On audio input

I've developed a new habit/addiction.

I used to listen to Spotify on my way to and from work, but as much as I love music, it would eventually get boring as music frequently works more as a way of shutting out the world than to entertain or otherwise engage me. I've tried reading - while listening to music, even - but it doesn't really work (and the music or lack thereof has nothing to do with it). If I take the bus I will get travel sick from looking down too much, and if I'm on the subway it's frequently so crowded that it is difficult to find a seat, and reading standing up isn't really my thing.

However, a while back a friend told me about "Serial". The podcast. As I'm sure everyone in the entire world has heard of it by now I won't go into details, but if there are anyone left out there who hasn't listened to "Serial" I think they should. Go find it online. It's free. Listen. Get hooked.

Anyway, "Serial" is over (or at least the first season), and I needed more. With little over half an hour travel time each direction, I need more than an hour per day to fill my needs. Hence, I would need a lot of podcasts. I've tried several, and while others such as "This American Life" or "Radiolab" are good, they don't hook me the way "Serial" did, and with all of them there is a quantity problem. I need more. (I really do sound like an addict...)

Thus, I discovered audiobooks. First, I got a free trial one from Audible (which turned out to be "free", as they automatically connected that to my Amazon account, took my credit card details from there and proceeded to charge me monthly without me being aware that I had signed up for any kind of membership... Bastards!). After that, I moved onto an app called "Storytel" [sic - not a typo - one L only].

Storytel doesn't have the greatest catalogue, but for now I am satisfied. I've been through quite a lot of memoirs, which are made infinitely better when the person having written them also is the one reading (so far, I've listened to Lena Dunham, Stephen Fry, Kaitlin Moran and more). Love that! I wish I could find such audiobooks from the politicians I am writing my dissertation on. Would be so interesting (I did buy another book from Amazon, since they had already charged me I might as well make use of my "credit" - but I'm not sure Jimmy Carter reading about something other than the topic I am researching will have the same effect, and at any rate there is no hope to find anything from Nixon or Ford, and I don't think Kissinger is the greatest audio performer - though he is unmatched when it comes to the written word).

I like thematically appropriate listens, so when I was meadering around on a U.S. university campus (specifically University of Michigan in Ann Arbor) this spring, I listened to Stoner by John Williams. The world of academia is more than a mere setting in this novel; it's almost a character of its own. Thus my circumstance made an already interesting book even more captivating, though I am sure I must have looked odd to the people around me - walking around with my ear plugs staring at campus buildings as though I saw them in 1915 rather than 2015.

When I came home I went back to podcasts for a while, having discovered Neil deGrasse Tyson's "Star Talk", where he enter into discussion about topics reaching far beyond the extent of his field of study (which is saying something, seeing as he basically is studying the universe...). Funny and interesting. After having gone through the entire backlog of this podcast, however, I went back to audiobooks. 

This time I've finally settled for something that will keep my addiction covered for a while. After the season finale of "Game of Thrones" a few weeks back I realized I craved more. Thus far I'd been staying far away from the books, or rather, I started reading them, but they did not appeal to me, This was way back when the first season aired, and the show was following the book closely enough for me to feel it redundant to read them. In addition, the books felt "wordy" to me, which is weird, because I normally really look big, fat, wordy books. 

Anyway. Now everything is different. First of all, it's been four years since I saw that first season. Even if the first book is following it closely, it doesn't matter, as I've forgotten a lot. A lot. 

Secondly, it's almost an advantage that the books are wordy. It means they last longer, and seeing as I listen to them during my commute where constant distractions might interfere, it isn't so problematic if I miss a detail here or there. 

Finally, I really like the guy who is reading (which is a BIG deal for audiobooks). He even does different voices, which I adore. I could listen to him forever (a good thing, seeing as each book is about 30 hours,,,) 

Yeah, that's right. Each book is about 30 hours. And there are five of them (with two more in the making, but as everyone knows by now the release dates of those are anyone's guess). 

I'm already halfway into book number two, though, so I'm wolfing them down a little faster than I'd planned. Somehow, my commute time tends to stretch out these days... The way it looks, I'll be hunting for more sustenance to feed my addiction come autumn. (Insert mandatory "Winter is coming") 

Any suggestions? 

On words to the wiser*

"It is important to note that..." doesn't meant that something is important.

"I have fixed every edit you suggested" doesn't mean that no more edits are required (or even that you actually fixed what I suggested).

"I've been ill the last three days before the deadline" isn't an acceptable excuse for not having used the previous thirty days before that, also included in your deadline.

"I don't know how to improve this text" is not a cue for me to jump in with a cure.






*Note: in this case I am myself the wiser. Or the unwiser. Or at least the person in need of taking my own advice. By admitting this I am, of course, in no way suggesting that there might not also be others in need of taking this advice...

On songs you should be listening to now

On ego

Hey! Hello. This is me. Moi. C'est moi.

I'm speaking to you. You. I wish I knew you. Maybe I do. But when do we really know someone? I'm not even sure I know myself.

I analyse things. It's a professional hazard. Can't help it. "Hey! Hello. This is me. Moi. C'est moi." Why "hey"? Why add an extra "hello"? Why exclamation mark for the first, full stop for the second? And why French? I'm not French.

I analyse myself. Try to see me as others do.

Students.

Colleagues.

Friends.

Family.

Boys/men.

And within these categories, each person individually.

I fail. If we can't know someone - not even ourselves - how can we even fathom the idea of knowing what someone (that we don't know) knows anything about ourselves (that we don't know), or that we can know this something they know (or don't know) about ourselves?

Big question. No answer.

Listen to this song:




Not the lyrics. They're in Swedish, and most you don't speak Swedish. "Most of you." Whether that means most people in the world, or most people potentially reading this blog. Maybe most of you (reading this blog) do speak Swedish. I don't care. Don't listen to the lyrics. Not this time. I don't. I never do. Even if I discovered that I knew these almost by heart. But I don't pay attention to them. It's a standing joke. And also true.

Don't listen to the lyrics, whether you speak Swedish or not. Listen to the trumpet. That quiet, vulnerable, wintery tone. It's spring. Kent is winter/autumn music to me. But the wintery trumpet gives me all-year-appropriate goosebumps, every time. That trumpet says more than the lyrics I'm not listening to anyway.

The guitar is good too. As a complementary - no, as a driving force for the aforementioned trumpet.

The trumpet that says anything. And of course nothing. But at least it makes me think that "nothing" is okay. Some questions don't have answers. Some answers are too complicated for us to understand. Some questions only trigger more questions. Some answers do too. And sometimes that is okay.

I don't know you. You don't know me. I don't know me. We don't know ourselves.

The trumpet. Listen to the trumpet.

It's okay.

On soundtracks

There was a thing a while back - I can't remember if it was a blog thing, a Facebook-thing, or maybe some other thing... A thing, anyway. The - thing - (now I'm obsessing about the word "thing". Should I say meme? But would it BE a meme if it was a thing OFF the internet? But then again, what are the odds it was off internet? Everything I know, I know from the internet. Shh... Don't tell anyone!)

This thing. This thing was a thing to do. (Get to the POINT, already!!!) Something (thing!) to make. You had to make this thing.

Thing. Meme. Whatever.

You were supposed to make a "soundtrack of your life". (Isn't that a movie? TV-show? Band? Something like that?)

I can't remember how "well-developed" the thing/meme was, but the general idea it gave me was pretty simple. Make a list of songs you feel represent your life, the same way a soundtrack to a movie would represent the movie. Man. I just killed the definition of "soundtracks", didn't I..?

Aaaaanyway. Short story made much longer than necessary. Here is the soundtrack of my life:

1) Vangelis - "West Across The Ocean Sea" (from the album 1492)
Ironically, this is from another soundtrack, from the movie 1492, about Christopher Columbus' travels to the Americas. I vividly remember how one of my sister's early boyfriends brought this CD into our house, and it never left again. My dad loved - loves, actually- it, and I knew it by heart by the time I was seven. So well, in fact, that when I actually saw the movie a few years ago, much of the plot was spoiled for me, because I could *always* tell from the music when something scary/exciting/romantic/bad would come up.

2) A-ha - "Crying in the Rain" (Everly Brothers cover)
It's difficult to escape a-ha in Norwegian music history (not that this is Norwegian music history, but since I am Norwegian, and this is my music history...). "Take On Me" might be the most famous hit they ever had, but this is the track I remember listening to over and over and over again, rewinding the tape (you know, back when we listened to tapes) until it was worn and forlorn.

3) Vivaldi - "Piccolo Concerto In C Major"
My dad has always been the one controlling the music in our home (and by "controlling" I don't mean that he is the music dictator or anything - that sounded way worse than it really is... But my mom couldn't care less about music, so dad takes the lead). This is another favourite of his. It one of those pieces I've heard so many times, that I know exactly what CD and at what track to find it.

4) ABBA - "Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight)"
My parents were ABBA-fans, so their songs have been a natural part of my upbringing. From before I knew English, actually, and I frequently made of lyrics as I thought I heard them... Which leads me to why I picked this particular song - for the longest time I was certain the song went like this: "Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! I'm bad after midnight!"

5) Backstreet Boys - "As Long As You Love Me"
These guys. Ah. They were my heroes! My friends and I used to know all their songs, make up special dances to them, have big posters with their pictures on our walls. And so did every other girl at my age. I even remember we used to go to the mall, daily, to buy gum which contained stickers of the Backstreet Boys in the wrapping. I had such a collection!

6) Morten Harket - "A Kind of Christmas Card"
This list is giving a disproportionate impression of a-ha's Morten Harket's importance in Norwegian music, perhaps, but this was the very first CD I got, along with my very first CD player (that worked in perfect condition till last year, when it finally started giving up).

7) Céline Dion - "My Heart Will Go On (Theme From Titanic)"
I was a little too young to go see the movie in theaters, but with a little make-up and a lot of self-confidence, I did anyway. Twice. And then I saw it four more times when it came out on VHS. Not DVD. VHS. Leonardo was the cutest guy I'd ever seen (even counting all the Backstreet Boys), and I wanted to be Rose, or Kate or whatever her name was. The music was the cherry on top og the ice berg.

8) Håkan Hellström - "Kom Igen Lena"
Sweden's favourite nerd-meets-powerboy made young girls' hearts beat extra hard all over Scandinavia. There is a change from the previous musical (and otherwise) crushes, though. This one I actually can stand by, even today, musically. Håkan Hellström (and before he went solo, his band Broder Daniel) has a sound I liked and like - and this might be one of the transitions for me, taste-wise. A meagre beginning from liking something because everyone else does, to liking something because I actually think it is good. I may have started liking Håkan because everyone else did, but that is not why I stayed.

9) Broder Daniel - "Luke Skywalker"
Speaking of Broder Daniel... It's impossible to write a "soundtrack of my life" without including this track. It reminds me of those glorious months after my friend got her car, and we no longer had to walk to school (which, in retrospect, I recognize as a bit of a shame, as I could have used the exercise). But the car rides - not just to school and back, but also separate roadtrips, became musical adventures for me. And this song - that we used to put on max volume and sing along at the top of our lungs - is the symbol of everything great about that.

10) Jon Bon Jovi - "Living on a Prayer"
The final year of high school this became a bit an an anthem for me, because it was the finale song for our school show (though with different lyrics). I remember the year thereafter, when I'd started university, I went to a party and this song came on. I couldn't help but sing along with the alternative lyrics - and the funny part is that so did another student - a guy who also went to my school.
11) Simon and Garfunkel - "The Sound of Silence"
Another musical hand-me-down from my parents, but one that I've grown to appreciate more and more with time. I rarely listen to the lyrics when there is music on, but I make an exception for Simon and Garfunkel.

12) Kent - "Den Döda Vinkeln"
Sweden, again. If Kent is my favourite band, then this is one of - if not the - favourite song of mine (of mine of theirs? I'm gammatically challenged in this sentence. Or just in general...). I said, "if", though. I still really like Kent, and it would be completely unnatural for me to make a list like this without mentioning them, but maybe we've grown a little bit apart the last few years? I've discovered so much new music, and I've come to a point when I find it's difficult to pick favourites. Recently, when people ask me what sort of music listen to, I reply "Spotify". Because I do - every single day I use this music streaming service, but what I listen to on Spotify is completely random. Whatever strikes my fancy then and there. Kent has become a seasonal thing for me, though. Winter is Kent-time. When the cold sets in and our Nordic light disappears, there are few bands that capture my mood so thoroughly as (particularly early) Kent.


There you go. The list will continue to grow with time, but for now this is a pretty accurate soundtrack of my life, up till now.

On this

This is irony. I overheard a conversation last night. In a restaurant, in Norway. The party having the conversation was a 50/50 mix of Norwegians and non-Norwegians, so the language employed was English. They were talking, eagerly, about many topics not appropriate for this blog (for instance, let me non-appropriately mention that I now know that these ladies thought it should be called "IT engineer's crack" rather than plumber's crack). What feels more appropriate, though, is to refer to the part of the conversation I meant to address in this paragraph:

(only now it's not in  that paragraph anymore)

(or this one. Also - this part of the conversation was not in English, for reasons that shall be revealed)

"Hva heter ordforråd på engelsk?"

This is irony.

Let me translate.

"What's vocabulary in English?"

This is irony.

This is not:

I'm having a Facebook detox experience. Meaning I'm off the drug, cold turkey. This week only - I wouldn't dream of quitting altogether - but still. I needed to prove to myself that I could. And I needed to break the destructive pattern I've been stuck in there for a while. If you logged off two minutes ago, chances are not much new will have happened when you compulsively opens the window again for the 19th time that day.

Interestingly enough, the thing that finally made me realize it was a bad habit I could break was the introduction of Facebook's new timeline. I love it. And I don't see the issues so many people seem to have with it. Okay, so the timeline makes it a lot easier to see what you were up to on Facebook three years ago. So what? You posted that three years ago, knowing well that you yourself was responsible for the content. If you can't handle it today, chances are you shouldn't have posted it back then.

Personally, though, I look back and remember happier times. Sadder times. Different times. I find it interesting to see my own (less destructive?) patterns - how I for weeks would post nothing but rants about my thesis (not unlike what I did on this blog), or the weather, or - believe it or not - what I actually was doing. "CC is at work" or "CC is about to go for a walk". (Did you remember the "is"? I'd almost forgotten) I was more boring in the past. My current updates are more amusing (but also an aqcuired taste. I like to think that those who haven't gotten used to it unsubscribed from me ages ago).

What perhaps surprised me the most, though, was how little I posted in the past. It seemed as though, perhaps, I didn't visit the site more than once or twice a day. Huh. How did that work?

Like with the missing status update "is", I had forgotten that my Facebook life once consisted of different patterns than it does now. I once knew how to limit my own use.

Thus, the discovery of a younger, naïver, funny-but-not-quite-as-clever self, through the help of the Facebook timeline, helped me realize I could just quit. For a while. This is irony, I suppose.

And yes. This. Irony. Charles Dickens (happy birthday yesterday, old man!) had it right. "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times". In a way I am happier with my life at the moment than I've been for as long as I can remember. In a way I am not at all. I compartmentalize. Try to accept that I don't have to know everything, professionally and personally. I enjoy a great many things, hate a great many others. It's the hardest time of year for me - when winter is loosening its grip but spring still is aeons away. I long for spring. Or for getting away. At the same time as there is nowhere I'd rather be, than right here, right now. I went ice skating this weekend. And I watched an incredulous amount of "Sex and the City". I'm in Carrie-overload, the greatest philosopher of our time. I listen to Eels and Wilco, trying to catch the lyrics. But I only hear voices and instruments. I miss writing. Yesterday reminded me. I'm rusty and my writer's confidence is at an all time low, but I miss it. I wish I had the strenght to tell myself to take it up again, the way I managed to tell myself to quit Facebook. Once I decided, it was so much easier than I'd thought.

Is it irony that we all know the first part of that Dickens quote, but most of us have no idea what comes next? It's not his most famous work, after all, even if it probably is the most famous quote:

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way - in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities.

Indeed. 'Tis a good quote (even if I generally despise quotes).

On how I've felt lately

(Mashed-up, in case that was unclear...)

On "The Secret Garden"

One of the things I do appreciate about being back in Norway is spring. In Tokyo, it was already spring by my standards when I arrived. During the two months I spent there we had both cool and warm weather - even snow - but nothing even close to the dramatic process that is Norwegian spring. Without the melting snow, the "ad hoc" creeks in the middle of the road, the return of migrant birds and sunshine after what feels like an incredibly long absence - Tokyo spring just didn't feel like spring. 

Because of my lack of spring mood, I also didn't indulge in one of my annual spring activities - reading The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett. It was my favourite book as a child, and I've continued reading it every spring. The timing is essential. It cannot be too early, since a return to winter after I've started reading it will always put me in a terrible mood. At the same time, I cannot read it too late, as the turn of spring into summer completely ruins the experience. I want the world around me to wake up to spring along with the garden in the book. 

Now I've been given a new opportunity to perform my ritual this year. When I returned to Norway it was winter. In just little over a week, it is definitely spring. The snow is melting faster than I've ever seen. The sun is warming, and my nose is as freckled as it only gets this time of year. I feel the urge to take off my winter coat and boots again, and it won't be long till it's time to look for the first brave flowers. 

This is the perfect timing for reading The Secret Garden. 

" 'I like you! I like you!' she cried out, pattering down the walk; and she chirped and tried to whistle, which last she did not know how to do in the least. But the robin seemed to be quite satisfied and chirped and whistled back at her. At last he spread his wings and made a darting flight to the top of a tree, where he perched and sang loudly."

"Mistress Mary, quite contrary,

How does your garden grow?

With silver bells, and cockle shells,

And marigolds all in a row."

"In the course of her digging with her pointed stick Mistress Mary had found herself digging up a sort of white root rather like an onion. She had put it back in its place and patted the earth carefully down on it and just now she wondered if Martha could tell her what it was.

'Martha,' she said, 'what are those white roots that look like onions?'

'They're bulbs,' answered Martha. 'Lots o' spring flowers grow from 'em. Th' very little ones are snowdrops an' crocuses an' th' big ones are narcissuses an' jonquils and daffydowndillys. Th' biggest of all is lilies an' purple flags. Eh! they are nice. Dickon's got a whole lot of 'em planted in our bit o'garden.'"

"It was the sweetest, most mysterious-looking place any one could imagine. The high walls which shut it in were covered with the leafless stems of climbing roses which were so thick that they were matted together. Mary Lennox knew they were roses because she had seen a great many roses in India. All the ground was covered with grass of a wintry brown and out of it grew clumps of bushes which were surely rosebushes if they were alive. There were numbers of standard roses which had so spread their branches that they were like little trees. There were other trees in the garden, and one of the things which made the place look strangest and loveliest was that climbing roses had run all over them and swung down long tendrils which made light swaying curtains, and here and there they had caught at each other or at a far-reaching branch and had crept  from one tree to another and made lovely bridges of themselves."

"There was a laurel-hedged walk which curved round the secret garden and ended at a gate which opened into a wood, in the park. She thought she would slip round this walk and look into the wood and see if there were any rabbits hopping about."

"When she had reached the place where the door hid itself under the ivy, she was startled by a curious loud sound. It was the caw-caw of a crow and it came from the top of the wall, and when she looked up, there sat a big, glossy-plumaged blue-black bird, looking down at her very wisely indeed." 

" 'This here one he's called Nut an' this here other one's called Shell.' 
When he said  'Nut' one squirrel leaped onto his right shoulder and when he said 'Shell' the other one leaped on to his left shoulder."

"And the roses - the roses! Rising out of the grass, tangled around the sun-dial, wreathing the tree trunks and hanging from their branches, climbing up the walls and spreading over them with long garlands falling in cascades - they came alive day by day, hour by hour. Fair fresh leaves, and buds - and buds - tiny at first but swelling and working Magic until they burst and uncurled into cups of scent delicately spilling themselves over their brims and filling the garden air."

All excerpts from The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett, from The Collected Works of Frances Hodgson Burnett (Kindle edition). All pictures taken by yours truly, on three continents.

On why people think I am mad (but Queen is not)**

Is this the real life

Is it just fantasy

Caught in a landslide

No escape from reality

Open your eyes

Look up to the skies and see

I’m just a poor boy

I need no sympathy

Because I’m easy come easy go little high little lowany way the wind vlows doesn’t really mater to me

To me

Mama, just killed a man

Pulled a gun against his head

Pulled my trigger now his dead

Mama life had just begun

But now I’ve gone and thrown it all away

Mama, ooooo

Didn’t meant o makeyu cry

If I*m not back agains this time tomorrow

Carry on, carry one, as if nothing realy natters

Too late

My time has come

Sent shivers down my spone

Body’s aching all the time

Goodbye everybody

I’ve got to go gotta leave you all behind and face the trought

Mama, oooo

I don’t wanna die

I sometimes wish I never been born at all

(guitar)

(too fast)

I’m just a poor nobody loves me, he’s just a poor boy from a poor family,

No we will not let go

Lt him go

We will not let him go

Let me go

No no no

Mama mia let me go

Belzebub devil got a side?

(More guitar (fortuanateluy)

So you think you can stone me and spend my eye

So you think you can love me and leave me to die

Ooo baby

Can’t you list to me baby

Just gotta get out

Just gottaget right outta here

Ooooo

Oh yeah

Nothing really matters

Anyone can see

Nothing realy matters

Nothing really matters to me

(choir )

(end)

(phew!)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*(unintentional star. Sorry)

** Why, yes, I did try to remember the lyrics to "Bohemian Rhapsody", then failed, then decided that it would be a good idea to type them while listening to the song. All this while I was in a coffee shop. And then I thought it was a good idea to make the result a blog post. 

How did you guess? 

On this fine day in October...

...it is time for take off. NaBloWriMo is starting today, and I look upon the task of writing blog posts for every day of October with a mixture of glee and dread. I find myself having much of the same problem as I did this time a year ago. I don't really have anything in particular to say. And that makes for lousy bloggery (I'm not fishing for compliments; I really mean it. It is the sad fate of many a blog when it eventually winds down to only posts along the lines of "I have nothing to blog about today, so I'll blog about that" and then "I have nothing to blog about today either, but let me post this picture of my cat" [I'm planning on joining Wordless Wednesday next week... No cats as of yet, though] and eventually "Oops, it's been three months since my last post. I am not dead. But I just don't have anything to blog about. Add me on Facebook, though!". We've all seen blogs like that). 


So instead of taking that route I thought I'd write down the first three things that pops into my head, and let that be today's post (and hope for better days ahead). 


1) Dear Cruella. You don't like cortado. Yeah, the coffee. Every time you are feeling brave in a coffee shop that's what you ask for, and every time it's a big, awful failure. You walk away disappointed in every way - of its size (eeny tiny small! Sometimes size does matter), of its taste (how can it be too coffee-y and not enough coffee-y at the same time?) and of the fact that you keep repeating this mistake. Every other coffee variety there is = fine. Cortado = not. 




2) I once had a semi-regular feature on this blog called "currently reading/listening to" (it's true - look it up in the topic cloud in the sidebar). I'm not entirely sure why I didn't keep it up, but it probably was a combination of not reading enough books (I felt terribly self-conscious whenever I didn't get around to finish a book before my next update - not unlike how I feel whenever I update my Goodreads status only to see all the books where I've made no progress whatsoever in the longest time...); listening mainly to Spotify where I generally end up mindlessly going through random playlists; and perhaps most importantly: I didn't really have anything to say about what I was reading or listening to. Okay, you're having a Bob Dylan week. So what? 

Well, today that is different. I have been reading a lot of nonsense lately, page turners intended to offer a certain escapism in my constant combat with thesis-ness. Running low on supply of that genre, however, I picked up Aryn Kyle's The God of Animals, a book I originally bought in my very first visit to a bookstore in the US. There I pulled it out of a shelf at random - going for gut feeling and nothing else. I kind of liked the cover, but I can't really recall if that was the only decisive factor (I suspect there might have been a "take 3, pay for 2" deal in play... This might have been my number three). Anyway, I never got around to read it, and thus it came unread back with me a year ago. It didn't even make it among the small selection of books that fitted into my tiny (why do I always feel the need to signify size by usage of font sizes? o_0) Also, am I using the word tiny too much?) apartment when I moved this spring. 


Last time I visited my parents, however, I rediscovered the book, and decided to give it a go. From the very start two things struck me: a) this book reminded me strikingly of "To Kill A Mockingbird"; and b) I was about to read a horse book for the first time in fifteen years. 


Yes. It's a horse book. Not one of the mass-produced "romance-meets-mystery-meets-pretty-animal" things for young girls - though this book can be read by young girls (I don't recall it being in the YA section in the bookstore, though, but then again, I was pretty jetlagged and high on my first visit to a US Starbucks...). 


I'm not sure how much more I should say about this book - reviews isn't really my thing - but let me at least say that I didn't put it down when I left the house the other day. Which explains why I nearly got myself killed by a car that morning... 


And for the record (no pun intended), I am listening to Wes Montgomery's "Whisper Not" right now. But there isn't all that much more to say about that... 




3) Awards! I got some lovely awards! First of all, the Versatile Blogger award. I keep getting this one, and I love it, because I feel it is one of the few blog awards I really get why people want to give me. I'm not a category blogger (which, incidentally, might be the cause of today's problem - if I'd been a "mommy blogger" I'd know I was supposed to write about my kid all the time (but then I would probably have to actually have a kid first... So that is sort of out of the question). If I had been a food blogger, I would write recipes (but then I'd have to follow recipes. Which I don't. Ever). Instead I am left with whatever pops into my head at any given time, and sometimes that is naught. (Which reminds me of the saying "If a messy desk equals a messy mind, what does an empty desk mean?" - not that I'm in danger of EVER having an empty desk. I am lucky to find the space to plop down my laptop most days - in between towers of books, instant coffee, packs of gum, post-its, [unused] tea bags, hand moisturizer, pens and hair clips - and my laptop is tiny [there we go again... ])


(Fortunately, even when my mind if blank, I have enough digressions in there to fill up a parenthesis or two)

Well. The awards. The Versatile Award was given to me by Debbie of words 'n' whimsy. Debbie claims she's a newbie since she hasn't been around the blogosphere all that long, but I'd rather say she's a fast learner, because her blog is great. Go visit her to find out for yourself. I won't be passing this award on this time, since I've already done that in the past, but I'd still like to thank Debbie properly :) 


As for the other award, I have definitely not gotten it before. You see, it's brand new. Leigh, of That's Write (and she usually is!), made the "Strangely Irresistable" aka "Yo Gabba Gabba" award. Thank you, Leigh, I love it! The only rule for this award is to give it on to three bloggers who are - surprise, surprise - irresistible! I know a bunch of those, but the first three that popped into my mind are... *drumroll*


Georgina Dollface. This is one of the places I visit even on days I don't have time to visit blogs. Georgina masters the difficult art of being both organized and creative at once. On a scale from one to funny, she is hilarious with a side of thoughtful. 


Nonamedufus. I am fairly certain that deep down he knows how funny he is. But just in case: he is one of the funniest bloggers there is. Now you all know. 


Finally, and appropriately considering that today is the first day of NaBloWriMo, Heather (who is NotHannah - I will never tire of typing that, tee hee) is pretty darn irresistible too. In a way she reminds me of myself in that she appears to write on whatever subject that pops into her mind - from her kidoodles to her garden to her writing to Hell-Mart (makes me giggle every time). Unlike me, however, Heather always mixes her humourous musings with a foundation of seriousness. She bravely tackles difficult topics, and I always feel that I am a little wiser whenever I've read one of her posts. 


So there. You guys are irresistible! 


And I guess for a tiny post about nothing, this became rather   l  o  n  g   (and about a lot). 

On fleeting meetings

GIRL

Walks towards cashier with DVD OF 30 ROCK SEASON ONE. Looks into the air, trying to recognize the music that is playing. Failing. Smiles to the boy behind the cashier.

Hello.

BOY

Hello.

Takes DVD from girl, and proceeds to find a SEALED COPY.

GIRL

What’s the music playing?

BOY

In a very low voice

Fleetmcndfjhgefe

GIRL

Oh, Fleetwood Foxes! Of course! Is it a new album?

Pays, with CASH.

BOY

Smiling mysteriously. Still speaking in a low voice.

No. It’s an old one. Nfjkhrfgur sixkfjhrtuhr.

Hands girl the RECEIPT and the DVD in a PLASTIC BAG.

GIRL

Realizing her mistake. Blushes vividly.

Oh. Thanks.

Takes bag, prepares to leave.

BOY

Calls after girl.

It about time they make another album, though!

GIRL

Turns around. Smiles. Makes mental note to search for “fleet something” on Spotify when she gets back home.

Well-disguised as I know this character was, I can now shockingly reveal to all of you that I indeed was “GIRL” in this exchange. I may have dramaticized it slightly, but this was roughly how it went.

I have a thing for guys who work in record shops. I know, it’s silly. Most girls go for the musician. And yes, I like those too. Give me a man who can play the piano, and I’ll be happy. It can even be a guitar. Or cello. It doesn’t have to be strings either. No strings attached.

But. I also like guys who work in record stores. I think it is because I imagine they know a lot about music. That they are like Spotify – capable of introducing me to lots of new music I will love.

I know people who work in record stores don’t necessarily know all that much about music. Just like people who work in bookstores don’t necessarily know everything about books (and yet I feel exactly the same way about guys who work in bookstores, which is definitely silly, as I work in one myself and am fully capable of being my own Spotify of books. I should add that there aren’t that many men working in bookshops as in record shops. So they are a rarer breed. I should also add that I don't have a crush on the [only] guy that work in the bookshop I work in. Just in case you are reading this, Martin... Don't get any funny ideas!).

And yet. Record store guys...

Basically, the only reason I didn’t develop a crush on the guy behind the counter in this particular shop was that he probably was five years younger than me and looking five years younger than that. Not even his record store logo-ed shirt could make up for the ten years older he should have been.

My almost-crush on him explains why I blushed so much when I realized that I had mixed the band names of Fleet Foxes and Fleetwood Mac, though. It didn’t help that I knew one of them was a contemporary band, while the other was not (I could not for the life of me remember which was which). One of the boy’s muttered comments could have been his way of telling me that the album currently playing was from the 1960s. Or that it was their sixth album. Who knew?

When I got home I realized that the band they had been playing in the store indeed was Fleet Foxes. After some googling I also found out that Fleetwood Mac is still going strong, apparently. So either band could be up for a soonish release.

What I also realized was that I really didn’t care anymore what the boy in the record store thought. After all, outside the store, I wasn’t all that interested. Give me a man with a trombone any day!

On Summer Reading

I'm on a mini-vacation back in my hometown for a few days, so I hope no one will think terribly of me for spending more time with my family than in the blogosphere... In addition I am also hoping to get some reading done. I have finished the first four Percy Jackson books, and I am craving the fifth. If you happen to work in a bookshop in Oslo that carries it, can you please hold it for me until Wednesday? (My own shop is out, and the publisher is out, so I can only hope that there are stores that still have them in stock, or I will have to order it from abroad and that will take FOREVER!) I have also brought another book - Mark Zusak's "I Am The Messenger", which also should be very good if I am to judge from the other book of his I have read - "The Book Thief".

Summer reading is on my mind, then, more than writing. This should also be evident in the little something I have written today over at the Burrow Blog. It's my first "real" post there, (yesterday's Drabble Dare - which you should also check out, there are still four days left to churn out 100 words - didn't really count as a "real" post...), so please head over and take a look. Don't hesitate to leave a comment there - we are a friendly bunch, and we're most happy with any sort of attention ;)

Hope the rest of you are having a great day and that you are able to get some reading or writing or whatever you'd like to do to praise the summer (or winter, if you're down under...). Have a great Monday, everyone!

On good days and bad days

I have a great memory when it comes to bad things. And by “great”, I mean terrible. Let me clarify…

For a while now I’ve been kind of blue. The main reason was the disappointment for not being able to finish my thesis as planned this spring. That one got me good. The second, almost as important reason was the stress I was under to finish something thesis-related, even though I almost had no time to do it in between all the other stuff going on in my life. The third reason is the accumulation of many smaller things that individually affect my mood on a daily basis. They can range from the disappointment I feel in myself when I haven’t done the dishes, to instant low self-confidence for some reason or other. Fortunately, are usually forgotten the next morning. However, I don’t deal too well with these things if too many of them hit at once or too often, or if they are combined with other factors such as stress or disappointment. (You can see where this is going, yes?)

The result of all of this was that I have been feeling overall bad, with certain bright spots in between, as opposed to my usual feeling overall good but with certain darker spots every now and then.

At least I think that is how I usually feel. The thing is, you see, I have a very selective memory when it comes to these things. If I look back on my childhood, I think of it as exclusively happy. My teen years? Happy. The semester I lived in Japan? Happy! My time in the US last fall? You guessed it – happy again. Clearly, I must be missing something. No one is happy all the time. And if I think real hard about it, I do remember certain not-so-happy memories. I was as stubborn as a goat’s left hoof when I was little, and as a result I got into big arguments with my parents. As a teenager I had all the normal puberty issues and growing-up angst. When I was in Japan I was at least on one occasion so homesick that I seriously considered spending 30,000 kroner (about $ 5,000) on an immediate flight back home. And the first thing I did in the US was to cry my eyes out in public because I felt so very, very lonely.

But those aren’t the things I remember. It is as though my memory deliberately preserves the good times and erases the bad.

I think it’s a survival technique. If I had remembered just how homesick I was in Japan when I started planning my trip to the US, chances are I wouldn’t have left Norway at all. My terrible memory for all things dreary gives me the strength to go on (and because of that it is great).


When I woke up yesterday morning I was rested (for the first time in a while). I was smiling. I was ready to tackle the challenges the day would bring. What had changed since Monday? A few things:

First of all, I had decided to stop giving a damn about the stupid Chapter Five (you may remember it from yesterday’s post as “Or How I Lost The Will To Live”), and just write whatever came to mind. Turns out all my procrastinating and wailing and cursing of this chapter haven’t entirely ruined the work I have done in between. There is something there. It is a meager start, and it is still the crappiest draft made in history (and I am slightly worried that my supervisor will have a heart attack when she sees what her once so promising student is capable of producing), but it is that, at least: a start. And because I stopped caring, I managed to get some serious work done. What a relief!

The second thing that changed from Monday to Tuesday is that the Burrow blog, which was launched with astonishing success, no longer felt like a burden. This is one of those little things that typically don’t give me much stress, but because of the timing I was in no shape to handle the extra excitement it provided. Once launched, however, it is not out of my hands (urk, I have NO idea what I shall write for my first post there, scheduled to appear on Monday…), but somehow it is out of my mind (*snort* Okay, pun not intended, but hey… It works…).

Finally there were some other non-major things that resolved themselves, and all together this makes for a MUCH happier Cruella than the one banging her head into the wall all weekend. At least I think that is what I did. Strangely enough, it feels as though I was happy then as well. In fact, I think I have always been happy. I’m just never blue! Happy! (See how great my memory is?)


Currently listening to: Good Days and Bad Days by Kaizer Chiefs

Currently reading: The Sea of Monsters: Percy Jackson and the Olympians, Book Two (This was my treat for sending away the draft. Friends have recommended these books to me for years, and I saw the movie a while back, but I never got around to actually picking up the books. When I finally did bring the first one back from work one day, I loved it every bit as much as everyone said I would.)

On literary wars

You may remember my book circle. I mentioned it briefly in my crazed Friday post – as I am self-appointed resident baker for our meetings. My book circle had an extraordinary meeting, seeing as we were participating in a survey/interview for the National Broadcasting Company (NRK). They were asking for book circles where the members were under the age of 40, and we volunteered. There was a lot of commotion prior to this meeting, because we struggled a lot in finding a time where both we and the interviewers were able to participate, but finally, on Friday, we managed to get together.


It was an interesting event, seeing as we were able to talk quite liberally about the book coverage in NRK in general; about their website specifically (this was originally what we were supposed to review); and about anything else that came to our mind concerning NRK, a national institution we all grew up with.

Even though we spent even less time than usual to discuss the book of the month – Alice in Wonderland (no, we did not pick this one because the movie is just out... Fine, that is why…) – we decided to find a new book for our next (this time NRK-free) meeting.

We ended up weighing H.G. Wells’ The War of the Worlds (not The World of the Wars, as I keep calling it) against Joseph Heller’s Catch 22. Several of us favoured Heller – mostly because catch 22 has become an idiom, so we’d all like to know what the back story is. Perhaps even more mostly, though, we favoured Catch 22 because we, with one (or possibly two) exceptions, are generally skeptical towards science fiction (one might wonder what Wells is doing on the list at all, actually…). Another strong argument was that Tom Cruise is in Warp of the Worlds, but seeing as we’re supposed to read the book and not see the movie, this was quickly written off as irrelevant. However, we realized that since about half of our book circle members are finishing their master’s degrees this spring, we didn’t want a long book. So Wells’ hundred-something pages won over Heller’s five hundred-something.

As a result of our “intellectually” preferred book of the month, I went on another insidious book hunt this Saturday. Well, insidious might be overstretching things (I really like that word), but it was arduous at least. An onerous quest, that required a strenuous effort (yes, I am done flashing fancy words now).

The first bookshop I entered had a copy of The Warf of the Worlds. Yay! I almost bought it, but then I discovered that they also had a copy of Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness (am I the only one who gets Joseph Conrad mixed up with Joseph Heller? Ironic, I know. At least it isn’t Lauren Conrad.). I’ve been in a funny reading mode lately, where I get extreme urges to read something from or depicting a specific country or culture. For instance, in the making of yesterday’s post, I immediately desired to read a book from the Central African Republic. I think it all started with my reading of Chris Cleave’s The Other Hand (otherwise known as “The Orange Book”) last year – at least this is the origin of my Africa-specific reading appetite. Anyway, I have for a while wanted to read something from the Congo. I’ve just started The Poisonwood Bible, and so far I really like it, but the book you’re “supposed” to read when the words “novel” and “the Congo” is mentioned in the same sentence is Heart of Darkness.

Consequently, I’ve been looking for this book for a while, and seeing it in the same shop that had the other book I was looking for, I figured this was probably the world’s way of telling me that I deserved both books (having just received my student loan also helped me conclude in this fashion).

However, my rationality kicked in. What might have been the true rational thing would have been to go to the library. But no, I’m not that rational. What I knew, though, is that there is another bookstore chain which has a running offer of 3 for 2 on English pocket books. Here I was about to buy two book in a different store, where I could get a third for free. No, siree!

There is a store of this same chain in the mall I was currently visiting, so I went there.

Naturally, they did not have The Wart of the Worlds. They did, however, have Heart of Darkness. When it comes to books, though, I don’t give up easily. There are a number of bookstores downtown Oslo, and the biggest one from the chain I wanted to visit, is right by the main street. It isn’t far to walk, but seeing as I somehow ended up visiting every other store in the area as well, it took some time to get there. In the process I even managed to buy a ridiculously expensive (and ridiculously purple) raincoat. I ♥ it!

When I finally got to the bookstore in question, I immediately went to the classics section. They had Heart of Darkness, but, surprise, surprise, no War of the Words. Then I went to the science fiction section. No War of the Wards. I even tried the fantasy section (just for kicks), but no – not even a hint of War of the Worms. Eventually I did something I almost never do in bookstores – I asked the staff to help me find it. They did not help me find it, but they did help establish that the book indeed was out of stock. And not just from this store, but from the entire chain. So the War of the Walls + Heart of Darkness + random, free goodness dream was crushed.

I reluctantly faced defeat (though I did visit another bookstore, from another chain, before I went home. They didn’t even have Heart of Darkness).

The result? I went through five bookstores to find what I already had found in the very first (and ironically, one of the smallest) of them. Looking for a “free” book, I ended up bookless. It was all very sad.

“Fortunately,” I said to myself, “the bookstore at the university is quite big, and it often stacks up on classics (with them literature studies people hanging around there all day).” (Yes, I even speak in parentheses. Especially when I am talking to myself.) “I will probably be able to get both Heart of Darkness and The War of Whatever It Was on Monday.” It would mean no free book, but that is probably just as well, seeing as my bookshelves are already filled to the insidious risk of them falling down. And putting them back up would simply be arduous.

And that should have been the end of this blog post.

But the world was not done waging war on me.

Because I did go to the university book store, and I did ask for The Wwwar of the Wwworlds (only by intense concentration and multiple w’s could I bring myself to say the wars, sorry, the worlds, sorry, the words in correct order). As you will have guessed, however, they did not have it. As you also might have guessed, they did have Heart of Darkness (but in a copy that had an appendix that was three times as long as the actual book. I told you [well, no, I told me] there were literature studies people hanging around there…). Once again I left the bookstore bookless. Clearly the world is trying to tell me something about which book to read… But I shall conquer it yet!

The morale of this blog post was supposed to be that if you only search long enough, you will find. Or something to that effect. Seeing as I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For (but I did manage to lure a U2 title in there), I cannot conclude in the manner I intended. Instead, I think that it is high time I draw another conclusion, a conclusion I probably should have accepted after my experiences with the Orange Book and the New Orange Book (That is Actually Green) : never, NEVER, leave a book you intend to buy behind!

Tonight I am going back to that first bookshop, and I am picking up both the Way of the Worlds and Heart of Darkness (unless one or both of them have sold out since Saturday – in which case I might finally take the hint that I am simply not supposed to read this/these book/s).

On how to make me angry

If you, for whatever reason, one day have the urge to make me extremely angry, I will provide you with the tutorial right now. Because that is how nice I am.


There are very few things in this world that make me more irrationally angry that not being able to sleep at night. This is especially true if I can’t sleep because of an external factor. If I can’t sleep at night because I have too much on my mind, I get frustrated, but not angry. If I can’t sleep because I’ve drunk too much coffee, I feel stupid, but I don’t get angry. But if I can’t sleep at night because someone or something outside of my control is keeping me awake, then I get very, very, very angry. A friend recently introduced me to the following image: “On a scale of 1 to Chris Brown, how angry are you?” When kept awake like described above, I would be Chris Brown with PMS.

It seems clear then, if you want to make me angry, the tactic is given: keep me awake at night. Now, a few helpful details. See, if I am kept awake without having fallen asleep at all, I will be angry, but not Chris Brown angry (I’d be more Charlie Sheen). In order to cause a total melt-down, what you need to do is to allow me to fall asleep, wake me up again, and then make sure I stay awake. This is the key to make me really, really angry.

One way, which hypothetically might make me angry, is if you make sure I am sound asleep in my bed – which happens to be located in the living room/kitchen – before you abruptly rip me out of my peaceful state by, say, cooking. You can do this at, for instance, 4.30 in the morning. When I say cooking, I don’t just mean make a sandwich – if you really want to make me angry I suggest using stronger means. Turn the light on, which together with the noises from the pots and pans slammed onto the stove will wake me up. It is then recommended to continue cooking until absolutely sure that I am not only awake, but that I also will not be able to go back to sleep for an hour and a half. By when it’s almost time to get up anyway.

Be warned, however, when I get angry, I will retort. In the above strictly hypothetical scenario, my reaction might be the following: I might get up in a godlessly early hour, just to make sure I can do onto you as you did to me. I may make sure to slam all the doors I encounter. I could potentially be inclined to do my best to wake you up because I know 8 am is “early” to you the way 4.30 am is “late” to me.

Seeing as you in this scenario were trying to make me angry, you would of course not have done the dishes. My guess if this situation ever was to occur (which I again must emphasize is entirely theoretical) I would be torn between doing the dishes myself and thus “make a good example”, or not doing them and “get even”. Chances are I will settle for a compromise. I will only do the part of the dishes that most decisively are mine, and I will do so loudly, because I know there is very little as annoying as being awaken by noises from the kitchen.

And then I might write an angry blog about it.



Currently listening to: “Englestøv” by Folk & Røvere
Currently reading: Good to be God by Tibor Fischer

On dugnad and bunad: a lesson in Norwegian(s) # 3

I apologize for my absence yesterday. I think I am trying to slowly ease into a “weekdays only” routine, but I am clearly not very good at it, as today is a Sunday. In my defense, though, it’s one of those Sundays that don’t really act like a Sunday. It definitely acts like a Monday. It’s raining, I have a feeling that I overslept (even though there was nothing I was supposed to get up in time for), and in general the world looks gloomy. I wonder if I’ll do that planned “Sunday walk” as all Norwegians are indoctrinated to do once a week from infancy… Right now, it isn’t very tempting, but as any Norwegian will tell you with an evil wink – det finnes ikke dårlig vær, det finnes bare dårlige klær [there’s no such thing as bad weather, there is only bad clothes].

To make my apology more credible, let me explain why I wasn’t blogging yesterday. I was out walking. Yup, that’s right – tradition breaker – my sister and I went for a Sunday walk on a Saturday! We visited a flea market and a fancy grocery store/café plus we walked for quite a long time (and talked even longer). The grocery store/café was nice and (expensive and) all, but hardly anything to blog home about. I thought I should elaborate on the flea market, though, as it reflects something very Norwegian.

Don’t worry. I know flea markets aren’t Norwegian by design, but there is something about the design of the Norwegian ones that makes me think they are Norwegian in spirit. They are almost exclusively run as a way of raising money to marching bands, sport teams or similar organizations. Basically, the flea markets are run by the parents of children in these teams or bands, voluntarily on a compulsory basis. It’s a dugnad.

Dugnad is one of the words Norwegian school children are taught you can’t find an equivalent of in the English language. According to my good friend, thefreedictionary.com, dugnad is

a Norwegian word for unpaid, voluntary work. It might be like a Barn raising, where friends and family meet to help an individual, or the members of a club meet to build a clubhouse, arrange a flea market and so on.

 Further, there is another word – dugnadsånd [spirit of the dugnad] – which indicates the enthusiasm participation in a dugnad is met with (though frankly – this enthusiasm isn’t actually all that common. Norwegians love to hate dugnads). The idea still lives strongly in this country, though, as it seems to be expected of you, as a Norwegian, to participate in these “voluntary” activities. However, let me emphasize that I don’t believe in the implication some seem to put into the teaching that Norwegian is one of the few languages in the world that has a word for dugnad. We don’t have a monopoly on voluntary activities, and pretending otherwise is just stupid.

Another word that is exclusive for Norwegian has more of a natural explanation. Our national costume is called a bunad. (I wanted to comment on the relative similarity between these two words, but I can’t really think of anything to say. I still needed to say that I wanted to say something, though, before someone else comments... First!) A bunad is a dress-like costume, frequently made partly or entirely of wool, often with elaborate decorations on them. They are made to resemble clothes the rural population of Norway used to wear in the period and areas most cherished in our National Romanticism. With time, a number of designs were developed, usually constructed according to what was believed were traditions in the local area the particular design is from. My own bunad (you may not know it, but assuming you have visited this blog before, you have seen a picture of it several times. Take a look in the right top corner of this page. Ignore the silly facial expression...) is from my mother’s birthplace, Toten, and in its design you find patterns both from the beginning of the 18th and 19th centuries, and replicas of jewellery that was found in a Viking grave.

Not unlike other “cultural reconstructions”, though, there is no definite telling whether the actual results are anything like the original they are supposed to be reconstructed from. There is no doubt that the bunad is an extremely Norwegian cultural phenomenon, but it’s safer to say that it is a phenomenon of today, rather than a (concise) historical one.

Not all Norwegians have bunads, but those that have them (and can still fit in them – frequently, girls are given one for their confirmation at the age of fourteen. Needless to say, this means that a lot of them grow out of their bunads before they are fully grown...) mostly wear them for our constitutional day, at May 17th. Tune back in then for more reports on bunads...

The point of this post, though, was to enlighten any non-Norwegian speaking readers of these two words that are exclusively Norwegian. Learn them, and you’ll have a good starting point for mastering the rest of the language (or at least, understanding its speakers a little better).



Currently listening to: Min allra största kärlek by Richard Wolff (that I bought for 25 kroner at the flea market. Bargain!)

Currently reading: To Kill a Mocking Bird by Harper Lee. We finally figured out what book we decided to read for the book circle.

On fate

For someone with both legs firmly planted in an “I don’t see it until I believe it” tradition, I am strangely prone to believing in fate. I don’t do God, auras or aliens, but I do believe that there is such a thing as “meant to be”. Now, just to make one thing clear right away – I’m not necessarily saying this applies to love. If there is only one person out there in the whole wide world that is meant for me, I certainly don’t have a very good chance of finding him among the 3,3 billion others out there, now do I? (For all we know, he could live in Tuvalu, and I might never get to even meet him, little less hit on him…) But, at any rate, love and statistics are not the topics of this blog. Music and hair are.

Remember a few weeks ago when I asked for help in finding a CD that I should have, but didn’t buy at the Mall of America? I received some helpful comments, and a suggestion. Could the CD I was looking for be Feist’s “The Reminder”? Again, my musical guru, J.M. Hunter helped me discover new music I loved. I am still not 100 % sure it’s the same CD, but from what I could hear on YouTube and Pandora (before my un-US-ness ripped it away from me), it sounded very similar, and I decided to buy the CD. However, since my stay in the US was coming to an end and I was facing the problem of how to bring everything I’d bought back to Norway, I decided to let the Feist album wait until I got back home. Besides, I had already bought a number of CDs that I would need to familiarize myself with until I could refill (I find that I usually need at least a week between new CDs, otherwise I end up listening to only one of them – which is bad since I tend to buy them in heaps, and then I won’t buy any for a year or so…).

One of the CDs I had bought was a complete impulse-buy. I was in a Borders store, it was on sale, and I thought the cover looked like it might be Damien Rice-ish. I was wrong.

The CD I bought was by Flight of the Conchords, and it’s called “I Told You I Was Freaky”. (Boy, they are not kidding, but I was not to discover this just yet.) I had never heard of Flight of the Conchords before, so I was more than a little disappointed when I discovered that the first song was a rap song. I can tolerate rap, but only in very small portions. It’s definitely not my favourite genre. This is partly because it’s often so lyrics centered, even if the lyrics often aren’t very complex (“maddafukin’ b**ch yo I wanna fuk ya yo, let’s go into da house and do da lopsided dance”) – or at least that is my prejudice. Because frankly, I would not know.

[I am very sorry that it is taking me so long to get to the point. No hair in sight yet – I promise there will be some, but let me reassure you, it’s not going to be a hairy rapper. They are often bald. By choice, I think.]

I would not know because I don’t listen to lyrics. Almost never. At least not until I’ve heard the song about a million times. Until then, the voice of the singer(s) is only another instrument to me. I am more likely to be able to recite the guitar riff or the drum solo than the lyrics of any given song. What catches my attention in music is the rhythm, the melody, the use of instruments (including the voice of the singer). So when I heard a rap song from a band that meant nothing to me, I filed the CD under “bad impulses” and moved on to reacquaint with Cat Stevens and to form a brand new relation with Neil Diamond (thank you “Glee”!). However, due to my tendency to put any new music I buy in the music library on my laptop (which automatically synchronizes with my mp3 player whenever I plug it in), my automatic playlists would jump to a song from this album every now and then. I soon discovered that there was more than rap music on this CD. In fact, it seemed to contain music from many different genres. I was intrigued, but I still did not listen to the lyrics…

[Where is the HAIR??? The hair is approaching… So is the point. We still have a few miles to cover, though…]

Jump to this morning [finally!]. Since I moved into my new apartment (actually, my friend’s apartment) [I thought you said you were jumping to this morning?!?], I have been keeping a very un-me schedule. I absolutely HATE not having enough down time, and the proper amount of down time can only be achieved when I spend a considerable amount of it at home, not asleep. This is where I’ve failed lately. Since I moved into the apartment on Thursday, I have slept and showered here. That’s all. I haven’t even unpacked yet – it’s a mess to say the least (good thing my friend won’t be back for another two weeks – I’ll have it tidied by then, I hope…). In addition I have had problems getting up in the morning (it looks like I missed this time zone as well…). This morning [hrmf! Do you really mean it this time?] was no exception. I got up later than planned, and once up, I was hesitant to leave home immediately (it was, after all, nice to see the apartment in daylight) even if I had planned to have a full day at the University. When I finally did leave, naturally, I missed the tram (which is the fastest way to get to the University from here). Instead, I took a bus, which would lead me to the metro. [The POINT?!? Get there!!! Now!!!!] Right by the bus stop, however, is a mall (“Oslo City” aka Hell on Earth, for those who are familiar with the place). I often try to avoid Hell on Earth, but as this was late in the morning, I didn’t think there would be much rush, so I entered on a whim.

Back to music. My whim was actually more of a rushing of something I had planned for later today – to buy the much awaited new album of my favourite band, Kent. I went to the record store, got the CD, and left, happily. Now, critical voice that type in brackets, we are moving fast forward again… [Yes!!!]

I went to the University, spent a few hours there, about 50% of them in the cafeteria, but hey – that’s what I’d missed about the place. Then I again decided to pay Hell on Earth a visit. There are a number of things I needed for the apartment (such as a radio in the bathroom – I figured that maybe it would be easier to get up in the morning if I didn’t have to stay in bed to listen to the radio – which is what I’ve been doing. My friend has the most brilliant alarm clock. It’s one of those that light up a few minutes before it rings – or in this case, the radio starts – which is supposed to make the awakening process easier. I can’t say that it is extremely effective, seeing as I’ve overslept every morning since I started using it, but it’s way fun. Anyway, radio in the bathroom…). Hell on Earth is the place to get them.

I walked around for a while, finding most of what I needed, and then I decided to pay the record store another visit. I wasn’t buying anything, of course. I had already bought a CD today. I was just going to have a look…

This record store is a two storey one. On the bottom floor, they have most of their CDs; while upstairs, they have DVDs. Since I had already been downstairs today, I was upstairs now, looking at DVDs. I emphasize this because if I hadn’t bought the Kent CD earlier, I would have been downstairs, and probably not bothered going upstairs at all. If I hadn’t, nothing of the following would have happened. Suddenly, I saw something interesting. They had a Flight of the Conchords DVD!

This is when the hair comes in. [There is hair? I had completely forgotten about that by now..]

I had picked up the DVD, when a young lady came over to me and signaled that she wanted to speak to me (I had ear plugs with music in them, so it’s a good thing I speak body language). I unplugged, and she explained that she was looking for models [don’t get carried away – the sentence goes on] for her exam in hairdressing. She needed a model for a bob, and I had long enough hair for it to be cutable. Basically, what she offered me was a free haircut.

I have relatively long hair. I’ve let it grow (though cutting it every now and then, like anyone growing their hair long should) ever since I went to Japan in 2006. This is how long it has taken me to have long hair. Which means I was a little bit hesitant at first.

The thing, though, is that I don’t have a proper hairdo at the moment. Since my hair is fine and light (Nordic to the last straw…), it doesn’t do much. I can’t train it to form in luscious shapes for the life of me. Especially when it’s not cut in a “do”. So I’ve been wondering if I should pay a visit to a hairdresser soon, and actually, I have been thinking about the bob. Now the opportunity fell from the sky, and I realized I needed to grab it.

I gave the girl my number, and we decided that Friday morning worked for both of us. When she left, I looked at the DVD in my hand again. Perhaps the whole world except me knew this, but apparently, Flight of the Conchords is a comedy duo from New Zealand. They have their own TV-show (the first season of which I was holding in my hand), where they do parodies. I had no idea that I had been the proud owner of one of their incredibly funny albums for weeks.

I figured that the free haircut saved me about 500 kroner. Thus, my visit to the record store (in addition the Flight of the Conchords DVD, I got two other DVDs, and, finally, “The Reminder” by Feist) was paid for by what I saved on not visiting a real hairdresser. On my way home I listened to Flight of the Concords on my mp3-player, and this time I also listened to the lyrics. I very nearly missed my bus stop. It’s not funny, it’s hilarious! (The rap song is about how rappers have feelings too – for instance when they make a nice meal and nobody compliments the food, their feelings are hurt!) Further on, I now realize that I have in fact seen these two New Zealanders before, on some American show (according to Wikipedia it’s probably either Letterman or Conan O’Brian). I now look forward to my 360 minutes of uncontrolled rolling around on the floor.

On a concluding note – my friend has a very fancy stereo [how is that concluding? I thought we were finally done with the digressions…]. It takes several CDs at once. Right now I’ve let it play through my new Kent album (another brilliant one. So far I think it's not quite the individual hit song album "Du & Jag Döden" was, it's more in line with "Tillbaka till samtiden" which was much better as a whole album but had few individual hits. However, Kent has yet to disappoint me – I love them!) and the Feist album. I am now fairly sure that this indeed is the CD I left in Minnesota. And even if it isn’t, it has succeeded in letting my mind accept that it is, and thus rest. Plus, I really love it.

All in all, this has been a good day musically. Now I might consider watching an episode of Flight of the Conchords before I go to bed. I will probably dream of evil scissors cutting my hair, though…