a sunken ship

The sea-level is extremely low now, and a sunken ship, which is believed to be from the 17th century, has resurfaced. It is quite amazing. It was last visible some time in the 1940s!

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130328cAnd speaking of old, forgotten things, we also found this book on our walk. We didn’t find the easter bunny, but we did find this book. Mr Dog insists it might include clues about the easter bunny, and is very angry with me for not wanting to read old german script. You wonder about the person who loses a book like this on a walk.

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den laserade svampen på stureplan

Den första Svampen, ritad av Holger Blom, invigdes 1937. 1988 revs denna ursprungssvamp, men året därpå byggdes en kopia. Nu ska det dock handla om den nuvarande Svampens färg.

Är det inte underbart roligt att känna till sådana där småsaker som nästan känns som hemligheter fast de inte är det minsta hemliga? Vem hade anat en koppling mellan Stureplanssvampen och Ytterjärna? Inte jag i alla fall. Vilket är märkligt — för se bara på Svampens innertak!

svampen

Foten är ganska sliten, men man kan ändå ana något av den gamla färgen i betongen. Men taket (i trä?) — taket är vackert blått, en skimrande blå, en pärlemorblå, som också påminner om havet och himlen (vissa blekblå dagar). Kanske sent på dagen eller tidigt om morgonen, när man kan ana en lila skiftning. (Jag vet inte. Jag tror inte att det är ens ett uns lila i den där blå färgen, men det är nästan, nästan som om det är det.)

Även om det är skamligt att säga, har det aldrig slagit mig att svampen är lasyrmålad. Jag brukar lägga märke till sådana här saker, eller i alla fall tror jag om mig själv att jag är en person som gör det. Jag anar sådana här saker lite här och där; jag brukar se detaljer. Ibland är det formen på ett fönster, ibland är det färgen, ibland något så enkelt, men ändå speciellt, som utformningen av ett dörrhandtag. Det är väl i och för sig så att lasyrmålning, inte ens lasyrmålning av betong, är särskilt ovanligt utanför den antropsofiska världen. Men att jag inte ens lagt märke till svampens tak, aldeles oavsett färgsättningens uppkomst och historia! Det är anmärkningsvärt. Kanske är det det här med att man tar vissa saker, platser, till och med monument, för givna; man ser dem inte riktigt.

Hur som helst, svampen är färgsatt av Fritz Fuchs, antroposofisk lasyrguru från Järna. (Den som vill kan läsa lite mer, kanske här eller här eller här.)

(Tusen tack till Johannes Ljungquist som berättade för mig om Svampen! Den kommer aldrig se riktigt likadan ut igen.)

saturday

Stockholm on a saturday before christmas.

Hare krishna, a cult which also, oddly, have their center in Järna — but on the other side of the railway. Järna is a small village. You can imagine, I’m sure. Anyway, hare krishna, unlike anthroposophists, try in a more overt manner to attract the attention of shoppers in the city; they try with ‘music’, odd clothes and a placard that says, well, predictably enough, ‘hare krishna’. As far as I could tell, the operation was largely unsuccessful.

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The ordinary shoppers were, however, as ghostlike as the chanting cult members.

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Some more pictures:

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21th december

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going to the local park as a child, I was intrigued by this scruffy old graveyard. Situated in a corner of a park, on the street where I lived, it was enclosed by an iron fence adorned with stars, and all the old, mossy grave stones bore inscriptions in a weird foreign language. It’s a jewish burial-place, used between 1787 and 1857. (An older picture.) I was intrigued; probably more intrigued than by the swings and the children’s toys in the park. But you don’t talk about graves, do you? You don’t mention the dead. The park was an interesting place. Not only the graveyard, but on one side a fire station, on an other the police (and the jail). On yet another side, the fourth, was the shelter — where you were supposed to go, when the war came. It was important to know, thought my grandfather and grandmother, to whom war was a reality. They taught me everything I needed to know, and most of it has never come to use. But that is the charm of quaint knowledge.

121221dNow to the underground train station close-by: well, I always used to think this thing dangling from the ceiling was the real corpse of a bat:

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121221eI don’t know why I thought so; it’s too big to be a bat. Even a child ought to know that. Having finally abandoned my embarrassing childhood hypothesis, I am now convinced these are the scorched wings of an archangel. Which one of them? I don’t know. Do you?

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(That’s some 1970s metro art.)

Ps. Today is the solstice. See my old posts! After all, it happens every year, and there’s only so much to say about it, even for a talkative soul like Rudi. To celebrate, there will be champagne in the kiosk, and the gnomes will sing. Unlike fairies and elves, they love the dark season. The predicted apocalypse seems to have failed to create the drama one might expect from any decent and major cataclysm, but if the elementals get drunk enough, I’m sure there will drama to satisfy any apocalyptic thrill-seeker. Everyone who’s not so inclined is welcome to help themself to a second (or third, or fourth, or…) serving of comforting ice-cream. Happy solstice!

cold, warmth (photos)

photos from today. There’s a walkway under Centralbron (‘central bridge’). It’s a highly unappealing place, it’s ugly and unfriendly, but I found the contrast between the ice and the impression of warmth, coming from the yellowish lights and the brown paving bricks, a little bit interesting.

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121207bYou spot, floating in the water, some remnants of ‘snow’ from the streets dumped in water. This method of getting rid of snow and ice is woefully ugly when the lake is covered by ice. Right now, much of it disapears, but not all.

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yesterday was a cold day, biting cold. We walked. Paws, fingers and toes ice cold and stiff.

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121203iMr Dog would like to have a word with you about that last picture. And as I am too tired (and too dumb, he adds), why not. He pontificates:

Humans. Something is not quite right in their heads, if you ask me. Now, there’s a perfectly fine lamp-post — appropriate for sending and receiving pee-mail, or perhaps for a few moments of meditation on wonderful and interesting scents — but what, I ask, what are the humans doing!? They don’t get it. The higher truths will forever elude them, unless they take up the study of canineosophy. And even then. They are not dogs; they are inferior beings on two legs. No tail. No nose. Hopeless. Gazing unintelligently into the void, they are — and sometimes with a bizarre gadget blocking what ought to their most precious asset, their noses.

walk

it was the first day with snow, but a rather gloomy afternoon nonetheless. It was damp, and darkness fell rapidly and early, as you can tell. Our walk didn’t last more than half an hour to fortyfive minutes. The snow was of the sloshy kind that makes furry dogs uncomfortably wet. (Here’s a mobile phone picture from earlier today, too.)

slussen

most of you probably don’t know about Slussen. (Melanie does. It is difficult to pronounce. Slussen.) It is a run down place in Stockholm, situated between the Baltic sea and lake Mälaren, between Old Town and Södermalm. Slussen has been the topic of public debate for Dog knows how long. Some people want to tear it down, others want to keep it at any cost. It has been neglected for decades, and that the construction still holds together is a small miracle. But it does. It’s not pretty, though. It’s rough. It’s unpleasant.

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Some years ago, you could — at least if you were fairly skinny and (preferably) not wearing your best clothes — squeeze under that torn, disjointed grid and get inside the derelict building it belongs to.

Unfortunately, the lock that previously didn’t work (as locks are intended, thus allowing you in) has now been mended; you can get under the grid but not much further. The building itself is perhaps the scariest abandoned building I’ve been in. It’s dreadful, to be honest. It’s not frightening only because of the dampness and the darkness, the windows boarded up and the heating turned off ages ago; it’s the feeling permeating the place, telling you the story of how it must have once been the place of chilling scenes. A feeling, I might add, that is substantiated by some fairly concrete evidence. There’s a fear that seems to linger on and a sense of utter isolation and abandonment has been absorbed into the now likewise abandoned walls. It’s not a place for the faint-hearted — but it was a terribly fascinating place to see from the inside. I guess that although — perhaps — I should count myself among the faint-hearted, my eagerness for discovery usually takes over. The night after, however, I found myself unable to sleep, cought up in a nightmare and mad fantasies, but awake.