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.