Looking back, it seems I've become decreasingly funnier the last few years. As in, moving in the wrong direction. I used to be funny, or at the very least, funnier than I am now. One might say I am funminishing by the minute.
My empirical evidence for this claim is two-fold. First of all, this blog in itself serves as pretty hard-core data, with its stated intention of providing "attempts of recognizing both details and the big picture, while embracing a propensity for total randomness", which in itself is as ridiculous a sequence of words that it hardly can be interpreted as anything other than humour. The blog has, however, been fairly barren for a long while. Despite the occasional post here and there, their frequency and length (and topics) suggest that while I may still claim some propensity for randomness (in the most generous reading of the word, though in all fairness, even here I seem to fall into familiar patterns rather than my digressionist aspirations), I stand accused of not recognizing details nor the big picture, as I in fact am hardly providing any pictures (mental or otherwise) at all, since this blog mostly have been rendered empty for months, years, at the time. One might argue that this is humour in and of itself, but it would be a long stretch. Thus, I present the lack of humor due to lack of content as evidence A in this investigation and/or analysis.
Evidence B is more complex. While one might assume that you as a potential reader of this blog actually have access to this blog and therefore conceivably might be able to assess evidence A by means of peer review (though I by no means suggest you should -- I am after all asking you to backtrack my lack of posting here to confirm my claim that I have not been posting frequently, lengthy or topically in a humourous manner, which hardly stands to my credit, other than that I if nothing else can be said to be honest. Also, I realize you probably have better ways to spend your time) -- while one might assume that, you might not have the same privelege when it comes to evidence B.
I say "might", because, as will be clear in a moment, you might not have it, and you might have it.
Evidence B consists of a random selection (see, propensity for random) of Facebook statuses I have written over the past few years. If you are not in the category of the select few (or actually, quite average, I would guess) people who are on my friend's list on Facebook, you won't have access to evidence B. I'm sorry. I am sure the actual number of people who might stumble upon this who are not my friends on Facebook is actually quite limited, but given the possibility that it might happen, I am sorry. Not that we are not friends, because in this day and age it has come to a point where I no longer consider Facebookfriendiness a requirement for actually being friends, and while the more vague "being connected", via social media, is something I cherish, sure enough, occasionally, with some people, but let's be honest - it's 2017. You have "friends" on your Facebook-profile you only accepted because you didn't want them to tell your mom at the florist's in your hometown that you have become a snobbish elitist after moving to the big city. Not all Facebook-friends are friends, and amazingly, not all friends are particularly active on Facebook.
This was a long digression, of which I shall not apologize (digressions being something of a staple of this blog, after all. I don't know if you noticed the title...?), but it ended somewhere I'd like to pick it up from: "not all friends are particularly active on Facebook" (Great Digression, my mom's friend at the florist really has a point, I am quoting myself, FROM THE PREVIOUS PARAGRAPH now...)
Anyway. The "friend" I am talking about in this particular instance, is myself. Me, myself, and the person I just quoted.
Evidence B, my (let's admit it, not-so-)randomly selected Facebook-statuses (of which I shall not specify which ones I refer to, by the way, just to make the "evidence" even sketchier), are also far between, and not their former peaky, plump, juicy selves.
Not to brag, but I used to be funny (see opening statement of this blog post for reference). Funny-ish, at least. I used to make myself laugh, and seemingly others as well, as my posts occasionally would elicit comments that sometimes triggered avalances of great, old-fashioned Facebook-comedy. I used to be funny, people would be funny back, we would all do that creepy smirky-grinny-non-laugh people do when they read and write something funny on their Facebook during work hours. You know.
However, my examination of evidence B suggests a worrying trend also in this material. It is more funny the further from the present day we come, pointing at my hypothesis that I have become decreasingly funny, or as one might present it in layman's terms: I am less funny now than I was before. My funny appears to be running out (or, terrifyingly, may already have done so).
Why, then, is this happening?
I have a few theories, but I am going to do something utterly scandalous before presenting them. I am going to cliffhanger you (which, by the way, is probably not a word, as many of the words I like using, but it just struck me that this was a particularly abrasive wordsmithery of mine, as cliffhanger in itself is wordsmithed from "hanging from a cliff", I assume, meaning I just verbed ((yes, verbed)) a noun having been nouned (((yes, nouned))) from a verb ((((and then some)))). Ha!)
--I am going to cliffhanger you on this as a way of test, not yours, but mine, ability to stick to this. Yes. I am going to cliffhanger you, to see if that might motivate me, to keep writing the next section of this (otherwise insanely long) post, another day. The world is not fair. Sorry.
***HANGING OFF CLIFF***
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 11, 2017
Tuesday, November 3, 2015
On Mrs P.
Sometimes I still think about Mrs P.
She used to be my neighbor where I grew up. She lived in the faded green house at the top of the steep road where my family lived. She lived with her husband. They had no children, and to my knowledge, no other close family or friends.
She had lived there longer than forever, or at least longer than the five-year-old's concept of forever. But also actually quite a long time. Probably somewhere in the neck of forty years, if I were to guess. They most likely built their house around the same time as my grandparents, who lived next door to us. The entire area was divided into lots in the 50s, transforming what previously had been a large farm into a small community of "working class upgrading to middle class" families. Self-made people. My grandfather built his house (and saved the lot next to it for whenever his son would build his - 30 years later, as it turned out), and I imagine Mr P. built his.
Actually, I don't imagine Mr P. built the faded green house. He worked in a bank, I think, or maybe an insurance company. Some job where he needed a brief case. Probably not the kind of job a man who would know how to build his own house would have. Or perhaps. People used to know things. I remember him as well, and I know he outlived her, but for some reason he isn't as vivid in my memory as she is, even though I technically remember how he looks whereas her image has forever transformed into a generic "old lady" shape.
She had old lady hair. White, or grey, and curly, short. Tidy.
She had old lady clothes. A neat coat, not shapely or pretty, but clean, and orderly, and proper, and tidy. An old lady hat, poofy but somehow still strict; a balancing act on top of her old lady curly gray-white hair.
She had an old lady purse. No explanation needed.
She had an old lady face, maybe. I cannot remember her face. But she was an old lady, so she probably had an old lady face.
She was an old lady, having lived in her house, alone with her husband who may or may not have built said house, since they got married, possibly, or at least since the house was new and the green color was clear and not faded.
Their garden was incredibly tidy. The grass was always cut, though I cannot remember that they ever cut it. There were always lawn mowers growling somewhere or other in the neighborhood, but it seems unlikely that any such intrusive sound would ever come from their garden. It would have been too noisy, too messy, too untidy.
She would spend winter mornings after the snowplow had been at work clearing up the road shoulder outside their picket fence, with a broom. Or people said she did. I remember her doing it, in her old lady shape, with her neat coat and her poofy hat, and maybe even her old lady purse, which seems odd, but then I don't know if I actually remember it or if it simply was repeated so many times that I pictured it in my five-year-old mind.
She was strictly opposed to anything untidy or fun or young. Like the teenage son of the neighbors across the road from her faded green house. Obviously he and his friends knew how much they annoyed her and found it amusing to tease her, by playing loud music or driving their mopeds at top speed up the steep road, spraying the fence and tidy shoulder on her side of the road with a fresh batch of brown snow to cover the neat white edges meticulously created by a broom.
She was the kind of neighbor that would complain. About loud music or mopeds, about lawn mowers late (or not so late) at night, about anything untidy or fun or young. And by complaining I mean yelling. Shouting.
Or so I imagined it. I don't think I ever witnessed any of her complaints. But I knew of them.
I was deadly afraid of Mrs P.
I was not a child that strayed, but had I been - the short distance between her house and mine, maybe 50 meters garden to garden or perhaps as much as the double from house to house - that distance would have been too long. I don't know if I was impressed by the teenage boys provoking her or just worried they were poking a dragon. Either way I never would have dared doing so myself. Seeing her, even from across our hedge, her fence, with the protective 50 meters between our gardens, filled me with immense terror.
She spoke to me once.
My parents probably tried to install in me all the usual precautions; "don't talk to strangers" must have been one of them. However, either it did not work very well (later evidence suggests this, as I was once briefly kidnapped. But that's a different story), or I did not think of her as a stranger (she was a very familiar terror in my life, after all).
She had observed me in the playhouse in our garden. Alone. I often played alone. I don't think I minded, but also, I didn't necessarily have that much of a choice. As mentioned, the entire area had been populated at the same time, mainly with families. It had once been a community where children could run around and play with each other (my father having been one of those children). Thirty years later those children were all grown and only some of them had come back with children of their own (and these were all older than me - the teenage provocateur being the youngest besides me). So there were no other children around, and consequently I was mostly playing on my own.
She had seen me play on my own, she said. In the playhouse. She had a present for me. For the playhouse.
It was a picture of a cat. A cat, ready to hang on the wall inside the playhouse. A small gift, but a generous gesture.
I thanked her, I think. I was a reasonably well-behaved child, after all, and despite being afraid of her I had summoned the courage to let her speak to me in the first place. I probably thanked her. I hope I thanked her.
The cat still hangs in the playhouse, now proudly claimed by my niece as her own. (It isn't. It's still mine. But she doesn't have to know that.)
I never spoke to Mrs P. again. At least I cannot remember that I ever did. But I don't think I was as afraid of her after that. She may have been the neighborhood hag, but she had shown me a kindness and I did not forget that. It has taken me many years to realize that her gesture might have meant quite a lot. She was not usually one to show kindness, but she made an exception for me. From one loner to another, perhaps.
Today would have been her birthday. She told me. That one time I talked to her. When I was five. I don't remember what she looked like, I don't remember which of the things I know about her are true or imagined, or exaggerations of a small truth buried in a collective neighborly memory; but I do remember this. Today would have been her birthday.
Happy birthday. Mrs P.
She used to be my neighbor where I grew up. She lived in the faded green house at the top of the steep road where my family lived. She lived with her husband. They had no children, and to my knowledge, no other close family or friends.
She had lived there longer than forever, or at least longer than the five-year-old's concept of forever. But also actually quite a long time. Probably somewhere in the neck of forty years, if I were to guess. They most likely built their house around the same time as my grandparents, who lived next door to us. The entire area was divided into lots in the 50s, transforming what previously had been a large farm into a small community of "working class upgrading to middle class" families. Self-made people. My grandfather built his house (and saved the lot next to it for whenever his son would build his - 30 years later, as it turned out), and I imagine Mr P. built his.
Actually, I don't imagine Mr P. built the faded green house. He worked in a bank, I think, or maybe an insurance company. Some job where he needed a brief case. Probably not the kind of job a man who would know how to build his own house would have. Or perhaps. People used to know things. I remember him as well, and I know he outlived her, but for some reason he isn't as vivid in my memory as she is, even though I technically remember how he looks whereas her image has forever transformed into a generic "old lady" shape.
She had old lady hair. White, or grey, and curly, short. Tidy.
She had old lady clothes. A neat coat, not shapely or pretty, but clean, and orderly, and proper, and tidy. An old lady hat, poofy but somehow still strict; a balancing act on top of her old lady curly gray-white hair.
She had an old lady purse. No explanation needed.
She had an old lady face, maybe. I cannot remember her face. But she was an old lady, so she probably had an old lady face.
She was an old lady, having lived in her house, alone with her husband who may or may not have built said house, since they got married, possibly, or at least since the house was new and the green color was clear and not faded.
Their garden was incredibly tidy. The grass was always cut, though I cannot remember that they ever cut it. There were always lawn mowers growling somewhere or other in the neighborhood, but it seems unlikely that any such intrusive sound would ever come from their garden. It would have been too noisy, too messy, too untidy.
She would spend winter mornings after the snowplow had been at work clearing up the road shoulder outside their picket fence, with a broom. Or people said she did. I remember her doing it, in her old lady shape, with her neat coat and her poofy hat, and maybe even her old lady purse, which seems odd, but then I don't know if I actually remember it or if it simply was repeated so many times that I pictured it in my five-year-old mind.
She was strictly opposed to anything untidy or fun or young. Like the teenage son of the neighbors across the road from her faded green house. Obviously he and his friends knew how much they annoyed her and found it amusing to tease her, by playing loud music or driving their mopeds at top speed up the steep road, spraying the fence and tidy shoulder on her side of the road with a fresh batch of brown snow to cover the neat white edges meticulously created by a broom.
She was the kind of neighbor that would complain. About loud music or mopeds, about lawn mowers late (or not so late) at night, about anything untidy or fun or young. And by complaining I mean yelling. Shouting.
Synonyms: scold, upbraid, berate, revile, vituperate, rail
These verbs mean to reprimand or criticize angrily or vehemently.
Or so I imagined it. I don't think I ever witnessed any of her complaints. But I knew of them.
I was deadly afraid of Mrs P.
I was not a child that strayed, but had I been - the short distance between her house and mine, maybe 50 meters garden to garden or perhaps as much as the double from house to house - that distance would have been too long. I don't know if I was impressed by the teenage boys provoking her or just worried they were poking a dragon. Either way I never would have dared doing so myself. Seeing her, even from across our hedge, her fence, with the protective 50 meters between our gardens, filled me with immense terror.
She spoke to me once.
My parents probably tried to install in me all the usual precautions; "don't talk to strangers" must have been one of them. However, either it did not work very well (later evidence suggests this, as I was once briefly kidnapped. But that's a different story), or I did not think of her as a stranger (she was a very familiar terror in my life, after all).
She had observed me in the playhouse in our garden. Alone. I often played alone. I don't think I minded, but also, I didn't necessarily have that much of a choice. As mentioned, the entire area had been populated at the same time, mainly with families. It had once been a community where children could run around and play with each other (my father having been one of those children). Thirty years later those children were all grown and only some of them had come back with children of their own (and these were all older than me - the teenage provocateur being the youngest besides me). So there were no other children around, and consequently I was mostly playing on my own.
She had seen me play on my own, she said. In the playhouse. She had a present for me. For the playhouse.
It was a picture of a cat. A cat, ready to hang on the wall inside the playhouse. A small gift, but a generous gesture.
I thanked her, I think. I was a reasonably well-behaved child, after all, and despite being afraid of her I had summoned the courage to let her speak to me in the first place. I probably thanked her. I hope I thanked her.
The cat still hangs in the playhouse, now proudly claimed by my niece as her own. (It isn't. It's still mine. But she doesn't have to know that.)
I never spoke to Mrs P. again. At least I cannot remember that I ever did. But I don't think I was as afraid of her after that. She may have been the neighborhood hag, but she had shown me a kindness and I did not forget that. It has taken me many years to realize that her gesture might have meant quite a lot. She was not usually one to show kindness, but she made an exception for me. From one loner to another, perhaps.
Today would have been her birthday. She told me. That one time I talked to her. When I was five. I don't remember what she looked like, I don't remember which of the things I know about her are true or imagined, or exaggerations of a small truth buried in a collective neighborly memory; but I do remember this. Today would have been her birthday.
Happy birthday. Mrs P.
Sunday, April 12, 2015
On people I meet
Sometimes you meet people who make an impression.
This week I met one of the Presidents I am writing my PhD on. Jimmy Carter, even at 90, is still working hard, and thus spends a fair amount of time at the Carter Center in Atlanta. However, for a researcher to catch a glimpse of him is still a rare treat. I didn't speak to him, but must admit I was rather starstruck by his mere presence in the cafeteria where he, like everybody else, queued to have a 4 dollar lunch.
Despite the central role Carter plays in my current work, however, he was only one of the people I've met recently that I will remember for life.
Today I met some guy whose name I didn't catch. I frequently don't catch names here, even when people introduce themselves. The Southern accent is foreign to me, and it often takes me a while to figure out what I understood from what people were saying - a lot of it gathered from context rather than a direct comprehension of the actual words uttered - and names tend to disappear in this process (besides, I am notoriously bad at names. Faces, I remember. Names, never held much importance to me anyway).
Anyway. I was trying to catch a bus. At the bus stop, I was approached by Some Guy. Had it been in Norway, I would have shied away from a conversation. But having been in the U.S. for a few weeks, the last of which in the South, the local social code is starting to rub off on me. I've progressed from small talk to conversations with random strangers (side note: Random Stranger at a zebra crossing the other day - he commented on my t-shirt. It's a Harry Potter shirt, with a big, Hogwarts logo on it. He asked me where I'd bought it, and I said London. He was all impressed that I'd been to London - not yet having realized that I wasn't American, presumably. "You speak any French at all, then?" he asked. I could have pointed out to him that this was a rather strange question to ask after having learnt that I had visited the British capital, but instead I just shook my head, wished him a good day upon the turn of the lights and our departure to the other side of the street, and made a mental note that it was far more important to appreciate the fact that we had this nice little talk than to point out to him his obvious lack of geography skills).
- so conversations with random strangers - and with this new social code guiding my conduct I've talked to everyone from grocery store clerks to the hobo in the park I pass each morning (he just wanted to know if there was a fee to go see the Jimmy Carter museum. I told him I believed it was, but that the grounds were free of charge, and beautiful, so well worth the walk).
Thus, talking to Some Guy at the bus stop wasn't all that strange for me anymore. And I am glad I did.
This was a man with a storage of stories, and the key to open them all at once was simply being an active listener. I learnt all kinds of interesting things about the city of Atlanta, the specific area of Atlanta I'm staying in, African-American history, the Democratic party, and about Some Guy himself. He gave me pointers about things I should see before I leave, showed me a picture with him and Obama (who recently visited the area, apparently), and even shared his hotwings with me. When the bus finally arrived (it was very late, due to a lot of traffic over a Barnes & Noble booksigning with Google later informed me was a YouTube phenomenon - there were crying teenage girls queuing all around the block for YouTube Guy), he told me to pay attention to the driver, as she was a character all of her own.
She was. Talking to herself, yelling at traffic, and making conversation with the passengers made for an entertaining bus ride as well. "What's that guy doing in the Mustang?? Oh, noooo, you didn't!!!" I probably would have given up on the bus without Some Guy, It was worth the wait.
When I go home in less than a week I'll be glad to retract back into my Norwegian shell, where we don't make conversation with strangers unless absolutely forced to, and where the only small talk you make on a bus would be to ask the passenger next to you to let you out if they haven't already noticed all the subtle non-verbal signs you've given them the last minute or so (most do. In all my years of using public transportation in Oslo, I've probably only had to ask about five to ten times, if that).
Until, then, however, I am glad to have been let out of my shell for a while. It makes for good stories. It makes me appreciate the world. It makes interesting things happen, and it makes me learn things I otherwise would have never known.
I was startstruck when I saw President Carter, but most of my time here I've been struck with awe of the extraordinariness of ordinary people.
This week I met one of the Presidents I am writing my PhD on. Jimmy Carter, even at 90, is still working hard, and thus spends a fair amount of time at the Carter Center in Atlanta. However, for a researcher to catch a glimpse of him is still a rare treat. I didn't speak to him, but must admit I was rather starstruck by his mere presence in the cafeteria where he, like everybody else, queued to have a 4 dollar lunch.
Despite the central role Carter plays in my current work, however, he was only one of the people I've met recently that I will remember for life.
Today I met some guy whose name I didn't catch. I frequently don't catch names here, even when people introduce themselves. The Southern accent is foreign to me, and it often takes me a while to figure out what I understood from what people were saying - a lot of it gathered from context rather than a direct comprehension of the actual words uttered - and names tend to disappear in this process (besides, I am notoriously bad at names. Faces, I remember. Names, never held much importance to me anyway).
Anyway. I was trying to catch a bus. At the bus stop, I was approached by Some Guy. Had it been in Norway, I would have shied away from a conversation. But having been in the U.S. for a few weeks, the last of which in the South, the local social code is starting to rub off on me. I've progressed from small talk to conversations with random strangers (side note: Random Stranger at a zebra crossing the other day - he commented on my t-shirt. It's a Harry Potter shirt, with a big, Hogwarts logo on it. He asked me where I'd bought it, and I said London. He was all impressed that I'd been to London - not yet having realized that I wasn't American, presumably. "You speak any French at all, then?" he asked. I could have pointed out to him that this was a rather strange question to ask after having learnt that I had visited the British capital, but instead I just shook my head, wished him a good day upon the turn of the lights and our departure to the other side of the street, and made a mental note that it was far more important to appreciate the fact that we had this nice little talk than to point out to him his obvious lack of geography skills).
- so conversations with random strangers - and with this new social code guiding my conduct I've talked to everyone from grocery store clerks to the hobo in the park I pass each morning (he just wanted to know if there was a fee to go see the Jimmy Carter museum. I told him I believed it was, but that the grounds were free of charge, and beautiful, so well worth the walk).
Thus, talking to Some Guy at the bus stop wasn't all that strange for me anymore. And I am glad I did.
This was a man with a storage of stories, and the key to open them all at once was simply being an active listener. I learnt all kinds of interesting things about the city of Atlanta, the specific area of Atlanta I'm staying in, African-American history, the Democratic party, and about Some Guy himself. He gave me pointers about things I should see before I leave, showed me a picture with him and Obama (who recently visited the area, apparently), and even shared his hotwings with me. When the bus finally arrived (it was very late, due to a lot of traffic over a Barnes & Noble booksigning with Google later informed me was a YouTube phenomenon - there were crying teenage girls queuing all around the block for YouTube Guy), he told me to pay attention to the driver, as she was a character all of her own.
She was. Talking to herself, yelling at traffic, and making conversation with the passengers made for an entertaining bus ride as well. "What's that guy doing in the Mustang?? Oh, noooo, you didn't!!!" I probably would have given up on the bus without Some Guy, It was worth the wait.
When I go home in less than a week I'll be glad to retract back into my Norwegian shell, where we don't make conversation with strangers unless absolutely forced to, and where the only small talk you make on a bus would be to ask the passenger next to you to let you out if they haven't already noticed all the subtle non-verbal signs you've given them the last minute or so (most do. In all my years of using public transportation in Oslo, I've probably only had to ask about five to ten times, if that).
Until, then, however, I am glad to have been let out of my shell for a while. It makes for good stories. It makes me appreciate the world. It makes interesting things happen, and it makes me learn things I otherwise would have never known.
I was startstruck when I saw President Carter, but most of my time here I've been struck with awe of the extraordinariness of ordinary people.
Wednesday, March 4, 2015
On long time, no see
People tend to resurface.
I met this girl, we used to know each other. We said "hello". "How are you?" "What are you doing now?" and that was it.
I met this girl, we never really knew each other. We said "hello". "How are you?" "What are you doing now?" and that was it.
We got out before it was too awkward. The first just before. The second just after.
There was nothing there, other than a mutual agreement that we could not pass each other without acknowledging that we had once known/not really known each other.
We met, we talked, we moved on.
As I was swimming, I saw it floating by, and I picked it up.
I made a scheduled appointment to see someone I used to know. I still know him. But I almost never see him.
I tried to make a scheduled appointment to see someone I used to know. I might have known him. I might still know him. But I almost never see him.
We are actively rekindling what we used to have/still have. We are trying not to make it too awkward. The first because it would ruin everything. The second because we already made it awkward, and then we fixed it, and then we made it awkward again. And then we fixed it.
We'll meet, we'll talk, and then we will move around it for a while.
As I was swimming, I dived down to pick it up and hopefully bring it back to the surface.
I am travelling across the ocean to visit a friend I have not seen in five years.
We have stayed in touch without concern for the distances that divide us. Awkward has never been one of those distances.
As I was swimming, I moored it to the shore, and now I am returning to pick it back up again.
I met this girl, we used to know each other. We said "hello". "How are you?" "What are you doing now?" and that was it.
I met this girl, we never really knew each other. We said "hello". "How are you?" "What are you doing now?" and that was it.
We got out before it was too awkward. The first just before. The second just after.
There was nothing there, other than a mutual agreement that we could not pass each other without acknowledging that we had once known/not really known each other.
We met, we talked, we moved on.
As I was swimming, I saw it floating by, and I picked it up.
I made a scheduled appointment to see someone I used to know. I still know him. But I almost never see him.
I tried to make a scheduled appointment to see someone I used to know. I might have known him. I might still know him. But I almost never see him.
We are actively rekindling what we used to have/still have. We are trying not to make it too awkward. The first because it would ruin everything. The second because we already made it awkward, and then we fixed it, and then we made it awkward again. And then we fixed it.
We'll meet, we'll talk, and then we will move around it for a while.
As I was swimming, I dived down to pick it up and hopefully bring it back to the surface.
I am travelling across the ocean to visit a friend I have not seen in five years.
We have stayed in touch without concern for the distances that divide us. Awkward has never been one of those distances.
As I was swimming, I moored it to the shore, and now I am returning to pick it back up again.
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
On LBJ
We meet again, old vague acquaintance.
I never did get the hang of you last time.
Your entry into the White House was sudden, unexpected, tragic. It was inevitable for you to end up in Jack's shadow. History didn't change that.
Your domestic experience gave you no credit among students of diplomatic history. Whatever foreign policy you led, we usually accounted to your predecessor's memory. Besides, your foreign policy = Vietnam.
You are little more than a footnote in books about U.S. policy in the Middle East, and he only thing really worth mentioning is your strong support for the State of Israel (but then this isn't exactly unique among American presidents).
You are said to be one of the main inspirations behind Kevin Spacey's character in "House of Cards" (along with King Richard III of England). Good for you.
Your name. Lyndon! It sounds like a character from a 1950s superhero comic (though no the hero. Not the villain either, I think. The jury is still out). The only U.S. politician sounding more like a superhero comic character is Spiro Agnew. You can't beat that.
You did leave a legacy in domestic politics. But I don't study domestic politics.
You're from Texas. Which called for another footnote in the books about U.S. policy in the Middle East, as you were already accustomed to deal with oil companies. So no need to mention that part of your foreign policy either.
Your wife is called Lady Bird. That is all.
You share initials with your wife (and your daughters, and your dog), though I think it would be much more entertaining if you also shared her middle name. Lyndon Bird Johnson makes you sound even more like a character from a superhero comic (though still not the hero).
We were never friends. I don't think that will change this time either. But perhaps I might get to know you a little better, at least?
I am not sure how I feel about that.
I never did get the hang of you last time.
Your entry into the White House was sudden, unexpected, tragic. It was inevitable for you to end up in Jack's shadow. History didn't change that.
Your domestic experience gave you no credit among students of diplomatic history. Whatever foreign policy you led, we usually accounted to your predecessor's memory. Besides, your foreign policy = Vietnam.
You are little more than a footnote in books about U.S. policy in the Middle East, and he only thing really worth mentioning is your strong support for the State of Israel (but then this isn't exactly unique among American presidents).
You are said to be one of the main inspirations behind Kevin Spacey's character in "House of Cards" (along with King Richard III of England). Good for you.
Your name. Lyndon! It sounds like a character from a 1950s superhero comic (though no the hero. Not the villain either, I think. The jury is still out). The only U.S. politician sounding more like a superhero comic character is Spiro Agnew. You can't beat that.
You did leave a legacy in domestic politics. But I don't study domestic politics.
You're from Texas. Which called for another footnote in the books about U.S. policy in the Middle East, as you were already accustomed to deal with oil companies. So no need to mention that part of your foreign policy either.
Your wife is called Lady Bird. That is all.
You share initials with your wife (and your daughters, and your dog), though I think it would be much more entertaining if you also shared her middle name. Lyndon Bird Johnson makes you sound even more like a character from a superhero comic (though still not the hero).
We were never friends. I don't think that will change this time either. But perhaps I might get to know you a little better, at least?
I am not sure how I feel about that.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
On 2012 (part two)
I know, I know, it's 2013 by now. But before I get used to writing that, I figured it was time to take another look back. Last time I did this, at the end of 2011, I was under the impression that I was barely left standing on my feet in a world that was spinning too fast for comfort (but at the same time, in a slightly interesting manner). I had experienced so much that I barely had time to update the blog, and my life felt turned upside-down. Looking back it felt like the events of that year would be life- and personality altering, and that it wasn't the same Cruella waking up in the morning at the end of 2011 as had done so at the end of 2010.
Maybe it wasn't. But the Cruella waking up at the beginning of 2013 feels familiar. Like I know her. Like we've met before. In 2010, perhaps. Because, even though I believed my 2011 was going to change me for life, I am starting to believe I'm slowly drifting back to my old self. For better and for worse.
Let me explain (or at least try).
The past year I've probably met more challenges that I ever have at once before in my life, including the epicness that was 2011. If I hoped for a peaceful 2012 to get me back down after crazy 2011, I was disappointed. 2012 was the year of the new job (that nearly killed me), the new boyfriend (that kept me alive), 1 1/2 new living arrangements (don't ask), lots of new people (possibly matching that of 2011 too), of countless emotional rollercoasters, of the loss of a loved one and having several others falling ill, of having various heath problems myself (including my first ever ride in an ambulance), and - as a result of all of this - learning how to share both good and bad things (the latter being something I often prefer keeping to myself as to not seem "weak" - I'm still learning, obviously).
Basically, things happened in 2012 too!
But even though the events of 2012 in many ways were probably more life-altering for me than those of 2011, in retrospect, they still seem mellow in comparison. The 2012s were slow events. They built up over time. They didn't wake me up in the middle of the night and made me check a website if the impact was 5.0 or more on the Richter magnitude scale. I don't question the magnitude of falling in love or having a stressful job, but both of those things came to me gradually, with considerable "warnings" ahead.
Also, when I in 2011 occasionally felt I had so much to blog about I couldn't keep up with it (resulting in a somewhat uneven year blog wise), 2012 frequently left me feeling the opposite (which should explain the relatively even non-posting of the past twelve moons). Writing about living the exciting life in Tokyo is one thing, but how do you blog about everyday life at home without it turning into "Today I made dinner for my boyfriend. He said he enjoyed it"...?
Obviously I could blog about other things than everyday life - I've been known to do so in the past - but in that department too the inspiration seemed to fail me. Given that my job was so "mind consuming" in many ways, I had little space left after having read about popes and kings and important historians. And I had absolutely no urge to blog about said popes and kings and important historians.
So I didn't. Again and again I didn't.
Now, it's not like I have a goal of being the most prolific blogger. As such, the frequency of posts here is irrelevant. But having the material, inspiration and ability to blog is something I'd like to keep, thankyouverymuch. I'd rather have time being the constraint than anything else. "Excuse me, but I'm too fabulous and busy to blog" has a better ring to it than "Sorry, my job and everyday life is sort of uninteresting to write about".
(Mark the importance of the words "to write about" in the above sentence. My life isn't uninteresting, to me. But I am currently having a hard time translating the parts of it I find interesting into words and sentences I'd feel comfortable flying around the interwebs with my name tied to them...)
((I suppose the task ahead is to find a neat balance between making my life itty bit more interesting and figuring out how to write it in a way that makes it more interesting still...))
Anyway, the strangest thing is that in spite of this feeling of "why have I nothing interesting to write?" I find that I don't really mind all that much. It might be a well-known secret to most, but to me this came as news: boring isn't necessarily boring! I find that in real life I cherish these things I can't find an interesting angle for blog-wise. I like making dinner for my boyfriend when he says he enjoys it. I like having a job, and an income, even if I at times have wondered if it was too much (but then the achievement feels all the greater afterwards). I don't like grief and illness and emotional rollercoasters, but I realize that they are a part of life and perhaps they make you grow just as much (albeit in very different ways) as disaster and turmoil.
The lesson from 2011 was that I'd discovered a whole new side of myself. If anything I think 2012 has shown me how the new side fits with the old me, and made me realize that perhaps I didn't change so much after all.
At least, that is what I think now. Perhaps come the start of 2014 everything will be different, again.
In terms of resolutions I am still not making any (even if my old "fill in the blanks"-ones were handy). But there are things I'd like to do, goals I'd like to fulfill, as always. Still, a whole year feels like too big of a unit to digest at once. Maybe this year I should make it my goal to take one day at the time? Who knows, that might even make for a more interesting blog year too...
Maybe it wasn't. But the Cruella waking up at the beginning of 2013 feels familiar. Like I know her. Like we've met before. In 2010, perhaps. Because, even though I believed my 2011 was going to change me for life, I am starting to believe I'm slowly drifting back to my old self. For better and for worse.
Let me explain (or at least try).
The past year I've probably met more challenges that I ever have at once before in my life, including the epicness that was 2011. If I hoped for a peaceful 2012 to get me back down after crazy 2011, I was disappointed. 2012 was the year of the new job (that nearly killed me), the new boyfriend (that kept me alive), 1 1/2 new living arrangements (don't ask), lots of new people (possibly matching that of 2011 too), of countless emotional rollercoasters, of the loss of a loved one and having several others falling ill, of having various heath problems myself (including my first ever ride in an ambulance), and - as a result of all of this - learning how to share both good and bad things (the latter being something I often prefer keeping to myself as to not seem "weak" - I'm still learning, obviously).
Basically, things happened in 2012 too!
But even though the events of 2012 in many ways were probably more life-altering for me than those of 2011, in retrospect, they still seem mellow in comparison. The 2012s were slow events. They built up over time. They didn't wake me up in the middle of the night and made me check a website if the impact was 5.0 or more on the Richter magnitude scale. I don't question the magnitude of falling in love or having a stressful job, but both of those things came to me gradually, with considerable "warnings" ahead.
Also, when I in 2011 occasionally felt I had so much to blog about I couldn't keep up with it (resulting in a somewhat uneven year blog wise), 2012 frequently left me feeling the opposite (which should explain the relatively even non-posting of the past twelve moons). Writing about living the exciting life in Tokyo is one thing, but how do you blog about everyday life at home without it turning into "Today I made dinner for my boyfriend. He said he enjoyed it"...?
Obviously I could blog about other things than everyday life - I've been known to do so in the past - but in that department too the inspiration seemed to fail me. Given that my job was so "mind consuming" in many ways, I had little space left after having read about popes and kings and important historians. And I had absolutely no urge to blog about said popes and kings and important historians.
So I didn't. Again and again I didn't.
Now, it's not like I have a goal of being the most prolific blogger. As such, the frequency of posts here is irrelevant. But having the material, inspiration and ability to blog is something I'd like to keep, thankyouverymuch. I'd rather have time being the constraint than anything else. "Excuse me, but I'm too fabulous and busy to blog" has a better ring to it than "Sorry, my job and everyday life is sort of uninteresting to write about".
(Mark the importance of the words "to write about" in the above sentence. My life isn't uninteresting, to me. But I am currently having a hard time translating the parts of it I find interesting into words and sentences I'd feel comfortable flying around the interwebs with my name tied to them...)
((I suppose the task ahead is to find a neat balance between making my life itty bit more interesting and figuring out how to write it in a way that makes it more interesting still...))
Anyway, the strangest thing is that in spite of this feeling of "why have I nothing interesting to write?" I find that I don't really mind all that much. It might be a well-known secret to most, but to me this came as news: boring isn't necessarily boring! I find that in real life I cherish these things I can't find an interesting angle for blog-wise. I like making dinner for my boyfriend when he says he enjoys it. I like having a job, and an income, even if I at times have wondered if it was too much (but then the achievement feels all the greater afterwards). I don't like grief and illness and emotional rollercoasters, but I realize that they are a part of life and perhaps they make you grow just as much (albeit in very different ways) as disaster and turmoil.
The lesson from 2011 was that I'd discovered a whole new side of myself. If anything I think 2012 has shown me how the new side fits with the old me, and made me realize that perhaps I didn't change so much after all.
At least, that is what I think now. Perhaps come the start of 2014 everything will be different, again.
In terms of resolutions I am still not making any (even if my old "fill in the blanks"-ones were handy). But there are things I'd like to do, goals I'd like to fulfill, as always. Still, a whole year feels like too big of a unit to digest at once. Maybe this year I should make it my goal to take one day at the time? Who knows, that might even make for a more interesting blog year too...
Thursday, September 13, 2012
On seven years (not in Tibet)
Seven years ago I was 19, soon to-be 20. I was a second-year student at the university, studying International Relations. I had successfully overcome the panicky transition from living at home in my little town, to mastering "big city" life (not that Oslo is *that* big, but compared to my hometown it's not so bad). I'd made friends - two of which I was living with in a shared apartment (still one of the best living arrangements I've experienced). I still visited my parents a lot, and occasionally worked weekend and summer shifts at the local bookstore there, were I'd earned my first wages when I was still in high school. This was at the time when one of my biggest obsessions - the Harry Potter books - still was an obsession.
Seven years ago I did not know that I would spend a considerable amount of the next seven years abroad. I did not know that I'd be privileged enough to meet so many wonderful people; see such amazing things; taste, smell, feel, experience a plethora (and yet a minimal part) of what the world has to offer. I did not know that the people I then knew would in some cases stay with me, some would drift away, and some whose importance I did not realize then are now among those I hold nearest to heart.
Seven years ago I did not know much about the Middle East. I did not realize how an analytic perspective to a historical problem changes the whole concept and our understanding of it. I did not have the same vocabulary I do now, and I did not know how to best employ the words I did have. Ironically, I had more words then in a language I long since have put in the back of my mind - my French is definitely not one of things that have improved during these years.
Seven years ago I was in the middle of a process of redefining myself. Today I am in the middle of a process of redefining myself. I have constantly been in the middle of that process, and I constantly will. It's a never-ending process, and you're always in the middle of it. To paraphrase Dr. Who (whom I'd never heard of seven years ago, whom I've not yet come to appreciate today, but whom I fully expect to have learned to love sometime within the next seven years) : Time is not linear. As a historian (which I had no idea seven years ago I'd denominate myself) it's tricky not to see time as linear. But as a human being, I find it increasingly easy. We do not know when it will end. We do not remember when it started. Everything in between happens with such vigor and surprise that we cannot manage to sort it into the nice, tidy line we'd like time to be. No one shall be able to convince me that the 24 hours spent dreading an exam or an important presentation pass in the same amount of time as the 24 hours in any other given day - even though I rationally know it to be so. Rationality is overrated. I did not know that either, seven years ago.
Seven years is a long time, or a really short one - depending on your perspective. I was a different person back then, at the same time as I haven't really changed. My perspective has changed. My horizon has widened. I've exposed myself to education from both books, travels, and life. I've felt happiness, grief, fear, excitement, anger. I've lived, and I've learned. I hope to continue doing so, because I have no idea what the next seven years have to offer. I am eager to find out.
This post was inspired by a conversation on Facebook where my friend Stacy tried to figure out how long this group of friends had known each other. We met through a Harry Potter fansite (which is no longer active, sadly), and most of us have still only known each other online (though some have gotten together IRL over the years). We were all a little amazed to realize that it's been (approximately) seven years. The thought of everything that's happened since triggered a bit of a stroll down memory lane on my part. My HPANA-peeps are still among those I feel closest to, even though we've never had that much in common except a book series now concluded. Funny how that sometimes is enough to tie people together. Also one thing I've learned these past seven years.
Seven years ago I did not know that I would spend a considerable amount of the next seven years abroad. I did not know that I'd be privileged enough to meet so many wonderful people; see such amazing things; taste, smell, feel, experience a plethora (and yet a minimal part) of what the world has to offer. I did not know that the people I then knew would in some cases stay with me, some would drift away, and some whose importance I did not realize then are now among those I hold nearest to heart.
Seven years ago I did not know much about the Middle East. I did not realize how an analytic perspective to a historical problem changes the whole concept and our understanding of it. I did not have the same vocabulary I do now, and I did not know how to best employ the words I did have. Ironically, I had more words then in a language I long since have put in the back of my mind - my French is definitely not one of things that have improved during these years.
Seven years ago I was in the middle of a process of redefining myself. Today I am in the middle of a process of redefining myself. I have constantly been in the middle of that process, and I constantly will. It's a never-ending process, and you're always in the middle of it. To paraphrase Dr. Who (whom I'd never heard of seven years ago, whom I've not yet come to appreciate today, but whom I fully expect to have learned to love sometime within the next seven years) : Time is not linear. As a historian (which I had no idea seven years ago I'd denominate myself) it's tricky not to see time as linear. But as a human being, I find it increasingly easy. We do not know when it will end. We do not remember when it started. Everything in between happens with such vigor and surprise that we cannot manage to sort it into the nice, tidy line we'd like time to be. No one shall be able to convince me that the 24 hours spent dreading an exam or an important presentation pass in the same amount of time as the 24 hours in any other given day - even though I rationally know it to be so. Rationality is overrated. I did not know that either, seven years ago.
Seven years is a long time, or a really short one - depending on your perspective. I was a different person back then, at the same time as I haven't really changed. My perspective has changed. My horizon has widened. I've exposed myself to education from both books, travels, and life. I've felt happiness, grief, fear, excitement, anger. I've lived, and I've learned. I hope to continue doing so, because I have no idea what the next seven years have to offer. I am eager to find out.
This post was inspired by a conversation on Facebook where my friend Stacy tried to figure out how long this group of friends had known each other. We met through a Harry Potter fansite (which is no longer active, sadly), and most of us have still only known each other online (though some have gotten together IRL over the years). We were all a little amazed to realize that it's been (approximately) seven years. The thought of everything that's happened since triggered a bit of a stroll down memory lane on my part. My HPANA-peeps are still among those I feel closest to, even though we've never had that much in common except a book series now concluded. Funny how that sometimes is enough to tie people together. Also one thing I've learned these past seven years.
Monday, June 25, 2012
On rainiscence
This rain - sideways - reminds me of last summer.
Those weeks of the rainy season in Tokyo, where my shoes never completely dried, where the aircon stopped working due to excess humidity, and where the sound of raindrops hitting the roof became the lullaby you were forced to get used to in order to get any sleep at all. I remember my see-through umbrella from under which I took eerie, silly, wet photographs of raindrops, without ever quite managing to capture their ephemeral beauty. I remember catching a taxi five minutes worth of walk away from home and somehow still managing to emerge at my front door completely drenched. I remember how odd it was that the rain made me cold even though the drops themselves were warm. I remember the smell of wet clothes, wet towels, wet hair, wet everything. I remember splashing ponds, lakes, oceans. I remember hiding from the water under trees, under a bridge, under the open sky. I remember thunder, so much thunder, with lightning bolts sure to hit one tall building or another. I remember smiling in the rain. Not crying; dancing, kissing.
I remember rain. It seems the rain remembers me too.
Those weeks of the rainy season in Tokyo, where my shoes never completely dried, where the aircon stopped working due to excess humidity, and where the sound of raindrops hitting the roof became the lullaby you were forced to get used to in order to get any sleep at all. I remember my see-through umbrella from under which I took eerie, silly, wet photographs of raindrops, without ever quite managing to capture their ephemeral beauty. I remember catching a taxi five minutes worth of walk away from home and somehow still managing to emerge at my front door completely drenched. I remember how odd it was that the rain made me cold even though the drops themselves were warm. I remember the smell of wet clothes, wet towels, wet hair, wet everything. I remember splashing ponds, lakes, oceans. I remember hiding from the water under trees, under a bridge, under the open sky. I remember thunder, so much thunder, with lightning bolts sure to hit one tall building or another. I remember smiling in the rain. Not crying; dancing, kissing.
I remember rain. It seems the rain remembers me too.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
On one year (after after the quake)
One year has passed since an 9.0 earthquake hit Japan and caused the biggest disaster in the country since World War Two. One year since I was sitting under my desk, wondering if this would be my last hour; grateful that if it was, at least none of my family members would be killed or injured; mostly worried in the moment about the seasickness that threatened to overpower me. My Japanese colleague opened the door and the window. My Norwegian colleague frantically tried to get hold of her husband and their kids. People ran around in the hallways - contrary to all earthquake safety advises - trying to get out of the building. The building, croaking and screeching as its seams were working to hold tight against the powers from underneath. The waves in the pool, a gloomy forewarning of what we were about to see from the Tohoku region with live coverage of the tsunami waves flushing in over rice fields, buildings, cars, people.
When it finally stopped shaking, after what felt like much longer than what it actually must have been, we crawled out from under our desks and doorways, and gathered outside. The mood was that of uncertainty and worry, but also relief - the worst was over, or so we thought. It was as though an "all clear" signal had been issued. We were all still there, alive, intact. The building was standing. Nervous smiles, shaky legs, adrenalin and shoulders still tensely raised above normal levels.
The mobile system quickly fell out, but the iPhone earthquake apps didn't. I think the estimates started with 6 something. Quickly updated to 7 something. Someone got 8 something. When it reached 8.9 we realized that either the apps were wrong, or - what strangely enough hadn't occurred to me before someone voiced it: we might not be that close to the epicenter.
In Tokyo the 3/11 earthquake felt enormous. Huge. I am (or at least was) no expert on earthquakes, but the intensity of the shaking alone, plus the worried expressions on my Japanese coworkers' faces, equaled to me that this was big. The idea, though, that we only got the tail of a movement that had been rolling for miles and miles, was more terrifying than the actual quake. If we had felt it so strong this far away... How was it closer to the actual beast? More terrifying still was the confirmation of this beast, when we got back inside and turned the TV on.
The images went across the world like wildfire. Live coverage of a natural disaster. Awful and fascinating all at once. Personally I felt the effect of the images quite modestly compared to other, closer effects. Coworkers not able to get in touch with their families. The urgency in notifying my own family and friends. The discomfort - physical and otherwise - from the aftershocks and never knowing whether one of them might be another big quake.
One image did stick, though. One of the very first I saw. A helicopter was flying over the affected areas, filming the tsunami as it advanced over a defenseless battlefield. The black, lava-like water, moving in what from air looked like a sluggish tempo, but in reality it was overwhelmingly fast. It swallowed everything in its way - people, houses, cars. One car was driving away from the wave. The car had a head start, but the wave attacked from two fronts. As the two flanks closed in on it, the car attempted a last, desperate maneuver: it abandoned the road and tried to run across a field. Useless. The wave had no mercy or respect for the brave. It gaped over its prey and swallowed this car along with all the others. The fate of those within the car we can only imagine.
I remember "the bringer of doom". A gold statue at the top of a nearby church. Its elevated position made it pick up the movements of aftershocks faster than those of us on ground. The sound of a dancing statue became the messenger of new scares. We had many that afternoon and evening. They kept coming all through the next day. At one point I could hardly distinguish between actual shakes, and my own stress and weariness causing me to shake.
All reports said that Tokyo was okay, but I still dreaded to go home. The house I was living in was an old wooden structure, with paper-thin walls and a tendency to jump even from the movement caused by passing cars on the nearby road. I imagined that there was an actual chance the whole building might have collapsed. Or perhaps the gas tank would have sprung leak, causing a fire. Who knew what mess we would find inside, assuming the house did still stand.
It did. And the mess was not worthy of a 9.0. Interestingly the damages in my room showed the movements of the earthquake very clearly. I had a bookcase where nothing had even fallen out, since the quake had moved in a parallel direction to it. My desk, though, was in a mess. Granted, it was usually a mess, but now the mess was less deliberate than my normal mix of breakfast remnants, make-up products, papers and pens. Things from atop of the otherwise untouched bookcase had fallen down. My laptop - thank Digressions in one piece - covered in cereals.
Apart from that, though, there was nothing other than my own fear of new quakes coming to finish off what it had started that kept me from sleeping in the building. Still, since I had an offer to stay in the embassy, I didn't care to stay. "I have to get back to work," I told my housemates, since the truth "I am too scared to sleep here" seemed unlikely to be of benefit to anyone. There was hardly any need to cause a panic.
I slept at the embassy for the rest of the week. Or "slept". Every time I drifted off, an aftershock of the real or imaginary kind pulled me back. A soft bed on the fourth floor picked up every movement of the earth; and every movement of the person in the bed became magnified. My first real sleep was when I sat down in my seat in the plane on my way home.
I remember everything and nothing. The terror I felt - I know I did, because I can read it in and between the lines of the blog posts I wrote during those days - it's gone. I thought it would stick for life, but life moved on. What has stuck, though, is the feeling of the quakes. One friend voiced it this way: an earthquake enters your body, but it never leaves. The 9.0 and the following aftershocks haven't left me. If I'm stressed or tired, I can still feel them. The brief moment of insecurity as to why I am shaking, before I remember that I'm in Norway and we don't have earthquakes here, is frightful every time. But it is not so very often anymore.
Details from those days will occasionally pop up in my head. Some are emotional, like most of those described above. Some are funny, surprisingly enough. I remember a lunch with some of my coworkers, a couple of days after the quake. We were all worn out from too little sleep, too much work, too much stress - too too. Somehow, this lead to a very entertaining conversation. I cannot remember at all what it was about, but I remember that it made me laugh at a time when I wondered if I'd ever laugh again. And it made me remember that I value such moments - hanging out with friends, simply - incredibly much. These were people I missed immensely when I got back home, and I still do.
One year. It feels longer. A lot has happened, and a lot of it happened because of the earthquake, directly or indirectly. These events changed me. Having felt life's fragility (even if I don't claim it was a near-death-experience) does something to you. To your perception of life, and what it should and should not include. I don't pretend that I've become aware in everything I do, or that I always live by these new insights I've acquired, but I understand more now. The idea of carpe diem makes sense in ways it didn't before, even if I then too knew life was short and you never know what will happen. I'm less scared, I think. Less concerned with consequences. More in favour of following my heart, and deal with the costs later.
It hasn't made my life easier. But I think perhaps it has made it richer. And it is for this that my thoughts about the events one year ago are not exclusively directed towards the tragedy of it all. It's terrible what happened, but since it did happen, I'm more and more starting to appreciate that I was there. That is not to say that I wish for bad things to happen, or that I wish to be near them when they do happen. But it means I have come to terms with my own minuscule part in it, and the anything-but-minuscule part it has played in my life.
When it finally stopped shaking, after what felt like much longer than what it actually must have been, we crawled out from under our desks and doorways, and gathered outside. The mood was that of uncertainty and worry, but also relief - the worst was over, or so we thought. It was as though an "all clear" signal had been issued. We were all still there, alive, intact. The building was standing. Nervous smiles, shaky legs, adrenalin and shoulders still tensely raised above normal levels.
The mobile system quickly fell out, but the iPhone earthquake apps didn't. I think the estimates started with 6 something. Quickly updated to 7 something. Someone got 8 something. When it reached 8.9 we realized that either the apps were wrong, or - what strangely enough hadn't occurred to me before someone voiced it: we might not be that close to the epicenter.
In Tokyo the 3/11 earthquake felt enormous. Huge. I am (or at least was) no expert on earthquakes, but the intensity of the shaking alone, plus the worried expressions on my Japanese coworkers' faces, equaled to me that this was big. The idea, though, that we only got the tail of a movement that had been rolling for miles and miles, was more terrifying than the actual quake. If we had felt it so strong this far away... How was it closer to the actual beast? More terrifying still was the confirmation of this beast, when we got back inside and turned the TV on.
The images went across the world like wildfire. Live coverage of a natural disaster. Awful and fascinating all at once. Personally I felt the effect of the images quite modestly compared to other, closer effects. Coworkers not able to get in touch with their families. The urgency in notifying my own family and friends. The discomfort - physical and otherwise - from the aftershocks and never knowing whether one of them might be another big quake.
One image did stick, though. One of the very first I saw. A helicopter was flying over the affected areas, filming the tsunami as it advanced over a defenseless battlefield. The black, lava-like water, moving in what from air looked like a sluggish tempo, but in reality it was overwhelmingly fast. It swallowed everything in its way - people, houses, cars. One car was driving away from the wave. The car had a head start, but the wave attacked from two fronts. As the two flanks closed in on it, the car attempted a last, desperate maneuver: it abandoned the road and tried to run across a field. Useless. The wave had no mercy or respect for the brave. It gaped over its prey and swallowed this car along with all the others. The fate of those within the car we can only imagine.
I remember "the bringer of doom". A gold statue at the top of a nearby church. Its elevated position made it pick up the movements of aftershocks faster than those of us on ground. The sound of a dancing statue became the messenger of new scares. We had many that afternoon and evening. They kept coming all through the next day. At one point I could hardly distinguish between actual shakes, and my own stress and weariness causing me to shake.
All reports said that Tokyo was okay, but I still dreaded to go home. The house I was living in was an old wooden structure, with paper-thin walls and a tendency to jump even from the movement caused by passing cars on the nearby road. I imagined that there was an actual chance the whole building might have collapsed. Or perhaps the gas tank would have sprung leak, causing a fire. Who knew what mess we would find inside, assuming the house did still stand.
It did. And the mess was not worthy of a 9.0. Interestingly the damages in my room showed the movements of the earthquake very clearly. I had a bookcase where nothing had even fallen out, since the quake had moved in a parallel direction to it. My desk, though, was in a mess. Granted, it was usually a mess, but now the mess was less deliberate than my normal mix of breakfast remnants, make-up products, papers and pens. Things from atop of the otherwise untouched bookcase had fallen down. My laptop - thank Digressions in one piece - covered in cereals.
Apart from that, though, there was nothing other than my own fear of new quakes coming to finish off what it had started that kept me from sleeping in the building. Still, since I had an offer to stay in the embassy, I didn't care to stay. "I have to get back to work," I told my housemates, since the truth "I am too scared to sleep here" seemed unlikely to be of benefit to anyone. There was hardly any need to cause a panic.
I slept at the embassy for the rest of the week. Or "slept". Every time I drifted off, an aftershock of the real or imaginary kind pulled me back. A soft bed on the fourth floor picked up every movement of the earth; and every movement of the person in the bed became magnified. My first real sleep was when I sat down in my seat in the plane on my way home.
I remember everything and nothing. The terror I felt - I know I did, because I can read it in and between the lines of the blog posts I wrote during those days - it's gone. I thought it would stick for life, but life moved on. What has stuck, though, is the feeling of the quakes. One friend voiced it this way: an earthquake enters your body, but it never leaves. The 9.0 and the following aftershocks haven't left me. If I'm stressed or tired, I can still feel them. The brief moment of insecurity as to why I am shaking, before I remember that I'm in Norway and we don't have earthquakes here, is frightful every time. But it is not so very often anymore.
Details from those days will occasionally pop up in my head. Some are emotional, like most of those described above. Some are funny, surprisingly enough. I remember a lunch with some of my coworkers, a couple of days after the quake. We were all worn out from too little sleep, too much work, too much stress - too too. Somehow, this lead to a very entertaining conversation. I cannot remember at all what it was about, but I remember that it made me laugh at a time when I wondered if I'd ever laugh again. And it made me remember that I value such moments - hanging out with friends, simply - incredibly much. These were people I missed immensely when I got back home, and I still do.
One year. It feels longer. A lot has happened, and a lot of it happened because of the earthquake, directly or indirectly. These events changed me. Having felt life's fragility (even if I don't claim it was a near-death-experience) does something to you. To your perception of life, and what it should and should not include. I don't pretend that I've become aware in everything I do, or that I always live by these new insights I've acquired, but I understand more now. The idea of carpe diem makes sense in ways it didn't before, even if I then too knew life was short and you never know what will happen. I'm less scared, I think. Less concerned with consequences. More in favour of following my heart, and deal with the costs later.
It hasn't made my life easier. But I think perhaps it has made it richer. And it is for this that my thoughts about the events one year ago are not exclusively directed towards the tragedy of it all. It's terrible what happened, but since it did happen, I'm more and more starting to appreciate that I was there. That is not to say that I wish for bad things to happen, or that I wish to be near them when they do happen. But it means I have come to terms with my own minuscule part in it, and the anything-but-minuscule part it has played in my life.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
On islands
No man is an island, but this one was. The traffic split around him, stuck in the middle of the road. An island, floating in a sea of vehicles. The drivers were annoyed at this intermission in their otherwise smoothly flowing day. The man, the island, was moving, but it was so slowly that it barely was recognizable to the human eye. He reminded me of a turtle, dragging one leg after the other, pushing his walker ahead of him. The device seemed to offer him as much trouble as support, as he hardly had the strength to even push it.
He had missed the stop light. Whether the reason was that he cared not for such things as stoplights or pedestrian crossings - or if his lack of speed simply had prevented him from crossing the road in time - was less certain. I didn't see how it started. I only saw him there, the man, turtle, island, looking terrified and terrible. He didn't really stand at risk of being hit by a car - they drove past him, or they waited. But he might not have realized that. Besides, being stuck in traffic - literally - like that, with absolutely no means of his own to get out of the situation, must have been scary.
I was standing at the other side of the street. Lest I wanted to get stuck between the cars too, there was nothing I could do. Besides, it didn't tempt me. Going over there. Touching him. He looked like he hadn't seen a piece of soap in this decade.
Fortunately, someone else overcame such petty obstacles. The driver of one of the front cars blocked by this pedestrian wreck got out of his car and walked over to the man, the turtle, the island. I was worried for a moment that the driver was going to yell at the old man. He looked like the type - young, bald, muscular, tough. Fancy car. But sometimes our stereotypes put us to shame. The younger man bent down to the crippled man, and talked to him. Took his arm around his own shoulder, helped him move forward.
After a while, the lights changed again. The other pedestrians who had been standing at the side of the road approached the stranded island and its savior. "Let me help him," one man said to the young driver, "and then you can go back to your car."
But he wouldn't. The fancy car stood abandoned, blocked no longer by an island, but by an act of kindness.
In the end, they both helped the old man cross the road. They didn't make it on that first stoplight. Perhaps not even the second. When I turned to look after having crossed from the opposite direction, they had still only come about halfway. When I returned after having run my errands, everything was back to normal. Traffic ran as usual.
The old man was still there, though, at the curb of the opposite side of the road. He was still dragging his feet along, moving at the speed of a turtle, or a large island - a continent, perhaps. I don't know where he was going. I hope he got there safe.
He had missed the stop light. Whether the reason was that he cared not for such things as stoplights or pedestrian crossings - or if his lack of speed simply had prevented him from crossing the road in time - was less certain. I didn't see how it started. I only saw him there, the man, turtle, island, looking terrified and terrible. He didn't really stand at risk of being hit by a car - they drove past him, or they waited. But he might not have realized that. Besides, being stuck in traffic - literally - like that, with absolutely no means of his own to get out of the situation, must have been scary.
I was standing at the other side of the street. Lest I wanted to get stuck between the cars too, there was nothing I could do. Besides, it didn't tempt me. Going over there. Touching him. He looked like he hadn't seen a piece of soap in this decade.
Fortunately, someone else overcame such petty obstacles. The driver of one of the front cars blocked by this pedestrian wreck got out of his car and walked over to the man, the turtle, the island. I was worried for a moment that the driver was going to yell at the old man. He looked like the type - young, bald, muscular, tough. Fancy car. But sometimes our stereotypes put us to shame. The younger man bent down to the crippled man, and talked to him. Took his arm around his own shoulder, helped him move forward.
After a while, the lights changed again. The other pedestrians who had been standing at the side of the road approached the stranded island and its savior. "Let me help him," one man said to the young driver, "and then you can go back to your car."
But he wouldn't. The fancy car stood abandoned, blocked no longer by an island, but by an act of kindness.
In the end, they both helped the old man cross the road. They didn't make it on that first stoplight. Perhaps not even the second. When I turned to look after having crossed from the opposite direction, they had still only come about halfway. When I returned after having run my errands, everything was back to normal. Traffic ran as usual.
The old man was still there, though, at the curb of the opposite side of the road. He was still dragging his feet along, moving at the speed of a turtle, or a large island - a continent, perhaps. I don't know where he was going. I hope he got there safe.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
On this day
Lately, Facebook started wooing the nostaligiacs of us...
"On this day in 2009..." My Facebook status on this day in 2009? "In Boston." I was visiting fellow Burrower Leanne, we had been touring D.C., and then I came back with her to Boston. We took the night train, and none of us really realized when staggering off at the station in Boston what day it was. I seem to remember it even took a while for us to notice.
On this day six months ago I was having a busy day at the embassy, helping out with the last few details before our Prime Minister visit. Then the earth started moving, we crept under the table, the world turned upside down (figuratively) and several inches off its axis (literally).
On this day eleven months ago, I wrote a note of encouragement to myself. It was three minutes to midnight, and I was up, working on my master's thesis. I hated my thesis. I hated everything and everyone. Including myself. But I had the wisdom to realize that I hadn't hit rock bottom yet. The note - when I re-read it two months later - was appreciated.
On this day last year, I was on my way to a hotel in Lillehammer, where my entire family were gathering to celebrate my parents' 40th anniversary. It was a lovely weekend.
On this day ten years ago I was home from school, watching some mindless show. It was interrupted by a news report, about the first plane. I remember thinking "accident". Then the second plane hit, and the idea of an accident was obsolete. At the age of fifteen I hardly knew what the concept "terrorism" meant. That was about to change.
On this day in 1904 my great great great grandfather observed the landing of two ships in Geiranger, Norway. One of them was a war ship, Sparton, but the more notable was the ship it was accompanying: Alexandra and Albert. On board was the Danish-born, British Queen Alexandra, wife of Edward VII. The queen and her party were sightseeing, and they left Geiranger two days later.
On this day in year 9, the Battle of the Teutoburg Forest ended. An alliance of Germanic tribes defeated the Romans, and this was the end of any serious Roman attempts to conquer Germania beyond the Rhine.
This day didn't start being part of history in 2001. It didn't end then either. But some events make deeper marks on their aftermath than others.
"On this day in 2009..." My Facebook status on this day in 2009? "In Boston." I was visiting fellow Burrower Leanne, we had been touring D.C., and then I came back with her to Boston. We took the night train, and none of us really realized when staggering off at the station in Boston what day it was. I seem to remember it even took a while for us to notice.
On this day six months ago I was having a busy day at the embassy, helping out with the last few details before our Prime Minister visit. Then the earth started moving, we crept under the table, the world turned upside down (figuratively) and several inches off its axis (literally).
On this day eleven months ago, I wrote a note of encouragement to myself. It was three minutes to midnight, and I was up, working on my master's thesis. I hated my thesis. I hated everything and everyone. Including myself. But I had the wisdom to realize that I hadn't hit rock bottom yet. The note - when I re-read it two months later - was appreciated.
On this day last year, I was on my way to a hotel in Lillehammer, where my entire family were gathering to celebrate my parents' 40th anniversary. It was a lovely weekend.
On this day ten years ago I was home from school, watching some mindless show. It was interrupted by a news report, about the first plane. I remember thinking "accident". Then the second plane hit, and the idea of an accident was obsolete. At the age of fifteen I hardly knew what the concept "terrorism" meant. That was about to change.
On this day in 1904 my great great great grandfather observed the landing of two ships in Geiranger, Norway. One of them was a war ship, Sparton, but the more notable was the ship it was accompanying: Alexandra and Albert. On board was the Danish-born, British Queen Alexandra, wife of Edward VII. The queen and her party were sightseeing, and they left Geiranger two days later.
On this day in year 9, the Battle of the Teutoburg Forest ended. An alliance of Germanic tribes defeated the Romans, and this was the end of any serious Roman attempts to conquer Germania beyond the Rhine.
This day didn't start being part of history in 2001. It didn't end then either. But some events make deeper marks on their aftermath than others.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
On emoticolonialism
 |
| An imprint of the flower I smelled this morning |
Either way, compare those emotions. The extreme sad/scare/rage to the extreme happy/thrilled/enthusiastic. They are powerful ends to the same emotional spectrum. If you did as I told you - picked the very worst and very happiest memories you have - these emotions most likely represent the strongest sentiments you have ever felt. It's a little frightening, actually, just how strong these feelings are.
It struck me today, how we sometimes - not too often, fortunately - are overpowered with emotions so strong that they leave a lasting memory for the rest of our lives. By mentioning the thing that triggered these emotions, we can feel a version of the same emotion, even years after. When I asked you to think back, I might have triggered intense grief you almost had forgotten you had in you, but then it is there after all, like an imprint of the original feeling. Or a tingling sensation in your stomach region, reminding you of how you really felt that first time your boyfriend kissed you.
Imagine now that instead of having an aftertaste of an emotion already felt, you had a preview. The same imprint - a mellower version of the original - but before the actual event and your reaction to it. Would you be able to bear it? If it was a happy preview - wouldn't the expectations of the real thing lessen the actual feeling? And worse - if it was a sad preview - wouldn't the premature grief weaken your ability to handle the real thing?
One of the impossible questions I have asked myself after the earthquake in Japan in March is whether I'd gone if I had known. It's an impossible question because it doesn't really matter. I didn't know, and I did go. Plus, I think the answer is given. Had I known for sure that there would be an earthquake, a tsunami, a nuclear crisis, I wouldn't have wanted to be anywhere near it - even though I wasn't injured or directly affected. Still, there might have been a part of me that would still have wanted to go - not to play hero per se - but perhaps in a misguided "solidarity" with Japan? Or to prove to myself that I wasn't scared? (Which would be wrong, by the way.) Well, that part would have been convinced if I had had a "preview" of any of the emotions I've been dealing with, during and after the earthquake.
I think it is good that we don't know.
Somewhat related, I'm writing about nuclearism over at Burrowers, Books & Balderdash today. I guess the same questions is relevant there - if we had known, would we have acted differently?
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
On Peace One Day
When I was in Japan in 2006 I was invited to a local celebration of Peace One Day. I had no idea what Peace One Day was, but after a quick introduction in the car on our way there, and then a viewing of the Peace One Day movie, I begun to realize I had just become part of something big. Our local Akita celebration hardly tore down any walls, but I think that the people who participated (I know I did) felt that we had been empowered to go out in the world and spread the word about what Peace One Day is all about. That is what I am doing right now.
Peace One Day is a concept developed by filmmaker Jeremy Gilley who in 1999 decided to try to convince the world community that just one day of world peace could be the starting point for something much bigger. His initial goal was to make September 21st the United Nations official day of peace. In 2001 this was achieved, with the 192 member nations voting for adopting this day as an annual day of global ceasefire and non-violence. Peace One Day had won its first victory, but the project was not over.
Since 2001 the work of Jeremy and his organization has spread the word about Peace One Day. The new goal is to reach out to 3 billion people by 2012. Peace Day is supposed to be a day of non-violence, both between nations, within countries, and between individual people. Call me a hippie, but if we can make 3 billion people stop being violent in every aspect of their lives for just one day each year, that is one hing of an accomplishment.
This year I think the thought behind Peace One Day holds a particular meaning to me. I’m finally in the process of putting the finishing touches on my thesis. For two years I have been surrounded by narratives, images, old documents and history books – all telling various aspects of the same tragic story. The people in the Middle East has been living in a state of war, or under the threat of war, for more than 60 years. After having seen what it does to me to only hear about it for two years, I can’t imagine what it must feel like to live in the middle of it a lifetime.
The current negotiations offers a slim, but much needed hope. I can’t say that I believe it is as easy as a signed document in front of a smiling Obama (and I’m not even saying I believe that will happen). But I have to hope. One day of peace will not save the Middle East either, but again I want us to hope. Hope that each day without war will somehow make the world slightly better. That perhaps we eventually can talk about Peace One Week, or Peace One Month. That enough people will be convinced that peace is the way to go, and that war is not.
Thus I encourage you to take part in this. Spread the word about Peace One Day. Raise the awareness. Remember that if just one man could do all this, then perhaps it is time the rest of us start paying attention.
Happy International World Peace Day!
http://www.youtube.com/peaceoneday
Also - in a slightly related vein I'd like to tell you about another, much smaller project. Imagine that one good deed set in motion a chain of events that lead to a slightly better day for each person affected. In August, The Burrow invited a number of our friends to participate in a drabble cycle - inspired by a post by B. Miller - where each mini-story covers a selfless action that helps another human (and in one case an extra-terrestial) being. The Burrow Pay It Forward project will only be up a few more days before a new project is due, so I urge you to visit www.the-burrow.org ASAP to get a chance to read all the drabbles.
Peace One Day is a concept developed by filmmaker Jeremy Gilley who in 1999 decided to try to convince the world community that just one day of world peace could be the starting point for something much bigger. His initial goal was to make September 21st the United Nations official day of peace. In 2001 this was achieved, with the 192 member nations voting for adopting this day as an annual day of global ceasefire and non-violence. Peace One Day had won its first victory, but the project was not over.
Since 2001 the work of Jeremy and his organization has spread the word about Peace One Day. The new goal is to reach out to 3 billion people by 2012. Peace Day is supposed to be a day of non-violence, both between nations, within countries, and between individual people. Call me a hippie, but if we can make 3 billion people stop being violent in every aspect of their lives for just one day each year, that is one hing of an accomplishment.
This year I think the thought behind Peace One Day holds a particular meaning to me. I’m finally in the process of putting the finishing touches on my thesis. For two years I have been surrounded by narratives, images, old documents and history books – all telling various aspects of the same tragic story. The people in the Middle East has been living in a state of war, or under the threat of war, for more than 60 years. After having seen what it does to me to only hear about it for two years, I can’t imagine what it must feel like to live in the middle of it a lifetime.
The current negotiations offers a slim, but much needed hope. I can’t say that I believe it is as easy as a signed document in front of a smiling Obama (and I’m not even saying I believe that will happen). But I have to hope. One day of peace will not save the Middle East either, but again I want us to hope. Hope that each day without war will somehow make the world slightly better. That perhaps we eventually can talk about Peace One Week, or Peace One Month. That enough people will be convinced that peace is the way to go, and that war is not.
Thus I encourage you to take part in this. Spread the word about Peace One Day. Raise the awareness. Remember that if just one man could do all this, then perhaps it is time the rest of us start paying attention.
Happy International World Peace Day!
http://www.youtube.com/peaceoneday
Also - in a slightly related vein I'd like to tell you about another, much smaller project. Imagine that one good deed set in motion a chain of events that lead to a slightly better day for each person affected. In August, The Burrow invited a number of our friends to participate in a drabble cycle - inspired by a post by B. Miller - where each mini-story covers a selfless action that helps another human (and in one case an extra-terrestial) being. The Burrow Pay It Forward project will only be up a few more days before a new project is due, so I urge you to visit www.the-burrow.org ASAP to get a chance to read all the drabbles.
Friday, August 27, 2010
On my blogiversary
Today, it’s exactly one year since I published my first blog post. Since then I have written a little over 200 posts. If they average on about 800 words, that means I have produced 160 000 words on this blog. That’s a novel, basically. I tried to google “how many pages is 160 000 words”, and it came up with “it depends” (which I knew) and “Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince is 168,923 words” (which I didn’t know).
The thing, though, is that a blog year is comparable to a novel year the way a dog year is comparable to a human year. It takes many dog years to make up one human year. Likewise, 160 000 words worth of blog posts isn’t a novel. But still. I think this means (to me, anyway) that I have proved I can stick with something I write for that long. I can write a novel if – no, WHEN – I set my mind to it. When I have the time (heard it before?). When I am ready. And I will.
In the meantime I feel the need to take a stroll down memory lane. You’re invited to join me if you like.
Since I started this blog I have...
-moved three times , one of them across an ocean . And then once in my workplace.
-tried , and failed, twice to write the same novel within a month.
-pondered over tough life decisions.
-complained about laundry...
-…and dishes...
-...and of course my thesis.
-told you about what I read, where I live , what I listen to, why I don’t do Twitter and how I mastered the art of time travelling.
-repeatedly advertized for http://www.onemilliongiraffes.com/, and whether my linking helped or not, the project was completed just a few days ago. It is possible to collect 1,000,000 handmade giraffes in 440 days, (only 239 of which were made by me). In general, the “giraffability” part of this blog has not been as large as I could have wanted, but at least the giraffes still beat the squirrels and the fraggles …
-taught you some lessons in Norwegian and about being Norwegian.
-taught you a lesson in alternative probability.
And if you’ve always wondered why all my blog titles awkwardly start with the word “on”, there is even an explanation to that.
It’s been a very good year.
Have a great weekend!
The thing, though, is that a blog year is comparable to a novel year the way a dog year is comparable to a human year. It takes many dog years to make up one human year. Likewise, 160 000 words worth of blog posts isn’t a novel. But still. I think this means (to me, anyway) that I have proved I can stick with something I write for that long. I can write a novel if – no, WHEN – I set my mind to it. When I have the time (heard it before?). When I am ready. And I will.
In the meantime I feel the need to take a stroll down memory lane. You’re invited to join me if you like.
Since I started this blog I have...
-moved three times , one of them across an ocean . And then once in my workplace.
-tried , and failed, twice to write the same novel within a month.
-pondered over tough life decisions.
-complained about laundry...
-…and dishes...
-...and of course my thesis.
-told you about what I read, where I live , what I listen to, why I don’t do Twitter and how I mastered the art of time travelling.
-repeatedly advertized for http://www.onemilliongiraffes.com/, and whether my linking helped or not, the project was completed just a few days ago. It is possible to collect 1,000,000 handmade giraffes in 440 days, (only 239 of which were made by me). In general, the “giraffability” part of this blog has not been as large as I could have wanted, but at least the giraffes still beat the squirrels and the fraggles …
-taught you some lessons in Norwegian and about being Norwegian.
-taught you a lesson in alternative probability.
And if you’ve always wondered why all my blog titles awkwardly start with the word “on”, there is even an explanation to that.
It’s been a very good year.
Have a great weekend!
Monday, August 2, 2010
On mountaineering
I haven't been doing a whole lot of travelling this summer. It's got to do with several things, most notably time (in between the job and the studies, it didn't feel like I could take much time off), and money (no student loans during the summer always makes the budget a little tight, but this time it was worse than usual since I didn't work this spring). Thus it sounded like a great opportunity to get away for a while when my parents suggested that I came with them to visit some relatives of ours in the mountainous areas in the middle of Norway.
These relatives (it's actually my mother's cousin and her husband, but since my mom and her cousin are both only childs, they are more like siblings. So for the purpose of this post I will refer to them as my aunt and uncle) have a cabin up in the mountains. It used to be very simple, but with time they have installed power in the cabin, and these days they even have water (it's still outside the cabin, though directly outside it). However, it remains a simple life up there, and the area definitely offers space to let your mind wander.
I'll be away a few days. I have scheduled posts, but I won't be around to reply to comments or visit other blogs. In the meantime you can enjoy some pictures from my last visit:
These relatives (it's actually my mother's cousin and her husband, but since my mom and her cousin are both only childs, they are more like siblings. So for the purpose of this post I will refer to them as my aunt and uncle) have a cabin up in the mountains. It used to be very simple, but with time they have installed power in the cabin, and these days they even have water (it's still outside the cabin, though directly outside it). However, it remains a simple life up there, and the area definitely offers space to let your mind wander.
I'll be away a few days. I have scheduled posts, but I won't be around to reply to comments or visit other blogs. In the meantime you can enjoy some pictures from my last visit:
 |
| This picture makes the weather look more dramatical than it actually was. But I couldn't bring myself to touch it up... |
 |
| This is what all Norwegian homes look like. Well, no, it's not. This is taken at the "fine dining with authentic feel showroom" of the Norwegian master chef Arne Brimi (who is the closest neighbours of my relative's cabin). |
 |
| The official name for this flower is Skogstorkenebb (which translates to forest stork beak, tee hee) or Geranium sylvaticum in Latin. In my family, however, it only goes by the name "Midsummer flower" due to a particular family story I might consider sharing someday... |
 |
| This is water coming directly from the glaciers, so even if this picture was taken during summer, the water was ice cold. Makes it perfect for drinking, though. |
 |
| That would be my dad and my uncle walking ahead. My uncle's family owns most of this valley. |
 |
| We had been walking for a couple of hours or so when we reached this place, but we parked where the driveable road ended. Back when this place was a summer farm, they didn't even have cars! I'm guessing that the walk from the village took about a day (at least when they had cows with them). |
 |
| I think this picture gives an idea how remote this place is. No wonders they believed in trolls! |
 |
| The old weathered cabin, where my uncle spent all his childhood summers. |
 |
| This ravine, known as Ridderspranget (The Knight's Leap), has a legend tied to it. According to the story, a young man kidnapped another man's bride and ran away with her. They were pursued until they reached the river Sjoa, where he managed to jump across and escape. |
 |
| "You talkin' to moo?" |
 |
| The long stretch of mountain in the middle of this picture is the popular tourist route "Besseggen", which is the closest I've ever been to any actual mountaineering. It's quite the hike, and there are parts of it that requires climbing of sorts, but despite that the title of this post is quite misleading... |
Monday, July 26, 2010
On bookstore stories
I may have given the impression that all the customers in my bookstore are annoying, rude, selfish and ignorant. This isn’t entirely accurate. Most of them are smart, funny and lovely people; they are normal people. Most of them are also erased from my mind the moment they leave the store (unlike the really bad ones). I don’t spend a whole lot of time thinking about customers who weren’t difficult, who didn’t challenge my diplomatic abilities, or who did not treat me as though I was the stupidest thing since hot iced tea. Unfortunately, this means that one bad customer easily outweighs ten good ones.
Every now and then, though, there are customers who make an impression because of something else entirely. Like the old man who – while I was looking up a book for him – told me that he had been stationed in Korea during the Korean War. Until then I had no idea that Norway even participated in that war (so much for being a history student). Or the little kid who on the day of the release of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows vowed to learn English so that he did not have to wait for the Norwegian translation of the last Harry Potter book. He came back three times on the night of the release to have me translate various names and items for him... Or the drug addict who told me his life story one slow afternoon when I had a summer job in a bookshop in the dodgy part of the city. This man probably never had anyone to talk to about his misfortunes, so when he found me, he was happy to share. His story almost made me cry, and if I ever find I can do it justice, I might consider writing it down.
Even though there are many things I most certainly will not miss about my job when I eventually find a “grown-up job”, I will miss these tiny glimpses into people’s lives. My job may not be the most important in the world, but every now and then I feel like I am playing a small part in someone else’s life story.
Not long ago a handsome man in his early thirties walked into the store. He was looking for a box. Boxes are one of those things that people occasionally come into our store to get that always poses a problem. See, when he said “box”, he had a very specific type of box in mind. But if you don’t specify it more than that, a box might mean anything from a cardboard moving box to a chest to keep treasures in. Since I have not yet mastered the skill of reading minds, I asked him to elaborate.
He wanted a box to wrap something in. He had a rough estimate of the size, and it was important to him how the box looked. I showed him a couple of boxes (believe it or not, but for a bookstore we do carry a lot of crap. Including boxes of every shape and size). None of them were exactly what he was looking for, but he said he’s take a peak around the mall, and if he didn’t find anything suitable, he’d come back.
Ten minutes later he showed up again.
We have some boxes that look perfectly ordinary – the only “unordinary” thing about them is that they all fit into one another, like a Russian Matryoshka doll. When he spotted these, the guy suddenly lit up. Now he only needed the perfect gift wrapping.
We offer the service of wrapping presents, thus we have wrapping paper with our store’s logo printed on it. It’s usually pretty hideous. I showed him the options available – the only one of which I actually like was the one intended for children, with knights and princesses printed on it.
“That would not be appropriate at all,” he said, “even though it is for a princess.”
It begun to dawn on me what his hints meant, but he hadn’t yet shared what exactly he was wrapping in the box. It soon became very clear that this man was dying to tell someone, though...
He took his time to figure out the perfect combination of (non-logo-printed) paper and ribbons. Eventually he came back to the cash register where he finally couldn’t hold it in anymore. He showed me all the boxes, and then pointed to the smallest one.
“Guess what’s going inside!” He was like a little kid on Christmas Day. His eyes were lit up, and he was all giggly, blushing slightly. By then it was pretty clear to me that he was placing an engagement ring inside. I asked, and he confirmed.
He was about to propose to his girlfriend, and since it was a secret (to her, obviously, but also to his family and friends), he hadn’t been able to talk about this life-changing idea that probably had been on his mind for weeks. Thus he simply had to tell me all about it. He was making her dinner, and by the end of it he was going to give her an innocent present – much larger than a jewellery box. As she wrapped her way towards the middle, though, he would get down on one knee and ask the big question.
While his story touched me, I couldn’t help but see the comical part about him choosing to use me – a random stranger – as his confidante. I managed to keep a straight face, though, and wished him good luck.
What eventually made me laugh after all was when he returned once more – this time to show me three large rolls of “Love Hearts” that he had bought. The ring case he had gotten for the ring was one of those with room for two rings. The reason he hadn’t asked the store to give him a normal ring case was that he wanted the other room to contain two pieces of the popular candy – the one saying “WILL YOU” and the one saying “MARRY ME”. He had worked his way through several rolls already, but not yet found the appropriate one. As soon as he did, he was ready to pop the question.
Every now and then, though, there are customers who make an impression because of something else entirely. Like the old man who – while I was looking up a book for him – told me that he had been stationed in Korea during the Korean War. Until then I had no idea that Norway even participated in that war (so much for being a history student). Or the little kid who on the day of the release of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows vowed to learn English so that he did not have to wait for the Norwegian translation of the last Harry Potter book. He came back three times on the night of the release to have me translate various names and items for him... Or the drug addict who told me his life story one slow afternoon when I had a summer job in a bookshop in the dodgy part of the city. This man probably never had anyone to talk to about his misfortunes, so when he found me, he was happy to share. His story almost made me cry, and if I ever find I can do it justice, I might consider writing it down.
Even though there are many things I most certainly will not miss about my job when I eventually find a “grown-up job”, I will miss these tiny glimpses into people’s lives. My job may not be the most important in the world, but every now and then I feel like I am playing a small part in someone else’s life story.
Not long ago a handsome man in his early thirties walked into the store. He was looking for a box. Boxes are one of those things that people occasionally come into our store to get that always poses a problem. See, when he said “box”, he had a very specific type of box in mind. But if you don’t specify it more than that, a box might mean anything from a cardboard moving box to a chest to keep treasures in. Since I have not yet mastered the skill of reading minds, I asked him to elaborate.
He wanted a box to wrap something in. He had a rough estimate of the size, and it was important to him how the box looked. I showed him a couple of boxes (believe it or not, but for a bookstore we do carry a lot of crap. Including boxes of every shape and size). None of them were exactly what he was looking for, but he said he’s take a peak around the mall, and if he didn’t find anything suitable, he’d come back.
Ten minutes later he showed up again.
We have some boxes that look perfectly ordinary – the only “unordinary” thing about them is that they all fit into one another, like a Russian Matryoshka doll. When he spotted these, the guy suddenly lit up. Now he only needed the perfect gift wrapping.
We offer the service of wrapping presents, thus we have wrapping paper with our store’s logo printed on it. It’s usually pretty hideous. I showed him the options available – the only one of which I actually like was the one intended for children, with knights and princesses printed on it.
“That would not be appropriate at all,” he said, “even though it is for a princess.”
It begun to dawn on me what his hints meant, but he hadn’t yet shared what exactly he was wrapping in the box. It soon became very clear that this man was dying to tell someone, though...
He took his time to figure out the perfect combination of (non-logo-printed) paper and ribbons. Eventually he came back to the cash register where he finally couldn’t hold it in anymore. He showed me all the boxes, and then pointed to the smallest one.
“Guess what’s going inside!” He was like a little kid on Christmas Day. His eyes were lit up, and he was all giggly, blushing slightly. By then it was pretty clear to me that he was placing an engagement ring inside. I asked, and he confirmed.
He was about to propose to his girlfriend, and since it was a secret (to her, obviously, but also to his family and friends), he hadn’t been able to talk about this life-changing idea that probably had been on his mind for weeks. Thus he simply had to tell me all about it. He was making her dinner, and by the end of it he was going to give her an innocent present – much larger than a jewellery box. As she wrapped her way towards the middle, though, he would get down on one knee and ask the big question.
While his story touched me, I couldn’t help but see the comical part about him choosing to use me – a random stranger – as his confidante. I managed to keep a straight face, though, and wished him good luck.
So, Mr. Romantic, I hope you found the right piece eventually, and that your girl gave you the correct answer. And I also hope she knows how lucky she is to have a guy that bothered going through all that trouble for her!
 |
| Like Mr Romantic, I was only able to find one of the two pieces he was looking for... |
Friday, July 9, 2010
On Portveien 2
I was out walking my regular route to the university the other day when I decided to take a detour through the kolonihage. A kolonihage (directly translated: colony garden) is an area of garden patches designed to give those of us who are living in condos or apartment buildings the pleasure and agonies of having a garden. Typically each garden has a tiny cabin or hut in it, so the kolonihage looks a little like a village for small people. (By using my googling skills I have learned that the proper English word for kolonihage would be either 'community garden' or 'allotment'.)
Oslo has quite a few of those 'villages' since gardening always has been considered healthy for mind and body, something every Norwegian should partake in directly after climbing a mountain or hike in the forest – activities we all do every Sunday, of course.
I’ve never really been the gardening (or mountain climbing) type, but I like walking through the kolonihage. The houses are adorable, and it is rather amazing to see what they manage to do even in such limited garden space. Flowers, vegetables, trees – and the obligatory hammock.
Since I moved not long ago, I haven’t been able to explore the kolonihage in my new neighbourhood yet. As I walked down the gravel lane with white picket fences on each side, I suddenly noticed a familiar pennant. It said “Portveien 2”.
I went SQUEEEEE!
I realize this will not make sense to anyone that isn’t Norwegian, but let me try to translate it. Imagine you were walking around in your neighbourhood, and suddenly you found yourself strolling down Sesame Street. (Don’t tell me you didn’t go SQUEEEEE! now… )
"Portveien 2" was a television show for kids when I was little. They showed cartoons, and they played games, and there were songs (some of which I still know). This show might even be where my strange fondness for giraffes originated, since there was a giraffe living in the house without the humans knowing about it. The giraffe kept “borrowing” their stuff and make funny faces behind their backs, though also leave presents every now and then if my memory serves me right (something we shouldn’t entirely trust, since I can’t have been older than maybe five when this was running).
I always knew they shot this show somewhere in Oslo, and I may have even known that it was in one of the kolonihage, but this sounded unlikely to me since I didn’t remember the house in the show as particularly small. In retrospect, I can think of two possible explanations to that: First of all, I was a lot smaller myself, so naturally the house looked bigger. Secondly, all houses looked small inside the TV… (Naturally, this was before the age of giant plasma screens)
Seeing the (slightly smaller than I remembered) house took me right back to my childhood. Suddenly I craved popsicles and my mother’s homemade pizza. I imagined waving my bare toes from the highest point of the swing set’s pendulum. Had I seen any, I would have picked wild strawberries and put them on a straw.
Walking through that kolonihage made me 20 years younger in a second. When I left, I was back at my own age, but with a smile on my face.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In other giraffe related news, I was thrilled to discover earlier this week that one of my giraffes (one that has made an appearance on this blog before) was chosen as "Giraffe of the day # 391" on http://www.onemilliongiraffes.com/. This project, which started as a silly bet, has earned originator and Giraffe in Command, Ola, 884,834 handmade giraffes since he started collecting a little over a year ago. The goal is to reach 1,000,000 before the end of this year, and it looks like Ola is going to win his bet. But there are still 115,166 giraffes missing - you go make one right now, and upload it to (I'll provide the link just one more time, shall I?) http://burrowers.blogspot.com/ - just kidding - to http://www.onemilliongiraffes.com/, of course :)
Have a very happy weekend, lovely followers! Don't forget to check in at the Burrow Blog. We have a special something planned for this weekend :)
Oslo has quite a few of those 'villages' since gardening always has been considered healthy for mind and body, something every Norwegian should partake in directly after climbing a mountain or hike in the forest – activities we all do every Sunday, of course.
I’ve never really been the gardening (or mountain climbing) type, but I like walking through the kolonihage. The houses are adorable, and it is rather amazing to see what they manage to do even in such limited garden space. Flowers, vegetables, trees – and the obligatory hammock.
Since I moved not long ago, I haven’t been able to explore the kolonihage in my new neighbourhood yet. As I walked down the gravel lane with white picket fences on each side, I suddenly noticed a familiar pennant. It said “Portveien 2”. I went SQUEEEEE!
I realize this will not make sense to anyone that isn’t Norwegian, but let me try to translate it. Imagine you were walking around in your neighbourhood, and suddenly you found yourself strolling down Sesame Street. (Don’t tell me you didn’t go SQUEEEEE! now… )
I always knew they shot this show somewhere in Oslo, and I may have even known that it was in one of the kolonihage, but this sounded unlikely to me since I didn’t remember the house in the show as particularly small. In retrospect, I can think of two possible explanations to that: First of all, I was a lot smaller myself, so naturally the house looked bigger. Secondly, all houses looked small inside the TV… (Naturally, this was before the age of giant plasma screens)
Seeing the (slightly smaller than I remembered) house took me right back to my childhood. Suddenly I craved popsicles and my mother’s homemade pizza. I imagined waving my bare toes from the highest point of the swing set’s pendulum. Had I seen any, I would have picked wild strawberries and put them on a straw.
Walking through that kolonihage made me 20 years younger in a second. When I left, I was back at my own age, but with a smile on my face.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In other giraffe related news, I was thrilled to discover earlier this week that one of my giraffes (one that has made an appearance on this blog before) was chosen as "Giraffe of the day # 391" on http://www.onemilliongiraffes.com/. This project, which started as a silly bet, has earned originator and Giraffe in Command, Ola, 884,834 handmade giraffes since he started collecting a little over a year ago. The goal is to reach 1,000,000 before the end of this year, and it looks like Ola is going to win his bet. But there are still 115,166 giraffes missing - you go make one right now, and upload it to (I'll provide the link just one more time, shall I?) http://burrowers.blogspot.com/ - just kidding - to http://www.onemilliongiraffes.com/, of course :)
Have a very happy weekend, lovely followers! Don't forget to check in at the Burrow Blog. We have a special something planned for this weekend :)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
