60° 10′ 15″ N, 24° 56′ 15″ E

3/9/2008, 
7:30 a.m.
00500, #3 FLR.

+15 °C, 6 m/s, 69 %.
40 000 RPM, 3 min.
88,6 MHz. 128 BPM.

0,4l, 2–3 tsp., 80 °C, 3 min.
(+310 kCal.)
75B, 36–38, 28, 56 kg. 37.

Max. 3 pers., 240 kg, 1,6m/s; #1 FLR.
3. A1, 16355, 2,00€. 17 min, 3,4 km.

00180.
1,9 m/s; #7 FLR.
8:10 a.m. +3,15 h.

121 KB/s.

10:30 a.m. 15 min. (+240 kCal.)

050 088 598.

12:15 p.m.
1,9 m/s; #1 FLR.
8,90€, 3536. 45 min. (+658 kCal.)
1,9 m/s; #7 FLR.

050 088 598.

4:32 p.m. +3,35 h.
1,9 m/s; #1 FLR.

050 088 598.

0,3 km. 65A, 2,80€. 12 min, 2,6 km.

00500.
25A, 1,6 m/s; #3 FLR. 92.

050 088 598,
050 088 598,
050 088 598!

…

050 088 598?               

5:02 p.m.
1,6 m/s; #1 FLR.

5,7 km, 32 min; 145– 167 BPM. (–334 kCal.)
0,33 l, 4,7 % vol., 4,50€, 3536. 30 min. (+132 kcal.)

6:13 p.m.
1,6 m/s; #3 FLR.
(+1235 kCal.)

0,4l, 2–3 tsp., 90 °C, 3 min.

050 088 598...

1, 3, 2, 1, 2, 1.
9:05 p.m. MTV3: 2046. 129 min. 7.4/10.
16 cl, 13 % vol.
(254 kCal.)

11:30 p.m: 7,5 h.

4/9/2008.
:||
∞

THE DRUNKEN ELK

We do what we must to keep life interesting.

A typical night out on the forest, I was lurking lazily in the cliché sunset searching for my delicious autumn treat: apples. This fruit is nice and mature after summer, with a noble taste of rot and an appropriate smell of shit not quite appreciated by the masses.

I had my dose of apples, and one thing led to another, one unstable hoof in front of the other. I ended up alone and bitter, stuck at an afterparty the shape of an asshole. I was rather drunk, but instinct convinced me there was even more booze to be consumed at this sorrowful sight. Nobody else was there to do the job, so I took the offer. ”Säkert,” I thought. ”Skål!”

I did feel the subsrcibed stomach ache accurately arriving and telling me to get out, but I couldn't really move. Bored,  I OD'd. I climbed even higher into the party venue, an ancient apple tree that reached the sky.

I passed out with some random stick tickling my private parts and woke up with my raisin eyes all dried up and my sweaty body shaking like a bad egg dough still in the mixer. I honestly thought I'd climbed a long way last night, but now find myself almost on the ground. I am stuck, but not in the sky; in something that only just qualifies as a bush. With Beethoven's Sonata No. 8 playing repeatedly in my sore head, I am currently in the process of welcoming the familiar cocktail of sticky post-nutrition making its way, with pressure, out of my battered figure.

Still, it was fun.

Please also read the true story of the drunken Swedish elk. 

NONSENSES

The introduction of an article is a tool,
a means of helping the reader form a general idea 

and attitude towards the body text.

Waking up, I check the time to see if I am still tired. I've slept for eight hours. I am ready to rise, says the clock.


I feel cold, so I check the thermometer to see if I really am.

I feel a bit sick, so I take my temperature to find out if I am imagining it.

I am hungry; I cook some eggs and set the timer to five minutes. The eggs do not taste normal, so I check the date on the box to see if they actually taste bad. Apparently they do not.

I watch a film. I am not sure what to think, so I read reviews online to form my opinion.

I buy tickets to a concert, where I will observe others' reactions to decide whether I like it or not.

I listen to some music. It seems too loud. I check the settings on the speakers. It is not.

I weigh myself. I feel good, but the scale tells me I am too big.

It is snowing horizontally, but I have to take the car to the supermarket. I cannot see, but I drive at 120 km per hour since that is the speed limit.

My GPS tells me to take a left turn ”now”. I feel like I should go in the other direction, but I turn, nevertheless, and get lost.

I drive around looking for familiar corners, but soon the light on my petrol gauge tells me I cannot drive for long.

I leave my car and come across an enchanting landscape. I pick up my camera and concentrate on taking a photo of the view. This way I will know later on in life that I was there, then.

I need to cross the street. There is not a single car anywhere, but I only trust the traffic lights and wait for green.

I take the train. When it stops, the sign at the station says Amsterdam, but the announcement says Rotterdam.

THE PIANIST'S FINGERS

The pianist needs a hand 
more than most of us.


The pianist walked with disturbingly long strides and had a strange snap in his left knee every time he bent that leg: it was his fingerprint, it actually gave rhythm to his piano music as he pushed the pedals, they said. Each evening, he determinedly made his way to the National Opera, the architectural monster, which often hosted grand performances. He, however, did not play for these extravaganzas, but instead for the small piggy girls practicing their pliés and échappés in the uglier part of the horrendous yet glorified building.

On this day, he once again obscurely entered the rehearsal room and sat down quietly on the familiar stool in front of the black, shiny piano, the opposite in its appearance of him, the pale pianist in his worn-out greyish suit. As always, he tapped the cover three times before opening it and unveiling the beautiful keyboard. He took his fingers along the black and white keys and tried to deeply feel the instrument, his love affair for more than 20 years.

The pianist was a timid man in his thirties. He had an exceptionally boring face, not a pianist's face at all, which he had tried to lighten up the previous evening with a few drinks. His playing had lately worsened alarmingly, and he, with strong defence mechanisms, had concluded that the reason was his recent birthday: age was making his fingers stiff and numb. In a desperate attempt to stop time, the pianist had taken several sips, perhaps even glasses, of old absinthe in his dusty, dark attic room.  For that night, he had forgotten the growing pain in his limbs and enjoyed the unexpected pleasure of not being able to play properly.

The hungover pianist now bent his arms backwards and forwards and stretched. And, like so many times in the past three weeks, he felt a strange tingle between his fingers, in that small bit of skin that ties them together and keeps them from spreading out all over the place. The round girls in their white leotards took their positions next to the ballet bar. The teacher's indifferent hand gave the pianist a sign: begin, please. For a quarter of an hour everything went rather well – he was able to forget the pain, you could even say he played with ease, passion and confidence.

Unsurprisingly, disaster struck soon. Mistake after mistake after mistake after clumsy mistake! The pianist just couldn't order his lifeless hands to find the sharps and flats on the keyboard. The girls had to stop, they had to start their movements over again every time the pianist played a wrong note or rhythm and interrupted their développés, their awful arabesques and graceless fondues. At first he made a pathetic attempt to cover up with an awkward laughter. Next, he tried extremely hard to gather himself and concentrate, but it went from bad to worse. In his pain and embarrassment, even the simplest chords were impossible.

And so the pianist finally took a closer look at his hands, something he had been avoiding for as long as possible. Surely this kind of pain was not normal for his age, he now thought.

He lowered his heavy head, and in this bright light, in this terrible moment, he immediately noticed what was happening to him. Deep down he had known it for some weeks, but it hadn't been apparent until now. The skin between his fingers had begun to grow towards his fingertips, and now almost reached the first joint on each finger. It squeezed his hands into an uncomfortably curved shape and tightened the sore fingers together. Oh dear, the fragile, almost see through skin was growing quickly and visibly. 

The shocked, web-handed pianist collected his sheets, cigarettes, gloves and coat and quickly began to make his way home. Snap, snap, snap, said his knee, as he left the grand instrument, the long-legged teacher and her piglets forever. He falsely imagined them missing him deeply.

THE STORY OF JARHEAD BEAR – part 6 of 6

This is the sixth and final part of
the story. If you are joining us now,
you can read the previous parts starting here. 

 

Passing days bring along more long hours of exhausting examination of others, who are seemingly
living a better life. An unclear, incoherent viewpoint. One angle, no escape. Turning its head hurts as the jar's plastic edge rubs the bear's skinny neck.

Jarhead Bear realizes a new threat, which replaces the now dead mosquito as its main point of hallucinatory focus. A couple of vertical, two legged, oddly moving huntsmen appear to be chasing it, they are trying to disorientate mother, trying to catch the whole crew. Strangely enough, they are not shooting, just appearing in sight every now and then.

Could they help?

But Jarhead Bear knows no other way than to stay in the only world it has come to recognize in the past weeks – the foggy, reeking jar. It will continue to run away from its possible rescue and follow the leader, even without an ounce of genuine will to do so.

This story was inspired by experiences

of office work and the true story of 'jarhead' bear. 

THE END

THE STORY OF JARHEAD BEAR – part 5 of 6

This is the fifth part of
the story. If you are joining us now,
you can read the previous parts starting here. 

Jarhead Bear, desperate and unbearably thirsty, has now been trapped in its plastic prison for a dozen days. If only it were able drink the raindrops that draw a dotted sheet on the wrong side of the jar. Since there are no more recognizable smells of food, the cub's sense of hunger is beginning to wear off at the same pace as its last bits of energy. The jar only inhabits a reek of the bear's own, quiet breath, elevating from the depths of its empty stomach.

When things seem so unfortunate that they cannot get any worse, Jarhead Bear gets an unwelcome visitor. A demonic mosquito, complaining at the top of its tiny yet intolerable voice, finds its way into the cub's container home. This new, uncomfortably lively friend troubles its tired ears and eyes all day and night.

Wandering far behind its crew, the travels of our distressed bear have become agonizing. From its jar filled with the most horrible of sounds, Jarhead Bear stares at the blurry image of its mother, teaching the other cub to find and eat berries, those treasures of the green ground so unreachable from behind the stinky obstacle of life which once was the greatest pleasure of all.

Continue to the final part...

THE STORY OF JARHEAD BEAR – part 4 of 6

This is the fourth part of 

the story. If you are joining us now,

you can read the first parts starting here.

 

Raindrops do not tickle the cub's nose like they used to. Jarhead Bear perceives the moist air as a faint fog on the jar's outer surface but cannot reach it with its tongue. The drips and drops sound hollow; they are close but not quite here. The rain leaves sad, watery trails on the jar, thus hiding mother's footprints, which are essential for survival. Every now and then, the cub shakes its head in a fierce attempt to free itself, but nothing happens. 

When Jarhead Bear breathes and gets out of breath, the jar grows steamy and throws the cub ever farther from its sleuth. It cannot feel the wind on its ears, it cannot hear the crackles of the forest, it cannot scratch or clean its head. It is practically impossible to stay behind mother's dark, distant figure, drawing away inevitably.

Continue to part 5...

THE STORY OF JARHEAD BEAR – part 3 of 6

This is the third part of the
story. If you are joining us now,
you can read the previous parts starting here.

 

One August night, a particularly strong smell of trash hovers into the woods. The death-like reek is a reminder of the garbage truck, now probably visiting the house closest to the forest. Usually a trip to a freshly emptied trash shed is not worthwhile, but the dry weather has transformed the territory into an empty and cruel area. It is almost autumn, ­ time to start preparing for hibernation. Food must be found, weight must be gained.

Mother does not hear or see danger, so it directs her cubs to the shed. The hungry group climbs over the sharp edges of the bins and begins devouring the delicacies left behind by the truck, whose driver must have been in a hurry to catch an evening coffee since a lot is still there.

In the back corner, at the very end of the wooden shed, a lonely, see through jar sits at the bottom of a green bin. The jar, a visually extremely ordinary individual, has a scent of exceptional, irresistible bliss. It is already dark when the cub shoves its snout deep into the jar. It drools, licks and lets its furry tummy fill up with the pleasure of old milk. It cleans it as precisely as possible, and is pleased, so pleased. It has found Something. Life is good.

But our tale is a tragedy. Jarhead Bear's bearhead is stuck deep and tight in the plastic jar.

Continue to part 4...

THE STORY OF JARHEAD BEAR – part 2 of 6

This is the second part of 
the story. If you are joining us now,
you can read the first part here.

High points of life in the forest, now painted in shades of slowly fading green, include playing with sticks and branches and the comforting reek of carcasses, which brings along a knowledge of food somewhere nearby. The cub's sense of smell is subjected to a pleasure even better, a sweeter stink, once mother takes it from the forest to better waters: the overflowing trash cans of the human species.

Mother knows how to avoid some of the leftovers, those brown vegetables and fruits thrown out because of the soft mould they grow. But for the little bear, the trash is a feast where everything can be consumed. The greedy cub operates like its mother, but without consideration. It has just grasped the idea of rummaging through anthills and beehives, and it now dashes into the rubbish bins in this frenzy of its never-ending hunger. Tins and cans, ice-cream packets, crumbs of potato chips, candy wraps and frozen berries. Everything is there and must be eaten at once.

Continue to part 3...

THE STORY OF JARHEAD BEAR – part 1 of 6

We are happy to begin 
the production of Content 
with the six part story of Jarhead Bear. 

 

Our antihero has the thick claws of a beast and a dense coat lightly dusted by summer. It has a large, robust mother, who demonstrates how only some of the green treasures found in the homestead forest are edible. Rowan and birch leaves are safe, as are buzzing insects, their sweet honey and certain divine berries later on in the cooling summer. 

It is essential to keep up behind mother's wide bottom and accurately mimic her actions. The little brown bear, together with its brother, loyally follows and observantly learns the best tricks and gimmicks, the precious hidden trails and caves; the ways to survive in the woods.

Continue to part 2...