LO
N
D
O
N
E
R
---
what? what?
Thursday, March 08, 2007
"wandering strange cities that leave their marks upon him"
'From the room's long wood window. Forge of the sky being lit and cooled moments by wind and rain. And I write here and dying is the scariest thing and it happens to every single one of us. A collection of thousands of years of trying to move past the fear of never existing, only for a small fraction of insignificant time. Thats all we are doing. I write in fractions and scribbles. Like turning here from a main road off into an alley and then up a hill and back down. Scotland's Sunset Room.'
I'm sitting on the floor. Between a radiator and a wooden desk. With a high window that overlooks Edinburgh. The castle is far off in the distance. The sky is tones of white with gray clouds and its windy and cold. The day has been poor and I walked around lost and aimless, a lot like the wind. Thinking about how to assess all my time traveling to put it into words. Trying to place all the times, thoughts, people, and places in a written orderly form.
Mostly though I have been sleeping little, and waking early. Rising with the sunlight and staring at my blank computer screen. Ticking away the seconds before the people wake. Its almost been a week of my travels. My legs are stiff and worn. I have showered once and the wax in my ears is beginning to thicken and make plopping sounds in my head if i press down and then let go of the inner part of my ear.
London is old. As I walked around it, staring at the tall brick buildings and the steel gray sky, all I could think about was the amount of time that has passed in this place. And contrasting it with Las Vegas. Which, is as new as new gets. Tom and I were discussing it and he remarked a strong desire to be in Europe, just to feel the sense of age and time.
It permeates strongly out of the buildings, the moss, the rain, and light. And all the sounds that envelop--cars and creaks and sounds of terrible things of screams and the death and agony; of people blasting their music across halls and across rooms and girls shrieking and babies crying; the names shouted and accents confused and the sounds of cash registers and reams of refugee in food and menus and lists and take-away--all plummeting me into the world. I get really lost in my head in all these new places. So lost I stand in the middle of sidewalks and streets just staring at things putting them away and people look at me and walk by shaking their heads confused, muttering. Or they get angry that I hold them all up and brush past me. But i still stand there knowing that its important or me to keep staring and understanding and figuring out the places around me so that it doesn't escape me. Adding it all to this huge thing inside of me, all into my subconscious and the dark and my shadow and being. All of that.
Trying to determine exactly everything that is going on. And trying to soak all of it up like sponges in the sea.
My first day the train from the airport to London was broken. I wandered around and fell in love with two women in my head. Which I tend to do. Where one was in front of me on the plane and the other standing near as the screen flickered on and off telling all us where to go for luggage. And I am always curious if anyone else does that. They see someone and they just write a person. And as I go through airports, streets, coffee shops, bookstores, and countryside. I see how beautiful they are. Long dark hair and bright eyes and slim legs and we end up sharing a cigarette as the luggage rolls on by and the sun wavers and we ride the bus and the green and ivy all envelops destroyed fences and she traces paths along a riverside. Kissing in moments of nothing. Cheesy romance, high thoughts, sharing conversation, croissants and coffee and smiles all the time. Life worth living. Sharing. Arcs of substance dripping from her lips from words and from mine of words and motions and all the subtle nuances forming relationships. Like that. And like that I found my way onto the bus that was the replacement for the train.
I listened to TV on the Radio and tuned out. Hat on my head and the green and swell of clouds as they poured slowly onto England's massive body of fertile land while the bus sped along at a clipping pace. After minutes I finally figured out the oppositeness of driving in the U.K. And now walking I make sure to walk alongside the left side instead of the right. As people seemed to tangle up with me.
The train after the bus was pleasant but confusing. I'm always at a state of nervous flux when I am in a new place trying to get to another new place and the mode of transportation is one that relies on switches and maps, lines on a white space that show me stations and stops and I must clue in to understand rails and things that were never once a 'thing' back home. However, people are generally very pleasant. And when the sky is bright, there is no wind and the day is weather for walking they help in every manner possible.
The train took me from outside to the inside--where I saw the gypsy trailer parks and then the ravages and slums of London to the station and center of traffic and populace. Liverpool Street Station is a magnificent structure of wires, glass, brick and light that form a a ceiling and structure like something from one of Monet's paintings of train stations. The crowded atmosphere made me smile and I found my way onto the tube to Reim. Confused I managed passing the large British library, past a nasty man who worked the front desk of Reim's building who did not believe that she even lived there, and finally to my destination.
---
---
Reim's place is typical of an old city (I remember Jake and I sharing a conversation about how we would live in San Francisco even if we had to live in a closet of someone else's home; only big enough for us to sleep. It would be worth it just or the experience and ability to live in vibrant thriving city like that. That's what Reim's is like). A shared stall of showers. Small kitchen and pantry. Long doors and the sound of wind pouring through the rooms even if the jointed windows are all closed and shut tight. I stayed the first night on her bed and then from there on slept in the hallway of their room. Which is just a small space, with two doors. One door leading to their room, the other door leading to the main hallway of the 12th floor. I crouched on her ledge near the window once and felt the breeze of London air and looked out and talked to her. Sleeping on the floor in darkness was an experience a lot like a symphony.
With moments of silence, pure, and dark. The subtle sounds of piano and violins. And the crashing of the brass as a friend or roommate would open a door and light would crash in. Swallows and birds and gulls and waves all pouring through and covering my mind in unknown noise. And then again back, away from the crescendo and the finale. The birds falling out of the air dying like leaden filled raindrops. All on the ground, then finally turned to dust and some feathers clinging to my face and hair and falling asleep.
I awoke and spent some time in the washroom brushing my teeth and staring at the old white tub and the sounds of water and showering. I left in a hurry. I love the idea of living in the city. And being able to leap forward and be on the street in the bustle of all the people. Its an activity in itself. Wandering and following instinct and intuition towards a cafe or alley. Reading on a step or stone. Absorbing the sun. I walked along in a t-shirt and jeans. Listening to Ratatat, The Strokes, The Arcade Fire, and Albert Hammond Jr. on my ipod.
Along the second journey which was just me, I walked into a crypt of St. Andrew's church and discovered an art exhibition of Mexican Avant Garde Artists. In the crypt, along with the dead, there were screens with projectors showing rats running across. Stills of shadows and candles dripping wax. Sounds of people crying and mumbles and I found a dark room with a chair and lit candles and the dead resting peacefully. Where I started off blankly for a long time but couldn't think of anything meaningful. So i thought the dead were really dead here. So long cemented in these tombs of brick and mortar. Taken care of by old men with an old religion. I left.
The theme of dead was rising as the sun hid beneath clouds. Walking more lost and in circles and wide arcs from Reim's I found a graveyard wishing silently to myself the night before that I would like to see an old graveyard. This one had the bones of William Blake resting coldly in the green moss covered ground. Bunhill Fields. Away from the graveyard I went into one pub looking for a meal of fish and chips. But the two men were confused at my accent and then told me that they only had sandwiches. An alley I walked through. And I was getting cold in my t-shirt. I stumbled upon an American Apparel. Which, I had also been secretly searching for. Out of nowhere it appeared and I explored the London store. Which was nice but the women not as attractive. I bought a hoodie and a shirt and left again. From here I managed to walk all the way to Liverpool Street Station.
A bit of a distance. In the sun and wind. Tall buildings from both sides. Shooting up like a small New York Skyline. I road the train to King's Cross. I took a nap in the sunlight on Reim's bed listening to Badly Drawn Boy and warmed my toes scribbling notes about the days and sights and sounds.
"I'm lying in Reim's bed. The window across from me closed but I can see the clouds drifting by. I woke up this morning and left the dormitories and just started walking. From the top of the building I can see a large Ferris Wheel. It lights up at night."
-from red Goethe notebook
At night Reim and I traveled to Brick Lane. A long street of Bengali shops that serve delicious curry amidst Las Vegas style Neon lights, Muslims running to prayer, graffiti and men milling about who try convincingly to get passerby's into their particular shop. I hung about looking like a drug dealer. Watching the men go to prayer as Reim went herself and came running back in rushed excitement for me to come with her. Inside I observed them praying and from the top in the dark down into the light of the bottom floor. Then rushed out as the men finished and came out themselves. We ate curry in a place lit by neon blue. Lamb curry on rice and sighed in contentment. I wondered how God factors into relationships between people. How those of faith even live amongst those disbelievers. And I am a non-believer and wonder ever woefully that this world is a real place and the earth is worms and nothing after death. Am I just a vagrant or thief. A man of no grace in the eyes of those with faith. And strangely not resolving it but it sitting there in my mind. I couldn't figure it out.
"The street is empty, it gets quiet, and all I hear are the hums of the neon lights as all the Muslims are in the Jamee Masjid."-from red Goethe notebook
China Town and Leicester Square colored in neon like Time's Square. The theaters pouring in and out with the faithful watchers of the art. Red lanterns spilling from the sky. We saw ducks hanging from every window and Reim was overjoyed at the sights and presence of the place. Seeing her fully content and happy as she almost danced along snapping pictures and I smiled hands in pockets and took to myself; thinking of my father overseas a long time ago when he was young. I thought about food and when we would eat here. And we walked along cobblestone streets. It rained and tormented my face. Wandered about in hoods and hats and saw Big Ben in its brilliance. Its very large for a clock. We rode the train back and I collapsed into the dead of night. While Reim watched Babel and I laid there listening to the elevators going up and down and drifting away into sleep.
From here I am going to take a pause in writing this all down. The sky outside of the flat has lost all brightness and now is just whistling wind that tells me its cold out and the steeples and eaves of the buildings are dark and give me the chills. I want to read for a bit and lie staring at the ceiling. I hurt my toe last night in-between moving around like a thief in the night and drinking pints of Stella Artois at various pubs. It was bleeding at night. Now it throbs a little. I also feel strangely sad. And I think its the rain.
I think that people are terribly sad. And sometimes terribly happy. And in-between they are moving toward one or the other. But they don't really know that they are always moving. And trying to desperately to hold onto things will watch them slip and fall. And walking about so much, feeling old walls and seeing faces and eyes I think that it should be what it is. Lying on the highland grass above all of Edinburgh, I told the wind, shouting at it that fine. Its windy. Blow me away with you. We will go someplace together.
And I fell asleep dreaming that someday there will be another person there. And we will go someplace together. And that it will be made out of all those things, that we are, and all of this that I am sipping, tasting, seeing, touching, touching her face will make that place. And all of hers will strike together like hammers in a hot forge. The day is dead and will rise tomorrow. And hunger never goes away but ceases for a little bit. Describing our lot in life completely.
---
not in the mood to throw up pictures. too many pictures. someone deal with all these photos.
act 1 / intermission / act 2
I've been meaning to write in here. But my journey through London and Edinburgh has been half / sleep, blurry eyes, floors, creaking elevators, kaleidoscopes of lights, exploring, talking and eating out. Walking in a daze at night. And by the time I am ever around my computer its been too much to sit down and put something down
until then.
London Chinatown
Reim
Julian
---
a river so deep
until then.
London Chinatown
Reim
Julian---
a river so deep
Saturday, March 03, 2007
Friday, March 02, 2007
and i looked off and decided that this was the end, i wanted to finally end, and left the world
I left Alex's apartment after drinking shots of Jack. And after having coming over half-asleep listening to The Walkmen until she called me and being in a stupor then, I left and the night air was perfect. The weather has been warm today and its right, at 34 degrees. The ice is slowly started to harden and will turn to ice in a few days.
I walked out and decided okay, I'll just head home. But I looked to my left, and had Elliott Smith blaring through my Ipod headphones. I looked up at the night sky and it was a piercing orange fighting with the black. And the clouds were covered in the middle of the battle of light. I thought it was the most beautiful thing and I smiled and just decided I wanted to disappear forever in the night and never exist anymore. I walked towards and ended up in my chucks with snow going up to my knees. Clambering and dodging around in the forest. With tall bare trees that touched the sky and their bark was all black in the black night. The way around me was illuminated because of the white snow and I would amble around and head towards the mountains. I just kept walking and everything around me was perfect and surreal. I was the only one around at night, with everything quiet. At some points my headphones would fall out and all i would hear is the crunching of the snow, with my legs knee deep in. I stumbled down and found an open field all covered in white and then I climbed up a ledge and back into the forest. I just became completely lost, thick in black bare branches looking up at and then down, then in front of me. With my way never marked and I could go where I pleased, lost in a bliss of the landscape.
I would pick up large balls of snow and start eating them. The snow tasted like pine, and smiling, I finally found a path and then I found a frozen lake. The ice was a solid black and I walked on top of it and laughing and in my haze of Jack and beers I slid back and forth across it. Then I slid and went down on my knees sliding further across the frozen lake. With the lit up landscape of Kringsja and its student towers behind me. Then, I managed to walk off and across it. My shoe broke some ice and my foot went into the water. And after that, cold and out of the forest I walked back home in the beautiful half-light of the snow night and tracked snow in my room and put on violins in the background while I wrote this all out.
I thought after that that everything was perfect. And not in a morbid way but in a beautiful manner that a part of me would have liked to die, or disappear and never return because of how surreal and perfect the entire moment was. Completely alone and separate from everyone and everything else in the world, but living so terribly in a moment that it hurt to even take one step further for fear of it all ending.
And then making the conscious decision to end it all. To leave, and return, away from it, was the most painful part of the whole process. And there is just part of me dead in that forest in the barren perfect white snow with the piercing orange sky, the silence and the sound of no one except me laughing loudly to myself all alone and the crunching of feet on the ground.
---
bags of blue notebooks
I walked out and decided okay, I'll just head home. But I looked to my left, and had Elliott Smith blaring through my Ipod headphones. I looked up at the night sky and it was a piercing orange fighting with the black. And the clouds were covered in the middle of the battle of light. I thought it was the most beautiful thing and I smiled and just decided I wanted to disappear forever in the night and never exist anymore. I walked towards and ended up in my chucks with snow going up to my knees. Clambering and dodging around in the forest. With tall bare trees that touched the sky and their bark was all black in the black night. The way around me was illuminated because of the white snow and I would amble around and head towards the mountains. I just kept walking and everything around me was perfect and surreal. I was the only one around at night, with everything quiet. At some points my headphones would fall out and all i would hear is the crunching of the snow, with my legs knee deep in. I stumbled down and found an open field all covered in white and then I climbed up a ledge and back into the forest. I just became completely lost, thick in black bare branches looking up at and then down, then in front of me. With my way never marked and I could go where I pleased, lost in a bliss of the landscape.
I would pick up large balls of snow and start eating them. The snow tasted like pine, and smiling, I finally found a path and then I found a frozen lake. The ice was a solid black and I walked on top of it and laughing and in my haze of Jack and beers I slid back and forth across it. Then I slid and went down on my knees sliding further across the frozen lake. With the lit up landscape of Kringsja and its student towers behind me. Then, I managed to walk off and across it. My shoe broke some ice and my foot went into the water. And after that, cold and out of the forest I walked back home in the beautiful half-light of the snow night and tracked snow in my room and put on violins in the background while I wrote this all out.
I thought after that that everything was perfect. And not in a morbid way but in a beautiful manner that a part of me would have liked to die, or disappear and never return because of how surreal and perfect the entire moment was. Completely alone and separate from everyone and everything else in the world, but living so terribly in a moment that it hurt to even take one step further for fear of it all ending.
And then making the conscious decision to end it all. To leave, and return, away from it, was the most painful part of the whole process. And there is just part of me dead in that forest in the barren perfect white snow with the piercing orange sky, the silence and the sound of no one except me laughing loudly to myself all alone and the crunching of feet on the ground.
---
bags of blue notebooks
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
there is a story there. there, 'pointing over at the man on the bench eating a bagel and petting his dog'. and there, in that photo. a stack of pictures of taxi-cab licenses. there is a story. here, 'tapping his own head, his head, and then an imaginary head'. its all a matter of deciding to follow through until it ends.
chchchchchuuushhh
I wanted to put something down about how, even being here, I still get bouts of restlessness. Talking over the phone, I realized it is most likely a common occurrence, with anyone. With even the students residing here for their respective time. And I was trying to understand how to fix it.
Mostly because I thought that was why I was leaving for some time. To add something that I didn't have before in my 'being'. Whatever that being is, I don't know. And rather than anything being added, it seems to be the same.
I do think its funny I like the idea of having a picture over to the right side of this blog than the digg counter being at the top. And, I remember Jake saying at one point that blog is an ugly fucking word. I agree. I wish there was something else to call it. But, and especially here (Blogger), there isn't much course of action to change. I don't have a Xanga, and wouldn't want this place to summon up images of teenage girls giggling back and forth. X-a-n-g-a.
I don't really want to refer to it as a journal. I suppose it is a place to write down thoughts, events, and experiences. But in an online world, where, it is in the most visible place possible, it seems to kill that word. Where did Blog come from anyway? I remember hearing the word on CNN, where they were finally realizing the large amount of information being posted by private individuals on INTERNET.
Not that I want to spark a revolution to change-the-word. I don't suppose I'm much of a figurehead in the world of social change, social thought, and following.
So I was thinking about how today I watched the new diggnation instead of going to the bank and paying my rent. So now tomorrow. Tomorrow I have to. And I should muster something up to go celebrate a birthday party. But, I just bought tickets that were semi expensive for a domestic flight. And I don't want to lose my mind in the night, then through to the train and back in my dark room; where I will most assuredly ask myself the following question staring in the mirror of my terrible smelling bathroom where the floor is wet because my roommate doesn't towel off. WHY?
That why will lead me to my bed where I will sit and look down at the floor running my hands through my hair listening to the disintegration loops IV; having dreams where Britney Spears is on trial for shaving her head. And where Stephanie appears out of nowhere as her attorney in a power suit (because I guess I recently talked to Stephanie) explaining that, "A woman, sometimes, goes through rough times. Britney here has been the victim. A victim of divorce and drugs, sex, and media attention. And when this happens, a woman needs to shed herself of the past. Remove those awful things that sit with her in bed, alone at night. May I present you the defendant," and Stephanie waves out towards the jury and spectators, in the Old Victorian Courthouse in London, and the gasp and wave and a woman faints and men murmur and shake their heads. And the Jury starts to cry and say she is not guilty. And Stephanie becomes a convincing defender for Britney Spear's shaved head in the dream.
And then I wake up and I ask myself why again and I just. I lost it all. I was holding this whole thing in my head trying to write it all down before it escaped me. But my buzzer rang, there was some chatter, a phone call, and then I forgot.
But what the hell was that dream?!
---
halfway done with applied spectroscopy
Mostly because I thought that was why I was leaving for some time. To add something that I didn't have before in my 'being'. Whatever that being is, I don't know. And rather than anything being added, it seems to be the same.
I do think its funny I like the idea of having a picture over to the right side of this blog than the digg counter being at the top. And, I remember Jake saying at one point that blog is an ugly fucking word. I agree. I wish there was something else to call it. But, and especially here (Blogger), there isn't much course of action to change. I don't have a Xanga, and wouldn't want this place to summon up images of teenage girls giggling back and forth. X-a-n-g-a.
I don't really want to refer to it as a journal. I suppose it is a place to write down thoughts, events, and experiences. But in an online world, where, it is in the most visible place possible, it seems to kill that word. Where did Blog come from anyway? I remember hearing the word on CNN, where they were finally realizing the large amount of information being posted by private individuals on INTERNET.
Not that I want to spark a revolution to change-the-word. I don't suppose I'm much of a figurehead in the world of social change, social thought, and following.
So I was thinking about how today I watched the new diggnation instead of going to the bank and paying my rent. So now tomorrow. Tomorrow I have to. And I should muster something up to go celebrate a birthday party. But, I just bought tickets that were semi expensive for a domestic flight. And I don't want to lose my mind in the night, then through to the train and back in my dark room; where I will most assuredly ask myself the following question staring in the mirror of my terrible smelling bathroom where the floor is wet because my roommate doesn't towel off. WHY?
That why will lead me to my bed where I will sit and look down at the floor running my hands through my hair listening to the disintegration loops IV; having dreams where Britney Spears is on trial for shaving her head. And where Stephanie appears out of nowhere as her attorney in a power suit (because I guess I recently talked to Stephanie) explaining that, "A woman, sometimes, goes through rough times. Britney here has been the victim. A victim of divorce and drugs, sex, and media attention. And when this happens, a woman needs to shed herself of the past. Remove those awful things that sit with her in bed, alone at night. May I present you the defendant," and Stephanie waves out towards the jury and spectators, in the Old Victorian Courthouse in London, and the gasp and wave and a woman faints and men murmur and shake their heads. And the Jury starts to cry and say she is not guilty. And Stephanie becomes a convincing defender for Britney Spear's shaved head in the dream.
And then I wake up and I ask myself why again and I just. I lost it all. I was holding this whole thing in my head trying to write it all down before it escaped me. But my buzzer rang, there was some chatter, a phone call, and then I forgot.
But what the hell was that dream?!
---
halfway done with applied spectroscopy
fire skies
Tickets have been bought for Aurora Borealis expedition. The city of Tromso in Norway is the destination. Way up North in the Arctic Circle.
Friday March 16th to Monday March 19th.
i was looking online through some pictures, and the Mr. Sparkle (Homer Simpson face) came up. And i thought about downloading some episodes of The Simpsons. I headed over to Mininova and realized, there are 18 seasons of this show. I didn't even know where to start with the massive amount of content The Simpsons have put out.
* I have also added a Digg button to my blog. Though the only person I can think caring in anyway is Perry. Digg gathers up news stories, posts, pictures, information, podcasts, and any other kind of content by internet users. Top Dugg stories hit the front pages, etc. Check the site out. The stuff there is always really interesting. And I'm hyped I finally put a submission button up on my page. Digg it to get it more widely read.
---
i got out!
Friday March 16th to Monday March 19th.
i was looking online through some pictures, and the Mr. Sparkle (Homer Simpson face) came up. And i thought about downloading some episodes of The Simpsons. I headed over to Mininova and realized, there are 18 seasons of this show. I didn't even know where to start with the massive amount of content The Simpsons have put out.
* I have also added a Digg button to my blog. Though the only person I can think caring in anyway is Perry. Digg gathers up news stories, posts, pictures, information, podcasts, and any other kind of content by internet users. Top Dugg stories hit the front pages, etc. Check the site out. The stuff there is always really interesting. And I'm hyped I finally put a submission button up on my page. Digg it to get it more widely read.
---
i got out!
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
passing time in oslo when the skies are gray, snowing, or listening to Norwegians lecture
O
S
L
O
S
K
E
T
C
H
E
S
*The Frenchman's beret and scarf were given to him by Alex. I think, yes, that they make the sketch.
---
some things are love love love.
black holes and revelations
Opened a bank account today downtown. Which, started out difficult because the man working didn't believe me that it was possible to apply for a Norwegian Social Security number at the bank itself. I told him, I did, that it is indeed possible, and got him to talk to the guy next to him. Who found my file. Then they had a clumsy moment bouncing around, looking through manilla folders, and calling another branch until they finally found my number. Now I have to take a file to school and the rest of my money will be freed up. Drop some nok bitches.
Alex and I made breakfast, Eggs, Bacon, Potatoes, Terrible Instant Coffee. But really Alex made it and I ate. Went exploring, found a fish store. The people working seemed pissed that we weren't buying any fish. So, Alex and I shrugged it off when an old man tried to talk to us in Norwegian about why we were in fish store. I think. Wandered, went down to the fjord and walked along. It was pretty with the gray sky. A dull yellow light fading down on the horizon and the ships all bobbing in the harbor, white and sitting on top of the dark gray with the lighter gray sky. So four layers of different light, one sitting on top of the other. I would have liked to sit to some jams and watched it get all dark and see the lights blink on all at once.
We went back over and found a bakery. Where, before, walking past it had been closing and there was nothing in the window but the chocolate fountain. Now, the place was packed. Like people's crack. Their bread is their life. I bought a giant loaf of sourdough bread which is called. Bread from the Alps. I got a baguette for tomorrow's breakfast, and a buttery croissant. I ordered a cup of black coffee and Alex checked out a Norwegian newspaper, I ate and we chilled on these old wooden stools and tables.
I wandered around afterwards. My roommates have left for Italy. I'm afraid my kitchen is going to fall in complete disarray while they are gone. There are some pictures I have taken. Broaden the images of what Norway is. I think, there was more. But I'm listening to The Roots, feeling summertime chill. All I'm missing is a forty and a car ride bumpin' to some tunes. Going someplace. Vegas time pools, high summer sun, sunglasses, party nights...chill.
Recycle
My P.O. Box. Where many awesome packages come to me
Poster for Party. I took it. Its chillin on my wall now.
A Popular Item
High Technology. 1000 kr, wtf?!
.t.v.
MANN MAGAZINE!
In Norway you return your bottles in these machines and then get like 1kr back for each bottle.
Norwegian Brown Cheese. I have some sitting my fridge. Its made from goats milk and is sweet. Its good stuff.
EasyDinner
Costco Styles
Shrimp
A mainstay. Does not sit well in the tomato sauce they pack it in.
Utang = Exit
Elevator
Bra's cause ultimate destruction with washer / dryers
Instructions 1
Instructions 2
Hand Washables
Dryers
Washer Lineup
Porthole
Photo in my kitchen
My giant sourdough
One day I looked out the window and the tree was full of these dark canary looking birds
---
my name is Goodkat. You can call me Mr. Goodkat.
Alex and I made breakfast, Eggs, Bacon, Potatoes, Terrible Instant Coffee. But really Alex made it and I ate. Went exploring, found a fish store. The people working seemed pissed that we weren't buying any fish. So, Alex and I shrugged it off when an old man tried to talk to us in Norwegian about why we were in fish store. I think. Wandered, went down to the fjord and walked along. It was pretty with the gray sky. A dull yellow light fading down on the horizon and the ships all bobbing in the harbor, white and sitting on top of the dark gray with the lighter gray sky. So four layers of different light, one sitting on top of the other. I would have liked to sit to some jams and watched it get all dark and see the lights blink on all at once.
We went back over and found a bakery. Where, before, walking past it had been closing and there was nothing in the window but the chocolate fountain. Now, the place was packed. Like people's crack. Their bread is their life. I bought a giant loaf of sourdough bread which is called. Bread from the Alps. I got a baguette for tomorrow's breakfast, and a buttery croissant. I ordered a cup of black coffee and Alex checked out a Norwegian newspaper, I ate and we chilled on these old wooden stools and tables.
I wandered around afterwards. My roommates have left for Italy. I'm afraid my kitchen is going to fall in complete disarray while they are gone. There are some pictures I have taken. Broaden the images of what Norway is. I think, there was more. But I'm listening to The Roots, feeling summertime chill. All I'm missing is a forty and a car ride bumpin' to some tunes. Going someplace. Vegas time pools, high summer sun, sunglasses, party nights...chill.
Recycle
My P.O. Box. Where many awesome packages come to me
Poster for Party. I took it. Its chillin on my wall now.
A Popular Item
High Technology. 1000 kr, wtf?!
.t.v.
MANN MAGAZINE!
In Norway you return your bottles in these machines and then get like 1kr back for each bottle.
Norwegian Brown Cheese. I have some sitting my fridge. Its made from goats milk and is sweet. Its good stuff.
EasyDinner
Costco Styles
Shrimp
A mainstay. Does not sit well in the tomato sauce they pack it in.
Utang = Exit
Elevator
Bra's cause ultimate destruction with washer / dryers
Instructions 1
Instructions 2
Hand Washables
Dryers
Washer Lineup
Porthole
Photo in my kitchen
My giant sourdough
One day I looked out the window and the tree was full of these dark canary looking birds---
my name is Goodkat. You can call me Mr. Goodkat.
Monday, February 26, 2007
ex-mossad are still mossad
Here, is a link to secret food menu items at various eating establishments. If you read digg, then you have most likely seen this, and can ignore my feeble attempt at spreading the word.
Enjoy the In-N-Out 100 x 100 creation.
---
trouble comes in 3's.
Enjoy the In-N-Out 100 x 100 creation.
---
trouble comes in 3's.
pass the northern lights
The sky is a constant gray. What is it now? Has it been snowing for 2 weeks? It hasn't stopped. Planning on going up to Tromso to see if I can catch the Aurora Borealis. I read that it ends around March. And in the summertime it is daylight almost all the time so its hard to see it with all the light. The only terrible thing would be spending this money flying up there, and it not occuring. The dangerous risk.
Norwegian Life and Society was painful. Sitting there going over Norwegian literary history, and then walking to the cafeteria to get some water. There are no water fountains. Alex told me this during our break. I was destroyed. I refuse to start going to the bathroom and drinking the water from the faucet. What am I, a heathen?
I went down to Garage last night around 9. Met up with Tori and saw Ratatat play. It was their last show for their European Tour and they seemed to be pretty excited. They played Wildcat, with a rawrrrr sound that comes in and hypes the crowd. Had a couple beers, chilled. I stood there with my eyes closed, let the sound envelop me. I always think of plasma or seeing red vibrations of the bass and the guitar drone covering my body while I stand there. And I like it when the lights change from red to a bright white and I feel like I am lifted on the ground for seconds. We had a good time. I was hyped on 'em after seeing them play. It was the best show I've been too in a long time.
I tried to buy a t-shirt, but didn't have any kroner so I tried paying in dollars. That didn't work out so well. Now Im hunting for a shirt elsewhere.
I can't seem to place why I keep pausing, like, I just get stopped. Lack of information, lack of anything. I need something to digest. I did my laundry yesterday. I have to say, laundry is the thing I hate most living in Kringsja. It becomes apparent really quick the crazy selfishness of people and their clothes. Because I don't care about waiting. So I will bring a book with me and sit on the cold tiles near the door and just watch everyone moving in and out. And I notice that they are all very impatient to get their shit cleaned.
1. If one is to leave their clothes in the washing machine after they are finished being washed, said clothes will be removed by the stranger fiending for the machine, then he \ she will stack them on top of the machine until one is to come back and find them all about.
2. There is a drastic shortage of dryers in every laundry building. And some dryers are inherently broken. No doubt, if they all worked, the smooth operation would confound the 80 year old mainteance workers that seem to enjoy eating cold cod from a tin can rather than move about inspecting hardware.
3. If one is able to secure a dryer or two for all the wet clothes one has in position, it is imperative that one devises a plan to protect the dryer. I find that placing a thick Dickens volume confuses the eager seekers. Who wish to open the dryer while it is still running, in hopes that your shit dryed miracuriously early, and they can then use the machine. With that book, they are unable to figure out what to do with the book. Where do I put this book? I don't know what the hell this means? And the mumble and move to another machine and anothe person's clothes.
4. People will take one's wet clothes and stack them on top of the dryer, then replace their clothes with theirs. And one will arrive at the scene and find wet clothes and no dryer. And no ability to be as terrible as the rest of the ghetto populace.
5. Vigiliance is key. I sit, I watch, I will read by my dryers until the clothes are dry. And then, the time comes when I have finished and I can leave and retreat to my room, to downtown, to anywhere that isn't the fucking laundry room!
I enjoy the fact that I can see across from the parking lot, over and into the large window that is the laundry room. I met two nice fellows from Zimbabwe. Both linguistic phd students. They imparted the following wisdom upon me.
"5 years is a large chunk out of any person's life." And they danced a bit to their cell phone ringtones and remarked that they are happy, all the time. And with wide grins they folded their clothes and departed to parts unknown.
I am terrified to walk outside and to the train back home. I declined Tori's invitiation to dinner. I realize now, sitting here in the computer room that this was a foolish decision. Because one, I do not cook. Nor do I attempt to cook. I leave that to others. My fascination with food involves eating it. Not preparing the dish. And she and Alex are both fine cooks. And I should realize that this is important, when someone is willing to cook a meal, the offer should always be accepted. Never refused. If there is no time to share a meal, there is no time for anything else. The other things cannot be as important.
I think constantly about returning. And with that same amount of time, in the other half of my brain, I think constantly about moving across Europe and discovering the many pleasures of the world. I thought best that smoking was good because it was a simple activity meant to occupy time when reading, when listening to a story, when talking to people. But the social aspects of smoking have fallen into decline. Smokers are regulated to the outside, and when it is not the summertime, this is definitely not a happy prospect--
An aside! There is a CHILD across from me typing. And he is trying to compete with my own typing, faster and faster. This, this blonde haired baby. But fuck that guy. With his young face and his glasses. I'll stop him with more words than he can muster. And take him weeping to the pole across, outside, freezing his tongue on the cold metal and mustering my courage to leave him there claiming that he should have never proposed such a challenge.
--But smoking, sadly, has lost its social appeal. I study Victorian Literature and very much want to smoke in a lodge somewhere listening to the ramblings of friends and townsfolk. But I don't know about any lodges, and I don't own a pipe. But I think of my Uncle Juandra. God I think I spelled that wrong. And I know he is keeping the smoking social pipe tradition alive.
Wildcats go rawr!
---
thank you very much. we are ratatat. let's dance!
Norwegian Life and Society was painful. Sitting there going over Norwegian literary history, and then walking to the cafeteria to get some water. There are no water fountains. Alex told me this during our break. I was destroyed. I refuse to start going to the bathroom and drinking the water from the faucet. What am I, a heathen?
I went down to Garage last night around 9. Met up with Tori and saw Ratatat play. It was their last show for their European Tour and they seemed to be pretty excited. They played Wildcat, with a rawrrrr sound that comes in and hypes the crowd. Had a couple beers, chilled. I stood there with my eyes closed, let the sound envelop me. I always think of plasma or seeing red vibrations of the bass and the guitar drone covering my body while I stand there. And I like it when the lights change from red to a bright white and I feel like I am lifted on the ground for seconds. We had a good time. I was hyped on 'em after seeing them play. It was the best show I've been too in a long time.
I tried to buy a t-shirt, but didn't have any kroner so I tried paying in dollars. That didn't work out so well. Now Im hunting for a shirt elsewhere.
I can't seem to place why I keep pausing, like, I just get stopped. Lack of information, lack of anything. I need something to digest. I did my laundry yesterday. I have to say, laundry is the thing I hate most living in Kringsja. It becomes apparent really quick the crazy selfishness of people and their clothes. Because I don't care about waiting. So I will bring a book with me and sit on the cold tiles near the door and just watch everyone moving in and out. And I notice that they are all very impatient to get their shit cleaned.
1. If one is to leave their clothes in the washing machine after they are finished being washed, said clothes will be removed by the stranger fiending for the machine, then he \ she will stack them on top of the machine until one is to come back and find them all about.
2. There is a drastic shortage of dryers in every laundry building. And some dryers are inherently broken. No doubt, if they all worked, the smooth operation would confound the 80 year old mainteance workers that seem to enjoy eating cold cod from a tin can rather than move about inspecting hardware.
3. If one is able to secure a dryer or two for all the wet clothes one has in position, it is imperative that one devises a plan to protect the dryer. I find that placing a thick Dickens volume confuses the eager seekers. Who wish to open the dryer while it is still running, in hopes that your shit dryed miracuriously early, and they can then use the machine. With that book, they are unable to figure out what to do with the book. Where do I put this book? I don't know what the hell this means? And the mumble and move to another machine and anothe person's clothes.
4. People will take one's wet clothes and stack them on top of the dryer, then replace their clothes with theirs. And one will arrive at the scene and find wet clothes and no dryer. And no ability to be as terrible as the rest of the ghetto populace.
5. Vigiliance is key. I sit, I watch, I will read by my dryers until the clothes are dry. And then, the time comes when I have finished and I can leave and retreat to my room, to downtown, to anywhere that isn't the fucking laundry room!
I enjoy the fact that I can see across from the parking lot, over and into the large window that is the laundry room. I met two nice fellows from Zimbabwe. Both linguistic phd students. They imparted the following wisdom upon me.
"5 years is a large chunk out of any person's life." And they danced a bit to their cell phone ringtones and remarked that they are happy, all the time. And with wide grins they folded their clothes and departed to parts unknown.
I am terrified to walk outside and to the train back home. I declined Tori's invitiation to dinner. I realize now, sitting here in the computer room that this was a foolish decision. Because one, I do not cook. Nor do I attempt to cook. I leave that to others. My fascination with food involves eating it. Not preparing the dish. And she and Alex are both fine cooks. And I should realize that this is important, when someone is willing to cook a meal, the offer should always be accepted. Never refused. If there is no time to share a meal, there is no time for anything else. The other things cannot be as important.
I think constantly about returning. And with that same amount of time, in the other half of my brain, I think constantly about moving across Europe and discovering the many pleasures of the world. I thought best that smoking was good because it was a simple activity meant to occupy time when reading, when listening to a story, when talking to people. But the social aspects of smoking have fallen into decline. Smokers are regulated to the outside, and when it is not the summertime, this is definitely not a happy prospect--
An aside! There is a CHILD across from me typing. And he is trying to compete with my own typing, faster and faster. This, this blonde haired baby. But fuck that guy. With his young face and his glasses. I'll stop him with more words than he can muster. And take him weeping to the pole across, outside, freezing his tongue on the cold metal and mustering my courage to leave him there claiming that he should have never proposed such a challenge.
--But smoking, sadly, has lost its social appeal. I study Victorian Literature and very much want to smoke in a lodge somewhere listening to the ramblings of friends and townsfolk. But I don't know about any lodges, and I don't own a pipe. But I think of my Uncle Juandra. God I think I spelled that wrong. And I know he is keeping the smoking social pipe tradition alive.
Wildcats go rawr!
---
thank you very much. we are ratatat. let's dance!
Saturday, February 24, 2007
can't finish what you start
I have a bad habit, on my off days, I wake up around noon, and then sit at my computer and after maybe 30 minutes to an hour, go back to bed and sleep another one to two hours. Waking up around 2 or 3--somewhere in the middle--then shower and return back to the computer wondering what it was I just did with all that time.
But most of the time I lie in bed and stare out the window thinking about stuff. Lately its been about writing. Where I'm exactly going with it? How it has developed, if its improving, if I have even have a future at it. And I've been able to talk to Jake a lot about some ideas and its been good. Especially looking back and past pieces and just talking them out makes me see what they were meant to be, what sort of stuff I was trying to address and figure out. And especially, looking back, I need to finish some things because its like I left a bunch of arguments just standing and they should be closed and put to a finale.
Went wandering with Alex today. I was feeling as the sky looks. And it was still snowing. With it blowing straight in our faces as we walked. Not the kind of snow that falls straight down. All of it can be akin to rain; the same way rain works, snow, but frozen. Right. But it was half slicing the air, and we were in the way. But all it takes is to button up the coat, put up the large collar, and shield to walk out further. We just took a direction neither of us had been and saw some nice apartments, and a gate. And we wondered, why is this gate here?
Is it to keep us out, or keep those people in? And we walked by various groups of kids that made me think of gangs. But they seemed uninterested and didn't say much. There was graffiti all over. Oslo I think is a haven for graffiti. Though most of it seems unimpressive, sometimes I will stumble across a really pretty wall.
I'm not so sure what else to address about the day. It seems uneventful in the words written down. But most of the time I was trying to shake sad feelings off my shoulders from a short story. But I think rather, it was never much to begin with. Sometimes these things work themselves into better works. And the final scene is still powerful; regardless of the rest.
I was able to witness an old couple on the train. His face was bright red, matching his jacket. And him and his wife were funny trying to figure out how to stack their skies next to each other on the train. They were clean from the cold, and their faces tight even though wrinkly and old. They managed. And they smiled as I watched them; they were sitting across and facing us. But I was half shielded by a plastic partition.
And for a while I sat there, and her cheeks were sallow and she seemed more grounded. They had matching scarves in style. But the colors were different. His was red and hers was blue. And he would look out at nothing and seem completely lost. As if he was floating above the sky, on a red cloud, trying to find a place to land. And she would grab his hand and smile at him and he would return to this planet. Those two, they complimented each other in this strange way. And I thought that this is the best kind of woman and the best kind of man. Knowing full well that each of their intentions is good and ethical. He needed her to keep himself grounded and in this reality. And she was practical and functional, but needed the air of a dreamer to keep herself from falling into a pit of darkness. And together they were perfect; and they would smile back and forth at each other. As we disembarked and walked up the stairs and away from them and his floating cloud and her blue earth.
We found a local watering hole. The bartender tried to help us, but he didn't speak any English and I tried explaining to him that I wanted some food. But he smiled and went back into the kitchen looking for someone who spoke English. Though when the waitress appeared, her English was rather broken and I pointed to Alex and told her that she spoke some Norwegian, and got Alex to practice from what she had learned in her language class. It was really cool seeing her speak in their tongue.
I ordered a bacon, egg, toast, salad, potato meal and a large beer in one of those large glasses. The golden color and foam sitting on top. Alex ordered a beer and I wrote for a bit in one of my notebooks until the meal came. Alex watched downhill skiing from the booth and then a kids show. Where the kids were all trying to get sick because their friend was sick. It was funny hearing the kids over the television. The meal was good and cheap. And the beer was the cheapest that we have ever found. And every ten minutes a classic rock song from America's past way long ago would pipe through over the speakers.
We took the train back and managed to come back and I laid in bed in the dark listening to music and thinking about friends and all my family and In-N-Out hamburgers; the great bright sun and drinking a bottle of wine on the patio with the burning night sunset sky.
---
frances mckee took a gun,
and she pointed it at her man.
she let the bullet rip through his chest,
watching him fall to the ground.
then did the same to her own frozen little heart,
and that was the way that frances mckee died.
But most of the time I lie in bed and stare out the window thinking about stuff. Lately its been about writing. Where I'm exactly going with it? How it has developed, if its improving, if I have even have a future at it. And I've been able to talk to Jake a lot about some ideas and its been good. Especially looking back and past pieces and just talking them out makes me see what they were meant to be, what sort of stuff I was trying to address and figure out. And especially, looking back, I need to finish some things because its like I left a bunch of arguments just standing and they should be closed and put to a finale.
Went wandering with Alex today. I was feeling as the sky looks. And it was still snowing. With it blowing straight in our faces as we walked. Not the kind of snow that falls straight down. All of it can be akin to rain; the same way rain works, snow, but frozen. Right. But it was half slicing the air, and we were in the way. But all it takes is to button up the coat, put up the large collar, and shield to walk out further. We just took a direction neither of us had been and saw some nice apartments, and a gate. And we wondered, why is this gate here?
Is it to keep us out, or keep those people in? And we walked by various groups of kids that made me think of gangs. But they seemed uninterested and didn't say much. There was graffiti all over. Oslo I think is a haven for graffiti. Though most of it seems unimpressive, sometimes I will stumble across a really pretty wall.
I'm not so sure what else to address about the day. It seems uneventful in the words written down. But most of the time I was trying to shake sad feelings off my shoulders from a short story. But I think rather, it was never much to begin with. Sometimes these things work themselves into better works. And the final scene is still powerful; regardless of the rest.
I was able to witness an old couple on the train. His face was bright red, matching his jacket. And him and his wife were funny trying to figure out how to stack their skies next to each other on the train. They were clean from the cold, and their faces tight even though wrinkly and old. They managed. And they smiled as I watched them; they were sitting across and facing us. But I was half shielded by a plastic partition.
And for a while I sat there, and her cheeks were sallow and she seemed more grounded. They had matching scarves in style. But the colors were different. His was red and hers was blue. And he would look out at nothing and seem completely lost. As if he was floating above the sky, on a red cloud, trying to find a place to land. And she would grab his hand and smile at him and he would return to this planet. Those two, they complimented each other in this strange way. And I thought that this is the best kind of woman and the best kind of man. Knowing full well that each of their intentions is good and ethical. He needed her to keep himself grounded and in this reality. And she was practical and functional, but needed the air of a dreamer to keep herself from falling into a pit of darkness. And together they were perfect; and they would smile back and forth at each other. As we disembarked and walked up the stairs and away from them and his floating cloud and her blue earth.
We found a local watering hole. The bartender tried to help us, but he didn't speak any English and I tried explaining to him that I wanted some food. But he smiled and went back into the kitchen looking for someone who spoke English. Though when the waitress appeared, her English was rather broken and I pointed to Alex and told her that she spoke some Norwegian, and got Alex to practice from what she had learned in her language class. It was really cool seeing her speak in their tongue.
I ordered a bacon, egg, toast, salad, potato meal and a large beer in one of those large glasses. The golden color and foam sitting on top. Alex ordered a beer and I wrote for a bit in one of my notebooks until the meal came. Alex watched downhill skiing from the booth and then a kids show. Where the kids were all trying to get sick because their friend was sick. It was funny hearing the kids over the television. The meal was good and cheap. And the beer was the cheapest that we have ever found. And every ten minutes a classic rock song from America's past way long ago would pipe through over the speakers.
We took the train back and managed to come back and I laid in bed in the dark listening to music and thinking about friends and all my family and In-N-Out hamburgers; the great bright sun and drinking a bottle of wine on the patio with the burning night sunset sky.
---
frances mckee took a gun,
and she pointed it at her man.
she let the bullet rip through his chest,
watching him fall to the ground.
then did the same to her own frozen little heart,
and that was the way that frances mckee died.
Friday, February 23, 2007
I was reading John Stuart Mill up at the sledge lodge house / cafe this afternoon and I started to think over an idea Tom asked a while back about whether if there was this hypothetical / perfect AI, would I let it govern me. And would it be good to let it govern the populace. And everything would be fair and perfect, etc. Something along those lines. Basically though, I just started forming some questions. But I don't know much about AI programming, or the concept as a whole; so the questions and ideas I am asking may seem silly or just bad questions. But I want to think it out at least in my capabilities and this is where I do that. In w-o-r-d-s.
So first, and maybe this goes along with some Descartes, as I've been reading some things Tom writes or remembering what we studied about him in philosophy when I took that class with Belarmino.
As imperfect beings, we still have the ability to comprehend and create logical statements that don't collapse within themselves. What I'm going at is, is it possible with our imperfections, but ability to understand our imperfections, to create an Artificial Intelligence that won't completely ruin mankind. I mean, is it inherently possible. Because at this point I'm not really doubting mankind's ability to progress, but more like, is it possible to do it with our being imperfect and we are trying to make something more than us; something that we are giving all the power to rule us and make our decisions for us.
It came up in my mind because Mill states that individuality is the highest state a person can achieve. And further, he goes on discussing that there are geniuses--people of high intelligence--that sort of help our society move forward, and it is this power of their individuality that is important. And with a machine ruling over us, it would kill our ability to move forward. Rather, we are more or less meaningless if we strip our ability to make decisions, whether good and bad. Not that I'm going at the idea that we all have free will. I totally agree to the idea that we don't. But more that I am thinking that by giving up that power of our 'selves', we lose a quality of humanity, and therefore, are more like animals, as Mill would probably say it.
And then, is it integral that we create an emotional response in this AI. Is emotion something that needs to exist in a ruling the individual. Does it play an important role in the decision making process? Or is cold logic that smartest move?
Tom was discussing the idea that we are sometimes faced with choices that are both negative. And one must make a decision, where neither outcome is good. That a 'dilemma' is presented, with no good way out. I hope I got the gist of that right. And if thats the case, is it then solved logically, or emotionally. And how would this AI deal with such a situation. Will it simply do the greatest good for the greatest amount (Utilitarianism), or will it make a decision on some other basis. I'm really curious as to how the AI would be programmed in that aspect. Or would it simply give up, not being able to harm anything or anyone in the first place.
Then I started thinking, if I were this super powerful smart AI, would I want to know what emotion is like. These people that created me, created me simply because their emotions (greed, jealously, hate, anger, love) were creating situations that weren't fair, or were dangerous to humankind. As a machine would I endeavor to understand that. Would I want emotion. Or would that want even exist with a lack of? Would it have a want of all knowledge. It seems that that would be an important part if we were to classify the machine as intelligent. But maybe not. It needs something rather than following a giant tree of information to a right or wrong decision doesn't it? Can't we do that now?
And then, Mill states that democracy is a problem because it ends up being that people are ruled by a mob; and that this mob becomes stagnant and loses any sense of individuality and then any sense of progress because it begins to follow a routine. The whole thing withers and dies like a thing that never gets fresh air and soon poisons itself.
That instead, there are always, in every generation, a select few that are intelligent and wise enough to be leaders of the rest of the people. And that these people should rule over the people. But how do we know that these people are being just and fair, and good in everything they do. That they aren't simply seeking terrible things.
But mostly that got me thinking to the idea that are these select few that Mill talks about, are they the ones programming the AI? Because, it seems that only those people of high intelligence and individuality would be able to create something greater than themselves in the first place.
And then that got me to my final thought, that if they indeed are the only ones capable of creating it, and they indeed do, they have infused in this creature--'being'--their very essence, or thoughts and conclusions on what is necessary to properly govern and control society. And then if that is the case, hasn't Mill's idea then just come to fruition in some strange ass way.
I thought it was kind of neat. But it feels rushed and its probably full of holes. I can't follow logic too well, and the ideas are scattered. But those are just questions I had regarding the issue. More like, the possibility of such a thing ever existing. And then what is this 'AI' going to be.
I really enjoy John Stuart Mill though, and can see the attractive lure in what he writes. Especially reading parts of his autobiography and him becoming completely depressed and even suicidal when he realizes that Utilitarianism is totally wrong and now what is he going to believe this late in his life when he has been so adamant about his father's teachings for so long.
---
more than i, i live on the inside.
and its beautiful.
but every once in the while, i like to watch the dying autumn light.
So first, and maybe this goes along with some Descartes, as I've been reading some things Tom writes or remembering what we studied about him in philosophy when I took that class with Belarmino.
As imperfect beings, we still have the ability to comprehend and create logical statements that don't collapse within themselves. What I'm going at is, is it possible with our imperfections, but ability to understand our imperfections, to create an Artificial Intelligence that won't completely ruin mankind. I mean, is it inherently possible. Because at this point I'm not really doubting mankind's ability to progress, but more like, is it possible to do it with our being imperfect and we are trying to make something more than us; something that we are giving all the power to rule us and make our decisions for us.
It came up in my mind because Mill states that individuality is the highest state a person can achieve. And further, he goes on discussing that there are geniuses--people of high intelligence--that sort of help our society move forward, and it is this power of their individuality that is important. And with a machine ruling over us, it would kill our ability to move forward. Rather, we are more or less meaningless if we strip our ability to make decisions, whether good and bad. Not that I'm going at the idea that we all have free will. I totally agree to the idea that we don't. But more that I am thinking that by giving up that power of our 'selves', we lose a quality of humanity, and therefore, are more like animals, as Mill would probably say it.
And then, is it integral that we create an emotional response in this AI. Is emotion something that needs to exist in a ruling the individual. Does it play an important role in the decision making process? Or is cold logic that smartest move?
Tom was discussing the idea that we are sometimes faced with choices that are both negative. And one must make a decision, where neither outcome is good. That a 'dilemma' is presented, with no good way out. I hope I got the gist of that right. And if thats the case, is it then solved logically, or emotionally. And how would this AI deal with such a situation. Will it simply do the greatest good for the greatest amount (Utilitarianism), or will it make a decision on some other basis. I'm really curious as to how the AI would be programmed in that aspect. Or would it simply give up, not being able to harm anything or anyone in the first place.
Then I started thinking, if I were this super powerful smart AI, would I want to know what emotion is like. These people that created me, created me simply because their emotions (greed, jealously, hate, anger, love) were creating situations that weren't fair, or were dangerous to humankind. As a machine would I endeavor to understand that. Would I want emotion. Or would that want even exist with a lack of? Would it have a want of all knowledge. It seems that that would be an important part if we were to classify the machine as intelligent. But maybe not. It needs something rather than following a giant tree of information to a right or wrong decision doesn't it? Can't we do that now?
And then, Mill states that democracy is a problem because it ends up being that people are ruled by a mob; and that this mob becomes stagnant and loses any sense of individuality and then any sense of progress because it begins to follow a routine. The whole thing withers and dies like a thing that never gets fresh air and soon poisons itself.
That instead, there are always, in every generation, a select few that are intelligent and wise enough to be leaders of the rest of the people. And that these people should rule over the people. But how do we know that these people are being just and fair, and good in everything they do. That they aren't simply seeking terrible things.
But mostly that got me thinking to the idea that are these select few that Mill talks about, are they the ones programming the AI? Because, it seems that only those people of high intelligence and individuality would be able to create something greater than themselves in the first place.
And then that got me to my final thought, that if they indeed are the only ones capable of creating it, and they indeed do, they have infused in this creature--'being'--their very essence, or thoughts and conclusions on what is necessary to properly govern and control society. And then if that is the case, hasn't Mill's idea then just come to fruition in some strange ass way.
I thought it was kind of neat. But it feels rushed and its probably full of holes. I can't follow logic too well, and the ideas are scattered. But those are just questions I had regarding the issue. More like, the possibility of such a thing ever existing. And then what is this 'AI' going to be.
I really enjoy John Stuart Mill though, and can see the attractive lure in what he writes. Especially reading parts of his autobiography and him becoming completely depressed and even suicidal when he realizes that Utilitarianism is totally wrong and now what is he going to believe this late in his life when he has been so adamant about his father's teachings for so long.
---
more than i, i live on the inside.
and its beautiful.
but every once in the while, i like to watch the dying autumn light.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
a visit
I've bought my ticket to London. I'll be leaving March 4th and coming back to Oslo on March 11th. I have been wanting to visit Reim and get out of here for a while. So its going to be nice. And I also want to fly to Scotland while I'm there since I have a week of free time. Its snowing out right now, and the weather is negative something. So its going to be a very nice change, familiar faces.
I ran into the Oren and some other kids from Spain on the train going home from school. And it was strange, talking to one of them, I don't remember his name, he told me how into Virginia Woolf he was; how much he loved the feminist movement. And I had never expected it, or him to come out with something like that. So we talked a little about it. As much as I could in my broken ass Spanish. And I met some lovely French girls and did the whole European kiss the cheek thing. Which always seems odd to me. I need to find someone French who is willing to embark to France with me in June. I plan on getting my ticket soon. Marseilles, Paris, Normandy. And I am very afraid that my lack of French is going to be a serious disability.
And I must try and figure out more with my trip. Great Expectations is going by quickly. I am really enjoying Dickens. I think the way he forges sentences together is beautiful. And strangely, I feel that Tom writes similar to Dickens. Minus the English vernacular, the way sentences are constructed, flow, and how everything falls in place. With the curious added elements that add surprise and style, and create a sort of character that is unique in its own. But thats how I feel and I'm not a master at studying style. I like it though. Akin to why I enjoy reading Tom's posts; Dickens is a wonderful foray in Victorian culture and society and he is exciting and the characters breathe. Deep in marshes and cities and they get boxed in and cry by breweries and find themselves in the strangest but least harmful of situations. Wrapped up in a plight that this age is dying and the factories are slowly polluting the beautiful.
I think I lost myself somewhere in there. My back hurts sitting in this terrible chair.
That bird is always there.
---
live from the concertgebouw
I ran into the Oren and some other kids from Spain on the train going home from school. And it was strange, talking to one of them, I don't remember his name, he told me how into Virginia Woolf he was; how much he loved the feminist movement. And I had never expected it, or him to come out with something like that. So we talked a little about it. As much as I could in my broken ass Spanish. And I met some lovely French girls and did the whole European kiss the cheek thing. Which always seems odd to me. I need to find someone French who is willing to embark to France with me in June. I plan on getting my ticket soon. Marseilles, Paris, Normandy. And I am very afraid that my lack of French is going to be a serious disability.
And I must try and figure out more with my trip. Great Expectations is going by quickly. I am really enjoying Dickens. I think the way he forges sentences together is beautiful. And strangely, I feel that Tom writes similar to Dickens. Minus the English vernacular, the way sentences are constructed, flow, and how everything falls in place. With the curious added elements that add surprise and style, and create a sort of character that is unique in its own. But thats how I feel and I'm not a master at studying style. I like it though. Akin to why I enjoy reading Tom's posts; Dickens is a wonderful foray in Victorian culture and society and he is exciting and the characters breathe. Deep in marshes and cities and they get boxed in and cry by breweries and find themselves in the strangest but least harmful of situations. Wrapped up in a plight that this age is dying and the factories are slowly polluting the beautiful.
I think I lost myself somewhere in there. My back hurts sitting in this terrible chair.
That bird is always there.
---
live from the concertgebouw
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
autumn died pressing the last bits of cider
I've looked at my final exam schedule. And I realize that I'm done with school on the 29th of May. That's my final exam, so I've written down a list of places I want to go to before I head home.
Amsterdam
London (visit Reim)
Edinburgh
Marseilles
Paris
Barcelona
If anyone has any recommendations or advice with those places. Where to stay, what to see, any connections. Comment. I think I may be going to Amsterdam in March, otherwise I'm not completely sure when I'm going to get this all sorted.
Spent Chinese New Year with my Singapore roommates. They invited a bunch of people from their University over here to the flat for a massive feast. Their friends were mostly all from Hong Kong, except one gent, who, was from Taiwan.
New Year!
Hungry Asians
They had a hot pot going and were just tossing fish, pork, beef, tofu, lettuce, crab, bean sprouts, and a bunch of other stuff I can't remember. I met some cool people.
Did some reading today. Got into Great Expectations. Excited about traveling and exploring some of mainland Europe. Just getting out of Oslo I think will be very nice. Its so small that you don't need long to explore a lot of the place. Plus it will be warmer in some of those other places. Especially as Spring and Summer roll on in.
Other than that stuff has been pretty uneventful. This morning there was a cluster of small canaries in the tree outside of my window. Its been snowing pretty steadily the past week. The sun has been a no show everyday. I don't really think about it anymore. The cold has become the same way. Classes are pretty boring. I finished my short story A Partial Death and am revising it a bit more before I try sending it out and seeing what happens.
I woke up one morning--I forget when--and I looked out from my bed and the window was pure white. I thought I was inside a tv and went back to sleep. The fog was so thick that every building had vanished. There were a couple days of neat fog rolling past the mountains and into Kringsja.
Tori is an endless source of entertainment. Hopefully she can get off work and we can all bound away to Amsterdam. I want to drive across Australia in her massive adventure trip of 2008. Maybe, we'll see. Alex is playing Sudoku on my bed and the day has been slow and I slept until 3.
May the force be with you.
---
presenting, the sexy, Beardo!
Amsterdam
London (visit Reim)
Edinburgh
Marseilles
Paris
Barcelona
If anyone has any recommendations or advice with those places. Where to stay, what to see, any connections. Comment. I think I may be going to Amsterdam in March, otherwise I'm not completely sure when I'm going to get this all sorted.
Spent Chinese New Year with my Singapore roommates. They invited a bunch of people from their University over here to the flat for a massive feast. Their friends were mostly all from Hong Kong, except one gent, who, was from Taiwan.
New Year!
Hungry AsiansThey had a hot pot going and were just tossing fish, pork, beef, tofu, lettuce, crab, bean sprouts, and a bunch of other stuff I can't remember. I met some cool people.
Did some reading today. Got into Great Expectations. Excited about traveling and exploring some of mainland Europe. Just getting out of Oslo I think will be very nice. Its so small that you don't need long to explore a lot of the place. Plus it will be warmer in some of those other places. Especially as Spring and Summer roll on in.
Other than that stuff has been pretty uneventful. This morning there was a cluster of small canaries in the tree outside of my window. Its been snowing pretty steadily the past week. The sun has been a no show everyday. I don't really think about it anymore. The cold has become the same way. Classes are pretty boring. I finished my short story A Partial Death and am revising it a bit more before I try sending it out and seeing what happens.
I woke up one morning--I forget when--and I looked out from my bed and the window was pure white. I thought I was inside a tv and went back to sleep. The fog was so thick that every building had vanished. There were a couple days of neat fog rolling past the mountains and into Kringsja.
Tori is an endless source of entertainment. Hopefully she can get off work and we can all bound away to Amsterdam. I want to drive across Australia in her massive adventure trip of 2008. Maybe, we'll see. Alex is playing Sudoku on my bed and the day has been slow and I slept until 3.
May the force be with you.
---
presenting, the sexy, Beardo!
Saturday, February 17, 2007
you shouldn't throw your fists, they'll get caught in someone's face
Opened my window today and could smell cigarettes. The fog is rolling in and the building across from me is covered. Or was. Now that haze of daylight is gone and its just dark with the lamps all lit up. So the fog is less defined. Haven't eaten yet. I have a pizza in the oven. My roommates are doing Chinese New Year celebrations tonight so that should be really cool. They have this giant hot pot ready and all kinds of different food they are going to cook. Reminds me of my mom's potlucks and parties back home where there is just all this amazing food.
Yesterday I spent my time sitting in various hovels. Not really. Shoe stores. Watching Alex attempt to find a pair of boots to replace her broken down Uggs. She found a pair. They are badass. End of that.
We drank for a while in my room watching Jackass 2. Then in a hurry she saw the time and we caught the last train going towards downtown. I was in a t-shirt with my coat. And the cold after the end of the night sucked. I remember collapsing in my bed and just grabbing the blanket. Because its been raining for two days now. Just a fine drizzle, the accompanied mist, with the snow melting and all the sounds are just water sloshing around feet or running through gutters into the Oslo sewers back out in the fjord.
We ran into some kids from Barcelona. They took us to a neat club. Except I felt like I was in a scene in Bladerunner. And Alex felt like she was in a shitty 70's movie.
The place was mostly red. With deep lights and a dance floor that was separated by a small wall and pillars shooting up to what must have been shitty apartments inhabited by immigrants trying to sleep. There was a slow moving disco ball and the place was packed. The bar was cut up into sections and the bathroom reminded me of bathrooms in Colombia. Where there are windows to the outside and up high you can peek out to the floor of the city above you. It was all semi-underground. Then there were high stools and people standing around, sitting. All drinking. I danced horribly with Alex for a while.
Then I decided I had had enough of all the atmosphere and everything and sat outside on a windowsill of the club listening to the droves of people milling around smoking and chatting. Some drunk girl came up to me. "I know you. We've met." No I told her and she looked at me blankly. Then sort of seemed pissed and smoked a cigarette trying real hard to avoid me. In my t-shirt sitting in the drizzling rain while loud dance music pumped out from the turntables, through speakers, out doors.
After I a while I got too cold and headed back inside. Foregoing smoking. As cool as it is. I watched the crowd increase in size and passed some words back and forth with some people. Then Alex and I headed out after retrieving our coats.
We started walking out and ran into a bunch of street kids. A Norwegian street gang. And they were running around really quickly, tagging anything that was readily available and markable with white markers. Their gang name or sign. They yelled something out to Alex in Norwegian. They had some conversation which turned to English. And we watched them tag some stuff up before heading away. Went down to Elm Street where there was a happening crowd. But by this time I was done. Didn't drink after having too many beers already. Eventually we left, headed to the night bus. Dug around in the recesses of my mind while passing by the city and its lights. I was tired and sick of the world by the time we got off the bus and walked a little bit towards our housing area. Then, stumbled into my room and read some news online and fell asleep to Max Ritcher's Blue Notebooks album.
And there is a trumpet player who stands on top of some newspaper coin kiosks. He stands up there and bellows out music from his trumpet for all of downtown to here. Its really amazing. Hopefully I can catch a video of him next time I'm down there.
---
featuring teenage suicide riot and blanket verses
Yesterday I spent my time sitting in various hovels. Not really. Shoe stores. Watching Alex attempt to find a pair of boots to replace her broken down Uggs. She found a pair. They are badass. End of that.
We drank for a while in my room watching Jackass 2. Then in a hurry she saw the time and we caught the last train going towards downtown. I was in a t-shirt with my coat. And the cold after the end of the night sucked. I remember collapsing in my bed and just grabbing the blanket. Because its been raining for two days now. Just a fine drizzle, the accompanied mist, with the snow melting and all the sounds are just water sloshing around feet or running through gutters into the Oslo sewers back out in the fjord.
We ran into some kids from Barcelona. They took us to a neat club. Except I felt like I was in a scene in Bladerunner. And Alex felt like she was in a shitty 70's movie.
The place was mostly red. With deep lights and a dance floor that was separated by a small wall and pillars shooting up to what must have been shitty apartments inhabited by immigrants trying to sleep. There was a slow moving disco ball and the place was packed. The bar was cut up into sections and the bathroom reminded me of bathrooms in Colombia. Where there are windows to the outside and up high you can peek out to the floor of the city above you. It was all semi-underground. Then there were high stools and people standing around, sitting. All drinking. I danced horribly with Alex for a while.
Then I decided I had had enough of all the atmosphere and everything and sat outside on a windowsill of the club listening to the droves of people milling around smoking and chatting. Some drunk girl came up to me. "I know you. We've met." No I told her and she looked at me blankly. Then sort of seemed pissed and smoked a cigarette trying real hard to avoid me. In my t-shirt sitting in the drizzling rain while loud dance music pumped out from the turntables, through speakers, out doors.
After I a while I got too cold and headed back inside. Foregoing smoking. As cool as it is. I watched the crowd increase in size and passed some words back and forth with some people. Then Alex and I headed out after retrieving our coats.
We started walking out and ran into a bunch of street kids. A Norwegian street gang. And they were running around really quickly, tagging anything that was readily available and markable with white markers. Their gang name or sign. They yelled something out to Alex in Norwegian. They had some conversation which turned to English. And we watched them tag some stuff up before heading away. Went down to Elm Street where there was a happening crowd. But by this time I was done. Didn't drink after having too many beers already. Eventually we left, headed to the night bus. Dug around in the recesses of my mind while passing by the city and its lights. I was tired and sick of the world by the time we got off the bus and walked a little bit towards our housing area. Then, stumbled into my room and read some news online and fell asleep to Max Ritcher's Blue Notebooks album.
And there is a trumpet player who stands on top of some newspaper coin kiosks. He stands up there and bellows out music from his trumpet for all of downtown to here. Its really amazing. Hopefully I can catch a video of him next time I'm down there.
---
featuring teenage suicide riot and blanket verses
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Weeping Norway
Gypsy Player
I've opened my window to let the outside in. I bought a loaf of fresh bread at the supermarket and cut some of it up into slices, put butter on it, and sat by my desk reading and drinking orange juice. I walked outside this morning.
Norway was weeping, crying softly with her head resting on the sky and tears falling. A gentle mist fell down onto everything while I walked out and its still there now. Like some Viking King from long ago died and all the people, his knights and servants and all the village; his queen and family, they traipsed along the path towards the fjord and set him off on his floating funeral pyre. With the flames crackling in the mist that surrounded them and gentle rain and snow falling onto their worn faces and lips. It seemed he floated away and died forgotten, leaving behind only a kingdom lost in time.
And I've opened my window to let it all come inside and gently drift in and cover my room. Hovering over the purple flowers near my desk, then sitting on the wooden frame of my bed, like lots of friends piled up and talking away. When I was walking towards the train the silence was cracked only by the birds shrieking among the pines and the sound of snow lightly being crunched.
My favorite part of Thursday is waiting outside the cafeteria in the snow for Alex. Under the balcony and the band comes out of nowhere. These players seem like they are part of an existential play; for no reason, the drummer, the trombone, the trumpet, and flute player; with their conductor, begin to play an assortment of song and melodies. And I stand and watch them as people smoke and talk and it all seems like its the silliest thing. To play in the cold as people move about their business. But they stand there every Thursday doing that. And when I finish lunch with Alex, moving back outside, they have disappeared. Returning to wherever. To another Thursday. Music for the sake of people, and for the sake of their worldly delight in playing.
Each day, walking up to campus from the train station, there are accordion players--like gypsies--that play and leave a cigar box open for spare kroner. Thats what the short video opening it all up is. As you wake up and read this, or commence through the day; this is somewhat how my day begins. Listening to the accordion players. Trudging up the hill to class.
Yesterday I met up with Alex at school. She wanted a milkshake. So we went down riding the full train towards Central Station and then detoured to a bunch of places: The Nokia kiosk, Spaceworld, and Carlings. I bought some jeans and we found the old ice cream / malt shop they built in Oslo in the 50's. Unfortunately for Alex, Norwegians aren't too keen on that whole 50's American culture and when we walked into the den / bar, the supposed to be soda-jerk offered us beer and liquor and unfortunately declined to use his broken milkshake machine to make Alex a milk shake.
We took the tram towards Grunerloka and walked around. Stumbled into the Memphis Cafe.
"Maybe they have 'em here. Its Memphis," and I pointed towards the sign. "Prolly but bourbon in 'em or something. Southern style."
However, they did not make 'em, not even with some bourbon; though there was a counter that seemed to serve the purpose, and from here, Alex was defeated. We met up with Tori who stumbled along and out of a tram and gave us each a free danish for Valentines Day from her work. Then found a good sushi place and sat down.
I listened to more of their Copenhagen stories and ordered a plate of different sushis. Had a Kirin beer and then we walked back, looked for an open coffee shop. Tori had left a while ago. We failed at that. Stopped at one of the convenience store deli's. Deli de' Luca. I tried getting coffee twice. Couldn't figure out the machine. It all smelled burnt and like it had been sitting there all day without being changed. Declined. Alex got a giant chocolate marshmallow bar. We sat upstairs where I almost fell asleep. I saw the craziest Japanese, gangster, yakuza. He was dressed all in black, slicked back black hair, shiny-black-pointy-boots, and a big-black jacket. He was tough. Too tough. I let him take the paper that was sitting on the table we were hanging out at. He had a coffee. Must have been straight black.
I went to a Metal Show the night before. We were supposed to see Necrophagist. Alex was pissed when we got to Garage and they had canceled. So instead it was Origin and Misery Index. Garage is a bar upstairs and if you take a right instead of a left at the entrance it takes these stairs down and into this underground venue. Another bar and a small stage. The whole show felt like there were a bunch of Jimmy's standing around, moshing, enjoying the metal. Except Norwegian and almost all of them with super long death hair. I also checked out Alex's sweet metal dance moves. Which, later, realized, they were exactly like Jay's in Clerks when he is standing outside the Quickstop and dancing, cursing, with the music coming out of the boom-box.
At school, on Tuesday there was a fire-alarm / drill. I haven't been in one of those since high school. And it was the most relaxed one I've ever been in. Strangely, it went off, and everyone sort of sat there looking at each other, like deciding whether they were going to listen to it or just keep talking. And earlier in the month while sitting in reception I overhead the girl at the counter on the phone trying to explain to someone in one of the buildings here at Kringsja that yes, the buzzing means there is a fire, and that yes, that means you have to leave the building even if you don't want to. Because the fire department is coming.
With our fire drill everyone just stood around, putting on their coats, gathering all their stuff, and then walking outside to the front of the building. Then people just started to smoke and talk while others wandered off to get free waffles or go get slices of pizza over at the cafeteria. The 'fire squad' was five old guys who seemed to be in it only because they got to wear cool orange vests. The stood around laughing and looking at each other's vests in pride. At some point two firemen came by after about fifteen minutes, looked at everyone, then went inside, turned the alarm off, and left. It was like a lunch break. And later half the group was just missing, we considered them the ones who made a break for it.
As for that, I was walking along the path in the snow and thought to myself I enjoy being someplace completely different. And the cold didn't bite today. I rather like the mist and fog. Hearing the screech of birds. But I'm tired. And now my room is covered in a light fog that I've let creep in through the window. My notebooks and change are all scattered around my simple desk. My hallway is covered in a wash of water; my roommate doesn't dry off, he just showers quickly and decides to spread himself all over the floor in dripping water. There is a terrible muted feeling when I step on the damp and wet spots and it surfaces slowly in my face; but there is nothing to shout about. There is a strange song and dance we play. I'll enter a room, close the door, and then hear him exit the room, then leave the place. So forth, as we are always within seconds of seeing one and other, but never do. Like the whole split personality thing. The other part of me is living in the room next door. And if thats the case then fuck him. Because he sucks at toweling off.
And there is water and a fjord near the city, across from the theater's, where there are fishermen and always, sitting on the dock, there are small whitecaps and birds careening in the sky; one can sit and watch and eat a sandwich with a coffee and wander their thoughts aimlessly in the mist and fog and surrounding white of the day.
Forgotten Milkshake bar
SpaceWorld has WoW Night Elf Statues
And Again
Burning Crusade All Over!
Evangelical Coming to Campus
Origin Proclaiming the Abyss is Opening or Fuck You to the Crowd. He speaks to demons.
A picture of where I got my hair cut at night since its next to Garage
String of bars going towards Karl Johan's Gate
I've opened my window to let the outside in. I bought a loaf of fresh bread at the supermarket and cut some of it up into slices, put butter on it, and sat by my desk reading and drinking orange juice. I walked outside this morning.
Norway was weeping, crying softly with her head resting on the sky and tears falling. A gentle mist fell down onto everything while I walked out and its still there now. Like some Viking King from long ago died and all the people, his knights and servants and all the village; his queen and family, they traipsed along the path towards the fjord and set him off on his floating funeral pyre. With the flames crackling in the mist that surrounded them and gentle rain and snow falling onto their worn faces and lips. It seemed he floated away and died forgotten, leaving behind only a kingdom lost in time.
And I've opened my window to let it all come inside and gently drift in and cover my room. Hovering over the purple flowers near my desk, then sitting on the wooden frame of my bed, like lots of friends piled up and talking away. When I was walking towards the train the silence was cracked only by the birds shrieking among the pines and the sound of snow lightly being crunched.
My favorite part of Thursday is waiting outside the cafeteria in the snow for Alex. Under the balcony and the band comes out of nowhere. These players seem like they are part of an existential play; for no reason, the drummer, the trombone, the trumpet, and flute player; with their conductor, begin to play an assortment of song and melodies. And I stand and watch them as people smoke and talk and it all seems like its the silliest thing. To play in the cold as people move about their business. But they stand there every Thursday doing that. And when I finish lunch with Alex, moving back outside, they have disappeared. Returning to wherever. To another Thursday. Music for the sake of people, and for the sake of their worldly delight in playing.
Each day, walking up to campus from the train station, there are accordion players--like gypsies--that play and leave a cigar box open for spare kroner. Thats what the short video opening it all up is. As you wake up and read this, or commence through the day; this is somewhat how my day begins. Listening to the accordion players. Trudging up the hill to class.
Yesterday I met up with Alex at school. She wanted a milkshake. So we went down riding the full train towards Central Station and then detoured to a bunch of places: The Nokia kiosk, Spaceworld, and Carlings. I bought some jeans and we found the old ice cream / malt shop they built in Oslo in the 50's. Unfortunately for Alex, Norwegians aren't too keen on that whole 50's American culture and when we walked into the den / bar, the supposed to be soda-jerk offered us beer and liquor and unfortunately declined to use his broken milkshake machine to make Alex a milk shake.
We took the tram towards Grunerloka and walked around. Stumbled into the Memphis Cafe.
"Maybe they have 'em here. Its Memphis," and I pointed towards the sign. "Prolly but bourbon in 'em or something. Southern style."
However, they did not make 'em, not even with some bourbon; though there was a counter that seemed to serve the purpose, and from here, Alex was defeated. We met up with Tori who stumbled along and out of a tram and gave us each a free danish for Valentines Day from her work. Then found a good sushi place and sat down.
I listened to more of their Copenhagen stories and ordered a plate of different sushis. Had a Kirin beer and then we walked back, looked for an open coffee shop. Tori had left a while ago. We failed at that. Stopped at one of the convenience store deli's. Deli de' Luca. I tried getting coffee twice. Couldn't figure out the machine. It all smelled burnt and like it had been sitting there all day without being changed. Declined. Alex got a giant chocolate marshmallow bar. We sat upstairs where I almost fell asleep. I saw the craziest Japanese, gangster, yakuza. He was dressed all in black, slicked back black hair, shiny-black-pointy-boots, and a big-black jacket. He was tough. Too tough. I let him take the paper that was sitting on the table we were hanging out at. He had a coffee. Must have been straight black.
I went to a Metal Show the night before. We were supposed to see Necrophagist. Alex was pissed when we got to Garage and they had canceled. So instead it was Origin and Misery Index. Garage is a bar upstairs and if you take a right instead of a left at the entrance it takes these stairs down and into this underground venue. Another bar and a small stage. The whole show felt like there were a bunch of Jimmy's standing around, moshing, enjoying the metal. Except Norwegian and almost all of them with super long death hair. I also checked out Alex's sweet metal dance moves. Which, later, realized, they were exactly like Jay's in Clerks when he is standing outside the Quickstop and dancing, cursing, with the music coming out of the boom-box.
At school, on Tuesday there was a fire-alarm / drill. I haven't been in one of those since high school. And it was the most relaxed one I've ever been in. Strangely, it went off, and everyone sort of sat there looking at each other, like deciding whether they were going to listen to it or just keep talking. And earlier in the month while sitting in reception I overhead the girl at the counter on the phone trying to explain to someone in one of the buildings here at Kringsja that yes, the buzzing means there is a fire, and that yes, that means you have to leave the building even if you don't want to. Because the fire department is coming.
With our fire drill everyone just stood around, putting on their coats, gathering all their stuff, and then walking outside to the front of the building. Then people just started to smoke and talk while others wandered off to get free waffles or go get slices of pizza over at the cafeteria. The 'fire squad' was five old guys who seemed to be in it only because they got to wear cool orange vests. The stood around laughing and looking at each other's vests in pride. At some point two firemen came by after about fifteen minutes, looked at everyone, then went inside, turned the alarm off, and left. It was like a lunch break. And later half the group was just missing, we considered them the ones who made a break for it.
As for that, I was walking along the path in the snow and thought to myself I enjoy being someplace completely different. And the cold didn't bite today. I rather like the mist and fog. Hearing the screech of birds. But I'm tired. And now my room is covered in a light fog that I've let creep in through the window. My notebooks and change are all scattered around my simple desk. My hallway is covered in a wash of water; my roommate doesn't dry off, he just showers quickly and decides to spread himself all over the floor in dripping water. There is a terrible muted feeling when I step on the damp and wet spots and it surfaces slowly in my face; but there is nothing to shout about. There is a strange song and dance we play. I'll enter a room, close the door, and then hear him exit the room, then leave the place. So forth, as we are always within seconds of seeing one and other, but never do. Like the whole split personality thing. The other part of me is living in the room next door. And if thats the case then fuck him. Because he sucks at toweling off.
And there is water and a fjord near the city, across from the theater's, where there are fishermen and always, sitting on the dock, there are small whitecaps and birds careening in the sky; one can sit and watch and eat a sandwich with a coffee and wander their thoughts aimlessly in the mist and fog and surrounding white of the day.
Forgotten Milkshake bar
SpaceWorld has WoW Night Elf Statues
And Again
Burning Crusade All Over!
Evangelical Coming to Campus
Origin Proclaiming the Abyss is Opening or Fuck You to the Crowd. He speaks to demons.
A picture of where I got my hair cut at night since its next to Garage
String of bars going towards Karl Johan's Gate---
holding infinity in your hand
holding infinity in your hand
Sunday, February 11, 2007
this big place i live
Finished Twelfth Night. Glanced at King Lear. Not much else to do. I'm pretty bored, trying to consider if i should play a game. I tried writing. Nothing really happened. Not sure. I wrote a lot this weekend. Maybe I'm dry. Maybe I just don't feel like it. All that creativeness. I just want to play something. But I don't want to play WoW. And I hate booting into my windows partition. There isn't any music on it. I should go reading Setting Sun. But I've read so much today. I tried some horrible soup. I ate some cornflakes. And a pizza yesterday around 2. So thats it on the food. The market is closed. No bread. I tried eating a piece of salami but it wasn't inspiring. My bed is a piece of foam. I hate you bed.
I have beer. There is always that to alleviate the boredom. But no couch. And I think I'd like a couch. I 'm still trying to work Twelfth Night around in my head. Beer would ruin that. I have KOTR. And I have that thief game I bought when we were all living at the house on that summer span. I could play that. I like COH. How am I still thinking about that game. Probably because it was fun to play with Carlo. I could load up Baldur's Gate II. But I've beat the hell out of that game.
I wish it wasn't Sunday. There is nothing to do downtown on Sundays. I could just get on the train then. But then what. And where? I have so much change. I watched the diggnation video today and it was cool. Those new Virgin Mobile planes are pretty tight. Especially since all the computers on the plane run linux.
I could start a garden.
Or plant a tree in the middle of my room.
No one ever comes up checking.
What if there was a fire?
I watched from my bed the giant plumes of white steam coming out of the stacks from the building across me. And I thought I was in the 1800's and then the train whistled and rattled by and I was.
---
Playful with the Death, and Playful with the Remark of Fool
Oh her timid terrible face,
That comes crashing; turning eyes and glances so fierce.
She creates that jealousy, dread, fire, lust, remorse, within.
Is the foolish man a dead man? Asks the ever present Bobo.
But the wit of the fool makes him intelligent.
Oh what Feste would say when you looked at him and said it like that,
Without stopping to mind the clouds, sun, or lover's always tragic life,
He would say mind that face. And look to life as always, it rains and pours and stops but once a year,
And mind that more precious love, who shall hate the other competitor so,
Friendship is stronger and more dangerous stuff.
Remarks Feste but is never present but in writing, and Bobo is mad and upon a feverish state,
He who takes the words, of mentor.
Of love they had, now gone and spent, turned to hatred, pent up and bent.
But she has nothing else but to plunge in those waters of a gray sea with whitecaps and gulls above,
And dive to the knife and die to a stab.
For the pain of pains, was the separate of those men.
Which they blame not her, but each other instead.
Bobo prances madly, in the sea that burns.
With the coming sunset, and the present twilight.
The death, o' comes. Sweetly and madly.
Upon her ears, on tasteful sand.
Bobo looks like a mad cat or sparrow.
But says nothing to the engaging,
Oh the pride and pain, and not death,
Neither knows.
In a gentle garden,
Monsieurs face off,
With pistols and fear,
Examining each other from afar.
Playing across the lawn is the unmovable face,
Looking both ways,
With perilous taste.
The sound of guns shooting fire forth,
And Bobo dancing madly, as the fool; who dances in the lawn.
They come giving each an aside, and collapse.
Love is spent, I am the better man,
You are sour and like the cat.
But now put that toy away and be civil,
Run to father and leap and dribble,
Shed your fears to the ground and dismiss this game.
The audience knows not of your weak countenance,
I see it so clearly and your hand will waver.
I pull forth the hammer and spread forth God's anger.
But I shall pay my respects to your grave,
And father will tread softly behind.
While she holds my arm and we shed both for you.
You are arrogant and riddled with foolish eyes.
I hate you simply as that.
You are taller, true, and older yes.
But are also failure and still a nursemaids pet.
Leave the garden and leave the audience to remark,
He did not deserve her, he was belittling towards this grand knight.
And all are, but gone before we were even in the garden,
To the envy and soul;
Of everyone's regret,
All sadly and cold.
The audience dismisses, this as revelry in blood.
But in the hearts, the tears are shod as if all was on the lawn.
And gentle but ravish jester, he courts as the demon spawn.
Moves off to the master, and regales as a faun.
Demanding the petting, and wooing of the court,
Bobo tells the tale of romantic sort.
With the mounting revenge, and coolly disguised hate,
The great ward, of the mightier king,
And the gold and cloaks and the legions within.
Bring forth the sons who died,
And bring forth the fool,
And bring forth, o', over there, that glass of wine,
And to tell the tale,
Bring the lover,
Who cast herself,
Upon her pain.
When she dealt the blow,
And all mighty fame,
That those who die,
Staring at all the choices of lives now spent.
The fool is here,
And he relates of a face.
He says, "Behold a terrible thing,"
And make it quick replies the King,
In doing so, the fool plays in.
That the men are dead, now in the garden which swells,
With the blood of kin, and the souls that dwell.
He says that she could take it not,
The death of friends, of brothers now shot.
The King, with his rich hands and richer face,
His gray beard, his taste.
He touches both eyes of the now bled men.
Their stained turncoats, their swords sheathed, their pistols on breasts.
Now send a funeral.
"My jester plays me as a fool."
"Nay, your jester is but a moral tool," says Bobo striding forth.
Glancing at all the beautiful women, men, the court.
"Sons are dead. And the maiden from afar is suicide."
She stands apart, in hell,
So the pastor cries.
In the hall. "Oh in this King's hall."
He throws down holy water, and submits to crawl.
"Before your feet, let me pray. Let me save,"
"But today".
The King shakes and slumps and nods away.
Fools surround the taste of life.
I taste nothing of revelry.
Delight is blight.
So says Bobo and he administers with his hand out far for all the persons to see,
I have no rings, capes, horses, guns, or master's things.
But I have a word to impart past delight is blight.
We are all ill,
And ill is the reply.
Not once ever, has the time been now.
Nor will it be again.
But always is this, as time is circular, repeating, never still.
The wit of the fool,
The dying king,
The lovers and their folly,
And their suicidal quarry.
---
don't let me know. don't let me know the morning here. i gotta get out of here.
I have beer. There is always that to alleviate the boredom. But no couch. And I think I'd like a couch. I 'm still trying to work Twelfth Night around in my head. Beer would ruin that. I have KOTR. And I have that thief game I bought when we were all living at the house on that summer span. I could play that. I like COH. How am I still thinking about that game. Probably because it was fun to play with Carlo. I could load up Baldur's Gate II. But I've beat the hell out of that game.
I wish it wasn't Sunday. There is nothing to do downtown on Sundays. I could just get on the train then. But then what. And where? I have so much change. I watched the diggnation video today and it was cool. Those new Virgin Mobile planes are pretty tight. Especially since all the computers on the plane run linux.
I could start a garden.
Or plant a tree in the middle of my room.
No one ever comes up checking.
What if there was a fire?
I watched from my bed the giant plumes of white steam coming out of the stacks from the building across me. And I thought I was in the 1800's and then the train whistled and rattled by and I was.
---
Playful with the Death, and Playful with the Remark of Fool
Oh her timid terrible face,
That comes crashing; turning eyes and glances so fierce.
She creates that jealousy, dread, fire, lust, remorse, within.
Is the foolish man a dead man? Asks the ever present Bobo.
But the wit of the fool makes him intelligent.
Oh what Feste would say when you looked at him and said it like that,
Without stopping to mind the clouds, sun, or lover's always tragic life,
He would say mind that face. And look to life as always, it rains and pours and stops but once a year,
And mind that more precious love, who shall hate the other competitor so,
Friendship is stronger and more dangerous stuff.
Remarks Feste but is never present but in writing, and Bobo is mad and upon a feverish state,
He who takes the words, of mentor.
Of love they had, now gone and spent, turned to hatred, pent up and bent.
But she has nothing else but to plunge in those waters of a gray sea with whitecaps and gulls above,
And dive to the knife and die to a stab.
For the pain of pains, was the separate of those men.
Which they blame not her, but each other instead.
Bobo prances madly, in the sea that burns.
With the coming sunset, and the present twilight.
The death, o' comes. Sweetly and madly.
Upon her ears, on tasteful sand.
Bobo looks like a mad cat or sparrow.
But says nothing to the engaging,
Oh the pride and pain, and not death,
Neither knows.
In a gentle garden,
Monsieurs face off,
With pistols and fear,
Examining each other from afar.
Playing across the lawn is the unmovable face,
Looking both ways,
With perilous taste.
The sound of guns shooting fire forth,
And Bobo dancing madly, as the fool; who dances in the lawn.
They come giving each an aside, and collapse.
Love is spent, I am the better man,
You are sour and like the cat.
But now put that toy away and be civil,
Run to father and leap and dribble,
Shed your fears to the ground and dismiss this game.
The audience knows not of your weak countenance,
I see it so clearly and your hand will waver.
I pull forth the hammer and spread forth God's anger.
But I shall pay my respects to your grave,
And father will tread softly behind.
While she holds my arm and we shed both for you.
You are arrogant and riddled with foolish eyes.
I hate you simply as that.
You are taller, true, and older yes.
But are also failure and still a nursemaids pet.
Leave the garden and leave the audience to remark,
He did not deserve her, he was belittling towards this grand knight.
And all are, but gone before we were even in the garden,
To the envy and soul;
Of everyone's regret,
All sadly and cold.
The audience dismisses, this as revelry in blood.
But in the hearts, the tears are shod as if all was on the lawn.
And gentle but ravish jester, he courts as the demon spawn.
Moves off to the master, and regales as a faun.
Demanding the petting, and wooing of the court,
Bobo tells the tale of romantic sort.
With the mounting revenge, and coolly disguised hate,
The great ward, of the mightier king,
And the gold and cloaks and the legions within.
Bring forth the sons who died,
And bring forth the fool,
And bring forth, o', over there, that glass of wine,
And to tell the tale,
Bring the lover,
Who cast herself,
Upon her pain.
When she dealt the blow,
And all mighty fame,
That those who die,
Staring at all the choices of lives now spent.
The fool is here,
And he relates of a face.
He says, "Behold a terrible thing,"
And make it quick replies the King,
In doing so, the fool plays in.
That the men are dead, now in the garden which swells,
With the blood of kin, and the souls that dwell.
He says that she could take it not,
The death of friends, of brothers now shot.
The King, with his rich hands and richer face,
His gray beard, his taste.
He touches both eyes of the now bled men.
Their stained turncoats, their swords sheathed, their pistols on breasts.
Now send a funeral.
"My jester plays me as a fool."
"Nay, your jester is but a moral tool," says Bobo striding forth.
Glancing at all the beautiful women, men, the court.
"Sons are dead. And the maiden from afar is suicide."
She stands apart, in hell,
So the pastor cries.
In the hall. "Oh in this King's hall."
He throws down holy water, and submits to crawl.
"Before your feet, let me pray. Let me save,"
"But today".
The King shakes and slumps and nods away.
Fools surround the taste of life.
I taste nothing of revelry.
Delight is blight.
So says Bobo and he administers with his hand out far for all the persons to see,
I have no rings, capes, horses, guns, or master's things.
But I have a word to impart past delight is blight.
We are all ill,
And ill is the reply.
Not once ever, has the time been now.
Nor will it be again.
But always is this, as time is circular, repeating, never still.
The wit of the fool,
The dying king,
The lovers and their folly,
And their suicidal quarry.
---
don't let me know. don't let me know the morning here. i gotta get out of here.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
