A writer is born and then killed - COLLECTION - Ramblings, Proverbs I to VII, Bock, Roswell Hotel, and Henry

		Det började med en synd

​

De bar Jesus till korset Han tog själv av byxorna, skorna Inte genom att dö men att leva Sade han Ska jag lida för er, människor

Sorgöga, sorgöga, se mitt sorgöga Det blickar förbi dig mot horisonten Vad/finns/du där? Se aldrig in i mitt sorgöga Ty blixtar och smärta drabbar dig då

Bind dig inte, sade Solzhenitsyn Men jag band mig, inte med ett rep Om jag lyssnat hade inte bröstet smärtat Hade jag … Låt mig berätta vad jag gjorde i tio år Lärde mig om vätskornas obalans

Ofärdig från min barndom Hur jag ser människor Vad Idioten lärde mig

Att vara som Honom, alltså som Kristus
Att ju mer Ni spottar, ju mer blir jag

Det är inte för att jag hatar

Hade jag en sida skulle detta vara Om igen, om igen Blicka in i min själ Bli förstörd, arma människa

Jag ska berätta Allt du vill veta Som tusen pilar virvlande runt en himmelsk stång Vackra färger - regnbågens, orange - i en sång En kvinna som bär på ett gyllene fat Snubblar på oss alla, väller ljummen mat

Under mina ögon värmer blodets strömning Mina händer så kalla från kärlens tömning Mitt hjärta slår, bromsar som det behagar Min kropp, trött på att leva, sig evigt beklagar

Ack, och dopamin, serotonin, noradrenalin! Spökhuset på Tivoli. Den handen. Kära dotter. »Monstrets telomerer har blivit förkortade Långt före sin tid så att grå hår strittar Från haka och kal hjässa«

	Tager man hoppet från ungdomen
		Rakt ner i elden
			Låter kärleken brinna upp
				För att vuxna vet bäst

Så kom jag med blå ögon en tidig morgon i mitt liv Det enda jag hade Allt jag hade, förstår du!

			Alla skall inte sota
			För det i människan
			Som ingen kan bota

			Och ger man aldrig upp hoppet
			Står man snart för skottet

				»Den som kommer med ljuset blir dragen i gruset«

Solzhenitsyn var matematiker, han var en ofrivillig författare. Han var i artilleriet och skrev till en vän om Stalin.

Så kom han i straffläger och där började han skriva Utan papper och penna.

Min poäng är bara Känner man till orättfärdigheter Ska man skriva vad de gjort och vad de heter.

Magnus Uggla sade en gång: varför ska man ta livet av sig när man aldrig får hära eftersnacket Men tänk om man kan höra eftersnacket Från andra sidan.

I den lilla danska landsbyn är ljusen tända långt in i rummen denna lördag. Jag gick ut med en sköld/tankarna inpackade.

Det ena ledde till det andra. Tänkte jag. Slumpmässigheter! sade Solzhenitsyn. Djupt ner i havet Långt uppe i luften I ett flygplan En by Vindby Kastar farkosten till sidan Runt och runt Då måste man ta kontrollen Styra starkt åt vänster Både fötterna och spaken

Blir man sparkad måste man snabbt resa sig men det är skillnad En späckhuggare slår en rocka med fenan, vi såg det på TV hela familjen Allihopa Att bli slagen ur kurs, det är det jag menar Då ska man inte resa sig snabbt utan måste tänka sig om. Det är så viktigt att någon lär en vad man ska göra. Annars kan man göra fel Hamna i en parallell dimension Man lever ändå vidare Sluta tro på ödet Tänka att något blev fel Det gick för snabbt helt enkelt Och sluta se det som är vackert och bra

För en som en gång blev slagen ur kurs och inte rätade på sig på rätt sätt är bitterheten det svarta som tränger sig in i näsan, munnen och organen likt sot i en rökares lungor och grönt slime som hindrar kroppens fria rörelse. Varje tanke är sprungen ur ett svart hål som ihärdigt suger musten och minskar elasticiteten.

En kula A bullet Snabbare än skuggan, än ljudet Med mer kraft än tusen människors kramande händer Än hundra hästar Slungad ur en explosion Omöjligt att ändra dess riktning Bensäker vilja, går aldrig att rubba Innan felet är upptäckt, innan man rest sig Är inte det ett alternativ till att omtänsksamt dra i spaken och vrida på fötterna i Cessnan? Med andra ord: kan inte urkraft räta kursen? Men vilken kurs? Sluta Solzhenitsyn: du er nød til at definere kursus (han pratar danska nu) Livets kurs är den väg på vilken vi färdas från första till sista sekunden »Giv den tøj på« Man kan gå rätt och fel, kan uppnå rikedom och lycka såväl som ensamhet och smärta. Proportionerna av dessa element varierar från öde/själ/bana till etc, etc.

	I universum slungas partiklar runt omkring nära ljusets hastighet. Hela planeter exploderar av ingenting och stjärnor dras ihop till bruna och vita dvärgar.
		Uppe på himmelen lyser månen och blir från jorden besjungen och klädd i mystiska undertoner.

Hur ska man förstå det/man blir så ensam

Det är nu jag kommer med ett svar

Vi blir ödmjuka när vi lär oss att på egypternas tid hade man tur om man blev äldre än trettio. En generation. Ge mig mer, ge mig mer! Om och om igen! Fler cigaretter en ljummen sommarkväll Nya episoder på Netflix Det är OK att kräkas. Det är också OK att inte förhålla sig. Hur ska man kunna förhålla sig när disken väntar och bilen inte startar? »Banalt!« Arga man/du är död/har varit död i många år. Förstår du inte att genom att göra allting banalt räddar vi oss själva? Vet du inte att ramarna tillåter förstörelse givet att man lever i välfärd? Det var därför. DÄRFÖR!

Det var därför Jesus klädde av sig och satte sig på korset för att där fortsätta leva bland människorna. Han hade mat och vatten, gratis utbildning, fick jobb när han blev färdig. Utifrån kunde man inte se något lidande. Endast dem med empati kunde föreställa sig hans invändiga plågor, hur skammens eld slickade hans förkolnade revben och inälvor.

Men samtidigt var det inte meningen. Så tänkte han. I en svart bok skrev han svarta tankar, för han levde ju än.

Men var han fri? Blev han någonsin fri igen? Som han sparkade och slog. Hade Gud stått framför honom hade han Dödat honom Hans egen far

»Faren är viktig« Alla söner hatar sin far

Från miljonprojektens grå kulspel där ingen/varje familj var fel Till nittiotalets kokain med skjortor och ljusa jeans Den förste att gå på universitetet Poolen som vi badade i Jaguaren som vi åkte i Kollegorna som vände dig ryggen, far! Hur du reste dig, far! Vi var aldrig oroliga Inte ens när mor gick från dig och firman i konkurs Du reste dig igen Tänk om du hade tänkt efter, far! Eller tänk om du lärt mig hur du tänkte Det var från dig jag lärde mig Råkraft trumfar allt.

I din skugga var jag alltid en liten pojke Far förde alltid min talan Han lärde mig att inte bry mig om vad de andra säger

Som om denna kunskap var viktig, som om vi alltid slår i underläge, att det är vår lott. Det är ju inte allmängiltigt. Så kan man inte gå runt och tänka! Varför ska min verksamhet stå i motsats till din?

Jag växte upp en mjuk människa. Kanske saknade jag lejonets rå instinkt eller var den gömd under pälsen. Senare blev det en principfråga, ett motto, ett kall, en väg Att bli spottad på och slagen väcker instinkter till liv I sängen om natten badade jag i svett, slog och sparkade alla andra. I oändliga tal framför folkmängder förklarade jag mina handlingar, ursäktade mig, tog revansch genom välformulerade argument. Det kunde bara inte vara sant! Jag försökte böja tiden, jag bad den om att vända åter Det fungerade! Allt blev förlåtet och hade aldrig hänt En dag vaknade jag upp i dåtiden Utanför fönstret sjöng en koltrast Det var tidig morgon, hela världen sov, etc Hur långt tillbaka hade jag rest? Jag såg på mitt ur. På den tiden bodde jag i England. Solzhenitsyn (jag visste inte att det var han) hjälpte mig med algebran og magnetismen, kvantmekaniken och den speciella relativiteten. Tills jag bestämde mig för att göra något annat Satt vid fönstret en höst och såg ut på vinden som föste runt med bladen I efterhand måste jag säga att något kallade

Om och om igen, fram och tillbaka Tankarnas dans Sorgens krans Dödens krona ingen skona

Vill du med kärleken i behåll segla till paradis
Förbered dig med åror och kikare genom dis
Inget du ser
	Hur du än ber
		Mer och mer
			Livet dig ändå inte ger

Jag föreställde mig att de älskade mig. Kärleken som strömmade genom min kropp kom utifrån Människorna både förstod och förlät Mitt öde och offer de diskuterade och begrät Vaknade med tårar, allt närmare den dagen Då jag åter skulle äntra hagen

Augusta: »Der er så lidt tid«

Åter är ögonen varma och torra
Åter kämpar hjärtat mot
			Motstånd
				Stånd
Hålla stånd
Inte mot men för
			För frihet, kärlek, rättvisa

	Förstår du nu att jag dog?
		Att jag skriver från andra sidan
			Men inte riktigt, för jag lever än
									Förstår du det?
									Halvlevande

Bortsållad från mänsklighetens eviga höst, att bliva glömd av återstående generationer, spåren sopade så snart foten lämnat marken, omtalad som en parantes utan namn, hela jordens skam, mörkare än det värsta får.

	Det är min plikt at rapportera från fånglägret
Ingen skall undgå att höra hur vi har det här, vilka oförrätter vi utstår

									Jag utstår inte!
									Jag utstår inte!

		Jag 			utstår				inte

Tag din kära under armen, fodra edert barn, kultivera eder trädgård Bunden som ett rep, flera varv runt halsen.

		»Åtta år« viskade Solzhenitsyn i mitt öra

Sorgöga, sorgöga, se mitt sorgöga Pupillen så svart, iris pulserande Luta dig fram, kika med din blick Se ljus stråla ut mot horisonten

För kommer du till mig och säger att något gör ont Så har jag lärt Om vätskornas obalans Känner många öden Mitt eget såväl som andras Avlagt ed och löfte Om att lyfta alla stenar oavsett hur tunga Lyssna ihärdigt till röst, hjärta och lunga Dina hemligheter inte för andra berätta Eller din sjukdom till tårar sätta Men därimot försiktigt din desperation mätta Genom idéer på hur du ditt liv kan rätta Inte med urkraft som far sade Med förnuft, känsla och kunskap Långsamt vända båten Tills dess kurs gör dig belåten »Ja sannerligen«

Det är så lätt att hjälpa andra Dem man möter hjärtligt behandla Svårt att sig själv riktigt möta Att själen, kroppen varsamt sköta

Næstved Shopping Center Ett par dagar efter Black Friday Inte en glömd plats Apple Watch 80 kr per månad Kritiserar inte Running sushi Maria som leker på lekplatsen Vill bara ha nuggets Vi ser inte riktigt på varandra men vi är i alla fall tillsammans Vår lilla familj Innan gick vi längs havet, där vågorna möter först stranden så skogen Gick in bland träden Avlägsna blev vågorna En glänta bland barrträden, så oväntat ljusgrönt Här måste vara något magiskt, sade jag På marken: klöver, små svampar, ljust gräs, mossa i neon Det var en söndag Innan jag somnade lade jag märke till ett mörker som omkransar mig. Måste vara årstiden, vi närmar oss jul. Alla vänner jag borde ringa. Denna väntan, som om det fanns ett mål.

När jag har lite ledig tid vet jag inte vad jag ska göra Allt är meningslöst tidsfördriv Denna väntan

Måste producera, måste dokumentera, rista på stenar och träd

			Måla i grottor

			Jag var en gång här

Måste säga det vackert, måste förmedla känslan inuti

								Som oftast bara är svart
								Dyster
								Ledsen
								Besviken
								Bitter

Samtidigt ska dottern veta att livet är fantastiskt och hon ska skratta, leka

»Hade det inte varit för synden hade du fått leva som alla andra«

Som alla andra

	Ni är lyckliga, ni vet det bara inte

	Det är ni alla ni andra

Det går aldrig, blir aldrig till något

Låter detta vara verket Jag bryr mig inte.

Kontrasterar detta med en rivande desperation

				Jag går under
											Hör mig

			>>>>>>>>>__

Ser du toppen? Det var jag som gjorde den. Revolution

»Today it is 70 years since the start of world war 2. I am on my neighbour´s 				network. It is time to change things«

Det är så meningslöst. Som att stå framför Mount Everest i badkläder.

Har försökt att metodiskt skriva ner steg för steg, dag för dag. Det gick inte att läsa. Försökte göra litteratur utav det. Gick inte att läsa.

Det finns vissa påstånd som får dig att rygga tillbaka

		»Jag blev känd på Internet«

Ett av dem

		»Jag förändrade världen«

Nu går du

		»Jag var psykiskt sjuk«

Nu kommer du igen

		»SSRI gjorde mig manisk och psykotisk«

		»Megalomana vanföreställningar«

Så långt så gott

	Jag kom ut på djupt vatten
		Internet  verkligheten

Ja

Någon trodde jag konspirerade med latinamerikanska kommunister Försökte skjuta mig »He looked the shooter in the eye«

Har gjort massvis av musik som många har hört

DET GÖR ONT!

Det gör så ont. Vet inte vart jag ska ta vägen.

	Lilla människa så ensam i världen
	Tag mind hand, låt mig leda färden

	Gråt ej mera, se blott morgondagen
		Krama mig så det känns bra i magen

Två vägar vi kan gå, nu får du bestämma Vända om, skriva ner och smärtan hämma

		Eller framåt gå och det svarta evigt glömma

					Ty synden står i kröken likt en tusenårig ek
					Ingen någonsin glömma ditt själviska svek

	Mörkret dig omsluter när händerna får ro
	I dina tankar alltid malört gro

		Vem är du?

		Gud så klart

		Lovar du mig?

		Ja

		Är allt förlåtet?

		Ja

		Kommer allt att bli bra?

		Ja

		När?

		Snart

		Kommer jag att bli lycklig?

Dörren smäller hårt, en vind blåser till Jag går ut under den svarta himlen Satelliter rör sig Någonstans där uppe

Tänk att genom ärlighed och urkraft sona sig själv Genom att giva få tillbaka Använda den sits man är i Den man är Reflektera Veta Morgondagen Värme Gemenskap Inte bara jag men alla andra också Tillsammans

»Få nu den finger ud af den fucking røv!! Jeg har det sgu også hårdt!!«

				Hvordan kan du sparke på et mennesker der ligger

»Jeg er sgu pænt ligeglad!! Du sidder bare her og piller dig i navlen!!«

	Jag har ju precis förklarat för dig hur jag mår, att jag inte kan leva längre

Som är hon styrd av Djävulen själv Lyssnar, vinner mitt förtroende Idag kan jag prata med henne Växel 1, den vän jag älskar Men jag trampar på en tå »Hey, jeg har det også hårdt« Det utlöser något Från hennes förflutna Det att aldrig bli hörd, moren som slog henne, faren som aldrig var där De dog i cancer båda två Börjar prata snabbare, tonläget blir högre Allt jag har sagt (att vi måste flytta från varandra, att jag vissnar, inte är lycklig) Allt förstod hon, höll med, kom med betryggande ord, var min vän

	Kastas på golvet, är ingenting värt
		Används imot mig!
»Din fucking skidefar, din fucking narr!!«
							»Det er skræmmende!« (säger hon)

Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop (säger jag)

	Men ingen kan stoppa tåget

Ibland har jag rest mig, puttat ut henne, ställt mig för dörren så hon inte kan komma in

	Till sist går hon ut

				Ibland röker jag en joint men jag har slutat
				Ingen mening att bli full

Det enda: gå ut och borsta tänder, lägga mig med Solzhenitsyn

Inuti mig går allting isönder, tankar påbörjas men slås ihjäl Endast en kvarstår Gotta, gotta, get away Gotta, gotta, get away Som ett mantra »Din fucking nar!«

Hon ger mig detta Synden gav mig detta Som jag ger dig För att du ska lära något Om livet

19:19 21:21 02:02 11:11

	14:14
						23:23				
			09:09

Hennes föräldrar i himlen Svävar runt Hjälper oss Stiger ner Får man önska något När klockan slår lika Vet de något om det Jag står och presenterar en patientjournal när plötsligt klockan blir 12:12 »Patienten blev indlagt med psykotiske symptomer i går aftes, har sovet godt i nat…« Munnen rör sig men jag säger inget, mumlar »Er du der?« »Ja« Ingen får veta vad jag önskar Men igår Gick jag runt på fältet Ansiktet i grimas, tårarna rann, så sparsamt Men jag grät

Gud bestämmer
								Vet vad jag önskar
		Alltid din vilja sker
		Önskar mig inget mer

Låt vägarna leda till Rom Dumskallarna få sin dom Den som skriker bliva stum Låt mig få vara själv på mitt rum Och hon/jag aldrig mera vara dum

Diktens makt Var är Augustas rätt Vad händer i henne när elden rasar Precis innan knappen trycks Arma människa, låt mig älska dig, gör det inte så svårt Tänk om Tänk om Du gick att förstå Om du kunde förstå Hur mycket jag älskar dig Hur jag skulle beskydda dig om undergången kom Vi stod vid Herrens port Hon först skulle Gud säga Du vill bara väl/vill väl bara Det ska vara på 70-talet och ingen ska jobba Sitta runt elden Du håller folket samman

Vad tänkte jag mer på

Några kvinnor är som män i rustningar, några män är som kvinnor i klänningar Innan jag somnade skulle jag skriva det Meningslöst Lila är blå och röd Marko skrev det samma dag Som Stephanie sade det Hundra mil från varandra Utan att veta något

Som laxen leker i strömmens kyssar Fågeln flaxar i vindens kram Så fri är jag

Framkalla en magisk kraft

Gör det Om du kan

»Petya had such hard going at the Socialist colliery that at thirty-two he was going gray, his heart missed beats, and he had attacks of nerves which sometimes reduced him to helpless sobbing«

Närmar mig Cirkulerar Spatserar Spekulerar Grimaserar Revolterar Glorifierar Kan inte, landar igen

Startar motorn puttrar Bakåt med spaken

I en Spitfire sommaren 1941, 19 år gammal Mor och far där nere »Beware of the hun in the sun!« Glömde det

* ---------- * ----------- **
					Brinnande olja
							Jorden
		Förlåt
		Förlåt
		Jag dog	
		Maria
		Augusta

Människor fortsätter för att de aldrig ger upp Självmord kräver något annat Det är en historia Har du blivit förnedrad, bedragit, skadat och slått Gör skammen det omöjligt att fortsätta Borde du sluta leva Frågetecken På ryggen lägges den tyngsta väska (Min) Värld(en) någonsin skådat Framför fötterna utbredes den längsta väg Uppe i himlen lyser solen och tittar Ler den Skrattar den Gråter den Frågetecken I början beskyddar skorna, jackan tar vinden Sen blåser den bort Sulorna slits upp Runt ögonen formas rynkor nedåt Orden som kommer mister sin klang Kartan du bar med dig förstörs av regnet Börjar du ropa Någon som hör dig Vägen för dig vart Frågetecken

Proverbs I - The Road (2009-2011)

PrOvErBs are reactions to something greater and yet trivializations of life itself Prologue

Author, singing:

Oh and let it be so that they who seeth destruction in every man shall receiveth, yes for it is imprinted in every sacred soul the fear of these very days being the last and these very times the promised, and this very soul amongst the saved, oh let it be so.

And let those with fear see the signs and let them see, in every day and every deed, the wrath of their **, so that time is slow and day is long, oh let them wait, let them wait, let them wait, yes and let them see the signs, oh let it be so.

And plant the signs in every tree, in every mountain, in every word so that those who fear shall find comfort, and to the blind sayeth: see the signs! Let it be so, and let the signs be good or evil, of * or **, as to confuse, oh let it be so.

And let there be questions that must not be asked, let there be truths that are false, yes let there be beings born to the veritable death and wrath of the **, oh let it be so. Let the humble mind that curses the signs be wrong, oh let it be so.

And in the last days fear shall prevail so that evil can flourish, yes let them be certain of the end of times so that their words are strong and their actions those of wrath, oh let it be so. And do not comfort, do not embrace, oh let it be so.

And for the rest, those that seeketh the inner truth and the humble mind, let them be free from fear, let them haveth the graceful life and let them not be blind, but giveth them the clear vision so that they can expose the signs, oh let it be so.

Yes, let those who liveth with no fear, no hate and no selfish demand that they are the last, that these times being the end and them being the saved, let those liveth the good life, let those build the future, let those be humble and rational, oh let it be so.

For I am the **, and I have given you the brightest of minds and the clearest of eyes so that you can see the truth that does not exist, the signs that no-one made and the future that will go on and on, oh let it be so.

Yes I am the **, and I have not created anything and I have not selected anyone or any deed, yes the signs you made yourselves and the deeds are the deeds of inner peace and no fear, yes when you see this I am inside you, oh let it be so.

Oh let the world be round, let the rivers flow, let the animals prosper, and let them evolve as they wish, yes let time pass, let every being live in peace and feel the paradise, and let no other path than the one to enlightenment be more graceful, oh let it be so.

And call it enlightenment for it is not a word. It is a feeling, it is a state, and let every being in this state feel the magnificence of life, and let that being be free from signs, free from fear, free from hate and let that being live forever, oh let it be so.

Yes I am the **, and I will never reveal my existence to those that desperately seek me for no other purpose than boredom, self-love and lack of meaning, no they shall never see me, oh let it be so.

Yes I am the **, and I speak through every being, through every tree and through every mountain and none shall perish, none shall die, and times will never end, oh let it be so.

And I am but human and my understanding of life is limited, very limited. I have words and feelings and what these bring me I cannot properly convey, but how I try, oh how I try and let it be so.

Yes let it be that we shall seek, that we shall ask, that we shall prove and explain and venture, that we shall have peace and love, and not ask what the world can do for us, but what we can do for the world.

Kapitel 1 There’s no pain to lament and no dream undreamt Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy I left out the bit about the wolf whistles. Section Officer Maggie Harvey in Battle of Britain

Börja (Begin) Moron: Ja det kan vi väl, varför inte? Bara att gå ju. Sen kan man se när man kommer fram om hundarna kommer skälla, om fåglarna kommer skrika. Det är ju många år sedan nu. Tusentals år! Klart man ska vara där när det händer liksom. Allt annat är ju som att missa frukosten. Äta kaffe och dricka mackor, hehe! Var har han varit i tusentals år? Knyter du skorna? Äta bör man annars dör man. Moron: Sure, why not? Just a matter of walking. Then when you get there you will see if the dogs will bark, if the birds will screech. So many years since! Thousands of years! Of course you gotta be there when it happens y’know. Everything else is like missing breakfast. Eat coffe and drink sandwiches, hehe! Where has he been for thousands of years? Will you tie your shoes? You better eat else you will die. Efter frukost, dagen (After breakfast, the day) Heron: Himmelen, denna vackra sfär. En rovfågel cirkulerar fritt och spänstigt där uppe. Sen blir det skymning och var är fågeln då? Trädtopparna de gröna som en hinna, kottarna de svarta på marken den bruna. Här i stolarna i trädgården pratar vi och har det fint. Skicka saften, ge mig en bulle, jag fick ingen frulle. Rovfågeln lyfter mot det blå och spanar ner på oss, ser ni att den ler? Heron: Oh heaven, this beautiful sphere. A bird of prey circulates freely and elastically up there. Then sunset and where is the bird then? The tree tops green like a coat, the pines black on the ground which is brown. Here in the chairs in the garden we talk and have a good time. Send me the lemonade, hand me a bun, I got no breakfast. The bird of prey takes off towards the blue and looks down at us, do you see it smile? Sen kommer kvällen (Then comes the evening) Author: Var på en jazzklubb i går med Alan. Först satt vi vid vattnet där bilarna körde och drack pilsner. Vi gick den smala krokiga gatan ut på den större gatan och där var klubben. Det var gratis innan tjugotvå och vi hann i tid. En timme hade vi att slå hål på. Åh så vackra flickorna var. Alan såg dem inte men jag såg. Jag försjönk i tankar om min framtid. Alan tecknade stora teorier i sitt block. Han bjöd på första ölen och sen turades vi om. Musiken var vacker, intensiv, exotisk. Det blev ett hak från tjugotalet. Framförallt trummisen såg ut, som om han hade samlag. Author: Went to a jazz joint last night with Alan. At first we sat by the waterside where the cars drove and drank pils. We walked the narrow road up to the wider road and there it was. The entrance was free before twenty two and we got there in time. An hour we had to kill. Oh how beautiful the girls were. Alan didn’t see them but I saw. I started thinking about my future. Alan drew grand theories in his sketch block. He bought the first beer and then we took turns. The music was beautiful, intense, exotic. It became a joint from the twenties. Especially the drummer looked as if, he was having intercourse. Och natten (And the night) Moron: Det finns en känsla, ett slags äckel över sig själv, en slags självrannsakan där målet är att reducera sin värld till intet. Inse att allt är inbillning! Säg inget till någon, bara sluta. De kommer hitta dina texter sen och då kommer de förstå. Nu sitter du ensam här med dina tankar. Släpp dem! Rannsakan är bakåtsträvande, aldrig ser den framåt. There is no going back, Ron. This is space, this is the universe. You’re but a collection of molecules. Ron, you never spoke to God. Moron: There is a feeling, a kind of loathing over your self, a kind of self-analysis where the goal is to reduce your world to nothing. Realize it’s all imagination! Don’t tell anyone, just stop. They will find your texts later and then they will understand. Now you sit here alone with your thoughts. Let them go! Loathing is reactionary (backwards-oriented), never it looks forward. There is no going back, Ron. This is space, this is the universe. You’re but a collection of molecules. Ron, you never spoke to God. Och drömmarna (And the dreams) Heron: Oh the road! Can you see its dirt where your feet thread? The dirt are my dreams but what are they doing? There is odd behaviour in this, to sing and claim listeners, to run and claim followers, to speak and claim replies. The lonely walker is the most sane, think you not, he who speaks but briefly and stays only for a while. I cannot remember you. Våren är cellens interfas (The spring is the cell’s interface) Author: Att se människor som en flock. När de tittar på sport, hur de skriker och hur de gör läten i samlad kör. En summa total som söker sensationer och vill matas av sin omgivning. Ledaren är omgivningen, omgiven av flocken; rör sig genom flocken som fisken i sjön; puttar undan materia; tappar ibland ytans ljus där nere på botten. Att inse att människor kan påverkas och ledas och att det är lätt. Att inse att människor inte tycker om att tänka. Allt detta insåg jag. Author: To see people like a herd. When they watch sport, how they yell and make noises en choir. A sum totale that seek sensations and wants to be fed by the surrounding. The leader is the surrounding, surrounded by the herd; moves through the herd like the fish in the lake; removes matter; looses from time to times the light of the surface down there on the bottom. To realize that people can be affected and led and that it is easy. To realize that people do not like to think. All this I realized. Sommaren! Delningen! (The summer! The split!) Heron: Kom så springer vi ner till havet, till vågorna! Strunta i sandalerna! Stigen är full av småsten men har man sommarfötter känner man ingeting! Kom så går vi nu! Ja ta med dig saften om du vill, haha. Drick den på vägen men du kommer spilla ut hälften! Nu springer vi! Känner du solen mot dina fräknar och ditt hår? Där i gräset finns fästingar, så spring inte där. Åh vågorna plaskar mot våra ben, det ilar i kroppen när vi kastas upp mot horisonten. Heron: Come let’s run down the the ocean, to the waves! Drop the sandals! The path is full of small rocks but if you have summer-feet you won’t feel it! Let’s go now! Yes bring your lemonade if you wish, haha. Drink it on the way but you will spill half of it! Let’s run now! Do you feel the sun against your freckles and your hair? There in the grass are ticks, so don’t run there. Oh the waves splash against our legs, it tickles in the body as we are thrown up towards the horizon. Lördag i April månad (Saturday, April) Author: Idag ska jag inte gå ut. Ska stanna här inne hela långa dagen. Kaffekokaren ska stå på hela tiden så kaffet blir riktigt sådär bränt du vet. Jag kommer säkert snusa konstant också. Hela tiden kommer en röst säga till mig att jag borde ta en liten promenad i alla fall men idag tänker jag inte det. Jag kan klampa runt i storarummet bäst jag vill. Inte får jag dålig hälsa av att stanna inne en dag. Det är bra filmer på TV ikväll. Kanske köper jag lite kvällsmat… nej jag har ju inga pengar, haha. Author: Today I will not leave the apartment. Stay inside the whole day long. The coffee machine will be on the whole day so the coffee gets that burn taste, you know. I will snuff constantly, probably. The whole time a voice will tell me that I at least should take a walk but today I won’t. I can walk around in the living room all I want. I won’t get bad health from staying inside one day. There are good movies on the TV tonight. Maybe I will buy some dinner… no, I don’t have any money, haha. Absence makes the heart grow stronger Author: She was French I know because I heard her talking to her mother. My white jacket and violet pants must have caught her attention as me and my friend stumbled in, high on pot. Her eyes burned through me as I sat staring into space; they burned me with desire oh but she was young, much younger (seventeen?). Glancing quietly at her – the violent jazz like a heavy rain – she met me (twenty-three). That heart was burning, testing its worth, analyzing the market of bodies and eyes. I was honored to confirm her. Accidents will happen Bystander: Har en bild av Marilyn Monroe på toan. När var det hon var som snyggast, det måste varit på femtiotalet väl? Som tiderna förändras! Hon hade ju ölmage nästan! Rumpan är inte alls vad vi idag kallar sexigt, brösten är inte så jäkla fina. Hon ligger på mage vid strandkanten och vågorna sköljer över henne. Tänk om en jättevåg kommit och tagit henne ut i havet och bort från nöjesvärlden. Hur hade vår syn på kvinnan då sett ut idag? Bystander: I have a picture of Marilyn Monroe on my bathroom wall. When was the the best looking, it must have been the fifties am I right? How the times change! She almost had a beer belly. Her behind is not what we today call sexy, her breasts are not that good looking. She lies down on her stomach on the beach and the waves pour over here. What if a giant wave had come and taken her out to the ocean and away from the entertainment world. What would then be our view of the woman body today? There is no accounting for tastes Bystander: I learnt that in graduate school. I’d come there as a young stud, the world’s an oyster you know, and I went to parties with that attitude that everyone was there for me, to entertain me and I was there to entertain them, all of them. I still think that even though I soon will receive my death penalty. These are my last words. How can I entertain you? A joke! Heard the one about the Scotish mathematician? I learnt that one in graduate school. Aktion talar högre än ord (Action speaks louder than words) Moron: Jävla ordspråk. Ska vi behöva dras med dem hela boken? Ordspråk är ju puckade, det finns ingen som använder dem längre, förutom när någon förolyckas eller far illa ut. Ja då skrattar vi och drar till med något vist. Men det är ju så, att det som står skrivet aldrig faller in. Skriver du det händer det inte. If it’s written it won’t happen, like a thumb of rule, I mean rule of thumb, haha. Moron: Fucking proverbs. Do we have to deal with them the whole book? Provers are silly, no-one uses them anymore, except when someone dies or is hurt. Yes, then we laugh and say something wise. But it is so, that if it is written it won’t happen. If you write it it won’t happen. If it’s written it won’t happen, like a thumb of rule, I mean rule of thumb, haha. When Adam delved and Eve span, who was then the gentleman? Author: Under gymnasietiden när familjen rasade samman fick jag för mig att alla var dumma i huvudet och att de sämst lämpade för uppgiften var de som styrde skutan. Jag fick träffa överläkaren i psykiatri men trots hans erfarenhet och empati blev jag inte frisk. Vi fann oss snart växla rövarhistorier och diskutera Frank Zappas geni. En gång var jag på en fest med bara en vän, jag kände ingen annan och jag var trött och ledsen, och han försvann nästan direkt. Det enda som fanns att dricka var Martini från vattenpistoler. Någon kom fram och skulle skjuta mig i munnen och jag gapade men blev inte fullare. Jag gick hem tidigt, till min väns lägenhet i förväg och somnade där och jag önskade så att VAD hade varit där för att trösta mig. Author: During high school when my family collapsed I got the idea that everyone was stupid and that the least suited were the ones steering the ship. I met the psychiatrist but despite his experience and empathy I did not get healthy. We soon found ourselves exchanging old tales and discussing the genius of Frank Zappa. Once I was at a party with just one friend, I knew no-one else and I was tired and sad, and he ran away almost immediately. The only drink they served was Martini from water pistols. Someone came and wanted to shoot me in the mouth and I opened it but I did not get more drunk. I went home early, to my friend’s apartment and I fell asleep there and how I wished that WHAT would have been there to comfort me. Adventures are to the adventurous Author, singing: Sure I was an astronaut. I had passed all the tests and I was done with all the exercise. Soon I was to be plunged up out away into space with my compadres. There was André Eagleburger and there was John Updike and Sean Goodman. And there was Joan Baez, not the singer. I was in love with her. It started during ground training. I couldn’t break it to her, couldn’t tell anyone. So we sat there, about to leave Earth and all I was doing was trying to catch her eyes behind her giant helmet, trying to see the shapes of her breasts through the thick orange dress, trying to send her thoughts while the engines were roaring. Så tar vi en paus! (Time for a pause!) Background noise: This reform was, however, only foreshadowed, as it were, by the Dutch General; it was reserved for Gustavus Adolphus to complete it. While he was executing a series of military operations such as the world had not beheld since the days of Caesar, he was also creating a movable artillery, and giving to the fire of his infantry an efficacy which had not been attained before. For the heavy machines of war which were drawn by oxen to the field of battle, and which remained there motionless and paralyzed by the slightest movements of the contending armies, he substituted light cannon drawn by horses and following up all the manoeuvres of either cavalry or foot. He had found the infantry formed in dense battalions. His system arranged it in long continuous lines in which each rank of musketeers was sustained by several ranks of pikemen, so that his array, thus distributed, should present Så börjar vi igen! Ett och två och ett och två (Now we start again! One and two and one and two!) Heron, singing: Out on the sidewalk I am walking along the lake, past all the people I am taking what I can take. Well, I told them to be nice to each other, I told them to not commence in fighting, I told them I will leave them there and take a walk along the lake. I’m frightened by the lake, yes I’m really frightened, but I’m more frightened by them and their chaotic fury and their green letters. Adversity makes strange bedfellows Moron: I år färdades jag med otur och elände. Jag satt själv i värdshusens hörn, delade mitt bröd med ensamheten. Anna, min hustru, må hon vila i frid, dödade våra barn en höstmorgon medan jag sov. Hon väckte dem och de gick ut i skogen, försvann i dimman. Deras huvud fann jag på stubbar, deras ben i träd. Händerna var röda av blod och gömda under grå mossa. I år färdades jag med deras döda röster i mina öron, och varje bro jag gick över, varje säng jag sov i, bestod av deras kroppar. Moron: For years I travelled with bad luck and misery. I sat alone in the corners of the inns, shared my bread with the loneliness. Anna, my wife, may she rest in peace, killed our children one autumn morning while I was sleeping. She woke them up and they went out in the woods, disappeared in the fog. Their heads I found on stumps, their legs in trees. The hands were red from blood and hid under grey moss. For years I travelled with their dead voices in my ears, and every bridge I crossed, every bed I slept in, was made from their dead bodies. Efter regn kommer solsken (After rain comes sunshine) Heron: I gryningen ringer min alarmklocka och vi brygger kaffe, sitter tysta, radion i bakgrunden, knäckebrödet som krossas mellan våra tänder. Fiskelådan är förberedd, spaden ligger i bakluckan, bilen (en SAAB) är tankad och jag backar ut på gatan, svänger, gasar och snart är vi ute ur staden. Vägarna blir mindre och tunnare, skogen växer och kommer närmare. Vi far genom Österslöv, Arkelstorp, kör förbi Mjönäs och Immeln. En bit längre upp på vägen ligger Nyteboda och där föddes Harry Martinsson, men så långt kör vi inte. Vi är tysta när vi stiger ur bilen och den våta skogen hälsar oss för vi ska fiska idag, både gädda och abborre. Heron: At dawn my alarm clock rings and we make coffee, sit silent, the radio in the background, the hard bread crushing between our teeth. The fishing box is prepared, the spade is in the tailgate, the car (a SAAB) is tanked and I back out on the street, turn, give gas and soon we have left the city. The roads get smaller and thinner, the forrest grows and gets closer. We travel through Österslöv, Arkelstorp, drive through Mjönäs and Immeln. A bit further down the road is Nyteboda and there Harry Martinsson was born, but we don’t drive that far. We are silent when we get out of the car and the wet forrest greets us because we are going to fish today, both jack and perch. After dinner rest a while, after supper walk a mile Author: På promenad idag såg jag fiskmåsarvingar flyga drake i skyn, kråkklor leta silver i dyn och hundnosar känna våren, så sublim. Färger blandades i draperier av pollen och båtar tutade vid piren, lade an. Vid bron som gick över den smala stigen såldes glass och jag stannade, men jag hade inga pengar i min ficka. En joggare sprang runt, runt. Vi möttes fyra gånger, jag med min cigarett och han med sina andetag. Sista gången log vi mot varandra. Jag såg en militär med ett gevär, jag såg en turist ta ett kort och jag såg himmelen, så blå och så fin. Author: Out walking today I saw seagull wings fly kite in the sky, crow claws look for silver in the mud and dog noses feel the spring, so sublime. Colors blended in curtains of pollen and boats honked at the pier, made dock. At the bridge across the narrow path ice cream was sold and I stopped, but I had no money in my pocket. A jogger ran around, around. We met four times, me with my cigarett and he with his breaths. The last time we smiled at each other. I saw a soldier with a gun, I saw a tourist take a picture and I saw the sky, so blue and so beautiful. All good things must come to an end Heron, joking: Silly dog. It takes all sorts to make a world Background noise: Private Mulligan signing in, sir. Good Private Mulligan, you came just in time. Look at this map here. The enemy is approaching from HERE and will most likely strike HERE, you see? Yes, sir, I see. What we gotta go, Private Mulligan, is to send you out HERE. Yes, sir. When you get there, Private Mulligan, you just stay put. You keep your eyes and ears open. When you see them, you strike. Is that clear, Private Mulligan? Yes, sir. Good luck, Private Mulligan. Thank you, sir. All things are possible with God A girl: lol was all she said. All things come to those who wait A girl: This one is better. I’d rather wait a lifetime than trust in God. See, my family collapsed when I was 16. I had to take care of them all. Father was drinking, mother was sleeping, brother was cutting, sister didn’t understand. See, all this crashed down on me years after when I was at college and I dropped out because I was waiting for something better. I’m still waiting, see, but I’m starting to realize that it’s up to me, not God, to wait. Any port in a storm Author, sad: Du vet när jag kom till teatern, du vet den föreställningen om tjejen som hade allt men inte kunde bestämma sig för vad hon skulle göra och ändå mådde dåligt och när någon blev sjuk så skulle hon ändå klä på sig i en halvtimme innan de kunde ge sig av till sjukhuset. Jag blev jättefull den kvällen, som vanligt. Framåt midnatt såg jag dig i baren och jag gick dit och stod som en hund och tittade på dig när du tog emot beställningar. Dina händer jobbade så snabbt, du var så duktig, och jag var avundsjuk på alla som fick beställa av dig. Du såg inte upp mot mig, nej du undvek att titta på mig för du visste att jag var där, du hade sett mig innan eller hur? Author, sad: You know when I came to the theater, you know the play about the girl who had everything but could not decide what she should wear and still felt bad and when someone got sick she should still dress for half an hour before they could leave for the hospital. I got piss drunk that night, as usual. Around midnight I saw you in the bar and I went there and I stood like a dog and watched you taking orders. Your hands worked so fast, you were so good, and I was jealous on everyone who got to order from you. You did not look up towards me, no you avoided to look at me because you knew I was there, you had seen me before hadn’t you? If anything can go wrong, it will Author: Så dansade ni på scenen och efteråt gick ni bakom scenen och jag gick efter och där dansade ni också. Min vän kom och han stal en matta och innan vi skulle gå satt vi vid ett bord och din vän sa att jag inte fick kontakta dig. Jag stirrade in i hennes ögon, jag minns det än idag, och jag undrar hur saker hade varit om jag inte hade kontaktat dig dagen efter. Author: Then you danced on the stage and after that you went behind the stage and I went after and there you danced as well. My friend came and he stole a carpet and when we were about to leave we sat at a table and your friend said that I must not contact you. I stared into her eyes, I remember it to this day, and I wonder how things would have been if I hadn’t contacted you the day after. Even a space ape must urinate Author, crying: And I slept in that carpet until the police woke me up and rang on her door and she came and let me in. Jag gillade henne inte alls, men jag tänkte inte på det sättet då. Any port in a storm, but I promise, jag låg aldrig med henne, jag kysste henne inte ens. The winds were too strong, the port was too fuzzy and you were busy dancing anyway, weren’t you? Author, crying: And I slept in that carpet until the police woke me up and rang on her door and she came and let me in. I did not like her at all but I wasn’t thinking like that then. Any port in a storm, but I promise, I never slept with her, I didn’t even kiss her. The winds were too strong, the port was too fuzzy and you were busy dancing anyway, weren’t you? Appetite comes with eating The girl, smiling: Yes I was dancing, you freak, you weirdo, ditt äckel. Fattar du inte att alla fattar att du är här bara för att jag är? Alla! När du går in på baren, med dina ticks och ryckiga rörelser, viskar alla ditt namn bakom din rygg. När du beställer öl ler bartendern men bakom dig tittar alla på dig, som om du vore en apa. Låt mig vara, låt mig vara. Gå hem, gå hem. Vi är inte för varandra och du skrämmer mig och du skrämmer de andra. The girl, smiling: Yes I was dancing, you freak, you weirdo, you disgusting being. Don’t you get it that everyone gets it that you are here because I am? Everyone! When you enter the bar, with your ticks and jacky moves, everyone whispers your name behind your back. When you order beer the bartender smiles but behind you everyone look at you, as if you were an ape. Let me be, let me be. Go gome, go home. We are not for each other and you scare me and you scare the others. Ett äpple om dagen håller doktorn i hagen (An apple a day keeps the doctor at bay) Bystander, quoting: “A cold and fruity drink awaits us both, watch me frolick in the sand, oh dear’d you see me in the surf with a starfish in my hand” Will, will we ever meet? The apple never falls far from the tree Moron, singing: Jag kan lyssna på musiken igen, mamma! Plågornas dagar är över! Jag är frisk nu, mamma! Hör du mamma? Jag är frisk! Titta, jag sjunger! Titta, jag dansar och jag äter! Aldrig mer ska jag falla, jag lovar. Du ska aldrig gråta mer igen, mamma. Titta, nu går jag till skolan med väskan om axeln. Titta, nu får jag nya vänner och de gamla vännerna vinkar. Mamma, det ska bli så bra, jag lovar. Jag är frisk nu. Moron, singing: I can listen to the music again, mother! The days of grief are over! I am healthy now, mother! Do you hear me, mother? I am healthy! Look, I sing! Look, I dance and I eat! Never more shall I fall, I promise. You will never cry again, mother. Look, now I go the school with the bag around my shoulder. Look, now I get new friends and the old friends wave. Mother, everything will be so good, I promise. I am healthy now. April showers bring forth May flowers Moron: Jag känner mig glad men jag är så rädd för att bli FÖR glad igen. Jag skriver och ser på mina händer som rör sig, men punkten jag betraktar från känns avlägsen, som vore den i ett annat universum, som tappade jag fästet här uppe i mitt huvud. Man märker tydligen inte när man blir FÖR glad. Det finns varningstecken men jag vet inte vad de är. Rusande tankar, eufori, sömnlöshet. Jag vill inte säga ordet (hypomani) för jag hatar det. Jag är så rädd för att bli FÖR glad igen. Då är jag hellre ledsen. Jag önskar man kunde välja. Moron: I feel happy but I am afraid to become TOO happy again. I write and watch my hands move, but the point from which I watch feels distant, as if it was in another universe, as if I lost it up here in my head. You apparently can not notice when you get TOO happy. There are warning signs but I don’t know them. Racing thoughts, euphoria, lack of sleep. I do not want to say the word (hypomania) because I hate it. I am so afraid to become TOO happy again. I would rather be sad. I wish one could choose. An army marches on its stomach Author: Vem är det som berättar historien? Inte är det jag inte. Jag skriver bara. Jag känner och jag skriver. Visst har jag saker att säga men var får jag de sakerna från? Visst, de kommer från mitt huvud men var fick jag huvudet ifrån? Visst, jag fick det av mina föräldrar, men var fick jag dem ifrån? Author: Who is telling the story? Not me, no. I’m just writing. I feel and I write. Sure, I have things to say but where do I get those things from? Sure, they come from my head but where did I get that from? Sure, I got it from my parents, but where did I get them from? What? Art is long and life is short Heron, awakening: Blue thunder and lightning that is frightening. Oh what was I then and why was the road full of animals and things? It struck there on the road many times and times more. Roaring sounds not quite reaching me but all present. There is a deep pain and a furious solitude and a growing acceptance now that I see and now that I know and now that things make sense, and there is not blue thunder but a purple sunrise. This day is not new but ever present and I am not sleeping, never again. Ask no questions and hear no lies Heron: One is occupied with many small things: a hideaway is the best place to be. You can still see the others further away, between some leaves and fruits. Picking lice from your fur and picking up your own dropped bananas from the jungle floor is grand. You can get up early, before the sky is white and then go on. This is your path, few others know about it. Some of them shall never find out, or they better not. Hours will pass. You watch the whiteness turn blue and then red (sometimes purple). The password, the secret branch, is safe down there by the plant. Another is in conversation and upset. Not many words or messages seem to get through. The tone is wildening. Some start screaming. A new participant jumps down from a nearby location, with wild arms and angry eyes. How can you get your message across to beings such as these? There is no understanding, no waiting and no listening. Extending your arms into an embrace will start a fight most likely. Turning your back on them will provoke. You begin a period of silence and watch the confusion. It is hard to accept being heard and the fury inflates. Small animals and insects join the arguing choir. New sounds that are frightening descend and ascend on you. The third is the last in the band of seven ramblers. On the run and on the road it is hectic but also peaceful. In one way you watch her from afar – afar – with eyes of desire. There is a bend up ahead. Yesterday you came to this valley all but desolate. The silence was peaceful, the steps light and free. It was electric and your back hair is still standing… still pointing that way. Author, on his birthday: Then I wrote Today it is 70 years since the start of world war 2. I am on my neighbour’s network. It is time to change things. b o o m Attack is the best form of defense (an open letter to the leaders of the world) Moron: Do you seriously believe that waging a currency war is to the benefit of anyone? Like stupid kids you were fighting and the IMF had to step in to prevent you. Since you seem to realise the inter-dependence on each other’s economies, I am sure you are just as able to realise the same dependence on each other’s actions on the international arena. Why are you here, what is your purpose? If you’re the leader of a democracy the answer is easy enough: you represent the people. If you are the chief of a oligarchy, or the spiritual leader of a theocracy or a grand dictator the answer will differ. All of you do share this, though: you are at the top level of a pyramid consisting of billions of people living on the same Earth. Between each of you lies the destiny of every poor man on the street, of every orphan child, of every bright investment banker and every aspiring politician. The masses can scream or cheer all they want but it is your ears that have to listen, and your hands and heads that need to act. Because I have played lots of strategy games I sometimes see the world as such. It gives a nice perspective when I read the news, and hear about the latest crazy shit you’ve been up to. In one hundred years all of us will be gone and human beings who are not yet born will sit in your chairs. They will inherit the chairs from you, because any kind of real revolution will not happen, given the sheer amount of intelligence agencies, military power and money that you possess. You also control the media, some of you to a large extent and some of you less. You can decide that a given person’s name will not appear in a physical newspaper, and this gives many advantages: the person can be put in prison and forgot, the person can be killed and dumped, or the person can be psychologically terrorised. This is not a question about good and evil. The will to do good is buried deep within each human being. You start to act evil only when you feel threatened. Some people feel threatened from their first breath, while others never do. As people rise in power they tend to feel more and more threatened as more and more contesters and opponents are created. So what you have at the top is a bunch of people with lots of power feeling threatened by both each other and from forces in their own camp. Any good deed will also affect the people you dislike. For example, issuing a free press will eventually lead to the release of that annoying guy you put in prison ten years ago. So you tend to avoid topics like that. What is left is the international arena, the international relationships, a mess of incentives and power without an agenda. Institutions have been created to establish and maintain a somewhat stable world. We have the United Nations, NATO, the IMF, the World Bank and many more. These institutions act outside of your agenda and are immune to lobbying. When you conduct currency wars or terror wars, these institutions are working hard to stop you. They act at the benefit of not only your country but for every country in the world. These clever people realise the inter-dependence between events on the international arena and the effect they have on common people. When the western world was threatened by a pandemic it went very fast to vaccinate the great majority of the population. A vaccine for malaria does not even exist, and this is because malaria is no longer a problem in the western world (also because it’s very hard). The people who suffer and die from malaria are outside this international arena upon which you act. Their leaders are too weak to speak up for them, no matter how much they listen. When you are waging wars you surely do not have incentives to devote time or money on helping billions of weak people, because their lives and deaths will not affect anything in your sphere. One major problem in the world today is the way we have constructed our global economy, or rather: the way we have not constructed our global economy. The most basic theories of supply and demand are based on unlimited resources (correct me if I’m wrong, please). No resource is unlimited. Thus the basis of our entire global economy is erroneous. We have told ourselves that growth is the sign of progress, no matter what kind of growth. We learn that wealth is both the mean and the incentive to a better world. Where are the results, globally (these theories indeed work well domestically)? I don’t believe that the invisible hand is a nice one; it is a competitive one. Nor does it seem that wealth among the top layers of society trickles down (except in the form of donations) to the weakest. The financial markets are crazy: banks issue loans to themselves, people invest in entities that only exist on the paper, those sitting close to the Ethernet port get a better profit because they gain a few fractions of a second to buy and sell their stock. This is gambling out of control, with other people’s money, and it has global consequences. This unregulated trading eventually gives way to a bubble that bursts and then you – the leaders of the world – have to tell the people that no, we cannot offer you free education and no, we can not afford to find a cure to malaria or help build infrastructure in developing countries. Meanwhile people, who quite frankly should (not) be put in prison for crimes against humanity, have earned billions in profit and can invest these in quantities that not necessarily contribute to a better future. Just look at the oil market. Oil is running out. We are trying to find a substitute. This means that the oil business is an enormously dynamic and potential market. Yes, it’s lucrative enough to go to war for and friends and enemies are made depending on how much oil they have and on whether they are willing to sell it to you. You have to understand how a global society works. There is no cultural narrative and no specified direction. My actions are just as valuable as yours, but yours contribute more. There are millions of people in the world who wish that they had the power that you do. Millions of people are convinced that they could do a better job than you do. The chairs you are in demands one thing and one thing only: responsibility. A friend with money is a good friend indeed but a billion friends without money are better because money changes value while friends don’t. I have actually been on every continent in the world except from South America and Australia. I have been to Istanbul, Jerusalem, Sarajevo, Berlin, New York, Banjul and Warwick. No matter where you go people are the same, just as exciting and beautiful. We are the same species every one of us. When you meet a person from a different culture at the square of pigeons in Sarajevo for a cup of Turkish coffee you do not talk about differences; you talk about common things, the things you share. If nothing else you talk about the weather. Both of you leave the meeting with a sense of joy and then you return to your culture and your way of thinking and doing things. Different cultures only clash if we choose to let them clash. Many people have been through so many awful things that no-one would believe them if they had the possibility to tell. Each day thousands of untold stories vanish in the air while you, the leaders of the world, wage wars and bomb each other’s people and spend money on developing new clever ways of killing each other’s people. Because no, you never kill each other. Shortly before you engage in peace talks you order your generals to bomb a village and then you have a cup of coffee. Many people (myself included) devote their thoughts and lives to ideas and concepts that go way beyond your daily agenda. We read the news and shrug our shoulders: at least this theory of light and matter is valid, no matter what they do. There is so much more to life, so many interesting topics and ideas that help the understanding of existence, the Universe and life. It is written in thousands of books what needs to be done to stabilise the world and then embrace the great future. Each of you have a whole staff of experts to consult and I’m sure that each one of you understands the dynamics and the direction and the errors of today’s world. So why are we still struggling? Why can you not simply conduct peace in every aspect of the word? Peace with yourselves, your position, your life, your future and your neighbours. Do you not see the enormous task that stands before us, and do you not see that the tools to fix everything already exist? The tiger is extinct within a decade. Rain forests which have no economical value are erased at an ”alarming rate”. The carbon dioxide levels are higher than ever (for whatever reason, remember that) and entire ecosystems are being lost both at sea and at land. The oceans are filled with plastics which the fish and birds eat. Oil-wells are drilled without even the slightest actual concern to the effects of one of them blowing up, because oil is worth more than water. My question with regards to this is: who will take care of this mess? Who? People are affected by the effects of global warning, pollution and deletion daily and millions of people all over the world are grinding their teeth in worry, and screaming and shouting, and yet nothing seems to happen. Where is the global confederation for the future of planet Earth? Where are the inspiring talks about the great green future? I know you realise that one way to return from this recession is to invest in the environment. Imagine the amount of jobs created as we build solar panels in every dessert. Imagine the shape of an economy where a power supply grid is established and free. Free energy for everyone, supplied by the sun by means of the global energy grid. I dream of a green future with freedom of speech, peace, the recognition of the value of life and of different cultures, and the proper use of the enormous amount of knowledge that humanity possesses. I want a future where my children can experience life in all its glory. I’ve had a very privileged life so far. I’ve had the choice to learn whatever I want, to say whatever I want and to go wherever I want. For most of humanity, this is a dream and for many it looks like it will never come true. The power to really make things better is in your hands, and this letter is but one way to try to make you realise this. I offer you the greatest respect. TL;DR: TIME IS SHORT SO STOP FIGHTING; NATURE IS DYING; ANIMALS ARE GOING EXTINCT; THE RESOURCES ARE VERY UNEQUALLY SHARED GLOBALLY AND OUR ECONOMIC SYSTEM IS TO BLAME; THERE ARE GREAT INCENTIVES TO INVEST IN GOOD THINGS; MANY PEOPLE LIVE UNDER SUBHUMAN CONDITIONS; SCIENCE HAS THE ANSWERS AND SOLUTIONS WE NEED; EVERYONE - INCLUDING THOSE IN POWER - NEED TO REALISE ALL THIS. THEN WE CAN EMBRACE THE GREAT FUTURE THAT WE ALL DESERVE.

Kapitel 2 Leo Tolstoy’s life has been devoted to replacing the method of violence for removing tyranny or securing reform by the method of nonresistance to evil. He would meet hatred expressed in violence by love expressed in selfsuffering. Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi Martin’s soul grew glad. Leo Tolstoy A bad excuse is better than none Background noise: I’m back, sir. Good, good, Private Mulligan. How did it go, did you slay them? Um, no, sir. WHAT? Sir… WHY DID YOU NOT SLAY THEM, PRIVATE MULLIGAN? Sir, can I just go out in the sun and read a book? Yes you can, Private Mulligan, when you tell me why you failed your mission. Sir, I fell in love with a girl I met on the way and we had kids and I started working at a circus and I stayed there for years and when the kids were old enough to leave I had forgot about my mission, sir. God damn you kids, Private Mulligan. Bad money drives out good Moron, singing: Jag är inte ledsen. Du tror kanske att jag är ledsen, men det är jag inte. När du ser mig gå där på gatan i min vita jacka och min färgade halsduk tror du kanske att jag är ledsen, men någon går vid min sida, någon du inte kan se. Kanske tror jag att du också är ledsen, att du bär på en större sorg än vad jag gör? La, la, la, la. Moron, singing: I’m NOT sad. Maybe you think I am sad, but I’m not. When you see me there on the street in my white jacket and colored scarf you maybe think that I am sad, but someone walks by my side, someone you cannot see. Maybe I think that YOU are sad, that you are carrying a greater sorrow than I do? La, la, la, la.

Oh I am always exaggerating, I’m always playing a role Ironic it is then, that this is the part I’m starring today Always the rebel, always in trouble, always moving Take me not too serious for I get far too much joy I’m a rock star in everything I do, and here too I’m not dying, not crying, not running, no I’ll look you in the eye while we laugh at my achievements and encounters I’m spoiled and I’m a faking liar I’m a smoker and a drinker that do anything for love anything for money, no just kidding there, lol It’s one way to live and I’m sure that everyone is just as happy as I am to be alive.

A bad penny always turns up Author, whispering: Idag under min promenad sprang två joggare förbi mig och sade så bara jag kunde höra det: vänd om, vänd om! Jag vände om, jag hade ändå gått halvvägs så det var samma sak. När jag kom till den lilla parken utanför min lägenhet stod en äldre dam och en yngre herre och rökte. Jag sneglade på dem snabbt och då sa damen: **, det är du det. Det känns som att de konspirerar mot mig och jag bara skrattar men när jag tänker efter är jag nog väldigt rädd. Author, whispering: Today on my walk two joggers ran past me and said so that only I could hear it: turn around, turn around! I turned around, I had come halfway so it was the same thing anyway. When I came to the little park outside my apartment a lady and a younger gentleman stood there and smoked. I glanced at them quickly and the lady said: **, that’s you. It feels as if they are conspiring against me and I just laugh but when I think about it I am probably very frightened. A bad workman blames his tools Moron: Something despicable in my honest opinion. Show your ** to those who are interested and pretend like it didn’t happen. I swear, this is almost too much to bear. A mistake, for sure. Proverbs, why! Walk in grace with a funny face. A legend the rest of my days. Barnaby bright, Barnaby bright, the longest day and the shortest night Bystander, shouting: WTF?! Har någon hört denna innan? Bystander, shouting: WTF?! Has anyone heard this one before? Bear and forbear Bystander, crying: Denna då?! Kan någon säga vad det betyder? Vadå björn och förbjörn? Bystander, crying: What about this one? Can someone please explain what it means? Bear and forebear, what? If you can’t beat them, join them Background noise: Did you join them, Private Mulligan? Yes, sir. You never had kids, did you? No, sir. You’ve come to kill me, haven’t you? Yes, sir. Okay… well, can I join them too, Private Mulligan? I’ll ask, sir. GOOD! Go out there and wait for them, and when they come, ask if I can join them too. Yes, sir. Good, Private Mulligan, good boy. Thirsty, sir? Why, yes I am, Private Mulligan! Here you go, sir. Thank you, Private Mulligan, thank you. Farewell, sir… NOOOOOOO!!! (the Captain tries to barf but is unable to because Private Mulligan is holding his mouth shut) Beauty is in the eye of the beholder Author, singing: Ungefär såhär tycker jag att du är: du är en dansare, dina ögon är en tigers, dina ben är långa och smala, din hy är vit, du är mer rock’n’roll än hela Rolling Stones tillsammans, jag offrade mitt liv för dig (skämt!), du är exakt två år äldre än mig, jag känner dig inte, du såg in i mina ögon under middagen men jag slog bort blicken, vi såg på Fanny och Alexander när vi var bakfulla på dagen efter juldagen men du sov mest, jag skriver brev till dig och berättar allt men du svarar aldrig, du är sexigast i hela världen, jag är kär i dig, vill du bli ihop med mig? Author, singing: I think you are about this beautiful: you are a dancer, your eyes are a tiger’s, your legs are long and slim, your skin is white, you are more rock’n’roll than the entire Rolling Stones together, I ruined my life for you (joke!), you are exactly two years older than me, I don’t know you, you looked into my eyes during the dinner but I looked away, we watched Fanny and Alexander when we were hungover on the day after christmas eve but you were mostly sleeping, I write you letter and explain everything but you never reply, you are the sexiest in the world, will you be mine? Set a beggar on horseback and he’ll ride to the Devil Heron: Lugn. Vi dyker. Vi tar dykarcertifikat. Pappa får panik och kan inte följa med. Jag simmar först, ibland före instruktören. Nio meter ner. Riktiga, livs levande bläckfiskar. Stora stim av fiskar, i rött och gult fjäll. Växter i grått och grönt. Gester under vatten. Bubblor mot ytan. Försiktiga andetag. Det går så snabbt, det är så fantastiskt, detta liv. Allt jag gjort, allt jag kommer göra. Pappa, få inte panik. Det är vackert där nere och vi har ju faktiskt betalt för detta, för detta djupa liv. Heron: Relax. We are diving. We are taking a diver’s licence. Father gets panic and can’t come with. I swim first, sometimes ahead of the instructor. Nine meters down. Real, live alive octopusses. Large schools of fish, in red and yellow hide. Plants in grey and green. Gestures under water. Bubbles towards the surface. Careful breaths. It passes so quickly, it is so fantastic, this life. Everything I have done, everything I will do. Father, do not panic. It is beautiful down there and we have actually paid for this, for this deep life. Beggars can’t be choosers Author: En känsla av äckel över mig. Inte kul att vara jag liksom. Sätter på dansig musik men blir sittande, den är mest störig. Dricker ett glas mjölk. Ja jag har gjort dumma saker, otroligt dumma saker. Jag gjorde dem inte av illvilja men de var ändock dumma, men ändock var de inte av illvilja, inte av ondo. Kan inte fånga det här med att leva. Over and out. Author: A feeling of disgust over me. Not fun to be me, you know. Turn on dancing music but remains sitting, it is mostly annoying. Drink a glass of milk. Yes, I have done stupid things, incredibly stupid things. I did not do them out of ill will but yet they were stupid, but yet not of ill will, not of evil. I cannot grasp what it is to live. Over and out. En muande kossa glömmer snart sin kalv (A mooing cow soon forgets its calf) Heron: Mayaindianerna var bra på att räkna sägs det. Det sägs att de hade en kalender med flera cykler, som tog slut och började om, tog slut och började om. Trots att mayaindianerna är döda sedan länge är vi fortfarande livrädda för vad som ska hända när en av deras cykler tar slut om några år. Vi tror att världen ska gå under och innerst inne förbereder vi oss alla för eldhav, flygande ödlor och rasande hus. Kanske är det sant. I sådana fall är vi alla de sista människorna innan apokalypsen. Vem är det som bestämt allt detta och kan man inte ändra på det? Om alla ignorerar allt vi vet och bara visslar lite kanske inget sker men just nu tänker vi alla på kollektivt självmord. Heron: It is said that the Mayans were good at calculating. It is said that they had a calender with many cycles, that ended and began anew, ended and began anew. Even though the Mayans are dead since long are we terrified about what will happen when one of their cycles ends in a few years. We think that the world will end and deep within we are all preparing for oceans of fire, flying lizards and falling houses. Maybe it is true. In that case we are the last people before the apocalypse. Who has decided all of this and can’t it be changed? If everyone ignores everything we know and just whistles a little then maybe nothing will happen but right now we are all thinking about collective suicide. INTERLUDE! - Det var en gång så, att det västerländska samhället hade nått en punkt som det inte kunde kliva över, som om alla dess miljoner invånare samtidigt hade insett att de tillsammans nått en gränd utan utgångar, med grafitiväggar, soptunnor och hemlösa drogmissbrukare som enda dekoration. Kapitalismen hade förvandlat goda medborgare till vargar som inte såg människor som människor utan som siffror som det skulle investeras i och som skulle växa. Men ingen växte. Det kollektiva psyket fann sig vakna varje morgon till kaffekokare med surt kaffe och tidningar med nyheter ingen orkade läsa. Alla slet så hårt, så hårt, och en efter en gick de in i väggen och krashade för att aldrig komma på fötter igen. Ingen vet egentligen exakt hur det hände men plötsligt började folk säga stopp. Några kom inte till arbetet, andra hoppade av sina studier och ytterligare andra lämnade sina miljoner och sina chefsposter för att börja vandra ut i naturen, för att försvinna från makt, ansvar och en säker död. Så vad ska man skriva när inget längre finns att skriva? Vad ska man berätta när allt har berättats? It once was so, that the western society had reached a point that it could not get across, as if all of its millions of inhabitants at once had realized that they together had reached an alley without exists, with graffiti walls, garbage cans and homeless drug abusers as the only decoration. Capitalism had turned good citizens into wolves who did not see humans as humans but numbers that should be invested in and that should grow. But no-one grew. The collective mind soon found itself wake up every morning to coffee machines with sour coffee and newspapers with news that no-one had the energy to read. Everyone worked so hard, so hard, and one after another they hit the wall and crashed to never get back on their feet again. No-one really knows exactly how it happened but suddenly people began to say stop. Some didn’t show up for work, others dropped their studies and others more left their millions and their boss positions to wander out in the nature, to leave power, responsibility and a certain death. So what shall one write when nothing remains to be written? What shall you tell when everything has been told? ––– Man kan citera Wittgenstein! One can quote Wittgenstein! Wittgenstein: “The certainty that I shall be able to go on after I have had this experience – seen the formula, for instance – is simply based on induction”. What does this mean? – “The certainty that the fire will burn me is based on induction”. Does that mean that I argue to myself: “Fire has always burned me, so it will happen now too?” Or is the previous experience the cause of my certainty, not its ground? Whether the earlier experience is the cause of the certainty depends on the system of the hypotheses, of natural laws, in which we are considering the phenomenon of certainty. Is our confidence justified? – What people accept as justification – shews how they think and live. All’s for the best in the best of all possible worlds Heron, singing: Jag tror verkligen att världen kan bli bättre och jag tänker inte leva mitt liv som om den ska gå under om några år. Kanske är jag naiv tro att den stora svarta boll av ondska som passas från fot till fot kan förgöras. Jag vägrar vara med om detta. I wont see the signs; I wont close my eyes but I wont seem them for its all lies and ideas and there are no signs! Heron, singing: I really believe that the world can be better and I am not going to live my life as if it will end in a few years. Maybe I am naive to think that the big black ball of evil that is passed from foot to foot can be destroyed. I refuse to be a part of this. I wont see the signs; I wont close my eyes but I wont seem them for its all lies and ideas and there are no signs! The best is the enemy of the good Heron, shouting: There are no signs! We made them up ourselves, all the time! The curse of the , the curse of the *, the curse of our weakness, and the curse of every scared soul before us, and God damn our cowardice when we won’t dare to look the future in the eye! It will be the end of us I tell you! THE END! THE EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENNNNNNNNNNNNNNNDDDDDDDDDDDD. The best -laid schemes of mice and men gang aft agley Bystander, shouting: So if we try to make a plan for how to survive this coming Apocalypse – what do ya say fellas? HELL YEAH! Let’s get some beer before we start! HELL YEAH! Klimatmötet i Köpenhamn Utan packning tog jag tåget från Malmö över till Köpenhamn (detta var innan jag flyttat dit) och hem till min vän Helle som var läkarstudent på paus och aktivist. Hela staden var täckt av snö och det var så kallt att jag fick ha dubbla byxor och en konstig rysk mössa och så tyst att det var som om hela världen höll andan. Jag följde med henne och satt vakt på den hyrda skolan där aktivisterna sov. Några visste vem jag var och nickade och jag tog rökpauser och pratade med människor från hela världen. Utan dessa samtal hade jag inte vetat vad jag så småningom skulle skriva. Polisen hade beslagtagit alla cyklar för att kväva oss och alla var spända inför morgondagens stora protest vid Bella Center där klimatmötet hölls. På morgonen tog Helle en annan buss och jag tog fel buss och hamnade mitt framför entrén under de tre vise männen där politiker, journalister och annat folk hetsade och skulle in. Jag tror jag skrämde dem, eller jag hoppas att jag gjorde det. På kvällen dagen efter var jag i Christiania på barrikaderna där det kastades molotovcocktails mot polisen. Polisen stormade genom barrikaderna med rökgranater och tårgas från helikoptrar och folk började springa i panik. Jag smet in bakdörren till operaen och satt där inne och drack öl medan det svarta blocket krigade med polisen utanför. I operaen var det live folkmusik (ett medelålders par från Australien) och de sjöng att vi skulle storma danska riksdagen och sparka ut statsministern. Ett par spioner, en ung kvinna från *** och en ung herre från * satte sig bredvid mig och började fråga en massa saker om internet men det blev ett trevligt samtal för jag är snäll emot alla. Efter en timme hade det lugnat ner sig och en polis i full utrustning kom in och såg oss sitta där med öl i handen, leende. Hade jag inte varit med om detta hade jag inte insett att detta verkligen är en revolution, att jag inte är ensam. The climate conference in Copenhagen Without packing I took the train from Malmö to Copenhagen (this was before I moved there) and home to my friend Helle who was a medical student on pause and an activist. The whole city was covered in snow and I had to wear double pants and a strange russian hat, and so quiet as if the whole world was holding its breath. I came with her and sat guard on the rented school were the activists were sleeping. Some knew who I was and nodded and I took smoking pauses outside and talked to people from all over the world. Without these talks I would not know what I would eventually write. The police had confiscated all the bikes to succumb us and everyone was excited about tomorrow’s big protest at the Bella Center where the climate meeting was held. In the morning Helle took another bus and I took the wrong bus and ended up at the entrance under the three wise men where politicians, journalists and other people were hurrying to get in. I think I scared them, or I hope I did. On the evening the day after I was in Christiania at the barricades where molotov cocktails were being thrown at the police. The police stormed the barricades with smoke grenades and tear gas from helicopters and people started running in panic. I sneaked in the back door to operaen and I sat in there and drank beer while the black block were fighting with the police outside. In the operae there was live music (a middle-aged couple from Australia) and they sang that we should storm the danish parliament och kick out the prime minister. A couple of spies, a young woman from * and a gentleman from * sat down next to me to ask questions about the internet but it became a nice conversation because I am nice towards everyone. After an hour things had calmed down and a police in full gear came in and saw us sitting there with beer in hands, smiling. If I had not been a part of this I would not have realized that this is really a revolution, that I am not alone. The best of friends must part Author: Hon är min bästa vän, min själsfrände och gamla flamma. I många år har vi gått sida vid sida, först hand i hand, sedan kind mot kind. Vi behöver inte tala för vi förstår ändå. Vi behöver inte bråka, för allt som finns att bråka om, har vi redan varit igenom. För henne jag lever, för henne jag dör! Jag tror inte på ordspråket för vi har aldrig varit isär och aldrig ska vi vara det! FUCK YOU ORDSPRÅK! Author: She is my best friend, my soulmate and my old gal. For many years have we walked side by side, at first hand in hand and then cheek to cheek. We need to talk for we understand anyway. We need not fight, for everything there is to fight about, have we already been through. For her I live, for her I die! I don’t believe in the proverb because we have never been apart and we will never be! FUCK YOU PROVERB! The best of men are but men at best Moron: En sista cigg innan jag går och lägger mig. Klockan är 0120 och grannarna sover. De har bankat i väggen för min musik var för hög. Bob Dylan. Jag undrar vad han gjorde när han kom hem från europaturnén 1966 eller vad han tänkte när han började göra kristen musik. Saved. Jag undrar vem jag är och varför jag är här, och om jag hade kunnat göra något annorlunda, och jag undrar om jag vill vara här och om inte, var jag vill vara isället, och vem jag vill vara istället. FUCK YOU LIV! Moron: One last fag before I go to bed. The time is 0120 and the neighbours are asleep. They have knocked on the wall because my music was too loud. Bod Dylan. I wonder what the did when he got back from the Europe tour in 1966 or what he was thinking when he started making christian music. Saved. I wonder who I am and why I am here, and if I could have done anything differently, and I wonder if I want to be here and if not, where I want to be instead, and who I want to be instead. FUCK YOU LIFE! The best things come in small packages Bystander: I believe in the evangelics of rock music. Here I am playing barely noticeable in the background of an action movie. The characters are insane, as if they are only promoting stupidity. I dreamt of a career. Now I am a pawn in their game, killing rock music and killing everything else that was real. The best things in life are free Author, whispering: I know no-one in this town. I’m sure they have celebrities but I wouldn’t be able to spot them on the streets. Are they hiding like I am? Maybe the ones with shades are the ones hiding, leaving their house only when absolutely necessary, like I am. My friends make fun of me because I never know the names of the actors or the people they write about in the gossip press. One could say in live in my own world, and then it doesn’t matter that I’m not wearing shades when I’m hiding. It is best to be on the safe side Author: Det är därför jag inte kom, därför jag sprang. Jag trodde de jävlarna skulle döda dig. Varje gång tidningarna skrev om någon som dött trodde jag att det var du. Endast när jag var berusad av hundra öl och tusen shots vågade jag berätta vem jag tänkte på där i tystnadens rus. Jag vill skydda dig men jag kan inte. Havet är för mörkt, människan är för ond, avståndet är för stort, mitt svärd är för slött och mina ord är för små och jävlarnas galenskap är för stor. Säkerhet nås kanske endast genom döden; kanske endast då kommer de lämna dig ifred. Kanske är döden den säkra sidan för oss två. Author: That’s why I did not come, why I ran. I thought the bastards would kill you. Every time the papers wrote about someone who had died did I think it was you. Only drunk from hundreds of beer and thousands of shots did I dear to reveal who I was thinking about there in the silence of the rush. I want to protect you but I can’t. The ocean is too dark, mankind is too evil, the distance too big, my sword too rusty and my words too smal and the madness of the bastards is too great. Security is perhaps only reached through death; perhaps only then will they leave you alone. Perhaps death is the safe side for us two. Better a dinner of herbs than a stalled ox where hate is (Wittgenstein igen) Wittgenstein: “The ‘visual room’ seemed like a discovery, but what its discoverer really found was a new way of speaking, a new comparison; it might even be called a new sensation”. Så kändes det. Wittgenstein: “The ‘visual room’ seemed like a discovery, but what its discoverer really found was a new way of speaking, a new comparison; it might even be called a new sensation”. That’s how it felt. Better a good cow than a cow of a good kind Moron: Nu är lunchen slut och de flesta går tillbaks till sitt arbete eller sin skola. Jag sitter kvar. Det är nu jag ska hålla låda. Jag ställer mig upp på bordet och slår med händerna mot bröstet och skriker JAG ÄR ER KUNG! En servitris försöker stoppa mig men jag sparkar ner henne och hon faller till marken med sprucken näsa och blodigt ansikte. Då ser folk att jag menar allvar och de samlas runtom mig. GE MIG EN CAESARSALLAD OCH EN LATTE! skriker jag. Sedan hoppar jag ner från bordet och de banar väg för mig, gör en korridor. HÄMTA HENNE! MIN DROTTNING – HÄMTA HENNE! Moron: Now the lunch is over and most people go back to their work or their school. I stay. It is now that I will have my show. I stand up on the table and beat with my hands against my chest and scream I AM YOUR KING! A waitress tries to stop me but I kick her down and she falls to the ground with a broken nose and a bloody face. That’s when people realize that I am serious and they gather around me. GIVE ME A CAESAR SALAD AND A LATTE! I scream. Then I jump down from the table and the make way for me, make a corridor. GET HER! MY QUEEN - GET HER! Better an old man’s darling, than a young man’s slave Moron: 23 år gammal är jag men jag känner mig som flera hundra. Jag är ung men gammal. Hon är min darling och de är mina slavar. De får inget och jag får det bästa. Jag får kakan och jag äter den. I år bor jag på caféet och mina slavar bor med mig, sover under borden. Nycklen har jag svalt, mat får vi från ett hål i väggen, underhållning från människorna som går förbi på gatan utanför. Jag har mutat polisen så de lämnar oss ifred. Här inne bygger jag mitt kungarike, i åratal är jag kung. Till slut tröttnar jag och kräker upp nycklen. Nyfödda vandrar vi ut i solen och går tillbaks till våra arbeten och våra skolor. Det är september och jag börjar också skolan. Moron: 23 years old but I feel like many hundred. I am young but old. She is my darling and they are my slaves. They get nothing and I get the best. I get the cake and I eat it. For years I live at the café and my slaves live with me, sleep under the tables. The key I have swallowed, food we get from a hole in the wall, entertainment from the people passing on the street outside. I have bribed the cops so they leave us alone. In here I build my paradise, for years I am king. Eventually I get tired and vomit up the key. Born-again we wander out in the sun and go back to our works and our schools. It’s September and I too start school. Better be envied than pitied Bystander, lecturing: What is it to be pitied? What is it to be envied? You can envy someone you don’t know because you have heard about that person, but you can’t pity the person when you don’t know him or her personally; the person might have strived for his or her current standing. Pity requires compassion; envy requires nothing but dissatisfaction and no-one feels compassion for someone they don’t know. So, all in all, it’s better to be pitied than envied – it means someone cares about you. PAUS! WE EXPECT THIS AND WE ARE SURPRISED AT THAT, BUT THE CHAIN OF REASONS HAS AN END (Wittgenstein) En man står ute på ett snötäckt fält. Det är ganska vindstilla men ibland blåser det till. Det susar i träden. Han står där och ser ut över den stora sjön. Det är minusgrader. Det har det varit i veckor och isen på sjön är säkert tjock nog att köra bil på. Mannen har ingen bil eller ens ett körkort. Han står där på fältet och ser ut över sjön. Han tänker på det som varit innan och det som ska komma. Genom att räcka en hand bakåt i medvetandet kan han nå minnen av det som hänt tidigare i hans liv. Han kan tänka på sin första kyss. Det gör han nu. Flickan var ung och han också. Det var på en fest. Han minns musiken som var i bakgrunden. Han minns sin hand som först låg på hans knä och sedan fördes till hennes midja. Hans minns hur de såg på varandra efteråt och hennes mörka ögon. Hennes namn minns han dock inte. Han ser henne framför sig. En liten flicka sitter i en bil. I bilen finns resten av familjen också. De kör på en landsväg. Byar far förbi utanför. Hon ser hundar ute i trädgårdarna och hon ser tanter med blåtonat permanentat hår som kallar på hundarna. I förarsätet sitter pappa och bredvid sitter mamma och där bak sitter flickan och hennes syster. De är på väg till en nöjespark. Hon tänker på vad hon ska göra när de är framme. Det är sommar. Solen lyser in genom bilrutorna och mamma fäller ner solskydden. När flickan kommer fram till parken ska hon springa ut på sina sommarfötter och hälsa på djuren. Hon ska hälsa på getter och kossor och strutsar. Hon ska äta glass! Hon ser allt framför sig. En man i övre medelåldern sitter på en fåtölj i ett smutsigt rum. Det var inte smutsigt för en vecka sedan. Nu är det fimpar i askfatet och på golvet och det ligger ihopknycklade ölburkar och tomma spritflaskor runt honom. Han har en skjorta och slipsen sitter fortfarande kvar. Den var vit med röda ränder innan. Nu är det vita svettgult. Hela företaget har gått åt pipan. Alla anställda har fått gå. Han kommer aldrig att kunna betala av sina skulder till banken. Hade inte frun dött för många år sedan hade hon nog skiljt sig från honom ungefär nu. Mannen lutar sig tillbaka och korsar benen. Han tänder en cigarett trots att nikotinet inte kan tillföra mer. Blodtrycket är redan på topp och hjärnans belöningscentrum har blivit bedövat av bedrövligheten. Han ser ut genom fönstret. Han reser sig och går fram till det. Där nedanför kör bilar och bussar. Där nere går människor fram och tillbaka på trottoaren. Mannen känner ingenting när han ser dessa människor. Vi har ju alla våra problem, tänker han för att försöka få perspektiv på sin situation. Han öppnar fönstret lite och släpper ner fimpen på gatan. Det är tio våningar ner. Fimpen faller och blir osynlig och exploderar sedan försiktigt mitt på gatan. En buss kör över den. Han sätter sig igen och försöker se framåt. Han har försökt se framåt i en vecka nu. Han ser ingenting framför sig. Han ser ingen framtid. En vecka senare är familjen tillbaka i staden. Flickan hade roligt. Hon sitter på sitt rum med sin lillasyster. De ser på barnprogram på teven men flickan tänker inte på vad hon ser. Hon tänker på geten som hälsade tillbaka och log, och på änderna som flög i flock över dammen och på glassen hon tappade i grusen. Hon sov hela vägen tillbaks i bilen. Nu ser hon konstiga tecknade fantasidjur på teven men de är ointressanta. Imorgon börjar skolan igen. Hon tittar ut genom fönstret och ser plötsligt något litet brinnande flyga förbi. I fantasins rus bestämmer hon sig för att inte somna i natt utan ligga vaken tills mamma och pappa somnat och sen smyga ut och upp för att se vart det brinnande konstiga kom ifrån. Hon ser en liten drake som sprutar eld. Hon ser en eldfluga från Peter Pans värld. Hon ser sig själv hitta och fånga detta när de andra somnat. Mannen som stod på isen är också tillbaka i sitt hem. Han ligger i soffan och läser en bok. Resan till sjön var förfriskande och han fann nya krafter. En vecka till, sen är det jullov och inga fler elever i skolan och inga fler läxor att rätta. Då kan han ligga såhär i sin soffa varje dag. Han slår ihop boken och suckar nöjt. Ute i det lilla köket står kaffet på och han stänger av det för snart skall det sovas. Han stannat vid fönstret och ser ner på gatan. Alla dessa människor, tänker han. Snart har vi alla jullov. Så tänker en lärare, tänker han och skrattar. Plötsligt ser han något flamma till mitt på gatan. Han spänner ögonen för att se vad det var men en buss har strax kört över det. Några timmar senare ligger han i sin säng och har svårt att sova. Boken var spännande och han tänker på den och han tänker på sjön och hur han stod där och tänkte på sin första kyss. Av en nyck tänder han lampan och sätter sig upp. Han tänker på det som flammade på gatan. Vad kan det ha varit för något? Det kom uppifrån. Jaja, lite brist på sömn klarar jag ju nu när det snart är jullov. Varför inte se efter? Äventyr! Han ser framför sig en detektivhistoria där han själv spelar huvudrollen. Så möts flickan och läraren utanför den misslyckade dödsdömde affärsmannens dörr. Det är mörkt utanför dörren och man ser inte vilket namn det står på den. Läraren kommer från mörkret till vänster och flickan kommer försiktigt smygande från höger. Plötsligt står de framför varandra, chockade. Båda två tänker de vända om och överge sina fåniga nattäventyr men när de ser på varandra känns det hela så osannolikt och märkligt och spännande att de bara blir stående stirrande. De säger inget. Flickan vänder blicken mot dörren och läraren känner försiktigt på dörrhandtaget. Dörren är öppen. Flickan går in först. Läraren ser sig om för att försäkra sig att ingen ser dem innan han går in och stänger dörren utan ett ljud. Där inne är det mörkt och kvalmigt. I köket till höger lyser en svag glödlampa över matbordet. Flickan öppnar kylskåpet som är helt tomt sånär som på en starköl. Lärare går vidare in och hittar sovrummet. Sängen är obäddad och tom. Fönstret står öppet och han stänger det. Så går de båda in i storarummet och ser mannen sitta där i sin fåtölj. Han sover och snarkar tyst. Det ligger fortfarande cigarettfimpar och ölburkar runtom honom. Han är som ett spökskepp på ett hav av fördärv. Läraren och flickan ser på varandra. I andra änden av rummet står en soffa och där sätter de sig. De ser den misslyckade affärsmannen sitta mitt emot dem i misär. Tiden går och det börjar bli ljust ute. De första bussarna börjar går. Läraren och flickan har suttit tysta i timmar. Stämningen är märklig där inne. Ingen av dem vet varför de inte har gått tillbaka till sina sängar. De är som trollbundna av sammanträffandet och situationens märklighet. Plötsligt ser de affärsmannen vakna. Han rätar på sig hastigt. Det tar ett tag innan han ser dem men så utbrister han: ”Åh! Ni är här! Prisad vare herren!”. Han reser sig och vacklar bort mot dem för att ta i hand men de reser sig båda två och möter honom halvvägs. De tre blir stående där. ”Vad har hänt farbrorn?” frågar flickan. ”Jag har förlorat allt, lilla flicka. Jag har inga pengar. Jag har ingen framtid. Allt är förlorat.” Läraren lägger en hand på mannens axel och säger: ”Kan du betala din hyra för denna månaden?” ”Nej, inte ens det…” ”Hur mycket är hyran på?” ”5000 kronor.” ”Då ska du få det av mig. Jag skriver en check.”. Så tar läraren fram sin checkbok och skriver checken och ger till mannen. Flickan säger: ”Jag kan komma på besök varje dag efter skolan. Jag ska hjälpa dig att städa upp det här. Såhär kan du ju inte ha det, farbrorn”. ”Nej, nej, nej… det är ingen idé. Även om jag kan betala hyran så kan jag ändå inte rädda företaget… det kommer gå i konkurs och var ska jag då jobba? Hur ska jag betala nästa månads hyra?” ”Vet du vad”, säger läraren, ”vi behöver lärare på skolan. Kan du lära ut något?” Affärsmannen blir tyst och ser ner i golvet. ”Jag är ganska duktig på engelska. Jag hade högsta betyg i realen.” säger han. ”Då kontaktar jag min chef och återkommer om några dagar!” säger läraren. ”Nu måste jag till jobbet och lilla flickan här måste till skolan.” Better be out of the world than out of the fashion Bystander, lecturing: The world without fashion is nothing but chaos. Fashion unites us. It helps us to identify ourselves and everyone around us. Find a new style and you find a new self. With the style comes other things, such as music taste, movies and books. You don’t have to think for yourself if you find a complete style. Some styles are not complete though; some only tell you what shoes to wear. To not have a style means not knowing fashion and apparently it’s better to be dead than to not have a style. Weird. Better be safe than sorry Heron, lecturing: Oljekris. Skit i det. Skit i fiskarna. Oljan tar väl hand om sig själv, och fiskarna också. Vi är blott människor och vi har ju annat att tänka på. Själv tänker jag på tjejer hela tiden. Jag ser dem med kläder på och jag tänker mig dem med kläder av. Det bästa vore väl om vi inte hade baserat en hel värld på olja. Nu är det för sent ju. Vi är sorry och vi är inte safe och det finns ingen som kan betala för det som nu kommer hända med fiskarna på havets botten. Bäst då att tänka på nakna tjejer. Heron, lecturing: Oil crisis. Fuck that. Fuck the fishes. The oil will take care of itself, and the fishes too. We are merely people and we have other things to think of. I think about naked girls all the time. I see them with clothes on and I imagine them with clothes off. The would perhaps be if we hadn’t based an entire world on oil. Now it’s too late isn’t it? We are sorry and we are not safe and there is no-one who can pay for what will now happen to the fish on the bottom of the ocean. Better then to think about naked girls. Better late than never Heron, lecturing: Ändock skickar vi båtar till oljeläckaget. Någon säger att någon smällde en bomb men sådant får då nog inte allmänheten veta. Vi förbannar våra förfäder som inte tänkte på oss. Vi förbannar varandra. Vi förbannar naturen. Och så är det vulkanutbrott, jordbävningar och en ekonomi i kaos. Fan ta alla nobelpris, fan ta alla uppfinningar, fan to alla som kom före oss, och inte tänkte på oss! Heron, lecturing: Yet we send boats to the oil leakage. Someone said that someone blew a bomb but such things will the public probably not get to know. We curse our ancestors who did not think about us. We curse each other. We curse nature. And then there is volcanic eruptions, earthquakes and an economy in chaos. Curse every price, curse every invention, curse everyone who came before us, and did not think about us! Better one house spoiled than two Heron, lecturing: Ändock skickar vi båtar till oljeläckaget. Någon säger att någon ska betala men vad kommer det kosta och vad är det egentliga priset? Vi förbannar våra förfäder som inte tänkte på oss. Vi förbannar varandra. Vi förbannar naturen. Och så är det krig i mellanöstern, global uppvärmning och döende regnskogar. Lyssna på de visa, lyssna på de ärliga, lyssna på de som ska komma efter oss, och tänk inte på oss! Heron, lecturing: Yet we send boats to the oil leakage. Someone says that someone should pay but what will it cost and what is the actual price? We curse our ancestors who did not think about us. We curse each other. We curse nature. And then there is war in the middle east, global warming and dying rain forests. Listen to the wise, listen to the honest, listen to those who will come after us, and do not think about us! ÄR DET KONSTIGT ATT MAN ÄR RÄDD?! IS IT STRANGE THAT ONE IS SCARED?! Heron: Volcanic ashes fill the sky, heroes run naked waiting to die Owners of gold’n’silver lie, Earth attacks and we deny that we are crawling on the bottom But fear not brothers and sisters for I have been told that in our darkest hour, we will rise that when words fail, silence will suffice that when roads are empty, we will talk and when we are deaf, we will walk The better the day, the better the deed Background noise: We left New York a few weeks ago. It was burning and the food supply was running low, some even said there was no food at all. Hordes of people walked the highway and it was especially crowded at the Can of Worms as people had to follow the highway up and over. It was a good day. We walked the greater part of it and we got well ahead of the crowd. We’re not scared. We’ve still got plenty of food, enough to last two or three weeks and even more if things get really bad. Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t know Bystander, lecturing: Dark matter may be mirror matter. Stretch your brain far enough and you will feel your mirror cells and meet your other self. Live in the twilight zone between this-world you and that-world you. There you will meet interesting people, and have great parties. There, sits a mirror- God and a mirror-Devil. There, evil is not the same evil that you know from here. There, you will find enlightenment. But you need to stretch your brain all the way around the mirror. It is better to be born lucky than rich Author: Tisdagen den fjärde Maj. För de flesta en vanlig vecka. Tanten i röd halsduk rakt emot mig äter en sallad. Hennes vän bredvid henne äter också en sallad. Bakom dem sitter en ensam ung herre med sin ipod och en ganska tunn bok uppslagen framför sig. Ett ljus är tänt vid bordet. Inte ett långt vackert vitt ljus utan en liten lykta utan lock, nästan som en gravlykta. Till höger om honom sitter två yngre damer, kanske i tjugofem-trettioårsåldern. De dricker kaffe och äter kakor och samtalar engagerat. På min vänstra sida sitter två damer. De är nog över trettio och ingen av dem ser särskilt glad ut. De sitter vid varsen dator och de blickar tomt mot skärmen. Author: Tuesday May fourth. For most a normal week. The lady in a red scarf directly opposite to me is eating a salad. Her friend next to her is also eating a salad. Behind them is a lone young gentleman with his ipod and a rather thin book opened before him. A candle is lit at the table. Not a tall beautiful white candle but a little lantern without a top, like a grave lantern. To his right is two younger ladies, perhaps in their twenty five or thirties. They are drinking coffee and eat cookies and talk vividly. On my left side sits two ladies. They are probably over thirty and none of them look very happy. The sit at a computer each and they look empty at the screen. It is better to given than to receive Author: Det är tavlor på väggarna. Det är böcker i bokhyllorna. Det är varmt och mysigt och i bakgrunden står radion på lågt. Snett fram till höger sitter en grupp unga tjejer med böcker och block och pennor. Snart är det examenstid på universitetet, och kanske även på gymnasiet. Bakgrundsmumlet är annorlunda från danskan än det är från svenskan eller engelskan. Det är gladare, mer dynamiskt, mörkare; ett sådant språk är danskan. Author: There are paintings on the walls. There are books in the shelfs. It is warm and cosy and in the background the radio is playing low. Across to my right is a group of young girls with books and notebooks and pens. Soon it is examination time at the university, and maybe also in high school. The background buzz from danish is different from swedish or english. It is happier, more dynamic; such a language is danish. Background noise: Statement from U.S. Attorney General Eric Holder Earlier this evening, Faisal Shahzad was arrested in connection with the attempted car bombing in New York on Saturday. Mr. Shahzad, an American citizen, was taken into custody at JFK Airport in New York as he attempted to board a flight to Dubai. Since this plot was first uncovered on Saturday night, the FBI, prosecutors and intelligence lawyers in the National Security Division of the Justice Department and the U.S. Attorneys Offices in Manhattan and Connecticut, along with the NYPD have worked night and day to find out who was responsible for what would have been a deadly attack had it been successful. Over the course of the day today, we have gathered significant additional evidence that led to tonight’s arrest, which was made by agents from Department of Homeland Security’s Customs and Border Protection. This investigation is ongoing, as are our attempts to gather useful intelligence, and we continue to pursue a number of leads. But it’s clear that the intent behind this terrorist act was to kill Americans. FBI agents are working with their state and local counterparts in New York, Connecticut and other jurisdictions to gather evidence and intelligence related to this case. We are also coordinating with other members of the President’s national security team to ensure we use every resource available to the United States to bring anyone responsible to justice. We continue to gather leads in this investigation, and it’s important that the American people remain vigilant. The vehicle in Times Square was first noticed on Saturday by a citizen who reported it to authorities, and, as always, any American who notices suspicious activity should report it to the appropriate law enforcement agencies. This investigation is ongoing, it is multi-faceted, and it is aggressive. As we move forward, we will focus on not just holding those responsible for it accountable, but also on obtaining any intelligence about terrorist organizations overseas. Because of the fast-moving nature of this investigation, I am not able to make any further information public at this time. But the American people should know that we are deploying every resource available, and we will not rest until we have brought everyone responsible to justice. ‘Tis better to have loved and lost, than to never have loved at all Heron: Är kärleken till Gud lik kärleken till människan? Allt vi vet om världen runtom oss vet vi genom information vi fått från våra sinnen. Våra sinnen är allt vi har för att fastställa att det finns en värld utanför oss. Om vi antar att Gud finns får vi tre möjliga slutsatser: antingen finns Gud utanför oss, och det är genom våra sinnen vi erfarar och känner Gud; eller finns Gud inom oss, och vi kan känna Gud oberoende av våra sinnen; eller, slutligen, finns Gud både utanför och innanför oss. Kärleken till människan är annorlunda eftersom människan inte finns inom oss. Alltså är kärleken till Gud annorlunda än kärleken till människan. Detta betyder dock inte att Gud finns, men människan finns, det har vi erfarit. Heron: Is the love to God similar to the love to mankind? Everything we know about the world around we get from the information our senses gave us. Our senses is everything we have to establish that there is a world outside us. If we assume that God exists we get three possible conclusions: either God is outside us, and it is from our senses we experience and know God; or God is inside us, and we can experience God independently from our senses; or, finally, is God both inside and outside us. The love to mankind is different because mankind is not inside us. Thus the love to God is different from the love to mankind. This does not mean that God exists, but mankind exists, this we have experienced. It is better to travel hopefully than to arrive Moron: I will be just as rude as I want to. It’s my world and you can go fuck yourself. I don’t even know that you exist – only my eyes tell me so! If you talk to me, you’re nothing but sound waves that my ears perceive; if you hit me in the stomach, your hand is nothing but electrostatic force against my muscles and the pain signals merely weak electricity within me. In my head you are cells communicating. Your words were mine from the start, just like the world was. Better to wear out than to rust out Heron, lecturing: Let’s call it The Cause. Our cause. We define it as the set – from North to South – containing everything that we think is wrong. For example, as members of this set we have: capitalism gone wild, environmental problems, starvation in Africa, the shady pharmaceutical industry and so on. You can be either for or against the cause, but you can work in the financial sector, for example, and still be for the cause. It is best to ignore those that are against the cause. Now, we say that we make it one of the goals of our life to pursue this cause, for nothing is more important to us. Obviously, there is no one solution that will make our cause complete, but we know that. We will pursue our cause until we wear out, for the cause never rusts. Better wed over the mixen than over the moor (AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT) Author, singing: Du är en fågel Jag tittar på dig och försöker förstå vad det innebär Du låtsas sova där borta Ibland öppnar du dina mörka bruna ögon och tittar på mig Din tofs är uppe och alert Det är så vackert Tänk så mycket vi varit igenom tillsammans I mer än tio år har vi känt varandra Du har verkligen en personlighet Du är verkligen en person Är du självmedveten? Goddag, goddag! Author, singing: You are a bird I look at you and try to comprehend what this means You pretend to be asleep over there Sometimes you open your dark eyes and look at me Your crest is up and alert It is so beautiful Think about how much we have been through together For more than ten years have we know each other You really do have a personality You really are a person Are you self-aware? Good day, good day!

En vindpust från det öppna fönstret sveper över golvet och dun och grå fjädrar börjar dansa. Han burrar upp sig men hon spanar nervöst runt. Så tittar hon på honom: Han, min, stark, grå och modig. Hans svarta ögon möter hennes: Hon, min, ståtlig, vit och skön. Nu sitter de på det bruna skåpet. Nu flyger de över till tavlan och blir sittande. Det blir snart mörkt där utanför och de rör sig närmare, inte för att skapa värme men för att vara nära. Han somnar först. I timmar sitter hon, med öppna ögon. Vaktar. Mörkret är djupt och farligt. Så börjar det bli ljusare, nästan rosa och där sover de båda två. En ny dag gryr och man vet aldrig vad som väntar då. Det rosa blir långsamt till vitt och dagen börjar. De sitter på skåpet, där frö och kallt vatten finns. Han dricker och hon äter. Så byter de. En stund senare sitter de på golvet, en bit ifrån varandra. Hans ögon är egentligen inte svarta, inte mina heller. De är mörkt bruna och pupillen är svart. Nu skämtar han med mig! Han springer runt med krökt nacke. Benen är långa och snabba. Han talar så fint och jag bara burrar upp mig och sitter stilla. Efter en stund slutar han och de somnar, där på golvet under ett bord. Hon sover och han kallar. Högt och ivrigt kallar han! Han sitter på skåpet nu och hon ser upp mot honom. Han kallar igen men hon svarar inte, kommer inte upp till honom. Det är svårt ibland. Det finns ett vemod. Hon vet inte var hon kommer ifrån. Varför har hon vit dräkt och han grå? Han är så glad och modig men jag är så tyst och blyg. Ibland skriker han på mig en hel dag att komma. Ibland kommer han ner själv och börjar sjunga för mig, men ofta stannar han själv och ensam. Han tystnar. Ett mörker och en skam kommer då över mig och jag förstår inte varför jag inte kommer till honom. Han som är så fin! Är jag arg? Så somnar de båda igen, på var sitt håll, med ett avstånd emellan dem. En grön växt står plötsligt vid fönstret och han går dit. Han smakar. Först smakar den ingenting och han äter lite till. Den är inte god, men heller inte farlig säger han till henne. Hon smakar inte utan stannar en bit ifrån och tittar. Utanför är det vitt och stora brummande ljud hörs. Han flyger till skåpet och ser på henne i fönstrets ljus. Så skönt det är, den röda fläcken på den vita kinden. Vilken sällhet att betrakta henne där. Så kommer smaken. Han skakar och rister på huvudet! Det smakar avskyvärt! Han kallar inte på henne och hon märker inte paniken i hans ögon. Han flyger till tavlan. Smaken försvinner inte! Det bränner som något han aldrig smakat tidigare och det gör ont! Ljuden utifrån blir starkare och han ser suddigt och allt blir konstigt och farligt. Är detta slutet? Var är hon, min vita? I det disiga kaoset kallar han på henne men hon hör inte. Han vet inte ens om ljud kom från honom! Det bränner än mer. Han försöker tömma magens innehåll men inget kommer upp. Han rister och rister på huvudet men inget händer. Han måste göra något, men vad? Han försöker samla sig. Det bränner! Plötsligt märker han att han nästan faller av tavlan, att han inte sitter stadigt, att allt snurrar och vimlar. Men kom då, min vita! Han ser henne inte längre för det gör för ont för att ha ögonen öppna. Hans blick blir lika svart som hans ögon. I drömmen faller han, ner från tavlan, ner på golvet, förbi golvet. Han faller och faller. Hjärtat pumpar så snabbt, så snabbt. Han somnar. När han vaknar igen är hon hos honom. Lugna ögon möter hans skärrade blick när han öppnar ögonen. Hon sitter nära, för att värma, för att göra honom trygg. Han lever! Men ack så trött han är. Resten av dagen sover de. När en ny dag gryr är den gröna växten borta. Lika bra det! Han har tidigare känt en frihet likt denna. Det var en lång tid sedan, innan hon kom till honom. I en liten brun låda kom hon plötsligt en dag. Friheten var skön och han blev snabbt van vid den. Därför hittar han snabbt tillbaka till känslan att vara fri nu när de är fria igen. Hon är inte van vid friheten. Livet har varat i ett ögonblick. Allt har gått så snabbt. Inte något minns hon från det som var innan. Lådan öppnades, mörkret försvann och där stod han plötsligt. En grå, ovårdad dräkt mötte henne. En alert tofs och betraktande ögon. Han mötte henne där. Nu är de åter fria och han vet hur man gör då. Man gör så många olika saker! Man sjunger och visslar. Man sitter på bord, på tavlor och på skåp. Man äter mindre. Var som helst kan man sova. Inga speglar eller avsågade halvkvistar behöver man. Man har tid och ork, lust och vilja att vårda sin dräkt. Så vackra de är nu! Det finns en annan frihet! Från det utanför fönstret kommer ljud. Många ljud känner de sen tidigare men många är nya. Varje gång en ny dag gryr sållas nya ljud till deras minnen. De har känt vinden därifrån, de har sett den få fjädrarna och dunet att dansa. Ibland är springan mellan fönstret och bordet stor, kanske stor nog att komma igenom. Det finns en annan frihet. Han heter Sajber och hon heter Zappa Natthimmelen Jag gick ut på bryggan och lade mig under natthimmelen Över sjön hördes fåglar skrika av vansinne och parningstider Borta i skogen röt något och lät som en mänsklig hund eller en varulv Jag gick ut med ölen i hand och lade mig ner och såg upp Horisonten med sitt ljus omslöt mig på alla sidor Skogen var bakom mig och huset längre upp och ljuset störde inte Jag vandrade ut i mörkret och lade mig på bryggan och såg upp Såg svart Blinkande punkter Såg mina händer lyftas mot det svarta Såg fingrarna, såg handflatorna och handlederna Emellan dem, stjärnor Jag skrek inte ”finns det någon där?” Jag lämnade brasan och fåtöljen i huset och gick ner till sjön Liggandes på bryggan såg jag natthimmelen och satteliter som rörde sig Jag frågade inget och kände inget men försökte tänka men slutade Jag lade mig på bryggan och försökte förstå vad det var jag såg Över sjön hördes fåglars parningsläten, i skogen en hund eller människa Ovan mig min aphand och ovan den natthimmelen, svart och vit som en fråga The night sky I walked out to the jetty and laid myself under the night sky Across the lake I heard birds from madness and breeding season Out in the forest something screamed and sounded like a human dog or a werewolf I walked out with the beer in my hand and laid down and looked up The horizon with its light surrounded me on all sides The forest was behind me and the house further up and the light did not disturb I wandered out in the darkness and laid down on the jetty and looked up Saw black Twinkling points Saw my hands lift towards the black Saw the fingers, the palms and the wrists Between them, stars I did not yell “is there someone there?” I left the fireplace and the armchair in the house and went down to the lake Lying on the jetty I saw the night sky and satellites moving I asked nothing and felt nothing but tried to think but stopped I laid down on the jetty and tried to understand what I saw Across the lake I heard birds’ breeding sounds, in the woods a dog or a man Above me my ape hand and above it the night sky, black and white like a question Between two stools one falls to the ground Author, writing letter: “Jag var deprimerad under våren 2009 (termin 1). Jag sökte hjälp i April 2009 och ämnade fortsätta termin 2 under hösten 2009. Mina problem blev dock värre och när det var dags för tentorna hade jag inte deltagit i undervisningen och deltog därför inte i tentorna. Jag blev då automatiskt utskriven från universitetet. Hösten 2009 gick åt att lösa mina psykiska problem (d.v.s. depressionen) och jag ser mig nu som fullt kapabel att fortsätta mina studier. Anledningen till att jag endast har 30 poäng är således att jag inte genomförde tentorna för termin 2. Kort sagt kan man säga att jag fick studiemedel för 2 terminer varav jag bara gjorde tentorna för termin 1 på grund av depression som jag har läkarintyg för. Det som hänt mig är något som kan hända vem som helst och jag kunde så klart inte förutse att jag inte skulle klara tentorna för termin 2. Jag hoppas ni förstår min situation och har överseende och låter mig få studiemedel för mina kommande läkarstudier.” Author, writing letter: “I was depressed during the spring of 2009 (term 1). I got help in April 2009 and meant to continue term 2 autumn 2009. But my problems got worse and when it was time for the finals I had not participated in the education and therefore did not participate in the finals. I was then automatically out-written from the university. The autumn 2009 was spent on solving my mental problems (that is, the depression) and I now see myself fully capable to continue my studies. The reason that I only have 30 points is thus that I did not do the exams for term 2. In short one can say I got financial aid for 2 terms of which I only did the finals for term 1 because of depression for which I have a doctor’s paper. What happened to me can happen to anyone and I could of course not foresee that I would not pass the finals for term 2. I hope you understand my situation and can oversee and let me have financial aid for my coming doctor studies”. Big fish eat little fish Heron: Jag fångar två abborrar och du en stor gädda och sen grillar vi korv uppe vid stugan och dricker öl. Sjön ligger helt blank och det börjar dugga lätt. Vi går ner igen till bryggan. Snusen är så god när man står här och kastar. Snusen är som en vän. Vi talar inte, allt som hörs är våra spön som spinner och plasken när dragen bryter sjöytan. Du får en fisk, en abborre, och lägger den i spannen med de andra fiskarna. Solen är lite efter middag, än har vi timmar på oss att fiska, denna sälla höstdag. Heron: I catch two perches and you a big jack and then we grill hot dogs up by the cabin and drink beer. The lake is all blank and it starts to rain softly. We walk down to the jetty again. The snuff is so good when you stand here fishing. The snuff is like a friend. We don’t speak, all that is heard is our rods spinning and the splashes as the lure breaks the water surface. You catch a fish, a perch, and put it in the bucket with the other fish. The sun is a bit past mid-day, yet we have hours left to fish, this blissful autumn day. Big fleas have little fleas upon their backs to bite them, and little fleas have lesser fleas, and so on ad infinitum Heron: Finnes det ett stadie av mitt medvetande som kan acceptera detta, finnes det ett stadie där denna acceptans kan samleva med mitt jag. Ty sådant är jaget: det är alla dina stadier samtidigt, i olika grader. Endast genom att acceptera alla dina stadier kan du älska dig själv och de runtom dig. Det finnes i varje själ, som inte är upplyst, minst ett stadie som saknar acceptans hos jaget. Heron: Exists there a stage of my consciousness that can accept this, exists there a stage where this acceptance can co-exists with my ego. For such is the ego: it is all your stages at once, in different degrees. Only by accepting all your stages can you love yourself and those around you. There is in every soul which is not enlightened, at least one stage that lacks acceptance from the ego. The bigger they are, the harder they fall Bystander: HHHHHHHHHIIIIIIIIIIIII! HHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWW AAAAAARRRRRREEEEEEEE YYYYYYYYYOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUU? Good, ty. Whats wrong with your typing? IIIIIIIII JJJJJJJJJUUUUUUUUUSSSSSSSSTTTTTTTTT HHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAADDDDDDDD AAAAAAAA SSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHIIIIIIITTTTTTTTLLLLLLLLOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAADDDDD DDDDD OOOOOOOOFFFFFFFFF LLLLLLLLLLLSSSSSSSSSSSSSDDDDDDDDDD! lol, ok. AAAAAAAAARRRRRRREEEEEEEE YYYYYYYYYOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUU GGGGGGGGOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOODDDDDDDDDD MMMMMMMM888888888? your partner has disconnected Hellre en fågel under plogen än två i skogen (Better a bird in the hand than two under the plow) Heron: I år färdades jag med deras döda röster i mina öron, och varje bro jag gick över, varje säng jag sov i, bestod av deras kroppar. Slutligen anlände jag till en stad, höljd i dimma och under grå himmel utan sol. I en smedja sökte jag arbete och blev erbjuden en månads prövotid. På härbärget fick jag en säng och en skål soppa om dagen, och bröd på morgonen. Så sakteligen blev mitt lynne ljusare och broarna jag gick över, och sängen jag sov i, bestod ej längre av mina döda barns kroppar, utan av framtidens allt grönare skog. Heron: For years I travelled with their dead voices in my ears, and every bridge I crossed, every bed I slept in, was made from their bodies. At last I arrived to a city, covered in dust and under grey skies without sun. At a blacksmith I asked for work and was offered a months testing-time. At the shelter I got a bed and a bowl of soup a day, and bread in the morning. Slowly my mood got brighter and the bridges that I crossed, and the beds I slept in, was no longer made from my dead children’s bodies, but from the future’s all greener forest. A bird never flew on one wing Moron, singing: All blues and so what. I’ll eat when I’m thirsty. Going to a jazz joint tonite, yeah. The corners are mine! I sit there and watch you pretty gals. I order a beer and talk to ya. Come home with me and ya know what you get. All blues, kind of blue and after that, flamenco sketches that’ll make ya fly! And after this the great deep blue when I regret what I just said. There are no birds in last year’s nest Heron: Nope, not a single one! INTE EN ENDA! Alla har de blivit uppätna av hundarna och björnarna. Visst, det är trist. It’s sad. Det gör en arg. It makes you angry. Svart av ilska! Black from anger! ILSKA! FURY! ILSKA! FURY! HAT! HATE! Det blir inga nya nät detta året för inga fåglar finns det kvar. Skogen är tyst, våren är tyst och inga vingar fladdrar. Are there birds in Africa still? Vi vet inte. Ingen har sagt något. Heron: Nope, not a single one! NOT A SINGLE ONE! They have all been eaten by the dogs and the bears. Sure, it’s sad. It’s sad. It makes you angry. It makes you angry. Black from anger! Black from anger! ANGER! FURY! ANGER! FURY! HATE! HATE! There are no new nests this year because there are no birds left. The forest is silent, the spring is silent and no wings flap. Are there birds in Africa still? We don’t know. No one has said anything. Birds in their little nests agree Heron, singing (with feeling): Så har vi fått veta att det finns fåglar kvar i Afrika, men att de är små och att de inte tycks göra något motstånd mot sin fångenskap. De äter inte och de sjunger inte, men de finns. De håller med, tydligen. To what? De håller med afrikanerna och turisterna, att detta är för jävligt. Fåglarna, afrikanerna och turisterna saknar skogarna och vattnet, regnet och träden. Fåglarna för att de inte längre kan vila, afrikanerna för att de inte längre kan leva, turisterna för att de inte längre kan resa. Heron, singing (with feeling): So have we got to know that there are birds still in Africa, but that they are small and that they not seem to make resistance against their captivity. They are not eating and they are not singing, but they exist. The agree, apparently. To what? They agree with the africans and the tourists, that this sucks. The birds, the africans and the tourists miss the forests and the water, the rain and the trees. The birds because they no longer can rest, the africans because they no longer can live, the tourists because they no longer can travel. Birds of a feather flock together Author: Hon har suttit där hela dagen. Han har snubblat två gånger nu. Hon har skickat två sms. Han sneglar på vad jag skriver. De är alla gamla. Nu går hon. Nu går han. De tre sitter vid ett för litet bord. Det glaset är tomt. Det kaffet är slut. Detta kaféet är öppet. Snart ska jag hem. Orkar inte flocka här längre. Author: She has been sitting there the whole day. He has tripped two times now. She has sent two text messages. He is looking at what I’m writing. They are all old. Now she leaves. Now he leaves. Those three sit at a too small table. That glass is empty. That coffee is out. This café is open. I’m leaving soon. Don’t have the energy to flock here longer. INTERMISSION! THE IDIOT’S APPROACH TO #127 Wittgenstein: “The work of the philosopher consists in assembling reminders for a particular purpose” – My purpose is to reproduce – – My work is not done – – Of this I am reminded every day – – It is my philosophy that this is my purpose – – I am pursuing this philosophy, hence I am a philosopher – – I am working on reproducing – Little birds that can sing and won’t sing must be made to sing Moron: Du tittar på mig, du sneglar hela tiden, men jag kan något du inte kan. Jag kan skriva om dig. Blickens makt har intet att stå emot ordets. Blicken varar blott en sekund; ordet varar för evigt. Jag är inte den fiende du söker och du är inte min. Dock måste du respektera min integritet. Bara för att du vet vem jag är och jag inte vet vem du är betyder det inte att du har rätt att stirra på mig. Det är obehagligt. Jag vet inte vad du tänker, du man där borta som enträget blickar åt mitt håll. Moron: You look at me, you leer the whole time, but I can do something that you can’t. I can write about you. The power of the look has nothing to stand against the word’s. The look lasts for merely a second; the word lasts forever. I am not the enemy you’re looking for and you are not mine. But you have to respect my integrity. Just because you know who I am and I don’t know who you are it does not mean that you have the right to stare at me. It’s unpleasant. I don’t know what you are thinking, you man over there who is constantly staring my way. A bleating sheep loses a bite Author: The enemy you are looking for is not invisible and it might be sitting behind you. It may also be sitting in a dark room, or hiding in a mind that cannot feel love towards you. This enemy is the real enemy, the one which is hiding. I’m sitting right here drinking coffee and I am not your enemy, I might in fact be your best friend but I do not expect you to realize this. Blessed is he who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed Author: Jag förväntar mig mycket och nog har jag fått vad jag gapat efter. Förväntade mig: sommarkvällar vid en sjö, eviga nätter under filtar, nakna bröst och brinnande ögon, priser och champagne, gitarrer, trumpeter, trummor och sång (jag tror han är störd så mycket som han stirrar). Mina bröder och systrar i trasiga pantalonger och slitna skor och brinnande hjärtan är med mig; de förväntar sig också mycket, och mycket ska de få. Kanske är det därför vi alla är besvikna på vad livet hittils har givit oss. Author: I expect a lot and sure enough have I got what I yelled for. Expected me: summer nights at a lake, eternal nights under blankets, naked breasts and burning eyes, prices and champagne, guitars, trumpets, drums and singing (I think he is disturbed the way he is staring). My brothers and sisters in torn pantalongs and ragged shoes and burning hearts are with me; they also expect a lot, and much shall they receive. Maybe it is therefore we are disappointed on what life thus far has given us. Blessings brighten as they take their flight Heron, lecturing: Vi bränner oljan och den försvinner i form av koldioxid upp i atmosfären. Mer värd blir den då den inte längre finns. Snart finns den inte längre och vi kommer inte gråta krokodiltårar utan riktiga tårar när våra bilar stannar och våra flygplan inte kan lyfta. Kanske är vi för sent ute, jag vet inte. Problemet är väl att ingen annan vet heller? Heron, lecturing: We burn the oil and it disappears in the form of carbon dioxide up in the atmosphere. More worth it becomes when it no longer exists because then we can trade it. Soon it is no more and we will not cry crocodile tears but real tears when our cars stop and our planes can’t take off. Maybe we are too late, I don’t know. The problem is that no one else knows either, right? There’s none so blind as those who will not see Heron: Jag undrar hur det kommer att gå till. Kanske slutar TV visa nyheter; allt vi ser när vi söker hjälp är reklam och vackra landskapsvyer. Senare, när det verkligen är illa: i affärerna står hyllorna tomma, bensinmackarna är övergivna (kanske bor någon galning i garaget), vägarna är tomma med brända bilvrak, inne i städerna skjuter man på varandra, rövarband lever rövare, gamla och barn dör, kvinnor mördar och män gråter. Än är vi inte där och kanske kommer vi aldrig dit. Ja, vi kanske klarar detta. Kanske klarar vi allt! Heron: I wonder how it will happen. Maybe TV stops showing news; all we see when we look for help is commercials and beautiful landscape views. Later, when it is real bad: in the stores the shelfs are empty, the gas stations are abandoned (maybe a lunatic lives in the garage), the roads are empty with burned car wrecks, in the cites people are shooting at each other, roaming bands let loose, old and children die, women murder and men cries. We are not there yet and perhaps we will never get there. Yes, perhaps we will make it! Perhaps we will make everything! When the blind lead the blind, both shall fall into the ditch Heron: Kanske är jag ensam om att märka undergången: möten på toppnivå i rum dränkta av rök och svett, kallsvett och torra munnar, frågor ingen har svar på, vaken dygnet runt, panik; vad ska vi säga till folket? Bränder på öppna torg. Bläddrande i gamla dammiga böcker. Mayaindianerna. Nostradamus. Rymdvarelser. Gud? Var är du Gud? Heron: Maybe I am alone in noticing the apocalypse: meetings at top level in rooms covered in smoke and sweat, cold sweat and dry mouths, questions no one can answer, awake day and night, panik; what shall we tell the people? Fires on open squares. Flickering through old dusty books. The Mayans. Nostradamus. Aliens. God? Where are you God? A blind man’s wife needs no paint Bystander: HON ÄR VACKER: mörka ögonbryn, höga kindknotor, distinkt näsa, läppar man vill bita i. Hon har likadana ögonbryn som jag har faktiskt. Jag läste någonstans att under stress väljer man en partner som inte är lik en själv. Motsatsen blir då att under normala situationer väljer man en partner som är lik en själv. Evolutionär psykologi är spännande men inte mer: det är reglerna vi spelar efter och de kan inte ändras, endast observeras. VILKA BEN HON HAR!!! Bystander: SHE IS BEAUTIFUL: dark eyebrows, high cheeks, distinct nose, lips you want to bite. She has the same eyebrows as me actually. I read somewhere that during stress one chooses a partner who is not alike oneself. The opposite is then that during normal situations one chooses a partner that is alike oneself. Evolutionary psychology is exciting but not more: it is the rules we play after and they can’t be changed, only observed. THOSE LEGS!!! You cannot get blood from a stone Heron, singing: You cannot get blood from a stone. You cannot get blood from me. You cannot get blood from me. You cannot get blood from me. You cannot get blood from me. You cannot get blood from me. You cannot get blood from me. You cannot get blood from a stone. Blood is thicker than water Heron, lecturing: Hur komma tanke från blod och blod från vatten; hur komma ilska från vatten när brist på vatten främjar ilska; hur komma vatten från himmel när ilska komma från jord; hur komma vatten från jord till himmel; hur komma ilska från jord till himmel; hur komma ilska från himmel till jord? Heron, lecturing: How comes thought from blood and blood from water; how comes anger from water when lack of water promotes anger; how comes water from heaven when anger comes from earth; how comes water from dirt to heaven; how comes anger from dirt to heaven; how comes anger from heaven to dirt? The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church Bystander, singing: Hurra, då vet vi hur! Bystander, singing: Horray, now we know how! Blood will have blood Heron: Blood will have blood and dreams of golden fields will be dreamt in minds awaiting enlightenment. Storms of electrons on shattered rainbows; hurricanes of green leaves upon bleached roads; tornadoes of eyes in black filth. I’ll be there in shades and a ragged cloak; my sword ready, its rusty blade of blood and fury pointed to the sky. Tomorrow. Blood will tell Bystander: Jag kommer behöva tid att fånga dig. Först tittar vi bara på varandra i hemlighet. Ingen säger något. Sen möts vi på en fest och då pratar vi lite men jag ser inte hela dig och jag visar bara en liten del av mig. Sen möts vi igen av en slump, bara vi två. Jag blir torr i munnen och efteråt minns jag inte vad jag sa. Kanske inte du heller. Jag har ditt nummer och skickar ett sms. Bjuder ut dig. Då visar vi lite mer av varandra. Samma sak varje gång, mellan mig och varje tjej. Bystander: I will need time to catch you. At first we look at each other in secret. No one says anything. Then we meet at a party and we talk a little but I don’t see all of you and I only show part of myself. Then we meet again by random, just the two of us. I get dry in my mouth and after I won’t remember what I said. Perhaps you won’t either. I have your number and send you a text. Invite you out. Then we show a little more of our selves. The same thing every time, between me and every girl. Blue are the hills that are far away Heron: And I will be there tomorrow when he descends from the thunder clouds on his silver horse in his bone clothes, and I will meet him when he strikes and I will strike back where it aches and if he returns we will haunt him forever for we are now one and we will never surrender. You can’t tell a book by its cover Author, lecturing: It is hard to stay positive. It is very easy to be a pessimist. People over here are frightened. They live in a soft bubble with the apocalypse looming just outside it. From this fear comes anger but where shall it be directed? It shall be directed inwards so that the bubble may burst. When you see the real deal it’s not a matter of being positive or not: it’s a matter of being outright angry. This anger can take to the streets but it must also vote, must go through the political channels (if possible). If the politicians do not realize what you want then… If you’re born to be hanged then you’ll never be drowned Heron, stands up: Brothers and sisters. Arise, for the cause is ours to be won. The time has come, yes it is here. The clouds are moving and the magnolias are in blossom; we are at our finest this hour. The great winds will spread our breath of victory all over the planet; it will be inhaled by everyone and we will be everywhere. The roses we place on the crests of the waves will reach the golden shores; they won’t be drowned, and we won’t be hanged. Two boys are half a boy, and three boys are no boy at all Background noise: Bilen står på ändan och fyra människor står bredvid. Tjejen i gult pekar och ser frågande ut. Hennes vän står med armarna i kors. Bildens två män står vända ifrån bilen, de ser den inte. Den öppna garageporten är böjd av bilen som inte får plats. EUROPARK står det. En annan bil tittar på och en tredje kör ovetande förbi ovanför. Där ser man ett par ben! Det finns en femte person i bilden, bakom bilen (på ända). Background noise: The cars stands on its behind and four people are standing next to it. The girl in yellow is pointing and looks questioning. Her friend stands with her arms crossed. The picture’s two men stand turned from the car, they don’t see it. The open garage port is bent by the car that does not fit. EUROPARK it says. Another car is watching and a third is unknowingly driving past above. There one sees a pair of legs! There is a fifth person in the picture, behind the car (on its behind). Boys will be boys Author, sleeping: Drömde i natt om dig saker kanske bli bättre nu kanske är allt färdigt alla texter nått dig någon bestämt vi möttes hastigt kramades båda ville kyssas jag minns inte vad mer jag drömde denna dröm är typisk för den undermedvetna process ständigt bär på du ska bli min en dag ingen annan jag ska tillhöra än dig jag drömmer sällan men detta var skönt jätteskönt tror inte på drömmar men nu gör jag. Author, sleeping: Dreamt tonight about you perhaps things get better now perhaps everything is done all texts reach you someone decided we met quickly hugged both wanted to kiss I can’t remember what else I dreamt this dream is typical for the subconscious process I always carry you will be mine one day on one else shall I belong to but you I dream rarely but this was nice really nice don’t believe in dreams but now I do. Brag is a good dog, but Holdfast is better Author, sleeping: Konstigt det är jag är rädd för dig kanske för du är äldre tigerögon ängelhud eldhår långa smalben vilken rumpa va åh att jag såg dig naken har fortfarande kvar filten du bar den röda chipsen vi åt öronhänget du glömde förstod inte vi inte skulle få en andra riktig chans att allt annat skulle vara hastigt och snabbt vara över. Author, sleeping: Strange I’m scared of you perhaps because you are older tiger eyes angel skin fire hair long bones what a behind huh oh that I saw you naked still have the blanket you carried the red the crisps we ate the ear ring you forgot did not understand that we would not get a second proper chance that everything else would be swift and soon be over. None but the brave deserve the fair Author, sleeping: Tar ett stenhårt grepp om hennes nacke och vad heter det våldtar henne oralt det är inte så många sidor det här grubblat över i ett år nu tar hon verkligen i läser med håret på ändå skildra sexuellt våld lägga in en våldtäktsscen skriver oss inte på näsan hon oj aj oj varför tror ni att hon skriver det här vad vill hon någon slags sammanfattning våldtagen förnedrad säg för guds skull till att skaffa undan henne nu hela detta goda usa våldtar henne det är den symboliska slutbilden av hela denna berättelsen. Author, sleeping: Grab her hardly around the neck and what’s it called rape her orally it is not many pages this have been thinking for a year now she really tries reads with hair upside down picture sexual violence add a rape scene don’t write us on the nose she oh ah oh why do you think she is writing this what does she want some kind of conclusion raped disgraced say for god’s sake get ried of her now all this good usa raping her that’s the symbolic final picture of this whole tale Brave men lived before Agamemnon Heron: AgamemnonAgamemnonagaAgamemnonagaboAgamemnoniAgamemnonaAgamemnonoAgamemn onhohoAgamemnonhihiAgamemnonhahaAgamemnonboboAgamemnonbidioffradesindotteråtervän defrånTrojamördadesavAigisthos The bread never falls but on its buttered side Moron, whispering (with feeling): Vet verkligen inte vad som hände och vad som inte hände. Att tänka att världen rörde sig efter mina händer är begeistrande och skrämmande och förmodligen inte sann. När jag landade hände ännu märkligare saker. Kanske vet män i svarta kostymer vad som hände eller vet män i vita rockar vad som inte hände. Moron, whispering (with feeling): Don’t really know what happened and what did not happen. To think that the world moved from my hands is overwhelming and frightening and probably not true. When I landed even weirder things happened. Perhaps men in black suits know what happened or men in white coats know what did not happen. What’s bred in the bone will come out in the flesh Heron, singing: Stream of consciousness bred in the bone from your early years and the marrow where also blood is. Osteoblast the forming of the bone along with chemicals to your flesh and skin. Stream of blood bred in the marrow along with chemicals to your consciousness. Bone bred in blood and skin in your early years and a boner. PAUS!!! STOPP OCH BELÄGG! ORDSPRÅKEN PRESENTERAR: EN SNÖHISTORIA En snöhistoria Det var tidvis löst snöfall med måttlig sikt. Snöbyar fördes med viss nordöstlig vind och temperaturen sjönk ett par grader. Längs den plankbeklädda stigen sidad av gröngrå törnbuskar gick en man; en man i levnadsbanans sista dalar. Landskapet var öde. Uppe i den kallblå himmelen, under molnen, kunde han se rovfåglar cirkulera och runt sina tjocka läderstövlar hörde han gnagare försöka leva i sina gömmen. Borta vid horisonten såg han sin lilla stuga. Han föreställde sig röken från kaminen stiga genom skorstenen och hur han satt där inne i värmen med sin pipa. Än var det några timmar innan han var framme. Plötsligt såg han djur på sjö. Sjön låg en bit fram till höger. Djuret hade en päls som var både kraftig och lång. Snön ändrade karaktär till kraftigt snöfall och vinden från nordöst bytte riktning och blev sydlig. Djuret stod stilla på sjöns is med de grova tassarna begravda i orörd snö. Det var som om det hade landat där mitt på sjön, rakt ned från en plats i himmelen. Mannen stannade där på stigen. Han såg djurets ögon se på honom. Ögonen var stora och röda och det tycktes lysa från dem. Snökristallerna som föll framför djuret ändrade ton till lila och orange. Mannen visste inte vad han skulle företa sig. Nog hade han sett många märkliga djur här ute på heden (svartbjörn, gammelvarg, fredsälg och gråkråka) men denna best skrämde honom. Djuret stod fortfarande stilla. Till formen minde det om en ulv men svansen var betydligt längre och öronen var spetsigare och hade tofsar likt ett lodjurs. Mannen vände sig om och såg att solen strax skulle vara skymd bakom bergen och att mörker snart skulle råda. Såvida han inte ville spendera natten bland törnbuskarna var han tvungen att fortsätta framåt, förbi sjön och djuret. Han började gå. Djuret stod fortfarande stilla, fortfarande betraktande. Isen på sjön var tjock, det kunde man se vid kanten. Det var en avlång sjö som följde stigen runt en sväng för att sedan lämna den då stigen blev rak och fortsatte hela vägen till mannens stuga. Nu var han bara några hundra meter från djuret. Inget hände. Han gick vidare. Inget hände. Han väntade sig bli nedriven av stora klor och bli uppäten på direkten men inget hände. När han gått ett tag stannade han och vände sig om. Djuret stirrade fortfarande på honom. Efter en halvtimme drog han en lättnadens suck och öppnade dörren till sin stuga. Han hängde av sig rocken på hängaren av trä och ställde skorna bredvid spisen som ännu inte var tänd. Det var kallt i stugan och han hämtade ved och lade i spisen och tände den och satte sig i sin stol och tände pipan. Så satt han där i timmar. Han hade varit ute på ett ärende i den närmaste byn. Det var en liten by. En enda gata gick genom den och stugorna var belägna på sidorna, ganska nära varandra. Man hade länge i byn talat om en stor best. De äldre och de gamla skrifterna nämnde Den Stora Örulven och hur den brukade härja byn. Ibland kom den mitt på dagen. Plötsligt stod den där på byns enda gata och stirrade på mänskorna med sina röda ögon. Därefter valde den sitt offer och rusade emot det och tog det mellan sina käkar. Byborna kunde bara se på när örulven försvann med sitt byte ned längs gatan och upp längs kullarna och ut på heden. På kyrkogården fanns en särskild avdelning för de som blivit bortförda av örulven. De fick inga kors. De fick järnpålar. Men sen gick tiden och byn fick sin första generation utan järnpålar. Man talade om att örulven hade tröttnat på byn och gått vidare till den större grannbyn. Man sade att örulven hade blivit rädd för det hemliga sällskap som startats med syfte att hitta dens hem och överfalla den om natten. Järnpålarna skulle då användas för detta syfte. Man viskade om att örulven visste detta: att den hört det via korparna och vinden. Mannen i vår berättelse hade i själva verket varit i byn idag för att säga ett sista farväl till detta hemliga sällskap. Det hade beslutats att eftersom örulven inte dödat på nästan 50 år och de flesta historier om att någon sett den någonstans ute på heden verkade vara påhitt skulle sällskapet läggas ner. Byn skulle också börja byggas ut: husen skulle inte stå så tätt och nya vägar skulle byggas i hopp om att folk nu skulle vilja flytta till. Man hade redan sänt det glada budskapet till grannbyarna. Dock hade man inte hört av budet. Det tar cirka två veckor att gå till den mest avlägsna grannbyn, och enligt beräkningar borde budet ha varit tillbaka för en vecka sedan. Man skickade ut ett nytt bud men inte heller detta kom tillbaka. Det började pratas i byn. Var var buden? Hade de bosatt sig i byarna? Nog för att de var större och hade mer att bjuda på men så vackra var inte flickorna och så god var inte ölen, att två bud på raken glömmer och överger sin hemby. Mannen satt i sin stuga och tankarna yrde runt i huvudet. Det verkade alltså som att örulven bestämt sig för att komma tillbaka just denna dag då sällskapet upplösts. Detta sammanföll med de bortkomna buden. Alltså hade de fallit offer för örulven som härjat i byarna runtom. Utanför snöade det och det knarrade i bjälkarna från den hårda blåsten; han kunde inte gå tillbaka till byn för att varna. Kanske var örulven redan nu i mörkret utanför byn, redo att sluka, äta och döda. Mannen började koka vatten för en kopp te och rörde om i spisen. Han gick ut för att hämta ved och stannade ett slag och spanade med blicken genom mörkret, lyssnade men hörde bara vindens vinande. PAUS!!! VI ÅTERKOMMER TILL EN SNÖHISTORIA SENARE! Brevity is the soul of wit Bystander: “Time passes slowly up here on the mountain.” As you brew, so shall you bake Moron: Att svika mänskligheten torde bringa den största smärta. Är detta den smärta jag nu känner är det ingen stor smärta eller är den för stor att kännas. Jag gav mig ut på det största av äventyr, viss att jag skulle vinna, viss att jag skulle stå stark när det var klart. Det må så vara, men hur står mänskligheten när jag blott har skakat om den och sagt att den intet vet om Gud och livet? Och vilken rätt hade jag från början, att sätta följande ord i min mun: mänsklighet, Gud, vinna. Moron: To let humanity down ought to bring the greatest pain. Is this the pain I now feel it’s no big pain or it’s too big to be felt. I went out on the greatest adventure, certain that I would win, certain that I would stand strong when it was over. That may be, but where does humanity stand when I merely have shaken it and said it knows nothing about God and life? And what right did I have from the start, to put the following words in my mouth: humanity, God, winning. You cannot make bricks without straw Heron, annoyed: Det ville sägas att livet är fantastiskt och att inget finns att frukta men nu ska de utrota gorillorna i afrikas skogar för de måste hitta olja. Kan Gud nu komma ner och stoppa dem eller måste det skrikas om detta också? Detta ständiga förstör av allt, alla, naturen, framtiden och allt intetgör ambitionen att skapa vackert och leva ordentligt. Heron, annoyed: It wanted to be said that life is fantastic and that there is nothing to fear but now they are going to exterminate the gorillas in the forests of Africa to find oil. Will God now step down and stop them or must this too be screamed about? This constant destruction of everything, everyone, nature, the future and everything obliterates the ambition to create beauty or live properly. Happy is the bride that the sun shines on Heron, lecturing: There is the conflict between roaring at your enemies and encouraging your friends and the conflict arises because you are talking to both at the same time. Instead, you must talk about nothing and you must do it in such a way that your enemies think you are their friend and your friends remembers that you are their friend. And who, dear friend, are your enemies? It is good to make a bridge of gold to flying enemy Background noise: Efter ljusfenomenet i * en * in i ** låg han i en **. Det knackades på en stolpe utanför fönstret och han klev upp för att se ut vad det var men såg inget. Väl tillbaka i sängen hörde han fotsteg i trappan och plötsligt VAR NÅGOT ÖVER MIG! JAG SLÖT ÖGONEN OCH HELA MITT SINNE RIKTADES MOT DETTA, MOT DETTA, MOT DETTA! LÅT OSS LEVA, SNÄLLA, LÅT OSS! Vi är idioter allihopa men vi är charmiga! Detta något lugnade ner sig men sade kvickt: jag hade hoppats på någon starkare (ståndaktigare). Han gick nerför trappan – något ilade i ryggen hela vägen ner – och in i pappas sovrum där denne sov likt ett barn. Jag låg bredvid honom och tankar skapades i hans huvud, tankar som inte var hans utan mina. Tankar om insikt och om Gud och vem Gud är och att Gud inte är övernaturlig utan VAD men av kärlek och av makt att bestämma framtid. Totalt maktlös var han och denna underlägsenhet var honom skön, var honom säker. Jag visste att han gjort rätt och att vi vunnit. Ty inte dödas något som är medvetet om mördaren? Background noise: After the light phenomenon in * a **** into *** he was lying in a . There was a knocking on a pole outside the window and he went up to see what it was but saw nothing. Back in the bed he heard footsteps in the stairs and suddenly SOMETHING WAS ABOVE ME! I CLOSED MY EYES AND ALL OF MY MIND WAS DIRECTED TO THIS, TO THIS, TO THIS! LET US LIVE, PLEASE, LET US! We are idiots all of us but we are charming. This something calmed down but said quickly: I was expecting someone stronger (bolder). He walked down the stairs - something tickling the back all the way down - and into dad’s bedroom where he (dad) was sleeping like a child. I lay next to him (me) and thoughts were created in his (my) head, thoughts that were not his but mine. Thoughts about insight and about God and who God is and that God is not supernatural but WHAT but of love and of power to decide the future. Totally powerless he was and this inferiority was him comfortable, was him assuring. I knew that he had done right and that we had won. For is it not so that nothing is killed who is aware of the killer? A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush Heron, annoyed: Så nu faller fåglar döda från himmelen och fiskar dör i tusentals och det tros så klart att detta är profetior som uppfylls. Det är det inte! Detta har hänt innan och kan hända och alltså kommer det hända igen. Världen fungerar inte så. ** är bullshit och alla andra religiösa böcker också. Dessa böcker är en förolämpning mot människan. Kan jag ens skriva detta? Jag tycker ju det! Kommer någon vansinning döda mig för detta? Med vilken rätt?! Har jag ett ansvar som människa att INTE skriva ner vissa tankar, att INTE berätta vissa historier? Heron, annoyed: So now dead birds fall from the sky and fish die in the thousands and it is believed of course that these are prophecies being fulfilled. It is not! This has happened before and can happen and so it will happen again. The world does not work like that. The * is bullshit and every other religious book as well. These books are an insult to mankind. Can I even write this? I believe it! Will someone crazy kill me for this? With what right?! Do I have a responsibility as a human to NOT write certain thoughts, to NOT tell certain stories? Every bullet has its billet Heron: Men det jag tror är karakteristiskt för mig och för människan i allmänhet är att detta fiktiva faktum att Gud inte är övernaturlig utan bara VAD men annars på samma fot som oss inte betyder något. Det spelar ingen roll! Vad gör det när de sista gorillorna kommer utrotas för att vi letar efter olja? Vad gör det när kärleken oss emellan är så stark och när jorden är så vacker, så vacker? Vi är klantiga och löjliga, och vi är det hela tiden och detta är för att vi inte är en särskilt klyftig art med stora ögon sett. Vi är blott i början av denna oändliga resa. Heron: But what I think is characteristic for me and mankind in general is that this fictional fact that God is not supernatural but WHAT but else on the same footing as us does not mean anything! It does not matter! What difference does it make when the last gorillas will be exterminated because we are looking for oil? What difference does it make when the love between us is so strong and when Earth is so beautiful, so beautiful? We are clumsy and silly, and we are it all the time and this is because we are not a very clever species when seen with big eyes. We are merely at the start of this eternal journey. A bully is always a coward Author, drunk: Just nu dricker jag “världens finaste gin”, enligt en lapp på flaskan. Det är en mycket god gin. Jag lyfter den med min högra hand. Mitt i handflatan på min högra hand har jag en svart prick, en bit bly som blev kvar när min lillebror hackade mig med en penna när vi var små. Author, drunk: Right now I am drinking “the world’s finest gin”, according to a label on the bottle. It’s a very nice gin. I lift it with my right hand. In the middle of my palm on my right hand I have a black dot, a piece of lead left from when my brother smashed me with a pen when we were children. A burnt child dreads the fire Moron, drunk: Jag kan läsa dina djupaste mest gömda tankbla bla lar. När du ser in bla bla blai mina ögon ser jag rakt in i dig. Jag kan inte hjälpa det. Jag har testat och testat bla bla blaoch testat men abla bla baldrig frågat rakt ut, men jag kan, jag lobla bla blavar. Eftersom jag kan det måbla blaste det finnas andra som kan det. bla bla blaJag tror att alla kan det. Jag tror att vi alla kabla bla blan lbla bla blaäsa varandras tabla bla blankar. Prova att se in i ögonen på någon, medans ni pratar om bla bla blanågot. Jag kanbla bla bla bla bla bla inte beskriva hur. Kanske hänger detta samman med mbla bla bla blain höga intellibla bla bla blagens eller med att jag är upbla bla bla bla bla blaplyst. Moron, drunk: I can read your deepest most hidden thoughts. When you look into my eyes I see directly into you. I can’t help it. I have tested and tried, tested and tried but never asked directly, but I can, I promise. Because I can do it there must be others who can as well. I think that everyone can. I think that we all can communicate with thoughts. Try to look into someone’s eyes as you talk about something. I can’t explain how. Maybe it’s got something to do with my high intelligence or that I’m enlightened. The busiest men have the most leisure Moron, drunk: Jag skriver på svenskbla bla blaa för jag våbla bla blagar definibla bla blativt inte skriva detta på engelska. Asså man kan inte lita på människor i allmänhet. Tänk så bla bla blmåbla blanga som blir surabla bla bla av det jag skriver. På svensbla blaka är jag trygg, mebla bla blad svenska växbla bla blate jag upp. Moron, drunk: I’m writing this in Swedish because I do definitely not dare to write this in English. Oh man, you can’t trust people in general. Think about how many are getting angry by what I write. With Swedish I am safe, with Swedish I grew up. Business before pleasure Moron, drunk: Jag bla bla blaär inte säker på att det var demoner. Det finnblöa bla blas ett amerikanskt forskningsprojekt som heter RAPDOUYSE. Tänk dig en hjärna och tänk dibla bla blag luften runtom denbla bla bla. Tänk dig hur ditt humör ändras när åska är på väg, hur du kan känna det. Dbla bla bla blaetta beror på lufttrycket och på andra saker. Med RAPDOUYSE kan man rikta en stråle som ändrbla bla ar miljön runt din hjärna. Man vet ungefär var ens tankar verbaliseras. Förstår bla bla bladu? Detta är möjligt. Det är möjligt att det var RAPDOUYSE och inte demoner, eller att det var båda och att Ubla bla bla SA har varit i kontakt med dem sen… ja, vad ska vi säga? Rosbla bla bla well? Dettabla bla bla bla är inte mina vildaste tankar. Dessa tankar har jag tänkt många gånger, ja väldigt månbla bla bla ga gånger, annars skulle jag inte skriva detta. Dessa tankar har säkerlibla bla bla blagen många andra tänkt också. Moron, drunk: I am not sure it was aliens. There is an ameblarican research project called RAPDOUYSE. Imagine a brain and imagine the air around it. Imagine how your mood changes as thunder is approaching, how you can feel it. This is because the air pressure and other things. With RAPDOUYSE one can direct a beam that changes the environment around your brain. We know approximately where our thoughts are verbalized. Get it? This is possible. It’s possible it was RAPDOUYSE and not aliens, or that it was both and that UblaSA has been in contact with them since… what shall we say? Rosblawell? These are not my wildest thoughts. These thoughts I have thought many times, yes very many times, else I would not write this. These thoughts have surely been thought by many others as well. You buy land, you buy stones; you buy meat, you buy bones Bystander, drunk: Vilket vackert ordspråk! Bystander, drunk: What a beautiful proverb! Let the buyer beware Moron, manic: Det finnes män i mörka rum som bestämma saker och ser människor som en flock och det finnes teknologier som äro rena rama framtidsutopier och det fibla bla bnns en definition på VAD bla bla blGubla bla blad som är betydligt enklare än vad många tror, och det bla bla bfinns en förklaring till vad som hände med vbla bla bla blaåra prbla blaofeter. Moron, manic: There are men in dark rooms who decide things and see people like a herd and there are technologies that are nothing short of utopian and there’s a definition of WHAT God that is much simpler than what many people think, and there is an explanation to what happened to our prophets. The buyer has need of a hundred eyes, the seller of but one Background noise, manic: Men **, vad pratar du om? Du har ju blivit vansinning. Ja, kära oljud, du får gärna låta så. Detta är ett faktum jag accepterat, likt jag accepterat väder och tid. Detta hindrar inte mig från att läsa medicin, supa mig full, skriva poesi eller fungera rent allmänt. Dessutom! Dessutom! Jag är inte vansinnig. Background noise, manic: But **, what are you talking about? You have gone insane. Yes, dear background noise, you are free to sound like that. This is a fact I have accepted, like I have accepted weather and time. This does not stop me from studying medicine, get drunk, write poetry or function in general. Moreover! Moreover! I am not insane.

You’re the first person on Earth some many years ago and you’ve got your own way of doing things. Every night before you say good bye to the stars you dance a little and you walk a few steps on your hands. You’ve got your own language with a few strange sounds. You burp as you please and each time you fart you yell loudly. These are the things you do. This is your way of passing the days and the way you live. Years pass and more people are born. New societies sprout with new ways of living. Some don’t sing and some don’t yell. Some strive and others die. You watch them from a distance. Every once in a while you visit them and stay over. You shake hands and you look them in the eyes, these societies. They conduct warfare and make peace again. After each visit you return to your place and your habits, experiences richer. Once in a while you are visited by diplomats from the societies. You invite them. They can dance if they want to and yell if they want to. It does not matter. You cook food for them and they can sleep under your stars. You’ve been here for a long time and you’ve never conducted warfare and never made peace. You’re never striving or dying. They want to know why. Kapitel 3 Excuse me while I sharpen my nails. Tom Waits Irresponsibility is part of the pleasure of all art; it is the part the schools cannot recognize. James Joyce Caesar’s wife must be above suspicion Author: Jag tänker skriva klart detta verk. Varenda ordspråk i “The Oxford Library Of Words And Phrases” ska jag skriva ner och använda som svepskäl till att föreviga mitt liv och mina tankar. Author: I will finish writing this work. Every proverb in “The Oxford Library Of Words And Phrases” shall I write down and use as a reason to eternalize my life and my thoughts. If Candlemas day be sunny and bright, winter will have another flight; if Candlemas day be cloudy with rain, winter is gone and won’t come again Heron: I will finish writing this work. Every human being shall know that I am doing something, anything, and that I am doing it for their sake. I know what I am doing. Candlemas day, put beans in the clay; put candles and candlesticks away Author, drunk: HAHAHA, JAG HAR EN FANTASI SOM GÅR ÖVER ALLA GRÄNSER. Ordspråken far och flyr. Author, drunk: HAHAHA, I HAVE AN IMAGINATION THAT GOES ACROSS ALL BORDERS. The proverbs travel and fly. If the cap fits, wear it Moron: Vem är det jag pratar med? Oljud, kliv fram ur mörkret! Visa dig! Oljud! Moron: Who am I talking to? Background noise, step out from the darkness! Show yourself! Background noise! Where the carcass is, there shall the eagles be gathered together Heron, lecturing: Frågan är: kommer världen gå under och livet sluta? Svaret är: nej, så är inte fallet. Frågan är: kommer världsekonomin att gå under? Svaret är: nej, det kommer den inte. Frågan är: kommer oljan att ta slut innan vi har hittat ett alternativ: ja, säkerligen. Heron, lecturing: The question is: will the world end and life stop? The answer is: no, that is not the case. The question is: will the global economy collapse? The answer is: no, it will not. The question is: will the oil run out before we have found an alternative: yes, certainly. Care killed the cat Heron: Jag vet att jag skrivit tidigare att om något är skrivet så händer det inte. Jag har övergett den tesen nu, inte för att jag tror det är falskt utan för att det som händer inte nödvändigtvis är relaterat till det som är skrivet. Heron: I know that I have written before that if something is written it won’t happen. I have abandoned this hypothesis now, not because I think it is false but because what happens is not necessarily related to what is written. Ne’er cast a clout till May be out Moron, drunk: Jag ärbla bla full nu bla bla. Jag skriver lite sämre då men jag låter mina känslor och absurda tankar komma ut. Jag ska dricka upp min gin och publicera detta obla blach imorgon ska jag läsa det och undra vad jag håller på med, men jag ska låta det bliva kvar ty kbla bla baan det skrivas skall det skrivas. Det är väl klart att nbla bla bla blaågon ska ska skapa en revobla bla bla blalution, föra ett budskap från demoner, visa * för var och varannan och samtbla blaidigt var en begåvad författare? Förr eller senare hadbla bla bla blae det hänt ändå! Jag sparar bara framtida idioter från pinan! bla blaHär! Läs! Det blir inte bbla bla bla bla bla ättre än så här! Skriv Idioten, skriv Ulysses, skriv Romeo och Julia och skriv allt annat! Du kan aldrig få alla att lyssbla bla blana och du kan aldrig få alla att förstå att det vi gör kollektivt inte är bra, att det leder till fördärv och att vi inte har hur många chanser som helst och bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla. Moron, drunk: I am drunk now. I write a bit worse then but I let my feelings and absurd thoughts come out. I will finish this bottle of gin and publish this and tomorrow I will read it and wonder what I am doing, but I will leave it here because if it can be written it should be written. Of course someone shall start a revolution, be a messenger from aliens, show the ** to everyone and at the same time be a gifted writer? It will happen sooner or later anyway! I am just saving future idiots from the pain. Here! Read! It will not get better than this! Write The Idiot, write Ulysses, write Romeo and Juliet and write everything else! You can never get everyone to listen and you can never get everyone to understand that what we are doing collectively is not good, that is leads to destruction and that we do not have an infinite amount of chances and bla bla bla. A cat in gloves catches no mice Bystander: Soon we will live to be a hundred years or more, or even live forever. I can imagine it. The protests: WE WANT TO LIVE FOREVER! WE WANT TO LIVE FOREVER! Just like a hundred years ago, or today, we are shouting: WE WANT RIGHTS! WE WANT RIGHTS! A cat may look at a king Moron: … och en människa kan se Gud. Varför tror du inte på Gud, *, frågar du. Vem är Gud, skriker jag. Var är Gud, vrålar jag. Reducera Gud och finn att han ingen plats har förutom innan Big Bang, men kanske inte ens där. För många tusen år sen visste man inte detta. Gud kunde vara överallt, var som helst. Se fåglar falla döda från himmelen och se Guds vrede. Se en snäll och lätt manisk man bli korsfäst och se Guds son. Se det igen och se Guds son igen men se mannen säga att nej han tror inte på Gud. Moron: … and a person may look at God. Why do you not believe in God, ** you ask. Who is God, I scream Where is God, I roar Reduce God and find that he has no place except from before the Big Bang, but perhaps not even there. Thousands of years ago one did not know this. God could be everywhere, anywhere. See birds fall dead from the skies and ses the wrath of God See a nice slightly manic man get crucified and see the son of God See it again and see God’s son again but see the man say that no he does not believe in God. When the cat’s away, the mice will play Heron: Jag lurar er. Jag är ond. Jag lovar. Jag för er till undergången och där lämnar jag er och gifter mig och skaffar barn. Varför? För sådan är människan, och jag är väl en människa… eller? Heron: I am fooling you. I am evil. I promise. I will take you to the apocalypse and there I will leave you and get married and have children. Why? For such is mankind, and I am one of mankind… or? The cat would eat fish, but would not wet her feet Moron: Nej, sådan är inte människan! Vem har sagt det? Jag är god, jag älskar livet så och jag älskar varenda människa. Jag hade skickat mig själv med en bomb mot en asteroid på väg mot jorden och dött, om människan då hade räddats. Jag såg en film där några insåg att de skulle dö för att rädda människan. En av dem sa snabbt: ja vi får i alla fall skolor uppkallade efter oss! DET FUNGERAR INTE SÅ! En människa nära döden tänker inte så. Jag tänker inte så. Låt det komma, låt det komma, låt det komma! Ja, det är döden och det är förmodligen slutet på allt man vet. MAN MÅSTE ACCEPTERA DETTA, MAN MÅSTE ACCEPTERA DÖDEN och det är inte svårt. Jag har accepterat döden. Lyssna på mig: jag har varit beredd att dö för att göra världen bättre. Jag är fortfarande beredd att dö. Jag tänker så här: om jag dör imorgon, vad lämnar jag då efter mig? Hur många av mina tankar kan jag skriva ner innan jag dör och finnes det en historia att berätta? Moron: No such is not mankind! Who said that? I am good, I love life so and I love every human being. I had sent myself with a bomb towards an asteroid on the way to Earth and died, if mankind then would have been saved I saw a movie where they realized that they would die to save mankind. One of them said quickly: well at least we will have schools named after us! IT DOES NOT WORK LIKE THAT! A person near death does not think like that. I don’t think like that. Let is come, let it come, let it come! Yes it is death and it is probably the end of everything one knows. YOU HAVE TO ACCEPT THIS, YOU HAVE TO ACCEPT DEATH and that is nor hard. I have accepted death. Listen to me: I was prepared to die to make the world better. I am still prepared to die. I think like this: if I die tomorrow, what will I leave after me? How many of my thoughts can I write down before I die and is there a story to tell? You cannot catch old birds with chaff Author: Det fanns en tid, långt innan allt detta, långt innan upplysningen och nu tystnar fiolerna. Author: There was a time, long before this, long before the enlightenment and now the violins go silent. THREE SAD STORIES FROM MY CHILDHOOD All cats are grey in the dark Author: De bodde i ett kråkslott med en stor stor grön trädgård. Hans favoritträd var format som en svamp. Man började klättra nära stammen, från marken, och lirkade sig genom de täta grenarna tills man nådde toppen. Lövverket var slätt, omslöt totalt stammen, ända från marken. Där uppe satt han, ja från han kunde klättra till de flyttade in till stan. Därifrån kunde han se hela bygden, alla åkrarna, ja han kunde till och med se vattentornet i Kristianstad. A chain is no stronger than its weakest link Author: I kråkslottet fanns ett torn, ett riktigt torn. Det var dammigt och slitet och farligt men där byggde de borg och lekte militär. En kväll var han och hans lille bror där uppe och lekte. Brodern skulle visa en sak. Brodern hade en råtta och han hade en nymfparakit, en hona. Han var 10 år, fågeln 4. Han satte sin fågel hos broderns råtta och gick med sin lille bror upp i tornet. Fågeln dödades av råttan. Den låg uppsprätt, denna vackra vackra fågel, denna hans bästa vän, denna skygga försiktiga hona. Längs ryggraden hade råttat ätit och svalt alla fjädrar. Endast vingarna och de vackra röda prickarna på kinderna var kvar. Han kastade ett äpple in i väggen! Han slängde mig på golvet! Mammas ögon var skärrade. Han skrek! Dagen efter fick han ett nytt tv-spel men ack vilken traumatisk upplevelse. Jag kan fortfarande inte förlåta mig själv. För henne vill jag ha en himmel, för denna vackra fågel. Don’t changes horses in mid-stream Author: När han var tretton var han på en hockeyturnering i Göteborg, runt nyår. Den tredje januari år två tusen ringde hans flickvän: “har du inte hört?” sade hon. Han skulle just värma upp inför nästa match (jag var med i TV-pucken, målvakt, men långt ifrån så bra som dagens stjärnor). “Petter är död” sade hon. Petter var hans bästa vän. Han dog i en bilolycka när han (jag) var tretton. Jag grät då en gång och endast en. A change is as good as a rest Moron, whispering: Åh alla passionerade nätter i hans första flickväns säng. De var de första de visste, de var de första någonsin. Allt var nytt, allt var skönt, allt var försiktigt och fullt av omsorg. Charity begins at home Author: Sen flyttade de in till stan, när han skulle börja gymnasiet. Mamman ville det. De lämnade det rosa kråkslottet och flyttade in i mormors gamla hus. Familjen bröt ihop. Han såg sina föräldrar bete sig som tonåringar. Han fick bli vuxen direkt! Där! Nu! Bli vuxen! Du är äldst! Ta hand om – först och främst – dina syskon, men också fina föräldrar. Han fick sitta uppe hela natten för hans lille bror skar sig i armarna. Han fick säga “kommer snart” till hans tjej för pappan hade druckit en hel flaska whisky och skrek “allt är förlorat! Allt!”. Han fick låtsas som om att han inte visste vad mamma gjorde. Han fick visa bra musik för sin syster, hon var blott nio år (and though you were just a little squirrel, you understood every word). It is as cheap sitting as standing Heron: Ja det har varit ett svårt liv hittills. Demoner och allt annat som hänt i hans huvud är ingenting. Lyssna på honom: han vet att saker ordnar sig. Han vet att man som enskild människa kan stiga långt långt över sin förmåga och tänk då hur långt mänskligheten kan stiga om vi gör det tillsammans och ser alla problem som problem som kommer lösas och ser livet som det enda vi någonsin kommer ha. Oavsett om vi som individer, som själar, lever om och om igen, så är en sak säker: alla vi, här och nu, är här bara nu, tillsammans. Heron: Yes it has been a hard life so far. Aliens and everything else that happened in his head is nothing. Listen to him: he knows that things will be all right. He knows that one as a single human being can rise far above one’s ability and imagine then how far humanity can rise if we do it together and see all problems as problems that will be solved and see life as the only life we will ever have. No matter if we as individuals, as souls, live again and again, one thing is sure: all of us, here and now, are here only now, together. Cheats never prosper Author, drunk: Ett förslag till den nya tidens dekadens: jag och polaren Berta beger oss ut på veckans äventyr. Det är att gå ner till allhandeln på hörnet, en utflykt på 10 minuter. Det inhandlas chips med kryddsmak, en liter mjölk, ett sexpack öl och tonic water att ha till ginen. Vi spelar World of Warcraft resten av kvällen, i varsit rum, med varsin drink. Det är lördag och vi kunde inte komma överrens om vi skulle ta en öl på kvarterskrogen, lyssna på livejazz, lyssna på liveblues eller stanna inne. Så vi stannade inne. Igår diskade hon i fyra timmar bara för att jag var den första att ställa frågan: borde vi inte diska snart? Jag har levande ljus i fönstret och tjejen på andra sidan gatan har det också. Author, drunk: A proposal to the new decadence: me and my pal Berta ventures on the week’s adventure. It is going down to the deli on the corner, a journey that takes 10 minutes. We buy crisps with spice taste, a litre milk, a six pack beer and tonic water to have with the gin. We play World of Warcraft the rest of the night, in separate rooms, with separate drinks. It’s Saturday and we could not decide whether we should take a beer on the local pub, listen to live jazz, listen to live blues or stay inside. So we stayed inside. Yesterday she did the dishes for four hours only because I was the first to ask the question: should we not do the dishes soon? I have live candles in the window and the girl on the other side has it as well. A cherry year, a merry year; a plum year, a dumb year Bystander: This is utter bullshit all of it! Monday’s child is fair of face Author, reading: After long sick n’angry about the world overdose of zoloft cannabis and enlightenment in a week in September. After enlightenment revolution on my birthday. After revolution fame and anti-stardom forever. After that the love of my life. After that light ***** over * and or RAPDOUYSE and or demons and notion of doing something good. LET US LIVE!!! Ok. You had it coming. Did I have it coming? The child is the father of the man Heron: But can you trust me (him)? Like, if an asteroid was approaching Earth and someone had to get on a rocket and steer it into the asteroid, would he do it? Yes I would. Death is instant and comes whether accepted or not. At time of death thinking about the future is vain, whether you are 24 or a thousand. Children and fools tell the truth Moron: But I’m no fool. I have studied theoretical physics and I know a little about everything and I have learnt to think rationally and to be skeptic towards almost everything because that is needed today in this mental world: If ants could talk what would they talk about? We are changing the world. We are still young, still growing up, still trying to understand what we are and where we are going. The internet is a hive and all of us constitute the hive mind. The internet is the sum total of our input. Without looking for it you can feel the mood of the internet. You can feel that it’s worried or happy, and you can contribute to change that mood. I’m here. You’re there. Right now we are here together. Tomorrow we’re some other place, with other people. We’re all connected. We don’t even have to agree about what kind of world we want. No-one can decide where we are going. We are all good inside and we all have noble intentions. You don’t need anyone to tell you that. On the internet it’s easy to be nice. Get some education, stay on the internet, get professional, stay on the internet, help those in need, stay on the internet. Find your corner and your friends. Together we grow up, together we become wise, together we make the world suited for future generations. No-one is left behind any longer. Children are certain cares, but uncertain comforts Background noise: This is the purpose of life. This is why we are here. This is the reason. This is why you were born and why you will die. This is it. What is? To earn money. To obtain good grades. To be able to produce efficiently. To have enough money to buy an old painting on an auction. Hang it on the wall. Look at it every day. Children should be seen and not heard Heron: The children, yes. It is for them that we are doing this No! and I am being absolutely serious when I say that. The children lack power and control of their future. Every child is a human being. Think about that for a second. How DO you change the world, or some portion of it? By being a martyr? Being a martyr often works, but often the martyr rises above the cause and things remain unchanged. If the martyr refuses to be one, the cause will rise above the martyr. I have defined what I mean by “the cause” above. Never choose your women or your linen by candlelight Heron: Any movement or revolution needs a language. The nazis quickly controlled the media and in doing so they controlled the language. I’ve found a language that works. The attitude is ironic, tired and exhausted, angry but peaceful and sometimes vulgar. One can be rather vague when dealing with concepts because it is assumed that one is not alone in one’s cause. I do not have to argue WHY freedom of speech is important or WHY it is damn sad that the gorillas in the jungle (I don’t have to write WHICH jungle because you can look it up yourself) might become extinct because oil companies have recently been given permission to hunt for oil in the gorillas’ habitat. I don’t have to write why this is bad, because for the CHILDREN having gorillas and jungle left is more important than finding oil because when these children (or their children) grow up, oil will not be the main source of energy. This desperate search for oil is pathetic and grossly insulting to nature. If you do not think that nature (as a word, a concept and as a living entity) is important then you need to challenge your thoughts. Yes, I am being direct on this issue and I will take the discussion. The Church is an anvil which has worn out many hammers Heron: Religion will never go away. Religion is independent of whether God exists or not. One can argue that religion has nothing to do with God. Religion has brought much good, for example the rapid modernization of the West. Religion has brought much bad, for example fanatic terrorism. The three major religions of the West are (in alphabetic order) Christianity, Islam and Judaism. These all come from the stories of the Old Testament, and call God the Abrahamic God. In other parts of the world God is defined differently and used differently. My personal opinion is that there are largely two definitions of God. The first is the God that supposedly Jesus was talking to. The second is the God that supposedly created matter, or the Big Bang. I find it hard – philosophically – to think that these two concepts are the same and when pressed I would say this: the God Jesus was talking to was another advanced civilization from space and the God that created the Big Bang might either not exist or be in every one of us which I think is a little like the idea of God in Buddhism, or that we are all connected, of the same stuff, the same entity and so on. Circumstances alter cases Heron: I said religion will never go away. Do I think this is bad or good? I think it is good. Human beings killing, opressing and acting wrong (in the broad sense of the word) have misunderstood their religion. There is not one religion whose main aim is to kill other human beings. Granted, there are violent parts in many of the big religious books and there are thoughts of “us and them”. On the other hand, there are parts that directly contradict and directly states that killing is a sin and so on. If a follower of a religion chooses to see the violent parts rather than the peaceful parts, this individual need help from the spiritual leaders of the religion. Religion can be bad because many people in need of a religion are weak and easily mislead. Religion is good because it almost always promotes “the golden rule” inner well-being and peace and provides existential answers that the individual very well might find fulfilling enough to find inner peace and lead a good life (in the broadest sense of the word). Civility costs nothing Moron: I said I can read and send thoughts. Is this super-natural bla bla bla? If I can prove I can it is not. I have tested and bla bla bla tried and tested and tried but my rabla bla bla tionality and my idea of the brain and the world (dualistic) havbla bla bla e not permittebla bla bla bla d me to ask the victim. Assume I can. Scientifically speaking I explainbla blablabla in terms of electromagnetic fields around the brain, from the movement obla bla bla f the electrons when thinking thoughts. I imagine a field arounbla bla blad my brain that intervenes and unites with the otbla bla bla her person’s. This is a very unsatisfying answer though. Mystically speaking it’s easier (of course). I can answer in terbla bla bla blams of other dimensions, where we are all one single mind, or life being simulated (like a good Matrix) and there being a bla bla bla bla"real world” were we can communicate telepathically. From what I know of the scientific project called HAbla bla bla bla ARP (coming thunder changes your mood) it is possible to express foreign thoughts in another person’s brain and read off the answers. We know where in the brain thoughts are bbla bla bla blaeing verbalized and we can make the air change vibration mode bla bla bla around bla bla a brain bla. Cleanliness is next to godliness Heron: Is there anything to be afraid of when death is accepted? You can be afraid of family members or loved ones dying, but that is another kind of fear. I am talking about existential fear. One can be afraid that there is no God but what else is there to shackle one’s existence? One can be afraid of the opposite, that there is a God. I’m sure some are afraid that various prophecies are true. The rational mind cannot explain why on Earth the Mayans, for example could have predicted the end of the world when they lived many thousands of years ago. One can be afraid of the Buddhist saying that the Buddha will return some day. Well rather, one is afraid of these prophecies coming true. Generally, one is afraid that one’s view of the world turns out to be wrong, and I mean PROVED. Have some guy saying he is the Christ returned and get some fraction of the population believing him and the rest not. Clergymen’s sons always turn out badly Heron: Living today in the West one is fed with the idea that politics is what’s making the world tick. If change is to come it is through politics through lowering this or that tax or voting for this or that politician. Is this correct? Democracy is a frame and in itself is worth nothing. Fill a democracy with an illiterate population and get one kind of state fill it with physics professors or economists and get another. A democracy is nothing without its people and thus change while sometimes depending on politics and democracy can come about in many ways. There is only one certain constituent of change and that is the people. Things that piss me off: according to ’the cause’; ignore it… but please… just one… NO! (I do encourage everyone else to mention, analyze and act against the things that piss them off, though. I can’t do it, not here. This work would then be one long list of bad things, and I do not think that is what is needed. But, imagine that every word written about myself instead is written about something bad or evil.) From clogs to clogs is only three generations Heron: Why are there not solar panels covering every desert? Because no politician arguing for this would get any votes. No company developing an economic viable way to build the panels would get invested in. Is this the case? I don’t know. I see no reason why we can’t build solar panels in every desert and connect them to a global energy grid. IMAGINE an economy where power is free. In your yearly calculations you no longer have to account for energy. If you fulfill some criteria, such as transparency, certain environment standards and so on, you are automatically, as a company, added to the global grid. The sun pours out tons of energy every second yes enough to increase the AVERAGE temperature on Earth by several degrees. Or are solar panels not efficient enough? Is it impossible to satisfy the whole world’s energy demand with solar energy? If that’s the case one can argue that living the way we do today in the West and in other parts of the world we are doomed. Not doomed as in dying but doomed to no longer produce great amounts of goods travel great lengths or produce sufficient amounts of food and certainly doomed to not venture into space. Sure, there is nuclear power but it is limited. The sun is the only source of energy that can be assumed economically speaking to be infinite. Every cloud has a silver lining Moron: I would also take the opportunity to ask someone about chemtrails? If these are true then the public should know. I know there are lots of secrecy going on and that there are technologies that are nothing short of utopian. This is fine and exciting, but if the unknowing public comes to harm then this is grossly unethical. The effects of chemtrails – if existant – are global and bla bla bla. Let the cobbler stick to his last Moron: Conspiracy theories. We think that none exist but there are bound to be at least a few given the lack ofbla bla bla transparency, the abunbla bla bladance of technology and money combined with power and the human characteristic and the tendebla bla bla bla ncy of some to see the rest as a foolish mass. Wikileaks is just the start. If you do wrong, expect to be found out and be judged by if not a court then at least the rest of the world, and bybla bla bla me. We don’t forget and we don’t forbla bla blagive – I’m sure you’ve read that somewhere bla bla bla bla and we mean it. Who are we? Anonymous. We don’t kbla bla blanow each other. The Berlin wall fell because its opponents worked in an organization where no-one knew much. This is the same but a zillion times more. Yes, yes, I’m not a memberbla bla bla because here I am wbla bla bla bla riting and talking with my name spelled out in large capital letters. This does not prevent me from being anonymous or spreading informabla bla bla bla tion or creating opinions and directions. I’m not a leader nor do I wish to be nor did I ebla bla bla bla ver think I was. There cannot possibly be a leader when the organization is black and in total chaos. There are even anonymous that are not part of anonymous and damn are we clever, damn are we bright. The cobbler to his last and the gunner to his linstock Moron: Why a free Internet? This question is either yes or no, either off or on. Either you say that tbla bla bla blahe Internet will not be restricted in any way, or you say that it will be restricted in some way. It’s easier to thinbla bla blak about it this way. Open or nbla bla blaot. Not open or half open or open except wikileaks is blocked there and google is blocked there and skype is bbla bla blalocked there and users of some ISPs can’t watch this and that and so on. If you say it’s gonna be restricted then it will never stop. We will have an Internet that is not much dibla bla bla blafferent from MTV and we will truly have Huxley’s dystopia where we are fed crap and crap and crap to give the impression that everything is well. Everything is NOT welbla bla blal, far from it. If you think everything is well with the world today then you are a victim. Every cock will crow upon his own dunghill Moron: I propose that the ISPs do not get to decide what kind of Internet they provbla bla blaide. Either they providbla bla blae Internet or they don’t. If they provide Internet that Internet is free and open. Alternatively, the ISP can offer packages such as the porn-free family package or the worldis- great package but the customer shobla bla bla blauld know what kind of Internet is beinbla bla blag paid for. Intelligence agencies are not depending on whether the net is open or not. If they want to track you they can. Place a van outsidbla bla bla blae your house and cabla bla bla blapture every package or force facebook to hand out all those pictures from new year’s eve 2000 where you are suspected to have planned an attack on the grocery store in a city you’ve never visited. “Would you pay to use crazebook?” Take a picture of you swimming in her pool Fill it up with something you know you will regret It is still there on the server known as crazebook You’re living in a country that tells you what to do So create a group for your cause see the government overthrown As long as your cause agrees with crazebook Define yourself as something you choose from a list And when you change you change it because that’s who you are You are quantized on crazebook Tell your kids to do it you’ll have total control Of what they did today and who their friends are You too are controlled by crazebook Right now it’s now as facebook but the idea is nothing new That everything about you you’re expected to give away You are doing the hard work for crazebook Instead of a family album my life is on that site It will always be there it cannot be erased Don’t feed the monster known as crazebook I’m not necessarily a critic of facebook per se, but I think we must be aware of the dangers of putting our life on the net, and - more importantly - the psychological effect of having 500+ ‘friends’ whose lives you follow every day, online… I think it will make some people crazy Det handlar om att bevara en tradition. Människan har alltid protesterat mot orättvisor. För varje ny rörelse står de gamla bakom och stöttar. Jag tror att det finns en slutgiltig sista proteströrelse och jag tror att den rörelsen är vi. Tar man till vapen och våld har man förlorat. Tålamod är nyckelordet. Tursam är den som är ung och kan vänta tills de onda tynar bort. Man måste fånga de unga innan de går över till den dåliga sidan. Ställ dig på torget och skrik och tillkalla alla landets tidningar, ja hela världens. De svältande barnen och de fattiga bönderna utan ägodelar kommer aldrig att höra dig. Pengar kanske är problemet, eller inte pengar i sig utan människans oförmåga att nöja sig med lagom mycket pengar. Jag älskar dig. Ja, du, du som läser detta. Jag tror på dig men jag tror inte på mig själv alla gånger. För min egen del ska jag de närmaste åren läsa till läkare. Som färdig läkare ska jag bege mig till Afrika och hjälpa till. Nej, jag ska nog bli författare. Jag ska vara en jävel. Kunskap är makt är fel uttryckt eftersom makt inte är något att eftersträva. Kunskap är det bästa vapnet. Om du vet mer än de som försöker lura dig eller skada dig och dina vänner så kan du genomskåda detta och agera i förväg för att lindra eller förhindra skadan. Vad ska man läsa, vad ska man kunna? frågar du. Jag har faktiskt inte läst särskilt mycket, men jag har läst brett. Att kunna lite av varje är nog det bästa. Att förstå hur människan fungerar och tänker är guld och jag kan lova dig en sak: det som händer i världen är inte så genomtänkt som du kanske tror. Världens händelser skapas av människor och människor är bara människor. Det roligaste av allt är detta: tänk dig att det en gång fanns en grupp människor som “styrde världen”. De kanske var oljemiljardärer eller något sådant. De hade möten och hade kontroll över allt. Sen kom internet. Dessa gamla gubbar kan inte ens öppna sin egen email. Internet innebär, lite överdrivet, en reset av alla maktfaktorer som finns. Det viktiga är att aldrig låta oss defineras. Så fort någon kan sätta fingret på vad vi är är vi i fara. Det är därför jag låtsas vara så konstig. Jag tänker aldrig låta mig defineras. Om du känner att vi förlorar vår kamp för en god värld så var bara lugn. Vi förlorar inte. Vill du vara med och kämpa för allt som är rätt så får du det och genom att vilja det gör du det.

It’s about preserving a tradition. People have always protested against injustice. For every new movement the previous ones stand behind. I think there is a definitive final protest movement and I think that this movement is us. Take to arms and violence and you have lost. Patience is the key word. Lucky are those who are young and can wait until the evil fades away. You have to catch the young before they go over to the bad side. Go to a square and scream and call all the country’s newspapers, indeed the whole world’s. The starving children and the poor peasants without property will never hear you. Money might be the problem, well not money itself but people’s inability to be satisfied with enough of it. I love you. Yes, you, you who read this. I believe in you. For my own part, I will study to become a doctor. As a doctor I will go somewhere where it is needed. No, I’ll be a writer. I’ll be a bastard. I will write something proper. Knowledge is power is wrong put as power is not something to strive for. Knowledge is the best weapon. If you know more than those who try to trick you or hurt you and your friends you can see through this and act in advance to reduce or prevent damage. What to read, what to know? you ask. I have not read much, but I have read wide. To know a bit of everything is probably the best. To understand how humans function and think is gold and I can promise you one thing: what’s happening in the world is not as thought through as you might think. World events are created by people and people are just people. The funniest thing of all is this: imagine that there once was a group of people who “ruled the world”. Maybe they were oil billionaires or something. They had meetings and had control over everything. Then came the Internet. These old men can not even open their own email. Internet means, a little exaggerated, a reset of all power factors are. The important thing is to never let us be defined. As soon as someone can put a finger on what we are, we are in danger. That’s why I pretend to be so weird. I will never let myself be defined. If you feel that we lose our fight for a good world, do not worry. We will not lose. If you want to join and fight for everything that is right you can and by wanting it, you are. Cold hands, warm heart Author: Maybe you say: it’s very simple, really. First, solve the looming energy crisis. Next, redistribute wealth more evenly through a more humane economic system. But you shall be able to sit down in the forest or on a highway or on a street in the middle of a city and feel that you love this life Everyone must be able to do this, world-wide. It’s hard if you’re hungry or thirsty. Or hate people. Hate me instead. Coming events cast their shadows before Heron: Låt det vara så, att de ord som för några betyder något, för resten betyder intet, så att de berättelser som för… Heron: Let it be so, that the words that for some means something, for the rest means nothing, so that the tales that for… A man is known by the company he keeps Heron: Nej, låt det så bliva, att de berättelser som några håller kära, resten ska avsky, och de människor isbjörnar från havet älskar, hajar från afrika hata, och bin ej från blommor men från bilar vilja göra med barn, således att en total summa av oreda bliva det önskade sättet att tänka och skriva, ja, så att nonsens bliva att föredra! Heron: No, let it be so, that the tales that some hold dear, the rest shall despise, and those people ice bears from the sea love, sharks from africa hate, and bees not from flowers but from cars want to make pregnant, so that a total sum of disorder is the preferred way of thinking and writing, yes, so that nonsense is to prefer! The company makes the feast Heron: Låt den sorg som kännes av några bliva… Heron: Let the sorrow that is felt by some be… Comparisons are odious Heron: Låt sorgen… Heron: Let the sorrow… He that complies against his will is of his own opinion still Heron, crying: Låt sorgen vara sådan att den kan beklädas i ord och fraser, att den kan tänkas och skrivas bort för att ej mer störa, och låt livet vara sådant att sorg kan väljas till eller från, likt saltet i tårarna som blandas med saltet i maten när du gråter över att barnet idag inte kommer hem, likt igår och likt för ett år, sedan, och likt all framtid och alla måltider, ja låt sorgen vara sådan att barnet kan beklädas i ord och fraser och förevigas, och störa, men störa väl, störa med behag. Heron, crying: Let the sorrow be such that it can be worn in words and phrases, that it can be thought and written away to never again interfere, and let life be such that sorrow can be chosen or not, like the salt in the tears mix with the salt in the food when you cry over that the child today will not come home, like yesterday and like a year, ago, and like for all future and every meal, yes let the sorrow be such that the child can be worn in words and phrases and be eternalized och interfere, but interfere good, interfere with pleasure. Confess and be hanged Heron: Mystik över bordet Kristallhuvud Stora ögon stora ögon! Liten piruett genom öken Barn bliva skelett Lät mig inte taga tillbaka Livet och framtiden, bara ord Lät mig inte ångra Lät mig bara vandra Piruett genom stor öken Framtid kom tillbaka Tag mina ord, tag dem Grandiöst Tag dem grandiöst Heron: Mysteries over the table Cristal head Big eyes big eyes! A little piruett through the desert Kids will be skeletons Let me not take back Life and the future, just words Let me not regret Let me just wander Piruett through the desert Future come back Take my words, take them Grand Take them grand Open confession is good for the soul Moron, crying: Låt dessa stora tankar, dessa bittra tårar och de där borta som lyssnar och ser Låt allt detta komma tillbaka och tillhöra det okända som lyssnar och ser Låt mig vara ett barn igen med vuxna omkring mig som lyssnar och ser Låt mig få en chans att åter välja skola, välja ett liv som lyssnar och ser Låt mig åter träda in i mörkret och vara en av dem som lyssnar och ser Åh ge mig kläder igen! För guds skull! Ge mig kläder igen! Moron, crying: Let these big thoughts, these bitter tears and they over there that listen and sees Let all this come back and belong to the unknown that listen and sees Let me be a child again with adults around me that listen and sees Let me have a chance to again choose school, choose a life that listen and sees Let me again step into the darkness and be one of them that listen and sees Oh give me clothes again! For god’s sake! Give me clothes again! Conscience makes cowards of us all Bystander, crying: Jag gråter! Jag gråter! Jag gråter! Jag är så rädd! Åh du rädsla, jag känner dig nu allt för väl. Jag gråter! Jag gråter! Jag gråter! Jag är för rädd! Åh du rädsla, gå tillbaka, gå tillbaka. Jag gråter! Jag gråter! Jag gråter! Jag gråter! Jag gråter! Jag gråter! Jag gråter! Jag gråter! Bystander, crying: I am crying! I am crying! I am crying! I am so scared! Oh thou fear, I know thou too well now I am crying! I am crying! I am crying! I am too scared! Oh thou fear, go back, go back. I am crying! I am crying! I am crying! I am crying! I am crying! I am crying! I am crying! I am crying! (I can’t cry anymore. It’s been years now.) Constant dropping wears away a stone Author, crying: Morgon. Födelsedag. Framför teven. Köpt folköl. Ser. Kväll. Hemma. Morgon därpå. PSYKAKUT! Inget är fel. Jo. Nej. Jo. Nej. Hejdå. Lycka till. Som om någon visste, som on något tog ett beslut. Author, crying: Morning. Birthday. In front of the TV. Bought beer. Watching. Evening. At home. The morning after. THE PSYCHIATRIC WARD! Nothing is wrong. Yes. No. Yes. No. Good bye. Good luck. As if someone knew, as if someone made a decision. Corporations have neither bodies to be punished nor souls to be damned Heron: En röd solros jag viker och skickar i ett brunt kuvert En liten knapp med ditt namn En himmel vi kan springa under och en gul sol Moln vi kan ligga under Gräs vi kan sova på, som en filt Myror över näsan och fåglar som kvittrar En stad långt borta, med bilar och skor Åh kärlek, kom, bara kom! Heron: A red sunflower I fold and send in a brown letter A little button with your name A heaven we can run under and a yellow sun Clouds we can lie under Grass we can sleep on, like a blanket Ants over the nose and birds that twitter A town far away, with cars and shoes Oh love, come, just come! Councils of war never fight Bystander, singing: AND WE SING: “He’s a demon. He WILL curse you. When you see him he WILL curse you. He is THE DMEON. THE DEMON. He’s an angel. He WILL save you. When you see him he WILL save you. He is THE ANGLE. THE ANGEL. He’s a demon. He WILL curse you. When you see him he WILL curse you. He is THE DMEON. THE DEMON. He’s an angel. He WILL save you. When you see him he WILL save you. He is THE ANGLE. THE ANGEL. He’s a demon. He WILL curse you. When you see him he WILL curse you. He is THE DMEON. THE DEMON. He’s a demon. He WILL curse you. When you see him he WILL curse you. He is THE DMEON. THE DEMON. He’s an angel. He WILL save you. When you see him he WILL save you. He is THE ANGLE. THE ANGEL. He’s a demon. He WILL curse you. When you see him he WILL curse you. He is THE DMEON. THE DEMON. He’s an angel. He WILL save you. When you see him he WILL save you. He is THE ANGLE. THE ANGEL. He’s a demon. He WILL curse you. When you see him he WILL curse you. He is THE DMEON. THE DEMON He’s an angel. He WILL save you. When you see him he WILL save you. He is THE ANGLE. THE ANGEL.” Don’t count your chickens before they are hatched Heron, singing: AND I SING: “I am cursed to forever be this way. I am saved to forever be this way. I am cursed to forever be this way. I am saved to forever be this way. I am cursed to forever be this way. I am cursed to forever be this way. I am saved to forever be this way. I am cursed to forever be this way. I am cursed to forever be this way I am saved to forever be this way. I am cursed to forever be this way.” In the country of the blind, the one-eyed man is king Heron, singing: Oh why are we sleeping, why are we not awake How could we be deceived, by a giant idiot machine We need to wake up, need to see where it goes wrong No one wants to be an asshole, yet the world’s a giant arse Don’t tear down institutions, grow up and run them instead Take time, my brothers and sisters, navigate safely through the dirt Happy is the country which has no history Author: Oh and I killed my bird by accident when I was a child, and my best friend died in a car accident the third day of the year two thousand and my family collapsed by accident when I was a mere sixteen and I had to keep it all together and I’ve had a hell all the time, all the time, and here I am and I’m nobody, nothing of substance, no place of peace inside me, and I’m drinking now and I use writing as an excuse to drink, and all is hell, all is hell, oh the agony, oh the agony, and cry, cry, cry, to hell with everything, and black, black, black, to hell with the agony and to hell with inner peace and everything I’ve written, yes let me die and perish, let me die and perish, oh hear me speaking from the black hole, for it is here that I find wisdom. The course of true love never did run smooth Author: Hannah Kerstin. Jag log när jag fick veta att hon också heter detta. Why buy a cow when milk is so cheap? Author, annoyed: Som jag mår nu hade jag kunnat skjuta mig själv i huvudet. Med vilket ansvar! Med vilket ansvar skriver jag då! Med vilket ansvar! Inget! Ingen vill se den mörka sidan! DEMONEN! BESPARA OSS ÅH BESPARA OSS! Author, annoyed: The way I feel now I could shoot myself in the head. With what responsibility! With what responsibility am I then writing! With what responsibility! None! No one wants to see the dark side. THE DEMON! SAVE US OH SAVE US! PAUS!!! EN SNÖHISTORIA – DEN GRIPANDE ANDRA DELEN! Mannen satt vid sitt fönster efter måltiden. Hunden satt på golvet och såg upp mot mannen och mannen började titta på hunden. Kan du, sade han, kan du gå ut och se vad som står på? Hunden skällde jakande och reste sig på alla fyra. Mannen satte på en röd mössa på hunden för att skrämma eventuella odjur, och hunden fick också ett par snöskor så resan över den tjocka snön skulle vara enklare. Dörren öppnades och ut rusade hunden, skällandes! Skällandes ut försvann hunden i mörkret och snart hördes endast detta skällande, inte längre de tunga opraktiska stegen med snöskorna. Mannen tänkte att den hunden ser han aldrig igen. Det var den dummaste av mannens hundar. Han hade en stor flock bestående av två generationer. De var välavlade och hade fina drag och behagliga personligheter och var utmärkta snöhundar. Till färgen var de bruna och svarta, öronen var långa och spetsiga och nosen lång och lätt krokig. Hunden som fick en röd mössa och snöskor och skickades ut för att finan örulven hette Jakaka. Modern, Chikako, var graciös och spänstig. Fadern, Holarry, var eccentrisk men en god hund likväl. Mörker… lukta! Ser inget… mörker… Aj! Buske! Måste skälla: SKALL! SKALL! SKALL! Ut genom buskagen om jag kan… kan jag? Här? Nej… SKALL! SKALL SKALL! Stegen är tunga… VAD HAR JAG PÅ TASSARNA? Vad i allsindar… Stora… skor… SKALL! SKALL! Av med dem! Svårt! Ja! Den ena är av… tre kvar… svårt att gå! Svårt att få av! Låt gå… en av får räcka… måste hitta stigen… SKALL! SKALL! SKALL! Mannen hörde Jakaka skälla vid horisonten. Ibland var de gälla skallen närmare, ibland inte, men de ekade över heden och irriterade mannen. Nu tröttnade mannen på skallen och släppte ut även de andra hundarna. De hundarna ser jag aldrig igen, tänkte han. Snart var heden fylld av två generationers ståtliga, välavlade hundars skall och frenetiska sökande efter varandra. Flocken sökte Jakaka och Jakaka sökte… ja, vad sökte Jakaka? SKALL! SKALL! SKALL! Vem är jag… som jag ser ut! Är det jag där i vattnet? SLAFS, SLAFS, SLAFS! Mmmm… vatten! SKALL! SKALL! SKALL! Vidare… genom mörkret… men vad hör jag? SKALL! SKALL! SKALL! Vem är jag… som jag ser ut! SLAFS, SLAFS, SLAFS. Efter mycket om och men somnade mannen till de irriterande skallen. Dels ångrade han att han så hastigt gjort sig av med alla sina hundar, men dels var han lättad. Han hade aldrig gillat hundar. Som grabb hade han snabbt fattat tycke för igelkottar och skalbaggar och han hade haft en gedigen samling. Igelkottarna, som mest 32 till antalet, och hundratals skalbaggar bodde tillsammans i en labyrint av hopbyggda skokartonger. Alla fick de namn men grundat grabbens begränsade ordförråd och fantasi fanns det skalbaggar som delade namn med igelkottar. Så småningom tröttnade grabben på djuren och släppte ut dem, ja de av dem som levde. Det hade varit fattigt och sällan hade djuren fått mat. Grabben förstod inte sambandet mellan liv och mat och inte heller gjorde han det då först nästan samtliga skalbaggar dog och sedan igelkottarna började äta av varandra. Mannen försökte straffa och uppfostra de vansinniga djuren genom att smälla till dem lätt och genom att försiktigt bränna dem med en uppvärmd eldtång men utan önskad effekt. Föräldrarna var frånvarande. De hade sitt. Fadern var mest ute i skogen och letade rötter och bär. Modern var i sjön och letade fiskar. Således var grabben ofta ensam hemma i den karga stugan. Han blev en enstöring. Då föräldrarna genom sin konstanta frånvaro förvägrade honom ett språk hittade han på ett eget. Sålunda växte han upp utan att någonsin tala med någon, i alla fall inte så att den andra parten förstod. Föräldrarna log åt grabbens fantasi och roande läten men kom aldrig på tanken att grabben inte förstod dem. Många var bråken och konflikterna! Det var nästan som att grabben hånade dem. De förklarade uppgifter och arbeten utförligt, grundligt och repetitivt men aldrig fick de sin vilja igenom. Då kom straffen! Grabben fick hänga upp och ner i en stång över natten i kylan bland vargarna och odjuren. Han fick gå på händer i en vecka. Han fick räkna baklänges från fyratusen men det kunde han förstås inte, så de ökade straffet till femtusen, sextusen ja ända upp till fyrtiotusen men övergav strax denna straffmetod. Grabben var efterbliven fastslog de och lät honom vara. Han pekade på igelkottar och skalbaggar och fick dem. Strax dog föräldrarna av svält och ålderdom. Grabben styckade köttet och saltade och frös in och hade mat över vintern. När våren kom låste han dörrarna på den karga stugan och begav sig ut på stigen som räckte hela vägen till horisonten och längre än vad han kunde se. Cowards die many times before their death Heron: One night while awake I undertook a long journey through my mind and bear with me because now I am tired and many a words I’d rather used have vanished temporarily I started, see, on a plain road with dust, grass and all and went down it across rivers and past lakes and I met people, see, and greeted them and ventured further yet And I met a creature there with long ears and hairy, red eyes and tall, and it asked whether it existed or not, whether real or imagined, and where this imagination was I struck my nose and reached out a hand to touch it but it vanished so that I could not reply and I did not further think about it or its question but continued walking I came to a castle with a fair lady and she was screaming from the tall tower, her scarf dancing to the wind, and I waved goodbye and thought she was too I came to another castle! I came to a small town with blacksmiths and butchers and I rested for a day and bought new shoes and went friskly on the same day I entered a modern living room with electronic devices, colours, the smell of food and soap and I left and entered another modern living room looking differently And I entered the woods with animals of various breed and sounds, and I slept there under the moon and stayed there for days and left as a different man And I found a lady and married and left as a different man, and I raised children and left as a different man, and I had parents that died and I left differently Upon me a task! I finished the task and went on… The cowl does not make the monk Bystander: Denna man var uppe natten lång med henne. Han satt vid sängens sida och hon låg där. Hon andades svagt. Döden var nära. Han tänkte sig hennes ögon, hur de var… den där dagen… eller den dagen… eller den natten i stugan på golvet framför brasan… Varför! Ska du! dö kvinna! Bystander: This man was up all night long with her. He sat by the bedside and she was lying there. She was breathing softly. Death was near. He thought about her eyes, how they were… that day… or that day… or that night in the cabin in front of the fire… Why! Shall you! Die woman! A creaking door hangs longest Moron, lecturing: As far as I know I am not *. Sure, I have considered it and yes I can pretend. My fabla bla bla bla blacebook page was bla bla bla bahijacked very early in this story and all I could see bla bla bla was: YOU ARE *. I could choosebla bla bla bla between saying yes, no or something else but all options were represented by a cross. I thought: who the hell is doing this and how can they know? If someone knew it means someone knew more tbla bla blahan me and that meant therebla bla bla bla was information that I could retrieve by not agreeing. Or was it just wishful thinking? Was the need for that person so great tbla bla bla blahat some saw what they wanted to see and forced upon me a role I was not prepared to take. I’m not saying I’m not someone divine but I bla bla bla blam not that divibla bla bla blane person. I’m not saying what he said, but not far from it. Lately I’ve readbla bla bla bla a bit of what he sbla bla bla blaaid and I do not agree with his idea of life and Gbla bla bla bla blaod. I’d rather be a rbla bla blaepresentative of something that is not a religion because I do not believe in God and I would not fall down on my knees before anyone divine or not. Give credit where credit is due Moron: That person is a Western phenomenon. The world consists of more than the West. India for example. Or China. Surebla bla blaly not only the followers of this one person and the relbla bla blaigion that formed after his death are the ones that supposedly are saved? And what is saved? How would that work in practice? We are here now. bla bla bla Some of us will die tomorrow and some in bla bla a hundred years. No-one is saved in that sense and I don’t see any other sense one can be saved. bla. Don’t cross the bridge till you come to it Moron: Maybe I am silly for taking these relbla bla bla blaigious terms and world-views seriously. It is only in recent years that I have thought about life and God and all that. I wanted to work with quantum gravity. There’s no need to think about God when you try to explain matbla bla bla blater and the universe yourself. It wbla bla blaas with a sad eybla bla blae that I saw religious people, or people who said they belived in God. I could not see how one possibly coubla bla blald believe the relibla bla bla blagious texts or in any definition of God. Of course I wabla bla bla blas only 20 or so but I was certain that my world-view was forever established. Crosses are ladders that lead to heaven Heron: But look at these proverbs. Look at the entire history of humanity. Religion and a supposed God’s plan is everywhere. But is there anything in the events in the last two thousand years that has anything to do with, for example, Jesus? The Roman empire adopted Christianity and it spread across all of Europe and now everyone knows that a person called Jesus probably existed. (and we also know what Aristotle thought about everything) Some argue we need religion to have morale but I belive morale is an evolutionary survival tool. We are human beings, cousins to chimpanzees, and we are very intelligent but we will be much more intelligent in, say, a thousand years. All of us and our entire society will be considered primitive and our thoughts will have been replaced and our morale as well. It could very well have been completely different and I have a very hard time to see any kind of plan bla bla bla… anywhere. It is no use crying over spilt milk Heron: Now, since there are so many different views of God, the world, religion, the future and everything else it is important to not step on each other’s toes right now. These are important and interesting questions but there will be plenty of time to ponder them later. What we have at hand right now concerns the survival of our entire species or civilization. I would not understand the person who sits down and waits for God to fix things while others are working their butts off to fix the climate, save the tigers or the economy, prevent humanitarian crises, redistribute wealth against the greedy jaws of… capitalism? (I keep thinking that I can change anything for the poorest people in the world, who have no food and no water and no mouths to be fed and to scream with… we are fooling them, we are robbing them, we see them as not human) It is a privilege to have the time and the security to ponder life’s questions. He that will to Cupar maun to Cupar Author: The military. Weapons. As if it was something to show, as if it was something to celebrate. Hello, we have spent much time and energy and money to develop devices that can kill you. Hello, will you shake our hands? Will you trust us? The military and weapons belong to the past. Cool world leaders play chess. You wish! What can’t be cured must be endured Heron: But there are many more who are behaving as if they’re blessed, enlightened or whatever you want to call it. There is more mystery than meets the eye. I’m represbla bla enting a rational, skeptical and ironic society. There are certain things I will never say or never admit. I said yes, surebla bla, and from that bla blapoint I could not be cured and knew that there was sobla blamething that I hadbla bla to endure and since I have so far during my life endured so much shit I could endure anything and I did… I have endured it… I have accombla blaplished my mission. Curiosity killed the cat Heron: If I was an alien civilization and I came upon a planet inhabited by a species of the same intelligence as humanity and I knew THE WISDOM or THE INSIGHT or what is needed to reach the next level of peace and fraternity I would pick more than one person to give this wisdom to and I would do it frequently, say every hundred or two hundred years. That’s all I would do. I would observe the effects and rate how well the species can absorb this knowledge and adopt to it. I would keep doing this until the species had reached my level of intelligence and insight and wisdom. At first they would call me God. Then they would call me enemy. Then they would call me Lord. Then they would call me friend. Since I would not know the species first-hand I could not myself communicate this wisdom directly and so it would be up to the chosen ones themselves to fail or succeed. Some would be killed, some would be laughed at but sooner or later some would succeed. Curses, like chickens, come home to roost Author, lecturing: This knowledge, this wisdom, is wordless. It can be conveyd with words but not directly. One cannot say: this is A and this is B, now do you see that this is C? As the species changes so does the language and so does the way in which this wisdom is transferred verbally, but it is always possible to convey it. Even the most sarcastic and ironic society can realize, can be enlightened. This idea is not mine. This is an old Buddhistic idea. Everyone can be enlightened. It will not change you at all. It means to accept your whole self, both the good and the bad parts. It means to live in the moment, in the now. It helps you capture the moment, to make memories that last and to enjoy every breath. It’s nothing super-natural. It’s a journey through your self and you come out stronger, wiser, happier and with a new inner peace. Granted, you can still feel sad. The customer is always right Author, lecturing: It gives you a notion that you are more than your body. Your conscious thoughts are made by the brain but there is more to you than thoughts. Yes, there is something else and it is this something that is wordless and… eternal. I can feel that I have lived forever and will live forever, that my existance is independent of time and body. I cannot remember any past lives and I do not know if that is because I haven’t tried or because I can’t. For me this does not matter. The drawback with this wordless knowledge is that it cannot be proved. It’s like language. The thing I have on my head is a hat. I call it a hat but I cannot prove that it is a hat. Hat is a word used to define the object. In the same way my existance is eternal. What I have right now is life but I cannot prove that it is life. Life is a word used to define existance. I cannot get closer to this notion than this. The notion is obtained when all thoughts cease, when the brain is silent, when everything that you know is wordless, when you are floating just above your subconscious, just above what is wordless. INTERLUDE AV DEN SKÖNASTE SORT Ett fält Grind till Ett fält Ett djur av okänd art och en blomma En längtan som överstiger Ett fält Ett fält mellan oss Och som jag älskar dig nu Jag har vänt på dygnet halvvägs för tid finns inte längre för mig Klockan fem somnar jag och klockan två brygger jag kaffe På fredag måste jag betala sen räkning men det är då Jag bor i mörkret Mellan Toner och tankar och känslor I musiken Två nya fåglar inhandlades idag och fick namn och nytt hem De är fyra till antalet nu I timmar satt jag, likt den far jag en gång ska bli Ett fält Grind till Ett hjärta Ett hjärta av okänd art och en kvinna En längtan som överstiger Ett fält Ett fält mellan oss Och som jag älskar dig nu Dagen du kommer slutar jag skriva Då lägger jag ner pennan och lyfter Handen Mot mitt öga och låter det öppnas Långsamt Låter det komma ut Blandar en drink och kysser dig Aldrig mer ska jag skriva då Orden får nytt hem i ditt öra och blir fyra till antalet: Excexeia, jag älskar dig Don’t cut off your nose to spit in your face Bystander: Det sägs han var punkare som grabb, med mohawk, nitar och band. Det sägs han myser likt en gammal farbror i sitt vagt upplysta rum tillsammans med färgfåglar, gammelväxter, hundmänskor, granatmarsvin, kjolgetter, komputerservietter, persikogrodor, äppelöl, varulvar, demoner, hedtjurar, skogstaxar, rödgäddor, gråålar, människoabborrar, djävulssengångare, knäpparor, alenaamazonas och vänner! Bystander: They say he was a punk kid, with the mohawk, rivets and bands. It is said he cuddles like an old uncle in his vaguely lit rooms with paint birds, old plants, dogpeople, garnet guinea pigs, skirt goats, komputerservietter, persikogrodor, äppelöl,werewolves, demons, hedtjurar, forest dachshunds, rödgäddor, Graal, human perch, devil sloths, button, Alena amazon and friends! Cut your coat according to your cloth Heron: When faced with tremendous walls we tore them down and used the bricks to build shelters; when faced with staggering evil we embraced with arms lined with thorny roses… and thus, through time and through differences and shared dreams, we marched on billions hand in hand, handling cries, requests and thoughts… millions of years… When faced with the powers of nature we succumbed rose harnessed just like heroes always do. Kapitel 4 What should I say?! Anonymous, 3k BC Is this thing on?! Anonymous, 2k AD They that dance must pay the fiddler Bystander: Kom in. Tack. Ja här sitter han. Här sitter han i sin fåtölj. Får man… får man röra? Ja det går bra. Så len han är. Mmm. Det har han varit sen i våras. Har han alltid haft så långa öron? Mer eller mindre. De kan bli längre har jag läst. Pratar han än? Inte sen stroken, nej. Men han är inte död väl? Jo, det kan man säga att han är. Åh så trist! Bystander: Come in. Thanks. Well here he sits. Here he sits in his arm chair. Can I… can I touch? Yes that’s fine. How soft he is. Mmm. He has been that way since last spring. Has he always had these long ears? More or less. They can get longer I have read. Is he talking yet? Not since the stroke, no. But he is not dead is he? Yes, one could say he is. Oh how sad! The darkest hour is just before the dawn Heron, singing: I confront thee, oh proverb. Oh proverb, what knowst thou; hast thou seen the darkest hour and hast thou seen dawn, with the sun in all its glory? Knowst thou the days with no dawn, knowst thou, oh proverb? I knowst, oh proverb. I knowst the dawn and I knowst the darkest hour. Liketh it. As the day lengthens, so the cold strengthens Author: Heron and Moron fought for many a-days, to music, to chanting and cheering. In God’s eyes they were children playing, none wiser than the other (Heron argued). Moron was still uncertain of God’s existence and whereabouts. It does not matter (Heron argued). The art brought us to the edge of insanity, too far (bystanders argued), too cruel. Yes it is brought us to the point where even speaking is considered hypocritical and superfluous (background noise… argued?). Liketh it. Let the dead bury the dead Heron, singing: Knowst thou art, knowst thou spirit, fury and passion? It is thy being I stretch my soul after, not thy ideals or thoughts, as such cometh and goeth (whereas thy being is forever). Findeth I the point where it harmeth the most, shalt thou knoweth that I will strech my soul to there… so that thou one day will seeth it. Licketh it. Dead men don’t bite Heron, singing: Bite me! Prove to me that you are not dead! Bite! Who is dead? Billions and billions are dead! Who is alive? Bite! Bite! Bite! We are alive! We are alive! We have won! We are one! We bite! We bite! We bite! Hahahahaha! Oh we bite! Oh we bite for we are alive! Liketh it! Licketh it! Blessed are the dead that the rain rains on Bystander: After the death of Moron we cried for weeks and Martha cut her wrists while puking blood through the church window. It rained for ten years and soon the town was under water. Through evolution we adopted and acquired aquatic cellular gas masks and epithelial snorkels. Moron was time. His death distorted time and so we ventured billions of years into the future. We did this. It just happened. It rained and rained and rained. We went to the psychiatric ward to rest. There’s none so deaf as those who will not hear Heron: Proverb, oh proverb. I challenge thee. I disagree with thee. Only those whose brains or ears lacketh the ability to perceiveth sound are deaf and cannot hear. Only those. Background noise, oh background noise, reveal thyself! Reveal thyself! Disperge! Stopeth with the maketh of people into sheeple. A deaf husband and a blind wife are always a happy couple Moron’s ghost: Husband refers to a person involved in a relationship with a wife. Wife refers to a person involved in a relationship with a husband. It is given they are a couple and so they are each other’s husband (the wife’s) and wife (the husband’s). They are always happy. Frozen in time; forever happy, forever deaf (the husband) and forever blind (the wife). He is bat-shit ugly and she has the most annoying voice in history, ever. Death is the greatest leveller Heron: This is simply not true. Death pays all debts Author: Moron had debts before his death. His wild nights at the casinos and whorehouses made him lacking both money and friends. When he died the debts were cancelled and erased. The debt that the death of John Lennon created will never be repaid, cannot be repaid. Death creates debts, remember that, kids (remember that for the future), and money’s not the currency. Delays are dangerous Author: Jag bara stirrar på ordspråket och tänker inget. Det består av två objekt, A och B. A är B säger det. Jag är alltid försenad. Jag är väldigt lat av mig faktiskt. “Man behöver en blåslampa” brukade mamma säga. Minsta möjliga ansträngning är det som gäller. Störst möjliga tid spenderad på att bara vara. Jag gillar att sitta på en stol i skogen. Jag gillar att åka buss, bil och tåg i timmar. Jag gillar att sova efter maten (dagens höjdpunkt). Jag gillar att sitta i hörnet och bara gå fram och beställa öl när en snygg tjej också gör det. Ibland orkar jag inte prata med någon alls, av ren lathet. Konstigt nog verkar de flesta nöja sig med mitt mummel till samtal, men läkarstudenter är ju ena konstiga ena. Author: I just stare at the proverb and think nothing. It consists of two items, A and B. A is B it says. I am always late. I am very lazy actually. “You need a torch light” mother used to say. The least possible work is what I’m going for. The greatest amount of time spent on just being. I like to sit on a chair in the forest. I like to ride busses, cars and trains for hours. I like to sleep after the dinner (the highlight of the day). I like to sit in the corner and only go up to order a beer when a pretty girl is also doing it. Sometimes I won’t even talk to anyone, from pure laziness. Strangely enough most people seem happy with my mumble of conversation, but medicine students are strange ones, aren’t they. Desperate diseases must have desperate remedies Author: Om jag någonsin blir färdig läkare far jag ut i djunglen och är specialist på tropiska sjukdomar. Jag har khakishorts och hatt och bar muskulös överkropp (detta är framtiden, remember). Svullna fötter för att fascien läcker vätska (eller hur det nu var), långa sprutor, myggnät. Folkslag bortom världen: härom dagen innan jag somnade såg jag mig komma fram runt en krök i djungeln och mötas av deras ledare (en äldre mörkhyad kvinna med bar överkropp och ett palmblad i handen). Author: If I ever become a doctor I will go out in the jungle and am a specialist on tropical diseases. I wear khaki shorts and a hat and a naked well-trained upper body (this is the future, remember). Swollen feet because the fascia is leaking fluids (or how was it), long injections, mosquito net. Tribes beyond the world: the other day before I dreamt I saw myself coming around a creek in the jungle and be met by their leader (an older dark-skinned woman with a naked upper body and a palm leaf in her hand).

Nu flyger jag ut! Nu har jag lite pengar i min ficka. Jag sitter på ett kafé på en smal bakgata där människor går förbi. Nu jobbar jag! Jag har en fin liten lön som journalist på en tidning i staden. Min lägenhet är trång och mysig. Jag har vänner jag kan bjuda hit och dricka vin med om kvällarna. Nu gifter jag mig! Jag träffade henne på en weekendresa i Paris. Det sa bara klick. Jag bjöd henne på riktig fransk mat och vi drack lite för mycket dyr bordeaux. Nu spelar jag gitarr på balkongen! Folk står där nere. Det är några stycken jag själv komponerat. Det klappas efteråt och det är karneval på gatorna. Nu köper jag en ny bil! Jag far runt längs gatorna och svänger farligt i rondellerna. Jag tutar på folk jag inte känner och vinkar åt vänner. Jag parkerar på en kulle och ser ut över staden i mina goggles. Nu får jag en dotter! Vi döper henne till Linnea. Hon får mjölktänder och är ofta arg och skriker. Hennes rum får planeter på väggarna. Nu får jag en bok publicerad! Vi firar med champagne på restaurangen på hörnet. Några gamla vänner kommer dit och en av dem håller tal. Vi minns vår tid vid universitetet och knäppa saker vi gjorde. Nu sitter jag på ett flygplan! Grekland skymtas där nere mellan molnen. Akropolis och fetaost och Linnea springer iväg längs stranden. Det är varmt och jag har khakishorts. Vi ser på varandra bakom cyklop under vattnet. Nu får jag en son! Han får heta Ferdinand efter din farfar. Linnea tar hand om honom varje dag och vill inte gå till skolan. Jag tar ledigt från mitt jobb och lär känna dessa små människor. Nu drömmer jag dåligt! Om hur du försvinner i en storm på natten. Barnen springer efter och blåser bort. Jag försover mig allt oftare. Nu vill du bort! Jag gömmer mig och tänker på barnen som du tar med dig. Whiskyn värmer mig och jag har en hund som snarkar på mattan. Vintern utanför får mig att längta till Grekland. Jag ställer mig upp. Nu flyger jag ut! Jag har mycket pengar denna gången. Det mesta går till en lägenhet i New York. Än är jag ung, ja under fyrtio. Nu håller jag vernissage! Tavlorna har jag målat med dig i åtanke. Konstnärer tar min hand och har kommentarer. När alla gått somnar jag ensam på golvet. Nu känner jag det! Ensamheten jag delar med andra hjärtskadade poeter. Mitt i natten ringer jag dig men du svarar inte. Taxibilar utanför. Nu kommer jag, Grekland! Jag sitter ensam i min solstol med en bra bok. Vid min sida har jag en drink och jag kan beställa en ny utan problem. Om kvällarna äter jag lyxigt och pratar med spännande människor. Nu träffar jag en ny! Hon är en nyskild mörkhårig skönhet från Aten. Vi lämnar allt vi har och tar en båt till Algeriet. Det är som om vi känt varandra i tio år. Hon berättar om sina barn och jag om våra. Nu måste jag tillbaks! Hon kan inte följa med för barnen ska börja skolan. Det var ett fint halvår men allt tar ju slut efter ett tag säger hon. Min andra bok ska publiceras i New York. Nu fyller jag år! Vänner kommer från när och fjärran för att fira. Det dricks för hunden som gick bort i somras. Det delas hemligheter och tragedier nystas upp och skrattas åt. Vi har lärt oss av livets blinda skola. Likt barn tittar vi på varandra. Nu ringer Linnea mig! Hon har lov och kommer på besök i storstaden. Jag visar henne Central Park och The Bronx. Stiliga unga män ser på henne när vi sitter på restauranger. Snart börjar hon på universitetet. Hennes ögon glittrar. Nu ringer Ferdinand mig! Han är i Berlin och det är nyår. Gott nytt år! Nu ringer jag dig! Du har träffat en ny. Allt är bra med dig och honom. Jag ser mig själv i spegeln. Nu spelar jag trummor! Jag håller takten i ett jazzband i Greenwhich Village. Vi är ett gäng knäppa gubbar men de unga tycks gilla oss. Efteråt står jag i baren och ser på vackra flickor. Ibland bjuder jag dem på en drink och berättar något. Ibland har de läst mina böcker och vill följa med hem. Ibland får de det. Ibland blir jag kär. Nu har jag fått nog! Jag landar i Malmö tidigt på morgonen. En taxi för mig ut till stugan i skogen. Där städar jag upp och stannar resten av vintern. Jag skriver på min tredje roman. Nu kommer våren! Koltrastar, vitsippor och de första humlorna. Jag tar mitt första dopp i den kalla sjön och ror ut i skymningen för att fiska. Sen sitter jag vid brasan och tittar upp mot natthimmelen. Jag läser mest svenska deckare. Nu går åren! Jag bor i skogen och pengar är inget problem. Mina romaner får fina recensioner. Mitt hår och skägg börjar bli grått. Mitt hjärta har kanske börjat bli dåligt men det slår med ny beslutsamhet. Ett beslut växer inom mig. Nu ringer jag dig igen! Ditt hjärta är också annorlunda säger du. Ja du vill gärna träffas igen. Jag bjuder upp dig hit men du bjuder mig hem till dig. Vi möts halvvägs, på en konferensgård. Nu flyger vi ut! Nu har vi lite pengar i vår ficka.

The Devil can quote Scripute for his own ends Moron (before his death): The devil! Pffff! What a moron! You think I’m ‘fraid of you? Haha, you can go back to the hole you came from and take your stupid horns and fangs and other accessories with you. You go ahead and quote Scripute all you want. Whatcha gonna do with it? Whatcha gonna say? Whatcha gonna quote? The Devil finds work for idle hands to do Moron (before his death): ‘Lest you are truly supernatural and more omnipotent than the will of one single human being in the greatest fruitful despair, I spit on you. I laugh at you. Got any *, Mr Devil? Got a small **, Mr Devil (this ought to be the greatest insult)? Hahaha! Got a woman, got kids and family and a job? Have you failed at life, Mr Devil? Hahaha! Why should the Devil have all the best tunes? Heron: Dear Mr Devil, on behalf of humanity I say: let’s meet at Joe’s Corner Hustle Bar at 2 am on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday. I’ll pay the drunks to listen and I’ll pay your drinks. We take turns picking tunes from the jukebox (I’ll pay). When we’re both stone drunk I’ll tell you my greatest deeds and you’ll tell me yours. Did you cause the quakes? Did you blow up the towers? Did you cause them billions to die in agony? Did you make me show them my member? Was it you all the time, all this life? You gonna tell me for I was a human in the deepest fruitful despair and if you know you will tell me why. The Devil is not so black as he is painted Moron (before his death): I’m fooling them that I don’t exist. I’m copying your best strategy. Not so clever now, are you? Hahaha! Come at me bro, come at me! If I fall, it’s my own fault. If I fail, it’s my own failure. If I die, it’s my own death. You will never have anything to do with my life, and never again NEVER AGAIN shalt thou set foot on this Earth, in OUR PARADISE. Be gone, you moron! The Devil looks after his own Heron: You have no-one, Mr Devil. No-one wants you. You are all alone, all alone in this world, and in every world that you may exist. Along the roads you’ve walked the flowers have died and nature disowns you too. Nature disowns you. Nature belongs to us: the living (animals and trees), the dead (heroes and tigers), the unborn (heroes and new species) and the newly born (future generations of people, beasts, cattle and flowers). The Devil’s children have the Devil’s luck Moron (before his death): Nice try, Mr Devil, nice try. The luck I’ve had so far is the luck of my mother and father who grew up to be educated, loving&caring and complex. They’ve won many a-battles against life just like I will one day. My luck has nothing to do with yours. NOTHING! I can’t believe that you’re considering yourself to be lucky. Devil take the hindmost Author, singing: Oh tell me: where are we running? What is it over there on the horizon that we yearn so much that we leave some behind? YOU DON’T WANT THAT MONEY (once you get rich)! YOU DO NOT WANT THAT CAR (because soon there is no oil)! AND THAT HOUSE (well, maybe you want a house)! Slow down, slow down, slow down, slow down. You are here. Your body is limited by these arms and these legs. You cannot be sure that anyone exists but yourself. Money has the value that you give it. Look beyond it, look behind, turn around; see them! See them? Those that falleth behind! Help them! Help them! The Devil was sick, the Devil a saint would be; the Devil was well, the Devil a saint was he! Moron (before his death): Luck has left me. I am left do die and leave history and this world. Mr Devil, haveth thou still fury then taketh me, taketh me. My soul was yours from the start. Thou are my father, yes you wereth all the time. Taketh me and leaveth the rest, leaveth them. I stare into the abyss and I see you, only you. Fuck you, Mr Devil, fuck you. Taketh my soul but leaveth my ghost so I can still see them hills and them people. It is here, on the edge of life and death, at the abyss, that I finally findeth: I loveth the people more than I loveth myself. Taketh me. Taketh me. Giveth me an illness, giveth me an accident, for my will is not mine, my words have been devoured by a beast. Diamond cuts diamond Author: And so it was that Moron died. Restless he had been the days before. Bad dreams he’d had. Blue thunder above him, lightning through his bones, fire in his brain, smoke from his mouth; nothing but coal left. He was seen leaving his house in shades in the morning to not come back in the evening. He was seen on a dark road in the forest, and later, on an open field with a rusty blade in his hand, pointing towards the sky. Photographs were taken but he was not on them, as if invisible he was, and after the funeral his chest was found to be empty but for a diamond, as if a ghost he was. Now, years later, some say they hear him again (very annoying as usual). Haveth we the time to listen to perished souls? The difficult is done at once; the impossible takes a little longer Moron’s ghost: Beyond life I find it more beautiful than I can explain. I am humble. I am loving. People, please… stop hurting each other. You have enough resources to fill every stomach and every wallet. In the US - humbly and unrealistically - you need to lower the taxes for the middle class and raise it for the wealthy for the middle class is strong and waiting to prosper while the wealthy are fooling and ruining the nation and parts of the world (I do not mean to insult). We need to stop hunting for oil and find a better resource. It is possible with science and thiking, oh I can see it from here! I can see great weather everywhere. I can see people eating and with not empty stomachs slowly raise their eyes… Diligence is the mother of good luck Moron’s ghost: It’s not gonna be easy. There may the tons of quakes, suicide bombings, global economic crises, oil wars, embarrassing leaks, famines, wars and business as usual BUT diligence is the mother of good luck. Personally, from here, as a ghost beyond life and death, we need to treat nature like a monument, like our mother. The trading of carbon emissions is silly but I assume that it is needed for the time being (no I do not!). Carbon emission is inevitable for the forseeable future BUT rainforests, animals and nature MUST BE PRESERVED. IT MUST BE PRESERVED. IT MUST BE PRESERVED and furthermore we need to integrate with nature. Throw dirt enough, and some will stick Moron’s ghost, lecturing: To feed every mouth is priority number one. According to a recent report, local small-scale ecological farming is the way to go (as opposed to giant corporations that patents seeds, genes and are assholes not out to feed but to starve). According to the report, feeding the entire world is entirely possible. No-one will have to starve in the future. After mouths have been fed, wallets should be filled. A free market is the way to go but it needs to be regulated. I cannot believe that some scholars are naive enough to think that an unregulated market will serve the common good. It can only be assumed that such a market will serve its own good. The global economy is chaotic by nature. We use money because we believe it will serve a common good, and it can, but money is just money; it needs incentive to go to the right places. From here, beyond life and death, I dream of a cap of personal wealth… and bla bla bla. Dirty water will quench fire Author: I leave this here for now and I go on and on; every word is assumed to be fateful, every thought a provocation (there simply is no way out for me). I’m sorry if my eerie paradoxical selfreflecting insane existentialistic post-modernism has deemed life meaningless, art silly and trolling an art. Life equals meaning, art is everything (what is art?) and trolling is (here) for Moron and his ghost (and others). I’m trying to play my (self-inflicted) part in this (far-from-finished and live) epic drama about the space between love and hate, good and evil, heroism and egoism and life and death (no wonder it is messy!). It’s simple really: when one sees the world (or parts of it) as lacking ideals and objective truths and asks oneself what is the meaning of it all and subsequently finds no proper answer, the idealist (when faced with the option) is forced to take upon himself (or herself) the role of the saviour (even though no proper definition of that term exists and no concrete concept exists to be saved). The result can be this energetic chaos and the idealist has to fictionally leave the ideals and become the antagonist. In parts of this drama, a meeting with God has been replaced with a meeting with an alien wisdom… and it is subtly argued that God could be a stone or God could be God that could be a spirit or God could be omnipotent or God could be everything or God could be a sub-God or God could be a slave or God could be you or me or your neighbor or alien or human or non-material or a dog or a cat… or a concept that the idealist (me?) is antagonizing against… but this is not it either… I’m a character in this work (briefly becomes self-aware but soon fades back). I will always be here. Discretion is the better part of valour Heron: I have never mentioned love. See the clouds up there, see the clouds? See the grass, see the flowers and everything between? See my eyes like I see yours?

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Det finnes i världen rätt och fel, gott och ont. Från ett virrvarr av rörande element torde det svåraste vara att identificera det goda och det onda. Det har skapats en mörk bakgrund mot vilken ett virrvarr kan reflekteras och delas upp i endera rörelse. All you need is love. Med ‘all’ antas mena vi alla, ‘you’ likaså men som individer. ‘Need’ tager hänsyn till och antar att vi alla, som individer, är i ett konstant stadie av ’need’. ‘Is’ giver existens åt meningens sista ord, som är ’love’. Bystander: For every movement there is an anti-movement, an antagonist. There is in the world right and wrong, good and evil. From a whirlwind of moving elements the hardest ought to be to identify the good and the bad. A dark background has been created against which a whirlwind can be reflected and split up into either movement. All you need is love. With ‘all’ is meant all of us, ‘you’ the same but as individuals. ‘Need’ concerns and assumes that all of us, as individuals, are in a constant state of ’need’. ‘Is’ gives existence to the last word, which is ’love’. Divide and rule Moron’s ghost: Han vet inte om han har det längre och han vet inte längre vart det ska riktas for she is nowhere to be found. Det är synnerligen obehagligt (synnerligen obehagligt!) att leva mitt i sin egen tragedi och för varje dag skriva nya men aldrig vända blad. Till detta störande moment tillkommer att dramat nu nått så långt ut i periferin att läsaren föga har att hämta från hans tankar och erfarenheter. Det återstår sålunda två möjligheter (av vad från början var ett oändligt antal): fortsätta eller svänga. Vi svänger. Dramat tager nu således ett steg åt vänster (eller höger) och börjar vandra i en annan riktning, så för att giva honom utrymme och läsaren glädje. Moron’s ghost: He does not know whether he’s got it or not any longer and he does not know where to direct it for she is nowhere to be seen. It is certainly disturbing (certainly disturbing!) to live in the midst of one’s own tragedy and for every day write new but never turn sheets. To this disturbing fact is added that the drama now has gone so far out in the periphery that the reader has very little to fetch from his thoughts and experiences. Thus remains two possibilites (of what from the beginning was an infinite amount): go on or turn. We turn. The drama is now thus taking a step to the left (or the right) and starts to wander in another direction, as to give him space and the reader joy. Do as I say, not as I do Author: Varje dag skall börjas med ett uppvaknande (jag har en tranströmerbok som skydd runt tvkabeln så inte fåglarna ska bita hål) och det ska ske absolut senast klockan nio. Det är idag exakt två månader till tentamen. Efter intagen frukost (två mackor, ett glas juice, en kopp kaffe som får drickas framför teven och en snus) skall det börjas. Det skall icke spillas tid på att kolla virtuella auktioner, läsa strunt eller spenderas någon annan form av tid på det vi kallar internet. Böckerna öppnas absolut senast en timme efter uppvaknandet. Det finnes cirka 40 möjliga ämnen (från embryologi till knäledet) att bli ombedd att hålla en kvarts tal om och det skall varje dag genomgås minst ett av dessa, gärna två. Föreläsningarna skall besökas och anteckningar skall tagas. Livet skall sålunda optimeras för att klara tentamen. Author: Every day shall start with an awakening (I have a book by Tranströmer as protection on the TV-cable so that the birds shall not bite a hole) and that will happen nine o’clock the latest. It is today exactly two months to the finals. After eaten breakfast (two sandwiches, a glass of juice, a cup of coffee that is allowed to be drunk in front of the TV and a snuff) shall it start. No time shall be wasted on checking virtual auctions, read nonsense or spend any other form of time on what we call the internet. The books open absolutely latest an hour after the awakening. There are 40 possible questions (from embryology to the knee joint) to be asked to present for fifteen minutes and every day at least one shall be studied, preferably two. The lectures shall be visited and notes shall be taken. Life shall thus be optimized to pass the finals. Do as you would be done by Heron: En annan del av detta DRAMATS NYA VÄNDNING skall bestå av kärlek. Det måste finnas en famn att somna i, läppar att kyssa och öron som lyssnar. Således skall ögonen (retina är faktiskt en framväxt del av hjärnan vilket är lite häftigt om man tänker på det) ständigt vara öppna. Det skall i kön i affären försöka påbörjas samtal och det vänliga leendet skall framvisas vid varje möjlighet ty denna kropp har glömt hur det känns att bli kramad och älskad. Ser du honom, läsare, på stan är det fritt fram att kyssa honom eller bjuda hem honom för en kopp te (han kommer leende tacka ja). Heron: Another part of this THE NEW TURN OF THE DRAMA shall be love. There must be arms to fall asleep in, lips to kiss and ears that listen. Thus shall the eyes (retine is actually a part of the brain which is a bit fascinating if you think about it) constantly be open. In the queue in the store shall new conversations be started and the friendly smile shall be shown at every possibility because this body has forgotten what it feels like to be hugged and loved. If you see him, reader, in the city you are free to kiss him or invite him up for a cup of tea (he will smiling say yes). Do right and fear no man Author: Verkets tidigare vaghet vad det gäller moral, klädstil, bra musik, attityd och alla andra viktiga attribut skall ersättas av konkreta ställningstagande från karaktärernas sida. Heron skall då i smak och tycke (men inte i ord, tanke och handling) representera mig, författaren. Morons spöke skall ge en aning om en karaktär i en bok av Edgar Allan Poe. Dessutom skall det tillkomma nya karaktärer och några av dem presenteras härmed: Martha är en god vän till Heron (då hon dog på Morons begravning är även hon ett slags spöke och går under benämningen The Angel), Tomma och Timmiana är cirkusartister, Lev Fillipovitj Krabutt är en rysk student från 1800-talet i stil med en dostojevskijkaraktär, Ron är CMM Randau, Alan är JHP, Excexeia är *, mamma är mamma och pappa är pappa. Finner Ron kärlek innan tentamen lyssnar denna kärlek till namnet Hannah eller Kerstin. Från karaktären ‘Bystander’ kommer även ett stort antal andra karaktärer plockas fram. Author: The work’s previous vagueness when it comes to morale, fashion, good music, attitude and other important attributes shall be replaced by concrete statements from the characters. Heron will then in taste and opinion (but not in word, thought and act) represent me, the author. Moron’s ghost shall give a hint of a character in a book by Edgar Allan Poe. In addition to this new characters shall be added and some of them are now presented: Martha is a good friend to Heron (as she died on Moron’s funeral she is also a kind of ghost and is known as The Angel), Tomma and Timmiana are circus artists, Lev Fillipovitj Krabutt is a Russian student from the 19th century like a Dostoyevsky character, Ron is CMM Randau, Alan is JHP, Exceceia is *, mother is mother and father is father. If Ron finds love before the finals will this love be called Hannah or Kerstin. From the character ‘Bystander’ will also a large amount of other characters be added. Do unto others as you would they should do unto you Author: Så till DRAMATS NYA VÄNDNINGs handling. Tänk dig, läsare, en handling. Vilken som helst. Tänk dig en berättelse. Låt oss använda ordspråket här ovan som utgångspunkt. Ett gäng skojare i vilda västern bestämmer sig för att råna en bank. De lyckas och får en massa pengar och reser till New York och startar en bank. Livet leker gott och dramas mittdel består av deras äventyr (de reser jorden runt med mera). Så är de i dramats tredje del äldre herrar och banken går bra. De startar en falang i vilda västern och den blir rånad. Author: So to THE DRAMAS NEW TURN’s plot. Imagine, reader, a plot. Any plot at all. Imagine a tale. Let’s use the proverb up here as a starting point. A band of jokers in the wild west decide to rob a bank. They succeed and get lots of money and go to New York and start a bank. Live is nice and the drama’s mid part is their adventures (they travel around the world etc.). Then in the third part of the drama they are old gentlemen and the bank is doing good. They start a branch in the wild west and it gets robbed. The best doctors are Dr Diet, Dr Quiet and Dr Merryman Author: Here is my future, my career I will try to destroy it for you Karma, yin and yang I get it worse and you get it better I become a doctor and you can feed your children but I doubt you will ever live in abundance unless I kill myself Give a dog a bad name and hang him OVERHEARD IN A LUNCH ROOM SOMEWHERE: Bystander A: After an economic crash many are excited and anxious to get back on their feet and get the profits back on the paper. Through the ashes they know new concepts will arise and it’s vital to be the first or the best after the fire. There’s gotta be shoes that the cool youth wear and there’s bound to be at least one Dylan and at least one Madonna and they just have to find them. Well, we live in chaos. You can choose any concept you wish and get it on the air and on the streets and afterwards everyone will say that this concept defined the times. Let individuality be this concept. Let nihilism be the fashion and let it trickle down and flourish among the consumers as realism. The counter-movement will be idealism and nothing evil can flourish from this clash. I’m sure there’s cash in this clash as well: The Nihilism Rockband! Bystander B, singing: No no no! BE the change that you want to see in the world! WEAR the cool shoes! DESIGN them yourself! Don’t hate the corporation that capitalise on everything and ruin it. Love it! Thank it! See it as your friend. There are no evil corporations and rule number one of ’the cause’ is to ignore those that are against us which means that… The ANTI-Nihilism Rockband! Bystander C, muttering: This does not make sense. Bystander A & B in choir, singing: No it does not and that’s cool. That’s fashion! Nothing makes sense! Let’s call it sensualism. The colour is pink and dark green and one does not wear shoes. One wears… TOWELS! You wrap your feet in towels and you’re always half-jogging and let’s have funky music playing from large speakers all over society! Author, lecturing: Fashion and capitalism live in a different hemisphere from nihilism and idealism. Let quality be what is strived for; quality in life, in song and in friendship and let hypocrisy be that which is left in the ashes. Bystander A, B & C, slowly (with feeling): Oh shut up Mr Serious Poet Author! Eat your carrots! Dog does not eat dog Author: After Heron came with his car (a SAAB) and we drove to the bench on the hill overlooking the valley and the deep deep sea. He’d just come back from Paris and had a bottle of wine and he opened it with his claws. “I wanted it to be beatiful” I said. I was half-way to tears. He put his giant blue arm around me. “I know” he said and lit a fire as the sun set. Every dog has his day Heron: Every dog has his day, also you. Every dog has wisdom, also you. You have the power of language and of swift piercing thought. You can end discussions with poetry and you can pretend that you have the answers. You are alone up here on this hill, just like everyone before you has been. Every person and world in need has felt my arm around them: know that I am comforting you. Every dog is allowed one bite Heron: With every step you take and every word you write I am by your side so that you cannot go wrong, cannot say wrong. Bite no more. People will think strange of you. They will laugh, tremble and cry and curse you for making them do it. Go on, go on. Write, write, write. Be soft and loving. Author, that is why you are here. The dog returns to its vomit Lev: Jag sitter här i min lägenhet i staden och dricker vattnigt ryskt té. Det smakar uselt. Jag såg en kamrat på föreläsningen idag och honom ska jag diskutera något med. Jag är kär i guvernörskans dotter men hon ignorerar mig. Sonja som bor i rummet bredvid har blivit gravid med en lösdrivare från landet. Jag har en enorm ångest över mordet jag begick igår på en gammal tant, någons moder och dotter. Stövlarna sitter som fastlimmade på mina blå fötter, ja det är minus 40 grader här i staden. Jag måste tillbaks till brottsplatsen, likt en hund till sitt kräk, även om polisen säkert redan är där och ja, vet allt. Lev: I am sitting here in my apartment in the city and drinking watery russian tea. It tastes awful. I met a friend today at the lecture and with him I will discuss some things with. I am in love with the guvernor’s daughter but she is ignoring me. Sonja who lives in the room next to mine is pregnant with some guy from the country. I have an enormous amount of agony from the murder I committed yesterday on an old lady, someone’s mother and daughter. The boots are glued to my blue feet, yes it’s minus 40 Celsius here in the city. I have to go back to the crime scene, like a dog do its vomit, even if the police probably are already there and yes, know everything. RON’S STORY Ron: I went to the Urkult folk music festival in the north of Sweden in the summer of 2009. My best memory is being in a crowd of twenty or so, at four in the morning (all bright) marching down to the pouring loud river. I played the guitar and there were accordions, violins, harmonicas and more guitars. We played Bo Hansson’s The Black Riders over and over again, like a march band. We stayed down at the river for half an hour and then we walked back, still playing. It was beautiful. From that festival I also remember the last day. My friend Jesper went to the tent to sleep early but I stayed up the whole night. I was in a tent playing 4 stringed acoustic solo guitar with two conga drummers and after when everyone went to bed I went for a walk and found a camp by the lake and there sat a girl and a guy with a giant bong. I stayed there and we smoked until noon the next day. These were mysterious people. I went to take a leak from a bridge over the lake and there sat a love couple whispering words of nothing. Soon my friend came and said it was time to leave. He knew what I’d been doing so he had packed all my things for me and I entered the bus and sat down. I tried to collect my thoughts of where I was and what was going on but all I heard was loud music in my head. It was a crazy mixture of The Black Riders and what I’d been playing on guitar earlier that night. We listened to the radio with headphones and the radio’s music mixed with my head’s music and I sat there grinning. The music was still there when we came to Stockholm 6 hours later. The rest of the summer: on Bo’s balcony in his hammock among his tomato plants, grapes and apples in Malmö. Bo is a gay real estate agent the age of my father who collects antique furniture and decorates old castles. He works six months and travels the world six months and he’s been doing this for the last thirty years. He’s been everywhere. He grows his own pot and he says he is the Buddha but I don’t believe him. It was me (CMM Randau), Jonathan and Jesper. A typical day: arrive at Bo’s place in the afternoon around six, play a set of backgammon, joint, more backgammon, joke about the fate and state of the world and humanity, listen to Bo going through the history of the Royal Swedish Family or any other historical epoché, joint, listen to Jonathan joking about his past in an evangelical sect and living in Israel, then go out to drink beer on Möllan, bring strangers home for after-party and more backgammon and pot. It was meditative there in the hammock. It was freedom, birds in the sky. Time stood still, summer sun. I finally had time to think things through and to sort out my messy inside and life. Bo would accept any kind of thinking and laugh the problems away. I had studied one term at medical school in Copenhagen in Denmark. Before that I had studied three terms mathematics and physics at the University of Warwick in the UK but I dropped out. I felt I was going nowhere. I decided to drop out from medical school as well to finally write my first novel and then came the autumn of 2009 and my 23rd birthday. Horisonten från vitt till rosa till orange svart mamman sade inte få tag på dig dricka öl dricka sprit blankt ligger ett tyst hjärta sjön år efter år av detta år efter år snart natt nu tursam är den som i ensamhet finner lycka inte denna själ som van vid varma lakan växte upp se det som ett prov kanske det men måtte det en dag ta slut så livet åter kan börja detta drama detta drama år efter år efter år som vi ska skratta som vi ska skåla och kyssas den dagen den dagen år efter år ska vi barnet ser tio år framåt finner detta denna plågan denna väntan denna förolämpning mot barnets hjärta den unge mannen mitt i detta och du din otroliga kvinna lyssna på dig i tio nätter och tio dagar höra det berättas hur du hade det på din sida men varför år efter år hur kan jag vara oförmögen att gå vidare och släppa dig hur år efter år efter år haver mitt kött ej lust haver jag sådan pli år efter år efter år från vitt rosa orange svart äldre nu gammal sjön ett minne blott plågan ett minne blott det är väl detta du förstått du äldre sköna kvinna som förstår tiden bättre än jag en vecka efter år födelsedag och blommorna jag skickade då ringde jag till dig också pappan sade inte få tag på dig dricka öl dricka sprit skriva ja jag ringde dig tills ingen ton längre fanns kvar och skickade brev tills postlådan togs bort du kvinna trånar du ej efter varma lakan och mina kyssar trånar du inte efter mig och mina kramar mina ord mina handlingar min vardag mina tankar hah här sitter jag och försöker bli full på folköl Excexeia hahaha varför är jag inte bara tyst jo jag vill hedra dig och ägna tid tanke ord på dig så jag en dag kan lägga armen om dig och säga jag förtjänar dig ja hon är min jag gjorde allt jag skrev om henne ringde sprang skrek grät skickade blommor och brev vrålade efter henne år efter år efter år denna kvinna som värmer mina lakan kysser mina läppar öppna sitt hjärta för mig som är min som lyssnar som är hos mig i min famn bredvid min stol år efter år efter år har du en låt du vill visa mig får jag följa med idag och sitta bredvid dig vara störig skriva på ditt block räcka upp din hand ta din penna bjuda dig på en kopp kaffe eller chokladmjölk på rasten vara en sån som de flesta tycker är störig men som du tycker är rolig vara din apa och då får du vara min och följa med mig du och jag Excexeia du och jag framåt år efter år efter år men varför säger din mamma så och varför säger din pappa så har du inte berättat om mig än har du inte sagt att jag en dag kommer ringa och att de då ska vara snälla och ge mig ditt nummer eller säga till dig att nu nu har jag äntligen ringt nu skola klockorna ringa och nu ska alla sjunga för nu har vi mötts igen efter år efter år efter år åh jag har hamnat så snett så jävla typiskt för jag vet exakt var jag vill vara och exakt hur jag vill ha det runtom mig jag vet exakt vad jag vill göra om dagarna nätterna mornarna eftermiddagarna jag vet exakt år efter år efter år så kom någon och frågade kärlek hur långt kan det gå kan det gå från blixten till längtan till smärta absolut kan det gå längre absolut men för detta finnes ej ord själen hjärta tages lyftes upp i en hand klämmes hårt det framtages en kniv hjärtat och själen placeras på köttbänken och så tager man fatt skär rakt igenom delar det i två placerar den ena biten tillbaka i kroppen låter den andra biten ligga kvar låter själen leva med halva hjärtat som vore allt vanligt som funnes det en vardag dricka öl dricka sprit veta att där inne på köttbänken finnes den andra halvan kvinna där finnes du ibland när jag ska sova är du hos mig vi älskar varje kväll ibland morgonkaffe där sitter du och ler hjärtat tages då upp från köttbänken och placeras tillbaka i min kropp och jag är åter hel och lever åter efter år efter år efter år Excexeia jag vet hur du ler nu jag sitter här naken i en pöl av tårar som ett barn jag vet det är roligt men ska vi inte skratta åt det nu är det inte snart dags låta ridån gå ner kyssas direkt när de inte längre ser och sen komma ut på scen igen tillsammans och buga och bocka och åter kyssas så alla ser hur vi kämpat för varandra jag har levt ganska länge nu bott i England bott i storstad och på landet kämpat för saker varit arg skrattat vunnit förlorat men det finnes inget i livet som kärlek denna kropp i alla fall är gjord för att älska dig från vitt till rosa till orange till svart skrivet i stjärnorna som nu ses överallt på sjön du och jag Excexeia du och jag år efter år efter år jag ska dricka upp spritflaskan och så ska jag vandra rakt ner i sjön till stjärnorna där våra namn står skrivna så ska jag simma ner till botten och hålla andan så länge jag kan så ska jag simma rakt upp med sådan fart att jag bryter ytan och fortsätter upp mot stjärnorna så ska jag spana och flyga runt tills jag plötsligt ser dig så ska jag dyka rakt ner mot dig där du ligger naken ler väntar så ska jag försiktigt landa rakt på dig försiktigt så ska jag kyssa dig mellan halsen och skuldran på halsen så ska jag fortsätta kyssa dig upp på kinden runt din mun på dina ögonlock på din panna din haka så ska jag öppna dina ögon så ska du se mig och se att nu är jag här så ska du lyfta dina armar och omfamna mig så ska vi se på varandra och innan tårarna kommer ska vi sluta våra ögon låta våra läppar mötas jag tror inte ens du kommer gråta du är så jag har inte ord du är så fantastisk men ja lite störd är jag allt men du måste förstå jag var blott sexton så såg jag dig sitta där på gatan utanför hässle en sån skönhet så arg så cool aldrig hade jag sett någon så vacker aldrig hade jag kunnat föreställa mig dig nog visste jag att jag själv var en sötbit och kunde få det mesta jag pekade på och du var nog densamma och jag bestämde mig då eller dagen efter att om någon ska få krossa mitt hjärta och få mig att gråta och skrika och springa världen runt så är det den tjejen så är det du Excexeia vet du vem jag är om natten i det mörka sovrummet vem jag är när du är ensam med mig vet du den totala trygghet som jag är vet du att när du är i min famn så finns det inget som kan skada dig inget att vara rädd för inget att oroa sig för morgondagen är solig livet ett äventyr år efter år efter år så nu tager vi oss i akt låter världen vända så allt faller på plats så vi möts plötsligt men nu har jag ringt dig två gånger talat med mamman talat med pappan säg var du bor säg var du är ge mig ditt nummer ring mig kom till mig nu när sommaren snart är här se sjön bli vit rosa orange come over to the window my little darling hello Excexeia sweetheart totalt säker är jag på att du älskar mig A dog that will fetch a bone will carry a bone Bystander: Oh Friday night, what haveth thou a-waiting for old me, will thou bringeth me anything this fine nite? Will the ale I’m a-drinking bring a fair lady to my door? I salute thee, Friday night. If I salute thee enough will the fair lady cometh? Or will I have to carry this here also tonite? Oh Friday night, what haveth thou a-waiting for old me, will thou bringeth me anything this fine nite? Will the ale I’m a-drinking bring a fair lady to my door? I salute thee, Friday night. If I salute thee enough will the fair lady cometh? Or will I have to carry this here also tonite? Oh Friday night, what haveth thou a-waiting for old me, will thou bringeth me anything this fine nite? Will the ale I’m a-drinking bring a fair lady to my door? I salute thee, Friday night. If I salute thee enough will the fair lady cometh? Or will I have to carry this here also tonite? Oh Friday night, what haveth thou a-waiting for old me, will thou bringeth me anything this fine nite? Will the ale I’m a-drinking bring a fair lady to my door? I salute thee, Friday night. If I salute thee enough will the fair lady cometh? Or will I have to carry this here also tonite? It’s dogged as does it (BE GOOD AND LET TIME TAKE ITS TOLL) Author: There is such beauty in this life There on the bus to work you are lucky to spot it Take another bus to the sea or to the fields write write write There is such beauty in this life write write write How can I convince you it is there when I myself fall short In times of need or despair write write write We know it is there somewhere write IN THE EYES OF YOUR LOVER! WHEN YOU BEAT THE HIGH SCORE! write write WHEN SOMEONE SUDDENLY SAYS write YOU ARE GOOD To me you are good, to me you matter write write or when you see animals feeling the same joy as we do or fighting over nests and hills, just like we do write write or early in the morning when it’s all-silent outside or in the middle of the night when no-one is awake write write or ordering another beer after the bar is closed because the bartender is nice to you write and waking up with an unknown lover the day efter or not and waking up alone to a new day write write write OR ON VACATION WITH YOUR FAMILY write write OR PASSING THE EXAMS! write OR THE CLIMAX the incredible climax REACHED AFTER AN HOUR OF OPERA OR DRUMS write write write or dancing dancing dancing write or getting high and having sex write write write or having sex write write or making a great movie that the whole world appreciates write write or touring the world OR HAVING CHILDREN! write write or an abortion write write write write write or finding peace where once was hatred and disrespect write or sitting alone in the woods in the silence only the trees and the wind and it starts raining and you stay there in the rain then you go inside to the fireplace and get warm and some whisky or a good dinner and a piano and your wife or husband write write write OR FREEDOM! FREEDOM OF SPEECH! LARGE FACTORS OF POWER FALL! if you speak the right words and go the right places write or being so much in love that it hurts and aches and time stands still AND YOU GET LOVE, YOU GET YOUR LOVER! He and she loves you back! write write or human beings who have sacrificed themselves for their cause, their friends, their future write OR TIME THAT HAS PASSED AND KEEPS PASSING write write write OR EVERYONE THAT HAS LIVED BEFORE YOU! write write a saxophone a harmonica a soft guitar a hard guitar write write write OR FINDING SOMEONE WHO THINKS LIKE YOU starting a political party write write write or growing up and realize that you have gotten older but that you are still the same person that these hands here are the same hands you’ve always had write write silly books good books grand books amusing books hard books write write write the mother and father that raised you write or you make lots of money or you can feed your family OR PAIN AND HURT when your friend dies when your lover leaves you when you loose your job when your country suffers when you are getting older but going nowhere the world at fire genocides, terrorism and hatred ANGRY VOICES! But you find these people and you hug them you have the inner strength to accept everything or listen because they are people, no more and no less WHEN YOU SEE PAIN IN OTHERS THAT YOU SEE IN YOURSELF WHEN YOU SEE EVERYONE IS THE SAME AND EQUAL write write write AND PEOPLE! PEOPLE! PEOPLE! LOOK AT THE BEAUTY OF PEOPLE! around the world, sing APOCALYPSE NO! Sure, but you have to see every person You must present yourself and you must be the WHAT one writing: Åh himmelen denna vackra sfär… Dogs bark but the caravan goes on Heron: So clearly, Some people think the discussion we shall be having shall not be about Hello, I am delighted to see you. Welcome to my home. Some people think that our thoughts, days and lives shall not be about Feeling good, finding purpose, living in harmony with each other Some people think our entire society shall not be there to Grant us freedom of thought, of speech, grant us rights and hope Some people think our culture shall not be one that Is welcoming, interested, open, enlightened Some people think that what we ought to do is not to Walk side by side, take care of each other and nature, solve the real problems Some people think that what we ought to do is to go to war, against each other, on this Earth that we share and completely destroy our future To those people I say this: THIS WILL NEVER HAPPEN You are too late.

I – Gammelgäddan den svarta stenen Jag får i en korthet sammanfoga några rader och tacka så mycket för det bref som jag har fott ifrån eder det gläder mig mycket att få höra ifrån eder någon gång som jag hör så har ni hälsan nu som förr lika som jag fick ett bref ifrån broder Edvar eller rättare sagt soldaten ty han skrifver om hela sin lefnads historia när han var ute i krig och när han reste på sjön när han stod spotade i sjön om jag hade varit där hade även jag sett Sjöodjuret. Då skulle jag taga hans fotografi och det skulle icke kosta honom någonting för det. Det inda som jag icke har så är det fåglar eller rättare sagt fågel ty jag icke behöfver mer änd en och den har jag icke fångat inu, jag får göra alvar utaf att fånga den innan man blir för gammal ty då får man gå som svåger Anders Olsson, jag undrar om han lefver inu Så gick han ut i solen i trädgården med Anders Olssons levnadsöde i tanken och såg på fågeln som satt där i trädet. Han backade långsamt tillbaka mot verandan där han kommit ut och grep efter fiskhåven bakom ryggen. Så närmade han sig fågeln med små varsamma steg. Fågeln såg ej på honom utan ut mot det stora mörkret av skogen full av bokträd, täckt av trädkronors gröngrå filt. Med en smidig rörelse han tränat in utanför fågelns medvetande lyfte han håven samtidigt som han hoppade högt (säkert tre fot!) och dränkte fågeln i ett hav av fisknät. Vingarna fladdrade frenetiskt men inte ett ljud kom ifrån fågeln. Han lugnade den med ord som alla varelser i skogen känner och förde sin stora hand över den så för att svepa ett mörker över den, för att få den att vilja sova. Så gick han raskt tillbaka till verandan och släppte in fågeln i den bur av gammal ståltråd han förberett veckor innan. Hans händer landade på de slitna byxbenen och han suckade djupt. Så såg han ut över mörkret. Solen stod nu som högst på himmelen. Inte något hade han företagit sig idag. I ögonvrån såg fågeln på honom. Han tänkte på fosterlandet och hur de här värderar det skandinaviska folket som en meniska och icke som en slaf och som jag förstår så får man gå omkring och vaska för folk till att förtjäna till hushollet… Ack hur galet det blev den gången som jag har sändt jag gaf Karolina en galen adress jag gaf henne din gamla adress och så när hon kom hit så gick hon en hel dag och sökte men så fick jag ett bref ifrån henne så gaf jag henne din rätta adress men jag vet icke om hon har sänt den ännu men jag tänker nog att hon sänder den när hon får mit bref… Hans tankar var varma. Med en hand täckte han för sin heta panna och skymde solen för ögonen. Karolina, ja. Karolina. Han reste sig hastigt och såg på fågeln och gick vidare in i det svala huset och såg på kaffet i kannan som var kallt och gick vidare till sin säng och tänkte lägga sig där men bestämde sig sedan för att lägga sig i soffan bredvid det skrangliga ljusbruna träbordet och förblev så där liggande. Utanför började fågeln sjunga och han trodde sig även höra andra fåglar i skogen sjunga samma melodi. Han tänkte på Sjöodjuret på sjöns botten bland ål och sutare och på Gammelgäddan som fortfarande levde där i sjön en bit in i skogen. I någon timme bidade han sin tid för han var fri. Vid sjön under en stor alm satt han med sitt fiskespö utav en pinne och hampatråd. Trädets skugga låg fint över bukten och han lutade sig bakåt mot stenformationen. Det är som en bekväm stol här tänkte han. Benen låg ut mot den lilla sandiga stranden. Ibland kom vågorna och slickade de bara tårna och svala rysningar gick då upp längs låren och vidare mot svanken. Solen var nu lägre på himmelen och molnen var rödare nästan lila. Korkbiten guppade några meter ut och nedanför den lurade Gammelgäddan. Kanske åt den av svalor som i våldsam tystnad störtat på ytan och stilla kluckat och sjunkit ner, eller åt den av trötta örnar. Han såg upp mot bergen vid horisonten efter örnar men såg inga. Så nappade det plötsligt och upp kom en liten abborre. Den var inte mycket till världen men han hade snabbt ihjäl den och lade den vid sin sida. I ögonvrån tittade den på honom under resten av fisket. Två andra abborrar gjorde den snart sällskap. Han radade upp dem efter storlek… den lille närmast och den store längst bort. Den i mitten skulle nog kunna bli fin med lite salt och peppar. Han tänkte på Sjöodjuret där nere bland fiskdjuren, hur den finnes där och swimma runt och välja self vad den vilja sluka där bland andra småfiskar jag vilja möta den där i lugnet, jag betviflar ju icke den vilja vara min vän ty jag är även frände och fin inu ja, inu ja INU Så reste han sig och drog av sig alla sina kläder och vadade ut så långt att vattnet stod honom till axlarna. Med fötterna kände han bottnen och dess stenar. Han knep en sten mellan tårna och lät foten möta handen och förde stenen framför sina ögon. Helt svart var den! Han vadade tillbaka till sin stenstol och tog på sig sina kläder och tog sina abborrar och fäste dem på en lina och tog spöet över axeln och gick tillbaka till stugan. ”Hej du vackra fågel, du svarta sten!” utropade han och gick in, förbi fågeln. Åt sig själv gjorde han kaffe. Den svarta stenen tvättade han varsamt med sin näsduk och lite regnvatten från kannan. Ju mer han putsade desto mer blänkte den, som om den blivit våtare och inte torrare! Med det svarta kaffet i sin ena hand och den svarta stenen i den andra satte han sig bredvid fågeln. Skogen var nu mörkare och kalla bitande vindar började vina i dess dalar och nådde även stugan och huden på hans nakna underarmar drog ihop sig och blev spänd och känslig. I några timmar satt han där i tankar. När det blivit kolsvart ute och fågeln verkat falla i ro och somnat gick han in till sin säng och svepte sig in i sina gröna filtar. Likt ett barn sov han, och drömde om en svart fisk av gigantisk storlek som också den sov likt ett barn, på sjöns botten där han fångat abborrar och stenar. Han satt vid sitt bord. Det var tidig morgon och fågeln hade det fint ute i buren. Några kvistar med askröda löv hade sållat sig till den magra inredningen och den (fågeln) satt uppå den högst belägna, likt en glömd aktör i en sollampas sken. Han (mannen) hade en bok med tummade sidor framför sig. Det var en bok av fyra. Jag har fyra böcker att gå igenom och det är i maskineri allt jag får lära allt sitta och räkna ut hur stor en maskin behöfver att vara jag skall gifva Julius ett exempel på ett hjul som jag och studerade på i fem timmar en nat och jag fick det icke rätt ändå så blef jag vred och sedan gick till bedd Men nu skulle han inte bli vred. Nu gjorde det varken till eller från huruvida hjulet skulle rotera i samklang eller ej. Han bet på pennan och krafsade några kråkfötter i marginalen. ”Derivata ej kontinerlig” skrev han. ”Fourierserie” skrev han så överst på ett ark som han placerat bredvid boken. Så började han räkna och skriva. Utanför hördes luften och skogen och ensamheten. Fönstret som stod på glänt dansade stillsamt fram och tillbaka, svept av vinden från bergen. Kaffet i koppen porlade uppåt med sin ånga och försvann och förenades, molekyl för molekyl. Nere i sjön som inte syntes från fönstret kunde man höra det dykas och vändas i djupet. Sjöodjuret med sina blåa fjällbitar i mystiska mönster och sin antika doft skymtade nu ytan och kom den närmare. Den (ytan) kluckade fint och Sjöodjuret tog sig upp och började flyta i välbehag och vände sig om för att sola mjuka magen i senmorgonsolen. Hade fågeln varit fri hade den sett det. Hade han (mannen) inte jobbat med sin maskin hade han sett det. Vädret var stilla och lugnt men Å när det stormar, hur det (Sjöodjuret) leker och hur det prasslar med vågorna och den vilda styrkan På en smal stig gick han muntert med fågeln i ett snöre kring klorna fäst runt axeln. Det var strax innan middag. I fickan hade han en cigarr… en billig en. Att gå ut och taga en promenad någon gång allt som oftast och röka en sigar till att fördriva tiden med, du Malin skref att Julius har mycket med böcker och skräp men det är godt att du kan icke komma hit upp på mit som ty då hade du nog tagit allt ihop och mig också och kasstat ut, ty jag har alla slags draingar och paper ifrån maskiner så att du blev nog förskrägt om du såg det. Vid en glänta stannade han och satte sig ned på en sten. Fågeln gjorde ett försök att flyga upp men slungades ner i gräset av snöret. Han tog den upp och satte den åter på axeln. Härifrån kunde man se sjön om man kunde se den mellan träden. Han tyckte sig se något röra sig där borta på ytan. ”Gammelgäddan den svarta stenen!” skrek han ut i skogen ner mot sjön och det ekade mellan stammarna, ekade under kronorna. Han tog av sig tofflorna och spretade tårna ut i mossan, lät den omsluta dem nästan totalt. Så lutade han sig tillbaka över stenen och såg himmelen och molnen röra sig. Där blev han liggande… han vet inte hur länge. Sjöodjuret som är så snällt. Blåa fjällbitar i mystiska mönster och en antik doft. Man vill vara nära för det har visa ord att förmedla, ord som förmedlas under tystnad (kanske genom vattnets vindar). Hur det vänder och dyker i sjöns djup! Hur det samlar mod och styrka på sjöns botten, bland ål och sutare. Om natten när månen är klar och frisk kanske det visar sig. På ytan som kluckar fint flyter det i välbehag och vänder sig om för att sola mjuka magen i månskenet. Å när det stormar, hur det leker och hur det prasslar med vågorna och den vilda styrkan. Å var har det varit i alla tusen år? Genom gångar under sjön har det kunnat se det mesta som finns att finnas. I ett hörn har det skådat krigen och mänskorna, djuren och odjuren, barnen och de vuxna. Av de gamla ekarna som med dunder fallit i vattnet har det byggt slott och murar. Det har ätit fåglar i tusental: svalor som i våldsam tystnad störtat på ytan och stilla kluckat och sjunkit ner, örnar som blivit trötta, fiskmåsar som haft det lite för skoj lite för nära sjöodjurets gap. Men det kan gå många år utan att Sjöodjuret äter fåglar. Många dystra kamper har tagit plats mellan Sjöodjuret och Gammelgäddor, mellan Sjöodjuret och vithajar, mellan Sjöodjuret och ubåtar. Alla kamper har det vunnit! Alla envisa bestar har det slukat. Sjöodjuret klarar det mesta, men en lång stilla kamp klarar det ej. Den kampen tär på dess krafter och lämnar ingen ro eller tid att vila. Sjöodjuret dyker nu ner till ytan ty en ny dag gryr och snart kommer mänskorna fram ur sina stugor och far med sina motordån bort från sjön. Sjöodjuret bidar då sin tid. Och nu är han uppe vid stugan igen i eftermiddagen och har kokat kaffe och sitter ute bredvid fågeln som är tillbaka i sin bur och snöret den tidigare var fast vid ligger på den trampade jorden varpå buren står och de ser båda ut över skogen som stilla klämtar likt en sovande jätte med barndrömmar och i ögonvrån ser de på varandra utan att veta det och sjön som där bakom ligger blank är verkligen blank ty även fiskarna och gäddorna och abborrarna hänger i fred och sveps med vattnets vindar kanske till platser i sjön de inte varit på tidigare där de kanske möter nya fiskar vars liv de tidigare ej känt och längre bort ja hela vägen bort till fosterlandet där går Malin och Julius på det svältande fältet i tystnad och tar vad den magra jorden ger ty där är det vinter fast det är sensommar och där blir inte många barn starka nog att fortvara och finna sysslor ja kanske inte ens folk de kan vaska för för att tjäna sitt hushåll och emellan mannen och fågeln och Skandinavien ligger ett stort hav varpå man måste flyta över vilket man ej än kan flyga trots stora kunskaper om maskiner och hjul och derivator och varpå Edvar drog ut i krig och mötte Sjöodjuret och där det stormar och stormar och stormar och där dystra kamper tar plats mellan Sjöodjuret och Gammelgäddor och ubåtar och vithajar ja och mannen och fågeln som i gemenskap över arter sitter och skådar skogen och mannen tänker på Sjöodjuret och Karolina och fågeln har ej tanke endast känsla och appassionata! Appassionata! Appassionata! Jag kan icke blifva klok på det bref som Julius skref, ty han talade om 900 kr varor men jag undrar på hvad det var om han skall sjelf setta upp verkstad nu har jag icke mer att skrifva för denna gång utan hjertlig helsning hvil jag senda eder alla och jag får tacka eder så mycket för lyckönskningen som ni har sändt till oss och hon bad mig helsa eder tillbaka och tacka så mycket för det och i dag skall vi gå till onkels Pets ty Maud hon fyllar sina sjutton år så att jag får hälsa adjö. Jag sender er en svart sten av de märkligaste slag. Kanske bringar den eder lycka där borta. Sincerely Yours, N. Wiit II – Midsommarnatten I gemenskap gick de ner till sjökanten där långbåten var förlagd. Damerna hade bruna och vita klänningar av grovt tyg. Herrarna hade hattar och svarta byxor, vita skjortor och svarta kavajer. Jag gick en bra bit efter dem och såg deras hälar. Jag såg deras vader och byxor och kjolar som veckade sig. Jag hörde deras småprat och deras munterhet även om jag vände dövörat till. Så gick de flesta ombord på långbåten. Några av männen tog årorna och några stod kvar vid kanten och samtalade med ord som sögs upp av vinden. Alla damer utom jag och Malin försvann glatt ut på sjön i en båt som såg ut att kunna slå runt när som helst, och sända dem alla ner på botten till gammelgäddor och annat. Det började sjungas sånger så som det sig sig bör och de som ej kunde gasta klart sjöng tyst och de som hade säkerhet i stämman tog ton och ledde sångerna dit de skulle. Malin stod i tystnad bredvid mig. Männen vid strandkanten gick tillbaka till villan och kvar blev endast vi. Jag hade sedan några dagar tillbaka haft en pendlande feber och endera frös jag endera svettades jag i min renaste klänning. Jag var svart och orolig som ett sommarregn. ”Kanske sku’ man komme me endå” sade Malin och satte sig ned i det våta gräset med sitt vita paraply. ”Aa” svarade jag, för jag visste varken till eller från. Jag blev stående några fot framför henne. Sällskapet var nu vid sjöns mitt, mellan två öar (Häxön och Söndagsön) och de verkade ha stannat där ty inga åror petade ut från båten. ”Tror ba ja bler sittende här nåt slag” sade Malin. Du är välkommen hem om midsommar Karolina. Alfred Nilsson från Udden komma också stod det på det informella kortet med den glada målningen av en långbåt på framsidan. Nu stod hon där och Malin satt tyst bakom henne och hon (kvinnan) kände vemod och att hon inte kan stanna. Julius var ute på båten. Denna Julius, Malins make och smutsig och snus i mungipan men ung och vanstark och på väg någonstans i en tid då allt stod stilla: ont om pengar, magra potatisar på landet, kor med vattnig mjölk och en hustru som ej varken kände kärlek eller utövade trohet. Denna Malin som nu satt bredvid henne och tomt vakade över långbåten på väg in till kanten igen med muntra svenskar i midsommardräkter och brännvin i magen och strupar som törstade efter mer. Så anlades båten och kom Julius fram till dem och lyfte på hatten med överdriven elegans. ”Godda damer! Ska v’ente supa till’et?” och Malin började skratta vansinnigt: ”Dä har du fanemej gjort redan!”. Så blev de båda tysta och hon (kvinnan) lät sin blick försiktigt svepa över Julius svarta byxben och sen vidare ner till skorna och ner till sommargräset. Det var dagg i det sälla gräset. ”Ja tar en sup med’ej, Julos…” sade hon utan att se upp från daggen. Julius och jag gick sida vid sida och Malin kom efter med sitt paraply. Julius som var full stapplade över mullvadshögarna och jag tog hans arm för att stötta honom. Det var ännu inte kvällning, vi hade inte ätit än. Uppe vid villan som vi nu såg mellan träden hade det dukats upp till långbord och fest. Bordet var ej längre än långbåten och jag undrade hur vi alla skulle få plats kring det: var skulle alla vi, som ej på båten sjöng i glada toner kunna sitta för att äta? När vi kom fram släppte Julius hastigt min arm och gick vidare in i villan. Malin kom ifatt mig och lade armen kring min axel. ”Ska vi ta oss en sup Karolina?” och jag nickade och vi gick in i villan och såg Julius vid bordet där brännvinet stod i stora krus och vi gick fram till bordet och fyllde snapsglas och svepte ner det. Sedan fyllde vi på igen och svepte igen och gick sedan ut till långbordet där mat (sill, strömming, potatis, dill, abborre) hade börjat dukas upp. Luften vibrerade och dofter var starkare nu, och fukten i vinden var tydligare och nästan frän då jag andades in den. Snart var det fullt vid bordet och vi fick tränga ihop oss för att alla de, som sjungit på båten skulle få plats att sjunga även nu. Vi sjöng visor: HELAN Helan är en pärla Helan är en skatt Helan är en stjärna uti somrig natt står där som vanligt i lampans sken en härlig, härlig, härlig en räck ut din hand och tag din nubbe i ett drag. HALVAN Helan var bra nu ska vi ta Halvan i detta rycket En går väl an sen två är minsann inte ett dugg för mycket Ensam är stark men två river mer så skynda Er nu att svänga ner den så kanske Ni om en stund kan få fler Ja, skål på Er allihopa TERSEN Böj arsen i vinkel här vankas det finkel Här vankas finkel här vankas finkel och låt sen suparna gå Vi äro små humlor vi Vi äro små humlor, vi Vi äro små humlor, som ta oss en geting Vi äro små humlor, vi Nu var himmelen mörk och likaså min blick (alla är suddiga och tysta fast de skriker) och nu stod Julius på bordet och sjöng vilt och jag följde honom med min berusade blick och Malin talade med en annan herre bredvid och de höll varandra och tog supar och tjimmade högt och falskt tillsammans. Någon höll upp en svart sten i skenet av en lykta. Stenen gnuggades med en trasa dränkt i brännvin och den lyste allt klarare, allt starkare i handen och den tog folks blickar och fick dem att tala snabbare och mer. Så lyftes stenen upp mot månen och ljuset (månens, lånat av solen) spred sig över midsommarnattens ansikten likt en modern lampa. ”Hej Julos, hej Julos din geting!” skrek jag och skrattade och höjde glaset och svepte. Vattnet var klart och kallt och upplyst. Tårna jag lät doppa där i sjön rös av välbehag och spred sitt välbehag upp i mina ben. Jag lutade mig fram och lät läpparna lätt röra vattnet. Jag sög i mig en klunk och var vid att falla i men behärskade mig. Himmelen ovanför mig snurrade. Den var blå men samtidigt svart. Stjärnorna lös dimmigt och vackert men inte heller de hängde stilla. Det var en frihet att vara berusad, full av brännvin. Det var en frihet och en sällhet och en lånad tid för så snart sömnen kom och nästa morgon grydde skulle äcklet och smärtan komma. Allt detta visste jag, ja djupare än min tanke för i min tanke sjöng det endast Julius och jag undrade – visste – om – att – jag var omdömeslös nog att omfamna honom nu. Jag började gå med hastiga steg upp mot villan där de andra ännu sjöng och drack: jag såg från ett slags avstånd hur jag igen satte mig ned vid bordet och nästan föll av pallen. I klar skugga såg jag Malin fortfarande sitta där med den okända herren och såg Julius ännu halvstå där med näven om snapsglaset. ”Julos, fyller du på mitt glas?” och han tog glaset från min hand och försvann in i villan och kom tillbaka. ”Tack Julos!” och jag svepte det och kände det värma mitt inre och berusa min tanke… Snart går jag med Julius ner till strandkanten. Han har armen kring min midja och där nere kysser vi och faller och blir liggande och kysser mer. ”Kar’lina” sa han. ”De fens ente mycke här i Svärge. Ente för mej och ente för dej. Hade man hatt nok me pengar sku’ man åkt över Atlanten te Amerika, sku man ente de?”. ”Men du har ju Malin, Julos” sade jag. ”Ja vet… ja e fast här. Fast här me Malin. Vi ha vårt och de komma vi icke undan ju. Men du Kar’lina kan ju åka. Du e fri. Nicklas är där borta. Du kan Kar’lina, de kan du”. Plötsligt var verkligheten här! Nu var ruset borta och äcklet kom rasande emot mig. Jag reste mig upp utan att kyssa honom igen. Jag gick bort mot villan men ångrade mig och blev så stående mellan sjön och villan, mellan Julius och ruset. Djävla Julius att säga sådant för jag har ju inte ett öre ja inte ens ett jobb har jag. Amerika! Fy för sören! Midsommarnatten var slut och den tunga bakfulla morgondagen hängde över de smärtsamt sovande. Fåglar och boskap var vakna och drängar och pigor var uppe sedan länge och gjorde sitt, såsom de gjort första halvan av sommaren, och kom att göra även den andra halvan. Julius hade somnat vid sjökanten och låg där än, till ljudet av svepande vågor som var än nära än fjärran. Från under ytan var han betraktad av antika ögon. Malin sov rolöst i en främmande säng i villan med en herre vars namn hon ej längre kände. Andra gäster hade spridits lik höstlöv i höstvindar men kvar vid långbordet satt de starkaste av suputer, de fattigaste av herrelöst folk. Där samtalade de sluddrande om svunna tider och förlorade ungdar men komma aldrig att minnas vad de sagt. Och Karolina var borta och skulle aldrig ses igen, av de som var där denna midsommarnatt. III – Epilog Epilog epilog epilog epilog epilog ja en avslutning på denna fars, på denna historiska vinter och på allt elände och lidande. Och vi lovas en ny start och en vacker sommar med fint vänder. Vågar vi bara! Kan vi bara! Fara över havet – denna stora sjö – kan vi finna. Där kan vi finna epilogen. Där finns moderna lampor i tusental och hästar som fara med otroliga hastigheter ja hastigheter som skulle få hästhandlare Anders Olsson att vända sig i graven och ropa hej! Hå! Epilog! Vi skulle skratta av hela hjärtat och vi skulle gråta av hela lyckan om han bara kom tillbaka från döden och åter gav oss starka hästar och historier från orienten. Men han dör och alla dör. De flesta dör utan att fara någonstans och utan att varna. Många dör mitt i potatislandet – av ett brustet kärl i knoppen faller de ner i jorden. De grävs upp och dras av hästar till en kulle och får en epitet och börjar resan. De reser ur vårt minne och lämna inte mycket efter en tid. De lämna inte sin röst, inte sitt skratt och de tårar de fällt har sedan länge torkat. De lämnar sina ord och de saker de med händerna skapat och som är fina och starka nog att stå i stormar och krig och revolt. Och med berättelser återskapa vi dem och endast vi som sitter här nu kan skriva epilogen epilogen epilogen epilogen epilogen. Epilogen.

Epilogue

Author: We are doing so fine and dandy Everything we know comes in handy Space is great where secrets lure but Earth with its rivers and tiger fur is the common ground on which we roam from freedom of speech to the telephone to forest spirits and oil and sun and chocolate cakes with your sweetest hun’ Yes from tales of the greatest deeds inspiration comes in handy to make life on Earth dandy. And physics Every unit of time This goes here and this there Through the double-slit before the bang in my brain I chose that road because this here popped into existence then making me write this now: Free will is merely spacetime looking back A happy meal is water less well spent. This is no-one’s fault but perhaps partly God’s. In every being lives a God.

Proverbs II - Society (2012)

What’s done cannot be undone

Bystander: While the world is gathered to watch the exciting Olympics, which should be free to stream for everyone in the world we (they) like to imagine we live in, ponder for a second that the happy spectators are forbidden to buy potatoes fried in a certain way unless they buy fish with it or support a multinational food provider, which is everywhere, just everywhere, yes I cannot even take a nice stroll down to ye central station without being exposed to that dreadful logo, and I think about the billions of gallons of water, and animals, and resources, and I think of the diabetes, yes I see myself - the doctor - treating that fuzzy-brained, frightful kid with a sharp cap with a nice logo, and I look him in the eyes and say it’s the soda, it’s the bread, it’s how much you eat and how often, and I start telling him about how, in other parts of the world - distant paradises - kids just like him are more healthy, are free from insulin-injections, and yes, they are even more educated, and I turn around to the crowd behind me and I say it’s the corporations that run the show, and the kid - now a bit older, a perfect fool - says that is left-wing, liberal, communist, jewish, muslim, fascist, neocon, satanistic, christian, buddhistic, conservative drivel, and he turns from me, gets down on his knees, on the carpet with the logo and… prays, prays to the television commercial, oh logo give me more, give me more… and we sit here dreaming of democracy and the long arm of the very democracy sits there too, with hoodies just like us, but always distorting I mean come on, who the hell do you think will pay your salary when you have helped them destroy what made you be born in the first place, when there is nothing left but an empty shell formerly called democracy, and you want everyone to think that anyone who protests is a silly person, so that no one will ever protest again, you want us like a flock of blind sheep, the people, idiots, I get it, I understand all that, but I ask why, what is the point, I mean you cannot be driven by ideals, by love, by passion, by vision, by any of that which we are, oh I’ve thought about it and the most incredible of all is why you are doing this, because you want food on your table, just a bit better, just a bit faster car, just a bit more areal and water, I mean you are protesting too, aren’t you, but you do it by selling bad music - which makes a musical brain hurt -, I mean you occupy too, you occupy our heads and thoughts so we cannot focus, cannot think, cannot sing or speak, so that we feel silly when complaining, because what matters is what’s on tonight, who fucked who and… yes, what else do you want us to care about, just go ahead and expose us, us zombies, oh us ignorant zombies, but I mean I am doing fine over here, many over here are doing fine, I just read about the power grid, of farmers giving away food… we are just victims of the system, so we attempt to change the system, working very hard to do so, we are more free from the poison, but it spreads, it’s here, the corporations… can I just walk the streets without being exposed to it, who gave you - or them, I’ve lost track - the permission to graffiti our society… and the slogans, one-liner truths, putting the words in our mouths, want us to say it out loud en choir you do, I’m loving it, oh I’m loving it, yes why is it bad if I’m loving it, let me tell you it’s because it’s a system too, but one that cannot be changed through democracy, a system enforced on the people, chains of poison wrapped around our bodies and souls, entering our dreams, our conversations, our schools and institutions, oh but why so fuzzy, **, just write plain and simple what is wrong, what you do not like, which corporation, which slogan, which logo, which product, and just boycot it, we mean you do not have to purchase it, you can close your eyes, you can move to the country, you can support some… some crap, some organic farm somewhere, some fairtrade alternative and I say yes I can, but now let me speak please, let me tell you why I am fuzzy and let me say there are two reasons and the first is that you cannot reason or discuss with you because you are hollow, you are nothing, you are a facade, your products - be it some music artist from your darkest corner in da brain, or be it a burger or oil - is the only part of you that I have access to, I mean I sometimes go to the… erm, strips-with-us-or-nothing and I buy a menu and eat it and I leave the place a mess, I turn the soda can upside down on the seat, I smash the windows, I am impolite to the student in the counter, and that is it, I cannot hurt you, I cannot get my point across, you feed my head with your slogan without my permission, you drain the environment, you ensicken the people, you crash the global economy over and over and over again, yet you are nothing, you are not a person, not even a politician, you have no conscience, you do not care about me and you do not care about humanity, I mean put entities like you in the driver seat and we are going straight to hell, and yes I believe we are there already so now let me tell you my second reason for not talking directly to you and that reason is that ANOTHER SOCIETY AND WORLD IS POSSIBLE but you have to get the hell out of the way, you have to stop existing, I mean quite concretely you need to stop existing because when we reach 10 billion we will need another way of obtaining food, energy, yes perhaps even rights and policies, we need a new way of thinking, a new way of living, we need compromises, we need compassion, understanding, we need to retake democracy to start with and we are weak when you are occupying our heads with your nonsense, I mean… well what is this other society and world that is possible you ask, as if I was an oracle and had seen into the future, and I say sure I could finish this medical degree, become a doctor, stop fighting, stop writing and just retire and lead a good life, I could, I mean will climate change ever affect me, will I ever need to discuss with the perfect fool and I say yes, yes it will and yes I will have to, because in the future someone is going to run the show as well, and we will probably still vote and there will be speeches and campaigns, but without proper attention to the effects of climate change the speeches will be about war over fading resources, with the perfect fool being the candidate the campaign will be about which burger is the best, which witch fucked which, and we all will know that those over there are idiots, very different from us, and that privacy is conservatism, protesters are hooligans, scientists are paedophiles, medical students are murderers, hackers steal money and that the corporation loves, oh you have it so easy with your arsenal and I would not mind your existence if it wasn’t that you are standing in the way, keeping me and many others from changing the track of humanity, we do not want a society that makes us go crazy, we do not want a debate which we cannot understand why it is being held, we do not want The Black Eyed Peas playing at the opening show of world soccer in Africa, we want that Saharan Desert Blues Band, we want things to be real, we want a life with worth, we want to see our fellow human beings having a good time, we want to be able to learn, to thrive, to share wisdom, to help each other, we want to learn that we are the same and equal, we want everything to make sense… there is absolutely no reason for things to not make sense, everything could make sense, it is very possible to build a society which makes sense, but if we are being kept from even discussing it then we will get angry and we are very angry, yes if we could get you we would but you are cowards, you will not take the debate or let us have it, but you are on the losing edge because even you are being fed from some kind of hand and even you will get diabetes, and die, oh everything is well, everything is well, yes for you it is, for me it is, but for many of our fellow human beings it is not and it will not be unless we make sacrifices, unless we change, society change, oh we can vote, we can vote, yes we can, but democracy is like the olympic game torch, held by heron or moron it will glow, but only for so long, only while we are active and participating, oh you crash, oh you crash and boom the global economy over and over, and oh poor good-hearted politician trying to make it all good with no means and competitors whose pockets you filled because you want to get rich, or for whatever reason - I still do not, and I possibly never can, understand what a corporation is thinking, how well it sleeps at night, what it dreams of - and the media, oh poor us, the media is infiltrated, oh where shall I turn to understand, to make sense of, what is happening and oh what is happening, oh I know I cannot trust any of’em, I mean I have to read between the lines, because it is so important to fool us the people, it is the single most important activity of them all, to fool the people, to have the perfect fool content, or better still, to have multiple groups of perfect fools that quite cute indeed fight and debate, like little foot soldiers, that angrily will attack the questioning thinking citizen, that will defend the constructed reality which one is led to believe one is living in when one exposes oneself to the full menu of your arsenal, oh now I sound like you are all the same, I generalize, bad, but it is clear that you will be much better off with all of us being perfect fools, so down with education, down with critical thinking, kill our idols, burn our books, poison our brains, where is it, where is it, all that is bad, oh sometimes I see it everywhere and sometimes nowhere, but that is my eyes only, how can I know all that is wrong in this world and how can I say it is the corporation’s fault when I am certainly partly right and partly wrong, yes it is only those with special interests that will enforce their agenda shadily, banks are easy to get, bad politicians are easy to get, war criminals are easy to get, but someone is making everything rotten, someone is standing in the way when we are trying to change things, and it is not the banks (though may they be regulated to hell), it is not the politicians, it is not the war criminals, then who is it, now I say it’s the corporation but of course I know I am missing the target, be the target the illuminati (which surely does not exist, come on, and if they do, at least they don’t control the Internet), the mafia, the animals, the aliens or any other, we know that you are doing this, and you will get the fuck out of the way sooner or later, because humanity, like the human mind, is a seeker of sense, oh one day this society and this world will make sense, and it will be real, beautiful, thrilling, loving, caring, wise, energetic, peaceful, now allow me to talk about economics, and let me say that I think we need to stop talking about growth, I believe everything has grown quite enough now, for - let me get metaphysical - when we say growth, we suggest movement of something away from something, we build into the system and the economy a pace, a stress, an escape even, we say we are not settled, we need more faster, yes it is an escalation, of not only money, but of our very souls, of our lives, no it does not make sense that we are working this hard and this much with all this technology, heck I think we could have an economy where we worked half as much, oh imagine more time with the family, more time traveling, more time spent on your hobby and special interests, you see my friend, it is the system which is causing us this, and why did you end up in that position and why are you sitting there eating fancy lunch laughing at us the people when we have ideas going forward but the culture in which you thrive has made you sarcastic, old, arrogant and hating people, the masses We are real, we know what we want, and I know damn well you do not care ‘bout oil when you’re a burger man, but you should, you really should, and you should go to the arctic with a sign saying enough is enough, I’m gonna fry my burgers with something which is not maintaining the course towards conflict, pollution, destruction but towards sense, balanced consumption, real media, brave politics novel ideas, real education, harmony among people and nature, a slow steady pace together, a happy hum between us, a plastic-free ocean, a fossil-free global economy, an Internet without regulation and censorship, people on the streets, having their say I mean damn, who the hell do you think you are suppressing energy when we are setting sail to the only place we know is better than where we are now, that is away from this rotten hole

A door must either be shut or open

Heron:

A farmer and a colourful animal venturing everywhere

Inside rain finds plenty of water

Inside house discovers

Good food in use

An experienced poet and a famous motor sport driver

Besides friends, actors in a drama

Besides the wagon, life (itself)

Before their eyes

An old mind and a hungry heart that expects everything

Out of abundance says not love

Out of richness receives

Reality in bloom

Out of richness receives

The most soothing of touch

Out of richness receives

To be giving to everyone

When in doubt, do nowt

Author, singing:

Goodnight sweet princess I dream of thee I dance upon a yellow branch To wake up to yet another day Of working to earn you money

Goodnight sweet mama I think of thee I will buy you flowers later To paint our wall a lovely red And drink the wine for hours

Goodnight sweet monster I’ve died for thee I’ve strolled out into the margain To never again know what’s real And with it be content and true

Goodnight sweet captain I smile at thee I watch you from a watery distance My eyes are yours, my heartbeat too Yet I’m another person than you

bridge See, there’s more than worry here Something is well-defined It’s in your heart and in mine as well And any way to there I accept

chorus Just do not kill, do not hurt Be clever like a monkey Clever like a monkey Clever like a monkey

outro Authority, oh authority You are a stupid rock Authority, oh authority I’m the kid you hate to love

Whosoever draws his sword against the prince must throw the scabbard away

Author, writing letter, crying:

Dear mother, and now I feel so stupid, for slamming them like that, for I know all too well that I, as a private person, cannot drive invention forward, cannot sell environmentally-friendly cars, cannot make people employed

Oh I will make them angry so they do not want to participate, yes maybe they will even speed backwards, just for the sake of it, like children, mother, like children

Oh mother, who will drive innovation, who will provide the alternatives I say it’s them, it’s them and us, it’s everyone, but maybe there’s two of them, yes

Mother, maybe there are those who are so big and powerful that no care for human rights, the environment and the future - only money, mother, only money - is ever in their heads, and then perhaps there are those who are genuine, sweet, nice corporations, who wants to - the ideal world - provide good products, with quality, from sustainable practices, from happy workers earning honest pay

Think of everything going on in silence, far from here, which we never hear about, who will stop them, when they are serving the interests of the shareholders in the short-term but at the same time destroying everything in the long-term, see, there is this complete lack of insight, of looking-ahead, like some crazy circus-show and it’s rooted deep within, this, to not care any more once the first step is taken, as if the corporation at first was naive, clean and nice, then for one reason or another, and knowingly, did the unthinkable and from this moral collapse got the clearance to keep going, especially because this certainly increased profit, all while the long-term and real consequences of the action remains unaccounted for, and then time passes and people forget, and the corporation is free to do it again

I mean, mother, there is a lack of laws, it all expanded very quickly, and while some started thinking about the consequences, of what we are doing to you, Mother Earth, the wheels were already spinning too fast, and write about it in the paper and have yourself killed, and those with the wheels did not grow up with this kind of thinking

I fear, mother, that they simply do not understand, and the cows, the water, where is the giant global company saying that we will provide ecological locally-produced meat and food, which is the way forward, where is the giant corporation leading the way away from fossil-fuels, where is the cloth producer who proudly announces that they are paying their outsourced workers well above minimum wage, using ecological dyes, who is boasting about their genuine support for democracy in the country, for everyone’s equal rights

I mean that they do have a responsibility, now that they are all-powerful and all-present, to cultivate the principles which brought humanity this far, and what about the whole global economy, mother, we cannot just get rid of them, they will not go away, what we need to do is make them - well not them, but the beings who are running them, who own them, who depend on them, who support them - realize that they are part of the problem, if not the very problem itself, this recklessness in the name of money and profit

Mother, I will kindly get down on my knees and ask them to stop and join the people in a friendly, aspiring leap into the future, but they seem to be old giants, the media corporations want to stay here in the old days - Oh, how they could get things spinning and inspire the people, if only they wanted to, with all that talent and space -, the oil companies dream of never-ending oil and meagre alternatives, the cloth companies just want everything to be cheaper

Oh it will not work when everything is centred around money and profit, it simply will not, so how can we change all this, how, how, how? Mother?

Dream of a funeral and you hear of a marriage

Mother Earth:

Easy my son, I will take care of them Easy my son, I will take care of them

I will dry their lands, shake their buildings Flood their cities, melt their ice

For oil is running out, oil is running out It’s all getting warmer, all getting warmer

You will keep on living, adjust like nature But how will you live, how will you live?

Oh, I want you at peace, with me in peace Eat my ripe berries, drink my sweet water

Just not like this, just not like this… (roar and rumble)

Dreams go by contraries

Mother Earth:

Come together people and see I’ve laid it out for thee

Just a little bit different (little bit different) With that science of yours (science of yours) That wisdom of yours (wisdom of yours)

Happy with what is less Pleasure from sharing the lands Between one another’s hands

What I’ve laid out for thee

A dripping June sets all in tune

Martin: So, you agree or not? If not, just comment below, let’s get a debate going. I’m writing straight out into the dark, from my head. These opinions might not be mine, just like every character in every book are not the opinions of every author. There is no reason to hate me or want to have me removed. Does it seem like I am acting in someone else’s interest or against someone specific (nation or organization)? Is it my own best interest I have in mind when writing this? Do you think I have control, or a master-plan? I want to write because I believe in the arts as a factor of change, but I do not want to be afraid and I do not want cars speeding past me when I’m working to pay my rent, strangers saying strange things to me, assassination attempts… if you want me removed that much then just ask me to stop. I’m a student, this is my spare time, my hobby, my work of fiction. I signed up to write what I want, not to play games. I agree if you say things are out of proportions, but seriously, how could I ever stop it? I’m a writer and writing is what I do and what I would have done anyway.

Drive gently over the stones

Heron, lecturing:

We all love action, baby we do, I can sit here writing and that’s all I’ll do, thinking everything changes as I touch the keys, thinking everything matters while I’m on this spree

When I go from serious to very silly, I span what’s hidden inside of me, and I hope there’s another junkie to see, that no truth exists ‘cept the one ’tween you ’n me

(How can you know the world existed before you were born, how can you know anyone existed before you saw them)

Oh I love this hunt for the semantic truth, but in one level higher, with proverbs as words, for I’m certain you feel something real, when lingering ’tween thinking and feel

Oh worldly problems will always be ‘round, like the movie you love with the actor you hate, and ’tis always a bliss to ponder solutions, but your cosy inside is yours all alone

We will never be happy, humanity as one, so let’s kick it around and ’njoy the fun, and when we’re all gone, we have been replaced, by others like us, thinking just the same

Certain I am that should I been born, a hundred years or thousand ago, I would find something bad and cry just the same, with equal furiosity ’n need indeed

Yet somehow I feel, that these very times, have presented themselves with either change or perish either unite as one or fight to death either face what’s coming ’n is upon us or leave it for the others, those yet to be born who will curse us and say we were up to no good

You can drive out nature with a pitchfork, but she keeps on coming back

Bystander: For we are animals, by God we are. The dissonance between ideal and actual behaviour arises, because we take it upon us to expect from ourselves and each other a perfect rational conduct all the time. This is not possible. I cannot be around people the whole day and behave, without at least one break, with just myself, and because I cannot, so can’t anyone else (great logic, huh?). Insanity, acts of anger, and many other unmotivated bad things we tend to do every once in a while, arise when we are not allowed to be ourselves, when we do not admit that our behaviour cannot be ideal, when we think we are as fool-proof as the ideals we are surrounded by. It is not true that advancement of society equals departure from nature, I would wish and even think the opposite is true. Go out! Climb a tree! Do it on your lunch break in the city (if the police allow you), then sit happy and free, productive like a bee, ’til you’re allowed to come home, once a cave now a town (funny accent).

A drowning man will clutch at a straw

Bystander: Government, you should be on your knees for your people, thanking them for your existence. You should make sure that no one is left behind, that everyone is treated equally, that everyone has the same chance, at every level of life and income. You should go out of your way to satisfy everyone, to listen to every word from every citizen, however important from an economic/productive/military/cultural or any point of view. You should provide the playing grounds for freedom of speech, especially for those who oppose you, and for every argument saying you are doing something wrong, you should prove or provide fair argument that you are in fact doing it right. You should allow every way of life, and let those who wish to produce produce, those who wish to bum around bum around, those who wish to sing sing, etc., and you should not differ between them, not prefer your citizens one way or another, not try to shape your citizens this way or that, and when one group is yelling at another, asking them to change, you should remind them that they are free, collective masters, none stronger or more valuable than the other, and that you are there to serve them, to protect them and to listen to them. You should not only provide the framework for change, but also be the change that the people ask for. You should encourage disobedience, breaking of the laws, knowing that it was this that constructed you in the first place. You should value one person a thousand times more than a corporation, because the former voted for you (or the framework called democracy), and if you are not doing all this, and countless more, serving the people, you can not justify your existence.

Kapitel 5

‘The Internet is the first thing that humanity has built that humanity doesn’t understand, the largest experiment in anarchy that we have ever had’ – Eric Schmidt

‘There is something at the bottom of every new human thought, every thought of genius, or even every earnest thought that springs up in any brain, which can never be communicated to others, even if one were to write volumes about it and were explaining one’s idea for thirty-five years; there’s something left which cannot be induced to emerge from your brain, and remains with you forever; and with it you will die, without communicating to anyone perhaps the most important of your ideas.’ – Fjodor Dostojevskij, The Idiot

Eagles don’t catch flies

Heron, lecturing:

Magic in life arises from stories, and every night’s dream is the turn of a page Some of us lucky, born into a saga, some of us cry when we reach mid-page Some of us die, right in the last sentence, some of us write without knowing why The further you are from the tip of the pencil, the better you see where it all be a-headin’ And if you be patient and put up with the drama, writing itself great pleasure can be

The early bird catches the worm

Author: I’ll tell you what the Internet is. It’s a new dimension! It is! I’m a bit tipsy now, drinking beer thinking about it, but I’m certain. It does not exist in the physical space, yet it’s a part of you wherever you go, yet you – being physical and all – have merged with it. See it on the screen, yes the screen is physical but the Internet is not. Another world, another world, inside and outside our world. Let me tell you, we can do anything with it, whatever we want. Where is it, where is it? It’s in space, but not in time. Time does not exist on the Internet, it is static, yet always changing, driven by input, and it’s going everywhere and it always will, and always out of control. This is why, dear reader, I am so serious. I need to get it on here, all the madness, all the sorrow, all the power, all the wisdom and magic of life, to set a foundation, to capture all that which make us human, for do never doubt, that the Internet is ours, every one of us, every single soul, all of humanity, gathered here.

Early to bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise

Author: It’s like before the Internet we were looking straight ahead, and now we are still doing that but also simultaneously a bit upwards. It’s the third eye I tell you! It’s the higher consciousness, our collective consciousness. It’s the common brain of humanity. Hah, and you thought it would be elegant, clean and… divine? Oh it is divine, and it is beautiful. It is more beautiful than I can understand, than I can comprehend.

East, west, home’s best

Bystander: Say you do not like some aspect of man (or woman), well, here you can ignore it, and you can find your own corner and thrive there. When you are ready you can explore a bit more, and a bit more, and after searching and widening your horizon you will arrive – the total lover of mankind, the acceptor of everything inside us, wisdom itself walking on two legs, right out of the (physical) door and onto the street, hugging the first passer-by you see and saying ‘I know you so well, well, not you per se, but everything that you are; oh, I’ve seen it all, believe me; I know the depths and the highs, the gore and the mania, the hate and the love, and you know what? I fucking love you for it, I love everything inside you, everything that you are, because I do not fear it, I have it inside me, I am just the same, well maybe not exactly, but I have it inside me, the same potential, I’ve seen it’, and the person wil say ‘hah, damn, I feel the same, but I don’t know why’, because it’s buzzing and spreading and escalating and getting better and better every day, the more we are that understand this, and let me tell you it will bring world peace, world harmony and all the greatness that we deserve and can achieve!

Easy come, easy go

Heron, singing:

This boat got no holes This boat got no holes With golden oars, oh golden oars This boat got no hoes

Easy come, easy go Easy come, easy go Long time to come, death do away Easy come, easy go

This boat got no holes This boat got no holes So row, oh row, to dreamlands This boat got no holes

Easy does it

Author:

Meet provocation with dignity for it is projection me on the Side with the oppressed for here be honesty then Turn anger into energy then energy into love for Believe in karma for joy, to put up with defeat that I Live without point of views, to not be disappoint for you Always be the martyr, because no-one else will and nothing I Seek from every near being, that which unite for everything I Know that behind every action, sex be lurking that I will Be a bitch all the time, for people are waiters the one who Change eyes every day and reflect in the night

We must eat a peck of dirt before we die

News of the world:

Warning, warning! Starvation incoming, will affect children in ‘developing’ countries! Major food corporation expected to drop hamburgers from airplanes, saving the situation. Government expected to drop bombs on local farmers, saving the corporation.

He that would eat the fruit must climb the tree

Bystander A: It is not that simple! That does not even make sense.

Eat to live, not live to eat

Bystander B: This makes sense. Everyone on Earth share the same resources. When I eat too much over here, them yonder will starve, ceteris paribus. Not true? Each country to their own? Globalization. How much would it cost to end world hunger? How much? 30 billion, logistics excluded, currency irrelevant? Just fucking do it, that sum is negligible compared to the amounts I hear on the news every day. This wicked game! It is an atrocity that you are in the food market (or any other basic human need market), making the prices go up and down, making profits, selling goods produced from it, and yet do not devote any of this to actually end world hunger (or any other such activity). The quarterly report is more important, say it like it is! The grain is ours, ours! Your company would be ruined, the competitors way better off, if you would do anything altruistic without profit. There is your problem! There is no reason (in your eyes), but public relations, to do absolutely anything about the current state of the world, yet and because of this you are the ones with power! If you are in the game of providing basic needs such as food, then you have to pay the price, account for the damage you are causing. It is called responsibility. You have the ball, pass it on, end world hunger! HYPOCRISY! HYPOCRISY! DEFENSE BUDGET! PUBLIC RELATIONS BUDGET! BOMB THE MOTHERFUCKING HUNGER AWAY WILL YOU??? Bomb down the food prices. Start wars to stimulate growth. Five hundred new fighter planes (country a)! One hundred nuclear submarines (country b)?? One million new ways of making a burger (country a-z)! You are idiots, you are idiots, you are idiots and you do not understand it.

Don’t put all your eggs in one basket

Bystander C: Instead, support your local food provider. Grow your own vegetables in your little garden. Make smart consumer decisions. Do not buy meat which has been shipped across the ocean. Try not to buy food stuff which is more needed in areas where there is hunger, and hope they be shipped there instead. Support organizations and corporations that help small-scale farmers become self-sustainable. Do this if you can, because everyone is poor and these products are more expensive, because they are more worth (economics).

Every Elm has its man

News of the world:Warning! Warning! Starvation is upon us! Governments and corporations join forces to help starving children and small-scale farmers who cannot afford to buy the expensive grain (ps. but do not dump excessive grain to ruin the local market ds.)! Profits are down by 50% but children get to live! Increased unemployment as corporations need to fire employees to get profits back up again! And this has nothing to do with the current proverb, and altruism has nothing to do with the system, and there is our problem, one of the many.

Empty sacks will never stand upright

Moron, from beyond life and death: I do not want to leave, no, don’t make me do it, make me stay. I want to rest here with people, among them, beside them. Life is a mirror, I see myself in every face, I hear this music between every ear. I cannot with words capture this beauty, barely with music. This haunting feeling of being alive, of existing right here, right now, on this Earth with everyone around me. Why you? Why now? What was one thousand years ago, who will be one thousand years ahead? Me again, another you? This loneliness is nothing when I know there are people around me. I feel it, here in the morning, I taste every ounce of notion that stream behind my eyes, and I look out the window, this material, which I can touch, which I am made of, which will enter my brain and end it.

Empty vessels make the most sound

News of the world: There are slightly over two thousand page views here! Not one person in real life has been spoken to ‘bout all this. Only checks every now and then, only references and shared ideas. It’s all guess-work, all for the sake of it, all for adding words to the mix, the chaotic system, to make the world a good place. It might as well not be happening or have happened! All alone, what an absurd idea. All together, better you see.

The end crowns the work

Author: Oh we are far from the end, my friend. I possess the infinite wisdom, plus I am interested in social issues, human rights, science, music, the arts, flying, girls, computers, etc., plus I have an obligation to finish this, to keep going; a moral obligation, not because I know what I am doing or what the end will look like, but because I think I am doing something good (seriously). Sure, I provoke and shout, but nothing gets done with yer thinkin’ if yer not challenged a bit, and nothing gets done with the werld here if we’re not thinkin’ a bit!

England’s difficulty is Ireland’s opportunity

The English are a nation of shopkeepers

One Englishman can beat three Frenchmen

An Englishman’s home is his caste

An Englishman’s word is his bond

Bystander: If you say so, but they are also good at arranging the olympics. Thank you for the sports!

Enough is as good as a feast

Martin: I feel lonely sometimes I said I feel lonely sometimes I said I feel lonely sometimes, do you? Beer is not helping, no matter how much I drink No music can help, though often it will No poem, even written in the 13th century, rings true I curse myself For not having the time to set up the right social network before this For going in alone, with oddballs as friends For moving around, from country to country For not going anywhere, for going nowhere I’m panicking right now, there is often a reason It’s a girl this time, we did not have much, we decided to end it It’s enough to break me, to make the weight on my shoulder All too much to bear, oh all too much The weight always comes as loneliness I have work tomorrow too, early Got no perspective now Cannot write Shit

Then I play Arvo Pärt, Spiegel Im Spiegel And it rolls off, everything Thank you, Mr Pärt

I did not know, neither did you of course That your hauntingly beautiful simple piece Would flow like a river in my brain, then as tears Flipping me around, from the most pale creature To someone, who is able to drink up the beer Go to the bathroom, pick up the toothbrush Brush those teeth, look oneself in the mirror Actually go to bed, taking hours to sleep But reaching the dreams at last Waking up, going to work Back home again Back to this Writing Peace

Every little help

Moron, beyond life and death:

So what, I mean do you think something like that is the end of life; nothing is the end of life except the end itself. My conscience is clean, I haven’t seen the shit more than once in an interval of ten minutes, a long, long time ago and then I laughed hysterically, and certainly not, like so many other pervs, sent the shit around, or uploading it, thinking something would happen, or wanted it to be sent around, thinking it was a statement. It’s nothing. It’s anti-everything. Well pardon me if you’ve been exposed somehow, and congratulations because you have just offended yourself; blame your friends, not me. Don’t ever think that shit is part of anything that I do, or part of anything at all. It’s a mirror if anything, how I used to see ye ole pop-society, because I loathed it back then. I mean the distance was not far, from reality shows to that, from Big Brother to that. It happened because the tricks they play on ground-level is beyond your imagination, and I was not prepared, and damned if I’m not alive right now and able to write because that shit made me more famous, and which I have not done anything at all to enforce, and which I take nil responsibility for; because you did it, not me, someone out there took it, years ago, and nothing happened except they made a song. If I had put a copyright on it, I could sue! A pic of a ** don’t mean shit, gittit.

Every man for himself

Author: I beg to differ, ye ole proverb, like so many other times before. No matter where you’re from, where you’re going, who you are or who you were, we are all in this together. That is what is news, where it’s going, this all. It won’t take long before we see, that if I, on this road here, hit you on the knee, I will soon be less free, and if I slap you on the back, you won’t attack because I slap to… damn it, I’m going out to drink beer, going to all the bars, talking to all the ladies, falling on every floor, crashing every glass! Dear Copenhagen, kære København, the only place I know that is wilder than my soul, prettier than The Eye and hotter than the night. Expect me in the morning.

Every man for himself, and God for us all

Heron, writing letters: Hello! Ok so one week from 1st of september. I am looking at tänkte jag skulle ta en av sakerna jag tänkte säga. Resan är ju lång och det kommer säkert finnas en timme eller två när du inte riktigt har något att göra. But there are only 3 places left so there is great rplane tickets from copenhagen to zagreb Dubrovnik and travel back up together and then I fly from Zagreb. But plane ticket to Dubrovnik is twice as imorgon men isk it is sold out tomorrow.Ja det var bara det, tänkte bara säan är ju lång och det kommer säkert finnas en timme eller två när du inte riktigt har något att göra. But there are only 3 places left so there is great r. Then I would arrive in Zagreb at 4 pm, and could take that bus to Porec and we meet the day after, 1st of september. Jag vet vi rings imorgon men tänkte jag skulle ta en from Split and Dubrovnik is more expensive so it would be nice to get bt, tänkte bara sexpensive (around 210 eack to Zagreb after the south-trip somehow. There is a very cheap flight on fridand they are pretty cheap. So if I can arrive and leave from there it looks pretty good! But how are we going from istria to dubrovnik and split? busses? I remember a nice bus ride from split to zadar in 2005. Flying There is a very cheap flight on friday the 31st of august, and I will ask at work tomorrow if I can get that day free (it’s my last day at work)tänkte jag skulle ta en av sakerna jag tänkte säga. Resound! We could also for example meet in ay the 31st of august, and I will ask at work tomorrow if I can get that day free (it’s my last day at work). Then I would arrive in Zagreb at 4 pm, and could take that bus to Porec and we meet the day after, 1st of september. Jag vet vi rings imorgon men isk it is sold out tomorrow.Ja det var bara det, tänkte bara säan är ju lång och det kommer säkert finnas en timme eller två när du inte riktigt har något att göra. But there are only 3 places left so there is great r. Then I would arrive in Zagreb at 4 pm, and could take that bus to Porec and we meet the day after, 1st of september. Jag vet vi rings imorgon men tänkte jag skulle ta en from Split and Dubrovnik is more expensive so it would be nice to get bt, tänkte bara säga det i tid så du hinner! If so the next plane is on monday the 3rd, which means we only get 4 days to travel arga det i tid så du hinner! If so the next plane is on monday the 3rd, which means we only get 4 days to travel around! We could also for example meet in Dubrovnik and travel back up together and then I fly from Zagreb. But plane ticket to Dubrovnik is twice as expensive (around 210 euro). Then again, I have my birthday on september 4th so I could ask for money for the ticket as a present!

Every man for himself, and the Devil take the hindmost

Background noise: The question is always what one is fighting for. The higher life, which is the beauty. To live the story, to write the pages. The other which is saying it is here, and something is going on. And above this, separadto the age of the universe, and it is impossible to say all’s nothing but a simulation of some sort, so thathe truth can’t handle the truth, because it comes from far away, and can appear to be exactly anything, inside anyone and above everything. To call it God is a question of definitionbout the properties, and say it’s there for the benefit it God is if there is a story, yes, right here and no,Yet if we should agree there is something, a master of the human race of some sorts, an mercy in y and it being is if there is a story, yes, right here and now; if you fint what we see in the sky is solely in our heads, a for us all, likewise. Listen, what makesant observation; the third: to unite these, to go with the flow. Ask me if there’s anything out theref some sort, so that what we see in the sky is solely in our heads, and what’s in our heads is just somr of the human race of some sorts, and not ask about the properties, and say it’s there for the benefit it God is if there is a story, yes, right here and now; if you fint what we see in the sky is solely in our heads, and what’s in our heads is just some sort of movie; eac mercy e, that which is understood once not trying. The two levels: the dirt and confusion; the direction and distof it and us, the and I say damn straight there is, but what it is I can only guess, and God for us all can only be that, and even this God is something, from somewhere, wants something, thinks, watches… steers, steers, steers the ship, and has been for a long, long time. But a lat makes it God is if there is a story, yes, right here and now; if you findto the age of tle to say all’s nothing but a simulation of some sort, so that what we see in the sky is solely in our heads, and what’s in our heads is just some sort of movie; ead not ask about the properties, and say it’s there for the to see. Go out on the field, or into your head, see if you can meet it, and chose for yourself what you wanbenefit of it and us, ty, yes, right here and now; if you findything. To call it God is a question of definition, and it being for us all, likewise. Listen, whecklesness, which ch one of us the actor, everyone else statists, each tection, the global narrative which perhaps is hard to see. Go out on the field, or into your head, see if youo their own, for the pleasure and interest of someone or something, somewhere outside or just above. Yet if we should agree there is something, a master of the human race of some sorts, an mercy in your life or if you are struck down in rong time is nothing compared to the age of the universe, and it is impossibhing, inside anyone and above everything. To call it God is a question of definition, and it being for us all, likewise. Listen, whecklesness, which so many seem to be every day. It’s not about things happening that we cannot explain, or praying for miracles.hen it is not relevant what each one interest of someone o call it God is a question of definition, and it being for us all, likewise. Listen, what makes it God is if there ior somethdown in recklesness, which so many seem to be every day. It’s not about things happening that we cannot explain, or praying for miracles. It’s the tone of it all, the direction, the global narrative which ing, somewhere outside or just aboou find mercy in your life or if you are struck down in recklesness, which so many seem to be every day. It’s not aboutve. Yet if we should agree there is something, a thinks because we just agreed we should not ask about the truth can’t handle the truth, because it can appear to be exactly anything, inside anyone and above everything. To call it God is a question of definition, and it being for us all, likewise. Listen, what makes it God is if there is a story, yes, right here and now; if you find mercy in your life or if you are struck perhaps is hard to see. Go out on the field, or into your head, see if you can meet it, and chose for yourself what you want to call it, but it’s there.

Every man has his price

Author:

And I walked those cold streets in December and I cheered on the bars I was at the barricades with the fire and tear gas, the explosions and the running Next morning I took the wrong s-train, it’s true, I ended up right at the entrance too I saw what it looked like, where it was all happening, cameras right in y’early dawn I know from the moment that I did not fear this, what I had before I would always have To get myself into right all of these problems, to do and not, know almost everything It goes without saying, though it not is true, that enemies was needed, to drop the arrow It’s true, I hate no one, I could not care less, if you have told me, in secret address, whatever it’s fine, just do not expect, that I always entertain, and protect your interests every day I am the author, my baby, I’m only half-sane, and not looking back, or at how I remain Anti-establishment, anti-everything, get it all naked and start the working, for it’s evident to many, something not is working, why not better then change it, for it’s a-breaking and when everyone’s talking, just ‘bout everything, no space there is, for changing but if everyone’s talking ‘bout something good, then surely the good be a-comin’ Yet life’s life, mystery to me, living better be and better yet still nothing do

Every man is the architect of his own fortune

The lover: Dear, I asked some time ago what it was keeping you from doing all that, the dreams, the departure and so on. I saw you as an old woman, all but confused, with those laconic eyes. They lured me into wishing I was in the forest with you, in the autumn, getting down under the leaves. They lured me again into thinking it was real what I perceived. I urged you to drink the water and I was fast out the door. It was someone else, and you are too, unknown to me. So what is keeping you? I talked about the fears, deleting them one by one. It’s the expectations, perhaps, dear. Not those saying you should do well or excel, but those constructed since birth, since the first glances at what’s around and outside. It’s that it might not be as well unless identical procedure is followed. Well, this might be true too, but fortune is found sooner or later, no matter what you chose to do. If just leaving is what’s written on the wall, then so do, right out the door and only look back when you want to, and not see it as the place you left, but the place you came from once, before whatever. If action is what’s lacking then action it is! If security is what’s strived for, look around and see it does not equal fortune, and forecasts boredom in life, which you will feel as depression. Happy, happy, dear! Breaking free from what, and being free from what, and never taking into consideration that you have to be a part of anything at all. Do it, dear, then come over here, young as when I first saw you, making me speak, wanting to do things, finding value in spending time with the one I’ve never loved and never seen, ending waiting.

Every man to his taste

Bystander, singing:

Oh captain tell me true, does my sailor sail with you, no he does not sail with me, he sleeps on the bottom of the sea What did the deep sea say? DO RE MI! He promised he write to me, but his promise he never kept true Never a word from my sailor have I heard, since he sailed on that ocean blue What did the deep sea say? DO RE MI!!! It moaned and groaned and it splashed and it foamed, and rolled on it’s weary way DO RE MI!! A beautiful rose every day I place on the crests of the waves, saying take it please, and let the petals fall above his watery grave DO RE MI!!!! AND THAT LOVELY GUITAR SOLO

Every man to his trade

Heron:

Fill the spaces up with nothing, time will devour it Everyone and some, all the time or sometimes This is how, it will go from free to freedom

Everybody loves a lord

Bystander, lecturing: Capitalism visavi culture is a shell. It cannot ever create something of its own. It does not matter what is new or about to be popular or what is going on or what the costs are, it WILL mimic that which is deemed usable. This is diluting every honest feeling and every honest attempt. Capitalism wants to create a legacy out of the elements which is fighting it the hardest. It wants to take music, reproduce it, dilute it, and then say it was a part of making it history. The reason music on the radio today is lacking attitude is because of capitalism, because pop music found three chords (or no chords at all) and capitalism mimicked it, knowing that any melody based on tonic, dominant and subdominant sounds good, and any lyrics sung on top of that will be heard and be sold (‘Where is the love?’ You tell me, buddy). With ever-increasing ways of exposing the select hit song to the public, it does not matter what the song is or what it is saying – if they want a hit they got it, just make sure it’s got that little extra and play it on every station ten times a day. This is rotten, do you realise that? And all of this matters very much! In a working economic system, serving the public, the songs played on the radio in these times of crisis would be about relevant things, goddamit, not non-sense crap! A young adult out of work is turning to contemporary culture to find help, comfort, assistance, strength, companionship and all that capitalism is providing is shit, nada, nothing, indifference, crap about dancing on the dancefloor in some kind of world that does not exist. And the music industry wonders why people do not want to purchase their products, haha. The music industry no longer knows what music is, because they live in the margain, in the profit, and they must be absolutely certain about success, and X-factor, Idol, and poor Brintey Spears, and spotify teaming with facebook (we at spotify LOVE facebook, what does that even mean?!?!? ‘Everybody loves a playlist, playlist, playlist’? Really?! I for one never make playlists (what happened to the concept album?), so do not tell me what I love, and it’s sick to have a playlist for every thing you do, because it once again makes music into a product which is consumed, and real-life into a product, something you consume). You sell cars, fine, you sell calculators, fine, but if you sell culture (and I do not know about the book industry, or art, or journalism) you leave money out of it, because culture comes before money, before profit – culture HATES capitalism, and every kind of culture capitalism is providing will always be fake, and this is serious because people need culture to feel good. I’M THE SLIME!!! BROKEN HEARTS ARE FOR ASSHOLES!!! You cannot fake real things, and you cannot mass-produce them.

What everybody says must be true

Moron, from beyond life and death: Ah finally! The heart of every problem that every existed.

Everybody’s business is nobody’s business

The lover: Fuck this shit man! I’m just gonna drink the shit out of me and go into that drunken hole and smile softly at the music! Damn you!! This is not some cute show you can smile at!!! I’m gonna come to your f-ing house and * ** * ** *! ‘Tis real motherfucker! I will bet 100 of any damn currency that you have no idea what any of this is about. Lemme tell you what’is ‘bout, is’bout every damn thing you ‘ver seen in your damn miserable m-fing life, yo!!! ‘Tis ‘bout everything!!!!! One beer, two beer, three beer, dinner, oh pretty Emilie medical student, søde, søde, til Paris, hvor kedeligt, vi ses næste semester, and bike home, stop to buy beer and ’tis 1 am and I don’t give a f ’tis tuesday, I’m just gonna lie here in the damn sofa drinking ’til I can’t think ’ny’mo ’n I tell you I don’t give a damn f ‘bout anything!!!! Ever!!!! I don’t give a f about that new damn smartphone!!!!

Everything has an end

The lover: But I mean I could go down to Mojo, Understellet, Kødbyen, I could get drunker and play the drums, or sit in the back rooms, or go to Chris and buy the best and smoke the shit of out me, I could, I could and I do, often, often. But lemme tell you what ’tis I’m breathing for. ‘Tis the legs, the breath and the hips and the belly that I wrap my legs around in the quiet morning after under the warm blanket. And ’tis the just when I woke up, the seconds I know not where ’tis I’m ’til I scan your face I brought home, I found somewhere late, warmed my face. And ’tis what we do days after, or ’tis just the coffee… but no ’tis none of this, ’tis you, whoever you are, this other lover, ’tis what’s between us, ’tis discovering us, this which is the goal of everything, these pages of being close, forever so short a time. And ’tis more, to go on from here, see it again, try it again, build it, make it our own; lemme tell you how I speak, how I am, what I mean and everything, and lemme tell you I’m a hard man to get to know, I’m a-comin’ from long ways, both playing it and being kind, but having something more, and this only show when you are ready, lover, and very softly, for I not seek to frighten you.

Evil communications corrupts good manners

Author, joking: Extremist, he (or she) which is beyond what is comprehended, beyond companionship. Yes, I throw this far and I set a world-record and everyone will try to throw as far and – you get it – this will be a good thing. I say you, not them. I say me, not us. I say no violence. I say ACCEPT IT that you are angry, and ill, and sick, and wrong, and stupid, and ugly, and…

Evil does are evil dreaders

Heron: No I do not care about the evil doers, I never did.

Of two evils choose the less

Heron: I said I do not care.

Example is better than precept

Heron, para-quoting:Ah finally! The heart of every solution that every existed.

The exception proves the rule

Martin: I am maybe the softest person you will ever meet. I’m softer than a branch, softer than a dog. Pardon if I gave you the other impression.

There is an exception to every rule

Author, the day after: And hence every rule is proved which is why it’s a rule. I feel I got a little bit eerie recently, but alas, what’s written is written, what’s done cannot be undone; only way back is to write brighter. Better not write for a little while. Better study and clean the apartment. I have nothing against playlists, seriously. They are fine, just fine. It’s nice with a little playlist when I’m doing the cleaning. Nothing wrong with that. But I think it sucks that spotify teams with facebook because it further enforces this crazy idea that we should share everything we do, every personal detail. I know exactly what all my friends are listening to, and I know exactly where they have been, what they look like, what they like, what they think about things, who their friends are, and if I know it without even wanting to know it, any corporation and government can know it too, and even more. No one cares about your privacy, only you, and you should guard it with everything you’ve got. Both of these companies consist of information they have not produced themselves (music and personal information). In my opinion they should be very wary to enforce things on their users, not from an economic point of view, but from a moral one. Why am I forced to change to ’timeline’? It’s my life on there, not yours. I don’t want it like a timeline, it’s against my non-dualistic world-view. It’s provocative that you are forcing me! Why are you suggesting I should share everything I listen to with everyone I know? Sometimes I listen to silly music and I want to keep that to myself. Yes I can turn it off, but I cannot remove the ‘social bar’ so I’m forced to see what everyone else is listening to meanwhile. Why can’t I remove it, why can’t I choose? Why is the volume of the commercials louder than the music? First world problems, yes, but actually no: when my neighbours wake up in the middle of the night for that and vote to kick me out, the loud commercials will be the reason, and when any attempt at organized protest is struck down in its infancy because the government used social-media tracking and knew everything about everyone beforehand, everyone will pay because society remains unchanged and problems unsolved. It was easier in the sixties, you guys had it easy! We are fighting a monster, which, sadly to say, your generation created, the ones of you who did not have flowers in their hair and loved each other.

KRIG ÄR VÄRDELÖST

Kapitel 1

Ärliga rättstrukna residenter råda råd respekterande räliga residenters respekftulla regering. Här skall inte skiljas mellan rätt och rått och röttt men att med rötter resa fram och bak åt ett mål som stavas det goda livet, det kan man med ädel min minnas då minnena en gång tryter längre fram i detta goda livet. Tystnad. ”Ja men kärleken då, jag älskar ju dig så, Margareta, nästan ropade Alexander.” Kärleken får du när du får du du får du får… ”Ja men jag fattar inte det där. Vänta lite…” Alexander tog steg framåt, lade knäet på gräset och liksom log men ansträngt upp emot den grå himmelen. Tio minuter, varken mer eller mindre, satt denne ädle man ned innan han raskt reste röven och begav sig bakåt emot hästarna och steg in i vagnen av siden. Skymning. November.

Kapitel 2

Öppet fält. Flanken rusande röd mot vänstra skanken utan omedelbar support från pjäserna. Ja hennes vackra ansikte bortkom honom (Alexander) icke där. Han hade vetat från början vad det var att vilja möta morgondager åter och tänkte ej under denna batalj klippas skurad och ren av mäster Död, ja om det så kostade honom ansiktet och hedern. Han skulle skjuta de jävlarna i huvudet och så var det med det, fan i mig om de kom i pansar eller på städ eller klippte ner från himmelen i sprutande kulors eldande andedräkt. Ta skydd! Ta skydd, du blomstrande älskling, betacka dig för otrevligheter och att allt för starkt i annan människa falla. Bjud på ölen men drick ej mer än den som står dig tredjerst till höger. Var gång du tänder din cigarett på ett ljus så sjunker en sjöman sju hundra meter under ytan, och lämnar oss frågande ‘what did the deep sea say?’ och havet en själ rikare. Jag älskar dig, jag älskar dig du människa, ta skydd, ta skydd, jag vill av dig mer.

Kapitel 3

Sommarmorgen och trädgården vår. Jag vattnade rosorna de rosa idag ja det gjorde jag. Upp upp i gryningen, på med kaffet och tugga brödet och njut av osten med kummin i och apelsinjuicen och -marmeladen. Jag saknar dig ja det gör jag men nog ska jag klara av att hålla ordning på denna vår spartanska jardin. Hur var det du ville att jag skulle klippa murgrönan, eller ska den bara växa uppåt emot kaklet överst på stenmuren? Hallucinerar jag ser jag dig i vitt linne klättrandes i grenarna och du serverar lemonad och jag frågade efter och fick rulla en cigg snabbast. Jag ser framåt men hur fan ska man må när förvisso galningen till hustru hoppat från fjärde våningen och brutit båda femur, krossat pubis och vänstra handleden samt brutit ett antal revben vilket nu på avdelningen avsevärt försvårar andningen. Jag bringar dig blommor och choklad om några dagar och se nu till att vila dig ordentligt. Pussar och kramar från din gubbe.

Kapitel 4

På vallen, på vallen, sen över fältet mot fienden, med bedövande rop och rasslande värjor. På kvällen vid elden innan fanfar, ja timmar ännu. Vi minns vad som sagts. ”Bättre död än flämtandes i deras grepp.” ”De sätter upp ett bål och dig därpå.” ”Äter dig sedan, med häst och rock blå.” ”Nej de tager dig i örat, särar det med en slapp kniv, sedan ögonen, så sänder de dig bort och du ser aldrig Sverige igen, i resten av ditt liv får du slita.” ”Döv och blind!” ”Nej nog kan en höra alltid, men fan som en ser ut.” Run elden, runt elden, runt riket. De smyger runt knuten, de äter kreaturen och barnen. ”Hur ser de ut?” ”Som monster med svarta betar och röda ögon.” Och Alexander: ”Margareta!” Timmar, timmar, vad är de, ja vart tar de vägen?

A fair exchange is no robbery

Stalker:

“Let everything that’s been planned come true. Let them believe. And let them have a laugh at their passions. Because what they call passion actually is not some emotional energy, but just the friction between their souls and the outside world. And most important, let them believe in themselves. Let them be helpless like children, because weakness is a great thing, and strength is nothing. When a man is just born, he is weak and flexible. When he dies, he is hard and insensitive. When a tree is growing, it’s tender and pliant. But when it’s dry and hard, it dies. Hardness and strength are death’s companions. Pliancy and weakness are expressions of the freshness of being. Because what has hardened will never win.”

“A man writes because he is tormented, because he doubts. He needs to constantly prove to himself and the others that he’s worth something. And if I know for sure that I’m a genius? Why write then? What the hell for?”

“My conscience wants vegetarianism to win over the world. And my subconscious is yearning for a piece of juicy meat. But what do I want?” What can you expect from a pig but a grunt?

Heron: For every new technological advancement, there is a multitude of possibilities and a multitude of problems. It seems it’s all a-going very fast and we worry where it is going, but I’m quite sure everything will go pretty well, because such is the nature of things here on Earth; such is the human: oh what a mess, oh the agony, oh, oh, oh, oh but see, alas! It’s looking pretty good! It’s all gonna go very well, because, honestly, we never fail at things, us humans. We are drama-queens, by God we are, but we know how to throw a party and solve problems, and we love challenges. It’s a no-worry life in a no-worry world. Trust me.

Experience is the best teacher

Author:

Never forget to maintain the principles of respect to other beings and to nature and then find then be yourself ’tis all.

THE END

Afterword

Damn is it annoying to have this here every day, all these words and sentences, and when I always forget who I am and where, and what I have done. Better then leave it, a testament of some sorts, of the human condition if nothing else. I spend all too much time in my head explaining to everyone out there what it means, what I’m saying, how to interpret this and that. It’s tiring. I’m tired of worrying. I think we all know deep inside what this is, and thus any attempt from my side to explain will ruin the experience, like quantum mechanics: if I define it, it’s gone. What you are looking for is above and below, all of it. I haven’t written much about meditation, because that is such a loaded word, and if I tell you to sit down and meditate, you see yourself as a monk, and I’m not saying you should be a monk. When you meditate you unchain your self from the passing of reality, and become merely an observer. I walk in Zen most of the time; I do not interfer with the happenings. Sure, I talk and act and laugh and think, but I do not try to enforce my will on my reality. The difference is like the one between wading across a river with the water up to your head, or easily stepping on the stones (carefully laid out, some say) one by one until you reach the shore (defined, some say).

I’m worried about humanity. It’s not given that a human being shall be worried about the state of its species, but the more we are the better. We think the way we do things are so thought-through and so obviously right, but think about how many other ways there are to intelligent life in the universe. There are certainly beings out there just as wise as the Buddha and Einstein combined, who immediately upon birth love their fellow beings, realize the futility and the glory of existence and self-reflection, or who never eat and instead get energy from some sorts of photosynthesis, or who see it as the most noble of all to live for everyone else but themselves. We have to realize that we are sitting on this sphere in the Universe, spinning around a star, and we have to contrast this notion with the every-day problems we face and that occupy our minds (take my own nonsense, for example, described thoroughly above), and then add to this that we are not very intelligent, but are merely laying the basis for the coming generations, who will come from us, who will carry the torch towards global unity and peace.

Three years ago today I somehow started something, and I was helped by so many along the way, and I could not have done much without support. I’m a no-nonsense man, really. I’m not going to use my position to promote uselessness. One revolution is on the streets and one revolution is in your heart, slow, spanning generations. Good bye and goodnight. I love you.

MR September 4, 2012

Experience is the father of wisdom

Heron: Never stop, never stop, pay the price, roll the dice. You only live once, gotta row the boat you’ve built, and there’s no going anywhere but forward. The torment, the weight: live it, baby, carry it, baby. Maybe you think ’tis all a rotten piece of life anyway, or you think ’tis unfair to your persona to be doing this, or in moments of clarity and strength you think ’tis wonderful and important, well it does not matter because you are going to be doing this until it’s done, until every being is happy and free.

Heron is *

Author: I’ve had it with this, Heron! If I’m going to do anything I’m going to make music. All my force will be set on making music for the times, with good choruses and excellent, piercing lyrics, and the most pretty melodies ever heard!

THE END THE SHOW GOES ON somewhere else

Proverbs III - Illness (2013)

Proverbs III

Author, in a wheelchair: A terrible fate was waiting me, reader, the most unfortunate of luck, a strike of wrath from the skies, a curse so immobilizing as can be, an accident of immeasurable proportions. See, riding me car down this dark alley in me home county, I swiftly steered right and left, right and left, passing old mansions with lanterns lit, thinking about just about nothing, some music low on the radio perhaps, a little bag of crisps on the passenger seat, yes, just cruising along as fine as one can in this (that) comfortable car of mine. When suddenly! A boom! A crash! All went dark I tell you, all went ablaze and all went silent. I thought me time on Earth… this was it, all over… my friends, my love, my future: all down a dark hole and never seen again. Years passed it seemed, some mere minutes it seemed later, or a life-time, a generation… I could not tell. I ventured, eyes closed, to this bright place, so soft, so silent; only an aura of gently played violins or celloes. Playing for me, my requiem, my music in this secret location between all we know and everything we don’t know. When I woke up I at first found it hard to recollect: who was I? Where was I? What was this? Attached to me several cables and meters, a sound beeping along with me heartbeat. I tried to rise up but alas! I could not move! Well, to make matters short I soon found out I was paralyzed from the neck down with a broken neck, and furthermore, somehow the car door had slid into the driver’s seat and amputated me arms, and the windshield had crashed and splintered into me legs, so these too had been amputated in the emergency room, and one little piece of glass had even reached me private parts and almost made me circumsized, or halfway between that and not. What misery! What bad luck! I was cared for by the most loving nursing personnel and after long sent home to my old castle with the garden I could no longer care for and my cars I could no longer drive. Fixed in a wheelchair and in an immobile body without arms and legs I spent the first weeks driving around the house, well outside of it in the garden and around the rooms I could enter, for that old building was not meant for the disabled. With a straw attached to me mouth I could pick at things, and I picked the number to a recruiting agency and hired me an assistant, Hektor, the butler. Hektor gets to do most of everything around here and has turned out to be a most loveable character. When no help is required he retreats to the back rooms to solve a cross-word or two, but as I ring the bell with my straw attached to me mouth he comes and is to interpret what it is I want, for I cannot speak either. I have arranged a bed for him to sleep on and he is fed three meals a day. Well, time passed and soon I was getting rather comfortable with my new life. I installed the latest home-cinema equipment with surround speakers and projectors in every room, I entertained me self with books and music, even some computer games. However, it was not long before I felt the urge to write again, but how could this be done I asked my self, when no hands I had to strike the keyboard and no legs I had to explore and experience the world. I rang for Hektor and consulted him. He came with the fine suggestion that I should hire assistants to do the writing for me. A fine idea, Hektor! A fine idea! Well, I did not wait long to once again strike the phone with me straw and ring the recruiting agency. Give me six assistants! One shall be pretty, one shall be ugly, one shall be wise and one dumb as a donkey, one shall be young and one as old as an oxe, and three of all these shall be of the male sex and the rest of the female sex. It was not long before I had the group ringing at me door and Hektor let them in in his butler costume and serving them drinks and snacks. Hmpf, hmpf, hmpf, I said and started explaining what I wanted them for. Hektor, who by now understood the delicate variations in my ‘hmpfs’ translated and filled in the details, for he knew well what I wanted them for. The writing was to take place every weekday from 12 to 22, for I rise and sleep late, and the group would work in shifts, in cycles, so that the pretty would be followed by the ugly followed by the young, the old, etc. They all agreed to the task and I scanned them over with me eyes who were barely working either. As I looked at each I said hmpf and Hektor said ’name?’. They each presented themselves.

The pretty one, a female, Excelsia, had the appearance of an angel. Had I had knees they would have melted. Oh the face! The nose was rather distinct with the neck of it making an almost perfect right angle with the base, and her eyes were of this uncertain colour I could not tell, as if they were shifting in colur… anyhow, they were dark, as dark as the bottoms of wells, and on each side the prominent cheek bones and under these red lips smiling at me. She was not of the delicate build, but rather sturdy, not fat: strong. Long legs and curves and dark brown long hair, her bossom packed in under a yellow summer dress with red flowers on it. And the name! I had heard it before but I could not recall from where. I once again turned my eyes on her and she said, without moving her mouth or vocal chords: ’you will never have me, I am the excess, I am Excelsia’ and my open mouth closed and turned into some kind of nervous smile. Hmpf, I said and Hektor said ’if you say so’.

Excelsia: I am Excelsia, I am the excess I am that which you seek, when you have it all

The ugly one, of the male kind, named Longing Heart, Hektor informed me, was also very tall. In fact he was so tall that the vertex of his malshaped skull made a mere half meter ’tween it and the roof. I glanced up at him from my wheelchair. Perfect, I thought. This one ought to have a poetic nerve given his unworthy appearance. I mean not to be rude before my inner observer, but he ought to have been treated badly more often than not by people, and so has had to turn to himself to line his everyday with meaning. He might not know it but he is encircled with poetic beauty. This grotesque body and that face pointing in all directions. A few centimetres between two midlines drawn through his eyes, nostrils both on one side, balding on the right side, black oily hair on the left. His eyes the most pale, the iris almost white and to this a stunning lack of eyebrows. He bowed, and an odour from the depths of graves whelmed over me.

Longing Heart: I am Longing Heart, I am so ugly I reach for the stars, but all in vain, for they reject me

Then the wise one, named Merklorotiez. (S)he simply nodded when I turned my wheelchair towards him/her. ’Merklorotiez’, said Hektor, and Merklorotiez said:

Merklorotiez: I am Merklorotiez, I am the wisdom I have seen, thought and felt all, which there is

Then the stupid one suddenly said: ‘I differ between people and people, let me tell you, you there in the wheelchair without arms and legs. Especially strangers, especially from other parts of the world. No sir, I don’t take kindly to those. Where are you from, from far away? I bet you are, not even having arms and legs. See, there IS a difference between people, especially if they come from far away or look different. I’m just lucky to come from the best place I know, I mean every other place is less good. Here I feel comfortable, heck I wish I could just stay there sitting all day, and especially not have people from other places come, because that makes me disturbed. Yes, here I am, the best possible, from the best place possible, and with the best thoughts possible. Hehe, I feel superior to most people, let me tell you. They make it so complicated for themselves. Everything is simple for me, because I am…’. Then I interrupted him with a ‘hmpf’ and Hektor said ’name?’ and the man said ‘Buck’.

Buck: I am Buck, I am so stupid I am a closed clam, I am a ready-shaped stone

By now it was getting dark outside and I could see the guests were impatient and tired. I said ‘hmpf hmpf’ and Hektor said we will continue the sessions in two days, at the same time and location. I rolled my wheelchair one lap around them after which Hektor showed them to the door. The young one and the old one were told to come again while the other four were told they were hired and should meet on the next Monday at the said time. I retired to my work-room. The meeting had given me doubts. Perhaps this was not a good idea after all. It was my writing that was to be written. I fear channeling it through these, no doubt, strong personalities would flavour it too much. Heck, given my bad sight and hearing, they might even not write what I want at all! On the other hand, what other options did I have. I could try with Hektor, he might’ve been adept with all his knowledge of words from the cross-words, but he was my assistant and part-time butler; to him I was a wheelchair-bound lunatic living in a castle. I wouldn’t want scaring him off with whatever was left in my head after the car crash. I rang the bell attached to a string around my neck and soon Hekor entered the room and stood in front of me. ‘Hmpf hmpf’. ‘Ok’. ‘Hmpf hmpf hmpf hmpf… hmpf’. ‘Ok’. He bowed and left. What did I tell him?

I told him to ask the young and the old to come back first two weeks after today. I was to see how it goes with the four I had already been introduced to. ‘Call the pretty one… Excelsia, and ask her to be at the door around lunch-time on Monday’. I can’t remember exactly what day that was.

Kapitel 6

Sådan är kapitalismen Fred Åkerström

Fact is stranger than fiction

Excelsia: It’s floating and diving all over, dare me to say it. Such easy, a work-day. What happens not where we are. This is the mist that we love, which we created without attempt, living for itself, the cause, the cause. An empty stage carries no artist, an ego carries no change or does it. I mean I’m not carrying it, it weights nothing. Exploring my baby, exploring, for I am just one and we are the mist. We sing, we dance, we are the mist. Nothing, I tell you, is defined when it comes to the mist.

Facts are stubborn things

Longing heart, very silent: Oh, roses and pretty nothing, a day of sitting on a tree looking up, twenty minutes, no less, the spirits below me in a golden-laid wagon of satin red. I trust you, stranger, I like you. I trust you, stranger, I like you. I trust you, stranger, I like you. I mean I really like you. I like you too much. You’d tell me things wouldn’t you. In your arms, in your embracing with your lips to my ears you’d whisper… something.

Faint heart never won fair lady

Merklorotiez: These studies are simply too demanding, and then work like a slave for many years before moving to some place in Africa, perhaps along the Congo River and starting a clinic there, like Aguirre, the wrath of God just to get there, but I assure you the service is great, a few doctors, plenty of nurses, not too expensive but still costing a bit so hold on to your money along the river banks, and then ALL THIS! How serious is it, asks the wise one. Descend, descend. Throw tomatoes at me, not more, don’t hurt me, I haven’t hurt you. I’m still a child, a social catastrophe, stuck in university with too much to remember…

Cerebellum. Afferent input gennem pedunculi cerebelli superior, medius (störste) og inferior: hmm. Til nuclei dentatus, emboliformis og globose, fibrae pontocerebellaris og til nucleus fastigii via pedunculi cerbeli inferior… tre funktionelle enheder: spinocerebellaris, vestibulocerebellaris og ponticerebellaris (fra nucleus pontinus), inddeles også af fissura anterior… nej cerebellum kan jeg ikke så godt lige nu… desuden er jeg lidt ful og har ryget lidt cannabbis. Jeg havde en god aften, en dylanaften… hvi drikker to flasker whisky, en dyr en og en famous grouse og lyder kun til Bob Dylan, bliver meje nostalgiske, det var år siden sidst men lige i går aftens gjorde vi det igen, det var mig og nogle vender, tror godt vi kom igennem hele repertoiren inklusive et flertal bootlegs og alle LP vi havde spillede vi på LP-spilleren, kassetter også… ok, nucleus trigeminus ligger ovenpå pars petrosa ossis temporale og afgiver tre grene: nn. Ophthalmicus, maxillaris og mandibularis; den modtager fibre fra nuclei. Motorius trigeminus, mesencephalicus, spinalis og pontinus; ophthalmicus gennem fissura orbitalis superior, maxillaris gennem foramen rotundum og mandibularis gennem foramen ovale; de afgiver hver flertallet grene og innerverer ansigtet sensorisk og tyggemuskulaturen (mm. Masseter, temporalis, pterygoideulus medialis et lateralis) motorisk… den er således somatomotorisk og somatosensorisk. Er det bestået? Er det ikke? Nåvel, så ses vi til reeksamen i januar. Farvael!

Fair and softly goes far in a day

Buck: I’m going to Thailand, yes to Thailand. Or India, or India. ‘In india there’s the Thai, on good times they were right’. What is this beauty, first time I ever felt this. Oh God, is this God, oh me, is this me. I felt it so strong, I felt it so absent, just me there on the couch. Protect me protect me was not the first thing I said, see? So much wiser, so much more here, right here right now like the song. I ascribe mystery to it, from what I know and what I’ve been told and taught. That such is the truth and I talk and I talk without knowing it, with it just remaining like a mist. But mist rhymes with mystery almost… I am certainly too stupid to write this… it is nothing. Is this reality? Is it my reality? I have the answer! Marijuana is the aliens’ way of invading Earth. It inserts into the cell membranes of the spermocytes and is thus transfered into the oozyte in the woman. Smoking it connects you to the alien world. We should not call them aliens. We should call them Gods and friends. Try it. Test it, alone. Is this true? What is it that you meet in there, in the abyss?

All’s fair in love and war

Excelsia: If I say reincarnation, what do you say? Bo says ‘yes, I remember past lives’, and we play backgammon (which I am not that fond of) in Christiania and the most strange things happen in the game, and I look over now the Buddah not in k she is the one, because I believe in ’the one’, but last week I thought it was Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate abmount of luck w the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysperson but some of him, and I sacrificed my body because I from the start through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysot tell if I am lying or not when I say ‘hey, what is that? What was that jithout even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculaout it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysperson but some of him, and I sacrificed my body because I from the starthis shoulder after he has turnt his eyes down a few times and I see someone like Irene, so I think she is the one, because I believe in ’the one’, but last week I thought it was Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps now the Buddah not in k she is the one, because I believe in ’the one’, but last week I thought it was Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysperson but some of him, and I sacrificed my body because I from the startnow the Buddah not in k it was Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate abmount of luck w the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysperson but some of him, and I sacrificed my body because I from the start through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysot tell if I am lying or not when I say ‘hey, what is that? What was that jithout even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculaout it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count she is the one, because I believe in ’the one’, but last week I thought it was Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysperson but some of him, and I sacrificed my body because I from the startfrom the dices and then count the moves with every pis Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even bmount of luck w the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysperson but some of him, and I sacrificed my body because I from the start through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysot tell if I am lying or not when I say ‘hey, what is that? What was that jithout even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculaeing passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talkinit was Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate abmount of luck w the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysperson but some of him, and I sacrificed my body because I from the start through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysot tell if I am lying or not when I say ‘hey, what is that? What was that jithout even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculaout it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count g about mysperson but some of him, and I sacrificed my body because I from the starthis shoulder after he has turnt his eyes down a few times and I see someone like Irene, so I think she is the one, because I believe in ’the one’, but last week I thought it was Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps now the Buddah not in k she is the one, because I believe in ’the one’, but last week I thought it was Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysperson but some of him, and I sacrificed my body because I from the startnow the Buddah not in k she is the one, because I believe in ’the one’, but last week I thought it was Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even bece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mystery as if knowing its nature, like having felt it, or something, and chosing to not believe it and yet care for it and bmount of luck w the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS it was Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate abmount of luck w the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysperson but some of him, and I sacrificed my body because I from the start through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysot tell if I am lying or not when I say ‘hey, what is that? What was that jithout even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculaout it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysperson but some of him, and I sacrificed my body because I from the start through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysot tell if I am lying or not when I say ‘hey, what is that? What was that jithout even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculaeing so arrogant as if I knew something, am I then a spoiled kid or a prophet? Questions I have so many and I have not, right before me eyes seen anyone that has assured me of anything at all, except Bo, who says he is the Buddha because someone in Tibet said he was. What amazes me is everyone else. It’s first of all the fact that ’this is me’ and then that there are countless other ’this is me’s. Look over my s the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysperson but some of him, and I sacrificed my body because I from the start through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices anng passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by farit was Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate abmount of luck w the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysperson but some of him, and I sacrificed my body because I from the start through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is nit was Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate abmount of luck w the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysperson but some of him, and I sacrificed my body because I from the start through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysot tell if I am lying or not when I say ‘hey, what is that? What was that jithout even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculaout it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count ot that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysot tell if I am lying or not when I say ‘hey, what is that? What was that jithout even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculaout it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count . This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysperson but some of him, and I sacrificed my body because I from the starthis shoulder after he has turnt his eyes down a few times and I see someone like Irene, so I think she is the one, because I believe in ’the one’, but last week I thought it was Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply becang passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysperson but some of him, and I sacrificed my body because I from the starthis shoulder after he has turnt his eyes down a few times and I see someone like Irene, so I think she is the one, because I believe in ’the one’, but last week I thought it was Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply becad then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysot tell if I am lying or not when I say ‘hey, what is that? What was that jhoulder I say, or look over your shoulder, and I just cannk she is the one, because I belieit was Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate abmount of luck w the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysperson but some of him, and I sacrificed my body because I from the start through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysot tell if I am lying or not when I say ‘hey, what is that? What was that jithout even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculaout it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count ve in ’the one’, but last week I thought it was Emilie. But I win the gamenow the Buddah not in k she is the one, because I believe in ’the one’, but last week I thought it was Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amounmount of luck w the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysperson but some of him, and I sacrificed my body because I from the start through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysot tell if I am lying or not when I say ‘hey, what is that? What was that jithout even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculat of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysperson but some of him, and I sacrificed my body because I from the startnow the Buddah not in k she is the one, because I believe in ’the one’, but last week I thought it was Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from thit was Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate abmount of luck w the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysperson but some of him, and I sacrificed my body because I from the start through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysot tell if I am lying or not when I say ‘hey, what is that? What was that jithout even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculaout it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count it was Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate abmount of luck w the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysperson but some of him, and I sacrificed my body because I from the start through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysot tell if I am lying or not when I say ‘hey, what is that? What was that jithout even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculaout it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count e dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysperson but some of him, and I sacrificed my body because I from the startnow the Buddah not in k she is the one, because I believe in ’the one’, but last week I thought it was Emilie. But Is Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyng passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysperson but some of him, and I sacrificed my body because I from the starthis shoulder after he has turnt his eyes down a few times and I see someone like Irene, so I think she is the one, because I believe in ’the one’, but last week I thought it was Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply becaes. Am I by talking about mysperson but some of him, and I sacrificed my body because I from the starthis shoulder after he has turnt his eyes down a few times and I see someone like Irene, so I think she is the one, because I believe in ’the one’, but last week I thought it was Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps now the Buddah not in k she is the one, because I believe in ’the one’, but last week I thought it was Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck w the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysperson but some of him, and I sacrificed my body because I from the start through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysot tell if I am lying or not when I say ‘hey, what is that? What was that jithout even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysperson but some of him, and I sacrificed my body because I from the startnow the Buddah not in k she is the one, because I believe in ’the one’, but last week I thought it was Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even b win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysperson but some of him, and I sacrificed my body because I from the start through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysot tell if I am lying or not when I say ‘hey, what is that? What was that just there over your shoulder?’. But you turn around, or I turn around and we see nothing. Is it ET contact I am talking about? Yes, I think it is. It’s the only deity I can comprehend. What were those Nk she is the one, because I believe in ’the one’, but last week I thought it was Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talkis Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysperson but some of him, and I sacrificed my body because I from the starthis shoulder after he has turnt his eyes down a few times and I see someone like Irene, so I think she is the one, because I believe in ’the one’, but last week I thought it was Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps now the Buddah not in k she is the one, because I believe in ’the one’, but last week I thought it was Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysperson but some of him, and I sacrificed my body because I from the startnow the Buddah not in k she is the one, because I believe in ’the one’, but last week I thought it was Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck withouout mysperson but some of him, and I sacrificed my body because I from the start through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysot tell if I am lying or not when I say ‘hey, what is that? What was that just there over your shoulder?’. But you turn around, or I turn around and we see nothing. Is it ET contact I am talking about? Yes, I think it is. It’s the only deity I can comprehend. What were those Nk she is the one, because I believe in ’the one’, but last week I thought it was Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talkis Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the t even bng about mysASA pictures of death stars before the sun I saw in December 2009? What was the light phenonenon over Norway that same month and year? That, or the simulation model with a simulator. I think I lie when I talk about something for I think there is nothing at all. We are simply conscious, all we think and know is our own creation. I just think there is (or ought to be some kindnow the Buddah not in k she is the one, because I believe in ’the one’, but last week I thought it was Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysperson but some of him, and I sacrificed my body because I from the start) ’truth’ to what we are taught about or ‘what we talk about when we talk about God’. It’s a cycle argument I cannot escape. How easy is it for me to say ‘I am Corpus Sphenoidale, I have alae majores, I have alae minores, I am the passage for nervi oculumotorious, maxillaris, mandibularis, ophthalmicus, abducens, trochlearis and a few more, and arteria opthalmica and (close to I e. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysASA pictures of death stars before the sun I saw in December 2009? What was the light phenonenon over Norway that same month and year? That, or the simulation model with a sknow the Buddah not in k she is the one, because I believe iout mysperson but some of him, and I sacrificed my body because I from the start through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysot tell if I am lying or not when I say ‘hey, what is that? What was that just there over your shoulder?’. But you turn around, or I turn around and we see nothing. Is it ET contact I am talking about? Yes, I think it is. It’s the only deity I can comprehend. What were those Nk she is the one, because I believe in ’the one’, but last week I thought it was Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talkis Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the n ’the one’, but last week I thought it was Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysperson but some of him, ands Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysperson but some of him, and I sacrificed my body because I from the starthis shoulder after he has turnt his eyes down a few times and I see someone like Irene, so I think she is the one, because I believe in ’the one’, but last week I thought it was Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps now the Buddah not in k she is the one, because I believe in ’the one’, but last week I thought it was Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chout mysperson but some of him, and I sacrificed my body because I from the start through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysot tell if I am lying or not when I say ‘hey, what is that? What was that just there over your shoulder?’. But you turn around, or I turn around and we see nothing. Is it ET contact I am talking about? Yes, I think it is. It’s the only deity I can comprehend. What were those Nk she is the one, because I believe in ’the one’, but last week I thought it was Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talkis Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the ess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysperson but some of him, and I sacrificed my body because I from the startnow the Buddah not in k she is the one, because I believe in ’the one’, but last week I thought it was Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even b I sacrificed my body because I from the start of my life trusted me self and God?’ Your argument is that in that case I am created or reincarnatedout mysperson but some of him, and I sacrificed my body because I from the start through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talking about mysot tell if I am lying or not when I say ‘hey, what is that? What was that just there over your shoulder?’. But you turn around, or I turn around and we see nothing. Is it ET contact I am talking about? Yes, I think it is. It’s the only deity I can comprehend. What were those Nk she is the one, because I believe in ’the one’, but last week I thought it was Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the steps from the dices and then count the moves with every piece. Much unlike chess with is not that random by far. This IS mystery to me, right before me eyes. Am I by talkis Emilie. But I win the game through an amazing amount of luck without even being passionate about it, simply because you have calculate the . Now, how shall we prove either? What is the easiet? That I am created by someone or something, which is here. Or that I am reincarnated and my story still lives on, that I am still known after all these years. But this is a story about God… I am not Corpus Sphenoidale, my name is Excelsia!

Fair play’s a jewel

Longing heart, dancing: You see, it takes an idiot to write this. I see through you, you see through me, I studder, I speak softly, my voice gets weak. Like a mirror. I believe in a mystery! I’m an idiot! See me dancing! I believe I am what they say I am. I am no more certain than you regarding anything… he stops dancing and sits down at the chair by a window opening up to a grand field of magnolia or roses, with a farm in the far left corner, cows, cattle, children

Faith will move mountains

Merklorotiez: What is this behind me that is moving it forward, this background noise. ‘Tis the earnest approach to what is before me: I see you, being. I cannot imagine who you are. I drink me down and I forget me self (why is that good?) and we go to the bar and then out to another one, oh and then afterparty until it’s bright outside (why do I like this kind of living?). I love you then, I’ll make love to you then, Sylvia Plath. I’m a sexy doll, a midnight prostitute…

Sylvia Plath:

I am sending back the key that let me into bluebeard’s study; because he would make love to me I am sending back the key; in his eye’s darkroom I can see my X-rayed heart, dissected body : I am sending back the key that let me into bluebeard’s study.

Familiarity breeds contempt

Buck: For I cannot trust it, I do not believe God made a man sacrifice his children; it sounds like something mankind would do. And if you know mankind you think, I mean surely, I’m just sitting here playing; tell me to shut up and I’m packing my instruments and I’m down the road gone. I mean: even, even if you think of me so awful you want to have me gone, then I understand that, but if so, you say so to me, playing on a silent stage will not make the band stop playing. Any audience, ANY audience who raise their voice will be heard, and the band will perfectly understand what the audience wants, and adjust hereby, and if lack of liking, will stop playing.

The family that prays together stays together

Excelsia: I feel it now It is so strong and so dark I am feeling what is waiting me It is some kind of burden It is the worst, it is blood on my hands I do not know if it is true For I do not know if anything is true The loneliness, the emptiness Of my existance

idag såg jag på tåget en man som nickade, när vi åkte förbi honom och satte sig några säten bak, såg ut som en från Rwanda, han hade en grön lapp i en genomskinlig ficka men det stod inget, när jag kom hem hängde det en grön trasa på cykelstället, jag vet inte om detta är verklighet men jag tror Petter är död… hur ska jag leva med detta, jag har dödat min son, min älskade , det känns som jag gjort det med flit, att allt är sant och människor vill såra mig… lever han inte finns det inget liv kvar, det är den tyngsta skuld som kan bäras, tänkte han kanske på en sekund

Far-fetched and dear-bought is good for ladies

Longing heart:

Too ugly to be cool Too cool to be an artist Swimming between me selves Aiming for the ultimate lie Falling between the stools I exist, I exist In t.u.l.

Like father, like son

Merklorotiez:

Stuck here, you don’t know me, defense speech. Stuck here, you don’t know at all what I am like. Stuck in education is all, you don’t know me. You have not been in a room with me. You have not seen me face to face. Oh, there is so much you have heard isn’t it? It’s all true, isn’t it? Motherfucker, I’m the kind of motherfucker that does not want anything. To even think that I would lead you to anything or anywhere, is wrong of you. I’ll stand there for a while, see if anything happens, then either I make something happen or I discretely leave the place. Funny is it not, than when one human does all this, s(he) is bound to spend more than half of the time defending the persona and the body, and not the intention and the love. I mean, if you see the intention and the love then I need not defend myself, and I can focus on the task. Many people does not think I am a person: many people does not think that anyone else is a person. It takes energy, empathy and thought to realize that anyone is a person, it is just easier to not think about that. There ought to be something about my father here: he eats cataprezan to lower his blood pressure and it works very well. We both have the tendency to have high blood pressure, which is dangerous in the long run. Now, we are both underdogs. He was the first, I am the second, in the family to go to university. The blues I got from my mother.

A fault confessed is half redressed

Buck:

All that grows, I look at it Though I cannot say I love it Where the music is, to be inside there Where it is happening, where everything is real In the drugs, in the drunk, the chemicals It is rarely reality, it is someplace else kind of like a party A substitute for real life Which is Now I cannot walk around saying I love you if you don’t know what I mean When I say that If you do not know love I’m not talking about being in love with a girl or boy I’m talking about the love to everyone who is also here Every animal, every plant, every human If you feel this you do not send rockets to explode and burn There are many things you do not do If you love…

So we go from there toward the unknown All together now, everyone loving everything We will not go wrong, I assure you God is shining on us, or if you do not believe (which does not matter) there is The collective action of thousands upon thousands (walking toward something)

Fear the Greeks bearing gifts

Excelsia:

It is not that I am afraid, it is more that… I feel silly… really! Here is the truth: I saw him in Bologna this summer. I believe in God. I think God exists. I think there is something watching over all of us, over us here on Earth. He recognized me, Elettra pointed that out to me. The thing is: whatever you think God is, all these words, notions and feelings… are human. Every mystery attached to God is human; every act of God is human. I mean, I try to make it beautiful in words but these things are hard, words are stubborn, context is far-fetched, I am far from you (I’m gonna write ‘dick’ right here, and then a ‘if they do anything, I will post this anyway, and never, ever stop, and the Wrath of God will be upon them’), life is just not always beautiful, life is a hunt after what is beautiful, beauty is found whenever life (God, for you) wants it to, my vocabulary is limited in English (and in Swedish, and in Danish), I do not believe in the beauty of words (poetry (I mean I think it’s all about vocabulary and timing)), beauty is when I worked today at the hospital taking care of two cancer-hit patients and their relatives and families were there and the daughter of one of them (59 years old) was one of the prettiest girls I’ve ever seen (three years above me and a mother) and I could only say ‘my father is three years younger’ and the other patient when the nurses where going to put one sond and one catheter and the sond was troublesome making him produce tears through his eyes and the nurses asked ‘can you handle it’ and he said ‘sure I can’ in the most determined Danish (‘det kan jeg nok’) and not even knowing what he into with the correct placement of the sond and then a kateter and maybe not was he was saying because he was torn-down by benzodiazepam and cancer, my perception of beauty is different from yours, my words are not enough (I’ve said that before, so never mind that, hehe, silly), I am desperate (mother? I need help, mother! Help me, mother!), I lack the poetic nerve (lie!), there are things I cannot write (true!), beauty is not found here because beauty cannot be created… it is experienced.

If in February there be no rain, ’tis neither good for hay nor grain

Longing Heart:

That we are together as one, humanity on this planet Now with four degree increase incoming Earthquakes? Hurricanes for sure Are we going to accept that and live like that? Just ignore the warning signals because we think we can’t do anything about it We REALLY CAN jumps up with his right fist raised

Feed a cold and starve a fever

Merklorotiez: Because can we really? What will this mean? STOP SHOPPING? Stop flying? Ironin när man på DN:s hemsida ser överst lyckan över att SAS räddades från konkurs genom stora uppoffringar från allas sida, och nedanför den enorma tristessen över att planeten går mot kraftigt ökad temperatur inom de närmsta generationerna…

The female of the species is more deadly than the male

Buck:

Söndagsregn, söndagsregn Dropparna utanför fönstret Träffar den våta asfalten och rör och tak

Nothin to declare Står det på en urvåt gammal pappersbit I Söndagsregn, söndagsregn

Åker ett fordon förbi, sedan ett till Lite tråkigt ändå Med Söndagsregn, söndagsregn

Över hela jorden, några ställen till Det plaskar och står på Söndagsregn, söndagsregn

Fine characters as they were, this was not quite what I expected. I said to them upon collecting them for a short-announced meeting: ‘‘Hmpf, hmpf’. Hektor, dressed very fine indeed for the occassion, translated promptly, with a brick upon which standing champagne glasses and an un-opened bottle of a very fine champagne: You have all proven beauty and have contributed much to my work. I thank each one of you…” I rolled my wheelchair to the oval window over-looking the allé to the castle. Hektor had followed me and stood behind my right shoulder. ‘Hmpf, hmpf, hmpf’’: ”… and the struggles we all faced together in this greasy world of fear”.

No, what I wanted what quite something different, although I not knew exactly what that was. Is it the greatest fear of my life, that time passes, and great moments only exist when they do and then never again. Is this the most sad of all, that those which we see and meet and enjoy time with, and whom with we share life and experiences, that sooner or later all this will never exist again. Is this the root of unmotivated melancholy, that one is stuck in those great moments, and when they are by one miss them dearly and exaggerate, because the present is playing out too slowly and secretive. This is not the most valuable I could do and yet it is, not for me, but for the past. To say, I will take care of you, is but self-celebrating dramatique, because I can not know what that might mean. To be lazy in the social context is not a sin, it will only affect you, and the void it leaves amongst the others will remain a mystery.

Now, where was I.

Vilar mitt huvud i mitt elände, som mest finnes i min fantasi, men likväl ger men, som rädsla och melankoli. Mitt i tentamensläsandet ska jag röka brass, för att störta det ner i fördärvet; men jag röker det för att röka upp det, imorgon är det läsning igen. Jag vet ej hur brassen påverkar min inlärningsförmåga… dock är det ting jag redan en gång lärt, både för en och en halv månad sen och för ett och ett halvt år sen, och jag kommer klara tentamen. Men det är de drag i min person som får mig att göra det här som jag ogillar. Latheten, det dåliga samvetet. Det är så lätt och skönt att leva väl och sunt; jag ska det en gång, men inte nu tydligen, inte nu tydligen. Istället vill jag begrava mitt huvud i sorg över anordningen av tingen, likväl som jag vet att det inget finns att spilla tårar över… jag måste sluta tro att detta är en mardröm

Anyway, my philosophy is that life is somewhat of a task. To live only for oneself when others are in need is less worth than to be living for others, to any degree. I mean, if you look at humanity as a whole, one could say we are in very deep trouble. But if I do not care about that, I would still be doing pretty much the same things, to be honest to my self and appear and live with a most patient and curious mind. In this you have the child, which is happy, which is naive, which will receive good from others. Friendliness is something you receive when you are not thinking about being friendly, because being friendly is a product of the projection… I am not sure what I mean by that. What is projection. Am I talking about a Matrix right now. Or am I talking about some astral psychology stuff. I guess I’m just talking about the golden rule.

Set me free Set me free Something set me free Me set me free Circumstances set me free Not in body but in mind

The young: We are incapable of solving the current issues, when the goal is to reduce the temperature increase with two percent, and to this reach world-peace, if we need physical force and sacrifices.

The old: Violence is not an option. You shall treat everyone with respect.

The young: Then why are you not changing? Why must we work so hard for our future? Is there a God and what does He or it want, or shall I just focus on issues that I myself can influence?

The old: Live your life and do your best. Don’t question so much. You will get tired.

Hoho, haha. I’m a hoho.

The young: The ideas can be expanded to everything we know and be used to guess at what we don’t know.

Fields have eyes, and woods have ears

The old: J Weyman Starecrow Farm xxviii Heedful of the old saying, that fields have eyes and woods have ears, she looked carefully round her before she laid her hand of the gate.

Fight fire with fire

The young: We do not dare to write. We are under constant surveillance and we do not know who the enemy is. To accept the surveillance is to accept the defeat and hence the going-away or un-realization of any kind of enemy. I do not think I have enemies, I would not understand if I did. I do have memories but where are they now?

He who fights and runs away, may live to fight another day

The old: If we say they own the entire Western culture. It is very dangerous to forget every generation and deny them what we knew and had. It is how civilizational mistakes are made, such as ‘great wars’, loss of ‘human rights’, and ‘progress’ in general. I don’t want to pay that much for a Jimi Hendrix album, when, at the time it was released, it was being played everywhere but nowadays rarely. The public space, the public sphere, ’tis where the fight is.

Rather pleased with the days’ writing sessions I took to my wheelchair to the cockatiels and sat down and looked at them. How had I become such a depressed character. It was really about time to decide to leave the melancholia and let the days go by and do what I should, which was to work hard and think happy thoughts and enjoy my self. Then I went down to the little shop on the corner. It was empty but for the upper middle-aged casually-dressed balding Indian, Pakestani, Afghan (I haven’t asked) owner who sorted and made pretty among the rather extensive beer sortiment in the freezers. He often speaks for himself, lonely I think he is, though his upper-teenaged son works at the counter sometimes, after school I presume. He talks for himself, not to himself, even though no-one replies; happy phrases, like ‘Yes, yes I’m coming’ or ‘I’m there in a minute’. I bet he is very speakable and friendly, but today, as usual I just said ’these and two cigarettes’. ‘Two loose yes, Prince Light’. He reached for the opened packet hidden above the cigarette-shelf and put two cigarettes on the counter, making the empty space now consist of two beer half-litre beer-cans, a Budweiser and a Newcastle Brown Ale. ‘Då bliver det fire og halvtreds’ he said and then counted it again to make sure (with the expensive beer brands and the two loose cigarettes). ‘Ja fire og halvtreds bliver det’. I had around sixty so I was safe. Then I walked the hundred or so metres from the corner across the junction of the two small inner-city-Copenhagen streets with the beer in each hand. It was moist outside, in the evening, quite cold, we were expecting snow. A very brisk air. I picked up the keys in the pocket of my black cotton coat, opened the door… and walked the long stairs up to the fourth floor, third etage, and entered into my art deco-room (art deco, what it was before World War II happened), but not really art deco, actually just a collection of rahter antique furniture I’d found and bought throughout my long life of traveling and adventures… Well anyway, there I sat the whole evening listening to Gustav Mahler, toking and drinking the delicate beer I had bought.

Have you ever considered that it is not me on any picture. If I tell you nobody has asked and I have never confirmed, what can you do. You decide to believe. Wow, what a great perfume I have found.

Man kan inte känna sig fram till vad som händer, det bliver endast gissningar och fantasier.

What does the Internet do to our minds and to our civilization. This is very important. If we can understand it we can use it.

How one’s mind can get accustomed to circumstances, this capability is endless, but oh so slow, tiresome and lucid.

Writing is this lovely escape into creation. Why do I rather write about writing than write something new? Because of the Internet. Why do I capitalise it, is it like some deity to me? No I can also write internet. I use it daily much less than many others of the part of the world that has access. I do not even have a smartphone, so I have missed the whole ‘app-revolution’. The internet and the applications we use on it are greatly changing our minds and the world. We must attend to this on a personal basis, because it’s happening individually, but with many, and mostly the young, so it seems like a mass-hypnosis, at least from where I stand. Why do I not talk about a collective movement, because no-one takes care of me, I belong to no-one and everyone. I do it because of idealism in life and belief in kharma and God. But I have not given any good, or not so much as I wanted, but I have suffered for something, and maybe that was all I could really do. I do not expect harsh consequences when I am acting out of suffering, claiming no right or want of power.

The young:

Besvikna

Låt oss fortsätta dansa, dansa kring granen, granen vi tog, tog från vår skog Mamma sade vi är bäst, papp’att vi kunde bli vad vi vill, så va’fan ska man bry sig Vi är barnen och vi får barn, och barnen får barn, och barnen får barn Våra föräldrar födde oss hit, och deras föräldrar dem dit, och deras dem dit Födda som blanka blad, rakt in i denna värld, så vi bryr oss om detta, och om detta

Detta är annat än vad våra föräldrar brydde sig om, och deras, och deras Ja men vafan, de brydde sig om fel saker, för ack så tråkiga saker vi får bry oss om Sen kallar de oss curlingbarn, ja vi är curlade rakt in i tidernas miljökatastrof Och vi får inga jobb för systemet levererar icke! Vi konsumerar icke!

Det är så lätt för oss, de stackars unga, att skylla precis alltihop på våra föräldrar Vi är maktlösa, vi får inte komma in, vi får bara välja mellan salt och peppar Vi kan bli arga, vi kan bli ledsna, men jag tror vad vi är, är besvikna på er Gamla, tröga, tokiga föräldrar, som snart går i pension och lämnar oss i sticket…

In the desolate lands of the deep forests on a far-away planet, over the rocky mountains, but not far from the grand river

In the desolate lands of the deep forests on a far-away planet, over the rocky mountains, but not far from the grand river

1

In the desolate lands of the deep forests on a far-away planet, over the rocky mountains, but not far from the grand river, there was once a people known for not being known, so that they were stars throughout the universe whilst not aware of it. They lived simple lives in small villages and towns, houses made of stone and clay, they struggled with slow and unstable Internet connections, they flew hybrid vehicles, they teleported to the workplace and back and they lived decent lives as far as advanced space-age civilizations go.

When we say remote and grand rivers, it must be mentioned that this was a very large planet. It was in fact so large that even though its many peoples had endured for tens of thousands of years and made intergalactic contact and what not, there were still societies on the planet vastly more remote than others. A grand river with shore to shore thrice the Atlantic, as indeed the case, was a substantial obstacle: such natural divisions had separated the planet’s inhabitants since the dawn of time, many of them thinking they were alone on the planet, but probably not in the universe. Of such people and beliefs was the shopkeeper, and we meet him now. He’s carrying fruitboxes unto his floating hybrid vehicle and early spring afternoon.

“My poor body” he cried. “In the middle of the night. My poor lungs… His poor lungs!” He turned to the wind, fruitbox on his head. “He does not understand. There are merely the tip of his lungs remaining and yet he keeps on smoking. I do not understand! He defies his life which is given to him. Poor soul. Poor, poor soul. Yesterday he woke up and could not breathe. He was shocked for two days, but last I heard he was back at it again. That old schizophrenia of his does not make it easier either, was recently at the ambulatory and got a depot load. Followed him myself, I did. And proud I was… It was one fine April morning…”

Like so he chatted along for another good ten minutes while he finished loading the vehicle and closed the shop with several keys. Then he teleported home in the blink of an eye and was soon seated in front of his computer. While there not being anyone particular in the room whom could hear it, he began:

“It is specified with a powerful 3 Mb internal RAM and a decently fast 500 Hz processor. For storage we use a floppy 512 Mb magnetic disk, leaving plenty of room for all of the games. I particularly like ping pong and chass, you know the red yellow board game with a king and a queen and zebras and chairs. It’s been played since the dawn of time, did you know that, kings and queens themselves playing it back then. Although… you have to set the difficulty level to easy. Otherwise the computer takes a too long time to make a move. Let me show you when I play a game of ping pong. It can get quite intense!”

Thus he played a game of ping pong and, like many times before, was very near to beat the computer, which in one of the game’s final dramatic stages threw itself out in the far-most corner and managed thereby to reply with a strong hit which the shopkeeper could not reach even with swift action. After this devastating score, his play went down further and he lost the game series, two wins against the computer’s three.

While taking note of today’s scores in his notebook he ordered food which was delivered to his dining table in an adjacent room. He walked over, signed the delivery order (which was teleported back to the company) and sat down. With well-kept temper and slight excitement, he opened the synthetic food bag.

“Damn you not if it’s not beans again!” he cried and threw his fork towards the floor in anger. Then he picked it up and ate the food in a rush, muttering unsaid words about how much he hated the company, etc., etc. It had indeed been beans on the menu the last four days, adding much trouble to many a worker’s already stressed stomachs. In another galaxy this hilarious spectacle had aired on prime time television, begging for three re-runs. Hence the four days of beans. The shopkeeper was not amused. Although he did not know that his life really was a reality show broadcast throughout the universe, he sure did feel like it sometimes. Alas, he was hungry and there was no other food. Soon he was sleeping in his wooden bed dreaming about large monsters with beans as teeth and stinking breaths coming to eat him up. He turned and turned in his bed, sweating like a lunatic, screaming in his dreams but unable to wake up. As dinosaurs (not being extinct on this planet) began singing, he finally awoke the next morning and was relieved to find himself alive and, of the monsters, only their foul breaths remaining. It was time for another day and our shopkeeper was excited and grateful after all.

Not far from the shopkeeper residence another soul was just awakening, coughing and barking as its body slowly came to life. A hand reached out and grabbed a cigarette for, in contrast to dinosaurs, cigarette smoking was a shared phenomenon between this planet and Earth.

“I just can’t seem to get a break” a voice was heard. “You will get all the breaks you need when you die” replied a distant yet near voice and the body containing the soul covered in blankets rose from the bedside with great pain and tired action and reached for a lighter. The smoke climbed in whirls and pirouettes towards the dirty ceiling and the body rejoiced in pleasure as the nicotine was taken up by what remained of the lungs and was distributed through the body. Cough, cough, cough! Cooooouuugh! Ah… ehm… Cough, cough! Oh dear… cough, cough! The body and soul rested a little on the bedside, but was soon up rambling towards the kitchen. There it made itself a cup of coffee, which was enjoyed throughout this world as well, and sat down by the window overlooking the town’s little square where children were playing among trees and elderly people sat on benches feeding pigoens, the evolutionary dinosaur-equal to Earth’s pigeons. Cigarette in hand again, eyes gazing the courtyard as usual, nothing was special about this day. “But it’s the day you die!” but it ignored this, not because it did not believe what was said, but because it could not contemplate facing its last day and death. “You said that yesterday as well” it said into the smoke-filled kitchen air, and the body coughed and the soul dreamt tormented in voices.

2

We said: “You live through this so that you may tell us about it later. Outside the rain is falling. The parade is on its way to a river entrenched in forest, but the river is not the goal, it’s merely sitting there. The parade is not the subject, its members not defined. Something is going someplace but it’s not important.”

This wasn’t an ordinary planet. Dear reader, do not get shocked and you must remember that this is a story about souls dispersed in galaxies far beyond our experience of distances, when I tell you that the people, living in the desolate lands of the deep forests on a far-away planet over the rocky mountains but not far from the grand river, were all blind. A simple evolutionary co-incidence more than often occurring in this unfathomable large universe.

In every corner of every room there was a camera. The people, not aware of the idea of the camera, suspected nothing of these mechanical devices somehow always belonging to houses, trees and vehicles. Under every floor there were hologram sensors, projecting an around-the-clock, around-the-room experience for viewers around the galaxy and beyond. This begs two questions suggests I, the first being what these individuals looked like (had they arms, were they of DNA, etc.) and lastly who was in charge of this cruel spectacle. Well imagine jelly-like nucleotide matter shaped fractally rectangular and base colour yellow. Add to this two arms and millions of small feet to propel them forward (top speed about 50 km/h) and a little tail, and that each individual had a unique body with deeply personal faces and every one of them were eternally hopeful and positive, no matter what situations they saw themselves in, this reality show was, if not always a pleasure, then at least something to play in the background while attending to more important matters. As to this world’s origins, it was run by the company, and no more than that may I tell you, reader, for we reach further into the pages.

In the buzzing middle-aged small town we descend on a busy street. People are dwindling by each other in a joyful haze, shaking hands and doing ordinary day shopping and whatnot town errands. There he is, the shopkeeper, behind the counter or out in the boutique piling wares and putting things in order. “Coming now!” he yells every time a costumer comes in. He is always accommodating, friendly and joking. Coming now! Enter the smoker, fresh out of window-mode, coming to buy cigarettes in this early morning. He walks around a bit, looks at the soda refrigerator and makes a trail with many stops up to the counter. “Yes boss?” says the shopkeeper without looking up unto the smoker, upon which enters two women. “Hello young ladies!” goes the shopkeeper over the top of the smoker’s shoulders. The smoker answers: “One pack of Ox’s Boxes, please”. And replies the shopkeeper: “One pack of Ox’s Boxes, yes boss” and fetches these from the holder behind him. He turns around and stops. Something is happening. The camera rests on the wrapping of the cigarettes and it displays a required warning: REQUIRES AIR AND LUNGS. The silence of the moment, the lack of density, and for the first time in days in their lives, they both meet the eyes of another being, feeling contact in their blindness. Hello? The moment is startling, the shopkeeper with Ox’s Boxes cigarettes in hand, the smoker with no air and no lungs, voices in head screaming about death and delusions, negative symptoms… Hello? It’s been said but never confirmed that they fell in love there. However, this we will never know, for in that moment, something which can only be described as a portal, opened up like a door right in front of them. Without hesitation they climbed in and, we assume for we do not know for sure, were soon dispersed in the universe’s mysterious dimensions.

3

And we said: “We love you. A word here a word there. Carnival parade country lane. Turned to stone. Your own inside colourless. Every day a masterpiece. Now it is breathable but only now. Earlier today as well in the everyday. For the bones and for the arteries as well as the liver and life. For the person inside the mind, who is watching, interchangeably from close and afar. Who is experiencing the physical feeling of pain of the mind. And the loneliness of existence and distance between us. Lover and contemporary, human alike, good friends. And busy life, few times we met you. Stranger lover stranger lover. We love you.”

Upon returning, they did not remember what had happened or whom they had spoken to, merely a trace of the experienced, persistent with a soft we love you. For how long the shopkeeper and the smoker stood there is well-known because that is when one of the ladies, tired of waiting, put her wares (milk, chocolate and honey crumbs) on the shopkeeper’s table and demanded some action because it’s been at least a minute now. Upon re-allocating his attention, the shopkeeper replied with a yell “Coming now, coming now” while still looking into the smoker’s eyes, who broke the gaze by turning his eyes unto the cigarette package, the Ox’s Boxes, which he of course could not see. The holograms and the TV screens went to commercial, and everything was still for some time. Spaceships flew, the galaxies drew and quantum fluctuations diced, but in that galaxy - mind you, not in that society by the desolate lands of the deep forests on a far-away planet over the rocky mountains but not far from the grand river - everything went still for one second. What had just happened, this was unexplainable. How will the company treat this incident. Something happened there between these people: what was that, what was that. Waves of questions ringed like ripples in a pond throughout matter and time.

The smoker awoke in a daze in the backroom of the shop, all silent inside, at first just sitting there staring at a box of cat food. In his first statement, back in his apartment, he described what had happened while smoking a cigarette and coughing with every inhalation: “I woke up in some kind of couch. I tried to move my arms but discovered that I had been turned into a cat, a fat one to that, with orange, white and red stripes. My first sensation was moving my tail, that feeling something like an extension of the spine combined with a fishing pole to keep the balance with. I somehow just accepted the obvious fact that I now was a cat. Once I got out of the couch I walked around the premises looking for food because I was hungry. I came upon another cat, presenting himself as Mr Catalot, who sat on his front paws smoking a big cigar with his remaining back paw, because the other back paw had been amputated when he was a youngster. It had caught fire when Mr Catalot tried to smoke a cigar for the first time. After cat-greeting this elegant cat I went over to the kitchen area located in the same room and began looking around for the food tray or bits of food left or dropped on the floor. I wasn’t very thirsty, mostly hungry. Over in one corner sat a two-headed cat curiously looking at me with both its faces. It presented itself as John and Brutus, Brutus and John and I did not speak further to that cat on that day, but got to know him better a few days later when we again met in the kitchen. For what I proceeded with was scanning the area around the cat for food and became very joyful when I saw the food tray right in front of me, and without thinking set straight for it with a great leap. Maybe it was because I was fresh out of the couch, or because I’ve always been an absent-minded person but what I discovered mid-air was, sadly, that my back-right paw was missing. I made a big crash on the floor. All the force mustered by my left back paw upon release threw me at least a meter up in the air, with all the wrong momentum, making me spin around and land clumsily on my head. John and Brutus laughed and I was twice humiliated by his two heads jumping up and down, grinning uncontrollably. I ran over to the food tray and ate as much as I could in one occasion, and then ran back to my couch where I soon fell asleep, for I was very tired. I dreamt about food and two cat heads that danced around each other while smiling at me, on an open field outside Warwickshire, the night dimly lit by a crescent moon.” The smoker kept thinking: “One day I will get the fuck out of here” and was up for weeks, amphetamines and sorrow. He was just about to go to sleep out of tiredness, unable to form words on the brink of the night, his talking parts, already to sleep. The rest of his body tired as well, rather comfortably placed on the floor. The black floor, the one he got from his old cousin back in the 80’s. Now he was a free soul in the robe in the garden.

4

“The first months I ate nothing but fish: salmon, tuna, herring, and sea bass that my master captured. On the fifth day, I came to eat something distasteful, and had to venture to the grass tray; the urge to eat the grass was very strong, like an instinct, and the relief upon barfing was grand indeed. I spent a great deal of time lying on the couch, watching the days go by, and keeping a close eye on what the other cats were up to. They weren’t up to very much, the daily routine was loosely scheduled.” As for the shopkeeper, he dreamt and since then he has never been the same (he is more, still loveable and comically friendly, but also awake and clear-minded) for in these dreams he formed memories of secret meetings, other worlds and what he termed jolly good old times. Back in the shop after a week’s close-down, he described what he’d experienced to one of the costumers, a middle-aged man in jogging pants and a t-shirt buying beer, an alcoholic beverage also popular on the planet over the rocky mountains, but not far from the grand river. He said:

“The meeting was all-right. Not much to talk about, really. I managed after a long time to fold the map as per the instructions á la last year (they were sooo last year) and arrived in Gggrrakjlokak shortly before treema-time (time does not exist in Gggrrakjlokak so we refer to events by abstract ridiculous rituals). After treema-time (which is much like hanky-panky time in the real world) the three-legged cats got dressed and headed out in the kitchen to prepare dinner. The rest of us sat in comfortable Chesterfield armchairs. Mr Catalot handed out fine cigars and we chatted about small daily things, such as what I work with, what I do in the day. Do you sleep well? Of course I mentioned my best scores on the computer. Mr Catalot and the others applauded”.

“Sir, I just want to purchase these beer” the jogging man interrupted and the shopkeeper replied “Coming now! That will be three thousand crowns thank you. A bag with it?”

“Yes thank you. And one package of Smoker’s Delight please.”

The shopkeeper fetched the cigarette package and held it up to the jogging man. Some time went by, cameras still. After this, the shopkeeper put the package on the counter and the jogging man handed over the metallic money. “Good evening to you, sir” said the jogging man. “Good evening to you too” said the shopkeeper. Then he yelled: “Remember to turn on the automatic cleaning robot when you get home, and recycle your bags every day, mister jogger!” but the other man did not hear it since he had already left the premises. The door shut. “See you tomorrow, see you tomorrow” the shopkeeper said to himself and smiled and returned to his business in the shop, ordering goods, sorting things, cleaning, watching TV in the back room, etc.

5

We greeted: “See you tomorrow, see you tomorrow.”

While we have said the shopkeeper was never the same, this is true, but not something one could infer from a brief meeting with the man in his shop. He was still piling his goods on the shelves, still rubbing the floor at the end of each day, still falling asleep in front of TV shows from far away and yet, something was different. A very sharp-eyed costumer hungry for beans (if any were left on the planet) might have noticed that none were to be found in the shop. Such a cunning observer might have remembered that the beans were always stacked next to the canned pasta and the ketchup bottles, but were one to look now, an empty hole one would discover, as the shopkeeper had got rid of all beans in the entire shop, and cancelled all future orders for all kinds of beans. The background for this curious course of action could be when one day an old lady entered the shop. She was dressed in an old black robe with pearls and diamonds in it, and had on her shoulder a stuffed dwarf kangaroo. This didn’t baffle the shopkeeper despite him never having seen the lady before, for though he could not be sure, he had seen that kangaroo before. You have met Mr Kangaroo before, remember? We sat on the porch and drank tea. The moment the old lady entered the shop and the little door clock rang so to catch the shopkeeper’s attention, he instantly yelled “Coming now!” but quickly became dumb as he watched the lady making her way through the shop and up to the counter, kangaroo hopping along on her shoulder. A heavy rain began falling outside, producing thick drum noises on the horizontal roof window, reflecting the sunlight, shattering its streams over the store like a rainbow already colouring the cans and the pasta and the shopkeeper and the lady.

“Good day, sir” said the lady when the shopkeeper landed behind his counter. She looked at him, analysed him with her old point-like dark blue porcelain eyes.

“Good day, ma’am” replied the shopkeeper, becoming nervous by this mysterious yet familiar presence. “What can I get you? We have carrots on offer this week and the potato chips are extra crispy this time of year. Or, if you prefer reading, we have a wide selection of magazines from all over this side of the grand river and beyond, including several guide books to the mountains. We also have cigarettes! But lately I have come to doubt the benefit of their consumption. I have a friend, you see, a lovely fellow, but he smokes too much, begins hearing voices in his head, saying it’s the smoke that’s getting to him, coughs a lot too, can barely get any air down. I’ve never smoked and I’ve never heard voices in my head, so I guess there’s a connection there, but these days there are connections everywhere aren’t there?”. He laughed a bit, then went silent. The lady waited to see if there were more words coming from this man’s mouth. Then she said:

“You have seen this kangaroo before, haven’t you?”

Said the shopkeeper: “Yes, we sat on the porch drinking tea, remember?”

“Yes I remember” said the lady, and fixed him with her gaze, blue threads of galactic material extending from her eyes towards him, but he could not see for he was blind. Then she turned and, flying-like, elevated from the floor, left the shop just as hastily as she’d come. The door clock rang. The shopkeeper stood there watching it, not thinking anything. He stood for a good ten minutes, then he smiled and with a calm and dedicated humour proceeded with ordering goods and unpacking newly arrived cans and conserves and placing these on the shelves. “Ah!” he exclaimed as he picked up a fresh can of mackerel from a box. “You go to the canned fish shelf. Aha! Ketchup! You go to the ketchup shelf together with chili sauce and crushed tomatoes” Shopkeeper. He walked around with the can and the ketchup in his hands, looking for where to put it. Shopkeeper. He stopped. “Yes? Who is it?” Had he just heard something? Shopkeeper. “Who is it?” he yelled, but the shop was empty. The only sound was the rain drumming on the roof window. “Is anybody here?” he shouted as he walked among the shelves and fruitboxes and refrigerators. He felt a sudden urge to sit down and did so on a large sack of flour he hadn’t yet dragged to its proper place. He felt dizzy, he even felt seasick, and he fell backwards and downwards and beyond, fell into a large hole, and fell and fell. As everything went completely dark, he felt he was suspended in air, in empty space, in quantum fluctuations. Shopkeeper. “Yes? What do you want from me? Who is it? I’m coming now!” He heard his voice from a distance, distorted and small, as from inside a can a thousand miles away.

6

We interfered: “Shopkeeper, we must tell you something. Though you are forever a prisoner of your body. In the past, your soul has been many places around the universe. You’ve been a bee, you’ve been a horse. When you are ready, you can leave this shop. In the desolate lands of the deep forest on a far-away planet, over the rocky mountains, but not far from the grand river. You must give us a sign that you are ready. You must stop selling beans”

Suddenly, the door clock rang and the door to the shop swung open. A gang of youngsters roared in, seemingly already drunk and headed for the beer section. “Coming now!” the shopkeeper yelled and rushed up from the floor, trying his best to collect his thoughts. You must stop selling beans. “We are not selling beans!” he yelled as everyone in the shop including himself wondered why this was important to announce. “Well we don’t want any anyway!” replied one of the youngsters, and the gang laughed. “Yeah, we’ve had enough of those stupid beans! We got beans four days in a row last month! It was terrible!” A large fart was heard from the group. “Had beans today as well as you can hear!” The youngsters laughed. “If we didn’t know any better, we might think this was all a great joke played out on us, trying to keep us bachelors, making us eat all those beans so we can’t do anything else than fart on each other all day.” The shopkeeper was confused. He went over to the counter and stood there waiting as the youngsters came up and paid for the beer and left the shop, not forgetting to let out farts accompanying the door clock as the door shut. They left the shopkeeper a profound silence and a monster’s breath: these youngsters’ words somehow rang true. Hadn’t he thought the exact same thoughts that day he got beans for the fourth day in a row? Hadn’t he thrown his fork towards the floor in anger? Was there something about life really being a reality show? The shopkeeper stood there blindfolded, the light of the planet’s stars reflecting across its moons and through the window unto him.

7

We demanded from the shopkeeper: “You must stop selling beans.”

For what was it in the universe set in motion that day when the shopkeeper met the smoker and the signal went to commercial; what forces were unleashed, what phone calls were made, what ships flew were, who teleported to who, etc. On Earth we are used to structures penetrating every level of society; when fireballs fall from the sky or heavy rain cracks our cars so that we can’t function or work, we know it will be taken care of by someone belonging to some structure somewhere. Well, in the universe, there are so many structures that it’s impossible for anyone (it is presumed) to correctly assess the whole, so that when a planet implodes and someone requires an answer, an answer is given, but this only fosters another question from another structure which is replied with another answer and so on. This is to say that, when we talk about the company, we are only referring to the collection of structures which placed the people on the planet, set up the cameras and maintained the broadcasting production. The people on the planet could not know they had been designed and placed there, nor could they know their lives were galactic entertainment, but it was common knowledge, folklore if you will, that someone or something was above: was watching, was controlling, was steering and providing. In the beginning this something was God, then this expression evolved into God and his angels, which in turn became God and company and ended up as simply the company

your hybrid vehicle stops mid-flight, you blame the company, you get beans for four days in a row, you blame the same.

The galactic empires were old and vast and many. Some were billions of years, some upspringers less than a million. However, because of the size of the universe, the domains of the civilizations varied more than sand on the beach. While all civilisations here portrayed lived and ventured in three-dimensional space, local variations in planetary biology, and differences in distances between suns and planets and such matters, made it so that the physical properties (their faces, their eyes, how many arms, etc), sheer size, and ways of orienting in space (ways of living) varied copiously between the races. So, one nation being the mightiest in planetary warfare and destruction, it would stand chanceless again an ancient empire from beyond the depths of space with technologies such as invisibility and telepathy (what we on Earth call electroencephalogram). Some had thousands of legs, some had none. Some had five heads, two tails and wings. Some people were practically copies of each other whilst never having met. Entire worlds, with kingdoms, war and peace, spanning millions of square kilometres, were hidden in the depths of the oceans. Dare the venture who seeks itself and its army towards the depths of the K’than ocean where, 50,000 kilometres down, Zolot and his zealots rule the water world of Milky way. Dear reader, anything you can ever imagine being physically possible is happening all the time in the universe. It naturally follows from these facts that nobody in the universe never really knew exactly what was going on. Many empires were very cunning, having brains the age of the Earth and armies at least as old and were frequent travellers between the cosmic kingdoms and yet, if they came upon a planetary system habituated by wheel-legged dinosaur monsters with immense intelligence but constrained to the surface (because of for example too solitary galaxy constellations or mountain-large bodies) they would steer away, could not retaliate, even if getting attacked, this according to the Standard Of Ethics Of The Known People Of The Universe Book Of Rules. However, as with all things, not everything and everyone lived by this ancient declaration, and who would ever know if this planet was imploded, we could make them slaves, etc. From this came the collection of structures which dominated the universe and placed the people on the planet, set up the cameras and maintained the broadcasting production. Who really controlled the universe, if anyone, nobody knew. “The Sea Lions of The Western Deserts” were said to be all-present and invincible, but if they really were as strong as legend would have it, how could the Bulldozer people and their billions of mighty ships be allowed to roam free, often wreaking havoc upon the Sea Lions’ bastions? How could the Greek battle the Velociraptors with only stones and clay? There were mysterious happenings in the history of the known universe, and throughout the ages there had always been dreams of higher dimensions, visions and prophecies, but what does that matter when the Enterprise Starship comes upon a world drenched in war? As legend has it, they flew in and captured the entire world as slaves, gave them eternal life and set them to work in the coal chambers of the star-sized mother ship.

But on the day when the shopkeeper met the smoker, what happened in the galaxy is of course impossible to assess, but at least some of the more noticeable and important saw the now classic TV and hologram moment when the two stars, though being blind, laid eyes on one another and just stood there, watching each other while the Ox’s Boxers intergalactic stock markets sky-rocketed. Some described it as epoch-making, a crack in the matrix, a tearing of worlds. Some saw prophecies and visions from the dawn of time. After some ten seconds orders from millions of structures had been given, saying turn that show off now, and after twenty seconds, when receiving answers that this was for unknown reasons not possible, and ordering back again and back and forth while the shopkeeper and the smoker stood there motionless. It finally went to commercial after thirty seconds, this perfect number increasing suspicion even more: who or what was it that refused the show to disconnect, who let it finally happen, and what about the timing, was it intentional, a message even. Not much transpired the first two weeks. The galaxy was in astonishment, the mysterious happenings were discussed and analysed back and forth and every dinner’s conversation topic. Soon though, things went back to normal and the heroes forgotten. But a lingering trace, a soft encore, kept ringing in the back of people’s minds, speaking to you, when you’re all alone…

8

We demanded from the smoker: “THE SMOKER… Yes, who is it. “STOP SMOKING. Yes, I really should. STOP SMOKING NOW…”

The smoker awoke from his day-dreaming with a jerk, far from the matters discussed above with a cigarette in his hand. He began to cough uncontrollably and fell unconscious to the floor floating in space.

It wasn’t until a scandal in the high courts of the Skagen people that the incident in the reality show was brought to galactic news again. A visiting convoy from the neighbouring solar system came to fart on the Skagian King’s wedding, and when he was consequently hanged upside down in his hundred little eyes, he started to shout that farting was okay now that the shopkeeper’s done it. The King was baffled and returned his people in protest, thus cancelling the wedding. The press marvelled at this hilarious coincidence that the four days preceding the meeting between the shopkeeper and the smoker had had beans for dinner along with everyone else on the planet from the desolate lands of the deep forests, over the rocky mountains, but not far from the grand river. And now that people remembered it, wasn’t it true that everyone on the planet from the desolate lands of the deep forests, over the rocky mountains, but not far from the grand river had been farting too much and this had been primetime television with three reruns? The Skagian King later blamed dizziness from the jungle-like heat but questions remained. No matter whether the King had been informed about the meeting between the shopkeeper and the smoker or not, the topic was back at the dinner table discussions, and now everyone was curious: who were these cosmic super-stars and heroes really, behind the fame and glory.

The smoker felt a sudden urge to barf and ran towards the door but fell on the doorstep and landed on his only hind leg and stood there balancing. That was a close call! He laughed like cats do, then he sat down and raised his paw and began licking it carefully with his rough tongue, his tail curved around him like a statue in motion. “Boy, if he wasn’t the prettiest cat around these premises, then you could call him Oscar” he said to the other cats and shook Mr Catalot’s paw and proceeded to the food tray where he ate as much as he could on one occasion. “Thank you for the food, gentlecats, shall we today play with yarn and jump from ceilings and tear paper apart and sleep in the sunlight?” The cats applauded and bowed and said “We are most happy to hear that you have found yourself at home here with us. We hope you will find the rest of your staying convenient.” Then the cats played with yarn and slept in the sun the rest of the day. At sunset, they ate some food. After this they played silent ninja night games until the master called them out and told them to get back to sleep, which they did.

9

We comforted: “One day, honey bear, one day… You will sit in solemn silence surrounded by dancing trees and chanting seas, remembering what it was that we wanted to say. Don’t think we will make it easy for you, people, for nothing is as easy as you’ll have it. We will capture the essence, ride out the agony and show you the music.”

Well so and so and thus it was that rain began falling on the desolate lands of the deep forests, over the rocky mountains, but not far from the grand river. The people at first appreciated the music, but soon ceased to pay attention to it. Prominences from all over the galaxy and beyond began visiting, often cloaked in discrete disguises, often more looking than asking, but always: visiting the shop, asking for the smoker, or conveying (through speech or otherwise) secret messages to the shopkeeper and later, the smoker too. Babatzakka from the solar system with the fifty rocky planets and a hill came as a bear and was amusing the viewers for he did not fit the natural fauna. Yet he asked the shopkeeper: “Have you ever seen a person, tall as me and with rather long hair, kind of empty eyes, though I know you cannot see, asking to buy a pack of Ox’s Boxes?” The shopkeeper replied: “There are many people buying cigarettes here, but tell me, what is that costume you are wearing? I have never come across one similar to your… appearance. If it’s a costume it’s a very well-made one and I would really like to buy one for myself… Yes, even sell it here at the shop.” Babatzakka was baffled and could only proceed with: “Uhm… one pack of Ox’s Boxes please”, but when the shopkeeper handed him the package, he could not grab onto it with his bear paws and dropped it on the counter, the shopkeeper laughing, saying: “Ha-ha you are a clumsy one aren’t you? They should add a warning to the label! Requires air, lungs and hands! Air, lungs and hands!” The shopkeeper laughed hysterically. “You get it? Requires air, lungs and hands! Hands! What are those things called anyway? Thread-clad swollen dropping-things-on-the-floor grabbing devices?” He looked slightly besides Babatzakka for he was blind and waited patiently for the reply. But Babatzakka just stood there motionless on his two bear hind legs when the doorbell rang and the door swung open behind them. In came the smoker, out buying cigarettes, coughing and coughing, barely breathing, taking ten minutes to ascend the stairs in the apartment, always on the brink of extinction through ischaemia, and knowing about these facts and warning labels and impossible dreams about the universe and hidden worlds beyond it; from the square outside the window to the trees and up to the hills across the eternal waters of the grand river, the water was not eternal, the smoker knowing it somewhere. He had dreamt about lands far away, about people in strange costumes of various shapes, conversing with them, questioning their appearance, with five hands and only two legs to walk on. He’d dreamt about people with four legs and no hands, with a tail and whiskers on the chins, and he’d dreamt he was living amongst them. “Hello there, how are we today?” the shopkeeper yelled across the fruit boxes and cans and potato trays. The smoker cried “Hello” at the top of his lungs. The he turned left to the beer refrigerators and stood there not looking noteworthy while discretely scanning the bottles perfectly stacked before him. Coming soon! a voice cried. Coming soon! The smoker shook his head and smiled, because he thought that no-one could see him. Then he rolled his head forward in a compulsory fashion a few times, still smiling. Coming soon! Then he coughed uncontrollably for a good half a minute, coughing up secrete which he spat on the floor behind a stack of bananas and walked gently up to the shopkeeper and Babatzakka, not noticing the latter. “What’s up, boss? Are you going to buy anything or not?” the shopkeeper yelled in a humorous tone. “A pack of Ox’s Boxers, please” said the smoker. The inter-galactic stock markets roared. The shopkeeper fetched it. “This one’s on me, mister” said Babatzakka. Outside the rain was falling on the desolate lands of the deep forests, over the rocky mountains, but not far from the grand river. In fact, it rained so much that when the smoker headed out the door, the wind and rain was so strong that he was almost carried away, for he was so thin, he weighted almost nothing. His legs were so skinny that the leggings served as sails. But a cosmic force held him back, it made him grab the handle of the door. The shopkeeper ran towards the smoker as fast as he could, Babatzakka running faster and caught the smoker in a beer-like hug. They rolled out on the street. “Get on my back!” cried the bear. The smoker jumped towards it, grabbing after something and got a grip of the fur. The wind roared, Babatzakka roared and ran as fast as he could back into the shop. The shopkeeper, with all his force, closed the door behind them. “What a furious wind!” he cried. “Incredible, never seen anything like it” replied Babatzakka. The smoker lay clenched on the floor, unable to breathe, caught between a breath and a cough. “Get him up, stand him up” said Babatzakka to the shopkeeper, who dragged the smoker’s arms open and carried him to the couch in the shop’s back room. There the smoker finally came back to consciousness.

10

We comforted some more: “We love you. A word here a word there. Carnival parade country lane. Turned to stone. Your own inside colourless. Every day a masterpiece. Now it is breathable but only now. Earlier today as well in the everyday. Screaming screaming screeeeeeeeaming. Not now not now holy cow holy owl holy moly. And yet this is incoherently un-fathomable difficult and hard. For the bones and for the arteries as well as the liver and life. For the person inside the mind, who is watching, interchangeably from close and afar. Who is experiencing the physical feeling of pain of the mind. And the loneliness of existence and distance between us. Lover and contemporary, human alike, good friends. And busy life, few times I met you. Stranger lover stranger lover. I love you.”

“Love has always been the creator of my happiness” was the first thing the smoker said. He coughed and then sat solemnly looking at the shopkeeper and Babatzakka. “Who are you, stranger?” he said. “I’ve never felt a presence such as yours before. And what is that dress you are wearing, what material is that?” Babatzakka, more and more worried that his visit to the desolate lands of the deep forests, over the rocky mountains, but not far from the grand river was turning into a major disaster, with serious risk of becoming a galactic joke, had no interest in drawing attention towards his actual origins, and so replied that this was not of any importance to the honourable shopkeeper and smoker, as he ran out the door, through the counter and out of the shop, his bear body tearing down a shelf of potato chips as he went. On the street, he teleported with a quiet beam into the sky, like a blinking star, disappearing in the sky. The smoker soon recovered and went to his apartment to sleep. The shopkeeper proceeded with cleaning and tidying the shop, sorting cans and other goods. The rain kept falling.

The rain fell and fell while visitors from other worlds kept appearing at the shopkeeper’s counter. The shopkeeper did not think much at first about these peculiar questions and interesting conversations suddenly being asked and held. He did not think too much about the rain either, as this had a soothing effect on his character. In fact, the people of the desolate lands of the deep forests, over the rocky mountains, but not far from the grand river were so attuned by nature, that when it rained, as it did often on the planet, they entered a (what on Earth best is called) hibernation-mode. This did not mean they were sleeping, or not present in some sense; they were in fact more present that when it did not rain. They simply relaxed and did not worry too much and had no expectations and no particular intentions more than making sure they were home in time for dinner and such obligatory activities. Rain to these people sounded like music does to the human brain, the falling of drops on different material being interpreted pre-attentively as tones. It wasn’t a matter of hit-songs, as we know music on Earth, but best described as a constantly evolving slow-like symphonic ambient soundtrack to their lives. The people from the desolate lands of the deep forests, over the rocky mountains, but not far from the grand river loved the rain. Maybe that is why the shopkeeper took so long to hear our words.

11

We promised: “Shopkeeper, you used to feel a lot, now you remember everything. This used to be life and death, now it’s a memory. It’s mysticism lingering in the face and one hundred percent occupancy of the wakeful hours. It’s a longing and a desire, it’s a purpose wanting to be fulfilled and placed in the future.”

“In the fifth dimension counted from time, three space and upwards, there sits a gigantic creature. It has two ears, one nose, a tail and prismatic shining eyes. Some speculate that this is the supreme being ordering the happenings of the universe” said the customer to the shopkeeper standing behind the counter.

“Yes, I’ve heard of that creature” said the shopkeeper.

“Do you know why I’m telling you this, shopkeeper?” asked the customer. The costumer had just stepped in from the pouring rain outside and was wearing a large rain coat in many colours and resembled so much the people of the planet and spoke like them that the shopkeeper was not alarmed by the customer’s questions or appearance. In the past weeks, while the rain was falling, there had been guests far more dubious than this one. The shopkeeper remembered them all. He had seen beings in shapes he’d never dreamt of talking about matters he’d never thought of. He wondered, of course, where all these new costumers came from, as on the planet of the desolate lands of the deep forests, over the rocky mountains, but not far from the grand river there were only two types of beings: people and animals. Though varying in faces and bodily proportions and such, all people resembled each other, like on Earth. So when for example Babatzakka made his now infamous visit to the shop, the shopkeeper somewhere inside of him asked what is going on. It was obvious to the shopkeeper that the bear was not from the planet; he had in his life so far only seen people and animals. But, lacking a reference, since not even TV or hologram shows showed other beings than the planet’s people, his internal resolution to the reality mismatch was ignorance and silence: yes, there had just been a bear in his shop, but now these apples need to be sorted by colour and put on the shelves. At the time the costumer asked the shopkeeper the question, the latter had not yet laid eyes on the new arrival to the shop; he had not even pondered the endless lines of curious customers coming to see him from beyond the world. He replied: “Yes, I’ve heard of that creature”, but when realising he had answered the wrong question he added: “Or what did you ask, dear friend?” Then the shopkeeper looked at the customer and in that instant stooped over the counter and placed his head on his hands, for he had just seen the most beautiful people he had ever seen. A cranky little nose and eyelids painted black, and long hairs and whiskers, no body, just that. “Coming now!” he yelled. Then he apologised.

“Would you like to come with me, shopkeeper? I want to show you the lands that I come from” said the customer and smiled. The shopkeeper was struck dumb trying to remember how this meeting had even started, and unable to move for he was paralysed by the customer’s appearance. The only recollection offered him from his neuronal ganglia was something about a creature. Alas, when the time window in which it is appropriate to reply was just about to end, he asked: “Is that where Mr Catalot lives?”

12

We travelled: “But like convalescence requires a break from the spires, so does my life when I’m staying with wife. I dream and dream, and sleep like a stone, and I pledge all my neurons to remain with the morons, and contrast this fate with lover’s dictate.”

One team after the other. The game was about creating a dream sextet of characters and play these through difficult dungeons. But the smoker never continued to the game. He went back to the character creation menu and made a new constellation. Of the billions of iterations, the smoker had brought at 300,000 brave heroes; tuned to perfection, all-ready for adventure and waiting for the door to open, but told that the whole thing is off. Like a waiter, waiting to wait. Like a table, standing on three legs. Like a water, floating without a surface. The smoker pondered these visions, and asked why a table is called a table, why his thoughts came mostly from the precuneus and why this area in the human brain was also denoted the quadrate lobule of Foville; and how could he even ponder the human brain when he was not aware of the existence of humans; who made him think these thoughts; who were inserting thoughts into his brain; who was controlling him… The smoker was all worked up and sweating, his heart pounding as he felt every question going around and around in his blood stream, from his brain to the blood, through his one-chambered pump station, all the way out in the tail; through his eyes and unto the walls, up in the air and out amongst the stars: who was out there, who was calling him, what did they want? Suddenly: It’s time to go for a ride, smoker The smoker ignored the voice. Can you hear us, smoker? It’s time to go… The smoker looked around the room, frozen in fearful anticipation. This voice somehow seemed more real than the ones he talked to habitually, and it was not screaming about death and decay. He stood up, through an inner force, mounted from years of isolation and loneliness, grasping for something, something new. “Yes? Who is it?” he said. The room was silent. “Who is it? Where are we going?”

13

The shopkeeper and the smoker. Hand in hand, following the beautiful people whom the shopkeeper’s in love with and the smoker’s never met. Through the atmosphere, past the gas planet with orthogonal solar collectors, to the left through the asteroid belt with living rock monsters. Appearing before them a portal. Through the portal, with everything shifting in colour and colours they’ve never perceived before, and fireworks. Two lefts and a right. Up a spiral staircase. Past two tinmen and an ox with thousands of ant followers. Behind a curtain, behind another curtain, the beautiful people hushing “come on, come on, quiet, quiet”. Past little babies sleeping and snoring in the night. Out again unto a galactic highway, vehicles soaring above in near luminal speed, cosmic creatures waving, cosmic pets barking, cosmic spirits enlightening the path set before the trio. “Make a right here, then fifty minutes ahead until you reach a sign saying nothing and past that for thirty thousand years”. On and on, on and on, the trio turning into radiation to get past the guards at the blasting suns, and into water to evaporate past the thousand-yard gate, and into stone to wait for the General’s endless armies. When they arrive, they join and fight wars for as long as anyone can remember, and leave in a hurry to catch the ferry to the lonesome star at the very outermost location of the lonesome galaxy. Here, they finally arrive at the final portal… in this universe, for now they transcend matter and time and are dispersed in the universe. From here, they can see everything. “Look” yells the shopkeeper. “There’s our planet!” He points down through glass matter unto the planet. “Yes” yells the smoker. “There’s the planet with the desolate lands of the deep forests, over the rocky mountains, but not far from the grand river! Our home!” Up here they could see themselves. The smoker started to sing:

I was waiting for something to happen

I was teenage-angst

I wanted someone to save me

I was crying every night

I was just getting started

Crying, crying, crying

About the sudden death of Mozart

The shopkeeper, perplexed, asked who Mozart was, but the smoker could not answer. Come said the voice of the beautiful people. Suddenly they were overlooking a short man at a piano. He was wearing a red jacket and white suspenders, his fingers frenetically hitting the keys. Sounds were heard, as the keys were pressed, surrounding the trio in outer-dimensional space. “That is… remarkable” said the smoker. “What is that?” exclaimed the shopkeeper. On a little planet called Earth, this is called music, same as you know from the rain said the voice. “It’s beautiful!” cried the shopkeeper and the smoker in stereo. Feelings emerged in them, feelings never felt before: abstract constructs of beauty and life, of wisdom and lessons learnt, of loss and gain, and love and death. “It makes we want to cry” said the shopkeeper as tears began rolling down his cheeks. The smoker was motionless, his mind as clear as an empty sky, the music like the rays of a sun.

And so it was that our beloved planet Earth and its inhabitants entered the realm of the shopkeeper, the smoker and our story. But Earth did not, mind you, dear reader, enter the realm of the galaxy, for what we have just portrayed was not evident to the increasingly famous reality show’s many viewers; for what they saw while our two heroes and their benefactor were out of this world, dispersed in the universe, was “Ox’s Boxes – two for one, buy one and get one free, special offer now, remember to bring your friends to get our exclusive one-time only offer of three packs for the price of two, buy now, etc, etc”, or “Smoker’s delight, for your pleasure only, buy one and get one half-price, bring your friends to participate in our exclusive competition to win a trip to Smoker’s delight planet where you get to smoke all you can in one hour, etc, etc.” Earth, yes, for what was known about Earth in the universe was of course not very much, given the latter’s incredible size and vast distances and numerous people. But for some, Earth was known, and it was so for its music. Mozart was played across the galaxy and beyond, Beethoven too, though few could pinpoint the divine origin. In fact, the people of the planet Earth were known to be particularly talented at conveying feelings through complex patterns of tones. Granted, as we have seen, some civilizations were accustomed to and enjoyed far more complex sound patterns in terms of tones per minute, randomness and such, but when it came to portraying a feeling – simple as that – Earth was unrivalled. We like to think that a feeling is a phenomenon present in every being with a neuronal mass (brain, ganglia, artificial, etc.), but say that to the Robots of Andromeda or to the monsters of the peak, for what is a feeling but an irrational prediction of the being’s current or coming external state, and what good has a feeling ever done in terms of raw survival and galactic warfare. For example, the glorious empire of the Trekplots felt too much and was way too busy talking about how they felt about the weather, each other and food and was crushed when the Cobolts came upon them from nowhere in a furious rush. And what is love anyway and what purpose could it possibly have in a cruel anonymous universe, and how can a people from one planet feel love towards a people from another planet, and what’s the benefit of that, etc., etc.

14

The shopkeeper and the smoker and their beloved benefactor not only visited Earth, but also Tin, Tan, Ton, the great Alpz, Rocky Rockrock, Wider Wideraam, and many, many other exemplifiable worlds and societies throughout the universe. Traveling was easy in the outer dimensions, done merely through intention and will, qualities the trio had plenty of. On Earth, amont other things, as we shall see, they learnt about music, for that was the most formidable example of such available. On Tin, Tan, Ton, the famous three sister planets, they learnt about humility. Hovering over a piazza filled with young inhabitants from Tin, Tan, Ton, they witnessed a curious activity. To understand in what sense the activity was curious and what part humility played, the reader needs to know a thing or two about customs on Tin, Tan, Ton. You see, dear reader, Tin, Tan, Ton were such old planets that customs and behaviour had been fine-tuned and evolved through millions of years, from generation to generation in aeternum, into what can best be described as mannerisms. For example, when greeting, on Tin, it was expected that the people seeing the to-be-greeted people first, quickly raise their middle hand three times and say Oo-Ii-Aa and then turn around four times. This greeting had to be executed in less than three seconds, or else it was regarded rude. In fact, on Tin, it was the greatest insult, akin to a declaration of war, to let this manoeuvre exceed two seconds; on Tan, which was located further away from the star and consequently had a slightly longer orbit, the time limit was four seconds. Ton, being the furthest away, had a similar greeting, but here, the to-be-greeted had to, by their best ability, foresee the meeting and themselves make the greeting backwards in less than five seconds. Throughout the ages, when the three planets reached space-travelling age and made their first contacts, these complicated greetings became tuned to each other. The first contact ever between Tin and Tan resulted in a catastrophe when Iglakropf from Tin and Uglakripf from Tan began greeting each other according to their home-planets’ customs: Iglakropf became furious when Uglakripf took three and a half second to conduct the greeting, and proceeded with striking his sword into the rude stranger. When Okklarupf from Ton came along a bit later, rotating and waving his hands as best as he could, trying to foresee his species’ first meeting with an alien lifeform, Iglakropf was stunned by the ridiculous view, and did not know how to proceed: this stranger was constantly greeting, thus making it impossible to measure the duration of the gesture. Iglakropf now realized his mistake in killing Uglakripf and in a subsequent speech to his planet stated that anyone from the peaceful and fantastic planet Tan was allowed to greet in more than two seconds without this being a declaration of war. Visitors from Ton, Iglakropf proceeded, were constantly greeting and could therefore not be expected to wage war. But, war came: the people of Ton eventually became tired of playing the role of ignorant, always-greeting, always-friendly, always-happy fools and, after having prepared for a thousand years or so, invaded Tan and forced all its people to adopt the greeting procedures of the almighty invaders: greet before you meet, anticipate the future and adopt accordingly. The kingdoms of Tan, wary that they might be next in line, secretly flew a mighty armada of spaceships and robotic marauders to Ton, invaded, and forced the people of Ton to meet, then greet: observe the present and act accordingly. So, much like on Earth where young empires were trying their luck and showing their might and eventually reached a status-quo where every kingdom was equally powerful and only cold wars could be waged, Tin, Tan, Ton finally saw peace after 10,000 years of invasions and forced greeting-manoeuvres. The practical result was an intricate network of rules and implications bound in the way greetings were performed. It was considered good manners and a display of character to foresee a meeting, and conduct the greeting beforehand, but it was not an insult if this was not possible. If so, the greeter should try to conduct the Tin-Tan greeting in less than three seconds, but again, if this was not possible it was not a declaration of war, but was rather interpreted as the greeter having a bad day, or being tired, etc. Hostility was never implicated, Tin, Tan, Ton being an ancient civilization after all; the way of peace and harmony had since long been established as the sound and correct way of living. Nevertheless, the people of Tin, Tan, Ton being ancient, genetic mutations and hereditary conditions were still prevalent so that a people from the three sister planets could have bad luck and catch cancer, be born with autism, or develop schizophrenia, etc., just like on Earth. Hjeklarep, a young university student from Ton, had disabilities. Hjeklarep had worked hard to obtain good grades and was accepted into one of the most prestigious colleges on Tan, despite having what we on Earth refer to as obsessive compulsory disorder. On Earth, this condition often takes its form as frequently controlling that the oven is turned off, or repetition of phrases etc., but you can imagine, dear reader, that on Tin, Tan, Ton, with all the fuzz about greeting and all, this condition could potentially cause some trouble. The shopkeeper, the smoker and their beloved benefactor was hovering just above when Hjeklarep was turning a corner of one of the university buildings, anticipating a meeting, turning around, waving his middle hand, saying Oo-Ii-Aa, turning around again, Ii-Oo-Aa, waving the hand, turning around, out across the piazza, turning around, waving his hand, Ii-Oo-Aa, in one uninterpretable gesture witnessed by all the other students on break from the classes, eating a pizza, drinking a soda, chatting, greeting and gesturing: and out comes Hjeklarep, now screaming AA-OO-II and spinning across the piazza, waving his hand at everyone: OO-AA-II. The students of the Greater University of Tin, Tan, Ton on lunch break that day displayed great humility when they stood up and greeted Hjeklarep according to customs.

The shopkeeper scratched his bald forehead. The smoker lit a cigarette, which the beloved benefactor quickly made disappear into vacuum. Now you see, humility is acceptance she said. “Yes, because on our planet, someone is humble if they let others sneak before them in the line even if they are in a hurry themselves” said the shopkeeper. “Or if someone is the best at a computer game, but let others play as well” said the smoker. “Exactly” said the shopkeeper and continued: “I am one of the best at ping-pong, but I would let my friend play as well if he should come visit.”

15

Calm and rain reigned on the desolate lands of the deep forests on a far-away planet, over the rocky mountains, but not far from the grand river. The people of the planet went about their daily doings, enjoying each other’s company, humming to the music of the rain, and thought not much about what was going on in the galaxy and beyond, where momentous pendulums were swinging. Mrs Gaberock, an aged senior, previously hair doer and gardener, was the first to enter the shop since the show for unknown reasons had been interrupted by commercial. The galactic audience had become furious that their favourite show had been replaced by commercial, and now, after one whole day of “Ox’s Boxes, the best a smoker can get” and “Smoker’s delight, it feels so right”, viewers were beginning to turn from the show towards other similar reality shows (for the reader shall know there were many of the kind). There was much speculation as to what had caused the interruption. Over dinner tables heated arguments were held about the actual origins of the mysterious being entering the shop and immediately starting conversation with the shopkeeper. Was it not so, that the shopkeeper had been struck blind by the stranger, much like he was when this whole row started when the shopkeeper met the smoker and their eyes aligned and the galaxy went wild? Some said yes, this is peculiar, and some said no, it was simply a disconnection problem and technicians were working on it. But this latter argument raised even more questions, for who were the technicians and who were they working for, and who was responsible for this show anyway? From the high towers, the momentous pendulums swinging, turning and twisting in dark power, gigantic galactic structures, hordes of androids and starfleets, orders were given to investigate what had caused the interruption, but all reports came back empty-handed: there was no information available. When probes were sent through mainstream and alternative information channels, it seemed as if there was someone replying (a simple No) but all other queries were ignored. The show had gone to commercial and that was that. Since no-one knew who was broadcasting the show, it was not possible to find the switch and turn it back on again. Everyone, from critter to master, agreed: something was astray with this reality show. In a universe governed by the laws of physics and rational minds, where mystery was something of dreams, the show from the desolate lands of the deep forests on a far-away planet, over the rocky mountains, but not far from the grand river exhibited unexplainable properties. What was even more daunting was that almost everyone in the galaxy and beyond, from critter to master, had become concerned about our two heroes: how can it be, in a chaotic and endless universe, where wars are fought and planets blown up every second, where absolute power is something unattainable but eternally sought, and where the dark lords could not care less about their inferiors, how can it be that the eyes of these dark lords, of all that power, are turned towards two seemingly silly souls, totally unaware of the stir their innocent actions had caused? To the common people, the shopkeeper and the smoker were TV-stars and heroes, defying the oppressive rituals of everyday life through their mere existence. To the masters, demigods and self-conscious malefic artificial intelligences, the circumstances under which the shopkeeper and the smoker rose to galactic fame were eerie. It was not supposed to be possible and, even worse, it had been impossible to stop. As for the good forces in the universe, at first the farting prime time television was mostly entertainment, though some questioned the moral aspects. But when the shopkeeper met the smoker and started the mystery, keepers of order, peace and harmony, etc., became concerned too. Somehow noticing this, the galactic press was fast to pitch the narrative, towards a battle, between good and evil, bright and dark, just like the legends would have it.

Mrs Gaberock entered the shop and hung her raincoat on the hanger on the door, whose doorbell rang as it closed. “Good day” she exclaimed and expected the shopkeeper’s jolly “Coming soon”, but was met by silence: the shop appeared to be empty.

16

Mrs Gaberock rushed out of the shop and out on the street, yelling in the rain: “He’s gone, he’s gone, the shopkeeper is not in his shop!” The commotion caught attention and people opened their windows to see what the yelling was about. “Who’s gone? What’s going on?” they yelled at Mrs Gaberock. “The shopkeeper’s gone, he’s not in his shop, it’s empty!” she cried. She ran through the whole town, stopped at the corners and at the squares, telling everyone that the town’s beloved shopkeeper was not in his shop or to be found anywhere. In a town on a planet where nothing’s really happening, a shopkeeper gone missing is grand news indeed, and soon most of the town was gathered outside the shop. A long line formed, people clad in raincoats, so that everyone could see for themselves that the shopkeeper was not in the shop. People looked behind the counter, under the sofa, behind the shelves, even removed the beer refrigerators to see if the shopkeeper possibly had fell and got stuck behind. But he was nowhere. The smoker was gone too, but this nobody noticed, for living an isolated and lonely life, the smoker’s only friend was in fact the shopkeeper, and this only since very recently.

“Look at all the people standing in the rain” said the smoker. “They’re looking for you, they seem to love you.”

“Yes, I’ve always liked my customers, and they me” replied the shopkeeper sincerely. “They’re looking for you too” he added. “No they’re not. I’ve seen all these people from my window. They’ve never seen me” said the smoker with an abandoned face. “I would have looked for you. I expect you every other day, so if you would not show up in two days, I would have looked for you” said the shopkeeper, smilingly adding: “And if I would have looked for you, I’m sure some of all the people down there would as well!”

The smoker was unsure what to reply to that illogical argument. If seriously meant, the shopkeeper was implying some sort of non-dualistic worldview where his qualities where shared with other people; his will with the will of others. The smoker needn’t reply for suddenly, a people departed from the line and stepped in on one of the side streets. “Where is he going?” shouted the shopkeeper. “Let’s follow him!” The person, a rather fat, middle-aged one, made its way among the streets in the town while the shopkeeper and the smoker hovered in silence as they observed the person walk straight to the smoker’s apartment and knock on the door. There being no-one to open, the people left the building and entered a bar to order a drink and sit down at a table reading a newspaper. “What the… what was that person doing?” cried the shopkeeper. He was looking for the smoker said the beloved benefactor. Isn’t that right? “Yes… that’s my apartment. I live there”, said the smoker, more confused than he’d even been. “Ha ha, well there you go!” laughed the shopkeeper excitedly. “Someone is looking for you! And when they don’t find you, it won’t be long before the whole town is talking about it, and me, and wondering where we’ve been when we come back, and then we have to tell them a story.” He stopped to think for a second. “I mean, where are we even?! We need to make up a story as soon as we come back. Something about a long trip to the coast, or to Fantasyland, you know the famous theme park. You know which one I mean?”

17

Like an orange ball of fire sinking into the river, the sun set over the planet. It had been a hectic day for the townspeople. It had been the most disturbing day that anyone could remember. An institution, as granted as the rhythm of day and night and joy and sorrow, was gone without explanation. For every face, the very moment entering the shop seeking the shopkeeper and not finding him there, reality had evaporated. Like the water licked by the sun, eternal waves of common items and safe routines had been burnt and vanished in the air. Imagine, reader, you go out the door every day to get your bike but one day the bike is not there. You have your coffee in your cup, helmet on head occupied with thoughts about the setting day: startled you will look at where the bike used to be. Breaking of common day never occurred on the planet, for life was settled, calm, predictable and this was how the people had got to know it. The company had made it so, it was said. There being no natural enemies or dangerous predators on this side of the great river, much like the Dodo on Earth, the people were naïve and fearless, ignorant of danger and surprise. In fact, evolution, the company, or what had put the people on the planet, for no-one, inhabitant or viewer alike, really knew, had made it so that the people’s reaction towards surprises was a form of shutdown. Remember, reader, when the shopkeeper met the beloved benefactor, he became thought-, speech- and motionless, finally asking about Mr Catalot. The town did not shut down completely, but the people grew tired, slow-like, stopped their daily activities and mostly just stood there, looking at the sky, watching the time, talking to the pigoens. No-one could really understand that the shopkeeper was gone, nay, could not even contemplate it. Every now and then, someone forgot or neglected and entered the shop, which was still open, for there was no-one to close it, but upon realizing the curious fact disturbing reality, they left the shop again and continued on in the rain, or remained in it, not going home until soaking wet, or not going home at all. Time halted, the rain kept falling and life as the people knew it ceased to exist and this without an explanation. Granted, people were still going to work, the economy was still rolling, but zombies, as we know them on Earth, are the best description for what the people had become. And the rain fell and fell.

It had now been two weeks of commercial for the galactic viewers. The stocks of Ox’s Boxes and Smoker’s Delight had gone up and down depending on which commercial happened to be the catchiest, but as the ratings plummeted and viewers turned to other reality shows, and rational entities as the galactic stock markets were, the values of the two cigarette brands settled on their usual levels, and this whole spectacle was just about to be forgotten when the show suddenly came back on air again. The viewers still lingering on were exposed to greatly disturbing images of starving, confused people wandering the streets aimlessly. The galaxy was, once again, in shock.

18

“Life is like a slow waltz with hinders on the floor and shoelaces tied in a knot. Rhythm and melody is pounding from the orchestra, and when it’s going for the chorus, you must move faster, for that’s what every other dancing couple is doing, and the hall is filled to the brink.” Thus explained Mozart’s best friend’s cousin’s step-brother life to his pony. The pony only knew a few words of German and was mostly thinking about hay, so this moment of clarity was lost in the whirlwind of time sweeping everything away. He’s lost in the past and more than forgotten, never having been known. Hazy thoughts, deprived of rational clarity characterize the human mind most of the time. Constantly seeking truth and expecting there to be one, frustration and anger precedes many an action. I cannot offer you clarity, reader, for my life is muzzled in mud and far too often noble intention is overcome by existential dread and self-doubt. Maybe I had the fire there in the past and maybe I will receive it again through honest endeavour and a clean soul drenched in tar and dirt. It does not matter, dear reader, for I must soon proceed with my task at hand, which is to imprint in ink and portray in paint what went down in the galaxy when the shopkeeper met the smoker.

During the two weeks of commercial blackout, the two heroes and their mysterious guide were not present in the three dimensions of space, nor in time. Where and how they went, that is, what technology made their travels possible, I of course cannot tell you, this due to lack of knowledge. What they did while being there, on the other hand, I can tell you, for this I must, as per the task given to me. Who gave me the task, who gave me the circumstances and consequences, you must ask: this I hope will be clear when I’ve laid down my pen.

After their visit to Tin, Tan, Ton where they learnt about humility, the trio set out for space again. Traveling tangential to the dimensions, and independent of time, they arrived at the planet of Yaar. Yaar is one of the oldest planets in the beautiful Taarak solar system, which contains over one hundred planets orbiting a star fifty times the size of the Sun. Here they were to learn about ambition. Flipping through the pages of time, through times of hardship and war, through peace and enlightenment, the beloved benefactor stopped at an epoch which reached its heights some five thousand years from now, whenever that is, for in the universe, everything is relative, as Einstein discovered. The epoch is known as “The Lazy Epoch”, for reasons which will soon be clear to the reader.

“The Lazy Epoch” was a time remembered for its many great inventions, works of art and progress in general. To an earthen of the day, this sounds paradoxical, begging the question how an epoch known for its advances came to be associated with laziness. It all started with King Kong, an eccentric heir to the Gtong-lineage who assumed power when his mother Queen Konga went down with stress at the young age of 45,000. Kong, having seen his mother like that, for you know what I mean, reader, when I talk about stress, made the vow to never venture down that path himself. Accordingly, he made it into law that the path between two points, be that aim and goal, observation and theory, home and guest, tone and chord, idea and patent, etc., must always be the longest, for seeking the shortest path equals being efficient and this in turn paves the way for stress. The people were confused by the new law, but sought to live by it, for while it looked absurd at first glance, there was something appealing about it. The first large sector where the effect of the law could be seen was the economy. Before, it had been short-sighted, impulsive and risky, seeking quick deals and destabilizing society. Soon it became slow, in it for the long run, making safe investment far into the future. This, in turn, prevented bubbles and stock market crashes and provided for a stable housing market and honest banks. The investment sharks, previously on central stimulants and awake around the clock where now seen drinking tea seated in comfortable armchairs. “Take your time”, they said. “This investment needs time to grow. We have to make sure we are not rushing it. The time from investment to gain must be the longest possible, remember.” The education system was affected too. Pupils were previously encouraged to strive for the best marks, to make outstanding efforts and achievements and to try to be the absolute best, and consequently out-rival their peers. This according to King Kong in essence barbaric system was soon replaced by quite the opposite. “Take your time” the teacher said. “There is no use doing today what you can do better tomorrow when you have had some time to think it through and got a good night’s sleep.” But science was the greatest beneficiary. Post-docs and senior scientists, living from paper to paper, now had time to actually think about what they were doing. Being forbidden by law to simplify their arguments, the clash between this and the scientific method required tedious creative processing which often resulted in new discoveries about assumed facts. Artists, musicians and painters alike, already accustomed to the idea that great things can’t be rushed, felt encouraged by the new way of doing things and naturally increased their output of art. It was not long before King Kong was hailed as the greatest King the planet had ever had, and the civilization entered a golden age.

But there was more to it than that. For while King Kong was watching his people prosper he had time to make some observations which he put into a book entitled “King Kong’s Lazy Book - arguments for laziness”. And while it is beyond the scope of this story to retell all of King Kong’s arguments, there being over 15,000 of them, there is a certain essence, a certain old and wise notion about laziness in the context of ambition, which the mysterious being thought it good that the shopkeeper and the smoker understood. “Why must we learn about that?” asked the shopkeeper to which the being did not reply.

19

King Kong met his first wife, a beggar and a prostitute, coming riding on a high horse through the narrow streets of Xemxem, the prosperous capital of Yaar. Noticing her agony and she being the most beautiful person he’d met so far, he reasoned:

“I have come across beauty shining through filth and therefore it is my duty to restore the item to its natural surroundings. What is there that is more worth than helping a fellow being which cannot be measured in silver and gold. When I drink from my cup at the castle, how can I ponder the shiny interior while not shedding a tear over what is seen in plain sight outside the walls.”

Thus King Kong made it his ambition to obtain the wife and resettle her in the castle, and turn her life from dirt to gold. At this point, King Kong had not yet settled for the lazy lifestyle for he had not yet deemed it superior to the traditional Yaarian way of hard work and no rest. And one cannot take a fish and place it on soil and expect it to breathe. The wife, coming from the rough environs of the streets, used to living from day to day, forced to ask for coins and offer dirty services to get food, etc. etc., found difficulties in her new role as Queen. King Kong had not thought much of this transition and approached it with the attitude that to fulfil his ambition of making the beggar and whore a Queen, he should get right at it with all his might and energy. He thus woke the wife up before dawn and dragged her to the throne, where she had a quick breakfast after which she had a tight schedule to follow for the rest of the day. Needless to say, this endeavour had the opposite effect of expectation, the wife finding it traumatic and starting to recede into herself. And the more the wife refused, the more King Kong pressured on. The wife started to have crazy fits, throwing silver cups and chairs at King Kong, and he soon began to think that another strategy was necessary. But he could not think of one!

“I have taken the witch from the horrors to heaven, and given her careful instructions as to her behaviour, privileges and expectations, and yet I have not an elegant lovely lady by my side, but a crying baby. I have tried with all my might, power and wisdom but failed.”

King Kong sat down to think hard and long but could not reach a solution.

“Maybe it is time I remain sitting and do nothing.”

That he did. The Queen, happy with being left to herself, began wandering the castle on tours of exploration and slowly, at her own pace, came to terms with her new life. Soon, she approached the throne where King Kong were still sitting. “I like it like this” she said with a smile.

King Kong at first could not see how this change in the wife had come about, and did not ascribe it to his passiveness. He contemplated it:

“How can a lack of action bring about change? It’s true that if I have three race horses, and two run while one remains standing at the starting line, that horse is, technically, at the finishing line before the two running horses, if the finishing line is the same as the starting line. And what is the overall purpose of a horse running a lap if not mere entertainment. So, if I can find joy in watching a horse standing still at a line, the running of the lap is in vain, and will in fact cost me money, for the running horse will be hungrier than the resting horse.”

It slowly dawned upon King Kong that what had made his wife happy was that he had let her be alone. The revelation made him euphoric: he had brought about great change by not doing anything at all! If this principle could be applied to other aspects of life, the amount of time and money to be saved would be incalculable.

“This I am so happy to hear” cried King Kong in reply to the Queen and a five-day festival on the outskirts of Yaar was held to celebrate the rise of the king from the throne.

King Kong was in a frenzy and began experimenting. Disguised in peasant clothing, and stirring the locals by getting them drunk and turning them against each other, he started a brawl in a tavern. He ordered the guards not to intervene. According to his principle, the fight would resolve itself without intervention from the authorities, and this it did: three peasants and a dog soon lay beaten on the ground and no guards were hurt.

While these two observations were in line with King Kong’s hypothesis that being passive could bring change, he soon discovered other areas where it was not true. King Kong was an avid player of the flute, an instrument prevalent in the universe, and here he noticed that refraining from practise, while sometimes pleasant, did not make a better musician. Likewise, ordering his peasants to not work did not make the hay grow faster. King Kong was puzzled: what were the properties of the instances where being lazy was beneficial to the outcome? Was it only when acting together with other beings? People could make decisions, and these could be based on the absence of a protagonist, whereas things and animals needed action to be used for something. Alas, King Kong’s strongest proof against the opposite of lazy, over-productive, was that this had brought his honourable mother, Queen Konga, to destruction. King Kong began taking notes in his book, and ordered the law which started the “The Lazy Epoch”. He never reached a conclusion though, for maybe the problem of laziness versus over-production is not so easily solved and maybe nobody knows the solution. King Kong had the strongest case against the opposite of lazy, and he used this and experimental observations to create a law that would transform society: the criminalization of efficacy.

The common galaxy adventurer is used to another strong argument against over-production: the destruction of nature. This traveller also knows that many civilizations, when faced with the dilemma, rise to the challenge and transcend to the next stage of living. And indeed, when the time came, King Kong’s descendants had a much easier time than many other planets’ people in transforming society when technology allowed for a balance between production and nature.

The beloved benefactor moved behind the two protagonists and began speaking. The shopkeeper and the smoker turned around to face her. The common space traveller is lazy, not in actions, for what needs to be done gets done, but in ambition. “So when I try to be the best in ping-pong, am I not a common space traveller?” asked the shopkeeper. You are not a space traveller yet. “So when I sit and watch people on the square, am I a space traveller?” asked the smoker. You need to stop smoking said the beloved benefactor.

20

Back on the planet things were going haywire. Shocked by the scenes of zombie-like creatures and chaos and mayhem, visitors from the galaxy and beyond had arrived, and when confirming that the local people were harmless, soon begun establishing forts and strongholds on the picturesque countryside. Well aware that this area too was captured and broadcast, there was not much activity, a few tradesmen and lone ramblers travelling the country roads. In fact, most viewers thought the scenes boring and relatively quickly changed to channels with other views, angles and narratives. In fact, since the show had returned after the 2-week blackout when the shopkeeper and the smoker went missing, ratings had dropped considerably. Being a galactic reality show, it is beyond the scope of this work to speculate on the actual number of viewers lost to the company, or whatever it was that was responsible for the occurrences on the planet. Mrs Gaberock, perhaps due to her being the first customer to enter the empty shop, was the only sane one left of the local people, most of them wandering around blindly in forests and on highways. She ran from camp to camp, set up by representatives from different galactic factions or private entities, and just like she had always done back when things were as they’ve always been, offered cake and tea amorously grown in her own garden. A few channels, off to make a fast and steady earning, begun broadcasting shows aimed at elderly people with titles such as “Grandma’s cake and tea tour” or “Mrs Gaberock bringing cake and tea to her friends” and soon gained a devoted core of viewers throughout the galaxy.

21

It was on all the channels that one day the elderly people came walking down a forest path in early spring, humming a song about the incredible disappearance of the bald shopkeeper and his cigarette-smoking companion. The chorus was “Coming now, coming now, the shopkeeper and the smoker are coming now” sang in a cheerful melody. Each round ended with a three-time slap of the tail, the dust on the worn trail between the millions of trees in early blossom swirling around the woman.

“Cake and tea” she yelled as she approached the port of one of the fortresses now spotted everywhere on the planet. Camera close-up: “Cake and tea!” The port opened silently and she went in. “Hello. Cake and tea for everyone. Cake and tea. ”

However, as had happened many times before, nobody replied.

THE END (for now, see you later)

“Hardship” 1st draft - a serious chronoloical attempt doomed to fail but blending in nicely with the rest

‘There are good ships, wood ships, ships that sail the sea, but the best ships are hardships – may they always be’

I first met Henry one Friday afternoon when he came running with a hat in his hand lifted above his crazy head, waving and shouting, at times shrieking ‘come all, come you, we go to Deep’ and following him a small crowd in conversation and buzzing, drinking from beer bottles and hurrying behind this strange young man Henry in plain clothes shouting ‘come one, come all’. I was standing in line to another place but upon seeing the commotion coming across the street, I left the queue and followed it to the club, known for its 90’s karaoke and late hours. I remember thinking that it felt strange to go indoors with such a lovely weather outside; to choose the beer and stench of urine for the summer outdoors; to proceed to the late hours by skipping the start; to decline the sunset in the park on a blanket or the looking at busy girls with backpacks on bikes on the hot streets or streetlights and horns and everything else of life waiting at the ends and corners of the dawning city night. But no, Henry was that way, and though he on several occasions swore his love to humanity and everything living on the planet, he often preferred his own or to be in a small company, perhaps to from there, from that spot, bar or place under a tree, observe what he claimed to loved so much. In Deep he sat down in a corner in the karaoke room and some of his followers sat down beside him and others went to fetch beer at the bar. When Henry got his beer he immediately took two large drinks from it and placed the glass on the table. He crossed his legs and looked around the room. Somebody was singing the karaoke. Suddenly Henry stood up and approached one of the bartenders, who kept the queue, and said something into his ear. The bartender turned and looked Henry in the face, replied something which I could not hear over the music but could read from the lips: ‘Good choice.’ This puzzles me to this day (and I think it will puzzle you too, dear reader): why the bartender had an opinion on Henry’s choice of song. Take to this the looks he gave Henry, of awe and surprise, of recognition, as if Henry was renowned. As if he was some kind of superstar worthy of respect and special treatment. I’m telling you, dear reader, and it is my task to reveal it to you, that something was going on in that karaoke room that summer evening. Among Henry’s followers or among those who flocked around him as he entered the club were people speaking English and other languages, people dressed like pirates, and a girl with large blue eyes and blonde hair longer than her waist. “No poison” it said on a sign held by a young man with a System Of A Down sweater. I stood in the opposite corner close to the small stairs which led into the intimate karaoke chamber as Henry entered the light of the scene. He looked focused with his eyes turned to the floor and standing still as if he only waited for the music to begin, knowing all eyes were on him. When the song came on, he didn’t dance or even stamp his foot but slowly raised the microphone to his mouth: ‘You always say, that you wanna be free. But you come running back, you come running back, to me, me, me. T-i-i-i-me is on my side, yes it is!’ Some stood up and joined the song, others were looking around nervously. After Henry had finished his performance he walked off the stage and headed towards me as I stood near the stairs. Some of his followers stood up and followed him into the main floor of the club. I watched him from a distance. At one point an old black man came up to Henry. I don’t know what they were talking about but it looked like the man requested something of Henry but Henry didn’t understand him. The man left the bar in anger. Henry looked after him and looked behind him where I was standing but he did not see me.

Let it thus be known: Henry moved, climbed and fell down mountains. Henry dreamt of, feared and faced God’s wrath and love. Henry was humiliated and glorified. Henry was almost killed more than once and reborn a thousand times.

Part 1

‘The 72 steps towards it’

1

Henry was born on the twentieth of August in the year 9986 outside a small country town in the NE part of Scania, now of Sweden, but before, for thousands of years, of Denmark, the country finally losing its province ‘for the nobles and their serfs’ to the Swedes at the peace of Roskilde in 1658. What followed the takeover was a century of hardship for the starving peasant population, which not only had to endure higher taxes and worse life conditions, but also had to learn the enemies’ language and forget their own, through reprints of the Holy Bible in Swedish, translated law books &c, and as with many other stories of bravery and transformation, it all started with a depression. Henry had read one semester at the University of København where he was studying medicine because he had decided he should become a doctor even though he had no idea – other than a naïve one nourished by TV-series, Doctor Zhivago and Anton Tjechov – what a doctor was. Henry was not Danish and coming as a foreigner to Denmark can be hard, even if you come from a former Danish province. Some people are good at adapting in that they can stretch their personalities, acquire new means of expressions, mimic the humor and tone of the locals and by doing so are easier accepted as one of the group. Henry was not this type of person. He was a hard nut who burned himself with cigarettes to prove his worth. He was a punk rocker and even in his own society growing up was he something of an outsider, though not an outcast, more of a James Dean sort of dangerous type. In short, a dark mysterious figure. Henry did not lack the competence needed to thrive in a group. In fact he was liked by most people he met, but something was crippling in him, a monster was silently screaming and waiting to be born, his panic attacks becoming more frequent during this first year. The student life with high consumption of alcohol was partly to blame and everybody knows the blues after a night of too much drinking. Henry felt it every Saturday and Sunday that year. He even began to experience proper abstinences, his heart pounding when he went to bed and when he finally fell asleep he woke bathing in sweat, dreaming that he was falling.

2

Oh dear reader, had Henry only skipped some of the parties, had he only taken up his regular jogging trips which he used to love so much, then, perhaps, I would not be telling you this story. Alas, Henry remembered – or rather, did not remember – nights at the student pub kissing some girl he’d never asked the name of, or falling on the bike and hitting the head waking up the next morning with bruises and missing shoes and things in his pockets he’d never seen before. Monday it was classes again. It took a few days to get the biochemistry of the body right so that by Wednesday he started feeling like himself again: hours in the auditorium listening to lectures about the human anatomy, the physiology of the kidneys, the sodium potassium pump, taking notes, looking at girls and friendly classmates, fetching coffee in the breaks, eating lunch in the canteen, talking about where he came from and why he had decided to move to København to study medicine. Henry explained: ‘Before I moved here I studied mathematics and physics in England but I realized I did not want a life in front of a computer screen or as a teacher or working for a bank, so I decided to follow my next dream, to become a doctor, and I never studied biology in college so I could not be admitted to the Swedish universities, which is almost impossible anyway since so many students achieve the maximum average marks so that when you apply you get a number in a queue, for example number 500 which means there are 499 people before you with the exact same scores, yet some people try for years before they are admitted and besides, coming from Skåne, København was always my capital and I went here many times in high school, spending all my allowance on jazz clubs and riding the train back to Kristianstad in the morning.’ His classmates looked at him and they looked at each other and smiled. He was funny this one, they thought. The girls thought he was cute. Later, when Henry retook his studies after having dropped out, thus becoming a newcomer in the class, the girls all decided to call him Jason and they all had a crush on him, or so Henry perceived it and I believe him, dear reader, for he was good looking, and even more so before he lost his hair. For many years Henry used to reminiscence about that time one of the girls suddenly came straight from the bar and jumped on him sitting in a chair and remained sitting in his lap waiting for him to kiss her. But Henry was troubled then – his troubles had just begun – and he was in love with a phantom, his heart was promised, chained and bound, so he never took the offer and after some awkward seconds the girl stepped off and sat down beside her friend instead.

3

Henry remembered kissing a dentistry student and receiving her number. He lived in the NW quarters of København and it was in 2009 and the area was troubled by a war between the biker gangs. Henry remembered biking to medical school and the road being closed because the gangs had been shooting at each other during the night and made bullet holes in the buildings. Henry lived with a friend in a newly-built apartment which was actually meant for middle- to high-earning couples but they got it for a low rent because the rest of the complex was not finished yet. Each day Henry came home to a construction site. It was during the financial collapse of 2008 and the nationalities of the workers changed every few months as the construction companies went bankrupt. There were two rooms: one bedroom and one large living room which also contained the kitchen. The apartment was furnished. In the bedroom there was a two-person bed and here Henry and his friend slept and they lived in the apartment as if they were a couple, went shopping together, ate dinner together, took turns to cook though Henry had not yet learned to cook at that time. Here Henry began to use snuff, borrowing one from his friend after dinner, first every now and then each evening until he bought his own snuff box and was hooked for the rest of his life, for Henry did eventually die, or transform or transcend or move on. The friend’s name was Casper and Henry had convinced him to come with to København. They had met each other in gymnasium, in Henry’s first college, a choir and science college in Lund. Before Henry started his studies in København he had lived there for six months working at the home-service. He got a job for Casper there too and during Henry’s first year in København, Caspar lived with him and worked at the home service, visiting old and disabled people, cleaning their houses, preparing dinner, shopping. When Henry had finished the first semester and the fateful summer of 2009 made its entry, Caspar moved back with his parents for a short while before settling in Stockholm. Except for a brief but important period at the very start, Caspar was henceforth absent from this story, though he and Henry always remained close friends.

4

Behind everything back then was an existential dread, an early 20’s crisis if you like. Henry had been a peculiar but problem-free and somewhat brilliant child. He aced high-school, especially the languages, achieving the highest score in the school’s history in English. With the sciences and mathematics he had to fight a little more and actually do the homework. He remembered evenings spent at the dinner table with his father fighting with the algebra exercises. With the hard work came the results: Henry finished high school with (almost) maximum grades, the meager grades in woodworking and gymnastics dragging the average down, for Henry was not a practical man. As an even younger child he tended to play by himself and had fits of migraine and could probably have been described as a sensitive child. When he started school and throughout his teenage years he had a few close friends and was not the most popular boy in class. He was loud, disturbed the teacher by answering the questions before everyone else and sometimes giving mock-answers or -questions which made the teacher irritated. When he was 14 he discovered punk music and cut himself a Mohawk. His friends became punks as well to some degree. Henry had girlfriends and experienced true love at a young age and this came to define him later. However, there is nothing in his upbringing which explains why he developed a depression during the first semester at medical school.

5

When Henry was sixteen the family moved from the small country village where they had lived in their own little paradise in a large castle built in 1872 with a tower, garden and a pool, for Henry’s father was a successful copywriter and drove a Jaguar. Shortly after arriving in Kristianstad, 13 km from the little village, and while they were still renovating Henry’s mother’s child home to which they had moved, Henry’s parents divorced. This divorce, which deserves a book of its own, took a hard toll on the children: Henry, his brother and his little sister. Henry remembered his father sitting in the unfinished living room among the unpacked moving-boxes shouting ‘All is lost, all is lost’ with a whiskey bottle in his hand. The mother, whose midlife crisis and need to be free was the cause of the divorce, couldn’t handle the situation either. The commune got involved and sent psychologists and other helpers to bring the young brother to school, for he refused to go to the new large city-school where he as a newcomer and emo-popper was not accepted and hit on by the other kids. They gave him benzodiazepam and antipsychotics and admitted him for a short time at the youth psychiatric hospital but nothing helped. The little sister, only 9 years old, stood in the middle crying and not understanding what was going on. The children felt abandoned. Their parents, once so loving and assuring, were now teenagers themselves. The carpet was swept away and Henry, just about to start college, held his breath and tried to sail through it all.

6

After a few weeks at a science college in Kristianstad he switched to the choir and science college in Lund (where he met Caspar and other friends, most importantly Nathaniel, who will be introduced later), a one-hour train ride from home. Each day Henry worried about the situation at home, whether his brother had been to school, whether his mother was still there. Henry couldn’t be free, couldn’t come along to parties and chat with girls and experiment with alcohol and discuss music and the arts. This crucial period, when the youngster is trying his wings and finds himself in the world and among people, was denied Henry, though he was not aware of it. Henry had to grow up quick, had to take responsibility for his family. He remembered sitting outside the bathroom door at two in the morning a Wednesday while his brother was cutting himself on the arms. He remembered sitting between his parents trying to meddle. He remembered meetings at the youth psychiatric hospital with the whole family and Henry saying that he simply refused his parents divorcing. But divorce they did and Henry’s mother moved with his brother and sister to a 3-room apartment 1 km down the road while Henry stayed with his father. This, this denying of youth and quick growing up, this shattering of the childhood dream, this sudden ice-cold shower when warmth was expected, hurt Henry’s inner-workings and soul, disrupted his development into a sound young man. Not only did he felt left out from something which interested him a lot but he also had to get accustomed to saying to himself: but not for me. These words – but not for me – though he of course didn’t know it at the time, was to be a central theme in Henry’s life. On many occasions, in many situations, was Henry to put himself, his own desires and needs away for the benefit of some entity, person or cause. Dear reader, I will not go into speculation here, but I can’t help thinking that the heavens were preparing Henry for the task which was to come, making him revengeful at life, making him crave for that which belongs to the youth: late nights, euphoria, freedom, true love, the future – all these things which most people taste in their youth and leave as fond memories growing into adults with careers, children and other priorities. Henry felt this in England, where he moved after college to study at the university. Here he drank much beer, fell in love with every girl, sat up alone at night looking out the window smoking hand-rolled cigarettes and had difficulties focusing on his studies, which he after all did pass with a 2:1.

7

In København in 2009, now 22 years old, Henry still was living like a youngster, wanting something more, searching for something else than the studies and the dedicated class-mates could provide. But Henry didn’t go somewhere to find that which he was missing, didn’t make a dedicated attempt at being free, finding true love, exploring the outer world through traveling or the inner through meditation or drugs. Henry, also a dedicated, hard-working student, held back the frustrations and did his reading, his weekly assignments and went to classes again and again, week after week, the whole semester. Henry had played ice-hockey for many years in his youth and had been successful in being chosen as one of the top three goaltenders in the region. He knew, and his father had taught him all about it coming from a working-class background and making it in life, that hard work was the foundation of all success. ‘Never give up, give it your best, don’t listen to the doubters, fight your own fight’ – Henry grew up on slogans such as these and he believed in them. Besides, it was not an option to drop out of medical school like he had dropped out of university in England. Henry was still young, but not as young as his classmates, and completing some form of university studies was the plan and there was no other plan. Henry had always dreamed of traveling India with a guitar in his hand, or of a road trip through the United States, but here and now, with the book in front of him and the snow falling outside in the dark, Henry was determined to pull through. Being a musician and songwriter and aspiring author and many other things artistic, Henry had deliberately chosen not to turn his passions into his work. He dreamed of a solid job with good hours and enough spare time and money to dedicate himself to the arts without knowing that he had to be successful in order to pay his bills. Besides, Henry was an intellectual and he loved the sciences and the rational thought. He couldn’t imagine not living in the world of academia so that after college the choice was certain that it was to be mathematics and physics and not music or writing school, and not working at a cafe to save money for a world trip. Still, medical school was not differential calculus or quantum mechanics. Medical school was learning by heart hundreds of pages every week and this was precisely what Henry detested. He had no use for his acquired knowledge of mathematics or problem-solving and had to instead learn techniques for remembering large amounts of information: ‘this is the femur, this is the aorta, these are the chambers of the heart.’ Henry sighed silently inside. As I’ve said, Henry didn’t know what to expect from medical school or what his coming profession really was like and he hoped that this first semester was the boring one, the one containing the basics which the student had to master before being introduced to the exciting stuff. Just like classical mechanics is taught before quantum mechanics.

8

At nights Henry sat by his computer with his guitar making songs. He wrote little texts and sat some simple chords to it. Caspar had the Cubase software on his laptop and a little external sound card to which a microphone and a guitar could be connected. Henry watched Caspar recording music and learned from him. Let me show you, dear reader, what Henry wrote and sang in those early days before he took off, before everything happened and changed forever:

“I’m on my way back from your place though I was just going there / And time passes quick when we meet because you’re my best friend / On the way back on the train I felt as lonely as I’ve ever done before / I felt like what we have is the only thing that’s keeping me alive / And I felt puny and I felt abandoned / So please, get me back home / Or, plunge me into the sea / I’m hungry but I’m dying / I’m full of the past but so lonely / So please, get me back home.”

and

“In the snow I go shopping / For groceries, beer and frozen carrots / And I hear / Astral weeks / Astral weeks / I drank your wine / For countless weeks / You left the bottle open / I can’t drink no more / And I hear / You in my dreams / You in my dreams.”

Twenty-two little songs like these were recorded during that first semester of medical school in København in the early months of 2009. Dark songs, songs of despair and pain, not the songs of a young man on his way to becoming a doctor, the dream of so many around the world, or a student enjoying his student days. To me, these are the songs of someone dying or parting with something. ‘Get me back home’, Henry sings and I wonder what home he refers to. Is it the safe childhood home on the country where he lived before the divorce? Or is it some other home, more abstract, as in a safe haven or a place where he could be free? ‘I’m full of the past but so lonely.’ Henry did have a safe and loving childhood; this must be the past he is full of. Here in København, a new university, new classmates, a foreigner in the dark wintertime and doubtful about his studies, I can understand that Henry felt lonely. But I have the suspicion that by lonely Henry meant something else – he was not practically lonely after all. Caspar was living with him and he had regular contact with his parents, siblings and friends back home. I think Henry felt lonely on a more existential level. He was searching for something but he did not know where to find it or even what he was looking for. He wanted all the things denied him and the more time passed, the stronger grew his desire for love, freedom, happiness, purpose &c. Henry did not know that all people desire these things and keep desiring them even after they have received them. Henry didn’t know that his longings were the longings of every person on Earth, old and young. He looked at the city and the people, the night clubs, bars and parks and saw people being together, lovers holding hands, bands playing music, families eating at the restaurants and he felt that he was lacking all this, all this which he also possessed one time but now had lost, alone in a foreign city. Henry saw all this as one entity, he envisioned that it was the same person – the everyday, common person – who was a lover, was out dining, was playing in a band and he felt that everyone was allowed to be happy but not him. ‘But not for me,’ he thought again as if accepting that it was his lot to not have, but inside of his soul he did not accept it. ‘Why,’ thought Henry, ‘why can’t I have love and happiness like everyone else?’ In the weekends he drank at the student club or in the city and struggled with bouts of abstinence and the blues, in the weekdays he studied and came home late to dinner with Caspar.

9

Henry’s anxiety attacks, a part of him since he was 16, came more and more often. A symptom of the inner disorder caused by the divorce and the changes associated with the teenage years, Henry especially experienced angst in social situations. He remembered casual gatherings in the student pub sitting on the sofa with his new classmates, them chatting about everyday things while Henry slowly disappeared mentally from the situation, fading into himself, his heart racing, palms sweating, his voice thin and weak. Suddenly he got up and left without a word. The bouts came at the morning lectures or while walking home or when being alone among people he didn’t know well but rarely when he was alone. When he was alone, on the other hand, an existential dread sometimes afflicted him, paralyzing him to bed for hours. Henry was the type of person, an introvert if you like, who needed time alone to “recharge the batteries” after social activities. In college, walking the school corridors between classes, the angst would come crippling, Henry worrying about his brother or sister, trying to grasp the situation and feeling helpless and frustrated that while he was in school the downfall continued at home. In København, after living with it for 7 years, Henry was used to his angst, knew the symptoms of it coming and was often holding it back, always fighting internally to appear composed and calm. He also knew the gracious feeling when the attack was over and the angst began evaporating from the body and the exhaustion that followed. It’s not that Henry lacked the capacity to understand human behavior and social codes, quite the contrary, for he understood people very well. But there is a difference between understanding or grasping a situation and acting from this understanding. Henry smiled and laughed at the jokes and stories told by his classmates and in his head he prepared answers which were excellent, but he refrained from speaking, couldn’t bother to participate and preferred to listen and be silent. Henry had a good capacity to read the faces and voices of people and he felt a sort of responsibility to act correct, to treat people in the best way possible, now that he knew better than most, or so he believed, what they were saying and how they felt. Always careful, always respectful of what a human mind can contain, Henry was soft and often spoke with under-statements prone to be confused with irony. Among his close friends, Henry was never shy and never experienced angst. He knew his old friends well and they saw in him a trusted friend to whom they could reveal their secrets and deepest thoughts. Henry always listened and tried to come with good advice. If you ask me, dear reader, I think that this discrepancy between the “real” Henry, as he always had known himself among his friends, and the Henry he was at the end of the first semester in København frustrated and depressed him much. His classmates at medical school did not see and had no idea who he really was, and Henry felt that they were not interested in knowing either.

10

At the end of each day, Henry returned to his apartment sadder and more frustrated than the day before. Henry thus discovered he had problems relating to his classmates, all these, as he saw it, carefree ambitious to-be doctors. He had expected the thriving intellectual environment of the university in England but was met with a closed-circle of Danish students, and as I’ve said above, it was not in Henry to assimilate and change solely to be accepted. Henry was Henry and had always been Henry and this integrity and way of being had never produced problems before. He had expected to find people with his interests for music, literature and the arts and was disappointed. Of course he could have succeeded, like other foreign students did, in making friends, but he felt like an outsider. He felt he lacked the ambition, the energy, to make new friendships and after the first weeks of intense socializing which always mark the start of a new semester, small groups of friends had already formed and though Henry was popular among his classmates, after the lectures he preferred to go home, while others went out for coffee or formed small study groups. Besides, the intense weeks at the start of university Henry had already gone through once in England and he somehow thought that he could skip it and still make friends. Oh, poor Henry, strong Henry, never giving up his hardships. If only he had gone out jogging or joined a theater club or a jam band. If only he had reached out to someone and asked for help or some company. Instead he isolated himself and fell deeper and deeper into the abyss towards depression. Henry could have changed his destiny, he really could, but he was already off course and the sea was stormy. He was full of the past, of richness and sadness, and he was lonely. He was longing for something else. He was broken. Maybe he really felt that a change was coming or that something was about to end – after all, how long can a misery go on? Before we proceed, we must touch upon the two young women which the songs quoted above refer to.

11

Love, love and love, hot feelings and heartache. This is what Henry’s teenage years consisted of. A deeply emotional being, Henry experienced the feeling called love at the young age of twelve or thirteen when he met his first girlfriend. The relationship lasted a year. Shortly after breaking up, Henry met the first real love of his life, Alexandra. The world turned upside down, Henry couldn’t sleep or eat. He talked to her, made jokes, always tried to be near her for a few weeks and then he asked and she agreed to be his girlfriend. Such innocent love, such careful love. There existed no other lovers in the world than Henry and Alexandra. At the start of the summer, after having been together for six months and almost fourteen years old, Henry made love to Alexandra for the first time to the music of Bob Marley’s One Love. What followed was a summer spent in bed together. Here they discovered each other and their bodies and all the things they could do. In the bed, in the car, on the golf course – Henry and Alexandra were alone in the Garden of Eden like Adam and Eve and the rabbits in the sunset looked with jealousy upon them. Dear reader, I agree with you that these illustrations at first appear irrelevant to our story, but bear with me, for they are not. During these innocent early years, Henry learned what love is and he grew confident in himself, and it became an indestructible core of his soul that he was a human being capable of giving and receiving love, worthy of being loved. When Henry walked the desert many years later and when he blindly was swimming in the deep sea of madness and doubting his sexuality and his whole idea of himself, this core remained untouched and held him together, just as his deep conviction that he as a person, a friend and his intentions and heart were all good. The relationship with Alexandra lasted for three years until shortly before the end of high school Henry ended it having fallen in love with another girl whom he seduced with mix-tapes of Bob Dylan and Joy Division. When the girl finally succumbed, Henry’s love for her was gone, as so often happens when a young heart finally receives what it’s been desiring for long. The summer following the end of high school was the summer when Henry’s family moved from the old country house to Kristianstad. When Henry in the autumn, after one month at a science college in Kristianstad, changed college to the one in Lund, he started going to parties with his new bohemian friends and met girls there without anything serious coming out of it.

12

At one point during this first year in college Henry was at a concert in his home town and here he met his next girlfriend and future soulmate, Karen, whom he would be together with throughout college until he moved to England, at which point the relationship had evolved into a platonic one. Henry remembered going to the concert with some friends and in the intermission he went up to a group of three girls who stood chatting in the middle of the dance floor. Henry was especially dashing at this point in life, having a long hair which he had made curly like Bob Dylan’s and Henry’s dark blue eyes were radiating with life and joy at being alive. He was going places, he was slim, the thinnest he would ever be at 65 kg and 1,80 meters and wore tight jeans and a scarf making him look like a real decadent artist. Henry had seen Karen before at some other party and had been attracted to her brown eyes and hair and her Finish face which looked so tender and warm. When Henry approached the group of girls he presented himself with another name and began to charmingly talk about something irrelevant and funny. The other girls, probably from having noticed who Henry was looking at the most, stepped away, leaving him alone with Karen. They talked for a while before the next band started when Henry went out to smoke a cigarette and afterwards he couldn’t find Karen again. This didn’t bother him so much, for in his world at that time, every girl in the world was a potential lover and girlfriend. However, fate wanted it otherwise, for when the concert was over and Henry went to the bus station, Karen was there looking at the timetables with a confused face because the buses to her little village half an hour outside Kristianstad had stopped for the evening. Karen later revealed that she had missed the last bus on purpose because she didn’t want to go home and hoped to find Henry somewhere. Henry invited Karen to a party he knew of and they stood chatting in the kitchen, not daring to kiss or make advancements, until Karen’s father came to drive her home. Henry received Karen’s number and called her the next day and soon Karen came to visit Henry in his mother’s childhood house where the family now lived among moving-boxes and badly placed furniture. 13

Karen thus entered Henry’s life at that very point where his golden childhood abruptly changed into his something quite the opposite. She had a first-row seat to the fights between the parents, the misery of the siblings and the disintegration of the family. While Henry sat outside the bathroom door guarding his brother cutting himself, Karen was in bed waiting with comforting warmth under the blankets. It was impossible for Henry to verbalize or explain his feelings, as reactions to traumas often come months or years later, but Karen’s presence during these tumultuous years probably saved Henry from going down completely with the ship. They were young, had just started college, had set sail towards a future they had chosen themselves and for Henry and Karen things were looking great, both having achieved good grades and started comprehensive educations which would open the doors to more or less every university program available. Together they discovered movies, artists, books and made weekend trips to Prague and Budapest. Henry introduced Karen to Bob Dylan and The Clash while Karen showed Songs:Ohia, Will Oldham and Scott Walker to him. Every Friday they rented or downloaded a foreign independent movie and lay in the sofa with chips, dips and soda, staying up late talking about life and the state of the world. They agreed on everything, it was them against the world. They didn’t go out much to party or socialize and didn’t have common friends either, but lived in their own sacred and secret world, as close as only true soulmates can be. Karen’s family was large with six siblings, all girls but one, Karen being the second oldest sister and one year older than Henry. Their house in the small village of Broby outside Kristianstad was a two-story villa from the 1930’s with a large garden and cats and a dog in a typical Swedish neighborhood. With the large family and all children in the school age the house was always busy, reminding Henry more of an activity house or a youth hostel than a home where these people lived. But a home it was and one contrasting greatly from Henry’s own. Here he was welcome from the start and received a safe and calm haven. Karen’s mother, a retired nurse and home going mother, wise and warm, was especially fond of her daughter’s new boyfriend. Henry remembered summer evenings and nights spent in the garden chatting with Karen’s mother or one of her sisters while Karen’s father, a local politician, chiropractor and self-made carpenter, sat silently listening with his pipe, at times making clever comments or curious remarks, for he was an intelligent but reserved man and often made Henry shy.

14

When they met in 2003, Karen was attending an all-English college program called the International Baccalaureate (I.B.) in Kristianstad. Henry, now disillusioned from his courses at the choir science college in Lund, and about to fail French and achieving poor grades in gymnastics and music theory, was enthralled by Karen’s giant physics book and the fact that all her school books were in English and so decided to again switch college and start over in his home town. Henry applied and was invited to a preparatory exam. At this point Henry was set on becoming a physicist having read Stephen Hawkin’s A Brief History of Time and Brian Greene’s The Elegant Universe and was palpably nervous when it was time for the mathematics part of the exam. The headmaster of the school admitted Henry but remarked that if he wanted to be a scientist, perhaps biology would be a better alternative, since Henry’s results on the mathematics part were not outstanding, especially not for someone wanting to be a physicist. Nevertheless, and not deterred, Henry chose mathematics and physics at high level and graduated with the highest marks in both of them. Well, dear reader, to be frank, and frank we will be in this story, Henry did only receive a 6 out 7 in mathematics, the reason being his neglect of the statistics part of the course. Henry considered statistics not mathematics and hoped that, for the grand final exam, there wouldn’t be much statistics. For hos admittance offer to the Mathematics and Physics program at the University of Warwick, Henry was required to obtain a total grade of 40 points out of 45 on the I.B. exam and 7 in both physics and mathematics. Immediately after he had achieved his marks he sent an email to the university and explained why he had not met the requirements. In the end he was admitted and we will probably return to his days in England at some point later in the story. What should be added to the story here, though, is that Karen too moved to England, or rather to Scotland, where she embarked on studies of Sustainable Development at the University of St. Andrews, for she (like Henry and most others of their generation) was concerned about the planet. What we were describing before, dear reader, was Henry’s vital relationship with Karen and how it provided stability and a second home when his own home was changing greatly for the worse. Ten years later, Karen would move to København and live with Henry for his third semester of medical school (which he failed and retook 1,5 years later). In the song quoted above, which I again insert here for your recollection, (

“I’m on my way back from your place though I was just going there / And time passes quick when we meet because you’re my best friend / On the way back on the train I felt as lonely as I’ve ever done before / I felt like what we have is the only thing that’s keeping me alive / And I felt puny and I felt abandoned / So please, get me back home / Or, plunge me into the sea / I’m hungry but I’m dying / I’m full of the past but so lonely / So please, get me back home.”

), Henry is writing to Karen from København where he is lonely and disoriented. On the way back on the train from one of their meetings – for they kept in touch and met every now and then after they both had moved back from England, Karen living briefly with her parents before moving to Berlin and then to Malmö before having two children with a conceptual artist – Henry felt as lonely as he’d ever done before, and that the only thing keeping him alive was his relationship and past with Karen. I know that you can think for yourself, dear reader, but I hope that with the description above the lyrics appear clearer to you.

15

The other woman, whom the second song concerns, is a completely different story, one that would come back and haunt Henry for many years, like a demon which had its grips on Henry’s heart and mind and couldn’t be made to let go. It all started very innocently one Friday evening when Henry was sixteen and the girl, Ursula, was eighteen. Ursula was not her real name, of course, and I chose this rather sturdy name out of pity for Henry, for his love, in lack of a better word, for Ursula would take evil forms and would almost destroy him several years later, not to mention the pain Henry would cause Ursula against her will. Being eighteen, Ursula was allowed into the bars in Kristianstad while Henry was not. Henry had just moved to Kristianstad, it was that same summer of 2002 which I talked about above. Henry had been sitting at home with his two best friends, Nathaniel and Josef, drinking from a bottle of whiskey they had stolen from Henry’s father. When the sun began to set they walked the twenty minutes to the town center where the four or five bars of the little town were located. Being sixteen, it was stroke of luck if they managed to sneak past the bouncer without showing their ID’s and this fine summer evening they were unlucky. Instead they sat down outside the bar most popular among the alternative crowd of the town, located on a small side-street which, some people said, was notorious for being the most dangerous street in Sweden. This probably incorrect fact is nevertheless believable due to the street’s narrowness (it was an original street built in the 17th century by the Danish king Christian IV, who built the town as a fortress against the Swedes) and the bar being only one of two bars in the town open until two in the morning. These two facts meant that at two in the morning, the little street was crowded with drunk people waiting in line and hoping to get in before the last drink was served and fights often broke out. It was one a night like this, but probably earlier than two in the morning, that Henry saw sitting outside this pub the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. She was such a craze, at war with the world, her wild red-blonde hair blowing in every direction, her green eyes looking everywhere as she screamed to and laughed at every passer-by, having a whole circus running there on the pavement with her two front teeth miles apart and looking so strong and yet so vulnerable in her gypsy clothing and with the half-empty wine bottle next to her. Henry couldn’t believe his eyes and fed with descriptions of the beauty and mystery of the woman soul from the lyrics of Bob Dylan and other romantic poets, and with a heart free and desperately looking for love, immediately fell in love… and the demon hand ascended from below the pavement that night and clenched his innocent heart to never really let go.

16

Henry left his friends and approached Ursula preparing to greet her in his own charming way of the time with another name and an irrelevant question or story, but when Ursula saw Henry coming and turned her face towards him so that their eyes met Henry felt a twitch in his stomach and heart and abandoned his plans. He sat down beside her with a grave face as if he already knew the importance of that moment and meeting and with his most sincere voice said his name while reaching his hand out to her in a greeting. Ursula seemed to be charmed by Henry’s ways, as if happy to have met a sane person in this crazy world and smiled with her crooked teeth in a theatrical and comical way. Henry couldn’t afterwards remember what they had been talking about and he was also unable to recall it when I asked him many years later, which means that it is unlikely we will ever know what passed between the two the first time they met; that is unless God, who perhaps wittingly had arranged the meeting thousands of years ago or before the start of time, drops a note and reveals it to us. It was, however, a short and sweet conversation, the kind lovers have, where playful sparks of lightning and electricity fly about in the air which is heavy with gravity and importance, and each question seems as natural as the answer that is given, and all movements and words strive towards the one final however distant goal which is the unification of the bodies. While they were talking there on the sidewalk the world around Henry vanished and time did too, but he received Ursula’s number on a piece of paper before she suddenly had to leave with her friends to catch the last bus home to her little village some 30 minutes outside Kristianstad. The alert dear reader will notice the similarities between Henry’s meetings with Karen and Ursula in that both girls lived a bit outside Kristianstad and both had to catch buses to get home. Henry’s short first meeting with Ursula took place in the summer some six months before he met Karen (and before the divorce) and he was not to meet Ursula again for six years, but having met her, Henry knew that a human such as she existed in the world and his outlook on life and love was changed forever.

17

It is difficult to explain what it was Henry was so drawn to in Ursula. Her appearance was to Henry most beautiful and graceful, bohemian, wild, boundless, but Ursula was not beautiful in the classical sense, her wide front teeth most likely perceived by many as outright ugly. But her eyes were green like an oasis in a desert storm and her nose had a delicate bend in the middle… However, it is meaningless to describe her outer attributes – what Henry saw in Ursula he perceived on the soul-level. Henry was at the time not drawn to metaphysical or astral speculations and there didn’t run a shiver down his back when he, during their short conversation that night, found out that Ursula had the same birthday as him, only two years before, September the 4th 1984. Ursula was older and wiser and perhaps Henry saw in her a sister, the older sister he didn’t knew he had. Henry remembered that he had thought at the time that some people seem to be at war with the world, as if they are larger than the world itself, as if their souls can’t be contained in their bodies and they are therefore constantly fighting life and its conditions. This was how Henry saw Ursula the first time he saw her – mystical and life-defying. Dear reader, one can speculate all one wishes to, but my understanding of Henry’s sudden and strong love for Ursula is that it was a simple teenage love and nothing more than that. We can never know what the heavens had in mind about their meeting or whether the way things turned out was intended or not, for, and I’ve said, Ursula came to play a large, dark and sad role in Henry’s life. Henry was innocent when he met Ursula and his love was pure, but in his feelings and in the shadows darkness resided. When Henry thought of Ursula the days following their meeting and when he waited for her to reply to his messages his thoughts were more painful than joyful, his waiting more impatient than eager, his longing for her stronger than their short meeting would suggest. These strong, dark and, taken to their extremes, evil feelings were new to Henry’s heart: Amazed, he was too young to understand them. Henry and Ursula did not meet again that year despite Henry’s invitations the days following, and after some time his feelings faded and with all the other changes in his life at the time and his eventual meeting with Karen, Ursula disappeared from his mind almost completely.

18

Years passed and Henry finished college, moved to England and back again, lived at his father’s for some time, moved to København and was just about to start the first semester of medical school when, on the day after Christmas eve 2008, Ursula appeared in his life again like a hurricane. The day after Christmas eve is in Sweden a great day for home comers. After having celebrated with family the young people go out to celebrate with their friends whom they perhaps haven’t seen since the last year but who are home now to celebrate the holidays. In Kristianstad in the years from 2004 to 2008 there was a spectacular, celebrated and now long-forgotten club appearing only on this day of the year. Dear reader, maybe there are other similar clubs active these days or maybe there aren’t, but in those days when Henry was just the right age for it, Kulturkentauren (The Culture Centaur), as the club was called, was a fantastic fest. Maybe it was the cheerful mood of the crowd, or the loose regulations around the old locale close to the railroad a few kilometers outside the city center, but each year the night escalated into something much too wild and crazy for an officially organized event. There were bands, often four or five, with the last band starting at one or two in the morning. The beer was cheap and as the other pubs in the city closed, more and more people came and often the organizers were unable to close the club and the party continued until the morning. In 2008 Henry was playing with his band Frukostklubben (or Burdust Urbus, as they later changed their name to), a mock-band he had together with his two close friends Nathaniel and Josef. Inspired by the ironic yet serious attitude towards commercial music of Frank Zappa, Henry and his friends used all their musical talent to create music which was both absurd, humorous and nice to listen to. Some fifty people stood waiting in front of the scene when the band started as a token to the local celebrities they had become after releasing three albums on Myspace. Before them two other bands had played and it was around ten in the evening. Henry, Nathaniel and Josef were joined by three other musician friends and the concert was a success with people dancing and singing along. After the concert Henry was relaxing in the bar with a beer, not yet as drunk as he had become the previous years, when suddenly Ursula appeared out of nowhere and sat down next to him. ‘Hello,’ she said and looked at Henry with inquiring and sparkling eyes which seemed to say, ‘do you remember me, you fool, I’m the girl you fell so much in love with so many years ago’. Henry, barely believing his eyes, mustered all his strength to sober up and to understand the situation. Ursula was sensual, sitting close, making small circles and movements with her fingers and looking now at Henry’s eyes and now at his body. ‘How are things with you? Nice music you played,’ said Ursula. Henry replied something and asked what Ursula was up to these days. Ursula told Henry she was living in Malmö studying to become an actress and told him about a trip she had recently made. ‘Yes, there are so many nice things one can do,’ replied Henry. ‘Yes, there are…’ said Ursula, ‘but one can also make out,’ and leaning forwards towards Henry their lips met in a kiss which was at first searching and careful, but soon turned wet and sensual, almost aggressive. ‘I will just collect my things,’ Ursula said, ‘do you live close by? Shall we go?’ It had all happened so fast that Henry could not decide whether he was dreaming or was very drunk or what other aspect of reality that was out of order. Henry and Ursula left the club and walked along the railroads the twenty minutes to Henry’s father’s home. When they arrived Henry showed Ursula up to his room and asked her what she liked to drink and after starting a Rolling Stones record went down to fetch some of his father’s gin. They drank a glass of gin each sitting on the bed before they turned to each other and started kissing again, then off with the clothes and under the sheets. Henry was drunk, he couldn’t afterwards recall the love-making but he remembers there was some discussion about the condom. Waking in the morning little black spots had been formed on the pillow from Ursula’s mascara wiped off by her tears. They spent the morning in the sofa in the living room watching cartoons. After some food they again rested in the bed. Ursula wanted them to sleep together once more but Henry was hungover and felt he wasn’t able to and lied that he didn’t have a condom. Instead they went down on each other and kissed many times. When Ursula left she forgot her earring on purpose and later in the evening wrote Henry to tell him that.

19

It appears thus, dear reader, that with this night and day and the wonderful events which took place, the field was all set for Henry to pursue some kind of relationship with Ursula, and it really seems that Ursula also had intended this. But again, from the concrete and from every dark corner, the demon, which had as its task to prevent Henry from living happily ever after with his in heaven predestined love, stepped forward and succeeded in turning into ruins the little castle of love which the two hearts were building. The fault was all Henry’s. In fact, he wasn’t at all ready for the long build-up and coolness of heart initiating a relationship with Ursula would require. Feeling and behaving like a teenager used to receiving all which he looked at, Henry was restless and dramatic. A few days after their meeting, in the days between Christmas and New Year’s Eve, they met shortly again over a cup of coffee before Ursula took the train to Malmö. She received her earring and they decided to meet again sometime early in the new year but Ursula could not say exactly when as she was busy with theater rehearsals and was generally an occupied person. This loose contract was poison for Henry’s burning heart and when they finally met again after a few weeks, it was Henry coming along Ursula and her friends to Deep, the karaoke bar in Malmö mentioned at the start of this story. Henry drank too much and besides making an impressive performance of some song or another, the alcohol did him the unfavour of becoming clingy and physical with Ursula, wanting to hug and hang on her as she sat talking to her friend. Ursula didn’t seem too bothered but complained about his behavior with the tone of a mother or a big sister to her annoying little brother. Henry followed Ursula home and in the bed he was too drunk to perform any kind of love act. The day after they had coffee and said goodbye as Henry went back to København where he had a few days of work in January before starting medical school. Henry was boiling with dissatisfaction over how things were going with his great love. Somehow he had expected Ursula to carry the weight of his wild and heavy heart, both figuratively and literally making the bed for him to jump down in. Henry didn’t know that this is not how one courts a girl, either having forgotten all about it or never really learnt it or simply under the circumstances refusing to acknowledge the laws of love and relationships. Henry, being good looking and charming, was used to girls coming to him and him only having to say a few well-suited words for them to fall in love with him, but this was then and now it had been years since he last dated a girl. His relationship with Karen ended when they both moved to Great Britain and while studying there, besides occasional hookups and flirts, Henry had not fallen in love with anyone. Ursula was Henry’s first serious chance of a girlfriend in years and, as I’ve described above, Ursula wasn’t just any girl – she was Henry’s teenage dream come true.

20

Faced with the challenge set by Ursula and really only having to dance along, Henry let the destructive powers that reside in the human soul take over his behavior. He remembered riding with his father home from København for the weekend and impatiently waiting for Ursula’s reply to his question about when they should meet next. Outside the car window the city lights were passing by in the cold winter evening. Before they were on the bridge between the two countries Henry had already sent another text message saying to Ursula that if she didn’t want to see him again she should just let him know. A few minutes later she replied and merrily said that ‘Oh, one doesn’t get much time to think with you. Sure I’d like to meet again.’ Henry upon receiving the message instantly became calm, sat back in the car chair and initiated conversation with his father, who had no idea what went on inside his son’s head. But inside the head and all around Henry darkness was closing in, all the malignant feelings of desire, love and loss devouring his sickening heart which was beating so hard and anticipating so much. Henry knew he was going to lose the battle. He had never been ready for Ursula’s stormy approach and he was not the man she expected him to be. Henry and Ursula did not meet again until the summer and the dear reader will have to wait until later for an account. In short, Henry, not being able to remain patient and wait until Ursula had the time to meet, sent a few dramatic messages containing expressions of his fading love and lack of time. Finally Ursula replied that it all seemed to have become too much for Henry wherefore she ended the relationship but wanted to remain friends. In court two years later, Ursula would explain that she already from the start had noticed that there was something wrong with Henry. And indeed there was.

21

When Henry received Ursula’s message ending the relationship he had already started medical school and we have talked plenty about his feelings concerning that. Let us therefore return, dear reader, to the lyrics Henry wrote one dark evening about his failed relationship with Ursula:

“In the snow I go shopping / For groceries, beer and frozen carrots / And I hear / Astral weeks / Astral weeks / I drank your wine / For countless weeks / You left the bottle open / I can’t drink no more / And I hear / You in my dreams / You in my dreams.”

I sense in this text great remorse and loss as Henry returns to mundane daily activities trying but not being able to forget his love for Ursula. What is lacking, however, in Henry’s reflections is a critical stand towards his own actions. Like a child, and forgive me for being harsh towards him, he places the responsibility with Ursula. She gave him the wine, she let him taste it, and she left the bottle open (and then disappeared) leaving Henry to hear her in his dreams and wondering where she left. A few months later, it must have been May or June, Henry wrote the lyrics to a song he composed together with Nathaniel. Although we are skipping ahead in the story, let me quote it with the hope that we may be wiser in regard to Henry’s feelings at the time. Unfortunately I cannot recall the song exactly as Henry wrote it but it is clear that Henry had not forgotten or abandoned his love for Ursula as he decided to call the song “Ursu”:

“Come with me while the sun rises / I got something to show you / But you said nothing / And you did nothing / Run with me naked down this hill / But you said nothing / And you did nothing”

And later, Henry almost talking, his voice weak and feeble, while the music is fading:

“I cannot define you / You tell me your colours and they are so many / Like a true song and dancer / I’m writing your letters ???”

Dear reader, I can’t recall the words.

However, it is obvious that Henry was still writing songs and thinking about Ursula several months after she had ended the relationship, and he was still laying the blame on her. Dear reader, any right man would at this point have moved on, especially since there never was any relationship to begin with. Of course we will never know how things had turned out had Henry not been prescribed antidepressants; maybe he had eventually completely gotten over Ursula, maybe they had met again some years later, maybe Henry had met another girl, maybe he had finally took on his running shoes and quit the destructive lifestyle, thus avoiding the depression which was coming for him at the speed of light, the small molecules of dopamine and serotonin flickering about in his brain like the shaky piece of rope he was hopelessly trying to balance on.

22

Oh, but what depression, dear reader!? In a European clinical setting a depression is diagnosed and assessed through its core and follower symptoms which are required to have been present for at least 2 weeks while substance abuse or organic disease must be ruled out as the causes of the symptoms. The core symptoms of depression are depressed mood, decreased energy and decreased interest for one’s usual hobbies. The follower symptoms describe deviations in sleep patterns and appetite, difficulties with concentration and attention, feelings of guilt, lower self-esteem, irritability and thoughts about death. Bipolar affective disorder is an illness related to depression but distinguished by the patient having had a depression and at least one manic episode – you will get to know all about mania, don’t worry, dear reader! There are discussions among the professionals whether a manic episode induced by antidepressants should equivalate a bipolar diagnosis or not. Henry did not on a typical day experience all of these symptoms and I say this because I am expressing doubts as to whether Henry was depressed at all, whether he fulfilled the diagnostic criteria! This point is, if you like, my main thesis at this early stage of our story. Without that diagnosis, no antidepressants and without these, no mania, and without the mania, no… everything! Dear reader, excuse me for shouting, but this is important. With dry observant eyes we can conclude that Henry from January 2009 until where we are now in the story experienced 1) a depressed mood, but not always; he was happy like before when he passed time with Caspar or made music or even when he sat at the lectures; 2) decreased energy level, yes, but could this not also have come from lack of exercise, poor diet and lack of sleep?; 3) decreased interest for hobbies, yes and no; yes, if you count university studies as one of Henry’s hobbies for he was immeasurably more excited when he started at Warwick, and despite a fading ambition leading to his dropout, the physics itself remained spectacular, whereas medicine to Henry midterm was dreadful. Our dry observant eyes will also conclude that Henry didn’t to a fulfilling degree have any of the follower symptoms either.

23

Dear reader, our story about Henry will soon take dramatic turns, with Henry thrown about like a ball among monsters as we venture together with him into a world of madness, doubts and unanswered questions. I must therefore at this point, before we go on, stress another important thought: Henry was not (what was formerly known as) manic-depressive. He had never before, nor after, as long as I knew him, experienced a manic episode. From the beginning, from the very first pills and days that month of July in 2009 Henry noticed within him a change, at first subtle, improving his mood and renewing his energy. Suddenly it was again easy to carry out mundane tasks, to get up in the morning to start the coffee machine and continue the day without efforts. But how can one disentangle the symptoms of a depression from those of alcohol abuse, heartache and existential dread? The clinician requires the patient to be substance-free for 6 months before the diagnosis is given – Henry wasn’t! The depressed person does not with fiery words sing about his broken heart, nor does he successfully complete the first semester of medical school. A depression is a proper illness, a fixed state of mind, a chemical imbalance in the brain. A person with a real depression does not jump in and out of it, being on good days able to work and on bad days only wanting to die. A depression is a constant presentation in varying degrees of the core and follower symptoms making the person unable to function in the same way as before. Henry had an existential dread, anxiety and debilitating panic attacks but he was functioning. It did not occur in Henry’s mind to ‘release the handles’, to give up, or in, to the symptoms of depression he was experiencing daily. Henry could lie in the bed, looking at the white ceiling, consumed by anxiety and racing thoughts but he couldn’t put a finger on one specific problem or troubling thought. He only felt that everything was too much and that it could not go on any longer. The failures of his life, errors of the day, doubts about the future – it all joined the storm that was his brain on these occasions. When the anxiety attack was over, he again became clear-headed and content with his life.

24

People become depressed when the expectations or demands of life does not match the resources. Henry had many resources and wasn’t truly challenged or faced with serious problems. It therefore was, dear reader, an existential crisis, not a depression. Henry’s primary symptom of his existential crisis – apart from his anxiety attacks – was his tendency to isolate himself from his classmates and the world. He truly preferred a Friday night alone in front of the computer making music to a night at the student bar or at some other arrangement, but hadn’t he always been like this? As a child he had friends and sought their company, as a young adult too. In college he regularly had coffee and went to the movies with his friends. In other words, he spontaneously sought social interaction, just like most sound people do. The life of a medical student is not the life of most people. Many students experience depression and doubts about life while learning about death and sickness. Six long years, often more, are spent reading books and learning material the proper knowledge of which another life will depend on. Henry was not troubled by the seriousness of his studies. He was proud to be a medical student, happy about himself having decided he would spend his days helping people even though, as I’ve written above, Henry didn’t know what a doctor’s work consisted of. Most people who pull through medical school do so with the help from their student friends and close support of the family. To many, the first years of medical school consist of late hours in the library together with the best friends whom you will see tomorrow again for lectures. In the weekend you visit your family or go to the cinema and a run. It’s all calm, undramatic and somatically healthy, and goes on for almost a decade where many meet their wives or husbands and have children. Henry experienced the opposite of this. His life was total chaos. The only social interaction he got, apart from his family and Caspar as well as the occasional visits to friends in Malmö, was at the student bar where he was too drunk to remember whatever new friends he might’ve met. Henry didn’t join a student group, didn’t have any student friends to study with or to complain about the heavy reading-load and Caspar didn’t understand it – he couldn’t believe Henry had to know everything in that thick book. Towards the end of the semester it became clear to Henry that something was not right. He understood that he was not supposed to be feeling like this. Why didn’t he just go out for a run, why didn’t he stay after lectures to chat, and why didn’t he join the local amateur theater? The dread kept him from it. Life was pointless and dark. Henry was just holding his breath until this first semester was over and then he would have a serious talk with himself about whether he should continue medical school or not. After all, the summer vacation would soon be here, Caspar was moving home, the contract to the apartment was ending. There were many changes and good opportunities coming up once Henry had passed his exams, he thought. He just had to endure a little longer but as the winter came to an end and spring made its entrance, Henry’s dark mood contrasted even more with his surroundings and he decided that he needed help from someone.

25

And so, it all started with a phone-call to his mother in May or June. After the divorce, when Henry as a late reaction began experiencing symptoms of anxiety and was not feeling well, his mother had contacted the psychiatric out-hospital. The psychiatrist Henry saw was a man in his late 50’s with a mustache reminiscent of Frank Zappa’s, whom he also was a great fan of, saying that in 300 years the only music from our time people will still listen to will be Frank Zappa’s music. ‘Because he did everything before everyone else.’ He liked the doctor and they got along very well. Henry, 16 years old at the time, explained his home-situation and how he was experiencing symptoms of anxiety. The psychiatrist listened, nodded and while unable to change the situation came with good advice. Henry went there two or three times and was relieved after each session, happy that he had someone wise to talk to, and feeling less lonely in the world as he returned to his broken home and family. The psychiatrist, on the other hand, saw nothing clinically wrong with Henry and said in a friendly tone that he at first had considered the borderline type personality trait. But shaking his head he said no, the symptoms didn’t fit. After the three sessions an hour each in the course of six months there was no use for further contact. Now, six years later, Henry’s mother called again complaining that her son felt depressed and still had anxiety attacks. The first available time was one month later in early July. Henry had moved out of the apartment in København NW and home to his father to study for the final exams, the students receiving the last month before exams free for revision. Henry studied in his brother’s old room in his father’s house on the first floor (the same room where his grandparents once had had their bedroom). On the walls he had taped notes and anatomical drawings. He was struggling with the differences in studying techniques between physics and medicine but most of all was Henry troubled by a lack of motivation. ‘It is considerably less fun than studying for special relativity,’ he thought as he looked out the window at the summer already in early bloom and the vacation waiting at the other side of the fence that was exams.

26

The first semester, at least in those days, consisted of a general introduction to medicine taught through Hole’s Essentials physiology book. Henry, reading the material for the first time in the year’s early months, had impatiently marked every line of the book with a pink marker, making the text almost unreadable now as he reread each chapter and made new notes. Every page was pink! Every hour he went for coffee, crouching down the small stairs with its sharp turn and low ceiling. The first floor of the original house from the 1930’s was an addition built years later by either Henry’s grandparents or their parents. For some reason unknown to me or Henry, the stair had to be slim, sharply bent and as low as 1,5 meter in the start, making for the funny walk. In the combined kitchen and living room his father was working from home talking with his loud yelling voice in the telephone, the laptop on his stomach and paper all around him. Henry’s father, after a decade of success in the marketing business, had a few years before the family moved from the country house experienced a serious setback. His longtime collaborator in the firm had decided to go behind his back to start a new firm with the a group of the employees. One morning after Henry’s father had settled in his office they lined up outside with their resignation letters. In the course of a few hours he had not lost the firm, since he was the owner, but all his employees since they who didn’t join the rival had known about the plot and arranged new jobs for themselves. Henry’s father returned home that summer day and sat with a whiskey thinking in the armchair on the porch overlooking the pool and the garden.

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Henry’s father had come from small means growing up as the oldest brother among three siblings in a working-class family, his father (Henry’s grandfather) being a fireman and his mother a nursery teacher but home-going when the kids were small. He was the first in the family to go to university, Henry was the second. After a degree in biochemistry and pharmacology, Henry’s father traveled the world as a product manager for a large medical company. When Henry was born his father changed career in order to be more at home, and decided to start his own marketing firm. This was a success and the company after a few years saw itself making commercials for Coca Cola on television and receiving prizes as the best company in Kristianstad. At one point, Henry’s father even was a millionare (in Swedish Kronas, which currently are about 1/10 of a dollar) driving sports cars and taking his family traveling two or three times a year. This is one of the reasons Henry’s early childhood was such a bliss: the family had a good house and money, was traveling and the parents were happy together. After having spent some time on the porch thinking about what he should do now with his life, Henry’s daring and talented 45-year old father decided that he should start an ice hockey training school. This decision needs a little explanation as his father certainly had other options, one being moving the whole family to Kalamazoo in the United States where he had received an offer from a medical company. But the dear reader remembers that I’ve written above that Henry was an ice hockey goaltender.

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When Henry was 4 years old his mother took him to an open day at the ice hockey rink. Henry was thrilled, or so his parents thought, and started coming more and more until a team of kids of similar age was formed. Slowly and steadily ice hockey became an integral part of the family’s life. The little brother, who also started playing, at the age of 6, asked one day in the car: ‘does everyone have to play ice hockey?’ Both brothers became goaltenders. At the age of 14 or 15 selections started for the regional team. Henry was known as one of the best goaltenders in the league and was selected for trials. With this started a new era as the father became heavily involved in training and preparations for the trials.

Henry had been to a few summer training camps before, but now it was all on a new level. For two summers in a row, Henry, his brother and father went to Toronto in Canada to practice with a professional goaltender-trainer. Back home, every day after school was training, either on the ice or on the field with running, push ups, sit ups and stretching exercises. There was no doubt about the dreams of the children and the father: NHL, the national hockey league in America. Henry remembered ice hockey filling so much in his life that he considered the whole of Great Britain uninteresting because of its standing in the world of ice hockey. Thus, when Henry’s father’s firm broke up, it didn’t take him much thinking before he decided what he should focus on next – with both kids on the way to becoming NHL-stars, what better support could he as a father provide than starting an ice hockey school? He reached out to his contacts in Canada and at first and for some time Henry’s father had a goaltending school running in Toronto. Henry and his brother again went there to train a few times. However, it proved difficult to start a business from Sweden in the land of ice hockey and after some time Henry’s father changed focus to Stockholm.

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With his talents as an entrepreneur and hard-working Henry’s father managed to inspire some of the best ice hockey trainers in Sweden to join him in his newly started company: Sweden Hockey Institute. The father combined working from home and traveling to Stockholm many times a month. When the institute’s first summer came, Henry and his brother spent it in Stockholm receiving free training while the parents of the other kids spent thousands of Kronor to have their children train with the best. This way of life, of hard training almost every day after school, and spending the summers at an ice rink outside Stockholm, was Henry’s between the ages of 14 and 17. Henry’s first girlfriend, Alexandra, often sat on the bench as Henry trained and went with him to Stockholm for a few weeks in the summers of 1999 and 2000. Even Karen got to know Henry as an ice hockey player. When she followed Henry to Stockholm in the summer of 2002, it would be the last time Henry attended the training school because, when the divorce and all the problems came, Henry got fed up with playing ice hockey. As Henry discovered there was more to life than sports when he started the choir science college in Lund and met his bohemian friends, his decision to stop playing ice hockey was an easy one, especially since he soon would be 18 and would have to consider either devoting everything to ice hockey (in other words playing professionally) or becoming an amateur. Henry had that year switched teams from Kristianstad to Tyringe, a small village with a strong but few-manned team who was fighting hard to stay in the top division. Henry joined the team as a star goaltender – as one becomes after having participated in the said tournament between the regional teams – and played the best ice hockey of his career as he helped the team stay in the division. For his important role in this achievement, Henry received a player-of-the-year walking trophy with his name inscribed to the list of the winners of previous years, a trophy he never came to collect. But the long distances to both Lund and Tyringe was stretching Henry’s time too much. It was stressful. He returned to his old team in Kristianstad, but after a few months he decided to quit altogether. 30

During practice Henry had noticed the effects of smoking and drinking on the performance of the body. In Lund he had gone to his first parties and got drunk and smoked cigarettes for the first time. As an ice hockey player and serious high school student, Henry, even though he was a punk rocker with leather boots and a mohawk (actually Henry had changed clothing style and in this period dressed as a bohemian, his hair long and curly), had never done these things. To the father, the son’s decision to quit playing ice hockey was almost fatal. When the little brother some weeks later also wanted to quit, the father’s world broke into pieces. ‘The ice hockey is all I have left!’ he cried in his usual dramatic ways. It was a hard time for Henry’s father. His own father was ill from dementia and fading away at a care facility. His wife first wanted to move from a perfect home and now she wanted a divorce. His youngest son wasn’t attending school. The house to which he had moved his family was far from ready to be lived in, with construction workers hammering and machines driving around outside in the garden. Every other week he had to go to Stockholm to manage his ice hockey firm and participate in the various training camps, but he had gotten bored with it, the work and his colleagues, the only reason he kept at it being his sons. It was thus another addition to the tragedy, but of larger proportions, when both his sons wanted to quit playing ice hockey. The first days Henry’s father even begged the brothers to go to practice. What did he have left of his life now? What was the point of staying in the firm he had created? What should he do? For Henry’s father, this was the hardest time of his life, the great challenge he had to fight and endure. It came late in life, this challenge, the father having lead a problem-free and happy life going from success to success thus far. For some months he remained in the firm while Henry’s mother, brother and sister moved out and Henry remained. Then Henry’s grandfather died and some time after Henry’s father quit the ice hockey firm. He had some savings, giving him time to try his options.

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Around this time Henry and his father made a short trip to Berlin. They wanted to get away from all the problems. Henry remembered the strange feeling of traveling alone with his father like this, as if escaping. Being away from the chaos at home gave Henry some breathing room and he remembered thinking, or feeling, that something was changing in him, that he was hurting, bleeding. How much hadn’t he experienced since the family moved to the new house – what horrors hadn’t he witnessed? How fast it all had gone away. Less than a year ago, the family had still lived in the country house. Henry remembered one of the last nights in the house, the moving boxes all stapled up around him and his brother as they were lying in the sofa watching Pulp Fiction while a summer storm with lightning and rain raged outside. The brothers didn’t worry much about the on-coming change. They trusted their parents and expected everything to work out – tragedy, sorrow and loss were concepts largely unknown to them – of course everything would be all right! Now, alone with his father in Berlin, with the tragedy going on at home, Henry felt a great sadness growing in him. They visited an airplane museum and saw a real Messerschmidt 109. While dining at a restaurant a woman entered, having walked past the window a few times, and asked Henry, in German, if he wanted to join her crew of young actors. When she realized Henry didn’t speak the language, she apologized and left. Henry bought a military coat. This is what he remembers from the Berlin trip with his father: the stillness of his worn mind, the sounds of artillery in the distance and the growing pain in his soul. The pain was unspeakable in that Henry couldn’t verbalize his feelings, neither to himself nor to his father. It was a black cloud in Henry’s sky, casting shadows over everything he saw. He felt betrayed but he didn’t know by whom. Henry knew he couldn’t ask his father what had gone wrong, he knew it was the mother who wanted the divorce, but she was also the one who had wanted to move. Nor could he picture his father as anyone else than the idealized father Henry had always known. Henry had no tools to analyze and understand the situation and he was powerless before it. Like all teenagers, Henry’s mind was occupied with thoughts about his girlfriend, his favorite music, school and other everyday things. About the tragedy he thought only: ‘Oh, this is not good, but it will get better, everything will be OK.’ During the Berlin trip, Henry and his father didn’t speak much about home, but when they did, they agreed that they hoped that little brother had been to school (though they both knew he probably hadn’t) and that little sister and mother was happy (which they certainly wasn’t). This naive attitude to the tragedy was all they could muster, the father as helpless as the son.

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When they returned home, Henry’s father constructed a large building on the back of the garden. One half contained his office. From here he should restart his marketing firm but work solely with pharmaceutical companies. His firm had previously worked with medical advertisements, and with his background in biochemistry and pharmacology, and his easiness in learning and being creative, the idea proved to be a good one. He hang his diplomas, prizes and pictures on the walls and moved in his old office sofa in pale green leather. Then he sat behind the desk, picked up his telephone list, and started calling to his previous customers and old acquaintances with contacts in the industry. In the start it was difficult for the father but, as diligence is the mother of all success, after some months or half a year he had landed his first contract and began earning enough money to keep on living as he was used to. Over New Years Eve the father was traveling for three consecutive years. Henry and his brother invited their friends and they invited theirs. At least one hundred young guests came to the first party, a 3-day fest where every last drop, including the mixers, of the father’s alcohol storage was drank up and the whole house was ruined. The next year again the father was traveling and everybody remembered and had heard about the great party. And the third year. Then Henry moved to Warwick. Now, some five or six years later, Henry sat reminiscing about memories such and these and others while for the third time that day making a drawing of the twelve cranial nerves. It was early in the afternoon. Outside the window a blackbird was singing from the top of a lamppost. Henry could see the bird just as he leaned over the desk, its orange beak opening and closing as it sang an evening melody. Henry loved the blackbird’s sorrowful melodies. He always thought the blackbird sang the best among the birds. When Henry’s head couldn’t take any more revision he walked the two kilometers down the long wide street with old trees on each side leading to his mother’s flat on the second floor and a with balcony. Here lived also Henry’s brother and sister. Excuse me, dear reader, I am confused in the temporary aspects of our story and the precise recollections of Henry. His mother was not living down the street at this time; she moved to a larger ground-level apartment with a garden on the outskirts of Kristianstad two or three years after the divorce. The flat I was just about to describe was Henry’s mother’s home the first years after the divorce.

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The long street started at a junction, which is nowadays a roundabout, outside the city center, across the railroad station. Näsby was the name of the suburb, if one can call it that. After the junction the street had only houses built in one layer, the back gardens of these houses being large and beautiful, the houses themselves more precisely described as villas. Where the street ended, the settings had changed completely. Here lay the dense residential buildings where Henry’s maternal grandfather lived his last days in the free before moving to a care home, too plagued by dementia and a left leg where a part of a. femoralis had been used to heal his wounded heart. Henry’s mother’s father was a sailor in Øresund during World War 2. He wasn’t a navy sailor, he was a sailor on merchant ships. The youngest out of seven siblings he had lived a hard life in the small port village Hällevik in Listerlandet. As was probably common back then in the thirties and forties, Verner took to the sea when he was very young, or old enough to work, and remained a sailor for almost his whole working life. He visited many of the large coastal cities of the world and the walls of his living room where he often sat in his armchair watching television were filled with pictures of boats, ports and himself as a sailor. Verner could also play the accordion but Henry never heard him play. The last years until retirement he worked as a TV and radio service man, repairing and building electronic devices. He had his shop next to the garage opposite the house, then painted in pale pink where Gun Britt, his wife (Henry’s grandmother) and Herta, Gun Britt’s mother, also lived. Henry never knew whether Herta lived in the house before Gun Britt, or if Herta moved in with her. He did know though that Verner, when he married Gun Britt, moved in to live with the two women. Henry’s mother, their only child, thus grew up with not only her father and mother but also her grandmother. They loved their daughter, and spoiled her with candy and pancakes each day after school – or so Henry’s mother told him. She also told Henry that the family on her side was of Vandrarfolket which means ‘the walking people’, an old Swedish designation for the roman people, though they were not necessarily Roman. ‘Wow,’ thought Henry when he heard it, ‘on my grandmother’s side they had been vagabonds and nomads, with carriages and tents or even horses and circuses.’ Beyond the grandparents not much is known about the family’s history on either side, the mother’s or the father’s. Henry’s paternal grandmother’s father had been a gardener at a castle in Scotland and was very loved by his nine children, who almost all lived to a late age. She was a kindergarden teacher and her husband was a top athlete as a young and became a fireman with a forward position in the commune in Kristianstad. Henry’s mother and father grew up near each other and met at the local pub, she 19 and him 25. They were all working-class people. In Henry’s veins flowed no silver spoons or noble traditions although Henry himself grew up upper middle class. He traveled at a young age and visited all of the Canary Islands and Mallorca many times, but also Gambia in 1998 and Disneyland, Florida, when Henry was five or six. For a few of these vacation trips, Henry’s grandparents came with, but other than that, and except for Verner, they didn’t travel the world in their days. They worked and lived simple in the Swedish social democracy and were happy to experience the development and boom of the post-war years. Henry’s father thus also grew up under fair and loving circumstances. He was a lovable man, outgoing, intelligent and charismatic, the older brother to two sisters, and a mod-rocker in the early 70’s with long hair and a loving smile.

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I’ve written above, dear reader, that the simultaneous divorce and two sons quitting ice hockey was Henry’s father’s first real challenge in life. But he rose from the ashes, sometimes taking long rides in his Jaguar to the sea or the summer house by the lake in the forest. Already within a few years he had met a new girlfriend and with his firm going nicely again, they traveled to Asia and elsewhere two or three times a year. Henry’s father loved to travel and in those days the climate was not considered as much as now. Besides, though he believed in climate change, he could not make concrete the abstract threat human society poses to itself. He was a proud meat eater, never really considering vegetarianism (though he claimed he was an animal lover), and would not listen to the idea, posed by his considerate teenage children, of canceling his traveling for the sake of flying less. The summer house by the lake in the forest was obtained by the firm in the mid-90’s as a retreat and conference center and later bought by Henry’s father. It became the family’s and Henry’s oasis. Located deep in the forest half an hour from Kristianstad and accessed through a small dirt road which was almost hidden, the house lay on the tip of peninsula covered with old dense forest. The lake, Immeln, was the rockiest lake in Sweden it was said. One could sail with a boat in the middle of it and suddenly spot a large rock between the waves. Henry’s father had destroyed the propeller of the boat a multitude of times. Still, there was a sea chart and it was reliable enough to allow sailing through the long and thin sea with many islands all the way from the north, where the house lay, to the small village of Immeln in the south which had a port and a restaurant. The house was built as a villa and not a forest house in the 50’s by a local politician who obviously did not know the difficulties of keeping a tennis court in the forest which each autumn filled with leaves. In the heydays when the children were young the family at the start of each summer packed their belongings and animals and moved into the forest house to live there more or less isolated for the whole summer. As the children grew older and began to prefer the company of friends, they began to grow restless and eventually detested the family tradition but were more or less forced to join. The father was the primary motor, the mother later admitting that she never liked the place. In the later years the summer stay was interrupted by the father taking the sons to Stockholm for the ice hockey school.

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For Henry, the summer house by the lake in the forest came to play in important role in the dramatic events which are to be revealed in this story. Dear reader, as will be obvious later on, it is reasonable to divide Henry’s life into two parts: before and after the manic episode. Before the episode, Henry used to bring his friends to the house for parties or celebrations or spend a weekend with his girlfriend there. For some years it was a tradition to hold the midsummer festivities there and many unforgettable bright nights were spent swimming in the lake or sitting by the fireplace playing guitar and singing. Henry loved to spend a weekend in the forest doing school work or just relaxing during his college years, which was the time when he begun to show interest for the place and spent his first night alone in the dark forest. Already before the episode, the house and the forest was a holy place for Henry. After the manic episode, Henry’s life changed dramatically, mostly on the inside but, as a consequence of the actions coming from his new thoughts and ideas about himself and the world, also on the outside. It was in the lake he drove around with the boat at full speed while recording a music video to one of his songs while the clouds, which were magical on that warm summer day, painted pictures of sphinxes and flying saucers. Or so Henry believed. Here in the forest house he isolated himself after the terror attack in Norway in 2011, being too disoriented to function at all and doubting his very existence. The father lay in the sofa while Henry questioned him about his physical development as a child. Henry was convinced that he had the chromosome abnormality called Klinefelter’s syndrome and not even looking himself in the mirror or examining his testicles could sway this illusion. The very first time Henry came up to the forest after his manic episode was probably in early 2010. Henry, (perhaps rightly) believing he was world renowned and at the center of a revolution started by him on the Internet, posted pictures of himself in the bed with chips and beer as he wrote some of the texts which later would be collected into his opus magnum ‘Proverbs’. But back then the fireplace inside the house had not been renovated which meant that it was impossible to stay in the house in the cold winter. Henry wore double layers of clothes and an overall and was under two blankets but could still barely move his fingers to write. After one night he returned to his apartment in København.

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Dear reader, we have been dancing a lot around Henry’s exams that first semester of medical school. Let us now return to him where he sits in his brother’s old room in his father’s house drawing pictures of the extensor muscles of the forearm or the lobes of the cerebrum. Or rather, Henry was on his way to his mother’s place, which, as you recall, was no longer located a few kilometers down the road but on the outside of Kristianstad. Or actually, dear reader, and again forgive my confusion – Henry’s mother, having gypsy blood in heir veins, moved a lot – she lived at the time in a 3 room flat on the first floor close to the city center. It is unlikely that Henry walked the whole long way there after having finished his studies for the day but it might have happened. The days and nights passed. It was late May or early June, the exam was drawing closer. Henry had repeated the whole curriculum three times and considered himself as prepared as possible. Every now and then, his father had knocked on the door to come in and ask whether Henry thought it was exciting to study medicine or to hear what Henry was revising at the moment. Henry’s father had always dreamt of being a doctor and was more than happy that his son had shifted paths from the abstract physics to medicine. Henry tried to convey the material in an excited fashion but could not hide his lack of enthusiasm. Once the exams were over Henry would take a well-needed summer vacation in order to be ready for the next semester he said to his father. It was unthinkable for him to open another book about medicine or go to another lecture in a long, long time, but this he didn’t tell his father.

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And so it was that came the day of the exam. In those days examinations were held on Peter Bangs road in Frederiksberg in København. Here lay a building with four floors and on each of these floors the students were placed tightly in front of stationary computers on small desks. When the hour struck 9 and the exam started it took a few minutes while the students read the first question until the roaring sound of hundreds of fingers slamming keyboards overwhelmed and dominated all auditory input. Many used earplugs but Henry had noticed that after a while the brain began to filter out the noise. Henry was struck by the difficulty of the questions and again and again he cursed himself for having omitted this or that chapter from Hole’s Essentials. Most if not all other students had revised in small study groups but not Henry. One question asked them to sketch the process of protein synthesis in the cell and by a strike of luck Henry saw another student’s drawing as she was turning her paper and remembered the figure in the book. On other questions Henry improvised and gave an answer which was not completely wrong but probably not correct either. For example, sodium depletion can be a deadly condition for the body if the change occurs rapidly. If it happens over time the body has time to adjust its electrolyte balance. When treating a patient with sodium depletion it is important to supply sodium at about the same rate as it was lost in order to avoid a potentially fatal edema of the brain tissue. Henry gave this answer to a question asking about the depletion of potassium, not sodium, and probably did not earn any points for that question.

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But after all and somehow, Henry became happy to learn that he had passed when the results were posted online and in real life at the medical faculty a month later. Henry had left the exam before the time was up and when he came out the sun’s bright rays met his rather proud and satisfied face. Here it was at last, summer and freedom. This rewarding feeling of passing an exam after having studied for months was not new to Henry. In England after his first year exams he made a jump into the air out of sheer happiness as soon as he had left the examination room and walked a few meters. He had returned to his student dorm and opened the window to the British summer rain. Then he had smoked a hand-rolled cigarette while listening to The Grateful Dead. ‘Never again classical mechanics, never again number theory and introductory analysis,’ he had thought, although he was tired of the studying and the exercises, not the science itself . Henry was to be honest very proud that he knew of such advanced topics and was looking forward to the next semester where he would study even more advanced analysis and real quantum mechanics. The combination of freedom earned through hard work and the bidding farewell to knowledge which had filled the head for the whole semester, known to serious students, provided a feeling almost like euphoria. This little celebratory routine which started in England Henry continued in København and the many, many exams of medical school. On the way home to his apartment he would stop at a small corner shop to buy a six pack of ice cold beer. If he didn’t have any at home he would also stop by Christiania to buy something to smoke. Then he would sit back in his armchair and fade away in an enlightened bliss eventually falling asleep.

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This time, however, Henry was feeling different. Hidden, or rather in plain sight, behind the superficial joy of exams being over, was the dread and symptoms of depression Henry had struggled with that year. Following him, traveling behind him, as he left København with the train taking him to Kristianstad was all that blackness, angst and disturbed feelings which had been conjured by the wet and dark nights, the failure with Ursula, the loneliness and lack of physical exercise, uncertainties about the future, and the never-ending lectures and assignments. Henry wasn’t a superstitious man or one prone to astral speculation. The darkness did not occupy in him a supernatural dimension. It was not brought unto him by some force. It wasn’t a punishment or an omen of things to come. Henry saw it plain and simple that he was not feeling well as he lined up all the reasons and provide simple solutions. He wasn’t haunted by demons and none of his thinking was unrealistic at this time. I am telling you this, dear reader, because now, in hindsight, as we follow Henry on the train back to Kristianstad the skies are filled with beeping alarm clocks and we want to say to Henry: buckle up, for here comes your great challenge, and it will go on and on for almost a decade.

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Some people claim to be able to see the future or hidden signs in everyday happenings telling us about what lies in waiting but Henry was of course unknowing of what the heavens had in mind for him. He was not old at 22, not really an adult and so inexperienced at life. Nobody had told him how to handle a real crisis. We can easily, dear reader, from here, many years years later and looking back on it all, say to Henry what he ought to have done: go home, relax, enjoy the summer, start jogging. Everything will be good. Just focus on your studies, socialize with your classmates, live healthy and avoid the antidepressants. But the heavens, or whatever powers there be which hover above us and determine all happenings, probably said: Henry, take the pills and start running barefoot, for we will set the hounds of the world after you and if you survive, if you prevail…

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Now enters Nathaniel, one of Henry’s oldest and best friends and one who will play an important role in our story. Nathaniel was a brilliant and exceptionally musical man whose upbringing provided for a confused identity both religiously and sexually. On his father’s side he was Jewish, his grandfather escaping Poland from the Nazis to Sweden by boat. His mother was a devout Christian music teacher and choir singer. When Nathaniel was young the family moved from Uppsala to Israel to live, not as Jews, but as evangelical Christians. Dear reader, I apologize for not being able to more precisely relay the specific beliefs of the parents at that time. However, the Jewish heritage still being strong, Nathaniel and his little brother experienced a panorama of different ideas based on the two Abrahamic religions. They celebrated every holiday associated with both Christianity and Judaism and the question was not whether there was a God or not, but how to interpret and live by the deeds and scriptures of God. Nathaniel’s father who had studied history at the university in Uppsala found it difficult to find a job when the family returned to Sweden after some years, and thus had to begin work as a bus driver. For some reason the family settled in Kristianstad, Henry’s hometown, in Näsby, not far from where Henry’s family just had moved. The two youngsters of equal age thus began college at the same time in the same town and at the same school, both switching from the science college in Kristianstad to the choir science college in Lund at the same time – and all this before they had even met! Henry remembered seeing a tall, abnormally thin – as in lacking both muscles and fat – young man walking the corridors of the school with a black Batman T-shirt (Nathaniel had inherited a mild form of muscular dystrophy from his Polish grandfather, or so he said, but I find it difficult, dear reader, to specify the diagnosis, especially since Nathaniel’s condition was not progressing over time. He was simply born that way; tall, thin and not very physically strong). His hair was bright and curly and his eyes dark blue or gray and his overall appearance struck Henry as geeky. Maybe they greeted each other as they walked past but they never had a conversation at that first college. Prior to starting college, during the summer when Henry’s family moved from the country house, he had on the website Lunarstorm (a pre-facebook era social community which was popular with teenagers in the mid 2000’s) received messages from a stranger claiming that the two had common friends. The stranger, whom Henry at first only knew by his alias, turned out to be Nathaniel. It also turned out that the two had many common interests. Henry, having begun exploring other kinds of music than punk and Bob Dylan, and exploring the world literature, and Nathaniel doing the same, had long, technical and quasi-philosophical discussions about everything from Dostojevskij to Mozart.

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It was in Lund when the two were placed in the same class that their real friendship started. Together they went to the parties described above, together they changed style to a more bohemic one, together they met girls and tried cannabis for the first time. Henry and Nathaniel were real close friends and there was no subject in the world which was too taboo or too weird to talk about or touch. In fact, Nathaniel, starting in college, began experimenting with his sexuality, his strict religious upbringing with various taboos probably contributing to this need for exploration. Then again, among their friends in Lund, it was common and well-seen upon to describe oneself as metro-sexual, or at least not totally denying the idea that everyone was at least a little bit bisexual. Nathaniel never really had a girlfriend but did for some time date a rather manly and large woman called Jessica, although I’m not sure, dear reader, whether the two slept with each other. Some years later while living in Malmö, Nathaniel started going to gay bars and even tried dressing in woman’s clothing. He found his perfect match in partner when he met Honey, a seven year older transvestite man. The two married and in 2018 they adopted a son from South Korea – but that is going way ahead of the events of our story! The common friend to both Henry and Nathaniel was Josef. Josef was also an exceptionally musical young man, his father working as a professional musician and having his own recording studio in a 17th century storage house by a small river next to their picturesque country house. Josef could already then play a song on the guitar after hearing it just once on the radio. This Nathaniel could too but with some more difficulty while Henry couldn’t do it at all. Henry first met Josef when they were thirteen or fourteen and the latter came to play drums in Henry’s punk band, Henry having heard of Josef’s talents somewhere and calling him to ask whether he was interested. Josef went to the same high school as Nathaniel and so it was that the three friends came in contact. In college they started their band which I have described before and which we probably will return to later in the story.

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Henry and Nathaniel remained close friends after Henry switched college from Lund to I.B. in Kristianstad and when he some years later moved to England. They saw each other at parties and when rehearsing and recording with their band, and before Nathaniel’s family moved from Kristianstad to Malmö Henry often came over after school to hang out. Henry remembered Nathaniel coming to visit him in England in his first year there. After the lectures which Nathaniel also joined they bought beer and got a hold of some pot which they smoked in Henry’s dorm room while listening to Joakim Pirinen’s comical sound experiments. Henry was glad to have his old friend from home visiting and the effects of the cannabis and Pirinen’s absurd humour, which the two friends enjoyed equally much, contributed to a feeling a joy which almost transcended the limits for what is normal. Henry laughed and laughed and he felt that he was in a bubble locked out from the large world outside with its lectures, students and books – here, again together with his best friend, Henry was home and tomorrow did not exist. After Henry returned to Kristianstad with the train from København, having emptied the apartment he shared with Caspar a month before his exams, he spent a few days in the forest house by the lake. Maybe he invited some friends to celebrate or he spent some time alone fishing or grilling hot dogs by the fireplace or walking among the trees in full summer bloom. The only friend Henry had left living in his old home town Kristianstad was by this time Josef who was often busy touring or rehearsing with one of his bands. Kristianstad was at that time, and probably still is today, the kind of small town young people always want to get away from when they get old enough to do so. The rest, those lacking these ambitions or are content where they are, stay to live the rest of their lives in the town or in one of the small villages surrounding it. Henry’s parents grew up in Kristianstad and after some years living in Stockholm and Helsingborg, returned and bought the 19th century house where Henry grew up. However, most of Henry’s friends from his college days had either, like him, moved abroad to study at university or moved to a larger Swedish town such as Malmö. Here lived Nathaniel at the time. He had for a period of a few months taken courses in Danish at the University of Lund in order to more easily land a job in København. If this idea seems strange to you, dear reader, you must remember, or be informed, that the year was 2009 and the world economy was still free-falling after the collapse in 2008. The Swedish Krona was at its lowest in probably decades and for a young adult without education it was practically impossible to find a job. On the other side of the bridge, however, in large and bustling København, there were, for some reason, lots of low-qualified jobs to be found. Nathaniel, being a wise, calculated and economical young man had thus decided to take a small student loan so that he could learn Danish while still living for free at his parents’ house in a suburb to Malmö. This is not to say that Nathaniel, being 22, hadn’t yet moved out. He had for a period of a few years lived in Göteborg where he had studied economics, but had eventually decided that it was not for him. Before deciding to study danish, he had, coincidentally like Karen, at the University of Lund, studied a – in Henry’s at the time hardcore scientific mind – vague subject called Intermediality (examining the interaction between different media such as TV, radio and the Internet), but this wasn’t for him either.

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In Malmö lived a young woman named Martina, two years younger than Henry. She lived alone in a 2 room apartment and was also originally from Kristianstad, where Henry and Nathaniel had known her through common friends and met her at parties. Martina had been to all of the three New Years Eve parties held at Henry’s father’s house. At Henry’s 20th birthday party he and Martina had made out in Henry’s room upstairs. Martina, a somewhat shaky existence with large outbursts of feelings both high and low and always in some kind of love trouble, like a femme fatale, loved visiting the bars and clubs of Malmö and was out every weekend and sometimes in the weekdays too. Henry went to Malmö to see Nathaniel. This must have been when he wrote and recorded the song ‘Ursu’ together with Nathaniel in his room in his parent’s house. After they had recorded the song and listened to it a few times, they went outside and walked a short distance to an abandoned house on a field. The house, where obviously a family had lived before, had been empty for years, the wind free to shatter the windows and wreak havoc among the few items left. The stairs to the 1st floor were almost intact and Henry and Nathaniel walked up and sat in the dark smoking a joint. At one point Henry reached out in the dark and found on the floor a used and dirty copy of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. He kept it for the remainder of his life. After returning to Nathaniel’s house and eating dinner with his parents and brother, the two friends took the bus to Malmö to meet Martina. The most popular part of Malmö among the young and alternative crowd is “Möllan”, a part of the town built in the 19th century and centered around a large square where a statue of workers lifting a large stone together is placed to commemorate the worker’s struggle of that century. Around the square and on its small side streets are numerous pubs and bars, though it is nothing compared to the busy areas of for example Berlin. Nightlife in Sweden is a somewhat restricted beast. The bars close at 1 am leaving for the thirsty person only the city’s few clubs, which often has a fee, but are open until 3 or 5 am. Alcohol is expensive compared to other European countries and the state has a monopoly on the sale of alcoholic beverages stronger than 3,5%. Therefore, after the bars close, many Swedes go home to hold an after-party and drinking the weaker beer, known as “folköl”, people’s beer, available in common shops. On the way to Martina, Henry and Nathaniel stopped at Systembolaget, the store which is the manifestation of the state’s monopoly on alcohol, which closes at 7 pm on Friday and remains closed throughout the weekend so that Swedes has to plan their drinking for the weekend. They probably bought a bottle of wine and some beer (this was before the big IPA hype). At Martina’s they drank the wine and beer and listened to music and chatted. It was a somewhat strange trio with Henry’s and Martina’s brief sexual episode and Nathaniel not knowing Martina that well. Martina, having the habit of talking freely and continuing even if she was interrupted probably told the two young men about her current life situation, about her work and love life. Nathaniel, who also was somewhat strange in social situations – but to the opposite side of the spectrum, having self-diagnosed himself with Asperger’s Syndrome – replied with cold and witty remarks to Martina’s voluminous telling of her life. Henry acted as the middleman trying to keep the conversation flowing and natural so that the three friends could enjoy themselves together and avoid unnecessary fighting as the alcohol entered their blood. Around nine or ten they left Martina’s apartment and visited a few of the bars on Möllan. They got more and more drunk. When the hour struck 1 they all agreed that it was not time to go home and they headed for a, in that time but now closed, very popular club among the alternative crowd called Debaser. Here one could hear The Talking Heads, The Strokes and other alternative or independent rock music blasted out through large speakers on the dance floor. Martina went up to dance while Henry and Nathaniel sat talking and discussing whether they should try to find some pot. With the clock approaching closing time Henry (and probably the other two as well) felt quite drunk – drunk as in having left the last bastion of socially acceptable behavior with all inhibition vanished allowing for drunk singing, smashing of cars, fighting with people, peeing on sidewalks, &c, &c.

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Thus it was that, as the three friends were leaving Debaser, Henry suggested they should go home to Martina to have a threesome. They looked at Henry and looked at each other with confused and disturbed faces. Inside their drunk minds Henry’s idea was however somewhat appealing. After all, having sex is one of the goals of hitting the bars, and while Martina was heterosexual and had to overcome the barrier of having sex with two men, Nathaniel was openly bisexual and probably saw in the arrangement a perfect junction of his sexual desires. As for Henry, maybe he was just drunk and horny. He had slept with Martina before and considered Nathaniel his closest friend and was not ashamed to be in bed with him. He had, however, no plans to be sexual towards Nathaniel. His idea was accepted and they walked towards Martina’s singing and talking loud as drunk people on the way home from the bar do. When they arrived they left their shoes by the door and directly placed themselves on the bed, Martina in the middle and the two young men on each side. Martina and Henry began kissing while Nathaniel slowly made his way towards Henry’s crotch opening his pants and removing them. The day after and each time he was to think about it, a shiver of disgust or awkwardness went down Henry’s back as he recalled his penis being in his best friend’s mouth. After some time Henry removed Martina’s clothes and entered her while Nathaniel lay on her side kissing her breasts. As sensual as it may sound, dear reader, it wasn’t – they were drunk, Henry was barely hard enough to allow for penetration and Nathaniel couldn’t get his penis erect at all even though he tried. But it wasn’t shameful or wrong, it was in a sense beautiful, in that crazy and free way only love can allow for. ‘I want to come,’ Henry said after some time and Martina turned her back towards him so that he could enter her again. He put on a condom and went faster and faster while Nathaniel was kissing Martina on the mouth. Afterwards they had a cigarette, Nathaniel too even though he never smoked, and fell fast asleep with heavy breathing as the first blackbirds began their singing from lamp posts and tree tops in the early summer morning.

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During his first semester in København, Henry had been lucky enough to get a place on the training course for “sygeplejevikar”, which means ‘nurse helper’. It was a job offer to medical students and was a great idea invented by the Union of Danish Medical Students because it not only provided the poor student with some extra money but also invited the coming medical doctor into the world of hospitals, colleagues and patient care. It was rare that students from the first semester was given a spot on the training course, but Henry and another student in his class, Margerethe, were lucky, as the spots were allocated by lottery. Once the student had passed the first course he or she was allowed to sign up for work, for example consisting of taking care of difficult or confused patients who needed constant attention at one of the region’s hospitals. Throughout the twelve semesters of medical school, as the student passed the exams, and together with the experience gained while working as a nurse helper, the student qualified for work with more responsibility and could take add-on courses. For example, after having passed 10th semester’s psychiatry rotation, the student could work as a doctor under supervision at the psychiatric emergency hospitals. This was something Henry did with great satisfaction, but that is years from where we are now. Henry had passed the course and become a nurse helper. He had his first shift in the spring of 2009 at Rigshospitalet in København on the 13th floor at the ward of neurosurgery, a ward made famous as a place of mystery and ghosts through Lars Von Triers “Riget”, or in English, “The Kingdom”. It was a night shift, Henry was to stay up the whole night watching a patient who had a drain in his skull and was trying to remove it because of delirium. Henry remembered the great honor he felt as he for the first time put on the hospital garments and became one of the care-giving personnel being there solely to provide care for people in need. It was an honor Henry took with the greatest respect and gravity. He had first felt the joy of helping others as a professional when he worked at home-care in København the previous year but this was something different: on a real hospital, in real nurse or doctor clothing (although his white pants and T-shirt were too large and baggy) and having been trained for his task and passed the examination.

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Henry appeared with his backpack containing a course book and a food box around his shoulder from the depot room where he had changed clothes and made his way to the nurse’s room where he presented himself. His name was Henry. He was a nurse helper. Everyone knew that the nurse helpers were medical students and from this Henry was amazed as he noticed that as a coming doctor he was treated with a certain respect by the nurses and other personnel. He was shown where to put his food box and his backpack unless he wanted it with him in the patient’s room. Henry explained that he had brought his books hoping to catch some reading during the night. He was lead down the long dimly-lit ward corridor. As they walked a doctor – a real doctor, Henry hadn’t seen many – passed by with hurried steps but looked up to greet them and Henry greeted him back. Inside the patient room it was dark. Only the lamp above the sink, reflected in the mirror, provided some light and from it Henry saw the patient lying in his bed sleeping. ‘He’s sleeping now, has been sleeping for the last few hours,’ the nurse said and left Henry with the patient in the dark room. Henry’s task was to keep an eye on the patient so that he didn’t remove the drain. He was also to help him with personal necessities when needed and brush his teeth and shave him in the morning if this was possible given the patient’s delirious state of mind. Finally Henry was to record vital parameters – blood pressure, pulse, saturation, respiration frequency and temperature – three times during his eight hour shift. Henry looked at the man’s pale and yellow face with its closed swollen eyes. Apart from the drain, the man was hooked up to an IV infusion and breathing heavily but slowly. I am describing this commonplace scene in a hospital ward to you, dear reader, because all this was new to Henry. He was in the middle of the first semester and he knew nothing about the hospital world. He walked up to the bag and read on the label: isotone NaCl. ‘Aha,’ thought he, ‘it’s liquid therapy. I’ve read about that, I wonder why they are giving it to this man.’ Several times during the night, Henry, by standing beside the bed and presenting himself, tried to make contact with the patient but to no avail. He kept a close eye on the man’s vital parameters displayed on a small screen in order to make sure that the man’s heart was beating as it should and that the blood received the oxygen it should. Even though he should only do it three times during the night, Henry measured the patient’s blood pressure at least eight times. Every two or three hours the old man would awake and with a startled look on his face try to remove the tube from his skull. Henry would run up from his chair in the corner and grab the man’s hands and place them by his sides. The man fell asleep after some struggling, too weak to resist. As the hours went by Henry’s mind grew more and more funny. It was as if the world outside had stopped existing and Henry was alone in it. It struck him that he could do anything, even remove the patient’s blanket, or whisper a poem into his ears. In the mirror Henry looked at himself in his hospital garment, saying ‘Well, look at that! A real medical student taking care of a critically ill patient.’ But before long it all became quite boring. This was before the days of smartphones which meant that his telephone wasn’t much entertainment. He tried to read from his course book and called the nurse to get a cup of coffee and used too many snuffs so that his mouth became dry and uncomfortable. Then, after what had seemed like an endless night, the sun began to show behind the old churches and houses of København visible from the 13th floor where Henry sat trying to stay awake. The nurse came in and offered Henry a short break so that he could eat his breakfast and after a few more hours Henry’s first shift as a nurse helper was finished. He was a bit disappointed that the ghosts had been absent from the neurosurgery ward. The next nurse helper, who was to watch the patient during the first eight hours of the day, came in with her bag around her shoulder. He gave a report, proud at his own words as he described the patient’s condition in medical terms. With squinted eyes and confused from tiredness Henry walked out of the hospital’s main entrance and bicycled back to the apartment he shared with Caspar. It was difficult to fall asleep with all the impressions of the night calling for attention and the bright day continuing outside the bedroom window. Henry slept until early afternoon, tired from having been awake the whole night and exhausted from his task of taking care of a critical patient all alone in a dark room. This was Henry’s first shift. In the course of medical school his work as a nurse helper and later venepuncturer and doctor’s helper at the psychiatric emergency hospital would amount to several thousands of hours. Dear reader, we are sure to return to some of these experiences later on in our story.

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Let us now return to Henry, Nathaniel and Martina waking up in Martina’s bed a few hours before lunch time this beautiful day in early June. Confused and with a headache and perhaps with nightmares, they twisted and turned in the bed as the previous night’s happenings slowly returned to their minds. Besides being hungover as a result of it, it didn’t bother Henry much, what had happened. He was always open to new experiences and ways of living on the wild side and he never felt prejudice towards people of other sexual orientations. Neither was there a moment of awkwardness when his eyes met Nathaniel’s. The two friends simply smiled at each other in that polite and ironic fashion they always did, both equally well aware of the madness which could be hidden behind a tranquil face. Henry knew that Nathaniel’s mind was impossible to penetrate and that he very rarely showed his feelings. His friend was hyper-rational and could even appear cold and without feelings but his music and his deepest thoughts when he chose to show them, so sensitive and beautiful, suggested that he in fact was a human being with extraordinary though often conflicting feelings. Martina went out in the kitchen and soon came back with a tray upon which were placed various cheap breakfast alternatives – crackers, a banana, corn flakes. Soon she returned with coffee. ‘So, where does the day take you?’ Martina asked the two young men. ‘I’m working in the night,’ answered Nathaniel in his usual low monotonic voice. He was delivering newspapers in his parent’s neighborhood. ‘I’m going to København where maybe, maybe, I will work… if they call me,’ said Henry.

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When working as a nurse helper one could get work in two ways. Either one could specify a set of days in advance, from 1-5 days, where one wanted to work. Here one was almost guaranteed to receive work. Or one could sign up the same day, or maximum 24 hours before, to a chance shift. This meant that one should be ready to work if one was called but one was not guaranteed work. Henry’s father, having complained about Henry’s economical situation during the summer where the student loan was not paid out, had suggested to Henry he should go to København as often as possible in order to work. As we recall, Henry had moved out of the apartment he had with Caspar, and in order for the idea of signing up to chance shifts to be realistic, Henry needed a place in København, however spare, where he could sleep. At the beginning of the semester there was in Henry’s class a student named Prince. As the splendid name perhaps suggests Prince was of African origin, but had moved to Norway where he had read one or two semesters of medical school before he, for some reason, came to København to continue his studies. Henry afterwards didn’t recall talking much at all to Prince during the semester, but somehow Henry managed to sublet Prince’s small student room in the Østerbro quarters of København as Prince himself was going to Norway during the summer holidays. Henry rented the room from the middle of June and would spend perhaps in total a week there while he was working as a nurse helper. Moving a little bit ahead of the events of our story, Henry remembered sitting in the window sill of the small room overlooking the street below while smoking a hand rolled cigarette and listening to Feist’s The Reminder which had come out a few years before. In his bag he had the small chart of antidepressants he had just begun taking. In his head the mood of the thoughts had begun to change, at this early stage barely noticeable. Henry thought that the music was beautiful, perfect for the occasion, and saw before him a summer filled with many great things and happenings.

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Henry had bought a book about Buddhism which he brought to the small room and read while he was waiting for the call telling him where to work. This, for Henry, rather curious decision, to start reading a book about one of the great world religions, demands a little explanation. While Henry was growing up, religion was something he met in the church before the summer or Christmas holidays. As a child and teenager Henry looked at the priest standing up there in the pulpit talking about a man named Jesus who had lived thousands of years ago and who had sacrificed himself for the people. These were stories, Henry didn’t grasp the meaning or understand what the priest was trying to say and it didn’t bother him that he didn’t understand. Religion was a background, for good or for worse, it was everywhere, the origins of hate and war, the reasons for holidays, the topic of great debates, and the origins of the history of modern civilization. In short, religion did not mean anything to Henry growing up. In England, Henry read Dawkin’s The God Illusion and became even more convinced about the evils of religion. ‘Let them fight about their religions and leave me out of it,’ thought he. But Henry didn’t know that religion is not what we read about in the papers or even the words that come out of the priest’s mouth. He didn’t know the personal, spiritual side of religion and had never penetrated the layers of thought starting with a question (is there a God?). The question had never occurred to him, or been put to him in the correct way as to awaken his wondering. With a superior, snob face he smiled at believers bending on their knees to pray or at kids from his high school going to Christian summer camps. As a clear-thinking, rational human being, Henry marveled at the workings of the universe and the starry sky but he never asked himself whether he believed that someone had created all of that he saw. Or rather, if the question was asked Henry’s answer was a certain No, it was a silly question – of course there is no Creator! With physics we can explain everything! I speculate, dear reader, that given Henry’s upbringing and interests it is not surprising that he was not a religious being. Henry felt strongly about matters which interested him, tending to see the world in black and white. As a teenager he couldn’t even imagine being together with a girl who called herself a believing Christian. All he could foresee in this case were the endless discussions about the existence of God and all the things this God restricted the people from doing. It was very easy back then for Henry. I guess, dear reader, that for some people, religious thoughts enter at a rather late stage in life, perhaps provoked by a crisis or loss. Furthermore, I believe, dear reader, that anyone can become religious given the right circumstances. For Henry, growing up, his ideas came in a ready-made box called science and the rational thought. What he lost, attending strictly to this world-view, was the sense of mystery which life entails and the eagerness to explore the spiritual aspects of the mind and the world. Henry felt deeply and was amazed by his feelings about life and love and had many experiences which were spiritual to him, but God had nothing to do with it. Then again, he was young and perhaps he simply hadn’t had the time yet for serious religious pondering, or maybe there hadn’t been any need for it yet. Maybe, if everything that happened hadn’t happened, Henry would have calmly and in peace over the years explored his spiritual side and come up with a complete world-view consisting of both a physical and a spiritual side – this, dear reader, ought to be the goal of human intellectual activity. But, as we soon will see, all this pondering which Henry had neglected thus far in his life would suddenly come at him like a hurricane, demanding answers, forcing him to deal with Enlightenment and God while at the same time fighting for his sanity and life. So, again, how come Henry brought a book about Buddhism to his small room in København this summer? To answer this question we must introduce a friend of Henry who played a large role in Henry’s life for some years before the summer of 2009 but who vanished almost completely after it.

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Elias Rhoboste Tomál was born two years before Henry and grew up with his mother in Ronneby, a small Swedish town in Blekinge where, during the Northern Seven Years’ War, 422 years to the date before Henry was born, the Swedes entered with their army under King Erik XIV and slaughtered the whole population. This historic fact probably never bothered Elias who grew up to be a happy young man although plagued by an insecurity likely stemming from his mother’s strict religious views. Some part of his childhood he spent at a Christian collective where the members openly had sex in the living room and one mother was as good as any other mother. Elias’ father, who left the mother and their only child almost immediately after he was born, lived in the forest in Skåne and did not care too much about what his son was up to. Henry met Elias at the choir science college in Lund and they immediately became good friends. Henry, new in the class and a bit shy and reserved due to the ongoing chaos at home, was struck by and at times set free by Elias’ wild and carefree way of being; or rather, Elias’ way of constantly being the clown, always joking, never taking matters seriously, although, beneath it all, as Henry learned when they were alone, Elias was a deeply sensitive and intelligent young man with many talents. While many of their classmates were annoyed by Elias’ lack of restrictions and cynical way of being, Henry was amazed by it, seeing it fitting perfectly with his own wild and punk rock attitude towards life and society. At times, for example at parties where Elias would stand up on the table and, totally unfitting for the situation, show his butt to everyone, Henry said to himself that the freedom Elias showed was real freedom and real courage, a hard-hearted protest against society and the pretentiousness of the other students. Elias back then was an ambitious young man who dressed in ordinary clothes and landed a leading role in the school’s musical. Dear reader, we might get back to it later in the story, but I will just add here that in 2007, Henry, his brother and Elias went on a 3 week Interrail trip to Eastern Europe visiting Belgrade, Split, Pula and even Istanbul before finishing in France visiting Henry’s good friend Kieran (whom we will also likely return to later). Henry remembered how in Istanbul after sitting at a terrace drinking beer, as they were leaving, a girl suddenly came running after him to without a word kiss him on the lips.

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Of course, what Henry didn’t realize or understand at the time, was that Elias’ behavior was the product of an inner insecurity and unhappiness. Henry laughed and Elias laughed, but inside Elias was crying. Elias was headed towards a crash and a transformation. When Henry started his second year in England and moved to a large house together with four other students, one room was vacant and Elias moved in from Sweden. His plan was to find a job to pay the rent and spend his free time on writing and making music. However, the gray setting of Earlsdon, Coventry, with its disillusioned youth selling cocaine outside the door, the constant rain and lack of things to do provoked in Elias a crisis. Instead of working and creating he isolated himself in his little room to play online poker, loosing lots of money, and smoking joints. When Henry dropped out of Warwick and moved back to Kristianstad, Elias moved briefly to Oslo, Norway. One day he wrote Henry a long letter describing how he had cried for two whole days, completely sinking into himself and realizing that everything he had been and done up to now had been fake, a costume, a theatrical play. He couldn’t be himself anymore, he wrote, and was moving back to his mother in Ronneby in order to find the real Elias. A few months later, Henry and Nathaniel came to visit with their instruments (together with Elias they recorded the songs “Come with me to the river” and “Unparadoxical Paradox” which Nathaniel later uploaded to the Internet). The Elias they met was dramatically changed. On the bookshelves in the mother’s living room where he was living on the couch were books by about Buddhism, Astrology and books by the Indian guru Osho and the English philosopher Alan Watts. Elias greeted them with a hard handshake and looked them deeply in the eyes. Henry was struck by the transformation and almost didn’t recognize his old friend. Elias had become serious to the point of exaggeration and when Henry tried to reconnect to their former silliness, Elias shut it off, changed topic or seemed to ignore Henry’s remarks. It was clear that Elias had turned his back on his former self and had set out on a journey of self-discovery – he refused to be the clown any longer and was looking for a world-view where he could rest in himself. Henry thought that Elias’ transformation was very good, make no mistake about it, dear reader. He was happy that his friend was searching for the truth and developing his ideas. However, the dramatic change struck Henry as artificial and it scared him. In the coming months, via messenger, Henry and Elias had many conversations about Buddhism, spirituality and God. Henry felt that he was defending science and the rational thought and became increasingly cold and irritated towards his old best friend. Elias on the other hand was innocent, was merely explaining his own transformation and at most urging his friend to open his mind towards the spiritual or towards that which science could not explain. The chasm set the two friends on different paths and their once so loving and close relationship began tearing up. In the following years, Elias became a traveling musician and artist and found a home in Ängsbacka, a community and alternative festival in the middle of Sweden. Henry didn’t see Elias again until he played a concert in København in April 2009 and how he had changed: long hair, a thing beard, a white robe, jewelry made of natural materials and a whole new way of being – moving slow, being calm and peaceful. Henry was amazed, jealous even, and felt like he was missing out on something. He decided to find out what it was that Elias had found and bought the book about Buddhism.

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And so it was that it was July and Henry was lying in the bed in the small room in København reading about the Buddha’s childhood when the call came: Rigshospitalet again, the nefrology ward, a confused patient who was to receive dialysis. Among the many shifts Henry had as a nurse helper this one was to be one of the most memorable and one he would often relate to his friends and family. The reason for this is partly because how it unfolded but also because it was his second shift ever and first impressions last longer. In the course of his career Henry was to have shifts that were more spectacular, sad, extreme or difficult but by then he was experienced, having tackled all kinds of situations and patients. When Henry met early in the morning, with a trembling voice announcing his arrival to the ten or fifteen nurses who were having their morning conference, he had no idea who was waiting for him. Dear reader, I hope I don’t with my exaggerated build-up to this shift raise your expectations too high. After all, thanks to some luck, nothing bad happened and both Henry and the patient lived to see another day. I also hope, dear reader, that my telling of this episode, which is not important to our main story in other ways than the life-experience it granted our hero, will not bore or anger you and I promise that once it’s been told we will swiftly return to the path which led to Henry’s enlightenment, destruction and everything else that followed. After having announced his arrival, Henry was as usual shown where to leave his backpack and food box and was then taken to a small waiting room where he was told the patient was sitting as he waited for dialysis. In the room Henry saw two men sitting each at their own table and each reading one of the magazines the ward provided for its patients’ leisure. ‘Gert,’ the nurse said, ‘please say hello to Henry. He will follow you to dialysis and sit with you and follow you back to us when it’s finished.’ Henry looked at the man dressed in a dirty black jogging dress and slippers. It was difficult to determine his real age, for while his body was rather fat and his hairline only moderately receded, his thin skin and eyes were icteric and when he smiled at Henry and rose to greet him, wrinkles spread on his face in all directions like lightning in a thunderstorm. Gert stood up slowly from the chair and for a moment it looked like he was about to loose his balance but he regained it and took a few, small steps towards Henry with stiff legs, dragging his slippers along the floor as he walked and hitting his knee on the table. ‘An alcoholic!’ thought Henry as he rushed up to Gert to shake his hand and lead him back to the chair. But it was worse than that. Not only was Gert’s liver turned to fat and scar tissue from years of drinking and his kidneys dysfunctional from dysregulated diabetes, but also his brain was damaged, making it difficult for him to to stand and walk. Whether it was delirium from alcohol abstinence, or cerebral atrophy, dementia or the first stages of liver coma, Henry didn’t know and he didn’t want to ask the nurse either (she had left the room). Henry sat down next to Gert and waited passively for what the confused man was to do next. Gert resumed his reading of the magazine. Henry turned his head to see what magazine Gert was reading and was astonished when he saw that Gert was holding the magazine upside down! ‘All’s well?’ asked Henry in a casual tone. ‘All’s well,’ replied Gert and continued to read the magazine. Then he suddenly stood up. ‘It’s just that I’ve parked my car, my white van, down on the parking lot, and soon the ticket officer will come and give it a ticket because I haven’t bought a ticket yet. I must go down to move my car. I have a white van. I didn’t buy a parking ticket.’ Henry’s question seemed to have started a malicious cycle of thoughts in Gert’s mind, making him worried and agitated. Whether or not it was true that he had a white van that was parked without a parking ticket in the parking lot Henry did not know. And he did not have the time to find out either, for before Henry had the time to give Gert a good answer, which would have calmed the man, Gert started out of the room and headed toward the exit of the ward and the elevators. Gert in the corridor was mustering all his forces, walking slowly and mechanical like an Egyptian mummy come back to life after four thousand years of sleep and with only one goal in his mind: to buy a parking ticket for his white van. As they moved past the window of the nurse office Henry tried to gesticulate with his hands that the patient was taking off but the nurse who sat there only waved back and smiled. For a split second Henry had the possibility of running into the office to get help, but before he knew it Gert was already at the elevators and Henry ran after him. ‘This is crazy, it isn’t happening,’ thought Henry as Gert pressed the button to the elevator. It wasn’t an option, either, to physically try to hinder Gert from leaving the ward; Henry was certain Gert would have become aggressive and dangerous in that case. While they were waiting for the elevator to arrive, Henry tried to collect his thoughts and plan ahead. They would reach the ground floor. There must be security guards on the ground floor which he could approach and ask for help. However, as Henry was thinking this he noticed something on the elevator button which caused him to smile: in his confusion, Gert had pressed the button for going up, not down. They were on the 10th floor and on the panel above Henry could see that the elevator was now approaching from the 5th floor. When the elevator arrived it was filled with people, both patients and hospital staff. Gert excused himself and entered the elevator and Henry entered after. The doors closed and the elevator continued upwards. All was calm as is common inside elevators filled with people, and as Henry saw Gert smiling at an elderly lady, he himself was looking at the nurses and doctors, contemplating whether he could ask them for help. After the elevator had reached the top floor it started going down again and this is where Henry’s master plan went into action. Henry was aware of Gert’s confused state of mind and he decided to use it against him. It was clear that Gert had an escape in mind and that the elevators were the way out, but Henry did not believe that Gert could keep track of the floors or knew what the ground floor looked like. As the elevator was leaving the 11th floor, Henry pressed the button to the 10th floor, and with a small hint at Gert, as the doors opened, started walking out of the elevator. Gert followed. ‘Good, and now this way, Gert,’ said Henry and directed Gert to the right where the nefrology ward was located. Gert kept on walking. Soon they were back in the chairs in the waiting room. ‘What a trip!’ Henry couldn’t help to exclaim when he had caught his breath. ‘Yes! Oh, boy!’ replied Gert, somehow and in some way also aware of his great escape-attempt which almost had succeeded. Soon a nurse and a porter from the dialysis department came to fetch Gert for his dialysis. What followed were four dull hours where Gert sat perfectly still in the comfortable armchair while his blood was taken out of his veins and led through a machine which cleaned it and transported back into his body. Henry remembered that they chatted casually about small things and that he was surprised at how changed Gert was as he sat calmly in the chair telling stories about his life. It was as if Gert became more and more clear-headed the more his blood were rinsed, but Henry thought it more likely that Gert had tried dialysis many times before and the well-known setting calmed his delirious mind. Nothing more worth describing happened that shift except for Gert’s last words as Henry shook his hand and thanked him for a nice day: ‘Thanks to you too, young man. It’s been a pleasure! Now I will go out and find my car.’ At these words Henry hurried to collect his backpack and on his way out he informed the nurse that the patient was probably trying to leave the ward. The nurse – who was not aware of Gert’s escapade since Henry hadn’t dared to inform her about it – thanked Henry for his help and since it is unbeknownst to me, dear reader, what happened after Henry left the ward, we will finish this story here and return to the main plot.

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There lives in Malmö a man and while I will not go to lengths describing his ways and appearance as to not remove or destroy the mystical aura which surrounds him, a few words must be put down before he descends from the Himalayan mountains and his Temple into our story and Henry’s life. When he traveled India and Tibet the gurus and wise men rejoiced and shouted and with shining eyes proclaimed that this man is the Buddha reincarnated. His head is bald and clean-shaven, his eyes brown or black as the night and look in every direction at once. That is, when he is not wearing his thick-lensed circular glasses which makes him look like a character from the 19th century if it wasn’t for the bald head. He has traveled the world – all of it – many times over and flown in a helicopter over the Victoria Falls, rafted down the Amazon and climbed the tallest mountains. In his apartment on Möllan are furniture older than the century which he has bought from auctions from all over the world and in a glass cupboard are placed hundreds of small statues of Buddhas collected from sacred places all over of the planet. Dear reader, amaze at this man and not as his description for words fail to portray the aura which surrounds him. His accent is thick like a farmer’s from Skåne or someone from Trelleborg and once you hear him speak you will think he is dumber than a tree or a rock. But Oh! You are mistaken, for after, when you leave and return home and lie in your bed thinking about the day’s occurrences, the Bhudda’s voice and words will linger in your ears and brain like a haze and if – if! dear reader – you are ready and prepared – and only the Bhudda knows this – his words will reach that special place in your soul and touch that special sacred and this, dear reader, will enlighten you or set you on the path towards enlightenment. One can walk past the most divine character on the planet and have him or her say greetings and look one in the eye without realizing what has happened and continue one’s day as usual. If Jesus came back and appeared on television, what words could he use to convince the people that it really was him? Or would words not be necessary; would his appearance alone, his good looks, exactly like the icons and portraits, do it? Or would convincing not be necessary; would every soul know about his return, or would the Heavens spell it out with large letters in the sky? Dear reader, you must be wondering about these sudden turn of events and whimsical questions, but I’m asking in order to attune your mind, to set your thinking in the right framework, the framework in which you can appreciate that the Bhudda lives on Möllan and is a man one year younger than Henry’s father; is a homosexual, who lives together with a man the same age as Henry and cultivates his own cannabis on a secret location close to the highway to Lund – all this you must appreciate as we approach the beginning, the real beginning, of Henry’s story.

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The Bhudda had an encyclopedic knowledge about the history of the world. Lying in his hammock on the balcony in the early summer evening with the seagulls ceaselessly screaming as they always do in Malmö, the Bhudda would amaze his guests as he began a story starting with the present day King of Sweden and went backwards, with all siblings and cousins, to before Bonaparte, to before Gustavos III, to Carlos XII, to Gustavos Adolphus II and all the way back to Gustav Wasa, the first Swedish King. The Bhudda knew all things etiquette, and all things tradition. He knew curiosities about the World Wars, what the Kings and Dictators had said to each other and what role that unknown person who was standing next to the President had played in setting the peace terms. Having worked as a car salesman, the Bhudda knew everything about old cars, and owned both a Volvo PV from the 1940’s and a military jeep from the 1960’s with all parts still original and both cars in as good a shape as ever. The Bhudda could look at an old piece of furniture and decide how old it was, where it had been made and what class of society it had belonged to. A skilled backgammon player, the games the guests played with the Bhudda were dramatic and sometimes unbelievable, with incredible twists and last-minute turns or strikes of two fours four times on the dices. The Bhudda could even make things turn electrical, as he once showed Henry when no one saw it, holding the lamp screen with his one hand and making the light flicker without touching the contact. The Bhudda seemed to know everything about the person he talked to and could relate to details or circumstances in the person’s life which the person had never told the Bhudda. For example, when Henry in early 2010 by accident and malevolence had a private picture spread on the Internet, the Bhudda somehow knew about this and jokingly asked the deeply disturbed Henry: ‘Do they call you the asparagus?’ About Ursula, when Henry was psychotic, the Bhudda, without mentioning her name and as if in passing, said: ‘Let her go. She’s afraid of you.’ To Henry the Bhudda also said: ‘Do it! Write! Play Music!’ And Henry again found courage and did these things.

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Henry got frightened the first time he met the Bhudda. Well, maybe that isn’t the right word. Henry got overwhelmed. But that’s not it either. Henry was in the choir science college in Lund so he was sixteen years old. One of his classmates, Victor, a lively and beautiful young man with a love for Bob Dylan like Henry’s, lived in a 1-room apartment which used to belong to his grandmother and which lay on the street behind the Bhudda’s. Victor’s father, a journalist at the biggest paper in Skåne and a rock n’ roll fan, had moved with Victor’s mother (her eyes had different colours like David Bowie) to an abandoned farm house from the 18th century on Österlen – one of the most beautiful regions of southern Skåne – and restored it to its former functional state. The fields around were worked by a professional farmer though, perhaps the owner of the farm house next door. There Victor grew up as the last born among his three siblings. Victor had also had a band in high school and it didn’t take long before Caspar, Henry and Victor formed a band together with Calle on keyboards and Hans on drums: The Hangin’ Out With Shades, dear reader were great. It was the best band the world never got to know. They only ever played three shows. Henry played the bass on the two demo records the band made, the first one an instant classic, the second one too stiff and lacking in direction. Victor met the Bhudda one evening at a pub on Möllan and being the social people they both are and very talkative, Victor ended up coming home with the Bhudda. There they probably drank more beer and although neither of the two tried to drink too much, drunkenness and backgammon probably ensued. And so one evening after Victor, Caspar and Henry had drank some beer and listened to rock n’ roll music, Victor suggested they should go home to this funny guy he had met some months ago and who had his whole fridge filled with his vegetables. Henry was perplexed. As an ice-hockey player he couldn’t possibly intoxicate himself with this weed which his father had told him was so dangerous; although Henry had seen old videos of his father smoking a large joint, Henry believed what his father said, and after all Henry was still an active player at that point, though the thoughts about quitting occurred to him.

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Henry couldn’t remember much of the evening a few days later, but he always remembered the first time he walked in through the Bhudda’s door. Filled with antique objects and cozy arrangements of sofas and chairs in the large living room, the Bhudda made his guests feel at home at once – but overwhelmed really was the word to describe Henry’s initial feelings. The Bhudda’s intense presence as a human being and his way of looking at Henry strangely with his lazy black eye made young Henry insecure: ‘Who is this mad existence looking at me with such an enthusiastic face and using words which are both so stupid and wise at the same time?’ From the Bhudda’s behaviour towards him – picking him out, offering him the best chair at the backgammon table and always addressing him ‘dear Henry’ – Henry for the first time experienced that eerie feeling which only later, years later, manifested itself as the idea that the Bhudda somehow had been expecting Henry’s arrival and already knew not only everything Henry had done, but also everything he was about to do. In the opening sequences, as the friends removed their shoes and opened their beer, to everything the Bhudda said, Henry felt he had a good response, but when the words came out his voice failed. Henry felt as if he, or his soul, was too weak in the presence of this dark star, this tall bald man resembling Kevin Spacey the same age as his own father. Henry became noticeably ashamed, and he wasn’t sure if the Bhudda saw it and he couldn’t detect it from his words or behaviour either. Henry was, however, very much welcome and as the evening continued and everyone became drunk and stoned Henry relaxed and in the end had a great evening with his three friends and the aging gay man. Above the balcony the seagulls were screaming as they always do in Malmö and Henry could not know that years later he would be running around Möllan in a craze, possibly in danger and disintegrating, looking for Ursula, and sleeping at friend’s couches in a never-ending thunderstorm, this balcony being his only real port and the Bhudda his only hope for answers.

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It wasn’t until Henry moved to København that he and the Bhudda started seeing each other regularly and became the close friends they would always be. In the years before this, Henry, when visiting Malmö for other reasons, had on occasion paid visit to the backgammon, the pot and the hammock on the balcony but always with a kind of unease, as if he wasn’t supposed to be there. A great part of this feeling stemmed from the fact that Henry, although he loved its effects, was, back then, highly skeptical of regular cannabis use. From governmental campaigns to freak stories, the adverse effects of cannabis were well-known by every Swedish teenager, and while the neighbor Denmark were not that far from legalizing the herb, Sweden seemed to be hundreds of years away. Henry also always feared the combination of euphoria, the rushing thoughts in the first minutes of high, and the Bhuddas constant chattering about interesting stories which always seemed to have a double meaning and his seemingly normal questions put in a strange way to which Henry never knew how to reply. When consuming alone or with other friends, Henry remained calm and collected, but with the Bhudda, especially after everything had begun, he often got the eerie feeling of an intense presence from another world and that he was falling or losing control. Stoned in the Bhudda’s presence Henry felt that the whole world was there to listen to their conversation and that every word exchanged between the two was written down somewhere and scrutinized for a deeper meaning – it wasn’t relaxation, it was work, God’s work, Henry felt. The Bhudda, on the other hand and needless to say, was a devout cannabis smoker. When one came to visit the Bhudda it was custom that shortly after one’s arrival, the Bhudda would fetch the tray on which he made joints and which contained everything needed to do so, and joyously ask who among the guests wanted to make the joint, since he himself was so bad at it. The Bhudda had paid off his loan to his apartment and knew how to live economically which meant that he got along working only a few days of the week as a real estate agent. If he was working the day after, he might hold back a little or call it an early night, but often the gatherings lasted until the early morning or at least until after midnight. No girls were allowed! This was the Bhudda’s strict condition before letting a stranger in. Therefore it was not always an option to round the evening off at the Bhudda’s. Henry and Nathaniel managed to bring two girls, Martina and a friend of hers, to the Bhudda in the summer of 2009, through sweet-talking and through promises that the girls would behave and not get too drunk or stoned. The Bhudda never forgot it and had all his prejudices confirmed as the friend puked on his carpet and Martina fell asleep in the hammock where the Bhudda always lay philosophizing. The Bhudda did of course have female acquaintances. His rule concerned only girl friends of his younger guests. He didn’t want wild parties and he knew how straight guys are around women. Dear reader, since it is not the aim of this story nor my area of expertise, what follows will not be a digression about the various types of homosexuals. However, in order to appreciate the Bhudda’s person, it must be added here that he was a leather-gay man, Tom of Finland-style. Definately unrelated to this niche, he also loved to shock his guests by asking them if he could pee in their pockets. Throughout the world there are leather gay men clubs and in Sweden these go under the name Swedish Leather Man. The Bhudda was the cashier in the local Malmö club and regularly went there to hang out or to participate in the various events, the details of which he never revealed or only did so between laughs and in small portions as Henry and his friends listened with large eyes unable to compute the information they had just received. ‘Dear Bhudda,’ Henry could ask in the presence of new guests on the balcony, ‘can’t you explain to us what a Pony Line is?’ The Bhudda looked at Henry with an irritated face although his mouth couldn’t hide a smile and said, ‘That’s what we are doing tonight, so why don’t you tell them?’

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Caspar was a good friend of the Bhudda as well. In fact, before the Bhudda fell in love and a young man the age of Henry, Norman, moved in to live with him, Caspar was the one entrusted with the keys to the apartment when the Bhudda was traveling and even the beneficiary of the Bhudda’s will. The Bhudda thought Caspar to be the most warmhearted and innocent human being on the planet and he always proclaimed that ‘Caspar, oh Caspar, he wouldn’t even hurt a fly!’ Henry often wondered what possibly could have happened between the two in order for the Bhudda to think so largely of Caspar, but he couldn’t find a better answer than the one the Bhudda provided, that Caspar was a noble and true soul. Before Caspar moved to København with Henry he had lived in Malmö for a year or two and had visited the Bhudda regularly, not to smoke, since Caspar had stopped smoking cannabis after a sequence of bad experiences, but to chat and play backgammon. I think, dear reader, that Caspar, like many of the Bhudda’s other guests and friends, came to visit in order to siphon, consciously or not, from the Bhudda’s immense wisdom and love. Everyone who knew the Bhudda even the slightest bit respected him immensely; they loved to make fun of him and tell stories about him but piercing all this was a feeling of awe and respect. Everybody knew there was something special about this man. Thus, when Henry and Caspar lived together in København in the first half of 2009, it soon became a tradition to take the train over the bridge on a Friday or Saturday to go out on Möllan to drink beer and afterwards visit the Bhudda, or to spend the Sunday together making small trips in the Bhudda’s old Volvo or in his military jeep to various places of interest, such as a castle or a garden in the vicinity of Malmö, and from all these visits came the result that Henry and the Bhudda started to see each other regularly and Henry’s initial insecurities were overcome. Henry and the Bhudda became good friends. I think, dear reader, that they both felt they were on the same wavelength. The Bhudda was interested in Henry’s future plans, what kind of doctor he wanted to be (the Bhudda’s older brother was an orthopedic surgeon) and always asked whether Henry had found a nice Danish girl yet, from a fine rich family, whom Henry could marry in order to move upwards in the social ladder. The Bhudda seemed to admire Henry’s cleverness and ambition, always calling him ‘the Smart One’ or ‘the Good-Looking One’. The Bhudda didn’t have a higher education, partly because he had been an odd child always having to fight for himself, and partly because he was dyslexic – this is why, dear reader, I call him the Bhudda.

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In the days preceding Henry’s appointment at the psychiatric out-hospital, as he traveled back and forth between Kristianstad and København for work, he paid the Bhudda a few visits, but always together with either Nathaniel, Caspar or both. Henry hadn’t yet at this point been alone with the Bhudda. Henry was enjoying himself with his friends and his attitude towards life in general was neutral. He was happy that he had passed his exams, that it was in the middle of the summer vacation and although the weather rarely affected Henry’s mood it contributed too. Of the dark feelings he had experienced in København, only a shade lingered, lurking deep below, or suddenly approaching through the hint at an anxiety attack. This isn’t to say that the reasons for Henry’s depressive mood were gone, at least not all of them – the sad situation with the classmates was gone, the lectures and long reading sessions about physiology too. Having left the construction site which surrounded the condor apartment was also a relief. ‘The sister of Eric the 14th, Maria Eleonora, married the Prince of Denmark in 1537 and THAT is WHY we have a social democracy still in this day’, said the Bhudda. ‘That’s not true,’ protested Caspar. ‘Sure it is,’ replied Nathaniel. Henry, in thought about something completely different, and only now registering what the Bhudda said, looked at him and tried to figure out from the face whether he was serious or not. Henry was sure that the Bhudda couldn’t see what part of him he was looking at. The Bhudda’s sight was that poor. Everything was a haze for him, probably even with glasses, compared to a young person or an Eagle. Henry knew that in some sense and probably able to explain why, the Bhudda’s proclamation might have been correct. The guests’ knowledge about the heritage line of the Scandinavian royalty was too poor to find objections to the Bhudda’s statement. Perhaps the result of that marriage he was talking about was this or that king, which was the last before the land changed government forms? It wasn’t totally impossible. Henry had learned about the Bhudda, that if only one didn’t protest against the absurdity of this or that statement or story coming from his large mouth, the Bhudda could go on talking about a subject forever and only stopped when he had reached a sort of finale or grand conclusion about all the historical curiosities and all the home-made ever-lasting philosophical observations his great wisdom had touched upon as he explored said subject. ‘That’s the way it goes,’ could he afterwards mutter to himself and everyone else, who had stopped talking to each other and turned to listen to the Bhudda lying in the hammock, his voice echoing against the inner-garden and walls of the apartments. A new kind of silence ensued. Even the seagulls were silent, just hovering in the purple and orange evening sky. ‘Who was Maria Leonora?’, asked Henry after a considerable stillness. ‘She was the old queen of Denmark when Gustav III was King of Sweden,’ the Bhudda replied with a small nod as if he was expecting just that question. He went on. As he talked the joint went back and forth. When it reached the Bhudda he briefly paused his telling to take a puff. Then he rested his hand on his leg letting the joint fade as he kept on talking. Nathaniel, whose turn it was to smoke made gestures that the Bhudda should pass but the Bhudda didn’t see it. ‘She never married but is said to have had seven children outside the marriage. Always fighting, always doing her best, and so many hardships,’ and then suddenly, changing subject, the Bhudda turned to Henry and asked, ‘So, how are things now between your father and Charlotte?’

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Charlotte was Henry’s father’s girlfriend of five years. They had a stormy relationship which deserves a book about itself with suitcases thrown down the balcony and Charlotte going back to Kristianstad before Henry’s father. Most of the time it was not Henry’s father’s fault. One year he spent New Year’s Eve in a prison cell after Charlotte called the police and said that Henry’s father had hit her in the head with his Macbook. Henry’s father on the other hand said that the story was: he was holding on to the laptop as Charlotte was screaming at him that he should give it to hear. She insisted that he was flirting with other women or spending too much time at the computer. The police when they arrived, though finding no evidence of physical injury to any of the parts, decided to bring Henry’s father with them to the police station. He was let out the next day and never charged. Henry’s father wasn’t sad about this incident and the likes, he always carried on. To Henry and his siblings this relationship was crazy. Their father spent so many years on this alcoholic woman with a troubled past who ended up letting her thief friends sabotage some furniture in the forest house. It is another story, dear reader. ‘Well it’s going good. They’ve bought a house together,’ Henry said after having collected his thoughts. ‘A house!’ The Bhudda looked surprised. ‘How much did they give for it? Where is it?’ Henry replied with the location and the price. ‘Oh, I know that street, it’s by the canal isn’t it?’ ‘Yes, close to where they are building the new mall.’ Henry though for a moment. ‘Where the cinema used to be.’ Henry was neutral in his mood and at peace. His whole appearance towards the Bhudda took on a nature of indifference, as if not caring about the spectacular stories and anecdotes which the Bhudda entertained them with so enthusiastically. Yet, of course, Henry was friendly in his being towards both the Bhudda and his friends. He just wasn’t that forward when under the effects of THC. When Henry smoked too much, his thoughts became tangled and before he spoke he had to collect them. What came out was sometimes not even an understandable sentence. Oh dear reader, see Henry here in the middle of the summer exploring effects of THC which are slowly unfolding inside his mind, making trails, asking questions, digging deep. The seagulls screaming, the friends’ voices. The next day Henry woke on a madras in the Bhudda’s living room. He had an early train to take.

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The psychiatric hospital in Kristianstad is called The Yellow House due to its pale yellow bricks. It is a large building located beside the general hospital and contains both an out-patient and an emergency department. Henry had been there before and not much had changed since his last visit some four years ago when he was troubled by the chaos going on at home. In hindsight Henry should have talked to a psychologist that time instead of Dr. Olsson, the psychiatrist, since the conclusion was that he did not suffer from a psychiatric ailment. They had seen each other off as friends and with wishes of good luck. Henry had been assured and relieved that what he was feeling was a natural response to a traumatic event and Dr. Olsson had said that Henry’s symptoms, namely his anxiety attacks and feelings of low esteem, would vanish and disappear all together as he grew older and came to terms with the pain caused by his tumultuous teenage years. Now, again, he sat in the waiting room in the small corridor as he waited for the psychiatrist to open his door and call Henry’s name. Was Henry feeling different now compared to the last time he was there? He picked up a magazine from the pile on the table. In it were pictures of remote holiday destinations. A beach with a wide dark blue ocean. An article about someone prevailing over psychiatric illness. Henry couldn’t bother to read, he was merely passing the time. His mood was light, perhaps still a bit high or at least still affected from the night before. It felt strange coming here, he thought. When he had made the call to his mother asking her to book an appointment with the psychiatrist he had been in a considerably worse mood. There was still something lurking deep inside of him but since the exams were passed and the summer had started, Henry had unnoticeably lost contact with that darkness. He had come running as fast as he could, followed by demons and hell-hounds, through a dark windy tunnel but now he was picking up speed as he entered a vast green field with flowers and pretty clouds above. He couldn’t hear the hell-hounds barking and couldn’t feel the demon below him. Thus, while Henry knew that all this still existed within him, he didn’t want to and didn’t feel a need to touch it. He had the feeling that if he just let “it” be within him, it would heal with time and never bother him again. I think, dear reader, that Henry was correct in this approach. As I’ve said, if Henry had only changed his habits, enjoyed the summer and come back strong to København for the second semester of medical school, he would, slowly but certainly – now that we know what ample opportunities for self-realisation and personal development medical school and the doctor profession offers – gotten over Ursula, dealt with the faults in his personality, felt better about himself, made new friends, met a rich Danish girl, &c, &c. Henry’s problems weren’t deep-going and not really damaging! He knew how good he was. It was just a crisis from which he should emerge stronger and wiser. Henry remembered the psychiatrist’s words as he walked out the door the last time: ‘It’s OK. Everybody’s allowed to have a crisis.’ And yet here he was. He had thought about canceling the appointment but the thought of meeting that dear and life-wise Dr. Olsson again and feelings about not letting the psychiatrist down stopped Henry from doing that. And after all, wasn’t Henry damn sick and tired of feeling sad? This thought provoked in him the dark feelings and pain which was hidden beneath. He was content now, but what about just a month ago – how tormented hadn’t he been then! He imagined with dread the return of the depression in the autumn when lectures started again. For a moment he felt as if he was standing on the edge of a cliff looking down on the ocean. It shifted in colours black and blue. The waves swept across and splashed white against the rock. The wind blew strong. Someone was shouting something to Henry but the sound got lost in the wind and the waves. ‘Henry, how good to see you!’ came the voice of Dr Olsson who had just opened his door and stood there waiting for Henry. ‘How long has he been standing there? Where was I?’

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Henry put the magazine back, stood up and walked to greet the doctor. He hadn’t changed at all. Perhaps the large fuzzy hair was a bit more gray and the stomach a bit more protruding but all in all he was the same. The charismatic mustache, clearly inspired by Frank Zappa, gave Dr. Olsson an easy appearance which made one feel relaxed and safe. ‘I’m wearing this silly mustache every day. You can tell me everything, I will try to help you,’ his face seemed to say. Four years isn’t that much after all, thought Henry. On Dr. Olsson’s desk Henry noticed among the computer, keyboard, coffee cup, dictaphone and piles of paper, a snuff box. Henry asked if the doctor had started to use snuff since he couldn’t recall that he did the last time. ‘Yes, yes,’ replied Dr. Olsson. ‘And my blood pressure’s too high as well! Oh well, life goes on.’ In a way Dr. Olsson was similar to the Bhudda, Henry thought. They were the same age and both had thick Scanian accents – Dr. Olsson was born in Malmö – and seemed to view life with the same light and carefree optics which impressed Henry so. Henry often saw life and the world in a considerably more melancholic shade, a kind of sentimentality he had from his mother and Verner, his grandfather sailor. After this opening conversation, Dr. Olsson asked Henry to explain why he had come. Henry, still remembering the frightening vision of standing on the cliff and with all his misery awoken, had no problem describing his first semester in København and all the sad feelings and anxiety attacks. Dr. Olsson nodded and scribbled something in his notebook. ‘Mhm, still not feeling better, huh?’ he said with a voice expressing both empathy, concern and – Henry imagined – a little bit of disappointment. During their previous meetings antidepressants had been talked about. Henry had stuck to the idea that he was never going to try the happy pills. It was a principle for him, especially after seeing how his little brother was doped and medicated only for refusing to go to school where he was treated badly. Dr Olsson had agreed that medication was not needed as he believed that Henry’s troubles would go away with time. Now, as they talked back and forth and the more vividly Henry described his panic attacks and symptoms of depression, the idea grew in the psychiatrist’s mind that his patient needed medication, or that there was an indication, or at least that it was worth a try since he didn’t know what else to do. Henry too felt that it was worth a try. Henry hadn’t told Dr. Olsson about his alcohol problem and the doctor didn’t ask. In fact, Dr. Olsson didn’t ask Henry any of the questions whose answers are needed to set the diagnosis Depression. Therefore, dear reader, the indication for medical treatment with a selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor, or SSRI, was most probably not correct, but alas, without it our adventure would be a dull one.

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Treatment with Sertralin against depression aims at a dosage of 50 mg daily, sometimes starting at 25 and increasing over a few weeks. The maximum dosage is 200 mg daily but for patients needing this amount other treatment alternatives are often tried. However, one can also use SSRI’s to treat anxiety or social phobia and here the lowest dosage of 25 mg is used. From this you can understand, dear reader, that it is unclear what indication Dr. Olsson was treating when he chose to prescribe Henry 50 mg Sertralin, starting at 25 mg for two weeks and then up to 50. Clearly, he was treating Henry’s depression, but he never once said to Henry that he believed he was suffering from a depression. As I’ve said above, dear reader, Henry did not fulfill the diagnostic criteria for a depression. I’m certain of it. His recent weeks having fun with his friends, working and functioning effortlessly proves it. In fact, I believe, dear reader, that Henry’s symptoms should more properly be understood in the context of anxiety: general and perhaps also social. Here there is indication to treat with the smallest dosage of Sertralin but about this Dr. Olsson said nothing either. Henry at the time was not knowledgeable about psychiatry. The first semester contained nothing of it and his shifts as a nurse helper at the psychiatric wards only had taught him that mental illness can be incredibly painful. He trusted the psychiatrist in the same way people trust a doctor – for what else could he do? The choice was whether to try medication or not. His mother had been on antidepressants for many years, some of his friends and classmates too. It was normal, almost mainstream. Many people needed a little extra boost to get through the day. The alternative was to do nothing and let things go on like they always had and when the darkness comes over him again he would just – do what?! Henry shivered. Suddenly the choice did not feel difficult at all. After all, what was the worst that could happen? ‘The side-effects of SSRI’s are often not pronounced and most people tolerate it very well and are happy with the effects. There are, however, some few who experience sexual problems… as in lower libido. This is something we also must talk about if it happens,’ said Dr. Olsson. Henry nodded. ‘You see, the idea is that this medication helps to strengthen the core. It gives a little bit more motivation. It makes you a little bit more steadfast when the winds of emotions blow.’

65

Growing up, Henry had many dreams about the future and his place in it. However, for the first many years the serious attempts at these dreams concerned primarily ice hockey but also – thanks to his father’s insistence and good motivational words about the importance of education – school. His boy room had posters on every wall of the stars at the time: the incredible Dominik Haśek when he played in The Buffalo Sabres, John Vanbiesbrook of the Florida Panthers, Thomas Östlund of Djurgården, Stockholm with his old-time helmet and of course, Tommy Salo, who was the go-to goaltender in the national team in the 90’s and a chess-player. Henry was probably a bit different from the other boys, whom he played in the same team as for more than ten years. I mean, dear reader, the kids in Henry’s team, training and playing together, basically grew up together, some, like Henry, starting already at the age of four or five. Dear reader, Henry played ice hockey from he was four until he was sixteen, it was all ice-hockey! His body was always training and eating and moving, so sound and well. He ran 3 km in 10:58 at the best and could do eighty four push-ups in one minute and sixty four sit-ups and he could lift himself up from a branch nineteen times in thirty seconds, although his biceps were not the flashy kind and his abdomen never showed a six-pack hidden beneath the healthy fat. Maybe – we might never know why – Henry’s head actually became shaped like the helmet he was wearing every day a few hours at the time. But only the slightest – Dear reader, you must not be mistaken, Henry was a beautiful man in body as well as mind. My point is that he was healthy back then before he started drinking and smoking. For, although he loved jogging, and knew so well the rewarding feeling and bodily response from it, over the years, Henry’s health was gradually neglected. In bouts he could retake the habit, but something or some disturbance always came and returned Henry to the primitive, or let us say, destructive way of living which, caused him so much hardship and suffering: drinking in the weekends and sometimes also weekdays, neglecting school and lectures and, as with Ursula, ruining relationships with pure drama and crying. The behavior and the intoxication went hand in hand it seemed with Henry as his body over the years relaxed and gained kilograms. Yet, dear reader, he was never what one would say fat and his formerly well-trained muscle and skeleton suited him well and likewise his charming little beer belly which thanked and grew for every beer, cheap, wheat and IPA, it received.

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Henry’s largest dream, however, having always read books though never that many, was to become a writer. There was always a fascination with the book as an object and how the pages and symbols printed on them could convey such adventure and wisdom. Henry remembered being ten and buying a complete edition of Tolkien’s Trilogy, more than a thousand pages, hardback with some painting pictured on its white cover. The funny thing about this, dear reader, is that he never read the book. Maybe it was too heavy to hold on his chest in the evenings or maybe he was intimidated by the size of the book, we will never know, dear reader, but it is beyond reasonable doubt, and many scholars have agreed, that Henry never read Lord Of The Rings before he transcended, or changed, or whatever now happened to the hero of our story. Swedish and English were always his favorite subjects in school and there Henry wrote stories which received great marks. He even went up one class in English for some time. His first serious attempt at writing came at the age of fifteen or sixteen, as the family moved to Näsby and he bought a typewriter. Henry had read The Idiot by Dostojevskij. Oh Aglaja! Oh Furst! Inspired, he sat down in the afternoons after school and began composing stories. Some he showed to Nathaniel, who also wrote at the time, and with inspiration from the likes of Daniil Charms and Nikolaj Gogol, several short stories perhaps worthy of notice were put on paper and subsequently always kept close by Henry. Not because they were great. But because they were printed on real paper like a book, a piece of work or art. This idea was appealing to Henry. But the actual message, or moral, or statement of the work only became important to Henry later, as he began reading Ulysses by James Joyce in the original English and understood that language could be either concise or disintegrated and that Providence or narrative must always generate the story. In England, busy with difficult calculations and abstract thinking, he neither wrote nor read fiction, unlike his classmate John, who in the second year made a bet with himself to read a book of fiction every month for a whole year. How wise he suddenly became, Henry thought and felt, but John was a very clever and diligent man later earning a doctor of philosophy in theoretical physics in string theory. When Henry came back to Kristianstad and lived at his father’s for some time before moving to København he didn’t write either but… dear reader, here Henry interrupts me and asks me to add that to my text that he read with great pleasure Murakami’s Wind-up Bird Chronicle lying in the bed in his brother’s old room. (The same room I’m sitting in right now actually, dear reader. If you want to know, I have been allowed special allowance by The Henry Foundation in order to sit here at this table at Henry’s museum in the old house on Näsby while I’m writing our story.)

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It was a warm day in July, it had just been raining. The smell of concrete sifted through the open window and reached Henry’s nose. The summers weren’t as infernally hot and dry as they are now, and each year the crops could be harvested and the food supply maintained. Henry lifted his coffee cup and drank. He had been on the medication for a week and at this point it is difficult to say whether any objective signs of elevated mood and increased energy could be found in him. As I’ve said above as I exaggerated a bit, the effects of the increased serotonin levels could be noticed and felt by Henry already from day one. At least within a week he had already begun to change. With Henry it was never the decreased need for sleep which revealed the mania. He had always been a rather lazy or comfortable person, always needing his eight or nine hours of sleep. No matter how ambitious or energetic Henry eventually became, he slept as much as he needed if he could. Nor was his sexual drive much elevated though he did take on a promiscuous behavior in the beginning and for the remainder of 2009. But I ascribe this symptom, dear reader, as belonging to increased energy levels and bouts of megalomania for, to be honest, Henry’s obsessions with the various women in our story always had a spiritual rather than sexual character.

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Henry went back to København as planned in order to work. In his bag they were: the pills. It was the second or the third day and he sat on the balcony again listening to music and looking at people on the street below. In the Buddhism book he had read about the Buddha’s childhood and the rest of his life and had come to the actual teaching or explanation of the principles. Enlightenment, that’s what it was about, Henry understood. He felt within himself, looking for some feeling or topic which caused him worry or grief but he couldn’t. Not on the medication! It was as if he was too content to realize the feelings of sadness, emptiness and loneliness or like his brain wouldn’t touch these subjects. Everything the book taught and explained Henry felt as if he already knew and understood completely. Buddhism made perfect sense to him. And as he thought this he also felt the effects of the SSRI and the combination of the wisdom and the increased hardiness and resilience towards depressive feelings resulted in a happy, content and confident Henry. Just like Dr. Olsson had explained, apart from the Enlightenment part. Bertha, one of his classmates and in fact Henry’s closest classmate that first semester, was a beautiful woman with curly hair and large green eyes. They shared an interest in music. During the one-week party held for the first semester students half a year before they started (there are two classes starting each year, one in the summer and one in the winter) Henry (of course) had a crush on Bertha who couldn’t reply his attempts because she had a boyfriend. But more about Bertha later, dear reader.

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Bertha came to visit that day and as Henry saw her on the street he waved and went down to open the door. They spent some time in his room but it was not much to show containing only a bed and a bookshelf. Henry says he can’t remember what they ended up doing but he know that they went outside in the early summer afternoon – the memory of it seems to be gone. In general, Henry’s memories about these early days are fuzzy and perhaps for a good reason: Henry hadn’t yet combined SSRI and THC but he did so within one or two weeks of starting medication. This fact is established and acknowledged by all Henry scholars. Thus we must, dear reader, suspect that the interaction between the two chemicals contributed in one way or another to the changes in Henry’s mood and possibly caused the ensuing mania and psychosis. There is to my knowledge no scientific studies on the matter so I can’t prove my conjectures.

70

SSRI alone is known to trigger a manic episode in some small unfortunate percentage of the population. Hashish is know to increase the risk of psychosis but up to three times in predisposed individuals. The more one smokes the higher is the risk it seems. And so, as Henry thought about Buddhism and Enlightenment and visited the Bhudda on his balcony, philosophizing and feeling something changing within him, a new strength grew, a certainty about himself and a problem-free attitude towards life just like he had admired in the Bhudda and Dr. Olsson. Was it too much to say that Henry felt happy these first days of the cure? As the serotonin was replenished Henry began feeling, waking up each day, that this will be a great day; and as he thought his stomach tickled. Something was going to happen, he was expecting something. In him grew the same feeling a child has on the morning of his birthday. As Henry visioned all the fantastic things the day could bring, he was already out of the bed making coffee and getting dressed. Most of the time Henry spent away from the people who knew him the best and so no one was around to remark on the discreet changes which took place. What was Henry doing these first days of his cure? We don’t know, dear reader, his doings here have been lost in time. However, not much in terms of production of music or writing. We know that one of these days in the middle of the summer, Nathaniel wrote on messenger: ‘My grandmother is moving to a nursery home and we can overtake her apartment in Hermodsdal in Malmö. In that case we can move in whenever we want until October and won’t have to pay rent until then. What do you think about this?’ Henry replied, ‘Haha where the hell is it, what the hell does it cost and how the fuck big is it?’ Nathaniel: ‘Moderately large, bedroom living room kitchen balcony, ca 4000 to share per month, is pretty close but not too far from södervärn.’ They met on the Bhudda’s balcony to talk about it, played backgammon and had fun. Nathaniel appreciated Henry’s better mood and even felt more happy as he mirrored himself in it. Because Henry’s mood affected those around him and especially the Bhudda was thrilled by the Party and fun surrounding the awoken and Enlightened young man.

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It was a great idea thought Henry. ‘I will commute to København, it’s only one hour,’ he thought. As he said this thoughts about the studies briefly emerged but was immediately repressed – he wasn’t in a mood to worry about the future! Was it euphoria, dear reader, or was he just stoned? ‘Great, excellent, good idea,’ said the Bhudda, perhaps amusing himself with fantasies about the two young men, so special and different in character, living together. ‘Henry will be the man and Nathaniel the woman,’ he laughed. It might have been that night which Henry went to Debaser alone and suddenly became enlightened or woke up or however one shall describe the change which instantly occurred in him. The rest were too exhausted and stoned to follow him. As he stood in the line something happened to him, something which is not possible to relate in words. Henry’s thoughts had been racing faster and faster the last many days. When he in addition smoked weed all these thoughts somehow were resolved or gathered peacefully in a new realm of Henry’s mind. Yes a new place is perhaps the best way to describe it.

Henry: Meditation. The letting go of thoughts. Only notion. Ascend. Here, my child. A new kingdom.

‘Enlightenment!’ cried Henry at first silently. ‘This must be what I’m feeling. All my hardship and toil for so many years. I have learned it, I understand, I feel. Nirvana express. How easy it is, this new peace of mind. So simple and forward.’ Inside of Henry a million thoughts were erupting like volcanoes. His childhood, all coincidences, everything which had occurred to him made sense. It all had brought him here to this state of mind. ‘What is happening to me?’ he cried somewhere in his mind but this question was soon drenched in other more important questions demanding answers.

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And so as he was standing in the line, suddenly a storm of feelings and euphoria overtook him and he felt as if he was lifted up slightly in the air. Twitching in the belly and the spine, almost not breathing, he looked around and his eyes met a man’s standing a few meters ahead of him. Henry never forgot the look that man gave him, as if he saw that Henry was flying. ‘Do you feel it too,’ Henry beamed with his thoughts. Later, as Henry again relived this moment, a conviction grew, that the man with his eyes and look was expressing some message, something along the lines of ‘You have landed’ or ‘Here you go’ or ‘Are you ready?’ The look expected excellence from Henry. Yet the face at the same time was encouraging and friendly as if the man was wishing Henry good luck with the mission. Inside Debaser Henry roamed around, drank many beer and met some childhood friends from Kristianstad he hadn’t seen in years. With amazed, almost frightened faces, they politely rejected Henry’s offers of an after-party at the Bhudda’s as well his other inquiries and crazy talking. Henry, drunk, stoned, hypomanic, enlightened, talked with far-fetched associations which made it difficult to follow his arguments. ‘What was he asking about, if the tractor at Jonsson’s farm had been red or dark green? Is he really studying to be a doctor? He surely has changed,’ they thought. Henry can’t remember what transpired the rest of that evening but it is likely that he slept on the madras in the Bhudda’s living room.

“July 27th, 2009: Dear Elias I started reading a book about Buddhism a week ago. Last Friday I stood alone in the line to Debaser. Suddenly all my thoughts disappeared. I loved everything. I was living in every second. I was not afraid to die. I was enlightened. It was the strangest and most wonderful feeling I’ve ever felt. It was a religious experience. I cried because I had landed and found the truth. Elias, I want to apologize for never understanding what you were talking about, for trying to rationalize and condemn what you were going through. I had no idea that this truth, this wonderful honesty and love towards everything existed. Our conversations made me doubt everything even more. My depression of five years helped me to examine every part of myself and others and to reach complete moral purity and love. Life is much, much different right now. It feels like I’m in love, as if I am in possession of a secret no one else knows about. I just wanted to let you know. Henry”

Part 2

Jag sitter vid en äng. De vita blommorna med de långa stjälkarna som fått växa sig starka svajar från sida till sida. Vinden blåser. Trädkronorna rörs till dans. Trots att jag inte skriker men talar tyst och återhållsamt ska mina ord överdåna ljudet av allt som vinden blåser. Allt jag säger ska ringa klart och komma ur inombords sanning så att alla i hela världen ska kunna känna dessa två ting: att min historia vare sig kan berättas eller utspelas på andra sätt än så som jag berättar. Långsamt och långsamt ska vi närma oss handlingen som finns där i mitten. Likt det bottenlösa hålet i virvlens mitt i bäcken. Alltid i rörelse, aldrig att fånga. Aldrig att mäta eller precisera. Aldrig att hålla tätt intill sig och säga: jag bestämmer allt som händer. Under blommoranas blad och över dem men aldrig så högt som själva blomman växer små knoppar som tittar likt ögon vartän vinder dem blåser. Till hösten har de nog förvandlats till ljusröd vallmo eller en lila blomma vars namn jag inte känner. Det är mig okänt vad som väntar dessa växter. Kanske de också ska slåss med näbbar och klor likt vi människor gör hela tiden. Ty livet är hårt oavsett vad vi försöker inbilla varandra. Man cirkulerar och cirkulerar, väntar och väntar. Likt en gädda i vassen man anfaller och biter och tuggar och slukar. Varje dag. Varje människa utom barnen. För de är oskyldiga och plötsligt bara fanns där likt jorden och vattnet som ängen växt ur. Broby i Östra Göinge. Bella Center i Köpenhamn. Bologna och Verona. Paros och Antiparos. Mpwapwa, Dodoma, Tanzania. Vår historia är ett spindelnät fästat i skyskrapor som svajar i dimman och vid träd och husknutar vid ängen. Runt Karins armband som hon fick av mig när hon fyllde tjugo. Genom mina läderkängor. Runt och runt i min fars lägenhet som han hyrde på Wasagatan i Kristianstad för många år sedan. Tio år ska vi igenom. Det är sommar och jag åker i min gröna sportbil på väg hem från arbetet. Soltaket är öppet och båda fönstrena, så varmt är det. Utanför mitt fordon rusar det skiftande landskapet förbi så snabbt som nu de rödvita hastighetsskyltarna nu säger att jag får köra. Jag åker genom små danska byar med namn från bondetiden. Egentligen ett öde landskap men ändå så befolkat av människor, djur och bilar. I en av byarna, Øllekjole, verkar det bo en galen kvinna som inte varje morgon men nästan ränner med en haltande gång fram och tillbaka längs byns ett par hundra meter långa huvudgata. Landsvägen som drar igenom byn. Radion spelar lågt i bakgrunden. ’Talradio,’ filosoferar jag, ’det passar bra när man åker hem efter en lång dags arbete med patienter och kollegor, trött i huvudet man är.’ Ibland hörs rösterna inte alls för vindens dånande genom rutorna. Försatt i egna tankar och fokuserad på vägen i en skön position med armbågen på dörren hör jag något om valet, något om flyktingar och krig, något tragiskt, något känslomässigt involverande, en sällan historia, en ovanlig gäst, en konstnärs dagbok. Korna och grödorna på fälten. Bondgården och den gamla järnvägen och tågstationen. Landsvägen där Anna sålde ägg för hundra år sedan och som fortfarande inte är bebyggd bortsett från en busshållplats. Jag lever fortfarande i det, sitter ju här och filosoferar, men det känns ändå så avlägset, allt det som hände vid historiens begynnelse for faktiskt exakt 10 år sedan. Ibland är det nära, mycket nära. Tankarna som aldrig vill landa utan snurrar runt och runt som ilskna bin när jag ska sova. Oron, så nära och beprövad nu, över vad människor säger om mig, över vilka historier och bedrifter jag associeras med där ute i den stora vida världen. Det ter sig fullständigt främmande för mig att någon skulle ljuga eller tala illa om mig, men bevisen för att detta skett är otaliga om än flyktiga. För sanningen är att hela historien lika gärna hade kunnat vara mitt huvuds produkt om det inte vore för vissa handgripliga händelser och tecken som helt enkelt inte kan viftas bort. Vid den ena polen är jag helt ensam, kroniskt psykotisk och ingenting – absolut ingenting – i andra människors ögon. Vid den andra polen är jag känd och beryktad över hela klotet och ska man följa sanningens väg som sedd genom mina ögon, även en hjälte och en stor konstnär. Där har vi det svart på vitt, hela historiens dilemma och mitt livs likaså, knivspetsen jag konstant måste dansa på. Otaliga är de försök jag har gjort på att redogöra, dag för dag, händelse för händelse, hur det hela gick till. Det lyckas mig helt enkelt inte! Kanske är jag en alltför ringa författare för att genomföra projektet eller har jag inte än försökt bra nog. Historien finns där, de rätta orden likaså, jag vet det och känner det när jag blickar upp mot himlen och känner vinden mot min kind. Det är först nu jag har landat, efter tio år. Omständigheterna tvingade mig till det, annars hade jag nog bara fortsatt och fortsatt mot evigheten, mot gatorna, mot Indien och Afrika till sist. Nu slåss jag mot tiden. Klockan är snart tio och jag ska upp klockan 6 imorgon för att lämna min dotter på dagis och hinna på arbetet klockan 8. Min vardag är inrutad av rutiner som jag inte kan eller vill lämna. På kvällen när alla sover kan jag skriva men inte varje kväll. Jag tillåts inte att fördjupa mig, mitt liv är en hektisk dans och ett svårlöst pussel. Historien bär jag med mig i huvudet hela tiden, den är ju jag och jag lever den, utvidgar den, fortsätter den, varje dag, även om mina dagar nuförtiden är betydligt tråkigare än de var på den tiden. Så får det bli. Så får det vara för idag. Dörren till trädgården står öppen. Det höga gräset svajar i vinden. Trots att det har varit en varm sommardag och kroppen har skrikit efter havet är det kyligt ute nu. Kanske kommer det att vara varmt även på kvällen när augusti gör sitt intrång, jag vet inte för varje sommar är ju sin egen med sina fågelungar, katter, stränder och solnedgångar. Precis som varje människas liv är sitt eget trots att så många människor har levt på jorden sedan tidernas gryning. Man måste lära sig allt om igen, måste förstå sakernas och känslornas gång på sitt eget sätt. Det går inte att förmedla allt från generation till generation och varje sommar är ny. Uppe på ett tak eller i ett träd sitter en koltrast, ja kanske är det flera. De sjunger natten in, sjunger farväl til kvällen, hela dagens värme och välkomnar natten. Det måste vara därför de är svarta. Deras uppgift är viktig, ingen annan tar på sig att välkomna mörkret. Här knyter vi an, för det är sant att koltrastens sång är den skönaste fågelsång jag känner. Har man turen att stå nära en koltrast utan att den ser en kan man höra de hundratals melodier som den sjunger på en och samma gång. Det låter som något utomjordiskt, som en ensam antenn någonstans i universum som upptar all musik som finnes och spelar upp väl valda bitar huller om buller med en äkta kompositörs geniala finkänslighet. Tänk att denna skönhet finns på jorden och är skapad av naturen med alla dens lagar om slumpmässighet och stenhård konkurrens. Sommaren 2009 efter brevet till Elias åkte jag och Caspar till en folkmusikfestival i Norrland. Minnet är så suddigt, jag minns inte ens hur vi kom dit, men jag minns tågturen hem och antar att vi också åkte tåg dit, hela vägen från Malmö. Enstaka händelser låter sig urskiljas från den dimma denna tid utgör. Det kanske mest fantastiska jag upplevde var ett musiktåg från campingen ner till älven: dragspel, violiner, gitarrer, trummor. Om och om igen spelade vi temat från Bo Hanssons Sagan Om Ringen. Alla intryck färgades av mitt nyvunna lyckliga lynne så att hela resan tedde sig som ett mirakel och en uppenbarelse. Den sista natten hade jag suttit i ett stort tält och spelat och spelat på min gitarr till allas förtjusning. Gitarren saknade strängar, endast bassträngen och de två nedersta strängarna var kvar. Jag hittade en melodi, ett tema, som jag improviserade över i säkert en timme. Mitt intryck var att åhörarna tyckte det var bra, mycket bra, ja kanske det bästa de någonsin hade hört. Sådant var mitt tillstånd: all förtolkades i störst möjliga positiva sken. I bussen på väg från festivalen till tågstationen hörde jag musik i mitt huvud. Melodin jag hade spelat kvällen innan bara fortsatte och fortsatte utan ände. Jag varken kunde eller ville få musiken till att sluta. Aldrig tidigare hade jag hört ljud som kom inifrån huvudet. Detta är ett psykotiskt symptom.

Från Proverbs I:

”I went to the Urkult folk music festival in the north of Sweden in the summer of 2009. My best memory is being in a crowd of twenty or so, at four in the morning (all bright) marching down to the pouring loud river. I played the guitar and there were accordions, violins, harmonicas and more guitars. We played Bo Hansson’s The Black Riders over and over again, like a march band.

We stayed down at the river for half an hour and then we walked back, still playing. It was beautiful. From that festival I also remember the last day. My friend Caspar went to the tent to sleep early but I stayed up the whole night. I was in a tent playing 4 stringed acoustic solo guitar with two conga drummers and after when everyone went to bed I went for a walk and found a camp by the lake and there sat a girl and a guy with a giant bong. I stayed there and we smoked until noon the next day. These were mysterious people.

I went to take a leak from a bridge over the lake and there sat a love couple whispering words of nothing. Soon my friend came and said it was time to leave. He knew what I’d been doing so he had packed all my things for me and I entered the bus and sat down. I tried to collect my thoughts of where I was and what was going on but all I heard was loud music in my head. It was a crazy mixture of The Black Riders and what I’d been playing on guitar earlier that night. We listened to the radio with headphones and the radio’s music mixed with my head’s music and I sat there grinning. The music was still there when we came to Stockholm 6 hours later.”

Efter en god natt sömn i min mors nya hus en bit utanför Kristianstad var musiken borta från mitt huvud. Det är för väl att jag slutade med Sertralin en månad senare, det är bara beklagligt att jag inte gjorde det tidigare. Å andra sidan, och detta är väl en av livets betingelser, hade jag inte fortsatt en månad till hade jag nog inte suttit här vid den öppna dörren med den kyliga vinden som blåser på mina fötter och med ett arbete jag älskar och en dotter som är mitt allt. Ibland, när jag omöjligtvis kan förhålla mig till allt som hände, när alla filosofiska och moraliska synvinklar är uttömda och det enda som återstår för mig är att konstatera att allt har gått åt helvete, att mitt liv och gärning är ett stort misslyckande, då kommer denna enkla uppenbarelse till mig: det hade inte kunnat vara annorlunda. Låt vara om det stod skrivet i stjärnorna, om Gud det ville, om vi lever samma liv om och om igen, om allting händer på en gång eller vilken av alla tusentals inställningar man nu har till det hela – det ena leder till det andra och det är ingen nytta att gråta över spilld mjölk.

“The rest of the summer: on the Bhudda’s balcony in his hammock among his tomato plants, grapes and apples in Malmö. The Bhudda is a gay real estate agent the age of my father who collects antique furniture and decorates old castles. He works six months and travels the world six months and he’s been doing this for the last thirty years. He’s been everywhere. He grows his own pot and he says he is the Buddha but I don’t believe him. It was me, Nathaniel and Caspar. A typical day: arrive at the Bhudda’s place in the afternoon around six, play a set of backgammon, joint, more backgammon, joke about the fate and state of the world and humanity, listen to the Bhudda going through the history of the Royal Swedish Family or any other historical epoch, joint, listen to Nathaniel joking about his past in an evangelical sect and living in Israel, then go out to drink beer on Möllan, bring strangers home for after-party and more backgammon and pot. It was meditative there in the hammock. It was freedom, birds in the sky. Time stood still, summer sun. I finally had time to think things through and to sort out my messy inside and life. The Bhudda would accept any kind of thinking and laugh the problems away. I had studied one term at medical school in Copenhagen in Denmark. Before that I had studied three terms mathematics and physics at the University of Warwick in the UK but I dropped out. I felt I was going nowhere. I decided to drop out from medical school as well to finally write my first novel and then came the autumn of 2009 and my 23rd birthday.”

Där har vi det svart på vitt. Mer finns nog inte att säga om dagarna som ledde upp till mitt inträde på världens scen. Jag flyttade in med Nathaniel i hans farmors gamla lägenhet i Hermodsdal. Vi bar alla våra instrument in, satte till och med upp ett trumset i vardagsrummet. Bokhyllorna fyllde vi med alla böcker vi ägde. Mitt i allt bestämde jag mig för att hoppa av läkarstudierna, det var ju inte oväntat. Nathaniel sov i vardagsrummet i ett hörn som han gjorde mysigt för sig själv. Till TV:n kopplade han sin gamla Nintendo-konsol och på väggarna hängde vi orientaliska gardiner och klängväxter. Det blev mycket mysigt, det kände vi nog båda två, att detta var det rätta. Det är svårt att exakt beskriva hur jag var vid denna tidpunkt. Ovanför (i del 1) står beskrivet en ny klarhet, fokus och entusiasm till allt som hörde livet till. Just detta, att inget var tråkigt, att allt var intressant och att allt var möjligt var egentligen inte ett nytt drag hos mig. Jag hade lite av min far i mig och det fanns inga hinder om man bara ville något mycket nog. Samtidigt fann jag mig omedelbart till rätta i mitt nya rum så snart möblerna kommit på plats. Den gröna länstolen köpte jag tillsammans med Bhudda till 450 kr i en butik som sålde antika möbler. Där köpte jag även ett grönt karusellbord som Bhudda sade var från 1700-talet. Dessa två möbler, en säng, en låg bokhylla, ett skrivbord och en stol utgjorde möblemanget. Nathaniel märkte nog inte min förändring. Det ska han inte klandras för eftersom det var på insidan saker och ting hade börjat röra på sig. På utsidan var jag samma Henry jag alltid varit, så som mina vänner kände mig, glad och entusiastisk över livet. Jag sov och åt som jag skulle, pratade inte mer än vanligt och orden som kom ur min mun var inte särdeles märkliga eller uppseendeväckande. Dock var något annorlunda till det yttre: min stil. Bhudda hade gett mig en engelsk hatt, en riktig gentleman-hatt i fint snitt. Den bar jag tillsammans med en svart kavaj, jeans och en skjorta. Jag rakade mitt hår eftersom jag hade börjat bli tunnhårig och inte längre kunde bära en riktig frisyr och så lade jag till med skägg, något jag aldrig gjort förr. Men ingen kan klandras för att de inte regerade på denna förändring i mitt yttre. Att gå med hatt och lägga till med skägg är ju inte något konstigt. Det skulle gå ett par veckor innan min omvärld reagerade och när de gjorde det var det med att köra mig till psykiatrisk akutmottagning i Kristianstad. I mitt nya rum satte jag mig till rätta i min länstol och såg mig omkring. Inom mig fanns en energi, en lust och vilja att skapa något, att skriva eller komponera musik. Jag kan inte förklara det men mina författardrömmar kom tillbaka från ingenstans och jag kände att nu var det rätta tillfället att påbörja min första roman. Jag öppnade skrivprogrammet på datorn och ut kom en liten text som handlade om Nathaniel som bodde i rummet bredvid. Jag skrev den på en timme och skickade den till en vän som hade ett litet förlag och som just sökte texter till en liten samling. Jag minns inte temat på samlingen men denna text är således den enda text jag någonsin publicerat på riktigt, det vill säga via ett förlag, i fysisk form och inte på Internet:

”Innan mitt kaffe blir kallare finns det en tidsperiod då jag måste underhålla mig själv. Snusen är fin att ta då, med viss risk för att det blir torrt i munnen. Fönstret som står på glänt ger en levande känsla till rummet. Kaffet som osar och ångan från det som porlar. I rummet bredvid finns han: den märkligaste man jag vet. I sin stora salong, med böcker och fjärran länders instrument, och i ett litet hörn sover han. Jag tror han begick ett mord igår igen: sen hemkomst och tystnad då vi möttes. Han satt uppe hela natten vid sin dator. I vår gemensamma tvättkorg ligger ett blodigt stycke tyg. När mitt kaffe blir kallare ska jag resa mig. Jag är redan påklädd. Jag lämnar alla mina ting här, som de är nu. I Rio väntar en vän med jeep och vi far ut djungeln.

Han (mannen) är anställd på en reklambyrå men hur framstående han är vet jag egentligen inte. Det är sällan han tar jobbet med sig hem och jag har aldrig hört honom tala om det, i alla fall inte med någon nämnvärd affektion. Jag tror han är mycket kapabel, dock. Teckningarna som kläder delar av hans svarta väggar är finurliga och detaljrika. De är morbida och oändliga i sin ton men jag blir aldrig rädd, för de är vackra. I konversation är han tvetydig och knepig. Han lagar aldrig mat men diskar ofta. Det måste varit medieuppbådet som först fick mig att ana oråd men nu tvivlar jag icke. Jag måste bort från honom, innan jag blir hans nästa offer! Inatt stod han vid min säng igen.”

Jag går dit livet mig för och är redo för alla utmaningar. Åh, store Gud som råder över oss dödliga, hjälp mig att förtälja min historia således att den framstår klar och riktig, giv mig kraft att förmedla den smärta som finns gömd bakom mina ord och låt läsaren förstå hur oskyldig och ung jag var då jag kastades ut i världen och plötsligt skulle rädda den. Av egen vilja! Ja, kanske. Det står till diskussion eftersom valet att fortsätta skriva var mitt men inte de ord som präntades på pappret. Men detta är något välkänt, att en författare känner att historien berättar sig själv, att meningarna redan finns skriva någonstans och bara väntar på att bli satta på pappret. När jag hade skrivit historien om Nathaniel färdigt (det tog nog bara en timme eller två) reste jag mig nog ur min länstol eller från skrivbordet för att strax gå igång med ett annat projekt. För här fanns den, skillnaden, förändringen: jag hade plötsligt så många aktiviteter och projekt igång! Från det att solen gått upp och fåglarna börjat sjunga och jag öppnat mina ögon stod allt i klart sken. Trots att jag inte hade planerat dagen visste jag redan vad den skulle användas till, timme för timme. Allt var viktigt, allt var möjligt och jag kunde hinna allt om jag bara var effektiv. Metodiskt kunde jag bestämma med mig själv att efter morgonkaffen skulle jag lägga en timme till att skriva. Nästa timme skulle gå åt att komponera musik. Under tiden som jag åt lunch skulle jag se en TV-serie, gärna en dokumentär om något intressant så jag lärde mig något samtidigt som jag fick energi. Efter maten skulle jag åter skriva eller läsa en bok. Varje sekund räknades och kunde användas till något viktigt, något som gav mening. Dagen skulle avslutas med ett besök hos Bhudda tillsammans med Nathaniel. Det var ett litet paradis jag levde i den första månaden tillsammans med Nathaniel i hans farmors gamla lägenhet. På andra sidan vägen låg falafelkiosken. Bredvid låg ICA och en arabisk grönsakshandlare. De andra som bodde i höghuset var första eller andra generationens invandrare. Om nätterna var det liv nere på parkeringsplatsen och ibland satt vi och såg på från altanen. Jag märkte det inte själv men för varje dag gick tankarna snabbare och snabbare. Jag sade det inte till någon, för jag är inte en som basunerar ut mitt inre liv men för mig själv sade jag att jag helt enkelt hade blivit upplyst. Tankar for inte bara runt utan jag kunde också få dem att stanna, så att hela mitt inre blev lugnt, som en stilla ton som ljuder över havet. Allt det med att känna kärlek för allt liv på jorden kände jag. Konflikter, bråk och argumentet var bara missförstånd och det fanns alltid en lösning på allting. Jag hade vaknat från den dimma mitt liv hittills hade varit dolt i. Och framtiden! Ja framtiden var så ljus, så spännande. Det killade i magen när jag tänkte på framtiden och allt som nu skulle komma, nu när jag var upplyst. Sofistikerade tankar om Gud och min egen plats i världen som upplyst hade inte ännu uppstått men någonstans under ytan bubblade känslan, den märkliga säkerheten om att jag var någon, någon särskild, någon utvald, någon som skulle göra allt gott igen. Man kan ju aldrig helt precis veta vad som driver en människa och får den till att göra som den gör, men något drev mig, något nytt och mystiskt. Jag visste att jag hade en uppgift, att mitt uppvaknande inte var en slump och även om jag inte artikulerade fortsättningen på detta argument kände jag nog att där uppe i himlen eller någon annanstans satt Gud och såg på mig och log, för nu var jag igång, nu hade jag vaknat, hade åter kommit till jorden…

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Among all this which was changing in Henry his feelings and memories of Ursula were awoken. One day in the middle of August he sent her a text message asking her how she was doing. Ursula replied that she was doing fine and told Henry about her progress in theater school and other everyday things. Henry replied and told her that he was dropping out of medical school to become a writer, that he was happy and that things were going very well for him right now. They wrote like this back and forth in the course of a few days until Henry asked Ursula if she wanted to meet for a coffee. Ursula agreed. On the same street on which the Bhudda lives there was in Malmö a café called Henry’s Café and here Henry and Ursula met again for the first time in the six months which had passed since they met last. Henry was a bit early and waited outside. It was windy and a light rain was falling. It was early afternoon. As soon as Henry saw Ursula he jumped up and approached her. They hugged. Everything which happened, everything Ursula said, Henry interpreted in the best possible ways, that is as true signs that Ursula loved him and intended to be his girlfriend. They ordered. Henry had coffee and Ursula hot chocolate. They sat down at a table. Henry noticed the brand on Ursula’s hot chocolate as she tore the paper bag open and poured the dry chocolate grains into the hot water: Ögonblick. It means literally eye blinks but is used as a description of important or beautiful moments. It all made sense to Henry. He was interpreting the world around him in an increasingly paranoid fashion. In psychiatry we call it self-delusional. It means that one interprets ordinary happenings as having something to do with one self. A self-delusional person adds these happenings to their already delusional world and in this way develops the psychosis. Henry can’t remember what they talked about and no further meetings were arranged. They talked for an hour or so. In Henry’s eyes Ursula was sensual and suggestive and in his mind he was already fantasizing about their coming marriage, their home and their children and everything beautiful which they were going to share in the future. When they said goodbye, Henry was certain: among all the great things which were awaiting him in the near future now that he was Enlightened was Ursula. She was the prize, the reward for his suffering. Henry knew he had a task to complete and Ursula was the reward. The next time the two met was a few years later. In court.

Jag fortsatte att skriva. Jag hittade en gammal text jag skrivit i gymnasiet och finputsade den. Men vad var meningen med att skriva om jag inte hade en publik som läste mina texter? Jag lade texterna upp på facebook så att alla mina cirka 300 vänner (bekanta från min barndom, gymnasievänner, folk jag träffat i England och klasskamrater i Köpenhamn) kunde läsa dem. Texterna var uppskattade, folk kommenterade: skriv mer, skriv mer! Min facebook-profil var öppen så i princip kunde alla i hela världen läsa mina texter. Jag fantiserade om detta. Eftersom texterna var på svenska föreställde jag mig hur man runtom i världen översatte mina texter och hur de blev lästa från Indien till USA och Kina, men i hemlighet, utanför tidningars, TV:s och det offentliga samhällets medvetande och ramar. Allt som hände blev tolkat på bästa möjliga sätt i mitt huvud. Jag satt i mitt rum, utanför mig fanns världen och den rörde på sig, snabbare och snabbare, kunde nästan inte följa med, häpen över det stora författargeni som nu gjort sin debut på världens scen. En av dessa dagar, det var kanske dagen efter jag hade fikat med Ursula, vaknade jag utvilad och upprymd. Detta skulle bli en bra dag. Jag var så lugn i mitt inre, så harmonisk och i samklang med världen att jag var precis som en Buddha. Bakom det som var alldagligt och vanligt, ja bakom skönheten i musik och litteratur, bakom skönheten i ett ansikte eller orden som vi säger till varandra kände jag att något mystiskt gömde sig, något som inte kunde beskrivas i ord men som fanns där och färgade vardagens händelser, styrde dem, vakade över dem, gav dem mening. Jag hade precis upptäckt det. Det var livets mysterium, den heliga graalen, alltings sanning. Hade någon sett mig hade ljus strålat från mitt huvud och mina ögon hade varit blå som havet och svarta som universum. Denna känsla fanns inom mig då jag skrev en text jag gav namnet 3 Monkeys:

“One is occupied with many small things: a hideaway is the best place to be. You can still see the others further away, between some leaves and fruits. Picking lice from your fur and picking up your own dropped bananas from the jungle floor is grand. You can get up early, before the sky is white and then go on. This is your path, few others know about it. Some of them shall never find out, or they better not. Hours will pass. You watch the whiteness turn blue and then red (sometimes purple). The password, the secret branch, is safe down there by the plant.

Another is in conversation and upset. Not many words or messages seem to get through. The tone is wildening. Some start screaming. A new participant jumps down from a nearby location, with wild arms and angry eyes. How can you get your message across to beings such as these? There is no understanding, no waiting and no listening. Extending your arms into an embrace will start a fight most likely. Turning your back on them will provoke. You begin a period of silence and watch the confusion. It is hard to accept being heard and the fury inflates. Small animals and insects join the arguing choir. New sounds that are frightening descend and ascend on you.

The third is the last in the band of seven ramblers. On the run and on the road it is hectic but also peaceful. In one way you watch her from afar – afar – with eyes of desire. There is a bend up ahead. Yesterday you came to this valley all but desolate. The silence was peaceful, the steps light and free. It was electric and your back hair is still standing… still pointing that way.”

Strax innan eller efter jag skrev denna text mötte jag på stället som ligger mitt emot Sapla (det brukade heta Metro och gör det kanske än idag) en söt tjej som hette Anna. Anna hade långt blont hår som nådde ner till midjan och stora blå ögon. Jag hade säkert varit hos Bhudda. Just det ja, Bhudda hade haft besök av en gammal vän som hette Malena (en av hans få tjejvänner). Malena var säkert tio år äldre än mig. Hon gillade mig. När vi satt på balkongen och skickade jointen mellan oss masserade hon mina axlar och rygg. ’Henry,’ sade hon, ’dig är det allt fest i, det ska jag lova!’ Malena kom inte med ut, jag tror jag gick ut ensam och besökte nog som vanligt först Sapla. Det var sommar. På Metros uteservering var det fullt så jag gick in och beställde en öl och satte mig vid första bästa stol som var ledig, tror inte ens jag frågade om platsen var fri. Jag såg mig omkring och de första ögon jag mötte var Annas, som stirrade på mig. Från dessa ögon strålade begeistring och liv. Vi satt nära nog att vi kunde höra varandra om vi skrek. Hej, skrek jag över barens sorl och oljud. Hej, skrek Anna tillbaka. Vi flyttade våra stolar närmare varandra. Jag minns så klart inte vad vi pratade om men Anna tyckte också om datorspel så jag förmodar att vårt samtal kretsade kring detta. Det tog inte lång tid innan vi bestämde att gå hem till henne, hon bodde precis runt hörnet. Till min överraskning kommer då Malena fram och hälsar på oss båda. Det visar sig att Malena och Anna är goda vänner. ’Var försiktig med henne, hon är ömtålig,’ sade Malena till mig när vi lämnade baren.

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Henry wrote his famous ‘3 Monkeys’ text in the middle of or late July. He had just moved in with Nathaniel. Euphoric and energetic from the medication, not yet manic but definately hypomanic, his daily routines consisted of reading, writing and creating music. He was happy here, he felt that life as it was right now could go on forever. He had found a calm and an inner peace and left all his demons behind. He had just met Anna, the beautiful blonde with the large beaming blue eyes and they had begun a shallow relationship (Henry did not know that Anna was seeing at least one other man at the same time). The text is well composed in rhythm and tone, but I’m no expert in English literature, dear reader, so I can’t say more than that. The first passage seems to concern a secret place, perhaps the place Henry had found in his mind as he became Enlightened. There is a distance between Henry and ‘the rest of us’. He is in hiding, preparing something. There are daily routines but there is also danger. The second passage describes a confrontation. Perhaps this is the Prophet leaving his hideaway place to pronounce to the people his message. He can’t neither embrace his people nor turn his back on them. Frustrated he has to choose to be silent. The last paragraph concerns some sort of aftermath. He is on the run but this way of life is peaceful. It is unclear whether the Prophet has failed or not but it’s obvious that this is the way it should be. ‘It was electric,’ he says. Is this modern society? Does ‘the back hair is still pointing backwards’ describe our transition into the technological era, the era of the Internet? I know that you can guess, dear reader, who he is ‘watching from afar with eyes of desire’.

Ibland kom Anna och besökte mig och Nathaniel. En solig eftermiddag spelade jag en av mina låtar för henne på altanen. Nathaniel sjöng med med sin tenorstämma. Anna verkade inte särskilt imponerad. Samtidigt var hon en ganska knepig själ. Hennes själ hade blivit skadad när hon besökte Barcelona som 19-åring och blev drogad. Hon minns inte vad som hände men hon tror att hon blev våldtagen och kanske blev det inspelat, det vill säga att hon mot sin vilja deltog i en porrfilm. Senare, efter att det blev konstaterat att jag var sjuk och hade varit på psykakuten och hela cirkusen dragit igång sade Anna att det var killar som mig hon trivdes bäst med: skadade, ostabila, drogmissbrukare, halvgalningar. Jag blev stött, det måste jag erkänna, för det var inte så jag såg mig själv. Några dagar efter att jag skrivit ’3 Monkeys’ kom ännu en mystisk text till mig. Den var kortare och mer direkt men även denna var mycket olik allt annat jag dittills hade skrivit. Den fick heta ’Untitled 1’:

“Blue thunder and lightning that is frightening. Oh what was I then and why was the road full of animals and things? It struck there on the road many times and times more. Roaring sounds not quite reaching me but all present. There is a deep pain and a furious solitude and a growing acceptance now that I see and now that I know and now that things make sense, and there is not blue thunder but a purple sunrise. This day is not new but ever present and I am not sleeping, never again.”

Jag kan inte svara på, kära läsare, var denna text kom ifrån. Det ÄR ju vansinnigt men är inte all konst det? Är inte all konst en strävan efter något som vi inte har i våra fysiska, vanliga, alldagliga liv? Galen blir man först när man tror på vad man skriver, när man mister distansen mellan konstens värld och den verkliga. Bra konst betyder något inte bara för konstnären men också för andra. När jag nu, tio år senare, läser dessa texter är den känsla som fyller mig mest faktiskt rädsla. Jag blir rädd för författaren. Vad är det för ett odjur som skriver om åska, smärta och raseri och proklamerar att han aldrig ska sova igen! Både ’3 Monkeys’ och ’Untitled 1’ föreslår för läsaren att Messias eller någon likvärdig är åter kommen till jorden. Så är det ju, det går inte att avfärda att författaren vill att vi ska tänka detta om honom. Någon har vaknat upp, någon har ett budskap, någon färdas med åska och blixtar och ska aldrig sova igen. Därför kan jag ju svara att jag, när jag skrev dessa texter, inte hade denna föreställning om mig själv. Den var som sagt inte uttalad, jag hade inte tänkt denna tanke: ’Jag är Messias’. Det var först senare, framåt hösten, när saker och ting verkligen såg mörka ut, som just denna tanke enträget pressade sig på och blev till en slags motivation att fortsätta det jag börjat, som en överlevnadsinstinkt. Något hade hänt, något var satt i rullning och jag var orsaken. Jag kunde välja mellan att lämna hela projektet eller att gå än mer helhjärtat in i det. Som jag famlade i mörkret bland frågor utan svar i ett landskap bebott av demoner och rövare med mitt svärd i min hand kunde jag rikta blicken upp mot himlen (eller in i mig själv) och säga: Gud, jag vet att du är med mig. Låt oss så äntligen komma till det: det som hände. Jag är utvilad ikväll, eller i alla fall inte lika utmattad som jag brukar vara. Dagen har gått åt att leka med min dotter och jag har varit ledig från mitt arbete. Trots detta kan jag inte lova att sättet som jag nu beskriver denna händelse på är det bästa, eller rättare sagt det vackraste sättet, så som jag utlovade i början av del 2. Å andra sidan känns det rätt att vi nu når till de ödesdigra dagarna omkring min 23:e födelsedag där allting började och mitt liv förändrades för alltid. Innan dessa dagar fanns fortfarande en chans att jag åter skulle landa från min mani och återgå till mitt gamla jag, fortsätta mina studier, och så vidare och så vidare… Som jag satt där i min länstol och skrev tog jag då och då pauser för att tanklöst surfa på nätet. Detta var innan smartphonen hade gjort sitt intrång och förändrat våra surfvanor. På den tiden surfade man fortfarande med en dator. Det måste har varit på facebook som jag såg att en vän hade gjort ett personlighetstest, et så kallat Myers-Briggs Type Indicator test, ursprungligen baserat på Carl Jungs teorier. Spännande, tänkte jag, och klickade på länken. Det tog inte så lång tid att svara på de 30 eller 50 frågorna och snart hade jag ett svar på vilken slags personlighet jag var: INFJ. Jaha, tänkte jag och läste lite om det. På wikipedia stod det: ”INFJs are conscientious and morality-driven. They seek meaning in relationships, ideas, and events, with an eye toward better understanding themselves and others. Using their intuitive skills, they develop a clear and confident vision, which they then set out to execute, aiming to better the lives of others. Like their INTJ counterparts, INFJs regard problems as opportunities to design and implement creative solutions.

INFJs are believed to adapt easily in social situations due to their complex understanding of an individual’s motivations; however, they are true introverts, and as such, they need to retreat every so often. INFJs are private individuals who prefer to exercise their influence behind the scenes. Though they are very independent, INFJs are intensely interested in the well-being of others. INFJs prefer one-on-one relationships to large groups. Sensitive and complex, they are adept at understanding complicated issues and driven to resolve differences in a cooperative and creative manner.

INFJs are deeply concerned about their relations with individuals as well as the state of humanity at large. They are, in fact, sometimes mistaken for extroverts because they appear so outgoing and are so genuinely interested in people—a product of the Feeling function they most readily show to the world.

INFJs are said to have a rich, vivid inner life that they may be reluctant to share with those around them. Nevertheless, they are congenial in their interactions and perceptive of the emotions of others. Generally well liked by their peers, they may often be considered close friends and confidants by most other types; however, they are guarded in expressing their own feelings, especially to new people, and tend to establish close relationships slowly. INFJs may “silently withdraw as a way of setting limits” rather than expressing their wounded feelings—a behavior that may leave others confused and upset.”

Även idag passar denna beskrivning bra på mig, det måste jag erkänna. Då, när jag läste det, passade det helt enkelt perfekt. Det är ju jag, skrek jag för mig själv på mitt rum utan att Nathaniel kunde höra det. Det är ju precis så jag skulle beskriva mig själv. Även det att personlighetstypen var den mest sällsynta och räknade till sig storheter som Gandhi, Martin Luther King och Leo Tolstoj tilltalade mig. Full av energi och sökande efter nya projekt fann jag snabbt ett forum på Internet för människor med INFJ-personligheten. Här var det, tänkte jag, eureka. På forumet fanns många olika avdelningar där allt mellan himmel och jord diskuterades. En samlingsplats för människor som är precis som jag, lika kloka och kärleksfulla. Självklart fanns tankar om att rädda världen i mig, jag visste bara inte hur. Tänk om världens uppmärksamhet kunde riktas på detta forum, så att alla kunde läsa de kloka diskussioner som föregick där – skulle inte världen då bli bättre? Jo tänkte jag, detta skulle rädda världen. Så enkelt var det i mitt naiva huvud som tolkade allt på bästa möjliga sätt. På forumet fann jag en avdelning för författare där folk hade lagt upp sina texter och fått kommentarer. Som jag längtade efter kommentarer på mina texter, framförallt mina två nyaste, de mystiska texterna om mitt uppvaknande, som dessutom var på engelska! Därför (och varför inte?) lade jag upp ’3 Monkeys’ på detta forum. Samtidigt hade jag lagt upp fler texter på facebook på min öppna profil. Jag arbetade på två fronter, tänkte jag. Nog skulle folk läsa min texter och nog skulle världen nu bli räddad. Detta måste varit den första eller andra september. Några dagar gick. Ingen kommenterade på forumet men mitt Internet blev långsammare och långsammare. Några gånger kunde sidan som forumet låg på inte tillgås, förbindelsen blev avbruten eller nådde en timeout, som det stod på webbläsaren. Konstigt, tänkte jag. Förklaringen måste så klart vara att hela världen just nu sitter och läser mina texter, både på facebook och på forumet. Den andra september jag lade även upp ’Untitled 1’, i samma tråd som ’3 Monkeys’. Fortfarande inga kommentarer. Jag vet inte vad jag hade väntat. I mitt huvud fortsatte fantasierna om världens reaktioner. Det gick snabbare och snabbare, blev galnare och galnare. Jag kunde inte sova på grund av alla tankar och förväntningar som snurrade runt. Magen killade, händerna klistrade, hjärtat bankade. Allt stod skrivet i stjärnorna. Natten mellan den tredje och fjärde september, alltså natten till min 23:e födelsedag kunde jag äntligen komma in på forumet igen. Jag säger inte att jag alls inte kunnat komma in, men den natten hade jag inte kunnat. Sidan laddade långsamt, bilderna och texterna kom pixel för pixel uppifrån och ned. Det är den tredje september 2009, tänkte jag storartat som tidernas hjälte. För exakt 70 år sedan gick Nazityskland in i Polen och startade andra världskriget. Jag visste att hundratals om inte tusentals, om inte tiotusentals eller fler människor just nu var inne på forumet och på min facebookprofil och läste mina texter och undrade vad som skulle hända härnäst. Jag ska visa er, tänkte jag. Jag är den hjälte ni alla har väntat på. I presidenters kontrollrum, i EU:s högkvarter, på skärmar på stora företag och NGO:er följde man med i utvecklingen. Internet höll på att koka över. Vi hade inte fått vårt eget WiFI än, jag och Nathaniel. Därför surfade jag på ett av de många öppna nät som fanns i lägenhetskomplexet. När förbindelsen gick ner på det ena, hoppade jag över till ett annat. En hacker har jag aldrig varit, vet inte hur man gör. Klockan var kanske fyra på morgonen när jag skrev som en kommentar till mina två texter:

”Today it is 70 years since the start of World War 2. I am on my neighbour’s network. It is time to change things.”

BOOM!

Jag kunde känna det, jag visste att det var så. Internet exploderade.

På forumets startsida såg jag plötsligt en knapp jag inte lagt märke till för. Kära läsare, du ska inte helt lita på mitt omdöme men jag är tämligen säker på att knappen inte hade varit där förr, då hade jag tryckt på den tidigare. Där stod: ”LIVE CHAT”. Jag tryckte på knappen och blev tagen till en online chatt. Färgerna på chatten var annorlunda än forumets blå färger, detta var tydligen en annan hemsida. Ute till höger kunde jag se vilka som deltog i chatten. Hela tiden kom fler och fler in. Innan man kunde chatta skulle man välja ett namn, jag valde något slumpmässigt. Namnet ”krooler” kom jag först på senare. De flesta andra namn var också uppenbart slumpmässigt valda men några slutade på ”.xxx” och ”.mil”. För mig var detta ingen överraskning: det är klart att underrättelsetjänsten och militären och alla andra är med när en fullständigt okänd civilperson plötsligt utav ingenting skapar revolution på Internet och därmed också i den riktiga världen. Mina trötta men hektiska ögon fokuserade på skärmen. Först sades ingenting men plötsligt kom en fråga och jag visste att den var riktad till mig: ”Who are you?” Det är väl klart att jag ska svara på det, tänkte jag. De vet säkert allt om mig redan, vet mitt namn från facebook. Det är lika bra att vara ärlig. Dessutom, varför skulle jag ljuga, jag hade ju ingenting att dölja. För mig var detta enbart spännande, inte farligt eller inte oroväckande. ”I’m Henry Olsson” Det gick några sekunder innan svaret kom: ”Shhh, slowly, slowly…”

INTERMISSION

Jag blev läkare trots allt. Det tog mig nästan tio år. Sen vinter 2018 avklarade jag min sista tentamen och när våren kom påbörjade jag det som i Sverige heter AT (allmäntjänstgöring) och som i Danmark kallas KBU (klinisk basis uddannelse). Självklart blev jag förälskad i en kvinna, det blir jag ju alltid, och denna förälskelse föranledde påbörjandet av en roman på danska som aldrig blev färdig. Romanen skulle handla om unga läkare och jag var gott på väg när förälskelsen upphörde och historien blev alltmer tråkig eller intetsägande:

”En tidlig mandag morgen i november ankommer en gruppe unge mennesker til Hotel Roswell i Helsingør. De er læger, de er i 3 dage fritaget fra den travle hverdag på Sjællands hospitaler og fra almen praksis for at her på hotellet deltage i et kursus i patientkommunikation, som en del af deres KBU KBU, klinisk basisuddannelse. Vinden blæser de brune blade rundt under den skyede himmel, bygningen er lige så grå som himmelen, måske lidt hvidere, og nogle kommer med rulletasker, andre med rygsækker. Det er ikke vigtigt, hvilke hospitaler de unge læger arbejder på, eller i hvilken provinsby deres almen praksis ligger, og jeg skal heller ikke her benævne de enkelte steder. I virkeligheden var det ikke i Helsingør hotellet lå, og ingen af de hospitaler eller patienter jeg nævner, eksisterer i virkeligheden. Jeg skriver dette fordi det offentlige i disse dage, eller som altid, er under pres og i besparing, og det sidste jeg vil, er at denne fortælling skal blive et indslag i en politisk debat. Det er ikke det alt handler om. Efter 6 års studier ved universitetet, er det unge menneske en færdig læge, men mangler ret til selvstændigt virke. Dette fås ved gennemførelse af KBU, som er 1 års ansættelse delt i to deler, den ene ved et hospital og den anden oftest i almen praksis, det vil sige der, hvor alle vores ”egen læge” residerer. Disse KBU-forløb uddelegeres ved at den unge trækker et lottonummer. Den der får nummer 1, må vælge frit blandt de cirka 600 forskellige ansættelser landet over. Den med et højt nummer, må vælge blandt det, der er tilbage, og må rejse fra familie og venner, eller pendle lange strækninger, ofte til stort besvær. Selv havde jeg været heldig og fået et godt lottonummer. På dette tidspunkt i mit liv var jeg ved at flytte sydpå, ud på landet sammen med min kæreste og lille datter på 3,5 år. Der havde vi fundet et dejligt hus i en lille stationsby, og det lille hus med have og tæt på indkøb og børnehave kunne vi leje til en billig sum som min lægeløn nok skulle holde til. Det var lidt uklart hvornår vi kunne flytte ind, men jeg regnede med, at når jeg havde bestået min sidste eksamen, og måneden efter skulle starte KBU, så var vi allerede flyttet eller godt i gang. Derfor valgte jeg et forløb der startede med 6 måneder på akutmodtagelsen i Stør, efterfulgt af 6 måneder i almen praksis i Ræverskov. Begge disse steder lå under en halv times kørsel fra vores lille dejlige hus. Det viste sig dog, at vores indflytning blev forsinket, så at når jeg startede på akutmodtagelsen boede vi stadigvæk i København, hvorfra jeg havde over 1 time med det offentlige til mit arbejde. Det var en hård start. En helt frisk nyuddannet læge kan rigtigt meget og har bestået alle eksamener, men har så lidt erfaring at vedkommende i starten ikke kan bruges til ret meget. De første vagter havde jeg to, måske tre, patienter på 10 timer og kom hjem trættere end træt. Fuldstændigt blæst. Akutmodtagelsen i Stør var frontlinjen, jeg var en soldat i en skyttegrav og kuglerne ven omkring mig og bomberne sprængte mine kollegaer i stykker. Alle løb så hurtigt de kunne, men ambulancerne kom i stride strømmer. Når man mødte ind til nattevagt kl 17, og skulle arbejde indtil kl 8.30, var venteværelset fyldt, patienter låg ude på gangen fordi alle stuer var fyldt op og de garvede sygeplejersker kikkede blegt på hinanden. I personalestuen sat en ung læge i tårer. ”Velkommen alle sammen”, sagde KOL-lægen KOL, koordinerende overlæge. ”Der er 17 usete patienter, jeg har sat et nummer ud for deres navn, I starter i den rækkefølge”. Han kikkede på os stakkelser. ”En skal i skadestuen, og det må blive dig, Thomas, fordi de andre er nye”. Så gik man i gang. Alt man gjorte blev konfereret med KOL-lægen, om det så var at bestille en blodprøve eller om man var usikker på om der var krepitationer basalt på højre lunge eller ej. ”Op på medicinsk afdeling med hende”, svarede KOL-lægen tit. Det er ikke mit indtryk, at patientsikkerheden var i fare, os uerfarne læger til trods, men uden KOL-lægen og de andre erfarne kollegaer, ville jeg ha slået mange mennesker ihjel mine første måneder på akutmodtagelsen. Vi var barn, de var vores forældre, de lærte os lægekunsten, og langsomt begyndte vi at forstå, hvad det indebærer at være læge i vores moderne verden, hvor kunsten egentlig er at vide, hvornår man ikke skal gøre noget. Det skal gå hurtigt: er infektionstallene forhøjede eller ej, har patienten forandringer på hjertekardiogrammet, er håndleddet fejlstillet på røntgenbilledet eller ej? Hvis det er, skal patienten indlægges, journalen skrives, og ellers skal patienten hjem, så sengen kan blive brugt til den næste. Glem ikke at spise og drikke, men du må ikke forlade din telefon eller afdelingen. Der er ikke tid til at stå og snakke med patienten, uanset hvor hyggeligt det end må være, og uanset om vi fundet en tumor på scanningen eller ej. Såfremt vi opdager en cancer, skal patienten henvises til onkologisk afdeling, og det er også der patientens følelser, bekymringer og tanker tages om hånd. Sådan er det lidt, men ikke helt. Jeg oplevede tit, at når jeg var færdig med en patient og begyndte på den næste, havde vedkommende ventet i rigtigt lang tid, nogle gange 5-6 timer, og blodprøver, EKG, røntgen og alt andet var allerede færdigt. Henvisningen fra egen læge eller sygeplejerskens notat kunne sammen med biokemin bruges til at stille en diagnose eller lægge en plan, selv om jeg ikke engang havde talt med patienten. ”Goddag Fru Hansen, du har KOL KOL, kronisk obstruktiv lungesygdom og har hostet i 5 dage, ikke rigtigt? Dine infektionstal er forhøjede og på røntgenbilledet ser vi et infiltrat foreneligt med en lungebetændelse. Jeg kan se, at du allerede har fået iltmaske og alt andet. Vi starter penicillin og du bliver indlagt på medicinsk afdeling. Jeg skal bare lige lytte til dine lunger først.” Det er her menneskeligheden bliver sat på prøve, og det er også her empatien bliver truet. Patienten er et navn, tal, symptomer og en række kroniske diagnoser. I mine 6 måneder ved akutmodtagelsen, hvor mange ældre kvinder med KOL har jeg ikke set, hvor mange galdestene, hvor mange hoftefrakturer eller blodpropper i hjerte og hjerne? Det siges at man kan huske alle måltider man nogensinde haft hvis man bare bliver erindret om noget særligt ved det enkelte måltid. Ligeledes kan jeg nok huske alle patienter jeg mødt, hvis jeg skulle møde dem igen, men lige nu kan jeg svært huske en eneste, i hvert fald ikke patientens navn, hvor han eller hun kom fra, stemmen eller hvad vi ellers snakkede om. Desuden vil jeg heller ikke her bruge tid på at fortælle om nogle særdeles syge mennesker eller de mange skæbner jeg mødt i det lange år jeg arbejdet som læge. Livets mangfoldighed, skæbnens grimme klør og mennesker der lider er noget man hurtigt vænner sig til som læge. Nogle læger har et indre sprog, der kan beskrive det de oplever, andre græder på toget på vej hjem fra arbejde, nogle har familie og venner der forstår og lytter, og andre lukker af og bliver kolde for at overleve. Men det er heller ikke det, jeg skal fortælle om, fordi det findes det masser af i andre bøger og på TV, film og radio. Tilbage til de unge læger, der står udenfor et af hotellets mange konferencerum, hvor der er dækket op med kaffe, vand, frugt og kager. Klokken er lidt i 8 og om et par minutter starter det hele derinde, hvor skilte med navn og arbejdsplads er stillet op langs det lange U-formede bord. Mange kender hinanden fra tidligere kursus eller fra studiet, og står og småsnakker om hist og pist med kaffekoppen i hånden. Der er god stemning, vi er unge, vi har fri fra arbejde, og selv om vi ved at de kommende dage byder på mange udfordringer i form af analyse af optaget video, gruppediskussioner, opgaver, sene eftermiddage og tidlige morgener, er vi alligevel glade, fordi medicin er vores passion og liv, det vi kan, og det, vi brænder for, og man kan aldrig blive dygtig nok, især ikke når et andet menneskes liv ligger i ens hænder. Jeg kender også flere her, men er ikke helt vågen her til morgen, og står ved en sofa og kikker mig forvirret omkring. Der er Henrik og Linnea, som jeg var på akutmodtagelsen i Stør sammen med. Vi har godt nok været en rejse igennem der. Der mangler kun Isolde, så er vi alle samlet. Mange af de andre kender jeg også fra studiet, men de har været andre steder hen i deres første del af KBU. ”Godt at se dig!” råber Isolde pludseligt og giver mig en kram med en kage i den ene hånd og kaffekoppen i den anden. Isolde er den sødeste i verden, jeg kan ikke sige andet. ”Nå, vi må hellere komme derind, jeg tror de starter nu”, siger hun. ”Hjertelig velkommen til dette kursus i patientkommunikation”, siger en af de tre kursusledere når vi alle har sat os ned ved bag vores navneskilte. Hun er en psykolog i 60-års alderen. De andre to er læger, også i 60-års alderen, den ene ortopædkirurg og den anden en almenmediciner som blev psykiater. Bag psykologen er programmet for de tre dage vist på en powerpoint-præsentation:

Dag 1 – Kommunikationstræning 8.30-10.00: introduktion, orientering om kurset, deltagernes erfaringer og afstemning af forventninger, ”mit lægeliv”, gruppedannelse. 10.30-12.00: arbejde i grupperne: kommunikationstræning, fokus på komplekse samtaler og samtaler under vanskelige forhold, præsentation af cases, personlige læringsmål 12.00-13.00: frokost 14.00-14.30: kommunikationstræning (fortsat) 14.30-15.30: pause med fagligt indhold 15.30-17.30: kommunikationstræning (fortsat) 18.00-19.30: middag 19.30-21.00: at bevare ”high performance”, forståelse og erfaringsudvikling

Og så videre for de andre to dage. Dag 2 vil byde på et gæsteforedrag før middagen. Det er ikke første gang vi får præsenteret sådan et fyldigt program, og inderst inde er der nok en del der sukker, især fordi man ved hvordan man har det sent om eftermiddagen når man skal op og præsentere sit case, eller skal fortælle om en vanskelig situation. Dog plejer det altid at være hyggeligt og det er bare at komme i gang. Vi er egentlig ganske entusiastiske og tager ansvar for vores efteruddannelse, og patientkommunikation er jo noget der tit er vanskeligt, og man skal kunne klare alle situationer, alle typer af mennesker. Der er nok ikke nogen i denne gruppe der ikke gør så godt den kan, alle forskellige baggrunder og personlighedstyper til trods. Her findes selvfølgelig mange dygtige mennesker, dem der altid har gjort godt fra sig, fra folkeskole til gymnasie til universitetet. De er engagerede og involverer sig i alle typer af samtaler og diskussioner, selv om emnet måske ikke interesserer dem så meget. Uanset hvad de står med, gør de alt hvad de kan. Dette er nok noget mange af os har til fælles som læger, det at være pligtopfyldende og at agere med samvittighed. Jeg gør også mit bedste, men ikke altid. For et menneske, en patient, giver jeg alt, herom har jeg ingen tvivl, her er min energi utømmelig. På arbejde giver jeg også alt. Men til kursus, eksamen, gruppesamtaler og andre lignende situationer, ja, der er jeg nok ret doven. Det er kun i psykiatri og i pædiatri jeg fik et 12-tal, ellers var mine karakter fra universitetet ganske elendige. Jeg tror ikke nødvendigvis det gør mig til en dårligere læge, men dette argument vil jeg ikke udvikle her. Hvad jeg vil sige er, at jeg, ofte, når jeg er til kursus som nu, helst ikke siger noget. Jeg sidder og lytter og danner mig tanker om hvad jeg ville svare hvis jeg blev spurgt, men det ligger ikke til mig at række hånden op og byde ind. Denne lidt kedelige tendens blev ganske dominerende de sidste år på studiet, og udviklede sig faktisk til en angst for at tale i gruppe, og især en angst for navnerunder – fordi, hvis jeg ellers ikke sagde noget, hvorfor og hvordan skulle jeg så præsentere mig med et par sætninger? Derfor begyndte mit hjerte straks at race og min hals snøre sig til, når ortopædkirurgen sagde, at vi alle skulle tage vores stole og sætte os i en ring i midten for sammen tage en ordentlig navnerunde. Vi skulle hver tale 1 til 2 minutter om os selve, hvor vi arbejdede, vores erfaringer og hvad vi forventede af kursuset. 24 morgentrætte læger flyttede sine stoler ind til rummets midt. Ortopædkirurgen startede, imens han holdt et æble i sin hånd: ”Mit navn er Anders. Jeg er uddannet læge i 1975 og har været rundtomkring på forskellige hospitaler som ortopædkirurg. De sidste år har jeg interesseret mig for uddannelse og kommunikation, hvorfor jeg nu er med og underviser på dette kursus. På min fritid kan jeg lide at reparere gamle biler, jeg har bland andet en Rolls Royce fra 40-erne. Ja… hvad mere skal jeg sige? Jeg har to katter derhjemme, og to voksne børn, der er flyttet hjemmefra for længst.” Når han var færdig vendte han sig mod psykologen, og gave hende æblet: ”Ja, mit navn er Johanne. Jeg er uddannet psykolog og er også ansvarlig for dette kursus. Jeg har for nylig flyttet til et øko-bofælleskab og det er jeg meget spændt på. Ellers kan jeg godt lide at løbe og udøve yoga. Jeg glæder mig til de kommende dage og alle spændende samtaler vi skal have sammen.” Psykologen vendte sig nu til den første unge læge, der sat ved siden af hende, og gav æblet til hende. ”Jeg hedder Rasha og jeg er sådan en dejlig blanding. Min mor er fra Iran og min far er fra Tyrkiet, men jeg har vokset op i Sverige, hvor jeg udannede mig i Linköping. Jeg har været på akutmodtagelsen i Lillerød. Her var det meget travlt… På min fritid kan jeg godt lide dans og at ses med venner. Ja, det var vel det om mig…” ”Jeg hedder Lene og min KBU har været et helvede, for at sige det rent ud. Jeg har to små børn, bor egentlig i Århus, men fik et lortenummer, og valgte så kardiologisk afdeling på Østers Sygehus. Her er jeg journalslave. Jeg ser alle patienter med AKS AKS, Akut koronart syndrom, kan være blodprop i hjertet men kan også være stress. Her er ingen læger, jeg tror der er 6 ubesatte stillinger. Personale sygmelder sig hele tiden, alle går ned med stress. Jeg arbejder 4 dage i træk, og rejser hjem til Århus, og så tilbage igen. Der er ingen supervision, ingen jeg kan snakke med. Tit står jeg helt alene med kritisk syge patienter. Det er noget lort, mest af alt er jeg ked af at jeg er væk fra mine børn så meget, jeg går glip af deres opvækst. Jeg har været til stresskursus, jeg har været sygmeldt og nu arbejder jeg på deltid, så min første del af KBU er 8 måneder i stedet for de 6. Det er en lorteoplevelse. Jeg er vred.” ”Det er da noget lort”, sagde Anders. ”Har du snakket med din vejledere?” ”Ja selvfølgelig har jeg det. Der er ikke noget vi kan gøre.” ”Hvad med at kontakte din tillidsrepræsentant i Yngre Læger?” ”Det har jeg også gjort. Der er ikke noget at gøre.” ”Det er noget lort. Hårdt.” ”Til gengæld er der kun 3 uger tilbage, og det er ligesom det jeg lever på nu.” Jeg tror at alle blev rystede over Lenes historie. Det skulle dog vise sig, at hun langt fra var alene om denne oplevelse af at blive tvunget ud på alt for dybt vand på bekostning af familie og eget helbred. Næste på tur var Henrik. Ham kendte jeg godt fra akutmodtagelsen. Skabt som Gud selv nok ville have skabt manden, med stort skæg, lang og rejslig, dyb stemme og en tryg og rolig manér, havde Henrik først sat sig til at blive kiropraktor, men valgte så efter dette at uddanne sig til læge. På studiet havde han haft et vikariat på en skadestue og blevet erfaren med ortopædkirurgi, hvorfor han på akutmodtagelsen allerede efter få måneder blev sat til at være mellemvagt, med ansvar for os andre forvagter. Venlig, klog og retfærdig var han nok af alle der kendte ham set som en leder. ”Jeg hedder Henrik. Jeg kommer oprindeligt fra Jylland, men er så nu flyttet til Amager, hvor jeg bor med min kæreste. Jeg var på akutmodtagelsen i Stør sammen med nogle andre der også er her i dag. Der var travlt, men jeg syntes alligevel det var en god oplevelse, lærte mig rigtigt meget. Vi fik den supervision vi skulle have og blev godt passet på. Nu er jeg i almen praksis, og det er jo noget luksus i forhold til akutmodtagelsen, man kan faktisk noget når man kommer hjem fra arbejde. I fremtiden ved jeg ikke helt hvad jeg skal, måske intern medicin eller akut medicin.” Det var rigtigt, det Henrik sagde. Stør var kendt for at være et godt sted og blev tit valgt hurtigt af dem med lave lottonummer. En stor grund til at Stør var det dejlige sted det var, hed Klara-Lisa. Klara-Lisa var over pensionsalderen, en rund og tryg kvinde, som nok mindede mange af os om vores egen bedstemor. Hun var uddannelsesansvarlig overlæge og havde som primære opgave at passe på de unge læger som kom direkte fra universitetet til deres første ansættelse. Klara-Lisa sagde alle de ting vi havde brug for at høre: ”I skal tage frokostpause. Det er en myte at I ikke har tid til at spise, selvfølgelig har I det. Det SKAL i!”, og ”I starter nu som små fugleunge der ikke kan ret meget. Når I tager herfra om 6 måneder, flyver I som ørne”, og ”Der findes ingen dumme spørgsmål. Vi forventer at I ikke kan noget som helst, vi bliver bekymrede hvis I ikke spørger, og tror I kan det hele. Det er de farlige unge læger, dem der tror, at de kan det hele”, og ”I kan altid snakke med mig, I får mit private nummer og I kan ringe midt i natten hvis det nu er, om så det er noget relateret til arbejdet eller noget privat. Jeg findes her for er.” Klara-Lisas ord var sande, det fik jeg bekræftet da jeg selv kom og spurgte om hjælp en dag når stressen begyndt at spise af mig. Jeg skal ikke her gå i dybden med dette, men det med at flytte ind i et nyt hus på landet, køre en datter ind i børnehave, arbejde nat og dag og samtidig opleve at forholdet til kæresten begynder at smutte, det var en farlig cocktail. Tit kom jeg hjem udmattet med hjertebanken, og skulle købe ind, lave aftensmad, putte min datter og, når der endelig var tid til det, snakke med min kæreste om alverdens ting. Om natten kunde jeg ikke sove og var nødt til at sygmelde mig for at indhente søvnmanglen. Klara-Lisa hjalp mig her, og jeg kom igennem. Stør var et godt sted, det blev passet godt på os, og der manglende ikke læger i akutmodtagelsen – vi havde ikke fornemmelsen af at alt var ved at skride og falde fra hinanden. ”Jeg hedder Patrick”, sagde næste læge og svingede æblet mellem sine hænder. ”Jeg var i akutmodtagelsen på Østers. Det var noget rigtigt lort, det sted fungerer slet ikke. Jeg tror at vi som mest var 1 eller 2 fast ansætte læger, altså KBU-læger, på vagten. Resten var vikarer som ofte ikke kendte stedet, SP SP, sundhedsplatformen eller arbejdsgangen. Vi blev udmattede, vi sygmeldte os hele tiden, moralen var lav, virkeligt lav. Der var ingen tid til supervision, tit så vi vores supervisor en gang om måneden. Vi sat i vores båse og havde ikke kontakt til hinanden. Venteværelset var altid fyldt, der blev kaldt kritisk travlhed Kritisk travlhed er en procedure, hvor læger fra andre afdelinger kommer ned i akutmodtagelsen for at afhjælpe et særdeles stort antal patienter flere gange dagligt. Når man kom hjem fra arbejde, kunne man ingenting i flere dage… men det var lige meget, for tit blev man pålagt vagter fordi der manglede læger. Jeg er glad at jeg har kommet igennem, og skal aldrig nogensinde tilbage… Nå ja, på min fritid kan jeg godt lide at fiske og hænge ud med venner.” Der blev grinet ad Patricks ganske sikkert ironiske slutkommentar. Nu var det min tur. Jeg skal ikke udsætte læseren for en unødvendig beskrivelse af den lette til moderate angst jeg havde da æblet landede i min hånd. ”Jeg hedder Martin. Jeg har en ganske udtalt angst for at snakke i gruppe… så det er jo rigtigt godt at vi starter med en stor navnerunde.” Jeg tror, at der blev grinet lidt ad min stoiske tone. Nu havde jeg prikket hul på det. Til min overraskelse gik resten ganske godt, stemmen holdt: ”Jeg er i almen praksis i Ræverskov og er rigtig glad for det, så meget at jeg faktisk tænker mig at blive almenmediciner. Jeg har en datter på 3 og et halvt år og bor i et lille selvforsynende øko-samfund i Kogeby. Jeg kan godt lide at spille musik, skrive og at læse. Ja, det var vel det…” Jeg gav æblet videre. ”Jeg hedder Trine. Jeg bor i København med min mand og mine to børn. Jeg er i almen praksis i Gibberby, før det var jeg på urologisk afdeling i Lillerød. Det var OK, der skete ikke så meget. Jeg var nok også lidt journalslave, så de samme typer patienter igen og igen. Jeg er vel ret glad for at være i almen praksis og for at være læge generelt… men nogle gange er jeg altså i tvivl… Nogle dage undrer det mig hvorfor jeg overhoved er læge… Man ser så mange syge mennesker, og kan så lidt, og føler tit at man intet kan gøre. Vi slider os ud, som så mange af jer har fortalt om her, og vores løn er ikke engang særlig høj…” Således, og videre og videre. De unge læger delte sine erfaringer, og havde meget til fælles. Nogle var tilfreds, andre brokkede sig. Nogle havde været heldige og havnet et godt sted, andre var helt ude af den og nærmet i krise. De to sidste som skulle præsentere sig var Linnea og Isolde. Linneas far var en fraskilt, småtosset nefrolog, det fortalte hun ofte om. Jeg ved ikke hvad hendes mor lavede. Linnea var blevet gravid en af de første måneder af sin KBU, og sat nu med hånden på en ganske stor, bulende mave. Efter hendes andet forløb i almen praksis skulle hun på barsel, og efter dette starte et PhD-forløb i nefrologi sammen med Isolde, hendes ven fra studiets første semester: ”Jeg hedder Isolde, jeg har også været i akutmodtagelsen i Stør sammen med nogle af de andre her. Nu er jeg i psykiatrien oppe i Fjellet. Der er der også travlt og… underbemandet. Om natten er man alene om at dække både psykiatrisk skadestue og alle sengeafsnit men også børn- og ungdoms-skadestuen. Der får man aldrig sovet… Jeg bor på Østerbro sammen med min kæreste, som er DJØF:er, så der bliver tit nogle dejlige diskussioner. Jeg elsker at gå i biografen og har årskort på Cinemateket. Ja, det var vel lidt om mig.” Lad mig bare stoppe her, og sige til dig, kære læsere, at du helt sikkert tror, at denne fortælling handler om nogle unge læger og deres udfordringer her helt i starten af arbejdslivet, om travle sygehus med manglende ressourcer og personale på knæ, og helt sikkert også noget om patientkommunikation, alt sammen blandet med lidt medicinske kuriosa – det gør den, helt sikkert, men mest af alt handler den om kærlighed… Det er lidt svært for mig at beskrive Isolde. Jeg er i tvivl om hvor meget jeg må fortælle, fordi meget er forbudt i ulykkelige forelskelser, og mange er de tanker man ikke må tænke når man står der og kikker på afstand med sine følelser. Det første jeg tænker når jeg hører hende tale, er at hun har haft en tryg barndom og opvækst, med et par gode forældre som har givet hende en stabil, elskende personlighed. Når hun taler til én, føler man sig hørt og respekteret. Hun taler med et smil der høres ud i hvert ord og synes i hendes ansigt og omkring hendes øjne, hvor hendes 26 år her på jorden har dannet små fine streger der peger opad, ligesom to soler der skinner på en. Jeg er jo ikke vokset op i Danmark, og kan ikke præcisere alle dialekter, men jeg ved at Isolde kommer fra Sønderjylland og også taler flydende tysk. Hun har ligesom lært sig alle de forskellige vendinger og udtryk og møder folk hvor de er med en charme få kan undgå at blive betaget af. ”Du kunne arbejde som sælgere”, sagde jeg en dag i akutmodtagelsen efter at jeg hørt hende tale i telefon med en kirurgisk bagvagt. I ti minutter havde hun utrætteligt argumenteret for hvorfor en patient skulle indlægges og ikke sendes hjem. Først havde hun mødt stort modstand, men det gik til sidst. ”Jeg hør hvad du siger, Peter, ikke os? Men nu er det jo sådan at Grethe her har ondt i hoften, og selv om vi ikke kan se noget på røntgen, kan vi jo ikke udelukke at hun har en fraktur, ikke os? Jeg ved I ikke har nogle pladser… Tusind tak, Peter, tusind tak. Lige over!” Jeg skal ikke trætte læseren med detaljer om Isoldes smukke ansigt, der gør at hun fra siden ligner en græsk gudinde, eller hendes blonde skulderlange hår, lysebrune øjne, eller hendes ganske drengede pop-stil med lave Dr Martens og blege jeans med livrem over hofterne. Det er jo lige meget for dig, læsere. Jeg skal bare fortælle til sidst at jeg nok havde set Isolde før, på studiet, men mødte hende første gang da vi sammen startede i Størs akutmodtagelse. Efter at vi havde hilst på hinanden var jeg nødt til at kikke en gang mere, og de kommende dage, hvor vi havde introduktionsdage og tit sat ved samme bord, kunne jeg ikke lade være med at se på hende hver gang hun enten sagde noget klogt, eller nogen anden ved siden af hende sagde noget. Det viste sig at vi hyggede os rigtigt meget sammen, især på de lange nattevagter. Der sat vi klokken 4 om morgenen i en sjældent tom akutmodtagelse med en kop espresso og ”vendte verdenssituationen”, som Isolde ofte beskrev det. Der var lidt magi mellem os, mere kan jeg ikke fortælle, fordi så ødelægger jeg min fortælling. Jo, jeg må lige fortælle om den gang, det var en af vores allersidste vagter i Stør og stemningen iblandt os ”gamle, garvede” KBU:er der snart skulle stoppe var en lille smule sentimental. Her havde vi knoklet og svedet og lært os lægekunsten for første gang, og nu skulle vi snart være borte og videre. På et tidspunkt står Isolde og ser på den skærm der viser et overblik over hvilke patienter der venter og så videre. Skærmen er placeret lige ved døren ud fra lægekontoret. Jeg er på vej ud og når jeg går forbi, vender sig Isolde mod mig. Vi kikker på hinanden med kærlighed og venlighed i blikket, og uden at vide hvordan det sker, omfavner vi hinanden, min hånd omkring hendes talje og hendes omkring min, og der bliver vi stående ret længe og kikker på skærmen sammen. Vi omfavner hinanden så længe at kroppen når at registrere berøringen som seksuel, jeg begyndte at blive hård. Jeg ville ikke give slip, og impulsen at også tage min anden arm og trække hende til mig i et kys var stor, men til sidst gav vi slip og blev stående lidt uden at sige noget. Jeg kunne høre på hendes stemme lidt senere da hun talte i telefon, at hun var liderlig. Så vi havde en fortid af slags, men vi havde jo kærester begge to, og alt var forbudt at snakke om, det var skjult, hemmeligt, usynligt, ligesom om det aldrig havde sket. Vi havde skrevet lange beskeder til hinanden på Facebook, men de handlede om hverdagen, og selv om vi havde en aftale om at gå ud og tage en øl sammen, havde den aftale ikke endnu blevet til noget. Det var der jo aldrig tid til. Hilde havde ikke svaret på min sidste besked, som jeg afsluttede med at sige, at vi jo snart skulle ses i Helsingør, hvor vi skulle bo på hotel i 3 dage. Nok om dette. Efter navnerunden, som afsluttedes med at Helle, psykiateren, fortalte hvad hun arbejde med og at hun, når hun havde lidt tid over, godt kunne lide at lave keramik, skulle vi inddeles i grupper. Dette blev gjort på en i min mening ret kreativ måde. Alle blev stillet op i den ene ende af værelset. Først skulle alle der ikke var i almen praksis gå over til den anden ende. Der var kun 4 der ikke var i almen praksis. Herefter skulle alle der kendte hinanden danne små, flydende grupper. Der blev formet 4 små grupper. Nogle stillede sig mellem grupperne som tegn på at de kendte folk i begge grupper. Efter dette skulle vi dele os i introverte og ekstroverte. Jeg var ekstrovert en gang i tiden, i folkeskolen, hvor jeg var punkere med hanekam og fyldte rigtigt meget i klasseværelset, men så kom livet med sin skole, og nu var jeg nødt til at kalde mig introvert. Halvdelen af alle deltage var åbenbart introverte. Isolde, Henrik og Linnea så sig selve som ekstroverte. Til sidst skulle vi ud fra de grupper vi været i undervejs, selve forme tre lige så store grupper. Det er ikke så vigtigt, jeg ved ikke om det havde været godt eller bedre – skæbnen ville anderledes – men Isolde stod mellem min gruppe og en anden og var lige ved at gå over til mig når den sidste plads i min gruppe blev taget.

Det er både forståeligt og uventet at jeg endte med at blive læge. Ingen kender rigtigt til min families historie. Min mors forfædre var sigøjnere, ikke romer, men vandrende folk, rejste rundt fra by til by med tasker og instrumenter i det gamle Sverige. Min morfar var opvokset i Blekinge og var sømand, sejlede i Østersøen under anden verdenskrig. Min farfar var brandmand, min fars morfar gartner på et slot i Skotland… Jeg er således den anden i min lille familie der har læst ved universitet. Min far var den første, han læste biokemi og sidenhen farmakologi, og drømte om at blive læge. ”Du kan arbejde hos købmanden”, sagde de til ham, da han, spurgt til hvad han ville arbejde med når han blev stor, havde svaret at han gerne ville arbejde med mennesker. I klassisk underdog-manér satte han sig til at læse op sine karakter for at blive optaget på universitetet i Uppsala. Når han var færdig, fik han straks arbejde på et stort medicinalfirma og rejste verden rundt, i hvert fald til Indien og Pakistan. Når jeg blev født, ville han være mere hjemme og skiftede branche ganske fuldstændigt: han startede et reklamefirma, blev copywriter, og opnåede utroligt nok med dette skift stor fremgang. I midten af 90’erne lavede han reklame for Coca Cola, kørte Jaguar, havde pool, og jeg voksede derfor op under ganske bekvemme omstændigheder… indtil skilsmissen, hvor alt bragede sammen lige når jeg skulle starte gymnasiet. Når alt brændte og faldt omkring mig læste jeg Dostojevskijs Idioten og drømte om at blive forfattere. Svensk og engelsk var altid mine bedste fag. Med matematik fik jeg kæmpe lidt mere, men valgte alligevel at læse matematik og fysik ved et universitet i England. Jeg ville lære alt om universets og livets mysterium, men var ret naiv, og det var slet ikke så sjovt som jeg havde håbet på. Efter 2 år droppede jeg ud og flyttede tilbage til Skåne. Tanken at blive læge havde altid været der, selv om jeg ikke havde en anelse om hvad en læge egentlig lavede, da han eller hun gik på arbejde. Det var noget med at hjælpe mennesker, og det var jo under alle omstændigheder det allermest moralske man kunne foretage sig. På en eller anden måde søgte jeg ind på Københanvs Universitet og blev optaget. Jeg husker kun fra rusturen, at jeg ligger på stranden og råber til bølgerne og natten: jeg skal blive læge, jeg skal blive læge! Kære læsere, som sikkert vil tilbage til Roswell Hotel hvor Isolde og de andre unge mennesker venter, lad mig bare sige at jeg ikke har fortalt dig om alle de dæmoner jeg har kæmpet med eller hvad der ellers har formet mig. Det er ikke vigtigt hvordan, men livets skole har gjort mig til et menneske, der værdsætter allerhøjest det at hjælpe. Dog ved alle, at sådan en sætning er værdiløs hvis der ikke står handling bagved ordene. Mine intentioner styrkes af det løfte jeg en gang har aflagt:

”Efter at have aflagt offentlig prøve på mine i de medicinsk-kirurgiske fag erhvervede kundskaber, aflægger jeg herved det løfte, til hvis opfyldelse jeg end ydermere ved håndsrækning har forpligtet mig, at jeg ved mine forretninger som praktiserende læge stedse skal lade det være mig magtpåliggende, efter bedste skønnende at anvende mine kundskaber med flid og omhu til samfundets og mine medmenneskers gavn, at jeg stedse vil bære lige samvittighedsfuld omsorg for den fattige som for den rige uden persons anseelse, at jeg ikke ubeføjet vil åbenbare, hvad jeg i min egenskab af læge har erfaret, at jeg vil søge mine kundskaber fremdeles udvidede og i øvrigt gøre mig bekendt med og nøje efterleve de mig og mit fag vedkommende anordninger og bestemmelser.”

Nu må det være nok om dette. Helt til sidst vil jeg bare tilføje: min generation fik lært, at fik vi os bare en uddannelse var resten af livet kun en dejlig rejse. Vi blev nok ikke vitterligt snydt, fordi ingen kunne vel forudse fremtidens finanskriser og ungdomsarbejdsløshed, men faktum er, at en uddannelse i dag ikke nødvendigvis betyder noget som helst. Jeg møder dagligt mennesker i krise. Fra hvor jeg sidder som læge, ligner det til, at alle er i krise, og jeg mener ikke nødvendigvis den krise det indebærer at blive ramt af alvorlig sygdom – unge som gamle, rige som fattige, alle sociale klasser bliver ramt af en slags hårdhed, en barskhed, sprungen fra et samfund der ikke er lavet for at hjælpe men for at… ja, for hvad? Noget med at tjene penge, klatre på stiger og vinde. Som læge i almen praksis ser man resultatet af dette hårde samfund, hvor mennesker bliver presset ud på livets kant, falder i, og overlades til at svømme, ganske alene…

Det var et lille værelse med et vindue ud mod hotellets baggård. Et bord var stillet op langs væggen og en stor skærm var sat op modsat vinduet, til højre for døren. I midten var stolene stillet op i en lille cirkel, så vi sat tæt på hinanden. Når jeg kom med min kaffekop og en småkage i hånden var de andre allerede samlet. Helle, psykiateren, hende der kunne lide keramik, skulle undervise vores gruppe de kommende dage. Af dem jeg introduceret tidligere, var Lene, Patrick og Trine i min gruppe, og så var der jeg, Dorte og Vibeke. ”Velkommen til”, sagde Helle. Hun så venlig ud, empatisk, skulderlangt hår, klædt i en mørk kjole der nok stammede fra 70’erne, men det er vel også lige meget hvordan hun så ud. Hun var venlig og empatisk dog, ellers kommer man ikke langt som psykiatere. ”Er der nogen der har prøvet dette før”, fortsatte hun, ”at sidde så tæt på hinanden, ligesom i gruppeterapi? Det er ret intimt, for nogle kan det virke en smule grænseoverskridende.” Det var der ikke nogen der havde. Jeg forstod godt hvad hun mente med grænseoverskridende; angsten lå der og truede, frygtede som jeg gjorte, at vi skulle have endnu en navnerunde. ”De kommende dage skal vi komme til at lære hinanden at kende ret godt, og komme ret tæt på hinanden. Nogle gange kommer vi ud i nogle samtaler, og snakker om nogle ting, der er private, og jeg vil derfor huske jer på, at der er tavshedspligt. Ting der bliver sagt herinde, bliver herinde.” Spændende, tænkte jeg. Det med tavshedspligt er man jo som læge vant til, det er der ikke noget særligt i, men denne pligt gælder jo patienternes fortællinger, ikke vores egne. Hvad var det endelig vi skulle snakke om? Skulle vi rent faktisk i terapi? ”Nå, lad mig lige se, du hedder Trine, det husker jeg godt, og du hedder Martin, og du hedder…” ”Lene”, sagde Lene. ”Lene, det er rigtigt. Og så har vi Patrick, Vibeke og…” ”Dorte”, sagde Dorte. ”Dorte. Godt. Lad mig starte med at sige at jeg er en smule rystet over jeres fortællinger, og hvor hårdt nogle af jer har det. Jeg synes det er modigt at I fortæller så oprigtigt om jeres situation, hvor mange andre nok ville holdt facaden oppe. Som læge forventes det jo at man er noget af et supermenneske, der klarer alt og aldrig brokker sig…” ”Ja”, sagde jeg pludseligt før Helle havde talt færdigt. ”Jeg tænkte bare jeg skulle var ærlig… lidt som kognitiv adfærdsterapi.” ”Det er jo rigtigt nok”, svarede Helle og fortsatte hvor hun blev afbrudt. Lettet, som et forandret menneske eller bare som mig selv, satte jeg mig til rette på stolen og krydsede benene. Det er mærkeligt det der, at møde sin angst og vinde, og hvor hurtigt alt kan vende. Det klassiske eksempel er vel en der er bange for edderkopper, og alene i jungelen, sulten og tørstig, møder en kæmpe edderkop der går til angreb – vedkommende slås med edderkoppen, vinder og spiser den bagefter. Efter denne succes er al angst for edderkopper borte. Her var jeg, lukket inde i edderkoppens mave med syv ukendte mennesker, hvor alt handlede om at snakke i gruppe. Jeg er jo et vokset menneske, læge endda (om end en noget skadet læge): det går ikke at bryde sammen og gradende forlade værelset. Kroppen vil flugte, tror som den gør, at de andre er farlige tigre, eller rettere sagt: at situationen er en farlig tiger. Hjernen skal gennem bevidst handling lære kroppen og erfaringen skal vise organismen at den ikke er i fare. Det slår mig først nu, når jeg sidder her og tænker tilbage, at Helle med sine ord nok ikke havde ment mig og min angst for navnerunder, men alle de andre, som fortalt om sine hårde KBU-forløb. Men det var egentlig lige meget, fordi med min pinlige afbrydelse var min barriere brudt: nu havde jeg sagt noget. Jeg havde været ivrig at sige noget: et menneske der lever med sin angst, vil hurtigt få den brudt, ligesom én der aldrig danser er den første op på dansegulvet efter et par glas vin. Ved siden af vore stole låg en stak papir. ”Her er noget materiale I skal have og bruge de kommende dage. Der er noget om den strukturerede samtalte, Calgary-Cambridge-modellen og lidt andet”, sagde Helle. Vi tog stakken op og kikkede den igennem imens Helle snakkede videre. Her var ikke noget nyt, det meste havde vi fået præstenteret på studiet, og det meste havde vi skimmet igennem og straks glemt igen. I modsats til fysiologi, patologi, anatomi og de andre ”hårde fag”, var dette noget blødt og abstrakt. Jeg havde tit fornemmelsen af, at alle disse teorier om menneskelig interaktion kunne blive kastet omkuld, og byttet mod nogle andre, der ville passe lige så godt. Dog, det med at føre en struktureret samtale er noget af en kunst, og noget vi blev eksamineret i på 12. semester. Hvorfor er det så vigtigt med en struktureret samtale, spørger du måske? Når en læge indleder en konsultation, er det jo ikke på følelsen han eller hun gør det, eller jo det er det, når lægen er erfaren og har gennemført tusindvis af samtaler, men selv her kan det være en udfordring. I almen praksis er der ikke meget tid til småsnak, men der også skal være plads til det, fordi det forstærker læge-patient-relationen og kan give yderligere information: ”Nå, hvordan går det ellers?” spørger lægen. ”Jo det går”, svarer patienten. ”Men min hoste generer mig altså, nogle gange når jeg hoster får jeg også ondt i brystet og kan svært få vejret.” I dette eksempel ser man at det ikke er sikkert at lægen spørger ind til brystsmerter hos en patient med hoste, men ved et åbent spørgsmål kommer så pludseligt information der peger mod hjertet. Det er vigtigt at sætte en ramme som det allerførste. En klassisk situation er den hvor hele konsultationen er brugt på at undersøge et knæ, og patienten til sidst siger: ”Ja, så vil jeg også sygmelde mig med stress, jeg har haft det så forfærdeligt på arbejde den sidste måned, nu kan jeg ikke mere.” Her besvimer lægen indvendigt, fordi udenfor venter fem patienter og lægen er allerede en halv time forsinket og ender nok med at springe frokosten over. Det går jo aldrig at sige, og alle læger hader ordene: ”det har jeg ikke tid til.” Derfor er det første trin i den strukturerede samtale, at efter patienten har fortalt hvad han eller hun vil have hjælp med, lægen spørger: ”Er der noget andet du også vil snakke om?” Alt dette ved man som ung læge, og alt dette glemmer man gang på gang. Efter et par konsultationer synes man at det kører rigtigt godt. Man har klaret en forkølelse, et par modermærker og nu kommer patient nummer tre haltende ind på kontoret. Det er oplagt: patienten har ondt i venstre ben. ”Goddag Hr Olsen, du har ondt i benet, kan jeg se.” Og så går man i gang og undersøger det. Læsere, du tror det er løgn, men Hr Olsen er dement og har haltet de sidste 20 år. Han havde kommet fordi han hver tredje onsdag i måneden får kontrolleret sin INR INR, international normalised ratio, et mål for hvor hurtigt blodet størkner, men dette nåede han aldrig at sige før lægen kastede sig over ham med spørgsmål om benet. Der er så mange ting der kan gå galt i kommunikationen, og det ved guderne også, og derfor er vi på kommunikationskursus. Helle fortsatte: ”I dag skal vi kikke på nogle cases I har med fra jeres hverdag ude i almen praksis og på hospitalet. I har hver valgt en situation hvor I oplevede at kommunikationen var særdeles svær, eller hvor det måske gik helt galt.” Vi blev bedt om at gå op til tavlen for at skrive nogle stikord hver om vores svære samtaler. Jeg havde forberedt mig lidt ekstra godt, ikke fordi jeg er særdeles ambitiøs, men, igen, på grund af min sociale angst, eller rettere sagt: min frygt for angsten. Da vi fik tilsendt information og forberedelsesmateriale om kursuset et par måneder før, og jeg læste at vi både skulle ha et case og en optaget video med, havde hjertet slået et ekstraslag. Åh nej, havde jeg tænkt, skulle jeg virkeligt præsentere en case foran 20 mennesker? Min løsning var at skrive hele casen ned, ord for ord, og min plan var at læse fra papiret når der var min tur. Jeg vidste jo ikke hvordan jeg ville have det, men nu, når jeg gik op til tavlen, var jeg helt rolig, slet ikke bange for at fortælle om min svære samtale, kun spændt på diskussionen der skulle komme ud af casen. Det viste sig faktisk, at jeg slet ikke læste fra min lange tekst som jeg havde printet ud og havde i lommen:

“Anders, 15 år, har booket tid til samtale mandag. Torsdagen før kommer begge forældre og vil snakke med mig. Vi snakker i 45 minutter om Anders problemer. Anders har haft en upåfaldende barndom, har en storebror, forældre bor sammen, stabil familie. Anders har aldrig rigtigt haft lyst til at lege med venner, har skiftet skole en gang grundet trivselsproblemer og taget 8. klasse om. Er nu på skole med lavere niveau uden hjemmelektier. Har venner i skolen, er ikke mobbet. Det sidste år er hjemmesituationen dog eskaleret og er nu uholdbar. Der er tæt skænderier om alle mulige ting, hvor Anders tit kommer med argumenter der for forældrene er meget langt ude. Anders kan f.eks. henvise til grundloven som argument for at forældrene ikke må bestemme over ham og er uforstående hvorfor forældre må bestemme over ham, men ikke ham over dem. Forældre oplever at Anders taler i lange snørklende sætninger hvor de bagefter undrer hvad der egentlig blev sagt. Der er gode dage hvor Anders tager i skole, men pludseligt kan han skifte humør, få et andet blik i øjnene, for at isolere sig på sit værelse og ikke tage i skole resten af ugen. Anders er stukket af hjemmefra et par gange, her fundet gående på landevej i mørket. I forbindelse hermed er han set i PAM, hvor de vurderet belastningsreaktion og at udredning primært skulle ske i PPR-regi. Anders har ifølge forældre altid hørt stemmer, især når han begår en fejl, og har altid snakket med sig selv. Har også fortalt at han snakker med månen. På PAM har de haft svært at vurdere om dette er egentlige stemmer med auditiv kvalitet.

Jeg er selvfølgelig meget spændt på min samtale med Anders. Vi har aftalt at jeg først snakker med ham alene, for at siden invitere forældrene. Om weekend tænker jeg meget over samtalen og forbereder mig. Er det bare et teenageoprør, eller er det faktisk skizofreni? Så er det mandag og tid til vores møde. Jeg hilser på forældre og på Anders som giver hånd og så går jeg og Anders ind på mit kontor. Han er en ret lang og spinkel dreng med upåfaldende tøj og stil, måske en smule nørdet. Han sidder i stolen og kikker på mig med et blik som direkte gør mig ret usikker, som om jeg var forkert på den. ”Nå”, siger jeg, ”vi skal jo snakke lidt om hvordan det går, det hele”. Anders siger ingenting. Jeg ved ikke helt hvad jeg havde forventet til svar, men jeg fortsætter: ”dine forældre mener jo at det ikke kører så godt derhjemme og i skole og sådan noget… hvad synes du selv?” ”Jeg synes egentlig det går meget godt” svarer Anders så, som om der slet ikke var nogle problemer. Han kikker på mig med stirrende blik og mimikfattigt ansigtsudtryk. Svaret gør mig paf. Resten af samtalen er en ganske ubehagelig oplevelse for os begge to. Jeg forsøger gang på gang at knytte an til ham, men føler at kontakten virkelig er læderet på begge plan. Jeg kommer godt igennem psykopatologien, men det ligner mere en interview end en konsultation. Anders ønsker ikke flere samtaler, men henvises til BUP.”

På tavlen skrev jeg: 15-årig dreng med trivselsproblemer // Samtale mandag, forældre kommer torsdag // Upåfaldende barndom, skiftet skole, nu mange argumenter, bizarre, ordsalat, hørt stemmer // ”Nå, vi skal jo snakke om at det ikke går så godt, det hele” // ”Det går egentligt meget godt.”

Patrick skrev: 55-årig kvinde af anden etnisk herkomst // Taler ikke dansk, datter oversætter // Smerter i underlivet

Lene skrev: 60-årig kvinde indlagt med synkope pga. rytmeforstyrrelse // Sygeplejerske har sagt at EKG er normalt og patienten må komme hjem // Patienten skal være indlagt i et døgn mere til observation

Trine: Ung mand har bestilt tid hos sin faste læge for skuldersmerter // Får tid hos mig, ønsker at tale om sit blodtryk // Jeg tilbyder ny tid // Forlader konsultationen i vrede

Vibeke: Ung kvinde, flygtning fra Mellemøsten // Ønsker sygmelding for stress // Taler ikke dansk, alt foregår via tolk

Dorte: Mand i 70-erne, taler dårlig dansk // Fortæller han haft sukkersyge for mange år siden i sit hjemland // Ønsker ikke medicin // Svært at forklare at han behøver livslang behandling

”Hmm”, sagde Helle når hun havde læst hvad vi skrevet på tavlen. ”Den her, den her og den her”, sagde hun og pegede på de tre cases der involverede tolk og patienter der ikke talte dansk, ”de er jo lidt det samme. Det bliver det svært at lave rollespil ud af. Men den her og den her,” – og så pegede hun på min case og på Lenes case – ”de er gode, dem kan vi nok få noget godt ud af.” Og så blev det. Efter kaffepausen skulle vi i gang med rollespil. Lenes case skulle op først. Dorte skulle spille lægen, Vibeke sygeplejersken og Lene patienten. Vi andre skulle være publikum og komme med kommentarer bagefter, men nu var der endelig pause. Det lille værelse var varmt og luften var tyk og dårlig. Imens Helle åbnede vinduet, strømmede vi ud på gangen, hvor de andre grupper også kom ud. I spredte små flokke gik vi til balkonen der kikkede ud mod hotellets entré. Her oppe på et langt bord var der serveret kaffe i store kander, småkager og frugt. Fire store sofaer var stillet op mod hinanden i par med bord imellem. Jeg stillede mig i kø for at få mig en kop kaffe, selv om jeg haft en kop med ind til undervisningen og egentlig var kaffemæt efter formiddagens i alt fire kopper. Man kan ikke få nok kaffe når man skal være på hele tiden bliver det tit sagt her i sundhedsverden, og det er vel rigtigt nok, bare man får et par glas vand ned også. Med min kop kastede jeg mig ned i et hjørne af sofaen og blev siddende i mit eget lille vakuum. Ved siden af mig sat pigerne fra min gruppe og snakkede om årets julekalender og hvad deres unger bedst kunne lide at få til julemad. Rundtomkring stod folk og snakkede, i par eller i små grupper. Andre sat stille og samlede kræfter ligesom mig. Nogle mennesker, måske er det de ekstroverte, kan bruge hele dagen på at samtale og interagere med andre mennesker og kan bare ikke få nok, ligesom om de får energi af dette. Andre, og til disse regner jeg mig selv, bruger energi på det samme, og har brug for små pauser for at samle kræfter igen. Dette er bare en observation, jeg tror de fleste er enige i. Mennesker med svær autisme kan slet ikke rumme sociale sammenhæng, mangler det filter ”normale” mennesker har, og vægter støj i baggrunden lige så højt som selve samtalet. Deres hjerner bliver overbelastede og i panik må de flugte fra situationen. Nok har jeg autistiske træk, det har jeg tænkt siden jeg først lærte mig om tilstanden – men det er et spektrum, det autistiske spektrum, hvor man i den ene ende har de velfungerende med lettere autistiske træk og i den anden ende skizofreni… jeg er egentlig ret velfungerende, vil jeg hurtigt tilføje. Der i sofaen tænkte jeg på noget andet: jeg er elendig til at være forelsket, det har jeg bevidst for mig selv gang på gang. Dette spil, denne alvorlige leg, mellem de to elskere, eller, som oftest i mit tilfælde, mellem mig og den elskede, er ikke til at holde ud i længden. Eller jo, hvis der er to elskere, er det til at holde ud, fordi det går fremad, små tegn og ord fører til større og større bevidsthed og klarhed, og til sidst falder man i hinandens arme i et første lykkeligt kys. Den ulykkelige kærlighed er dog ikke til at holde ud, det er jo kendt siden tidernes begyndelse. ”Jeg bliver let forelsket”, sagde jeg en gang til Isolde, jeg ved ikke i hvilket sammenhæng. ”Jeg er mere en, der ikke så ofte bliver forelsket”, svarede hun. Jeg kom hastigt til at fortryde mine ord, fordi de faktisk ikke passer helt, men blev sagt i en slags skjult erklæring: ”Isolde, jeg er forelsket i dig, og det blev jeg meget let.” Fordi hvem stoler på en der bliver forelsket allerede første dag? Alle ved jo: easy comes, easy goes. Det er en gradvis tiltagende forelskelse, og forskellen mellem folk er hvor hurtigt de accepterer hjertets nye kurs. I starten vil man bare kikke og smage på det nye interessante menneske. Når man kommer hjem til kone og børn følger forelskelsen ikke med, men genoplives straks næste dag, endnu lidt stærkere. De allerfleste agerer ikke på disse små forelskelser som popper op så mange gange i vores liv: når vi skifter arbejde, starter i ny klasse, får en ny nabo, etc., etc. Det kommer jo an på hvad man ellers har, hvad man er parat til at ofre – det er en overvejelse, en grusom refleksion, en kold beregning dybt der inde i hjertet. Ofte bliver det ikke til noget, men nogle gange, når stjernerne liner op, månen lyser klart og skyerne staver ”forandring”, giver hjertet sig hen og forelskelsen får lov til at vokse. Mennesker har svært ved forandring, især når man sidder godt derhjemme, og dette gælder også dårlig trivsel på arbejde, problematiske forhold til venner, og mange andre hverdagsting. Hvad kræves der ikke for at et menneske skal forlade et andet, forlade partner, børn og hus og ofre det hele? Det kræver i hvert fald mere end enkelte vagter i måneden på en akutmodtagelse, hyggelige samtaler, krammer der er lidt forbudte og lange breve… Isolde stod der og snakkede med Linnea og Henrik. De tre ekstroverter var i fuld sving, morede sig, smilede og grinede. Jeg lænede mig tilbage i sofaen og lukkede øjenlågene som om jeg sov, men kikkede skjult på Isolde der inde fra mørkret. Af og til kikkede hun over mod mig og jeg overvejede at gå op og sige noget, men man er jo også bange når man er forelsket – man er bange for at ødelægge den lille kerne af kærlighed der måske vokser. De ord man udveksler med den elskede, skal være velovervejede, men samtidigt spontane og hjertelige. Under alle omstændigheder vil man ikke være en der følger efter for at få et ord ind, eller en der fortæller om sig selv i ny og næ, eller en der kommer op og siger noget mærkeligt. Den forelskede er underlegen, allerede en taber i kærlighedens gruesomme magtspil… og kan han egentlig nogensinde vinde? Jeg havde brug for at bare blive siddende. Når de ti minutters pause var gået, begyndte skaren af unge læger at gå tilbage til de små værelser for at gå i gang med rollespillet. Jeg gik for at fylde min kaffekop, og der stod pludseligt Isolde og hælde vand i sit glas. Nogle mennesker gør en nervøs og urolig og hjernen arbejder hårdt for at komme frem med noget godt at sige. Sådan var det ikke med Isolde, hun gjorte mig rolig. I hendes nærhed følte jeg mig hjemme, jeg var naturlig, mig selv, tryg og tilpas. Vi kikkede lidt på hinanden, forsøgte at fange kernen der bag øjnene. Åh, hendes lysebrune øjne, tænkte jeg, og forestillede mig hende under mig, tæt på, i en seng under dynen. ”Nå, hvordan går det?”, spurgte jeg. ”Jo da, så er vi i gang. Det er da lidt træls, det hele, nogle lange dage. Jeg kan ikke helt holde ud hende der psykologen, for at være helt ærlig…”, svarede Isolde. ”Nå, hvad så? Snakker hun bare en masse, eller hvad?” ”Ja, noget i den stil…” Vi sagde ikke mere imens vi gik tilbage til hver vores lille lokale hvor de andre allerede var gået i gang. ”Vi ses”, sagde jeg. ”Det gør vi i hvert fald”, svarede Isolde. Kære læsere, du har sikkert allerede læst, at både Isolde og jeg havde kærester. Jeg vil få lov til at uddybe dette. Isoldes kæreste vidste jeg ikke noget om, mere end at de været sammen i 4-5 år og at han arbejdede med administration og var tysker. Hendes kæreste var det sidste jeg ville spørge hende om eller snakke om. Min egen kæreste ved jeg til gengæld, selvfølgelig, masser om, og jeg skal ikke fortælle dig alt om hende. Det vigtige er, før hele min historie bliver til en stor ond fortælling om bedrag og ondskab, at jeg lige fortæller kort om hvordan vi gik fra at være regelrette kærester til to venner med et barn sammen. Jeg mødte Lucella en tidlig lørdag morgen på Elmegade i København. Der sat hun sammen med en flok venner på fortovet. Jeg havde lige stået ud af en taxi og kom gående på vej hjem efter en lang bytur der havde startet med fredagsbar på Panum, fortsat på Mexibar ved Skt. Hans Torv, og toppet med høj sang og støj i Kødbyen. Min ven havde gået ud ad den ene dør og jeg den anden og taxaen havde skilt os ad så at vi ikke så hinanden mere den aften. Jeg slog mig ned og åbnede en øl og begyndte at snakke, fuld og glad som man nu er klokken 7 en sommermorgen på Nørrebro. For at gøre historien kort, endte jeg og Lucella med at knalde på Assistancens Kirkegård i en meget romantisk busk. Herefter var jeg solgt. Lucella, halvitaliener, ni år ældre end mig, med langt tykt lysebrunt hår, øjne der lignende sand under et tyndt lag vand i middelhavet, og med et temperament som kunne ryste en sovende bjørn til livs om vinteren – hun var mine drømmers opfyldelse. Snart var hun gravid og når vores datter kom, flyttede vi sammen. Men som alle der har prøvet det ved, så indebærer forældreskabet udfordringer der tær på forholdet. Pludseligt skal man booke tid til at se en film i sofaen, og hele ens liv bliver til et gigantisk puslespil med tusind dele uden facit. Vi havde ikke kendt hinanden lang tid før vi fik barn, havde ikke meget at hænge forholdet op på og snart havde vi holdt op med at være kærester, dyrke sex, krammes og kysses. Det skete gradvis, vi var ikke kede af det, det var en naturlig udvikling. Vi var dog enige i, at vores datter skulle ha en mor og en far. Så viste sig det dejlige hus på landet, og boligsituationen i København taget i betragtning, var dette en optimal løsning: her skulle vi bo, vores datter skulle vokse op på landet, vi skulle være frie at leve vores liv så længe vi opfyldte vores forpligtelser som forældre. Det vil sige, at når der en gang var tid til det, måtte vi gerne begynde at date igen, hver for sig. Dette er vel en moderne familie om noget… Derfor, læsere, og det føles lidt intimt at kalde dig ved navn efter denne personlige historie, må du ikke se mine tanker om Isolde, og mit agerende i denne fortælling, som utroskab eller uhæderlighed. Min samvittighed er ren. Da jeg mødte hende, havde jeg i ret lang tid været en fri mand på jagt efter den (næste) store kærlighed – fordi der må vel være flere end én? – og jeg håbede at jeg denne gang ville møde en kvinde under lidt mere rolige omstændigheder, og en jeg kendte godt, før børnene kom, og at det, der kom efter, holdt længere, så der kunne komme flere børn, og et hus og en hund. Tilbage i lokalet skulle vi i gang med rollespil. Foran vinduet var to stoler stillet op mod hinanden. De repræsenterede sengen hvor patienten skulle ligge. Lene var jo forvagt på kardiologisk afdeling, og her havde hun haft en uheldig oplevelse hvor sygeplejersken havde fortalt en patient, at hjertekardiogrammet så helt normalt ud, og at patienten bare skulle udskrives når lægen nu havde tid. Sent om eftermiddagen kom så Lene rendende til computeren for at kikke patientens journal og prøvesvar igennem. Det er jo sådan, at når man har besvimet pludseligt uden varsel, som det hedder, er hjertet den hovedmistænkte røveren. Man kan besvime af mange grunde, hvoraf den vasovagale synkope nok er den hyppigste. Dette er den klassiske besvimelse, hvor synet af blod eller edderkopper forårsager et blodtryksfald som fører til nedsat perfusion i hjernen og deraf besvimelse. En besvimelse der foregås af sorten for øjnene, kan også skyldes hjertet men stemmer oftest fra lavt blodtryk ved for eksempel en stillingsændring eller på grund af for meget blodtryksmedicin. Den uvarslede besvimelse, derimod, den kan vi ikke lide. Her har kroppen haft det ganske fint, for at pludseligt, brat, af en eller anden årsag, ikke få nok ilt til hjernen, og dette i den grad at hjernen slukker ned og vedkommende bliver bevidstløs på få sekunder. Jeg kan og skal ikke udtrætte læseren med en uddybende redegørelse for de forskellige kardiale årsager, men nøjes med at sige at det oftest er en arrytmi, der årsager disse pludselige besvimelser. Arrytmi betyder, som ordet antyder, at noget ikke er rytmisk, i dette tilfælde hjertet… Hjertet, ak, hjertet, dette kærlighedens offer… Pludseligt begynder hjertet – en del af hjertet, de store kamre – at slå med uregelmæssig og hurtig rytme, og som en bølge af mennesker på en pakket koncert hvor nogen skubber og folk falder huldre om bulder, mistes den cirkulatoriske harmoni og alt brager sammen. Der skal ikke mange sekunders ventrikelflimren før man falder omkuld. Nu havde Lenes patient med stor sandsynlighed ikke haft ventrikelflimren, som medfører en meget dårlig prognose, men noget andet, og det er heller ikke det vigtige, hvad patienten endelig fejlede. Det vigtige i forhold til casen er, at Lene gerne ville beholde patienten et døgn mere, fordi, selv om hjertekardiogrammet var normalt nu, og hjertet slog som det skulle og patienten havde det fint, vidste Lene ikke noget om hvordan hjertet haft det da patienten besvimede, eller hvordan hjertet ville have det dagen efter. Det var simpelthen uklart hvorfor kvinden havde besvimet. Lene håbede på at kunne fange en forklaring ved at observere patienten et døgn mere men vedkommende havde været uforstående: hvorfor skulle hun ligge der og blive kikket på når hun havde det helt fint igen? Og sygplejersken havde jo sagt at hun måtte komme hjem. Som sagt skulle Dorte spille lægen (Lene), Vibeke sygeplejersken og Lene patienten. Før rollespillet startede, gik Helle ud sammen med Dorte for at have en forberedende snak. Jeg ved ikke hvad der blev sagt, fordi ved mit eget rollespil spillede jeg patienten, og Trine lægen (mig), og det var altså lægen der fik instruktioner. Det var sikkert noget om hvordan man bedst kunne takle situationen nu hvor vedkommende havde mulighed for at forberede sig. Vi andre sat spændt og ventede på vores kontorstole, afslappede og ved godt humør, fordi vi de næste 10-15 minutter kun skulle være publikum. Jeg tog en tår kaffe og drømte mig lidt væk. Ak, som det hele kørte på! Ja, livet! Jeg sad der og forestillede mig hvad der foregik der hjemme denne sene formiddag. Lucella havde afleveret vores datter i børnehave og var sikkert i gang med at studere eller rydde op. Jeg mindes mine studenterdage, før jeg fik barn. Ak, så meget tid jeg havde. Efter forelæsningerne – som jeg ganske ofte udeblev fra – var hele eftermiddagen min, og hvad gjorte jeg? Det er et godt spørgsmål! Ud og cykle en tur, se på film, ses med venner, læse bøger, skrive, lave musik, drikke øl og vin, gå i bad, gå på date, købe ind… Af alle disse afslappende aktiviteter er der kun indkøbet tilbage. Klokken 16 henter jeg datteren i børnehave, og enten har jeg købt ind på vejen eller gør vi det sammen (det trætte barn med sut i indkøbsvognen). Når vi kommer hjem, ønsker jeg et power nap, men det får jeg sjældent; som en træt zombie må jeg kæmpe mig igennem aftenen: lege med min datter (som jeg elsker), lave aftensmad, snakke om hverdagens gøremål, rydde op, vaske op, vaske tøj, læse bog, putte – først der kan jeg holde fri, men da er klokken tit 20 og jeg skal i seng to timer senere fordi jeg skal op klokken 6. Ak, denne hverdag, men se på alt jeg har fået. Det går ikke at beskrive hvor stort og fantastisk det er at få børn til en der ikke selv har det. Men man ofrer jo sig selv, man siger farvel til alt det, man en gang var. Mange er ikke forberedte, forældreskabet kommer som et chok, de bliver overvældede, frustrerede, kede af det, vrede – de tror ikke de vil klare det, der klokken 4 om morgenen hvor ungen igen har vågnet og skal have modermælkserstatning fordi mors bryst ikke har mere. Man siger til sig selv at det snart bliver bedre, det er bare midlertidigt livet er sat på standby, og det er sikkert rigtigt nok, for nogle, især for dem der kun får ét barn og så ikke mere. Før jeg blev forælder, var jeg rastløs, jeg vidste ikke hvad jeg skulle gøre med mig selv og al denne tid. Derfor har det været godt for mig, det har tvunget mig til at planere, prioritere og det har lært mig at være effektiv. Jeg kunne sidde en hel eftermiddag og kikke ud ad vinduet, trist og sentimental – det har jeg ikke tid til nu. Den strikte døgnrytme strammer mit vemod som et bælte om min tykke mave og alle hverdagens gøremål holder mig i form – ligesom en løbetur kan være hård, gør en travl hverdag en melankoliker godt. Hvis jeg bare havde tid til at skrive og lave musik, tænker jeg tit, og det er rigtigt nok, jeg er jo en kunstner og det der frustrerer mig mest når der ikke er tid, er at jeg ikke kan lave kunst. Et luksusproblem! Der skal nok være tid til både det ene og det andet en dag, må jeg sige til mig selv, og dette gider læseren helt sikkert heller ikke høre mere om. Efter nok fem minutter kom Helle og Dorte tilbage og skuespillet gik i gang. Lene sat på en stol og havde benene op på en anden stol som om hun lå i en seng på sygehuset. Dorte kom frem til hende, satte sig halvt op mod bordet i en afslappet, imødekommende stilling. Armene var ikke krydset men foran hende og hun brugte hænderne rigeligt når hun talte. ”God dag, god dag. Mit navn er Dorte, jeg er læge her på afdelingen.” ”Hej med dig”, sagde Lene og så forventningsfuldt på lægen. Ved siden af dem begge stod Vibeke, sygeplejersken, og hørte på. ”Jeg kan forstå at du har fået fortalt at du kunne komme hjem her om lidt?” ”Ja, det sagde hende der, hun sagde at alle mine prøver var normale,” svarede Lene og så på Vibeke som nervøst vende blikket mod Dorte. ”Ja… der er desværre sket en misforstand,” sagde Dorte, slog ud med armene, og holdt et par sekunder pause for at forberede patienten på hendes næste sætning: ”I går besvimede du jo pludseligt uden varsel – er det ikke rigtigt? På dine hjertekardiogrammer ser alt rigtigt nok normalt ud, men vi kan ikke udelukke at det er en alvorlig rytmeforstyrrelse som har årsaget din besvimelse…” ”Ok,” sagde Lene og begyndte at se lidt irriteret ud. ”Derfor vil jeg gerne at du bliver her et døgn mere, bare for at sikre mig at vi ikke overser noget alvorligt.” Der kom bomben. Dette ville patienten ikke høre, nu hvor hun havde pakket sin taske og ringet efter manden som skulle komme og hente. ”Det kan simpelthen ikke passe,” næsten skreg Lene. ”Det er bare løgn! Skal jeg bare ligge her i sengen og glo når jeg ikke er syg?” ”Jeg forstår godt at du er vred lige nu-” begyndte Dorte, men blev straks afbrudt: ”Vred! Du kan tro jeg er vred! Jeg kan simpelthen ikke se meningen med at bare ligge her og glo når jeg ikke fejler noget! I læger altså, tager pis på os alle sammen, på hele samfundet…” De spillede godt. Vi andre grinede og ventede spændt på hvad Dorte skulle gøre hernæst, men Dorte vendte sig mod Helle og gjorde tegnet for timeout. Når man har øvelser som disse, som alle læger og sikkert mange andre faggrupper har i løbet af deres uddannelse, er det altid acceptabelt at ønske en timeout. Det siger sig selv hvad det indebærer: en pause for refleksion og input fra lærer og publikum. ”Nå her var der stærke følelser,” sagde Helle og grinede. Hun kom frem fra bag os og ind på scenen: ”Hvad var det der gik galt?” ”Hun blev bare meget hurtigt vred,” svarede Dorte. ”Det kom lidt bag på mig.” I sengen lå Lene og så tilfreds ud. ”Jeg overdrev vist nok lidt,” sagde hun. ”Patienten var vred, men måske ikke så rasende. Undskyld mig.” ”Ja, men det er godt!” sagde Helle. ”Vi lærer os af alt. Hvordan håndterer man en patient der er meget vred, måske endda udadreagerende?” ”Det kommer an på hvad patienten er vred på,” svarede Patrick. ”Hvis man ikke forstår eller ikke ved hvorfor patienten er vred, er det svært at gøre noget ved det. I dette tilfælde synes jeg Dorte gør det rigtige i det at hun anerkender patientens vrede…” ”Anerkendelse, ja,” sagde Helle. ”Det virkede bare ikke helt den her gang,” sagde Dorte. ”Jeg skulle nok ikke ha taget en timeout før jeg havde forsøgt tale patienten ned, og beholdt mit rolige toneleje og kropssprog, hørt hvad patienten haft at sige, og mødt hende med rationelle argumenter, nu hvor jeg havde anerkendt hendes følelser.” ”Meget af det man siger og gør, ” fortsatte jeg Dortes argument, ”spejles jo i den man kommunikerer med. Hvis man møder en vred stemme med selv at fortsætte tale roligt, hidses situationen i hvert fald ikke op, og måske lykkes man endda at berolige patienten.” ”Psykiatrisk skadestue 101”, tilføjede Trine. ”Alldeles rigtigt,” sagde Helle. ”Det værste man kan gøre i en situation som den her, er at lade sig påvirkes af patientens opkørte følelser. Uanset hvad må man forsøge at beholde roen på, og det er rigtigt at det her med at spejle hinandens følelser og toneleje er rigtigt vigtigt. Synes I patientens reaktion er indenfor de gængse sociale rammer?” ”Ikke rigtigt,” svarede jeg. ”Jeg synes hun overdriver en smule. At beskylde læger for at tage pis på samfundet er jo ikke acceptabel adfærd, selv om alle har ret til sit eget synspunkt, og jeg vil tænke om en patient som hende, at hun agerer i affekt, og altså er virkeligt kørt op. Jeg kan godt forstå det kom bagpå Dorte. Egentlig ville vi jo kun forvente den her slags adfærd fra en psykiatrisk patient.” ”Tja,” grinede Helle, ”jeg tror der findes mange mennesker der kan komme med den slags adfærd uden at have en psykiatrisk diagnose…” Nogle mennesker, når de bliver patienter, bliver barn igen – hvis dette er fordi de overdrager alt ansvar til sundhedsvæsenet, eller fordi de bliver behandlet som børn, er ikke til at svare på, og sandheden er nok at det er en kombination – således at de på første dagen ligger tilfredse i sin patientseng og kun råber på hjælp når de skal have en kolbe eller en ny kande vand, men allerede efter et par dage er forandret, utålmodige, råbende, vrede og frustreret. Andre bevarer sig selv hele vejen igennem og kommer stærkere ud end de kom ind, fordi mennesker er forskellige. Solzhenitsyn har forsøgt at analysere de to veje et menneske i fangelejr kan gå: oplysning eller barbari, men når til den konklusion at ingen kan blive frelst i en fangelejr, men at mange er blevet det i fængsel. En patients forvandling som indlagt i lang tid på et sygehus kan bestemt beskrives som et sted mellem fængsel og fangelejr, hvor sygdommens symptomer er tvangsarbejdet, der ødelægger sjælen og kroppen. Men ingen patient bliver af personalet udsat for trusler og fornærmelse, og mange er de takkebrev en medicinsk afdeling får i løbet af et år. Dog er det nogle gange sådan, at de patienter der råber mest, får den dårligste behandling. Sygeplejerskerne siger til lægen på stuegang: ”Bertil i stue 3 bliver ved med at råbe og trække i snoret. Han vil have vand, så vil han ha kolbe, så vil han løftes op, og ned igen. Han holdt alle de andre patienter vågne i nat. Vi er bange for, at han er på vej i delir.” På den måde er Bertil ikke ligeså meget et menneske mere, ved sin adfærd har han mistet noget. Grethe, ved siden af Bertil, har kun spurgt efter en avis én gang, og bliver set med blidere øjne end Bertil, der er til gene for personalet og for de andre patienter. Når Bertil næste nat råber efter hjælp, kommer sygeplejersken selvfølgelig, men sygeplejerskens (empati og) evne til at se efter objektive tegn på delir er forringet, fordi personalet som gruppe nu er irriteret på Bertil. Det er historien om drengen der råber ”ulven kommer” og den fortæller noget om menneskelig adfærd, om kommunikation, om regler indprentet i vores DNA. Jo mere du råber, jo mindre hjælp får du. Jo mere insisterende du er ovenfor et givet symptom der ikke går væk, jo større er chansen for at din kræft bliver opdaget i tid. Det er et dilemma. Kun empatien sætter rammen og kan redde den forfærdelige patient, og empatien er et truet væsen. Første gang du ser et menneske dø, eller skrige af smerter, eller græde af sorg, græder du også, oftest ikke foran patienten, men bagefter, måske i personalerummet eller derhjemme. Tusinde gang du oplever det, græder du ikke mere. Det er ikke fordi det er mindre sørgeligt, men det er mindre smertefuldt – for dig, ikke for patienten, som oplever det i første person, som gennemlever det. Du registrerer blot begivenheden, tænker, at dette har du grædt over mange gange for. Det er meget synd for mennesket, men du har ligesom allerede begrædt denne aspekt af livet, du er færdig – kan ikke mere – græde over smerter, sorg og død. Empatien er ægte, kræver ressourcer, kan ikke komme kunstigt og når man dagligt udsættes for situationer der udløser/påkræver empati, bliver beholderen tom, og kun de allermest dramatiske, sørgelige skæbner bevæger dig. Er det let? Det er ikke et spørgsmål om let eller svært – det er en pligt, et kald, et løfte afgivet af læger og sygeplejersker, der har valgt at hver eneste dag redde liv og bekæmpe sygdom og død! Men det er ikke let at være patient, det har det aldrig været, fordi, hvad er en patient, egentlig? Det er jo et menneske der er sygt, som ikke har valgt sin skæbne. Og hvad er så lægen? Det er et andet menneske – det eneste menneske – der kan gøre dig rask. Lægen vil gøre dig godt. Herfra kommer asymmetrien i kommunikation mellem læge og patient. I mine studieår havde jeg et vikariat på en psykiatrisk akutmodtagelse. Her kom en aften en ung mand, lige så gammel som mig, ja vi lignende faktisk hinanden til udseendet. Han havde kommet i et hashmisbrug, ikke det store, men det generade ham, gjorde studiet sværere, og hans kæreste kunne heller ikke lide det. Hver aften skulle han ryge en joint ellers kunne han ikke slappe af og ikke sove. Med dette problem kom han til psykiatrisk skadestue en onsdag aften hvor jeg var på vagt. Jeg kendte det så godt – alt for godt – men det kunne jeg jo ikke sige til ham. Vores samtale var på grænsen – fordi, hvad skulle jeg stille op, andet end at sige hvor dårligt hash er for ham, og komme med nogle redskaber til hvordan han kunne stoppe med det – jo mere vi snakkede om det, jo mere glædede jeg mig til at komme hjem og ryge en joint… Ved at hænge fast ved mine givne rolle som læge kunne jeg opretholde forholdet mellem læge og patient, men bag facaden foregik der noget andet. Og hvad så? At være professionel, det er meget vigtigt, og ak hvor jeg skammede mig, men det var mine studieår, jeg var ikke læge endnu… og selv læger er kun mennesker… nogle er skadede mennesker. Nu sat Lene igen i sengen og var sur over at lægen ønskede at hun blev. Med kropssprog og toneleje der sprudlede af empati og forståelse forklarede Dorte hvor vigtigt det var at Lene blev udredt grundigt nu hvor hun var kommet på hospitalet. Til sidst, pludseligt, var det lige som om Lene forstod, hendes ansigt og holdning skiftede, hun smilede og det lignede faktisk til at hun var glad for at lægen passede så godt på hende. Hermed var rollespillet slut. Lene, Dorte og Vibeke fik applaus og satte sig igen på sine stole. Helle stillede sig op på scenen og begyndte at tale. ”Nå, hvad syntes I, hvordan var det? Lad os lige have en runde.” Jeg sat tættest på og fik lov til at starte. ”Jeg synes de var rigtigt gode alle tre. Dorte viste stor forståelse for patientens tanker og ved hjælp af toneleje, ordvalg og kropssprog lykkedes det Dorte at håndtere situationen.” ”Ja men jeg er bare enig,” sagde Trine.

THE END

75

Henry didn’t understand what was happening. He perceived it on an elementary level and reacted towards what was said in the live chat with the honesty of a proper idiot. Then again with his poems fresh in his mind and everything culminating here in this mysterious hidden chat, Henry was calm. It was as if it was planned, one thing leading to another, a natural sequence of events. This is real. I understand. Henry’s half-manic exhausted mind rationally calculating the inner opinion about reality, the predicted model, towards which the being reacts: to be or not to be. If it was imagined nothing would happen. If it was real – everything and what was that? - certainly Henry should stand up and proceed with whatever kind of dust he had started. There, early in the morning to the fourth of September he sat in his English hat in his armchair with the laptop on his lap. He didn’t think, didn’t consider the situation, didn’t assess it properly, for this would have been to immediately abandom those vain plans about saving the world and to quietly remove all texts thus far published on the Internet and to seek help for his mental state and return to medical school. ’Shut up, Henry, go to sleep. Take a taxi to the psychiatric ward!’ we want to shout in order to prevent him from proceeding but Henry being Henry dreamt of beautiful sceneries, deep pine forests, poetical crucifiction, the removal of poverty and suffering and all other things, saving the world and all of the people. Henry didn’t know from what he should be saving the world from, it all had happened too quickly for him to have made such thoughts. It was more a feeling, this cause which motivated Henry, and he hadn’t even begun to think about how to express what he was feeling inside of him. Here in the morning, he was tired.

Henry wrote: ”I’m pretty tired. I think I’ll rest for a while” and closed the laptop lid.

Outside a blackbird was signing. The lampposts had been shut off. Some people were up early loading cargo unto a truck. A new day had begun.

Internet var långsamt. Det var så jag kunde märka att något hände, det var det enda objektiva beviset. Resten fanns i mitt huvud. Jo, förresten, jag använde Google Trends. Jag minns inte om det endast var på själva natten eller också ett par dagar före. Frustrerad över att jag inte kunde mäta det jag mer och mer misstänkte, att många människor läste mina texter på facebook och på forumet, kom jag i tanke om Googles verktyg för att analysera nättrafik. Fortfarande, efter alla dessa år, kan man se den smala topp som sökningarna efter ”INFJ” gjorde i början av september 2009. Att det skulle bli en topp och inte en platå kunde jag ju inte veta då. Allt jag kunde se var en kraftig ökning som börjat för få dagar sedan, och den gick bara mer och mer upp. Detta bekräftade mina farhågor eller förhoppningar, mer bevis behövde jag inte trots att jag redan då var en skolad vetenskapsman eller i alla fall hade lärt mig att tänka rationellt och empiriskt. I mitt huvud for tankarna runt som en orkan och inte hann jag försöka förstå eller analysera eller ens tänka färdigt en tanke innan en ny stormade in. Allt förtolkades på bästa möjliga sätt. Det fanns ingen plats eller tid till kritiskt tänkande. Självklart var allt fantastiskt jag plötsligt gick och tänkte och föreställde mig sant bortom minsta tvivel. Om jag tänkte något, ja, då var det sant. Endast sanna, endast goda och kärleksfulla tankar producerades av min hjärna. När jag satt där i länstolen framför chatten med morgonljuset strålande in genom de vita gardinerna tänkte jag bara en sak: jag är en hjälte. Alla visste detta. Alla förstod vad jag hade gjort med mina texter och vad jag menade när jag skrev ”It is time to change things”. De som var i chatten var i upplösningstillstånd, lyckliga, förhoppningsfulla, ärade att få vara där när det händer. Att jag inte hade den blekaste aning om vilka dessa människor var, dessa slumpmässiga användarnamn som visste vem jag var och talade till mig, skrämde mig som sagt inte. Jag var inte rädd, varför skulle jag vara det? Jag var helt blind för att det jag höll på med kunde vara farligt. I mina naiva ögon var alla i chatten helt enkelt vänner, likasinnade och drivna av kärlek. Jag minns inte om jag hade hjärtklappning eller om mitt sympatiska autonoma nervsystem lät mig vara men nog var jag exalterad – dock inte nervös, jag var fullständigt övertygad om min genialitet. Men där, klockan fem om morgonen, efter flera nätter utan riktig sömn, gick luften plötsligt ur mig. Som jag hade tänkt, och skrivit, och känt! Nu var det gjort, avslutat, nu var arbetet uträttat. Världen skulle aldrig bliva sig lik igen. Allt detta visste jag. Ack, så trött jag blev. Nu kunde jag äntligen vila mig. Som en referens till ”I am not sleeping again” från dikten skrev jag ”I’m pretty tired. I think I’ll rest for a while” och väntade några sekunder för att se om någon svarade innan jag stängde webläsaren. ”Goodnight”, ”Sleep well”, ”nn”, svarade de. Såvitt jag minns skrevs inget mer i chatten denna första gång. Jag somnade så snart jag lagt huvudet på kudden.

Det är dåligt och det är inte här jag vill vara. Men jag är här hela tiden. Mitt förflutna hindrar mig från at komma vidare. Hur många gånger kan man göra dumma saker innan det blir på riktigt. Innan man kan märka konsekvenserna. Alla böcker jag drömt om att skriva, alla historier jag påbörjat men varit tvungen att avbryta eftersom livet kom i vägen, eftersom denna historien, om mitt eget liv måste berättas först. Det är ju på så sätt en mardröm och jag tror att det enda sättet att komma vidare är att få allt nedskrivit. Mitt enda hopp att uppnå skönhet är genom språket – för historien är ful, mycket ful, i alla fall på ytan. Jag sov inte många timmar, kanske endast två eller tre. Det var min födelsedag, jag hade just blivit 23. Klockan var nio och ännu hade ingen ringt och grattat mig. De första sekunderna var jag yrvaken, visste inte var jag var, ännu omsluten av drömmarnas dimmor, men sen satte jag mig upp i sängen som en pil – just det, ja! Jeansen och skjortan var ännu på min kropp, endast hatten hade jag tagit av och slängt på golvet. Jag tog den på och gick ner till ICA för att köpa ett 6-pack öl och en dosa snus. Jag köpte även Aftonbladet. När jag kom tillbaka till lägenheten stängde jag dörren till mitt rum och öppnade en öl. Jag tänkte om det som skett på Internet att jag helst skulle låta det vara någon tid, som ett friskt sår ska låtas vara i fred tills skorpan kommer, eller som att brottslingen inte ska tillbaka till brottsplatsen. Röken hade ännu inte lagt sig, de lemlästade kropparna låg nakna i solen, fiendens trupper hade inte dragit sig tillbaka över gränsen än. Mina dikter stod skrivna i molnen ovanför slagfältet, till allas beskådan, ännu lika slagkraftiga som då jag skrev dem för få dagar sedan, och mina heroiska ord (’Today it is 70 years…’) slog oavbrutet ner som blixtar i ögonen på alla som dem läste. Internet som ett levande väsen, ständigt i förändring. Om jag hade surfat in på forumet igen visste jag att 1) alla hackers och annat folk skulle följa efter och spänt vänta på min nästa handling och 2) min egen ståtliga bild av nattens skeenden skulle grusas (det var ju bara ett forum och mina texter var utan kommentarer). Hellre leva i stolthet och ovisshet än riskera att det jag så säkerligen hade upplevt på andra sidan drömmarna skulle visa sig vara falskt. Mitt minne av natten var precis som jag ville att det skulle vara. Jag reste mig från länstolen med ölen i handen och gick in i storarummet. Jag vet inte var Nathaniel var, kanske låg han och sov i sängen bakom mig. Jag tände för TV:n. Nyheterna på SVT hade just börjat, faktiskt på sekunden. ’Passande,’ tänkte jag och satt mig till rätta i soffan och tog en klunk öl. Nyhetsankarets ögon mötte mina. Det var, vad hette han nu, han som var så klantig og trevlig, just det ja, Rikard Palm. Han såg nästan rädd ut då han sig in i mina ögon. Så kändes det. De tittade på mig genom kameran som finns installerad i alla TV-apparater. ”Han tittar nu”, ”det har hänt något i natt, något stort, något otroligt, på Internet”, ”han är en hjälte”, ”han är en brottsling”, ”han är psykiskt sjuk”, ”vi måste fortsätta sändningen som vanligt”, ”Rikard, du fortsätter som om ingenting har hänt”. Christer Fuglsang var uppe i rymden och ett reportage om honom var morgonens första inslag. Efter detta kom ett inslag där Anders Borg, finansministern, blev intervjuad om finanskrisen. Han avslutade med att säga: ”Nu är alla problem över, nu väntar goda tider!” ”Självklart,” tänkte jag och rös. Efter nyheterna gick jag ut i köket för att ta en ny öl och satte mig sedan i länstolen med Aftonbladet. Huvudrubriken var inte påfallande men överst på tidningens framsida stod med ganska stor skrift: ”Därför stängde Obama för Internet” — VAD STOD DÄR?! Vad i hela världen?! Jag var på samma gång säker och fullständigt förvirrad. En röst sade i mig att allt jag just nu höll på med var sinnessjukt och felaktiskt. En annan röst, som alltid var starkare och alltid vann, sade att allting stämde, precis allting. När jag läste att Obama hade stängt Internet kunde jag omöjligt ignorera vad detta föreslog: Internet hade stängts på grund av mig, precis som att finansministern lovade ”goda tider” på grund av mig, på grund af det jag just gjort. Just när jag skulle öppna tidningen och läsa artiklen kom Nathaniel in i rummet klädd i morgonrock . ”Ha den äran idag, ha den äran idag”, sade han trött och slött på sitt ironiska sätt. Jag lade tidningen ifrån mig och övervägde om jag skulle berätta för honom vad som hade hänt. Kära läsare, jag minns inte vad jag sade till Nathaniel, men något sade jag eftersom få timmar senare ringde min mor för att önska mig grattis, men detta bara kort, för hon ringde mest för att höra hur det stod till med mig, eftersom Nathaniel hade ringt och varit orolig: jag hade inte sovit på hela natten, satt och drack öl och pratade om Internet och saker som hade hänt där på ett sätt som Nathaniel inte menade liknade mig. Ville jag inte komma hem till Kristianstad så de kunde vara nära mig? Jag bedyrade att allt var bra med mig och svarade undvikande på frågorna om Internet men lovade att komma hem så snabbt som möjligt. ”Kommer du nu då? Ta bara tåget, jag betalar. Ät lite frukost och kom sedan med tåget, lovar du inte det?” ”Jo, jag lovar.” Strax efter min mor ringde min far och därefter min bror. De gratulerade mig, men var så oroliga, vad var det som hände med mig? Min röst var konstig, jag pratade snabbt och vad var det jag hade sagt till Nathaniel – att jag hade gjort revolution på Internet? Jag tog tåget till Kristianstad och ska snart berätta vad som hände när jag kom fram, men jag måste här tillägga att tidningen som jag just skulle läsa när Nathaniel kom in, där det stod att Obama hade stängt ner Internet, den tidningen var borta när jag kom tillbaka till Malmö dagen efter. ”Vilken tidning? Ah, den har jag slängt,” sade Nathaniel. Detta var mycket mystiskt, tänkte jag, och paranoida tankar om min bäste vän blossade upp i huvudet på mig. Varför hade han gått in på mitt rum och hämtat en tidning för att slänga den? Var han i maskopi med någon? När jag i dag googlar ”aftonbladet 2009 obama stänga internet” finner jag en artikel från andra september som meddelar att Obama ska få rätt att stänga Internet. Förmodligen läste jag bara fel i tidningen och lät mitt maniska sinne klara resten. Psykisk sjukdom är aldrig – aldrig – vacker. Ibland kommer stor konst från psykisk sjukdom men då är det konsten som är vacker, inte sjukdomen. Idag är jag inte mer psykiskt sjuk än de flesta andra men jag säger ju samtidigt att denna historia måste nedskrivas innan jag kan komma vidare i mitt författarskap – men kanske även i livet självt. När jag tänker tillbaka på det som hände för tio år sedan har jag nu självklart en distans, både tidsmässigt och tankemässigt. Jag kan inte återuppleva vad som försiggick i mitt sinne, minns inte alla tankar, vanföreställningar, idér, alla felaktiga tolkningar av vardagliga skeenden. Ibland, men sällan, kanske en gång i månaden, händer något som plötsligt för mig tillbaka: en sång, en doft, ibland till och med en tanke. Då är jag åter där, där allt började och plötsligt killar det till i min mage. Jag minns mysteriet, magin. Känslan av att något stort var på väg att hända. Självuppoffring, att offra mig själv för detta nya, detta större, ofattbara, oändliga, ostyrbara, oåterkalleliga. Att det var jag, Henry Olsson, som skulle rädda mänskligheten, som skulle offras, upplysas, som skulle handla och skriva texterna, gå stegen och sjunga sångerna. Fri vilja vet jag inte om vi har, men jag upplevde då att alla kugghjul snurrade i harmoni, att varje steg jag tog var förutbestämt och att allt som hänt tidigare stod skrivet i stjärnorna. Vägen jag gick på var den enda rätta och allt jag gjorde var rätt eftersom jag var upplyst, mitt sinne rent, mina avsikter goda och eftersom ovanför mig – eller utanför mig – satt Gud och vakade med ett leende öga. Jag kunde inte rubbas från denna känsla, trots att den var så ny för mig och så olik allt jag känt tidigare. Mitt förflutna (barndomen, England, Köpenhamn) var ett mörkt gungande hav som jag lämnade bakom mig. Det stormade fortfarande och blixtar lyste upp himlen men jag hade lämnat havet, simmade inte längre, utan gick på en blomsteräng i väntan på sommaren. Inne i mig, längst inne, var jag nog medveten om att något var fel, men denna insikt fick inget spelrum i mitt medvetande. Anna följde med till Kristianstad, jag bad henne om det, sade att mina föräldrar insisterade på att jag skulle komma hem, att de ”trodde att jag blivit galen”. Detta sade jag med ett flin, som om vi båda visste att så inte var fallet. Vi tog tåget men jag minns inte vad vi pratade om, minns inte tågfärden. Mina föräldrar hade inte träffat Anna än, vi hade ju bara varit tillsammans i ett par veckor, så det första de gjorde var att hälsa på varandra. Min mor hade kommit hem till min far, mina syskon var inte där. Anna var lugn och trygg trots att hon nog var skärrad över att plötsligt behöva åka med mig till min hemstad på min födelsedag. Nog kunde hon märka att jag var sjuk men å andra sidan hade jag alltid varit sjuk så länge hon hade känt mig. Den lugna och reserverade men självsäkra Henry hade hon aldrig träffat, endast den energiska galningen jag hade blivit till. När vi kom fram och mina föräldrar såg mig i min kavaj och hatt och såg mitt trötta men upplysta ansikte som inte hade sovit på ett dygn dröjde det inte länge innan de förstod att något var fel. Tyvärr minns jag inte vad jag sade men jag är säker på att jag inte började prata om Internet eller något annat som skulle resa misstänksamhet. Men föräldrar känner sina barn och de kunde höra på min röst och på mitt sätt att prata och se på mitt kroppsspråk att jag var en annan, att jag var förändrad. De var mycket oroliga och talade länge med mig och med varandra. De övertalade mig att åka till psykiatrisk akutmottagning tillsammans med min mor. Anna stannade hos min far och fick en kopp kaffe, kanske även lite tårta men jag minns inte om de hade köpt en tårta. Jag minns bilturen med min mor till Gula Huset, det psykiatriska sjukhuset i Kristianstad. Vi satt i tystnad, min mor nog osäker på vad hon skulle säga, jag spänt väntande på mötet med läkaren. Det var ett äventyr, endast spännande alltihopa och jag kände mig inte hotad av vare sig min fars tal om att jag ”saknade sjukdomsinsikt” och att jag ”hade fått en ’switch’” (hur kunde han plötsligt veta så mycket om psykiatri?) eller av det stundande mötet med den läkare som skulle avgöra om jag var sinnessjuk eller ej. I mitt inre utspelades scener, det bimlade och ringdes, skrevs och chattades om nattens revolution på Internet och den unga man som stod i dess mittpunkt. Människorna som passerades på gatorna, de hade ingen aning, tänkte jag, men snart skulle de få veta, snart skulle mitt namn vara på allas läppar. Nu minns jag plötsligt vad jag hade tänkt på innan jag somnade: New York Times framsida som var helt blank bortsett från en dikt, min ’3 Monkeys’, med implikationen att nu, nu var freden kommen, nu, värld, kunde du pusta ut, nu skulle allt bli bättre. Nu förstår du, kära läsare, graden av mitt storhetsvansinne, hur gränslösa mina fantasier var, hur stor jag ansåg eller trodde att mina handlingar var. Då är det ju klart att man inte är rädd för vad en läkare ska tycka och dessutom räknade jag inte med att han eller hon skulle förstå det jag hade tänkt förklara när vi kom fram. När vi närmade oss Gula Huset blev jag överraskad av att min mor inte parkerade utanför huvudingången. Vi ska gå runt, sade hon försiktigt. Jag följde med och vi gick runt huset till en liten ingång på sidan. Där fanns ett väntrum som var tomt. Vi satte oss ned men blev snart bedda om att gå in i ett litet samtalsrum. Här fanns en dator, ett skrivbord och en brits. Vi sade ingenting till varandra. Snart öppnades dörren och en läkare kom in. Till min förvåning hade han rock på, stetoskop, reflexhammare, lykta och allt annat en somatisk läkare har men som en psykiater inte har, de är ju nästan alltid civilklädda. Han nog omkring 50 år. Jag minns inte vad vi pratade om. Kanske berättade min mor att jag hade börjat ta SSRI och att familjen nu var orolig eftersom jag betedde mig märkligt. Läkaren tittade på mig och bad mig att förklara vad jag tyckte om det hela. ”Jag mår bara bra, ”sade jag, ”jag är lite trött eftersom jag inte har sovit i natt. Jag har gjort något på Internet.” Och så pekade jag mot datorn. ”Jag kan visa det för dig”. Läkaren sade att det behövde jag inte. Därefter var samtalet avslutat. När jag och min mor hade kommit ut på parkeringsplatsen och gick mot bilen kom läkaren också ut från den lilla ingången på sidan. Jag vände mig om och blicken han gav mig tedde mig så kryptisk och mångbottnad, som om han sade: ”du vet och jag vet, vi vet båda två, vad du har gjort, men ingen kommer att tro på dig och sanningen får aldrig komma ut…” Tillbaka i min fars hus igen lade jag mig på soffan för att sova. Anna satt vid min sida och klappade mig på ryggen. När jag äntligen somnade åkte Anna tillbaka till Malmö. Det var eftermiddag och jag sov nog resten av dagen och hela natten. Dagen efter åkte jag tillbaka till Malmö. Jag skrev till Bhuddan och frågade om jag kunde hälsa på, jag ”behövde någon vettig att snacka med”.

Igår morse vaknade jag av att Augusta stod och röt i dörren: ”jag har kokt ett ägg och kom ihåg att borsta hennes hår!”

Jag svarade :”ja, men låt mig sova lite”.

Bråk, bråk, bråk. Jag försökte stänga dörren men hon satte foten i vägen.

Alla mina resourcer. Hela mitt liv. All min tid.

Det går ju inte att skriva när man är så utmattad, ledsen och trött i huvudet som jag är.

Parallella världar. En fot i varje verklighet.

Ibland glömmer jag. Ibland måste jag inte skriva. Låter dagarna gå med arbete, hämta på dagis, handla, laga kvällsmat, natta, somna, vakna.

Men alltid, alltid, alltid finns det där: min historia, det jag upplevt, det jag måste berätta.

Det är omöjligt att gå ner på tid eller ta en paus för att skriva på heltid. Min lön betalar huset, försäkringen, bilarna, maten och allting annat. Augusta får studielån och det går till hennes lägenhet i Köpenhamn som hon insisterar på att behålla (och detta beslut är jag enig med, för är vi tillsammans mer än två dagar i rad blir vi galna på varandra).

Som vi har sårat varandra.

Det är klart att jag skulle förlora. Hur kunde jag någonsin vinna, och vad var det jag skulle vinna? Världen? Freden? Kärleken?

Jag ser på det liv som finns framför mig och på den kärlek som jag har och som väntar där ute. Dagarna, likt orden, kommer lätt och av sig själva utan krav.

Det är så löst sammansatt, livet hänger i så sköra trådar. Vår vardag, våra timmar, alla vi känner, allt vi har för oss. Vi tar livet för givet.

Man får inte ångra sig. Alla vägar förde hit och fortsätter bakom backen, bakom dimman, bakom molnen, bakom stjärnorna.

Jag grät på tåget tillbaka till Malmö. Stilla kupén var tom sånär som på mig och en kvinna. Hon reste sig när hon skulle av och såg mina röda ögon.

Jag grät kraftigt, hulkade, tårarna strömmade ned längs mina kinder.

För mänskligheten. För planeten. Djuren. Framtiden. För kärleken. För freden. För att ingen mera skulle behöva lida eller dö.

Mest av allt grät jag för att jag visste att det var sant. Kanske överdrev jag i mina fantasier här och där men något hade hänt. Kanske var jag manisk som mina föräldrar och läkaren påstod men allt var inte inbillning. Det dygn jag hade varit hemma hade gett mig annat att tänka på och även om jag inte hade glömt det hade det trätt i bakgrunden. På tåget tillbaka till Malmö kom jag snabbt in i det igen och insikten överväldigade mig. Jag har räddat världen, skrek jag i tystnad. Jag grät och grät, jag var så lycklig.

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Henry on the train back to Malmö, crying from relief and pride and joy. That night he went to the Bhudda to chat and to smoke a joint. Henry’s family was skeptic about Henry’s relation with the Bhudda and saw with worry how Henry visited more and more often during the summer. They knew he smoked weed there. Henry’s father exploded when he heard that Henry had smoked while on medication. He forbade Henry to visit the Bhudda again. The brother called daily, sick from worrying. The Bhudda got calls from Henry’s family too. ’Please don’t let him smoke, he is ill, promise us,’ they said. The Bhudda obeyed for what else could he do? He forbade Henry from smoking, at least for a while. The Bhudda offered beer instead. One evening Henry opened the Bhudda’s fridge and saw it filled with strong beer. Henry drank, got drunk but was not allowed to smoke. Then he got hungover. Eventually, the Bhudda gave up. ’Nothing happens when you drink anyway!’ he proclaimed with a challenging look on Henry.

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Never give up, never surrender. These were the words on Henry’s lips the following weeks. The day after his birthday he saw on facebook Ursula’s Leonard Cohen quote:

”If you want a lover I’ll do anything you ask me to And if you want another kind of love I’ll wear a mask for you”

Oh, the fearless queen of love, the woman to stand by him as he fights the demons and monsters and ventures with bravery and self-sacrifice into all the dungeons of the Earth! Henry might have been all alone in his quest but in love he knew now that Ursula was his bethroed. He remembered their last meeting, the looks (the chocolate milk), the hug at the end. Henry’s heart pounded faster as he sat by his laptop in his room. Such elegance, such beauty. Ursula was all that he wished for and what a way, what strong words, for her to show him her love and devotion. The level of emotions were right up there with Henry’s other thoughts, busy as he now was to continue his quest and save the world. At the same time, Ursula’s subtile message to him through a facebook status update added a sense of danger and secrecy to Henry’s quest. In his head came small undefined thoughts, more like notions, about men in dark rooms trying to stop him or forbid his love for Ursula and that somehow Ursula knew about Henry’s bravery, or knew about his growing fame through his texts on facebook, maybe Ursula had talked to her friends about it, or heard Henry being talked about in town at the cafés and bars. Henry’s quest turned into a fight, a deadly thriller, a game about life and death where Henry was certain that he would prevail because he was innocent, good-hearted, had honest intentions and had done nothing wrong. Henry was a prophet, a truth-speaker, sent from the heavens to make peace in the world (these are my own words, dear reader, for, as mentioned earlier, Henry never expressed these kind of thoughts).

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The next day Henry sent a message to Ursula. Unfortunately the message has not (to my knowledge) been preserved for the future as Henry’s access to the chat between him and Ursula was restricted when he was blocked by her at the start of October. Henry asked Ursula if she wanted to meet him. His message was short and hastily written, full of dramatic nerve and energy, something like ’Oh, shall we soon not meet?’, or ’Please tell me, when can we see each other?’, or ’Ursula, make it so that we soon may meet!’ Ursula’s reply was a bit longer as she let Henry know that she was sorry to say it but she had no feelings for him and wanted them to remain only as friends. To this Henry did not reply, for he was certain, as certain as in an oncoming psychosis, that Ursula was talking in code, unable to tell him directly that she longed to meet him too but that it right now was too dangerous for them to see each other. Henry’s eyes grew wet when he received Ursula’s reply and as he closed his eyes tight so that the tears rolled down his cheeks, he thought about that promised day, in some sunlit garden with roses, when he and Ursula would be free to love each other and all their wishes would come true. But for now, Henry had a bigger fish to catch: the root of the evil of the world and the sufferings of mankind.

Hur ska man komma framåt till ett kylskåp när neuronerna dör varje dag där inne, när det som kommer när man känner efter är ilska, mot världen som förrådde mig så, mot människor som förgör och förstör. När det enda man kan rimma på är förstört och förgjort. Man ropar genom dimman efter Gud som står bakom backen man aldrig kan se, man trycker och pressar mot hjärtat som bankar så länge det orkar tills kroppen säger stopp. Som en vålnad på kanten till ett svart hål. Som en klocka som någon spillt honung på. Här i brytningspunkten strömmar det till mig, när jag vänder mig om ser jag mening och kärlek, drar på smilbanden och suckar lättad ut. Så vaknar jag från dagdrömmen där monster sprang runt, till frukost och kaffe. Till dagis, till jobb, till möten och patienter. Till lunch, till kaffe, till bilen och hem. Här fångar jag essensen av människornas liv, den iskalla boxen man ränner uti. Och såren! Och såren! Infektionen i min själ, dessa minnen som fruktar att de aldrig får bli kvar. Där borta i det förgångna bland allt som redan skett, bland trädgårdar, äpplen, olyckor och skratt. Som ljudet ebbar ut i luften, som tåget försvinner i horisonten, som hjärtat bankar blodet runt skall jag aldrig glömma och alltid beskriva. Det är min timme nu, min enda timme. Katten jamar trots den är inne, graderna faller där ute bland löven. Fötter bankar i taket, dörrarna smäller bland grannarna som pratar. Lugn, bara lugn. Allt är ett kylskåp, allting står stilla, ingen går någonstans, allt jag minns finns bevarat. För bara en timme, bara några ord, kan ju ändra skeppets kurs, kan göra grått till rött, för Gud bakom backen som blåser på dimman hör också ljudet som ebbar ut vid ett svart hål: ge mig tid, ge mig tid, ge mig tid…

Historien om chatten Tänk om jag verkligen hade tid att skriva detta verk, tänk hur det då hade blivit. Nu dansar jag runt handlingen och jag som inte ens gillar att dansa såvida musiken inte verkligen är bra. Vem bryr sig om det, inte jag i alla fall. Det jag ska nu är att beskriva de dagar som gick innan jag flyttade från min och Nathaniels lägenhet hem till min far i Kristianstad. Vi är i början av september. När jag kommit tillbaka och förmodligen spenderat den 5:e hos Bhuddan återvände jag till lägenheten på förmiddagen. Jag ville återvända till den hemliga chatten och den var där än, knappen var där än. Folk strömmade till, jag minns inte vad jag sade. Jag minns att jag här i början, för det var endast i början som jag höll till i chatten, skrev om Steinbecks ”Grapes of Wrath”, som jag nyligen hade läst, att det aldrig kom mig för vilken hudfärg huvudpersonerna hade, att jag trodde att de var svarta allihopa. Vad jag egentligen menade vet jag inte, kanske var det ett sätt att säga att jag var emot rasism. Så var det sagt, så hade jag uttalat mig om det och mer fanns inte att säga. Kunde jag läsa en så stor roman utan att tänka på hudfärg var jag ju blind för diskrimination. Någon skrev ”What is the final fantasy?”. Final fantasy, tänkte jag, alltså vad jag drömmer om, vad jag hoppas ska hända, vad den bästa möjliga utvägen av mitt äventyr är? ”How about a victorian spaceship?” skrev samma person. Det låter som militären, tänkte jag. De försöker att rekrytera mig eller få mig över på deras sida. ”I doubt there are many here who are interested in that,” svarade jag. ”Yes, go away,” skrev en annan. Min integritet var inte till salu, ingen annans heller. Ett par dagar senare var jag i chatten igen. ”There are many of you,” skrev någon. Det tog ett tag innan jag förstod vad som menades men det gick snart upp för mig att folk hade börjat utge sig för att vara mig. Jag lät inte detta stressa mig, det var ju helt utanför min kontroll. Dessutom var allt overkligt och egentligen trodde jag inte på det, i alla fall trodde jag inte på att något ont kunde hända mig. Självklart fanns det tusen kroolers nu på Internet som på forum och allestädes utgav sig för att vara mig för att svartmåla mig, förstöra för mig, osv, osv. Jag tror att jag redan här i början hade tagit namnet ”krooler”, annars minns jag inte när jag kom på det. Varför detta namn? Det lät bara häftigt, lät som crueler och jag var ju grymmare än de onda, jag var ju en tornado av godhet, grymt god. Inget mera nämnvärt hände eller sades i denna chatt, som jag för övrigt endast gick till när något annat hade hänt, något med Ursula, något med en text jag skrivit eller något jag inbillat mig, förutom att det efter ett tag – efter ett par veckor kanske, på mitt femte eller sjätte besök – började infinna sig en som hette Len och som verkade särdeles vänligt inställd till mig. Len, Len, tänkte jag, precis som i Alien. Ja, för att nu hade min tankevärld också börjat handla om utomjordiskt liv (detta återkommer jag förstås till senare). En dag postade Len en länk till en annan chatt. ”Farewell,” sade de andra, ”enjoy your porn you two.” Ok. Det var ingen annan i denna nya chatt och jag uppehöll mig inte länge där men från denna dag – och ett par månader framåt, inte längre – hade jag föreställningen om att Len, vem det nu var, följde med mig vart jag än gick (på Internet), var all-vetande och en välgörare som ville mitt och världens bästa, en allierad kort sagt. En annan vana jag hade fått, eftersom jag var övertygad om att folk hela tiden följde mig på Internet, var att skriva direkt i googles sökfält, liksom tala till alla dem som följde eller förföljde mig. Nu var jag övertygad om att jag pratade med Len. Jag skrev något om vilken idiot jag var som höll på som jag gjorde och som svar på detta sökresultat kom sida upp och sida ner av Dostojevskijs Idioten. Här var det, svart på vitt, allt var sant, jag var inte galen, någon hade verkligen fifflat med sökresultatet och någon läste verkligen vad jag skrev och på grund av detta var allt annat sant också!

Det går inte att beskriva vad som föregick, att jag ens försöker…

Förutom musiken, som jag ideligen pysslade med, var litteraturen mitt bästa vapen för att skapa fred i världen, berätta min historia, lösa klimatkrisen, osv, osv. Det var först i 2011 som jag började skriva på Proverbs men även i detta verk försökte jag ”börja från början”. Vi återkommer till Prologen, som jag är hemskt nöjd med… eller nej, man lever bara en gång, låt oss fortsätta läsa den nu:

PrOvErBs are reactions to something greater and yet trivializations of life itself Prologue Author, singing: Oh and let it be so that they who seeth destruction in every man shall receiveth, yes for it is imprinted in every sacred soul the fear of these very days being the last and these very times the promised, and this very soul amongst the saved, oh let it be so.

And let those with fear see the signs and let them see, in every day and every deed, the wrath of their **, so that time is slow and day is long, oh let them wait, let them wait, let them wait, yes and let them see the signs, oh let it be so.

And plant the signs in every tree, in every mountain, in every word so that those who fear shall find comfort, and to the blind sayeth: see the signs! Let it be so, and let the signs be good or evil, of or *, as to confuse, oh let it be so.

And let there be questions that must not be asked, let there be truths that are false, yes let there be beings born to the veritable death and wrath of the **, oh let it be so. Let the humble mind that curses the signs be wrong, oh let it be so.

And in the last days fear shall prevail so that evil can flourish, yes let them be certain of the end of times so that their words are strong and their actions those of wrath, oh let it be so. And do not comfort, do not embrace, oh let it be so.

And for the rest, those that seeketh the inner truth and the humble mind, let them be free from fear, let them haveth the graceful life and let them not be blind, but giveth them the clear vision so that they can expose the signs, oh let it be so.

Yes, let those who liveth with no fear, no hate and no selfish demand that they are the last, that these times being the end and them being the saved, let those liveth the good life, let those build the future, let those be humble and rational, oh let it be so.

For I am the **, and I have given you the brightest of minds and the clearest of eyes so that you can see the truth that does not exist, the signs that no-one made and the future that will go on and on, oh let it be so.

Yes I am the **, and I have not created anything and I have not selected anyone or any deed, yes the signs you made yourselves and the deeds are the deeds of inner peace and no fear, yes when you see this I am inside you, oh let it be so.

Oh let the world be round, let the rivers flow, let the animals prosper, and let them evolve as they wish, yes let time pass, let every being live in peace and feel the paradise, and let no other path than the one to enlightenment be more graceful, oh let it be so.

And call it enlightenment for it is not a word. It is a feeling, it is a state, and let every being in this state feel the magnificence of life, and let that being be free from signs, free from fear, free from hate and let that being live forever, oh let it be so.

Yes I am the **, and I will never reveal my existence to those that desperately seek me for no other purpose than boredom, self-love and lack of meaning, no they shall never see me, oh let it be so.

Yes I am the **, and I speak through every being, through every tree and through every mountain and none shall perish, none shall die, and times will never end, oh let it be so.

And I am but human and my understanding of life is limited, very limited. I have words and feelings and what these bring me I cannot properly convey, but how I try, oh how I try and let it be so.

Yes let it be that we shall seek, that we shall ask, that we shall prove and explain and venture, that we shall have peace and love, and not ask what the world can do for us, but what we can do for the world.

Proverbs, som jag som sagt återkommer till om ett par år (vi är ju fortfarande i 2009), var uppbyggd på det sättet att jag började på A och listade alla ordspråk på engelska som fanns i Oxford Dictionary of Proverbs. Jag sitter och läser nu i början av Proverbs och se vad jag hittade, en text om Ursula, så klart skriven två år senare men detta är ändå en bättre beskrivning av vad jag tänkte och vad som hände än jag kan prestera nu tio år senare. Nu när jag läser det minns jag, annars hade jag aldrig kommit ihåg den kvällen på Babel eller Inkonst eller var det nu var i Malmö.

Any port in a storm Author, sad: Du vet när jag kom till teatern, du vet den föreställningen om tjejen som hade allt men inte kunde bestämma sig för vad hon skulle göra och ändå mådde dåligt och när någon blev sjuk så skulle hon ändå klä på sig i en halvtimme innan de kunde ge sig av till sjukhuset. Jag blev jättefull den kvällen, som vanligt. Framåt midnatt såg jag dig i baren och jag gick dit och stod som en hund och tittade på dig när du tog emot beställningar. Dina händer jobbade så snabbt, du var så duktig, och jag var avundsjuk på alla som fick beställa av dig. Du såg inte upp mot mig, nej du undvek att titta på mig för du visste att jag var där, du hade sett mig innan eller hur?

If anything can go wrong, it will Author: Så dansade ni på scenen och efteråt gick ni bakom scenen och jag gick efter och där dansade ni också. Min vän kom och han stal en matta och innan vi skulle gå satt vi vid ett bord och din vän sa att jag inte fick kontakta dig. Jag stirrade in i hennes ögon, jag minns det än idag, och jag undrar hur saker hade varit om jag inte hade kontaktat dig dagen efter.

Even a space ape must urinate Author, crying: And I slept in that carpet until the police woke me up and rang on her door and she came and let me in. Jag gillade henne inte alls, men jag tänkte inte på det sättet då. Any port in a storm, but I promise, jag låg aldrig med henne, jag kysste henne inte ens. The winds were too strong, the port was too fuzzy and you were busy dancing anyway, weren’t you?

Appetite comes with eating The girl, smiling: Yes I was dancing, you freak, you weirdo, ditt äckel. Fattar du inte att alla fattar att du är här bara för att jag är? Alla! När du går in på baren, med dina ticks och ryckiga rörelser, viskar alla ditt namn bakom din rygg. När du beställer öl ler bartendern men bakom dig tittar alla på dig, som om du vore en apa. Låt mig vara, låt mig vara. Gå hem, gå hem. Vi är inte för varandra och du skrämmer mig och du skrämmer de andra.

Jag stalkade Ursula. Jag undersökte på facebook var hon skulle vara och gick dit. Det hände bara ett par gånger. Ytterligare ett par gånger uppsökte jag henne i hennes lägenhet. Inte för att vara dum utan för att jag på riktigt trodde att vi var ämnade för varandra, att det skulle bli vi två så snart jag hade räddat världen. Det var hösten 2009, när jag var som mest sjuk. Men det fortsatte, det stod på i nästan ett år innan psykosen släppte. Jag väntade hela tiden på att hon skulle komma, min trolovade, komma för att rädda mig. Psykosen började avta den dagen jag fick ett brev från polisen som informerade mig om att de hade påbörjat förundersökning och att jag var åtalad för ofredande. Jag kan fortfarande framkalla den känsla av förälskelse jag kände för Ursula…

Jag hörde Urulas röst från TV:n en gång helt i början…

”Jag vet ju inte ens om du finns!” hade jag skrikit.

”Men jag vet,” sade Ursulas röst med ett lugn som fyllde mig med kärlek och förväntan.

Jag minns inte denna episod. Det låter nästan som att jag hörde röster eller upplevde självhänförande psykotiska symptom. Lyckligtvis har jag aldrig hört röster bortsett från den enda gången när jag hörde Uruslas röst från TV:n. Jag har haft psykoser. Jag tillskriver dem den enorma psykiska press jag varit under. Tänk dig bara, kära läsare, hela världen utanför mitt fönster. Hade jag uppsökt en psykiatrisk akutmottagning och berättat ingående om mina illusioner hade jag nog fått en skizofrenidiagnos. Men hur?! Jag har ju inga symptom idag och har aldrig fått psykiatrisk medicin bortsett från veckorna innan jag blev manisk. Är det cannabis-psykoser jag har haft? Ja det är fullt möjligt.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder Author, singing: Ungefär såhär tycker jag att du är: du är en dansare, dina ögon är en tigers, dina ben är långa och smala, din hy är vit, du är mer rock’n’roll än hela Rolling Stones tillsammans, jag offrade mitt liv för dig (skämt!), du är exakt två år äldre än mig, jag känner dig inte, du såg in i mina ögon under middagen men jag slog bort blicken, vi såg på Fanny och Alexander när vi var bakfulla på dagen efter juldagen men du sov mest, jag skriver brev till dig och berättar allt men du svarar aldrig, du är sexigast i hela världen, jag är kär i dig, vill du bli ihop med mig?

Ursula igen, jag var galen i henne, alltså bokstavligt talat. Jag skrev brev efter brev till hennes email. Hon sparade dem på en USB och lämnade till polisen som bevismaterial. Det var snälla brev, brev om kärlek, om saknad, om desperation. Det var många brev, i allt säkert tvåhundra sidor att döma av bunken jag såg i rätten. ”Jag vill knulla med dig,” hade jag skrivit en gång. Detta läste åklagaren upp. Värre språk än så hade jag inte använt. Självklart gjorde Ursula rätt. Vilken rätt hade jag att skriva till henne varje dag och berätta om det helvete jag levde i och uppsöka henne i hennes hem? Jag önskar bara att hon hade svarat. Ett svar hade hjälpt mig att reda ut verkligheten. Jag fick inga svar. Hon hade skrivit på facebook i början att hon inte var intresserad och att vi bara skulle vara vänner. När jag inte verkade förstå detta tog hon bort mig som vän. Jag fann svepskäl och anledningar till detta (det var för farligt att vara vänner när jag skulle rädda världen och detta visste Ursula, det var bäst att vi inte skrev till varandra, etc, etc.) och skrev till hennes email i stället. Jag skickade blommor till hennes föräldrars hem i Glimåkra.

Varför svarar du inte?!

Jag älskar ju dig!

Hjälp mig!

Jag är ute på verkligt djupt vatten och jag vet inte vad som händer.

[”Hey, it’s krooler,”sade någon och detta är alltså helt sant. De frågade mig vilken väg de skulle springa]

Polisen stormade genom barrikaderna med rökgranater och tårgas från helikoptrar och folk började springa i panik. Jag smet in bakdörren till operaen och satt där inne och drack öl medan det svarta blocket krigade med polisen utanför. I operaen var det live folkmusik (ett medelålders par från Australien) och de sjöng att vi skulle storma danska riksdagen och sparka ut statsministern. Ett par spioner, en ung kvinna från *** och en ung herre från * satte sig bredvid mig och började fråga en massa saker om Internet men det blev ett trevligt samtal för jag är snäll emot alla. Efter en timme hade det lugnat ner sig och en polis i full utrustning kom in och såg oss sitta där med öl i handen, leende. Hade jag inte varit med om detta hade jag inte insett att detta verkligen är en revolution, att jag inte är ensam.

Det var detta jag ville komma till: klimatmötet i Köpenhamn. Det var i december och utgör, förutom de första dagarna i september och perioden som ledde fram till min mani, mitt starkaste minne från 2009. Det är liksom dimmigt – vad gjorde jag i oktober och november? Jag bodde hos min far i Kristianstad, besökte vänner i Malmö, jagade efter Ursula, besökte chatten, skrev musik och texter (som nog inte finns bevarade). Jo just det – dessa händelser ska vi också beröra: Jan Guillou och Expressen, Halloween på Deep (som felaktigt står beskrivet i detta verks början, för det var inte om sommaren och jag hade inte en svans av folk efter mig), Annas vän Malena och de mystiska kommunisterna som försökte mörda mig… Men låt oss inte heller stänga av för möjligheten att jag längs vägen kommer på fler nämnvärda händelser från denna period… Jo just det, TIGER WOODS!

Jan Guillou och Expressen: hösten 2009 gick ett mediedrev om författaren JG’s tidigare förehavanden som misstänkt spion eller dylikt, jag minns inte exakt vad det handlade om. Detta skedde parallellt med att jag härjade i chatten och på facebook och var manisk. Det kom för mig att detta drev egentligen handlade om mig! Eftersom jag inte var en officiell person och mina handlingar på Internet möjligtvis var kriminella eller att jag möjligtvis var en hacker eller vansinnig kunde de ju inte plötsligt börja skriva mitt namn i kvällstidningarna, de var tvungna till att ha en täckmantel, en påtänkt historia som utgjorde ramarna inom vilka de kunde diskutera och kommentera och kanske även, i det fall jag blev medveten om illusionen, stressa mig eller påverka mig. Dag efter dag växte historien och fyllde framsidan men endast i tidningen Expressen. De andra stora kvällstidningarna diskuterade inte saken, eller minns jag fel och jag orkar inte ens undersöka det nu. Det steg mig så till huvudet att jag till sist skrev ett brev i kommentarfältet på tidningens hemsida. Efter ett tag lade sig saken och försvann från framsidorna och likaså från mitt huvud. Men som det härjade och röt, som folk pratade och var upprörda – vad var det egentligen som hände? Vem är den där grabben?! Jag föreställde mig hela Sveriges journalistkår stående omkring mig med hyttande fingrar och stora ögon, förvånade, skrämda, medtagna. Kanske var jag en hjälte i deras ögon! Det slog mig aldrig i början att det jag gjorde på något satt var fel eller att någon kunde vara emot mig.

Jag minns en gång i början av september när jag besökte min mor. Jag hade på papper skrivit ut google trends-hemsidan som visade söktoppen på ’INFJ’ och jag försökte förklara för min mor och far och mina syskon vad jag hade gjort och vad som hade hänt. Mina syskon var skärrade, de var rädda för mig, jag hade förändrats så snabbt. ”Ni är också mycket intelligenta,” sade jag. På soffbordet låg helgutgåvan av Aftonbladet. En kort krönika eller text ett par sidor in i tidningen handlade om en ung man som blev beskriven med kärlek och medkänsla. Det var så vackert, tänkte jag, det är ju mig de beskriver. Inget namn, bara en text om en ung man som plötsligt var ibland oss, som gjorde allting riktigt, som skulle visa vägen. På natten när de andra hade somnat och min far hade åkt hem, orolig och förtvivlad, satt jag uppe i min mors kök. Jag skrev på en lapp som jag ämnade bevara för alltid: ”Ingen kommer att skriva din historia. Du måste själv göra det.”

”Du får inte vackla, du är min förstfödde, du har alltid varit så stabil, jag behöver dig, vi behöver dig,” sade min far när jag besökte honom i samma veva för att meddela att jag ämnade hoppa av läkarlinjen. För att visa hur mycket jag menade vad jag sade kastade jag en stor kruka i golvet så den sprack. Min lillebror hörde oljudet och kom in i vardagsrummet. De såg på mig med skrämda ögon.

AND NOW BACK/FORWARD IN TIME AGAIN

IT´S TIME FOR…………………

Proverbs IV - Repetition

A gentleman, wearing a disguise ”Writing for airports, for a worried world of commuters, ruled by computers I am. Four years ago someone came up, did something to me, without my approval. Who was it, who controlled her? If folks can do that, folks can do lots of other things BECAUSE OF LACK OF EMPATHY. Damn, is it easy to live without empathy. After a day of meeting people and I drink tea all of their voices and faces and bodies come back to me. I am overwhelmed with life, with reality. It gets way too real. Wonder, I do, in what way someone aiming a rifle at a another is overwhelmed with reality, and how is the soon-to-be-dead-and-gone person handling reality? How am I handling reality writing? Is it the short sentences, are they attempts to box-in the thought and the seconds during which the thought came, was there and was thought and stored? Or someone knowingly from afar robbing another one, perhaps via a computer or back-rooms. I do just what the fuck I want. You, reader, listener and watcher, came to me. I was here and you came. So any quarrels you might think I have, or think we have… I simply don’t know. I don’t know what you’re talking about. No, I’m not interested. No, I do not want anything. No I do not have anything, some secret knowledge, secret money, secret passwords, secret names. No I have NOT SEEN INTO THE FUTURE. For God’s sake, I cannot and I want not. How much am I subconscience, how much is coincidence, how much is Zen, how much is free will and action. Is it PLANNED? I feel bouts of joy, is there reason for part of me to drag me down, saying beware of joy… Why such hazzle with explaining my innonence? Because then I can do what I want. Then I am free. Then you know that this is pure, the best I can do almost. My only problem is that I am assuming that you are smarter than me, so that I can explore and you explain. Listen, I want to write, it’s what I do. I’ve always been writing. I love and I hate it as the saying goes. And it’s almost meaningless for me to write for myself. I have to acknowledge your existance, reader. Without you perhaps I would not be writing. Here I sit, ill from a RATHER SEVERE PNEUMONIA, tired after a sleepless night and a long, long sleep until eleven a.m., and classes, and people, and cars, and noises (the damn city)… and I write for you. Cute is it not? Am I not cute, do you not love me…”

His robotic arms shone in the midday sun, casting reflections on the tall, tall grass that we could lie down in. CEMEX 3000 it said in discreet text nicely lining the metallic olecranon. He smiled. Crazy eyes. Same gentleman: ”Do you not love me? ” His eyes shone even more. He stood like that for a few seconds until when his eyes got tired and the great smile slowly waned down the human and accurate processus mastoideus. We stood still. I had started looking at the grass, then to the horizon, glancing the field for a place to sit, or escape. ”This is crazy” I said. I really think so. ”Totally fucking crazy…” Same: ”Scared you are, ey?” He laughed. How did he laugh? Moron: ”How did you laugh?” Gentleman, wearing a in disguise: ”If you cannot tell me, nobody knows. There are no hinders for you, my browned-eyed son. Know what scares you, face it and see it’s a scam. From there, why need you ask questions? You have no enemies… yet” Excelsia: ”How will I know which is the right track?” Gentleman: ”For you know which is the right act” Zoom! Boom! He was gone, metamorphosed into a rocket, set to the sky, already far up, a bright blue stripe-trail the only thing separating the two of our bodies. In the eyes of the sun, over the clouds, into the atmosphere. I fear not death, but I do fear evil. Hmm…

BY THE WAY I WROTE ALL THIS HAVING THE PNEUMONIA

Bystander: I have started to feel a bit of happiness these times lately. It’s like a good old friend returning again. Joy. Still new thoughts to re-wire the brain to, and still thoughts to re-wire the brain away from. I do not fuck around. I’m too old for that shit. I like my hop beer strong and fruity, my pot shit bright and crispy. I want to live again. School’s going good, yes. Girls going good, yes. Doing some nice music. Fare thee well!

Longing Heart:

Jewish ghosts Beware imposters Night by the windom Universe Why am I weeping Summer by Immeln Arts to uphold the human spirit A sorrow so hard presses against my chest So meaningless, so meningless all of it Into the night, something awaits The poet’s bike laying in the dike Help me see myself in the light of others Mother, I love you dearly clearly

Furst Mychkin: Sitta här och knepa och knåpa, fri som en ängel. Så klart skriver jag för allas bästa och till mänsklighetens glädje.

WAAAAZUUUP??? HOLLA DOWN TO B-STAR AND THE MIDDAY CRACKERS…

C:

”I’ve had this strangest feeling lately. I am not interested in entertainment anymore. I confess to being in love but still. No tv-show, no music concert, no partying. I want to work! I want to be productive and creative. So I’m buying the latest CEMEX PC Brand New 2365 edition!”

Q: Why follow sorrow when you can follow joy? Who gave sorrow the preference? Life, my friend. Death, my friend. Everything in-between, my friend. Blessed be the joyful!

Q: I’m leaving a mark because I’m going to die one day. Maybe all this is still here when I come back the next time? Is there anybody out there that can answer this question?

There aren’t any proverbs here even. Can this person even write? Without proverbs?

Better invent proverbs when no proverbs have

Buck: To minutter over seks er klokken, nej nu er den fire over. Jeg er sku ikke en idiot, jeg er bare venlig. Hvem fanders skal jeg ellers skrive om? Giver sku ikke ret meget mening at opdikte en masse karakterer, ved ikke hvorfor…

Better invent proverbs than no proverbs have

Unknown:

Seks om aftenen i København Kirkeklokken lige udenfor vinduet lyder Jeg tæller ikke slagen men der er sikkert over hundrede Hver dage undtaget en dag jeg ikke kan husk Ringer den klokke over Østerbros hjerte Willemoesgade, Fiskedamsgade (de lange alléer med træer og mennesker ude og går) Her er jeg lige nu Og nu stoppede klokken To minutter over

Go get the Oxford Library of Words and Phrases II: Proverbs

Author: You are cruel. I hate it that you are cruel. I’m being stoned all the times, but cruelty makes me sad.

Go get the Oxford Library of Words and Phrases I: Quatations

Shakespeare:

”She never told her love, but let concealment, like a worm i’ the bud, Feed on her damask cheek: she pin’d in thought; And with green and yellow melancholy, She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at GRIEF” (author’s capitalizing)

Kapitel 8 (in its entireness)

”To be, or not to be” Shakespeare

”It’s who I am baby, back to it” Rancid

(”Pretentious assholes”, said no one ever.)

Half a loaf is better than no bread

Bystander: Just a lot of bitching about just about anything and nothing. Child molester. Narcoticc neurotic. They say he raped ten cats in less than ten minutes and that he then ate their heads. Doping every day. Some say he is a doctor, some say he is a pimp, most say he is mostly pathetic. LOVEYOU!!!

The half is better than the whole

Hektor: Siddharta, grön engelsk undulat. Blå-gul skäggliknande fjäderklädnad på hakan. Flyger som en drönare, orkar bara korta sträckor, flyger upp mot bokhyllan men orkar inte helt upp! Vänder om, flyger rätt ut i luften, liksom svävar en stund. Tar sen sikte mot buren men missar den och landar i gardinen, där Siddharta sitter fast!

One half of the world does not know how the other half lives

Hektor: Siddharta sitter fast! Siddharta flyger rätt bra ändå, sitter nu på bokhyllan. Nymphicus Hollandicusarna flög ut och Siddharta flög med också. De tog några rejäla vändor, rummet bliver till ett zoo, de flaxar och flaxar, flyger runt hela arealen (nymfparakiterna alltså). Siddharta flyger ut en bit och får höjd och landar sedan ganska snyggt på bokhyllan. Till slut landar Sajber, Zappa, Erland och Lisa också på bokhyllan.

Half the truth is often a whole lie

Unknown writer, centuries ago: Sverige, fosterland. Krigens barn (av Fogelström, f.a.). Låt åter Skåne bliva danskt! Gamla Wä, gamla Östra Göinge. Eken på Wanås där snapphanarna hade möten men även hängdes av svenskarna på 1600-talet. Låt åter Skåne bliva danskt. Jag vet inte. Inte intresserad. Do you not love me?

Don’t halloo till you are out of the woods

Heron: I’m not hallooing to anyone. At least I think so. There is no literary filter.

Only here >–|– BOOZAAANG!!! PIPPITY!!! OH OH! HERE COMES A HELICPOTER!!! Bob Dylan live i byen. Falkoner Salen ZIIIIIIING! PIPIIIITY!!! I CAN GO WHEREVER I WANT TO!!! And we sing:

”He can go wherever he wants to, he can go wherever he wants to Let him go, let him go Let the poor drunken boy go Let him go, let him go To the drinking club he go Drinkin’ down the road” ZOOOOBONG! ZABIIIIIM! MUZZLE OF BEES ANOTHER WORLD WASTELAND AM I TRYING TO BE THE MEDIA Do you not love me now?

Some other guy: Oh my friends, my good old friends, spread across the globe. One is in Wisconsin and one in Toulouse, and one is in London. The Frech one I saw this summer, the other two I have not seen in two to four years. We talk so seldom nowadays. This age of 27, 28 and more everybody’s busy with getting their lives together, but not the three years younger French guy. He’s a crazy bastard. Saew him this summer when he visited my place by the lake in the forest. He studied mathematics at Warwick, then Anthropology in Edinburgh, then to Mexico to study ants with a friend to his professor parents who met at Oxford, mother French, father British, then moved back to France to the south to a small village to spend two years learning to be a baker, but never finished the diploma because the master baker got mad at him. Now he’s a musician with a band in Toulouse making really good music and have got himself a pretty little gal as well. Now he dresses better but when I first met him at age 18 he had straight hair to his shoulders and pyjama hippy or african pants and looked and sounded like E.T with his difficult to understand French-British accent. Okay…

Call no man happy till he dies

Buck: I generally don’t think one should call a man anything. There are certainly situations where one should and could but in general especially if with a statement of negative tone.

Hard cases make bad law

Greta Garbo’s ghost: Fredag, hurra! Mysiga fredagseftermiddag, sen vila lite, sen aften, hele byen spiser et godt aftensmål, for at derefter drikke og derefter mødes ude i indre by eller Nørrebro, eller noget gammelt sted på Østerbro. Det är ett bra uppläg det här med en vecka med ledig på lördag och söndag. En resolution efter många dagars hårt arbete. En chans att andas ut, andas in. Grubbla, svara på frågor från en själv. Men på radion spelar de sånger med texter om ingenting, precis som det här. Man bliver vansinnig! Men det är ett bra radioprogram så jag accepterar det. Jet set.

Hard words break no bones

Author, om Greta Garbo: När hon tänker på att lyssna på radion tänker hon på en person för trettio-fyrtio år sedan som sitter vid sitt fönster och stilla spanar med ögonen över gården till lägenhetskomplexet. Radion som gör kluckande ljud i bakgrunden. Program om inget och alllt. Eller ute på sjön en fiskebåt som roterar långsamt sitt roder sin propeller i vattnet. Sjöväder, Kattegat, Östra sundet, Blekinges skärgård, Bottenviken. Där ute till sjöss hade hon kanske gärna varit.

Haste is from the Devil

Oxford Library Of Word And Phrases II: Proverbs:

”1633 J. Howell Familiar Letters 5 Sept. (1903) II. 140 As it is a principle in chemistry that Omnis festinatio est a Diablo, All haste comes from Hell, so in . . any business of State, all rashness and precipitation comes from an ill spirit. 1835 SOUTHEY Doctor III. Lxxxiii. If any of my readers should . . think that I ought to have proceeded to the marriage without delay . . I must admonish them in the words of a Turkish saying, that ‘hurry comes from the Devil, and slow advancing from Allah.’ 1929 Times 12 Sept. 14 Listening patiently to the views . . [f]or he understood the East; he knew that for an Intelligence officer ‘haste is from the devil.”

More haste, less speed . |. WHAT SAY YE KØBENHAVN DISGUSTING Who cares?

C: DISGUSTING WHO CARES, BUY THE NEW NEWSPAPER WE GIVE FOR FREE ON THE STREETS WHILE YOU BIKE TO WORK IN THE MORNING. DISGUSTING WHO CARES

The limousine radio: So I got my news, I got my coffee, I got my job, I got many other things. All is well. Is this it, I loooooooooooooooooooooooooooove it and the rest

Kathleen:

The sun is shining through the window The sun is reflecting from the window on the building on the other side of the street Never will somebody understand what we saw on the road Before this stranger came along Hollow voice

Enlightened city

(Make another one)

If you don’t like the heat, get out of the kitchen

Hektor: Nogen er nød til at køre os med mindre, vi tager en taksa. Sådan er det. Eller tager vores cykler med fra byen og på bussen. Men først en lang togtur. Siddharta og de andre kakaduerne kommer fra samme land, fra samme sted i det land, ude i bushen i Australien. Der lever de side ved side, i store flokker, art side ved side. Deres lyd minder om hinandens. Men den der engelske undulat, Siddharta, lyder da helt utroligt. Jeg har sku aldrig før høret en fuvl, der lyder sådan. Siddharta lyder som en ekstraterrestial satelit, som en lille Buddha der sidder der, og kommunikerer, på noget intergalaktisk sprog. Det ser ud til, at vi skal op i skoven, og spille piano. CLOSER A CROCODILE, WHICH IS TO BE PUT DOWN Do you not love me now?

And Heron and Moron flaxed away in the night… Silly idiots. I lost my iPad in the Blues Bar. I know who stole it, I sat next to him the whole evening. When I went up to play the drums he probably took it from my jacket pocket. The next day a photo was automatically uploaded to my iCloud showing what was probably one of his friends, a rastafari man. It is very comical. I got a new iPad from my insurance and paid only five hundreed Danish Crowns in difference. So I’m happy to know my old iPad is put to good use.

Author: Silly idiots. Silly everything. A pain in my chest from the pneumonia. I’m of flesh and blood. Little cells that grow and divide, which started like two cells uniting many years ago. It’s incredible how many layers there are to penetrate this absurd reality we call Existance. Bla, bla, bla…

He who hesitates is lost

A dark restaurant, full of lively people. Chatting about it all, and how it came into existance. And then to everyday stories and rumors and things heard or seen or experienced. Laughing much and vividly.

Another Hektor: WHAT’S GOING ON. CAN I TAKE YOUR ORDER? Order some more, drink some more, spend the money you have. Every night is full to the brim, oh holly joy, holly boy, is there more in the barrel question mark

Over there, a lonely couple. Nice woman, intelligent man. Give them a menue and ask if they want a SLOTH each

Those who hide can find

Hektor: Fåglarna som sitter och tittar ut genom fönstret. Idag mer än andra dagar. De sitter i buren trots dörren är öppen. Det verkar hända något osynligt på gatan. När jag tittar ut ser jag inget. Men fåglarna verkar se något. Siddharta sjunger oavbrutet. Eller sjunger och sjunger. Han gör fantastiska ljudpiruetter, visslar lite, rappar lite, skrockar lite. Helt otroligt.

The higher the monkey climbs the more he shows his tail

Author: Har suttit här hela dagen. Nedpräntat samma gamla tankar, samma gamla röst som galer i huvudet mitt. P3 på hela dagen sedan klockan femton. De skrattar och jag halvskrattar, det är väldigt kul ibland. En väl spenderad dag! Man får bara en dag som denna, men jag har haft flera! Lata utbildning.

History repeats itself

Doctor: Infections too. The immune system and infections. The same pathogen every time, maybe this time a bit better, or weaker against the adjusted immune system.

Home is home though it’s never so homely

Doctor: The more I call the less she comes The better table I set the less she eats Only when I am so hungry I cannot speak Does she call me in, as if she knows Exactly how much my heart’s been hurtin’

Home is where the heart is

Moron, a city pigeon: Next to her after love in the night, such heavy breathing. My heart is beating twice, venctricular extrasystole for sure, and fast. I fall asleep for five minutes and I wake up almost screaming her name. And she is sleeping like a log next to me. I turn toward her, stretch out one of my arms, and with the other lifts the duvet and get in there in the warmth too. My left wing falls asleep first, then the rest of me. I’m her alarm clock. I fuck her awake in the morning at quarter past six before she is off to pigeon work. You what? I don’t want to know that! / . . . / I want the bad news…

Homer sometimes nods (becomes drowsy, falls asleep) LET’S ASK HIM! HOMER, OH HOMER! ”Either I’m too sensitive or else I’m getting soft” THE END IN WHAT WAY WERE YOU ILL? Ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! <

What are you laughing at?

The husband is always the last to know

And this:

Jeg åbner hastigt dørren og galer ”Der er hjertestop på stue 1!” men det er jo en øvelse så ingen hospitalskorridor det er. Derimod står der lige udenfor et andet hold. Der bliver tyst i nogle sekunder hvor mit hold bag mig griner. ”Ok!” siger så en og griner. Hehehe. Det begynte sku helt galt det der. Så tilbage til den plastiske øvelsesdågen der har fået aktuelt hjertestop. Hvad hvar det nu jeg skulle gøre? Hmm, hmm, hmm. Tiden går. Nå ja, jeg skulle begynde HLR, så op og sitte på knæ på sengen og pumpe hårdt mit i brystet på patienten med bægge hænder, med en frekvens der svarer til 100 30 gange, så det vil sige at 30 gange vil tage 15 sekunder. Så kommer ”sygeplejerske” og en ”portør”. Sygeplejersken kan ventilere så jeg giver hende order om at begynde med det, og jeg beder portøren om at overtage HLR. Så kommer en SOSU og jeg beder hende om at hente defibrillatormaskinen der står ude på gangen. Når den kommer beder jeg hende om at assistere portøren om at give HLR og skifte med hende efter jeg analyseret og derefter ved hver 2 minut, og begynder selv med at koble maskinen til patienten. Når det er gjort skriger jeg ”Stop HLR, jeg ska analysere!” og slår maskinen til. Der er ikke stødbar rytme så jeg skriger ”Ikke stødbar rytme! Start HLR i to minutter!”. Efter to minutter analyserer jeg igen og nu er der stødbar rytme. ”Stødbar rytme, bliv ved med HLR når jeg oplader”. BeeeEEEEEp siger maskinen. ”Alle væk fra sengen, ilten væk!”. Så ser jeg at ingen står ved sengen. Jeg siger ”Jeg støder!” og trykker på den røde knap men fordi det er en øvelse er der ingen stød på 200 J. Nu er der sinusrytme og jeg går over til patienten og checker for puls og respiration som er forenligt med liv, og finder det.

Der ER applause.

2014

Proverbs V - Ramblin’ on… Bob and his uncle, singing:

”At fantisere om vores kærlighed, og at se den klart. Helt klart, som jeg vil elske dig. Kærligheden som vil hjælpe os sammen, et menneskes destruktive kraft som vil dræbe os, hver for sig. Jeg frygter endelig intet, ikke de værste slag, ikke de hårdeste drejninger, ikke det bjerg jeg ikke kan flytte.

Så står jeg i rosenhaven og tænker, er det her det? Dag og nat i al evighed, det vildeste paradis vi skabt for os. Men jeg kikker fra et afstand, fuld af tvivl, lige som jeg ikke er her. Med ene hånden for øjet ser jeg nogle gange klart, ser et tog i den højeste fart med det stærkeste lys, komme imod mig som et stille bildede.

Med en hær af legende soldater kørende rundt på togspor i maven føler jeg, at det findes en vej, en vej som er smukkere end alle de andre veje, bedre end destruktion, bedre end konstruktion. Hver gang du skriver til mig frygter jeg det værste men smiler det medste.

Et skib der kommer for sent for at redde en druknende hekse, men heksen var havet og skibet fik sejle på høje bølger af grønt silk og blåfarvet vin. Og man er sindssyg hvis man ikke tror på hende. Men man er jo sindssyg, alle er sindssyge, spørgsmålet er ikke hvor meget, men på hvad for en måde.

Kærlighed der kom, kærlighed der er her, kærlighed der er en såbebubble vi skabt. Lad den sejle på bølgerne, lad den sejle mod hjem. Lad os lave alt det, vi aldrig troede kunde laves. Vi går der i haven, den verden og vores, jeg på min tropiske ø, du i dit grønne undertøj, vi to her og fremtiden, jeg elsker dig så. Det er en vind der blaser havet mod mig, jeg vil holde dig i mine arme.”

Kapitel 9

”If you are fighting a war of nothing, stay on the side that’s gonna win” Bright Eyes

”Åh Kristina, guldet blev till sand” Vilhelm Moberg

An idle brain is the Devil’s workshop

Trust is harder than steel. Set it on fire and it all’s a lie. A person is only, really, only a person when before your open eyes. They say intelligent people have it easier to trust. Well, I say sometimes cruising is the best there is for sailing a sea.

Idle people have the least leisure

I have nobody. I am alone.

Idleness is the root of all evil

One day it has to stop.

If ifs and ands were pots and pans, there’d be no work for the tinkers hands

I love her very, very much.

Where ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to be wise

One day it has to end.

Ignorance of the law is no excuse for breaking it

Me and her on a motorcycle high in the Andes. Far above all the cruel things which happen in this world. They are in the glass, in the leaves, on the road. The road is in this world, and so all things physical are in this world. In my world, in her world, in your world, in our world.

It’s an ill bird that fouls its own nest

I do not take it serious, me in this little world of my own. It is more like entertainment. It is nice to have you all coming along on the various trips. It is not about whether everything is true, but about obsessing about whether it is or not.

He that has an ill name is half hanged

If it’s true everything that I have fantasized and visioned, then they would never ever tell me or confess to it. So I will never know. Like Schrödinger’s Cat would be in a state of uncertainty; either total love or total lie. But as it is with all other happenings in this world, everything shall pass and be past.

It’s ill waiting for dead men’s shoes

I will shut my mouth, I will relive the thoughts until they are old and dead. Like all things dead, they cannot be revived.

Ill weeds grow apace

A piece of cookie like you is to be saken serious. You can do whatever you want, but you can’t hide from my love, dear. You don’t need another nutcase and I hope you don’t need better intercourse. I think I will always love you to death.

It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good

I have it pretty good now. You’re on your way to your old pretty summer house. How can you not think about me, we have seen each other almost every day since we met on the morning of the seventh of September last year. Is this real love, or are you toying with me, or are we playing the war of the minds, dear. I’m a fool to think that you are always horny, like you often are when we are together. I see you, I see nothing else. My dear, I think I am madly in love you… but I will shut my mouth, because you are looking for patterns and signs of suspicion, sounds of a warning bell ringing…

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery

I must leave the thought of some kind of God saving me from this injured hell of a head. I wander in its flames all day, beating my torn body with the most gruesome imaginations and disorders of my life. Of course, then, do I have problems with trust. I ”want” to believe the worst, I want to think it, to punish my self. And so I get a psychosis, very funny as always. Relax, relax, little boy. You can’t feel it all, all the time. Time must pass, things must pass. You will always be special friends.

In for a penny, in for a pound

Kan jeg stole på DIG?

Ha ha ha ha ha, in the wind

Jeg elsker dig!

Ha ha ha

Hon skriver, på en lapp

NÅGOT HEMLIGT

Jag skriver också en

Jeg elsker dig 4-ever

Så tager hun sin lapp og throws it in the ocean! Så det gør sku jeg også!

Hvad stod det på din, spørger jeg

Noget om måger som skriger

Tystnad.

På min stod det noget om jeg elsker dig forever…

Så tager hun en af de sidste biter af sushin og holder den op langt ovenfor hendes åbne mund og liksom ryster ned ris og fylding. Hun spilder på brystet, jeg torker op. Om man elsker et menneske…

Hvorfor bruge tid på at grade over et menneske man elsker

Just be happy dude.

Somebody thinks that somebody is a neurotic! Don’t fall down into the pit. The two of you were made to fit/split. Don’t loose yourself in one another!

Have a seat by the hearth!

A story I will tell

Something about

Being happy

–-

Kapitel 10

Every jack has his jill

Taking the turns as they come

Jack is as good as his master

That is to not waste life on speculations

Jam tomorrow and jam yesterday, but never jam today

Or money for that matter

Jouk and let the jaw go by

On this blue planet, hundreds of billions of existances, hundreds of billions of people. I try to feel the weight though my shoulders are already sweeping the floor. It’s all of you, me, and her and him. One big family now.

Jove but laughs at lovers’ perjury

Det er ikke sket. Det er kun sket i mit hoved, og i jeres. Bevis modsatsen… alle vil det skal være sandt, næsten mig også, efter alle disse år. Selvfølgelig er en masse ting sket, dog sker ikke altid de værste af ting, takket være Gud.

No one should be judge in his own cause

The impact of the Internet on the mind can be immense. With a bad imagination and selective attention, any occurence can be made thought real.

Judge not, that ye be not judged

So what, what harm has it done to anyone else but me, tell me that. And how much and about how many things can one mind worry about? I pack it all into one bag and tie it to my ankle and drag it along the streets. Because the feeling is the same, no matter what the worry. So why worry about anything specific, worry about it all instead!

Be just before you’re generous

I only see you. I do not see what you were or what you have done. I see you right now and where you are going. I make sure it’s good.

–-

Kapitel 11

Why keep a dog and bark for yourself

It is not cruelty what you are doing. You are trying to stop me and I do not understand why. If I could live in peace I would probably not be writing. It is heartwrenching that I cannot be met with the respect I possess as a human being. Like every person ever I resist a little at first but then I subject.

Keep a thing seven years and you’ll always find a use for it

Du är alltför underbar, jag vågar inte tro på dig. Att ha dig så nära och försiktigt och ibland så långt borta att inte ens ögat kan se en väg. Min smärta föds ur din skönhet och galans. Segla i lugnt vatten, surfa på höga vågor. Håll min hand och älska med passion.

Keep no more cats than will catch mice

I am appauled. I have come a long way and I will find myself in everything. If you want to take joy from me then go ahead for I have plenty of it. I am not serious and yet I am not kidding. I am not agressive, I am not a person. I am not the wind sweeping the valley, not the gold filling the mountain. The beast is my existential fight, my dragon and tower, (re)turning again and again.

Keep your shop and your shop will keep you

”Hvor er du hen? Vil elske med dig nu!”

Killing no murder

The night you called me late and was out looking for pizza. Your somewhat drunken voice guiding me as you biked along the rainy summer streets. How you found one at last and how I heard you ordering and chatting.

The king can do no wrong

”Because I am giving you this, you hate me. It is appauling!”

Kings have long arms

This could have been enjoying if only I was not disturbed by those that seem to hate me. It seems these want to turn me into a confused monster, one who spends all his time worrying about unimportant matters, far away lost in irrational speculations.

Kissing goes by favour

Why do I care so much about her other love affairs. I have never been the jealous type. I am a charming guy and this is probably not my wife I have found. I do not demand her to be true. But suddenly this is all I care about, about things that have not happened. Subliminal messages, strangers saying peculiar things and names of people I know, mixed with things past and distorted facts.

You should know a man seven years before you stir his fire

”Hvor er du tarvelig!”

What you don’t know can’t hurt you

”Jeg giver op, tror jeg skal holde mig væk fra dig.”

You never know what you can do till you try

And what are you doing outside my window ANYWAY?

Knowledge is power

Jag känner mig totalt lost alltså. Den kvinnan har övertagit mitt huvud och min kropp, men det är inte så farligt alltsamman, jag är rätt uttråkad ändå. Inte fan står jag på en öppen gata och skriker svordomar. Inte är jag särskilt ledsen heller…

–-

Kapitel 12

The labourer is worthy of his hire

The boy in the bubble. Det passar ju perfekt. Graceland. Det gör mig inte rädd.

Evert land has its own law

Behöver mental vila kanske. Men allt bara kör på. Så jag kan inte bry mig om vad ni har för er.

The last drop makes the cup run over

Är helt utmattad är en dålig start på en mening, kære Martin.

It is the last straw that breaks the camel’s back

Det er midt i sommer

Laugh and the world laughs with you, weep and you weep alone

Jag orkar inte ens gå ner och boka vaskedtid, sitter bara i min stol… og tænker på dig…

Let them laugh that win

Sommar 2014, simmar runt i ett akvarium. Snart bär det av till sommarland. Ligger i kojjen i sommarhuset, klockan är tre om natten. Vet inte vad hon har gjort idag, tidigare på dagen hemkommen från sitt sommarhus på andra sidan Själland. Telefonen ringer.

He laugh best who laughs last

Ey, du skal være her nu!

He who laughs last, laughs longest

Men jeg er jo i sommerhus…

One law for the rich and another for the poor

Jooo, kom nu, kan ikke din ven køre dig?

A man who is his own lawyer has a fool for his client

Hehe… vi kan jo ses i morgen, jeg kommer till København på eftermiddagen.

Lay-overs for meddlers

Så lägger hon på. Jag ringer upp men får inget svar. En timme senare ringer hon igen. Hennes helt underbara röst, lite långsammare när hon är berusad. Att få hennes uppmärksamhet, hennes intresse.

Learning is better than house and land

Hvad så? Er du på vej?

Least said, soonest mended

Nej… hehe… jeg sover… Hvad har du lavet, har du det godt?

There is nothing like leather

Bare drukket to flaske vodka, blivet ret stiv, sidder på sankt hans torv. Savner dig… har savnet dig i sommerhuset… savnet, savnet, savnet, kunne være så HYGGELIGT hvis du bare var her! Jeg vil ikke ha andre elskere end dig! Jeg vil ikke ses med *, jeg vil kun være med dig! Bliver du ikke glad af at høre det, er det ikke noget med vi ikke skal ha andre og så noget?

Length begets loathing

Nej det er ikke det jeg mener…

The leopard does not change his spots

Nå…

Let well alone

Savner dig også, elsker dig også! Så meget! Vi ses jo i morgen, jeg kommer til byen i morgen!

A liar ought to have a good memory

Imorgen er i morgen, jeg vil ikke ses i morgen… Du skal være her nu! Ey, tager du ikke en taksa, tager du ikke en taksa!

Life begins at forty

Nej… det går ikke, kører ikke nogle taksa her om natten, heller ikke nogle tog… Savner dig og elsker dig…

Life isn’t all beer and skittles

Några sekunders tystnad -

Jeg har skrevet til *…

While there’s life there’s hope

Har du det? For helvede, Melody, hvorfor siger du det til mig?

Light come, light go

Men vil ikke ses med ham, vil kun ses med dig. Hvornår kommer du i morgen?

Lightning never strikes the same place twice

På eftermiddagen. Skal du ikke tage hjem og sove? Træk cyklen… Du kan vel ringe når du er hjemme?

Like breeds like

BORTTAGET FRÅN KONVERSATION: DESSA OTROLIGA DISKUSSIONER JAG HAR MED HENNE NÄR HON RINGER MIG FULL MITT I NATTEN.

Like will to like

Aj jag är så ond, så ond, så ond. Jag saknar helt skrupler, jag gör det bara, allt dumt, jag gör det. Fast mellan hopp och förtvivlan, en babian i ett rum av kaos. Vårt sista farväl morgonen den 7 juli 2014 klockan halv sex. Vår sista älskog, vår sista kaffe som jag svepte ned. Din cigarett när du satt vid trappan och vi kysstes farväl. Jag gick på stigen längs skogen och getfältet och på vägkanten i den stora allén fann jag ett vitt hjärta som jag plockade upp och tittade på och lade i min kavajficka. Men jag är inte sjuk, jag tror verkligen på dig och mig. Jag utsätter mig och dig för pröver, för det är lika bra att få det överstökat i början. Men så lågt ska jag aldrig falla igen…

Listeners never hear any good of themselves

Mitt i sommaren. Den varma friska havsvinden, ja saltdoft, sveper gardinerna och luftar rummet. Så är allt slut, har klippt den sista tråden, satt eld på den sista bron. Ensamhet väntar mig åter igen. Mitt svaga sinne har åter igen fått mig att sätta stilla kärlek i svidande brand. Hav tålamod med mig, älskade, jag är inte ond, jag tror jag är framsynt och bliver orolig. Jag har förklarat allt, i tärande gråt och droppande tårar förklarade jag, vad som skett inom mig, hur jag nu såg, att allt var fel.

There is no little enemy

En spillra av en man är vad jag är. Bruten ned till punkten.

Little fish are sweet

Dagen då vi möttes, hur gick det nu till, dagen då jag mötte dig. Jag var i praktik på *’ hospital, terminen hade precis börjat, på fredagen var det fredagsbar. Jag skulle jobba på lördagen men efter dagen hade vi planerat att dricka en fredagsöl, alla vi sex i klassen. Efter en två tre kalla tuborg på en bodega på Vesterbro bar det av till fredagsbaren på panum. Men det var lång kö, endast jag och en annan köade de två-tre timmar det tog att komma in. Väl där inne var det en massa människor jag känner lite grann och det blev en shot och två och tre och plötsligt står jag utanför och ringer min bagvagt. Först skickar jag sms till fel person och därefter ett sms och samtal och får den aktiverad. Så ringer jag Indy och vi möts på Sankt Hans Torv och dricker bloody marys på Mexibar. Sen tar vi en taxi till Kødbyen och ramlar runt där. Klockan fyra om morgonen sitter jag på terassen på Bakken och gapsjunger ”I shall be released” inför säkert hundra fulla men rätt tysta åskådare. Vi tar en taxi mot hem en timma senare, den stannar på Elmegade. Indy ut genom en dörren, jag ut genom andra och vi ses aldrig mer den dagen. Jag går ensam ned längs Elmegade och ser en flock människor sitta där runt trappstegen upp mot en av ingångarna. Jag sätter mig ner mitt på trappan, är på ett utmärkt glatt humör. Och där, klockan sex på morgonen satt du, med några av alla de människor du känner.

A little knowledge is a dangerous thing

Sen kom en från Ghana och frågade om alla vi ville röka gräs, och alla, säkert tio personer, följde med honom till hans lägenhet någostans vid Guldbergsgade. Du och din kompis tog en morfar på madrassen på golvet. Sen bar det ut och sensommarsolen stog på så starkt att jag nästan bländades, vi gick mot Assistansens Kirkegaard. Jag minns hur du liksom bumlade in i mig, stötte in i mig så lekfullt. Vi stannade och åkte ruschbana. Vi fann en plats att sitta på en bit in i den gröna buskiga stora kyrkogården. Det rullades en joint. Jag lyssnade på dig tala, din vackra röst, dina kloka ord. Jag tittade på dig bara ett fåtal gånger, men då jag gjorde blev jag paralyserad av din skönhet, ditt vackra ansikte och ditt långa, tjocka hår. Jag tror jag frågade dig tre gånger om ditt namn och fem gånger om vad du gjorde om dagarna och två gånger om vad dina föräldrar gjorde. Men plötsligt hade alla somnat, kvar satt bara du och jag. Vi reste oss och gick på äventyr, fann oss snart sittande vid en liten sjö. Jag spelade musik från min ipad, spelade min musik. Du kallade mig underbarn, för så skämtar du. Jag försökte kyssa dig, fick först inte, du låg ihoprullad som en boll. Men så plötsligt fick jag. Intensivt kyssande, hånglande, åh som jag har väntat på detta.

Little pitchers have large ears

Vi må gå et sted

A little pot is soon hot

Ja…

Little strokes fell great oaks

Kom

Little thieves are hanged, but great ones escape

Vi reste oss, runt hörnet någonstans. Jag ser dig i en buske, kom, ner på knä, du drar mig in i busken. Jag glömmer aldrig ditt ansikte, åh jag dör. Kyssande, ner med trosor, ner med byxor och kalsonger. In i dig, oj du är så skön. Oj det var så länge sedan… knulla, knulla, klockan sju om morgonen på assistansens, med den vackraste kvinna jag någonsin sett.

Little things please little minds

Några goda minuter spenderar vi där, i kärlekens underbaraste lek. Efteråt snackar du i telefon med någon och jag går ut ur busken och får en sån därr kallrystelse med spyor och utmattning. Du kommer ut ur busken och sätter dig bredvid mig och… klappar mig.

Live and learn

Why do you seem to be inspired by my music and yet somewhat angry at me… I am a writer, I live the life I have to, in order to collect feelings and experiences for me to write about. I mean, how can you be angry with me, like, if I was walking down the street and you see me and you go, hey I went to your text and read what you wrote and… eh, fuck you, you asshole! Or would you shoot me dead… Nobody would do that, why would anyone even care what I am writing about? How can I ever know, how can I ever know? I mean I KNOW people are reading this, I mean I DON’T know people are reading this. If I go into decadence or I go abroad, how can this ever matter to anyone but me?

Live and let live

I haven’t ever talked to one single fan. I bet they are all haters. I sit here talking, to me, myself and the imagined reader. How can you hate me, how can you hate me, how can you hate me…

A live dog is better than a dead lion

Is it because I put it all on fire and make it ugly, well pardon me sir, I live in a different world from you, I live the life I have to live, and want to live, more or less, much in order to collect thoughts and experiences to write about. What else shall I write about, what else shall I write about…

They that live longest, see most

Maybe at this age I am reaching a threshold, I realize that I have failed with whatever task it was that was upon me. Well, to fail is human, so of course I should aim for failure. It’s true I don’t know black from white, and that I am too lazy to change my way of living, well then so what. Let me decide such matters for myself. There is a time for everything, children.

Come live with me and you’ll know me

Den evige författaren.

He who lives by the sword dies by the sword

Den evige författaren och hans/hennes sjuttio dvärgar.

He that lives in hope dances to an ill tune

Men vem fasen orkar lyssna på mig. Ni tror väl allesamman att jag är ett freak. Ha ha ha ha.

He lives long who lives well

Fan att jag finns, fan att jag sitter här och spyr lite romantiskt.

Long and lazy, little and loud; fat and fulsome, pretty and proud

Var finns medmänsligheten egentligen

Long foretold, long last; short notice, soon past

Ni är allt fräcka, det måste jag säga. Mot ett människa som gjort mot dig som enaste ting, att ha blott lagt upp text och musik på Internet.

It is a long lane that has no turning

Jag är en dålig människa, jag hatar mig själv djupt. Jag älskar mig icke.

The longest way round is the shortest way home

Jag känner mig som världens mest skandalomsusade man.

Mittlivsnekrolog, mitt livs nekrolog

Tusen små ord skäres bort således att vi hamnar mitt i livets kärna, där jag nu befinner mig och försöker se utåt, bakåt och framåt. Jag kan ingenting. Jag vill ingenting. Eller jo jag vill, men jag vet inte vad. Alla möjligheter jag har till hands just nu känns oattraktiva. Jag vil inte inte vältra mig i sentimentalitet, tvärtom, jag vill blicka framåt. Det är väl klart det mesta känns meningslöst när det enda jag har till hands är mitt rum, min dator, en box rödvin, en flaska whisky, två soffor, en säng, två fönster med dubbla gardiner samt tre fåtöljer og en TV. Då är ju det enda som kallar stadens nattliv, men jag vet allt för väl hur den historien slutar. Eller det vet jag inte… den slutar ju annorlunda varje gång… eller ibland slutar den annorlunda. VAR ÄRLIG MOT DIG SJÄLV Nej jag kan inte vara ärlig! Vad ska jag vara ärlig med? ALLT! Allt? Som i allt och hela alltet, luften, tingen och alltings ordning? Det är omöjligt. Jag har målat in mig i ett hörn. Jag sitter i ett hörn på Mexibar och dricker Bloody Mary klockan fyra om morgonen på en onsdag. Vem är du? Martin Vad skall du? Bli en doktor i en liten fiskeby på nordsjælland Vad saknar du? Det var länge sedan jag reste. Jag saknar mina vänner, men vill samtidigt inte umgås med någon, eftersom jag sitter i mitt hörn och dricker, och ingen vet varför, och jag kan inte berätta det för jag vet inte varför. Det handlar väl om att jag kommit in i dåliga vanor. Tar jag vara på mig själv och min kropp infinner sig det fysiska- såväl som det psykiska välmåendet. Men då kommer jag ju inte skriva mer! Eller? Jo det är klart att du kommer att skriva. Ohälsan som följer från fylleri och stillasittande är inte en äkta ohälsa. Ångesten är inte äkta existensiell ångest. Jo jag tror jag känner till den existensiella ångesten, jag känner den väl och gott, alltför väl.

Jag laver kun det, jeg er nød til. Al anden fokus er på studiet. Det er en grunde, en line at holde fast i, når man som jeg famler i livets alle retninger. Det er næsten lige meget hvad jeg lavede de år jeg studererde til læge. Det er næsten ikke et liv man har. Alt skal på hylden: det sociale, hobbies, den personlige udvikling, familien hvis man nu også har børn, som nogle lægestuderende jo har. Og det er OK, fordi det er meget spændende, sjovt, udviklende og udfodrende. Jeg er megaglad ovenfor mit studie og det erhvervsliv som venter om kun nogle aar. Jeg har det faktisk meget godt.

Baby please don’t go. Jag avgudar dig helt ärligt, förstår inte vad det är jag känner. Socker i mina ögon, aj aj aj! Men dumt att komma bakrökt till vår thailänska middag. Men fick jo ikke ligga, skulle inte ha pratat om Schwarzschild radius lige før vi skulle sove. Hur han satt i skyttegraven och pulade med ekvationer. Hur många var de som gjorde sådant, i denna generation som blev till jord, alla på nästan en och samma gång?

Hernias and arachnoidal cysts – a possible connection to lunacy There has been observed cases of… Abstract

I’m a po boy, oh a po boy. Self-annihilation instead of going for a run, oh po boy.

There has been observed cases of hernias extending up along the spinal cord and subsequently – over a period of months to years to seconds – growing into the brain, shapeshifting to an arachnoidal cyst. The cases are few, the documentation not great, but eyes have had this phenomenon projected to the retina and brains – persons – have obtained the information of the existance of this… disease. The frames are here to allow the expansion of the content, thus giving the feeling of freedom. Whether this freedom – or this disease for that matter – exists in the real world, which is the physical world outside the head, can be of much debate among the scientific community. Oh po boy. Oh po boy. Who am I, writing this? Who am I when I’m not writing this. What do I do, what do I think?

Questions, questions, questions – a forward spiral into a black hole which is too exciting to leave.

2015

Proverbs VI – Without character, or one character, that is the question… We are in the future, singing:

”I have all which is rich, inside of me, not from movies or from what I have read, but from what my eyes have seen, ears have heard, brain has perceived. Gazing up into the stars, I am the universe, as lonely as a frog on the road, as strong as an iron planet, as fragile as a child on its first school day. It seems to be the hardest to explain that I am not at war, that no matter how many times and in how many ways I say it, it is assumed I mean the opposite, that my soft eyes are lies, that my tears are from my soda stream, that I am, too, competing about the steps on the social ladder; it is as if it cannot be understood that I am here to entertain you, and I don’t mean like Elvis entertained the 50’s, 60’s and 70’s – I mean like a hand with appropriate nails, which is scratching your soul where it itches, so that if you are sick, I make you less sick; and by sick I mean that you are human, just like we are most of the time (which took me many a painful years to understand, how awful we are), when we talk shit about each other, when we laugh in each other’s faces, when we go together in groups and prey on the weak or the different, when we want more than we need (and how hard is this to understand for just about everyone who has anything at all!), when we lie, when we kill, when we steal (but forgive me for not devoting much time to these last three, as these are obvious to you, and I would be wasting my time, and you would be enjoying it far too much, for you will say I do not lie, steal or kill, I only do two of these).

Yeah so I got very drunk at an rnb-club in Dodoma, Tanzania, and was playing pool and I went around there showing everyone my dot in my hand and hinting that I was *, and I came upon a man my age or a bit older whose recently deceased father had been a bishop and who himself had studied theology and all the major religions, and who was a very reasonable man, and for every silly question and objection I had, he had an answer, not like the Buddah, but like a man who had been taught these things, and he pointed out the great difference with Jesus in that he took it upon him to carry the weight of the people, whereas most of the other relgions say that it’s up to one and each to carry their own, and I was amazed because I had never heard this (because I am an ignorant person, who knows almost nothing about any of the major religions) and I was amazed about the idea, I thought it brilliant, and next I was talking to some older gentleman who was a teacher but who was about to leave that and start his own mineral mining company, and I talked to him with all my wisdom and passion and showed the dot and I said I was the Buddah and it was as if he believed me because he talked to me with this energy, and trust, and longed for my eyes and hung on to every word that came from my mouth. And God, oh God, oh God, I felt very bad the day after, and God punished me with three days of hungover, and also the heat and permanent dehydration and watery stools made it even worse, so I say it was not only God, it was also the climate and the circumstances.

Thirdly, fourthly, fifthly, about Melody, when I have nothing else it’s one thing but ‘soon as I feel a little joy and hope about this or that, I put her behind on the shelf and make a sound of great relief, for she is finally, again, but not forever, out of my mind, and I can see it how she sees it, and I am embarrassed about my maniac love, as if she was the most precious of flowers, and life was not a drag full of dirt, work and thirst where you come home and give a kiss and then set off to masturbate in the shower (or something like that), but no, as if life was this… this absolutely gorgeous dream, and I mean dream as in totally fantastic (not like the surrealistic adventures we experience at night while sleeping), as in she is THE flower, THE most spectacular beautiful love that I or anyone else on this whole planet will ever, ever get to smell, and I am The Great African Bubmlebee which has been flying around in the atmosphere, looked for her in the stratosphere, frozen my wings off in space, and then fallen to the ground, unto a great areale of grass; then she is the flower which suddenly, in the very last moment when I thought I could not take it anymore, starts to grow right – under – where – I – am sleeping, so that I wake up on a petal, and fucks it in the bushes, and makes it carry my child. Oh God, oh God, oh God – for this I thank You in the most sincere way that I can, and how is that, God, how can I thank You for directing me, the climate and the circumstances to her, and to this?”

BY TELLING ABOUT IT, SO THAT THE PEOPLE CAN SEE, I AM WHAT I AM

But oh God, you are frightening me. I am steering the car with one eye shut.

OH YOU IDIOT. DO YOU THINK YOU DRIVE BETTER WHILE NOT LOOKING?

But what if nobody is reading this?

WHAT IF EVERYONE IS READING IT?

Kapitel 13

”Um, then I better not quote anyone…”

Man cannot live by bread alone

Kraxksakios: What if some are reading it and the rest are talking about it, and talking about it in a bad way, so that those who hear it told from a hundred mouths a-way, thinks I am some sort of dictator, or demon, or hippocrate, or monster? And what if it is not understood properly, what if I am misunderstood? I am merely hinting at Your existance – this is not a crime, is it? I am merely trying to entertain, because the way I see it, Larry, everything’s at times a fairly wonderful show (but of course this is not so all the time and everywhere and for everyone, but hopefully some of the time for everyone; if only for a summer, only for a day, only for a smile’s length, or for a blink of the eyes, as the little child with meconium will live only this night and then rest for ever).

Man fears time, but time fears the pyramids

Zumbreksios: So, it appears I am not as lost as previously thought (thought by whom, by me, by everyone). Why would I even be that, because of what is written here and above, because I have burnt my hands several times with cigarette buts and crashed with my bike, and got a police record, and had several neuroses and many other things? Well what is all this compared to what most other people endure during a lifetime or the homeless during a day? What is life but ups and downs, trials and sacrifices, successes and errors? But God, oh God, do I hate it if I am famous, or under surveillance, or have people spreading rumours about me, or think they know me in person, or know me but for my work, music and art, or even think bad about me! I do not deserve it, I tell you, I do not! I do not deserve even the slightest hint of disbelief in my honesty, my passion, my loyalty and dedication to the human cause. It’s true, more than mathematics, that I love every person! I cannot comprehend the consequences of my actions, at times when I perceive it all – it sends chills down my spine, and I think of all, like children in my garden, and I worry most, that they not get hurt on the glass which might be spread in the grass.

A man is as old as he feels, and a woman as old as she looks

Palor: How can you oppose this, how? To fight human suffering, to fight moral injustice, to fight – in an economically sensible way – climate change? How can anyone possibly be against this? Is it only the shooters of the feet, the biters of the hands, the clippers of the wings? And who are these, surely nothing more than imagined ghosts and tyrants of the past!

A man is known by the company he keeps

Rexox: Nor am I saying go together with me. Please, do not follow me! Go your own path, but be kind and gentle, loving and wise. I’m just a body with fingers who are moving to create these words and sentences. If you understand what I am saying, the body is just as much yours.

Man is the measure of all things

Bumsi-roksus: And why would I for example record a video of myself reading this text out loud and put it on youtube? Do you think I am an agitator, a politician, a leader of a movement, someone who wants viewers, followers, who wants to make an impact, who wants to be famous? Why am I not standing on Speaker’s Corner shouting my opinions far and wide? Firstly, because I like to see myself as some kind of writer, and even though I am not published and never will be, this is my piece of literature, my magnum opus which I will write until it’s done. Secondly, I do not like to enforce my view on others (because I don’t like it when other’s enforce their views on me) and the Internet is so good as to let you choose what you want to be exposed to (to a certain degree and damn those commercials to hell!), and since you are reading this – oh my beloved reader – it means that you have come here by your own free will, that you are reading this because you want to.

Man proposes, God disposes

Peter, and I mean it: Oh I would be just as happy never ever to have written any of this, or made any of the music, and to have lived a quiet life as a country doctor somewhere in northern Denmark. Then I could eventually in peace compose a thick book about all that I know, and not have it like this, a thousand times worse than Moby Dick. But alas, peace on the countryside I can have anyways! All I’m paying is that dreadful uncertainty, whether the * is really sending satelite signals to my head saying somebody slept with a kid and with my best friend, whether that song ‘** You’ by that tool really is about me, whether they are all actually talking about me, whether the whole world is actually spinning around my holy words, whether, weather alien space ship everything. It’s that I don’t know that has the capacity to make me ill, over and over again! I would pay my right hand to have it undone, or to have it known, whichever way God the allmighty would have it! But alas, it seems I am to wander these lands a tool myself, smiling some of the time, haunted some of the time – yes, it feels as if there are thoughts and scenes in my head which are not produced by me, but by something foreign, placed there for my amusement and pondering, much like the bird mother (not) trying to figure out what the baby cuckoo is doing in her nest. Who is it, who is it, who wants me to perish, who is trying in vain to master my head and common sense? I do not know, I do not know, but it feels like human: God is good, human is good, most of them, most of the time, when she is not threatened.

Now, for the Swedes among ye, please entertain yeselves with this not-yet-finished story about two confused men, while the rest of ye either translate it in some way, or go about yer own ways, until the story is told!

The man who has once been bitten by the snake fears every piece of rope

A novel by Robobobobobot XVII The Clear from Näsby

”Det är den svåra frågan, det stora dilemmat, om varför jag skall ge dig något över huvud taget, men så frågar jag mig vad skall jag annars göra?” utbrast han plötsligt. ”Varför skall jag älska dig, varför skall jag ge dig något av mig, kanske mycket mer än vad jag får tillbaka från dig…”. Det svärmade runt honom, rösterna höjdes, han förtolkade dem som protester, han visste inte mot vad, eller att det inte var protester, han kände sig sviken, besviken, ytterligt liten, där bland de berusade människornas uppmärksamhetssken. Men han blev inte ledsen av att sitta där inne, bara sårad, han tog det med sig, beblandade det med allt det andra, drack av sin öl, föll tillbaks i värdshusets gröna länstol. Bredvid honom en annan fyllbult, en mager man med gula ögon, han smilade brett mot honom där han satt så förlorad och naken. ”Det finns inget du kan säga som vill få dem att hålla tyst och lyssna på dig” sade den gulmagre alkoholisten. Han lutade sig över mot honom och knackade honom långsamt men bestämt på skuldran och sade igen ”jag sa det finns inget du kan säga som vill få dem att hålla tyst och lyssna på dig. Se bara till att de har något att dricka och något att prata om, och märk väl, det ena leder inte nödvändigtvis till det andra. Pratande kan leda till drickande. Drickande kan leda till pratande. Pratande kan leda till slut på pratande. Drickande kan leda till slut på drickande. Drickande kan leda till slut på pratande. Men kan pratande leda till slut på drickande?” Fyllot lutade sig fram och såg honom rakt in i ögonen. ”Kan pratande leda till slut på drickande?” ”Va?” sade den ännu okände mannen. ”Kan drickande leda till pratande?” Mannen såg undrande på fyllot en lång tid och sade sedan ”Ja vi kan väl skåla antar jag.” De skålade. Mannen fortsatte, ”Vad gör herrn på en kväll som denna då? Det är fin stämning på krogen, människorna är glada”. Fyllot blev lite taget och satt en ganska lång stund och stirrade ut i luften, fortfarande i samma framåtlutande position som han var då han skulle överraska den okände mannen med en kvick fråga. Vad hade han sagt, han mindes det inte. Kan drickande leda till pratande? Gud så dumt, så fånigt. Han skämdes över sig själv, han blev nollställd. Så naken hade han inte varit på länge. Här hade han, en fyllbolt bland andra på krogen i stan, gjort någon slags smart-ass-inbjudan till en främling i kläder av dyrare snitt. ”Jag är trött på värdshus” sade alkoholisten ett par timmar senare, när de båda gjorde följe längs vägen nedför backen som stans krog låg på. De hade mött varandra helt plötsligt, sådar plötsligt en kväll på ett värdshus, en slump hade fört dem samman sade alkoholisten, en god öppningsfras skrattade mannen. De var tagna ur sitt sammanhang, båda två i åravis törstande efter mer än vad huset hade att erbjuda, den ene av för mycket drickande, den andre av för mycket resande. Nu var de berusade och hade just kommit ner från backen till den lilla stadens huvudgata. Gatan var upplyst båda på sider av dimmade lampor i många färger, och små restauranger och barer välkomnade dem med glada människors skrattande sorl. ”Nej det här har jag inte lust till, inte mer fest, inte mer supande, men jag måste gå på toaletten” sade alkoholisten. ”Ok, jag väntar här utanför” svarade mannen och satte sig ned på en bänk. Alkoholisten gick mot den närmaste baren, som hade en uteservering med bord och bänkar, fulla av människor, på var sida om ingången. Han gick in och där inne var det hög volym, en jukebox spelade gammal rockmusik, någon stod på ett bord och skrek, några låg i slagsmål på golvet, ett äldre par satt och kysstes i ett hörn, ungdomar spelade dragspel, bartendern var i färd med att fylla en stor karaff med frisk porlande guldig öl, men det lockade inte alkoholisten, för han hade varit där förr, i alla dessa stadier av fest och rus, och han styrde mot toaletterna längst bak i lokalen, och blev där inne en ganska lång tid, innan han kom ut till mannen igen med en nöjd min. ”Det var härligt” grinade han. Klockan var väl efter midnatt. De visste inte vad de skulle göra, men de kände att de borde göra något. Inte borde som att de inte hade något bättre att göra, utan borde som om deras möte inte var en tillfällighet, som om det fanns ett syfte, och de skulle bara spatsera runt tills de kom på vad det var. De njöt av varandras sällskap och pratade vitt och brett och berättade om sina liv och vad de gjort, vilka de mött, vilka historier de varit med om, medan de gick längs gatan förbi barerna och utelivet. Det var många år sedan alkoholisten hade varit utanför staden, han mindes faktiskt inte att han någonsin hade varit det. Mannen, å andra sidan, hade rest världen runt flertalet gånger, som key account manager för ett stort företag, och sett pyramiderna och kinesiska muren, Calcuttas tiggare och Afrikas safariparker. Att spatsera runt i en liten stad utan nämnvärt namn tillsammans med en sliten gulnande man med grånande hår var uppfriskande, det gjorde honom upprymd och glad. Hans liv kändes plötsligt meningsfullt, som om han hade genomlevat allt det där och företagit alla dessa resor, endast för att just den här natten kunna berätta om det. Alkoholisten lyssnade med stora ögon på mannens historier och drömde sig bort, ja han var nästan där vid pyramidens fot, tittade nästan ner från den kinesiska muren, gav nästan mynt och vatten till tiggarna, klappade nästan zebrorna. Han, alkoholisten, å andra sidan, hade inte rest särskilt mycket. Ett par turer in på finkan och ut igen, sett staden från polisbilens blåa ljus, mött människorna med ett smil från rännstenens smuts. Ett par kvinnor hade han förlorat, några barn hade han som han aldrig fick se, ett hus hade brunnit ner, tre gånger hade han kört rattfull och krashat in i samma träd. Det hela hade inte blivit som han hade tänkt sig, eller, han hade inte tänkt sig något särskilt och så blev det, eller, han hade någon gång haft några drömmar om att åka på en motorcykel genom USA med en flicka bakpå. Efter grundskolan hade han väntat med att påbörja gymnasieutbildning och någonstans där hade han gjort en käring gravid, och hon hade flyttat till andra änden av landet och endast kvarlämnat ett hål i plånboken, en stadig summa pengar som skulle betalas var månad. Detta hade gjort honom så sur och arg att han hade gjort ett flyktförsök genom att stjäla en cykel och börja cykla längs landsvägen från staden, men strax hade cykelns ägare kommit ifatt med en bil och rammat honom så han fallit i diket och därefter givit honom en smocka så han hade blivit liggande och först vaknat nästa morgon ännu mer sur än han var dagen innan. Han hade tagit till flaskan, sin unga ålder till trots, utan att kanske känna dess förföriska förrådande läkande kraft. I tre veckor var han full, dag och natt, dels för att glömma sina, i förhållande till senare, små problem, men också dels för att han trivdes där i alkoholens rus. Han var underhållande, han var glad, alla andra var glada, han var skojfrisk och njöt av uppmärksamheten när han som en av stadens många suputer stod på gatan och smilande med etanoldoftande käft och tippade med hatten åt nyktra förbipasserande. Det var en lek och absolut inget farligt, absolut inget som han skulle fortsätta med i resten av livet, sade han. Efter de tre veckorna var alla hans pengar slut. Han kunde inte betala hyran till det lilla rummet han bott i, utan blev utkastad och stod plötsligt på gatan, blott arton år. Lika hänförd som alkoholisten hade blivit när mannen berättade om sina resor och sitt liv, lika förtvivlad och desperat blev mannen när han hörde alkoholistens sorgliga livsöden. Det var det ena efter det andra, käftsmäll efter käftsmälll, aldrig hade han fått en chans att resa sig. Han sade, att om han hade råkat ut för samma missöden, ja då hade han minsann aldrig heller kommit ifrån sin lilla hemstad och aldrig sett pyramiderna, ja då hade han också, fylld av sorg och bitterhet, tagit till flaskan. Alkoholisten nickade och sade att det inte varit lätt, att han varit döden när mången gång och sedan den dagen för arton år sedan inte hade ägt varken en krona eller ett hem, och mannen lade sin arm runt hans skuldra och tryckte honom till sig. Alkoholisten, rörd av denna broderliga kärlek, började snyfta ynkligt och skaka i hela kroppen, och föll ner på marken och brast i gråt, en smärtsam gråt. Tårarna rann nerför hans kinder och droppade ner på den skitiga gatstenen, hela kroppen skakade krampaktigt när fyrtio år av misslyckande, meningslösa tragedier och instängd sorg gjorde sig till känna för första gången. ”Åh, alla människor jag mött, alla vänner jag förlorat, allt jag varit med om som jag aldrig kommer att minnas, mina barn, mina förläldrar, min barndom, mitt liv och min framtid” hördes det mellan tårarna. Mannen lade sig ner bredvid honom på gatan och de blev liggande i rätt lång tid medan barerna stängde och människor började strömma ut från dem och passera ovetande och ointresserade av vad två vuxna män gjorde liggandes mitt på gatan, emellan dem en pöl av tårar. Den natten tänkte mannen länge och väl då han låg där tillsammans med alkoholisten. Tänk nu om jag tar honom med mig, gör honom till min protegé och följeslagare, lär honom om mitt arbete, ger honom små uppgifter och saker att hålla reda på? Jag kanske kan låta honom bo i gästrummet i min lägenhet, eller kanske till och med hjälpa honom med att skaffa sitt eget lilla krubb, som jag kan betala lite av, eller allt? Jag måste hjälpa denna man, tänkte han. Jag känner nu för väl hans smärta, jag bär för mycket av hans sorg för att imorgon eller ikväll lämna honom åter till ett liv med mörk framtid. Det är aldrig för sent, det är aldrig för sent. Den natten tog han ett beslut som skulle förändra allt, både för honom själv och så klart också för alkoholisten. Tidigt om morgonen på måndagen ankom mannen till sitt arbete och gick klädd i kostym och med portfölj i handen in på sitt kontor och satte sig för att påbörja dagens arbete. På väggarna hängde inramade planscher föreställande diverse välkända tavlor, i hörnet vid fönstret stod en mörkgrön läderfåtölj och ett bord, och han hade sin egen espressomaskin och sin egen sekreterare. Vad han egentligen gjorde på arbetet för att tjäna pengar är det väl ingen som vet, för vem vet egentligen vad en key account manager gör, förutom att han har någon slags nyckel till ett konto som han har ansvar för. En vanlig arbetsdag, precis som denna idag, började vanligtvis med att han gick igenom sin post och därefter sin mail. Sedan surfade han runt på nätet en timme eller så medan han njöt av en god kopp kaffe, för att sedan gå på dass och därefter ringa några samtal och tala i telefon byråkratiskt med andra människor med liknande titlar, såsom key manager of the account, account of the key manager, och manager of the key account, innan det var dags att gå ner på stan för att äta lunch med kollegorna. Vad var det för en stad han arbetade i? Var det samma stad som den lilla stad han i helgen tillbringat en natt i? Nej det var en annan stad, en lite större stad, faktiskt en ganska stor stad, som låg centralt i landskapet ett par timmar från den lilla staden där han mött alkoholisten. Denna hade åkt med honom i hans bil till denna staden på söndagen och låg nog just nu och snarkade skönt på soffan hemma i TV-rummet hemma hos mannen. Han hade ännu inte bestämt sig för exakt hur han skulle göra för att hjälpa alkoholisten, men han hade några planer. Efter arbetet tänkte han ringa några samtal till några vänner och höra om de inte kände någon som kanske hade en liten lägenhet eller ett rum att hyra ut. Han föreställde sig alkoholisten sitta där i den gröna fåtöljen uppslukad av någon uppgift han fått av honom och ibland titta upp med ett försiktigt smil för att sedan lyfta sin lilla espressokopp och ta en liten sipp av det goda dyra kaffet, och kanske smacka med munnen, för sådant kaffe hade han kanske aldrig smakat förr.

A man who is his own lawyer has a fool for his client

Author: Well oh well oh well. That’s about how much I had the patience to write a story such as that/like that.

Man’s extremity is God’s opportunity

With the infatuating heat of Central East Africa still in my head, lying on the couch, I allow myself to feel relaxed, safe and happy. I thought one of those jets would down the Dreamliner, or accidentally crash into it. Or the pilot would be part of a conspiracy, or anything, to down me. But alas, it seems ’tis not all ‘bout me, and I rejoice about my newfound safety. Oh green are the meadows I will run down, blue the heavens I will smile at. What oh what is it ‘bout the world today, which injects fear into us all, so that every soul is prone to conjure and believe the most bizarre or frightening ideas to be true, real and planned in minute detail by the most evil of men and women in the darkest rooms? Even the most sane man, say a professor of social studies at some smaller university in Scotland, yes, a man who enjoys the good malt and hunting with his expensive dog, can, after but a short conversation with a lad he met at the pub, the lad talented at rhetorics, believe just about anything, and go home to his armchair that night, and sit down with the malt and ponder what he had just heard, and sit up for many a-hours still thinking about it, so that the next day he is not going to lecture anymore, nor is he going to that conference, nor to any conference whatsoever anymore, nor is he going to stay in this house or town one second longer; no, into the deep woods is he heading, with Scot (his expensive dog), survival kits and tools, an axe to chop the wood to build the house, and enough malt to take him through the coming winter, for the lad at the pub said, that after the winter comes The Zombie Apocalypse, and poor – yes poor as in dead – are those who refuse to believe it, who are unprepaired, who are laughing when they hear about it, for they will be eaten alive and they too turned into zombies, and roam the landscapes by foot and the oceans in small vessels, unknowing of their past, of their future, eternally thirsting for human flesh and blood! And it all boils down to one final epic battle – as depicted in far too many a movies and video games – where humanity is saved by the surviving few, in this ungraceful, filthy battle against Hollywood’s creations. Well, says basically the same lad, I tell you what it is, that which is making us believe that everything we see is a great conspiracy, or that these are the final times, or that AIDS is God’s punishment towards the gays, or Islam is of the devil, or 9/11 was an inside-job, or Ebola is invented by mad scientists hired by evil governments, or the Illuminati, or some people are reptiles and shapeshifters, or Hitler escaped to Argentina, or Jesus was never crucified, but allowed to escape to space… Because we are crazy! Because we are not satisfied with the green earth and the blue sky. Because we can not lift a piece of rock and believe it is a rock, a rock billions of years old! We do not comprehend when we look towards the night sky and see the bright dots we call stars, and picture these are suns, with planets moving around most of them, and civilizations on the planets, and spaceships travelling through wormholes, to this galaxy and that, and they’ve been at it for millions of years, long before our ancestors picked up a stick and called it a weapon, long before their ancestors climbed down from the trees and started warlking erect, long before we invented the currency, and on and on, you get my point, drop that joint. So full of shit, and so selfish, ignorant and certain are we, that we cannot see all this, cannot see ourselves suspended in space on a green/blue planet, together with animals and people of all colours, shapes and ideas…

Manchester

Because we are not satisfied! We are not satisfied with existance, with out lives, with each other Few and happy and blessed are those who call themselves satisfied Many and miserable are those who are always wanting more (from the homeless to the CEO)

Manners maketh man

Satisfaction is about having a broad perspective. Locked inside a box everybody can be a zombie, outside the box – considering the million year time-span – a zombie cannot exist. Locked inside the wrath of the Old Testament, God can punish gays by giving them a deadly disease, in the light of the New Testament, God would never do such a thing. In the most recent Testament, God is sharing technologies with the army, helping us take the steps out of the dirt and onto the red carpet which is galactic community, where a miracle is space-time manipulation, and love really is real.

WHAT A BLOODY MESS Is the state of the planet Line ’em up, shoot ’em down God is proud, remains in shroud

The rest is the best Lower the fest

‘Tis merely a test Living the gest

Right now ’tis merely a test We are all living the gest Those at the fest are the best

Wrap me up in tender linens Make me a home in the sun The world outside is far too angry What’s inside is too confused

Baby’s at a party, dad is in the bed Nobody here to pat me Reaching my hand out, into the air Towards what we call deity

Every day is like the last one Falling in-between the chairs For what I know, I do not know It ain’t the same for everyone else

Meeting is tomorrow, bottle’s in the fridge How long until sleep-time? God how I wish, I wasn’t who I am But who can I talk to?

As a young man, I never thought I would compromise To let go of perfection, to satisfy with what is less Now I am the jester of a world occupied with sex And each day is a striptease walk on Broadway

Alas this sadness, some questions you must have I will take a guess at their nature First, you must know, how all this came to be I say it was the Internet Secondly, what I have done wrong I say nothing, to no-one at all So thirdly then, why I complain Because I’ve lost touch with my father

Nobody knows, who I really am Nob-o-o-dy, not even myself Quit the laughters, my friend, ’tis not the end I’m the jester for ever and all I’m the jester for ever and all

If you try to beat me, I always win If I want to win, I will loose Kharma is God, and God’s in the air What do I really believe? What do I really believe?

I believe in love, ’tis all I can say Else I cannot live any longer I must love one and all, short and tall When I’m drunk and every other day thereafter

BOCK

Till Maria

En mörk kraft har världen i sitt grepp. Bock och den förälskade vakten rider mot solnedgången på jakt efter trollkarlen.

Det är ingen som vet var trollkarlen bor, och det är heller inte säkert att det är han som står bakom världens ondska.

Kanske är han den ledes lakej, eller rentav folkets påhitt, en passande syndabock för allt som är fel här på jorden.

Bock vill göra gott, vill rädda folk förbittrade av livets likgiltiga gång. Bock gillar idén om trollkarlen som ondskan manifest.

Det sade spindeln om henne.

Till att börja med…

Livet är en vacklande gång, en dans på utsträckt lina, en rörelse till en omöjlig sång, ovisst hur lång: detta är ju det fina.

Befar den som säger, med en hemmabyggd våg världen väger, att utmaningar och tvister, man blott åt huvudet rister-

Och klipper en skalle, eller bränner den balle, blott för att han skrattar, eller dansar och fnattar; befar den som andra inte fattar.

Ty folk är inget att förstå, likt ropen bakom träden från en lustig skogsrå, men något man i kroppen känner, om ens ord värmer eller bränner.

Det kommer an på en själv, på kärnan, på hjärnan, att se saker an, och tro på dem som kan, och gå med öppen hand, från hem till varje land.

Håll portarna öppna, släpp hjälplösa in, och lyssna ej på gumman som hatiskt slår på trumman, och vaktar sitt rede, ty hon spelar med den lede.

Hat och misstro hör icke världen till, men att älska och hjälpa, att aldrig andra stjälpa, det är människans sigill: vi kan och vi vill.

Läsare, när du på allting tvivlar, och hastigt utan tanke ivrar, och andra med dig lustigt livar, så tänk dig om, och håll dig from-

Ty den lede han då i dig ruvar, med pengar och makt världen kuvar, får oss mot varandra, och folk att mot mörkret vandra.

Det är ju så lätt: låt allt bli rätt.

Kapitel 1

En gång för många, många år sedan sjöng folket en sång. Den handlade om en hjälte vid namn Bock.

De sjöng:

”Sten föll på ett krus och slog huvudet i bordet. Blod från ett hål på skallen, formade en pöl runtom Sten på golvet-

Blev liggande. Bock, vår hjälte, rusade ut ur skuret. Ned längs stigen, förbi bäcken; längre än hon varit förr.

Bock gav sig ut i skogen, sprang som Apollo var henne trogen. Kottar, mossa, träd, helt utan pläd; längre än vad hon kunde minnas.

Sten hade sagt att Bock skulle samla ved. När hon var färdig med det skulle hon göra en brasa. Medan den tog sig skulle hon tvätta rovor.

Sten skulle vila sig på släpet, men, häpet, slog han huvudet i bordet så det kom blod. Solen tittade fram, gav Bock mod.

Solen tittade fram. Molnen gav vika, Bock stannade för att kika, såg ingen Sten komma springande, eller skuret han låg i.

Himmelen blev mörkare, skogen likaså. Bock såg upp mot stjärnorna som blinkade. Månen lyste och sade djupare.

Bock lade sig ned i en dunge. Nedtrampad jord vittnade om vildsvin på vandring. Bock suckade och blundade. Det var sommar.

Sten brukade säga att Bock kommit för att hjälpa till. Innan Bock kom hade Sten fått göra allt jobbet själv.

Tvätta skuret. Så potatisen. Hugga veden. Sätta fällor och fånga smådjur. Göra bål. Tvätta och bädda. Nu kunde Bock göra allt detta.

Bock hade frågat vad Sten skulle göra. Då slog Sten Bock hårt på benet med en käpp så hon inte kunde gå på flera dagar.

Sten visste inte var Bock kom ifrån. En dag stod hon i dörren – som en gåva – såg på Sten med skrämda ögon.

Ibland var Sten borta i flera dagar. Då gick Bock på upptäcktsfärd i skogen runt skuret, men aldrig så djupt som nu.

Nästa morgon var Bock hungrig och såg sig omkring. På marken bland barr och löv fanns myror och kryp hon började äta.

Ack, magen tumlade. Bock kom till en bäck, gick ner på knä och drack. Solen stod högt, vattnet porlade som en sång.

Bock hade sett andra människor än Sten. En gång skulle Bock gömma sig. Sten pratade lågmält, Bock hörde inget.

Bock smygtittade genom fönstret. Efter ett tag gick de. Sten var arg efteråt, slog några vedträn och röt mot himmelen.

Finns det annat än skog, undrade Bock. Ja, sa Sten. Det finns byar och städer, berglandskap och marker.

Bor det människor där? Det finns inga människor, sade Sten. Alla är döda, pesten tog dem. Hur stor är skogen, undrade Bock.

Bock gick tills hon inte kunde se något. Då satte hon sig ner med ryggen mot ett träd. Månljuset gjorde allting svartgrått.

Ett djur kom förbi i mörkret. Det kom riktigt nära, nosade Bock i håret och gick vidare. Moln täckte månen och snart var allt svart.

Bock ensam i världen, här i början på färden. Skogen bjuder på sin natt, och från mörkret hörs avlägsna skratt.

På en djurstig fann Bock en död mus. Märkligt, svansen runt halsen som en snara. Bock åt den rå, så hungrig – ja men söta rara!

Sten brukade berätta historier. Han hade bott i en by när han var barn. Varit helt omöjlig. Som vuxen hade han fördrivits från byn.

Vandrat runt. Rövat och rånat. Haft folk ihjäl. Rest från stad till stad, strax hatad av alla. När pesten kom flyttade han in i skogen.

I skogen kan ingen skada dig, sade Sten. Varför inte, frågade Bock. Då slog Sten Bock hårt på benet med en käpp så hon inte kunde gå på flera dagar.

Ifrågasätt mig inte, sade Sten. Om jag säger att någonting är, så är det. Jag berättar om jag vill, men be mig inte förklara.

I skogen finns bara djur, sade Sten. De är dumma. Har du en påk kan du döda dem. Med en fälla kan du fånga dem.

Människor kan vara farliga, sade Sten. Kommer du an med påk skriker de på hjälp. Då får du antingen slåss eller springa.

Ibland blir det svårt. Man måste smyga. Det bästa med en död är att den inte pratar. Pesten gjorde jobbet, nu är alla borta-

Att snacka med människor går inte, sade Sten. Är inte vi människor, frågade Bock. Då slog Sten Bock i magen. Fråga mig inte om människor.

Berätta mer, sade Bock. Inte ikväll, sade Sten. Släck elden, diska grytan, bädda min säng. Väck mig imorgon när jag vill vakna.

Finns det monster, odjur och troll? Tro fan det finns monster, sade Sten. Bock kokade gröt och hämtade vatten.

Men kan du berätta mer, sade Bock. Du sade att i skogen finns bara djur. Då slog Sten Bock med en käpp. Tro inte på allt jag säger, sade han.

En gång för många år sedan, mötte jag ett skogsrå, sade Sten. Hon dansade och sjöng, lockade mig djupt in i skogen.

En gång mötte jag ett troll som satt och gnagde på ett rådjur. Han frågade om jag ville smaka. Nej tack, sade jag.

En annan gång mötte jag en spindel, stor som ett hus. Vad är ett hus, frågade Bock. Den var stor som ett hus, fortsatte Sten-

På fötterna hade den guldskor och på huvudet en hatt. Den talade till mig, en massa strunt, jag minns inte vad-

Något om en prinsessa och en förälskad soldat…

Ett hus är som ett skjul men större, med fönster och dörr. Man skall inte prata om spindlar, monster och troll, sade Sten.

De finns. Det är allt du behöver veta. Om du någonsin möter ett är ditt öde inte längre i mina händer.

Solen var nästan borta, skogen åter mörk, när ett okänt ljud fick Bock att rycka till. Hon väntade spänt på att höra det igen-

Reste sig upp, såg sig omkring. Där, borta mellan träden, var det något som brann, målade träden i gult och orange.

Någon dansade, långa skuggor kastades på träden. Bock höll andan för inte att höras, smög sig närmare.

En galen sång, nästan inte musik. Ett tonlöst sorl, sprunget ur lågor och aska. Mörka gestalter rörde sig rytmiskt runt ett stort bål.

Den lede, den grymme

Dansar ibland oss

Som en broder

Kom med, kom med

Alla människor och djur

Hela natten

Vid ljusets ankomst

Vi under jorden far

Vi under jorden far

Bock stod gömd mellan två träd, kunde inte förstå vad hon såg. De hade armar och ben som människor, men svansar och horn som djur.

Deras röster var ihåliga, de kastade eld från sina händer. De hoppade genom lågorna, försvann men uppstod igen på andra sidan.

Alla människor och djur

Komma till oss

Satan den lede dansar med oss

Genom alltings tid

För alltings verk

Hela värdens nav

Kom och lek

Vi gör dig glad

Vi mättar kons mage med blod

Kattguld till människan och var

Örter och ben

Grodlår och sten

Bock var förtrollad. Himmelen var svart och iakttagande. Instinkten sade åt Bock att springa, men hon kunde inte röra sig.

Då sade en röst från bålet till Bock: Bock, du står där bak trädet. Kliv fram, vi är ej farliga. Du kan inte gå ifrån oss nu.

Som styrd av en annans hand klev Bock fram och stod i bålets sken. Flammorna färgade ansiktet. Mitt öde är ej i Stens händer nu, sade Bock.

Sten är död, lät det från bålet. I underjorden piskar han med en piska en glödande sten och rullar den på magen i tre tusen år.

Om natten skall han sova, och drömma om en sten, som piskas med en piska och rullas på en mage i brännande smärtor.

Vore du icke så ung än, vore ditt öde snarlikt, men vi ror ej på den som ingen ondska känner. Låt världen ha sin gång, vi möts en dag igen.

Så må du gå, men vi möts vi två, en dag när du är stor, och känner livets snor.Men vart skall jag gå, frågade Bock.

De stackars satarna bor i en by, den är alldeles intill. Gå mot öst, där solen står upp. Gå i två dagar och säg att du kommer med guld.

Så tar de dig sig an, och allting börjar rulla, men berätta aldrig, vad du i natt skådat, och heller ej, vad du gjorde med Sten.

Bock fick tårar i ögonen. Jag gjorde inget med Sten, sade hon. Han föll och slog huvudet och blod kom från hans huvud.

Jag gjorde inget med Sten. Jag sprang, jag gjorde inget annat. Ja det tror du nu, dumma gräs. Men kruset han föll på var lagt dit av händerna dina-

Så när du en gång vid Herrens port står, kommer du ej flina.Gå nu Bock, och vänd dig ej om. Bock gick tills allt var mörkt.

Länge hörde hon Stens vrål, plågad av flammor och tre tusen års dans runt hans brinnande buk, där en piska piskade en glödande sten.

Bock gick i två dagar, fann döda korpar och ruttna katter. En räv utan huvud, en ekorre med svansen fastbiten mellan dödsstela käkar.

Hon åt djuren. Hon drack vatten från bäckarna. Till slut kom hon fram till skogens slut. Vid en äng stod en gammal gård med en länga.

Gunilla var ute för att hämta vatten i brunnen då Bock visade sig vid skogskanten. Men Gud hur ser du ut unge, utbrast Gunilla.

Var har du varit, vad har hänt med dig, var är din mor och far? Bock svarade inte, såg bara på huset. Fönster och dörr, precis som Sten sagt en gång.

Bock fick riktig mat. Det krävdes två bad för att få bort all skit och smuts. Hon lades till att sova i Annas säng med duntäcke.

Det gick två dagar innan Bock pratade. Hon sade att hon kom från skogen, bodde i en skur, hade ingen mamma eller pappa, bodde med en som heter Sten.

Var är Sten nu, frågade Gunilla. Bock ville inte svara. Gunilla tittade fundersamt på barnet. Gunilla bodde med Erik, Felicia, Rickard-

Gert, Anna, Emma, Thorvald och Lille Mats. Huset var inte stort och alla sov i samma rum. Barnen såg skrämt på Bock.

Det var innan hon fått sina två bad. Vattnet var kolsvart efter första badet. Som tjära, sade Erik. Är hon ren nu, frågade barnen.

Ren och klädd i deras egna kläder såg barnen länge på Bock: svart hår ner till svanken, kolsvarta ögon, spetsig näsa, små öron och liten mun.

Bock stirrade tillbaka. Barnen var större och mindre. De hade gröna byxor, bruna byxor, blå skjortor, vita skjortor. Sten hade alltid haft en björnpäls.

Bock följde med barnen på äventyr i skogen runt byn. Hon var ett barn igen, skrattade och lekte. Erik sade att nu har vi fått en ny medlem i familjen.

Hon heter Bock. Vi vet inte helt var hon kommer ifrån eller hur gammal hon är. Bock sover med Anna, sade Gunilla. Ni är ungefär lika stora.

Anna protesterade men de blev goda vänner efter några dagar. Sängen var inte så trång trots allt. En dag var de ute i skogen och lekte-

Titta, sade Bock, se vad jag kan. Anna tittade. Bock höll händerna utsträckta framför sig. Ovanför dem svävade en sten. Den flög.

Anna rusade hem till huset gråtande. Bock gick efter. När hon kom fram stod hela familjen och väntade på henne. Gunilla talade allvarligt.

Varför sade du inte att du är en häxa. Jag kommer med guld, svarade Bock. Kattguld, sade Erik. Du kan inte stanna här!

Vad är en häxa, frågade Bock. Jag har inte varit dum. Jag kanske kan hjälpa. Finns det några tunga saker som ni behöver lyfta?

Bock tittade märkligt på dem, hypnotiserade dem. Från Bocks kolsvarta ögon kom ett sken. Pupillerna blev långsamt röda. Magi, sade Lille Mats.

Erik och Gunilla tvekade. De hade ju stenbumlingen bak huset. Den var till stort besvär. Den hindrade dem från att bygga ut huset mot norr.

Kom, sade Erik. Gunilla kom efter, i hennes kjolar alla ungarna. Bak huset låg en bautasten, tung som ett berg, ostörd i generationer.

Kan du maka på denna bjässen har du vår tacksamhet. Du kan ej stanna, men vi skall hjälpa dig med mat och kläder, sade Erik.

Bock såg på stenen och sträckte ut händerna, koncentrerade sig, tungan på sned mellan läpparna. Stenen rörde sig, först långsamt-

Mossa och buskar gav vika och revs itu. Ett dovt mullrande hördes från jorden och plötsligt svävade stenen en hel meter över jorden!

Var vill ni ha den, frågade Bock, stolt och glad. Blir det bra där borta vid skogsranden? Bock kastade stenen mot skogen och fick stanna ett par dagar mer.

Rickard, den äldsta sonen, gjorde ett par dugliga skor av läder. Kvällen innan avskedet gick Bock och Gunilla en tur efter kvällsmaten.

Solen var på väg ner. Koltrastar och svalor sjöng och lekte, insekter surrade. Du skall veta att jag tycker om dig, sade Gunilla-

Du är en god själ och har mycket kärlek i dig. Jag vet att du vill hjälpa oss, men alla vet ju att häxor är av den onde.Vad är en häxa, frågade Bock.

Gunilla skrattade. Och du skall vara en. Häxor är den ledes skökor, besitter magiska krafter och förstör för alla andra.

Alla andra, frågade Bock. Vi som tror på Herrens förestående paradis, svarade Gunilla. Så som det står i boken. Bock blev förvirrad.

Sten hade aldrig berättat om boken. Sten sade att alla dog i pesten. Bock mindes något rösten i skogen sagt, gissade: boken om den lede och hans bröder?

Åh arma barn, utbrast Gunilla och stannade tvärt men sansade sig. De gick vidare. Säg mig, sade Gunilla, var har du lärt dig din magi?

Jag kan inte berätta, svarade Bock. Har du mött den onde, frågade Gunilla. Nej, jag borde inte fråga, ångrade hon sig. Man får inte kalla på olyckan.

Imorgon går du ned längs den stora vägen och svänger vänster vid floden. Där finns en stad, men kära barn, dölj dina konster, ty folket räds den lede.

Bock gav sig av, längs stigar och vägar, ut ur skogen. Hon slumrade under stjärnorna bland kor och får, åt av brödet hon fått av Gunilla och barnen.

Nästa dag kom hon fram till en flod. På strandkanten satt tre fiskare. Bock gömde sig bakom ett träd och betraktade i tystnad.

Fiskarna pratade ofarligt om allehanda ting: Robert, såg du Perssons plog häromdagen, den fastnade i diket och inte ens oxen fick upp den.

Jaså. Ja, så nu sitter Persson hemma hos Gamle Pär och dricker, och Helga är vansinnig på oxen, så nu skall den slaktas.

Bock lyfte lekfullt en sten och lät den flyga runt över vattenytan till fiskarnas stora överraskning och förskräckelse.

Se, Robert, stenen där! Var, skrek Robert. Där, Robert, den flyger! Den ledes trick! De rusade upp.

Bock lät stenen falla i vattnet med en plums. Snart var allt lugnt igen. Fiskarna såg sig omkring utan att veta vad de skulle se efter.

Är vi inte överens om att vi just såg en sten sväva av sig själv? Ingen i staden kommer att tro oss, Robert. Så skulle det vara Persson.

Tycker jag känner mig lite frusen. Tänk om något är i görningen, en häxa eller annat otyg. De gick mot staden, Bock följde efter.

Sten hade sagt det finns byar, städer, marker och berglandskap. Bock kom fram till stadens port. Där stod en vakt med ett svärd.

Sten hade sagt att människor kan man inte prata med. Bock hade redan pratat med flera. Sten hade sagt att pesten tagit alla människor.

Sten hade sagt att kom man an med påk ropar människor på hjälp, så får man slåss eller löpa sin väg. Bock kunde lyfta stenar. Hon valde att slåss.

Med rödsvarta ögon gick Bock fram till vakten. Stopp i lagens namn, skrek vakten. Bock lyfte vakten upp i luften med tanken. Släpp ner mig, skrek han.

Låt mig komma in, sade Bock. Ja, du får komma in, släpp ner mig bara! Bock gick in genom stadens port. Bakom henne föll vakten ner med ett brak och blev liggande-

Inte död, endast skadad med en bruten ankel. Inne i staden blev Bock snabbt omringad av vakter med sköldar och lansar.

Vem är du, häxa, skrek de. Bock gjorde en ring av eld runtom sig så ingen kunde komma till. Genom flammorna kunde hon inget höra.

Soldaterna ordnade ett eldlag som langade vatten och hällde spann efter spann på elden, men den slocknade inte. Till slut blev en utvald att forcera elden.

Häxa! Vad vill du, varför härjar du vår stad, frågade den utvalde vakten. Vad är en häxa, frågade Bock. Vakten såg omöjligt på Bock.

Jag är Bock. Jag kommer från skogen. Jag är vän med Gunilla, Erik, Anna och de andra. Jag behöver en säng att sova i och jag är hungrig.

Vakten var lamslagen. Det blixtrade till i hans mage. Han förstod inte vad han stod inför. Rödsvarta ögon, en fin liten spetsig näsa.

Långt svart hår. Utan att ha tänkt det och utan att inse det var vakten redan förälskad, mer förälskad än han någonsin varit förr.

Bock, hör på mig, sade han. Du måste släcka elden. Folk blir livrädda. Snart kommer de och har dig ihjäl. Släck elden, jag lovar att tala väl för dig.

De kan ej ha mig ihjäl, sade Bock. Det har ingen kunnat förr. Sten föll och slog huvudet. Ett bord hade honom ihjäl. Jag ser inget bord.

Älskade Bock, jag vet inte vad du talar om. Släck elden, så vi kan prata normalt som folk! Bock gjorde så och vakten rusade runt och manade till ro.

Soldaterna lade sina svärd i slidorna och väntade spänt på vad som nu skulle ske. Stadens borgmästare var på väg.

När Bock kom stormande in genom stadens port hade borgmästaren just somnat och först efter någon tid övertalats att komma ner. Mitt i natten, gormade han.

Nu stod han framför Bock och försökte få kontroll över situationen. Om detta ej är en häxa, vad är det så, tänkte han. Jag vet endast en som kan svara på det.

Eller jag vet nog två. Prästen och häxan. De två borde kunna reda ut det här. Jag måste få vila lite innan jag får besök vid midnatt.

Kära Bock, häxa eller ej, välkommen till vår stad, började borgmästaren. Ditt inträde har ej kunnat undgås av någon.

Eld och våld till trots, brukar jag möta främlingar med öppen port. Tag denna vår gästfrihet på största allvar och ställ ej till mer bråk.

Bock såg på borgmästaren utan att svara. Folk hade samlats och kom nu närmare för att höra ordutväxlingen. Några hade redan börjat samla ved till ett bål.

Gästgivaren ger dig en säng och ett aftonmål. Imorgon bedes du samtala med prästen och häxan, direkt efter frukost, så vi får avklarat detta.

Ett sus gick genom folkmassan. Menade borgmästaren verkligen att prästen och häxan skulle vara i samma rum-

För att samtala med en häxa? Borgmästaren, fortfarande i nattmössa, gick åter till sängs, nöjd med hur fredligt det hela uppklarats.

Till långt ut på natten viskades och skreks det, skrockades och bråkades det, ja till den grad att när tuppen gal sju nästa morgon låg hela staden fortfarande och sov.

Några timmar senare stod gästgivaren, prästen och häxan vid Bocks dörr. Gästgivaren gick in först och ställde brickan med mat på nattduksbordet.

Därefter ville han gå ut, men blev stående eftersom prästen och häxan fastnat i dörröppningen när de båda försökt gå in samtidigt.

Backa, häxa, sade prästen, låt mig gå in. Icke, prästaskalle, svarade häxan. Du går in efter mig, Satan är störst.

Icke, svarade prästen. Herren är störst, maka på dig. Prästen gjorde korstecknet. Häxan lyfte två fingrar i den ledes tecken.

Om jag får komma förbi, sade gästgivaren. Han försökte gå emellan men kunde inte. De gav upp och såg på Bock som satt på sängkanten-

Och log med sina svarta ögon. En värme fyllde rummet, spred sig till deras innersta, återupplivade deras stela hjärtan.

Ovanför staden svävade Herren, osynlig. De var unga på nytt. Gå du bara ut, sade prästen till gästgivaren. Kom du bara in, sade häxan till prästen.

Efter lite makande och stelt dansande i det lilla gästrummet satt prästen och häxan sig ned i varsin stol vid fönstret. Prästen talade först.

Nå, Bock. Du kom in igår kväll och gav ett vilt spektakel, skrämde både vakter och borgmästare till livs. Jag såg det inte själv-

Men har fått berättat för mig att du framkallade en ring av eld runtom dig, och denna eldring kunde inte släckas med vanligt vatten.

Till sist fick en vakt kasta sig igenom eldhavet. Ingen kom till skada, prisad vare Herren. Vakten var dessutom, måste jag säga-

Mycket vänligt inställd till dig efteråt. Prästen tvekade. Han såg över mot häxan. I mina öron låter det hela som häxkonster, fortsatte han-

Direkt från häxornas bok. Rida in i staden. Sprida kaos och eld. Förföra stadens unga män, allt för den grymme Satans skull.

Bock ryckte på axlarna. Prästen blev osäker. Jag vet inte vad häxan har att säga om det hela, sade han och vände sig mot häxan.

Var har du lärt dig dina konster, frågade häxan. Bock ryckte på axlarna igen. Men du måste ju ha något att säga om det, utbrast de båda.

Sten sade att man inte kan prata med människor, sade Bock. Jag tycker också det är svårt. Men Sten var dum. Nu är han död.

Har du dödat Sten, frågade de. Han föll på ett stop och slog huvudet i bordet, svarade Bock. Jag sprang och sprang, in i skogen.

Där mötte jag-

Men Bock slutade tvärt. Prästen och häxan fick inte mer att veta. Denna oskuld, detta arma barn, knappast en ond häxa, så långt var de överens.

Prästen och häxan bugade för Bock, de kunde ju inte annat, renhjärtad som hon var. Borgmästaren tog glatt emot beskedet.”

Kapitel 2

Hjälten rider ut i världen, folket sjunger:

”Bock bodde i staden bland folket. Hon reste ut och var alltid välkommen åter. Folket var stolta över sin nya magiker.

Av häxan fick hon en korp och en råtta, av prästen en bok. Av staden fick hon en gata, av borgmästaren ett hus. Bock tackade och tog emot.

Stadens snickare kom samman och byggde möbler, ett skrivbord att sitta vid. Bock lade boken på skrivbordet och lät djuren leva fritt.

En morgon kom Bock hem och möttes av en hemsk syn. På golvet låg korpen utan liv och råttan satt bredvid, ätandes på liket.

Bock grät i tre dagar och låste sig in. Folket stod utanför fönstret och de bankade på dörren. Bock kom ut och sade att nu fick det vara nog.

Staden ställde till med fest. Alla korpar fick fritt inträde. Råttor bads ej att komma. Låt nu också råttor komma, sade Bock.

Alla råttor skall ej kunna stå till svars för vad min råtta gjorde en gång, oansvarig som jag var att låta den dela rum med en korp, sade hon.

Efter festen fick Bock en häst. Hon red ut, över bäckar och marklandskap, upp i bergen, ner igen och mötte havet för första gången.

Havet böljade och väste, tjöt och ven. Dess grönvita tungor slickade stranden där Bock stod med sin häst. Längre bort var havet mörkblått och stilla, oändligt och lilla.

Lilla havet, skrek Bock för att höras. Vem är min mor och vem är min far? Havet väste och sade att det mindes det inte.

Bock red längs havets kant tills hon mötte klippor. Här red hon inåt landet. Vid skymningen kom hon fram till en stuga.

Hallå, hallå, må jag komma in, sade Bock och knackade på dörren. Vem är det som bankar och ropar så sent, svarade en stämma. Det är jag, Bock från skogen.

Komma in och komma in, det beror på vad du vill här inne. Jag kan höra att du är snäll, men misstag ej, du åker ut om du stjäl.

Jag vill ej stjäla, endast vila, och kanske få äta och sova. Dörren öppnades och där stod en bruten man. I hans hus blott en eldstad, bord och säng-

Torkat kött på en lina och vatten i ett krus. Bock talade om råttan och korpen och grät en del. Men mannen hade förlorat barn och fru-

Ja icke nu, men för år antal sju.Likt ett hav som stormar slickar sår på nära håll, är det stilla och blått när blicken hela vägen gått-

Det gör ont nu och de nästa dagar sju, svarade mannen, men för mig, må du minnas, är dagarna år, ett blödande sår.

Jag lät dem sova i samma säng, snyftade Bock. Det skulle jag ej gjort. Korpen kunde inget göra, råttan bara jaga och jaga-

Ingen himmel att flyga upp i, endast väggar att fäktas runt i. Hade jag blott lämnat fönstret öppet och dörren på glänt-

Så hade den rymt, avbröt mannen försynt. Ty jag lät min dörr stå öppen för fara, när ut och ränna skulle min Klara. Efter henne kom mor, lilla syster och bror.

Nerför klippan och hjälpa, och vinden den stjälpa, och havet det taga, just som det behaga. Bock såg på mannen, såg en tår blänka och rinna långsamt.

När jag kom in jag finn’, korpens mage ut och in, och råttan som log, med käften full av blod. Ack, mitt hjärta det slog, då jag långsamt förstod-

Korpens mod, dödens bod, då den kämpat och dog.Jag vill giva den en sång, till havet vill jag sjunga-

Min korp den tappra, min fågel den svarta. Du satt vid min sida i drömmarnas storm. Du flög upp i himlen och kraxade högt-

Nu finns du ej mera, och stor är min sorg. Du ligger och sover i vågornas borg. Jag klappar och tänker, och havet all sorg dränker.

Kan du ej sjunga en sång ock för mig, sade mannen. En sång för min Klara, hon skulle ju bara, och en sång för lille bror, lilla syster och mor.

Ty jag har ej orden och rösten kan ej mer, och hjärtat det flimrar, ack dessa oändliga timmar! Mannen brast i gråt och började rysta.

Bock stod över honom. Liten är den ro en ung själ kan gro, hos en gammal och plågad, sade Bock och höll på mannens axel.

Tag min sorg, ned till vågornas borg och släpp den så fri, uti havet däri. Släpp ock din egen, till våndornas djup, och se där i borgen, både älskling och sup.

Mannen såg på Bock med stora ögon. Jag ser dem när livet är slut, är det vad du säger? Och det må du hellre tro, ty ser du dem aldrig-

Uti helvetet du bo, svarade Bock. Men jag saknar dem, skrek mannen i förkrosselse. Jag kan ej vänta! Och havet skrek, månen steg och jorden sprang runt sin svans.

Och elden som sprakade till långt efter de var fallit i sömn viskade något hemligt, om havet och tiden, och trots att de sov, lärde de-

Likt en kniv livet sticker hål och lämnar sår som icke kan läkas. Under himmelens valv, kan glädjen bli till halv, men kommer långsamt åter, till den som Gud förlåter.

Åt detta log den lede. Bock vaknade med ett ryck. Mannens säng var tom. Hon fann honom sittandes på en stubbe täljandes en pipa.

Jag spelar pipa, sade han, har många pipor. Här, denna är till dig. Prova den. Bock blåste i pipan. Vackert, sade mannen.

Bock red i tre dagar genom dalar och små skogar. När ingen hörde övade hon på pipan. En melodi om korpen och en om den ensamme faren-

Som skulle leva i tjugo år ännu, och göra tusen pipor, och möta tusen människor, och tänka tusen gånger, vareviga minut, på sin Klara i havets djup.

När Bock kom tillbaka på förmiddagen till staden var korpens död ett sår med en skorpa. Så snart folket såg Bock rida genom porten flockades de på hennes gata.

Från skaran bröt den förälskade vakten fram. Kära Bock, var har du dock varit, frågade han och log. Ta mig in så vi kan tala, jag har tänkt på dig så.

Vi kan tala här, sade Bock. Vakten såg sig omkring och kände allas blickar. Jo, det är klart, sade han. Så böjde han sig fram och viskade i Bocks öra-

Möt mig bak krogen då kvällen är mogen, när klockan slår åtta och bring ej din råtta. Bock svarade högt så alla kunde höra, utan tanke på vad vakten sökt göra-

Om råttan är där än, för jag har ej kikat, tar han med därhän, och retur när vi fikat. Blickar vändes mot den förälskade vakten som hastigt flydde.

Vakten på ängen låg, såg sommaren, lik kärleken, hans håg. När kvällen nalkades gjorde han sig klar-

Håret lite på sned, ställde geväret breved och stod klockan åtta för Bock med råtta. Bock, trött efter turen, nyvaken efter middagsluren-

Mindes plötsligt vakten, den märkliga apan, han som kallat, där ute på gatan. Och något i bröstet hon märkte. Det slog lite hårt, just som om det värkte.

Nej, se det kan jag ej, jag må hellre stanna, här i rummet och rynka min panna. Något i blicken hos grabben, orden som kommer ur flabben.

Ty kärlek var något nytt Bock såg, blott nämnt en gång i Stens skogsrå. Anna var hon glad för, Gunilla likaså, och folket också.

Ja, varför bröstet nu värkte och magen slog en knut, till synes utan grund och utan ett slut, ville Bock knappast undersöka, nej icke bland smärtorna böka.

Vakten i tårar, hela natten han vrålar. Ack hans hjärta brister. Våra själars tvister när allt slår gnistor, sitt förnuft han mister. Mot månen han ropar, i känslorna han rotar.

Bock vaknade nästa morgon förvissad. Hon skulle ut och resa igen. Tog ryggsäcken på. Gick ut genom dörren. Där låg ett brev, hon tog det med.

Uppå hästen och ut genom stadens port. Tidig morgon. Alla sover. Ett regn lade sig över staden. Regnkappan på, den hon fått av folket.

Rida genom landskap och skogar. Sitta och titta, mot djupet blicka. Allena med tanken. Hästen, ranken, den gamla skranken.

Allehanda tid hurtigt passerar, kommer så nästa med stillhet briljerar. I dagen så fast med rörelse och tankar, tills tystnaden kommer, i själen förankrad.

Ett skimrande rus, ett brinnande ljus. Nu tystnad, resonans. Ett eko. Någon kallar. Regnet lyktar. Bock från skogen ensam i världen.

Mörkgrön. Kolsvart. Sommarens ljusa färger. Stannar vid en glänta, solens strålar kan ej vänta, rusar fram mellan molnen.

Stannar vid en glänta, uppe på stigen hästen får vänta. Sätter sig ner på en stubbe, gammal och vis som en gubbe, om blott få år hon är, och knappast kär.

Någon kallar, hon hör ett ljud. En gren som knakar, någons fotsteg brakar. Som många fötter, långa rötter. Många ögon, långa fransar. Vassa käftar, detta allt bekräftar-

En spindel med stora steg, likt en jätte kliver fram bak en trädstam. Större än ett hus, Bocks hjärta i rus. Hennes stora ögon, nu svarta och röda, ser mot monstret, gapar och skall springa-

Gapar och skall springa, men spindeln gör ringa. Står med sex ögon som skimra och glor, åtta små fötter iklädda guldskor. Lyfter på hatten, säger det var som katten.

Är det inte Bock, den modiga magen, som sörjer sin korp och älskar sin råtta, och trotsar vakten som gråter klockan åtta, gjorde prästen och häxan till vänner, och nu i skogen ränner-

Som bodde med Sten och skrämde Anna, är beundrad av Gunilla och betrodd av Klaras far? Bock, som fick en häst och red ut från staden, och snart ligger gott i spindelmagen-

Sluka mig ej, stora spindel, utbrast Bock. Jag smakar ej gott. Jag pruttar och kräker, dina tarmar fräter. Tyst jag må bliva, men om du mig äter, din lycka jag förgäter.

Spindeln flinade och korsade sina ben, lutade sig mot trädet och lyfte en sten. Han här, sade den, denna man, denna Sten, var han din far?

Ack nej, sade Bock. Jag känner ej min far, ej heller min mor. Sten var en ond en, som slog och bedrog en. Jag arbetade och hjälpte, tills ett krus honom stjälpte.

Det var ej ditt fel, sade spindeln och log så att Bock förstod. Jag mötte Sten en gång, och sjöng honom en sång, om en gul långkalsong, ty mannen han var trång.

Han förstod icke annat, än det som var förbannat, och rätt var det nog, att han hos den lede dog. Men vem var din mor?

Du må sluta med att fråga, för det bränner som en låga, sade Bock. Jag stod en dag hos Sten, bankade på skjulets dörr. Jag minns inte alls, vad som varit förr.

Spindeln log. Det kan jag för dig berätta, och liksom du tror på detta (mitt varande mitt framför dig), må du också tro, att detta är det rätta.

Spindeln satte sig ned i gläntan och tände en pipa. Kom och sätt dig, sade den. Jag mötte din far en gång, ja jag mötte också din mor, och tro det eller ej, men jag mötte också dig.

Jag var en liten spindel, inte större än din hand. Jag gick på en äng inte alltför långt härifrån. Jag har icke varit där åter, men en spindel sådant aldrig begråter.

Där på ängen kom hundra hästar och tjugo vagnar, en riktig karavan, och på taket på den största en kritvit svan. Ja, inte en riktig levande svan, förstås, men en i trä, slipad och målad.

Ryttarna på hästarna hade svärd och bar fanor, och där fanns tjänare och kockar, narrar och munkar. Bakerst gick en orkester med trummor och trumpeter.

Jag rusade upp och satt och darrade på en trädstam och betraktade miraklet, just som trumpetaren blåste fanfar och stannade spektaklet.

Allt blev tyst, jag vågade inte andas. Jag såg mig omkring och väntade spänt, och när det var över trodde jag aldrig att det hänt.

För ut från svanvagnen klev en konung och efter honom en drottning, och efter henne en prinsessa, och hon liknade dig, ja tro det eller ej.

Bock frågade vad en prinsessa var för något och spindeln förklarade. En kung då, en drottning då, frågade Bock och spindeln förklarade.

Prinsessans ögon var ej svarta, som dina är nu, men blå, heller inte håret, som ditt är nu, men näsan den var din och precis lik fin. Dräkten du bar gul som solen.

Ni satte er under trädets breda krona, vilade mot stammen, så hade jag fallit, vore det rakt ner i dammen. Tjänare kom med brickor med kakor och dryck, orkestern kom och spelade av glädjens nyck.

Jag såg den lilla flickan, så ståtlig och med lyckan, den som livet en gång ger, som vi alltid vill ha mer, för vilken vi jämt ber och sällan riktigt ser.

Konungen och drottningen smålog och talade, riddarna i gräset lågo och dvalade. Molnen uppå himmelen sprida och sig fjärna, ja kunde det fortsätta så måtte det gärna.

Din far och din mor, de var kung och drottning. Du var prinsessan, så glad och så fin. Ni packade samman, och skulle just att gå, när det på himmelen skedde så-

Att molnen komma närmare och himlen bliva svartare. Regn och hagel, hårt som tånagel, börja störta ner, och mer och mer. Allt vi plötsligt kan skåda, är skyfall tjockt som kåda.

Ni rusade in i svanvagnen, jag detsamma bland bladverken. Snart ni for på annoväga, varthän jag kan ej säga, men jag ser dig icke igen, förrän, Sten skulle bli din vän.

Bock var stum, hon var icke dum. Hon visste ej, om allt var lurendrej, om spindelns ord, var frälsning eller mord. Hon väntade med att tala.

Spindeln harklade sig. Jag har länge tänkt, att regnet var ett omen. Men sånt tror jag bara på ibland. Vad som hände sedan, var som socker på ledan.

Riket blomstrade. Din far och mor styrde med rättvisa och elegans. Folket var lyckligt, ingen för rik eller fattig, och alla voro lärda, och konsterna begärda.

Men så en dag en trollkarl på porten bankar. Han bringar gåvor och oändligt med slantar. Kronan faller, guldet tappar värde och valutan ersätts med magikerns kattguld.

Din far han försökte med den onde att tala, sade: gå nu härifrån och tag dina skatter. När detta ej fungera, han riddarna sänder, men trollkarlen svarar med allestädes bränder.

Snart är allting i brand, folket det rymmer och flyr sitt land. Dina föräldrar i tårar och blivo snart dårar, och bärs ut ur slottet i bojor på bårar.

Så står du där kvar, och inget du har. Slottet av guld blev ett kråkhus av mull. Du är en tröstlös tjej, och du förstår det ej.

Mot skogen du springer så fort du nu hinner. Åren hade gått, lite längre ben jag fått, men du sprang mig förbi, du såg mig ej. Dina ögon var fortfarande blå.

Spindeln blev tyst och kröp iväg. Skogen var stilla, som om den lyssnat på sagan, men inte hade spindeln varit väck i få sekunder förrän en duva började kurra och en koltrast sjunga.

Snart var sommarleken igång igen, syrsor bakom bladen, vind i trädkronorna, vatten i bäckarna, myrornas dans, vildsvinens elegans.

Kapitel 3

Bock och den förälskade vakten draga ut mot trollkarlen, folket sjunger:

”Bock i raseri. Alltings lurendrejeri. Sätter en myrstack i brand! Fäller träd med bara tanken. Tömmer en sjö och låter vattnet rasa ner över djuren.

Bock red runt i veckor, slumrade vid bäcken, i buskar, i vindskydd, med vildsvin, med insekter, uppe i träden bland fåglar. Åt av blad, kottar, kadaver. Sprängde stenar med röda missiler.

Hästen var den bästa vännen. Säg mig, häst, sade Bock. Om jag en gång var en prinsessa men nu är en häxa, vad är jag då egentligen?

Om en prinsessa är god och en häxa är ond, är jag då god eller ond? Är jag ond för att jag nu är en häxa eller är jag god för att jag egentligen är en prinsessa?

Spindeln kanske ljuger. Jag var kanske aldrig en prinsessa. Alla andra kanske ljuger. Jag är kanske inte en häxa. Jag är bara Bock, tänkte hon.

Jag är bara Bock. Jag vet ingenting. Hon mindes mötet med den lede i skogen. Den lede gav mig de svarta ögonen och lärde mig magin.

Kära häst, prickig, brun och svart. Varför ska man vara god eller ond? Jag bränner myrstacken för att jag är ledsen, inte för att jag är ond.

Jag sjöng en sång för den brutne mannen för att han bad mig om det, inte för att vara god. Jag log mot prästen och häxan för att de var söta.

Bock satte sig ned på en stubbe och tänkte, kände efter medan hästen såg på. Jag är inte ond, tänkte hon, och det kändes rätt.

Är jag så god, kära häst. Hästen skakade på huvudet. Detta undrade Bock. Hon visste inte att hästar kunde förstå människospråk.

Det är sant, häst. Jag är inte god bara för att jag inte är ond. Jag är god när jag gör goda ting. Jag gör icke onda ting med vilje.

Tankarna snurrade runt i Bocks huvud. Att vara prinsessa är att vara ädel, sade Bock och tänkte på vad spindeln sagt. Då rör man sig med stora tankar om rätt och fel.

Är man prinsessa, häst, spelar det ingen roll var man sover, vilka kläder man går i eller vad man äter. Det viktiga är att hjälpa folket och att rädda världen.

Vore jag ej prinsessa, häst, voro det utan betydning. Då behövde jag icke bry mig om stora ting, utan kunde gå på strövtåg i skogen i resten av mitt liv.

Men nu säger spindeln att jag är en prinsessa, och den lede har givit mig en magisk kraft. Ack, himlar förovan och eldar förnedan, och Gud som styr sakernas strävan!

Bock beslöt sig för att rida tillbaka till staden och ställa sin magi till allmänt förfogande. Nu var det en ädel uppgift. Nu styrde ideologin om alltings godhet, om folkets nöd och världens räddning.

Små hjältar med stora visioner, kunna rycka hjärtan hos miljoner, och vilja så göra, om ingen dem störa. Men i varje värld av eld och jord, finnes en godhet och finnes en hord.

Horden den leva av plåga och blod, och har inget mod, men resurser den när av folkets armod. Ty om ingen ondska fanns, vore ju allt i balans.

I fjärran lurar en sällsam kraft. Den bubblar och pyser, så envar ryser, vid tanken att få den på manken. Prästen han ber, häxan flyger, och den lede han kokar, dånar bland odjur och fånar.

I världen finnes ingen profetia, allt är idel jord och svinstia. Bock på en häst skall hålla en fest, hon rider till gärningen med full snurr på tärningen.

Vad skola hon göra rätt, hon som icke mera sett, vet som varje gubbe med vett, att en fattig pinan lider, och en sjuks liv skrider?

Men vad skall hon se, för att säkert inse, att fattigdom och sjuka, blott är strängar på en luta, som spelas av den lede, från hans underjordiska rede?

Om hon använder kraften, bär hon så icke lasten, av död och misär, och styrker hans här? Ack, om den lede henne kraften bragt, och hon med godhet gjort en pakt, är inte allt förbi, redan innan hon ridit där uti?

Men käre lyssnare som vore observant, och inte tänker som det är vant, ty ingenstädes faktiskt står, att fan begåvat hjälten vår.

Fågelsång och folkets fröjd, Bock glad och nöjd, då hon återvände till staden. Himmel så praktfull och fin, liksom Bocks min, då hon ner från hästen klev och bland folket blev, ett tag.

Var har du varit, kära magiker?Ute och ridit och sökt folk i nöd, svarade Bock.Se inte längre, vi har slut på bröd!Bock koncentrerade sig och stirrade mod en punkt på marken-

Men fick ge upp, för detta kunde inte kraften.Hur skaffar vi bröd, frågade hon så.Vi behöver mjöl, jäst och vatten, svarade folket.

Vatten har vi från brunnen, den giver än, men mjölet det är slut, och skörden har slått fel.Varpå Bock svarade: frukta ej, jag rider strax till nästa stad-

Och frågar om de har. Bock red iväg och kom tillbaka dagen efter, men påsen den var tom, ty där fanns inga rester.

Folket tog Bock ut på fälten för att se, att allt var ruttet och passé. Veten förr så gul och fet, nu en brun och stinkande smet.

Jag sätter allt i brand och återföder jord och land, sade Bock.Det kan du ju prova, så tager vi striden, och lever på beta och rova under tiden, svarade folket.

Sagt och gjort, pesten skulle bort. Bock startade en ofantlig eldsvåda som härjade i över en vecka. När allt brunnit ner fick jorden slicka såren, och vänta på våren.

Problemet försatte Bock i tankar: det är ju icke för bondelivet mitt hjärta bankar. Hon ville ta livet i hornen och ruska runt, inte vänta på kornen och snacka strunt.

Nästa dag stod Bock återvänd på sin gata med folket runtom sig. Kom fram den som har ont, som är dum, som vill ha en sten flyttad, manade Bock.

Folket ropade och bad och kom med alla möjliga klagomål. Bock kunde inte höra något som helst. Då visade sig plötsligt en bekant figur i folkmassan.

Kära Bock, viskade den förälskade vakten. Har du läst mitt brev?Brev, vilket brev, tänkte Bock, men så mindes hon brevet, det hon fann på trappsteget.

Bock tog vakten in med ett ryck, sade: kom och sätt dig, låt mig bjuda på en dryck. Sanningen är att Bock blivit lättad, då hon av folkets drön blivit ganska mättad.

Nå, vad sade du för något om ett brev, frågade Bock och på sätt tiden fördrev. Vakten stammade att han några ord på papper skrivit, då han en söndag ensamt tiden fördrivit.

Bock i ryggsäcken länge rotar, men finner till sist brevet och ropar: här! Jaha, då ska vi se, första ordet börjar på ”B”.

”Bästa Bock, jag ligger i solen och tänker på dig. Molnen de blickar ner på mig och undrar vad jag gör. Inget, svarar jag. Jag ligger bara här och tänker på världens sötaste tjej.”

Bock lade ner brevet och såg på vakten, vars hjärta med fingrarna bankat takten. En rasande galopp, och nu sade det stopp. Från stolen han faller utan hopp.

Eld och lågor! Likblek vakten på golvet flämtar. Ack, hjärtats plågor! Bock ett glas vatten hämtar. Hälla på hans överkropp, snart står vakten åter opp.

Bock och vakten framför varandra, bara dem och inga andra. Vakten skäms men ändå är han trygg. Bock, för kärlek ännu blind, känner sig rätt skygg.

Vad är detta, frågar Bock. Det är allt i världen, svarar vakten. Har det att göra med sjukdom och svält?Det är hjärtats sjukdom och svält.Säg till om jag kan hjälpa.

Vakten ställd av svaret bliver, böjer sig fram och en kyss Bock giver. Så springer han ut, till folkmassans tjut, och försvinner runt knuten, hans betagenhet än mer gjuten.

Kvar på golvet ensam står, Bock som sätter sig och giver allt en tår. Ser ut i tomma rummet, blank som ostörd sjö, en kolsvart mö, ett väsen som icke kan dö.

Ty något i Bock sig rör och välter, alla hennes tankar svälter. Jag bryr mig ej om arma vakt, icke heller om hjärtans jakt, ser endast den ledes grymma slakt.

Bock har en mission, en storartad vision, och straks hon åter med folket sig blandar, likt en ängel från ovan hon burdust landar.

Säg mig vem som bringar det största fördärvet, rasar hon, och ser sig omkring. Folket på avstånd i ring, överraskade, halvt skrämda.

Vad det är de skådar, vad dessa brinnande ögon förebådar, veta de ej, eller vad det är för en tjej, denna magiker som plötsligt visat sig.

Någon ropar tjuvar, andra att kungen folk stuvar. En massa röster i spektrets färger, som till slut konvergerar, konsensus fungerar, och faller

på svart.

Det finns en trollkarl i en grotta inte långt härifrån. Han sitter där hela natten, dricker brännvin från tratten och har tama fladdermöss i hatten.

Vi menar att han förbannar det hela, så vi knappast kan leva. Han har förpestat vår skörd, och gjort borgmästaren helt störd. Han sover på dagen och är helt borttagen.

Trollkarlen har gjort arbete till en pina och fått våra muskler att förtvina. Han har gjort så att vattnet smakar trist, men vi genomskådar han list.

Det är hans fel att korna inga ungar får och på fårna ingen ull uppstår. Det är han som får det att regna i en månad, så at brunnen svämmar över, och får himlen at blåna, när vi skyar behöver.

Denna onda vridna man har haft omgång med min fru, sade en. Han har förpestat henne med brännvin och kyss, jag kan lukta det, det må ha varit alldeles nyss.

Icke att han har, svarade frun. Men dig har han lurat, i din skalle murat, att jag skulle ha turat, med en sådan gammal karl. Aldrig att jag har!

Om du bara var hälften så pilsken, som du nu är ilsken, sade en tredje, så skulle nog din fruga dig vilja. Vad säger du, din rostiga cykel, står du här och sprider gyckel!

Stämningen blev alltmer uppjagad. Det var tydligt för Bock att denne mystiske trollkarl hade en del på sitt samvete och orsakade mycket lidande bland folket.

Medan folk med varandra bedrev gäck, var Bock plötsligt väck. Någon ropade att hon var borta, och alla skämt kom till korta. I ringens mitt var där nu fritt.

För Bock var åter ute och red, och hästen den var med så klart, men var grottan låg, kom hon inte ihåg. I all hast hade Bock glömt fråga vart hon skulle.

Bock kände sig fram, red än mot öst och än mot väst, så lite mot norr och så mot söder igen, men, det var som om hon red i ring, ty plötsligt förstod hon ingenting.

Där var staden igen, just som hon lämnat den. Hon red in genom porten och fick fatt i första bästa, ja vilken som helst, ty trollkarlen alla förpestar-

Det är det ingen som vet, fick hon svarat, ty inget finns bevarat, som en gång kommit därhän. Det sägs att blott den mest otursamme vandrare fångas i trollkarlens klor-

Endast den som lycklig på stigen går, och aldrig skiljer en tår, blickar mot solen och ler, och var morgon för Gud ber; nedåt vägen vandrar, och plötsligt hos trollkarlen hamnar.

Ty trollkarlen älskar det som är trist, och använder all sin list, och vänder flin till grin, på det grymmaste sätt, så det aldrig blir rätt: så att livet leves på ett fruktansvärt sätt-

Så att ingen säker på morgonen vaknar, utan ständigt dörren ängsligt bevakar. Så att en vacker havstur själen skakar, och ingen en annan själ bejakar.

Den som däremot är skrockfull och bitter, eller för mord och våld bakom gitter sitter, skyr allt fnitter, eller djävulsk ondska besitter, den får av trollkarlen vackert smicker.

Bock reagerade på den starka beskrivningen av trollkarlen, och ville blott en sak veta: hur länge har denna magiker fått heta som han heta?

Jag skall ut och magikern finna, till staden skall jag honom bringa, och därmed inför alla honom tvinga, att sluta och omedelbart försvinna, svarade Bock.

Bock till folkets räddning red igen, men just som hon passerat stadens port, kom någon springande rasande fort. Det var den förälskade vakten.

Tag mig med, du sköna, min kärlek är ingen skröna. Jag följer dig i vått och torrt, ropar om du kommer bort, och får uppdrag gjort, snabbare än fort.

Bock ryckte på axlarna. Hon hade inget emot en gäst. Ta din häst, sade hon, så rider vi innan det blir mörkt. Jag vet inte vart, men vi rider i full fart.

Ty trollkarlen skall ej få rymma, hans grotta vi skall finna, och folkets lycka återvinna. Vi rider till nästa stad, där jag om bröd förr bad.

Den förälskade vakten kom med häst och packning för vinter och höst. Bock svara mig, och svara mig ärligt, sade han: älskar du mig?”

Kapitel 4

Row, row, row your boat. Gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily. Life is but a dream:

Bock med vakten på färden, ut i vida världen-

Sitter stilla mot ett träd, betraktar droppar som faller från bladen, från regnet som startade dagen. Nu kan vi åter upp på hästen sitta, och mot den andra staden skritta.

Regnet faller inte mera, så plötsligt det kom, och gjorde vägen till lera. Vi nådde knappt in under skogens skydd, av blad och grenar noggrant sydd.

Vi red i en solnedgång genom natten och mötte de första röda molnen då regnet tvingade oss till vila. När vi satt och glodde, jag mig en lur snodde-

Bock, jag såg dig om natten, hur du nynnar mörkrets sång, ögonen mot valvet, följer stjärnors gång: sover du aldrig?

Jag varken sover eller är vaken, svarade Bock, och mindes Stens skur. Sten hade vänt sig och jämrat, och ack, som han svor.

Jag brukade gå ut om natten och ställa mig under stjärnorna; som till teater följde jag himlavalvets gåtfulla skådespel.

Om vintern sade natthimmelen ingenting, och denna rasande tystnad dansade med evighetens blinkande öra; om våren och vintern blåste det så jag inget kunde höra.

Sommar, tänkte jag i regnet, vore det blott evig sommar kunde jag alltid höra livets röst, och ville alltid veta vart jag skulle.

Det kunde vara stormigt när Bock kom ut men snart var hon och natten ett: så sov Bock, likt ett moln. En gång kom en grävling förbi-

Gick och nynnade, nosade och grymtade som grävlingar nu gör när ingen dem ser. Men plötsligt stannade den, såg något märkligt.

Såg en människa i gläntan, stå helt stilla i väntan, i trans, i stilla dans, med rymden och Gud, svävande någonstans. Det tyckte grävlingen.

De stod där hela natten, för grävlingen bästa skatten, att hitta en existens, med denna lata tendens, att bara stå och titta, utan något att hitta.

Solen skulle just stå upp, men fick vänta en minut, för grävlingen plötsligt rusar ut, likt ett utlett skrälle, från sitt gömställe.

Petar Bock på tån, kroppen av förväntan spröd som ett rån, när Bock sig långsamt vänder, mot grävlingen, som knappt tror det händer-

Rödsvarta ögon, och grävlingen stel av fasa, ty däri rasa: hela världens sorg, likt äpple i en korg, och trots att dessa ögon gråter, de inga tårar låter.

Nej, stilla Bock världen beklagar, varför Gud instiftat lidandens lagar, att olyckan springer från hus till hus, och tycks släcka varje ljus.

Grävlingen hade aldrig rört detta sorgens land. Nog blev det hemskt ibland, en blodig tand, men sådan är naturens gång, och alltid hjälpte fåglarnas sång.

Inte kan det vara så illa, sade grävlingen, gammal och klok. Inte kan vad vara så illa, frågade Bock. De såg oförstående på varandra. Bock ögons var blå igen.

Just då ljuset och skogens myller dialogen stör, och fåglarna åter i full vigör. Borta från skjulet hördes Stens röst som ropade högt. Grävlingen skyndade sig vidare.

Du verkar sova nu, sade vakten till Bock som satt och stirrade ut i luften. Allt här runtomkring är precis vad det verkar vara, men inte du.

Detta träd är ett träd. Grenen som bladen hänger på är en gren. Mitt hjärta som slår så hårt och bultar när jag talar till dig är ett hjärta.

Men vad är du, Bock? Vad i hela världen är du? Du liknar en människa, men det är du i alla fall inte. Ingen människa kan skapa eldringar som inte kan släckas.

De säger att jag är en häxa, svarade Bock frånvarande. Ja men det är du heller inte, svarade vakten, för häxor är onda, och du är inte ond.

Bock reste sig. Jag vill bringa rättvisa och glädje till världen, sade hon. Det uppnås inte vid att sitta här och prata strunt. Dags att resa vidare.

Resa genom natt och dag, livet är ett snöre. Rullen har jag i min ärm, snörd om mina fingrar. För varje steg jag tar, för varje sväng vägen har-

Släpper jag en liten bit, tvinnar snöret och rullar in igen. Men ack, det är mig bakom. En dag när rullen är slut-

Kan jag snurra runt och återvända. Följa snöret vägen hem. Leva allt igen. Det sjöng vakten.

Det går ju inte att leva såhär, klagade vakten. Vi har inte sovit på tre dygn. Man fungerar inte som människa. Tankarna gör ont. Bock, vi måste pausa.

Lägg dig och vila här i diket. Jag väntar i staden när jag kommit fram, svarade Bock och tog hästens tyglar och satte av i galopp.

Men äventyret, skrek vakten efter henne. Jag vill också vara med, vill vara det när, vill vara dig när. Bock kom tillbaka, såg ner på vakten från hästryggen.

Detta är inget äventyr, detta är verklighet, sade Bock och försökte sätta sig in i vaktens krångligheter. Hon tänkte på långa dagar i Stens fångenskap-

Om man sätter ett mål – att man ska klara det – så har man kommit långt. En ny dag gryr, och kämpar man, kommer natten, och en ny dag gryr åter.

Vakten klev av sin häst, säkrade sig att Bock såg det, och lade sig till att sova på vägen. Du väntar på mig, sade han, och somnade på två sekunder.

Bock väntade tålmodigt i två dagar. Folk kom förbi på vägen, fick gå runtom den snarkande soldaten. Den andra dagen stannade en handelsresande för att prata.

God dag, unga dam, sade hon till Bock. Kvinnans gråa hår var flätat i en fläta och lagt över skuldran. Flätan var bundet samman med en lerblomma.

Jag ser att din vän är trött, mycket trött. Hon såg på vakten, sedan åter på Bock. Men kunde ni, unga dam, vaken och vacker-

Kunde ni tänka er att ta en titt på vad jag säljer? Ser du denna vackra lerblomma? Perfekt till att binda in ett vackert hår som ert.

Så svart det är, utbrast hon förvånat då hon såg Bocks hår. Tror aldrig jag sett ett så svart hår. Säg mig, har du använt pigment? Vad är din hemlighet?

Kvinnan spände ögonen i Bock, som såg bort. Jag har ingen hemlighet, svarade Bock och såg på sten och grus på vägen.

Ja men kära nån, något måste du ha gjort. Jag har rest dessa nejder fram och tillbaka i alla dess hörn, och aldrig har jag sett ett så svart hår.

Det nästan lyser så svart det är ju! Damen tog sig för kinderna. Halleda! Det glimrar ju! Hon såg sig om efter någon som kunde instämma.

Men där låg bara vakten och sov. En torr vind prasslade i trädkronorna och for över fälten. Molnen rörde sig snabbt på himlen, och solen sken.

Bock drog sig för att se på den irriterande damen, men när hon till sist gjorde det, så den stackaren såg Bocks rödsvarta ögon-

Ja, då svimmade kvinnan och föll pladask på vägen, ganska prydligt bredvid den förälskade vakten, som fortfarande sov som en sten.

Bock såg roat på vakten som drömde starkt, som kramade och rullade runt där på vägen. Snart hade han förflyttat sig helt intill damen, som inte rest sig än.

Bock skrattade då hon såg vakten omfamna kvinnan. I orolig dimma kysste han hennes mun och panna och föll sedan åter i djup sömn, nu med armarna omkring henne.

Men ajdå! Oj! Vad i hela världen! Damen grymtade och stönade och försökte komma loss. Men vakten hade ett hårt grepp om sin älskade.

Jag kan inte komma loss, skrek damen nästan paniskt. Bock log. Detta var komiskt. Det var sällan Bock blev road, men nu skrattade hon.

Kan du inte hjälpa mig? Han verkar ha somnat med armarna omkring mig. Jag kan alltså inte komma ur hans grepp. Hon såg på Bock med bedjande ögon-

Bock förstod rädslan i kvinnans ögon. Stackars människa, tänkte Bock. Så allvarligt är det väl inte. Inte är ditt liv i fara. Lite kan du väl tåla-

I och med detta uppstod inom Bock en kamp, helt abstrakt, på ett annat plan, mellan gott och ont. Det var klart att hon skulle hjälpa, men omedelbart eller bara snart?

Det var tydligt för Bock, att om hon vände ryggen och gick, ja då var hon ond, då var handlingen ond. Om hon hjälpte ofördröjligen, då var hon god.

Hur länge kunde hon vänta med att hjälpa damen? När blev det ont? Hur länge kunde hon låta sig bli road av den förälskade vaktens snarkande grepp om den chockerade damen?

Så lätt det är att bli ond, tänkte Bock. Här serveras det på ett silverfat. Här ute på ett blåsande fält. Men då beslöt hon sig för att hjälpa.

Nu var det inte roligt mera. Nu gick Bock fram och lirkade damen ur vaktens famn. Vakten smackade med läpparna och vände sig om.

Tack, tack ska du ha, sade damen när hon kommit upp och torkat gruset av kläderna. Jag måste vidare. Det var angenämt, vi ses kanske en gång! Farväl!

Bock nickade och stod en lång stund och såg efter henne. Nog hade hon märkt, att jag fann det prekärt, att hjälpa, tänkte Bock.

Bock satte sig ned och såg på vakten. Irriterande, tänkte hon. Med all min energi, all min goda vilja, alla mina planer-

Så sitter jag bara här och glor. Bock tänkte på trollkarlen, hur han kanske just i detta nu steg ut ur sin grotta, och såg sig om med onda ögon-

Slickade sina läppar. Tänkte ut ett lagom mål, en skörd att förpesta, en vattenbrunn att förgifta, ett folk att förrycka-

Red ut på sin svarta häst. Galopperade i solnedgången, genom natten. Piskade hästen. Var på väg, snart framme. Folket darrande oförberedda!

Bock ryckte till. Nej, nu får det vara nog, sade hon högt. Hon reste sig upp. Mitt hjärta bankar och tanken är klar, men händerna är bundna.

Då såg hon lite längre bort på vägen från staden en flock människor komma springande. De var långt borta men närmade sig hastigt.

Några bar på påkar, andra hytte med nävarna, några släpade på en kärra. En figur gick i täten, rund och arg. Bock kände snart igen henne.

De var cirka en tio-femton stycken, stora och små, unga och gamla, och främst i ledet, kom den med beskedet, den handelsresande damen.

Där är hon, skrek hon till folket! Häxan! Fånga henne innan hon förhäxar er också!

Bock var blixtsnabb. Innan påkarna nådde hennes ben, eller händerna hennes hals, brann en hög mur av eld runtomkring henne.

Men vakten, som nyss sovit men nu vaknat, satt omtöcknad utanför ringen och kliade sig i örat. Bock bet sig i läppen. Tusan också.

Folkmassan grep fatt om vaktens armar och ben och band honom till kärran. Att man aldrig får ro, beklagade han sig, inte helt vaken ännu. Det ena efter det andra.

Häxa, släck elden och kom ut, annars är det slut med din demon här i människoskepnad. Vi är många fler än er, och i staden står en hel armé.

Hon är ej en häxa, skrek vakten från kärran. Hon är godhetens drottning, bringare av fred och rättvisa. Låt henne vara omedelbart!

Men sådana ord var just vad folket hade förväntat sig från den ledes hora, och de lät sig inte överbevisas. I ring stod de så nära elden som möjligt utan att förbrännas.

Bock fick en impuls, en liten tanke, om att låta eldhavet förtära dem alla. Om elden var en cirkel, bröts denna diskret på sina ställen.

Men Bocks vilja var stark. Hon klarade alla prov, och det varade inte länge innan hon släckte elden och lät sig tagas till fånga.

Spända på kärran blev Bock och vakten förda till staden. En hetsig folkmassa väntade dem. Den skanderade ilsket:

Vad har vi här!

En häxa!

Vad ska vi göra!

Bränna på bål!

Om och om igen. Bock och vakten såg på varandra. Kanske var detta slutet, inte bara på deras korta äventyr, men även på deras korta liv.

Kärran blev körd till stadens torg där en stor hög av träd och grenar var samlad. Så blev allt tyst. Folket väntade på att någon skulle ta ordet-

Ta ordet och förkunna domen. Prästen skulle komma och slå spiken i kistan. Borgmästaren skulle nicka och låta spektaklet börja. Men ingen kom.

Folket mumlade. Jag vill inte, viskade vakten till Bock. Så lite högre: jag vill inte. Den förälskade vakten, på dödens branta rand, ut i brinnande sång brista:

Jag vill inte dö, och dö skall jag ej.

Ty oskyldig är jag i himmelen.

Jag har allt att ge, det får ni ej ta.

Rättvisa må råda på jorden.

Han sjöng med ärlig, spröd röst, en sentimental melodi. Samma verser om och om igen. Först var det oklart vad som hördes.

Men snart stod det klart, att häxans medhjälpare var god till sång, och kunde röra mänskliga hjärtan. Ty inte ett öga var torrt, och snart började folk sjunga med.

Ja, snart stod hela torget i sång. Jag vill inte dö, och dö skall jag ej, ty oskyldig är jag i himmelen. Jag har allt att ge, det får ni ej ta-

Rättvisa må råda på jorden. Nu kom borgmästaren tillbaka till staden efter en tjänsteresa. Han såg det otända bålet, kärran med de två fångarna, och hörde folket i sång.

Vad i all världen är det som försiggår! Vi har fångat en häxa, skrek någon.Men hennes lakej är en skönsångare. Vi tvivlar på att hon är en häxa trots allt.

Ty inte kan ondska alstra sådan skönhet, argumenterades det.Men det är ju inte häxan som sjunger, invändes det. Nej, men skönsångaren är ju under hennes influens.

Vore hon en häxa torde han vara förpestad.Har ni testat om hon är en häxa, frågade borgmästaren irriterat, innan ni drar era slutsatser?

Det blev tyst. Det hade de ju inte. Deras argumentation var uteslutande baserad på logik. Har ni testat om hon flyter på vatten?

Det behöver ni inte, hördes plötsligt Bocks lugna och väldiga röst från kärran. En våg av välbehag svepte i och med orden över folket.

Vem är det som talar med en sådan röst? Bock hade inte sagt ett ord sedan hon blev fångad, hade lugnt väntat på sakens upplösning.

Ty Bock visste, att allt slutar gott. Hon visste att hon inte kunde bli fångad, att inget ont kunde ske henne. Hon väntade blott spänt på fortsättningen, som vore allt ett skådespel.

Borgmästaren makade sig genom folkmassan fram till Bock. Hennes svarta ögon med de röda pupillerna mötte honom.

Du är då av en annan värld! utbrast borgmästaren. Din röst, dina ögon, ditt hår. Hon framkallar eldringar, utbrast någon. Vad är du om inte en häxa?

Jag är Bock från skogen. Jag vet inte vad jag är. Jag vill bringa fred och rättvisa till världen. Jag skall finna den onde trollkarlen i grottan och fånga honom.

Jag har aldrig hört något så dumt, skrattade borgmästaren. En häxa du är och häxa du förblir, i vår fängelsehåla, där du skall sitta och ruttna.

Din lakej kommer med dig. Han må vara en skönsångare, men han är likväl din hjälpare. Har han lust att sjunga skall han vara välkommen.

Nog skall vi höra honom i hela staden. Borgmästaren grinade och såg sig omkring. Folket stod stilla och tänkte. Ingen sade något.

Endast ljudet av kärrans knakande hjul och den förälskade vaktens långa suck klädde solnedgången. Folk vände hem till sitt.”

Kapitel 5

I fängelsets mörka håla, Bock kallar på hjälp, folket sjunger:

”Vet du, Bock, sade vakten. Jag tycker faktiskt det är ganska mysigt att vara i fängelse. Bara du och jag. Ingen som stör oss. Inte en massa ridande och äventyr.

Bock svarar inte. Timmarna går. Det är första dagen. Utanför slumrar staden i morgondiset. Kyrkklockan ringer. Tuppen gal.

Fängelset, denna håla. Bock på ryggen på stengolvet. Uppe i hörnet en liten svart spindel som glor. Detta lurendrejeri. Bock kokar inombords.

Mat! En skål med vattnig havregröt kastas in genom gallret och hälften spiller ut. Vakten ned på knäna och slickar. Det tar jag, Bock. Ät du från skålen.

Detta lurendrejeri! Dessa onda, svarta människor. Denna orättfärdiga värld. Bock smakar bitterhetens frätande vätskor, söker efter syndabockar-

Ser på spindeln i taket i sitt nät. En fluga kommer flygande, från världen på andra sidan muren, från friheten, där ute bland folket, bland solen och vindarna-

Surrar runt och sätter sig i taket. Spindeln smaskar med sina käftar och tittar på flugan med sina ögon. Flugan lugn, tvättar benen, vingarna och snabeln.

Igen och igen. Dag efter dag. Spindeln vidgar sitt nät. På den femte dagen fastnar flugan i nätet. Surrar ihärdigt och tystnar sedan. Själsfrände, tänker Bock.

Ack, att inget blir som man tänkt sig, säger vakten. Man förnimmer framtiden, känner dess andetag och dess värme. Ungdomens hoppfulla drömmar.

Så hamnar man i en fängelsehåla och dagarna går, svarar Bock. Sten, den uslingen. Han tog mig tillfånga, gjorde mig ond med sina ord och slag.

Ack, mor och far, var är ni nu? Sitter även ni och ruttnar i en grop? Är detta vår släkts öde, att födas om sommaren för att frysa till döds när vinter kommer?

Hör, en fågel sjunger utanför. Helt intill. Sjunger om friheten och om maskar, om gröna blad och grenar som vaggar i vinden.

Tio dagar. Tjugo dagar. Femtio dagar. Bock, jag vet ännu inte allt om dig. Säg mig, den dagen Sten kom hem med en död räv-

Hur många gånger var det du skulle vattna potatisen när det inte regnat på två veckor-

Sade Sten verkligen att du kom från tiggarhuset och var smutsigare än hans disktrasa-

Visste du att jag spelade violin som barn? Jo, det är sant. Men jag spelade inte så länge, det var för omständligt. Jag ville hellre leka de andra.

Dagar, dagar, ändlösa dagar. Månen som lyser in genom det lilla fönstret, gallrets skuggor på Bocks bittra ansikte.

Vissa nätter när vakten sover står någon vid gallret och ser in. Bock känner en närvaro men vill inte vända sig om. Bock, minns du mig?En rutten andedräkt, från bål och brända djur.

Minns du jag sade, att vi ses igen? Det är inte än, min olyckliga vän. Det är om lång tid, ty du får aldrig frid. Jag väntar och väntar och väntar.

Bock går bort till ena hörnet, vänder om och går tillbaka till det andra. Vakna, somna, vakna, somna, vakna, somna, vakna somna, vakna, somna, vakna, somna.

Solen går upp, solen går ner, solen går upp, solen går ner, solen går upp, solen går ner, solen går upp, solen går ner, solen går upp, solen går ner.

Bock står vid gallerfönstret och betraktar människorna på torget. Ser dem bränna häxor. Onsdagar är det marknad. Varannan fredag är det spelegille.

Vakten håller då konsert. Folk samlas utanför fängelset och hör på. Vakten har skrivit nya låtar sedan förra gången. Sjung den om jungfrun!

Vakten tar ton. Bock spottar på golvet och håller för öronen.

Jag ute och vandrade en solig dag. Mina fickor var tomma och huvudet så. Jag gick där och tänkte och vissla en sång, att kanske jag möter kärleken en gång.

Då stod där framför mig en underbar dam; det svartaste hår och de mörkaste ö-ö-ö-ö-gon. Hon log och gav mig en kyss på min kind.

Ja, vi dansade och kramades natten lång. Ja det var en gång, ty nu hon min hustru ä-ä-ä-är, och vi bor i ett slott på en himmelsk bergstopp.

Slut! Applåder. En gång till! Vakten börjar sjunga sången en gång till, men slutar abrupt. Bock har slagit honom i ryggen.

Tack för mig, tack för mig. Folket buar och skriker skällsord. Förbannade häxa, skriker de. Låt honom sjunga! Du är en satmara! Det skall inte gå ut över oss.

Varma sommarkvällar, vinden blåser lätt över sjön Immelens nordöstra vikar, där Gunilla och Erik och barnen har slagit läger för kvällen.

Ty Gunilla något hade märkt, uti sömnen, genom magen, en hemlig känsla, ett inre kall. Hon talade en dag vid middagsbordet, och uti världen de for.

Bock, ska jag säga er, sade Gunilla. Hon är i fara. Hon kallar på mig dag och natt. Barnen såg på varandra och tänkte att nu hade mor mist förståndet.

Men Gunilla gav inte upp. Till slut orkade inte Erik höra på det längre, och gav sin tillåtelse, att familjen ut och resa skulle, när solen sken över varje kulle.

Våren kom sent och slog hastigt över i en brännande sommar, så brunnarna och gräset torkade, och åarna blev gyttjepölar och sjöarna drog vattnet till sig.

De reste norrut, det var ditåt drömmen pekade…

Bock i hålan satt och glodde på ny fluga, som surrade runt spindelns käftar, dag efter dag, som det var flugan till behag. Den likt jag, tänkte Bock.

Den likt jag, föredrar fängelsehålans trygghet framför omvärldens faror, dvalar i svalhet och skuggor, bak mursten och järn.

Men icke kan väl jag, likt flugan med ett vingtag, komma utanför väggen, med min magiska kraft, tänkte Bock. Hon försökte.

Men inget hände. Där fanns inget att bränna, ingen sten att lyfta. Och att styra sinnet på en tillfällig förbipasserande eller försäljare på torget-

För att få denne att besöka fängelset och nå ner i hålan, var helt otänkbart, omöjligt. Bock började kalla på hjälp: om natten när staden sover, Bock ihärdigt på Gunilla ropar.

Gunilla, jag vet ej vem jag annars skall taga till. Det ondsinta folket har tagit mig till fånga., folket från den andra staden, den bortom ditt hus.

Kära Gunilla, du måste hjälpa mig. Fången i en håla i den andra staden. Ondsint folk. Hälsningar Bock. Kära Gunilla, du måste hjälpa mig.

Det onda folket har satt mig i en håla. Följ skogsvägen från staden när ditt hus. Vänster utmed den brända marken. De har vakter, var försiktig.

Vakten, liggandes på rygg på fängelsets stengolv: Vet du, Bock. Jag tror inte vi behöver något annat än det som ryms innanför dessa fyra väggar.

Jag ligger här och tittar ut genom fönstret på den ljusblå himmelen. Du har gått bort till ditt rum… Hörn! inskjuter Bock. Nyss var du här.

Fortfarande upptagen av dig i mitt sinne ligger du och surmular där inne, klädd i ditt korpsvarta linne, likt en hyllning till kärlekens minne.

Ja du talar fint, sade Bock efter vakten tystnat. Men var är handlingen bakom dina ord, dessa onyttiga självupptagna infall?

Så spände Bock ögonen i vakten och orden ekade över stadens torg:

För hade du haft något vett i din skalle och icke varit som nu en stor fet nalle skulle du satt krafter till och fått allt dit vi vill!

Tystnad. Allt är tyst, även folket på torget utanför, även djuren. Endast duvornas kurrande och en örns skrik över det fjärran berget.

Vakten strax uti tusen tårar, för Bock mångfaldigt bedårar, att det finnes alls inga den ledes kårar, som jämnt livets godhet fårar.

Den smärta ditt hjärta känner, finnes ej bland fältens bränder, ej heller här i vår grop, bland spindlar, gammal havregröt och sot.

Jag vet vad det innebär att såra en medmänniska. Jag vet vad två människor kan göra mot varandra när ondskan tar över. Hjälpa eller stjälpa.

Hjälpa eller stjälpa, fortsatte vakten. Bock, vi sitter här i gropen tillsammans. Kanske de släpper ut mig en dag, om jag sjunger bra nog. Men dig släpper de aldrig.

Det sägs att den som visar folket ljuset, bliver själv dragen i gruset. Dagen har sin gång, likt släggan sjunger stenens sång.

Bock lyssnade. Vakten talade. Jag tror inte på den rättvisa du söker, på folkets frigörelse, på ont och gott. Allt är inte svart och vitt.

Det finnes onda borgmästare, och dem skall folket nog störta, men var är den onda trollkarlen? Var är den grotta från vilken han rider om natten?

Jag ser blott godhet vartän jag går, och vintern jag förstår, som en begynnande vår. Jag såg min far och mor slå varandra ihjäl, sade vakten med tårar i ögonen.

Så när du rider mellan hus och hem, och förkunnar dig beskyddare och allas vän, tvivla ej, och folket lägger släggan och sätter örat till.

Men nog har de hört allt, och nog mördar de bakom väggarna… och nog är alltet en evig vinter på väg mot paradisets förlovade sommar.

Och skåda bara folket på torget. För blott ett år sedan sjöng vi tillsammans så inte ett öga var torrt. Nu går de och spottar och svär.

Bock kom i tankar om mötet med den lede i skogen, och på allt annat som finns men icke syns, och svarade blott kort, att hennes öde redan var avgjort.

I det ögonblicket hörde de någon kalla utanför fönstret. Gunilla, Erik och barnen kom i rättan tid, för inte mycket fanns kvar att säga mellan Bock och vakten.

Bock och vakten rusade till fönstret och såg på torget, där en folkmassa samlat sig omkring deras räddare. Gunilla talade högt och bestämt, likt en mor till en flock ungar.

Ni låter denna flicka gå omedelbart, sade Gunilla. Hon är lika mycket häxa som en sten är en båt. Folket stod tyst och tänkte på meningen av detta.

Släpper ni henne fri, skall ni få smaka av hennes godhet, det är jag helt säker på, och hon vill hjälpa eder med allehanda problem.

Borgmästaren hade hört uppståndelsen och makade sig fram till Gunilla och sade att de hade säkra vittnesmål på att Bock och hennes lakej-

Hade förvirrat en handelsresande, nästan bränt hundra man till döds, hypnotiserat folket i djävulsk sång, och nu tydligen också tillkallat en hel demonfamilj.

Erik, som egentligen inte ville företaga denna resa, blev nu irriterad och ruskade om borgmästaren. Du är ju helt omöjlig, skrek han.

Kanske är det du som är i ohelig allians med den lede, och styr denna stackars stad med ont försåt. Låt flickan gå, och giv henne en chans.

Borgmästaren blev förnärmad och ville utmana Erik på slagsmål, men då han såg dennes starka armar och viljestarka ögon ryckte han på axlarna-

Låt gå. Om ingen bland folket invänder, skall jag låta Bock och skönsångaren gå fria. Det påstås de kan hjälpa med vardagliga ting-

Jag beder alla som har något arbete ogjort ställa sig i kö här på torget, så skola vi se om våra gäster talar sanning. Vaktmästare, öppna fängelset!

När Bock och vakten kom ut i solskenet på torget möttes de av jubel och hurrarop. Vakten underhöll med en sång till allas stora belåtenhet.

Gunilla, Erik och barnen kramade Bock, och Bock presenterade vakten. Min följeslagare, sade hon med tydlig irritation i rösten-

Han har sett mycket och redan blivit en klokare soldat men han skall hem nu. Jag ämnar fortsätta jakten på trollkarlen och kampen för rättvisa på egen fot.

Den förälskade vakten – följeslagaren, skönsångaren – brast vid dessa ord ut i gråt och bönföll Bock om att få följa med, men Bock var orubblig.

Härefter blev Bock i staden i en vecka för att utföra diverse, av andra, utlovat arbete. Hon flyttade tunga stenar, fyllde brunnar med vatten, fick sjukt boskap att gå.

Lycka till, modiga Bock, sade Gunilla.

En tidig sommarmorgon red Bock ut genom stadens port och försvann runt en krök för att aldrig mer bli sedd av stadens invånare.

Vakten, som så klart inte hade accepterat Bocks förbud, red efter henne och försvann likaså han. Folket vinkade och begrät sin store skald.

Så var det uppå fålen igen. Bock, i svårt humör, kämpandes med motstridiga känslor, betraktade skogen i färd med att klä sig i sommarens vackra dräkt. Vakten såg det samma ett par minuter senare.

Svårt humör ja. Nog var människorna värda att rädda och Bocks mission icke förgäves, men likaså var de otacksamma och dumma.

Förr kände Bock endast Sten, och det var enkelt, för Sten var alltid elak. När Bock mötte Gunilla blev godheten representerad.

Mellan dessa poler torde ju resten av folket rymmas, den ene mer Gunilla än den andre, och borgmästaren, lika hård som Sten.

Tiden i fängelsehålan med den förälskade soldaten hade förändrat Bock, precis som ett sommarregn förändrar, och en sömnlös natt, och ett blåmärke.

Hon hade suttit vid fönstret och tittat på folket som om morgonen flockat torget, pratat, gått runt, handlat, bråkat, skrattat och gått i säng.

Dag efter dag, ostört. Den onda trollkarlen verkade lysa med sin frånvaro, såvida inte häxbålen var hans verk. Bock undrade hur torget sett ut om trollkarlen varit besegrad.

Då hade hon inte suttit i fängelsehålan. Hade vakten varit där? Ja, kanske. Han var inte ond, bara tröttande och irriterande. Bock fäktade genast bort vakten från tanken.

Hade brunnar ej torkat ut, och boskap ej sjuknat och stenar flyttat sig själva, eller hade alla stenar varit lätta?Kanske hade Gud vinkat när man såg upp-

Molnen på himmelen varit av riktigt silver och solen av guld, och kanske hade koltrasten sjungit också om natten. Tiggaren som dagarna i ända satt vid brunnen med sin kopp-

Hade varit en rik köpman. Borgmästaren hade låtit folket sjunga, och…

Det slog Bock att hon inte visste hur god världen kunde bli. Hur skulle jag kunna veta det, när jag likt alla andra vandrar i trollkarlens dimma, tänkte hon.

Bock tänkte på den lede i skogen. Det kändes avlägset nu, men det var verkligt. Kände trollkarlen den lede, eller var de rentav den samme-

Var trollkarlen den ledes lakej, likt folket menat att Bock själv varit som häxa? Skulle hon först behöva besegra trollkarlen, och därefter den lede?

Denna tråkiga metafysik klädde inte Bocks rynkade panna. Hon suckade. Det var nog klokt sagt av vakten, att endast det goda är värt att se.

Men en aldrig skådad trollkarl i en grotta kändes betydligt mer överkomlig än den eldiga djävul som känt hennes namn och talat till henne i skogen-

Medan Sten brändes levande och demoner dansade runt bålet…

Bock rös. Hade hon verkligen skådat detta? Den dånande ihåliga rösten som ekat mellan träden och fått elden att vika sig kom plötsligt alltför nära.

Och vem hade flåsat henne i nacken i fängelset? Bock stannade hästen. Vinden blåste, trädkronorna vaggade, fåglarna var tysta. Någon var henne i hälarna. För första gången i sitt liv blev Bock rädd.”

Kapitel 6

Djupare och djupare, legenden går:

”Ty vem varBock i detta skede, nyss fri från fängelsets åldrande väggar, hela världen i hennes hand, av okänd makt skänkt en mystisk kraft.

Och vadvar denna okända makt. Mötet med den lede i skogen föregick förändringen – föregick, märk väl, inte föranledde.

Och huri all världen kunde en flicka med rödsvarta ögon lyfta stenar med tanken och sätta åkrar i brand, och påverka människor i djupet?

Magi eller ej, verklighet eller fantasi, som bok och sång eller likt fält och slägga – hela världen var en myrstack, men vem var myrdrottningen?

Bock brydde sig ej med dessa tankar, men många gjorde: på värdshus, i kyrkor, på torg och landsvägar, över hela det fallna riket och bortom.

För vad blev det egentligen av konungen och drottningen och deras vackra prinsessa, nyss, inom mannaminne, så stolta, rättvisa och starka-

Innan trollkarlen kom…

Bock ensam i världen, vakten smygandes efter. Skogen djupare och djupare. Allt ser likadant ut, precis som den gången för inte så längesedan: bara djurens ensamma stigar.

Vägar i skogen där ingen har gått, barken av trädet hackspetten flått. Grenarna ändras och buskarna gror, resanden bländas av krånglig retur.

En dag, två dagar, tre och tio. Harlik, myror och gräsliga rötter. Bock äter och går, vakten efteråt resterna får. Hur detta är mat, han ej förstår.

Den utmattade, svältande vakten i sorgsen sång:

Mitt i all nöd Man tänker endast på bröd Och allt det betöd Och bacon så röd Och allt jag någonsin gjort Glömmes hastigt likt sommarregn bort.

Monster och skogsrå, häxor, troll och demoner. Nyss fjärran rop och knakande grenar. Nu plötsligt nära! Helt intill! En morgon vid en glänta-

Vem en frisläppt fånge jagar, spökar och ylar i flera dagar. Är det inte den flitige Kaspar, sjörövarnas stjärna och banditernas rival.

Halt, sade Bock. Rör dig inte ur fläcken! Kom fram och visa dig med händerna på huvudet. Hjärtat bultade, bara det inte var den lede igen.

Halt och halt, sade främlingen. Jag är den magiske Kaspar, ingen annan. Jag haltar för alla, och kommer upp bakom – tömmer väskan!

Jag tänkte väl jag skulle finna dig här, vår borttappade prinsessa och befriare! Ha-ha. Direkt från fängelset in i min skog. Har ni gått vilse?

Bock såg sig om. Vi? Så hörde hon steg bakom sig. Ett trampande hon kände alltför väl. Hasande, smygande, irriterande. Då förstod hon.

Och i och med att hon förstod, att hennes rädsla ej varit av mörker och död, utan av vaktens prassel precis bakom, började hon ryta-

Röt så att alla träden skälvde. Vrålet ekade över hela skogen så att fåglar tog till flykt, ekorrar irrade runt på marken, mullvadar kom upp från sina hål.

Ett förlösande vrål, och när hon var färdig, var hon inte längre rädd. Hon insåg, på ett ögonblick, och utan att resonera-

Att rädsla kommer inifrån, frammanas av kusliga aningar och minnen, och känns verkligare än verkligheten självt-

Och känns så förskräckligt att man ryser, och stelnar till sten. Det var ju blott vakten hon hört, men hon hade fruktat den lede, och även detta-

Berättade om något djupare: att om en förälskad soldat kan fruktas som djävulen själv, är denne inte mer skrämmande än kärlekens ihärdigaste fanbärare.

En mullvad i sitt hål gömmer sig för räven och höken, trots att han dem aldrig mött. En människa i ett gömställe med soldater omkring-

Fruktar och hjärtat bankar, men när höken kommer slåss man med näbbar och klor, och den finnes ej som gav upp utan kamp!

Människa som mullvad, hjälte, kruka och evig förlorare: det finns ingen som ger upp. Ett helt liv med nederlag och förnedring, men nu-

Ger jag aldrig upp. Här kommer höken med klorna klara, att gripa mig om nacken för till grytan att fara, men nej det skall vi ej.

Nej, nej och nej.Jag skriker dig i ansiktet innan du tar mig!DL, jag skriker dig i ansiktet innan du tar mig!

Så skall det låta, Bock, sade Kaspar. Bock blängde på honom. Det anstår inte dig, att tycka något om mina förehavanden, svarade hon.

Kaspar skrattade. Ers nådighet, det kan vara att ditt tidigare sällskap, som fortfarande står där gömd bakom ett träd, ätit havregröt ur skiten och förärat dig sånger, men jag-

Jag är annorlunda. Jag skall visa dig vägen, och kämpa vid din sida, och vara dig evigt trogen i fred och krig, men svar på tal, det ger jag alltid.

Kaspar började gå. Vänta, ropade Bock. Vart ska du? Jag? sade Kaspar. Viskall gå till min grotta, och där skall jag berätta för dig hur detta ruttna landet ligger.

Vänta, skrek vakten och sprang efter, sade frågande: ligger landet? Idiot, sade Bock, och vände sig mot Kaspar. Vi kommer gärna med, men först jag vill veta-

Du bor i en grotta. Vi söker en annan som också bor så, en som förhäxar och förpestar, torkar och smittar. Kaspar avbröt-

Ers nådighet, du behöver inte säga mer. Folket fruktar allt som är okänt. Även jag besitter vissa krafter, och i min ungdoms dagar-

Visste jag inte bättre, än att jag skulle leka med bönderna, och pröva mina krafter, och öva, och snart såg de mig, och snart-

Var jagden onde trollkarlen.

Vakten svimmade vid dessa ord. Bock såg länge på Kaspar. Detta förklarar en del, sade hon sedan. Jag har länge tänkt, att allt elände var din förtjänst-

Bock tänkte sig för innan hon talade vidare. Hon fruktade inte den lede, men hon var tvingad till att aldrig berätta om mötet i skogen-

Och jagat dig i natten. Ropat ditt namn. Stormat din grotta med eld och svärd. Föreställt mig en värld över vilken din ondska inte rådde-

Det var dig jag skulle ut och finna och förgöra här i skogen. Kaspar log. Himmelen, sade han, råder och blandar, så att allt på huvudet landar.

Vakten ruskades till liv och de började gå. Vakten var avundsjuk på denne trollkarl, förr roten till allt elände, nu deras kompanjon och vägvisare.

Vakten spottade på jorden. Säg mig, Kas-kar, sade han. Kaspar, rättade Kaspar. Säg mig, Kaspar, om det inte är du som torkat brunnarna-

Och förpestat djuren och fälten, och gjort stenarna så tunga, vem är det så? Det förefaller mig suspekt att du plötsligt var så misstänkt-

Den onde trollkarlen, oj-oj, och hela världens hatobjekt. Nu är vi plötsligt vänner och på väg till din grotta, från vilken du sägs rida om natten.

Vi frågade i städerna om hur vi kunde hjälpa, vilken ondska vi kunde bekämpa, och det varade inte länge förrän de ropade efter dig och hytte med nävarna.

Vi var så säkra, fråga bara Bock, på att kunde vi dig bara finna och besegra, så skulle kärleken segra, och vi kunde gå till kyrkan och-

Nu tiger du, avbröt Bock, åter irriterad på vaktens tappra kärlek. Det förefaller sig så, svarade Kaspar lugnt-

Att antingen finnes det enanledning till folkets och världens misär, eller finnes det många, vilket är det samma som ingenanledning.

Vakten kliade sig i håret. Kaspar vände sig mot honom. Föreställ dig, sade Kaspar, att du har en bägare med vatten…

Vattnet håller på att rinna över kanten. Det fattas bara enenda droppe för att detta skall ske. När denna droppe landar frågar vi oss-

Vemsläppte denna droppe, vem skapade den och varför tilläts den falla ned i bägaren, men vi glömmer resten av vattenmassan.

Vi frågar oss inte vem som ditbragt alla de andra dropparna. Vi lever i en tid där världen är en bägare med vatten fylld till kanten-

Vår tid…

Liksom alla andras tid, sade Bock.

Kaspar: Världen har alltid var en överfylld bägare med vatten, men det glömmer vi hela tiden.

Folket ser bägaren rinna över, misären tilltar, korna dör, skörden slår fel, och alla ser sig omkring efter droppen – efter trollkarlen.

Men trollkarlen födde inte korna, sådde inte säden, lade inte dit de förbannade stenarna, nej, för vem gjorde det?

Vakten blickade mot himmelen, verkade inte riktigt höra efter, nynnande på en avlägsen melodi, tycktes se något där uppe bland molnen.

Just precis, sade Kaspar. Vi måste gå djupare. Vi måste fråga oss: vem skapade bägaren ochvattnet, för det torde ju vara den samme.

Liksom det torde, enligt metafysikens lagar, vara den samme som ditbringar dropparna och låter bägaren rinna över.

Vi må blicka upp mot himmelen, så som du gör nu, soldat, och beklagande fråga oss varför vi inte känner lycka, och jämt lever i smärta.

Se endast godhet överallt, sade vakten frånvarande samtidigt som han vaknade från sitt drömmeri. Allt är av godhet, också smärta.

Bock ilsknade till. Vilket förbannat sludder! Hon rasade: nog finns det ondska, inte endast godhet, och jag ska rida ondskan in i väggen!

Ty jaghar sett ondskan i ögat, och jag vet att den finns, lik skogen och elden och allting annat. Jag har varit så nära-

Att jag nästan kunde ta på den. Jag hörde den tala. Jag såg den påföra smärtor och brännmärken på en älskad vän, och-

Ondskan talade till mig, kunde mitt namn, och visste att vi skulle ses igen. Och jag förstår nu vad detta betyder, och-

Vet varför jag mött dig, Kaspar, och även du ska med, dumdristiga soldat, och vi ska rida till världens ände och driva ondskan ur världen!

Tystnad rådde efter dessa ord. De tre gick vidare, tänkte på vad som blev sagt. Det är nämligen det, sade Kaspar till sist: en god vän, en du också mött en gång eller två-

Spindeln i guldskorna, berättade för mig att prinsessan är funnen, att hon är på väg, och har mött ondskan och förseglat sitt öde-

Och därmed världens: och inte har vi böcker, och historia är något vi hör det bråkas om på krogen, och knappast har vi lärt oss något-

Annat än att det gör ont att bli slagen som straff när man stulit, och att mord är dumt för så riskerar man motgång, och Den Heliga Boken-

Som säger att i början var allt en tomhet, sen kom ljuset och jorden och himmelen, och att detta var gott-

Och sen skapades vi människor som bara bråkar och trilskas sen första dagen, och Herren som sitter där uppe, och Kaspar pekade-

Där. Där sitter han, och vakten tittade mot himmelen, och skogen tystnade, och trädens kronor stillnade, och även mullvadarna-

Vakten tittade och såg upp, och där på himmelen rörde sig faktiskt något, och Kaspar fortsatte, och vi lever i en Biblisk värld-

Där orden är nya trots att de är gamla, och det finnes ibland oss heliga människor som är utsända av Himmelen för att ändra-

Världens gång, som är en haltande, smärtful gång med kryckor på slitna knän torra som en öken, eftersom människor vill bara slåss-

Men folket vill älskas, ser mot himmelen och gråter, går ner på knä och ber trots att det gör ont, och drabbas av olyckor-

Unga och gamla med glimten i ögat och blicken mot framtiden slås ner av livet självt, och blickar mot himmelen och därefter gruset-

Och Herren kaninget göra, för så fungerar det faktiskt inte, griper inte in i enskilda fall, utan styr helheten och ingen rör på-

Världens gång, som haltar och värker genom tusen år, och allt vi glömmer, och bägare som fylls till bredden av tårar-

Som faller och faller, av Herren skapade, ner i världens bägare som rinner över, och alla letar efter trollkarlen…

Men det var bara jag, suckade Kaspar och kliade sig i huvudet. Nu finns även du, Bock. Vi skall skynda oss till min grotta.

Där väntar spindeln. Där ska vi ha ett planeringsmöte. Sakta i backarna, sade vakten. Vem är egentligen spindeln, för jag förstår alls inte-

För nog känner jag den heliga boken, den enda bok jag läst förutom regementsreglerna, men där står inget om en spindel.

Icke förstår jag hur en oskyldig portvakt och fritidsskald som jag, som blott följt sitt hjärta och härjat in i en våldsam romans-

Med en mystisk flicka, som visar sig vara en prinsessa, men inte nog med det, utan hon har också magiska krafter-

Och inte nog med det, för nu kommer en annanmagiker och påstår att denna prinsessa är skickad av självaste Himmelen-

För en enastående uppgift som – vakten kunde nästan inte andas – ska r-r-r-rädda världen och f-f-folket från tårar, fördärv och ondska!

OK, skrek vakten, det är fint! Jag förstår det inte, men det är OK. Men vem är spindeln! Det gör mig vansinnig!

Vi är människor, vi har ett par armar och två ben, men jag förstår inte hur en spindel, med åttaben, kan få plats i Herrens drama-

Och guldskor!Och den kan också prataantar jag. Herrens vägar är gåtfulla brukar man säga där jag kommer ifrån-

Avbröt Kaspar. Bock kan bekräfta att denna heliga best finnes, och tror du oss ej får du snart själv se, med dina två bruna ögon-

Som kommer möta spindelns sex, och han kommer artigt att räcka ut en hand och hälsa dig. Det är en gammal spindel-

Äldre än staden, äldre än trädet på galgbacken, äldre än den första människan. Spindeln talar och verkar, men bakom ryggen-

Sover den och drömmer om gamla tider, innan människan kom, när världen var ung, markerna var skog och fria, bäckarna porlande-

Och allt var ostört: när ingen fanns som kunde se det och beskriva det. Då kom spindeln ned från sin tråd, spunnen långt borta-

Över himmelen…

Det har den själv berättat för mig. Spindeln är en gäst hos oss, har kommit för att hjälpa. En vän från himmelen. Nu går vi, sade Bock. En spindel, skrattade vakten. Jo-jo!

Kapitel 7

Och även när allt blir fel, fortsätter folket sången:

”När de kom fram till Kaspars grotta låg spindeln slaktad utanför. Spindelns åtta ben var samlade och formade till bokstäver:

B

O

   C


        K

Kroppen låg framför grottans ingång och blockerade denna fullständigt. Vad i helvete, sade Kaspar. Bock med knutna nävar: vad ska detta betyda?

Vakten sade inget, stod och ryckte, kunde inte tala eller tänka. Detta var väldigt fel, så fel som något överhuvudtaget kan bliva: den ledes verk.

Det var en tryckande, het sommardag. Koltrasten sjöng i ett träd. De tre begravde spindeln i en jättelik grop inte långt från grottan. Bock flyttade kroppen med sina krafter.

Men det tog emot. Tankar strömmade till om att detta förr var ett levande väsen som hon talat med en gång. Men bara en gång.

Hon mindes knappt deras möte. Spindeln och träden, nutid och dåtid. Verklighet och hemlighet. Smärta och glädje.

Döden som mötes så olika, ett ansiktes sista min, den riktiga ron. Från Kaspars ögon små tårar rinna, över kinderna rulla, mot jorden falla. Landar långsamt i den våta jorden-

Som kroppen skall förenas med. Med tanken och händerna grävde de ett hål, djupt som skogens högsta träd, stort som ett palats värdigt en legend.

Vid skymningen tog vakten till sång. En enkel sång, till en spindel i guldskor han aldrig mött, men hört så mycket gott om.

Så gick de in i grottan. Här bodde Kaspar. På väggarna gamla sjökort och sablar. Tre skattkistor fyllda med guld och klenoder stod gömda längst bak.

I mitten stod ett stort bord med en karta uppslagen. Stearinljus, bägare och krus vid sidan om halvfulla romflaskor och vinkaraffer.

Vid den öppna spisen pyrde elden än. Någon har varit här, utbrast Bock och vakten samtidigt. Nej, sade Kaspar-

Ingen har varit här. Det är gudomlig kraft som håller elden levande. Jag säger blott åt den att brinna lite ännu, och den får liv-

Bugar och tackar gör jag, har varit ute i månader till sjöss och annorstädes; brasan är alltid levande när jag kommer tillbaka.

Vakten tänkte ett tag. Bock, du vet jag inte tror på den lede och allt det, men tror du elden håller sig levande även för denne?

Det struntar väl jag i, svarade Bock irriterat. Hade jag haft en livstid och mer, skulle jag spekulerat på frågan. Det är sant, vi skall vidare, sade Kaspar.

Låt mig samla det vi skall ha. Ta för er av mat så länge. Vakten kastade sig strax över allt han kunde äta. Bock utan hunger, ensam och ledsen-

Över hela världens tillstånd, den nära tidens grymma scener som fick henne att tvivla på kallets riktighet, hela dets relation till ondskan.

För man kunde inte blott ignorera det tråkiga, allt Bock sett sedan Sten dog. Den ensamme faren vid kusten. Spindelns ben utan guldskorna, i bokstäver…

Vem kan skriva, tänkte Bock. Bock kunde inte. Vakten kunde skriva, men hur i all världen skulle han haft ihjäl en så stor best?

Prästen kan skriva, men detta skulle ju motsäga hela hans gärning. Borgmästare kunde säkert skriva, och dem kände Bock två av-

Den snälle borgmästaren och den förbannade borgmästaren i den andra staden, som fängslat henne. Bock blev stel av raseri. Har denne usling gjort detta?

Men att finna Kaspars grotta var inte lätt. Det var i stort sett omöjligt eftersom Kaspars magi höll den dold. Så vem kunde trolla med sådan kraft-

Att inte ens Kaspars himmelska metoder kunde stoppa det, och därefter besegra den urgamla spindeln, som var fäst till utomjordisk tråd, och åtta ben-

Och stor som ett hus. Det krävdes mer än krafter.Vad var detta för monster! De dansande djävlarnas tondöva sång!

Bock såg på vakten som glufsade på ett rått vildsvinslår, såg sedan åter mot lågorna och glöden. Den lede har skrivit mitt namn-

Har tagit Sten, kommer nu efter mig, och kanske alla andra, kommer kanske efter hela världen. Detta sorgliga världens tillstånd.

Sommarnatten summade utanför grottans kyla.Det var inte värdigt av en återkommen prinsessa att bekymra sig om så dystra ting. Ty varför, under Guds ögon-

Skulle det till folket komma en räddare, som bevis för godhetens existens och evighet, för att sedan bliva slagen ned?

Säger man A säger man också B, brukade Sten säga. Bock log för sig själv, saknade nästan Sten. Över den mörkblå natthimmelen föll en stjärna.

För å andra sidan, att som Bock bliva skänkt en kropp och få vandra fritt – det tänkte Bock i fängelset – eller ens att finnas till-

I en grön skön skog, och livets gåta, och folkets känslostormar, nu när det vet, precis som spindeln sade, att prinsessan är återfunnen-

Kom från ett skjul i skogen, helt ensam, med eldens kraft. Med rödsvarta ögon, långt korpsvart hår, insisterande på ondskans existens-

Välver fram genom världen, sätter den i brand. Godhetens brand, som bränner den ruttna lukten och allt det onda.

Ge oss den häxan, skriker de. Vi känner icke denna DL hon skall befria oss från. Bränn henne på bålet, låt lågorna stå-

Ja kunde vi bara henne finna, skulle bålet strax brinna. Men de säger att trollkarlen har fångat henne-

Så nog skall hon få sitt…

Men alla andra: de fattiga, de svaga. Dem i nöd, som var dag förtär sitt bröd, och inte kan skrika, eller anderledes världsordningen berika-

De sjuka, de lurade, de från starten ogynnade. De som födes som slavar, eller fångas och tvingas, som så gärna vill, men jämt står still.

Bock hörde alla upprörda stämmor, kände hetsen och raseriet ända in i själen. Men hon sågnågot annat, ty en röst förvrids i vinden, men icke bilden, som endast rörs av flammor.

Bock visste inget om fysik, heller inte om tankens logik, utöver det givet henne från födseln och barndomen på slottet.

Att överväga att helaprojektet var ett misstag fanns inte på kartan. Bland alla Bocks tankeströmmar, tilltagande från dag till dag, rymdes aldrig tvivlet.

Bock var stensäker. Inte bara på att hon hade mött den lede i skogen straks efter hon rymt från Stens skjul. Även spindelns ord var verkliga-

För att inte tala om Bocks magi! Något var i görningen, och Bock spelade huvudrollen. Var hon än såg sig om fanns den ledes svarta skuggor.

Bock hade aldrig läst Bibeln. Hon hade inte lärt att Herren är allestädes närvarande, men också alltid frånvarande-

Den lede går på jorden, jag har mött honom i skogen. Så borde även den godegå på jorden, tänkte hon. Det föll aldrig Bock in-

Att honvar den gode, bragt till jorden via rymden för att bringa musik, sanning, profetior, hälsa, solen och ljuset, poesi och allting annat gott.

Sådant blir aldrig uppenbart. Det ligger i bakgrunden. Det är en känsla som inte kan klädas i ord. Ner från taket, unge, du faller och slår dig, och se nu-

De slåss där borta, jag måste dit och stoppa dem. Brunnen är torr och djuren dör, och inget något gör. Så måste väl jag!

Så känns det, tänkte Bock, att taga sig av världens problem som de utspelar sig framför en. Inte gå runt med krona och hava att folk ska buga-

Att sätta andras välfärd framför sin egen. Att leva för att hjälpa andra. Att hjälpas åt för att skapa den bästa världen. Precis som Herren vill ha det, tänkte Bock.

Uppenbarligen hade något blivit fel. Herren klarade det inte själv, en svag och vilsen gud… Eller var allt som det skulle vara-

Folket, olyckliga och bråkandes, precis enligt den gudomliga planen. Den lede i varje hörn och ord, hetsandes stämningen.

Ända tills nu…

Bock, Kaspar och den förälskade vakten red från grottan i gryningen, mot en svart-blå dimma, mot skogens hjärta. Vägar blev till stigar, blev till djurstigar.

Sorg, smärta och ilska över det bestialiska mordet. Kaspar höll hårt om hästens tyglar. Bock spejade ondsint mot träden. Vakten red i mitten, tänkte på sitt.

Långsamt. De första dagarna fåordigt, fokuserat. Bock höll nattvakt, de andra sov. De stannade vid minsta obekant ljud, spejade in bland träden.

Skogen kunde inte kommas närmare. Kaspar fångade vilt, Bock gjorde bål, vakten diskade och slog upp tältet. Arbete förtog den ledes hot-

Ty inget hände. De mötte ingen, såg inga bål, djurlik eller symboler, hörde inga rop. Stämningen lättades, blev avslappnad, ja till och med festlig.

Porlande bäckar som spindeln älskat. Stora floder och bokskogssalar, gläntor med solljus. Broar och vindskydd. Vaktens sånger på färden.

Det hela utvecklade sig till en härlig campingtur. Dynamiken dem emellan var positiv. Vakten blev betagen av Kaspars historier.

Kaspar hade slagits mot svärdfiskar och blivit biten av hajar. Sett blåvalar, enbenta pirater, tvetungade skönheter och gigantiska cykloper.

Vakten älskade Bock fortfarande, men var liksom inte längre förälskad, mycket tack vare Bocks envishet och nyckfulla temperament-

Allt Bock ville, sade vakten till Kaspar en kväll, var ju att fånga ondskan, den lede och trollkarlen, och befria folket och bringa rättvisa och trygghet-

Och hon sov aldrig. Sådant var svårt för vakten att sjunga om. Kaspar däremot, åt honom kunde man tillägna både seglarwaltz och ballader.

Men även Bock mildrades. Hon började dra på munnen, kunde skämtsamt gillra en fälla för vakten, sjöng ibland med i sången, tog initiativ till gemenskap.

Fångar du en kanin? Gör du brasa nu eller senare? Var ska vi slå upp tältet? Ska jag berätta om när jag mötte grävlingen och han trodde…

Vad är det egentligen vi letar efter, sade vakten plötsligt en morgon. Det blev tyst. Frågans enkelhet och tyngd hängde i luften.

Det var som om de hade glömt. Eller hade de förträngt. Bock var en yngling, vakten lite äldre. Kaspar hade erfarenhet.

Det var som om ingen hade tagit på sig ansvaret för äventyrets fortsättning. De red ut på jakt efter den lede. Nu var det plötsligt lek varje dag.

Klantskalle, svarade Bock. Vi letar efter den som hade ihjäl den stora spindeln. Ja men det var väl bara ett odjur eller något, svarade vakten.

Det var inte vilket odjur som helst, svarade Kaspar. Såg du inte att det hade lämnat grymma meddelanden, och dessutom tagit guldskorna och hatten.

En björn kanske, tvekade vakten och såg på Kaspar. Bock skrattade: han förstår inte hälften av vad han själv säger.

Men björnar kan inte skriva. Vakten långsamt förstår, genom kroppen ilningar går, att finnas korn av sanning, i det magikerna påstår.

Kapitel 8

Vännerna försvinner, men sången består:

”Det hela var bara alltför mycket. Häxor, demoner, den lede och Gud. Spindlar och mord, hemliga tecken och hotande skog som aldrig tog slut.

Bocks tankar körde runt och runt men hon saknade referenser. Hennes metafysik stod tunn och ensam men skulle likväl driva historien framåt. De tre irrade runt i skogen.

Ingen stoppade dem. Inget hände. De kunde lika gärna ha jagat ett löv, en kanin eller ett osynligt monster. Bock satt vaken om nätterna-

Stirrade mot natthimmelen. Stjärnor föll, planeterna svävade. Månen lös upp gläntan där de slagit läger. Inne i tältet snarkade Kaspar och vakten.

Vakten drömde, grymtade något: Nej, inte björnen. Du kanju skriva. Du måstekunna…

Bock hade inte lika svårt att acceptera ondskans inkarnation. Till skillnad från vakten hade hon aldrig haft en lugn tillvaro-

Inte vad hon kunde minnas i alla fall. För henne kunde allt vara sant, precis vad som helst. Vaktens mor hade sagt till honom som barn att spöken inte finns.

Bock satt och tänkte i sensommarnatten. Plötsligt tycktes hon minnas något, några avlägsna ord kom flygande, något hon hört en gång-

Margrethe, här är vi. Här nere, kan du se oss? Margrethe såg ner och där stod hennes mor och far, vinkade till henne där hon satt i det höga trädet-

Bock mindes en stor sal, ett bord uppdukat med otaliga rätter och levande stearinljus. Sköldar på väggarna, vakter uppställda vid ingångarna.

Små tårar rann nu nerför Bocks kinder, och vinden torkade dem. En falsk känsla av trygghet, men ändå så nära. En stilla pust jämfört med den storm som nu rådde.

Bock väckte Kaspar för att få sällskap. Hon kände sig ensam, mer än förut, sade inget, men grät mot Kaspars bröst och armar som höll henne.

Vi är ju vilse, sade Bock till slut, hopplöst. Kaspar sade inget. Spindeln skulle ju ha visat oss vägen, var det inte så? Nu ligger den begravd.

Ja, sade Kaspar till sist. Det känns hopplöst. Vi borde rida tillbaka. Tillbaka till var? frågade Bock överraskad. Ja, ni rider till staden och jag till min grotta.

Jag har en viktig sjörövartur planerad till hösten. Detta verkar dra ut på tiden. Jag har tänkt på det länge men inte haft mod att säga det.

Detta lurendrejeri, tänkte Bock. Återigen. Dessa oberäkneliga människor. Och för dem skall man offra liv och lem!

Som vore allt ett stort skämt signerat himmelen. Bock såg sig själv högt uppifrån. Där satt hon med sitt svarta hår och löjliga tankar.

På jakt efter något som inte fanns, för att rädda något som aldrig varit i fara. Men så mindes hon åter den ledes ord i skogen-

Och kokade inombords. Återigen. Likt en flykt genom snårig skog med slö kniv. Man ser inget, kommer ingen vart-

Finner snart sina egna spår på en okänd väg. Det var alltid tanken på mötet i skogen som satte henne på rätt kurs igen.

Kaspar fick fly om han ville. Hans skattkistor kallade, alla hans spektakulära meningslösa äventyr. Bock skulle nog klara sig.

Värre var det för vakten…

Som grät och grät när han om morgonen av Bock fick veta att Kaspar återvänt till grottan. Hann inte säga farväl! Bock visste något om sorg.

Hon kände den hopplösa vakten. Han grät över många ting. Nu var han dock uppriktigt ledsen. Bock tröstade honom, sade några väl valda ord.

Vi möter många människor på vår väg. Några blir vi väldigt glada för. Men livet är sådant inrättat, att några möten är för evigt-

Andra är korta. Jag mötte en man en gång som förlorat sin hustru och alla sina barn till havet. Han trodde han hade dem hela livet-

Men de försvann. Han fick blott korta möten, och han kunde inte tröstas. Endast då jag sade att jag trodde att de skulle mötas igen-

Trots att jag om detta inget vet, slutade han plågas. Var glad för att du mött Kaspar. Skriv ännu en sång om honom, och du-

Han är inte borta för evigt, inte slukad av jorden eller havet. Han finns här i världen någonstans. Himmelen vet vad som ska hända.

Kanske ni ses en dag igen. Vakten lät sig tröstas, blev snart på bättre humör. Bock packade ihop tältet, vakten nynnade på en ny sång.

När Bock satt där och packade ihop tältet misstog hon en pinne för en tältpinne. Förvånad tog hon den upp och såg på den-

Vände pinnen, studerade den. Den har ärr. Sår från avrivna pinnar. Barken är nästan helt borta. Men här, här finns bark, och här-

Bock stirrade, kunde inte tro sina ögon: här fanns ett hjärta inristat. Det var ingen av naturen tillfällig repa utan ett riktigt hjärta, stort som en tumnagel.

Det låg fler pinnar runtomkring. Bock tog dem upp. Hon kunde inte förstå det. Samtliga pinnar hade hjärtan inristade.

Bock såg ut mot skogen efter vakten. Det måste vara han, tänkte hon. Den obotlige romantikern tagen på bar gärning.

När vakten kom tillbaka mötte Bock honom med ett leende. Hur i all världen har du hunnit rista hjärtan på så många pinnar?

Är det Kaspar du saknar, eller vem håller du kär? Man blir ju nästan rörd, skrattade Bock. Vakten tog en pinne och tittade på den.

Det är inte jag som gjort detta, Bock, sade vakten med allvar i rösten. Och knappast är det Kaspar heller, sånt trams är han för stor för.

De stod länge och såg på varandra, pinnarna och skogen. Till slut riktade vakten blicken mot himmelen och sade: någonstans där uppe sitter Herren och kastar pinnar.

Tänk att vi är så välsignade, att Herrens blick följer oss! Vakten bröt ut i sång, om livets skönhet och Guds storhet.

Vi ska inte räkna med Herren, sade Bock eftertänksamt när vakten sjungit klart. Detta kan lika gärna vara den ledes verk.

Åter rida genom skog över barr och bäck, på hästen som en säck, med ögon och klor, spejar och glor, genom skogshavet ror, mot slutet…

Vila i en glänta där solstrålar brytas mellan bladen; här nere på jorden, lys på myror och gråsuggor som arbeta och kämpa, i denna glänta.

Var Bock och vakten än stannade fann de hjärtpinnarna: vid bäckar, vid korsningar, gömda under löv, inpetade i stengärd.

Bock lät sig långsamt övertygas. Hon började förnimma en slags värme inombords: efter allt detta slit, äntligen erkännande.

De red vidare: fler pinnar. Snart skulle något hända. De pratade hoppfullt om kvällarna, skrattade och log, saknade alls inte Kaspar.

Vakten i sång, och Bock stampar takten:

Bock i en kärlekens rus Ty hon fler pinnar med hjärtan funnit

Ack, allt som förr var pest och pina Nu ondskan verkar förtvina

Bytas ut mot himmelskt leende läppar Herren som kastar ner tecken

Uppmuntra-a-ar Gå denna väg, säger Herren, allt blir bra.

Ty Bock visste med säkerhet, att hjärta var lika med Guds kärlek. Värme som spridas i själ och kropp, hästen framåt i galopp-

Mot värme som kommer utifrån, inte inifrån, inte skapad av en själv – som strålande från en helgad källa, en livets brasa-

Icke från ett bål i skogen!

Bocks svarta hår i vinden flyga, och ögonen de lysa. Framåt, mot paradis, i gemensam sång, om den ledes undergång, kom bara kom, med himmelska språng-

Mot det som skyarna en gång utfäst, att få färdas i liten båt på vaggande vågor, förbi träd och gläntor, folk som håller rast i vindskydd och tält-

Solen som gassar och regnet som svalkar. Sten, genom allt i tusen år, på havet med stretiga åror – för land, för liv-

För folket. Att kunna leva i fred och ro, som en drottning själv behagar, bland städer, mark och djur. Bock plötsligt vet hur-

Med kärlek! Det som hon alltid glömt. Det som Sten fördömt. Det som vakten visste allt om.

Men plötsligt är vakten borta.

Hästen är dock kvar. Bock söker resten av dagen. Om natten prasslande och grymtande utanför tältet. Djur som springer omkring. Bock inget får sova.

Inget spår av vakten på den andra dagen. Bock ensam i skogen som åter är ondskefullt förändrad, djurlik på stigen och dåliga tecken-

Mystiska läten från djupet, men Bock utan rädsla, ser endast målet, att rädda den förälskade vakten. Den tredje dagen börjar, allt är tyst och stilla…

Bock finner vaktens avhuggna fot dinglande i ett träd utanför tältet.”

Kapitel 9

Tillsammans klarar man allt, folket sjunger:

”Först måste man gå vilse. Man kan inte först gå rätt och sedan gå vilse. Jo, säger Bock: Det beror på om man går på väg eller djurstig-

Och hur djupt in i skogen man traskar, och vad som lever där; om man möter djävlar, spindlar, folk, hjärtan eller tomhet.

Man kan vara på rätt väg och sedan svänga fel. Då är man snart vilse. Man kan också inse att svängen förde en in på en annan väg-

Som plötsligt känns rätt, säger Bock. Om morgonen, innan man vaknat helt, när tankarna far runt. Om natten, när man sig vänder och vrider.

Mitt på dagen, när solen slickar ens uttorkade röda hud: då kan man vara vilse. När man mist sin enda vän och endast har hans fot…

Just när man var på rätt väg, suckar Bock hopplöst. Då kan man vara vilse. När allt som föregått visar sig vara den ledes trick och spel-

Så att tältet och de båda hästarna försvinner. Bock vänder på pinnar, finner inga hjärtan, irrar runt, talar strunt-

Till den vita foten ställd på en stubbe: vad är kärlek?

Bock ensam i världen, vilse som aldrig förr, lockad djupt in i skogen, hungrig och rånad på allt hon haft – ger nästan upp.

Dag och natt, natt och dag, precis som i fängelset. Går runt, kommer tillbaka till samma stubbe.

Nu ger Bock upp…

Men ingen svarar, inget händer. Eller jo, någon flinar långt där inne i mörkret, men Bock vill inte lyssna, lägger sig ner på barren, ser upp mot stjärnorna-

Där uppe sitter Herren och kastar pinnar…

Bock fantiserar att vakten kommer springande. Han ler, sjungandes på en sång. De kramas, återförenade. Allt är äventyr igen.

Bock vaknar med ett ryck, in i denna värld, den riktiga, den onda skogen och den lede. Mardrömmen: vilse i skogen, lurad av den lede och hans demoner.

Många har upplevt riktig hunger, Bock är en av dem. Djurlik, bär, ruttna rötter. Förr så rikligt, nu knappt något. En ekorre med ögonen utprickade-

Ett djur om dagen. En näbbmus strypt av svansen, av någon lirkad runt halsen. Magen kurrar, skriker, vrider sig, och kroppen vrålar.

Man tänker ju inte på annat än mat, skriker Bock men ingen hör. Tänk den gång jag åt bröd på gästgiveriet, eller när Kaspar fångade vilt!

Bock vandrar runt planlöst om natten bland gäckande läten och hotade skuggor. Bock är inte rädd, hon orkar inte: låt det bara komma.

Bock färdas i ett djuriskt tillstånd: minnen och känslor spelar spel, för ren överlevnad. Bock är en maskin av kött och finns inte mer än så.

Bock ser upp mot himmelen där molnen flackar förbi och liknar saker. En gris man kunde äta om man kunde fånga den.

Ty allt liknar något om man stirrar länge nog, så även skogen, denna levande organism med dolda känslor och viljor.

Från skogen kommer något som knappt liknar en människa: långsamt, huvud, armar och ben slappa. Ett svart moln runtomkring.

Men bara skogen ser det. Det är Bock på väg mot alltings slut.

Eller kanske är det en ny början, men detta beror på… Det beror på vädret, på Bocks humör, på den ledes humör, på alltings tillstånd-

På fåglarna, på bävrarna, på björnarna, på träden, på molnen, på sommarängarna, på sjöarna, på en fjärils vingslag-

Det beror på hela världen och allting däri. Kanske är uppgörelsen mellan Bock och den lede droppen som får bägaren att spilla över-

Och svart tjära att spilla över vägarna – täpper till halsarna på folket, förruttnar djur och mark, får demoner att ränna vilt på gatorna-

Eller droppen som välter bägaren, och får tårarna att rinna ut i gräset, sorgerna att förlåtas, människorna att helas-

Och världen att börja på nytt igen. Det är så svårt att säga, ty ingen har förr mött den lede och återkommit med livet i behåll.

Ingen har förr kämpat mot den lede, gett sig ut från skjul och sten för att slå ondskan ur världen, blott kallad av en inre röst och en spindel.

Men Bock har, Bock gjorde det! Nu vandrar hon likt en glömd vålnad, hungrig, utmattad och förvirrad, i den oändliga skogen-

Och den lede lockar, tisslar och tasslar bak träden, och slickar sig om läpparna, ty snart skall tänderna sättas i denna hopplösa prinsessa-

Denna hopplösa existens: allt som står i vägen mellan den lede och hans helvete. Det blir lätt, det går snabbt, det blir utan kamp, tänker den lede.

Allt som står i vägen mellan den lede och Gud: denna hopplösa prinsessa, kommen ur ingenting, och skall till ingenting åter bliva.

Men långt borta formade sig en storm.

Stormen rungade och blixtrade, åskade och blåste så träden välte och bladen for. Den släckte bål och eldar och kunde inte stoppas av någon eller något.

Ännu var den fjärran, och endast Herren kände dess riktning och velocitet, men den lede, ja, stackars DL visste inget om den.

DL vässade tänderna, slipade klorna, tände bål och drömde om död, hans lakejer kring hans väldiga fötter, dansandes-

Sjungandes, att världen tillhör, precis som sig bör, den som allt till smärta och elände gör, och all skönhet förstör-

Länge leve vår MÄSTARE! Och skönheten bevaras, när folket förföras, och landskap och stad i flammor förgöras-

I tusen år vi har väntat, kring bålen flämtat, just på denna jord, och samlat vår hord. Nu står vi miljoner kräk stark-

Redo, alldeles redo, fruktade DL, giv bara signal, ty vår vilja är, alena, ditt val. Och den lede svarar, med en röst från underjorden:

HAV TÅLAMOD, UNDERSÅTAR!

Lakejerna kastar sig vid hans fötter:

Älskade djävul, vi har mer tålamod än alla världens herdar, men svara oss dock, inte väntar vi, fåfängt, på denna arma Bock?

BOCK KOMMER, dånar DL, OCH SKALL FÖRGÖRAS, TY OM VI ICKE HENNE BESEGRA, KAN VI ICKE REGERA!

Ack DL, det förstår vi ej!

Och DL suckar och svarar:

Ni fähundar samlade utav skit och damm, världen klokare om ni försvann. Ser jag ut som en räv, nej, ner i jorden och gräv!

Bock gick i två dagar. DL gick i hennes fotspår: tittade, lyssnade, studerade, ty DL kan magi, men vet inte allt.

Bock gick på måfå i två dagar, likt ett spöke på villovägar. På kvällen innan den sista dagen satte hon sig ned vid en bäck-

Fyllde gaster med vatten och såg upp mot himmelen där mörka moln rörde sig snabbt som en dröm, och Bock såg-

Likt en repetition, en sista påminnelse, en antydning, en förvissning: ett minne kom till hopplösa Bocks räddning-

Mor: Margrethe, kommer du inte ner från trädet nu blir din mor galen.

Far: Margrethe, kom nu ner från trädet, vi kommer för sent till balen.

Gud är hård mot de hårda i kärlek.

Den lede kom från alla håll likt ett prisma. Bock hade rest sig utvilad och gått ner till bäcken för att dricka-

Satt sig på en stubbe och försökt tänka. Känslan av drömmen, värmen, var ännu kvar. Allt var hopplöst, men Bock gav aldrig upp.

Bock öppnade munnen för att tala, men sade inget, ty ingen var där för att höra. Då landade en koltrast på marken framför henne.

Och det var som fågeln log. Den såg in i Bocks ögon och sade något hemligt. Bock ryckte till, ty koltrasten sade att hon skulle komma hem igen.

Bock gjorde sig klar, reste sig. Det verkade som att stunden var kommen. Hon hade rusat från Sten, människors fiende, och denne brann-

I helvetet, och Bock mötte Satan i skogen. Hon reste land och rike runt – sitt rike – och såg den ledes verk-

Hur DL plågar folket, och bränner kreatur och mark, och förpestar brunnar, själar och bäckar. Likt en röd tråd uppå himmelen-

Har Bock följt ödets vissa väg, utstakad av VÅR HERRE, att på den sista dagen möta Satan och VARA SJÄLV i denna stund.

Blott Guds gamla ögon skola skåda striden, och skola styra denna och stormenoch regnettill folkets gagn. Det säger legenden.

Ty aldrig skall det onda få vinna! Lägg mig i en grav men min mull blir till träd och blommor, blir till fåglar och människor-

Och folket skall alltid segra, och kärleken skall alltid sättas överst, och ondskan skall alltid fördrivas och på den sista dagen-

Glöm ej mitt namn!

Skall Bock besegra ondskan!

Plötsligt är DL här, kommer från alla håll. Bock ser upp, hela livet en dröm – finnes ej mer än flackande moln på den mörka himmelen.

DL är längre än ett träd, större än ett berg, svartare än natten, med horn likt pålar man spetsar mördare på, och omgärdad av flammor och onda demoner-

Och är samtidigt osynlig: elden i trädens toppar, lågornas långa tungor, djurens paniska flykt, skrämmande ögon i röken-

Kommer från alla håll, än genom jorden som ruttnar, än från skyn som mörknar, och från alla sidor, med eld och förstörelse.

Nu räcker DL ut sin grymma hand och skall till att gripa Bock, men stannar mitt i rörelsen, ty Bock ser på DL, trött och irriterad-

Bock ser på DL, DL ser på Bock, och gnistor uppstår när strålarna möts. Precis som jag, samma rödsvarta blick, tänker DL-

Och något händer inom honom. Han är ju så ond, äldre än bergen, och det är otänkbart att DL känner kärlek, men något känns-

Den lede blir svag i knäna, vacklar. Har jag en avkomling? Finnes det två av mig? Jag är kanske inte ensam. Sällan skådat inblick i-

Bock vrålar så det ekar över hela skogen, över hela jorden. Det dånar och åskar omkring henne. I och med hennes ord anländer stormen.

NU SLUTAR DU MED DETTA SKITET! skriker Bock

Och den lede med alla sina demoner och lakejer, och all ondska som härjar i träden och mellan folk och förgör allt liv, allt detta tar ett steg tillbaka-

Stött av Bocks ord, fruktande hennes magiska närvaro: vem är likgiltig, vem är det som är trött mina fasoner? Ett ungt hjärtas spetsande ord-

Den lede är mållös, han undrar, men hinner inte göra mycket, ty även Gud är trött på folkets plågor, och Bocks vrål var bra nog-

Så Herren griper nu in! Gud, som aldrig ses, är här, svävar osynligt över träden och stöter bägaren så den vacklar, välter-

Och himmelens regn släcker alla bål, och Bocks vrål var bra nog, alldeles utmärkt, aldrig så utmattad och irriterad!

Ty Bock vet ju, och alla vet ju, att livet och världen icke behöver vara en pina, om bara ondskan kan förlikas i alla hjärtan.

Ty när ett gammalt hjärta gråter och drar sig har ett ungt inget sett ännu, men vet ändå allt, för det är ju så lätt, och har inte tid för lek, inte än!

Den lede, oändligt gammal, utan hjärta, förr starkare än tusen oxar, krymper nu samman. Demonerna förtvinar, blir till kolklumpar och aska-

Talar aldrig mer, verkar aldrig mer, naken och avväpnad. En liten tår längs kinden trillar – den första och den sista, en bitter svart tår-

DL ser på Bock, väntar på vad hon skall göra. Nu är det nog slut med allt, tänker den lede. Vilken kort strid, och allt är förlorat-

Hennes ögon. Jag var inte förberedd på en spegel…

Bock rusar fram och fångar DL i sin hand. Håller hårt, bär den förkrympte DL som vore det en fångad bålgeting.

Då hörs ett dån som överröstar stormen, och himmelen bliver klar. Molnen makar på sig, så att ner kan hissas en stege utav spindelväv i guld.

Med ena handen om DL och den andra om stegen börjar Bock klättra upp. Likt en bönstjälk når stegen över molnen-

Upp över atmosfären. Bock klättrar högre och högre, ser hela jordklotet och alla människor, djur och träd-

Ser uppifrån ett hoppets ljus breda sig över världen, som nu är fri från ondskans fördärv. En ny dag gryr, folk gäspar och kliar sig i ögonen, fria att blomstra och leva i harmoni.

Bock har räddat världen, och vid stegens slut väntar spindeln med guldskorna, hatten i hand. Jag trodde, börjar Bock-

Du tror så mycket, ädla prinsessa, men alla vet vad som händer när man dödar spindlar som man behagar: regnet faller i flera dagar.

Uppe vid stegens slut lever Gud på moln, och Gud bor tillsammans med alla fromma själar som en gång vandrat på jordens yta.

Här uppe från molnen blickar de ner på folket och samtalar och hoppas, men griper aldrig in, och förbannar den lede, som nu är förgjord.

Du har räddat världen, säger Gud. Runt Gud står en skara i vitt sken, bland dem Bocks far och mor, spindeln, och Klara.

Välj en bland dessa, att åter med dig på jorden vandra, säger Gud och visar med handen. Bock vet inte vad hon skall tro-

Men någonstans inom sig förstår hon, och ser sin far och mor, konungen och drottningen, ståtliga och stolta.

Tårar faller längs alla kinder, familjen återförenad i Guds eviga bastion. Hur Bock än tänker och väljer, mötas de åter en vacker dag.

Spindeln han niger, bugar och tiger, i hans ögon ett löfte om blomstrande ängar bland frodiga skogar och bäckar som porlar.

Till sist faller Bocks blick på vakten, som står där och vacklar, och smilar brett med ögon som säger: välj mig, du vackra, magiska drottning.

Gud, som känner och vet allt, väntar, låter Bock själv säga, att det svåra valet faller på vakten. Den unga kärleken har ju makten.

Hand i hand svävar Bock och vakten ner från himmelen längs en regnbåge. På landsvägen står deras hästar sadlade och klara.

Nu och för evigt.

Bock och vakten blev mottagna som hjältar vart de än red, deras bravader redan sagostoff. Nyheten hade spridit sig över hela jorden.

De red inte genom den andra staden, där de förr legat för bålet, men folkets jubel hördes ut till vägen. Förlåt oss, ädla hjälte, ropade de.

När Bock ankom till sin egen stad välkomnade folket henne med sång och fanor. Raketer firades upp och långa bord stod dukade till fest på torget.

Du är vår drottning nu, sade borgmästaren. Gifter du dig med denna enkla soldat, bliver han vår konung. Vår arkitekt har redan tecknat ett slott.

Prästen, som hade hört borgmästarens ord, tillade, att kyrkan redan stod klar för tidernas bröllop. Bock och vakten nickade.

Lycka rådde, inte bara här, utan bland alla människor. Vatten kom åter ur brunnarna, och kor och getter sprang lyckliga runt på frodiga betesmarker.

Den lede blev ett cirkusdjur, vilket spektakel. Folk kom från fjärran länder för att skåda världens mest makabra attraktion.

Inte mera kräves att säga, om hur den lede slutet på vägen nådde, ty inget mer han förmådde. Från och med nu, alla häxor endast gott spådde.

Bock, hon började hoppa, hon var lycklig, alldeles som en loppa, att slutet var nått på denna förfärliga soppa.

Fast trött hon var av expeditionen, från skjulet genom skogen, ja hela missionen, så aldrig en blund hon sig tog, och det var nog-

Lycka och kärlek upplivar själen, snabbar på hjärtat och lyfter på hälen. Bock vid altaret stå, ganska nervös ändå, ser bredvid häxan, Sten stå i en vrå.

Men prästen säger, tar du denna Bock till din äkta maka och hustru? Bock stirrar på vakten[1]med läskiga ögon-

Vakten ser tillbaka, åter förälskad – ja, säkert förhäxad – på sin sköna prinsessa, toppen på berget, apex på livets besynnerliga bana-

Och låt det aldrig bli en vana. Låt paret Olsson aldrig taga för givet, att lycka hör till livet, ty ett hjärta snabbt blir rivet-

Av allehanda vardagligt svek, eller nattens uttråkade smek, eller all annan slags falsk kärlek, ty skört äro livet-

Än skörare är hjärtat, denna lilla pump, vår mjuka levande stump, som navigerar längs kusten och sjunker tung av lusten.

I de djupa själarnas hav som himmelen ödmjukt gav, att låta oss människor däri simma, men aldrig mer än en timma-

Ack, kärleken som bränner och ilar, och kroppen genomborrar med eldiga pilar: lyfter vardag och vana, till medmänsklighetens stolta fana.

Ty kärleken oss emellan – människor, folket, vänner och fiender – bringar till jorden lycka, och våra grå ansikten utsmycka-

Och läsare, om du mig icke tro, ta det in och låt det gro, eller ut och några pengar sno, spendera dem på ting eller kro’-

Du finner aldrig ro! Likt en haltande hingst efter ett springande sto du ständigt jagar, till livets sista sorgliga dagar-

Läsare, spar dig besväret, jag försöker dig lär’ det: kärleken är livets valuta, den är oändlig och kan aldrig sluta.

Bock blev drottning, Jöns konung, och de styrde landet med förnuft och kärlek. Tvister blev lösta på fredligaste sätt.

Bock var lycklig. Bock blev gammal, flera tusen år. Hon fick leva så länge hon ville, Gud vet ju allt, och en dag stod hon åter i himmelen.

När den moderna världen gjorde sitt intrång, infördes demokrati, och de fattiga och svaga försörjdes genom Bocks oändliga minnesfond.

Sten Bock aldrig mera såg, heller inte skjulet.

Sten Bock aldrig mera såg, heller inte skjulet.”

Proverbs 7

2017

– A new beginning with a problematic marriage –

”Good love, you got to have, good, good love” Grateful Dead

Merklorotiez:

I love you

A word here a word there

Carneval parade country lane

Turned to stone

My own inside colourless

Every day a masterpiece

Now it is breathable but only now

Earlier today as well in the everyday

Screaming screaming screeeeeeeeaming

Not now not now holy cow holy owl holy moly

That person is the mother of the sweetheart baby lady

And yet this is incoherently un-fathomable difficult and hard

For the bones and for the arteries as well as the liver and life

For the person inside the mind, who is watching, interchangeably from close and afar

Who is experiencing the physical feeling of pain of the mind

And the loneliness of existance and distance between us

Lover and contemporary, human alike, good friends

Few on the tree but on a reasonable distance

And busy life, few times I met you

Stranger lover stranger lover

I love you

Nature abhors a vacuum

Some dude outside the window: Friday evening He was just about to go to sleep out of tiredness, unable to form words on the brink of the night, his talking parts, already to sleep. The rest of his body tired as well, rather comfortably placed on the floor. The black floor… the one he got from his old cousion back in the 80’s. Now he was a free soul in the robe in the garden.

Never reveal a man’s wage, and woman’s age

Melody: You are gold, you are the one holding the robes together, for to yet another day, tend the roses and care for the children. Find pleasure in this, young soul on the soil, and never stop dreaming ‘bout visions of joy. Stop scratching that scratch, do some work-out, and too care for that corpus of yours. Run a five kilometres’ jog in the woods, first twice a week, then three and four at most. Enjoy the drugs your brain gives you, and see what life presents. There deep in the woods, the wet of the bed of leaves and old branches finds a pile of rocks buried in the moss… a stoneage fireplace some say it was.

Necessity is the mother of invention

Some dude inside the pizza bar, where they serve pizza with potatoes and rosemary: The buzzing city outside the window, though part of it as well, the window is. Alas, me too, though it feels that these days the city is but for the fortunate bunch. Only in the outskirts of it all can you find / the rest of the lot / who is really feeling it, and creating the arts which propels the nation. So in the city you gotta be smart and dressed well and proper, and not say those things, which make the souls around you eery and uncertain / that they indeed are, where they think they are, and are not unimportant, but quite the opposite, and so should drink the champagne, without the obligation to document / what it is to be alive and well. On and on and up and up it goes, until all that is left, of our hundred years on the ground / is a sleepy murmur; of glass against glass and voice against voice, as distant as the hands and chords that raised them.

Needs must when the devil drives

Modern era fighter poet: Afterburner / some lucky gal / up there in the sky / throttle all the way / squeezed against the seat / twist and turn, do the valsalva / say some stuff on the radio / with a cool voice / oh, what are the clouds but white dots beneath me / what are the hills and trees and animals / memories in my head / what are people / soft lovers and friends / guiding me in / landing on the wheels, the organic and the elements.

Never cast a clout until May be out

Father at home: My day on this day, the twenty-first of May 1896. Cassiopeia awoke, a quarter to eight. My duty it was, though I’d been up late. She was up for about, an hour and a half, then back to bed, the two of us went. There we slept for a good, two hours or more, and awoke / in just the right time, to catch the brunch with the wine, then we played until three, then slept some more / until her mother was out the door. We followed her out and went to a park, where we played for a good hour or more. Then back to the flat, to have our supper and chat, then relax and play until twenty-two. A bath and some stories, from four different books, and sleeping she was / at eleven o clock.

Never give a sucker an even break

Father at night: I can’t deny that I’m bored, but happy as well. Surreal feelings when I awake and turn to watch them. [OH THIS WAS BEFORE]

Never judge a book by its cover

Father at bay: Before it was dreams of glory and breakthroughs, now here, in the life of stillness, it is something secure, to keep the money coming in. Something not too uncomfortable, not too stressful. Something close and convenient. [OH THIS WAS ALSO BEFORE]

Never let the sun go down on your anger

Father at work: It’s a shame that the life of the hospital doctor is one of pathological stress. The money up there, travelling around, could be used to improve the quality of health care on the whole planet. The analogue is complete with respect to the schools, where a teacher is a doctor and the students as much in danger as the patients: not lethal danger but a life-changing one. One that’s forcing its victims out, from the heart of things / so city and hospital is alike, reserved for the ones with the means, and the rest are but spectators / to a high-speed car party of prostitutes, cocaine and barfing.

Never look a gift horse in the mouth

Broder Daniel forever:

I’M INSPIRED

DISRESPECTED

DISGUSTED

DISAPPOINTED

BY THE MUSIC THEY ARE PLAYING AT THIS PLACE

I CAN’T DANCE

TO THIS

YET DANCING IS ALL IT SEEMS TO BE ABOUT

DANCING

FROM FREEDOM

GOOD NIGHT SLEEP WELL SEE YOU TOMORROW

CASKET LINEN ROSE BLOSSOM HONEY PIZZA

I WILL HAVE A LITTLE PARTY HERE

WHISKING ALONG IN THE THREADS OF TIME

IN SILENCE IN SILENCE

NOT FAR AWAY

THE SAXOPHONES PLAY

I HAVE BEEN THERE NOW I AM HERE

THERE IS ONLY ONE B IN THIS POEM

BABY

Author: The snow was falling down like white rocks and I was wearing socks. This is where we make contact. Dear reader, below I present (with some reservation) what I have been up to since we last ’spoke’. It is not in chronological order, nor in any other kind of ’order’, nor has it any intrinsic value, other than the value of the bits on the server which stores ’it’.

Author’s story-telling assistant: We start in June this year, and we go all the way back to the time before he had his first child, yes, even before he met her mother. Imagine. How I met your mother, child. What he was doing before I met your mother, little girl.

Never put off until tomorrow what you can do today

Mr White: Taking some time off to write in my diary… trying to make art, out of that, which is my mind, residing in my brain. Alas some joy I collect from the movement of my hand and its phalanges, while the families are asleep in the room next door.

Never speak ill of the dead

Author: So here we have a rather big-grasping theme, that of making ’art’ out of everything that is in the head. I for one have problem seeing how brain tissue can be art, unless you paint it or dry it and put it on display; perhaps in a bowl placed in a… - gee, everything is political… placed upon a black panther.

Never say never

Joey: Dear diary, two days ago I partok in a miracle, The Miracle of Hillerød. I managed to receive the highest of marks, a twelve out of twelve, for my exam in the fields of psychiatry and neurology. A complete shock it was to me, as I for a few seconds was fighting to hold my emotions in check, at one milisecond, seconds away from a tear. The student is given five quarters to interview and examine a voluntering patient and write a journal entry and present it to the three doctors representing the entity examining, including an emeritus professor of psychiatry. After answering questions reaching wide and far across the pensum, the student randomly receives a question in neurology and has a few minutes to prepare an answer, which is followed by some more questions. The miracle is that the student is me, given the unfocused amount of time spent studying for the exam!

Never tell tales out of school

Author: I strongly doubt Joey would score the highest mark in psychiatry… so this seems to be all lies and candy.

Nine tailors make a man

Jessey:

Så mycket som kunde gjorts bättre Author: We need translation here! Author’s assistant: ”So much which could have been done better” Saknar ditt ansikte här i eftermiddagsväntan Author’s assistant: ”Miss your face here in the afternoon wait” En människa är inget annat än något som ses från andras ögon Author’s assistant: ”A person is nothing else than something which can be seen from the eyes of others” Nu ses jag ta körkort, på semester i min barndomsstad Author’s assistant: ”Now I am being seen taking a driver’s license, on vacation in my hometown”

Ibland sugs man upp av bitterhet Author’s assistant: ”Sometimes one obtains a blowjob from bitterness” Author: No, not like that! Men genom att inte sätta denna i ord, fråntar man den liv Author’s assisstant: ”But by not putting this into words, one withdraws life from it” Och tar man en liten promenad varje dag Author’s assistant: ”And if one takes a little walk every day” Mår man oftast ganska bra Author’s assistant: ”One often feels pretty good”

No guts, no glory

Author’s assistant:

Tror jag längtar efter vinets rus ”I think I am longing for the rush of the vine” Tänka tankar halvt, aldrig följa trådar ”Thinking thoughts halfly, never following threads” Snubbla på väg till köket på jakt efter det femtonde glaset ”Trip on the way to the kitchen for the fifteenth glass”

No man can serve two masters

Jag är en hjälpare. I’m a helper. Vad jag gör när jag inte hjälper What I do when I’m not helping är inte din sak is not your business, men jag skjuter nålar i fötterna but I shoot nails into my feet och ligger i jord och piss and lie in dirt and piss och rullar runt i fylleri och smärta and rotates around i drunkedness and pain. Det är inte där jag är som bäst This is not when I am the best. Jag är som bäst när du är som sämst I am the best when you are the worst, när du har det dåligt when you are feeling down, eller har problem eller vill gråta eller tröstas or have problems or want to cry or be comforted.

No man is an island

När jag tänker på hur många ting just nu här i livet som jag inte har koll på så känns det överväldigande. When I think about how many things here in life that I do not understand/cannot control it feels overwhelming.

No names, no pack-drill

Mörka tankar, mörka aningar Dark thoughts, dark suspicions

Varför har jag vandrat in i detta dunkla rum Why have I sailed into this dark/obscure room

Sängen står där kall och död There the bed, cold and dead

För mig att ligga i For me to lie in

Och vakna upp igen And wake up again

Till mörka tankar och aningar To dark thoughts and suspicions

Som vore jag ledd in i rummet As if I was led into the room

Säg mig vad som är sant, den som vet Tell me what is true, thou who knows

Säg mig vad sången handlar om Tell me what the song is about

Säg mig vem som sjunger och vad eller vem det sjunges om Tell me who is singing and whom or what is being sung

Planeten som snurrar runt, runt The planet spinning around, around

Ögonen som ser och ibland blundar The eyes who see and sometimes shut

Det är dig jag fruktar, din närvaro, din kyla It is you I fear, your presence, your frost

Men jag är du But I am you

Får jag bestämma finns inget att frukta If I can decide there is nothing to fear

Då händer inget mörkt, då materialiseras endast goda tankar Then nothing dark happens, then only good thoughts are materialised

(Innan jag föddes såg det likadant ut När jag är borta händer inget) (Before I was born it looked the same When I am gone nothing happens)

En kvinna i vars öra jag får viska A woman in whose ears I can whisper

Som vaknar vid min sida var dag Who wakes up by my side every day

Hela livet bara flyter förbi, var dag Life just floating by, every day

Van till det, alltid levt med det, varje dag Used to it, always lived it, every day

En kvinna som mig älskar, mig ser A woman who me loves, me sees

En människa jag kan leva för A person I can live form

En vid min sida när jag dör One by my side when I die

No news is good news

Raging Bull: Raging, raging hardon and a storm. A ghost in the desert, something else symbolic. The most gruesome, the most gruesome, I tell you, like a 19th century romantic with a scent of compassion and some talent for rational thought and long sentences – the most gruesome it is to let the Aristotalian people suffer the way they do, and only because of principles. A principle is a principle, it’s what the world is an oyster-dad told me. Never forgot what you lend.

No one can make you feel inferior without your consent

Choir A: IT’S A COMEDY! A comedy so sad and pointless.

No pain, no gain

Choir B: IT’S A TRAGEDY! A tragedy that makes me want to die.

No rest for the wicked

Economic advisor to the Prince of Atlantis: Have you read this far? Tell me what jokes your local newspaper did today about the Atlantic people – ha ha – drama. It is beyond my understanding how they can keep this circus going. Pump more money in, and away they go to the rich.

Nothing is certain but death and taxes

Young Alice: Why can they not forget about the debt for, say, 30 years? Why can they not forget all about the debt? No, principles are making a whole nation suffer while the rest of us (well not the entire world) are watching with amazement – how can something be this crazy? It makes me want to cry.

Nothing succeeds like success

John Lennon, from beyond the grave, singing: ”All we are saying, is give Atlantis a chance / All we are saying…”

Nothing ventured, nothing gained

Anarchistic Front of Journalists: It’s a struggle between systems. Now the prom industry wants to loan money to Atlantis as well, so they too have a hand among hands around the throat. And we all know what the Atlantic people look like: black hoodies, stones in hands, fighting for a chaotic future of anarchy and pillaging.

Simplificator X9000 10a: One person has helped a person in great despair with a loan. The other person is struggling really bad and asks the first person if they can manage without getting the money back as quick as possible. The first person says no but offers another loan to help pay back the first loan. The second person accepts the loan, and comes back some time later with bruises and has lost 20 kilograms in weight and has developed a cough which requires urgent medical attention. The first person again offers a loan. And it offers a loan. And it offers a loan. And it offers a loan. The second person finally explodes and screams: I DO NOT WANT A LOAN! I WANT FOOD. I WANT A FUNCTIONING HOSPITAL! And the first person goes: I cannot help you with that, you need to get yourself in shape and get a job so I can have my money back! The second persone goes: but how can I get myself in shape, and start paying back my loan to you when I have nothing, not even a job, not even a home?

In comes the angel!

The angel:

Witheth the powerth investeth int thme, I noweth proclaimth thine debtheth awayeth I now proclaimeth thine future as bright, as mine eyes when they shineth upon thine land Cry no more and think no more, abouteth what thouest shal doeth tomorroweth For all thine tears are now in my cup, for I have taketh thine debtheth awayeth Look in thine brouchoure and find the best school, for thine children to go to Applyeth right awayth for thine new job, and happily goeth there in the morning

Come back, my child, in 30 years time Maybe then, I will needeth mine moneyth

United choir of candle-makers: We’re just saying it’s bizzare. It’s a great example of how far away those with the power are from the people. They have it in their hands to end this. There simply is no moral justification for what the TP is doing towards the people of Atlantis: to destroy an entire nation just because of principles. If there is enough money to grant another astronomic loan, then surely there is enough money to suspend the previous ones. Anyway, it’s not money (what people use to buy things), it’s some kind of floating mass with a fantasy value, and it’s as detached from reality as the politicians of the TP. Again and again, time after time, it shows that people are worth nothing and that investors and money is all that matters. Make the debate one that corresponds to reality, make the value of human life greater than the value of money.

Hernias and arachnoidal cysts – a possible connection to lunacy There has been observed cases of…

Abstract

I’m a po boy, oh a po boy. Self-annihilation instead of going for a run, oh po boy.

There has been observed cases of hernias extending up along the spinal cord and subsequently – over a period of months to years to seconds – growing into the brain, shapeshifting to an arachnoidal cyst. The cases are few, the documentation not great, but eyes have had this phenomenon projected to the retina and brains – persons – have obtained the information of the existance of this… disease. The frames are here to allow the expansion of the content, thus giving the feeling of freedom. Whether this freedom – or this disease for that matter – exists in the real world, which is the physical world outside the head, can be of much debate among the scientific community. Oh po boy. Oh po boy, your woman still loves you, yes she does. Who am I, writing this? Who am I when I’m not writing this. What do I do, what do I think? What do I hear when I am in the real world? What do I think people are saying? Are they talking to me? Questions, questions, questions – a spiral into a black hole which is hard and too exciting to leave.

Method

I: Was – or is – a great World rs ago and all the thoughts about existence and the world which it rovoked in me. So… how exciting is this? Well, Frank, I used to be pretty good at writing. In fact I had the best score in the school’s history in English and Swedish national tests in my last year of high school. But as usual, the psychosis – thid rumours he was a homosexual and asking if this was true. ”Vh, Martin” The man was very hurt and my parents willed me to call him and apologize, which I did. He was upset there were rumours, and also anOf Warcraft guild. And why the fuck can I not play this game without suspicionual and asking if this was true. ”Vh, Martin” The man was e years ago and all the thoughts about existence and the world which it rovoked in me. So… how exciting is this? Well, Frank, I[FRACKKC KRAAKAKA KRAAAAAKRA FRACKCKRA KRA] used to be pretty good at writing. In fact I had the best score in the school’s history in English and Swedish national tests in my last year of high school. But as usual, the teachers were not very fond of me, and especially not this one, when I caused a stirr, by, one afternoon (or was ivery hurt and my parents willed me to . They think I got my little cyber-army and sit in secret chats talking about all kinds of things, making conspiracies, planning DDoS attacks. I know of nothing of the kind but I have read this is how they do it. SSRI can lead to hypomania which can lead to psychosis. Forgive me for putting myself into that situation, but really, I have not done anything criminal. Well, according to some I have but I argue my innocence by saying that if I had not taken those pills I would not have behaved in [KRA FRA KRKRAA KRA FRAKRACKRA KRAAAA]such an extreme way on the internet. But how philosophically crazy can one get some might ask. Imaginy hurt and my parents willed me to call him and apologize, which I did. He was upset there were rumours, a the teachers were not very fond of me, and especially not this my little cyber-army and sit in secret chats talking about all kin by saying that if I had not taken those pills I would not have behaved in such an extreme war the whole world to see? Well, Frank, I have always put my art on the internet. In fact, it is the only place – eds of things, making conspiracies, planning D one, when I caused a stirr, by, one afternoon (or was it during a break between one of the morning classes?) – without thinking for one second – sent an email in the school’s intranet to my mathemhave written them and can have them ”ne standing on two feet on the ground. Then imagine first the one foot lifting, and you’re tilting, then the other, and you’re not flying, you are suspended in oxygen-deprived air. Nor do I claim that I am not responsible for everything I have done. I just need to formulate these thowhy put them on the internet foat situation, but really, I have not done anything criminal. Well, according to some I have but I argue my innocence by saying that if I had not taken those pills I would not have behaved in such an extreme war the whole world to see? Well, Frank, I have always put my art on the iughts for my self, so that I ional tests in my last year of high school. But as usual, the teachers[KRA KRA FRACKARA KRAAAA KRA KROOOKRA KRAKAKA] were not very fond of me, and especially not this my little cyber-army and sit in secret chats talking about all kin by saying that if I had not taken those pills I would not have behaved in such an extreme war the whole world to see? Well, Frank, I have always put my art on the internet. In fact, it is the only place – eds of things, making conspiracies, planning D one, when I caused a stirr, by, one afternoon (or was it during a break between one of the morning classes?) – without thinking for one second – sent an email in the school’s intranet to my mathemhave written them and can have them ”out of my head”. Then why put them on the internet foat situation, but really, I have not done anything criminal. Well, according to some I have but I argue my innocence by saying that if I had not taken those pills I would not have behaved in such an extreme war the whole world to see? Well, Frank, I have always put my art on the internet. In fact, it is the only place – except from some cd-albums I did with my punk band in my teenage-years – I have published my art. They fond of me, and especially not this one, when I caused a stirr, by, one afternoon (or was it during a break between one of the morning classes?) – without thinking for one second – sent an email in the school’s intranet to my mathematics/english/swedish teacher saying that I had heard rumours he was a homn, why should I not? How many views are there on this blog? Last time I checked it was *. How many people are there in the world? Hundreds of billions. This piece of literature is simply based on the psychosis – this ugly word – I had some years ago and all the thoughts about existence and the world which it pow many people are there in the world? Hundreds of billions. This piece of literature is simply based onsaying that I had heard rumours he was a homosexual and asking if this was true. ”Vh, Martin” The man was e years ago and all the thoughts about existence and the world which it rovoked in me. So… how exciting is this? Well, Frank, I used to be pretty good at writing. In fact I had the best score in the school’s history in English and Swedish national tests in my last year of high school. But as usual, the psychosis – this ugly word – I had rumours, and also anOf Warcraft guild. And why the fuck can I not play this game without suspicion. They think I got my little cyber-army [KRA KRA BOKRA FRACKRA KRAA KR FRAKRAAARA KRAA]and sit in secret chats talking about all kinds of things, making conspiracies, planning DDoS attacks. I know of nothing of the kind but I have read this is how they do it. SSRI can lead to hypomania ws?) – without thinking for one s especially not this one, when I caused a stirr, by, one afternoon (or was it during a break between one of the morning classes?) – without thinking for one second – sent an email ict, it is the only place – eds of things, making conspiracies, planning D one, when I caused a stirr, by, one afternoon (or was it during a break between one of the morning classes?) – without thinking for one second – sent an email in the school’s intranet to my mathemhave written them and chich can lead to psychosis. Forgive me for putting myself into that situation some years ago and all the thoughts about existence and the world which it provoked in me. So… how exciting is this? Well, Frank, I used to be pretty good at writing. In fact I had the best score in the school’s history in English and Swedish national tests in my last year of high school. But as usual, the teachers were not very fond of me, ands – I have published my art. They fond of me, and especially not this one, when I caused a stirr, by, one [KRA KRAA FRAKCKRA BOKRA KRA BOKFRAKRA KRAAAA KRAAAA KRAKRA FRACKRA RA KRA] afternoon (or was it during a break between one of the morning classes?) – without thinking for one s especially not this one, when I caused a stirr, by, one afternoon (or was it during a break between one of the morning classes?) – without thinking for one second – sent an email ict, it is the only place – eds of things, making conspiracies, planning D one, when I caused a stirr, by, one afternoon (or was it during a break between one of the morning classes?) – without thinking for one second – sent an email in the school’s intranet to my mathemhave written them and can have then the school’s intranet to my mathematics/english/swedish teacher saying that I had heard rumours he was a homosexual and asking if this was true. ”Vh, Martin” The man was e years ago and all the thoughts about existence and the world which it rovoked in me. So… how exciting is this? Well, Frank, I used to be pretty good at writing. In fact I had [KRA KRA KROOO KRA HRAK HRAK FRACKARA RAAAA] the best score in the school’s history in English and Swedish national tests in my last year of high school. But as usual, the teachers were not very fond of me, and especially not this one, when I caused a stirr, by, one afternoon (or was ivery hurt and my parents willed me to call him and apologize, which I did. He was upset there were rumours, and also answered my question and the answer was that it was not true. In some weird way I think I remember as doing this to impress my girlfriend at the time but I was only 13 years old.

Z: I’m a worried man baby, I worry all the time. Since I got my blues, I worry all the time. I worry well until I see, there’s no reason worried to be.

Y: Baby please don’t go. Jag avgudar dig helt ärligt, förstår inte vad det är jag känner. Socker i mina ögon, aj aj aj! [KRAA KRA KROO KRAKRA KRAA FRACKRA KRA KROOOKRA]Men dumt att komma bakrökt till vår thailänska middag. Men fick jo ikke ligga, skulle inte ha pratat om Schwarzschild radius lige før vi skulle sove. Hur han satt i skyttegraven och pulade med ekvationer. Hur många var de som gjorde sådant, i denna generation som blev till jord, alla på nästan en och samma gång?

X: Jag laver kun det, jeg er nød til. Al anden fokus er på studiet. Det er en grunde, en line at holde fast i, når man som jeg famler i livets alle retninger. Det er næsten lige meget hvad jeg lavede de år jeg studererde til læge. Det er næsten ikke et liv man har. Alt skal på hylden: det sociale, hobbies, den personlige udvikling, familien hvis man nu også har børn, som mange lægestuderende jo har. Og det er OK, fordi det er meget spændende, sjovt, udviklende og udfodrende. Jeg er megaglad ovenfor mit studie og det erhvervsliv som venter om kun nogle aar. Jeg har det faktisk meget godt. [AD 1857]

[KRAA KRAA KROO KRAAA FRACKRA KRAAA KRAAAA]

Å: Synkronicitet och sånt skit… I natt drömde jag om Excelsia, vi var på bröllop, hon skulle gifta sig och var supersnygg och hennes kommande man kom och hälsade med ett slappt handslag. Sen vaknade jag för melodin skulle upp, sen somnade jag igen när hon gått och drömde om Emilie och att vi skulle dansa. Jag dansar generellt inte men gick med på det och det gick väldans bra och sen kysstes vi och… låg med varandra? Eller kom vi inte så långt innan jag vaknade i melodins lägenhet? Och så glömde jag min ipad (melodi säger min baby, vår baby) trots jag packade ihop datorn. Så nu ligger den där och jag måste komma och hämta den på fredag. Varför gör jag alltid konstiga saker mot tjejer????? Alltid för mycket, alltid en overload. Jag känner för mycket och jag är för mycket. Det är ett behov jag har… Åh nej, det är självbekräftelse… Have mercy. Sluta prata om behov. Du vet mycket väl att du behöver inget…

Data Collection

A: Thoughts about God are thoughts about associations. B: W/H/ell, everything mind is associations. The thought like a projectile, shot into space, side-rivers formed every moment of time. A: It reaches an end-point and the mind rests, then comes the association and off it (thought/mine) wanders again. C: But where is it wandering and where am I?

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Det utspelar sig på ett naturligt cirkelformat stort öppet grönt fält. Runt det mörk granskog. Delar av fältet kläs i boksalar av stora bokar i full sommarblom. Gräs på golvet, enstaka blommor, buskar och växter.

Det är inte lathet, det är en jakt på flow. / It is not being lazy, it is a hunt for flow Det är inte en ventil, det är en krönika. / It is not a vent, it is a chronicle Det är inte flykt, det är k ä r l e k . / It is not espace, it is love Det är inte endimensionellt, människor svälter medan jag skriver. / It is not one-dimensional, people are starving as I’m writing

Siddharta, den engelska undulaten, sjunger, låter som en varelse från rymden. Mestrasa hade föreläsning i sex timmar i [KRAA KRAA KROO FRACKRA] rad i dag, men med en kvarts paus mellan var. Han cyklade i en timme för att komma dit. Varför, säg mig, skall han då vara rädd för någon människa, när han ingen skada mot någon har gjort, och är en god vän till alla han känner?

Jag avskyr att höra grannen prata i telefon i lägenheten bredvid. Det är tunna väggar så det hörs gott. Jag hör inte vad han säger, jag hör bara hans tonläge och härifrån låter det inte muntert. Mitt humör och sinneslag får det till att låta dystert. [KRA KROO KRAA FRACKRA KRAAAA KRAAAAA KRAAAAA FRAAAACKRA] Om bara Siddharta hade kunnat vara tyst för en sekund så hade jag kanske hört vad grannen pratade om på telefon. Men jag är inte särskilt intresserad av att höra om hans privatliv. Jag hör på nog om folk varje dag på sjukhuset. Det trivs jag bra med. Jag känner inte min granne, vet bara vad han heter. Nog om honom. Nog för idag, pretentiösa rövhål.

Pick the scratches up daring duck donkey Leave your works on the workbench No words have I heard in many years No clocksheet is a trackler No doubt I got around Olsson this time

Got the time and got the future Philosophy brought me here I swear Nothing but love has any way in the making Of the green pasture of plenty future Trusting some truth of your own

Get to the bottom of it Speak it loud and clear My heartbeat, your heartbeat I expect all too much…

[KRAAAAAAAKRAAA]

Oh mamma mia I have a good time in KBH city Sit at home drink me a pale Go out to do about the same Man that’s me Doing what I should Take me a trip Down south out west Africa, here I come

And his eyes had all the seemings of a demon That’s dreaming x4

Mittlivsnekrolog, mitt livs nekrolog

Tusen små ord skäres bort således att vi hamnar mitt i livets kärna, där jag nu befinner mig och försöker se utåt, bakåt och framåt. Jag kan ingenting. Jag vill ingenting. Eller jo jag vill, men jag vet inte vad. Alla möjligheter jag har till hands just nu känns oattraktiva. Jag vil inte inte vältra mig i sentimentalitet, tvärtom, jag vill blicka framåt. Det är väl klart det mesta känns meningslöst när det enda jag har till hands är mitt rum, [KRA KRA KRO FRACKRA KRAKRA KROKRA KRORKA FRACKA KRAAA KRAA] min dator, en box rödvin, en flaska whisky, två soffor, en säng, två fönster med dubbla gardiner samt tre fåtöljer og en TV. Då är ju det enda som kallar stadens nattliv, men jag vet allt för väl hur den historien slutar. Eller det vet jag inte… den slutar ju annorlunda varje gång… eller ibland slutar den annorlunda. VAR ÄRLIG MOT DIG SJÄLV Nej jag kan inte vara ärlig! Vad ska jag vara ärlig med? ALLT! Allt? Som i allt och hela alltet, luften, tingen och alltings ordning? Det är omöjligt. Jag har målat in mig i ett hörn. Jag sitter i ett hörn på Mexibar och dricker Bloody Mary klockan fyra om morgonen på en onsdag. Vem är du? Starbrow KRAAAA KRAAA Vad skall du? Bli färdig med denna långa utbildning och sen hitta att sätt att vara fri och glad Vad saknar du? Det var länge sedan jag reste. Jag saknar vänner, men vill samtidigt inte umgås med någon, eftersom jag sitter i mitt hörn och dricker, och ingen vet varför, och jag kan inte berätta det för jag vet inte varför. Det handlar väl om att jag kommit in i dåliga vanor. Tar jag vara på mig själv och min kropp infinner sig det fysiska- såväl som det psykiska välmåendet. Men då kommer jag ju inte skriva mer! Eller? Jo det är klart att du kommer att skriva. Ohälsan som följer från fylleri och stillasittande är inte en äkta ohälsa. Ångesten är inte äkta existensiell ångest. Jo jag tror jag känner till den existensiella ångesten, jag känner den väl och gott, alltför väl.

KRAA KRAAA KRAKRA FRACKRA KROO KROO KROOOOO FRACKRA KRAAAA!

And so it was that Mr Bottlereck obtained his diploma in the school of life, and grew up and on and went to Antartcis to do polar bear research.

Nature abhors a vacuum

Bystander: On this day, in the year 1896, the 13th of October, Mr. Bob Dylan received the Nobel Prize for Literature. This inspires me greatly. I feel that things matter again. I feel like I can approach my writing with a new energy, with hope for a better world and with dignity. In this world, where nothing seems to matter anymore, some things still matter. My great master and house god – though I wonder what the man is thinking right now – has been awarded the greatest honor and will forever live on in history, not only as the greatest songwriter of all of mankind (surpassing the greats of the stone age), but as a recognized literary giant. He shaped who I am, he educated me, he showed me beauty in life. I hope he lives long enough for the technology be discovered that he may preserve his brain (which is art, Mr White) and enter a cyborg body and live forever.

Near is my kirtle, but nearer is my smock (a justification for looking after one’s own closest interests)

Jean-Claude: I’m in love with another woman. There is nothing wrong with that, or shameful. We are not married. There are no obligations, but the one, which is providing for our daughter. We are moving to different apartments anyway.

Near is my shirt, but nearer is my skin

Merklorotiez: I love you every day and I will always love you. I will always be your friend. It is a cardinal wish in my life to grow old with you, to sit on a porch overlooking the ocean and watch the sun set, drink in hand, hat on head, smiling eyes, content about what this life gave us, the adventure we were privileged to experience together… my love.

STARBROOOOOW!

Presented to you by The RAND corporation. Power in your hands. (TM)

The nearer the bone, the sweeter the meat

Buck: We love each other. Everybody loves everybody, just in different ways. Nobody can replace you, nobody can replace the spot you have in my heart.

The nearer the church, the farther from God (Tharfor men seye, an weyl ys trowed, ’the nere the cherche, the fyrther fro God’, AD 1303)

Jean-Claude: Filled with love I set out for the location of the meeting. Dear reader, I know you think you will come along to a meeting with my new love, but this is not a sex novel. I am simply going to a meeting for people who have a greater-than-normal interest in two things: sub-optimal couch positions and three-legged cats.

Necessity is the mother of invention

Author: Many people when picturing what the meeting locale for such a ’club’ might look like see before them a below-ground-level door with a dimly lit staircase leading down to it and a sign saying ’Keep out!’ or ’Thai massage’, but this meeting was not even located in a Gotham-like city – it was on the countryside. The village of Gggrrakjlokak is conveniently placed outside the map, or rather, inside the map: literally inside the map. In order to find the village, you need to fold the map (this only works with an actual physical map, hence keeping most of the population, who do not own maps, out) in a certain fashion – and, like fashion, this folding pattern changes every autumn. So – bear with me now – in order to participate in a meeting, one needs to have participated in the previous year’s meeting, for it is here that the next year’s folding pattern is revealed (or rather, devised, collectively, by the three-legged cats, in sub-optimal positions on the couches). See, in this way the folding of the map differs from fashion: fashion is not devised, and certainly not by three-legged cats in sub-optimal positions on couches… Wait! Look at me, dear reader, babbling along again about fashion! Now, where was I – right: I am on my way to said meeting, walking on a country road without lights (the moon far from full), the wind biting my cheeks like the hounds of Baskerville and I’m walking there trying to fold the map in the wind and… I start thinking about Mathilde! Out of the blue (or rather, out of the moon-ridden night sky) comes her face upon my inner screen: her high cheeks, her long dark hair, her delicate nose, her whole body, even, with that out-of-this world behind. What is this sorcery! Is she thinking about me too? Right now?

Mathilde: Indeed, mister. Indeed, I am. Guess what I’m wearing?

Jean-Claude: Nothing?

Mathilde: That’s right. Nothing. Nothing but my soft skin, my long dark hair and my wet lips, longing for your kiss.

Jean-Claude: Mathilde, that is marvellous! I don’t know what to say… See, I’m out of town for the weekend… I’m currently a few hours away… It’s pretty dark here, pretty windy.

Mathilde: Shh, Jean-Claude. Don’t speak. Don’t say a word. I will come to you.

Jean-Claude: You can’t, Mathilde! It’s very difficult to get here, impossible even! You need to fold the map in a certain way, and the only people who know how to fold it this year are the people who were at the previous year’s meeting! Three-legged cats! They know! Find one, and place it in an sub-optimal position on the couch!

Mathilde: …

Jean-Claude: Mathilde? Mathilde! Mathiiiiiiiiiiilde! Love’s choir:

Out of the blue Out of the moon-ridden night sky Out of this world

Jean-Claude:

Mathiiiiiiiiiiilde! Oh no!

Author: In comes the vampire, wearing a hat made of diapers and 14th century paintings.

Hollow voice:

STOP THIS NONSENSE RIGHT NOW! Tell us about the meeting you were on your way to. Mathilde does not exist in the real world.

Jean-Claude: Yet…

Hollow voice: What did you say?

Jean-Claude: Yet.

Hollow voice: What do you mean by that?

Jean-Claude: Nothing.

Hollow voice: What do you mean by ’nothing’?

Jean-Claude: I mean what I said: nothing.

Hollow voice: But you said ’something’. Hence you cannot mean ’nothing’. I wish I could remember what word you said… ’Yeti’, ’Jet’, ’Yacht’…

Jean-Claude: Listen, hollow voice, I don’t have time for this kind of philosophical nonsense. I’m on my way to a meeting. I said ’Jet’.

Love’s choir:

Jet! Jet! Jet! On our way to a lovely jet Painted red and a lovely white

On our way to a lovers jet Jet, jet fighter

Fighting love and fighting feels Wrestling doves and devouring eels

Jet, jet fighter!

Jean-Claude: The meeting was all-right. Not much to talk about, really. I managed after a long time to fold the map as per the instructions á la last year (they were sooo last year) and arrived in Gggrrakjlokak shortly before treema-time (time does not exist in Gggrrakjlokak so we refer to events by abstract ridiculous rituals). After treema-time (which is much like hanky-panky time in the real world) the three-legged cats got dressed and headed out in the kitchen to prepare dinner. We have the pleasure to make acquaintance with the following lovely three-legged cats:

Mr Yong-Sui – a Vietnam veteran car from upstate Alaska

Mr Catalot – a fat, cigar-smoking gentlecat

Ms Knucklepaw – a cat lady in her finest years

John – a half-cat, half-human transvestite currently employed by a large financial institution

Ms Red/Blue/Purple – a lovely cat with the only downside being she insists being color-blind

Brutus – John’s siamese twin, who doesn’t really speak much, but when he does, speaks wisely but hardly understandable

Author’s assistant: I doubt there is one person present in the premises who wants to hear further about this cat adventure…

Author: Shut up!

Necessity knows no law

Excelsia, singing a sad serenade:

Can’t do it any other way Could not have prevented the circumstances leading up to it Can’t deny the cartoon carnage

Have to let it happen Have to do what is known to be the best way to end it Can’t save every human life

Can save this document Simply hold ctrl and press S and give it a name of choice Can’t deny the cartoon carnage

Can’t imagine the brains on legs Not doing what’s in their power to end suffering Can’t save every human life

Needs must when the Devil drives

Moron, from beyond life and death, joining in the chorus:

Can’t do it any other way Not our fault things are what they are Can’t stop if from happening

What a neighbour gets is not lost

Heron: Ball spinning around and around. The global perspective. For every one of you there is another one just a little bit better. Because they worked harder. For every Earth this another Earth just a little bit better. We just have to work harder.

How do you interpret this?

A. We need to work harder, as in work more hours, produce more goods, make more money, be more efficient, make the economy grow more.

B. We need to work harder with ourselves, so that we reach the mindset where we can set ourselves free from the chains of capitalism; so we can create a new society where economic growth is not the main reason for existence. This in order to save the collapsing ecosystems, stop global warming and make it so that coming generations also can live on this planet.

C. They sure sound like lovely cats.

D. I want to cry because the world is totally crazy and there is no way for me as an individual to make any kind of impact on the course of humanity. We are all ruled by a mindless entity composed of elitist sociopaths. There is no mercy, no understanding, no love. Democracy is dead. Politicians are merely schoolchildren still wanting to rule the playground.

E. I’m in love with Mr Catalot.

In vain the net is spread in the sight of the bird

Author’s assistant: Who gives a shit about this and that, who gives a shit about anything but themselves? If you want to attract readers – and make money! – you need to adapt to your reader’s wants and needs. We are bombarded daily by reports about the dreadful state of the world, so why don’t you, dear author, try to write something cheerful instead. Be an inspiration to those who don’t care about humanity and the planet. Show everybody that is is perfectly acceptable to not care about anything or anyone, to just want to be entertained, to just want to laugh, dance and be careless.

If you gently touch a nettle it’ll sting you for your pains; grasp it like a lad of mettle, an’ as soft as silk remains

Buck, singing, with an eerie smile and tear in eye:

I throw this bottle of plastic into the woods, into the woods I watch it fade from the car window, beautiful, by a tree I don’t care if it’s there when I come back the other way Don’t care what happens to it! It’s sitting there perfectly, for another five hundred years

I’m annoyed by refugees on the island of Atlantis I have paid money to have vacation, and the travel agency Did not mention there were refuges, did not mention they were there I’d like to ask them to leave, but they are too many I’m annoyed by beggars in the street

If I’m going anywhere I take my car, if it’s far I take the plane I love to think about the oil, how it’s turning into gas I love it that it gets warmer, I love it that the animals die I love it that soon there’s no, coral reef left at all Love to all the people, Love to all that’s living

Hail me and hail my behaviour, I’m an example for us all Join me, on my crusade, against injustice

Never is a long time

Mathilde’s love:

I’m locked inside and I can’t get out. I can’t see a way forward.

Depression is threatening with early symptoms. Just let me sleep it out. Let me fall asleep and not wake up, until life’s summer looms.

Every word, I write, is slow and heavy, deaf to tone and rhythm. It’s mostly anger, that I convey, so better then, to no write at all. If one day, Mathilde returns, I might look up towards the sky.

Bettered then, my hope would be, but locked inside, I’d still be three.

It’s never too late to learn

Learn what. It feels like it’s too late though I’m a mere thirty. Yes I shall learn from my mistakes, but I am here torn between the opposites. If no mistakes I’d made then nothing I’d learnt, thus making everything I’d done mistakes, since learning is getting closer to truth, and truth is the opposite of mistakes. So in order to obtain truth one must make exclusively mistakes, which it oftentimes feels like I’ve been doing thus far. The friction between wishes, dreams and reality is high in this one individual, so much that he’s not able to uphold it for more than a week at once. I ** myself a lot right now, the day spent in paralyzing melancholy and anger. Anger at the circumstances, melancholy about Melody, whom I married and had a baby with. I was blue-eyed then, I’m not blue-eyed any longer. I fear for my artistic integrity. I fear that I won’t have the inner glow left in me when I reach forty and want to write that great novel, the novel for which I’ve filled my days with friction. Melody hid the keys to the car. I wanted to make an escape. We had been fighting for hours. I can’t live like this, come on.

Where would I be if I had not met her. Who would I have met instead. I do not care. Who will I meet next? I do not care right now. I usually care about it. Good night, good night. I can’t sleep. I don’t care.

It hurts to be alive.

You know nothing of pain.

You know nothing.

Pain is subjective, graded from one to ten.

You know nothing about these numbers.

Autumn day a long time in the future. Around the house the forest in red, orange, green, yellow. The wind setting the sea in motion, making the branches look like they’re dancing but they’re not. Nobody to call on the phone. This house, once filled with the voices of my father and mother and brother and sister, and wife and daughter and all those to come, and all the animals, now bursting with silence, now looking at me, asking: where have all these people gone. I say I don’t know and I step outside in the early afternoon, the rain slowly making noises, the air crisp, my breath visible, and then I stop everything. Melody just gave me a surprise gift. She gave me some pot she had found while cleaning up. It is grown here in the garden. Her mother used to grow it when she was alive. Her mother grew up in this house. This house from 1937 by the ocean with a beach front.

Years passed and the days became longer, and we find ourselves again amidst the thoughts of one Mr John Rickmond, hired yesteryear as the author’s assistant, and now, for having taken one too many artistic liberties, is to wake up to one bizarre reality.

”The next day I woke up not remembering where I had been last night. I woke up in some kind of couch, and I was wearing a helmet of some sort, dark green in colour. I tried to move my arms but discovered that I had been turned into a cat, a fat one to that, with orange, white and red stripes. My first sensation was moving my tail, that feeling something like an extension of the spine combined with a fishing pole to keep the balance with. I somehow just accepted the obvious fact that I now was a cat. Reader, believe me in this, I became a cat a never looked back. Once I got out of the couch I walked around the premises looking for food because I was hungry. I came upon another cat, quickly presenting himself as Mr Catalot, who sat on his front paws smoking a big cigar with his remaining back paw, because the other back paw had been amputated when he was a youngster. It had caught fire when Mr Catalot tried to smoke a cigar for the first time. After cat-greeting this elegant cat I went over to the kitchen area located in the same room and begain looking around for the food tray or bits of food left or dropped on the floor. I wasn’t very thirsty, mostly hungry. Over in one corner sat a two-headed cat curiously looking at me with both its faces. It presented itself as John and Brutus, Brutus and John and I did not speak further to that cat on that day, but got to know him better a few days later when we again met in the kitchen. For what I proceded with was scanning the area around the cat for food and became very joyful when I saw the food tray right in front of me, and without thinking set straight for it with a great leap. Maybe it was because I was fresh out of the couch, or because I’ve always been an absent-minded person but what I discovered mid-air was, sadly, that my back right paw was missing. I made a big crash on the floor. All the force mustered by my left back paw upon release threw me at least a meter up in the air, with all the wrong momentum, making me spin around and land clumsily on my head. John and Brutus laughed and I was twice humiliated by his two heads jumping up and down, grinning uncontrollably. I ran over to the food tray and ate as much as I could on one occasion, and then ran back to my couch where I soon fell asleep, for I was very tired. I dreamt about food and two cat heads that danced around each other while smiling at me, on an open field outside Warwickshire, the night dimly lit by a crescent moon.”

Author’s assistant: I’m not even particularly fond of cats… I’m more of a dog person.

A dark figure descends from the night sky.

Moron: Are you now really?

Author’s assistant, startled: Who are you?!

Moron, singing slowly, darkly:

I’m the master of time and master of wickedness Faster than me, you ought not to be Right when you know it, ascending the wit You lose yourself a bit Each time I take a hit

And I say

KRAA KRO KRAKRAAAA KABOOOFF!

And thus, the beloved assistant to the author was turned into a cat! It jumped up and down, squeaked, and ran to take cover under the couch, only its grey eyes to be seen hidden in the shadows.

Though nothing sad about the assistant’s fate there is.

It is never too late to mend

Author’s assistant: I just loved fish! The first months I ate nothing but fish: salmon, tuna, herring, and sea bass that my master captured. On the fifth day I came to eat something distasteful, and had to venture to the grass tray; the urge to eat the grass was very strong, like an instinct, and the relief upon barfing was grand indeed. I spent a great deal of time lying on the couch, watching the days go by, and keeping a close eye on what the other cats were up to. They weren’t up to very much, the daily routine was loosely scheduled just the way I like it. See, rather happy the assistant is.

Mr Catalo, screamingt: I feel so ashamed. I feel so bad just sitting here. I don’t even like this cigar anymore! I’d like to complain, but that’s not a cat’s thing to do! KRAA KROO KRAAAA KRAAAAAAAKRAAA

krra kroo kraaaaaa kraaa kraaa kraaa kraaaaaaaaaa

SANG THE BUZZARD CHOIR

SANG IT FOR A WEEK OR MORE

’TIL TWO OF THE VULTURES

WERE OUT OF THE HOLSTERS

AND TOOK TO THE SKY

TO LIVE AND LET DIE

SANG THE BUZZARD CHOIR, A WEEK OR MORE

sYSTEM bREAK sYSTEM bREAK !! !! *

43-årig mand kendt med depressiv enkeltepisode henvender sig i skadestuen: One cold night I was sitting inside the cabin with the fireplace on a cosy heat. I turned to my side, and saw on the book, cover with a night over Verdune. It struck me then, that I had been there, not now, but in another universe. What was it I saw, what was in my brain, when I decided to sit down, on my blue coach?

I need to cut my nails before they grow too long. I need to go to bed quite soon. It’s been a very long day. I need to go to bed but I keep doing small tasks. Good night.

I live through this so that I may tell you about it later. Outside the rain is falling. The parade is on its way to a river entrenched in forest, but the river is not the goal, it’s merely sitting there. The parade is not the subject, its members not defined. Something is going someplace but it’s not important.

I used to feel a lot, now I’m remembering everything. This used to be life and death, now it’s a memory. It’s mysticism lingering in the face of fatherhood and one hundred percent occupancy of the wakeful hours. It’s a longing and a desire, it’s a purpose wanting to be fulfilled and placed in the future.

One day, honey bear, one day… I will sit in solemn silence surrounded by dancing trees and chanting seas, remembering what it was that I wanted to say. Don’t think I will make it easy for you, mankind, for nothing is as easy as you’ll have it. I will capture the essence, ride out the agony and show you the music.

And I make the promise unto myself, that when we leave the city behind, we also leave its ways of life, its sleeplessness and binding lights. This is just waiting, this is just waiting, but life shouldn’t be, that we just wait and see.

But like convalescence requires a break from the spires, so does my life when I’m staying with wife. I dream and dream, and sleep like a stone, and I pledge all my neurons to remain with the morons, and contrast this fate with lover’s dictate.

A writer’s life is a writer’s plastic, if tramp in the mud the writer never has.

The water-boiler is landing a spaceship flown by a computer…

THE END THE END THE END