Touchdown and this chosen land proffers a welcoming kiss. It is not stifling, ill tasting, like that of home. Rather I am enveloped in a cool, clean embrace. The air is dry. A factor which has been missing during the extended arctic experience of Orkney’s deepest freeze for 20 years. Despite the significant temperature plummet (20 or so degrees below) it feels more comfortable in the superchilled outdoors.

Going home is something that has changed beyond recognition. Because instead of the heart wrenching farewell to Scotland there were instead a few tears of relief as darling Sweden came back into sight. Time warp over, now to feel again. The announcements are in Swedish och det blir lugnt och längtan igen. Jag saknar husdjuret mer än jag trodde på.

Trotts att jag kommer tillbaka med ett tungt hjärta är jag glad i alla fall. Livet börjar igen. Det finns tid att umgås med de som har stannat och att prata om tillkommande året. Som alltid, ska jag och Mahgol reda upp världen. Mitt själ är tre gånger förstor för den här kröppen. Det finns mycket att göra. Många ska flytta, flera ska resa bort. Till och med jag planera ett bytt av miljön. Snart blir det en mindre lägenhet, och närmare till vänner och stan. Jobbet kommer att äta min tid, tillsammans med plugg och VSS… för det är jag tacksam.

Men det finns även adventure på gång. Jag måste lära mig att samla pengarna i stället av grejar och kolla på tåg tidtabellen igen. Det finns en rut mellan nord och södra, västre och öster, vikingar och den exotisk land. Det är inte landet utan resan som jag längtar efter. Okända människa, enkla, billiga mat och att undrar på allt som kör förbi mitt fönster.

På slutet av augusti är det södra Polen, bröllopet och gamla vänner. Men hur jag kommer dit är frågan. Nu börjar nästa delen av historian.

last night in Russia

These pristine snow filled days are a fitting end. They stretch out from my window, a blank white sea. A turned page. Starting afresh. Full of possibility. There is always another path to plough. When I return here in January the pussycat will have slunk away, on his way home. But it is impossible not to leave footprints in the snow. Those who leave can no do so secretly.

This term, (over used phrase, as is the repetitions praise to come) has been extraordinary. I know there are those among us who think I am foolish, for being so emotionally open and for considering the social situation of Skandinavistisk Två something special. It will not last. This I know. We are international students. For many these friendships have been a gloss on the surface. Not something to invest in. Not something to bryr sig om.

I beg to differ. We were thrown together by the Swedish education system. Another conflicting area of Swedish grammar. We are exceptions to the numerous rules. Because there is no order. There is no 1+2=3 without fail. We equal something intangible. There have been moments of simple wonder. Pure joy. Uncomplicated laughter. There is nothing more precious. There has been no need for sophisticated jokes, cliques and prejudice. In this, we have all been children. We are learning to communicate again, where words fail we resort to other means. There is something strange, unknown and exciting in all of us.

To snooze in a room full of warm, well-fed people is a luxury not to be sniffed at. Sitting round the table, swirling red wine and drifting away into sweet reverie. It is good to embrace the moment. They may be few and far between. Korean drinking games, awkward questions and the unending relationship debate. I have never felt so connected with a group – without shame, paranoia or the sickening pressure - feeling like I am wasting time.

These people arrived on the pages of my book a few short days after I painted that horrible plywood creation. A plane of jealous, accusing faces, claiming ”you don’t know who we are.” I have rarely felt so isolated and alone. The fear was consuming. I was on the defensive. I looked offensive. I did not want to know who you were. Pre-school panic compounded with post-partnership pain. This has been a period of trial and error. Testing boundaries and borders. Thankfully eight months of therapy can not be ignored.

Who knows what the catalyst was. A burn, a painting, a tattoo, a trip to the UK or a furry new friend. I dare say they complimented each other. But none of it would have been possible without a change in attitude. I know how to be happy; I just needed to teach myself. I know how to stay happy; I just need to remind myself.

One of the simplest ways to experience well being is to write someone a letter of gratitude. It is not gratuitous. The effects may only be short term, but learning to say something good about another person, helps us to see the good in ourselves. It helps us to appreciate that which we have, not begrudge that which we are always striving to achieve.

Life is as simply beautiful as we dare to make it. If we appreciate the existence of our friends, teachers and even fiends, smile because the sun shines, wonder at glittering snow as it falls through white street lighting, laugh at the slips, mistakes and the bruises, savor the meals cooked by friends, breath deep and give as much as we take. Life is already beautiful. We do not need the car, the position and the clothes from some trashy high-street fashion.

It is more than enough just to be here and love it.

Thank you all.

photo by AhReum, Västerås snow 09

Idag har varit en annan dag. En dag av lugn. Det är enklare. Två gånger har två olika vänner frågat mig ”hur står det till?” och svaren låter alltid som jag leker på en trampolin. Upp och ner. Upp och ner. Upp och ner. Men det är ok. Jag känner till det, och även om det är inte bekvämt, det som man känner är enklaste att leva med.

Jag är inte stressärad om det eller dig eller drömman. I kväll sitter jag här och läser. Jag hade besök tid med Doktor Glas och han skev mig ett gott recept. Min mage är full. Ögonen är trötta. Musklarna känner som de har arbetat. Blåsarna på tårna gör djävla ont, men det är helt ok. Köket är mysigt med mjuka ljus och radion som spelar. Den spelar en sång som jag känner så väl.

För ett par år sen var jag nyligen ensam. Jag arbetade extra extra extra hårt, bara för att klara mig. Både pengar och känslor kunde inte räcka. Jag måste betala hyran för två, och jag måste inte vara ensam, inte ännu. En dag på jobbet den sång som jag hörde ikväll spelade på radion. Låten körde och en arbetskamrat frågade ”Den här är er sången. Om han kom till dig och bad att vara ursäkt, skulle du ta honom tillbaka?”

Jag sa nej.

Han kom aldrig, utan han fortsatt att skriva dumma, hatfull saker till mig. Ibland blir jag så arg på honom. Varför kan han inte vara nöjd med livet? Var för kan han inte glömma mig? Jag behöver inte vara påminde om honom, och allt som har hänt. Men, förstår jag att det är inte så enkelt. Den där låten spelar på radion och jag är tillbaka i ett annat kök, ett kök som luktar värm diskvatten, kyckling och ost.

Idag hittar jag mig i ett annat land. Jag börjar tänker på ett annat språk. Är de här metaforiska eller på riktiga? Måste det vara värken eller? Jag tror det kan bara vara både och. Efter träningen satt jag och pratade en halv timme med min kära Mahgol. Jag tänkte genom situationen. Det finns så mycket som påminner mig om honom, men det kommer att vara hela mitt liv. Ibland får jag en känsla att jag är tre år gammal igen. Igår var jag sju, och började en ny skola. I morgon är jag kanske femton och på kusten där solen skiner på vattnet och det finns salt i luften. Det som har hänt, det hände, och det kommer alltid att vara med mig. Man glömmer saker bara så länge som det finns ingen att påminner man om dem.

Skulle jag springa iväg från allt som göra att jag kom ihåg honom? Situationen är olika den här tiden. Ja, jag är osäker om mig själv ibland, men jag har en röst och jag är inte rädd för att använda den. Jag också här vänner, som jag litar på. De som gör mig glad. De som gör mig lugn. De som gör mig kreativt. De som hjälper mig tänker klart.

Jag älskar er.

Med er är jag aldrig ensam, därför vågar jag prova något nytt.

I am afraid, but I do not admit defeat.

It’s not often I am stumped these days and so to be stumped twice in one week is an interesting feeling.  Requires some consideration.  What is this? And where does it come from? It is something unfamiliar… or maybe not. It is something so familiar, just wrapped in paper and left in the back of a dusty cupboard for a while. There was a time when I had no answers. None that I could articulate in any case. They ricocheted off the inside of my skull and lodged themselves, unheard, in the back of my throat.  Their extended echos ringing in my ears 24 hours later. There was no purge. The unsaid would torment me for weeks. Somewhere along this journey I met with courage, and eventually invited it into my home. Now the answers are part of my repertoire.

But then I found myself stumped. There was no answer. Neither a question. Tvärtom. There was silence. I was sat with a friend. A friend of a friend. Acquaintance, kompis, vad som helst. And I forgot how to talk.  But a moment of peace is a welcome pause sometimes. It allows time for reflection. Recollection. It was not so long ago that I required others to carry the conversation. Hiding behind a notebook and scrupulously observing. Where do these people come from?  How do they feel? What is there relation to one another? Are they really as relaxed as they look? How would I feel if it was me? Silence broke but the conversation is different. Somewhere between art and science there is passion for research.

My second stumping was wordal, not verbal. Beskriv din dröm resa. A simple homework task. My dream journey. The holiday of a lifetime. The ultimate adventure. Jag kunde inte. När man säger ‘dröm’ betyder det något som har inte redan hant. But it is done. Jag längter inte efter något mer. Jag kommer inte att vara snipig om jag aldrig resa igen.  There are journeys I would like to take. That saturation of culture, sights, tastes, sounds and smells is as heady as any other drug. To feel these breeze of another ocean, eat the fruits of another land. It is to live and grow. But I have survived my growing pains and now it is time for some kind of stability.

In six month I will fill first quarter century. The first has been nothing to sniff at.  Circumstances have made my life worth it’s weight in literature. But I do not wish to fill the next period with the same feeling of disattachment. I do not hanker after the dream journey because I no longer have a  great need for it. I have seen enough of the exotic, the foreign, the wondrous, the dangerous and the heart breaking to know what I am among the luckiest to walk the plains of this great green earth. I have found my place without religion, addiction or conformity. I dug out my bunker, started living underground, then it became a hut above the ground. It is becoming a way-side in. People come and go. They share their stories, their experience, the advice. Eventually it will become a library full of unknown authors. Those who made their impact. Ready to share with anyone who cares to take an interest. You are allowed to talk. Take a cup of coffee, try the cookies and the comfy chairs. They have memory.  There is wisdom in walls. Magic in the air. It is called a home.

I don’t think there is ever an end to the journey. But it is possible to travel on the spot.  The places we can be transported in good company are as remarkable as those we can attain by car, bus or train. The aeroplane has made it ordinary. The extraordinary. Thousands of kilometers become a small cloth package with free socks, a blockbuster film and a selection from three warm meals. Where is the adventure?  For the near future I am prepared to forgo that luxury in favour of mining local gold.

Unleashing some monsters and Västerås Scribbling Society

I should really be in bed, but the urge to sleep escapes me and my mind is still in overdrive. As always, life chez Clover is never dull. What with the occasional fancy dress party, farewell dinner, kompendium av gammaldags svensk litteratur och the odd near death experience how could it be?

On Monday I got my wake-up call. Cycling home from uni in my beloved darkness, I got knocked off my bike by the car shaped monster. Vilken tur! What luck, for one can only call it that, that I walked away with but a bruise and a healthy dose of shock. The bike is rather more banana shaped. The bil is unharmed. Me and the driver are counting our stars for it could have been so so so much worse.  I have since formed a theory about why I continued to speak in Swedish during the aftermath of the event. It was the only way I could delay the shock. As I lack expressions for fear and shock in Swedish, and I have begun to think in Swedish when I speak it, I therefore lack the capability to feel fear and shock while in svensk mode. As soon as the lady drove off  there was no distraction and I reverted to engelska, followed shortly by hyperventilating and bawling my eyes out!

As it was, I had no money in my mobile phone and had to complete the 15 minute walk home before I could call anyone. Tobias was the first to answer and had the joyous task of calming me down a little. Constance was next and promptly left home to arrive on my doorstep within a half hour. Burak succeeded in making me laugh and by the time Mahgol was in touch I had control of my breathing and a pizza in the oven. People, I can’t thank you enough. I loved life before, but now it seems a little more precious!

Tuesday drove by in a grey dream. I sat through a literature lecture without a spark, borrowed a cigarette after coffee and walked home. The bike still lay on the grass where I left it, the basket astray and the wheels bowed like a blood cells. Tungsten, tvungen tunga tungan , haha, heavy stone, forced heavy tongue, oh dear. I need to go to bed. Sleep evades me until I succumb to exhaustion. It falls like blackness. My brother is unhappy, he has spent his money, his bicycle had been stolen. My grandfather has cancer, he was in surgery. My sister under stress from the mother next door. Dad stops drinking and ups his nicotine intake while mum attempts to find her feet again at work. Thankfully there are no dreams.

Today I screwed up with times. Satt och pluggade hemma hos mig. Prepositioner. I under över, bland inom genom längs. Utan att. Dismantled the bike and wheeled it home. Bought crickets for the frog and OD’d on goodis. Nico called and bjod mig på en öl. A distraction, a drink, is what I need. Easy Swedish company with bad taste bajs humor and cheap beer. Sweet respite and I call it homework. Missed the bus. Walked to town in my ‘överklass’ boots, overcoat and green velvet. It is cold, crisp, clear. Feels good to breath.

Burak called. There are no lectures tomorrow. I shall go to school anyway. I like the people.

My ‘city break’ thanks to cheap flights by ryanair  proved to be an uplifting weekend (although the mystery of the disappearing baggage allowance has yet to be resolved… maybe the Hardy Boys have a clue?) I am convinced that ’short flight’ should be a regular synonym for ‘I think I am going to catch a cold.’ and I have no wish to badmouth a city I lived in for so long, so shall but say “boy am I glad I don’t live in Chester any more!” Now all this may seem rather contradictory to my initial statement, but it is in fact, quite the opposite.  Firstly, was a genuine pleasure to catch up with a few old friends. With such people it feels like time stands still. Despite 12 months of separation it was easy to slide back into conversation. Friday’s cottage cheese and chocolate binge with Kate was followed by a Saturday night of considerably heavy drinking (pre-wedding practice) with the glorious Poles. Incredibly hangover free jag umgick hos 46 för en stund och åt smoked salmon and scrambled eggs accompanied by a hazelnut cappuccino. I had underestimated the number of customers who would remember my face and want to chat! Veggie curry with Kate and Mike and then off to Sarah’s house to be mauled by a kitten and a sausage dog. We spent a number of easy hours blabbering away in the conservatory.

Yes siree, it is fine to be among friends.

Secondly however, ye olde Chester kände INGENTING like home. Perhaps I approached the place with the wrong attitude. Of course I did. A place can only be as pleasant as you attempt to make it… that said… I’m glad I was  just visiting! The ‘ghettos’ of Västerås put Foregate Street to shame. Litter, broken glass, glittering capitalist bling and the masses of lumpy, grumpy people! I dare say I sound like terrible snob, but I truly understand why mum and dad get so stressed out when they travel ‘down south’ these days. There is no space to move, let along string together some kind of positive thought. Town is saturated with crumbling temples to consumerism and the stench of fast food.  There is nothing that could have made me more thankful for my current situation. I arrived home full of snot and tired as hell, but home is a haven and I love it.

The grass is greener on my side of the fence.

Back to school today, and what a treat it seemed to sit in a two hour grammar lecture! Then fika with a Russian, an Iranian and a Swede. We discussed the future of the Scribbling Society, the joy of people and quite a lot in between. Trundled through town in a red velvet skirt and my beloved woolen coat. The sun set through a veil of red leaves as I rode the bus home. Scarlet berries garnish the rowan trees, and there is a new batch of home made kanel bullar in my freezer. 30 pages of grammar exercises and I am beat. Tomorrow is another day, bröstbakalse med Constance, studying på MDH och my favourite lekture - svensk film.

Here’s to all yet to come. Skål!

Peace.

This past week my dreams have been plagued. I have been sleeping deeply, but with my mind open to vulnerabilities.  I have been forced to let go of something I care most deeply about in the belief that it will help in the long run. For all intent and purposes I have been present but not active. A page rubbed clean of old pencil. The hint of something left behind but not enough to piece together the story. Ten steps forward, one to the side and six back.

Thankfully this leaves me four steps ahead of somewhere I used to be.

Today I have had three phone calls. First, a stranger who woke me from my troubled sleep. She fired frågor på svenska and after fifteen minutes decided to give the Scribbling Society 2500sek towards our materials.  The second a friend. She called after my health as I had not appeared in class. The third, a tired and anxious man, moved to tears by my painting because he misses his baby.

I have studied two Swedish subjects. Sammansatt substantiv och genitiv.

I have had one hour outdoors. The need to keep moving is a new one. The need to sit on a bench for a while and stare into space is eternal. A girl of about seven came over to talk to me.

“Är du lesbisk?”

“Nej, bara ledsen.”

Idag var jag tillbaka i skola för min först lektion med Skandinavisk Två. Vad bra det känns att vara i skola igen. Och att prata svenska med de som lära sig! Så mycket enklare än med riktiga svenskar. Det finns en skillnad att pratande svenska med nån som inte är flytande i engelska också. Common ground. Idag måste vi bara berätta lite om vår själv och sen fick vi ett ord som vi behövde att prata om under två minuter. Svårare än det låter! Så, nu är jag motiverad med svenska igen och ska försöker att skriver mer här. Förstås, ska jag prata mycket svenska den här lördag… Catwoman shall go forth in her pvc and spout Swedish from her alcohol loosened mouth. Bea fyller år och vi ska fester hos henne och Jens, Heroes och Villans style!

Hubert and his bundle.

Been painting on canvas again after a summer of wood. It feels good. Fluid. Responsive.  Painting on  canvas is like jumping out of a window and landing on the stretched silk of a parachute. Painting of wood can be like jumping out of a window and landing on solid ground. Rather unforgiving. It is easier to play with error and describe sensation on something with suspension.  Swap your car for a gearless bicycle with a hard saddle and you’ll get the picture. I have been reading more about ‘art’ as a therapeutic activity and find it easier and easier to play, although so many of these pictures are still so uptight… but then again, they are a record of life, just as any written diary, and therefore it is no surprise to see impressions of what is still within.

Tobias in his natural habitat.

Something that always surprised me when I visited galleries is that the paintings I admired often contained far less paint that expected. The canvass is almost always visible at some point or another. I suspect that much of life is like this. We seek to improve by adding layers, increasing detail, clever tricks and complications. Sometimes when we strip down to the bare necessities beauty appears of it’s own accord. Simple naked truth. Tobias smiles and wiggles his toes in his sleep. Two unconscious habits, they make no difference, but bring a smile to the face of a friend. These are the qualities which make my life. He says he hopes to die a happy man. I hope so too… and if all else fails, at least let him die in his sleep where he at least appears to be so!

I always wonder where people go when they close their eyes.

And so to capoeira, where I shall practice atabaque in preparation for kulturnatt. It is drizzling and I feel cold, but I will breach the threshold in any case. It’s time to visit my surrogate family.

Up, down and arround. I don’t know where it stands. But it’s fizzing. Har varit i stan med Marth, Amanda, Krull, Rodde och en massa om annan folk som jag har inte träffat innan. Drack inte så mycket men min huvud känner konstig i alla fall. Pratade mycket svenska. Det är bra övning, men när musiken är för hög mitt hjärna vandrar. Jag känner som strong man eller våt duk. Både två tror jag. Det är så skönt att vara med dom. Det är alltid lugnt och enkelt. Bekvämt. Det är därför jag känner stark. Och det är varför jag skulle stannar… men ingenting är statisk. Det år så tråkig när inget växlar, hur som helst, det finns flera känslor, och folk, som jag vill ha det samma. Nästa året ska Marth till South Afrika med sin pöjkvän. Vet inte om de kom tillbacka. Jag vet inte hur länge tid Mahgol, Constance and Zaro kan vara ett levande del av mitt liv. Mareike har redan åkte bort… Och Tobias?

Vart ligger jag?  Och jag undrar om… vadå?

This is so silly!

Forget singing, that’s the business! The lake was warmer than the air and the rain so heavy I was just as wet when I got in as when I got back out again. Some pleasures are there for the taking.

Today has been a relatively slow day. I woke late, feeling sluggish. I planned to visit Vallby friluftsmuseum but the precipitation was rather too off putting. I worked my way through a few exercises in Swedish grammar, answered some mails and thought about painting. Didn’t manage to do anything though. Cooked some soup and stewed apples. Felt restless. Uncomfortable in my own skin.  I decided to take myself down to the water. Soaked to the skin by the time I arrived, my bike wheels spinning through puddles six inches deep.  I didn’t even bother with my glasses. Left them on the cistern at home. Great sheets of liquid between me and the sky. It’s funny how grey suddenly takes on a thousand new lives.

When I got home the cat lady was out on her balcony.

“Hej! Vart har du varit? Har du varit att plocka svamp?”

“Hej! Vad sa du?”

“Har du varit att plocka svamp?”

“Nej… jag gick och simmade. Jag tycker om simmar i regnet”

“Å”

It’s the first time we’ve ever spoken.

There was an email from Daisy when I turned my computer back on. I miss her.

The Snargits