It may be that when we no longer know what to do
we have come to our real work,
and that when we no longer know which way to go
we have come to our real journey.
The mind that is not baffled is not employed.
The impeded stream is the one that sings.
(Wendell Berry)
the world is changing so quickly. the colors, shapes, and especially the light. i’ve not yet grasped the scandinavian light. its still more magical to me than real. sometimes i find myself entranced by certain shapes. like the rectangle that affixes itself to our kitchen wall on sunny mornings, right over the small impasto painting. such an aqueous light, it looks more like a water tank than anything else. and just below our window, the path that meanders sinuously up the hill toward högalidskyrka. its been salted now that temperatures are falling below zero, and when the sun is released, the path glows up to a neon white, a blinding neon shape that you can’t stare at for too long, just long enough to see it weave into the sky as if a river. or how the shadows of long staircases climb the sides of buildings like ivy, and tiny bodies float diagonally from window to window across the walls. then yesterday, how it bounced between the heads of three older women sitting together at a bus stop laughing too hard to finish their sentences, which was one of the best noises i’ve heard since arriving in sweden, and i stood at the bus stop on the opposite side of the street just to listen to it. laughter spewing from their wide open mouths. it was in their hands too, they slapped it onto their thighs. at some point i became absorbed by the light, already weak at 4 pm, but pushing itself through the trees in long orange slants over the womens’ possessed bodies. how long have i been watching like this, i wonder when i’ve finally recovered consciousness. it didn’t matter in the summertime. the days were so long, there was time for anything it seemed. but now the days are much shorter, and still shrinking. we begin them earlier and earlier, we have to. the aquarium of light used to hang on our kitchen wall for an hour, but its now vanishing after twenty minutes. soon there will be only dying, dim light and steel gray skies, when the sun will not even finish rising before it has already begun to fall. it teaches you to snatch opportunities with a childlike voracity. to take your work or your coffee or your kids outside when the sun appears, because it may not wait for you to finish what you’re doing, and you don’t know when it will be returning either. you learn to cherish each moment of the day, each ounce of light as if it were the last. i am amazed at how far i’m constantly walking out of my way in order to stay in the sun. nothing ever means as much as when its being lost.
Fredo’s been working in Skellefteå this week. Meanwhile, I’ve been writing a lot, meeting my illustrator friend for coffees, seeing Polish films, blasting all my best folk music, not cooking a damn thing, nibbling on alfalfa sprout salads and 200 grams of Marabou chocolate, handmaking things with paper, reading fiction in bed, plucking my eyebrows, washing my hair, and generally having one hell of a girly time.
Its one of those Sundays that you can work all the way through. Cold enough for a heavier coat, and I wore mine just to walk between subway stations and front doors. Quiet and cloudy too, but this is Sweden after all, its supposed to be at least a little gray, and Sundays are typically quiet. I didn’t think there’d be rain, but when I noticed that the room had darkened quite significantly, I went over to the window. Stretched overhead were deep purple clouds tangled up into long swollen braids. Down below, one of those classic brown wooden boats was moving through the river. On it were a few trombone and accordion players, and I think those two people sitting underneath the tarp were playing clarinets. I couldn’t hear the music at all, but I could see the long brass arms of trombones jabbing into the air, and the musicians’ cheeks exploding into pink bubbles, and the accordions were being stretched out and folded up with motions so unhurried that they seemed a bit blasé. After this boat came another, then another, and I stood and watched about 25 more boats drift through the river that runs between Fridhemsplan and Sankt Eriksplan. I’m not sure what’s going on, maybe its some sort of holiday here. I don’t even know what the name of this river is yet. I looked up again. The sky, a big gray quilt, made me shiver. I remembered my cup of rosehip tea and thought it was probably getting cold. I should get back to work anyway. Now after 6 pm, its one of those Sundays for sure.
On the Lawn of Ørstedsparken
At the top of the hill, a woman in her seventies sits on a bench reading a book. Her frame is slender but healthy, clad in a long blue and white gingham skirt and a white blouse that buttons up the middle all the way to her collar bone. Her posture is perfect, her legs are crossed, one foot planted on the earth, the other foot dangling in the air, but she bends it down every few minutes to tap one toe onto the ground. Her eyes move across each page in a way that is both stern and gentle, as one who takes life earnestly and, therefore, whose life has a certain delineated significance. Around her is an air of elegance, like an orb, that I’ve not yet seen in Denmark.
On the 3rd Floor of Paludan Bøgcafe
Three people walked upstairs about a half hour ago. A young woman carrying a baby and an older couple. The man disappeared downstairs soon after they arrived. The young mother laid her child on the carpeted floor, then crouched beneath the table to sit beside the baby. The older woman remained standing in front of her chair, looking around with a wobbly set of eyes that responded to a passing fly as if it were an old friend. Joy leapt into them as a smile filled up her face and her head went nodding in all different directions. Then, as suddenly as she’d become animated, she faded into herself for a while before bursting open again, this time at a small bookshelf she noticed on the wall behind her. The man has just returned with two tall dessert coffees, each piled high with two inches of whipped cream. While the mother on the floor continues pandering to her fussy child, the man and woman sit over their drinks, spoons and faces moving in and out, completely unaware of a surrounding world. Next to them, though, four people with erudite appearances are having a quiet conversation. I am here too, taking a break from my book to scribble these words into my journal. The walls around us are lined with Denmark’s most cherished philosophers, spiritual testaments and historical moments. But right in the middle of the room, underneath a small chandelier, is the fervent clanking of metal against glass and two faces covered in sweet white cream.
the sun has turned off, but its nearing midnight and so much blue light left in the sky. from the café downstairs, there is scattered laughter and the clanking of metal, both subtle. our windows are still open, and i’m thinking of gulerod kage. carrot cake. its my new thing, just because the Danes put all of those freshly-ground spices in it. cinnamon, nutmeg, cardamom, ginger, and some others too. one day my neighbor asked if i’d made a carrot cake, and i said no, why? oh, well, i thought i smelled it coming from your window last night, she said, then admitted to have walked by my window twice more than she needed to just to catch the scent. truth is, i was making granola. and i put all those same spices into every batch, though i always change my recipe. maybe cashews and a bit of ground cloves one week, but more cinnamon and some dried cranberries the next. maybe tomorrow i’ll walk to that place on Istegade for a slice of gulerod kage, because its just so good there.
man, its so good to be home.
