Fast forward, I’m standing still

Blog blog blog blog blog blog.

I have all this time and nothing on my mind worth sharing.
I will have to become a meaningless blogger, the kind that blogs about dinners.

I can tell you how I am becoming bipolar. How one minute I cant have people around me, and the next I must. How in the morning I swear never to call them again, but in the evening I’m so desperate for company that I still do.
The last few weeks have been fairly uneventful, socially speaking. But from tomorrow on! Tomorrow is the day when the lost ones return from African and European continents, to fill the gap made by the ones lost in the City itself. And I promise to love every minute I spend with them. And then love every minute I’m alone. A little bit of everything goes a lot further than any extreme.

 

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.

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.  

Misinterpretations of my postings have become more common. "The person in the dream is him, right?" "Is it him, in the dream?". Many ideas, none of them correct.

I never say that all I write is true. Sometimes a small thing happens, and it becomes a big story. And a dream is a dream. Dreams don’t take place, they are dreamt. And the things that were dreamt, didn’t necessarily all take place either.

Just a word of caution, or a guide to further reading. Inferences can be made, sure, moods can be gathered, but absolute truths? No.

Maybe now I can write the stories that I really want to write. Where a brief encounter turns into fictional love, without the object of affection being intimidated. Where the people I love can be charicatured and altered without being offended.

I think there are many stories to come ..  

M.I.A. Sri Lankan goddess. Will be MIA when I grow up. Diplomats like her too. Isn’t that politically incorrect?

Johnossi. Two men, much noise. Me likes.
The Essex Green. Mushroom Head, Elaine and the blind keyboard player didn’t really do it for me.
Shout Out Louds. Hot singer. Hot music. Hot hot heat?

Drunkenness and delirium. Dance dance dance.

Rosa Passos. Five people, some slightly younger than the average crowd, others a lot younger (me!), dressing fancy for the Blue Note. Brazilian jazz and Bossanova. Rosa is a beauty. Rosa smiles like a tipsy grandma, only warmer and with honesty. And she sings like your lover, she moves her hips like your mum when she remembers how much she loves your dad, and then she brings you roses. Five people fall in love and have no qualms about the money spent.  Qualms exist, however, about the mojitos after.

Fires of Rome. He wants to be gay, he wants to be Justin Hawkins, but fails in both attempts.
Thomas Dybdahl. After months of separation, I find myself surrounded by Norwegians again. For good reason. Although the bastard went ahead and got married, and even though he claimed he was from Stavanger and bad-mouthed our actual hometown, I feel nothing but love for him.
Grand National. I am PROUD of my British heritage. I need to say “Up yours, mate!” and “Wanker” more. 

To be continued. 

Sorting through all the things I’ve accumulated over the last year, I’ve made a discovery. For someone living so carelessly in the past, I’ve been planning so carefully for the future.

I have ready remedies for accidents that never happen and illnesses that never fall.

I have books in languages I dont speak but hope that I one day will.

I have pins and paper clips and markers and coloured stickers for the day that I’d sort out my papers. (The academic year is over).  

I have special clothes for special occassions that never come around. Perhaps I should change my idea of what constitutes a special occassion. The night I wear the black dress wont be the most fabulous party of the year and the night I wear the red lingerie wont be the one where he loves me the most.  

Of course, this leads me to experiment. A more spartan life has started. Now accidents can happen and I wont have any band aids. If someone asks me to translate into Spanish, I cant look it up. And to the party, I will wear something that is not in my closet now. Perhaps I’ll be surprised. Perhaps.  

 

Its ten o’clock, I’ve worked all day, reached my goal of 3000 out of 8000 words. I’ve had dinner. I’ve cleaned my room. No one is at home. There is nothing to do, so I decide to pour myself a big glass of wine and read some poetry to brush up on my Spanish. I get my wine and my book, I light some candles, turn off the lights, and crawl into bed. I’m ready.

I take more than a moderate sip of my wine .. and spit it out all over the floor. The wine’s become vinegar, I feel like I just drank a bottle of french dressing. Now that’s what I call disappointment. Fuck it, I’m going to sleep.

 

1. Don’t think that you are special.
2. Don’t think that you are of the same standing as us.
3. Don’t think that you are smarter than us.
4. Don’t fancy yourself as being better than us.
5. Don’t think that you know more than us.
6. Don’t think that you are more important than us.
7. Don’t think that you are good at anything.
8. Don’t laugh at us.
9. Don’t think that anyone cares about you.
10. Don’t think that you can teach us anything.

Does this sound like something you’d want to face every day? No? As a Norwegian, you most probably have to. The Jante law, described by Aksel Sandemose in 1933 as the common Scandinavian mentality, is often thought of as a thing of the past - but it still lives in Norway, alongside the Jealousy. Oh, the Jealousy and the Envy.

Living as a Norwegian in exile can be extremely liberating. It’s okay to fuck up. It’s okay to state your ambitions and fail to reach them. It’s okay to state your ambitions full stop. As a Norwegian in Norway, you have no ambitions. You have no dreams. You are no one. You keep it to yourself, and you excuse yourself and play it down should you succeed in anything. No, I am not a good cello player, you say, even if you play in the orchestra. No, I can’t sing, even if you do it professionally. 

Back home, I dont want to work for the UN. The New York thing just sort of fell into my lap, its no big deal really, I dont really care, I am not that excited about it. Honestly.

No, I am proud of what I am, what I’ve done and where I am going. I want to do well, I want to do better than what I am doing now, but Shush! Dont tell any norwegians - they are cutting down the tall poppies.  

Maybe that’s why I am never content. Why a good grade never makes me happy. Because I am not supposed to be happy, because I am no better than anyone else - I am equally good.

I love my country. I love the mountains, the trees, the long sandy beaches. I love the strawberries and the prawns, the taxes and the benefits. I love that "The important thing is not to win, but to participate" as opposed to "Second place is for the first loser", but I think I’ve had enough. My country needs ambition, it needs competition, it needs something to push it forward, to reach it’s potential. Even though it’s rated the best country in the world, there is far to go, there are many things to achieve. If only we weren’t restraining ourselves in constant fair of public opinion. 

I love my country, but I won’t be going back. 18 months is long enough to realize that I don’t belong anymore. I want to say all that I have to say, I want to work towards my goals without doing it in the dark and without feeling shame should I reach them - or even worse, should I fail to reach my outspoken beliefs and be ridiculed. So, you thought you were better than us?

I don’t think I’m better. I don’t think I am in a position to teach them anything. I just think that I am me and they are them and that they prevent us from coexisting.

I love Norway - but I’m not Norwegian.

In February, many things happened. One of them took place in the British Museum.
I met someone. An Angel - a psychic. I am not one of those who believe. But I was bored. So I listened.

I listened to all of my past lives - all much more eventful than the one I lead this time around.

But I also learned about my future. I was wrong, Angel said, to believe that my future lay in India, or anywhere in Asia. Obviously, I had not told him that was where I was headed. Angel said I was headed in the opposite direction - "Your future is in America".

I had forgotten all about Angel, about all of his predictions and all of his well-intended opening of my shakras. But today, after walking the parts of London I have carefully avoided because of the memories they carry, and the British Museum once again caught my eye, I remembered. It’s all coming true. All of his visions are becoming reality. Next month I’ll be in America.  As for his other visions .. I dare not consider the possibilities.

I wonder, did I have a say in this? Did I do this - because of what I’d been told - or did this happen to me?