Jag orkar inte längre. Häromdagen har jag varit så produktiv. Jag har givit allt som jag har. Men nu är jag slut. Allting känns så tungt. Det finns ingen kram som kan göra mig säker att jag är inte det trött litet barn jag känner mig. Idag har jag bara gråtit.
The ultimate curse of being an ‘utländska student’ is that friends appear on our doorsetps, help to change our outlook and then disappear again in a puff of magical blue and yellow smoke. But this is also blessing beyond belief, because instead of being locked to the same old faces, opinions and routines, we are constantly challenged, and learning something new. As in any walk of life, there is no way to guarantee friendship. And it is foolish to try and be friends with everybody. If you don’t click then you don’t click. But sometimes there are people who fit so comfortably into the miljö att det bara känns rätt.
This morning I waved goodbye to Narae and Minwook. Our parting words were that it had been a pleasure (which it most certainly has) and that ve ses. And I really hope for it. The strange thing is, they were never my closest friends. Language and culture kept us at a distance, but they are some of those that I feel most comfortable around. I do not know their complexes, their fears, their hopes or greatest joys. Not even their favourite music, book or food. But they have been most welcoming, and in exchange, most welcomed. It has been the simplest of friendships. And they have made me laugh until I cried, possibly the most precious gift of all!
Today is also the day that Tunca finally leaves Europe proper, and crosses the line back into the self-proclaimed macho paradise, Turkey. Perhaps I give my friends too much credit, but I doubt it. In his loud, irritating, company things changed. That clumping walk, those boney shoulders and his solid stomach were like security blanket, and exactly what I was looking for. This idiot, who got so excited when a girl bakes bread, made me happy. And his legacy lives on.
After these busy couple of weeks it is time to settle into life with direction again. I do not need to distract myself from these losses any more. Because the losses are far smaller than the gains. To have had a good time and realised it is much more satisfying that to think you are having a good time and hang on to it for all it’s might, in fear of what the alternative might be.
So with this in mind me and Mahgol tried something new yesterday - and put it out of our minds in the process. For some reason meditation (per se) has never come knocking on my door, so it seemed like time to knock on it’s. After the thesis I felt drained in body and soul. It was quite clear that the workload was acting as another mask for emotions. Mahgol also needs to concentrate. There is always her thesis at the back of my mind. Without becoming pushy this seemed like a good way to get involved. We both needed to focus.
The experience was quite extra ordinary. We found in the university another sanctuary. One of those places that we never see, because most of the time we are ignoring both surroundings and body. The university chaplain explained the process and we kneeled in this pale gray room, one red candle and a light cotton curtain swaying in the chilled breeze. I took off my glasses, my bracelet, my cardigan, and we breathed.
Within a minute or two I was transported into a swaying world, where the red light moved in synchronisation with my pulse. The realisation that this body is alive, and always in this tidal sway. My mind is a cruise ship floating on the surface, so buoyant, that the rising swells are easy to counterbalance. It still feels like there is a straight jacket containing my chest. When I breath to full capacity it hurts. There is a pressure on my rib cage, like the weight of bad memories and collected responsibilities. It anchors me to the ground and prevents me from truly exposing my heart.
I walked a dusty path between fields of swaying meadow grass. Dorothy in her red shoes, transported to another land, where the metal arms of cranes nitpicked on the horizon. Beside me were two un-named friends. The scarecrow and the tinman. Each contained in their own battles, stronger in our company. In my hand I held the paw of Totto. A small black and white dog, or my inner child, who walked on his hind legs. We desperately searched for home. There was a long red ribbon trailing from the scarecrow’s hat, it billowed out in the wind as small clouds of dust lifted from the ground. The air was cool and dry but a weak sun left warmth on our skin. And suddenly we realised that there was no way home. Because it is only something we can create, not something someone else can create for us. Home was already in our hearts, with these imperfect people and their untold woes.
I spend the rest of the day with my dear classmates and two of my Turkish boys. Every job was scrubbed off the to-do list. The snow came down and the friends came round.
I feel like a plant that is just starting to thrive.
My goodbye from Minwook!
I just had a stomach lurch. What a delicious feeling!
After yesterday’s intense hibernation (I succeeded in sleeping 18 out of 24 hours and achieving little more than a few pages of homework and re-heating some leftover risotto) I woke this morning feeling rather like a NORMAL person… whatever that is. I sorted my laundry and took a long shower. Showers are wonderful thinking time. In fact, most bathroom activities are incredibly reviving. They combine warmth with a sense of assured security. Even if I never lock the door it feels as if in the bathroom things are safe, and I am highly unlikely to be disturbed. There is something so reassuring about a stream of warm water, steamy air and that reduced, close vision. I am ever so glad to be living in a country without water shortages!
After stripping my bed I trundled out to the laundry only to find it malfunctional. So I heaved my dirties back home and began the much needed cleaning. At the end of this week the threatening sounding renovations begin; and, as such, I have to empty the bathroom, the hall and most of the kitchen. I’ve succeeded in removing nearly all signs of personality from the entrance, including the collage of unusual pictures on the bathroom door. It feels echoey and a little unfriendly out there now. However, hoovering and washing up with all the doors and windows open does wonders for an overworked soul and by lunchtime the place was feeling full of energy again.
Ploughed my way through this weeks mass of Form i Fokus and sent out some enquiries about course books. My first pay cheque flopped though the letter box and things couldn’t get much better. I spent a happy couple of hours typing up some more Trans-Mongolian thoughts while bantering with Burak and Constance about life and cat-ladies. It felt good to just be myself again. There is always something to do - even if some of my comrades believe I spend too much time thinking!
KAOS has been left aside for a couple more days. I dare not touch it before the Koreans arrive. I know it needs time, and some freedom. But I had a wonderful garbage room find, a Finnish version of ‘The Joy of Sex’, filled cover to cover with sensual pencil drawings which are more interesting anatomy studies that I usually find. It would be nice to devote a whole weekend just to drawing. There is canvass to be had at school. Maybe it is time to stretch some.
I have made a mammoth pan of stew, ‘panted’ the cans and bought some fresh milk and bread. My schedule for tomorrow is clear. 101 things to do, and each with a smile on my face. The Koreans arrive just before nine. I have a free hour to read. The only question is - Murder or Turkey?
Welcome to a new day. It follows in sequence, but another chapter is over. The thesis is finished. My first, but undoubtedly not my last. I have slept for fourteen hours and find myself at home, with nothing more pressing that some housework and a dinner party at Sundinska this evening. It is now an unfamiliar state of affairs, and I am finding I rather miss my Turkish brothers.
My head is bouncing with unprocessed thoughts. It just needs some time. My dear Pussycat said my blog sounds like I am depressive… I thought it was not so low these days. There is a plan. I am just tired. It is not possible to smile on every side of my face.
After another night on the sofa, Cem woke me at 10 and we sat and talked in the kitchen for a couple of hours. I do not know where my loyalties lie. Or rather, I know, but I am not sure I can subscribe to some specific theory. It is hard to agree with may things in their totality. And cultural migration makes it all the harder - because what is right here is not right there, and should we even assume that we must think of morality and sexuality and education on global scales? Technology has globalised us faster than the heart can assimilate.
Earlier this week me and Mahgol talked for a while - chance and this little city called Västerås brought us together. We come from different worlds. From a house in a field, to Tehran. And we are different people because of it. But we also have so many point of connection. Overlapping layers of agreement. In philosophy. We sat and talked of our friends. Those people who dance in and out of our lives without realising their influence. We talked of people we have loved, and still love. And we decided that something has gone too far. As animals we humans have gone past a point of no return. We love so platonically.
Should it be that I can deeply love a male friend, but never consider him as a possible father? Though perhaps it is just a sign of becoming more aware of what I should look for in a prospective mate. To accept that someone can make me happy, ambitious or secure without having some sexual undercurrent. This is not animal behaviour but there is no sign of a reprise.
However, sometimes our primitive side is much more evident that we would like to think. After the pleasant (and reasonably intellectual) morning in the kitchen me and my Turkish brothers parted ways. Cihan and Kata finally had some free time to spend together. Cem celebrated his birthday by researching his Thesis options and I made my way down to the cinema. We sat and watched ‘Hunger’, possibly one of the most brutal and upsetting films I have ever seen. Although not particularly gory it was raw and much too close to home. Telling the story of Bobby Sands, an IRA hunger striker who dies in prison in the early 80s it’s violence is undisguised. There is little political or religious ‘justification’ , rather it examines the reactions of individuals when faced with a barbaric situation.
The most disturbing shot was of a young riot police officer. He stood, crying, behind a wall, while his comrades, fully clothed and armed, beat the naked prisoners. Black batons on screaming, bruised skin. This man, ruled by some kind of empathy instead of the pack agressional instinct, was one of the brave. And I wondered about his fate. In the testosterone fueled atmosphere such ‘failures’ were likely to be seen as paramount to treachery.
The film left me with just more questions about the human situation, and the idiocy we still harbour within us. Neither side was right. We walked silently from the cinema through the cold empty streets towards the welcome light of a cafe. Where, in some twisted trance we compartmentalised the horror and ordered rich coffees, cakes and baguettes.
I came home and disappeared in a hot candle lit bath. Soft red light and soothing water around my aching limbs. It is such a luxury to be able to regress, have these few womb like minutes. Protection. It seems so hypocritical when my soul is consumed with the pain of others. I can not face to read the news. I dried off and dressed, sat blankly on the side of my bed and allowed myself to cry.
Then I slept. Fourteen black hours. It is time for recovery.
The Music - Charile Darwin by The Low Anthem
It has been an exhausting weekend. Perhaps just because I am now nursing a cold, but there has been such a lot to process, with or without Cihan’s thesis! It is time to confront and perhaps remove some provocations. There is little point in carrying around unnecessary weight. Waking up fighting a battle without a name.
Firstly. David. What do you want from me?
Secondly, today I dismantled the breast painting. I shall give it to Mahgol to look after. I do not need it here any more. It follows me around like these damn spotify playlists. It is everywhere, and it does not help any more. I have moved on.
Thirdly. I do not have to be able to do a Vingativa! It feels bad. I can do it physically, but not mentally. And that is ok. It is not holding me back in life not being able to do it. It is not an essential skill. There are too many other useful things to learn to keep fighting for this one. “Face the fear.” I am allowed one phobia. I shall learn to deal with dogs instead!
Fourthly. 2010 is the year to take pride in my appearance. Not because I do not believe I am attractive otherwise, but because I believe I am something worth taking care of.
And finally. I shall take next term out. I shall earn money, do my tisus test, högskolprovet and then take the train to Istanbul and make my own opinion about Turkey.
Thanks to those I’ve spoken to in the past couple of days. There is momentum.
half a liter of frozen handpicked blueberries
half a cup of sugar
one cinnamon stick
two swedish apples
400g plain white flour
200g salted butter
two eggs
two heaped teaspoons of corn starch
milk
water
Sepparate the egg whites from the yolks. Beat the whites with a little water and corn starch. Mix this with the blueberies, cinnamon and sugar andd heat gently, stiring all the time. Once frothy and thickened set aside.
Cut the butter into the flour and rub in untill it looks like breadcrumbs. Add the egg yolks and a little milk. Mix untill pastry like, Roll out and line a 14in pie dish. Set aside the spare pastry. Peel the apples and slice. Layer the appples on the pastry. Remove the cinnamon stick from the blueberry mix and pur the mix over the apples. Roll out the remaining pasty and cut into strips. Weave a lattice over the pie with the pastry strips and make some leaves as decoration. Spray with water and sprinkle with suga. Heat the oven to 200 degrees c and bake for 20 to 30 minutes or untill golden brown.
Sometimes life serves up the sweetest days. Yesterday’s correctional marathon was in itself a pleasure. It is calming to work with someone who is trying their best and genuinely grateful for the help. I am looking forwards to reading the penultimate version, with graphs, graphics and all, picking out the last grammatical glitches. Only twenty five pages to go.
I slept with surprising ease, and woke just after ten. Enjoyed a slow start in a shared kitchen and then trundled down to Kåren for lunch with Batu and Cem. Sandwiches and Schiele. Took a turn into town and picked up a dvd from the library. Back to the Kåren for the dagpub möte and I am now a keyed up member of staff. Spent an hour or so with Mahgol and Andreas. Swedish silliness. Hälsade på de nya studenter and then chose some new glasses in Specsavers. One pair red, one pair green. Just have to have some patience now. Off to Myrorna and we found a pair of suede boots which passar mig bra. Bussed it home to a stash of letters that had been pushed through my door. Beautifully kind words from old friends. Took a cold beer from the fridge and threw together some simple food. Omelette and salad with sour beetroot. There is music, there are ideas and there is such love.
After the magic of Spirited Away and the madness of Howls Moving Castle it seemed only fair to offer Miyazaki a little more attention. Last night I sat and watched My Neightbour Totoro (in Swedish rather than Japanese) and escaped into surreality again. Using elements from both eastern and western tales, along with some of the most beautifully drawn modern animation I have seen it was perfect escapism. Neither overly cute or desperately shocking the psychotic smiles of Totoro and his multilegged-cat-bus kept me enthralled. 2010 is my year of Manga.
Overall, the last 48 hours have been rather exhausting. Meeting with Hubert to arrange this terms Scribblings and open the massive canvass Christmas present (some things a girl just gotta have!) We took a lättöl and compared holiday survival stories before lunch. Then off to the land of KAOS for the first of our monthly meetings. We shall premiere on the 11th of September this year (always ones for bad taste) which amounts to one completed work every three weeks. We also discussed ideas for worlds smallest exhibition with the worlds largest premiere which should explode some time in October. Now it is time to seek financial help, a location and the all important opening entertainments.
Then to Hulphers, my current second home, to plough through Cihan’s thesis. I am learning more about logistics and Turkish English that I ever though possible. We rearranged (and deleted) for five hours or so while followed by some though provoking conversation with the GI Joe. There is a lot to consider and maybe some changes to make. Both in the thesis and my own sphere. It is reviving when people dare to speak frankly, and have an equally jaded view on ‘reality’, but it struck close to the bone and combines with too little sleep I was of little use yesterday.
Slept on the sofa and woke up in sweats. Too many uncomfortable dreams floating just under conscious recognition. Sat and typed more Trans-Mongolian script for a while before heading down to Kåren for lunch with Cihan and the Robot Boy. I gave in and bought a month’s bus pass. Taking the easy way home.
Delved into books and exercised some of my newly recovered sketching pens for a couple of hours before filling up of whole wheat pasta and marching off to Capoeira. Daniel trainings are rather harder on the thighs than the Jens variety. We fought hard, laughed hard and hugged those familiar bodies which have been missing in the last month. New blood and old hands sat sweaty and red faced at the end for some musical instruction. It was after nine before we left, and nearer ten when I finally got home. Shower and chat, and then sinking into the sofa with Totoro and marmite on toast.
I set the alarm for six thirty and woke just past three. Relieved to know there were several sleeping hours to spare I slipped back under. In an instant it was ten past eight and I flew out of my bed faster than I could take notice of my aching hamstrings. Stupid clock! Total panic. I arrived at work less than an hour late, but still late enough to throw me off my stride. It took a while to get in the swing. But the Swedish came easily and Katis is a pleasure to work with. The hours were over before I knew and now I’m sitting at home again feeling as blank and used up as ever.
There is KAOS to attend to and English to correct ikväll.
Working to the bone
It is sad when sleep wins over conversation, but sometimes enough has been said. Few subjects are exhaustive, but that which we can process is limited. There will be other opportunities. There is new fuel.
