Time

Time.
The concept of time STARTING at some point, gives most people a sense of dread.
How could TIME start? What was before that? Oh, wait. The use of the word before would be void wouldn't it? No before, no after, and no now. No moments. No nothing.

Thank (please enter preferred spiritual entity), for the beginning of time! For the development of the universe, the world, the eons of evolutional selection and the formation of humanity.

The main concept of time, when thinking about it in the grand scheme of things, is that it seems to pass very slowly. Or quickly. Slow in terms of the lifetime of the Earth. Quick in terms of the lifetime of a human being.

Isn't it strange that humanity has changed how we live compared to the passing of time? Have shifted focus from Earth's to humanities' concepts of time, and timelines?

First, and most obviously, ecologically and environmentally. The nomadic indigenous people of the world left no trace. No structures that couldn't be taken down and moved easily, no cumbersome works of art. They lived with the time of the Earth. That changed. Now we use up resources left right and centre, and the timeline we follow is our own. Humanities'.

But that is not all.
In the grand scheme of things we have also changed the time perspective in society. Old political ideas used to be taken from years of research and used to be made after years of evaluation. For the benefit of the country, the religion or the state. For humanity. Now political decisions are made, not to fit the timeline of a human life, but even shorter than that. To last to the next election. Haphazardly the world is run, and the timelines shortened.

Average Joe had a timeline that stretched from his grandfather and to his grandchildren. Decisions were made to secure the future of the land and the farm.
But in a modern society information and data is available at lightning speed. Will we stop and think? Will we get back to the days where our decisions were made for the future of our family, of our children, and our environment? Or are we caught in a spiral of shorter and shorter timelines, until we make decisions that are beneficial in one moment, and fatal in the next?

Confessions from a self help addict

So I have this weird love for self help books.
Nothing inspires me more! For a day or two.. For as long as I can keep up the Positivity Diary/Daily Affirmations/"Smile all the time' - strategies. Then fall back to earth and back again in the every day worries and stresses. But every time I get a new book I get such a lovely fix of self help motivation that I always come back for more. However, there is one thing I always realise when I have my come-down from the latest self-help high: We humans are truly social animals.
Because nothing beats a quick phone call from my mum, a lunch break with a colleague, a discussion about wind farms with my partner (..yes... it was a great conversation at the time!) Or a laugh down the pub, or a game with friends, or a good work meeting, or...

So for this weeks Tee time i am trying out a poem - And it's dedicated to all the self-help gurus out there!

//  Tee  --  Has decided she likes the freedom of poetry! Perhaps because her general grammar is a bit...shady.. and many recent email has been sent in 'yoda-talk'


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The inner strength is easy to find
    Just do it 
make yourself happy and control your mind
    Just be it 
stop all the worries and suffocate sadness
(with something other than pity and ice cream)
The inner strength is easy to find
    Just do it

Failed attempts pile up fast
    Can't do it
piles up to a mountain for the weak climber
    Can't be it
the mountain of worries can't be conquered 
(even by the most experienced climber)
and failed attempts they pile up fast
    Can't do it

But there is the comfort from the dearest
    Is helping
comforts like snow softly and heavily
    Keep helping
covers the world in a sparkling blanket
(even fills up the valleys all the way to the summit)
all the way to the top of the tallest peak
    Can walk it

High School Drama

The morning of her first day in high school Mary stood in front of the mirror, dabbing her face with the latest formaldehyde face cream. She had her favourite wig on, a blonde bob with golden highlights. She was nervous. Going through school she had been popular and studying had been easy. But now she was starting at the new high school in town. New school. New people. What if she didn't get any friends? What if the workload turned out to be too much for her? Those new hormone treatments made her struggle enough as it was, without the added responsibility of studying.. What if there would be no other ZBs?

The ZB virus always hit unexpectedly. And silently.
The silence was the first sign. The deadly quietness. An absence of life.
Mary had only been a two year old baby when her mother had walked in on her lying in the crib with her eyes wide open and a smile on her lips. But without making a single sound. No rustling around in the crib. No gurgling or laughing. No breathing. Her dad always made jokes about how her mothers screams probably scared half the neighbourhood into ZB on that very day. Mary hated him joking about it, but didn't have the heart to tell him. It was his own way of dealing.
In panic they had taken baby Mary to the A&E. The hospital staff were used to it happening. Gave them coffee, showed them all the flyers. With regular treatment ZB victims could be just like any other person. Their regular routines would have to change obviously, and Mary would have to get used to plenty of hospital visits, but with care she would be able to lead a normal life. She would however loose her hair and teeth fairly quickly and, sadly, she would never be able to have children.
Mary knew her mother had cried at the news of never being a grandmother, but she couldn't see what the fuss was all about herself. But perhaps later she would.

Mary had changed a lot lately, and didn't like it. Ever since that day back when she was two she had been going to the local ZB clinic for weekly treatments. Regular inter cranial injections of epigenetically manipulated stem cells for her brain. A few electrical shocks to avoid the heart muscle from rotting completely, combined with blood transfusions to make up for the lack of blood flow. She also went for monthly physiotherapy sessions where she was taught a set of chest exercises to get into the habit of filling the lungs with air, even though she had no need for it. In combination with the daily injections of trioxane for normal nerve function she thought she had more than enough to go through. But on her 13th birthday she had been given yet another prescription. The customary cocktail of hormones served to all ZB victims to simulate puberty. It tasted vile, and she had to take it every morning until the age of 20. She knew it was needed to go through to adulthood properly. But she still hated it. With a fierce passion.



On the way to high school Mary was in a state of near panic. She had never been this nervous in her life. Her father tried to comfort her the best he could during the drive to town. She wished he wouldn't. He left her mortified at the school gate after having given her a very public hug. After waving good bye she rushed in to the building. She was sure she would have been out of breadth if she had had one, and used some of her chest exercises. Partly to get something to occupy her terrified mind with, and partly to try to fit in as best she could. It took nearly twenty minutes for her to find the right room for her first class, and she was one of the last of the students to enter.

There were no other ZBs. No one but her who had perfect hair and teeth. No one but her smelling faintly of formaldehyde. As she walked to an empty seat at the back of the classroom she could almost feel the eyes on her. Hear the hiss of whispers travelling across the room. She wanted to die. Again.

When the physics teacher entered the room, the class suddenly went silent. Everyone stared at the striking woman who had just walked through the door. Professor Cho gave the class a blinding smile with her false teeth, flicked a strand of hair from the wig out of her face and said; 'All right class, lets get started!'. As she turned to wipe the whiteboard Mary smiled. It was going to be alright.

What a Perfect Night!

The gothic architecture of Edinburgh closed in on her as she turned down the small close just off the High Street. Her heels echoed between the narrow walls. She had strong ankles, developed through years of wearing high heals on the 17th century cobbles of city.
What a perfect night! A meal out with work had turned into a bar crawl in Old Town. One of those impromptu events that you never realised was going to be great. She smiled a little to herself when she thought of her colleagues. Like the Edinburgh story of Jekyll and Hyde her somber, and somewhat boring, work friends turned into right beast after taking their magical potion, in this case; lager. For once she was looking forward to seeing everyone again on monday.
Suddenly her smile froze. Heartbeat raised instantly. She concentrated on walking at the same pace whilst listening intently. Thought she had heard someone. After a few more paces she was sure. The steps were not just an echo.

She kept walking down the narrow close at a pace as even as she could make it. But when she reached the main road by Waverley train station she turned the east corner as quickly as she could. She felt her own heartbeat at the base of her throat. And as she glanced over her shoulder she could feel, rather than see, the shadow exiting the close behind her and follow her up the street.
Her pace was very fast, almost running, as she finally reached the top of her own street. The shadow was still behind her. Her heartbeat was a heavy drum inside her head. Her breadth shallow and fast.
When she could see her own front door she broke into a full run, and fumbled with the keys inside her pocket. The steps behind her sounded too close. Too fast. She reached the doorway and, as by a miracle, got the door opened on her first try. As she entered the stairwell she slammed the door behind her. Leaning against the wall catching her breath she could see the outline of a dark figure behind the stained glass of the door. She quickly unlocked the door to her flat and ran up to the front room window without turning on the lights. Peeking out behind the curtain she could see the figure walk back to the other side of the street. He turned around. Looked right at her. Watching.


She quickly kicked her heals to the other end of the room and ran through to the kitchen and her locked cupboard. Everything was ready. She was excited now. The black soft leather trainers felt heavenly after those heals.
Her kit slung over her shoulder, she went up to the front window and carefully parted the curtain. He was still there. She realised he looked surprisingly handsome. Dark hair and eyes. Agreeable in a sinister way.

After a couple of minutes he turned, and walked down the street. She gave him the customary 40seconds head start. You can't be too eager! She then snuck out the door and started following him on soft rubber soles. When she caught up he was nearly back at the train station. She hoped he wouldn't take the route back to the busy city centre, and got lucky. He walked down towards the car park in the garage behind the station. She snuck in and kept low behind the row of cars that separated her and the man. The sharp yellow sodium lamps in the ceiling made him look even more striking. Her heart skipped a little and the warmth spread from between her legs. Excellent.

He slowed down by an old mondeo. As he started rummaging around his coat pockets for his keys she was already behind him.

She smiled. Breathed in the heavy air, thick with the smell of fresh blood. She licked the knife. What a perfect night!

A feeling of being ahead

The adverts woke her up at her usual time. Happy tunes chiming away, promoting the latest in facial reconstructions and insurance policies. She got out of bed as soon as she could, and the adverts stopped automatically.
She had always loved getting up early. Having finished the latest news reports, gone for a jog on the treadmill and had an acid shower before anyone else in the house woke up filled her with a sense of superiority. Of being ahead.

As she sat down to start work she noticed a weird redness on her forearms. Perhaps the acid dose in the shower was a bit too strong for her? She had always had sensitive skin. She went to the bathroom cupboard and injected an extra dose keratin. Soon her new skin would be smooth again.

The keyboard hologram flickered a bit before it came alive in front of her. The projector was ancient. Not many people bothered with typing these days. The new clever dictaphone apps had certainly changed the life of a journalist! But she was of the old school, and liked the feeling of her fingers typing. It somehow gave her just the right amount of time between forming the message and moving her fingers over the letters. It kept her from making no where near as many mistakes as when she dictated her stories. She thought about what music to listen to as she typed out the interview she had held with the manager of TeleTub from the day before. Chopin. Her implant instantly translated her needs and she was soon engulfed in the sweet notes of a Nocturne. Just what she wanted.

It was nearly two hours before the adverts from the implant interrupted her in her writing. She had been enjoying her interview so much time had passed without her knowing! She loved that feeling of 'flow'. Journalism was her calling. The adverts sang out their messages of various new food replicators, TeleTub travel insurance, and new coffee brands. She realised she must have subconsciously been feeling a bit hungry and went into the kitchen.

Whilst waiting for the replicator to figure out what type of flavours she wanted she thought about TeleTub. The interview had been fascinating. She had no idea that the science behind human teleportation had finally caught up with them! That TeleTub transported goods like this was old news, and it was well known that the transported items sometimes came out a little worse for wear. The entangled photonics messaging that was used to transport the information were supposed to be impossible to decrypt, but it still happened that the products appeared at the receiving end with more than a few items missing or broken. Hackers were getting cleverer by the day, and TeleTub stocks had been losing their value steadily for months. No one would ever risk teleporting themselves and appearing at their destination with your arms missing. Or, as the anti-teleportation activists kept pointing out, the perhaps more sinister version where you arrive at your destination with a changed political view, or without empathy..

But her interview with the TeleTub manager had been a real eye opener. The new encryption algorithms had been tested in secret for months and seemed unbreakable. She had even succeeded in getting the manager to hint that a big publicity test was being done very soon. It was a real scoop, and she hoped she would get the opportunity to witness the first manned teleportation event! It would feel like science fiction!

Sleepy Hyde

The ring I had put on her finger only hours earlier opened up a long gash along my chin as she hit me square in the face with her left fist.
Dark brown eyes. Empty wells of darkness. No longer the woman I loved. As she tried to hit me again I managed to grab hold of the wrist and stop her. The noise she made was that of an angry animal. A primitive snarl.
Hands bound on her back. Bath robe belt stained by the bloodied ring. Having to restrain her made me hurt inside.

The wedding had been beautiful. Our closest friends all in the same place, celebrating our love. Her dark brown eyes had sparkled with gold and happiness, as she said 'I do'. The skirt of her dress was flowing like the frothy water of a wild river as I watched her dance the evening away. I had hoped all the dancing in combination with numerous glasses of champagne might tire her out. Give her a heavy sleep.

It was three weeks before the wedding when I made my decision. I was not going to tell her. As the big day approached I knew I had to make up my mind. Man and wife. Say it, of forever hold my tongue. I would deal with it. Subdue it. I would love her forever.

The dark empty eyes looked at me with hate. I tried to ignore it. Played with my phone as I laid on the luxurious bed in the honeymoon suite. Pretending not to hear its quiet growl.

It had been going on since the very start. The first time I saw her she was sitting in an old mans pub. Drinking a pint of lager and with her legs relaxed wide she did not look out of place. Until she turned around. Long blonde hair. Almost white. A thousand strands of golden linen that framed a stunningly beautiful face with dark brown lively eyes. I had no idea what on earth she was doing in my smelly local pub, but what ever the reason was, I was going to be forever thankful. From that moment on we were inseparable. The flames of passion had lasted for more than a year, and only barely cooled down since. She was vibrant.

The first time it happened I had known her for a month. After a night in with some wine and a movie I woke up to the most terrifying scene. Her. Standing in the middle of the room. Head cocked to one side, watching me silently. I realised instantly that something was different. Wrong. This was not just her sleepwalking. The eyes looked deep and empty. Almost questioning me. Like it didn't know who I was. I was not able to make a sound. After what felt like an eternity it left the room and I followed. When she woke up a few minutes later, lying in the sofa she did not remembered anything. She smiled at me, and laughed at her 'sleep walking antics' that had been a part of her life since her early teens.

As I looked over at its bloodied and ripped wedding dress I wondered why no one had ever told her. Surely someone would have noticed what happened to her in the night? Someone would have seen that this was not just a sleep walking woman, but something.. different? But I already knew the reason why. I had battled with the question myself and made my decision. No. I was not going to tell her. Nothing would be worse than knowing you turned into something else, something evil, when you thought you were asleep.

I would guard her, subdue the evil, and love her forever.

Getting Physical

Professor Stevenson walked up through the corridor towards his office. He was in a foul mood after a long and restless night. The physics department was still deserted. As this was the first day back for the undergraduate students after the summer break, he was sure the department would be very busy very soon. The sun was just creeping over the horizon, throwing long shadows over the worn floors. He crossed over to his office door, wondering if he would be lucky today. He tried to open it. No. He tried again, concentrating hard. Nothing happened. He sighed. He walked back along the corridor towards the library, with the aim to pass some time before the rest of the staff would arrive and perhapsgive him a hand.

He didn't like the new person he had been forced to share an office with. In fact, he couldn't remember ever having voted through the absurd suggestion of sharing offices with each other in the first place. Ridiculous. What was happening to the physics department?! Professor Stevenson was going to give the University Committee hell at the next meeting. But until then he was confined to one half of his own office, with the new faculty member taking up more space than was needed. A Dr O'Donnell. He had no idea what she could possibly know about ultrafast lasers, being so incredibly young, but apparently this one was one of the latest stars. He wished she would at least look at him. But instead she was obviously mocking him by carelessly resting her feet on her desk and reviewing a research paper whilst picking her nose, as if he wasn't even there! Outrageous. He made a symbolically loud sigh. She looked up at him. He smiled, but she just shrugged her shoulders and looked away.

He was on his way to the library. The morning had been unproductive, mainly disturbed by the arrogance of his new colleague. He loved the library. It made him feel at piece. He could collect his thoughts, and also secretly look up all his old research publications, dreaming his way back to more productive times. He could stay in the library for days at the time.

He had to rush to make it back to the lecture theatre on time. He loved the first lecture for the new batch of physics students. Their innocent faces, still eager to learn and willing to study - not yet seduced by the cheap beer in the student union bar and the freedom of living away from your parents. The students were already on their way in through the door when he arrived. He had to squeeze past a young boy to get in. The boy suddenly shrieked for no reason and Professor Stevenson had to give him an angry look. What nonsense. He walked up towards the podium. But Dr O'Donnell was already standing there. He was confused. Did she want to speak to him perhaps? Maybe apologise for her strange behaviour towards him?

'Welcome to your very first lecture as physics students. My name is Dr O'Donnell, and as many of you might have heard I will be teaching your Mechanics Course this term, as I am taking over after the untimely death of Professor Stevenson earlier in the spring…'

He tried to understand. But he couldn't. He walked back out of the lecture theatre, along the corridor, slowly walking towards to the library. He needed to think. The University committee was going to get hell for this.

Mind Movement

Oh my freaking God, it moved!
I am sure it did!
Or did it?

He blinked a few times. Closed his eyes. No. Surely not. Impossible.
He opened his eyes and looked over at the bookcase. His favourite green mug, the one with the ridiculous pattern of gnomes on it, stood on the top shelf. Vapour ringlets rising from the still hot coffee. He was sitting in the sofa, propped up on all the pillows he owned. In accordance with the Law of Sod he had just found the perfect position in amongst the pillows, put his headphones on and had just started the movie before realising his brew was left on the shelf on the other side of the room. So close, and yet so far.
In frustration he had instantly stared angrily at the mug and willed it to move, like some badass jedi. Ridiculous. But it had moved! Hadn't it?..

For a moment he thought that he might be going crazy. He was sure he remembered reading about some weird branch of schizophrenia where your mind is convinced it had super powers or something like that.. But no. It was a hell of a lot more likely that yesterdays monster session of Skyrim had something to do with it. Messing up his mind.

He sighed and smiled to himself at his ridiculous ideas. Perhaps he should lay off the energy drinks next time he had a longer gaming session? Or perhaps he should lay off the gaming completely...

He laid his he'd back and closed his eyes. Maybe the feeling of dread would go away quickly this time?
It was only 6 months since the end of high school. He had hated every minute of every year he had been forced to go to school. But now the fog created by happiness and beer from all graduation parties, the joy of final freedom after a lifetime of studies, was lifting and left behind was a harsh reality of unemployment. The finality of it all left him with feelings of panic - a slowly growing tumour, sprouting from somewhere behind his belly button, sending out slimy cold arms of anxiety, blocking his throat. He closed his eyes when they started to burn. People around him kept giving him advice. Everywhere he went, everyone he met and every website he visited seamed to scream out to him that he should DO something with his life. NOW!! Get a job! Live your dream! You can do it! Come on! Get a grip!

At the start it had been so easy to justify. Of course he should find out what he REALLY wanted to do with his life, but not yet! Surely he deserved a month or two of complete freedom after all these years of school? Wasn't he an adult after all? Could he not do what he wanted?
He was incredibly grateful to his parents. To let him stay in the flat rent free, in exchange for some menial duties. Mowing the lawn. Washing the car. He knew they would let him stay for as long as he wanted. The chores were only given to him to make him feel like he did something to deserve it. He knew he didn't. Knew he should get a job, any job. The tumour sent out a slimy hand, grabbing his lungs. He couldn't breathe. Recognising the start of a panic attack, he tried to think of something else - anything but the blackness of the future - and breathe slowly. It worked.

He took a deep breath. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would sit down and write a proper CV. Yes. That was it. He would sort himself out. Tomorrow.

He got up off the sofa and went over to the book case. When he was about a meter from the shelf, with his arm stretched out in front of him, the coffee cup shot off the shelf and into his hand. The force of it splashed the hot coffee all over his wrist and lower arm and the reflex made him drop the mug instantly. He looked down on the floor. Onto the broken bits of his favourite green mug in a pool of coffee. No. Freaking. Way. 

He stretched out his arm and faced the desk by the opposite wall. When his mobile phone hit his palm after zooming through the air, he smiled. Oh yeah. 

Two hours later he was sitting by the desk, feverishly writing a list. A long list of all the jobs he had ever wanted. All the places he had ever wanted to see. All the things he had ever wanted to do. Nothing can stop a man with superpowers!

OffSpring

He loved her so much. If he could, he would give her the world. And some. He knew it was a cliché, but for once he was sure. And he had never been sure of anything in his life until now.  Been a train running on full speed, with no driver for so long. But now he was going to sort it out. Fix everything.

He was a child from before the OffSpring scheme. From a time when everyone, including his mother, were allowed to have children as they pleased. The thought had messed up his mind on many occasions. He hated his mother. Her unwillingness to give him a single glance, let along some comforting words. A slap on the face if he had been brought home by police, perhaps. A mothers touch. But did he wish he had never been born?
Well, here he was. Born and bread in a council flat in Gypsy Hill, south east London. Wanting to get away from the smelly flat, with his sweaty nicotine stained mother permanently camped out in the sofa watching dramas, he had roamed the city. He could not count the fights, the smashed windows, the bottles of cider. It was not a pretty childhood.

When the government publicised their plans of giving double the job seekers allowance if you did not get a job within the year, he had happily voted yes. Even though the price was high. Chemical non-permanent sterilisation until you could prove a suitable level of income to support a child. The un-loved brats roaming the cities, wrecking havoc on the streets, had become too much for the new government. "The OffSpring scheme is only for the benefit of the children, the ones who do not get the love and support they need. No one will be left un-wanted ever again!!" The suggestion had been hailed as a revolutionary idea. No longer would poor women be able to have children just to claim benefits. Children they neither wanted nor cared about. More benefits would be available for everyone. He had looked back on his childhood and agreed with the government. So had the majority of the population. At the age of 23 he had received his compulsory injection. A small injection just behind the balls. Could be reversed at any time. As long as you proved you were married and had a stable income of no less than £15000 gross per annum.

It only took three months after he had signed up for the new job seekers scheme before he had been offered a job. He liked it. Not that he had ever dreamed about being a postman as a child. But then again, he hadn't had any dreams at all. He liked to be able to walk outdoors. To wear a uniform. He knew the streets like the back of his hand and always planned his rounds to make sure he had spare time to chat with shopkeepers and pub owners when delivering their post. The salary was good. £13000 a year, with a 10 percent increase every 6 months for three years. Life was getting better.

It was a sunny day in September, a surprise late summer warmth in the air, when he met her. A cashier at the new teashop on Westow Hill. Their shop uniforms were pale blue, and he remembered how her beauty made him breathless as he entered the teashop with their first ever delivery of letters. Her dark brown eyes had smiled at him as he gave her her post, and he had suddenly found himself without a single word to say. Every day for a month he had entered the teashop with butterflies in his belly, and every day she had smiled at him and he had stayed silent. But one day it changed. He thought he saw something in her eye. A twinkle? It loosened his vocal chords and he finally blurted out his first words to her: "Would you like to go for a coffee with me on saturday?" She had laughed, said she preferred tea, but had happily accepted his offer. He didn't sleep for the rest of the week.
Their first ever meetings were strange and beautiful. They spent most of the time in silence, looking at each other, wondering if this was too good to be true. After six months they moved in as newlyweds into a small flat above Gypsy Hill train station. The trains were noisy, but so were they, riding on the waves of passion. Life was perfect.

Her illness crept up on them slowly. It pretended to be a common cold for the first couple of months, but then bloomed out in full blown pneumonia. She survived it, but her throat didn't. The scarring left her with a permanent cough and a dark raspy voice. He didn't mind. Made her laugh by telling her she sounded like a sexy jazz singer. The owner of the tea shop did mind however. Apparently no one wants to buy tea from a raspy voiced cashier who coughs on the fine blends. She was moved to the back, stacking boxes at two thirds of her pay. He tried to comfort her, but she didn't stop sobbing. Every night he cradled her in his arms, wiping her tears as the trains rumbled past beneath them. He knew why she cried. He had done the maths too. With her current income he would need to earn at least £20000 for them to be able to reverse their sterilisation and start a family. He had never heard of a postman earning that much.
But he loved her. He was going to sort it out. Fix everything.

On his way to the meeting with the head of the Post Office he passed a playground. He decided to sit down for a bit. A small girl was climbing the climbing frame, shouting at imaginary crewmen as she captained her imaginary pirate ship. He smiled. The mother of the child sat at a bench opposite him, her head bent down, emerged in the latest app on her smartphone. The girl fell and screamed. He felt like he needed to comfort her and help, but didn't want to intervene. It was only a bruise, and the girl had soon wiped her tears and was climbing again. The mother had not looked up from her phone once.

Sitting on a bench by a playground, he cried.

GENomskådad

Hon sätter sig framför datorn och knappar in adressen. Handflatorna är svettiga. En vag darrning.
Sidan laddas omedelbart.

GENomskåda!

Så löjligt glad titeln ser ut. Knalligt turkosa bokstäver på grå botten. En glad titel som döljer ett mörkt budskap?
Hon har aldrig förr använt sig av den nya tjänsten. Eller ja, ny och ny, den Amerikanska internetsidan har funnits i över ett år, men först nu har Sveriges riksdag klubbat igenom godkännandet av förslaget. Ända sedan regeringen sålde ut både justitiekanslern och justitieombudsmannen till privata bemanningsföretag har förslaget varit på gång, och fått stort intresse i media. Alla har haft något att tycka om den databas där alla sveriges medborgares gener ligger snyggt uppradade, och huruvida den ska vara tillgänglig för allmänheten. Självklart, tycker hon! Hon förstår sig inte på alla de som klagar. Alla människor är faktiskt inte lika, utan kommer med ett genetiskt bagage, och alla har rätt att kolla upp vem de till exempel arbetar för eller, som i det här fallet, vill dela sin kärlek med.



Det var bara tre dagar sedan hon träffade honom, på universitetets bibliotek. En riktig klycha! Hon hade tappat tre av sina böcker på sin väg tillbaka till sin lilla läshörna och som en gammaldags gentleman hade han plötsligt suttit på huk bredvid henne och hjälpt henne att plocka upp böckerna. " Så kan det gå! " hade han sagt klämkäckt, och hon hade rodnat. Hon rodnade alltid. Förbannat. Han hade givit henne ett brett leende och gått därifrån. Ett par timmar senare tänkte hon fortfarande på honom - de blå ögonen och det halvlånga lockiga håret som ramade in ett klassiskt vacker ansikte. När han sedan stod framför henne med en liten papperslapp i sin hand rodnade hon mer än någonsin. Ett telefonnummer. Med löfte om att träffas nästa dag hade han gått sin väg, och lämnat henne med hjärtklappning och klarrött ansikte i läshörnan. 

Dagen efter mötet hade varit som en dröm! Med kopiös handsvett - som fick fingrarna att slira runt på nummerskivan på den gamla retro-kobratelefonen - hade hon slagit numret redan på förmiddagen. Passade en lunch kanske? Det gjorde det. 

Han var perfekt. Pluggade psykologi precis som hon, men i året under henne. Gillade brittisk nittiotalspop, hundar och att se på Lynch-filmer. Skrattade med otroliga smilgropar. Lunchen på kafeet hade blivit middag på restaurangen över gatan och några öl på krogen halvvägs hem till henne. Hon ville inte låta honom gå. Så hon gjorde inte det heller. Med ett stort pilimariskt leende tog han emot inbjudan om en nattfösare i hennes lägenhet. 

Trots att det var mitt i tentaperioden hade de tagit ledigt hela nästa dag. Med huvudet på hans bröstkorg och hans hand lekandes med hennes hår hade de pratat om allt mellan mekanismerna bakom kognitiv psykologi och fördelen med hemlagad senap på varmkorv. 

Hon är kär. Så ofattbart kär. När väninnan imorse påminde henne om att gen-databasen var igång kunde hon inte hålla sig utan satt nu insmygen i sin vanliga läshörna med den bärbara datorn igång på bordet framför henne.

GENomskåda!

Orden nästan skar in i ögonen på henne. Det lät så smutsigt på något vis. Sm om Han skulle haft något att genomskåda. Som om hon inte kände, med hela sitt hjärta och sin kropp, vem han faktiskt var. Kände hans själ. Men det var väl ändå hennes rätt att få veta om det nu, mot all förmodan var så att han kom med ett genetiskt bagage! Eller? Nu när tekniken fanns att få veta, varför skulle man inte ta sig den rättigheten då?! Eller var det verkligen en rättighet? Med namn och personnummer på den vackraste själ hon någonsin mött inskrivet i den lilla rutan och med handen svävandes över enter-tangenten var hon inte längre så säker. Hon tryckte ner knappen och blundade.

Det som en gång är sett kan man inte göra osett. Det man gjort kan man inte göra ogjort. Sittandes med ansiktet gömt bakom sina uppdragna knän grät hon tysta tårar medan telefonen surrade på sängen bredvid henne. Men vem svarar på  ett samtal från en framtida alkoholist?

The Circle

The rune was black.
So black it nearly looked burned into the dark wood.
I couldn't for the life of me understand why. Dark red, or even a hint of green, would've been expected after my disastrous meeting during the day. But black?!

I very rarely used the runes these days. During my teenage years, hormones flowing wild, I had snuck away on almost every school break to shake the little wooden bricks in my hand and eagerly await their answers. But age brings all kinds of wisdom. By using the runes I had not only learned how to read people fairly well from body language and tone of voice alone, I had also learned that reading peoples thoughts can be very unpleasant and unpredictable. But today I just HAD to.

It started already in the morning as I was brewing my morning coffee. Whilst I was concentrating on adding three clockwise stirs with the silver spoon in between every anti-clockwise stir (my mums classic recipe which wakes me up like nothing else) the cat suddenly came whizzing past from the garden through the open kitchen door. She jumped up onto the kitchen table and started staring intently at me. I knew the look instantly. "She's had a Vision!" I thought, "Excellent!". My cat was a bit useless when it came to letting me know she had had a vision, but when she did, it nearly always paid off. Only last month she sorted me out so I could pull a sickie on the very day the waste drains burst in the office bathrooms. Helen had had to send her best suit to the dry cleaners and thrown away a perfectly decent pair of brogues.
I took down the battered copper tim from the mantelpiece and grabbed a large pinch of dried catnip. My gran would always advice me to steep the catnip in water to drink, but I thought it worked fine neat. Besides, my bus was due in ten minutes, so i didn't really have time. Chewing the herb, I called the cat over and sat down on the floor. It took her less than a minute to convey her feelings to me. It was happiness! She had had a Vision that was about to make me happy! It nearly made me teary. And exceptionally excited! Before I went to work I opened the cage in the larder and put one of my quite pricey white mice on to the floor. It was the least I could for the cat, as a thank you.

I spent all morning doing absolutely NO work, waiting for the event that would make me happy. At half eleven I gave up and coaxed Helen to come with me to a pub for a cheeky glass of white with our lunch.

That's when I saw him. The Man.
- "I'm sorry but you must have dropped this."
His voice was smooth and deep, with a faint arabic accent. The dark eyes that met mine as I turned around on the bar stool to take my dropped scarf from his hand made me weak to the knees.
-"Oh er..tha..er.."
I answered confidently.
My brain was on mental stand-by for another full minute before Helens laughter woke me up. The Man was long gone, long black leather coat swaying as he had left the pub, and I wanted to die a little bit. Or at least disappear into a bottomless pit. Only one positive thing remained from the lunch break: Helen had recognised the Man as one of the bartenders of the new wine bar in town, The Circle!

The constant 'pinging' noise from my computer, announcing the arrival of every email Helen sent me during the afternoon, did nothing for my continued productivity. But Helen wasn't the only one to blame. I spent a lot of time committing the Mans eyes to memory. Partly because it made me week in the knees, amongst other pleasant bodily reactions, but also because I knew the runes worked best with a clear picture of the Thinkers eyes in the mind of the Reader.

I jumped off the bus, and ran all the way up the path to the cottage. I didn't even stop to catch my breadth until I was sat at my kitchen table, clutching the bowl carved out of an ancient hip bone. With the eyes of the Man clearly pictured behind my eyelids I took the runes from the bowl and shook them in my hand thrice. I threw them out onto the table like a desperate gambler throwing dice for a very large bet. As a little girl I had sat at this very table many times, learning the meaning of the many shades of colour of the runes, my mother watching and correcting my mistakes. Yellow, green and red for positive, indifferent or negative thoughts. Those were the basic colours. But a true Reader could read more than that about the Thinker, from the slight shift in shades of the runes. But I didn't need my years of rune training for what I now saw in front of me: Seven wooden bricks, each with a pitch black coloured rune on it. It could only mean one thing. He was one of us.

The happiness flew through my veins like the bubbles in champagne. Maybe I had found a partner, finally?!

With loud jazz blaring out through the cottage I got myself ready for a visit to The Circle. I threw the broomstick in the corner a look, but laughed at the thought. With a skirt as tight as this I'd better take the bus.

the picture is a Dartmoor stone circle taken from http://blog.rachelcotterill.com

Hemlängtan

När jag har hemlängtan drömmer jag alltid. Långa invecklade drömmar i starka färger och lika starka känslor.

Min längtan efter Sverige är alltid väldigt påtaglig. Men, som nu, när solen skiner och en Sverigeresa är så nära, då kan den nästan gå över styr.
Det är då de kommer fam från djupet - minnena. Otroligt klara minnen, underbara, ljuvliga minnen som gör hemlängtan outhärdlig. Jag längtar efter människor som inte längre finns och platser som inte längre är mina. Minnen från min barndom. Ett barns minnen och ett barns kärlek.

Dagens pyttelilla historia är inget annat än ett klart och tydligt minne. Av en tid, en plats och en människa som inte längre finns.

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Jag är på väg till stugan. Så exalterad att det nästan gör ont i magen! Jag är ung. Bara ett barn. Kanske en 7 år gammal? Solen skiner in genom fordens bakruta. Jag längtar.När vi äntligen kommer fram till den gamla grusvägen tar jag av mig bältet. Åh, så förbjudet att ta av sig bältet medans bilen fortfarande är i rullning! Jag får syn på stugan. Där är hon. Min gamla farmor. En liten bunke i sin hand, på väg från vattnet och upp till stugans dörr. Jag hoppar ur, springer fram och slänger mig om halsen på henne. Känner doften av tvål, mentolcigaretter och stekt strömming. Mina absoluta favoritlukter i hela världen. 

När man rensar strömming klipper man bort huvudet från nacken. Men inte helt av! Man vänder sen saxen och klipper utefter buken fram till stjärtfenan. Man tar ur inälvorna med pekfingret. Farmor har knotiga mjuka fingrar, och vi blir båda kladdiga från fiskrenset. Måsarna flyger över oss och skriker som galna. När vi är klara lämnar vi renset på stenen och går upp till stugan. Måsbuffet.

När vi ätit ligger vi på sängen. Kaffevattnet är på gång i den vackra kopparpannan. En orange fluffig filt. Farmor smeker mig på magen. Berättar historier. Om hur hon cyklar överallt. Klättrade upp för bron och hoppade i forsen. Hyss och jävelskap. Stark och busig. Jag vill vara som hon. Hon berättar historien om rödluvan på sitt eget sätt. Men hur låter egentligen räven? "Räv, räv", säger farmor.

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Nu när jag skrev ner det här minnet kunde jag inte sluta gråta. Det här får mig verkligen att känna mig levande - känslan av otrolig sorg, blandad med glädje. Glädje över att ha så fina minnen och att ha fått träffa en så fin människa.

Jag gick in till badrummet för att snyta mig och torka mina tårar. Och där mitt i mitt fönsterlösa badrum hör jag en mås skrika till, alldeles nära mig. I några få sekunder visste jag att jag inte var ensam!

Sedan tog hjärnan över såklart. Jag vet att måsarna flyger upp till Edinburghs innerstad och letar mat ofta. Jag vet att måsen sitter på mitt tak, precis där utsläppet är för min badrumsfläkt.

Men jag vet också att jag faktiskt inte är ensam. Jag är den jag är på grund av de människor jag mött och de historier de delat. De lever kvar genom mig och de sätt jag lever mitt liv på.

Nu ska jag ut i solen och cykla!!

//  Tee  --  Tror att det får bli en tur till fiskmarknaden i morgon för ett strömmingsinköp.

A Flash of Inspiration

Ever heard of Flash Fiction? It is an intriguing version of short story telling, where the story is very, VERY short, but still conveys a message and a feeling. Perfect for the modern, fast paced world?

If a conventional short story is a love affair, then flash fiction is essentially that sweet and short fling of the summer when you were 17..

The most extreme version of flash fiction is definitely #TwitterFiction - Yup its got a ridiculous hashtag and all. I can only assume it is a quickie in the back of a car (alternatively a brief flirt with an intriguing looking stranger on the way to work, if you're more romantically inclined with your analogies).

But no matter what analogy you use, the main message is that the story should move, inspire and touch you, just as effectively as a long one, only in a different way.

#TwitterFiction is probably as old as the Twitter phenomenon itself, and is constantly taking criticism from the people who know how things are supposed to be (aka dicks). They say that the authors of TwitterFiction have failed to understand what Twitter is really all about - interaction with other tweeters, conveying of ideas and to be used for regular updates as a kind of commentary track to your life.. Well, I say Down with the Man! Twitter has endless potential as a tool to be used for prose as well as poems and even theatre! There are endless Tweeters who play a character on Twitter already, trying to convey an emotion in 140 characters. And I can't wait to try it out! (If you are interested in this type of story telling check out this masterpiece!)

Todays Teetime will take place through @FridayTeeTime. I will Tweet whenever inspiration hits during the day, but I will collect them and share them all here at Teetime as usual, for those not yet willing to join the Twitterati..

// Tee  --  Thinks that damn tweeter outside the window can hold back its prose till not so early in the morning..

FLASH....aha.... Saviour of the Universe!

Ååå... en så sjukt bra sång at ha på hjärnan när man vaknar! Älskar Queen. Om jag var man skulle jag odlat mig en sån fin murcerymustasch.

Anledningen till att jag har denna sång på hjärnan är för att jag bestämt mig för att prova på något som kallas Flash Fiction. Eller kortprosa, om man inte gillar utländska.

Den speciella typen av kortprosa jag tänkte ge mig på idag är #TwitterFiction. Japp med en sån hashtag  och allt. Kort och gott (haha) så går det ut på att få fram en hel berättelse, bara genom att använda 140 tecken. Spännande!

Men visst kan en komma på ett nytt svenskt ord för det va? Kanske bara #Kvitterprosa - rakt översatt? Ja, det låter bra tycker jag.

#TwitterFiction som fenomen har funnits länge -  förmodligen redan sedan Twitters explosionsartade ankomst på sociala mediernas scen - och har mötts av mycket kritik. Många tycker att författarna inte förstått hur Twitter ska fungera; nämligen som ett kommentatorsfält till livet, med åsikter bollandes mellan vänner och spridning av budskap.
Jamen ni hör ju själva! Oavsätt vad man tycker Twitter egentligen är till för så låter det ju som en perfekt plattform för att förmedla prosa!
Kolla in den här sidan för riktiga gobitar.

För att det ska fungera på rätt sätt så skriver jag såklart min #Kvitterprosa från @FridayTeeTime, under hela morgonen. När inspirationen dyker upp liksom. Men jag kommer lägga ut alla mina kvitter här vid Teedags som vanligt, och kanske även lite senare på dagen.

//  Tee  --  Tycker även att fågeldjäveln utanför mitt fönster kan skjuta upp sin prosa till lite senare på dagen..

Forecast

"Thor-35, this is HQ, come in Thor-35."

"Thor-35 here"

"We have just received information that the broken unit is in the north-west corner of the Lewis family farm's wheat field. Are you on your way?"

"Yes sir, I am about 20 minutes away"

"Thats good. But please hurry! You know as well as I do what circus we're in for if the Lewis family crops gets ruined by rain. All sorts of complaints will come through to the SWD, and we're all in for a hard time. These crops have been engineered especially to produce vitamin-D enriched grains, and cost a bloody fortune!"

"No worries boss, I'll sort it out!"

The Scottish Weather Department's own hovercrafts had a bright orange logo on their side - A lightning bolt from a blazing sun. A symbol possibly displaying the diverse effects they could achieve, but probably picked for its memorable colour scheme. It certainly looked cool.
Thor-35 arrived on the Lewis family farm only 15 minutes after the automatic emergency beacon had been activated after the unit had failed, and went straight out towards the wheat field. It hovered carefully along the edge of the field, careful not to let the plenum air cushion get on top of any crops an accidentally snap them, towards the failed unit. The rain was pouring down, and the earth was already flowing away in small rivers of mud in between the furrows of the field. The SWD technician swore to herself as she parked the craft, set it on standby hover to avoid getting mud into the field generator, and ran over to the weather unit. She clutched an umbrella in her right hand whilst she struggled to get the back panel of the two meter high unit to open. Only the SWD carried the ancient umbrellas and the technician wondered if anyone under the age of sixteen would know what it was for if confronted with one.

Of all the places in the world that had adopted the SWITCH Weather Control System a couple of decades back, which included most of Europe, north America and south east Asia as well as the Chinese inventors, it was generally agreed that The British Isles were amongst the places that had benefited the most. And up here in Scotland, the scenery had changed remarkably. The technician remembered her younger days, in a Scotland with grey skies, humid air and rainy days.

Finally the panel snapped open and she could asses the damage. No problem. Just a classic fault in the generator, easy to fix. The SWITCH weather units were self-sufficient in power, and a 200m deep pump let a geothermally heated liquid power a small generator housed in each unit. She had plenty of generators in her bag, and it took her a little more than two minutes to replace the faulty part.
She took a step back before she spoke.

"HQ this is Thor-35. Faulty unit at Lewis farm repaired and standing by for activation."

"Thanks christ for that! Thor-35, stand by for activation in 5 seconds"

She looked up into the rain. The effect was almost instant. As the unit was switched on the electric field it generated merged with the complementary fields from the remaining units, creating an invisible dome over the Lewis farm. The rapidly flexing directions of the fields grabbed hold of the individual electric dipoles of the water molecules, forcing them apart, unable to align and stabilise in the vapour phase and form a water droplet.

The technician left the umbrella opened up as she walked back to the craft. She was ginger after all, and did not want to burn in the blazing sun. Inside the craft she transmitted the data she had taken from the unit to the HQ main computer. They would need to recalculate the rain-time for the Lewis farm. In the city it was easy. A heavy rain fall every other night, and other than that, sun. It kept people happy. It was harder at the various farms where the rain levels had to be adjusted according to the crops. But the unit had only been off line for half an hour at the most, so the Lewis family could breathe a sigh of relief.

As she drove back into town she remembered a word. An ancient word she had known as a young woman, but now nearly forgotten. Driech. She smiled a sad little smile to herself. A driech city she used to love was gone forever.

Vem..

"Då kör vi.. Är bandsplelaren igång?..okej, Förhör med Peter John Isaksson, inleds måndagen den tionde maj klockan femton och tio. Närvarande är kommissarierna Rahim och Ekdahl.

-Är ditt namn Peter John Isaksson, född 1988 i Sundsvall?

-Ja.

-Kan du berätta för mig, lugnt och sakligt vad som hände natten mot den första Maj?

-När ska jag börja?

-När det känns bra.

-..öh, ok…
Jag och Angelika var upp på norra berget och kollade på majbrasan, och drack några öl. Vi var lite besvikna att vi inte hade någon fest på gång, så redan vid niotiden gick vi ner mot Oscars. Och det var fan tur det! Vi kom precis innan kön blev helt sjuk lång. Någon typ av studentfest tror jag. Det är ju massor med sånt på gång nu. Vi slapp köa längre än en 20 minuter eller så, sedan ställde vi oss vid baren. Vi stod där och snackade, mest med varandra, men med lite nytt folk också. Vi är singlar båda två, så man spanar ju lite.. Men jag var försiktig för jag ville inte lämna henne ensam. Hennes kusin har just dött i en trafikolycka uppe vid Liden nånstans och hon och hennes bror Adam hade precis kommit tillbaka från begravningen dagen innan. Hon var väldigt tyst under hela kvällen. Men hon är min bästa vän så jag gjorde allt jag kunde för att muntra upp henne!

-När hamnade ni på efterfesten?

- Det var inte fören efter stängning. Angelika hade ringt till Adam och Maria, och båda hade hamnat på Oscars, och stod och pratade med oss.

-Är detta Adam Nowak, bror till Angelika Nowak, som påträffades död av GHB förgiftning, den första Maj, och Maria Johansson?

- Ja… Jag vet inte om det är rätt efternamn på Maria.. Angelika känner henne från simmningen tror jag.. Maria säger att hon har en halv flaska vodka hemma hos sig så vi går hem till henne.

- Till lägenheten på Bergsgatan?

- Ja. Men vi går förbi macken först för att köpa groggvirke. Efterfesten är lugn, och vi sitter mest i vardagsrummet hos Maria och dricker groggar och lyssnar på Winnerbäck. Adam sitter först på golvet bredvid Maria, och sedan i fåtöljen, där han somnar. Har ingen aning om vilken tid det var.. Jag tror jag somnar på soffan vid femtiden, skavfötters med Angelika. Jag vaknar strax efter nio av Marias gallskrik, när hon hittade.. ja när hon såg att Adam var död i fåtöljen.

- Okej, det är bra, Peter. Vi ska nu ställa några följdfrågor. Försök svara så gott du kan, och kommer ihåg.

- Verkade Adam speciellt nedstämd efter han kom tillbaka från kusinens begravning?

- Ja, både han och Angelika var lite nere. Men jag tror inte han var speciellt nedstämd… Jag tror inte han gillade att korka GHB, även om hans polare gjorde det, så jag tror inte att han skulle tagit det för att muntra upp sig själv direkt..
Dessutom spenderade han det mesta av kvällen med att stöta på Maria.. så han var inte ledsnare än att han ville få sig nåt, om jag säger så..

- Var Maria positivt inställd till hans närmanden?

- Nej. Han försökte tafsa under kjolen hennes när de satt tillsammans på golvet, men hon slog till honom rätt hårt på armen, och han fick sätta sig i soffan. Han såg rätt surmulen ut efter det… Sedan började han snacka massa äckligt om att hon borde sympatiknu.. Ge honom sex i sympati för att han precis förlorat en familjemedlem.. Äckel.

- Du verkar rätt fientligt inställd till Adam?

- NEJ! Jag menar, han var ju ett äckel som häll på sådär med Maria… Men han var kanske bara full. Jag gillar Maria. Så fort Adam var utom hörhåll viskade hon till mig att hon hatar män som tar sig friheter att tafsa.

- Jag förstår.. Gjorde du själv några närmanden mot henne?

- Nej. Eller, jag försökte väl flörta lite på håll så där.. Men Adam var ju på henne hela tiden. Dessutom pratade jag mest med Angelika under kvällen.

- Sade du och Angelika något särkilt?

- Inte direkt. Hon ville mest skvallra om att hon träffat en man på sin kusins begravning som hon gillade. Han var någon typ av vän till familjen som hon inte träffat förut, och hon var sur på sig själv eftersom hon inte ens fick tillfälle att veta vad han heter. Sedan berättade hon att hon ringt Maria den kvällen, för min skull. Vi garvade åt våra försök att ta oss ur singellivet och drog några skämt.

- Gick någon av er ut ur vardagsrummet under kvällen?

- Ja. Drickat var i frysen i köket, så man fick gå dit för påfyllning. Sen gick men ju på toa och så..

- Blandade alla till sina egna drinkar?

- Nej. Den som gick till köket blandade åt de som ville ha.

- Så vem som helst hade kunnat spetsa Adams drink med GHB under kvällen, inklusive han själv?

- Ja… jag antar det.

-Jaha, jamen då tror jag vi har all information vi behöver! Tack Peter.

Förhöret avslutas klockan sexton noll noll."

Zeitgeist

As I walk along the Edinburgh streets on my way to the university for an interview, I can not help myself from feeling a little bit lonely. It always happens, that pang of loneliness accompanied by the anguished thoughts of 'eternity', at the start of every new Life. I should definitely be used to it by now. But that part of the human psyche, that holds happiness, loneliness and such like, can not be controlled by the power of the mind. I am definitely used to that.

Plato used to tell me in a stern voice that 'knowledge comes from within!', fully convinced there was no such thing as learning. Every single day he used to sit by the north edge of the marketplace and talk to whomever cared to listen. As soon as he saw me walking across the square he used to change whatever story he was telling at the time to one that focused around the 'divine recollection', as he called it. 'All knowledge in the world is already within us all. All we need to do is remember it!'. Personally I knew he was just lazy. He definitely thought it was too much of a hassle to investigate animal anatomy or stay up late to look at the stars, like I insisted on doing, and was content with quiet reflection, whilst sitting on a rock by the marketplace. I often laugh to myself at the memory. I am not sure why I was so energetic back then. Those could have been my relaxing years..

Edinburgh is definitely colder than I thought. With all new technology, and especially the bane of the obligatory social media profile, I have had to move further away with every change of Life. The hiding is becoming a little bit tedious. My last house was in an excellent area of Perth, Australia. A little bit isolated perhaps, but perfect for a few decades of quiet reflection in a tempered climate. No wonder Edinburgh feels a bit cold!

The best weather I have ever had was during my time in Galilee. Those were warm and sunny years for sure. I remember arriving there with such clarity. Which is somewhat strange judging by the manner of my arrival - Seasick and hungover like a donkey.. I had recently spent a few decades on a freight ship, transporting goods between Egypt and the North, and the hard life of the seas had taken its toll. Especially the mead and the fig wine..  I felt it was time for a quiet Life, focused on forgiveness and kindness. Perhaps I would get a chance to take up some of my old teachings? And perhaps take a few students of my own again? I could never have imagined what a violent end such a quiet Life would bring..

The physical scars are almost completely healed, and as I look down on my wrists I can only see some very faint marks. I suddenly realise my reverie has made me slow down my pace, so I decide to get on a tram to make sure I make it to Edinburgh University on time. I am slowly getting excited about this interview! Chemistry was always a favourite.

I remember one of the first times I meddled in actual chemistry. I had spent a few Lives earlier with the notion that I would at some point be able to make gold out of lead. A preposterous idea, that I am not particularly proud of. But it was during my time in high French society that I first realised how fascinating chemistry could be! I remember the stress of the French revolution, and how it spurred me on in my investigations. The joys of identifying the building blocks of water will always be one of my proudest moments.

These trams are really slow! I am starting to get annoyed at the traffic. It doesn't matter how many Lives you have lived, you will never get used to commuting. I look down at my trousers and realise a dog has drooled all down my left leg. By slowing my breath down and closing my eyes I try to calm down.

It is a little bit ironic that I should be such a stressed man. After all, it was only one Life ago that I came up with my theory of relativity. That was a good Life. I had felt the need to explain my own immortality for many centuries, but never come up with a good enough theory. The fact that time is relative is the only one that so far satisfies me. I am, somehow, travelling along a different timeline, relative to others. A parallel, but different, path.

The tram has finally reached its destination and I enter the old chemistry department at a run. I am only a few minutes late to the interview. As I enter the office, I see a very stern looking man behind a desk. As his eyes takes in my stressed appearance, dog drool and all, I realise he has already made up his mind.

- I am sorry sir, but I don't think you have the right type of experience for a position here at Edinburgh University.

Lyckoreceptet

Kan man vara lycklig hela tiden?

Vad är lycka?

Hon vet med största säkerhet när känslan inte är närvarande. Olycka är hon på det klara med. Men lyckan kan vara som finkorning sand. Eller vatten. Något man bekvämt kan hålla i sina kupade händer, ända tills man börjar tänka på vad det är man gör. Så fort man börjar inse att man är lycklig så rinner känslan bort mellan fingrarna. Omöjlig att få grepp om.

Men den kan nog kontrolleras också. Det har hon bestämt sig för. Bara man är mycket försiktig, och inte tänker för mycket. Hon är dessutom helt övertygad om att man måste göra mycket förarbete. Dags för henne att skriva ner ett Lyckorecept, som är enkelt att följa!

Recept för minst 1 person.
37grader. Tillagas i ca 100år.

Den första delen i lyckoreceptet är nästan svårast. Den är nämligen Kroppskontroll. Hon kallar det kroppskontroll mest för att det låter fint. Men meningen är enkel: Sluta tänka att kroppen är något andra människor har en rätt att bedöma. Det tog många år innan hon själv kunde uppskatta sin kropp för det den faktiskt var: ett verktyg för transport, sex, sömn och matintag. Men när hon slutade se sin kropp från utsidan och från andra människors perspektiv, utan från insidan, och började uppskatta kroppens känslor som sina, så lyftes ett gigantiskt stenblock från hennes axlar. Alla kroppens företeelser blev hennes att njuta av till fullo. Och så mycket tid det blev över när hon slutade älta vad andra tycker om henne!

Nästa del i receptet är en stor skopa tankelek. Man måste såklart få leka när man lagar till lite lycka! Den här leken är enkel och går ut på att ställa en enda fråga till sig själv: "Och sen då?" Det är hennes favoritlek. Speciellt när känslan av att inte räcka till smyger sig på. Tänk om hon inte lyckas med den skitsvåra grejjen?? Om hon då ställer sig frågan: "Och sen då?" Så brukar svaret väldigt sällan vara att alla helt plötsligt slutar älska henne och att jorden går under.. Det tar bort förvånansvärt mycket oro.

Den sista delen av receptet är enkel. Hon ser till att ha både drömmar och planer. Stora, fantastiska, idiotiska drömmar, och välplanerade, schemalagda planer. Det spelar ingen roll om planerna går i kras eller drömmarna aldrig blir av. Bara de finns där, och har blivit påtänkta. För det finns ingenting som tar fram och visar vad som är viktigt för just henne, mer än en titt på hennes egna drömmar lite då och då.

Dessa ingredienser blandas med fördel ihop med så mycket vänner och familj som får plats i kokkärlet.

Det sjuds sedan sakta under hög press och ångest. För det finns ingenting som framhäver lyckan mer än dess raka motsatser.

Servera och NJUT.