The taxi driver has told me his entire life story for only 97 kroner, but from his story I gather what really happened: he got drunk last night and had a hangover this morning. He was about to call in sick but then remembered all his unpaid bills and went to work anyway. He quit working at sea and went ashore because he couldn’t keep his job. When he was no longer able to control his drinking, he was urged to quit his job as a fireman and now he earns a living driving a taxi. He has never been close to his mum but now that she doesn’t have much time left, he tries to show that he’s a good son. His wife left him. He gives money to his daughter in order to keep in touch with her … He wants to be heard. He wants to exist. He tries to avoid being lonely by talking about himself. If he had bothered to ask me, I would have told him that I just witnessed a child’s first breath, but I don’t give a fuck that he didn’t ask. Today, I resist the temptation to criticise anybody, and decide to show patience instead.
‘Thank you,’ I say with a smile.
‘Same to you. Have a nice day,’ he answers.
I’m sure I will have a nice day. I don’t give a fuck about negativity. Today a little baby was born; today must remain pure. Polluted thoughts must not ruin this day of purity. Today, my hands must not get dirtier.
#dirtyhands #thetaxidriverandi
I get home and all my muscles relax because the universe can no longer see me. That fucking false smile. I take off my smile because nobody will know, except maybe the Heavens and I don’t give a fuck if they do. The invisible sense can’t touch me because it’s insubstantial. Now I can listen to music in peace and regain control of my unruly body. My brain has tried to be positive all day but disturbing thoughts are about to overwhelm me so I calm down with some music. ‘Home’ by Foo Fighters kicks in in the speaker. A black cloud hovers over me. Darkness welcomes me. Darkness brings loss with it. Forgiveness. Letting go. Just being. Feeling safe once again. Darkness brings burdensome emotions with it. Hard work. But darkness also brings its good friend with it: light. No thanks. Not ready. I change the music in the middle of the song. ‘Walk of Shame’ by Pink. That’s more like it. Brightness welcomes me. Brightness brings celebration with it. Getting girls. Sex. Carefree life. Blame it on the alcohol – I’m innocent. The alcohol is the bad guy here. I’m not evil; it’s the alcohol that causes problems. But light also brings the after-effects of the alcohol with it. Spending the next day puking. Facing the fucking consequences of my recklessness. The brightness also brings its fucking companion with it: regret, which obviously never occurs until it’s too late. Regret, which is linked to dirt. Dirty hands. Today must remain pure, which is why, sadly, I’m unable to feel the light emotions; even they make you dirty. Today I am not going to be even dirtier than I already am. I don’t want to be dirtier today. I want my thoughts to be pure. I change the music once again. Rihanna. ‘Stay’. The real world greets me. The real world arrives every day and the real world hurts. My anger is tremendous. This brings torture with it. Torture. Questions. Fucking depression. Depression drags neglect with it. I try to drag myself, skirting reality. In vain. Guilt. Recriminations. Analysis, which I don’t have the energy for. Reality brings dying love with it. Love’s companion: sorrow. I don’t want to face reality. I want the day to be joyful and I have to try to avoid the truth. The purpose of today is to be unforgettable and happy, and if I let it fill up with sorrow, I risk reality dragging me down to hell, which makes me change the song once more. Joan Jett and the Blackhearts begin ‘Crimson and Clover’. The world of dreams bids me welcome. Fuck. Daydreams are accompanied by forbidden emotions. The king of emotions, ungovernable ruler of emotions. Fuck. Daydreaming brings with it a face, which only appears in my thoughts. A body, which I can only feel in my body. Out of reach. Shit. Daydreaming brings suffering with it. Not being able to touch what you yearn to touch. Not being able to have what you yearn to have. Not being able to taste what you yearn to taste. Fuck! So much pain! But daydreaming also brings along its good friend: hope. Hope that can’t become reality because it’s nothing but a dream. Hope you can’t hope for. Today, hope will not turn me into a prisoner. I walk over to switch off the music, but I don’t quite manage to. Music can change mood but I’m unable to find joy in these songs. What to do. Hmm. Something else can replace joy: indifference. I turn up the bass and put on some techno. I don’t even know whether it’s really techno. Some shallow, meaningless and boring song, which drowns all emotions. The kind of music that’s played in discos. A bit like a stupid bitch or a douchebag with a big mouth.
#happiness #idontgiveafuck
10.59
Today will be a day of joy. I begin by tidying up my room a bit and changing the sheets. Today is an unforgettable day. I dust everywhere with a cloth. Today, I must be thankful. I dust every corner and vacuum, even under the bed. Today, I must be happy. I open the windows and wash the floor. I do it all over again just to be absolutely sure that I didn’t miss a bit. Today, I must smile. When I’m through, I look at my clean room. I don’t feel satisfied and move to the kitchen. Because today is a good day. I do the dishes till my hands are red and irritated. When the kitchen is in order, I move on to tidy the living room and clear the hall. I vacuum, because why not. I wash the floor because I might as well. Twice. When I’ve finished cleaning the whole apartment, I sit down. Today is a day of joy. The apartment is clean. But my hands are still dirty. But then again, today is a (mother-fucking) day of joy!
#iamahappymotherfucker
12.50
I just can’t figure out how not to care. I just can’t figure out how to shut things out; I can’t figure out how to pretend when I feel bad. I just can’t figure out how to smile when I’m angry. I just can’t pretend to be happy when I’m obviously upset. My whole apartment is spotless but my hands are still dirty. My attempt at a day of joy was a flop. Of course, the birth of the baby is truly unforgettable but I can’t help feeling sorry for her because of all the challenges in life that she will face. I already feel sorry for her that she’ll stumble and bleed when she gets bigger. I already feel sorry for her that my sister will tell her off. I already feel sorry for her because she’ll have low self-esteem when puberty hits. I feel sorry for her because one day she’ll fall in love. It’s a shame that she’ll be abandoned one day. That one day she’ll have to break up with somebody. That she’ll get lost trying to piece together her broken heart. That she’ll be angry. I feel sorry for her that she’ll be lonely. I already feel sorry for her that she was born. My attempt at a day of joy is a failure and I give up. I just sit down and return to reality. After all, life is shit. The light doesn’t shine when you’re in the dark. The day is dark. The day of pity. I have no compassion for myself. I destroy all that I touch, and I’m not surprised that darkness not only captivates me but holds me captive as well.
#realitycheck
All the questions that I am unable to find an answer to surface once more, infiltrating every crevice like tiny worms. I grab my iPad and log on to Facebook. Four notifications. Congratulations that I’m now an aunt. Some likes of my photos. Games requests. Tag from my sister. I click it. She has posted a single photo. My sister is holding the purest child in her pure hands. Her weight and height. Time of birth. Many different people have commented on the photo with no congratulations, asking about the gender of the baby. Later on, my sister’s added that it’s a girl, which is when the same people congratulate her. I find our society fucking unbelievable. I look at the sweet little baby before I go to my news feed to see whether there’s anything new or interesting. There isn’t, so it’s time for my regular routine. Search, click. Ivinnguaq, click. Nothing new. Is she alive, I wonder? I hope so. I click on our conversation. ‘Active 45 minutes ago.’ Yes. She’s alive. The next person I want to check is hope without hope, so I hold back so I won’t look like a stalker and get up to wash my hands. When I get back, search, click. Fia, click. Shit. She finally changed her profile picture. I’m unable to see all of her photos because we’re not friends on
Facebook, so I gaze at her new profile picture for quite a while. I catch myself smiling. I hover over ‘Add friend’ for a long time. No, if she was really interested, she would have sent a friend request. I log off. Go to Google. Google knows everything.
Search: Sooruna Ivinnguaq attortikkumaneq ajortoq?
Results: Your search did not match any documents. No wonder.
Search: Why doesn’t Ivinnguaq want me to touch her?
Results on Knr.gl: ‘The Government of Greenland will pursue a responsible economic policy.’ Oh, politics.
Results on site from random Danish school: ‘This means that if you have contracted the Influenza A virus, you will not contract it again.’ Thank God?
Search: Why was Ivinnguaq unfaithful?
Results: This is why men are unfaithful – sex and partnerships: ‘Is it okay to be unfaithful so long as nobody finds out? Read here when and why men’s reptile brains take over and other women …’
Hetero bullshit.
Search: Why do I feel guilty?
Results: Danish football player confesses – I feel guilty. ‘Maybe this was the only mistake I made during the entire match but that didn’t matter, because we lost anyway … I feel incredibly guilty towards …’ I hear you. I know how you feel.
Search: Why do lesbians cheat?
Results: ‘I’m unfaithful and don’t know what to do.’ Hetero bullshit again.
Scroll. ‘Inspiration: How do lesbians have sex?’ Fuck you. Scroll.
‘Lesbians never smile.’ You said it! Scroll.
I receive a text message on my mobile and I’m back in the room again.
#venus
13.02
Just found the very last piece that’s been missing for a century. Fuck Google.
All of a sudden, I’ve found the answer to the riddle that has been bothering me for ages. It feels like finding the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle with 1000 pieces, which has been lost in a pocket in a pair of trousers you never wear. It feels like finally putting it in place. I realise I haven’t been treated badly and I haven’t treated anybody badly either. I realise why my (ex-)girlfriend, Ivinnguaq, never wanted me to touch her. I realise why she’s been unfaithful to me. I realise why Ivinnguaq wanted to be called Ivik. I realise that Ivinnguaq is Ivik. I realise that my ex-girlfriend is a man. Although I’ve already put my shoes on, I walk about in my clean apartment, getting ready to leave. I have to breathe fresh air into my lungs, to get them breathing again after a long time without oxygen.
I walk towards Kolonihavnen, the old harbour, and I don’t look at passers-by – or, to be more precise, I look at them but I don’t see them. At the last minute I notice an acquaintance smiling at me and I return the smile when she has already passed by. It’s not until after a black cat has crossed my path that I remember I’m afraid of cats. It’s not until after I have crossed the road that I remember it’s illegal to cross here, and a driver gives me an annoyed look. I can’t see the screen on my mobile because of the sun and so I sit down on a bench in the shade. I send a text, fervently hoping that he wants to meet me because I feel such an urge to put things right.
‘Yes,’ he answers.
I smile at the thought of our relationship; I haven’t had a girlfriend, but a boyfriend.
Old introduction: ‘Ivinnguaq, my girlfriend.’
New introduction: ‘Ivik, my ex-love, but my new friend.’ #mars
Departure. Goodbye. There are two kinds of departure. Departure with closure and departure without closure. Ivik has closure and has said goodbye. But my exit feels half-hearted. It’s necessary to forgive. But for me it’s more important to be forgiven. Ivik cheated on me because he felt like a man. I forgive him for that. But I don’t feel forgiven for breaking up with him. He says that he’s forgiven me. He agrees that we can’t be together. But I feel guilty anyway. Forgive. Be forgiven. If the first doesn’t happen, the second won’t work. You can’t be forgiven if you haven’t done it yourself first. And then saying goodbye will seem half-hearted, and if this is how it feels, saying goodbye won’t be a real departure. One of the things the sweet baby will experience one day.
But maybe I can protect her. I can protect her from all evil. My love for her is so strong that it hurts. My heart aches. I can hardly handle the thought of her in kindergarten because that is where she’ll learn to be bad. She’ll need to be forgiven when she misbehaves. And she’ll feel hurt. School is where she’ll be surrounded by naughty children. She’ll have some bad experiences there. And she’ll get hurt. I feel an urge to fetch and kidnap her right now. I feel an urge to escape with her so that she’ll never be marked by the world, but that would be something her mother would never forgive me for. Would the child forgive me, I wonder? It wouldn’t matter. All that would matter would be that she’s not hurt. I would be a mountain nomad with her. God, what kind of thoughts are these and where the hell do they come from? What a way to say goodbye. What a day on which to say goodbye.
#notpossible #impossible
14.34
Some people are destined to change the world. They give love. They have the power to forgive. They work hard for what they believe in. They gain the public’s attention. They are the few people useful to society. These people must be supported since they are the ones that are valuable and have something to give back. Then there are all the rest that must support the few. These people must sacrifice themselves so that the good ones can be successful in life. Very stupid of me to think that I was the first kind of person. I am the second kind. One who is easily expendable, which I’ll have to accept. I will sacrifice myself because I have nothing else to give. I’m not a fighter. I’m not worth fighting for. Until today, I fought to prove the opposite. But no matter how much I fight, I spoil everything I touch, and there must be a reason why. It’s not just a coincidence. And it’s even on a material level: I’ve lost count of how often I’ve broken other people’s belongings. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve spilled coffee on somebody’s book or newspaper. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve stained somebody’s chalk-white sofa with chocolate or ice-cream. I should have taken this as a wake-up call a long time ago because then I might not have wrecked so many lives. I just thought: ‘Next time I won’t do it; next time things will be okay; next time things will work out.’ Now, however, I realise that I don’t have what it takes to be successful. After ruining not just one but several lives, I’m finally ready to give up. I’ll ruin the little baby if I don’t. My one objective is that the child will be a success. It’s either me or her. If she’s going to have a good life, I must sacrifice myself. I’m not worth fighting for. She’s worth dying for.
#1 #2
I feel torn. I’m restless. It’s hard for me to accept that I might never be happy again. But then again: I have to accept that my life won’t revolve around me. I’m satisfied as long as the child is okay. At least I’m trying to convince myself. A pure heart mustn’t love a dark heart. The child is alone but that’s fine because her heart is pure. My heart is dark. Polluted. I’m a bad person because I broke up with Ivik. I’m not a bad person just for breaking up with Ivik. I’m a bad person because of the things I did while we were still together. I can’t believe that I ended it because he cheated. Because I was busy cheating in my thoughts. Since I met Fia, I’ve been unfaithful with her in my head. If I had run into her, I would have been the one cheating first. I’m convinced that if we had been alone at some point, I would have been unable to control myself: I regret even now that I didn’t kiss her when I met her for the first time. I regret that this is how I think. I didn’t leave Ivik because he was unfaithful to me. I left him because I was hardly any fucking better myself. He believed that I left him because he had done something terrible. He believed that he was a bad person. Now that he’s forgiven me, what puzzles me is that I can’t move on myself. The fact that Ivik has moved on doesn’t make me feel any better. Since I left him, I’ve truly wished that he’d get on with his life because it hurt so much
to be hurt. I would have sacrificed anything for him to move on. But now it hurts because he finally let go of me. Maybe I like to hurt people? Maybe I feel hurt when I haven’t got anybody to hurt? I’m now alone in the world. Ivik has let go of me and I no longer mean anything to anybody. Although I’m relieved that Ivik is feeling better, it hurts to know that I’m all alone now. I don’t matter to anyone. But I would matter if I sacrificed myself for the child. What I want can’t happen and therefore doesn’t matter, but I can make her dreams and wishes come true. I can sacrifice myself for her. This is why I keep on even if I don’t want to. For once, I must succeed. For once, I must be useful. For once, I have to repair what I’ve ruined. I have to keep trying till I die. Dead woman walking.
#dietrying
15.24
When something is born, something dies. This is something I can’t deny. I walk past sick people and look around in the corridor. I catch sight of my sister who is breastfeeding her baby in one of the rooms. I stop by the door. My sister sees me and smiles and I can see that she notices I’m feeling down. Depressed.
‘How is she?’ I ask before she asks.
The baby is dressed in white and wears a white cap. She looks like a little angel. She is a little angel. When she spits out the nipple, she begins to suck her sweet lips. She’s so dear that my heart almost explodes. I take a deep breath. I’ll do anything, I think; it’s all worth it.
‘How are you doing?’ my sister says.
I just look at her. No matter how hard I try, I can’t lie to my sister. She always knows. I don’t try to lie because it won’t work. We often think of the same thing at the same time. My brain is hers and her brain is mine. Yet our hearts are different. When I miss her, she may call me without knowing that I miss her. I feel pain when she feels pain. She feels pain when I feel pain. I can tell that she feels my pain right now.
Last Night in Nuuk Page 9