Sparse reflections

Following his death towards the tail-end of last year, I delved into some of the solo work of krautrock pioneer Manuel Göttsching. An architect of electronic 'kosmiche' music, I was drawn to his E2-E4 album, a minimalist, hour-long composition that layered and sequented electronic instrumentation over itself, creating a sparse yet pulsating sound, one that has inspired this piece of writing. Thoughts on the past few months have at times also felt sparse. Inspiration of how best to articulate my sentiments have often only arrived on semi-drunken bike rides home from the mania of certain parties. There, the thoughts of increasing sobriety that stuck to my evermore fractious mind required frenzied vocal repetition in the biting Swedish air before they could be frantically noted down on my phone. Inspired by E2-E4's charming lack of direction, here sits an attempt to bring these thoughts together, to try and capture a degree of sentiment before the whirl of a new Swedish semester sweeps whatever thoughts and memories I might have into a distorted memory-bank of oddities. Assuming that process hasn't begun already.

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Olga Tokarczuk described the joy of bilingualism as having a private language, a language 'to fall back on or turn to in moments of doubt'. To use English in this world risks 'be[ing] understood by anyone at any moment', to be denied the basic privacy of others' incomprehension. The others who are taught our private language in schools and universities, and whose culture is at times monopolised by ours. This is acute in Sweden, at least to an English person whose studies are devoted to the cracking of the Swedes' own private language, a breaching of their truest thoughts. I am disadvantaged by my English, the ease with which I can rest on my mother tongue if necessary, as well as the Swedish preference to revert to English instead of maintaining a conversation with weaker grammar or vocabulary. There is a silliness to it all, reflected in the number of friends, family and strangers who frequently ask me to justify why I am going through this process at all. In the most humble sense, the answer is a feeling of pride. Pride when faced with the alternative of social embarrassment.

I am embarrassed by English when abroad, not so much by its role as a language of convenience, but by the tailoring of other nationalities towards my mother tongue. The English I have spoken here has been with a plethora of nationalities and accents, often imperfect but charmingly so, cracking the code on which friendships and connections can be built. Meanwhile, I feel on a pedestal, a reluctant standard-setter for conversation - a position I despise, almost as much as I dislike the apologies that other international students have sometimes made to me for so-called 'imperfections' in their English. The frustration gives me determination, a drive to at least for once be the one apologising, the one who doesn't impose his language on others, the one who can be culturally understood without the awkwardness of a misplaced auxiliary verb or participle. It's an awkwardness that perseveres, but thankfully so does my embarrassment. 

The learning process itself is inconsistent but encouraging, aided greatly by my immersion here for four months so far. The nature of my Swedish is now broadly comprehensible if not yet approaching fluency. The ability to think, understand and respond in this new language is still limited to short moments at a time, burdened by the grammatical structures and vocabulary taken for granted in a native language. This is both enriching and isolating, enabling me to tap into the realms of normality (playing badminton and making small talk with middle-aged, snus-loving Swedish men), whilst confining friendships almost exclusively to fellow international students. A few also study the language for reasons variously relating to a form of convenience or politeness. The majority are exchange students, who chose Sweden precisely for the lack of required language learning, for the ease of using English without the stresses and horrors of having to deal with an English sense of administration and bureaucracy. The number of British students that can be spotted roaming the streets of Uppsala perhaps also reflects this desire to escape the motherland, however briefly.

Just as British people are often unwilling to extol the virtues of their scenery - instead being enticed by the exoticism of 'abroad' - it is through international students, rather than Swedes, that I have seen more to Sweden than a Swede might see, this semester alone visiting Jämtland, Gävle, Stockholm and Gotland. Autumn is momentary, its colours fleeting before merging into the long, monochromatic winter. These travels too, are a release, a journey not only of exploration but of soul-searching, using the changing backdrop to consider where one is, and how things are going. I think things are going well, especially when factoring in the challenges that existed during the initial period of routine setting. Alone in a foreign land, I felt I had lost my referential index, instead clinging to the contacts of others until they too could become my connections. The Swedish scenery was my accomplice, a refreshing provocateur of warm sentiment, a captivator of its own beauty. As friends come and go between this semester and the next, I am comforted by the landscape, excited by the adventures that await.  

Autumn above Åre

International students at parties can be divided between the adults who resent the atmospherics - self-aware and loitering for either conversation or a recognisable chorus - and those who are yet to accept their involuntary resignation from what was surely a most fluorescent of adolescence. The latter group consider nights like these the best they ever had, a memory and a dream to linger on for years to come, at least if not for the regularity of these events, or the intensity to which so many attendees appear determined to drown their conscious in a fuzzy, alcoholic haze. The atmosphere itself is of a perpetually high intensity, dictated by the abandonment of self-awareness through drink and the understanding that any connection made is temporary, both burdened and liberated by the short duration of an exchange. Indeed, many of my friends this semester will not return, some will be remembered and preserved, others will slip down the wayside of life, overtaken by events and newer memories. There is an unfortunate inevitability to this process, descending towards the days where faces may be recognised only through the Instagram account tagged or the drunken photo snapped, relics of an age when these friendships fleetingly carried feeling.

Returning home, I presumed, would kick-start a Christmas spirit that otherwise had yet to kick into gear. Instead I felt detached, not from friends or even from many family members, but by the ecosystem I thought I understood - my absence unsurprisingly kick-starting a resumption of life without me. Suddenly, the small children are forming coherent sentences, the old dog has miraculously been invigorated by the new puppy, less small children are eating the same meals as adults. The changes are small and insignificant, yet in my absence feel magnified, as if I am oblivious to the lives of people I care about. There is a truth to that, a physical distance if not a psychological one that has manifested this feeling of separation.

It is with these ideas that I eventually returned to Sweden a week early, conscious of wanting to express some of these ideas, but lacking the coherency that I wanted. When E2-E4's opening pulsations began last night, it dawned on me that this piece didn't need closure, for it is only a snapshot of feelings that will continue to evolve and eventually dissipate in the months and years to come. Ahead of me lies another week of inorganic socialising, a quest for new friends to de-isolate myself from this temporary feeling of detachment. But I know that in the following weeks, this process will come more naturally, aided by mutual interests and hobbies. Rhythm and routine will soon absorb itself into my day-to-day, often without purpose or motive, but with a comforting familiarity. It is with this aspiration, that I can also look to E2-E4 for comfort. Directionless, constant, changing. A masterpiece on which to lay sparse sentiment. A canvas on which to articulate ones feelings and pretensions to the world. 

Image Credit Unknown