days (and nights) by the sea

The old farm, on the northern side of the island. 

So I have been away. Not from the ethereal kiosk of course, I’ve been present all the time. But I ran out of ink and had to stop writing, which meant there was all the more time for drinking champagne (or hot coffee and hot tea). The kind of thing that happens, occasionally; we do rely on ancient technologies, being, as we are, located in the higher worlds. Not that modern technology doesn’t work there, it does. Even the elementals have their own smart-phones, which they use in distinctly dumb ways, just by the way. And the dear, old esotericist is quite fond of his Google Sky Map. Still trying to locate Vulcan.

Don’t think I’ve forgotten you or that the kiosk is abandoned; it isn’t. It never could be. We’re all there in spirit. Mr Dog is a bit sleepy, though — in fact, I think he fell asleep standing up today, much like a horse –, he can’t guard it, so he trusts you to help! Lest the evil spirits fly in. Yes, I know Michael is at the gate, but frankly, he was never that good at anything except random wing-flapping, seemingly lacking purpose. And eating cheese, which isn’t good for his capacity to fly. Perhaps it made him phlegmatic?

Mr Dog and I went out to the sea, and spent three days there. Three days and three nights. Mr Dog has been hunting rats. I’ve been lugging pretty but heavy rocks around. For good reason, one hopes, but can’t be sure. In any case, it will have been my karma.

There is a lot to be said for primitive life by the sea. It’s eminently peaceful. (Except when mr Dog spots a cat, or (in other words) a devilish intruder, on canine territory, that is the entire island and, in fact, the entire universe. Probably even Vulcan.)

There are a few things to be said against primitive life by the sea in Sweden in early may, however. One of them being — it’s sometimes cold. On the positive side of that — when it’s cold, you’re alone, the island is pretty much deserted. The archipelago is silent, very silent. Modern day boat people are not sturdy vikings. I’m not either, but I can take the cold. With some extra wool blankets.

It’s kind of nice, after all, to brush your teeth on the shore, by the sea, in complete silence, while watching the moon cast its light over the black surface of water. It’s kind of nice, even if your feet are frozen stiff.  It’s kind of nice washing your hands in ice-cold Baltic sea water, with its taste of salt and subtle scent of seaweed. Even if your hands turn into ice, it’s lovely. It’s nice to look out of the window by the bed and see the sea and the moon, and to open it — despite the chilly (but fresh) air — and hear the very soft sound of cautious waves working their way over the cold, almost still, water at night.

Isn’t that odd, by the way — how the water turns so still after sunset? Sometimes the fjärd is almost as calm as the water in my glass. Why is that? Cosmic forces? The work of elemental beings? It’s as though the sea turns tranquil, seeking its own kind of rest. Not always; some nights, it remains fairly active. But that night-time stillness — you never experience it during the day.

Anyway, you lie there, and listen to nature so silent you can hear every little noise, even a needle of a rugged pine tree falling to the ground, hitting the cold barren rocks. Oh, that’s exaggeration. But you know what I mean. I mean a silence that is magic. That makes you realize what silence can be, not just the absence of someone talking or the lack of a television bellowing out its usual nonsense. A silence that makes you think you can hear the stars whisper.

Sitting on the veranda, reading a good book (or playing with your smart-phone), random thoughts pop into your head. I imagine, one day, when I look up, I’ll see Rudi sitting on this big chunk of rock in the water, playing enchantingly on his violin, sea-weed adorning his hair and stuck between his toes.

Or maybe he’d be further away? There’s a very tiny islet a fifty or hundred meters away — perhaps he’d prefer that? I know this doesn’t make much sense to you, although apparently similar beings also exist in Sussex! You will have to read this (make sure you read about Scandinavia, it’s worth it!). This isn’t a lake, of course, or a stream. And Rudi is not a water spirit, he’s a dead esotericist, whose spirit — albeit not a water spirit — is ever so present.

But don’t you think he’ll sit there one day, the seductive old occultist?