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

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

Pity there's so little time.

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

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

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.

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

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.

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.

Do polytheists die a disappointed life, Robinson?

The lead on the page embodies the ideas and thoughts of seconds, minutes and hours going past at breathtaking speeds - but what of the fragments that break off in transit from lead to paper? those pieces we brush off the paper, leaving smudges and traces on the page, marring our perfection. What of them? What could they have formed, given the chance? I wonder, if their kismet was the brightest of all, yet they fell subject to the whims of our hands and minds. Pity.

There is a drive to write. But there is no future beyond the period, no existence beyond it. How can such empty writing sustain itself? Writing c0annot live in the now. Writing must live in the Then. Tomorrow. The subsequent second. Always. But yet a failure to capture it becomes to prevalent. Focusing on the word, the letter that is spat out of a rambling jumble of which no meaningful or coherent progeny comes.

There is a universe. A broken egg in the blackness of space. A universe being pulled apart by the advance of its brother, its blood and enemy. A destructive presence. But who is to say, whether the detritus of its rampage may not give birth to greater stars that will shine brightly forevermore?

Give way to a prismatic future.

Here we are again, offering for once something more of an entry than what has become the norm over the last few months. Right now, I have absolutely nothing to say, but ask me again in two paragraphs and perhaps I shall tell you that the answer is in fact forty-two. Likelihood is, that is the only thing of substance you shall find in this entry; however, do not be deterred, for things are good and the gods are benevolent - you might end up with a nugget of something, at the very least, whether it be an induced epiphany or simply another minute killed in the dreary afternoon that gives way to a fitful night and a giving new day.

The sun shattered long ago, and now at last has the detritus been done away once and for all to make way for a shiny new star, a vessel for life or death, unbeknownst. A brilliant prism up on the night sky; who knows in whom it will instill hope and happiness. There is an awful lot of happiness going around, not to mention a peculiar speck of orange which none find within their capability to account for. A universe gone rampantly askew, truly.

Titanic was a brilliant inspiration, who would have thought?

Pardon my sporadic monosentenced entries as of late, but well, there's a life to live and windows to fog.

Possess meaning and definition.

Possess a jittery feeling and an imprint on your lips.

My first post from over the ocean is not going to be much different than the usual. Then again, my posts are hardly uniform - they only share one characteristic: they all contain, What the hell. . . shall I write in some incarnation or other. However, this time around, to diverge slightly from the tried-and-true formula, I shall instead begin with:

How the hell . . . shall I write it.

Hardly the eternal question of mankind, but nonetheless a challenging one. The root of the problem is not finding a subject, but rather conveying it. The subject is America. Or rather, my first week in the country of sugar-coating and political correctness. Quite a few things have happened, among them a chewing out for cursing too much, two football games, cheerleaders and dress codes, and a general corruption of everyone's Christian soul and moral fibre. Norwegians know how to get things done.

Though one should never start a paragraph or sentence with firstly, I shall (but nonetheless cleverly avoiding doing so in the first place). Firstly, there is the American system of education. My experiences with it so far have been nothing but surprisingly pleasurable - that is, as long as I can keep my mouth shut. When I do not, mayhem generally ensues, after a spell of general fawning over my non-existent British accent (which is generally European, not British - but what can you expect from someone whose only source of said accent is Hugh Grant?). Purely academically, the schools are a pushover. Indeed, I was worried of being able to uphold a C average before I left, but it has now become apparent that it poses no problem whatsoever.

A short digression is warranted on the subject of U.S. History - something is very wrong with a country when I can simply guess and keep a 90% success rate. Mind you, I am not complaining too much. Just being hypocritical. It's what I do.

Speaking of which, cheerleader uniforms strike me as funny coming from a school system which has serious issues with students showing more skin than their lower arms and necks. Truly, why don't we simply introduce sharia and get it over with already. Other than that, I have no complaints on the subject of cheerleaders, apart from a general complaint on the subject of the stereotyping they suffer from. Most of the ones I conversed with were quite intelligent, and provided rather enjoyable conversation. Beauty and intelligence are not mutually exclusive.

This, in any case, was my conclusion after spending three-and-a-half hours with the entire team during a bus ride. How I managed to become the only fellow on a bus full of beautiful women is beyond me, but this is a country of opportunity, after all.

Immediately following this was my second American football game (where the foot rarely touches the actual ball, but I shall withhold my criticism for now) which was an event, not to be remembered, perhaps (though we did trounce the other team thoroughly - Go Panthers!) but one which granted insight into its importance in a community such as is common in these parts of Tennessee. In itself, the game is rather dull, but as I have come to realise, this is not the focus of these two-and-a-half-hours where men have mandate to kick each others arse and women to flash as much of their legs as womanly possible within a two-hour time-span. But rather, it serves much like the weekly church attendance as a focus point of the community, where people get together, exchange gossip and generally eat to get disgustingly fat.

All of these seem to be important elements, along with the feeling of rooting for your own team, which is an experience in itself. One which American football caters to, because it is a game of not so much tictacs as it is brute strength and screaming.

On another note, it seems that if you've an accent; looks, personality and pretty much everything else are besides the point. Because if you emphasise your Ts, and sound like an idiot, you are going to get run down by crazy American women.

Whom I love dearly, mind.

So I'm here again, forcing myself to write - which never works too well - but oh well, sometimes drastic - or even not-so drastic - measures have to be put into use. This is not one of those times.
Life is going well, I suppose. Norway hasn't collapsed into a tribal system with famine and war, I haven't been hit by a car/truck/bus/alien spacecraft/alien atmospheric reentry craft so I suppose all's well. Now, of course, as we all should know: when one includes "suppose" in the answer to the [inevitable] "How's it going, dude/man/gimp/wank/mate/monkey?" it perfectly invalidates every positive connotation in said answer. So in that lyrical aspect, it is indeed a very nice word. But that's beside the point - so, by definition I am digressing, which warrants an alas.

Now, moving away from the dribble which is serving as an introduction, I shall move onto the task at hand.
I saw Lost in Translation yesterday, and I was deeply moved by it. Not only because it was such a brilliant movie about two people lost both in a strange place, but also in their own lives and purely filmatically. I am your average movie goer, so I won't go into the latter as it doesn't particularly interest me as long as it works. Now, this movie, in my opinion, is by far the best romantic movie I've ever seen. Which is curious, seeing as the two main characters (Bill Murray, and Scarlett Johansson) interact on a physically completely platonic level and the only kiss shared is in the final two minutes of the movie. No Hollywood bed romps in this one - which makes it all the more apparent it's a woman's work (Sofia Coppola).
Though I was deeply moved by the film and the bond between these two people, it was also deeply unsettling, in a way.

I suppose it hit me in a bit of a sore spot in my life at the moment. Being completely alone once more after a few months worth of relatively little solitude, the relationship they had not only left me wanting for another hour of Coppola's work, but also the ever elusive someone. Now, seeing as I'm sounding like my testicles are prime to wither away and my chest about to sprout breasts, I shall stop being such a sippy bastard. But there's just that... The connection shared between two people I want, and though I might have once had it, I've forgotten it (which pains me, but I can't summon anything of it)
We all share these feelings, though, so I won't type them all out. I have no belief I am alone in these desires, but I have never before felt them so profoundly. So though not a new feeling, it is certainly on a different, new level.
Now looking back on this post, I'm not sure if I feel this is even fit to post, but I suppose we're all allowed our little teen angst moments. Though I despise them... I shall swallow my pride for now.

Just sitting around, killing time, don't know what to say, don't know what to do, don't know what to feel.

Emphasis on the latter *sigh*

Where am I?

What can I do which will not hurt someone else, get them down, make them sick?

Not a whole fucking lot, it seems.

Keeps things interesting...

I suppose.

Wish I could sleep. Damn knuckle. Bashing it into a wall twice is not good for it.

I seem to have written 90% of my entries (all 7 of 'em) at times when I really should be sleeping instead (well, actually, only one other entry, but that's manipulating statistics for you!).

Just got off the phone with Mireille, my darling American sweetheart after around six hours of lovely conversation. She is, I must admit, the only reason I actually look forward to and enjoy my weekends as something more than time to simply sleep. It's a good feeling to have someone who make you smile every time you think of them, isn't it?

And now! I sleep. Rather abrupt cut, I know - you're probably traumatised. Oh well. Sleep. Søvn. Yay!