SO NOTHING HAD
REALLY CHANGED
Petronella Petander
Master Essay
Konstfack University of Arts, Crafts and Design
Art Department
2020
Ten days before the opening of my Bachelor Solo Exhibition at Konstfack, I got the message. You were dead. After seventy-two hours, they had finally pressed the stop button. You had been brain dead already when you arrived at the hospital by ambulance. That's what they said. Medically, there were never any doubts, but they had their routines to follow in cases like this.
I was informed of the circumstances that had preceded your death, via a fragmented text message. The number was not in my contacts, but I understood whom it concerned in the very moment I read it. One could tell it was written by a person in great shock. It was a Sunday afternoon. The last week in September and the winds were still mild. I had decided to take a day off to gather myself, before the final editing of my video work, and then the installation and all that. The image of you in a hospital bed spread before my eyes. I tried to push it away until later, but didn't succeed. The air was thick and it hurt to swallow. I couldn't speak. So I didn't say anything to my dad's ex-wife, whom I had visited for lunch, after looking at the tombstone that had recently been placed on my dad's grave. I just hugged her goodbye with a weird smile and hurried away.
The image of you in a hospital bed was very clear to me; it had been really close on one occasion previously. We hadn't known each other for very long at that point - I'm pretty sure it was right after that first summer, because I still had my apartment. That time, you made it due to pure luck, with just a few minutes margin they said - if even that. But it had been several days and long nights, when you were hovering between life and death, and no one knew.
The only consequence then, was an indefinite degree of long- and short-term memory loss, which was of course not "only", but in that situation and considering everything that could have happened, it seemed rather minor. I even think you drove the car yourself from the hospital. You wanted to surprise. But I might remember wrong or mix it up with another time. Within a few days though, we went back to normal. Which wasn't quite normal.
The fact that you were dead now, didn't change anything. I mean, you wouldn't have come to my exhibition anyway, that's for sure. I wouldn't miss you there, because you wouldn't be there. Not that you would decline - you wouldn't even know. And not that I would ignore you, not at all. I wouldn't even think about it. You didn't belong in my new life. And I no longer existed, in yours. It had to be that way.
So nothing had really changed. Yet, something was different. In an unspeakable, invisible way. It appeared as a dull ache throughout my body, which I first recognised as the beginning of influenza, and later at night, those strange nightmares that only come with high fever. But there was no fever. It was a condition very unsettled. Unspecified, I guess you could say, in absence of the right words.
I carried through the exhibition according to the plan - in some kind of robotic manner, yet done well - without telling anyone at school what had happened. It would have been too much to explain and there just wasn't enough energy. Or trust, for that matter. I couldn't risk any comments about you (or us), which could have been interpreted as degrading or questioning, or even with the slightest tone of aversion. Even if it was only in my head.
On a clear October day, the week after, I stood in the florist shop by Telefonplan metro station and tried to remember your favourite colours. For reasons that had to do with my own safety, I had to abstain from your funeral. I decided to send flowers to the chapel and have my own ceremony on the day of the funeral. The woman at the desk asked which farewell greeting I wanted. I chose to sign with my full name, only to give your son the possibility to contact me in the future. The bouquet would be of blue and purple flowers, tied with many green leaves. I'm sure it was beautiful.
That autumn was longer than usual. Outstretched, in the way only time itself can operate. I stayed for a while in my friend's apartment, while she was away. So the long walks I usually took to process things, were now in new areas. I spent a lot of time by myself - this wasn't anything I could share anyway. Also; to spend time with myself, in this case, meant to spend time with you. And I needed that. I had missed you for so long.
There was also something shameful, about losing someone, who was already long lost. Like it wasn't for real. Above the shame that was already inherent, in deaths of this kind. I found no way to mute the thoughts in my head, the commuting between it could have been me and it should have been me. Looping, until the dizziness forced me to lay down, or eat something. Something warm or sweet. And then walk, aimlessly, for yet another hour.
Autumn finally gave up for winter. The more I tried not to think of you (or us), the clearer the pictures were once they appeared. Seemingly out of nowhere, one of them kept coming back. It could be anytime of the day, but always when I was awake. Awake in the sense of not sleeping, yet dreaming. I couldn't help smiling, the kind of smile you cannot control by will. And you often smiled in the picture as well. Looking calm, warm. Though the picture was very clear, it was somehow softened. I wanted it that way.
Could it have been the first time you were at my place? I think so. We had known each other for a couple of weeks. Something like that. But we had been hanging out very intensely, so it felt longer than it was. You asked if you could rest awhile in my loft bed. Climbed up and fell asleep, in the middle of a sentence. Later, I left a note on your shoes by the ladder; I didn't want to wake you up. I went out and came back. Out again, and back again. Still sleeping. Like a child, or a person chronically ill.
I never forget that moment, when it suddenly hit me. You actually lived in your car. How could I not have realised? You had probably not slept in a bed for a long time. Or even been safe, behind a door. I wondered how it was to go to sleep in a car. Or if you avoided it until it was no longer possible, and you just crashed without a thought. And the winters then? In Sweden. I felt so sorry for you. Six months later, I lived together with you. In that car.
During the winter, which lasted until April that year, I continued working on my graduation project, a film called Time. By then, it was still an unedited script and a huge amount of unsorted film material. I started to doubt the whole thing. Asked myself whether this was the right time or the right place to do this. If there ever would be such a time or such a place. I was looking for an excuse. A rather poor last attempt to escape the process it had started; because somehow I knew. I had no choice. It was also too late to do something else.
As I sat in the rental car with cheese sandwiches and lukewarm coffee, waiting for the rain I had decided to have in the film, I couldn't bring an end to the flood of memories once it had started. I had read an article about that psychological phenomena; when physically going back to a certain place, you can get back forgotten memories - memories not only connected to, but also dependent on, that specific location. So I knew it existed. But this was for real.
I can only remember us ever mentioning the future, in the mail correspondence we had, when we didn't have our freedom. Geographically, we were very close; no more than a large field separated the blocks where we were kept. Yet, it usually took three to five days for a letter to reach the other. I think you mentioned it first; you wrote that we could go fishing! In the future. We could go fishing in different places. In the library, just by coincidence, I got hold of a book which seemed too new to be in the system. I figured it must belong to the librarian herself, since it had no bar-code on the back. My too big sweater made it easy to hide. A sudden sense of satisfaction aroused in me, though I hardly knew what it was about, more than its categorisation to the subject in Psychology. Months later, when I had lost count of both time passed and time left, I found the book again under my mattress. I started to read and couldn't stop. It dealt with Attachment Theory, and I couldn't help wondering whether that knowledge would be good or not. The summer when we were released (I, one month before you, as I had been caught one month before), your mum was severely ill. Because we had just come out, we looked very healthy, and with new clothes on, we seemed like the most decent young couple. Our appearance at the hospital made your mum cry. I could see in your eyes and on your posture, how proud you were to give her that picture. Carefully, we took her in the wheelchair so we could sit down together and have a smoke in the blooming backyard, in the sun. It was the last time we saw her.
When my mum got ill, a few years ago, I wanted to call you and was very close to it several times. My mum never had the social skills to pretend, so when she liked someone, it was for real. And once she had formed her opinion about someone or something, it was fixed like a mountain. I don't know why, but she always liked you. So when she died in my arms and the world as I knew it fell apart, I wanted to search for your information and go there straight away. My memory is blurred, but I think I was obstructed by my friend, who had come there to take me home.
Did I ever tell you that I have only 30 percent sight in one eye, and less than 20 in the other? - you asked while driving 150 km/h on the highway, in the middle of the night in January. I was half asleep but woke at once. No, you didn't. You were quick to add that you had gotten so used to it, since you lost your real glasses years ago, it didn't really bother you any longer. I squinted my eyes and tried to imagine what such a sight looked like, the actual view, from inside. Thirty percent together with less than twenty; it seemed a bit worrying. Especially at night time. On the other hand, there were definitely things in our life situation that were far more worrying, and in some weird logic, thinking of that made me relax again. Many times, we were entirely broke or even in debt and our bodies already in transformation - becoming weaker and weaker every minute - when we realised that it was too late to fix it in time. Days of physical suffering were waiting for sure. Actually, the knowledge of that was worse than the pain itself. The pain, once it came, almost felt like a release, as it was restricted to the body and clearly marked an end of some kind. It also made us feel alive, and could have the effect that we seemed even stronger afterwards. Like a resurrection.
I remember the shift. I can tell when and where it happened. The shift that occurs when a border is crossed and there is no way back. Like a train on a rail, one can move fast but only in one direction. Forward, further, more. Deeper, away, all the way. We were out committing crimes when all of a sudden, I got hit by bad conscience. That almost paralysing one. You took your time to calm me down afterwards. You said it happened to you too in the beginning. There's no need to worry any more though, you ended. Once the virginity was taken, it would only get easier and easier ever after.
Sometimes we had movie nights in the car. We parked in some deserted area in the outskirts of the city, where chances were good to not be disturbed. Usually we sold the portable dvd-players first thing in the morning to get what we needed, but sometimes we kept one for personal use. We piled up loads of sweets, more than we could possibly eat, and put on different movies to see which one we should choose. You said that after 15 minutes if not before, you could tell if the film was worth watching or not. I had no reason to question you. The movie nights weren't really about the movies anyway.
Apart from the car, or the cars, there were also the laundry houses around the city. They were plenty and undoubtedly best in many ways, so we made sure to get access to them. It wasn't that hard. I recall one time strongly, and that's where the picture of you that I mentioned first came from. We were not in a good condition, yet in a good mood given the circumstances. Watching you from a distance while carefully folding the clean clothes, I truly believed (for a moment) that we were living ordinary lives. Doing ordinary stuff. Taking care of ourselves and our belongings. The illusion made my eyes tear. The third summer (it must have been), you were determined to teach me how to drive. It wasn't sustainable to live in a car and not be able to drive it. I agreed. We drove out to Lovön - this was mid-July so many people were on holiday. The first hour was thrilling fun, but your support was a little exaggerated so my confidence raised too fast. Suddenly, we were stuck in a trench and couldn't get loose. I blamed the sun: I was blinded, see? When night was falling and we still hadn't moved, we packed our things, left the car and took another one nearby which wasn't even locked. You forced me to drive it back to town, and from that day, I drove. You didn't give me any more lessons and I never asked for it either.
It all depended. Some days, having the radio on in the car could have an almost calming effect; as when they talked about things like the weather (which was indeed important to us), or played pop songs from the 80's or 90's that we could relate to and that had a nostalgic value. At other times, it made our already strong feeling of alienation, appear even stronger. We started to believe that everything they talked about, had to do with us. And what they said, wasn't at all what they said, but secret codes that meant something else. Hidden messages, effectively transported through the radio frequencies - because they knew we were sitting in the car listening.
Gisela was a German shepherd we took care of for quite a while. Can't remember the reason or even who her owner was; it was probably the case of a sudden disappearance of some kind, and we just happened to be at the same place as the dog at the time, and therefore had to take her. She was almost deaf, which could cause trouble as we had to shout very loud for her to hear us, or wave lively with the arms - things you want to avoid when hiding and trying to be discreet. And when we eventually were caught and taken off the streets for a longer time, I guess she was taken over by whoever happened to be around. Gisela had developed a typical behaviour of codependency. It's not uncommon for animals living in such conditions.
In periods, our unit became unbalanced; as when one of us came back after a stay at some institution and the other one had remained out on the streets all the time. Balance was a necessity. As if the situation itself was a physical body, that demanded the total weight of us within its skin, in order to move. The imbalance was usually adjusted after a week or so, and we quickly forgot it ever existed. Until next time. And most of our fights - which were surprisingly few, considering the limited space in the car - took place in such a period.
At the treatment center they gave us different tasks every Monday, to be completed at the end of the week or applied daily until the following Monday, depending on the task. They were not too advanced; I guess they didn't want us to feel stupid. But being treated as a child doesn't make you feel great either. That was certainly a miss in the pedagogics, though it was true that many of us suffered from some degree of brain damage, and it was far too early to say what was temporary and what was not. The tasks were supposed to prepare us for this new life, outside. As if it was a caring friend, who stood there waiting for us, with open arms.
One of the tasks was to write notes on small pieces of paper and paste it on the bathroom mirror. The only requirement was that it should be something positive and (preferably) urging. They gave some examples. Today I will love myself. Today I will not think about the past nor the future, but only exist in the moment. I am free to live the life I choose. Everything is possible, if I just want it enough. All my acts shall reflect the unique and wonderful person I am! I felt so dirty I had to shower three times a day, and still didn't feel clean. I could have stayed in the shower for whole days if they had only let me. It's just mentally, they kept repeating in the most arrogant way. It's in your head! How could they know? They acted like they knew everything, and I had never liked that kind of attitude. Especially not by institutional people. They were just scared of their own emotions, and had to project it on us to feel secure themselves. They got payed for it as well. And had the keys to our rooms. And documented every move we made. Or didn't make.
The first 24 hours in freedom is always the worst. (One has to know that.) Last time, I was placed in a foreign city. They called it a fresh chapter, and gave me a jacket big enough to fit two of me in it. Also the shoes were theirs; the smallest they had, which was two sizes above my size. I had to hurry to the grocery store before it got dark so I wouldn't get lost. Once in there, I was really lost. Walked around for nearly an hour, lap after lap in the strong spotlights, until I got so stressed I just grabbed some random groceries. One thing was super expensive, but I just payed to get out. It never struck me that I had the right to change my mind.
The first year or two (of this new era, that you were not a part of) I found myself in a constant feeling of shock, for just being alive. I was surprised every morning, that I could move my arms, that I could raise myself from bed, that my body just functioned - all by itself. I couldn't remember when I had experienced that last. I feared it would end at any time, but it didn't. It continued. I almost held my breath, afraid to break the magic. I wanted to call you, to tell you about it, but didn't. Just decided to postpone it. Until I was really sure.
When the physics had settled, there was another shock as well. Not only I, but society, had changed. I was lost and confused in this new existence, and was told it was good to find a new identity as soon as possible; it would increase my chances significantly. So I tried to remember what I had used to like before, when I was younger. I asked my mum, who brought me my old camera equipment which had been kept in her basement for nearly a decade. I was truly hopeful at first, but soon found that everything I knew about photography was useless. It was all digital now.
The people at Arbetsförmedlingen looked at me like I was either joking, or provoking, when I said that I didn't have an e-mail address and didn't know where to go to get one. It was no joke. As I stood there in my new clothes, all soaked in sweat and my heart beating violently, I had never been more serious in my life. I wanted to cry, but quickly turned the feeling into disregard. What was wrong with pen and paper? If they only knew how many letters I had written. I didn't want their jobs anyway.
Little by little, it dawned upon me that the changes I had begun to detect around me, were not just some small random changes. Rather, it became clear; something very big had taken place. All in a period of a few years’ time. Yet those years had happened to coincide with the very years I'd been away. And by the time I came back, the world as I had left it, no longer existed. The tiny fragile hope for myself, that had just started to sprout in me, was lost the moment the immense insight struck me; I had missed the digitalisation of society.
In the back window of the car, on that little shelf that wasn't really meant to be used because it could obscure the sight, you always stored a big pack of START hazelnut granola. A pure security measure; as long as we had that, we would be fine. (It felt so good when you said it, that we would be fine.) Preferably we had it with fat milk or yoghurt, but it could go with any kind of liquid basically. In the years that followed, these cravings kept coming back. Like a default reaction to every feeling of losing control. I could have it for breakfast, lunch and dinner for weeks. It was just pure sugar and not anything I would usually buy. Otherwise. But every time things started to fall, it was the only thing I could ever think of eating.
I kept my routines during the whole Bachelor, it was a commitment I held high. Every first Sunday of the month, I set the alarm early to meet up with my companion and drive all the way out to the women's prison. Many of the women never got any other visits. I was thrown back in time, and felt both privileged and rude, to be able to walk out again through those heavy gates. And on Monday morning, I went back to Konstfack, as an art student. It usually took me the rest of the week to re-adjust, and my sleeping needs were like that of a newborn baby.
The picture of you kept me focused somehow. Reminded me that there were things of real importance, and that anxiety about an art project was not one of them. The picture gave me strength and became a comfort I returned to when needed. It wasn't really rational; knowing that the period from which it was cut out, belonged to those years. Those three years, in the car, and all that. Nearly four. The years that were between the time when we first met - and the more vague period of my enigmatic disappearance.
Have you ever heard of Survivors Guilt? - my contact person asked as she wrote down the title of a book and its author. It's a term mostly used within trauma psychology, she continued. This book - she gave me the note - is not too academic and in Swedish translation as well. Formally, our contact had ended, but we still used to meet twice a year, for a check. Before next time, I want you to read it. At least the first three chapters! I folded the piece of paper and put it in my wallet. I usually did what she recommended. But it had taken some years to get there.
After the Bachelor graduation, I traveled alone to the woods in Hälsingland, to spend time in the old summer house my dad had left behind the previous year. I was so exhausted, like I had stumbled across the goal line just in time before the crash. So my plan was to do nothing - and especially not think about art or the possibly coming Master program. By the way, I hadn't even decided. I would just rest for three weeks, before going back for my summer job. In the end of the first week, I had started on a new script. (Though, I didn't know that yet.) The work title of the document was The Laundry House.
The process with you had its own life, such as sometimes described in great literature. The kind of language you think is only metaphoric and beautiful - until it happens to you. Then the poetic changes colour, and shimmers in all its range of reality. Real, unreal, real unreal. Like wave motions, in tides. I was both in it and watched it from the shore. The pictures. The city. You and me, and sometimes others. The summers and the winters. The cars. The car parks and the garage buildings at night. The streetlights. The laundry houses. Especially the laundry houses for some reason. I think it had to do with that illusion. Ordinary weekends, were not good days to go to the laundry house. Bank holidays, on the other hand, were a very good deal. Christmas Eve evening, for example. Undoubtedly the best shift of the year. So good that we began to think about it already in November, which laundry house we would choose. But then - even if it was planned and booked and all - we might miss it anyway; it was far from clear to us where days ended and new ones started. The same reason why we were 24 hours late for my mum's 60th birthday. On the way to her place, with one hundred or more roses in my arms, I so felt content that I had remembered.
It happened, not too rarely, that I suddenly lost sense of time. And the more panicked I got when I realised, the more severe it became. Usually, it lasted for hours or days, but even weeks when it was at its worst. Sometimes, for example, I didn't know whether it was a new winter, or if it was the same. What belonged to last year, and what belonged to this. What was really real, and what was not entirely true - I couldn't tell. There were no outlines of reality anymore. No sharp lines. Or maybe there were, but we were floating above. Like dead fish, on the surface of the water in an acidic lake.
Once (in a desperate moment, I must say in your defense) you even mentioned karma. What if all this was just a result of our actions in a former life? That this way of living, where we seemed to be captured, in fact had its reasons and therefore wasn't much to do anything about. I looked at you, who looked out through the foggy window at the driver's seat. Earlier in life, I would have sniffed contemptuously at such a thought. But applied to us, in this situation; it actually made sense. Might very well be the case, you stated while blowing out smoke from the cigarette. I didn't comment on it, but secretly found the idea appealing.
Every now and then, the car we had at the time was confiscated. It didn't matter whether the vehicle was legal or not, they just used different paragraphs. The result of the seizure was the same; we lost our home from one day to another, and the gravity of the consequences all depended on the time of the year. Summertime, of course, the harm was less, physically and materially. Irrespective of the season, when it happened, we suddenly became much more exposed. In obvious ways, but also in ways that were impossible to predict.
Even worse than the low temperatures, was the shame. For the cold, at least to a certain degree, there were always some things one could do to handle it better. Stay active, for example, in whatever possible way. Whether that was to walk round and round the parking area for a whole night, or try to break into some building with heavy steel doors without handles. Yet for the shame, there were no such things. No tricks to take on. Not even a substance to take, that would be strong enough to kill it, without killing yourself.
The cops at the custody in the city's Western police district, usually sighed loudly when we were brought in. Neither we nor they, could possibly keep track of the number of our visits. We all knew it had passed the limits for what was reasonable to still have hope. It seemed hopeless, and no one pretended any longer. Not that we were treated worse than others, I wouldn't say - just slightly different. Over the years, a certain jargon had developed, between us and some of the cops. Ever so evil and raw in one way, yet familiar and jokey in another.
Your stepfather was even more of a child than you. More of an embarrassment. Your poor mum. Sometimes she found him sleeping in the sandpit, in the midst of the playing kids. It could be lunch time, on a weekday. At least you didn't do that, you told me with conviction. I didn't know what to answer, so I kept quiet. I usually kept quiet, that last period of our time. It happened gradually I guess, until there was no return. In the end I had lost the ability to speak. Or I thought I had lost it, so I didn't even try. And I wouldn't have had much to say either.
Time was running out, and with enormous pressure; like a stream of blood through a punctured aorta. Unstoppable. Weeks passed too fast to note, and months turned into half-years, which became years. The velocity was likely dangerous in itself, and then the direction, added. We had no control over the vehicle we were in, we just tried our hardest not to fall out. At the same time - and that's what puzzled us the most - the hours in the night, went ever so slowly. They hardly moved.
People stored all kinds of stuff in their cellars. It was often exciting just to see; one never knew what one was going to find. And we often even forgot what we were looking for. Not that we knew, but it had to have some kind of value and be possible to sell or trade, to be worth spending effort on or taking risks for - to be smart. We were mostly far too tired to be smart. Or mesmerised, by whatever we happened to stumble upon that made us forget about ourselves for a moment.
What about this one then? I shouted through the metal bars and burst into a laugh that made me cry so heavily I almost lost my breath. Sssssshhhhhh! you answered with your index finger pressed hard against your lips as you turned around. Please! you begged, but it was too late. Once I started to laugh like that, there was no point in trying to make me stop, it usually just made it worse. We can get married in the summer! I managed to continue before I lost my breath again. I had never tried out a real wedding dress before, so I thought it was a big thing. You were not impressed, however.
To walk into the pawnshop, just like that, wasn't very clever. (We had learned by experience.) Some preparation was necessary for a good outcome. Like one night's sleep before and a few clean clothes options, to pick out the most reputable outfit for the day. Make-up could be beneficial - if used with moderation and done with a steady hand. Otherwise not. Most important; we had to know all the details in our new identities like the back of our hands. What followed was all about performance and good acting. Hundred percent concentration for a quarter of an hour; then - if successful - we would live a good life for a good few weeks. If not; we would need means of transport and fuel, to go very far very fast.
Those times - when we had to go very far very fast - we ended up living in a camping area in somewhere like Ödeshög together with German tourists, or picked blueberries up north with East-Europeans, or simply tried to sleep away a couple of weeks in some well-hidden place, to save resources and stay under the radar. We could easily do such things if we really needed to; hibernate, like the bears. Sooner or later we would get restless anyway, and all would start over. Somehow, these different cycles that naturally appeared and made up our life, became a way for us to measure time. Times.
The bad thing with the good times, was that when they suddenly ended - and they always did - the fall down could be hard, for it usually didn't stop at ground level (where we had started), but continued downwards. Just to get up back to zero could be a tough struggle. It also took something from us, each time. Small small pieces, but still. All added up. And we were not them who had big margins; we were constantly balancing on the edge. Yet not many people could beat us there. In fact, they wouldn't even be close.
I truly couldn't walk on the pavement through a residential area without compulsively looking into the windows, with all potted flowers and curtains, imaging us living there. (Living our other, real, lives. Like they should have been.) This behaviour was particularly strong when coming back after being away for some time, and before adapting fully to the situation again. I knew that it really bothered you when you saw me doing it (although you did it yourself), so I walked faster and I tried my best to look nonchalant. As if I didn't care and definitely did not have such ridiculous desires.
Sporadically, I did some half-hearted attempts to read. Not to write - that, I had given up - but to read. The longing for a good book (or a short story at least) had started to come to me about every six months, like an uninvited impatient guest that refused to leave; merely stood there in the doorway staring at me. I knew I needed fiction in my life, something that had been created. And something creative, or a link to it, even if it was weak and wouldn't take me anywhere. Just something to remind me. Yet I wasn't sure if I actually wanted that reminder. It would be painful too, indeed.
Somehow, I had found a couple of books that seemed interesting and easy enough to be worth giving a try. Also, I had been out every night lately and made the most of our money, so I could - without feeling bad - stay inside the car for a whole night, with those books and cookies, while you were out hunting. So I did. Night went by, and I didn't even open any of them. I was totally content to just have them in my hands; feel them, look at the covers. In the shift between dawn and morning, when all cookies were gone and I started to feel cold after being still for so long, I decided it would better to start some other time, when I was more awake and had more time.
You always wanted to be a car mechanic, you had told me early on. Or a musician. I had heard you play once (when we had just gotten out and your mum had given you your guitar back) and no doubt: you were amazing and could sing well too! When you were clean, that is. Which hardly ever happened after that, so it wasn't really an option. Yet your mechanical skills (even though they weren't for real, I mean paid or anything) were probably more useful to have. After all, our lives very much depended on the function of our car.
They say that some reactive behaviours are just a matter of personality traits. In any case, ours clearly differed from each other's. You, when you got really stressed and pressed, started to speak louder and louder and non-stop, with an increasingly aggressive tone. I, on the other hand (as mentioned before), almost stopped talking completely. And once I happened to open my mouth, only bad curses and strange sounds would come out. Gradually and in all areas, I degraded. As did you, on your side. Together, yet separately; we morphed into another state of being. Something else. Something less.
It's a phenomenon that can be seen all over the world, in all cultures; as one grows old and draws nearer the end of life, there comes a longing to return to one's roots. Be it your home country, the town where you grew up, or just near your family, if you have one. As time went by, we moved closer and closer to our mums, who both happened to live in the same suburb. Neither of us were welcome inside - they changed the locks and threatened to call the police if we rang the doorbell. During our last autumn, we stayed in a car on their street. And towards the end of the same year, as winter was getting colder, we moved into their cellars. You, into your mum's storage, and I, into my mum's.
In the early morning, one late spring, I woke up by a scratching sound and looked out through the front window of the car. The whole vehicle was standing in water. In the lake. The light was strong already; it seemed like a sunny day was about to begin. The scratching sound was you - also standing in the water - scrubbing the car glass in such concentration that you didn't notice that I was awake. You were singing to yourself, that Cher-song. If I could turn back time. Softly, I placed my hands on my chest and leaned back in the seat, with my eyes still resting on you. I want to save this morning in my heart, I thought to myself. If not forever, then for a very long time. The fourth and last summer, we got to borrow an apartment for free. Or rather, we were told to guard it for someone who was sent to prison. It was in Tensta centrum, built in the late sixties, so it was quite big. Three rooms with worn linoleum floors, a walk-in-closet and a balcony facing north. Blinds permanently closed. The only furniture were two wheelchairs. So when we were too tired or stiff to get up, we just rolled around in them, seated. Sometimes we stayed in different rooms, talking to each other on the phone. I guess it felt more private, and we must have been tired of each other's faces at that point.
You said you were going to quit after the summer. By the way you said it, I understood it was not for me to question, or even respond to at all. You had a seriousness I had never seen in you before. Not like that. It made me feel proud, worried and uncomfortable at the same time. Proud, because it was you, taking on such an impossible mission and also saying it out loud. Worried, about what that would mean to me. To us. Uncomfortable, because I so wished that I would have agreed, taken the chance and just joined you. But I couldn't. Not then.
You cannot live on buns alone, the social worker declared to me with an obviously worried face. As if that was the problem and as if we didn't know. Well... I said but stopped myself. Cinnamon buns, soft drinks, sweets and cigarettes had been our diet for the last few years. And that other thing, of course, which was the most elementary of all our needs - even more so than water, if we were forced to choose. Paradoxically; that other thing was probably what kept us alive through everything, and - most likely - what would kill us in the end.
The night you saved my life. Although we never really talked about it after it happened, it was always there. Like one of those dramatic incidents in ones' childhood that only one parent or an equivalent adult witnessed, and which they never mentioned again ever after - not to anyone - because it was impossible. It had created a special bond between us, that would never cease. Not in this lifetime. If it wasn't for you, that time, I would have been dead and buried, and nothing of what happened after, that I'm telling about now, would have happened.
One of those cold, endless nights. I cannot recall the season at the time, even summer nights can be freezing. Alone on a stolen bike, with no clue of where I was and therefore with no particular idea of where I was going. Just searched, like always. Carefully scanned the surroundings, hoping to find an opportunity of some kind, when I spotted a huge building with a neon-lit sign; a university or art school, the name was familiar somehow. I figured there must be lots of technical equipment. In the early dawn - frustrated about the advanced alarm system - I gave up. A few years later, I came back. I was called for an interview. I had applied for the Bachelor program in Fine Arts, and it wasn't until I entered the building that I realised. I had been there before.
I sat in bed with a thick compendium, one late afternoon as the sun was about to set outside my big window on the seventh floor. The compendium contained a number of reputable texts about art theory. Never before had I experienced such theoretical language; it seemed impossible to get through and I couldn't understand half of it. That didn't bother me at all. I felt complete contentment in the moment, and as I closed my eyes, I could see myself from above. If anyone had told me this (then), I thought in my quietness, I would have considered them truly insane.
You sent your condolences through a mutual acquaintance, when my mum died, as did you some year later, when my dad died. You never got to know how much it meant. How I saved those forwarded messages and read them over and over, until lastly I fell asleep in the early morning haze, with swollen eyes and the phone still in my hand. The agreement to not have any contact was never a choice; it was a rational decision I had taken, for the sake of my life. I had to remind myself about that, every now and then, and especially in the periods when all these things happened.
I kept writing the text about the laundry house. The whole thing was never meant to be anything. It just came, and I had to get it out. There was no thought of it becoming art. When after a while, I realised that it might, my first reaction was: No! Not this. I can do anything but this. The feeling of resistance was so strong, almost primal, combined with that devastating and sticky feeling of shame. I stopped writing it, and tried to begin to work on other ideas, consciously forcing myself to. After about a week in crisis, I gave up. Okay then. Damn.
I struggled a lot with the form; afraid to use the we form, because the we includes the I. And I didn't want that. I was so unwilling to let the voice be in first person, that in the middle of the process and half way into the script, I decided to change it. I tried out different options, but it didn't work. Not without taking something from it. Reluctantly, I had to give up my will and some pride, for the sake of the work. If the work itself demanded so, it wouldn't be right of me to refuse it.
In the end, after the summer, I began my studies at the Master program. To be honest, it wasn't really an active choice but rather a matter of non-decision - I simply had no better plan, or had been too tired to make plans at all. And it wouldn't be bad to have two more years, would it? The Bachelor studies had gone so quickly. Also, I had started to sense a fear within me; if I don't go on straight away, I might never do it. I was afraid I wouldn't continue with art - or allow myself to. I figured art school was probably a good place for me to be, and as said, on the day the semester suddenly started, I still hadn't come up with any other idea.
Just pretend that you're in a movie! - a voice in my head said to me. I was a little girl then, and the voice became my friend. When something was too hard, uncomfortable or scary, I just took my refuge to the place in my mind the voice called me to. The fantasies. That way, anything that ever happened to me, would be okay. It could even be interesting. The shame I suddenly felt - when I realised that the script I was writing, about the laundry house, would probably be my master project - took me back to the feeling of being that scared child. I wanted to pretend it was all just part of a movie. And that the film I was about to make, had nothing to do with me. It could even be interesting.
But why the laundry house? - I asked myself more and more, as the film script started to take form. It wasn't like we spent all our time doing laundry those years. That would give a false picture. It might even seem like I tried to cover up all the other stuff - all the things we actually did, when we were not in the laundry house. Make us look innocent or something. Avoid the truth. Which (when I thought of it) was exactly what it was all about. The whole thing with the laundry house; the routines, everything. It was just a denial of the truth - reality, outside. We tried to stay inside for as long as we could. (In the illusion, where it was also warmer.) Of course we did.
Once I had the first raw draft of the script in my hand, it was time to start the filming. I was staying with Bimbo for two weeks, within walking distance from school. I had stayed there many times the recent years - it was almost like a second home and Bimbo was such a character; I truly loved her. She was a cat. It was the first autumn after you and very warm for the season - some kind of record. I enjoyed having company but not having to talk. At the end of the street, no more than a hundred meters away, was a big brick building, likely from the late 40's or the early 50's. One of those big laundry houses, that still are in use in some of the suburbs from that time.
The choice of scenery for my film, also had a lot to do with that picture. Where you looked so calm, maybe even happy. Of all the images in the memory bank (where most of the archive material was too dolorous for my conscious mind to look at) - that one, kept coming back. At any time, when I was awake. The soft colours, the warmth, your infectious smile. Many times when it appeared, it also took me right there - into the moist heat, with the humming sound from the machines in the background. I guess it felt like a safe place, to talk about things that was not possible to talk about.
We didn't exist anymore. We were history, and from now on, it would just be me. On an intellectual level, of course, this was very clear. But I knew from experience it would take a long time for it to become real, within me. Maybe even longer this time. Because even though we had still been alive, we hadn't been together, for long. Time had covered our mutual body with a veil; a thin layer for each year. And in the light of my new life, it almost looked like a dream. Yet beneath, it was all the same. Just as we left it. Only the colours were more faded.
We sat in a ring, tensed, on hard chairs that always made my rear hurt after a while. Exhibition critiques were obligatory. Generally, I found it interesting, but there was something - a kind of unease - in the atmosphere; the risk of saying something stupid or irrelevant, was present in every moment. Additionally - and that was probably what affected my perception of the situation the most - to sit like that, in a circle, reminded me of another circle, in another place. In another time. For a short moment, I could forget what phase in life I was in. Where I was (it was not that kind of building complex). Why I was there (it was not a legal case). What I was doing there (my participation was on a voluntarily basis, even though they called it mandatory.)
