da da da. sigh sigh sigh. don't you cry.

In the afternoon the warmth starts to disappear. Not like the morning when the humidity is starting to rise slightly. I thought about walking over to the lake after school but I had bought groceries and was tired and wanted to rest. I imagined that it looked like a picture I had seen a while back. When Tom was telling me about a story he wanted to write. About a family that lived near this lake that would turn to steam near a house. I imagined the house he talked about to be all white with a brown roof. The roof slanting like a triangle and there was a deck on the second story, there were French doors and there was a long patio that wrapped around the entire house. The family that lived there was a mother, her daughter, her son, and a father who could no longer walk but was confined to a bed because both his legs had been shot by hunters.

The two children were twins and they would crouch on their knees by their father's bed and he would touch their heads and smile, while the mother sat on a chair outside in the rain and steam and trappings of the world and stared out at the lake. This is her story, not his or their's. They are for her, and the lake is what keeps her. It is a trap, and the steam rising each morning and wrapping itself around everything, so they cannot leave, is not a curse, but it is beautiful. It pains me to think of their solitude, but they don't seem to age, and in fact after one hundred days pass, and then one hundred years there is only a wrinkle above her brow from frowning while she stares at the lake.

In the mist there are white cranes that move with graceful precision. The rain is always a fine drizzle, and they keep horses near a forest on the southern side to ride and play gaily about on the days when the steam is not so bad. The sun is ever present. Its yellow face. The girl child has a sing song voice and she twitters and flutters, occasionally fighting with the boy who is silent and warm. He is lost one day and falls asleep in the forest at night. When they find him in the morning stumbling out of the forest they find that his hair has turned golden from black and they wonder if he has been swapped by the outside world.

Thats all I feel like writing about that. But I thought that the lake would go something like that. I just felt like I had already been out and had no such desire to go out again. Now the afternoon has settled in, my feet are resting on the radiator against the wall, under my desk. I am going through things as usual. My feet start to burn, so I curl my toes, and retreat. Then, when they get cold in the linoleum, I stretch out. They rest and burn slowly on the radiator again.

The walk this morning heated up nicely. I made long strides and kicked no dirt because everything was wet and pushed down by the fog. As I walked it formed a tunnel ahead of me. And everywhere the houses were almost hidden, the trees touched a sky I couldn't see. The people were slow, I was fast. I was quicker than them. I listened to loud music and was in my black chucks and walking faster and eating all the sights around me. God this is beautiful. Tom says, 'The green stands out in the fog like that!'

'The green and the buds of the trees. They are my favorite. And so are the white blossoms on the peach trees. And I like seeing the men building houses when I walk back to my flat because it makes me feel like at least someone is doing something that means something. I only wish that I felt productive. But it only feels like glimpses or flashes or whatever a person who watched me would want to say.'

They bitched and moaned in a jesting way about Emile's goat cheese this late morning. In Tori's kitchen Thomas and Tori went on about cheese and sausages. The French, they claim, have the best of both. I watched him butter his bread and I tried to finish reading something on the couch. I watched a pigeon sit on the balcony outside and I thought it was stupid and I didn't wish anyone's face to resemble that.

Everyone here is still such a stranger to me. Not mysterious. They don't evoke anything of a past or a present. I just don't know them. Faceless blonds with blue eyes and I walked by a small army of children holding hands. In the deep fog by the side of the road, they said some things to me in Norwegian and I smiled and kept walking. What could they have said to me? Those children, that army, with headbands, sticks, and bright coats. They could grow up and say nasty things to me. They could grow up and save. I don't know them. I threw a ball back to some small children. The one in yellow ran after the ball but stopped as it went into the street. Obviously aware he was not allowed movement beyond his field and fence. So I scooped it up and threw it back, muddying my hand and I received an awe; 'He must be a god to walk so freely through the cars and on the pavement.' They said 'Takk' and we left each other.

The afternoon persists to night. The night will be cold. The green evaporates in darkness and I hope tomorrow is sunny. Sunny afternoons in Oslo are comfortable.

---
oh la la.
oh terrible,
la la and dance.
terrible movement,
la la kiss,
oh la,
oh dance and kiss.
you are so terrible,
la la,
oh la,
you play piano so beautifully,
la la,
oh play for me,
and i will kiss you again.
oh la la.