(yes, it is) 23 of May – 26 of June I’ll be one of three residents in the project Walking Peace in the Avian Kingdom in Sweden, organised by ARNA at the very spot where two pilgrim trails meet in Harlösa. Walking Peace is a green, slow and peaceful way of making new connections across cultural backgrounds and religions, creating art as a statement for peace while walking. Afterwards I'll be researching the pioneer life in Värmland.



The musquito bites are slowly driving me crazy. I tried to count them but I gave up. My arms resemble the surface of the moon seen from a distance. I can’t sleep at night. I try to write but the only words in the back of my mind are “don’t scratch, don’t scratch”.
I scratch. I scratch and try not to think about it. I scratch and hate myself for it. I scratch and try not to think about the scars. I scratch and think about the Captain. Something drove him crazy in this house. Not musquito bites, not something as inferior as that, I bet. But something made him cross borders a human being shouldn’t cross.

It is almost 2 ‘o clock and the darkness outside isn’t really darkness. The night is something resembling what I would call the early hours of morning. It is a quiet night. No owls, no nightbirds, no buzzing insects. The soft sound of my fingers on the keyboard. The sound of my fingers scratching my skin.

What is the sound of madness?

Dripping water. A dog growling. A buzzing of some kind. Something getting bigger and bigger. Something that ends in complete silence. The moment just before that. What do you hear? Angels singing? Snails sighing?

Whenever I enter my room, the Captain’s room, something is creaking at the far end of the room, just outside the reach of my vision. I know it is because the plank I step on when entering the room connects my feet to the little door on the right. I know there isn’t really somebody leaving the room every time I enter it. But I like the sound. It is comforting in some way.

I met somebody who recently met the Captain. Somewhere not too far from Stockholm. He was doing well. Drinking smoothies instead of rum. Trying to find a new place to live. Trying to realise his dream to sail to Fiji. Trying to forget a red house in the woods.

Being in a place that somebody is trying to forget. Being in a place to gather new memories. Ending up in the memories of others. Slowly getting disconnected from the real world. Whatever that is.

Or maybe this is the real world. Maybe this is where it meets a parallel world. A world in which the Captain is fighting a storm, alone on his dream vessel. On his way to Fiji. Always on his way to Fiji.

In fact he is on his way. This person who met him told me. She told me he inherited money after his father died. His father who owned a rum factory. He used the rum money to buy a boat. A big one. One that can sail him to Fiji.

Maybe he is already there. Maybe having bought the boat means he is already there. He doesn’t actually have to sail there because the dream isn’t a dream any longer. Maybe he can’t even sail. Maybe he is only called the Captain because he dreams of sailing.

Since I arrived here I didn’t remember my dreams. Unless this is my dream. A dream in which it is a light night forever and my scratching fingers only get distracted from the musquito bites whenever a word pops up that they have to write down. A dream in which on my right side I can see the tree tops against the pale blue night sky and on my left side the outlines of a two piece suit that is darker than any night I’ve ever seen. A dream in which I try on the suit and sit on the bench under the window, look out into the night and spell the word captain by forming the letters with my right index finger on my left underarm. A dream in which this is the only way to make the itching stop.

I searched his pockets. There was nothing there. But there is a beautiful label in his suit. It reads “Flaneur”. Walker.