A plane, a bus, and a car took me to the train station, but no train. For the whole month I would be holed up in Stationen i Svenshögen and not once would an actual train stop by, although the tracks were haunted by all manner of noisy and nameless machines. I saw the overhead cables being strung up, I felt the quake of the rails being straightened, I heard the scoop of stones and the laying of boards, and every evening the platform lampposts flickered on in the service of no passengers, no drivers, and no conductors. Just little old me, upstairs in the stationmaster's room, hammering away on a chaotic draft of a chaotic story. The Swedish days were brief, their twilights dramatic, their nights deep, and there was much need for candlelight and fleecy jumpers.
I worked across the month on a new piece of writing tentatively called 'The City of Good Thoughts'. It concerns a rift between two lovers, an impossible exchange of letters, a cat with fathomless talents, body-horror dreams, and the city of Tartu in Estonia. The writing was messy and frenetic. I always aimed to use the residency as an opportunity to toss a vast quantity of ideas at a blank page to see which ones had staying power. Ostensibly, I aimed for 50,000 words and sort of reached that target, although I fudged the numbers somewhat towards the end with some cavalier copy/pasting and more than a little backstory splurge. Whatever the true figure, I can say that I've come home with the basis of something half decent, and enough enthusiasm for it to keep on going. Perhaps it was fitting, after all, that the tracks outside my residence were also a work-in-progress, and were not finished by the time the month came to an end. I too had been banging rails, scooping stones, and stringing plot-lines. My destination was vague, my timetable suspended. I too had no passengers.
I did have colleagues, though. The generous residency scheme from the AIR Litteratur Västra Götaland region funded fourteen other residents in and around Gothenburg; five within libraries, five within one mansion, and five more (including myself) scattered to artistic venues in distant rural reaches. We were brought together in the first week to say hello and we quickly felt like comrades, or like a fellowship brought to a council to begin our quest. We were poets, prose writers, and translators most from Europe and a few from North America. I only stayed in touch with three from that gathering but it was a constant encouragement to know that we were all doing the same thing at the same time in our various strange locations.
I like to think, however, that my location was the strangest of all. Svenshögen itself is a lovely village with friendly residents and a welcoming aura, but it's also a place to seek and find a certain edge of uncanniness. My own building is a 100 year old train station full of creaky floorboards and tall windows, the downstairs converted into an exhibition space. For the first half of the month, Linnea Handsander's 'I Want to Know What Love Is (I Want You To Show Me)' was the resident exhibition; a strange, Lynchian encounter with karaoke, a giant poppy, and a drunken Orpheus that had me entranced and ear-wormed for weeks. A short stroll from the Station lay the lake, often dressed in low mist, and the dense forests that housed moose and wolves, although I saw neither. Opposite sat the old tuberculosis hospital where patients used to be shipped to take in the fresher air, and on the hillside stood a radio tower and a lone wind turbine. The latter gave me an existential fright when I went to visit and, somehow, it claimed a hat which I never retrieved.
On my various daily jaunts I took to crafting curious little creatures from the bits and pieces of foliage and detritus that I found lying around. These 'Sprites' took on names and titles when posted to Instagram and all were left in place to be discovered by local folk and their dogs (although I suspect most were swept away by the stormy winds that arrived on day 16). I think there was a gesture coded in those little fellows; something to do with companionship and isolation, but also a passing meditation on residing briefly, then leaving. I was also treated to a reliable troupe of avian companions on the oak tree outside my window that kept me both amused and distracted. A pair of jays, a gaggle of jackdaws, various great tits, an occasional green woodpecker, and the singular miracle of a black woodpecker and it's particularly plaintive call.
Hey, listen; I had a wonderful time. My hosts Kristian, Camilla, Christian and Julia were kind, generous, and super cool, and were unfailingly supportive when it came to the vaulting ambitions of my live event (more on that in the next post). Stationen itself is a incredible achievement; a place for experimental arts that serves a small community with regular magic while attracting the curious from further afield (when the trains are running, at least). I also made an extraordinary friend in one of the other residents, Vanessa Bell, whose good humour and rich mind kept me spirited and inspired throughout the month. How great it is to spend four weeks in a different country and come away with friends for life. If all else fails, there will always be that.
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