From the notebook, written October 9th 2022
I drink beer with a view of the ocean and read ”Liv Strömquists astrologi”. A sarcastic graphic novel take on astrology.
I laugh out loud to the description of Aquarius: Know-it-all weirdo. Visionary, but mostly through telling other people how they should change the world. Socially awkward. Doesn’t want to go to parties, but then somehow ends up demanding everyone’s attention, standing on a table, shouting (SINGING).
I’m Aquarius. It’s spot on.
I read another book. I picked it up at the train station when I bought Liv Strömquist’s, a spur of the moment thing, ”Notes on grief” by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie.
I read it on the beach, with the still night-chilled sand running though my toes. I finish it with an iced espresso in the shade by the trees that line the main street of Paleochora. Crying.
It is about the death of her father. Her words are simple, it is brief, but there is something. I can’t stop the tears, and I don’t want to.
Things get intermingled. Time is not linear. Experiences are not unique. Adichie’s grief plays on mine. For my grandparents, who loved Paleochora. For my cousin, who died in June.
Sometimes, a book finds you in exactly the right place.
Katja Malmborg 