Links to assorted threads on this blog, that's what you get here

It's Christmas time and I'm dancing like a rhinoceros through the streets. So what better time to post some links, links to this selfsame blog of course. There's a lot of good stuff here.

Sure. Like this thread where I blog my top 5-lists. What lists? See for yourself.

A thread with supershort stories you'll find here.

A thread with my poetry here.

Here you'll find pieces on science fiction. And here you'll find my short stories like the one about the knight, the Guadalcanal story, the dragon story and so forth.

Merry Christmas!

(Pic M. C. Escher)

The Poet Svensson Here Publishes His Poem "The New Improved Sun"

It was an early morning in September this year. 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.

The sun had risen. Now 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, rather a lot of water; it had been raining as I said. I was in some area of detached houses, an organized region in the near-city zone, and to have an open brook running there was some quaint eyecatcher I'd say: 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 were the barracks, 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!

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.

The Ice Shield (poem)

I live where I live: in mythical surroundings. I've written a poem about it to sum it all up. The poem follows below.

I live on The High Coast,
Sweden's middle-northern
rocky coastline, with
quaint harbours surrounded
by steep mountains: bays and
inlets, islands and canals,
everything framed by forrested
mountains. So why all these
steep cliffs bordering on the
sea, why this High Coast?

They say that in olden times,
prediluvian times, the ice-shield over
Scandinavia had its centre right
here, over today's Angermannia -
and when the ice melted and the shield
disappeared, the recoiling crust shot
ever so high, giving birth to these
steep mountains, these coastal
inclines and promontories.

And you could say: when the ice melted
over Scandinavia, when this ice-shield
finally gave away there was THE DELUGE,
the flood, drenching the last remains
of Atlantis and letting Noah's nave
float away on the waves.

The ice-shield over Angermannia,
yea, ALL the remaining ice in
the world melted away suddenly,
in one stroke, at some moment,
say about 10 000 B.C., resulting in
the Deluge. And the traces of that
flood can be seen everywhere, just
look around, ask any geologist.

Makes you wonder... Wonderous to
live in these Titanic surroundings,
among these steep cliffs by the sea.
The High Coast. So come and see it, surely
some tourist attraction: Skule Mountain,
Nordingrå, Skule forest, Trysunda Island...

As for myself I'm a legend living in a
legendary landscape, waiting for another
Deluge as some mysterious planet
is about to pass us by. 'Cos that's what
they say, I don't know what to think about
it other than: in 2012, watch the skies!

In This Post I'm Interviewing Myself

- Name and age?

- Lennart Svensson, 44. In a week or so I'll be 45.

- Occupation?

- Writer and blogger.

- Wow.

- Seriously, that's what I do. Previously this year I've worked as a cook and before that I had a paper route, handing out morning papers to subscribers. But as for now I write.

- Like what?

- In Swedish I've had some books published, like this novel. I've also had articles and poems published here and there - professionally, in Swedish. As for my English publishing credentials, well, I have this short story. Other that that it's mostly here on this blog that you find my work. Like here.

- So you're a writer and you seem to have things to say - what are these things, summed up in some lines?

- That would be to tell stories with some hope, with some spiritual values, at the same time knowing that the World and the Humanity are in for some pretty tough times. But just writing about Death And Destruction won't do. I'm no nihilist. True, you must face the realities of life, not shying away from The Rough Stuff. But, in all, to tell about that Silver Lining, without making it downright tepid, that's my goal as a writer.

- You mentioned "spiritual values". Elaborate.

- I'm a Christian. Jesus Christ dying on Calvary is the most important event in history.

- In what way?

- It's complicated. Most Christians take the simple route here, saying "he died for our sins". I mean, that's true of course, he did die for our sins. But to explain that to thinking people of today isn't so easy. You'll have to put it in esoteric terms.

- Like...?

- Like: Jesus Christ, a being of solar qualities, an incarnation of God's spirit, lived a life like a human being, lived and died and returned from death - and in so doing, he revitalized the etheric body of man, giving it new life. If he hadn't done that we would have degenerated and died out as a species. But now he saved us, he let us live on, letting us continue to incarnate in successive lives, escalating one step higher in each successive life.

- Wow. Far out. Reincarnation and Christianity, that's a bold concept.

- Maybe. But it's true. And it's the sort of things I'd like to write about.

- I see. So you're going to preach...?

- No, not preach. I'm going to write stories and poems and articles and blogposts. I've got something unique to say - unique, that is, esoteric Christianity expressed in readable prose. There are others who propagate ideas like these but they can't write... they just go on and on in technical prose, preaching for the choir.

- But you're not solely into religion.

- No. I like history, literature, politics...

- Politics, eh?

- Yes. I'm a conservative, a man of the right.

- That sounds controversial.

- No, it's not. It's today's mainstream politics that are extreme.

- I see. So, to conclude, some hard facts about you. Your nationality?

- I'm a Swede. I live in Sweden, in Härnösand by the Nortlandic coast.

- Fresh winter climate, eh?

- Yea, verily. It's about minus 10 centigrade today and lots of snow.

- Sounds nice. Well, happy birthday then and a Merry Christmas, Mr. Svensson.

- And a Merry Christmas to you, my dear interviewer.

(You must admire the golden lustre of the Northlandic picture above: solar golden Light in the middle of the winter, how about that.)

The Northlandic Strain

Sweden is divided into three parts: Götaland in the south, Svealand in the middle and Norrland in the north.

As for myself I live in Norrland. I live in the county of Angermanland by the Bothnian Sea. And some 40 years ago I was born in the county of Lapland, situated inland and to the north-west of Angermanland.

Both Lapland and Angermanland are northern provinces. They are both part of NORRLAND. Now this Norrland is a mythical part of Sweden just like Scotland of the Bristish Isles or, say, Texas or some other rough-hewn part of the U. S.

I'm a Northlander. "En norrlänning" as we say. And many Swedes from Göta- and Svealand wish they were Northlanders. They envy us our Biblical erudition, a classic trait here: archaic tales of Northland farmers citing the Bible ever and anon, that's a fine heritage of ours.

Example of Svealand people wishing they were Northlanders are the poet Gunnar Ekelöf and the sculptor Anders Åberg. The former wrote some poems about the log cabins, the rosy hue of the winter evenings and the waves beating the shores of the Laplandic lakes. The latter, Anders Åberg, was born in Stockholm but moved to Angermanland some years ago, starting a cultural theme park called MANNAMINNE. It's got old buildings, a tramway, a museum etc. It's a life-size piece of art, mirroring the wooden objets d'art of a more manageable size that made him famous in the first place. One of these are to be seen at Arlanda Domestic Airport ("Inrikes"), showcasing the nearby town of Sigtuna in a pillar of wooden houses.

Anyhoo: Mr. Åberg fell in love with Norrland and then moved here, and now he's a local hero. Mannaminne is a focal point for culture and goodtime, for "believing in your heritage" and all that, a fine mix of traditionalism and modernism, built log by log by Mr. Åberg himself. I must go and visit that Mannaminne some time. Website here.

So how shall I conclude this? Well, as an illustration of my Northlandic strain I might give you a poem about my Laplandic creed, called "My voyage". It's got some references to Carlos Castaneda, a great traditionalist in his own right.

My voyage began in the heart of Lapland
among drumming noids and yoiking saamis.

I danced to the rythm, sang to the northern light,
praised my creator and began my journey.

I lived among the flowers and the trees,
I read about gurus past and present,
and skimming the shelves of fantastic libraries
I found the Book of Books.

It was about a man in the moon
who flew with crows, talked
with lizards and danced with Zacateca.

He jumped into an abyss, listened
to the flowers and talked with
a coyote. He was human.

The voyage continues. In the misty Andees
there is a beverage called "the black gold";
I have drunken it - and I have seen the promised land...

I'm just a human - I'm just a human -
I'm just a human - I'm just a human being...

Every day I brew some of that fluent gold
on my Brewmatic, and dream of condors
and eagles, silver crows, and giant butterflies
with golden dust on their wings.

My collection of Castaneda books dwells safely
on my shelf. The Laplandic sceneries of my youth
is always with me. The black gold is still worth seeking.

The voyage continues...

(Picture from Mannaminne with a trolley car in front of a Angermanlandic threshing house)