Had lunch with my rheumatologist the other day. We break bread a couple of times a month and talk about the joy of writing and traveling, and about the increasingly chaotic state of the world.

Even though we’re sitting there at the Lebanese restaurant as two private individuals, he understandably can’t quite leave work behind. He always asks how I’m doing, whether the arthritis is behaving itself, and whether I need anything in addition to the disease-modifying medication I take daily, Rinvoq.

This time, we moved fairly quickly from my sick joints to the world’s even sicker leaders. While we enjoyed hummus, tabbouleh, crispy falafel, and sambousek, the doctor floated a theory about why human beings, despite having spent a few hundred thousand years on the planet, are still so terribly bad at learning from their mistakes. Especially when it comes to conflicts that almost always begin with two groups disagreeing and surprisingly often end with one of them bombing the other.

Not entirely unexpectedly, we got onto the subject of religion. As usual, we were in complete agreement that there can hardly be a single divine entity with exclusive rights to the truth. With a few thousand religions, sects, and genuinely twisted beliefs, such as Scientology, the randomness of it all becomes almost cosmically comical.

If you’re born in India, there’s a good chance Hinduism will seem perfectly natural. If you’re born in Brazil, there’s a considerably greater chance that you’ll be raised in a Catholic tradition where the Pope has a direct line to God. If you’re born in another part of the world, you get an entirely different explanation of our existence and what happens afterward.

The oldest versions are fairly elaborate fables that generation after generation have been fed since childhood and absorbed with their mother’s milk.

At the same time, the need to believe in something is perfectly understandable. Death, after all, is one of life’s few absolute certainties and at the same time its greatest mystery. You never know when the Grim Reaper will come knocking.

An old friend whom I hadn’t seen in a long time died a couple of weeks ago. His heart stopped in the middle of a workout at the gym. That’s how quickly the curtain can come down.

RIP Aadu Aruvald.

So the fact that religion can serve as a life preserver, a source of comfort or an insurance policy against the unknown makes perfect sense to both my extremely well-educated rheumatologist and a considerably simpler fellow like myself. The problem begins when you feel compelled to oppress, persecute, or kill someone who happens to have signed up for a different heavenly subscription.

Then we got to genetics.

The doctor’s lunchtime theory, greatly simplified, was that biologically speaking, human beings haven’t progressed very far compared with the world they themselves have built. His more provocative point was that genetically, we are still far too similar to our ancestors for our emotional reflexes to have caught up with technology. Technologically, development has moved at rocket speed. In what amounts to a historical instant, we have gone from stone tools to nuclear power, satellites, and artificial intelligence.

Collectively, Homo sapiens has been phenomenal at inventing things. Individual members of Homo sapiens are a completely different story.

Emotionally, we’re still dragging around a brain shaped for small groups, territory, hierarchy, fear and survival. We can send a spacecraft to Mars, yet still go crazy if the neighbor believes in the wrong god, wears a red cap or lays claim to the wrong piece of land.

And when testosterone, fear, prestige and groupthink kick in, a few thousand years of civilization can apparently be reduced pretty quickly to:

My cave. My tribe. My God. Shut your mouth.

We finished lunch, paid the bill with our phones and went our separate ways. Artificial intelligence in our pockets. The Stone Age between our ears.

My arthritis, fortunately, seems to be kept in check by Rinvoq. Humanity clearly needs much, much stronger medication.

Photo: Charlotte Raboff

We have known each other for close to half a century—in a few cases, even longer. We stay in touch almost every day through a WhatsApp chat group, but we can rarely synchronize our schedules for a full reunion. Missing from this photo is Tommy Sahlin, who wasn’t able to make it this past Friday. Jonas Brutt (left), myself, Lars Olemyr, and Joakim Eklund still had a terrific evening with endless memories and contemporary topics to talk and laugh about. I, for one, am grateful and happy that we maintain our occasionally combative, contentious, and cantankerous relationship.

I did two very unusual things after arriving in Göteborg early this morning. The first was to have a decent breakfast at Jungrens Café along Avenyn – the city center’s main drag and a classic hangout that my friends and I used to frequent for hours on end, almost daily.

The food and coffee were okay, but they have changed so much of the layout that the old feeling is long gone. Had they been faithful to how it used to look – which I realize is probably an idiotic request or expectation to have – yet I was still kinda hoping to see the old owner: a tall, lanky, couture-dressed Polish woman with a strange aristocratic aura about her. Heck, today she would have been around 159 years old.

The second thing I did was to visit Lasse at Cornérs art supply store up the street from Jungans. Somewhat surprisingly, but in a good way, he was still there, waiting on customers who are about as scarce today as cash. Lasse seemed okay with the situation and even vaguely admitted that he was mostly there to have something to do.

I spent a lot of time and money at his store back then, and Lasse was always generous about allowing me to pay for canvases, brushes, and paints at the end of the month, when I hoped to have made enough to cover the rent and other debts I had accumulated during those days of living the life of a struggling artist.

I was a bit surprised that he remembered me. I mean, I was by no means one of his best customers, but I might have been one of the friendlier artists who bought stuff from him.

Speaking of yellow… this is likely one of the most photographed objects in the Swedish capital. It is an irresistible cliché right across from the Royal Palace. As a commoner, I have not much in common with the Swedish royals; however, as a child visiting Stockholm for the first time while in Sweden for the summer from Los Angeles, I was given the opportunity to shake hands with the previous king, Gustaf VI Adolf. And a few years ago, I met and photographed Crown Princess Victoria here in our neighborhood during her and Prince Daniel’s visit to Turning Torso.

After protracted and exhaustive deliberations and subsequent bilateral negotiations, the undersigned was recently tendered access and ownership of an unspecified quantity of personal chattel and effects, which had heretofore remained sequestered for a staggering duration of four-and-one-half decades. Intermingled amongst the aforementioned historical artifacts were archival visual representations originating from an epoch wherein the subject’s subjective state of felicity and general well-being manifested at a zenith of apparent maximum optimization.

Of an even more startling and unanticipated character was the empirical revelation, duly corroborated by photographic evidence, that for a circumscribed and transient temporal interval, the undersigned was possessed of naturally blond follicular pigmentation—or, at the very minimum, a follicular coloration tending toward a light chromatic brown.

The primary evidentiary document aforesaid was discovered to be in a profound state of physical degradation and structural compromise; nevertheless, by virtue of the technical interventions, restorations, and digital remediation, the undersigned succeeded in salvaging said artifact and restoring the same to its primordial condition. It remains a matter of ongoing procedural regret that the aforementioned technology has not yet devised a systemic mechanism capable of effectuating a commensurate retrogressive adjustment upon the biological age of the subject.

Wednesday. Sixty-three. 2026 – 1963 = 63.

Well, I guess it’s time for another little inventory. In my youth, I aimed so hard not to make it much past 30. Now here I am, more than twice that age, several years older than my mom ever got to be, and with a good chance of soon passing my dad. Hopefully. He left the stage at 65.

Something in me obviously refuses to throw in the towel, even if – despite this auspicious milestone – I’m still looking for the instruction manual…

Sometimes I wonder if it’s simply the breaks between the rounds that make it worth hanging on in the ring. But why do I manage when my brother didn’t? Probably because I hit the jackpot with Charlotte and Elle. Love is a damn strong sealant for patching up life’s cracks.

Or maybe the friction and the fighting are the whole point? That we’re each a modern-day Odysseus on an eternal odyssey. Desperately trying to find our way home to peace, but constantly thrown off course by new monsters and distractions along the way.

It’s started to sink in that eventually, I’m going to lose the final battle, now that I’m back in my 60s – this time as a confused old dude in my seventh decade.

But how many more rounds do I have to go? Who knows. 

When the Oscar-winning One Battle After Another came out last year, I thought: Jesus, what a brilliant movie title. Is it about me?

The battles might not be harder now than they used to be, but they definitely take a heavier toll, and they wear down my knees and my psyche a little more. I catch myself puffing, groaning, and sighing much more often these days. Yet, I live in a slightly incomprehensible symbiosis with my battles.

Like a crackhead who absolutely needs his daily dose of adversity just to feel his pulse beat. Maybe life would be way too boring without the challenges – without a few serious ditches to crawl out of and some steep mountains to climb over or around.

The question is: do I enjoy the fight itself, or is it actually that brief, almost euphoric moment when the “release” finally comes that I’m chasing? Those who know what I am talking about know what I am talking about.

At the same time, there’s obviously a comical gap in my perception: what I experience as an epic field battle is everyday life for others. So do I just have a low pain threshold, or am I getting too comfortable for life’s Whac-A-Mole?

At least two of my friends are currently fighting it out in a real purgatory. Cancer, in both cases. For them, the battle is hardly some romanticized metaphor.

A younger buddy called me the other day. As usual, he only gets in touch when the sky is falling. That’s perfectly fine. This time he was depressed because everyone else on social media looked so offensively happy. All his friends were more successful, raking in more money, and living a glamorous, carefree life, while he himself was treading water. Rudderless. I explained that that’s all just a mirage. No living person goes around being constantly happy. It’s especially rare among folks trying to make a living through creativity (which is what this buddy does).

And the really rich practically work full-time trying to convince themselves – and the world – just how incredibly successful they are.

See, I said, the battles are part of the package. One battle after another.

Some people have just bought nicer facades. They live behind their polished surfaces and would sooner die than let the neighbors catch a glimpse of the doubt lurking right behind the smile – their very own “triangle of sadness.”

A different and older buddy observed recently that over the years, it’s become much easier to see through the smokescreens and simply not give a damn what people think.

That it’s actually nice to sit in the stands with a beer in hand instead of standing right in the middle of the boxing ring, taking punch after punch. It was liberating to hear, even if I’m not quite there yet.

A totally different friend my age from Skåne went to a shrink every week for nearly twelve years. He spent half a million on it.

Then the pandemic came, the wallet went empty, and the shrinking ended. Do I notice any difference in him today? Not much. But maybe he got a decent toolbox to keep the ghosts at bay and the demons at a safe distance.

Though a little self-medication is still required now and then so he can disconnect from the battles for a moment and feel that long-awaited “release.”

Personally, I’ve upgraded the gym into a therapist’s couch. Physically, I actually think I’m in better mental and physical shape today than half a lifetime ago, when I was a wild fella of 31 and a half. But the real gain is between my ears. Everything else is pure bonus. Plus, the training has the excellent side effect of letting me treat myself to a little something extra without getting into a fight with my conscience. One battle at a time, please.

Started the day with a run around Söder and Reimersholme. Then a nice swim before the champagne cork flew off with a “pop.” Later, I was served breakfast in bed, treated to Japanese for lunch, and soon Greek for dinner.

Thanks for another lovingly soft landing, Charlotte! Thanks, Elle, for existing in Papi’s life. And thanks for all the wonderful congratulations via social media and over the phone.

Sixty-three. Not too bad.

This is from a cozy café in Stockholm where I wrote from last week. They closed yesterday for the summer but their interior was filled with colorful textiles that I had to attempt capturing in motion.

I captured this abstract figure of a woman the other day when Charlotte, Elle, and I had lunch at Moderna Museet in Stockholm. It was the second time in two weeks that I was there. The previous visit was with Erica, a friend from New York, and her buddy Erik from Stockholm.

Both times we first took a look at the retrospective of Brassaï – The Secret Signs of Paris, which focuses on his iconic black-and-white photography of the streets, inhabitants, and nightlife of Paris during the early 1930s. Brassaï was born Gyula Halász in Transylvania (now Romania) in 1899 and found his creative home in Paris during the 1920s.

He actually started as a journalist, but that changed when he picked up a camera and began documenting his long nightly walks through Paris.

What makes his work so inspiring is that Brassaï never tried to make the city look like a postcard. He photographed high society, prostitutes, brothels, dive bars, wet cobblestones, fog, factories, and the corners of life most photographers ignore.

And it’s exactly this that makes his work feel so relatable to me. I can see something beautiful in almost every place and in every person I meet.

Brassaï was also not interested in photography as some rigid academic or technical exercise. His drive was chronic curiosity, and he seemed willing to point his camera at almost anything that caught his eye and captured geometry in streets, walls, staircases, and shadows. He even photographed Parisian graffiti decades before anyone seriously thought of calling it art.

Technically, he made brilliant use of whatever light was available. Streetlamps, headlights, reflections, thick fog, and darkness became part of the composition rather than obstacles to overcome.

Author Henry Miller famously called Brassaï “The Eye of Paris,” and the name fits perfectly. He moved freely between the elegant and the sordid, the beautiful and the broken, making photographs that were less about individual subjects than about the atmosphere and soul of Paris.

But of course the local bakery on Ringvägen has “cinnamonbun123” (kanelbulle123) as its Wi-Fi password. Bull’s-eye, you could say.

Speaking of eyes, I’m sitting here at the cafe after a follow-up visit with Doctor Johnny at SÖS (Södersjukhuset, one of Stockholm’s main hospitals). The drops he put in my left eye were meant to dilate the pupil enough for him to peer straight through the lens, cornea, and vitreous body to see if the vessel that started bleeding during the vitreous detachment a couple of weeks ago had healed.

The thingamajigs that were fluttering in my field of vision have almost vanished, and the bleeding seems to have cleared up. Phew! That was a close call.

When you already have piss-poor eyesight, a thing like this gets a little extra stressful.

According to Doctor Johnny, I can at least start working out again, and as soon as my pupil returns to its normal size, I’ll also avoid looking like I’m on MDMA or something thereabouts.

I really have to give a shout-out to the thoroughly wonderful staff at the hospital. They made a fantastic impression that literally brings tears to my eyes – though that’s probably mostly the drops.

#södermalm #söder #ringvägen #Södersjukhuset #Stockholm #stockholmcafes #glaskroppsavlossning #vitreousdetachment #corpusvitreum #AblatioCorporisVitrei #DilatedPupils #eyehealth #ögonhälsa #Ecstasy #BullsEye #gettingolder #aging #olddude #dudesgettingold