A bad rerun

It’s that day again, the day of waiting and travelling, the day of goodbyes and tears. It’s different every time, yet it is a day that seems to be coming as a bad rerun of itself, more frequently than one would desire.

Departures provoke a lot of emotion. Thus pre-departure can take three different shapes in action.

The first is of course; ignoring. The person leaving or people in their surroundings sick to the normal and ‘pretend’ that the upcoming separation is either very far away, or literally inexistent. It’s a quite detached way to go about things, but also easier. What’s positive about it is that there is no discrimination or favouritism towards anyone, everyone continues just as usual.

Then there is the second kind; withdrawing. This person fears the upcoming separation and pulls away. Often he or she becomes distant and almost cold, as if trying to untie some of the bonds created to avoid the pain.

And finally there is preparing. Where you know you are leaving and put effort into your remaining time. Rather than withdrawing you intensify your relations and tie the bonds stronger in order to avoid loss, despite distance.

As for the mind-set, it can go two ways. Either you don’t realise you’re leaving until you are gone, which then means major crisis, or you mourn your departure well ahead, during and also after. However then you are hopefully slightly more calm and rational about it….although you can never really know.

Today my departure has brought forward both ambivalence and ambiguity.
Ambiguity, because it is the end of a chapter, the end of the Spain chapter, nevertheless there are so many things which will hopefully continue into my next episode, and the ones that follow. London is the only variable that is secured or even guaranteed.

Ambivalence because I said goodbye to my love (luckily he is not far behind, as he is coming to see me in Sweden on Friday), it meant the end of our daily life in our small Spanish city, it means things are changing. Really, he is part of the ambiguity. Not to forget are other sad adieus, those of friends and acquaintances, of places and views.

Then, on the other hand, I am leaving for home, for family and for Christmas… all of which I love. And I am returning to London where my heart beats stronger and my brain thinks faster (I sincerely have the impression it does).

So it is new this day, because I never felt it this way, yet it is a repetition of itself…of those previous weeks of preparing, of tying and of trying to apprehend. I am kind of obliged to ambivalence…because I hate goodbyes, I struggle with them and at the same time I love a new challenge, I thrive on diversification.
Again I have done those days of washing and packing, cleaning, emptying and throwing away…to leave place for what is to come.

This time I have made a lot of space, I am hoping for greatness and joy, but I am expecting nothing at all. I believe it will be good, and I will work for it, yet I am prepared to take on the bad…at least so I hope. Today might be a rerun, but what is coming is freshly baked and yet to be revealed…So really at the end of this day I will have to find myself optimistic towards the ambiguity rather than ambivalent, because forward is the only way…and I prepared myself for goodbye…but goodbye just for now.

Lögn

Hon ljuger aldrig,
inte när hon ler,
inte när hon gråter,
ej heller när hon älskar,
eller förlåter.

Hon ljuger inte,
för det svärtar ner hennes själ.
Ibland blir hon brutal i sin ärlighet,
men hon menar bara väl.

Evigt söker hon svar,
även för de frågor
som inte går att besvara.
Allting vill hon veta
och kunna förklara.

Oftast är det varken berikande
eller särskilt uppfyllande alls;
hon söker bara
att försvara sig någonstans.

Andra advent

Glad andra advent! Det här är så nära adventsljustake jag kommer i år. Detta är en dag man önskar man kunde komma hem på visit, dricka en kopp glögg och prata en stund med familjen. Men idag blir det plugg för allt vad jag äger och har. Jul-kramar från mig trots allt.

Back in business

I am back in business! Finally! After more than two weeks of agonizing wait I finally got my new card AND I got an exam-date before Christmas. Hallelujah!

Now… I’m not going to go into detail on my irritation with the Spanish mail or the fact that you seem to have to sit with the foot up people’s behind to get results and clear responses.

This means I can finally get to buying Christmas-presents and it also means I have to study. A LOT! So I am literally back in business in every sense of the word. I’m fishing for the London-discipline again. It’s coming back, I feel it.

X-mas love

I have love for chritsmas....but a love that makes it feel like christmas everyday. And I love christmas...

More More Drama

So… as if having your bank account extinct is not enough drama for one week, now one of my subject teachers has decided to step it up a little. Because my life is not already stressful enough (!!!). After having repeatedly asked if it is possible to take the exam in December (missing out on three to four classes), she now finally got to thinking of the matter and decided it MIGHT be a problem.

What do I say? I say it’s great! It’s absolutely fabulous that I already have my plane ticket to go back to Sweden, and it’s amazing that I won’t be able to sit the exam in February in any case. Why? I will already be in London. Now this bugs me… since it possibly deprives me of my financial support from the Swedish government, which would again make me broke. Oh Happy day!

Please do cross your fingers (or in Swedish hold your thumbs) for it to all go my way.

Some one is probably trying to teach me to value what I have, to understand the worth of money. I have shed a few hundred tears of anger and frustration… I promise. I understand it now.

Broke(n) reflections

I have been robbed. Every single penny I own has been stolen (apart from the 17 something euro I still have in my wallet, which I am now guarding with my life).

Being broke is not exactly a pleasant surprise, especially not tightly followed by the discovery of having much more money than expected… now I have none. Quite annoying to say the least. But more than the fact of not having money or the fact that I now (from Spain) have to try to arrange new cards, police reports etc., more than that, it is the intrusion that bothers me. Some broke into my account and emptied it out. And it wasn’t done at once either. By the looks of it someone used up my money and made sure to thoroughly enjoy it. Bloomingdale’s, Staples and Apple Store all in Cedar Oaks, USA…where in the f*** is Cedar Oaks!? What kind of lazy, greedy people live there!?

Ok, Sorry, no need to be mean… or rude for that matter (to be truthful a lot of pretty heavy curses have come out of my mouth this evening, none of which will be repeated here). I just can’t seem to get over it. How a person is so lazy that they have the nerve to “bling” their lives up with other people’s money, which they have earned fair and square. They get luxury (I know this because when you spend more than 1000 USD in an Apple Store it must be good) and I get problems. Thank you very much!

I don’t understand…where have morals gone? How does a person manage to justify an intrusion into someone else’s privacy? And not only an intrusion, but a complete abuse? How can you even enjoy your Mac-Book when you bought it with stolen money? I hope it breaks, I sincerely do, what ever they bought I hope it is infected by the mere fact that they acted immorally, I hope they look at it and feel regret. And no, I’m not evil, just very angry. And no, I’m not stupid either…if you are advanced enough to rip someone’s card-details off from across the Atlantic you probably don’t know the meaning of the word respect nor the essence of the feeling; guilt.

Anger gives you energy from all kinds of unexpected sources. Thus I shall get back to baking my bread. Because I’d rather do positive things with my energy, that are good (and even taste good) for others and me as well. Rather contribute than exploit…that’s what I say.

Fallen angel

She’s a fallen angel
she has lost her way.

No more innocence,
she’s not wearing white today.

She’s a fallen angel.
She has spoken now.
Not with words of evil
but to obtain a respectful bow.

She has had enough
of insults and madness
as an eternal game.
No more looking at herself
and feeling shame.

She’s a fallen angel.
She has learned how to demand.
It’s been a journey
but the soul needs to expand.

She’s a fallen angel
for those who look to find
goodness and naivety surgin’.
But she is an angel to me still,
just not a virgin.

I love it, I love it not

Today I chose my courses for next year. It was exciting, because it was all lined up, right there in front of me; my future. The outlines of my year to come; international business to the height, length and breadth of 2009, my last year. And it was sad. Why? Because it reminded me of the fact that this dreamy state of love, bliss and relaxation will soon come to an end. Soon…but not too soon?

There is no denying; London is progress, London is challenge, ambition and responsibility, and I miss it. I miss the pace, I miss the goals and I miss the adrenaline of deadlines and the gratification of achievement. I thrive on it, yet I know it kills me. That’s why I love it. Today I walked through Cádiz, Coldplay playing in my ears, a steady rapid rhythm and I walked quickly not to be late. It made me remember the feeling of being on your way, seeing ahead and knowing where you’re going. It’s empowering. I love it.

And then, I realised; what about all these quiet moments, what about time to cook, time to watch a movie or to simply take a nap on a Wednesday afternoon? What about the spontaneous coffees and the large, long dinners with friends? What about going out three nights a week and then having the time to sleep in? What about all these things that make life worthwhile? Where do they squeeze in between MGT305 and ECO301? I love it not. I truly don’t.

I’m ambivalent…I want it all. It’s unfair. It seems that for many of us, at this point in life, it’s either or: Love/Life or Studies/Career. I don’t want to choose and I don’t have to, I chose already. My next year is all career, all books, highlighters and sleepless nights, all studies and stimulus. I have to learn, to take with me some elements of human contact, interaction with affectionate value into that deep ocean of work which is ahead. And I love it I really do yet I love it not…I truly don’t.

From salt of the earth to crème de la crème

In one week this summer I went from salt of the earth to crème de la crème; from service provider to, practically, service abuser.

I went from an environment where a friend can very well grab your behind and lovingly tell you that your ass has a remarkable resemblance to that of a pig’s, to a world where ‘hello’ can feel worse than a slap in the face and a mere sideway look is an insult.

Starting from the bottom, or perhaps the beginning, there are a few questions awakened in this, rather traumatic, transit. What sets these worlds apart? What do they require for acceptance? And how does one really fit in?

One could say value is the most significant difference between these worlds, monetary as well as moral. At the “bottom” what you do and how you do it carries most weight, whereas, taking a few steps up the class ladder, its who you do, or rather who you know, and how much you spend upholding this relation that is more relevant.

In order to be accepted (anywhere) you need to have the right accessories; mental or material. Granted, the battle of status through material attributes exists everywhere, but in the riches as opposed to in the rags it defines and validates their existence. I own therefore I exist. And without the right accessories you can kiss initial respect goodbye.
In the ‘underworld’ the best thing you can do is sharpen your elbows, because there you need to deserve your position, playing a completely different social game. There the attributes you need to have play more at the qualities you own. Nevertheless, a sharp tongue, a sarcastic sense of humour or whatever may be required, might gain you respect in one place and be unfavourable in another, it’s all about picking up the tone.

Getting in the context and fitting in can be more complicated still. It requires some measure of likeness and sense of equality between the individuals. When it all boils down, we all search to identify ourselves, at least slightly, with our fellowmen and especially with those we aspire to have as friends. We look to feel at ease in our surroundings; we search for shared values, to be accepted without having to adapt excessively and to fit in and feel comfortable.

Between rags and riches there is a large grey-zone, where you are free to navigate. And often there is no evident choice. When you don’t lack anything nor live in abundance, when physical, mental and spiritual pathways seem padded and protected and your survival is unthreatened; you appear to be moving eternally between the worlds, searching for those spots in the grey-zone where your social survival is guaranteed.

The paradox, and the advantage, is often that the more you move, the more you learn to adapt and find yourself in every location and feel secure. Because when you are in the habit of moving from salt of the earth and crème de la crème and back again, all you really need to pack… is your comfort.

Cadiz: A Killer (?)

Here I am; a shadow of my old self. Yes. Those of you who know me as an overly organised, always on top of things, always on the move, kind of person, might actually go into cardiac arrest when looking at my current state. And this is no joke…

Vanja and I have made countless efforts to revitalize it; the pumping rhythm of the city, that chain of goals and objectives succeeding one another, even that frustrating feeling of never having enough time (even though your plan is close to immaculate). Shock-a-shock we’ve actually been looking for this state of mind… even slightly missing it.

I know. In a few months from now I will be eating my words up. I will be calling home in tears saying: “I can’t take it, I just need one full night of sleep…and another 12 hours to the day”. Time will, again, be in short supply.

But it’s dead, the stress, and Cádiz has ‘killed’ it. It took us a while to wrap our heads around it, even longer to join in and another good while to actually understand it; the Cádiz effect.
At first we were thrilled about the stress-less atmosphere, and accordingly we took our time to slow down and kick back in the sand. That was the time when we could still fish for London in our blood, and we didn’t have to look that deep. Now days we are searching, and are yet to be lucky. Instead we keep finding one example after another of how a city can seemingly swallow your ambition, simply by ridding the purpose for its existence. You don’t need to dream big here, it’s the small that counts. You don’t need to be quick here, because rest dominates.

And it doesn’t seem to bother a soul that students retake, and retake and retake courses in all eternity, some day, he will become a doctor, or an engineer or an economist. Life is too short to waste on obsessive studying is what Cádiz seems to be saying, just live a little and a little bit more…and the rest will be ok in due time. It makes a good point, this city, to all of us hyped up ciudadanos (city-people). About not forgetting to stop and see, not neglecting to listen and enjoy.

Yet we miss the city because it gives us purpose, it stimulates us and challenges us to evolve… Cádiz poses another challenge, that of how to enjoy while keeping alive your ambition. But as sure as Cádiz is a killer…we can revive London again.

Solrosen

Hon är hukad för regnet,
skyld för mörkret.

Hon är utan idéer,
men hennes essens är konkret.

Hon söker solen,
dock utan att veta.

Solrosen hittar ljuset,
alltjämt utan att leta.

Hon sträcker sig mot strålarna,
när sig på dess värme.

Växer ambitiöst,
för att komma närmre.

I sin natur vill hon blomma,
envis, tålig och stark.

En evig strävan uppåt,
utan att lämna mark.

Enough is enough is enough

Last semester I was suffering from the unlikely noise-level of my neighbours. Singing, screaming...and even talking could all be heard through theese thin walls. Not to mention the persistant woman frequently standing outside on the patio (creates QUITE the echo might be mentioned) screamig for some Marta at 8am. Then there was of course the moving of furniture at 2am in the appartment above or the heavy fying of food past midnight.

This year I'm in luck! (sense the irony). What was previously my neighbours are now my flatmates. Halleluja! And I would gladly ask my neighbours to move their furniture more often if I could just have some peace and quiet after 2am. Sing-alongs to Rihanna are not exactly on my list of favourite things, especially not if they wake me up or prevent me from sleeping.... And then I should probably not even get started on the level of cleanlyness in the kitchen. Que horror! (as you would put it here).

So I am really just waiting for the day where, as you would say in Swedish; my cup runneth over and I will actually bring my self to say it: Enough is enough! Clean up! And sh*t up!

Do I realistically see that happening?...Most probably not. A more diplomatic solution would probably suit me better. But I'm leaving it for mañana.

When it rains it pours

Here in Cádiz things are as they should be, and still not. The normal state of stressless-ness is of course blissfully present, there is time for everything. There is even time to do nothing (which is quite amazing). Thus I'm really trying to take advantage of this fact, as my future seems quite bleak on that aspect.
Plenty of good company, parties, dinners and time to rest... everything a person needs to prepare for a hectic last year at EBS.

Soaking up the sun is also energizing. Here we are far from winter-jackets. Still, we are traumatised by autumn trespassing into the late summer heat. Not only has it rained, it has rained so heavily that underground-parkings have been flooded, even stores on the street. Some of my dear friends even suffered in-house floodings when water came up their drain and into the shower. And it's not like the kind, eternal, London-rain. In Cádiz, when it rains it pours... it's the kind of rain that will wake you up and keep you awake.

In light of this, I can do nothing else but express my gratitude to the brilliant concept of Siesta...at times frustrating (yes, because the world really does stop during siesta), but sometimes it might just save your day.

What's in a word?

In the true spirit of globalization a lot of us choose to travel, not only for fun, but also to try to achieve exchange and integration into cultures different than ours. While routines can often be adapted, language is one challenge that is often tough to tackle.

It can be tiring, that search for the right words; finding the precise expression that will convey not only, the practical message, but also the underlying sentiment. I sometimes ask myself; how much of the meaning of what I say gets lost in the banality of the words I’m using?

Still, most of the time I manage to make myself understood, without really knowing how I finally got my point across. After seemingly endless minutes of fishing for words, associating across languages and attempting chance-creation of new linguistic constellations we finally arrive at the crucial point: the answer; the main teller of whether you’ve made any sense what so ever. So I wonder, if I manage to make myself understood with an insufficiency in both vocabulary and verbal skills: What’s in a word?

First I think about the components of communication; individuals and language; where each constitutes complexity within itself. Considering the fact that every one uses language differently, or even uses different languages, and most of us listen from our own perspective, thus we hear what we want to hear. Honestly, it’s a wonder we ever understand each other at all.

One can only admit it; we hear things in a way that suits our world image and help support it. In the end, everyone wants to be rubbed the right way, whether there is truth to the word or not.

Second one must reflect on whether people actually really apprehend the impact (or insignificance) of what they say. I mean do you really fully understand everything you say? Being accustomed to using foreign languages, many of which I do not fully master, I know it can be difficult to estimate the weight of a word. That is, to understand the feelings it can potentially provoke in whoever is listening.

More easily put, assumingly there is a gap between what you say and what you understand that you are saying, which brings us to another component essential to contemporary, cross-cultural, communication; tact. Collins dictionary defines it as a sense of the best and most considerate way to deal with people so as not to upset them. I would call it an ability to know how and when to say things, or quite simply; what is vulgar and when to shut up.

Now this is not an evident thing (as you would say in French). Tact takes a different shape when applied to different languages. What is apprehended as offensive in Swedish would in another language just be taken on the chin. Words even though translated are frequently used in varied ways.

An example close to heart would be the Spanish verb Querer which can be translated into to Love as well as to Want. Now, in a German stemming language these are wisely not mixed (unless in bed, where they belong together?). In Spanish, on the other hand (depending on how you say it) it can be completely asexual (obviously if you were to pull someone forcefully towards you and whisper it in their ear with desire it could easily be the equivalent of: let’s go to bed immediately).

Finally, putting this together, vocabulary, knowledge and tact, I’m still thinking, which one of us has not heard a speaker with plenty of authority and pride and still felt as though his words were empty? And accordingly stopped listening to this person within five minutes even though he (or she) was incredibly correct? On the other side of the equation there would be this whirlwind of a person, who would accidently step on a few toes, but wholeheartedly grab everyone’s attention. Because the way they spoke appealed to people’s emotions.

So is it precision that gets the message across or is it effort, patience and sincerity? In the end, the word is really just a tool, as any other. The word itself carries little significance, it is how you build with it and support it. What is in a word is finally not a lot theoretically speaking. What is in a word is really just the sentiment you wrap it with and the emotion you put into it….And still we can only ever hope to understand and to be understood.

Excuse me, forgive myself

Apologies and excuses are a funny thing. They come in all shapes and forms; sincere, rude, sudden and even long-overdue.

There are those ‘little’ excuses that you politely (or reflexively) blurt out when you bump into someone on the street, or while trying to make way through a crowded room. The pardon me’s that are pure politeness.

Then there are those excuses that come from deep inside, from knowing that someone has been hurt by you; your words or your actions. Where you are not looking to justify your deed but rather rid yourself of that ounce of guilt which only ‘I’m sorry’ can accomplish.

And then finally there are those excuses that are more related to your own regrets than anything else. Like that party that you didn’t go to and you know no one holds a grudge against you for it. Nevertheless you need to apologise; if nothing else, then to get the external confirmation that it’s fine; nothing's won, nothing's lost. Where you say you are sorry, but what you really are trying to do is to forgive yourself.

October, October the summer is over...?

It took a me a while, but now I actually realised; summer is not over quite yet. After Sweden where it was already full on jacket, scarf and gloves, a few days were needed for reality to sink in. Although the gaditanos (inhabitants of Cádiz) have apparently already retired from the beach for the season, it is still summer by my measures, which means jackets need to come off and bikinis on.

And although my new flatmates have turned out to be a group of young (and then I mean young AND green on living 'alone'), loud and smoking spaniards, I'm now going to do my best not to let it get to me. After all I have the privilege of a few more weeks of soaking in the sun and swiming in the Atlantic, and that's not all that bad.

An apple(cake) a day keeps the doctor away

After a summer busy to the point of rupture I have arrived in Spain and unsurprisingly come down with a cold. Thanks to bad weather and a relaxed schedule I'm spending the day in, curing myself with the good things life has to offer...like chocolate and applecake. Because hey, as you say; when life gives you sour apples make apple cake. And then it might just be that there is truth to the saying that an apple(cake?) a day keeps the doctor away. Let's hope so.

A taste of Spain

Really there is only wine, olives and a mullet missing...

If I were a choir, but then again no...

She has perfect pitch, the conductor standing in front of the choir. No individual diversion will pass her by; no off pitch note will go un-noticed. Basses, tenors, altos and sopranos, the yins and yangs of choir dynamics, the highs and lows of sounds are all under her spell.

I find myself wishing I was like her, that I would be perfectly sensitive to each and every component of my being. Having the ability to immediately know what was off balance and where. And then to focus, to first find silence, then healing and then completion. Like she does when she silences the choir, practices the bad until good and then puts it back into its context.

And I think to myself that we should be grateful if our choir always sings the same song at all. Happy when all components move harmonically in the same direction. Off tune is not always our only problem, sometimes it’s off target as well. She does a great job at it, keeping everyone focused. Again, I wish I could hear what she hears.

There is always a dominant note, a top-note, like in perfume, that which sticks out. Sometimes it’s low and hard, others high and shrill. For some of us the top-note varies, for others it hardly ever changes. But the top-note always needs the others to be extenuated. A bass in itself will become monotonous; it requires altos, tenors and sopranos to finally become a song.

So can you always hear your own top-note? Or do you even know what song you are singing? When harmony is distant can you muster your energy, find your perfect pitch and recenter your forces? Can we be our own conductors? Or are we dependent on the reflection of ourselves from others in order to truly hear our-selves?

Is it possible to change our song and learn the rhythm, tact and melody without being accompanied by an instrument? She uses the piano, to clarify and to lead. It holds her hand as she lingers her way to satisfaction. Who holds yours?

There is always mañana

Spain always means learning new behaviours. Especially for a timewise scandinavian like myself there are many lazy lessons to be learned.

Lazy lesson no. one is: There is always tomorrow...or there is always another one tomorrow.

In hectic northern Europe you often get the sentiment people try to do as much as possible in as little time as possible. In Cádiz you quickly learn, what you don't do today you can do tomorrow, or next week, why hurry?

Jose, a spanish aquaintance put it very nicely; he said: "I don't understand why people make such a fuss when I don't come to a party one night, when they know there is another one tomorrow". As our conversation continued into the early morning hours and we established that I had been to class earlier the same day, he burst out into modest applause for the fact that I was still on my feet at 3.30 am. Whereby I answer: "But I had a siesta" (and the applause were inevitabely 'withdrawn').

So what I learned from this was: Don't stress! If you don't go to a fiesta today you can always go tomorrow (you will be missed, but you won't miss anything if what you really want is to stay at home). And if you DO want to go to a fiesta, there is always siesta. Time is on your side here, today and...mañana.

Att komma fram

Hon är vacker
tycker han
där hon härjar
i hans drömmar.
Hon är vacker
där hon simmar
i hopplöshetens
strida strömmar.

Hon är stark
känner han,
hängiven i allt
hon tar sig för,
och varm är hon,
älskar,
som ingen annan gör.

Och hon är ömtålig,
fast det ser man inte
det har hon lyckats dölja,
hon har gömt det väl
bakom vältalighetens
förrådande slöja.

Han väntar på henne,
fast hon aldrig
tycks hitta hem.
Han ler när han ser
att hennes hjärna vill,
men hjärtat kommer sen.

Och han våndas,
där han står
med öppen famn.
Han säger:
Älskling,
varför kommer du aldrig fram?

Persistence is the medicine

Yet again I am taking on the constant battle against spanish procrastination. It´s endearing how many people can attempt helping and actually not succeed; not due to ill-will but rather a lazy ignorance(?).

Yesterday I spent one and a half hour calling my phone-company in order to get my line up and running again. This was after being told at their store that: "No you can´t buy a modem separately, they come as a package deal with the line". Accordingly this was my second mission, getting a new modem. After making SIX calls to SIX different people, someone finally opened up my file properly and told me what to do. And here I was, thinking: "They must think I am such an idiot to keep calling". Apparently persistence is the best medicine against procrastination (even though it can prove to be exhausting).

Finally the phone-line is now back (wow!). However I am still crossing my fingers for a quck arrival of my modem, hopefully it won´t take another six phonecalls...

...and it's a long way home

Well, here I am again; in transit at an airport. Half way around the world (not that far really) and nowhere near going back again. It's a situation that brings to mind things to appreciate. Kind of as a survival strategy to keep yourself smiling during the six hours to be spent (and being spent) on a hard wodden-chair in a bare and impersonal café at La Parra (Barcelona).

Having had quite a tomultuous pre-departure week, the small things are what come to mind; My fathers childhood-stories of comical disasters, positive feedback at work, the smell of my mothers freshly-baked bread on a Saturday morning and then the act of remembering. We all appreciate being remembered and it doesn't take a lot. It is plenty having an instructor at the gym remember his promise to make you an exertube-programme, and delivering with excellence (pictures, instructions, schedule and even a motivational letter). And it is defenitly a good feeling apprehending the excitment of someone remembering your arrival when you suspect you have been forgotten.

In short, remembrance is a good thing to smile about...both the people that I remember and those who remember me. Again it's small acts really, the fact that I have a snickers-bar in my bag is evidence in itself, it was a departure-gift. So I can smile because someone remembered... and I didn't forget.

Vem är hon?

Vem är hon?
Hon som i grunden
säger emot sin egen existens.
Hon som har självförgörande
som essens.

Vem är hon?
Denna mjuka
men innerligt brutala,
som kan väcka mörker
ur sin långa dvala.
Den som i ental finns
och tillfälligt stagnerar.
Vem är hon?
Hon som växer i sällskap
och sökande genererar.

Vad vill hon?
En hemligt uttalad önskan ändå.
Varför räds hon för sällskap?
När det enda hon vill är: bli två.

Har hon ett namn?
Denna som stör
likt bubblor under tapeten.
Vad heter hon?
Om inte ensamheten?

A wall is really just a bridge on edge...

That is what he says; Emil Jensen, swedish singer, poet and stand-up comedian.
Quite a nice thought for a grey day like this. Obstacles are really just stepping-stones to greater things.

Then he goes on to speak about seeing people and lending a hand, deciding your own direction and not licking your wounds when you get them, and how these people, who own these qualities, are perhaps not the most beautiful people in the world, but the world is most beautiful in them. It continues...genuinely inspiring.

So I think that when beauty is in the eye of the beholder...a wall is nothing but a bridge on edge.

Requiem for life

Walking through the park I know it is soon to be the end of greenery. I know it because the wind bites my cheeks even though the sun is shining. I know it because, when you look closely, the edges of the leaves are turning orange.

Autumn is coming and still, in a short while, its summer for me. When you move to Spain (as I will do) you have the privilege of skipping a season, or three. No need to see the trees seemingly whither and die and the air turn grey and cold. No need for that endless wait for spring, where life comes again.

Spain is summer followed by summer, sun always, eternal life. But, even there spring makes a difference. What sets here and there apart is just the amount of death, or winter, needed before life comes again. Nature takes a rest really.

The Latin word for rest is requiés, but most of us will have seen it in another shape. Stemming from this word of peace is Requiem, a hymn of death. Verdi (amongst others) composed one… I heard it… and yes, it is a hymn alright:

Libera me, Dómine, de morte aetérna; Save me, Lord from the eternal death. They sing it out, 300 voices strong. We all wish for it, secretly, both those who sing and those of us who listen; to be immortal, to never see winter. And so, when hearing Verdi’s requiem, it is clear, that what he really did was to create life for himself.

I know Verdi is dead as of more than 100 years; still his name and his music have been current through the times. Although the end of greenery, the eternal death, probably frightened him, as it does most of us, he took things into his on hands, writing operas, symphonies and requiems with the width and breadth of his being.

A requiem, in the end, can really just inspire to accept winter, celebrate rest…and perhaps use it as a time of composition. To do like Verdi did; he created his own spring and rebirth, by composing his way to immortality. In the end what he really wrote; was a requiem for life.