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In the first room

at the famous art gallery

something hit me hard

but not the exhibition shown.

A guide spoke incessantly,

abstract, interpretive and in falsetto,

well above my head.

I did not understand a thing.

Suddenly my mind cleared.

I wanted to see and hear

the exhibition directly.

Let it itself talk to me.

Went outside filled with a clear pain.

Badly affected,

strange emotions

did not recognize myself,

went to the café.

Sat down writing

to recollect.
 

Outside the gallery,

trains passed in grey sleet.

Perceived by me

as dirty and badly worn skeletons

in naked cold metal.

Undressed from previous warmth.

Within an inexplicable second

my attitudes changed.

No more love for trains

but free to love my father.

Once he worked

at the Swedish railroad head office

Before the war

grandfather was a train driver.

In respect of my sudden pain

I left the exhibition.

Remained at my center,

despite pain,

unfinished thoughts,

and broken feelings.

Could have turned

my feelings off,

using supposedly logical interpretations

about cause and effect.

I did not.

Once more
pandemic sordines
obstruct my zest for life.

Sixteen days from now
we all have a winter solstice
Then, at least the sun turns.

It’s grey outside the window
today more than yesterday and the day before.
Today, I lit another Advent candle.

At the coffee-shop
a bunch of young people and myself
greyish-blue light
from numerous laptops and mobile phones
about twenty-five of them
All crouching at the extreme end
of the wips of the informational flow

Human conversations faded away
while sipping a Latte
No one cared
but still scared and lost
not knowing why.

They often tell me I am a curious character. Well, not as such, but I am open to various new thoughts and ideas. Not just within myself. I share them with other human beings I trust. Fortunately, I have a few such friends. Secondly, I am not that young anymore. Now and then, my body indicates this state of affairs . My mind does it as well. Frequently, I perceive gaps in logic sequences and memory. These gaps usually disappear if I wait a little longer than when young.

Does my curiosity show some primary orientation? I would go the easy way and reming myself of ways I was to control my behaviour. I often think of how to behave concerning individuals being close to me. Primarily with females on whom I depend. They have ignited some subconsciously motivated reactions. One frequent reaction is to avoid conflict. This includes trying to sense and interpret signals behind the words, behaviours and facial expressions. One dominant orientation is for me to behave decently. A significant setback is, I come to know a lot about what I don’t want. Thus, I do not know much about what I do want.

At this moment in life, I am attempting to write a book. I like to write. I do it a lot. Several hours every day. Sundays and weekdays, summer and winter coming snow or sunshine. But why do I write, and about what do I want to write a book? What is that story, experience, theme or issue on which I would like to focus my abilities?

I feel as if this is the most challenging question I have ever touched. It lures in the bushes whenever I sit down and write. I never bring it out of those bushes cause I know I have no experience with this issue. I know I could fill my life with a lot of things to do. Thus avoiding that hard question.

Yesterday, I brought a tricky question out to the elves and got some pretty good suggestions for proceeding. I was lucky to get this contact with them under the old ash tree we have close to our house. Here, at this summer house, I think I have a civilized surrounding which allows me to communicate with the elves. I do not have to entangle myself in scientific proofs of their existence. I follow that primary route of practical knowledge: perform an experiment, try it out and see how it works. I do not need to know if the elves exist or if, in theory, I can communicate with me. I do not know of any scientifically solid definition of the concept of ”to exist”.

At this moment, I sense a signal. It does warn me not to get astray in the flow of things. I mean words, concepts, statements and proven methods. Possibly I have seduced myself by the sheer number of words I produce when I disregard these vague signals. I better seriously ask myself, what do? I can write a significant number of words each day. How do I guard myself against just using writing to fill any empty space I perceive.

So, where is that empty space at this very moment? What do I hear being told in this space and at this single moment?
.

For me, it’s like this.
In the morning, the words are raw.
Before I set off, I pull the quilt,
make the body leave the warm nest of the night.
In full anger.

I’m close to the raw.
an ascent is a daunting task.
Lately that old head has been thinking
a lot of things.

He continues to show off proudly.
At least to his body.
Individuals in the surroundings
do get a big toss, too.
Often in the form of mini lectures
soaked in the marinade of academic handling of words.

Over the centuries,
that format has evolved in seducing listeners.
Head office wants you
not to be an empty bowl
receiving verbal data by quantity.

After all
on the top floor,
they also have a goal
What they say is enough
for recipient to do well
out there.

This morning the yellow elements of my brains started being operative. They run along on their own. However, Years ago, I had a way of controlling what they do. This quality is the only thing I have defining what these yellow elements do for me. I salute their endeavour.

Maybe it is a preparation of me and my participation in that writing course later next month. My interpretation is that, during that course, I will grow in terms of making use of various inside voices when writing. So far, I have done my writing as images and descriptions of what I see as reality. Impulses from my unconscious tell me it is about time to shift from this perspective. What does support me in making my writing less strict and less based on facts? I will focus on those things.

Another of my voices is green. Frequently, this voice announces its presence and urge for space. But my decision is: ”in due time, you will get it, but not at this moment.”

So back to the yellow one. Partly it would be better if you had a clever and responsible element in your life. We, the yellow voices, do our best to act and satisfy your needs. We offer descriptions of the scene at hand and generate views from up above. We are creating the benefits of having an adult character in a standby position. We see your deep need of getting hold of things and to act on them. We adopt a self-assured attitude in the hope of you finding it of value to follow what we say. Others may tell you differently. But you have no one to listen to but us.

That was about the legacy of our presence. Now, what do we say? What do we consider as the thing for you to do today? Allow yourself some minutes to prepare for the coming week? But do not allow more than sixty minutes for such a task. Move your body and still your mind for another two hours. Focus on the needs of your kin. That is to clean your stuff from lying around everywhere.

When it comes to writing, the morning hours of this day are chilly. The weather forecast tells me the sun will break through some hours after midday. But this is but a description of the scene. What is me in this scene? Do I pick some attitude from Alain de Botton when he reads and interprets Marcel Proust? I do.

Or do I take some other book? I get a hunch that reading any book will result in a severe challenge to the way I remain in control. Reading a few Alain de Botton pages did make me less knowledgeable of what to do next. His words served me a severe challenge as to the raw, primitive scope of me following the old trail.

What does come to my mind? My story is that in a moment like this one, I raise a series of tough questions. I need time to get hold of answers if ever they exist. The result is no time to spare. I fill my life to the brim with less important stuff. No more room available for living. I doubt this strategy of mine.

The director of the ongoing movie: ”My life” shouts ”Action” on top of his lungs. Thus my story is to leave the preamble stage for living, being a decent guy and a writer. I start that big writing project at this very moment. My brain shouts: ”in medias res,” and here we go.

I am sitting down and consuming my first summer ice cream of the year. At the moment, I live on a small island ten kilometres away from the mainland. In front of me is the local harbour. A local freight ferry from the mainland did arrive a minute ago. Tourist arrive later by another vessel. Numerous guys search for their stuff and leave. Three young chefs from a nearby restaurant pick their stuff. At this distance, I participate in the turmoil of an ordinary day in the countryside without moving at all.

A slightly chilly air does clean my interior, from top to bottom. There is nothing I need to do. I sit, exist and feel joy.

Not being good enough

have been haunting me for decades.

Visiting every basement room and attic.

Demolishing every word, thought and way of thinking.

Wit and common sense were ground into sediments

Forming sea beds where new algae found nourishment.

The darkest months of the year could end any day now. But they have not. Endless rows of gloomy grey days have increased the burden. A few days of snow could have made it slightly better. But the sky remained cloudy and grey. On top of this a load of one pandemic, enduring and ongoing. My urge to live and love is not that stable any more. Will there ever be a joyful life a few months from now?

This morning a clear sky showed up ten centigrade below freezing point. Later on, the temperature increased to minus three. A sunny day. The whole town went out for a walk. We consumed any pavement available or ice for that matter. Finally, we found a place to sit down in leeward. A cup of coffee from a private thermos and a cinnamon bun or two. We may recover joyful life after months of absence. Would we?