We knit. Many more of us than you might think. Writers, social workers, musicians, teachers, artists, researchers, filmmakers - we knit. And when summer is at its high point, the swallows seem less hungry, and the hills of Axarquía are turning tannish- then we start dreaming about the next project, because our hands need something to do for our brains to loosen up. Fall will be busy. We can feel it.
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During summers I wake up earlier. That's a good thing. Some days it gets too hot to go out after mid day, the sun can get strong. Then hang out in the arm chairs in shady corners of the house instead, with all the windows to the north wide open, and the wooden shades pulled down to the south. One can still see out through them.
I read. News, blogs, books, bits and pieces. And I look at pictures. Some I save for later. Some I use in my work. Blogs often irritate me. I seldom follow any. Except my old student Hilla's. Her's was special. She was dying if cancer and reported very honestly about what was happening to her. One day she wrote about how unfair life is, and asked herself why she hadn't taught her sons more about how to deal with that. We recently had a young woman, succesful, staying here. I checked her blog out. She wrote about what make-up to pack for trips, how yoga makes you healthier, about being proud over taking the bus to Malaga on her own, about the lunches she cooked... Her blog has so many followers that a publishing house had asked her to write a cook book, and actually published it. "They knew it would sell since I have a big audience", she remarked insightfully. 24 years old. She makes a living this way. Good for her. I just made my own cook book. I don't really cook, but my daughter had asked me to write down some of my 'fast' recipes for her (when I cook I want it to go fast). I made her a book for her birthday. These days one can just put one together sitting in an armchair in a cool corner of the house. If one does it digitally it's easy to just upload it to a site like vistaprint or blurb, and they will print it and sent it out. One copy. Till sist var det nog ändå dags att tvätta den där marockanska mattan... den ullvävda, som vi köpte för många år sen i Tanger... Jag dammsög den och släpande sen upp den på terassen. En hink med ljummet vatten, olivtvål, och en mjuk borste. Och upptäckte att det var hur lätt som helst! Blöta, gnida in med tvålen, borsta, igen och igen, bit efter bit, på knä i morgonsolen. Och sen hänga upp över muren och skölja av. Det var i flera timmar sedan. Den är redan nästan snustorr. I morgon ska jag borsta och dammsuga den. Ibland drar man sig alldeles för länge Ofta drar JAG mig alldeles för länge!
This thing about books. Over the years I have thrown them out, given them away, ‘forgotten’ them, left them, made art out of them… but they have not given up. New books keep finding their way to my home, multiply, and infiltrate among those I deliberately have chosen to keep after all. They show up in new places, small, big, with dog-eared corners, fat and in all colors. But, today I have actually surrendered. The books can stay. They are welcome. All of them. Everywhere. I like them. I will even stop sorting them, because books are perhaps just like most people, after all, and should be treated accordingly. (Or something. The last thing I probably wrote just because I wanted to be a bit deep, it may seem superficial to just write about ones stuff like this.) Welcome to our home, full of books and things and stuff.
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