Too busy working.
Too busy loving.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Bored, broke and blue
Found this entry from last march. Quite interesting:
Es tan corto el amor, y tan largo el olvido.
-Pablo Neruda
The great wheels of a disjointed life with no direction are slowly
winding down and adapting to an arctic tempo. Like an overture, I'm dancing on the tip of a feathered pen, Vivaldi's violin sings to me
from the dotted ink, it is winter, but the snow is missing.
I exist in the heavenly arrangement of light, I linger between piano
and mezzoforte, it's so different here, so different. So...quiet (so
lonely). Every morning greets me with every shade of the palette,
albeit sometimes only grey. This great feeling, as if another prescence guides me through the day, it follows me wherever I go, as if every tree, every rock and birch notices my uneasy breaths, the wind whispers comfort in my hair as I walk.
I run. Every day I run. Through clouds. Perched on top of the valley I
grew up in, as cold temperature forces them down into the basin, I run
through them and feel the smiles of unborn drops of rain tingle my
cheeks. Too much winter numbs your limbs, but too much summer numbs
your senses, I realise.
My mind has forgotten to return.
It still lingers in the hills of Brisbane, it still bathes in the glow
of a jealous afternoon sun, every heartbeat beats in places and faces
that are no more than memories. It's so bizarre, suddenly all the people I know, I knew - only exist as small electric impulses flashing between synapses in my brain. It's as if I'm writing this in a shed on
a distant planet. Where did everybody go?
It's like watching a bus leave with someone you care about on it. As
your eyes meet and lock for what may be the last time (lightning might
strike you any second, you know), you realise: this moment, this
bittersweet instant will only be a poor quality polaroid carefully
etched onto your retina. And so, as the squeaking twin doors close, a
part of you leaves you, in a daring leap it jumps out of your heart
and takes a quick glance back at you, mid stride. It gives you a
fearless shrug and a boyish smile and slips between the doors of the
speeding coach in the nick of time and disappears around the corner.
We all have a dream that left on a bus. It's comforting to know that
on the shoulder of every person leaving, there sits a tiny whiff of
hope from the person left behind, like a small daffodil perched up
against the neck and tickling the ear, a forget-me-not. We all have
our flowerbeds of burden to wear on our shoulders, we all feel a
whispering tickle now and again, from a hope and a dream standing a
tip-toe blowing in your ear, making sure you never forget the little
instants that make up a life.
As I write, my hectic mind continues to fill the office wall at the
back of my eyes with ever fading polaroids, whispering through
clenched teeth: I must not forget.
I understand that it is only my eyes forgetting. Every tip of my
fingers, every laugh and smile I've felt is locked securely away in a
vaulted heart.
Tap-tap, goes Leopold's white stick. As I look up, I realise the overture does not stop, I'm up soon, gotta stay focused, the violin's playing now, and I smile. Life goes on, it strikes me. Like a kiss that's still on your lips, years later, life goes on but never leaves you.
It's just intermission, that's all.
Bored, broke and blue
Es tan corto el amor, y tan largo el olvido.
-Pablo Neruda
The great wheels of a disjointed life with no direction are slowly
winding down and adapting to an arctic tempo. Like an overture, I'm dancing on the tip of a feathered pen, Vivaldi's violin sings to me
from the dotted ink, it is winter, but the snow is missing.
I exist in the heavenly arrangement of light, I linger between piano
and mezzoforte, it's so different here, so different. So...quiet (so
lonely). Every morning greets me with every shade of the palette,
albeit sometimes only grey. This great feeling, as if another prescence guides me through the day, it follows me wherever I go, as if every tree, every rock and birch notices my uneasy breaths, the wind whispers comfort in my hair as I walk.
I run. Every day I run. Through clouds. Perched on top of the valley I
grew up in, as cold temperature forces them down into the basin, I run
through them and feel the smiles of unborn drops of rain tingle my
cheeks. Too much winter numbs your limbs, but too much summer numbs
your senses, I realise.
My mind has forgotten to return.
It still lingers in the hills of Brisbane, it still bathes in the glow
of a jealous afternoon sun, every heartbeat beats in places and faces
that are no more than memories. It's so bizarre, suddenly all the people I know, I knew - only exist as small electric impulses flashing between synapses in my brain. It's as if I'm writing this in a shed on
a distant planet. Where did everybody go?
It's like watching a bus leave with someone you care about on it. As
your eyes meet and lock for what may be the last time (lightning might
strike you any second, you know), you realise: this moment, this
bittersweet instant will only be a poor quality polaroid carefully
etched onto your retina. And so, as the squeaking twin doors close, a
part of you leaves you, in a daring leap it jumps out of your heart
and takes a quick glance back at you, mid stride. It gives you a
fearless shrug and a boyish smile and slips between the doors of the
speeding coach in the nick of time and disappears around the corner.
We all have a dream that left on a bus. It's comforting to know that
on the shoulder of every person leaving, there sits a tiny whiff of
hope from the person left behind, like a small daffodil perched up
against the neck and tickling the ear, a forget-me-not. We all have
our flowerbeds of burden to wear on our shoulders, we all feel a
whispering tickle now and again, from a hope and a dream standing a
tip-toe blowing in your ear, making sure you never forget the little
instants that make up a life.
As I write, my hectic mind continues to fill the office wall at the
back of my eyes with ever fading polaroids, whispering through
clenched teeth: I must not forget.
I understand that it is only my eyes forgetting. Every tip of my
fingers, every laugh and smile I've felt is locked securely away in a
vaulted heart.
Tap-tap, goes Leopold's white stick. As I look up, I realise the overture does not stop, I'm up soon, gotta stay focused, the violin's playing now, and I smile. Life goes on, it strikes me. Like a kiss that's still on your lips, years later, life goes on but never leaves you.
It's just intermission, that's all.
Bored, broke and blue
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Solitaria
Sick.
of it all?
Most of it, but there is light, waay
down the corridor.
Just have to open all these doors first,
see where they lead.
Come april, and things will happen...
of it all?
Most of it, but there is light, waay
down the corridor.
Just have to open all these doors first,
see where they lead.
Come april, and things will happen...
Sunday, February 12, 2006
some thoughts from a year ago
Oh my soul. Hear me now!
Apathy is a blinding noise. This wall of noise, of blindinglukewarmness, of newness, it holds me down, stops me in my tracks;this sponge of everyday life drains me of my dreams. I float on words,they barely hold me up in this sea of disjointed existence. I'm home,but only in corporeal fancy. When will life begin? I'm still in thewaiting room waiting for my appointment, tapping my fingers on thetable of time. Ten more minutes, she says - Ms Fate pops her headthrough the door and smiles that smile that makes me believe her.
This air is my blood, so a part of me, the snow that is supposed to behere, it fills me totally yet I long for something, a gust of windperhaps, a tornado of hope? "Save me!" I ask my pen. Where did mylight go? Is this it? Is this really it? Save me from this stasis.Le mie parole care, sogno non posso. Risparmi me da apatia.The world waits for no one, the wind holds me, locks my feet down infrozen grass. We all hope for stolen glances from a phantom skulking in a dark corner, with admiring eyes transfixed on dancing hands.
Where did the slow days go, wtih sleepy sunshine and the comfortinghug of a flat white resting on your temple? Where is your braziliancup, Spock? Your big brekkie, Fat Boy? I left your vibrating circus toperform in real life. Nobody's laughing, not any more.Give me life, give me everything, for I know nothing, I see nothing, Iam nothing.Who would have thought torpidity was so deafening, so blinding, sodistracting, so full of sonorous life and sound.
Every breath I take I exhale in well-known bitumen streets, which lumpy surface carried myhopes and led me to smiling faces I now miss terribly and only see inflashes of faded 0s and 1s. Do you remember me still? How we laughed,how we drank and toasted and rejoiced in happy oblivion! Please do notforget, for if you do, I will die in your minds.
I do not want to die, yet now time passes me by like a thundering herdof pandemonium, and leaves me out of the loop. Ten more minutes, shetells me.Ten more minutes. Tap-tap-tap go my fretful fingers.Li manco, i miei amici - nonlo dimentichi.Molti desideri e molto amore
Apathy is a blinding noise. This wall of noise, of blindinglukewarmness, of newness, it holds me down, stops me in my tracks;this sponge of everyday life drains me of my dreams. I float on words,they barely hold me up in this sea of disjointed existence. I'm home,but only in corporeal fancy. When will life begin? I'm still in thewaiting room waiting for my appointment, tapping my fingers on thetable of time. Ten more minutes, she says - Ms Fate pops her headthrough the door and smiles that smile that makes me believe her.
This air is my blood, so a part of me, the snow that is supposed to behere, it fills me totally yet I long for something, a gust of windperhaps, a tornado of hope? "Save me!" I ask my pen. Where did mylight go? Is this it? Is this really it? Save me from this stasis.Le mie parole care, sogno non posso. Risparmi me da apatia.The world waits for no one, the wind holds me, locks my feet down infrozen grass. We all hope for stolen glances from a phantom skulking in a dark corner, with admiring eyes transfixed on dancing hands.
Where did the slow days go, wtih sleepy sunshine and the comfortinghug of a flat white resting on your temple? Where is your braziliancup, Spock? Your big brekkie, Fat Boy? I left your vibrating circus toperform in real life. Nobody's laughing, not any more.Give me life, give me everything, for I know nothing, I see nothing, Iam nothing.Who would have thought torpidity was so deafening, so blinding, sodistracting, so full of sonorous life and sound.
Every breath I take I exhale in well-known bitumen streets, which lumpy surface carried myhopes and led me to smiling faces I now miss terribly and only see inflashes of faded 0s and 1s. Do you remember me still? How we laughed,how we drank and toasted and rejoiced in happy oblivion! Please do notforget, for if you do, I will die in your minds.
I do not want to die, yet now time passes me by like a thundering herdof pandemonium, and leaves me out of the loop. Ten more minutes, shetells me.Ten more minutes. Tap-tap-tap go my fretful fingers.Li manco, i miei amici - nonlo dimentichi.Molti desideri e molto amore
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
Saturday, December 24, 2005
LAVMÆLT -
Ord
bare små
små ord
og lavmælt
nesten uten pust
for oss
som brukne strå
ord uten lys
og nesten uten form
ord som hos trær
små halv-ord
som i søvn
for oss.
Mellem alt det store
små, små ord
å gjemme bort
på baksiden av en hånd
og ved din øreflipp
små ord
helt uten lys
som dyr
og gress.
--ROLF JACOBSEN
bare små
små ord
og lavmælt
nesten uten pust
for oss
som brukne strå
ord uten lys
og nesten uten form
ord som hos trær
små halv-ord
som i søvn
for oss.
Mellem alt det store
små, små ord
å gjemme bort
på baksiden av en hånd
og ved din øreflipp
små ord
helt uten lys
som dyr
og gress.
--ROLF JACOBSEN
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Bulb and plastic
HE WISHES FOR THE CLOTHS OF HEAVEN
HAD I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS
HAD I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS
Thursday, November 24, 2005
Going for it
Strange how inconsequential it all becomes when your heart is consumed. The irony of it all; everything is suddenly unimportant, and everything is important. Every little detail filled with meaning, a macro-microscopic world view fuelled by the delusion of love.
But all it boils down to, is the fact that you have to nosedive into it, headfirst.
I'm plunging right now, and for some reason, I'm enjoying it. it feels right.
Other than that, it's business as usual, Mr. Melsa. Wine, Food, Tract, in that order.
But all it boils down to, is the fact that you have to nosedive into it, headfirst.
I'm plunging right now, and for some reason, I'm enjoying it. it feels right.
Other than that, it's business as usual, Mr. Melsa. Wine, Food, Tract, in that order.
Sunday, November 13, 2005
Jumping Jon
I have every reason to jump.
Just for jumping's sake.
Just for another perspective.
Just for Joy.
Just for Love.
Just for Love.
Jump.
Jump.
Just for jumping's sake.
Just for another perspective.
Just for Joy.
Just for Love.
Just for Love.
Jump.
Jump.
Monday, November 07, 2005
Leaves
Leaves are doing their last slow dance before they fall dramatically into their bitumen- or grassgraves.
It doesn't really bother me.
I'm in love. This might be it.
I'm invincible.
It doesn't really bother me.
I'm in love. This might be it.
I'm invincible.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Winter
Left Kristiansand in a dreary drizzle. Outside the window of my parents' house, the snow is turning into blocks of ice. It's like I'm skipping ahead of time, meeting the storm further up the road before it hits.
By the time it will, I'll be back again.
But this time, I might be in love.
Outside is winter, but spring is in my heart.
Life is weird.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
solstolen
That wooshing sound of summer wizzes past my ears. As I look into my garden, it's hard to envision it draped in snow. But it won't be long.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Monday, October 10, 2005
Here we go again
Life right now reminds me of an animated movie I once saw:
Person: Uh-Oh.
Llama: Let me guess. Huge waterfall. Sharp rocks at the bottom?
Person: Yup.
Llama: (sighs) - Bring it on.
Person: Uh-Oh.
Llama: Let me guess. Huge waterfall. Sharp rocks at the bottom?
Person: Yup.
Llama: (sighs) - Bring it on.
Sunday, October 09, 2005
Spaltet
days turn to nights turn to days turn to fragments.
No routine, something's missing.
I'm a traceur, vaulting my way through the parkour of life. Time to get focus.
Tasted and smelled my way through Italy, Spain and France today, from Navarra to Piemonte to Rhône to South East Australia.
Saw Izzat. Rezpekkth, mann.
Rezzzpekkth.
No routine, something's missing.
I'm a traceur, vaulting my way through the parkour of life. Time to get focus.
Tasted and smelled my way through Italy, Spain and France today, from Navarra to Piemonte to Rhône to South East Australia.
Saw Izzat. Rezpekkth, mann.
Rezzzpekkth.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Hva er livet uten de små riskene? Rundt hvert hjørne en ny mulighet, hvert lille steg blir eventuelt et liv, fylt med de usikre valg man kunne ha tatt.
Det slo meg idag at livet er ikke annet enn en serie konsekvenser av valg man overhodet ikke hadde noen forutsetninger for å forutsi. Denne tanken burde kanskje ha gjort meg særdeles deprimert, men den gjorde ikke det.
Den gjorde meg fri.
Det slo meg idag at livet er ikke annet enn en serie konsekvenser av valg man overhodet ikke hadde noen forutsetninger for å forutsi. Denne tanken burde kanskje ha gjort meg særdeles deprimert, men den gjorde ikke det.
Den gjorde meg fri.
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
Monday, October 03, 2005
Sunday, October 02, 2005
About me
Originally from a place called Lier in Norway, but most recently from Brisbane in Oz, then at home to collect some dust and then again to Kristiansand in the south of Norway. Here I work as a wine waiter and gymnastics coach. I also dabble in my own business, a small communcations bureau.
Other than that it doesn't surprise most people that meet me that I have intellectual interests, but I'm full of contrasts, very eclectic. Equally comfortable with chocolate milk and Bourdeaux, I have to admit I can get snobby when it comes to food, wine and fashion, but other than that I'm a laid back kinda guy, an old soul, very stable, a little melancholic, I have an old italian living la dolce vita behind my left earlobe :)
I'm like a bunch of photographs on a floor. Among all the colorful fragments is a nuanced whole, you just have to see it all in perspective. I'm not saying you have to hang from a ceiling to understand me, I just like the metaphore.
I know more than you think, and am not so arrogant as I seem.It's more important to do the right thing than to do things right.
Other than that it doesn't surprise most people that meet me that I have intellectual interests, but I'm full of contrasts, very eclectic. Equally comfortable with chocolate milk and Bourdeaux, I have to admit I can get snobby when it comes to food, wine and fashion, but other than that I'm a laid back kinda guy, an old soul, very stable, a little melancholic, I have an old italian living la dolce vita behind my left earlobe :)
I'm like a bunch of photographs on a floor. Among all the colorful fragments is a nuanced whole, you just have to see it all in perspective. I'm not saying you have to hang from a ceiling to understand me, I just like the metaphore.
I know more than you think, and am not so arrogant as I seem.It's more important to do the right thing than to do things right.
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