Midsummer nights-dream in Malmö

I put them flowers in my hair, packed the salad and the wine and biked to to the party. The kitchen was crowded and the food was a lot. Girls with wavy dresses moved around and the big balcony stayed out of the rain and even got some sunshine. Färskpotatis en masse, räkor, avokado, meatballs and all the other delicious stuff was eaten, except for Matildas läskiga kamben, brought from work. Elin´s homemade snaps also went down in the company of Feta fransyskor and the other songs Kati had printed down.
We stayed out until the coldness became unbearable and moved inside. The guests beagan to drop off after a while and at 3 a.m there were only three persons still up and dancing.

And some Gothenburg in between

Sometimes I get these cravings. Or whatever you call it when you feel you simply have to get out. Out of this town, where you´ve worked, studied, socialised and drällt for a whole year (ok, with the occasional get aways, but still). The days when you want to rip someones head off simply for having skorrande rrr.
So I jumped on a train and went off to my hometown. So välbehövligt, so much what I´ve missed. The darling family, the sociopatic cat, the beautiful wonderful funny friends. So lucky to have all this, just three hours away.
Wine at Andreas´, preparty at Sofies´, Kommersen and brunch at Järntorget/ Vasa. It is bubbly and wonderful and good for heart and soul.
But then we drive out to see Granny at the hospital. It is the eyes this time. She is so happy to see us, and she is making so much effort to eat the medhavda jordgubbar with hands that shake and eyes that no longer see. I pretend to have something stuck in one eye while discreetely turning away. Granny promises to stay out of the hosital next time I visit and try not fall or make antyhing stupid. We leave her alone, in the sjukhussal and go back to Berggrensgatan. And I get on my train back to Malmö later on and return to city where the other wonderful smart and funny friends are and where life is completely different.

Late night at Gäddan/ tribute to the Breakfast club

I sneaked out from studenthuset Gripen at 21.45 carrying tequila, 6 lemons, some white wine, tonic water and ginger ale, a couple of blankets and two kuddar.
At 22.15 I reached Centralen where I locked the stuff in and biked to Lilla torg, where the rest of the group was waiting. We had some beer in the bar before moving to Centralen, where we took the stuff with us and moved towards Gäddan. The black water sparkled under the bridge and the familiar campus was dark but shiny in the moon light.
We went in at the same time as a tiredlooking but relieved student went out and proceeded to reka the område. There are about three övervakningskameror only on the first floor. As we moved up to the third and fifth we could see there were four exchange students still working in the computer rooms.
We discussed for a moment whether to wait wih music or not, but came to the conclusion that the exchange students could be there all night. So we put the music on and started mixing the drinks. At one point the lift stopped at out our floor and a confused student looked out. We offered him a drink but he politely rejected. After two tequila shots, one Fidel Castro and two Gin & Tonic, there was time for the Stols-rally.

Another year gone by.

And suddenly another year has passed by.
Parents calling and singing Las mañanitas in phone. After another day in the library with my beloved group (spending two hours debating a name for our paper, another hour doing the final last reading through, and four hours making the last changes), handing in The Falklands war and stepping out in the sun for pizza, wine and tiramisu. Raspbery- mojito at Deabaser with fina Matilda follows. Get home to find a book from dad in the brevinkast. Mig äger ingen. "En storartad kärleksförklaring till en pappa som älskade sin dotter över allt men ändå inte räckte till", it says on the back. Inside it an out-torn page from his old sketchbook for math-formulas with congratulations. My dad who still thinks of himself as an old-fashioned vänster-proggare would rather write congrats on toiletpatper than sink to level where he buys a glitzy birthday card. Out of pure principles. It still manages to produce a tear in my eye. "Många graulationer på födelsedan. Riktig present får du i Götet! kramar P."

I then proceed to walk around in circles.

Yes, that is actually what I did (Berndtsson, 2008: 31f). I'm officially going nuts (ibid). I woke up and started writing about the Falklands war. At 10.30 I went to the library to research the Falklands war. I went home at 19.30 and continued with the Falklands war. I ate. I continued with the Falklands war.
My professor says we're close to getting the grip of it when we start dedicating all brainfunctioning to the cause. Sleeping should be no exception (Kirkegaard, 2008: 86f).
I went downstairs to wash something. I continued with Falklands war.
I then proceeded to walk around in circles.

All work and no play

I'm not usually gnällig. I'ts such an ugly word. But these days, I allow myself to be. What good is the sun if you're sitting inside a library, studying about yet another conflict, or if you're supposed to be ledig but working instead, serving the ones who are lediga? I hate everyone who's not working. I hate the ones with normal 9-17 hours, who gets their weekends off. I hate everyone showing off their tan, cause all I have is a red nouse. I hate my parents who call me at 9.00 in the morning on a Saturday and say: "Ah, working? Ok, but we'll talk to you later. Not tonight cause we're going to the theater". I hate the fact that I'm never free. Is this the blossom of my youth? Is this what I will look back on and say: "Ah yes, those were the days, I remember them like yesterday. I ususally sat on the same spot in the library every day but then came weekends and I went to work. But every now and then, like one day every two or three weeks I got a day off so I could do my laundry and clean. Yes, those were the days".

Those days, when the ones wich are not study-days, are work- days, I take pleasure in the strangest things. I like the fact that I am sitting at Gäddan one monday until 23.45 and hand in my paper by midnight. I like getting out of school and everything is not illuminated but dark and I like biking over the bridge looking out over the sea on my way from campus. I like leaving school at that hour because it is my one chance to feel wild and crazy.

15 minutes Darfur

15 minutes. That is what we have to:
a. explain a conflict which has developed basically since the the end of colonisation
b. explain what has been done to solve the conflict.
c. explain what should be done to solve the conflict.
d. use the words context, discourse and conflict triangle as many times as possible.
I often get angry when I read the course literature. Not because the authors are boring and dry and all say the same things in different words and in as many words as possible (because they get payed per word), but because they are trying, so desperately to make Conflict analysis to something it's not: Sience.
Well, here's some news for y'all: it's not.
And it doesn't matter how many times you theorize about theories and use difficult, important words and mention Hobbes and Kant. Underneath it all, you are just a bold, boring, pointless academic freak who wears a sweaty old cashmere cardigan that smells old cheese. And the only thing that could legitimize your whole existence is to have the word sience put in somewhere in your working title. You are not particularly interested in solving any conflict. What you are interested in, is formulating another theory about a theory that needs to be theorized. And if the theory gets published somewhere important, maybe no one will notice you smell like an old cheese.