Saturday, November 18, 2006


I'm longing to be back home, where my two parents are struggling bravely towards the ends of their lives. No one can really imagine what they have to deal with these days.
I should be there all the time to ease their burdens.
Then again when I'm staying in my bedchamber where I grew up, where sorrows became hope, where a bud developed into ripe fruit, I miss my daughter and my husband and the surroundings of the home that we have created.
I need to spend as much time with them as possible before my daughter is going to try her wings in strange towns, finding her paths in life.
I am blessed though, to have friends who will always be there, when I have an hour or an evening to spare.
Guess I am blessed and should not complain at all.
I just need the day to last for 48 hours.
That's all.

Friday, November 17, 2006


Å skrive på data er mer forgjengelig enn livet selv.
Er jeg heldig, varer maskinen i fem år, og nåde meg om jeg ikke har backup på ekstern harddisk.
Jesus skrev i sanden, mens han ventet på at mobben skulle falle til ro. Det var horkvinnens liv det gjalt.
"Hva skrev han?" spurte Sigurd Hoel.
Mine forfedre risset runer i stein. Det er et mektig syn, selv for den som ikke kan kodespråket.
Men skrive i luft med tallene 0 og 1?
Min lit står til sommerfugl effekten.

Thursday, November 16, 2006


New wrapping, worse shit.
I simply cannot find myself on the internet anymore.
I've been forced to accept terms I dislike to be able to continue blogging.
I lost more than 400 old blogs when I was working with changing to the new address.
And now I have lost my way home.
Mother, please help me, before I break my laptop to pieces.

Monday, November 13, 2006

Woke up at three o'clock sharp. The television was about to call it a night in front of my closed eyes. I stared into the fading blue screen, wide awake. Turned aroud. No husband. He was probably safely snoring away down below.
Our tenant was busy going to and fro for an hour or so, ringling with his keys, opening his car, his front door, his loo. The storm was even more disturbing, rattling dead leaves about in the frontyard, shaking the tree's branches against the wall. Noises in the attick. Were mice holding a Thanksgiving feast over my head?
Three books in my bed, "The dark heart of Italy", "Bitch" and "Bestseller" failed to distrackt my thoughts from the uneasy present.
Tried my oldest trick: Which outfit to wear for the morning event. I composed three variations: Black high heeled boots, bluejeans, black wool jumper, long ivory pearl necklace, black and white blazer and a light black velvet cape with matching leather gloves and a big Mulberry copy bag to go. Black and white tweed cap topping the costume. Notice, I have not described underwear. Similar work in dark brown leather shades and finally the favourite based on my rich camelhaired cappuccino overcoat.
My brain was overheated, would not, could not relax.
The light on and off, into the kitchen for a banana, in case I unawaringly should be hungry.
Bach organ playing comfortly on the radio. At least three Pater Nosters.
No sleep, no order in my head, just a merry-go-round of unimportant details not to be forgotten.
All because I am to be escorting my mother to hospital in less than two hours.
Wish us luck

Den som mater sjelen, går aldri sulten, sier Mr. Lee.
Vann klarer hjernen, siterer min far.
For mye er nesten nok, skrev Anne B Ragde.
Dette var mitt Waterloo, men jeg er ikke Napoleon, ler datter Serina.
Du er en visuell eksplosjon, fastslår pappa G.
Det blir 'kje mye gjort av den kånå di, sukker jeg etter en time med Snood. -Nei, du e ei løvinna onner treet, sukker gubben.

"For gamle til pc og internett? Det er jo min generasjon som har funnet opp begge deler," fastslår Gunnar indignert.