Jørgen on women
It is not because I'm not into traveling. One can travel a long way through a painting. You can come to Thule, via menstruation blood. I have seen one painter do that. He set out on a journey through a painting of two models and for one reason or another discovered some menstruation blood on the journey. Well blood is not really my thing. It is probably more perfume and red lips. That's gotta be it. When those things are in place I can really travel. And it's gotta be said that you can really travel far in your woman. You really can.
You get very very very far out. And sit there inside your woman with a cool drink and this hand that's holding the steering wheel that's sitting on her blond vessel and call her crotch the Sahara, and sip at her brain like it's a flower. A ___. You really can. You can travel inside your woman. But real travel makes me feel insecure. It really does. Because then you move. Really. Over distances. On horseback. Or on an airplane. Or crouched. Through the land of the dead. After the motorcycle accident. Over great distances that you can see that you are passing through!!! Just picture it. Crouched. Over Greenland. In a truck through southern Italy just to reach Grand Canary.
It is not designed for that at all. It is not meant for travel. The body is nature. Not bullshit and funny hats. Humans are designed to cry and grow and fall apart and die in one place, to be part of landscapes like mountains and toyshops. But travel? NOO. We are sure as hell not designed for that. The Japanese are. Austrians are too, to a certain extent. And those Negroes, because they have such curly imaginations. But not us. Not us. Not me. I travel in my cellar. And Kate, you stay here. You stay here. And Donna with those beautiful eyes, you stay here too. And Lonnie thousand sofa sunburned oblong cheerful after aah horny thoughtful Sunday. You stay here too. Here! I've taken off my driving glasses. I'm traveling astride my woman. Vroooooom.
Ditte on men
It is not that I'm not into Prince Joachim. He's just not my type. I think that Pingo (the Crown Prince/ Prince Frederik for a foreign audience?) is smarter and more my type.
Frands on art
Art, man, what's that? A testicle in a yellow singlet rotating around an axis we call time, space and place? Personally, I prefer something that represents something. And here I'd like to be very specific. Cats by a forest lake. See, that's art. Cats that are pissing by a forest lake or cats that are strolling along the point up by the North Sea, like a painting by that fucking Krøyer. Then you can see that it represents something. Like in the old days when you could see when cats stood there pissing by a forest lake. Instead of that flimsiness that is in today. And fuck all of that modern shit. It's nothing more than names and models with fully automatic pussy.
Kill that bitch. Kill the nasty slut. Move her out of the room. Replace her with a dummy. Take her things. Take her hair and cut it. Take her to court. Tug at her corners until they make a square. Get her right. Get her wrong. No, don't understand her. Don't understand her. It's a trap. It is a trap. Don't try to comprehend it. Whitewash those eyes. Whitewash that smile. Destroy the damned fluffy happiness. Paint over it. Paint it red. Put words in her mouth. Judge her with malice. Sew her up with terms of abuse. Make her into a teddy bear made of uninvited speechlessness. Pick her open.
Take away her privileges. Remove her property. Kill her father. Delouse her aunt. Move her focus. Place her so that she can see a mandarin. Add yourself to the mandarin. Whip her. Whip her until her childhood buckles under. Let her stare at it. Crush it. Call it a dirty word. Chew her up. Cement everything together. Mount the smallest breasts. They keep best. Decorate the party room. Crush it in drunkenness. Lie until it squeals. Don't hesitate. Cut away. Bring her up to be a woman. Bring her up until she is indispensable. Bring her up until she tells you off. And regrets it. Bring her down until she crawls around you like the corpse of the deer you are. Oh shut up fraternity brother. Fuck her until she's beautiful. Fuck her until she's beautiful. Shape her round and then hack away. Hack her angular. Hack her. So that you can see that she has been. And no longer is. And then lie down and cry and dream in her ruins.
Jens Blendstrup, Danish writer based in Copenhagen, 2005
Translated from Danish by Pamela Starbird
This text was published the first time in the book Fuck You Art Lovers Forever
Kristian von Hornsleth, Futilistic Publishing, Copenhagen 2005.
You can buy the book on www.hornsleth.com