Writing Visions: When Your Inner Clooney Offers Advice, You Better Listen Up

1.
If I were a saint, I'm sure that Jesus Christ and Buddha would appear before me, offering me advice on how to save the world and myself. And not necessarily in that order.

But I'm just a novelist, so the only one who shows up in my dreams is George Clooney, and when the brilliant actor offered me some advice on the progress of my novel, I listened humbly.

This is not as weird as it sounds. Everybody can get help from their dreams. If they are strong and have a visionary quality, they can aid us solving problems in our lives. So believe it or not, My Inner Clooney was a big help to me. I won't promise that I'll dedicate my book to him, but if he invites me to stay at his villa outside Como, I could be talked into it.

 2.
Okay, let me be serious for a second. In this memorable dream I just had, George Clooney said that I should try to be less aware of myself during the writing process (which is something I always work on intensely), and he also added something that made me laugh when I woke up: "Let the Swiss be Swiss and the Germans be Germans."

On a superficial level this comment didn't make sense at all. There are no Germans or Swiss in my novel. The story takes place in an ashram in India with an American Dane as the protagonist, but instinctively I knew what My Inner Clooney meant: the novel had become too weird and enigmatic. It needed to be more grounded.

You see, for the last three months I have tried to rewrite the story as a fable, inspired by Franz Kafka and too much spinach curry, probably. George didn't like that. He wanted the novel to be more orderly, structured, and down to earth (Swiss, German).

The reason why I took this dream seriously is that it was Clooney who said it. If it had been Justin Bieber or Kim Jong-Il, the dream would have meant something different, but to my mind George Clooney is an accomplished artist who does quality work, so when he breaks into my dreams I better take him seriously.

When I sat down and read the third draft of my novel, I had to agree with My Inner Clooney. The novel didn't work as a third person fable. It had become weird, pretentious, and boring. I had moved too far away from its irreverent, humorous, and slightly surreal base.

So all I can do is thanking George for making me see that.

But hey, if I'd met My Inner Clooney many years ago I would have asked his advice on how to pick up Italian women, but that's a different story we won't get into here...

PS.
One of my best novels, Flødeskumsfronten (Le Front Chantilly in France, O Paraiso de Hitler in Portugal) was based on a dreamlike vision I got in 1999 that was so strong I'll never forget it. So whether you're an artist, scientist, barista, carpenter or assassin, just know that your subconscious is bursting at the seems with ideas, insights, and visuals that would make Magritte proud. 

Use them so they don't use you!

*****Art work by A. Huda*****

A Warm Tribute to Damascus and Syria (In Photos, Anyway)

I wish I could write something funny about Syria, but what's taking place in that country right now is incredibly sad.

After eleven months of uprising, fighting has spread to gorgeous Damascus where so many artists and academics have stayed at the Danish Institute, working on their books, art, and projects. The old part of the capital is one of the most fascinating places I have visited in my life, and I loved the Syrians who are a warm and generous people.

Parts of my two latest novels, Skorpionens Hale and Zarens dværg (The Tsar's Dwarf, Hawthorne Books) were written at the institute in Souq Madhat Basha, close to the beautiful Umayyad mosque. It's hard not to be inspired when you "have to" walk through 1001 Nights just to get a shawarma. "Welcome," was the greeting everywhere, and you actually did feel welcome in Damascus where St. Paul got his visions two millennia ago.

So this post is a small homage of pictures from my three Syrian visits where I met so many warm and helpful people. I hope they're doing well right now, but I doubt it. The Assad regime has always been brutal, and unfortunately it's showing its true colors to the world right now.

May Allah be with every single Syrian who wants to live a life in freedom and peace!

All photos copyright by Peter H. Fogtdal, Danish Accent.

Blog entry from my latest stay in Damascus in 2007, Damascus Is A Dream But Lesbians Are Not Allowed

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Hanging Out With The Buddha (My Crooked Journey Toward Enlightenment)

I had a talk with the Buddha yesterday.

I told Him that I was planning to surrender my ego and all my filthy desires to Him, and He laughed so hard that He dropped his loincloth.

"You don't even believe that yourself, do you?" the Buddha said, getting back into that blissful state where laughter and loincloths don't exist. And if they do, they're definitely of the most serene quality.

"Well, I want to have fewer anxieties," I explained, "and the way to achieve that is not to identify with your ego and all of your desires," I said, a little hurt by Buddha's lack of moral support, but then again he wasn't exactly Eckhart Tolle. The Buddha hadn't even been on Oprah.

"Just accept your shortcomings," the Buddha said, "they're all an illusion, anyway."

I thanked Him, even though I found His answer to be a little predictable (hey, I've read Siddharta, too) and went back to my little world, still determined to live a life of pure thoughts, healthy foods, and writing wholesome Facebook statuses without the word fuck.

But it's hard to be good. Purity is for angels, TV-preachers, and Little League coaches. The rest of us are filthy. We suffer because of all the things we crave; we lust for Hollywood stars and mango ice cream; we get depressed about global warming and dandruff, we overreact when shampoo salesmen attack us with chainsaws. Life is messy, and we ought to love all sentient beings as much as we love Kim Kardashian, but sometimes we need some relief.

Yes, it's sad but true, our inner demon need the most degrading filth we can find out there. We have to study it up close to understand our own dark sides, even though it makes us feel small and ridiculous.

"Oh, I love those nasty attack ads, too," the Buddha whispered and sat next to me on the sofa. "The Republican primaries are so much better than porn, don't you think?"

I nodded excited and watched the ad where Mitt Romney accused Newt Gingrich of being a lobbyist for devil worshipers, and where Gingrich attacked Romney for the grossest of all crimes, speaking French.

"Oh, this is good," the Buddha shouted and stole my pop corn, "but what happened to that pizza guy who banged all his employers? I miss him!"


 

From left to right, Herman Cain, Michelle Bachmann, Ron Paul, Newt Gingrich, Mitt Romney, Rick Perry, and John Houseman at the debate in Maya, New Hampshire. 


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There Is Nothing More Powerful Than Yoga (Unless You Hate It, Of Course)

1.
I absolutely adore yoga. It's like having sex with yourself - a spiritual cleansing, a divine form of masturbation that has been passed down from Indian saints who didn't know how to keep warm in the Himalayas. I totally believe you can become enlightened by mastering your body - I'm just not sure I have one.

Yes, you guessed it, I only like yoga in theory. When my body sees a yoga mat it wants to run away and munch on a pork sandwich. It doesn't want to breathe through migraines; it doesn't find any joy in "allowing" the pain from a cracked collarbone. My body wants greasy tacos, sex in phone booths, and long bike rides around nuclear plants.

So why do I keep on torturing myself with the dog and other unhealthy yoga positions? I've done yoga on Greek islands, and I've gotten dengue at a health spa in Thailand. That's right, dengue at a health spa. God is trying to tell me something. "Stay away from yoga," God shouts with that booming voice of His that worked so well for Charlton Heston. "Go and catch chlamydia, that's much more spiritual."

2.
Right now I'm sitting at Kalani Oceanside Retreat in the rainforest on Big Island, Hawaii, and it's so serene it gets on my nerves. Alcohol isn't allowed, but anal sex is, so it's not all dull.

Actually, people are absolutely warm and beautiful. In my group you find a Latvian healer, a musician from L.A. with a gift for Zin Wine, a chocolate sales executive who despises chocolate, and an ex-con from the Oakland ghetto. The food is so healthy and tasty you want to scream, and unfortunately our yoga teacher Will is absolutely great. He even has a sense of humor, something I thought was strictly forbidden on the spiritual pathway. And hey, there's a reclining Buddha overseeing my declining body when I go snorkeling in the pool. With a life guard like that, how can you drown?

So yes, you could refer to this lush rainforest as Paradise, but damn it, there's nothing at Kalani to keep me on my toes. When I've been to ashrams in India and Thailand you had to watch out for snakes and monkeys jumping on your back. On Big Island nothing can kill you. You may see a dolphin or hear a whale, but even though this is a spiritual place whales tend to keep to the sea - they're not much for joining us for headstands.

3.
By the way, I love mediation much better than the medieval torture that passes for Kundalini yoga. I'm also pretty good at breathing. Without bragging I can say I've done that successfully for half a century.

A few days ago I almost reached Enlightenment. I suddenly found myself fondling the most beautiful woman in the studio which happened to be my own wife. And I felt like fondling a few others as well, since I believe it's very important to share your wealth, but unfortunately my guardian spirit told me to stop.

4.
So yes, I'll recommend meditation to any one, even though self discovery can be a scary journey. The first time I meditated I discovered that I didn't have a soul. I was only Mind and Thoughts. "Good," I smiled, "now I don't have to be compassionate to other people, I can just eat gelato." But those feelings eventually disappear when you get as close to Enlightenment as I am. Yes, you may buy my book and my DVD. I can walk on water, too.

But excuse me, I have to leave you now. There's an Ecstatic Dance taking place in the Rainbow Room here at Kalani. You're supposed to chant and rub your chakras against the other yogis while you chant something incredibly deep in Sanskrit. You just can't go wrong with that, now can you?

Link to the gorgeous Kalani Oceanside Retreat where egos go to die (some more than others)




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Introducing Novelist Olga Tokarczuk, Pride of Poland (Neptune Aspects And All)

1.
I met Olga Tokarczuk in Cognac, France in 2004. Both of us were invited to Litteratures Europeennes Cognac, a literary conference for writers who had books out in French that year. Mine was Le Front Chantilly (Flødeskumsfronten, O Paraiso de Hitler), and I was extremely excited to be there.

I had no idea who Olga was, and since no one ever has any idea who I am, it was a match made in Heaven. We spent the conference talking about Jung, astrology, and dreams. Later, one of the other Polish writers told me that Olga Tokarczuk was Poland's greatest writer. "But she's a vegetarian," I shouted. "How can a vegetarian who believes in astrology be a great writer?"

The next year I read Olga's House of Day, House of Night, her only book out in the US where it has sold somewhere between 13 and 14 copies. It had won the Gunther Grass prize in Germany, however, and was supposedly a post modern work with no beginning, middle or end.

"Oh, that sounds boring," I yawned and opened the book knowing I would hate something that pretentious. Half an hour later I was hooked. House of Day, House of Night turned out to be one of the best novels I've ever read - a collection of dreamy, meditative small stories where Silesia (Schlesien), a southern region of Poland, was the protagonist. I'd never read anything like it, and when I taught the book in a literature class at Portland State University I discovered that my students enjoyed it as much as I did.

2.
I met up with Olga again in Berlin earlier this month where she was on book tour. She's a big name in Germany as well, and we had a great dinner together.

"There are so few writers who are interested in spirituality," she said and told me that her last book had gotten a lot of ridiculous reviews because her protagonist had been (gasp) an astrologer, and in many academics' eyes that made the book less convincing (!)

"I'm not surprised about that at all," I said with a little smile, having been at the receiving end myself of many scornful reviews for those of my Danish novels that are too spiritual.

We also talk a lot about our Neptune aspects and the writing process. I'm dead tired of being too controlled in my writing. I want my stuff to be weirder, less traditional, and more mythical. Olga offers a lot of great insights which go down very well with the Indian Palak Paneer we enjoy in Schoneberg on this dark November night.

Afterward we go out for coffee, and I give Olga a copy of The Tsar's Dwarf where I've borrowed a few lines from House of Day, House of Night as a homage to her wonderful writing.

Olga, on the other hand, gives me her first novel, Primeval and other times which has come out in English sixteen years after its publication in Poland, but not from a British or American publisher but from a Czech.

"That's weird," I laugh.

"I don't think American publishers believe in me," Olga sighs, making me feel fortunate that I've been treated so well in the US - a country that basically is a cemetery for European novelists who don't write thrillers.

But you can't keep a good woman down. And Olga Tokarczuk is a fantastic writer that I truly admire. If you haven't read her you should. She's out in about fourteen languages, so unless you're waiting for the new Stieg Larsson, what's holding you up?

Wikipedia, Olga Tokarczuk




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Forgive Me, Berlin, But I Miss The Wall and The Gloomy Marxists With Their Bad Haircuts

1.
I'm in Berlin for the first time in more than thirty years.

It's a fun, vibrant city full of cafes, trendy neighborhoods, and friendly people with oversized lap tops. Prentzlauer Berg is hard not to like. So are Bergmannstrasse and fashionable Unter den Linden with the wonderful Berlin museum, but the more I walk toward Brandenburger Tor the more I miss the wall and good old gloomy East Germany.

Not because I liked the German Democratic Republic or DDR. No one did unless they were deranged. East Germany was the most unpleasant country in the world at that time (not counting North Korea and certain parts of Alabama), but it was exciting the same way a nightmare is exciting. It made your heart beat faster. The collective paranoia crept into you and made you look suspiciously at every zombie-hausfrau who passed you in the street, most of them smoking Bulgarian cigarettes that smelled worse than the factories.

2.
Yes, that's right, visiting East Germany was like walking into a black and white film with incredibly bad props. People drove around in silly Skodas and troubled Trabants. The East Germans wore dreadful clothes and had haircuts that made Danish degenerates like me roar with laughter. Alexanderplatz in the late seventies was a paradise of asbestos and huge red banners, teaching us that the Party decided what we should say and think.

God, I loved the Deutsche Democratische Republik the same way you love your undertaker.

It was definitely my "favorite" dictatorship because the Poles and Romanians were too friendly. And in Hungary the food was too delicious to being real Marxist, but the East Germans got it right: They hated and despised everybody. They seemed depressed and were downright rude toward capitalists who didn't bow before their Holy Trinity of Marx, Engels, and Hoenecker. But still they dreamed of hiding in your pockets when you went back to West Berlin.

"God, it must be so exciting to live in this workers' paradise," I used to think stupidly, "they have microphones in the ashtrays just like in the movies, and when somebody knocks at your door in the middle of the night you know it's not your boring neighbor but some Stasi with a gun."

I remember walking around East Berlin, wishing that Denmark had a secret police because that would have kept me more on my toes than that Portuguese wine I used to drink back then.

3.
My fondest memory of my two trips to East Germany was visiting my pen pal, a girl from Halle who dreamed of escaping to the West.

One late night we sat on a bench in Alexanderplatz and kissed. It was one of those three minute kisses you have to be a teenager to endure. We never came up for air, we just kept on kissing ... but while we were at it, I felt something was wrong. I looked up and saw that a police car slowly went by eying us suspiciously. Then it disappeared, but one minute later it came back.

An officer rolled down the window and said something sinister to us (the German language is always kind of sinister). After they left the second time, we got up and continued somewhere else. Why shouldn't we? It was East Meeting West. In our mouths any way.

Here's a picture of us that went around the world. It's me on the left.

4.
Berlin today is quaint and exciting but not a favorite city of mine.

Predictably enough I enjoy the DDR museum and the DDR restaurant the most, even though the latter should be dangerous to your health. I've never had worse food than I did in East Berlin as a teenager. It almost makes the sandwiches at Starbucks seem edible.

One of my favorite places today is Kollwitzplatz. And there's something wonderfully ridiculous about the biggest tourist trap of them all, Checkpoint Charlie where I buy a piece of the Wall that I add to my collection of relics: the two splinters from Jesus cross on Golgata, and the diaper that Justin Bieber wore in 2008.

5.
I leave modern day Berlin after three days, but what I'm going to miss the most is the Club Colas they used to serve in DDR. They always tasted like Cokes that had been left open on a kitchen counter for a decade.

No wonder that East Germany ceased to exist. There's only so much suffering humanity can take, anyway.

No Wonder I Feel Right At Home In Gdansk, Poland (In The Company Of A Certain Naked Woman)

1.
I'm presenting my novel The Tsar's Dwarf at Uniwersytet Gdanski in Poland, and no wonder I feel right at home.

A few minutes before my reading I run into The Little Mermaid. She's sitting stark naked in the hall trying to read Søren Kierkegaard. No wonder she looks depressed. But I've always been a fan of our national symbol, so I decide to cheer her up by gently stroking her breasts. She gets quite aroused, of course, and as you can tell from the picture I get tired from my handiwork.

Actually, I love the fact that the Danish national symbol is visiting Poland. We have a duty to share her with the world, so first The Little Mermaid went to Expo in Shanghai, and now she's hanging out at Uniwersytet Gdanski hoping to get laid.

"Your Danish mermaid used to sit in the Norwegian class room, but we got so sick of her we threw her out," Hilde, the Norwegian instructor tells me with a cruel smile. What she has replaced The Little Mermaid with I have no idea, but it's probably a statue of Quisling or Drillo, the two big Norwegian heroes.

2.
Gdansk is beautiful. I had no idea that the historical center was so breathtaking. It took me back to the happy days of 1716 when everybody wore powdered wigs and didn't worry about the Euro.

Seriously, if I'd known that Gdansk was this gorgeous I would have gone years ago. Gdansk is only 50 minutes by plane from Copenhagen, but it seems like another world. The prices are low, the graffiti in the train stations are awesome, and people really know how to drink.

And hey, I'm deeply impressed with the language as well. The Poles don't believe in vowels. They were forbidden by law a long time ago. However, this country seems to have a kinky love affair with the letter Z. They put it absolutely everywhere, especially in places where it doesn't belong.

But as I said, what impresses me the most is the old part of Gdansk. It was expertly rebuild after the war, and even though the suburbs look grey and dreary, they still have a fifties charm with old train stations and houses with verandas that will collapse if a squirrel runs across the roof.

4.
After three days in Poland I definitely feel like coming back and explore more of this exciting country. However, I want to avoid Krakow and Auschwitz. Those two places have too much in common if you ask me. In one place they don't like the Jews, in the other they don't like the English. But as everybody knows, the European Championship in football will be here next year. And Denmark will win, beating Poland 8-0 in the final.

Why? Because The Little Mermaid belongs to us. Duh!

How To Milk a Danish Cash Cow (A Holy Scam In Varanasi, India)

1.
I'm in love with India. I've been here about eight times. I love the deep spirituality of this great country. And when I get tired of God, there are always the strong colors, the gorgeous scent of urine, and the palak paneer they serve in the small guest houses.

India is full of surprises, too. Yesterday I ran into three holy cows and Goldie Hawn. And I was head butted by all four. Yes, I'm truly blessed.

This time I'm here to do research on my next novel. It takes place in Varanasi, the holiest of all cities in India. Varanasi (Benares) is the famous place where you wash away your sins in Mother Ganges. And cremate your loved ones at the same time. You could argue that Ganges is the biggest funeral parlor in the world. Or the most impressive sewer in history.

Varanasi is India at its best and worst. It's colorful, charismatic, loud, polluted, dirty, generous, kind, obnoxious, spiritual, beautiful, and a haven for scam artists, con men, and monks with an advanced degree in pick pocketing. Everybody wants something from you. Sometimes it's your soul, but mostly it's just your damn rupees.

I ran into a delightful scam the other day. Since I know how to navigate in India, it didn't take me totally by surprise. But sometimes I'm not as cynical as I like to think, so let's say I was mildly disappointed. While roaring with laughter at the same time.




2.
I was walking down the atmospheric alleys of the old city avoiding the cow dung, the one-armed beggars, and the scrawny cows feasting on filthy plastic bags.

A man came up to me and started to talk. His English was fine, so we chatted for a while. At one point he asked whether I wanted to see the burning ghats - the place where the dead are cremated before their ashes are spread over Mother Ganges.

I said, sure, and we went to a house that supposedly was a hospice for the poor. Here people come from all over India to die and are taken care of for free. I was greeted by a little old lady in a dirty sari.

"This is The Mother Teresa of Varanasi" I was told, and then I was introduced to a guru in a dhoti and two volunteers. A "pious" looking gentleman lead me up to the roof of the patient-free hospice, so I could get a good view of the cremations at the nearby ghat.




"You have to understand, we're not asking for money. We're all volunteers at this hospice," my guide said.

I nodded, knowing that when a con man says he doesn't want money, things are going to get very expensive. But I went along for the ride for the simple reason I wasn't 100% sure whether this was a scam or not. Yet.

From the roof top there was a nice view of the Ganges and the three platforms where the dead are burned: One for the upper cast (business class?), one for the middle cast (coach), and one for the lower cast. The fire that was used for the cremation was lit thousands of years ago and had never gone out, my guide told me while meditating on my pin codes.

I started to cough because of the heavy smoke. I've always been sensitive to inhaling the deceased, especially Brahmins.

My guide stared at me through the fumes with that pious look he had practiced in front of the mirror, "Look around, Sir. Look at all the people carrying the dead bodies. Do you see any women?"

"No."

"Women are not allowed to attend because they cry. Crying holds back the soul. It's very selfish to show emotion, Sir."

"Well, sometimes men are emotional, too," I said.

"Yes, but men are not women," the Pious One answered with surprising contempt. Then he told a story about a widow who threw herself on the fire to be with her dead husband. This unfortunate incident happened ten years ago and meant that women had been banished from the cremations ever since.

After ten minutes of watching I'd had enough. Even though there was something sad but beautiful about the cremations, there was a limit to how much of a voyeur I wanted to be. When I got downstairs, the guru was ready to bless me as a token "for the large donation I was going to give to the poor".

"The small donation," I added quickly.

The guru in the dhoti asked me to kneel and put a warm hand on my head and started praying. I liked looking into his eyes, and I clearly felt good karma was coming my way, even though I was aware that one of the 32 million Hindu gods probably would cut my head off if I was stingy.

When that was done, my guide stepped forward and asked me to give a donation of 2000 rupees (about fifty US-dollars) which would cover the expenses of a cremation for two people.

"I'll donate 200 rupees," I said immediately.

My guide looked at me with horror. "No, that's not possible," he said, once more putting a hand on his heart as pious people do when they're asking for justice in this cruel world. "A 1000 rupee donation is the smallest we can accept."

Now suddenly I was crowded by six people. A young volunteer from Europe said he was sick and tired of "tourists who'd only give the equivalent of 5 euros when they are filthy rich."

The atmosphere was getting ugly, but now I got stubborn. If these people were who they pretended to be, they wouldn't pressure me. So I stood my ground 100% convinced that this indeed wasan ugly but hilarious scam.

When it finally dawned on everybody, I wasn't going to give more than 200 lousy rupees (a weekly wage for most in India), one of them shouted, "Give at least something to Mother Teresa."

Suddenly, the frail old lady stood by my side and looked up at me with her big compassionate eyes. I sighed and handed her a 50 rupee bill, just to end things on a civilized note.

The next second I'll never forget as long as I live.

"Mother Teresa of Varanasi", this pious woman who had dedicated her life to the poor; this modern-day saint who had renounced luxury to do God's work on earth, stared at the 50 rupee bill I'd given her with a baffled look on her face - a look that I best can describe as "you gotta be fucking kidding me." Then the look slowly turned into contempt and then to anger. For a short second I thought this angel was going to attack me and rip me to pieces.

When I walked out of the hospice I heard the sound of people spitting after me, and when I continued down one of the narrow alleys, I felt how the good karma I'd been promised slowly evaporated and gave way to ancient curses from the "spiritual" people at this divine "hospice".




3.
The first minutes afterward I was a little more shaken than I wanted to admit. Had I been too harsh? Could I be so sure that it was a scam? But of course it was. And I wouldn't have been without all this. 250 rupees to experience something as wonderfully absurd as a hospice tour was a damn bargain.

And hey, I got to take some good pictures, too.

A few days later I left Varanasi.

It was difficult to say goodbye to this gorgeous mess of a place. Varanasi is the kind of city you never forget. It shows humanity at its best and worst: Beggars dying in the streets, horny monks rubbing against women, child prostitution, devout Hindus full of beautiful faith, nuns helping the poor, gorgeous processions with elephants, sun sets coloring the roof tops and the fishing boats, beautiful kids asking for one rupee...

When I entered Varanasi's small airport I saw a sign saying YOU'RE BEING WATCHED.

At first I felt intimidated. Was God at the check-in counter, too? But then I simply decided it was good news for us narcissists.






Rewritten blog entry from the fall of 2009

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