Generally, life goes well. I am working at two restaurants: Chart house and the Claddagh Irish pub . Bussing tables can be tiring, but in the end it's the best money available and it pays my minimal bills. This semester draws to an end peacefully, leaving me with four A's and the previously mentioned B in accelerated calculus (grumble), but all in all I feel very little pressure from my finals. My thanksgiving went well, and I look forward to returning to salt lake on the 23rd for a couple of days. Things are calm, and I am happy. Generally, life goes well.

If there is any bit of wisdom that my eighteen years have afforded me it is the knowledge that intensely emotional interaction is costly. Bitter tears certainly have their place, but they must be respected and reserved wisely before they wear thin the ties of companionship. Do not dress selfish escapades in the fine, transparent linens of humanitarianism and selfless concern; I have seen such attempts once, twice, too many times, too many times have I been the perpetrator and acted in the same way. You honestly mistake your endeavors toward reassurance, and, if needed, reinstatement for selflessness. I stand exasperated, too experienced in the matter to retort with hypocrisy yet not wise enough to act maturely, with equity and compassion, and handle the situation well. My face is clean, my eyes are dry, and we are okay, but I remember the consuming despair such scuffles can lead to; I know the tears that rattle you, that keep you from breathing but won't let you drown. I recall the deadly, bittersweet time and note that I am now too old to cry like that. The realization rises to my mind and I smile: such is not true, I'm afraid; I am, and always have been much too young to cry like that.

It is frustrating, darling, to find that I’ve fallen into a relationship that’s flawless yet so damn inconvenient. I see opportunities to slowly graft myself back to normality, back to the norm, back to the meaningless expectations. They don’t tempt me, darling, you know they don’t; how ridiculous to lend a second to distraction when every moment brings my thoughts back to you. I take his number, wishing his endeavors, though innocent, were as platonic as they appear, that his odd Kentucky gentility and truly sweet demeanor didn’t hold hopes of something more than friendship. I wish I could call him, that I could begin other friendships I so direly need without feeling guilty or inappropriate. You and I happily operate outside the borders of the masses, benefiting from subversiveness and enjoying phenomenal compatibility, every aspect of our world perfect save its isolation. There are times, however, when I gaze towards the big city, rife with vice and pettiness, seething with destructive unimportance, and I long for the comfort of stupid, meaningless people who understand.

Darlings! It has been a long time since I last enjoyed your audience, mainly because of my heavy school load and such. Midterms are over, however, and my decision to discontinue my accelerated calculus course presents me with double the free time, due to the fact that my mathematic studies comprised roughly 70% of my schoolwork. I’ve already earned 3 math credits for the course, and I don’t need calculus for my desired degrees, so why bother? Regardless, the grueling math course is now over (the grade marking the cessation of such is a mediocre but nonetheless hard earned B), so hopefully I can write more frequently now that I never, ever have to differentiate anything EVER AGAIN. Huzzah.

I look forward to being bombarded by the copious amount of time that awaits me, although it will have to be spread out thickly upon numerous necessary activities. I found a darling Pilates studio downtown which I plan to join. I also need to start building my extra-curricular activities so that my transcript can be all sexy-like. I somewhat dread doing such, because- don’t tell anybody- I don’t really care about the college democrats, presidential ambassadors, or the dolphins I plan to save with my fervent adoration for all things natural. Quite frankly, they can all go to hell as long as I go to a better college.

Well, I’m afraid it’s time for my 11 hour bussing shift. Ta ta, darlings, I’ll write more on Tuesday.

Today was my only day off; after school I work on Monday, Friday and Saturday, Tuesdays and Thursdays are spent with the boyfriend, as are most of Sundays. Wednesday, however, is mine to spend as I see fit after I finish school at 5.

A frenzy of school work and bills has caught me in its rushing grasp, delighting me with the thrill of true progress and burdening me with hours of school and work that takes 6 days of my week. This one day, as redundant as the epitaph is, is my escape. I am free to watch TV, eat a bag of popcorn, or work out if I so desire, all in an attempt to forget the deadlines and be lazy for an evening. My routine, however, has robbed me of that leisure. Only a month of school has gone by and already I get anxious when I’m not hurried. A nervously psychotic smile explodes onto my lips and fades the second I think of how to best utilize the free time. I want to do everything I’ve forsaken in sight of work and end up bogging myself down in a flurry of 5 lazy activities I foolishly endeavor to do at the same time. It honestly took me 2 episodes to figure out that exercising, watching sex and the city, eating fruit snacks all while trying to stuff my face with popcorn is simply not a good idea.

My bedtime has come and a wave of nausea settles throbbingly on top of the usual exhaustion. My head aches from the sugar of the 4 packs of fruit snacks, and all I can think about is the studying I could have done.

I suck at this game.

We have met the enemy and he is us: I am positively fascinated with symbolic philosophy. e= object of observation. t= logically inconsistent but empirically equivalent ideas. To explain all I have struggled to articulate about relativity in 3 variables is nothing short of brilliance. Oh, sweet stimulation, how I embrace thee!

Dearest reader: forgive my absence. On the 22nd of August I started school, and I have toiled laboriously ever since. My classes are splendid, I am soaring through every one of them, and I have found a certain delight in life that's been missing for a while.

I will write, though not as frequently as I once did, and my posts will be mostly academic dialogues required for classes. There is merit in everything, I have come to see, thus I will post all that I can.

Till then, my darlings, let us remember to live well. Life quivers with beauty; do not forsake that which longs to tempt you.

Scarlet Johansson is adorable. The extraordinary talent she displayed in 'Love Song for Bobby Long' has secured her as a keeper, really it has. So why am I so disappointed to read the dialogue in this interview? Why does she come across as completely disjointed and, well, 9 years old? It makes you think of the reporter as an exceptionally obsequious special-ed teacher.

"Where do you call home, Scarlett?"

"I bought a house in L.A., but I got lonely and sold it and moved into the Chateau Marmont. Then I got a fish, because I was lonely there. He was a Japanese fighting fish named Cassius. I cleaned his water every three days, but somebody took care of him for a week and they let his water get dirty. He got a skin disease and died. I was mortified. I dug a giant hole in the garden at the Chateau Marmont and buried him. I know it was just a fish, but somehow he became a good friend of mine."

"Very Good, Scarlett. Now why don't you tell me about your new puppy, Maggie?

"She's this little bitty thing. The first three days, she didn't make a sound. Then the fourth day, she started barking incessantly. It was irritating, so I taught her not to bark. You spray them in the butt with a water bottle. It doesn't hurt."

"That's wonderful, sweetie. Please stop eating your glue."

Today I received a post that was written in the casual yet ornate script I recognized immediately to be my mother's. Inside was a birthday card and white tissue paper that held my present. I had asked my mother for a cash gift, simply because I'm 18 and in need of a new cell phone. When she reluctantly agreed to consider it, I thought she was being somewhat selfish in wanting to buy me a dress or some such gift. As I unfolded the tissue and saw the glistening of an exquisite necklace tumbling from the wrapping, I felt greedy and pathetic. Money is easy; my mother wanted to give all that she could by ransacking salt lake for the perfect gift before delivering. I left a thank you on her voicemail, and felt proper and polite, but softly distant. I miss her.

"I bought you the most elegant necklace I could find for your 18th birthday. What an important day for you. Just as you have far's wedding ring and the golden heart pendent from mor- both priceless heirlooms- this necklace can become an heirloom for your posterity that is handed down again and again. It's so you and it's the one way you can always be remembered. But...until then, wear it when you want to be especially beautiful. I love you and miss you terribly. -Mom"

My eyes stung as I thought of my previous selfishness, of my eternally animate pessimism, of my ingratitude. Half of the cutting beauty of growth lies in the flippancy from which we grow.

Mom, you are a phone call away, but it's late and I don't mean to wake you. Hopefully my need to tell you this will not dwindle with the passing time. Be happy, darling. You are so dear to me. All hallmark cards aside, friction and tribulation is what makes us appreciate what we have. I have my issues that I've allowed to push me to thanklessness, but please excuse the crimes of a child; I know, and will never deny, that you are a fantastic mother.

I saw Batman Begins. I hesitate to critique, but simply because the painful recognition of Batman and Robin springs to mind. I still can't talk about that catastrophe; it insulted my very being and left scars carved deep into my fanatical batman-loving skin, and I'm simply not ready to talk about it. Batman Begins was, well, better, but I still had plenty to complain about.

I am an avid devotee of the crusader and the massive amounts of money he utilizes as opposed to crazy super powers. This is mainly because of the brilliant, beautiful, breathtaking perfection of Batman TAS - never before has an animated series done such justice to the original idea; the dark, deco animation and eloquent screenplay converted me into an active aficionada- reminds me of what can be done. It glorifies its hero, but doesn't stop short of pointing out the fact that the dude's a wack (for example: batman's penchant for dealing with the death of his parents by fighting strangers and donning spandex). The villains are ostensibly metaphoric yet superbly developed, conveying the gamut of human obsession and vice, equipped with stylish dress and moderately bad puns.

Imagine my dismay when a multi-million dollar movie with Michael Cane, Morgan Freeman, Gary Oldman and Liam Neeson fell short of doing half as fantastic a job as the crew of TAS. Come now! The batmobile was a hummer? Does that not fight the very existence of batman? Katie Holmes, a romantic interest? Ra's Al Ghul the principal villain?

Poppycock! The movie put me right to sleep.

Just in: My 'profile views' have just topped 1000. That means that a year and a half of piddling about on the intrarweb have resulted in 1000 people stumbling upon my rants, reading a couple words, and promptly returning to cosmopolitan.com to see what Jen is really feeling about Angelina's progeny and his crazy hair cut.

W00T.

I awoke this afternoon with tears in my eyes. They glistened with the sheen of broken defeat and slid down my face and onto my pillow, drenching the cloth and cementing my torment in physical condition. The light did not welcome me; I had retired the night before pleading that the sun would never rise.

Is this the experience I've begged for? In my foolish conquest for adventure did I silently bargain to cripple myself? Will I rise, will I find courage, will I inch forward towards whatever it is I want to be yet can't fathom becoming? I've glorified deceit, cunning and duplicity because I fear that I can accomplish nothing more. Where will I find the strength to change when I've outgrown the witless antics of the insecure? My pretension has distorted who I am; I haven't the courage to discover what that is because I'm too afraid nothing is there. Surely there's a hidden compartment from which I can draw support. Surely behind these masks and lies stands a woman worth cherishing.

May I do justice to the affection that has been showered upon this undeserving little girl. I stood thirsting, starving for acceptance under a cascade of devotion and tenderness, but instead of scurrying to collect every sacred drop I allowed it to run off me and I rendered it useless. How thankful I am for the pain my tears sear into my being; may they stand a reminder of the unconditional love I've taken advantage of.

I am weak. I have no option but to beg for mercy that extends above justice.

Movies to see:

-Mysterious Skin
-Batman Begins
-Charlie & ChocFac
-Havoc
-Brick

I hasten to bury a scoff in apology and agreement. How foreign this all seemed to me; foreign and meaningless, dancing between a border of reflex and imbecility. My hands rush forth with biting words that are dressed to the nines in the finest indifference I can muster. You are smug, you are confidant in the passion you spread about thickly like jam on toast. Scorn rises to my mind but is quickly pressed back inside by the most peculiar longing. How I miss that blind passion, how secure I felt when I could wrap my belief around me and find stable warmth. I've accepted what I don't know in an act of honesty. I miss it, though, I miss knowing, undeniably knowing....I can't mock you, even if I tried. You're happy blazing ahead in flames of pretension and self righteousness, of secure arrogance. You so confidently chase your words of allegiance with tones that are subtler, but still alight with the same bright flagrancy. How doubtless you are, how so very knowing. There are a million insults and debates I want to toss at you, something to tear you down from your elaborate soapbox.

But there's no point. I'm so hurt, I'm so wounded from leaving a path and starting anew. I have no answers but you have volumes of certainty. I have a closely-studied and complex void, whereas you face me with a monstrous, prefabricated edifice that you've cut-and-pasted into my life. Your faith made me worthless

I am of the opinion that all kitchen appliances should ding; microwaves. toasters, coffee makers, they'd be so much better if they completed their valuable services with a friendly ding.

My grandparents have a microwave that probably dates back to 1971 and is, I'm almost sure, the envy of the entire staff of the Hamilton Beach Antiques Museum. It does quite well, however, and when the desired time is up a ding rings through the kitchen, alerting you to its completion. I couldn't be more fond of this.

This microwave goes above and beyond the call of duty. It has endeared itself to me with the quaintest of sounds. I've decided to name it Franklyn. This would seem odd, but upon remembering our old refrigerator- the poor thing needed to be defrosted like mad, but we enjoyed its birdlike whirs so much that we ignored it's misgivings and referred to it as 'birdie', responding to the sputters and hums with friendly chatter- everything seems to fit into place. I think I'll refrain from talking to the microwave, however, but only to spare the nerves of my grandparents.

I'm sure that a toaster complete with a dinging sound would be easy to find. I'm not too sure about a dishwasher, however, and I don't dare reckon the chances of a phone charger complete with affable ding.

Update:

I have a piece of bread lodged in my gums in the very back of my mouth. Normally I wouldn't be so crass as to, well, post about it, but I'm making an exception to my decency rule. Mainly because it's been plaguing me for a week and a half.

Understand, dear reader, that it's not really bread. I suppose I would more concisely express myself if I were to say that it's a piece of a chip. Flatbrød is traditional Norwegian fare, and it's basically a wheat chip the size of a piece of paper. A slice of bread paper. I don't know, eloquence fails me. Like this but much more menacing

I was not opposed to the idea of bread paper. I found it delicious and oh so fun to play with. That was until I discovered that it is, in all intents and purposes, whole grain shrapnel. I wish I was joking. This sliver of, well, a sliver of a slice of a sheet of bread, is lost to the deepest crevasse of my mouth. I have never been more vexed in my life.

Wouldn't it be something if I were to die at the hands of something I couldn't even describe? How horrid! Just think; no bitingly witty elegies, no eulogies rife with carb puns. Nothing. How is one supposed to draft a satiric will about a sliver of a slice of a sheet of bread?

And this one. It just died! Poof, it's gone!


**note: please see previous post.

I hate sites like this. Hate them, hate them, hate them. They're witty, smart, the layout is beautiful, and they haven't been updated in a year. Argh.


**note: this post was written while I was suffering from the delusion that the current year is 2006. Please interpret accordingly.

The day I left Oslo we went to Vigeland's Park. I was eager to go, of course, though somewhat bitter at such a blatant display of my tourist-ism (my aunt tried for 15 minutes to get me to go stand by a guard at the palace for a picture, but I do have my dignity, after all). We had a short time in Oslo that day, and I had allotted a strict and relatively short time period for the park. I regretted this the moment I arrived.

There is no purer form of art than to capture the emotion, the beauty, and the pain of every single feeling that might ripple through our existence in 192 granite and bronze sculptures. The architectural design of the land and the pathways were breathtaking, but I was withered to tears as I gazed at some of the statues before me.



A man clutching a woman in a steeping gaze, an elderly woman cradling a man, women with their children, men with men, relationships and friendships drawn up in simple lines upon the cold stone. The day was gray; rain fell down on me, I was touched and inspired. How better to express the complexity of our natures than with brutal, perfected simplicity?

Gustav Vigeland, the sculptor of all artwork in the park and designer of the grounds, displays such understanding of the human enigma. One of my favorite pieces, with man and woman touching foreheads together, made me cry. I stood there, thankful for my huge aviator sunglasses, staring at the sight, tears streaming down my face. Children run up and down the steps, laughing as the mount the sculptures, sitting in the laps of the stone men, cheerfully patting their heads and chuckling together; there are no guards to prevent you from touching the statues, it is permitted. I enjoyed this; one of the most beautiful parts of the experience was witnessing the interaction that was encouraged.

The metaphors implied are insightful, from "The Wheel of Life" to "The Monolith", to the fountain, interaction is encouraged past the visit to the park; Vigeland clearly hoped to leave a lasting impression on all those who happened upon his artwork.

And that, my dear reader, is exactly what he did.

"I was a sculptor before I was born. I was driven and lashed onward by powerful forces outside myself. There was no other path, and no matter how hard I might have tried to find one, I would have been forced back again."





Read more here

Think of this world, breathing possibility and innumerable chance, waiting for you to change the face of your humanity, waiting for you to pick up your capacity and carve something beautiful. Think of the chances of emotion and adventure and achievement, think of the thrills that lie just beyond the initiative. Look at the great conquests of your kind, why would one shun the beauty that we have strived to create, to articulate, to captivate, and to hold, even if for the shortest of moments? These moments will come and flee in a heartbeat, and leave you with heartbreak and one slurred, concise reverie that will hopefully fuel adventures to come. Do not let the absence of your momentary exaltation burden you; you were meant to rise again, you were built to persevere, you were created to live! Breath the air around you, and do not settle for anything other than immortality. Emblazon yourself on your past, present, and the future that is yours to mold. The only sin in this world is mediocrity, and the only entity you insult with such is yourself. Wake up and make a masterpiece, do not let excuses rob you of your happiness. Do not deny the progression you were created to engender.


(Listening to "One I love" by coldplay)

There are times when I hear a song and it inspires a whole paragraph of just thought, thought that connects to nothing in particular but is an expression of mine. I suppose it only makes sense to add the title/artist of said song with the post. I shall endeavor to do that.

Naturally, if you have said song, or are sexy, unscrupulous, and totally down with stealing in (limewire forever, yo), put it on while reading. Seeing as the post was constructed to complement it, things might make more sense.

That is all.

Due to the fact that their songs cascade upon me 50 times too many on a daily basis, I've never paid attention to the band. But coldplay is wonderful. PS: I go home in 5 days!!

I hadn't heard what Tone had said. This must have been clear, because she repeated herself.

"What?"

"I can't dress like this for a former model!" Her words finally worked their way through her accent. Tone's english was perfect, I simply hadn't understood her. She hurried off to go dress before explaining and I, lounging on the couch while gazing lazily at the tv, decided to stay where I was. Maybe that would mean something to me later on in the evening, maybe not. I doubted the relevance, to be honest.

The life span of my television watching abruptly came to expiration, as do most things that require my attention, and I drifted about the house in search of something to do. I went out to my Aunt's beautiful back yard, complete with manicured hedges and a view of the fjord, and jumped on the trampoline for a bit. Thia, my darling cousin, came out to join me and we instead began a fierce badminton competition.

We whittled away the hours until my cousins disappeared and I was once again at my leisure on the couch. A conversation in the hallway found it's way to my spot on the couch:

"Emilie, stop eating all those sweets, we eat in 10 minutes."

"But we're having company, and it always takes forever to get to the food when company is over."

"Emilie!"

The conversation continued but was busy working its way to the other side of the house, away from my unconcerned ears. I caught the words 'work', 'client', "Persia". I sat up as the sound of a light bulb turning on resounded through my mind.

Dearest reader, you must understand: I am vain. I don't try to deny this, and I certainly don't apologize for my overt acknowledgment of such, but you should know that it's rather extreme. The only thing I hate more than Yanni is a woman who is better dressed, better connected, or better looking than I. I take all possible measures to avoid said encounters. Hence my speed as I rushed to the bathroom to make myself beautiful.

I went for the painstakingly natural beauty look. Foundation, light powder, no eye makeup except for the liquid eyeliner I applied to the backsides of my lashes to conceal the use of powder, a soft gloss on the lips. I let my hair down, threw on some casual clothing, and went upstairs.

My first reaction was annoyance with myself. I knew she would be older, but why was I competing with a 40 year old Persian American? I'm with family a million miles away from anybody I really need to impress. I need to get over myself.

Natalie was incredibly polite, and smiled widely while introducing herself. I did likewise, while happily glancing down at her expensive but regardlessly horrible jeans, the trendy magenta sash she had thread through belt loops, the plummeting neckline of her shirt and the birkenstocks. Her skin was incomparably flawless, but her only particularly striking feature was the darkness of her black hair. Though cordial and somewhat affable, her haughtiness shone through her like a flame behind fine silk that felt no need whatsoever to hide. A select few have said the same about me, and I deny this blatantly apocryphal tidbit with the same vigor Bush has shown in liberating Iraq. Rubbish.

Emilie was correct in the annoyance she had displayed earlier; the group fiddled about with introductions and small talk before sitting down to eat 25 minutes later. Little did I know I would find intrigue along with food when dinner finally came around. Natalie was positively fascinating, a big city socialite through and through. The fact that she had been a drama major came as no surprise, and her incredibly intelligent way of speaking robbed her degree from Oxford of any surprise it would normally harbor as well. I was impressed to hear of her scholarship from NYU and Oxford, though merely annoyed with her name dropping and the casual comments about the ease in which she found herself into Wolfgang Puck. She had been traveling the world since she was 17, going to school, doing documentaries, writing. All in all, she was fascinating.

I sat a little taller at that meal. When an American visits a foreign country, one of two things normally happens: either the traveler is true to form, bustling about in the haughty, proud way of American civilization, turning noses at inconveniences and the lost benefits that sit solely in the states, or either plays it low, almost embarrassed of his or her homeland, marveling at the country and the beautiful simplicity of the single bathroom. I act in the latter way. Natalie, it was clear, was quite fond of the former type of behavior.

" I swear to God, it's as if manicures are against the national religion here. In Hollywood you can get one for $7 while waiting at the stop light. New York is more expensive, naturally, but a remarkable salon is always near by if you're willing to fund such pampering...

....I miss wearing heels. In Rome, and Venice, London, Paris, everywhere else in Europe a pair of stunning Manolos are mandatory, but here they're impractical...

...Why Eric, this fish is positively amazing. It reminds me of my favorite dish from the Essex House...."

Her ostentation revolted me at times, yet surprisingly enough everyone else at the table raised eyebrows and nodded appreciatively. They had better things to worry about then Masa in New York; they were sensible people and would have found such silly places to be pathetic. I wondered, then, why she bothered to drop the names of the most exclusive restaurants and clubs in LA in New York to a table full of unconcerned Norwegians.

She was well traveled, and in many ways just what I want to be. Already, I thought, at 17 I've acquired the tact she is in such desperate need of. I glance down once again at the shirt stretched across her chest and noted I also have taste. She started to talk about her jewelry line and burst out in exclaim at her newest idea (Sandals with a 4 inch transparent heel in the shape of an icicle that light up when you walk). I laughed at my sudden desire to choke on my salmon.

Natalie left after hugging everyone, calling them by name, offering insightful comments that reflected on what they said during the meal. I was thoroughly impressed with her courtesy that extended beyond propriety, that almost made you feel like she cared. I was impressed with the fact that not once did she use the word "fabulous", but rather found adjectives that were actually relevant and original. I was impressed with the way she positively refused to cut anyone out of the conversation, and, when such action did occur, the way she promptly leapt back with a "what were you saying? The tribal civilization interested you because...."

Those around me were impressed with the posh way she mused about wine, even though she was far from the connoisseur. They were impressed with the fact that she owned her own jewelry line, though it sounded tacky and badly designed. They were impressed with her condescension, though she would do well to forsake it. They were impressed with her self proclaimed obsession with clothing, though she dressed horribly.

Her company adored her. They marveled at the work she had done, which I'll admit, was impressive, but also smiled when she dallied on about the 'vast cultural wasteland' that was the space between LA and New York. I could see it in the faces of those who listened to her haughty laugh and watched her gold jewelry flicker in the candlelight: they admired her. True, she found ways to amaze, but mostly, the admiration was for her distinctly American personality. Their eyes glimpsed down when they heard mention of the manicures they never felt need for and thought of their different, simple country.

I was perplexed; a month and a half I had spent applauding their lifestyle, marveling at the wonderful food and the slow pace, all while leaving the bustling culture of the states behind in muffled apology. Why is it that this woman, as well read and captivating she momentarily allowed herself to be, has made such a wasteful lifestyle en vogue for me once again?

To be honest, it felt wonderful. It felt great to be a Yankee, to proudly parade about in clouds of excessive technology and ignorance, too oblivious to realize I was starving myself for air. I felt trendy again. Perhaps everyone is quick to admire the panache and pomp of a culture, despite its present standing in the world. I come from the land of extremes; it's easy to make those around you gleam with envy if you illuminate the positive side zealously enough. I wonder why I've never favored the zealous propagation that could make my land the envy of those around me. I'm not shy, nor am I modest, so why am I the one in a state of awe while abroad?

More importantly, I suppose: is this wisdom or naïvety?

I love it when you stumble upon a blog of absolutely no worth to you, yet find a gem that glistens in the murky shambles of large font and bad web design....

"So I said to him, Be formless...shapeless...like water... Now you put water in a cup, it becomes the cup. You put it in a teapot, it becomes the teapot. You put water into a bottle, it becomes the bottle... Now water can crash...or it can flow... Be water my friend."

(view source )

And so I stayed: happy, lazy, adrift in the shafts of light that poured in the room and the television's voice that kept me aloft in it. The scent of my freshly washed hair filled me, and the towel I had wrapped around my head sprawled out beneath me, cushioning me, breathing the perfume of my shampoo, cradling my head in white terry. My fingers were lax, tossed over the side of the couch. It was that time of day, that fragile moment in which the light seems harshest though it is about to begin fading, as if the sun is in its last moments of contemplation, and will shortly decide to set. The windows allowed the light to push through, to fall into the room and repaint it with streaks of the starkest white and to fill it with this thick complacency. I don't know why, but my idleness was justified. I couldn't be happier, smelling the flowers of the shower, blankly staring at the bespeckled ceiling, feeling the warmth of the day.

And so I stayed: happy, lazy, adrift.


(Listening to: "How Do" by Sneaker Pimps)

Today was my third day in Sandefjord. I must say, I enjoy it much, much more than the isolated rims of the north. The views here are a little more breathtaking, and there aren’t bugs to be found anywhere.

We’re an hour from Oslo, and one can take the train into town, though it sounds quite the hassle. I plan to do it sometime between now and my return to Bardufoss on Tuesday. All goes well here, however, I just wanted to check in and tell my lovelies that I’m enjoying myself.

By the way, I think I’m going to go into journalism. It’s just an idea, but it’s the only one I have. I’ll pursue that until something else catches my eye.

The battle has been raging for ages, and it will as long as mankind exists. The literati squirm under its shadow; we detest it, we loathe it, and as an immutable slice of our existence we have all fallen prey to it: the cliché. I am no exception. Being found to be nothing more than a tired bromide is something I fear vehemently. It's so easy to judge this curious concept, so easy that our judgement of clichés has become, in fact, cliché. What is this repetition?

Hmmm...what should I say next? I could go writing-101-school-girl, with a nice "Webster's dictionary denotes this as..." sentence, but heavens, that's so cliché.

Websters:
1 : a trite phrase or expression; also : the idea expressed by it
2 : a hackneyed theme, characterization, or situation
3 : something (as a menu item) that has become overly familiar or commonplace

Thesaurus.com:
banality, boiler plate, buzzword, chestnut, commonplace, corn, counterword, familiar tune, high camp, motto, old saw, old song, old story, platitude, potboiler, prosaism, proverb, rubber stamp, saw, saying, shibboleth, slogan, stale saying, stereotype, trite remark, triteness, triviality, truism

Wikipedia:
"A cliché (from French cliché, stereotype) is a phrase or expression, or the idea expressed by it, that has been overused to the point of losing its intended force or novelty, especially where the same expression was at one time distinctively forceful or novel. As a result, many feel that they should be avoided like the plague. Because the novelty or frequency of an expression's use vary between different times and places, whether a given expression is a cliché depends largely on who uses it and who makes the judgment. Originally cliché was a printing term for a semi-permanently assembled piece of type which could easily be inserted into the document being printed."

I was surprised to find an actual list, or rather a lexicon of clichés, ranging all the way from expressions to sports to literature to video games. The more I read and research the notion the more intriuged I am. Why is it that we, the incredible modern-day masters, the top of the food chain, the dominatrixes of the earth must result to such tired epitephs over and over again to denote our existence?

As I said before, there is no innocence. There isn't an individual alive who hasn't found redundancies to be easier and sometimes clearer than original expression. If one has lived life without becoming a mere duplicate of the situations and material we find to be common, then they haven't lived at all. This seems so easy to type, so easy to read, yet it is hardly an accepted thought in our society. Only the defeated admit to the cliché functioning as an active part of their lives. Wikipedia even comments that "many feel that [clichés] should be avoided like the plague". We can't avoid this, nobody can. In the end we must look back and realize that there were points of our life during which we had succumbed to the plague.

We, as a people, do not accept this. We vigorously support the ideology of pre manufactured thought yet we deny it. We embrace the prefab culture; we smoke cigars and own clunky furniture if we are masculine, successful men, we drive F150s and own rifles if we are Texans, we drink lattes while spitting upon our country if we are intellectuals, we wear Manolos and un matching purses if we are fashionistas, and we continuously digress into a hair gel substance abuse problem if we are gay males. Why is it, then, that the fashionistas insist that their metallic bag and floral Blahniks are original and coordinate perfectly? Why do the intellectuals swim in their supposed originality as if it were a giant ocean that every other intellectual happens to swim in as well? Why are we so ashamed of the obvious?

The cause of the cliché's dominance is the vivid truth that stands behind it. All art students marvel at the mysterious desire to wear black berets once they declare their major. On a more serious note however, how shocking it is to fall in love for the first time and to realize, to your absolute horror, that it really does take your breath away. How repulsive to embrace the one you love, gaze into the eyes that face you, and discover they do, in fact, feel deep enough to swim in. It's understandable; the feelings shared between two individuals has been time and time again regarded as the strongest we'll ever encounter. To experience that for the first time, and to stand within inches of what you've found, is positive rapture. It seems as if those eyes, the windows to the soul, are endless. Inarticulation is debilitating but easy.

How I loathe being swept into different steriotypes, how vexing and hurtful the labels that are thoughtlessly forced upon us truly are. Everyone has experienced this, in one way or another. This judgment is not only a racial thing, a sexual thing, a money thing, but seeps into every aspect of our lives, uninvited. Everyone has been labeled as a molly, fag, gringo, intellectual, butch, nigger, bean-eater, slut, metrosexual, barbie, idiot, pshycotic female, chink, cunt, queen, hick, wuss, yuppy, priss, American, etc. Everyone has, in turn, succumbed to hypocrisy and has carelessly recycled such primitive thought, slinging it upon the next individual who so snugly fits into the category in which they belong.

The plague is deep but it skims the surface of our lives as well; 'vomit' is really the only thing that accessorizes well with the label-concocted divas of pop culture, their mob of afficionados, and their prefab lyrics that clumsily praise love and companionship while incidentally but openly debasing it. Kelly Clarkson, winner of American Idol (So cliché), progressed past her sweet girl, romantic ballad contestant days to slide into an edgier era (soooo cliché), wear too much eye liner (sooooooo cliché), and produce a rock single about 'breathing for the first time' after breaking up with a guy with a fohawk and baggy jeans (sooooooooo cliché!). You listen to the song everytime you get in your car, but forsake the dear melody when acquaintances become a factor and opt to talk about Condoleezza Rice instead (My 'o' key has suffered enough for one day, thank you very much). I'm not trying to lecture you; I happen to have 'Since U been gone' on my MP3 player (kindly note the distinctive U). I happen to listen to it all the freaking time. I happen to never let anybody ever know about it.

Here I state it quite unashamedly, though. Is this my first step to crawling out of the depressing epidemic of the cliché? Is such action even possible? Some argue that we are creatures of evolution. If we are, is it possible that we will evolve past the days of dying metaphors and meaningless words, though they have saturated literature since it's birth? Perhaps we will. Perhaps it is merely a fool's errand, however, and accepting redundance is the only way to proactively function around it. Perhaps I, as an aspiring illuminati, have pondered this with big words and pretentious diction, mentioned tired examples and common references, and after all has been said, I have posted this on my blog as means of sealing what I truly am: cliché.



(Please reference Orwell's brilliant 'Politics and the English Language' for related thought, as well as this definition and bertisevil.tv

It was a battle of wits. It had come down to the last mosquito, the very last child of the blood-sucking tribe of monsters that had robbed me of my sleep. It was 10:20 in the afternoon, and I had yet to go to bed. Bed had been a purgatory for me during the painful night; the endless sun forced me to cover my windows and close my door to fresh air, the bugs kept me from casting aside the roasting comforters that plagued me, and the sickly, feverish, light/insect-induced torridity transformed sleep into nothing more than a unachievable dream.

There are times when one doesn't have the strength to be an optimistic dreamer. I had given up at about three, begrudgingly heaved my fatigued self out of bed, and stared at shoes online for hours. I returned back to my stuffy room just to return back to my pathetic keyboard, and chatted with Elisse. I applied my sunless tanning lotion, I drank three cans of iced tea, I watched four episodes of Sex and the City, I went to the bathroom approximately 13 times. I was exhausted. The passing of the tiresome night had changed nothing; my room was still hellish and unpromising. I had no choice, however. I had to get some sleep.

I could do nothing about the stale air. Slumber and harsh sunlight simply cannot exist in the same room when the dreamer in question is one particular as I, so I deconstructed my light brocade and rebuilt it. I stuffed the window with more pillows, more sweaters, re-pinned everything back into broken place. I turned off the overhead light, happy with the results. I turned it back on and returned to my escapade with added determination. I left the room and returned with my only hope: the fly swatter.

The futility of such course of action is unmistakable. I sat there, regardless, robbed of my sleep and all other options, and swatted away. It was a war, and I, in my fatigue, swung through the early morning with the vigor and courage of one who is too tired to not swing. 12 mosquitoes later, I figure I was in good shape. By ripping the comforter out of the Duvet and putting on a thin long-sleeved shirt I made my last preparations, and I was ready for bed.

There is nothing more pleasant than falling to sleep after fitfully fighting for the right to do so. Floating out and over the miserable circumstances was heaven. I mused myself with thoughts of whatever, thoughts so distant I couldn't even remember them when I heard it: that miserable, revolting, nauseating sound of a mosquito, a solitary mosquito buzzing through the night. Nothing, however, is more vile than hearing that buzzing stop, and knowing full well that you're being eaten alive.

I convulsed, shrieking, desperately covering my ears while trying to spasm away from the plague. I fell out of bed.

So here it was: my sleep, feet away, with nothing but a mosquito, the last mosquito, between me and the prize. The situation had been dark and grim, but I had torn down every obstacle that floated in the steaming hell, and dammit, I was going to fall to sleep. And I was not going to be fed on while I slumbered. This miniscule pestilence would be torn down as well, and I would sleep. Fly swatter in hand, I pushed myself against the wall and listened for the wretched sound. 15 minutes passed as I, covered with a sheet and sweating profusely, ransacked the room with my eyes. So clever he thinks he is, thought I, so amazingly witty. What a sick sense of humor. Why would such a stupid thing torment me so? What sick creation finds joy in my insanity?

I'm sure my grandparents heard it. I know my cousins did. The small cry was discernible, but not as loud as the crashing smack of a 5'9'' woman flying into the wall opposite of where she had been sitting. The house shook, the floor bent, and confused Norwegian exclamations sauntered through the air of the warm afternoon. It didn't take long, however, for the clamor to die and for the small but sharp hum of a single mosquito to ring through the room and the depths of my tortured mind.

What stupidity, thought I, as I leaned against the door and cradled my head. What infantility drove me to believing I could purge a bedroom of every single insect that might harass me? I am tired. I do not have the stamina to drive myself to insanity and back in one petulant evening. The only sanctuary in affliction is a mental one, and unless you surrender to the fact that there will always be a mosquito in your bedroom, the sickening whir of those spindly wings upon the air will never forsake your misery.

Today I found myself with very little to do. Lassitude drove me to the painting of my toenails, flipping through endless websites devoid of meaning as if they were the pages of an unimaginative farce, until I found myself in a very familiar position: in front of the television, begging the machinery for something to watch. My indolent search yielded the typical: bad reality shows, terrible Norwegian advertising, (leaps and bounds above what I am accustomed to, I'll admit, but mind numbing all the same) until at last I stumbled upon something of merit. Something that, like my insatiable boredom, drove me to a piece of machinery from which I expected entertainment. I found a film that has encouraged me to write.

"Quills" was filmed in 2000 and stars Geoffrey Rush, Michael Cane, Kate Winslet and Joaquin Phoenix. I don't mean to rewrite the back of the movie cover, but I shall lay out the premise, so that my dearest readers- as the addled employee thanks those he scorns, and as the obsequious courtier smiles up to the parents he so despises, I duly note that they have abandoned me- will understand my underworked but brilliant line of thinking. The opening scene finds us in Napoleonic France, and introduces us with a brilliant monologue carefully delivered by Rush, who plays the Marquis De Sade. Sade is an inmate in the insane asylum which houses others like him and the movie of which I speak. Based on the factual individual Marquis De Sade- who's impression has been left on any who have seen this movie or have even muttered the word "sadism", which was birthed by his own moniker- the movie unearths the once-notorious landmarks that Sade created, namely his most famous, "Justine" and "120 Days of Sodom". France conjointly fought him and cherished him, and his scandalous novels soaked the country as the leadership fought to purge France of his traces. Some say he was a martyr who valiantly died in the name of artistic expression, but today I will choose the route taken less often by myself, and characterize him with minimum description: he was a pornographer.

The film documents part of his time at the asylum. The marvelous performances procure the laudability while the interaction between the explosive characters forms the intrigue. The film is a multifaceted one. I, however, am easily bored. I will therefore focus on the exchange that sparked my interest the most: that of Sarde and the pious director of the asylum, Abbé Coulmier.

The beginning brings us Sade in a cell. Coulmier, pious and dutiful, ceaselessly attempts to run the asylum with the necessary efficiency and the affection his religion pontificates, but, predictably, falls short of success. The asylum is run by the inmates, and Sade easily slips his debauched imagination to a publisher. Many times throughout the film Sade refers to his naughty penmanship as his convictions, his morals, his beliefs. The character we view is governed and molded by prurient thoughts that saturate every sentence he mutters. His flame of fornication never flickers, but burns blasphemously up to his death and valiantly through it. He never surrenders, but rather he thinks and writes his thoughts persistently, almost piously.

Coulmier does the same. As a man of God, and apparently as an ardent humanist, he treats Sade kindly, despite the consequences Sade's kinky exploits wreak on his position as director of the asylum. His religious convictions stand so starkly different next to Sade's gluttony that a gamut is formed by the two extremes they hold so dear to their beings. Coulmier fights to cure Sade of his "madness", but in the end sade's persitence drives him to hatred. When the Marquise' dirty words bring the demise of Coulmier's love, the chambermaid Madelaine, Coulmier turns to the violence he previously avoided. He has Sade's tongue cut out, but acts in the name of God all the same; he tells Sade that Madelaine died pure, though she lived an admirer of Sade's provocative tales. Coulmier is tortured by nightmares of fornicating in front of a weeping statue of the Lord with the deceased Madelaine, and he is shown whipping himself while reading his bible.

The crusader is anything but silenced, however, and when Coulmier is informed that Sade persists by writing his stories on his cell wall in his own filth, he dispenses the last rights in preparation of Sade's death.

In an act both brilliant and suicidally immortalizing, Sade ends his own life by biting the cross off of Coulmier's rosary during the last rights, swallowing it, and choking on the salvation of the cross. A defeated cry rings throughout the asylum, reverberating the mourning of Sade's victory.

The dark scene fades and a cheerful young man expresses the gratitude he holds in taking the position of director of the asylum. The new Abbe is taken on tour through the structured, well disciplined institution. The inmates earn their keep in the asylum by working in print shops, laboring away to produce nothing other than the works of the late Sade. The doctrine now preached in the halls of the edifice is no longer the dire Christianity of Coulmier, but rather the raw profanity of Sade.

The last prisoner the new Abbe is shown is one who resembles the introductory Sade; hair matted and skin pale he lies in his dank cell. He begs the Abbe for a quill and some paper, he screams out for the opportunity to release his passions and convictions onto paper. He is the imprisoned Coulmier.

The knee-jerk reaction is to assume that Coulmier writes the same material produced by Sade. What a clever parallel, one thinks, to pose the abbe in the exact same state as his nemeses, how shocking to see him become Sade. Yes, his hair is long and he lies in a cold cell, but the definitive facet, the words he begs to be able to write, aren't necessarily the same pornographic tales that eventually wrought his collapse. One hears Rush's voice once more, speaking of the tales Coulmier spins, and you hear disgust in his voice. Do not turn the page, dear reader, he warns. I do not think that the Abbe writes of sexual escapades; he piously declares his conviction, his morals, his beliefs. Hence the disgusted warning Rush delivers against the dangerous literature of the Abbe, the dangerous rantings of blind religion he finds to be so malevolent. In an asylum that serves as a printing press dedicated to Sade's tales, Coulmier's Christian oration has become the people's pornography.

Rush's first monologue is brought to mind as he delivers his second and final discourse. His earlier words ring through the mind of the viewer as his warning is spoken in his latter: "How quickly the predator becomes the prey".

 

 

 

 

postsecret.blogspot.com 

After a fabulous four days at the hytta, we were locking up and getting ready to return home. The adults were inside, cleaning and packing, while I enjoyed my transitional status as an adult grandchild, opting to play the grandchild role and lazily gaze into the sea. I sat on the railing of the extensive porch, looking back to watch my grandmother's hands reach out from the darkness of the once again sleeping hut to pull the window shut and clasp it. My eyes drifted back to the fjord, and I followed the line of the green hills that stood brightly in front of the towering, snow-capped mountains.

I stood up and immediately slammed my head into the low porch roof, which slopes ever so conveniently to exactly my height. Clearly fate is against my being useful. I sat back down and proceeded to rub my head.

My stay had been, for lack of a less horribly overused word, fabulous. I had gone out on the boat, to the white sand beach, Sørvika, and my summer tan was well on it's way to a classic deep tone. I had consumed a metric ton of delicious fish, and had acquired no less than 87 bug bites.

Four days is the perfect amount of time to stay at the hytta. It's one of the most beautiful places I have ever visited, so a tarriance of shorter length feels like an absolute ruse. It is easy, however, to tire of the endless sun, which presents vexing obstructions in one's normal patterns of sleep, the formulaic cycle of sunbathing on the porch and applying sunscreen, and the bugs, which are never in short supply during this season. I was more than ready to return home.

I was the picturesque traveler; my flowing sundress complemented my rope espadrilles flawlessly, and my wood bangles made things trendy yet effortless. I had my canvas bag in one hand, my sunglasses in the other, and I was ready to hop in the car and go back home. I stop, and realize that I'm not going home, at least not for another four weeks.

I carelessly drop my bag on the porch and gaze, once again, into the sea.

I just returned from my Aunt Anabel's. She invited me to come over, rent chick flicks with her, enjoy her free long distance phone plan, and to eat cake and candy. It took her a while, but in the end she convinced my to drop by.

We watched "Head in the Clouds" and "Wicker Park". I enjoyed them both, the latter more than the former, but the true delight of the evening was the explosive conversation we had afterwards. When the second movie finished we piddled about for two minutes before diving into intriguing dialogue about politics, psychology (She is a therapist), religion, cultural differences, everything I could think of and all that was relevant and interesting.

So many insights were presented to me; The opportunity to pierce into this radically different world view was mine. I would write more, but we chatted until 4:30 in the morning, leaving me quite tired. Suffice it to say, it was fantastic and eye-opening, in a minor sense. The world lies before me like a blood red carpet, how glad I am to travel and get my first glimpse of the beauty that is the foreign.

Bow to the deity of all that is cute and on sale! Yesterday I returned from Narvik with spoils unimagined by even the most seasoned of shoppers. I know it sounds as if I'm overexaggerating, but I am, quite seriously, a very gifted shopper. I'm definitely one who would rather have many cheaper things than one expensive thing. But that's just because the many cheaper things are just as nice as the expensive thing, but on double clearance.

Narvik returned me to the small town of Bardufoss with four dresses, 3 shirts, two silk scarves, and a whole lot of lingerie. 2 of the dresses are sun dresses inspired by the huge, colorful prints of the 60s, the other two are attractive linen slip dresses. The sun dresses were $3.06 a piece (yes, I know), and the slip dresses were $9.30. I also bought a nice black oxford ($15), a black halter ($12), and a burnt-orange knit ($5.50). To match I purchased a polychromatic silk scarf ($10), and a black linen shawl ($6).

No, I did not go shopping at big lots, but rather spent hours upon hours in the very back of various Norwegian Boutiques, racking the clearance lines, buying only the best buys. I look adorable in all of what I purchased, and I can't wait to get back to the warm weather where I can actually wear my new clothing. (It's freezing over here!)

Today we are off to Narvik for some fabulous shopping. I shall recount the spoils upon my return.

I accompanied Mimmi to the town "mall" today, which is nothing more than a small two-story strip mall in the village center. Things are much more expensive over here, but sometimes I let reason get lost in the conversion factors, and toss my necessary frugality into a maze of carried ones and divided eights, knowing it won't soon return. American style is mixed with European trends here to create a sporty, bright flavor that the locals pull off effortlessly. The merchandise is nothing that is limited in America; I could get everything I shop for over here much cheaper there. I see clothing I dislike but know I could pull off, accessories I would sneer at back home, but instead I curiously watch them dangle appealingly from new racks with foreign tags. Everything seems cheaper until I actually do the math and realize I'm a fool to even venture into town.

Luckily, Norway's economy is one that I am more than happy to shovel money into.

Yesterday I made my first batch of bread with Mimmi. All the Norwegian women make their own bread, and it's delicious and extremely healthy. For some reason I feel extremely talented.

The rest of my day will be lax, and very similar to all my other days here. Today I might go up to the polarbadet to lap swim and buy a month membership. Wouldn't it be great if I returned from my trip abroad with great skin and a toned stomach?

 

This picture of Ricky and Dad was taken about a month ago during his stay in Cinci. 

So the mystery has been solved, and my bathroom dilemma is, laughingly informs my father, a very modern bidet. He was kind enough to tell me all about it, and he even provided a very useful website.

Now, I know you're not going to follow that link. It's about bidets, why would you? Because it's hillarious:

"It is truly amazing that although American plumbing manufacturers produce more Bidets than manufacturers in any other country, these same Bidets are exported away from the very people who believe that they lead the world in personal cleanliness and hygiene habits. It appears incredible that the modern American who spends so many billions of dollars on cosmetics, drugs, and various other personal care preparations annually, as compared to similar expenditures for physicians' services, should be so concerned about fastidious daintiness and well being for 98% of his body, when for the better part of each 24 hours he blissfully ignores his invisible but nevertheless soiled derriere."

(*) Song of the Bidet
I'm gonna wash that man right out of my hair...
...Apologies to the South Pacific!"

It is my theory that people are drawn to the energy you expend, regardless the impetus for your focus. Such as: if, or when you are sketching a leather chair in a large room, someone is bound to sit in it. I've quite the database to support my theoretical ponderings; many, many times I'll be sitting in a room of four leather chairs, one lazyboy, a loveseat and two sofas, and if a person is to walk in the room and decide to sit down, they persistently, without fail, sit in whatever it is I am trying to draw. This reinforces my line of thinking, as well as backs another of my flawlessly crafted theories: that I have really, really terrible karma.

I don't know why I'm too shy to say 'would you be so kind as to sit in another chair?'. I don't want to be rude, and somehow I just know the polite request would be lost in translation and my dear grandmother would rush off to the bathroom to get more towels because she'd hate for me to go without.

Do you see why my life is so difficult? I could carve a problem out of anything...

I just returned from the Polarbadet, the worlds northernmost aquatics center. The whole turkish-steam-bath-meets-nice-tile-and-a-water-slide thing works for me, it really does; I swam laps for a good hour before having lunch and playing with the two cousins I brought. I came home, ate half a watermelon, and now I am yours, dearest reader.

One of the things that perturbs me about this foreign world is the toilets. I kid you not: European toilets are cracked out. My grandparents have two bathrooms; one is a small half bath with a semi-regular toilet with a button on the top that you push down to flush and go about your business, and the other is a full bath with the weirdest aquatic contraption I've ever encountered. I've never used it, naturally; I'm not about to go pissing in something that could very well be a minimalist allotment of decor that's there to water the potted plants. It's resembles a toilet, I suppose, but it has a faucet on one end, is unbearably shallow, and is 1 1/2 times longer than it need be. The shape of the mysterious commodity tells me it must be the main lavatory attraction, it must be. There's nothing else it could be, but there's no toilet paper to be seen. Nowhere. It must be a designer fountain and the bathroom is, therefore, toiletless. Ergo my shower routine is somewhat a hassle, a frenzy of bustling from one bathroom to the other, a spell of impatience and simple but thorough confusion. One day I'll build up the nerve to approach my grandparents, take a deep breath, and ask 'why on earth would you pay money for that demented horizontal urinal?'.

Right now the fotbal game is on: Germany vs. Agrentina. I've really become involved in the game, and I'm becoming quite a fotbal junkie. I watched the Mexico-Brazil game the other day, and it was absolutely amazing. I'm going to go watch it, I'll write some more when I return.

Hello, Dearest readers! I suppose it is somewhat arrogant of me to assume that I still have readers left, considering my horrendously long absence and lack of recent, laudable material, but if my suspicion holds true then that means that no one is here to call my bluff. So I shall ramble happily on.

I have been in Norway for two weeks come this Thursday (23.6.05) and I am enjoying the experience thus far. One thing that I have encountered, however, is a copious, almost painful amount of free time, in which I haven`t the luxuries of modern America to remedy. It`s not as if I`ve fallen into an Amish village, don`t get me wrong;they have more english speaking television programming here than I do back home. Their small home is equipped with most niceties when it comes to technology (minus the most boredom-alleviating one, the holy intarweb), but I don`t have acquaintances and work to keep me busy.

I have thus taken up sketching and, though it`s taken me a while to pull out the lap top and start typing away, I think I`ll return to writing regularly. As I said, they haven`t hooked up their dial-up (shudder) quite yet, but when they do I`ll start to post regularly once again. My sketching is actually somewhat impressive. I can draw a really, really nice little sketch given, you know, 5 and a half hours.

I adore it here. Things are simple. Granted, that might just be because my grandparents are retired and they live in a very small town, but I enjoy the slow pace regardless. Most of the time. There are moments when I miss home, and I miss people. I miss people who speak English.

My grandparents are absolutely darling. I can`t believe that I`m related to such hospitable people, I find it somewhat shocking at times, really. They are kind enough to display patience while I stumble through Norwegian, and use their limited but incredibly clear English to help me out when necessary. Everybody here speaks English, but I haven`t had a conversation, a real, we-speak-the-same-language-fluently-and-well conversation with the exception of phone calls (pricey ones, might I add. I plan to limit my spending so that I can leave a couple hundred dollars with my grandparents for the phone bill.)

Things are going well, and it looks as if I'll be posting often, because I just heard we're getting broadband. I'm off for now, though. Take care, darlings.

Tomorrow at 4:15 PM I fly to Newark. At 8:25 I then fly to Oslo. 9:30 the next morning I fly to Bardufoss.

I stay in Norway for 7 weeks.

And, quite frankly, my dearest reader (that is assuming that I have any left, you poor neglected things) that can mean one of two things: 1) I let the isolation of Northern Norway get to me and write all about pine trees for 2 solid months, or 2) enjoy myself and post a couple of times.

I'm sorry I'm lazy. I'm still alive, though. Just lazy. Come now, I have yet to pack. Of course I haven't been writing. I leave the country in 14 hours and I haven't started packing. And I haven't registered for classes. And I still haven't bought a bathing suit for the summer yet.

Honestly, I'm surprised I haven't accidentally starved to death yet.

I grimace. It's always a crusade, coming into the video store for certain material. First you nervously flit about the store, looking desperately for what you're there for. This continues until you realize that the anxiety of such said mission is really rather debilitating when it comes to your scouting capability, and you retreat up to the counter to ask. It's so peculiar, this endeavor; the behavioral nuances involved are encountered in only a few other situations: all taboo, awkward, and horribly embarrassing . It's just like having to ask the clerk to open the prophylactic case at the grocery store. You shakily approach the poor lad and softly mutter to him, although you know full well you'll end up repeating yourself 3 times and raising your voice to a dampened yell. It's okay though, because in the end you know you're getting laid, and the acne-ridden grocer forces you to yell out your request because his loathing is riddled with envy. With my scenario, however, it's just downright embarrassing.

I approach the counter.

"Hi."

"Hello." The word falls out of his overworked mouth like a half masticated lima bean slides down the face of a particularly lazy infant.

"I, uh, could you tell me, uh, is that the only section..." I hate feeling so counter productive. I clear my throat and frankly bark out the requisition. He starts to roll his eyes, but seems to notice the fact that my heel is tapping on the cheap tile and that my brows are skimming my mean, hard eyes.

"In the back, behind the comedy."

"Thank you."

Once I find the right stretch of space it doesn't take me long to find what I want. During the short period of time I take to debate and decide on the options that appeal to me a couple walks in.

(edited for content)

" Don't even feed me that bullcrap. I know exactly what you've been doing, Ha'erd (The man's name is Howard, but we're in Kentucky. His name is pronounced Ha'erd) Don't you DARE lie to me."

Naturally I let my eyebrows twist up in incredibility and glance towards the door. The woman is in tears with blue mascara smeared all over her face. The man is openly frustrated. She thinks he cheated on her. Clearly they thought they'd make the best of their time and rent a video while they hurled crass insults at one another.

"Dammit, Gina, stop hassling me, you scheemin' little skank. You knows I ain't been foolin' around on ya."

Other than the marriage-ending conversation they're in the middle of, their movements seem somewhat calm. They walk around the store, finding time between accusations to explain to the other why she really didn't want to see "The Hours". She continued to sob. He continued to huff. They both continued on their search for the perfect rental.

They end up in line right behind of me, still screaming. I am grateful for this when the time comes for me to place what I can't believe I'm going to watch on the counter. The clerk doesn't say anything. Between my trash and the couple's shrieking, his confidence in mankind has been whittled down to a small smidgeon about the size of a paperclip.

"You dog, Ha'erd, you filthy DOG! I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU WOULD DO THAT ON MY BRAN' NEW SOFA!"

I turn around and shoot a completely disgusted look at them.

"Watchu lookin' at?" Ha'erd asks aggressively.

Please, I think. I have so much ammo against you hicks that I wouldn't know what to do with it. I look down at my three rentals and suddenly decide against it. I pick up my Sex and the City and walk out the door.

Come all ye lost
dive into moss
I hope that my sanity covers the cost
to remove the stain of my love,
paper maché,
come all ye reborn
blow off my horn
I'm driving real hard
this is love, this is porn
God would forgive me
but I whip myself scorn.
I want to hear what you have to say about me,
hear if you're going to live without me,
hear what you want
I remember december.
and I want to hear what you have to say about me
hear if you're going to live without me
I want to hear what you want
what the hell do you want?

-Second half of "I remember" by Damien Rice.

In 5 days time I will be in the sky, flying back towards city I so desperately fled 4 months ago. My previous visit returned me happy to be back in my new home, but now I think it's been long enough to actually feel like a visit. I'm excited; I'm excited to see people, to embrace the things I love about Utah and stay just long enough to get sick of the place and go home.

I look forward to the following:


I complain about Salt Lake's climate all the time. All the time. It's simply too dry for me, not to mention completely manic. The winters are beautiful but extreme and bitter, and I get sick of the snow after the cheap thrill of the first snowfall fades after approximately three days of slushing about in it. The summer is dry and hot. Spring is nonexistent. Regardless, It is beautiful. The desert has that barren beauty that shines bluntly on the mountain flower, and resiliently through the sun that blazes towards the horizon. I'd like to think that I appreciate the desert, I simply just don't care to live in it. 2 weeks is plenty long enough to behold all this desiccated charm, appreciate it, and leave it.

Cafe D'bolla. Tasty.

I really am excited to see mum and Rick and everybody else. I miss Elisse, and I'm excited to see all the people I never call. Including the dog. I haven't thought about Roo in a long time, and I'm sure he's in need of a good bath.

I don't have to work for two weeks. Huzzah, huzzah indeed.

The household I currently live in is one of decency and honesty. Beer drinking prevails but stealing music is prohibited and frowned upon. In my lovely dwelling in Salt Lake, however, kazaa is mine. As is any musical morsel that tickles my fancy, from Vivaldi to Funky town. Note: This is not to say pirating is allowed, by any means. It just happens, kind of like stop-sign running happens in Kentucky. I'd like to look upon myself and see a good driver, but when in Rome, one must accept the culture and run the freaking stop signs. California rolling stops are bad. Full on Kentucky runs, however, are to be expected.

I'm going to go ahead and give the dog his own bullet. He deserves as much. Yes, I miss Roo.

I dread the following:


Fighting with my mother. We've been on fabulous terms for the longest time, but that doesn't change the fact that I do try and be a realistic person from time to time.

Bathing the dog. Regardless of what I have planned, I'll see that cute dog and realize that he doesn't deserve to be a walking, barking dust mop. I will desperately try to clean him as he bounces about the tub, give up, and let him emerge dirty as ever. This will happen about 6 times.

Summoning up excuses, apologies, and defenses as I see the people I haven't talked to since I was last in Utah.

My mother is so gracious as to offer the use of Freddy the Ford Taurus so that I might have a car while I'm there. I will most definitely take her up on her hospitality, but I'm not looking forward to the day the transmission falls out of the car, the radiator spontaneously combusts into smelly wisps of green smoke, and the discovery is made that the car has been missing a water pump since 1997.

I will be dealing with the Mormons in mass again. I've found the lack thereof in Cincinnati to be rather refreshing.

Before I land in Utah I will be stopping in Chicago and Denver. That is a whole lot of traveling. 11 hours, to be exact.

All in all, however, I am await my triumphant return with anticipation. I plan to be prepared and fabulous, ready to have an absolutely corking visit. Just think of the misadventures that await me.

Note to self:

Ortho Appt at 1:00 PM on Thursday, May 12.

"You're not a simpleton Jack, you're just sharp enough to see the beauty in simplicity."

Thank you. You came in and gently smiled as you softly offered support. You asked no questions, you just hugged me.

You'll never know what it meant to me.

I finally wrote an intro to my blog. It only took me a year and two months, I'm right on schedule.

I listen. Panic drops, sweeps over me. Nervous. Very nervous, looking frantically, almost fanatically. Side to side. Forcing myself to close my eyes. Breathe. Breathe. How, when so many options are finally open to me, what am I trying to. Stop. Breathe. Be calm, think, try to breathe. But what, surely, there's simply no way one person can be so lucky. Nobody's that stupid. Breathe. I walk side to side, unable to keep still. Panic grasps me still. What exactly is going to. Stop. I need to think, I need to be efficient, I need to stop being so incredibly. What is going to happen? What am I doing? And for what? What do I expect? What on earth am. Stop. Breathe. Close your eyes, bring your hands to your head and cover your face. Every clever dimension I've ever tried to build, every logical, sane bone in my body screams in disappointment, every expectation has been twisted and ripped. My mind scurries about, frantically trying to collect the shards of an answer that doesn't exist as my breath quickens and stops again. My eyes tear open and stare at the blank sky to see what a mess my ideal has become and yet, for once, when I'm in the reality I've risked everything for, I am sincere.

Stop. There are voices around the corner, there are things to do. Pull your hands from your face. Put your hands by your side, one resting on your hip. Stop. Your hands, by your side. Smile, and think, think quickly. What am I doing? Surely there's something believable, there always is. Think. What are you going to say? What are you going to say when the questions come? They always do. There are always questions, and there will always be your intricate web of vagary to answer them.

I throw my head back as I turn around, an aloof grin on my face and my hands swinging at my hips. I stretch, look up at the sky debonairly, and open my mouth to speak.

Elisse has been raging lately about the book French Women Don't get Fat. The book rages that French women never use fat substitutes and don't become corpulent because they dwell on the miraculous experience that food is and therefore indulge on full fatty foods daily.

Well, that's great. But can I tell you why, when I am in desperate need of some hard core comfort food, I can indulge in turkey, mashed potatoes, rice, and a creme sunday in the middle of the night?

Smart Choice microwaveable meals and weight watchers deserts. 8 grams, I tell you, that is all. And it's a beautiful, beautiful, beautiful thing.

Anyways, I fly to Salt Lake May 10th and don't depart until the 24th. I do this because I miss family/friends/doggie. I then leave on June 8th for Norway and I don't return until July 28th.

What a busy bee I am.

I've totally hit a roadblock in my latest entry. It has been in the work for quite some time, but I simply can't seem to bring it together. How frustrating.

Today I saw a woman wearing a pair of transparent lucite pumps that lit up as she walked. They lit up. And she was wearing them in public. As in forcing me to look at them. I informed Ben the bartender that she needed to be drowned in a barrel of Macadamia nuts as soon as humanly possible.

Tomorrow I go to the dentist.

That is all.

Wow.

I ran across these quotes today, and I adore them all:


"Style is not a function of how rich you are, or even who you are. Style is a habit of mind that puts quality before quantity, noble struggle before mere achievement, honor before opulence. It's what you are. It's your essential self."

-John Vernou Bouvier III


"A dress should be tight enough to show you're a woman, but loose enough to prove you're a lady".

-Edith Head

I adore the following:

- The Shizzolator. Brilliance, I tell you. Brilliance.
- Today a man came into Dewey's, a real soul brotha' all gansta'd out. He removed his huge down coat complete with fur hood to reveal a Burberry 'doo rag. This completely made my day.
- I went to go see Over the Rhine in concert last Thursday, and I've fallen in love with them. If Allison Krauss and Norah Jones were to get really drunk and find a way to produce an illegitimate yet talented love child, Over the Rhine would be it. But in a good way.
- When one criticizes everything everyone is wearing all the time, it's nice to see someone who's perfected the art.

III

So I return to the question yet again: why did the disputation of the belief structure initially presented to me require so much time to occur? Why, in all my development, all my growth, and through the many experiences I encountered did I cling to this array of ideas that I had never cared to ponder? Upon recollection, however, I recall that I have challenged these ideas, if timidly. What I found was reassurance in all that I had been taught, comfort in the reality I had been given, and reason to continue living the life I was told to live. Was this laziness, was this fear? Neither, I say. Though it seems weak for me to accept the thoughts of others as my own, it wasn't bad for me to do; simply expected. The conclusions I came to after my feeble search coincide with my state of development and my preparation for foreign and neoteric thought at the time.

I immediately viewed this negatively, and my negative thought is somewhat valid. There are too many who seize the opportunity to label themselves so as to save the trouble of thinking, who blindly follow and hollowly believe. And whereas an infant mind that blindly follows a familiar way of thought is expected, a mature mind blindly following a familiar way of thought is inadmissible. The preset beliefs that were once suitable for an individual grow antiquated as the individual ages and matures, becoming stale and serving no purpose other than to mask self inflicted ignorance. The capacities of a mentally mature individual have grown, but yet their convictions have not. They have the opportunity to cipher through what they have been taught, to dismiss the falseties and embrace the truths, yet they have not. They have abdicated the privilege of potential for quest and growth that walks hand in hand with age, and this unwillingness to utilize the vast resources at their disposal is one of the most tragic tragedies of our time.

I don't mean to say that I think following the ways of one's parents is bad, but rather I am protesting the charade of feigned convictions and misunderstood faith. Whether or not one finds factuality in the doctrine with which they were raised, belief is not belief until it has been questioned, challenged, examined, and denied all in the hope of eradicating biases and distinguishing truth.

Thus an unremitting inquisition is born, one in which one struggles to come to conclusions only to defy them moments later. It is a state of being, not a phase or merely one chapter of a person's life. I've always looked skeptically at those who set out to discover their faith, pour over books and pamphlets, summon up labeled results in their desperate need for closure and live their lives in one pattern or another from that time on. I do find the perseverance required to live by predetermined standards admirable, but disagree with this trial period of inquiry. How can one exist years and years on this planet without a single view or opinion changing? How, then, can one find a religion or a labeled way of thinking and die in that same classification decades later? As an individual progresses shouldn't one's conscience advance to higher thought as well? It is calamitous to think that one's core convictions should remain stagnant when he or she is living, breathing, learning, and transfiguring in all the ways that humans do.

II

It all seems very rushed, I know. You must understand, dearest reader, my reasoning that fuels an introduction such as this. There is no subtlety. I am not showing anything, as English teachers are ever so fond of reciting, but I am merely telling. My writing has always been one of show, and the problem is that after I've finished crafting the lyrics and ornament I step back to realize that the needless description stands in the way of my saying anything at all. The literature you currently read is my attempt to rob my underdeveloped ideas of the adornment they hide behind, to force them out of the ugly shadows of frills and riddles and to make them stand naked in the comfortless light. One doesn't fold away a budding flower in the darkness because it has yet to blossom, but rather exposes the bud in hopes that the light will sternly draw the petals out of the scaly enclosure to effloresce and face the day. Professing intellect is something I have always done, and I have always read just enough to impress another in casual conversation. Though I flaunt a feigned acumen my potential remains locked in the obscurity of incomprehension, pushed far into the depths of idle darkness, waiting, praying, pining to be released. There it remains, enslaved by my laziness and piteous fear of the unknown. Honesty is the only hope this small blossom holds. My pretension is one of the many vices that strap my desired capacity deep within my being, and if there truly is any possibility for my progression it lies in the eradication of the facades and delusions I hold. I therefore see no need for subtlety. Enhancement is too tempting an idea, and if I try to show my dearest reader anything I will end up painting a portrait so fair that it bears no resemblance to reality. So I will tell you. I will tell you what I know and what I think. That is all I endeavor to do.

Difficulty is an inevitable entity, and the first difficulty I find in trying to question what surrounds me is a predictable but puzzling conundrum: an answer or conclusion is only as true as the mind used to manufacture the answer. I seek truths devoid of what I have been taught, and uninfluenced of what I have been allowed to see during my sheltered time on this earth. The mind that has been given me, however, cannot be separated from the conditioning it has been subjected to, and thus neither can any answer my mind might come to be separated from the afore mentioned conditioning. I seek to grow past the knowledge of my parents and of my society, but my mind has been crafted by both. Therefore any information ascertained from such, though it might extend past the conventional beliefs of my parents and my society, it cannot be without the influence of both blood and brethren. I go to my conditioning to escape my conditioning, and am left with tainted answers. If each fact and reality is manufactured by the facets of one individual's mind, then it is specific to that individual, and no answer can be universal. No answer can be eternal. Every moment must be spent in inquiry and analyzation of the moment that came before. This is the only state of awareness worth perusing and the only reality worth dwelling in.

I

I hold the book in my hand. Throughout my life this book has been cherished as truth, as a collection of answers scripted by the creator I worship. Before now I have never questioned the words that stream across the thin pages in verses and chapters and books, condemning and edifying and strengthening my existence. I now choose to challenge this book, and all knowledge I hold dear to me, as a new mind is awakened within me.

I remember when this quest entered my mind, I recall it fervently; it was only two nights ago. The damp air of my father's basement was eerily comfortable as I sat in the computer chair, slowly spinning back and forth, my eyes completely unfocused, needlessly gazing ahead at the blur before me. Sweat lingered on my warm skin and slid down towards the ground. I had been exercising, see, and after I had finished I decided to sit in this chair. At that moment I was completely consumed in the salty musk of my beading sweat and my intense concentration on the thought that rushed throughout and around my young mind. The first question was born: How can one rely on one's own capacity when he or she has accepted mortality, which is his or her immutable condition, as a flawed state of existence? I have been taught, by a pious mother and surrounding community, and by the doctrine that I have been presented and come to enshrine, that man's natural state is one of primal urges that fight against the pure desires of the cultivated mind . The natural man is an enemy of joy. The pain that stems from permanently human characteristics such as hate, greed, and arrogance is inescapable . It stands as an emblem that shines through the dank complexity of mortality and warns one to never trust the human mind. Humans are fickle; our thoughts change as we morph and mature into the people we're busy becoming. How can one build a belief structure around our own findings? There is no security in the self when it sits atop something as defective as mankind.

Thus, people's belief in a higher power or powers are quite conceivable. Either this power is presented from birth or found through inquiry and honest search. The former scenario describes my situation quite well; I have been raised in a church and rigid set of beliefs, and urged all throughout my youth to inquire within the realms of the religion. Because I have yet to step across these realms there has been no honest search. But why would I be so arrogant to depend on the arm of flesh, my own mind, to discover the desired truth? And there, while sitting in that black computer chair and my slowly evaporating sweat, it dawned on me: there is nothing else. The human mind is fickle, and prone to mistake, but we are born with a body and a mind. Answers and Gods and truths of all kind are thrown at us by parents and friends and sidewalk preachers, but we enter this world with a body and a mind. Those who do not utilize what is given to find truth are those who will never breathe the sharp air of the morning or hear the stinging sound of the crying violin. Whether we accept the belief of the parent or the preacher or manufacture our own, a desperate, sincere pursuit is quintessential.

That is all I know. My belief before this crucial moment has been merely been borrowed from my mother, labeled as my own and blindly followed. What bound me to this foolish facade of an actualized individual? Was it laziness, indifference, or fear? Why is this the moment in which I choose to battle this? Is the hunt for truth a realistic one? To these questions I know no answers. I swivel in my chair and I know and believe one thing: regardless the terms or conditions or object of concern, one must always question.

Disclaimer:

This is what I have been writing, or what I have begun to write. I decided not to post it, because of it's serious and personal nature, but I've realized that posting this on my main blog will not only encourage me to complete it, but also open the doors to interpretation from others. The formatting for my blog, then, might change a wee bit, but I hope you enjoy this sincere inquiry. That's what it is: An inquiry, if you will.

Ben the bartender is a delightful character. A 32 year old philosophy major, he is definitely my favorite coworker, full of witty, knowledgeable remarks and inquiries about nothing in particular. In remembrance of a conversation him and I had a couple weeks back about the correlation between a nation's progressing language and the nation's power among other nation's of the world, he gave me a 15 page article by the brilliant George Orwell named Politics and the English Language.

Brilliance, I tell you. Sheer brilliance.

In this discourse, Orwell discusses the simple travesty that modern (modern= 1935) language has become. He condemns meaningless words, cliche metaphors, and pretentious diction (of which I am thoroughly guilty, I know). He proceeds to explain how ineffective language and speech, though manufactured to flaunt an inexistent intelligence, builds a society benumbed to what it is being told, and therefore in a state ready to be manipulated. I read on, touched by the sincerity in his disgust for bad writing, and intrigued by the intelligent relation to the political sphere. His rant is one not about the typical deterioration, per say, of our language, but rather of the superfluous pretenses we endeavor to stuff into our writing and everyday language. Reading the scrumptious morsel of biting satire was delightful, and I was inspired to write. I never did, because I'm a lazy mongrel too busy with nothing to expand my horizons and whatnot, but I was inspired all the same. I don't know why I'm rambling on here when you can read the discourse for yourself here. I encourage you to indulge yourself in this marvelous critique of the widespread philosophe. Following is a collection of my favorite bits:

• "In our time, political speech and writing are largely the defense of the indefensible."
• "When one watches some tired hack on the platform mechanically repeating [familiar] phrases one often has a curious feeling that one is not watching a live human being but some kind of dummy: a feeling which suddenly becomes stronger at moments when the light catches the speaker's spectacles and turns them into blank discs which seem to have no eyes behind them."
• "The great enemy of clear language is insincerity"
• "In our age there is no such thing as "keeping out of politics." All issues are political issues, and politics itself is a mass of lies, evasions, folly, hatred, and schizophrenia. "

A couple days later, I received an email from a certain Benny K, asking if he could post a link to my blog and inviting me to check out his. He noted that I sucked at updating (in a tactful, polite manner). I glanced over his blog, which is also nothing short of a scrumptious morsel of biting satire, and I was once again inspired to write. I can only ignore inspiration so long.

As I struggle to articulate I see what my lack of discipline and willingness to write has done to my ability, and it's sad. I will try, quite honestly, to resume posting regularly. You have this newly-motivated twit's promise.