1. Thursday september 2nd

  3. Presententing a temporary thesis


  6.            Rules: dont’t talk about the essay

  8. Don’t not answer questions

  10.  



Never stop talking
Go back
 (before it’s to late)





Let’s not talk about the essay

Location: nice whine bar. You are drunk. 

Let’s not talk about the essay, I read while sitting in a wine bar at «det norske teateret».  with three choreographers and one artist that is a tailor but makes sculpturs but makes hats and there’s also three four other people there but I don’t know… yeah it’s really not that important. But I really like to work with them. It is just us there. Around us are draped heavy wine red curtains and empty tables. We are sitting in a circle, we are alone. My mind starts to drift. There’s something that’s not right. It reeks of fish, and cat piss, knotty pine. It’s 02:00 am. I have school tomorrow. 

I’ve been working on what started out as a structured diary. I had no need for it. «This is my board» I planned on saying. I had no need for it. It is now my diary. My semi-caotic-practice based can-i-really-separate-my-personal-life &-working-life-or-does-it-really-matter. I don’t think I care today. But since the work-diary no longer serves the purpose I’ve decided that I needed to give myself a fine. I don’t have a car and I’ve never even been in the driver seat of one. So here’s a penance for my hairy vehicle. Or a bot as we call it. The longest bot ever. But as Hanne wrote in their essay while talking about if their form is more important than their surface: (I quote) «quote*“I dont want to answer that question.”* that’s what pål mikael answered when talking to flavia» (end quote). And here we are. I don’t want to talk about this either. I don’t wanna answer that question. Let’s not talk about the essay. The smell grows stronger. Something is dead.


                          In my quest of searching for appliqués I’ve finally decided to start to pick up feathers. My mind has been picking up feathers for years, but my physical body has not. I now have a double layered plastic bag in my purse filled with seven feathers. I try to document every feather I find. I don’t pick up every feather, I leave behind the most broken or dirty. Sorry, this almost became talking about my essay, let’s talk about something else. I don’t wanna answer that question.

In my quest for becoming a warlord I’ve ended up like a prisoner in my own castle, faggot. I have no hair to let down and no rescue in sight. I can love today and hate tomorrow. I hate tomorrow, today. I wish I was never born with a dick. My family forced me to get a haircut against my will. I’ve never stopped crying. I’m queer as payback. I am Chicago. They had it coming. Let’s come back to this. I need a break.

What is this disgusting smell, there is something laying in the corner. 

Here today I’m reading something I’ve been writing about in my essay so I’m writing about something I have written about writing. No, let’s not talk about that either. I don’t wanna answer that question. My penis is having discussions with Andrea Long Chu. Everyone is female and everyone hates it, she says. Please let me be female, and please let me hate it, I answer. Why are girls called chicks? She questions. After all, men have the peckers.. 

Please let me be a chick, I say in response. She doesn’t answer, and takes off her glasses. «Getting fucked makes you female because fucked is what female is. 


At the same time, sissy porn remains wholly uninterested in who’s doing the fucking.»


I don’t know what to say to that, how can I agree with everything but reject everything? Everywhere, all the time. I never fought in I war, and probably never will, since the next one is going to kill us all. I start to get tired of the conversation, maybe I need another persona suicide. I look up from my phone. Noticing the smell again.

In the corner I see the mold-infested cocain-filled carcass. I can see the remains of the white hairline, mysogonistic and receding. It’s Andy Warhol, of course. 


                                                                                  And somebody is eating him? 

I try to look closer and my eyes start to adjust to the dim lights. 


Valerie Solanas hadent eaten in weeks. You can go much longer without when you’ve got eternal life. She looks up. She really let herself go I think to myself. I miss the old Valerie. The one who didn’t shoot mysogonistic men, and eat them after. My head fills with nostalgia. She looks at me «He’s a machine. A walking dildo.» She pauses. Chewing on a bit of pinky toe. « It’s often said that men use women. Use them for what? Surely not for pleasure.». I don’t wanna talk about that. I don’t wanna answer that question.


I saw the red-pill thread on Reddit. «If you can’t handle the abuse from a blonde chick at the bar, how the fuck are you going to handle beating a 7ft tall man to death with your bare hands when he and his tribe invade your village and try to gang-rape your girl?». Mike Haines on reddit holding the banner for the red pill community: you’re the sissy, fuck you. Why should I care about biology, don’t force your arcitectual-form-ideology on me. We never talk about aesthetics. So why are we talking about biology. Don’t you ever try to convince me that our department care about aesthetics. As Erlend Loe said:

         Førstemann til toppen av bakken!!

-Don’t you ever «førstemann» me


It is too late to have that conversation. So I don’t want to talk about that. Don’t try to talk about aesthetics again, you have too much to think about. Much more important things. Like thinking about things and stuff. Sometimes stuff. Other times things. Later i’m doing something so important, i’m going to think.      You do you, I say, you see. I see, you see, truse med mus I. As my dad used to say. 


                                                 I wish I had a truse med mus I. 


In my quest for becoming a warlord I’ve ended up like a prisoner in my own castle, faggot. I have no hair to let down and no rescue in sight. I can love today and hate tomorrow. I hate tomorrow, today. I wish I was never born with a dick. My family forced me to get a haircut against my will. I’ve never stopped crying. I’m queer as payback. I am Chicago. They had it coming. Maybe I need another persona suicide.

        
              Pause

.

New location: double reality, when you blink you switch. First location: skybar, white wine, jazz. You’re sitting next to a group of girls. They haven´t seen each other in weeks and have ALOT of important things to discuss. It’s not gossip, it’s justice. You remember I told you that you had important things to think about? the things and stuff? This is the things and stuff, and it DO make a village. 




Second location: stone hut, Middle Ages, deserted, you’re cold, wet, freezing. You’ve been through hell. Just like every woman in any lars von trier film. You start here.


I’m growing horns and hopefully they will grow so long and lush that Robert Eggers casts me as «the other black Philip». Party in the front, business in the back. It’s always business doing pleasure with me. I BLINK. 


You’re wearing your disco-knight-on-their-night-out hat and the people that are drunker than you keep on coming up to you and rubbing your head. So this is what it feels like? It do take nerve. One bead falls of, then another, the hat looses it’s purpose. You BLINK


I’ve been selling my sword for weeks. My lance has been around the town for å si det sånn. I serve no lord, I serve the highest bidder. They will get my long lance. I tried working freelance but it’s just not sustainable, but now work has been slow, and I used all of my temporary money on spells and whistles. I’m starving, in a run-down hut, just like my lance. It is easier to submit, to serve a lord, I blink.


The world’s best girls in the world raise their glass and cheer. They don’t say anything but the clink is enough. They will never meet the world’s best boys in the world, because they are female and they are culture. Rule of culture nr 1: culture is when a woman does something seriously, a gay guy does something as a joke, or a straight guy does something by accident. 


                                                                            Pause


New scene:

Oslo academy of the arts, Black box, the year is 2128. Most of Oslo is drowned in the sea. Everyone has aids. The other half is burning. The third world war has destroyed most. Global warming the rest. The tiny Swedish girl was right. How dare you. 


KHIO is the only place that’s standing, barely. The academy has sunken into the river and half of the theatre department is frozen in a permanent snowstorm. The library is burned to the ground. 


The design department still has no dedicated exhibition spaces, some things always

stay the same. 


The world is ending and the few people that are left know it. It is now super easy to get a safety course to the workshops. We all check our emails every 5 minutes. The communication is better then ever. Students, teachers and administrators all answer their emails. We just needed to get ræva i gir. Oh heaven is a place on earth. «If I had known that I had so little time left, I’ve would’ve answered the emails immediately», we all think to our self.

In my quest for becoming a warlord I’ve ended up dying in a gay man’s utopia. Welcome to world of Warcraft. I belong in the kitchen. I am an incel. I have an extra pair of Jeffrey Camble shoes at school for emergencies. I wear g-strings. I work with menswear. I give shrooms to the teacher. I take screamo courses. I am culturally queer. I tape the holes in my converse with gaffa. I am scared of playing gitar. I care about form. I know Donna Haraway. I have contacted a Greek choir. I made a sculpture of breasts. I am theatre. I try to separate my work life from my personal life. I am talking about my essay. I will soon be drowned in pigs blood. I am the final girl. I don’t wanna answer that question.