Gazebo Byparken
Epoch: The Ibsen era I remember when I first took the time to notice the gazebo in the middle of the park. I had just arrived to Bergen on this early spring day in March. I found great pleasure in observing the people that was strolling by. A warm breeze was in the air, and I could see how the weather was bringing smiles onto peoples otherwise hard faces. I saw the people sitting and smiling on the benches and grass around the gazebo, a place otherwise ignored during the hard days of winter. I saw that the girls had put on lighter clothes in order to let the tender breeze caress their skin more easily. I saw the boys doing their best to court the girls with laughs and boasting words. It amuses me to see how fast the happiness is ended abruptly when the treacherous spring breeze shifts into an unforgiving hailstorm. Epoch: Hanseatic It amuses me to see how fast the happiness is abrupted, when the treacherous spring breeze shifts to a unforgiving hailstorm. This is what I see in the eyes of the women of Bergen as I flash even the slightest of smiles at them. But this is far from my Gård. I have ventured forth to see the city as it is... a town of fish, people, and beauty. And I must, here in this place, renew my allegiance, to the people of Hansa -- my vow of servitude to my people of the Kontor. and I resolve from this wooden platform with my round out vie-- that I will enter into fuller service -- And put my name in as an achteiner even though until this point I have not made a sound, but to my servants, the boatmen, and my brother. "Hei, hei," calls a towering Bergenser approaching, catching me in the midst of my revelry without guard or shield." Epoch: WW2 – under occupation "Hei, hei," calls a towering Bergenser approaching, catching me in the midst of my revelry without guard or shield." Ha ha, this guy, I remember, was actually great fun, always up to something to annoy the germans. Quite a few times they sent bursts of shots in his direction, mostly to scare him, but I have a feeling that they did not really care whether they hit him. He really was a nuisance to the germans and a provider of cheerful stories to us. Sadly I lost contact with him after the war. I loved my kids, including the at-the-time-extremely-shorthaired daughter of mine and we faced her ordeals together as best we could. We lost a great many friends in that period, our family has grown though but I still miss my friends. Epoch: Hanseatic But why return? Yes, there was rain, almost incessantly, and a marriage to the sea and dried fish -- but a port city meant fresh trade always and, like a tree transplanted from the mountain to the city center, the death of the outer leaves, the drying of roots, would only momentarily obscure the renewal. Fresh wood tastes fresh soil. A Tyskebryggen was a village poured into a cramped space, like fish poured into the bowels of a ship, but it thrived, with the same gossip and shame, betrayal and sin, vice and graft, and nobility -- nobility she had recently seen in her son’s eyes. Ich bin ein Bergenser of the Kontor! We would be a people of the long Gård with our faces in the sjøstue and our hearts in the handlestue. She could use some strudel. She could use a draft of godale. But she no longer wished to sit waiting for her return to the Rhine valley. Signe had caught her eye at the market, and in her own quiet way, and she would wend out of the Kontor and, like the nålebinden she learned from the local women, wend her way into the wool that wrapped his strong, Norse chest. Epoch: Swinging 60s Finally at the Gazebo: imaginary Spartus 35 (a camera from the 1960s) - Snap: left angle of the Gazebo caught in the middle of some heavy raindrops falling. Snap: some Chinese tourist joins me! Snap: birds are bored! Snap: bird poop on every angle. (How come birds never do their business on the ground?) Snap: pretty blue heels. Snap: Gazebo’s roof is dirty. Snap: I caught the noise of the traffic! Snap: my lense caught a raindrop. Snap: and I’m out of film. |
The Seafarer’s Memorial on Torgalmeningen
Epoch: 2040 - Emotion: Terrified Primstav: St. Olaf’s Wake Time: 13:50 He knew she was going to leave him. It seemed inevitable. On the phone, she gave him an argument by proxy. Her sister had said something about how people can’t change. He disagreed and tried to make a case that fear could stimulate a reinvention of the self and one just needed enough imagination to envision some possible redemption. But she seemed bored by his rhetoric. She was calmly, passively resigned to her unstated decision. So he sat in solitude in this strange metal and glass youth hostel that hung off the hillside. He sipped his beer and tried to feel the slight chill while he watched the container ships and airships gliding in and out of the port. Somehow the anxiety was comforting. Instead of his usual everyday neurosis, this fear made him feel human for the first time in years. Epoch: Hanseatic Instead of his usual everyday neurosis, this fear made him feel human for the first time in years. Not only could he feel Bryggen, the mounds of fresh catch, the tar of the boats, the yaw of the sea, but in the air he also caught the scent of the Rhine of his youth and for a second, he glimpsed the red accents fo the flaxen hair of his first love, the lass of the Valkyre, as he had called her, Brumhilde, among these Thor-fearing Christian lasses, but to his surprise, it was instead the flowery Fløyen mane of a Norseman, who in bygone days would have carried the axe of a Viking conqueror, but today was the servant of the Hanseatic Kontour -- indentured to the TyskeBryggen. It was then he realized a moment had past, as epoch of a mighty empire had melted and ran down the 7 mountains into the Vågen and from its froth, from crab shells, a peoples whose acumen discipline, and quiet fortitude had built a Kontor. The age of conquest yielded that square to the age of oceanic trade, and he would be its emissary, conversing with barrels of wine and ships of goals borne by the even and honest tabulations of his hand. Epoch: 2040 - The age of conquest had grehtl that square to the age of oceanic trade and he would be its emissary, converging with barrels of wine and shipfulls of goods borne by the even and honest tabulations of his hand. It seemed like a good idea, at least in the abstract but it also sounded like a lot of work. And he knew that he would have to do most of the heavy lifting. Why did he always end up in this position as the sort of prodigal technician who could make their ideas manifest? Why did people still think that ideas were worth anything or at least worth more than the labor required to make them real or usable. It's not that he couldn't see a value in creating a moral sentiments network for consumers of traditional norwegian grog. He enjoyed drinking the stuff but he didn’t want to spend 6 months fucking with quantum clustering systems to make it work. He had other ideas that seemed more inspiring but none of them paid. Epoch: Swinging 60s The seafarer’s memorial |
Lion Statue at the Fisketorget (Fish Market) Epoch: The Ibsen era I remember a cold day in March. I was sitting at a bench by the fish market in Bergen. There was a lot of people out doing their shopping, even though the wind was blowing brutally and the wet snow was making everyone cold to the bone. I looked up the hills and saw a light mist covering the hillside, along with all the smog from the city it made for one trollish day. I closed my eyes in order to soak up the noises around me, but all I heard was the screams from the seagulls and traders alike. I was amused when I saw the boats coming in from the sea. These last few days have been hard, so not many fishermen had been out to sea. The chaotic feeling of the people flocking towards the harbor, pushing each other in order to get their share of the catch was thrilling. But what could a starved man do?
Epoch: Hunt and But what could a starved man do? Hungry, I must be. Since I ask myself this question. But as it manifested itself in my mind, I realize I am not in the same place. Maybe, I think, I am not in the same state of mind. I am now in front of a large body of water, and I hear water running behind me. I look but don't see anything moving. Strange. Starved and no longer on the hill really aggravates me. Not sure if I'm becoming perennially cynical. But who cares about my state of mind? I'm starving. Need to eat. Move. Kill. I want meat. Eat meat. Raw meat. My teeth hurt when I eat meat. It's the blood. I think. I like the taste of blood. I don't understand why it disappears when I cook meat over the fire. I sometimes drain the blood to drink it. Helps me wash down the meat. I get sick sometimes, so I don't do it as often. Scratch my hair. I need to wash it. I love my nails long, but I must byte them when they get too long. My teeth hurt when I do this. My teeth appear to change shape. wonder if they will ever grow? Epoch: Time of the Witches I wonder if they will grow up? -- these summer festival kids with gold in their hair and none in their pockets. I wonder if they will survive the next invasion to sail here . . . or their own invasion of some far-off port. I've figured out that all the gesturing upwards is not just toward the sky, but toward the SUN (hidden today behind dense rainclouds). Around my neck is my old Gallic dandelion charm -- symbol of ephemeral life and fecund death.But as so often happens when witches from afar gather, an old sorceress has seen my dandelion and started cackling with glee and holding up her own dandelion-like jewel which -- ah, my traveler's luck! -- is these folks' symbol of the very sun of this sun celebration! Arms open to me, as do the beer jugs now, and the doors, and soon, I hope, some comfy bed covers. For all my worrying about currency conversion, my money is no good here, only my symbols. Epoch: Hansaeatic But what could a starved man do? Take the fishmarket. "Hei, hei." "Are you a Hansa?" came the unusual Norse greeting. "Sjøman," replied Wilhelm, man of the sea. This brought a laugh. From the fish trader. "And I take it you are hungry to buy some fish for your Hansa-litter." Wilhelm shook his head, seriously but slowly. Do you wish to buy some blåskjell? Again Wilhelm shook his head, his wide shoulders unflinching, even as the Norseman fisher moved close in. "Then, what do you want to buy? Why do you waste my time? What do you want?" "This," Wilhelm gestured to the barrels, the table covered in fish, the tables for eating, the broad knives, the binds full of fish and tack. "What I want," Wilhelm pronounced in flawless Norwegian, "is all of this." And he swept his arms wide to take in the whole of the storefront, the dock, the fish and wears, and Bergen itself. Epoch: Swinging 60s “Lion represents my star sign. The Fish Market, Bergen” |
Hanseatic Museum
Epoch: Swinging 60s I remember the Hanseatic museum being overwhelmingly beautiful. The red and yellow doors by the entrance are arched! They seem to symbolize an aristocratic theme and it has kept its old fashioned architecture. There’s a sign by the reception desk: ‘The museum has narrow staircases and hallways and lighting is scare. Children should not stay unsupervised.’ This was when I saw two little kids running in and out of the museum; the start of my journey! Epoch: Hanseatic Location arrived on a ship full of wine, the first day of summer, the first down the planks were my children -- I saw them not from the dock at the Vågen but from the upper windows of the sjøstue. Barrels of wine were coming in from the Rhine and all the merchants crowded around, but amidst all the hubbub and commotion stood my wife, my love, my beautiful fisk, as they would say here -- standing -- looking around taking the contour of the Kontor. This was what her husband had chosen for her -- these rows of Gård were the tenement lot she would have to give some shape. But first, she would give me shape as I stepped down the sloppy wooden steps -- preceding Ingrid, my fair-haired Norwegian mistress from the fish market. Epoch: Middle Ages My mistress from the fishmarket. She is waiting for me outside to pick me up from work. Another sad day is going to end its daily life. A last glance out of the window tells me that all won`t be ok. Where I am, work and live so to speak, life will be represented in a later time. People will stare at where I was making up my mind.Me the merchant trading fish in a time where food is becoming as less as people`s lifes in a time when black death darkens the world inside the outside. Epoch: 2040 Me, the merchant trading fish in a time where food is becoming as less as people's lifes in a time when black death darkens the world inside the outside. Strangely, he wanted to hold onto this feeling, sad but so alive. He felt this strange sense of empathy that people could see him in pain despite his smiles. It was as if there was no skin on his rib cage. The breeze was refreshing and the fear of seeming weak was simply blown through. He didn't care anymore. They could look at his messy internal life all gruesome with fluids leaking and organs hanging out. He didn't care about the nets of sensation and use-value. He just lived for those moments of vital coincidence when he would run into somebody he knew on the street and have one of those mundane, predictable conversations that would somehow reveal a genuine sense of understanding. He social life was never as good as when he was heartbroken. Epoch: WW2 – under occupation Ingrid, my fair-haired Norwegian mistress from the fish market, I remember her with tears in my eyes, she died in the big blast at -44. Lots of people died that day. One of her friends who were living at some distance from the blast, found herself trapped in a house which was partly destroyed directly by the explosion and where the lower floors was on fire. She had to run for shelter with her three kids, and the only possible way toi go were over several roofs to a house nearby. They escaped by climbing through a hatch, her elder kid first, alone after him came her daughter and then herself with a baby in her arms. They eventually made it through a roof in the house next to theirs. |
Finnegan's Irish Pub
Epoch: Time of the Witches I remember being a traveler, so broke, so cold, strategizing the budgeting of the few coins still sewn into the lining of my cloak (Roman silver, German gold), my good old cloak, still warm when soaking wet, as it is today. It is clearly a festival day of some kind in this new harbor. A motley gathering on the top of this hill. Townsfolk gathered and dressed with care: extra spangles and bangles on everyone, freshly-dyed wool, even the kids are wearing elaborate festival garb. And folks who've come in from surrounding farms and villages, greeting old friends and exchanging news. I am so lucky! If it was a regular day I would get the regular suspicion afforded newcomers, but since its a festival day I can blend right into the crowd, pretend I'm a friend of a friend, maybe partake in some free festival food without arousing suspicion and having to break out my coins and go through the usual uncomfortable explanations. Maybe it’s a carnival where the locals are open to random hugs and casual friendships! Epoch: Hunt and Gather Maybe it's a carnival where the locals are open to random hugs and casual friendships. I don't need friends. I need gatherers. How sad to say that. Let me try again. I may be trying to hard to not go about my business. Life is so simple. I am complicating thing by actually thinking about things. thing about things. thing. thing. thing. thing. thing. People must think that I'm out of my mind because I am outside thinking about things. It's cold. Bitter cold. Cold. What I would not do for a fire. And the rain just won't stop. I wonder if it will rain for 85 days straight. Legen has it that when it rains for that long good things happen to the soil, and the plants go green. Good for me. More to eat. Life is easier. But rain is annoying. A nuisance I must get up from here. From the hill I see east and west. After all, I only moved a few feet from where I stood before. But my mind set changed when I move just a fe steps. Except for that little disruption about the carnival and friends. Friends, bah! Who needs them. I need to look for food. Hugs. How happy can you really be to have that? Now there is a man staring at me. He probably is wondering why I am not doing something with my time. Stares. He came out of the cave. Now he went in. Just looked and left. Not a hug. A friend he was not. Epoch: Swinging 60s The bar is too warm. I wish I could take off some clothes, but then there’s too much hassle caring for it all when I want to go outside and smoke. I love the smokers outside. It’s like they’re to each other, because all they can think about is their smoking. I wonder if their smoking makes them deaf! I wonder if it makes them warm, cause I am still warm from standing in the bar. I didn’t even buy a beer. The pool table was surrounded by dancers! Saturday night. Saturday night fever. Damn, the smoking made me forget who I was talking to! Epoch: Middle Ages This is where I can be and drink a lake of beer, watering my mourn, my sorrow me. Beer is where no food is, my source to nourish what is left of me. Am I depressed? Only sad, even if I imagine myself lucky being one of the few survivor`s left. The barkeeper gives me what I need, a no-dialogue preceeds and ends our conversation. Me inside my monologue is still waiting for Simeon to come, or my mistress. Noone enters the door. No wind shatters my candlelight. It is only me who can destroy the lightening beehive. Epoch: Early Modern Mary preserve us. He likes his drink strong and he likes too much of it. I think he mourns his sons though they are not yet dead. I think he mourns for himself. Ulrich writes with good news. He has found a bride, a young girl who comes in at night to mop up the blood. The girl is from Bohemia and speaks not a word of Norwegian. I write back that he should come home to get married but the journey is too much. We should come there to meet Maria, come to Duluth for the wedding, he writes. If only we could swim there. Lars says unspeakable things in his cups. He says Ulrich has always been shiftless. He says that Maria is probably pregnant. I slap him across the face. He is too much, too much for me. Shiftless indeed. Horrible news comes in the post from Lars. He has lost his work on the streetcar, but has found new work at a bar. He serves pails of beer to factory workers at lunch. There has been some sort of accident and has a broken leg. The leg will heal he says but he misses Mama’s cooking. Fish soup with little fish. It is cold in Chicago. It is cold in Duluth. It is cold in Bergen. Lord, it is cold everywhere. |
Den blå steinen (The Blue Stone)
Epoch: The Ibsen era I was breath taken by this old man in such good spirit, standing there on the blue stone, boasting about his superpowers. He seemed larger than life. His posture indicated that he had one to many in the local tavern, but nonetheless, he was making the otherwise busy people stop and smile for a while. ’The duck’ he said, had given him superpowers, and with this duck he would save the world. He jumped down from the blue stone and grabbed an old wretched woman by the arm. She smiled and they swirled into something resembling a dance as the old man boasted ‘it’s a miracle!’ Epoch: Hunt and Gather She smiled and they swirled into something resembling advice an old man boarded; look it; a miracle. I lost my mind again. A man looks again and wonders why I stand in the cold. I should sit down. But gathering time I am, not food. I moved. I no longer see the water in front of me. I see black metal. no. stones. Lots. Rolling along. Not moving. Is thinking like this really possible? I'm further down the hill, and far away from the water. Beautiful. I forgot about her. I see a man of authority looking at me. As much as I try to stay away, I am found. Maybe I should stand at the other end. The man is behind me now. Kind of acting as though I don't know he is there, but he wants me to know so that I move. I move. This man is joined by a woman. Now the man comes out and is looking at me, while holding a funny device to his ear. I wonder if he is going to eat it. the thing is black. I eat black things. It's a stone! A weapon! He may be throwing it at me. He looks hungry. I am hungry. Rain is coming. Food will be gone. No red meat. I need a bush. I remember this cold day when my father went to the bishop to buy a goose. I was freezing but happy to bought the curious animal with my father. I was 8. Now I’m 21, it’s November and I’m cold. I’m freezing and my mother is dying. Actually she is the last member of my family who’s not dead. Despite the plague and the smell of the dead everywhere in the city, I feel right and a bit weird. I’m peaceful. I left my mother to go out for a walk. I like to walk. I walked til’ I saw this perfect blue stone out of nowhere. I just sat on it and start thinking of my father and the goose. Geese are a possessed by god, because when bishops gave them they give them a part of the power of God. So maybe geese are god. Maybe they have super natural power and when we eat them we receive these super natural power. I love geese and they love me back because I don’t have the plague. Maybe this is the power of this blue stone which I’m sitting on combined to the supernatural power of geese. I’m a super human. I’m the last man standing in my family. I’m surrounded by death and plague but I’m stronger than ever. I’m a super human. I’m Alexander and I gave superpower thanks to the goose. |
Bybanen (Bus stop) at the Byparken
Epoch: WW2 – under occupation I remember, it was may 8th and I was on my way to an acquaintance of mine. I’m usually doing mechanical work like making machine parts for a living – as I was then. At the time back in 42, I was most of the time going idle, but doing occasional work for different persons, nevertheless, I was on my way to this guy to help him with some piping.I didn’t know then that it actually was concerning weaponry, although I had a hunch in that direction. I hated the situation, having opposed use of weapon all my life and now on my way to something involving the very thing. As It was, I was stopped and frisked here, right outside the Telegraph office, by two german officers who obviously was searching the streets for a victim to their frustration. Luckily I hadn’t brought with me any tools, and thus did not attract any further suspicion from the two bullies – they still made a thorough body search though. I still hate them, they made me feel humiliated. Epoch: 2040 He laughed when he saw smoke coming out of the trash bin. It wasn't roaring with flame, just slowly puffing away like an old fisherman with his pipe. Some rebellious type must have thrown a lit cigarette in 5 minutes ago and it had finally caught some of the organic waste in there. It was satisfying, in this superficially, tidy society to see just a tiny failure in the perfect system of order. A nervous uppermiddleclass woman was tapping at her communicator trying to sort out which authorities to alert. Most other people simply ignored it, not wanting to take responsibility for cleaning up the chaos. Epoch: Hanseatic Most other people simply ignored it, not wanting to take responsibility for cleaning up the chaos. But people had been martyred before, she thought as she kicked at the embers, on this very day in fact, in the 3rd century A.D., was that not the case. As the embers smoldered around her reindeer leather boots. She thought too of those of the Kontor who had been lost. Her husband had been too shy, too reticent, to complain about the conditions to the aldermen, but she had taken careful notice. And what she did not know, could not have known, was that fire would again take the town, and Bryggen and Håkon's Hall, and her Gård and her Kontor, as she slept, her 7 children, the youngest only 17 months, bunked together, nestled for warmth in the ytrestue -- where it was thought they would be safe from the potential of attacks in the Vågen -- for the people of Bergen at times still set upon Hansas in packs -- under the decisive neglect -- the downward glance of the magistrates. The king having no intention of making life tolerable -- But that fire knew no legal distinctions, bore no allegiance to th code of law. It would take to tenants out of shear love of well-hewen wood, crammed in close-laid Gård, stue after stue, from the Tyskebryggen edge to the fish market, entire rows of homes, as so much well-placed kindling -- But like a sensation of renewal, like the fires of candles filling the narrow pointed staves with thick smoke stains, those pyres would clear the way for the people of Hansa to come. Epoch: Swinging 60s Bybanen, late or early, sooner or later arrives with the string of carts ready. Helps its passengers, who are busy with the business of going places. It closes its doors on Tugs Cecilio, Arturito, makes them hurry, because today, like yesterday, Arturito has dropped the cigar box of crayons, has let go the hundred little fingers of red, green, yellow, blue, and nub of black sticks that tumble and spill over and beyond the asphalt puddles until the crossing-guard lady holds back the blur of traffic for the Bergen Bybane. Adaptation of Sandra Cisneros “Salvador, Late or Early” |
McDonald's
Epoch: Middle Ages I remember I was there and here before. This is my church, the large stone building, my shelter. We write fourty days after Jesus birth, only 1/2 of supply is left to survive the winter. In the temple, here I was waiting to meet Simeon, the righteous. In my hand I am holding a candle hoping for the beehive to save me from the darkness. It will be light against the dark - I think - but all I see are shadows of myself. I am the only shadow. It is the day of purification while outside the walls black death is unliving humanhood. I am one of the few left. Jesus was born but noone out there to be blessed or to save. I wonder what he`ll do. Epoch: The Ibsen era Epoch: The Time of the Witches I was delighted to see a place with good food that could raise people's spirits in the early hours of the morning. Clearly the festival folk had been hard at work chopping tasty beef as fine as sand and inserting it, cooked, into a fresh-baked roll. I queued up as though I belonged, and -- joy of joys -- free food! I love festivals! I raise my beef to you, sir, and to you, madam! Epoch: Swinging 60s Greasy McDonald’s with its greasy smells. This has got to be the greasiest place in Bergen! It’s so greasy you can’t even stand up right after a night out, or otherwise. And people are always cutting in line. What is it with grease that people love? Food’s greasy, even the cold drinks are greasy. The counter is greasy. The chairs are greasy. |
Bergen Offentlige Bibliotek
Epoch: WW2 – under occupation I remember the difference in mood between those who had little and those better off – the latter either historically known as rich folks, or having some lucrative connection to the Wehrmacht one way or the other – some both. I was content being among those with little, the most of us belonged in that group, it gave us a kind of common harbor, metaphorically speaking. Something to help strengthen our bonds. I was quite shocked when my daughter presented to me her boyfriend, Michael, later I just called him Mr. Schwarzwald. My world fell apart in so many ways that evening. I loved my daughter, and I was aggravated by the fact that Mr. Schwarzwald was a polite guy, he was nevertheless a representative of the other side, the wrong side. How the hell should I be able to protect my family from the suspicious gazes from our neighbours, acquaintances and friends? How in the lords name could I keep the balance between my work and the german forces?Epoch: The Ibsen era It seemed like so long ago since I visited my friends in Germany. I was only there a short period of time, but still the memories amuse me. The good times, the lager, the songs. Now I’m back here in Bergen, and the long winter nights does the best at ruining the last of my otherwise happy mind. While reading a book at the library I cannot help my self from putting on a grin, when thoughts of happier times come to mind. At least my mind finds happiness by leaving this world, and entering the realm of a novel. Epoch: Early Modern How in the lord’s name could I keep the balance between my “work” and the German togas? My child has left for America. My husband is crippled, most of my meagre income is devoted to keeping us in potatoes and salted cod. I try the best I can to keep myself together. But it is a great challenge. Epoch: Swinging 60s A 6 year old: I wonder why my mom can’t seem to let go of my hand. What can go wrong in a library!? I love the smell of books! I wonder if they have the books that I want. I wonder if mom brought my list. I wonder what she’ll read for me tonight. I wonder what I’ll find behind those shelves. I wonder why all these grownups look so overwhelmed by this place! I wonder how big this library is. – And all of a sudden her mom lets go of her, and she is lost. Mother was reading the news about some kids who disappeared at the Hanseatic museum! |
Grieg Hall
Epoch: Time of the Witches Resepjon is pretty good so far. I've joined the drunken mob by adopting the universal body language of jolly drunkenness (nobody questions a happy drunk) although nobody has shared a ship of their jug of local brew with me yet But it's only a matter of time. I make friends easily. I'm making my ignorance of the local dialect thru cheerful, guttural enthusing and lots of smiles and gestures toward the sky. Sky is what this festival is all about, apparently. I've fallen in with a clan of visitors to town that includes several young ladies of marriageable age, and their Papas are sizing me up out of the corners of their eyes -- as a potential match, perhaps? The witches are running the show and I'm breaking out the magic necklace I got in Gaul and hoping to be awarded "visiting scholar" status. I have something of the witch in me. |
Bergen National Theatre
Epoch: Hunt and Gather Aggravated I should feel. But the whole thing turned out OK after all. I wonder what will be on this place, where I now, in the future. What will stand on this small hill overlooking the mountains to the East, and the ocean to the West. What am I thinking about this when I only have time to eat. In the future we will not escape this basic necessity. One must get up and find the fuel of the day. That's my concern and that of my friends. My teeth hurt. They are rather worn out, I think. They hurt when I drink something hot too quickly--especially in the bitter cold. I want to take them out.
Epoch: Swinging 60s This has got to be one of the funniest statues I’ve seen of Ibsen, our nation’s literary hero! Imported from ole Christiania. A cute couple spends their leisure time right by it, trying to remember lines from A Doll’s House:
The pair seems to pose in front of an imaginary film crew, until I realize what it is that I have become a part of! |
Landmark Cafe
Epoch: Swinging 60s Landmark bar and cafè with its special interior does give a sense of exclusivity! I have never been inside it, though.. from outside the building looks like a hotel! Makes me want to not enter. Entrapment awaits inside. It takes in all the smells and sounds of the water outside. Invisible clouds from the water move inside Landmark. Two women stand and smoke outside and disturb my focus on the English menu and I walk away. Epoch: Early Modern Pray for us, Mary. There is very little in the cupboard and the winter is unseasonably cold. I knit every day from dawn until the last embers of the fire are spent. We are not hungry, not so hungry as the others. Lars, I do worry about him. His legs are of little use to him now and he seems to have little left to look forward to but his endless aches and pains. This is a man who built ships. Now the only boats he builds are in bottles. Bottles that he empties with great regularity. Hans writes to us from Chicago. He is driving a streetcar now and says the pay is good, Mama. I wonder if he will start a family soon. There are weeks between letters and sometimes I wonder if they are all I will have to look forward to. Ulrich is in Minnesota now. He works in a place where they turn meat into canned meat. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Ulrich does not seem as happy as Hans. He complains of the smell. The smell of blood and death and an unforgiving cold that seeps into your bones. Epoch: Middle Ages I remember the lake to be as black as the death around me. Here, the beauty of the place is reduced to what life is in these deading times. I used to meet my girl here and I return to this spot every week at the same day and time. Time and people pass but the place remains what it is, our meeting point. The only unchanging difference is that I am alone. A lone soul facing the lake, missing what is gone. |