Yesterday I sat around a kitchen talking to Emile, Vivi, and Tori. Tori has already made an entrance as a friend from Western Australia, Emile is French from the suburbs of Paris, and Vivi is Norwegian from Oslo itself. Part of what we talked about involved the three of them agreeing they should be allowed to vote for the United States President since he has such a large affect on the rest of the world. Tori burst out laughing and I just looked at them all and grinned thinking that it would be quite an uproar overall if something like that ever did happen. I like Emile because in typical French fashion nothing is ever extreme, ‘yes these people died, and yes, this is good and why are Norwegians so greedy about sharing alcohol, and why does American beer taste like nothing,’ imagine that all in a French accent. It’s really funny. He goes on and on about stuff. Vivi works at the Munch museum and tells a funny story about how they never respond to the alarms when they go off, thinking, it’s just something that happens, and then, that’s why The Scream is always being stolen. ‘That’s Norwegians for you,’ she says. Very trusting.
As for the evening, it was good. I collected a bag of pastries which are now almost gone. The past few days I have revisited that 'lake'. It represents less now than it did before. More because it feels all used up. I don't really like walking around it anymore. Not even as a metaphor. It feels drained. And most of the ice has melted off the top. There are too many people jogging, with too many weird faces of strain and silliness. I can't look at them so usually I keep my head down listening to something and thinking stuff over. What sort of stuff? I wonder. Sometimes it involves assassins and ninjas. Other times it is about writing. And most of all the time involves thinking about people. But I don't know how to get into any of that. Especially when you try and convey the fact that real, actual, ninjas are so secretive and hidden that it’s pointless to go actually searching for one.
Yesterday out from my window I was just sitting and taking a moment when for thirty seconds it snowed and then it vanished as quick as it had come. I thought someone on the roof must be cleaning their carpets; banging them against the side of the concrete to let loose all the dust. But in this case, snow. Now the days are gray and somber and the trees are all still with the time in-between devoted solely to shuffling cards in my hand and listening to songs. I haven't written much in the past four days. I think that is bad. I don't know if it’s bad. It may be bad, it may be good. Its good to sit away and let it all sink in deep. Makes me think about all those lovely Vurt feathers I read about, 'When Beatle shoves it deep, far as it can go and you enter the Vurt.' I re-read it about a month ago and now I have a feather sitting on my desk. Makes me realize how much I like that book. How cool it is. The amount of 'dancing' that the book has.
I've eagerly sought out a machine like a coin star but have so far found nothing. So each day whenever I go to the supermarket I will buy one or two things and pay all of it in 1 kroner coins. I have so many stacked up and lying around. It creates a large fuss behind me, as everyone has to wait for me to put each coin into the machine that takes our change to pay for our goods.
I might have already related this tale in a previous entry. I am lost in a sea of endless meaningless stories about the most mundane affairs of living this life. So if I have please forgive me.
One night, I think the same evening I ate broccoli for dinner, I woke up with the most intense pangs of hunger. It felt like my stomach was full of razor blades. From then on I decided that enough was enough and that I would cook something as an actual meal before going to sleep. Yesterday was hot dogs. The day before was salmon, red-pepper, and broccoli cooked in the oven for twelve minutes in a sauce pan with some butter. I am amazed at the level of intricacy food can get. I however, am still living in the basic stages where I throw many things together that I like, and hope they all cook evenly, as if they all had the same properties as the other ingredients.
Sundays involve watching the new diggnation podcast over at revision3.
I feel like a dirty crazy person, rather than a clean crazy person. The difference being I haven't vacuumed my floor in a while and over this time period I have brought many a pebble and piece of gravel into the room from my shoes while out walking. This has created a sandbox in my room and I will wince every time my foot steps on a small rock and it crushes against my skin.
I am running out of...well I thought I may be running out of something. It turns out I'm not. Unless you count toilet paper running out of something. So yes, I am running out of toilet paper. But I was leaning more towards a mental thing. Like I am running out of drive, or running out of 'ideas'. Though, that doesn't seem to be the case. I did run out of 'caring' but that seems to always return when it involves writing. It just seems fruitless, and then it doesn't matter because there just isn't much else to do. Unless I count reading Middlemarch something to do. I don't, because it’s an obligation, and obligations make me feel terrible.
School will start back up this coming week. And then end in a strange mixture of dates on the 29th of May. Though, there are more times in the coming months when I won't go to classes for 3 weeks straight. They have this system in place, where a student will go to normal classes until maybe the 1st of May. Then, its done, all the teaching is over with. However, a student must return at the end of May, middle of June, to take an exam about the things taught. It seems crazy, all that break time in the middle. I just think, if it wasn't an exam that was worth the student's entire grade, no one would indeed come back after that break. Thinking that school was already out the day teaching stopped.
That last bit seemed overly complicated. Honestly, I got nothing. I bitch about my roommate who I never actually even see. I peruse through an assortment of odds and ends, read literature that seems fractured and lost for the current time period we live in, and write stories. And even the last part, about stories, I don't even do that enough. Spending more time contemplating that I should in fact write, than actually writing. It sounds like a shitty neurotic character from a Woody Allen movie.
However, Emile says that the French don't take their police officers seriously, going into a bit how one can laugh and point and the police will do nothing because they have no real power. The garbage collectors pull more respect than the police. And he also likes to make fun of Norwegian cheese. But he is French, and anything in regards to food or drink will always, and forever be smacked down. This is because they can. They have a talent with the stuff.
Wish it wasn't so gray.
I like walking back from Tori's at night. It’s really cold, below freezing, but I've been listening to The National on the walk back and I feel as if I am getting sucked into the night. It’s got great big hands full of wrinkles that wrap around my legs and pull me deep inside its body. All the trees are so tall, the stars are always out, and there are always kids roaming around smoking cigarettes and making noise. Then, the last stretch home is always quiet with dirt paths snaking up into some hills and the lights of Kringsja off in the distance.
At night sometimes my lamp makes me think that there is someone standing there next to my bed. I have begun sleeping facing the door rather than the window, and in the morning I twist around with the sunlight all over my face and look out to see where I am. Each morning I seem to forget about my surroundings, and usually it’s the smell of pastry or whatever I cooked yesterday that makes me realize where I am.
This, well, sometimes 'this' is a warm-up. Sometimes I want to throw it all up. And stare at it on the page. And it feels like sometimes I have to wear sunglasses to read it over. I take them gently and place them on my face. But after a few lines I sigh and remove them. I can only draw conclusions based on all the stuff before and an idea of what the conclusion means and how it creates the rest that follows. Today it feels like a shattered mirror, and I did a lazy job of gluing all the pieces of the mirror together, so it feels like a minefield of superstitious trouble and fractured moments / images / feelings. Put it back together how 'you' wish. I leave it up to better hands on this Sunday.
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like a little bird
1 comment:
cool picture.
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