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Life Cannot Be Edited


The war is a creature,
and I need something to think

More is but a draught,
when I need something to drink

Life is a funny feature,
I need an upward link


As I edit my recorded perusal
of my diaries,
reaching its 104th CD's worth,
a name reappears
out of the early spring of 1983:

ROLF ERIK LUNDGREN

I was on my way
into the depths
of the great Kolmården forests,
planning to spend the night
in a makeshift hut,
constructed way out
on the great Stora Bötet bog
by ornithologists,
to watch and hear the mating games
of the black grouses
early in the morning

This immense bog
lay circa twenty kilometers from home,
where my American wife Judith
was five months pregnant
with out first child

I was biking out there,
the final five kilometers on a narrow gravel road
that then turned into a path
that wound through the dense coniferous woods

Out of nowhere, two giant animals jumped out
in front of me
I was startled, and my heart sped up considerably

At first I couldn't understand what they were,
but then I saw that these were two Irish Wolfhounds,
blocking my way,
coming right up to me where I hung over the handles,
sniffing my face from both sides...

They were incredibly impressive and intimidating

I started talking to them,
scared out of my wits,
when a tall, slender man,
dressed in hunting gear,
approached me down the path,
ensuring me that everything was ok,
that the wolfhounds were peaceful
and very friendly

It was Rolf Erik Lundgren,
who lived with the dogs in a farmhouse,
hidden in the forest some ways from the path

Rolf Erik invited me to his house
for a cup of coffee

He was a friendly, sociable man, age 44

The house was old and ragged,
but filled with exclusive equipment,
like expensive stereo machines
and other apparatus I couldn't even identify

He explained he'd married a year ago,
but that he'd already gone through a rough divorce,
passed through a devastating depression,
but risen out of the ashes of matrimony like a Bird Phoenix,
although haunted by great debt

Perhaps he had a case of mythomania too,
because he ensured me he'd had a position
with the Israeli Mossad...

We had several cups of black coffee,
before I continued my hike
some kilometers further into the forest
toward the bog,
as the afternoon grew darker

I got to the bog,
and with my backpack hoisted
I pulled the bike some ways out,
between the small, thin pygmy pines,
until I left it and continued
out into the gasping openness,
sometimes jumping from tuft to tuft,
often having my boots sink a bit
into the gurgling, unsteady surface

I could make out the birdwatching hut
way out there
in the falling darkness

It had gotten colder,
and now there was a thin ice layer
on the occasional open water
in between tufts

I suddenly realized I felt strange, dreamy,
and a bit dizzy,
thinking I might have gotten affected
by the enamel paint I'd worked with
in the apartment before I left home,
plus that I'd perhaps had enjoyed a cup of strong coffee
too much
at Rolf Erik's place


My heart was pumping,
my hands and face started getting numb,
and I pictured myself fainting, falling
into the watery bog,
succumbing in the cold,
without ever reuniting with Judith,
or meeting our daughter or son,
who would be named Naomi or Isak Esra

I dropped my rucksack,
turned back toward firm ground
and stumbled back up the path
to Rolf Erik's house,
all windows lit in there
among the spruces and pines

Inside I fell to the kitchen floor,
hijacked by a fit of anxiety,
heart racing madly,
legs weak,
breath short and fast,
the two Wolfhounds standing over me
like ancient benevolent fairytale creatures,
bending down to lick my face,
and Rolf Erik commenced to rinse my head in cold water,
gave me a tranquilizer
and fixed me up with a heavily nutritious drink

After as while on the floor I recovered fine

Rolf Erik had saved me, it felt

Then he started up his old SAAB,
which he'd equipped with a mighty powerful engine,
drove back to the bog to pick up my stuff
and then took me and my equipment straight back home
to Judith in town

Rolf-Erik, Judith and I sat chatting into the night,
until Rolf-Erik left to go back to his wolfhounds
in that hidden forest home with all its shiny windows

I was relieved and happy to be back,
safe with Judith and our expected child

I felt Judith's tummy,
and could even see the little one's motions

1st June Isak Esra was prematurely born,
only to die in my arms,
soon buried in a memorial grove

Judith, from whom I was divorced
a couple of years later,
died from cancer back in the USA in 2009,
and I still haven't visited her grave,
to put a pebble on her headstone

I had a final telephone conversation with her,
(which was recorded)
the year she died,
and directly asked by me,
she replied that she wasn't scared of dying,
“not at all”

I wept uncontrollably in the supermarket,
when I got the phone call informing me
of Judith's death

Today, 2nd September 2022,
searching for Rolf Erik on the web,
I find that he died already in 1997,

and I remain here,
editing my recent recordings
of my diaries,
realizing that life cannot be edited

The war is a creature,
and I need something to think

More is but a draught,
when I need something to drink

Life is a funny feature,
I need an upward link




Fri vers (Fri form) av Ingvar Loco Nordin VIP
Läst 14 gånger
Publicerad 2022-09-02 13:12



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