Mhm

Lazy days. You would think I'd be frantically preparing for christmas, or for the job interview, and, by god, proofreading the paper I actually brought home.

Oh no.
Granted, I tidied some. Turned the washing mashine on. Wrote a list.
And went to town on choir business, was there too early, ended up going to half a concert (the soprano did a good job of attacking "O holy night") and totally failed at present shopping.

See, I have two gifts left to buy.
A pyjamas for my godson.
However, all the pyjamases in all the kid shops were ugly or dull.
And a present for the man. I'm getting him a bicycle computer, I thought.
Of course, the model I was going for was sold out.
And there were no bike shops in the mall- the only place open that late.
So, complete failure.

I've been surfing the net. Some of those gadgets are ugly.
I'm secondguessing the idea, but it seems to be the best I can come up with. And he loves his bike. Anyway, men like toys, don't they?

Got home, starving, with groceries, had chocholate and pizza (in that order). Was going to bake christmas cookies, but there's too much on the box.

Lazy day. Fine way to spend a Saturday.
I miss him. It's not neurosis, nor insecurity, no freaking out - I just missed him today.
God, I'm hooked.

Things I like about. Yes, him.

So, I was sort of thinking about writing something about recent events, which is way up there on the pink scale (why stop now), but it's getting old, isn't it. I mean, sure, short update equals things fine, I'm not freaking out this week, nor the next, I can actually think about other things, and I have sex on a frighfully regular basis.

But let's cut the he said I said I thought stuff. I give you

XX things I like about him

1. Pheromones. Obviously.
2. That he cuts his hair. Regularly.
3. And irons his shirts
4. and keeps his stubble groomed.
5. (His stubble. His ears. The color of his hair. The softness of it.)
6. His posture. Spotted him instantly, with his bike, in the fog and darkness. Quite a Rapunzel moment with me in the window, him in the yard (though I walked down to let him in)
7. That he is kind to his sister
8. and obviously proud of his family.
9. 'i like my body when it is with your/body. ...'
10. That he cares about stuff. The world, politics, ethics
11. but not in your face political.
12. The fact that he won second price for "best butt" at a graduation celebration, but didn't tell me until now, nor dresses to emphasize the fact.
13. Oh, yes, that too.
14. Caring. Like, reminding me that I need to eat before the concert when I'm reluctant to get up and hit the shower.
15. Entwining his fingers with mine when we're in bed, from the start.
16. How his smile creeps up to his eyes.
17. His stern brow and patrician nose.
18. Not being overly tidy.
19. The atmosphere in his home.
20. Coming with me to a party so he could meet my friends.
21. Being easy to talk to. About most things, sex included.
22. And that he's a half-decent kisser.
23. Making time for me in a crazy schedule.
24. Music. Any type of string music makes me smile, and fall a little, these days.
25. Cycling everywhere. Together.
26. Being a foregone conclusion.
27. My christmas present. (That I got one. And what it was).
28. That he buys müsli without raisins, just for me.

Timid

Timid, suddenly. Or maybe not so sudden. It had been almost two weeks.
I couldn't take his hand in the movie theatre darkness.
I certainly couldn't greet him hello with a kiss with all those people watching.
Nor after, outside in the cold.

I did invite myself over. ´



The movie was good.
First a holocaust documentary, then the constant gardener.
How serious we are...


Exhausted, he fell asleep quite soon after going to bed (after tea, apples, Beethoven quartets and even recordings with him. He's decent, far as I could tell). I didn't. Well, eventually, intermittently, and while he was deep asleep, I found myself pondering why I felt so insecure now, and how to tell him.

I know why, of course. It's because I care for him.

And no, I didn't tell him that. Are you mad?!!? It felt better when I'd slept, though.


When we were awake, both of us, but I still uncertain of the sleep status of my counterpart, I asked
"are you asleep, or just awaiting my assault on you in vain...?"
"In vain?" he said
"well, so far", retorted I.
"Why is it always the man who's supposed to throw himself on the woman?" he asked me, somewhat resignedly. So I told him
"no, you're right. It's just that... I feel so timid today. Yesterday too."
"is that so", mumbled he,
and then I did.

And after a while said
"it's just, I'm not very good at this throwing business"


But the complaints weren't forthcoming. On the contrary, I'm sure I heard a "fine" somewhere.


And we're not stopping - whatever it is we're doing. This week either. I guess.

How can you not fall in love when someone kisses you like that.

Oh God!

Ble plutselig nervøs.
For noe så enkelt som kino.

Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.

Noen ganger
- det er så mye mer som -


spørsmål som stikker hodet fram som fjøsnisser bak trestubbene.
- Hva mener du når du foreslår at jeg skal feire jul med deg i Stockholm?
- Og når du fleiper med at jeg skal treffe mine andre pojkvänner, betyr det at du har kalt deg selv for det?


Det har blitt lettere å ringe.
Det har blitt lettere
å prate i telefonen.

Det tar oss fortsatt flere timer (når vi treffes) før vi


En sån present ger man inte till vemsomhelst, sa Jenny (endelig noen som var like begeistret som meg for idéen).

Ta hånden hans i mørket, sa Kristine.

Dere har så god tone, sa Merethe.


Nervøs, ok. Men mest


glede.

Offentlig brev

Nå har det jeg skriver blitt for privat, selv for denne bloggen.
Og ordene kanskje noe du ikke vil lese. Så jeg lar det være.

Sannsynligvis er det riktig, at det er sånn. Sannsynligvis skal det være for my eyes only fra nå, eller kanskje ett par til (dog muntlig).

Men jeg fikk det supreste skrujernsettet du har sett i bursdagsgave (og middag).
You'd approve.

Jeg er glad i deg, vet du. Vil ikke bidra til mer angst og tenners gnissel. Men ikke spør, for da svarer jeg. Det renner over, renner over, renner over.

Malapropos, sjekk ut Nathan Shachar - leser en essaysamling av ham nå (om Spania) - fenomenalt bra.

S.

The last day of the year

It's today.
The last day of the year.
I know it's only November, but today is the last day in the calendar year tracking the days of my life.
Today that life is 30 years and 364 days long.

And I've been cranky. Only sligthly, but cranky.
More sensitive, irrationally sore over complaints that a small dinner party is too dull.
When it was small and cozy I wanted.

It tends to be like this, I think. Not sure, but think
that the day before
has always been ambivalent
uncertain
and the day itself more jubilant. Regardless of the scale of the celebration.

Taking stock. Grumbling.
Hurrah hurrah, my darling, you'll be 31 tomorrow!

Pink

This is;

I am
in danger of being
in danger of falling
in danger of having fallen
in love;

love.

Deny it,
surely:
I am in like and lust
but that is all

untill the pink creeps in
and softens all the edges
- or my fear?

And sunlight fills the shape
of where you stood
and smiled of me
because, I do not know,
because I kissed you then.

I am in love and like and lust

but will survive it
if you go away.

Though not for long,
I fear, and felt the need
-when we had said goodbye-
to take things slow.

But then the pink crept in
and said "it's fine, relax, enjoy".

And that is what I know.

Jeg leker detektiv...

Det er lett, når en først får noen puslespillbiter.
Men det jeg finner
er for bra. Jeg henfaller til nesegrus
lamslått beundring.

Det kan umulig være sunt:

Husk for all del
at du liker ham fordi han fikset bremsene på sykkelen din
og ikke for hva han heter
eller hvem han kjenner.
Fordi han er snill med søsteren sin
(og god å kysse)
og ikke at han har gått
på det rette akademiet
(om det nå er noe å ha i hatten, hva vet jeg).

Det hjelper ikke.
Jeg er lamslått
og nesegrust

.

Jeg er så glad!

Jeg skal bli tante!
Så lenge til at det burde være hemmelig, men jeg klarer ikke la være. Det bobler over.

Det andre bobler også over.
- Ni kollar av varann, sa Jenny
- testar hur mycket ni kan säga utan att säga att ni tycker om varann rent ut.
(Han sa "apropå vaddå? apropå mig och dig?". Tenker han seg et meg og deg?! )

Det er nesten som hjertet er større enn brystet.
Jeg skal bli tante.

In love/lust

When he's there (you know, one to two feet away at most), I am pleased to note that at no point do I fool myself that I'm in love. Nor immediately afterwards.
I mean, it's not that there isn't tenderness and caring and a hand holding mine suddenly somewhere in the landscapes of duvets and bodies sleeping.
Faces close makes me smile, silently; in what context have I heard about breathing the same air? Tantric sex? or is it relationship therapy, perhaps.
I enjoy and feel grateful for his frankness when it comes to those white spots I can think but not articulate. I am frank in return.
That sums up to like.
Added to that, my body has decided to turn to jelly over silly things like his voice, or hands touching or - even - the thought of him.
That's a lust thing.

But it's the day after, the day after the first lonely night in a bed which is suddenly big, it's the day after I wake up and notice the semblance of a crush. Smile of mush, limbs weak, heart touched by possible dreams with reruns of the look in his eyes after the last kiss (goodbye).
Then it feels like in love. And if he catches me before the feeling has diminished, who knows how I'll feel when he is one foot away next time.

If there is a next time, of course.

Frøken Paranoid

Frøken Paranoid vet aldeles utmerket at Paranoia ikke nødvendigvis behøver bety at ingen er ute etter deg. Den siste uken har hun vært til de grader overbevist om at den siste frosken i rekken hoppet videre uten å legge spor etter seg - en typisk padde-egenskap igrunnen, synes Frøken Paranoid. Men da ser man hva de er laget av, og det er jo tidseffektivt med en realitetsorientering.

"Det var bare synd han var så hyggelig å kysse", tenkte frøken Paranoid, og bestemte seg for å likevel gå på den omtalte kulturbegivenheten den forhenværende unge lovende etter sigende var vikarierende på.

Da hun scannet programbladet (nei, hun kom ikke tidlig og speidet etter ankommende deltagere) og ikke fant det forventede navnet dro hun straks den intelligente kortslutningen at det hele var et bedrag. Så satte hun seg på åttende benk og speidet uten hell (siktvinklene var forsåvidt ikke så gunstige, men man ser - eller ser ikke - det man vil. Kanskje. Eller så hadde hun rett, Frøken P. Detektiv). Begivenheten var forøvrig verdt besøket i seg selv.

I den store forsmedelsen det er å vente på telefon/fra den man er (ønskeråkanskjevurdereåbli) forelsket i (en deLillos-parafrase) var det faktisk ganske underholdende å se alt i det nye lyset:

-- Mytomanen --

For det finnes visse aspekter, som i lys av den nye tolkningen, lett føyer seg inn i det nye puslespillet. Ønsket om å imponere på visse fronter har både vært stort og ubegripelig. For, som Frøken P. Forurettet sa "you just don't fake brains", underforstått, alle de andre prestasjonene rundt omkring betyr mindre enn det og så omtanken som ikke kan bortforklares. Men altså, mytoman, eller noen som har en meget pen sannhet men likevel pynter på den, det passet fryktelig godt, sett i lys av den siste oppdagelsen.

Nevermind at flere biter VAR lett verifiserbare. Og passer like godt inn i det gamle. Puslespillet. (Hun har tidligere blitt minnet på at puslespill er todimensjonale. Hun vet det. Noen av dem som likte å påpeke dette likte å holde tilbake informasjon for å se byggverket fallere.)

Hun var lei seg i de to minuttene hun var våken mellom tannpuss og søvn kvelden etter. Dagen etter der, altså igår, hadde hun ikke tid. Sovedyr, står opp, kler seg og går på fest. (I Gokk). Og det er selvfølgelig da hele hypotesen begynner å vakle idet en telefonsvarerbeskjed demonstrerer at padden slettes ikke hoppet helt bort uten å legge spor.

Frøken Paranoid fikk faktisk ikke sove på den lånte og skjeve divanen der i villaområdet utenfor Gokk før klokken seks fordi hun lurte på hva han egentlig ville og hvordan dette fikk konsekvenser for den nye og den gamle hypotesen. Ja, og så hadde hun kalde føtter og oppvaskmaskinen durte.

Nemlig.

Frøken Paranoid er fortsatt litt Paranoid. Muligens nede i Skeptisk. Når telefonenen endelig koblet person med person og ikke med telefonsvarere var tidsrammen slik at den usannsynliggjorde den tidligere unge lovendes nærvær på det tidligere nevnte kulturevenementets søndagstilstelning. Så mytomanteorien er ikke motbevist. Frøken Skeptisk er redd hun var litt skeptisk også på telefonen, men etter noen lange tausheter ble et forslag om kanskje kaffe vasket fram. Det var altså derfor respektive timeplaner var på tapeten, tenker hun nå.

Frøken Skeptisk & Paranoid tror det når hun ser det.

Og lurer på om denne svært uvante mistenksomheten til en tilsynelatende normal person (Allers-mannen var da aldri det, og Den Pene Psykopatmannen er jo så lenge siden) inngår i problematikken "være Ferdig med tidligere forhold", i dette tilfellet eventuelt en non-starter. Eller om hun har bedre detektivinstinkter enn hun har lyst til å ha.

Akk o ve. Det hadde vært så hyggelig å ha en in-house sykkelreparatør som kunne kysse.

Dualitet

Våkner av meg selv, klokken seks - til tross for døgnrytmen (i seng to, opp ni-ti), og til tross for at leggetiden var ett. Kanskje på grunn av, kanskje til tross for, noen centiliter Cragganmore for å sørge for nervå og stemmen. Det var litt labilt etter korøvelsen.

Som sagt, våkner av meg selv, med tanken i hodet at "Men jeg vil jo forske OGSÅ".

Kvelden før har jeg fått ideer om nye arenaer å søke jobb på, om nå målet er å beholde geografien. De er gode og selvfølgelig en anelse angstfylte, men hva er ikke det.

Så konklusjonen blir at jeg ikke vet hva jeg vil, men at det involverer å helst ha Göteborg som base resten av livet, men med eventuelle utflukter ut i verden. Og at jeg ikke ennå er klar til å gi slipp på det smale perspektivet som forskning innebærer - til tross for at jeg er flink til å tenke bredere.

Selvtilliten svinger. Kan jeg overhodet noen ting? Slike nissetøystanker dukker opp, til tross for at jeg vet at det kommer an på hvor perspektivet ditt er. Målt mot fjøsnissene jeg synger med er jeg overkvalifisert til administrasjon.

Og jeg vil ha mann (og barn), i Skandinavia. Denne delen av framtidsscenariet er viktigere enn jeg uttrykker i dagligtale. Hvordan jeg er kombinert med hvilke rammebetingelser jeg skaper om jeg gjø slik eller sånn kan ha innvirkning på den utviklingen, i hvert fall frykter jeg det, og det er en ikke ubetydelig faktor i ambivalensen og angsten og alle de andre symptomene på at en eksistensiell beslutning er i gjære.

Våkner seks, og føler meg egentlig ganske bra, fordi aha-opplevelser om hva jeg vil gjør meg mer i stand til å forsøke å skape nettopp slike muligheter. Leser omigjen mailen, smiler, og skriver et svar som ikke er utydelig eller uhyggelig men tvert imot.

Så leser jeg omigjen den forrige i lys av hans svar, og ser, at det var ikke så uhyggelig som jeg fryktet.

En ting til jeg tror jeg vil ha.

Yey!!

I got email!
He answered!
Yey!

And now, let the anxiety of a week wash away....

Possibly maybe....
(Björk)

The Liverpool chronicles

Went to Liverpool for a job interview. Going abroad for job interviews is very existential. I think the interview went well. I think someone else has gotten the job (since they were going to call me the next afternoon if etcetera). While I was there, and suffering from various kinds of existential crises, I wrote some bad poetry. I also wrote a letter to myself, but it's sort of only for my eyes.



Liverpool 11 Oct.

... og mest av alt
er det godt det er over
og gjort
og godt, skjønner jeg, plutselig,
å ha lagt Southampton bak seg.

Ringer jeg T
på lørdag?
eller mail
eller
hva?
cummings-diktet
inneholder love
og må sløyfes.

med ett
følte jeg meg
som en dame i en
Nora Roberts-bok
som tviler på kjærligheten.

I'll probably not get it.
Stress ned.
Lønn hadde vært bra. Faen også.



L:pool 12. Oct.

It is what it is
A day left in the balance.
Yes or no,
her or there,
not knowing
is quite ok
for now
(though keeping busy. Passing time
really - more than proper
sightseeing).
It's two p.m.
By four I'll be very
apprehensive
By six I'll know
By ten adjusted
(well, some)
when the parents come
I reckon.
I'll not get it. Actually.
But who knows.
I'll know by six
In limbo
for four hours.
In limbo, workwise.

... og så tror jeg jeg får den.

Glemte å spørre om de ringer
alle. I tilfelle osv.
Ringer hun ikke i ettermiddag
vet jeg i alle fall
rimelig sikkert
at jeg ikke får.
Ja.
Men tenk om.
Ville de kalt meg
fra Sverige
om jeg ikke var
interessant?
Men hvor interessant?

En øl, en øl for å våge
ta noen sjanser.
Søke og bli kalt
til intervjuet
jo.


I'm thinking: you like me. Yes, you do.
So - how long before
I'm not desperate? (before I call)
Do I care, that's something else.
What about your timing, my timing.
The pace.
Plunge
I'll plunge in
Forsake all others
and everything.
Bring you along.
Meet the family.
Marie got it wrong,
P would never ruin an impression
You're too tolerant and curious for that.
I wonder -
who would you not like?
It's Wednesday
I haven't seen you since
just 72 long hectic hours
And what if I get the job,
dear
What if I don't
Marry me and bear me children


14th October, Airport

They are deceptive, those things.
That are familiar
but really not
the nuances you
Just Don't Get

More so
than those things you know
are foreign.
They are weird or interesting
or exotic
and make you question why
either they or you do things you do
Those almost-things
Are only weird &
Make you feel unsettled.

It's in the language
I guess
When you know it
but not quite.

I wasn't aware
just how comfortable
I'd got.


14th October (me very hungry)

I am consumed
with thoughts of you
Immersing myself
in common daydream
The side effects are
shortness of breath
slight
despair
hope mixed with it.
Have I ever?
Has it ever been?
I could marry you tomorrow & our children would be
musical
clever
cherished.
Am I wrong?
Has the recognition been one-sided
Am i alone here
and you with another agenda
of common male indecision
and cowardness?
I despair. And hope.
And don't know how to proceed.





Short afterword: See, I told you it was bad. No, I'm not seriously considering marriage. I'm seriously considering a third date. If I can get it together. Call me, call me, call me... desperation is so attractive.... yeah.

Jag gillar dom här människorna

Känslan fortsätter. Glädje, trygghet, min plats är säker, hur jag står i relation till kollegor, handledarn (min före detta, haha), vännerna. Balansen är återskapat, än så länge, får jag inga tjänster innan jul kan det ändra sig.

Sitter i ett kök och garvar och pratar trams och flår paprikor. Jätteäckligt.
Sitter vid datorn och garvar åt alla töntiga mejl från kriminalreportern i bibelbältet.
Får nytt mejl från körledaren i nya kören, konserttips och information om att Emelie har fått kontrakt på Metropolitanoperan!

Och känner bara att Jag Gillar dom här människorna. Värme, från alla håll.

Post-doctoral bliss

I've always liked September.
September is quite often quite sunny. It's warm enough to wear ligth jackets, the foliage is beautiful, and as I was cycling to work this morning, the fallen leaves were doing intricate circular patterns in the blowing wind.

I've also, I think, always liked the return to normalcy after the summer holidays. Even as an adult, this reflex remains. In September, one is still rested from vacation and soaking up sunshine, and this constructive energy makes thought processes and other activities run quite efficiently.

This September has been infused with the glory of post-doctoral happiness. My brain started working again some time in August, meaning that I was actually able to get more than one thing done in one day (and we were talking of quite small things). Yesterday, a colleague said to his PhD student "a lot of people must be jealous of your project". And I thought, NO, nothing compares to being through and done. Two days ago, at lunch, I looked around me and noticed that only one was not a Doctor. I had moved from one group to another, and hadn't noticed, really.

There are other reasons for my happiness. Setting myself up - or, really, giving myself something to do in my unemployed state, I've already presented my work twice this fall, and will again next week. Feedback is priceless. Being invited for an interview in the UK for a very attractive research position is another boost, after my initial ambivalence. And singing, baroque music, twice a week.

My back is straight, my lungs clear, and nobody can ever take away that I DID IT!

And that is post-doctoral happiness!

I en parallell virkelighet.

Et eller annet sted, i et parallelt univers, finnes kanskje en versjon av meg som ikke er så molefunken nå. Som er flinkere til å bryte med såkalte venner som ikke er det. Jeg vet ikke, kanskje ville jeg ikke likt henne så godt om hun var det.

Den parallelle meg kan godt være flinkere til sånt som jeg syns er litt vanskelig. Å få til noe som ligner en date med noen som er litt fremmed. Å vise at hun liker noen før ting er avklart og enklere. Litt bedre i alle fall.

Mens vi er igang kan vi regne med at hun andre padler i kajakk galant, selv om det er kaldt, og ikke hadde issues med pardans som ung. For balansens skyld antar vi dog at hun overhodet ikke kan synge, og er misunnelig på de som automatisk blir gode venner med barn. Og selv om hun kanskje kan spise hva hun vil uten å tenke på BMI og denslags har hun neimen ikke flammehår langt ned på ryggen. Det tror jeg nemlig ikke.

I det parallelle universet finnes en meg som er ennå litt barskere og flinkere og tøffere og jeg tror neimen ikke at jeg liker henne. Hun virker nemlig ikke spesielt snill, og i hvert fall ikke noe ydmyk.

There's a new kid on the block,
and boy, that kid is tough,
that new kid punches hard,
that new kid plays real rough,
that new kid's big and strong,
with muscles everywhere,
that new kid tweaked my arm,
that new kid pulled my hair.

That new kid likes to fight,
and picks on all the guys,
that new kid scares my some,
(that new kid's twice my size),
that new kid stomped my toes,
that new kid swiped my ball,
that new kid's really bad,
I don't care for her at all.

(Jack Prelutsky)

En samtale

jeg kjente gitter gå opp og vegger gå ned
og blikket vike ...

There was stubble

on his cheek. I only noticed upon saying goodbye, and not hello. That is when we hug. Hello - goodbye.

We've met four times. He is exactly like his written persona, only better.

And I don't know if we are - dating?
or just, hanging out. Or
buddy-dating - whatever that is. It just feels descriptive of the situation.

I had only walked some
fifty meters when I turned around (and couldn't see him).
We meet too seldom, I thought,
understandably because of the distance. But all too seldom. I haven't told him that.

We talk about
politics
and work and friendship relations
cynicism and
tactics.
And weddings. And what we like. Who started that? I like a crinkling smile.
Something he has, and I forgot to say.
And that his eyes are brown.
No, that was not even on the agenda.

We talked about
being picked up. and compliments.
He thinks he gets less than he gives. And that drunker girls are not attractive. I concur.
He hasn't complimented me. Apart from the assessment from the first encounter.

And I don't know if
we are flirting.
Or if he
likes
me.
He likes me well enough to squeeze me in between a company dinner Thursday and a drive to Oslo Saturday. How much is that.

But come to think of it, he said "I'll play it for you sometime", when we talked about a piece of music
that they all played, his student orchestra, while lying down
(in a fountain).
So I should think he sees some future there, for us and not a
closing down
(and thanks for all the fish).
And I have never scorned as friend someone I truly liked.




- I am in like (- and you?)
Good night!

Internet connections

- why do I bother.

My regular forum is getting on my nerves again. It seems like everyone is 23 and talking about how old they are. And I feel they are extremely young and inexperienced. Sometimes cute, but young.

And then my name is popping up way too often. I mean, my nickname. I know I'm there of my own free will, but some of these kids do not know the first letter of integrity.

On the other hand, some seriously disturbed girl started school this week and felt that something I said was good advise. And just seing her make it, the first week, is worthwhile.

I don't know. Dialogue is more interesting than blogging, in a way. Hell is other people.

Gotta go.

La famiglia

We're at it again.
The usual suspects with our friendly spam, bickering and expressions of love.

Wish you were here (no, that he was here), sign. (that is, me) and I talked about doing something this weekend, yes lets, aren't you away, I'll be back in the afternoon.

And so I sit here, feeling

love.

Very much so.

Globalization

The world is such a small place.

Two of my close friends are evacuated from the Hurricane Katrina. I watch CNN videos online, astonished.

That's when it occurs to me. The consequence of a global world is everyone feeling connected to things.
I also know someone in London.
And a friend of mine in India just missed the Tsunami since it arrived relatively early in the morning. So, only some dead, compared to thousands and thousands who would have been had it hit in the afternoon.
A friend of a friend lost his son.

I've been, to New Orleans. I wouldn't want Bourbon Street washed away.
But I'll have eye witnesses to ask, when they return home, discovering that university papers don't know hurricane-timeouts.

Case of you

I'm listening to Joni again.

It's pouring rain out, its way past my bedtime, but I'm online, in a nearly tidy livingroom.
I'm online, because, I don't know why.
Not sober, not drunk, I've been out with Anna and friends of hers, and enjoyed the experience of feeling happy, strong, secure, and relaxed, in meeting people. Even danced some with the pretty sorry excuses for men we found ourselves among. I mean, they were allright, but no dancers. And if they were, they were too drunk for it.

I smell of Nefertiti, and I'm wearing my "get-lucky-blouse". Nefertiti is an Egyptian perfume. It's spicy and poignant, and sexy, and too much most of the time. The get-lucky-blouse has reputedly been lucky on two occasions, which isn't all that much, but I'm comfortable in it.

That is not the point of this blog.
Today I've worked on home improvement.
Tidying. I'm actually quite surprised I got something done, it seemed to me I was only procrastinating the whole day.

Not sober, not drunk. Not sober.

On Wednesday I picked up tickets for a concert tomorrow. I also got the general program for the season. No familiar name where it should have been, according to the pick-up-line (and the callouses on his hands).
I emailed him. After consulting a friend who said Yes Yes Yes;
"so, as I can see you're not there there's no need to bring the theatre binoculars to scout out the violin section then". He responded that he's in one opera and one ballet (reputedly, we all know how it is with him and truth, don't we). ps. Theatre binoculars are only useful when there's something to look at, isn't it.
And: Happy belated namesday. He noticed. Does that mean anything? And he replied, fast, what should I read into that?

He's got the most gorgeous eyes. I didn't say that though. How do you orchestrate a meeting?

Even if I read nothing into it, can anyone tell me, how do you go from terrific bar flirt to cozy one-night-stand and consequtive cameraderie, music and eggs and bacon to second date?
I'd like to know. Apparently, the emailing is functioning quite allright.

That was not the point again. I think the point to this post, if I can manage it without typos, was that music stores feeling. I got Blue post-T, and subsequently bought Court and spark. Playing them, I invoke the eerie feelings of homecoming and possibility and solitude and sexual power that were present, post-fuck. To be crude. It was more than that. I think, I've stopped going home with people for that end only, the fuck is secondary or an added bonus. I don't know. I don't know what I want to say here. Not sober, certainly.

But Joni, she talks to me, of realizations that are, or have matured, and of life.

More than anything, I feel full. Fulfilled, whole, a whole lot (bursting at the seams), who can be as much! and
blessed
with trust and friendships and insights


- and in this I've neglected to disclose one other aspect of the feelings that Joni calls upon, they are possibility and associated with

cognac

and I will go there,
again.

Patrizzios finfina fisksoppa

Jepp, har fått receptet av Putte, men det kommer försvinna i kaoset om jag inte sparar det nåt vettigt ställe. Soppan serverades på påskafton 2005, vinet var gött, sällskapet fenmenalt, och soppan en gräddig dröm. Finns egentligen i Bonniers stora kokbok, hoppas inte någon kommer saksöka mig. Rig, darling, (den ene som leser bloggen som kanskje spiser suppe :p) this tastes great!!


400 gram blandade fiskfiléer
4 tomater
1 liten gul lök
1/4 purjolök
1/2 fänkålsstaud (fennikel for norske lesere)
1 paket saffran
1 vitlöksklyfta
1 dl torr vermouth
2 dl fiskbuljong
2 dl vispgrädde
1 tsk salt
1/2 krm cayennepeppar
1 dl hackade örter

Skålla och skala tomaterna, ta ur kärnan, skär tomatköttet i bitar
Hacka lök, purjolök och fänkål
Fräs i olja så det får lite färg
Tillsätt saffran, vitlök o vermouth
Späd med buljong o grädde
Salta, peppra, sjud så det blir en slät sås
Lägg i fisk i 2-3 cm stora bitar o sjud i 3 min
Lägg i tomater så att de blir varma, lägg i örter
Servera

Vilikke...

Iblant kommer visshet til en fordi en må ta en beslutning. Velge noe. Det er først når en konkret sak foreligger at vissheten blir reell.

Eksempel: Skal bestille bredbånd, og vil ikke ha bindingstid, fordi jeg ikke vet om jeg bor her da. Jeg tenker

1) Uff, skal jeg flytte?!

Eller idag: Spør Putte om når konserten blir, han svarer januar, jeg tenker
2) Hva om den kolliderer med Trettendedagsaftenkonsertene

og 1), forsterket;
Uff, jeg vil da ikke flytte.


Hypotetiske planer er vel og bra. Når en tenker på å gjøre dem om til praksis kommer prioriteringene for en dag.
Reise hjem? Reise på besøk? Dra på ferie?

Påfallende nok har jeg nok med å være

hjemme

sukk :)

Namnsdag!!!!

Jag har namnsdag idag!!!!

Signe

kommer från det fornnordiska namnet Sighni som är en sammansättning avordför seger och ny. I sagan var Signe namnet på en kungadotter som följdesinälskade i döden. Signe användes i Skåne redan på 1300-talet och framtill 1800- talet förekom namnet nästan bara där, men sedan spred det sigsnabbt och blev vid sidan av Gerda och Ingeborg det mest använda fornnordiska namnet i slutet av 1800-talet. Signe kom in i almanackan 1901. Antalet namnbärare är runt 19 100, av dessa har knappt 10 400 det som tilltalsnamn.

Signhild

härstammar från det äldre nordiska namnet Signil som är skapat från två ord som betyder seger och strid. Under medeltiden var Signhild vanligt,men blev med tiden alltmer sällsynt. Först på 1820- och 1830-talenbörjade namnet bli relativt vanligt igen. Antalet namnbärare är runt 3100, av dessa har omkring 1 100 det som tilltalsnamn. Cirka 500 stavar namnet Signild.

This one's for you....

... or, I don't really know what it's going to be about at all.

Considering my present efficiency, it's hard to fathom how I made it to the PhD. Have I ever done a day's work in my life?

- That was what I wanted to say? Hardly.
- Yeah yeah the thing is, I don't know how much I want to say?
- Oh, you mean, about the man thing?
- Yes, the man thing.
- What's holding you back?
- Oh, I don't know. The risk of anyone reading it. The fear of jinxing it. You know.
- I see. We're there, are we. You've started telling yourself that you might care one way or the other, which means that you are risking something from this point on.
- Something like that. Well, the risk is not that large yet. I don't know. I'm just - worried that he'll disappear now I'm beginning to maybe like him. It has been known to happen.
- Mhm, but you haven't slept with him.
- I didn't always have to sleep with them to make them go away. Hah!
- I know, I'm just kidding. So, are you still at work hoping to chat to him if he comes online.
- *blush* maybe. What if I am?
- And you haven't thought that it's a bit soon, since you saw him twice this weekend?
- I have.
- So, why don't you go home.
- I know, I should. I'm going.
- Ok, so you're not telling anything after all?
- Guess not. Hah!

My mother said

- your brother asked me yesterday if everything was ok with you. He felt you looked a bit sad.

We were out "shopping" - which mainly was an excuse to hang out and be out of the house ourselves.

I wasn't sad. Not really. And definetely not for the reasons my mother hypothesized.
When we continued shopping I found myself becoming sadder.

- Maybe I am sad, I said to my mom.
- I don't really know why.

It dawned on me that some part of it may be not telling any of them most of the things I really think about these days.

Another part is the stress of waiting for emails*. Which is another aspect I haven't told them - well ok, my brother briefly about the fling, but not the email part.

Not really feeling like myself when I'm away is another thing.
Homesick. I guess.





* I am in the process of pursuing an email communication with a man I met a few weeks ago and who I would like to meet again. Three days from Monday to now is beginning to get to me... ;)

Bridges never burnt

I'ts night
and I tried to post this in another forum
in Norwegian
it failed
and my words are sleepy
and smiling

but I am in Bergen
and the drizzle covered my glasses in fog
when I walked the few hundred meters
from there to here
in the very velvety darkness

and as I walked
in the wet
with a lightness in my step

I thought of bridges never burnt

of friendships that have been hard
and wounded
and sore
but never truly abandoned

and of apologies
never truly spoken
because to speak them would be
to speak of the hurt
and

since we know that
the hurt was never solely caused by -
and never actually intended

speaking it would be to name the beast
and this beast named
would be a harder beast to slay.

And now the wounds are gone
the differences forgotten
and the only thing remaining is a passage
free
and trusting

which is why my step was light
and why I pondered
the bridges never burnt.

Holiday blogging...

Having a computer close - and nobody around to look at the computer log - has proven beneficial to the overall creativity. Or, maybe we should call it garbage. Emptying of garbage.

It's certainly true that whenever I make this trip I go back to whatever unresolved conflicts with my youth and background that visits me first. No wonder I prefer to hide between my mothers impressive hedges, having tea in the office and venture to the neighbour for coffee.

It's not that I object to nice houses. I like nice houses. I find, however, that I like the clutter of ours, the skewness of Bremers villa, the accessibility and welcoming feeling older houses and apartments have. The lack of emphasis on new tiles, fresher wallpaper and wood floors in all rooms, no less. The kids are three and have their own room. Ok, I'll stop ranting.

Maybe I'm just estranged.

As I mentioned earlier, having time to let the feelings and thoughts in is also a part of this.

Ok, men.

I did a silly thing on Friday, I did the lover's comparison horoscope for both men I've been in touch with recently. Strangely enough both conformed with my thoughts in advance, with more passion, drama and potential conflict with the artist-cum-bicycle-repairman at home, and a smoother passage with the economer that I've gotten in touch with on the internet. Since the tone in messages and on msn have been very friendly, and the meeting was more because of my presence in town, rather than the "relationship" being ready for it, there's no pressure on the potential romantic and/or physical part (as far and I can tell). Anyway, there's some compatibility there. And not just a little.
If I think about that I could get freaked out. Lucky I don't.

In this atmoshpere of villas and two cars per house, I find myself leaning more towards the passionate, quite likely totally hopeless venture, than the other. In a romantic sense, not the friendship, I might add.

Ah, this is a messy blog text. No spark, no edge, no spice.
What it comes down to is - if we're blunt - I want to be wanted. And a tad scared by things that could get serious. That about covers it. I'm a serious kind of girl. With a healthy taste for play, one should hope. Hah.

Post-doctoral depression, anyone?

What a weird, weird day.
I came home - home, that is, as in childhood home - yesterday. Noone is home. The parents are in Spain on holiday, the brother lives further north, and the grandmother has been gone for near two years.

This reality hits me somewhere between Sandnes and Stavanger, and the melancoly stays with me all through the evening, night and morning.

Solitude, chosen, ensures my inner dialogue. Feeling.
since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
Somewhere, a rawness that I hadn't foreseen.
Not lonelyness, but ungrieved sorrow, solitude, need. Unfocussed unrealized unthought need. Or -
I honestly don't know.

The headstone wording is pretty carelessly carved.
[I need to go change, I'm going out]

And the absence of continued distraction, in the shape of the email I want and wait for prevents me from procrastination on these matters, tears unwept.

Somehow it seems fitting that Rig emails me to say that she is SAFE from the London terror.

They talk about post-doctoral depression. This isn't depression. This is just unfelt emotion catching up. And July, the time of departed loved ones, though old.

I am in danger of smoking.

Easy...

You know the joke:
The rooster was chasing the hen.
The hen thought "if I stop, I'm easy. If I run I won't be gettin' any. Better if I fall."

I'm easy.
Easy like Sunday morning.

Kiss and tell?

Even though the previous post is unfinished, events take place and change the focus of things. Actually, the two posts are connected, in a way. The common denominator is looks, or attraction.

I kinda want to tell all, and kinda not.
I kinda want to write something about double standards, and also something on the theories about one-night-stands leading to something or being a dead end.

I'm always ambivalent to going home with someone. Even when I know that I most likely will and want to, I put up the obligatory "nah, I don't know"-talk.
Which is silly.
But I AM ambivalent. Simultaineously, I'm of the opinion that some actions are part of something more, and that even though the right to say no is mine all through the non-reported event, doing so after a certain point is downright silly and a bit cruel.

And then there are other concerns, but I don't really want to tell all.
What I do is envision a pair of smiling eyes.
Not too bad.

Insight - draft

Earlier this week, I was accosted while buying lunch. Ok, perhaps accosted is the wrong word. What happened was that a man asked me to eat my sandwich at his table in the diner rather than eating at my desk, which I did. Upon leaving I was asked if he could call me.

The idea was less than pleasing, in part because of the apparent age gap and the fact that he was - not very attractive to me.

And then I ask. What is attractive? I know for a fact that I'm not a total age facist. Part of the non-attractiveness was that aforementioned man was too eager, related to the known facts - at least the way I perceive them. We can get back to that.

I've also been in touch with internet people. That is, men that I know through various internet sites, not necessarily geared towards dating. And I do confess, once I get to like their minds, thoughts and words, a bad picture inevitably will disappoint me.

Let's face it - I have STANDARDS for looks. Connected to this is the obscure feeling that I oughtn't.

Looking back on crushes and loves, I wouldn't say that I am totally hooked on the model man, or that I have a very confined set of likes. More often than not it's to do with the feeling. Carrie says in one episode of Sex and the City. Was he good-looking? I don't know. I never do when I like someone. And that may well be the case for me too. I've had crushes and realized long after that they were considered by others to be "hot".

A nasty part of this is that I am, or have been, afraid that others will judge my selected man based on appearance and say "how can you like HIM". Sometimes I judge my friend's men or women, but I would generally judge a personality much harder than looks. First and foremost, do they make my friend happy?!

So, why this internal double standard?

From the grapevine....

I got this in the mailbox the other day. I'm not sure I liked the title, the responses seemed more general to me, but here goes.

Things Stressed Women Say at Work

1. Okay, okay! I take it back. Unf..k you.
2. You say I'm a bitch like it's a bad thing.
3. Well this day was a total waste of make up
4. Well, aren't we a damn ray of sunshine?
5. Don't bother me, I'm living happily ever after.
6. Do I look like a people person?
7. This isn't an office. It's hell with fluorescent lighting.
8. I started out with nothing and I still have
9. Therapy is expensive. Popping bubble wrap is cheap. You choose.
10. Why don't you try practising random acts of intelligence and senseless acts of self-control?
11. I'm not crazy. I've been in a very bad mood for 30 years.
12. Sarcasm is just one more service I offer.
13. Do they ever shut up on your planet?
14. I'm not your type. I'm not inflatable.
15. Stress is what you have when you wake up screaming and you realize you haven't gone to sleep yet.
16. Back off!! You're standing in my aura.
17. Don't worry, I forgot your name too.
18. I work 45 hours a week to be this poor.
19. Not all men are annoying. Some are dead.
20. Wait...I'm trying to imagine you with a personality.
21. Chaos, panic and disorder...my work here is done.
22. Ambivalent? Well, yes and no.
23. You look like shit. Is that the style now?
24. Earth is full. Go home.
25. Aw, did I step on your poor little itty bitty ego?
26. I'm not tense, just terribly, terribly alert.
27. A hard-on doesn't count as personal growth.
28. You are depriving some village of an idiot.
29. If assholes could fly, this place would be an airport.
30. Look in my eyes...do you see one ounce of gives-a-shit?*

Genious is 90 % perspiration

Strange that, even knowing this, I keep waiting for inspiration.

And have done so for the past two days.
You see, now there are only 14 days remaining for the finishing of one whole paper - so far unwritten - and a synthesis of everything.

My mother will phone me in a few minutes to check how it's progressing.
I will tell her that I feel better, but that I haven't done a thing yet.

I have made it to level eight on my current favourite yahoo games game.

I have been to the loo, and not had any of the cold coffee leftovers from yesterday. I have found some of my notes.

I suck.

No I don't.
I'm just. Trying to work. Trying to get started.
The start is the worst.
Genious is ten per cent inspiration and ninety percent perspiration.

When I've talked to my mother I'll go out and have a cigarette. My first one in daylight in five years or more. But, first, I'll write a paragraph or so.

Thanks for listening.

High as a ... kite?

All was glee Easter Wednesday.
On Tuesday, I'd almost, but not quite, gotten the final results for the third paper. Gently pushed by a colleague (bless her), I initiated the subject "dates" with a receptive advisor.
He came up with an even prior date than the one previously discussed. I was stunned.

On Wednesday, a small, but essential, calculation gave a number that couldn't have been better if we'd invented it. The curve fit of this one. Ah.

And manuscripts are being worked at, revised, rerevised.
And my breathing gets shallow, at least twice a day.

The total unbeliavability of it all.
And the NAMES he pulls out of his hat, for defending the work. The NAMES.
I'm stunned. He must believe in me. I mean, I know he does, but THIS much?

And still, if the second paper isn't accepted (with revison, surely), we'll have to wait till fall.

And we need a last short paper. On WHAT? I ask myself.

So I sit here, stunned, and high, and spooked, and proud, and quite a lot of emotion, actually, most of it good, and my living room is filled with laundry, bicycle, tv dinner plates, guitar, since I'm never home to clean.

Frankly, I have a time series that needs a few quick revisions; filtering and resampling. Then there's the problem of no atmospheric temperature. Approximations, sigh.

Or nag the man for data again.
Sigh.

Get to it, girl. And not too much coffee!!

Kalinka, kalinka, kalin?  

Nej, jag SA verkligen inte att du var plastikopererad...  

Javisst ska han leva ....  

Gitarren och vi  

Lotta? Eller Jenny? Trevlig tjej iaf 

.... nu ska han krama igen.....  

Först blir man snygg....  

Nej, inte fler kort på mig nu....  

Kul i köket  

Schlafe mein Prinzchen....  

Kamelen, dromedaren och svenskan...  

Längtan mig förbränner ...  

blyg?  

zucchini 

Citrusträdet  

Minor setbacks ...

So...
spent the past two days plotting figures, both for my own sake and for the results section of the final paper.

Only to discover that Word, my version, does not like -eps-files, despite the fact that a colleague has absolutely no problems inserting them. I knew I should have stuck to Word, even though my supervisor prefers Word and allegedly is going to write something on it.

What to do. It's past six on a Friday, I have no plans, apart from grabbing some food at the supermarked since I have had coffee only since lunch.

What to do... Change to Latex, I guess. But now, or tomorrow morning, that's the question. And if I do, I can't use the jpg-file I've made in powerpoint and that I like. Converting via CorelDraw is a possibility.

Ugh. Ugh.

I need cake. And ice cream.

Hvorfor jeg aldri - en fortsettelse

Igår slo det meg plutselig at jeg hadde utelatt viktige deler av resonnementet når jeg skrev "Hvorfor jeg tror jeg aldri kommer til å finne noen"

Og det er en minst like dyp del av personligheten min som noe annet. Når jeg antar at jeg er for lite pen, eller for stor eller for et eller annet, så er dette ting som kan endres. Jeg kunne skaffet kontaktlinser for å ikke skjule de pene øynene mine. Jeg kunne begynt å trene fem ganger i uken. Sant å si vil jeg ikke ofre lese-bok-tiden på å trene for å få en finere kropp. Kroppen duger jo, den danser og går i fjell og jogger, og om den ikke er i eliteform så er den sannsynligvis sunnere enn eliteidrettskroppene, og kommer til å vare lengre. Måtehold er nemlig beviselig bra i lengden.

Det som er den viktigste sannheten er at jeg nekter å skulle leve på utseendet. Min mor lo rått en dag i telefonen da jeg fortalte om en kollega som er så søt at mennene blir synlig påvirket og vil være reddere i nøden og sa "og du tror ikke at du selv er søt? Si meg, har du noen sinne hatt problemer med å omgås med eller kommunisere med menn?" - og det er klart at hun har et poeng. Min kjære kollega på snart 50 (og ekstrem aldersangst) synes det er ekstremt uinteressant å snakke med lesbiske damer fordi det mangler noe i kommunikasjonen. Underforstått liker han kommunikasjon med en understrøm av flørt, subtil og liten, men dog.

Jeg er altså søt nok til at det er hyggelig, men ikke så søt at noen kan finne på å mistenke at jeg har kommet noe som helst sted på utseende og seksuell sjarm. Om jeg har kommet noen vei med å være hyggelig og profesjonelt sjarmerende er det helt akseptabelt.

Og dermed nekter jeg å skulle forandre på noe, eller være egentlig misfornøyd med noe, eller være mindre enn jeg er. Da får det heller være.
Og innerst inne vet jeg også at det er så usannsynlig få som er på mitt nivå, intellektuelt og også mennesklig, og at jeg har valgt bort noen på det grunnlaget - og de har valgt bort meg fordi de var på en annen del av arket. At jeg er langt fra andres nivå også er greit for meg, poenget er at det kan finnes ukompatible forskjeller, og at det ikke er noen skam i å takke nei til dem.

How do you stop? (Joni Mitchell)

Hard bodies
Soft emotions
So fast
So smart
The world is at your feet,
But what about your heart?
Fame and fortune can't hold you tight
In the late hours of the night.

How do you stop?
Before it's too late?
You choose and you lose
If you hesitate.
How do you stop?
Before it's too late?
You think love will wait
So you don't hold on
And then it's gone.

You've had success -
Lots of fancy friends.
You've tasted the good life;
You thought it would never end.
One day you're too young,
Then you're in your prime,
Then you're looking back
At the hands of time.

How do you stop?
Before it's too late?
You choose and you lose
If you hesitate.
How do you stop?
Before it's too late?
You think love will wait
So you don't hold on
And then it's gone.

How do you stop a runaway train?
How do you stop the driving rain?
How do you stop the ripening corn?
How do you stop a baby being born?

How do you stop?
Before it's too late?
You choose and you lose
If you hesitate.
How do you stop?
You're lost if you hesitate...
How do you stop
Love from slipping away?
How do you stop
Before it's too late?

Hvorfor jeg tror jeg aldri kommer til å finne noen

Det kom til meg i går kveld, at jeg burde skrive ned dette.
Helt usentimentalt, for det bekymrer meg ikke akkurat i øyeblikket. Det hender imidlertid at det gjør det. Hvem vet, kanskje det kan hjelpe å se det svart på hvitt.

Dypest eller innerst, alt etter som, jeg tror virkelig ikke jeg kommer til å finne noen å bli kjæreste med, leve med, eventuelt gifte meg og få barn med. Noensinne. Og det tror jeg at jeg har trodd, dypest og innerst, helt siden sånne tanker kunne tenkes.

Først og fremst handler det om at jeg ikke tror at noen kan finne meg attraktiv. Allerede der burde argumentene mine, for det er bevist at visse menn har funnet meg attraktiv, for kortere eller lengre tid, og på forskjellige måter.
Det handler om at en kan vite at en er søt - i alle fall iblant - men ikke ha inkorporert det i ryggmargsrefleksene eller den kroppslige selvtilliten.
Jeg synes altså ikke at jeg er særlig vakker, samtidig som jeg iblant synes jeg er forholdsvis strålende.
Jeg tror heller ikke at noen kan forelske seg i min - om ikke akkurat omfangsrike - corpus, så i hvert fall synlig. I klartekst, jeg innbiller meg at jeg burde være 15-20 kg slankere før noen eventuelt kaster seg for mine føtter. Dette er latterlig, for eksempel ser jeg til stadighet langt større damer som ikke har problemer med tiltrekningen, og også slanke damer som har det. I tillegg er jeg ikke villig til å slanke bort 20 kg for å tiltrekke en hypotetisk mann, og siden det er veldig konstant størrelse om jeg trener tre ganger i uka eller ingen er det ikke bare å knipse. Og den kroppen jeg har GJØR jo den jobben den skal. Løper, hopper, danser, går.

Så har vi overbevist oss selv at det som er galt fysisk ikke er så galt likevel. Da er det det indre som havner i rampelyset. Og selv om jeg gjennom personlig kognitiv terapi liker meg selv betydelig bedre enn for fem år siden, kanskje endatil bare kan konstatere at jeg liker meg, punktum, så mistenker jeg til stadighet at det er noe ved meg som ingen mann kommer til å like. Om vi igjen ser på empirien finnes det godt av menn i vennekretsen, hvilket burde være bevis godt nok for at dette er nissetøys.

Moren til min gudsønn har flere teorier. En av dem er at jeg er mer unik enn andre, så jeg havner i en 5 % -kategori der det ikke finnes så mange. Det kan tenkes, men så rar er jeg vel ikke.

Men, tilbake til fakta. Det finnes fakta over at jeg også avviser menn. Det er ikke sånn at det ikke er beilere som kommer til kort. Men sinnsykt kresen kan jeg ikke si at jeg er. Eller?
Tidligere nevnte venninne har også påpekt at man må innrømme for seg selv (og omverdenen?) at man vil ha en mann.

Det står stikk i strid med "det kommer når du minst venter det", men jeg holder en knapp på den - det der med minst venter det burde tilsi at jeg hadde vært hooked up i en årrekke.

Neste steg, når vi har slått fast at det ikke er mer feil på meg enn på de fleste, er å granske oppførsel. Og da blir den depressive konklusjonen at jeg ikke vet hvordan man gjør. Jeg er som en fisk på land. Hvis det blir litt dating skremmer jeg dem bort, eller så skjer noe annet, i alle fall opphører interessen fra den andres side.

Den siste teorien min om hvorfor er imidlertid litt vennligere mot meg; det har seg nok kanskje sånn at jeg sender ut signaler om at jeg ikke vet hvor jeg kommer til å være i verden, at jeg er på vei, at jeg ikke har de der slå-seg-til-ro-vibbene, så der forsvinner en og annen. Og sammen med klarer-meg-selv-stoltheten er det ikke en veldig imøtekommende dame.

Jaja - ikke vet jeg. Sånn føles det, innerst,

• er ikke bra nok
• er for bra (kresen)
• vet ikke hvordan man gjør når man treffer noen
• kommer aldri forstå det

Jepp.

Morale is low

This is an attempt of writing away the lousy work ethics I have been struggling with since Friday (the concert was ok, by the way. Not great, but ok, and it was cool going off on my own).

I am bored
I want to do other stuff. Surfing, emailing, reading Tigana all over again.
I should finish a program
Then write the paper
Then write the synthesis of everything
Then defend, get unemployment money or
A JOB
Have time on my hands
Be free
Be a PhD

etc etc etc

There really are no good reasons for being slack.

Once I'm free I can take holidays
see friends
IM in Oz
E in the US
L in Holland
and take K with me to Spain
...and possibly to Roskilde. Or vice versa.
We'll bring some knitting with us and a home-made banner
Old Maid Junction
for our tent.

Yup.

All this and I feel it's more important to waste my time

Slacker


Slacker


awwright, shut up and let me work!

It's raining...

...and it's not raining men.

Stuff has been resolved, work-stuff, so now I have a working prototype. It needs a few final touches, some finesse, and above all, efficient code, otherwise, the program goes out of memory from the beginning.

Apart from that I'm restless, and what I feel like doing does not correspond with the world at the moment. No parties, and the right kind of friend lives away. My rock-concert-friends are not as developed here, and I'm probably in that kind of mood.

I've actually decided to go on my own, to a band I don't even know. Well, I believe I've heard them on MTV and liked them. Reviews were pretty good - and indicative of style.
So, around eleven I'll be going to a concert, all by my lonesome. Aaaaaa. I feel in need of a prop, like a cigarette, but that seems silly.

A prop like a glass of wine, though, should be great.
I'll keep you'all posted.
Right. Since the reader group is so large.

Biorythm.... ?

I walked to work today. Most of the way, anyhow. It seems like I've been either sick or generally in the dumps since December, - with a somewhat brave face on. On Tuesday the dizziness returned with a vengeance. The ceiling literally spun, and I had to go to bed for fear of vomiting. I hate being queasy.

One of many problems is the weather, actually. It's either been raining, blowing or snowing. At the moment, we have snow - and several degrees below. That is a problem, since you invariably put on too little clothes and go out shivering waiting for public transport.

This morning I put on my ski pants on top of my jeans, and walked through the park. Brilliant idea. Not cold at all.

Anyway, to the point. I went to lunch with my esteemed colleague who complained that he was down in the dumps. He talked about his biorythm (?!!??!) which his sister had sent him. Over lunch we discussed the ups and downs of life, and his quite much younger girlfriend. Among other things. When we got back he checked my biorythm. You can see it below.



My biorythm for today, according to newastro.dk. Intellectually low, emotionally quite bad, and - surprisingly, physically a-ok.

The thing is, - it's quite accurate. I have had an intellectual slump.
And despite dizziness, physically I am quite fit - strangely.

Before returning to work, my colleague tested our compatibility. He had 26 % with his girlfriend. 60 % with me.
May I see a proposition soon?
I doubt it.
Then, I tested me and a good friend - also 60 %, - and the annoying person who bailed on me in November ;) - 72 %.
One should settle for at least 80, or....?

Nah, it's just a laugh. So long.

black label

(skrevet 6. des 2000)

baren heter black label. navnet er forøvrig helt uvesentlig, den kan forveksles med et utall barer som er tuftet på engelskspråklige lands pubtradisjon. Den viser sport på TV, serverer et passelig utvalg ølsorter og spiller musikk for dem over 25. innimellom kan den siste listesingelen høres. 30-åringer hører også på radio. merkelig nok er påkledningen oppdresset, særlig hos kvinnene. om det er smakfullt er et annet spørsmål.

et ypperlig sted å bli full, satse litt penger på blackjack og bli minnet om lignende barer andre steder i fjerne avkroker av hukommelsen. hvem er du i denne merkelige samlingen mennesker? er du den unge fingernemme blackjackdealeren som har kjedet deg fra åpningstid til klokka elleve når første kunde satte en stopper for spilltørken? en av mange jenter i smakløst trange H&M-topper i selskap med akk så vakre venninner? eller er du en av de pene venninnene? på den ene siden vet du at du alltid får mest opmerksomhet, på den andre siden har du for tynt hår/for bred rumpe, for lang nese eller mellomrom mellom tennene.
er du muskelmannen på 1.85 med stram T-skjorte og jeans?

hvis du istedet er den som observerer, og er fornøyd med det, kan kvelden bli fornøyelig. jan eggum hevder kvarteret i bergen er det optimale stedet å observere, spesielt siden studenter er ’de beste i verden til å late som om det ikke er en kjendis i lokalet’. studentene i bergen på sin side bryr seg katten om at jan eggum står med en øl i marlborofrakken sin. det er 55 år gamle bergensfruer som hyler og skriker når de ser ham. rogalendinger, sunnhordalendinger og striler bryr seg ikke om eggumen. de første fem årene i hvert fall. jan eggum har laget mange observante sangtekster. det skal han ha.
det finnes så mange kvinner som vil lede ma’en vill.

på black label er det mange kvinner som vil føre ma’en vill. noen er åpenbare. de litt styggere venninnene til de pene pikene vil også føre noen vill, og selv om det ser håpløst ut noen gang vet de at sjansen øker utover kvelden. de kan utvikle seg til superbabes etterhvert som tid igjen til stengetid avtar. dessuten er det også villighet det dreier seg om. de pene pikene sikter seg stort sett inn på de pene mennene, men det er utrolig hva som passerer som smak av og til. noen jenter er opptatt, og kun ute etter en liten flørt – kanskje. med bartenderen, blackjackmannen og han i muskeltrøye. vi vet alle at en liten flørt er et tøyelig begrep. metodene virker ulikt. alle vet at det er en større sjanse for hell om man går ut med venninnene. enkelte er villige til å ignorere sine venner ved første antydning til en flørt. da er det ikke nøye hvem man er ute med.
sjekking er ofte best når man er alene og venter på noen som er på toalettbesøk.

hvis du ser nøye etter, finner du alltid noen som ikke er helt med mentalt. ulykkelige, eller bare fjerne. de smiler og ler, men det er ikke sjel der. uforklarlig forvtilelse, ulykkelighet. jeg er en av dem. hvis du ser etter når jeg smiler, så ser du skyggen av flere personer. en av dem er litt ulykkelig for en lang kjedelig forelskelse som det aldri ble noe av. den diametrale motsetningen er en person som har blitt beskrevet som cheeky og som iblant sjekkes opp. riktignok er jeg best på bortebane, under prinsippene ’ingen vitner’. det er et unntak når jeg ’er sånn’, det er ganske sjelden rett og slett jeg finner noen som er verdt å flørte med.
jeg går også avogtil i trange H&M-topper.

Sårbar

Beskyttelsen er kamuflase, unnvikelse, late som.
Make a brave face. Staffasje.

Bakenfor finnes tårer, bønner.
Vær varsom med meg,
gi meg en klem.
Men du vil ikke slippe kamuflasjen
ikke engang når tårene
er nærmest overflaten.
Så du unnviker, leker sterk,
overbeviser deg selv - så vel som de andre.

Jeg klarer meg.
Jeg trenger ingen.

I visse stunder er det ensomt,
ensomt.

Ring-ring

...og jeg kommer gjennom.
Sier tingen min. Får noen svar. Jaha, økonomi. Damn.

Men da vet man hva man må passe på å få med av det lille man kan om økonomi, så sånn sett var det bra.

sign.

Du-dunk, du-dunk, du-dunk.

Hjertet mitt idet jeg griper telefonen. Jeg legger ned hånden, flytter meg tilbake til arket. Skriver noen stikkord til.

Skal jeg først si alt jeg er og kan, og hvorfor JEG ser en legitim plass i avdelingen, eller skal jeg stille spørsmål av typen
"hva består stillingen i"
"er det en spesiell type kompetanse dere er ute etter"

Kanskje bare "play it by ear".
Jeg løfter røret, slår nummeret.

dut-dut-dut-dut

Opptattsignal. Hjertet roer seg litt igjen.
Forbereder meg mot ny dyst.

du-dunk, du-dunk
Kommer fram - og nummeret er .... feil....

Ringer sentralbordet, kommer til en Oslodame, som er feil dame. Rett dame er tilbake på ...onsdag....

Øyeblikkene

Er livet i det store og hele en samling øyeblikk?
Små og store hendelser som verken hører sammen eller henger sammen
annet enn gjennom tidens gang.
Noe som skjedde før, og det som kommer etter.
Det som var før var hele virkeligheten da
og kommer aldri tilbake.

Jeg skal aldri løpe så fort jeg kan på glatte sokker og være fem.
Heller ikke kaste armene ut i glede på et svett Hule-gulv og danse, danse.
Aldri lene meg bakover mot akkurat deg på akkurat den konserten.

På den annen side har jeg grått ferdig noen tårer.
Skal neppe føle meg liten og dum av de samme grunnene,
aldri ta de samme eksamenene.

Men er livet øyeblikk, eller henger det sammen? Kunne man stokket kortene og latt øyeblikkene komme i en annen rekkefølge?
Visst henger det sammen.
Om hendelsen er ny er følelsen den samme.
Slik, akkurat slik følte jeg meg
da jeg hoppet ned Carl Konows gate på vei til nattjazz og bare måtte synge.
Om det ene eller det andre kom først er kanskje ikke viktig.
Faktorenes orden er likegyldig.
Eller ikke.

Når summen av gleder har fått bli stor har vi kanskje lettere for å bære summen av sorger.
Eller ikke.

Uoversiktlige tanker. Uvesentlig. Det får stå sin prøve.
Jeg hører Gunnel Mauritzson Band (svensk folkemusikk). Hun synger

Ingenting på denna jord
kan man säga med bara jord
orden susar lätt förbi
hjärtat lyssnar inuti.

Og musikken, musikken den jubler.

Dear Diary

well, how's that for a heading. My devoted readers complained that I hadn't updated the blog for awhile. Ok, make that singular. Since we spoke on the phone for an hour yesterday, the point is moot, but here are some updates.

Happy New Year to all! I've been home since January 1st after spending 11 days in Spain with the family. I didn't see the highest temperatures, but the sun was shining most of the time, and a slight rainfall the day I arrived ensured blossoming rosemary, lavender and three kinds of lily as the days progressed. The flat is not very large, so when it's cold you can get some cottage fever despite the Mediterranean view. I'm looking forward to going down in summer when the water is warm. I'm also looking forward to going by myself, with wheels of my own. Being under the parental rule is something you never quite grow out of, no matter how much love and respect you feel. The same goes for any other dynamics, of course, once it's there it's hard to break, but it doesn't run that deep with non-family.

Tsunami. The first word of the disaster came as a text message from a friend back home. Her sister's family had originally planned to go to Koh Phi Phi, but decided on the eastern coast of Thailand. We steered clear of the TV news, choosing Herald Trib and Guardian and the Norwegian newspapers for coverage. Once back in Sweden, I discovered that some of my friends had friends who lost someone, and the topic is still hovering around the edges of any conversation. At work, we move between the human interest and the scientific, and are quite fascinated by the wave patterns and the forming and decay of the waves. One colleague received lovely water level measurements from his friends in Sri Lanka, showing the three huge wave trains coming in, and the way the ocean was "shivering" after. We're not going into the Tsunami research as we speak, but are well-enough educated to know something more than the general public and the media. And generally interested, naturally.

Work. Slow. Improving. Well. Depends. I'm not quite happy with my simulation yet, the convergences are too strong. Reprints of a paper came yesterday, and it IS nice to see the result, hold it in my hand. It looks good too, actually. During lunch, I got questions on the second paper. I notice that my supervisor keeps talking about it to all and sundry, which means that he is pretty confident and happy about the paper. And I on the other hand feel generally timid, and wouldn't dream of initiating conversations about my own research. It's stupid, and I hope it changes over time. It's not as if timid is my natural state, on the contrary.

Love. Sure. That's gonna happen. Any millennium near you. *laugh*
Anyhow. What was, was fun, and I accept what isn't.
Seeing the party pictures, and also the pictures from this Saturday made me remember that I should remember to have fun. So I may be coming to a venue near you soon, spread some smiles around.

Friends. So, I got off the plane and switched on the cell. Beepbeep. Movie tonight. The week I've been home has been filled with lovely people, two excellent concerts (the choir performed), a move and a dinner. After the last concert we were sitting at the restaurant, and I noticed a distinct pink glow around the edges. Or maybe golden. If not romantic love, plenty of the other kind.
And I solved my family issues over the weekend, without even telling them I had issues. The mature way, hopefully; working it out, finding the new managing strategy, and then having loving talks on the phone.

Lugn i stormen

Lördag. Slappar i soffan. Orkan ute? Vaddå?

http://www.gp.se/gp/jsp/Crosslink.jsp?d=113&a=196200

Galen och 30

Gal och 30 ....

Testing, testing, one two three....
This picture was taken on my 30-year-celebration in November. The hostess is serving coffee. Isn't the wallpaper very annoying and green? I need to make some changes.
The hunks in the background are colleagues ;)