being smart AND romantic

I gave myself two surprises today. Downloaded iTunes. And spoke French. NOT at the same time.

I have to go and lie down now.

call of the wild

My neighbour two floors down goes clubbing every Wednesday, Friday and Saturday night.

I know because she has a dog that howls when he's home alone.

I can't decide whether I should go clubbing too or get a dog.

ex post facto

I dreamed you had left me a note letting me know how to find you again. It's been nine years. I still wonder what could have been, sometimes.

stop and stare

Holy crap, I have not changed at all in five years!

my father and the cats

"Let's go see if we can see any cats."

One of my earliest memories - perhaps because it was a recurring event: I am little, crying because of fever or ear infection. The darkness in the middle of the night, no lights on, the helplessness of pain when you are too little to understand it, the exhaustion. But also my long-suffering father's arms around me, carrying me around and around the house in the middle of the night, trying to lull me back to sleep. His soothing whisper in my ear as we approach the living room windows. I always stopped crying as we looked out into the dark garden. There could be a cat out there, stalking around. I loved cats.

Now, many years later, with my father at a difficult and heartbreaking mental distance, I suddenly remember this. And I start crying again.

coloured lights and stampeding elephants

My circus history:

age 8-15: wanted to run away with a circus (because I had read that kind of books). I visualized being a breathtakingly beautiful lion tamer and living a dramatic life in a yellow circus wagon.
age 14 (approx): visited my first circus. It was tiny, far from glamorous, and the only animals were a couple of poodles but I was spellbound.
age 25: abandoned my circus dream definitely when a friend laughed his head off and said I would end up cleaning elephant droppings and forever regretting a destructive marriage to a violent knife-thrower called Vlad.
age 31: my second visit to a circus, this one English and genuine and huge, with all the right circus attributes and atmosphere. I took up my dream again, but this time my circus wagon would be one of those expandable caravans that looked so luxurious and I would share it with a very athletic lover. We would be carefree vagabonds lit by coloured lights.
age 35: read Water for Elephants by S. Gruen and realised the most romantic life imaginable would be spent on a circus train (staying clear of sociopaths and stampeding elephants of course).
age 37: my third visit to a circus. Was spellbound, analyzed the role of the circus as a critical voice in society and ate too much popcorn.

this will: - remind you

When you: - walk through the woods
you think: - is summer already gone?
and you: - miss the place that you call home
because you: - don't know if you belong where you are
so you: - doubt

But then you: - remember the good days and the good years
that are: - still so real in your mind
because they: - are part of you and therefore never lost
and you have: - not failed in any way
that is why: - a voice is whispering

Your best days and your blessed days are: - ahead of you

summer truths

* I find it hard to see the whole picture at a glance because my world view is made up of details.
* I have become a little bit shrivelled and closed by life's betrayals.
* Being loved is being allowed to feel sad or angry or grumpy or quiet or miserable or shameful - without having to fix it or pretend.
* One lie I have always believed is that I can expect happiness - thus, if I'm not happy, I've failed.
* I may be taking the road less travelled - I want to enjoy finding out where it leads without bitterness.
* I have the right to be accepted as I am.
* It is better to express your doubts than to lie to yourself.

to drive and drink

Drove for one hour due east with a friend to have a glass of white wine and then drove back.

But there was also the sunset over endless golden fields, harvesters, a sleepy museum, some delicious canapés, girl talk and the anticipation of coming home.

fine, fresh, fierce

At the beach:

Sun, summer, a world of smiles. A beautiful brunette with curly hair and long, suntanned legs is playing a tough game of beach volley with two handsome men who asked her to join them because they needed a skilled player. She dives into the sand to save a ball and later takes a swig from a water bottle before using the rest of the water to rinse off a scraped knee with an unconcerned air. She is among strangers but makes new friends and seems to be at ease with sweat and sand covering her tanned skin. But why shouldn't she? She is gorgeous and she knows what she is doing.

Oh to be that cool, that happy, at peace with yourself. I wish I was her. All the time.

it starts in my soul

That quality I love above all else in a man: a calm self-confidence, without a hint of arrogance or need to prove himself to anyone. That quiet harmony that allows him to care for others. To assume authority where needed or humble himself in order to put others at ease. That peace of mind that makes him seem fearless.

It is utterly irresistible. Literally makes my heart race and my knees feel wobbly.

I found that yesterday. The man in question also has lovely eyes, a gorgeous body, a sweet voice, a practical intelligence, a caring attitude, an incredible love of life, a cool job, fascinating interests, a boat, and a car with tinted windows.

And a gorgeous girlfriend.

right back after this commercial

The Kvarken World Heritage site - where the rocks are lining up in neat ridges.

the doctor is IN

How come it's always the people who have been happily married since they were barely past puberty who writes expert books on relationships?

That's like getting expert advice on how to fix your car from someone who's only ever owned one, well-functioning vehicle.

I, who have been in and out of a number of more or less failed relationships, should write the book.

sand, snow and the Beautiful People

In my next life I will be a professional athlete - playing beach volley half the year and snowboarding the other half. Then I will be the ultimate in hot as well as cool.

In this life, I'm just lazy. Not very good at beach volley and the only time I tried snowboarding I made it down the hill only by clinging to the instructor's neck all the way down.

night, light, fight

11 pm. Evening sun and a glittering bay throwing reflections through my windows, the summer heat barely giving way to night. Sound of Knocking On Heaven's Door wafting in on the breeze from some open-air pub. Seagulls screeching. Scent of roses. My head filled with questions regarding the purpose of life. The short, intense, crazy summer of the north. So how could I possibly sleep?

four cupcakes and an eagle

Potatoes, acupressure mats, tacky souvenirs, fertilizer.

The little grocery shop on the Island has it all. Even cupcakes with little hearts in the frosting. We eagerly pick them out and need help with the wrapping. The staff and the few customers eye us with interest as we breeze through, two women dressed in bleached jeans, lace, earrings and that unmistakable city air. "Perhaps the lasses are in a hurry?" An old man, barely able to stand, politely offers us his place in the short queue to the check-out. ("No, no, please, no hurry at all.")

An Islander cooks us lunch (seafood and mashed potatoes, cupcakes for dessert). As we go for a walk along the winding forest road towards the harbour, the neighbour's cat decides to follow us and loudly protests (but continues to follow) when he thinks we have gone far enough. In the shelter beneath the trees the mosquitoes make a meal out of us and the sea breeze is very welcome when we reach the harbour.

Heavy rain clouds gather around the boathouses and jetties. Seagulls are screeching angrily at an eagle riding the high winds and the Islander cannot decide if she is more worried about the cat being hit by a car on the road or taken by the bird of prey. Three elderly men are gathered around a quad bike. No hellos or small talk seem necessary but they eagerly point out to us a rare natural phenomenon: due to a mirage over the sea, you can see a reflection of the nearest island on the other side, normally not visible. Today, you can see Sweden from here. We would have taken the mirage for a cloud bank by the horizon but these experienced fishermen know what's what.

The new lookout tower looms black and forbidding. "Is that Mordor? Can you see a huge eye?" This overcast June day, fragrant with lush meadows, not many people are to be seen. Near the start of a popular hiking trail we find a stand selling necessities: a few water bottles, juice cartons and handcrafted souvenirs are on display. The man minding the stand also has canoes for hire and an impressive old-style wooden boat with its sails up. Not a good day for business, obviously, and he does not even bother to finish his phone call when we walk by.

From Mordor's top we admire the view of the archipelago. On our way home, the rain pours down on us. The poor wet cat's complaints can probably be heard all the way to the city. But the landscape is breathtaking and the friendship is warming and we giggle with rain dripping from our noses. It could be that this Island is the mirage.

leggy

On a sunset beach you can take caricature pictures and suddenly you have the long legs many women want.

I always had them but did not always want them. Silly.

Alors, on danse.

putting up the sign

This world is out of order. Please use alternative facilities.

the duck-laugh evening

Recipe for a good evening:

Eat chicken & blue cheese pie with your best friend.
Add a few glasses of red wine.
Watch Pretty Woman for old times' sake and for the sake of that quote that you couldn't quite remember ("A name, a name, the pressure of a name... Cinde-fucking-rella!").
Ask "Do I have to prostitute myself to find a prince?"
Ask "Why are so many of the great chick flicks Cinderella-stories and why can't even a cynic resist them?"
Go to a "Night at the Museum"-event and get frightened half to death by a bunch of wooden ducks in a dark room who suddenly start laughing at you.
Walk in the balmy May night with your friend and laugh until you cry.

a poet's homeland

That stream which could be the real Fountain of Eternal Youth. That mountainside half in ominous shadow, half in enchanting sunlight. Those crooked trees where trolls may be hiding. That wild, hidden lake with secrets lurking in its depths. Those magnificent ruins of a thousand years. That enigmatic wishing-well that bends space.

I look through my pictures from my last visit to the enchanted valley and realise that I take the same pictures every time I go there.

I am always faintly surprised that the pictures do not come out blank, or all dark, or with unidentifiable smudges - the way pictures look when people try to photograph supernatural things. Apparently the valley does exist outside my own imagination.

That forceful gravity it exerts on my soul is very, very real. The mysterious black hole of my life.