Summer at sea

 

Summer abuzz

How are things with you, sweetie darlings? Buzzing or plugging along?

Stockholm i mitt ❤️

 

We started the week in the southern sun, let's end it in the northern shimmer. Ha en trevlig helg, sötnos älsklingar, var ni än är.

The abyss stares back

Temperature: 20/68 degrees. It hasn’t been this cool in…well over a month. It’s but a brief respite, the heat promised to return over the weekend and stay put for another X weeks. A subcontinent once preoccupied with keeping warm is now working fast to learn how to keep cool. That means changes to energy use and production, construction of housing and infrastructure, everything under the scorching sun and increasing rains. How to help the natural world adjust is another matter.

Drinking: I made rhubarb juice! Again!!

Eating: And like twelve different pies. It’s quite high-yielding, our patch. Not complaining, mind you. I freeze what we don’t use so we get to taste summer all year long.

Watching: my favorite Austen, Brontë and Gaskell adaptations.

Listening: to the sounds of summer, which my youngest has been recording, both audio and visual. I thought how wise and sweet of him until we chatted about it and I realized he is recording things he expects to lose over time, at least to some extent. I had to excuse myself and go cry in the bathroom. This. This is what we are doing. This is what our dawdling is doing. To our children and their future. They are being so very brave and hopeful, so positive and innovative, because the alternative is this…abyss.

Reading: my favorite Austen, Brontë and Gaskell novels.

Thinking: The Pegasus project revelations, ugh and duh, another Evil Corp at it, and not the only one, everything that can be done will be and is being done, so crying that this is not what it’s meant for is the Zuckerberg defense, and we all know his motives are both obvious and dubious, it’s like arming yourself for personal/national/regional safety and defense, the business end of your arsenal is still meant for threats and offense, and for all your, ahem, good and noble intentions, that is what it is being used for so zip it, or fix it, or have some standards, the bar doesn’t seem all that high so it shouldn’t be all that hard for a security software company, no, that’s like calling KFC a vitamins and supplements supplier, insecurity company then, and what good is end-to-end encryption when the whole device can be hijacked on the hush-hush, come to think of it, and you know what else I’m thinking, my blog so I’ll tell you, not interested then what are you still doing here, life is short, the clock is ticking, yes, so, with all your possible and probable resources, all your data and know-how, all that you could be doing, this is the scope of your ambition, this is what you’d rather do above all else, enable oppression, drive division, for profit, o-kay, but with everything going on in the world, all the problems waiting to be solved, this is your contribution, o-kay, okay okay okay, just wondering, always wondering, about everything, one of my favorite pastimes, truly, just endlessly curious, but, ew, eternal shame on you, if I were a vindictive person I’d wish long covid upon the whole lot of you at it, or maybe a visit from some other virus, something you only dreamt of but couldn’t quite make happen, you know, because this is absolute we-sure-are-being-humongous-dicks-but-do-we-give-a-flying-fuck-hell-no-show-us-the-money assholery, but since I'm not, what I wish is for some form of common agreement that this has gone too far for far too long and has to stop.

Feeling: This calls for more Austen, Brontë and Gaskell.

Man, it’s a hot one 👒

Temperature: Well, it is for us: 32.5/90.5 degrees. I hear it’s 46/115 in Las Vegas, so I’m not complaining. Happy summer solstice, sweetie darlings! ☀️ Or winter solstice, depending. 🌐

Eating: watermelon and brie.

Drinking: water and then some more water.

Watching: the miracle of growth.

Listening: to bumblebees in the flowering raspberry.

Reading: about business anthropology.

Thinking: Dualism, capitalism, neoliberalism, growthism...WTF are we doing?

Feeling: Sit, be still, and listen, for you are drunk and we are on the edge of the roof. (Rumi)

Keeping your head up

I know it's three months away (that'll swoosh by like a comet, mark my words), and all the world doesn't observe it, and some absolutely abhor it, but it's about to get grim up north, so I need some Emilia Clarke & Emma Thompson & London & the music of King George. All the light and luster available to keep afloat. So indulge me. Or scroll off.

So is he a ghost? Or someone she has forgotten because of her health scare? Don't know, don't care, watching it. Even if you spoil it for me. Even if it's as cheesy as baked brie. 👅

"There's no such thing as normal. You're just being a human being. It's hard." 

Hear, hear.

Kiss me hard before you go

When in Scandinavia, do as the Venetians do: say goodbye to the summer and sailing season with a festival of water, fire and light. Why? Why not? We are all Europeans, some southern, some northern, all bound by a common history and traditions that know no borders. So that's what we did last weekend, the last summer weekend. Ate, drank and made merry.

Teetering on the northern edge of the globe as we are up here, the sun now veers away day by day as summer surrenders to fall. The mornings keep getting cooler and the nights darker, but the days still offer some warmth and light, and this child of the tropics is soaking up all she can get before it's irreversibly over. We sweltered May through July and many are relieved the heat has moved on, but I'd like one last sizzling smooch before we part.

Kiss me like you'll miss me, because I sure as hell will miss you, dearest loveliest summertime.

Cruel summer

Source

Northward

Temperature: a sunny, no, cloudy, no, sunny, cloudy, make up your mind already -4/25 degrees

Eating: just had grilled halloumi salad for lunch

Drinking: gallons of green tea with tons of honey to nip this flu in the bud, the influenza was quite enough, thank you very much

Watching: Nature's balancing act. We had two days of skiing and two weeks of skating all winter, we did spring gardening just the other week, now we suddenly have more snow than we had Dec/Jan/Feb combined. WTH?

Listening: to Elbow.

Reading: loads of centenarian Tove Jansson to the wee ones who'll still sit still and listen. (She's not just for kids, hint hint. Oh and you just have to visit Helsinki this spring/summer and go see this.)

Writing: quoting (Henry Wadsworth Longfellow): The spring came suddenly, bursting upon the world as a child bursts into a room, with a laugh and a shout and hands full of flowers. And to my family, friends and fellow earthlings below Mother Earth's waist: Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower. (Albert Camus)

Feeling: Looking out the window, neither one of the above is true, but I've caught whiffs in the air, I've touched proof in the ground, seen timid bugs and drowsy bees. Spring is a warm wind away.

Dance, dance otherwise we are lost*

The Big Chill is upon us and  I  a m  f r e e z i n g  so it's best to keep moving. Plus the deathly pallor of our barren scenery is making me a bit ... melancholy. Nature is a study in the beauty of simplicity, silence and serenity right now, but it's hard not to overdose on melatonin during the dark winter days so you gotta fight it, sweetie darlings, and dancing ... dancing makes everything better. Take it from someone for whom dancing once was, still is, always will be a system of survival. But that's just how I feel. That's just how I feel, that's just how I feel, trying to reach the things that I can't see.

Come on, you need a break. Oh yes you do. We both do. Come here. Don't look at your feet, don't look at the ceiling, or the walls, look at me.  That's it. Shall we dance?

ENVY - AM I WRONG from Kavar Singh on Vimeo.

*Pina Bausch

Winter is coming

We've been saving up for a winter vacation so this summer, we decided to go on a staycation, an inexpensive, laid-back way to spend two weeks, right? Wrong. We've been running around like mad, meeting up with people in amusement parks, water parks, ballparks, park this and that, no free parking, no free time, no kidding. It hasn't been cheap and it hasn't always been rest and relaxation.

So why not just stay put? I know. But this is Scandinavia with its four seasons, and fall is just around the corner. Better enjoy summer and those attractions while we can. Not that it hasn't been fun, don't get me wrong. Some of the stuff we've been doing, some of the places we've been visiting, don't work so well when it's cold. Some aren't open at all. Plus I've been captain of this ship all June and July, so it's wonderful having Hubby with me from dusk till dawn and the whole family together the rest of the day. (Hear a but yet?)

But. Perpetual Pleasure went through edits. Fast. Clean manuscript, good job, thank you very much. My editor tweaked my blurb some, here's your release date, congratulations, your book is about to come out! Which makes me pretty damn proud of and pleased with myself. So what's the problem? I'm supposed to be on vacation! Something the whole family has waited for all summer long. I promised myself I would focus on family and friends, family and friends, only. They deserve it. I've earned it. And where's my head at?

Release day. (Publish or perish!) Promo. (Post or perish!!) Social media presence, or, in my case, absence. (Promo or perish!!!) All the things I should be doing that I'm not doing because I'm on vacation, feeling torn, failing family, failing friends, failing my publisher, colleagues, career, doing a half-assed job of everything, feeling guilty about the fun I'm having because I should be working, feeling guilty about every thought I spare on work because that's not what I'm supposed to be thinking at all.

(And then there's this other thing, a related thing, that has been keeping me up at night because of the things I've been seeing and hearing and experiencing for myself, but more on that some other time, ok? It's complicated.)

My kids don't seem to notice okay my oldest has, but Hubby sees and he listens and he understands. Next week, life will resume normal programming and, oddly enough, Hubby and I will have more time for each other since I work from home and he works the oddest of hours. (We've had a total of two nights all to ourselves this summer. I miss him. Not the father of my children; my husband.) 

And maybe working from home is not the problem, maybe staycationing is. Same chores and errands as usual, the desk that reminds you you have work to do. I know I'll feel differently in the winter, I always do. That's why we opt for a Far Far Away vacay as often as we can afford one. No desk. No dishes. The sun, the sea, the sand. Books to read. And when no one is looking, maybe a book to write as well.

Solestitia

Or, Midsummer magic and madness.

All quiet on the Northern front

Not! Last weekend was carnaval weekend in Helsinki and next weekend is Midsummer, the biggest party of the year up here. My brother's and sister's families will be with us, which is a total treat, but there's so much to do before Friday I try not to think about it too much, just tackle one task at a time.

Wish you were here! I could use a helping hand... Oh well. For a closer look at Scandinavian solstice celebrations and summer craziness, stop by the 69 Shades blog on Saturday when I'll be talking about these longest days of the year. See you there on the 23rd! Now, if you'll excuse me, I have business to attend to.

How soon is now

For a lady who really likes her footwear, I'd rather not wear any. But sometimes one must, so I put on my fanciest flip-flops, and no, that is not a contradiction in terms, these are as bling as they come, and hauled Hubby and the fruits of our love and lust into town to soak up the city in the summer. Holy Moses on a motorbike! No, I didn't see Moses on a motorbike. Believe me, I'd have pictures.

What a transformation. A metamorphosis. One hardly recognized those streets. One hardly could make out the streets, they were jam-packed. The ladies were looking quite lovely and the gents mighty fine; buskers on every corner; cars vintage and voguish cruising the streets just for show; tourists from all over the world; fresh foodstuff sold and eaten in the parks and market squares.

Summer is the most inspiring and least productive time of the year here at the den; laid-back and freewheeling. But it's a Janus-faced affair, a race against clock and calendar when you do your damnedest to concentrate on concentrating in the moment, the sights and scents and sounds and sensations of summer because they will be gone soon, way too soon. It's also Christmastime spread out over some two and a half months with visitors coming and going and with our family meeting up with friends and relatives for picnics or barbecues or a day at the beach.

It's a blast, and it's another day away from the office and another night spent playing catch-up. I've learned to adjust, I've had to, to take on only projects I can live and work with with a clear conscience. That means less time for everything work-related for a few weeks, but there's no playing catch-up with the seasons. I can preserve food all summer long but I can't bottle a summer day, as lovely as that would be. And what a first world problem, making less money but still making ends meet while actually enjoying yourself, so this ain't a complaint, dearest denizens, merely an observation.

Mother Nature has been very generous this year. The warmth, or heat, coupled with the occasional thunderstorm of diluvial proportions, has helped produce a heap of tomatoes, potatoes, cucumbers, lettuces, onions, red peppers, chili peppers, and herbs galore. The raspberries are huge, there are gooseberries and blueberries aplenty, there will be plums and apples in abundance, we got out first grapes this year, and Hubby managed to grow watermelons. Watermelons, in these latitudes. [The higher the latitude, the starker and faster the effects of global warming. Wake up and come smell our citrullus lanatus arcticus if still in doubt.] I've asked for mangoes, limes and avocados while he's at it.

What I haven't stocked up on is fall/winter fashion. Look. I can look at the spring/summer collections in November. No problem. I cannot and never will grant winter apparel a glance or a thought before my fingers and toes start going numb, okay? I'll have to settle for leftovers when I finally get around to dragging my freezing tush into the stores to at least consider having a look at something, you say? See my concern. *stares at the screen, expression never changing* I solved that problem long ago. I buy items that fit my body type, coloring and personal taste whenever something suitable comes along. That means clothes that don't scream 'latest fashion' but therein lies the catch: pieces that don't scream the exact month and week I picked it up. Won't touch the latest stuff unless they're timeless enough to tempt me, meaning meeting the prerequisites mentioned above. Fitting, stylish and ageless? Sold.

Oh but I'm raring to go, my mind and notebook filled with ideas to look and dig into, questions to be answered and answers to be questioned. But we'll have to talk about those some other time. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go chop some firewood. Winter is coming.

P.S. Receivers at the ready, folks, for the Cave Chaos launch, take two, on New Dissident Radio, from 4 to 5 pm (EST).

Whew

The man who knew too much

Unless you've been living in a tree for the past decade, you've probably heard of Stieg Larsson and his Millennium trilogy. Here in Scandinavia, there is no escape. His literary and monetary legacy is an ongoing saga the local press churns out with fervor and the reading public gobbles up with morbid fascination. But did you know that before Larsson died, before he sold a gazillion books without tasting either fortune or fame, he was an investigative reporter, and a dedicated one at that?

Extremism, racism, human rights violations, the exploitation of and violence against women, honor killings. He spent his adult life researching and writing about the same topics you may have read about in his books. Think the crimes between those covers are gruesome, revolting even? Nothing compared to the things he came face-to-face in real life. Or rather, those fictional crimes are equally proportional to what people who are revolting between the ears are capable of.

So the man wrote what he knew, what troubled him, what he'd investigated and uncovered. The right-wing forces loved to hate him for it. All he wanted was to expose those leagues, to bring them to public consciousness and under scrutiny. Analytically he'd studied the birth and growth mechanism of fascism and seen signs it was happening in his own country.

He chose to take them seriously. These weren't second generation unemployed punks blaming society in general and minorities in particular for their problems. These were your next-door neighbors running for office and being elected on the basis of the fears, prejudices and empty rage of people who wanted someone to do something about the world turning too fast for them to follow.

Too much coffee and cigarettes, too much junk food and an utter absorption in his work claimed Larsson's life, not the Aryans. So he wasn't a saint, but he couldn't he bullied or bought, and he refused to back down. And how right he was, from the start, all along. Sweden, Finland, Denmark... In these very safe, open and democratic Scandinavian societies something very dangerous, myopic and fascist is brewing, something that goes against everything these nations have stood for and defended and been proud of for so long, and proud for good reason.

You know what in my mind is even scarier than these forces? It's your fellow man telling you they have no interest in politics. It doesn't concern them, move them, or influence them one bit. It's all the same to them. Like in that The Who song, the new boss is bound to be the same as the old boss. Oh yeah. Oh no. No no no. May I suggest next time you're tempted not to vote, speak up or make a stand, you take some time to do as Larsson did and listen very carefully to what is being said and who is doing the talking. The new boss might be nothing like the old boss, and the problem with political jokes is that they have a tendency of getting elected.

You can't rationalize racism. There is no justification for bigotry. Hate is hate and hate crimes are hate crimes. Words haven't lost their meaning and they certainly haven't lost their power. Don't let anyone convince you otherwise.

Between the bird cherry and the lilac

Mellan hägg och syren. According to the Swedish byword, the most beautiful, most magical time of the year falls between the blossoms of bird cherries and lilacs in full bloom. It is but a fleeting moment in the intersection of May and June, spring yielding to summer. You can feel it in the air, in the ground, all around. Summer is almost here. But not yet.

Mornings can be cool but they come with the promise of warmth. Days are temperate; never too hot, the air fresh and fragrant. In a month, heat will have driven off the crispness and dampened the smells, turned them rancid even. I don't mind the heat, dry or humid. I'm a summer gal through and through. But there is something about this threshold, this moment between the bird cherry and the lilac, that calls to me as loudly and clearly as any summertime day.

The urgency of now pulls me outdoors and takes me to the ground, quite literally. It has me digging in the dirt, planting, weeding, tending. It has me working on the porch whenever I can (laptop=pop-up office), and when the working day is done, it makes me resist going inside. Not that anyone else in the family wants to, either. Not yet.

It's hard to stay indoors unless you absolutely have to. You've waited months for this. It's here. It's finally here! Life, live. You don't want to miss a thing: the sight of bumble bees at work, the call of a stock dove, the taste of the first straws of chive, the scent of earth as it warms up, how supple it feels beneath your feet. The ground will grow hard; summer will try to dry it up. But not yet.

You don't have to travel to reach it, you don't have to budge to grasp it. All you have to do is pick a spot and open up your senses. In a few months, you'll need the memory of every sight, scent, sound and sensation. Here today, gone tomorrow. You know that. You remember that. You don't want to, not actively, but the knowledge sits there in the back of your mind. The sensory overload will turn into deprivation. But not yet.

Winter was long, and as snowy and thus overflowing with outdoor activities as it was, you can only take it in a few hours at a time; because it's not only cold, it's so very dark. In the winter, all days are nights, but now... Now the nights are days, the sun awakening in the wee hours of the morning and going to bed after you do. The progression of light will come to a halt and do a U-turn at another intersection: Midsummer. Eventually. Soon. Just not yet.

Northern exposure

As in, a week in the life of a southern girl from the north, or, moments of pleasure:

Strawberries straight from the field, blueberries from the forest.

(Speaking of which...a concise yet accurate description of the landscape as seen through the windshield of a car in which said southern girl was trapped for ten hours, and ten more driving home: trees, fields, a lake, a town, trees, fields, a lake, a smaller town, trees, fields, a lake, an even smaller town. Get the picture? So much better experienced up close and personal. Friendly locals with unintelligible dialects, golden dunes of rye and barley, tourmaline cathedrals of pines, birches and spruces, alders and junipers.)

Sprints down the pier, bombs in the lake.

Fresh salmon, herring and "new potatoes," i.e. of the newly harvested early variety.

The balmy heat and steam of a smoke sauna.

"Mom, why do I have a nose?" "Mom, why do men have nipples?" "Mom, why is the sky blue? Or water?"

That hammock big enough for two.

Days without shoes.

And then: a pair of red ones. "Honey, you have shoes." "Not these, I don't."

Muse, live. "Love is our resiiistaance..." Oh yes oh yes oh yes.

The music of Gemma Ray, Imogen Heap and that Kate Bush album I thought I'd lost I found.

A writing problem I solved without actively thinking about it.

It's oh so quiet

It is. And über hot and humid, which spells home and paradise for me, my Southern home; not your typical Scandinavian midsummer. One of my summer sons was born on a very long and dry one, another on a cold and rainy one. You could hardly tell where spring ended and fall began. Such is the weather up here in the northernmost North. Unpredictable.

One thing's for sure. Come visit any major town around midsummer and run into other visitors wondering where everyone is and if maybe Chernobyl blew up all over again and only the locals have been evacuated. An exaggeration maybe, but only a slight one. Visit a suburb and get a definite feel of a fallout heading your way. 

July, or the three to four weeks following the Solstice are The weeks to go on vacation up here. And off people go, for several weeks at a time. Summer cottages, trips abroad, visiting relatives far and wide, tours of the country, Europe, America. We haven't seen most of our neighbors for a while now. You can throw late night garden parties without much bothering anyone. If you can get anyone to attend since no one's home.

I love going downtown in the summer. Everyone's smiling. No one in a hurry. The ever-efficient northerners don't freeze in their tracks in the winter. The cold doesn't stop them from functioning. Give 'em a heatwave and watch them go in slow motion. Finally. But good lucking getting in touch with the head honcho of anything or even meeting friends anywhere. Gone, baby, gone.

As if it weren't quiet enough, we're driving ten hours toward the middle of the country and disappearing into the woods for a week on an estate with a long history by a lake with no name. Definitely out of my usual fare, out of my comfort zone even, and a staple Scandinavian holiday.

And if you never hear from me again, the mosquitoes won the war on mosquitoes. 

Cold song

I'd have no problem camping down at the top of the world if all winters were like this one has been. The snow lights up the scenery and makes you forget about the short days and seemingly endless nights. I look outside and get the impression of living inside a snow globe. It's hard to stay inside. We can't get enough of the outdoors. Short of biathlon and ski jumping, we've soon gone through the Winter Olympics program. The kids are ecstatic. Hubby and I are trying to keep up and loving every minute.

We've had some fifteen inches of snow to play and deal with, and being the able-bodied and efficient beings they are, Scandinavians work wintry wonders on a daily basis. Nothing stops functioning. School's never out. Traffic may be slower or delayed but never clogged. The roads are ploughed at dawn and off we go. After we've ploughed the driveway and taken care of the Mt. Everest the city has mounted on the sidewalk by kindly having the streets ploughed at dawn.

And last night...last night it rained diamonds. I took a late night walk to soak it up in silence. Something prickled my cheeks. It wasn't snow, or rain. Crystallization, right before my eyes. It makes the trees look more like props than nature, frost coating everything to create a marshmallow world. And against the street lamp lights, against the luminous background, it looked as if diamonds danced on air. Nothing fell out of sky. I was walking through crystal walls, crystals hanging in midair. 

I don't know how long I stood there or how much of a village fool I looked staring into seeming nothingness. To be filled with a sense of wonder... I wish you frequent opportunities. May you never lose that gift.