Svein Flygari Johansen
Friday, 16 December 2011
Wednesday, 7 December 2011
07.12.11
Literary Review's 'Bad Sex in Fiction' Award goes to,
Ed King by David Guterson:
"In the shower, Ed stood with his hands at the back of his head, like someone just arrested, while she abused him with a bar of soap. After a while he shut his eyes, and Diane, wielding her fingernails now and staring at his face, helped him out with two practiced hands, one squeezing the family jewels, the other vigorous with the soap-and-warm-water treatment. It didn't take long for the beautiful and perfect Ed King to ejaculate for the fifth time in twelve hours, while looking like Roman public-bath statuary. Then they rinsed, dried, dressed, and went to an expensive restaurant for lunch."
Tuesday, 6 December 2011
06.12.11 (iii)
Ted Hughes to take place in Poet's Corner
"So we found the end of our journey, So we stood alive in the river of light, Among the creatures of light, creatures of light".
Guardian article
"So we found the end of our journey, So we stood alive in the river of light, Among the creatures of light, creatures of light".
Guardian article
06.12.11 (ii)
NASA scientists have identified a new planet they believe to have several similarities to Earth.
Kepler-22b, named for the Kepler planet-hunting telescope it was spotted with, is the first planet to be confirmed beyond our solar system in what the Guardian called the "Goldilocks zone:" not too hot, not too cold, and therefore possibly habitable.
The planet is 2.4 times the size of Earth. It orbits a star similar to the Earth's sun and is believed to have a surface temperature of around 22 degrees Celsius, according to NASA.
Astronomers say Kepler-22b's temperate climate makes it possible that it possesses liquid waterBrian Cox (report on initial findings)
Video
Monday, 5 December 2011
Wednesday, 30 November 2011
30.11.11 (ii)
Sou Fujimoto Architects ’21st Century Oasis’ design wins the Taiwan Tower International Competition in collaboration with Taiwanese Firm, Fei & Cheng Associates. The 300 meter tower is derived from the trunk of the Taiwanese Banyan Tree, with the likes of an organic structural system. The symbolic trademark establishes the beauty in nature behind the urban aesthetics of a divine tower.
Tuesday, 29 November 2011
29.11.11 (iiiii)
The Lament for Icarus
Now the Caterpillar enjoyed his meagre wanderings upon the idle greens of the forest, the spill of raindrops about his tread and the brittle support of leaves beneath his feet. It was the soft trace of his crawl amongst the busy flutter of wings. And so with this in mind he rued the prospect of one day becoming a butterfly, to him it seemed so maddening, so disquieting, and he hated this. In a desperate attempt to preserve his peace he decided one day to make a deal with his friend the Woodpecker,
“Would you be so kind, when the day comes, to unpick me from the prison of my cocoon?” he asked in his sweetest voice.
“Why of course I would”, replied the Woodpecker, for he and the Caterpillar had been friends too long for him to refuse this small favour.
And so after a few short weeks the time came when the caterpillar began the arduous task of weaving his cocoon. Whilst at first it appeared skeletal and stark, it quickly became intricate and splendid, a fitting place for his metamorphosis. Lazily the day passed on by, with the Caterpillar sound in his chamber awaiting nothing but the welcome awakening of the Woodpecker's beak. In the high light of the afternoon it came, and how excited the Caterpillar was. His body writhed and wriggled with anticipation as he knew that perhaps he had cheated the birth of the butterfly. However as the holes began to widen and the light streamed through the silk the Caterpillar began to panic, he realised that his cocoon was high on up and that without wings he would surely die upon the forest floor far below. The Caterpillar tried to relate this to his friend, but he could not hear above the sound of his unstitching. After a short time the cocoon was unpicked and the Caterpillar saw the ground that would break his fall. And whilst the caterpillar fell to the ground he had one wish, that he would have been a butterfly.
29.11.11 (iiii)
New Horse Riding Instructor
And so he heard it would be someone by the name of Patricia Hartley, he felt that name lent itself well to authority, he hoped she would be entirely different to Euphemia. That name which at first seemed exotic and outlandish, but steadily became whimsical and pathetically childish after each lesson.
On the break of one particular Tuesday she came. Polishing the foothold of his saddle he heard the dull pad of her boots on wet grass. Not turning but instead intending to give the impression of attention and tenacity (an intention that was acrimoniously missed by her).
“Patricia Hartley”, in a deep woman's voice. He introduced himself courteously and a wide furrow in her brow marked the tired routine of this gesture, “Saddle up”, she said.
His new teacher was particularly discerning on that first ride, she expelled from him a wandering adolescent as he searched wildly for common ground. He revealed much of his person that morning, but very little of his character. It was only at the cease of day that he looked upon her amply. In the pale gloam of their return he observed her muscular flanks, flexed taut against her breeches, they rose and fell with the easy trot of the beast. It was hard to envisage the ethereal naked skin of a woman beneath.
Those first few weeks he endured her company regularly and through this he learnt the content of silence and the easy rhythm of nature. He learnt the cadenced seasons of the day, from the early call of the starling to the parch of summer dew, the grey silhouette of trees and the homecoming flight of the linnet. It was on these terms that Patricia Hartley rode alongside him.
Day by day she became more familiar to him, but always he would call her ‘Patricia’, never ‘pat’ (as she would suggest).In the twilight of one Thursday she stayed on with him to replenish the hay and see to the stable chores. That night he seemed to see her for the first time. The throb of her breasts against the damp of her shirt, the cling of sweat and the easy curve of her waist. And in her parting she held him in her arms, her stalwart chest pressed against his slender form, their bodies stiff and unfitting. In this momentary embrace he felt the stirring of his sex and a damp in his groin.
The following days there was a reluctance in their discourse, a prudent step in their knowing of each other. The Summer was passing into Autumn and the cold seemed all the more pressing due to this knot, this sudden ineptitude. They stopped, they stood at the riverbank , the silent passing of water and a heaviness in his breath. The matting of their gaze and their bodies coursing toward one another, the wet of parted lips and a rake at the bare of skin. Her breath withdrawn then quietly steaming through her nose, and he with the loud abandon of youth. She was so much older than him that night.
Both he and her changed markedly from that day forth. With the coming of Autumn came the hush of the outdoors, spare for the drop of leaves and the muffled call of the faraway birds. These winds that coursed through their clothes and brushed the naked skin beneath, for now everything in their travels took on a carnal being. Their voices would cross gently as though they were simply adult and adolescent, nothing else. But sometimes beneath the course of speech would lurk notes belonging to that of a lover, notes that were heavy, avid and bawdy. And in the light of dusk upon the riverbank there bodies would meet, and amongst the cold light of the moon there would be a warmth in her groin and a dither in their shapeless contour.
The content of this affair was understood by them both as being something fleeting but amiable. And now whilst in the throes of passion she became as violent and careless as he, but apart from this they were contented in a slight and considered friendship. In the coming of winter Patricia seemed to yield to him, his boyish heat lessened and so similarly did her resolve. The nights gave way to wild shudders in her thighs, a new and disgusting yearning for him, her feral cry beneath his fall, and in this time they became more and more like lovers. He became in many ways her equal. Equal except for the lines in her skin, the gross swell at her waist, the pallor at her breasts, she became breathless quickly, her moans were loud and irksome, she would call his name over and over again. She became desperate and at once pathetic.
Now she questioned him ceaselessly through the slow light of day, he would never look on her face, that face he now found unbearable, aged, decrepit. This shallow gaze continued through to the summer, where the sun would almost emit a translucence in her skin and its intensity would often blind her. With this he would have to lead her through the close woodland and return early, leaving her alone to tend to the stable chores. And once at the height of the summer, their partnership ended. Ended without a single goodbye. Ended having learnt an easy canter, a pace that he took upon himself to quicken.
29.11.11 (iiii)
Thursday, 20 October 2011
20.10.11 (ii)
The Dead Legs of the Pier
Stray leaves,
Freed from the tangle of bracken limbs
Teaming with Autumn trim.
The tawny tracks,
Flecks of black,Lost,
Amongst the scatter and the flak.
And the boil in the slap of waves,
Paved with timber and slack,
Lashes flecked with salt and sand.
Hands that hang
And a cold stance,
Like lead.
Thoughts fed by the sprawl of the sea,
The scent of deadened current,
The stroke of the breeze
And the spoil of waking thoughts.
The life in the stale gloam
Stones, that dashed the film of grey,
And the love that stayed the weight, of a once eternal carnal slate.
Stray leaves,
Freed from the tangle of bracken limbs
Teaming with Autumn trim.
The tawny tracks,
Flecks of black,Lost,
Amongst the scatter and the flak.
And the boil in the slap of waves,
Paved with timber and slack,
Lashes flecked with salt and sand.
Hands that hang
And a cold stance,
Like lead.
Thoughts fed by the sprawl of the sea,
The scent of deadened current,
The stroke of the breeze
And the spoil of waking thoughts.
The life in the stale gloam
Stones, that dashed the film of grey,
And the love that stayed the weight, of a once eternal carnal slate.
20.10.11
J.Lo, Papi
J Lo's most recent single from forthcoming album 'Love?' is entitled 'Papi' (Spanish word literally translating as father). This one will be loosely categorised as dance music, but in reality means it has the monotonous synth pulse throughout that characterises the pop charts at present. The verses are largely inconsequential and largely exist to lead into a rousing chorus in which everyone can sing along to “move your body, move your body, dance for your Papi”. Whilst this central lyric is no doubt catchy the single sets itself up as half 'chart topper' half 'floor filler', and subsequently suffers for lack of identity. Whilst the track is largely repetitious there is an interesting breakdown part way through, though any intrigue is quickly sapped away as 'Jenny from the block' feels the need to insert an obligatory Spanish section here to give it that pseudo Latino feel (pleasing her fans but probably offending any legitimate admirers of the genre). In conclusion 'Papi' whilst being a catchy pop song suffers from a real lack of identity and so runs the risk of fading into the back catalogue of Jennifer Lopez's recent mediocre spell.
J Lo's most recent single from forthcoming album 'Love?' is entitled 'Papi' (Spanish word literally translating as father). This one will be loosely categorised as dance music, but in reality means it has the monotonous synth pulse throughout that characterises the pop charts at present. The verses are largely inconsequential and largely exist to lead into a rousing chorus in which everyone can sing along to “move your body, move your body, dance for your Papi”. Whilst this central lyric is no doubt catchy the single sets itself up as half 'chart topper' half 'floor filler', and subsequently suffers for lack of identity. Whilst the track is largely repetitious there is an interesting breakdown part way through, though any intrigue is quickly sapped away as 'Jenny from the block' feels the need to insert an obligatory Spanish section here to give it that pseudo Latino feel (pleasing her fans but probably offending any legitimate admirers of the genre). In conclusion 'Papi' whilst being a catchy pop song suffers from a real lack of identity and so runs the risk of fading into the back catalogue of Jennifer Lopez's recent mediocre spell.
Friday, 7 October 2011
Tuesday, 20 September 2011
Friday, 16 September 2011
17.09.11
Changes made to the original Star Wars films
Article here
A 1997 alteration to a scene in the original Star Wars, featuring reckless space smuggler Han Solo and an alien bounty hunter called Greedo, is the focus of intense controversy and for some Star Wars' fans and film purists epitomises George Lucas' tinkering ways.
In the scene, a blaster-brandishing Greedo has finally caught up with Han at a bar and - like all movie baddies - is spending just a little too long relishing the moment.
But, unbeknownst to the reptilian bounty hunter, Han has stealthily retrieved his own blaster beneath the table.
In the original 1977 version Han shoots Greedo without the bounty hunter ever firing a shot. But in the 1997 remake Greedo shoots first, before Han responds in kind.
Further changes to the scene have been made in subsequent releases, but the 1997 tweak is still regarded by some as Lucas' biggest transgression, sparking online petitions, websites and t-shirts all bearing the slogan 'Han shot first'.
The changes remain in the most recent release, much to the annoyance of hardcore fans.
Thursday, 15 September 2011
Monday, 5 September 2011
Friday, 26 August 2011
26.08.11 (iiii)
Joey Barton: Genius or Nutter?
BBC article, 'What's behind his Twitter philosophy'
"Violence always comes from a place of misunderstanding and low to zero self-worth, well mine did anyway"
At the last count @Joey7Barton had more than 450,000 followers. It's less than half the total of England striker Wayne Rooney, but Barton tweets on subjects far beyond the banal concerns of the usual modern footballer.
He has debated the ideological underpinnings of the Big Society, revealed a fondness for the lyrics of the Smiths, expressed an admiration for the engineer Isambard Kingdom Brunel, and shared aphorisms by Virgil, Seneca and Nietzsche.
Twitter account link
26.08.11 (iii)
26.08.11 (ii)
26.08.11 (i)
Linda: [dressed in a nurse's outfit] These are expensive treatments, you know.
Mr. Maltz: Don't worry! Money is no object. Look, I got Blue Cross!
Helen: Mind if I smoke, while you're eating?
Man: No, not at all.
"All the great words, it seemed to Connie were cancelled, for her generation: love, joy, happiness, home, mother, father, husband, all these great, dynamic words were half dead now and dying from day to day. Home was a place you lived in, love was a thing you didn't fool yourself about joy was a word you applied to a good Charleston, happiness was a term of hypocrisy used to bluff other people, a father was an individual who enjoyed his own existence, a husband was a man you lived with and kept joking in spirits. As for sex, the last of the real words, it was just a cocktail term for an excitement that bucked you up for a while, then left you more raggy that ever. Frayed! It was as if the very material you were, made of was cheap stuff, and was fraying to nothing."
- D.H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley's Lover.
Thursday, 25 August 2011
Tuesday, 23 August 2011
Sunday, 21 August 2011
21.08.11
The Woken Lilium
There once lived a prince, a prince who every day basked in the warmth and reverence unparalleled by any other of his kind. Each day he would stand at the summit of his palace overlooking the many joyful faces of those subjected to his splendid reign. He would glide through the streets with a gossamer-like tread and colour the streets with scenes of praise and adoration reserved only for royalty. Each day he would be greeted by both old and new faces wearily travelled from far and wide.
The iron fists of Ramsville beat on the great oaken doors of the palace, often bearing gifts of gold and silver, gifts that would grace the halls with treasures of splendour and opulence.
The beauteous and mystical seraphim of Bowland that would so often come to bless people with bountiful lessons of love and wisdom, lessons obtained from countless generations of trial and tribulation.
Even further abroad would come the many hooded and mysterious ghouls of the never-world, these were spread far and wide throughout the land but were unified in a clandestine whisper hissing at the borders. These beings would impart wonder and fear in equal measure, leaving all that met them both stricken and spellbound.
All throughout the land each and every individual would venture on an exhaustive pilgrimage to hear the fair song of the Woken Lily, planted deep in the centre of the palace gardens. The wondrous and sensual tones of the flower inspired awe in all that heard it. And this was why above all else the Prince was admired and adored. Adored for his right to the voice that inspired the hearts and minds of all who heard its spell.
All that knew the prince doted on him whole heartedly, and whilst he never exploited a soul, he was perhaps ignorant to the experience of what it was to love another. However, one day somebody changed this, someone taught him the torture of desire, the pang of want and exposed him to the leech that was love.
She came from Bowland, a seraphim of particular differences. One of both enduring loneliness and unassailable beauty. She had no desire to charm the hearts of men or adorn her body with jewels and trinkets. Her skin was a priceless ebony and her eyes were the rarest of sapphires. The sun would bound across her skin and waken the colour in her eyes.
He saw her first as he'd seen many, stood before the lily with an unbreakable gaze and struck with a perfect silence. He stood beside her often equally enchanted by the dulcet tones. She spoke daintily yet sternly with her arms locked by her side and her face doused in the dim light of the moon.
The prince longed to speak to her, but he was stricken with silence, not even a quaver in his voice but a dumb hush. The seraphim grew quickly tiresome of the Prince as his silence trespassed on hers. “Why do you stand there dumb prince? Be heard or be gone”. And with this the Prince felt the wretch at his heart and the knot in his stomach. His voice was lost not just for her, but for all.
He was from that night onwards torn with an intense longing. Every day busied with thoughts of her, every night wondering at what notes struck in her heart besides those of the soul lily. Love lorn and wretched the prince was most often bed bound and ill seen outside the palace walls. His subjects stirred with ponderings of his whereabouts and as his absence permitted, their admiration of him wore and rotted.
The days lulled on by at an aching pace, each sunset unwantingly staining his homeless prison. Further and further he descended into a self deprecating madness, he would languish at his reflection as he saw the shrivelled, decrepit man that was once a prince.
With the print of his body etched into the sheets and the smell of idleness staining the air, the prince one day dreamed a dream that would bring resolution to his now aimless life. A dream narrated by a child, a voice that was erratic and cherubic, and so captivating that it possessed the qualities of hypnosis.
A flower was plucked from the ground by a mighty hand.
You will force the flower from its roots.
As the flower was raised it splintered into leaves of a deep red.
Seeds will scatter across the land, their colour will bleed into the earth.
From the earth rose angels adorned in florid robes of glistening white.
Witches spoiled with virginity will steal the hearts of men.
The leaves embraced mankind with sprigs of blossom
Branches will snatch at their fists and tear at their throats.
The angels cradled man's head and mopped his brow.
Witches will rouse at their genitals and lech at their tears.
Man held their breasts and stroked their face.
Man will rape the virgin and break her skin.
Man and angel slept cheek to cheek.
And they will live and bleed together.
In the dead heat of the night the Prince wandered into the palace gardens. Between his thumb and forefinger he held a match, a match that spotted the deep greens of paradise with flecks of mortal red. Far into the garden he trod until he stood before the Woken Lily, the place where the fire of the match was etched into the black of his eyes. The fire that dimmed, that scorched his finger tips and that died away. The garden was dark.
Beings from far and wide traversed the land to stand before the gates of the palace. For high above the gates hung the china white contour of a once loved Prince. A frail, naked body draped in a spoiled crimson robe, unmarked and unmoving the Prince seemed to look upon the fruits of his empire. But with a steadfastness in his eyes that characterised the dead. The stem of a flower was looped about his neck whilst the blossom of the Woken Lilium lay rotting against the garden floor.
Monday, 15 August 2011
16.08.11
She Just Likes To Fight, Four Tet
Created using the time-lapse footage from Philip Bloom's 'Sky' reel and Four Tet's 'She Just Likes to Fight' off of the album 'There is Love in You'
Tuesday, 9 August 2011
09.08.11
Happy Endings
No conclusion will ever be more resolute than that of a happy ending. The unblemished matrimony of prince and princess, riding into the setting sun, and that virginal kiss to a great and glorious symphony. The rubbish that populates Hollywood and the minds of children alike.
Whether it be escapism or just plain apathy, happy endings permeate into the film industry regardless of their literary counterparts telling them not to. The purging of emotions such as sorrow, fear and anxiety through the practice of catharsis is driven out from the core of story telling, and is instead turned into mindless nonsense. So, rather than the tales of morality and trepidation seen in the simplest of tales from Hans Christian Andersen and the Brothers Grimm, we are instead subject to the surrender and submission of Disney resolution.
Mary Shelley's Frankenstein sees Doctor Frankenstein marrying Elizabeth only for her to be killed by his monstrous creation. The novel then culminates in Frankenstein dying on board a ship in the Arctic, his corpse cradled by the creation that murdered his wife. Whilst this is harrowing and heartbreaking the Hollywood version of Frankenstein sees Frankenstein and Elizabeth living happily ever after as a lovely couple.
In Victor Hugo's The Hunchback of Notre Dame Esmerelda is tragically hanged and Quasimodo is found dead beside her corpse rotted by starvation, when the couple are found Quasimodo's bones turn to dust as they are forcibly separated. However in the huggy Disney remake they both live and remain the best of friends.
Sunday, 31 July 2011
03.08.11
The Skirt
7
You stood in your florid skirt,
Your cheeks were flushed and fervent.
Whilst I would pass you secretly,
For fear of acting churlish.
Dancing in Trafalgar shallows,
Your tights are torn and sullied.
Your golden locks were then a bob,
That swayed amongst that flurry.
The dancing girl that stole my heart
You never heard my heartfelt plea.
The golden locks of Trafalgar square
In the lovelorn summer of 93.
17
The beat of bells that marked the hour,
The sparks that set the year anew,
The face that stole my gaze afresh,
That hair of gold and eyes of blue.
The veins of light that streaked the sky,
That stole your view away from me,
The cracks against the black of night,
Shot your body endlessly.
The skittish girl who held my gaze
You stood alone upon the street,
I traced your shape upon my heart
The first love of my teenage me.
27
Familiar curves of pallid flesh,
The fall of breath that cooled my sweat,
Our fingers locked and bodies bare,
Your lips were dry and palms were wet.
As I feel your kiss’ weight,
Your shoulders press against my chest.
A smiles creases beneath my watch,
The ripe of blossom in your breast.
The naked girl within my arms,
Who in the morning wore my shirt,
In amongst her clothes there lay,
That once familiar florid skirt.
02.08.11
The Crow and the Cradle
The clamour on her laminate skin,
The wire in her fingers wearing thin,
And the shimmers, in the crack of the shadows,
Followed,
Fallow and lame.
Swells of black in the sickly sallow of window panes,
The lanes of light, framed, in that frightful night.
The shrill cry of her struggle,
Muffled in the weave of glass,
In the tissue of his crass hold
-And there-
From the dark and from the cold,
And to the thorns amongst his fold.
Alarmed,
Unarmed,
The moonlight bears down on her breasts,
Doused in its rays,
left, to fester , to putrify, and to be tamed,
The swell and the shame,
And the warm in the pit of your groin,
And the rot in your loins.
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