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.

Those day dreams

I have a new pattern, at work. Not a very funny one. Somehow, my cash register always seem to diff. How is that possible? Some days, it's - nine crowns, the next it's 110 and the next it's 920. Thanks to my new pattern I now break out in sweat every time before it's time to count the register and I pray to God or Allah or Hobbes or Kant (forget our difficulties in the past, I didn't mean those things I said before) that it will match.
I shouldn't be dealing with this. I should be sitting in a sofa somewhere in Washington or NYC, next to Kofi Annan or Bai Ki Moon and discuss The UN:s next move. That's what I should do, when I'm not giving interviews where I talk about how hard it is to be a succesful young fredsmäklare in a krigsdrabbad world. And when Nobel's fredspris is handed out, unfortunately I cannot närvara, because I'm in the middle of solving that thing in Uzbekistan, or is it Tadjikistan or Kosovo or whatever (edit those details). But I'm giving my thank you speech from a big screen in Oslo's rådhus and even if it's a blurry picture everyone can see that I'm very tanned and it just happens to be on a good hair day.
Yep. That's what I should be doing, no doubt.

Lets kill em' all

I do it as good as I can.
Friday dinner with next door neighbour and she has no bike so she sits on the back of mine in storm and rain before we finally hit Debaser where some obscure band i supposed to be playing but before they hit the stage it's strange lounge music and soft porn movie projectors.
But I actually prefer that to band, pretentious depressing teenage pop and why does it all sound the same and after that they play more depressing teenage music that people are supposed to dance to and yes they do, some of the pretto-esteter with big hair and tartan skirts and leggings and ironic thick glasses do move, some weird sort of orangutang spasmic movement wich consists of legs wery close together and arms waving while eyes are closed. But then, everyone can dance as they like and who am I to judge and blah blah. But actually, I can judge, if I want, and my judgement is that the music sucks and the people are boring so within another half and hour I'm sitting on my bike again on the way home to my ghetto where I put on my music.
And that's the best I can.

Brother Mats

Man, I love Mats Nileskär at P3 Soul almost as much as I love my local bikeshop (where I, thanks to my crappy new bike am a regular these days). It's something so relaxing about this slow, dark-voiced skåning talking about soul and hiphop and interviewing rap stars. I want him to adopt me and teach me everything he knows.
With Mats in my ears, talking about hiphop I can live under the illusion that I'm as bad as any of the the bad boys he interviews, that I don't spend my days pissin' round with Hobbes and Kant and shopping at Citygross, that I'm actually living the hard knocked life.
But wait, aren't I? Living in Rosengård. Check. Seen a gang fight. Check (today and who cares they were about twelve years old). Being molested. Check (Yes, I do count stealing of bike as molesting. That thing belonged to ma' mama before it belonged to me and she had to work her whole life to earn money to pay for that bike. And it wasn't even försäkrad).
Hardcore shit like that makes me wanna write lyrics like this.