Yeah it is a thing about the rest...

Yeah it is a thing about the rest…

That´s the thing about this city...that it´s a bang-bang place, that we all have come to look upon in a sexy way. It is more of a place, I guess. A way of living that we have come at pace with. It is a genuine thing having this Smolandic centre of all green woods and meadows around us, out there somewhere. The centre of the southern Sweden. A university with a famous name. Students swarming around, filling the museum to the brim. Meeting at coffee-houses over a talkative discussion about the last second, or the minute that simply just passed by. Like a faster time that crash into our Vaxjo mind with a blow. Nothing really stops. And the Big Street with few pavement-walkers. As a matter of fact they turned the Big Street into a walking space. Shops and bars and restaurants. Selling fashion of latest sort. You could never imagine that most of them come from farmers. The people now living here, I mean. That´s what they were once. And now?

One silly afternoon I went all alone to Askelyckan, the coffe-house, you know. A big spot among the political authorities, not far off. A big newly built palace, that has to take care of the community´s affairs. Conservative one can tell. At Askelyckan I overheard a conversation. Two Americans was talking about the book ´Stoner`. Interesting chat if you ask me. It gave a room for the farmers that dwell around our parish. Myself I am of a soldier´s stock.

But the atmosphere of my city boast itself to every visitor. It boast and brag about financial credits. And boasts about people that have come here because of political reasons. A mixture of all sorts of country-fellow-citizens. All over the place. Bricks, concrete, glass, a splendour when the sun hits the windows with this glowing bang-bang. It is so modern you could think it has no more to tell. It grasp the last news with an eager smile, the smile of my city.

Yes, it´s true. I have lived here almost my entire life. Just the other day, sitting on the bus I felt a love and a wonder. I belong here, I said with a calm peace in my heart. The parks, the silence. Houses climbing above the trees limits. Like no limit can rape her, this Vaxjo. She stands tall, no matter what.

If you by chance come here for a holiday you must figure out why so many left her in the 1800s. Poor. Hungry. Perhaps almost starving. Today she is prospering, although the evil surroundings. The hospital is calm. The doctors and nurses try their best to give Vaxjo a go.

And just the other day my youngest sister said: It is the way it is. People come and people go. Some stay alive for a while. Others die just like that. Even in this remote place.

It´s pragmatic of course, as Swedish people are. But I hope to stay here for yet some time. Among concrete and glass windows catching the sun, that creates a huge scenery above us all. It´s the thing about this place, a place somewhere in the world. Guess where!

No, I am not finished. We have the bishop´s mansion. Yellow wooden home. A famous poet has lived there. Esaias Tegnér, translated by Longfellow into English. We also have had a Nobel prize winner in my city, Pär Lagerkvist. Smolandic stubborn, fear fear that scratch the sky with foam. The yell of his poem still haunts us.

The railway station, now too old to be concidered. So they built a new one. Nagging about the cost, too high a taxes. But the workaholic people prosper, in a circular sphere of on-going work and work again. So many people with no home of their own. The buildings rush into our city with a runaway speed, up comes a new house each and every month. Still we need more and more houses. But they say that the blacks from Africa live crammed in two rooms and a kitchen, ten children and parents. They need home. They need jobs. We have to come up with another dimension. Another economy bang-bang. Another speed is swallowing the bypassers in every street, on every pavement. Or do they call it sidewalk in America? Pavements.

They have a big cinema place, though not many films have been running lately. It is by the Ox square, near the Police. I know two policemen. One tells me she wish to help people with their problems. Word is against word if - or not the police force is doing a great job. But of course there are prejudices on both sides.

Did I say of soldier´s stock? True. The farming surroundings in this very county has a tone that at times is foreign to me. Hard working Smolandic county, the Vaxjo in the middle of – as we brag about….It is called the greenest place in Europe. As I said: politicians have to sell her. In Europe? Green is slander and gossip all around. Like we pretend to live in a proper way. Proper habits, while the wars are out there, just not around here, if you see what I mean.

And our Smolandig Morning Paper is cute. Normal. About normal habits, like we have a pace of our own. Silences that can be heard. Numb something. Like a song from the well outside Vaxjo. A folkloristic song, so typical of my place. Each forest has its deep water, from the remote side of the city. Oh that Sandsbro is a dear kind of soil. A famous singer lived there once. Kristina Nilsson, known throughout the world a time ago.

We have Öjaby, with big houses and rich, wealthy people. But at my place, Araby, it is a spot they hate. They love to talk about us. But the theatre has been running a documentary drama about Araby. Down town – over there, you know!

We are a famous school city. Heaven knows why. It is far away from the Stockholm area. When people come from our head city, they say we do sound like farmers from the past. Very seldom they run programs on TV with our dialect. Not difficult to understand, just not that high brow.

Anyhow. In my youth we never talked class problems. But today my Araby is on the map in papers. Can´t really say why. As we are the nicest spot in the whole of Vaxjo. Or perhaps I should give it a Swedish spelling at last: VÄXJÖ...a city boasting fame. Heaven knows why...