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.

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.

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.

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?

I have a friend. His name is Oliver.

All he wants to do with his life is to end it.

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.

A rising beat, dopplering to and fro. A voice, distorted by modernity. Happy chords sneaking up on you from behind, trying wrestle you into the snow bank. A natural progression of music in reverse chronological order, vibrating as it usurps its predecessor.

A spinning wheel careens into you and me, driving us apart. Symbolic meanings in all that we see and interpret - this. The eager thrumming of a cymbal and the rising crescendo of orchestrated looping. A very long wait till tomorrow. And it comes, leaving the solitary survivor. A sonic bottleneck emerges and gives way to yet another era; the evolution of the tune. We are the selection. Are we God? Are we gods? I say yes, she said no.

I don't remember what she said. Opportunities missed, beats ignored, never to be recorded into my life for ever and ever, but others grasped by the zipper and tugged close. No regrets. There should never be. And there it goes again, a silent eruption, leaves its only trace in negatives. Sepia of now. Repeating itself, is that the genius so acclaimed? A simple repetition; the Romans invented cement and hamburgers.

A beat mistaken for polyphonic tones.

A free write gone awry, a hybrid, a Frankenstein of unknown dimensions which none do desire. But it is not true, it has been proved otherwise. Raise your hands to the sky and acclaim your own greatness, for that is what you should be worshipping. Worship the possibility, the ability of you. Of You. There is only you. We are all you. Confined not within you, or me, but in all that is. Everything, every sinuous strand of the æther that flows all around us, seen and unseen, we are the alleles, the genes, the genomes swimming in our genetic fishbowl, two lost souls grasping and groping. Hopelessly choking, but with good intentions. What is the intention of god? The god that we cannot see, because we cannot see our forehead, or our eyes. And what good would they be, if they were apparent to us? What purpose would they serve? The visible God does nothing but obstruct visions of reality. And so does ganja.

A different way is not a given as the best. Rarely is it the best. Sunni. Stick to your traditions. Stability will be death of me, you and Europe. My country, it will die, give way to the children with matches, set upon torching the world. Tackling me into the snow, and likewise my grip brings you with me. It's not always you, but it is. Perhaps, I don't know.

Genders are a funny thing, I cannot for the life figure out the meaning of them in our language, but it just seems to natural and lesbian lizards not so. A little window comes up, reminding me, without its intent being so, that it is time to end this solitary confinement in my mind.

Time to end this reverie and this epiphany, time to embrace the cold hands and fall away with you.

A rising crescendo is the ascent to the surface of the water. The end of a world, and the beginning of another. Mine.

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.

Letters unwritten, keyboard unseen.

Such is the morning of the millenia's fifth. Devoid and black, ominous of things to come thanks to Perdition City coursing through electronic waves and lengths. Things bound to happen, yet seemingly never coming, a train always lost to its station, befuddled transmuters left to stand, doomed late by the procrastination of life eternal. Why do something today - tonight! - when one has eternity to contemplate its completion? When one has eternity and nothingness to contemplate one's inability and defunction to operate within parameters set. Yet the result is something unique, shat through the ways of creativity, shunned by the logic of syntax, but kin to the scion of Cain to its everlasting presence, never quite gone. Focus lost in the process of neural travel, transforming, transmuting into something new, something terrible, something beautiful at the speed of thought; of light? Can light create such, or is its absence the Creator? Refusal to look back upon actions taken, thoughts thought. Why should one, for such would lead tgo nothing but a rewinding, a nuclear hindsight, destructive of all future. Never look up, realization dawns. For realization is destroying. Once known, it is lost. As twin photons in the æther, they are gone once measured, their value lost to all through curiousity and desire. Inaction. A wall rising out of the dreary mists, not infinite, but seemingly so as they give birth or exile something which even it cannot dwarf. A terrible Wall. A beautiful Wall. Not between the inner and the outer, but between the outer and the inner. Forever blocking the way to knowing oneself is the Perception of the Wall and the curiousity to scale it does nothing but to lengthen its altitude, or increase its magnificent depth. So what is to be done? For this wall must be transcended, this Wall must be known for it is its ultimate fate, but am I the one to do so, to fulfill its prophesy? No, I never am. I am the Observer. My muse skittish and frightful of the light, always eluding, never present but on the fringes of thoght, banished by searching focus.

I think I shall dedicate this entry to the end of the world and to the general blasted awfulness of BellSouth.

Our Christmas tree decorates the corner, nary a needle departing from its branches as it is, as you might have guessed, made of plastic. Oh, the curse of the 21th Century when we substitute the very nature with our own inferior creations. Fighting against the current to create our own little rock to stand on. The world moves faster than we can ever hope to emulate, but yet we do our very best to swim sideways, or against the current. Such foolish pride, so evident even as the basest things showcase how easy, how beautiful letting things become natural, and letting the current enhance, not decrease our strength and our movements.

What better metaphor for a complete life than sailing? Tacking against the wind, using its directional strength, but also harnessing it to guide yourself in whichever direction you desire. Free of mind, free of heart is this possible, freed of all perceptions that cloud our eyes, and ourselves. We live naturally, yet we grant it so much thought, we feel such intense need to make our life evident and so we destroy its capability to function seamlessly. We focus, and it flutters away, unable to fulfill its purpose. We do not need to think how to breathe, so why ought we moderate and control the way we live? This is beyond careless abandon, for this is not our state. Carelessness is supression and rebellion and spitefulness towards those systems which have been imposed upon us. Without these, we live as we should. With care, but not conscous care. With virtue, but without conscious virtue. Without happiness, but also without sadness. We exist, and we transcend as we make away with these things.

Te is non-virtue.

It's 22:18.

Life is repeating itself, yet always coming up with something new to give me that extra bonk in the head whenever it's not needed.

It's 22:23

I don't see where this entry is going. Is it doomed to be yet another one of those half-arsed entries where I revert to cheap tactics simply to make up for lack of quality with quantity? Who am I fooling? There is no quantity. 53 entries over the duration of one year. I could go on how the year has been oh-so-interesting and life-changing, but I'll save that for New Year's.

It's 22:27

My attempt at meditation was relatively succesful. There's something intriguing in feeling the blood flowing up to your brain, and feeling the pulse of your veins through your entire being, willing it to pump faster or slower. Admittedly, I only managed it once, but at least my focus wasn't as bad as I had thought it would be.

It's 22:33

Well, this entry went to shit rather spectacularly.

Exercises in free writing seem so similar to the process which governs the creation of my journal entries. They contain no real information, nor argumentation; simply a rambling train of thought broken up by a repetition every once in a while as the train of thought falters. This process may not be exactly identical, but it does share quite a few characteristics. Like the fact - is it really a fact? What makes a fact? Common acceptance by the majority? Proven by science, or faith? The latter seems the more common, and indeed, is not even science determined by how much faith we put into it?

Ignorance is bliss. Intelligence is a detriment in the long run.

What is intelligence but just that? A flaw in an otherwise perfectly self-sufficient machinery. In the long run, it grants no boons, only curses its bearer to responsibility, arrogance and aloofness.  An unhappy stance of mind is the end result of  a thinking one.

Therefore, the paramount goal of a mind is to reach oblivion of thought. Complete absence is transcendance.

Simplicity is happiness.

I don't think my discontent is inherent with the specific place in the world I find myself. I think it is inherent in the simple fact that it isn't Norway.

Therefore, let me say this to all of you of Hohenwald, Tennessee, United States: I would rather be somewhere else, and that is home. It is not your fault and it never was, so don't make it.

That's all.

The air today reminded me of Norway. It was so delightfully cold and dry it felt like my nose bled when I took a breath.

I miss it.

We're all living in Amerika
Amerika ist wunderbar
We're all living in Amerika
Amerika
Amerika

Alas, as no one seems to understand or appreciate the intricate gems of nonsense that my norwegian entries embody, I shall limit myself to the english language - hopefully, my now one-month long stay in the US won't have corrupted it far too much, and instead devolved it to pig-english. But, such bitterness notwithstanding, here is my forty-fifth entry of amgibuous usefulness and general we-would-rather-not-name-it. Indeed, it is quite the cause of celebration. However, I don't feel particularly festive this day and shall content myself with burning party hats and getting dangerously intoxicated on helium gas.

Though written yesterday, the above paragraph still holds true, though I am at a disadvantage as there are no party hats or any substantial amount of helium readily available. This is no obstacle for anyone as determined as I, however, and I shall therefore bludgeon myself into a stupor with a pillow instead. Not quite as effective, granted, but I do not, unfortunately, have the privilege of being choosy.

Wir bilden einen lieben Reigen
Ich werde euch die Richtung zeigen
Nach Afrika kommt Santa Claus
Und vor Paris steht Mickey Maus

Her er mine tvangstanker.

Jeg savner Norge så intenst.

Selv Bergens regnfulle dager savner jeg; byens bilde gjemt i skurer, min hud våt av regn. Men akk, om det er noe jeg savner mer så er det normenn. Gode gamle vikinger - disse Amerikanerne er greie nok, men jeg savner mine landsmenn, for der er inget folk likt det norske. Det vet jeg nå.

Jeg savner Iselinn av alle, og Ida. Og Torun, og Morten. Jeg savner Hektor. Jeg savner Kristoffer og Henrik - mine brødre i alt om ikke i blod. Jeg savner Denk. Jeg savner Stine. Jeg savner Martin. Jeg savner Audhild. Jeg savner Hilde. Jeg savner Anna. Jeg savner Erlend. Jeg savner Sondre. Jeg savner Hatlem.

Mest av alt, savner jeg Norge.

Ja, vi elsker.

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.

marhaban.

I desperately need to write something. Anything at all, really. Otherwise I fear my already lackluster writing will detoriate beyond repair. Wouldn't take much, granted. It's slipping already, really. Or is that my creative side going out for coffee and donuts? I faintly recall my logical side going off in a rage about that, as there is usually garlic involved, though what connection this might have with coffee and donuts is beyond my comprehension and so forth. See? This post is a disgrace. I've never gone off on such a useless subject like that before. Really.

ilâ l-liqâ'.

You're chickening out! What a lousy--

Shut up, Marvin.

No, really, it's a load--

What did I just say?

Nothing! Like always!

Rubbish. I always have something to say.

No, you really don't!

Shut up.

Here comes yet another one of those entries: created for the sole purpose of serving as a band-aid for that gaping wound of guilt. Immediately following is a frantic brainstorm where the primary question remains: What the hell. . . shall I write?

One cannot claim this particular creative process to be very, well, creative, but I shall persist nonetheless- not in my ramblings mind you. I never ramble, as rambling is that of a diatribe with no particular goal nor structure. My monologues contain both of these elements in abundance, only safely locked away in a closet.

One might argue that I have exhausted the subject of elaborating unnecessarily on the theme of What the hell. . . shall I write? and the popular consensus seems to be that of one riddled with various colourful language and other interesting adjectives which I shall not mention here in respect of simple political correctness. This is quite the oxymoron, obviously, as political correctness is in general antonymous with the very essence of simple.

I sip my lemonade and muse upon life- no, I muse upon whether six lines of text will do to constitute a proper entry into this journey of life, the universe and nothing much at all.

I am Jack's profound sense of disappointment.

The eternal question of the ages reverberates within my thinly-clad metallic skull, beating a quick march.

What are you going to write now, pretty boy?

If you look down throughout my post history you shall discover an incredible fact, peerless in its awesomeness. It is, as I mentioned briefly in the former sentence: grand.

Why does this fucker keep repeating himself?

The answer is-

Please tune in tomorrow for the continuation of this great, epic tale of (what was it again? Oh, right) love, betrayal and lust!

Wank.

Well, well. Here I am again, for what reason(s) I haven't the faintest, really. I'm just mucking about, not really doing anything at all despite the glaring fact that there is always much to do. Seems to be a recurring theme with me, in fact.

But then again, I've got a nasty cold so I suppose I'm excuses from doing anything at all by that. I've been writing a bit lately; finally being able to produce something with alarming frequency. Of course, that's all relative, but it's certainly something. It's coming together nicely enough, I suppose, though as always there's so much to be done it's all rather depressing.

It's all rather depressing at the moment (You gloomy fucker, -God), actually. I was due to go to a party this Saturday but that fell through, unfortunately, putting a damper on the entire weekend. Then of course there's the fact that I can barely sit up straight because I'm so dizzy (You need more expletives, you're no good. -God) from whatever the hell sort of virus I've got. And then there's the constant bitching of my very sentience. I'd very much like to retreat back into being an amoeba (Hah! No such luck, -God).

In fact, when I think about it, I feel positively Marvin.

(You're a lot of fun, you know that? Worthy of a good laugh. -God)

Oh, shut up.

(Har! -Entirety of the modern pantheon)

I realize I don't remember her last name.
I realize I should have known her better.
I realize I should have grasped the chance when I had it.
I realize seventeen is too young.
I realize that this is not a reminder how fragile life is.
This is a reminder how unfair it is.

So I'm sitting here again, the acid pH of Coca-Cola searing through my already doomed teeth, words ringing in my ears along with Coldplay, Fear Factory and Nine Inc Nails. What a mix, eh? And it's been stirred, not shaken, you snob. No, nothing's happened, nothing's going on and that's why I've not been writing - I'm not the one to go on about nothing- I take that back.

I don't feel particularly witty nor thought-provoking, so I suppose I shouldn't be writing, it doesn't suit me to be dull. People get let down, and we don't want that, do we. Where to take this piece from here? I'm always the improviser. And people get pissed off when I do better than them as a result. When I use my mind instead of the fucking white piece of paper in my hand. When I give you a new idea instead of something rehashed and worn by use. If I am going to say something, I'm the one's who going to be quoted, not the other way around. Why can't people see this? Why can't people rid themselves of these shackles of the old? I don't want to hear you reciting someone else, I want to hear what YOU YOU YOU think. Not what some geezer wrote in your book that you're currently staring into as if it was your only hope of resolution and absolvation. Why, oh why does everyone have to be everyone else? You're perfectly fine the way you are, believe me - you already believe so much muck already, what's one more?

Dear god, she's influencing the way I write. I don't have anything against the way she writes, but it's not how I wish to write. Now addressing a plea to myself is... actually, strangely fitting.

Trash your sheet, look up, look into our eyes. Look out the window. See the sun.

See the shards. And put them together again.

You are your potential. You exist in what you can become. But you cease to be in what you did not.

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.

God is me.

God is P(all)=1/infinite

Make sense? It should.

It's all quantum! Hah!

I find this a rather interesting view - this footage shows an American Apache gunship engaging and killing (murdering?) a group of apparently unarmed Iraqis moving about between trucks and then being gunned down by an Apache from afar. Perhaps the situation calls for it, I will not pass judgement on that as all the variables of the situation are not clear to me. However, as can be seen towards the end of the footage they summarily execute a man, grievously wounded, writhing about on the ground. Clearly not a threat to anyone. Yet 20 30mm shells are sent his way obscuring him in a cloud of dust - and trust me, after a barrage of that calibre, there's not much left.

AH-64 engagement

Geneva convention, anyone?

Vi kjenner alle det såkalte grunnlaget for USAs ulovlige invasjon (for det er det er - stikk i strid med alle aksepterte normer i dagens internasjonale samfunn, og ikke minst Geneve konvensjonen som strengt forbyr en krig som ikke er i direkte selvforsvar), nemlig vår gamle venn Saddams lagre av kjemiske, biologiske og selvfølgelig, atomvåpen (eller så har vi blirr fortalt - hvor disse utallige tonn av verdens farligste våpen har blitt av er selvfølgelig usikkert - det som tok USA og Russland 1950-1990 å fjerne har tatt kjære Hussein ikke mindre enn to-tre dager å gjøre. Effektivitet, mann!). Deres eksistens, som vi kan nå se tydelig i ettertid, er diskutabel, om ikke et latterlig konsept i seg selv.

( Og der er mer! )

Been spending a few hours reading up on the mythology of Midgard (The one without Orlando Bloom, silly) and truth to be told, this is really piqueing my interest. I've always been big on norwegian history, and it's one I'm very proud to be descendant of, but I've never really studied it in-depth. That's going to change, though. Already have quite a few books on the subject, most notably the Kongesagaer (Tale of Kings) by Snorri Sturlason, though I haven't really spent much time with them. I think they're due for some quality time, though.

The entry below is a poem on Odin's sacrifice for knowledge - hanging himself from Yggdrasil, the World Tree and granting an eye for the ravens of memory and thought. Jotted it down while I was reading. Reckon it sounds a bit forced, but it's a decent enough attempt. On a second thought, the whole thing is rather cheesy :D I do like the norwegian version, though. Sounds much, much better than the english version. Wonder why.