The protocol

It's so weird to find this blog that has been here just resting passively for years. Since 2009. And to suddenly write on it like I did back in 2002, when blogs were an anonymous fun thing to do on the internet. Since the point of blogging was partly to enjoy the freedom of anonymity, bloggers hardly went by their real names. I had my own blog nick (not to be revealed) and I made a few friends. For example Siggi Siggi Bang Bang  https://siggisiggibangbang.com and https://badmeanton.blogspot.com. Bad and Mean later became my friends in the real world and so did Siggi amongst other good people. Unfortunalty most of the url.s are gone into the wires. 

When I first started blogging I was working nightshifts at a senior home and during those shifts I made double money by writing free lance articles. I used the hours of just sitting there, attending every other hour to dying old people, and wrote in-between. Both on a weblog, that I believed wan anonymous diary of thought, and articles that I signed with my own name. 

I liked writing blogs much better but it turned out that not everyone did and I wasn't quite as anonymous as I thought. My boss at the senior home said that I was way too frank in my writings and that I had crossed some line. A line that I apparently hadn't noticed. She said that my blog from work was too much but I should definitely keep on writing, and the way she said it told me that she honestly liked it but she wasn't supposed to. She had to follow a protocol. 

Someone had sent her the link and it didn't take her long to figure out the scene and the players. Some relatives had complained. 

The thing I did was to describe the atmosphere and the people at the senior home the way I saw it. 

There was this schizophrenic man who walked around the hallways talking to himself while intensely smoking the Winston cigarettes that we gave to him, three at a time, every three hours. He reacted clearly to air pressure and became sleepy and depressed when it was heavily clouded, stormy and rainy outside and sometimes he would get angry and shout. Normally close to his next load of Winstons. 
There was also a tiny woman who only ate white food (fish and milk for example) and wanted her feet moisturised with yellow Aloe Vera Banana-boat gel every six hours. She was the entitled type. Queen.

My strangest interaction with all the strangeness at this senior home was with a 96 year old man who had a brain tumor. The kind that added the very exact amount of pressure on his brain to change his personality to a new degree of weirdness.
He came sleepwalking down the hallway at 03:00 in his pyjamas. This you could always count on. His slippers made a very distinct wooly slipper sound as he dragged his drowsy feet on the floor.
I sat by the computer and did my thing until the sound of his slippers reached a certain volume. Then I knew that he was about ten meters behind me and therefore the right time for me to stand up and guide him back to his room. This was a silent boring routine but he broke it the night he asked me if I would be kind and hold his cock for a while. My first reaction was to laugh but I repressed my reaction, kept the cool and stayed silent and pro as we walked on and when I closed the door behind he went back to his bed with his wife. 

The troubling paradigm

Most people in the west have this idea, or the paradigm of The Great Chain of Being deeply rooted in their minds. On the hard disc if you will. It's based on a hierarcy:

Fish and creatures of the sea are at the bottom, insects and plants are at first and second base, then birds, then mammals, then different kinds of mammals. Apes, then different kinds of primates, humans... different kinds of humans like savage, barbarian, noble savage and finally civilised. And on top of that whole thing reigns a male creature, Mr. God Almighty, the White Wonderful Man, The Ultimate Supreme Being of all beings.

This image really, seriously affected Europe in the middle ages,and obviously for some ages before and after that, as in for example the Greek mythologies where the white bearded Zeus, ruled from the top of mount Olympus, as close to heaven as one could get.

The church, those layers of existence and the messages from the almighty father, inspired hundreds of thousands of men to exploit and convince others, that they defined as barbarian, witch, slave, or anywhere lower in the great chain of being  that they were „less than good“ and should therefore carrie the burden of a of shame.  The different things that were supposed to make you feel shameful were published in the book and the book was translated and published by white Europeans who had a full time job representing „The Ultimate Supreme Being“. Priests to be exact and later many different kinds of officials. All men, apart from one or two queens. 

The great paradigm

Although Darwin was a self proclaimed agnostic, he probably didn't have another sorting system, or paradigm, grid, map... than to sort creatures into categories that ranged from unimportant to important. From wild to tamed. From dark to white. From underdeveloped to developed. Chaos to order. The idea didn't exist in his head because the world hadn't come any further at the time. Our minds didn't work on those things yet. It was all still pretty two dimensional. 

Darwin was a white guy, who had important conversations with other white guys who also went around the world to explore and "discover" animals, cultures and people. And those guys came up with theories about the survival of the fittest, being on top of the food chain and racial cleanliness. All while exploiting Africa, Asia and America, enslaving „savages“ in the name of their patriarchal values and christian views on how we should act. 

The unfair deal is that all of this is still going on just in a slightly different form. The white bells of the patriarchy don't ring from church (dick)towers anymore. They ring from the phones in top floor offices in tall skyscrapers in Dallas, Dubai and London. The white panorama offices on the umpth floors. High up, - closer to God than the rest of us... or so they think.

Cyclothymia, the seasons and a week in the life of a troubled teen

The strange and fun thing about the crazy version of me is, that it is bordered somewhere between me being creative, bored and impatient to the point that I peak in some odd situation that I got myself into and then fall down like a phoenix on fire. And then I want to sleep it out. Obviously.

For me this feeling can't be a diagnosis because it is the only reality that I know, and in fact the only stable undertone in the patterns of my behaviour, when I seriously think about it. Cyclothymia is natural and healthy for a lot of people because for them it is like driving down a familiar road, almost on muscle memory. It rides with the weather and the seasons. It reacts to light and temperature. It has a rhythm. It is a force of nature, like the seasons.

Way up north

I have this theory that for the people of Iceland, light depression and light hypomania (or pitch dark in some cases) are a natural psychological state, which is no wonder. During the dark months of the winter, the body produces mass amounts of melatonin so you become sleepy, drowsy and monotonous to the point of depression.

Meanwhile it is windy, black and stormy outside and you have to battle a snowstorm to get your car door open, and still be in pure denial that it is actually challenging, and sometimes horrible, to live on this fucking island. You are like that “Everything is fine” meme where a smiling dog with a cup of tea sits at a table in a house on fire.  Everything is fine because you have a big bowl of snacks, a variety of anti depressants and a Netflix account.

And to the extreme opposite, during the bright months of spring and summer, the body and the brain experience a blitzkrieg of INTENSE daylight „therapy“ (for some much unwanted) that pumps them up and makes them want to go out and DO things>

Go fishing, barbecuing, arrange huge soccer matches for kids (a torture for introverted parents), go camping, go to cottages, hold weddings, paint roofs, build fortresses called “pallur” around their houses, buy icecream and go to the swimming pool. Get crazy drunk downtown and eat a hot dog that might make you regret it an hour later, go to a party with random people and make new friends, have accidental sex with someone you've just met and stay awake until 12:00 the next day because you have no idea that it’s actually morning because it’s light 24/7 anyway. The sunlight hurts the brain and you are dehydrated but you keep going anyway. Your phone is on 2%. The ocean is calm. You can see the reflection of the mountain in it. Everything is bright blue and intensely yellow, like the intro in the Teletubbies.

Mondays

Sometimes it get’s way too much and you just want to stay inside, but you can’t because you start feeling guilty about not being OUT IN THE SUN. As the days get warmer, The People of Iceland want you to go outside. It’s a demand, an obligatory duty from everyone around you, national peer pressure.

-Kva! Ætlaru bara að vera inni í sólinni? Það er fimmtán stiga hiti! Drífðu þig út maður!

Translates: If you belong to this nation, you must go outside!

1980-1984

When I was around ten or twelve, I really enjoyed staying inside when it was super sunny outside. I just liked chilling on the brown leather couch and watch spectacles of dust, from the fuzzy brown floor-carpet, float weightlessly in sun-rays that broke their way through the dark curtains. The dust looked like an infinite galaxy in the sun-rays. I disappeared and became just as weightless as the dust. I vanished and it felt good.

Sundays

I also used to enjoy napping or zoning out to the sounds from small airplanes on Sundays. On calm, sunny weekends they were very predictable, because in Iceland, everyone does the same things at the same time. That went for the hobby pilots too. I also listened to music with headphones. I loved that enough for another chapter. 

Saturdays

Late at night on Saturdays and Fridays, and probably on other nights as well, I used to break into cars. I was still a tween. The area below the block of flats where I lived was full of car repair shops and there were lot’s of unlocked cars there. All kinds. Big and small. Me, along with some other kids, used to go straight for the glove compartments and nick whatever was in there. Normally we found coins and cigarettes. Sometimes porn mags. It was a competition. Who got the best stash that night. 

Fridays

Another crime I used to commit as a kid was stealing AA batteries in food stores. They used to be overpriced, like proper razor blades are today, but easy to nick from bigger shops. I then took the batterie pack to a smaller shop, where they were sold from behind the counter, and told the assistant that I had bought the wrong ones, but since my mom had already bought the right ones, I wanted to exchange the batteries for a pack of Viceroys. What a criminal! I was 14.

Thursdays

During a period, that lasted for a few weeks in my life, I used to go home after school to sniff glue and watch VHS recordings of music videos with my girlfriends. There were like five of us and we did this when our parents were at work. We also used to hyperventilate, choke each other by the neck and pass out for a few seconds. Top class entertainment and a cheap and easy way to get high.

Wednesdays 

Take the bus downtown after school, go to the arcade, play Pacman and Galaxy, go on a shoplifting raid down the main street, come back to the arcade with expensive suits and pilot jackets, „sell“ the goods to the twenty year old guys behind the counter and get coins for the game machines instead. We did this regularly.

Tuesdays

Go to school, go through hell. Run home like a fugitive. Read and watch films.

Mondays

Go to school, go through hell. Run from the bullies. Run home like a fugitive.