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.