I DON'T WANT TO SAY GOODBYE

This has definitely been a season when I have learned to seize the moment. Midst in storm, rain, family losses, illness and terror on Norwegian soil, I have had wonderful hours of beauty, sun and tranquillity. More than any-time before I value everyday life, with all its blessings and wonders. Like these double soapwort plants I learned to know for the first time, at our favourite beach on the island. The bouquet was lying on my side of the dashboard as we were leaving after a relaxing afternoon. They smell wonderfully,- like soap and I am now waiting for the flowers to set seed for my herb garden next year.

Painting white houses and red boathouses is an unwritten rule all along the coastline. The old fishermen and farmers also had an eye for beauty. Here at a pit stop on the long, but unique road from my Mom to Haugesund.

Late evenings and spectacular sundowns are Nordic summer specials. Who on earth would want to go to bed while the nature is playing its colourful summer rhapsodies?

Or when the silvery moon tells secrets from faraway solar systems to the sea and the wind in the dark, velvet nights.

Daughter Serina is fading away from a turbulent summer to her last semester at Volda. She had to grow up in a hurry, working for the second largest TV network in Norway the weeks around 7.22.
She will be doing fine. God bless her and protect her on her 12 hour long road trip which she's about to embark on, while I am writing.



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AMIDALA, THE QUEEN OF CATS

Our Queen Amidala isn't happy at all. She has given birth to five beautiful kittens this spring. After 8 weeks of struggling to become a good mother, her kittens were given to three good homes.
As a "reward", Amidala was castrated, and totally confused when the tomcats began pieing and mewing again. She fought them all back from her territory with great skill and courage.
She and Serina bonded easily when the latter came home for a short vacation . Then it was crying time again, Serina packed all night while the rain was pouring down.
At 6 in the morning we were exhausted and decided to get some sleep, while Amidala went out to do whatever cats do at that time of day. It was still damp and wet all over the terrace and garden. Can't you hear her complaining ; "I am not amused."

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High Summer

Somehow the lavender has had a good summer. Maybe because it's a late bloomer?

The chives are still alive and kicking, even after the hardest snail attack.
My rhubarb has not been harvested. I need something rich to look at.
The thyme is barely alive after king winter's gruesome garden slaugther in March.
Black frost is lethal this far north. The red currants are about to ripen.

Today's the third sunny day in a row. Record. A bit cold though, I've got to wear my garden gnom jacket about 8 p.m. The black currants are also looking promising.

The table is made by Gunnar and has endured 18 Nordic outdoor winters.
Now it's serving wine and roses.

ALL PHOTOS BY GUNNAR.

She's standing by the rhododendrons
Where the roses are in bloom
Looking out at the Atlantic ocean
And in her head she hums this tune

Thank God the dark nights are drawing in again
cos high summer has got me down
Can we wait till the end of august
And get off this merry-go-round

I don't agree with Van Morrison, but I kind of like his words & music.

Ruby Shipwreck

We haven't had much of a summer so far. About averagely 50 Fahrenheit degrees in June and 200 % more rain than normal. We normally have our fair share of rain anyway.
This dark red boat has stranded in an ocean of flowers blowing in the wind.
The prognosis for July hasn't improved.
The water magazines are full, so we can supply sunny, southern Europe with cheap renewable power.
Renewable being the key word.
There's more rain to come.
Happy summer to those who have one.
Also; happy 4th of July to my American friends.




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Midsummer with Serina

This evening we went out to revisit places from Serina's childhood.
The pictures are fresh from the oven. Shot just two hours ago.


I cannot name the midsummer bouquet in English. The red one is called St. Hans flower, equinox flower, in Norwegian. There's also Valerian root, which smells so wonderfully, and is said to turn around midsummer night.


At Aksnes beach; Serina is picking sea shells where we let her meet the sea for the first time 22 years ago.

Midsummer meadow; or angel meadow, as the Swede poet Taube called it.
The time is about 23 b.m. and the sun is setting.


Lifeline by the beach.

Red clovers growing by the beach.

St. Hans flower also close to the salty waters.


Sea weed


Lobster


Dusk after sundown.


North west dusk

It's dark and just a few meters from home.
A deer calf is out seeking for water; bad, but rare shot.

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Dandelion

I love this poem by Inger Hagerup about dandelions.

This is how lives go
To the dandelions now as then;
They start as fire, turn into snow,
And end like old, bald men.

Translated by Felisol

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Blonde Midsummer Midnight

This picture was taken after midnight just a few days ago.
Gunnar and I had been staying with my mother for awhile and were on our way back home as my brother came to stay with Mom.
We were exhausted, and when the crib is empty, the horses bite.

Luckily we stopped at a gas station for some fast relief food, and suddenly we became aware of the other reality, the wonderful, so very young and alive summer night around us.
We jumped out of the car for some photo shoots and I was allowed to capture some of the Nordic magic for some split seconds.
My inner gas tank was refuelled.

This morning I woke far to early to do anything useful.
I decided to look up my dear blog friends, one after another.
Now my soul and heart are refuelled too. Seldom have I read so much good, "written just for me". Thanks for being out there, dear friends, for pouring out of your inner riches. It's like sending bread on the water. This morning I have had a heavenly meal.

LILACS THROUGH THE WINDOW

The green leaves of the tall lilac tree are sprouting even before the birch.
In nature it's the ones who come first that leave last.
Outside our kitchen window, where we are eating our meals, drinking hot, stimulating coffee and reading our local paper, the lilacs have been blossoming for a month now.
That's how we know summer is here.
Outdoors the thermometer has shown 46 degrees the entire month f May.
Same temperature as in November..
The lilacs haven't let us down.
They are the thermometer of our souls.
They bring true summer joy.

Ruby Tuesday and The Lotus Eaters #7

This is a Standing stone, marking a slate grave from the time, when the druid cult was dominant in our neighborhood. The photo was taken shortly before sundown a week ago. A burnt down church can be spotted in the background.
The standing stones are also known for being phallic symbols. Wow, our landscape are full of them.
The Ulysses also has many sexual references, some placed there by James Joyce, even more found and interpreted by students of literature.
Sexuality is what makes generations coming and going.
As long as it's not obscene or exploiting, I see nothing wrong in that.




The chapter called "Lotus Eaters" is amongst others about escapism.
Also it is about entheology; meaning what's making God to be inside a person.
This may refer to plants or substances eaten by ancient religious people in order to come close to divinity.
Our Christian Holy communion is in Bloom's world, (and in fact also in the Christian's), eating the body of Christ and drinking his blood, our mysterious way of keeping this connection with the Holy. It would have been easier, and less offensive, celebrating Christ in a more"normal" way, with prayers, even dressed in ashes and sacks. However, this is God's way of letting us know how small we are, and how powerful he is..

Leopold Bloom's in particular; in this chapter he literally is walking in a circle, never getting any of his small errands thoroughly done.
I've had those nightmares myself, feels like walking in syrup, hardly moving at all.
Thinking about it, I've been doing the sleep walk, while seemingly awake, but never seeming to get anywhere. "Life is something happening, while you're busy making other plans."

The lotus eaters of Homer gave Odysseus' men lotus petals to eat, and thus made them forget that their aim was sailing to their homeland, Ithaca.
To Leopold Bloom the lotus is a narcotic substance; a cigar is mentioned.

Bloom is a Jew, but not kosher, when it comes to eating.
In this chapter he casually enters a church, and watch from outside the congregation receiving the holy communion.His mind is swirling around, half critically, half indifferently. He has many accurate observations, but somehow he constantly avoids getting deeper engaged.
He's not superficial; he's confused, procrastinating, walking the whole circle through, many question asked, no answers given so far.

From Lotus Eaters:
"The cold smell of sacred stone called him. He trod the worn steps, pushed the swing door and entered softly by the rere.

Something going on: some sodality. Pity so empty. Nice discreet place to be next to some girl. Who is my neighbor? Jammed by the hour to slow music. That woman at midnight mass. Seventh heaven. Women knelt in the benches with crimson halters round their necks, heads bowed. A batch knelt at the altar rails. The priest went along by them, murmuring, holding the thing in his hands. He stopped at each, took out a communion, shook a drop or two (are they in water?) off it and put it neatly into her mouth. Her hat and head sank. Then the next one: a small old woman. The priest bent down to put it into her mouth, murmuring all the time. Latin. The next one. Shut your eyes and open your mouth. What? Corpus. Body. Corpse. Good idea the Latin. Stupefies them first. Hospice for the dying. They don't seem to chew it; only swallow it down. Rum idea: eating bits of a corpse why the cannibals cotton to it.

He stood aside watching their blind masks pass down the aisle, one by one, and seek their places. He approached a bench and seated himself in its corner, nursing his hat and newspaper. These pots we have to wear. We ought to have hats modeled on our heads. They were about him here and there, with heads still bowed in their crimson halters, waiting for it to melt in their stomachs. Something like those mazzoth: it's that sort of bread: unleavened shew bread. Look at them. Now I bet it makes them feel happy. Lollipop. It does. Yes, bread of angels it's called. There's a big idea behind it, kind of kingdom of God is within you feel. First communicants. Hokypoky penny a lump. Then feel all like one family party, same in the theater, all in the same swim. They do. I'm sure of that. Not so lonely. In our confraternity. Then come out a big spreeish. Let off steam. Thing is if you really believe in it. Lourdes cure, waters of oblivion, and the Knock apparition, statues bleeding. "
(James Joyce)

I find no mocking in it; just the eternal wondering, twisting and turning and triple bottoms.
I guess, one finds, what one is looking for most of the time.
"Search and you shall find," Jesus said.

Originated by MaryT, check hers for today

Bloomsday & Calypso #6

16th of June 1904, the day author James Joyce realized he was in love with Nora Barnacle, is the specific day the novel Ulysses is revolving about.
For years it has been celebrated as Bloomsday in Ireland.

But, hey, that's today. Happy Bloomsday everyone!
A whole nation celebrating a novel, where else can that happen than on the isle named Erin.
The rest of the world still shrugging their shoulders and calling the novel difficult or advanced.

Enter: Leopold Bloom/aka Stephen Daedalus/aka Ahasverus/aka Odysseus/aka James Joyce.
Once one has accepted this; the necessity of any Irishman to talk metaphorically, not to get executed as a rebel.
Twisting and turning words and sentences in and out of context, till everything seems to have a triple bottom became Joyce's specialty and the master degree of hundreds of literature students.
The newborn science of psychology, the Darwinism, the philosophers on the continent going in different directions, the streams of contradictions in music, painting, the revolution of natural, physics and chemistry sciences, even fashion changed dramatically. The Church and the British regime were the conservative and often threatening elements in this melting pot of a new world emerging.
Midst in this James Joyce, aka Leopold Bloom, is falling head over heals in love. He and his Nora, aka Molly should stay together for the rest of their lives.
This, and any Irishman's deep double bound love/hate for his homeland,
is skillfully woven into this dinosaur novel.
The great lines painted with a thick brush and beautiful or harsh details carefully engraved with a silver needle.


Calypso,
the name of a sea goddess in Greek mythology, is the title of chapter II.
According to Homer Calypso held Odysseus captured for seven years, before Athene managed to free him and send him home to his beloved Penelope.
To Leopold Bloom this morning is a contradiction of feeding the cat, making breakfast, thinking politics, (the home-rule sun is going up in north WEST behind the shut down Irish Parliament, now Bank of Ireland), waiting upon his beloved Molly, going to the outhouse, listen to the church bells and discussing transmigration of souls.
I'd like to share the cat feeding sequence with you.


"Cup of tea soon. Good. Mouth dry. The cat walked stiffly round a leg of the table with tail on high.

-- Mkgnao!

-- O, there you are, Mr Bloom said, turning from the fire.

The cat mewed in answer and stalked again stiffly round a leg of the table, mewing. Just how she stalks over my writing-table. Prr. Scratch my head. Prr.

Mr Bloom watched curiously, kindly, the lithe black form. Clean to see: the gloss of her sleek hide, the white button under the butt of her tail, the green flashing eyes. He bent down to her, his hands on his knees.

-- Milk for the pussens, he said.

-- Mrkgnao! the cat cried.

They call them stupid. They understand what we say better than we understand them. She understands all she wants to. Vindictive too. Wonder what I look like to her. Height of a tower? No, she can jump me.

-- Afraid of the chickens she is, he said mockingly. Afraid of the chookchooks. I never saw such a stupid pussens as the pussens.

Cruel. Her nature. Curious mice never squeal. Seem to like it.

-- Mrkrgnao! the cat said loudly.

She blinked up out of her avid shameclosing eyes, mewing plaintively and long, showing him her milkwhite teeth. He watched the dark eyeslits narrowing with greed till her eyes were green stones. Then he went to the dresser, took the jug Hanlon's milkman had just filled for him, poured warmbubbled milk on a saucer and set it slowly on the floor.

-- Gurrhr! she cried, running to lap.

He watched the bristles shining wirily in the weak light as she tipped three times and licked lightly. Wonder is it true if you clip them they can't mouse after. Why? They shine in the dark, perhaps, the tips. Or kind of feelers in the dark, perhaps.

He listened to her licking lap."
James Joyce

My ruby summer #5

My ruby summer has been great so far. Enjoying the company of Serina and Gunnar.
Lazy days at the beach, reading Ulysses and taking sunbaths.
I even managed to fall asleep for an hour, and got a ruby back side.
The water is barely 50 Fahrenheit degrees, so I'm only dipping my toes.
We saw several people - and dogs taking a plunge into the water.
Real vikings.

Originated by MaryT, check hers for today

Proteus, god of the sea.#4

Leora challenged me, and I think Raven in her polite and cautious way tried to warn me, but stubborn headed me could not resist. This Sunday have been the day of Proteus in many variations. My brother Kel, Gunnar and Serina have all been engaged and thrilled by the opening sequence of the Proteus chapter. We have read Homer, Wittgenstein, about Jugend art, searched through glossaries for the best translation of modality(there is none,the Norwegian word is modalitet), we have twisted and turned the sentences till I finally ended up in the bath listening to a skilled Irish actor reading the Ulysses.
Couldn't dream of a better way to spend a sunny summer's day.
All this and football too..

PROTEUS, GOD OF THE SEA.
Menelaus who fought Proteus and won the answer, the way back to Ithacha .

"INELUCTABLE MODALITY OF THE VISIBLE: AT LEAST THAT, IF NO MORE, thought through my eyes.
Signatures of all things I am here to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty boot.
Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Limits of the diaphane. But he adds: in bodies. Then he was aware of them bodies before of them coloured. How? By knocking his sconce against them, sure. Go easy. Bald he was and a millionaire, maestro di color che sanno.(Dante on Aristotle: "the master of the men who know"). Limit of the diaphane in. Why in? Diaphane, adiaphane. If you can put your five fingers through it, it is a gate, if not a door. Shut your eyes and see.


Stephen closed his eyes to hear his boots crush crackling wrack and shells.
You are walking through it howsomever. I am, a stride at a time. A very short space of time through very short times of space. Five, six: the nacheinander. Exactly: and that is the ineluctable modality of the audible. Open your eyes. No. Jesus! If I fell over a cliff that beetles o'er his base, fell through the nebeneinander ineluctably.
I am getting on nicely in the dark. My ash sword hangs at my side. Tap with it: they do. My two feet in his boots are at the end of his legs, nebeneinander. Sounds solid: made by the mallet of Los Demiurgos.
Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? Crush, crack, crick, crick. Wild sea money. Dominie Deasy kens them a'.

Won't you come to Sandymount,
Madeline the mare?

Rhythm begins, you see. I hear. A catalectic tetrameter of iambs marching. No, agallop: deline the mare.

Open your eyes now. I will. One moment. Has all vanished since? If I open and am for ever in the black adiaphane. Basta! I will see if I can see.


See now. There all the time without you: and ever shall be, world without end."
Limit of the diaphane in. Why in? Diaphane, adiaphane. If you can put your five fingers through it, it is a gate, if not a door. Shut your eyes and see.


Stephen closed his eyes to hear his boots crush crackling wrack and shells. You are walking through it howsomever. I am, a stride at a time. A very short space of time through very short times of space. Five, six: the nacheinander. Exactly: and that is the ineluctable modality of the audible. Open your eyes. No. Jesus! If I fell over a cliff that beetles o'er his base, fell through the nebeneinander ineluctably. I am getting on nicely in the dark. My ash sword hangs at my side. Tap with it: they do. My two feet in his boots are at the end of his legs, nebeneinander. Sounds solid: made by the mallet of Los Demiurgos. Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? Crush, crack, crick, crick. Wild sea money. Dominie Deasy kens them a'.

Won't you come to Sandymount,
Madeline the mare?

Rhythm begins, you see. I hear. A catalectic tetrameter of iambs marching. No, agallop: deline the mare.

Open your eyes now. I will. One moment. Has all vanished since? If I open and am for ever in the black adiaphane. Basta! I will see if I can see.

See now. There all the time without you: and ever shall be, world without end."
— James Joyce (Ulysses)

The modality of the sea,
The rhythm of the sea,
The ever changing,
The life giving,
The life ending,
The riddle to be individually solved.
A blogger , Kurt Lindblom says,"Anyway, the phrase basically means the inescapability form of the visible. Vision is a fundamental component of existence. And Stephen is musing over the exact nature of reality--what is real? How can he know what is real? "

I don't agree. Anyone who has been walking along the shore knows for sure that the sea, the waves; the form of the shore, is always changing. Flood, tide, storm, landslides pollution; the ocean is as vulnerable as it is strong. A blind man knows a lot of forms, shapes by using his other senses, also described by Stephen. His ears, his skin, his balance, smell, texture, are all things telling about the real world surrounding him. Any archeologist can tell a lot about what may be hidden under the earth, because of history, forms, shapes of the scenery and the culture he is about to examine.
We can indeed know about things we do not see.
Hebrews 11
¹Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.

Most of the pictures made by Gunnar Jacobsen.
The pictures were added mainly to entertain, but also that you may take time to reflect on the text.