Jag bor vid havet, där vågors svall
Sköljer mot stranden till måsars kall
Där havsvinden blåser frisk och stark
Över klippor, ljung och mark -
I Skärhamn, i Skärhamn
På vackra Tjörn.

Nog blåser vinterns kuling hård
Från havet in runt hus och gård
Men solen vänder åter från allt grått
Och speglas klart i havet himmelsblått -
I Skärhamn, i Skärhamn
På vackra Tjörn.

Och när jag reser runt i världen
Dig jag ändå bär mig med på färden
Visst lockar mystik i fjärran länder
Jag längtar ändå hem till dina stränder -
Till Skärhamn, till Skärhamn
På vackra Tjörn.

Ich halte meine Träume in meiner Hand
Und frage mich, warum fliegt ihr nicht?
Ihr liegt nur da, so leise und still
Keine Bewegung in meinem Gesicht.

Wenn sie endlich Flucht ergreifen
Wie schön wär’ es nicht!
Hoch über die Erde fliegen sie
Hoch und stolz in meinem Gesicht.

Bleibt noch bei mir, Träume still
Wacht noch, vergesst mich nicht.
Euere Stunde kommt. Seid bereit!
Bald fliegt ihr hoch, in aller Gesicht.

Dann kommt das mal zu Ende.

Kein Wort wird mehr gesagt
Keinen Blick auf dir geworfen
Keine Träume mehr besteht.
Du sagst “auf wiedersehen”
Wir meinen’s aber nicht.

Und wie ein dünner Nebel
Im Sonnenschein verjagt
So wirst du jetzt für mich
Immer schwacher, leichter, dünner
Bis nichts von dir mehr bleibt.

Zu Ende…

Ich hätte einen Traum, das wir glücklich zusammen waren
Aber wenn diese kalte, harte Realität eingesetzt hat
Dann hat es nicht länger gelungen.
Nun muß ich nur herausrücken
Eine Liebe ich nicht erfahren habe
Von meinem schmerzenden Herz.

Wie geh’ ich von hier weiter?
Wohin soll ich jetzt?
Das ist mir egal.
Meine Augen blicken nicht mehr
Und mein Herz, voll Weh, ist leer.

So werde ich auch
Wie ein dünner Nebel
Im Sonnenschein verjagt.

As per always, please report any grammatical errors, as I suspect there may be plenty …

Purely hypothetical scenario.

I love the way you look
Early in the morning
When you’ve just woken up
And turn to me.
I love the way you smile
As I kiss you to say “Good morning”.

I love the way you stumble through the kitchen
Making tea
I hear the muffled sounds of your showering
And I feel warm and fuzzy inside.

When I call you at work
You’re warm and gentle
And yet, not entirely without
That distinct professionalism
Which is so entirely yours.

And when you dress up in the evening
And enter into the room
It’s as though the entire country holds its breath
For a few trembling seconds -
before moving on…

You are the most beautiful being
I have ever seen in my life.
And to that beauty you happen to add
A dashing blend of charm, kindness, love and grace
And a most endearing naivety.

I love you so much.

And I want to share
Your joy and your happiness,
Your sadness and your tears,
Your smiles,
Your laughter,
Your pain,
Your worries and doubts
And I want to hold your hand
Through every stage in life.

My dearest [insert name here],
Will you be
Forever mine?

(Wrote this on the train home from Stenungsund a few years ago.)

His name was Tree.

For as long as he could remember, he had stood here in the middle of the forest. Deep in the far recesses of his slow, heavy conscience, deep memories awoke and slowly rose up to a higher level of awareness; memories of his youth, when he was a much, much younger and more vigorous Tree; memories of ages past that seemed so remote; yet he was somehow aware that they had, indeed, happened to him, only a long, long time ago.

He was almost sound asleep now. His branches hung heavily, and most of the time his mind seemed to be clouded with a thick, dreary fog from which he awoke but momentarily. He was dimly aware of coldness; among his twigs and leaves frost was setting in, and if he stretched out his senses he could just barely sense the last fading chlorophyll receding down, deep down, in bracing for winter. They were not strong emotions; over the last, say… he had some difficulty remembering… say, the last two ages or so – he defined an age to be twelve winters, a decision he made many, many ages ago when he was still curious about things – over the last two ages he had been growing increasingly numb of outside things, and now he knew that he was slowly drifting away into a deep sleep from which he would never more wake up.

But those memories, reaching him from far off, caused him to stir a little bit. He carefully – albeit rather slowly – turned his dim attention to them. It was like a taste of spring. They had an air of life about them. And then, he lost it…

Some time passed.

Suddenly something stirred him again. His mind rose sleepily again, and noted that it was colder now, much colder. He could sense that most of his leaves had disappeared; he felt it, a keen awareness of nakedness that still grasped him in his drowsy state. Deep down, something that many others might have been surprised at seeing in a tree this age, started to form; something that would best be described – in want of a better word – as, perhaps, a smile. His mind fluttered away, searching for something eerily escaping; a faint and distant memory of the first time he felt that nakedness. And then, there it was again, hitting him with much stronger force this time: Distant memories, distant songs, of ages passed.

His mind sank back as he slowly began to walk through the memories. And suddenly, there was a taste of spring, and an air of life that alerted him… the feelings came back to him again, unwilling to let go.

He remembered ages past. The sun. Yes, the sun had been stronger in those days, hadn’t it? He had felt it stronger. He remembered the warm, lovely sun beating upon his leaves, drinking in every drop of warmth it induced. He remembered the sense of life pouring through him; a tickling, invigorating feeling of sorts. For a moment he sensed again the lovely feeling of dipping his roots deep, deep down in the ground, sapping up water and sensing it flow all through his trunk, out through the branches, the twigs, and his leaves… A feeling so joyful and bright that almost made him want to laugh.

He remembered that he used to sing a lot. He sang, in his own special, deep, dark and hollow voice, a song of life. He sang with the wind rustling through his leaves. He sang to the little squirrels that climbed around among his branches. He sang a song about the little birds, which made nests in him, and to the lives and events that took place. His song grew quieter as the ages slowly passed by, mostly because he didn’t feel the need to sing much longer. And besides, other trees around him did so much better, too.

And yes, he remembered the little birds, especially the birds. When he was young, he remembered being annoyed by them. He was just a few winters old, and they came and sat down in him, took cover among his leaves. He was very rude in those days, and very proud too. A sense of tender joy pervaded him as he thought back on these times. Yes, he had been very proud indeed… and now, if only words could tell the wisdom he possessed.

How many ages of birds had he seen? – Too many to be counted, indeed. They had come in great numbers, built nests in him, taken cover in him, and raised their young there. Generations had come and gone, and he had harbored them all. After all, he was Tree; many animals knew him. He was, he believed, the oldest in the forest.

He had been young once. He didn’t have memory of… of…? Being formed, or made, or born. Or however he came about. He had to start once, he thought. Back in his younger days he had given this thought much attention, where he came from, and perhaps, some day, where he would go. He knew by now, from observing other trees, that he would invariably, one day, sink into eternal sleep; and before long his trunk would begin to fade away, and one day he might fall over and then, well, the rest would be history; but the idea of where they all came from still actually eluded him.

His mind had been much, much faster in those days, and he had been much more sensitive. He could still remember the tickling feeling of the ants’ little feet as they climbed upon his trunk and branches. He had laughed a whole lot about it in those days, and sung songs about it. He liked to sing. He never did that anymore, but he liked to do it in his younger days.

He remembered when he began keeping track of seasons. In the beginning he had known spring; that was his first memory. The fresh air, all the little sounds around him, and the little brook about his roots. In those days, those large animals used to come around and chew off bark from him, and eat. He was outraged about that back then; nowadays, that never happened. His first summer… and then fall, and winter, when all his leaves fell away and that bitter cold, nakedness and drowsiness gripped him. He had thought his end was near. But then he awoke again in spring; and so, many summers, falls, winters and springs again had passed.

He began to keep track of those cycles as they passed by. When they became too many to count he grouped them in twelve, and called them ages. And now, too many ages had passed by for him to count.

Yes, he could feel it. His conscience slowly began drifting off again, slowly letting go of all these memories. He knew that this was the final end for old Tree. Or was it? Just as he had thought once that his end was near, he had slept, and then woken up again. Maybe there was something on the other side of this sleep. Maybe there was… Maybe, one day, on some other side somewhere, Tree would wake up again, young and healthy, with fresh new leaves and shiny bark, and…

He lost that thought. He could barely stay awake. He was hardly any longer aware of anything around him; and he was so tired, so unfathomably tired… it would be good to sleep. He had had a long, healthy life, and now he would sleep. “Hark, old Tree has fallen asleep”, he thought as he drifted off into the dim fogginess that crept upon him.

And then, as softly as ever – as gently as his leaves had ever waved in the cool summer’s breeze, as mildly and tenderly as any fog had ever engulfed him in – old Tree fell asleep, for the last time. His conscience slowly faded; and silently – just as quiet as the rest of the forest that now lay draped in thick, white and heavy snow – so silently, Tree passed away.

Vår Sharepoint är svår att söka i
Och dokumentet jag vill ha
Finns ej däri
Och visst vore en wiki bra
Men den har ingen plats för dokument
Och annat i sitt sortiment
Så situationen känns lite virulent
När Joel inte får kontakt
Sådär helt oöverlagt
Med sin nya Jabber-klient.
Och köpa in är svårt
För inget inköpskort finns här
Man slår huvet i nåt hårt
Så man bara svär och svär.
Och IE envisas med att vilja ha
Namn och lösenord och annat bra
Trots att jag är med i vår domän
Och ber på mina bara knän.
Ja, man önskar nog allt då och då
Att man istället blivit busschaufför
Och snällt bett folk att stiga på
Så man sluppit denna klagokör.
Ja, livet är intressant helt klart
Och inte alltid underbart
Men trots allt trivs jag nog ändå
Trots att man ibland blir både gul och blå
För det behöver inte alltid vara elegant
Det funkar nog ändå. Inte sant?

Writing dialogue is the most difficult thing I know. But watching Ally McBeal has really made me interested in writing again; and I think I realize that the whole purpose of dialogue is to establish a relationship in the story. Let people communicate and grow with each other. (Maybe that’s the purpose of all dialogue?)

So, I had to jot down some ideas, and the idea became a story, and the story became a blogpost… And so, I introduce to you Chris and Rebecka, two people with an interesting and common past:

- Hello, Becka!

Rebecka looked up from her thoughts. A handsome guy stood in front of her with a recognizing smile on his face.

- Chris? Hi! Rebecka said with her best fake smile. This is a surprise, I didn’t know you were in town.
- Yeah, I just flew in yesterday, he said. I hadn’t planned to be in actually, but a customer dragged me away, and… You know how it is.
- Yeah, sure. She smiled again.
- Hey, do you want to grab a cup of coffee or something? I’ve got a couple of minutes to spare.
- Uhmm… She hesitated. I don’t know…
- Maybe you’re busy?
- Well, no… Okay, maybe a cup of coffee then. Yeah, that could be nice. She smiled, but silently bit her lip.

* * *

- So, what’s been going on with you lately? Chris asked as they were sitting down at a table in one of the nearby coffee shops.
- Oh, I’ve been around, doing stuff, Rebecka said evasively. Nothing in particular…
- No big changes in your life? I remember you talked about going to the Andes to research or something…
- Yeah, well… She hesitated. It didn’t really turn out that way, she said. Some professor got sick and then the whole program was kind of cut short for a while, so I postponed everything and that’s where it is right now basically.

Rebecka glanced briefly at Chris while she talked. She really didn’t want to go into any details. Particularly that little detail that since Chris left, her whole life had sort of turned upside down and that she had cried for six months straight. Just because the man she was in love with had disappeared out of her life and she never even got to tell him how she felt. And now, when she finally had gotten over it and turned that particular page in her life, he shows up out of the blue and now they’re sitting here talking like nothing happened. She fought her emotions, fought her desire to gaze deeply into his eyes and drown in them like she had done so many times before.

- Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, Chris said. You talked about it like you really wanted it, I hope it works out for you.

Yeah. She had gone on and on about it, because she desperately wanted to impress him. Chris had this sort of rugged thing going; he had an adventurous look about him and she had, sort of on a whim, come up with this little story about going to the Andes and spending time with the Indians. It had gotten his interest, and before she knew it she had spun off on it and said all kinds of things that she never would do or had planned to do. It was just so easy to talk whenever he was around.

But he looked different now. So business-like… It would have been difficult to imagine that two years ago.

- Yeah, well, maybe it was all just as well… But look at you, she quickly changed the subject. You look like you’re in high business these days. You must have been really successful lately, have you?
- No, not really, Chris let out a little embarrassed laugh. I’m working for a small business and we’ve just been able to secure some funding for one of our projects, and of course the next step is selling it. That’s why I’m here in Boston, to meet this client who might end up buying.

So he had changed.

- It’s not really that much of a deal actually, he continued. I don’t know if I told you, but one of the reasons I moved away was that a friend of mine had just started this business, and he needed some help setting it up, so I went there to help him out a while. And I’ve been with him ever since.

No, you didn’t tell me that, thought Rebecka. You never told me why you moved. We were fooling around… Casting glances and smiles across the study hall; had long talks about study subjects, history, politics and anything that came to mind. I never really figured out if you loved me, she thought. She thought he did, but she never knew how much, or dared to ask. But there was something there, wasn’t it? Some chemistry that just made the both of us laugh and laugh, she felt. Something could have happened; something really good.

And then, one day, you moved. Just like that. You never told me why.

- So, you like it over there? she said.
- Yeah, actually, I do, he said. I mean, it’s a whole lot different from Boston, I’ll be the first to tell you, and I kind of miss this place from time to time. But it’s nicer, kind of a small town community, and there’s lots of places you can go if you like. I mean, right next to town are these incredible mountains…

She sipped her coffee while he talked. There were parts of the old Chris there, of course, the rugged explorer hiking the mountains and wilderness. But he seemed to have mellowed down a fair bit too. He didn’t mention any girlfriend, maybe he was still single? Rebecka quickly pushed that thought out of her mind…. she was not going to fall for him just like that, again. And yet…

Ever since they first met, she’d had this secret crush on him. And the more he talked about his life and what he wanted to do, the more she fell in love with him. Naturally, she wouldn’t come with him on all those adventures he planned – she wasn’t really the hiking person anyway – but he seemed to know so much about the world, like all they had to do was go around the corner, and he could show her the most amazing things about neighborhoods she had known for years but never quite discovered the way he did. And he had seen the world; traveled to lots of interesting places: Hong Kong, Sydney, Tel Aviv…

She looked into his eyes. She didn’t want to, but she could feel herself drawn into them again. So dark and yet alive… Rebecka could feel herself leaning forward towards him. She was falling for him again, she knew it. She was listening intently to what he was saying, hung upon his every word. Something about biking. Whatever. Yeah, she knew it; she still had all of those feelings for him intact. All she needed to do was to open the box and let it all fly out again.

Maybe this was the moment. Maybe this was her one chance to have something happen? Right here, right now, right in this coffee shop. They probably wouldn’t meet again, and if she didn’t do something, the moment would be lost. She had to seize it, right now.

She opened her mouth to say something, she didn’t know what. Just something, words. She’d open her mouth and say something out loud, probably about how handsome he was and how much she liked seeing him after all this time again, and how much she would like to go out with him…

- By the way, he said, I’m getting married next month.

She stopped right there, mouth still open. She swore she could hear a whole glass window breaking into a thousand pieces.

- Huh? was all she could manage.
- Yeah. I met this girl some time ago. Actually, it was right about the time that I moved away from here. We’ve been together for a while now and just a short while ago I finally proposed to her. We’re getting married in five weeks. Isn’t it wonderful?
- Wow… That’s great news, really, she said. She felt numb.
- Yeah. She’s just like the most amazing woman I’ve ever met… In my entire life I could never figure out why someone like her would want to be with someone like me. But… She said yes! I’m not wearing my engagement ring right now, because I can’t get it to fit, otherwise I’d show it to you, promise!

Rebecka could feel a strange, new knife twisting and turning inside of her. She smiled.

- I’m so happy for you, Chris, she said and laid her hand upon his; just to reassure him how happy she was. For him.
- Well, what about you? he asked. Have you found anyone?
- Actually, I have, she heard herself say. Yeah. His name is… Jack. We haven’t been together for so long but I have a really good feeling about it. She smiled again, to ease the pain.
- That sounds great! Chris said. I’m happy for you. If anyone deserves it, it’s you.

The knife kept digging. She looked down into the table. She didn’t want to meet his eyes.

- Well, it’s been great seeing you again, Rebecka. I’ve gotta go, have a meeting to catch. Hey, maybe I’ll run into you again, he said as he jumped up from the table and looked at her to say goodbye.
- Yeah, sure, Rebecka smiled, holding back her tears. That would be great, really!
- Okay! And hey… Good luck with Jack! he said, left some change on the table for the waitress and then disappeared out of her life.

Twenty minutes ago, Rebecka Emery had been a nice, confident young lawyer, walking down the street, life in order, assured of herself and striding towards new and wonderful things in life. And now, barely half an hour later, she sat all alone in a little coffee shop in downtown Boston; the world had faded around her, her heart lay in ten thousand pieces all spread out over the floor, and she had, for the second time in her life, just lost the man she loved with all her heart.

Back in high school, a friend in the computer club wrote a poem about an oyster who defeated King Bore (the presumed God of Snow and Winter). In a sudden flash of inspiration, I blatantly stole the idea and wrote my own.

It turned out something like this.

Once upon a time, a colony there was
Of oysters, humbly admiring their cause
Deeply they lived in mid-ocean hot
Thus happy they were, and warm a lot.

But those times were gone and forgotten
The warmth had vanished, and the sunlight was rotten.
Storms of winter blew over waters iced
And the colony was all terrorized.

“This curse must be broken”, the leader then said
The oysters agreed, ’cause soon they’d be dead.
Then an oyster stepped forth, screaming “Coldness no more!
I’ll myself be the cause of the death of King Bore!”

His axe on his side, and filled up with anger
He bravely set out on his journey of danger.
The wind tore his face, threw snow in his eyes
“To h*** with the snow”, he shouted, “make way for the wise!”

Alas, if only wise he’d been, and not so irate
He’d have watched for those who’d wait
Thus captured he was, and imprisoned as well
Thrown behind bars, where rats yet dwell!

But bars of iron can’t stop an oyster that good
He’d sworn to kill, and believe me, he was in such mood!
He hewed back his axe, and with one mighty stroke
He shattered the bars, and the iron lock he broke!

Through winding passages and tombs he ran
Finding his way through the cells, like only oysters can.
Before long, he stood by the entrance great
To the mighty throne, where King Bore would wait.

He kicked the doors open, vindictive as few
Only to see King Bore, releasing the curse anew!
With sinister laughs to the oyster he turned
Showing grinning teeth, and eyes that burned.

No time to spill, the oyster ran in hurrying pace
And buried his axe deep in the Kings dastardly face.
Blood drizzled as the evil God cried
And left the poor corpse he’d occupied.

Far over hills and fields the mighty King flew
Crying aloud as fear of oysters grew.
Joining the fleeing soul were winter and ice
And left the earth in a choir of cries.

Never again have we heard of King Bore
Seemingly lost in cold space’s core.
And from that day, we all love our saint
The hero of oysters, defeating winter faint.”

Nika tunga bete wola
Dopi lamunga aki nola
Sa wele patima, ahima te
A naki tonga walu me.

A sina wati do katunga ne
A sina wati pim milunga me.
Ha kata son thanima ikosai
Mita wa patima, ahimanai.

Sa akita hawane, mi thak
Tabena watasi anima pak
Karoosha me sawane wele no
Ha misa ne, ei tonga meke so.

I accidentally wrote this poem while translating texts to German:

In stoltzen reihen stehen, mit Blick auf höchstem Traum
Und danach vorwärts, einfach schlagen: Brauchen Lebensraum!
Zum Aktion läuft unser Heer, Soldaten schnell mit Mut
Vorwärts, Männer! Vorwärts, Panzer! Voll mit rechtem Wut!
    Eins, zwei, drei, vier!
    Wir marschieren hier!
    Eins, zwei, drei, vier!
    Attackieren hier!
Und Lebensraum wird unseres, mit Feuersturm und Kampf
Bis Feind entsteht, und schlagt zurück mit Tod und Dampf.

Vielleicht… Unser Traum war nicht so hoch und gut
All unser’ Männer sind verloren, mit all ihr stoltzen Mut
Feuersturm wird Russensturm, all kampf vorbei
Millionen hab’ gestorben, mit grausam Todesschrei
    Jetzt eins, zwei, drei, vier;
    Unser Land aufbauen
    Eins, zwei, drei, vier;
    Kein Führer mehr vertrauen
Gibt’s noch zu knien, mit reuig Geduld
Wir bitten, vergib uns unsere Schuld.

I have absolutely no guarantee that the German is correct (grammatically or ideomatically), but it sounds OK when I read it.

I’ve probably studied too much World War II.