The new storage space

Well, life snails forward in no particular fashion. Feeling mostly like driving with the hand-brake on. I´m surviving, and getting in to big debts in the process...


My living situation as it is is leaving alot to be desired, so my parents have done a massive job of finding me a flat fitting most of my rather particular reqirements (balcony big enough for my hammock being the top :)) . Mum is still deep in the disabillity allowance swamp, trying to get it all to work out financially, but we don´t get access to it until february, so she still have some time left. And she´s bursting with decorating ideas, bombarding me with art deco suggestions, country home details and shabby chic finnishes when I least have the energy to hear about it.

But here it is (the furniture isn´t mine, I don´t do leather sofas)



kitchen



bedroom



lounge



hallway



bathroom



view from the balcony, could be worse, no play area at least


plann

Poetic infancy - no laughing matter

I was never one for poetry. I didn´t object when approached by prose raised to the skies, but I never heard more than a faint sob of the beauty others seemed to hear in loud bellows. I was too busy with the one dimension in front of me, that I rarely felt the need to contemplate plunging into other levels of conciousness. I skimmed through the lines, sometimes repeatedly, in attmepts to force the meaning to jump up at me. But often I just thought it...flat... It was like being that one person not getting the joke that all the rest were laughing at hard.

But then the world went topsy turvy (as the venerable Bernard Black would say), and Malin had to re-consider her priorities. I won´t go in to the details of the severity of that undertaking (again), and there is still a long way to go, but suddenly I realise that I have all the time in the world. I wish someone had gone ahead and kicked in a bit of this revelation long time ago, but in fairness I was probably way to thick-headed to stray from the fast lane and stop to smell the flowers anyway.

Now, this still doesn´t mean I´m much for poetry. I come from a long line of blue-collar folk, who in Voltaire-ish fashion see the only route to happiness through sweat and honest hard labour. But I´m willing to give the odd verse a second chance.

And so I found it.

Flicking through old Facebook messages I stopped at one with a poem Tom sent me a while back. I don´t recall reading it at the time, but I probably did, and in my restless frame of mind, it failed to leave a mark. But this time I lingered on it and realized that Thomas Hardy had put in words something of that feeling that washes over me when I walk in ancient footsteps. A brief notion that by taking part in their landscape I feel like they never really left.

Well thats what it portrays to me

Thank you Tom, and Tom, I finally got the joke, and I enjoyed it immensely :-)

At Castle Boterel

As I drive to the junction of lane and highway,
And the drizzle bedrenches the waggonette,
I look behind at the fading byway,
And see on its slope, now glistening wet,
Distinctly yet

Myself and a girlish form benighted
In dry March weather. We climb the road
Beside a chaise. We had just alighted
To ease the sturdy pony's load
When he sighed and slowed.

What we did as we climbed, and what we talked of
Matters not much, nor to what it led,
-Something that life will not be balked of
Without rude reason till hope is dead,
And feeling fled.

It filled but a minute. But was there ever
A time of such quality, since or before,
In that hill's story? To one mind never,
Though it has been climbed, foot-swift, foot-sore,
By thousands more.

Primaeval rocks form the road's steep border,
And much have they faced there, first and last,
Of the transitory in Earth's long order;
But what they record in colour and cast
Is - that we two passed.

And to me, though Time's unflinching rigour,
In mindless rote, has ruled from sight
The substance now, one phantom figure
Remains on the slope, as when that night
Saw us alight.

I look and see it there, shrinking, shrinking,
I look back at it amid the rain
For the very last time; for my sand is sinking,
And I shall traverse old love's domain
Never again.


Thomas Hardy

Economic babysitting

I was reading the paper about the opposition´s budget presentation the other day. Now the 3 parties vary a bit on the severity of the taxation scale, but summarised they all want less taxreliefs for people that earn over a certain amount and more money for those who are ill, unemployed, retired or in education.
I find it pretty hard to argue against that.. But our minister of finance, dear conservative Anders Borg sounds like an old scratched vinyl when he for the umpteenth time comments that that sort of support to the less fortunate in society will only weaken the incentive to work!
Has he ever peaked in to a check from the dole office??? They could double it and any wage would still make it worth working. Does he really think that we like teenagers would skip school just because we can get away with it, that just because it would become bearable to admit we sometimes fall ill would start calling in sick every other day? I´m convinced most people like to be useful, and urely the general idea of a welfare nation is that as many as possible should be able to get an education that allows them to get a job that they actually enjoy doing? Does he himself have some little leprechaun from the Moderate party who chases him out of bed and off to the office every morning?
It makes me think a little of China´s one child policy. Studies show that the threat of severe penalties if the singular kid gets a sibling, is far less effective than to simply educate the women (A.Sen, 2001, Development as freedom).
Certainly some people get stuck in a rut, and others might not need sick benefits if they got help to train in to something different. But to take away all means to lead a decent life BEFORE anyone has seen any of these fancy actions is just like pulling the plug before you pour in the water.
We´ve grown up. Babysitter can go home.

A Hobbit goes to Oxford

So it does happen that I have a window of a few hours here and there when a film or series sneak in. There is some good shit out there, and true to my recent peaks in to eastern Europe/middle eastern culture I can recommend ´Vid himlens utkant´ (Auf der anderen seite), and the old classic that I´ve been looking for for ages and now finally found through maybe not entirely legal channels ´Time of the Gypsies´.

But more of the great Kusturica some other time. Since I try to avoid sensory overload I aim to be selective with the few things I watch. But the anglophile in me has been known to lead me astray, and when I heard of ´The Oxford murders´ I was sold. But not even as an architectural eye candy did it do a very good job, managing to show off a Cotswold civilization off stale pub interiors, university offices not seen a flick of paint since the 40´s, bare NHS wards and streets erupting in road cones and illuminous labourers.
The attempt at an intelligent plot of a murderer cum expert in mathematical philosophy feels like a tacky Dan Brown meets Miss Marple only with a better paid cast. All topped off with everyones favourite Elijah Wood. Now to recemble a gifted american phd student overseas it is simply not enough to throw in a ´fuck´or ´fucking´ this or the other, while reading ones lines as if for the first time. I´m aware of the danger in stating anything but pure devotion in regards to the Ring trilogy, and its impossible to say he didn´t act a good Hobbit when one have only ever before met one in the mind. But that somewhat limited library of facial expressions of his, ranging from stare, to eyeballs near enough exiting his smooth profile couldn´t do the academic/foreign lover/saving bussloads of kids a´la John McClane type if his life depended on it.
So please don´t watch Oxford murders. Ever. Not even if it might get you laid.

My old lovers

I´m just dying for a book. Really. That old saying "you don´t miss it till its gone" seems the story of my life right now, and I so miss a good read. I sure consume audiobooks, on a ratio of about one a day when my eyes are in denial of their intended purpose. But since I can´t afford them off the shelves I turn to Tradera, and sadly the swedes only seem open to domestic authors of crime novels en masse. Not that I mind the odd tale of murder and betrayal, but there are only so many coppers with domestic issues, indigestion and inclinations towards personal intoxication one can take. Or maybe they just save the good stuff.

As I do. It happens that I buy the odd one brand spanking if it catches my eye, even if its got crime written all over it. I recently got stuck on Jason Goodwin´s tales of Yashim the eunuck, and by all means they can murder all they want, as long as they do it in 19th century Istanbul. Maybe it cuz I can´t go anywhere myself now that I have fallen for his lifelike descriptions of the mosques, bathhouses and bazaars, to the degree that I increased my cafeine intake by at least the double while engaged in the corridors of the sultan´s harem. But I have noticed a fondness towards all things east of the Mediterranean of late, not only in books, but when I can, in films, food, music, whatever.
Not much of religion as of yet however. I don´t know much of Islam or how its changing to adapt to new lifestyles, but I can´t help thinking of christmas trees when seeing the timeless minarets that nowadays proudly sport sets of speakers and a ring of cables around their tops. With pouting lips they call their faithful to prayer.

Anyway, I´d really like to read something. I love books. The soothing sound of someone turning pages. Quickly if in the middle of suspense, slower if ideep n engaging philosophies. I´m the kind of person who browse bookshops like you walk in the park, and would rather attend the most probably rainy Welsh Hay literary festival than a paid holiday in Thailand. I have wishlists on all booksellers´ websites that allow for that sort of function, and if I could read again tomorrow I would start on publications in double figures. But I´m all about pacing now, and the facts and fiction I´ve bought but have yet to read have qeued up in my bookshelf, silently looking down at me. Like zip files only their titles give clues to the vast thoughts and lives works what their modest dimensions bravely compress.
I seek comfort in the titles I´ve already devoured. Eyes lingering on, or fingers touching their backs briefly allow a gentle brush of scenes unfold in memory. Like old lovers.

Ill with urges

Long dreary weeks have passed since I last set eyes on this space. I wish I could say I´ve been busy travelling, socialising or even working. But no. This crash has according to some spiralling plann been worse than any other. And now, when the haziest days finally are behind me, the illness has again advanced its permanent hold of my abilities. Two months ago watching a film on the couch equaled rest, as did opting for the wheelchair. Now they both equal activity beyond my reach. 23 hours a day I spend horisontally, the 24th divided in to brief ventures to the bathroom or kitchen throughout the day. And still, although I shiver or sweat like I have a fever, my heart pounds so hard it feels like its about to burst or my hands tremble holding the toothbrush, I am at the same time perfectly capable of normal feelings like being hungry, horny, have a sweeth-tooth of really really fancying a pint (preferably a Butty Bach at the Barrels).

It certainly gets boring, but when you´re so ill that breathing is plenty, the imagination takes over even for a realist like me. Mum could come in to my dark room many hours apart, and it annoyed me that she disturbed me in my vivid fantasy world. Its now, when I sometimes feel well enough for phonecalls, films and making my own cup of tea, that it gets difficult to get back in bed quick enough not to ruin all these weeks of resting. How will I ever learn not to push the limits too far? And how long can I consume artificcial life before reality comes out of reach? Every day is like walking on eggshells.

On another note. I came to think of the saying "you never know who really are you friends until you really need them" or something like that. Well I´ve never been one to have loads of friends. And I´ve never been one with a group of girl friends a´la "Sex and the city", who do anything for eachother, go on mad holidays together and who talk about everything. I´ve never had a best friend. It probably boils down to something from my childhood or something deep and psychological like that. But I was a lonley child and grew up to become an adult who deep inside only trusted in herself. So I guess I expected people to feel sorry for me when they heard about my situation, but forget the minute they hung up the phone or logged off the computer. Afterall we are all the lead characters only in our own lives. But a year and a bit in to the disaster of mine, and unexpected messages still keep appearing on the screen, in the post and in my phone. All sticking to my heart like post-it notes, and I hope that one day I can do more than just say how much it means to me not to be forgotten.

The pace of the thankful diver

So finally some people in the concil and health services have started realizing how difficult my situation is, and I am indeed grateful that they worry. But unless they have masses of money to kick-start some bio-medicinal research, or have a minor miracle up their sleeve, there is unfortunately nothing they can do to help me.

This will to help mis-fired a fair bit the other day, when an emergency councilor team came out to convince me that I needed to be admitted to a psychiatric ward, since they had interpreted my claim that I was so weak I couldn´t eat by myself, as a refusal to eat, and the classic "cry for help" from a severely depressed person. It took me the best part of an hour, and the the entirety of the remains of my energy that day, to explain to them that my condition is not psychosomatic, and I have no planns to starve myself to death as long as I hold the ability to swallow. It didn´t make it easier that one of the councilors was of the "new age" type, dropping lines like "this incarnation is trying to tell you something" and "mind over matter". I have a bit of a built-in aversion to this kind of "airy fairy" stuff ever since I was severely depressed a bunch of years back and my boyfriend at the time explained me weak of mind and that it was the easest thing to rid of if I just turned to Buddhism and I-ching. Something he claimed made him balanced and fit for anything. This comming from a guy who made me feel insecure and lost and who when I left him, broke in to my house, tore the place apart and when I came home grabbed me by the throat and threatened me. Not to mention the phone stalking and crying for a long period afterwards. I say bollocks.

The only thing anyone can do for me now is to take care of all council and goverment contacts for me so I am left alone. I just don´t want to educate any more people about my condition, it drains me of the little energy I have, and i keeps me stomping on square one.

Well no not square one. More like -15. I know that the only way to survive with this crap is to completely surrender, and those who know me know how hard that is for my stubborn soul. Pacing is all about never to use up the little energy I have, to always leave a little to cultivate when I rest (like making filmjölk). Sounds like the advice a first-time visitor to Las Vegas gives himself, "always finnish while ur on top". Well it usually never works for them, and mostly it goes the same way for me. Its supposed to be tiny steps forwards, but so far I´ve only managed giant leaps backwards.

At the moment a general day can be likened with diving without tubes. I wake up (take a deep breath), get out of bead (go down under water) put some clothes on, go downstairs, make a simple breakfast (swimming), eat it (still swimming), go to the bathroom (running out of air), brush my teeth (really need to get to the surface), collapse on the sofa (gasping for air at the last minute). I then lie there for a few hours breathing, possibly listening to a podcast. Later when I need to go to the bathroom again, or maybe to eat some lunch it starts again with a deep breath and I go down below the surface, fighting the urge to do too much, like cook something that actually tastes good, make a phonecall, or read the mail, so I get back on the sofa/in to a darkened room (above the suface) while I still have some air left. Funny that I always wanted to try scuba diving but never got around to it till it was too late, might have come in handy these days...

I know its a cliché, but it really isn´t until its too late that you realize that you must enjoy life while it happens, and stop thinking that once I get that job/save up some money/write that essay/loose those pounds I will have a chance at happiness. I was happy but was too busy looking forward to appreciate it. But am I contradicing myself when not appreciating the good things in my life right now? I mean, noone doubts that I suffer, but I have wonderful parents who help me the best they can, a man back in UK with the biggest heart there is thinking about me and talking to me as often as my condition allows, and friends from all over sending me positive thoughts. I love them all, but I struggle to be thankful right now. Its a work in progress I guess.