Författare: xikano_2

Here in Sweden I have been put to a battery of mental hogwash unprecedented for me. Not only have I internalized angst as part of internal dish washing but also battle certain narratives that run through my ens. I tell you, you cannot underestimate the power of another culture. Though am still strong in my ens and basically still use my xicano ens as a daily means to fend off the encroaching milieu it is hard to ignore it.

Mental hygiene is what best can be called the series of thoughts I go through in order to just feel normal and well. What caught me completely off guard the past years was angst. I never suffered angst. But here the climate is fertile ground for it. There is no sun and I blame angst on lack of sun. Mind you I have no proof of it but since I am from Calido Forno their differences are quite palpable between the two places, Sweden and Califas proper. The amount of sadness that surrounds my environment is tectonic. I remember hearing an audio cassette by a Spanish writer from the better last years of the xx century last year. His name is Pedro Antonio de Alarcón. And the one short story that keeps rolling over my head is El Año en Spitzberg. In the short tale he recounts the adventures of a man held captive in the archipelago of Svalbard. He is sent there by the Russian authorities for committing a crime of passion. What most impacted me though was the process of solitude that slowly took over the man’s mental health. I felt every word as my very own.

But what gets me is the mental hogwash. I dwell on for days on minor stuff that just doesn’t make any sense at all. Regurgitation that takes a hold of a narrative on my head and it just takes for ever to realize that nothing is wrong and everything is ok. I don’t understand this part of the Swedish culture and even more so since I internalized this í¥ngst feature in me. But I can tell you one thing, its not making a home in me.

Boy, is age a bitch! Not only am I ailing and wailing both intrinsically and exteriorly but am depressed and I live on the countryside in Sweden. Top that off! Worst is that I managed to finally, after seven hundred years in Sweden, to see the irony in the word Sweden: Sw -eden, get it? An inverted one at that if anything. Oh, I know, am bitching, cut me some slack, its the cheapest therapy I can afford …. Sweden might just be that for a couple of years but after a while it’s a living hell! Jesus am I ever dour, rue and raunchy because my creativity venues are severely cut. I am stuck in the middle of a forest which just might do wonders for a stressed out city life for any other one, heck, it did it for me. But now I yearn back to the frey. I need life not this dead forest that surrounds me to be able to squeeze a story or two so that I can feel la vida loca running through my veins again. Will work for a little excitement, got any to spare?

But back to my aches. I swear it is no idea to get aches at this age. I have had all sorts of paranoia and hypochondriac hallucinations about the other or this disease, ailment and malady known to human kind and promptly found them to be near related to my little baby ache. Internet was loads of help in that department. I am a self confessed wuss. If men ever had babies, boy, I tell you. The fact of the matter is that I have faired well throughout the years besides the recent bout of minor depression I have had the past few years due to the solitude I have embraced. But heck I chose my own poison and now that I am well I am a stranger to this state of being. Well as in I breathe and wake up sufficiently sane to face another day in the Swedish highlands.

I recently had a friend come visit to me and he pointed out that if I was in Tijuana I would have a load of friends everywhere. He is right. By far what I miss the most in this self imposed exile is the social life I had. I know I can’t get it back the way it was before but I can assure it wouldn’t take many years before I regained some of it.

Though somehow I have come to my senses and decided that this solitude in the highlands has to stop somehow. I am going to try and get me a circle of friends no matter how huge the task at hand may seem. And believe you me, trying is going to be a tough cookie to crack because most relationships in this part of the world require one to be born here to be anywhere successful. Now you might think I exaggerate but you must remember that I am in the countryside, the boonies of you will, of Sweden.

Cross your fingers then ese!

It’s a hot summer day in Sweden. Am darn sure the neysayers are in lockstep now to denounce the end of days. Back in May we had a few lovely sunny, blue skies like these ones. The Jeremias were out in force in no time. The farmers this and the farmers that. The media decried the ozone hole enemy number 1. I am dead sure the Swedes are addicted to bad weather. They actually want grey skies and dull weather. I kid not. Either that or the overwhelming majority of Swedes are all farmers of sorts or another. I can’t wait to hear the wailing.

Protestants can’t be happy. They can’t handle it. They are taught to repress happiness. Happiness means ill bodings for some reason. We have a saying in México that functions like a threat: you’ll know what it will be like to love God in the land of the indians. And there is another one more panhispanic: little town huge inferno. It sort of it is like that right now. Like one student of mine complained once about our classroom activities: It’s too much fun.

Swedes in general have a hard time finding a middle ground for some reason. This in spite of the fact that Swedes take small pride in telling everyone that it is imposible to translate the word lagom which loosely translates to near perfection. Don’t ask me; it’s more of a feeling than a word.

Of course, being in the minority here I only get to watch by the sides all their nagging. I have my own middle ground. I nag about the Swedes. It’s my kick. Or there are my observations. Mind you these observations aren’t taken with a grain a salt. Swedes abhor absolutely when people point out their faults. They just can’t stand when someone tells them they are wrong. Don’t ever do that. Or heaven will fall from the sky.

Swedish people are by nature perfectionists. Yet for the same token they fail to learn from their mistakes. They do not want to know of their mistakes. They tend to repress them in some odd and weird way.They press the panic button everytime a whiff of the stuff hits the nostrills.

Nothing brings me more joy to my hearts delight then when I confuse people about my ethnicity. I just love it. I will give an example of said ventures of mine that tickles my belly silly. I recently came across a Spaniard and spoke only English with him. He asked me where I was from, México I said. Pronounced with that unmistakable ancient Arab glottal sound in the /x/. He even asked me if I spoke Spanish to which I proudly said straight out that not only was Spanish my mother tongue I also taught it as well at a local high school in the Swedish Highlands. He was dumbfounded. I know it sounds mean but this guy is highly educated with a doctorate’s degree.

Today I got to experience once more one of those moments, man am I ever delighted. It sort of boosts the ego somehow, mind you am otherwise terribly insecure of myself so when I met this American guy unbeknownst to me and him, he came and made my day. Before you knew it he was basically left scratching his head. We struck up a spontaneous conversation because he overheard me speaking English and after a while he asked where I was from. No easy daily chore I can assure you. Swedish people aren’t too fond of spontaneity. I noticed he had gotten comfortably secure because we both had the same cultural baggage and it went rather smoothly for the first 5 minutes or so until I said I was Mexican. His look was askance to put it mildly. Normally I reject when people put me in neat little boxes but am getting the better out of this game of language and identity of recently, mostly for my amusement.

Monolinguals and monocultural people live another life period. It’s all black and white so when they encounter people like me they are left on their own devices and they don’t like that. So this new secureness brings a small payback. Many of my insecurities can easily be traced back to the bullying I went through as a language aware person, that is, bilingual. I think many monolinguals have been themselves bullied except they gave up. I did not have the choice of giving up. What was there to give up? I was just bullied for being myself and I could not be accepted as I was. Monolinguals are encouraged to give up their acquired awareness. It becomes too painful for them to live the rejection or the bogey man before them.

***

I don’t understand how is it that people don’t get that we bilinguals, or some of us either way, cannot switch to another language as a means of communicating with a person with whom we have learned to communicate in only one language. Here in Sweden people are left in an aghast state of mind when I tell them that I don’t speak Swedish with my sambo. We have always spoken English and if we go over to speaking Swedish it would change a whole set of rules and it be like getting to know another whole new person. Am allergic to doing that anywheres in the world. I remember that I got teased as a young boy for just that. I happened during my first stint or rather sojourn in the USA, I was but a wee little lad and when I came back to Tijuana I refused to speak Spanish. I flatly refused to do so. I have no memory of the decision for that or when it happened. I wasn’t that precocious mind you. What I do remember is the laughter for having said that. Monolinguals don’t get it but they will get that language is identity. All monolinguals will defend a capa y espada their language but they can’t understand that bilinguals hence have two identities to deal with. Pero no, their monotheistic world refuses to comprehend it. We are ambivalent. We are ambiguous. Even Gloria Anzaldúa doesn’t do it and she is the creator of Borderlands! She doesn’t understand why chicanas are uncomfortable with each other.

The word forms me

La palabra me forma

labra

I saw it today -¨

There is all kinds of seeing

one of them is seeing when one reads

Una de esas es ver al leer

No se acostumbra ver al leer

pero eso es la palabra: ver: verbo.

Vi

Vi en sueco significa <em>nosotros; </em>we.

Vi.

Leer requiere ver. Aceptar que la narrativa de la mente es un estado en sí­; una evolución mental; una manta expuesta a la palabra y esta haciendo de las suyas con nuestra manta.

No sé cómo le hagan los que leen Braille

pero los videntes vemos letras y estas que están sujetas al latigo de la estructura rehusan ser sometidas al azote del tirano estructural; aparentan estructura en su fuzzy logic .

Y vi que es un desmadre ese. Waché que la palabra es bronca. Claché a la brava ese.

Una voz, una palabra, un vocablo me llevo a otro y terminé en ese remolino que es la historia.

Al ultimo ni supe who the fuck quién am I.

So I took a stance, en vano, i fí¶rgí¤ves, in vain.

Funny, I thought, pensé, cómo la palabra lográ formarme, be who quien soy. The I so elusive, the word that refuses to be possessed. The palabra is not God to be had but a silly old flirt – un viejo cuqueo que nadien ha logrado imprisioned.

La palabra traiciona, no es un Dio a poseer; de no ser así­ no tuviere tantos amantes dispuestos a sacrificar toda una vida por ella.

yeap.

Listening to You/Me I was prompted to republish an old poem I made of my impressions of Stockholm.

You/Me

Taking an aimless stroll
Through these tacit atmospheres
I gaze about aloof
Near throngs of people by

Slowly making headway
An halcyon wanders into view
A solace embraces my senses
That wavers through and by

Along noised urban voices
People sway to and fro
Intersecting between spaces
Leaving only hollow voids

Seized by their loneliness
I’m enjoined in their silence
It’s a gentle ruck all around
Smoothly going in a haste about

In a boisterous stillness
Lulling back and forth
Leaving me nearly deaf
In this crowded isolation

I saw the birth of the Swedish Savannah today.

I kid not.

My body in tune with the frolicking of the pasture,

Though frost bites its teeth lack strength.

Though only for an hour, a part of the day.

I know the morrow brings its bitter wintry surprise.

Inasmuch as the cloud that crosses the Astro Rey

to remind me:

Bitterly where I am-

The window isn’t that big, really.

The view, however, offers endless horizons.

It was at this point that I observed the many shades of lights a normal late May day could offer before the midnight sun struck its aura in full force at 9 pm here in the lovable highlands of Sweden.

I really saw the yellow strike bright new green shoots.

Shadows are not just black as I affirmed today.

No, the slow turn of day to night proved otherwise.

Its icy white vault stared me from above.

I follow the direction of the sun rotate.

It was then, yes, between the frame of my window, and the deep horizon that I saw:

an insect flew by.

Carpe diem indeed Carola.

J

* dedicated to Trí¤centrum in Smí¥land

The curious thing about dying is not that you are dying but the agony of knowing you are going to die. Even more so when one considers how random death is, for God’s sake, I could die writing, as we speak, as I write this last sentence. Off course, then it would be up to someone else to push the publish button, but either way, I just can’t see myself taking my last breath desperately trying to move the mouse over the publish button. But death does strike randomly. One can wait forever or one can just meet the darn equalizer in just about any other possible position. Not that I don’t appreciate life, for all intents and purposes I cherish every living moment but lately death has been brooding in every possible way near my vicinity. Why has the reaper decided to house itself in my neighborhood is really worrying but heck. I suppose everyone has to feel mortality somehow so old bella mort cuts the lawn giving me the creeps. Who knows what this guy, or gal for that matter, wants right? Of all vicinities and it decided on mine, hello Joe Black.

Though it creeps me I believe am not scared. Yes, you read right, I believe, which constitutes a feasible lie. But what is one to do when The Grim Reaper poisons the environment with his presence? Lord knows. Being more conscious of the darn doom cast its shadow everywhere. And no, am not depressed, a little bit down yes, but certainly not gloomy. I suppose everyone ought to have discussions like this with themselves though I recommend highly not to regurgitate this too much. Too much would mean extending the idea far beyond the healthy benefits of brooding over death. One benefit is that one can appreciate life more, taking life for granted doesn’t prepare no one for death. And besides you spend more time dead than alive so what the heck, get that brain ready for the kick of your life.

For all intents and purposes am a shit little fraidy cat when it comes to religion. Last night I dreamt I saw the universe riddled with letters and numbers. This would on other occasions be a rich source of inspiration but not this time nor when I was dreaming my dream. I remember seeing the number, 68. I saw the number several times before, in particular on a little book of poetry by Robert Burns. It is a miniature volume that was purchased in Scotland, in Robert Burns’ cottage. I know this because I obtained the information from the little book, the previous owner had inscribed the date and place of purchase onto it. It was bought in 1968. I myself did not go to any great lengths to acquire the volume, I did buy it though, in the Swedish Highlands, at the local Red Cross store for the amount of 5 Swedish crowns. Either way, the dream was not nice. I felt fear at the sight of seeing signs scribbled across the great vault of the universe. In other words I felt it was a bad portent. This sort of thing tends to bring out my worst fears, really. It’s all too apocalyptic.

This is also rather strange because I personally don’t give two rats about religion anymore, specially the judeo/christian based sort. I frankly disdain it as much as I can though I don’t shy away from reading or studying said religion.

It was a bad dream.