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.

All time low

So I´ve come to reach an all time low, again.

The crash sort of crept up on me. It takes a while, and every day feels like it couldn´t possibly get any worse. I mean when u are so weak that u have to let your mother feed you, its hard to imagine what more could be in store.

We had guests this past weekend, and I laid on the couch for about 95% of that time. They were all understanding and most of them took their time sitting down chatting to me for a while. Now I do like my relations, and I do want to see them, and I know that they came in to chat to me cuz they wanted to be nice to me. Problem is that even chatting while on my back makes me worse, and by the end of the evening even whispering made me out of breath. I was honestly expecting (and hoping) to just pass out.
But I never do.
My cousin William, 7, wisely told me when I explained I am very ill, that all I need to do is to drink some Actimel and I´ll be fine. He reconed 4 should do it. I wish I could believe everything they say on telly too, it would be so much easier if life really was like in the ads.

So for the past 8-9 days I´ve just been on my back. Normally my ME doesn´t involve much pain, but when having constant pressure on my back, my lung area and my legs eventually get quite sore. I´ve watched the final two discs from the Invest in ME conference, and I still take it in with mixed feelings. My set of symptoms don´t seem to really fit the descriptions that the specialists are working on treatments for. They all focus on finding the viral cause, but I never had a viral infection at the onset of all this. Maybe I did but didn´t notice it? UK physicists mostly focus on the pacing management, but I can´t see how to apply that to my situation, I don´t have anything to pace!

They say that the only way to live with this is through a very routined life, something that I might be able to learn to live with. If that wold mean that I could still manage to care for myself. But I can´t see how I could settle for a routine in bed, and pacing meaning that I could manage a 15 minute phonecall or a dull movie on a whole day. Thats not a life I consider worth living, and not all the counseling in the world can change that.

Not that I can have counseling now anyway. I couldn´t speak for even a quarter of a session, and that is if I even got there. I can´t keep myself up in the wheelchair and she doesn´t make housecalls, so its justme and...me. And anyone more negative than that is honestly hard to come by.

So all I can do is just to lie here on my back, laptop on my tummy, waiting for a miracle, typing really slow, hardly reaching the keys in the middle of the keybord cuz it makes me have to tense my arms and knacker me out even more. And I don´t know if reading on the screen should be a no-no too.
Sometimes I toy with the idea of what would happen if I just got up and ran 100 meters as fast as I could. Would I be concious the following year? But mostly I am so afraid to get trapped in my body and not be able to communicate, to turn in to a vegetable while my mind is running. I feel like crying is my default state.

Life-support at all costs

The stream of new people from this or that department that might be of help in my situation never seem to dry up. Yet not a single one has actually managed to do me any favours. I´m waiting for the same answers now as I did in april, buy surely I must understand that from may to august Sweden is on holiday and sick people just have to wait. In the meantime I have become more ill, more dissolusioned and more desolate.

The Invest in ME conference in London this year sold me their DVD, and although it said "treatment" with big red letters on the cover (among other things), I don´t know why I let it get to me. There might be something they do in the US to a group of ME sufferers that tested positive for a certain virus in a stomach biopsy, and 28% of them have shown some improvement. But that is in the US, and will never happen in Sweden. Besides, I am one of those who didn´t have a virus infection at the onset of my illness, so I´m even a minority within this "pretend-it-not-there-and-it-will -go-away-government-policy" illness. And all I can do is to look out the window and try to stay positive. They don´t know what they´re asking!
Indeed I wasn´t depressed at the onset of this, and I managed to maintain a bit of hope for the first year because I sometimes had periods when I could take a bus and visit people or even drive to do some shopping.

But those periods are long gone. I smell and don´t even remember when I showered last, but I don´t dare to do it because then I might not even be able to go to the toilet by myself afterwards.

There is an ME forum where cherpy housewives say they can talk themselves in to thinking that they get the luxury of staying in bed all day. Well maybe I could too if I in between also could have days when I slowly could walk in a park or have a coffee with a friend.

No, who am I kidding. I am a pessimist by nature and I never liked staying in bed, it will never seem like a luxury to me, period. I am alone and don´t remember what human touch is like, the friends I used to have thankful for the distance that makes it easier to pretend I´m not there.
I see no hope anymore and I don´t want to hear that I´m too young to be written off at the same time as no officials will lift a finger to help me. The cost of keeping me alive and suffering will escalate when I develop more illnesses thanks to the sedentary nature of ME, but yet this CPR must continue indefinately because its a code of conduct that western healthcare is built upon. Regardless of my wishes.

The knitter apprentice and her fourth piece

I´m very thankful for that Erika and Anna, the master knitters of Sweden and England respectively, have inspired me to take up this fine needle work. Although it tires me out at periods, it s the only creative outlet I have, and for short bursts it can even make me forget how dire my situation is, but I won´t go in to that again today.

Last thing to finnish is my first cardigan. Most of it I made when we were in Denmark, but when I made an attempt at assembling the pieces back home I had to take up and re-do the front bits not just once, but about 4 times before they fitted on properly. I still think its a bit on the short side, but hope I can strech it out a little after I wash it.

I have a dream, just one

Its been a strain to be me the last few days. Not so much because my ME has been treating me worse than usual, but because I get bouts of mental distress that get deeper than I can handle at times. I was listening to Sommar on the P1 radio today, and don´t know why I forced myself to listen to the whole 1 1/2 hour program of one of the hosts in end of june, Fredrik Härén. He went on and on about how you can realize your dreams if you want to, and that its just to get out and take those steps and it will all come to you. Its been alot of that lately. The man who´s car got hit by a moose and was a write off, only for him to win a brand new Volvo two weeks later. Sports profiles who overcome injuries against all odds, or those that don´t and then discover masses of meaning in life through raising a family of something instead.

Well I have a dream, and its just to get well. Moving to China, have babies, apply for a meaningful job or run a marathon are all just luxuries I long ago stopped dreaming I will ever experience. I´m sick of hearing the "you can be anything you want" bollox. I´m not sitting here because of lack of vision. I want to live with Joe, study development politics and travel, and if was just well that would be exactly what I would be doing. I can´t be anything I want, so stuff the cheery attitude where the sun don´t shine.

Summary and anniversary

So one can think that we did nothing but rummage through rubbish and sanitize old furniture during the time we were in Denmark this time around. Well my mum did, cuz she is like I used to be, not able to relax and always have to have something to do. Even tanning is sort of like a forced activity when u look at her. But I spent alot of time in the hammock (what should I name her?), reading, knitting and listening to podcasts.


Recommendation of the month is "The secret history" by Donna Tartt. I can honestly not say why I liked it so much, maybe because I had friends in uni who also were students of the classics and they too belonged to a slightly different, paralell world that the rest of us didn´t grasp, when they dove in to discussions of Homer, Hesiod, details of Spartan society or ancient greek pronounciation. This tale of a bunsh of spoiled american college students, escalating in to various substance abuse actually even makes me want to give Dante another go.





Gran finally gave in and tried it

Tranekaer castle mill

Mum couldn´t relax and brought home bagfulls of weaving yarn and initiated a 3 day-sanitizing process

Now I didn´t feel too crap as long as I didn´t attempt any longer ventures than down the beach (water was surprisingly warm). On a few occasions we went to larger towns like Rudköping and Svendborg, something that would have been impossible without me being pushed around in a wheelchair. And even then I spent the following 24 hours in near unconciousness when we got back. This scenario seeming to have become the established order of things, and then we´re still talking about the "good" periods.
I celebrated my first anniversary as an ME sufferer on the 18th of july. I dunno how to describe what it feels like anymore. Thanks to various pills I guess I can focus on the few things I can do and in short bursts forget about the bigger picture. While in Denmark I can take being on public display. People stare, and I can honestly not say that I wouldn´t have stared at a woman in dreadlocks being pushed around by her 76-year old grandma, wondering what the heck is wrong with her. But when at home it happens that I need to come along to the local shopping centre, having my mum wheel me around like a packet in a shopping trolley. And then I am terrified that we will meet someone I used to know. What would I say? What would they say? I know I haven´t got anything to be embarassed about, but that is just what I am. I was always the one who never gave up, who could push myself and my body further than anyone else. Now all pushes just make me worse, and when I´m really tired I even look like I´m sporting a bit of a mental disabillity too, only a bit of drooling that´s missing. I prefer to stay at home. This re-defining of self is a work in progress I guess, and maybe I will relax about it in a few years.


A snapshot looking more or less normal, the ferry back to Sweden

My deepest roots to date

So I´m not done waffling about my family and our past whereabouts just yet. There is loads left to write, but lucky for whoever stumbles on this blog my body just can´t take that amount of sitting in front of the computer.

On the day I rummaged through binbags, drawers and closets in the cat-infested house I came across a small wooden box behind a load of linnen in a sealed wardrobe. Thanks to that bundles of newspapers, furniture and boxes had barricaded the doors probably more than a decade ago, nothing smelled worse than had it lied in a sealed environment in any old house. I was looking through alot of things just then so I just opened the box absentmindedly and out fell a few loose sheets of paper. I noticed that the handwriting looked very old, like from those days when you got a smack over the fingers at shcool if you didn´t make the arches of the script connect properly, so I gathered the sheets and brought them down with me for further inspection back at our house at Hou.

My skill at deciffering old calligraphic texts is not helped by that if was in Danish, but when gran later had a read through some of them she noted the date 1890 (the oldest was 1880), and after a bit of thinking we figured out that most of the letters were written by my grans grandmother Frederikke Jespersen, later Frederikke Pedersen, who after she married Mads lived in a section of a rented house in Trenekaer, while he worked with laying down a new roof on Tranekaer castle. She mostly wrote to her mother at "Olgas" in Lohals, or her sister Caroline who never married and died before she turned 30 (how will I find out why? was she ill?). There is never any mention about Frederikkes father, the sailor, and we can then guess that he might have passed away already in the 1890´s.

The letters give a good picture of what everyday existence on the island was like. Life in Tranekaer didn´t seem too easy and Frederikke often thanks for the milk, cheese, eggs (which cost as much as 5 öre a piece!) and vegetables she gets sent from "Olga´s" abundant gardens. Some letters are replies from the sister Line, and she always asks about the children Olga (the one that later named the house), little Carl (my great grandfather) and baby Gugge (or Gustaf who later died in syfilis and was sent home from his gardening shool in a led casket, never to be mentioned among people again).

Frederikke´s handwriting is rather hard to make out, leaving alot of the letters for gran to ponder upon. I´m rather curious and excited to learn more of what they say, as this is the oldest signs of life of my faily yet


The house where Frederikke´s young family lived before they moved to Lohals

Tranekaer castle where Mads worked on the roof

Kunta Kinte vs. Billy the bookshelf

I´ve always found it quite exciting with antiques, and when I was little I would call them "old and nice" (gammal fin), prefering grans auction-house catalouges before comics. And it is a special feeling to know from when and where an object comes. Bringing it to life by using the clues and filling in the gaps with a good portion of imagination. I´m lucky that my gran shares the same interest and never throws anything of the slightest antique value away. I much prefer to eat with cutlery with the initials of my great granparents, or use the handwoven curtains with the monogram of a great aunt rather than buy massproduced IKEA stuff that comes together once and then never can be altered again.

In the mid 1800´s my grans great grandfather was a sailor in the East India trading company and he would spend long periods away at sea. His family lived in the house we call "Olga´s" (see photo in previos post), in the little village of Lohals on the island of Langeland. Now Lohals harbour was far too small to house any big ocean trading ships, so the nearest port to his home was in Svendborg. From there he would take the stagecoach delivering mail all the way to Lohals. Now imagine what sort of luggage a person staying away for maybe a year at a time would have... right, every crewmember had their own wooden chest, a piece of solid craftmanship.

In those days you simply didn´t throw away a perfectly functional piece just because the original purpouse of manufacture had been served, so when he finally stayed on shore, the chest was treated to a set of legs, a decorating top, and a new lock less likely to need to keep out nosey foreigners. It was integrated in the furniture of "Olga´s" and for a long time it was a central piece of the dining room, storing the good china. When my gran was little it had sort of gone out of fashion, and had been moved to her dad´s, (Carl the master bricklayer) work room, storing all his drawings.

In the 50´s, when my gran had moved to Sweden, she discovered on one of her return visits home that her mother, Kirsten, had painted the inside of it pink! Now I don´t know how long that was on fashion, but sometime between then and my early childhood memories, it was redone in white and was again a centre-piece of the lounge.

On my mums side of the family there is a habit of naming objects and places of special significance, and this chest-turned-cabinet forever holds the name Kunta Kinte after the character in the old TV series Roots. Not because it had seen the world engaging in slave trade or anything, but simply because Kunta Kinte simply symbolized something very old for whoever came up with the name.

These days Kunta Kinte stands in grans room in our house on Hou on Langeland, and I know that eventually it will get to my turn to integrate it in to my life and things.

Saving history

Somehow I´m not exactly the same person returning from Langeland. As ill as ever, sure. But somehow my shadow has grown slightly denser. Now I´m not talking of some significant weight-gain or anything, but a greater sense of belonging, of being the current end to a long line of lives, loves and hardships.

There are four of us in the 6th generation with links to the island, and by the looks of things it seems my sister being the most likely candidate for producing a 7th. But lets not get ahead of ourselves.

I´ve always been a sucker for the past, and its blatantly obvious I got this passion from my Danish gran, but its not been until now when I´ve been forced in to a role of sedentism I´ve taken the time to properly listen to the story leading to myself. I´ve scribbled in pads, on napkins and on the back of reciepts, and when I remember to keep it handy, recorded on a dictaphone this past year, and maybe one day it will all boil down to an organized chronicle. But this far it feels like the bottomless well of stories that pour out of my gran, novells in themselves, is an enormous jigsaw of which I still lack an over-arching key.

Thinking of the siv-like memory of my mother I never cease to wonder if she used up the recollection capacity of two generations in one go, but in any case I´m grateful for discovering this before its too late.

My gran Elise Pedersen in the late 1940´s

When we´ve been in front of photo albums back here in Stockholm I´ve always enjoyed hearing of how she moved to Sweden as an 18-year old, working as a maid for the noble af-Ugglas family, how she then already bitten by the dazzling veils of history was allowed to rummage through the manor library among leather-bound volumes from the 17th century, or having the king mother the late Sibylla herself (who never took tea but only tomato juice) hand-sew a large set of towels for my gran´s wedding with my grandad. But it is when we´re in Denmark, when I can lean on the walls that once contained the seasons of life of her stories I feel like my mind fully absorb and nurture them in to pieces of me.



The family farm we call "Olga´s" after my grans aunt who lived and died there


My gran had two older sisters and when their parents and aunt died, they inherited one house each. My grandparents cared for the family farm for as long as the body of my grandad could manage, then they had to let it go. Her oldest sister Ellen and her son Ole stayed on in the house their father built on the island, where the girls grew up. The two of them had very odd perceptions of maintenance and cleanliness, and I dare say suffered all kinds of dilusions, so ending up sharing their humble castle with every stray cat of the region, and their breeding intentions, and soon losing all household priviliges. Now Ole is gone and Ellen has been forced to move down to the care-home of the village. Meaning that the house must be sold and my mum and gran have been rummaging through the enormous health hazard that once was called Janus for the few family heir-looms that hasn´t yet disintigrated under years of treatment to cats claws and excrements.


I wasn´t of much help in that department, but I was up there practicing a bit of the old phenomenology (never thought I´d have any use of that abstract fucker again after finnishing my dissertation), geared out in wellies, hat, torch and plastic gloves. And although the stench was almost unbearable and I came upon two whole dead felines and one rat (the size of a cat) I was able to see glimts of my great grandmother making jam in the kitchen, the family gathered in the living room listening to the 9 pm BBC broadcast during WW2, gran looking out the window of her room or Ellen at work at the loom. Next summer the house will be someone elses, and the bonds to the 5 generations who have called Lohals their home will be almost severed. So I can only proud shoulder the custody of what my family has left and thank for this opportunity to put a face to what can no longer be seen.


My gran´s childhood room

The upstairs hallway

The kitchen










The library

My second home

On the very tip of my summer world

lies the sea behind oceans of Rosehip

Under the thatch time has slowed

mundane pace only visible through binoculars

Squinting I finally begin tracing my island roots

always sharing space with everlasting isopods.

Change of scenery

Time flies without me hardly noticing, and we´re almost half-way through the summer now. Even my dad has started his holiday, since the buses in the city centre are on strike (good time for mum to force him to build a new deck outside the front door), so the customary voyage south will commence tomorrow morning (the earlier the better unfortunately for me who have problems with sleep). With dad driving (or me when I was still fit enough) its a rough 12 hour day door to door, but since he has opted for the MC, its mum who´s at the wheel, and although she´s been down to Denmark on average twice per year for 56 years, she still navigates as though we were on a gravelroad to rural Mongolia.

So for once we´re spending the night in Helsingborg, partly because gran always has wanted to go to the summer show at Fredriksdalsteatern, and since its mums birthday in july, dad decided to get some tickets. Not that I think there is much of a point to give presents when it has to motivate a row 3 times per day. Since dad still thinks it kosher to leave presents a surprise and mum can´t handle not planning every hour of the forseable future, she asks over and over exactly what we do and when (although she keeps saying she wants it to be a surprise), until dad gets annoyed and hence the row.
I´m so sick of sitting listening to my parents, this whole holiday is going to be one long argument (it always is). Dad not wanting to do work on the house and then saying that he don´t want to be in Denmark anyway cuz he doesn´t understand the language (but he does want to go to all sorts of countries where they don´t speak swedish either). Mum wanting to work and never stop to do anything else. They are so wrong together, and I hate having to spend more time with them than a normal 20 something mingle with their folks (about 2 weeks per year).
But I´m gonna stick by my hammock, my ample stash of podcasts and as many literate hide-aways as possible.

And ofcourse I´m not going anywhere without a clear path of stich and purl enterprises now after having been contaminated by the knitting bug. I´ve always felt a surprise to how few cardigans I`ve owned every time I open the wardrobe, even though its pretty much all I wear, so there we have first base right there. Total yield will be narrated upon return.

Last crack with the needles was an attempt to introduce myself to the art of lace knitting. And although I doubt I have a great adeptness for this counting and skipping sort of thing, I can understand the vocation some people develop for it.

Swinging contraptions and the all-organic experience

I aimed high today, and we ventured out to Rosenhill for lunch and hammock shopping. I´d forgotten how long it takes to get there, and even though I wasn´t driving its pretty stressfull to be a passenger when mum is the type of driver who sees a potential accident in every overtaking car; and week long spells of being completely lost, would she take even the slightest wrong turn.

But it was all worth the smell of burning clutch and it was a super day for being out in the country. With having ME I never know in advance how my crappy body will react to activities. Default is ofcourse in the negative, but sometimes, regardless how I feel before leaving the house, moving around outside feels ok, as long as the momentum lasts. Then afterwards I always collapse the minute I get home, for various lengths of time, but it still feels like it is worth it for a few hours taste of what life almost used to be like.

Luckily there are no far distances to walk (unless u want to botanise in the fields), and we tried pretty much all hammocks they had at Stora Famnen (big arms/hugs).

Mum really got in to the idea of having one, but gran was in doubt regarding the mechanics of getting in and out, and patiently left the joy of ungraceful wobbling to the younger generation. I really like the idea of having a Mexican hammock, the ones made with cotton nets. They shape better if you are more than one person (some has the size and strenght for 4 adults), and dry quickly if it rains while they´re out. But in the end I opted for a fabric type, mostly because they´re less sensetive to things getting caught in them (branches, keyes from a pocket, corner of books etc.) and they are the most comfortable if you lie long and can´t be bothered to put blankets in the bottom. Also it looks better would I ever want it indoors.

So here she is, my new Brazilian girlfriend Rio! White was the only colour they had, but she washes in the machine, and I´m planning on a colouring project when she start hinting on a permanent dirtier shade. I was thinking onion peel dye actually. Remember trying that at Bäckedals folkhögskola once, and it resulted in a deep red/brown shade. Only problem is that we´ll be havin onion soup for weeks to get enough peels going for something this size...

Now we just have to figure out how to hang a hammock without trees... While in Denmark we should manage, but unfortunately mum´s manicured garden at home has no time for pesky leaves falling all over the place.


Moving on to the café and shop, we did the all organic lunch experience. I wish I one day will get the chance to go to one of their bar and gig nights, because since the sunny summer days require that you sit out on the cozy poorch of this very rough and ready barn, you miss out on the fabulously cool inside of the lounge (today acompanied by just the right level of Johnny Cash).


Unfortunately we were too early in the season for their apple must (juice) pressing factory to be open, but there were still no shortage of spending opportunities in the shop.

So afterwards I now feel like the flu deluxe, and will probably be a permanent couch fixture for quite some time. Its funny how I have two settings for when my body gets knackered out, either my limbs get so heavy I have to put up even the slightest muscle exertion for later, or I get these flu like symptoms, when even my eyes ache as if I had a fever.

Anyhow, after today´s home-growing inspirations, I´m aiming to raid the rhubarb plants as soon as my ailment alleviate slightly (could be a few days, and if I´m really out of luck, a few months). I´m thinking marmalade with cardamom, or vanilla, or ginger...

On the Road

This is one I´ve been aiming at for years now, but every time I walked in to a bookshop I kept walking out with something else. So I thank my sister´s boyfriend Tom for getting it for my birthday, and off we go...

What can I say, other than that I´m converted and now understand what all the fuss is about. Its a great book, written with a sort of manic determiness, the same that Jack uses to describe Neal Cassady. Because of the complete lack of paragraphs, from page one you get the feeling that Kerouac rushed in to the typewriter to get the story on to paper before he loosed track of all the details and the magic vaporizes in to the blurry fogs of forgetfulness, and then he never even stopped to eat (and defenately not sleep) before he´d pinned it all down.

And even though its all going in 100 mph, there is no mistaking the friendship and honesty the characters all share in their search for kicks. All the people they meet are momentarily wound up in their manic experiences, and without selection they are all equally consumed, and then spitted out as the miles rush forward.

Kerouac paints such vivid scenes that I can almost smell the grease of the diners, the dust in the road, the cold wind from the back of a truck, all accompanied to the beat of the bop. I love descriptions like "the fields the colour of love and Spanish mysteries", or his many brief almost overwhelmingly desperate moments of love, "her eyes were great big blue with a soul in it".

Like there is no tomorrow they open themselves child-like at everyting life throws their way, and although Jack´s descriptions of Neal sometimes express worry for the madness that comes over him, and he sometimes get hurt when Neal leaves him for other kicks, he wouldn´t want him any other way.

"Suddenly I had a vision of Neal, a burning shuddering frightful Angel
palpitating towards me across the road, approaching like a cloud, with enormous
spped, pursuing me like the Shrouded Stranger on the plain, bearing down on me.
I saw this huge face over the plains with the mad bony purpose and the gleaming
eyes; I saw his wings; I saw his old jalpooy chariot with thousands of sparking
flames shooting out from it; I saw the path it burned over the road; it even
made its own road and went over the corn, through cities, destroying bridges,
drying rivers. It came like wrath to the West. I knew Neal had gone mad again."
(p.360)

But all journeys have their dark sides, and exhausted they stop and fall asleep somewhere, mistaken for discarded popcorn in some all-night cinema.

"All the cigarette butts, the bottles, the matchbooks, the come and the gone was
swept up in this pile. Had they taken me with it Neal would have never seen me
again. He would have to roam the entire United States and look in every garbage pail from coast to coast before he found me embryonically convoluted among the rubbishes of my life, his life and the life of everybody concerned and
not concerned. What would I have to say to him from my rubbish womb. "Don´t
bother me, man, I´m happy where I am. You lost me in Detroit in August 1949. What right have you to come and disturb my reverie in this pukish can.... --anonymity in the world of men is better than fame in heaven, for what is heaven? what is earth? all in the mind. Gibberishly Neal and I stumbled out of this horror-hole at dawn and went to find our Travel Bureau car. (p. 347).

Like falling cats they always end up on their feet, already running when landing. And the world was really changing in the late 40´s and early 50´s and kids in America felt that the road could take them anywhere.

"Do you know there´s a road that goest down to Mexico and all the way to
Panama?--and maybe all the way to the bottom of South America, where the
Indians are seven feet tall and eat cocaine on the mountainside? Yes! You and I,
Jack, we´d dig the whole world with a car like this because man the road
must eventually lead to the whole world" (p.328)

You can nothing but love this, but for others with ME I would maybe recommend it in instalments, as it never slows down, almost leaving the reader out of breath.

Take 3 - top

Another day has passed, as uneventful as all the previous. I still feel like in transit, who can accept that this is it? The summer is in full swing and I could be on my way to Mexico, at the Roskilde festival, or walking Hadrian´s wall. But I´m not. I move from the deckchair to the couch to the kitchen. Repeat.

I read a little, I knit a little, I feck about on the internet, I eat. Repeat.

Life goes by, without me, and I sometimes wonder if I´m used to it by now. I might be, or it might just be the cocktail in pill-form that dried up the tears.

The knitting has progressed, conveniently in time for my mother´s birthday, and some of the Danish yarn has been turned in to my very first top! I was proud for about 5 minutes, then started thinking about what to make next, and discovered to my horror that nice wool yarn for a sweater costs more than it does to buy the clothes in a shop! It annoys me that the Swedish Ebay, Tradera is crap and has hardly nothing on offer =(

Actually, Sweden still has lots to learn when it comes to selling things of the net and posting it. The point for most is to buy the stuff cheaper on-line since there is no actual store to maintain, meaning the costs can be cut. But then postage in this country is so bloody extortionate that it ends up being cheaper (and much faster) to get it directly from a shop anyway! Having dreadlocks I use a special schampoo I get from a company in the US. They have a few web shops in UK which I used to use, but now when I´m back in Sweden I though I´d find out if there was someone around here who sold it too, thinking that would save me a few bob. I did find a shop alright, but I was shocked when I did the maths! 2 bottles of shampoo + postage from UK would cost me 290 sek, and the same two bottles bought from a web shop based about 20 mins drive from the house, would with postage be 525 sek! Someone is in this to make a buck I tell ya!

Well I might just not bother and shave em all off. I know I´ve said that before, but even though I like em and have had them for 6 odd years they´re mostly in the way and take alot of maintenence. We´ll see

Its all in the post

You can´t beat the feeling of a big juicy packet coming in the post with your name on it. Although I do have a hunch that not all people get the same goose-bumpy, night-before-christmas-when ur-5 years-old feeling in front of a pile of books that are all mine, I persevere in my opinion that it is up there with sliced bread.

So look what I´ve got!

They took their bloody time though. I ordered these two at the same time, and Amazon had my book arriving on my doorstep within two days, and thats from the UK. Adlibris however took their time (about a week) before they spilled the beans and let me know they didn´t actually have the books in stock (not one single one of 6!) and they were delayed who knows where. But after a fair portion of tomfoolery they at least upgraded the freight to the quickest possible, and well, the sum total of my highly taxed VISA card is now lying on the floor in front of me.

For a while I´ve been wanting to read something about Mesopotamia, since my stingy university felt that European (i.e. 90% British) archaeology was all they were inclined to share over the course of my attendance. I haven´t the faintest idea of which scholars to turn to in this geographical location, I just simply chose a recent publication that seemed to be the recommended starting point for Near Eastern studies in many universities.

So roll on:

M. Van De Mieroop, (2007). A history of the Ancient Near East

A bit of a politics fix with :
M. Anderson, (1999) Do no Harm: How aid can support peace-or war

J. Darby and R. Mac Ginty (eds.), (2008) Contemporary Peacemaking: Conflict, Peace Processes and Post-War Reconstruction

Another attempt to read something in Spanish:

M.L. Alonso Las pelirrojas traen mala suerte

And then some chillin pages:

Garth Cartwright Princes Amongst Men, Journeys with gypsy musicians
Donna Tartt The Secret History

Audrey Niffenegger The Time Traveler´s Wife

Now all thats missing is that hammock...

From a long line of thieves

Yesterday I felt decent enough to dare a short venture to the local ever increasing shopping mayhem, you know one of those urban areas that just keep on expanding in to every possible little square meter that still vaguely recembles nature (or at least still has the colour of it, artificial or not). And when they have run out there are always more floors that can be added on to anything, because the market forces can not even for a second think, that us consumers would want anything but more spending, spending, spending... (yes why not another H&M when the closest one is a whole 5 minutes drive away)

Anyway, mum and I went for coffee in a quite nice café/garden centre. You sit on the outdoor furniture that is for sale (and already rusty, to give your home a bit of an antique this-prefab-wooden-villa-has-been-inherited-for -generations feel) among expensive lemon and apricot trees. I spot an Aloe vera plant and mention I´d quite like to have some growing in the house, maybe to try to eat instead of the stuff I drink every morning. And guess what she does! She locates all the Aloes on the patio where we sit and notes those who have small shoots growing in the pots. She bides her time, muttering about the few other guests, get me to shuffle over and then pulls up a fist-sized shoot which she then with the air of a routined thief, whisks down in to my handbag!

There I am, mortified, and ushering her to leave before the staff clearing our table will notice the dirt that has spilled out on the big plant and the floor around it. But she just browses slowly around, uttering little cooing noises while holding wrought iron snails for greenhouse decoration, and scanning for more promising sprouts. All while parading a pair of soiled hands screaming of our imminent exposure. Eventually we leave, with the only consequences being the internal pollution of my violated handbag.

My mum keeps doing this, and although she admits to that it probably is termed vandalism, and she in all other circumstances is so law-abiding that she wouldn´t even overtake a tractor if it meant that she would have to excced the speed limit for 30 seconds, no garden is safe when she´s around.

But there´s more. I´ve mentioned hereditary characteristics before, and my mum only operates on the small scale of sprouting theft in comparison with my gran. She left a holiday in Malta with roughly half her checked-in luggage in botanical loot, and is now in the final planning of a new expanded green house for her taxed Kew gardens bud collection. The Sheriff of Nottingham is meek next to her!

I suppose no harm is really done to the "motherplants" and the habitual holiday practice of my two related ladies really make their gardens look accordingly, so I leave them at it. Just hoping I´ll be able to curb my fingers if I ever get a garden...

The house from the road


My little herb garden

So busy them little buggers, wouldn´t stop to pose

Said shoot in the foreground...