Aussichten

Und jetzt! Auf die Sprache eines meiner Lieblingsschauspieler - der Gedeon "Übersexy" Burkhard, haha - Deutsch! Kleine, blöde (vielleicht) Details die mich lustig und glücklich und hyper machen: unter anderem, dass unser Lieblingsdoctor (medizinischer, das ist) Gregory House Converse-schuhe trägt, genau wie (der Reisende) David Tennant doch nicht von derselben Farbe, und das er über die Zeit redet - tatsächlich auch auf derselben Weise wie D.T. Zeit ist keine festgestellte Struktur. Wusste ich ja, hab das sogar von Chris Eccleston mehrmals gehört. Kann sich krümmen und kringeln und ganz einfach umformen lassen. So ein Typ bin ich. (...und das war wieder David.) Ach, "Der Laut von Trommeln" war einfach super und nicht so epik und voll von Selbstbehauptung als was ich gedacht hatte - und gefürchtet. John Simm war Meisterlich und seine Frau war richtig unheimlich. Toll! Die ganze Episode war (deswegen) ziemlich grossartig - buchstäblich gesprochen - und die Spezialeffekten waren (dieses eine Mal) wunderbar. Waren der Episode ganz würdig und hatten dazu echt vollkommen gepasst. Martha hat sich besser benommen, nicht so kraftlos und gaffend. Und Jack ist ja jedenfalls back. Kann das kaum zu oft erwähnen. Übrigens hat mir diese Verwandlung des Doctors sehr gefallen (keine Spoilers hier, ihr musst die ganze Episode selbst sehen!), und auch die Regie von Graeme Harper, die Auseinandersetzung beim Handy (fantastische Gesichtausdrücke - die Mimik!!), die Schurken (neben Dem Meister, der unglaublich unterhaltend und charmant ist), die Flucht und - die Rose-gespräche. Wie gewöhnlich. Aber, um zurück zum wirklichen Thema zu wenden, die Zeit vergeht also viel zu schnell! Macht mich gar nicht froh! Die Sommerferien (unterdessen ich natürlich froh bin) haben immer zu kurz gedauert, und als sie fertig sind bin ich naiv bereit, einige neue Wochen frei zu haben. Ich hätte eigentlich Listen geschrieben, wo ich was ich nicht vergessen muss beschreiben könnte; zu tun und zu geniessen. Während der Ferien noch da ist. Ach, was mehr; das Wetter macht mich immer entusiastisch, obwohl es nicht schön ist, ich bin davon oft ganz erfüllt. Kann mich nerven und begeistern, wie wenige andere Sachen. Heute war es grau, aber warm. Bin spazierengegangen, und habe Bilder gemacht (z.B. beim "Logo", oder wie man das nennt) und Deutsche Würstchen zum Mittagessen gegessen. Habe ausserdem Deutsch bevor frühstück gesprochen. Imponierend! Weiss dass ich nur "komme gle-eich!" gerufen und mich wie den Mann dieser Fernsehwerbung gefühlt habe, sonst war es komisch und spannend. Ich hab's geschafft, und das macht mich zufrieden. Noch später ist es mir eingefallen dass ich aufräumen sollte; warum hab ich keine Ahnung. Aber, bin zumindestens vergnügt geworden (und das Zimmer wurde sauber). Norah Jones (dazu) bringt mich auch zum Lächeln. Zuletzt, was mich am meisten glückselig macht ist dies; dass ich (endlich!) ein neues Layout hier beim Blog habe - und dass ich beim selben Platz wieder auf Deutsch schreibe. Fast korrekt oder (vielleicht) nicht. Die Aussichten sind aber gut.

Who's a pirate, now?

WARNING: SPOILERS, OBSESSIVE FANGIRL-BABBLE, ANGSTY STUFF AND ROSE-MOURNING/MOPING AHEAD.

Oh my God. I've just realized. And I probably shouldn't even think about it, but I do. This is what happens when you're too far, too deep, into the universe of fandom. Might be, yeah. Excuses, excuses. But, see: Captain Jack Sparrow keeps (well, that is, kept) Davy Jones's heart in a jar. Of dirt. Which was stolen by an evil Lord, Cutler Beckett. Whereas Captain Jack Harkness still keeps The Doctors hand - in a jar. Of water. Which has now been stolen by an evil Time Lord, The Master. Both played by prominent British actors; one is Tom Hollander, who starred in "London", a British drama series which also featured both the two others; Derek Jacobi (the "first", new Master) and John Simm (the "second"). And by the way - yes! - Hollander's the one who starred opposite Keira Knightley in "Pride and Prejudice", where he proposed and was rejected! Thus, all the great and natural chemisty (or disapproval...), I believe! This is past funny, this is downright scary. And as if it's not quite enough, it follows in the wake of the whole Turner/Tyler + Swann/Smith-thing. Interestingly; both are left on a beach, reunited as friends - and/or lovers. Speculators decide. I would prefer having Rose wait for The Doctor on a glittering beach in the sunset, though. Puppy eyes, teary, beautifully dress-clad, defender of parallell earth. Always remembering, never giving up hope. Where and what were we without imagination. Now, that IS a wonderful idea for continuation. Maybe it takes 10 years for the breach to open again - by accident? No ripping apart of galaxies and burning up suns, just plain luck? And then, The Doc could arrive with the TARDIS, flying across the ocean, with the doors wide open and she could jump straight in, into his arms, happy-soppy-well deserved-hug (and snog!) and then, er, sail away with him. Leave Mickey behind and alone, who cares. Hoho. And Elizabeth could take off with Jack, next time he's ashore, being sick and bored of hanging around waiting for Will. Ask their son (silly deleted scenes!) to stay and welcome daddy when he eventually gets back and is relieved of the curse. Whilst she, on the other hand, will naturally be sailing some distant pacific with her (truly) beloved (real) Pirate. Revised Happy Endings. Great for us shippers. Furthermore, as for the mysterious trivia, we've of course got the - incidentically or not - two Sparrows ("Blink", anyone?), the dying fathers who are (tentatively) revived, and the whole "My Lady Ship"-obsession. Ships are female, end of story. And they apparently mean a lot to their captains. I dare say, I think "Pirates of the Caribbean" must mean a lot to Russel T Davies as well. Guess he simply "loves his Captains"; which sounds rather familiar. But come on, did anyone NOT think of Barbossa's skeleton-guys mixed with Jones's fishcrew when they saw The Futurekind? Plus, Lazarus was a bit of a crab, wasn't he? Looked like one, anyhow. Reminded me of the fish-guy with the T-shaped head. We've got swordfighting (Tennant would take down Orlando anytime!) and head-dropping (Cassandra, ugh!) and a guiding compass/watch. If not very obvious, I would claim that I definately saw a clear resemblance there. And, finally, I suppose both the Captain Jack's are slightly...flexible. About a lot of things. Got a thing for another man's girl too. Maybe that's how we could get rid of Martha - she could run off with Capt. Jack? Either one of them would suit me fine, as long as she doesn't stick with Le Doc! ;) I may hope! And - after all, I do love both concepts and the whole linking up is indeed very entertaining. More connections to come - when I come to think of them!

Forhold av klaustrofobi og avhengighet

Litt skrivekick i går kveld. Mange rare tanker i tropenatten. Veel, okey, ikke riktig ekvatortemperaturer - men deilig likevel. Kunne sove med åpent vindu. Være altfor lenge oppe. Se på junihimmelen. Jeg elsker å puste inn sommernatten. Være våken i varmen. Stemmer, motordur og bilaralarmer. Folk som sitter på trappen utenfor blokken min og røyker klokken halv to om morgenkvisten. Nesten sydlandsk stemning. Som jeg nyter. Fikk skrevet et par fancy dikt også, primært på norsk (inne i en morsmålsperiode nå) og her er noen smakebiter - på det som, må understrekes, er utkast ikke nødvendigvis ferdige produkter. Uansett, det er skriverier. Og de er mine.

"stille opp/oppstilt - forholdslikninger"
Av Scaramouche, po(t)eten, om delvis symbiotisk samliv og tilhørende prøvelser i støtteerklæringer. Så uhorvelig enkelt å være utilstrekkelig eller overdrevent deltagende. Hårfin balansegang.

frender er
i hardt vær
tilstedeværende
nødvendig
(og som et onde, tidvis,
overhengende)
et vern
mot kastene
de tar imot
hvert loss og
også skytsen
som motvekt;
skytsengler
for frenders skyld
man gir
og tar
igjen

"ufaglært drømmetydning"
Av Scaramouche, po(t)eten, som har et meget anstrengt forhold til trange heisrom. God mosjon i å gå trapper, skal jeg si dere.

jeg satt fast i en heis
en glattcelle av gulv og fire dører
ville ikke åpne seg
og knappene var sammenklistret i
et uforklarlig lim
mens rester av graffitti skrek imot meg
mikrofoner ropte at jeg måtte reise opp
og krabbe ut
nei, aldri synke ned og gå (ut) fri

"utbrent og utvannet"
Av Scaramouche, the po(t)et; et slags forsøk på å bevise for meg selv at jeg kan skrive dikt om (stort sett) det meste. Til og med engangsgriller. Den lå der, ensom og forlatt og forsøplende, nedenfor Gamlehaugen - og så mer miserabel ut enn House på en god dag. Jeg syntes den fortjente en liten verselinje eller syv.

en utbrent engangsgrill, et hylster; svart mot sølv
av kull; forkrøplet; skall av gjenglemt felleskos,
man glemte hvem sin innsats, hvem som ledet an, og
presenterte sammenkomstinitiativ, hvem det enn var som tok
saken fatt, og rent i hende, men lot et minne stå
og stå dem bi, når stranden inntas neste morgen av helt nye sko,
for å la vite, her var vi, og her var vi kanhende aldri mer

Something artful, something forgetful

Doctor Love:
I don't often post pure art-sections on this blog, but today I'll make an exception. This is some stuff I did with photoshop this evening, to prove there's more to Scara's hand than just abilities of writing. I can even click a mouse too, and drag images into place. Whoa. I'm not saying I'm THAT good with the program, but I thought it turned out pretty okay myself. Like the mid-section and the fact that the three Doctors look scaringly similar. Suppose that is the thing with fandom; you learn more about yourself and your habits, in addition to developing them. Into perfection. And guess who's got a new desktop? Strictly speaking, it's a banner, but I've learnt from Captain Jack how to be slightly flexible when it comes to such a thing as 'terms'.

**
Morover, I've produced an icon to go along with it! For all you Doctor-lovers like myself:

Now, second, something I wrote a while ago and had saved but then completely forgotten. That's the inconvenient thing about Blogger's new "save now"-function. I tend to overuse it a bit, then ignore the fact that I've used it at all. Start writing something new instead. Anyways, I might be slightly clever at designing banners, but this is proof that such is not the case with all my spare time activities; here's a (Norwegian) kåseri-thingy about something I'm much less talented at - cooking.

Fra 2. Juni:
Jeg fikk en kraftig påminnelse om mine manglende evner på kjøkkenet i dag, da jeg skulle fikse meg "en rask middag", slik de så fint kaller det i kokebøkene som jeg dog sjelden leser, og klarte å brenne hele den unevnelige greien fast i pannen. Utrivelig, også fordi man da må finne på et alternativ, og med min ikke akkurat storslagne oppfinnsomhet når det gjelder mat (sikkert relatert til de manglende kokkelerings-talentene) ble det jaggu vrient. Endte opp med en posesuppe av disse mer praktiske (tøm innholdet i en kopp og tilsett kun vann, tralala), men jeg er ikke god på øyemål heller og klarte å helle i altfor mye væske og det ble en laber, tynn suppesak. Men mat er mat og er man sulten glir det meste ned. Mens jeg slafset i meg Den Småmislykkede foretok jeg imidlertid en drastisk beslutning om at jeg aldri skal prøve meg på en kokkelærlingsjobb. Skal man satse, bør det være på noe man har bittelitt glede av. Og istedenfor å la denne avklaringen virke nedslående på humøret, og selvbildet, lot jeg meg inspirere! Planlegger å skissere ned en (om enn ufullstendig) gjennomgang av yrker Scaramouche HELLER bør vurdere - dvs faktisk vurderer - å satse på når hun blir stor. Større. Gamlere. En eller annen gang i fremtiden, mao. Trenger ikke kunne alt her i verden. Sålenge jeg har ordene har jeg det helt fint. Mer enn nok å rute med, det.

...and catch all the DW-references!

An ood. Sorry, ode. Sorry, dedication. A very...dedicated dedication. To a man who could certainly have said it better himself. But I'll try my best at saying what it means to me, personally, and how fascination never ends.

I love a Doctor who won't wear his labcoat because he says "it itches!", who "don't like anyone", who toys around with a yoyo while patients are dying, wears trainers with blazers and neckties with jeans, whose sentimentality is non-existent, who hardly ever smiles, but when he does is even more adorable, who is passionate only about what interests him at times when it probably doesn't interest anybody else, who makes himself inaccessible when desperately needed, who watches pathetic soaps on TV, and sometimes screws up, yet allowing no-one to meddle with his pride, whose confidence is rarely shaken - and who never stops shining, although impregnable as rocks; who listens to understand, not just to be polite; who is brute, rude, and brilliant and not afraid to say so; who is sarcastically clever; who is spectacularly superficial, yet always digs deeper; who walks with a cane, without it holding him back; who doesn't let anyone come close, literally shakes people off, but almost always keeps his cool and remains in control, when everyone else would be fainting; who breaks off, never down; reluctant but rendering; who doesn't appear to let anything get to him, but still; whose wide, blue-eyed gaze never lies; who is soft, almost tender, then sad 'cause it happened, then closed 'cause it won't ever happen again; who watches the rain, melancholy, then hard-faced; who speaks when he mustn't and jokes when he shouldn't and says nothing when all it would take is one word; whose pose is characteristic, but never a cliché, who's style is legendaric but never a let-off; who plays, while he ponders, and dreams while he doctors. Gregory House. Who'd have thought. That's my man. I've fallen in love with a Doctor again.

**
Wish I could say the following was inspired strictly by the above-mentioned, and it surely could be, it surely looks like something reminiscent of his maneouvers, but it wasn't, not solely, it was a mix - bit of him, bit of this, bit of that, bit of Leonard Cohen (as usual) and just a bit of...me. My head. Is killing me. It's this thingy I started working on which ended up completely different (often do) and I have no idea how it may continue. For now:

"must be read/out loud" - I was wondering.
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et, barely forgotten (how to).

like; who do we hail
when there's nobody left
for torture and punish
or sentence to love

and where do we sail
when the oceans have dried
left waters of salt,
only, running down skins

in streams and in drops
and stinging as bloods
we may swim through the surface
they'll engulf us as floods

the soldiers up front
form the lines to the east
the west soon uncovered
who knows, all can't be pleased

the backbenchers, quiet,
are rows never heard
they dance without movements
feels free as a bird

the fronting material
shiny white teeth, work
may the drool make them drivel
while watching our feet, hurt

yet where do we look
when the turning once stops
and where do we peak
when there are no more tops

**
Plus, it got me thinking. About things. Thingies that I don't wanna share with the world. Much like Gregory House. His methods, brushing off, barring out. And his weaker points. Such I want to keep quieted down and hidden well away from nosey parkers. Peekers. Peekey-sneakey. Professional voyeurs, as sinister as The Sun's reporters. I just don't feel like it. Somehow, sometimes, there's little point. Or even less. Sometimes, you simply want to watch the cars drive by and imagine you could go with them. Away. Gone with the wind, and a smile; a last one. Massive conclusions. To end; before the first day in the rest of your life. Saying it was completed so it could be incomplete once again. Fresh. I thought everything was going to be different. One great, big bowl of change. And it was. I was wrong. Put on my specs and view the world and find the faintest odds.

Cool(ing) Quotas

Dette - er en grei dose humor i sommervarmen! Jeg mener, hvor ofte bidrar jeg med rene humorinnlegg? Have fun! Først, noen fine sitater og andre...fine ting:

"Bart, you're no longer in sunday school! Don't swear!", The Simpsons. Ubetalelig.

"Pirates of the Caribbean" er en undervurdert eventyractionspesialeffektfilm, som ikke bør tas for å være noe annet enn det den gir seg ut for å være, og den er heldigvis ikke selvhøytidelig, i motsetning til "Spider-Man 3" som bortsett fra enkelte søte sekvenser, slutten og imponerende budsjett (ergo dataanimerte sandstormer...blæh!) var et stykke pompøst oppkok av nummer 1 og nummer 2 med dårligere manus (ubeskrivelig grusomt, faktisk, slo Star Wars ep. 3 ned i støvlene mht banal dialog og det skal godt gjøres!) og meningsløse konflikter; jeg er stor fan av Spidey (nr 1 og 2 var briljante, så det er sagt!) og var tilsvarende skuffet. Men altså, tilbake til Piratene, jeg ELSKER Johnny Depp! Keira Knightley kan dumme seg ut så mye hun vil med patetiske patriot-taler på dekk (det var ille), tulle rundt så mye hun vil med Orlando Bloom (den var da ganske drøy - dvs dristig - den scenen på stranden? I don't mind, but I think others might! Og jeg trodde dette var en familiefilm!! hoho!), produsentene burde vurdert å kutte ned på både det ene og det andre (med unntak av skjørtelengden til nevnte Keira; hørte jeg amerikansk familiefilm? Ikke for å være prippen her, men jeg foretrekker å se Gerry i sånne antrekk! Dessuten har "300" enerett på å være pornofilm in disguise...!), The Kraken burde fått anledning til å kverke noen flere, Bill Nighy og Naomie Harris og Keith Richards (!) burde fått anledning til å snakke mer, ja - savnet generelt litt mer prat og mindre slossing, MEN: Johnny Depp redder dagen, uansett! Hadde han bare fått litt mer spilletid, så, fine kapteinen! Mye morsomheter klarte han å tilføre filmen, i tillegg, og jeg er ikke enig med de som mener at den kun inneholdt "oppbrukte gags", jeg lo hvert femte sekund. Dog, jeg skal innrømme, den scenen der Jonathan Pryce spør sin datter "Elizabeth, are you dead?!" ER kanskje ikke veldig (tilsiktet) morsom - men jeg lo. Jada. Jeg var den eneste i hele salen som lo. Åpenbart ingen andre der som hadde sett "Boondock Saints". Is it dead?! Huffameg. Her er noen andre favoritter:

"Nobody move! I've dropped me brain!", Captain (nøye med det der) Jack Sparrow

"I don't have the face for tentacles.", Captain Jack Sparrow

"Wonder what would happen if we were to drop a cannonball on them...", Ragetti - OG! - "Right this way, Mrs. Fish!", Pintel - (fine duoen!)

"You may kiss! You may kiss! JUST KISS!", Barbossa (mens han vier Liz & Will, hoho)

"I leave you people alone for just a minute and look what happens!", Captain Jack Sparrow

Lord Cutler Beckett: "You're mad!"
Capt. Jack Sparrow: "Well thank goodness for that, 'cause if I wasn't this would probably never work."

Oooog, dernest, over til noe helt annet men meget Britisk. Beviset for at Paris Hilton tar etter Doctor Who: da hun ble fraktet vekk for å bli satt i fengsel, hva var det hun vrælte etter? Noen som hørte godt etter? "Mommy! I want my Mommy!" Man kan ikke bli sørgelig av sånt, man bare ler! Høyt og lenge! And is she her mommy, anyway? *Dån* (Er det ikke moro med intern humor???)

Og apropos humorrelaterte Doctor Who-episoder; jeg vet det var meningen at "Utopia" skulle være en dyster og episk følelsesmessig berg-og-dalbane (sitat RTD) for The Doctor; en reise inn i en ny epoke av umenneskelige prøvelser og grusomme fiender, men da John Simm dukket opp i TARDIS'en og begynte å hoppe rundt, gikk jeg fra melankolsk snufsepufs (Jack is luckily back, Rose-referanser og flashbacks, ikke sunt) til jubel og latterkrampe. Og da han avsluttet med "End of the universe! Have fun! Bye-bye!" knakk jeg fullstendig sammen. Bra at man kan fremdeles kan gjøre det av DW, uten at det innebærer tårer og tenners gnissel. Er vel heller ikke alene om å heie litt på The Master i Simms skikkelse. Mannen er genialt spooky, Doctor-aktig og sjarmerende! Hvem hadde forventet dét... Å, men jeg VISSTE at det ville bli bra når John'ene dukket opp! Fantastisk episode også, for øvrig, sånn rent historiemessig. Og la meg gjenta: Jack is back! Fine, halvtamerikanske, fleksible danser-skotten! :)

Og apropos en apropos, man kan jo ikke unngå å ta med følgende - i et særdeles sårbart og rørende og regelrett uutholdelig nostalgisk minneøyeblikk, fremført av en lengtende Le Doc, dvs David Tennant: "She's gone Jack. Not just living in a parallel world, she's trapped there. The walls have closed..." Også dét uttrykket i ansiktet. For å minnes litt mer; "Rose would know". Bare hun kan komme tilbake snart! Herregud, jeg har ikke godt av den serien. Men flashbacks er flott! Det som ikke er like behagelig er å finne følgende i The Sun - det er sikkert blitt dementert og benektet og latterliggjort for lenge siden, men hvorfor skriver de sånt? Pluss at egentlig er det gammelt nytt, fordi RTD uttalte for lenge siden at han skulle bruke mindre tid på DW og mer på Torchwood. Noe vi alle i grunnen kan prise oss ganske lykkelig for. Way to go, Steven Moffal & Paul Cornell! Men slutt for Doctor Who? NEI. Never give up something essentially great when it's heading towards even greater. I rest my case!

Avdekningsmanøver

Utkast til et dikt jeg skriblet ned på en biltur nylig. Med asfalten farende forbi under bilhjuelen. Som når man ser ut av vinduet og veikantene suser avsted der nede. Fargene glir over i hverandre som lange fartsstriper, streker, og utydelige konturer. Det man et øyeblikk så er snart forglemt. Kjørt ifra. Ute av synsfeltet, ute av minnet. Dyr, kirker, bensinstasjoner. Mennesker hjem og oppholdsrom. Alt blir så ubetydelig når det kun fremstår som utsiktspunkter i et landskap. Dekorasjoner å hvile blikket på mens man forflyttter seg fra et sted til et annet. De reisevante reiser ikke for å være underveis, men for å komme frem, og det meste ignoreres uansett. Bare ikke grunnlaget. Motorveien. Humper og dumper og trafikkontroller. Skilter. Vi guides gjennom terrenget på jakt etter noe som er mer interessant, når det viktigste kanskje fôr oss hus forbi i dette øyeblikk. Moralen er; senk farten, sakke av på utålmodigheten, skue ut, se etter.

"tar" - historier om det overkjørte
(clue, engelsk: tar = asfalt)
Av Scaramouche, po(t)eten, som altså ikke kjører bil men ynder å sitte på.

man tager hva man haver
og legger asfaltdekke
lag i lag og
side om hver side i
en evig oppdekningsmanøver
dekker over
elementenes forsoning
alltid
grenseløs og grunnfast,
tenke seg at
helheten
blir til av blokker;
seig og svartmalt
tjære - over, under,
inntil, mot - som
overlappes i et
evigvarende belegg
av nedbrytbart
og nedbrutt
slitesterk
men nedslitt
motorvei

Summertime Loving

No updates for the past 8 days. Think that must be my longest period of absence ever. Well well, summer holidays doesn't happen every day - a proper reason, I suppose, to stay away for a wee while! Still, to quote Bryan Ferry, "since we last met" not much has happened. Not really. Life is quiet and sunny and relaxed. Have been travelling a bit and visitied my family's cottage up in the mountains. And my "old home", which seemed kind of strange but also very nice. Feeling somewhat out of place at the only place where I should feel truly...at home. I guess. But moving out probably tends to have such an effect, on everyone, and returning there is always a genuinely pleasant experience despite the slightly awkward undertones. Regarding the mountains, I enjoyed the typical, magnificent season-atmosphere with the last snow slowly melting away and the smell of fresh flowers and the cold warmth of wind and sun. Took 150 photos and thanked heavens for my digital camera. Deletebuttons are superconvenient. But I got rather carried away as we were driving from Oslo to Bergen and the scenery was just unfolding its unbelievable beauty before my overwhelmingly impressed eyes. Did I mention I adore Norwegian fiords? And okay, as for the shopping-factor, I have indeed bought above-mentioned Bryan Ferry's album "Let's stick together" and thus completed my Ferry/Roxy Music collection. Can't believe I own everything they've ever made. But I sure do and it's wonderful. I have, moreover, watched "Blink" and (consequently) completely freaked out at some statues in Bergen centre. They're scaaaary. And they haven't even got wings. I have a strong feeling I saw one of them move. I'm counting down to the return of Captain Jack now, as well, and that is Mister Barrowman not Mister Depp! Luv both my Captains, though! Realized the other day, while searching around the net looking for pics of Hunky Harkness, that he has actually starred in a musical (presumably west end) production of Phantom of the Opera (!!!); unfortunately not as the Phantom but as Raoul. A pity, because it would make the whole choice vastly more difficult. Increase the torment for all participants, so to speak. Patrick Wilson was extremely dull and everyone was cheering for Gerry. Of course. But this guy has a cleft chin and starry eyes and fab abs - oh, fab body in general! And, I mean, he's Scottish! One Scot's hard enough - but two?! Torn between and torn apart... Would have felt very sorry for Christine! On the other hand, it's just awesome with further connections linking my two greatest passions. Plus, blimey! John Barrowman can sing! What upsets me, however, is his statements about working with Chris Eccleston - compared to David Tennant. Naturally he was asked by the papers how he felt about the change in Doctors since he was part of the original (series one) cast. Which is, of course, why I am so particularly pleased that he's back. He stated that he thought Chris was "very quiet, very serious" - as opposed to David who was much more fun and relaxed. He claimed that the two of them were a good combination because he (John) was nuts and David was silly. Cute, but a bit sad. The whole Chris-era has become a complicated thing to remember, because not only was he a dark Time Lord, he had a bit of that darkness in him as a private individual too. He's a brilliant actor, that's for certain, but I reckon he could cheer up a little. And apparently, his co-stars think so too. But to preserve his skills and role interpretation qualities, maybe he has to sacrifice something on the socializing side? After all, I will remember him as the best Doctor in history. No doubt! And rumous has it that although his character was partially written out of the show, Chris MIGHT appear in future episodes of "Heroes"! Isn't that just lovely; as old epochs come to an end, you get new things to look forward to. Continuously. I suddenly found out that Bryan Ferry's new album, "Dylanesque", is NOT in my collection! Whey! Have a great next week, everyone, and cherish the (summer) moments.

Intermission

Everybody needs a break. A pause. Some restoring peace, quiet and relaxation. I am, thus, currently enjoying my summer holidays and watching life go by pretty idly. In this context, however, "idle" doesn't mean I'm all that passive - just very calm and summer-easeful. I am also enjoying various related activities, such as sun-bathing, blockbusters ("Pirates" exceeded all my expectations - it was funny, original, overwhelming, overblown (of course), way-over-the-edge and hence unfathomably costly thing - I mean, they even called it "World's End" - probably as an indicator of box office rates and effects-and-other-records-breaking outdoing themselves and everyone else's as well!) and summer music (Sophie Ellis-Bextor's new album is absolutely brilliant, and as a long-time fan I can only say I'm proud and that she delivered what we expected. Superduper job, Sophie!) and summer food, weather, atmosphere; warm, bee-buzzing, still, pollen-filled air of early June. Lovely. And - most expectations fulfilled. Every reason to be...reasonably content. At least. And Saturday gives us the next chapter of the beloved Doctor Who, which we all look forward to A LOT - mostly because of the upswing following the fantastic two-parter we were recently presented with, and the prospects of watching Steven Moffat work his magic again as he now returns to the series as a scriptwriter. Apart from this, though; the whole idea of a Doctor-lite episode makes me a bit sceptical-ish, of course, but it should be a safe bet in the hands of our favourite historical-who creator. Who could forget the drunk-Doctor reel or the Glenn Miller-dancing sequence? Good man! :)

Anyways, when on holiday I take some pleasure in being slightly absent from internet surfing and other normal weekday-habits, a serious change in routines for once, consequently not working and writing that much and allowing myself to be a little less up to date and effetive instead. Wonderful, for the moment. After all, I'm trying to relax my brain too - and as a result, which is why this would concern those of you whom I call readers; I might not update my blog that often. Just like Brian May, for that matter, who hasn't written an entry since early May. Oh well, as long as the projects keeping him from doing so includes the new Queen album and a PhD, we fans can't really complain. I want to sit here and listen to the sounds of summer and feel the heat which doesn't scorn. It burns a bit - my shoulders are pretty red now, making me into something that is strikingly resembling a lobster - but it doesn't bite. I'm at ease, really, I am. And I love it. Can I just say? - I love it!

Costner, Clouds & Chocolate

Lighter matters. And lightening. Enlightening too. Things I don't really like about things I really like. In other words; disadvantages about otherwise advantageous things. Oh, bugger, does it make it any easier after all? Let's exemplify instead!

1. When nicey sci-fi movies choose to include an overly patriotic "twist" which makes them seem rather pathetic - overall. "The Postman", starring my other favourite actor Kevin Costner, was a major let-down in this respect. Slow-motion horseback riding through rivers with smiling children around you and the National Anthem playing in the background - what the heck?! I thought better of you, Kevin, and your directing-talents! I actually preferred "Waterworld" to this, as opposed to everyone else apparently, although I did enjoy the The Beatles-references and the connections to other K.C.-movies like "Dances with Wolves" (which is one of the best films ever made, period!) The cinematography and filming was very good too (there you go, a nod to Kevin, I'll give him that) but the dialogue was horrid at times and the plot was full of, er, holes. The casting could also have been better (Kevin himself set aside, he did a good job apart from the exaggerated patriotism and cliché mess), the final battle was absolute crap (hated it! seriously, my GOD!) and the continuity was basically absent. I thought they had specific people designated to take care of such kind of problems. For instance, how did he get from the coach to the battlefield and how did they end up at the dancing patio?! Two minutes ago they were all situated somewhere completely different! I got...lost! A bit too many Mad Max-influences and some odd 80's/90's science fiction stuff, but I could have coped with the lot of it, had it not been for the stupid, misplaced glorification of the postal services and our fantastic "überhero". And the caps. Ah, and The Postman's helplessness. "Oh right, the love of my life is fighting for her life in the middle of an utterly chaotic crisis, the end of the world is approaching, and what do I do? Gape! Stand still and glare and gape!" Aaargh, the disappointment. But what could one expect, when the new American president was called Richard Starkey?! Gosh.

2. Severe hangovers. So it didn't help that I was drinking beer while watching "The Postman". Could probably have made it easier to bear, for some, but in my case alcohol makes me even more critical and pedantic. And the day after is never very pleasant. I do have a lot of fun while I'm drunk, though; not too sure about everyone else around me, but at least I am laughing. PS: Bear with beer? Beer to bear?! Bear with me??? I didn't even notice that until afterwards! LOL. (Too much Doctor Who AND alcohol.)

3. Warm weather combined with rain and fog. Also referred to as mugginess. Pretty uncomfortable. The clouds are heavy as my head, and hanging about as low, only increasing the headache and making me feel like a sack of potatoes. Without knowing exactly how they would feel of course, in a sack, but I reckon you get the picture. In addition I can't find any consolation in chocolate, since I ate way too much last night and have forbidden myself to consume any at all today. Well, I was eating chocolate today - come to think about it - but I suppose what happens before you go to bed doesn't count. I'll see if I manage to stay disciplined. It's friday and everything. Maybe I can buy a skillingsbolle. How on earth can you translate skillingsbolle to English?! Oh, suppose it's a universal expression - mutually comprehensible. Everybody loves skillingsboller! The worst thing about being away from Bergen; denied access to freshly baked bakery delicacies. Haha. But wait a second, we've always got brownies. I absolutely LOVE brownies. Healthy diet; no shit! But as far as I can see, there's no need for people to abuse drugs when they can obtain such an instant, indescribable pleasure from eating a chocolate cookie-cake-thingy which tastes like heaven and usually costs much less instead! Pluss, no significant side-effects. Comparable to the ones you get from dope, anyway. And you've got to replace the desires with something, right? I'd rather escape into a chocolate-coated ecstacy than a chemically induced trance. Add a great movie - and some Murray Gold (which I am currently listening to) - and I'll be happy again. Self-care. Rather improvised personal insurance. Oh joy!

Yours sincerely

Early morning prose. One way of seeing it. Might not make it any easier, but it gives an explanation. For; just as one ordeal is at last finished, other ones may emerge. There are always things to struggle with. Worries to handle. Problems to be taken care of. Always a bumpy road, this existence. And we wouldn't have it any different. Because we're humans, and part of being human is facing trouble and get through it. If you don't, that's fate. If you do, that's luck. There's a sense of meaning pervading everything. There is hope. There must be. Otherwise we couldn't live. Survival comes to the fittest, and unhappiness is destructive. One has got to fight it. If you don't, you give up the very essence of what is our purpose in life. Oh, and it's so tempting. To close one's eyes. Not having to care anymore. It would be better. But it's not always supposed to be good. Or easy. It's supposed to challenge you, make you wonder. Why. How. Wherefore, really, do we do it. I understand. I'm not strong. I used to think I could be. But that's not the point, either, we just have to deal with our weaknesses and flaws. Sometimes injustice strikes harder than it should. Destiny is unkind. It tests you. Like you detest it. An ever-lasting power struggle. We don't necessarily win. But we simply can't give up. Mustn't. That would be against our nature, however ridiculously hard our battle seems. Despite the fears. We don't surrender. We don't die before we die and if we can help it. Unless, of course, we make a different choice. That might be fate, too, at least fatal. Closely connected. Constantly. The fight continues, with other contestants. At some melancholy moments, I think humanity is inhumane. I think we all got it wrong. We don't know our goals. We misunderstood the purpose, and we strive for a wrong cause. Later, I find that natural, also. It's too huge to be fully comprehended. One ought to ride along and forget about the design of the journey. One ought not to care so much. That's the hardest part of all. The thinking. The worrying about the worrying. The words. And the endings. The major difficulty; to come to an end. And be content, for a while, for some time, to see the light, the point, the outline. Or just don't give a damn. I finally made my choice.

What I believe. More of it. Like, not everyone should be writing books. Or rather, be allowed to publish their books. Supermodels, TV hosts, silly people (not necessarily a general definition concerning the former and previously mentioned), limelight dreamers, desperately desiring some attention, fallen stars and fading heroines. Oh no. Words are magical and should be employed accordingly. Words are too important to be wasted on scribblings by people to whom the words are merely tools for own profits. Increased credibility. Not any sense of poesy there; not any appropriate respect or appreciation. Humility; all it takes, a bit of humble appreciation. Would make the choices easier, too, less difficult to determine whose intentions are valid and whose are only profit-related. Determine who has a cause and who is a charlatan. Writing books is not supposed to be piece of cake and, sticking with the food metaphors, it certainly isn't just anyone's cup of tea. That is my (presumably) provocative statement. There should be guidelines, or certain demands, for when a writer is a public communicator and not a word wizard only. Maybe not even so, maybe just a user (or abuser) of the basic writing. Like I said, a tool. And it's terribly wrong. Requirements other than celebrity status (or whatever worse) should be put forward, motives other than the cold and money-related should be the basis for editors when they consider. This is not the case, of course, and might never be. We rely on businesses; everything and everyone can and must be sold. Be sellable. We must be able to promote ourselves and have something to offer, that yet others can promote when they stake their lots on us, when they make severe decisions or sacrifices on our behalf, that's what they claim, that's the reasons they give. I repeat. Something to offer. Something that fits with the trends and the tendencies. And - I heard them say I wasn't adaptable enough. Again. That I couldn't adjust myself properly. Work on my shortcomings and the lackings, that was all it'd take. Still, I defied their requests. I said I wasn't willing. Goddamnit, I complicate things, why couldn't I for once please them on their own terms? But - BUT! - I can't! Because I need to feel something, and I need to be content. I need to provoke something in me, and in the ones whom I address. I won't hand in pieces which are constructed according to the doctrines and precepts of these others, with whom I do not agree but to whose system I must (that is: should, but don't) consent. I won't do that to myself. Although, I'm not saying my critics were heavily mistaken - that their opinions shouldn't be heard. Nor am I saying that everyone can write. On the contrary, few people actually can. But the words of those who value words the most, and honestly claim to have a purpose with what they produce, should be taken into account. And furthermore considered; thoroughly. I always come back to this same argument, my most prominent, that differing thoughts and the art of deviating from others, not following in line like blindfolded cattle, but instead opposing the narrow-minded crowds, all this should be highly regarded. And thus, the writing of those who try to convey some sense and meaning through their very writing, not only through what they put down in words, should get the chance to appear in print, on paper. Similarly, their papers should be looked upon as meaningfull. Not better, not perfect, not worse, not imperfect. Just different. And valuable. There are voices out there who aren't heard when they ought to be. There are thoughts out there, significant thoughts, which are kept secret. Hidden from the world. All the while we rejoice in the choir of those who offer nothing; see-through, shimmering, self-centred, ignorant, indifferent letters of black on white and periods to symbolize a finishing. Dots. Numbers. Formulas. Bollocks. Why am I being slightly flippant? Because I am angry. And afraid. Simultaneously. People won't really have to think anymore, they can just agree! And next you know, we've lost. Complete agreement will be our last and most severe failure. Dissent is a nice quality. Yet, I'm not complaining of the existence of non-poetic 'stating the truth'. I'm rather complaining of its solitary existence. Words for meaning's sake only, to be accurate, can prove useful - but I'm complaining because it's all we seem to want. And everything else, everyone who dares bring up new ideas and solutions, are silenced. Undermined. Depreciated. Not given a chance. They're not the ones who write books these days. They're the voices whose message is dead. For which I am sorry. I am awfully sorry. On mine and their behalf. I do hope we are one, for it is their company I behold as the greatest. It is amongst them I yearn to exist, and it is their community of shared, new visions I yearn to take part in. Not as a pompous fool, but as a creator who can live in agreement with herself and not have to blame herself for inadaptability and stubborness. I want to be content! I'm tired of having to emphasize this everytime I encounter someone who is set to respond to my works! It's the same, old story. The followers of the flock come in a flock. They're overwhelming. And, I say once more, they are wrong. Fin.