Kategoriarkiv: Nu och DÅ

Lyssna på musiken

Det räcker inte med att lyssna på musik. Det ska vara god musik också. Då kan det duga med repriser. Bernur presenterar med jämna mellanrum olika bästalistor och till dagens musiklista kan jag säga att förunderligt nog så håller jag med och har glädjen att återupptäcka några skivor som redan finns i datorn. 50 bästa skivor räcker naturligtvis inte. Det finns många fler. Aftermath nedan är en sådan. Brian Jones spelar sitar på Paint it Black och Nietzsche sköter klaviaturen och det var en helt annan tid. Det är Monterey som räknas till den första udda och alternativa musikfestivalen men då glömmer man bort hur det kunde komma sig artisterna spelade gratis att det hela (helande) började i Watts året innan och att jag var där (i närheten). Båda åren. Nästa år är det ett halvt liv sedan det så att säga inledningsvis begav sig. Det var då den här musiken grundades och sedan reinkarnerade i många variationer. Även Ravi Shankars musik var ett uppror. Varje gång jag går på Lundavägen med hunden så påminns jag om de brända kvarteren i Watts och tänker på det. Som det kan vara!

Nedan är en bloggrepris

”En Resa

Som den kan te sig för en sjuttonårig motorelev angörandes San Francisco Port 1 för att mönstra upp till motorman på resa från San Pedro och Watts till Stockton, Oregon med tyska bilar och fransk aluminiumgranulat i lasten.  Det händer en hel del i livet denna plats och i denna tid av världen och det går också bra på en sköldpadda.

m/s Citadel





”Finns de någon som kommer ihåg historien om en man som blev räddad utanför Mexicos kust av M/S Citadel där han satt på ryggen av en sköldpadda. Denna räddningsaktion skedde i andra hälften av sextiotalet.”

citadel akter


Jack Londons första berättelse publicerad i The Black Cat, majnumret, 1899

A Thousand Deaths. 



HAD been in the water about an hour, and cold, exhausted, with a terrible cramp in my right calf, it seemed as though my hour had come. Fruitlessly struggling against the strong ebb tide, I had beheld the maddening procession of the water-front lights slip by; but now I gave up attempting to breast the stream and contented myself with the bitter thoughts of a wasted career, now drawing to a close.
It had been my luck to come of good, English stock, but of parents whose account with the bankers far exceeded their knowledge of child-nature and the rearing of children. While born with a silver spoon in my mouth, the blessed atmosphere of the home circle was to me unknown. My father, a very learned man and a celebrated antiquarian, gave no thought to his family, being constantly lost in the abstractions of his study; while my mother, noted far more for her good looks than her good sense, sated herself with adulation of the society in which she was perpetually plunged. I went through the regular school and college routine of a boy of the English bourgeois, and as the years brought me increasing strength and passions, my parents suddenly became aware that I was possessed of an immortal soul, and endeavored to draw the curb. But it was too late; I perpetrated the wildest and most audacious folly, and was disowned by my people, ostracized by the society I had so long outraged, and with the thousand pounds my father gave me, with the declaration that he would neither see me again nor give me more, I took a first-class passage to Australia.
Since then my life had been one long peregrination — from the Orient to the Occident, from the Arctic to the Antarctic — to find myself at last, an able seaman at thirty, in the full vigor of my manhood, drowning in San Francisco bay because of a disastrously successful attempt to desert my ship.
My right leg was drawn up by the cramp, and I was suffering the keenest agony. A slight breeze stirred up a choppy sea, which washed into my mouth and down my throat, nor could I prevent it. Though I still contrived to keep afloat, it was merely mechanical, for I was rapidly becoming unconscious. I have a dim recollection of drifting past the sea-wall, and of catching a glimpse of an up-river steamer’s starboard light; then everything became a blank.


.           .           .           .           .           .           .           .           .           .           .               I heard the low hum of insect life, and felt the balmy air of a spring morning fanning my cheek. Gradually it assumed a rhythmic flow, to whose soft pulsations my body seemed to respond. I floated on the gentle bosom of a summer’s sea, rising and falling with dreamy pleasure on each crooning wave. But the pulsations grew stronger; the humming, louder; the waves, larger, fiercer — I was dashed about on a stormy sea. A great agony fastened upon me. Brilliant, intermittent sparks of light flashed athwart my inner consciousness; in my ears there was the sound of many waters; the a sudden snapping of an intangible something, and I awoke.
The scene, of which I was a protagonist, was a curious one. A glance sufficed to inform me that I lay on the cabin floor of some gentleman’s yacht, in a most uncomfortable posture. On either side, grasping my arms and working them up and down like pump handles, were two peculiarly clad, dark-skinned creatures. Though conversant with most aboriginal types, I could not conjecture their nationality. Some attachment had been fastened about my head, which connected my respiratory organs with the machine I shall next describe. My nostrils, however, had been closed, forcing me to breathe through the mouth. Foreshortened by the obliquity of my line of vision, I beheld two tubes, similar to small hosing but of different composition, which emerged from my mouth and went off at an acute angle from each other. The first came to an abrupt termination and lay on the floor beside me; the second traversed the floor in numerous coils, connecting with the apparatus I have promised to describe.
In the days before my life had become tangential, I had dabbled not a little in science, and, conversant with the appurtenances and general paraphernalia of the laboratory, I appreciated the machine I now beheld. It was compose chiefly of glass, the construction being of that crude sort which is employed for experimentative purposes. A vessel of water was surrounded by an air chamber, to which was fixed a vertical tube, surmounted by a globe. In the center of this was a vacuum gauge. The water in the tube moved upward and downward, creating alternate inhalations and exhalations, which were in turn communicated to me through the hose. With this, and the aid of the men who pumped my arms so vigorously, had the process of breathing been artificially carried on, my chest rising and falling and my lungs expanding and contracting, till nature could be persuaded again take up her wonted labor.
As I opened my eyes the appliance about my head, nostrils and mouth was removed. Draining a stiff three fingers of brandy, I staggered to my feet to thank my preserver, and confronted — my father. But long years of fellowship with danger had taught me self-control, and I waited to see if he would recognize me. Not so; he saw in me no more than a runaway sailor and treated me accordingly.
Leaving me to the care of the blackies, he fell to revising the notes he had made on my resuscitation. As I ate of the handsome fare served up to me, confusion began on deck, and from the chanteys of the sailors and the rattling of blocks and tackles I surmised that we were getting under way. What a lark! Off on a cruise with my recluse father into the wide Pacific! Little did I realize, as I laughed to myself, which side the joke was to be on. Aye, had I known, I would have plunged overboard and welcomed the dirty fo’k’sle from which I had just escaped.
I was not allowed on deck till we had sunk the Farallones and the last pilot boat. I appreciated this forethought on the part of my father and made it a point to thank him heartily, in my bluff seaman’s manner. I could not suspect that he had had his own ends in view, in thus keeping my presence secret to all save the crew. He told me briefly of my rescue by his sailors, assuring me that the obligation was on his side, as my appearance had been most opportune. He had constructed the apparatus for the vindication of a theory concerning certain biological phenomena, and had been waiting for an opportunity to use it.
”You have proved it beyond all doubt,” he said; then added with a sight, ”But only in the small matter of drowning.”
But, to take a reef in my yarn — he offered me an advance of two pounds on my previous wages to sail with him, and this I considered handsome, for he really did not need me. Contrary to my expectations, I did not join the sailors’ mess, for’ard, being assigned to a comfortable stateroom and eating at the captain’s table. He had perceived that I was no common sailor, and I resolved to take this chance for reinstating myself in his good graces. I wove a fictitious past to account for my education and present position, and did my best to come in touch with him. I was not long in disclosing a predilection for scientific pursuits, nor he in appreciating my aptitude. I became his assistant, with a corresponding increase in wages, and before long, as he grew confidential and expounded his theories, I was as enthusiastic as himself.
The days flew quickly by, for I was deeply interested in my new studies, passing my waking hours in his well-stocked library, or listening to his plans and aiding him in his laboratory work. But we were forced to forego many enticing experiments, a rolling ship not being exactly the proper place for delicate or intricate work. He promised me, however, many delightful hours in the magnificent laboratory for which we were bound. He had taken possession of and uncharted South Sea island, as he said, and turned it into a scientific paradise.
We had not been on the island long, before I discovered the horrible mare’s nest I had fallen into. But before I describe the strange things which came to pass, I must briefly outline the causes which culminated in as startling an experience as ever fell to the lot of man.
Late in life, my father had abandoned the musty charms of antiquity and succumbed to the more fascinating ones embraced under the general head of biology. Having been thoroughly grounded during his youth in the fundamentals, he rapidly explored all the higher branches as far as the scientific world had gone, and found himself on the no man’s land of the unknowable. It was his intention to pre-empt some of this unclaimed territory, and it was at this stage of his investigations that we had been thrown together. Having a good brain, though I say it myself, I had mastered his speculations and methods of reasoning, becoming almost as mad as himself. But I should not say this. The marvelous results we afterward obtained can only go to prove his sanity. I can but say that he was the most abnormal specimen of cold-blooded cruelty I have ever seen.
After having penetrated the dual mysteries of physiology and psychology, his though had led him to the verge of a great field, for which, the better to explore, he began studies in higher organic chemistry, pathology, toxicology and other sciences and sub-sciences rendered kindred as accessories to his speculative hypotheses. Starting from the proposition that the direct cause of the temporary and permanent arrest of vitality was due to the coagulation of certain elements and compounds in the protoplasm, he had isolated and subjected these various substances to innumerable experiments. Since the temporary arrest of vitality in an organism brought coma, and a permanent arrest death, he held that by artificial means this coagulation of the protoplasm could be retarded, prevented, and even overcome in the extreme states of solidification. Or, to do away with the technical nomenclature, he argued that death, when not violent and in which none of the organs had suffered injury, was merely suspended vitality; and that, in such instances, life could be induced to resume its functions by the use of proper methods. This, then, was his idea: To discover a method — and by practical experimentation prove the possibility — of renewing vitality in a structure from which life had seemingly fled. Of course, he recognized the futility of such endeavor after decomposition had set in; he must have organisms which but the moment, the hour, or the day before, had been quick with life. With me, in a crude way, he had proved this theory. I was really drowned, really dead, when picked from the water of San Francisco bay — but the vital spark had been renewed by means of his aerotherapeutical apparatus, as he called it.
Now to his dark purpose concerning me. He first showed me how completely I was in his power. He had sent the yacht away for a year, retaining only his two blackies, who were utterly devoted to him. He then made an exhaustive review of his theory and outlined the method of proof he had adopted, concluding with the startling announcement that I was to be his subject.
I had faced death and weighed my chances in many a desperate venture, but never in one of this nature. I can swear I am no coward, yet this proposition of journeying back and forth across the borderland of death put the yellow fear upon me. I asked for time, which he granted, at the same time assuring me that but the one course was open — I must submit. Escape from the island was out of the question; escape by suicide was not to be entertained, though really preferable to what it seemed I must undergo; my only hope was to destroy my captors. But this latter was frustrated through the precautions taken by my father. I was subjected to a constant surveillance, even in my sleep being guarded by one or the other of the blacks.
Having pleaded in vain, I announced and proved that I was his son. It was my last card, and I had placed all my hopes upon it. But he was inexorable; he was not a father but a scientific machine. I wonder yet how it ever came to pass that he married my mother or begat me, for there was not the slightest grain of emotion in his make-up. Reason was all in all to him, nor could he understand such things as love or sympathy in others, except as petty weaknesses which should be overcome. So he informed me that in the beginning he had given me life, and who had better right to take it away than he? Such, he said, was not his desire, however; he merely wished to borrow it occasionally, promising to return it punctually at the appointed time. Of course, there was a liability of mishaps, but I could do no more than take the chances, since the affairs of men were full of such.
The better to insure success, he wished me to be in the best possible condition, so I was dieted and trained like a great athlete before a decisive contest. What could I do? If I had to undergo the peril, it were best to be in good shape. In my intervals of relaxing he allowed me to assist in the arranging of the apparatus and in the various subsidiary experiments. The interest I took in all such operations can be imagined. I mastered the work as thoroughly as he, and often had the pleasure of seeing some of my suggestions or alterations put into effect. After such events I would smile grimly, conscious of officiating at my own funeral.
He began by inaugurating a series of experiments in toxicology. When all was ready, I was killed by a stiff dose of strychnine and allowed to lie dead for some twenty hours. During that period my body was dead, absolutely dead. All respiration and circulation ceased; but the frightful part of it was, that while the protoplasmic coagulation proceeded, I retained consciousness and was enabled to study it in all its ghastly details.
The apparatus to bring me back to life was an air-tight chamber, fitted to receive my body. The mechanism was simple — a few valves, a rotary shaft and crank, and an electric motor. When in operation, the interior atmosphere was alternately condensed and rarefied, thus communicating to my lungs and artificial respiration without the agency of the hosing previously used. Though my body was inert, and, for all I knew, in the first stages of decomposition, I was cognizant of everything that transpired. I knew when they placed me in the chamber, and though all my senses were quiescent, I was aware of hypodermic injections of a compound to react upon the coagulatory process. Then the chamber was closed and the machinery started. My anxiety was terrible; but the circulation became gradually restored, the different organs began to carry on their respective functions, and in an hour’s time I was eating a hearty dinner.
It cannot be said that I participated in this series, nor in the subsequent ones, with much verve; but after two ineffectual attempts at escape, I began to take quite and interest. Besides, I was becoming accustomed. My father was beside himself at his success, and as the months rolled by his speculations took wilder and yet wilder flights. We ranged through the three great classes of poisons, the neurotics, the gaseous and the irritants, but carefully avoided some of the mineral irritants and passed the whole group of corrosives. During the poison règime I became quite accustomed to dying, and had but one mishap to shake my growing confidence. Scarifying a number of blood vessels in my arm, he introduced a minute quantify of that most frightful of poisons, the arrow poison, or curare. I lost consciousness at the start, quickly followed by the cessation of respiration and circulation, and so far had the solidification of the protoplasm advanced, that he gave up all hope. But at the last moment he applied a discovery he had been working upon, receiving such encouragement as to redouble his efforts.
In a glass vacuum, similar but not exactly like a Crookes’ tube, was placed a magnetic field. When penetrated by polarized light, it gave no phenomena of phosphorescence nor of rectilinear projection of atoms, but emitted non-luminous rays, similar to the X ray. While the X ray could reveal opaque objects hidden in dense mediums, this was possessed of far subtler penetration. By this he photographed my body, and found on the negative an infinite number of blurred shadows, due to the chemical and electric motions still going on. This was an infallible proof that the rigor mortis in which I lay was not genuine; that is, those mysterious forces, those delicate bonds which held my soul to my body, were still in action. The resultants of all other poisons were unapparent, save those of mercurial compounds, which usually left me languid for several days.
Another series of delightful experiments was with electricity. We verified Tesla’s assertion that high currents were utterly harmless by passing 100,000 volts through my body. As this did not affect me, the current was reduced to 2,500, and I was quickly electrocuted. This time he ventured so far as to allow me to remain dead, or in a state of suspended vitality, for three days. It took four hours to bring me back.
Once, he superinduced lockjaw; but the agony of dying was so great that I positively refused to undergo similar experiments. The easiest deaths were by asphyxiation, such as drowning, strangling, and suffocation by gas; while those by morphine, opium, cocaine, and chloroform, were not at all hard.
Another time, after being suffocated, he kept me in cold storage for three months, not permitting me to freeze or decay. This was without my knowledge, and I was in a great fright on discovering the lapse of time. I became afraid of what he might do with me when I lay dead, my alarm being increased by the predilection he was beginning to betray toward vivisection. The last time I was resurrected, I discovered that he had been tampering with my breast. Though he had carefully dressed and sewed the incisions up, they were so severe that I had to take to my bed for some time. It was during this convalescence that I evolved the plan by which I ultimately escaped.
While feigning unbounded enthusiasm in the work, I asked and received a vacation from my moribund occupation. During this period I devoted myself to laboratory work, while he was too deep in the vivisection of the many animals captured by the blacks to take notice of my work.
It was on these two propositions that I constructed my theory: First, electrolysis, or the decomposition of water into its constituent gases by means of electricity; and, second, by the hypothetical existence of a force, the converse of gravitation, which Astor has named ”apergy.” Terrestrial attraction, for instance, merely draws objects together but does not combine them; hence, apergy is merely repulsion. Now, atomic or molecular attraction not only draws objects together but integrates them; and it was the converse of this, or a disintegrative force, which I wished to not only discover and produce, but to direct at will. Thus the molecules of hydrogen and oxygen reacting on each other, separate and create new molecules, containing both elements and forming water. Electrolysis causes these molecules to split up and resume their original condition, producing the two gases separately. The force I wished to find must not only do this with two, but with all elements, no matter in what compounds they exist. If I could then entice my father within its radius, he would be instantly disintegrated and sent flying to the four quarters, a mass of isolated elements.
It must not be understood that this force, which I finally came to control, annihilated matter; it merely annihilated form. Nor, as I soon discovered, had it any effect on inorganic structure; but to all organic form it was absolutely fatal. This partiality puzzled me at first, though had I stopped to think deeper I would have seen through it. Since the number of atoms in organic molecules is far greater than in the most complex mineral molecules, organic compounds are characterized by their instability and the ease with which they are split up by physical forces and chemical reagents.
By two powerful batteries, connected with magnets constructed specially for this purpose, two tremendous forces were projected. Considered apart from each other, they were perfectly harmless; but they accomplished their purpose by focusing at an invisible point in mid-air. After practically demonstrating its success, besides narrowly escaping being blown into nothingness, I laid my trap. Concealing the magnets, so that their force made the whole space of my chamber doorway a field of death, and placing by my couch a button by which I could thrown on the current from the storage batteries, I climbed into bed.
The blackies still guarded my sleeping quarters, one relieving the other at midnight. I turned on the current as soon as the first man arrived. Hardly had I begun to doze, when I was aroused by a sharp, metallic tinkle. There, on the mid-threshold, lay the collar of Dan, my father’s St. Bernard. My keeper ran to pick it up. He disappeared like a gust of wind, his clothes falling to the floor in a heap. There was a slight whiff of ozone in the air, but since the principal gaseous components of his body were hydrogen, oxygen and nitrogen, which are equally colorless and odorless, there was no other manifestation of his departure. Yet when I shut off the current and removed the garments, I found a deposit of carbon in the form of animal charcoal; also other powders, the isolated, solid elements of his organism, such as sulphur, potassium and iron. Resetting the trap, I crawled back to bed. At midnight I got up and removed the remains of the second blacky, and then slept peacefully till morning.
I was awakened by the strident voice of my father, who was calling to me from across the laboratory. I laughed to myself. There had been no one to call him and he had overslept. I could hear him as he approached my room with the intention of rousing me, and so I sat up in bed, the better to observe his translation — perhaps apotheosis were a better term. He paused a moment at the threshold, then took the fatal step. Puff! It was like the wind sighing among the pines. He was gone. His clothes fell in a fantastic heap on the floor. Besides ozone, I noticed the faint, garlic-like odor of phosphorus. A little pile of elementary solids lay among his garments. That was all. The wide world lay before me. My captors were not.


Legendariska Maj

Maj Sjöwall skrev tillsammans med Per Wahlöö sina legendariska romaner om brott inte långt från legendariska Östra Förstadsgatan omskriven av den likaledes legendariske Axel Danielsson i den förträffliga ”Träbonnastan”. Då härskade åkerierna och de hästdragna ekipagen på gatan och det är ingen tillfällighet att Vagnmuseet låg på Drottningtorget en bit bort. Låg skriver jag för nu är det en Boulebar där och det är lågt. Till och med i historielösa Malmö. Det var för övrigt här i närheten som man hittade den cykel som ledde till att det legendariska tågrånet på spåret i Staffanstorp 1907 kunde klaras upp och de ungsocialistiska gärningsmännen gripas och dömas till livstids fängelse.  Tågrånspengarna var ämnade till den ungsocialistiska partikassan; men först alltså en cykel. Fem tusen kronor som tågrånet gav skulle räcka till en Tesla i dag och måntro den skulle väcka uppmärksamhet i de legendariska kvarteren runt Värnhemstorget vid Malmös norra infart. Det bor många stadsmiljövänner här och på torget är det soppkök för de bostadslösa och a-lagare. Torget som är ombyggt invigdes av Kungen härförleden och oron och polispådragelesen för eventuell uppståndelse var stor men eftersom tilldragelsen i tiden sammanföll med systemets öppnande avlöpte det hela lugnt och helt utan gratistittare. Klarakvarteren i all ära men inte långt från Värnhem ligger Kirseberg som i tidningshistorikens mängdlära klart överträffar Klara. Strax bakom Värnhemstorget ligger också Vårgatan som torde vara Sveriges mordtätaste gata för att nu återvända till Maj Sjöwall som fyller två gånger fyrtio år i dag. Onekligen inspiranta kvarter. Dagens Maj skulle nog låta brottningarna pågå i mörkret av tyskinspirerade Entré, med halvårsavstängda gator till de omgivande köpmännens förtret och påtvugna flyttning och höjda butikshyror till nivåer där inga butiker finns. De av Gatukontoret förskingrade miljonerna till cykelstråk skulle säkert också räcka till en roman och även bli över till mången Tesla, miljöriktigt snodda. (vafan skulle vi göra, pengarna räckte bara till guppen)

Alldeles slumpartat har jag senaste tiden sett om filmsexologin om Marin Becks bravader med Gösta Ekman i huvudrollen och Maj Sjöwall som kamérollade i alla rullarna. Det som slår mig är att man genomgående är ganska så taskig mot ”vanliga” poliskonstaplar och där de i böckerna får lämna sina bidrag så utelämnas de helt i filmerna. Den allmänna polisens uppmärksamhet är annars ett viktigt incitament i kriminalgåtornas lösande för Martin Beck. En annan sak som också är genomgående är att Martin Becks egen lilla elitstyrka inte låter lagen hindra dem i brottsbekämpadet. De låts med andra ord gång på gång begå brott som aldrig straffas eller ens uppmärksammas. Martin Beck gör sig till domare när han låter bekännelser upplösas som i ”Terroristerna” eller ”Stockholm Marathon” som filmen får heta. Gösta Ekman som Martin Beck är gedigen och fantastisk. ”Det svenska tungsinnet” som står och gråter i Marie-Louise Ekmans gestaltning vid kanalen tvärs över Brandstationen inte långt från nybyggda Polishuset och Värnhemstorget har lånat Gösta Ekmans drag. Lycka att statyn inte malplacerades i Limhamn även om pojken Gösta bott där.  Det är inte utan att Stieg Larsson också snodde en hel del till sin Milleniumtrilogi men så har han heller inte bott vid Värnhemstorget. Inom Kultursektorn, eller ska jag skriva branschen, snor (delar, dealar) man mycket från varandra så kanske är ”deckaren” ett alldeles naturligt media för att inte säga det naturligaste; som fusken i smutsvattnet som Malmö Stad för övrigt inte har en aning om hur man ska bli av med när skyfall står för himlen. Man låtsas som om det regnar. Sjöwall-Wahlöös tio epokala brottsromaner har lämnat många intryck och avtryck i litteratur och film och dess påverkan torde vara unikt omfattande och visst skulle det kunna slantas till ett stipendium av de överblivna Milleniumpengarna. Nåja – skänk i alla fall en tanke.

Vem äger virtualiteten?

Som flitig bloggläsare, nåja, tre fyra om dagen, kan jag konstatera att inte sällan handlar de om liknande saker som bloggskrivaren ställer sig frågande till. Utgångspunkterna är olika så frågeställningarna skiftar men svaren de kritiserar är påfallande lika på ett sätt som lite löst kan beskrivas som ogrundade. Med yttrandefrihet på baneret gjorde franska revolutionen rent hus med den absoluta statsmakten och efterhand så ansluter sig världens länder till de demokratiska utfästelserna. Också Sverige; … och ändå på sina håll så är det där med yttrandefrihet relativt. I alla fall när det gäller professor Vilks. Fredrik Ekelund påpekar det i sina blandade tankar den 17 mars. ”I Danmark och Frankrike är det inte så, kanske för att de lever närmare verkligheten” Längre ner i samma tanke berättar FE om en virtuell pirat som inte vill betala när han delar med sig av sitt inköpta material. Då förstår man att synen på äganderätt på Sydsvenskan också kan vara ganska så relativ. Bara för skojs skull så citerar jag en annan sanning: ”The Pirate Bay gjorde succé som virtuell hälericentral. Dit lockades de ideologiskt övertygade och alla som gillar musik och film men ogillar att göra rätt för sig.” Den som vill vara ännu roligare kan olämpligen skriva in ”Sydsvenskan” och ”artiklar” i sammanhanget.

Det är en ny verklighet på gång och ljuset håller på att slockna i Lund. Tidningens virtuelle expert som händelsevis glömt att påpeka den egna tidningens olämplighet när det handlar om artikeldelning ”tror att vi befinner oss i en större förändringstid än vi kanske inser” och verkar helt ha glömt slaget vid Lund 1676 eller att Tetra Pak inte för så länge sedan knoppade bort verksamheten. Nåja. Apropås artikelrubriken ”Tänk om förändringen är permanent?” och multipla verkligheter så måste man veta om sättaren är Samsons hårfrisör eller trotskyist

P O Ågren delar i bloggen sen 17 mars med sig av  läsande i den nya verkligheten och tekniknördarnas  begränsade samhällsvetande. Intelligenta tankar om virtualiteten och om delningen som som redan är ett faktum mellan en virtuelit som tjänar stora pengar nu på det som uppenbart inte är deras och en virtumassa som har att fö sig på minskande pensioner från de forna demokratiernas massproduktion.

Något förvånande kanske, om man tänker lite historiskt efter, är att journalistskrået som tidigare företrädde yttrandefrihet numera alltmera företräder självcensur och yttrandeägande. Särskilt i alla fall de som fortfarande är kvar på reaktionerna.

God Morgon!

I dag är första dagen i resten av mitt liv. Det har slumpat sig så att just i dag, dag två i årets april ska jag påbörja en ny arbetsperiod. Arbetsperiod är ett finare ord för mönstra på. I min ungdom, och ännu längre tillbaka, även om det är svårt att tänka så, så gick jag till sjöss. Det var något som jag länge velat även om jag knappt ens hade talat om det för mig själv, men när jag slutade skolan så var det alldeles självklart. För mig men inte för min ensamförsörjande mor som ju nödgades skriva på. För min del alltså. Men hon nödgades inte alls. Det tog ett år av kontorselevande inom Cementakoncernen innan det med mors medgivande bar av ut på Oceanen som motorelev. Jag mönstrade på. Tids nog blev man trött på sin båt och då mönstrade man av. Fri som fågeln och inte mer med det. Jag tycker om det här med att mönstra på och sedan mönstra av. Till sjöss var det på den tiden omgärdat av lite regler. För att få lov att mönstra av i utrikeshamn så måste man ha stått i båten ett år å ena sidan. Å andra sidan så fick man efter 18 månaders sjötjänstgöring fri hemresa var helst man befann sig. Ja inte helst egentligen, men där fartyget befann sig. Begränsningen var väl dock i dagens ögon lite märklig. Det fanns statuter i kontraktet och dom flesta var nog till redarnas fördel. Alltså borde jag ha ett kontrakt. Kan man skriva kontrakt med sig själv?

Nu och DÅ!

Jag har lovat mig själv bättring. Nog ska väl jag klara av att skriva i en blogg då och då och mer ofta än nu och då. Faktiskt ett bra namn på en blogg.” Ja, det har faktiskt hänt en hel del i seriositeten. Omförflyttningar pågår i min arbetslokal (private playground) och till den förste nästa månad, i alla fall, ska påbörjning av den nya arbetsperioden (playtime) ske med ett rent skrivbord. Eller ska det stå utgå från. Så har jag tänkt. Det ska bli lite Montaigne över mig. Dock så avstod han världen i ett torn medan min arbetslokal ligger på källarplanet. Eller låter det bättre, lite Dostojevskist, med Källarplaneten. Ja, varför inte. I förspelet har jag beställt och betalat på Bokbörsen för KALILAH i översättning av Eric Hermelin som jag tänker umgås med ett tag. Kanske hinner jag få den till den förste. För er som inte känner till KALILAH kan jag berätta att den är nummer ett i min Kanon över världslitteraturen och nu skall jag alltså läsa om den. Den utgavs, då det begav sig, i Lund och på Eget Förlag, till förmån för judarna och om än tjock och i tre delar så bara i en mindre upplaga. Eric Hermelin var ett inkännande Lundasnille som jag tror de flesta  av den gamla generationens människor kan känna igen sig i. Innerst inne en Adelsman, till det yttre tvångsomhändertagen suput och absolut i omvärlden kan räknas till en av den svenska litteraturkretsens främsta. I alla tider.

Igår läste jag tre böcker: FÖRSÖK ATT LÄSA MONTAIGNE på förmiddagen; HAT & BLÄCK på eftermiddagen; CALL GIRLS på kvällen. Det är så jag tänker tillbringa dagarna i min KÄLLARPLANET; som kanske Den Nya Blogen också ska heta.

Arne Melbergs FÖRSÖK ATT LÄSA MONTAIGNE är en alldeles utmärkt liten introduktion till Montaignes ESSAYER. Eller hellre kanske Montaigne. Montaigne skiljer inte på sig själv och det han skriver och han ser sig också som en del av det han läser; idisslaren kulturens perenna gräs och gräsligheter. Melberg liknar Montaignes kunskapsteori vid Sokrates´”Vad vet jag?” , utan att därför på peka religionens samtidsmakt visserligen, men det är ett bra påpekande. Bara så kan man förhålla sig om man heter Montaigne eller Sokrates.

HAT&BLÄCK låter mer som ett firmanamn och det är väl det boken handlar. Ett famlande efter positioner utan att vara fumligt. Lundberg & Enander är seriösa men hamnar (handlar) med benägenhet för offerkoftor emellanåt i litterär historienostalgi. Lundberg om klass och Enander om tendens. Dock även denna med många bra påpekande. Dock (Njae) igen, man gör inte litteratur genom att prata om den.

CALLGIRLS av Arthur Koestler läser jag apropås de avslöjande kringkommentarerna om Tingstenavslöjandet. Jag mindes boken som mer avslöjande, men jag blandar nog ihop den med något annat som Koestler skrivit. Koestler var en av mina favoritförfattare för femtio år sedan medan Callgirls kom lite senare. Det här att kulturens propagandister är så lättköpta och aningslösa när det visar sig att det är amerikanska staten som backar upp sekinerna de får för besväret. Lars Gustafsson tycker att det var väl inget märkvärdigt med det. Det gjorde alla!

Lars Westerberg som jag skrivit tidigare om i bloggen skrev något alldeles märkvärdigt i sin blogg i går:  ”Jag blir illa åtgången av den sekt som erövrat nationstidningen. Om jag förstått det rätt är det samma sekt som utgjorde den danska Blekingegatligan. Och jag offras av den sittande nationsledningen, man är ännu inte redo för slutstriden med sekteristerna.” Det handlar om året då LW lämnade Dackekuriren och det han skriver är inte alldeles sant. M. som vid dåtiden var tidningens redaktör  var en i det närmaste opolitisk människa som älskade att göra tidningar och det var detta intresse som gjorde honom till redaktör. Många var missnöjda med Dackekuriren och allra missnöjdast i allmänhet var kanske ”nationsledningen”. Särskilt missnöjda var man med att en liberal kåsör i det närmaste var tidningens ansikte. M:s största problem med tidningen var att få tag på någorlunda kvalitativt materiel och han ville inte alls mista LW. Tvärtom. Dessutom tyckte han att då kunde väl ”nationsledningen” leverera lite artiklar då. Det var ju en ”aktivistlinje” som gällde. M vägrade att kasta ut LW och politrukmöte sammankallades, dvs redaktionsmöte med den anställda personalen. 3 heltid och två halvtid, inklusive redaktören, där prokuratorn företrädde nationsledningens linje. Det blev en kompromiss: LW erbjöds fortsätta som förut men med en mindre framträdande framtoning och föreslogs aktivera sig mer i nationsarbetet. På den tiden föreslogs alla att aktivera sig mera i nationsarbetet. Det fanns många ambitioner mycket att göra, t.ex så behövde M. alltid hjälp med tidningen. LW valde att inte medverka i Dackekuriren mera. Raden om Blekingegadeligan är så oförskämd, grov och okunnig att man häpnar. Jag tror inte heller att LW egentligen har en aning om vilka som var ”sekteristerna” på Smålands Nation. Om han någon gång besöker  Filosoficirkeln i Lund så kan jag berätta att den startades en gång som öppna Temaseminarier på Smålands Nation och att det första handlade om Kunskaps- och Vetenskapsteori och inte om Blekingegadebandens fascistiska filosofi och att den där slutstriden också innebar att seminarierna stod husvilla, det var nämligen sekteristen från Lunds Kommunistiska Högskoleförening som sa sussumera istället för subsumera som vann, men bara han. Smålands verksamhet låg sedan nere i två år. Men Temaseminarierna kunde alltså fortsätta i Arno Werners förtjänstfulla regi under namnet Filosoficirkeln och med ett antal akademiska år senare en del av den avskedade personalen som föreläsare. Så kan det gå! När det gäller motsättningarna på Smålands Nation i mitten på 1970-talet så har sanningen sannerligen ännu inte fått på sig sandalerna.

Konst & Politik

Staffan Jacobson - författare, konstnär och frihetlig socialist i Lund.

Tony Johansson

Publicerade texter 2007-

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