Snowcaramels

Christmas was nice. I spent it with a bunch of my family, speaking the multitude of languages that characterise us, including some new ones this year. The chocolate caramels I made were lovely (if I may say so myself) and we all had a great time. I got books. We ate lots of food. I love getting books and eating lots of food. We've been to walks and the ice made sighing noises when we stepped on it.
The French man liked my music. I like my music too. 

A kiss on your molten eyes

I can’t seem to find the motivation to write here anymore. Which is strange, because for a period that was all I wanted to do. Write everything here.

It’s Christmas soon, and I’m back home. This house is printed in my feet, even when I walk backwards. There’s no snow, but there’s so much frost that it almost looks like it. And fog. Which makes the world a white place anyway. I have way too many books to read, but that’s okay. I even chose some of them myself.

Winter trees are perhaps the most beautiful thing I know. And I love this half light they live in, that the sun is barely there and the shadows all askew. I like it until everyone burst into the kitchen, all of them trying to tell me something at the same time, and I want to scream, because how can they talk about such boring things now, why can’t we all just be quiet and look out of the window.

I think I will make caramels tomorrow. I love making Christmas candy. And my grandmother turns eighty-six today. I hope she’ll be here for several more years because there’s still so much we haven’t talked about. Sometimes we talk all day.

I combined Buster Keaton and Tom Waits on my wall

 

Encore une fois

I made French toast for breakfast, ate it with Linn and then vacuum cleaned. Went shopping for food, got some writing done, and now Anne, Ida and Benedicte will be coming over for russian Borsch (Борщ по-деревенски), Tarte Tatin and Twin Peaks.

It reminds me of last time, when we were also just the four of us, listening to klezmer music and cooking vegetable soup, and Anne said, this feels so real, and I knew she was right. This is real and we don’t always need fiction to be happy.

Av og til ser man noe spennende

I går tidlig kjørte t-banen forbi en barneskole, et sted i nærheten av Oppsal tror jeg. Jeg hadde pensumheftet i fanget og panna mot ruta, for det var en liten rest av morgentåke der ute og jeg var ute av stand til å tenke. I halvmørket så jeg en mann med ryggen mot meg, med en spade i hånda og ansiktet mot himmelen. Han beveget på skuldrene, som om han var sliten, og jeg kunne ikke la være å lure, hvem var han, og hvorfor gravde han et hull i sandkassa? 

I remember simple things

Når du har vært på den fineste festen du kan huske, med kake og røde lys og rolige venner. Når du er glad overalt og helt igjennom, og ikke bar noen få steder. Når du er så trøtt at du ikke kan huske hvem du er på t-banen, og kommer hjem.
Er
Alt man gjør å skrelle av seg klærne og sovne naken ved siden av katten som tråkker på halsen din, med bruddstykker av Tom Waits og Sufjan Stevens i hodet og Kate Bush som fortsatt henger der oppe, suspended in gaffa, kanskje.
Det er det jeg gjør i hvert fall.

Det jeg prøver å si:
Det var fint virkelig og på ordentlig.
Helt sant.

Think of nothing (Stina Nordenstam)

Igjen ligger katten i senga når jeg våkner. Han har tatt puta mi og er bare klump. Og jeg tenker, hvordan kjennes det å bare være en klump, hvordan kjennes det å flyte tankeløst av gårde. Jeg imiterer ham og krøller meg sammen i den grønne stolen. Jeg behøver musikk som er sterkere enn meg selv og gir opp til Tom Waits. Så sitter jeg ubevegelig der i hjørnet, jeg får ikke helt til å male som en katt. Jeg får ikke til å slutte å tenke heller. Jeg legger hodet mot veggen og forsøker å forsvinne inn i den.  

Sleep now

I’m incredibly lucky to have Linn. She's a great person to share a flat with. I made a Tarte Tatin for her and it’s really a shame I ate most of it.

Caroline sent me a message and said there was a picture of us in Jeff Smith’s blogg over at Boneville. And indeed there was. I look smug and satisfied for some reason. Probably because I’m carrying that huge HUGE Bone book…

I wrote a lot today, which felt good. I’ve taken out the book I started to write last year – spread it out so it covered the floor – and today I put the old notes and chapters and everything in my graveyard box*. I started all anew and now I have lots of drawings and a real plot outline instead of all the messy stuff I wrote last year.

Arrgh, so tired now. Must sleep.

* I bought a cardboard box a few weeks ago. I’d been looking at it in the shop window for four or five months I think. It’s blue and covered in white flowers and so so pretty. I put all my useless writings there to die in peace, and hope I can use it as raw material or some such when I have learned how to write well.

vente

 

Sounds

Kong Ottokar stole my pillow on Thursday. He sneaked into my room, took my pillow and fell asleep on top of it. Lying with my ear to his tummy I could hear the beating of a heart. Whether it was his cat heart or my own ear was impossible to tell.

The Kaizers Orchestra concert yesterday was great, really all too great. The music went right through my body and I felt like leaving it. My head fell apart and became this huge silent place that I’ve never visited before.

I made a blackberry pie today.

Vi har stengt oss inne og du vinner, du vinner

Både i går og i dag har jeg besøkt og luktet på tebutikker. Den første var luftig og lys, med jazz og teprøver og kake (Le Palais Des Thés). Den andre var liten og god, stappet helt full av bokser og kanner. Og te, selvsagt. (Den het Bogstaveien te-kaffe). Å være der inne var litt som å gre tankene med en kam. Luktene som siver gjennom deg og bølger videre gjør deg akkurat så ør og lykkelig at du ikke behøver å tenke når du går ut, du behøver bare å smile der du går med gyngende skritt.

Det var fint å være hjemme i helga. Jeg bakte kake til lillebror, sov i en ekte seng og gikk tur i skogen. Jeg leste lenge hver dag og skrev. Men best av alt var å snakke med farmor. Hun er en av de mest interessante og oppegående samtalepartnerne jeg noen gang har hatt. Dessverre ser jeg henne alt for sjelden. På lørdag snakket vi til det ble mørkt i rommet og teen kald og ekkel, bare fordi ingen av oss ville reise oss opp for å gjøre noe med det. Det ville bryte trolldommen, da ville vi vært nødt til å innse at det var kveld og at jeg måtte opp og hilse på resten av familien. På søndag spiste vi kjeks, jeg lånte bøker (Nineteen Eighty-Four og Døde Sjæle) og teen ble kald nok en gang. Av og til får jeg lyst til å legge to fingre mot panna hennes, bare for å se om jeg kan kjenne tankene.

They were trying to get us

I dreamt that grandma and I were throwing snowballs. All the creepy  kids in the garden were trying to get us, but we stood our ground.  

After the Hallowe’en night at Simon and Caroline’s place I’ll be going home. It feels like ages since I was there last time. I bought a graphic novel for my brother’s birthday, I hope he likes it. Last year I gave him V for Vendetta.

Leaves, leaving, left (Tiden, tiden er sprø)

As October leaves us with only October leaves as proof of its existence I find myself thrown into November’s snowy life, with aching feet and aching shoulders, but at least my heart no longer keeps them company.

On Sunday I had a small celebration of my birthday. I made red lentil soup, and also one chocolate cake with blackberry compote for each of my friends (unfortunately there was one short, and Andrea was the last to finish her soup so she didn’t get one. But since we are all very nice she got enough cake anyway) It was a nice party, everyone had tea. At one point it started to snow (that was the first time), and we all ran excitedly to the windows, like small children.

Some pictures from grandma

Today / All the good things

Today when walking to work, kicking the leaves at the sidewalk (it was yellow and orange and washed out–green) I put my mittens on the ground and threw the leaves high up in the air. They were raining down, like apples do.

I could see the yellow specks that were leaves at the bottom of the river. I threw a stone in and I couldn’t see them anymore.



When unpacking Christmas articles at work we found a beetle in one of the boxes, the size of my thumb. It had traveled all the way from Asia and was really quite dead.

I work ten or eight hours a day. I wear my uniform from before I leave home until I get back. That’s when I snuggle into my pyjamas, wearing it for the two or three hours left of the day. They are green and soft and lovely. It’s a sort of symbol of changing my place, changing mode. Work-Frøydis / home-Frøydis. When I wear my pyjamas I can be just as shy and quiet as I like. Then I eat. Then I write (and if I'm very lucky; read for a while).

Soundtrack: Autumn Leaves - Bill Evans

Puma med asfalt på de varme poter / Og han trækker vejret

 

Birthday mostly

My birthday came and went, and it did both in a quiet and discreet fashion. I went up to my grandmother for the weekend (not the same as mentioned before) along with my mother and aunt. We ate cinnamon buns, went for walks, and I wrote desperately on the “opening, or the first two chapters of a book for small children” (though nothing really came out of it). I like going up to grandma, the village she lives in is so small, and the big cold house seems to be in another time zone. Everything is flowing slowly and quietly. I like to think it’s so cold up there that the time freeze a bit, not enough to stop it entirely only just so it has another feel to it, another way of running through you.

For my birthday I got an electric screwdriver, an old Danish chauffeur’s hat, the complete works of William Shakespeare (an edition from 1951 that used to belong to my grandfather) and a lovely purple scarf.

Walking through the fields with the purple scarf, my new coat and an old skirt I felt very neat and almost pretty. The autumn is so beautiful up there, the curves of the black and brown fields and the orange-yellow of the trees, everything wrapped up in fog… I had to look away at times, just so I wouldn’t dissolve in the air.

On one of my walks I walked past a leek field. I’ve never thought of where leeks come from before, though it’s quite obvious that they grow in fields now I think of it.

Still ill

I can barely talk without coughing my stomach out, but at least my throat doesn’t hurt when I breathe anymore. And I’m very close to having a bed now. My room is full of bits and pieces of bed, because dad brought them to me on Sunday. Now if I could only get some screws…

I was at my parents’ house today and yesterday because a distant branch of our large and extremely complex family came on a visit all the way from Arizona (though they are Canadian). I didn’t really know about them until now, but they were very friendly and cheerful, and we had a huge dinner party at my grandmother’s and everything was pleasant and funny and cosy. And also, when leaving home I brought lots of apples from the garden, some home made jam and honey from the cellar, with me. I have food! (which is good because I bought a lovely winter coat and a red lipstick, so I think I have to live on oatmeal porridge for some time to come)

Otherwise (and more importantly) I should be writing the opening, or the first two chapters, of a book for small children. I’m supposed to hand it in in two weeks and I keep writing other stories instead. In addition I am a bit confused as to what is the difference between a picture book and a book for small children. Because it’s not the same, we won’t do the picture book until December.

Fish

I fried a herring on Friday. When it was defrosting I found out it still had its guts. Who sells a fish along with its guts? And it was all flabby. I still ate it, but I kept thinking that this might have been the reason it was so cheap, and I kept wondering why I didn’t see it when I bought it.

Now we're going watch Limelight because I borrowed it at the library yesterday.

Tea and Hairdye and Other Things

Finally the rain dives down on us, really pouring, and I can lie awake early in the morning, before the light, and listen to it while I slowly adjust to the new day.

Sometimes I write so much I can’t stop.

I saw an old couple today. They were standing under the same umbrella kissing. They looked so happy and I couldn’t help noticing that I didn’t feel anything. I always used to. So I jumped up and down in a huge puddle while they walked past me and away. Splash splash. There were little yellow leaves in it.

Rune and I bought supplies of tea for the coming of autumn, and later he gave me the best hug anyone has given me in ages. At Anne’s place I found some very chocolaty chocolate and I dyed my hair again. I’m still unsure as of why. It was after we had found the new park. We had gone for a walk and had turned some random and unknown corners, and there it was, complete with huge trees to climb and lots of - lay down in the - green grass (remember when you loved me). It even had an old church in one of the corners.

Mannen bak disken på Bare Jazz sa; ”Det der er sjeldne saker. Totalt selges det ca to Eddie Lang CD-er i året”. Jeg smilte forsiktig og gikk ut, for hva skal man vel si. Det er så fint der, jeg skal dra med meg mennesker dit snart snart.

En sak.

Alle var så stille og rare den kvelden. Vi hadde spist is med nonstop og banan og jeg spiste så mye at jeg ble kvalm. Ingen sa noe, det var stille som i en boble av tang og ensomhet. Jeg gjemte meg inne på badet fordi det var vanskelig å puste, slik det alltid blir i et lufttett rom.

Hvorfor krangler de?

Jeg satt på doskåla med knærne mot panna og skulle ønske jeg var et lite barn igjen, et menneske i miniatyrutgave, et uferdig vesen på vei mot erkjennelse og forråtnelse, i stedet for dette mellomrommet av alder som er ingenting og alt og midt i mellom.

Hvorfor later som om alt er greit etterpå?

Jeg satt der på doskåla, i full fart mot en tilværelse i opplyst fortielse, og kjente på hvordan jeg langsomt ble mindre og mindre, hvordan magen og ansiktet vrengte seg, og til slutt hvordan klærne falt av, ubrukelige hav av bomull og polyester. Gulvflisene var harde og kalde under meg og jeg lot hele verden ligge i en dam der på badet før jeg krøp med værhår, pels og hale ut under dørsprekken og forsvant.

T-banestemning

Og det er en egen deilig stemning når man kommer ned på t-banestasjonen. Lyden av vann som drypper surkler høylytt i bakgrunnen uten at man helt vet hvor det drypper fra. Lufta er våt og varm, det damper av menneskene som har søkt tilflukt her nede med sko som setter vannspor når de går. Innvandrerfamilier trykker seg sammen på benkene og ler. Folk smiler, folk er sure, de er som de alltid er, men i dag er de det på en annen måte, byfolk i regnet, de smiler og er sure men de er det, som sagt, på en spesiell og våt måte som tiltaler meg og jeg er like våt som dem. Med små utaktiske ballettsko har jeg plasket meg gjennom gatene og det var så varmt og trygt da jeg kom inn her og jeg kjente det i lange sklier nedover ryggen.

Words

 Words. I've written so many words that I don't know if I have any more. I am empty, there is nothing left in there. It's like shaking a box of raisins to get out the last little brown lump that is stuck in one of the corners. Sometimes I get half a sentence out, sometimes nothing. What I'm trying to do with this diary I'm not really sure.

I sent a letter to Japan yesterday, a letter with a hedgehog drawing, lemon candy, and a story only for him. I didn't cry when I wrote it, I didn't feel my inside turn.

Hos en god venn

Og etterpå, når man sitter på t-banen og tenker at livet er et underfundig og dunkelt tjern med noe som glitrer på bunnen, etterpå, på t-banen, når det hele står for deg, klart og betydelig, da føles det viktig det du nettopp gjorde, da føles det som at alt dette rare betyr noe stort.
Det er etter disse stille kveldene med tilfeldige samtaler, de sene helgekveldene med mørke på balkongen og latter og støy fem etasjer nedenfor, og en venn som når klokka blir halv tolv sier; Skal vi koke noen poteter og spise dem?