His son was killed in spiced herring

Christmas was nice. We ate a lot of food and laughed about all the things that happen when you mix Norwegian, Swedish and Danish too often. Like when my Swedish aunt read a Danish newspaper once, where it said: “His son was killed in crossfire in Iraq”. The Danish word for crossfire is krydsild, while she read the Swedish word kryddsild instead, which means spiced herring. Imagine that.

Afterwards we ate homemade sweets and opened presents. My grandmother gave me a moose sausage and my brother is building me a bookshelf because I have all my books in stacks around the room, like this one.

Christmas soon

Yesterday I took the boat home to my parents. The ocean was white in patches, and when I got off it was like Stepping Out In Winter.





Family arrived from Sweden and Denmark yesterday, and we celebrated my grandmother’s birthday. She’s 87 now, and one of the people I admire the most. Sometimes I think there’s more life in her than in me. It’s only a couple of years ago that she cycled twenty minutes to the nearest shop and she’s more updated in the world’s affairs than I am. Not that I'm very updated.

In the quiet

There are certain days when the dreams of the night linger on like a soundtrack or a background, and you mirror all your movements in them.

I can feel the snow outside in my tummy. Nice!

Sleep

I sleep too much these nights. I went from seven hours at night this autumn to eight, and now I need nine. Last weekend I managed eleven.
What a waste of time! I want to do something useful, not sleep. Like writing this art history essay for instance, I really should do that.

Cold

When I got out today the cold stiffened my fingers through my mittens (which I accidentally lost later on) and my breath was visible. It finally felt like December. And I looked around and I saw the houses had crept nearer to each other to keep warm, making the streets smaller, cleaner, it was as if the cold had eroded everything unnecessary away making it look almost sharp, and I had this grand feeling of seeing everything at once, of getting the whole picture.

Am inside with my tea now, I’ve lit some candles and trying rather feebly to write my art history essay in two days. Hah.

Sometimes my feet doesn't hurt at all.

Drawings

This woman was pregnant,

and this one was very thin.

Finger joints

We’re having anatomy at school these days, we’re learning about the bones, muscles and tendons in our arms and hands. That’s so we’ll know how they work and how to draw them. As an anecdote our teacher told us that there aren’t actually any muscles in the fingers, and if one does a neat cut over one of the joints, through the skin and the two tendons, it’s really easy to pick the bone off if we’d like to that one day. Just… pick it off.
It made me look at my fingers differently.

I went to the Gogol Bordello-concert on Saturday, and if we exclude the fact that Benedicte almost got hurt, Anne had to be lifted away from the crowd by a guard and that I found myself in need of biting a man, it was amazing. At some point the world and I was made of the same matter: Sound and movements.

You

I bought tofu today

My arms are hurting again, but I won’t let them. I’m painting and writing and doing my exercises anyway. Hah, that’ll teach them.

I’m writing more now, and I’ve got a new sketch book for picture books ideas.

And happy birthday Benedicte! :)

Blog post

Wow it’s been a long time. I write mostly other places now, like in my bright orange diary.
I’ve got a secret boyfriend and it makes me happy and also very sad, so I eat a lot of chocolate and sit down in the shower. Then I go listen to Beirut.
That is what I do.

Cleaning

I love cleaning my room when I’ve forgotten it for three weeks. It’s like cleaning my head, removing all the dust in the corners, all of it. Changing bed sheets, washing clothes, mend trousers. It really is like pushing things around in my own head, making space.

Regn

Det er noe med regn i lyset fra gatelykter som gjør at jeg kan sitte i vinduskarmen og stirre på det i en evighet, og hadde ikke nødvendigheten av å sove til slutt drevet meg inn på rommet hadde jeg kanskje sittet der ennå, det er noe med gult mot sort, det må være vann mot asfalt, det myke og ubestemte mot en ujevn flate, ruglete, det er regn, og når man legger øret mot vinduet sier det vooosj voosj vooosj.

I Danmark gjorde jeg lite av dette: Sove, Spise, Puste.
Hvem trenger vel primærbehovene?
Selvrealisering all the way, baby!

Yet how splendidly, how radiantly the world’s monotony is interrupted now and then by the book of a genius, a comet, a crime, or even simply by a single sleepless night.
V.N.

Denmark

It’s taking me such a long time to pack, because my brain is suddenly functioning very slowly. Too slowly for my fingers actually, so I keep typing wrong and have to put it right again.
I’m going to Copenhagen with my art school tomorrow to visit galleries. I’ve packed books for the bus ride, I’ve remembered that.
And I’ve arranged to meet one of my cousins who lives there. Her boyfriend is a baker from France, and she said we might make a dinner! I hope I can get time off from the galleries. The other’s will probably go out to drink in the evenings anyway, I can sneak off to cook food! Yes.

Since this whole packing thing takes such a long time and I can’t remember what one should bring I’ve brought Benedicte into my room and put her in a chair with a comic (Shortcomings), just to keep me company. It’s nice.

I'll be back on saturday if anyone needs me:)

.

I experienced something beautiful yesterday that only lasted for about a minute, but I doubt I could describe it, even in Norwegian. It had something to do with vapour on the windows after boiling lots of water and music coming from the floor.

I went to two flea markets today and...

yesterday I played poker together with six library school students. I won a bottle of chilli oil and ate too much chocolate. It was nice. I also got this:

for my birthday by the hostess. I can’t use it because of my arms, but it’s still amazing. You have to click the eyes, and they move around in the sockets when you lift it up.

Kvelder

Disse kveldene hvor vi:
legger oss ned på kjøkkengulvet for å lytte etter naboen
hvor vi lager pai og kake og te
hvor vi ler og kanskje likevel
er helt alene

time

I’m not as impatient as I used to be. I used to want everything all at once, like, I wanted to become an author RIGHT NOW, but it takes time it takes time it takes time. Everything does; my arms, my feet, my back, my life. My life will take all the time there is for me.

This room looks so much better with pillows. Mmm, colours.

Ha!

I’ve made a cake. It’s a very tasty cake, it’s made of chocolate. And now I’ve decorated it with more chocolate. I’ve walked around in Oslo (even though it hurts), bought pretty pillows in different colours and picked a lot of chestnuts in the park, to put on the table. Decorating, you know, that is my soul.

Right now I’m making a lentil soup with Anne, and tomorrow I’ll make falafel. I’ve finished the first draft of Comic Manuscript nr. 2 and I’m happy.

I was at the doctor yesterday, and she checked all the joints in my body and found several hypermobile ones. She told me the inflammation in my arms and feet is all because of them. So I’ll listen to Viv’s advice and stay away from Yoga. Yep.

Birthday soon

I like cycling around in Oslo, there’s so much leaves on the ground, half of it there andhalf  in the trees. And you know what autumn smells like, it smells like a mixture of rotten apples and smoky winter. I cycle through it all.

I printed out my novel again, and on everyone’s advice I’ll send it to publishers. I feel a bit like D: I have a feeling I already know what they’ll say, and since I do there’s no real point in sending it to them.
And there’s something so strange about holding your own novel in your hands, I mean, feeling the real weight of your own words. They’re always heavier than you thought, but whether it’s because you said something important, or just said too much, who knows

Next Sunday I’ll turn twenty one, which is a big thing to be. I’ll make lots of cake and have some kind of party, and hope it goes away quietly.

Og løvet langs gatene lukter søtt, som halvråtne epler

En gutt i klassen reparerte sykkelen min, og jeg sykler. Mye. Jeg er stort sett glad for tiden, et par ting plager meg, men sånn er det alltid.
Å sparke i løvet gjør meg glad, å sykle i sola gjør meg glad. Å bake eplekake, å lese barnebøker, å jobbe på kinoen min.
Jeg går tur med Anne, drikker kakao med Rune og lager middag med Ida. Stekt sild og poteter.
Jeg har lest fem bøker og tre tegneserier siden forrig uke, og nå er armene så bra at jeg får lov til å skrive igjen. Jeg beveger meg forsiktig i riktig retning, mot trærne, zeppelineren og hustakene med duer.Jeg er glad.

Hypermobile

My physiotherapist told me yesterday that I’ve got hypermobile joints. I never knew. I can’t have any extreme form of the condition, I mean, yes, I can bend my arms the wrong way behind my head, and almost do the splits although it’s been four years since I did any real physical training, but I’m nothing near Benedicte. Hypermobile joints. Imagine me being hyper anything. The body is such a strange thing.

The consultant I had at school told me to try another publisher for my novel, and then follow up the one I thought gave the best directions. I don’t want to do anything with it at the moment so I guess this is as good a form of procrastination as anything.

Friday

I saw Harry Potter today. He was grown up, wore a rucksack and walked rather awkwardly into 7-eleven. Afterwards I bought carrots and borrowed comics at the library. Ida and I saw Tatt av Kvinnen at the cinema and experimented with bananas and chocolate in the oven.

The tree outside our kitchen window is completely orange now, while all the other trees are just a plain yellow kind of green.

Autumn and complaints and a dinner

Autumn is a cunning thing, whatever the situation it never fails in being impressive. All this rain and all this sun, and the leaves, the leaves, the broken grass. And when I close my eyes this could almost be 2004.
I like the scarves, the cups of tea, the soup and the chocolate, oh I like that.

I’m staying with my parents this week instead of going to school. My arms hurt too much to draw anyway, and my feet make it painful to move around. Sitting here doing nothing makes my feet hurt less, but of course I couldn’t stay away from writing, and now my arms are almost crackling when I move them. But I get to read a lot, and there is doctor tomorrow.

Carrots and onions

Det er byen der kalder

Byens lyder har blitt vennligere eller i alle fall har jeg blitt mer glad i dem. Før fantes det bare meg og skogen.
Gryntingen når byen våkner, suset fra dens daglige gjøremål. Av og til spiller naboen på gitar eller det kjører en sirene forbi. Byen mumler når den sover, og det blander seg med lukten av råtne blader i parkene og langs fortauene, og det er dette vi kaller høst, for det er umulig å si det på noen annen måte enn at høsten henger i trærne.

Drar ikke på skolen i dag, eller i morgen, eller dagen etter det. Snart skal jeg til røntgen, og etterpå flere blodprøver. Jeg kan knapt å holde en blyant med disse armene, fingrene visner bort.

Å skrive

Har tenkt en del på hvorfor jeg egentlig skriver. Jeg mener, det er ikke som om det gjør meg lykkelig, dette er ikke veien til et rolig og tilfreds liv. Det gjør meg ufullstendig, rastløs og lengtende. Men på samme tid er det skrivingen som, når jeg får det til, gjør meg hel igjen, gjør meg rolig, gjør at jeg er verdt noe. Det er det eneste jeg har å stille opp mellom meg selv og verden, det holder meg sammen, det er som lim.

De siste tre-fire dagene har jeg klart å skrive en del, etter en lang periode uten at noe har ført noe sted. Og det gjør meg trygg, det gir meg en egenverdi. Jeg kan gå steder uten å føle at folk tenker: Å, her kommer hun igjen, hun som ikke er verdt noe.

Kanskje legger jeg for mye i skrivingen, men det er likevel dette jeg har. Å skrive er alt. Jeg er å skrive.

It’s cold when I get up and I jump from foot to foot before I get my socks on, I burn my lips on my tea before I push past the whirls of wind and leaves on my way to the bus. I like that. I want to paint with yellow and red on my brush and nothing else.

Actually my physiotherapist told me I’m not allowed to write or draw through the weekend, but who am I if I don’t try?

Kveld

Jeg hører Benedicte pusle rundt på rommet sitt. Jeg har vinduet åpent. Bilene ruller forbi, fulle folk ruller forbi og jeg ruller over i senga.

doctors and feet

Oh my god, it’s so frustrating when the doctor won’t listen, when I finally gave up on my it-will-probably-go-away-by-itself philosophy, when I finally went to the doctor, when he says: I don’t know, take these pills, you could take some photos of your feet if you want to I guess.
My feet have been aching since November last year, and these days I have problems with walking home after school, it hurts so much. And the woman who took my blood test hit a nerve or something, and my right arm won’t function properly.

I want to cry and then watch a movie.

Manus

Så. Refusert igjen.
Hadde jeg vært en ekte forfatterspire ville jeg sikkert gått ut og blitt overstadig full på billig whisky. Jeg er vel ikke det og jeg gjør ikke det. Jeg rydder og tørker støv. Bak bøkene til og med, under eskene. Det gjorde ikke like vondt denne gangen, Gyldendal er ok.


Fra konsulent:
Jeg synes dette manuset har mye bra ved seg, særlig språklig. Mange steder er det direkte poetisk. Denne forfatteren kan skrive.
Fra hovedkonsulent:
Og at du får en så grundig innstilling, viser at du ligger i øverste klasse blant manus som kommer inn. Nå satser vi på at du har fått noen råd, og så vil vi gå inn i manus når ny versjon foreligger.

Hva trenger jeg nå?
En kopp te. Evnen til å absorbere dette. Litt pågangsmot.
Jeg orker ikke løfte hendene.

(herregud, jeg er egentlig skikkelig fornøyd)

Satte meg i vinduskarmen i dag og lente meg ut over byen, lyttet etter framtiden.

Autumn

Ida and I just watched the last Dr. Who episode of season 3. I ate too much marzipan with chocolate sauce.

After school tomorrow I’ll go buy a lot of vegetables. Then I’ll bake bread and make vegetable soup. After all it’s autumn now, and one should treat Autumn with respect. Like sacrificing hot soup and warm bread with butter to it. And stare out of the window while eating it slowly, slowly.

Post

I used to write a lot here, and now I don’t anymore. Not sure why. It’s not like I don’t write, I write all the time, in my paper diary and elsewhere. Notebooks.

School has started and I like it. Looking forward to everything we’re going to learn, the way I’ll look at things a couple of months from now. I like this girl in my class. She bakes her own bread, just like I do.

I’ll go for some pictures of cakes now. They’re from my father’s birthday. Anne and Benedicte helped me serve coffee.

Book

I read The Orange Girl by Jostein Gaarder while at work, and I really enjoyed it. It was pretty, one of the prettiest books I’ve read lately. I didn’t like the cover as much as the inside, though, so I decided to make it more like my own.







And I really really like our kitchen, I can’t help it.

nitroglyserol

To uventede fridager på rad og jeg burde gjøre noe fornuftig med all denne tiden, men det er visst ikke min greie. Jeg har da aldri vært rasjonell. Alt jeg har gjort er å gå rundt og rundt på rommet mitt, ta bilder av ting og bite meg i knokene. Jeg har fingertupper av isopor (de spiser niveakrem) og en sammenpresset munn. Og min elskede Franz: Du er slett ikke hjelpsom.

2. mai 1913
Det er blitt svært nødvendig å føre dagbok igjen. Mitt usikre hode, F., forfallet på kontoret, den fysiske umuligheten av å skrive og det indre behov for det.

3. mai 1913
Den fryktelige usikkerheten i min indre eksistens.

4. mai 1913
Ustanselig forestillingen om en bred slakterkniv som hurtig og med mekanisk regelmessighet kjøres inn i meg fra siden og skjærer løs helt tynne skiver, som ved det hurtige arbeidet nesten sammenrullet fyker bort.

24. mai 1913
Spasertur med Pick.

En kopp te og bok av Tormod Haugen fra nå av.

And I made a nice dinner

Reading Lovecraft in the kitchen while cooking my dinner I listened to the jazz band playing at the restaurant down the road. It’s the first time I’ve been pleased by its existence.

Benedicte asked me who I was talking to earlier, and since I cannot remember talking to anyone I deduce I must have been talking to myself.

I’ve got purple nail polish. I seem to be unable to write long things.  

Cycling

I was cycling home from work early because there was nothing to do there. It started to rain as I passed a graveyard, a feeble rainfall, falling in patches. And the raindrops fell so slowly through the sun, as if they were petals from the trees.

Namaste (hei)

Jeg er så glad for at jeg bor sammen med Ida, Anne og Benedicte. Når jeg isolerer meg for å skrive så mye som jeg gjør, og i tillegg er verdens dårligste initiativtaker ville det sosiale livet mitt vært noe som ikke fantes uten dem. Jeg er glad jeg har internet.
Når man skriver er man fullstendig alene, og hvis drømmene mine skulle finne på å gå i oppfyllelse kommer jeg til å bli et veldig ensomt menneske. Jeg burde gifte meg med noen.

I have written so many words
Wanting to live inside you
To be of use to you

Indias nasjonaldag i går gikk greit, fullt av folk og indisk mat. Jeg fikk så mye Gajar Ka Halwa at jeg hadde lyst til å legge meg ned på gulvet, men det kunne jeg jo ikke. Den kom servert med noen underlige klumper fritert deig, med Mystiske Ingredienser inni. Sykt, sykt godt.

Jeg gleder meg til å begynne på skolen.

Jeg har skrevet hver morgen i over en uke. Og jeg elsker å skrive som en munn elsker tenner, og frimerker elsker konvolutter (the licking proves it), om jeg vil definere kjærlighet som Matthew Dickman.
Jeg leser bøker om trær og zeppelinere og vatikanets oppbygning, fordi, du vet, dette er det sikreste punktet i livet mitt, det er det stedet jeg må gå tilbake til hver dag for at jeg fortsatt skal være meg selv.

Jeg hang med Eskil i går, før han dro til Hawaii. Og noe var fint og noe var rart. Jeg vet aldri hvordan jeg skal oppføre meg, hvilke lover binder to mennesker når de er kjærester, hvilke når de er venner? Og hva i helvete er en ekskjæreste?
De spilte Nina Simones My Man’s Gone Now på kaféen, og det var både velvalgt og utrolig upassende av dem. Men det er greit, jeg spilte den selv, da han hadde gått fra leiligheten min. Satte meg på gulvet, og så kom den sinnssykt snurrende følelsen det er så vanskelig å kjempe mot, og jeg tenkte; når er det jeg skal slutte å gråte? Pustet, pustet, pustet. Vi snakket om mye, men ikke om noe viktig, vi bryr oss begge for mye om uviktige ting. Og, du vet, jeg kan ikke reglene. Pustet inn, pustet ut. Og det var da, akkurat der på gulvet, at jeg pustet ut en vesentlig del av min ungdom (Tell' me that I’m old now, Since I lose my man) Jeg stakk hånda inn under t-skjorta, inn under bh-en for å sjekke om det var et hull der. Det var det ikke, det banket, og da er det håp.
Og jeg tenkte: Det er i dag jeg skal slutte å gråte.


Jeg tar meg selv i å forestille meg at jeg er et enormt tre. Jeg har lest mye om trær i det siste.

I’ve made black currant jam, rhubarb marmalade, and each morning I make a smoothie with raspberries and bananas

This t-shirt is from our painting-walls-at-the-hospital days. Sometimes our boss would be elsewhere and we could impersonate slugs, paint giraffes and laugh and laugh and laugh.

Places and ice cream

I was on my way to a place I know rather well from my home which I, you know, know rather well too. And I decided to take a short cut and turned a corner, only to find myself in a place I didn’t know existed at all, was uncommonly pretty and looked nothing like anywhere in Oslo.

Anne and I made ice cream out of orange juice and frozen raspberries, red currant and bananas. It was so so tasty.

Vi dro til Lillevollaug i går, for å besøke Annes foreldre og gå i skogen deres. Faren til Anne har skog-skillz og det er noe jeg beundrer. Å være i en skog som er uberørt av mennesker på over hundre år gir meg en følelse av evighet, av at dette er det mest ekte stedet jeg har vært noen gang. Det var helt stille der, bortsett fra pusten vår, og rasling av støvler i mose, elven lenger nede. Bare biblioteker gjør meg like rolig som skogen.
Etterpå prøvde vi hattene til farmoren hennes, kikket på klærne og eskene og skapene og skoene, jeg fant et bilde av en zeppeliner, en ekte zeppeliner. Så drakk vi hylleblomstte og så rare mennesker på toget.

Jeg tror jeg vil selge Øyabilletten min. Jeg behøver sko, fort, for disse driver og faller fra hverandre, dessuten er det en science fiction-festival jeg kanskje heller vil dra på (ach, for jeg er mer nerd enn du tror, og var uansett mest opptatt av Gogol Bordello, Woven Hand og Rockettothesky)

My week’s been like this:

I got home from Denmark and went to live in my parents’ house while they’re away.
Half past six in the morning I cycled an hour and a half to the hospital, where I painted the walls together with Anne and Caroline, then I cycled home. I picked wild strawberries in the roadside.
I showered before I fed the hens, gave them water and watched them do hen-things for a while. I fed the cats too.
My toes got cold when I picked a bowl of raspberries, I had them for dessert later, every day. Then I cooked vegetables for dinner (carrots and broccoli), ate, listened to everything being quiet. I didn’t turn the radio on, or the telly. I like this silence.
I’d lock the hens in for the night, then read, then sleep.

It’s been a good week. Tomorrow I’m going back to Oslo, to work there.

Sommerferie

Internettløs en måned nå, og det er egentlig greit. Man får gjort andre ting. Drikke te for eksempel. Jogge i Frognerparken, se på Dr. Who, skrive ferdig en roman. Redigere i hvert fall, ble ferdig i går, kjøpte papir og printet den ut. Det er så rart å holde noe man har skrevet i hånda. En stor bunke papir, den er tyngre enn forventet, har jeg skrevet alt dette? Jeg har skrevet alt dette.

På Nesodden klør det i øya, lillebror klippet gresset. Tåler ikke gress. I morgen drar jeg med familien til Bornholm, til sommerhuset. Der er trappen skjev og det lukter jord i veggene, vi bor mellom sju og tolv oppå hverandre, som regel hvert fall, og vi snakker minst tre språk. Av og til fire eller fem. Vi går til bakeren om morgenen, vi går til klippene om dagen, vi går hjem og spiser middag om natten. Ute i hagen med lykter i trærne.

New apartment

Our kitchen




My bedroom



I don’t have a book shelf yet, so my books are just piled up in the corner beside the stove.
I know the last pictures aren't that good, but these were the ones I had.

Visiting my parents, I’m in the kitchen, listening to the rain and the bubbling of the kettle on the oven. I’m making rhubarb marmalade, the way my grandmother taught me to. She told me my great grandmother made marmalade on rainy days, when it was cold and grey. They would light the fire in the stove and put the casserole on, letting it stay there all day.
The rain smelled green when I was out picking the rhubarb, and the cats are wet, purring in the kitchen window.

When I was writing this I suddenly noticed this caterpillar going for a stroll on my computer. Can you see him?

Look how he’s dancing in front of the camera, I think he likes the attention.
I better let him out of the window now.

My mum just put on Erik Satie.
Franz Kafka would have been 124 years today.

By

Det er mange flere gale mennesker på trikken enn det noen sinne var på t-banen. Flere ganger har jeg sett en gammel mann kaklende for seg selv, og av og til roper han til vinduskarmen. På vei fra jobb i dag var det en mann som ulte mor, moor, klagende, som et barn. Og alle vi andre trikkepassasjerer satt med popkornet vårt og ble usikre.

Jeg kjøpte en Ella Fitzgerald LP fra en gang på sekstitallet, og det suser i ørene, det suser i høyttalerne, i rommet, når man hører på den, det suser i hendene som klapper langt bakover i sekstitallets Berlin. Hun høres ut som en mann til tider. I den nye leiligheten drikker jeg mer te enn man bør, leser mindre enn jeg skal og er oppe hele sommernatten med forhenværende forfatterstudenter - lasagne og slåbrok klokken fire om natten, surrende rundt på Grünerløkka. Og latteren vår kan vekke deg når du sover.

På jobb i dag fikk jeg filmplakaten til Det Gylne Kompasset. Det blir bra.

We've got internet in our new apartment now, for reals. I'll write something probably. 

Almost, almost moving

These last days I’ve been editing about four hours a day, and by then my head is so heavy and full of used words that I have to stop. And my eyes want to close themselves in an attempt to… I don’t even know what they attempt to do.

Tomorrow I’ll move to our utopian apartment and I bought a new box of Darjeeling tea to celebrate. Am also going to make a chocolate cake.

Today I saw a securitas guard bath his dog in a fountain in the sun. They smiled, both of them. On my way home afterwards I almost finished reading Summer in Baden-Baden, and apart from The Trial it is the most liquid-like book I have ever read.

Food from the last weeks

Café with my movie man from writing school


Also café


Strawberry and banana and tea at Anne’s place to celebrate me getting into art school


Biscuits and raspberry tea when visiting an old friend


Gluten free scones with Line. This one’s an elephant. No, it’s true.

I forgot to tell

I found these old earrings at Vestkanttorget. They were really cheap.




I like them.

Nice

Oh, it’s so hot! Stupid Oslo, I thought this was supposed to be in the northern part of the world.
Anyway, the celebration on Friday was nice. Lots of speeches, lots of gift-exchanging. Afterwards we went to Jon Ewo and had a party there, which was also nice.
This year is over now, and I’ll spend the next at art school. I think that will be nice too.

Busy

Today is our last day at school. Yesterday everyone had a talk with the two most imporant teachers about our main project. They both said they had loved my novel (loved, they used that word) and it was a wonderful thing to hear. These two can be pretty harsh when it’s something they don’t like. I’m sure I can live off of this for at least a week.
Afterwards I worked til late, then home to sleep.
Today is, as I said, our very last day. They’ll give us diplomas and hold speeches and afterwards there will be an end-of-term celebration and everything.
Saturday is busy too.
On Sunday I’ll stay very still and think.

Work was wonderful though. Hanne, Benedicte and Anne came to visit me and Erik, and since there were exactly twenty customers in the summer heat we stayed outside and drank ice coffee. After we had closed Erik and I took a roundabout way along Akerselva, and the heat and the water were perfect together, all the dogs running around, we watched the ducks. Talking rapidly, enthusiastically, both excited about the last day, and the coffee running through us, and the feedback from earlier. (He wrote a novel for his main project too.)

Utdrag fra papirdagbok 7. juni

I natt sto jeg opp igjen halv to og satte meg i den tomme leiligheten. Leste Summer in Baden-Baden og drakk vin. Og skrittene mine lagde ekko gjennom rommet, gjennom leiligheten, gjennom tiden.
Hør:
Frøydis skal aldri mer bli glad i noen. Og jeg skal si deg hvorfor. Man blir glad i noen, de blir lei av deg og drar sin vei. Og det tar år før man slutter å skrike ned i puta når man ikke får sove.
Jeg jobber hele tiden mot perfeksjon, så ingen noensinne skal kunne bli lei av meg igjen.

Egg yolk

Some weeks ago Anne poured an egg yolk in my hand. Cold and slippery, it looked like the sun. Then she told me it was a single cell.

I was holding a cell in my hand and somehow it was just too weird to comprehend.
:)

Colours

I saw a woman completely dressed in bright red today. Her jacket, her pants, her purse and her umbrella. Not her shoes though. And she was reflected in the wet asphalt.
Some time later I saw a lady in blue.
I want to be a colour too.

It’s raining

I woke up this morning to the sound of raindrops on my windowsill and it was beautiful.
Other than that I’m mostly working. I work at this place:

and I like it.

I’ve been thinking a lot too, mainly about plot and characters. I like when they to talk to me, that’s usually when I run in the forest, early in the morning. I also spend a lot of time at the library, writing down what my characters told me and reading about zeppelins.

We’ve got a new cat on the veranda, we call him Albert. That’s because he looks like an Albert. We feed him so he won’t disappear into himself by starvation and I sing for him every morning. I try to remember songs by The Shins, but after a while it always turns into something like la la la… lala hmmm…

Anyway. Yeah.

I love libraries

Hah! I’ve bought a folder to put all my notes and doodlings in, and yesterday I went to the library to borrow books on zeppelins. I like this story.

Also, after Benedicte and Anne played with a scissor yesterday I appear to have some kind of helmet on my head.

Food

My mother got really ill before I left and had to be taken to the doctor. I was scared, but she called me yesterday evening to say that it wasn’t as serious as it had seemed.

I made my brothers a lot of food though, before I left I had made them a tasty dinner, a fruit salad,


chocolate cakes (no, they're not muffins),


and a rhubarb pie.


I am awesome!

Visiting my parents at the moment

It’s not as relaxing as I had hoped, but at least they’ve got chickens! They’re cute and after a while let me say hullo.



I’ve spent my time playing Jan Johanson on the piano, doing an incredible amount of dishes, and being told with several superlatives just how ridiculous my economy is. Looks like I’ll have to find a job this summer in addition to the one I’ve already got, just to sort things out. Maybe I can write during the night or something, it should be possible. My mother bought me some food, and Hanne did too, so at least I won’t starve just yet.

My parents’ garden is green and full of flowers, it smells like summer.
(Det' min dirren
Der sitrer i koglerne, raklerne)
I drink tea with my grandmother and she tells me about her trip to Paris with her 90 year old friend. The tourists have invaded since she was young, but apart from that it was mostly as she remembered it. I wonder how the world will be when I’m 87, I probably won’t like it.
(Og tiden er sprød)

I really don’t need much to be happy, despite a lot of things. I’m listening to Under Byen again, and wearing the blue-green sweater Caroline gave me, it smells so good. Like soap and cleanness. I’ve done what I’m supposed to do and handed it in, and I know I’ll past my exam on Friday (unless I break my hand or something). And there’s a lot of rhubarb in the garden. Maybe I’ll make a cake.



Now I’ll go and make a cup of tea. Then I’ll write while I still have the time. I’m pretty happy with what I wrote on Sunday, it’s really getting exciting now. Strange things are happening and right now they’re having a narrow escape from two scary men. I wish I could write every day (Og alle ved at jeg er syg af længsel), writing is about the only thing I do which doesn’t make me wish I was doing something else.