The Ramble

Sunny Sundays in Manhattan, how cold yet. Laundry day college look and tangled hair, who cares. The soul more tangled still, confused, leaving half-finished sentences trailing off into the darker recesses of my brain. Are you lost? I am beginning to suspect I am too. Laptop and novel ambitions spread out across the kitchen table but halted before reaching anywhere. One fluffy cotton dress away from Wonderland and perhaps it would be easier. Give me a little adventure. Give me a bottle, a cookie, a key. Nonsense more inviting than these loose messes of words, of ideas, of feelings misunderstood.

The world is confusing when it cannot be divided into black, into white and I am colorblind. Like reality was quickly glimpsed at but managed to run away before I caught it, and now I don't know up from down. No one on the corner has swagger like us and can I have another cup of coffee, after all?

This is me, though. I am stuck with me. Save yourself while you can. It's not likely, to ever make sense.

Words of Wisdom

"It's unpleasantly like being drunk."
"What's so unpleasant about being drunk?"
"You ask a glass of water."

Wind Chill

I walked the usual walk home from Stanton street; I always think I'll take a cab if it feels too far, but I never do. Perhaps I never will. Tonight, the city is run through by an Arctic chill, the likes of which we have not seen this season, but which technically I know everyone in Sweden is reluctantly accustomed to by now. And Houston, this great wide wind tunnel down which all the cold anger of winter raged. I trundled on.

This week, on a dark side street in the LES, my dear friend got beaten and mugged, shock or oxycontin erasing memories but blood and bruises whispering their secrets, unforgivingly. Safety robbed from their home, I sat there tonight and felt the window leak cold drafts around my feet. I shivered.

The closer I got to the Village, the milder the chill, and the wind slowed. When I turned onto Morton, the city was quiet again, the street sleeping, and my fingers tingled as they thawed. And I saw the city, this small island in the whole of the universe, how it encapsules Life entire in its limited biotope. How on one side, the harsh winds turn lips and exposed toes blue with winter violence, while the other side lies quiet, calm, welcoming. We must not forget to fear the one; we must not forget to trust the other. They are both parts of our realities.

I slipped quietly upstairs, to my small room and its reliable radiator. My blood ran warm again. I sleep soundly, grateful.

On the Verge of Madness

I teeter along the edge of a crisis, I can feel it. I choose to walk quickly past it, ignoring it uncomfortably like the homeless man on 79th and Broadway. I work long hours and never let the apartment be silent; I pretend to be occupied by matters so important that I couldn't possibly deal with that one, right now. Perhaps I should do the opposite, take a deep breath, let my knees buckle, and slip right in. I usually find that crises are the best way for me to collect myself, to write a million lists and garner the energy needed to climb up and fly away.

And what is life without a little madness, anyway? What is a life of predictability and security? When there are pink sparkles out there, when there are mad rushes through the blood, giggles and adventures waiting around the corner! I realize that phytochemicals and spiritual purity may make us live forever, but what life is it?! How can I deny myself coffee and wine and cigarettes and untold secrets behind locked doors, when life is so much better with them around?

I woke up this morning with the sun shining straight in and birds singing through my open window; it felt like Spring. My heart wants desperately to burst today, to send glittering confetti across Times Square and to laugh wildly at the top of Central Park. If New York is my oyster, how could I possibly have the audacity not to go out in search of its Pearl? How could I possibly not do everything I can to deserve its sweet life? Well, I must. Well, I will.

Monday Monsoon

So much time spent unraveling and subsequently tying up the ball of yarn within. Unsteadily pacing around the apartment, looking for clues to what happens next. Having run so far, so fast, and still finding myself taking the subway home with every other commuter who left at 5:03. Still finding that dinner has to be made, laundry has to be washed, a life has to be lived. I go through the motions like every other ghost in this modern world. This was not why I came.

Only a year ago I was in the balcony at the opera, watching La Bohème and "again the reminder to burn, to love in sparkles". The week after, writing "I have to go to New York, or I'll die." January bringing out the ultimate of my inner drama queen. I long desperately for another drunk night, another string of them.

And yet, in the back of my mind, I know that January is just the excuse. Because there is never a reason good enough to forgive not living your every day to the fullest! Not walking these streets and smiling in your heart. Not saying Yes, when asked. Not loving relentlessly and being tickled pink by all of it.

It turns out getting here was only half the battle. Turns out riding off into the sunset of happily ever after was not the end-all of my adventure. Turns out, now I have to do what I came here for.

I will have my sparkles, yet.

Like some Christmas Lights

Walking home eighth avenue, knowing full well this is the time when New York is dead and you could just as well get yourself killed with it. Still I had to check if the girl with the angry man was okay; she shrugged me off but I heard him yell all the way down 23rd street. We girls have to band together; perhaps I should've stuck around. I saw the cab turn and hoped it was to pick her up. Once I reached the gay streak I felt safe, and Hudson like a village street, I was home. My walk nowhere near straight, I stumbled drunkenly southward, famished.

A little wine. A lot of wine, and popping down to the deli for extra Stellas. Eyeing the Sunday Times on my way home, and do you know they are about to charge for their internet content. We have Pride, they yell, but who will listen. Tomorrow is Sunday. Now is Sunday. I put my ear plugs in; I am content.

Just trying to get a little sleep.
Out there in the Chelsea night.

Winter Wasteland

When I woke up this morning, bright sunlight streamed in through my windows. The kind of sunlight that doesn't reach Sweden until late Spring. The risers release more heat than could be needed in a blizzard, so I sleep with my window open, and cool air slowly travels up my legs as I stretch and yawn to what looks like a beautiful day.

But the sunshine is deceptive. My body still reels with the misery of late winter in the blood, streaming slowly through my system and turning my soul apathetic. I spend my days working and watching television, going to bed early because what else could I be doing that matters? Sitcoms providing relief from thought, relief from Life, and when I realize that, it makes me nothing but sad.

In the back of my mind, a calm voice reminds me that this is January, this is what it does. Acceptance floats around like a word that wants desperately to be snapped up, sometimes crossing paths with Patience. But the rest of me pays little attention. Reality unbearable, I want nothing but to flee. I stare blindly at the Hudson, and dream of a 19th century fixer-upper in the country, of unpaying farm jobs in Australia, of driving across America until I was done and settling there. I imagine I could be happy there. But more likely is that Reality would catch up there, too.

And then what do I do? Can I keep on running, forever? I'm so tired, already.

Blow Against the Wind

Clean sheet of paper in the typewriter. White, crisp, unused, unruined. The story that can go anywhere, the potential just lying in the wings, ready to burst forth, the tickle in the fingers and pink sparkles in the dreams. Coffee still fresh, time infinite, and anything is possible.

I find so often that I love that moment the most, on the verge of action. I adore to write the lists, to structure the events, more, perhaps, than the events themselves. Cleaning the entire apartment, down to the last unseen corner, and washing the windows to clear all obstacles to flow.

Commissioned to translate a larger piece of literature, I let my eyes run across the typeset pages of the original. I dream of how I can spend the money when it comes in the Spring. I toy around with the words and sentences, picking them out like cherries and letting them roll around my tongue to see what can be done with them. I know full well that mere weeks from now, I will be tearing my hair out and wishing I had never signed on to such a project. I know there will already be a new gem, sparkling in the corner of my eye, to which I would much rather run.

Reality gets old, so quickly.

Why am I short of attention
When all my nights are so long?

Naked at the Battery

Bank holiday and mild sunshine, and the Hudson river park is instantly an ant trail of people walking, running, biking, milling. I stare straight into the sun and try to ignore them, realizing again why I love the night. I hate to share the city, to share my experiencing it, unable to coexist without getting swept up in the collective.

But as I reached Battery Park, the sun was quickly reaching our horizon, and the oncoming chill brought people back to their individual homes, their delivery menus and Monday night games. I sat at the southern tip of Manhattan and watched the sun set, oblivious to the last trickle of traffic around me. Here is where New York began. On this modest, green tip of an iceberg. We all have to start somewhere.

I saw a picture today of my grandmother, young and naked, gazing across the sea. While she was alive, she would not have wanted for us to see it, but how glad I am to have been allowed it now. Somewhere in her strong back and pale uncovered skin, I saw myself, and I hadn't known before. In this woman whom I barely knew, somewhere, is my story.

My other grandmother had remarked to my mother how much like her sister I was, this kind spinster with the thick glasses who lived contentedly with the indigenous people up north and died well before her time. I've suspected it earlier, have been surprised no one's mentioned it. I did not know her, either, and I only see the image I have painted of her but it seems a lonely endeavor. Perhaps that is why we do not talk about it; we do not like to build our futures on the sad stories.

I walked quickly home past skyscrapers in that magical New York dusk. We all start somewhere. But there is building left to be done.

A Little Bit of Magic

I have too much to say in conjunction with this video, but my heart fears it is too close for comfort, too honest, and I cannot.



Thank you, Z, for finding this.

Run This Town

Earliest night home from the LES. Early enough that the sleazy remains of the Saturday night were still hanging around, cat-calling the high heeled boots that clicked softly homeward on Houston. Not late enough for the Sunday Times to be stacked outside the 24-hour delis along sixth ave so I came home empty handed, the Greenwich streets so quiet but the Village Tavern still brightly lit, reeling from the night and awaiting its buckets of clean mopping water. How difficult it is to fit something like that into 420 characters.

Staring up the avenues, the Empire State so solemn in its night time halo, I saw the Chrysler building shining bright, and in the absence of evergreen trees from home, its pine cone lights guided me all the way to Morton Street. Another night, another advenure. Eyes achingly longing for sleep and turning dizzy, I wonder what I learned tonight.

Perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps, that too, is a lesson. I put in my ear plugs. Tomorrow,indeed, is another day.

Count on the Birds

Another day of staring into cupboards hoping for revelation and ending up with lentil soup. Spare change suddenly a small fortune and I choose greedily between drinks or dinner, coffee or books, and in the long run I may not remember which I chose. Poverty is beginning to sink into my toes now, to become tangible, as my skin becomes sallow. At the end of the week, I bring my neatly folded earnings back to my room, and for a moment they are an immense treasure, until I must relinquish them to the underwear drawer to await the day that rent is due. My roommate orders delivery and I realize it was never in my mind that I could. L shows me her latest shopping finds, and I remember that I must mend the pocket in my skirt because I relentlessly drop my phone through it.

And still, I know that I am, as Anaïs calls it, playing at being poor. That the choice is still mine to gather my belongings and return to the Real World, where rent is humane and my fancy degree magically opens doors to higher credit lines and unlimited avocadoes. I read news reports from the devastation in Haiti, and I am well aware that I have no idea what true poverty is. I battle myself for the amount to donate; wanting to give so much but the sensible side of me forcing me not to overdo it. It is the eternal battle between my parents, that I now have to fit neatly into my one being. I pay by credit card. Sterile. I don't feel different afterwards, and isn't that always the thing about plastic? It is only half real, and for the most part I fear perhaps we are pretending.

And still, what a large step from me to those around me, with their high incomes and reckless taxi riding. I do not envy them. In my poverty, I see meaning. I see the reasons it is worth such a life of counting pennies. I live well, I eat, I sleep, I laugh. Unbound by the shackles of house, car, fancy dinners, I have something more precious than pennies; I have freedom. I have Time, I have reckless abandon. And as long as that is worth more to me than a shoe to match every purse, I will revel in my poverty.

After all, it is the going I'm after.

Fuck That Shit.

Another day, another treading-treacle cold. My walk so slow, thought patterns end without resolution and don't bother to ask what comes next. I dream strange, restless dreams of packing and repacking suitcases and wake up confused, sheets in a twirl at the foot of my bed. Aching to write, my fingers seem unable to produce meaning and prefer to push repeat on my music player.

It's amazing how difficult it is to write when not out of honesty. My head bursts with topics, with points to make, but when my heart is elsewhere, the words fall trite on the cutting-room floor of my literary endeavors. It is like with children, they see straight through your fabrications, and they form their relationships with you on the person you actually are. Perhaps that's what it is. The words see through my flimsy attempts at escape and wait for more honest attempts. At Anything. I am nothing if not grateful.

Such a gray day in Manhattan. Thankfully, somebody else has already said it, and better. Fuck that shit.

Dream On

Jet lagged eyes spring to life too early, the city lies silent and only in the distance is dawn approaching. The weekend passes in a cloud of tired limbs, preferring to stay in bed and be alone, sinking into my own life again. Social engagements soon call, however, and they are too lovely to ignore. In the bright sunlight, I walk down Houston, Seventh Ave, Bleecker. Falling back into step, walking quickly and finding myself out of breath; have I really been taking it that easy on my vacation? Back on that fire escape in the LES, watching the smoke curl into bone-chilling winter sunset. Back on West 4th, looking at the tracks and seeing all the muck. New York City Garbage, I love you. Running errands on the Upper East, hailing cabs like I was never gone and driving so quickly past streets that I have known and loved, past streets I have yet to discover. The Tassel Shoppe is moving to the Garment District, so everything is $2.99; I have never felt the need for tassels as much as I do now.

After lunch, L asked Well what about you? What about your inner life? And I laughed, told her the truth. There isn't much to say about my inner life of late. I am simply content to be here. I am simply so goddamn happy that this is my life, this is where I am, that I haven't any worries left. After so many years of living in the past, doing my darndest to prepare for the future, I have found a place where I can live only in the Now, where all that matters is what I do Now, and that what I do is what fills my heart with joy. I recognize my privilege. My cup runneth over.

My roommate and I snuck into the bar on 13th for a quick drink, which turned into dinner when no one was looking, and as we talked about Death and Dreams and escaping to Wisconsin, I knew I was home. It was a feeling that spread slowly through my limbs, that mingled with the red wine on my breath and trickled into my flushed cheeks. It took me this long to really land here; it took me going away and risking regretting leaving Gothenburg in the first place. But I am ready now, I commit, I forsake my plan B, C, D. I wear my heart on my sleeve and write it out in ink. I say yes, when asked. In my mind, I see myself standing in the open window of a skyscraper, 50 floors up in the sky, white printer paper flying like fireflies in the breeze, the sun setting over midtown and spreading that golden light across the tall buildings, my hair in a whirl. I jump, but I expect to fly.


I open the valve to my radiator. It hisses menacingly, but soft cotton warmth spreads through my room. This is life, now.

Home, Sweet Home

Descent started too early. I sat impatiently staring out over neverending snow-covered fields, the City nowhere to be seen. I began to doubt. Was that not the Hudson? Should the City not be appearing on my side of the airplane, after all? And then, finally, there it was. The thin needle that is the towering Empire State when seen from the air. Sweet little Woolworth's, that always seems so quaint to me. The piers just outside my apartment, stretching their grassy fingers across the icy water to New Jersey. My toes tingled, and here I was.

How quickly elation passed. Because this was not the nervous, excited arrival to a city brand new, unseen, unknown. This was me coming home. On the train in, I couldn't wait another minute to be there. To step onto Manhattan ground and breathe freely again. Suddenly feeling like I blended in. Remembering this space where I truly fit. I was going home, and it was the most wonderful feeling of all. My heart bubbled, giggled, danced, but my soul, was simply calm.

Will Always be Your Soldier

My head full of music, my heart full of everything else. How difficult it is to put into words the Everything. I came home late last night and the world was spinning as I layed in the bed, and I could not fall asleep for hours, overwhelmed by the streets and the smiles. Overwhelmed by this short week that tore open my heart and poured such beautiful kisses into it. I hurt more today than I did a week ago, but I love more, too. How could I possibly make words, out of that?

Gothenburg, you gave me someone to love
and I really owe you

I go home, to New York, to write. I go home, to New York, because I can't not. I long for my little corner in the West Village, my quiet, safe space where I can recreate myself and become whoever it is I hoped I'd be.

I fold my clothes and place them neatly into my great suitcase. I pack up the girl who loves and cries and feels so strongly, and I put her between wool socks and sparkly earrings. She belongs here, but I have no room for her on Morton Street. I had forgotten how unbearable it is too feel.

Earlier today, I ran along the harbor, staring out at the neverending ocean and breathing in the quiet calm one last time. Coming back, I passed underneath the great bridge. How many times I have run past that bridge before, for some reason always reminded of New York. Running, sweating, panting, and thinking one day, one day I will be there, and that is all that matters.

Today, I ran under it and thought exactly the same thing. I pack up this sweet week, I go home. And that is all that matters.

Late. Night. Musings.

...and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!"

New York,
honey,
I'm coming home.

Tumbling Down

The snow keeps falling. Soft, slow whisps at which it is impossible to get angry. The hangover holds a firm grip on my warm limbs, my clouded mind. In the wake, my heart is too exposed; I cannot trust my pale winter skin to hold it in, keep it safe. I leave little bits of my self around the city; the gloves left at one party and the scarf at another. The answer harder to locate. I postpone any further words until the remains have been collected, swept up, put back together. Until the skin thickens and resolve plants itself firmly again in my spine.

In my head, I see M in her car, in the little community that smothers its spirits. I see her cranking up Beyoncé, pulling on the parking break, and spinning endless loops in the white parking lot of her hometown's train station. In such a small scene, I feel all that angst, and also all that freedom. Last night it only snowed under the street lights, and darkness and light replaced each other a hundred times before I was home.

But still, on my pillow, golden hair spray glitters.


Beyonce - Halo (Official Music Video) - Click here for the most popular videos

Happy New Year.

These streets will make you feel brand new,
Big lights will inspire you.

And here we are in another year, how little has changed since the last one.

Winter is still so cold. Walking home, only a few cars passed, and a tram that I decided not to jump, because how delicious it is, for one short while, to own the city you walk through. Full moon new years eve wore off, and as I walked under the street light, I could see it was snowing. In the short moments in between, walking in darkness, I would have never guessed, but every new light revealed the slow, light fall of quiet little snowflakes. By the time I reached the last hill, there was no denying it: cold white dust was covering the earth, and no one was awake to file complaints.

With frozen limbs and fuzzy eyes, I make my way home. 2010. It is with Life as it is with love. It ends with snowfall and glittery sticky hair. Emotion too much to handle and isn't it better then, to sleep soundly in your own bed (even though it was never yours, to begin with). As I walk home, the Song of the Year in my head, I realize this is what New York is: my escape from emotion. After such a long year of feeling too much, finally I am allowed to revel in the joy, of feeling not much at all. I love the City, and that is all.

Taking out my contacts and sinking into the New Year, I think of my West Village streets and long for them. For the simplicity. Here's hoping, this year will be just what I dreamed. In Gothenburg, the snow keeps falling, regardless. Perhaps I am not here, at all.