[falling down]

[-OH,AND THIS IS IRONY/SATIRE BY THE WAY-]
if a long-haired, bearded & bespectacled 1970’s pothead student had been sitting for ages staring into the near-dead candle flame...and started seeing shapes and shadows on the wall,moving and changing in sudden shifts of spite...as some sort of strange psychic-visual phenomenon...(the run-out grooves on his scratchy prog record making weird,muffled noises like animals praying)...and say he drunkenly fell asleep and started to dream...and in that dream,he saw himself step out of his own head and out into the reality that was his own scruffy room...and say that he,weirdly,in that dream,believed himself to be an aspiring rock-critic...and that he turned towards the still burning candle sat on top of his dusty speakers...only to find himself shaking and forced down on his knees in front of the fire:slowly being impregnated by the cosmic forces that oozed out of the shadowplay on the wall...and when he opened his mouth to speak,he recognised in those shadow-patterns,a pale-looking goddess- Nico...and that this teutonic ice-queen spoke to him,gravely,from the other side of the looking-glass that is the walls between worlds...and that she told him,this: that now,very shortly,he would give birth to their dear lovechild,a creature breathed into life by the warmth from her nostrils and the coldness of her tears...(mixing with the flora of dustballs emerging from the darkness under his student bed,rolling into a living stew,like the amoebas,a giant ball of fire and bacteria,with small chunks of last-nights vomit and the turd still unemerged from the depths of his tightly pinched behind,mixed into a foetus),...yes,if all that came to happen,strange as it might be,and let’s say this eerie creation of Nico and our brave protagonist,by some marvellous short-circuiting of logic and probability theory actually came into life,and found himself mysteriously transported into the new millennium,only to end up in the care of an average oslo family,...and subsequently with a memory loss of all previous events,adjusting well to his life but suffering from a strange depression and a whiff of teenage ennui with a predilection for dystopic future-fantasies,philosophers with rage against the world,and the socialist youth brigade,...and say he started listening to underground hiphop,walking aimlessly round the streets of the tigercity...this is what the sweet boy would have written:
* * *
[what doesn’t crush you,only makes you stronger]
-soundtrack: Cannibal Ox- The Cold Vein-
To a London friend.
Best places in the Tigercity:
#1] Noiahaugen-
The central city churchyard. Here you will find Ibsen’s grave,on the top of a small hill. Lie down and watch the cars swoosh by,young mothers trodding along with their prams on the dirty pavement...The asphalt momentarily rising small clouds of dust that hover in the hot summer air for a second or two,as some eerie genie from the arabian nights or the sneeze of a tiny Casper ghost,before it sinks down again and grace the littered street. The streets of Oslo are always dusty,dirty,smelly,littered...Grime could be adapted as a less alien concept than you might think down there in the smog-ridden city,we have our grime,you have yours.
The essence is the same: We’re not called “Tiger city” for nothing,this city eats you alive,drains the joy out of you,slowly sucks the light out of your eyes and gives you a big fat kick in the ass,as Hamsun said in “Hunger”...It traps you inside a trick-cage and swallows the key. The streets are too narrow,the architechture too ugly,your aimless wander leads you nowhere,the streets are nothing yet everything,like the criss-crossing veins of the junkie beggar at Skippergata....You are in the apex of mediocrity,on the road to nowhere,yet everywhere you go the faces of people shine of poseurism and boredom,because it’s a cold city,like all big cities it has no heart.
But the city of contrasts has small sparks of decency and warmth,small tokens of honey to keep the work-tired bees from leaving. It holds you in its grip,like the still breathing calf in its dead mother’s womb,still caught in the umbilical mothercord,pumping poisoned blood into its veins. You are here now. Once you’re in,you’ll never leave...Why would you want to? We have everything at your disposal. [the mishmash of indifference,tired teachers,of welfare offers,kid pushers and dark shadows under bridges]
-Watch out for stray dogs,snotty children,the crackling of your shoesole as a contaminated needle punctures the soft plastic and the flesh of your skin. Like the city,It can sting you,it can hurt you,it can swallow you alive. And drain you.
-the Drain.(We’re born with the freedom to choose,yet still we don’t give a fuck.)The cornucopia of consumerism have created a monster. -The boys in the playground beheaded cats and threw stones at the birdnests,so that the little birdies fell down and broke their necks with a dump thud,greeted with laughs and cheers. We don’t know the cruelty of children. We close our eyes and lock our doors,walk hastily by that shabby figure hunched up on the shopcorner,clutching his plastic cup,arms outstretched,...it’s better that way. We don’t like to think too much. The sleeping-soma of booze and fun keeps us happy,the citizen content. We don’t like too precocious kids,too lofty dreams. Don’t think you can teach us anything. We’ll kick it out of you. My,we’re an eclectic lot,aren’t we.
Smile to the camera.[Television static].
-Back to Noiahaugen,In the summertime,it is the finest place in the city,you can lie in between the little birch trees and relax and look up at the sky,smell the grass and the earth,maybe smoke a little something(sshh!i won’t tell)...Just beware of the junkies and the odd creepy types that tend to sneak around in the periphery,and you’ll be all fine...(In the daytime,anyway...)-In the daytime,it’s all good...That’s a big fat lie,of course,but a good one. We’re lucky here up north,every killing echoed by a million others elsewhere. Actually,we can learn to like it here. We just have to grow thicker skins. * * *

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