The Daily Bottom-Dweller

"The Rotisserie"

2011-02-06T08:30:00.000-08:00

“François was right; I do have these tips that come down from my ass.”

I frowned at her, politely confused.

“It’s probably your panty-line.”

“No it’s my fucking ass... Do you think I would look better in a skirt?”

“Well, I think you do have really nice legs; so yeah.” This wasn’t me being honest either, but in comparison to her arms and torso, those legs were pretty amazing.

“You’re such a sweet girl...so my black skirt with this shirt would look nice right?”

“Yes.”

I was a puppet and Maria was the master; tromping me back and forth with my arms full of kitchenware, nodding my head approvingly after her every voiced idea. Of course she hadn’t asked me for a real opinion; I could never have told her, “No, those jeans don’t look good on you. They emphasize the sag in your bum too much.” But François could. François – who had spent 30 years in prison for robbing banks and now supported a medley of drug addictions – his conscience never stood a chance against cold, easy cash. When I walked into the take-out area he had been cupping the portions of Maria’s buttocks that pointed conspicuously towards the ground.

“There, right there. It’s no good. You see the tips? Ok – give me the money.” Maria opened the cash and handed him a twenty-dollar bill. Dumbfounded, I quickly returned to the safety of the giant espresso machine. Obviously someone who pays an employee an extra twenty dollars for an honest opinion about her ass can be considered insecure. But she was so inept that these occasional bouts of self-doubt tempered my distaste for her. It showed that she did have a vague grasp of reality. Most of the time she did no wrong, and every problem came as a complete surprise – like the sag in her ass.

The Hen was a Portuguese grilled chicken restaurant and take-out counter where I worked. Maria, an Italian Montrealer, owned and ran it with her lover, Farid. Lou, her husband, worked the barbeque. It was a bad soap opera – the kind where passion results in nothing but incessant bad-mouthing and all of the main characters have grandchildren. Complicated, no. Uncomfortable, yes. Though most uncomfortable, for me, was serving breakfast.

“What the hell’s the matter with me? I’m breaking all of the yokes,” Maria would say while pushing another pair of hemorrhaged eggs out of the pan and into the trash.

“Calm down. Take a deep breath,” I suggested once, helplessly, and decided that it wasn’t a good time to warn her against using a metal spatula on teflon.

“They wanted white toast right?”

“No, I wrote it down; she asked for brown.”

“Fuck. Well it’s too late now. Just bring it anyway.” And I did, keeping my eyes averted as I set the plate down in front of a friendly woman who had come alone and would therefore notice the mistake.

“Et voilà.”

“I asked for brown toast,” she reminded me perfunctorily.

“I know. I’m sorry, the cook...I’ll go make some brown ones.”

Maria was rummaging through the freezer. I made straight for the bag of whole wheat bread.

“Did they say something?” she asked with a quick guilty glance.

“Yeah, she wanted brown toast.”

“Bitch.”

I dropped two slices into the toaster and stood waiting for the ding, vulnerable.

“Bridget, you know that note that I was writing to Farid yesterday? Well, he told me that he ripped it up without reading it and left it in a cup in his car. Except his wife found it and put it back together.” This was Farid’s wife who, according to Maria, had attempted suicide on multiple occasions. I watched her remove a clear plastic bag of something from the freezer. “And it was all about how I know he doesn’t love her anymore and how he stays with her out of guilt and all of this stuff. Farid said to me this morning that if she dies, he’s going to kill me.”

She opened the bag and I realized with horror that what I would be serving was a plate of toaster waffles (you know, Eggos) sprinkled with confectioner’s sugar. It was dreadful. For the low, low cost of $9.95, we inserted frozen waffles into a toaster and took them out after the ding.

Most people learned after one ill-fated visit that The Hen could not provide a comfortable dining experience. The only time it was busy was during the World Cup final. Twenty minutes before the game was scheduled to start, Maria told François, the delivery guy, and a few other randos that she wanted a television put on the terrace. They quickly carried one down from her apartment above the restaurant, and before long dozens of fans came, took tables, and ordered iced coffees. Later they kicked themselves for giving The Hen this vote of confidence. We were never able to get the sound to work.

But I felt bad for Maria. The business was a last miserable attempt to survive. She had debts – big ones, to dangerous collectors – and she sold cheap food because she didn’t give a shit. And the ambiance was poor because she didn’t give a shit. Nightmarish paintings of roosters wearing aprons and carrying platters of cooked chicken and an inexplicable collection of knee-high ceramic elephants furnished the inside. On the outdoor terrace large parasols advertised beers we weren’t licensed to sell and an unpainted trellis was all that separated the tables from the trash and recycling keep. On especially hot days the area was inundated with thick wafts of rotting chicken carcasses. Luckily for Maria, there were enough tourists, optimists, and general passivity in the world to create a steady trickle of business.

Still, why anyone would come was a mystery to me. When Maria wasn’t “cooking,” she would hover around yelling in her deep gruff voice at Lou (who, as far as I could tell, was good humoured and a hard worker) or she’d sit on the patio complaining to her friends and bewildered customers about how terrible her husband was, how she needed to get laid, how she thought she was dying.

One morning after four blissful days at my leisure I walked into work to find Maria splitting chickens in the back and throwing them onto the coal grill. This was not normally her job.

“Good Morning,” I offered. Then, “Where’s Lou?”

“I kicked his ass out. If he wants to stay out to four in the morning gambling and fucking that whore, then he can find his own place to sleep.”

I wished I hadn’t asked. I also wished Maria would just accept that she and her husband were in an open relationship. Apparently Lou had a girlfriend with whom he periodically escaped to Martinique on vacations. But if Lou was no longer going to cook at The Hen, I didn’t know how I would cope. He was the last affable worker left. A few weeks earlier François had managed to get an advance from Maria for sixty bucks and was never seen again. I missed him. He had made me laugh with his mischievous winks and giddy whistling as he poured himself the day’s first paper cup of beer somewhere around nine a.m. He had also shared his life dream with me, namely “to get a money truck.” The thought of François sticking up a bank van with nothing but a taser (he swore he never wanted to hurt anybody) was one I returned to with a smile on many occasions, wishing wholeheartedly for his success.

But Lou, he was almost fatherly (in spite of calling me Brigitte Bardot); when I felt exhausted or angry or bored, he would sit at the bar with his cappuccino, listen, shrug, and say comforting things like “All men are dogs” or “Yeah, life’s a bitch, and then you die.”

I stood there looking at Maria’s heavily-lined, tearing eyes – mute. She continued, couldn’t help it; I was that good a listener.

“He’s been out since the beginning of the week. And you’d think that he would have spent some time thinking about things, about our marriage. But, no. You know what the asshole’s been doing?” She stormed over to the wall where photographs of Lou with his kids and a recent Father’s Day card were taped. “He’s been skinny-dipping with that ugly bitch in my son’s pool. The fuck!” She clawed at the mementos, ripped them from the wall, and shredded them maniacally into the garbage.

“I’m sorry, Maria.” I was sorry – sorry for her, for myself, and for her son, for whom skinny dipping in his pool would probably never be the same.

That night I drank with my friend Skylar and let her talk me into quitting. Then I talked her into quitting for me because I was too chicken. She added a bit of throatiness to her voice. We practiced saying “Hi Maria, It’s Bridget” a couple of times in unison. I was delighted and nervous and amused. She called.

“Bonjour, The Hen,” Maria answered in a weirdly sexual voice. I stood listening next to Skylar’s ear.

“Hi Maria, it’s Bridget,” Skylar said.

“Oh. Hi Bridget,” The voice lost its mellifluous character immediately, obviously disappointed. I was terrified but could barely keep from laughing.

“I just called to say that I can’t come in anymore,” Skylar said, painfully.

“That’s fine, Bridget.” Skylar hung up. Her worried expression softened to a smile. My smile sunk into a frown. Once again, I was unemployed.

Pidgie T's

2009-08-22T12:53:00.000-07:00

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Surprising Oneself and Making Friends!

2009-05-13T22:30:00.000-07:00

On my way to a friend's for a surprise visit I smelled coals burning. Down the block on one of the side streets the origin of this irresistible perfume revealed itself. A "Smokey Joe" bar-B-Q on a stoop. A boy and girl sitting on the steps by the flaming coal-pot.
I had to get in on this.
I asked if it was a "public bar-b-q" and then gently wove myself into the fabric of their evening. They were admirably open to my introduction. I shared my rasberries. They shared their grilled asparagus. A couple of them would be officially graduating in a week from university. A couple were older like me. One was from Oregon. One would be working in Cape May for the Summer. One was a freelance photographer. One was a theater major at BU. One was a history buff. It was neat to get a flavor of these people's lives in such an unrehearsed, informal way. I'm grateful for the friendly reception and also proud of my own unintimidated instigation of an acquaintanceship. Why doesn't this happen more often? Anyone?
Something neat is that one of the party works at REI, which is a type of outdoor/ adventure equipment co-op. I told him that I had been there the other day to buy a few specific things. He wasn't working that day but had he been I would have asked him questions and talked with him about my plans rather than this other fellow who is apparently called "Abel" and works the same position. The point is, last Sunday I had a helpful chat with one employee (Abel), and a few days later I met someone who knows the former personally and works the same exact position.....I love it when places shrink like that! It makes the world seem less like a mountain range and more like a large garden...People as the plants (native, exotic, cultivated)- traceable, recognizable, and worthy of observation.......

All I did was decide to take a walk!

Rant, rant, rant....time for bed.

Springtime scribble at the trainstation.

2009-05-13T13:42:00.000-07:00

The solar noon angle is high.

To paint, to write, to blow a dandelion's orb of seeds; the sun's caresses and glances are invitations to creativity, to exploration, and trust in the mythical.

It is always in Spring that these expectations exist to feel beauty and meaning continuously, everywhere.

As the world tends to disappoint, it is also a season of violent polarizations in mood where Melancholy presides over a court of glees and glums.

Sixteen Years Earlier,....

2009-04-13T11:19:00.000-07:00

"Race you to the hedges," shouted one eight-year-old to the other. And they were off, Edith's dress flapping against her little legs as she ran across the lawn. Tailing her was Robin. As he overtook her, Edith tried blocking him with her right arm. He thrust it down and sped ahead with a joyful shout. A moment later, just as he reached the hedge and would have slowed himself, a cat ran out, and with another yell, though not the victorious kind, he lurched head-long into the bushy wall. Edith collapsed in a heap of shrieking laughter. Robin extracted himself from the hedge with some effort and sat next to her, grumpily plucking tiny twigs and leaves from his clothes and hair. The hedge showed a fresh, boy-sized cavity which Edith could not lay her eyes on without crowing and flopping back onto the grass in hysterics.

Once recovered, she quickly wiped the tears from her cheeks and said,

"Do not worry, Mama won't be mad. Oh, you're hurt! Let's get you to Mrs. Hornby. She'll treat those scratches!" Robin had a few lights cuts on his face from the collision. They walked back to house, Edith's arm wrapped around his shoulders. He was smiling again.

Chapter 3

2009-04-11T16:25:00.000-07:00

In keeping with his promise to interview the gentlefolk of the area on the subject of the mysterious gem, Robin had commenced his efforts by paying a visit to Edith. After he had gone, she convened with her mother in the parlor from which, for the last five years, Mrs. Ockley had scarsley ventured but to dine and sleep.
Edith's mother was a very slight, elderly woman. Recently, her eyes had clouded over with cataracts. For this reason, Edith could often be found reading aloud or practicing the piano forte for her mother's amusement (most reliably when there was some social event taking place which her mother would otherwise have happily attended). Mrs. Ockley greatly appreciated this entertainment as before her eyes went out, she had been in the habit of paying frequent visits around the neighborhood and walking through the garden. Though her sister, who lived only three miles down the road, would call weekly and other neighbors also paid regular visits, there was now a great deal of time in which Mrs. Ockley had to be contented with those impressions that reached her in the parlor by the window. The maid often recounted the village gossip for her keen ears. Birds sometimes sat on the window sill and recited for her their honest poetry. Edith's company and personal reflection, however, were the most highly valued comforts.
Edith spoke of the extraordinary event of the previous evening.
"I wonder, my girl, why your cousin was given leave to traipse all around the county with it. The whole area must now be aware of his carrying it. Any miscreant would think himself foolish not to seize such an opportunity."
"You're right." Edith sat considering these notions. What else could be done to discover the gem's backround? If the inquiry became less intimate- say, an advertisement in the Times- a large number of individuals claiming to have lost an identical ruby could be expected to surge into the village with grandiose tales and performances intended to evince rightful ownership. That was not an option. Should it be sent to London to be investigated by the police? Perhaps, if Robin was unsuccessful, it could be handed over to the authorities, or a private investigator employed. However, the stone could not have suddenly trans-located from a vault or jewelry case. It had been either intentionally or accidentally left in the Engles' kitchen; intentionally or accidentally tucked by someone into the pastry. Seeing that the entire batch of fiddlehead tortes had been overdone save the one containing the ruby, it also seemed plausible to Edith that the certain torte could have been removed from the oven and "fiddled with" while the rest continued to bake.
What worried her mother also began to worry Edith, and she decided to send Robin a letter advising him to cache the ruby in a safe place whilst occupied by the business of uncovering its origins. He would have to change his approach and thoroughly describe the gem to those he queried. A giant ruby, after all, was a rare enough thing not to be mistaken or forgotten. It could not be safe for him or the stone to travel around as such an unguarded pair. She penned Robin her thoughts as Mrs. Ockley listened intently to the meaningful scribble.

Chapter 2.5

2009-04-05T10:53:00.000-07:00

He collapsed onto the bed, an induced bleariness softening the threats of his unsure future. What's done is done, he told himself. Sensitivity had been temporarily shed through swills of liquor, but his mind was still trapped in the undertow of a certain subject. It was now by habit that he dwelt upon the problem. Day and night, thinking.
He had been there for weeks before identifying an opportunity, an innocent, public occasion for the task to move into its next phase. It could have been easier, too. His jaw clenched as he remembered how simple the plan was meant to be. Go to the county, find the family, and bring back the son of twenty-four years. But the surname of this family, the title disguising one's true identity, and the only clue for such an undertaking was permanently gone from his head. When it had been told to him, there were bottles being passed and loot being divided. He remembered the evening well. A mean fire with meat roasting, the sky spread over with orange and pink. Worth had patted his shoulder and motioned with his head as if to say "come with me", so he had followed along the shore a few yards, and there the business was laid out .
"You're the only one I would consider asking to go. You, unlike the rest of the crew, have wits as well as guts. I can imagine you leading your own expedition one day, commanding a crew, securing a real fortune... If you accept my offer and carry through, you'll possess all you need, except for that bit of luck, to become just as rich and feared a captain as I."
He was garuanteed two shares of whatever was taken while he was away. In addition to this, once returned, if successful, he would be given command of the Sapphire, a recently captured sloop.
"Ughf, three sheets, I was," grumbled Jasper as he kicked off his boots and pulled the blankets around himself. Many nights since had he spent with his head in his rough hands, cursing the surname he could no longer remember. He had located the nearest town, gone through the registry, but the space in his skull once occupied by the single, crucial word had collapsed. There was only a horrific blank.
"Take this," his Captain had said, holding out the large ruby, "and when you find the right man, give it to him. Tell him it's time to join Captain Adam Worth. But, don't let him out of your sight. You'll bring him regardless of what he thinks he wants. If you fail to return with him or with the stone, I'll find you and you'll die- squealing like a pig. " Captain Worth fixed him with a stare, grave and deadly, as the the ruby was passed between them, the offer accepted.
"Damn you, Worth," Jasper whispered in the dark. His familiarity with the Captain gave little reason to doubt that vengeance would be madly sought should Jasper break with his end of the bargain. Worth's threats, when unheeded, were always brought about- usually with more extravagant brutality than promised. No, Jasper would have to stay and wait. The ruby had already attracted someone he could easily suspect. He had heard the young man's keen interest expressed in tones of a most familiar rapture, and if he failed to locate the right man, any one near his twenty-fourth year would need do. Zeal for pretty prizes could only serve to convince his master, and if his master was convinced, his fate was secure.

Good happens,......

2009-04-02T18:15:00.000-07:00

It's never the wrong time to be grateful. In this whirl of worrying, so many "if"'s and "but"'s tossing us around, there is a surface at which an awareness of life's comedy, peace, and beauty can be breathed. When I am calm and patient inside, things actually happen. Good happens......
There is a vietnamese man who covers my real nails with artificial ones (I don't bite them this way). His English is not there yet, but tonight, after only a few casual questions, I learned that he is a brand new father with a month-old baby girl. This man, who has never said a word to me without being queried first, recently experienced something so pivotal and wondrous, and though I have seen him three times in the last month and a half, I never would have known if I hadn't been calm enough to volunteer a conversation and patient enough to wait for the words to form. How glad I am with choosing to be open and observant rather than sequestered by my own concerns. Just when I start feeling hopelessly misanthropic, something like this happens, my heart gushes with compassion and I love people again.

Chapter 1.5

2009-03-30T08:35:00.000-07:00

Mrs. Engle was mortified. She left her breakfast untouched and sat at the table biting her fingernails instead; fixated by the idea that her reputation was on the brink of collapse.

“You cannot live on fingernails alone, dear, and they serve a greater purpose on your hands than on the floor. Make a husband happy and eat some toast. ” Mr. Engle pleaded as he quit the table. How could she help feeling agitated when the banquet which marked her debut performance as hostess Mrs. Bethany Engle had resulted in such horror and humiliation? Mrs. Engle was sure that the whole community must by now be blaming her for the accident and strongly doubting her abilities to keep the staff in order. She could see them all rolling their eyes and shaking their heads at such novel inexperience. Or perhaps people would be wondering whether the ruby-ridden torte was a ploy to eliminate for her husband the temptation of Miss Rosewood’s attractiveness.
Mrs. Engle was so insecure and so obsessed with appearances that she insisted on planning another function in a few days time with the hope that impressions from the first of that season would be erased. She gave the invitations to be delivered, and admonished every cook and baker to meticulously inspect all intended ingredients in future, at the risk of instant expulsion.

Chapter 2.

"But how is it that you were given the ruby? If it wasn't claimed by anyone, shouldn't Miss Rosewood have received it as a sort of recompense for the trauma she experienced?" Robin and Edith had reached the Spanish Oak on the far side of the lawn and were enjoying a short respite.

"That would have been the end of the story, and who could settle for such an ending? Who could consider such an occurrence to be 'just another time when a mysterious gemstone materialized inside one's torte'? Of course, this was to be prevented at all costs. I announced that some effort must be made to discover the ruby's true owner and how the gem could have strayed as far as Mrs. Engle's kitchen. Mrs. Engle could not have tried harder to diminish the party's interest in such particulars (such an event was, no doubt, of great embarrassment to her), but her hushing was not to be supported. I was all curiosity, and set about interviewing everyone with a contagious level of earnest. Once a proper buzz was in effect, I made it known that I would be traveling around the county with the gem to make inquiries, and that, as they all knew I would be taking it, there was no risk of its suddenly going unaccounted for."

Edith was quite used to the her cousin's stubborn impulses, though they sometimes gave rise to concern for the futurity of his good reputation. He was well-liked by the other families in the area as he was handsome, well-mannered, and a sparkling confabulator. It was also common knowledge that he was next in line to inherit the family fortune. Therefore, his attentions were much more assiduously sought than those of the other bachelors in the area, and in this Edith found great amusement as he was liable to be awkwardly enveloped by an effusion of saccharine smiles and fawnings at almost every social function he attended.

"So, my dear madame, is this malevolent gem at all familiar to you?" Robin held it up with feigned formality for her to inspect. It was the largest gem she had ever seen, with a diameter of almost two centimeters. Its cut was stunning and when the gem caught a beam of light glinting through the budding canopy, it glowed a red so rich that for a moment nothing else was known to them

Edith smiled and shook her head. She had never seen anything like it.

Storytime......

2009-03-29T19:52:00.000-07:00

The door opened and in blew Robin with enough enthusiasm to dissolve Edith’s reveries.

“I bring extremely good news.” Edith sat upright and cocked her head accordingly.

“Well,” he continued, “ I say ‘good’ because it is of the most peculiar kind.”
“Excellent. My imagination is long overdue for a good stretch. Let's here it."
“Last night, at the Spring Banquet hosted by Mr. Edwin Engle, (where I could not but notice your absence- after, you can explain this to me) Lady Rosewood was said to have been nibbling a fiddlehead torte when her front tooth was most shockingly broken off by the unyielding surface of a large ruby disguised therein.” He crossed the room to the bench where he often sat during his visits with Edith, and removing an apple from his pocket, contented himself with the ration while she stared silently into space.

“Am I to understand that this gem wasn’t claimed by Lady Engle and that it didn’t merely fall from its setting in Lady Rosewood’s necklace onto the torte? Also, I am surprised you should forget; my allergies to tulips are too severe to permit my joining any of Mr. Edwin’s Spring parties. He practically supplants his dining hall with his greenhouse. I would not have lasted five minutes.”

Robin nodded as he tossed the apple core into the fireplace.

“So no one has any idea where the jewel came from? The bakers were questioned?”

Robin replied that, yes, Mrs. Engle's entire staff was brought forward, but to no advantage. The servers, cooks, and bakers were all very puzzled. The party did learn, however, that it had been the only fiddlehead torte to make it to the table. According to the head baker, who seemed particularly angry with one of his underlings, the batch of tortes had been neglected while in the oven, and the one containing the ruby had only just survived. These details had failed to remove anyone at the banquet from a thoroughly nonplussed state. Though, Robin suspected that the one of Miss Rosewood’s teeth felt it the most.

“Poor girl," sighed Edith. "I can’t imagine this will help to expedite a proposal from Mr. Wallis. What an unfortunate turn for her.”

“Indeed. Every time she smiled at me thereafter I was tormented by the desire not to look away but to revel in the change a missing tooth has given her countenance. Though, she deserves credit for such composure; parting her lips in public at all! I applaud her self-assurance.”

Though Robin seldom made these sorts of remarks in public, he was at ease to jest in such a way with Edith whom he had known from infancy and who he enjoyed provoking without the fear that offense could be taken.

“And where is the ruby now?” Edith rose and opened the windows to the racket of a great many starlings pecking through the lawn below. It was a perfect day; Mild, dry, and bright, and on turning around to ask Robin if he’d care to go walking, she was astonished to see a glimmering red thing stuck in his face. He released the gem from his scrunched eye with a laugh, and Edith, who couldn’t help but giggle, attempted to scold her cousin as they made their way out of doors.

Getting back on the blog...or the pen.

2009-03-24T10:22:00.000-07:00

It has been a while. I have still been writing; though, only in journals and on random slips of paper in my pockets. The style has been different. This is due to the fact that I rarely write short stories or lengthy descriptions for myself alone...especially when there are other formal tasks at hand.
Therefore, this blog will become more of a reflection of my thoughts lately.

This is a mind like a cloud. It never settles. It never resembles exactly the same shape to anyone.

It can't stop blowing to other vantages. So what.

I have difficulty understand how people can remain attached to a single idea for their whole lives. How can this be done and the thrill of discovery not be done away with? The glory of anything soon fades with too much attention. Like a star under one's direct gaze. For those like me, the peripheral is most often what is truly seen. Thank goodness that art of all kinds is allowed, and often revered. Rational behavior is one of life’s most unfortunate demands. If the freedom to express what lies outside of sensible boundaries was withdrawn, a smile would be a very rare thing.

The mind is not free anymore. It is minion to the gods of competition and money. Those that are brave enough to stand in the sunlight of their own imagination and ideas are considered lost, worthless, irresponsible. How is this? How have people learned such self-denial so well as to scorn self-love, self-acceptance in others? No, ……we all must work one another into the ground.

In the afternoon,.......

2008-12-03T07:45:00.000-08:00

I stopped along the path to observe a male blackbird rummaging for his lunch under the frosted brown leaves that coat the earth. He snatched and threw them over his bird-shoulders, occasionally having to drag a larger, frozen clump away from his buried booty of wintering worms and insects. After each muscled throw of debris, he looked up at me. Without knowing better, I would have thought he were trying to impress me with such a display of brutish bird strength. ('Behold, poor human, the many leaves my mighty beak displaces! And do you have a bright orange beak? I think not!')
Of course, I am aware of my own dubiousness in the eyes of smaller creatures- even hearty blackbirds- even the predators of predators of hearty blackbirds. He was only keeping a wary, orange-encircled eye on me.
Now I sit on the marble base of an impressive metal statue featuring a robust male deer. He stands assertively on a kind of knoll between divergent roads amid the beech and rhododendrons. The cold stone stings my gluts to numbness, but the feeling of being watched over by an alert buck is a pleasant irony.
Having caught my fill of glinting sunlight, I slip along down the path of frozen leaf pulp to a certain artisan's shop where Santa follows vicariously.

Digging up the new roots...

2008-12-01T04:39:00.000-08:00

"Are you for sure not coming back after Christmas," asks Ursula with rolled R's. She is Austrian, but the papers are Italian. Italy claimed a section of Austria in the beginning of the last century.
People are leaving Bergen. Ursula's contract is finished, as is Nicholai's.
But, others are here permanently. It seems like an early uprooting (for everyone), but it was wonderful while it lasted.

Ursula plays the violin, is 32, and has been moving around-working temporary positions and gigging since she was 23. Though she claims to "have nothing in life", she can turn a room upside down with laughter and overwhelm Ingrid Bergman's beauty any day. I hope to see her again sometime.

During the last few weeks, cordiality's chrysalis has been shed. A flock of freshly-winged friends flutter socially about. Polite dinner parties have become late evenings after the concert- sitting with wine or soup on the bed, which is Nicholai's and my only accommodating piece of furniture. I made a wreath last week to add a fresh scent to the entryway and elevate everyone's spirit with holiday hints. The mountain has plenty of kindly-needled firs. Our door is metallic, so the wreath is sneakily hung from the inside wall to dangle surprisingly in the air when the door has been opened. As guests depart they are informed that a glance from the inescapable hoop spells a long, happy life. Not living a long, happy life after getting into the hallway is, therefore, near impossible.
When I am home for Christmas we will dig up the young roots of our tree. For a while it will be inside, which doesn't suit trees so much, but afterwards it can continue to grow anew on the property. For people, I think that the roots are the others they bring into their lives. The loved ones. Family or friend. And it makes for a lush life when your friends are just around the corner or just that many more.

Bergen's Ancient Wharf and more....

2008-11-22T04:41:00.000-08:00

Greetings, fellow Bottom-dwellers!

This cafe feels like it could be nestled in a tree far from the forest floor.

A single room of pine walls, floor, and ceiling with century-old ragged pine rafters to support its slanting structure. Bryggen is an over-underworld of planked alleyways and staircases in a hive of ancient housing built to accommodate the lives and goods of sea-traders.

The city of Bergen was founded in 1070 by a certain King Olav Kyrre. Bryggen, as the city's largest wharf and trading center, was the best-established area of Bergen during medieval times. By the 13th Century, Bergen was trading with many countries, but the black plague entered through its port in 1349 and annihilated most of the city's population. Half of Norway's population was wiped out. About a decade after this, a Hanseatic trading office was established in Bryggen's wharf. For the next three-hundred years, Bryggen life flowed to the rhythm of Hanseatic culture. Norway exported fish. Ships imported grains and textiles. After a fire in 1702, which destroyed the entire city, Bryggen was once again reconstructed. What I walk through today is all that is left of Bryggen and also of Hanseatic trade housing.

The trade offices, storage spaces, and boarding rooms from this archaic period have all been recycled into airy shops of handmade luxury items, pub-cafes, and a few discreet offices tucked away on some tilting third floor.

Having been brought up in a completely different context, this landscape of invincible heart wood, bare and weather-worn, through the open-air walkways of the second and third stories, reminds me of a tree house neighborhood.

To others of a saltier imagination, it could very well lend itself to revelry in the sea and sailor-beaten surfaces of an old wooden ship.

The gently restored cabin which hosts the cafe has been perfect for such an afternoon escape. Cars, Concrete, and city sounds are nonexistent in this harvested forest. Bryggen is an island of wood in a sea of cobbled and paved routes. The barista is wearing black, boot-shaped slippers. I, too, would wear slippers if wide, creaky boards lived under my feet as I moved through the day.

Back at the apartment crows appear outside of the windows, positioning themselves to be flung by the lofty gusts of wind at exactly sun-down. 3:54. The trees near the middle of the mountain seem to be a favorite landing spot. A pit-stop on the flight back to their roosts. Of course, we know that birds never make that kind of pit-stop. Otherwise, they might have a better reputation. There are no nests in the branches of these bare trees, but at this time of day the topmost twigs and branch-tips are weighted by dozens upon dozens of the vigilant scavengers. It is a coup d'air

Grieg Hall before the concert.

Perfumes and pressed clothes.

Showered people

Programs and polite laughter.

Greying hair

Coffee or wine.

Comfortability.

Mild excitement.

Glancing men

Automated chimes.

Minds gathered to be carried elsewhere.

Unexplored thoughts to be temporarily visited.

Traditions to honor.

Images to maintain.

Ideals to uphold.

Monotony to break.

Generations to impress.

Loved ones to support.

So many reasons and whims for an audience to attend to

Mozart and Brahms.

Observations on a mountain walk and at the kitchen table.

2008-11-17T07:31:00.000-08:00

Fireweeds of Autumn are no longer bright purple and pink. They stand solemnly with white curled hair. Seeds for next year. Fallen beech leaves on the flat sides of rain-slicked boulders spell out the philosophy of Autumn. Detachment. A necessary willingness to end. Freshness with each Spring's luminous new set of unfurling leaf-buds is only possible through the voluntary release of the previous year's leaves. Insects forfeit their lives at this "fall" bend in the cycle to ensure that the next generation may also make the same loop. I make the meandering loop up and down the mountain, descending just as my hands begin to tingle uncomfortably with cold. Glad to weather another approaching Winter.

Back at home, I sit at the table and wonder who I should be and what that person would be doing at this second. The old adage "Be True to Yourself" floats into my head wearily. Like an old clown. The clown seems still to carry some secret. I try and cipher its magic.

To be "true to one's self" is a quite popular directive meant to reassure people that they can choose to do what they feel compelled to -be who they feel compelled to be. Many of us, myself included, find it difficult not to be very "thoughty". If our thoughts aren't always repetitive- in a closed loop- new ideas often join the slideshow and shake us, skew the menagerie, but at the same time renew us. These new experiences and their "aftermath" can be comforting or traumatic, but we need it all to grow. Actually, we need it to be alive.

Being alive (which, in my opinion, doesn't mean sitting on a pillow with eyes shut) is all bonding and reacting. With every impression, there is a reaction. With every reaction, we live.

To be true to oneself isn't to be true to a single idea (of oneself) but to be true to a real, living self; a self whose image isn't the main concern and whose entire being is available and honest for the world. A living self is one with mental and emotional reactions taking place.

It can be tricky when one's ideas of who his or her "real" self has proven to be in the past battle for the present title. However, being true to an idea of oneself- is different than being true to oneself.

This is why being one's "true self" is being aware of one's present surroundings, senses, and peers so that we can bond and react. When we react to what is going on around us, however we feel compelled to (without checking with some computerized hardware conception of ourselves) we reveal the self. So, self and thought should not be confused. Self is awareness, and in being true to that, all we can do is react.

Makes sense, I think.

With that, I see that this table needs tidying and feel that it is time for lunch.

Enjoy yourselves!!!

Doing some drawings of late

2008-11-12T09:23:00.000-08:00

Hello dear readersThis entry I ask that you quench the thirst for words with images. I sunk into a pleasant pattern of scratching some staedtlers across a pad this week. Here is some of what I came up with. The link is to one of the drawings which I submitted for a T-shirt contest. Thank you, Phil Puleo for your technical genius. Everyone please cross your little piggies.

A cat to spare and pre-concert scribble.

2008-11-03T10:06:00.000-08:00

Today, cats rule the hill. Below my bench I emptied a cup of leftover pasta. I figured that some crows would discover it sometime that afternoon. Only a moment later, however, did a young tabbycat cross the leaf-carpetted street, following her nose to the clump of tomatoey noodles. They did not seem to suit her, though. Immediately after devouring one by my foot, she turned to the neighboring grass and nipped off a few of the most accessible vomit-inducing blades. I didn't think that batch of pasta was especially good either. Whole wheat is always too dense.

This all occurred without any personal acknowledgment from the cat until, like anyone trying to catch a skulking feline's attention, I hissed gently through my teeth. She froze, beaming the yellow lanterns of her gaze at me before swiftly jumping into my lap.

The unexpected visitor enjoyed my puffy coat's warmth, cushioning, and concealment. Whenever a sniffing dog was ushered round the bend and down the road just in front of us, she shrunk lower into the space between my protective embrace and behind the blind of my crossed legs.

I tried to write, but she attacked my pen and paper. She even tried to sneak a sip of my coffee. So I gave in to being an attentive massage-chair for the time-being.

Cats seem to live strictly from one sound to the next. And most sounds, judging by the way a cat's emotions pique from them, are heard as fate's knocking or the clattering of apocalyptic hooves. The wind blowing dead leaves around was treated as a serious omen for my candid cat friend. And the people rolling suitcases down the street or slamming their doors could all have been conspiring with the devil. A whole neighborhood of evil noises-makers. A large tree-trunk (which must also have created some type of disquietude-you'd think) was spontaneously attacked with a leaping assault of unsheathed claws. 'Shut up, you sinister tree!... or I will cut you down one scratch at a time!'

When the most fearsome canine was spotted zig-zagging his way up the hill with his obese keeper in tow, my accessory ran to the middle of the street some thirty feet ahead and crouched provokingly in full view. Are all animals with alpha-attitudes born under the assumption that they are the largest beasts walking the earth? I suppose that hiding from the dogs who had already trotted our way was done to prevent any association with those possessors of such short legs and dull teeth. Only the largest canines were worthy opponents.

The woman and her German Shepherd froze. The dog about to spring through his collar and the woman to turn back. My pen had just run out of gas, so I scooped the suicidal feline up with my free arm and carried her down the steps in a different direction. After a fair distance, I set her back on the ground and continued to our apartment where the door made an nasty slam behind me.

Nov 2

Hoping not to be removed from the church concert I have snuck into. At least two hundred other people are crowded into this age-old church on a dark raining night. An introduction to the music being given by an unamplified speaker. I don't understand anything specific, but the sound of so many ears stirred by the single, acoustic voice is clear. The audience chuckles occasionally.

Painted white stone. It is suitable for a place of hope and sanctuary in the darkness of Bergen's Winter shadows. White walls, not grey stone or murky carvings. On this particular night, I can appreciate the sense which may not have existed in thought until now. Though, many other Norwegian churches are dark with a structure hewn only from bare wood. Staves. And they were once attended.

2008-11-02T00:00:00.000-07:00

This being has Love for so many others and so much!

This being has strength and grace.

This being is still learning and growing and always will be.

This being has touched both friends and strangers.

Her friends are also her family.

This being would do anything for her family.

She is loved by so

many!!!!!

This Being has the Knowledge to be Humble and Grateful

This being has the Wisdom of Forgiveness and Patience

This being only occurs every infinity years .

If this being wasn't such a good Mother, she wouldn't be such a good friend to me!

This being is e x t r e m e l y g e n e r o u s (or liberal)

Her love transcends form.

Her smile is never insincere.

Her sense of fun is contagious!!!:-) I love her giggles!!!

This being's creativity is boundless but sensitive.

This being's intuition is miraculous.

This being's trust is a privilege.

This being is still a child in all the best of ways!!!!

This being happily has a while yet to explore, give, and feel.

This Amazing Being, my MOM!!

I Love you! Happy 50th!!!!!

The Palette

2008-11-01T15:55:00.000-07:00

Why couldn't I hear an account of the legend of the Flying Dutchman instead of Wagner's opera?

For over two hours- frustrated, bored, and bothered.

Sitting there, blaming myself, I thought, 'Love isn't an analyzed experience. Stop thinking and just witness it'.

But, there was no gaining access to such pleasure.

When the Opera sans intermission was over, I found myself on the street thrown against a brick wall of milk chocolate. Evening saved. Bravo, Chocolat! Encore, Chocolat!

Whether the weather is dryer or wetter....

2008-10-30T11:54:00.000-07:00

The time taken to make a cup of coffee- for a spot of water to boil and a scoop of beans to grind is often too long for the sky to stay clear. It could be the escaped vapor from the pot tipping the nearest cloud off balance, or perhaps an unreasonable assumption that the weather can accommodate my caffeine addiction. Whatever the truth of the matter-If the sun is out, dally not! Go and bask in it!

Being in such an obsessively rainy place makes me curious about never before considered subjects. One is the feeling of rain for small birds flying through the air or hopping on the ground. Do their hollow skeletons ring with every small thud of raindrop bursting against body? Or do their feathers double as a type of raincoat like a duck's; transforming the raindrop's epoch transfer of energy into the tiniest of taps on the anatomical rainfly?

While hiking the mountain in front of our apartment yesterday, Nicholai and I duly received a most appreciated dosage of pure sunshine through the exceptionally clear atmosphere. This vitamin D and generally enlivening cast of energy has been much missing from Bergen as hail, rain, and shadowy winds hide the sun's beaming face day after day.

Dogs trotted along the path followed by their keepers, and fellow strollers smiled generously through the fine weather. We sat on a boulder gazing down at Bergen. I always imagine what partially developed places would look like without their man-made structures. A wide arm of sea-water reaching in between a huddle of mountains fully clothed in tree. That is all Bergen once was.

An elderly man with a short, orange dog rounded the bend in the path. He was being conspicuously tailed by two hooded crows and a magpie. One of them was so focused on keeping up with the man that it flew to the next, closest tree but failed to choose a proper perch. The bendy twig comically dumped the crow who had apparently also dumped its own pretense of "wildness". Every ten paces or so the old man rewarded this behavior with a few dog biscuits from a pouch. I imagine that dog biscuits must be considered a delicacy by such scavengers. Never have they been so eager to snatch with their big, black beaks the stale bread I regularly distribute.

The old man's dog was a shrunken version of a husky with a diet too high in carotene. Erect ears, thick, orange fur, and long, curled tail. Nicholai had expressed a liking for this popular breed, so I approached the old man to find out a bit about them. Actually, I approached the dog. My Norwegian isn't exactly good enough to articulate "Hello, Sir. I like your dog very much. Of what breed is she?" The little dog was keen on a nice petting, and the white-haired man, discovering I didn't understand any of his Norwegian questions, obliged me with his basic English.

The dog was a japanese breed. They really are everywhere in Bergen. The man said that she was fourteen (older than him if you believe in "dog-years"). Last year he took her to Oslo (around five hours by train from Bergen) to have the cataracts in her eyes removed by lasic surgery. I said as I affectionately scrubbed the dog, "What a lucky girl you are".

"Yes, so expensive...," he said with the helpless smile of a "softy".

His English was probably the worst of anyone I've met here so far, but it was still good enough to understand me and communicate a few humourous anecdotes.

The crows have been following him for years. He walks the mountain Floyen everyday, and they pursue his biscuit-tossing hand the whole way. "They are practically tame," he said, "and if another dog comes by or anyone else, they fly away. They know me." It is true that crows are intelligent enough to recognize many individual friends and foes.

In his unexcercised mumble he asked, "You are from the United States?"

"Yea, New Jersey."

"Yes, I have many relatives from the mile-high city." It took me a second to remember exactly where that is (Denver, CO).

"And, what do you think about the election?"

This conversation has been standard procedure these days. Hell, if I were from a small country but still up to date on international news, it would be the first thing I'd want to know from an American.

"I think it's very important that we elect Obama. Really important." I said, thinking silently (or else this world is really done for).

My new friend nodded in agreement. "McCain is the same. He is the same as Bush.......And what about Palin," as though I didn't know,"the Alaskan?".

"Horrible! Idiotic."

He said something to the effect of "Arpfkhffffffff!"

We then wished each other a good day -being pleasantly in agreement about the crows and politicians.

Nicholai had remained on the rock, watching and listening. After I had sat back down next to him, he said, "Maybe I should start following that guy around so he could feed me and pay for my lasic surgery...."

A few words from the Journey....

2008-10-15T03:14:00.000-07:00

I wrote this for the blog while in the Atlantic en route to the Faroes.

This is one of the last long ocean journeys commonly taken. Not only are people along for the ride, but different gulls are surfing the draft alongside our vessel. They soar and plummet, soar and plummet. One of them compared to the more conventional type gulls swooping along looks like it`s wearing a leotard. Its wing and body shape is long and sleek, and its coloration of black and white with a sandy-yellow head is boldly solid compared to the others.

(This turned out to be the Northern Gannet (Morus bassanus).

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/59/Northern_Gannet_2006_2.jpg

It is the largest gannet in the world with a wing span up to 71 in. Apparently there are large colonies of them on Bonaventure Island in Quebec, but most of them live off of Britain and in this region. Very exotic-looking).

The ocean is bouncing this seven-floor goliath of a ferry on its salty knee like a babe. We have cruised past a number of oil rigs. One can see their long fiery tonges from a great distance away. It`s cold on deck, but there`s nowhere else to sit with the same view and fresh air to combat sea-sickness. The wind is violently stretching the surface of the ocean, leaving spindly streaks of foam.

The grace and haunting power of the seagulls who have been flying along with the boat for so many kilometers has made me feel especially landish. A dirt-walker. Or, if you prefer, a street-walker. Just kidding.
I`ve been playing with the idea that humans are these taller versions of legendary dwarves. We mine the earth for whatever sort of treasure is in demand.

"You need a big boat?.... arh, argh, argh!"
"You want to travel fast?...arh argh argh!"
"You want something to entertain you?....arh argh argh"

It´s not a lasting opinion, but a sudden humorous impression I received by comparing myself to the gulls. And I think we can all agree that humans without projects don`t know what to do with themselves.

Arh, argh, argh.

Greetings from the Faroe Islands!

2008-10-14T03:25:00.000-07:00

This is the port in Torshvan at about seven in the morning the day I arrived. The white ship in the backround is the element-defying vessel that brought me these remote Viking islands- The Faroes.

2. At the center of town there is the park with sculptures, boulders, trees, and a stream. I spent a good chunk of time getting lost in it.

3.Ducks enjoyed the many levels of stream leading away from a pond at the park's center. They often seemed to be taking their

naps right at the edge of a miniature waterfall.

4.The first hour of a hike to a town on the other side of the island. The picture looks down at Torshvan. You can see the

farm just before which was a marker of how to find the path. It was a loooong incline...

5. In this sea of rocks and stones, I

needed to keep eyes peeled for particularly man-made-looking piles. This area was especially vague.

6. Upon rounding the noll..... The rough green coat of moss and scrub seemed to go on and on considering the undersized presence of the island.

7. The Rams and Sheep weren't too thrilled by the intrusion. In one village I walked by a cart full of their carcasses. It was quite a surprise at the time.

8.Lots of hardened lava-walls littering the basalt slopes. That is about all I can gather from the geological surveys I tried deciphering.

9.Throne? Toilet? Fire Pit? Wind Shelter? Sheep Spectator Seat? Execution Chair? All of the above?

10.That's where the deceased are said to go to rest.

Just kidding, but, hey, could be nice.

10.A series of rock towers ("cans") leads through the

desert of turf and cloud. I put a bunch of rocks down for everyone. Explained below.

11. This photo was taken just before I started running away from that rain cloud.

12. wait for me sun! Entrancing, though.

13. The next day on a different set of slopes. I took a bus to get there, but the rock-towers were no where to be found. The fog drove me back down eventually.

Saw a number of huge Mountain Hares- and sheep of course. The hares are the size of a small dog. Could kick a bunnie's cotton-tailed butt.

This would be a really harsh place to endure for the Winter months. It just seems to bare and open. The wind is

scalding, Fog thick, and the rain throws fits down sporadically throughout the day. Vikings were made of tough stuff!

It all started Saturday afternoon. I was looking for national parks an

d interesting geographical areas in Norway on the computer. Nicholai would be leaving with the orchestra the following day for a week, and he is not the only one who likes to get around. So, as I zoomed out on the google satellite map, I spotted what looked like a tiny cluster of islands alone in the atlantic between Norway and Iceland. At that moment, Nich came up behind me to ask what I was looking at. The moment he realized, he said quite excite

dly, "That`s where you should go-to the Faroe Islands! There is even a boat that leaves from Bergen."

I had wanted to have some kind of oceanic experience so badly I had been considering offering labor to one of the small fishing boats in the port if they would have me out. The Faroe Island sh

ip (which continues all the way to Iceland) was leaving on Sunday. I was able to walk Nich to his bus, then get on my ship. Perfect.
Of the many special thoughts and observations of the voyage, one would be the comic execution of showering in a rolling and rocking ship. Not only is it incredible to be so very far from a landmass on the ocean in a manmade floating piece of metal, Not slipping in the shower is hard enough without it jumping and pitching underneath oneself. Being surrounded by many kilometers of freezing salt water but having the the luxury of a steaming hot, salt-free shower....It all struck me as incredible. I`d never taken a nice hot shower on a ship in the ocean before.

Torshvan is where I kept a room. The boat unloaded us there at 6:15 this morning. Nothing was even open yet, but I walked around long enough to find the hostel (where I still had to make a reservation) and a tourist information center. The woman there (when they opened) helped me to plan out a day`s hike and book a room at the hostel. I walked around a bit looking for the road out of town, but eventually found myself following a stream into a park at the middle. There were rolling hills of grass and boulders, evergreens and birch. A pond at the center hosted some thirty ducks (one type of which was so unique and unfamiliar to me). I will look it up when I have more than 15 minutes at the library computer. There was also one mammoth swan. Every few minutes people would come and tear whole loaves of bread into pieces for the lucky birds. The town pets.

After having some chips with two Germans and a Frenchman headed to Iceland, I made my way along the main road to one edge of the city. There was a footpath (barely) leading away from the road and up over the basalt slopes. It was basically a legal way of cutting through a dozen different rocky pastures to make a two-hour hike to the town of Kirkjubø. The wind was incredible. It was so ghusty, forcing its way over an unyielding landscape of rocks and turf. The hike, which I started at two, took me until five. Tentative showers passed over at times. Sheep and rams stared me down for minutes before clomping off of the path. The view was spectacular. The Faroe Isalnds are grouped in linear strips. My view showed one island boasting a very pointed mountain with well-bowed slopes. Glaciers....

There were many "cans" or as I know them, "rock towers". They gradually rise whenever a passersby feels inspired to leave a thought or an act behind. I did my part, placing a stone on every tower I passed for all the people in my life who are dear and to whom I am eternally grateful. If you are reading this, I definitely placed a rock and a loving thought down for you. (I was quite thorough). It was a great way to move from tower to tower-floating through loving thoughts as I squelched along.

In October on the Faroe Islands, night fall is around Five oclock. Luckily I made it off the path and was walking on the road by then. The "town" I had made my way to was only a scattered twenty or so grass-covered houses and a church. I didn`t see and buses coming. It was dark and the wind was hurling heavy rain. I had slipped on some mud/ manure(?) so I was already a bit of a wet mess. Really needing for some driver to respond to my raised thumb, three cars passed me unheedingly. The fourth stopped. Young people. Three siblings college to middle shool aged on their way to a family dinner. I asked about the island life and they said that almost everyone knows everybody else (at least by face). The whole country (self-governing apart from Denmark) has only 45,000 people. The three seemed impressed and intrigued to hear that I was from the states. Only a minute or so later did the tenth-grader ask if I was headed back for the election. I told of the absentee ballot system, and they said that there was a similar system for fisherman who couldn`t be at the polls for their elections. I wasn`t expecting people from such a tiny, remote place on earth to be so knowldgeable of politics and world events. I couldn`t have been more wrong. The tenth-grader explained that the islands are so small that there isn`t anything really worth covering for a local paper and everyone reads the international ones. Also he told that since the Faroes are so small compared to all the superpowers of the world and still quite affected by their decisions, they pay extra close attention to how the global political winds blow. I could feel my popularity climb as I said that Obama is our only real hope...the only man for the job running for the job.
I loved listening to and learning from such intelligent young adults. Not that I am no longer one myself.

But seriously, why do Americans still elect assenine and morally corrupt leaders? I can`t reason it out. Forgive it out.

Surprisingly, vegetarianism is cheap here-if you do your own shopping. Fruits and veggies are definitely the cheapest stuff at the market. Brie was also the cheapest cheese, wierd.

Apparently at 8:30 last night, my body was so sore (from hiking and slipping in converse) and spent that I had to sleep. Of course, I woke up at six to lie thinking and read a bit. Breakfast opens at the hostel at 8. So finally when my watch read 8:15, I made my way to the other building where a pretty eatery with crisp pine tables and orchids is clear through large windows.
The owner and his wife were dining. Awkward, I thought. They seemed startled to see me and spoke to eachother confusedly in Faroese. Eventually, they asked if I in fact hadn`t eaten already as breakfast had finished fifteen minutes before. The time was 9:45. Turns out that my watch is messed up. I explained that I must still be on Norwegian time (an hour later) but now I realize that that doesn`t even make sense. I am going to have to set my camera or something if I am to make it anywhere on time. They were graceous, though, and allowed me to eat and drink at my own pace.

The sun is shining. Weather is definitely a moment-to-moment occurence here. I`m sure all the local meterologists go insane because they can`t ever get it right. Either that or they tell everyone over the one radio station to "SEE FOR YOURSELVES". I`ve got to catch a bus for some more hiking.
Much love to everyone!!
Dwell well!

Don't Delay, Pick Hips Today!!!

2008-10-04T08:33:00.000-07:00

Deliciously tart and sweet. A syrup from Rose hips. I made some yesterday. This is the time of year when all those good-looking rose bushes reveal a bit of substance.....

The red, bulbous "haws" which replace deceased rose blossoms contain 20 times the vitamin C of oranges. Try eating twenty handfuls of orange vs. one of rose hip (or just drink some canned, I mean cartoned O.J.). But even if rose hips had half of the vitamin C of an orange, they would still make a more delicious syrup! People have been gathering and preparing rose hips for ages. Even during WWII (when produce was scarce) tons of haws were collected by civilians to keep Britain healthy.

Regardless of their historical merit, these firm, cherry-tomato-like seed packages are fun to harvest and even more so to transform (without cost) into a sumptuous goo for pancakes, waffles, icing, or any sugar-snack recipe. I was actually surprised at how yummy the syrup is. Most distinct.

If anyone would care to take advantage of the neighborhood haws while they are available (Sept-Oct), this is the recipe I used. It is from another site. I preferred it because it involved less work.

Rose Hip Syrup

1. pick hips (at least a 1/2 cup)

2. trim ends

3. boil for 2o minutes with lid with around three times water as hip.

4. mash with potato masher about 5 min. before taking it off the heat.

5. Strain through a thick cloth. Catch juice. I used an old linen pillow case. Double a thinner fabric. The object is to remove the seeds and the fine, sharp hairs on them. This is an important step because the hairs are no good to ingest. I strained it once, no problem.

6. Add sugar until taste is satisfactory. Usually around one equal part. I did 2/3's of that.

7. Keep in fridge.

8. I believe it lasts a week unless it is canned properly. Then it will last a year.

I used it in icing for cupcakes the other day. Delicious! Apparently, "cupcake" is an American word. The British call them "fairy cakes". So, I won't be making them any more.

Nicholai's beer is a great success. He even made labels for it. It is trademarked "Bobas' Bodacious Bergen Brew". A light beer. Good with a lime.

Everyday I read or search the web, stroll up the mountain to see flowers and grasses growing upside down or slugs riding mushrooms, and practice.

Today I will be thinking up a subject to habitually touch on in the blog. Perhaps a feature per post on a certain tree, plant, or bird I come across that demands consideration. I would like to expand my knowledge of the local ecology. Hopefully, some of you are with me on this:-)

In any case, apologies for the slow pace of getting posts out there. A snail has escaped in our apartment. So I have been distracted.

Until the next, dwell well!

She's got her head in the clouds!

2008-09-29T09:03:00.000-07:00

Towards the end of our winding, rock-riddled ascent, an unspoken agreement was made. Every twenty feet or so there would be a short mandatory break from hoisting and heaving ourselves upwards to lean exhaustedly against the nearest boulder or tree. Young clouds raced by us and around the 2 million-year-old fjords, independent of the more mature condensations far above to whom we owed the steady down-pour. At the beginning of the climb, every new and interesting flower received adulations of intense study and a "head-shot" with Nicholai's camera. I wanted to look them up afterwards so that my guide wouldn't need to enter the rain and a forever warped thereafter.

After three hours without sight of our evening's shelter, however, the flowers all started to look essentially the same and all too dribbling with wetness to be of importance. Nicholai's great find in the water-proof jacket department of the Salvation Army in Bergen turned out not to be so water-proof or great. His two cotton hoodies didn't serve him so well underneath it, either. So, by the time we spotted the two little huts "Flatbrehytta"(from a sharp bend at the end of a gruelling incline and the entrance to a hidden glacier valley) he could hardly contain his excitement; neither could I.

We were both soaked to the skin and frozen to the bone. My hands were still semi-operable, but lighting a fire took real doing. With numb and shaky hands, it was difficult to gage my grip on the matches, so I kept either dropping them or snapping them in half as I scratched them to life. Eventually, however, the virtues of a candle, dry birch-bark, and splintered logs redeemed our deadened fingers and toes with a toasty fire in the stove.

The hut was as charmingly rustic as one could desire. It was equipt with

net-fulls of well-travelled chopped wood, containers

of sugar, instant coffee, plates and mugs, utensils, and other cookware for the mini wood stove. The huts were said to sleep 18 but seemed much more compact than such a boast would insinuate. No

one was there, and I hoped that we would see nightfall without any other arrivals. It would have been quite cramped considering the bad weather and our wet clothes occupying all the other fireside seating. The hut next to the one where we warmed-up and slept was probably half of the size and constructed of piled stones -definitely from the immediate landscape. (There is a picture on this post of me standing in front of it with the elusive "Flatbreen" glacier in the backdrop). The bunks within it hinged out from the walls. For some sick reason, I fantasized a lot as a kid of sleeping on a wooden-board like one of those. If it had a taller door, I'm sure an ogre or troll would have taken up residence. That evening, as our soaking clothes quietly dried, candles flickered, rain turned to snow, and the glacier behind us sat reminiscing back to its mountain-slaking glory days.

When we woke up the following morning,

the mountains had changed aspect. They were now snow-capped. There was also a dense, intermittent "fog" (which was actually a series of clouds engulfing our altitude). The glacier, which we had planned to visit, was no longer locatable. We walked in the direction we had seen it the day before, but the cloud bank left us stupified....either that or the "glacier" had actually been the ABOMINABLE SNOWMAN!

For moments of zen: a secluded out house in a rock-garden of mammoth proportions........Soon before I wiped out.....

The idea of looking for the glacier as the snow covered the trail and the mist did our eyes seemed overwhelmingly silly. So, we turned back to the hut. How wild that such an immense thing could so easily disappear into a cloud! And if a huge glacier could vanish, two little people would be majorly screwed. We saw a different "tounge" of glacier from a different place that we drove to on our way back to Bergen.

The different grasses, mosses, mushrooms, flowers, and trees that grew were diverse and lovely. Ferns were dying back with the approach of winter. Some were already blood red, but many in the process of losing their green had turned butter-yellow. They speckled the slopes along with yellow aster tripolium, blue harebells (campanula rotundifolia)baby birches, and bilberry bushes. Birches and Spruces stuck with their own. Often, pure stands of each would be arbitered by the trail through the woods towards the bottom of the mountains.

The surrounding countryside of Fjaerland, Norway consisted of pasture with grazing animals, old barns, bales of covered hay, and humble houses.

What a truly stunning place! Too bad it doesn't exist.

P.S. Apologies for the small size of the images, couldn't figure it out this time. They are all at Nicholai's photo posting on Flickr, though. But, be warned: I just went to it and there are way too many of just me. Should have brought my own camera, I suppose....

http://www.flickr.com/photos/23001798@N05/sets/72157607566074010/show/

Run, the Logistics are coming!!!

2008-09-25T07:06:00.000-07:00

Rather than go to Italy, Nick and I are heading to pay our respects to a glacier in Northern Norway. "Jostedal" located within the Jotunheimen National Park. Apparently, "we will get to Italy". I am happy with flora, fauna, cliffs, mountains, valleys, and sheets of ice myself. So, this trip should be great.

Today I made a visit to the Bergen Cultural History Museum. Admition for students is free. There were a few interesting exhibits. The Stone Age, The Viking Age, and Church Art. At first I thought that the Stone Age exhibit was the Viking exhibit, and I was slightly disappointed with the amount of artifacts there were (mostly flint and slate blades with some carved stone club-ends. A few arrow heads mounted on traditionally constructed arrows). It seemed that the country from which most Vikings originated should boast a more formidable display of the latest Viking hardware and accessories. I soon realized, however, that the display items I was looking at were of the Stone Age- hailing from around 12,000 years prior to me instead of a mere Viking 1,000. The Viking exhibit was very interesting. Big plunderers, Sea-farers, traders, hunters, metal-workers. The Viking women worked looms and made fabics....that would take me a long time to figure out!

I somehow forgot that Leif Ericsson was the first European to reach the shores of the North American Coast. Why didn't we ever get out of school on his birthday?

The Christian art exhibit was dark and troubling. Much of the art was very impressive, though. Almost all churches in Norway up until the 16th century were wrought out of wood. Imagine a somewhat smallish cathedral complete with celtic carvings on every square inch of its surface and constructed entirely with massive slabs of wood. Hopefully, I will see some "staves" as they are called and which still stand in certain places this weekend. The rest of the Christian art was slightly depressing. Saints getting martyred. The frowns and sickly pale complexions of Clerics and Bishops captured eternally by paintings and "antiquities". How was this religious culture enlivening? Was life so bad back in the 900's AD that people could be convinced about the post- mortem rewards for following orders and fearing "judgement" by a bunch of tip-toeing sour-pusses with a foreign text? Not completely, we know how much some Christians cared for others' well-being- in the "after-life". So much, it was worth killing for at times.

Anyway, do we really need a middle man for being good? A reward other than the faith we give to ourselves when we make the world a little better for somebody or something else? Do we need to fear the consequences of being bad to do the opposite? That would be depressing....

Jesus was a good person. Why do good things always go bad?

Aaaaah, the logistical need for rain pants is coming. It is supposed to rain all weekend, and we have major trails to make. The Salvation Army is closing in 30 minutes. Got to Runnnnnn!

Bergen, the Imaginary Place......

2008-09-19T10:15:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone,

I was just thinking to myself that perhaps there are some readers under the impression that Bergen, Norway is a real place-that is exists at all. If this is so, allow me to apologize for having lead you astray. Bergen, as a F.A.C.T. (false asserted claim trick) exists on the coast of Norway, but not actually. Actually, it is an imaginary place. Entirely fabricated. What I mean to say is that just because Bergen is one of the most amazing places to live in the world- doesn't make it real enough for other people to explore;-). It can be our imaginary secret. So just remember, all this hype is conceived in delerium.
It seems that the most common bird here is the Hooded Crow (corvus cornix). I am not used to their commonness yet as every time I see one land in a tree or flutter its wings on the pavement, it strikes me as a rare and special event. They are so singular because their coloration is much more interesting than a pidgeon's or the American Crow's (Corvus Brachyrhynchos~come again?). The Hooded Crow dons a greyish/whitish cape extending through its wings. So the b&w contrast can be a real eye-catcher. While looking around for this radical little flesh-monger on the net, I discovered that there is a wonderfully clear example of evolution taking place here in Europe which will soon determine the fate of the Corvus Cornix.

You see, both the Hooded Crow and the Carrion Crow are common throughout segregated parts of Europe. No-not places where people are segregated. The Hooded Crow and the Carrion Crow mysteriously inhabit separate territories. These birds, however, are the same in almost every way and were mistaken for years to be exactly the same race. There has not been found any inherent advantage one race of these crows has over the other within the varying temperatures and terrains they inhabit, but they are gradually ousting one another from certain places (and food sources). The great article I found is at www.bbc.co.uk/dna/h2g2/A3347093
It all boils down to the theory/ truism that "no two species can coexist indefinitely on the same limiting resource". This is the Law of Exclusion as generalized by Gause. First of all, generalizations are great. Aren't they Mr. Harvey? Or is it philosophizing? I forget. But this (macho-voice , please) "LAW of EXCLUSION" is intriguing. Does this apply to people of different ethical strains? If both a destructive and wasteful race of person must inhabit the same place and consume from the same cache of resources as the fair and kind race, is the latter doomed? This has been an absorbing wonder of mine for a while. One can only care so much either way, because no species seems to be permanent. But, what, if anything, could there be for us average joe-hippies to do and better our odds? Is selfishness like a weed that we were born near to and need to pull out every so often? Or are some people just born as weeds. (Alright, weeds aren't all that bad. I don't mind them, actually. Parasitic vines and stuff are pretty creepy, though). Just read that article. That is some interesting stuff.

Bergen, exists in a cloud bank. The green mountains reach up from the towns' mix of both timeless and modern urbanities with real pride. No distant sillouettes here. The houses and streets cling to the mountains. The mountain clings to the trees, and the clouds come as close as they dare without falling down.

It has drizzled every day so far. Feels like Ireland. I like it, and was able to Convince some people in the orchestra last night that it was a real mystical environment. At least, thinking of it that way is a lot better than thinking every day's parade has been ruined.

Now, for the most important thing to note for today. This is very serious. I have not made an announcement like this in a very long time, and I do make a habit of pretty insane announcements.

There is a new band on the scene. Their music was playing in a bar the other night. It was instantly wonderful. It sounds like Brian Wilson/ the moody blues/ and pure magic. Honestly, these guys are a beach boy sham. Nothing very new, but no one else is writing music like this anymore. The idea of seeing this type of music live will keep me up at night. The music is flipping insane. My opinion of it is so high that it could make me cry while listening. The lead singer's voice is very effective. Firm, not too silvery, but emotional. The band name is stupid. And the type of music they claim to make-how they genrify-is lame. But the music, the music is unreal. Dad, Nicola, Charles, Bri-----they are a must. Go to itunes/ the library asap. (once again, not a sponsored plug....)

They are
"Fleet Foxes". Check them out now. If I am the last to know about them, that figures. But, now you know what I have been listening to over and over in Bergen. Aspiring to make similar music.

Lots of Love to everyone!

Places we go for love

2008-09-17T00:43:00.000-07:00

Norway has been tracked down (I only arrived by train from Sweden this morning). My roundabout travels to Norway began with a flight out of Philadelphia with a skull-scratchingly cheap stand-by ticket from a good neighbor/ pilot extraudinaire in New Jersey, General Larry Thomas. Thanks so much, Larry!! The flight took me to Stockholm, Sweden.

I met a nice man on the plane named Charles. He was an ex-republican turned "Omnivore's Dilemma" recommender and Obama supporter. This is reassuring. He knew a lot about Chemistry and Economics and must have overestimated how well I could keep up with his discourses. It was pleasant to converse with someone possessing so well-developed specific and general assessment abilities. Learning unintentionally is always a thrill.

Too much on that, anyway. I carefully (and painfully-with a smorgasboard of cumbrous carry-on) selected a bottle of Scotch for the man lending me a bass in Bergen while at the duty-free in Philly. Prices on booze in Norway are sinful. I managed to get the paper bag to the baggage claim in Stockholm, only to forget it on the floor after I ran to get my suitcase. Someone should be feeling fairly lucky (and toasted) right about now. However, it irks me that someone must have seen me walking airily away from the lone satchel. Why did no one grab my arm or whistle and point me back? Luck-grubbers!

Stockholm was much too big to cover in an afternoon. I had from 9:00 to 16:00 before I would be boarding my first train for Bergen. I stored my things in a locker. The "Old City" of Stockholm reminded me of Quebec City. It has similar touristic art galleries and souvenir shops lining the narrow cobbled lanes. I find that the cobbled alleys in Bergen are just as enchanting-with less schmultz to historically distance them.
Walked through a church cemetery and felt extremely conflicted upon seeing a man with a very nasty gash on his forehead and fresh-looking rivulets of blood flowing down his face. He was sitting quite placidly on a bench. I did not go up to him to help in some way because I would have been the ideal victim for any desperate attempt to rob or somehow malign. That is rubbish in my opinion, but I would have hated to prove right the many forewarners of my life by putting myself in harm's way. I hate doubting people as a general rule, though. His head was messed up, and I wasn't scared of him-so why the heck not be a "good samaritan". Damn, I only just saw that connection. Maybe we should never second-guess our sympathies unless we wish to dwell in fear and distrust (and hipocracy) our whole lives.
I bought some beautiful old posters of Swedish Wildflower educational tools. They will look beautiful all over a bedroom and on the ceiling. I won't be able not to learn something if it is repeatedly the first thing I see every morning. And what a lovely subject to think of first in the morning.

The train from Stockholm to Oslo was the best experience I've ever had on a railway. The cars were from the sixties, but renovated to work and look like new. The interior was paneled completely with pretty wood. The windows opened (which anyone who knows me can appreciate on my behalf-I hate getting hot). There were private compartments like on the Orient or Hogwarts Express, except not one other person occupied the same train car with me. The whole train seemed completely empty. It was high-speed and made no noise. Even when I opened the window the only sound was a whoosh of air and leaves being swept aside. No clickety-clack. No chugging. The arms of the seats folded back to create as much space as needed, and the bathrooms weren't odorous. There was no obnoxious loud speaker. It was punctual. I bought my student-rate ticket on board from the conductor with a card.
Please, understand that I have ridden more trains than anyone else you or I know. I only just learned to drive. But there has never been a comparison to that train. How can I go back to NJtransit without wincing, and how are there not more trains like that one!!?? This was not a sponsored blog or anything. I really fell in love with that train!! (unionsexpressen.com). Of course, the scenery was also superb.

I arrived at the Oslo train station at 22:00 to wait for my next train departing an hour+ later. There seemed to be an abundance of pickpockets there. While trying to print my reserved train ticket at a machine, it suddenly happened that three foreign men were all busily occupied in overly dramatic cell phone conversations just two feet away. Their number mysteriously increased as they closed in on me in the near-empty arena of a train station. There were other people about, but the size of the station made the men's proximity all too suspicious (and annoying). I conspicuously gripped the mouth of my purse with a muscled jaw and fury radiating peripherally from my eyes, hoping to express "Get lost, vile larceners!" with every part of my body. I was about to kick all of their asses (or get totally burglarized) when they dispersed. What can I say (you don't want to meet me in a dark alley)? I have overly developed jaw-muscles from too much tension while playing bass? My haircut makes me look tough? It's all true!
But I really don't like sneaky, greasy thugs. Who wouldn't appreciate the opportunity to step heavily on their feet?

Otherwise, people in Scandinavia were the exact opposite-most courteous and helpful. Once I got my mouth to start articulating a question, they responded immediately with whatever answer or assistance they could muster. When I asked a train conductor if there was any drinking water on the train, he said "come with me" and lead me through four cars of sleeping people to the conductor's car where he opened an "employees only" door and gave me a bottle from a case obviously meant for "employees". That was so amazing to me. Does anyone know another conductor/ railway employee who wouldn't just answer "nope"?
I only received poor directions once, and I should have known better because she "didn't understand maps" and told me to "just go that way"-which of course was the completely wrong way to go.

It was seven hours and forty-six minutes before Nicholai's kiss, a glass of water, a shower, a cup of coffee, a change of clothes, and another kiss when I wrote most of this on the midnight train to Bergen. Now I have had all that and more. I'll be going to buy some tacks for these posters now. Don't worry, there are wide framing margins. Take care, everyone and thanks for giving me a reason to get all this in writing.
xoxoxo

The Long, Congested Road

2008-09-12T19:25:00.000-07:00

Seven hours is what I spent driving yesterday from Boston to NYC. The mysterious three extra hours were added by extra-terrestrial congestants. Stupid traffic. Traffic that would seem pointless. traffic for traffic's sake.

It occurred to me as I sat for hours in the fog of environmental delinquency that such traffic happens all over the world-all the time.It happens on dirt roads to nowhere, but it also happens in "the greatest cities in the world". It happens at predicted places,for predictable stretches of road. So, without intending to initiate any logistical brainstorm, (though, if anyone has any systems engineering know-how-to, be my guest)isn't it strange that our cars aren't routinely clicked together and steadily drawn through congested areas (like a train)?

...

Even with all of my clever, dead-end ideas, today I was still unable to scrape by a parked car's bumper without leaving it a little "bent out of shape". No one ever warned me about the slanted parking spaces that one should only pull into from the gentler side. Nor was I informed that scraping and bending another bumper makes the same amount of noise as not scraping and bending one. Perhaps, the loud squealing and grinding which occurs when one "can't park" only ever existed in my imagination. But, today the damage was done without a sound. I would have heard it with my open windows ....

(So,If one car scrapes another car in the forest and no one is around to hear it, then would it make a sound?)

Yes, the best idea yet would be for me to learn how to drive. I know. But, maybe as a "#2", after that, car manufacturers could design a lego-like bumper. The bonked places could simply fall off to be replaced by other inexpensive duplicates.

One could walk into any evil department store and say "Uh, Yea, I need a Rear #3 bumper chunk." The front and rear bumpers could be split up into 10 sections. #3 could be the third from the left. It could only cost twenty dollars or so,...

Manufacturers could even be so kind as to make these bumper replacement chunks universal.

Alas, such ideas are bad for the economy. And anyway, the angry old man has grandsons who may be able to unbump the bumper back into its original hump.

First Impressions

2008-09-10T22:15:00.000-07:00

So,

Setting up a blog to keep you co-bottomdwellers up to date took about one minute. Packing shall recommence at 1:26 AM (once this entry is over). As it is, the rubble of misplaced clothes all over my floor disguises the feat of Organization I accomplished earlier today . "This comes/ this goes". It packs down to what kind of person I want to be in Norway. A person with this here stuff, or that.

Went to the Arnold Arboretum today with Mal. Wine and leaf-screened sunlight must coexist in heaven. I also waved at a friendly looking girl in the car next to us today. She smiled. Then I suddenly thought that she rolled down her window to say something, so I lowered mine, but Mal then informed me it had been open the whole time and that I'm "weird". Well, it's only 1:21. I'm better at this than I thought. The next message will type itself from within all the glory of Norway and smooch intermission.

In evolutionary solidarity,

Pidge