Fix it! Just fix it!!

I must say I am terribly disappointed. I thought more of them. And that it just hadn’t happened yet. And I feel a bit stupid I have to say, or at least naive.

During the process of creating Väven, the new building for cultural arts which opened november 2014, there was a lot of resistance for moving the city library to the facility. 

The core of Umeå city center is extremely small.  And we are very lazy. Anything which isn’t within the square of three blocks feels remote. Like if the area around Pacific Place and Westlake Mall in Seattle was the only place to be. Anyway, at the core of these three blocks there is the Metro bus terminal, Vasaplan. A bit like the Grey Hound station in Seattle although a lot nicer. The city library was located right at Vasaplan, which of course was perfect. 10 steps and you were there. The library was also a great place to wait for your bus. The newspaper and magazine corner a warm and friendly companion while waiting.

So one of the big cons against moving the city library was that it would be too far from Vasaplan and hard to get to. Now, Väven isn’t located more than three blocks from Vasaplan, so that’s like a joke. That is, of course, if you don’t have any physical problems and are able to walk those blocks.

I used to defend the con argument with the obvious one: the City would of course see to there were buses stopping frequently at the entrances of the new city cultural center and library, anything else would be unthinkable!

Now it turns out I was wrong. The City has no intention what so ever to secure bus communications to Väven. The argument for that: Vasaplan is close enough for people to walk from. Well hello, I have news for you: not everybody can walk! There is also only one (!!!) handicap parking space located at Väven, which is a building stretching two blocks in a square.

I have periods when I can walk one block or maybe two, but I can’t do it by myself, someone needs to be with me. And there are times when I can only do a few steps, and those times are more frequent. I am physically challenged. I still have problems using the word handicapped about myself. Physically challenged. Temporarily. No, probably not.

Some people who are handicapped can still drive. And those people need a handicap space to park in. And I am sure there are more than one handicapped driving person who wants to visit Väven and the new city library.

Some people get around in a wheel chair, and most of the times they are assisted by someone. They might be able to take the bus to Vasaplan and get themselves to Väven. But as Umeå 6-7 months a year is covered in ice, slush or snow, I am sure that trip is not one they fondly go for.

I can’t take a bus, so for me the City ignorance is not a problem. I can’t drive, so that one single parking space doesn’t bother me (personally) either. I need someone who is kind enough driving me, letting me off right outside the entrance, then driving parking the car somewhere while I am sitting waiting for that someone to come back and be with me during the visit. So, I don’t fit in to any of those categories.

But I do feel deeply for everyone who is physically challenged and in pain trying to do this by themselves. It’s a most difficult, dangerous and vulnerable situation. And I can’t believe the complete ignorance and lack of empathy with the officials who are responsible for these decisions.

In fact, those decisions aren’t even legal. According to the Swedish discrimination law, the City is, already during planning, obligated to secure and provide availability for everyone. What the City of Umeå does (or more correct, doesn’t) is further more not according to the legally enforceable UN convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities. Which Sweden has signed and agreed on.

I feel embarrassed for myself about all the times I argued for the location of the new library at the Umeå River not being a problem. Umeå wanted to turn it’s face to the water again, like it once did, and just like Seattle is planning to as well. Of course the City of Umeå would also provide communications for all of us to be a part of this face lift!

And I feel sorry and sad for everyone who is now excluded from Väven, this amazing already award winning building, the new Umeå front porch.

But most of all I feel ashamed and mad for the City of Umeå breaking Swedish law and ignoring the UN convention on the Rights of Persons with Disability. And the only thing I can say here is: fix it! Just fix it!!

Civil Care, going that extra mile (literary)

Valentine’s Day has never been a big thing for me. An American super commercial event (although it’s origin was the Catholic church in the 500 century!) imported to Sweden under the name Alla hjärtans dag (All/Every Hearts Day) when I was a little girl. That’s a long time ago though, new generations feel more related to this loved and feared day, and we have made us one more occasion when it’s not okay to be by yourself. No one to give your heart to and no one to be given from. To feel alone. And Facebook doesn’t help, that’s for sure.

When Trouble & Trouble were teenagers I used to buy the three of us roses on Valentine’s Day. I stood all sweaty in long lines to get them. A lot of times I was on the verge of giving up and just drive home to get the food on the table, but no, my persistence helped, and I could serve not only food but a big red rose in a beautiful bottle a side the dish for each of us.

I think I started this tradition after me and my sons’ dad separated. I don’t remember either him or me ever making anything out of Valentine’s Day when we were still together. No, it was something about this great day of showing love that made the sadness of a split up family more painful. And I compensated the loss with big red roses next to our three dinner plates. 

When you feel alone, a perky “it’s just a commercial stunt” doesn’t do the trick. You can say it, you can think it and it can be your opinion. But what goes on in your body and soul, well that’s a different ball game, as my dear old friend Tant Helen used to say. The sad heart, on All Heart’s Day.

I have been swearing in church (does that work in English?) for some years. I have mostly done it in a quiet way. It takes a lot of guts to question the religion or ideology which is predominant, and in this time and age it is Positive Thinking. I won’t go into it in a big way (it’s a issue by itself, wait for it!), but when Barbara Ehrenreich released her book Bright-sided: How the Relentless Promotion of Positive Thinking Has Undermined America (2009), it was like someone let me out. In the United Kingdom the book has the pre fix Smile or Die. Ehrenreich had gone through cancer recently, just as I had, and refused to smile through it, being happy for the experience. Yeah, such bull shit.

Anyway, Ehrenreich is now followed by more writers and researchers questioning persuading ourselves into happiness and gratefulness whatever struggles are laid before us. I am so welcoming them, and I came to think about it las night.

I had a good day yesterday. I was fine, more than fine even. My back wasn’t at it’s worst and and I got some things done that had been on my weekend to do list for a long time. I even sat at my desk for a little while, sorting out some of my stacks. Oh how I love when I can do that, it is extremely satisfying! And it’s something about sitting upright, it gives me strength. I feel normal for a moment. Happy and grateful.

I was having my dinner. My dreary Saturday dinner by myself, as every Saturday. It is fine. I am used to it. Only, yesterday was one of those days it’s not okay to have a dreary dinner by yourself. Facebook flooded by people’s heart to heart suppers or gorgeous friends and family dinners. I know, stay out of Facebook at those times. But it’s my peek out into the world.

Then, I heard foot steps at my front porch. Knock knock. Who is there? It’s Awara. Awara, what are you doing here? It’s All Hearts Day, I am coming to see you!

Awara Gulani is one of the two owners of the home care business taking care of me. I thought there had been some misunderstanding, I had already had my dinner fixed, and felt sorry for him driving all the way out here for nothing.

But it turned out he had been driving all the way out here to give me a box of chocolate, a big hug and his loving smile on Valentine’s Day! It was not until then I realized that I had been sad. Not until my eyes teared up from astonishment and gratefulness that someone would do that for me. That Awara did that for me.

When I started using Civil Care’s services I was one out of 6 clients. Today I am one out of 70. I am the only one out here in the woods and it would have been so easy for them to skip me last night. On top of their already tight Saturday schedule they drove around to each and everyone with a box of chocolate, a warm hug and a smile. They know I would understand that a trip out here would have been the stretch they couldn’t make. I am not old and confused, I have been with them pretty much from the start and we know each other well by now.

But they didn’t. And I didn’t really know I was sad until Awara unexpectedly showed up here and made me happy. Without knowing it, he pierced a tiny whole on the I-am-fine-and-grateful bubble I had made for myself. And out of that bubble came a few tears of sadness and a few of happiness. And some insight about the state of things.

And someone gave me a heart on All Heart’s Day. And through Facebook I could tell that story and give my heart back. It was a good Valentine’s Day. 

Is there someone else living here too?

A storm picked up. A real one. Ole, coming from Norway. I hate storms. Here, at the end of the road, they are scary. Ole, combined with a weird thing happening makes me feel uncomfortable. Which is an understatement.

Some background. It was many years ago now when it first happened. In the shower there was a shampoo I didn’t recognize. Neither did anyone else in the family. There must have been a perfectly natural explanation, some friend might have left it there. But a first idea was planted in me: what if there is someone else living in this house too?

Then there was the TV and digital box being shut off before they (the more recent ones) started doing that by themselves.  The cigarette buts around the front porch. Socks in my drawer folded in a way I never do. The striped duvet covert I have no idea where it came from, in my linen store. The unknown umbrella in my mud room. A t-shirt I’ve never seen before in my washing machine. The herring fillets in my freezer I am absolutely sure I haven’t put there myself.

I haven’t been really bothered by these things, more noticing, thinking there is material for a story here. 

But some weeks ago something strange happened. Audrey found a broken glass tray in my broom closet. It was a favorite, a black and white checkers patterned square flat tray. I had no idea how that had happened, it must have been someone in the family, but why wasn’t I told? I was actually quite sad that tray was gone.

Imagine my face some days later when I discovered the tray, complete and without a scratch at it’s usual place under the bread basket in my pantry! No, it wasn’t glued and fixed, the broken one was in the box where we put it for further transport to recycling. So there were two trays, and I am dead sure I am the owner of only one. Who had put the broken one in my broom closet??!!

As I am used to some unusual activity I wasn’t alarmed, although I must admit the whole thing was quite strange. Audrey, on the other hand found the goings on a bit spooky. Now, that was before what happened this Friday.

When taking out a plastic bowl from the cabinet next to the dish washer it was filled with water. And another one. And another. Every bowl on two shelfs were filled to the half with water. There was some water on the shelfs too, but not that much.

Diagnosing, the water was kind of milky, so the explanation would be dirty water coming out of the dish washer. The plumbing is at the far back of the cabinet, so that makes sense. And that’s bad. It can be really bad. I might very well have a water damaged floor under the kitchen and the bathroom next to it. But let’s leave it there until I know.

The mysterious thing here is, why is there water in the bowls at the two shelfs? It looks like someone pored the water in there!

Audrey told me about the woman in Japan living in someones cabinet. A homeless woman had moved in to a man’s house. He started noticing food missing in his fridge and eventually found out about this little old woman making a home in his cabinet.

Friday night I couldn’t sleep. I have heavy assignments on my house to-do-list. Practical and economical. A water damage under the floor on top of that would be just great. Panic wasn’t far away. Then I was thinking, what if there is someone else living here? A gnome, a goblin, a little Japanese woman, saving me from water damage taking those bowls, holding them to the leaking tube, and filling them to the half, because that’s all they can carry. One by one. One bowl at the time. Neat and tidy.

I wish it was. Because the other explanation is the water from the tube is spraying so bad it is filling those bowls and poring right down under my floor. I would certainly forgive them for breaking a glass tray and leaving cigarette buts around my front porch if they in their kindness helped saving me from the foundations in my home being ruined.

I am expecting the plumber early this week. Tonight I will be sleeping in the striped duvet covert. Hoping there is a story here. Nothing else.

A farewell to Brage

My sister’s first memory of him is trying to read the text of the song from a clipboard. She was six and accepted in the children’s choir although she couldn’t really read. My first memory is my first piano lesson.

Brage was the church organist and music director in Nordmaling, the small town 45 minutes south of Umeå where my sister and I grew up. Nowadays, visiting our parents grave and attending funerals for their friends, the grown ups in our childhood world, is pretty much the only time I am back in Nordmaling. And this Thursday Nordmaling bid a last farewell to Brage. It was his time now.

Although my sister’s and my musical life began in our family, it was within the frame of the congregation it got a structure. To start with, the children’s choir and the group for playing the recorder. And of course the piano lessons. In our teens we advanced to the church choir. And Brage conducted and administrated the activities.

Being reminded now about this part in my life there is a lot of mixed feelings. I hated the piano lessons. They weren’t my choice, but my mother’s. And I actually feel sorry for Brage who put up with me reluctantly showing up every week for years and years, never really improving. I liked to sing though, so the choirs were something I enjoyed. Although, as the stage most of the time was the Sunday service, there was a lot of boring sermon listening hours to get to the few minutes of performing.

Brage wasn’t a fantastic musician. And he was not one of those super inspiring persons always on fire. Quite moody too. You never really knew if he would show up happy and joking or if it would be one of his grumpy days. But what he did was providing us environment and context for musical education, exercising and performing what we learned and accomplished. And he was there. Quite ambitious in his programming, present and persevering.

Thinking about it now, he was a constant, as the white medieval stone church from 1480, the old rectory which serves as a parish house, and the red belfry built in 1767, looking inspired from the east. These are all acknowledged beautiful buildings, the trinity that makes the pretty center piece of Nordmaling. And this was the heart for our childhood musical life. The start for a life where music has always been a center piece. A heart.

Brage first came to Nordmaling in 1964. My sister was six, I was eight. Neither of us developed to become great pianists (not at all, we are really lousy pianists!), in spite of all his efforts. But we have our voices. Something he always appreciated and confirmed. As grown ups, now and then we visited our childhood church as part of different musical settings: choirs, vocal groups, jazz ensembles. He was always in the audience. And we watched his face lit up listening to us. Smiling. Proud even? I am thinking now, he is probably a big part of the confidence our voices are carrying.

Today my sister is 56 and I am 58. Fifty years after Brages arrival in Nordmaling, we are bidding our farewell. Taking our seat in the medieval stone church where our part of his life have made us know every painting in the church by heart. Recognize every bend of the sculptures. The acoustics so familiar it is a part of our breath. And singing him the last hymns in the church where he served for most his life, I am hoping he is lighting up. Smiling.

Big dreams: the Smith Tower and a little white wooden church

There are little dreams and there are big dreams. And the big dreams can be of different sizes too. The other week the Smith Tower in Seattle changed ownership. Three years ago the little white wooden church in my village was for sale.  Oh, what couldn’t I have done if they were mine!

The iconic Smith Tower turned a hundred years in July 2014. The neo classical architecture white ornamented granite and terra cotta building in Pioneer Square was at the point when it was built the tallest building west of the Mississippi River, and the first sky scraper in Seattle. It’s hard to imagine now, today you would probably think of Smith Tower as cute. 

But the characteristic 42-story building with a lower wider base and the tower with a pyramid top is a beautiful piece of art, a landmark, providing the southern bookend to Seattle’s skyscrapers. The building is crowned by an 8-foot-wide (2.4 m) glass dome illuminated by blue light, except during December when it is changed to green. And there is actually a family living in the pyramid, which contains a three story penthouse, how cool is that!

Now, a more down to earth building, so to speak, is the little white wooden church in my village. As I have told many times before it was built by my grandfather, his brother and brother in law, inaugurated in 1930. The church was the center for village gatherings for about 20 years, but the more secular the Swedes became, the less frequented was the church. For the last 15 years, pretty much the only thing happening in the church was the early Christmas morning service, and about four years ago the building was for sale.

I love this little church. For the story, for my roots, for my mother, uncle, aunt, grandmother, grandfather, for the village, and for the room with it’s tall windows which brings the light, and the wooden walls, floor and ceilings which provides the acoustics. I used to go there by myself in summer evenings to sing. To let my voice be carried in the empty room, safe that no one would here me. This was my private concert hall. Oh, if I could have kept it!

I am blessed with two artistic sons, a like wise nephew and his even more musical wife. Lisa is an organist, an extremely talented woman, and Johannes is a sound engineer specialized in classical music recordings. At the point when the church was for sale none of us had the means to buy it. Rephrasing, it wasn’t a lot of money, but the needs for renovation are extensive and it wasn’t for us to take on. But oh, our dreams of what we could have done with that building!

The church room itself would have been a perfect concert hall, just as it was. A small cozy venue out in the countryside, still only 20 minutes from Umeå. Great acoustics was already there. Lisa dreamt about installing a church organ of course. There is a raw attic above the kitchen and the smaller room, probably originally meant for the traveling pastors, but never finished. It’s quite a large space, perfect for office and a sound studio for Johannes. Ah, we would have turned the sleeping beauty into a vibrant cultural setting for concerts, arts and recording, bringing our grandparents and great great parents dreams into the 21st century! 

So, what would I do with the Smith Tower, in 1914 the fourth-tallest building in the world and, for nearly 50 years, the West Coast’s tallest? A building containing mostly office space, and in 2012 sold at a foreclosure auction for merely nothing, $ 35, 795 million, since it by then had a vacancy by 86,5%.  That’s when I had my chance, a pretty much empty historic building! It’s been picking up since then and was last week purchased for $ 73,73 million. Shoot!

Well, to start with I would move in to the pyramid penthouse, no doubt about i! I have always desired a Seattle downtown penthouse, and this would be the ultimate one for sure!

Then, since this is thee big dream among the big ones, it is so completely unreal (yeah, I don’t have hubris and I am well aware of the fact that I am spending my life on a couch in my village home, I mean it’s not even a dream, it’s just silly) haven’t really dived too deep in to my desires. I mean, it’s pretty easy to stand in front of the little white wooden church in my village and start drawing even the fine lines. Looking up the Smith Tower I would say is a bit overwhelming.

But. Except for living in the penthouse, I think I would turn it into a creative hubbub. I would make it thee creative hubbub of Seattle. Make it thee place and melting pot for all kinds of artists. Writers, photographers, painters, illustrators, actors, film people, musicians, designers, you name it. There would be studios, labs, dark rooms (yes, old fashioned dark rooms!), rehearsal locations, any kind of professional space that anyone in the creative zone would need. And yes, KCTS (the Seattle public service TV station would move in there and I would provide them the resources they would need to produce and broadcast quality local news every day(Swedes, you won’t understand this)!

And this would be perfect even on a personal level, since most of my Seattle friends would be working in the building!

There Maria, now you are done dreaming. The little white wooden church is well taken care of by another village woman. And there is always the Observation Deck and the Chinese Room in the Smith Tower to enjoy, as a citizen or a tourist. As well as the elevators, the only ones in Seattle operated not only by a voice, but by real people. And that’s nice. That’s very nice.

http://smithtower.com

This is the case. My case/part 5

I am not sure what the right word is. Translation programs tells me “querulant” And this is what Wikipedia tells me about the querulant:

A querulant (from the Latin querulus - "complaining") is a person who obsessively feels wronged, particularly about minor causes of action. In particular the term is used for those who repeatedly petition authorities or pursue legal actions based on manifestly unfounded grounds. These applications include in particular complaints about petty offenses.

Querulant behavior is to be distinguished from either the obsessive pursuit of justice regarding major injustices, or the proportionate, reasonable, pursuit of justice regarding minor grievances. According to Mullen and Lester, the life of the querulant individual becomes consumed by their personal pursuit of justice in relation to minor grievances.[1]

So, it seams like the correct translation of the Swedish “rättshaverist” is querulant. And that’s something I definitely not want to be. So instead of protesting I agree on being wronged. I agree on being trampled. 

I need to briefly walk you through what happened up until now.

In April I applied for help from the City with getting from my bed and couch to the bathroom, as well as being assisted to my treatments two times a week. In June my application was denied by the City and in November I appealed to the Court of First Instance (Förvaltningsrätten). And lost. 

Although my lawyer and I have very little hope about a different outcome, we are now in the process of appealing to the Court of Second Instance (Kammarrätten). The verdict is absurd in so many ways, and we need to make our voice heard one more time.

Meanwhile I have had a second application in process with the City. In July I applied for assistance with getting dressed in the morning and undressed in the evening, as well as supervising/help while washing myself, brushing my teeth a s o, those basic things we all need to do every morning and evening. At New Years my application was denied by the City.

Again, I had the right to appeal to the Court of First Instance, Förvaltningsrätten. With the experience from the last trial though, it felt hopeless. No point at all. On the other hand, what else could I do? I desperately need what I am asking for. They are basic human rights, and there is no other way for me to go. But to operate two litigations at the same time?

I talked to my angel lawyer who has charged me 5 hours and up until now surely put in at least 25. We pondered different scenarios and talked back and forth and finally agreed on not appealing the second application. Tomorrow January 19 is the last day for an appeal from me, and there won’t be one. Because of the imminent risk of me being judged as a querulant.

By not appealing and protesting I am giving the City right to deny me the help I so desperately need. They have beaten me. I feel like I am lying on my back on the floor, the City officials and the court sitting on my chest holding my wrists above my head to the floor. Up until now I have been lying in under them wriggling and kicking. Taking the decision not to appeal I stopped kicking. I have given in. I am still now. Beaten. I can hardly breath.

How do you rise from such a defeat? Where do I get the strength to take any other fight what so ever in the future?

All I am asking for is the possibility going to the bathroom, taking care of my personal hygien, getting dressed and get to my treatments. That’s minor things in a troubled world perspective and in that sense I am a querulant, surely. But to me, that’s my world. My troubled world.

Not appealing against a City decision so clearly lacking any kind of humanity makes every fiber in my body rise in protest. I feel sick. But by doing so I would be judged as  a querulant, “a person who obsessively feels wronged, particularly about minor causes of action. In particular the term is used for those who repeatedly petition authorities or pursue legal actions based on manifestly unfounded grounds. These applications include in particular complaints about petty offenses…The life of the querulant individual becomes consumed by their personal pursuit of justice in relation to minor grievances. (Wikipedia)

I can’t breathe. I feel sick.

A tulip remembrance

- Today I have realized how blessed these 26 years have been, for I have never felt this kind of latent and expanding fear before.

It’s my young friend Corina in Paris, posting her anxiety on Facebook.

I was at the end of it. My friend Jeff at the start. Only, we didn’t know about each other both joining, until we met up at our friends Terry and Doug later for dinner. And in the evening all of us watching a documentary short series in a typical Seattle basement fringe theatre. Being a part of something bigger. The collective grieving.

I am recalling this, following the horrifying and tragic situation in Paris this week. I was in Sweden when 9/11 changed the world forever. I know exactly where and when I was hit by the news, as I remember where I was brought the message of the assassination of Swedish Prime Minister Olof Palme, Secretary of State Anna Lind, and of course JFK.

September 2002 I was in Seattle for the opening of my photo show Away is Home, Home is Away at the Nordic Heritage Museum. And September 11 was the one year remembrance of the Twin Towers collapsing before the eyes of the world.

It was a beautiful day. There was going to be a silent march starting at Westlake Center in downtown Seattle, ending at Seattle Center. When 9/11 happened, I felt so far away. Far away from my American city and far away from my American friends. So, I was grateful to be in Seattle on the one year day. I was given the chance to be a part of the tragic event, in remembrance.

I drove down to Seattle Center and was stunned by the sight. The big and beautiful International Fountain was surrounded, almost covered in flowers. All the people walking together from Westlake Center arrived in silence. Governor Gary Locke gave a speech. And there were bag pipes. It was all very dignified. And although the bag pipes, quiet.

It was intense, in a good way. I learned that a year ago, this was where people came together, an impromptu act. Seattle Center, which was built for the Worlds Fair in 1962, is the natural place for all kind of gatherings, and apparently also in distress. When the two planes crashed in to the heart of the U.S, the International Fountain with it’s soothing shape and form pulled Seattleites to the sound of the water, finding comfort in each other. And there were flowers. Drifts of flowers around the fountain. Flowers that were later transported away to become compost where tulips were planted. 

The experience was very emotional to me. I was overwhelmed and grateful. But a bit sad that I was alone there, in the midst of everyone. Afterwards I drove over to Terry and Doug’s. Jeff parked as I pulled over. And told med he had been at the start of the march at Westlake Center.  It turned out I hadn’t been alone after all. It felt good.

I have heard the New Yorkers felt alone in the world when 9/11 happened, like not even their fellow countrymen were there for them. I know Americans suddenly felt America was an island nobody cared for. That’s how lonely you can feel when cold fear eats your bone. When you feel no one have any sense of what you are going through.

More than 13 years have passed since 9/11. More people than we could ever imagine at that time, have lost their lives, loved ones, trust and faith to the world as a good and safe place to live, in terror actions throughout this planet of ours. But I’d like to think contemporary possibilities for communication and interaction brings us a little bit closer to each other. When cold fear eats your bones and no one is holding you, you are alone, you are. But a hug over the internet is better than no hug. A little pink heart can make yours pound a bit longer. And what can a tulip do?

The tulips planted in the compost out of the 9/11 flowers at the International Fountain in Seattle, had bulbs. And those bulbs were given to us who were there in quiet remembrance on the one year day. A beautiful sunny September day. I brought mine to Sweden and planted in my flowerbed. No, they didn’t survive the Umeå winter. But I am sure a lot of those bulbs handed out that day, did.

- Today I have realized how blessed these 26 years have been, for I have never felt this kind of latent and expanding fear before.

It’s my young friend Corina in Paris, posting her anxiety on Facebook. I responded to her: Corina, I am so sorry for the world and for you.

And Corina, I want to give you a tulip bulb. Imagine it, and plant it in your heart. And in every heart you meet. I know you will. And those bulbs will make it through any winter.