Girls Against God

1

THE WITCHCRAFT

It’s 1990, and I’m the Gloomiest Child Queen.

I hate God.

It feels primitive and pitiful to say it, but I’m a primitive and pitiful person.

The screen in front of me shows images from 1990: images of pine trees; the tops, grey sky. The video flickers and the camera sways across a pixelated digital universe. A boy, possibly Nocturno Culto, walks through the forest to the sound of brutal guitar riffs. The camera lens follows him lazily. The image jerks at each footstep as the camera operator tramples the boy’s trail. Is this a kind of genesis? In my film notes I jot down: ‘Home video, in line with the lo-fi aesthetic of the genre. Short, enigmatic and ugly video riffs on details from boring Norwegian landscape.’

I also note: ‘I hate God.’ What a smug thing to say, but I’m pretty smug. (Isn’t ‘me’ just a different word for ‘God’?)

In 1990, I hate God.

That year, while Nocturno Culto and his band still play thrash and haven’t really figured out black metal, I hate my way through every primary school classroom, and the teachers’ thick southern Norwegian accent. I refuse to adopt it. I hate its sombre tone, fit only for sermons and admonitions, and southern Norwegians hardly ever utter anything else. Their accent is so formulaic and repetitive, it won’t allow them to say anything new. I can’t imagine it used for anything but preaching. When they say ‘I’m a pRacticing chRistian’ their guttural Rs make it sound as though the consonants have gone through purgatory. My ears are ringing with stigmata.

I especially hate Gøud, as people from Aust-Agder pronounce it, as my teacher recites it in early morning prayer. As I’ve come to understand it, God is a theoretical concept that only exists in books, while Gøud’s presence pulls southerners’ hair back into tight knots and twists their throats into nooses. It’s Gøud that records written warnings in my diary when I don’t memorise the third verse of our set psalm, ‘Moon and Sun’. It’s Gøud who decides that we’re not taught anything about other religions or philosophies. I hate chuRch seRvices, chRistenings, weddings, and funeRals; and I hate the way southerners pronounce them. I hate the Christian Democratic Party and the Protestant creed, I hate it off by heart, I hate it backwards and upside-down. Our Father, who art in hell.

Saying that now still makes me warm and happy inside. I’m still blasphemous. I enjoy the burning sensation of shame, when your cheeks swell and glow in the hot fire of exclusion. Even now, I identify with the little match girl from Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tale. Sitting in a freezing alley, she’s warmed by images of everyone else’s Merry Christmas, and just like her, I steal heat from other people’s creed to warm my cold demon soul. The little match girl shivers through visions of glittering Christmas trees and angelic holograms. She tries to warm up on the ghosts of holiness, the mirage of Protestantism, and freezes to death in the attempt.

Hatred makes me so happy. My hatred is radioactive, and as a child in 1990, I beam with it.

Hatred is my imaginary world, my pleasure dome. How would you even say pleasure dome in Norwegian? You don’t. Definitely not in a southern accent. Here my hatred exists only deep in my gloomy stare, in that look that seems about to implode, that seems to look into itself in pictures. Is that gaze the language they call hatred?

You don’t have to answer, of course. You might not understand a single word of Norwegian in any accent. But maybe hatred has made you happy, too. That’s why I’m writing this to you. To get away.

From the moment I learn to write, I hate God. I have to capitalise all these words, and I hate it. Jesus Christ, Our Father, God, and so on. Written submission. In school they give me extra tutoring sessions to teach me capital O. In class I just draw spirals, and they assume I can’t draw a circle. During these sessions I’m supposed to sit and spell out the Word in Norwegian, Ordet, with a capital O, the way it’s spelt in the Bible. I remember having to repeat it over and over, I remember burning inside, and I remember Ordet burning, and I remember finally breaking and writing a series of OOOOOOOOOOO’s on the sheet, more like doodles than words. I cross all the lines on the sheet until I’m writing outside the worksheet and on the desk and the teacher returns and gives me a written warning. Have you ever thought about how similar the words scrawl and scream sound? I hate capital letters and I hate the Word.

We’re not allowed to say hate unless it’s about Hitler. Someone’s dad said that. But I don’t say it like them anyway, hadår; it’s too soft and wet. I say hate, and I love to hate. It’s 1992 and I’m the Gloomiest Child Queen.

It’s 1992 on the screen as well now, on the bonus material DVD that came with the reissued early Darkthrone albums. Swirling trees shot in black and white. Tense atmosphere. I follow the shaky camera around the forest, delighted by its attempt at turning the plain, pleasant and ordinary pines into something ugly, threatening and mysterious. As if the band were attempting to really squeeze the lifeblood out of 1992, or as if they’re expelling the ordinary 1992 out of the year.

A boy, still Nocturno Culto I think, is smoking on a bench in the forest. ‘More primitive,’ Fenriz says. He’s speaking English. It’s an interview, done many years after the film, and the band is summarising and analysing. They’re able to look back and say, We went for something more primitive.

You can watch the interview for yourself. It’s online. Primitive. I’ve never heard anyone say that in a southern accent.

As I hate my way through school, to 1997 when I enter college, it becomes more and more obvious that language doesn’t quite cut it. Something’s wrong down here in the south. Maybe there’s something wrong with the Norwegian language altogether. Maybe Norwegian doesn’t have the right words or sounds to really express pleasure. It feels like a provincial language, a language only appropriate for small talk about the weather, church services, Baptist church congregations, boat manuals and sermons. It’s not as musical or archaic as the words in the Old English Dictionary and ancient English poems printed in Gothic font. The Norwegian language is full of words to describe my sins and mistakes; it’s my forced vernacular, a language fit for people who don’t really understand language, who don’t understand poetry or the need to communicate. In college I identify with Inger, a character from one of the novels on our curriculum, Growth of the Soil by Knut Hamsun. Inger has a harelip and a speech impediment. She can’t seem to get words out properly, so instead she just shuts up, or should shut up, according to Hamsun. Her muddled speech delights me. I should probably identify with her even more. She’s an expression of a genetic mutation that affects her mouth and her mind, and I probably am, too. But I don’t. Instead of sympathy I choose hatred. I hate Hamsun. Especially his Pan, another book we’re assigned. I refuse to finish it. I tell the teacher that it’s an insult to the brain, and the teacher gives me a written warning. I wish I’d told the teacher that the Bible is an insult to the soul.

My whole childhood and throughout my adolescence, I’m frothing at the mouth. When I talk, and when I don’t talk. When we’re forced to recite Ibsen’s Terje Vigen, the only part I identify with is the verse that describes the hard sea and frothy waves around the Homborsund reefs. That’s how the inside of my mouth froths when I read. There’s nothing smooth or soft in my mouth: everything that’s moist froths and foams endlessly, like a looped beat.

Nocturno Culto’s cigarette is out. The camera is in the forest again, black and white snow accompanied by music from Transylvanian Hunger. I note: ‘Norwegian nature looks and sounds like buzzing, angry insects.’

I’m watching these black metal clips because I want to write a film. I don’t know what the film is going to be about yet, but I like the early black metal aesthetic, so near to my own childhood. Strangely, it gives me hope, hope that it’s possible to make art primitively, in a way that isn’t steeped in professionalism and compromise. Art that still hates. I remember how much hope there is in hatred.

The next clip I watch is a black metal gig that looks as if it took place in an assembly hall in an early nineties secondary school. I note: ‘Wholesome Norwegian youths talk amongst themselves and walk in and out of the room while the band plays on, completely unaffected. Black metal crawls unnoticed through adolescence, mine too. It doesn’t burrow down completely, but for as long as it’s there it lives and crawls.’

One of those youths could have been me. If I’d been a few years older, or if the clip had been from 1997 and not 1991. If I hadn’t been a girl and excluded from the black screen. It could have been me: we could have hated, all of us, together. Instead I had to hate alone. Provincial hatred.

The Juggler, says Fenriz in the clip. We wanted to play the Juggler.

Does he mean Jester? The court jester who turns everything upside down and transforms the world into a dark game, the comedian tasked with bringing the king the worst news? But Fenriz says the Juggler. It’s never easy to figure out what people mean when they translate their thoughts into a different language. He also says, bashed-out primitive shit. Total misanthropy. Total misanthropic black metal.

Boys from Kolbotn, or from Sveio and Rauland and Ski, or even Arendal: I’ll show you misanthropy. I go to gigs just like the one from the assembly hall tape. I go there because I want to escape Christian Norwegian conformity and because I’m searching for a new community, outside the classroom. I’m here, too. On stage there are only boys. Boys who throw their long black hair back and forth, headbanging with choreographed precision. Not far from what I’ve been taught in jazz ballet. But while jazz ballet codes girlish headbanging as sexy, the identical movement means aggression in the metal community. Here, black is the only colour, leather and velvet are the only fabrics, and the glistening guitar necks resemble swords or dicks, or both. When I look around the gig I see only boys in the audience, or no, there are other people, too. But none of the girls are headbanging, and I’m the only one like me. No one else seems to hate. 1997 is too late. After all the murders and church arsons, metal has run scared. It has passed into a lacy romantic phase. The hatred has been prescribed sedatives. Primitive recordings of buzzing chaotic riffs have been exchanged for aggressive angst. It complements southern Norway’s rainy climate, synthetic drugs and gracious reservation. No one in the room wears corpse paint. There are a couple of boys wearing black eyeliner, but they’re too busy selling ecstasy to secondary school pupils to listen to the music. I’m at the back, alone, hating, motionless, muted, squeezed into a corner between action and meaning. Like you were, too, perhaps.

We never meet. Provincial hatred is so lonely. But it saves us, so we don’t drown in our own frothing spit. And perhaps it saved the boys too.

I’m still working on this film. I’m writing it to figure something out, or to find my way out of something. A way out of language, perhaps? In a way, that’s exactly what it means to write a film. It’s a document that transgresses against the written domain. The writing doesn’t exist independently, but facilitates a different art form, the film; the text yields to it, as the bonus material yields to the Darkthrone albums. I think that’s how I want to write: unfixedly, sloppily, impossibly—primitive. A script is a curse that hasn’t been uttered. It’s a ritual that hasn’t begun. A magical document.

Maybe this document is where I should look for the primitive. Maybe this document is where I can attempt to dig something out of language, something that doesn’t exist in text or image but is somewhere in between. It has to be something new, a new space. It can’t just look like what has been. Writing shouldn’t just be repeating instructions. Doing that has to be the very definition of blasphemy. I was never taught to hate God.

When I write, I enter and exit scenes, I see everything. I am God in here. I can only hate myself.

I watch again the final clip from the bonus DVD. We’re in the forest again, always in the forest. The grove has darkened. Is it almost evening? Snow now. A winter forest. The guitar sounds are alien, as if they weren’t recorded using a cord and a microphone. It sounds like insects that crawl and buzz all over the four-track machine.

I’m trying to write a new scene into my own film, from a party I was at once: An opinionated and skinny sixteen-year-old from Nedenes is dead set on telling everyone what Satanism really is. People are only ever really looking out for themselves, he says, so man should cultivate the idea of himself as the hero of his own life. Or maybe he’s saying that Satan is just a symbol that represents our life force? He’s spouting something along those lines, some stuff he’s read in a book, a book that looks too much like the Bible and the Word and probably has just as many capitalised letters and just as few women’s voices. No one understands what the boy is saying anyway. But a little later, when he begins to cut his belly and blood starts trickling, we understand everything. Cutting we get. We feel it in our own belly and our own skin. We identify with the cutting, and the blood from the cuts. Blood speaks a language we understand, without that broken southern accent.

A girl character of about the same age tries to help him, manages to pull the knife away and sits chatting to him. Another girl just stands there, watches it happen and later walks home from the party through fresh snow, trailing a river of blood behind her. That’s supposed to represent me, obviously, the lonely bleeder. I could have walked home like that in 1997.

I scratch that scene. Too many lonely bleeders, a competition of teenage angst and loneliness. It’s too psychological. I hate psychology. Psychology looks like religion, and the psychologist character looks too much like God, someone you’re supposed to open up to, someone you’re supposed to approach with honesty, someone you’re supposed to use to break yourself to pieces, self-destruct in front of, so much so that the little splinters left behind can’t even be called art. This thing called opening up is really just repeating instructions. Repeating instructions is human: lonely girl kneeling before God.

I’m sick of being lonely. I want to be part of something. I’ve been practicing since 1991. While Fenriz and Nocturno Culto stagger around with their camcorder and destruct the forest structures, I’m doing the same thing in my exercise books and notepads. I write my school assignments and my Norwegian essays to someone. Not to the teacher, but to famous authors: Ibsen, Bjørnson, Shakespeare. They frequently reply in the margins, leaving biting comments about today’s youth and correcting my spelling and syntax long before I hand in the assignment, and I get a written warning: the teacher insisting in that wet southern accent that he can’t mark a paper that’s already been marked. But I continue to hate in the A4 paper margins; I do anything to avoid thinking about how I’m really writing to God, God in the guise of the teacher. I’ve always needed to write to someone else. Writing has to be a place, a place to meet, a place where you meet someone other than God.

The only thing I like from the party scene is the