Strindberg and Helium – I could have visited August Strindberg’s house, but didn’t.
Art Spiegelman – Stockholm has a whole library dedicated to graphic novels.
The MODERNA MUSEET, their collection is a veritable Who’s-a-Who of modern/contemporary art, Warhol, Duchamp, Mattisse…it’s all there. And online, too. This doesn’t particularly help you if you do not particularly care about Who’s-a-Who ín modern/contemporary art, but that’s a tired debate that this tired person does not want to engage in right now.
Coming out from the museum, which I spent a good few hours in, some hours less regretable than others, I’m confronted with an expanse of water, and i’ts like a harbour, and just across the water you can see the bustlesomeness of Stockholm city centre, but here it’s unfathomably peaceful. Waking around a bit I dee in the distance an abandoned funfair rollercoaster. And it’s odd. literarally all you can hear are seagulls.
Source: Nils von Dardel
They make a really nice sandwich. I like it when they do the sub of the day, but whenever I go it seems to be meatball. I had a meatball sandwhich today, but it was better than how Subway does it, much less intense. It had this mayonaisse mixed with beetroot it was nice. Try that next time the grandkids come over. Is this interesting? Are you my Target Audience?
If not, please leave.
Some swedish person thought he knew me, but he coldn’t have because I’m English and he’s Swedish.
A crazy person came up to me sticking his hand out, and I went to shake his hand and he ran away screaming.
It is Good to learn about Other Cultures because they are inherantly better than your own. In the spirit of Learning, and wrenching open your mind with a crowbar, here is a Traditional Swedish Horse, or “Dalahäst”.
Hello, Swedish Horse.
A “Dala Horse” is a trusty friend and worker who can pull great loads of timber from the forests during the winter months, and in the summer can be of just as much use on the farm.
Strawberry Cider Forever
Source: Max the Rabbit
You can not get drunk in Sweden – most stuff is 3.5 vol. and all achohol is taxed to the hilt, which rules out any “Witnail Eriksen and I” highjinks. But if like me you prefer the juicier side of your liquid life the Rekordelig Strawberry Cider is Valhalla.
I keep seeing this poster everywhere, because I have a crush on Charlotte Gainsbourg.
Not really able-slash-not particularly arsed to go through everything we did today. Saw a lot of beautiful old, brightly coloured buildings, and statues of things one doesn’t often see statues of. Record shopping in Sweden is awesome. Top 40 hits and mesmerising obscurities are stocked side by side. It’s dizzying. Matt got “Pink Flamingoes” a DVD that is unavailable from wence we hail. Matt is perhaps…let’s say..a racoon. I don’t know why. Who’s The Hare?
“How-do” from Svensk or whatever.
It’s sunday. A lot of things were closed but that stopped me not, went to the old town, which as you might guess is an old town.
Very commercial. lots of plästic “kräp”, but…old, yet new. You can’t really see here the kind of minimalist thing they do: something of a swedish aesthetic tradition so they’re good at making “nothing” look effortless. and have been for years.
It wasn’t snowing, though.
SWEDISH CONTEMPORARY DESIGN
meh…it’s okay for robots. Shopping in Stockholm centre…bit like getting lost in Ikea.
Some of it’s cute but, y’know, stop trying. it’s pseudo-cute really. For cute, look to the japanese. Stylistic Conservativism maybe. this is why the japanese have pokemon while you have Pippi fecking Långstrump. Not cute. Plus, I don’t like things that inspire in me an unerving sexual response that i really shouldn’t really be experiencing. There’s a lot of stuff like that over here.
SOME NEW FAVOURITE THINGS:
BENGT ELDER – An artist and one person-industry, which means he’s daringly unromantic, perhaps even criminally unhip, but still I’ll mention him here. God knows this blog is taking a slide anyway.
Hooray for nice cakes and good quality bread.
To you, whom it may concern,
an uncommonly rubbish post I’m a afraid. I know you have come to expect a certain standard; alas, one cannot always have ones cat and stroke it. I am in Sweden, primarily because it was cheap, but also because I sensed a need to get my head out of those certain states of being that have been troubling me. Sweden seemed as good a place as any, I’ve never been and it is a curious thing. Of course, this is the first day and i have much to learn. Stockholm city is a veritable salad of aesthetic possibility, things, people poking out every which way.
Much of the underground smells piss, they’re not so very clean living after all. The elevators go sideways sometimes, even if you press up. Exhibit A: Upon dusting for vomit, I found a large deposit of it in an elevator, along with some discarded panties or something. This might very well have turned me on in some saddening way. but it didn’t.
Is this the tour guide you were expecting, cos i’m just picking out things i’ve noticed from the day’s whole pot-pourri. Vikings come from here, not seen any. Abba too, they’ve not done much in a while. Ingmar Bergman. pretentious art movies, you know the whole playing chess with death thing. You know it. they parodied it in bill and ted.
er…what else. TV isn’t that interesting here. I usually like to fick from channel to channel to just revel in not knowing what’s going on and not having to know. But here itäs all in english.not like in Hungary. in hungary they have a newsreder who stops to play the xylophone inbetween headlines. And france has crazy puppet shows. and circuses. they like their circuses.
er…just found the hostel and had an initial look around supermarkets and stuff in the imediate area. I was listening to someones conversation on the airport bus, apparantly Wisconsin has some nice cheeses, and when this woman was a kid she used to like these cakes that were like hot dogs but smaller.
Books i’ve seen people reading in feparture lounges, buses; (in order)
There are a lot of trees in Sweden, and rocks. “I’m a lumberjack and I’m okay”; and if you say nothing else about it, you must admit its quite cute. they’ve got interiour design down to an art, whether its an art you like or not hardly matters. graphic design as well, in this feild “the cute” is making some militant headway. even some official guys y’know they can’t resist putting a baby tortoise logo on them.
I shall be writing some poems about travelling. in fact i’ve already writted some but ironically enough, they’re at home.
My counterculture liked to “drop” and go to the airport and look at the pretty blue lights and feel the rush of the airplanes when they landed…once a friend and I sneaked on to a plane empty for cleaning and we ran amuck only to be politely but firmly escorted off…”
I’m not condoning you drop anything, least of all your sanity, besides I’m a strictly old skool opium den kinda guy. “make love to me, Watson”. However, yeah one can understand why those hippies did that. Airports, hallucigens, makes sense. with all that minimalism around. it’s like painting.
Anyway seeya. does anyone know what thankyou is in swedish? i wanna be a gentlemen.
UPDATE: Thankyou in Swedish, rather wondefully is Tak please ignore the following comment-box ingnorance.
Once there was a little girl
dressed in tatters
who had only one idea
in the depth of her despair
an idea of dying
in the Black Forest.
That’s all for tonight.
Researchers are currently developing an intellegent, driverless car. It is a pity that the age of the automobile is all but burnt out, and that, on a train, one can achieve the kind of weightless sensation that comes with not having to drive the thing.
If my hypothesis is correct, and I was in fact once a tree, I pass them with great sadness as they blur into impossibly, and the window that separates my human body and their leafy embrace becomes all too real, and prevents me from touching them with my eyes.
The seat that I am sitting on is not the most comfortable, yet I always feel more innocent on a train. Mother never had a car, and we would always go by train to uneventful little hamlets, on day-trips. I would always be bored to tears. At times it got so unbearable that my mother would strike me, and I would be grateful for this, since it made for at least some excitement, and afterwards my mother would feel guilty and buy me cake.
A woman enters the compartment and starts to bother me with her annoying voice and face. I heard the voice before I saw the face, which is never a good sign.
I remarked, (she remarked first but I wasn’t listening, I’ll be damned if she’s gonna have the first “remark“)
“I say, have I seen you before?”
(It’s healthy to confront trauma.)
“No, I don’t think so…”
“Perhaps at Mrs. Hortence’s annual Shindigger’s Ball?”
“Don’t threat, dear, you didn’t miss much….no, I’m sure I’ve seen you?”
At this point she was looking embarrassed and a little unnerved.
“Tell me, have you appeared in any dreams lately”
“I really wouldn’t know”
“I mean, specifically my dreams”
(It’s all about your dreams, isn’t it?)
“Because there is this certain somebody, a woman, or at least a man with long hair – you can never tell in dreams these days…she was much like your ample self, and is…was…to all intents and purposes, you.”
“Did she sound like me?”
“No, incidentally, she sounded like my father. That is besides the point. Then again, you don’t sound unlike my father… ”
“Thank you…when are you getting off?”
“Oh whenever…are there any uneventful little hamlets near here? I wish to offend some narrow-minded locals. What about Adlestrop? Is Adlestrop nice?”
“nah, it’s a shit hole.”
“So anyway, I’ve had this dream every night for the past eight years.”
“Every third night”
“I stand corrected…And you’re quite sure you’re not you? In my dream I mean?”
“I’m not me in your dream?”
“Yes…I mean no. I mean yes you are. You mean you’re not?”
“Pretty sure. So, are you in love withthis person?”
“love? I’m not at all sure what love is, in dreams at least. No, I find her a bore, really quite tiresome”
“I mean, how can I love someone who makes me tired?”
“My husband and I used to go on adventure holidays…”
“Until you divorced or he died?”
“meh, whichever. This my stop.”
There were trees all around and my reflection was crudely superimposed upon them.
“I love you, by the way.”
I was quite tired, though.
NOTE; When one is perusing the buffet menu, the train may make a sound like so…
and the train’s horn, like so:
Do not be alarmed.
“It’s awfully easy to lie when you know that you’re trusted implicitly. So very easy, and so very degrading.” – Laura Jesson, Brief Encounter.
To read only children’s books, treasure
Only childish thoughts, throw
Grown-up things away
And rise from deep sorrows.
I’m tired to death of life,
I accept nothing it can give me,
But I love my poor earth
Because it’s the only one I’ve seen.
In a far-off garden I swung
On a simple wooden swing,
And I remember dark tall firs
In a hazy fever.
The Hare can go from room to room without so much as glancing at a door-handle. Door-handles are how the flu virus is spread, and the Hare hasn’t suffered from it once.
There is a window to a room much like a shopfront, and the shop sells teapots and deer-heads. The teapots have holes in and the deer-heads are annoying. People go by, mostly minding their own petty business; it is raining, and they all look worrisome and worn, like it’s acid rain, and they’re all carrying solemn-looking statues of themselves.
The shopkeeper is constantly adding his own money to the till, so that when the owner Mr. Samuel Glazer – minus his recently deceased son – returns he won’t be as furious as usual. The shopkeeper has been entrusted with supervising the Glazer’s 7-year old daughter, Elizabeth. As Easter is approaching, she is painting eggs. The other children are peeling potatoes. The supply of eggs is constant.
The Hare is growing tired of the smell of the room, and all those broken, messy eggshells, and the proud, reluctant sobbing of the potato-peeling children.
For all his talk of tardiness, Mr. Glazer is half-an-hour late already. His precious pipsqueak of a daughter has not yet managed to paint one egg without breaking it, and she insists that it is the stench of the other children that is distracting her.
Thomas cuts his finger on the knife, and sheds a tear.
The shopkeeper looks coldly at a Elizabeth, with a stare she refuses to acknowledge.
To his dismay and bewilderment, the Hare is unable to leave through these walls. He can only watch the pungent room as events unravel like a disease.
Evening, my bright, young (?) candy-apples.
Just a few things to sweep your way regarding housekeeping issues. I want to draw further attention, away from the troublesome goat in the corner, to a feature of this site which is really quite something indeed, and that something, happily, is not a goat.
Warne’s Standard Extra-General Miscellanydefines a “web-log” as a highly interactive precision tool; a roundish instrument fashioned in gold, which large groups of people can simultaneously use to defeat any fast-approaching Irishmen.
The moral of the story is this:
YOU CAN SUBMIT WORK(s) FOR INCLUSION ON THIS SITE, AND HENCE ACHIEVE PASSING NOTORIETY, BY EMAILING SAID WORKS TO:
PETERANDTHEHARE [AT] LYCOS.CO.UK
Any style accepted, some more begrudgingly than others but, hey, you don’t know until you swing a cat.
This most blank of canvases should excite you. If not, you’re a corpse, and I don’t publish corpses, nomatter how “At Risk of Exclusion” they are. Any subject, any tone, funny is good; we will give priority, without a pinchof shame, to anyone called Peter, or any writer/artist/musician/whatever who regards hares, rabbits, cats or owls (perhaps turtles, or other creatures) as one of their key Thematic Concerns. Any “Slave”…sorry…”contributor” will of course earn a guest writers credit, and the recognition you so desperately want yet don’t really need. Remember this, gold can turn to shit.
any medium, style, Hares or other creatures preffered…or any such lunacy. That is all, my dears.
We reserve the right to giggle and point, or turn you out into the eternal winter of your disappointment. We are quite nice most of the time, though. Everybody gets a pencil [note; this is a lie.]
Now, to redeem this post from the status of “filler” (there have been, i fear, a few such posts lately)… let’s watch a movie. First a little fact; films are better than Opera, Chess, and Polo combined; if you take it upon yourself to do all that at once, you will just become confused.
This clip is a tribute to the film Princess Mononoke (1997, Dir. Hayao Miyazaki) which Peter re-edited and put music many ‘yons ago on crappy technology. Talk about killing a god.