Selfie from last year. This totally looks like a mug shot, I almost wish it was. But I do have some mojo going on.

My mojo has been missing for a long time but I am finally beginning to feel it seep into my veins again. I’m starting to feel playful and horny while working with my art and that’s the way it’s supposed to be. Lust and passion are such important components in my creativity and it creates this sexual energy that feeds my imagination and ambition. I love it. It makes me feel powerful, potent and alive. I’m so dependent on my mojo – to be ‘mojoless’ is almost painful for me. It’s almost like I get sick when I lose the connection to my sexual energy. So, I need to stay connected to it.

I think mojo is such a natural part of the human energy – we are driven by two needs; to survive and to propagate our species – the mojo is a necessary energy for both needs.  I choose to celebrate it. To put it in my work – and load my core with it. Although I am so connected to my mojo, I lose the connection very easily. It happens when I start to doubt myself, when I lose myself to other people’s expectations, when I compromise my artistic expression – or when I feel censored by my own fear or by other people’s judgment. I just have to be more careful with my mojo and keep my shape intact and not letting other people mold it to whatever they want me to be for them.

The mojo makes me feel electric in both my body and thoughts and it keeps all my parts connected (mind, body, heart, soul) and therefore I am able to be me to the fullest. I think that kind of soft and invisible electricity is a beautiful experience and it’s also so natural – since our brain is wired through electrical impulses (and when the doctor tries to resuscitate the heart, they use electricity). There are so many fascinating and natural energies that people seem to forget about. We should learn how to harness them and to create something incredible with it – for ourselves and others. We should all start ‘mojoing’ more. Mojoing when we are alone. Mojoing together with other people. To let those electric butterflies fly.


Mojoing, 2010

No interference

I’ve been painting, meditating, watching films and drinking tea. It’s a good day. It’s been a good week. A good month too, so far. Johnny and I are getting closer. Hearing his voice through the earbuds while closing my eyes, almost transports him here, next to me. There is no static between us. No interference. Only love.

I’ve never let any man come this close before. It used to terrify me, this closeness, even though it’s been my highest wish to be really close to someone. But I am not afraid anymore. I decided not to be. It was that easy. But getting through all the obstacles so I could make that decision was very difficult.



When we talk, we float into each other, melt together in the silences and through the laughs and we’re cleansing our hearts together, deep inside our invisible home. I know it will take years for us to be together in real life, but it doesn’t change anything. I feel happy. I feel close. Our intimacy outsmarts the missing and the frustration.

Next year will be so different from this year, I can already sense it. This year was all about letting go and to accept what I’ve never been able to accept. Next year will be about finding the pulse of life and getting in sync with it. I want to lose weight. I’ve had so much extra weight on my shoulders for a very long time, and it shows in my body as well. I want to feel beautiful. Healthy. I want to celebrate my femininity. My raw female power and strength. I want to do, to be, to make, instead of healing through the intellect and meditation. Next year will be my first real year as a person, without the traumas or the fear. I’ve worked so hard to get there. I am so close. I am so close to finding life. To letting myself go – without inhibitions. I am so close to whatever reality is about, without the dark edges around it.



Me, sleeping, 2010

I recently read about a phenomena called “sexsomnia” (a condition in which a person will engage in sexual activities while asleep) that has rapidly increased amongst men, especially men accused of rape and sexual assault. The accused men claim they suffer from sexsomnia – but they use it in order to avoid going to prison. They can’t be found guilty or being held responsible for their rape or sexual abuse if they weren’t aware of their own actions. This is a very sad and troubling social development. Either there’s a severe epidemic of sexsominia spreading – but only man to man – or it’s a tragic trend. It’s affecting me deeply because I use to live with a man who would only want to have sex with me while I was asleep. I often found myself being in the middle of an intercourse while sleeping in my own bed at night. Always from behind. I heard his breaths and grunts as he was handling me as if I was nothing more than a fuck doll. Once I woke up this way, I felt confused and strange. Like I didn’t know if it was a good thing or not. We hadn’t been sexual together for a few years, the only times were were intimate was when I was falling asleep, waking up or sound asleep. Never during the day. Never when I felt sexy and ready. Always when I was in my most vulnerable state – relaxed, unprepared and kind of out of it.


Even though this made me feel confused while it was happening, I let him do it to me. I didn’t fight or push him off. But it didn’t feel right and I wasn’t enjoying myself. My pussy wasn’t even wet – my mind was in a totally different place. My friends label this as ‘rape’ – I didn’t see it that way at the time, but now I see how I was sexually abused while I was asleep and thinking I was in my safe place, with the man who was supposed to protect me, not cause me any discomfort or abuse. When I confronted him the next day I asked him “What were you doing to me last night?” and he answered with a smile: “Oh, yes – wasn’t it nice?”. “But… I was asleep” I said and he shrugged his shoulders and simply answered: “Well…so was I”. And that was that. He never asked me if it was OK to do that, and I was too confused to tell him that it wasn’t. We weren’t having any intimacy or sex when I was awake so I thought, at least I’m having sex, even if it was in some twisted way. I wish I could have left him before we became sexless. As soon as a relationship dies that way, it’s probably gonna stay dead anyway.

I used to live with a man who suffered from sexsomnia, but he loved his disorder and embraced it. I have a feeling that it’s probably exactly what most men who claim they suffer from sexsomnia also does. What a lovely and convenient disorder for a man – but what a nightmare for his woman who can never be sure of what happened to her while she was asleep – in her own bed at night.

Sexual energy

I have been watching a very long documentary about Frank Sinatra today called Sinatra: All or Nothing and I have to say that he was just gorgeous as a young crooner. So much sexual energy. That made me think about how I’m attracted to that sexual energy in celebrities and how I’m not that interested in celebrities and musicians if they don’t possess that kind energy. I love Sinatra. Elvis. The Rolling Stones. But not The Beatles – and I don’t see that kind of sexual energy in their work. Nor in the Beach Boys. They were more about innovations. Tina Turner, oh my God. James Brown. Madonna. Prince. A lot of sexual energy.


Even in other artistic areas, I’m drawn to that sexual energy. In the art of Frida Kahlo, Lempicka, Magritte, Cindy Sherman, in the films of Lynch, Bergman, Von Trier, in the fashion of Vivienne Westwood, Jean Paul Gaultier and in literature, poetry and photography as well.  The sexual energy is just naturally part of their core expression and it’s vital, potent, explosive and full of power and strength. I feel at home in that energy.

From Von Trier’s “Nymphomaniac”


Patricia Arquette in Lynch’s “Lost Highway”

images 3db38d34087c7b15c89220c35a521928




Detail studies:




The anatomy of a broken sexuality. Rape is a complete murder when it comes to the victim’s spirit and sexuality, but yet it’s treated by our laws as if it’s a minor crime. Rape is not only a violent attack, rape can be many things – even having sex with your partner when you don’t feel like it but that is ignored or when a ‘no’ is not enough for someone to leave your body alone. This piece was difficult to make, but it felt important.

Why I think NASA is sexy

Photo by NASA

Photo by NASA


I’m watching the 2014 documentary “The Last Man on the Moon” about Apollo astronaut Eugene Cernan who stepped off the moon in 1972 leaving his footprints and his daughter’s initials in the lunar dust.  It is a powerful story and I have tears in my eyes. There’s a strong connection between art and science – both equally curious about finding and exploring the boundaries of life and reality. Artists and scientists have worked closely together for hundreds  of years,  especially before the camera was invented. The artists illuminated the microcosmic worlds found by the scientists and illustrated their understanding of plants, human anatomy, geography, astronomy and the animal kingdom.

Photo by NASA

I’m really in awe of science at times. Especially all of the NASA projects makes my mind have goosebumps all over. It actually makes my mind feel wet and aroused. Not only do they produce mind-blowing photographs of the galaxies of our Universe which are more amazing than any art I could ever imagine, – and pushes the limits of what’s possible to achieve, NASA is, according to me, expressing the highest form of human curiosity. And that’s fucking hot. That’s what motivates lovers too. Curiosity. A need to explore, to go beyond any familiar limits or restraints, to reach a higher level of consciousness – and the uncompromised assertiveness to follow a desire. NASA is listening to the heartbeats of Space. Penetrating deeper within the unexplored. Blazing across the sky. Flames. Fire. Explosions. Roaring. lift off.  Going higher. Higher. Vibrations. Unfolding. Silence. Stillness. Darkness. Light. Orbiting. Gravity. No gravity. Breaths. Tumbling. Faster. Faster. a timeless time. Taming the unknown. Devouring. Touchdown. Exploring density. Depth. Landscapes. The surface. And the hidden worlds underneath. Textures. Colors. Footprints on new territories. Wanting to be the first. To go deeper. Further. Beyond. Trembling with fear. Anticipation. To change the consciousness. Expanding. Open. Wide open. Secrets revealed. Absorbing every moment. Appreciation. Love. Home. But deep into another world.

There are many similarities between NASA and a lover. But perhaps the most significant thing they have in common is the need to risk it all to be able to find a sense of belonging in a place, far, far away from everything they have ever known. A home away from home.

A ‘near-life’ experience


How can I explain this to you? I’m not sure that I completely understand it myself. Ok, so you know that feeling when you’ve had too much coffee – your hands are trembling, your heart is beating really fast and you feel sort of hyper? And you know that feeling of being really, really in love – it’s like you’ve swallowed the whole Universe and it’s overwhelming and wonderful at the same time?  OK, so add the feeling of being deeply inspired (like after a day at the Louvre) and intensely horny (after the best foreplay ever) – that’s how I am feeling right now. All of that – mixed into a very strange sensation of having a ‘near-life’ experience.

I’m sure you’ve noticed that I’ve been posting a lot of poems written in Swedish lately- I wish I could translate them but it’s impossible because I play with words a lot. I had no idea that I would be writing poetry like this. In Swedish. I have been planning this year to the last little detail:

1. self-empowerment process
2. go back to painting again
3. find a way to make more money
4. write a short story

Writing poetry was not part of the plan, but I guess that’s the nature of plans – life will change them without asking for your permission. Thank God. And now, I just can’t stop writing. I was so focused on reconnecting with my paintings again that I didn’t see how anything else could ever be even a bigger release. But that’s exactly what my poetry is to me. A big. Fucking. Release.

I’ve done so many changes in my life lately and I feel so liberated. And with that comes a sense of innocence. Like I returned to innocence after my traumas. And like anything is possible. Like I can do anything I want. Be whatever I want to be. Say whatever I feel like saying. I’ve never been this private in my creative expressions before. They are all self-portraits. Diary notes. My core beliefs. It feels really powerful. Explosive.

As I am writing these poems, I feel lighter in my heart. Like my blood has been clogged by such deep pain – and now it’s rushing through my veins without any resistance. The pain is fading into the past. Into a void beyond my reach. It used to be sharp as a blade. Infinite. Swirling into itself and out again. For the first time I can see what has been hidden underneath it.  It’s me. Life. Love. Light. Poetry. Art. Passion. Sex. Humility. Gratitude. Peace. Freedom.

It makes me feel high, even on foggy days like yesterday.

My blood is rushing. Fast. My mind reigning. I feel clean. But so filled with stories. Colors. I’m deep into my own thoughts but still extremely present in the world outside myself. I’m absorbing everything and I let myself get absorb by external elements.

I wish everyone could feel awakened like this. We all deserve it. We are all capable. We just have to let go of all the layers of crap that other people and society have forced on us. It’s hard to do. But possible. Just look at me. Look inside me.

It’s the only way I know how to explain what I’m going through right now.

Post ‘Post Traumatic Stress Disorder’ – Reclaiming my history


Me – reclaiming my own history

My life is slowly coming together in all areas. The things that used to be broken inside me, are healing, the dark memories are fading – and I am liberating everything that was ever suppressed or filled with shame and fear. Reclaiming my strength. I am not suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder anymore, even though it will always be there, but in the background. I’m going through a post ‘PTSD’ phase right now.

This is the first time in my adult life when I can enjoy my days without expecting abusive attacks, humiliation or painful neglect (including self neglect). I feel happy. Strong. At peace. Awakened. With that comes a new sense of clarity – and suddenly I see things from a completely new perspective. From a place of self-compassion and disillusion. But it’s not always a pleasant experience. It can be quite difficult at times.

I look at myself, the me I was back then – and I see so many strange and confusing things I had to put up with. Things like always being on the lookout for a possible betrayal just because I was so used to it. Little betrayals. Big ones. Traumas. And things like other people’s sick behavior that I transformed into my own shame and guilt. Like it was my fault they would behave like that in front of me. Now, I look at all that and I can’t even picture myself with those people anymore. Sharing my bed with them. Sharing their sperm. Blood. Life. Plans for the future. I can’t see myself laughing at their jokes and innuendoes like I did – stuff that was supposed to belittle- and humiliate me in an indirect way. The passive aggressive crap. I can’t imagine how I could allow anyone to ever spit in my face. Or drag me across the floor, holding me by my hair so that some hair would come out by the roots. The really aggressive crap.

To be called ‘cunt’. ‘Whore’ (by 4 different men in total). ‘Disgusting’. ‘Worthless piece of shit’. To be forced into the position of a victim. Or to have my orgasms being forced out of me because it was a turn on for him when he was feeling like he was in charge of my body. Power stuff. I hate that. My discomfort was his fetish. My sense of pleasure was not interesting to him. Or to a lot of the other men before him. Not important. And I wasn’t important. Just like I was a whore to some men, I was a fuck-doll to others. Or a punch bag. A dog.


At times I felt like I was halfway to this sexually abusive style. What a nightmare.

I just can’t see myself in those types of situations anymore. It hurts so much when I look at myself from this new perspective. I feel very naked in front of myself and my own history. It has the ability to tear me apart at times. But I have decided to use everything to my advantage. I will reclaim every moment of humiliation and abuse – and turn it into something useful. A detail in a novel. A side note in a blog post. In a future lecture about overcoming trauma. And as part of my private mythology that I use in my art. I’ll squeeze the juice right out of it. If they wanted me to have all these painful experiences, I will turn it into magic because that’s what I do. That’s who I am.

The details of humiliation vary in dark tones and pain. But they are all mine. Like the awkward detail including one of these men who, before dinner (as a regular daily routine for a few months in the beginning of our relationship) would take out his semi-flaccid penis and put it on the edge of the dining table so it would look isolated from the rest of his body – and then he would make a hand gesture like it was saying ‘please… behold… and adore my pride and joy.. please…look – stare for all I care’ and with a smile on his face he would patiently wait for my reaction. In the bright light from the big lamp hanging above the table, he would also be in full display for any people who happened to pass by our windows – and for the family across the street (with two teenage sons) who were also having dinner at the same time every night and could see us just like I could see what was served on their plates. This is a confusing detail in my history of humiliation. But what the hell was it all about? What does it even mean? He seemed so proud of himself – even though his penis was flaccid and the situation was bizarre.


With his dick next to the bowl of rice, I would cover my eyes and giggle like an embarrassed little school girl. Although it was so much more than an embarrassment. I was mortified. Humiliated. And I was suffocating, hoping the neighbors hadn’t seen the routine this night either. I lost my apetit. But I forced the food into my mouth after he’d zipped up. Like a good girl. Just like I zipped up after he had forced my orgasms. Perhaps it was his twisted idea of equality.



I am waking up with a sense of sensuality running wild inside my body. The white sheets in my bed suddenly feel like clouds and the light from the window makes the air come alive. I can see little sparks of dust flying around in here. How can dust be so beautiful? But I’m not surprised. Beauty is always hiding in the most unexpected places. In the cracks of reality. Where the real is almost too real, like a fantasy. Or where the real has never been seen before. Both can be found in the depths of the ocean. In the microcosmic worlds inside a piece of dust. In the surreal theories of philosophy. In the electric pathways of the brain. And inside other people’s hearts. The forgotten hearts. The broken ones. The withering hearts. Fading hearts. Burning hearts. Screaming. Dancing hearts. Dying ones. There is always beauty to a heart.

It’s a tragedy when a heart is closed. Sealed with barb wire. Poisoned with anger. And toxic hate. Full of black holes and dark matter. The beauty is still there, but trapped in the complicated defence systems or in the denial of the true nature of the human heart. The most beautiful heart is the open heart, hungry but veiled with fear – waiting for the right person to notice it, unveil it, expose it and then to be swallowed up inside it. Like it’s a passage to a whole new world. Red landscapes and skies of fire. Delicate blood roots touching you like curious tentacles. Tickling. Teasing. Rivers which takes you deeper within. Flowing like the sensations of a kiss. Wet. Warm. Somehow glowing. It takes you to the heart of the heart. The beating core. Where the rhythm of life is the true law of attraction. You are drawn in, without making any resistance. Whatsoever. Hypnotised. Every beat creates a spell. A rush. And you surrender. Completely. All the way. Inside. And it just keeps beating.

And beating.