someone said, with a light mist in their voice, i think; one can not collect all the beautiful shells on the beach. but many hours of my life can surely elapse just so; in consciously vain attempts at just that. for the meditative quality of it, and for that i, that we, ~ are never finished, never completed, and just that is exactly as it should be. on bali's sanur beach lives an eternal summer and the sand is hot so you have to move in small dancing steps, which is also just exactly as it should: following the rhythms from the restaurants along the beach, ~ & the feeling that all roads in life are possible that threatens, suddenly, to burst my chest. someone has placed a blissfulness-granade between my ribs. but it never explodes, only consists, although it consistently keeps touching my heart, ought to detonate.
österlen and the next trip; the next shoot; is a solitary landscape. there is a certain something, ~ & particularly beautiful about deserted beaches. the last sun-worshipers and sand castle builders have left. their footsteps blown over by the sand in new formations; as perfect as only nature can mold them. and you barely want to walk the sand, tread the beach, ~ or you are not sure you’re even actually there, when laughter, or screams of delight mingled with terror are no longer worn by the waves, just the sound of the ocean itself. we carry the collection of garments on hangers; flowing dresses in the wind, follow the long path built by windswept wood; drawing lines, drawing a map across the mile-long beach, where i picked shells and hunted amber so many times as a child. where sea and meadow perfumes the very name as the poet anders österling described this place of ’haväng’ [in swedish ’seameadow’], in his tunes from the sea.
the little muse, belinda; sorcerer of hair ~ & i, camp out in a borrowed summer house, with vast woods as sole neighbor. old, alkalized wooden floors, fireplaces and candles burning makes up our world, in repose between the takes. in the evenings we drift away, lightly intoxicated from wine, ~ & utterly besotted by all the impressions already waiting to be immortalized. my little sweetie and i lie whispering paris in woolen socks, tangled sheets & beach-hair until we fall asleep, far into the starry nights. when i awaken, about to turn, she lies on my arm, singing silent sleep, though the bed is infinitely wide. i’m still. this closeness, its simplicity that has surprised me. this very special extra little sister.
we shoot and shoot. and shoot. and in me the grenade hisses, sparks again and again touching the heart, but doesn’t explode, only fill me up further. all my blood as if replaced with dopamine. it's anne morrow lindbergh who said the words one can not collect all the beautiful shells on the beach, i remember suddenly. but she also continues one can only collect a few; and they are more beautiful if they are few. this work, this life that has become; all those beautiful moments. i handle them gently, collect them as treasures in the space between the shells. i say thank you, again and again, ~ out into the not so thin air. with love,
vi kolliderar. jag konvex med alla mina känslor i ett växande virrvarr.
och huset som tycks bukta upproriskt inåt, regn i ihärdiga slag mot rutorna och dova skuggor
över trägolv & nakna, solbrända fötter.
vi är båda gjorda av stenväggar idag.
jag skyndar in från skyfallet med tidningen slokande över huvudet, river sönder spetskimono’n mot stora, stickiga tallen. kardemumma-kaffet rinner ner i glaskannan, fyller hela köket
med en doft jag är nykär i. mina fingertoppar
är plommonlila mot koppen, armarna knottriga
av kallt regn. allt smakar plötsligt höst.
så slåss jag liksom med de där
motstridiga känslorna hela dagen,
alltmedan enorma åskmoln driver fram fort över himlen. reser i stora skuggor över de ny-snaggade rågblonda fälten utanför fönstren.
jag arbetar frenetiskt men med min nya tre-timmars-regel. pausar sedan i kryddträdgården. ena gången i hällregn,
andra i strålande sol. vädergudarna verkar också slåss idag. jag försöker minnas doften från de enorma vita rosorna
och fingrar på rosmarinen; tar dess doft i fingertopps-dans över kinder & mun, kamouflage över värkande läppar,
de som håller så mycket osagt bakom.
så är det också fantastiskt att ta ett kvälls-dopp i ett hav uppvärmt av sommar när det regnar i höstviskningar.
i kväll simmar jag till ön och tar avsked av sommaren i korta tag.
kanske kan jag leva med hösten, när det finns plats för drömmar under huden och en resa runt hörnet.
