onsdag den 30. december 2015

Choisy le Conin aka Franz von Bayros

Decadent Croatian artist and illustrator, active around 1900. Best known for his controversial Tales of the Dressing Table.




tirsdag den 29. december 2015

DREAMSCAPES AND WATERY WOMEN:

Essay insanity has hit (finally). Hard. Am now, as by magic, pulling out words from invisible sleeves, building a new theory: The theory of painting as dreaming (as Freudian wish-fulfilment), delivered through pictoral landscapes which are both symbolic (clearly narrating of sexually desirable water women etc.) and only vaguely referential, ornamental, patches of colour, abstract shapes illustrating the unclarity of the dream-language, un-understandable by the waking mind as whispers from subsconscious, mildly neurotic voices.
By the end of this year I shall have discovered the language of inspiration. A half-mad language, a grammar of Saussure and the abyss. Monsters shall rise as golden-coloured fireworks also memories, and all shall shudder and despair with (stressful) wonder.


torsdag den 3. december 2015

For love

Keep my secrets. Treat me kindly when you can, and respect the walls of dignity and honour that I build. Listen to me when I need to tell of worries or of victories, and understand, that they are not more than me, that they do not lift nor lower me from that level where we found each other standing in the shade.

And I will help bury the bodies deep beneath the ground where the earth sings to those who yet have living ears to hear with.

søndag den 29. november 2015

Det klør

Irriteret: min hud kravler over mine knogler, langsomt, mine indre organer murrer, min højre nyre er stadig ikke overbevist om, hvad det er, den skal her i livet, ligesom jeg heller ikke selv er, ikke mere siden d. 16. september. Jeg har i stedet, primært, været syg. Fordi et eller andet sted må man jo stoppe, og når man er ustoppelig, så må det ske igennem organernes fejlfunktion. Ha. Host. Har også læst, er, sådan set, forfærdeligt interesseret, samtidig holdt tilbage, i både 1900 Wien, de sidste romantikere og æsteticismens småreligiøse tendenser, stadigvæk alt, hvad der er centreret omkring lidelse og længsel, fængslende indrammet i Klimtguld og vildtvoksende plantegrønt med dertil rådnende idealer, der er megen skønhed her i verden. Mit projekt:kunsterliverkunst, også velsignet med samme slags spænding som i mit "arbejde", jeg er gartner, jeg fremdyrker det og i min have, der er dunkelt, her er ingen helt sikre på, hvad de vil, hvem de er, hvor de er på vej hen, i en eller anden forvirring af romantiske forviklinger, hvor der ikke er skelnes kvalitativt mellem relationstyper eller følelser, så længe det kan mærkes. Jeg gennemgår alle slags eksperimenter, så jeg til enhver tid kan sige, at jeg har smagt livet, jeg har set verden. Det er selvfølgelig en lille smule bullshit, men også kun lidt, for jeg holder som regel tilbage, en buket af hemmeligheder, som jeg nogle gange kommer til at vise, og så bliver folk bange, og så har man mistet dét venskab, man må passe på. Til gengæld for diskretion får jeg almindelig respekt, det er markedsværdi, det kan byttes til mange ting. Eksisterer med en slags kontinuerlig intensitet, fuldstændigt uundværlig, men hele tiden nærmende sig en ny normal, kan let glemme, at alt, hvad der gør det værd, i virkeligheden er helt vildt meget mere end hvad der normalt forventes, at hvis jeg falder ned, hvis jeg pludselig en dag åbner øjnene og der ikke er flere giftplanter, så vil der heller ikke være nogen skønhed tilbage. Jeg kan ikke nøjes med hverdagen, den generer, den strammer, den er det rene polyester, eller nej, den er fin, den er nødvendig, men det går jo ikke. Jeg kan ikke rende rundt og præstere noget som helst ekstraordinært på en diæt af høfligheder og lejlighedsvis orientalisme.

Jeg er træt af ikke allerede at vide, træt af pludselige opblomstringer, der forsvinder igen med det samme som gløder i damp, træt af at opmønstre panik blot for at gøre det, for situationer der sejler i forbipasserende, livsflod og snart vil være væk.

tirsdag den 10. november 2015

Schedule

Goal for the next three days:
Read for Art Theory: Fashion and Temporalities. Feel mortally offended by Nietzsche's view on women's wear, continue onwards in good spirits to Barthes and The Language of Fashion. Be thankful that my classes are on such interesting subjects. Supplement with some Lehman and other thoughts on clothes and language.
Educate myself on Victorian writing and empire. Think fondly of Edward Said while battling John Ruskin and Rudyard Kipling. Be upset with Britain in general but inspired by the British university system.
Enjoy some quality time with the Pre-Raphaelites' relationship to the past. Read through no less than seventeen texts on time before and after Raphael.
Formulate a plan for an essay on the subject of transgressions of hyperrealism into the fantastic in art inspired by the Dutch masters. Must include either phenomenology or semiology. Read Wittgenstein's philosophy of pictures. Mold own methodological approach. Attempt to find some theory on Otto Frello. Consider the decay of matter and how nothing really matters. Do the same for the 19th century, except look at Vernon Lee and Kant's sublime, possibly Faust, Carlyle, Kristeva, the uncanny, and discuss the artist hero's fatal attraction to an immanently evil inspiration which will surely consume him just as if it was a woman (because yeah, that didn't happen last week, as you are SUPPOSEDLY not supposed to cough up blood. Who knew, right?). Cry. Read about the devil. Come up with yet another essay and do the research and put together a bibliography for Eleanor F-Brickddale's The Little Foot Page which hangs in Liverpool, look up cross dressing as a performative but totally normal act in theatre of earlier ages. Read all the Scottish ballads, stare at Queen Guinevere and her bread rolls while meditating on memory, mourning and the modern life subject. Tinker with tensions between old and new, and possibly, possibly contrast evil and neutral androgony.

Tactic so far: 
Get drunk and draw. Repeat.


mandag den 2. november 2015

When I work, reality tends to break down

I have always been a bit too authentic for my own good when it comes to one of my main areas of interest: women in Victorian times. Today I am legit coughing up blood while feverishly attempting to grapple with an essay on the portrayal of immanent evil in Vernon Lee's stories of aesthetics and art. Who the fuck knows.
I am absolutely consumed with self pity, but there is a certain poetry in it. In the stories the male genius (that would then be me, all academics are white middle aged men, as is well known) is, in his attempt to portray the muse (write an essay), capture the wild inspiration (not get thrown out of university), taken over by an unknown pagan power (consumption?), and succumbs, usually, to madness or despair (eagerly awaiting this very moment).

søndag den 25. oktober 2015

I feel
as though
I shall shatter.
Like a rubbery bubble
stretched above
its limit.
My innards
boiling
sulphurous.
I sense
a small
Hell in the pit
of my stomach, 
and smoke
in my throat.

mandag den 19. oktober 2015

From George Meredith: 'Modern Love' (1862)

I
By this he knew she wept with waking eyes:
That, at his hand's light quiver by her head,
The strange low sobs that shook their common bed
Were called into her with a sharp surprise,
And strangled mute, like little gaping snakes,
Dreadfully venomous to him. She lay
Stone-still, and the long darkness flowed away
With muffled pulses. Then, as midnight makes
Her giant heart of Memory and Tears
Drink the pale drug of silence, and so beat
Sleep's heavy measure, they from head to feet
Were moveless, looking through their dead black years,
By vain regret scrawled over the blank wall.
Like sculptured effigies they might be seen
Upon their marriage-tomb, the sword between;
Each wishing for the sword that severs all.

lørdag den 17. oktober 2015

I dreamt that you were next to me, and it made perfect sense battling embraced for kisses. You got up to get something, and in the meantime I woke up to realize you won't be coming back.

fredag den 16. oktober 2015

#Lifegoals

Dante Gabriel Rossetti is the suffering artist of every teenage daydream I have ever had. His poetry, in shadows, dwell on nothing but longing and sensuality, and his paintings are portraits of pale, unearthly muses:

Venus Venticordia, 1868
Water Willow, 1871

From "Through Death to Love":
Like labour-laden moonclouds faint to flee
From winds that sweep the winter-bitten wold,--
Like multiform circumfluence manifold
Of night's flood-tide,--like terrors that agree
Of hoarse-tongued fire and inarticulate sea,--
Even such, within some glass dimmed by our breath,
Our hearts discern wild images of Death,
Shadows and shoals that edge eternity.

Robert Buchanan, however, is the acidic, witty critic I would be honoured to one day become. In 1871 he reviews Rossetti's newly published collection Poems, under the title "The Fleshly School of Poetry". Please, enjoy pieces of poison from his proselike attack:

 IF, on the occasion of any public performance of Shakspere's great tragedy, the actors who perform the parts of Rosencranz and Guildenstern were, by a preconcerted arrangement and by means of what is technically known as "gagging," to make themselves fully as prominent as the leading character, and to indulge in soliloquies and business strictly belonging to Hamlet himself, the result would be, to say the least of it, astonishing; yet a very similar effect is produced on the unprejudiced mind when the "walking gentlemen" of the fleshly school of poetry, [...] obtrude their lesser identities and parade their smaller idiosyncrasies in the front rank of leading performers. [..] the present drama of poetry might be cast as follows: Mr. Tennyson supporting the part of Hamlet, Mr. Matthew Arnold that of Horatio, Mr. Bailey that of Voltimand, Mr. Buchanan that of Cornelius, Messrs. Swinburne and Morris the parts of Rosencranz and Guildenstern.  (p. 334)
...in good truth, it is scarcely possible to discuss with any seriousness the pretensions with which foolish friends and small critics have surrounded the fleshly school, which, in spite of its spasmodic ramifications in the erotic direction, is merely one of the many sub-Tennysonian schools expanded to supernatural dimensions, and endeavouring by affectations all its own to overshadow its connection with the great original. (p. 335)
...we question if there is anything in the unfortunate "Poems and Ballads" quite so questionable on the score of thorough nastiness as many pieces in Mr. Rossetti's collection. Mr. Swinburne was wilder, more outrageous, more blasphemous, and his subjects were more atrocious in themselves; yet the hysterical tone slew the animalism, the furiousness of epithet lowered the sensation; and the first feeling of disgust at such themes as Laus Veneris and Anactoria, faded away into comic amazement. It was only a little mad boy letting off squibs; not a great strong man, who might be really dangerous to society. "I will be naughty!" screamed the little boy; but, after all, what did it matter? It is quite different, however, when a grown man, with the self-control and easy audacity of actual experience, comes forward to chronicle his amorous sensations, and, first proclaiming in a loud voice his literary maturity, and consequent responsibility, shamelessly prints and publishes such a piece of writing as this sonnet on Nuptial Sleep (p. 338) [follow link for some extremely dirty stuff, time considered]
We hover uncertainly between picturesqueness and namby-pamby... (p. 341)
We would rather believe that Mr. Rossetti lacks comprehension than that he is deficient in sincerity; yet really, to paraphrase the words which Johnson applied to Thomas Sheridan, Mr. Rossetti is affected, naturally affected, but it must have taken him a great deal of trouble to become what we now see him — such an excess of affectation is not in nature. (p. 341)
The fact that these gentlemen are so easily imitated is the most damning proof of their inferiority. What merits they have lie with their faults on the surface, and can be caught by any young gentleman as easily as the measles, only they are rather more difficult to get rid of. (p. 347)


lørdag den 10. oktober 2015

Baphomet 6.-7. oktober


Not much left. Making sure the stockings fit. Pearls. Faces painted on. Don't tell, don't even whisper. I love you. You are my future. There is someone else. We are all alone now. This never happened, you'll have to forget, can you do that? Taking out chunks of flesh. Get in. Go on. Bring me wine. Skin. Closer to God. I can't seem to stop bleeding. You are beautiful. She was beautiful. I do love you, I do. Did I say you could look at me? I like to buy things that can't be bought. Like people. We are worthy. Come play. I know what would make you feel better. I didn't realize it was like that, I didn't notice.  

tirsdag den 29. september 2015

Weighed down and heavy non sinking object of obscurity

I have been trying to escape the world. Awake, and dreaming I see myself floating face up in ice cold water like Ophelia, waiting for a death that is settling in my bones already, but still with feverish cheeks. Green branches and water lilies. Seaweed or rope tightening around this tender shameful neck. Lustfully giving up and setting free and rising, red moon, into darkness.

That isn't really how it works, is it? You can't just let go of responsibilities and take a break, there is no pause button, you can press to give you time for a bathroom break and a light snack. It in its entirety just keeps going straight to next level, no game over, no walkthroughs, constant supervision from the totalitarian state?

Delete facebook. Stop answering your phone. Get a new job, one that doesn't demand much, so you can focus on what you are underneath. What's left. Drown your sorrows in heavy drinking every night. Moments and moaning - do you want quality or quantity? I want sleep. Opiates. And not to get up in the morning. Long showers make up my life.

Whisper only, please, in possibly beautiful places surrounded by fog, carrying books over bridges.

onsdag den 16. september 2015

Forsøgt forholden sig en lille smule

Mit liv er vildt nok. Ironisk distance, prøver at skille mig af med den, ser den som et symptom på kulturens allergi over for det autentiske. Eller min egen. Frygten for at virke dum når man føler noget. Fordi vi alle sammen vil have noget ægte, men ikke kan se os selv som samme stof? Flytter til England på søndag, kun for et par måneder, kun længe nok til at farve håret, prøve et nyt ansigt, måske turde nogle ting, jeg ellers ikke tør alene.
Jeg er ikke optændt af entusiasme.
Ideen er dobbelt. Vil overskride praktikaliteter og omfavne ellers utænkte muligheder i en slags ny impulsivitet, renæssance af egen ellers ikke-rigtigt-nogensinde-eksisterende ungdom. Prøver at genfinde entusiasme ved viden og intellektualisme fordi specialet, åh, nej, jeg er ikke rigtigt angst, men det nærmer sig, og en eller anden form for panikfølelse må der opøves for succes.
Altså: rituel afskæring af sociale bånd og afsked med ansvar. Koncentration forsøges indhentet. Selvfølgelig vildt distraheret af fortsat sideløbende livsprojekt, keywords: momentalitet, sensibilitet, grænser - hvad er det? Tofold, jeg tager afsted, jeg studerer det vilde liv og lukker det selv ned, eller omvendt og lad os se, hvem der kommer ud på toppen. 'Kald det kunst' må være en slags sidste udvej efter forfejlet akademia.

torsdag den 10. september 2015

08-09-15 04.30

We have to save the sleeping world before it is too late. We have different skills. There is a great meeting. One is speaking, we dislike him a little, but the kind one takes his hand, she looks into his eyes and strokes his fingers gently to see his fear. She doesn’t need to ask him to tell him with her words, it is enough to care for him, and the images appear from below. Memories of his childhood, and with them surface a desire, he is telling them what they should do just a minute ago, but now he tells them where the high tower is, and how far a person has to climb before he can fall again.
They need to build a wall.
Outside it is raining heavily. The one who’s face is half burned away but who is somehow still more beautiful than most meets him there. He doesn’t even hear her approach, but see her as the very last thing as he turns around. She is almost smiling.
Their last fortress stands next to the roaring see. Darkness and waves as high as ships is out there. But these are not things they fear. It is something different, something new that can impress them deeply enough to call for such a meeting as this. It is usual for them to quarrel but on this day, this day that could have been any in the thousands of years they’ve been here, it cannot be tolerated. In death is always comfort anyway, we will do it as suggested.
The builder was the one who caused their suspicion. He is not one of them. What can he do? She has been known to bring home all sorts of pets. The council cannot trust that any man she has taken a liking to, can carry the weight of their lives. Greater than most and more important. But now, it appears, she and her sister of, not blood, but bone, have taken away the choice. He will build them a wall and they will strengthen it with the blood and will that runs through their bodies, they will bind it with the last of their abilities and breathe sweet life into it till it becomes a thing of flesh as well as stone.

The feeling. When she reaches into a man or a woman to hold their heart and crush their will – or rather, to remind them how much they long to be held, to be without those heavy burdens that they bear. It truly is great love. She can make a man feel he is the world, only because where she looks, her whole being is drawn. It becomes so true, if only for a moment, but such things are everlasting in the weave. It is an opening, a comfort. It never feels like breaking, and that is what makes her. She gives them only what they truly want. Only if there isn’t hope at all. She is not as such a bringer of death, but she knows character well, and an existence without love, if even from afar, is not worth it at all. Those who are incapable are that way because they have not felt it themselves, or they have completely forgotten what it feels like. She can remind them, so sweetly, that they can be everything. After that, what other choice? The world is getting darker.

fredag den 14. august 2015

Ord er øjeblikke er skyer af ord (endelig version)

  Der forekommer fragmentarisk som dokumentation af forsøget på at fastholde momenterne i en teoretisering der ikke tager formelt hensyn til form, men bruger den plastisk.
  Modernitetens rammer for subjektivitetens udfoldelse lægger ikke op til kritisk selvransagelse, men møder menneskejeget med informationsstorm der stiller det i en her og snart, hvad vil du være, hvad vil du gøre, hvad er du værd situation, hvor alt står stille. Der findes tre overlappende reaktioner på denne position:
  I. Blasert ligegyldighed drikker klare agurkeginogtonics til jeg når dertil til det er gået over og kæderyger hvide cigaretter med hvidt filter fra begge ender i let københavnsk, men egentlig ikke synderligt geografisk tåge der trænger igennem når der ryges rigtigt og sløver den ordløse uro til den er slebet ned til let summen i knoglerne.
  II. Transgressiv sanselighed, jagten på det evige, altopslugende øjeblik. Fra Fuck det til Fuck Ja. Gennem følelsen dannet på ny i ellers konstant nedbrydelse af identiteten som frit tilfældigt voksende slyngplante eller hvad du nu har lyst til at gro som. Alt prøves mindst én gang og med endnu varm erfaring skelnes ikke mellem nydelse og affekt. Vægtes: Excessivitet, ekstravagance, bevidst synæstesi. Mere, meget, meget mere

  III. Tilvalgt naivitet i sublimering af skønheden, positionering for øjeblikket fylder det med symbolik for at forstørre det. Transcendens fra blot fysisk, udifferentieret sanselighed, hvad som helst til tro, håb, kærlighed, opstigning fra død. Farlig fordi faldet altid venter,  måske det ikke behøver være så hårdt, måske fordi håbet følger med og blomstrer op som solbeskinnet dampsamling i morgenglød ligesom meningsindlæggelsen i sætningen: "Jeg så engang Bent Fabricius-Bjerre sidde på Jægersborggade foran Grød, og det var det mest sofistikerede, jeg nogensinde har set." Symbolikken føles kun kunstig for den, der ikke tror den som den bedste løgner lyver ikke/også for sig selv. Forelskelsen er i livet, i idealerne, i noget udenfor stormen.
  Mørket/Stilheden. Tiden er tom og langstrakt. 
  Fraværet af følelse.
  Udslettelsen er livet. Kroppens momenter.
  Kærligheden. Der er altid et Du. Sindets evighed.
Hele tiden pendulsvingen mellem faser følger jordens omdrejninger om sig selv, s søger a i egen bane, engang imellem oplyst af A før muren smuldrer igen.
  På vej ned i mulden igen.
  En spændthed over brystbenet melder et øjeblik i horisonten, end ikke tæt på at sprænges, samtidig synker. Griber ud efter at være i nuet er at erkende at alt nyt er midlertidigt og leve det så fuldt at det alligevel hænger ved en stemning, en duft. 
  Da jeg vågnede i morges var det sommer. Et nu. Ubekymrede flirtende fugle aftaler vi ægteskab i den dybe sofa som jeg glider ned i ved første lejlighed i ren begejstring over hvor nem legen er (før man kender hinanden).
  I stilheden bærer man sine sår som mærker der hele tiden med voksende vilkår skaber en anden indeni. Det er at gå i stykker, men
   I flammerne kaster jeg det, der skal vokse og det, der skal dø og ilden lægger sig som et dunkelt varmt slør over ansigtet og bryder blikket.
  (du sammensætter de bedste dele)
  i Dine øjnes hullede lys er jeg hel og let igen og tyngden af døde bier bliver blå himmel.
  Fylder 25 og er lykkelig, vin sidder i solen på plettet lænestol og hører ”and the river flows beneath your skin.”
  Kys: Hun siger, ”Las os se, ”  men smager af varmt smør. Vi kliner os til hinanden som alting allerede er slut. Begæret er en følge af loven og længslen. Jeg elsker dig i dag dine øjne er blå du tænker på at kysse mig.
There are moments I want to save.
They are not so ugly as to be locked away in the abyss of never existed in the first place (this is the best place to hide your secrets). It was only a story.
Eskapismen vokser sig hurtigt omfattende, forvandles til næstensubstantiel æstetisk tilfredshed imod tendensen til levende død. Altid skal du kæmpe mod den levende død. Walter Pater forstås, udenfor tiden, som hedonist fordi han var skadet af sin kontakt med indholdets ubærlige skønhed. Transgression. For ham var kærligheden, ikke adskillelig fra lyst, altopslugende, kunsten det eneste sikre alternativ til ikke bare at vente på at dø. Hvem er vi, at vi har brug for sikkerhed?
  Den eneste måde at besejre døden på er at tage den i sine arme og elske den.
  De spiller jazz, jazz, jazz i et stillestående værelse ”Du kan ikke skjule noget for mig.”
Indskriver virkeligheden på min krop da jeg ramte gulvet
Køn er konstruerede, voldelige eventyr, og mine ellers talende fingre kan de (kan vi) tage noget der allerede er der og transformere, trans-partere, transcendere til en posthuman udkrængning  af kropsligheden der skaber plads til sjælen?
  "If we look closely at Victorian aspiration, we discover that the ideal object is often vague and sometimes nonexistent.”
  På en pladeafspiller skal nålen løftes og nedsættes igen, jeg kan ikke længere huske hvilken lyd, det laver, det er en god lyd. Genspiller gennemspillede sansebilleder igen
Trykken for brystet, angst kalder hun det og siger ”Jeg kender det fra mig selv” og fortiden indhenter nuet, ikke alle konsekvenser af dengangs handlinger sætter ind straks, de har ligesom en forsinket reaktionstid, pladen drejer rundt lidt før den når ind til musikken og skyggesiderne som fantasierne er udvidelser af det lille rum vi får til os selv.
  Jeg har tit ønsket mig andre drømme det imaginære er forankret i betragterens kærtegn af sit objekt.
  Hendes hår var det første jeg så. Det var gyldent mørkt som rug klar til høst,
Han var lidt skrøbelig på en måde.
  Efter idealet er brudt ned, forbliver kærligheden. Ikke så glitrende som før, den er der bare, en dump banken, så lav og konstant, at den bliver monoton. Men det gør ikke noget.

  Dans med mig.





Henvisninger: Studies in the history of the Renaissance [1873]. Ting der siges i Historisk emne: Grotesk, 2014. Jaqcues Lacan. Æsteticismen. Dødsdriften, men ikke Freuds. Vinter. Röyksopp og Susanne Sundfør ”Running to the Sea.”  Smagen af lunken rosé. Det kan jeg ikke gå op i.

tirsdag den 11. august 2015

17-11-2013 Everything returns, and everyone but you is dead 11-08-2015

Regler: 
Teksten er vanvittig. Teksten er ikke sekventielt domineret af tid og sted. Momentet er tekstens mindste gryn og forbinder du'erne. Afsenderen tråder drømme sammen efter tematisk sammenhæng og finder en særlig skønhed i dem, der giver genklang. Der vil være gentagelser, teksterne interagerer i netværk.

I
Igennem mit vindue ser jeg træer, mørke skyer samler sig, rumlen, lyden af vingeslag. Fordærvet er smukt som en solnedgang, men den følelse, jeg opfyldes af, når jeg ser dig, er sødmefyldt. I realise later that my mind is a beautiful place.
Livet er hule rum, vi opfylder med mening, i tavshedens øjeblikke mest virkelige. Døre lukkes op gennem førlogiske følelser, før forklaringen som had, misundelse, lyst. Berøringen en direkte genvej.
Jeg behøver ikke lukke øjnene når vi er sammen, for at forestille mig, at du er en anden, skriger jeg ad teksten, som en udfordring. Kun et blink skal der til før alderen sætter ind og knoglerne begynder at skinne gennem huden.
Der vokser en fortælling frem i det indre. Den skal plejes, den skal underholdes. Dens skema er det folkelige eventyrs brutale dramatisering af individets prøvelser. Dens emne er køn i mødet mellem den personlige verden og samtidens ydre omstændigheder.
Sorte birketræer, hvis stammer skærer igennem horisonten, ikke noget som. Bare der. Bare sådan. Mærk det
Duften af kød i fordærv. Ikke den seksuelle duft af sødmefuldt moskus – ikke de mange mænds forskellige savsmuldsfornemmelser i min seng. Alle mennesker har en særlig stemning over sig.
Det her er ikke en poetisering af virkeligheden. Det her er fantasien, når den ikke danser, men trænger igennem som vildskud op ad murværket, som fortolkning, der sanselig forstår det, der ikke med ord kan forklares, men hvis stemmer danser.
Alt kan læres elsket. Råddenheden også.
Jeg ved ikke, om det er fordi livet har været barskt, at jeg har lært at holde af modgang, om det er fordi det er vilkårene for det svage køn, for mennesket i det hele taget. Måske holder jeg bare af den brutale ligefremme følelse, uanset dens indhold. I eventyret er der altid et mål, herude forladt for selvopfyldelse, der igen forrådes for følelsens umiddelbare 
Jeg er grådig. Jeg har ikke altid været sådan, det kommer fra barndommen, det land af gradvist forfald, hvor alt endnu virker som et løfte. Det er et problem for mig. Jeg vil altid, altid, altid have mere. Jeg kan næsten gribe det.
Tendens: jeg forelsker mig, når jeg begynder at skrive. Et kort øjeblik vil jeg ofre alt for fortællingen, opslugt, opsat, indspundet i gyldne, magiske tråde, der ikke er uvirkelige, men alligevel som feguld forsvinder i løbet af mørkets timer, det næste er jeg fortabt i det man kunne kalde virkelighedens fantasier. Der kommer altid et Du.
Kunsten er det tomrum i mit indre, der findes selv når mine øjne drukner sig i Du. Forhekset.
I det uigengældte findes balancen, i fremelskelsen af farlige følelser, før opklaringen, det virkelige, det evige, vejen til udødelighed ligger åben, den snor sig gennem en mytisk skov, på én gang usynlig og uendelig, her findes alle glemte drømme.
Der er et punkt på min hals, der er ømt og følsomt. Når jeg rører ved det med spidserne af mine fingre, fyldes jeg af dit bid og af den kølige morgen, som vi kaldte nat.
Det vil snart være væk. Jeg ved ikke engang hvem det Du var længere.
Jeg har altid sublimeret den, jeg elsker. Efter idealet er brudt ned, forbliver kærligheden. Ikke så glitrende som før, den er der bare, en dump banken, så lav og konstant, at den bliver monoton.
Gennem arabeske, brutale øjeblikke, slår virkeligheden igennem.
Køn er konstruerede, voldelige eventyr.
Måske kan uendelige virkelighed stadig bruges? Men der skal en ny titel til. Jeg holder stadig af skønheden, men jeg vil have det brutale med. Jeg forstår. Jeg vil have den rådne duft fra blomstervasens bund ind i siderne, jeg vil bære skønhedens frugter på et blodigt fad.
Jeg er dekadent. Det er min karakter. Jeg er hende, som finder skønheden.

 II
Voldtægt.
Lidt det samme som at tvinge en tekst
Men på hvilken måde? Er der i virkeligheden nogen poesi i det?
Nogle gange handler det om hævn. Vi var en gruppe af piger. Unge, ferske, hvide, smalle lår, langt hår, hvis strå adskilte sig fra den fysiske verden og løb bort i brisen. Vi gik i sort. Vi røg cigaretter og bar læbestift og læste digte.
Jeg kunne sige, at det handlede om lyst eller hævn. Jeg kunne skrive, at jeg ville udnytte din krop, som du havde udnyttet min troskyldighed og blotlagt min indre sårbarhed, som jeg i dit kød tænkte at grave ud. Men i øjeblikket findes aldrig den slags grunde. Bare en brændende, berusende intensitet og duften af dig. Jeg kan ikke sige, at det var had eller ligegyldighed eller sorg, der greb mine hænder. Men jeg var der, og jeg kunne have ladet være, og jeg kunne have stoppet op og set dig, men der var kun krop.

Det er aldrig bare en stor, forfærdelig ting, der sker imod os. Nu er det slut, vi må videre. Det er aldrig slut. Man lærer godt af andres fejl. Jeg har lært meget. Jeg har lært, at begå mig. Jeg spiser mænd som dig til morgenmad. Jeg har set på den grå, uformelige skygge, der passivt overværede min opvækst, jeg har hørt hendes lyde, og jeg har kun ikke engang hån tilbage over for hende. Men hun har lært mig meget. 
En kvinde skal ikke være mor, hun skal ikke være kæreste eller kone eller datter. En kvinde er et menneske, og hvis hun vil gøre sig håb om nogensinde at hæve sig over den ligegyldige masse, der er andre mennesker, må hun gro en personlighed. 

Jeg drømte, at jeg var gravid. Det er sket et par gange. Aldrig i virkeligheden. Jeg ser kun blod for mig, og de slimede klumper, der kommer med, lad os kalde dem resterne af vor kærlighed. Tid til latter.

Et eventyr i moderne kontekst. Ulvemænd. Det enestående ved folkeeventyret er kombinationen af individuel styrke og tosomhed. Arbejd med omdannelsen af billeder til indhold. En omvendt bevægelse end metaforen. Sorte birketræer.
Kærligheden er det vigtigste, den er den skov, der omgiver alle karakterer, alle events. Forkrøblet, smuk, farlig. Det er fucking vigtigt, det her!

I’m in love with your brother. I’m in love with my brother. Jeg kan ikke skelne. Det er ufordelagtigt at være vokset op uden familie. Alle relationer bliver seksuelle. Min kæreste var både min far og min bror og min elsker og min advokat.

Vi er stadig i katastrofens efterskælv.

Jeg bliver tit fortryllet. Mindre og hurtigere af kvinder. Langt hen ad vejen hader jeg dem alle sammen, men der er en sød (ikke kvalm) ro i den kælne lille form. 

Jeg vil skabe mig selv i skriften gennem vilje og aflæggelse af frygt. Jeg vil løfte ordene med jern af sensuel, smagende nydelse og forme et jeg, der transcenderer transcendens og forankrer det imaginære i blikkets kærtegn af sit objekt. Jeg vil genfinde æstetikken og nedsænke mig i dekadencens bad af hjerteblod og laudanum. Jeg vil indgå en pagt og ikke atter lade noget eller nogen komme imellem mig og mine kærtegn af kunsten. Intet er vigtigere. Nogle øjeblikke ville jeg ofre alt for at beholde. Blivende beruselse.
Jeg er helt alene i verden, og jeg håber du dør. Jeg håber du dør, så det ikke bare er symbolsk, men også reelt. Jeg håber du dør, så jeg kan blive fri for den cyklus af umulighed, der følger med dig.

mandag den 3. august 2015

"I was already feeling uneasy. All at once, the silence stopped breathing.
   The infinite day suddenly splintered like steel. I crouched like an animal on the table, my hands useless claws gripping the smooth table top. A cruel light had entered every corner and every soul, and a voice from a nearby mountain fell from on high, a shout ripping the silken walls of the abyss. My heart stopped. My throat pounded. The only thing my mind was aware of was an inkblot on a piece of paper." 
- Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet.

lørdag den 1. august 2015

..19.37

Jeg er her ikke helt. Jeg observerer.

Jeg plejer at elske at være alene, men jeg er dårligt selskab for tiden, det er bedre, det går ud over andre.

Jeg er ikke nem, at have med at gøre. Jeg siger fra og jeg siger også (for) meget ja. Jeg forsøger at kommunikere mig ud af alt. Jeg siger, at jeg har det svært med mennesker - jeg er bitter på mange måder. Det er åbenbart sådan nogle ting, der gør mig svær at holde af, sådan rigtigt, tæt på.

Jeg tænker lidt, at det jo er lykkedes i hvert fald én gang.


mandag den 27. juli 2015

A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night

en film af Ana Lily Amipour

Natten er tung og evig, når du står i den. I denne film, er der ingen dag, ingen farver (kun på plakaten), men mørke og ensomhed. Der er længsel, tørst, et par få illusioner indtil de slukkes. De fleste har været det i et stykke tid, fornemmes det.
Når du finder en, som kan stå sammen med dig dér på den anden side af det åbenbare og stadig se på dig, selvom det er sort omkring dig og du ikke selv er mere lys end dine omgivelser, så hold fast.



Jeg spiser sur lakrids (det er en oplevelse i sig selv), og drikker mousserende indsmuglet vin, der lidt tidligere har boblet ud over mig og mit sæde. Kun dilletanter gemmer slik i tasken. Jeg går i Empire og ser en iransk vampyr western fra 2014, der bygger på en grafisk roman af samme navn, men det ved jeg ikke, at den gør, endnu. Jeg sætter mig alene, prøver at undgå at tale med nogen og prøver ikke at høre parret ved siden af mig snakke om deres måske sovende barn. Det er en god film. Jeg er tilfreds. Da jeg går, føler jeg mig meget bevidst om mit tørklæde. Jeg har det tit foldet let som et slør for at lukke verden og kulden ude. Det plejer ikke at gøre mig vampyrisk.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       Filmen fanger mig på nogle af de samme måder som Only Lovers Left Alive gjorde det. Den er langsom, poetisk og den dvæler ved øjeblikket og ved livets farlige lurende meningsløshed. Men den er også noget andet. Moralsk, måske eller politisk. Man kunne for eksempel analysere dens stillingtagen til køn. I Iran om natten er det mest mænd, som er farlige. Enter den hijabklædte hævner. Det går også - næsten altid - ud over nogen, der fortjener det. Men det er ikke dét, der for mig, virker som hovedpointen, ikke selve synden. Hvem kan bestemme skyld? Der er mange grader af fordærv i filmen. Nærmere handler det om gråtoner af hvad der kan bæres og hvad der ikke kan. Mørket bliver først altopslugende når der ikke er nogen tilbage til at gå i det sammen med dig. Når du har drevet dem alle væk.
Vampyren, som også bare er en pige, er en ensom skikkelse. På mange måder adskiller hun sig måske kun fra de andre vandrende nattegængere ved at vide, hvad der gemmer sig i skyggen. Hun søger noget ligesom dem. 
Jeg er ret sikker på jeg har mødt et par stykker som hende før. 


onsdag den 22. juli 2015

Giovanni's Room

af James Baldwin

Ud af de mange bøger, jeg læser, er der en håndfuld som jeg værdsætter ekstra meget, fordi de beriger, ikke blot mit litteraturvidenskabelige overblik, men også mit hjerte. I det bibliotek af blod, skabes der nu plads til endnu et værk. Anbefalet og foræret af en veninde, som ikke for første gang, og forhåbentlig heller ikke sidste, har bidraget med titler - hun bærer tilsyneladende på en hemmelig nøgle og kender min smag så godt som jeg selv.

Giovanni's Room blev udgivet i 1956. Den følger amerikaneren Davids flugt igennem fornægtelse, forelskelse og fornedrelse (litteraturens tre store f'er?), fra hans følelsesmæssigt afstumpede opvækst, hans opdagelse og afvisning af sit begær efter andre drenge til hans flugt til Paris. Her ender rejsen.

I Europa kan lysterne løbe fri. Tiden sitrer på samme sted, som luften i august kan gøre det. Det meste af den forløber, klaustrofobisk og svedigt på Giovannis værelse, mellem rå mursten og bjerge af noder og skrald. Der er en verden udenfor, som truer med at snige sig ind, men den gør sig mest bemærket gennem pengemangel, som kan indhentes med lån, og gennem breve, som David lader være med at hente eller læse. Der er en insisterende stemning. Jeg kender den godt, den minder om at blive i et forhold for længe, at elske nogen af vilje alene.

Et ikke-sted i periferien af fortællerkarakterens bevidsthed rejser hans forlovede rundt. Hun er en kvinde han ikke interesserer sig synderlig for. Jeg er til gengæld dybt fan: Hella drikker for meget, hun kigger for meget på mænd uden skam, og hun tager til Spanien når kærligheden kommer for tæt på. Hun er primært til stede i romanen ved at være væk. Hun er en bikarakter, men hendes funktion er vigtig. På mange måder bliver hendes hele tiden truende mulige ankomst til Paris et billede på den tid, der, før eller siden, må indhente den forelskede og selvhadende David.

Davids verden består herudover af to aldrende bøsser, Jacques og Guillaume, som ingen længere kan elske eller begære, som køber og truer sig til sex med alt for unge mænd, og som afspejler alt det, han ikke vil være, og af erindringer om hans far, alkoholiseret, ansvarsfralæggende og ensom, som han hverken vil skuffe eller blive som. Det handler i høj grad om at slippe væk.
Hele tiden er fortælleren splittet mellem det, han løber fra, og det han længes efter. Den illusoriske Giovanni, gyldenbrun, blød, håbløst forelsket, dybt såret, altid åben, samler begge dele.

I hans værelse sidder vi og længes efter at være alle andre steder, men uden at kunne gå. Det bedste for dig, er ikke altid det, du vil have.

Illustration af Mark Burrow

mandag den 13. juli 2015

Grimheder

Det er de små øjeblikke.
Det er den menneskelige nærhed, som man aldrig finder derude i kulden, natten, mørket, som man så desperat griber efter og forsøger at erstatte med stof som guld, som ord.

What have you done to my mermaids? They used to be terrible creatures, now there is nothing left of their greatness, withered in the cages of their soft bodies.
Og jeg kigger stadig længselsfuldt i det mørke vand, når jeg krydser Seinen. Som i dine øjne, døden lugter sødt og kvalmt. Jeg drømmer stadig om at drukne. Bare et af de steder.

Mørke. Sved. Varme.
Læg dig på sengen. Tag dit tøj af. Rør ved dig selv. Tag min pik i munden. Tag dit tøj på. Forsvind.

Kan du holde på en hemmelighed?

En såret fugl. Forsøget på at åbne mig for dig. Fortæller dig alt, men holder alligevel det vigtigste skjult. Ikke at det betyder noget. Ikke at det gør nogen forskel. Ikke at det ændrer noget om du stadig ville elske mig, hvis du vidste det.

Det er den modsatte dualitets princip. At der i den mest helhjertede nydelse vil være en sorg, at der i dens modsætning findes en bizar form for lykke. Og det er fordi jeg elsker dig, at jeg vil skade dig. Det er fordi jeg elsker dig, at jeg vil lægge mig for dine fødder, kysse dine hænder og overgive mig til dig i alt.

At that time of the evening she was still wearing lipstick, her red smudged lips were forming o's and ah's while she laughed and I considered how it would feel to press my fingers into her mouth and pull at each corner of her till it would crack, how her eyes would change from mild hysteria to chock, horror, maybe a kind of pleashure, I'm sure she could find a way of liking something like that. I waved the wine in front of her and she reached for it, her clumsy fingers failing to take it as I moved it out of her reach. I told her, you can have it if you take of your stockings. She did. She always does as she's told. Her eyes were filled with something then, too.

Jeg vil trykke min nøgenhed imod dig som et helkropskys
Uden lyd. Uden autoritet. Uden anerkendelse. Jeg kan ingenting, jeg er ingenting, Mere end bare maling og skallede tapetrester der søber ned ad væggene som savl ad din hage, når du engang bliver gammel, hvilket kommer før end nogen af os regner med. For jeg ser ting, der ikke findes, og jeg ser ting, der findes, men som jeg endnu ikke ved, eksisterer, før jeg ser dem. Jeg drikker rødvin, og det bliver blod og det har aldrig tilhørt nogen gud. Det strømmer ud af Jordens åbne sår. Det strømmer ud af hendes hylende, gabende huller. Som Hesten på himlen der trækker den vogn, der er solen, når den falder over de stjerner der er dig og spredes som døde klumper af kød ud over os alle sammen. Solen slukkes. Der er ingen midgårdsorm, der er ingen fenrisulv. Der er ingen fucking mig og fucking dig, for vi er ét og vi er ingenting. Men alligevel.
Vi er desperate, nøgne kroppe, der klamrer sig til hinanden i et mørke, der er tungt og vådt.
Et hjerteslag et sted i skoven.

fredag den 10. juli 2015

Klippe-klistre

Min tid som blogger for Academic Books er slut. Bloggen kan ses endnu, men bliver pillet ned når Atheneum lukker. Her er nogle af de bøger, jeg nåede at læse:

lørdag den 20. juni 2015

T-rex

Fødselsdagsgave til en, jeg holder af. Flasken er fra Urban Outfitters, T-rex er fra internettet. 
Materiale: permanent marker og akrylmaling.

Det er altså grundlæggende nemmere og sjovere at motivere sig selv til produktivitet, når det er for nogen andres skyld. Flere gaver.

tirsdag den 16. juni 2015

Suicides 1-3

And I shall wear a long dress which will swosh around my legs in the water. I shall fashion a mask made of leather and rubbed in cow fat which I will in time pull close to my face and tighten with straps under my hair. I shall bring a metal chain and walk out on the bridge a clouded summer's day. I shall look out into the horizon and hum a silent melody, sitting down on the edge, putting my feet in the water, feeling the stream caress my calves before putting on my mask and leaning forward. I hope my hair will look beautiful in the silence below.

It is 10.30 in the morning this day as I pedal over the inner city bridge. I am mostly alone in the streets as people are working. The sun is shining hard but this day it does not make my eyes hurt so much. I consider it for a good while, all the way up hill, a little longer than it takes me to get to the middle. I lean my bicycle on the railings, I take off my backpack before climbing up, purposely without looking around, then I swiftly and forcefully throw myself over.

The street by my house often makes me nervous. All those cars between me and the cigarettes and maybe today will be the day I'll not make it. I imagine the blood and brains smeared all over the front window of the car that passes me. The mess. I want to crawl inside your skin and lie there like a dead thing slowly coming back to life.


The essence is walking on the verge, dare open your eyes in dream and continue in spite. No one is making us stay. 

fredag den 5. juni 2015

Gråd

Det gik galt på et eller andet tidspunkt. Hjemsøgt af fremtidens umulige horisonter søger subjektet ny identitet uden formål. Konfronteret ved den mindste rystelse med det dunkle rum indeni når sårvæske flyder ud af øjenkrogen. Men tåren kan også læses som en krystalbro mellem det fortrængte og det virkelige, på den måde er den smuk selvom den efterlader jeg'ets øjne varme og panden tung.

 photo x1uJDL9_zpsncmj1iyc.gif

Nogle dage er det umuligt at spise. Det 21. århundredes neoliberale samfund skjuler over sine egne grave. Som melankolikeren har begravet modersubstansen levende i et forsøg på at holde fast, har kapitalismen, der ellers havde taget livet af enheden med Gud i bytte for en ny selvstændighed, gjort en uncanny dukke ud af de utopiske fremtidsdrømme der lovede sikkerhed. Som kultur kan vi i vesten ikke slippe ideen om den individualistiske perfektion. Alt er blevet overflade fordi vi skal lege at dukken er levende. Derfor er både subjektet og nationen nu pinligt hjemsøgt af ulykke og utilstrækkelighed.

 photo eKychoz_zpsy08isobg.gif

Ligegyldigheden over for livet, over for andre mennesker, over for fremtid og drømme og håb. "I thought there were nights that if a person could, I mean even physically, go insane, I thought that's what would happen to me. If my parents didn't stop fighting, or whatever was going on, that I probably would go crazy. And I wondered if that's how it happened. Like if people could just physically sit there, you know, and go crazy. [So now] I look at the world differently. Like I look at things sort of as gloomy and very precarious."- Speaking of Sadness.

 photo SgJaQiw_zps92oncg4r.gif

Jeg kan sagtens se, at verden kan være smuk. Men det er enten mig eller jer. Vi kan ikke alle sammen være i den. Depressionen skaber en enorm ensomhed, dels fordi den deprimerede er fysisk udmattet, ikke kan overskue andre mennesker selvom en følelse af fællesskab er håbløst tiltrængt, dels fordi den bryder med nogle grundlæggende kulturelle forventninger til hvad det vil sige, at være menneske. Grænsen mellem tristhed og patologi kan være svær at definere, men begge dele betragtes som normbrud i vores tidsalder. Tag nogle lykkepiller for dine følelser.

 photo hUnPeWe_zpsvgbjebfe.gif

Farlige steder: Tagensvej, Langebro, min altandør. Gråden afslører skellet mellem realiteterne og det reelle (jeg er nogle gange helt forelsket i Lacan). Folk vil altid have en forklaring fordi det at bryde ud i gråd er en afbrydelse, det er en transgression og uden en sublimering bliver den opfattet som grotesk symbolik: dine røde øjne afslører din tilstand af monster, og så er det ud af det symbolske system. Men som regel er årsagen fortrængt, begravet et eller andet sted dybt nede i psyken ved siden af mor og gud. Men der ér altså en årsag, gråden ér en reaktion.

Livet er angst og det er okay. Du må gerne græde. Det er okay. Okay, okay. 

 photo vsvwzSx_zpschubpcsq.gif

mandag den 25. maj 2015

Et øjebliks erkendelse

Det kan godt være, jeg skal holde op med at være så martyragtig over at jeg laver noget, der er så spændende og vigtigt, at det gør mig angst.

mandag den 27. april 2015

Udenfor Byen

Bær Drenge Fuglereder Graner Hekseringe Istapper Kærlighed Mos Skovbrande Tanker

Barer Bøger Caféer Cigaretskodder Ensomhed Fantasier Fattigdom Lys Monumenter Sorger

lørdag den 25. april 2015

Wald

Jeg drikker Wald uden filter af højt krus, teen smager af mos og bittert efterår, og jeg lader den sive ind mellem mine læber langsomt for at filtrere bær og blade. Sidder og gemmer mit udsyn i krusets cirkel, den dækker mund, kinder, det meste af mit blik, mit hår falder ned omkring os og verden herinde er lille og mørk. Jeg knuger mit hjerte og mit ansigt bliver vådt i varmen.


mandag den 20. april 2015

Tag en dyb indånding

Du går på stranden, du samler en konkylie op og sætter den mod øret. Den suser ikke som andre konkylier, men med en vældig, ubehagelig kraft, som et spand prustende heste tæt på udmattelsesgrænsen, som et gammeldags fjernsynsapparat der er holdt op med at sende i løbet af natten og som vækker dig med grå flimmer fra outer space. Det viser sig at være lyden af min computer. Det er ikke en drøm, der er ikke noget hav, det er mandag aften.

tirsdag den 14. april 2015

The story of Pheodora Knight

Last time I returned from College of Wizardry (Nov. 13.-16.) I tried writing about my experience. I couldn't quite choose the words then, my experience was still evolving, I wasn't done, but completely overwhelmed.  This is what I wrote:

18. november 2014: Secret passage ways, medieval castle in fog, running at seven in the morning with the other Durmstrangs, homework for Geomancy, hot discussions in Divination, Cruciatus curse in DADA2, dementors in the forbidden forest, fought undead in the forbidden forest, hunted death eaters in the court yard, Found a date for the dance worthy of any Hermione Granger, cruelly refused a junior with the words "He didn't really mean it, did he?" spoken to his best friend who retorted "Of.. of course not."  Broken heart and misery, wild chase after horcrux, ghosts, death eaters (no, arseholes), battle for the house cup, Roaring cookies in Libussa's common room, the Den, scheming,scheming, watching the quidditch try outs, messing with the juniors using Charming Chokolates and Obliviate, occult ritual and the summoning of the spirit of Gellert Grindelwals (whoops), Elixir of Euphoria, dancing on feet that can't walk. Followed by a constant adrenalin rush from Thursday night to sometime Saturday night, which stopped me from sleeping more than 3 hours per night and which made my heart almost beat itself out of my chest. Candles, heart break. Heart break. So much. My heart beating. Loving everyone afterwards. How the love goes on. How I don't want to return from it at all. Barely remember everything.
I felt immersed all the time. It's not like I ever forgot myself completely, I was busy scheming, visiting NPC's and organizers, but there really wasn't any difference in my mind set. I kept thinking the same way. I dreamt about the ritual and about the others and the castle.

This time around, as I went back, it was different. It took work for me to find my character, and I did so too late in the story. Now I miss her, and I miss her friends, her loved ones. I will write her story now:

Pheodora Knight-Alexeyev was a senior auror student at the magical college of witchcraft and wizardry, Czocha. Before then she used to go to Durmstrang, and she was proud of that and still adhered to the old ways from there. 
She was strong willed, stubborn, and loyal to those few people she truly cared about. She hadn't felt much love in her life, and perhaps that is why it came difficult to her to play the hero. It always seemed empty, not wothwhile. 
For a while it wasn't like that. She was hopeful and in love with someone who could keep up with her, who wasn't afraid to question her motives and ideas. On and off her and Robyert Markow saw each other for years, until he finally lost faith in her, deemed her unworthy of her path, unable to ever be truly good. It broke her heart, but she understood, and she still loved him.
It was the beginning of her senior year. She had become involved with a secret society, The Iron Brotherhood, whose members prided themselves in their search for power and who willingly shared secrets with each other in an attempt to gain influence in the magical community. These were times where purebloods like Pheodora were hunted and mistrusted by the ministry and all its representatives. The Brotherhood were fighting for autonomy, for themselves and their friends in a world where the future for witchkind was unsure. She was becoming increasingly fascinated with the possibilities, and as her only love proceeded to ignore her through the school year, it seemed like her only possibility to belong, was The Brotherhood, and she actively pushed the group towards grander and more risky experiments. Perhaps she hoped that Robyert, the hero, would try to stop them, would save her from herself.
Pheodora, always Knight to everyone else, never belonged anywhere. She cared deeply for her house but she wasn't one of them. She had many friends, but she never truly let them in. She would flirt and make fun, but behind the smile, she was always considering her possibilities, scheming, trying to foresee the future. And she was good at it.
She worked hard to push the Brotherhood forward. They had found a relic, with which they would be able to summon a great power and change the world forever. At the same time, she continuously tried to seek out Robyert, but it was as if he had always just left the room. When they were made in DADA2 to practice the Cruciatus curse on each other, something finally broke inside her. She wanted to hurt him so bad, while at the same time not at all.
The night of the ball was also going to be time for the ritual, the summoning of Grindelwald, history's most powerful wizard. Pheodora felt uneasy, she knew that it was wrong, but it was also far too late to turn back. She tried one last desperate act of reaching out to Robyert, and asked him to meet her after dinner. But when he came to her common room, she wasn't there, and when she went after him, he was standing at the bottom of the stairs with the other girl, the one who shouldn't have loved him, who already belonged to someone else, but who stood there anyway. She couldn't go to him, and she turned around, tears flowing from her eyes. He would be safe, he could have his happiness, and she, Knight, would go ahead with the ritual.
What she didn't know was that it was one of the castle ghosts, the Baron of Trolle who had been pulling their strings the entire time. The ritual was never intended to help the members of the Brotherhood. 
As she walked into the great hall at the arm of her date and class mate, Saari, she felt weak in more than one way. Excited, horrified. As the time approached, she saw their leader, Octavius, his girlfriend, Nikita, waiting at the stairs. She had prepared all the necessarities with the baron and she was the only one who knew where the cursed book was hidden. The group gathered and they silently went upstairs, through the secret passageway in Bombastus Bane's classroom, and all the way down to the dungeons. The new member, Xeno, swore the unbreakable vow, and the ritual could begin.

It all went wrong. A demon appeared, only half formed, bringing with him into life his lesser servants, and it was clear they couldn't hold him. Yet, they proceeded to ask for their rewards: the spirits of the houses. Pheodora was promised the spirit of Libussa, the gift and the burden of sight. In return they should bring the demon a sacrifice each, he told them, and he disappeared in thick smoke.
She knew what she had to do. She had something precious, but horribly unnecessary: her love for Robyert. But as she was running towards the lake, she could hear the sounds of battle. Their deed had been discovered even before it could be finished, and before her eyes numerous students destroyed the remnant of Grindelwald, and her only hope. She stumpled blindly into the chaos, weakly saw him fall and his servants disappear. 
After that many of her friends thought her mad, and she had perhaps half lost her mind. Back at the castle, her friends were being hunted down by the auror students, her class mates. She was broken, she had nothing left. Only still that love she couldn't use, that pain. She found Filip, one of the brothers, and he shared with her his addiction, Elixir of Euphoria. Madly they danced, and she ran through the castle without a care in the world. When they heard, Octavius had been killed, they laughed: He would never leave them now, forever a ghost at Czocha. 
She was utterly powerless and had even lost her wand when Robyert and the other aurors came to bring her in for questioning. She told him, or she meant to tell him, that she didn't want to do it, that it couldn't be helped and he held her and apologuised, but still he left her to the interrogation. In the staff room she saw Nikita being questioned. The professor speaking to her suggested, that now her boyfriend was dead, perhaps she should join him. She wanted nothing else, and was escorted to the top of the tower from where she jumped. 
Pheodora laughing and crying in the staff room. Most of the professors were managing the chaos, and she was alone for some time with Prof. Gregorius who gave her port, and the baron, who promised he would save her - in some ghostly rememberance of his own lost love many centuries ago.
When the staff returned, they let her go. The baron swore on her innocence. 
Filip was sent to Azkaban along with Kara, a member who had always tried to protect her friends, and Xeno, who wasn't even part of the plan until the very end.
Pheodora left Czocha for a few weeks. She was sent for by her father, a brutal pureblood who was proud at her for what she had accomplished and for not getting caught. She then returned, and proceeded to take classes like nothing had happened, like her heart wasn't broken.

Springtime. Pheodora was calm again. She would survive. Robyert had left school with his pregnant girlfriend, and Pheodora had been seeing the new Durentius prefect for a while, using him as a distraction. He finally found out that she didn't care about him - nor really about anything else anymore, and left her. 
Being the only living member of the brotherhood to stay at school, she had taken over the leadership and an apprentice, a junior and a fellow Durmstrang, Radoslaw. When Xeno returned she also took care of him. She felt she had to protect her brothers. She tried to leave Kara alone, and to avoid Octavius as much as possible. For a while her, Radoslaw and Xeno had been working on new spells. It had mostly been a project of interest: would it be possible to extract the bad blood out of a werewolf?

Pheodora had been feeling disinterested, disattached for a while. There wasn't much left for her to care about, and neither the midterms nor the local gossip could wake her up. It wasn't until Filip returned to school, and the last of her (living) brothers had been returned to her, that she began to feel something again. This time around she wanted to do better.
She tried to be the hero. She got along well with the other aurors, as she had always done, and when they were practicing, she felt alive and happy. When she was clearing hall ways and arresting bad guys with Jayden, she really believed that she could take on the world, that she could have a normal life.
In the evening a few days before the exam, the aurors and healers were called up for a mission. A nearby castle had been infested by something deadly, and it needed to be dealt with. Jayden had asked Pheodora to come and cover his back, and she had accepted without hesitation even though, that very same day, the three members of the brotherhood who had been to Azkaban, had recieved a very unsettling letter, and she suspected that something would happen. But she wanted to be one of the good guys, she wanted to save the day.
Unfortunately when it became time to go, her name hadn't gotten on the list. She couldn't go. She made Jayden promise that he would return alive, and went off to take care of her brothers. She had become increasingly close with them, and Xeno had even invited her to live in his family home. It was important that they were safe.
Filip and Kara had both been questioned by a mysterious looking strange ministry wizard, and she found him to demand answers: why was he bothering her friends?
Over a beer it was discovered that the strange supervisor was no other than Victor Storm, supporter of Grindelwald. He had earlier that year tried to kill Nikita, but Pheodora believed that more would be gained by working with him than against him. On behalf of the brotherhood she agreed to support him, and that very night she, Xeno and Filip swore alligience to the death eater.
In the meantime a desperate lycanthropy infected fellow student had approached them and asked for their help, and a ritual was set up. It was to be in full day light, before the midterm dance.
I don't think Pheodora remembers what she did between that decision and until it finally happened. What she knows is that the sky was grey, and that thunder shouted from the heavens as she and Xeno drew the lines on the ground. This time it would be different. Prof. Crumplebottom, who had fought in the battle of Hogwarts so many years ago, and who was so truly good, had even approved of the experiment and would be present, but still, it felt sinister. The victim, or rather, the volunteer had fear in his eyes - so did Xeno, who had pretty much developed the ritual on his own. 
Still, they did it, they called out the wolf spirit and trapped it in a flesh eating plant. Perhaps it would work? 

During the party this time, they only had to dance. Pheodora went with Filip and they spoke much about the old days, not without a certain longing. She had realized that the brothers were the only people she cared about (especially as Jayden had refused her invitation) and when Filip told her that he had hidden the plant in the forest instead of destroying it, she wasn't disappointed but gleeful. Together they would hatch new plans. Of course, this time, they would be careful, they wouldn't get caught - they would do it together, and she would protect them. This time around.

Octavius returned to life, many strange things happened that night. He brought Elixir of Euphoria which he gave to Filip and Pheodora and which they took. They went looking through the secret passageways, the same one that was used back then, in fall, and they found masks in Bane's classroom which they donned. They danced wildly in the great hall, they sang: "Octavious is alive", and trampling down the notes on the dancefloor which had been spread, the notes that said "Grindelwald is back", they pulled others into their dance. 
"What a neat bow tie," she said and dragged one of the younger students closer. Filip fixed it so it was straight, and told the boy: "You will make such a pretty corpse when you die tonight."

I will have to let go of her now. I am not quite ready. I just found her again, I just remembered what her body feels like, how she holds her back straight all the time, the way she smiles like nothing can harm her and everything already has. I can walk like her, I know how she thinks, how she reacts. What she secretly longs for.
I hope she gets it.

Photo by Christina Molbech