Here comes another year, this one frighteningly without apparent structure. I am in a black hole in the system, in limbo between public duty and intellectual advancement, looking backwards and stumbling forwards. It's not a very comforting place to be, because the success of this year relies too much on my own very self to for comfort. Well, that is not entirely true, there is a certain attraction to it. But humanity fears the unknown (often to the extent of refusing any efforts to rectify this, unfortunately), and I am loath to say I am usually not an exception in this matter - it's a hardwired thing, I think. There is however a certain attraction to this predicament - a proving grounds of sorts, where my adversary is none other than the fear of failure (with a healthy dose of laziness thrown in for good measure). This is indeed a bit of a paradox, the thing most likely to lead to crashing and burning is the fear of doing just that. I am set to make my own future, but the fucking thing's a slippery bastard.

It'll be an interesting thing to see; how all this works out in the end.

I actually believe nuclear weapons of mass destruction and MAD have saved more lives than we could imagine, and by this I do not mean their role in bringing on the cessation of hostilities between Japan and the US after Hiroshima and Nagasaki but rather their effect on the world from 1949-1990.

The Cold War was indeed a dreadful trial for all parties involved and doubtlessly it came close to going very wrong, several times, most notably during the Cuba Missile Crisis in October, '69. Truly, I don't think anyone involved or reading the history books years from now would ever consider it a pleasant time.

But let's for a moment consider the repercussions of a Cold War sans nuclear weapons. Most likely, it'd never have time to even get cold. Korea, Viet-Nam, Afghanistan would all be full-scale battlegrounds where the superpowers waged their wars. Not limited as it would be for the fear of nuclear reprisals, but rather it would be total war, and destruction would be just as assured as if a nuclear weapon was tossed either way, and it would be, if not as showy on the news at nine o'clock, it would most certainly be more messy than the cauterization of a nuclear blast (of course, down the line, nuclear fallout would claim its toll, but recent studies from both Chernobyl and Japan show that these dangers have most likely been somewhat exaggerated, if not greatly). And I very much doubt the wars ensuing would stay contained as they were in the Cold War as we know it, rather they would flare up entire regions, and god knows we'd have this third world war that was so feared throughout the latter part of the twentieth-century.

I'm not saying we should all start loving the bomb, but we should look at how the scenarios we faced back then when the superpowers waged their little skirmishes would have played out without the threat of certain destruction if one party overstepped the silently agreed on boundries of aggression.

Truly, the possibility of nuclear war is a ghastly thing to even conceptualise, but the threat of the nuke is the greatest weapon we've ever invented thus far. And by far the least lethal.

However, MAD is a moot point in a day where nuclear capability is no longer out of the grasp of not only rogue states, but organizations with little less in mind than the complete destruction of their enemies with little danger for personal repercussion and reprisal. But as long as we stick to our great big wars where billions face billions, we're safe from the mushroom cloud as long as we choose not to use it. In the case of one versus billions, we're totally fucked.

I am going to pose myself a challenge.

In the constant quest of arguing once existence, there is a worrying problem that pops up after a while that for I cannot get my head around at all.

Say that my existence is the thought of some entity, simply a short-lived idea, maybe only lasting a few seconds as it scutters around the hallways of the mind. If this is the case, then how can I argue, or explain that my existence is something other than the imagination of someone or something. Descartes would explain this away with his axiomatic Cogito ergo sum, but this relies on the assumption that the action of thinking is incorruptible in itself, not subject to anything, and only the primary external senses and ideas derived from these are under the power of some demonic entity out to get you. The problem which presents itself, however, is that nothing is inviolate if this situation is as presented above. Every logic one can come up with is corrupt, and so is every fact, experience and notion that might present itself in this existence. Though these might be objective to oneself and current existence, they are subjective and nested within it and unapplicable if one's entire existence is put to the question. Therefore, they cannot be used to solved the problem. It's an impossible, and infuriating loop of thought.

The very action of thinking might simply be imagined in itself, and though you could say that because I imagine, therefore I am, it is not my imagination that brings everything forth, it is that of the entity doing the imagining. Not me. So though I cannot doubt existence in general, mine can with ease be put to the question.

It's an interesting ordeal, life. For my eyes in particular. Four weeks ago, if not a little bit more, I had the pleasure of going through corrective laser surgery. It was, I think, far too short an experience and not at all fitting for what it marked the end of. Not to mention the fact that it was so damn cool to experience, having the outer lens of your eye dissolved with alcohol, and then promptly pushed aside by the doctor *while* one is watching. The strangest thing, though, was that once he shoved separated parts of the lens to the sides of your eye, my vision actually got clearer by a very noticeable amount. Most likely, this was simply the effect of the alcohol blurring the removed lens now gone, but nonetheless fascinating. Then again, when you're about to have a laser have a go at your eye, you're in a bit of a state of mind to say the least. This only heightened by the fact that it's not bacon you're smelling, it's your eye tissue singeing.

Mind you, it's not at all as disconcerting as it sounds, in fact, I'd do the whole thing over again for kicks if it hadn't been so damned expensive. It's not every day you get to have your eye dissected and promptly bombarded with lasers (strange thought, for an avid Sci-Fi nut). Ironically enough, blindness ensued for about two weeks before improving. Now, there's a happy story for you.

However, last Saturday, after having a fellow's nail come into very high-velocity contact with my beloved right eye and having precious pieces of it mutilated, I've been blind for about yet another week.

Needless to say, I'm getting damn well fed-up with not seing a fucking thing. The eye-patch does become me, though.

Meme:
1. thank the person who tagged you.
2. list 5 random/strange/weird things about you.
3. tag 5 other people.

1. Thank you :)

2.
1 I have very small feet (size 8) and it is a source of much embarassment.
2 In the last three months, I have destroyed four expensive mobile phones, three of them mine.
3 The accident involving the one which wasn't mine was dropping it in the toilet bowl. Totally an accident, honest.
4 I secretly enjoy musicals very much, and I played Toulouse in a Moulin Rouge stage-play.
5 I played three parts in 15 Minute Hamlet, yet I've never been to the theater to watch a show.

3.
abeguilinglark
hells_bella
berkleeprick
_deadlydoll
lyric_splat

I am absolutely amazed at the stupidity at the Danish, Norwegian and Swedish press. Amazed how they can act in such a manner when every expert opinion, and even common sense, screams no, no, no! How they can publish pictures of a person revered by many, and who set down a rule that he should not be portrayed. How they can justify such pointless agitation, how they get the hubris to pour gasoline on the fire is beyond me. But they have done it. The Danes did it, we reprinted it, and the Swedes gave the finger. Thank God for Jonas Gahr Støre who remains the only diplomatically inclined person in the whole mess. He, and the local Palestinian commander of the Al-Aqsa brigade. They kept their heads cool. But knowing the nature of things, that might hardly be enough to contain such a giant leap backward. Into the shit.

Yes, the freedom of the press is a wonderful thing. But common sense, in all its glory, leaves it in the dust. And that's the only argument in that matter I believe is worthwhile presenting, anything else would be redundant.

No, they have no right to threaten the lives of our citizens who are there to aid, or to burn our flag, or the Danish flag. But let's take into the account the political side of things. Not to justify, because it is not my place to do that, but to provide a context. The original drawings were published over four months ago in Jyllands-Posten, yet it is not before now we see the reactions in the muslim world. We're not communicating with smoke signals anymore; shit spreads fast. So why no public outrage or flagburning until recently? Al-Fatah lost their election to Hamas not very long, and it was a massive defeat for them and the repercussions for Palestine remain to be seen. But with this in mind, the entire ordeal of the recent days is put into new light: it is a rallying point, a case for which the losers can make their stand and yell their defiance at, to show that they're still fierce and not to be forgotten.

Not to say it is entirely thus and nothing else, but it is politics fanning the flame of religious outrage - which has been, and remains a potent political weapon.

EDIT: Well, it's no longer only Al-Fatah, Hamas is definitely on the bandwagon; or rather, they're building their own.

Have you ever entered a room and forgotten what you were in there for? Ever got lost in your sentence, failing to remember what you were actually saying (hopefully something to begin with).

It seems that I am haunted by such memory losses constantly as of late, thoug instead of losing my words, my thoughts go, leaving nothing behind but an aggravating black hole of the "it's on my tongue" feeling that never quite reaches its culmination and revelation. It is eroding what little confidence in my creative ability I have left.

I hardly think it's anything serious, but damn it, can't I at least keep my thoughts collected most of the time? Is that too much of a thing to ask?

Speaking of creative ability and inquisitive thought - which there has been a sad lack of lately. I'm very disappointed in myself; it is as if I am becoming duller and duller each day that goes by, losing some of that edge which I at least credited to myself (whether grounded in pure ego or not, I've no real care; for confidence is king). The only light of my existence is the incessant arguing that occurs for two hours every Wednesday in Philophy class, where no one has any thought or care for what I have to say, but it is a stimulation of sorts to comfort myself with. It stirs something, I can feel it, and every time I walk out there are new thoughts in my head - and blessed are they, for they are few and far between - on the nature of the life, the universe and nothing much at all. But it bothers me how this is the only discourse I can find that's stimulating at all. I know I have many friends who can help (<3 Belly-delly habeeb), but it never seems to end up in such places.

To dwell upon the momentary respite of Philosophy class: I must say it's amazing how worked up people can get over a statement which they give themselves little time to digest before they enter a rage that would give a Norse berserk pause on how such ludicrous rubbish has nothing whatsoever to do with the task at hand, when it strikes in fact at the very essence of things. I wish we would give eachother more time; for despite all our Christmasy orchestrations and kind thoughts, we give eachother naught that have much real value. With time, we are Scrooges, all.


Ich vermisse dich auch, Prism.

I don't think I've ever felt so hollow before, and so conflicted. Driven into stasis, a limbo through a forced indecisiveness that is never mine to end, yet though I try with all my might to force to the front a dialogue that will maybe put an end to it, either with a rejoical, or a brief nova of even more misery and disgusting self-loathing. Perhaps the worst thing of all is to watch oneself become such a twisted and unrecognisable caricature. One unkown and uncharted, and utterly volatile. Places where I do not want to roam are forced upon me, and perhaps I can blame them on someone else, but ultimately they are brought on by myself. The blame is difficult to place, and I don't know if I should even attempt, but something drives me to despite my acute knowledge thar it will give no resolution to what ails me and what was mine.

I'm a sullen child crying for its toy, ignorant of the reasons why there is such an inexorable pull and desire towards what is out of reach.

Pining and suffering are such trite additions to any LJ (and life), and even though I am loathe such indulgences and pity, I am forced to them.

What a predicament.

Sad thing about losing all those insecurities is that along with them, you also lose the outlets you once had to hide them. Poor Azi, in his unmarked grave. The people next to him must be spinning and clawing to get out.

Mobile nicked. The world ends as we know it.

A case of Hansa in the fridge and a lovely gal on the couch. Is there anything better?

Det hardeste, det vanskeligste jeg kan gi meg ut på, tro?

Men tenk om jeg hadde klart det.

Faen så lyst jeg har å prøve.

Standing in front of the mirror, I wonder if I know this person I see. The person that is so much different from the pictures taken when he left everything he'd known behind for a crazy adventure across the pond. First I think, no, I have no idea who this person is; but then I realise, I know myself better now than I ever have, as a person who has survived his gauntlet, and his trial by fire. I say without pride (of which I had an abundance, but to no good) but rather with a complacency that intermingles periodically with either happiness or sadness for the beginning and the end that this poses, respectively. I don't think I've come to realise anything so important as the fact that I can change myself, change the person I see in the mirror, and the person that appears to others. In most ways, I think, I have not changed, I've simply revealed. Maybe change isn't possible, only different configurations. As Joanna and I have figured out, in the end, we're all the same, just different.

To digress, I've met a few people that I've found to be wonderfully compatible with my way of mind, but I can only think of one that in so little time has challenged me so much and even made me smile while fumbling for whatever point I was trying to make. It's a lovely thing, but one which I leave behind.

I'm leaving behind a lot of things - in fact, I'm leaving behind so much more than I ever had before this adventure begun: friends and experiences, good and bad but which I will have to try to cherish equally because they are of equal importance, in the end.

I haven't written an entry like this in a long time - one that's only purpose is to fill up the empty hours that form the early hours of the morning while all sensible persons get their sleep and I keep my pointless vigil. I always do, before I go. I have yet to have a full night's worth of sleep before endeavouring to far-off airports.

A few hours of sleep beckon. See you when I'm home.

I leave as an American. And hearing myself say that, and mean it is... I don't know. All I know is leaving is shit.

Oi laddie! You're in more trouble now than you've ever been! Can't have none of this dodgy business, running about in the wee hours of the morning!

But you know, it was very much worth it. And I got to stretch my legs, too. What bliss.

Good times. Oh, and if California decides once and for all to say fuck it all, and bugger off to the great open seas, I'm coming along.

Nå har jeg det bra
og takk skal du ha
jeg har det bedre enn de fleste her tilstede
jeg smiler hver dag
fordi jeg er glad
det er så fint å leve selv om stolbena er skjeve
jeg dekker på med lys og røde roser
og venter på at hun skal ringe på

Jeg sitter ne' på berget og ser utover havet
en solskinnsdag i ferien min
i sommer skal jeg surfe stå på vannski og bade
ja denne ferien tror jeg blir fin

Forbi meg suser Andersen i sin kabincruiser
med alle sine venner ombord
det kryr av jenter der i gjennomsiktige bluser
som Andersen ble kjent med i fjor

Jeg titter på jenter jeg har solbriller på
så ingen riktig ser hvor jeg ser
den peneste av jentene tar av seg sin BH
og snur seg i mot meg og sier

Toeken drunk entrry.

I'm rather fond of my subconscious. It's not one of those which requires thousands upon thousands of dollars worth of fees to worthless consultants which tell you you need to get into your mother's pants, or take it out on your father, but rather one with a far blunter approach: saying it, pretty much, like it is. If you end up naked in a classroom or being chased by demon hounds once in a while, it's a price worth paying for reasonably intelligible dreams. Sometimes, even, they come true. Sometimes. I am still waiting for my bloody chest of gold and loot under my bed which was promised to me at the age of 12. Sometimes, the faeries take their time.

But anyway, I begun this trip more or less with a dream - of the good old kind, not the Martin Luther King kind - that more or less settled those worries that I might have harbored in the wake of the excessive waiting times for a placement or the worries presented by actually living in a foreign country for nine months, all alone. Of course, these both proved to be major issues, but it was a good dream, and I was at peace.

Now, 17 days before I depart, ending quite possibly one of the most life-changing experiences in my life (second only perhaps to being born and learning how to draw on the walls with my own feces) and also one of the most wonderful, so far (I didn't enjoy being born all that much - the whole scat artiste thing was also mercifully shortlived), I've had yet another dream, one of returning home to what I've left and being, well, just another Norwegian. It was an interesting dream, with quite a few tangents of foreboding, but in the end, it was a settling experience.

I love Alaska, and I'm certain I will always cherish the experience and all the people I've gotten to meet here, but it's finally time to go home.

When the mood falls, perhaps I shall write something more in-depth. Alaska deserves it, but I'm fickle.

Pictures courtesy of Lizzy. And I'm not as grumpy as I look - just a long ceremony with far too many fog horns. :P

Pity there's so little time.

In other news, Madagascar is excellent, despite being unremarkable.

(On a less reflected note: 60GB Photo iPod, bitches!)

As spurred on by a forum posting on a site I frequent erratically and contribute to even more sporadically

God's a jolly fellow, I think, and he gets along splendidly without me, and I without him.

Personally I believe the pondering of such things to be inherently futile as any God entity by definition would be beyond our cognitive possibilities to grasp. So why dedicate one's life to worry and ponderous musings that go nowhere?

If anything, focus rather on the question, which is why we seem to require to put ourselves into this hierarchy of pantheons and deities. Why must we always be affixed to some static point, as to define ourselves proper? Why not, instead, let ourselves be fleeting? The fleeting always wins over the rigid, or so experience and voyeourism over Nature's workings has taught me. I believe the same to be very much applicable to life in itself.

I think I might join the French Foreign Legion.

It's curious how events go about showcasing that the object of such desire has turned into - no, has always been nothing but a corrupt form of that which you've always longed for. Something which has gone so basically sour that it seems beyond all possible attempts of salvage.

So what will the world of tomorrow bring? Remembrance and regret, of all lost to a floundering and sweaty grip?

It's amusing, I find, how people believe I play them. I do not. I never have. I think that's true.

Veiled faces staring,
a man quickly learning the steps
of the hangman's jig,
as he hangs by the grace of God
and Pride

All I need is just to be yelled at, sometimes. To simply be the focal point of some discharge. How difficult is that?

Quite so, it seems.

As for other events, theater people are still proving dodgy, but satisfaction should come within the next few days. Strange new customs shall have to be introduced ad hoc for the purposes of romance and the act of it.

Skål to an eventful week of poker, pirates, beautiful girls and all that jazz, and skål to another week of the same.

It is interesting to look over the timelines represented by the page summaries throughout my journal - ups and downs, rights and lefts and general dodginess all around. Just one page showcases the transitions, the stratas of personalities and persons discovered through its chronological order. A microanthropological study? I highly doubt this would be revolutionary enough for Mr. Curtis, or Darwin, but it works for me.

Entering Victoria, the green rose of the land. Scooting through the petals, dodging spires of christ and relics of bigger, stronger and better. Through the air, running away from the horizon and Helios rising.

Helios rising over our brave new world, stick figures fleeing the horizon, seeking tomorrow and the day after. Tears of mothers and fathers dripping endlessly over nothing and everything, dropping on their children, drowning and washing all that is the child, and leaving only the adult. Not the core, but the husk of what was once beautiful. The adult and the cynic of our time is born.

Supple in birth, rigid in death.

Here we are again, sitting on the pier, the wee lad sampling the currents with his toes.

A leaf in the wind is a very good analogy and an aspiration likewise.

Well, Alt Prom turned out to be quite a fun night, after all, despite the inherent silliness of SWS. Ballistic ping pong, and matrimony, all in one night. It's amazing what refusing to speak english can elevate your evenings to a whole new level.

Such beautiful eyes I haven't seen in a long time.

Some old letter I found while cleaning out my dusty computer. I'm surprised at myself, honestly.

( Dear Wanja/SPEAK, )

Gi meg en hånd å holde i
Gi meg en seng å sove i
Gi meg vinger og jeg flyr avsted

It's an odd feeling to be alone. One of sadness and relief, of aggravating ambiguity and uncertainty.

But, as it says...


Where to go, one wonders.

Når klasserommet blir et fengsel... Boka og Annet

En tom side stirrer på meg fra bordets hvile. Et stygt blikk. "Fyll meg!" sier boka. "Fyll meg med dine tanker, idder og mål. Jeg vil svelge dem, akseptere dem. Akseptere deg. Alt som utgjør hva du er. Alt de andre ikke vil ha, det de skyer fra. Alt det velkommer jeg med åpne armer. For jeg er din Gud, og din Herre. Men du er ikke min profet, for jeg er din."

Dette er faren.

For atleter og rockestjerner. Hva er du? Hvem er du? Ingen? Du er vel ingenting du, hvis du ikke går i vår bås. Er du ikke vår er du ingens. Ingenting er du.

Velg en frase, velg ditt liv. Velg nå, nå, nå, nå! Velg med en gang. For verden avhenger på deg. Alt hviler på deg og dine. Ditt valg. Men alltid galt.

Margen beveger seg sakte bortover og nedover. Mot bredden og kanten. Det er ikke noe håp for deg. Aldri vil dette gå deg bra, og bare din ende vil du møte. Din framtid går som margen.

Lærer bedre selv, jeg. I mitt eget tempo, vettu. Ja, mitt eget tempo går jeg i. Lurer på om han ser, eller om hun bryr seg. Håper på det siste og lurer på hvorfor jeg lurer å det første.

Sidens ende nærmer seg og slik gjør også min. Min ende er din og vi faller vekk i tomrommet. En guldfisk. Fortapt.

Jeg lurer på dette arret på min hånd. Jeg lurer på hvilken historie det skjuler- prøvde de kanskje å drepe meg?