onsdag 29 oktober 2014

Boknytt: Ernst Jünger -- A Portrait (Svensson 2014)


Summary in English: this is info in Swedish about my latest book, available here.




Jag har skrivit en bok. Boken handlar om Ernst Jünger. Han var en tysk som levde 1895-1998. Boken är på engelska. Förlaget som gett ut boken heter Manticore Press. Det är baserat i Australien.

Boken heter "Ernst Jünger -- A Portrait". På 290 sidor berättar jag om Jüngers liv, hans centrala verk, hans kontroversiella sidor och lite till. Som hans syn på konst och historia, hans sf-romaner och hans särprägel i största allmänhet.

Boken kan beskrivas som en essä, en personligt hållen biografi. Kort sagt: ett porträtt (eng. portrait). På tyska har vi Helmuth Kiesels och Heimo Schwilks mer akademiskt hållna Jüngerbiografier. Dessa böcker kom 2007. Och här är min Jüngerbok, en bok med en friare, personligare utgångspunkt. En bok som både tar en titt den kontroversielle Jünger och som lyfter den esoteriske, livsbejakande Jünger. En Jünger som är synnerligen aktuell i dessa nihilismens tider.

- - -

Boken har 32 kapitel. Ett exempel på stilen är detta, ur kapitel 10 som handlar om "På Marmorklipporna", Jüngers roman från 1939 som på engelska heter "On the Marble Cliffs":
”On the Marble Cliffs” displays a rich collection of characters. We have [for example] prince Sunmyra, pale and frail yet strong and belligerent, a romantic dreamer aroused from his sleep and ready to act against darkness, mirroring in a way the statue of the Bamberg Horseman (der Bamberger Reiter) in Bamberg cathedral: a heroic medieval knight, seemingly distraught but essentially a true rock of resistance. Mythologically he is in my book juxtaposed by the knight depicted by Dürer in his 16th century engraving ”The Knight, Death and the Devil”, a no-nonsense fighter with a literal devil-may-care attitude, a man of a hard mindset and yet no mere barbarian. And this character could be said to be represented by another ”Marble Cliff” figure: Biedenhorn, the commander of the mercenaries. The brothers at the centre of action get some help from him at the end, and before that he is lovingly depicted as the timeless solider, without higher ideals but reliable when it comes to battle and a jovial friend to his brothers in arms.
Du köper boken till exempel här, på Adlibris.




Smakprov ur boken
The Adventurous Heart
Jünger the Pious
On the Marble Cliffs
Jünger and the Craft of Science Fiction

fredag 17 oktober 2014

Some Notes On A Book By Clark Ashton Smith



Hallelujah.




Who has seen the towers of Amithaine
swan-throated rising from the main
whose tides to some remoter moon
flow in a fadeless afternoon...?
Who has seen the towers of Amithaine
shall sleep, and dream of them again.
These are words by the poet Clark Ashton Smith (1893-1961). I sit here with his "Out Of Space And Time" vol. 2, reading about demons and gargoyles, brownies and fairies, charnel-dungeons and emerald hornettoes. A truly mind-boggling journey through thick and thin:
Rememberest thou? Enormous gongs of stone
were stricken, and the storming trumpeteers
acclaimed my deed to answering tides of spears,
and spoke the names of monsters overthrown -
griffins whose angry gold, and fervid store
of sapphires wrenched from mountain-plunged mines -
carnelians, opals, agates, almandines,
I brought to thee some scarlet eve of yore.
The collection also has prose-poems like "From the Crypts Of Memory", about a shadowy existence in a dying land beyond the Beyond. This is fat, rich poesy with words you don't even find in Longman Dictionary. The piece ending the book, "The Shadows", is as rich, with all its "fretted windows", "the undesecrated seal of death" and "a meaningless antic phantasmagoria". I read them again and again these jewels of literature: neither stories nor versified poems, but poems in prose. Being about two pages long they have the right length for a prose poem.

I like the book's more conventional tales too, like "The Last Hieroglyph", "The Monster Of The Prophecy", "The Death Of Ilalotha" and "The Vaults Of Yoh-Vombis". These outings aren't overly deep, not profound in any sense of the word -- but fun in a quiet way, fun in a "oh-how-he-can-adorn-his-language-with-obsolete-words"-way. There's that personality you can't mistake, that jewelry tinge to it all that makes me come back for more. Purple shadows, man.
For trumpets blare in Amithaine
for paladins that once again
ride forth to ghostly, glamorous wars
against the doom-preparing stars.
Dreamer, awake! ... but I remain
to ride with them in Amithaine.




Related
An Epic Poem By Coleridge
The Operational, Endemic Problems of Today's MSM
My Bibliography
Obama: Is He The Mahdi?
Jordkrönikan, del 1 (in Swedish)
As you can see the depicted book is another one than the one treated in the post. However, I love that bluegreen cover, painted by Bruce Pennington as it is.

måndag 13 oktober 2014

Lennart Svensson: Bibliography


There's a growing interest in my writings these days. Hereby my complete bibliography, listing titles that are accessible as of October 2014. Mostly it's about e-books in Swedish. They're freely available on Dropbox, links below, so take the chance and get some quality Svensson reading for free. I can't always promise that I'll be so generous.




Novels
Antropolis (2009) --- presentation --- pdf
Agajan äventyraren (2009) [Agajan the Adventurer] --- info --- pdf freely on Dropbox --- epub-file freely on Dropbox
Till Smaragdeburg (2010) [On to the Emerald City] --- Swedish blogpost with reviews --- pdf
Stridsmiljö 2500 (2011) [Battle Environment 2500] --- blogpost
Camouflage (2011) --- pdf on Dropbox --- blogpost




Non-Fiction
Skallet från den kapitolinska varginnan (2009) [The Barking of the Capitoline Shewolf] --- blogpost in Swedish
Drakens spegelbild (2009) [The Dragon's Mirror Image] --- pdf for direct download --- blogpost in Swedish




Short Stories
Eld och rörelse (Etherion 2007) [Fire and Movement] --- pdf directly --- blog post in Swedish
Soldat i framtiden in the anthology "FEL Science Fiction" (2009) --- blog post
The Middle Zone in the magazine Morpheus Tales 8/2010 --- blog post in English, with the story text in full
The Swedenborg Machine from the anthology "Vansinnesverk" (Catahya 2011)
The Middle Zone in the anthology "Morpheus Tales: The Best Weird Fiction, Volume 3" (Smashwords 2013)
Stjärnskeppens banérförare [Starship Standard-Bearer] in Gorgon Magazine 5/2014




Poetry
Åselehaiku (Magasin Provins, 1999) [Åsele Haiku]--- blog post
Grönt ljus (2010) [Green Light] --- presentation --- pdf
Tempel och trädgårdar (2011) [Temples and Gardens] --- info --- pdf




Plays
Mellan svärdet och ak 5:an (2009) [Between the Sword and the Assault Rifle]--- pdf --- excerpt in Swedish




Related
Antropolitan -- The Only Way to Fly
Secular Hymns
Caza: The Ark
Details (flash fiction)
Coleridge's The Rime

torsdag 2 oktober 2014

This Day's Post


Hallelujah.



I go. I am going. I saunter around in my neighbourhood.

I am going there. I go there. I have the habit of wandering along in the misty morning. Now children, we don't have mist every morning in our vicinities. Sometimes the mornings are clear. But above we see an image of the mistyness that sometimes seems to invade our fair city. It's a coastal town and the water you see in the pic is an inlet of the Baltic Sea, in itself an inlet of the North Sea and the Atlantic. In theory you could sail from Härnösand to any high sea port in the world.

- - -

In actual fact, I'm waiting for this day to end so that I can grab a bite and go to bed, listening to some music or read a non-challenging, however not utterly boring book. The book can't be too good because then I'll get upset, getting ideas to write something about it.

I'm not always like this. I read challenging books too. But these days, having written Important Stuff in the daytime, I can't take anything seriously after I've hit the sack.




Related
The Operational, Endemic Problems of Today's MSM
My Bibliography
Obama: Is He The Mahdi?
Jordkrönikan, del 1 (in Swedish)
Frekvenskrig (in Swedish)

måndag 22 september 2014

Svensson: The New Improved Sun (poem)



Essentially, we live in a peaceful world. There is no longer the threat of all-out war, whatever MSM says. Mankind is on the eve of a new era. Hereby a poem that catches the gist of this.




It was an early morning in September, 2010. I was out on a bike ride in my beautiful town, Härnösand.

It was fairly warm. The air was moist, the effect of a rain the night before. "The wild and windy night / that the rain washed away / has left a pool of tears / crying for the day"... as Macca had it in "The Long and Winding Road".

The sun had risen, but from my point of view it was concealed behind a mountain on my right. And in front of me I had an old regimental barrack, a yellow "kasern" as we say in Sweden, resplendent like a castle with the front catching the sun rays.

On my left a brook ran, carrying rather a lot of water; it had been raining as I said. I was in an area of detached houses, a villa region in the near-city zone, and to have an open brook running through the scenery was a quaint eyecatcher: they hadn't led it through ducts and covered it with soil. No, freshly running water, murmuring in the early morning sun...!

In front of me was the palatial kasern, presiding on a small shelf in the hillside, surrounded by emerald green lawns and flanked by maples. And in my mind I transformed it into a watering place, a place to quench your spiritual thirst. And along with some other reflections on the times, it all evolved into this poem. Note the Macca-reference in line #1...! By the way, the rest of the lines are also made up of quotes/titles. I won't tell you which ones though. Not today.

Now for the poem:

I'm in love with her and I feel fine --
living in this Midsummer Century --
praying at The Watering Place of Good Peace --
under The New Improved Sun.

I could comment a lot on this. Now I only say: since after November 11, 2011, earth lives on a higher, spiritual level, for example resulting in the impossibility in an all-out war, such as "total Middle Eastern War" or "war between Nato and Russia over Ukraine".

It just won't happen. And I sensed it, vaguely, already in 2010, writing this poem.




Related
Swedish Mystique
Caza: The Ark
Details (flash fiction)
Coleridge's The Rime
PKD Stories I'm Critical Of

fredag 19 september 2014

Svensson: Good Cop, Mad Cop (flash fiction)



It's time for another ultra-short piece, a flash fiction as we call it in the industry. A work of fiction shorter than 1000 words. Here's my latest oevre.



Criminal investigator Johnson lived and worked in Anytown, a city somewhere in the Heartland. Once he was working on a murder case. However, the poor man went mad trying to solve it so another policeman had to take over the case. Smith, the new guy, did his best trying to decipher the illegible notes of Johnson, and he got some leads that eventually led him to a villa on 378 Park Drive. There a possible suspect would be living so Smith took his car and went over.

Finally there he found a letterbox with the address ”378 Park Drive” next to the drive of the villa. But turning around the streetcorner Smith found another letterbox, this one next to a cobbled walk leading to the back door of the same house. Here the address was ”101 Mayfair”. In a way it was logical since they were different streets and the house was situated at a streetcorner -- but why two letterboxes at the same house?

Smith went up to the door and pushed the ding-dong. And who opened but Johnson, the mad policeman. After some more investigation Smith concluded that Johnson was the murderer, under the covername ”B. Batty” who happened to live in the same house although around the corner. A true schizoid: one man with his two personalities living in the same house, but on different addresses!

”I daresay,” Smith said to himself when the case was solved, sitting in his office smoking his victory cigar, ”this was a remarkable case. You could call it a criminal variety, with psychopathological undertones, on the theme of ’fireman also being a pyromaniac’. Here it was about a policeman being a criminal, my own colleague Johnson as it turned out.”

Smith took a whiff and let the smoke dance around in his oral cavity, slowly blowing the smoke out. Smoking cigars shouldn’t be done by inhaling, namely.




Related
Another Flash Fiction: Details
The Ark
The Ascended Masters
In Swedish: Kopisten i Babylon
In Swedish: Melinas resa
The picture has got nothing to do with anything. I guess it's an emerald. Or a tourmaline.

söndag 14 september 2014

Svensson: The Swedenborg Machine (short story)



Back in 2011, I published a story in a Swedish anthology. The title of the story was "Swedenborgmaskinen". Now I present it to you in the English speaking world, aptly naming it "The Swedenborg Machine". It's about a latter-day scientist going off into lands unseen and there meeting the 18th century Swedish mystic, Emanuel Swedenborg.




1.

They whispered behind my back and called me mad, out of my mind, bananas. And sometimes they said it to my face, stating: ”You’re mad, Anatol! You’re a sentimental fool, dabbling in metaphysics. We, for our part, the sharp ones, practise science; you on your hand practise witchcraft.”

They said that, my colleagues. And yet they let me go on doing my stuff. Why? Well, I did have support from higher levels, from the chairman of our institute, Professor Kossgren. He was a man of broader visions, always keeping the door open for metaphysical and esoteric influences, since science had always benefited from these to some extent. Like Stradonitz discovering the benzene ring dreaming about a serpent biting its tail, and Crick having the vision of the DNA double helix while on LSD. Not that I took acid, oh no, but I did have a penchant for thinking outside the box, going beyond the Beyond. The ”mad” label just went with it.

And now my ventures into the unknown had paid off. They had materialized in a tour de force of engineering ability, a stupendous creation, a machine of remarkable qualities. To be precise it was a portal with an aluminum doorframe and lintel, all around a slit for the activator and lastly a separate control panel.

It was complete, my magnum opus, my grand design, the machine with which I would prove that the fourth dimension existed –- i. e. that it was a higher dimension, a hyperworld permeating the physical world. Does that sound vague to you? However, the important thing was that I didn’t surmise this fourth dimension being time as Einstein had postulated.

And right there’s where the project had begun. On the annual Swedish physicists’ meeting, in the pub afterwards, I had suggested that time wasn’t the fourth dimension; time in itself is no dimension. Indeed? my enemy, Gregor Welaion, had objected. Yes indeedy! I said and emptied my Vodka Martini.

”But... how...?”

”It’s simple,” I said. ”Space is a dimension while time merely is change. Time isn’t a dimension as Einstein has it, only a measure of the changes taking place in space. Of course you can draw up a coordinate system with time on one axle and space on the other –- but then you can move on and in different circumstances put any labels you wish on the axles, as progress, acceleration, anguish, happiness, what have you...

”But this is blasphemy!” Welaion said, red as a lobster.

”Of course,” I said. ”Science begins as blasphemy, and ends as superstition, as Huxley put it...”

”What, Huxley? You’re way out of line here! I call for an investigation.”

”Oh yeah? Only to have me whisper Eppur si muove between the teeth...?”

- - -

There, with the scuffle imminent, the meeting had broken up. We went to our respective hotels and didn’t meet any further. As I said this was at the annual Swedish conference of physicists, this year held in Gothenburg were Welaion had his operation. As for myself I went back to Stockholm and the Polhem Institute where I worked. The next day I was called to the office of Professor Kossgren who had heard about the hassle. Supporting me full-out he asked me to delve further into the physics of the fourth dimension, leaving everything else and immediately getting to work. ”Never mind the cost, you have unlimited resources!” Kossgren had said. ”The institute’s honour is at stake!”

So I got to work –- and now, a year later, a day in June 2008, I was finished, in spite of snide remarks from the other employees at the institution, the so called ”pure scientists”, fine young men thinking inside the box. My opus was finished, my portal with the aluminum doorframe and all that. In itself the portal was a simple construction, secured as it was in absolute space and with sensors in relative time. By the suprematistic conveyor he who entered the portal was led beyond the depth, width and length of the everyday world, landing in the fourth dimension: a higher space, an esoteric ether beyond the Beyond.

The idea to it all I had gotten from a passage in a book, ”The Philosopher’s Stone” by a certain Henry T. Laurency, the so-called Hylozooic. It was the abovementioned concept of time not being a dimension. Then the painting of Kasimir Malevitj, ”Black Square” from 1913, had inspired me, this ultimate image of a higher dimension. Suprematist painting, you know. Then I just had to calculate on it all; in pure logic no postulates about the existence of anything can be made, they say, and that fit my hypothesis that the world is just a vague apparition while true reality is transcendental.
How life is vain, dim, unreal,
like scenes that ’round the drunkard reel...
As the poet said.

Truly mindboggling ideas, aren’t they? All this esoteric stuff. Not that I was some full-fledged idealist, some dreamer. I was a critical, hard working scientist. But sometimes you have to think outside that proverbial box, really throw eveything out the window and start afresh with totally alien concepts. Presume the unpresumable.

And that’s what I did. I was the kind of scientist having to believe twelve impossible things before lunch...

Anyhow, the project now was complete, my dimensional machine, the portal. I stood by the control panel and gathered strength. It was June 23rd, 2008, 9:45. There was only one thing left to do: to test it.

Power on: I pressed the button. There came a faint humming noise from the machine and the slit in the doorframe started to glow green. I entered some relevant commandos on the keyboard, activating the suprematist conveyor and pressing enter; ever so fitting, right? Press ”enter” before you enter the fourth dimension...

I left the control panel and got up on the dais. The inner of the portal flickered of energy, currents and dreams. ”Here I stand before eternity,” I thought, pathetically but true.

I exhaled, then filled my lungs –- and entered the portal.

As expected I didn’t see anything at first. Everything was white, white as an overcast sky. Then I saw a sheen like glowing brass, silver and gold –- and then I found myself laughing. I had done it, this was indeed the fourth dimension! The fourth dimension, reduced to ”time” by Einstein but in reality so much more than that, infinitely more...! And that’s the chief reason why I wanted to explore it: to boldly go where no man has gone before.

I had reached beyond the Beyond, I was flowing in an ethereal space. I still wore my jeans and laboratory coat but I was as light as a feather, I could go anywhere I wanted with pure force of thought.

- - -

I soared through the ethereal spaces, I danced around in the astral world. Then I gathered myself a little, thinking that it wouldn’t serve me to go completely mad. I did have that reputation but they wouldn’t score with it this time. I had to explore these unfamiliar vistas with sane, sober, Faustian clear-sightedness.

I descried something in the distance, looking like green meadows. I headed there, thought myself in that direction. Soon I was walking across a landscape, hearing twittering birds and seeing a rippling rivulet surrounded by willows, dipping their branches in the water. A rosy building presided some distance from the roadside. Far off you could see hazy mountains, green woodlands and temples with white steeples.

I could go anywhere in that dreamland, it seemed, but I only had the urge to visit the pink palace nearby. I headed for its garden and soon found myself walking among shiny trees and mysterious flowers; they were bigger, more beautiful and more brilliant than anything I had ever seen.

It was all very beautiful but at the same time I asked myself how to get back to my own world, the three dimensional world. Maybe there was someone to ask in this house.

I passed through a pergola and came out in an alcove. There, by a table, a peaceful man in a wig and a black justaucorps was sitting, speaking with a radiant woman. She was indeed radiant, she almost glowed. Was she perhaps ”a being whose nature is light” = a bodhisattva...?

I approached. And finally, standing before the glorious couple, I bowed and asked:

”Excuse me, Anatol Ersson is my name...”

The two of them nodded gently and asked me to sit down. I continued:

”Do you by any chance know the way back to Earth?”

”To Earth?” the man in the wig said. ”I do know the way, I’ve recently been there. So you wish to go back to that dark abode, eh...? Don’t you want to stay in this world, this spiritual world...?”

”Spritual world” I thought, that sounded serious. Now, I could picture a fourth dimension as a higher plane of existence and I could think in speculative, almost esoteric ways –- but ”spiritual?” As a scientist I didn’t like the concept, it was like crossing a border.

”Oh, sure it’s beautiful,” I said. ”But I’m a beginner in these fields, so if you could guide me back to more familiar lands...”

”Will do, my good man, will do,” the man said. ”But first take a bow for Bealália, my splendid deva, a being of light in this world...”

I bowed to the lady, enchanted by her beauty. Then I turned to the man and asked him who he was. ”Emanuel Swedenborg” the answer came. Indeed, I thought, the spiritualist and inventor; mining engineer, assessor and dreamer of 18th century fame! One of the few Swedes to have become world famous along with Strindberg, Nobel and Ingmar Bergman.

”But why can’t you stay in this world?” the deva suddenly said in a singing voice.

”I thank you for your invitation,” I said, ”but everything here is a bit new to me...”

”A bit too light and shiny, perchance...?” Swedenborg said. ”A bit too beautiful and enchanting, eh...?”

”That may be so,” I said with a sense of shame. Everything here was for certain supernatural and paradisic but I couldn’t handle all this splendour right now. I was happy with just having discovered the fourth dimension.




2.

Swedenborg exchanged a few more words with the lady and got up, saying it was time for us to go.

”So you want to get back to your own world?” the spiritualist said. ”To the natural world, to Earth?”

I nodded. Swedenborg thereby took farewell of the lady and I did the same; she waved her hand slowly and then began to disappear into thin air, gently. That’s the devaic way of being, I guess: to just fade away when you feel like it. Then the Assessor led me by the hand and soon we soared through shimmering rainbows and spectral skies. Somewhat used to these flights by now I just looked around me, enchanted by the sights but fully conscious.

”So you’re the great Swedenborg?” I said.

”Indedd I am.” The Assessor had a constant, discreet smile on his lips, like the one you see on early greek statues: the archaic smile.

”The world we just left,” I asked, ”what was that called?”

”That was the spiritual world, situated on this side of heaven.”

”But there were houses, mountais and trees in it,” I said. ”I thought these spiritual lands were only thin air, light and the like.”

”Many believe that, even the poet Dante; you are in good company there. But the things you saw weren’t tangible; they were projections of our thoughts. They were correspondences.”

”So they weren’t real then?”

”Oh, they were real, forsooth. Your thoughts are real, aren’t they?”

My head spinned. And the woman we had met, the ”deva”, was probably what others would have called an angel –- or a bodhisattva, a ”being of light”. Well, you have to experience a lot as a scientist; as I said you have to encounter twelve impossible things before lunch, and I hadn’t had lunch yet...

- - -

Soon the colours around us got more mixed and impure, the light less divine. Houses appeared before our eyes, tangible, earthly houses and no ethereal creations. Suddenly we were walking along a cobbled street, the clouds sailing past us in the sky and gulls crying nearby. Swedenborg stopped by a corner.

”My dear Mr. Boström,” he said, ”now we’re here. Back on Earth, as you wished. Back in the natural world.”

”Indeed...,” I said and looked at a man in a leather cap and grey clothes, pushing a wheelbarrow before him, loaded with cabbages.

I saw this man –- and I saw ladies in long dresses and head scarves and men in coats and tricorni; I saw wooden houses with lozenge panes and I saw a horse cart. The smell of horse manure was ever present.

”Well,” I said, ”I’m back and I’m happy with that. But tell me, what year is it?”

”What year? It’s the one thousand seven hundred sixtieth, counting eight.”

I paled and stuttered: ”1768...”

I paled –- because, as a scientist I didn’t believe time-travel to be possible. It was against the laws of cause and effect. But maybe Swedenborg involuntarily had drawn me down to his own time when I asked for his help to get me back to Earth. The bypass via the fourth dimension, which isn’t ”time”, had made this seeming time-traveling possible.

We went down the street. People started to look at me. I still wore jeans and the lab coat, that’s why, and I was bare headed: in the old days everyone wore a hat of some sort, rich and poor alike. Hat or no hat I started to picture life in the seventeen hundreds; maybe I could get a job as a mining engineer, the cutting edge of yesterdays technology. Well, how about that? Then again, a life without TV, bananas, chinese food, jet airliners, ipod...?

The impressions flooded me, deluged me. Slowly but surely it all hit me, the argument was brought home: I was trapped in the 18th century!

My knees got weak, everything went black and I fainted.

- - -

It was a sunny room with an elm outside. A lady in a head scarf sat beside the bed I was lying in. Now she got up and cried out the door:

”He’s coming to now, methinks!”

She bathed my forehead with a wet towel. I smiled, thanked and sat up. I tried to think: with my machine I had gained the fourth dimension, a supermundane world, a higher reality, an esoteric realm. And there I had met the spiritualist Swedenborg, a seasoned visitor in these lands for what it seemed. Oh yes, as an educated 21st century man I had heard about his travels in different dimensions, but that was about all I knew about him. Then I had asked him to show me the way to Earth and that he had done, taking me to his Earth, his 18th century reality. So I was trapped here. Unless...

The Assessor came in, still dressed in his silken coat and wig: a dignified gentleman, a grandseigneur of olden times, smiling enigmatically. He asked the maid to make some coffee; then he sat down and said that he had had me carried to his house after I had fainted.

”To your house...?”

”To my house in the southern part of Stockholm. On Hornsgatan, kvarteret Mullvaden, if it is familiar.”

Indeed it is I thought, from the squatting activities in the 1980:s. ”BZ in Mullvaden” was a huge story in my younger days with people illegally living in those derelict apartment houses, built on the same spot as Swedenborg’s old mansion.

Swedenborg questioned me about my whereabouts. I told him that I came from the 21st century and he accepted that without further ado, but then again he was a speculatively minded scientist himself. We talked for a while about the differences between our respective ages, but then I broke in and posed the burning question:

”Could you, Mr. Swedenborg, help me get back to my own times? The 18th century seems on the whole to be a charming world, and your welcoming me in your house is most hônnete. However, home, sweet home and all that...”

”I understand you completely,” the man said. ”But how would it be done?”

”Well,” I said, ”if you fasten a construction in absolute space and put sensors in relative time, and then connect a suprematistic actuator to it all –- then you might reach the fourth dimension, the world where we first met, and by means of that interdimension get back.”

The spiritualist got a concerned look and walked away. In the mean time I despaired and blamed myself for my condition: if I had had a remote control to my dimensional machine I might have gotten back home without help. An assistant at the control panel might have helped too, but that I didn’t have.

- - -

The maid arrived with the coffee. I took a cup, put some broken sugar in it, stirred and drank. There were also some sugar buns. Coffee and sugar buns, the favourite dish of Swedenborg; I knew that, but what else did I know about him and his teachings? Not much to be honest. As for myself I had a weak spot for esoterica, that’s true, but purely on a intellectual level. I couldn’t understand what it meant to be pious and Christian and all that, that wasn’t part of my scientific upbringing.

Emanuel returned with an unwritten paper. He took a cup for himself and sat down at a table, drinking some of the brew and beginning to brood.

Birds sang, the sun shone and the elm spread a green lustre; what an idyl. Maybe life in the 18th century wasn’t so bad after all: not so stressful and breakfast in the green, all accompanied by Bellman picking on his lute. Then again there were horse manure, cholera and 500 pubs, and shady politics with bribes and secret committees. And as for sunshine and bird song we had those too in the 21st century.

”Well now,” my host ejaculated, ”fasten the construction in absolute space you said... Will you please sketch it out for me.”

He handed me a quill pen and a paper. I sat up in my bed, took a nearby Haupt bureau as a tablet, dipped the pen in the inkpot and made a blueprint of sorts, based on the principles of my own machine. Would Swedenborg then be able to build one with the tools of the 18th century? If he even got to understand it...

- - -

I sat at the kitchen table, drawing and sketching. I felt better after the rest, fully recovered after my fall. Dressed in lab coat and jeans I brought Swedenborg up-to-date with my research. He seemed to grasp it all. As ”the Columbus of the spiritual world” he already knew about the fourth dimension, more than anyone in this age, and the concept of securing the contraption in absolute space reminded him about his idea of correspondences.

It was late at night. A kerosene lamp was burning in the room and I had filled one paper after another. By now Swedenborg got up from his chair next to mine, tipping over an empty coffee cup and exclaiming:

”By God, it can be done! My dear Mr. Boström, I will take you back to your own time.”

And that was it, the genius had spoken. After all he was a genius, a mining engineer and a designer of submarines and airships, a theoretical physicist -- and to that a true esoteric, a speculative philosopher and dreamer. I could think of no better man in the 18th century to build me a time machine, to be honest!

The following days Swedenborg was occupied with machine building in his drawing room downstairs; he wanted to work on his own and I complied. After all it was just some reverse engineering of my own machine. I mean, the man was a genius and as for myself I had already built a dimension machine, there being no point for me in building another, not on a personal level at least. No challenge. Well, maybe working with 18th century limitations would have been interesting –- but as for now the Assessor had already gone ahead with his project so I let it be. He cherished the challenge he would get from this venture.

I let it be, leaving him to his own machinations. So I spent the days strolling in his garden watching apple trees and flower beds and sitting in the octagonal summerhouse in its centre. He stored some of his books there, and amazed I read titles like Arcana Caelestica, De Caelo Et Inferno, De Cultu Et Amore Dei, impressive tomes bound in leather by the man himself. He knew book-binding too; what didn’t he know?

Impressive books; however, I couldn’t read any of them. They were all in Latin.

- - -

I took a tour of the city, Stockholm: ”stolta stad” as Bellman sung in his Epistle 33, ”You proud city”. I borrowed a hat and a fine coat to blend in, watching the new royal castle and the churches and all the tourist views, immortalized by the painter of the day Elias Martin. The smell of horse manure, open gutters and the sights of prostitutes, street kids and drunks gave some added colour.

I crossed the Nybron and looked up to the steeple of Klara kyrka, rising in splendid isolation, undisturbed by the modern highrises of Hötorgs City which today tend to dwarf it. Fluffy clouds scudded across the sky and all was nice and warm. In Kungsträdgården I sat down and watched the verdure of the elms and got lost in the twittering of the birds and the hubbub of the city. I started to think about my personal situation in the 21st century and I didn’t like it at all. I was an outsider in the scientific community, a slight esoteric among everyday philosophers and materialists.

It wasn’t just my dispute with Welaion. His likes were indeed everywhere. Say that you believe in metaphysics and people start looking weirdly at you; whisper something about ”karma” and ”reincarnation” and they start dialing the asylum: yes it’s him with the steel-brimmed glasses –- and then strait jacket, ambulance and off to ”One-Way Hotel”...

Me paranoid? Oh no, it’s exactly like that in the scientific community. On the surface it’s all open-minded and tolerant, but in verity it’s like the Inquisition.

But I persisted in my odd ideas. Like, for instance: in pure logic nothing is really said to exist; I’ve touched on that before. There is a hint of higher reality, there is an immanent esoterism in science: matter can’t be the highest state of being because then thoughts, ideas and theories would just be fancy. All that which makes science into what it is.

- - -

A somewhat sclerotic science community, that was my ”home”. So why even bother to return? Still there were some good portents. Pure materialists were beginning to get scarce; there were some who listened to Dirac for example, when he said that beauty in the equations was more important than that they agreed with the expteriments. And that could make you think of Paul Davies when he said that in nature order and beauty is the norm, not coincidence, and the explanation to this can’t be reached empirically. And didn’t James Jeans say that the universe more looks like a big thought than a big machine...?

Well, there was hope after all. I got up, dusted some imaginary dust off my coat, cocked my hat and returned to the southern part of the city, singing Bellman’s Song no 64, ”Haga”:
Fjäriln vingad syns på Haga,
mellan blommors frost och dun,
sig sitt gröna skjul tillaga,
och i blomman sin paulun…
(See the butterfly in the meadows of Haga, among flowers and down, making his abode in a bloom...)




3.

It was D-Day, the big day; it was May 19th in the year of grace 1768 to be precise. My host showed me into the drawing room, in the midst of which presided an armchair with strange contraptions: at the top end there was a clock, beside the arms there was an hourglass and a pendling axle, and around it all was a spiral brazen rail.

”So this is...?”

”This is my machine,” Swedenborg said, "the, if you will, Swedenborg Machine. Now, I have added to your drawing with some concepts from the spiritual world. My machine transforms linear time into a durée, an ever flowing now. This is done by implicit resonance, dynontology and the induction of monads, the last of which is effectuated by this clock that I have modified.”

He pointed to the clock at the top. I nodded and studied the construction closely, immediately understanding how it was made: beyond the odd concepts it took for granted that time wasn’t a dimension, merely a way of measuring changes in the material world, in the three-dimensional space. Precisely my thought, as I have touched on above.

I sat down in the chair, a fine piece of furniture clad in jacquard fabric, and said:

”Comfortable, I daresay!”

”Very much so. It’s my best lounge chair.”

”Oh, but you needn’t have –”

"Mais non," Swedenborg said, ”anything for my guest. So then, shall we get started...?”

I nodded. Then I got to think that this Swedenborg for certain was a wise man, a pious man and a guru. As I said I was no dyed-in-the-wool esoteric, but some new ventures of research wouldn’t hurt. So I decided to ask him a little about his way of thinking.

"Monsieur," I said, ”we met in the spiritual world and they say that you are an experienced traveller in those higher planes of existence. They even call you ”The Columbus of the Dream World”. So can you teach me some of your dream geography, your outlook on this and other worlds...?”

Swedenborg nodded and said that those travels were made without his own volition; he just thought some odd thought and then he was snatched away to impossible worlds.

- - -

I sat in the time machine chair, waiting to travel forth in time. However, for the moment I was still in 1768, still listening to Swedenborg's on-the-cuff lesson. Now he was talking about the philosophies he had been taught beyond the Beyond, and among other things he told me this: what’s important in life is your will, your own free will. You are free to walk in the Light, to deliberately choose to go that way; you can’t just sit down and wait for the mercy of the Lord. You're cooperating with the Lord to create the life of your choice: "Deus non transferat hominem, sed homo se ipsum." God doesn't direct you here or there; that's done by the individual himself.

I nodded and then queried: ”But you said that you sometimes get snatched away to Heaven...?”

”Yes,” the Assessor said, ”these days I sometimes do. But I was an agnostic for a long, long time before that, not experiencing that much in the way of wonders."

He continued the recapitulation of his teachings: happiness is here and now (he said), any moment is your best moment.

”This moment too?” I asked.

”Yes,” my host said. ”Regardless of your being on your way home now and all that.”

How odd I thought –- any given moment is your best...

He added something about his correspondences, how everything we see is an expression of ideas, of thought. The tangible things exist for the ideas to have something to manifest themselves in. A sort of Platonism then? I thought.

Swedenborg nodded enigmatically and wound up the clock; he asked me what time he should set it for. I turned and saw that it was a very strange clock with separate works for year, month and day. There was also a globe for the location in space, a brass-and-tin piece he called an orbis terrarum.

I was about to say my 2008 date; then I changed my mind and said: ”August 24th, 1913, S:t Petersburg”. Swedenborg raised his eyebrow and then complied, setting the clock –- and then he set the pendulum in motion, made the axle to swing, turned the hour-glass and placed a steel ball on the brazen rail.

”Right then, here we go!” he said before letting the ball go.

I nodded and saw the ball run down the tortuous rail. It hypnotized me and made the whole room to spin. Before I knew the armchair rose from the floor –- or rather, the room disappeared and I was travelling through an undefined something. It was probably the same fourth dimension I had visited recently.

- - -

Again I travelled beyond the everyday dimensions. But why the Russian destination of 1913, you might ask? Well, it was just a detour to the studio of Malevitj, on the Nevskij Prospekt, to buy his then newly painted ”Black Square”: the image of the fourth dimension, an artistic correspondence to my journeys. And verily, I did reach the place and I did get to meet the Russian. We talked for a while about non-figurative art as a spiritual discipline, as an emancipatory act. After some mahorka and tea I moved on. I set the clock for June 23th, 2008, and my lab at the Polhem Institute in the northern suburbs of Stockholm, as part of the famous Tekniska Högskolan to be precise.

Again I flew through the unknown, darkness shot through with emerald and ruby. I thought about correspondences and free will, implicit resonance, absolute space and suprematism, monades and dynontology. I though about happiness being here and now and about non-objective, non-material art as an emancipatory force. Looking at pictures with no tangible objects, just shapes and colours, liberates you. Like the painting of ”Black Square” I had just bought and held in my hands, sitting in the magical chair.

I soared through light, bathed in light. Soon I saw a room before me, a control panel framed by a portal with greenish lustre. Sitting in the armchair I stately flew through the gate and came out in the lab, landing with a bump. I was home again, the same day as I had departed the place: June 23rd, 2008. I eyed the clock: half past three, just in time for the coffee break.

I got out of the chair, Swedenborg’s time machine. Right then a thought struck me: when I first ventured into the fourth dimension I discovered that I could travel by will of thought alone. I willed myself in a certain direction and immediately got there. So, I thought, standing in my Stockholm lab after coming back to my own times –- why hadn’t I willed myself back to Earth then? Why did I have to ask Swedenborg to help me?

Well, I got distracted I guess. After seeing the beauty of the Spiritual World I forgot about that willpower way of traveling. Had I remembered it, well, that would have saved me some tribulations. Then again, I did get to meet Swedenborg and see Stockholm of the 18th century, and that wasn’t so bad...

- - -

I pushed away the Swedenborg machine into a corner, hung the Malevitj on a wall and took off the 18th century attire I still wore, instead putting on a lab coat, approaching the control panel and shutting off my own machine; it had been running ever since I left. As I said I didn’t have an assistant. I was a bit of a loner.

Then there followed a debrief with the Professor, a report and an in your face to Welaion. Of course he questioned the results, I didn’t have any proof that I had been to the fourth dimension. And he for one didn’t want to test the machine, that would be way too dangerous! No one else dared either. Not immediately. But soon a veritable shuttle traffic to eternity got going so my portal didn’t stand idle there in my lab, I can tell you that. My metaphysical ideas began to be discussed in the science community. Seeing time as the fourth dimension slowly faded away.

As an epilogue to it all I can mention that I went to the public library one day shortly after coming home, the library being a golden brown structure with a cylinder atop a cube of sorts. I refer of course to the Stadsbiblioteket by Gunnar Asplund, situated on Sveavägen in the fair city of Stockholm. I went up the majestical stairs, crossed the rotunda and headed for one of the adjacent chambers –- and there, filed under ”C”, Religion, I found and borrowed some works of Swedenborg. Now there were Swedish translations, knowledge in Latin wasn’t needed.

It was an exciting read I must say, like Vedic or Platonic philosophy in a curiously personal vein, esoteric visions from a man who had seen what he spoke about. I decided to become a full-fledged esoteric myself there and then. Yea, verily: I started to venture into spiritual lands, into pious emotions and encounters with the holy and the sacred.

How then to combine it all with objective science? you might ask. That sacred stuff I had gotten into. Well, in science you have to be cold and analytic, I fully agree, but an underlying feeling of awe and wonder doesn’t stand in your way. On the contrary: it inspires you.

As a scientist you need inspiration –- so where better to find it than in spiritual lands...?

Yes indeedy! So spiritual lands, here I come, half way up the rig and a sliderule between my teeth: a 21st century Columbus for the astral world...!




Related
"The Middle Zone", another Svensson story
Ascended Masters: Some Info
Is Obama the Mahdi?
In Swedish: Mediakriget sett som gerillakrig
In Swedish: PK-regimen är ett skräckvälde
Elias Martin, "Utsikt över Stockholm"

Swedish Mystique


What foreigners know about Sweden is the Nobel Prize, Ingmar Bergman and such.




In my collection I have a book by Peter Englund. Yeah, it's him, the Secretary of Svenska Akademin. He even signed it for me, imagine that...! Maybe I should write him and try to influence him in giving me the Nobel Prize in literature. Well maybe. Or maybe not.

Anyhoo, The Prize and Akademin are part of what you can call Swedish Mystique. It's those things that foreigners find exotic and alluring with Sweden. Another one might be Ingmar Bergman. Everybody loves him, right? Who can resist "The Seventh Seal" with the white-faced Death playing chess with the statuesque Max von Sydow? The nihilism and Angst aside I too like this film. Bergman might lack some depth, some esoteric footing, but on the whole his film is a great one. Life and death, the knight and the common people he meets, the landscapes, the interiors, it all adds up to a mystic whole, Swedish style.

- - -

So what's more to say about the Swedish allure? Neverending pine forests, that's pretty typical for Sweden's inland. I was born there. Now I live by the coast but we have rather a lot of woodland here too. I love these woods. It's the playground for sagas and myths, for John Bauer and traditionalism. A student of Bauer's school was Gustaf Tenggren who eventually joined Disney Studios and painted backgrounds for Snow White and Pinocchio. He knew how to draw trees and make them contribute to the atmosphere. Tenggren made a lasting impact on the Disney Studio and their renderings of folk tales such as Cinderella and The Sleeping Beauty.

I'm a Swede and a mystic, an adept and a scholar, so I've gotta be the definition of Swedish Mystique. We've been living in a materialistic paradigm until now. Now's the time for Antropolis. Now's the time for dancing in the woods to the tune of Jethro Tull's "Broadsword":
Bring me my broadsword
and clear understanding,
bring me my cross of gold
as a talisman...
I'm a very mystic man. I sing about my home on the High Coast, about the Northlandic Strain. Dance to the sound of saami drums, dance in the splendour of the Nordic Light.




Related
Antropolitan -- The Only Way to Fly
Secular Hymns
Judas Priest: Point of Entry
Eld och rörelse
Novellsamling
Skogskyrkogården south of Stockholm, architect Sigurd Lewerentz

tisdag 9 september 2014

The Not-So-Good of Philip K. Dick


Of course I love Phil Dick also. Even when he was bad he could be interesting. And as for his outright good ones, here's my appreciation of them on Motpol, in Swedish. But in the blog post you're now reading I'm going to list some Dick books I disagree with.




The five worst Philip K. Dick Novels, how about that for a controversy? Again, let me just say that I generally luuurv Dick. Make no mistake about it. But here I've decided to seek out the worst books by PKD.

And here they are.



1.

A Maze Of Death -- you've got it, death-death, desolation and drug-induced paranoia such as insects with guns... This simply doesn't rock. However, I've still got the book and won't sell it. It still kinda "radiates quality". It's the magic of the author's name I guess.



2.

Dr. Bloodmoney Or How We Got Along After The Bomb -- in short: you can't write about The Bomb. It goes beyond human drama, then as well as now.



3.

The Three Stigmata Of Palmer Eldritch -- all in all a great book but I'm bothered by the setting in an Earth plagued by scorching sunshine. It doesn't contribute to the story, other than saying we shall pity the characters.



4.

Eye In The Sky -- again a good book compared to many others, however the framing of the characters (right-wing guy, prissy secretary, religious fanatic) is a bit too clever-clever, a Simpson's-like satire, i. e., not hard-hitting at all. And all the railings against religion are trite; later on Dick learned better in that respect.



5.

The Man In The High Castle -- Nazis bad, Japs innately good, now that's "a bedtime-story for the children of the damned" I'd say. OK, it's wrong to call this a bad book. In fact it's got most of the marks of a classic. But I freak out on the implicit antiwhiteness of it all.





Related in Swedish
van Vogt
The Man In The High Castle
Dick: Vad är verkligt?
Dickish
Paranoid science fiction
Katedralbyggare och kritiker
Adams, Dick, Donaldson...
Jim Ballard

lördag 6 september 2014

On Coleridge's "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner"



The Rime, The Rime, I love this Rime. All of it.




So where to begin? I guess I'll start with some random lines. Like the ones Iron Maiden quoted in their eponymous song, "The Rime Of The Ancient Mariner" on their 1985 album Powerslave:

Day after day, day after day,
we stuck, nor breath nor motion;
as idle as a painted ship
upon a painted ocean.

Water, water, every where,
and all the boards did shrink;
water, water every where
nor any drop to drink.


These are catchy lines, vividly capturing the desolation of the ill-fated ship in these death-marked waters. It's the curse of the albatross, the bird that the mariner hath slain. And why did he do that? It's not clear, he just did it, a boyish deed that generates bad karma. He shot it with bow and arrow, took the majestical bird down from its flight in the skies above the ship.

And there's more: there's Death itself approaching, or, to be precise, Death and Death-In-Life, whatever that means. Spooky it is though, and even spookier when some accursed sea-creatures surround the mariner's ship, the ship he now sails alone as the crew have been pixilated by Death's curse:

Beyond the shadow of the ship,
I watched the water-snakes:
they moved in tracks of shining white,
and when they reared, the elfish light
fell off in hoary flakes.

Within the shadow of the ship
I watched their rich attire:
blue, glossy green, and velvet black,
they coiled and swam; and every track
was a flash of golden fire.

O happy living things! no tongue
their beauty might declare:
a spring of love gushed from my heart,
and I blessed them unaware:
sure my kind saint took pity on me,
and I blessed them unaware.

The selfsame moment I could pray;
and from my neck so free
the albatross fell off, and sank
like lead into the sea.


Symbolic, aint it? The bird hung around his neck falls off and light shines in, the curse seems to be lifted, allayed, tempered -- but alas, it's still there! The trials and tribulations are not over, this ride has many facets. The mariner still has to travel across many-a dark waters and desolate seas.



As you can see I'm writing about Samuel T. Coleridge's "The Rime Of The Ancient Mariner." Now I'll go on with the show, even trying to reach some sort of conclusion.

Above I told you about this and that, about the mariner going about some trials and tribulations on a certain sea voyage. He is for example freed from a certain curse but not entirely saved as his shipmates have become undead ghouls in the process. Anyhow, the journey continues. The ship is ushered on from beneath by a benign water-spirit, having helped the ship previously during the voyage:

Under the keel nine fathom deep,
from the land of mist and snow,
the spirit slid: and it was he
that made the ship to go.


Note the overall style in this work: a mixture between lyricism and epic poetry. Epic poems, narrative in verse form went out of style soon after this one (or had already), i. e. in the early 19th century, but at the same time Coleridge was a lyrical poet so in this sense he was able to communicate with the modern audience. And with today's audience too, as his work is timeless.

- - -

The curse is off but still the mariner is surrounded by his undead crew mates, looking at him with empty eyes ("all fixed on me their stony eyes, / that in the moon did glitter"). On they go, gliding over the water's surface if by wind or magic I don't know, and then the mariner descries something familiar: the harbour town, his home port, the one they left so long ago for this fateful journey.

Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed
the light-house top I see!
Is this the hill? is this the kirk?
is this mine own countree?


Into the harbour they sail. And at the same time the souls of the undead sailors take leave of their earthly vessels, having become shiny seraphs aiming for heaven:

This seraph-band, each waved his hand:
it was a heavenly sight!
They stood as signals to the land,
each one a lovely light;

This seraph-band, each waved his hand,
no voice did they impart --
no voice; but oh! the silence sank
like music on my heart.


The conclusion is well nigh.

- - -

Yeah, verily: a pilot approaches -- and then the great ship suddenly sinks. The mariner is rescued aboard the pilot boat and is rowed ashore. And then he's off to tell his story to anyone he meets ("this soul has been alone on a wide, wide sea"...).

This poem has many esoterical, pious traits, like the water-spirit, the sea-creatures that become friendly and the penance with the albatross hung around the neck. And at the end we have a certain hermit along in the pilot boat, and this we get to know about the hermit's life: "He singeth loud his godly hymns / that he maketh in the wood." And:

This hermit good lives in that wood
which slopes down to the sea.
How loudly his sweet voice he rears!
He loves to talk with marineres
that come from a far countree.

He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve --
he hath a cushion plump:
it is the moss that wholly hides
the rotted old-oak-stump.


The framework of the poem is the mariner telling his story to a certain wedding guest, right before the ceremony is about to beging. That's where it starts off and that's where it ends, the mariner saying this to the wedding guest:

Farewell, farewell! but this I tell
to thee, thou wedding-guest!
He prayeth well, who loveth well
both man and bird and beast.

He prayeth best, who loveth best
all things both great and small;
for the dear God who loveth us,
he made and loveth all.


"Love, yeah baby, that's the secret", as Louis Armstrong says in the intro to "What a Wonderful World"... I like this conclusion, I like the pious traits of it all. The Rime isn't just some romantical outing, some stylistical showing off -- no, it's a downright spiritual, esoterical, finely vibrating piece of crystalline beauty, the religious feeling being expressed in symbolical terms and not going about it with psalm-song, priests and Bible-beating and all that.




Related
Ascended Masters: Some Info
Is Obama the Mahdi?
In Swedish: Mediakriget sett som gerillakrig
In Swedish: PK-regimen är ett skräckvälde
In Swedish: Alfredsson och Danielsson
The illustration in the middle is by Gustave Doré.

torsdag 4 september 2014

Dokument: Min värnpliktstjänstgöring


1984-1985 gjorde jag lumpen som infanterist. Bevisen för detta finns hos Rekryteringsmyndigheten. Jag har nu begärt ett utdrag ur deras register.




Man måste ha belägg för det man säger. Säger jag till exempel, "jag är fil kand", så bevisar jag det med relevanta dokument.

Detsamma gäller för min värnpliktstjänstgöring. Fakta om den finns lagrad i Rekryteringsmyndighetens datorer. Nyss tillskrev jag denna instans och bad om ett utdrag. Det har man rätt till. Sin egen tjänsteförteckning har man rätt att få ut.

Nu återger jag delar av det hela här. Det gör jag för att förebygga angrepp på mig, angrepp sådana som en nationalist får vara beredd på i dagens kulturklimat. Anklagelser om lögn etc.

- - -

Jag begärde ut mina uppgifter. Vad fick jag då? Jag fick en bunt med papper. Se bilder för detaljer ur dem.

Nu tänker jag inte återge allt som står i dem. Men bilderna plus det jag nedan återger ur dokumentet berättar på ren svenska om mitt liv som infanterist, som verksam I Rikets Tjänst, som soldat beredd att försvara landet med liv och blod.


De papper jag fick av Rekryteringsmyndigheten kan sammanfattas som: följebrev signerat Lena Ahlbom-Barrefors (handläggare), kopior av inskrivningsdokument (hälsotest mm) samt utdrag ur Rekryteringsmyndighetens dataregister.

I det sistnämnda kan man läsa sådant som att jag, Per Hugo Lennart Svensson, 65---, var furir. Denna grad erhöll jag 2/8 1985. Min befattningskod var BEVAKNINGSGRUPPCHEF. Min krigsbefattningskod var STF C BEVAKNINGSGRUPP. Jag har färdighet att köra lastterrängbil och tung lastbil. Mitt vitsord var X88 (= normalhögt). Jag tjänstgjorde på Västernorrlands regemente I 21, från oktober 1984 till augusti 1985. Utryckningen skedde 1/8 1985. Mönstrade gjorde jag i Östersund, den 19/9 1983.

- - -

Det var något om min tjänstgöring. Detta är fakta i målet. För övrigt kan man ju i ämnet tala om skidpatruller, grg-skjutning, ksp-rassel och taptot som ljuder över kaserngården i skymningen, en färdiginspelad trumpetmelodi, ekande från kasernvakten och ut över regementets kaserngård, dess huvudgata, dess bakgator och prång. Mer om det, om mina lumparminnen, här.

Om min värnplikt vill jag bara tillfoga detta: jag tjänstgjorde, jag försvarade landet. Dokumentet ovan talar sitt tydliga språk. Och nu fortsätter kampen metapolitiskt. Det är än tid, det är hög tid att försvara det traditionella Sverige mot globalister, kulturmarxister och betongliberaler. Det gör jag genom inlägg som detta.




Relaterat
Mina lumparminnen
Jag är fil kand
Nationalism -- ett sätt att bekämpa Imperiet
Camouflage (2011)
Kriget Gondavien -- Mirotanien

onsdag 3 september 2014

Öde städer i "Eld och rörelse"


2007 gav jag ut en bok, novellsamlingen "Eld och rörelse". Den kan numera läsas fritt i elektronisk form. Vill ni ladda ner pdf:en till boken går ni hit, till detta inlägg. Där finns en länk till filen på Dropbox. Det är gratis.




Ett subtema i "Eld och rörelse" är för sin del öde städer, övergivna stadsrum som psykologiska landskap. I novellen "Latonia" kommer t ex en man till en öde stad, möter en vacker kvinna, umgås med henne och förstår sedan att hon var stadens själ, dess "anima" - men då var det för sent...

En annan öde stad har vi i "Nineves skatt", om en antik perser som finner nämnda ruinstad och går ner i ett valv för att möta ett vaktande monster. Kommer han att överlista detta för att finna skatten? Denna story gillades av författaren Percival. Det sa han åtminstone till mig på telefon.

I "Norrlandsproblematiken" har folket i denna landsände drabbats av galenskap, av vansinne av att stirra in i de omgivande skogarna dagen lång; de har lämnat Norrland i stora skaror och inkvarterats i läger i Mälardalen. Uppsalapsykologen Rickard Länseborg sänds då upp till Norrland för att studera problemet på plats, och i den kända metropolen Åsele möter han en annan psykolog, Viveka Pjäx, utsänd från Lund. De inser att enda sättet att rädda staden, rädda Norrland från sitt elände är att drömma en bättre värld, "dreaming together" i Castanedas anda. Resultatet överträffar deras vildaste fantasier...

- - -

Vidare bland "Eld och rörelses" öde städer kan man nämna novellen "Synkrongeneratorn". Där går en man runt i en öde teknostad och växelverkar med dess engram. Läs om impedansmanometrar, alkalieflor, hardyskivor och annat dylikt.

Sist har vi titelstoryn, själva den 40-sidiga "Eld och rörelse", där allt kulminerar i en krigshärjad, ödelagd stad. Det är ruiner som skelett och takbjälkar som blottade revben, det är klagande metall och ekande tomma gaturum, tomhylsor i rännstenen och mulen himmel, avancemang ut i tomma intet och regn som faller utan att han blinkar... Storyn jämfördes av Göran Lundstedt med Ernst Jüngers "Sturm".

Det finns en nätsajt som heter Rostsverige. Där visas bilder över allsköns nedlagda miljöer: tennisbanor, fabriker, dansbanor och allt som tänkas. Gillar man den gillar man nog de öde nejderna i "Eld och rörelse" också. Och där finns förvisso noveller om mycket annat: om en åsiktskonstnär, galaxens herre, riddaren, djävulen och döden (en annan Percivalfavorit), en kvartsklippa och ett svenskt Roswell. Med mera!

Vill ni ladda ner pdf:en till boken går ni hit, till detta inlägg. Där finns en länk till filen på Dropbox. Det är gratis.




Relaterat
Rostsverige
Nationalism: ett sätt att bekämpa Imperiet
Exopolitisk närvaro
Glädje
Kopisten i Babylon
Bilden på ödekyrkan är från Detroit, om jag inte minns fel.

Etiketter

A-Z (5) abb (89) abbm (6) abbX (4) agajan (5) ahma (6) aktuellare böcker (36) aktufall (5) alga (3) Andersson (2) Antropolis (17) apatia (10) ar (34) att vara Svensson (221) Ballard (11) begr (5) berättelser från Rokkana (19) Bhagavad-gîtâ (6) bilbabbel (19) bild (10) bim (12) bing (300) biografi (22) bloggish (55) Blue Öyster Cult (4) camo (6) Castaneda (21) conspi (20) d-icke (2) Den musiske matlagaren (14) Dick (8) dune (8) Eld och rörelse (32) en gatas melankoli (10) En novell om Babylon (4) eng (4) eso (4) esoterica (123) etni (13) fall (4) fantasi-fantaså-fantasy (20) film och TV (42) flytten (3) gambla fiina versepos (4) gld (7) grek (10) Gripenbergs sol (4) heinlein (3) historia in nuce (157) hårdrocken rockar hårt (39) intr. mus (33) inva (25) ipol (70) islam (6) italia (3) japan (4) Jünger (75) Jüngers liv (10) Kierkegaard (2) konsten att slå en tennisserve (18) Kristus (25) kuro (2) libyen (19) link (38) lite litteratur (100) ljus (6) Lovecraft (14) Maiden (9) mangs (2) Melinas resa (8) memoarer (10) mena (43) multiversums mytolog (5) natio (64) Nietzsche (4) niven (4) nuochda (1) Ohlmarks (5) ondit (14) oneline (1) ori ett lag (57) pil (5) poesy (34) politikka (199) pr (59) pred (3) Priest (14) prophecy (24) rymd (13) sanskrit (9) sf man minns (99) small candies (123) Smaragdeburg (5) speng (6) stein (5) Stratopias gåta (70) survi (6) svens11 (10) Sveriges störste poet (8) Swedenborg (4) symbol (4) Syrien (17) tempel (30) Tolkien (4) topp5 (9) typer (15) USA (19) uselt (8) van Vogt (9) Vandra mot ljuset (3) vju (4) zeppelin (2)