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Spinning 45 Ballerina

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The Everyday [May. 25th, 2011|07:09 pm]
Spinning 45 Ballerina
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[Current Music |cortex-mayhem troopers]

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Last night we were walking in the rain to Vilde's apartment. Maria had bought us Pizzas at 7-11. She never sleeps at her place any more, me on the other hand, I usually walk home at night home because I love my bed, my toothbrush and a fresh pair of pantihose in the morning. “Vilde is so cute when she's just woken up” Maria said, “Totally lost, and very cranky”. Maybe I wanted to see it for myself. We slept on mattresses on the floor. (I love sleeping next to Maria, she snores, but it’s the gentlest snore ever, more like a rhythmic purr in the dark.)

Earlier in the evening, Maria and I had been watching some film students shoot a scene. We’d helped them with some props for a neo-Nazi party. It’s been sublimely taboo, and I've been telling everyone about the gruesome stuff we’d been making.

We climbed a million stairs to get to the studio, located in a big, grey, but unassuming building. When we reached the top we entered what used to be a large office space. It might have belonged to one of the old shipyards, and was obviously designed in the 1960s. The front room had a tiled atrium and a spiral staircase, dilapidated in the extreme the first of these top floors only retained a few worthwhile features, including a teak door with a yellow glass rhombus on it. We used a search for the toilets as an excuse to continue exploring up stairs. One story up from where the shoot was doors surrounded the staircase. Each one had a small round peep hole in them. At the very top we found the stairs incased by a glass wall. Behind it there was a tiny white and pink kitchen, not what you would expect at all. It was a magical place, something you don’t get to see too often. Probably the area by the old docks is going to be gentrified within a few years, no one will think to keep the old industrial buildings though, they’ll just tear them down and build squares instead, (so all the square pegs can fit inside). Actually I don’t mind. I really don’t like this part of town. All the streets feel like the perfect place to commit child murder.

Vilde’s place is also magic, a big flat at the top floor of a functionalist building in the city centre. Her lift is terrifying and seagulls sore outside of her bedroom window.

In the morning, after a couple of times of no one getting up, Maria turned off Vilde’s horrible alarm. “No” Vilde squealed, “don’t, that’s mine! Turn off your own alarm.” After some bickering Maria squabbled to the bathroom. (Probably to flee the scene and her cutely confused, yet cranky friend.) This was ironic, because the only person who didn’t care about getting up early that morning was Maria. I was actually the most ambitious having set my alarm for 10 AM, hoping to get to work early for once, but alas.

I stayed in bed a little bit longer, and Vilde checked the program for a Jazz festival. “I’ve never been” she said. “Me neither…” I started, but was interrupted by Vilde making a terrible sound. She rose from the bed like Nosferatu while exhaling something that can only be described as an echo of the cry of a banshee. With her perfectly rounded mouth she looked like an inflatable doll, springing to life as someone unseen filled her with air. “Freddie Wadling is coming!” she cried, but I didn’t understand. “Don’t you know who he is!?”, “No” I admitted. “It’s the guy from Coretex!” she exclaimed.

Now Cortex is a great Swedish post-punk band, and Freddy is they’re eccentric front man. I’d go, but I’m broke. I hope Vilde gets to though; she even owns his biography. (Fan-girl.)
This is a cool song:


I was angry with myself for oversleeping, so when I left Vildes place I walked swiftly, determined on getting to work as quickly as possible. The king of Norway on the other hand, had other plans for me. “Where are you going?” some self-important lackey of the state asked me. (I could tell something was up, because he wore the ridicules parade uniform that makes the police look like they belong in a children’s book.) “To the other side” I said, and felt like the infamous chicken. “You can’t” he said. “The king is coming soon” in a manner that suggested that to him this was somehow a valid argument for me having to walk around the block. But there is no sense in arguing with people who are dead set on making you late because of some anachronistic institution that only exists because of the stupidity of my nation’s people. “Such a nice tradition” they say, open mouthed with vacant eyes. In all fairness me buying a pair of new pantihose was what really made me late, but I feel like blaming the king today, (who seems like a nice guy, and I’m sorry we force him to watch our symphony in the rain every year. (Though not as sorry as I am about his family receiving money from everybody, so we can keep our nice tradition of supporting his inbreeds)).

Why don’t we fight them? Why do I let them block my way because some nobody is going to watch a concert? Why am I so passive? I must be drunk on oil...

The royals all live in nice houses, and never have to choose between comfort and magic. Last summer I lived in a magical house for the first time in my life, the sort of place that captures the imagination and gives you a permanent cough. Now I’ve traded magic for comfort, my own little kitchen and the option of staying warm all through the winter. I’m not sure that it’s worth it. I wish I was rich, and happy, the normal stuff really, with some magic on the side.
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