Author Archives: blogbypa

About blogbypa

Swedish writer, voice over-artist and photographer who practises reflexology. Would like to change the world, but settles with a wish to bring a thought, a sense or even make someone feel better, if only for a while. Believes in the the inward and outward human force. Works out, run in woods, meditate and practise qigong. Likes to find another way. Blogs about life, neither more nor less. Or both. About love and stupidity, death and nudity, lies and wise men in trees. Questions habits and patterns, traditions and people’s disability to stick to the truth. Wants to write with love. Or with anger. And often with a twinkle. But without self-pity or cant. Decorates the discourses with Iphone-pics. It’s just a hang-up. If you’re interested in the real pictures, please visit

Why can’t I be Jesus?

When I was young and angry I had it all figured out. I argued to win and I wanted to change the world. Later on I realized that wasn’t my cause. I realized I wasn’t Jesus. I couldn’t change everything and everyone.

Now I’m getting older, wiser I think. I’ve learned that anger doesn’t help, that there is no winning or loosing in arguing. Only learning. And the more I learn, the more I find me not knowing. I getting wrinkles around my eyes, and I don’t care that much about uninportant matters, like what people think. And I think and feel a lot about what I should do with my life.

And maybe, when I think and feel about it, it isn’t such a bad idea after all. To have a cause. To change the world.

At least a part of it.

For a while…


“Step on it! Follow that frog!”

Shit, I’m old!

So it struck me – the insight – not as a kick in the head, but more like an autumn leave, slowly falling to the ground to die. I have grown old. Bloody hell!

In the past, it was considered inappropriate to ask for a woman’s age. Still later on, in the age of feminism and gender equality, women have used this antiquated custom to somehow avoid the truth of aging, or at least keep it a secret. I used to resent that. Today I’ve kind of changed my point of view on that issue.

I mean, how come one may ask for a man’s age, but not a woman’s? Why do we even care about the number of years at all? And what does that number mean? Well, obviously it brings out expectations of adapted behavior and maturity, from which we value children as precocious and old people as alive and kickin’ dispyte a great age. And when we’ve gotten older than we wish we were, we put on a deceptive smile and says that one aint older than one feels. Yeah right!

But there it is, my like-a-leave-falling-insight; I feel damn old! For example:

  • Nowadays, I philosophize and ponder about my opinions and values, more than just having them.
  • Resting is an underrated form of exercise. And I get more fit from practising qigong and meditation than from lifting dumbbells and barbells.
  • My cravings for beer and burgers have been replaced by inclination fore red wine and cauliflower.
  • Sometimes I speak wisely.
  • I’m getting more attractive by age. But my sight is getting blurry.
  • I find the question about night life’s opening hours incomprehensible. How can anyone want to stay awake untill five’o’clock?
  • I have always said that I don’t care about what people think. Nowadays, it happens that I really mean it.
  • Small stores with organic food are more interesting than hardware- or Apple stores.
  • I go for a run with folksongs and local ballads in the headphones, rather than Eye of the tiger and Boys are back in town.
  • Fucking is still fun, but a good book and a cup of tea is not so bad either.

So. That’s it. I’m old. Because I feel old. Old. Old and spry. Old and spry and handsome. Old and spry and handsome and wise. Old and spry and handsome and wise and brave.

And there is not a number in the world that can summarize that.


Spiderman goes…

…Burt Reinholds…


…vitruvian man…









The comparatively complete failure.

That feeling of being a fucking failure. To realize that nothing turned out to be as you thought it should, and you’re questioning your ability to … to be good at anything at all. And at the same time blame yourself for whining about it. That feeling.

Like when you throw off the bowlines and sail away from the safe harbor, letting go of social safety, old habits, financial security, with no clear goals but to explore, dream and discover, with only a vague idea of direction.

Just because you want the challenge, just because you want to dare, to prove that it’s possible, and because you’ve got a feeling of not having really lived your one life. Until now.

And everything seems quite right and fairly fine.

Until you suddenly realize it’s a bit lonely, and although you try hard to think of someone you know who’s done something similar, you can’t, and the people around you seems to be either admiring your courage, or blaming you for just being stupid and irresponsible. Except for all of those who, of course, doesn’t give a shit.

But still, everything seems quite right and fairly fine.

Except that nothing goes as planned. You think about the thinkable until unthinkable things happens and takes your focus away, and you weren’t prepared for this – one never is – and the unthinkabilities drains your energy, for if there is one time when you need security, stability and routines to lean on, it’s when the unthinkable happens, and instead of doing all that you have planned, you only take care of the basics of life, basics governed not by logic and plannes, but by intuition and emotional presence.

And that already vague idea of direction loses momentum, and suddenly you’ve got all time and place in the world for thoughts, ruminations, contemplations, and it’s hard to gain speed again, because you suddenly can’t decide whether that vague idea of direction is applicable anymore or not.

So you look around, and your attempts to muddle along and to hang on to some kind of reality and meaning doesn’t make very much difference, since you’re no longer sure of what the so called reality is supposed to be like. Or what really matters.

And you hope that the energy and the money will last until you come up with a clue of which way to go. Or until you no longer care.

And you accept. Give up. Reconsider.

And realize that the time you have been given lately, with emotional presence, thoughts and comparative failures, made room for a kind of emptiness. An emptiness that holds an inner peace right in the middle of chaos, a peace and a lifeblood that you’re not used to, that can enhance life in ways that you don’t really know how to handle. Yet.

That feeling.

When she left, he left to. But he left his hand on the window…


Taco dinner and sheep brain

There is wine and water on the table, next to an oil lamp that only somewhat light up the dim tavern. The food takes time. I’m in a small Roman town 2,000 years ago.

At times, the boundaries between here and there, between now and then, are diffuse. Like when one sits in one’s kitchen on a Friday night, with a glass of wine and the table messed up after a family taco-dinner. It’s soft and one feels fine, allowing oneselve to kind of disappear into…or just dissappear.

And then one sees oneself – as in some kind of holographic projection on the other side of the table, just above the rug – walking into that diner, built in whitewashed stone. Oneself, on the other hand is gray and dusty from travelling, tired and hungry. One gets the feeling that one is in Pompeii, perhaps mostly because that’s one of the few Roman cities one actually know by name. Or perhaps because that’s were one happens to be.

One is a serious figure, sitting there pouring water into the wine. One sits with ones back against the bar and the kitchen, facing the exit. One is some kind of inspector. Or controller. Passing through. To check what? The arena? No, but the spaces where the gladiators stays. Yepp, that must be it. Such facilities must maintain certain standards. There are rules. And oneself happens to be the one to make sure that the rules are complied to.

The job is not overly inspiring, really. Not sexy at all. But someone’s got to do it. And sometimes one have to settle with what one’s got, but one dreams about another life. One of those lives that one lives smiling, in which not every day is something to just get through with…

One is waiting for one’s food. I wonder what one eats in a place like this. By this age. Sheep brain. Sheep brain? Yepp, apparently/so it seems. And some kind of meat soup. And red wine with water. And one eats alone. Just as well.

There is no one else there. Exept for her over there in the corner. Was she there from the start? Maybe she came while one ate. Yes, probably. She seems familiar, one think sitting there eating ones sheep brain. One have seen herbefore. Here. And she seems familiar, one thinks sitting in a modern kitchen among tacos residues. Today, 2000 years later, we live together. Right now, she stands beside me doing the dishes.

She is a courtesan. A prostitute. (The one in the hologram, that is. Not the one doing the the dishes, not what I know of.) She sits on the other side of the room. Beautiful. Obvious. With long and dark and curly red hair, carefully set up to just to look carelessly fixed. She is not anyone. She is better sort. But without airs and graces or flashy jewelry. She doesn’t need that. She radiates the kind of confidence which one can’t really know if it is genuine or rehearsed. It is a bit of both, I realize later.

We know each other. Superficial. Strangely. To pay fore sex isn’t one’s cup of tea. Not usually, anyway.

Not usually. But this time, one ends up in bed with a fallen angel. But one doesn’t pay. Because she’s not on duty. Because it’s something else, of course. Something deeper. We belong together somehow, and afterwards, while she is getting dressed, one try to convince her to stay and we will escape together and one will rescue her to a better life than this and one’s never felt like this in one’s entire life…

But she continues to dress. She’s leaving. She won’t stay. Though she is drawn to me, she fears to stay. She fears another kind of life than the one she’s grown used to, that familiar, safe life she know how to handle. She is not happy but she knows what she’s got, and she puts a red, patterned cloth over her shoulder and leaves…

How was the conditions in the gladiator rooms? I don’t know. One travelled on, I guess. Controlling other places, writing new protocols, eating other sheep brains in other cities. And she? Who knows? Perhaps she stayed, and got burried by the ashes when the volcano erupted.

The hologram fades out, and I take one last sip of the wine and think that it’s odd how different lives braids with each other.

-Why do you mimic me, the sky asked when the water reflected it’s every move, pattern and colour.


A floraly wallpaper

This is our toilet wall. I kind of like it. Brown flowers with green leaves, all with a purple touch. It’s an excellent wallpaper for pooing.

Let’s make it clear right from the start. If you want action, you better stop reading. It won’t get more exciting than this. For today’s subject is about ”the lightness of being – as pure as it gets”. Like sitting in the loo staring into a floraly wallpaper. A highly underrated thing to do. Relaxing. Soothing. Somewhat contemplative. Who does not need more of that kind?

But honestly, sure you have been, with an ambition to be effective, checking email or sending text messages from the bathroom? Or killing time by reading a newspaper or stretching the brain with a crossword. A woman I know stepped into a public ladies room:

”I had hardly sat down when I heard a voice in the booth beside me: Hi, how are you?

Me (embarrassed): Im fine.

The other booth: So what are you doing?

Me: Uh, just sitting here..?

The other booth: Can I come over?

Me (with surprised attitude): No, I’m a little busy right now!

The other booth: Hey, I have to call you back. Some moron in the other toilet keeps answering all my questions!

When you’re taking a dump, do it peacefully. Pooing is serious business. Light yourself a candle. Decorate, a flower in a vase, for instance. Or do like childrens do: dangle your legs and sing a tune. It’s all about mindfulness!

This is my forrest. You know that, don’t you?


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