Home - Texts - Galleries - Other media- Links - Contact



Aase Berg




Itīs easy to fall into doomsday sermons in a filthty time such as this. We deeply regret our own existence: no civilisation has ever hated itself as the present one. We are gangrenous, depressed and have hangovers, in a time where every action is in despair. And itīs important to realize that we have neither obligation nor reason to exert any dutyful constructivity. The 90s are characterised by terror, preambuled by the extreme hygienic revolution of the 80s. Spend lots of time in a solarium, showering every morning and keeping anorexia were some of the expressions the new fear of bacteria offered. What it was was really a pupal stage, locking oneself into hygien and TV-sets. The 90s suffer from a hangover after this antiseptic balloon-life. War on the Balkan, we are ugly, dirty and broke, flaccid in our flesh again. But everything was said to get better when the wall fell?

Yes, weīre in throes. The world is inflamed by death bacteria and cancer. The money of society disappear in the black throats of the politicians and companies, while we who donīt get our kicks from exploitation stand at the lip edge and remain well-manneredly poor. And how was it anyway with the EU? Donīt you have a slight memory of having heard that everything should get so damned cheap?

Every moment regrets itself - all the time. Weīre wriggling at the spit of ruelse. To qoute the Swedish Academy Wordbook:

"Ruelse: (probably related in root to rå,raw or rysa,shudder ): regret; nowadays especially concerning deep and violent regret characterised by despair or contrition or sad disposition or brooding and the like."

In this evil time it might not be out of place with a critique of that imbecile hope behind which many try to conceal their decomposition, their leprosy. As if nothing had happened! As if theyīd never caught the disease! Others pursue their path out of a bestial hate against the order of things, and refuse - out of pure defiance, as an eyesore to it all - to commit suicide. While you still are alive anyway, you keep being pushed forward by uneasiness, by an inner hunger for creating (or throwing up, like the birds) poetry in various forms. Poetry is a will to put things right, an imaginary solution, a way of avoiding a catastrophe that already happened. Poetry is an escape, perhaps intelligent, perhaps idiotic, from a senile situation. It is a dialectical movement, it keeps tearing open the wounds while trying to heal them. Here we see the only acceptable path open up towards an existence worthy of human beings. Here the seriousness is unfaltering and absolute. Where it will lead no one knows.

Are you the same person (the same so called individual) while commiting an act and while regretting it? Having gone too far, ruined your chances, burnt your bridges, you are overwhelmed by a bittersweet and crystalline feeling of disgust about whatīs happened. The hand that feeds us we have ground to meat foam - the body of society is sick and rotten down to the genes. The ruelse over this grandiose mass murder could easily turn into a compulsorily pseudo-constructive Greider-effect: "Now we have to defend that which we donīt even have any more". As if it were at all possible to wake up the corpses and return! But hell no, we wonīt reconstruct the bridges we burnt behind us. We laugh out of ruelse!

Stockholm, february 1996

(Stora Saltet #4, March 1996)





Home - Texts - Galleries - Other media- Links - Contact