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E.
10 March 2010 @ 03:08 pm
Sitting at uni waiting for a seminar to start. Writing a script for a shortfilm at the moment but got some feedback from the theatre script I wrote last term. I dig my teacher for this:

"A very promising piece. both the subject matter and the form are very contemporary. There is a haunting atmosphere to the piece, not just because of your use of a ghost but also because you do manage to convey the lack of communication that is happening. They play feels like it gets a little too oblique during the final third, and perhaps you need to find a more direct way of communicating your very sophisticated ideas to an audience. But the play is very intriguing and a good start - it feels both very modern but also has resonances of older drama, specifically Stindberg. The attempt to show people speaking in something other than their native tongue is valiant if a bit awkward at times."

I'll give you a poem as a treat.

sail on.



White linen in March
Red wine stains on a dress
Phone calls in the early morning
A low sun pierces her eyes
Dust like snow on
Her face, shoulders, hands
Palms turned towards a steel white sky

Walk with me
Carry me. My feet are sore.
Down to the water
He lifts her up and feels the warmth
Fingers on naked cold skin
Goosebumps like an organic Braille system
Her knees bleeding
Staining the dress
Blood and wine mixed together
This is my body and this is my dress
Even deeper red
His lips wet as he tries to kiss
The pain away

Down at the riverbank
The linen explodes
Across the fields
In the houses
Small blue flowers
Covering
Washing
Everyone’s feet
He sings for her
Deep
Underneath his breath
It sounds familiar.
A melody
That’s existed since the dawn of time
But just for her.

The dress is a sail in the water
There are many questions but
Just a few answers
Can you pray for me dear?
Can I have your deck of cards?
As the water turns red
The queen of hearts floats
Towards me
Downstream
It looks like she smiles
But it could be
Her tears for the river
 
 
Location: London
Mood: bouncybouncy
 
 
E.
14 February 2010 @ 09:17 pm
My drug of choice at the moment: http://www.myspace.com/milbergmakesmusic

and Björk says goodbye to McQueen. R.I.P. http://unit.bjork.com/mcq/
 
 
Location: London
Mood: creativecreative
 
 
E.
04 February 2010 @ 07:42 pm
Sometimes I think I’m back
I wake up and imagine that I can go out and walk
The same streets
Follow the same beats
As I’ve done all my life

But this is a different instrument
On the same continent
The accordion that got squeezed tight
Every house, every brick
Close together like a deep sigh

Stockholm makes a different sound
An accordion that is dragged out
Houses where one has to shout
Across the massive spaces
and silent faces.
Where they always wants to make it into something else
Berlin, London, New York
How can we change it?

But I do love the sound it makes
and it breaks my heart
to see it change
There is warmth
And openness beyond the faces
Catching a strangers smile on the streets
a major treat in both places

It’s an important year for us
Me and my homes
Choices that has to be made
Shaking hands in investigations
Both lands in need of truth
and me just looking for a roof.
Tags:
 
 
Location: London, UK
Mood: creativecreative
Sound: AA Bondy
 
 
E.
13 January 2010 @ 08:09 pm
It's strange. Comin back to a place makes it even more real than it was before. I realise that this is reality and that I will be here for the newt two and a half years. It's wonderful to recognize and know a place a bit better. A place like London for christ sake. And my english is so much better. I have reached such a higher leavel. The joy of being able to write essays in english without having to read them 20.000 times. I still struggle and need to work with it a lot but it's so much easier.

My teachers seems to like my writing as well. One of them gave my short story to another student that wnted material to but in her final assasment, a literary magazine. So my story might be printed, just a student magazine but still. Yes.

The thing is that loads of my friends have gone home, peple I came here with. I live in halls where many are exchange students so it's difficult. But some are still here and the most of my class mates. I loved the hug my friend Lewis gave me as we saw each other for the first time after the hollidays.

What is going on for all out there?
 
 
Location: London
Mood: draineddrained
 
 
E.
01 December 2009 @ 09:42 pm
I know there is some language misstakes in this one but I don't have the energy to fix it.

The sun has not yet risen; the world outside the kitchen window doesn’t want to present itself. In the early dawn the old wooden house just seems like a lonely ship of light in a sea of darkness. The large oak standing beside it can’t be seen but you can still smell the wet leaves and sense the rain falling lightly in the early morning hour. This is not unusual for a lonely village outside of Kopparberg, Sweden in this time of year. Inside, the kitchen is filled with a strong smell of coffee; the floorboards creak as a man in his late sixties shuffles about looking for his glasses in the cupboard in the corner.
She knows how this scene looks like. She has seen it many times in her soon to be middle age life. She, Frida Williams is lying in bed in the room next to the kitchen listening to her father. Frida haven’t slept a minute the whole night and guesses that her father is in the same position. It was a beautiful funeral; she has to give him that. It was exactly as her mother would have wanted it, simple with the whole family from both Britain and Sweden attending. But a funeral is always a funeral and now both Michael and her mother were gone, half the family is dead, but no use lying here thinking about it. The snoring of her two teenage sons is clearly audible as she climbs out of bed and put on jeans and a jumper to join her father in the kitchen.

- Hello dad, she says as she steps into the kitchen.

- Oh, hello Frida. I didn’t realise that you was up as well. You couldn’t sleep? Her father turns around to look at his daughter with a faint smile.

- No. I couldn’t.

- Sit down and have some coffee, he says as he turns his back to her.

The room turns silent again. Frida walks up to the kitchen table and sit down at one of the chairs looking at her father as he now tries to put on a fire in the old stove by the sink. Matthew Williams is a thin man that despite his age and now slightly crocked back still has a quite striking stature, like he was a statue in ancient Greece. But as he bends down to pick up the firewood from the basket his movements are slow and he drags his slippers after him. As he reaches out for the wood fresh ink stains on his hand is made visible for Frida.

- What is that? Have you started working again dad? I thought you said you stopped when mum got too weak to help you set up the press, says Frida with a smile of recollection on her face.

- Yes I did, her father says as he puts the firewood into the stove.

- But what changed?

- I got some help, says Matthew as he lightens the fire.

- From whom?

- From Nilsson’s kid down the road. You remember that blond thing that used to play with Blackie? He’s a young man of twenty now. Strong hands, like Michael. Matthew stands up letting out a sigh and walks over to sit down by the table.

- Why didn’t you tell me? I mean I love that you are working again but I could have sent the boys up over the summer. They love it up here.

- Yes but you are busy with work and I didn’t want to steal them away from their father.

- Yes their father of course. Frida stands up and walks over to the window, looking out at the dark yard.

- I’m Sorry, her father says as he looks down at the table.

- You always find ways to bring up my estranged husband. Brilliant dad. Thanks.

The familiar silence settles in again as Frida walks out of the kitchen, goes to the living room, places herself in the sofa, leans back with a hand on her forehead and closes her eyes. The only thing she can hear is the cracking of the fire and the rain against the windows. But after a few minutes the creaking sound from a chair being pulled out from under a table and how slippers are being dragged along the floor reaches her ears. Her father sits down next to her. He places his hand on her right hand that rests on her lap.

- I thought about leaving your mother you know, he says slowly.

- Why do you tell me this now dad?

- Do you remember when she was ill?

- Yes I remember. When she couldn’t do anything but cry. How we tried to help, the smell of her breath.

- I’m ashamed of it but I nearly moved back home to London then. I stood at Arlanda with my bag packed and a ticket in my shirt pocket.

- Why didn’t you? Ask Frida as she turns to her father.

- I couldn’t leave you, could I? I couldn’t leave your mother. I swore that I never would. You should have seen her Frida. Her hair smelled like roses and she had deep red lips. Her father even gave me a profession, something to call mine. I am glad we had fourty years together, that I didn’t leave her. That I stayed. All that time.

- What is the pleasure of time anyway? I could not stay any longer dad, it was too much.

- What?

- I didn’t see myself with him anymore. I couldn’t do it, says Frida as she rests her head against her father’s shoulder as if she was a child.

The daylight is slowly making its first appearance in the distant horizon washing over Frida and her father as it was a white wave of light coming through the birch trees. It hits their faces and she feels as if she can breathe again. As if this tension in her has in some ways disappeared. She thinks of her mother but looks at her father and smiles towards him. He smiles back and the vast landscape outside the window seems to come even closer than it has ever done.
 
 
Location: London
Mood: blankblank