Author Archives: Katja

I’ve been thinking about time. And places left behind. People. I looked up plane tickets to San Francisco today, what if I went there in the summer. Back to the farm in Sonoma, to pick blueberries and spend my afternoons reading Russian classics by the pond. There was a young man, beautiful, he tried toContinue reading “gaze I (November 22)”

Working all day, discussing, drawing words and arrows on the whiteboard. After everyone else had left, sitting in the gradually darker and emptier center, spread out, crocheting, reading, rolling balls out of yarn. It is Friday night and I didn’t leave the SRC until a little to eight. At Gullmarsplan, that is, almost home, aContinue reading “inventing a boreal regime shift (November 22)”

I’ve started drinking coffee. This master’s is causing a personality shift in me. My stomach has been aching all day. A dull, persistent pain. Could there possibly be a correlation? The path I walk every morning, with the incredible, moss covered oak trees.

After aerobics class, I overheard two men talking bullshit in the shower (the walls between the changing rooms are very thin), I’ve heard them before, they never seem to tire. “This party in Norway that’s become part of the government, we call them racist, them and the Danes. But I think we’re the hypocrites. WeContinue reading “overheard nonsense (November 21)”

Today, November was grey, but also, SRC got a visit from the Swedish.crown princess. Dauphine. Whatever you want to call it. Heir to the Swedish throne. The supervisors for our group paper on regime shifts in the sub-arctic boreal forests were late to our session, because they got held up in a meeting with theContinue reading “distinguished guests (November 21)”

These last couple of weeks have been far too intense for me to even properly formulate words to write in my head. But I’ve done things, and I photographed some of them. So, I’ll just show you that instead. I went to an exhibition at the Swedish National Museum. They were showing paintings by CarlContinue reading “photographic glimpses”

The perfect Saturday morning: Waking up, eating leftover cupcakes for breakfast in bed and looking at the pictures of last nights escapades with my lovely lovely classmates, having a house guest (strictly speaking not mine, but Lina’s) who plays on the piano in the next room. I really really don’t want to start working onContinue reading “– – –”

The heroine in Spill meets the Beautiful Man, he is a friend if her brother’s and he lends her a pair of socks when she accidentally gets invited to watch silent movies with them, because the floors of his apartment are cold. There is a hole in one of them, she says she will take them homeContinue reading “enough”

Later, in Spill: It is sad to live, one acts capable and isn’t. On the other side of the violet clouds there isn’t anything. Why these thoughts? I have them too, sometimes. Most people seem to find me capable and well organized. And I like that, even though there is a little itch. Most ofContinue reading “capability”

I’m still reading Spill by Sigrid Combüchen, she writes (in my rather inadequate translation): To illustrate how hard it is to be completely true toward oneself (to look oneself in the mirror without piling together the features that belong to the person one knows and recognizes), I read through a couple of self-interviews on the web. WhyContinue reading “being loved”