Some (more?) words on stress

I've been ill - again. I think it was my third - let's call it a cold - this season, or was it the fourth?

This is what's been happening recently. Last Friday I finished a paper and submitted it to a big Journal. Then on Monday I was the host for a visit from a possible host for a research stay abroad next year, which went well and was altogether a very pleasant meeting, but not without tension - not because he isn't nice, but because I wanted him to have a good time. On Tuesday I got some administrative details away from my desk. Then, on Wednesday, I "worked at home". Actually, what I did was kick back, read some books, watch TV and prepare for choir rehearsal, i.e. rest. Which I probably needed.

On Thursday I woke up ill.
Getting out of bed, the world was literally spinning. But, that sometimes happens when you get up too fast, so I thought little more of it, until I had eaten and dressed and the world STILL kept spinning. The symptoms were very similar to the infamous virus on the balance nerve, and I sincerely hope that's not it. However, because of a very deep antipathy toward the work to be done, I had a sneaking suspicion that it was mostly a rotten work moral. So I rested some, and made a valiant effort to get up.
I walked like a drunk lunatic and almost felt like throwing up.
So I stayed in. For four days.

The past week has had me reflecting on the different stress symptoms I've had over the past years.
¤ I blamed my stiff jaw and subsequent tension headaches on teeth movement, but the dentist wasn't convinced and suggested a acrylic splint to alleviate tensions overnight.
¤ After having a neck with literally no lateral movement, the mouse is on the left side, for variation.
¤ I've had three occurrences lasting for around a week with shortness of breath-anxiety.
And finally, now the world was spinning.

It had it's moments. For instance, I was totally insulated from both internal and external impulses, which means I didn't waste a single moment on thoughts and worries.

Can't all be natural.
But as stress go, it's not a horrific list.
.....If I add mood swings, though.

Let's not!

Höras i veckan....

Den øverste sms-en i mobilen min sier

Vi kan höras i veckan.

Det er en ufattelig lite konkret melding. Hvem skal høre fra seg til hvem? Og når?

Blar bakover i tiden. Et par måneder tilbake er en melding fra samme person som er "sjuk och har ont i halsen. Höras i veckan?" Om jeg husker rett svarte jeg omtrent "sure, si fra når det passer". Det tok to uker. Deretter tok det ytterligere en uke før det ble noe møte. Og hoppsan! Der gikk 24 timer av en helg.

Etterpå bremset vi. Jeg, han, vi, misforståelser, omstendigheter?
Og jobb, ganske mye jobb.

- Kontrollbehovet er frustrert. Kontrollbehovet prøver å analysere fortiden og komme fram til en positiv prognose, basert på empiri.
- Det brente barnet var tidlig veldig stresset over ventetid, på grunn av en tidligere opplevelse med "Ringer deg i morgen" som betydde "Vi ses ikke mer". Sammenligningen har heldigvis blitt mer og mer borte.
- Optimisten tror at det er helt urimelig å tro at du spanderer middag og kommer i 30-årsdag den ene uken, og prøver å manøvrere deg bort de neste.
- Hedonisten ser seg i speilet med nye øyne og har kjøpt undertøy.
- Sangvinikeren smiler, og tenker 'glede er en gave'.

Ingen av dem er særlig tålmodige, men den Voksne minner om at viktige oppdrag er å ligne med overlevelse som faktisk går foran alt. Og et eller annet sted lengst inne streifer en tanke meg, at de beste tingene har skjedd når initiativene var hans. Så jeg får gi ham det. Og tar han dem ikke var det ikke liv laga likevel.

Vilken vecka, kära du.

Scary....

When you have a theory, and it is new, and nobody else has looked at things from that perspective: Are you then happy, - since you have dicovered something? Or scared that everyone else is right and you are wrong?

Just wondering.

Roots - thoughts made as verse

4th of June 2003. Soundtrack: Lustwijns Wijsa.

When I leave
eventually
as I expect that I must
I'll steal away lots and lots of
choir notes
to sing elsewhere.
Spread the music.

What I've done
is borrow roots.
Theirs were deep and
encompassing.
Good to rest for a while
leaning my back to such trunks.

When I leave
the memory of me
is kept
at the keeper of records' place
in the middle of the forest.

I wanted to ask you
Where are your roots?
How deep and strong are they?
How did they grow?

What made you decide
This is where I belong,
Here is where I build,
This is where I'll stay.

Because MY roots are weak.
I can move, for sure, and I have,
recoiling at the thought of
going back to where
home used to be.

They are, granted,
deeper here than before
but if pressed
I know they've tested the soil
and it is loose; we can go.

If need demands it.

You see
I'd somehow like to know
that this is home
for longer than a five-year-plan.
I can't just DECIDE
can I?
Is that what people do?
or do they
stay
out of fear

What I do know
is that heartroots
never forget a soil however brief the stay.
So I carry it with me,
in my heart
the reasons for love
and the reasons to go.

Can you teach me, please,
how to stay?
Sticking to a place
for better or for worse
Give me a reason to stay?
at least one to return.

Do you know why I am restless
- Oh so restless -
Will you please halt my fear
and let me, let me see...

While most fear change
maybe I fear
stagnation
and so I flee.

Kom arbeidslyst.....

Det er Solan Gundersen som sier det.

"Kom arbeidslyst og treng deg på,
her skal du motstand finne."

'Dette er det aller siste', lover veileder. Etter at vi var nesten ferdig for omtrent to måneder siden har vi gjort 'bare en ting til' i uken.
Men nå er det det siste.

Det er blitt veldig bra, da. Ikke noe å si på det. Det er bare at jeg har så lite guff igjen. Er ingen sånn pedant som elsker å knytte sammen løse tråder.
Og jeg vet at det er mye mer å gjøre på de uferdige tingene enn det burde også.

Huff huff huff.
Musikk på - bit tennene sammen.
Og vær så snill, radio, noe annet enn Avril Lavigne!

TV dating - endless permutations

I confess!
Sometimes I watch reality-TV of the dating genre like Bachelor, Bachelorette, For love or money or whatever they are called. One of the Swedish commercial channels seems to have bought a dating package, because new shows keep appearing.

Last night I watched the first program in a series where the twist is - that SOME of the men are GAY! Woooo.

Little Ms. Jackie (who LOVES dating and romance and hopes to meet Mr. Right) will share a million dollars with her beau provided she manages to choose a straight man. If she chooses a gay man, he gets the million all to himself.

As the show began, fourteen studs arrived to the ranch wearing jeans and checked shirts. Upon learning of this unexpected twist in the tale, they started worrying about how their feminine sides would be perceived. They ALSO worried about sharing a room with a possible gay man, and whether or not having a pink room would matter.

Actually, it was pretty hilarious.
It was not so hilarious when the self-acclaimed small-town-values girl learned about it in public. Choosing three relatively 'feminine' men for her "swing dates", they were all telling her that "I'm straight, even if I seem feminine". One defended the hairdryer-debacle (why does a man with short hair bring a hair-dryer to a ranch?! Maybe he gets ear infections easily?).

When the time for the elimination came, she told the second of the poor men who had to leave that "you didn't put yourself forward at dinner. I think a straight man would have". Oh dear. This girl surely knows less of gay and straight than most.
Both her rejects turned out to be - straight.

The remaining men were stunned. We thought for sure that HE was gay, they said.
I wonder:
Is this the step forward in recognizing that prejudice is just that: Prejudice?
How do the gay men feel about having to pretend to be appalled about possibly being ogled during bedtime while possibly doing just that.
Will the gay men fall to temptation with each other.
Will she continue to remove men she thinks are gay, instead of removing those she dislikes?

I can't wait.
Of course, equipped as one is with internet access, the easier path is to google the show. Alas, nine of the starting 14 were gay, but she managed to choose a straight man in the end. AND, what is more, they are still dating.

Ah, - true love conquers all.
How romantic!

Det sier seg selv

- Men hva vil DU da, sier de kanskje, når jeg har lagt fram en forholdsvis kortfattet beskrivelse av situasjonen, hvem som sa hva og hvordan og en skisse over små naturlige berøringer.
- Vil, sier jeg. Og fortsetter med litt halvt svada.

De har ikke forstått noen ting. Hvis jeg ikke ville noe hadde det ikke vært noe å diskutere.

Mellom linjene

Dette er et lite dikt uten innhold.
At jeg gjors på å gå med hæler igår, for eksempel

det trenger ikke egentlig stå noe sted.
Jeg er jo lengst. Og liker hæler.

Og om jeg har notert med en viss interesse
at vi var vel så mye i hverandres space som vi ellers er
når vi er alene.
Ja, da har jeg vel det.

Et dikt uten innhold men med følelse.

Let it Snow! Let it Snow!

Finally, the snow came, even here.

On Sunday we were walking along the river. You said
"looks like it may snow"
in a hopeful voice, and now it did and made me send you an email
since you haven't called me.

I want it to be you this time. You asking me.
Not like Sunday, where you took over, but I had done the asking.

The waiting time is here.

I'm not fretting, not very much, at least.
And I enjoy going over
that joke, that smile, the goodbye.

But I will you to call,
You should call, at the latest tonight, because
I would like
seing you
for my birthday celebration.

So I send you an email, saying that look, you were right, we have snow!
And in the ensuing dialogue
I remind you that there's a party
to which you respond
"what time?"

And when the party is over the waiting time continues.
But it's a good wait and not one for fretting.

Dear diary

Let's face it. Isn't that what a blog is? A kind of diary.

I've succeeded in making some very nice looking histograms, and am consequently done with a third of what I want to achieve, workwise, today. Having operated under the assumption that I had a date for tonight, time opened up before me as the man in question suggested to go for a walk and have a late lunch tomorrow instead.

I'm not sure if this means that he upgraded or downgraded the date, or that Sunday just suited him better. I don't know him nearly well enough to speculate in motive, but I do know that Sunday is a less loaded kind of setting than Saturday night. Maybe that's for the better. I'm pretty unsure of my seduction technique, it seems to be beyond my control whether or not something happens. Really quite Victorian, the woman's task is to say no (or agree, of course). I got a funny joke on my cell phone the other day: "The rooster is chasing the hen. The hen thinks to herself: If I stop, I'm easy, if I run, I'm not getting any. I'd better fall. "

Lots of things are happening. First of all, after fretting for two weeks, England turned me down. Somewhat disappointed but mostly relieved. The best part of it was when the longest and possibly most prestigious position got back to me with the message that I was one of only two appointable. Good for the ego, and no commitments.

Being faced with choices, however hypothetical, makes you realize what you really want. And right now, I probably was less ready for packing and moving than I thought only half a year ago. There will be other opportunities, and I have some hopes in a non-academic direction. But that's for the future.
Another nice incident was that the advisor got some funding, so I'll have more money coming my way. Boy what a relief that was.

On the less happy side, the mother of an old friend passed away. It was cancer, and expected, but quite young and very sad. I can't really fathom what it is like to live for the rest of your life on fond memories, though I'm very grateful I have so many of them.

Work is waiting. After plotting a figure without color, I need to check the text again - it must be changed to accommodate the new histograms.

And then I'll ... I don't know. See a movie with one of the terrific people who always lift my heart, and sleep fitfully in anticipation for yet another strange get-together with "the guy".

I love mom!

I love my mother.
(Hi, mom! (she's one of quite few who's got my blog address))

This subject is one of many words, anecdotes, cheeky grins and plenty of pride. And should there ever be a need for a longer piece, I can contribute from any number of angles. The Mom, the Wife, the Friend, the Boss, the Daughter, and the superb vanillasaucedependent Woman.
So it can be an ongoing piece, really.

This morning, the newspaper reported that Aqua-Lene (you know, the singer of the pop-band Aqua) had had her child: "It was a Barbie-girl".

You remember the song?

I'm a barbie girl
in a barbie world
I'm fantastic
made of plastic
You can brush my hair
caress me everywhere....

As I recall, some people were quite upset over the lyrics, said they were a backlash for women's lib and whatnot.
Not my mom. She came laughing home having heard the song on the car radio.
"such irony" she said.

That's my mom.

And yet I do

I have no time
for dithering
for random thoughts
and daydreams.

I have no time
for poetry
for bad tv
for sleep.

I have no time
for arguments
for petty fights
for silly things.

I have no time
to dream of you
or chat with you
obsess for you.

I haven't even
really time
do dare to say
'let's meet! let's meet!'

And yet I will, and yet I will.

Metaphorically speaking, of course...

Thought it was time for a diary-entry again.
I was just now smiling at the strangeness of convention.

The convention of measuring direction, to be more exact.
You see, wind speed is measured as the direction the wind is blowing from, and north is zero (or 360). So a wind from the north has direction zero degrees, wind from the east has direction 90 degrees and so on. And everyone knows this, don't you - the low pressures follow the westerlies over the Atlantic to Scandinavia where the rain falls down. Northern winds are from the north, southerly winds from the south.

With ocean currents, the opposite is true. You measure the direction of the current as the direction the current moves to, so a current goes to the south. A current from the north has the direction 180 degrees.

Now, in mathematical terms, you could fear that you'd get into trouble. After all, angles in a Cartesian coordinate system has zero to the east, ninety to the north, and so on. Not only is zero pointing to the direction perpendicular to the geographical system, the angles rotate different ways. It turns out that this is pretty ingenious and the conversion is straightforward. As long as you know what is what.

Then, I was looking at the wave direction. Common knowledge says that surface waves have the same direction as the wind. But - surprise, the numbers were way off.
Fortunately, I had the wave sensor manual. Wave direction is measured in the proper Cartesian system. So I have three different properties, measured in degrees from zero to 360, but each with its own system.
I think this is done to justify educating PhDs.

For the non-scientist, something more general. Have you noticed how your metaphors for life are affected by your knowledge? I will invariably relate things to math, periodicity, time series analysis, non-linearity, but there are a whole lot of other things that I also fit my life to. Ibsen is a great man for any occasion to so with self-deception or when you do things too halfheartedly. The Bible pops up any number of times during the day, and also poetry. I'm a fan of the Dane, Piet Hein, so I'll quote him to myself. And lyrics from songs, all this is the fabric with which I explain myself to me. And images like floating or sinking, the ups and downs of a roller coaster, or the dreams where you are blind.

Strange. I thought I had loads to say, and the thoughts just petered out. I'll leave you with e.e.cummings - one of my points of reference.

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world
my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
- the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other; then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

See also
http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/eecummings/

Trött.....

Lite trött i själen.
Jag är.

Krama mig, hårt.




Tell her not to cry
I just got scared that’s all
Tell her I’ll be by her side, all she has to do is call


Some people never say the words "I love you". It ain't their style

Høst

utkast ... under tvil.


Jeg går i ett med høsten.
Med mitt flammende hår
ferdes jeg under trekronene
som et dyr på lette poter.
Kamuflasje.

Jo eldre jeg blir
jo mer liker jeg trær.
De har verdighet.
Er variert pålitelige,
varige.

"Var jeg ett tre hadde jeg stille gleder"

Høsten er lang iår.
Kanskje begynte den sent,
bladene gulnet ikke før slutten av september.
Nå synger bjørkeløvet på siste verset
men den røde brunfargen hos eika
og de lyse ospebladene
har minst en uke på seg.

Bøkeskogen er vakrest
nå som da den sprang ut.
Svarte stammer siluetter bak enestående nyanser i brunt og oransje.
Nedfallsløvet skaper optiske effekter
som en sky mot speilblank sjø.

Jeg trekker en pologenser over håret.
Det gyldne stråler mot kontrasten av sort.

Anti-climax. Random thoughts.

Back from the UK. I have acquired a new blouse (for the interview), two bras, a bumper sticker for my brother (on the subject of fishing), a Jamie Oliver cookbook for a friend, and a new and so far unknown dislike of the English.

It started out good. I was thrilled to be back, seeing familiar brand names and shops, houses and landscapes. The hotel looked nice, but they wouldn't let me check in till two. So I went shopping.

The room turned out to be wonderful too, and I have no complaints on the quality of BBC, both TV and radio. The town was rather dull, but you could live with that. The crucial point was the interview, and added to the remarkably lousy service everyone gave me - disinterested politeness at most - that wrecked the whole experience.

What went wrong? They started me flat-footed. I hadn't so much as caught my breath, nor had I filled my water glass before the questioning started. And truthfully, I can understand the desire to put me on the spot and see how I cope with pressure. That's fine. What I cannot get over is their own lack of enthusiasm. In no way did they bring forth the idea that they were looking forward to the work, or explain how things are done in the group. And granted, I had my ten minutes for my own questions, but by then I felt suffocated and wanted out.

I know I did ok, though, - what I know I know, and what I don't I don't, it's up to them, and the other candidates. And I'm strangely disappointed. I so wanted to be excited once I sat there, I wanted to burn with desire to come to them. Instead, they killed off the already large enthusiasm I had from reading the material on the web. To go there for five years is now totally out of the question, and it feels dodgy to turn down a job too. The two-year-job might still interest me, but I will need reassurances. All things considered, I rather hope I don't get the jobs so the decision won't be mine.

Another observation was how ugly people are. No dress sense, and very sour or dour facial expressions. No open smiles, - on my way back I looked for people who looked nice, and they were all Scandinavian. Ridiculous, really, I've never had that reaction to any other people before.

As we speak, I have a hard time concentrating. It's in part getting around the interview in my head, but mostly it's to do with the man issue.
I confess, I am not patient. Once I know what I know, I want things to happen. Being told that "I'll get back to you" in the end of a short, but very nice phone conversation is somewhat unsatisfying, since I first of all don't know WHEN. This also means that the niggling fear that maybe he won't has some room in which to roam, but my reason tells me that he hasn't let me down much yet, so the empirical evidence is good. And still. You see, I'd really like to see him soon, now, yesterday, - so I need him to call me sooner rather than later.

I'm also debating whether it is a good idea to let him know what I know, - even though I am an all or nothing kind of girl, he might not be. Man, that is. Or if my moment of surety is before his, it could cloud his decision. Go with the flow, I guess. He is the leading man, after all.

This is thus an attempt of writing the doubts away, and getting the ridiculous down on paper.

I'll let you know.

D-day

It keeps getting closer. The Job Interview.

My tickets are booked, the hotel reservation has arrived, and I've received information on the when and where.
The when and where indicate that there may be rather few shortlisted candidates.
Bloody scary.

Scare 1: I may actually get the job.
Scare 2: I may lose on a 50-50 chance ;)

I don't know what I fear the most.

Surprise, surprise!

Surprise, surprise!
there's a man in my bed.
Surprise, surprise!
with a kiss I was led.

Surprised? Oh sure;
I was nursing my beer
and fearing that he
would disappear.

(It may seem harsh, -
no argument there
but I've met men
who gave me a scare.)

And I who thought
that I was so wise
This really has been
quite a surprise!

This is the way of our lives (poem)

The loom spanned the Garden of Eden
Myriads of color, texture
Saturated greens and golds, purple,
midnight blue and ruby red
Capped by the joyous tone of a nightingale
a slender silvery thread enhancing the weave.

The warp circles the earth.
Each (of us) weave but a little piece,
crisscrossing and connecting,
spanned by time.

The weft is
everyday tedium,
stupendous joy and
tremendous sorrow.

The yarn is
waterfalls and
oceans and
tears
Forests and mountains
and the laughter of children playing

This is the way of our lives.
The cloth patchy.
Wholesome and woolen touches upon
the sturdiness of denim
or delicate chiffon that breaks
if you tear it.

The secret of the loom is the spinning of the yarn
Thus befall parachute silk, spider filament,
baby wool and linen:
A parent's hand
A siblings tear
A lover gone
The star in the sky
The waves in the sea
You
and me.




20/11 2003 sign.

Disinterested

Yet another rant on the status quo.

What feels like my biggest problem right now is the apparent system failure involved in setting my moods. I can't seem to get enthusiastic about things for more than an hour at most, and I certainly don't feel happy about things I know there are plenty of reasons to be happy about. Maybe it's pretty revealing when I confess that I get relieved rather than glad?

It may be a good thing, though. Enthusiasm takes energy, and steals attention.
On the other hand, enthusiasm fuels the engine.
And boy that engine needs a boost.
It's possible that it needs a really big rest, - I didn't have that this weekend.

But some examples. A paper got accepted for publication. Do I jump for joy? Nah, I shrug, wonder if I think it was good myself, and file it away for a later date.

Actually, come to think of it, I have been enthusiastic for some things, - for instance yesterday, when some neat results fell into place. And when the email about the job interviews came. And when the email of the interview details came. It just doesn't last very long.
And then I walk down the hill and see the incredible shapes and colors of trees in the middle of fall, when half the leaves remain on the branches and the other half cover the ground as a tapestry or a blanket.

And I am cautiously happy about a date tomorrow. There is that.
I just wish I was more... myself. More through and through, more efficient, more me at my best. Maybe losing this cold and not staying up late reading Nora Roberts novels will help things. Though they can be a source of enthusiasm, at the right time.

Stjernestøv (poem, Norwegian)

Alle er vi stjernestøv.

Når du ser en overlever
som har valgt det lyse
framfor mørket
ser du universets storhet.

Og har valget
å bli liten
eller også
velge storheten
i deg.

The child in me

Some pleasures are very simple.

One of them is riding a bicycle with no hands. Sitting upright, pedalling, feeling the balance and control. "Look at me", I say, silently, subconsciously. "Look at me, I can cycle with no hands. I can even take off my jacket and ride with no hands. Look at me!".

And it feels a bit like flying.

The simplest of joys are those where you feel, not think, where you just sense, without question. Making a near-perfect breaststroke, gliding through the water. The silken feel of velvety summer air on bare skin. The smell of fall, the sound of dripping water, the sight of a perfect chestnut tree, or the stubble grazing your face when a friend kisses a cheek.

Open up. Hear, smell, taste, see, feel.
Smell the roses, walk barefoot on the grass.
Remove your hands from the handlebars and ride the bike with no hands.

Testing .... one two three....

I just changed the profile, added my country of residence.
Does that mean that the entries will have CET now, and not some bogus Central American Time? Honestly, GMT is global standard, isn't it?!
Anyway, for some reason I'd like to have the correct time on my blog, but I don't LIKE giving out information like that.
Sure, could've lied and written Denmark. Yey.
But, there it is. I'm a Norwegian living in Sweden, writing in English. Who needs schizofrenia.


{Editing post. Of course, the trick was to change the settings. Ah, well. I suppose I can live with exposing my whereabouts. }

Hair! Hair! Hair! (norwegian)

(et frivolt innlegg om personlig framtoning og uten dypere mening eller underholdningsverdi)

Opphavet ble sjokkert, den der natten i november. Avkommet, den førstefødte, ble ikke bare født med hår, men med kobberhår. Mor, kommunefarget, dog senere hennafarget, og far, mørk blond (dyrket siden fram et rustent fullskjegg i tråd med tiårets mote), kikket på hverandre og begrunnet genetikkens uransakelige veier.

Gimme a head with hair, long beautiful hair
Shining, gleaming, steaming, flaxen, waxen
Give me down to there, hair!
Shoulder length, longer (hair!)
Here baby, there mama,
Everywhere daddy daddy

Tykt var det også. Antageligvis i tråd med en teori mor hadde lest skulle barn klippes ofte for at håret skulle bli sterkt, sunt og kraftig. Den "tøffe lille gutten" lot seg ikke affisere av voksnes kjønnslige bommerter. Moten var jo lekkert kjønnsnøytralt brun, gul og oransje, men hun kledde nok best blått. Mobbing var det ikke så mye av, ikke for håret. Det finnes jo andre ting å henge seg opp i. Misforståtte sammenligninger med Pippi, Annie og (grøss o grøss) Fergie dukket opp og forsvant.

Hair! (hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair)
Flow it, Show it;
Long as God can grow it, My Hair!

Forresten synes de engelske pubeierne på lokalpuben at Fergie er Hot, så det var kanskje et kompliment. Alt man ikke vet.

Let it fly in the breeze and get caught in the trees
Give a home to the fleas in my hair
A home for fleas, a hive for bees
A nest for birds, there ain't no words
For the beauty, the splendor, the wonder of my
Hair! Hair! Hair! etcetera.

Det finnes forøvrig en legende i slekta, om tåke og sauer og Orknøyene og Reddet Av Trauste Vestnorske Fiskergutter, som forklarer at en (kvinne) i hver generasjon på morssiden innehar hårfargen. På et bilde i en bok fant jeg speilbildet mitt, på Shetland.

I want it long, straight, curly, fuzzy
Snaggy, shaggy, ratty, matty
Oily, greasy, fleecy, shining
Gleaming, steaming, flaxen, waxen
Knotted, polka-dotted;
Twisted, beaded, braided
Powdered, flowered, and confettied
Bangled, tangled, spangled and spaghettied!

Jepp. Etter lang tid som meget korthåret oppsto plutselig et savn etter manke. Man har da dessuten løve i ascendenten, er født i tigerens år, og selv om sånt bare er tull og fjanteri er det jo ganske moro likevel, og grunner for å le litt av manketanken. Så det vokser. Og vokser. Nå som det begynner å bli skikkelig langt kommer de klassiske (manns-)kommentarene. Ånei du må Aldri Klippe Deg (Emma tvertimot fnyser og vil nesten ta fram saksen med det samme). Visste dere forresten at damer på min alder i Norge har mye oftere kort hår enn damer på min alder i Sverige?

O-oh, Say can you see; my eyes if you can,
Then my hair's too short!
Down to here, down to there,
Down to where, down to there;
It stops by itself!
doo doo doo doo doot-doot doo doo doot

Problemet. Problemet er. Det er hår overalt. Under kontorstolen, på klærne, i dusjen, i krokene. I munnen, maten, øynene. Når det blåser, når man sykler, hår. Når det støvsuges, - eller ikke støvsuges - er 50 % av det som ikke har sin rettmessige plass på gulvene HÅR.
I det minste, så lenge det er mitt, - det er i det minste rent hår.

Don't know (poem)

Don't know why
Suddenly
my breath

vanished

or, more accurately
I had forgotten how

and consequently, my voice became that of
Donald Duck. On Helium
So I refrained from saying too much

My focus on survival anyhow

(Inhale)
Funny, that. Nerves stop you breathing
(Exhale)
And not breathing sure makes you nervous

Spam spam spam

The other day as I was pointing the mouse cursor to the "delete" button of the Bulk mail folder of one of my Yahoo! accounts, I noticed something strange. Most of the names on my spam-mail were pretty funny. Instead of deleting them I waited for more to really get a feel for them them. But they vary from the hilarious via the ethnic to the mundane. For instance, Marg Yadira delivers popular software from 15 do1lar. The ordinary Pete Mckenzie gives discount on Valium. Sorry, Pete, books and music are my drugs. And the odd glass of fine Ardbeg Islay, of course.
Perry Micha offers cheap software, and Rocco Keith offers discounts on something I don't know what is: I thought Soma was the drug from Brave New World? It's time to brush up on my Huxley. Chelsea Farah works with Perry Micha, and so does Piedad Carleen. A dad who's keen on pie?

I don't know what to make of hosea dowdell. The associations are hose and sea, possibly horse. She (?) sells frosty. Is that another name for cake icing? arron logrono offers skin line reduction, but as I'm 30 and constantly get asked for ID when buying alcohol, it seems that what I need is harder living. Oh, and then Renay Blanch has yet another offer for photoshop for 80 bucks. They sure don't talk to each other at that place.

Lorene Larry is yet another with Valium on offer, but also Xanax, Cialis and Viagra. Do you take the Valium before or after the Viagra? Jermaine Finley wants me to read about impresario 764 mastadons. Didn't catch my eye, sorry Jermaine. Now, Nevada Peggie - that's a name to be proud of. I'd need Valium if I had a name like that, don't go testing your own drugs, Peggie.
Last, but not least, Tiffaney Latarsha is into software. But I think I'm more into Lorene Larry, darling. In this day and age, with all the discrimination going on, I feel it's the least I can do to stand by the transsexual.

Exhausted

Social conventions preach that you should be relatively polite to your surroundings. We all fail at this at times, more so in times of stress. At the moment I am in that place where some days you have to grit your teeth to be able to reply "thanks, doing allright", untruthfully, when asked "So, How Are Things?".

Seing as the surroundings all know of the current stresses, they hopefully know that the strain isn't them but me. However, it might be a good idea to circulate a pamphlet explaining the do's and dont's:

Don't ask me how I am
Don't ask me how things are going
Don't ask me when I'll defend my thesis
or if I have applied for any more positions

Wait for me to offer information.
If I don't offer information on my affairs, let's discuss the weather,
the latest news,
that film I just saw or the McGarrigle sisters I've recently discovered.

I can do that. Politely, and even smile genuinely.

However, the idea of telling people how to treat me is not going to be able to pass my Pride filter. These days my primary mortal sin. And the lutheran guilt of being crass to these dear and caring people is adding to my exhaustion.
Instead, I keep my head down, talk to my mother with tears in the corners of my eyes, just. Avoid large groups, and sit in my sofa with the tv on strumming the guitar singing

You with the sad eyes
Don't be discouraged
Though I realize
It's hard to take courage
In a world full of people
You can lose sight of it all
And the darkness there inside you
Makes you feel so small

Wenn jemand eine Reise tut

(I believe that was the name of the German piece we read in highschool).

I've been traveling. At first, after circling the Arc de Triomphe a few times before admitting defeat and phoning the hotel for directions, I entered efficient-travel-mode and happy-to-see-you - I hadn't seen my travel partner for three years. The second day, it hit me how long since I'd had a real holiday. Going somewhere else, external input from being in a foreign country, not just visiting parents and friends in well-known places. The third day I went to bed with a full stomach, and a smile on my face. It must have been the foie gras. Or the mood. Or the company. Possibly the temperature. I had landed, so to speak, and had left behind me all the worry of work and home life.

One of the many things I've pondered on this trip is how knowledge is a foundation for assembling new impressions, new knowledge. My fellow traveler, an American my own age, was an excellent sparring partner. Our different backgrounds added texture to the sights, - D-day landing beaches, war museums. Following in pilgrims' footsteps to Mont St Michel, my music background turned out to be a source of knowledge of medieval life. At Pompidou, a previous love for Leger was rewarded by the joy over the juxtaposition of three quite similar paintings in the Braque style - by Braque, Picasso and Leger. I find myself (as always) interested mostly in the things I already know, and the things I know give me a framework to fit new information to the puzzle.

Back to the history museums. Astonishing, really, how little we know, remember or were taught about the last 50 years of history. What really went on in Prague 1968, or in Hungary in 1955 - and wasn't it quite interesting that the resistance to the iron curtain was so large in Hungary and that it was they who opened it up?

Food for thought.
I have also bonded with hotel receptionists (over cycling), seen Lance Armstrong and the other bikers, eaten Camembert in Camembert and survived Charles de Gaulle.
I miss my friend, warm croissants and French coffee, cheap cheese, and - to be honest - that holiday feeling.

But home is good too.

"Let us meet" -attempted poetry

Caen, July 27th (to be considered a draft)

Let us meet
like oak trees, standing
in the forest, fierce and tall
show me acorns newly forming,
know your roots so deep and strong.
See my trunk of wood so solid
see the pride with which I bear
all the scars from time apassing,
and the sores from daily tear.
Meet me there, and as my equal
see my all with all that's you
Let us meet
as though we nothing
else but tow'ring oak trees were.

Let us meet
in carefree laughter
like the seagulls ride the wind
Where our burdens are forgotten
where we are the child within.
Meet me, where your soul is dancing
see the glory of my joy,
these are moments quickly passing
meet me ere they flee away.

Meet me in my darkest hour
when I fear that all is lost
Offer me that fledgling acorn
whisper words of wind and joy.
They who never saw the power
nor the pride, the strength, the smiles
cannot meet me
in my sorrow
simply 'cause they know not how.
As will I,
if I am able
open up a hand to you
On my palm behold the oak leaf
whispering words of days gone by.
Sorrow is in life a given
Know ye all, however, this
As is pride and strength and oak trees
as are winds and gulls and smiles:
neither of them everlasting
also grief, with time, will die.

The rewards of virtue

I am taking a moment to expand on the rewards of virtue. At the moment I am proofreading yet again a paper which has been proofread four times the past 48 hours, and feel inordinately proud that I will be done before evening. Who would have guessed. The past six months, possibly longer have been somewhat colored by the fact that there is work to do, which should have been executed yesterday, and which - lo and behold - is fun, at least 50 % of the time. In my book, 50 % of the time is pretty damn good.
 
The perks that come with hard work.
 
1) The incredible feeling of a job well done.
Ok, so you have a guilt trip most of the time. But, occasionally, you know, the boss is happy, and you are happy, and the sun is shining, and you proved to yourself that you could do it.
 
2) Awe, patience and admiration from the less sturdy.
My friends are incredible. Please come on out to play! We'll bring the food. The beer. The laughs. I've been neglecting people without feeling guilty - everyone knows the reason why. Ok,  so I lost my temper. I work 14 hour days, ok?
 
3) No time to obsess.
This is great. Having real problems, and of a kind that can be solved just by  - hard work - makes all those who am I what am I doing here and WHY-problems so insignificant. I stopped caring about how I look some way back, and what do you know? Every other man on bicycle looks me over when we swish past each other. I could care less, I assure you.
 
Oh shit!! I have to mail the minutes from the national annual meeting too. No rest for the wicked.

Strange, new world

I keep tuning into the blog to see if there are any new posts. The world of blogging hasn't miraculously opened up to me, and I don't really know what to do with it. I'd like to have a blog with a filing system. Random thoughts, rants, poetry, sports, whatever. So far, with only two posts, who cares.
 
So far I can think of only two things to write. One is an essay on Tour de France, a competition I've followed since Greg LeMond beat Laurent Fignon on the last stage. 1989 for those not in the know. I haven't been able to find the enthusiasm this year, partly, as Mr. US Postal claims, because there hasn't been an individual time trial to divide the serious overall competitors from the day-to-day salt-of-the-earth people. And it's been flat for so long. Today is the first real Pyrenee stage. I should be glued to the telly. Alas, something's rotten in the kingdom of Denmark.
 
The second possible post would either be on internet friends, or internet men, or men, - and seing as I may regret saying anything at all, even to a blog noone knows about, that'll keep. 
 
But back to the bicycles. This year I'll watch the last stage! Blimey! I'm in Paris next Sunday. Bliss in itself.
 
So something should be written, I gather. Later.

Anne

Terrific seating at the eighteenth row
we sat down to enjoy the christmas show.
Among the many singers glows
the spirit of an English rose

A rose, our friend, but not of pinkish pale design:
As color-rich as crimson rubies shine
and such a scent! But getting close takes time and can be hard
our rose has thorns that against hazards ward.

From row eighteen we watch, we three
He is a poet and a scald, a spirit free.
She is a quiet lake with patience mild and mirth
And who am I?
I am the young one with the somewhat recent birth.

I value neither more and neither less
and I would trust them any day with any mess.
I love them all for different reasons one of which
is easy friendship, joy so rich.

He the big brother never had.
Helps out, encourages whoever's sad.
She keeps her cool when tempests rage
a soothing balm from someone rather young to be a sage.

But friendship is a living thing and love is too.
And where the path was thorny, I passed unscathed through.
I watch from splendid seating at the eighteenth row
I love her more for thorny paths and time, I know.


--------written after the Christmas concert 2004 ----

A blog, a blog, my kingdom for a blog

I have been out here in cyberspace for a while now. Footprints are found on google, - if you have my name, of course. Once upon a time there was a personal webpage. These days I mostly write under an anonymous alias on a debate site. The footprints are more of an official kind, revealing my whereabouts on a course near the Mediterranean. And my inability to stay away from responsible positions, hobby- or work related. All of it fun, mostly.

Why a blog, why today?

Just an urge, really, an impulse. A need to trace the unwritten thoughts, or present myself with a travel diary. I've had this notion that life is travel even when you're standing still. Not always, but at least, that is how it feels now. Let's just see how it goes, shall we?

Usendt brev

På dager som denne er uttrykksbehovet stort.
Så stort at jeg har lyst til å skrive ned alle tankene og følelsene og tingene som skjer og sende dem til noen. Samtidig har jeg ikke lyst til å fortelle alt til flere, og de som jeg kanskje kunne gjort det til - ja, de vet allerede det meste.

Så hvorfor ikke skrive brevet her, og begrave innlegget i bloggen, i en arkivmappe, feildatert.

Det er den 21. oktober 2004, sola har trengt gjennom et gjenstridig skydekke av nimbostratus, om to dager skal jeg treffe Hans igjen, om fem er jeg ferdig med jobbintervju i England - på en jobb jeg både vil ha og ikke.

Eric sendte ut link til korbilder idag. Masse fra midsommar 2004, og fra Hemsjö første juli. Det var bare å åpne dem, så visste hjertet mitt hvorfor jeg elsker livet mitt her. Fortalte litt om jobbintervjuet på koret igår, til David og Anne og Lena og Christina. Og Anne sa "jag vet fortfarande inte om jag ska göra såhär" (og så holdt hun tummarna). Og siden det blir gjort som det blir gjort så vet jeg at det er - ja, ok, egoistisk, men det er fordi det er bra for Anne å ha meg her, og det kan ingen med noe som helst vett klage på.
Men jobbene er spennende. Det kommer man ikke utenom.

Jeg er en ussel doktorand. Sukk.
Forrige uke var det bare lav energi og dårlig entusiasme, - denne uka har jeg høy entusiasme og igrunnen energi, og teller ned timene til neste mulighet for bekreftelse. Skjønt, jeg kan jo ringe. Jeg kan det. Men jeg liker ikke å ringe. Jeg liker å treffes.

Hvis vi bryter det ned, fra søndag klokken 23 til lørdag klokken - 21 (må legge til en time i forhold til forhåpningene) - da ER definitivt mer enn halve tiden gått.
Jeg er så rar. På den ene siden er jeg ganske sikker på at det blir noe som er betydelig mer enn en måneds forhold, og på den andre så forestiller jeg meg at han skal forsvinne - som om han aldri fantes.

Det er håpet, intellektet og angsten som kjemper. Og ingen av dem vet noe, - strengt tatt. Angsten minst av alle. Kanskje er det hjertet som skal vite, hodet og hjertet. First with you head and then with your heart.

Og hvordan skal jeg klare å gjøre noe fornuftig i alt dette emosjonelle, si meg det.
Avhandling, disputere, søke jobb, intervju, og passelig timing av møter med en ikke kjempeung mann som er ganske vidunderlig enkel å være sammen med. Har ikke jeg alltid sagt, at jeg foretrekker menn og ikke gutter.

Jaja. Må jobbe litt nå - en halvtime? Og gå til Åhlens og kjøpe en bluse.

Det ble ikke så langt likevel.

Som når en trerot driver langsomt gjennom sivet

Skrevet 3.jun.2004, kl.16:06

Det er rolig i toppetasjen idag.
En tanke om gangen. Holder stimulansen til et minimum.
Som når man etter en rangel ligger helt rolig i sengen fordi den minste vridning på hodet kan få katastrofale følger.
Rolig, idag, igår og dagen før der.
Det banker på døren. - Er det noe galt? Du er så stille.
Jeg begynner å forklare, men det behøvs ikke.
Så jeg får ikke forklart, at jeg prøver å forholde meg i ro
- så de rette tankene kan tenkes
og ikke overdøves av støy
som når visesangerens sprøde stemme overdøves av raljering og lystig latter.

Det er som når en trerot driver langsomt gjennom sivet.
Når berg-og-dalbane-humøret finner likevekt
Som når du sakker ned og parkerer
på rasteplassen etter hard landeveiskjøring
og hører fuglesangen.
Registrerer uten å måtte meddele.
Smiler uten å dele historien.
Sånn er det her inne, i toppetasjen,
hos meg
idag.