These are the Girls
They are the girs who I rode my bike to school with when I was too old to be escorted by mom but too young to ride alone. We started off as responseble eightyearolds in bright-colored helmets. Over time, we turned into brave and loud teenagers who thought more about not letting rain or wind ruin makeup and hair than keeping an eye on the cars around.
They are the girls who ran my errands at the school yard, who asked the boys I thought I loved to date me. And out of girlish lojalty, they liked the ones who said yes, disliked the ones who did not. As we grew older, the tactics changed, but never the loyalty.
They are the girls who watched me blush from my first kiss, giggle from my first drink, and cry from my first breakup.
They are the girls who helped make me the one I am, but also prevented me from becoming what I have not. It is because of their influence I did not start smoking when many others did, that I did not fall into drug use when I could have.
They are the girls who taught me what it means to be a real friend, who forgave me when I failed, and let me do the same for them.
They are the girls in whose rooms I have solved all the dilemmas of childhood, teenage years, love struggles, and family issues. Now we meet over cups of coffee at each others kitchen tables, but they still sit down and listen. And they give the best advice, because they know me, they know where I come from. They have known every me there has ever been.
-
When I look around at the faces, I still see the sevenyearolds we once were. Then we wondered how our lives would turn out. We dreamed and worried about the future. Now we know some of that. Now our dreams and worries are different. So also our perspectives.
I realize how unbeliveble lucky I am.
These are the girls who I called friends almost twenty years ago.
That is almost my whole life.
These are the girls.
My girls.
Ur led är tiden
Åtminstone om man får tro klockorna på högskolecaféet i Kristianstad.
Almost Spotless
The black scabs.
Now I have six.
Red marks.
Heal, heal, heal.
Perfection
A woman - more beautiful than all other women. And almost perfect. Almost.
If it had not been for a tiny birthmark on her pale cheek.
A man - her husband. A scientist seeking perfection. He finds her flawless. Almost.
If it had not been for a tiny birthmark on her pale cheek.
This is the dilemma of Nathaniel Hawthorne's short story "The Birthmark" from 1843, a story that deals with the illusion and obsession with human perfection and our sometimes uncritical trust in science.
When Aylmer marries Georgiana, he barely notices the birthmark. But
"seeing her otherwise so perfect, he found this one defect grow more and more intolerable with every moment of their united lives. It was the fatal flaw of humanity which Nature, in one shape or another, stamps ineffaceably on all her productions, either to imply that they are temporary and finite, or that their perfection must be wrought by toil and pain."
For Aylmer it becomes an obsession to make happen what nature could not. He decides to remove the birthmark from his wife's cheek. A decision that - from the moment he makes it - carries heavy foreshadows. A decision which will have fatal consequences.
If I were to pick one human characteristic over all - one to describe the nature of humankind - I would pick our desire to approve things, our drive for excellence and perfection. In a modern world this sometimes creates a conflict between science and nature.
Therefore Hawthorne's short story, even though it is 160 years old, speaks to us all. It reminds us of something we need to be reminded of. Perfection is not a natural form; perfection is never found among the living. Perfection is nothing more than the illusion of a short moment.
Den finaste
Världens finaste Signe var med mor och far på bild i tidningen igår. Familjen Östberg/Bengtsson i fyrfärg.
Och Signe, lilla vän. Som du har växt! Jag hinner ju inte med.
Hoppas att vi ses på tisdag. Då blir det pusskalas.
Big Time!
Din moster har bebisabstinens.
Det vackraste
Lördagsmorgon.
Dricker kaffe framför datorn och läser DN:s språksidor.
Språk fascinerar, förundrar och lockar mig att skapa. Det har det alltid gjort. Att vi kan tala, sjunga, skriva och läsa. Allt vi kan uttrycka. Allt vi kan bevara, återerövra och föra vidare. Visst är det ofattbart. Egentligen.
Hamnar på sidan om en omröstning DN hade för ett par år sedan. Svenskans vackraste ord skulle koras. Folket tänkte till och tyckte - och avslöjade sin längtan. Kopplingen till naturen. Sommarvind hamnade högst på listan, följt av solregn och dagsmeja. Sommaren. Den svenska sommaren. Det heligaste för oss.
Det vackraste enligt mig?
Sömndrucken.
Skrivprocess
Hela veckan har varit dedikerad till examensarbetet. Varje morgon har jag gått upp, slagit på datorn och plockat fram böckerna.
Trots det händer inget.
Jag skyller på
- radion, som spelar så bra musik att man måste ta sångpauser titt som tätt.
- vännerna, som ringer mig, inspirera mig att ringa dem eller pockar på min uppmärksamhet via msn.
- internet, som bjuder på en oändlig mängd nyheter och skojigheter.
- blommorna, som absolut måste planteras om, vattnas eller vändas.
Så. Idag sitter jag på biblioteket.
Och bloggar.
Aaaaghhhhh!
Jill & Johan i juli
Söta Jill ska få sin Johan. Och jag får gå på bröllop.
Mysigt!
Home
"There is no place like home," Dorothy says, taps the heels of her ruby red shoes and returns from the magical Land of Oz back home to the dusty prairies of Kansas.
She, who once believed that adventures would make her happy; she, who dreamed of a better life far away from her uncle's farm, has learned that no matter what adventures awaits you in far-away lands, no matter which friends you make or how deeply they touch you, home is always home and there is no place like it.
Once, I was just as restless as Dorothy. I longed for my world to expand. I thought adventures equaled happiness. Therefore I set out to find it.
My restlessness took me around the world. My restlessness brought me adventures.
I traveled the Middle East. For a while I called a small but beautiful room just inside one of the gates of Old Jerusalem my own. I loved every second. And as springtime transformed the hills around Jerusalem in early March, bringing out flowers and senses I had never seen or felt before, I did not miss the cold spring-winter-rains at home.
I have stayed in Egypt. Long enough to feel comfortable, long enough to make friends, long enough to make a habit of scuba diving in the Red Sea. And as I floated in the lukewarm water, face to face with guppies and puffy fishes, I did not miss the cold, greenish waters of Öresund.
I fell in love. And love brought me more adventures.
It brought me to a new continent. To the country where everything is big. So also the dreams. My own dreams were huge. I made someone a promise to stay. Forever. I made a promise and I started a new life.
But. Something in me had changed.
Beacuse it is easy to find adventures in new places. All it takes is an open mind and courage to go. But somewhere along the way, my hunger for adventures had transformed into the need for a home. And I had none.
I loved the warm weather in Texas. Still, as I woke up to the fiftieth day of bright sunshine, my soul craved the misty rains of Skåne. I loved the people, their optimism, their warmth, their ability to socialize. Still, as I found myself in conversations I could not always tap into, I craved someone to be "typically Swedish" with.
Is it a defeat to give up a life of adventures and go back to what you know?
Is it a sign of weakness to be so connected to where you come from, that no place else feels like home?
Some days I believe that.
Still, as I spend countless of hours at friends' kitchen tables, turning my soul inside out, trying to find myself again, I watch spring break under a clear, pale blue sky. It does not smell as sweet as spring in Jerusalem, it is not at warm as spring in Texas. But it is a part of me in a way that no other spring is.
Dorothy could bring nether the Scarecrow, the Tin Woodman, nor the Cowardly Lion back to Kansas. Their home was Oz. I have left pieces of me scattered around the world. I leave half my heart in Texas. But just as Dorothy, I have landed a little wiser, a little older, knowing myself and what I need.
One thing have I learned. The difficult - but adventurous - way:
There is no place like home.
Countdown
Do it.
It came off all by itself.
Five to go.
Pannkakssmet
På ICA Kvantum i Kristianstad gäller det att se upp med var man trampar.
Å andra sidan får man kanske själv välja sitt tjugotal i villervallan.
Self Medication
Why is it that we listen to sad music when we are sad?
It doesn't help a bit.
Itching Fingers
My fingers itch.
I want, I want, I want - to touch, rub, scratch, feel, pick, and peel.
They are perfect now. Would come right off. Probably just leave pink circles of fresh skin.
But the doctor said NO. Threatened with SCARS.
I picture six scars greeting me every morning.
As I sit on my hands.
Broken
Suddenly my teacher paints the picture of a scenario and says something I will never forget. Something I will think about time and again during the course of my life.
- If your scull breaks, your brain can liquefy and run out. However, if the brain substance is scooped back into the scull again - for example with an ordinary spoon - the nerves can technically reattach and the brain restore itself.
If it's true or not, I do not know, but believing it has always brought me comfort. And if it is true in case of the brain, perhaps it is true for other body parts as well.
Like the heart.
Prickig
Sex fula födelsemärken är borta.
Tillfälligt ersatta av hiskeliga brännmärken.
Låt oss hoppas på gott läkekött.
Skynda, skynda.
Dilemma, dilemman, dilemmor
- Det är många dilemmor som finns i den här frågan.
Jag hoppar till i soffan.
Dilemmor? Är det verkligen ett ord?
Språknörden i mig får ingen ro.
Birthday Party
Up till the cake came out.
For some reason, I didn't manage to catch the older kids on camera. Maybe because they only sat still when they ate. Here are some of the rest of us:
My brother Björn, Jenny, and Maxx.
Peppe, my sister Marie, and Thyra
Thyra and uncle Björn take a look at Maxx' ball.
Look at those eyes! Maxx shows the big blue for his godmother to be.
In a year or so these cousins will be running around playing rather than sitting still with their aunt.
The Strandberg Family
Lunch time is not the best time for cuddling.
Two are suddelny three, nine months after the wedding. Caroline, Viggo, and Martin.
Animal Farm
- A wolf. A black wolf.
Had it been any other two-year-old, a dog would easily have been good enough. (Of course it is a wolf!). However, Linus and his big brother are too smart for people like me - people who look for the easy way out and don't mind feeding children half-lies. At my visit, we looked through the toy store's catalogue of animals. Guess who won the game of naming mos
t animals?Not me.
So. There was no getting away with buying a dog. Which is too bad. The toy store had a wide collection.
Instead I ended up with an ostrich.
-
I'll be back with an update on Sunday.
Dreams
Wannabe
Ginger Spice - that is me - the one in the too-short, too-tight boxers.
At least my children will have something to laugh about...
Garlic
I LOVE garlic - to such an extent that I eat it almost every day. In abundance. Garlic is good stuff. It turns every dinner into a love session for your taste buds, and it contains a large number of vitamins. Två flugor i en smäll. Therefore, it is with sadness I realize the backside to my fondness of the little white bulbs.
For a while I have felt that I sometimes smell awkward. It has not been overwhelming, but still enough for me to notice myself and to make it a psychological challenge - especially since I've been around a lot of new people lately. It's one of those taboos that you can not quite discuss with just anyone. "Hey, do you think I smell bad?" is not the ultimate way to socialize.
Now I have put one and one together and located the source of my stinkiness. It has to be my frequent intake of garlic.
That leaves the question of what to do. I see two options.
- - Stop eating garlic. At least every day.
or
- - Start looking for a killer deodorant.
Any suggestions on killer deodorants?
From One who Knows Me
Pasta, apples, oranges, tomatoes, grapes, avocadoes, spinach, a cucuber and a squash, fish, chicken, bread, tea. A watermelon.
And a big bouquet of bright yellow tulips.
It is great when those who know me the best also love me the most.
Thank you.
Qualified Touches
Saturday I spent with mom on a fair for alternative treatments here in Kristianstad. Most of the tables offered suspicious healing methods.
- One woman tried to sell us magic rocks; she had a wide range of shining little beauties which were supposed to heal everything from nervousness to bad breath.
- One man healed peoples lungs by blowing through a huge Aboriginal horn pointed at their back.
- A man and a woman worked together. They healed people by placing large copper bowls on their bodies and then brushing against the inside of the bowls with a big rubber club. During the session, they both closed their eyes and mumbled strange words.
Mom and I went for the touching treatments. She got a session of Zone Therapy and I got Thai Massage. Apart from the awkwardness of taking my clothes off in front of strange people and showing my ugliest (but most comfortable) bra, it was heavenly.
The stranded whale on the massage table equals me.
Hot, Dried, and Smoked
I rarely get presents outside birthdays or Christmases. But a couple of days ago it happened.
When I went to pick the package up at the post office, the whole room smelled like Texan style dried, smoked hot peppers.
And sure enough. That is what it was.
Loads of it too.
Now my fridge smells, my kitchen smells, and my food tastes.
I am in heaven.
