A low but sharp winter sun shines over the Skåne’s plains rushing past as I sit in first class on SJ’s express train to Gothenburg, where we’ll be celebrating Christmas once again this year.
I’m nibbling on gingerbread cookies and sipping Kung Markatta’s Breakfast Tea as we’ve just left Helsingborg, where my travel companion was supposed to join me. Two seats for the price of one.

Regardless of the mode of transport, I rarely travel first class – but it turned out that a first-class ticket with SJ was cheaper than other options for this route so close to Christmas Eve.
The first-class ticket, which cost a reasonable 545 SEK, included access to SJ’s “Lounge,” where a small but delightful Christmas buffet was laid out.

In the lounge, I met a shivering family from Singapore who seemed torn about whether they should dare to try the pickled herring, rice pudding, or the slightly sweaty sliced ham. The brave daughter led the way and tried everything.
All my Christmas gifts for the family are safely packed in my backpack, and I don’t have to worry about the presents getting wrinkled. They were, after all, already wrinkled before I packed them.
I’ve managed to crack the “code” for quite a few things in life; some came naturally, while others I had to work hard for. Gift wrapping, however, is definitely not one of the things I’ve cracked the code for.
The results of my efforts to wrap beautiful Christmas presents are the diametrical opposite of origami.

But it’s what’s inside that counts, right? After all, it takes time to ponder, narrow down, and shop for gifts. Grandma Agnes, however, would not have been entirely pleased with me. She always saved the wrapping paper, and I can still hear her say, when all the Christmas gifts had been unwrapped by the families Andersson, Raboff, Starrsjö, and Felten: “It’s such a shame to throw away so much beautiful paper.”

In the basement on Örtagårdsvägen in Trollhättan, there was a cupboard filled with old wrapping paper.

I suspect Grandpa Eskil used some of her saved wrapping paper when the old boiler went out.
If we didn’t notice that the house was getting cold quickly enough, Grandpa’s hunting companion, the beagle Ingo (who by the end smelled so bad he had to sleep in the boiler room), would bark promptly to let everyone know he was freezing.

The train just passed Vejbystrand, and, as usual, it felt a bit melancholic. But Gothenburg will be all the more pleasant with just the right dose of happy reunions, indulgences, and hopefully some rest at Draken.

Wishing everyone a MERRY CHRISTMAS (now from somewhere just north of Halmstad).

In late spring, southeastern Sweden’s Österlen region is famous for its rolling fields of golden-yellow canola flowers. These fields are nothing short of mesmerizing, their rhythmic sway in the breeze creating a hypnotic, almost otherworldly allure. A few years ago, while photographing in Österlen, I stumbled upon this perfectly spherical dried dandelion, its seeds still attached to their delicate parachutes, poised to launch into the wind.

I had intended to focus solely on the vibrantly blooming canola flowers, but as usual, my wandering mind had other plans. I’ll admit, I’m easily distracted – a trait that’s both a blessing and a curse. It’s probably a form of ADD; I prefer to think of it as an ongoing battle between focus and fascination. When I’m out in nature, especially in a place as striking as Österlen, my senses go into overdrive. Every hill, every shadow, every shift in light demands my attention. The world becomes a chaotic symphony, and I’m the conductor struggling to stay on tempo.

But maybe that’s the magic of being an artist – allowing these moments of distraction to transform into something meaningful.

As I knelt to frame the dandelion, the chaos receded. Its intricate design absorbed me completely, and suddenly, the canola field became the backdrop rather than the subject.

Perhaps the distractions are the story. They pull me off my conscious path, guiding me toward new discoveries. Maybe they’re a covert means of giving me distance from what I’m “supposed” to focus on, so when I return, I see it with fresh eyes – and make it better.

I haven’t been painting in a while. Might even be a year since I last picked up a brush to use it to create something new. I have all the time and material needed to paint new paintings, yet my book projects keep pulling me away from the easel that stands not more than two meters from my workstation’s seductively bright screen. Not having a venue where I can show my work might be part of why I don’t prioritize painting right now.

The ironic thing with that is that after having had a show at least once a year for about a decade, I now have some kind of exhibit fatigue. Putting together even a small exhibition is a lot of work. So for the foreseeable future, I will continue to write and produce new books and hopefully spend more time developing my “Enigmative” series of abstract photography. Like the one above, titled, “Enigmative 022”.

Stumbled across this coffee cup just now. I captured it at a hotel in Cyprus sometime in May 2023. I’ve been on a coffee break for about two months now. Instead of coffee, I’m drinking hot water mixed with half a teaspoon of ground organic ginger. Once a day I’ll splurge and add a teaspoon of maple syrup. It’s really delicious. Maybe I should try mixing in some rum…

The only time I miss coffee is when I smell freshly ground beans. That said, I think the smell of ground coffee beans is somewhat deceiving insofar as it far outdoes the taste. That’s the way our noses are constructed, I suppose. They need to give us such an invitingly strong sensory experience that we are prepared to open our mouths, wiggle our tongues, and even use our teeth (if required) to enjoy something that smells so intriguing.

Not sure when I’ll start drinking coffee again, but I know I will.

#thenoseknows  #breakhabits #takeabreak #coffeebeans #baristadaily  #baritaliamalmö #baristalife #coffeeshort  #coffebreak☕️ #coffeetime #sensoryexperience #cyprus

I realized the other day that I needed to add another project to my ever-growing list of book ideas – a book about abandoned places. I’ve been fascinated by these forsaken sites for a long time. Like many artists, I’ve been drawn to the haunting beauty of spaces that, for mostly unknowable reasons, have been deserted and left to decay.

I’m intrigued by the interplay of time and neglect that transforms these places, once alive with human activity, into poignant, gritty reminders of life’s impermanence. When the idea struck, I began to envision what such a book might look like – the themes it might explore, what stories it might tell, and, of course, what images I would want to include. Turns out that my archive was brimming with photographs of abandoned places captured during travels to the US, Asia, Africa, and Europe. Take, for instance, the image above from the outskirts of Lisbon, Portugal – a desolate structure slowly succumbing to the elements.

But why am I so entranced by these places?

If you ask me, right now, a good quality tequila beats any kind of bourbon I’ve tried. Given that my bourbon experience is limited – especially here in Sweden where the government’s monopoly and import taxes shrink the range of available brands to try.

The conundrum with tequila is that most people, myself included up until recently, have rarely had anything but the horrible stuff that smells like recycled jet fuel and tastes what you’d imagine drinking rat poison would be like. I’m talking about cheap brands like Cuervo or Sierra, both of which I used to mix drinks with back in the 1980s when I was freelancing as a bartender.

Come to think of it, have I ever been anything other than a freelancer?

A few months ago, I stumbled upon Tosco Tequila Reposado at our local liquor store. I don’t remember why I picked it up, but it might have been because we were planning a Mexican dinner and I just refused to buy the bottom-shelf stuff again.

In 2022, just before heading to LAX for my return flight to Europe, my brother Nick took me to one of those wholesale liquor stores with every imaginable kind of alcoholic beverage. They had about 50 different tequilas, and the one I brought back to Sweden was so incredibly smooth and delicious that it completely redefined my idea of how tequila should smell and taste. Unfortunately, I don’t remember the brand, but I’m sure it’s not available here.

Anyway, Tosco Tequila Reposado has turned out to be pretty close to what I bought in Los Angeles. It’s produced in the Mexican state of Jalisco where the town of Tequila is located and according to the description, it has a fruity yet spicy flavor with notes of oak, yellow pears, almonds, straw, honey, white pepper, herbs, citrus, and vanilla. I can’t speak to all of those wonderfully sounding scents and flavors, but I can certainly pick out the aroma and taste of vanilla.

As far back as I can remember, I’ve always been a sucker for almost anything that smells or tastes like vanilla.

A study I read somewhere recently, proclaimed that tequila is one of the least processed spirits. It’s not exactly “pure,” but supposedly, it goes through fewer processing steps and flavoring treatments during its transformation from agave plant to bottled beverage – at least when compared with bourbon, gin, and rum. In any case, Tosco is currently my preferred aperitif – and avec.

I created the above composition using a single, albeit lengthy, prompt on ChatGPT 4.0.

Last night I experienced my first MRI (Magnetic Resonance Imaging), an interesting milestone in the journey to grasp why the persistent sciatica pain has been plaguing me for nearly two months.

For the uninitiated, an MRI is like a giant camera that uses powerful magnets and radio waves to create detailed images of the body. It’s an ingenious piece of tech that essentially maps out internal structures by analyzing how the body’s molecules respond to magnetic fields. In my case, it was a deep dive into the anatomy of my spine to locate the root cause of the nerve trouble.

The scan required me to stay completely still while the machine did its noisy work, clanging and beeping like something you’d hear inside a 1950s sci-fi spaceship. Surprisingly, I managed to keep perfectly still throughout the scan, which I wasn’t entirely confident about being able to pull off when I first lay down on the machine’s white sled. The young technician operating the MRI was forthcoming and soft-spoken, his demeanor helped settle any trepidation I might have had when the sled slid into the imaging tunnel.

I was provided with giant headphones that played muzak – bland elevator tunes – and the technician kept a watchful eye on me through a monitor in the clinic’s control room to ensure I wasn’t inadvertently fidgeting, as this would have blurred the images. Of course, lying there for an extended period, about 16 minutes, gave my mind time to wander. Toward the very end of the scan, I started having obsessive thoughts about sneezing or coughing or having some muscle twitch involuntarily.

Fortunately, none of this happened, and I made it through without disrupting the imaging process.

For those unfamiliar, the sciatic nerve is the body’s largest nerve, running from the lower spine like the root of a tree through the buttocks and down each leg. The sciatic nerve is responsible for much of the sensation and movement we have in the lower body. When unnaturally compressed, it becomes inflamed and can cause anything from mild tingling to severe, shooting/radiating pain – a condition aptly named sciatica and with symptoms I have become all too familiar with.

In the meantime, I’m preparing for today’s cortisone injection, delivered directly into the right buttock. This targeted anti-inflammatory treatment aims to calm the nerve at its source and hopefully provide some much-needed relief.

If nothing else, this ordeal has humbled me insofar that I realize now how fragile my body has become with age and that it isn’t bouncing back or self-healing as it once did. I suppose this is to be expected and I believe I touched on this very topic in my book, The Aging Man’s Survival Guide.

Our daughter Elle wished me a happy Swedish Father’s Day a few hours ago. It warmed my heart, of course.

But for me, as someone who never had a present father, Father’s Day is also a somewhat painful reminder of how utterly my father failed in that role, and perhaps that, in turn, this explains some of my own shortcomings as a father. But not just for me – but also for all the children from three of his four marriages.

My father’s name was Ernest, and his father’s name was William, but he was called Bill. I know I met Grandpa Bill when I was a little boy, but I have absolutely no memories of him.

However, I’ve heard fow tough Bill was, from several people especially towards his three sons: Ernest, Albert, and Aaron. He was particularly hard on my father, who, after his time in the US Army, chose to move to Sweden, write poetry, and learn about art.

After their divorce, my chronically bitter mother said that my father had become deeply disturbed by what he had seen and experienced while stationed as a journalist in France during World War II. That because he never dealt with what we now call post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) upon his return home, he was emotionally troubled and couldn’t function as part of a family.

It’s possible that’s how it was, and yes, that theory does help me a little when I try to understand why he left our family in 1969, just before I was about to turn 6 and my brother Tyko was 4 years old.

Even though it’s the most amazing and undoubtedly the most important thing I’ve ever done in my life, fatherhood hasn’t always been easy for me. Sure, I can blame some of my many flaws on the fact that I had two poor role models myself. And who hasn’t had complicated relationships with their parents?

But perhaps it becomes even more complicated for us guys when your father abandons the ship early on.

I remember how, as a young boy, I would feel envious of my friends and the relationships they had with their fathers. Especially when the dads seemed decent, and they looked like they were having fun together.

It was always tough to leave those moments because on the way home, I was reminded of the great void I had in my heart.

As I said, Father’s Day is complicated for me. But I wouldn’t be half the father I am to Elle if I hadn’t been lucky enough to meet wise and stable Charlotte. So, I’m more than happy to share this day with her.

The above photo was taken in the late 1920s along New Jersey’s Atlantic City Boardwalk (where the show Boardwalk Empire plays out). My father Ernest and his two brothers Albert and Aaron accompanied by their parents, my paternal grandparents, William and Jenny Raboff.

Today, I went on the longest walk I’ve managed in some six weeks – alas, modest victory, though not without the occasional throb and pang. Charlotte and I ambled quietly through “King’s Park,” a setting so splendidly colorful it seemed to dare me to feel more optimistic about the state of the world.

Now, as I distance myself from what any sane observer would surely call a colossal, even cataclysmic train wreck, I can’t help but reflect on certain American family members who have been happily onboard that train for some time. Others have more recently adopted a new level of isolationist and tribal zeal which is so profound that they’ve even dispensed with the family name altogether, as if cutting loose from shared history will somehow render them free from its ancient weight. Inevitable, I suppose. Genealogy aside, what did we ever truly have in common? Apparently, not enough to stir a desire for new shared chapters.

Ah, c’est la vie.