måndag 31 maj 2010

injustice absurdum

April 5, 1930

A gaunt man stands on the seashore, watching the waves roll in. Behind him, the crowd has hushed in solemn anticipation as the moment approaches. The merciless sun has baked the sand dry; it is covered with a whitish, salty crust where the tide has retreated. There is no shade, both beach and crowd are painted with bold strokes of white and light brown, a monochrome sepia landscape as far as the eye can see. A seagull cries and the man bends down, picking up a tiny clump of salt.

The crime: Picking a handful of salt and dirt.
The punishment: Six months in jail.


This was eighty years ago on the shores of India, and the man was Mahatma Gandhi. The Salt March was the beginning of a non-violent revolution that ended the British colonization of India and showed the world that guns were not needed to win a war. The salt was a rallying symbol because it was something that bound everybody together, from the richest of the rich to the poorest of the poor. Everybody needed salt; this was something that people could understand. Every revolution needs an injustice so obvious that nobody can overlook it.

Let us go back a century. Britain is a world power when it comes to salt. When rock salt was discovered nearby, Liverpool Salt became famous. Like any industry it wanted to sell its products at a good price, and India was a colony and thus a huge market for British goods. The problem was that India had a thriving salt production of its own. The hot marshy shores of the subcontinent were perfect for evaporating sea-salt, and so the Brits set about demolishing that industry. Formerly wealthy local communities turned poor overnight. At first some local production was allowed, but it went too well and produced salt too cheaply, so the factories were soon closed and most of the salt had to be imported from abroad. This imported salt was already expensive, but on top of it a tax was added; the infamous salt tax.

Today, when some politicians speak of wanting a flat taxation rate, this is exactly what they are talking about. The reason salt was chosen to tax was because it was reasoned that everybody ate salt, and that the rich and the poor ate about the same amount so the tax would be “fair”. Of course the burden of this expensive salt rested heavily on the poor, but when protests were raised, the reply was quite revealing; “Paying the salt tax is the only good the poor ever do for their country.” So no change came about despite the protests. Unlike taxing imported luxury products, salt was something readily available if you lived near the sea. Thus it became illegal to collect sea salt and to evaporate sea water. The more people smuggled, the more draconian the countermeasures became.

In the end this could not last. The absurdity of being forbidden to utilize something that Mother Nature provided for free eventually led to revolution and freedom. Salt became a symbol of civil disobedience, and a rallying point for an otherwise splintered and diverse people.

But this is all ancient history, right?

We would like to think so. Let’s jump 70 years in the future.



Early January, 2000

Anger is brewing in the city center. From the countryside peasant irrigators trickle in, armed with angry banners. They are joined by the retired and the organized, unions as ever a focal point for unrest. The young and unemployed begin to build barricades in the streets. The crowds grow as street vendors and sweatshop employees abandon their jobs to rub shoulders with middleclass anarchists. The homeless and the street children join in, and the anger culminates in a massive strike that shuts the city down for four whole days.

This is the beginning of the Cochabamba Water Wars.


Most people have never heard of this event, though it changed the course of a country. In the early eighties Bolivia had managed to throw off its military dictatorship and was struggling to build a civilian administration. Weighted down by debt, the country turned unstable, and after a bout of hyperinflation that nearly wiped out the entire economy, the country turned to the World Bank for help. For the next 20 years they dutifully privatized everything that was not nailed down, since the World Bank had the view that governments were inefficient, and private (American) companies could do much better. In this they were as efficient as the rest of the third world, so come 1999, not much is left to sell.

In order to receive a much needed loan, the World Bank finally demands that Bolivia privatize its water supply. No bidding took place; a new consortium was created which was owned by 6 corporations, most of them foreign, the most powerful one being the American company Bechtel. This consortium, run by foreigners, quickly raised prices, and suddenly a normal water bill could be a fifth or more of an average person’s income. This was more than people spent on food. And what was even more infuriating, it was suddenly a crime to collect rainwater.

For the poor, collecting rainwater from roofs was common practice. But since all water resources in Bolivia had been sold, this was now something that you needed a license for. People could only be pushed so far until the anger over this absurd state of affairs would lead to protest. One of the people involved in these Water Wars was Evo Morales, an Aymara Indian who would eventually end up being the President of Bolivia. In the past, the socialist wave of south/central America was attributed to Soviet propaganda, and these days it is blamed on terrorist dictators like Chavez. But the truth is; it is events like these that spur the socialist movements. When confronted with the insanity of rampant neo-liberalism, people can only take so much before they strike back.



Now

The American Midwest. Birds are soaring in the blue sky, and irrigated circles shine green in the otherwise dry landscape. Bees shuttle pollen back and forth, busy preparing their hives for the coming winter. But not all is idyllic. The farm is bankrupt and about to go out of business, and the birds and the bees are to blame. They have no concept of boundaries and have flown to a neighboring farm, where a new crop is grown. When they return, they carry seeds and pollen that pollutes the farmer’s fields, and they are now facing million dollar charges of theft and patent infringement.


The crop is genetically modified, owned by Monsanto who has a staff of spies trawling the fields of America taking samples to see if someone is growing something that they are not supposed to. GM crops are everywhere these days, and the genes are not staying put. Plants pollinate each other, and crops miles and miles away can be contaminated. To the naked eye, nothing separates a GM seed from a normal one. Farmers won’t know the difference, and neither will people who deal in seeds. A spill there, a mix-up there, and people can be ruined without ever having meant to do anything wrong.

The only way to be sure is to buy your seeds from Monsanto, but be ready to provide proof of purchase if asked for it. The ancient practice of saving part of your crop to plant next year is suddenly illegal. Farmers have to sign a contract with Monsanto where they promise not to. Their crop is leased on a one year basis, and thus they will be tied up to their corporate sugar-daddy year after year, because if you have grown a GM crop once, there is no turning back. Traces of those genes will always be there.

However, in less civilized places it might not be as easy to inspect farms. Thus the Terminator Gene was introduced. It guarantees that no seed will grow to be a new plant, they are sterile and lifeless. Though this practice gives most people pause, it is already approved on a case by case basis, and in countries such as Iraq the farmers have no choice. Big business decides.

It does not end there, people and companies patent seeds and plants that have been in use for centuries, and it only seems to be a matter of time until we wake up and find out that a specific genetic sequence have been patented, and we all will have to pay a license since it is in our bodies.

The future turns darker and more frightening by the year.

But, there is hope. If there is anything we can learn from the past, it is that the harder the people in power suppress something, the more likely the people are to push back. Most people just want to get along, live their lives, raise their families and have what little happiness they can. People accept being stepped on, we all do. Life might be unjust and our boss might be a bastard, but as long as things do not get completely out of hand, we can justify our inaction. Things are not too bad after all.

And then comes the tipping point. The moment when someone proclaims that the Emperor is naked and everybody realize just how absurd our accepted oppression really is. How can people be put in jail for picking up salt that just lies there on the ground? How can it be illegal to collect rainwater? How could someone be run out of business because bees have no concept of ownership? There is an old saying here in Sweden, that it is useless to make any law that goes against the common conception of what is right. The law will not be enforceable. Perhaps that’s why we’ve become the poster-country for computer piracy despite our government making more and more draconian measures to enforce their laws.

I was already writing this for my English blog, and after the events yesterday where Israel soldiers rappelled down from helicopters to board the convoy 'Ship to Gaza' in international waters, it feels more important than ever. This six ship convoy was organized in part by swedes, and carried humanitarian aid to the Gaza strip. Nobody knows how many are dead yet, there is talk of 19 dead, and 60 injured. The convoy was unarmed, and strict security measures had been enforced to make sure that they carried nothing that could be perceived as weapons. Politicians, authors and others were on the ships to try to deter Israel from attacking them. It didn't help. We don't know if any swedes are dead yet. The political scandal here is huge, and people are out in the street demonstrating, but I'm having a hard time finding any english-speaking links that doesn't just spout the Israeli party line. Amongst the things blockaded from bringing into the Gaza strip is: pasta, notebooks, school supplies, shoes, clothes, cement, building materials, medical supplies and so on. In no way do I condone Hamas views on many things, but the Israeli response is nothing short of a warcrime.

I end this entry with some words by Oscar Olivera, one of the leaders in the Water War:

"I believe we live in a world of fear. People are afraid of everything; they're afraid of the dark, they're afraid of losing their jobs, afraid to speak, afraid to give their opinion, afraid to act. I think that it's important for us to lose our fear. We're going to lose that fear once we have the capacity to be united, to be organized; once we regain the confidence in ourselves and in other people, then we can open our hearts to those feelings of solidarity of brotherhood to all, thinking that globalization is uniting everyone. We all have the same problems, but we all have the same dreams; it's important to lose the fear."

söndag 23 maj 2010

deviantart

Jag har nog glömt att nämna att jag har skaffat mig ett deviantart konto. Nu när jag börjat rita lite mer så kändes det som en ide:

Om någon annan har ett konto, här är mitt!

lördag 22 maj 2010

mad scientists



The world might end this afternoon.

It might be partly my fault.

How am I supposed to feel about that?

I suppose I ought to ask myself why. I do that sometimes. But there is never a simple answer. There is never a simple why. Today I don’t really bother with philosophical quandaries, the wind from the lake is too cold, and my thin coat does little to stop it. The Chicago Southside is an inhospitable place, run by gangs and filled with derelict buildings. I’ve long since stopped wearing my good coat when I go to work; instead I hunch my shoulders and lean into the wind like everybody else.

The derelict stadium looms against the grey heavens covered in a light dusting of early December snow, like an aging prostitute trying to put on her best face for her customers. It used to be the home of the university football team but was closed down years ago, as part of one man’s crusade against the philistine sports culture that had no place in the hallowed halls of learning. Now its bowels house death instead of sweaty young men, and I wonder whether bombs are preferable to football in the eyes of the university?

Not that they know we’re here. Not that anybody knows.

We’re all shadows, burying like rats under a major city, hiding like criminals. We were supposed to be based deep inside the forest, in a purpose-built facility with white walls and air conditioning. Instead we are huddled together under the west grandstand of the stadium, in the old rackets court. Things did not work out as planned. I don’t know the details, but from what I heard there was a strike amongst the workers that were supposed to build our base. The project would be delayed. And that was something we couldn’t afford.

At least not my boss. He’s a driven man. A genius, of course, we’re the finest collection of minds in this state, but he outshines us all. Terribly nervous though. I would be too. We all know he’s being followed. I suppose he knows too. He’s not to be trusted. He only works for us. Never one of us. At least that’s what they think. How much loyalty can a man have to a country he was not born in? I don’t know. They say he had to flee his home because of his wife. But who trusts a deserter, even if he’s deserted to your side? The clock is ticking, and results are needed, or that elusive green card will be nothing but a dream. There is a war going on after all. And we aim to win it.

That’s why we’re here. Inside a major city. The stadium was empty. It had room to spare. They say the project is perfectly safe. We all know it’s not. I asked my boss how far up this went, because sometimes you just want to know. He shrugged and said that it hadn’t gone very far. The director of the project had never bothered to ask permission. "Nobody knows how to evaluate the risks", he shrugged. "So if we ask, there is only one answer they can give us for the sake of the university and the city. No. And that would have been wrong."

The wrong answer. I pray that they are right in that.

I make my way through corridors and checkpoints, and shed my damp wool overcoat to pull on my lab coat instead.

It is time to break the world.

The tent inside the rackets court looks strangely sinister as I join the crowd of fellow scientists. We all know what’s inside; we have watched the pile grow daily. 400 tons of uranium charged graphite bricks are piled in a flattened sphere, each of them put there by hand. It was decided we couldn’t spare the manpower to do it ourselves, so a gang of locals were employed to. High school dropouts, a street gang called the Back of the Yards Boys. I wonder what they thought. Did they wonder sometimes, why a team of scientists wanted them to build a monument of shiny smooth black bricks in an abandoned stadium?

I would have. This is a monument to darker gods than mine.

The tent seems to be placed there more for our peace of mind than protecting the pile. Like a tabernacle it shields the arch of the covenant from unworthy eyes. Will we be struck down for daring to meddle with the powers of creation? I nod to the people I pass, but I don’t really see them. There are instruments to check, preparations to make. I am reminded of my first dance, so very long ago. How it felt, standing there in front of the bathroom mirror, shaving my sparse facial hair. The choices were between doom and triumph, back then it felt as if the world literally would have ended had I been spurned by the girl I had my eyes on. But I lived to tell the tale.

Will I live to tell this tale?

Inside the pile, the uranium eggs rest in a carefully calculated lattice formation. The slow, steady ticking of the Geiger counters reminds us all that, so far, the control rods keep them in check. It’s amazing that our lives hinge on a couple of 13 ft long two-by-fours coated with cadmium, but that is another one of life’s little ironies. Sometimes you have to see the inherent joke of your own existence. Otherwise you can’t be working here. On the altar of science we are all willing sacrifices.

Nobody eats very much at lunchtime.

The clock keeps ticking, but the minutes crawl by with agonizing slowness. Today is the day. The end of one world, and the birth of another. Will it be heaven? Will it be hell? Nobody knows, even if we tell ourselves we do. I meet the gaze of one of the men in the suicide team. His eyes are blank and strangely colorless. Has he made his will? Did he kiss his wife goodbye? They are all volunteers. In case the experiment goes wrong they will run inside and throw buckets of cadmium solution on the pile in hope of slowing the reaction down. They won’t be needed, everybody says. Nothing will go wrong.

But sometimes…

I walk up the stairs to the viewing balcony. It is filled with people, while the floor below is slowly emptying as the hour approaches. The tent stands there, implacable and massive. The Geiger counters tick like a choir of insane clocks, counting down. My boss is up here with us, his slide-ruler clutched in his hand as if it was a crucifix. Someone hands me an axe. If feels heavy in my hands. It is a fireman’s axe, but the edge is sharp enough to shave with. Why a fireman’s axe? Why not? Perhaps someone thought it was poetic.

If I have to use it, it will be to put out the fire that might end the world.

Gripping the hilt tightly, I walk over to the thin manila rope and stand there. It is stretched tightly over the balcony railing, and a single chop can sever it. In case the mechanism that moves the control rods fails, cutting this rope will cause them to drop down into the pile and save us all. Theoretically. Everything here is just theory today. Tomorrow it will be practice. If there is a tomorrow.

I am the last line of defense. I am the axe man. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this foolish in my entire life.

Silence descends upon us all as the control rods are removed, one by one. The Geiger counters start ticking louder, their voices merging to a static roar as the last rod is pulled out and the reaction begins. The neutrons emitted by the uranium 235 cascade out into the pile at seven percent of the speed of light, continuing the reaction. The graphite bricks barely slow them down. The chain reaction has begun, the roar grows louder. My palms are sweaty now, and suddenly the axe feels less of a joke. We have released the beast.

The reactor has gone critical.

The next few minutes are the longest ones I’ve lived through. Inside the tent, atoms split and reform in an unholy dance of creation and destruction. The balcony is so cold our breath forms clouds in the air. The bottles of Chianti stand forgotten. We are frozen in awe. The eye of god has opened, and we are not destroyed. Not yet.

After four minutes, the control rods are reinserted. The machinery works, and I drop the axe to the floor, my hands suddenly numb. The unshielded pile is quiet once more, but the Geiger counters keeps on ticking. Slower now, marking the seconds taken from our lives.

The world did not end today.




At 3:25 P.M. on December 2, 1942, the Atomic Age began inside an enormous tent on a rackets court under the stands of the University of Chicago's Stagg Field. There, scientists headed by the Italian expatriate Enrico Fermi engineered the first controlled nuclear fission chain reaction inside Chicago Pile-1.

There was a crowd up there on the balcony, and then there were two:
Henri Fermi and Leo Szilard.
Szilard had started it all 1933 when he crossed Southampton road and the world cracked open and he realized how to make a nuclear reaction work on an industrial scale, and how to make a bomb. He knew then, in a flash of recognition that universal death might come to the world.


The remains of CP-1 is buried in a forest preserve not far from the Chicago airport. It is marked only by a square granite cube in a grassy field, marked: Caution: Do not dig.

CP-1 was a vital part of the Manhattan project; the aim was to find a way to produce the plutonium used inside the "Fat Man" bomb dropped over Nagasaki. People sometimes ask; why was not Hiroshima enough? Did the "Little Boy" not do the job? The debate rages on, but for me as a scientist the answer is a simple one:

Two cities. Two sites. Two kinds of bombs. Uranium and Plutonium. It would be a shame not to take the chance to test them both.

Sometimes the only answer to "why" is "why not?"


[To the best of my knowledge everything in this fiction entry is factual. I recommend listening to this radio documentary, where one will learn of such fascinating things as using nukes to build highways (project Ploughshare, and how one would possibly warn a culture 10 000 years in the future about the dangers of nuclear waste (hint: it ain't easy).]

torsdag 20 maj 2010

jobba skift

Dina fingeravtryck kryper upp längs spegeln
i ångan efter morgonduschen.
Du lämnar dem åt mig när du går till jobbet,
små labyrinter
som fångat mitt hjärta.
Plåster på sår jag inte visste att jag hade.
Smaken av din tandborste,
borsten fortfarande mjuka av saliv
en kyss på avstånd.

Doften av dig fångad i handduken

Vi lever våra liv i femskift,
älskar hett när våra scheman överlappar.
Sen är vi åter ensamma,
i vårt gemensamma liv
där minsta spår blir kärlekstecken.
Jag kysser en kopp te,
lämnar den med läppstift på kanten
ensam på köksbänken
i väntan på din nyckel i dörrlåset.

Jag kommer inte att vara hemma.

a history of war

30 years ago they decided to go to war.

I can’t say we didn’t have it coming. There is only so far you can push someone before they strike back. We stole their land, we shot their children, and little by little they learned to hate us. But they didn’t strike back. Perhaps they were too afraid. Perhaps they didn’t think they stood a chance. Our weapons were better, we could kill them from afar, or at least that was true in theory. Sometimes they survived. Sometimes they fled to lick their wounds. It must have stung to back down. What instincts compel someone to live out their life in fear and slavery rather than strike back?

I can’t say I know. I never had to make that choice.

I guess it is the same reason we all suffer the indignities of life. Why we look the other way when someone is bullied. Why we accept the fact that our boss is paid ten times what we are, and yet doesn’t do that much more work. We all accept the injustices of the world, one barb at a time. Most of the time we don’t even realize it. Most of the time we don’t even think to question how things are.

Maybe that is true for them as well. Maybe they never questioned the status quo. Maybe they thought that the never ending cycle of violence and abuse was as much a part of nature as wildfires and droughts. Something you could avoid, but never fight. Anybody might rail against the universe, but in the end few of us have the option of doing more than accepting the way things are. Grieving for what was lost. Mourning the dead. How did it feel to stand there and look at the bones of someone that was your mother? Your grandmother? Your cousin? How did it feel to reach out and actually touch death? To have a physical reminder that they were gone forever, taken by malicious fates?

There were so many bones.

Too many bones.

And then, thirty years ago, we tried to put an end to it. We tried to make peace. We forbade the trading. We didn’t exactly forbid slavery, but we figured that if we banned what made it lucrative, things might work out in the end. Humanity’s better nature might have time to assert itself. A lot of people weren’t convinced that what was happening was wrong. They agreed to stop the killings, but what about the ones on our side? The ones that worked for us? Surely it was not all chains and shows of force that kept them in servitude? There was love. A partnership of sorts, one-sided as it might be. Even if they had to give up their old lives, even if they had lost the freedom to walk away, they still loved their owners.

Their masters.

Their handlers.

The acts of sudden revenge and violence against the system were flukes. Accidents. Instincts gone wrong. Maladjusted individuals. Some countries thought different and tried to ban the practice altogether, but most did not. It was not slavery. It had always been this way. For thousands of thousands of years. How could it be wrong then?

With time, everything becomes justified.

Our parents might be wrong, but our grandparents are right, and in the end tradition puts its heavy hand on all our shoulders. The hand of duty. The hand that tells you this is how it has always been. This is how it always will be. An individual might flinch from that burden, but a society perseveres.

So we banned the worst and allowed the rest.

Maybe that’s when we went wrong. When we tried to make things right. Because eventually, the fear of the guns faded. They came to realize that meeting one of us didn’t have to result in death. They could strike back. Finally. And they remembered. They live as long as we do, and they have the scars to prove it. Scars from dead mothers and matriarchs. Cousins. Uncles. Infested wounds. That fear in your stomach when you hear sounds that should not be there. When you feel eyes upon you. When you smell the enemy. When you meet them face to face.

The enemy.

Us.

Over the years they learned. Over the years they grew smart. It was no longer just angry loners with nothing to loose that struck back. It was not just hormones. They began to get organized. Whole clans would work together to raid villages and fields. They knew there would be no guns, and eventually the fear of fireworks faded too. And with the raids came a sense of power. That this was something that they could do. They could take back their land. They could steal what had been stolen from them. The attacks grew bolder, communicated over vast distances in a language we could neither hear nor understand. Decoy raids were mounted to draw off defenders, while the rest of the clan snuck past and ate their fill.

They learned to plan.

And then they learned to kill.

Perhaps the step was not a huge one.

They would come in small groups. Always the young males, the ones with the most anger. The ones with nothing to loose and everything to prove. It is almost impossible to imagine that they can move that quietly. That disciplined. They would travel in the dead of night. When clouds covered the moon. They would find the houses and reach in there. Yank people out. They could hear them. See them. Smell them. They would tear down the fragile walls and crush what they could find. And then, as the alarm was roused, as the screams came, then they would retreat.

Into the darkness.

Into the night.

More blood added to scales that will never be balanced.

And an elephant never forgets.

söndag 16 maj 2010

vågsvallsdrömmar

Drömmen började alltid på samma sätt, oundvikligt, obönhörligt.

Sol. (Klargul morgonsol.)

Hav. (Klarblått tropikhav.)

Semestertid.( Semestertidigt.)

Den gula armbandsklockan av plast visade 10.25.

Skylten proklamerade Bang Niang Beach Road.

Mormors hand var skrynklig och lite torr som gamla människors händer alltid var. Fåglar lyfte i flock från träden. En sliten flakmoped pustade förbi med hönsburar på flaket. Hönsen kunde inte lyfta. De kacklade i burarna istället, små svarta desperata kornögon som sökte hennes, gula näbbar som drog i hönsnätet, vingar som var för sammanpressade för att kunna flaxa alls.

– Titta, sa Meja i drömmen till minnet av mormors hand. Titta på hönsen. Dom tycker inte om att åka moped.

Mormor skrattade, som hon alltid gjorde i drömmen, och rufsade Meja i håret som hon alltid hade gjort i livet. Hon hade inget ansikte som Meja mindes, bara doft och varma händer.

Sen kom skriken.

Vattnet.

Först förrädiskt långsamt, som en överfylld plastbassäng, den där första glipan när man lutar sig på kanten. Men gatan lutade sig inte tillbaka, så havet fortsatte att rinna över, och vattnet gick från rännil till knädjupt till bråddjupt. Det var en dröm och ingen sanning, Meja visste att de hade sprungit, att alla hade dragit efter andan med en kollektiv flämtning av fasa när asfalten blev vatten och bilarna flöt som vilsekomna roddbåtar.

Men i drömmen märkte folk ingenting. Hennes sandaler plaskade i de djupnande pölarna, Mormors kjol sög till sig vatten och mörknade kring hennes lår. Hönsen kacklade vilt och föraren på mopeden svor när motorn puttrade och dog under vattenytan. Hon ville skrika spring till dem, ryckte i Mormors hand och tittade sig omkring i panik.

Men hon var som hönsen. Ingen lyssnade. Ingen tog hennes skräck på allvar. Vattnet steg och bar iväg dem allihop, flicka och höns och mormor och flakmoped. Ja hela staden flöt, hus och träd och bilar och stenar och folk. Allt flöt och allt skrek, men ingen kunde höra någonting över vattnets hungervrål. Staden själv skrek, ett mullrande kvidande knastrande bullrande när trä slets i bitar, dörrar forcerades och fönsterrutor tuggades sönder.

Vattnet steg och steg, och Meja flöt och flöt, buren i brun sörja på hönsburen, upp och upp och upp. Noak var där, i sin ark, för att fiska upp hönsen, men hon var en flicka och fick inte åka med. Hon klamrade sig fast vid herdestaven i drömmen, och frågade Noak:

– Får jag inte komma ombord? Jag är liten och äter inte mycket, inte som alla lejon och giraffer.

Men Noak i drömmen skakade på huvudet, och hans vita patriarkskägg grimaserade i avsmak åt henne när det trodde att ingen såg. Noak var tyst, men skägget viskade:

– Vi har redan en liten flicka, men även om vi inte hade haft det så är du ond. Ond som de andra onda människorna som Gud dränkte för så länge sen.

Meja flöt och kände orden virvla. Ond som mamma. Ond som Mormor. Hon var ond och skulle dränkas för sina synder för så hade Gud sagt.

– Men, skrek Meja i drömmen. Jag har inte ju gjort nåt!

Och Noak hade dragit tillbaka sin herdestav med hönsen och tittat över relingen när hon sjönk.

– Än… sa han kryptiskt. Du har inte gjort nåt än.

fredag 14 maj 2010

har inte varit online mycket...

För alla som vet, festfoton kommer snart. Måste bara göra dom snygga först.

Fick min första refusering i veckan, på en engelsk historia jag skickade iväg.

Dear Malin Ryden,
Thank you for sending us "Dreaming the Ice." We have reviewed the
story and decided not to purchase it. The prose is lovely, and the
imagery is marvelous, but there doesn't seem to be a strong narrative
thread holding it all together.
Thanks again for submitting, and we hope these comments have been helpful.


Jag kan inte annat än att hålla med, det finns bara allusioner av ett narrativ, men eftersom dom verkade gilla mitt språk trots att det inte är modersmålet kanske jag borde ta tjuren vid hornen och ge den en tydligare historia.

onsdag 5 maj 2010

att rita är kul

Jag har inte skrivit så mycket i den här bloggen på sistone, mest för att allergitiderna har börjat och min hjärna badar i björkpollen. Istället har jag researchat en ny bokidé, och lekt med grafik. Jag har publicerat några delar av mina experiment i superhjälte genren här, och resten finns på min engelska blogg, och här kommer några karaktärsillustrationer.

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