K-Blog

Ok, I'm squiffy. On a Tuesday. So stab me. I had a few drinks post-work with a friend and now here I am, innocently following a link on FB to answer user surveys* *giggles* *and my squiffy answers are just as surreal as *their* badly translated questions =)

I grew up in the countryside. As in a place with < 2000 inhabitants. Our house was the last house (on our side of the road ) before the fields meet the forest at the horizon. In front of the house were more fields and a long winding gravel "road" known as "hundevejen", where people would walk their dogs. "Hundevejen" was also our playground. I remember bike-racing there, parking the bikes at the side of the road to stop at a little bunker, where we whispered in hushed voices about dead men coming back to haunt the place. The bunker was basically just a concrete cube with no lid, always filled with black, stagnant water, but it was easy to imagine drowning there and pretending to see white bones poking out of the water. I can't remember what games we played but I remember lowering myself into the concrete hole once, heart hammering. I think it was a dare. Anyway; I'm digressing here. Thing is. I remember the feeling of this "Hundevej...

What's up with The Fall ???? Referring to Norah Jones' latest album here, not Tarsem Singhs' brilliant visual orgasm of a masterpiece movie . I am so disappointed. Sounds like she has been put through the mainstream-synthpop-overproduced-alienating-dreamy-overfiltered-voice-machine. What happened to her very personal, intimate sound ? This album seems lifeless to me. And plain sad, at best, not her usual melancholic-quirky. I miss her little intakes of breath and her very presence, it sounds like she's been cloned and polished to death. Hell, I prefer her charming out-of-tune whistling to this.

that I am terribly distracted these days. I surprise even myself. And I once found a bottle of shampoo in the freezer,  thus knowing perfectly well, where to find the whole chicken that I expected to find in there. Perched on the edge of the bathtub =). I am working a lot these days. Too much. I have plenty of leisure time but I seem to do nothing with it, and so it seems I do nothing but work. I work eve

Showering and getting kissed by rays of sunshine through hot-water-vapours. Time slows down and looks the other way.

I was very much in love. And the Valentines Day of two years ago, was the last one I spent as part of a couple. I looked for a blog-post of mine from that day, but it wasn't there. I did find a Love Letter from February 19th, addressed to the guy I was in love with, and initially, it surprised me. Not that I wrote the love letter, but that I *didn't* write about the Valentines Day he gave to me. Thinking about it now, I know perfectly well why I didn't write about it. Bear with me; here goes. He flew to Italy from Denmark, carrying a hundred red roses and a bottle of champagne. He had booked a table in one of the fanciest restaurants of Florence and had the champagne poured and the roses brought, just as we sat down at our table. There was also musicians and everybody's eyes were on us, and the lucky girl that received such lavish attention from her man. An American couple was taking our picture (he exchanged emails with them so that they might send the pictures)...