Tuesday, December 21, 2010

m u s i c a l

I got an auto-tuner, which means I can now be bothered to keep my guitar up to pitch, some of the time. I learned to play Calle Schewens Vals

"Här dansar Calle Schewen med Roslagens ros
han dansar till solen går opp!"
translation here: http://www.abc.se/~m8169/taube/oversatt.html

and Sjösala Vals - This is the one about Rönnerdahl and the flowers:

Rönnerdahl han skuttar med ett skratt ur sin säng
Solen står på Orrberget, sunnanvind brusar.
Rönnerdahl han valsar över Sjösala äng.
Hör min vackra visa, kom sjung min refräng.
Tärnan har fått ungar
och dyker i min vik
från alla gröna dungar
hörs finkarnas musik
och se så många blommor
som redan slagit ut på ängen
gullviva, mandelblom, kattfot och blå viol

Rönnerdahl he leaps with a chuckle out of bed
sun is at Orrberget, the south wind is blowing.
Rönnerdahl he rolls over Sjösala field.
Hear my lovely song, come sing my refrain.
Terns have their young
and are diving in my bay
from all the green groves
is heard finches' music
and see so many flowers
have already come out in the field
cowslip and saxifrage, catsfoot and violet*

*lit. cowslip, meadow saxifrage, mountain everlasting and blue violet (the latter probably dog violet or sweet violet). These are all common spring flowers in south-central Sweden.


These are well-known songs in Sweden.

*

Three of the six CDs I got for Xmas were Swedish too. They were Allan Petersson's Violin Concerto no 2 and his ninth symphony, and Abba Gold. The others were Simon & Garfunkel's Greatest Hits, Shostakovich Jazz Suites and Mahler 5 (Concertgebouw, Chailly). These have all been saved up to compensate for when I return to the misery of commuting. Oh, I also got Stieg Larsson's trilogy in abridged audioformat on 18 CDs, so at least I've got plenty to listen to.

Wednesday, December 01, 2010

coal orchid

Bloodsport
Coal Orchid
The Bodybroker
Fillet

The sun came out and began to heat the mist in the down. Five jet brilliants drew incessantly to the splayed nostrils. Behind the wire fence, a copse of low shrub: fresh green leaves and withered black haws. White roots forked and bulged in the moist, stony ground.

Equine shadow , surface of the shale,

something luminous in the mane, fiber optic

whinnied, snickered and showed her wolf tooth. Josie pummelled the beaten numnah.

Shell-coloured vervain stood proud of the cropped pasture; the ponies wouldn't touch it. This ground was mostly too bare for buttercups. One great ribbon-stemmed thistle bristled on the earthwork, putting out a forest of spines.

The other ponies sidled into the elder field.

She placed her arm around the enormous snaky neck, but she couldn't lean, while the pony's breath came in thick clots.

"I can't leave her."

"In the hanging you can."

"No, it's too risky. I'm calling Sid."

Sid was the knackerman. A silence fell.

"She's not a coddled little miss."

It began to rain. It was Christmas. She walked with steady strides until she was on the Cheeky Chilli. She lit up.

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