love can be like bondage
w, you left me carrying a packet of condoms in my tote bag. so now i feel like a total slag every time i leave the house.
well they are unopened so not a total slag, a slag in the making, a slag in the hoping of such.
im getting restless so next week i go on a month + long tour around europe.
im gonna go malmö - berlin - prag - vienna - venice - san marino - rome - florence - milan - monaco (cannes / nice / monte carlo) - marseille - barcelona - valencia - madrid - bordeaux - paris - london - manchester - london - paris - amsterdam - berlin - malmö. should be good.
oh and if anyone has any tips for where to go / what to see in any of these cities please do let me know.
a short scooter ride and a walk that will leave you exhausted (if you dont end up following the wrong tracks up a mountain and down the hill into the deep forrest where you stumble about indiana jones tracks for 45 minutes until you realise that what you were thinking the entire time was right, this is not the right way, in which case you will be more than exhausted but also get a sense of ackomplishment after solely lying on your back in the garden or climaxing in your parents guestroom, finally getting your body to do some walking) away from the paradise im staying in now (click here for a piece of what im looking out the window at right now) leads you to a wonderous place called nimis. an artis living a few houses from my parents called lars vilks built it. he has claimed it to be a country seperate from sweden called ladonien. ladoniens flag is green (with an invisable cross), its free to become a citizen and for a measly 12 euros you can become a lady or lord of ladonien. it also has its own stamps, which also are invisable and means that you will need to deliver the postcard yourself. it has 2 nationalsongs which i have never heard and its own currency which conveniently enough doesnt exist either.
lars vilks built it on a swedish nature reserv which means that the goverment are constantly trying to tear it down. vilks says the resistance is part of the artwork. he has been carrying pieces of wood up and down the mountain for ten years to be able to complete his artwork. complete is probabrly the wrong word since it constantly grows and reinforces. going up and down the mountain is not a leisure task. its steep and once it rains the entire area gets slippery and traitorous. i took a picture of him once when i was 11, he does not appear to be a man who could carry 20 kilos up and down a mountain every day and im sure he’s bled for his art many times. at that time he was completing his second installment of the artwork which is a “book” consisting of stone and cement rising in the air as a somewhat surreal castle. although numbered stones is the only similarities with a book. after being on the many black lists of various terrorists after depicting muhammeds face on a carton dog (leading me think that my parents house might go down in the magificent blast that would be the terroristcell infused death of lars vilks) vilks still lives and works down ladonien and if you are ever in the neighbourhood you should see this amazing piece of art.
(if you watched it before and didn’t hate it. do watch it again now with much better quality)
feel free to watch it as a big film or try the ultimate kaleidoscope experience and start the 4 films as quickly after each other as you can. you may have to pause and play to adjust them eversoslightly to get them syncronised.
i dont fancy writing about my private life. really cause its nobody’s fucking business. i dont even tell my friends half the things that go on in my life. but today i had a piece of me surgically removed so that it wouldn’t develop into cancer. no need to comment asking if im okey. im fine. the reason why i would consider sharing this “delicate” piece of information is because i want to infuse some very rare moral into this. fellow women, go check yourself. if it wasnt for a fluke i would never have found out in tokyo that i had cellchanges and i would have kept postponing my overdue check up most likely for years and i would most def have been facing some serious trouble in a years time. i am one of those people who would rather go with a random ache of some kind for 6 months before i actually do something about it. (you wouldn’t think so with all the ambulances i travel in, you might think im cutting down on taxi’s but thats probarbly cause ive fucked around with my body for so many years that there is always something broken inside of me). and even though this post will probarbly generate in nothing more than me telling how i went to the hospital today i feel allthesame a need to write it. its a really fucking easy thing to do. make an appointment and go. every year. chicks all over the world are getting cancer at a scarily young age and its far better to control what is happening in your body whilst you can instead of ending up loosing it completely.
“when you take drugs you get paranoid and confuse yourself with scarface”
all of a sudden there was a pool in my backyard. impecable timing.
no time to write, im busy driving illegaly and pool hanging.
meet my parents (father in dark square glasses / mother in short dark hair) acting in a swedish kiddie horror film from 67 “kullamannen”.
xxxxx
tomorrow i get a visitor so now not only do i get my berlin-hostaged macbook back but i can make fun of his winey american accent again. today i took my first dip in the ocean. skinny dipping style. it was cold but refreshing. after the first day of my yoga course which lasts all week. its me and lycke getting limber again and the india nostalgia is grand. i am quickly turning into a gingebread cookie. this sounds like a very bland postcard.. the weather is great, we are having an amazing time. hope all is well back home. xxx s
pietro and david, my italian saviours.
pasta, pesto, pizza, pastry’s and percolated milk in my latte’s was all i put in my belly for 9 days. oh and icecream. at least twice a day. sanna + carbs = true.
i wrote a lenghty post about religion and then decided i didn’t want to share my thoughts on the subject but i have visited pretty much every church in milan despite being an atheist despite having a cross tattoo’d on my body despite despite despite. it was a whole post on me going back on myself in a limbo of mockery and dissection, reversing opinions every 2 seconds and then going back to my orginal view point. really a discussion between the two or five me’s. a discussion way to confusing to be aired publicly, it would be far less private to post pictures of myself in the nude. something i somehow have managed to refrain from.
/i love the way italians drive. even from the backseat i was shouting italian insults as we drove way to fast fueled by a base-heavy soundtrack a night through milan.
when i left milan, my passport was not checked a single time between italy and copenhagen. i traveled through europe feeling a bit like a terrorist and it wasn’t an all bad feeling. it felt like i was doing something bad with the insurance of knowing that i wasn’t. oh god im old. a no frills attached thrill. i need to go out and steal something now. also if someone now googles “low security check airports” and “terrorism” then my blog will appear. just as when someone googles “spank me in with a stapler dressed in nazi gear”. well not really but now… also most of my spam nowadays are from ukranian whores wanting me to visit their sex blogs. do they do a survey on what i might be interested in pending on my most frequent blog topics?
/but the graveyards do.
the first day in milan i went round the corner from pietrov’s house where i was staying. (a lush duplex flat in the middle of milan, looking out over the courtyard where a quiant little car mechanics shop was located and italian men laughed as they fixed various car troubles.) round the corner and down some streets was a huge fairly gairish building which i had no clue what to expect of. but my obssession with churches made me take a look. it was no church but a graveyard. graveyards in sweden and any other place i have been are fairly mundane and depressing but this was a tribute to the dead if there ever was one. 250 000 square meters filled with mausoleums and statues marking each grave. luxury real estate for the dead. in every direction church-like miniature buildings mimicing graves with crusifix’s and statues of crying women sometimes fearful sometimes beautiful monuments set in stone. i spend hours on the ground walking from tribute to tribute. and then i hung out a bit with midget-jesus.
change of plans. copenhagen_sweden today.
one less relation in my life and alot lighter because of it.
today we have been bathing for hours in a fountain, very very fellini.
(it is hotter than hell here, which is why we throw our clothes off in the middle of milan and jump into fountains. and get refused entry into churches because of indecent exposure.)
have only been in milan for two days but have already spent the night in the emergency room with three morphine drips.
i wouldn’t be me if i didnt manage to end up in a hospital within 20 hours of going to a new city. we love milan otherwise.
romy was in town yesterday with her band the xx (‹click) we went for some vintage finds / steals in the day before i had to go and recooperate my aching throat which is currently suffering from an unwelcome cold. but after having failed to appear at more than a handful of their gigs before i pulled myself up with the help of my friends, caffeine, ibuprofen and strepsils. i couldnt down 3 cups of lemsip, pop 3 anadin extra with the help of half a liter of diet coke and be a ok per usual because of berlins lack of anadin extra, my pharmacutical friend in all weathers.
the gig was excellent, romy voice soothe even a fever flushed forhead and i felt almost ok for the duration of the set. after i was leaning towards going home and stabbing myself in the leg to focus the pain my throat was feeling elsewhere but instead i pushed through and im glad. me and romy catched up on all the lesbian drama, we played nintendo and it was the healthiest backstage spread i have ever seen in my life. whole carrots, wholemeal bread, soya butter etc. everyone was pretty amazed by this spartan but yet so forgiving platter or nourishment. i double dipped camomille tea for me and lissie trullie’s manager.
i fear that this will mean that me and chloe sevigny will never strike up that close friendship i was hoping for (where i borrow here clothes, dry hump her at night and borrow her ex-boyfriend for marriage and s&m) but i have to say that lissie trullie is a terrible band/singer/artist? the set was no where (No where) as good as xx’s and the lyrics made me cough up my still water. love / dove / glove is a masterpiece compared to the rhyming that chick was doing on stage. now that was a rant strictly based on her musical abilities, lets swiftly move over to critisising her looks, cause lets not be big enough to leave that be shall we. she’s cute and all that but i have seen fewer more under nourished girls. (although that may be cause i made a point of not attending fashion week a few years back) but that girl could do with eating a falafel or two. and before the storm of tiny girls defending lissie’s right to starve starts i should point out that in no way do i think that it is better to be a heffer like me, folding myself over the buffét table screaming i looooove foood with romy in heal but it was sad to see. she couldn’t possibly feel well. i dont understand, is she a model, a friend of the moderatly experimentally arty famous few or a singer? slash slash slash etc etc. do i sound bitter? i do, i must be jelaous that noone is counting the bones in my ribs through my tshirt and that i cant hang out with people who work for purple. damn it, one more thing i did not know about myself. if that sarcasm was a touch too much for you, you should stop reading and start commenting personal abuse right about now.
because im going to milan ( and then barcelona ) in 3 days i somehow think i can pull of a psuedo-betty blue look (minus the eyestabbing), a careless girly summer flirtatious look. i dont think im that girl but you know how warm holidays somehow make you feel like you might morph into one. like all of a sudden you will get swooped off your feet by a beard growing, striped tshirt wearing man who knows what wine goes with which 12inch record and who can wear sandals without the instant reaction being stabbing. that you somehow (if wearing a flowery flirty little number) will end up on a boat in the ocean where someone will serve you fruit of a platter and you’ll sip veuve cliquot all day and all night. and as you are fucked from behind in an alleyway you somehow manage to escape that dirty streethooker feel, cause the dress makes you feel innocent and adventurous instead of making you think about the fact that you are still wearing your kiddie cotton knickers.
(this post is not about fashion)
(really, burt bacharach, go fuck yourself alternatively look pretty, put on some make up, dust the porcelin ornaments and wash the dishes but dont forget to suck your husbans cock like a good little wifey when he comes home from the workplace after having shame wanked to the dirty secretary in the privacy of his office)
“sure, when i marry dash snow”
its raining so I am making it a matador records day today.
/goodbye / hello
