The story of my life

There is this story of my life
I´m not sure what part I´m playing in it,
but I know it´s registered on me,

like the salaries, the bills, the taxes,
the passport, the ID-card, and
all of those banalities with money.

There is this story of my life,
cinematic, coloristic, dreary,
badly written dialogues.
As if real life means
badly written dialogues
and nothing fancy.

Then of course there is poetry,
and the dramas, the conflicts.
I assure myself time and again
they don´t mean that much,
they´re just part of the odd
broidery.

Then there is brooding,
and anxiety, of which I do not
fame myself, but poets do.
The Inger Christensen anxiety
is beautiful and scary.
I go there when I need to see
what I have too little of,
and of what I have a lot.

There is this dream of ones life.
In solid things to do, they suddenly
become lit up, the vase in the window,
the plate with aubergine and cheese,
the chestnut tree, the dance,
in constant windflow with
the others, the many, the few,
the one and only.

The dream.
If the one and only really existed:
That would be you.
Your life. The garden.

Nostalgi - skotska öar

Idag blir det bara drömmerier här. Musik och gamla minnen från resor i Skottland.
Den här bilden är från Isle of May i Kungadömet Fife (låter som Tolkien varit där) -
och här har lunnefåglarna nyss landat för sin trevliga parningssäsong, hörde jag idag från
naturvårdaren på ön. Just på denna ö har jag inte varit, den är för övrigt bara nån dryg kilometer lång, men på många andra skotska öar har jag vandrat i timmar utan tid.
Detta blå hav, denna himmel. Let´s arise and go now, to the Island of the Free.

Eller som W.B Yeats skrev: The Lake of Innisfree

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee;
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.

(W. B. Yeats - 1865-1939)