September:
SoundtrackOfMyLife
Bo Kaspers Orkester / Cigarett / Vi kommer aldrig att dö
Ralph Myerz & The Jack Herren Band / Think Twice / L.i.p.s.t.i.c.k
Jose Gonzales / Crosses
Zero 7 feat. J.Gonzales / Futures
Sofian / 45 Degrees
Kings of Convenience / Gold for the price of silver (erot rmx)
Modaji / The One and The Same (Jazztronik rmx)
Lupe Fiasco / Kick, Push
Mos Def feat. DJ Honda / Travellin' Man
Blackstarr / Definition
Talib Kweli / Never been in love
Thomas Dybdahl / Stay Home
PicturesOfMyL ife: www.flickr.com/photos/jonmelsa
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Why should we be in such desperate haste to succeed and in such desperate enterprises?
If a man can not keep in pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer.
Let him step to the music that he hears however measured and far away."
(Henry David Thoreau)
Flux
It is with a certain sense of deja vu that I now find myself sitting in front of a computer screen in an Australian university-library writing to friends that are far away. As far as I can tell, by the accents I hear and by the disconcerted atmosphere of acedemic doom that looms over studying faces that form this multicultural network of young people hurrying about their business, I'm in Melbourne, more accurately, Monash university.
How do we go about it all, constructing ourselves over and over, in different contexts, in different modes, and still end up feeling like the same person? As an old friend of mine puts it, "it sometimes feels like I've lived two lives... Maybe I was unhappy and insightful before. Maybe I'm happy and oblivious now. Most likely, I'm somewhere inbetween."
I went away again. Can't really explian why, I don't have any overarching justifications. I just did. Maybe it was cowardice. Maybe it was reaching for something always beyond my reach. Most likely, you so eloquently observe, Mort - it's somewhere inbetween. In any case, coming home in November '04 was inherently like coming to a halt. The seasons came and went, but my mind was lingering in another place, so impossible to define, so easy to draw simpleminded conclusions about. So I left again - almost on a whim.
A weekend trip to a cabin in the woods for a couple of days, and suddenly I had made a decision that was completely out of left field.
A smart career move? Definetely not. Widening of network? Not really. The next step in life? Nooooo. As the misty hills and raindrenched fields of the southern coast of Norway folded itself open like a wet newspaper, I was sitting in a train coupe thinking stupidstupidstupid.
Wikipedia defines Stupidity as "the quality or condition of being stupid, or lacking intelligence , as opposed to being merely ignorant or uneducated."
The parallell tracks of Sorlandsbanen end abrupltly at Kristiansand's doorstep, and that's why I never liked trains - they never diverge. It's always with stern purpose that they churn away towards their destination, and once they reach it, they turn around and go back, always bound by the constraints of their twin iron lines that carry their load of people, all with a purpose, a single goal. But I diverge... As the case turned out, I was suddenly trawling the streets of Kristiansand, looking for a restaurant that hadn't been built, with a boss that I didn't know, and people I had never met. As far as the definition of stupidity goes, I was a textbook case.
But come July and suddenly words like coulis, consomme, aigre-doux, gremolata, petit-pois and souffle were part of my everyday vocubulary. I could with tantalising quickness and in savoury detail explain the difference between a Verdicchio and a Sancerre. I could make a perfect cortado, mix a breathtaking martini, know the differences in temperature in which a Semillon-de-bordeaux or an Amarone della Valpolicella should be served. In short, I was a waiter. If I served you, chances were you would at the end of your meal be reduced to a blobbering, moaning, blissful heap of gastronomic delight. At the same time, I was lucky enough to trick Kristiansand Gymnastics to hire me as one of their head coaches, so there I was, theatrically performing gastronomy and oenology in the evenings while disciplining little boys and girls with ADHD tendencies, by making them do limbstretching and pushups until they dropped. A young, educated bright man suddenly constructing myself in a totally new setting. As autumn came and went, the cold winds from Skagerak suddenly draped the cosy old buildings of the old city in a harsh veil of snow and ice. It's true what they say about southern norwegians, that when winter comes, misery creeps in.
As luck would have it, it was the perfect time to fall in love. Come November again, and winter didn't seem to matter. And as spring approached, everything crystalised, and as the bitumen stretch leading back home rolled away beneath summerwarm tyres in the end of June, I caught a glimpse of Kristiansand one last time and kept driving until the air was thick with the smell of strawberries and appleblossoms. The summer however shortlived, was the first norwegian summer in a long time, it leapt up in your face, begging to be enjoyed. As luck would have it, Benedicte's grandparents live only 10 minutes away from Tranby, before we could start to take in what lay ahead, we were on a plane headed for Melbourne.
We try to go to the market every tuesday, we eat pancakes almost every weekend, we squeeze our own fresh juice, we have a lake right around the corner in a park that we never seem to get to jog around, we play BubbleBobble, we both have almost an hour to commute to uni but we don't really mind, we visit our local OP-shop every week, we will never get over and revel on the fact that almost all menus are in italian, we make pastasauce from scratch, we always watch South Park, we're going to Cairns in October and we're taking it day by day.
I got a golfset for under 20 bucks the other day, and when Bene said I should go play when the weather gets better I was absolutely certain that I've fallen in love with a mad person.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Friday, June 16, 2006
Reach
I'm reaching again.
For what I may never know. Maybe we're supposed to live in a certain state of ignorance, maybe happiness is never truly knowing.
17th June, 2005 (last year) - having moved into a tiny room in a idyllic old house sitting on top of a hill in Kristiansand, I was contemplating the rather impulsive decision of moving to Kristiansand. I'd agreed to work in a completely new restaurant in a town I had only been a few times. Meeting the owner a few weeks earlier on, he had painted a pretty picture: a new, soave concept-restaurant, with rich, sophisticated flair and a touch of fusion based in the textures of the mediterranian and the exotic falvours of Marocco. Still in my mind, was the question of why. A need to get my thoughts straight, was the usual reply, but I'm still not any closer to any real answer. Just that it felt right. It's been a year of no money, not knowing from day to day whether or not I'm going to work, late nights, unbelievable stress and no weekends. On top of that I startet working with gymnastics again, coaching kids 3 times a week. But it has also been a fantastic journey. Extensive knowledge about wine, gourmet cuisine, being around children, having fun with gymnastics, even insight into how to run a business, it's all a matter of how you see it.
Now, exactly one year later, fate is leading me back to where I came from - Australia.
I leave Kristiansand the 28-29th of June. I leave for Australia the 9th of July.
Wish me luck. My thoughts go out to all of you.
Jon
For what I may never know. Maybe we're supposed to live in a certain state of ignorance, maybe happiness is never truly knowing.
17th June, 2005 (last year) - having moved into a tiny room in a idyllic old house sitting on top of a hill in Kristiansand, I was contemplating the rather impulsive decision of moving to Kristiansand. I'd agreed to work in a completely new restaurant in a town I had only been a few times. Meeting the owner a few weeks earlier on, he had painted a pretty picture: a new, soave concept-restaurant, with rich, sophisticated flair and a touch of fusion based in the textures of the mediterranian and the exotic falvours of Marocco. Still in my mind, was the question of why. A need to get my thoughts straight, was the usual reply, but I'm still not any closer to any real answer. Just that it felt right. It's been a year of no money, not knowing from day to day whether or not I'm going to work, late nights, unbelievable stress and no weekends. On top of that I startet working with gymnastics again, coaching kids 3 times a week. But it has also been a fantastic journey. Extensive knowledge about wine, gourmet cuisine, being around children, having fun with gymnastics, even insight into how to run a business, it's all a matter of how you see it.
Now, exactly one year later, fate is leading me back to where I came from - Australia.
I leave Kristiansand the 28-29th of June. I leave for Australia the 9th of July.
Wish me luck. My thoughts go out to all of you.
Jon
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
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