the modern family

I had a dream, least it seems a dream to me now. Of a time lost, a past forgotten and of summer.

I dreamt my granddad was still alive to keep my brother in check, and my granny didn't grieve. He'd tend the garden and she would read.  My mother took long trips in the forest, and met up with her friends, daring to brave the frights of her mind. Our dog was barking away and we didn't morn her. Dad wasn't pestered about going out with his friends every now and then. I had a brother that hadn't broken his back and hadn't started smoking. His goal was to become a great football player. He was good, and he had a mind for maths also. My sister, she wasn't in the dream. I suppose it was before I learnt of her. And before my father became a grandfather. He always did like children.

Ruins. Debris. In ruins and debris.
Was it ever real?

Altzheimer and sorrow is eating away the brilliance of grannie's brain. Mum have dilutions and worries of my absent, self-centred, childish, stubborn, proud, to-good-to-grow-up-30year-old big brother. And my father is left mending the fuses as best he can. They all grieve.

To stubbornness, ignorance, intolerance and loneliness, I awoke. It seems unclear to me now. All I recall is shrouded in mist and mystery. Bits and pieces of whence I was alive.

Green leafs

A small town sets the stage.
In a troubled time, in a secluded place.
The rare action never seem to fill these once disputed streets.
People go about their life, rushing home from work and school.
Some have already gone home and others emerge for an evening drink.
There they meet in the autumn chill, where snow lay days previous.
One with blushed cheeks and the other with an averted gaze.
The glow on their skin can be seen from across the street.
The terrifying reality that this may go array lights the darkness.
But the hope of two lonely hearts screams out for a suitable ear to hear.
Can you hear it in the wind?
I wish I could...
The ghost of lovers past seem to haunt my waking hour.
I wonder if I could relive those first moments when the gaze rise to see my eyes.
A gaze meet by nervousness, hope and yearning for an other puzzle fitting in with your own board game.
Baggage it will entail but so will my own hand be loaded with debris.

If only I wasn't as inpatient, maybe that person wouldn't pass me by?
Work and work, is and will be fuelled by egoism growing into cynicism as the days pass into years...

A writing frenzy

I wouldn't live with a heart that was yours.
Now there is stories that goes their way
These are the ones that will deceive you,
I know
So take it from me and go home

Tradadadidida

These are the words that will hunt you
Take it from me and leave now that you can
That was the moment and now it has past
I wouldn't live with a heart such as yours

Dadadadidida

These are the rhymes that will follow you
They will hunt you, I know, hunting you home
So leave while you can
These are the words that will follow you home
Take it from me and leave while you can

Arrival

I never said the journey would form you
It will change you but never shape you
I never said it would be easy knowing me
You knew, very well who I was
Now recite me if you can.
I never said I'd be truthful
but nor did I tell you a lie
I never said life is easy, nor the journey's end without a hope
all the people and the faces - the faces you must leave behind
on your way.
And nor did I ever say I'd never say goodbye.

home is where the heart lies

They say you can never find love until you love yourself. But what does that mean, or even imply? I mean; does loving oneself imply that there is no self doubts or that one never feel insecure - or is there any room for self awareness and critic at all? And if so, how much of doubting or awareness does it take to cross over? These are just a few questions I think about when I hear the saying.

However I do realise that loving one self, might simply imply that one love life and is content and comfortable in one's own skin. To be content, perhaps. But not necessary void of wanting self improvements. Besides the outside world can never truly see what is going on inside someone's mind, nor can the outside understand completely how we feel. I suppose we need love to grow, but we need self awareness to move on - if only to avoid pigheadedness and the notion of indifference.

Share in one life time

On the day it knows
when in fever it remains
the Donna she will rise
And carelessly lift her eyes
seeing is a curse
the blessing of the sight
known only of a few
Helios will be the name of tongues
semper mea brevis

Do ut res

On my way I go, where the children play.
On I go, hear the children play.
And I'm going home from a place so warm.
To the northern fields where the winter roam.

Goodbye , to all you Romans. I am going home.
Home to where the Norfolk play a barbarian tune.
Where the nordmanns roam the snow, and valkeries our forests.
There's trolls in these mountains...
Here the wind it blows, and the light is gone.
We roam...

Fair haired, fair skinned, but in our eyes a ferocity is felt.
Cause be them green, blue or ice, brown, dark or light.
In our eyes a nation lives
whom knows not but the bliss of blizzards, hide to cold and night to day.
The wind far up there in the north, and the mountain winds it speaks.

december light

The first of December.
The month a student want to pass quickly.
And a child wishes never ends.

The Norse wish for high and strong Hjul snow.
While the Irish mope for calm seas.

Lights are alight to day.
Shed a light in the darkness, and someone might see.
people stress and worry, yet now is the time they do say please and sorry.

As I spoke

Like a flame - life flickers.
It brings what it desires.
It gives what it sees.
It licks the very fabric of space for its needs.

Proposito umquam iterum amoritur?

Timed!

They fought a lot.
Driven by hatred, and the unkind bitterness.
Though deep down I know, they loved one an other,
once.
But life brought her ignorance into fear,
and his brilliance into despair.
And they drifted.
I know, now I know.

plunder

Can you love when love has fled?

Can we be when trust has left?

Can you see when you are older

with the light of your youth?

Are the goggles we are wearing

the shades before the sun?

Can we now and for the future, understand our solom truth?

Will we be the ones we are of clay or do we grow into a pelt?

I don't know, I just grow

22.07.11

They say the foulest crime there is, is to ignore a cry of desperation from mothers and to disrespect a nation's gathered sorrow. To this my friends my words travel. Remember who we are together in sorrow and delight. Hold your loved ones closer and give the nation an other voice in it's chorous of voices. We are but one people, together we are strong, together we are one, together we may withstand the time of time. But a part, however, we are many frail individuals.

Friendship is a sheltering tree

In an empty room, but for a lone girl sitting cross legged on the floor, sweeps an eerie silence. Her eyes are wide awake with the chill shining of cool blue, and in the neck slopes a loosley knotted bundle of fair hair. Her hands are resting on the table top in front of her. There lies her deck of nature's guidance. In silence guidance the Hornbeam and White Willow showes them selves turned to face down. In answer to her plea of regret and redemption does Hornbeam answer:

Most holy sanctum

Innermost kernel

For which you are ready to die

For which you are not quite ready to live

Protect the flame

You are made of secrecy

Master's silent servant

She sees the answer in bewildered relief. Its message clear in her heart. She was right to hold her ground, no matter how tempting it would have been to let her mercy turn the blind eye. The White Willow confirms that her well being depended on this refusal of kindness.

Don't think, don't ask, just dance

Move through life

Like a drop of water

Falling, flowing, rising, drifting

Constrict your boundaries

Fly, plunge, run, stop!

Always mirror your inner light

The second referring to her own sanity, puzzles her even as much as her regret. To withdraw from a kinship, even by just cause seems an invitation of pain and darkness, Yet here lies the relief she seeks. Out of mind, out of sight - delivered sanctum.

there, dear

A mothers kiss upon a youngling's nearly hairless head - soothes me.
The lips touching only superficially the head beneath - caressing it.
Uttering the voice of property - you are mine, dear.
The youngling utters a smirk smile and shudders it head away - careless.

What are the worries of mothers? Why do they keep holding on to those small and probably unnecessary fears? Who said a mother would care for her child? Why is a bundle that has caused a lot of pain upon birthing - create so much joy in a mothers eyes? Who decided that a mother were to love her child and embrace him upon evening? Did the gods cradle sivilasation upon it's upbringing? Did the almighty among themselves, hold any of us dear - or were we a game of ponds? Does the cradle of civilisation behold a mother embracing her child fondly before allowing it out into the mindless world beyond her sphere?

a fortnight of summer

See the lights over here? It be the lights of some hopeful sluggers. I do believe they're awaiting some splendiour. Never heard of a splendor occurring in the gray scheme of everyday life? Why they're lonesomely awaiting some untruths? Well in tune, it is but a hope that might be rejoiced in some manner of extravagance. Not unlike a sailor's wife awaits news of her husband's landing, the people over there, by the lights, have long awaited news from beneath the sea as well. The story they hope to hear is foretold, retold and announced, many years hence. From a far away place they strive to hear what the winds bare of valuable news. If time stood still and they had but one wish, they might just wish to know - nothing more grandeur than that, but the simple and easy longitude of knowledge - that is their grand perception of such grandeur insight.

A white and airy sky arises soon upon the dawning sun.

From dusk of night till dawning light, a puppet stir its limbs.

Neither knowing, nor expecting to be any differently perceived.

All but two surrounds the endless sea of imaginary images of dreams.

What will hence become of such bewilderment in anxious strings?

Who but our little puppet strings a bleeding yearn of ill?

Every night a moonlight shadow appear unapproached.

He who sees and listens, but not for own sake sleep.

Gaia meets crookedly with him once upon a year.

meteor

Oh, beauty. Who art thou?
When I gaze upon thee, you pardon your goodbye
When thou are hidden from the sky, you give a fragile smile
When I think of thee, you give my memories gregarious applauds
When I think thee shine upon me, you wither to ugliness without a patterned wave
But tell me, why cannot the humble still know its worth without being taken by you into the deadly twilight?
This does puzzle me, oh beauty, why must you be such a mindless child?

merry seasoning

Well then it is finally here! It snowed again and it is falling in a white blanket to caress the capital. Today I've cleaned and spent the rest of the day and evening sitting by the fire drinking tea, listening too travlin' strawberries. Strange though is that the newly filled bag of wood is empty after just a couple of days :( why does wood burn so awfully fast?... now the cold will be creping in.

Home

I am currently in Oslo, and allthough it is no NY, Paris or London, it is still a city busseling throughout the night. Glascow is just a little bigger, and although Oslo is a capital and a busseling city, it has a soul, noother town I've been in has. Oslo is no unique town. Yes it is more a town than a city, since we in norway don't actually have any real cities - we have towns, and not a lot of them either. We thrive in small places alongside the wildlife. However out capital is to be compared to any other capital, it is a small city or a large town. But nomatter the size of this town - or the production - Oslo is a city where you still can see stars in the middle of the city even though the city lights blurr the starline, it is till visable. Besides you don't have to travel far to be in the middle of nature - with a pristine clear night sky. But this got me thinking, I waht to tavel and see the star-line over NY, Paris, London and other capitals, to see why I hold the Osloensis star-line is so unique. For so far I only have my own theses on my home town.

Which is funny, cause I have spent a couple of years in Tromsø, the Paris of the north as some call it, and it just didn't feel right. Perhaps it was a bit small(?). I was In Bergen last year. And although I view Bergen as a fishing market with houses, I do find it beautiful. I wont argue when people call it pretty, but it wasn't for me. Even the star-line wasn't visible as it is in Oslo. Which is sort of weird since Oslo is twice as big and there's a lot more light pollution :/

Can one be tied down to a place and still be in need of travelling to find one self? And then what happens when we have found who we are. Found the one, and built a home? is that the end of our journey of exploration? Will the stars still seem as promising?

how about it ay?

Mournful and yet grand is the destiny of the artist. That is at least what da Vinci claimed. And he wasn't alone to utter something of the kind. I often wonder if the artist in truth isn't somewhat of a magician. How else can it be that an artist can capture and sculpt the image of reality, into his or her own agenda? And art can capture and trigger so much more than words and reality. Isn't it then to reason that it is magic of some dedication?

You can't run for ever
You haveta pick up the pen one day
You can't hit the road again
You can't hide nomore