Tag: moving

The co-habitation equation

So, anyway. Last couple of months have been eventful.

I’ve moved in with Sara and Tura in our own apartment. For the first time in forever I have my own name on the door and actually live where I am registered. Beside everything else, it’s a good feeling to be able to greet neighbours without wondering who will start asking questions about when you moved in and if you’re subletting legally. Besides the everyday hassle of arranging to pay bills in someone elses name, and getting the mailman to deliver your post, it’s grating to constantly be nervous that something might break which you won’t be able to fix yourself and can’t call a super about.

We’ve already called the super over twice, and actually getting a busted bathroom tap repaired within a day is a surreal experience. Renting an apartment feels good. Of course, there are some minor issues. For example, since only Sara is on the contract, the super put up only her name on the door. Apparently it’s policy, and besides he couldn’t be arsed to get over here with a Dymo to print a new label. So I bought a Dymo and now have a fancy label on the door, set in a “hollow, italic, fat, border” style, which says “S. Henriksson & M. Pozar.” Yes, I’ll be posting a picture as soon as I’m done admiring it. There’s another option for the styling on the Dymo, a wide papyrus scroll, and I’ll have to see which one is more classy.

Petter showed up with the kids last week and we had the first “guests over for dinner” event, and just the other day Carl-Johan dropped by for lunch, so we’ve checked “someone just casually stopping by” on the todo-list as well. We’re going to throw a housewarming party or somesuch as soon as we have the “somewhere to sit” issue resolved, but so long as we keep to a manageable number of visitors at any given time, we’re open for business.

Unless I’ve explicitly told you to fuck off, we have a standing blood feud, or I owe you lots of money, consider this an invitation to drop by at any time for tea, coffee, beans or wine (bring wine). Look me up in the book, I’m listed at my own adress, dontcha know.

Christmas and cohabitation.

The holidays passed with little fanfare, I spent them in Stockholm with the closest family at hand and the rest at Skype distance. Mom isn’t her full self at the moment, and the dinners were slightly less elaborate than the five course meals we usually make. I rediscovered how much work goes into making the potatoe-dumplings, which I wolf down by the dozens. Christmas Day I and Tomasz joined in the public celebration of the birth of beer, and sat with Admas in a bar and discussed ambitions, and fashion, and then I think I had Calvados?

On a recommendation from Miss Walker I visited Tevere, a bakery which also carries vegan pizza. Rather on the expensive side, but the pizzas were awesome both times I ate there.

New Years day was spent at the gym with Sara, where I nearly passed out. I can only assume that my body shut down out of fear that I would become too fit and muscular. In the evening a bunch of us gathered at Petters new place. We saw the fireworks over Hissingen skyline, although I saw most of it through the viewfinder, being concerned with capturing it. Next year I’d like to be somewhere where the explosions can actually be felt. It’s well know that arrhythmia heightens ones appreciation of sparkling things.

Andreas visited for a short while, and then he left for New York — or as it’s henceforth known: Nävvan. I’m still working on the mixtape he’s getting for birthday. I’ll have to make up for it by making it really good, and perhaps actually sending him a magnetic tape. I have half a sack of those just waiting for coming to use…

And speaking of having a bunch of old stuff laying around, I’m trying to getting rid of as much of it as possible, as we’re moving in together. This is momentous and exciting, and a first for me. We’re already discussing wall colours and such, and my suggestions of stripes the colours of a 1920 ice-cream stand have met with tacit approval. Perhaps it’s not so much approval as acceptance and stoic suffering; “Enduring love” as it were. Or perhaps it’s just an understanding that I talk a lot and will likely have changed my mind before we move in.

I’m moving out of my place as soon as possible and have hopefully already found a taker, and we’re moving into our new place beginning of March. This is going to be an exciting spring! I’m gonna Sawyer y’all into plastering and painting walls, so you might as well start digging out your coveralls. I’ll consider offering light snacks and coffee to sweeten the deal even further. But before we get to that, there’s the whole “moving” thing. You’ll be happy to know that you’re welcome for that as well, as there’s no end of the enjoyment my friendship offers.

But what if moss is good for the stone?

I’ve moved to my own place. After five or so years living with Anna, Albin and Eskil, and lately with Jan, moving to live on my own feels almost like a betrayal of some ideal. I’m not sure what ideal that might be, but it seems indulgent, bordering on, dare I say, bourgeois. I’ve never had a place of my own, so for me this is all terribly exciting. I’m like someone coming out as gay and boring all his friends by talking non-stop about how excited he is to suck dick; —Like, I have a fridge. It’s full of my stuff, and I just left five snowballs in there for a week!

Sara & Olle helped me move two weeks ago, and I’m now the shady subletter of Helgas previous apartment. It’s a one room apartment overlooking the river, with Norra Älvstranden on the other side serving as an example of just how low one might slip into upper middle class without realizing it. The Stena Line passes outside my window, as does the motorway, lending an industrial city timbre to the place.

Moving didn’t take long. Like a goldfish in a bowl, I hadn’t grown beyond what I could fit, and so transporting it didn’t take longer than an hour. Packing all my crud, crap and junk, took appreciably longer. When I cleaned out the room, it was emptier than it had ever been during my stay at Gröna Vallen. The indoor climbing wall was as I had found it, and for all the years I’ve slept next to it, I had tried it only a handful of times. My shuffling feet had scuffed the floor and my bike had left tracks where the rubber had rubbed off.

Living by oneself has upsides. Jerking off is easier than ever, and will be even easier once I hang curtains, seeing as how I live on the ground floor. Curtains would also allow me to work easier during daylight hours, and I’ll no longer have to fashion light controlling plastic head sleeves to get the retouching work done. I don’t own much furniture beyond a bed, so my living room is rather bare. I’m looking into getting an adjustable table and ergonomic chair, but this furniture business will take a while to arrange as work has piled up. I hope to get a coat hanger within two weeks, but am not taking bets on it. Laundry is off the table and buying underwear and shirts in bulk feels like an excellent solution.

Cleaning the old place out was sad. Sad like Bruce Banner walking down the road, but also sad as in confusing. When my year in Iceland was up and I got back to Sweden, it was as if I was the only witness to what I’d experienced there, and were I to go back there would be scant evidence of me ever having been there. Cleaning out the fridge, or the shelf in the bathroom, I felt something similar; I was vanishing the traces of myself, and was wondering what intangibles I was bringing with me, and what I was leaving behind.

This, of course, should only serve as a reminder that what is important in life is most often our relationships with other people, and that taking care of those, and being mindful of our friends, is a continuous process and should not only hinge on routine but on choice and hard work. (Most people know about this, but I am surprisingly resilient to the obvious) And in total contradiction to this, I have hardly met with anyone the past two weeks, except Sara who has taken pity on me and enjoys laughing at my idiot ramblings about how I will craft a table with a built-in scanner.

I’ll make good on this though. As soon as I have something to hang a coat on, and no longer live in paper bags, and have bought either a broom or a vacum cleaner, I’ll have you over for tea or beer and maybe Xbox if I lose my mind enough to buy one.

She knows what she likes.

My mom isn’t as sentimental as I thought she’s be. She recently moved away from the place where she’d lived the past 24 years, and took the opportunity to trash paintings and sculptures that previously were cherished as valuable objects of beauty and tokens of love. “Aaw, did I hurt your feelings? You’re a grown man and I can’t be expected to keep all this crap!” It took some work to convince her that the heavy raku chalice/ashtray that I’d gifted her ten years ago was worth keeping; I had dug the clay out from planet earth myself and built the oven over days and weeks before that piece was made! I think she tossed it while I wasn’t watching.

Her inner critic manifested in tossing the potatoe-print oil painting of a tree I made a couple of years ago, something I was utterly ok with. I mean, there’s a limit to the motherly indulgence.

Also, she’s always hated the comissioned painting of her home town that’s been hanging in the living room, and took the opportunity of cutting it in half, keeping the part she liked. That antenna annoyed her to no end.

There’s an anecdote about a painter who sold a painting and later showed up at the buyers house and start touching up his work. The buyer goes “WTF!” to which the artist replies “I’m not done yet.” My mom has wished that the artists would show up on her front step with a saw for the past fifteen years. I was glad to help.

Closure. Sea-fairing life. Birthday. Bike!

The other day, while helping a friend move out from the apartment he shared with his girlfriend, I was wondering how I would have reasoned about dividing up stuff. It’s never occured to me that stuff like this would come up (which is telling of how experienced I am with relationships) outside of movies where a couple that are breaking up bicker over record collections. Your material possessions don’t so much possess you as they socially glue you to your surroundings; Stuff as interaction manifested relationships in itself, or somesuch.

–I bought this jar of pesto and by God I’m taking it! Oh, and this water heater that you bought only after breaking mine? I’m trashing it by accident, fuck you!

The only thing we trashed was an oven form that I dropped a bed frame on. Ah yes, the spoils of war and love.

Midsummer was spent in the lovely company of friends, and my birthday was spent on a boat with Anna & Jan and an engine that only fired on one cylinder and gave up the ghost next to the industrial dry docks on the shitty side of the river. Improvised team building, as it were. After poking and swearing at the engine for half an hour, we called Janne who was all manly and stuff, actually managing to fix the engine well enough to get us to an emergency port. My contribution to our efforts was limited to sunbathing and being a human fender.

(Before you ask: Yes, I do keep tabs on who forgot my birthday. You are on a passive agressive shit list.)

I’ve spent the past weeks learning how to scuba, working on my Polish tan, doing some freelance web stuff and buying a bike. And even though diving is great fun, I love my bike silly. There are many like it, but this one is mine! I’ve never had a bike this fast and I love me the commuting and silent cruising down dark streets.

True, the first thing that happened was that the front brake gave up on me – unsettling since it’s the only brake – but it’s given me reason to learn about fixing stuff, something I’m usually only good at in theory, or rather “theoretical theory,” meaning I know how to use Google. (which I call “knowledge aquisition” in my CV)

The bike is a frankenstein of different parts put together by Martin, and I posted a description + pictures on Happymtb in order try to identify it. I haven’t received much help in regard to identification, but plenty suggestions on which wheels I could get and how much a paintjob would cost. People I’ve asked seem to lean towards that it’s a French 70’s cheapo bike; Looking at old Peugeot models they have some similar details. If you have any hints, I’d appreciate your input.

In the previous episode…

Or, let me list the ways in which I am displeased about my life.

* The MFA course i’m doing right now is cancelled. I will be able to finish the MFA, but I don’t know who’s gonna be responsible for it, or if we’re gonna get shuffled around and lose our studios or what the budget is going to be. The course I’m doing has always seemed to be the retarded stepchild of the art academy, but it still pisses me off no end that I found out about the cancellation of my program through the fucking web page of the fucking university instead of maybe, oh I don’t know, an email gently informing us about it? At all?. Or why not when I applied to the course. A short sentence like “oh, btw, we might cancel your education on a whim“.

* Anna is looking to sell her place, which means that I will have to start looking for something new. And it’s the second last thing that i like to be thinking of.

* The last thing that i want to be thinking about is money. It’s not original, it’s not a fun conversational topic, but for hells sake I need to straighten my “economy” out in some way. Preferably not a way that includes robberies or lottery tickets.

On a lighter side, there’s been a lot of hubbub about people doing remixes of subway maps. The transit authority in London has ordered shutdown of this page because the maps that the site is hosting are breaking trademark rules or somesuch. Which of course is a crock of shit, so I’ve put up a mirror of the site here.

Enjoy it while it lasts; Don’t know the university stance on these kinds of things, but even with the relative laxness of copyright law enforcement here in Sweden, I wouldn’t bet much on any spine existing within the university administration – it’s just not the point of administrators…