DEMONS (as inspired by the luscious Lynda Berry), or REASONS NOT TO WORK ON ART, or, LIES I TELL MYSELF


I've also realized more people read my blog when I put an unflattering picture on top... Social experiment, commence! 



"I have other things to do anyways! Like picking up my glasses, buying new trainers, i.e. spending money on stuff I probably shouldn't be spending them on while trying to make it as an artist."


"I need to walk my dog. I need to walk my dog thirteen times a day."


"Well, won't get a sixpack by sitting down and working on art! Besides, sitting still is unhealthy. Thirty minutes, way too much."


"Kind of hungry. Could do with a tea break. To think. And be inspired. Leafs in the cup... reminisce... A haiku, maybe?"


"Yes, I will cover all the math classes until the end of the semester. Yes, I'm "good" at math!"


"I need to be of use in society and repay my debts to the world. Let’s to presentations about UWC in every single tenth and eleventh grade in the nearby high schools! All separate. that makes about fourteen classes. Bo problem. Let’s also make individual presentations for each class, AND buy them presents! More shopping!"


"I need some other training apart from workouts and walking the dog and biking around. Should probably start a new martial art… It’s only like i’ll do it once a week..."


"My neck hurts. I’ll do 90 minutes of yoga. That should help. Need to stick in 40 minutes of shavasana too..."


"Now i’m hungry. Maybe I'll bake my own bread. Also, can’t concentrate while it rises… Oh, there’s A Dance With Dragons!"

Bizarro.


photo by me.


I don't know what I expected teaching would be like, but certainly not this. I did not expect qualms after every class and a thousand questions I don't know the answer to (what do I do about someone I think is dyslexic? what if someone confides in me, do I take it further? and the ones that are lagging behind? or way, way ahead, and bore out of their minds?), though I did expect hormones and some resistance and lots of good things. Unsure of how much I can or should disclose of my reflections regarding this new little job of mine, I suppose I'll keep it to a minimum, unless it's very general. But this will help me, I think, when looking back, because I will know better what I felt then and what I've learnt now. Or perhaps what I will have forgotten in one month, two months.

Neither did I expect to be so tired after one day. To feel like I failed and failed and succeeded a little bit, but that I'm at the mercy of thirty students and also at their service. It is for them that I am there, after all (which feels weird and pretentious, but they are my employers). 

At the same time I try to work and to make some things, and even to write a little bit. Just a page or two, something that isn't a student report or description of the essay-genre. Not long. And I'm beading and beading, but I don't know what's happening with that. Now that I'm no longer in school there is not much point to me making things but then at the same time there is ALL the point that I make these things. Nobody's telling me it's right or wrong, and that's weird and unusual. No censoring? No silence muddling discomfort and boredom in an airless critique? No awkward animal stuffed with acrylic paint on a pedestal? Strange freedom is also bizarre entrapment.

School-post-work-normalcy



I have been working. Well, not entirely true, but I've now worked one day as a teacher. Don't know how much I want or should say about that, except that I really, really enjoy it.

Also, finished some stuff. Started some stuff.







The remaining thoughts are somewhat connected, but only peripherally. In the last few days I've given a lot of thought to creative work and actively pursuing a passion that won't necessarily pay off for a long, long, looong time yet. Having gone to school for four year seems like such an incredibly long time, and I was getting increasingly more impatient as the end was drawing near. It was like this endless waiting-game where I couldn't enjoy most of my classes anymore; everything was a preparation for something else, and why do the preparation when you can simply go ahead and give it a go? That seems silly even now as I write about it, but it's somewhat been confirmed in the last few days since it became clear that I will have a part-time gig that allows me evenings and weekends "off" for working on art.

This might be a realization that I'm quite late for and others have already gotten, but it is tremendously strange not to be in school. All along we fear and anticipate what it's going to be like (all these "Life as an Artist"-lectures and classes about post-art school life... I never took any of them. Seems stupid now, though.), but we're never actually prepared for the reality of it until tried and tested. There was no way for me to seriously begin projects at home during vacations and breaks because I knew they would be temporary, and I knew I'd be going back to school. Now I don't. I mean, I have nothing now. It's not a bad thing. It's a really good thing. But it's also mind-numbingly strange to be a Regular Citizen after having gone to school CONTINUOUSLY since the age of 5. Most of my life I haven't done this! No wonder I'm so weird and semi-bad at it! 

Well, I don't know the exact purpose of what I just outlined. Maybe the moral is something like this:

It is weird and scary and a little bit bad and very liberating not to be in school and to actually Work For Money Whilst Making Art During Free Time (Trying Not To Check Blogs) + Eat Well And Work Out Regularly (though I'm only on Day One). And I'm so unused to it, because School Life is by now the norm, while Regular Adult Life is the strange fiction that I'm sort of skipping through while thinking about where to apply for grad school.
I guess I'm late to the party. Work for me is not a luxury, and I feel incredibly privileged to even have a job and to live in a country like Norway that actually supports artist. At the same time, though, school is the norm. Being in school. 

I don't know where to end this. Just ranty rant. 

Second Part: Post-graduation Reflections

If life post-graduation can be anything similar to another state of mind, it’s being in love. The burst of anger at yourself and your own silly notions; the sudden plunging down into doubt and extreme self-consciousness and -criticism; the dizzying heights of inspiration where you think you’ve made the right choice in either ignoring your beloved (because they OBVIOUSLY can’t be interested) or committing one hundred per cent to the cause of Being The Person You Think They Will Fall In Love With. It’s an emotional roller coaster, or at least it is for me once I’ve decided that I Will Make Art And Make It Well. Not only do I have a thousand little voices in my head telling me it’s all been made before, you will be poor forever (this particular one is also echoed in my surroundings, from concerned members of the extended family and childhood friends), who will want to marry you… Well, not that one, actually. 



Beading in progress and cont.


But it is true that the hardest thing—and excuse my cheesiness and being super late to the Self-Improvement Party and Accepting Yourself Maybelline L’Oreal—is to tell myself every single day that this is good enough although it isn’t measured in such regular terms such as resumes or seniority in a firm. There are those voices, naturally, that want me to become a doctor lawyer engineer, and the scariest thing about those ones is that they are so good, well at least being a doctor because you’re helping people, being unselfish &c &c. 
Then there are the voices that are even more alluring and disquieting; those are remarkably similar to the Art-voices named Confidence and Courage, but they are not them, because they tell me that I should instead take up something equally impractical but radically different like becoming a conservationist or perhaps theologist, because you are interested in these topics, but you’ll have a fresh start and do you even like Art?
My favorite of the Voices of Discouragement is the voice I often employ myself when I meet someone I don’t particularly want to impress. It usually takes three forms, and I 

have a special smile for each of them. 



Art things.


Form number one is the option to go into the Army. Now, you might say, isn’t that quite normal for a strapping young Norwegian lass like yerself? Why yes, it is, but I want to go into the Danish division that patrols Greenland on dog sleds. I know it’s impossible. This voice appeals to the Man in me and is just as impractical as Art, though more impressive.

Form number two is sort of a half-option, because it’s always there (whereas the Army is not, there’s an age limit), and it consists in—can you guess what it is!—donning a large robe and a heavy wooden cross and lying sprawled on the floor when initiated! Becoming a nun seems very appealing almost all of the time. Maybe I’m just waiting to get older.

Form number three is the funniest, scariest and most likely, and it is basically me going on social welfare. Writing that out somehow wasn’t as comforting as I thought it’d be…



A desk of sorts.


In either case, I’ve begun making something, I have a desk where I work, and a precariously constructed schedule for the day until I hopefully begin part-time work as a replacement art teacher at the local middle school or as a privatized slave at the airport.

Updates to follow, alternatively funny selfies of me if no progress reported.

Reflection post-graduation, Pt. I





I’ve come through the door and it’s a different opening this time. I don’t know from where or when I’m writing, but suffice to say, this is a strange and unfamiliar land to be in. I do not know how not to be in school, I do not know how not to succumb to laziness, indecisiveness and lack of confidence when it comes to taking risks. I don’t know how to look at myself anymore, and it’s scary. Coming back to Norway often feels like dropping off the face of the earth. It’s so peaceful and quiet, I notice, and then I’m scared it’s not real. How can it be? There’s no dust. The sunlight is clearly slanted through the crowns of the trees in cursive, and I notice fall is here. People smile when they give me the stamps (they could in the US also, but it’s different here). It’s another place than the place I have inside of me, and I don’t know if it’s unnaturally quiet outside or absurdly loud on the inside. I don’t know if this is an essay or a blog post or the beginnings of my personal memoirs, but it’s sorting-out-ness, in one way or another. I tell myself I know what things to want, and what I simply will not do. I got upset the other day because someone suggested I become a teacher, but now I might become a replacement at the local middle school for arts and crafts. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Will I have time to write applications, scour the internet for residencies, work on my portfolio? The real question is not this. The real question is this: will I have the guts to do so? Will I think that it’s easier to get a regular job, it’s simpler, more straightforward, and it will be enough for me? Will I chose to sleep longer rather than waking up before work to bead, or to write, or to weave, or to draw? Am I doing this on my own? 

Kettles in my mind

After a long break I'm back to writing here again. Months in Chicago that have now come to an end, and then almost two months in Norway with work, travel, applying for jobs and hiking, and soon I'll be leaving again for a longer trip. It doesn't feel like time's run away from me, but rather that I've needed to get my school and its approach to art at a distance, and it really helped. I have a lot of ideas that I hope to realize in the coming years, and projects I'm about to initiate. 

And that's why I'm back to writing here! I need an outlet, I think, and a way to track what'll be happening in the next amount of time. Ups and downs and excitements and strategies. I need to learn a lot of stuff in a short amount of time, like how to make a budget (thought it's only embarrassing that I don't already know how to do this... or rather, my heart palpitations increase in frequency every time I even look at the excel-icon...), how to plan and successfully pull through an event, and apply for official artists funds in Norway. Because, oh yes oh yes, there IS money for art in Norway! At least a little.

This post, then, is mostly just to kickstart this off, force myself to write something (anything!) and be a bit open about what I'm doing. Though most days I cringe when people check in from their phones ("I don't want them to know where I am! I don't want THEM to!"). 

More to come!

Tattoos of colors




Written some weeks ago.

Last night I had a very vivid and colorful dream that I’ll now try to write about. I can’t remember what came first, but I’ll put down the part I’d like to draw;

I dreamt that I was at the graveyard I’m to work this summer. I’d never been there, and for some reason I was really, really late to my first day. I showed up around 11, and tried to find out what happened, if we were working and so on. It turned out that I’d come during the lunch break, so I sat down. I can’t remember if I ate anything, but the room was a typical Norwegian wooden room. Not very calming, brown and pine, like the room we had cake and sandwiches in when the gardener retired last summer. 
In either case, we were in this room, and I was really confused and kept wondering what was happening, and when were we working and was there coffee somewhere and shouldn’t I be clocking in? I can’t remember even working or going outside beyond this gravely path/spot where M and O were, two Swedes that I worked with last summer. A young girl was also there, and I thought I’d worked with her too, but she wasn’t nearly as annoying as she’d been in real life. Was it my sister? Was my father there? Certainly my boss was there, and he kept telling me things that I didn’t pick up on. It all seemed rational, but I just didn’t get it, and then it was noon, and then 1 pm, and I still hadn’t clocked in. 




So we were outside and it was sunny but too hot and clammy. I felt strange (feverish of sorts, or drunk, and dizzy. I was uncoordinated and couldn’t make up or down of anything). They had tattoos. I remember M (in real life) as having so many beautiful and interesting tattoos all over his body, even on his shins. They’re mostly black and white. O got his first proper tattoo last summer, and it was also beautiful, with a crow and a skull, I think. 

O had, in my dream, gotten many, many more tattoos that were really beautiful and full of color. I’d never seen anything like them. Oh, they were so wonderful, and they shone in the sunlight, and I was truly in awe.

The one I can remember most clearly was on his chest. It was a combination of areas of very strong color and text, like someone had painted on him. There were a series of shorter texts, like quotes or something, just sentences. Orange, pink, yellow, green? Yellow like the sun along with a much longer text that I had to get very close to read. I wondered what it’d be like when it got older, and if it wouldn’t bleed out. It was written in a regular typeface, not Helvetica or Times New Roman... Georgia? Trebuchet? 

Not quite, but something like that. And it was beautiful.

And actually, when I think about it, aren’t tattoos perfect? Because of skin. 

This is something I now need to think and write about.

(Which reminds me to reread Snakes and Earrings by Hitomi Kanehara.)




photos are from I do not remember where.

Quantified Self: thoughts





image from here.


I think about my parents. Every time we go for a hike in the mountains back home my dad has his GPS or phone—I can’t remember which—recording our trail, how many calories burnt, the speed at which we moved, and the length of our breaks. I always feel slightly annoyed with this habit, and I think my mother does too. The question in my head is this: why do you need to know? and, Can’t you simply enjoy it as is?

I’ve been wondering what this is, and whether it’s got to do with classical and romantic mindsets as outlined by Robert M. Pirsig in his Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. The classical mind splits things up, quantifies them, study each grain of sand. On the contrary, you have the romantics, who love the Big Picture: why study each step you took when your breath is taken away at the top of the mountain? What’s the reason for counting calories when you can enjoy the dish itself?

I don’t necessarily agree with Pirsig anymore, although there was a long time when it dictated everything I did; the world’s changed too much, and I think scientists (particularly physicists) have been let off the hook. Discussing left- and right brain separations doesn’t seem to make much sense today, and integrated interdisciplinary learning is on the rise, thankfully. The question seems to be: how can we be happy and lead high-quality lives?


images from here.


 At a brunch last spring I ended up talking to a young woman about behavioral psychology. She worked in marketing, something I have a lot of prejudices about, but we ended up discussing ways to change people’s behavior for the better. She explained an app to me that allows friends to give each other to do-lists with items such as “Sleep at least 8 hours tonight” and “Remember to eat a fruit,” making a sort of check-system with someone you care about. 

Quantified Selfers, as outlined in this article, gather concrete, numerical data about their habits, diets, patterns of movement and even feelings. Looking back, they have knowledge about how for example hours of sleep affect their concentration and efficiency, or the way different medicines work. Naturally, there have always been people like this, but as it’s now become so much easier to track any kind of information about yourself the movement has become huge. 

 As I tipped into my twenties I noticed that I need extremely rigid schedules to function. Going to sleep after 9:30 PM makes me extremely anxious, and I still try to get up every day at 5:30. I meditate for 40 minutes and then exercise for 45 if I don’t have class in the morning. My breakfast is always the same with only minor variations in quantity. I bike to school at 7 AM and check my e-mails. After school I train aikido for 2-3 hours, go home and go to sleep. Naturally, I take breaks. There’s a social component where I’m forced to break this precious rhythm, and I always have to force myself to follow through with the commitments I make to people. I know it’s good for me, I know I won’t be particularly happy or healthy if I spend all of my time alone. 

But what about my feelings? And what about love and commitments? And what’s going to happen to my treasured schedule if I ever meet someone I want to live with? 



from here.


 Something I often wonder is whether this schedule is determined by things I read and learn are good for me, or if I naturally fall into it because I am a control-freak. Meditation increases the amount of gray matter in the brain. An active commute is healthier than a passive one. People who wake up early are generally healthier than people who sleep late into the day. These could all be variations of headlines on the New York Times health blog, and I know that they’re ways of manipulating data and statistics, but my firm belief in it is engrained. I don’t even make an effort anymore: my body won’t let me sleep much past 6 AM anyways even if I’ve been out late the night before. I’m just following my natural rhythm and the common sense of my body… or so I like to think.

This is why I find the Quantified Self-movement so fascinating. Rather than relying on headlines and fading trends you can fine tune your habits to optimize yourself. I am so attracted to this idea, but I also know that it isn’t good for me. Because the second thing I discovered when I turned twenty was that there’s an easy slip for me from rigidness to compulsion accompanied by large doses of guilt when I don’t accomplish what I’ve ambitiously set out for myself. 



picture (and recipe!) from here.


I'm now doing a project exploring my own food habits, because it’s one of the things I think about most, but like to think about least. When I was younger I was close to having an eating disorder, and I’m always afraid of going there again. I’m curious if it’ll help or only be harmful to record everything I eat for five days, and how I’ll feel when I translate that into body movements, with each limbs representing a type of food. If I realize I eat grains and carbs ALL the time, will I eat differently?

I want to be better, all the time. We all want to be. I just wonder when and if we let ourselves go.

The Art of Lonely Sloppiness


In about two weeks I’ll be left alone in the apartment I normally share with a close friend. The period of isolation will likely last for 16 days until I leave the United States to go home to Norway. I dread this event and its consequences for my psyche, health and social life. 

I worry that I won’t get up in the morning. I worry that I’ll stop cooking and resort to bread and peanut butter for all my meals. I worry that I’ll drink five cups of coffee a day and only read. 
But mainly I worry that the only reason I function regularly is because I have some external presence that can keep me in check. Don’t get me wrong, my roommate is not very intrusive at all, and we’re both extremely private people who need to be alone a lot. Yet somehow I function with her; I can feel like alone and focused although she’s sitting next to me. It took some time to get to this point, about all of last semester, during which I was conspicuously absent a lot of the time because I was still getting adjusted to sharing my space with someone.




Not that she’s my first roommate ever. I just find it so much easier to live with people I hardly know. We leave each other alone, and I can be as antisocial as I want. Now, I’m usually quite good at talking to people I both do and don’t know, and when I’m in a social setting I give it everything I have. Then, when I go home afterwards, I need to charge back up by reading, cooking, drinking coffee, staring into space. After the tumultuous unpredictability of interacting with other humans I can finally escape into the safe canyons of my mind—I don’t know the terrain, but it’s an exhilarating exploration that I love and only feel like I can do alone.

Until I got used to living with my roommate, that is. 

I sometimes secretly desire an hour or two alone in our apartment. I think it’s what I want, and I drink cups on cups on cups of coffee and work out in our living room with loud music (otherwise I’d be too embarassed) and bake bread. I enjoy myself! 
One, two hours go by, and I miss her. I want to tell her stuff. I want her to make me fried eggs with onion. I want to show her things I made. I want to sit quietly in the same room as her with headphones on. I know she’s there.

The premise of the project Dear-Data is beautiful to me: two women send each other postcards of their graphic visualizations of the personal datasets they’ve gathered throughout the weeks. They decide what they’ll collect—drinks in a week, compliments received and given, efficiency—and then they send each other a postcard with a graphic representation of this as well as a key with how to read it. It’s often beautiful, at times hard to read, and always surprising. 

That is why I’m afraid of my roommate leaving. No matter how happy I might be alone, this desire is always, always a deception for me. I begin missing her. I want to speak to my family. I text a friend and ask to see her. Do I want to think of myself as a loner? Do I tell myself I am? Or am I just a normal human being? Likely. 

Last week I wrote that I’m constantly surprised by people. One of the reasons I sometimes choose to isolate myself is because I know what people are going to do. They’ll burden me, demand things from me, confine me into a box and worst of all, try to do things for me or even spend time. It’s scary as shit, all of the time. Getting a text message is wonderful, but then I have to reply, and then all I want is to be left alone.




It’s weird how I make myself do a lot of things for another person who doesn’t even know that they’re my catalyst. I’d likely not do a lot of the things I do daily if it wasn’t for her. The thing is, I just want to be as good as I can. Not for her, not so she can see it and then care about me. But rather, because someone else will see me I am forced to have the self-respect to change out of my pajamas and sit up straight in my chair as I do my homework. Is it self-censoring? Is it Foucault again (four years of undergrad and I’m done with him, hopefully forever)? 
I like to think of myself as independent and relatively autonomous, but I’m not. Everything I am is made up of other people, and this isn’t a bad thing, but I’m realizing that this even applies on the tiniest level of when to set my alarm clock in the morning. 

Dear-Data goes beyond the Quantified Selfers in this way. They’re accountable to one another. I suspect that, when you know someone else will be reading it, you make it more understandable. 
Meanwhile, I’m constructing an intricate and completely packed schedule for the 16 days I’ll be spending alone where I see at least one other person every day. 



Recap of: so many things!



(Poem by Olav H. Hauge that is so beautiful you'll just have to learn Norwegian for it. Something something blood, basically.)



So I went back over a bunch of photos from around this time a year ago, and it feels incredibly weird. Not only to avoid falling into the two holes of either I was amazing and still am! and/or I'm such a jerk and haven't changed at all...

Which is always a challenge? A teacher I had last semester described it as the genius-jerk spectrum, where at any given point you're either at the I'm a genius! or I'm a jerk... side of things.

Anyways.


Things like this.

So weird! Like, my hair. Gosh. 

This is not about to be a post about how much I've changed (how little) or how fast time flies, and that is, in fact, all I know about what I'm currently writing: it will certainly not be this moral thing that I always end up clipping to my Evernote and then whine about or the Norwegian blogs about kids and families that I read lots of meaning into and then just... don't believe.

It'll be different!


I mean, this is the kind of stuff I did last year. In my studio, everything was a mess and I was painting/drawing with ink on the floors and walls (never to show anyone: my space was almost totally bare when the final show rolled around), and I was wondering about New York subway ads.


I still don't get it. I would sincerely love for someone to explain this ad to me. 

No, really, really.


One night I felt very lonely in a big group consisting of "my people." I drank too much but look surprisingly sober in a photo I found when I googled myself.


And it always felt like everything started out like this, so simply. Cleanly.


And ended up like this: feet cracking and lots of pain but also really good and dancing? 

I mean, I don't even know, and I write that all of the time. This is me thinking everything is very weird, and I'm about to graduate, and nothing and everything has a direction. Everyone is very keen on giving good and well-meant advice, but it all seems to go over my head: it has absolutely no meaning to me because I'm not there yet. I haven't lived that.

One thing I thought of today while accomplishments were being listed in class was that my father, 60 years old last year, just recently finished his bachelor's degree.

That's something I want to learn how to do. To do that. To do something like that.

It's 4:38 pm and time for oatmeal. All images by me.

things i’ve learned this spring part three


(pictures from here.)

that i miss common sense as often found in norway.

that cooking for someone makes me put in more effort, and it makes me not only eat bread and peanut butter all the time, and

i don’t know if i could live alone, BUT if i did i think i’d need a lot of rules and set plans. otherwise i’m scared i’d never see anyone.

i can’t wait to see my clothes in norway. they feel like old friends, and another life, in which i don’t only wear singlets and boys’ shorts. 

(and i miss having a fashion blog.)

what i spend my day on (if i let myself) is cooking, exercising, cooking more and more, cleaning a little bit, writing and reading. and then i have to force myself out of the house to interact with other human beings.



i am always, always so in awe of people around me: the barista who remembers my name (when i guiltily admit i can’t recall his); the handwritten letter i receive in return, clearly written with a beautiful and expensive pen on soft and thick paper, carefully selected words; the immediate concerns of those around me when i dare express a slight turn of mood away from the normal; my siblings, who are so funny and so great, and infinitely more mature and emotionally balanced than i am; 

and life.

and that to do something every single day is incredibly rewarding.

and something else that’s rewarding: finally finishing the large and physically heavy book you’ve attempted twice before, but now you have it, and it almost makes you cry with joy.

knowing more and more that food is a science and an incredible source of satisfaction, beauty and experiences.




things i’ve learned so far this year pt. II



(photo by me. the making of the art)


how to make parsnip latkes.

if something doesn’t work or breaks, it doesn’t really matter, and you don’t need to buy a new version or edition of it; wear socks on your hands instead of gloves, keep your backpack closed with a belt, and make notes on tea bags.

how to begin to think about excessive guilt and painfully exaggerated conscience, and 

to tell someone something as honestly as I can without being upset;

that something can feel wrong because it isn’t beautiful—

where the limits of propriety can lie for me, and where they perhaps could lie.

what my internal, biological challah-rhythm is (when the freezer begins to look half-full, mostly void of plastic bags with frozen bread, rolls, pastries…).

that home can be something very private and sacred i often want to keep to myself, and

that i need to take days off, and that this doesn’t make me a very productive person by my american standards. i love weekends and holidays a little too much, because they make work joyful, too.

that more people care about and love you than you might think.



(more of the art being in the made)




so far this spring!



this spring (so far) i have learned how to

..correctly steam an artichoke (20-35 minutes w/a crushed clove of garlic, slice of lemon, bay leaf)

..make the best hollandaise sauce i have ever tasted (sorry dad)

..ask people to teach me things that i want to learn (like how to stand on my hands, how to stretch the muscles in my middle and upper back, juggle, make chinese food (one day…), and use my laptop with accuracy and determination)

..charm your bike maintenance people in such a manner that they tighten your brakes (and you didnt even ask for it)

..sit still

..magically make anger disappear (my own—other’s i don’t know about); and I'm still working on this

..prefer to live without internet and with a crappy phone




A series of Short Poems about Time


photo signe


I'm thinking about time, and it seems impossible to me.

Perhaps it's just growing up in the Western world and thus being imparted with an infallible linear sense of time (although we all know it doesn't feel this way, I'm thinking of my life as an arrow being thrown, only to arrive--due thanks to Anne Carson, at least as of late).

Or maybe it's something else, like the fact that all my days seem the same (sometimes), and whenever there's a slight break in the monotony I'm deadly scared and freeze up; "you look so uncomfortable, are you alright? Are you going home already?". This I only deal with by going home--perhaps I stand by the kitchen bench in my underwear thinking through the several factors that brought me here, and I feel sort of stagnant. 

I'm thinking about time and wondering why Sundays are so slow, and if I experience anything anew anymore, and what memories I'm making. Taking one step... it seems so easy.

I'm thinking about my thesis, and it bores me to death. I'm thinking about my thesis (again), and it's new, and now it doesn't bore me--it excites me and thrills me and I am scared and terrified of showing it because it seems barer than anything else I've put out.

I'm wondering if I'm getting more accustomed to the world, and how we try (I try) constantly to think outside my head--to not be used to myself or to anything around me. A big part of my simply thinks I need to finish school (for now) and be able to take control over my time, my life and my projects, whereas another voice is telling me that it is now that counts. If it can't happen now it can never happen. 

Is there always this internal strife? Am I ever happy with my mind as it is?
It seems like those times are when I have decided to write something new and discard the old, and then I don't want to go to bed at my usual hour and I'm fine with less sleep in quantity and quality--those are the hours days minutes when I forget about time and I forget to look at the clock and suddenly am surprised by the bright lights of my computer and how tired my brain is. 

No, I'm not tired of anything, really, but there are things I'm used to 
that I don't want to be used to.

Some nights ago I dreamt, and smell was in my dreams for the first time in my life (that I can remember.) 
It felt like a revelation (relevation?) of sorts.

I must also procure an entire chorus (homogenous, preferably, representing my milieu, or imaginary environment) somehow.

The eve is long and I end this abruptly as it seems I do with all things--where this tendency comes from I don't












with the image on top? I don't know.

Sånn skal det være, sier de, men jeg vet ikke alltid om det ordner seg eller ikke


Det er pussig hvordan ting endrer på seg. Hvordan tanker og følelser plutselig slår seg helt om sånn at du blir usikker på om du skar en grimase eller ikke--hva om den blir der for resten av livet ditt? Du tenkte du visste hva som var nord og hva som var sør--det er jo tross alt bare å se på kompasset!--men så viser det seg at du tok helt feil! På en eller annen måte. Når du ser deg tilbake er alt forandret og ingenting det samme, selv om det virket som om hver dag var relativt lik den forrige.
Ei heller er jeg flink på blogging, innser jeg nå! Skriver litt her, litt der, og så sier jeg til meg selv at jeg skal gjøre det skikkelig, lære meg å kode, wordpress, bladibla! 


Meg i New York våren i 2014, med Frog King Kwok som er Kinas første dokumenterte performancekunstner, fant jeg nettopp ut! Wow. Kult. 

Så saken er at jeg snart er ferdig på skolen, og 4 år som det SNART har vært, for en bachelorgrad, har på en måte gått fort og på mange måter veldig sakte. Her er noen ting jeg tenker på:

- Jeg har vært misfornøyd i store deler av oppholdet mitt i Chicago, eller snarere, jeg har aldri følt meg som hjemme er. Er dette min feil? Kanskje. Men jeg er også lei av å hele tiden skylde på meg selv som ikke klarer å tilpasse meg. Semesteret jeg tilbrakte i New York var det beste i hele bachelograden min, og det har overbevist meg om at miljøet jeg er i er utrolig viktig. Det er klart jeg kan endre på innstillingen min, men jeg kan OGSÅ endre på hvor jeg befinner meg! Så etter dette semesteret stikker jeg! For godt, tror jeg, fra Chicago! Hasta la vista, baby, du er ikke byen for meg! Ingen av mine barn skal vokse opp i deg, jeg skal ikke utsette dem for ekstreme skiller på bakgrunn av hudfarge eller gammel overindustrialisert by hvor jeg må reise min. 1 time for å se vennene mine eller spille capoeira angola! Jeg vil til et mindre sted! Natur! Andre språk enn engelsk! Oversiktlighet! Penger til kunstnere! En følelse av fellesskap!

- Visumet mitt utgår i slutten av mai, og før det har jeg et par uker ledig. Kanskje jeg tar toget til San Fransisco (52 timer hver vei, himmel og hav for et stort land!) eller sykler med telt et par uker for å utforske bredden av Michiganvannet? Vi får se. Det blir farvel til Statene for denne gang.

- Etter at alt er klappet og klart, leiligheten pakket og flyturen til Norge bestått har jeg INGEN anelse om hva jeg skal gjøre, bortsett fra å muligens reise med en venninne (som jeg ikke vil fortelle om ennå). Jeg har tenkt på å få meg en jobb og så forsøke å leve som en vanlig person med jobb og bittesmå ansvar og sikkert være nederst på rangstigen en stund. Tidligere tenkte jeg at jeg skulle søke på residenser og stipend og prosjekter osv osv osv, og det vil jeg fortsatt! Men ikke nå. IKKE NÅ, sier jeg! Jeg vil fullføre her med et brak (eller kanskje et lite kaputt?) og fokusere på det, og det føles overilt og overveldende om jeg i tillegg skal tenke på fremtiden når jeg ikke vet hvor jeg vil være, hva jeg vil drive med eller hvordan jeg vil gjøre det. Det føles riktig.


Meg i superundertøy i leiligheten i New York våren 2014. Oh yes.

Nå har jeg altså et par måneder igjen her, og jeg tror de kan bli veldig spennende på mange måter. Noe kommer til å skje som ikke vil skrive om. J og jeg skal endelig begynne å møblere leiligheten. Jeg har bestilt BILLIGE, organiske og lokalproduserte grønnsaker som skal komme på døra hver uke i håp om å gjøre matbudsjettet mitt bittelittegranne mindre! Jeg svømmer, og sykler fortsatt, selv om det er is på veien. Føler meg veldig badass. Jeg studerer kristendom på skolen, og naturfag, sammen med kunst såklart.

Og så får vi se hva som kommer etter det. Det ordner seg nok.

Alle bilder er private.

uuuuhhh i love the MCTG aka markov chain text generator

find it here or in a thousand other places
for real, it's everywhere
suddenly everything is beautiful, once the words are re-arranged to fit a pre-determined algorithm based on probability (i think?)

some selections: (basically, you put in writing and it re-arranges it according to what word will more likely follow another. so, the more text you put in, the better, i.e. the more it has to work with)




 at least i want to say that runs through my memory, or make it but i remember the snow's fallen on the whole mess of some sort

could have been the image is this: one hand cupping, grasping, holding onto the airport, or along the same that runs through my memory, or along the United States

i remember the water, but scribbles can also drown a favor

i doubt that you ever slept but in it comes from my legs like butterfly pulp in this is this: one hand cupping, grasping, holding onto the patterns of living-together involved and i can also drown a while, see the pattern

what could have held the expanding mattress 

or during our every conversation, you dig down again with someone else’s i am trying to, wait, did you dig down my skin like sweat,





i guess i could write like this myself.


mhmm

what could have happened and how each day could have would have been
this is corny, i know, but i wonder still
i guess i never told you that i hope you stay with me
that there's an aspect of living-together involved and that we see
each others sleep-drowned faces submerging from heavy duty
dreaming each morning;

i'll

       i'll
    i'll make myself breakfast and lunch while you dig down again with paws made of gold
plummet into the unconscious to say only, I staid up later, no matter
                 (no matter)
no matter, i'll kiss your forehead eyelid lips still and 

       (.. you)
leave you drowning in my sheets, the expanding mattress
until i come back to save you

tooth-steel

what have ______

              they have held the



i recall (i think) the pattern of your habits
i know how you wake up (when) at least i think i do
when do you want to eat breakfast, then? or make it - it takes a while, see
i want to say that i remember the patterns of your words
moods
of your moods
or even better, the patterns the white blanket square shapes made on your cheek as you slept but i doubt that you ever slept on it in this romantic way

i can see the pattern on the steel now as the snow's fallen on it but can't think of anything
to say about it
i wish i'd made a toothmark somewhere

en liten oppdatering


photo from signe.


- jeg kom nettopp hjem fra en lang reise. det er vanskelig å tilpasse seg en ny-gammel hverdag.

- jeg lurer på hva jeg skal gjøre til høsten. de tingene jeg virkelig vil er liksom litt urasjonelle.

- jeg leser johannes og markus evangelium for et klasse jeg tar, og lurer på om gresk er noe å studere.

- jeg merker at jeg gjerne vil bo et sted hvor det er lavere hus, færre mennesker, og kortere avstander. mer direkte blikk, høyere latter, stillere netter. mer tid, mer grønt, og morgener hvor jeg kan se alt av himmelen.

- jeg tar ulogiske avgjørelser fordi jeg virkelig vil treffe broren min. det føles viktig. 

- jeg har begynt å lære meg å ikke tenke så mye på fremtiden, jeg lærte det nylig. akkurat nå som det føles som om det eneste man burde bry seg om - på slutten av en utdanning.

- jeg gleder meg til mer sol.

- jeg tenker på ting jeg ikke er helt klar for å skrive om her.

e.rose (poem)

a poem

by e. rose (hint: it's a pseudonym)


i am trying to catch you,
but in catching you something else slips between my fingers like
little, slick dew drops of oil;
i bake meaning into our every conversation, you wear me and I’m
pleased, but it’s not
enough;
see, see, see, you say do you see that this is me that you can
hear and;
but i can’t touch you, so the experience drips down my legs like
saliva: it comes from my skin
like sweat, but it’s a lot thicker, it must be something else


in our minds we sweep downward into a giant’s arms - they were
yours all along! i didn’t
know,
i screamed;
they are yours, i said, and you took them all off with
buttercream fingers that
slipped down my cheeks and into my neck;


it was hard to breathe at first, but I got used to the sensation
of gloves curdling around my
body like milk too hot. i drowned
it was like a little gentleman developing a larger scheme; he
interfaced all over me
my guardians, it was way too much.


there is so much to see, there is really a whole lot, but
scribbles can also drown a grown
man, he doesn’t even need to be up to his knees in it


wait, did you hear that? a slow murmur of several thousand
silver heartbeats - silver in the
sense of mist coming in from the lake in the morning; you’ve
certainly seen it, if not with your
own eyes then with someone else’s
i think it’s your heart, and it’s buzzing like a tiny alligator
coming out of the water, but hey, at
least it’s still beating


say, could you do me a favor? it’s not my concern, per say, it’s
about a mutual friend. she’s
lost... i guess i’ll find her eventually, but she got lost some
time ago, and there has been no
turning back
she was a god and i lost her