This is where we belong

Crying people are beautiful. Say whatever you want. They are.




On a certain level, I understand mass murderers and spree killers. I think most people do sometimes. When I'm angry and tired and desperate, I do find comfort in the idea of just simply going and making bad people suffer tremendously. But would I actually do something like that? Would I go and torture or kill someone? No. Never. Or maybe I would if there was NOTHING else left to do, but generally I'm a nonviolent person. Violence wouldn't help anyone. It would only make the bad guys seem like the Good Guys, and the good guys seem like the Bad Guys.

But maybe, maybe it would be a good thing if someone (not me, but someone) went on crusade and murdered every bully on this planet, every evil idiot, every evil coward, the people who made those Arla Ingman commercials where a bunch of cows stand on an imaginery paradise-like meadow and moo: "ARLA INGMAN! OOH, ARLA INGMAN! IT'S SO NATURAL!" [like people in a concentration camp singing: "Thank you! This is where we belong!"], most politicians, most CEO's, Kanye West... and who else... Well, anyway. After this bloody killing spree there wouldn't be too many people left on the planet. Lisa Simpson perhaps. Possibly Ellen DeGeneres. Nelson Mandela. Perhaps, perhaps.

That world with a population of 3 would probably be a better place than this world we're living in. But we'll never see that world. Quite simply because when that world comes, we'll be lying on the asphalt in huge pools of blood.

The spring's almost here

Last night I went to bed exceptionally early at 1 AM.

I lay on my stomach and I was trying to turn in but I couldn't bother to turn off the light, but I turned on the radio, and the radio started spitting hypnotic rhythms into the room,

and I lay there and something strange started happening: my head was suddenly full of poetry, really surrealistic poetry, and at the same time my body started to EXPAND, it started to expand in a strange way (this happens sometimes):

suddenly I felt really big and flat and out of order in my bed, and the music kept playing and I kept expanding,

and suddenly I pictured my future self: it was a peculiar hallucination, a hallucination in which I'd finally written my first proper book. And the book was called



It's mine, and I hate it.

I don't know. Fuck yeah.


The reason behind my insecurity is not that I consider myself worse than other people, but that I know that other people have bad taste. ..... That's actually kind of clever. Maybe I should become the Cute Version of Oscar Wilde. The New Wilde from Fingland. Maybe not. Oscar Wilde is kind of boring. Or was. Or I don't know.

Haunt you down

Everything bores me. Give me something that doesn't, and I'll follow you till the heart of this world stops beating.

Genius like that simply appears in my head all the time.

Anyway.

I've read an awful lot of literature lately, I've seen too many movies and heard too many songs, and now I'm sure enough to say this:

Most things are boring.

A lot of people try but most of them lack what it takes. It has something to do with your lack of COMMON SENSE; if you're haunted by your common sense, it will eventually haunt you down and kill what you could have had.

I mean: you're crazy. It's OK. Hold on to it. Never let go.

Umm, okay

Can't wait

(Jesus, Herman's Hermits were the most annoying band ever to grace the universe, mainly because of the lead singer who looks like the grown-up Dennis the Menace)






Aaaaddddddffffgggggggghh,

I don't know.

Things are really even more complicated than I thought 3 days ago.

I mean I could finish BODIES now. I could finish the book in three months. I could make some changes. The main problem with the story is that I'm afraid I've created too much empty, dull, gray, boring air between the interesting parts, and that's the one crime I'm not willing to commit. I have rather clear, extremely exciting scenes in my head, scenes that are yet to be vomited out: the night club full of famous murderers; the encounter with Albert Einstein; the moment when things start to speed up; Marilyn Monroe and Grace Kelly cleaning Tommi's wounds and trying to make him stay; the moment when Tommi starts to understand; the moment when he escapes; Tommi and the Girl at the cemetery, discussing loneliness and their pasts in an open grave and then making love; the arctic seashore where Tommi finally meets his Grandfather; the explanation and the mystery; the hospital; the keys; the last scene.

Now when I think about it, it does turn me on. I do want to tell this story. I'm also trying to be... practical? I dunno, but the thing is quite simply that I'm aware that deciding to write LOSERS first would mean that it would take 1,5 extra years for my dreams to come true; and that's too much, way too much. LOSERS is a manic story with a manic narrator, but it's not a story that I could write in 3 months; I have too much material, too much wrath, too much pain, too much hope, too many ideas, too many people to cram into it.

So yeah, I'm afraid I've only got one option. I'm gonna complete BODIES, at any cost, and I'm gonna do it fast. NOBODY CAN STOP ME – except me. I'm gonna have to find the way to get over ME and then just WRITE, WRITE, WRITE, WRITE, WRITE.



I just have to find the Flame again. There are at least 2 paths to go:


1. IF IT DOESN'T WORK, CHANGE IT

That's my philosophy when it comes to other things, so why not this thing as well? If there's stagnation, throw it out. If it's boring, replace it with fire. If it lacks substance, throw in the substance. Delete entire chapters, write entirely new chapters, kill darlings, find darlings.

2. GO AND FIND THE BARENTS SEA

This one is a bit more difficult. Or maybe this is the easier one... Well, the problem with this option is that in order to do this, to find and visit all the places I want to find and visit, I have to get a driver's licence somehow. And in order to do THAT I'm going to have to sit in rooms and cars with strange, potentially unpleasant people. That's okay, I do that more often than one could think based on these writings, but the problems don't end there. If I DO get a driver's licence, the tricky part is still waiting for me to tackle it – I actually have to get into the car (the car? what car?) and then drive hundreds, even thousands of kilometers, and eventually cross the border and eventually-eventually wander arctic seashores surrounded by Norwegian fishermen. Which would be totally okay if they weren't fishermen. Or people.

All in all this option contains way too many difficulties: if I really do get into this so-far-fictional car, start the engine and get on the road, I'll be forced into the world like a slimy premature baby. I'm going to have to meet people, talk to people, find places to sleep, things to eat, people to trust.
And all this should be done pretty soon and pretty fast. Hmm.

I guess I'm going to have to do this. I don't really have options, do I? If I don't want to end up wasting my life dreaming instead of chasing my dreams, if I don't want to become one of those bitter sad people, I have to get up and do something.

I'll do it.

I'll have to do it. Unfortunately.

Who am I kidding? This is going to be the most exciting thing I've ever done in my entire life. FUCK YEAH. The adventure is calling my name. Finally I'm on my way to becoming the drifter I always wanted to be. I'm nearly a sailor now. Nearly.

This is how we turn dreams into reality.

So yeah, I've got things to do, books to write, and... well...









TO INFINITY.........


AND BEYOND!

Can't wait to walk those streets. Can't wait to meet the people, can't wait to find the most interesting outcast, the most fascinating punk-rocking Lapp girl of Kirkenes. She's waiting for me. Maybe she'll give me a Lapp dance. Maybe I'll give her a Lapp dance. Yeah, right. I'm sorry.

Btw: Toy Story 3 is my favourite movie.

So...

I tried writing Losers.

And...

I think it's all pretty clear now.

I'm gonna ditch Bodies. For a while. We'll meet again when the right time comes.

It's a matter of COURAGE. This is a crazy step and this will make things even more complicated but this needs to be done. I don't want my First Book to be 'alright', I want it to be something so much more.

This needs to be done. Because when it comes to these things, the only general is the heart.

I gotta speed up.

Follow the heart,
or follow the brain,
follow the heart and follow the brain?

And after all

It's really a matter of hope.


Please, somebody, help me, save me, I don't know where to go from here and I don't want to stay

Music inside literature

One of the new things I want to try with my books is to make MUSIC an important part of the story. I hope that one day, hopefully soon, a writer is able to put good songs into his/her (e-)book the same way I'm able to link YouTube videos into these blog posts; that one day a song will be a concrete part of a book, so that the reader only has to press a button and the music starts playing (in the reader's headphones or whatever, depends on the way you're reading the book and the place where you're doing this and shit and yeah).

I mean a bit like this (minus the picture):

CHAPTER 14

Farry Fotter woke up to a terrible feeling; his head was exploding, it really was, it really was, and he had some fresh vomit in his mouth, and he smelled worse than the worst of Fonald Feasley's farts; Oh crap, Farry said to himself, I really need to go and get my daily dose...



Ignore that. That was stupid. But anyway:


The thing I've always hated about writing books is that you can't attach music into them. But this way books could take a marvelous step towards movies. Writers would be recognizable not only for what they've written but also for the kind of music they're recommending; there'd be hip hop writers, hard rock writers, indie pop writers, techno writers... The list goes on. It would cost the publisher some money, but I believe it would also improve the sales of the book. I mean if the music wouldn't suck. You know. And stuff like that.

The mere idea

 

Remember this? Remember when we did that moth thing with our hands? Good times, we were really annoying and life was great. Your soul was a little colder than mine, but your soul was good and I could see it in the way you saved that mouse from pain.



Everybody's so fucked up and crazy. Lately I've been feeling like there's no sane people in this world at all. The president is crazy, the politicians are crazy, the drunkards are crazy, the psychiatrists are crazy, the scientists are crazy, my family's crazy, everybody on the street is crazy, I'm crazy. And at the same time I have a weird feeling like maybe other people have figured something out, something that I'm unaware of; that maybe they've found some sense and logic in this thing, but then, once again, I understand that the reason why other people aren't confused and panicky is quite simply that they are dumb and lazy, too dumb and lazy to wake up to the fact that everything's fucked up; and if they one day do realize this, they just shrug and carry on, because the mere idea of this fucking mess makes their brains hurt, just like the universe makes my brains hurt.


So anyway. I'm not doing very well.


 

If you torture animals and cram them into nightmarish little cages and after several months kill them with electricity, you're an animal abuser and a criminal. But if you get MONEY from doing this, you're just doing your JOB and they tell you to carry on. This is how the law works, this is how society works, this is how we work.

I guess it would be easier to live if I just tried to forget that stuff like this happens; I mean I already deliberately ignore the fact that Las Vegas exists

There is something deeply wrong with the combination of humans and money; the mere idea of money makes humans idiotic and irrational, money fucks them up.

And maybe this is the main reason why I've decided to ignore money completely. If I ever manage to get a lot of money, I'm gonna give it all away to the ones that truly need it. I hate money; I have enough of it if I'm able to live, eat and shit in peace.


So anyway...............


Flesh was (and is) the best book I've ever tried to write. It had honesty and wrath and sorrow and laughter and love and pain, it had me: the 16-year-old me is trapped somewhere inside those sentences. When I was writing Flesh I gave it my all, I gave me, I wasn't constantly thinking how this and that would seem to this and that person............... This is so fucking sad, now I'm writing about banging Marilyn Monroe and masturbating Oscar Wilde and stupid shit like that, it's not me, it's not honest, it's not painful; it HAS to be painful to be good, this is so fucking sad. Or perhaps it's good already, I think it's good, maybe not the best I could deliver, but still fucking brilliant, I mean I'm a prodigy you know.


AAAAAAAAAAARFGHHGJKDHgkjdhgkjLDGHLKGHDLKJGHhjdhjdhgkhk. Will ANYONE ever read this 'blog'? ANYONE? I hope so; at the very moment the counter says this place has been visited 791 times; I hope that some day those three numbers will have three 0's next to them..........


I spend more time writing this crap than writing my actual 'literature'. After all, THIS IS my literature. THIS and the OTHER blog are my books too. Now it's official: these blogs are my autobiography, the autobiography I wrote when I was 17-19 (I hope to stop doing this pretty soon, but fucking fuck, who knows). And there's still so much left to tell. Yeah, so anyway.......

Some are born Heroes; unloving idiots vs. me and Damon Fizzy

I've deliberately ignored the existence of Damon Fizzy for the last few months, and I've done this for complicated reasons. But tonight I decided to find out how he was doing, and I started thinking about these things again.

Now that you're annoyed let me explain.

Damon Fizzy (or deefizzy, I don't really know what his actual name is) is a young YouTube vlogger. I found him in 2012, in the small hours of a brightening April night. I was wasting time on YouTube, watching Christopher Drew Ingle videos, desperately trying to force myself to like NeverShoutNever's music due to the veganism of the singer (I'M TRYING BUT I JUST CAN'T, THE SONGS ARE SO TRIVIAL), when I suddenly noticed some wise words in the comment section. Someone said something about the fact that Christopher Drew's hair didn't matter, that it was the music that really mattered, and then this commenter got a lot of feedback from other commenters telling, "This is why I love you, Damon", "I wish more people were like you, Damon", etc. So I decided to check out who this wise 'Damon' was. Turns out he was a young person describing himself as a 'meat-free kid', whose goal was to 'make you smile'.

The 'meat-free' part got my heart beating with excitement, and when I realized he had over 300 000 YouTube followers my heart almost jumped out of my mouth (...). I realized there was something interesting happening here.

So I started watching the videos. I watched a lot of them, and at 5.30 AM I finally looked out of the window and realized that it was the most beautiful of April mornings I'd ever seen. I got up, grabbed my iPod and my keys, and went out and wandered the euphoric seaside streets of Helsinki for 3 hours. I was happy. It was a HAPPY Saturday morning, me and the Sea and the Sun alone in the universe. And deefizzy; I was happy that a person like that existed, I was happy that he had 300 000 YouTube followers. Something interesting was happening.

The reason for my happiness that morning, the reason for my happiness every happy morning, was that I'd just realized I wasn't alone. In a world of cruel idiots it's very easy to forget that kind, caring, warm, real humans actually exist. They are here too, somewhere. To be honest, I'd started to feel I was the only teenager on the whole fucking planet who gave a shit about other breathing beings.

The most astonishing thing about deefizzy was that he actually, really, firmly, deeply... cared. He cared. He was a vegan, he actually was a vegan and an animal activist, and in one of his videos he mentioned how he'd stood up for a bullied kid in school, and so on, and so on. This Damon was annoying, but his eyes, his words, his thoughts, everything about him showed that he gave a shit.

The internet is the most frightening place in the world, but now I had found a small corner of it where someone gave a shit. And that gave me hope. I knew I wasn't alone. And that is the best feeling in the world. The best fucking feeling in the whole fucking world.

Damon Fizzy was a lot like me but still different. He was like the even more hyperactive, more social, less intellectual version of me. He was young, just like me, he had acne, just like me, he was distressed yet hyperactive, just like me, he was annoying, just like me, and he cared, just like me. And in his eyes I saw something most people unfortunately lack.

Would you rather trust your life in the hands of the typical sexist, racist, homophobic, pretentious, violent, idiotic, unintelligent, rude, bullying, anti-thinking, unloving brainless teenage idiot, who lists 'Tits' and 'Bacon' as his main interests on his Facebook page, or would you rather trust someone who has passion and a heart and a backbone and a brain?

So many people are assholes. Being a hero takes social courage. There's something heroic about this deefizzy thing.

What if everyone had that little, powerful hero element in them? Would we have violence? Would we have cruelty? Would we have ignorace and indifference? Would be have bullied nerds in the corners of our classrooms or little chicks thrown into the grinder in the wheels of the meat industry? I think not. But it's something I'm afraid we'll never know.

Would slavery ever have existed? Would the Nazi Holocaust ever have happened? Would gay kids kill themselves, would there be child labour?

Something to think about.

I wish all the best to deefizzy. I wish all the best to the weird and the weak. I wish all the best to the losers and the heroes of this world. I wish all the best to me.

Good night.

And then we disappear

Watch this video. Watch it.

If I wanted to look like Arnold Schwatzenegger, that would be hopeless. But when it comes to Jimmy Dean, I've got some potential. Not MUCH at all, but I mean, I am small and sloppy. And this way it becomes tolerable.

For absurd reasons, Forever Young is a song that means a lot to me.

I want to be a hammer. Maybe that could be my name. I'm always looking for a name. My name is Hammer.

Declaring Wars

I don't like 'alt lit.' To be honest, I fucking hate 'alt lit.' It's supposed to be this new, young form of literature, and the people who write it are usually teenagers or in their early twenties or at least under 30. The whole thing mainly takes place on the internet, the writers write and exist on the internet, and the internet is what they write about.

Okay, so I'm always looking for young writers, and here they are. Are they the future of literature? I fucking hope not.

I found this documentary about a young writer named Zachary German:

All I can say is: WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH THESE PEOPLE? As personalities they seem intelligent and kind and complex, but as artists they are nothing. They are just soulless hipsters writing about "The awkward moment when [enter something cute and uninteresting]". They are clones, every single one of them is the same as all the others, and they have no understanding of... well, anything important. The most painful thing about this is that they do have potential, they do have minds and hearts, souls and bodies. They just simply don't use them at all, because all of them want to be in the Gang; they want to be what it means to be Alt Lit, and what is means is excrutiatingly boring. It's like a collective psychosis.

They could burn, burn, burn, but instead they've decided to sit in front of their computers and giggle and eat cute biscuits and look for the easiest way to get as many retweets as possible.

Where's the fire? I don't understand. What's wrong with these people? What are they doing? Why all the weird blankness? Why so boring?

I guess one of my duties on this Earth is to rise against this kind of 'literature' and be something completely different, something breathing, something exciting, something raw, something antihipster, something burning.

We'll see, we'll see.