Your friendly neighbourhood playwright solemnly swears she is up to no good

I am still here, just disappeared into a rabbit hole of actually making work instead of talking about the work a bit – and also, life. I like life, but it’s pretty time-consuming and makes you forget that your internet presence is completely neglected. While not blogging, I have been… writing the play The OtherContinue reading “Your friendly neighbourhood playwright solemnly swears she is up to no good”

Last Day of November – and the last poem for now

I started to write this blog around 4th of November with the aim to write a poem every day. I skipped one day, but just because everything outside where I live was too beautiful to even try and think about how to reach anything similar with words. What I have learned is that I feelContinue reading “Last Day of November – and the last poem for now”

On being unfinished

One of the reasons I love poetry is it’s ability to address and communicate in-betweens – the moments of change, the processes, the insecurity I always find trying to explain human experience and its correlations to reality with mere speech. We were chatting about this the other day, and one of the most obvious examplesContinue reading “On being unfinished”

I fully support men in suitcases

I want to make it known that even if this poem seems to indicate I had something against men in suitcases (not to be confused with me with suitcases), I totally believe in the power of imagination and this poem rose out of the thought that if, indeed, there was a man in a suitcase,Continue reading “I fully support men in suitcases”

Admiring others – four of my friends who have no idea they are now a poem

I should probably have said yesterday that when I talked about writing for and about others, I did not so much mean writing about the lives of other’s than I meant writing about thinks I find adimirable in some people within my life. I once messaged with this guy I had met on Tinder whoContinue reading “Admiring others – four of my friends who have no idea they are now a poem”

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