Thursday, March 12, 2009
Stockh_____ March 2009
Freiheitliche ordnung
1:6 Let there be expanse between the waters
to separate water from water
1:8 And God called the expanse "sky".
to fill depressions in the earth's surface
2:2 and on the seventh day he rested
Today's Oxymoron:
mournful optimist
Engelbrekt's Freedom Song
I am reminded today of a translation I did in the early 80s for an international peace conference at the Stockholm Concert Hall of this psalm, which was sung in four part harmony by children of Adolf Fredrik's Music School. If anyone out there happens to have a recording, I'd be grateful.
Freedom is God's open hand
To be sought in every land
By one who knows to hold it
By one who knows to hold it.
God has given soul and mind
Better free than chains that bind
With freedom cometh honor
With freedom cometh honor
Se original text (1439) på svenska med musik av Alice Tegnér:
http://runeberg.org/display.pl?mode=facsimile&work=vitaband&page=0128
Freedom is God's open hand
To be sought in every land
By one who knows to hold it
By one who knows to hold it.
God has given soul and mind
Better free than chains that bind
With freedom cometh honor
With freedom cometh honor
Se original text (1439) på svenska med musik av Alice Tegnér:
http://runeberg.org/display.pl?mode=facsimile&work=vitaband&page=0128
Investigation on the bridge
The Investigating officer (IO) has been asked to interview Anna Modig (AM) and Inga Svanmärkt (IS), both artists-in-residence, on the scene of an alleged crime.
AM: Remember officer I am coming from different directions and so my perspective may be different.
IO: Well, could you please begin by telling me a little about that perspective. Where you were going, what you intended to do when you got to the bridge?
AM: I wasn't going anywhere, officer. That's just the point. I am becoming.
IS: She didn’t intend to do anything here, sir. She is just passing over. She's a commuter, sir. She crosses that bridge every day to get to her job.
AM: I’m following her; I have no intention, really, other than to keep an eye on her, focus on my work. Watch and see what she does.
IO: So why did you choose the western bridge?
AM: I don’t think of it that way sir. I mean that it is a western bridge. For me, it could just as well be an eastern bridge. Depends on where you come from I guess. No, I didn’t think of it as a western bridge, though we do live and work in the west.
IO: So you were not trying to flee from the east by taking the western bridge?
IS: No sir, she had no idea she could choose a different bridge, only that she has to get to work.
AM: The view can be dramatic from the middle of the bridge.
IO: Dramatic?
AM: Maybe that’s going too far, saying too much. I don’ want to exaggerate, but the view at sunrise and sunset can be dramatic, and I must admit there is something very special about a perspective that spans an ocean, from one continent to another.
IO: Excuse me, where did you say you live?
IS: She lives somewhere between Stockholm and San Francisco now.
AM: That’s mostly where I work too.
IO: Now that is very important information.
IO: Is there anything else that may have affected your choice of a bridge?
AM: Yes, as a matter of fact, I like the shape…Upside-down single suspension. I think it looks familiar, reminds me of my childhood. And it has both a foot and a bike path. No matter how you look at it, it is close on both ends to where I live and work today. Reliable for personal transfer.
IO: Excuse me, the shape, what were you about to say about the shape?
IS: Well, it’s like a full moon rising. And if you look at its reflection when the water is still, and fall for it, you can see the big dipper.
IO: Has it occurred to you that your intentions may have distorted your observations?
AM: Not mine so much, but Ingo’s perhaps. The rush hour commute can be exhausting.
IO: And so how do you think that her distortions may have affected the outcome of this investigation?
AM: Maybe I interpret the bridge to be a part of my golden cultural heritage, a right of passage. Maybe she thinks it is a gateway to the other side.
IO: Can you speak for yourself Inga?
IS: Maybe I jump too quickly to conclusions. I was just trying to get to work, maybe afraid of losing my job.
IO: And what did you think was at the other end?
AM: That’s what I'm still anxious to find out.
AM: Remember officer I am coming from different directions and so my perspective may be different.
IO: Well, could you please begin by telling me a little about that perspective. Where you were going, what you intended to do when you got to the bridge?
AM: I wasn't going anywhere, officer. That's just the point. I am becoming.
IS: She didn’t intend to do anything here, sir. She is just passing over. She's a commuter, sir. She crosses that bridge every day to get to her job.
AM: I’m following her; I have no intention, really, other than to keep an eye on her, focus on my work. Watch and see what she does.
IO: So why did you choose the western bridge?
AM: I don’t think of it that way sir. I mean that it is a western bridge. For me, it could just as well be an eastern bridge. Depends on where you come from I guess. No, I didn’t think of it as a western bridge, though we do live and work in the west.
IO: So you were not trying to flee from the east by taking the western bridge?
IS: No sir, she had no idea she could choose a different bridge, only that she has to get to work.
AM: The view can be dramatic from the middle of the bridge.
IO: Dramatic?
AM: Maybe that’s going too far, saying too much. I don’ want to exaggerate, but the view at sunrise and sunset can be dramatic, and I must admit there is something very special about a perspective that spans an ocean, from one continent to another.
IO: Excuse me, where did you say you live?
IS: She lives somewhere between Stockholm and San Francisco now.
AM: That’s mostly where I work too.
IO: Now that is very important information.
IO: Is there anything else that may have affected your choice of a bridge?
AM: Yes, as a matter of fact, I like the shape…Upside-down single suspension. I think it looks familiar, reminds me of my childhood. And it has both a foot and a bike path. No matter how you look at it, it is close on both ends to where I live and work today. Reliable for personal transfer.
IO: Excuse me, the shape, what were you about to say about the shape?
IS: Well, it’s like a full moon rising. And if you look at its reflection when the water is still, and fall for it, you can see the big dipper.
IO: Has it occurred to you that your intentions may have distorted your observations?
AM: Not mine so much, but Ingo’s perhaps. The rush hour commute can be exhausting.
IO: And so how do you think that her distortions may have affected the outcome of this investigation?
AM: Maybe I interpret the bridge to be a part of my golden cultural heritage, a right of passage. Maybe she thinks it is a gateway to the other side.
IO: Can you speak for yourself Inga?
IS: Maybe I jump too quickly to conclusions. I was just trying to get to work, maybe afraid of losing my job.
IO: And what did you think was at the other end?
AM: That’s what I'm still anxious to find out.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
International Women's Day
Last night I found myself reading my diary from a trip to Mexico in 1979. It was an unexpected page-turner. I was fascinated by the most intimate reflections of a young woman, traveling alone in a foreign country, at the tender age of 32 – her self-esteem, empathy, intellectual mobility, and vulnerability. I LOLed and WOPed over her portraits of many of the people whom she encountered, some of whom she “hung out" or traveled with during those months.
One of many constantly recurring themes in this diary is how this smart, independent, young and therefore attractive this woman - who was me too - chooses to deal with the discovery that she is being followed, sometimes harassed by men. The natures of the incidents vary, as does the way she handles each potentially precarious situation. Could it be me? So very alive and in touch with her inner, and in the spirit of International Women’s Day, I offer an excerpt from that handwritten diary:
Mexico City, August 10, 1979:
…when I finally calmed down after the bus ride back into the city, I went out to the Anthropological Museum in Chapultepec. I spent a lot of time in the bookstore, browsing and reading and then took a look at the sound and light orientation show, which gave a dramatic perspective on the museum. Afterwards I went and sat in the sun on the museum terrace. A young Mexican man approached me and we had a conversation about rituals, he even wanted to talk about drugs. He seemed naïve, though sincere. Mostly I was happy that he enabled me to speak again to young Mexican men, face their weaknesses, their vulnerability without feeling so vulnerable myself. Unfortunately, on the bus home to the Velasco’s I was forced to confront one more insipid type who couldn’t keep his hands to himself, and muster the courage to say: “¿No puede dejarle la mano a su mismo? [Can’t you keep your hands to yourself?] He looked vacuously awestruck. He got off at the next stop and the rest of the bus ride back was pleasant.
When I returned home I let off a little steam with Olivia and then went upstairs to wash off the filth of Mexico City streets. The shower helped a lot; felt like a new person. After a cup of coffee with Alberto, and a brief nap, I went back downtown to the Zona Rosa without any incidents. I planned to meet Angela for a concert later in the evening.
I arrived at the Toulouse L’Autrec [my favorite restaurant with its inexpensive and delicious tortilla soup, which I make to this day], just in time before the afternoon deluge, the inevitable torrential rainfall. I found a table in the courtyard, under the awnings where I could watch it pour cats and dogs, and even marbles and baseballs, huge bits of hail that bounced like ping pong balls off the awnings and terrace, forcing people who sat too close to the edge to move indoors or to some other cover. It was a short, merciless hailstorm that I found entertaining. I was one of the only people still outdoors.
After dinner, while sipping my coffee, a tiny hunch-backed woman came up to me with an enormous bouquet of pink roses, saying “Los caballeros en la mesa alli le han mandado.” I asked her which table and she pointed up to a table along the balcony railing of another restaurant facing onto the courtyard. I looked up and saw a table of handsome young men looking in my direction. I lifted my hand and nodded toward them to say thanks, and one of them nodded and waved back. I rubbed my nose in the fragrance of the flowers, and breathed deeply. When I left the restaurant no one was following me. I had enjoyed an elegant gesture.
I left for the concert, where the first piece was The Selection of Love of a poet: “Si me has amado, cariñito, te mando todas mis flores, y ante tu ventana resonorará la canción del un señor. “
…To be continued
One of many constantly recurring themes in this diary is how this smart, independent, young and therefore attractive this woman - who was me too - chooses to deal with the discovery that she is being followed, sometimes harassed by men. The natures of the incidents vary, as does the way she handles each potentially precarious situation. Could it be me? So very alive and in touch with her inner, and in the spirit of International Women’s Day, I offer an excerpt from that handwritten diary:
Mexico City, August 10, 1979:
…when I finally calmed down after the bus ride back into the city, I went out to the Anthropological Museum in Chapultepec. I spent a lot of time in the bookstore, browsing and reading and then took a look at the sound and light orientation show, which gave a dramatic perspective on the museum. Afterwards I went and sat in the sun on the museum terrace. A young Mexican man approached me and we had a conversation about rituals, he even wanted to talk about drugs. He seemed naïve, though sincere. Mostly I was happy that he enabled me to speak again to young Mexican men, face their weaknesses, their vulnerability without feeling so vulnerable myself. Unfortunately, on the bus home to the Velasco’s I was forced to confront one more insipid type who couldn’t keep his hands to himself, and muster the courage to say: “¿No puede dejarle la mano a su mismo? [Can’t you keep your hands to yourself?] He looked vacuously awestruck. He got off at the next stop and the rest of the bus ride back was pleasant.
When I returned home I let off a little steam with Olivia and then went upstairs to wash off the filth of Mexico City streets. The shower helped a lot; felt like a new person. After a cup of coffee with Alberto, and a brief nap, I went back downtown to the Zona Rosa without any incidents. I planned to meet Angela for a concert later in the evening.
I arrived at the Toulouse L’Autrec [my favorite restaurant with its inexpensive and delicious tortilla soup, which I make to this day], just in time before the afternoon deluge, the inevitable torrential rainfall. I found a table in the courtyard, under the awnings where I could watch it pour cats and dogs, and even marbles and baseballs, huge bits of hail that bounced like ping pong balls off the awnings and terrace, forcing people who sat too close to the edge to move indoors or to some other cover. It was a short, merciless hailstorm that I found entertaining. I was one of the only people still outdoors.
After dinner, while sipping my coffee, a tiny hunch-backed woman came up to me with an enormous bouquet of pink roses, saying “Los caballeros en la mesa alli le han mandado.” I asked her which table and she pointed up to a table along the balcony railing of another restaurant facing onto the courtyard. I looked up and saw a table of handsome young men looking in my direction. I lifted my hand and nodded toward them to say thanks, and one of them nodded and waved back. I rubbed my nose in the fragrance of the flowers, and breathed deeply. When I left the restaurant no one was following me. I had enjoyed an elegant gesture.
I left for the concert, where the first piece was The Selection of Love of a poet: “Si me has amado, cariñito, te mando todas mis flores, y ante tu ventana resonorará la canción del un señor. “
…To be continued
Friday, March 6, 2009
Time out for the multicultural human being?
Many people, even in a country like Sweden that has been quite homogeneous until fairly recently, live a multicultural life. We do so not because it is fashionable, not because it serves a worthy social cause, or to profile ourselves in the local media, but because it is an aspect of our identity, an integral part of who we are.
As one of the last to appear at an “all-employee, last-hired, first-fired, age before beautiful information meetings” in the spirit of the global financial crisis this week, I remarked facetiously to one of my colleagues who was already seated to my left: “I think I’ll plead age and take a seat here.” Expecting a welcoming smile, despite the tension in the air, I was shocked by the response: “So where do you think everyone else is supposed to sit, on the floor?”
Powerful feelings produce a void in thought, a time-out, where language and meaning can enter to effect a shift of consciousness that blurs the boundaries between self and other. I am in a twilight zone occupied by rituals, open wounds, islands, dreams awakening, solstices, beaches, immigrants, witches and brooms. As a writer, editor and translator, I am constantly investigating the many ways in which my cultural backgrounds affect my sense of self, what it means to live a multicultural identity, as well as other aspects of being human.
Perhaps I am preparing to consider what the future may hold once globalization becomes so extensive that individuals begin to shift their identities in-between cultures, to a seat where identity is less associated with specific ideologies, values or traditions, and more self-reflexive.
As one of the last to appear at an “all-employee, last-hired, first-fired, age before beautiful information meetings” in the spirit of the global financial crisis this week, I remarked facetiously to one of my colleagues who was already seated to my left: “I think I’ll plead age and take a seat here.” Expecting a welcoming smile, despite the tension in the air, I was shocked by the response: “So where do you think everyone else is supposed to sit, on the floor?”
Powerful feelings produce a void in thought, a time-out, where language and meaning can enter to effect a shift of consciousness that blurs the boundaries between self and other. I am in a twilight zone occupied by rituals, open wounds, islands, dreams awakening, solstices, beaches, immigrants, witches and brooms. As a writer, editor and translator, I am constantly investigating the many ways in which my cultural backgrounds affect my sense of self, what it means to live a multicultural identity, as well as other aspects of being human.
Perhaps I am preparing to consider what the future may hold once globalization becomes so extensive that individuals begin to shift their identities in-between cultures, to a seat where identity is less associated with specific ideologies, values or traditions, and more self-reflexive.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
On youth-in-asia?
Our Mago, Gammie, Gerdie, Gertrude Kreigh Ryan died in Menlo Park, California, in the early spring of 1977, just before her 91st birthday.
Official cause of death: drug poisoning, an ill-fated mixture of medicines, separately prescribed to treat what may have been symptoms of an undiagnosed pancreatic cancer. I am told that just prior to her death she pulled out the intravenous feeding line and the oxygen tubing and said: “If this is what’s necessary to keep me alive, then I’m not for it.”
That night I dreamt that Mago had called us all to her bedside. She sat up with her unwieldy grey mane sprawled over and above delicate deaf ears. And there was that huge, familiar horse- tooth smile, likewise the ever-present twinkling of eternity in her big black-brown eyes. She was holding audience for the first and last time in her life, in a hospital room. As she waved to us all to have a seat, I noticed her bony index finger pointing toward the Duralex glass on her bedside table. She would drink, but not yet.
First she wanted to thank us all for coming, emphasizing how humbled and happy she was that we all could be there. Then nothing she said could be a surprise any more. “My father time has come with his scythe and wants to take me home to his pig farm in Indiana. I’m gonna surprise him though, gonna put on my slippers now and shuffle off the diving board. When he comes you can tell him I’ve already jumped off the deep end, into the deep blue waters of the San Francisco Bay, that there’s no point in lookin after me, cause I'll be sunk like a rock to the bottom.”
She then picked up a little foil packet and sprinkled its content into her glass. I knew then that the water in her glass wasn’t as fresh and pure as it appeared. It seemed clear enough, but became saturated with cowbane as the flakes fell like snow on wet Stockholm streets at this time of year, I recognized the bulk medium, the tiny seed-coats that can absorb so much moisture. You had to swallow it fast before it solidified. I knew that Mago would therefore empty the glass immediately, in one fell swoop, and so I left the room alone.
I took a seat in the corridor of the hospital and waited. After a few minutes the doctor came out to inform me that you had passed.
-----
Apropå den svenska debatten om aktiv dödshjälp i livets slutskede, undrar jag varför Sverige inte uppmuntrar något som i USA kallas "Medical Power of Attorney" där en vuxen, klart medveten människa får uttrycka sin vilja om huruvida livsuppehållande åtgärder ska tillämpas i olika situationer medan hon är mentalt frisk. Beträffande livsuppehållande åtgärder i livets början, bör ingen enskild läkare behöva fatta ett sådant beslut eller agera ensamt, utan efter diskussion och gemensamt beslut med ytterligare en medicinsk kunnig samt minst en förälder tycker jag.
Official cause of death: drug poisoning, an ill-fated mixture of medicines, separately prescribed to treat what may have been symptoms of an undiagnosed pancreatic cancer. I am told that just prior to her death she pulled out the intravenous feeding line and the oxygen tubing and said: “If this is what’s necessary to keep me alive, then I’m not for it.”
That night I dreamt that Mago had called us all to her bedside. She sat up with her unwieldy grey mane sprawled over and above delicate deaf ears. And there was that huge, familiar horse- tooth smile, likewise the ever-present twinkling of eternity in her big black-brown eyes. She was holding audience for the first and last time in her life, in a hospital room. As she waved to us all to have a seat, I noticed her bony index finger pointing toward the Duralex glass on her bedside table. She would drink, but not yet.
First she wanted to thank us all for coming, emphasizing how humbled and happy she was that we all could be there. Then nothing she said could be a surprise any more. “My father time has come with his scythe and wants to take me home to his pig farm in Indiana. I’m gonna surprise him though, gonna put on my slippers now and shuffle off the diving board. When he comes you can tell him I’ve already jumped off the deep end, into the deep blue waters of the San Francisco Bay, that there’s no point in lookin after me, cause I'll be sunk like a rock to the bottom.”
She then picked up a little foil packet and sprinkled its content into her glass. I knew then that the water in her glass wasn’t as fresh and pure as it appeared. It seemed clear enough, but became saturated with cowbane as the flakes fell like snow on wet Stockholm streets at this time of year, I recognized the bulk medium, the tiny seed-coats that can absorb so much moisture. You had to swallow it fast before it solidified. I knew that Mago would therefore empty the glass immediately, in one fell swoop, and so I left the room alone.
I took a seat in the corridor of the hospital and waited. After a few minutes the doctor came out to inform me that you had passed.
-----
Apropå den svenska debatten om aktiv dödshjälp i livets slutskede, undrar jag varför Sverige inte uppmuntrar något som i USA kallas "Medical Power of Attorney" där en vuxen, klart medveten människa får uttrycka sin vilja om huruvida livsuppehållande åtgärder ska tillämpas i olika situationer medan hon är mentalt frisk. Beträffande livsuppehållande åtgärder i livets början, bör ingen enskild läkare behöva fatta ett sådant beslut eller agera ensamt, utan efter diskussion och gemensamt beslut med ytterligare en medicinsk kunnig samt minst en förälder tycker jag.
On a magic carpet
Dear Mago,
I remember exactly where I was and what I was doing the moment I learned of your death. I was in the basement of an apartment building on St. Eriksgatan in Stockholm, helping a friend to move furniture into her new storage space. I had slipped an unopened letter from my sister into my pocket earlier that day, awaiting a moment when I could reflect on its content. A letter from my sister was rare, always well-written and to be cherished, at the right moment.
Alone for a moment, resting on a rolled rug, I recalled the letter. I pulled it out of my pocket, held it up to the light for a second, and decided that the moment had come. I hoped to have just enough time, to rip open the envelope and read:
Dear Sue Anne,
I just wanted to let you know that Mago passed a couple of weeks ago…”
I managed to read the entire letter, to learn about your funeral, who was there, some of the many memories of you that had been shared there, just before the automatic timer extinguished the basement lights.
When my friends returned some minutes later, they found me in the dark, sitting on that rug roll, devastated, feeling deprived of my own history. They have probably forgotten the incident - I was there to help them move - but I haven't. Tonight I plan to unroll that magic carpet.
… to be continued in the morning when my dream is refreshed.
I remember exactly where I was and what I was doing the moment I learned of your death. I was in the basement of an apartment building on St. Eriksgatan in Stockholm, helping a friend to move furniture into her new storage space. I had slipped an unopened letter from my sister into my pocket earlier that day, awaiting a moment when I could reflect on its content. A letter from my sister was rare, always well-written and to be cherished, at the right moment.
Alone for a moment, resting on a rolled rug, I recalled the letter. I pulled it out of my pocket, held it up to the light for a second, and decided that the moment had come. I hoped to have just enough time, to rip open the envelope and read:
Dear Sue Anne,
I just wanted to let you know that Mago passed a couple of weeks ago…”
I managed to read the entire letter, to learn about your funeral, who was there, some of the many memories of you that had been shared there, just before the automatic timer extinguished the basement lights.
When my friends returned some minutes later, they found me in the dark, sitting on that rug roll, devastated, feeling deprived of my own history. They have probably forgotten the incident - I was there to help them move - but I haven't. Tonight I plan to unroll that magic carpet.
… to be continued in the morning when my dream is refreshed.
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