August 2nd, 2016
I feel good.
Lying in bed. Unable to sleep. It’s just past midnight.
Bodil Malmsten is speaking in an old interview. She says she doesn’t have time to feel bad because she has too much to do, to feel bad. Or does she say she just shouldn’t feel bad when having too much on her plate?
I don’t know. I can’t ask her. She’s dead.
This is the first time I’ve felt alright in writing that Bodil is dead since she died, this January.
Bowie died, then Bodil. Her death sent shock waves through people who were aware of her and if you were, you were cognisant. Little wonder that she dug David Foster Wallace and Camus so much. And Montaigne.
In that interview, she mentions DFW’s article on Roger Federer as an example of great style, as opposed to any example of great content; if you can write, you write.
It’s past midnight. I’ve tried sleeping for hours. When relaxing my body I feel as though someone’s placed a semi-heavy cauldron over my head and banged it a few times, then let the pain that remains after 15 minutes simmer like a flow of curmudgeon bad over my head and stick there.
I wish I’d seen Patti Smith live yesterday. She looked glorious, shining, even, in pictures from the three days she just played in succession, here in Stockholm. She smiles. Her “M Train” is a great example of how restraint results in beauty.
2814 is something I can tip you about. Good electronic ambient music. It’s really rain music.
Bodil is asked for tips. She mentions David Foster Wallace and “The Wire”.
I feel bad.
I want to sleep.
I can’t think of what to cook for dinner tomorrow evening. This evening, really.
Harry Potter makes people read. Alcohol makes people breed. Avoid the rom-com “Leap Year“.
A friend posts propaganda of muslims. I’ve just started reading a book on IS. I can’t help but just stay clear of Trump-like propaganda, which demotes life. Hate can be valid, but when discussing life, especially while commenting that of others, the joke’s almost always on yourself.
Morrissey on Saturday. I’ll see Morrissey on Saturday. If he doesn’t cancel.
I can’t see the screen now. I have to wash my eyes.
Eyes washed I’m listening to the DJs/artists Rebecca & Fiona being interviewed. Hearing them speak is quite liberating. They exude grit, hard work as well as a Warhol-esque vapid and most fun aire, along with a fresh breath of feminism, simply by seeming free. Ah, freedom, the most intoxicating everything.
I get that melody from Underworld’s “Dark and Long” in my head, the 2/4 part at the start, before the bass drum kicks in.
“We’re extremely great drunks,” R&F say. “We deliver.” May be right. I’m thinking of John Lydon in the video for the P.I.L. track, “Rise“.
I discovered Minor Threat yesterday. Their “Complete Discography” – which I believe to be everything they ever recorded – is about 40 minutes or so long, hits like a brick and is a lot more than stereotypical punk gives out. A fucking LOT more. Bar the ethics and philosophy that’s “behind the music”, and the sheer audio surprised the hell out of me. It says a lot. It’s almost Beach Boys stuff. I listened to the album three times in a row. Tomorrow I’ll listen to more of it. I listened to Glenn Gould, some of his great Bach shit that he got recorded when he was blightedly young and terrific. I think he described his technique of playing the keys as dragging them.
I never want my parents to die. I don’t want my dad to die. I’m a bit scared. I’m very scared. I’m upside down.
Work work work. I’ve been working for two weeks since the holidays. I need more holidays. I can’t wait to be in Norway with Mia. I wish I could describe what I feel when she sits beside me while flying. And doing…everything. I’m so tired. And I love Mia so much.
I wonder if I should post this. Then again, when thinking about it even for a smidgen of a second, I’ve gotta do this because if I don’t I’ll have a blog filled with book posts and what matters most to me is a real short drive, yada yada. And it’s true.