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Last week it was cold here. It was raining. I felt like I needed something warm. On Sunday after church I popped into Old Navy while I was ‘in the city’ [that’s how we East Bay folks speak of San Francisco]. I had never been to this American store before in my life; very cute stuff and not that expensive. I purchased the hoodie above for roughly 12$.

We are our own worst enemies. When there’s nobody else to put a lock on our door or limit our freedom or chain our hands and feet we are more than glad to do it ourselves. What is life anyway? What is this ‘way’ in which it is supposed to be lived? What is the point of it all? How to know what matters and what does not matter? Yesterday after church I talked to the Swedish assistant at the Norwegian church once again and she told me – among many, many other words of wisdom – to look for God every day. I understood what she meant instantly. I mean, I give thanks to God for everything in my life on a daily basis. But I stopped looking for God in my life several years ago. It has been ages since I ever saw ‘something’ in anything. I don’t think things happen for a certain reason anymore. It feels like I’ve removed a huge part of who I am, of what makes me me, what is so special about me, ever since I came to this country. Of course, this country is not to blame at all. It would’ve probably happened anywhere. Anywhere where I had decided to go to graduate school and officially become an adult. Comrades, I suck at being an adult. I spent Friday evening filing my taxes for the first time. That was about the most exciting thing that happened to me that evening. There was certainly no God present when I clicked ‘enter’ and did my duty as a citizen. Can God be found every day? If you believe that God knows you better than you know yourself, and that God can send you things that you didn’t even know you needed, then perhaps God hides Himself in all those little moments of clarity that we have every day. Today during work hours I went outside for a while to have some sun [gotta get some vitamin D] together with my Critical Companion and as we were sitting and talking – about taxes as a matter of fact – Sartre walks up to us. He’s looking awfully pleasant, as always. My Critical Companion excused herself and so Berkeley’s very own de Beauvoir and Sartre were left alone sitting on some sun-drenched steps. We hadn’t seen each other for a while – except for those times when we ran into each running up in the hills last week and he made awkward compliments and I was so out of it and really we were too tired and too sweaty to make much sense of the situation at hand anyway – and so I filled him in on what’s been going on with me. I told him about the story with the guy that I liked, who I thought had asked me out on a date, but that hadn’t really been the case, and how this same guy hasn’t been treating me very kindly lately and that his behavior hurts me especially since I thought he was a good man but it turns out he’s a douchebag just like everyone else. Sartre didn’t want to hear me mope about, though, and went right to the core issues. We spent almost two hours walking around campus together, as he discussed his ‘mommy-issues’ and I gave him my opinion and I discussed my ‘daddy-issues’ and he gave me his opinion, and then he said to me: “You’re a gorgeous woman. I believe you can have any man you want. But I don’t think you believe it. And that’s why you keep going after men who are immature and insecure, men who will only reject you in the end because they are incapable of giving you what you need, and yet you crave it, demand it, search for it, long for it. And ask all the wrong men for it. In a world of 6 billion people you only go after men like your father”. Now I’m not sure that this is exactly what it is like, but this wasn’t everything that Sartre said for he said much, much, much more as two hours is plenty of time to share thoughts in the sun on the Berkeley campus. He challenges me. He is not the kind of man a woman can build her castle on. But he will appreciate you. He listens to me. He asks me questions. He waits for me to finish my thoughts. He always appears when I need him the most. I really needed him to turn up today. I hadn’t really thought of him, but last week when I saw him out running my first thought when I saw him was “God, it would be good to be fucked” and I’m not ashamed of that thought, not even the least. Every day I wake up and I think to myself that this is it, now it is over, now I am done, today is happiness, and yet that is never the case. Every day I wake up and every day is a struggle. I wish I could say something else. I wish there was something more. I don’t know. Maybe it just takes time. Maybe I did really like that guy. Maybe I can’t simply bounce back like that. Maybe he’s right. Maybe it just hurts too much right now. Maybe I can’t get over him like that. Maybe everything is much, much, much more complicated than we’d like to believe. Maybe I need something else. Maybe I’ve dug my own grave. Maybe I don’t know who I am. Maybe I only know where I have been. Maybe I don’t know who I want to be when I grow up. I’m not good at growing up. I think that growing up means paying rent, paying taxes, shopping for groceries, getting married, having children and making a career for yourself but I have never thought that to be an adult is not certain things that you do but a mental state of mind. One needs to be mentally an adult. Mentally I don’t think I am an adult. I have no real opinions. I don’t know what to vote for in elections. I don’t know what kind of society I want. I don’t have time to dream anymore. I don’t think further because I’ve thought ahead of time before and it got me here and here I don’t know where I am and what I am doing and this year I will sit down with some hippies in People’s Park and I will ask them if I can share a joint with them.

С новым бантиком

I like to wear bows, in my hair or on my head.

Photographed in Berkeley on February 21st 2011.

When one is in one’s seventh year of receiving academic training at a university, one must stop kidding oneself. When one finds oneself pursuing one’s second master’s degree, it is time to confess that this is not education anymore. The past couple of months – as a matter of fact, ever since first coming here – have been for me a tumultuous time of recognizing decisions as well as sacrifices made previously. For a long time, I wasn’t sure that I had what it takes to excel as a graduate student. For a long time, I was stuck in a way of thinking that was either knocking in open doors or putting up blocks on open roads. For the longest time, I considered perfection the only thing worth striving for – unable to see that it is the mess that renders creativity, that one needs chaos as a contrast in order to recognize harmony. Last Sunday after church I broke my promise to make this February my “Buy Nothing Month” by sneaking into H&M in San Francisco just to ‘have a look’. Naturally, a girl like me never leaves H&M having just had a ‘look’. I found a delightful new bow [see picture above], and a lovely flowing, long red skirt. But as I was trying out the skirt in question, I realized with a look of horror on my face that the size 6 was too narrow in the waist for me. I contemplated the dreadful situation at hand. What to do? What is this, anyway? I’ve never worked out more on this side of 20, and yet I’m not a size 6 anymore? It was a great disaster, comrades, if there ever was one in my American life so far. Forced to ask for a size 8 – which fitted me just right – I kept constantly thinking to myself for the next couple of days “a size 8 is not okay”. I can’t be a size 8; my world is largely constructed on the fact that I’m a size 6. It was a terrible situation. All of the sudden, I realized that this was the exact same reaction that I had to getting a B+ in January. Back then, I kept thinking to myself “a B is not okay”, and this I did for days, at length, until I finally understood that a B is really okay, and that I’m not finished as a scholar because I got a B+. And I’ll probably get lots of more Bs throughout my career as a graduate student. Just as likely is it that I will not be a size 6 for the rest of my life – no matter how perfect that would be. The time has come for acceptance of oneself just as one is. For the longest time, I tried to hide how serious I am about my work. I’m not hiding it anymore. It feels like I have opened up my eyes – be it on the fact that I have two articles to write for two important conferences this spring, one at Stanford in April and one in Moscow/Vologda in June – to a reality which needs my acceptance of it for it to accept me as well. Excelling in classes at graduate school, being a flawless size 6, constantly improving as a runner [though most of the time my knees hurt and I feel like I want to throw up], as well as trying to be a good friend to my awesome friends, figuring out my tax situation and running a household with cooking, cleaning, doing laundry and dishes is just a little bit more than one can handle.

Now let us add ‘conducting interesting scientific research’ to this long list of duties, and I think all of my comrades will understand that third time is indeed a ‘charm’ when it comes to relations with representatives of the opposite sex – plus, how does one give up what one does not have?

I’m okay.

“To Hesitate or Choose, that is the Question”

Linnéa J Lundblad’s second article this year in the Världens gång section of Göteborgs-Posten. Mother reacted to it in a private letter by way of two words and a smiley: “You slut J” It is perhaps not my finest work yet, but at least it gave my darling homegirl Annie a couple of laughs. I have to thank her for – as usually – scanning the article for me. And on an even brighter note, I’m close to solving my tax issues in Sweden and will thusly be getting a big nice paycheck soon.

Rockridge

It was a delightful Friday evening at Zachary’s pizza in Rockridge.

Tonight I and my Critical Companion went out for pizza in Rockridge, one of the neighborhoods in the East Bay where we are potentially relocating when moving in together this summer. The pizza was great indeed. Second time is not the proverbial ‘charm’, so to speak, but it seems like it’s already a habit for me and my Critical Companion: 1) I cultivate a crush on a man; 2) we go out [on a date and/or nondate]; 3) he tells me about this awesome pizza place – then 4) next week I take my Critical Companion there and we have a lovely time together. And the pizza was just as good this time around as it was at that place in Berkeley which we tried out in the fall – after my first infatuation in Berkeley crashed and burned infamously and disastrously. Tonight was a really nice evening, even though it rained and was sort of cold. After dinner I and my Critical Companion walked around in Rockridge under my pink umbrella to have a look at the place – while wearing our matching beige trench coats – and talking about what kind of stuff we need to get for our apartment and our future adult life together. I have a feeling this is going to be good. Our friendship is already very good.

The week that went past was also good; it was mainly filled with a variety of academic work as we had two talks at my department this week – one on Monday and one on Friday – and this semester I am one of the two people in charge of catering for such events. That means I have to go shopping for wine, cheese, crackers, hummus and snap peas the evening before and then organize everything pleasantly on a table about 30 minutes earlier than the talk. On Sunday evening I left the online dating site that I had joined on Saturday evening. In less than 24 hours I managed to get over 100 messages from single guys in the Bay Area. It was almost a little frightening to find out how easy it was. Though some of them might have been deranged – I didn’t even manage to get through half of all the messages, even less check out all of their profiles. I don’t think online dating is for me. At least in real life I’m saved by the fact that most guys don’t have the courage to go up and talk to me. On the internet – not so much. Any man can behave bravely on the interwebs. I think I’d rather spend my time on something else. On Sunday evening I was asked out on a spontaneous date by a kind and handsome man who shall remain unnamed and unknown – he heard about what happened to me last Friday evening when I thought I had been asked out by this guy that I liked but then it turned out that I hadn’t and thusly he wanted my weekend to end on a happy note as it had started on such a sad one. He took me out for tea and we talked until midnight; he decided that we would play this game where you ask each other questions and you can’t ask the same question twice. You have to answer honestly. You have to take your time with each answer. Think about it. You have to commit to the game, or else it all falls apart. We were both committed to the game. He asked me things like “If you had one week left to live, what would you do?” and “If you could spend a day with any person from history, alive or dead, who would it be?”. I asked him things like “If you win an Oscar and there’s a new rule at the Academy Awards and you can only thank three people, who would they be?” and “If you could be any nationality, which one would you be?” [And no, he was not allowed to pick his own.] On Monday evening he called me and asked me out for dinner but I said no.

Why? my comrades wonder. Simply: he didn’t know who Voltaire was. In my book, that’s a deal-breaker. Though it might seem like I’m neither firm nor stern about much in this life of ours, I do have one rule: every man gets only one shot. If he doesn’t get it the first time, there’s no try again. There are too many good men out there for a girl like me to allow retakes. There is simply no such time. And besides, this kind and handsome man was on a journey traveling the world and leaving Berkeley the next day. I do think I would’ve very much enjoyed having casual sex with him on Monday evening. But I didn’t really feel like it. And there was the thing about Voltaire; plus, I had a lot of reading for my folklore seminar the next day. So yes, I guess we could say that I had other priorities on Monday evening.

It is probably silly, but after all of this – last Friday’s awkward trip to the movies, Saturday’s assertion of my appeal as a woman, Sunday’s chance tea consultation, Monday being ‘Singles Awareness Day’ – I feel blessed to be where and who I am right now. On Monday morning I woke up and decided that from now on I will look myself in the mirror every day and say the three magic words to myself: “I am single”. After a bit of soul searching – an ongoing project I’ve been working on since approximately the time my birth – I’ve come to the conclusion that I never wanted a man anyway. What I wanted was the social status that comes along with having a man with whom one is in a committed relationship. Men are big, hairy and they smell. And I always cheat on them.

And that’s enough oversharing with the world for tonight.

Born This Way

Meet your local ‘church hostess’ – kyrkvärdinna as it is called in my native language – at the Swedish Church in San Francisco on her first Sunday of duty, the 13th of February 2011. Do note Alcatraz in the background.

When I’m not dedicating my life to the study of Russian literature or cultivating crushes – and boring my comrades ‘to tears’, as one of them remarked in a comment to yesterday’s post, by sharing intimate details from the struggle to hook up with my soul mate in the Bay Area – I’m getting more and more active in church. A couple of weeks back I voiced a wish to the Swedish assistant at the Norwegian Church [she’s such a lovely, such a wonderful woman!] that I’d like for church to become a larger part of my life, and I more involved in it as well. Last week she asked me if I’d like to become ‘church hostess’ – light candles, greet people when they arrive, hand them psalm books, etc. – when there’s Swedish service at the church once a month here in San Francisco. Of course, I said yes! Today was my first Sunday ‘on duty’, so to speak. I had to be there earlier than usual, about 30 minutes. I think I did a good job, even though I was very nervous when collecting the offertory. Before the service I was introduced to the congregation by the priest and got to say a few words about myself and what I’m doing in the USA. Then I rang the bells for the first time! Afterwards one woman walked up to me and said “I didn’t know they let teenagers go to graduate school these days”, which was a very nice compliment. I know I look younger than I am – sometimes, that is – but I don’t think I look that young. Another kind person said “you’re the sexiest church hostess we’ve had” – don’t know how to feel about that one, really… Praise be the Lord? Anyway, today was a pleasant day at church and I was received with great warmth and kindness by the congregation.

This morning I woke up at 7 am and the first thing I did was laughed. What does that mean? That I have finally tipped over the edge and can now be declared mentally insane? No. It means that joy has returned! All the way to church this morning I listened to Lady GaGa’s new single “Born This Way” on repeat and could not stop smiling. I’m not sure why. All of the sudden I found myself boundlessly happy. And it is an awesome song, comrades. Plus late last night I poured myself a glass of wine, joined OkCupid and spent a total of ten minutes on creating a funny profile. What’s the goal? To find my soul mate? Nah. This time the goal is to find a cute, single guy within 5 miles of me to grab coffee with next week. Nothing else, nothing more, just coffee with someone from the neighborhood. According to OkCupid, my neighborhood is simply crawling with cute, single guys.

I know – American Josefina is boring. I guess all of this proves my initial theory that I don’t – please, don’t hold it against me – like this country at all. I’m not happy here. I’m not unhappy here, either, but Russia is my love and I loved my life there. Russian Josefina was fun because she was immersed in a land to which she was tied emotionally, spiritually, intellectually. Here I don’t really know what to do with myself and my time but be studious, attend church regularly and think too much about boys. I left a part of myself in Russia that I cannot access here. Here I don’t have to wash my clothes by hand in the shower every Saturday afternoon after disinfecting the floors. Here I can eat all the hummus I want. And run in sunshine every single day. Yet lacking all of that never bothered me. I miss Russia; and I miss the Russian me as well.

Litteraturen, löpningen och livet

…and among alternatives to the title of my future autobiography: “Read, Run, Pray” [basically same concept as blog title], “East of Sweden” [focus on the Russian side of my existence], “And Others” [men known & blown as focalization point], and – just for the hell of it – “The Bad Christian Girl’s Guide to More Jesus, Thriving in Academia & Awesome Sex”.

Plus literature and running and life.

Joey's First Super Bowl

A panorama of us watching the Super Bowl – accompanied by silly quantities of chips & home-made salsa – this afternoon. As you can tell, I’m excited to take part in yet another staple of American tradition.

Депрессняк, как и все, со временем пройдет

That morning, on the 2nd of February – yet another beautiful day in Berkeley, – she woke up and said to herself: “If my lilsister’s gonna get her gift in the mail before her b’day on the 15th, I gotta buy it & mail it… today!” And that’s when yours truly scrambled up and down Telegraph Avenue in hunt for proof of sisterly love. Did she find it? We’ll find out, won’t we, dear comrades?

What is the best part of having hit rock bottom? That afterwards there is no direction but up. And for some reason – perhaps this is the human mind at work – you always remember the moment when things slowly started to turn around; for me it was yesterday. Yesterday [Wednesday] was one crazy day – I managed to get to class in the morning at 8 am, then do some work for class, then hunt for presents for my sister out on the town, then mail this as a package, then go grocery shopping, then go to a lecture with the rest of ‘team Kuzmin’ about a movie that is referenced in Kuzmin’s «Форель разбивает лед» and also see the movie after the lecture, then come home, change and go running, then come home again, take a shower, cook dinner, then say my daily prayer, and eat, and then finally watch “The Biggest Loser” – all of this before 9 pm and that’s when I realized that I hadn’t managed to get all of my reading done for class today [Thursday]. Yet, in the midst of all of these actions – and, quite possible, because of all of this, – it occurred to me that I was slowly regaining a sense of direction in life.

Generally speaking, this week has been good to me. It has been intense. But so is almost all of my life, and – why not? – everybody else’s lives as well. Church on Sunday was even more intense than usual – and all the better for it, of course! – for after the service we danced Norwegian folk dance together and even worked up a sweat. Yeah, my church is much cooler than your church. On Monday I decided to take the entire day off and spend it with only myself; I slept in [partly due to having stayed up late on Sunday night finishing my new article which will be published in Göteborgs-Posten on the 12th of February] and then remained in bed reading “Anna Karenina” the whole day. I nibbled on chocolate chip cookies while consuming almost 200 pages of the novel. It was bliss, comrades. I didn’t do anything else. I didn’t talk to anyone. It was just me and a great work of Russian literature – as well as a reasonable amount of American pastries. On Tuesday when turning up in the department again, I told my Critical Companion – who as my side-kick is intimately aware of as well as engaged in all matters concerning my personal life – that reading Tolstoy has a calming effect on my sometimes-though-not-always raging hormones, for “A cold shower ain’t got nothing on Tolstoy”, as I put it.