But about reading .. I feel it is my duty to read great books that the great people read. Such as Hunger. A never ending book, about hunger. Hunger over and over. Then a loaf of bread. Then hunger again. Some cheese. Then hunger. So I gave up, and felt bad about it, considering Hamsuns a Nobel laureate. There has to be reason.

Trying to decide whether to pick the book up, I take Paul Auster’s Collected Poems off my bookshelf and select a poem at random;

"A word, unearthed
for Knut Hamsun

kneaded
on the blood trail back
from America, where the sun-
stoked locomotive roof
baked the consumption
out of him:

with so much distance
to be delved by what is
purely godless, the written
does not damn you
to any fate
worse than self.

You hunger
up the vast bread slopes of feeling,
and begin, breaking once again, your fathomless
alphabet of stones".  

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.

But Norwegian nomads dont complain. They find ways of adapting. They expand their horizons, they find ways to enjoy their own company, they take pleasure in learning and exploring .. and then they wait. They decide they wont take any bullshit, and they toughen up. And when the going gets a little bit too tough, they have at least one phone number to call, on person to take it out on and a hope that someone will make them laugh.  

And as they lie in bed, waiting to be swept away to the land of dreams, and they daydream about being kept company in a bed a little too big for one .. Then they remember only weeks from now, nomads will be flowing into the city from both North and South. Wonderful norwegian nomads in one piece pyjamas, mamacitas from Noruega, the ultimate partner in crime, the bestest most wonderful nomad is on her way .. Soon to be followed by Scottish, Californian and hopefully the odd migrant nomad from Connecticut. 

And till then, the Norwegian Nomad is enjoying her solitude, the primary elections, and the big bed that allows her to spread her arms out wide (feel free to belt Creed songs at this point .. )  

The reason for the power station shutdown are not as immediate or as violent as in 2006, when Israeli forces bombed the Enron-funded power station to pieces, but its no less controversial. The Israeli blocade of Gaza has drained the strip of all resources, and there is no more fuel and no more funds to keep it lit and heated. But y’know, that is the sort of thing you’ve got to expect when you democratically elect Hamas to govern you.

But I’m not writing to complain about Israeli politics (substitute more fitting word after Israeli, if you please), rather, I want to express my surprise about the invisibility of the situation in US media. Browsing my regular news feeds, therewas no sign of Palestine until tonight. In trying to make intelligent small talk at a reception tonight, the subject of Heath Ledger more than exhausted, I brought up power stations in Gaza .. and the conversation ended. Only now, after days of coverage in norwegian media, was there mention of it in major US newspapers and news channels. Is Palestine out of fashion? Are primary elections all consuming? Or do the Americans simply listen to Olmerts "assurances" that this is not a crisis and suggests the Palestinians "try walking"? Norwegian tabloids manage to squeee in handball, the young dead, Clinton, Obama, space travel, asylum seekers gone M.I.A., cross country victories and Gaza all at once.

I’m just saying ..  

“Art: the expression or application of human creative skill and imagination”

“Creativity: the use of the imagination or original ideas, esp. in the production of an artistic work.”

                                                                Oxford American dictionary

Art connoisseurs will probably disagree with me – but I am suggesting a new definition, of art as representation rather than documentation. Art does not mirror nature as the latter is visible before us, but it takes nature – including also human ideas and social beliefs and practices – and transforms it. The source of the art may or may not be recognizable the piece’s model , but the artist should never strive for her final product to be indistinguishable from its source.

Isn’t art by definition a result of a creative process, the need for or desire to find novel ways of expressing an idea, an event, a system or practice?  And does not the craft of the Greek sculptors contradict this, and the definitions given above by the intelligent people editing the Oxford American Dictionary?

So there it is, the reason for my lack of appreciation for the knockoffs of the ancient Greeks and the portrait “artists” of the Middle Ages. It is just unimaginative, unchallenging documentation (and of only a single aspect of their contemporary societies at that).  

2. "Well, no one is going to want to sleep with you if you dont smile"

3. "You all look like prudes. Stop being fucking prudes. I just want to talk for a bit" 

4. "Both your friends have rejected me. Do you want me?" 

5. "You look like you’re 18. You’re not? Well, you age well" 

6. "I could compliment you, but whats the point, you’re just going to reject me anyway. So I am just going to sit here and annoy you until you leave" 

7. "You, girl, where are you going?" Followed by retch, cough, vomit.  

Its December, but what year? 1999? I’m wearing a long sleeved red shirt, a black skirt and boots. He was supposed to come see me tonight, but the snow made it difficult to drive. He would stay at work, he had lots to do. "I’ll come keep you company," I said "I’ll get on the bus."
"You look very nice tonight," he says, sighing. "I can’t do this anymore. I just don’t have the time. You’re lovely, but .. I just don’t have the time." Am I crying? Probably. The door bell rings, a friend is stopping by to pick up something. The friend looks over at him. "Your girlfriend is very pretty," he says. I walk back through the snow and catch the last bus home.

East 17 - Stay Another Day

Any dance, any time of year. One year, when we were still kids. There were four songs to slow dance to. Stay Another Day. Kelly Family - I Can’t Help Myself, Toni Braxton - Unbreak My Heart and Bon Jovi - Always. It doesn’t matter which one I put in the title. School discos always feel the same. The endless waiting for some guy to dance with. No, thats not true. One of those guys to dance with. Three were acceptable. The rest .. I never noticed or tried to avoid, effectively eliminating every guy that would grow up to be good. Every now and then I won. Brown hair, gel’ed and parted. We wrapped our arms around each other and dragged our feet to the music, and the smell of Lynx would stay on my clothes until the next day. It was happiness, pure happiness. Until I saw them. All the others. Pointing, laughing. "She thinks she won. She will never win." I close my eyes again and inhale what I think is the most exquisite smell of all and decide to save the tears for when I get home.

Korn - Freak on a Leash and Limp Bizkit - Rollin’

Another crazy party. Half a liter of moonshine. Everyone is there. Spiky hair is the trend this month. Suddenly we’re all on the floor. Falling, crawling, laughing. Dancing? Kissing? Who remembers anymore. He looks just like a movie star, but he’s heard it too many times. Am I going to kiss him tonight? Then there is the guy with the tongue. The miracle tongue. we’ve all heard rumours. And him .. the green eyed one. Which one will I kiss tonight? We’re crawling, crawling, the boys are rolling, I have dyed my hair black, I have leather pants, and I am drunk and happy and this is all I know for a year. Every weekend we crawl and we roll and we fall in love. And then we turn 16.

Peter Andre - Mysterious Girl

I must be 11. His wash board was pure implants, but the tan was real. At least once a year we’d go to England, and I would bring back all the important magazines. SmashHits. Top of the Pops. Take That, Boyzone, Backstreet Boys .. and the half naked and half greek Andre with the feminine voice. My cred among the small circle of lovers-of-soon-to-be-officially-gay-men was high then. Respect. "Baby girl, I sense tonight is your lucky night .. The tropical scent of you takes me up above .. ." I wonder where the posters went ..

Metallica - Nothing Else Matters

"I love her so much, and now she’s leaving us .. " He pulls me aside, he looks desperate. And he does. My two best friends are dating the two most attentive boys. Infatuation like only sixteen year olds can experience it. I’m the go-to person when the walls start cracking. And the doll they toss between them when they get drunk - a game we sadly grew out of. I buy their girlfriends’ presents. I offer my fingers for measurement when they buy them rings. "You’ll find someone too .. I mean, you look like you’re 12, but you’re pretty. My friend says he really wants to sleep with you."
"Maria, she’s leaving me. Tell me what to do." So I tell him. 7 years down the road, I realize I might not have done that good a job.

Richard Marx - Now and Forever

Two months have passed since the day it snowed and I looked so pretty. I’m in a cold cold house on top of a mountain far far away from civilization. I’m in France. I don’t speak French. And I want to go home. I want real breakfast. I dont want cake and hot chocolate and endless flipping through the dictionary to get my point across. I want bread and cheese and milk and I want him and I know I can make him love me. I know, I know, I know. When I get home, he’ll love me.

And then there are the songs that just hit me and I feel every feeling I felt then, without remembering a thing. La Bouche - Where Do You Go?. LeAnn Rimes - Can’t Fight The Moonlight. Limahl - Never Ending Story. Linkin Park - In The End. Lou Bega - Mambo No.5. Marcy Playground - Sex and Candy. Sash! - Mysterious Times. September When - Bullet Me. Sixpence None The Richer. Even Sisqo’s Thong Song .. and Scatman.

What are your stories? 

I was bound to feel disappointed. I always do. And I know it, when I am longing for it, that I will be. Maybe it was a different disappointment this time. for the first time, I was disappointed in the people, not the place. I felt let down. Out of place. Not ignored, not overlooked .. In new and unexciting territory.
Some things never change, and you appreciate it, while others never change when they should. The friend who never calls, who’s in and out and who’s sense of time is not controlled by conventional standards, she is still there. And when disappointment and anxiety threatens to suffocate a poor homecomer, there’s always a cigarette and a 90’s disco classic waiting. And there are surprises. An apology in the midst of everything, an invitation. A realization that pride is simply pride, and principles must fall when options are limited. But then there are the allies you no longer know. Their shells are the same but the inside appear to be nothing but wasted potential. So much energy and intelligence drowned in beer and boredom. A frightening lack of initiative, politeness and interest. Did I imagine our past? Did I just manufacture those memories of good times and big dreams? Or did I simply erase the things I didn’t want to know?

Everyone changes, but did I really change that much? Did they all change in my eyes only? No. Something has happened to all of us and it gives anxiety yet another reason to grow, and my rootlessness is strengthened. Where do I go? Or more importantly .. where do I return to? 

Bring a Kenyan to the Olympics and let him ski 50 km and cross the finish line 3 hours after the last Northerner. 10 years later, bring his son to Norway (his son is obviously named after the most famous living Norwegian skier) and repeat the process with mom, dad and son Kenya. Watch them slide backwards, fall over, try to get up and fall over again. Laugh a little more. Then say "That’s so cute!" Norwegian television at its finest.

We like watching foreigners try to do grown-up, or human, things. Much like we enjoy monkeys who draw and squirrels who surf. Mom says its nothing different to Americas Funniest Home Videos (we don’t have our own ..) - I am not so sure. Brown and yellow people against a white background appear especially attractive.

Sociological explanation to follow.  

2007. 2006 was spent between India, Norway and England. 2007 equally diversified; London, Delhi, Sandnes, New York. It ended in Sadness City, although I’ve made New York my home for an indefinite period.

I dont know what happened in 2007. I suppose this happened.

I studied, I wrote, I passed. Somehow.
I worked, I experienced, I got bored .. But I learned.
I made friends. I made enemies.
I had good sex, bad sex and great sex.
I fell in and out and in and out and into love.

I wrote, I got published, and it made me happy.
I had the longest summer of my life, and it made me happy.  

I made tough decisions, life altering decisions, they made me proud, but they did not make me happy.

I swallowed my pride, changed my decisions. One made me happy. One made me angry. Disappointed.  

Then fall came and it did what fall does. It made me confused, it made me sad. Now we’ll wait for April to bring answers.

That’s a year gone by. I’m sure next year’s list will look a lot like this one.