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".

 

 

 

 

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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.