Short, simple statement

It just so happens, that I'm happy.


Like a frame of mind, like something that doesn't burst just like that.

And words like
Joy
Glorious
Rejoyce
and
Home
come to mind.

Today, it's surfaced like bubbles
and, caught by the wind and dancing,
I've only had happy exchanges.

It's because of love. Sure.
It's also because of work and life. And problems solved.
Economy improving.


And because I know that
this week
I'll see you.
Three nights - long or short -
I'll sleep in your arms.
Because I heard your voice last night
because we laugh together.

I mitt nye liv...

I mitt nye liv
har jeg ny jobb
med helt nye kolleger
som er greie
som synes jeg er helt ålreit
(etter alt å dømme).
Det der, at jeg kommer godt overens med masse nye mennesker,
det er en utfordring for
den delen av selvbildet som innerst inne tror
hun (jeg) er så vemmelig vrang.

I mitt nye liv
har jeg en jobb som er faglig relevant
og jeg opplever at man faktisk
snakker mer fag her
enn man gjorde på universitetet.
Det er et tankekors.

I mitt nye liv
bor jeg i en helt ny by.
Jeg går over Strömmen
(daglig)
og ser at den igrunnen er ganske vakker,
byen. Noen steder
rett og slett romantisk.
(Men det er dødt her, det er det).

I mitt nye liv
i den lille, søvnige byen
(med kjedelig voldtektsrapportering)
går jeg på det jeg kan komme over
av kultur.
Dels fordi jeg bare har tre kanaler,
dels fordi jeg har lite stimuli
etter seks, og dels
fordi jeg skal gjøre inntrykk på,
eller kanskje heller, kjenne meg nærmere
min finkulturelle fiolinistkjæreste.

I mitt nye liv
har jeg ennå ikke rukket å begynne å savne
Göteborg
eller vennene
eller kjede meg.
Igår så jeg Göteborg på TV (et program om dialekter)
og det var nesten bare bisarrt.

Det mest merkverdige
i mitt nye liv
er at jeg har kjæreste.
Han ringer meg - for eksempel -
en onsdagkveld for å si at jeg må se
programmet om Kungliga Musikhögskolans
manglede likestilling.
Er du feminist, vennen min,
eller bare pervers
(det er jo deprimerende greier!)
?!

I mitt nye liv
med kjæreste
har jeg nesten vent meg til tanken
og nesten
vent meg til
at det skal være sånn en stund
at jeg skal være her og lengte
(sånn passe)
at jeg kan bestemme når jeg skal komme hjem
og så bor jeg hos ham.
Jeg har også begynt
planleggingen av det nye livet etter dette.
Men det vet han ikke noe om ennå.

Hormone heaven

On Monday morning, just as I got off the train, the company in charge of moving my furniture called and told me they could do it on Wednesday. So there I went, back west to pack my belongings, tidy up and clean the flat.

The side effect, the very positive side effect, was the alternative lodging available to me after my own bed was moved out.

The oportunity to get another, better, goodbye.

I love it when I have, finally, gone to bed (in his bed) and he stays up writing but has to take a detour to see how I'm doing (sleepy), rub his stubbled chin to mine and smell my neck. Or kiss.
I love the look on his face. Nearly infinite tenderness.

I love it when he comes to bed (way past anyones normal bedtime) and snuggles close. Most nights, I have to break free, just a little, to give us both the space to sleep.

(The first night, it was I who woke him up, napping, and snuggled close. "Do you mind", he said, "sleeping here, even though it will be hell to wade through the sleep depravation tomorrow". I asked him right back. We don't mind.)

And who was that crazy idiot who feared that she would loose him?
The second night, I couldn't break the hold. The imprint of his thigh over mine is still there in my mind.

Yet another oxytocin high.

Freaking out

On Monday morning, I was freaking out.
We could blame sleep depravation. We could. It certainly was a factor.

Somewhere in the background, I'm still freaking out a bit, but have decided not to.
I have too many questions, and I'm not sure it's fair to pose them.
Do you want to see me as much as I want to see you?
That's the main issue.

Another concern is the living arrangements. Is it ok with you that I come home as often as I want to and take for granted that I'll be staying with you?
I kind of wish he had his own place. Even though I love the house.
And like his mother and father.

It's love, you see.
I'm pretty sure.
Haven't told him.

I'm worrying that my insecurity will wreck the affair.
Or, if I flip around, decide not to go home too often, make a living here, that my nonchalant attitude migth. In the desicion not to freak out, be happy and strong, there was a fear that I could cross over.

And there never is time. Never time to get around to things. The need for everyday life and sleep always takes over. Sometimes even for sex.

On the other hand, I always like what is. The things that take presedence for other things. I liked sitting up past my bedtime drinking whisky with his parents, and I like listening to music together, or talking about stuff from newspapers or family. Telling him that I told my mother that I'd told him. Seeing that it's taken completely for granted that I tell my mother about him.

And in my head, I hear his voice singing a Swedish childrens song.
In my mind, I can see us in his kitchen, with his parents, his hand across my shoulders, my hand on his thigh, his mother saying "we went to this lovely place, you should go there". The plural you, not the singular.


When it comes to the living arrangements, I think I'll just ask him. How do you want it to be - do you want me to come home when I want to and take for granted that I can stay, or do you want me to wait for an invitation.

Hopefully, I nag less than I fear I do.
It's scary, this love business.
He's lovely.

Lover of mine

The absolutely worst part
of the move
the frontstage situation
the unrivaled largest fear

is missing him.

It is by far worse than I expected it to be
- which mainly reveals my talent for self-desception.
After all, I dreaded the possible move to Liverpool because it would prevent me from possibly meeting him again. And that was before we reconnected. In person.

I need to adapt to
making moments last
longer.
Remembered body heat now lasts more or less
untill Wednesday.
Then fades, and leaves me needy and sad.

I need to be surer
that nothing has happened [in our minds]
since that last embrace
(at the railway station, Monday morning),
that a body in motion will continue in the same direction
unless forces act on it.

Be more secure in the remembered acts,
prioreties,
the tenderness, the care, the passion.

I have a need for plans.
Control, and long-term dates ahead.
I need to quelch those needs. It always ends up fine and sometimes better.

I miss him, that lover of mine.
Alas, I miss him when I leave his bed to find the shower.
'Cause nothing is enough.

And that is, maybe, why the whole thing started.

Frontstage

I'm frontstage again.
I got a new job in a new town and moved away from beloved Gothenburg.
The colleagues are really nice.
And I have two new phone numbers to two new friends from my temporary lodgings where I stayed a total of 10 nights. Not too badly done.
The woman who lived in my new flat gave me tulips for a house warming gift.

All in all, not bad.
And the town is nice, really, it is.
And the work is interesting (what on earth are you doing blogging now).

But it's frontstage. All the time.
Which exhausts me.
And when I get home to the large flat with no furniture and too few lamps and an inflatable bed for a bed, I can't really keep the tears from coming.

Even though
there's nothing wrong with me
or any reason, truly, to feel sorry for me.

(I miss music).

Frontstage is, simply, straining.

"i want my old friends
i want my old face
i want my old mind
fuck this time and place"