Ok. I’ve had some time to think, and decided to do this – dead or alive, Octavio Paz might appear one day. I live in Malmö, Sweden, and I know for a fact that Octvio Paz has been here – the picture I have of him in this blog was taken in Malmö (by whom I do not know). So his soul is likely to linger on. Or rather, part of his presence, his once-awereness of this space, in a different time, is likely to still be here. Some might call it the memory of him. Remembering him, is remembering a moment that he himself would be able to keep in his own memory, were he alive. A micro-particle of awareness, maybe originating in the awareness of the street where the picture was taken. 

So what I have to do is lure him into my presence. I will have to make myself known. Where can we meet? Well, I now live in a rented room where I since some days have my own sofa, once made by Danish craftsmen, probably bought by my grandmother¹, handed on to my father², used for some years, stored for some more and finally brought here with the help of a lovely couple³ who were friends of my mother’s⁴, when she was alive. I have, now, a sofa. Which means, I wouldn’t have to be so indiscreet as to invite him to sit on my bed or as rude as to make him sit on the floor, but actually on a sofa, and have a cup of tea. I imagine him here. He’s a traveller. Travellers sometimes end up in the most unexpected places. But how to get to this? I know! – I like poetry - we’ve got something in common. 

Ok. He knows Malmö and he likes poetry. I have a book I could show him, that he might like – or rather, find interesting. We could read it and share the ideas of the book, discovering and creating common ground. So which book would I show him? Many, I suppose – I’ve got heaps of them, now also in my room. The first one would be Todo es uno* – 54 numbered pages of which the last words are “Paz! Paz! Paz!” Ha! Better than that, impossible! (¡Mejor, imposible!) (And I´m sorry to be spoiling it by reveiling the ending!) Oh – that would be the direct translation into Spanish of the ending of many stotras, songs or recitations in classic litterature from the Indian subcontinent, “shanti, shanti shanthi”. I bought this book in Barcelona on the recommendation of my then psychoanalyst, a woman from Venezuela with some strong connections to Mexico⁵. And, to India: beside her, on a table by the chair in her consultation room, she had a statue of Shiva, dancing⁶, surrounded by the circle of flames that symbolise the limits or the whole of the universe. On the cover of the small book, which in original language is named Ellam Onru, is the picture of a statue of the same Hindu god, the dancing Shiva, and it has the new moon on the top left side of his head. 

I once celebrated Shivaratri in India. So did Octavio Paz – he must have, having been an official representative for his native country Mexico in India, working there as diplomat and ambassador for many years. Shivaratri – the feast of the new moon on the longest an darkest night of the year. The night of Shiva. Me, I lived it once three years ago. Octavio Paz, some longer time ago. I imagine we must have heard similar songs. And so, connecting to our common experierience as travellers, we would easily agree on the interest of the text of the small book I would show him in my sofa in my room in Malmö. Maybe we would find the original text – he might have it in his pocket, or know it by heart. We could check out the turns the text takes in the Spanish translation. But I would be lost and, finally, bored, because I know nothing of Tamil language, and only a very little bit of Sanskrit. Maybe, he would teach me. We could laugh at the way the Spanish language sounds in translation and suggest different words, more accurate or more absurd. If he had it memorised I wouldn´t let him go until he had recited the whole thing and I, following. Then we would have to drink a lot of tea, because the reciting of long texts dries the throat. Or maybe, I would invite him to drink some water. And I would drink some myself. Tapwater in Malmö is fine to drink. After, we would rest a little and then go for a walk. I would show him a plant in a park. Maybe get some sweet marcipan-and-cardamom-whipped-cream-filled wheat buns called semla, typical in Sweden of this time of the year, and we could go back to  my place and eat them, drinking some more tea, sitting in my sofa.  

 And - I mustn't forget - we could switch on the ligh in the ceiling, thanks to my landlord Martin Jeppsson, who recently installed a new lamp.  

NOTES:

·        * Todo es uno – Texto tamil anónimo del siglo XIX sobre el Advaita Vedanta, Ed. Los pequeños libros de la sabiduría, Barcelona, 2001. 

Name-dropping: 1. Ingeborg Hougaard; 2. Kjeld Hougaard; 3. Jim Bankhead and Marie Torstensdotter; 4. Christina Hougaard; 5. Hortensia Carrer; 6. Nataraja. And, of course, number one on this list, my grandmother, needed someone to make number two, my father, appear – she did so together with her husband, my grandfather, Sören Christian Hougaard (and I suppose they bought the sofa togeher, too). He will be number 7 in this list of rememberance and thanks. Peace.