the computer to fill the void the music left. Also some birds outside the window chirp a little now and again. The curtains are drawn as usual. He had opened them earlier to get some light and life into the apartment while cleaning but then he had to use the projector. He sits with his arms crossed looking with empty eyes at the monitor in front of him. It shows a cat by a toilet and a funny speech bubble about not leaving cause the chihuahua could get out. He read it several minutes ago and doesn't see it any longer he just looks straight ahead and listens to the silence, contemplating. No good will come out of it, he thinks but he still plays it out in his head. Starts forming the idea. Damn it it's lame but he can't let it go. It's like an itch he has to scratch. He leans forward and starts. It's really bad and he thinks he shouldn't but he still gets a little kick out of it. It's even more cliché than he first realized. He continues for a little while but then the itch seems scratched. It's rarely pretty but we can't help it. Writing ourselves into the story. Writing about writing the story and then don't even have the guts not to write it in English. Pretentious and vulgar. He lost the will to keep on going. It is finished. It has done what he needed, come full circle. Is it any good? He's not the one to say but he laughs to himself and thinks, probably not.

//Anders Öhlund 2010-06-01

Poetens rättvisa

Han känner hennes blick borra sig in i nacken på honom medan han tänder cigaretten som legat på fönsterbläcket. Även om han hade sett reflektionen i fönstret av hennes bronsfärgade kropp halvt inlindad i sängkläderna istället för ambulansen nere på den regniga gatan hade han inte kunnat urskilja hennes ögon. Det spelar ingen roll. Han känner henne tillräckligt väl för att veta exakt hur hennes stora vackra bruna ögon förvandladas till en iskall blick då hon inte tycker om vad han håller på med. Visst, han hade lovat att sluta men hon måste ju för fan förstå att det här inte är något man kan ta sig ur på en kväll. Det är ju inte direkt som att han gör det här för att han vill. Fimpen lyser upp mellan hans läppar medan frustrationen bubblar under ytan. Röken fyller lungororna och han känner hur stinget lockar hans självdestruktiva sinne. Plötsligt slår det honom. Han skrattar till och röken från hans näsborrar virvlar över skäggstubben runt munnen.
-Vafan är det som är så roligt?
Han skakar lätt på huvudet och svarar kryptiskt.
-Vi..
-Jaha?
Hon låter inte det minsta road.
-Vi är ju en jävla klyscha.
Hon svarar inte men han hör henne sätta sig upp i sängen så han fortsätter.
-Vi grälar och knullar.. hatar och älskar. Bara berg-o-dalbana, aldrig lugnt. Det är ju som taget ur nån billig jävla kiosknovell för fan.
-Ha! Du är inte lite egocentrisk du. Vem skulle skriva om oss? Nån slags sadist som gillar att se sina karaktärer lida?
Efter en kort tankepaus, ett djupt bloss från cigaretten, kommer hans förklaring.
-Kanske inte... Kanske är han masochist.
-Hur tänkte du nu? Det är ju vi som lider av ett fucked-up förhållande.
-Kanske är det just det han är avundsjuk på.
-Okej?
Hon börjar bli intresserad.
-Hans liv kanske är grått och tomt. Kanske saknar han att känna nått för nån så mycket att han ibland önskar att få gå under i en storm istället för att långsamt svälta ihjäl på ett vindstilla hav..
-Värst vad du blev filosofisk helt plötsligt.
Han ler och vänder sig om. Hon har ställt sig upp ur sängen med lakanet lindat runt sig.
-Så vad säger du.. ska vi visa din patetiska lilla författare hur man rider en berg-o-dalbana?
På hennes röst hörs det tydligt att hon glömt varför hon kastade honom ur sängen bara några minuter tidigare. Utan att släppa henne med blicken fimpar han cigaretten på fönsterbläcket och ställer sig upp. Hon lägger armarna runt halsen på honom och kysser honom. Lakanet glider ner till hennes midja när hon lyfter armarna. Han för handen till hennes blottade bröst och hör henne sucka upphetsat medan hon lutar huvudet bakåt. Hon drar honom mot sig och han böjer sig fram för att kyssa hennes hals. Plötsligt rycker hon till då hon halkar på trosorna på golvet och tappar taget om honom. Hon slår ut armarna för att ta emot sig men träffar sängstolpen med tinningen innan hon når golvet. Hennes ögon tittar på honom men de är lika stilla och livlösa som hennes kropp där hon ligger. För ett ögonblick står han som förlamad innan han ringer ambulansen.
-Din jävel...


//2009-03-14 Anders Öhlund

Sense of the Embrace

He could see her. See her eyes. Those beautiful and kind eyes that saw him for who he really was and didn’t mind. See the smile that warms his heart and gives him strength. He could hear her. Hear her warm laugh that makes him feel safe and makes him smile. He’d always thought her attractive but he realized that she really was as beautiful as a dream. He could hear himself tell her so, could smell her as she came closer and then he could feel her. Feel her soft skin against his. Feel the warmth of her body holding him tight in an embrace. The kind so intimate it bares the soul and makes you one, and he could taste her. He could sense her, her whole being. For a moment it was real. It was as real as if she was there, but she might aswell have been a million miles away, a dream, and then she was gone. In a flash she was gone and he was back. He was back in his cold dark room longing for that embrace, that feeling.
Longing for her.

//2008-05-11 Anders Öhlund