Live to tell

CLARIFICATIONS. HUGE SPOILERS.
AND SOME ANGSTY RECOLLECTIONS.

First of all; with a humble nod to Master May, whose SoapBox had also been updated whilst I'd been away, and whose writings I still take great pleasure in perusing: "Oh God, I am getting Bloggy after all..." - as spoken by a brilliant philosopher of the strange things in life and, enough said, that was a quote too true for myself as well. And maybe a bit of explanation was required, seing that he started off that post with "I climbed a small mountain today." Brian surely knows how to put the facts down in words. I look forward to the lyrics on the new Queen-album. :) But apart from that, speaking of bloggy, I just read through my post from yesterday and must apologize to all those who hadn't seen the actual episode - for my lack of explanatory material and overuse of internal catchphrases and speculations. And possible spoilers. Remember, there is a constant spoiler-alert regarding my WHO-related posts. Suppose the actual point wasn't very easy for everyone to grasp either. But, in short, the Ep. was called "Last of the Time Lords", part of a threeparter hereafter referred to as the "could've been something-saga", and it depicted the final battle between the two remaining Gallifreyan Lords on earth, The Doctor and The Master, and saw a "new and braver" side to The Doc's sidekick Martha Jones ("I am such a smart and Doctor-equal girl, I kick so much ass and I try to look like John McClane"). Ok, I'm not objective and I'm a bit mean, and I swore not to be so emotional. Thus, here we go: The Master holds the world hostage and the Doctor has fallen captive to the vicious Lazarus-effect which has turned him into a spellbound, old man. All his 900 years brought physically into light. Icky. The Master sings a bit of Scissor Sisters, gets a massage, kills a lot of people, builds a lot of weapons with his alien tech. and conquers Cardiff, which is of course where it all takes place, laughs in his evilly manner, swings about like a maniac with the Doc well seated in a wheelchair, cuddles around with his Rani - sorry; wife - and all this time, Jack is locked up in a cellar with big chains to his wrists and feet. Kinky. Meaning every fangirl's dream. Drool and dream and all I could focus on. His dirty, hunky face and wicked grin. Not objective, there, again! Anyways, with a bit of glorifying hero worshipping, rushed storylines and moralistic babble plus some "28 days later"-zombiestuff and Star Wars-ripoff's, everything is solved, resolved and all the troubles thereafter sorted out. We even get a lot of hugging. In short; Martha eventually saves the day, The Master dies, The Doctor weeps - but he "will always be alright", even when Martha later deserts him in order to comfort her brokenhearted family and, well, tend to her own broken heart. Heroic, ethic, proper woman. "This is me getting out!" Very sad indeed. Conclusion is; Billie Piper can come back now. Catherine Tate is coming back (whey!) and Kylie Minogue will leave. John Barrowman might have to take care of Freema, as she is now bound, under contract, to enter onboard RTD's Torchwood-ship - whereas The Doc currently has two ships to handle, seeing that the original TARDIS just bumped into the other TITANIC. Painfully, and as previously mentioned. Freema might also come running back to the Doc in series four, but I might not be watching. Of course I will be, but I might close my eyes the very moment when she tries to snog him. Meh. "Doctor Who" remains the best sci-fi-drama TV-series ever made, and David Tennant is superb, when he's actually there. So, shouldn't have to say this, but: MORE DOCTOR - and less pompousness! Limit the ambitions and the CGI, and work on the dialogue and the plots. Put in some more funny aliens and beautiful sceneries. Versions of the brown suit and the accessories. Screwdrivers and gags. Bananas. Dancing. French mistresses and tourism. Norwegian beaches. Parallell universes that are once more united. Brilliant lines that'll make the shooting scripts worth reading again. Last, but most essentially; all fan(girl)s will know that we have yet to see the adventure Rose had with The Doc on the planet with the sea-birds and the sunset. So that's what we'll want next. Two lovebirds reuinted at the "stay with you forever"-place. Some flashbacks and hopes for the future. These are my ideas; and as a true fan and analyzer, I'd even go as far as to ay expert, of the show - always with an opinion; and concerning all the space I dedicate to thoughts and opinions here on this blog - my advice should be taken into consideration! ;)

NEW POETIC INSCRIPTIONS, AT LAST, INCLUDING SOME BLAHBLAHBLAH.

"In secrecy" - from a while ago
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et, keeper of the hidden shallows

secret places, could be
secret faces
secret sorrows kept inside
bringing me back up
as I head down,
reminding me,
whilst I keep spending
money and my time
alert, at once
but hiding from too much

MORSOMME TINGENE.
DVS.: JEG LÆRER AV BRIAN MAY OG BEGIR MEG UT I EN VERDEN AV BLOGGY TENDENSER.

Min studievenninne Grete og jeg har fått utvidet våre horisonter av selvinnsikt gjennom en internett-test som fortalte oss at rent personlighetsmessig likner vi på stasjonsvogner. Spørsmålene inkluderte blant annet yndlingsfarge, favorittfag på ungdomsskolen og hvorvidt man drømte om en villa med svømmebasseng. Jeg sier ikke mer.

Jeg traff verdens desidert barskeste turist på bussen i dag. Han snakket pent amerikansk, lignet litt på Daniel Craig, og enda mer på Steve McQueen, hadde noen grå hår og hettegenser og caprishorts og ansiktet hans så ut som det var skåret ut av stein. På en meget billedvakker måte. Mysende Clint Eastwood-øyne, meget markert hake, krum nese. Kortklipt sveis, veltrent, casual look, så lite forfengelig og så mandig som vel fysisk mulig. Skjeggstubber og smale lepper. Sjarmerende kroppsholdning, til og med. Fyren var så kjekk at jeg fikk pusteproblemer. Og høylytt hjertebank. Ooolala.

Wir Sind Helden er det desidert beste tyskspråklige rockebandet akkurat nå. De har også veldig fine og tankevekkende tekster som på en ubesværlig måte kan utvide ordforrådet til en deltids-tysktalende nordmann. (Veldig stor innsats her nå for ikke å komme med henvisninger til et annet tysk favorittband, Tokio Hotel, som driver og oversetter sangene sine til engelsk. Aargh!) Men jeg tror ikke jeg skal prøve meg på "Guten Tag" med det første. Rasende fort tempo, masse fremmedord, råhøyt stemmeleie? Nja. Men gruppen er da fantastisk og vokalisten er nydelig. Fine videoer har de også. Anbefales. Ellers, ang. Tyskland, må jeg bare si at Knut (isbjørn) er noe overvurdert som underholdningselement, i og med at alt han gjorde var å ligge og sove, men som kosedyr er han da ubetalelig herlig. Selv når han blir større. Og, eh, barskere. Synes bare han blir søtere, jeg. Og det var kult å endelig få sett ham i levende live! Dog må jeg innrømme at som dyreverner, dyreelsker og bjørnefanatiker egner jeg meg ikke helt for zoo-vandring. Holdt stadig vekk på å ringe både Amnesty og WWF og reportere dyremishandling. Ikke liker jeg apatiske geiter med kokainblikk som lar barn dra dem i hornene uten så mye som å blunke heller. Og ulver hører hjemme i den Canadiske villmarken, ikke bak høye gjerder med piggtråd i tyske varmegrader. Huff. Men for å oppleve ville dyr på nært hold var det en nødvendig og spennende tur. Selv om jeg var uvel i timesvis etterpå. Stakkars pandabamsen og neshornene som ikke ville se på turistene. Stakkars organgutangen som la et teppe over hodte og snudde seg demonstrativt mot veggen for å unngå blitzregnet. Paris og Britney forfulgt av paparazzier, my ass. De aner ikke hvor godt de har det. Og ved nærmere ettertanke hadde de passet vesentlig bedre i bur - kunne slått to fluer i én smekk også, ved at folk hadde villet betale enorme summer bare for å glo på dem, og man hadde hatt dem under full kontroll 24 timer i døgnet. All year all time-Big Brother, anyone? Med gitter? Paris tilbake i fengsel, og alle er glade. Kunne kanskje fått en banan eller tre i ny og ne, så ville hun sikkert blitt happy hun óg. Hva var vel livet uten bananer!

Apropos Tyskland. Og Berlin. Brandenburger Tor er akkurat så ruvende majestetisk og imponerende som bilder og bøker tilsier. Favoritt-severdighet! Den er råstilig, og hestene på toppen minner meg om de fra den statuen Pierce Brosnan river ned i "GoldenEye", når han kjører tanks gjennom en russisk storby i Tidenes Beste Bondfilm-scene. Hoohey. Jeg ler like mye hver gang og jeg har sett den scenen en del ganger. Men jeg som da aldri pleier å være veldig fascinert av landemerker og bygninger - jeg ble helt bergtatt av den porten. Vanvittig byggverk, og skikkelig fint utformet. Ellers var Berliner Dom, riksdagsbygningen og rådhuset også verdt en titt. Fernsehturm var praktisk, for da fikk man sett ALT. På én gang. Litt dyrt, men man fikk da rikt utbytte for pengene. Kunne se nesten helt til verdens ende, hoho. Hvor vi alle vet at der ligger en diger foss. Med Johnny Depp plaskende rundt et sted under den. Ja, nemlig.

Much too much to declare

Customary customs amongst little shop of who-horrors and more. Who-hey the world goes on!

Bombs in London, William and Kate back together, Nicole Richie pregnant, Posh Spice has got Ginger Spice (and the rest of them) on a diet, and has had all of them beg for forgiveness (well, at least Ginger) and they're ready to get on tour, miming, and Natasha Bedingfield hardly shows respect for the departed by honouring Diana without bringing any panties, whereas our favourite polar star Knut is growing up into a big bear to burden, or maybe it was the other way around, and what more - a small summary, starting with the most important, and which I guess should include more exclamation marks, would go like this:

[Image: looks like someone's having fun! Copyright: The BBC, all rights served, ownership, Cardiff-shop, doctor-doctrine-classify, etc.]

Russel T. Davies is now officially proclaimed mad. Looney, balooney, bollocks. Completely, truly and utterly. Mostly because his Star Wars-hommage-fanaticism (Jedi-telepathy-grabbing, spheres and flying scotsmen, in one episode - my god!) has been taken just one step too far. When they started burning up John Simm, I was indeed hiding behind the sofa - out of shame. Cos it was simply quite lame. The Episode (with a capital E, yes) was tentatively grandeur but it did feel like something a little unaccomplished. They tried to take it all the way but got a little lost at reading directions. Doctor Who is camp and kitsch and humourous. Check. Doctor Who is wild and beyond and bigger than big and outside the scale. Check. But the nice mixtures of these elements that we saw so brilliantly portrayed in "Doomsday" and especially in the Bad Wolf-episodes were absent. Too self-conscious and serious and pompous, yes, and too overdone. Too much, too fast, too extensive. WHO is a bit domestic, and should remain so. Not go global and even universal and try to exceep what hasn't yet been exceeded. It's not that big, after all. It's not ridiculously dark. And what's with all the flashbacks? And the Gollum-shit? The stealing from other concepts was plain gross! "Gandalf?!" There were these moments when I did not know whether to laugh or cry or both or just turn the whole thing off. I love Scissor Sisters, I do. And it was funny. But also very wrong. "I can't decide" does have lyrics which are absurdly fitting, and John Simm is marvellous, but still. I couldn't bear it. Intensely hilarious, but appallingly inappropriate. Anticlimax, oh boy. Roller-coaster ride, as was announced, but too too too far. Especially since this Last Affair seemed so unfinished. It just ended. Finito. Some quick-step explanations and a short cut (very conventient teleports). Back to the old who-riddles and carelessness. No fob watch and burning up stars or satelites. Back and forth and undecided -confusing? Hell, yeah! Who'd have thought it'd be so...undramatic. The building-up, the drums, everything. And then - poff. The Master giving a last (and deliciously evil) laugh in the arms of Doctor Ten(nant) whilst the latter sheds a few (superbly) justified tears. I loved that part - which makes me even sadder that it started so poorly and got so rubbish afterwards. I mean, Martha Jones couldn't save the world even if she tried! And she certainly couldn't save this ep.! I think she did try, actually. But her character couldn't live up to the scheme and perspective of the story - nor could anybody else, not even D.T., particularly not when computer animated - for this was far too ambitious. Think that's the right word. Religious-like elements of legend (ugh!) that worked fine with the Rose as the Time Goddess, but not with a bunch of wannabe-cop show heroes. RTD wanted to overdo himself and everybody else and the Universe of TV-series making, but they should probably have provided him with more time and more consultation and less financing. And Steven Moffat. I feel like I've been cheated. A cheap trick. Something that could've been so much more and so much better. The potencial was huge! But despite outer worldly cinematography and statues RTD must have personally borrowed from Michael Jackson and a couple of nice lines; it all came down to a overly sentimental, almost pathetic conclusion. Everybody say "Doctor!" Think out LOUD! Even the final goodbye-scene didn't please me, although I should admit I am pleased to be "rid" of Martha. Finally. Yes, true, Martha is leaving! With a soap opera-speech of an outburst about unrequited crushes. Bit of Pirates, there. Keira and Freema - on deck. Girl power and trying to be somebody. Good grief. Er, good riddance, more likely. The looks, everyone, did the viewers catch the glances between the Doc and his companion, properly, did everyone see the tension? Feeeeel the tremor and epic production and heart-breaking choices, struggles, NO! Bah. Second, there was the mother and the family issues and the "you're better than him"-comment which I won't degrade myself to, well, commenting. Still, we've heard the aspiring medical student (and her mom) might be returning to her unwilling boytoy pretty soon. Or work for Captain Jack Harkness (the lovely) at Torchwood. First of all, though, she's been replaced by who else but Kylie Minogue. Can't get this into my head. Miss Tiny-Aussie is currently in Cardiff where filming has begun for the Christmas Special in which Titanic (yes, the ship) will and has in fact already (at the very end of the finale, of course) crashed into the TARDIS. I did enjoy that, but I was naturally disappointed by the fact that Leo DiCaprio didn't show up, nor did his missus. Or Catherine Tate. Where have all the fancy flowers gone? Later, however, rumours have it that Jennifer Ellison (who starred as Meg Giry in Phantom, tralala, angels of music and tutu skirts) may be up for a part as a sidekick. The Rani might be back too (love the nail polish!) and yes, did I mention, Jack Harkness is The Face of Boe. He's quite handsome too. And quite fabulous. Wouldn't mind having him tied up in my cellar, haha. Bit of a pity he was barely there, then. Along with the tension, which came and went. Randomly. All accidental. I heard some fans say RTD seemed to have just scraped together a couple of clues and made an empty bowl of spoilt resources out of it. Too true.

Consequently, we've had our first three-parter and it was only partially successful. Regardless, I spent a whole evening contemplating and examining and considering and re-considering - which makes me just as much of a fanatic as RTD himself. I do love it, too, nothing gets me more excited, enthusiastic and harshly critical. Very tired now, though, and still haven't fully grasped that the season is over - seriously! no more WHO in quite a while! (on TV, that is, we've always got a blog to remember) - and that, well, Rose might return now that Martha (and hopefully Minogue, never too soon) are gone and over with. Maybe Rose can turn out to hold enough Vortex-power to regenerate as Mrs. Rani? Let's cross our Gallifreyan-ringed fingers (coolest décor symbols!) and hope and DREAM. Tomorrow I might also reflect upon different aspects of life!

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.

Some poetry-thoughts!

"Enthusiastic..." - to the point of desperate apathetic wriggles!

By Scaramouche, the po(t)et, who finds herself drawn between everything, nothing and the void and lots of books that aren't so interesting anymore...!

I give myself up, quite easily
to the thoughts that once were mine
And notes I made, so thoroughly,
completed visions, summarized, these dots;
I revel in simplicity, unshaken facts
of leisure and some well-spared time, I spent,
And dream of carousels, the trips I didn't make
exuberantly insisting upon my pious hopes,
I peeked between the lines, walked across a title
never would I care if all your sentiments were fake
Electric, eclectic, pray not enjoy to spite,
I was objective as long as I could and tried
The best were left out, anyhow, hardly considered
darkling, darling, may not convey the mite
I'm sorry, so sorry, for these works of art
the conceit, the imposture, the fallen madames
I used to believe in single truths, now I'm confused;
in so deep, I can't get back up to the single-minded
corners multiply in the dust of the dumbfounding
left me shocked and shocked utterly, now recollecting;
like I fear the inability to speak, or a curb put on
my enthusiasm, overly convincing gestures, surrounding
where I got started, metaphorically, I still ended up here
the whole is too wide, must I then settle with a clue
generally imploring me, impressions and sessions
I loved some, and loathe some, and others; were forced through
there's fiction and faction, and lots of contractions
the essence's essential with the cats off the table!
whatever's significant, the more I can or cannot see
weightless as a child, but with muscles on my mental frame
indicating demarcation comes not easily, yet I read to discover,

for with dicoveries come immeasurable pleasure and
with pleasure comes the sweeter escapes and tunes
of my sympathetic enthusiasm blues

THE REGULAR UPDATE

...ON PEOPLE AND STUFF SCARA LIKES!
Madness! Sparta-man! Sequels! Something on a Doctor we know!

ALRIGHTY! It is official! Mr Andrew Lloyd Webber has gone mental! Insane! Looney-wooney-swooney! Explanations? Well; during my daily reading (skim-through) of the British tabloids, I came across this interesting piece of garbage (hopefully) which definately proves it! How can he do this to us fans? We stand by him pretty faithfully, for Heaven's sake, and this is how he thanks us? First the Beyoncé-scandal at the Oscars (haven't forgiven either of them yet) and now...

Hang on! Does this actually mean that he intend to place Gerry and Emmy in New York and let him suffer all that makeup and shit all over again? Does this mean he intends to spend impossible, unheard-of sums of money from his own account to make an equal epic? Does this mean Gerry may reprise his role and flop?! It's SO not worth it! It's going to be a disaster! You don't write a sequel to the best musical-film ever with the best, most subtle, most frustrating, most heart-breaking ending EVER! I won't cry my heart out in a cinema again, not over such an obvious attempt of easy moneymaking! Reasons? Well. No-one listens to us phan-gals and we're the only ones who know how the story could be continued. They won't make that version anyway. And there were no "to be continued"-warnings at the end of the PotO-credits and we wouldn't like any. That's why we wrote all the fanfics. Second: Gerry probably won't do a reprised Phantom, regardless, and you don't replace Gerry. Third: it's going to be more than a disaster, it's going to be ridiculous, and nothing can match up to the original - especially not a Forsythe-thriller with new music. God, I'm actually scared now. We wanted a different ending, of course we did, not because the one we got was bad, but because we felt sorry for our beloved Phantom and we would NOT want anything similar to anything these two crazy old men could ever cook up! Christine with children, happily married, screwing up the entire PotO-sepia-storyframe and context? Oh no, the sequel-problem! I can't bear the thought. I'd want to write, direct, produce and provide the music myself, if they ever make another Phantom-film, or else I KNOW I'll be davastedly disappointed!! Plus, we all remember the Leroux-novel. And that's a bit of a problem. The novel was utterly brilliant and they deviated enough from that story as it was, in the first place. And last but not least, there can be only one Gerry as the Phantom - really! - and the magic only happened once. Take notice. Beware! And love the one and only, like I said! ;)

**
And a p.s.: which is yet another thought - perhaps the reason why I didn't react to the John Smith + Joan-affair was that it prevented Martha from getting more intimate with the Doctor, and I was indeed very joyous about her not getting any response from the Doc, since any chance of seeing Martha Jones a tad jealous is pretty welcome as far as I'm concerned! And the Doctor in a different role - new dimensions to his character - is a sensible way of developing the show. We need more turnabouts and variation. He's no uncomplicated man to be around, and his companions need to feel the heat. Moreover moreover, Martha has become victim to unreciprocated love, and since the overly enthusiastic Whovian Scaramouche is a passionate supporter of Billie Piper's imminent return, that is a great advantage, for we might have seen some predictions of the possibility that this might happen last weekend - a glimmer of hope! - and thus; knowing that when the Doctor dreams, he dreams of Rose! is always a nice piece of knowledge to hold for fans in depair. Yes, it is a fact; I am rather too fond of my Doctors, but don't you dare tease me about it. You may instead quote Pierce Brosnan infamous, ingenious phrase from "The world is not enough" - "Oh, I don't know any Doctor-jokes!"

Doctor WOW!!

[Picture: Billie Piper's back on Doctor Who - as a character in the Doc's journal! How unbearably (bitter-)sweet!]

...first; pardon my inconsistent babble, but I am now completely taken aback after having watched this week's Doctor Who-episode, which was in a word extraordinary! So...different, and original; shocking (Doctor snogging someone that is neither Rose nor Martha, and we can accept it?!...gosh) and funny, yet absolutely gripping; entertaining, scary, silly, magnificent! I must confess, I had almost given up on the whole series after 4 very poor episodes in a row, worst occurence of writing-trouble since the 70's, including the wobbly sets, and last week's massive blunder in particular - the previously mentioned, aggrievating Impossible Planet-spoof that was "42". It almost made me as angry as "Love and Monsters", and that's saying a little - especially because the Impossible Planet and its second half, the Satan Pit, were two of my favourite Ten/Rose-episodes with my definitive favourite Ten/Rose-moments...*sob*...of well. But then, yesterday they chose to give us this amazing treat - episode 8, "Human nature", beautiful storyline, Martha showing off some skills, AND a long-awaited new Rose-reference. A pretty sweet one, too. [See picture above.] Guess who was just in tears; frantically rewinding the clip, repeating it over and over again, and basically...sniffing and smiling over a simple drawing of a severely missed time travelling shop girl. The only companion worthy of a special mentioning - yess! - and next, the look on Martha's face as the Doctor spoke of Rose...precious...Go Billie! but look what you're doing to me! The episode, as a whole, left me with an almost new-found love for this Season of Doctor Who; the numerous flashbacks, these paintings - recollecting old episodes, brilliant! - Murray Gold's superb music (love that man), these prophecies, the sadness, the whole...philosophy; Time Lords and Gallifrey (he said it! again!) and mystery and Time Travel and nicey clockwork, nicey symbols, even Paul McGann (!!!) was in it, and everything else that we (I) adore...Man, what a start of the day. (Ok, I didn't watch it on TV. I don't have any bleeding access. Frustrating. And suspicious...? Njeee....) Did I mention it was beautiful? And Jessica Stevenson, too, what a woman. She can act! Her, and that darling boy from Love Actually; Thomas Sangster, Liam Neeson's "son" - who gets to play a hero. Whoo-ray! A bit far out, perhaps, to be so emotionally atatched to a television show. But that's what WHO is for, getting us all engaged and jumping. Back behind the sofa! - and back to the old traditions and qualities. That's my favourite show - that's more like it, yeah! ;) Good work, Paul Cornell... And David Tennant - never thought I'd say this, again - luvya, Doc!

OK, calm and collected, let's be more sensible. Here's a very sense...full summary of the plot. Well, almost. It does have some personal comments.

The episode as such is about The Doctor's attempt to escape from the villaneous Family of Blood through taking on a human form - literally becoming human; removing one of his two hearts and worse - with Martha bound to improvise her way through working as his maid. Of course, being Tennant's servant isn't a walk in the park - after all, he can be pretty rude and unpredictable; difficult to handle the sudden ideas that man might come up with. Like falling in love with a human, more specifically a school nurse. Soon, problems abound, and the future of the future is at stake. Martha is watching from the side in desapir as The Doctor becomes school teacher John Smith and blacks out his memory, in a very painfull process that must have been incredibly frightening to watch for small children; parents, hereafter beware! Consequently, the Doctor's true identity only features in his dreams - which he, again, cannot really comprehend as a convincing, unsuspecting John Smith. He is a "normal guy", leading a perfectly average life in the English country side, except terror is lurking - in the shape of this horrid family of THREAT! - and Martha is now the only one left to save the world, by reminding Mr. Smith of who he actually is and having him return to his old self. Her only asset is a list of instructions from the Doc, and the TARDIS, which both prove somewhat insufficient. For what are the consequences to such decisions, made by a man like him, due to trying to save himself and his friend - won't there always be some traces in the wake of a human life, some loose ends left to be tied up? Things get awfully complicated as the Doc gets much more than he bargained for, and the human mind takes some new turns of its own - which neither of the two travellers had predicted... And the creepy family discovers who he is, then aim for the core of his human emotions; the two women he is supposed to protect from all harm. I look forward to the newxt episode - with nail-biting eagerness - and rejoice in the restoration of great cliffhangers to the greatest sci-fi show on earth. And now, we'll be pleased to see Captain Jack reappear - cos he's got promising prospects! Whoooohooo!

And by the by-way; went to bed rather early last night, and naturally I then couldn't sleep, so I turned on the TV and what did I see? Well, David Tennant! As "Casanova"! So, for once, I'll actually thank Norwegian TV-channels for their crazy conclusion that broadcasting the créme de la créme of BBC-programmes is best done in the late hours of the night. Thus, the bored and not-tired-enough Scara can waste some time in bed watching Tennant making a charmeur out of his clumsy self in RTD's writing, together with the entire Who-cast, to the tunes of Murray Gold, isn't it just wonderful, and in addition - with wide-screen quality! Unlike my first viewing of this series, which was on blurry youtube...!

And a P.S. - which is just a thought...showing the Doctor getting married and having babies; isn't that kind of controversial, in a Doctor Who-context? Considering the show's history of the Time Lord's being almost asexual? Seems he's been falling in love quite often during these "new series", and it has never been taken further than in yesterday's adventure. On the other hand, come to think about it, Susan was a close relative, Romana was (presumably) his girlfriend, there was the offspring-remark in "Fear Her", et cetera, and - the classic story of Madame the Pompadour... Oh, but I can't say anything about her without making witty remarks at the expense of one Sophia Myles, so I'd rather drop it...hoho...talking about mixing business with pleasure...okey, that's enough, anyway! Rose was of course the Love of his Life and Martha's a flirtatious little Devil he apparently can't reject, so why can't his human version fall for a lovable, middle-aged earthling named Joan? Hmmm... Still, I won't be surprised if it causes some voices to cry in upset, for it IS a bit of a radical twist. Funny thing is, I like it - despite being a Rose+Ten-shipper who'll hate anyone daring enough to challenge that relationship. Maybe it's because I was so blinded by the Rose-reference, I didn't really notice what came after that. Or maybe I simply realized that this teacher man is NOT the Doctor, he is John Smith, and however much he dates and dances and doodles around, it's all on false premises and he won't remember shite afterwards. Poor man, it isn't easy being a hero. And poor Joan, for that matter, I wonder how this can possibly end. NOT very happily, I guess. "They always survive, while I lose everything" - too true - cos any relationship he enters into seems to be doomed. After all, the Doctor only has one constant companion, and that is Death. (Quotes 3.4 and 1.1) Aaaargh, another soppy finalé! Can't be healthy...and who am I to be wanting Rose back, I'd be crying even more! Torture...self-inflicted...and I do enjoy it!

The Killer Queen Zone

2007. An important year.

...for, I've been a Queen-fan for 10 years. (Since the release of Queen Rocks in 1997). From the moment those drums started playing, I was sold. Lost. Stuck. And I didn't want to be anywhere else, with anyone different. Queen will naturally continue to be my favourite band for 10, 100, 10000 years to come. However long I may live, I'll keep them with me 'till I'm dead, and later - if I come to Heaven or wherever I end up - I'll definately be humming the songs there, as well, and maybe I've got some deceased heroes to sing along with me then? Freddie + Scara in a duet? That's be wicked! Moreover, I've been a fan of the song "Lemon Tree" for 10 years - at least, or is it even more? I can't recall, but it's been a while, and I still call it one of my absolute favourite songs of all time. And the other way around; it's been ten years since Gedeon Burkard dived into that lake and made his famous Kommissar Rex-entrance and made me an extremely devoted fan, slightly in despair that the whole affection has never lead to anything. In fact, that man got me started with my German courses 'cause I wanted to be able to speak with him in German when we met. And I wanted to understand what he was saying when he proposed. Oh, hell, I was nine and charmingly naïve. And indeed, it's his doing that I speak German today. Gedeon's to blame, hoho. The same thing goes for Brian May and Gerry, but that's quite another story. More on the anniversaries of this year; I've been reading Donald Duck and other Disney-comics for 10 years; I bought my first magazine at this time of the year back in '97. For this same period of time I've also managed to maintain my love for footballer Tore André Flo and the team he once played for, Bergen football club n. Similarly, over these years, my hatred for Spice Girls has only grown. I love our Doctor no. 10 (but despise Martha), though speaking of Queen - their tenth album sucks. Lol. But how could the "Flash Gordon"-soundtrack possibly be a success, considering the film for which it was written? Talking about lame source of inspiration. Fortunately, they gained knowledge, and made "A kind of magic" for Highlander, which is one of the best soundtracks ever written, and one of their best albums. Hooray. AND!! - last but not least, speaking of ten's: this June - a few days from now - marks the 10th month for me as an official Blogger! And much more importantly:

This is my 200th Blog Entry.

WOOOOHOOOO, CHAMPAGNE AND BALLOONS AND LOADS OF OTHER VIRTUAL STUFF TO CELEBRATE!!!

...and unfathomable as it may seem, it is indeed a fact. I've been on blogger since september 2006 and I've written 200 bloody posts. That's a wee bit amazing, isn't it? I've thorougly enjoyed this, and it really is a great place for sharing one's thoughts and ideas and - well - poetry. Much better than Facebook, lol. I've added a copyright-sign into the bargain too, now. Have a look, it's so cute! Up there, below the title. Very...professional. And for the first time ever, I thought I'd allow myself to be incredibly selfish and spend this entire post talking about myself only, without any sense of acting reflective or ironic or philsophic. Just brag and chat and talk nonsense - about me; that's one way of rewarding onself for the acheievement that is being a frequent, mass-producing blogger. Plus po(t)et. Sitting here, listening to Supetramp and Pink Floyd, the sun managing to slip a few of its half-warming beams through an opening between my two curtains, the room smells of BBQ spices and old coffee, I'm drinking fresh, cold water and I'm in serious want of some (more) chocolate. Everything's normal. Everything's as it usually is. Except, this shall be my first honest introduction concerning who I am and what I'm really like - and nothing else. No jokes, no rhymes. Or, maybe a few, but surely not on purpose. I'll let the subconscious take care of that part. And now, what do you remember about Scara? Say, you know my opinions, you know my political and religious views, you know I study English you know I'm mad about Gerard Butler. You know I adore Doctor Who and especially Series One. You know I hate ignorant critics and know-it-all's. Besserwisser. You know I prefer summer to winter, by miles, and that I eat too much sugary thingies. That I spend all my money on comic books, cinema tickets, CD's (I DO NOT DOWNLOAD! AT ALL!) and pocket books. And cookies and chocolates. You know I'm very absent-minded and easily distracted, that I loathe sociolinguistics, but love the literature-part of my studies. You know who I am. Kind of. I'm Scara, and it might not be my real name, and this might not have told you everything you'd like to know - but still, it's a start. I'll keep it going for a few posts to come, I guess. I've yet a little left to say. A lot, actually. Hope you'll still be with me then, as the journey goes on. And as for me? Well. You can call me Scaramouche. So long, and many happy returns.

Overdreven tilgjengelighet

Vi er blitt så tilgjengelige at vi gjør oss selv utilnærmelige.

Etter lang tids masing fra diverse nære og mindre nære venner, påminnelser og invitasjoner per email og ørten relevante, rosende avisartikler ga jeg til slutt etter. Så nå er Scaramouche medlem av det beryktede Facebook-samfunnet; nok et tilskudd til en voksende sfære av veldig tilgjengelige mennesker som eksisterer i alle nettets kommunikasjonskanaler. Og jeg blir litt skremt av alt sammen, alt oppstyret. Men skal man kunne promotere seg selv - eller overhodet gjøre seg bemerket i dagens overopphetede, stadig skiftende statussamfunn - gjelder det å vite hvilke trender man skal henge seg på. Jeg lot meg friste; svak for profiloppdateringer som jeg er. Ingenting er mer moro enn å lage lister over egne favorittfilmer og deretter studere andres! Sammenligne interesser og finne likesinnede og finne ut at man ikke er så snål likevel. Det er en risiko her, også, for på et vis er det ikke til å unngå at man forsvinner i mengden. Man blir et nummer, et tilfeldig valgt navn; det tydeliggjør hvor stor, mangfoldig, verden har blitt. Hvor mange vi er og hvor liten forskjell det gjør, fra eller til, om en av oss blir borte. Bare et nummer mindre. En interessegruppe mister én enkelt bidragsyter, men flere vil straks komme til. Der finnes utallige mennesker der ute som kan erstatte meg, og der finnes like mange som kan utkonkurrere meg - bare en runde med filosofering, dog en smule foruroligende.

Og enda har vi dette behovet for å skape nye kontakter, etablere bånd til våre medjordboere, ikke stå alene uten noe å holde fast på. Eller holde fast i. Vi er livredde for at andre ikke skal akseptere oss, bokstavelig talt, for at de skal avvise oss, ikke vedkjenne seg at vi er der, ikke kunne redde oss. Hvor mange av mine facebook-kontakter vil jeg kunne si at jeg kjenner skikkelig godt? Hva slags forhold pleier man på det sted som dét? Man kaller seg jo venner, men kan jeg stole på dem slik jeg burde kunne, om vennskapsforholdet vårt var reelt? Begrepet venn er i stadig endring. Kontakt egner seg forsåvidt bedre og bedre. Vi bygger opp nettverkene, og mister vennene. Før byttet man visittkort, nå utveksler man facebook-profiler. Og man kaller hverandre "friends", men det er neppe noe nært og personlig over det. Verden blir tettere, og samtidig kaldere. Jo nærmere vi kommer hverandre, jo lengre blir avstanden mellom oss. Jeg synes det er kjempetrivelig å få en oppdatering på hvor gamle klassekamerater og studievenninner befinner seg og hva de bedriver - om de forlover seg eller skiller seg eller føder barn eller slår gjennom som kjendiser - men jeg vet jeg ikke kan stille krav og forvente noen fornyede forpliktelser fra deres side. Ei heller forventer de slikt fra meg. Vi opererer med en falsk trygghet av innbilte sikkerhetsnett som ryker i alle tråder og forgreininger og knutepunkter om man lander forkjært. Ingen løfter.

Vi trenger at omverdenen har øynene rettet mot oss; at de vet at vi er der, at vi gjør oss bemerket, men hva er det egentlig vi lar dem se? Selvsagt er vi oppriktige, hjertelige, i våre fremstøt. Vår søkende virksomhet. Og vi lykkes! Men vi mister noe av grunnlaget for dette å være skikkelig vennskapelige; når metodene forandrer seg, vil resultatene bli deretter. Man tenker i andre baner og stiller faktisk andre krav. Å skille seg ut er ikke ensbetydende med å være annerledes og interessant. Å skille seg ut i dag vil si å ha flest samtalepartnere på msn & skype, å frekventere på de riktige festene, å representere alle andre ved å være akkurat som dem, men likevel vekke ekstra oppsikt. Jeg er medlem alle disse stedene, fordi jeg har innsett at man ikke kan sabotere "fremgangen" og fullstendig isolere seg fra det som er på dagsordenen, i skuddet - for man kan ikke stille seg kritisk til noe man ikke vet hva går ut på, og man kan ikke hevde sin rett i diskusjoner omkring ting man aldri har prøvd ut. Omtrent det samme med folk som erklærer at de ikke kan fatte hvordan røykere kan sutte på disse ille-smakende kreftpinnene sine, uten noensinne å ha tatt et drag av en sigarett. Mediebildet bestemmer, hvilket man må finne seg i, og for å være berettiget til å lufte egne meninger, må man følge med så man har noe forstandig å ytre. Enkelt og greit.

Det vanskelige med de moderne kanalene er å trekke grenselinjene og vite hvor man ikke skal trå, før man begår feil, vær-varsom-plakater an mass, vi er så veldig sårbare og derfor beskytter vi oss, vi deler desto mindre med desto flere; snart kan vi ende opp med ingenting av noen av delene. Hvis vi ikke passer oss. Hvis vi viser oss å være for ensidige. Av disse årsaker skal man da også dyrke de vennene man har; de helt spesielle vennene som ringer deg åtte ganger iløpet av den dagen du ligger til sengs med førti i feber og trøster deg når du gråter av banale
"uviktigheter" og sender kort på en tilfeldig mandag bare fordi de tilfeldigvis kom til å tenke på deg. Og mest av alt skal man stole på egne verdier og egen selvstendighet og ikke la seg lede til å tro at økt tilgjengelighet medfører økt fortrolighet. Det var dagens moralpreken. Facebook dreier seg om overfladisk omtenksomhet og oppmerksomhet. Bekjentskaper. Trivelige, på deres egne begrensede prinsipper. Men alt i alt er vi fremdeles en gruppe fremmede som ikke riktig finner frem.

Tente lys

Jeg elsker tegneserier. Jeg lever i en tegneserieverden av dertilhørende blader og bøker og mangainspirert klesstil. Og jeg benytter meg av tegneseriebegreper og elementer. Som for eksempel tente lyspærer over hodet. Den gimmicken fikk en meget bokstavelig betydning i dag, da jeg klarte det kunststykke å rive ned lyskuppelen min på badet og nesten fikk den i hodet, for deretter å ende opp med et stykk supersterk lyspære dinglende i en ledning over meg mens jeg sopte opp en milliard glasskår fra badegulvet. Jippi. Klønemor deluxe og veldig typisk meg, i grunn, har en tendens til å miste og knuse ting. Spesielt nå for tiden, etter antall hyppige uhell å dømme. Har ikke tall på alle de kopper (en av mine favoritt-kaffekopper fikk en diger sprekk senest i går, etter et noe uheldig, flyvende møte med oppvaskkummen) og tallerkener (mandag:oppvaskstativet veltet, tallerkenen rett i benken og i tusen knas) og glass (klarte til og med å ødelegge min tantes rødvinsglass!) som har måttet bøte med bruksgjenstand-livet etter å ha tilbragt kort tid i min besittelse. Er nok dessuten litt stresset og skjelven for tiden, og da er det lett å forkludre de enkleste gjøremål. Som for eksempel å vaske opp en kaffekopp. Og vrir man og vender man på dette slik at det får en mer, vel, abstrakt mening kan man jo anta at jeg viser frem mine mer skjøre sider på en meget destruktiv og, eh, forsikringsmessig avskrekkende måte - eller at jeg knuser lampekupler for å få direkte kontakt med lyspæren og se lyset enda klarere...slik at tegneseriekonseptet kommer bedre til sin rett og jeg får nye og mer skinnende idéer. Noe i den duren. Man kan tolke og tolke, men blir ikke dermed en tolk - nødvendigvis. Det som bør poengteres er den sinnsykt kjekke vaktmesteren som kom opp for å fikse kuppelen og forære meg et par nye lyspærer - jeg er heldig med det der, stor sett - og det praktiske i at han kunne fikse min langvarige lysmangel ute i entréen i samme slengen. Og apropos fiks: jeg fikk mer eller mindre hakeslepp da jeg satt og så på Doctor House i går og denne replikkvekslingen oppstod:

House: [til en liten gutt som er broren til en pasient han behandler] Can I be your imaginary friend?
Chase: [til gutten og pasienten] Eh...he's the Doctor...

Vet ikke om det var mer overlegg, om det var en hyllest, en indirekte referanse, eller hva det nå var. Men moro? Oh yes! Spesielt fordi man kan dra det litt lenger og koble det hele til Chris Ecclestons rolle i "Heroes" der han spiller den Usynlige Mannen, og lett kan virke som en "Imaginary Friend" for den unge Peter Petrelli. Og fordi det generelt er festlig å høre folk si om noen at de er "The Doctor". Og fordi jeg helt generelt sett har fått et ganske anstrengt og plagsomt fnisete forhold til å lese og høre om Doctor'er, i alle sammenhenger. Nok et distraksjonsmoment.

Cramps & Craig

TRALALA: Noe for å feire en vel overstått styrkeprøve! Noe for å virke litt metaforisk og øve inn lyrikk! Noe for å illsutrere noe konkret med noe aldeles søkt-abstrakt-søkende!

"Nerves"
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et, an attempt of self-conviction

like, when the storm is over
and the sirens sing no more
sun breaking through the skies
and may the clouds drift away
at least; tried as hard as I could
barely, but surely, I'll embrace the day
and I'll call it off, this search,
it might soon seem complete
my mornings came and went
the moon revealed its bracelet
a bow regarding those who'd know
and write off all that wasn't asked
to be tagged along or stride
on top of, then descending stairs
outward, then a backward sight
a momentary peace, establishment
just too soon take leave, dissolves
one must not let a stream grab hold
and never ever questions misinterpret
you'll face results, and later, you'll
move in different, distant, dim directions
this was gone when it was done

**

[bilde: kjekk pianomann med glimt i øyet! se siste avsnitt!]

SLADDER: Flere intelligente utsagn fra Mister Craig the Clown aka James Blond! Jeg kunne laget en egen spalte, for ikke å si en egen blogg, dedikert til alle disse fantastiske ytringene den mannen leverer fra seg. Sist, da han fikk spørsmål om hvordan han ville beskrive sin rollefigur i "The Golden Compass" (jepp, den er basert på boken til Philip Pullman!) klarte han å svare følgende, på spørsmål om hvorvidt karakteren han spiller er ond eller god: "Si heller kompleks. Som alltid!". (Kilde: VG Nett) Mann med god selvtillit. Pent ytre. Strålende barsk spillestil. Og korttenkt, grusomt snever hjernekapasitet. Ellers må det sies om denne filmen at innspillings-locationene avviker noe fra stedene i bokens handling; Craig the Clown turde nemlig heller ikke dra til Svalbard fordi han kunne fryse på tærne og var redd for å møte en isbjørn. Regissøren også. Derfor ble enkelte scenene som skal skildre norsk natur filmet for seg, i Norge, uten skuespillere til stede - for senere å legges til digitalt, som bakgrunnskulisser - og selve produksjonen med cast & crew forflyttet man til eksklusive, og mer kultiverte Sveitsiske alper. De serverer sikkert whiskey med kjøleskapsis der. Nuvel, jeg gleder meg til å se filmen, selv om Craig er og blir en klovn. End of story!

Andre og ikke fullt så aggressive skriblerier om lettere emner: Jeg har funnet ut at jeg liker den nye sangen til Rihanna - "Umbrella" - særdeles godt. I det minste har den satt seg fast på hjernen. Tar man vekk den utrolig teite "respect!"-åpningen med Jay-Z er den ganske lekker, i grunn. Pluss at hun har noen skikkelig tøffe dance-moves i videoen; Gene Kelly, go home! Her er en dame som kan svinse rundt med paraplyer. Men jeg tror ikke helt på at hun utførte de ballerina-trinnene selv. Også irriterer det meg at de damene i den bransjen alltid må kle av seg for å få oppmerksomhet. Det som er mest sjokkerende i musikkbransjen nå er babes som skjuler "fordelene sine" for omverdenen. Og, nei, jeg er som kjent ingen stor tilhenger av R'n'B, nyere hiphop og lignende (dog innmari glad i grafitti!) generelt, men akkurat den sangen kan jeg altså digge. Dessuten er ikke Rihanna den verste utøveren innen denne sjangeren, må sies, hun har en særegen stemme. Hun var imponerende flink på Nobelkonserten, og egner seg med et symfoniorkester i ryggen. Det er den standard, glossy produksjonen som skranter litt. Men på tross av at det kanskje er littegrann patetisk, så er kombinasjonen av cello-backing og flosshatter overmåte nok for å få meg til å like både melodien og sangeren som fremfører den. Mer skal altså ikke til.

Det er meg videre en glede å meddele at jadda, Angelina Jolie er på plass i Cannes for å promotere sin nye film om enken etter journalisten Daniel Pearl, som Brad Pitt har produsert, og de var begge tilstede med barn og baluba og hele bruduljen - og det var også en viss Dan Futterman som spiller Daniel Pearl og som ble avfotografert sammen med Angelina, smilende og stolt. For de av oss som fremdeles husker Judging Amy: det er Vincent!!! J.A. var og er min absolutte favorittserie blant de amerikanske hverdagssåpene og jeg fikk med meg hver eneste episode av samtlige, seks sesonger. Det er derfor utrolig hyggelig å se at talentfulle og überkjekke Futterman endelig har tatt steget opp blant de største og mektigste i Hollywood - med litt hjelp fra Brangelina (Veldedighet-på-bestilling-inklusive-Adopsjonsbyrå). J.A. var full av kjekke og sjarmerende menn; jeg bare nevner Kevin Rahm, Marcus Giamatti, Adrian Pasdar, Timothy Omundson, Richard T. Jones og Dan F. - selvfølgelig. Hyggelige personer, skikkelig sympatiske og sterke kvinnemennesker; Maxine og Amy og Donna! - og sannsynligvis den serien gjennom tidene (med unntak av DW og Rex) som har fått meg mest engasjert i de forskjellige karakterene. Da stadig nevnte Vincent ble skadd i eksplosjonen i avslutningen på sesong 1 trodde jeg at jeg skulle dø av nerver! Også trodde jeg at han var død, hvilket ikke gjorde saken bedre! (Tror jeg har nevnt dette tidligere...nok et bevis for at jeg fremdeles sliter med ettervirkningen...varige mén, hallooo!) Jeg håper den serien kommer på DVD snart - da skal de handles, uavhengig av pris! Hvorfor de kansellerte den, derimot, er en annen og mer frustrerende sak. Vi trenger TV-serier som spiller på følelser og utfordrer disse, og klarer å lage emosjonelle scener som ikke blir klissete!

En annen personlighet jeg i lengre tid har vært fascinert av - faktisk inngår han blant de eksklusive utvalgte jeg kaller mine "første kjærligheter" - er den "Ballade pour Adeline"-infiserte Norgesvennen (pfff!) Richard Clayderman. Mannen er en helt og et forbilde for den pianospillende Scara, på linje med Brian May (ok, ikke riktig så voldsomt, men nesten!) og jeg innrømmer gjerne at jeg er fryktelig forelsket i ham, men har måttet innse min skjebne - han er gift og har mengder av barn. Skjønt er han sinnsykt pen og flink og klok og sjarmant og elegant og AVSINDIG flink til å spille piano, han har flygel med egne initialier på lokket, han spiller i smoking, han har colgate-smil og utgir plater stort sett en gang i året og notebøker med distraherende sexy bilder av seg selv på forsiden og, aaargh, man kan få angst og mindreverdighetskomplekser av mindre. Og - såh. Nå har man da gått over fra Rihanna til Richard C. ispedd litt Ennio Morricone og Scissor Sisters her, og er mer gjenkjennelig meg igjen. Tror det er lurest. Små doser, det går bra. Akkurat som med melkesjokolade, OldenBoble Eple og eksamensnerver. Og Daniel Craig. Huff. Han er i litt for godt selskap, der.