Stockholm is lovely. Enjoying my time alone and being a stereotypical romantic writer-poet. Half-empty theater bars? Check. Poetry festivalen? Check. “Oh, I’m working on a book.”? Check.
I don’t know why, but Stockholm is always surrounded in fog for me. It just feels like city that should emerge and burst out of a heavy fog, while we’re on a wooden boat of some kind(don’t know much about boats, boat is a boat). It is a very pretty city though and I’m grateful that I can just stay here anytime I want to.
Went to the Science museum here, they had a pretty great exhibition on digital art. Weird, crazy ways of making music and integrating different art forms. The coming decades should prove incredibly interesting for new art. Sure people will paint great stuff, but now they will want to make those paintings sing. Literally. Or make weird light shows around them, or turn them into a game. Like the world as a whole, art is globalizing. Meshing and swishing around like a snow globe of weird. fucking. shit.
Lot’s of sitting on benches and observing people and cities going on. I’ve slowed the world down a fair bit and I’m really trying to find what I can find out and add to the book. About myself? Sure, that too. But other people. And my dreams and memories. Everything is worth analyzing and thinking about.
If you see a creepy guy, in the back of the bar, that’s probably me.
Love that Ginsberg line: “In the back of the real”
Don’t know yet.
I’ve been writing soooo much. So goddamn much. Everything I have is pushed into this book. Writing is a shitty, shitty chore. Sometimes it’s amazing! Most of the time it’s just work. You’re constantly mining for that next gold nugget of great writing. It always feels like it’s just right around the corner.
Something I’ve allowed myself to do now, is to write badly. When you’re writing a book, you’re first priority should be to finish it. This works for me, I also know writers who plan everything ahead and then edit WHILE writing. Fleming used to hand in his first draft! Woody Allen also rarely edits afterwards.
But this concentration works for me, so I’m takin’ it.
Reading a lot too. I jump between 3 books. Sartre’s “Nausea” is my Swedish book. Dostojevsky is my Estonian. And Adler can be read whenever. Sartre particularly is a real poets book. It’s filled with tiny, good sentences and poems just grow out of them.
The movie is like 94% done. Then it’s time to show it around to friends, cast and family. And THEN, start sending it to festivals. How the hell did I make a movie? I can barely remember. But it’s definitely there. Sometimes I look at it. It ACTUALLY exists. And it didn’t a year ago… Life is good to you, just gotta go and flow and hippie shit.
Gonna go to Tartu and get a tattoo.