After the last post things started sinking in. Cargo ship. Two weeks on the Atlantic Ocean. Writing retreat. What the hell is even a writing retreat? I felt like I was going to Mars. And I came to think of the simulation they conducted in Russia, the ďMars-500Ē, where five people were isolated for 520 days to simulate a journey to Mars. I should do something similar. So I went to the country. My parents have a house in the south of Sweden, itís the house where my dad grew up, where my grandparents lived. Itís fairly isolated, on the back of the house is a small forest, on the front is a road where heavy trucks go by. Once youíre there you canít really get out. Once darkness falls itís dark. No streetlights. Just the dark woods behind you and the dark fields ahead of you and if the sky is clear, maybe some moonlight. You can put on a reflective yellow neon vest and walk down the road if you want but chances are still good youíll get run over by a truck. And itís a two hour walk to the nearest place where anything would be open or where you could take a bus to somewhere else. So youíre stuck. Unless you have a car but I donít, not even a drivers license. I am a perfect subject for this simulation.
People here are farmers. My grandparents grew and sold vegetables. In the last few years things have changed a bit though, one farm has become a farming museum. Another one has opened a sourdough bakery. A lot of people have devoted a barn or two to opening a vintage store and sell old furniture. People here know what the summer guests / city people like. One farmer has set up an old wagon with pumpkins for sale. I buy a beautiful orange one. I walk with my orange pumpkin through a corn field in the evening and Iím tempted to steal a corn cob, thereís thousands and no one would notice, but then I realise that this is not the kind of corn that tastes good for a human, itís for animals. I get home and roast the pumpkin but it tastes bad, turns out the pumpkin is for decoration, itís not the kind you eat either. Dumb city boy.
When it gets dark I get tense. The loneliness and the silence is extreme. The radio helps, I listen to the night programs, the radio psychologists, the shipping forecast, the programs where they let crazy people call in. Classical music. The slightly less interesting radio documentaries. A whole hour about lichens. When I go to sleep I remember a trick - use earplugs and trick yourself that youíre actually surrounded by noise that youíre not hearing, to avoid going crazy from the silence. But then the fear of ghosts kicks in. I need to be able to hear them so I can make sure they donít sneak up on me. Not that Iíve ever encountered any during the 38 years Iíve been in this house, but Iíve never been here alone and those ghosts mightíve just waited for the right moment. Once the ghost fright kicks in itís useless trying to sleep. I turn the radio back on and just lie in bed, staring at the shadows. Iím thinking that maybe it was strategic of me to not get a drivers license. In that case I mightíve taken off now, taken the E6 back up to Gothenburg. I wouldíve been home in two hours. My comfty bed there. Every house sound there wouldíve had an explanation. A neighbor making a midnight sandwich, a dishwasher finishing itís shift. Instead Iím literally stuck here. I made so many choices like that in my twenties. I consciously avoided getting a decent apartment so that I wouldnít devote too much time to fixing my home. Avoided studying something that could get me a real job. Avoided getting over my fears and working through my problems. Avoided making rational decisions. Because in the back of my mind I knew that if I had a way out of pursuing my dream I would take it as soon as that dream started crumbling. I wanted to be stuck in my dream, through good times and bad times. I canít say Iím proud of these strategies, I was from time to time a burden on friends who had to help me with things. So I figured some of those things out but sometimes I curse the things Iíve achieved and learned that have opened new doors for me and given me more choices and possibilites. Being a prisoner of your own limitations has itís advantages. You need to nurture your monomania.
The second night I hear a sound from the woods that makes my blood freeze. It is an evil spirit that has eaten rusty tincans and smoked a hundred packs of cigarettes. Or it could also be a horny deer. One of those two things.
During the days I go for runs down to the ocean or pick rhubarb in the garden to make a pie. Things go well. I ease into my country writing retreat. The only thing that doesnít go well is the actual writing. I sit by my computer or by my guitar for 8-10 hours a day but nothing comes out. It terrifies me. I look out at the fields and I want to be a farmer instead. I want to plow my fields, plant my seeds, watch my crops grow. Such a simple and gratifying life. Then I think about the apple trees, how they bloomed last year and delivered apples that were so red and perfect. The 2018 freak temperatures made the harvests grow to mediterranean proportions. But this year the trees are exhausted. They canít deliver like that two years in a row. And I think about the farmer two farms down who grew sunflowers that no one wanted. Perfect sunflowers but people wanted roses instead. All the crops that fail, all the spinach that blooms too early, all the cauliflower that gets eaten by snails. And we all do what we can to get by and I read an interview with Bill Callahan where he says ďOn your list of things to do, you donít write: DaydreamĒ.
On the last day I surrender. I accept that nothing good will come from this, that this writing retreat has been a failure. I look down on what I have, the scraps of melodies and words and I decide to just record it all anyway, just to have a record of what Iíve done. It turns out slightly better than I thought. But Iím going to let this land lie idle for a little while now. I read on the website for the Swedish Board of Agriculture that when you let land lie idle you can plant plants rich in pollen and nectar, that attract pollinators and butterflies, to support biological diversity. And I decide that this is what Iíve done. The old clock strikes four and I hustle to get my stuff together and stumble down the road in my reflective yellow vest, with my guitar and my suitcase, in full storm, trucks honking their horns, the withering sunflowers bowing their heads, waving goodbye.
Greta Thunberg should be approaching New York City in her sailingboat as Iím writing this. Can you New Yorkers please go down to the harbour and give her a warm welcome?
Iíve been thinking a lot about the future of touring in the light of climate change and the efforts needed. Mostly Iíve been pulling my hair out over the career Iíve built that is so dependent on flying. Itís relatively easy to take the train when your career is based mostly in Europe, but mine is extremely intercontinental. Iíve spoken with friends in the business about this and there are three views - 1. those who think one should set a good example by minimizing your own footprints 2. those who think one should use your platform to spread the message and not think too much about all the flying and 3. those who think we should declare martial law and introduce a rule that ONLY musicians get to fly and no one else (this third one is really the opinion of just one friend though).
ďUsing your platformĒ is an expression often thrown around that is sometimes a bit vague. But I guess it means spreading the message, playing benefit shows and influencing your listeners. Iím not great at these things. I love playing benefit shows but the ones that Iíve done often feel like they couldíve done better without me. And Iím absolutely terrible at debating or agitating. Iím better at walking the walk rather than talking the talk. So Iíve leaned more towards setting a good example, for many reasons. One is that I simply want to adapt and prepare myself for a future where things are very different. Another is that setting an example often feels like a more powerful way to influence people than telling them what to do. I want to show that itís possible to tour and work in a different way. So since a year back Iíve been looking into alternatives to flying. When two shows in Belarus and Russia appeared earlier this year I thought Iíd start with them. I confirmed them and then started looking into trains. But when I finally had planned a route that was exhausting but not impossible I was informed that I simply wasnít allowed as a visitor to arrive this way. You can only enter Belarus visa free by air. The promoter wasnít able to get me a visa and other logistics soon made the whole idea collapse. Other offers started coming in, a lovely festival in the UK, a wedding show in Italy, but since the fees I get are usually quite low it now didnít seem to make sense to travel for days, spending almost a week on the road, for just one show. Maybe if I treated it as a vacation, but that would be a vacation that was 80% spent on trains and buses. And while some of Europeís train lines are gorgeous (hello Oslo-Bergen), most of them are simply there to take people from point A to point B. It became apparent that one-off shows outside of Scandinavia would be very hard to do. I should focus on longer tours instead.
Since a year back Iíve been working on a possible US tour for 2020 and Iíve been looking into crossing the Atlantic on a cargo ship. This is actually a lot worse co2-wise than flying but their business does not rely on me as a passenger, they will travel anyway since their cargo is their prime business. So in theory itís like piggyback riding on the problem itself. Cargo ships do take a long time. About two weeks from Europe to the US east coast. If I look at the stressful nature of touring, the slim budgets and all the press you need to do the weeks before it starts, itís a terrible idea. But if I look at this time onboard the ship as a two week writing retreat (since there is literally nothing else to do aboard a cargo ship), then it actually kinda makes sense. At least it makes sense for me. I donít have a family or a dayjob. Spending two weeks on a ship instead of half a day on a flight is possible for me. But Iím not suggesting this would work for everyone. And this is important, by saying this might work for me Iím not saying this would work for you. I donít want to shame anyone. Shame has become such a big part of the narrative and I donít believe in shame. Shame is a crippling sense and it's always the wrong people who feel shame. I want to focus more on anger towards those who should feel shame. I want to think about all the lies weíve been told. Imagine every flight you donít catch as a rock thrown against ExxonMobil, Shell, BP and Chevron. An incredibly tiny rock for sure. But a rock nonetheless. And a rock that could grow into a landslide if you show other people what is possible. "The Greta effect".
Apart from flying I am also currently looking into playing with local musicians and youth orchestras instead of bringing a big crew (which would require a big bus). This is a dream Iíve had for a long time and something I see as a privilege to (maybe) be able to do. The few times Iíve done it itís been amazing, it requires a lot of work but to be able to connect with local, often young musicians in the cities I play and also stay for an extra day to rehearse before the show, gives me so much more fulfillment as a touring artist.
So in the end I donít see these changes as sacrifices. If travelling goes slower I get more time to dream and write, something I need regardless. And if I can play with local musicians I get more of a sense of fulfillment. And I think this goes for a lot of the changes we must face. I often feel like we are grieving what does not need be grieved.
August 24th, 2019
I wanted to give you an update on what Iím up to these days.
But I canít. Because itís secret. Itís a bunch of secret projects that could be something but probably wonít be anything at all. Thatís how it is in this biz. You invest yourself in huge projects and then when they donít happen you blush, laugh nervously, convert them into something else and say ďoh actually this was what I wanted to do from the beginning anywayĒ. Itís frustrating to not be able to talk about it. But Iíve come to the conclusion that what I can tell you about is what Iím not working on.
Iím not building a ship. Thatís ridiculous. Why would I be building a ship? I know absolutely nothing about building ships. Woodwork never captured my attention in school. I recently built a shelf out of necessity for my workspace and within a month it collapsed (it only held a few plants, the construction was very very poor). Maybe I could build a small box-like construction that would stay afloat long enough to paddle across a small river. But a ship? Ship building requires years of education, not to mention passion, endurance and an interest in the naval side of life. Of which I have none.
Iím not trying to photograph a black hole. Imagine how frustrating that wouldíve been, to have worked on that when in april that Event Horizon image suddenly appeared. To open up the newspaper and see that infinite darkness staring back at me. And with no access to gigantic telescopes or supercomputers it really wouldíve been such a hard task. Literally impossible Iíd say. However, photographing a black hole does seem like a good analogy for all creative projects I get myself into. You have this idea of what something is going to be but itís impossible to picture the actual thing, only what surrounds it.
Iím not opening a cafť. However I have a good idea for a cafť. When I was a kid I went to a cafť in the countryside where my grandparents lived and it had a circular room with a model railway around the wall. You ordered your coffee and cheese sandwich and then it came out on a railway model train. As an adult I learned that this was something that probably never happened, I mustíve dreamed it. And so I thought at some point maybe I should start this cafť. Iíve always liked these kind of automated dining places, like conveyor belt sushi places and advanced vending machines. There used to be a similarly themed seafood restaurant in Gothenburg for decades called Rškan (the Shrimp) where your dish came out on remote controlled boat in a pool in the middle of the restaurant. Your job was then to steer the boat to your table. Lou Reed apparently, one night after a Gothenburg gig in the 70ís or 80ís, ended up in this place and found great joy in sinking everyone elseís ship by steering his own shrimp sandwich like a battleship into the other seafood vessels. At my cafe you wouldnít be able to ruin the other guests experience, a qualified model train operator would be the only one to handle it.
Am I working on a new album? Well, if I did I would just tell you. Iíd love to make a new album but in order to do so Iíd probably have to go in a circle, do something else, aim high and then fail, blush, laugh nervously, convert it and say ďoh actually this was what I wanted to do from the beginning anyway - a new album!Ē. First Iíd have to try build a ship, photograph a black hole, start a cafe and fail at all those things. And then come back to the only thing I really know how to do. Making an album.
But thatís not what Iím doing. Not yet.
April 12th, 2019
Today, April 12th, my musical project CORRESPONDENCE that I did with Annika Norlin last year is released in itís entirety! With new string arrangments on half of the tracks and nicely mastered. The final result can be enjoyed HERE!
After completing his previous projects Postcards (where he wrote 52 songs in 52 weeks) and Ghostwriting (where he offered his songwriting to tell other peoples stories), Jens Lekman came up with a new idea. He asked fellow Swedish songwriter Annika Norlin (Hello Saferide, Sškert!) to join him. The idea was that throughout the year of 2018, the two of them would correspond through music. Each month, one of them would write a song and the next month, the other one would reply. Before starting, they did some research on famous letter writing in literature. They were struck by how you usually have to be dead and declared a genius for your correspondence to be published. Thatís sad, they thought, and decided this would be great to do while they were still alive.
The rules were simple:
- One letter each month throughout the year - in total, six songs for Jens and six for Annika.
- Only one instrument could be used for each song. This was to help them focus on the songs/letters instead of the production.
Correspondence gave Jens and Annika an outlet for more spontaneous ideas, and they decided to stay under the radar by only releasing the songs on the Correspondence website, and a Spotify playlist. Most of the time they forgot that anyone else could hear the songs, and they turned out very personal. But looking back at 2018, maybe most of the personal things they wrote about - exhaustion, longing for human connection, harassment, climate change anxiety - summed up 2018 at a larger level as well.
As the project came to an end, Jens and Annika listened through the songs and felt pleased with the results. An epistolary novel in the form of twelve folksongs. Jens wrote string arrangements for half of the songs and brought in violinist Ellen Hjalmarsson and cellist Petra Lundin. Today, April 12, all twelve songs are released as a full album (digital only, the songs are too long to fit on a vinyl, sorry). To hear the original recordings and read the lyrics, go to the original website: c-o-r-r-e-s-p-o-n-d-e-n-c-e.com
In their own words, here are their thoughts about each track:
01. January: Who Really Needs Who
JENS: In september 2017 I moved to TromsÝ, a small town in the arctic north of Norway, way above the polar circle, because my partner had started studying there. I found myself in a situation I hadnít been in for decades - with no contacts, friends or even a job or purpose there I had to make new friends from scratch. How the hell do you do that? All my friends since I was seven and started school came through the friends I already had. I thought of joining a badminton club, I tried randomly going out to the pub, I posted an ad on Facebook for other musicians in the hopes that music would help me. And I was reminded of the state I was in when I met Annika for the first time.
02. February: Showering in Public
ANNIKA: Me and some friends were talking about locker rooms and I said Iíd always hated showering at gyms. They asked me why and I said I didnít know. When I started writing the song, I honestly thought it had to do with my personality, Iím someone who likes a bit of space. But while writing, I suddenly realised what it was really about. This was written in the afterglow of #metoo and that probably influenced the song as well. I wanted a chorus that felt like a football chant and imagined people sitting in a pub, arm-in-arm, singing the words ĒShowering in publicĒ together. When you listen to Correspondence as a whole, I think it sounds a bit heartless - Jens reaching out to me in January, and me not mentioning that at all in this song, just starting to talk about my old gym memories. The song did, however, originally start out with a bit of ĒHi Jens how are youĒ. That made the song super long, so I cut that out.
03. March: Forever Young, Forever Beautiful
JENS: Annikaís song reached me as I was on tour in the US. One night after a show I met a guy who was a mountaineer, he told me a story of how heíd done a job once where he helped an older woman climb Mount Everest so she could visit the body of her husband who had died there on a failed expedition decades earlier. The story captivated me, I wondered what itíd be like to see the love of your life, frozen in the beauty of his youth, when you yourself had grown old and wrinkly. I envisioned this woman remembering him as a sexual object.
After the song came out someone asked me ĒHave you ever looked up what these dead bodies on Mount Everest look like? Even though the decomposing goes slower itís not a pretty sightĒ
So I googled Ēdead bodies on mount everestĒ and I really regret doing that.
04. April: Hibernation
ANNIKA: 2017 was a super busy year for me and when the autumn came I was struck by a very specific need to spend time in the forest. I later read thatís actually a thing, spending time in forests is proven to lower your stress hormone levels. I started feeling like just being there for an hour or two wasnít enough. I wanted to live there. I started googling ĒHibernation for humansĒ. Itís sadly not possible, it has to do with our metabolism. But I dreamt about it anyway. And in the spring of 2018 I started feeling better, like if I really had spent September - March in a hole and suddenly I was hit by the first rays of spring light. There was originally a verse where I woke up and roared, but I cut that out.
05. May: Not Because Itís Easy But Because Itís Hard
JENS: Iíve had this fantasy my whole adult life that I have clones of myself and that we work together as a team. I envision how much work weíd be able to do, how we could fulfill all those dreams we (I) have. But since we live in this world where youíre never good enough, weíd probably work four times as hard but still feel we should work harder.
When Annikaís song spoke of feeling overwhelmed, something Iíd seen many close friends struggle with over the last years, and Tim Bergling / Avicci was tragically found dead after struggling with exhaustion and stress, I wanted to write something comforting, I wanted the message to be: ďif you need a break Iíve got your backĒ.
06. June: Joining a Cult
ANNIKA: Iím a constant worrier, but 2018 was the year I for real started worrying about climate change. I also worried that it felt like our elected leaders all over the world werenít taking the climate crisis as seriously as they ought to be. Simultaneously, I was watching that Netflix documentary, ĒWild wild countryĒ, about the Rajneesh movement. The premiss for the show is obviously that a lot of sad things happened and you shouldnít put all your trust in separate leaders, but while watching it I still felt a slight envy. In the beginning, the cult members were so certain about this and actually believed things could change for the better. I have this constant longing in me for someone to come along and say, ĒTrust me, this is what weíre gonna do.Ē Another thing I worried about was that Correspondence was turning out to be be the worldís saddest project, so I felt the need to turn this into a somewhat upbeat song. Because of the Correspondence rules (only one instrument/song) I had to rely on knee claps. I really love that part in the song that goes ĒSend in the choirĒ and feel a bit upset Iíve used that part for this song. It doesnít even really fit. I could have saved it and based an entirely different song on it.
I also feel upset no one has noticed my cult name would be Warlord Springgrass, which I personally think is a kickass name and someone should totally write a space movie based on it.
07. July: Revenge of the Nerds
JENS: Since Annika wrote about joining a cult, I first wanted to write about my perceived notions of parenthood. But another story kept bugging me, it was the one about the incels. After the Toronto attack in april this group of men had all of a sudden sprung into the center of the worldís attention. I was intrigued because I could relate to them somehow, some part of my teenage self identified with them, they reminded me of my friends back then and a narrative that we grew up with through nerd culture - that we had the right to sex and love because we were the nice guys.
This was the one song I wasnít entirely happy with and it took a long time to figure out why. I think itís because when you write like we did in this project, with a finger on the pulse of the present, itís easy to look at things from a moral viewpoint and come across as too righteous or preachy. As much as I tried to make this a personal story I couldnít help but feel I stepped too far into that direction. Oh well, the chord progressions and strings turned out nice at least.
08. August: Failure
ANNIKA: This one line in Revenge of the nerds stuck on me. It was Jens mentioning that song his friends wrote, Too ugly to get laid. Thereís some kind of psychology in there that my younger years can relate to. Like, itís best if I hate on myself first, before anyone else gets a chance to. I tried to protect myself from getting hurt I guess. I remember the first time a paper wrote something extremely negative about something Iíd worked hard on. I was devastated, but at the same time I recall another strong feeling growing, like, Wasnít it worse? This is what Iíve tried to avoid all this time? Thing is, I felt pretty proud of what Iíd done myself, and reading someone else hating on it, it became obvious to me Iíd done it for myself and that I didnít really care if someone else wasnít into it. So thatís a gospel Iím trying to preach, failing is not that bad. (Unless youíre like, an airplane mechanic. Then itís bad.)
09. September: Cosmetics Store
JENS: I spent the first half of 2018 trying to hold up a facade on stage and in life as my relationship had started crumbling behind the scenes. When it eventually ended I couldnít feel anything anymore. One day I stepped into a cosmetics store, one of those Aesop stores that have those expensive moisturizers and lotions that succesful people have in their bathrooms, and asked for a good moisturizer. When the store clerk took my hand and applied the cream gently something broke off from my heart like a giant ice shelf breaking off from Antarctica.
10. October: Election Day
ANNIKA: I played a show in GŲteborg on Friday, stayed in town for a couple of days, and because I try not to fly anymore I spent a good twelve hours or so on different trains getting back to UmeŚ. It was election day in Sweden, a really important one. I sat on the train and pressed update on various sites to see what the predictions were. I also bought a really big apple, and before I left I briefly met up with Jens at the train station.
I wrote the lyrics during the train ride. This is probably my own favorite of my half of the Correspondence songs. Thereís a line that goes, ĒAll is quiet, but it feels like a bomb with a really long fuseĒ that I like, because for me, thatís exactly what this year has felt like.
11. November: On the Edge of Time
JENS: 2018 felt like a dark year and it was hard to find anything but hopelessness among reports of elected populist far right leaders and climate change. While dealing with a bad case of eczema caused by all the stress in my life I read a lot of science fiction classics to escape to other worlds, I read the utopian classic ĎWoman On the Edge of Timeí by Marge Piercy which I loved. But I was so unaccustomed to the future being portrayed as anything but dark that I sometimes cringed. Portraying a utopia is saying what you want which is so much more vulnerable than saying what you donít want.
12. December: Silent Night
ANNIKA: When I heard On the Edge of Time, I wanted to comfort Jens, like he had comforted me in June. I wanted to tell him: occasionally, something good will happen, and when it does, you probably never would have guessed it beforehand. Music comforts me a lot. And I heard the original Silent Night somewhere and I came to think about how weird it is that someone actually once wrote that song.
April 11th, 2019
First post on Instagram since 2012 - done!
April 9th, 2019
Thereís a song of mine that Iíve been coming back to recently, itís from the Postcards project I did in 2015. At the time I had a scenario that occupied my mind and made it into the song, the beginning of a dystopian sci-fi movie. The scenario was that humanity had collectively decided to delete itself along with everything it had ever built and created. A government led operation was in motion and everyone worked tirelessly day and night to demolish buildings and return every particle to itís natural source. Every brick in every building and every molecule in our bodies. That was really all I had for this story and I wasn't intending to do anything with it. But the scenario fascinated me simply because it was the opposite of most mainstream apocalyptic stories where humanity is faced with a disaster and does everything it can to survive.
As a conversational tidbit, I started shopping this scenario around to see what my friends would make of it. About 95% were perplexed and said ďbut isnít that what weíre already doing?Ē. And I agreed that in terms of for example the climate crisis you could definitely talk about a collective suicide. But I see that more as a denial, like an addict who denies their addiction. Like that story in the movie La Haine - the guy whoís falling from a skyscraper and for every floor heís fallen thinks ďso far so goodĒ. What fascinated me about my scenario was not the outcome but the deliberate action taken to destroy ourselves. A collective drive to not only cease to exist but also to not leave any traces behind us. No tombstone, no monuments. All that human knowledge, the miracle of self consciousness, valued to zero. By ourselves. What could lead us to this conclusion?
Several friends brought up antinatalism and the Voluntary Human Extinction Movement, a movement devoted to this cause, though slightly less extreme. It believes in a peaceful extinction by simply not making any more babies. The question of suffering is at the center of all this and the antinatalist view is that while absence of suffering is good, absence of pleasure is not bad, therefore it's better to never have been born. While these questions can seem juvenile and a bit dark they also lead us into some wonderful absurdities. Like the case of a Mumbai man trying to sue his parents for giving birth to him. His parents were lawyers themselves and said they took it well and were prepared to meet him in court. But his mother also said that she wished she had met him before he was born and let him have made the decision. It reminded me of an old french movie I once saw called 'Sur la Terre, Comme au Ciel' in which unborn babies suddenly inform their mothers from the womb that they don't want to be born anymore because the world has turned to shit.
One friend was really interested in eusocial insects, like bees and termites who live in hives, and she thought of humanity as a hive or a superorganism. Are termites and bees individuals or are they more like a body or a brain? Are you an individual when you are composed of microorganisms that outnumber your own cells 10 to 1? Could humanity in this scenario be one self deprecating brain with each human functioning like a sad neuron?
The climate crisis and the darker sides of humanity as a collective seemed to spring to mind for most friends. However, when I gave him the premise of my story, one friend was reminded of a destructive relationship he was in where he eventually started feeling sorry for his very existence. It was awful to listen to but he suggested for this story that maybe we had met an extraterrestrial civilisation that acted in this way. A civilisation that constantly criticised us, manipulated us and undermined our self esteem. He jokingly suggested the alien civilisation could say things like "hey, did you put on some weight? I noticed you're almost 8 billion people" or "I'm not stealing your oxygen, stop being so sensitive".
My friend then turned the light back at me. ďWhy are you so fascinated by this scenario, Jens?Ē. I thought about it for some time. I've always been fascinated by humanity's drive to multiply, spread out, take up space and see itself as the crown of the creation because I find it hard to relate to, my instinct is often the opposite.
And I think of the undulating motion of creativity. I think of it as eons in earths history. I've often compared creative periods to the Cambrian Explosion, an era when life seemed to blossom and evolve at a rapid rate. To this picture I would like to add the mass extinctions that always follow. The urge to delete harddrives, remove my presence from media - social and less social, apologise for what has sprung out of my mind and hands, quit music to get a dayjob at a bingo parlour, become more or less hostile towards those who show appreciation for me or my work because if you like me then by association I don't like you.
Over time it has become as natural as breathing, the movement and it's counter movement. I've learned to not give myself peptalks or make rash decisions during this time but rather lean back and observe, sometimes engaging in smaller projects, pottering around, knowing that the seed sown will one day crack the concrete.
And then one day it does.
And it's april 9th.
And I miss you.
And I want to create and communicate.
One little neuron is rebelling against it's end.
Old Talk 2013
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