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