ETERNALLY OWNED IS BUT WHAT IS LOST
“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will the gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.”
Rainer Maria Rilke
But who was Anna really? Well, she was the one who was half- or downright fully, popular, not the cutest ten-year-old and perhaps not entirely happy either, but neither the forgotten or sad one.
Not the teenager who screamed herself hoarse at concerts or slept with the wrong guys because she felt pressured or for that matter was forced to.
Never the one who felt the need to smoke weed or dyed her hair green. Never she who, drunk on cheap homemade Kir cocktails, went down on half-known rock guys behind a porta-potty at one of those festivals she never went to, was anorexic or threw up her lunch. Never the high school girl who carried a canvas tote bag, with an Amnesty print, holding a worn but unread paperback of Sartre’s collected works or owned a black marker to paint her nails with. In other words, Anna was never the one who dressed in a red beret, deliberately wore black, dirty and purposefully torn tights with battered Dr. Martens, and felt an urge to escape to Berlin.
Nor was she the one who, five to ten years further on in the story, went to ecstasy-colored raves or let loose with the help of a line of cocaine on a bath-bubble-filled dance floor in Ibiza.
Nope, Anna was clearly the one who was, God forbid, “normal”, not poor but not rich either. The one who followed fashion, loved going to the movies, liked wine on a Saturday but not on a Sunday. Thought Chaka Khan was pretty retro-cool, Michael Jackson passé, could not quite let go of Madonna and Depeche Mode while listening to Bette Midler in secret. Because you’re gonna get it, in a dance trance from a distance with your own personal Jesus.
When she finally realized the meaning of Six Pistols, The Clash and Patti Smith – 35 years too late – she could not get the allure with Rihanna or Beyoncé but loved the Gaga-licous, Feist and Amy W. He can’t read my poker face because he’s my Brandy Alexander, always gets me into trouble, but I’d rather be at home with Ray even though he tried to make me go to rehab but I won’t go, go, go…
With a 17-year-old’s real desire to capture the look of Kim Wilde and Blondie, she took a detour via the department store, with a less revolutionary result in a more ladylike style. Admittedly, a style in a neon shade worthy of a Lauper and a hair highlight-bleached to the brink of destruction, but the real rock-chick-look had to wait until Helmut Lang sat down – one late 90’s afternoon – and created a slightly torn, tight, sleek, black minimalist style she finally could call home. A home she, however, could not afford to buy until one fall in 2009, when Bergdorf Goodman kindly offered 25% off on a slim black blazer. By then, Anna had long since left both Issie M’s icy pyramid cone and Thieery M’s strong blue angel behind her and smelled considerably duller, and laundry-detergent-like neutral, even though Calvin K’s unisex had already gone entirely out of fashion.
But what good is a future dream blazer, on a Thursday in March, 1985 when you realize that a desperately saught-after Susan, you will never become even though those two aforementioned fake blondes taught Anna that your heart is made of glass, and fanned the American Explorer’s old dream that for the kids in America the lights are always brighter, the music always faster and everybody lives for the music-go-round in a dirty town.
Well, well, hit me with your best shot, because really, was not Pat Benatar coolest of them all, after all? But what good did that do when none of Anna’s friends knew who she was? She… Who is she? Anna? Pat B? Perhaps the friends sometimes felt just as puzzled about both of them?
Anna kept cutting her hair every six weeks, bleaching it every twelve. Knew but denied, that she would become a journalist already by the time she was twenty so naturally took a brief detour on the law program first – as thought, reason and convention suggested – while making mixed tapes like everyone else. She who maybe suffered in silence but still only an itsy-bitsy-tiny-little-bit.
Anna met the 21st century delirious with joy at richer people’s naïve attitude to economics – that night they welcomed a new millennium – since it made the fireworks she loved so much, spectacular. She enjoyed hanging out with friends, architecture, star sapphires, American politics, comedy and dark, dark chocolate ice cream. Found her context and her kindred spirits later than she might have anticipated, not in the fashion boutiques where she had sought it, but in a Windows-lit journalist study hall disguised as a night editorial office in a grey, drizzly Skurup.
Feisty and dressed in black she hummed so sorry, we don’t need to say goodbye, we don’t need to fight and cry while Anita Lindblom screamed that such is life from her increasingly schizophrenic iTunes list that often reminded her that I hardly know her but I think I can love her. Admittedly rarely quite as brave, courageous and bold as Wyatt Earp but never ever Karma Chamelon without conviction – so step away. Crimson and Clover r in da house.
Perhaps no wonder that her personality, despite everything, always, curiously enough, was considered colorful.
©SlowClapStories
Evigt ägs blott det du mist
Kapitel XXVI: Anna, den tråkigt normala
“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.”
Rainer Maria Rilke
Men vem var Anna egentligen? Tja, hon var hon som var halv- eller rent av helpopulär, inte den sötaste tioåringen och kanske inte heller helt glad men inte heller den bortglömda eller ledsna.
Inte tonåringen som skrek sig hes på konserter eller låg med fel killar för att hon kände sig tvingad eller för den delen blev tvingad.
Aldrig hon som kände ett behov av att röka på eller färgade håret grönt. Aldrig hon som, packad på kir, sög av halvkända rockkillar bakom en Baja-Maja på en av de festivaler hon aldrig besökte, var anorektisk eller spydde upp sin lunch.
Aldrig gymnasietjejen som bar på en tygpåse med Amnesty-tryck i vilken det fanns en sliten, men oläst, pocketbok med Sartres samlade skrifter eller ägde en svart tuschpenna för att måla naglarna med. Med andra ord, Anna var aldrig hon som klädde sig i en röd basker, med vilja bar svarta, smutsiga och medvetet sönderrivna strumpbyxor i slitna Dr. Martens och kände en lust att fly till Berlin.
Hon var aldrig hon som, fem till tio år senare i historien, gick på ectasy-kolorerade raves eller någon som släppte loss med hjälp av en kokain-lina på ett badbubbelsfyllt dansgolv på Ibiza.
Nix, Anna var helt klart hon som var, Gud förbjude, ”normal”, inte fattig men inte heller rik. Hon som följde modet, älskade gå på bio, gillade vin en lördag men inte på en söndag. Tyckte Chaka Khan var ganska retrocool, Michael Jackson ute, inte helt kunde släppa Madonna och Depeche Mode samtidigt som hon lyssnade på Bette Midler i hemlighet. Because you’re gonna get it it in a dance trance from a distance with your own personal Jesus.
När hon äntligen förstod meningen med Sex Pistols, The Clash och Patti Smith – trettiofem år för sent – kunde hon inte se tjusningen med Rihanna eller Beyoncé, men älskade Gaga-licious, Feist och Amy W. He can’t read my poker face because he’s my Brandy Alexander, always gets me into trouble, but I’d rather be at home with Ray even though he tried to make me go to rehab but I won’t go, go, go…
Med en 17-årings egentliga önskan om att få looken av Kim Wilde och Blondie tog hon omvägen via NK med ett mindre omvälvande resultat i en mer damig stil. Visserligen en stil i en neon-nyans värdig en Lauper och ett hår blondslingat till förstörelsens gräns, men den riktiga rock-chick-looken fick vänta tills Helmut Lang – en sen 90-tals-eftermiddag – satte sig ner och skapade en aningen söndrad, snäv, sleek, svart minimalistisk stil att äntligen hitta hem i. Ett hem, hon dock inte hade råd att köpa förrän en höst 2009 då Bergdorf Goodman vänligen nog erbjöd 25% rabatt på en slimmad svart kavaj. Då hade Anna för länge sedan lämnat både Issie M:s isiga pyramidkon och Thieery M:s starka blå ängel bakom sig och luktade betydligt tråkigare och tvättmedelsaktigt neutralt trots att Calvins unisex var helt ute.
Men vad hjälper en framtida önskekavaj, en mars-torsdag 1985 när man inser att en desperately saught after Susan blir man inte, trots att de båda förutnämnda fakeblondinerna lärt Anna att your heart is made of glass och spädde på Amerikafararens gamla dröm om att för kidsen in America the lights are always brighter, the music always faster and everybody lives for the music-go-round in a dirty town.
Men, men… hit me with your best shot för nog var väl Pat Benatar den coolaste av dem alla trots allt? Men vad hjälpte det när ingen av Annas kompisar visste vem hon var. Hon… Vem är hon? Anna? Pat B? Kanske kände kompisarna sig ibland lika frågande till dem båda?
Anna fortsatte klippa håret var sjätte vecka, bleka var tolfte. Visste, men förnekade, att hon skulle bli journalist redan när hon var tjugo så naturligtvis tog hon en kort vända på juristlinjen först – så som tanken, förnuftet och konventionen förespeglade – medan hon gjorde blanneband som alla andra. Hon som kanske led i tysthet men ändå bara en itsy-bitsy-tiny-little-bit.
Anna mötte 2000-talet galen av glädje över rikare folks naiva inställning till ekonomi – den natten då de välkomnande ett nytt årtusende – eftersom det gjorde fyrverkerierna som hon älskade så mycket, spektakulära. Hon tyckte om att umgås med kompisar, arkitektur, stjärnsafirer, amerikansk politik, comedy och mörk, mörk chokladglass. Fann sitt sammanhang och sina fränder senare än hon kanske förutsett, inte i modebutikerna där hon sökt det, utan i en Windows-upplyst journalist-skrivsal förklädd till nattredaktion i ett grådaskigt Skurup.
Feisty och klädd i svart nynnade hon so sorry, we don’t need to say goodbye, we don’t need to fight and cry medan Anita Lindblom skrek att sånt är livet från hennes alltmer schizofrena iTunes-lista som ofta påminde henne om att I hardly know her but I think I can love her. Visserligen sällan fullt så brave, courageous och bold som Wyatt Earp men aldrig heller någonsin Karma Chamelon without conviction – så step away. Crimson and Clover r in da house.
Kanske inte konstigt att hennes personlighet, trots allt, alltid, konstigt nog, ansågs vara färgstark.
©SlowClapStories
Slow Clap Stories 