Fast forward, I’m standing still

I’m excited about never ending coffees with always present friends at never changing cafes.

I’m excited about pork, pork, pork and a little bit of turkey. I’m excited about aquavit, which makes me retch, but its still Christmas.  

I’m excited about Norwegian chinese food, Norwegian Italian style salads .. and simply Norwegian food. 

I’m excited about paying $10 to rent a movie, and to do it every night. I’m excited to spend an hour at the video shop trying to all agree.

I’m excited for Trivial Pursuit, Passport and Kortskalle. I’m excited about sitting in her couch and smoking all the cigarettes I haven’t smoked so far this year.

I’m excited about performing Hajj to the windy beaches, my Mecca, to the mountains, my Medina. 

.. and mostly I’m excited to return to New York in the New Year.

I’m packing all my belongings again. Another move. This time I’m not boarding any planes, crossing any seas or oceans, or pulling up my roots. 150 blocks north, its still Manhattan actually.

Even though things are starting to fall into place, and the arrangements are comfortable (well, come February 1st), I still wonder if I’m doing it for the right reasons. I think this time I have no reason. I’m just out of options. It seems like the easiest thing to do - even if the process is complicated and the outcomes are uncertain.

Am I staying for the sake of my career? For my friends, although only half of them will still be here after the holidays? For love, for sex, hey, even for a little bit of masochism? No idea. I’m sure I’m doing it for the wrong reasons, whatever they are, but I’m also sure that it will still work out for the best and prove to be the only feasible thing to do. Thats just how cats like me land.  

If only books werent so heavy and clothes so easily crumpled, and if only I had a place to stay for two weeks after January 15th.

Every year I think I love Christmas. I hunt down the perfect Christmas trees, and I plan the perfect presents. I unleash all my harbored creativity on gift wrapping, and I stop eating for weeks just to make room for more Christmas dinner.

Christmas is always about coming home. From Bergen, from London, from New York. Reuniting with old friends you havent seen since last Christmas. Planning the perfect New Years Eve that is bound to be a let down, but hey, thats tradition.

And then .. As the actual week creeps up on me, when everything has been made and bought, an icy feeling starts growing in my stomach and I am the loneliest person on the planet. It happens every year, and every year I forget. Until it happens again. The feeling that something is wrong, that something is missing, is inevitable.

Every year I forget how long it takes to pass .. Perhaps I dont even notice when it does. But it must, each time, unless the icyness spirals year by year, down down down. But no. The Ghost of Christmas Past, thats what it is. A reminder of something so far gone that I can no longer identify it. An empty promise - thats what Christmas is.

Maybe next year I’ll go somewhere where the sun shines and prevents blocks of ice from growing.  

The day was one of the longer ones. Completely exhausted after attempts to sort my thoughts and structure a reply that would back my case yet restore a peaceful atmosphere, I travelled west and north for an hour. My head was pounding, and I carried a bag heavier than I should have. It had to be one of those days with no vacant seats on the subway ..

Once back on street level again, it had started raining. A fog was seeping down between the buildings, and all chrismas lights merged into one fountain of light. It was a light rain, misty, and the air was cool. Not cold. Just cool. Once I reached the door, I was sad to go in, and I delayed ringing the bell. The drizzle brought bounce to my hair and life to my skin, and though clearly not flowing, it washed away some of the frustration. A man came to the door and asked me to wait inside, its warm and dry in here, he said. I smiled. No thanks. This is perfect. Its just perfect.  

He might not bring you flowers or call you everyday, maybe he doesnt even tell you that you’re beautiful.

But when he automatically puts out his hand so you can spit your olive pits in it ..

That’s suddenly all you need.