We'd packed away our sorrows

The summer before I turned 19, I experienced a short and intense infatuation with K. K and I went to the same high school. We had no classes together, but he had for a time been together with one of my best friends, so we kinda knew each other. I'd be lying if I said we spent a lot of time together, but he was my prom date, and we were very attracted to each other. To cut to the chase, we eventually ended up in his bed, and there we listened to Tom Waits. We did other things there too, of course, but those are not what I want to talk about here. What is the issue is the music. Or more specifically, his song Martha. Because right then and there, in K's bed, I fell in love. With Tom Waits. The story of Martha made me cry then, and it makes me smile today.

Of course, things happened. K left town to do his military service only a couple of days later, and I was broken hearted for a bit, but within a couple of weeks I met the man I was to live with for the next near-six years. As I said, short and intense. I started studying at the university, years went by, I split up from the man I was living with, I began my postgraduate studies and got my first really own home. A part of those postgraduate studies turned out to be to go to Australia for some time. Exactly one week before leaving, my phone rang.

"Is this the Drakona who went to Highschool X? Do you hear who this is?" someone asked.

Of course I knew who it was. Of course I was she. This was seven years later.

Now, another six years later, K is one of my dearest friends. Not one of my most frequent friends, but one of the very, very dear ones. Almost as dear as Tom Waits. Just the other day I listened to Martha again for the first time in a very long time.

It always makes me think of K, for oh so many reasons.

Perty books!

I'm on a bit of a reading spree at the moment, and what I'm reading is perty books - among other things, I've just had a new batch of books from the Canongate Myths Series. There's a lot to be said about that line, both good and bad of course, but for the msot part, I'm overwhelmed. And the books looks so lovely.

But what's with the nice looking literature? Beautiful books, books that are like soft dark chocolates covered in red and gold wrapping. It is, I find, a joy to open a book that is printed on thick, cream coloured paper, where the margins are substantial, so as to make the lines just so long as is comfortable for the eye. Not the entire page is used up, as is often the case with grey-colour-paper pocket books, where the lines are too tight, the font too bold and the margins too narrow. No, I like well-bound books with beautiful cover-art, books that reach out for me and make me want to pick them up.

But of course, it matters little that the book looks lovely, if the content is bland or uninteresting.


I've recently read not only one, but two books that fill both the form and the content criteria, namely The Stone Gods by Jeanette Winterson and Girl meets boy by Ali smith. They both deal with issues like queer, norms and expectations, feminist and humanist questions as well as environmental problems and what we are doing to our world and to ourselves. Both JW and AS have a lovely, light and direct prose, they are approachable as writers, accessible as texts, and they both are very, very worth while.

And the books are very, very perty.

Intoxicate me

I’ve written this several times before, one way or other: I’m easily affected by smells and fragrances.

When I was walking home tonight, in the middle of the night after a very warm day, I was overcome by smells. They surrounded me, filled me, took charge of me… I laughed out loud, so strongly did it affect me.

It smelled of flowers and receding heat, of warm grass soon to be touched by the mild dew. Lund is a flowering city, there’s flowers everywhere. I love living here.

As always, when I’ve been walking through the fragrant night, I’m affected. It’s like… Well. I don’t see all my senses as rating equally. I enjoy my hearing. I like music. But I can live without my hearing. Really. Toucch is a lovely, fantastic hting, that I'd hate to lose, but it's not how I primarily percieve the world. Eyesight on the other hand… Much more important. How else to judge text and art? Sooo important to me in the way I perceive the world. Smell though (and taste is basically the same thing) works like a memory trigger, a Madeleine cake.

My memory this time wasn’t terribly specific. It was more a feeling. A feeling that I’ve walked in that kind of smell, in a similar kind of temperature, next to someone I like, someone who I didn’t have the license to touch just yet. Imagine that it’s about half an hour before the first touch. You want to touch the other person, but it’s totally out of the question. For now. You can walk down the street together though. Walk down the street, next to each other. Close. So close that you can feel the naturally generated electricity in the other persons body. You’re the anode, the other person’s the cathode. You’re being drawn, pulled, towards each other. The electricity dancing between you is very nearly tangible. When – by chance – the hairs on your arm brush against the other, you could swear there was a spark… You walk closely together to feel the heat emanating from the other, to try to smell the other person’s body without being too obvious about it…

I’ve been there.

As I was walking down the street, I wished I were there again, slowly being intoxicated by your pheromones.

Ms. H

Anders Ekesiöö and Anna Nygren recently defended their master's thesis at Stockholm University School of Business. They discuss consumer profiles, specifically what they call Mr. H, a person with "high demand on unique consumer products". A Mr. H buys things that he feels are unique and will make him stand out from the main stream. Preferably he should be the only one in the city or the country to possess the item he purchases.

I have a confession. I am Ms. H.

When I read an article about this in today's paper, I could hear echoes of myself saying things like "one of the reasons I'm so happy about this skirt, is that I know that when I bought it, there were maybe five of it, altogether, in Australia, which means, I'm probably the only one in Sweden who has one". I've stopped shopping at places like Designtorget, because the stuff isn't quite unique enough. I've become much more picky with what I choose to stand out. But I make sure I do. It needn't be expensive, but it needs to be one-of-a-kind.

Peter just remarked on some of the men that hit on me online that they seem to have found their lines in some kind of pick-up manual. Not terribly interresting, they don't stand out from the crowd. At all. That's not a good trick. At all. Not if you're hitting on a Ms. H. Inventiveness is an essential part of the attraction.

At least I'm consistent. I want uniqueness all over.

Who, me, picky...?

You see... I get bored. When I shop at H&M or such, I rarely use the stuff very much. Or if I buy items that are very much the current fashion. It doesn't really interest me. But if I find something that is brave or clever enough to stand on it's own, and that specifically suits me, then I'm happy to use the item year after year. I don't grow tired of it. It keeps me curious, interrested, happy.

I haven't read the thesis in question, so I don't know exactly how they define Mr. H, but reading the article today, I have a feeling that there's a little more to it than just standing out and having the stuff that no one else has. That is alittle bit too close to the game of "the one with the most stuff at the end wins" for comfort. No, I believe that the true Mr H can be extremely down played, neutral even. Minimalist. But the stuff that is there, is carefully chosen. Very. Carefully. Others of the same kind will know it and appreciate it, which is the whole point of showing off. Women don't dress up for men, they dress up for other women, to display their place within the ranks. And I guess it is also a form of neo-tribalism, as explained by the very unique Cory Doctorow. I doubt that Mr. Doctorow would agree completely, but I still believe it's in the vicinity.

Anyways.

My name is H. Ms. H.

Madeleine cake, Japanese style

I just had a Proustian moment.

I was sitting at a bench, outdoors in the sun, lots of lovely spring sounds around me, and a smell of grass. The water lilies in the pond in front of me were just opening up to the sun.

I was having the miso soup that came with my take away sushi lunch, straight from the cup. I was enjoying it, very much, but suddenly I thought: "Why aren't there any little pieces of tofu in here?". Then I remembered that they never put tofu in the soup, and realised that it was a taste triggered memory. I was remembering the first time I had miso soup. It was in a lovely flat in Potsdam, outside of Berlin, round about this time of year, a couple of years back. I was visiting my then lover, an amazing man, quite a few years older than myself. I remembered how much he taught me. About me, about him, about people, about life, about food, about enjoying the moment, about living, about yoga, about sensuality, about crying, about laughing, about beauty, about minds, about bodies, about touching, about taking pleasure, about giving pleasure, about dancing, about courage, about work, about play, about giving, and about taking. I was better at certain kinds of giving than others, and certain kinds of taking than others, so there was a bit of an imbalance between the two of us.

At the time, I didn't have a very good idea of who I was, I as still finding out, and didn't take to kindly to his attempts at showing me these things, as I felt that he was trying to influence, change, me. I wanted to do the changing, the finding out, for myself.

Today, I can see how much he really did influence me. And what a good thing that is. That was a lovely spring. And lovely miso soup.

Take me home

Pick me up, like a flower.
Take me home, put me in a vase.
Feed me, water me.

Carry me in your arms, like a child.
Take me home, put me on a chair.
Feed me, bring me wine.

Put your arms around me, like a lover.
Take me home, put me to bed.
Hold me, bring me sleep.

Hypnos

I spent the night with the God of Sleep.
He took me by the hand, walked me to my bed,
and he laid down beside me.
He touched my face, touched my eyes,
kissed my forhead, and I was his.

By morning, he had vanished,
as if though he had never really been there.
He had left no trace,
only the lingering feeling
of him gently stroking my skin

Cave and fire

I wake up next to you, every morning. I fall asleep next to you, every night. You are my partner, my husband, my wife, my teacher, my student, my guide.

Yet I have never laid eyes on you. You are not a tangible entity. You are elusive. You are a figment of my imagination. You are the platonian cave dweller.

There are so many reflections of you in this world, but they are not, cannot be, you. Still I keep looking. They are all flawed, being reflections.

Their imperfections make them all the more beautiful. Perfection is for the gods, not for me.

Water is thicker than blood

A water nymph has moved into my home. A naiad. She is beautiful, and she sings to me. Her songs are about spring and ice breaking open and melting, about tender rains and fogs. Her very being is moisture. When she isn’t singing, she’s talking. She has the loveliest of voices.

She resides underneath my window. That way she can watch the stunning view of the valley covered in mist in the morning. She loves the mist. The mist is her kin. I think one day she will leave me for it, and I will be broken hearted and my life will be dry, wither and fall apart, when I no longer have her humidity to rely on.

She mistook me for a naiad, that’s why she moved in. I spend most of my evenings soaking in the tub, I must have had a watery scent. She noticed me from afar and when I approached her, she placed a soft, wet kiss on my forehead. I drowned in her eyes.

I am no naiad. I am flesh. I am blood. I don’t have the loveliest of voices. I am not moisture, nor mist. She knows this, now. Her mistake lasted but a moment. Still she came to me. Still she tells me I am a naiad too.