dance dance dance

Last night the streetlights were out on the road to Kringsja from Sogn. So I was going to fetch a bottle of wine and I walked back with the trees super scary and dust everywhere. Whenever someone walked by me it felt like a showdown from a Wild Western Movie. Who was going to draw their gun first? And then with the dust blowing around we'd see each other’s faces for a second then keep on walking by. Totally cool. Not one of us even flinching. We let each other know, 'you know, nodding our heads,' and then kept on going.

I managed the trip after blinding headlights and a hurry to gather my things. However, back at the kitchen where we were all sitting, I tried to get my wine bottle open, and failed. The result was me shoving a knife into the cork trying to push it down. The bottle erupted like a geyser when I applied all my force, and the result was wine in my eyes--which burned terribly--wine all over the kitchen, the floor, people's purses, and my shirt.


Now I have to decipher when I go in the supermarket what stain remover is in Norwegian. So I can save my shirt from its purple spotted hell.

The day before I returned to the lake again. As usual, walking around it. At this point I am left with an unsteady mind as to what it is exactly I should be doing. Just with myself, what to do with my time, what to do about people.

‘You know, that sort of thinking where its always about, what the hell am I doing with myself when everything is moving and I don’t seem to be getting anywhere. And where exactly is that place that I am wanting to go to.’

It all sounds cliché and ridiculous, so most of the time I don’t want to put it down. But it relates a lot to walking around that lake in circles everyday.

I thought about a part in Dance Dance Dance, where the main character is basically told to keep moving. Don't stop. Do something always. Because not dancing makes the flow stop. And a river that doesn't flow, doesn't live, it becomes stagnant. I don't want to become stagnant. I know what that feels like, and it’s like dying in my mind over and over again. It is bad. Walking around the lake is me dancing. I'm moving, that’s the only thing I can think to do right now. I figure when I get somewhere I'll stop merry-go-rounding that lake. But at least its very beautiful, shining in the sunlight, all that ice shifting so slowly back and forth.

While I was at the lake I stopped by one of the docks that was frozen in the water, shooting out like an arrow into the lake. It was all twisted and breaking because the ice had contorted it. I listened to the Panda Bear cd again, and after it ended, I listened to the Neutral Milk Hotel cd. Closed my eyes and took off my coat, used it as a pillow and sun-bathed for a long time, while going through the music. Forgetting about time and all the people and everything I knew. Until I felt empty. Draining all the bits and pieces of me into the surrounding scene. I bet it would look so cluttered and chaotic. Or maybe there would be very little. As if I had thrown so much away and left it be. But I think that is impossible. That everything is connected and worked back to something else. Its just not possible for me to see it all because my mind may actually process in this beautiful parallelism, way more complex and astounding then any computer, but I then the restriction comes into play, where we aren't fractured and able to think of lots of things all at once, but instead linearly, in a more step by step fashion. I think its pretty amazing though at flashes of intuition, as if I was thinking of lots of things at once and came to a conclusion that felt completely right. Maybe that’s what intuition is, it’s catching the parallel processes at work. Just brief flashes before being restricted back to this plodding, cave man thinking process.

Sunbathing felt good. I was warm and empty and able to just lie there for a long time. I came back, stopping by the grocery store to grab a coke. I sat drinking my coke reading over some old work and ruminating. Oh yes, 'My hands clasping like an old man smoking in a parlor.'

'Yes. Yes,' rapping my hands on a table and coughing. 'I am ruminating! Do you hear that Esteban?'

This imaginary Esteban looks up at me from his large volume that he is reading, brow wrinkled, a frown, he takes a puff out of his own pipe and sighs and reaches out trying to shake me by the neck. ‘All in our parlor. Yes I hear you. Now shut up. I don't care about your silly thoughts.'

I keep going on an on. Can't stop dancing. Definitely have to keep moving until something happens. Something will happen.




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