User talk:Harald birger olausen

Author Harald Birger Olausen is a Finnish-Norwegian writer who has published 10 books. Olausen used to be also active as a publishing freelance journalist and critic, and being a playwright for both the stage and radio, he takes a keen interest in the Finnish theatre scene.

In addition to these Olausen acted as a producing editor for same other books: a biography of the famous Finnish movie director Rauni Mollberg, a children's book "Hugo Merellä" (Hugo at Sea) set in Kotka and written by Heli Vähäsilta, and Ulla Dilons Vapaa Kulkemaan.

Olausen studied Intellectual History at Karlstad University in Swedeen, and has worked as an image consultant, speech writer and a reporter, to name of few.

Harald Birger Olausen and the concepts of levelheadedness, crystal clear classical realism, factually acknowledging literature and political awareness form an absolute opposite for that equally political agreed upon irrationality.

But Olausen shows that the ability to write, rhythm, sentence, awareness of textuality are all secondary levels the richness of which become of significance only after the primary level has been reached. And this level is a point of view, a perspective from which the world appears as soft and bare, aching to be cut and set in state by incisive dichotomy.

The resolution, the precision of incision is what Harald's levelheadedness is about. And this levelheadedness is accomplished by doing the opposite of what the escapist LSD-hippie depraved of all creativity would do. Thus we arrive at this here station where from the big roll of the world's thinnest silk paper begins to unroll.

The language acquires wealth, its momentum, from its incisiveness, from the contact established with reality, surface for vivisection, and it is here that the languages constructions find stable basis. This surface and basis cannot be established from inside a foggy plastic tube that glides right through the organs and organizations of life, from inside a cultural exoskeleton not unlike a Japanese tourist buss. Rather a culture phrases and images of which remind us of the fact that the scratches and scrapings inside a culvert pipe are down to earth.

At his books he is asking, with as holistic understanding as possible, from a sum-over perspective, in different guises, through detours of prolific yak, the ultimate question:

“Have my desires born in me, out of me, independently as a fatal sum of all coincidences, or have I inherited them, have they been transferred to me from outside of my self, popped into me just like that, be as it my, in the very beginning, and could I shake them loose by avoiding these desires, refusing to confront them, these, my yet undefeated urges (of course not!)? Anyway, about these churning boiling that dictate my actions, both inevitable and invincible. They were hard to shake. Because the rationalizations didn't erase my lusts, had all in all a very poor effect indeed on the need for satisfaction that screamed.”

He is writing now Gaykalevala, wcich will be his 11th book and first novel about loneliness and fear and how one significant but silenced mythology has been trampled by the bootheels of the victorious that march rampant in history: the primordial history of gayness that begins at the first dawn of mankind and peaks just before Christianity lands in the western world.

This history's beautiful and deliquet lovestories can now on lonely nights when others are asleep, and me and, you, and others like us drape each others longing with moans of pleasure, be heard, after centuries and centuries, as the quiet wailing lost whispers and unfulfilled hopes were transformed into in time.

And we don't have to wring dry the subject matter by circling around it like undecided vultures for we can drill right down to it, into the marrow, into the invisible and excitingly detailed accumulations in the ironic whiplashes of which we find, between illusion and real, that tragic seriousness and curiousn whimsicality that belongs to the fundamentals of our mysterious life.

It is their controversial crossfire that keeps us from getting lost intothe twilight of half truths, but can, by the hunches that make tangible the empathy and understanding toward human weakness and failure, revere the courage that accepts these as facts.

Gay-Kalevala is also a story about the real gays in hiding, those heroic in their own terms,handsome and careless straight men that fuck it all up in an instant of joyous elevation and make a stench a rakoon could be proud of in this small-time bourgeois environment with their drinking and whoremongring hoggery in this idiot pack of hopeless pussies, whiners, ass-flies, kiss-asses, slimy olms and equally slimy sluggards.

These hellishly cool and handsome car mechanics fresh out of their vocational schools hanging their pants obscenely low machines running with alcohol fucking everything with a heartbeat, I mean real bad apples, bums and hoodlums scratching their asses in public, of course. Nevermind if they sometimes piss their pants drunk as fuck but equally twice (if not thrice) removed from that fake dipshit Lönnroth version of Kalevala as fridge is removed from the sun.

But what are real gays and bis? These sweat stinking workers? These handsome hunks ossified on their asses, these bores that drunk away their brains in the neighborhood pub, and even if they have accumulated a keg-belly and man-titties not to mention some years on them, they, oh but they are the REAL men, and when they fuck, they proper like they fuck their old ladies showing their teeth like rapied dogs grunting and wheezing like the really mean it.

And they will not kiss and cuddle, no smalltalk – no talk actually. Quick grunt and the seeds are sown where they are lain. Then zip up, nevermind if the buttons got a bit mixed up, and totter just as they came, drunk and away without a memory or care for this random copulation. Maybe if they remember in the morning they can have a dry one. All the same. They fuck as they jack off – alone.

Poems about despair and pain: at the fountains of silenced truths is the delightful force of directors like Julien Temple resides in their anti-authoritarian, Byronic, as tragic as Romantic heroes luckily naïve enough to be incapable of lies and compromise.

And because of this incapability we get to see a world that is, if possible, more real than the one obscured by the twilight of post-modernity, this gray confusion smokescreen that caters to all the leaching, vampiristic parasites nestling in the till of the earth, more real than that darkened desolate landscape they offer us with the crumbs they feed us with, more real than this travesty we have been thought to appreciate as our one and only life.

Movies have continued the straightforwardness of the people that surfaced high-culture with the likes of Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass. And candidness is of course in direct correlation with unpopularity when culture defines reality and reality is rigged to uphold and fortify the static Quo.

This is why the puns, critique and loathing had to be camouflaged in metaphors or driven astray, to imaginary lands, so that the criticized no longer recognize themselves and thus spare the artist from their vengeance.

But all that is in the past. Maybe we are living a post-modern era, or post-post-modern, but what is relevant, and what post-modernity means, is that the heroes are reduced to entertainers, and prophetic revelatory prose is revealed as an empty language game. Fantasy and fiction are just that, fantasy and fiction, and the defining of reality is a serious business reserved for the lobbyists and lackeys of big money's interests.

And it would truly be a post mortem era were it not for the likes of Truman Capote, and his brave followers, latest of which, the Norwegian Karl Owe Knausgaard carried James Joyce's Dubliner's project to a shining conclusion through a factual dream projected by reality itself.

But as strong as is the effort to show the reality of dream as an indispensable part of the concoction that is official reality, is the persecution that drives artists into exile partly with the philosophical weaponry provided by Deconstructionists who successfully took down all totalities as equally arbitrary constructs.

This is why no artist can be a prophet on his own land and why the prophet must be displaced and sent as far from reality as possible to live in that flat at 7 Eccles street where all untrodden paths are thus set to lead, and why the artists need the distance to be able to look at what is closest.

But if the Deconstructionists' arguments are thus utilized, it should be borne in mind that there is considerable hostility toward all attempts to alter the way reality is seen, and correctional facilities abound like Focault so poignantly argued.

If the artist refuses to play with the abstracts and admit to delusion, insisting in stead on reality, the one and only orthodox free market nature of profit is happy to hand down the verdict “unfit to plea” for all artists trying to make a difference. Such is the nature of things sans totality, and such is this confusion known as post-modernity – a smokescreen in the haze of which we are most certainly and tangibly fucked. Harald Birger Olausen: Prince of Egypt and other Gay-stories: a tale about why limp wristed hussies just don't do it for me!

"It was then that I thought it up; the rebellious homo should have a counter argument against the domination of self-righteous lesbians who found it all too easy to adapt to society's shitty doctrines. The fact that the entire idea of gayness itself, to these fawning cunts, along with their rickety cultural and categorical pseudo-knowledge and their fake-gay schpeel all derive straight from their own lardy butch-cunt asses should suffice."

Harald Birger Olausen's Prince of Egypt and other Gay-stories isn't, despite its name, a collection of short stories but a bundle of essays in which the writer dismantles his own frustrations concerning the dominant forms of gay culture. Olausen makes it clear, rapidly, that to him there's only one way to be a true gay, and that true way, deviating from which is, of course, plain and simple wrong. In this Olausen shares a lot with the Gay Shame movement.

Olausen describes himself as a kind of Prometheus-figure carrying the torch of civilisation and thus lighting the way for those fumbling in the dark. Among his numerous enemies there are, of course, society's tories but also the evil LGBT-lesbians that have defined gayness as something that should be recognised as a part of respectable society, which it, accoring to Olausen, isn't.

And he fights his enemies with an extremely alienating text that isn't divided to sections nor paragraphs and repeats itself far beyond congestion. He keeps dropping names of philosophers and artists, and regularly misspells them. The style seems to be seeking a powerful form of otherness, but without success. The end result is an almost schizophrenic sense of wavering between the extremes of inventiveness and vapidity.

The stylistic failures are a shame in that Olausen has managed to incorporate many quite sharp observations about the problems of the dominant norms. Also his literary talent, that shined in his Gay-poems, is present, albeit momentarily, even in this surge of chaos.

If the reader is persistant enough and manages to wade through the first 70 pages, which are dedicated to the bashing of ”the insatiable abbess” (he makes it no secret that he is referring to one Pirkko Saisio here) or is smart enough to dismiss the section, the pages beyond that do contain pearls; bits of incredibly beautyful prose, or rather prose poems, that convey flashes of human sentiment in the grip of homoerotic passion.

These bits show that Olausen has a lot to give, but not merely just because of his angry gayness, that has become a norm in itself, but someone who pioneers on his own path, that is, an artist.

“Upon watching the films starred by the famous british actor Ben Wishaw, ("The Hollow Crown" Richard II, I'm not there, Parfyme, Cloud Atlas) you get the feeling that these movies, made in the form of a socratic dialog, are goodbyes to ”dangerous inclinations, thrall and seduction” inspired by Hans Castrop of Thomas Mann's The Magic Mountain. And you understand thoroughly but expression by expression, look by look what Baudelaire ment when he wrote that ”Dandyism is a setting sun; like the declining star, it is magnificent, without heat and full of melancholy.” The Dandy might well be a bored human being, a suffering individual – but if he suffers, ”he will keep smiling, like the Spartan under the bite of the fox”. Wishaw's character has an air of intellectual solitude that defies conformity, thus maybe being the very empodiment of what John Stuart Mill ment when he wrote that ”precisely because the tyranny of opinion is such as to make eccentricity a reproach, it is desirable, in order to break through that tyranny, that people should be eccentric”. Thomas Mann also wrote about such solitude in his Death in Venice masterpiece as he said that it is the condition that creates eccentric thoughts, brave and starnge beauty, sweet poetry, but he also understood, to his horror, that it was also the condition that gives birth to all that is wicked, unnatural, disproportioned and illicit. And it is this pressing dilemma of these times that this book is about and also why this book is dedicated to this sad Don Quixote figure, Ben Wishaw, whom would make Andre Malraux proud, because Wishaw stands out as real actor-intellectuel in a world manicean mannerisms and whose depth, tonal scala and quality are keys to the fountains of real thought leading the viewers, with his interpretations, to the original mysticism of emotion where the chronology of time breaks up from off the stories to set free the pure experience and then to dissolves itself back into the stories (as it was in Shakespeare's world) as diverse passages that bring things, people and stories to strange coherence and harmony, so that the only things that still remain, are the confusingly soluble feelings of randomness, insanity and grotesque cynicism that deny guilt and propriety and thus make visible the hollowness of precise intentions and the terminal impotence of their final definitions.”