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Post by Ivan Carswell on Mar 6, 2008 19:01:48 GMT -5
Mick Jagger couldn't do it for him even where grainy b&w movies played impossibly loud created an accessible legend.
After a night traipsing Stockholm's bars drinking he knew he merely paced the same ground – there was nothing to carry him more than a sentence into a conversation started with ‘I’, ending desultory at lip of half-empty glass...
On the trip to Möja they drank from cans carried aboard in the grip of another heady celebration; three hours breaching international boundaries, three hours penetrating implacable Swedish reserve.
We do it by numbers they said – we all drink and sing.
Translations rang like litanies echoed needlessly in the troubled wake of every word he said; when does the sense of it become obvious to me, he asked – must I wait until morning?
An unstated accusation hanging between them left him stranded in an Archipelago of accidental History; I think I am not Swedish enough to know what I missed, he said. ©4 September 2007, I.D. Carswell
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