Hoofin' it

Today an anonymous lady called and tried to sell me some package on how to secure my life after being unable to work, hitting ten soft spots about the nuisances of getting old and incapacitated, and stressed the importance of saving money. All presented very professionally, yet with a dry, repetative voice. Facts unquestionable.

So I decided to cheer her up by telling her how I'd rather sleep in a stable and shower under a water hose and live life on a nil budget, rather than waste my capable years worrying about being incapacitated.

I made this one laugh, usually I do not! Usually they are already incapacitated!

After she stopped laughing she asked me what my plans for old age really was.

I answered: Well, Sweden, still being famous for its' elderly care system, is still crap.

Personally I'd preferr, rather than eating cookies and being unhappy about it, to be dead and not eating cookies. And seeing where the world is heading I don't really think digital numbers registered in a banks' database will be important in 30 years.

I love packing. But I hate travelling. Thus when I travell I preferr travelling light.

That moment of self reflection when preparing my luggage a mirror image of my own personality. What do I want to bring? What do I really need to bring? What am I prepared to leave behind?

I wish I would ask myself that question everyday of my life. But remaining in one place, surrounded by matter, one tend to forget what is really important. And what is excessive...

This time I shall bring less books and more work clothes. And a flashlight.

Change is inevitable, why fight it when you can control it?

I guess this is just what I have become.

In less than 24 hrs I'll be in Turkey, back on my nil budget. Maybe one day suddenly bit by a scorpion going into coma or having a heavy stone falling on me while building dry walls.

Maybe then I'll regret not having cared about comfort and security.

But 'till I reach that day when I start mourning the past, I shall not waste one second mourning my future.

 

June

Home. Or rather, what I preferr to percieve as what used to be home...
The phrase ”Turkey is home now. This is just a visit.” started as a decisive slogan in my mind as the airport bus left Fethiye, turned into a mantra somewhere in the air between Istanbul and Copenhagen, and as I crossed the bridge over to Sweden a desperate prayer crouching in a darkened corner of my mind, ...
I do not even know why it is important. My mind is set for this to be true, but somehow I’m having difficulties convincing myself...

The first true signs of Sweden hits me as I exit the train in Malmö -  A sign littered with huge capitals: NO SMOKING! And another one just beneath it: NO SKATEBOARDING!
Sweden!
The country of excessive prohibitions and vain rationality. And beyond the two signs a clean, spotless platform walked upon by the living ancestors of dead warriors, facial expressions reflecting how the cold of the North gave birth to and finally adapted to prohibition and rationality.
- The silent war within and apathy towards everything else... Every face on that platform is a cold reflection of whom I used to be and what I ran away from...

Realising this, I decide I cannot face the ghost of my former self just yet, thus I seek refuge at a friend’s house. Two days of excessive drinking, smoking and rejoicing later I have no choice but to head for my parents old farmhouse. My body is devastated after sleeping on a hard log inside a primitive sweat lodge in the middle of a mosquito-infested, drizzling cold nature reserve claimed to be the haunting grounds of local phantasms.
Whom alive could ever know the purpose of a ghost, all I know for certain they are not apathetic. But I guess I was too drunk to let them harass me, perhaps they chose other victims...

I used to believe in ghosts, now I know for a fact they exist.
Finally alone, I open the door to my parents’ house. Noone is home. And for the first time in four months I can hear my heart beat again... Sweden is cold, Sweden is silent... So very silent... A silence full of rage and despise!
There is a sadness in the walls, a weariness in the floor, a hopelessness in the beams of the roof, stalactites like sticky tar, piercing my skull, burrowing its way to my heart and soul. An angry ghost full of spite and despair.
It is the ghost of the dead person I used to be and he is beckoning me to return him to life...

How many times have I not turned apathy into action and left this place only to return?
How many times have I not succumbed to apathy yet again when returning?
Too many!
He knows it is different this time and he is furious... I am traitor and I am not welcome in this house any more. I cannot tell if it occurring in my mind or in the world or what’s really the difference between the two, all I know is that the house is shaking with anger and I shall have to face it...
Alone, scared and unyielding...

There are three beds of choice on the upper floor of my parents’ house - one for rest, one for nightmares and one for sorrow. Tonight I choose the bed of nightmares, I see no reason to postpone the inevitable... And I have a message for my nightmares: I want to tell them there’s a war out there worse than that of one man and her ego, and it is a war that must be fought and it will not sustain the weakness of the past...
Yet the next morning I awake rested, no nightmares, all silent but the birds outside the window...

The war against apathy has begun...

April - The traveller travails

The strong and constant stream of a waterfall separating my outdoor kitchen from the lycian way reminds me of mankind - Every single drop of rain soaked up by the mountain, enriched by minerals, finally let loose through a canal in the rock, making its way down the mountain... Searching for home...
Millions and millions of individuals forming an unstoppable, moving body of water running the same tracks shaped by their ancestors before finally reuniting with the ocean, until next the sun separates them from home, lifting them high into the air only to smash them upon the hard surface of rock once more. Broken, bleeding and flowing... A neverending cycle.
The sound was deafening at first, after a week I thought I would get used to it, after two weeks I found the noise unbearable yet had no option but to accept it, longing for the day I would leave it behind. For men must travel and water must flow. Perhaps that is the only way we can escape the pain of being ourselves...
This used to be a common truth, but then someone planted a pole in the ground, another one planted a seed next to it and a third unfolded his sun chair, a fourth designed a weapon to fend off envious neighbours, a fifth gave it a name, and so forth...
Doesn’t really seem to make them happy though... Building all these things that nature eventually tears down anyhow... Strange breed!

Burying a pickaxe into the soil makes me a God playing with tornadoes and hurricanes, seeing all those little creatures scurry and scream as the soil is ripped apart and sunlight hits them. Yet God has a purpose, a canal must be dug, their city laid in the path and now it is in ruins, and this is beyond ants to understand. I pity them of course, as I hope God does with men...
But every once in a while a patch of land needs renewal, a new purpose, to breathe and change course, lest the soil dies. Where once there was a city now lies ash. Poor little ants!
Yet I cannot suffer them to live, for I have found purpose here...

Roads are dangerous up here, four hundred meters above sea line, but well worth the trip.
I work at a hotel, a carpenter’s apprentice under the guardian eyes of a german brother of a wife of a turkish hotel owner. Work is hard but the rewards are worthwile: I eat and sleep as any guest prepared to pay 800 euros a week. The panorama of mountain meeting ocean be blissful medicine for a restless soul like mine, spending my days building a small wooden wonder of a house on one of the many terasses of a mountain slope. I breathe mountain air with a twist of salt water, the pace of life is slow and harmonious and I am healing - Body, soul and mind. Work is hard and I believe I have never been so physically fit my whole life. I have access to a small outdoor kitchen overviewing the sea, all by myself.

They are good people, they care for nature and for people and do not even make a show out of it. They refuse to cut down trees even though the vegetation obstructs the view or lean heavily against a building, the policy seems to be to adapt to nature and not form her. They have local village people working at the hotel so as to preserve the old village life, thus not forcing them to parttake in the mad ratchase of the rest of the world. These folks are are all farmers but have been put into appropriate roles at the hotel according to their nature and personality - a chef, a gardener, a waiter... They bring local produce from their farms to be prepared in the kitchen, not by far enough to satisfy demand, yet I can taste the magic in every meal... The sweet taste of decency!
I wouldn’t call this scenario ecological since it’s not about returning to nature. But rather preserving something older than the concept of ecology - the old ways in an area where new never found its way. An undertaking nobler still!

My matron - The german woman cares for me in a motherly fashion - trying to nurse, feed and foster me. She has a blue glow, a happy light, to her personality and I adore her charisma. Yet she sees a boy to spoil and care for whereas I came here to become a man. When I presented my idea on how to build a garden behind the house we are constructing she smiled and took my hand and asked what I would plant where and if I was prepared to do it myself. Without thinking I answered yes although I do not know if I will be here when the house is actually finished.

My mentor - The carpenter brother is an old vagabond, a former mechanic who drove all over Europe when young. He never runs out of tales, a sympathetic teacher yet very impatient. The cold efficiency of a german mind I suppose, or perhaps his character has just been caught up in the slow pace of Turkey long enough to backfire on itself!? He smiles at me when I come up with bright ideas or remind him of something he is too stressed to remember, scowls at me when I am too slow to understand a direct command. But first and foremost he seems to appreciate my height and strong arm. I had never dreamed I’d make a living for myself through hard labour, yet here my physique seems to be my main asset.
I am the one doing all the heavy work and all the delicate work and I always work alone where the turks work as a team. They do the carpenting. I do everything surrounding the carpenting: Cleaning, organizing tools, preparing, finishing touches, painting, shovelling gravel, digging canals for water and electricity, painting... But as of now I hardly even touched a hammer.

My master - The ghost.
I know not much of him but that he is very intelligent and very humble. And that as a political and stubborn idealist in a harsh country he has suffered a lot of disgrace and pain in his past.
Perhaps that is why lately he built this garden of Eden away from civilisation where no one can touch him. Yet he is never here. He passes outside my gate morning and evening, a polite nod and a short greeting before opening either the door of his house or that of his car.

I have engaged myself in a love story -  The enigmas and riddles of meeting a being of the opposite gender. I love everything about her - the way she walks and talks, moves and laughs, thinks and acts, but somehow it does not seem to pan out. Does it ever? Or rather more important, would it feel more complete if it did? Mars meets Venus is a chess board in my head, a game I have not played for so long... Thus I try to treasure the moment and not think ahead.
She says this region blocks men from creating, yet she stays, a creator herself...
Being here myself I understand this to be something that cannot be explained but must be experienced.
I am a creator myself, yet since I arrived I hardly touched my pen but almost lost it twice, and yet I wish to stay...
Every time we meet we make plans on what to do next meeting, next meeting we make more plans, sometimes we even do the things we say we would do... But mostly we just stay in bed laughing at our own inability to act.
It is a sweet and tender prison from which there is no escape but rational willpower no creator possess.

Perhaps finally a place to call home and run no more... 
Perhaps just another city to lay waste...
All I know is my own house is finished and built stable on a montain and not in a city, givven all the love and care I could muster as a disciple, for a master I will never be. For mastery is not for me to live in but for someone else to suffer the consequences of a settled life. Me I shall merely rest in the still womb of calm calamity till next storm rips me from this soil...

Scorpio

 Right... So...
Heard it was scorpion season, got all wound up, heard they were rare, still got nightmares, saw none, wound down...

 Moved a stone while working, one bugger almost facepalmed me...
Sweet! One encounter and survived. Done this, did that... Ain’t that bad! End of story... NOT!

 Wrote a vile poem about scorpions and mountains, went to sleep in this room I named the ”Scorpions Nest”, mostly just for fun since everyone tells me they stay away from HUMANS and are very RARE!
Entered my room...
Swear to God it’s a conspiracy they are following meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!

They are not aggressive, sting is far from lethal, but that predatory look FREAKS ME OUT!!!
Yet my love for nature stops me from killing it, fear prevents me from sleeping...
Guess it’s going to be a LOOOONG night! ><

Never thought I’d miss Sweden!

Mountain Madness

April is when the great scorpion travails down the mountain to mate and produce tiny scorpions in mans shoes, towells wet, underneath the beds...
April is when the foilage of the mountain explodes, bursting into rainbow clouds of butterflies and beauty, distracting man from where to step and what hides beneath the bed.
April is dangerous!

For April is when females of great bodymass and great social skill emerge upon the plains to recreate and procreate with men of weak will and lesser wit.
If you are a man and consider yourself of will and of wit, look to befriend one of these obese, yet remember to tell them tales but never truths, that they may reproduce their tale to slim, suspicious kin. For a female slender hates a male but loves the tale of myth of man, and through an agent slow and social, such a creature might fall into the myth of a mans arms that a male may mate a female not obese, but slim and silent...

A tale perplex, prejudical perhaps, foul play indeed. Yet a tale of foresight, as this petty reasoning of the plain of the plains, is but the wit of great heights...
For to survive the butterfly and the scorpion of the mountain requires slender silence, as the gluttony of the slow and social might soon fill the plains of the earth with ocean, and man must seek shelter upon the mountain - Side by side with beauty and with poison.
May May bring reason to my treason...

March - The Traveller Awakens

I hate flying, but some times it needs be done, so I bought a ticket...
Arrived to this nation where people seemingly take pride in breaking every traffic rule ever written, smoke like chimneys, where beaches and forests remain intact and beautiful no matter how much litter the local populace spread around them...


Basically spent one week sitting on my cousins porch, sleeping all day, boozing all night (a.k.a. cultural adaption), slowly puzzling together the enigmas of broken pieces of two black sheep - why we are what we are and why we did what we did in life... and what to do next...

Through my dear cousins web of contacts and knowledge I finally ended up at an eco farm, just to discover that the turkish ideal of permaculture is but a superficial phenomena dedicated to attracting tourists, not to preserve nature...

After the Ottoman Empire took a step out of the dark ages to found the nation of Turkey - a modern state with modern values emerged. But a very young welfare state!

Whereas in countries like Sweden and Germany the idea of preserving nature is considered a step backwards in order not to let science spin out of control and rape the soil and soul of mother Earth, in Turkey the same phenomena is just another enigma of a modern welfare state; something to be adapted and fit into the frame of prosperity and industrialization - Thus organic farming is seemingly but another face to attract tourists. Self sustenance is not an option here, at least not for those who choose to live by the law. The bureaucracy does not sustain it!

A valuable lesson I suppose, but not the kind of knowledge I hunger for...

And even though the little institution did not live up to my expectations as far as growing crops and sharing herbal knowledge they had other things to impress: A house built out of mud, meditation and guest houses all built in ecological manner and an outdoor restaurant/swimming pool all set to run without the use of chemicals or gas. Sheep for wool, a cow for milk, and a horse for musclepower. Work consisted of spreading compost over a huge a huge field, chopping wood, gathering bamboo sticks, cleaning the pool and restaurant...


Thus I enjoyed the primitive life, working hard, meeting people, toiling side by side with likeminded, the tranquility of a stream running through an ambient valley in the shade of eucalyptus. Yet forward is the truth and after many a happy helloes and sad goodbyes later, I finally ended up at my cousins porch again.
What to do next?



A short journey within the frames of civilzation: Ripped off by a shoeshiner, embezzled by a one-toothed englishman, and wasting oh-too-much-money on nothing later, I finally parked my arse back on my cousins porch yet again, budget close to nil.
Dammit!


Suddenly two Englishmen entered the little gate. The rumour of the tall, scraggy Swede repairing chimneys had reached them. No such occupation in Turkey, still they had a chimney in need of repair. They had retreated from the ratchase of modern Britain and retreated to Turkish countryside, finding peace. A big old house with an open fireplace, specially designed, consuming wood and breathing fire like an angry dragon. Oxygen needs to be cut off, would I mind looking into it? I agreed, they left, haven’t heard from them since...
Another dead end...


Still have this gift with people, it seems...
A good judge of character, yet on occasion I allow myself to get involved with dark souls, just for the hell of it. But first and foremost, I guess for some reason I’m just bloody likeable.
Thus next offer came from the neighbours, they knew my situation and took pity on me, thus offered me to tend their garden.
A p aid job just 5 meters away from my cousins porch.
Nice.
Now I have been weeding, replanting and designing for three days and in three days I will finish. Small garden!


More offers from within the spider web of my cousins list of friends and contacts: Cleaning a pool, washing cars, cutting wood, build a fence...
1 - 2 days of work, surviving day by day... Doable, indeed, but in the long run not really sustainable...
Seems like I have to use that return ticket after all, another run back home with my tail between my legs, another mission failed and back to home base...


Luckily, a burning soul does know how to recognize another... Thus it seems I’m hitting the mountains for a month or two...
Someone needs a house built and some muscle to pull the weight of cement and wood.
I have been offered a wheelbarrow along steep and bumpy mountain roads, wrestling scorpions and dodging porcupine. Yet they are german and I am swedish, two nationalities cold in mind, yet I believe the purpose of their hearts burn true...
Perhaps there is something to learn!?
We shall see if I’m up for the task.


Over and out.
K.

postmodern myths pt.2 - the tale of Narcissos and Eco

Ocean my lonesome friend, you have existed before me and will exist after my passing, and every day you shower each and every horizon with fresh waves... Your power is terrible and your beauty compelling, but tell me my friend, is there love in that deep dark heart of yours? Is there wisdom and understanding? Men live short and brutal lives yet claim to know all, though we have but brushed the surface of our own skin. I have walked the earth for many years, breathed the air of many nations, scorched my heart on the fire of loving men and women alike... Until nothing remained but ash and ember. There is no love in the hearts of men, only scorched flesh and fear. There is no wisdom in the breath of my lungs, only hunger for more. There is no understanding in grinding my soles into the soil of the earth, for here I am sitting by the edge of the world... I have walked the earth and now my legs are broken. Here at your bleeding feet I lay my body to rest with the soil, praying for water to nurse my passing soul...

As I sat by the oceanside, reading the petty poetry of my own notebook, pondering whether to smash my body upon the cliffs or sink into the ocean the water stirred, a wave most unnatural... The air was cold, the rocks were hard and life was as real as any day of any life lived within the frames of air and earth seen by eyes of dead embers. Yet from the rolling waves of water beauty presented herself. A female creature, her upper body that of a flawless human, her lower body that of fish. Had I still interested myself in the riddles of life I might have become surprised for someone told me long ago mermaids exist but in the minds of madmen and mariners and I was neither. Yet there she crawled upon the jagged piece of rock I thought would be my last upon earth and she sat by my side with a deep sigh and she stared at the water as I stared at the water and she spoke to me:
”If we mate you shall not remember your mortal life and you shall wish to live again, now what do you choose?”
I answered:
”What do you talk of, you are fish, I cannot mate a fish even if I wished to live. Now please swim along as life always has and leave me to grieve the passing of waves, I promise my grief shall be shorter than that one wave out there from which you came and I still cannot see, yet as it splashes these shores it is my corpse and not my soul that shall stirr, for life as I knew it has promised me death...”

”I cannot my love, for I am drawn towards grief. It is the only way we mate and it is the only way you may rest and give life anew, now what do you choose?”
As she spoke her golden fin unfolded into legs and there we sat. The perfect woman and a a broken man clad in nothing but lust and desire, staring at the riddle of the ocean yet nothing but mating in mind for mermaids have a way to twist the minds of men. I took heart and I spoke and my words were strong and unyielding:
”To mate the perfect woman you say, remember naught, and live again, is this your bargain?”, I asked.
And ”yes, my love”, was all she answered.

Man is a simple creature and I am but a man, what man would not, what man could not? To plant a seed within beauty, forget, and live forth. To breathe again, not knowing the air, to walk again yet not feel the earth, to burn again yet not knowing fire...
”No my fair lady, this man will not. For never has air been sweeter nor earth more solid than seen with these cold burning eyes. I shall join you soon enough in the water... Clad yourself in your garment of fish - a shark blushes not at its teeth why should you hide an innocent fin? For this man is mortal yet proud and shall not stand up, reborn in a false shroud of dreams. I am tired but not weak, I stand true to my purpose! Nor woman nor fish shall confuse my passing...”

She hung her head as legs turned to fish yet again, and spoke in solemn voice:
”All I want is a child for I grow tired of swimming alone. Ten and a thousand years I have lived in this body all men wish to mate yet I was not always fish. There was a pond once, now it has become ocean and I must swim it alone. I was born out of grief, I am drawn towards grief, yet when grief I find then a man is a man no more. When alive you hurt kin and kindred alike, yet when dying you cannot even satisfy the only one wish of a fish and her plea, yet this is what you chose your mortal form to be and what drives it towards death again and again... A man born mortal may be lonely, perhaps, but his loneliness ends after hundred a years, what do you know of desire and death? All you ever knew and loved is your own sad reflection and no matter the size of your mirror you cannot see the true face of yourself! Damned be the weakness of mortals and damned be my curse immortal and damned be your beautiful face. ”

Dissappointed and sad, yet she lingered, she would not leave. Thus i asked:
”I demand nothing, I have nothing to give, I wish to die. My decision is made! Why do you linger in my presence to mock my final action upon earth with a shallow desire of flesh?”
She answered:
”Every hundred years I climb these shores, every hundred years we meet on this here stone, every hundred years you turn me away! Every hundred years I sit on this stone watching my lover die yet again... You came here not but once, my love, we used to sit by a pond that now is an ocean, but you never remember and that is my curse... I get lonely, even if I do not breathe the air nor feel the earth, my love, I know these waters and what burns below... May I stay until your decision is made complete?”

Thus I answered:
”You may not, for your presence dims my mind and weakens my decision. Be gone and let me die alone!”
She laughed out loud:
”You never change my love! I swear every time your pride grows more stubborn! Enjoy your death for your rebirth shall erase my words and your memory yet again! You will hunt but you will never find! You will fight, and you will fall! Then you will bleed and make my ocean deeper still. But before I leave I give you this gift of a curse, as you deny me again... as you refuse to let me take your sad memories away... I shall restore the memories of all your lives all at once, and you shall have your answer like so many a times before. Farewell my love! Till next we meet.”
And with an angry splash she was gone, restoring all those memories lost...

I know now what heart beats beneath the waves of the furious ocean. For the ocean is but a shallow pond, a broken cup to collect the tears of a vainglorious God... A mirror to reflect his dying beauty, lying at the edge of the world blending tears into water, so that the one creature who truly loves him may swim forever lonely, forever lost, forever more...
It is Echo!

I never heard her voice in the wind for I was busy making noise.
I never felt her soothing flame for I was busy playing with fire.
I never felt her feet meeting mine in the underworld for I was busy striding forth.
I never saw her graceful form in the water for I was busy pondering my own reflection.
I could be loved in this world would I but listen...
You are loved in this world if you but stop shedding tears in a pond to reflect your own sorrow.
And now little mortal, your pond is an ocean...

Next time, my love, we shall mate and you shall bear a child and we shall name our child happiness.
You die! And again you forget your promise to life...

A noi che siamo gente di pianura
Navigatori esperti di città
Il mare ci fa sempre un po' paura
Per quell'idea di troppa libertà

Vi, folket från slätten
Vars fotsteg ekar i staden
Vi som räds det oändliga havet
Vi som räds en frihet utan slut



Eppure abbiamo il sale nei capelli
Del mare abbiamo le profondità
E donne infreddolite negli scialli
Che aspettano che cosa non si sa

Även med saltstänk i håret
Är det havets djup vi bär inom oss
Som frysande kvinnor gömmer sig bak sjalar
En outtalad längtan i sin blick



Gente di mare, che se ne va
Dove gli pare, dove non sa
Gente che muore di nostalgia
Ma quando torna dopo un giorno, muore
Per la voglia di andare via

Folket från havet, som sätter foten på land
De går vart de vill, men de vet inte vart
De faller, de dör utav längtan
När skymningen kommer finns de ej mer
Offer för sin längtan till horisonten



(Gente di mare)
E quando ci fermiamo sulla riva
(Gente che va)
Lo sguardo all'orizzonte se ne va
(Gente di mare)
Portandoci i pensieri alla deriva
Per quell'idea di troppa libertà

(Folket från havet)
Vi som tvekar vid stranden
(Människor som vågar)
Med blicken bortom det blå
(Människor från havet)
Dit drömmen alltid flyr
Vi som räds en frihet utan slut



Gente di mare, che se ne va
Dove gli pare, dove non sa
Gente corsara che non c'è più
Gente lontana che porta nel cuore
Questo grande fratello blu

Folket från havet, som sätter foten på land
De går vart de vill, men de vet inte vart
Korsfarare från svunna tider
Människor långt borta som bär i sitt hjärta
Vår broder, det stora blå



Al di là del mare, c'è qualcuno che
C'è qualcuno che non sa niente di te

Andra sidan havet stirrar någon tillbaks
Någon som inte vet att du lever, eller ens att du finns



Gente di mare, che se ne va
Dove gli pare, ma dove non sa
Noi, prigionieri di queste città
Viviamo sempre di oggi e di ieri
Inchiodati dalla realtà
E la gente di mare va

Folket från havet, som sätter foten på land
De går vart de vill, men de vet inte vart
Vi, dessa städers fångar
Vi som lever för idag och igår
Inspärrade av logig och reson
Hur vi avundas folket från havet



(Gente di mare che se ne va) Che se ne va
(Dove gli pare) Ma dove non sa
Noi, prigionieri di queste grandi città
Viviamo sempre di oggi e di ieri
Inchiodati dalla realtà
E la gente di mare va

(Folket från havet, som sätter foten på land) Som sätter foten på land
(De går vart de vill) Men de vet inte vart
Vi, dessa städers ömkliga fångar
Vi som lever för idag och igår
Inspärrade av logig och reson
Hur vi avundas folket från havet

Upptagna dagar. Växthus färdigt. 3 rutor redan spruckna, aja hemmabygge! Håller värmen i alla fall. Satt upp petflaskor runt solrosor som minidrivhus. Vänner o bekanta kommer o går. Jobb från ingenstans, mer takläggning. Tomater, paprika o tobak ute! Föräldrarna på semester och i efterdyningarna av allt annat 2 trädgårdsjobb, ett betalt och ett för den goda sakens skull - År två på raken av att städa upp runt danskarnas sommarstuga, mitt gamla fäderneshem, blev ett helt släp till tippen. Borde känna mig bra och duktig och i fas med våren men något är fel.

Plötsligt dog en anka, troligtvis nervös och trasig av sitt kommande moderskap - 8 ankägg blev omelett! Brutalt!? Jojo, och kött tillverkas i affären! Här ser vi den i vitögat och tar tillvara på resurser. Orkar inte ens skriva om det där...

Plötsligt kom regnet och i och med sysselsättning bruten slog en oro rot. Vill ut, vill vara utomhus, men regnet gör mig dyster. Sitter framför internet och bläddrar mellan allt trädgårdsgojs jag vill köpa för alla pengar jag inte kan tjäna när det regnar istället!
Fast ja, bara för att man vet hur lättpåverkad man är av vädret kan man inte direkt förändra det.
Trampar tillbaka några steg - min bok, journalistiken. Ett nedsläckt rum inomhus, stearinljus och slussar hela min energi på att pussla ihop halvfärdiga historier, göra dem hela.
Ett från omgivningen plötsligt intresse för mitt skrivande har fått mig att plocka upp pennan igen. Har varit där och vill inte tillbaka, inte mer än perioder i alla fall...

Saknar ändå den där ankan! Hanen kallar jag Tamarro! Italienska för raggare för att han är så förbannat kåt! Den svartvita kallar jag La Carina, söt, för hennes sammetsmjuka ögons skull. Den som dog, Biancaneve, snövit... Det var lite nazi över henne med de där blåkalla ögonen men hon hörde ändå hemma här... Borde väl vant mig vid det där nu... Förlust. Människor, djur, plantor... Hur vi lever och plötsligt dör...Men kan man verkligen vänja sig vid sådant!?
Själv planerade jag aldrig passera de trettio och här är jag nu... Hur gudarna måste skratta åt våra planer!

Är på sådant där humör att jag bara vill låsa in mig och dricka poeten i mig liderligt stupfull och bara skriva!!! Men det går bara inte nu. Undrar om jag kommer klara hålla mig hemma hela året. Vandraren i mig har redan börjat knorra. Saknar alla jag en gång älskade, de som försvann och de som svek, saknar mig själv, jaget som tog sin egen sorg på allvar och inte hånskrattade så fort jag började lipa. Men antar att det där inte är jag längre... Människan är byggd att gå framåt, det är bara kräftor som simmar baklänges, och kanske räkor, vad vet jag...

Har planterat 2 rabatter med blommor, de vägrar slå ut, kanske är de döda...
Gräva ned sig i något, eller bara dra... kloster, pilgrimsfärd, trädgårdspraktik, mongoliet, Nepal, Italien eller rentav tillbaka till Kina bara för att jävlas med sig själv... Eller fortsätta plantera solrosor, de verkar vara de enda som tar sig i långa loppet...