A Madwork Black: A Stream Of Consciousness

Greasy keys. Have I eaten something greasy while I’ve been typing again? Spelling mistakes. How do I prevent spelling mistakes when I’m just typing what I’m thinking? One subject. That subject cannot be brought up. That would cause embarrassment. Or would it? Blank. Yes, it would. It’s too early for that. Compliments. But I can’t write. Who do I think I am? Mother. She’s at work. I’m at work. In my own way. Copenhagen yesterday. Fuck I love the Danes! Frida. She’s in Berlin. See, everything I write is boring. Not as boring as the status updates of some of the people I have on Facebook though. God, that’s boring. Bores me to death. I want to look at some photos of… Oh. Right. Blank.

           

Want to talk to dad. Right. He’s dead. How do I feel about that? Josefin asked me that, didn’t she? And what did I reply? That I didn’t know. Because I don’t. I miss him. Sometimes I think about things to tell him; to ask him. Like: did you ever read Woolf? I’m trying to write as she does, except that I’m the character she’s describing and it’s my stream of consciousness – consciousness? Is that really how I should put it? Shouldn’t it be: stream-of-conscious? Hyphens? Should there be hyphens? Typically me. Going mad. Always hung up on spelling and grammatical shit. And these greasy keys. Keys? Is that really how “tangent” translates into English? See. You can’t write a novel in English. Who do you think you are? Eh, scusa!? Who do you think YOU are talking to me in second person singular? Right. So, I wanted to ask my dad if he’s ever read anything by Woolf. Obviously I can’t.

There, now I did it again. I drew too much air into my lungs. I hyperventilate. When am I going to learn how to not do that? Never, probably. Nitlottskroppen. Gud. God? Now I switched to Swedish, apparently. Blank. Alice. Wonder where she is now. And Vera. And there’s the palpitation. My heart beats too fast, I know it. Maybe not too fast, but at least too hard. Hard. That’s a fun word. Not hard now. Could get. Blank.

Almost finished reading Burroughs now. Good book. Excellent. But did I get it?  Dunk. Fuck you, heart! What did I ever do to you? Blank. Cities Of The Red Night was excellent. But why? I didn’t even get half of it. But he’s still a good writer? But WHY? Is it because I really like it, or is it because he’s writing is very pretentious and it’s the pretentiousness that I like? Who knows. Does it matter? Death. Visiting grandmother at noon. Should pick up some stuff – god I hate that word. God hates fags. THINGS. Pick up some THINGS at the bookshop. But what? Highlighting pens. Pencils. Mother only has pens. How can one live without pencils? Well, she’s not much a writer. Or is she? How would I know? Does it matter? GOD THESE KEYS ARE GREASY AND SLIPPERY! Blank.

Incredible speed. Should, perhaps, always write like this. Would be a kind of – kinda? – strange book though. But people like strange. Bondage. A Clockwork Orange. David Lynch. Oh, and Luite. Hope he doesn’t get mad just because I put his name here. Stark mad. “Stark” in Swedish means “strong”. The hatter. Switch places! Jag tar en halv kopp! I’m late. I’m late. Late late late. Late with my period? No. Ew. Period. Such a nasty word. And when I went to Helen’s last time, there was this Chinese girl who, apparently, couldn’t drink because she was on her period. And this she said to my brother’s dad who barely speaks English. IN SWEDEN YOU DON’T TALK ABOUT YOUR PERIOD! Period. As in the little dot. I prefer the semicolon. And so did Tolstoy. The old pretentious unhappy spoiled – was he spoiled? – little brat. “All happy families are happy in the same way; all unhappy families are unhappy in different ways.” – does it get more pretentious than that? I’m one to talk, sitting here writing a stream of consciousness with “To The Lighthouse” at hand. Jokers to the left of me. Here I am, stuck in the middle with you. Salmon.

Should I edit this? No. What would be the point of editing? Fuck, there’s my heart again. Heart attack? Stroke? You’re 26 for fuck’s sake. Apostrophe on “fuck’s”? Blank. I want to have sex with blank. Would he have a big dick? 30 minutes have past. Greasy keys. Alica Keys. Cold hands, beating heart.

Cheers!