Sun cats that reflect in the room, like a dance. I stand there where they are dancing over my body, warm beams, here in the room, it is warm.
Rita and I, Bule Marsh in my head, like an image.
The beaches at the marsh: root ends winding around each other. But you see that only when the sand around them has washed away, which will happen in the time to come, gradually. When the sandy beach washes away, it wasn’t natural either, transported there. Heavy, thick roots, with large knots, which are hiding underneath, and in the reediness.
That image can’t really be explained. But it exists. Has an effect on you, always.
And we won’t become swimmers, Rita and I.
I drive home. I have been at exhibitions, looked at a few new objects in another part of the District. It is the month of November 2006, in the evening, late, maybe already night. There has been a fire at the Winter Garden, fire trucks pass me on the road. You don’t see much of the fire, it has already been put out. The darkness suddenly falls now and it’s only when I drive past Tobias’s old greenhouse on the side of the road that it hits me that it’s due to the fact that the lights from the Winter Garden aren’t on, the fire that has been neither large nor destructive seems to have taken out the lighting, goodness knows what it’s good for: the Winter Garden, I have never been there.
Light in the window of the house.
I come home. Johanna and Maj-Gun Maalamaa in the kitchen. We drink tea, and eat sandwiches, and then I tell them this.
JOHANNA, THE GLITTER SCENE, 2012
(OTHER SONGS)
PROJECT EARTH. ORPHEUS was going to his Eurydice. What had been lost. There in the underworld. The Winter Garden. Underworldly rooms. Which are burning, disappearing. No one was ever there. And yet: you were there the whole time.
I am Johanna, I’m growing up. The Winter Garden, on the Second Cape. Doesn’t exist, but does. For real. Was something else. Becomes something else, “SPA-ponderings,” further changes.
The old stories, tales aren’t there anymore. For example the story about the American girl, the American girl in a snow globe, the souvenir shop, it is fading. The story itself lives on in the District but is also fading. There is so much else after all, a lot of other things that are happening. There are other stories, more brutal ones, more terrible, violence, murder. Like what happened with Ulla Bäckström, for example, in November 2006. How she fell from the Glitter Scene, died.
For a while after, in school, in the entire District, the shock was intense. But later, almost more shocking, it passed. Rather quickly, faster than the American girl was ever forgotten. The Bäckströms moved away. New girls came, and new girls come, all the time, the theater the dance the music. But then I was no longer there. Came somewhere else. To the music, the stories. Yes, you could put it that way.
That was in any case when I got out all of the old stuff, my stories, the beginning of my Project Earth. The Winter Garden, what existed for real and in my head, all of my “material.” The Marsh Queen too, an eternal first chapter, where did the music start? What was left, in other words, still quite a bit, which I never tore up. And then I had so much of it in my head, of course.
And started writing a story about me and my cousin Robin whom I miss sometimes, he moved with Allison as said, I never heard from him. But a story about how we are children and left the house at the foot of the hill on the First Cape, and the Winter Garden reveals itself in front of us, an island in darkness, all the promises, beaming with light. A feeling that can exist only when you are young, a feeling you have never felt before: to there. Must go there.
The girl in the story grows up, but the same longing, the Winter Garden. And into the story comes a boy, his name is Glitter (!). He is the Marsh Queen’s son and returns in the story about a Project Earth, which you do together because you don’t want to do it alone. Because you already know that “lose an innocence, find a treasure,” it can truly be frightening, turn everything upside down. In the middle of the Winter Garden there is Kapu kai, the forbidden seas.
“Underworldly rooms, pictures on the walls, it happened at Bule Marsh, the truth about everything.” Ulla Bäckström who whispered all of that, on the field. White Ulla, red roses in a basket, the Flower Girl. Shimmering clips in her hair, in the light from the Winter Garden that became ever stronger in the dusk.
“Ille dille death,” she hummed, laughing, training her eyes on me, teasingly, I was so young. “I am Ylla of death.”
A memory that comes so strongly right then, forces everything else away, makes it impossible to say anything about the Winter Garden, that loss, that kind of longing, and everything else that belonged there, in general.
But stories, music. There are other stories, other music, the world is filled with stories, music. And I make my story about the Marsh Queen instead, the Marsh Queen and the punk music, the first and the second chapters and so on, to the end. In my way, with my language, but it is a true story of course, because the Marsh Queen, Sandra Wärn, is not a made-up person, she exists, existed. Death’s spell at a young age. How she sings that song, it is dreamlike, it is hard, it is unforgettable.
And it becomes a good story, and after that story other stories follow, other songs. But about the Winter Garden, Ulla Bäckström, I can’t say anything, it is too painful.
Though gradually that story, the one about the Marsh Queen, when it has been told, it fades away. A story among many others. Though everything continued, continued anyway, changes.
Like in reality, with reality, in the District, everywhere.
The Boundary Woods disappeared. A new Rosengård was built, number 6 or 7 in that order, family homes. Around Bule Marsh, which has been drained down to something that looks like a properly bred pool in the middle.
And the house in the darker part of the woods no longer exists either—where the Marsh Queen once lived: a little girl, Sandra Wärn, wrapped in silk fabric from which the Marsh Queen was born, like from a cocoon. The house sank deeper in the mud and was torn down. What remains, a stairway in the woods. A single stairway in the middle of nowhere. Cannot be seen from here because of all of the houses. But imagine it. A great staircase in a wood. Moss that is growing on it, weeds in the cracks, concrete decomposing.
Beautiful? Maybe. As I said I can’t see it, not from here. Where I am now, on the Glitter Scene, in what was once Ulla Bäckström’s room.
Alone here now, for a while, at the window where there no longer is a door. In this landscape, I don’t live here, I live somewhere else, I am in the music, my stories, I have everything, otherwise, another life.
But here in the house in Rosengården 2 with Solveig, one last time. I have been visiting Solveig, who still lives in the house at the foot of the hill on the First Cape and she has told me that she is going to sell what once, several years ago, was the Bäckströms’ house in Rosengården, for the new owners, and I have asked if I could come along.
The Glitter Scene. An empty room. Nothing up here. And what a space and all my dreams about what it was like here and would be like here. How I wanted to come, also here. Ulla Bäckström, Ulla with butterflies in her hair, Ulla in the corridors of school. And I who stood there and looked at her from off to the side, but she didn’t see me. Dark sad groupie. And when I occasionally happened to walk behind her in the hall she turned around and said and laughed so that everyone heard, “Don’t step on my shadow, Lille, turn around.”