søndag, januar 30, 2005

Nattradio, heim, Øst-Vestekspressen og ekko av noko som var/-er

”Ein dag skal alle til Byrkjelo. Og ein annan dag skal dei reise derifrå. Det kjem til å vere haust, og regnet kjem til å piske dei trynet, for det er langt til Byrkjelo, men vegen heim er lengre, og dei kjem til å fryse så det ikkje er ein nerve igjen i kroppane deira, og det kjem til å kome trailerar forbi, dei svingar ikkje unna, ikkje fan, og det einaste dei ser, er lysa på andre sida av fjorden, for det
kjem til å vere midt på natta, lys kjem dei ikkje til å ha, og ikkje mat, og ikkje tørre klede, og du kjem til å sitje der og banne, for du skal dit, du òg, du slepp ikkje unna, ikkje fan, og du kjem til å stoppe for å hoppe i fjorden, men det går ikkje, du finn ikkje fjorden, men det går ikkje, du finn ikkje fjorden, det er fan meg for mørkt, og kvar vart det av sommaren?” -Øystein Vidnes- Bondeforteljingar

*
Bussen syg seg innover vegen, det er fredag kveld og fire lange timar. Vi ser film, eg smiler lurt til veslebroren min, han har kjærasten med seg og alt, det er første gongen dette, ho skal bli ein del av dei høgrøsta diskusjonane om kommareglar og pustemekanismar hos virveldyr. Vi er vaksne, bror min og eg, vi har kjærastar og skal på besøk til den enno vaksnare broren som er gift og har hus på landet.

2+2=4
- Der! Eg peikar akkurat når det er for seint. Landbruksskolen på Voss. Far vår gjekk der. Ingen skjønte kvifor. Han kunne gått på Kleiva, eller Finnsnes. Han ville så langt vekk, at ingen kunne vente han heim igjen.

Eg kviskrar kjærasten min i øret. Peikar ut vindauget: - Her var det eg stod og haika den gongen for 11 år sia. Hjelpepleiaren frå Hardanger tok meg på, vi skulle same vegen; men hadde eg aldri vore i Stalheimskleiva? Aldri? Så tok ho meg opp til Stalheimskleiva. Som ei tante eg var nær, eller ei mor. Ho viste meg utsikten frå Stalheim Hotell, og sa nøgd: - Sånn, no har du sett det.

Vi ser Big Fish på DVD, har utgang med splitt og kvar sine øretelefonar. Alt eg kan tenke på er far min. Han var berre ei einaste rørsle. Ikkje eitt punkt kunne gjere krav på han. Ingen kunne gjere krav på far min.

Av og til hørte eg på nattradioen. Det var tidleg nittital, seint åtti kanskje, eg hørte nattradio og græt kvar gong. Det lukta kjellerstue, veggseksjon,potetgull og eit kvardagsliv eg aldri hadde vore ein del av. Eg var glad eg ikkje var ein slik person. At vi ikkje var sånne med kjellarstue og campingvogn, som sendte meldingar frå trailerturar heim til ho Lill-Venke i Mosjøen. Så steike glad, var eg. Likevel græt eg. Eg gret enno kvar gong eg sveipar innom nattradioen. Det livet eg aldri hadde, aldri ville ha, men likevel alltid sakna.

Dette er ei Jan Johansen-oppleving, tenkjer meg med meg sjølv ,der eg sitt på bussen som så mange gongar før, sitt på Øst-Vesten og tenkjer på Nattradioen. Eg elskar Christine Koht .

Jan Johansen er nøgd med livet sitt. Eg lurer på om eg nokon gong blir så nøgd som Jan Johansen.

Det er

Det er svart og tomt i Flåm. Flam-Flaam-Flaaam. Sånn sa eg det alltid til turistane mine. – Have you been to Flaaam yet?
Eg veit ikkje om kjærasten min har vore i Flåm. Det er så mykje ein ikkje veit, så mykje ein gløymer å spørre om.

Folka på bussen minner meg om noko, det som var før, då folk ikkje drakk eitt glas vin til maten. Då tacos var på høgda.

- Følg med i tunnelen! Stemma mi går på likt med veslebroren si stemme. Vi er ivrige, vi vil at dei nye, at kjærastane skal få alt med seg.


Vi nærmar oss.
- Skulle tru dykk kom her i frå, seier ein av kjærastane.
Eg veit ikkje kva eg skal svare. Har veslebror min og eg lov til å kome frå Sogn?

Tunnelen er trollblå som vanleg. Det gjer trygg. Snart kjem skiltet, så kjem rundkjøringa, så tar vi ned til venstre. Vi kan det i søvne, bror min og eg.

- Kor lenge skal ho vere heime? Hadde kona oppi bygdi spurd, då eldstebroren sa at eg skulle kome på besøk til Indre Sogn.

Heime.

Så står dei der: Storebroren som alltid har passa på, så står han der i døra med mannen sin, og dei seier velkomen tilbake til dei gamle, velkomen inn til dei nye.
Borte- Heime_ Uavgjort-

Det er Nattradioi lufta.

(no er det søndag kveld, og Hurtigruten går forbi vindauget mitt nett no mens eg skriv dette. Eg ser ut vindauget mens eg tastar dette. Hurtigruten går frå ein heim til ein annan heim).

tirsdag, januar 25, 2005

Bildøen og Waits

Eg har vore fan av Tom Waits sia eg var lita jente med storebrør som hadde god musikksmak og rekkjer med LP-ar.
Eg har vore fan av Brit Bildøen sia eg oppdaga bøkene hennes ein gong seint på nittitalet.
Kvifor har eg aldri gjort koplinga:

Waits: - Frank settled down in the Valley and he hung his wild years on a nail that he drove through his wife's forehead.

Bildøen (fritt etter minnet): Eva heng opp livet sitt på ein spiker bak døra og betraktar det med interesse.


mandag, januar 24, 2005

The Guardian writes about UWC

I keep using Kathryn as my UK correspondent, updating me on current issues. However, I do not think she´ll strangle me for nicking her link to an article Guardian had on Atlantic College, where we went to school together at sixteen.

Vagant er ikkje lenger = Aschehoug

I dagens Klassekampen står det å lese det ein lenge har kjent lukta av, nemleg at Aschehoug ikkje vil ha det økonomiske ansvaret for Vagant lenger. Det er noko med språket til forlaget som plagar meg. Dei har "gjort det dei ville med Vagant", altså er det å drive eit litterært tidsskrift det same som å nå ein topp, apex, klimaks; eg meiner det er ei sidelengs rørsle som ikkje kan målast i økonomi og opplagstal. Dette er kanskje eit teikn på at det blir verre å drive tidsskrift i samband med dei store, at det er undergrunnen, som Gasspedal, Luj, GK etc. som får ansvare for gartnerarbeidet. Det er i såfall synd; tidsskrift skal finnest både over og under jorda.

fredag, januar 21, 2005

Skriveleirinnsatsen har gode konsekvensar

Sjå Rana blad og ein av grunnane til at det er viktig med slike ting som skriveleir for ungdom. Eg blir hoppande glad over at dei skriv, held fram med å skrive og i tillegg lagar bloggar for å skrive enno meir, kommentere kvarandre, osv. Til sommaren skal eg både på Litteraturleir for Ungdom i Barents (denne gongen Russland. Eg gler meg, om enn ikkje til to dagar, to, eg tar opp igjen, to dagar i buss) og på litteraturleir for blinde og svaksynte ungdommar frå heile Norden. Det er første gong ein slik Nordisk skriveleir for synshemma ungdommar blir arrangert i Norden, og eg er spent på ein god måte. Det eg er aller mest nyfiken på nett no, er korleis ein surfar på internett når ein er blind. Eg har skjønt at det finst eit program, men korleis fungerer det? Kan nokon svare på det?

torsdag, januar 20, 2005

Rambling on about the fantastic UWC

Back from Fjaler

Martin and I have had three hectic and jammed days up at the International College in Fjaler. I went down memory lane when it came to college and campus life (I went to Atlantic College in Wales); the 16-18 year olds didn´t look much different from what we did (even though it was interesting to see how the group Norwegian students has changed; hardly no one outside the posh parts of Oslo applied back in the day when I was a student, and I am pleased to see that kids from all around Norway, now are represented. However, I think the posh Oslo guys should start applying again. That was half the fun, and one of my most interesting culture shocks back then, become acquainted with Norskies that lived drastically different lives from what I knew as a Norwegian reality). The school is situated beautifully at the fjord (however, I´m even greater fan of the Harry Potter campus at Atlantic College)
It is utterly amazing to be back in an environment and a class room, where you have the example of international issues and conflicts right there in the class room. Palestine, Israel sitting next to each other, discussing the concept of knowledge (this was the one of the classes where Martin and I joined in, and be both relived the TOK-experience(Theory of Knowledge).. Even though Martin hasn´t had the pleasure of going to a UWC, he fortunately has done the demanding and highly regarded IB-diploma, so we have the same educational platform, thank God. The TOK-question was: What is certain knowledge, and is there true essence? Can a book shelf that is used as table still be called a book shelf? Yes, for all of you who has gone through Uni in Norway, this is a kind of Ex. Phil., except you actually spend the time in class wondering, pondering and freely discussing out loud. Lots of IB-students don´t understand the value of TOK when they are in the midst of it, I didn´t fully understand that at the time, but now, gosh I feel sorry for those of you who had to drag yourselves through Samfunnskunnskap and Fem-timersEngelsk in boring Norwegian Videregående, having a life without TOK and a classroom filled with reflections from the refugee, the guy who doesn´t need TOK for his later science-focused education, but he loves it, the Israeli girl who says that coming to UWC made her understand that the Israeli-Palestinian conflict is not the only one in the world. This certainly sounds like bragging and nauseous Hallelujah, and maybe it is. I´m just reminded from time to time how bloody important this period of my life was, it has shaped me as a person, and I am also reminded that I miss the cultural chaos and mix that is present in such a place.
So: For those who are the right age, and still can apply for the UWC: Do so. I encourage you even more than before, now as I´ve had a refill. This goes for Veldeda as well (a lot better than EF, I promise). For those who have kids coming up that age, or for those who even contemplate the idea of having kids, contemplate this option too. Of course it is hard to send your child away for school, knowing that they´ll go straight to Uni and never live at home again, but if you have children that would be able to handle an experience like this, their interest should overshadow yours (I realise that I have potential for preaching. What about that!). Check outthe Norwegian National comitee´s web pages (or find the link to your own national comitee, if you come from somewhere else).
This turns out to be a very chaotic post. I was as up there to do a lecture on Nordic Contemporary Lit. for the Nordic Studies class (which everyone has to take) and be a guest and co-pilot in the classes held by my favourite teachers of all times, Arne, who taught at the college in Wales, when I was a student. Being back in the environment of philosophical discussions on literature, was fantastic; Arne has this way of teaching that is excellent, demanding and challenging at the same time. He is fabulous at asking questions and engaging in a paratactical form of discussing. He´s one of the main reasons why I started studying literature, and rejected the Law school-offer in Oslo, when I was 18.
Martin also joined in the first year class, where the Theme was the relation between fact and fiction. Amongst other thing they had worked on ”Vi har så korte armar” by Olaug Nilssen. Tell me a Norwegian Videregående school that progressive.
My first novel is used in the Ab.inito-class, i.e. those who have Norwegian as a second language. How amazing isn´t it to hear a girl from Sierra Leone who talks in nynorsk about my novel. The fact that they are taught nynorsk and not bokmål (those who choose to do Norwegian as a second language that is), makes the whole thing even more special. I laughed hard when an African-American girl said: - I haven´t read anything but nynorsk. And she´s proud of it. When she´s teased by her Oslo friends for saying Eg, and not Jeg (that means I in Norwegian), it makes her even more proud of being nynorsk. The whole minority language issue is easy for people to grasp, much easier than for conceited Norwegians. Additionally this girl asked me: - How come Norwegians it is so difficult to do Nynorsk? What is the hard part.
That is my question too.
However, it is far from being all about academics, the main point with schools like this, and the real beauty of it, is that youngsters come from radically different backgrounds, and manage to co-exist in an energetic, productive and creative manner.
And above all: It was great having Martin with me, he´s a perfect fit-in. Additionally it is nice to be able to share these moments with him as well: me talking to an auditorium of high school-aged students, having tea with my old English teacher and academic tutor (yes, she has also moved from Wales to Fjaler, via other international schools and stops), letting him feel the warmth and energy from a fantastic lady and her man.
I like being reminded of how blessed I am.

søndag, januar 16, 2005

Mer kultur og kanon: Her er søndagsgjesten min i BT

Her er dagens søndagsgjest i Bergens Tidende. Som dere vet, er det kultur, kanon og Danmark jeg har vært opptatt av denne uka.

For the English readers: You won´t understand a thing, but you might enjoy looking at the picture. Its is my monthly article in the paper Bergens Tidende. Discussing the importance of a national, cultural canon (yes, like Bloom).

lørdag, januar 15, 2005

Giæver, Dagbladkåring og konsensus

Nå som lista over de ti viktigste intellektuelle her til lands er på vei i Dagbladet, vises selve kjerneproblemet med en slik kåring: Har vi en bråte mennesker som tenker på kryss og tvers, ut og inn overskrider grensene for sine egne fagfelt? Sektorisering av kunnskap er vanligst her til lands, man skal ikke synse om noe man ikke vet noe om, og vi blir pinlig klar over at det ikke er franske tilstander i Norge når en slik liste skal komme opp. Ergo kan jeg til dels være enig i kritikken Anders Giæver målbærer i Klassekampen. Problemet er at han faller i sin egen felle: Han etterlyser de som kan mene sterk, elegant og skeivt om ting som ikke ligger innenfor deres eget felt, mens han kokett sier at han har lov til å uttale seg uten å bli tatt for å være sur og bitter, fordi han ikke er en intellektuell, og dermed ikke regnes inn i konkurransen. Dette kunne være et lurt triks for å belyse problemstillingen, men jeg tviler. Det største hullet han faller ned i, er der han kritiserer høyre-venstre-aksen, og avslører seg selv som en som tenker i de størrelsene. Og helt til sist: De venstre radikale (også i Norge) har oppdaget de nye medier som blogging etc. Her har Giæver rett og slett ikke gjort hjemmeleksa si, eller så har det seg slik at referansegruppa hans består av de sjølproletariserte klassekameratene hans fra Lastebilkjøreskolen.

torsdag, januar 13, 2005

Den poetiske Dagsrevyen

Harald Stabell: - Jeg har tvilt meg fram til (...)


Neste nyhet:
Arbeidskameratene: - Det går no mæst på Pling, da.

I am proud of my publisher, det Norske Samlaget

I am happy to see that my publiser Det Norske Samlaget is generous and gives money to the Tsunami aid funds. It´s a publisher´s house with culture and style who´d do such a thing, I´d say.

onsdag, januar 12, 2005

Kanondiskusjonen

Det foregår for tiden en heftig kanondiskusjon i Danmark, og dermed også i vårt inter-nordiske hjem. Her har jeg funnet fram til Lars von Triers utbrudd mot kanonplanene. Kostelig. Og det på en helt vanlig onsdag.

tirsdag, januar 11, 2005

Heimat, Kivijarvi, Johansen and nynorsk

I´ve always considered Heimweh and the strict definition of Heimat to be irrelevant for my life and being, since I see myself built up by components that are from various places, contexts, languages and relations. The above is a conceited utterance, I might as well say: - Oh, I´m such a polyglot, I´m so darn global, complex and adaptable. That´s of course uninteresting bullshit and nonsense, and furthermore not my point, however: I recently had to think through this again, when I for the millionth time was asked the question: - Why do you write nynorsk, when you grew up writing bokmål? Do you feel nynorsk? (for those who don´t belong to a Norwegian or Nordic context, Norway has two separate, but very similar official written languages. The one version (and the most widespread one) is bokmål that derives from written Danish, due to historical and political reasons, the other one, nynorsk, is based on local dialects in Norway, and mainly those on the Western coast of Nor way). It struck me that some identities seem stable, or are broadcasted as such at least, and nynorsk is one of these. The famous Norwegians play write Jon Fosse says, that if his nynorsk is taken away, he´d be unable to speak; identity fixed to language, which again is connected geography and topography. You wouldn´t have to choose, the language has been chosen for you (Me: - should I write this in nynorsk or bokmål? What will serve the topic and the cause? Living with a Dane screws things up even more, but that´s a different story). Back to my opening thought: does Heimat have to be a single place, stone, and biological bonds? Of course not, is the answer in this day and age, where migration, immigration and emigration are common. However, it is always this underlying understanding of that there is a core of something. An origin, a starting point.People ask: - Were you home for x-mas? And I answer: - Yes, they reply: - Nice, when did you get back? When I reveal that I have been here, Bergen, home for the holidays, home is here where I live, they look at me like: - Don´t try to make yourself interesting, home for you is really up North, why be in denial? This made me think of the photos taken by Kåre Kivijärvi and Rune Johansen, who both come/ came(Kvijärvi passed away in –91 I think) from the Northern part of Norway like me. I stare and stare at the pictures, and know that they have something to do with me. It just isn´t the whole story.

mandag, januar 10, 2005

Wales, Robert Frank and the feeling of being home

I feel the opposite one of my top ten fictitious characters, namely Alexander in "Alexander and the terrible, horrible no good, very bad day" right now. I am ready for a week of intense editing work, concurrently trying to bring my next writing project further, and all this due to a fantastic weekend with quality people. For a moment I forgot to rush, stress and only look ahead. I rested and dwelled in the laughter, endless conversations, elaborate food and drinks which reminded me of George´s magical medicine more than anything. A sense of community and joint effort, a feeling of being safe and challenged at the same time. Therefore my thoughts went on to Wales. Igor Prhytyrec, Boarding school, late nights, brain twisters and Robert Frank´s photo series from Glamorgan, my part of Wales . I realised I´m at home now, due to living with Martin and the life we are inventing together; at home in a way that I haven´t been for years, really. In a Wales-kind-of-way.

Dinner Party

Vi diskuterte kunstbegrepet høglytt, og etter vi alle hadde fått pusten igjen, kom det frå Henning G.B.:
(pause)
- Nei, vi må bare innse det. Vi e ikkje så god på komedie.
(pause)
(latter)

Nokre gongar blir ånden løfta til store høgder, rett og slett fordi ein et og samtalar med dei beste folka ein veit. Praten går ikkje om vind og vêr, men om store ting som får tankane til å flytte seg i hovudet på eit slikt vis at ein ikkje veit om hjernen kjem til å bli den samme etterpå. Takk til Ebba, Henning Gärtner og Martin for ei verkeleg hugnadsam samrøa ein heilt vanleg søndag.

fredag, januar 07, 2005

Word of the day

Flicking through my bookshelves, trying to find a starting point, a thread and direction to follow for my work these days, I came over an old issue of the long gone (I think) literary publication Stand. Amongst other texts, I found a translation of a poem by the Norwegian poet Olav H. Hauge, which gave the focus I needed:

New yellow cloth on the table,
and clean white pages!
Here the words must come,
such a fine paper!
The ice settled on the fjord,
the birds came alighted.

- Olav H. Hauge-

onsdag, januar 05, 2005

Blogging is the new radio

I nicked this link to Times´feature on blogging from Kathryn. Interesting to know what kinda train we´ve jumped on.

Sophie Calle's understanding of a birthday party

With all this birthday talk yesterday, I came to think of an old article about the artist Sophie Calle, that I found somewhere at some point and saved on my old computer. I think the idea is hilarious. However ,using this approach, Martin wouldn´t be able to play with his brand new I-pod, obtained through the means of a birthday gift:

Beginning in 1980 and for thirteen consecutive years, French artist Sophie Calle threw a dinner party on her birthday in her own honor. Each year she invited the exact number of people corresponding to her age, always including one stranger chosen by one of her guests. Instead of using the gifts she received, she collected them and created The Birthday Ceremony, a chronology of white cases displaying the gifts and accompanied by text on the front cataloguing each item. The other works on view come from a series entitled Autobiographical Stories, comprising short textual recounts of memories accompanied by five-foot-high black-and-white photographic illustrations. It is impossible to ascertain if the memories are true, invented, or a mixture of both.



By PAUL GROH
AFTER SEVEN YEARS outside her native Paris, photographer Sophie Calle returned home and began following people around the streets in order to rediscover her city. In this effort, Calle soon learned how much she could ascertain about the lives and habits of her unknowing subjects. She became obsessed with the people she was following and especially the physical details of their existence. Eventually this obsession brought her to Venice where she tracked down and photographed a man she had previously met in Paris. She then published a collection of photographs and writings in her book: Suite Ventienne, Please Follow Me.

Here began Calle's obsession with attaining an intimacy with people while maintaining a cool distance. In her recent photography exhibit, "Sophie Calle: A Survey," Calle explores issues relating to intrusion into people's personal lives. Her format is documentary: black and white, police-like photography juxtaposed with descriptive texts. The result is not necessarily refined or composed, but is instead an intriguing look at Calle's obsessive relationship to her subjects. It is a relationship in which Calle knows her subjects not through their direct existence, but through traces they leave behind.

In The Hotel, Calle, working as a chambermaid in a Venetian hotel learns about the lives of the tenants by going through and photographing their belongings. Like a detective looking for the incriminating clue, Calle scrutinizes every object in the room. She meticulously searches through the tenants' baggage, diaries, and even the garbage to piece together their lives. She makes note of the smallest details such as "a dirty comb with broken teeth" or a "mind-boggling pair of shoes." From her scrutiny she pieces together where the people are from, what they are doing that day, what they like or dislike, and so on. In this work, Calle displays her photographs accompanied by texts describing her findings. In one text, Calle reveals the attachment she feels for the tenant. After he is gone, she writes, "He has left his orange peels in the wastebasket, three fresh eggs on the windowsill, and the remains of a croissant which I polish off. . . . I will try to forget him. . . . I shall miss him."

In another work, L'Homme au Carnet, Calle, after finding an address book, decides to approach the owner through his friends. She contacts the people in the book (over 400) and interviews them in order to piece together the owner's life. She finally ends up knowing as much or more about this man than some of his friends. The piece itself is an account of the weekly findings, both photography and text, which Calle published in the French newspaper Lib'eration.

Through Calle's photography, we begin to realize that people are not independent of their context; that is, people define and derive their identity through the places they live and visit, their friends, and their belongings. At the same time, we see that Calle is unable (or chooses not) to enter a relationship directly, but only through its context. She enshrouds herself in a world of safety where the only threat is that of getting caught. In Calle's world, places and belongings move beyond mere symbols of the person; for Calle, they are the person. From her cool distance, she feels she can control the relationship but, in reality, the person and her obsession with that person control her.

In some of Calle's later, more interesting work, she turns the camera not at other people, but at herself.

In The Shadow, Calle hires a private detective to follow and photograph her for a day. She first gets her hair done "to please him." She then takes him for an exhaustive chase through Paris in a type of flirtatious game. She wants to "show him" the places she loves, such as the park where she received her first kiss. Calle's colorful description of the day is sharply contrasted with the banal photographs and text of the detective. For Calle, the day was imbued with meaning; for the detective, the day was merely reporting the facts.

In one of Calle's most successful works, Autobiographical Stories, Calle again has the camera turned on herself, but this time she has the courage to do it herself. She photographs the things important to her: a white silk wedding dress she wore the first night together with a man she had silently admired since she was a child; a bathrobe her first lover wore that reminded her of her father. Here Calle abandons her documentary approach and instills her photographs with a self-consciously high degree of composure. The photographs are again accompanied by descriptive texts, but now the photographs are no longer literal. They are imbued with a supernatural character in accordance with their personal symbolic meaning. Calle is no longer dealing solely with the relationship between herself and the subject; she now challenges the nature of documentary photography and brings the photographs closer to the viewer.

In another of her more successful works, The Blind, Calle asks people blind from birth "what their image of beauty" is. The responses range from a painting in which the subject says, "I can feel the three masts and the main sail. I often touch it in the evening." to the chilling response "I don't need beautiful images in my brain . . . since I can't appreciate beauty, I've always run from it." In this work Calle juxtaposes unflattering black and white photographs, text, and color photographs of how she interprets their responses. She draws us into the world of the blind person and asks us how we identify with the response as well as her interpretation of that response.

In Calle's later works, one sees considerable maturity compared to her earlier ones. She moves from the realm of self-absorbed obsession to that of photography that includes and questions the viewer. Sophie Calle's best work is yet to come.

Calle and Auster
I The life of Maria and how it influenced the life of Sophie. In Leviathan, Maria puts herself through the same rituals as I did. But Paul Auster has slipped some rules of his own inventing into his portrait of Maria. In order to bring Maria and myself closer together, I decided to go by the book. The author imposes on his creature a chromatic regimen which consists in restricting herself to foods of a single color for any given day. I followed his instructions. He has her base whole days on a single letter of the alphabet. I did as she does.

THE CHROMATIC DIET
To be like Maria, during the week of December 8 to 14, 1997, I ate Orange on Monday, Red on Tuesday, White on Wednesday, and Green on Thursday. Since Paul Auster had given his character the other days off, I made Friday Yellow and Saturday Pink. As for Sunday, I decided to devote it to the full spectrum of colors, setting out for six guests the six menus tested over the week.

MONDAY : ORANGE
Menu imposed:
PurÈe of carrots Boiled prawns Cantaloupe melon
Paul Auster forgot to mention (drinks, so I allowed myself to complete (his menu with:
Orange juice

TUESDAY : RED
Menu imposed:
Tomatoes (Steak tartare (Pomegranates
I completed the menu with:
Roasted red peppers (Lalande de Pomerol, domaine de Viaud, 1990

WEDNESDAY : WHITE
Menu imposed:
Flounder (Potatoes (Fromage blanc
I changed this menu, because I was not satisfied (with the yellow color of the potatoes, and added:
Rice (Milk

THURSDAY : GREEN
Menu imposed:
Cucumber (Broccoli (Spinach
I completed the menu with:
Green basil pasta (Grapes and kiwi fruit (Mint cordial

FRIDAY : YELLOW
Since no color was prescribed (for Friday, I chose yellow.
Menu:
Afghan omelette (Potato salad ("Young Girl's Dream" ((Banana, mango ice cream) (Pschitt fizzy lemon drink

SATURDAY : PINK
Since no color was prescribed (for Saturday, I chose pink.
Menu:
Ham (Taramasalata (Strawberry ice cream (RosÈ wine from Provence

SUNDAY:
ORANGE, RED, WHITE, (GREEN, YELLOW, & PINK
Lots were drawn for the menus and everybody acquitted themselves conscientiously, if without enthusiasm, at their task. Personally, I preferred not to eat; novels are all very well but not necessarily so very delectable if you live them to the letter.

DAYS UNDER THE SIGN OF B, C, & W
To be like Maria, I spent the day of Tuesday, March 10, 1998, under the sign of B for Big-Time Blonde Bimbo; Tuesday, February 16, 1998, under the sign of C for Calle & Calle in the Cemetery; Thursday, March 19, 1998, under the sign of C for Confession; and Saturday, March 14, 1998, under the sign of W for Weekend in Wallonia.
Continues...

tirsdag, januar 04, 2005

Ja må han leva

"Jeg trenger poesi slik jeg trenger den jeg elsker
jeg trenger prosa slik jeg trenger verden:
bussbilletter, pålegg, humor og telefon eller motsatt.(...)"

-Espen Stueland 2003-

- Gratulerer med dagen Martin! Du rockar mi verd, som Henning Bra ville sagt det, ellevilt og begeistret. Nordisk råd burde støttet vårt inter-nordiske samarbeid, som holder høyt intellektuelt, sosialt og kreativt aktivitets- og kvalitetsnivå. Hipp, hipp! Du gamla du fria danske.

mandag, januar 03, 2005

About collaboration

The new year has started with plans of exciting collaboration. Andy Warhol has a word for this as well:

- When you work with people who misunderstand you, instead of getting transmissions you get transmutations, and that’s much more interesting in the long run.

søndag, januar 02, 2005

New blogs, Kathryn has started one of her own!

I just realised that my good friend Kathryn, whom I bonded with back in the days at Atlantic College sweating over the German assignments given by Fraulein Shüler, has started blogging. I have thought a lot about her lately, since she´s off to Indonesia to work for the Peace Brigades International. Now with the Tsunami incident (calling it an incident seems like an insult, an eufemism), the prospect of having her over in Indonesia seems a bit more nerve wrecking than I´d want. However, I´m awfully proud of her going, and I hope that the British insurance companies come to their senses; right now it seems like it is impossible to obtain an insurance for people going to Indonesia, and that´s regardless of where you go. Like Kathryn correctly points out: - that that is like telling an Indonesian that they will not be insured to go to France because there is a war in Iraq (on the basis that the distance from one end of Indonesia to the other is the same as from London to Baghdad).
Check her blog out. She´s one of the sharpest brains I´ve ever met, and I feel priveliged to have had her in my life during ups and downs, teen-tantrums and prospering adult life. It´s always thrilling to met up, and I´m sad that I have to spend the weekend of her Farewell party sweating over editorial work, instead of shaking loose in London. Go Kathryn!

The truth about diets

- I’m only kidding myself when I go through the emotions of cooking protein: all I ever want is sugar.

- Andy Warhol-

lørdag, januar 01, 2005

Sweden

I woke up this morning and thought about Sweden, and my good friend Erik W., whom hasn´t given any sign of life for the past eternity. So then I thought about my good friend Andy W., who once said this about Sweden:

When you are in Sweden and see beautiful person after beautiful person after beautiful person and you finally don’t even turn around to look because you know that the next person you see will be just as beautiful as the one you didn’t bother to turn around to look at- in a place like that you can get so bored htat when you see a person who’s not beautiful, they look very beautiful to you because they break the beautiful monotony.
-AW-

Happy new year to all of you

From me to you on the threshold of the new year:

- Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?
- That depends a good deal on where you want to get to, said the cat.
-I don't much care where, said Alice.
- Then it doesn't matter which way you go, said the cat.
- So long as I get somewhere, Alice added as an explanation.
- Oh, you're sure to do that, said the cat. - If you only walk along enough.

Lewis Carrol, Alice in Wonderland.

Start walkingxxx