Another one of my lofi warts'n'haemorrhoids lofi sloppy lololofi albums that sounds like a bloke who knows no one's listening - not just to him, but to anyone else - possibly deliberately slack, or a work of genius, or both/neither - we won't live long enough to witness the jury's return - and I must admit that now that life is providing more distractions at last I've not been as focused on this stuff as usual - but maybe that's a good thing
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This album's been made over such a long time by my standards (ie a week or two) that I can't remember what any of it sounds like or even why I made it. It's about Tove Jansson. Klovharun is the name of the tiny island that she bought in the Gulf Of Finland and adored and stayed on for peaceful beautiful summers late-ish in her life.
It's quite likely that I know a lot less about Tove than you do or most people do. As a child I was never into the Moomins - I'd never heard of them till relatively recently. Or her, I think. What first made me fall in love with her was randomly coming across her The Summer Book in a charity shop a few years ago and who can resist a short book about two people living an enchanted separate life on a tiny rocky island away from the rest of us, just being quiet and as relaxedly eccentric as comes naturally to them. No distractions. It's the best route to any kind of happiness.
The Summer Book is a novel, though based on her real life, and it's for adults - though one of those charming and slightly life-changing books that's best read during those hyper-malleable years between childhood and adulthood. It's a book about the place and the life many of us have been dreaming of during recent lockdowns.
A month or two ago I bought the new collection of Tove's letters. It's too thick/heavy to carry round with me as I wander round the country looking for I-still-don't-know-what. Probably an island like Klovharun.