Friday, July 6, 2018

I have longed for time on my own, but now he's not there, there is no
longer that longing. Just a hole, and inside it, what feels like a silent echo.
On my computer screen hovers a spinning rainbow, opposes work.
I make a cup of tea and try to capture the moment, just as it is.
And time does stretch out, like a lazy cat, striped crosswise. A fire truck drives
past outside and the sirens cut like a sharp blade through the dull thunder.
Somewhere there's a fire inside the rain, I think to myself.
The tea turns cold while I await time.
We haven't left the house in time for anything since he was born 
but today I rush out, lock the door without abiding time at all.
She can catch up with me as best she can down the street.

Soaked wet with rain I meet a photographer in the nursery hallway.
He has photographed all the kids today, he says.
I don't know how he knows whose mother I am. 
Maybe I tell him, but I'm too blurred to know for sure.
Cassius.. he mumbles and searches his big camera LCD screen,
finding his way to the image he's looking for.
Rain or wind carried seawater drips salt from my brow,
trickles down my cheek and I stick the tip of my tongue out a corner
to meet it. The photographer angles the camera to show me.
And there he is, sitting on the floor, looking up and into the camera,
into me. His little body in a knitted cardigan, with his ears a bit protruding,
and with syrupy, dark eyes. His mouth is open and his glance too.
The hollow in me echoes as from a distant and tiny, fragile bell.
He's gorgeous..! smiles the photographer and holds my gaze.
I feel matt, but my eyes must be glassy.

A painter helps me carry the stroller and son down the stairs.
Suddenly it has stopped raining and the sun shoots silvery, clear spears
down into the sea, through the milky white. And that's how it is,
that little celestial body in a knitted cardigan is my aperture.
He is an opening in himself, to the world. Through him,
I more often now glimpse an abyss whose sombre depth turn me faint.
And yet, over the whole, there hovers an extraordinary tenderness.

cassius is wearing the daily pullover {in mushroom} by millk


Wednesday, July 4, 2018

I've got a stubborn headache and an even more stubbornly growing laundry pile.
I'm sitting all still on the bed, with Chopin turned up a bit too loud and a coffee that's
now a bit too cooled down. I look around at beautiful things.
How I've collected, carried and travelled with.. things, I think to myself.
So valuable, so costly, and such cherished memories.

The big backpack made of straw I bought in Bali many years ago,
from a man with one dead eye. It was cloudy and lifeless,
his smile capricious and awake.

The curvy urn is an old French olive jug.
I've sat high in the passenger seat of many furniture trucks with that
held to my chest through the years. Most recently moving from Sweden
to England during warm summer days. I had beads of sweat forming above my
top lip and the arrow of Cupid deeply embedded in my chest.

The photograph of my little sister with orchids in her hair is faded now
and one of the first portraits I ever took. The frame holding her we bought
together during a road trip through France with a sullen Parisian
at the wheel and everything that is supposed to be easy was hard.
In that manner it often is right before something ends.

The small photograph of me there close to her, with a python,
Sara shot in Bali. The snake weighed nearly sixty-seven pounds and
we had blue bruises along our ribs where it had winded itself in all its
magnitude, for days afterwards. When I look at those photos today
I can still wonder at how we never hesitated for a second
having the snake on us for hours during that sweltering afternoon up in
the mountains of Bali. But I've said it before;
our love for that country had grown so strong that we forgot our fears,
forgot we ever even had any. All those travels together asked,
- & answered every question we might have had.

The little linen jacket I bought at a piazza in Italy.
There was one linen garment more beautiful than the other,
hanging in rows and costing no more than a big cold ice cream and 
a hot espresso each. Now some of them hang here at home 
and brings us back to kissing among the market stalls,
of how we all danced together one magnetic night under the moon;
my family young and old with my then all new lover.
A trip our love is still standing firmly on, with bronzed bare feet.

I count on my fingers and love affairs that the white
embroidered dress I must have had for at least eleven years,
whereof it's been hanging in a dark closet for the last two. 
A short while ago I went to pull it over my head in the midst of,
- & in defying the thought it would no longer fit me,
with breasts that have fed my son and a belly that has carried him.
But it did fit and it meant something all differently beautiful to
caress the fabric now, down my own shapes, as if it found me all new again
and all like before, at the very same time. 

In among dusty vinyls and despairing, discarded old china dolls
at our local flea market on a sudden Sunday, there were
a Tulip table and chair waiting, with the right markings underneath
and my name on them.
I thought the worn price tag was miswritten, that's how cheap they were.
Maybe they don't know quite what they've got here,
I thought to myself with the banknote in my hand,
but not voicing it.
That's how flea market-fiendish and delighted I was.

The shell-shaped straw bag is all new and from
& other stories in London. I cut off the appertaining tassels
and very soon it will get to travel along into summer, 
accompany me to at least one wedding this year
and carry new memories I'm yet to know anything about.

They all, the things that is, must carry a story already;
in their seams and held on their insides, - or be able to really create
new memories, new value, from now on, for me, I'm thinking
- if they are to expand in numbers. They have to mean something
or it all just makes me really tired these days. Le Stuff.

I'm thinking of the vast amount of images we see of beautiful
things and attire, every day, - & of how little, in comparison, we get to,
or take the time to, - get to know about the story around it,
memories in between seams and in shapes that have carried and held.

The most cherished behind the, to me very hollow tag, - #goals,
is the genuine, true life in between, what happened to You for real.
I'd love to know more about that.


Monday, July 2, 2018

I have to write down the name of one of my favourite authors.
Chimamanda Ngozie Adichie.
After one of her books, I always have to pause for a while before getting into something else.
That's how fantastic I find her language. Her debut novel, Purple Hibiscus,
was published when she was 26. That just floored me to find out after reading it.

Purple Hibiscus and also her book The thing around your neck,
a collection of twelve stories, I highly recommend, alongside
Half of a Yellow Sun that I recently finished.
The last one I've folded so many corners of, as a map to find
my way back to exceptional sentences, that it's now all swollen.
This stack is laying there waiting now, and I'll see what there'll be time for this summer.
A few flights for shoots are nearing, and I'm longing.
A few hours of intentionally extended waiting time between security checks and boarding,
and you'll find me alone in an airport bar, deeply immersed in a book & a glass of wine.
I decided to start with Patti Smith's M Train.
Is there a book you think should be added to my summer stack of titles..?

p.s i've received a few emails and instagram messages about problems
with commenting here in the journal. i'm working on that. please try though,
cause oh how much lovelier it is with dialogue than a monologue.