Endless snowfall

My memory just took me back to an image of a street light I saw through our living room where we lived when I was a kid. Big thick snowflakes were dancing in it's warm almost orange light. It reminded me how the snow just kept on falling and falling, and falling. Cold flakes painting the dark night in white. It was so quiet you could hear the random car slowly drive by even though the snow blanket did it's best in muffling every sound. No one was walking out there. Everyone was inside and maybe already asleep.

I had no lights on nor candles lit in our living room. No music or tv disturbing the darkness and quietness. Turning on the low lamp next to the couch gave me enough light to see to write in my diary: A notebook, the cover was fabric, mellow colored flowers. Holding it in my hands, but I wouldn't open it just yet. Not for a while. I was sitting on the couch, staring out the window. Eyes losing focus as mind started to wander. Such a solitude. No sign of any other living being. Just my knowledge of it. A world without snow, with sun and daylight and careless noise seemed almost not possible.
Right there, I had captured that very moment in my heart and locked away until now.
I think I stayed on that couch, maybe even slept there, the whole night. I wasn't sad. I might perhaps have been a bit lonely but I believe I wanted to cherish just that. There was an empowering beauty to it. Regardless of who else existed or not I knew I did, with such a fierce will.

My language

I used to write in swedish but it feels untrue to me now. I don't experience my life in swedish anymore. It's hard to re learn to express myself in the same form in a different language. I feel like I'm missing nuances, loosing flow,  searching too long for the right word. I was never really bothered by being grammatically correct in swedish. It was about the artistic expression and I rather create language than following old rules. But to be able to bend the rules gracefully you need to know them well. In English I'm not quite there. Maybe not at all.
When it comes down to it though, I rather write in my most honest language to get a more sincere connection to whomever might be interested in reading. If it's broken words at least it's my broken words. They tell more of a story than any correctness could.

So if you read this blog, I apologize for butchering this language.

Until we feel what we know, live what we feel.

Where there was something missing
your presence nestled in
Such distraction;
a break in our affliction.

In a fluent kind of way
the curiosity was pulling me.
We all know what happened to the cat
but caution had grown exhausted that day and weeks to come.
Resistance shaved away by persistence
I have a heart of stone but the waves kept rolling in.
Opening my eyes to what I didn't see
You said you could read my feelings in them.
It was surely your own projection. Eyes are mirrors
and you admired your reflection.

You took some of what I didn't know I had to give.
Now the seal is broken and I'm flowing, overflowing ,
like crying in self pity over crying
or laughing because laughing feels so good

And closeness was like laughing.
Building habit, causing need.
When the monster in my dream was in the shape of you
what woke me up was your arms gentle embrace.

Your fears and my pride met in the darkness of an alley
with gushing blood and tender bruises they opted out of shaking hands.
But when we closed our eyes and no broken words were spoken the calmness gave us reason.
A soothing comfort for the damaged warriors inside us.

No matter how I try I can not seem to find a place in your soul where i want to nest. Yet here I am still searching as you already are walking away. Just to come back, you seem to forget to detach your strings.

While you are growing tired  I'm being lit by my own fire.
A lashing anger is raging inside me.
How did you touch my passion?
It wasn't meant for you.

There is lava on the floor
I can not be put down, I want to jump from stone to stone until I reach my home.

Words...

The little winding rode of words is tempting me down the path of creation. It's not real and it doesn't exist but it's worth more than anything I've ever touched. As easily as it is to dream as uncomplicated is it to deny it, disregard the thought and idea was ever there. This seldom world in my mind is sacred and holy but nothing to rely on. No prayers or wishes can seek comfort but it does create them. The solitude of imagination is only limiting itself as it continues trekking on, past me.

Domesnight

Last nights domesday picture. 

Conflicted

A moment in life, spent on the side of the road

If I would've known that those moments when we were waiting, and wondering, and wanting so badly, would've been the very moments I would value the most, would that have made them not the memories I treasure so?
I remember our bikes laid down by the side of the road, I remember the intensely green grass, rain kissed and wind dried, I remember our youth. To say innocence would be a lie because we were witty and mean, we teased and pulled and tested limits. We were hopeful and dreaming and so intensively fearless. But on this day we just sat there in the grass. The things that we pretended to care about then; we knew were fleeting feelings, we weren't stupid but we were living the life that was given us while grasping at more. Those moments in between, like the silent pauses in music, are those that are closest to my heart. The moments where the unspoken knowledge that there will be so much more, that it will be so different, shone through just like the rays of the sun through the clouds that day. The symbolism of the wide horizon and our bikes ready to take us as far as we would have the power to make them take us were so screamingly obvious that we felt free. I can not remember where we went after our pondering at that green hill. If it was followed by a long night slipping into morning spent together or if we parted ways but I do know that this was not the first and far from last moment like this. On rooftops under the stars, summer nights by the lake, freezing in a snow covered forest or exploring at a construction site, so many magic places in our secret world. It was our lives we violently daringly created instead of just silently waiting. No need for others' approval, just each other's acceptance.
If we'd only known enough to appreciate it more, would that have ruined those moments with cynicism and not so false bitterness anymore? If we would've known what we known today, would we have hold on tighter or would we have ran a different direction?

I miss you, friend, I want a moment with you on a grassy hill, talking and teasing and grave honesty. I want that what matters most. Spend some time in our secret world. I want that little nook in time where only you and I and our feelings and thoughts that contain the life around us exist with mutual acceptance and vulnerability. Can we bike there please? Compete a little bit to breathlessly lay our bikes down, while the panting calms down the thoughts settle in and we ask.

Proud Empire State Building

Playing with collages

Colors and patterns...

Bar tools = work toys

Insomnia saves the day

When a box filled with cookies gets dropped off at the bar from the
shop around the corner the bar staff gets very happy... =)

Indoor sun

When it was raining last night I wanted to at least have some sun
inside... Thinking it might lure the sun out and seems like it worked;
judging by today's weather =)

Cool

Fascinated by how ice melts...

Bar photos

Non alcoholic drink to start the workday

Spec note book. Well used.

What's in the vase today... while time stands still.

Rainy Friday

So... I realized that I don't write much anymore. I work a lot these days. At a job that I love. I bartend at a cocktail bar in Manhattan, with fantastic drinks; that I'm having a fun and creative time making. The only downside to bartending is that it's long hours and the opposite hours of the rest of the world...at least so it feels at times. However, that's sometimes what I like about it too though it doesn't leave me with much time nor energy to do that much else. ...Maybe part of the reason why I don't write that much. What I do do is taking pictures. Silly things for Instagram for example. Sometimes artsy. Sometimes, often rather, of drinks or other details at work. So why not put this blog to some use...? I was thinking along the lines of a photo diary. Lets see how that goes! =)

Starting today with this since it's a rainy day...

With your breath you take mine away, swiftly without remorse. You pause, just to,  with a seemingly random timing, attack again. You sweep over my hair, combing through it, throw it over my shoulder and back into my face, almost blinding me. When I pull it away you stroke my ears, making them so cold they'd be numb if it wasn't for the pinching pain. Just like my hands that I'm trying to hide away from you. I shiver and tremblingly sigh, you're almost making me lose my breath again. You're all around me and for a moment I can swear you're inside of me, freezing my bones and my flesh from the inside.

 I do not like you much, and I'm not too fond of your touch, you chilly force of nature, you New York wind. 

January 9th

Wrote this long ago but never posted. I think it's time to do so.

I knew before I heard the news it would be the worst day in my life.
Trying to grasp the ungraspable.
What was never allowed to happen finally hit like an evil scornful punch by the devil hard in my stomach, right before he tore my heart out.
It doesn't make sense, it's not logical and not possible.
I know at some point I'll have to accept it. I'll have to forgive.
But the walls of my reality have crumbled down and I'm standing alone in the ruins. Any voice and any hand would help right now. I can gratefully feel them but I'm not strong enough to reach them.
For you, only for you, I have to try to pull myself up, do what I have to do and beyond.
I will try.

To fly

So low in the sky it shines straight into your eyes
Blinded by the brightest light you can still feel the warmth from the setting sun.
A wing
is aching with will to fly
Hidden behind your back
Not visible to anyone but me
It rests in despair
Longing to stretch and take you to new heights.
Reminded by every breeze how masses of air feels underneath you.
You constantly fail to recognize your unlikely and magical ability.
Impossible you say and blame logic
Denying what's obvious to me.
I feel insulted and ridiculed by you
But then you smile and your eyes mirrors the warmth from the sun.
Well if you can fly
A wing can cry
But you can't fly because you're not realizing
And the wing doesn't cry because it doesn't have eyes that can look at me the way you do.

Growing up, getting old.

So this is what it's like growing up...getting old...
All the music artists you grow up with (by choice or blasted from radios or MTV) are dying off. Your childhood heroes are long since gone, faded or has disappointed. Relatives die. Parents die. You might still have some people that are very important around you but you're starting to realize: this is it. It's up to you. Now it's time for you to create your life. It will not go any further than you take it. Is this what you imagined? Have you changed your priorities? Are you here because you want to, out of habit or because you're out of options? You never are; The options might not be great at the moment, but they're always there. You just have to make the decision, might it be an active one or a passive one. Who are you surrounding yourself with, and why? Are you good to yourself? Are you accepting yourself for who you are? The limitations and the possibilities...?
So many old questions are starting to become relevant once again. And you have a nagging feeling that this might be the last chance to answer them before they turn into only theory. You want the answers to affect your life in reality, with awareness, not just become empty phrases in hindsight.

Maybe, if you're lucky, it's not about "growing up and getting old" but about " constantly growing and growing wise".

I cut off my hair.

It became symbolic. The old feelings grew out my hair. Now they're cut off. New year, new hope, new hair. Phoenix is slowly rising. It will take time before she flies but from the ashes, through the fire she's growing.

Money salt

Time and money is like salt.
It's needed, it adds to everything, but it can be damaging and never the main course in itself.
Money is oh so important to get the materialistic things we need to be able to focus on other qualities in life.

Usually I'm pretty good with abstract concepts... Time and money doesn't add anything in itself, it's all about how you use it. The meaningless of it by itself makes it hard for me to grasp it, to value it. Even though I'm very well aware of its necessity and dire impact on life.