(quiet splash)

I was watching my female try to fix the virus-infested, slightly broken computer, and a string of text caught my attention:
“quiet splash — maybe ubiquity”

For some reason, I just found that line really pretty, and today I wrote a very peculiar poem based on that line for my hundred words. I will paste it here.


Quiet splash
maybe ubiquity
maybe ambiguity
or maybe, maybe
something completely
from that

quiet splash into
processes and
strange text on the screen
unfamiliar terms
black and white
which way
is right?

quiet splash
headlong plunge
churning, spinning,
droning, reading,
learning, thinking,
something breaking
something broken
but what, where,
how to find it?

quiet splash
maybe ubiquity
as the technology
all around us
as the electric impulses
inside us
as our digital brains
outside us
as our digital souls
separated from us

are we still us
if all we are –
remember –
think –
is stored
outside of us?


Tomorrow the boss of the Helpers is coming here to talk to me.  This has the potential of getting really interesting.  Also, the screen to my phone is dead, which means I can’t really use it.  If one wants to contact me, I suggest mail, or grabbing one of my abbilen who usually knows ways to reach me.

That was all for today.

/pao – 22 aug 2011 – 03.31


There was once a woman who lived in a small house in a big garden far outside the city.  The same forest that surrounded the city also surrounded her home, but through the years more and more forest around the city was cut down to let the city grow and expand, and from other sides came other cities slowly creeping, almost like amoebas made of concrete and brick, glass and metal.  The woman had lived in her small house ever since her parents died, she had played in the forest since she learnt how to walk and run.  She knew each and every path, each and every tree, and she would pick berries in the summers and mushrooms in the autumns.  She loved her small house and the green forest and the beautiful garden and the animals who lived all around her and would leave their paw prints in the snow and soil.

As the cities crept closer she felt worried and nervous, but she took care of her garden, and she fed the animals who sought shelter in the patches of forest which were left.
The birdsong in the evening slowly got joined in by the sounds of engines; cars and trains and machines in the distance, and then closer, and then closer, and then drowning out the songs of the birds who remained.

The woman grew old, and she would still not move.  One day, two city planners knocked on her door to tell her that they were going to build a shopping mall and an office building nearby, and they would have to evict her.  She said she did not want to leave her home, and no matter how they tried to convince her, she refused.  The men returned to the city planning office and after much discussion they decided to let her stay, with a tiny garden surrounding her house, and just put storage buildings to one side to at least lessen the traffic right outside her home.  They returned to the old woman to inform her of this, and there was nothing she could do but to accept this arrangement or move.

The shopping mall was built, and the office building was built, and the old woman stayed in her small house and her small garden.  There was no longer any forest to pick mushrooms or berries in, no apple trees or currant bushes in her garden.  She kept on feeding the birds, but no longer would she find any wild paw prints in the snow or soil outside her house.
She began to wander in the parking lot outside the office building just as she had done when it had been her garden, for in her heart it was still her garden.  She wandered between the cars as if they were her beloved bushes, she patted and whispered to the light posts and street sings as if they were her beloved trees.  She would sit down in the parking lot to smile at every bright yellow dandelion and every tiny creeping chamomile, and sometimes people would almost run her over in their cars on their way to work.  She would call out and caw to the magpies and jackdaws and crows which had replaced the thrushes and tits and woodpeckers, and they would gather around her.
And every day she would come to water the asphalt and sing for the seeds she knew were still waiting, sleeping, hidden in the dirt and soil below.

Slowly, slowly cracks opened in the asphalt, letting the water seek its way down to the soil.  Slowly, slowly, a leaf at a time, a flower here and there, the barren wasteland of concrete and asphalt was broken up.  A thin branch of a red currant bush which had somehow survived, a small, small apple tree shooting up its hesitant limbs through the dark crust to reach for the light.  Slowly, slowly, a crack here and there, and the old woman sang and she cawed and she watered her garden which was returning to her; which would not stand to be separated from her.  In the autumn the red currant shot out other branches and bore fruit once again, and from beside her house the raspberry bushes came creeping out over the asphalt.  The parking lot was broken up by grass and wild strawberries, the walls and fences were softened by moss and climbers and creepers.

No matter how many times guards and keepers tried to cut the plants down and trim the lawns and keep things in order, the garden was called back; slowly, slowly, a crack at the time, a leaf at the time, by the old woman’s love and care and songs, until one winter the paw prints were back in the snow outside her house.



From the back window of the bus before it left for Catlair, after I had visited my male.  It was really pleasant being at his place again.

Here are my hundred words from last night:
Long before the Age of Flesh, there was the Age of Wood.  The seaweed from the oceans crept up on the shores and tried to grow there, but the Wind Bringers flew across the skies, beating at the earth with their wings, tearing the seaweed up from the rocky grounds, spreading their seeds where they went.  One seed was dropped into a small crack of a mountain, and there the Wind Bringers could not reach with their wings.
And there it grew alone, slowly in the meagre stone-soil, into the first tree, with thick, strong bark for a skin.

I have to make a good story about that soon.

/pao – 17 aug 2011 – 02.16



Here’s some photos of the long salmon I bought a few days ago:


It is loooong.

And here is the head:


Fish heads, fish heads...

I’m currently visiting my male, just thought I should add something here while I write about the trees…

/pao – 15 aug 2011 – 19.58


(test from train)

Listening to TchKung and soon at the central station. Want to see if this will work, perhaps with things I write in another program.
/pao – 13 aug 2011 – 21.55


I have been putting my blog-posts into categories now, more or less succeeding in spreading some sort of order.  A few more categories have been added, such as “sleepingpill amnesia” which I will put to use in this very post!  Feel the winds of newness blow gently in your face as you read this.
Because, last night I apparently decided to melt and eat chocolate on my sleepingpills.  Oh well.  I hope it was good…

Yesterday was also spent trying to teach my dear Englishman some simple Swedish.  It went all right, actually.  He’s a very clever creature.  I tried to read him some Swedish, and I ended up reading about the effects of my sleepingpills on people driving or using heavy machinery until my female said; “raaaargh!” and curled up over her desk.  I might have to find something else to read for him.

I’m listening a great deal to TchKung! and reading anarchist books and propaganda.  It’s quite interesting, really.  Very creative and arty as well.  Although it isn’t very good to try to find inspiration for writing in; I just end up wanting to sit with some friends in abandoned buildings, drumming at random things and howling and dancing.
Which is fun in its own way, but it doesn’t involve writing.

Although I do like history.  I believe in history and knowledge.  And I want to keep it.  I don’t feel that keeping history is holding me back or chaining me to events.  But I’m Pao, and I have never had problems with being wrong or with changing myself and my patterns…

Oh well, going home to feed the rats and water the plants today.

/pao – 14 aug 2011 – 17.55



I made cholet last night, to see if I could make Pao-compatible cholet.  It consisted of potatoes, water, little taste-cubes, meat (cow), allspice and onion.  And the result was.. incredible!

Delicious cholet


I tasted it, and afterwards I started asking my female when one was supposed to eat the cholet because I wanted it immediately.  It was so very delicious!  Nom nom nom!

Here is another photo of it:


That’s all for now.

/pao – 13 aug 2011 – 18.07


I came back to the blog after Pride to find that I had over 18,000 spam comments.  After having cried a few manly tears, I began deleting them, and they are now gone.  It took about a day.

There are things I want to write here, and I will go ahead and do that despite the fact that it is not winter yet.  I have a list of things that should go here, and there should be some more short and random entries as well.  I will try to start using tags again to make things easier for my poor readers.

Oh well.  My eyes hurt, and I should sleep now.  But here is an extra treat; my hundred words for 8 aug 2011:

“We were watching the city burn, the sparks against the night sky like stars, the thick pillars of smoke like clouds.  The ash fell over us like snowflakes, but the heat of the raging fire warmed us.  Some of us were dancing, singing, drumming on empty metal barrels, plastic buckets.  We were feral now; destroying the society which had had us collared.  Nearby we heard gunshots, and an alarm joined into the music we were weaving.  The music of the time to come.
A burning roof came crashing down and threw up a cascade of new stars into the sky.”

Until next time
/pao – 13 aug 2011 – 04.15