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

the Tables turned

AN EVENING SCENE , ON THE SAME SUBJECT

Up! Up! my friend, and clear your looks,
Why all this toil and trouble?
Up! Up! my friend, and quit yours books,
Or surly you'll grow double.

The sun above the mountain's head,
A freshening lustre mellow,
Through all the long green fields has spread,
His first sweet evening yellow.

Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife,
Come, hear the woodland linnet,
How sweet his music; on my life
There's more of wisdom in it.

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
And he is no mean preacher;
Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your teacher.

She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless -
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by chearfulness.

One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man;
Of mortal evil and of good,
Than all the sages can.

Sweet is the lore which nature brings;
Our meddling intellect
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things;
- We murder to dissect.

Enough of science and of art;
Close up these barren leaves;
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.

alright, yes! We're here again.

I've been struggling, trying to remember who I am - who I want to be, what I want to make of my future. This is an old theme of mine, I am aware. See I know who I am today, and how I came to be here. And very little of my path so far has been regrettable. I know how I got here and I also know I've wandered immensely far from who I essentially know I could be - if I let my self be the one I am deep down or started out as.

These last couple of years I have undermined a lot of who I am. There are many reasons, some due to duty and obligation, others just for survavial. And no, I am not sulking, or whining, mearly stating a fact and trying to put words to the flowting feeling I've been having since I last December acknowledged that I had let the artist go.

I don't regret the path I've taken here, nor do I think I could have done so differently if I had know then what I now see. Nonetheless, I am feeling disconected and worried that my artistic skill has vanished. See, I used to have a name as one of the few young artist in the Norwegian artist community. In many ways that as been my identity, I am still that artist by name, but by skill I don't seem to fit the description any more. I know my craft but only in theory, cause when I try to do what I used to visualise with careful skill, I now only seem to get on paper - not on canvas.

Ideas I get all around, all my surroundings inspire some brilliant artistic concept. Yet I think perhaps over work and dislocation has severed a part of persona. If such a thing was possible, I mean we all change. Change is good. But can you have changed by severing apart of your self that you still view as your own?

Array

I was rummaging through my room today, in an attempt to tidy and clean before the big move, and I found a song entitled the glory of love. There's a line there that says

There's so many things I want to say
I will always love you
I would never leave you
but life had us walk another path

It got me thinking. Is it possible to care and love for someone of whom one do not wish to meet or speak too? Can one really love someone and not want anything to do with them at the same time? It is a puzzlement I can't quite grasp but I think it may be a rather deep reality and sad one of that.

unbuckled

Come in to my world, wish to show you where I keep my thought and hide my flaws from plain sight. I'd let you in to my bed and I'd get to know you as well. We share a life of regrets and pains. Our thoughts and discussions seem to revolve around our fears it seems to take on a sinister, yet comforting atmosphere. We painted the room with knowledge, fantasy, love and most of all trust. You cut your hair, and I feared the expression that grew on your face. Yet I found a comfort there, and so we went on, trusted souls till death, and a strong unbuckled friendship.