Christmas is over for another year.  In a few day there is the human new year’s eve, which I will spend – and not celebrate – with my male.  The only way I celebrate that new year is by singing a song by the Swedish band Big Fish Nyårshambo.
Translated, the refrain goes a bit like;

It seems like it is new year’s eve again
a new year has come to an end again
and that which has happened can never happen again
now the new time will begin..

It seems like it is new year’s eve again
a big part of our lives has passed, one two three
and we shall also fade away, one two three
then there will be no time to mourn!

That is the only way I celebrate this new year’s eve.  The real new year I celebrate the last of April, when I can thank life for returning, when I can mourn and sing for those who died and for that which I had to leave behind in order to survive.  When I burn the regrets I have to let go of.

My hundred words for today;
I have never bothered with creating worlds.  I have created languages, letters, people, creatures.  For being a creature who loves mountains and forests and rivers, I have created awfully few of them.  I have always just created enough of scenery to set a scene in.  I have never really explored a world of my own creation; I have never built it up stone by stone or tree by tree.  I have never felt the scent of the flowers between the dialogues of the /people/ I created.

I have never sat under the trees, in the wind.

I really want to.

It is 06.40 am here, I am awake.  I can almost hear the midnight birds and feel the scent of flowers on the autumn winds in the sacred portal grove.   I am creating a world in my head, trying to do it for real this time.  I finally got tired of having languages, myths, legends and people speaking of them, without me even knowing how the midnight birds sing in the darkness of the forest and how the dried-blood coloured rancar blossoms looks like in the light of the red moon.  So I decided to find out.   I left all of my characters to their intrigues and battles to go walk in the forest for a while.

There they put up the portal stones, in the glade surrounded by the gnarled white-grey trunks of the silverwood aspen with their heavy silver-coloured leaves tinkling in the nightwind.  The wines of the rancar creeping over the stones, their flowers soon to bloom.  And there, there is the forgotten path, leading here.  It is hidden for most part, the forest protecting this place at it’s heart.
The pack of midnight birds singing and laughing, preparing for the night’s hunt; big like great eagles, white with clear blue eyes, hiding in the trees, but we are safe from them in this place.  Their song may enter, but not they, because that was one of the rules put up long ago.   They will always help protecting this place, unable to leave.

And there, there is the highest ridge where Sori of the Mountain lived before she walked into the valley, following her river to the sea where she found the island and extinguished the fire of the volcano with five of her tears, or so the villages at the mouth of the river says.
Up there, the snow never melts, and spring never comes.


In five days I have had two twenty-four hour periods (or more than that) where I haven’t eaten.  I think that is rather fail.  But hopefully things will calm down.  I will have books and music and rest until it is time to sing bitterly again, reminding myself that life is a temporary state that will be gone eventually.
Not that it is the temporariness of life tastes bitter, because I find that much comforting, but…  even if I no longer fear death I want to live at the moment.  I want to see what will happen.

And I have books to read and stories to write, haven’t I?

In the end when I am gone, I don’t want to be remembered, but I would like for some of my stories to live on, without me, without my name; changing, evolving like stories do, taking on new shapes and forms in the mouths of others who will give them new meaning.  I would really like that.  I don’t want to be remembered by name or deed, because I am just meat, and animal amongst many.  I want to die in the forest in the dawn by a small forest lake, surrounded by birdsong and whispering trees, but no people or friends to mourn me or remember me past their own lifetime.  When I am gone, let me be gone.

But I want to see this, I want to see what will happen.  I have a new Paobook to write in.  I have many ideas to write down.   And I have the project I started that I must finish.

If I died now, would I have any regrets?
Just a few.  Only one of them which I think I deserve.  But I think that it might change before it is time to feed it to the flames.

I hide the embers under ash and snow
so that when the winterwinds grow
they will be hidden, safe below..

and with my anger I do the same
hiding the wind from stirring the flame
until people, fooled, call it by another name..

the shadows cast by the wind-dancing snow
show me a path to were I cannot go…

I wrote that on the bus on the way to my male, just before I left the bus and a person I haven’t seen since I left that small town where I used to live.  He told me that I used to write poetry, and I told him that I still did, that I just had done on the bus, that I seem to be unable to stop.

Sometimes, I fear my dearest friends.  I think that in one way, I have to fear them.  It is very hard for me to feel love for things I do not fear.   Beautiful things are usually frightening and or dangerous; like raging wildfires, like the deadly cold of the winter that covers all surfaces with frost.  And so are usually the people I end up loving; beautiful, deep and terrifying.  Some would argue that I am as well.  A beautiful, wild creature with clear eyes and sharp claws who can sing gentle songs when I want, need and have to.  Perhaps I am.  I hope I am.  I hope I can be.

I watched the fire in the fireplace and I watched the embers glowing, the salamanders playing in the flames.  And I want to see what will happen.  How this will turn out.  Perhaps this year will be interesting.  Perhaps it will pass far too swiftly into nothing.  Into another new year’s eve, another bitter singing of that song.
Perhaps one day I will put all these Paobooks into the fire with the rest of my regrets.

Perhaps one day the Great Firebird will swoop down from the sky, burn me all to ash and boil the last drop of blood from my body.  Perhaps it will have clear, cold jackdaw eyes…

I found a new song I haven’t heard by Matchbox Twenty today, called How Far We’ve Come.  I will listen to it to repeat for the next day, thinking of fire and the scent of rancar flowers in the cold autumn wind…

I believe the world is burning to the ground
oh well, I guess we’re gonna find out
let’s see how far we’ve come (right now)
let’s see how far we’ve come…

/pao – 27 dec 2010 – 07.45

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