I step out into darkness and cold,

leave the car in the hospital's endless staff parking lot

and walk, too thinly dressed, up to the main entrance,

joining other sparsely seated sitters,

pull out ”On the Calculation of Volume, Volume II”,

and commence reading the continuation of Solvej Balle's septology,

which somewhat resembles Marlen Haushofer's ”The Wall”,

which deals with geographical, spatial confinement,

while Balle's work describes confinement in time;

a single day recurring;

the eighteenth of November

I'm on my way to get COVID & seasonal flu vaccinations

at Hertsön Health Center in Luleå,

having accompanied Anna to her workplace,

Sunderby Hospital,

where I sit, waiting out the time,

so I can return out to the car in the parking lot

and make my way to the vaccination center in good time

before the agreed-upon time, 10:25 AM,

along a road I've never traveled;

always stressful,

but I've studied maps, counted roundabouts

and intersections on Google Earth;

the sun rises at 9:41 AM

and I give myself plenty of time

and ground myself with coffee in the hospital cafeteria

I hear voices far away at the entrance of the dining hall,

into which I've moved myself

with a cup of coffee and a saffron bun;

voices indicating that life continues,

albeit in a folksy simplicity

I am 74, soon 75,

and sometimes I feel that way,

but not often

This desolate, early dining hall, empty except for myself,

where I sit in the farthest corner I could find,

fits well with my reading of ”On the Calculation of Volume”;

that same empty, anonymous, zombie-like consciousness,

proceeding in spacious unawareness,

exploding in sudden blaring voices;

cleaning staff, delivery personnel, kitchen staff clattering,

faucet running, the clink of dishes being stacked

It's improbable and unlikely

that I sit in a hospital dining hall in Northbothnia,

soon to set off with a Japanese 4-wheel-drive

to get vaccinated against diseases posing threats

to the elderly

as soon as the sun has risen,

without anyone, not even myself, making a fuss

The splintering voices out of the distant reaches of the dining hall

are like Christmas ornaments; glitter, sparklers

It's the 12th of December in a world full of snow

and long nights

and days that only take a few hesitant steps

The empty, unoccupied dining tables

make a graphic score of silence;

the kitchen staff's sounds are insects

and fragmented thoughts

I sit in momentary meditation,

in an awareness without clear causality;

the body an overview and a hesitancy;

the upcoming day hidden beneath the horizon

until well into the morning,

myself hiding within myself as long as possible

---

At Biltema's café at Storheden Marketplace,

where I sit newly vaccinated,

continuing reading ”On the Calculation of Volume”

there are crowds of elderly people

in a kind of retrospective on life; gray-bent summaries,

their sepulcher vocal echoes resounding

in the large hall like fading memories;

life's bit by bit motions, word by word,

coffee and a refill for five kronor, vocal cords playing

the moment's stacked unconsciousness

Biltema is an oasis for old farts

like me;

inexpensive coffee and spacious toilets

---

Later, I'm back in the Sunderby dining hall / cafeteria

A little girl laughs, jokes that I'm Santa,

with my long braided beard,

and makes wishes for a snow shoveling robot

as I reclaim my far away corner,

again diving into ”On the Calculation of Volume”,

while simultaneously noticing how the little girl's parents

and grandparents take turns reading a fairytale,

and conversing like the immediate family converses

Anna, in her white physiotherapy dress,

with title and name badges attached to her blouse,

comes to visit me in the cafeteria for a while,

so sexy in her uniform!

During most of my visits to Sunderby Hospital,

time decides, takes care of itself, without consideration

The hours lay themselves like heavy tarps over the events,

or sometimes like light fog over the archipelagos

Nothing happens, I'm tiering in the world of people,

while death stands drained & blear eyed,

everything appearing playful

Most bodies I see in the cafeteria, at the hospital entrance

or in the airy atrium,

have various flaws; are too fat, too old, too ugly:

The hospital could be Dante's Purgatory,

or a hellish painting by Hieronymus Bosch

The few well-balanced ones move like angels,

National Guards

or knights

through the suffering

The time is 14:10 PM and much remains

Reality broadcasts in stereo in here:

To the left, two chatty ladies

sounding like corn crakes (Crex crex)

in cold, damp nature morns;

to the right a fat man pulling out his chair that squeaks harshly,

while in the midst of the sound space a delicious well-rounded

middle-aged lady,

with whom I fantasize a juicy, splashy intercourse

in a hospital restroom, dwells,

while the cock requires more space inside my pants

and time flies