a . w a l k . i n . a n g e r

The very red mini tree

The men's attire

The only leaf

The weekend fox

Yesterday, I was at a proper foul mood. Angry I stomped away towards work, out into the sunshine and the clear autumn air, with my cameras in my pocket... I must remember to do that next time as well. Within 15 minutes I was a cheerful girl, full of forgiveness and compassion for my (equally) annoying fellow citizens.

The weekend fox came along many hours later though, as can be seen by the Grasowska stained paper. 

Tonight! Flexi-pop-pop-pop at Baba-baba-baba-jan! Couloroïd DJs again, Babajan, Katarina Bang 75.

t h a t w a s t h e n

It's too early for words, I'm not yet awake. I have a pile of dishes and long for sunshine. Tonight Karol comes to cook us dinner and make a mix of music for traveling. It will be grand, I tell you.

These pics are all from last spring. The light is different and the land barren.

m u s i c . c o m e s . i n . p a t t e r n s

This is my laziest post for a long time, no cropping has been made, which is kinda necessary when you do the TTV. I haven't edited out my camera's notorious speck of dust either, and I haven't handed in my camera for repair. What would I do with my hands - ?!

Yesterday was concert night, first a hypnotic darkness with Dungeon Acid that almost put me to sleep and made my legs tremble, it was after all my first night out for some time. Then Lisa & Kroffe at another venue doing the majestic synth, and to my delight live overhead projector visuals - ! Lisa is a VJ to book. The black and white visuals are from another act though.

And tonight! Colouroïd plays again, at the venue where it all started, Snotty, Skånegatan 90, Stockholm. To make this a special occasion, we'll premiere our latest track "A Tribute to Tomorrow". Saturday we're at it again at Babajan, Katarina Bangata 75.
Come by and say hi.

WHEN SKIES ARE GREY, DREAM DREAM AWAY

In May we went to the west coast and the ocean to see Glenn's mother. We drove round the countryside, dined like royalty and visited the dirtiest flea market, covered in black mildew.
Where they live some of Ronja Rövardotter was shot.
  It's possibly the world's best children's films.

t h e t h i n b l a c k l i n e

The above shots are all of the same picture in Swedish Elle Interiör no 7 2010, a picture in an article about Virginie Denny and Alfonso Vallès's Parisian home. Except for the last pic, the illustration animation film-one, which is a thingie I've been working on for myself. The wire letters are made by Alfonso and attached to the walls of his studio (as you can see in pic five and six). The difference between wire and vector cannot be denied, though it wasn't until yesterday that I saw the resemblance in lettering. Funny.

I sometimes, often, wish that animation were a speedy process. There are so many little films and sequences that I wish were made, and could be made for the joy of it, in half a day or so ...with reckless abandon. A clock without hands second but one blog post is such a little piece of text where I just want to go into this imaginary half a day mode of making. Listen to this:

"In my dreams, I write important telegrams in silver needle thread from my clicking Remington that I stuff into books living inside of the libraries I visit after long journeys on a ship similarly stuffed with books. The ship creaks and moans and poets whisper "tread softly, for you tread on my dreams" to the water. In the study, a group of aging scholars organizes the Busby Berkeley Academy of Dreams before pouring over ancient, yellowing encyclopedias. The sea smells of earl grey tea and fields of cotton. I carry land in my pocket, a small marble shovel tied around my neck. The printing press leaks and faces smeared with black ink laugh, eyes blank and budding like white pearls. Children ask questions such as, "Did Franz Kafka ever see Nosferatu?" and we smile despite uncertainties. Home isn't a place, but a feeling; conveyed through words such as: the warmth of a teacup pressed to my cheek, the crackling voice of someone who has disappeared from the earth repeating inside of my crooked ears, the slant of sunlight breaking through a thick of trees to warm one side of the street in the dead silence of winter, and imagining the wind gently pulling apart your strands of hair is a pair of hands."

 

Now I must tell her she's been quoted.

a . m o n d a y . g r u m b l e

This morning I went from "I have big plans for this week's posts" to "I'm too tired to blog" to "Oh but look at last week's snow, and look out my window now". So here you have it, a pan out my window overlooking the tiny triangular yard that since three and a half years back is my everyday world.

A (very annoying) man once asked me: "When you get ill, do you take it like a woman or a man?" Meaning of course, do you bitch and moan (like a man) or bite your lip and suffer silently (like a woman). I answered: "Like a man." To which he replied: "Oh please, take it like a woman."

Me "taking it like a man" is unfortunately true. And why shouldn't I? However, that's not the point. The point is, this question, this lazy way of thinking, this manner of speech, this --- everything about this stupid question vexes me at every turn. This conversation took place about three years ago, and to this day I regret I didn't ask: "How do you take it?" But I can guess.