Sick but literate

The new storage space

2009-01-02T21:24:00.010+01:00

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

2008-12-05T22:07:00.011+01:00

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

2008-10-10T13:51:00.004+02:00

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

2008-10-09T17:05:00.008+02:00

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

2008-10-08T23:20:00.004+02:00

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

2008-10-01T14:22:00.004+02:00

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

2008-08-29T16:49:00.008+02:00

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

2008-08-26T16:57:00.005+02:00

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

2008-08-22T12:55:00.004+02:00

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

2008-08-09T16:56:00.007+02:00

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

2008-08-09T16:29:00.003+02:00

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

2008-08-06T12:34:00.023+02:00

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

2008-08-05T12:13:00.013+02:00

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

2008-08-05T10:41:00.006+02:00

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

2008-08-02T11:20:00.013+02:00

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

2008-08-02T10:51:00.005+02:00

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

2008-07-14T11:20:00.005+02:00

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

2008-07-10T18:24:00.019+02:00

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

2008-07-07T10:43:00.004+02:00

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

2008-07-05T19:31:00.009+02:00

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

2008-07-04T10:46:00.007+02:00

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

2008-07-02T10:44:00.016+02:00

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...

More to miss

2008-07-01T12:19:00.003+02:00

So once again I´m missing a major literary event that I´m sure would have made my little gray tingle. The Waltic is going on as I write and spanns over topics such as intercultural dialouge, world literacy, digitalization and oral histories. It hurts...
So as a slight comfort I´ve decided to treat myself to a membership in Ordfront, been a long time since I felt I could spend money on subscriptions. And at the moment you get two books in the welcome pack with the magazine, books which I was planning on buying anyway. They are Chockdoktrinen by Naomi Klein and När tusen eldar slickar himlen by Ola Wong, both seem to be very "in" right now.

Currently reading: "On the Road" Jack Keouac, responses en masse to follow.

Sliced bread is now only second

2008-06-29T19:05:00.002+02:00

Yesterday Joe told me about Stumble upon, a toolbar in ur browser that after you have told it about your particulat interests, lets you stumble on a random page within those parameters every time you click it. It is possibly the best thing since Google, I love it! Today I have read The ultimate rejection letter, the cost of the Iraq war been to the British museum, learnt muslim prayers, seen sign karaoke, read about unexplained mysteries and last but not least I have read the Table of CondimentsThat Periodically Go Bad.

Even if you´re only interested in on-line games, scientology, rodeo or botany it will be like a fat kid on a christmas day all-you-can-eat buffet!

More Economic waffling

2008-06-29T17:37:00.010+02:00

When I went to university it took me quite some time to get a hang of the archaeological terminology (and lots of it still baffles me), so I guess I shouldn´t expect to be a vocabulary expert when I plow through my new growing collection of literature on economic theory. I am leaving contextual seriation, morphology, isotopic analysis and paleopathology, in favour of fiscal austerity, aggregate demand and devaluation. Neither of the groups sound all that exciting now do they?

But even though I need to consult my dictionary now and then, and even though I would turn and leave as soon as someone tried to talk economics to me a few years ago, I´m finding this new topic surprisingly interesting. To the degree that I sometimes have to shout straight out or underline whole paragraphs.

I have just finished Globalization and its discontents by the former head of the World Bank and winner of the Nobel prize in economics Joseph Stiglitz (who of course gave a talk at the Hay-on Wye festival this year. Why is it that everyone went there this year when I was too ill to join in?). I´m not gonna dwell long on what the book is about, but it centres mostly on the International Monetary Fund (IMF) which was created after WWII to ensure global economic stability. Although it is a public institution, meant to serve the public, it is completely non-transparent and US holds the only veto. Those who hold high posts within the IMF are a pick from the US business community, and the minute they step down they re-emerge in to, for example Citigroup or other multinational corporations. As Stiglitz says, there is no doubt that the economic decisions affecting development countries all over the world, made by economists in Washington, are designed to firstly benefit Wall Street. In many cases of IMF involvement in development countries, it employs a narrow minded "cookie-cutter" approach, focused on privatization and capital liberalization meant to attract foreign investment, while ignoring social stability, market control and regulation, with disastrous results. The IMF has confused ends with means and are blindly forcing their ideology regardless of individual circumstances, and to this day they are very reluctant to admit to any wrong doing or will to change.

I was shocked to read that an institution with almost absolute power, can get away with so much incompetence, and cause, rather than resolve many development countries spiraling crises. It is so bad that the author argues that "today´s IMF has, in my judgement, not articulated a coherent theory of market failure that would justify its own existence and provide a rationale for its particular interventions in the market" (p.197).

Read it, I had problems putting it down.

The Podcast Virgin

2008-06-28T15:27:00.003+02:00

I have a confession to make. I repel technology. Never ask me to have a look at your computer or tune your telly. It will always end up far worse than before. When I bought a new laptop I got it to blue screen within 3 hours, when I bought my boyfriend a mp3 player for Christmas I picked the one specimen that had a built-in bug, even when I change batteries in a remote control it deletes all settings, and never-ever could I connect to the internet on a mobile phone. Guess I have it after my mother who is close to tears when someone sends her a text message, or when the internet support people asks her to restart the modem (for the 6th time in two weeks), and she has it after her mother who´s sole technological career was when she 1986 killed our VCR by forcing in a tape without pressing "ON" first.
I´m owning up to this because of the phenomenon of podcasts. Podcasts have been on everybody´s lips for quite some time now, but because I never had a very good relationship with my iPod I´ve never bothered exploring it further than sometimes overhearing others raving about this program and the other. But today I took pitty on my poor and very expensive music device and downloaded iTunes on to the main computer of the house. As I wright this it is still updating and synchronising announcing and searching und so weiter, not sure for what anymore though.
I was always annoyed with iTunes because it locks the music and you can´t use the iPod as an external device copying it to other computers. And since I used to travel alot I met alot of iTune-less new computers in which I wanted to plug and play allsorts. But no, always getting the cold shoulder.
But after much hair-pulling I got on to my very knowledgeable friend Rich, who quickly got me to download Sharepod. And behold! I could then copy all the music I had on the iPod, and now have it safely tucked away in the computer´s music files (probably not legal at all, or? Its still for personal use with albums that I mostly have bought. Do everyone actually read the fine print for this kind of stuff?). I´m sure iTunes has evolved alot since I got the iPod about 2 years ago, and maybe now there are ways and means to fix these things without having to download other programmes, but regardless of means of conduct, I can now happily click OK for every odd question the programme asks me, and laugh confidently when it turns out that the command in fact recycled whole folders into virtual nothingness. I am now, so to speak, insured against my technological illiteracy.
So I then went to check out the whole podcast scene. If my legs take me out to the car in a few weeks, the plan is that I´m going to Denmark for a while, lazying about in our little brown house with brown furniture, brown water and brown neighbours by the beach on Langeland, and then I might need something new to listen to.
So I managed to sign up for a bunch of promising programmes, and it seemed easy enough. But no, that didn´t necessarily mean that they appeared on the iPod of course. So what do I do? I click and click and click. And now I haven´t a clue whats actually on there, but it´ll have to do, I need a cup of tea.

Knitting phase 3 and the spaniard

2008-06-26T12:28:00.006+02:00

I woke up this morning without feeling like I got hit by a bus. Only people with ME can understand what a glorios window of relief that is. All I want is to get in the car and leave the house, visit someone or maybe walk in to a shop. But I´m terrified to do just that. What if I run out of steam while on the road, or what if I get through it alright, and then the next morning feel like being hit by a bus would be mild in comparison to the 15 carriage steam train that would sweep me in to conciousness (for the following 2 weeks).

So what will I do with my day of clear head and abillity to get up the stairs without trembling knees? Probably just have a shower and take the opportunity to wash my hair. Cook my poor over-worked mum a nice dinner maybe.

The knitting has moved in to the "prison" phase, i.e. sweater. Last night I had trouble holding my toothbrush cuz my fingers were arthritically stuck in various stitching terminology. Dunno really what will happen to the result in the end cuz when the recipe recommend something that seems like Greek to me, I simply ignore it and move on to the next set of instructions. But I admit it is sort of addictive, maybe I too will be one of those who knit to wrap lamp-posts or parking meters in the end (although I would have to do the domestic ME-friendly version instead and opt for kitchen chair-legs, the old TV antenna and bits of oven)...

My Spanish exposure project is also slowly progressing. I have decided to try and consume all the films by Pedro Almodóvar, and yesterday I saw Dark Habits (Entre Tinieblas) twice. Only in his films can the nuns raise tigers, take heroin and sew glittery costumes for the statue of the virgin. He seems to live in an alternative reality, and I mean that in a good way, no other director can tell a story with so much love and passion in situations that would make anyone else weep with despair. He certainly makes it easier to persevere with my Spanish and next I aim to get a hold of his first film Pepi, Luci, Bom and Other Girls on the Heap.

What is left for Zimbabwe?

2008-06-23T17:30:00.005+02:00

My heart goes out to the people of Zimbabwe. Is there really hope for the future by pursuing these elections? Tsvangirai said yesterday that he is withdrawing, and anouncements today are saying that the elections still are on, without the leader of the opposition. So many of those who voted for the opposition the last time around have been threatened and even killed, almost every rally the opposition has tried to hold is sabotaged, and Mugabe has already made it clear that he won´t step down for Morgan Tsvangirai or anyone else anyway. Now he is certain of the smell of victory and has no interest in postponing anything.
It feels like repeating history to see Mugabe rise to such power, insane and at the same time very intelligent. By giving all his ministers land and riches he has them bribed in to remaining on his side. But one wonders how he expects it to last in to the future. The country is already on its knees, and eventually there won´t even be enough for him to steal from the people to keep his dogs happy. Then what?
I can´t help but thinking of the book (and later film) "The last king of Scotland". Doesn´t Mugabe echo Idi Amin? Doesn´t he also hide behind the argument that western Europe is trying to interfear with Zanu PF´s "perfectly humane and peaceful" business, and want to force back the old colonial relationships of oppression. And since Zanu PF controls the media it is hard for the people to believe anything but what they hear.
I hope that neighbouring countries stop trying to avoid their hands getting dirty, its not like they aren´t in it up to their eyeballs already.
I have nightmares that this is going to go as far as the final pursuits of Amin, or even Saddam, that Mugabe isn´t going to give in nomatter the sanctions.
And all we can do is watch it happen...

If you go radio - go SR Världen

2008-06-23T16:49:00.004+02:00

Wherever I´ve gone in the world I´ve always brought with me my favourite swedish web-radio station, and I´ve even managed to spread the word and have friends all over who listen to it now. It may sound patriotic at first, and when i say that the station SR Världen (world) plays popular music it sounds very mainstream and non-me and rather un-appealing altoghether. But in saying popular music I`m not talking about much of the swedish or even european kind, but it includes top plays from anything from Brazil to Kenya, Irak to the US, and it is anything from rai to reggae, flamenco, kletzmer or jazz.

Its a great way to discover new music, and its so easy now when u can get all the songs listed on the website. To listen go to http://www.sr.se/ and klick on "Lyssna på webradio" on the top left. A new window opens and klick on "kanaler" to get a menu with all the stations. SR Världen is the very last.

It has made me spend many a krona on albums that have stuck in my head, and the reason I´m writing this now is because I´ve just been out emptying the mailbox, recieving a CD I´ve been meaning to buy for a long time, and completely fell for through this station. It is Simone Moreno´s Samba Makossa, and its great. She´s a beautiful woman from Brazil, where her musical roots are, but she´s been living in Sweden the past 4 years, and it makes for really cool mixes and collaborations in some of the songs.

Proceedings of the hammock society

2008-06-23T13:23:00.013+02:00

I´ve been wanting a hammock since I was in Central America a bunch of years ago.
For Swedes, a hammock is something hanging down the back of the summerhouse, from the beginning bought by the book lover of the house with the illusion that they will have lots of "me" time during the holiday to contemplate their navel and snooze the days away with a 5 pound brick (think Crime and punishment) splayed over their face. But without fail the grass need cutting, the roof mending or you get dragged in to digging up the vegetable patch against your will (that is if you even can afford to fill up the car with petrol and even get out there this year).

So the hammock is forgotten by the adults, left to feign for itself in some trees, and only enjoyed by ice cream spilling kids, who forget how great it is when they get old enough to sneak away with the neighbouring farmer´s son/daughter on secret teenage ventures.

To sum up, the hammock culture of the Swedes is suffocated before it even takes off, and until a few years ago, I was not the one to oppose that holiday labour legacy of mine.

But after sleeping in hammocks on the Pacific coast of Mexico, in the jungle of Belize and porches of Guatemala, I realized that beds are redundant. Once you learn how to move around in it, there is no end to how it can please you.

So I see no reason to wait any longer. I had a look at the cheap places like Clas Ohlson and the likes, and they do sell hammocks. But they are tiny little ones that you couldn´t even share with a barbie, and they all stubbornly put a wooden bar in each end to "open up" the hammock. Well that might make them look more appealing to the Swedes, who just want something in as close similarity to their Ikea beds as possible. But you gotta think outside the box here, cocoon is good, and can open up to whatever you want it too depending on how you move in it.

A bunch of years ago I was out at wonderful Rosenhill on Ekerö outside Stockholm, and in the midst of all the trees the hammock shop Stora famnen had set out an out-door shop, and we spent ages trying out the entire range. They might cost a whole lot more, but they are all well made and since they actually behave like a hammock is supposed to, maybe more people than just me will be born again in to the world of swingin and chillin.

Now to the problem that might be one more of the contributing reasons why Swedes have such a crap hammock culture. In our vain obsession of tanning we don´t feel its really summer if we don´t optimize all opportunities of UV exposure, and subsequently demolish all garden plants reaching above the hips. I.e. there is nowhere to hang anything. Now some companies sell metal or wooden structures which allows you the choice to position yourself in the ideal Swedish position (in the sun), or the sensible position (in the shade), but the cost a fortune, and I´m not sure I trust them entirely. Of course is also the option of hooks that can be attached to anything from walls to inner roofs, but being an eternal rent-payer, that would reqire hefty discussions with the owners of said walls.

But again, shame on she who gives up. So watch this space for further proceedings in the search of the perfect hammock.

A thousand splendid suns

2008-06-22T12:51:00.008+02:00

This is not the first book about Afghanistan and certainly not the first about women´s situation in a society ruled by shari´a. But that doesn´t make it any less relevant. I´ve grown up associating Kabul with missiles, Talibans, burquas and the massacre of the Buddhas of Bamyan, but it is important that we hear that before the soviets invaded it was a country where the women taught in universities, families took in the matinees in the local cinema and children played in the streets without fear.

This book is easily accessible for everyone, in its language and straightforward storyline. Khaled Hosseini writes with a love for his native land, that amid struggle and desperation, makes the hills of Herat and the streets of Kabul glow in the afternoon sun. And it makes me humble when I am reminded that even though I have an illness I think has cursed me unfairly, and this half-life of mine is in fact a mistake that soon will be corrected, many women spend their lives on stand-by, and then die without never being allowed to rise to their full potential.

Some people might opt out of reading this book because its been reviewed in every newspaper, climbed the top 10 lists everywhere and had big sums spent on creating a media hype around it and the preceding "The Kite Runner". But I think that if any piece of literature should enjoy just that, it is a book like this one. During the 90´s there was an urgency to highlight what the Nazis did to Europe, to make sure no one will forget and risk repeating history. Let this decade etch in our memories what the Talibans did; to Afghans, to religion and to the rest of the world. And then, maybe we can allow Allah to again become the forgiving god he once was.

Murder convention!!!

2008-06-20T18:05:00.003+02:00

I wantIwantIwant!
Just saw on the Midsommer murders homepage that in the end of june they are organizing a fan convention around the locations where it was filmed! Oh why does it seem like the world spinns faster and with more in it just now when I stopped being in it!?!?!?
I´d murder to go...

Midsummer banter (not)

2008-06-20T17:08:00.007+02:00

So today is Midsummers eve, and the longest night of the year. It is traditionally celebrated with lots of intoxicants, acompanied by herring here (us swedes acompany everything with pickled herring to get an excuse to get shitfaced, possibly cuz u can´t eat enough of the stuff to fill your stomach and prevent the shots of aquavit going straight to the head).

My folks are on their way out the door to do just the above at the neigbours house. I am invited too, but since I barely can type this, streched out on the sofa, I doubt its a good idea. 2 weeks ago I was starting to feel slightly better. I had a few friends visiting and I could potter about in the kitchen. And I thought that maybe that 3 month long period of hardly being able to shower or even hold up a spoon, was over for this time. But how wrong I was. A few days ago I simply ran out. Again. And now there is no way I could sit at a dinner, because I simply can´t sit up long enough to get shitfaced. Guess I could get shitfaced anyway though, horizontally...

Today I got company. She was a little moaning lady walking in as if she owned the place. And she can have it for all I care...

No the only Midsummer I care about is the Midsummer murders. I was deeply disturbed when SVT 24 ran out of episodes a few months ago, and not all the Miss Marple in the world can make up for it. Its terrible how this illness makes you so geared towards television, and I have already given my word that if I ever am to get well, I will never own a TV again. I´m dying to do and not just watch!

Well anyway, Midsommer murders have had the decency to record a new season, and although its hard to believe that there can be many left in the county to murder, I shall devour my beloved English countryside all out.

Till then, I have joined Lovefilm. I was once a member back in the sun-burnt days of living in L.A., and I think they were alot quicker to send you out films back then. But in Sweden the post is like everything else under our capitalist government, slow, expensive, and soon to be privatised, so you just have to say thank you and wait for the next elections. Anyhow, I decided that just cuz my body is drying up and weakening out, I should at least try to keep my brain somewhat alert. I guess I could have opted for something more suitable than learning more Spanish, since I hardly have anyone to talk to at all nowadays, let alone in Spanish. But I have said it before and I say it again. Shame on whoever gives up. So I began my rental membership with only signing up for films in said language, and have so far recieved quite a few peculiar dics that certainly wouldn´t have made me stop in a usual videostore.

These two were pretty morbid I must say. Voces Innocentes I can even recommend, if you got the stomach for injustice and human courage. About the civil war in El Salvador, told in the perspective of an 11 year old boy.

Anyway, this chicken might splash out this fine friday night and treat herself to a sleeping pill, so she can be rid of it all properly for a few hours.

I bid you adiós.

Its a hat!

2008-06-20T16:51:00.005+02:00

Yes it was hard labour, but now I feel like a proud parent! Well honestly it wasn´t all that difficult, even though it was my first time making something round, "sock" style. And throughout the process I had the wool guru hot line on short dial. Although I confess that the revolutionary advantage was when I realised that we in fact had a fifth knittin needle, so I didn´t have to make do with only four (those who knit will know how awkward that can get)...

Now all I can do is wait till it gets below 10 degrees...

On ´fair´economic development

2008-06-17T11:04:00.008+02:00

So on to some serious business here, because I do occasionally dwindle away from sarcasm and comics. Had I not been so unfortunate to contract this neurological restraining order, I would in fact have been located in York, UK, studying a masters in "Conflict, Governance and Development" in said political faculty, and far too busy to be spending my over-worked braincells on blogging.

When I got accepted to the course I went straight on to amazon to start buying some of the recommended course litterature, and then when I realized that I really was too ill to be able to attend the course, or even stay in the country, I was stuck with a respectable stack of publications on econominc development. But as we say in Sweden "Skam den som ger sig" (shame on whoever gives up), so in the periods when my brain doesn´t have the attention-span of a 5 year old, I do my best to absorb the information the course litterature wants to get across. Last weeks reed was interesting as always, and written in a language that is easily accessible, so I thought I´d make an attempt to a brief summary of what the author wants said.

Contemporary economists ignore the truth of economic development of the western world in favour of the view that the high levels of development in the NDCs (Now Developed Countries) were reached much thanks to the adoption of a free trade policy. Pointing to this historical account of their success, they now firmly advice all development countries to follow suit if they are ever going to be able to reach standards comparable to for example UK, the Netherlands, Germany, USA or Sweden.
But Chang looks at the actual historical development of these NDCs, and proves that they all in fact relied heavily on infant industry protection, export subsidies and tariff protection until they had caught up with their domestic industry and the protective legislation was no longer neccesary. So the truth is then that NDCs warn developing countries from the ´bad´ (protective) policies, and advice them to adhere to the ´good´ (free trade) policies, although themselves used the ´bad´ policies during their catch up phases. And they don´t only advice, but force developing countries to sign unequal treaties, giving them no options but to keep their tarrif rates on very low levels.

There is also the pressure on developing countries for institutional development that should reach a certain global standard within a very short time span. These institutions involve, to mention a few, democracy, central banking, public finance, regulations against child labour and competition laws. Chang acknowledges the need for this development, but claims that it is not feasible for development countries to raise the institutional standards within the 5-10 year period that the NDCs demand, and threat with sanctions if not adhered to. He reminds the reader that it took several generations for the NDCs to develop these institutions themselves, and longer still before they actually were implemented. It is also important to note that "contemporary developing countries have much higher levels of institutional development than the NDCs did at comparable stages of development" (p.111). Naturally we cannot compare the global situation in the 19th century with that of today, and the developing countries have advantages of being follower nations who will not have to introduce completely new ideas, like democracy, to their societies, but will already have a generally informed public opinion from the start. But it is still important to see that, although these institutions will develop, it is not feasible to expect them to be financially viable straight away. Chang illustrates this with the institution of maintaining property rights to a global standard, it would "reqire the developing countries to train (or even worse, to hire from abroad) a large army of world-class layers and accountants. This means that they will inevitably have less money (their own or donors´) to spend on, say, the training of schoolteachers or of industrial engineers, which may be more necessary given their stages of development" (p.135).

Chang concludes that "in recommending the allegedly ´good´ policies, the NDCs are in effect ´kicking away the ladder´by which they have climbed to the top" (p.129).

I can only say shame on us. Its remarcable that we think only of ourselves, even when we are so much ahead, that we hinder developing countries to get a fair chance to catch up. But as Chang says, many of those who hold posts on desicion making levels, are not actually informed of our economic history, and can only rely on what they are told by today´s leading economists. There are naturally arguments against this focus on industrial development as the starting point for development, like that if institutions such as social security and various increases in individual freedom were put foremost, economic growth would follow. Whatever should come first, I do feel that all this involvement by the NDCs has led to questions like who is it that actually benefits in the end? So I recommend this book to be read, and hope, like its author, that more along the same lines with be published.

The knitter and her wool guru

2008-06-16T12:25:00.010+02:00

The past few days I´ve actually been feeling half decent, meaning that I can expand my activities beyond just chewing, dreaming of showering, watching telly and listening to audio tapes (that period lasted so long my ears were getting sore). At present I´m living pretty far from everyone I know (not even counting those outside the country), so visits are unfortunately very far and few between. But yesterday my favourite Erika and Björn took their time to borrow a car and drive out here.
In my world Erika is to swedish textile crafts what the stream of new books are to a library. She consumes all known techniques, making like an internal conveyor belt and produce things like there is no tomorrow. Quite a long time ago I´ve been cheating a bit in knitting and quite alot in nålbindning, and lately I´ve sort of felt that it might be fun to take up some sort of creative activity. And when I have my very own wool guru at hand, whats better than giving knitting a go.

My gran´s sister down on a little island in Denmark has recently lost the battle against her own hoarding of crap and the town´s entire squatting cat maffia, and so has been forced to opt for an old folks home down the village. This means that my gran and mum (wearing face masks and near enough burning their clothers afterwards), this spring, tried to save the few pieces of family heirlooms that hadn´t already completely corroded under cat´s urin, feces, or manicurial needs. To get to the point of this rambling I arrive at the grandest solid wooden closet (built by my great grandfather), which at an early stage of the house´s decay had had its doors barricaded with various organic and non-organic matter. This matter had started from the floor and by unknown scientifical reactions grown high enough for the doors to remain shut solid for years of double figures. When my mum shoveled in to this (living?) mass, and opened the doors, she found the entire closet filled with high quality knitting, weaving and embrodery yarn, some of which we brought back to Stockholm.

I now feel it is my obligation to treat this premature inheritance to knitting needles and long evenings of cursing. So on yesterdays visit I left the weaving and embrodery yarns to Erika, and she lent me a "fool proof" but really nice book of knitting patterns. I started out straight away, but decided to opt for something small scale before I knew if my claims to once having known the basics of this art was in fact something I had dreamt.

And behold my new iPod cover! Not that I think I will want to be seen actually using it, the leather cover I already have looks in comparison to the knitted one like scallops next to Tesco value fish fingers (thats Coops blåvitt för svenskar). But hey, now I know I can go straight to prison (sweater) possibly not without passing go (hat).

Elves on my shelves

2008-06-15T12:23:00.006+02:00

When I was in my late teens I had a friend who was one of these admirable people who felt they without a guilty conscience could spend their money on (several) giganticly long series of comic books, you know those series that made your bookshelf look really lopsided if you didn´t have every single issue sorted in order. Well I was one of those friends who didn´t get struck by a guilty conscience borrowing every single one of those issues.

Although we did have a little bit of mutual lending (I was occasionally tempted to buy the odd second-hand X-men of the older generation), I remember one particular hard-back series that he introduced me to, and that I then clinged to his door-bell on an almost daily basis (we had flats in the same building in those days) just to get him to take pitty on me and lend me the next, and the next, and the next...

I`m talking about Elf Quest. I don´t know how many books were published in the series, but I know that I lived, slept and ate them for quite some time. When I was 17-18 I felt rather embarassed to admit that I sort of fancied several male specimens of the Wolfriders and the Sun Folk, embarassed mostly, I think, because apart from my friend Tickan, who lent me all these books, I didn´t have any other friends who were into comics. Much later I have realized that lots of people continue this sort of devotion well past their 30´s, and I can´t help but wonder what my list of merits and interests would look like today, had my social network incorporated more friends of this inclination.

The reason for this slight trip of nostalgia is that I accidentally came across the Elf Quest website this morning introducing the "Complete Digital Elfquest Online project", meaning that during 2008 they intend to publish the entire series (more than 6000 pages) online! It sucks big time to be as sick as me, but there certainly are some advantages of being unable to work...

On "halelujah" companies

2008-06-14T11:40:00.004+02:00

In UK there is, I think, a much higher acceptance of alternative medicine and treatment than in Sweden. But since there is no cure for ME/CFS, those who have it tend to spend small fortunes on anything they hear might help to at least alleviate their symptoms. And I´m no different. My last attempt was to inject myself with extremely high doses of a certain type of B12 vitamin. It may sound hazardous, but it was all prescribed by a doctor, and my mum who happens to be a nurse, introduced me to the syringes-in-the-stomach business. Well 3 months later (and costing around 900 sek per 10 weeks) I can tell you it did absoulutely nothing in my favour.

So I was then recommended by a friend of a friend in UK to try a special kind of Aloe Vera gel, supplemented with a number of bi-products from bees. This woman friend of a friend allegedly has ME/CFS herself, and has with the help of these products gone from not even being able to driva a car, to climbing Killimanjaro. So I was introduced to a company that sell these products. Because ofcourse its just not as easy as getting to the shop and getting some. No, you have to get in contact with a registered whole seller, and either buy from him/her "Tupperware party" style, or to be sponsored by that person to become a whole-seller yourself. And although once you are registered you can buy it cheaper, we´re talking pretty big sums here. Its all a bit of Halelujah over it if you ask me.

Once I was registered I got a heap of information about the company, and how it operates in Sweden. I was told that for legal purpouses I am under no conditions allowed to promote these products as containing any form of medicinal properties. They are health-food supplements that can balance us and provide nutrients. The Aloe Vera is giving the body the best possible internal environment in which to heal itself. If I was to make any other claims the company would loose its permits to sell in Scandinavia. Thats all well and good. I just wonder then, are the laws on supplements really that much looser in UK, since this friend of a friend even promoted the stuff as a miracle cure in a national UK magazine?

Anyhow, I´ve been taking all these things for about 3 weeks now, and apart from that it tastes vile, I can´t make any claims in regards to the ME/CFS. Although my stomach is actually feeling really good, and regular. Lots of people with ME/CFS have IBS, so for them it might be a good idea to try this. The bee products (pollen, propolis and royal jelly) are supplements that have been used worldwide for centuries, but since they turn out so expensive if you take as high doses I was recommended, I bought another brand from the local health food store because I got a huge discount when I bought them in bulk. All in all I´ve spent about 4000 sek for everything to last me for 3 months. Thats quite alot when u as me don´t even get sickpension, but have to live on social welfare since the government is dragging out on the application process.

So its never bad to be full up on vitamins, you just have to make your own ideas about the stuff. Luckily they come in more flavours than just natural aloe.

Attempt on Mexican food

2008-06-13T20:46:00.007+02:00

So yes, I don´t understand why us chocolate loving swedes don´t cook more with chocolate. I made this dish with chicken, and I actually ate it. U might not think that is so strange if u don´t know me, but if u do u know I have been a rather keen vegetarian for well over 10 years. I actually remember the last time I ate chicken before I gave it up. It was in 9th grade, so it would have been about 1995, and it was at luch in school.

But lately I´ve been so ill that I can´t really be bothered to keep a completely separate diet from the rest of the house. Luckily my family are all keen followers of organic produce, so the chicken was a big "KRAV" (organic) labled bugger, and this household rather have organic chicken once per month than mass produced broilers twice a week.
So it was chicken with mole then. Mole is normally in Mexico like a sauce you buy in a jar with all the spice mixes to add to your dish, but since we are far from any Mexican grocery shop I madey own makeshift mole.

Chicken with Mole

about 4 small fillets of chicken, or bits from all over

1 onion

3-4 cloves of garlic

500 ml of tinned tomatoes

1 cinnamon quill

1-2 chopped red chillies (more if u have the guts)

2 tsp paprika

2 tsp of ground coriander seeds

salt and some stock granules

40-50 g of good dark chocolate (70%)

Cut the chicken in bite size pieces and chopp the onion. Brown in a pan in some butter and oil. Add the garlic and the tomatoes. Stir in the spices and let it simmer about 20 mins. Taste and adjust seasoning. Stir in the chocolate. Serve with tortillas and a sallad.

Tortillas

2.5 dl spelt or wheat flour

0,5 dl natural yoghurt

1 tbsp olive oil

1 tsp salt

0,5 tsp baking powder

(tomato purée or mixed herbs)

Mix everything together and work the dough untill its elastic. Leave a few minutes. Divide into 4-6 pieces and flatten them out with a rolling pin till they are as thin as u can get them. Fry in a hot, dry frying pan about 2 minutes on each side, or untill they begin to get a bit of a colour. Serve immediately.

Well it certainly didn´t look very good, but it tasted at least half-Mexican. Bastante bien, estoy contento

All hail to the chocolate king!

2008-06-13T19:46:00.013+02:00

I am a self confessed choco-holic, and I would probably raise a few eyebrows if some health guru would mound up all the chocolate I ate in a year on a table, TV style. But I only like the good stuff, preferrably of about 85% cocoa. No milk chocolate passes my lips, no no, in fact it stays away if it contains any milk at all.

Here I could march on at length on the origins of chocolate, because I am actually something of an expert on the subjectject. This comes from that during my second year in univeristy, studying to be an archaeologist, I studied at a Canadian university (Trent University), and there I took the best course I ever took, Mesoamerican archaeology. In short I can tell you that when the spaniards arrived in the Caribbean, and eventualy the rest of Central America, the native people of various names (Teotihuacanos, Olmecs, Mixtecs, Mayas, Aztecs etc), had used cocoa in numerous ways. The bean itself was often used as currency, and its consumption was reserved for the royals and other wealthy individuals. At that time the indigenous did not keep any form of beasts of burden, meaning they didn´t mix the cocoa with milk, nor did they cultivate sugar cane or beats. The classic recipe for their chocolate drink (refining it in to bars came much later), was to add water and chilli. It was then poured from a heigh height in to drinking vessels (which were highly decorated with said process), to produce a frothy head.

It might not sound very appealing, but I think that is mostly because we are so used to that chocolate has to be sweet. During my stay in the Americas I missed no opportunity to travel till my bank account begged me to stay in, and I spent an amazing few weeks travelling around Mexico during christmas and New Year. The culinary capital of Mexic se llama Oaxaca. There is just no end to what ur tastebuds can experience there. In a little café I remember a bowl made of coconut shell, filled with a mix of water, cocoa, sugar, and corn. It was strangely fulfilling actually. In one part of town was all the chocolate shops lined up, they were completely opened up to the street, sort of 3 walls and a roof. Inside were massive drums where the cocoa was milled, and others where it was mixed with other ingredients to make bars etc, and when u wanted to buy some you could decide exactly what you wanted your bars to contain and in what proportions. Just point sugar, cinnamon, almonds...

I could go on and on about Mexico, and I thank all higher powers that I got the opportunity to travel so much before I got this illness. Its a country that has everything. Loud crammed citys, amazing archaeology, beautiful people, great culture, foggy jungle, chilly mountains, sandy beaches... Think I´m gonna have to post a few more photos from that trip. Above is the main market in Oaxaca.

The Mayan site Palenque

Colourful crafts

Zocalo in central Oaxaca on christmas day

Fabulous beach in Zipolite, a middle of nowhere town on the Pacific coast

And our makeshift hotel in Zipolite. We arrived on New Years eve and all thy had left was a couple of hammocks

Temple of the Sun, Teotihuacan, about 30 minutes outside Mexico City

Ok, I had a reason for writing about chocolate, namely that I, in memory of Mexico, made chicken with mole. But I think this post is so bloody long already, that I´ll just put the food stuff in a new one

Horizontal eye candy

2008-06-11T22:39:00.011+02:00

Yesterday was classic film night in my world. Seventh seal (Sjunde inseglet) from 1957 has been haunting me like an unholy ghost for years, and because I´ve never been that big on Ingmar Bergman (Fanny and Alexander actually always make me wanna hurl) I´ve always opted for something else. But yesterday I was feeling so crap and knackered that I put on the telly already in the afternoon, something I usually try to avoid (think it might be cuz of the old threat mum used when I was little, that ur eyes go square like the telly screen if u watch it too much), and at 5 pm all else I could choose from was re-runs of gardening shows, The bould and the beautiful (season 48?), or football tactics.

But I was happily surprised, and even became a bit philosophical on life myself. I must give the devil some cred for being a pretty skilled tactic (live AND performing). There seems to have been a lot of knights figuring in litterature and films lately, and they all have had their own reasons to doubt. But The Seventh Seal must be the original battle between the blind and un-questioning belief of a higher purpouse, and the desire of earthly sins, and it plays it out with more humour than anyone would even dream of doing in the "Arn" film for example. "du e lycklig du som e så slängd i käften och tror på din egen rappakalja". I say hurrah for Nils Poppe!

But why finnish there. When you have ME everything but just staying in the horizontal position is a struggle, so I went nowhere, and stumbled upon "The Reivers" from 1967. Well I can only ask, what woman can resist them eyes of Steve McQueen? He may have been a right spoilt twat to work with if ur a director, but he is bloody good value :)

On fever

2008-06-10T16:17:00.008+02:00

"And the earth hung on the line of the horizon, an enormous looming
boundless polenta of cornmeal still cooking in the sky and almost falling
upon
him, gurgling with fevered and feverish fevery ferocity in boiling
boils on the
boil, plop, ploppity plop. The fact is that when you have the
fever, ou become
polenta, and the lights you see all come from the boiling
of your head"
/Eco

I´m gonna lay of Eco for a while now. I get far too few influences from the real outside world not to risk over-indulging in his linguistic labyrinths.

The grass is always greener...

2008-06-07T23:03:00.007+02:00

So just because it is now over for this year, and so not only me, but also those who are well but still uninitiated in the wonderful, miraculous "Mecca-ish" pilgrim event for all book lovers will also have missed out on it, I´m going to mention the Hay festival. Yes so there, now I´ve mentioned it. Just go there, I can´t describe how good it is. If I get a hang of this blog page thingy I might be able to put up a link to it or something.

Yes anyway, the grass is always greener on the other side. Although in Sweden we´ve had a heat wave for so long now that the grass might be greener a bit further away than that, try UK... Well, cuz for me, that´s where it always seem greener nowadays, that and that it seems to always manage to rain there. A year ago I lived in a little house called Ffos-y-bar, near a little gathering of houses called Pentrebach (a very common Welsh place name, bach meaning something along the lines of "little", but we still have a warrant out for what a pentre might be), a few miles of the A40 at Sennybridge, in the middle of the green hills of Wales rather close to the Brecon Beacons. Anyway, I read somewhere that just the area around Sennybridge was actually the wettest in all of Britain. Well all they would have had to do was just ask us bunch working dogs out staring in the mud 12 hours a day and we could have informed them that such was the case, and saved them all them fancy measurements.

See, its bloody green in the Brecon Beacons...

Again I seem to drift from the point. Even though the swedish lawns might have dried out, the world outside our garden seem like the promised land, where anything is possible, with a cherry on top. In the past month I have worn a pair of shoes twice, once when I had to go to see a doctor, and the other time a shrink, both times I was wheeled there in a wheelchair. A few months ago I would drive to the shops, maybe go to the local cinema, but now I can´t even remember the last time I walked further than our mailbox. My world move in smaller and smaller circles. Its not that I can´t walk further, I would probably make it around the block if I tried. Thing is that I have tried a bunch of times, and sometimes I seem to be ok even the day after. But ME is a sly bastard. It sort of collect the times I´ve gone out and done things and thought it was ok, and then, when I least expect it (cuz I haven´t done any more than usual the days before), I crash in to a month or so of almost not being able to move a spoon to my mouth. So I´m terrified to push my boundaries now. People I know with this illness have told me it took them at least 5 years before they got a hang of how they really were affected. And feck, I dunno how many more of those crashes I can take.

But on the bright side, since I hardly ever wear shoes I am all clear from fungal infections. Jealous?

Bite me!

2008-06-07T00:05:00.000+02:00

Your Slogan Should Be

Malin. It's What's for Dinner.

http://www.blogthings.com/theslogangenerator/">The Slogan Generator

"Being Umberto Eco"

2008-06-06T22:28:00.000+02:00

Thats a film I really would like to see, because his is a head far more interesting than whatever might be hiding in that of John Malcovich.

I´m just nearing the finnishing lines of The Island of the Day Before, very briefly described as a book dealing with the matter of longitudes, and I gasp almost every other page when I think of that this is only one of a mound of books this man has written. I sort of think of Eco as a man who has lived several lives. I mean a normal person beginns learning as a child, and by the time he or she is an adult they have accumulated quite a bit of knowledge, which you can then see in various litterary pieces that person might produce. But Eco writes as if he has accumulated knowledge for centuries! His brain has enormous capacity! There is just no way I could get anywhere near that mix of imagination and complete account of all technological innovations since the middle ages...

The language is fantastic, and this is still only translated editions, but I´m not gonna be so raving about it that I take on learning Italian...

In one chapter, titeled "Anatomy of Erotic Melancholy", the main character suffers its horrible symptoms.

"the image of the beloved awakes love, insinuating itself as simulacrum
through the meatus of the eyes, those doorkeepers and spies of the soul? But
afterwards the amourous impression allows itself to glide slowly through the
veins until it reaches the liver, stimulating concupiscence, which moves the
whole body to sedition, leads straight to the conquest of the citadel of the
heart, whence it attacks the more noble powers of the brain and enslaves
them"

My english dictionary can´t even handle that. How does he do it?
Meet the antagonist in the book, who describes women as:

"the portrait of inconsistency, minister of fraud, fickle in speech,
belated in action, and quick in caprice. Educated by would be ascetics who
never ceased reminding him that El hombre es el fuego, la mujer la estopa, viene
el diablo y sopla, he was accustomed to considering every daughter of Eve an
imperfect animal, an error of Nature, a torture for the eyes if ugly, a
suffering of the heart if beautiful, tyrant of any who loved her, enmy for any
who scourned her, disordered in her desires, implacable in her dislikes, capable
of enchanting with the mouth and enchaining with the eyes"

Well if that fellow didn´t have issues I dunno...

Älskade välfärd!

2008-06-05T21:07:00.002+02:00

Until I was forced to move back home I always saw my home country as the land of opportunity. We take care of our old, sick and weak. But I warn each and every one of you, this is a curtain of the past that occasionally sweep by in the back of people´s memroy.

I was reading the paper DN today and it had a comparison between John Mc Cain and Barack Obama now when it looks like the candidates are set. Obama was for compulsory healthcare insurance, withdrawal of US troops from Irak, and no decreases of taxes for rich people, while McCain was just the opposite. Am I missing a vital part of the thought process here? Is there really anything to consider? I confess that I got solidarity in with the mothers milk ( my mum even pumped all excess out and gave it to the milk central for all mothers who were without), but are there really folks who reason in the lines of: "well since I make more money than Joe Soap (who works his ass of at a non qualified job because he or his parents couldn´t afford to pay his way through university), there is no way I think that he should get any chances to catch up, and let his children experience equal opportunities in the next generation". Guess that not all people know how to spell compassion, but the fact that the prognosis for the election indicate that its going to be a close count of the votes is extremely worrying for the development of humankind.

Maybe I´m feeling this even more because of the last few years of political development in Sweden. We´ve had a history of government led by the social democrats, but lately the conservative party has been in office, and even though they surely (and hopefully) will loose in the next elections, they have, by lowering taxes so rich people will get even more, financed the whole packet by selling out almost everything the state has owned and earned an income from. So if they are allowed to continue, only those benefiting from the tax reliefs (i.e. rich people) will be able to afford the private health care, education etc that is to come. I still sometimes wonder if what they write in the papers are meant for april fools...

So being sick in this society in times of change of policies is not the easiest. Even those who´s job it is to save on the little tax money that is left to dish out to the hungry keep making excuses and telling me that you "have to be well to be ill". The sicker I get, the more help I need, the more difficult it becomes. A year ago I was of the opinion that if you wanted anything done you have to do it yourself, now I can hardly boil an egg or hold up a book sometimes, let alone qualify for the phone queue for the only specialist in various fields I have needed in the past year, who happens to only take calls between 7.45 and 8.15 am. Naturally the government has noticed that there is a certain problem here (for the rich), so the proposed solution is not to use tax money to provide a better service, but to suggest what we call a "gräddfil", a private queue on the side for those who can pay for it. So being the poor archaeologist that I am, with not even a proper sick benefit because I worked in UK before I got ill, noone with any affluence would ever notice if I lay down and died, because I wouldn´t be fit enough doing it...

If I only could stand on my two feet, I would really want to pay a visit behind the scenes at Försäkringskassan. I´ve been trying to ring since march, and it took until may for them to inform me that the woman responsible for my case, is herself on sick leave for an indefinate period of time, and there is no substitute to deal with her shit.

Because it is shit