Malfunctioning

Honestly, this is hard. It's been so long since I wrote, or even had the desire to write, that my fingers feel stiff and foreign on the keyboard. The mind like mush. I've written other things during these past five months of course - reports and articles and summaries and comments - but that urge, that trickle of thoughts needling to be expressed has shone in its absence. 

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Time is an illusion

I'm sitting in a booth at the airport right now and the world outside is a void of white mist. I can count a couple of trees in the distance, a few airport thingamajigs, the bright spots of the lamps that line the restaurant reflected in the windows. My insides mirror the mist, I'm filled with too much - making individual things hard to decipher. My insides are a void. Within that void, time is an illusion.

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Well thenHanna Fridhed
The Detanglement

For the first time in my life, I slept through my alarm. It wasn't what I call a fail-n-snooze, where you think you stealthily hit the snooze button but fail miserably and rather turn the whole damn thing off, nor did I accidentally set it to go off in the evening instead of in the too early morning. I simply snored my way through not only the alarm itself, but also its three subsequent snoozes.

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The Inevitable Changes

Life moves on, as it is ought to do. It doesn't have the same smoothness to it now, like a train steadily chugging along, but instead it lurches forward only to grind to sudden halts without warning. We have moved from the basement suite we had been living in since returning to Fort McMurray, and into a sixth floor apartment in Eagle Ridge. We have a little balcony and a kitchen with a lot of counter space. We have large windows facing south. God, how I love having a view again.

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The Mislaid Felicity

The last couple years has increasingly consisted of nice, bright sunshine with only the occasional stormy sky and frosty morning - it was warm and optimistic and had a lot of lightness to it, even when things were difficult or complicated or I hadn't slept properly for a fortnight. Such was life - and damn girl, it was good.

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The Aftermath: Let's Talk About the Weather

Too often these days, I find myself taking exuberantly long showers. Since my soccer days, back when I was a wee teenage lass, the keyword for my showers was always efficiency. The purpose of my ablution was to get as clean as possible in the shortest amount of time. Get in - get clean - get out! If it was Swedish winter - the kind were sleet and wet shoes has driven a chill deep inside your bones - I might have stuck around for a few extra minutes to regain feeling in my extremities, but that was about it.

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#YMMFire - The Roller Coaster

Last night, I had a dream. I had a dream that we were driving through our neighborhood in Fort McMurray. Odd fence-like, plastic cubes covered a lot of the houses along the way. I remember feeling sad that the newly built, obviously well loved house a few streets down from ours seemed to be gone. I remember agitating over what we would see when we turned the corner onto Brett Drive and Warren Way.

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YMMFire 2016

By now, I've recounted the story of how I left Fort McMurray numerous times to Swedish media, recalling the smells, the orange dim light enveloping the world and the calm and levelheadedness I experienced all the way to Greywolf Lodge, 80 km north of the city, where I subsequently broke down. During every interview, it has felt as if I'm speaking about someone else, regaling a country far far away with horror stories of fire and ash, retelling a scary story I read in a book. It hasn't felt real. It still doesn't. But it is.

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Run For Your Wife - Obsessions

I have two obsessions right now (well yes, there are definitely more than just two - but these are getting me all giddy and squeaky at the moment). The first is Grace - You Don't Own Me ft G-Eazy. It caught my ear while I was driving around yesterday, and has since been spinning in my head non-stop. Not even the Kill Bill whistle managed to butt it out - and you all know how damn near impossible that one is to get rid off. It's just... really good. Really, really good. Have a listen!

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Run For Your Wife - Intermission

Okay, it's definitely time to relax, sister. My legs are polka-dot patterned with odd bruises, my hair is a teased mess, I slept until noon - and I'm so happy. We've been running for our wives through two shows now (three, if you count preview, and several more if you count tech week). Who cares about soreness or bruises? This show is so much fun! Both on and off stage - this whole experience is a whirlwind. It's so challenging, so physical and faster than Homer spotting doughnuts.

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April and I

Let’s start this off with some facts, shall we? One; me and April are not friends. Not even acquaintances. If we were to pass each other on the street, one of us might hiss at the other with bared teeth and raised shackles – the full cat fight shebang. Two; this has been going on for a very long time. Three; April isn’t a person – I’m talking about the month herself.

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Run For Your Wife - Overdue Beginnings

This time around, I have a legitimate reason for not having sat my butt down and shared every thought and transformation happening during the rehearsals of Run For Your Wife with you. No, honestly, I swear! It's not that I don't have anything to say about it - on the contrary, it feels as if I can speak of this play and only this play and its people until this happens. Or this. Or even this! It's not that I've been too tired, or caught up in real life surrealistic situations or even spent too much time petting the cat - as one might have guessed.

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This is for you

And a poet said, 'Speak to us of Beauty.'

Where shall you seek beauty, and how shall you find her unless she herself be your way and your guide? And how shall you speak of her except she be the weaver of your speech?

The aggrieved and the injured say, 'Beauty is kind and gentle. Like a young mother half-shy of her own glory she walks among us.'

And the passionate say, 'Nay, beauty is a thing of might and dread. Like the tempest she shakes the earth beneath us and the sky above us.'

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When the scabs come off

I've been sitting here for a solid hour now, staring at my screen and trying to verbalize all the thousand different emotions that are running rampant in my tired brain. Well, actually, I'm lying to you - sorry. These words has been cooped up for months now. I've sought out new writing spots - the couch, the office, the bar. I've tried finding new stimulants - coffee, wine, copious amounts of water. Nothing has worked (no, not even the wine). 

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A different kind of journey

Whoa, hold up, let's back up here for a second - it's been almost a full month since I sat down and wrote something that has nothing to do with the One Act Play Festivals or (word)plays/SCABS or work? Something that is not an email about submissions or sponsor letters? I'm equal parts amazed and appalled. Time has moved so incredibly fast! A blur and a swish and we're a solid week into March.

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A Bit Wordless

These days, I'm feeling devoid of words. As if there aren't enough of them, regardless of me having things I would like to say or not. I'm hoarding my words, saving them for the sponsor letters and press releases and emails that demands to be written and sent - preferably yesterday. In the evenings, I burn incense and bury my face in silky soft kitten fur. The cat doesn't seem to mind, he curls up on his special blanket by my lower back in bed and purrs so loudly that it wakes my husband up.

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When We Stumble: About Burning Out

I'm not going to lie, January has been insane. We're not talking craving-liver-insane or driving-without-seatbelt-crazy or even trying-the-bathe-the-cat-nuts; the start of 2016 firmly planted itself in Hannibal Lecter meets Mad Max territory. I had it all meticulously planned out, almost down to the minute - meetings and rehearsals and planning and doing - I haven't even made it to the gym once in the new year, but so it goes.

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