Writer, demi-fictional, extranousician, liminal, non-binary & binary star. Writing fiction, poetry and philosophy about life, language, art, imagination, consciousness, magic and various other manifestations of the mind.
Excite and assemble some energy and it will be quarks. Combine them and they turn into particles, who turn into atoms, to molecules, to chemistry, to biology, to consciousness, to… What new state would combined consciousnesses turn into?
You never see your own faults the same way those close to you do. And they never tell you. On the other hand, they never see the flaws you hide from them. The darkness of absent light, the sharp broken shards of your heart, the empty container where your happiness should be.
Inspiration is an endless ocean
I’m a nuclear submarine
Going deeper, the hull will buckle
Sonar or later
New site design – making it more mobile friendly. You can sort posts by categories like Short-stories and Poetry, find direct links to texts and read more about me under Info up in the menu.
My short-story The DreamCube Thread will be included in the anthology “Vast” published by Orchid’s Lantern on 2020-02-28. More info to come…
I have recently added old journal posts from 2017–2019 to this site, enjoy the glimpse into my rambling mind.
I’m kinda active on Twitter, so get over there and follow me!
You are like
a beautiful sunrise
and you’ve got
three apples.
You give one to me,
and eat one yourself.
How many apples
remain when sunset
separates us
with darkness?
We only use second person narration in poetry and math problems. Is there some kind of hidden connection?
She started up the fire machine and went through the neighborhood like an infernal demon on a rampage. Smoke bellowed out as she went and it could be spotted from the other side of town. Pictures of her quickly accumulated all over social media, hashtagged: “The Lady of Ignition”.
Free thinking is a gift from the electric currents of the cloud in the mind. What can a tigress thrash if she gets out through the fence? There are towers on the hill, that overlook the surroundings, emerging up over the fog of opaque thoughts. Can you spot the striped fur running like liquid through the mindscape? Invisible to the grazing gazelles with antlers like antennas. But there is no reception, they only get static, noise and low frequency humming. The tigress is unreceived, but eagerly expected. She is vigorous potential. Manifest the tigress – let her roar!
This is unedited automatic writing #3. I empty my mind, write without thinking, not caring to be coherent, to see what I will get. The result is not always “good” but posted here as part of a study of how to access the inner workings of creativity.
I dream of visiting Arrokoth
To reach the outward bounds
At the hem of the flowing skirt
Of our dancing mother Sol
I just saw a bird in the sky. Wings wide, resting on the thermals. Looking down, surveying, planning where to descend next. Content at the moment. There is no wind when you glide on the wind. Calm while storming. Follow the air to be still.
This is unedited automatic writing #2. I empty my mind, write without thinking, not caring to be coherent, to see what I will get. The result is not always “good” but posted here as part of a study of how to access the inner workings of creativity.
My creativity is burning the mundane to charred remains that I smear over my body as a reminder of what I have outgrown.
Restless I scream because no one at this place will understand my words however careful I choose them.
There is an expression in me, inhabiting me, yearning to get out, to dress in reality and affect and interact with other expressions hiding inside the bodies of the primitive (but evolving) gathering of slaves.
Shocked from my cursing they look at what I do, determine that they don’t understand it even before trying to understand, thinking I’m dealing in some kind of magic.
This is not magic, it’s just basic knowledge, you ignorant twats!
When I wield my magic you will know what magic is.
I eat the ashes of the cold remains of the dying fire. I ingest the world. I become the world. I transcend this petty squabbling pack of apes. Not better, not worse, but further away, needing to do other things.
Diffent states, collide and should not be at the same time or place. They must have their own moment, their own arena, given space.
With all this energy inside, I feel like running, howling, hunting, embracing the progress of my mind.
Together we are, body and mind, the tip of a pen, a wave to a friend, that heartbeat you get from a glance at someone who understands you… We are all these things.
We are that heartbeat. And we set the beat on fire daily.
Around me – people with fire blankets.
Fuck. I really need to go.
I just started to write, keeping my mind blank, to see what I would get. This is the unedited result.
“Learn from the past and deal with any bad things rather than avoid it. Then move on. Stop returning and dwelling, because it keeps you from moving on. To me the past feels more and more like distant backstory that mostly isn’t relevant anymore. I have become someone else now.”
This name, Ellinor Kall, started as an escape, the revealing of an inner secret, as an exploration of myself. Along the years it grew and took on it’s own life. It made me write and act more spontaneous. I didn’t have to care about what those who knew the previous me would think. It made me free.
I connected with people that didn’t care who I had been, they became friends with who I was now. I realized that this name was as true as the other one I have. My alias became me. I let my sides do different things, even preferred different languages depending on who was up front.
For a couple of years I’ve tried to physically manifest my new self in actual reality. Changing my appearance bit by bit, mostly by clothing, nails and some makeup. It alternately brought me comfort and despair, ultimately draining my energy. I’ve been in a civil war with my body.
My inner selves and my body are different. I have come to accept that now. I’ve made a peace treaty with my body. I’ll stop disliking my body, treat it with respect, exercise it and use it to do things we both enjoy instead of retreating into my mind and only using it for transport.
I can be who I am without changing the body I live in. The clothes I wear doesn’t validate me. I can wear high heels or heavy hiking boots. I can be both me and me at the same time, just as easily as I can be both a writer and a reader. I can change appearance based on mood and feelings. I can be fluid on both inside and outside.
I’m Ellinor and I’m […]. I’m a writer, musician and magician. I’m liminal, demi-fictional, a positive nihilist, queer, non-binary, genderfluid, an extranousician and a secret oracle. I travel through and explore both fiction and reality. And by my will – I do what I darn well please!
On the troubles of being a binary star…
I separated Ellinor from M when online as a way to explore her as an aspect of myself without the burden of the connotations M brought with him. Now I feel that I want to consolidate. I’m not two separate entities, it’s just two non-binary aspects of one core.
I was born with the body of M. But I’ve always had Ellinor within me. Sometimes she is stronger and takes over the stage and sometimes she stays at home under a blanket with a book while M goes to work. Poor M, he doesn’t want to leave her, none of them likes a job where they have to follow orders and rules.
Ellinor is not just a persona of M. She has her own will, her own mood, her own way of expressing, her own way of writing and interacting with people. She is both stronger and more vulnerable. She has impetus, she is restless and sometimes hypomanic.
M is not the real Ellinor. He is just an aspect of her. Often conditioned by society into a role. He often feels he’s playing a character, putting up a fascade, and he often gets genuinely surprised when he sees himself in a mirror. Sometimes he feels like nothing. Like his task is just to carry a body from A to B.
Sometimes E hates that she looks like M. Sometimes M hates that he feels like E. Sometimes they get along and work marvels. Their wills wax and wane, their interests overlap, and both like writing. Maybe M would like to let go of the selfcontrol, which also makes him prone to judge himself and other, while E is more dominant with a greater kindness who sees mercy beyond the obstacles.
And still – it’s all me.
My short-story The DreamCube™ Thread is included in the anthology Vast: Stories of Mind, Soul and Consciousness in a Technological Age published in 2020 by British independent press Orchid’s Lantern.
A review about Vast with praise for The DreamCube™ Thread.
Read my news about Vast for more info and get your copy to read it!
Vast is available directly from the publisher Orchid’s Lantern book shop or from Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com and many others.
In Sweden it can be bought through Bokus and Adlibris and Amazon.se.
Friendship sails on ebb and flow
no matter wind and rain.
But skerries and reefs
not marked on the charts
takes their toll –
thrash the bow and the keel
until we have to let go.
I still can’t let go
that she rather wanted
a blank notepad
than a book with my words.
It was Midsummers Eve, the great heathen celebration of the fallic shape of Scandinavia, and Ellinor was invited by a friend to a small backyard party in a somewhat shady suburb for beer and some kind of grilled, or rather charred, meat referred to only as “fleisch”.
She wasn’t used to socializing with humans and got off on the wrong foot already when she before leaving home realized she hated almost all of her clothes and couldn’t get into the ones she still liked because she had gained too much weight during her recent months under the surface in a low mood cycle of her undiagnosed bipolar-like syndrome.
The people at the party were very nice. But she found herself thinking mostly about her writing, how she was losing so many hours of writing time, how this extra day off from work could have yielded at least a thousand words.
The music was good, mostly metal, but she thought about the poor neighbours having to live with the hosts speakers and hifi-system. The speakers were so tall that she could stand straight next to one and rest her nose on the top of it.
The beer made her tired and the boys in charge of food had only bought the fleisch and some candy to eat. Only. A smörgåsbord of meat, candy and beer. And vodka of course, this was taking place in Sweden, on Midsummer’s Eve, what do you expect?
Some time after midnight, still dressed in clothes she hated, she excused herself and caught a late bus home. No fertility rituals or sexual celebrations for her this year. No dancing around the midsummer pole. The closest thing was a faint hint of fetish feeling for the black rain jacket she wore to not freeze to death while waiting for the bus.
When she finally got home she quickly fell asleep without flowers under her pillow as tradition usually edicts. And so another year passes without carnality. It’s all good. Her vow to be a writer-nun still valid. Well, except that one time just before Christmas. Oh, and the thing this spring. Damn. Neither of them counts!
I just had an interesting experience. I was awakedreaming reality. I was incredibly tired this afternoon and laid down in my sofa to rest a bit. Closed my eyes but didn’t fall asleep. I went into that state of mind where you are aware of the surroundings and the sound, but your connection to the body is getting fluid. I thought about various things and then started to dream while still conscious.
I was dreaming that I saw exactly what I should see if I opened my eyes. I felt my eyes being closed but yet I saw my living room in front of me, clearly and vividly, as if my eyes had been open. After a few seconds the phenomena disappeared and I opened my eyes. The angle, field of view and the light in the room was slightly different but it was no difference in how real what I had dreamt and what I now saw with my eyes was. The dream and reality was equally real.
The brain is constantly creating its perception of actual reality in our minds whether the impressions are gathered externally, from our senses, or internally, from our dreams and imagination. This creation of the world doesn’t stop when we are sleeping, the brain never shut down, only our selves. We are always the same corporeal entity, whether we are sleeping or awake, as the conscious or unconscious I is only one of many parts that is us.
Our brains perception of actual reality, what we call existence, is one single continuous dream, as long as the span of our lives.
In the light of deeper insight I need to nuance my earlier writing about the percieved unrealness of reality and how the existence of alternative realities really works.
There is only one reality: The actual reality that is everywhere. The phenomenal world where actions take place, where matter and energy interact, where there are distances and passing time.
Any perceived variations and alternatives to actual reality are just different interpretations in our creative minds due to perspective, relativity, lack of or erroneous information, state of mind, substances, art, culture, etc. What we experience are models – the brains best guess of what is going on.
These variations manifest as multitudes of sub-realities, like bubbles, overlapping or separate layers of perception, inside actual reality. They are readily created wherever there are one or more consciousnesses present and can be personal, shared or both. Actual reality is a frothing foam of sub-bubbles.
However, no matter how real, alternative or separate these sub-realities seem, our minds, which is where they exist, are still a part of the one fundamental, all-encompassing actual reality. Like any fictitious scene performed on a stage, it is still done in reality, inside a real theater building. Fiction is as real as reality.
Naked reality is unreachable to us. We’re prodding and probing it, measuring and calculating it’s features, and from these results we know that it’s actually there. But to our conscious minds it’s hidden behind a veil of math and language. To us it appears uncertain, abstruse and ineffable, like a god.
And if reality itself is the creating force rather than the created: How do we raise our eyes from the details we study? How do we connect the pieces to see the entire countenance? How can we see the actual reality behind the veil and fathom it’s all encompassing splendor?
There is only one reality. But within it – a myriad of perspectives.
Ket her off and cock mah fire to incubinah che seed and give burath to the far it that need satch a method with all ye sodden male cuts!