Dorian and I

Before we moved to our present house, we lived in a condo a couple of miles away. It was a nice neighborhood, and a great place for kids to grow up. We still have many friends from that era.

Yesterday, it was the annual garden party in our old street, with lots of former neighbors. Some of them still live in the same street. Some have moved to other parts of town, like us. It was a great party, with barbecue and volleyball (an important part of the tradition), and it was fun to see all the little kids who have grown up to become teenagers.

We see some of our former neighbors occasionally, but some we hardly ever meet. Yesterday, I talked to a woman that I haven't seen for more than 10 years. She said that I looked exactly the same as 15 years ago, not a day older.

I thought this was a nice compliment, and I thanked her (she looked a lot older, so I didn't return it). But later, I got kind of worried, because Dorian Gray came to my mind.

Today, I've been looking at old family pictures. The wedding picture, looked as it always did, fortunately. Then I started to browse old photo albums, looking for those frightening signs ... because, you know, Dorian and I gave our souls to the Devil.

Mohahaha ... scary isn't it >:)))

It's a great book, btw.

(That's Dorian in the picture, not me. I found the picture on the Internet. It's a cover picture from the Penguin Classics series. That's the edition of Dorian Gray that I have. I bought it in a 2nd-hand bookstore on Pearl Street in Boulder long time ago, when we lived in Colorado)

The gambler

There's a book that I read almost every summer on the beach. I've read it more than 10 times now. The twists and turns of the story are hardly surprising me anymore. Now I read the book mostly to admire the writing.

My copy is a nice hardbound and leather-back book. It was printed in 1946, and I bought it 2nd hand from an antiquarian many years ago.

The book I'm talking about is The Gambler by Dostoyevsky. It's a relatively short narrative novel, just a little bit more than 200 pages. It's an easy and entertaining read, and a very suitable beach book, I think.

The story takes place in a German gambling town with the brilliant name Roulettenburg. The protagonist and narrator is a tutor employed by a poor Russian General who has lost his past fortune. The General wants to marry a beatuiful woman, but to be able to do this, he needs money. Back in Russia is the old and very rich Grandmother who is expected to die very soon. Every day the General telegraphs to Russia, asking about her health. He is impatiently waiting for her death, and to inherit her fortune.

One day, the old Grandmother unexpectedly arrives in Roulettenburg. She goes straight to the casino, to put her fortune (and the General's heritage) at stake by the roulette table ... and this is were the real fun begins. I say no more.

Dostoyevsky was addicted to gambling himself. In this novel he gives a brilliant and in-depth exposition of gambling psychology, built on his personal experience (and if you're cusious about Dostoyevsky, I recommend the biography by Geir Kjetsaa)

(That's my footsteps in the picture above. I had been out swimming in the chill and refreshing fjord, and walked accross that rock, on the way back to my towel and my Dostoyevsky book on the beach)

Down by the seaside

It was the last week of the summer vacation, and we went to the coast down south. Actually, it's not very far south, just an hour driving south of Winterland.

Blackberries are growing wild by the roads, very nice to eat right off the bush. Blackberries don't grow in Winterland.

(I might use this as a definition; Winterland is the land north of the northermost blackberry bush.)

We had some nice and lazy days by the sea, swimming, jumping from cliffs (the kids, not me), fishing, or just racing around on the fjord in a small boat, just for fun.

Little boy caught a grasshopper and put it in a jar. He named it Roy and tried to teach it tricks. It turned out that Roy wasn't very willing to learn.

I've read some good books, of course. First, I read my every-summer-on-the-beach book; The Gambler by Dostoyevsky. It's about the 10th time I read it. Second, I read Boomerang by Tatiana de Rosnay. Good book, recommended.

Then I found this old book in a shelf; The Barble Bush by Charles Mergendahl. I had never heard of it before, but the text on the back cover made me curious; "2.5 million copies sold" (not necessarily a good sign), "mercy killing, adultry, seduction, insanity ... sordid ingredients". And the book wasn't bad, I think.

From time to time, I got tired of reading; I wanted to write. So, I got a notebook, and started to write a new novel. The notebook has pages labeled from A to Z (plus a couple of strange letters we're using here). Just for fun, I started a new chapter for every new heading-letter, and each chapter beginning with the same letter. I'm writing longhand, so I have to rewrite (and edit) everything later.

My new (so-called) novel is a story about two old men escaping from the nursery home, and their adventures as they travel northward. It's is kind of a road movie, except that it's a novel, and that they travel by train and ship rather than car. On their way, they summarize their different, but equally miserable lives and hope that their last journey will bring something exciting. I have no plot and no plan; we'll see where it ends.

Led Zeppelin? Yes, that's right. I borrowed the title of this post from a Led Zeppelin song on the Physical Graffiti album.

(I took the picture above on a nice and sunny day at the beach. The area along the coast is of great geological interest. The rocks were created by volcanic erruptions some 150 million years ago, and later carved and shaped by glaciers. It's nature's own art.)

Gone fishing

It was still sunny and warm when little boy and I left the city behind, and drove up to the mountains. We were just the two of us in the car. We had a nice trip, playing AC/DC, Iron Maiden and Led Zeppelin, load, all the way. It was dark when we arrived in our family cabin.

The next morning it was raining. We only went for a short hike. I slid on a slippery rock and fell into the river.
"Are you OK", little boy shouted. He looked a little bit anxious.
"No problem", I just got wet.
"Do you wanna go back to the cabin?"
"No, We can stay if you want to, I’m not cold."

I took off all my clothes, and stood naked on a rock. The rain had stopped for a while, and the wind gusts coming down the mountain sides felt warm. I emptied my boots, twisted my clothes, to squeeze out as much water as possible. Then I put the clothes back on. The digi-cam in my pocket was wet, and didn't work anymore.

Later, when we returned to the cabin, our fish bag was still empty.

On the 2nd day, the rain had stopped. My clothes were dry, and my camera came back to life (beating Jesus by one day). We went up to a pond where we always catch fish, without exception. It's a one-hour hike along a white-water river, to a deep canyon, above the timber line. Little boy's cousin and uncle joined us too.

We stopped at the top of the gorge to eat some sandwiches. Then we climbed down to the river.
"Be careful," I told little boy, "check the rocks before you step on them, to make sure they don't slide."
"Yes, I know, I've been here before."
"And remember that climbing down is more difficult than climbing up," I added.

Down in the canyon, we put bite on the hook and threw it into the river. Little boy threw the line towards the mountain wall on the other side of the canyon, and let the bite drift towards the white-water fall. He hooked a trout on the first throw. We always do in that pond.
"I wanna kill it myself," said little boy.
"OK, just knock the fish head against a rock a few times," I said.
We put the trout on a big flat rock, and a smaller rock on top of it, to make sure it didn't escape between the boulders. The trouts move for half an hour after they're dead.

In two hours, we caught ten fish all together. The trouts were quite solidaric and fair; they went evenly on little boy's and little cousin's hooks. (The Tea Party guys have something to learn from the fish.)
"We got twice as many last year," said little boy.
"That's not important. Ten is good enough, and then we leave some fish for the guys who come here next time."

On the 3rd day, the weather changed. Northern winds brought cold air down from the Arctic, and temperatures dropped to less than 10 degrees (50 Fahrenheit). We had to find our gloves in the suitcase before we went out.

We caught 3 trouts and lost even more.

On the 4th day we didn't fish at all. We sat in the forest with our knives, carving stuff out of birch branches, and we picked 3kg (6 pounds) of cloud berries on the moors.

Then we returned to the civilization; to newspapers, TV, cell-phone coverage and Internet. I must admit I didn't miss is >:)

(The picture above is from the 2nd day. It's our best pond in the lower part of the picture. We always catch fish on the first throw, and usually on the 2nd and 3rd throws as well. There are two similar ponds above, but they are not accessible. Actually, when I was a kid, my father climbed down to the uppermost pond, making a rope with T-shirts tied together. My brother and I sat on the top watching (without T-shirts). My mother got furious when she heard of it: "Such a lack of responsibility, setting his life at stake to catch fish, with his little kids watching". I have never tried to copy his stunt, and I never will.)

A scary good book

Have you ever been to Colorado Springs? I can tell you it's a nice area. You can visit the Cave of the Winds, take the cog railway to the majestic Pikes Peak, study the cliff dwellings in Manitou Springs, or go for a walk in the Garden of the Gods.

Probably you won't see God there, but if you're lucky, you might meet Anita, hiking between the sandstone formations, unless she's busy running from bears, or showing us how to make homemade tortillas.

Anita doesn't scare anyone, but 8th August she will release A Scary Good Book, her new kids' ebook. And it's so cheap that I might even buy it myself.

Anita also writes a book column in the Colorado Springs Gazette. I didn't know that when we lived in Colorado some 10 years ago, so we subscribed to The Denver Post instead. Sorry about that, Anita >:)

Catholic flashback

It's kind of strange around here. We're Protestants most of the time, but for one week every year, we're Catholics. (This doesn't include myself, though. I'm Atheist all the time.)

500 years ago, the Catholics were kicked out of the country, and the last arch bishop had to flee our town. We have been Protestants ever since. But every summer, we have a Catholic flashback. It's the full package; vesper and midnight mass, pilgrim walks with munks and nuns, fighting the lust of the flesh, in sneakers and Gore-Tex jackets (depending on weather). And there's a lot of regular tourists of course.

In the last week of July and first week of August, we have a festival to celebrate the holy king who brought Christianity to our country, 1000 years ago. We can discuss if this was an advantage or not. Anyway, it's a historical fact that it happened.

The kings mission was simple and efficient: Get christened or get killed. No wonder Christianity was such a great success.

The king was killed in a battle 1000 years ago, when he met resistance from an army of peasants. Every summer there is a historical play, an hour drive (with car, not horse) north of town. The play is performed outdoor at the battle field, and recreates the political situation and conflicts leading up to the battle. (The battle itself, though, takes place backstage).

I've seen the play 3 or 4 times. It's quite interesting and entertaining, for the kids too.

The king caused miracles for those who were in contact with his dead body, sick and blind people were healed, and the king's hair continued to grow after his death (according to the saga). He was canonized by the local arch bishop; later confirmed by Pope Alexander III in 1160.

The medieval cahtedral in our town is built on the grave of the holy king, who is known as Saint Olav.

(The summer festival is not only about gods and saints. There are various types of entertainment too. Last night I attended a concert with Jan Garbarek Group outside of the cathedral. I took a couple of pictures, even though it was not allowed. The drummer was very good, and he played the same brand of cymbals that I have; Zildjian. Good stuff.)

Our weapon

When our country was hit by terror, I was happy to hear the wise responses, from our Prime Minister, and not the least, from the young politicians who were the victims of the shooting:

"Our response will be be more democracy and more openness."

The purpose of terror is to scare people. Statistically, the probability of getting killed in a terror attack is much smaller than being killed in a car crash, or some other accident (at least if we exclude extreme countries like Iraq and Afghanistan from the statistics).

We have been lucky to live in a country with little violence. Not even the police carry handguns. I hope this remains in the future.

I hope and believe we will not become a country where people are afraid of each other, and protecting ourselves from each other. If we do, the terrorists have won.

We must stick to the ideas and values of the social democracy, where conflict is handled by means of dialogue and debate. Hate and revenge don't bring us forward.

In the spirit of Nordahl Grieg, the Prime Minister said:

"Freedom of speech is our weapon."

I will use that weapon, and it's the only weapon I will use.

(After the terrorist attacks, people have covered towns and cities in flowers. I took the picture above a couple of days ago when I passed by town square. The statue of the king who founded our city in the year 997 (an official random number) was surrounded by flowers and candle lights.)