I am a crybaby

Nästan en månad sedan jag skrev sist. Inte för att det inte har hänt saker, snarare tvärtom. Idag är jag dock en crybaby. Min familj åkte hem igår, vilket får mig att känna mig lite mindre. Ju längre bort jag bor och – kanske ännu mer – ju äldre jag blir, desto viktigare är min familj. När jag var tjugoett och flyttade hemifrån på riktigt var det inte alls samma sak. Då var det skönt, men nu. Nu kryper jag ihop till en liten boll och gömmer mig under täcket.

Vi hade i vilket fall som helst en riktigt, riktigt bra helg. Promenerade runt i regnet, hängde på rooftops, åt mat, skrattade, levde livet. Allt som en gör i världens bästa stad.

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De kom hit tidigt på fredag, före lunch. Vi tog en promenad genom Victoria Park, hamnade på Netil360, kanske en av de bästa rooftops i London. Väldigt East. Vi sippade på en öl och lyssnade på regnet. Pratade om framtiden, om svårigheter med det här jävla landet. Om vad som är bra, och vad som är dåligt. Sen dansade vi ned för alla trapporna och ut i regnet igen för lunch.

På kvällen åkte vi ända vägen in till centrala London för middag och teater. Jag hade bokat bord på Dishoom, en indisk resturang som är mer än en curry shop. Ganska fint faktiskt, och bra mat för att vara indiskt, fräscht och utan trasiga kycklingar dränkta i sås. Jag hade en gräddgrej till dessert och kunde knappt gå efteråt. Mycket gott! Sedan var det dags för teater, The Mousetrap. Det är en Agatha Christie mordhistoria. Lite som att vara med i Cluedo. Mycket flott.

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Driving forces

Can I have a Peroni, please?

I sit in this creative space, a café that turns into a bar in the evenings (like all creative spaces do), and I just want to not think of all the stuff. The important grown-up stuff. If we only could be young forever, roam the streets and forget about tomorrows and the days after that. I scroll through my phone, I’ve reached out to all of them. They are all sick, on vacation, at work, at this or that or just home. And peoples life just goes on and on, I can’t believe how time scares me, how we never pause, how most of us are living in tomorrow – where it happens, where life starts.

Let’s just reinvent ourselves. Let’s live life. Let’s treat every day as a bonus. We could have died. It is an reality.

After having all these thougths on the five step walk from the bar I sit down at my laptop, the light is now more red than yellow – perks of being a bar, you can have red lights – and write this.

As I am sipping on my cold beer, overhearing two Swedish girls chitchatting and telling secrets I can’t get this thought out of my head. ‘We can die tomorrow, life can end’. Let me say that again, life can end tomorrow. Blackness, nothingness, end. This is one of the strongest driving forces in my life.

And because this is England, they have a minimun card charge. I go up, head over to the bar and order another one, so I can pay for my first one.

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Mischief & trubbel

Veronica Maggio har släppt en ny låt, är svag för textraderna – Jag är född med trubbel i mitt blod, gör sånt jag inte borde. 

Jag älskar berättelser, historier och anekdoter. Hur de får liv och mening, hur de startar med trubbel och sånt du kanske aldrig borde göra men avslutas med ett minne. Hur du berättar, och berättar om igen, adderar detaljer och subtraherar dimma. Hur du snart har en fängslande sanning. Jag såg en film igår där de sa att artister berättar lögner för att säga sanningen. Tycker det var fint. Betydelsefullt. Jag har berättelser från många av världens hörn, från mörka fester och ljusa nätter. Från missöden och från succéer.

 

Veronica Maggio – a Swedish artist – realsed a new song yesterday, I’m weak for the lyrics – I am born with mischief in my blood, I do what I shouldn’t. 

I love stories and anecdotes. How the spring to life and becomes important, how they start with mischief and the things you shouldn’t do but ends with a memory. How you tell, and retell again ang again. Add details and subtracts haze. How you have a captivation truth. I watched a movie last night where the said ‘artists tells lies to tell the truth’. I like that, it’s meaningful. I’ve stories from many of the corner of this world, from dark parties and bright nights. From failure and success.

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The taste of a great week

I wake up early these days, before my alarm sets off. It’s the sun warming my face, finding its way through my single glassed windows, stroking my cheek. It’s Monday morning, my first thought is that I’ve slept through my alarm, hit snooze in my sleep and the time is more midday than morning. It’s not. She’s not even seven.

I had a great weekend. And a great week. A great one. There was nice dinners, comedy nights, late night uber drives home and to other parties. Lots of great friends. You know, all the things one want out of life. I met up with Annie on Friday, we grabbed a sandwich dinner and headed to Out of Office for some dancing. It’s a world where everything feels a bit more shiny. A good world. Afterwards I a took an uber to Shoreditch for another dance floor and more friends. And new friends. Long night. Waking up on Saturday to House of Cards, which followed me through the rest of the weekend. That and gaming. On Sunday night, me and Seb helped Isabelle and Linnea with their move. We had indian take outs and some wine. As one do.

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Now, it’s Monday.

Och jag har räknat på hur mycket pengar jag har har spenderat. Kanske jag bara ska slicka mina sår, vända hem och inse att det inte är hållbart. Krossa drömmen. Vad är värt, vad är pengar? Så många frågor, så lite svar. Och vad ska jag göra med de pengar jag har? Ska jag tänka på framtiden, eller ska jag tänka på det som är här och nu? Något som är säkert – jag behöver spendera mindre pengar. Hittills idag: £1,49. Det är betydligt bättre än tidigare.

En helt annan sak, det var ganska trevligt att skriva på svenska Kanske att jag ska börja göra det.

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Dinner and blurry pics

Lucky for me, life’s not only Mondays. There’s Fridays too. And last Friday I met up Annie for burgers. Restaurant dinners are my best thing. Eat food that someone else has prepared for you and no plates to wash up. Is it possible to be better than that? I met her at Old Street station, which was mental. They had to close the station at times because the platforms were full. so people piled up outside. When I get rich I’ll uber everywhere (that’s my second best thing, a private driver). We walked the short distance to Honest Burgers, sat down, had a beer, burger and shared sweet potato crisps which were divine. More things should definitely taste as sweet potatoes. When full and satisfied (is that just a Swedish expression?) we jumped on a bus to The Fox and met up almost all of my best friends.

Annie was there

Annie was there

And Leo was there

And so was Leo

That feeling, when you say hi to half the pub and are greeted with the biggest smile and a hug (perhaps that is my best-best thing). We sat down, had beers, chit-chatted about dit and dat. About forgotten weekend hikes and the discover of being in love-moment.

We also doodled.

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And then we bought some beers, walked over to London Fields and a b-day party that lasted a bit too long I realised waking up Saturday morning. As show the rest of my photos, they are incredible blurry.

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Mondays will be…

Mondays will be Mondays. It is known (now). It really doesn’t matter where in the world you are, your everyday life has Mondays. They recurs once every week and there’s nothing you can do about it. Today is a Monday. Not a blue or dark one, a sunny one. But, still a Monday. I feel a bit sick, or perhaps I’m just cold. Indoor coldness is the worst.

London is weirder than ever. Sometimes, mostly on Mondays, I miss my stable life in Stockholm. I don’t miss the snow and I love having all my friends here. But just the small things, having lunch with colleagues, going to the gym, all the little things a stable everyday life is. I do say stable, I could have said ordinary, but I don’t think my life ever was ordinary.

I moved yesterday. To an old victorian house with creaking wooden floor planks, high ceiling and white walls. Five minutes to Viccy park and two to my best friend. No isolation and single glass. My flatmates are interesting. New, very different from my usual squad of swedes. Time will tell if it’s a good thing, or not.

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Bold

Bold. B O L D. I like that word, it tastes good in your mouth. It feels good in your stomach. Bold. Today I was called bold, a daredevil even. That felt really good. We need to be bold to conquer the world. We need to dare to see beyond the horizon.

I quit my job. I sold my flat. I bought a one way ticket.

And it’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever done. I question my decision almost every day. But I do not question my boldness. I believe most people have a hard time understanding how challenging it can be, how challenging it is. To tear up ones roots, to head out into the unknown. It is a bold thing to do. It is not a very common thing to do. And yet, people do it every day.

My life is way better today than it was Monday. I’ve a room in a beautiful victorian house, massive dark wooden floor planks, white walls, high ceiling, five minutes to Victoria Park, two minutes to my best friend. For £750 – double of what I payed for my entire 45 square meter flat in Stockholm. I need to have an income, or my boldness will be in vain.

I do hope we can see boldness in more people. In those fleeing the Syrian war. In those standing up for their sexuality. In those standing up for humanity, those fighting for disabled people, poor people, for equality, for better condition at their work place. London is an amazing city, it has so much to offer and so much to experience. So much boldness, so many daredevils, so much diversity. But Britain as a nation, as a people? I can’t in my wildest of imaginations understand what they are afraid of. I’m paying £750 a month for a room, how can they even argue that anyone would come here for the benefits (which, if you are unemployed is £73 a week, that won’t find you roof over your head, not even a shared room). People come here for the possibilities, the opportunities, because they are bold. Not because of benefits. Please, be bold and accept love, leave your hate and pettiness because it does not belong in a great nation.

On a side note, I may read too many Facebook comments on news articles. People have terrible opinions. 

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Struggle

I’ve been staring on this white page for 30 minutes now, unable to put my fingers to the keyboard. And when I do write anything, I rewrite it four times.

One of those mornings you really don’t want to remember. Waking up to the news of your new room is going to someone else. So once again you’re homeless. Great. I’m so tired of people who behave like shit. Break promises or start wars. Actually, I’m very tired if this world and the disgrace we are as humans. There’s so little room for people who are good and do good things. No, we just bomb some countries, close our borders to children in need, sell out our cities so no normal people can’t afford housing anymore. We are a corrupt world in the hands of big corporation who only cares about money. And it’s a fucking tragedy and disaster.

I did leave everything, and I made it really hard for me to go back too. And now, when people are terrible, I really wish I hadn’t made it so hard for me.

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Short story: My safe haven

We have all different point of views and thoughts of what suits us. Everything is not for everyone. This is a short story just about that. 

While I was walking up the street in Fitzrovia the wind was catching my Burberry trenchcoat, giving it a life of its own. The houses, with its well polished entrances, all looked both intimidating and intriguing. I call my style black and expensive but I’m not a posh person. I love cheap beer, weird underground parties and my favourite paraphernalia is a pair of kaleidoscopic glasses I bought online from Australia. I like weird – not slick. I do not belong on the streets of the rich and glamorous. Yet, here I am, in one of the most extravagant areas of London, heading towards an interview with a fashion brand a million girls would kill for.

Ringing the door bell, ring, ring, ring. Answer ‘Hello, what’s your errand?’ ‘I’ve a meeting with Executive X’ ‘Please come in’. I sit down on a pink chair in the hall next to blooming lilies. The house is old and I imagine the parties the Downtown Abbey people held here a hundred years ago. The only sounds are tall girls in high heels running up and down the stairs and doors opening and closing. The office assistant is preparing a meeting, cleaning a room. Accurate and speed is for sure his middle names. Never rest may be his surname, I didn’t ask. He shows me into the meeting room, no coffee is offered, nor a glass of water.

It’s a heavy, flowery scent in the room, as if someone had sprayed it with my grandmamas long lost perfume. The heat is turned up to max and after five minutes I’m about to faint. I wait, wait, and wait. Thirteen minutes late the door opens. She is tall, slim and has impeccable style. A sleek skirt and some top accompanied by a grand necklace that steals all the attention. Her assistant is more modest, almost plain. We shake hands, sits down and she fires away.

‘What have you done before?’
‘Have you executed the task we sent you?’
‘Oh, you reinterpreted it…’

She silence and tightens her lips.

‘We asked for this, we don’t want anything else.’

I try to explain, there is more. One have to utilise the community. Not a single thing I say works. I stutter now, the words sticks in my throat. My shirt is coming to life, strangling me. I ask for a glass of water. The sweat will soon be visible on my back.

‘I think we’re done here, if you haven’t done what we asked there’s no reason to prolong this torture. May you please send it over, and we can decide on how to proceed.’

I leave the room, the white walls in the hall stares at me, they have moved closer during the short time I spent in the perfumed meeting room. I can’t get out fast enough, almost forgetting my trenchcoat at the coat check.

When outside, when I’m able to breathe again, when I’m able to think again, I realise these wasted minutes is not for me. I will never belong in these streets, I walk them off as fast as I can. Heading back to my neighbourhood. My graffiti covered brick walls, my beer smelling floors, my dirty old streets. My safe haven.

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Adapt or perish

The days swooshes by in no time and I can’t really keep track of them. Last week was inspiring and  intense, I had a marathon of interviews and conversations. One thing I’ve come to realise – again – people are very different. And that’s amazing. Some are total idiots, yeah they are. Some spray meeting rooms with heavy flowery perfume and turn up the heat so one almost faints. Some you talk to for ever but it really feels more like two minutes. Some don’t care, some you love instant. Some has so much energy you just want to run with them as fast and as long as possible. Some are really snobbish. Some are nerds and you love them for it. Some are very down to earth and some has everything to learn, or teach.

It’s very amazing to meet all these people, and I try to use it as comfort when the days are more moody and blue. Yes, I’ve those days too. It really is a challenge (and an adventure) to tear up ones roots, leave ones country and everything one knows. To learn about new politics, economics and ways of life, to adapt.

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