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Väckans snackis fins inte här. Bortsett fra at - ikke forstеr jeg hvorfor norske skribenter lar være å gå over til svensk genast. Kjendiser og snakkiser er bare toppen av isfjellet. Gjennom syttiårene kom språklige endringer litt lenger øst fra, i tillegg til påvirkningen fra de Sunnmørske eterfantomene. Så var det en jappetiden, smekkfull av anglisismer. Nå har vi sveismer så det duger. Det er av og til en lidelse å lese norske publikasjoner. Se her, et eksempel på en sveisme, til å få fnatt av: Noen av publikasjonene virker å være, dvs synes å være skrevet utelukkende for folk med lesevansker. Det er dypt tragisk å se et potensielt praktfullt fungerende språk gå opp i limingen på slikt vis. Snart skal vi vel være tilfredse med å glo på bilder i pekebøker alle sammen.
Nei, nei. Ingen snackis, inte. Ingen her i husholdningen har foreløpig skutt seg, slik tidligere varslet. Men Mona Lyngar klarer naturligvis ikke å skrive ferdig flere romaner. Av den grunn vil jeg nå avertere etter en bestselgende kollega å koke såpe på i flere schwære bind. Forutsetningen er at det er en kollega jeg misunner og derfor ikke kan utstå. I disse bindene skal ikke ett sekund i den misunte forfatterens private og offentlige liv forbigås.
Søkere må vedlegge CV, sykejournaler, resepter, uttalelser og brev til og fra familie, kjente og ukjente, vandelsattest og personlighetsanalyser fra oppnevnte psykiatere. Kvitteringer fra Vinmonopolet og bankutskrifter fra fødsel til død er ytterst viktige. Dessuten må det fremlegges fullstendig liste over sengepartnere, tid og sted, henfarne og nålevende. Enhver mistanke om hva det enn kan være, er også av interesse. Utenomekteskapelige så vel som ekteskapelige krangler og økonomiske uoverensstemmelser, samt tilgivende adferd, må være loggført med dato, klokkeslett og en beskrivelse av hva vedkommende forfatter da var iført og kunne ha tenkt på. Nye sko? Politisk ukorrekt pels? Dyp utringning? Cordfløyel? Slengkappe, kona, bredbremmet hatt eller Adams drakt?
Søkere som vil ha slik offentlig omtale, bør melde seg så fort som råd er. Familiemedlemmer eller ektefeller med behov for økt salg av avdøde forfatteres samlede verker, blir ikke prioritert. Det blir derimot søkere med dokumentert oversikt over sammenhengen mellom verk og privatliv.
Blir jeg rik og berømt når det biografiske verket er fullført, hva er ellers meningen med livet, kan det hende jeg lar være å skyte meg eller skyter meg av den grunn. Med mindre jeg ikke allerede har gjort det. Uansett kommer jeg nok til å fullføre neste roman også.
Hvilket minner meg om Vestbanestasjonen våren 1964. I ankomsthallen hadde en mann hengt seg opp etter albuene pе en hvesende radiator. Han var iført dress, hatt og støvfrakk. Da kom en kvinne forbi, kastet et blikk på ham og utbrøt: - Men i jøssenam, er’n dau’a? Etter hvert samlet det seg en liten folkemengde for å studere den døde som ikke var så dau som han så ut til. Han var bare forgjort av det som for noen dessverre blir livets vann. Mer var det ikke å skrive hjem om.
The hopeful ‘glitzerati’ of the Norwegian Association of Authors (Den Norske Forfatterforening) are yet again facing their annual convention. During the past couple of years they have failed to negotiate new contracts, and the big issue is, yet again, whether or not to allow producers of pulp fiction into our ‘exclusive’ flock.
Why fear the competition? Beats me. It’s a well known fact that quite a few members make, or made, a living on the sly, pulp fashion, just to get by. How else to survive with the contracts and economic conditions we’ve got, in this sparcely populated linguistic domaine where, in addition, so many kids (1/3) leave school with poor reading and writing faculties?
It would have been slightly more inspiring if our asscn. had engaged in the task of preserving, adding to and renewing the heritage of our young Norwegian language, written and spoken, instead of splitting hairs over non-essential differences. Sadly, some of the ‘chosen few’ have more than a thing or two in common with the paperback pulp producers.
One may perhaps assume that the bombs the Mr. World President G.W. Bush has in mind for the Irani disobedients shall be charged with extra nuclear power. Clusters or carpets?
Luckily the Earthlings-to-be from Mars are busy elsewhere. The problems they incur and impose will be dealt with when they reappear with all that finery they made up to dispose of when the time comes. I suppose the Salvation Army may be the solution after their bout of playing fashionistas. Spotted that word on Saturday the 3. of March in Dagens Naeringsliv, (Dagens Næringsliv) - usually a sober enough faninacial newspaper. Only, a couple of weeks ago they had an article intended to be funny, about the intimacy created by first-naming everyone. The piece was concocted by two guys apparantly influenced by some mindreducing fluids. Very sad that Mr. Djuve, the editor, let it pass. He might have been winter-holidaying, perhaps, or having a ball with our Mars creatures? What, Amund?
For many of us first-naming is a pain in the neck. Through addressing you in this intimate way, people suddenly are your best friends, or worse, they to know you so intimately that their reason to denounce your entire being seems well founded. At Storfjellseter, where we are trying to recall the 1880’s to match the houses, many guests are pleased to be called Mrs. and Mrs. Being polite is perhaps not in elsewhere, showing respect a vaste of time? We saw our foreign minister Jonas Gahr Stoere (Støre), butt glued to his chair, while shaking hands with Condoleezza Rice the other week. Well done. Same thing happened when the presumably well brought up and educated Astrid Noekleby (Nøkleby) Heiberg shook hands with Queen Sonja; the psychiatrist, former member of Government, Mrs. Heiberg didn’t muster to get her behind up. One may or may not dig the Queen of Norway, she’s still the Queen. It’s also amusing to see women bow their heads greeting someone like men instead of courtseying. Do they regard their masculine way of beckoning an enforcment of their equal rights?
The least endearing greeting I’ve ever got was in a writers club where I happen to have paid membership fees for some 20 years. One of the three poor bodies (whom I could’nt remember ever having seen before, without my harbouring an urge to tell them so) found it imperative to inform me that my name was entirely unknown. Surprisingly he abstained from ordering me to immediately make myself absent.
As you can see, I’m hesitating to write more about Romain Gary. It might upset delicate souls that he wrote letters after he shot himself, to tell that he was moving house and country for tax reasons. All sorts of speculations might arise. No, there was no relationship. We just had lunch. Gary was very proud of his nephew at the time, to get the Prix Goncourt was quite the thing. Amusing though, that the Norwegian press has not snipped information from the 2006 November issue of L’Express with Jaques Brenners version of how the French price jurors operate. It may not have have been totally unknown, perhaps. Paris is but a cafй, as a friend said, while Oslo is one miniscule table in the same establishment: You’ll be my friend to-day and I’ll lick your back to-morrow. No wonder Roman Kassef kept changing identity and names.
Go to the Bristol Library Bar in Oslo any day of the week and catch some chums from the Norwegian Publishers Organizating sticking their heads together. Publishing in Norway too, is dirty business par excellence. Especially these days, after the major book publishing companies have bought all the bookselling chains and so are operating in otherwise illegal cartels where the big enterprises are protected against small competitors – approved by the former Government Dept. of Modernization (now called Dpt. of Renewal.) This approval has transformed the existence of independent book shops and book publishers into a kind of kamikaze flying.
Got that, Mr. Djuve? Dirty business? Dig in! What of letting loose a couple of real Gonzos? Dry up your staff, don’t turn a blind eye to this obvious Saturday titbit. The Norwegian method of enforcing market liberalism through Stalinist methods is an interesting phenomenen. Something for Erna Solberg, the conservative front figure, to contemplate too?
Meanwhile I’m keeping my favourite inherited shotgun well ointed, pondering what name I’m going to use before i shoot myself after my next book publication, and which sugar baby model to use as cover. Famous relations would be an extra asset, but most important is the ability to abide lurid offers from the administrators of PR (Mecom-owned or other media) as well as front the flap on the dirt jacket, not to mention lipservicing the Norwegian Marxism-Leninist movement and kiss the feet of its most outstanding member.
The attitudes of the Norwegian armed revolution literati are still going strong: “We need to get rid of Sigrid Undset and Marcel Proust too:” Quote from debate in the Norwegian association of critics 2006, of course heavily welcomed by the representatives of the down to dirt populist Fremskrittsparti, Fortschrittspartei des Norwegens: Artistic values belong to the people. The people shall vote for their favourite artists and writers with their cell phones. Win-win to the financial acrobats of arts for business, like the book publisher who draws the most attention to his consumption of pulp fibre, or the smart assed speed painter boosting sales with sponsored Moet.
All the best for the rest of the day.
I Skogens Konger, Brennpunkt på NRK den 2. januar, ble det skapt et misvisende bilde av det norske skogbruk. Er det slik at man ikke kan stole på at fakta som serveres befolkningen av en seriøs journalistisk aktør som NRK er korrekt? Sendingen var fra ende til annen en lang anklage mot skogbruket der fakta i mange tilfeller er holdt tilbake eller feilaktige.
Er det bare biologene som sitter på fasiten i spørsmål som angår det biologiske mangfoldet i norske skoger? De fleste av dagens skogforvaltere har høy utdannelse både innen skogens økosystemer, dynamikk og arter. Skogbrukernes faglige vurderinger vektlegges nesten aldri i debatten.
I Norges skoger er det lite areal som ikke har blitt berørt i løpet av vår nasjons historie. Skogene ble svært hardt drevet fra 1600-tallet. Branner på kontinentet førte til trelastmangel og skogene ble utarmet. Følgelig finnes det i Norge i dag forsvinnende lite naturskog, urskog og villmark. Skogbruk som fag ble først satt i system pе 1800-tallet. Og siden den gang har skogene blitt pleid med tanke på å kunne drive skogene etter et bærekraftig prinsipp. Skogen er en fornybar ressurs om den pleies riktig. Bestandsskogbruket med intensiv skogskjøtsel ble satt i gang rundt 1935.
I dag ser vi resultatet av intensiv skjøtsel. Stående kubikkmasse i de norske skoger er etter landsskogtaskeringen pе 715 mill m3. Den årlige tilveksten i skogen er beregnet til 25 mill m3, 8 mill hogges hvert år. Død ved som 30 % av rødlisteartene i skogen er avhengig av, har vi 65 mill m3 av og årlig råtner nye 3 mill m3 pе rot. Det har knapt vært mer død ved tilgjengelig for rødlisteartene.
Når man i dag gjør miljøregistreringer i skog ser man ofte at elementene som er høyt verdsatt av miljøvernere ofte forekommer i intensivt drevet skog. Ung skog har også kvaliteter som bærer preg av høyt biologisk mangfold. På samme areal kunne det vært snauhogd for 50 år siden. Miljøvernerne hevder at det bare er i naturskog og urskog at truede arter kan overleve. Men som aktiv skogbruker ser man hvordan artene beveger seg og tar tilbake områder de før vokste i, ettersom ung skog vokser til.
Miljøbevegelsen hevder at ikke-driveverdig skog og de eksisterende verneområdene ikke er tilstrekkelig for å bevare mangfoldet. Nå vil de den høyproduktive skogen til livs. I skogen er det store variasjoner i vekstmiljø, fuktighet og i økosystemets omsetning. Den beste produktive skogen finnes der det er størst vekstpotensial og størst biologisk mangfold. Det som ikke nevnes er at her har også naturen et enda større potensial til å regenerere seg selv, da omløpstiden ofte er 1/3 kortere enn på svakere mark. Dermed vil også artene kunne vandre mellom refugiene (voksestedene) sine raskere.
Det moderne skogbruket må med dette som bakgrunn frikjennes som trussel mot biologisk mangfold. Skaden har nok skjedd lenge før MiS, Levende Skog og BioFokus kom på banen.
Av de verneverdige skogarealene som kommer fram i miljødebatten er det kun den ene prosenten som er vernet etter Naturvernloven som nevnes. I praksis er det store arealer og ressurser som skogeier frivillig verner uten nevneverdig kompensasjon. Dette til tross for at det på samme areal kan være investert i skogkultur og planting. En investering i en ressurs man aldri får igjen om området bеndlegges. Dette holder miljøbevegelsen med viten og vilje tilbake fra allmennheten for å skaffe seg sympati i saken.
Miljøsiden kaller det biologiske mangfoldet en allmenn interesse. Men staten får kritikk for å gi tilskudd på 60 % til miljøregistreringene. Dette under påskudd av at registreringene ikke er gode nok til å bestemme hvor det finnes truede arter. Biologene i BioFokus vil nok gjerne ha flere oppdrag, til syvende og sist er vel også en miljøideologisk stiftelse som BioFokus avhengig av inntekter for å kunne bestå. Brennpunkt den 2. januar var fra ende til annen ensidig propaganda der BioFokus får gratisreklame. Det er klart at jo mer penger man kan tjene på en pеstand, jo sannere blir den.
©Forstkandidat og ressursforvalter
Ingvald L. Landet
The Norwegian Swingers Club of the at any one point ruling classes, sponsored by the insidiuously politically correct officialdom of Norway, is now heavily engaged in retrieving old skills, of which the deflating of egos apparently is the topmost achievement.
The realization that pricks from pins are not sufficiently efficient has brought forward a surge of public jumping at and crashing down on indiciduals, splashing out intimidations, invading organizations and private spheres through available media.
So far the use of poison or art of strangling don’t comply with the Norwegian potato republics present jurisdiction, nor does the use of guns in secret alleys.
No problem. The internalised version of ‘idealism’ in the Western hemisphere has its ways. Photographs of tender smiles and copies of aggrieved letters neatly do the trick. Going public with stalls of bananas, offering them at self cost, gets both swingers and netters ticking. All of which is conveyed to us by a journalism digging ferociously at the pit bottom line. The dirt emerging is easily shaped into cakes fit for sale at the next stall.
Our energy is yet not entirely killed, but what challenge does this washing at large offer, of dirty linen from within the Swingers Club? Don’t we deserve to be reminded of real problems to discuss?
Like, when are we, the white skinned westerners, going to fathom that we only inhabit one third of the globe. Just a suggestion.
To crown the impression that the Norwegian welfare state has reached its ultimate goal of pacifying next to everyone, we were this Sunday presented with yet another tragedy from the private spehere, face, name and abode accompanied by blurb fit to destroy an individuals entire life once and for all. Like the ‘gentlemen’ of the press treated the actress Jean Seberg some 35 years ago, chasing her with invented scandals to her bitter end. If there is no celebrity available to use this way, the press doesn’t hesitate to create a celebrity all on its own.
Media owners get their profit. The indoctrination is accomplished. Follow the lucre. We’re all about jumping for joy at the prospect of getting a saucy suicide to discuss, and who’s to blame.
What’s up? Does no-one dare to cross the trails of profit?
Environment and social relations may jeaopardize physical and mental health in the individual. For some these question all seem to center around the chicken and its egg, letting no second thought ever leave the coop:
Norwegian health administrators are at presently at large with fulminant campaign against obese children and youngsters, hoping for new generations of suffereres from eating disorders, guilt, shame and idiosyncrasias, more people to rip off in private surgeries. The so called obese in their most important formative years must be slimmed, and if they cannot stop eating (thereby also satisfying the fashionistas) they have to undergo surgery.
Whether the surgeons are planning to implant airballoons in the innocents tummies or strangulate their appetite with elastic bands, is so far not disclosed, but fear is already securely planted. If the plans are to shorten the duodeni of the poor overweigt child and teen population, those curators of health are evidently more out of their minds than a mere writer of fiction ever could have imagined.
I cannot but pray to high heavens that in the name of common decency those members of the Norwegian Medical Association (Den norske legeforening) engage in a renewed effort to attempt understanding the mechanisms of hypothalamic and pituitary excretion, and how those hormones may interact with the adrenal – insulin balance, as just one example. It’s perhaps, with all due respect, too much to demand of them to engage in complicated matters like conditioned reflexes or other psycho-social variables generating physiological changes.
Hard work to dissuade extraterrestial virus from invading peoples minds, you bet! The success is far off so far, although fate accidentally gave us a short breather after our installing in the Mars hordes an enhanced down to earth curiousity.
A whisper initially undulated through the flock and ended with them all shedding their immaculate mens suits in heaps on our sitting room floor. Don’t ask me how they managed, but all of a sudden they were all stashed up in womens attire, silk lashes and hair extensions, false what nots and the lot, all up to date, including queues, crinolines and flippant comments matching the liberated urbanites’ outlook, adorned with lace and frills from days long past the yesterdays’ submarginal op culture. (Yes. Op. Profumos days, remember?)
As a result the sewing machine of the house is now bordering on an impetuous worn out state, shortly ripe for the old sewing machines’ home, and we fear the substantial bills sure to fill the letterbox, from the weavers and the embroidery manufacturers, knowing full well that the Government won’t subsidise any decent or indecent attirements for virus invations from Mars (or the beyond).
Nevertheless, it is of interest what their remarks will be when the ways of the world has been tried on for size by these trace elements from another planet, under female cover! The Mars specimen are presumably soon back in our remote parts, weeping, scolding and complaining like those considered true women, shamefully sharing our bewildered loss:
Whatever happened to the Lady? Did she surge into the cataract when the Gentleman went over board, or did she inevitably drown in the wake following the sudden enforcement of the ideology of equal standing? What then will those cloned females from Mars choose to be after their undergown stint of mingling with the earthlings’ fashionistas?
Have to go dear, must fill in the Governments application form for a single room in the old sewing machines’ local home. It might take years to get decent care for that Fidelious contraption, relic or not. Think of that before you buy, abduct, adopt or construe a new one, how it’s allowed to end its days. Have a great life а la mode this week.
110107- To-day in Norwegian:
Ola Didrik Saugstad er på semantisk frifot som retoriker under dekke av sitt professorat i pediatri ved Rikshospitalet. Hans innlegg 10. januar om bioteknologiens dilemma støtter seg til en terminologi som tilhører et annet og av de fleste forhatt regime i en tid som helst skulle vært forbi. Han pеpeker at teknikken med å fremstille hundrevis av egg som kan befruktes og testes ut på alle mulige egenskaper kommer, den er kostbar og kan skape en genetisk underklasse av dem som ikke kan betale seg ut av genetisk sykdom eller mindre attraktive egenskaper. Uttalelsen skal sette Arbeiderpartiet på plass med hensyn til Bioteknologiloven og bioteknologisk basert medisinsk støtte til sykdomsbekjempelse. Mener Saugstad med dette at Arbeiderpartiet, eller vеrt samfunn skal ha en utvelgelseskomitè som bestemmer hvem som er verdig trengende til slik medisinsk støttebehandling, og de uverdige må betale? Uverdige uten midler kommer da nederst på professorens rangstige.
Ordbruken karakteriserer også en yrkesgruppes holdninger negativt. Man kan få mistanke om at medlemmer av den medisinske profesjon anser at genetisk betinget sykdom er uverdig, ja, at enkelte egenskaper er så lite attraktive (for hvem?) at den som ikke får det offentlige til å fjerne disse eller selv kan kjøpe ekspertise til å fjerne dem, blir å anse som laverestående individer.
Å diskutere livets begynnelse eller for den saks skyld slutt i en slik sammeheng tilslører at legevitenskapens formеl er å hjelpe syke og lindre lidelser. I forhold til dette blir diskusjonen om verdigheten til et foreldreløst embryo, en zygote, spermatozer og ubefruktede egg lik den stadig tilbakevendende debatten om Pavens skjegg.
Det er flere aborter enn fødsler i Norge i dag. Hvert pikebarn fødes med anlegg til 40 til 300 tusen egg, hvorav 5 til 6 hundre modnes til befruktning. Langt de fleste av disse eggene er rett og slett defekte. Det samme gjelder spermiene. De færreste når opp på naturens egen skala for levedyktighet. Slik Saugstad uttrykker seg, skulle en nesten tro at tusenvis av sjeler dermed går tapt for evigheten.
Så tandre kan vi ikke bli at vi må sørge over enhver levende celle som ikke utvikles til å åppnе vitenskapsmannens form for høyere bevissthet. For å si det på en annen måte, hadde f. eks. Huntingtons chorea vært påvist i mine genomer, ville jeg vært svært takknemlig for muligheten til fosterdiagnostikk og eventuell abort, eller i beste fall en ny teknikk som fjernet dette uheldige arvestoffet hos fosteret – hvis det var min siste sjanse til å få et barn. Ikke fordi jeg synes det er uverdig at noen har medfødte lidelser, men fordi samfunnet uverdig nok ikke er generøst eller opplyst nok til å forstе annerledeshet og med empati yte nødvendig praktisk og medisinsk hjelp til alle som trenger det.
Livet, professor Saugstad, kan ikke defineres ut fra et stadium i noen utvikling, ikke ut fra en enkelt celle. Snakk heller om håp, glede og menneskelig fellesskap gjennom liv og død. Selv et avsluttet liv er med på å skape nytt liv. Verre er det ikke.
The Friday edition of the Norwegian newspaper Verdens Gang (VG, the daily that gives their readers the information they prefer at the expence of the informative news they need) brought us a cry for help to His Majesty the King of Norway - at least help to write his New Year televised speech. Carl-Erik Grimstad, formerly a staff member at the Royal Household, suggests that the notoriously omniscient Per-Egil Hegge, official biographer to King Harald, should decide what the King says in his speeches.
My, how will the Queen react to this blunt criticism of her services?
Don't worry. I'll eventually get back to the phenomenon of slandering in the previous century, the French variety. Matching the French in this field seems almost impossible. Still the gentlemen and women of the press always gives it a try. Amazing how the producers of slander don't fathom the boomerang effects of this type of fabrications.
New Year has been busy hereabouts. All the Mars men (derived from dust particles on the American boots that marched on Mars) has literally held a convention in our home. Some of them have decided to transcend their beings into undetectable virus intended to settle in the rumoured brains of the well known and powerful and rule their minds.
Telling the Mars particles that this idea already is being carried out by competing forces, does'nt go home. What eventually goes home won't be the Mars men, they admonish. Like all beings with suchlike better intentions, they naturally know best.
The two and a half reader (the half apparently studies at Carnegie-Mellon in Pennsylvania) who might worry what next on this page, will be left in mid-air over the Holidays. No comments on this year's literary Nobel Prize winner (or the next year's contenders) - no tell tales of whatever aka, nothing about Alain Delons contempt for Romain Gary and not one word touching on his marriage to Jean Seeberg and how she ended her life (asphyxiation) after their divorce. I'll abstain from the temptation of hinting as to who may have shot at Salman Rushdies Norwegian publisher too: No blow upon anyone from these parts for now. Peace on earth to all until further notice. (My pseudo-aka is taking a vacation, see.)
The difficulty is not writing. It's knowing what not to write and when not to write it.
I had an impression that there existed a difference between the private and the personal spehere. You can be personal without being private, but hardly private excluding the personal aspect. Well. Who'd I be to smash the fun for those who feel satisfaction in creating peeping Toms instead of cocreative readers? Strange, though, how some writers think that something made public this or that way can ever be erased. Maybe they've missed something out while being potty trained.
Contrite public confessions of misbehaviour bordering on terrorism are endlessly presented as novels by hopeful publishers aiming to screw The Norwegian Cultural fund for funds. Any political belief and action is fair fare on the Norwegian media Christmas binge eating table, where the economic and personal resurrection is close at hand for the former militant saviour junta, spicy spies included, their accomplices still dependent both on the terminology and the cadre mentality affixed to the one eyed activity of the armed revolution romantisists nurturing the tragic fascist tendencies all over the place.
Recycled history brings no-one anywhere. Shall we never get our fill of brainless marching to please political bodies’ lust for grandeur - detrimental to an eductated evolution towards equal rights and liberty for mankind?
The will to power, however, never fade out of fashion. An anointed tongue-in-cheek rethorical training, a groomed market appeal, is all it takes to transform the sky high hair of a wify looking straight off her days stint of street walking, into raised arms and hails to her pimps, the conquerors of a larger congregation. Not to mention the football addict turned politician. The fields are wide open for the catcher of the balls.
Speaking of which, would you pay for helicopter transport for your teenagers’ school proms? Maybe that’s where the Telenor managing directors share option money goes. Air borne glam for his descendants. Beats me how the Telenor shares have rised by four and more the past few years. Their outsourced services are abominable. Well, the Oslo Stock Exchange is haywire anyway. Two guys taking their elevenses together may decide the fall of the third mans portfolio and the subseqent rise of their own.
Helicopters and balls to gasp for, or equal opportunities for all?
Sorry – forgot to end two stories:
My novel arrived safe and sound, causing no fury as it is beautifully produced by its Norwegian printers. Even the painter behind the cover illustration is pleased with the presentation. I’ve found about ten misprints, hardly devasting, compared to what big publishinghouses muster. End of that story so far.
Except this warning to printers from abroad: Please do not pester Abovos mailbox or phones advertising your services. Now all advertisers get blocked from further communication, and salespeople phoning will have to endure leaving the phones off at their expence at our leisure.
The painful index finger that halted work progress was operated. Otherwise there would have been no more novels from the undersigned. Happy tidings for some? Being mobbed by minor entities of the medical profession is vexing. Finally, as a former patient, I put the finger on the doorstep of doctor Lothe at Radiumhospitalet one Friday afternoon without having an appointment. Kindly he took one long look at the little pearl surrounded bump with its miniscule ungrowing sore, and said exactly the same as the Merck Manual says about a possible basal cell carcinoma. Then he wrote a letter to the local hospital (they complained about the length of the scripture, Norwegian doctors are seldom apt to read much) and two weeks later the bump and the sore was exciced. Hardly a scar. No more pain. Half a year of part disablement is nothing to a person who’d waited 11 years to be allowed to walk without pain. Therefore I count myself lucky – this time.
There used to be a time when doctors and dentists in this country said: - No, no, artists need not pay us. Now the lore is: All artists are drunkards, liars, lunatics (preferably manic depressives as on doctor wrote in Aftenposten about all authors some time ago) and artists are the worst usurpers of societys surplus. What do we need artists for, apart from making money off their works when they are dead?
To those journalists whimpering about blogs in English, I offer no comfort. My calling is not for teaching journalists the Norwegian lingo. There exists a Norwegian word pannebrask. One may ask what is behind someones such when the word is twarted to hjernebrask. Oh no, Sisyphos is not my ideal. Have a disgustingly formidable next two days. Hasty greetings to the University of Leipzig.
New book release:
I’m far from sitting pretty at this moment; my new novel arriving physically on the doorstep any moment. To unwrap the first copy is a major event for a writer who’s not continuously at it. There’s an inch of air between the chair and my bottom. Well, to say the least, this is however preferable to reposing on some publishers lap.The concept of sitting on my own lap is far more digestable: To take a belly flop is better than succumbing to whatever goes on in the we’re-only-in-it-for-the-money-world. The forces out there beats me! And lo and behold, the snow is falling on my deep blue lobelias. Theyr’e alive and kicking, like you and me!
Dear angry readers of this page:
The lack of new messages is far from owing to any kind of malingering on my behalf, no, no. It's my husband. You know what men are like when they get going. He claimed I spent too much time not writing, even though I was writing. Just Now doesn't pay, he says. Oddly enough he does not fret if I cook, bake or once in a blue moon pretend to clean the house, even though these activities indeed are most highly unpaid. I am a bit peeved about my having passed the childbearing age, though. The suggestion is that Norwegian female professionals should receive a fee of some several hundred thousand kroner per produced baby. A cunning way to get women back to sqaure one - as underlings. With the Norwegian Fortschrittspartei (Fremskrittspartiet) the resurrection of the male dream may certainly happen.
On the tip of ones fingers - or by heart?
The attempts of sounding a net voice these days are tampered with by a striking index finger. Like The Norwegian Medical asscn, it refuses to abide the rules of common decency, and demands immediate attention from members of the above mentioned. Unless this is achieved the index joint will go on strike for ever. The Mars dust men are very concerned about this, as they have surveyed conditions within all sorts of health and care institutions in Norway, and are worried I may let them down if the Norwegian Authorities detect their whereabouts and fling them back into space. Not to mention if they get smitten with the illnesses of our global society. No treatment for aliens here!
Also my Down syndrom sister's situation is taking its toll. In order to get through to a malfunctioning bureaucracy I need to study law, including criminal law. The didactics must follow suit. A lot on one persons malfunctioning hand.
Stay happy for not being strangled, for having a roof above your head and your daily bread! A sound sleep comes to those with a clear conscience - sooner or later.
More money to the black market health enterprises!
Profits are profits, and let's face it, who'd say no to down and out offspring offering bags of it for jags to forward well off hags into the thereafter? When ab. provocatus started to go for free, (it used to cost a couple of thousands to a well reputed gynaecologist, an industry for quite a few, and no-one had the time to save up for it's existence) Norwegian medics have turned to other sources for tax exempt income in Norway.
In this country we don't celebrate Halloween with it' trick or treat one day a year. All as one pick and cheat all year round, health personnel and administrative public authorities alike, as well as anyone else seeing her chance.
Equality is the general ideal. No wonder if the equally infected maintainers of justice tuck pay offs from lay offs in spe into their pockets and defend injustice done to those of lesser means. Why, everyone needs a pocket full of available extras, underpaid policemen, Public Prosecutors, carpenters and Ministers of Labour. We all agree that this is necessary for a decent standard of living, the way taxes and dues soar to keep up employment sponsored by the Administration's multibillion wage budgets.
So when the offer comes for a black market investment in blood from stolen umbilical cords to store for resale to those in need of nuclei cell transplants, I'll certainly close a deal on a block with the leaders of the dept. of Paediatrics. I've saved up for that. Life doesn't come cheap these days.
Excuse my Latin, but here goes: Occlusio totalis venae vertebralis would be what some people deserve for their blatant cynicism. However, witchful thinking does not equal stabbing from behind or grabbing cough ups. Cheers to Dagens Næringslivs recent cock up. High time with a brass knuckle knock out to the Norwegian Establishment too.
Hairy tales or tall airs, the tolls of valley life's fairy snails.
And yes, life in the mountains at Storfjellseter this year has been great, with lots of interested and interesting visitors. Living close to the sky, enclosed by nature prompts the development of a certain kind of innocence and well being. Titter tatter and mad hatters don't reach us in the mountains. The shock of encountering a small minded, small community on our return to the farm, produces confusion. Most people are of course civilized. The more outstanding and frightening are those who are not, who flock together, glaring like cows, for reasons I abstain from making any educated guess whatsoever.
The whole family is abstaining from guessing too as to whoever did enjoy to enter our farm house to destroy our hidden freezer room in the cellar and so destroy all the food we were going to live on in the winter. Stealing nothing, just destroying.
Well. One cottage owner near Storfjellseter had a similar experience: Someone had fetched a ladder. Climbed up and reconnected wires in the box distributing her electric supply. Climbed down. Put the ladder back. Left the site. When nothing all of a sudden didn't work, she was advised to look in the box. Lo and behold!
Could this be a result of there not being much else to do - or glare at, a culture going haywire of well fed nothingness? Or could it be a result of envy, her having the lovely cottage, our having food enough or my hair a shade of sky blue instead of the now finally accepted American old ladies' violet hair hue? Beats me. Perhaps I'm envied my hair too. What can a person assume of other people's hidden motives?
By the way, greetings to John Updike: Open a bottle of noble champagne! Down a pint of it at one go and consider yourself lucky for having avoided Scandinavian gloomy spotlights and the envy of the literary world. Artur Lundkvist was a fool peddling his favourites around, making them untouchable for his successors.
261005 Are we but experiments?
Sorry to those who've searched this site in vain for leukaemia and Down syndrome. I know little about this connection, apart from what The Merck Manual points out, that people suffering from Down's seem to get leukaemia more often than those who have no idea of what it's like suffering from Down's. The Merck Manual also tells me that co-citizens with Down syndrome often have a congenital heart disease, and practically always suffer from Alzheimer's, as seen in autopsies.
Now Down syndrome is known mostly to be connected to the 21st chromosome. But there are also other possible patterns of DNA distribution. Woe to me if I'd claim to understand those complicated variations, or at all the mystery of genetic possibilities. Of recent some researchers are eager to attribute certain ailments and diseases to particular chromosomes. This research was already going on wildly, long before the publication of my Merck Manual edition from -93. Now medical firms claim to be en route to solve riddles both on Alzheimer's and various cancers, hoping to present cures and ways to avoid the threats of malignant growths or dwindling, as well as collecting money from stock market investors. All this may be valuable, even as a way to earn pocket money for a poor artist.
I have been unable to detect referrals to research from autopsies of every person dying from leukaemia, what their common and possibly unusual genetic trait may be. As to how ecological problems are handled or mishandled, it might be a very good reason for this apparent silence.
As my long gone, medicine man relation had it, we're all disposed for cancers and sickness, it's an individual and socio-ecological matter if we develop disease before we die anyway. Beyond doubt leukaemia, like changes due to iodine's affinity to caesium 21 by the thyroxin uptake in the thyroid gland, is prompted by environmental factors. This was violently refused on diffuse grounds by a medical professor acquaintance, albeit known even by foreign journalists at the time. The connection between iodine uptake, lack of natural cobalt (an antidote to caesium 21), ferritin storage - and the rising use of tests for homocystein levels (also a stock market issue to make pocket money on) might also be factors worth while studying to shed light on blood changes leading to uncontrolled growth of white blood cells.
This is absolutely not my field. I'm just reflecting with the little awareness I have, like everyone interested may do. Through my life I have been heavily charged with endless discussions as well as hour-long private lectures on medical matters, mostly by telephone until the lecturer passed the age of 90 and had to phone back two days later to answer questions.
This has led my interest to alternate between my 1993 edition of the Merck - and the Bible, a past time giving breathing space from other literature, and no end irritating to some bragging medics who wants to come across…
I seem to remember something about aberrations of DNA due to radiation too, whether the damage is permanent or transient through generations.
This brings me to the idea that even Down syndrome may be caused by folks' tampering with nature. What do we really know for certain? And really, what is tampering with nature, come to think of it. Merely making a fire to keep warm qualifies, to stretch the answer somewhat. Or beating an egg. With or without sugar, it combines with air. And what really does our shared air consist of these days? How do we treat it? Not to mention how long are we allowed to breath in without being taxed by the litre! How did our predecessors reach the final conclusion of a recipe for omelettes? By shaking chickens experimentally just before the egg was due out? Somehow someone found out. Which may happen to the riddle of the leukaemia. Please don't misunderstand if you continue reading, I'm very much in favour of giving those patients the relief of many and expensive attempts of transplantations. The breakthrough of the researchers may come soon. As long as there is a life, with a brain still working, there is a hope. And hopes can never be too expensive. Without them, we are doomed to less than an animal life where only the fittest survive in an icy go get it across dead bodies. The question is how far do we take our search for hope?
This leads me back to Down syndrome. Yes, my sister suffers from it. Approaching her 60th birthday, she is now stored away with lukewarm coffee and sedation of drugs and the flicking from a telly in a lonely flat full of knick knacks meaning little to her, leg broken for reasons unknown to me, unwilling to go out when leg functions, for reasons I do not dare think of, a result of the kind of care Norwegian authorities offer those born interestingly abnormal.
All of us are officially claimed to be equally welcome, by innocent churchgoers as well as more or less innocent medical professors, like Thomas Aabyholm et al of Oslo University.
Welcome, maybe. But for what reason? As material to do research on? When I speak to my mentally very retarded sister the way I speak to anyone, or carefully touch her cheek, there appears a spark of dignity and interest in her sole possible way of response, the look in her eyes, her poise. But when I leave, she starts knocking her head into the wall. Without rhythm. This is a blatant sign of emotional deprivation. At her age her days are numbered until she becomes another titbit autopsy. Within my limited capacity I'd give a lot for those days to be good. Will the authorities keep up with that? Or is their capacity even more limited than mine?
Hello there again! Summer is gradually arriving also in our parts. Life in the mountains at 900 meters above sea level is getting better by the day. Once the portable PC, the dishwasher and the 46 rooms are fixed it might get even better. It’s certainly a wonder that all the old log houses are still standing there, considering the thunderstorms. They’re a spectacle and a wonder. The dust spirits from Mars are astounded. We agree it’s a relief living high above the gnarly snarling from mass society’s demands of this that and the next thing.
Finn Lande Andersen’s art exhibition in Storfjellseter’s 300 year old cowshed is a success. His delightful paintings are selling well. All for now. Back soon.
The howl from the go-getters: Divide and rule.
Some lady writers are presently voraciously at it getting publicity by offering their opinions on the Norwegian Authors Association’s failure to increase their incomes. This is of course very welcome for the journalists of the press. Summer cucumber discussions where the agenda and the articles are given them for free by freelance writers provide ample spare time.
Summer time is awkward for newspaper readers. The papers we pay for get thinner and thinner, the stories likewise. I don’t find it a big deal what a woman who manage to sell home written books by the thousands through book clubs complains about on two full pages. In particular one I observed at authors meetings: She was not uttering one word in discussions, busy as she was at the bar counter to count herself down on beers.
The loudest complainer has declared once and for all that her aim as a writer is to sell as many books as possible. Good for her. Nothing sells like sales.
Which made me remember my ennui when some journalist (who I hadn’t raped) was the 901 one who posed the question: ‘Why do you write?’
I answered: ‘To get a sports car.’ He took that at face value. I’m sure he spread the news.
The writer who wants to sell as many books as possible once told me she had read my books and wished she some day would be able to write like I do. So far she doesn’t, which has made her able to afford a sports car, a luxury flat and a summer estate at the Norwegian millionaires’ coast. I fail to understand why she is fretting, apart from it getting her this precious publicity before her next publication.
Journalists can be very naïve indeed, and lazy. Few of them have an idea of what happened a few years ago, not to mention in the fifties, in the sixties, in the seventies and so on. I remember the embarrassing discussion about the grant given to the author Solveig Christov, who was considered very rich, as she was married to the former director of Gyldendal, who for some reason was - rich. Having such a rich husband she was not worthy a grant. The same story reappears with small variations at intervals, unless there’s a war on, a tsunami or an earthquake.
By the way, this page will be updated erratically from now on, due to my being busy teaching the little army of ghost spirits from Mars to deal with the greed of world. Season opening at Storfjellseter is this Saturday, with the vernissage of Finn Lande Andersen’s art exhibition at 18.oo hrs.
My intention to-day is not to write one word about fresh Norwegian vegetables and fruit, nor of the delicious mountain produced meat – and I am not going to praise the unpolluted air or the fantastic long days of light we have here even when the rain is pouring down.
I’m afraid there shall be too many tourists wanting to settle here, and Erna Solberg couldn’t handle that.
Our prices may deter visitors from not wanting to go home, though. For Norwegians the prices are mostly overcomeable (!) – it’s the rich and ruling who complain, and as far as I’m concerned they may just as well buy their foods second hand. (Sorry guys.)
Hello there again! My friends from Mars are back. And they’ve brought a little army of compatriots with them. Of course they can stay. They demand little and are just as kind as their hosts. So if we treat them well, they will restore the garden in no time, finish my three almost finished books and wash the kitchen floor.
I’m even contemplating to let them receive Storfjellseter’s guests this summer, they’re thoughtful and eloquent and ready to listen if someone wants someone to talk to. Most people do, they have discovered. In fact they are a bit frightened about the way people have stopped talking to one another. The aliens are scared of our alienation, to put it that way.
Not one day without more or less condescending comments from the press on the idiots commenting on the press or whatever we ‘unpressed’ express on the net. It’s quite interesting, particularly as the press is also on the net, very much so, and paid by advertisers too. I’ve come across some talented net writers, whose standard of writing and level of credibility is higher than that of the Norwegian printed press, phrasing and courage included. On the other hand, there are blogs one can do without. Why visit them then, is it to procure something to write about?
That seems the main problem for some, lack of themes, awareness and innovative thinking, engagement and good will. More often than not, the people of the press fight about who is most competent and therefore most powerful, more than giving us levelled information. It’s very translucent on the cultural side. If one paper writes well of someone, the next paper has to assert its power by turning thumbs down.
There are always at least two fighting cocks with high held tails on the arena, scowling and howling. It’s quite a laugh, dependent on who is friendly with whom, and who is scared of not being invited where. Norway being such an infinitely small place it gets ridiculously translucent. And the (re)views are often presented in a very untalented way too. One critic is a specialist on retelling the plot of all books in such a manner that it seems no point in reading it - unless he ends his review by saying that the book is not worth reading. Then some of us know it’s a good read.
Enjoy the rain if you are lucky enough to get some. It’s is good for your skin and your rice fields! Oh yes, I keep forgetting: Roseroot is in itself not fattening, but it does give you an appetite. Stay away from it if you’re weighting your watch, or the other way round. To-morrow I am not going to write one word about the necessary use of pesticides in hot climates, nor of the exquisite taste of vegetables and fruit grown in the northern summer light.
Class journeys have become the peg for journalists and writers to hang their hats on. The grand tour all the way from a non educated rural or industrial society, described as near economic and mental destitution, all the way to the ruling classes, seems to highlight the prevalent way of thinking. To belong to the ruling classes, the high earning rich and therefore powerful is the ultimate goal. Journeys the other way are not interesting.
The Norwegian class distinctions became very clear during the official celebration of the separation from Sweden in 1905. It was Us and Them, and quite embarrassing too, as feared.
I remember that Queen Elisabeth was celebrating some jubilee surrounded by her people, sitting on a tribune with her family in a big arrangement outside of the Buckingham Palace. What she did in private was not disclosed, at least I didn’t notice. I just saw her patiently sitting there, she even seemed glad to be with her people.
In Oslo there were two celebratory arrangements. One out of doors for those worse off and less important who had to pay for their popular entertainment, and another free one in the Oslo Concert Hall, for the invited characters worthy of consorting with Government representatives, the Royals and their chosen loyals, (after this said intriguing class journey) – with less known music and entertainment, which could have been presented to all and sundry at Lillehammer, say – or in Holmenkollen for thousands and thousands of people.
No further comments to-day. Except that anyone who’s got a functioning head under her hat has a reason to celebrate just that, things being what they are.
The Norwegian Minister for foreign affairs, Jan Petersen has signed an agreement with the US President’s no.1 personal asset, Ms. Condoleezza Rice. (No, she doesn’t smoke cigars, but Petersen does.) It seems the agreement concerns how to combat the world’s poverty.
I do hope someone explained to Petersen the wording of the document and its future implications. Ms Rice is presently preoccupied with offering US services to all the South American Countries too. They’re to be liberated and US to prosper thereby.
The normal state of affairs have been that the rich world exploit the poor world, and then suppress the poor world further by lavishing economic and military aid on them to prove its power to keep the poor poor.
At times an editor might have been an asset, even on the net, if there were reliable ones available.
On the other hand, it’s a relief to be independent. Having to succumb to editors in order to secure a livelihood doesn’t secure objectivity either.
However, an already published mix-up of people like Wolfowitz and Bolton, doesn’t feel exactly great. Wolfowitz was the economic mastermind behind the last attack on Iraq, whereas John Bolton has a somewhat different background for his being loaded on to the UN by The Bush. So I’ve cut from John R. Bolton’s official biography to absolve myself. Absolving is the thing these days, apparently anything can be forgiven and so forgotten.
‘John R. Bolton was sworn in as Under Secretary of State for Arms Control and International Security on May 11, 2001. Prior to his appointment, Mr. Bolton was Senior Vice President of the American Enterprise Institute (AEI). AEI is a non-profit public policy centre dedicated to preserving and strengthening the foundations of freedom through research education, and open debate. Mr. Bolton has spent many years of his career in public service. Previous positions he has held are Assistant Secretary for International Organization Affairs at the Department of State, 1989-1993; Assistant Attorney General, Department of Justice, 1985-1989; Assistant Administrator for Program and Policy Coordination, U.S. Agency for International Development, 1982-1983; General Counsel, U.S. Agency for International Development, 1981-1982.’
No doubt this qualifies him as the President’s headmaster carrying the whip to teach the UN how to let America preserve their feeling of being an empire. (More on this another day.)
In his speech in Florida June 6th Mr. Bush was expressing his joy of having conquered communism and colonialism and a lot of other grubby things. I don’t recall what he said on terrorism and poverty, nor about corruption. Probably nothing much, even Mr. Bush may be able to observe who he’s talking to.
Now, as I don’t have any reliable editor behind me, I’m not going to mention anything about the close race for presidency and how the State of Florida set about getting rid of Al Gore. Had Gore won at the time, there’d never been a second term for the Worlds Greatest Bush. Well, history is best forgotten better to repeat the tricks next time round.
Adresseavisen in Trondheim and its journalist Siri Wahl-Olsen deserve praise for writing sensibly and compassionately about problems concerning sexual abuse of children.
Unni Wikan, the local politician who chose to personally confront this field of shame, without any secret agendas of gaining popularity, may rest assured that by doing so, she is of great help for the many who share her childhood experiences.
In a country seriously in want of idealism, this gives a little hope.
The benefit of doubt is getting successively harder to give seeing the amount of ignorance behind the blunders executed by people who’re in it for the power. Mrs. Erna Solberg, who is Minister for the Local Government (Kommunaldepartementet) has got more than her fair share of benefits on this page so far.
The last straw was her appointing a former Secretary of State, in Norway that equals a Minister’s right hand aide, Mr. Osmund Kaldheim, as Director of a new Integration Commission, instead of choosing applicants far better qualified, like Manuela Ramin Osmundsen, assistant Director to the Commission for Foreigners.
Mrs. Manuela Ramin Osmundsen has also for several years led the Centre for Ethnic Discrimination in Norway. Mr. Kaldheim is one of far too many political broilers used to crow at demand.
Mrs. Solberg fervently denies that this decision is political, as she is fervent about advocating the abolishment of many local State Asylums for refugees, presumably in order to collect them all in centralised concentration camps. Here she is all in line with the Ministry for Health and Care, which recently suggested that those in need of extra care in the local communities should be taken away from their homesteads, friends and families, to be collected in central units in order to save money and rationalize the effort of having to supply care at all.
As it happens, groups of applicants for other positions in the Public Administration are furious about appointments of lesser qualified applicants than themselves. They don’t however complain, for fear of becoming unpopular for the next sifting round. About one third of the working population in Norway is employed in the Public Administration. One has to go easy not to spoil a chance of getting a job. You better be wisely connected, show the right colour or be related to someone in order to succeed.
I’ve been fairly kind to Mrs. Solberg, seeing that she has a personal handicap. Most people have one or two, visible or not, however compensated for. Mentioning such things is just not done, even though it’s very often done. Still I’m joining the slandering rudest, asking how anyone dares to trust someone to take care of them, who appears unable to take care of her own person?
Sorry folks. We are talking of a slouch contending to head our next Government. And we are talking of a whole generation of politicians in want of historic insight, compassion for others and especially for the little man. Was nun? Vestigia terrent.
I’m shortly intending to praise someone, believe it or not.
The 20th of May I wrote about the Larvik policeman murdering a Vietnamese on 18th of May, and that the ‘general agreement’ was that the policeman had no option.
Witnesses, among them a pensioned police officer whose assistance was refused by the thirty something self-sufficient trigger-happy policeman, have declared that the killing was unnecessary. The report of one newspaper pointed to the fact that prior to the murder a Norwegian acquaintance of the poor victim was following him around asking him questions, in my view then aggravating him.
The poor Vietnamese refugee was once welcomed to Norway. But like many others in a similar situation he was given few opportunities. Waving meat axes in frustration and despair then seems to me a natural thing to do. Upsetting upset people by following them around and creating a drama around them, is not just inconsiderate, it’s senseless, equalling the threat of a policeman’s gun. At 4 meter’s distance, the policeman didn’t even manage to hit the arm holding the axe.
Rest assured that the Police Special Investigating Board shall find the killer not to blame. They practically never do blame the police for anything. The public prosecutor, Tor Axel Busch believes every fib he’s told, by whomsoever, and never scrutinizes any complaint against those guards of public – and their own - safety. Lawyers have told me that. In uniform you can get away with – yes, murder.
If Norway is going to receive and care for refugees and people searching a haven here from oppressive regimes in their home countries, the Public Authorities and the Norwegian population in general have to understand that if the foreigners coming here on those terms are not given equal opportunities as regards jobs and acceptance, those human beings are destroyed, not helped.
To-morrow I’ll say my final piece on the callous Erna Solberg, the Chairman of the Right wing party and Minister for Local Government, administering the problems of immigration. She has appointed a new broad bladed spade to dig her political grave wide and deep enough to cater for the rest of her fellow roosters.
Now that The World Bank is taught fair treatment by the man behind the economics of the last American enterprise in Iraq, it seems but logical that the stubborn General Secretary of the UN, Kofi Annan should get a visible American headmaster too.
John Bolton appears just the whip to serve the Mr. Pushthemover of the United States when he’s preparing to teach Iran obedience. I doubt this will charm Mr. Annan or anyone else in her right mind.
I’m not infatuated with the Iranian regime, or any other regime. But wanting to have the Bomb ready when other states defend their rights to have a supply seems but fair, as pointed out by wider guys than me.
It’s simple: When animals eat my tulips, I eat the animals which have prospered by my crops.
The reason why the US still can be a member of the UN is that other member states cannot afford to pay for their subscription either. The difference is that the other poor states don’t boast of an economical potency they don’t possess.
Mighty braggarts ought to take time off to boil their own bloomers instead of blaming the struggling weak for spreading disease.
Join that Party, guys!
I’m hard up for time. I promised to straighten out and iron my better half’s shiner studded party frock bought on a shopping spree inspired by Karita Bekkemellom Orheim. She is a newly divorced Labour Member of The Norwegian Parliament and loves dressing up for social functions. That’s perhaps as good a reason as any to go for a Government seat.
I have to fix his makeup too, to make him self confident and ready for grabs without his having to get pot-valiant when socializing. The farm stylist has cut his hair audaciously lopsided and dyed it in a delicate shady purple matching what may peak out of the frock’s low neckline. She’s got a knack with assessing his hair’s personality and accompanies him everywhere, in the barn and onto the dung heap, in the tractors, on the road and abroad.
When I’m busy, the stylist does his face for me too, which is a relief, as I’m allergic to powder. According to the June British edition of an American glossy for wannabe glams – powder is ruling this year. This may comfort all who feel they have no say. Powder will simply replace the power-Karitas stealing their dignity of self determination. Buy the blurb, dab it on. I got to go. Partytime is closing up.
The future at hand.
At the age of 82 Norman Mailer has been blogging from May 9th to May 17th this year. Keep up the good will Norman, don’t let the amateurs wash you out!
I just read some American mathematician’s praise of his own amazing ability to write something meaningful, such as advising people to admit they know nothing of what they’re speaking of in order to gain the confidence of an audience.
For several reasons the meaning of his message failed to amaze me. This could of course be due to my being awash, as any ageing shaggy hag storyteller, down the drain where anyone with children passed the age of five automatically belong. Nevertheless, having lived for a while one tends to have noticed the various directions this kind of confidence can lead an audience.
Seeing the amount of speculative Hitleriana, including Bloomsbury’s ‘Hitler and Geli’ by Ronald Hayman,1998, and a video film on the market on the same subject, I feel sorry for ever having touched the subject of abuse and the reactions of victims. Abuse is always performed by callous psychopaths. 10 % of any population have the traits characterizing this disposition. Those aroused by abuse, whatever form it takes, belong in the same category, along with anyone, like the infamous David Irving, and any present day political leader who are allowing, denying or excusing it, for whatever reason.
To comfort the happy mathematician, I’m not much graced with amazement these days, seeing that the farm’s seven hundred lambs, three hundred and forty mother sheep and two hares (yes, and they too have a hungry family) have grazed away our garden on the sly.
Good thing the farm is not situated on top of a cliff. The last enterprise Knut Hamsun’s character August tried his opportunist hand with, was sheep. Having finally made it in a big way with his flock, August was caught by the flood of them following their leader and trying to catch up with her. Unable to escape the throng, August smashed into the abyss, drowning in the wealth meant to give him power. That’s called romantic love of nature by the Norwegian literary police.
Never mind. Our nature, cultivated or not, is bound soon to be banned, both by the BMA and other Bushovers. Just think of the dangerous rocks! We’ve got high-tech to eat and enjoy. Those troublesome plants and organisms in need of profitable poisons and notions, are safer done away with.
In fact, if we do away with ourselves, there won’t be more harm done, not even by the peddling of thwarted history or the blow from a single fist.
Come to think of it, why not cut everyone’s hands off for starters. Then there won’t be any need for the BMA to demand the surrender of anyone’s kitchen knives.
There are traps for copycats.
After seeing the last American glitzy TV show of inaccurate information on Adolf Hitler’s private life, ending with his relationship to his niece Geli Raubal, I detected on the net an American next to replica of my 1975 novel about her sad life.
An American novel called ‘Hitler’s Niece’, by Ron Hansen, a fairly common Scandinavian surname, was published by HarperCollins in 1998, complete with the nickname I made up for Geli to use, uncle Alf.
Knowing that this name was an unlikely choice, I still used it, to get the readers closer to the psychopath traits surprisingly many share.
Friends have previously detected and pointed out to me Norwegian historian’s attempted accounts of Hitler’s life, using fictional details from my novel as facts, his drinking grass juice or getting the newspapers heated before touching them. It used to make me snicker.
Apparently Mr. Hansen took his project of writing a novella to John Irving, who mustered a bout of quick thinking by saying: ‘I think you have got a novel there.’
I hope it’s not a bad translation!
Since the middle of the eighties journalists have been tearing the theme to shreds, starting with Der Spiegel and gradually hitching on to the Guardian and Newsweek and back again, now peaked by that glorified nazi-entertainment of TV-Americana, complete with upper class accents.
Welcome to the club Mr. Hansen! Did you too take her to the zoo?
Are you on the list?
Racketeering and running a business is more or less the same thing these days.
We receive letters, phone calls and house calls to squeeze bank accounts to the advantage of some fabulous business idea from which we are going to gain all and a little more of it. When we decline to succumb, it’s too late. The batch of mind enhancing pills is already in the post. We’re on the list!
I was threatened to question my sense of reason and economy by some persuasive foot in door geezer. Luckily his tongue slipped, revealing that he was trawling the valley for all the grain the old and ignorant (like me) obtain.
Storfjellseter is not in the books on Norwegian Wood Hotels (Norske Trehoteller). We refused to pay the price the publishers all of a sudden demanded. Their photographer and writer was on their request dined and wined for a couple of days. Then they billed us for printing the photographs and the article. They got an answer including no money. This is the reason why journalists get nothing for free at Storfjellseter, unless they are invited.
If you read yesterday’s Just Now, you may think I don’t like Germans. This is not so. I dislike lust for power and control, and those who are afraid of, or too lazy to protest against it.
At Storfjellseter we had lots of nice German visitors. So many that we wondered how they all found the place. It appeared that Storfjellseter was listed in the German Automobile Association’s book on Norway. (ADAC) After a couple of years a bill from ADAC appeared: Pay us five thousand N.Kr. a year and we will continue the listing.
If we pay up, we’d also be on the national list of good food in Norway. We won’t.
On the net it’s even worse. Epitomizing this was a call the master of the house received from Eniro – Kvasir. They wanted to know his turnover so as to find out how much they could screw him for. His reaction is unfit for publishing – even on the net.
Firms start advertising our little enterprise in a way we thoroughly dislike. Then they phone and ask for money. We tell them that we dislike their presentation and that they may as well remove the advertisement. They don’t.
To get them to alter the ad you have to pay the prize they ask.
That used to be called blackmail.
Ordnung muss sein in the brave old world.
Someone in the south of Norway is now selling Rottveilers. To tempt the market the poor hounds were said to have a German temper.
This startling hype made me think of the old 2nd World War warrior who kept repeating that the European Union was the best option to control the Germans’ tendency both to take control and let themselves be controlled.
German river fishing freaks, however tempered, get distinctly reticent confronted with unleashed dogs. At home they’ve learnt to shy off trespassing private grounds guarded by anything barking, even when it’s barking up the wrong tree.
The German Authorities have seen fit to advance an addition to their many controlling rules, hoping for it to catch on in the rest of the European Union, and perhaps the world. It’s going to resemble ‘when in Rome, do as the Germans’:
No smoking drivers. No eating or drinking drivers either. Not a sip of water for the thirsty long distance travellers. What about breastfeeding and varnishing of nails, reading digital street maps and scratching ones scalp, not to mention sneezing? Are they going to enforce the rules by installing cameras in private cars, connecting them to monitors alarming storm troops?
Monitoring suspects of whatever, by microphones installed in their homes is soon to be legalized in Norway. Technology is certainly inspiring for Public Authorities, contrary to any urgent warning from past and present writers and artists.
It’s amazing that the exponents of the ruling classes of the world haven’t thought of grafting little chips into all newborns’ brains, programmed to beep whenever a mischievous urge occurs.
Well, for all we know it’s already in the pipeline.
Control is a fast growing industry offering lots of work for the unemployed. We know. A Commission consisting of five Tax Authority members forced their way into our home, law in hand to inspect the luxury our family is supposed to wallow in.
The family’s youngest member locked the door to his room, and loudly barked to them his opinion. The peeved Commission hastily withdrew without discovering the attic ballroom with its gilded period furniture, the marbled swimming pool below the ground, or the heaps of money under my mattress.
Take care not to wear lipstick when driving. Who’d want an armed policeman to poke his snout into the car, yapping interrogations as to where and when exactly the makeup was applied?
To-day Her Majesty the Queen of Norway might get one on the kisser in Oslo when opening the exhibition ‘Kiss the Frog’. A few Norwegian artists still dare to be daring, however un-endearing to the Government’s Commission for Sustainable Development of Public Taste.
Thank heavens the organizers didn’t call this art event ‘Kiss the Toad’. It would have been offensive to draw our attention to the Queen’s younger days. She had no guaranty then what her kisser might do to the prince she met.
On the other hand, Kiss the Frog? The green blow up tent near the National Gallery doesn’t vaguely resemble animals of the kind. Why not the Kiss the Kraut, or Kiss my Spanish Cravat or something in that region, to get slightly closer to the point?
Surely someone will send someone a corrective letter. In French, I presume.
My present spouse hasn’t talked to me for weeks. It’s all the same with me. The endless chatter performed by his half of the population is a strain for hard working women
He’s offended. He threatens not to cook for the family and to withdraw other kinds of attention. Not only do I keep him on a tight budget, he was not even mentioned when I wrote about the Norwegian Sámi aborigines.
The Sámi people of Finnmark got back their ancient privileges, albeit our Right Wing Coalition Government, who in principle encourages private enterprise, now admonishes the Sámi people against privatisation of their earth, game and inland fish (and the mosquitoes).
My spouse confidently asserts that he’s an aborigine too. In that respect some Norwegian farmers are comparable to red Indians in the United States or the Inuit people as far as he’s concerned. The State has wrenched away from their ancestors the ownership of the land. Now this farm owns the mountain grass and the logs for its mountain houses and firing wood, but not the earth nurturing the roots.
That’s men for you, wanting the earth.
Tulips are my favourite flowers, a preference I share with the farm hare. It lives happily under the store house where the hams used to hang, and where we still keep a huge dried pike procured by my father in law some forty years ago.
My father in law used to be a good man until his death. After that I wouldn’t know. Opinions vary with the company one keeps. He always worried about my taste for tulips, and didn’t understand how I could down them raw and without salt.
My father in law was pleased that I didn’t eat the bulbs, though. I don’t and never did. What with next year’s crop? One has to look to the future after all. I only eat the leaves and the stems and the buds. Not the blooming flowers. They are too bitter, and the price of Fedon fads like fruit sugar is pretty steep.
Besides one’s teeth get dyed red or maroon, yellow even. It’s not particularly becoming. I read in a magazine that women must look their best in order to market themselves. It is important to sport the right clothes for as high a price as one can afford.
I’m glad not having to be on the market. Spending money is not my favourite past time. Looking one’s best is quite a confusing demand as well. It seems to involve being skinny and still sport boobs of a considerable size, notwithstanding impolite sunglasses worn for their brand mark, Pucci or Grado, I keep forgetting which. The brands are supposed to transmit social signals. I suppose that’s what social antennas are for, to replace common sense and ordinary sensitivity, to make life easier, perhaps.
By the look of the hare, the bulbs must be fattening indeed. So, that’s my contribution to the generally accepted view on women’s plight as lookers, not to get obese. That’s really the best I can do in that direction, to keep off the bulbs. (Roseroot, by the way is fattening.)
Light finally dawned in my darkened mind:
Apparently culture and money are identical entities in Norway. My search for an official definition is now definitely history.
It’s quite simple once you get the hang of it. Culture that doesn’t accumulate money is out. Those who have inherited fortunes, cheating their siblings or not, and those who have earned or married into money, as well as those who have scrambled their way into positions involving managing public money, automatically become exponents of culture, provided they make money out of the money, which any old fool may achieve.
The Minister for Culture explained this in a recent speech, by disclosing her love for rich and charming men with an interest for culture.
There’s no mistaking that phrase. The Government is advocating prostitution.
A little later this same member of the imprudent Government, Mrs. Valgerd Svarstad Haugland, scolded Liv Ullmann for her impudence. Liv Ullmann is apparently misled to believe that the present Norwegian Government treats Culture as a commodity, like vegetables to go with their dinners.
The Minister maintains that her Government has lavished Culture with money, (i.e. money with money). They certainly pay the price for their greens! This Liv Ullmann must acknowledge as a valid evidence of their intimate connections with phenomena of higher spheres, like vitamins. Naturally a mere artist cannot understand the superior value of money and the intricate minds of those who handle it.
I’m now waiting for the proof of the puddings to follow those vegetables.
The sword is not astray!
In a Canadian school the pupils have traced the sword named Lyngar. The so far free spirits from Mars, of the Mars ghost dust brought to Earth by NASA’s careless mishap, told me they’d read the pupils story on the net. The spirits are now worried lest they’re going to be detected too, and that people from of all over shall come running here to find them – and snatch the sword.
They are worried all the time, poor things, most of all about the vacuum cleaner. When they are at rest they resemble ordinary flat let corner rabbits, easy prey for anyone hankering after hygiene.
Then they worry about the sword, begging to borrow it just in case. I don’t quite trust them when they assure me it’s to part the cleaner’s mouthpiece from the hose should they be trapped inside. Thing is, they’re still disappointed after the National Day Celebration, when they tried to mingle and got but cold shoulders.
In fact they’re angry. Worried spirits and people tend to get angry.
They have decided what’s wrong with this land. ‘It’s too many Norwegians here,’ it plunged out of them. And it didn’t exactly sound as if the dust spirits contemplated exporting my superfluous compatriots to Sweden.
Therefore I secretly went to the Hugemountain (Storfjellet) and buried the sword under a giant rock, playing for time whilst the spirits are out there somewhere learning to lip talk and back lip to ease their way into the ruling classes. They aim to pull their commercialism by its inflatable nose.
The Mars ghosts promised to report back here by Saturday. If you read no more of them on this page, they’ve come to no harm and no harm is done by them.
Storfjellseter is not Storfjellstua! Watch out.
Storfjellseter is not for sale, and will never be. The farm Landet and Storfjellseter can never be separated. Confusing rumours tend to develop:
A neighbour is selling her modern house, Storfjellstua. It used to be a good business with a café and rooms for rent, and eight separate cottages. Guests from Storfjellstua visited Storfjellseter, as guests from the hotel not far away did too. People enjoyed walking from the one place to the other. Our mountain area then had three very different offers, a hotel with a bar and music, camping life with a café, and then the peaceful Storfjellseter with art exhibitions, home made food and old fashioned service. It used to work out fine.
The cottages belonging to Storfjellstua are now sold separately, on the condition that Storfjellstua cannot be used as a café again. We feel the Local Authorities have made a tragic mistake allowing Storfjellstua to be slaughtered as sustainable business. From the middle of the seventies a family had created their livelihood there with the help from the same Local Authorities. This could very well have continued if the unit had not been split up.
Our mountain area in Ringebu is quite unique, since the building of private resorts here have been heavily restricted. There are few cottages. The houses close to Storfjellseter are mostly old mountain summer farms used when herds grazed in the mountains during summer and kept the landscape in shape.
Storfjellseter, the farm Landet’s mountain ‘head quarter’ still maintains this thousand year old tradition. This summer there will be around 1200 sheep and some 40 to 50 cows grazing in the area, from several farms in Stor-Elvdal.
The shepherd is always with us, walking around for 8 hours a day to watch the animals. He is living in his little, separate shepherd house just near by. One of the farmers is also on guard at any one time. I am telling this, because one does get kind of tired by uninformed town’s people hotly scolding farmers for not shielding their herds from the predators.
Emil, the ‘Fiording’ Horse, (of an old West Country race) will also spend the summer at the neighbour farm Neegaard’s fenced in field just below our houses.
But – no more waffles at Storfjellstua. No kind hostess there to tell you the last news or serve a ‘patent’ sandwich for lunch. Everyone in the area is going to miss that.
We’ll be at Storfjellseter though, from the 18th of June, with Katrine and Henrik to help looking after you. Some will be happy to meet Katrine yet again. It will be her fourth summer season on Storfjellseter, and our sixteenth after the reopening in 1990.
Mona & Anders
Reliable sources yesterday revealed that a female member of the Norwegian Government has achieved a major discovery:
Sex and in particular the female sex is being exploited by advertising, she divulged. She firmly points out that this has unfortunate effects on the young.
Quick thinking. Congratulations.
Had they been able to see this delayed awareness in advance The Norwegian Association for the Blind would maybe have given her a guide dog for a present some fifteen years ago.
As a member of the present establishment she however automatically applauds the market liberalist usurpers. Numerous Norwegian Town Councils allow a company named Clear Channel to plant nasty looking billboards picturing anorectic but nose heavy nudes side by side with junk chain burgers, in parks and streets all over the place. Clear Channel pays for the space by buying benches where the elderly can rest and contemplate the blow ups whilst the city cuckoos cuckoo.
Perhaps this is the Norwegian Public Authorities’ idea of culture?
Conversation at dinner in scary kitchen:
B: (Absently.) I’m kind of fed up with climacteric wrinkle bags envying the young and beautiful. (Chews.)
A: For the past twenty years I’ve counted myself lucky not to have small daughters with pouting tummies, Lolita eyes and movements asking for trouble.
C: (Angry.) Burkhas to all women past forty is the answer, at least for the eyesores. (Menacing look at A.)
A: Ok then. Buy me one and bring the police in to enforce the rules.
C: (To A.) Do you want to get shot?
B: (Slightly worried, to C.) She’d have no option. What else can you expect when there’s a meat axe on the wall? And what if they peek into her drawers detecting her butcher’s knives and grindstones?
A: Oh, they wouldn’t shoot a Norwegian. (Etc. Ad lib.)
Until further notice I’m abstaining from abuse of the space war program developed by Pentagon’s Bush men. Foul language is not my style. Yet.
Someone ought to review journalists and editors, politicians and their faithful maintainers of justice and truth, as well as preachers on their pulpits and teachers in class: Content, style and form.
Televised reviews of Norwegian media’s performance ended abruptly. Maybe the effort was strangled by the media owners – or by the reviews failing to catch an audience. To be on the safe side, one Norwegian paper prints its own column, A View on Media, yesterday written by Atle Syversen. Printed news is encountering a dramatic decrease in sales. Young people prefer browsing the net to the heaps of paper jammed with advertising and compliant blurb.
Atle Syversens punchline was that you find a lot of rubbish on the net.
He was however omitting that the net offers a counterweight to an editor desks’ choice of slanting or avoiding information when facts don’t suit the accepted opinion. I trust most people who are lucky enough to read and write are able to distinguish between the livelihood of scavengers and attempts to waylay the ways of the world.
On May 18th which is the Norwegian Hangovers’ Day, the Larvik police shot and killed a Vietnamese man. He was threatening people with a meat axe. The general agreement is that the murderer had no option.
I hope our local police stick to lurking around in people’s gardens. If entering our kitchen their hands too might start to shake. There’s a huge axe on one wall and plants they haven’t seen before.
I wouldn’t dare to disclose whether I contrary to prevalent Norwegian legislation carry a knife when not accompanied by my better half. It might prove lethal.
The Whitsun and National Day celebrations apparently started some days in advance for some Norwegians.
The misprints in last Saturday’s Norwegian newspaper editions were astounding. Spirited journalism in Dagens Naeringsliv was also marred by gross linguistic blunders. I wonder if perhaps the writers had translated the articles from say Singapore News instead of writing the stuff themselves.
Adresseavisen in Trondheim had clipped from the Guardian a comment on the thousands of African boys who have disappeared in London during the past few years, one of several related themes just briefly mentioned by the Norwegian media.
Maybe some publications fear that reporting on these problems which also exist here, would reduce some otherwise respectable citizens’ economic engagement? The money behind the media is an efficient censorship. John Lloyd of The Financial Times remarked several years ago that maybe the internet might become a more reliable source for information.
Adresseavisen is usually a good paper – by Norwegian standards. Last Saturday one of their journalists had however spelt curious (nysgjerrig- nyskjerrig) very curiously, and on the last page of their magazine the editor let a scribe get away with a regurgitation of the private life of the actress Liv Ullmann, not bothering to mention her achievements as an actress, writer and film director.
Had she been in possession of the correct member for reproducing (and prospering), like one may assume her fellow townsman, the violinist Arve Tellefsen is, the public by now would have recovered from the shock of her deserving respect in spite of being raised in Trondheim. And no, Arve Tellefsen never eloped with Herbert von Karajan, au contraire.
Back to work after yet another week of celebrating this, that and the next thing, I found the dear ghosts huddled in a corner, beady eyed and very sad. They’d been out on the Norwegian national day, trying to mingle.
They’d been wearing national costumes not to stick out, they’d waved their pure Norwegian flags and had shouted hooray. But not even eating wiener sausages and ice cream like everyone else had made them feel accepted.
No one talked to them.
No one said hello.
The ghosts wondered if they’d held their chins too much up, whether the way they’d learnt to walk was offensive or if their accent was wrong. They’d never felt as heartily unwelcome in a crowd before.
I tried to explain that some Norwegians cannot help their fear of strangers. Their isolation is so ingrown and their self confidence therefore so vulnerable that they simply cannot risk to be friendly to someone who are in the slightest different from themselves. Unless it is a celebrity, someone who’s earned a lot of money, whether on soft porn camouflaged as information, or on advertising camouflaged as culture.
This made them even more beady eyed. That owning money or anything at all should make anyone popular and his views of interest, was a revelation to them. Next they’ll perhaps desert me, in order to earn their way to recognition.
Henrik Syse used to be a conservative politician. He has now declared that the refuting of all politicians in Norway deter people from being active in politics. It’s sad that few intellectual capacities dare acknowledge that changing governments’ politics and politicians have no effect when the Public Administration is ruled through nepotism, by bureaucrats employed for life. The same goes for the cultural sector of public life, now censured by sediments from the Marxist-Leninist devotion from the seventies, exponents trained in psychological warfare, if not by people whose scope is narrowed by an education based on prevalent political biases and the socialist democratic ideal of shaping individuals to measure, the levelling of minds.
Grapevine and scorn presented as inside information are mostly products of wishful thinking. Intimidations may be due to jealousy or despair. It strikes all and sundry, even oneself. Some time ago I was amazed to hear that my farmer spouse was a drunkard who often beat me, while a little later I was personally inclined to ram Storfjellseter’s 4WD into horses and pedestrians. People have conversations with me in Oslo at times when I’m busy working in these parts, and some people in Sandefjord claim that I’m Hitler’s daughter. ‘Inside information’ is sometimes off-road too.
The war industry’s footmen warning the wary world of the disappointed private Russians’ urge to resurrect Stalin, therefore came as no surprise. I hurry to denounce any rumours developing as to my having dispatched the old Josip to where Sandefjord’s Adolphian daughter (of nine) felt he belonged. Please stick to the BBC version of Stalin’s last day. How could anyone have smuggled Stalin’s huge body out of the north of Norway anyway? If I was to blame for Stalin’s heart attack, I’d long ago been finished, as wishful thinkers hereabouts also spread word of recently.
No, I’m not finished yet:
In Norway Stalin’s way of ruling has been the ideal for quite some time. It still is and will be as long as it serves the Capital, ironic as that may seem. Norwegian farmers are waiting in fear for signs of how the left, right and centre myopic market liberalists and money digging politicians decide to get rid of them. The Capital’s capitalists are soon to succeed in elbowing their way into transferring farm property to their private portfolio.
The most ardent anti Norwegian financial punters, are therefore betting on an expanded Stalinist ruling, changing existing laws to give them access to acquiring farmland, forests and houses to boast of, no strings attached. Looking down their noses at the native rednecks, their fads are the dreams of landowning, hunting and c… in the open, confronting the wild by sporting fly fishing gear in our garden.
Some are dying to impress friends from the Capital with a license to kill big game for the thrill. Increasing property prices are even more thrilling. Their spoilt kids can later sell off their country inheritance when other investments inevitably fail. At which time the price of farm land may have reached the sky, caused by a break down of the global infrastructure, effectively putting and end to import.
For the children of Mammon, farming is out of the question. Hard work doesn’t appeal, and they have no experience. Still their sugar parents are welcomed by a naïve, rural community devoid of concern for the future: Thank you for descending upon us from your heaven of pennies!
The practicing of existing laws by local authorities, allowing old age pensioners to trade with nature and farmland, won’t keep landscapes and fields in proper condition. Using the Norwegian spot of Mother Earth as playground or for recreation wouldn’t be possible after a few years of amateur tending. Resources will be wasted. There shall be nothing left to rejoice in for one single tourist. All which meet the eye shall be vacated communities and neglected vegetation. No shops, no schools, nothing bar lonely investors visiting their second homes, desperate for someone to milk their hobbyhorses to maintain the rural and redneck façade.
Luring farmers to invest in tourism or to find other work in vacated surroundings is worthy only of airy fairy urbanites and cotter spirited cowards who dare not imagine that Norwegian farm produce can be appreciated on an international market.
Destroying some thousands of years of down to earth farmers’ gained experience and consideration for nature is vandalism. The totalitarian capitalists of Norwegian finance and politics support all ideas aiming to provide well for the few by deriving others of old-established rights to a means of existence. How then, are these squirrels going to get rid of the food producing obstacles?
Murdering one single person or butchering farmers, dissenters, races and people by the millions usually don’t help much. Some still remain. Wishful ‘inside information’ may however lead to belligerence.
A Swedish cake for Whitsun and May 17th, Inga Tidblad’s Taarta - for advanced bakers:
Inga Tidblad was a much appreciated Swedish actress (1901-1975). Her last performance at the theatre Dramaten, was as Helene Alving in Henrik Ibsen’s Ghosts. She was Romeo’s Julie and Strindberg’s Miss Julie, Shakespeare’s Ariel and Tennessee Willams’ Amanda Wingfield of the Glass Menagerie, you name it. Maybe she also created this recipe. In any case it is a tasty commemoration of a great talent.
You need 4 big eggs, 150 grams fructose or 200 grams castor sugar, 200 grams coarsely grated almonds, 150 grams butter in cubes, 1 level spoon (dry) instant coffee, 1 teaspoon baking soda – and finally ¼ litre cream to whip and some flaked almonds to roast lightly.
Separate yolks and whites. Beat whites to tops while preparing the filling: Mix yolks and half of the sugar or fructose in a heat resistant basin fitting into a pan with boiling water. Heat and beat (as with a home made béarnaise) and add butter cubes little by little, finish by stirring in the coffee. Check if it is sweet enough and put aside to cool.
Gradually add the rest of the sweetening stuff to the whites, whisking vigorously – you may add a drop of vinegar or a pinch of cream of tartar. Finally cut in the almonds and the baking soda.
Bake in a round, well greased tin at 180 degrees C for 30 minutes. Cool. Transfer to a suitable platter – if possible you can make two layers and place the filling on the bottom, covering it with half of the cream, the rest topping the top. Decorate with flakes of roasted almonds.
There is of course a traditional recipe for a Norwegian National cake, the Kvefjord variety, as well as a fake tradition one with prunes. But all Norwegians know those by heart. Phone friends and get them to give the show away! Enjoy frying the frogs, sorry – flagging the poles. Or was it gagging the hags?
To begin with: A just hail to the Norwegian actress and film director Liv Ullmann. She declared Norwegian authorities incompetent in their blundering about with Culture and Arts. According to the male members of our household, Liv Ullmann dared thus to affront them while giving a speech thanking for the award of a St. Olav medal, 1st class. Was the medal perhaps an attempted prayer of being absolved for not supporting her last film project?
To the point of our now then: A shared idiosynyncrasy against the celebration of Mammon, the cherished golem, led the ghost writing team to discuss other feasible alternatives to feast on. For a split second they contemplated joining the resurrection of Stalin, but decided that would have been but mainstream conservative.
While safely dwelling on peaceful Mars, of the ghost dust observed by NASA’s cameras but not recognized by the short sighted space travellers, they have observed Tellurian territory from above through time, and don’t wish to fight themselves through life waiting for a Messiah. Nor do they want to wear sagging jeans in case they’d be chosen to give birth to a new Mohammad.
Saviours are out of fashion anyway. Idols are created by song and dance competitions and live transmissions of seedy individuals munching beetles on an Indonesian beach. This doesn’t appeal. And the pecuniary oligarchy, speaking with two tongues, one in public and the other reserved for insiders, appals them too. If they’d be lucky enough to be accepted as living souls welcome in Norway, they feel the need of being filled in.
So they turned to old Leon. Mr. Trotsky was chucked out of Norway by Trygve Lie in 1939 – followed suit by Wilhelm Reich, whose teaching, as grapevine has it, didn’t suit the more conventional Norwegian psychiatrists.
Off the one ghost writer went, to the hospital to find out whether Trotsky’s teachings might enhance their way of thinking or was better discarded as third stage lunacy from a syphilitic dissenter, as rumours had it. The records revealed that Trotsky was treated with the quicksilver solution called Salversan - the sole available cure for syphilitics at the time.
It didn’t always help. And it sure had side effects.
One of which may have been Trotsky’s being hatched to death with an axe in Mexico in1940. Perhaps he was blind and didn’t see the approaching assassin. The FBI invested much time and effort to clear the US’ conscience for this murder too. According to the comprehensive FBI files the axe fell at the bid of Stalin. ‘Mission completed,’ to quote the present President.
Now the dust buster writers from Mars are getting worried in case the grapevine of their existence shall reach the local community - and beyond. Finding nothing to believe in and unable to pay their way, they might be easy prey. But they are strong, deft and invisible at will. By now there may be lots of them around, not only in my office.
They are quick learners and work hard. But so far their souls are empty, giving them no cause to unite, except perhaps the anger of being trodden on and brought by foreign boots to estrangement.
One ghost writer is currently visiting a Norwegian hospital to read the medical journal of a famous foreigner dwelling here (for a short time, of course). In this country anyone claiming to do research, are allowed to read anything from hospital archives. What’s worse, some medical staff vent their irritation with patients not only to those concerned, but to anyone who cares to listen.
This breach of confidence occurs also in schools and within other occupations where confidentiality is an important part of the code of ethics.
We’ll see what information can be brought to the market as bait for the highly rated chosen.
Just Now’s staff of ghost writers have but one agenda: To chose readers carefully.
This is perhaps why you’re on the wrong site.
The ghost writers are also told not to underestimate their readers, as opposed to colleagues representing political parties seeking power, the latter grossly underrating the cerebral activity mustered by potential voters.
At the moment this site’s ghosts are aghast to observe how the previously intelligent Mrs. Clemet of the Conservative Party is inclined to deny Norwegian children the right to develop according to their personal resources. Is she afraid of future competition?
Mrs. Clemet seems now forever encumbered with the wet-nurse fog plaguing many women from the moment of giving birth until they (the luckier ones that is) retrieve their senses. Some children suffer from mothers who are not that lucky. Later they suffer in the present day school system too.
Those with difficulties in learning suffer as no-one bothers to find out why, nor have time to help, classes being too large. Those who are quick to learn are held back in order to keep level with the average. A system convenient for teachers who may themselves have been bright, accordingly held back and praised when lazy.
Reason and the question of causes are unfortunately often in conflict. Except in the dictionary at hand, where causality, causal relation and causal connection are similar concepts, all on equal footing with contended laws of causation.
The abstaining from comments neither on the multilateral nuclear arms discussions (the IAEA), nor the recent arresting of an al Qaida member in Pakistan, is not reflecting my failure of persistence. It’s rather a repression of the aggression produced by the general levelling of private citizens’ mental activity, to suit the conservation of political regimes.
Politcians’ perseverance to reign is paramount to their inability to combine knowledge and sincere concern with logic.
The available dictionary from the Norwegian to the English is a standard made to measure for a species taught to thrive on masticating conventions. The result of which were likewise demonstrated by a Norwegian Labour Government’s official X-mas card posted by the thousands: ‘With this pot plant we wish you a merry X-mas.’
I refrain from a caustic disclosure of the personal signature carrying such a message abroad. That would have equalled putting the name in her pipe to smoke it. Merry Monday to all, and may all good forces deliver us from simplification.
Mothers of the world, unite!
After reading the US president’s tear dripping philosophy on Mothers’ Day in the US this 8th of May, as well as noticing the many governments which are begging citizens to reproduce (and prosper), I feel inclined to remember the German author Wolfgang Borchert, who for some reason died in the early forties.
Wolfgang Borchert declared that if all mothers denied their sons to go to war, there would be no wars.
As it is, women also are armed these days, brainwashed or not. In principle a good thing, as long as males are armed. But still: Let’s say mothers demanded of all their offspring not to participate in any armed action. This would of course seriously disturb the stock markets, but ordinary people would adjust to that in due time.
What we won’t adjust to though, is the wilderness of technology. Again mothers, unite! If your husbands don’t like your kids anymore, they can send samples of genetic material to a laboratory to get it tested. And whoops, there goes everyone’s peace, freedom and feeling of security, including the children’s.
In this country, where even the codfish has to be white (authorities are soon putting a committee on its feet to see to that it’s white enough) it could be a major disaster to give birth to a jaundiced or too forward a child if your husbands are disposed to suspicion.
In our family the situation is critical. My husbands (the present and the former) are threatening to sue me if the tests prove that I am not the mother of their offspring. The offspring being a success, how could I be their mother? They, in this case, are of course without doubt the true Fathers.
A fine date for a public holiday!
In the Promised Land of the Norwegians, half of the month of May is a row of public holidays for one reason or another. The much reported goings-on in ancient Middle East are responsible for most of them.
In addition we have our National Day, 17th of May, with processions and amateur orchestras piping the tune of a national pride confusing to a multicultural society. This year urbanites have spent mental resources on whether or not our Norwegian aborigines, until recently the badly treated Sámi-people, should be allowed to wave their own flag in the Capital’s May 17th procession. Some prefer that the ‘royals’ on their castle balcony shall see but pure Norwegian flags in all children’s hands.
So much for tolerance. As to the urge for celebration, the event of Norwegians being freed from the Swedish slavery a hundred years ago, is taking its toll. We’re all bracing ourselves as tactless speeches are a Norwegian specialty. The budget for the festivities this June has already gone bust and the organizing committee has resigned. The Pakistani community in Oslo applied for a sum of money to arrange their own celebration. This stirred up the natives no end. Which made me think of the worst racist I’ve come across. A Dane living in London.
The leader of the Norwegian Conservative Party (Hoyre, the socialist light), Erna Solberg is now busy cutting down the number of refugee camps. She is currently the Minister for Local Government. I wish she’d find something else to cut down on. We’ve got a refugee project down the road. Foreigners’ presence somehow eases the burden of our being white trash in a redneck realm.
Erna Solberg has, by the way, a very beautiful face.
To all who have been searching this website for recipes, here is one for cholesterol-fearing Fedonists and other weight watchers. This is not Storfjellseter’s chocolate cake, which is a calorie bomb, but an answer to the recent hype on chocolate reducing the risk of thrombosis – blood clotting. Don’t believe a word of it. You don’t have to grab a Mars bar for health’s sake. Nor do you have to buy ready made cakes or cake mix, or spend ages in agony to beat grandma at it. Concocting a low calorie chocolate cake involves but 10 minutes’ activity while waiting for your wife to come home for dinner.
Heat the oven to 180 C. Beat 3 eggs with 100 grams of fructose. Mix 5 spoons of edible, liquid paraffin (yes) with 25 grams of cocoa powder (without sugar). Stir into eggs without beating. Mix 100 grams of coarsely ground flour (any kind – we used barley) with 1 topped teaspoon of baking powder, 1 pinch white pepper, ½ teaspoon dried coriander, ½ teaspoon powdered bitter orange (aurantii amari pericarpum) and ½ teaspoon cream of tartar (kalii hydrogentartras). If you’d like to add a handful chopped apricots and/or walnuts, or say finely grated raw carrot, you may mix this into the bowl of dry stuff before stirring everything together. Grease a small, baking tin well. Pour in the cake mix and bake for 20 minutes. It won’t rise much, but can be eaten hot or cold (leave to cool under cover) - with fresh fruit or ice cream - on its own, and even by yourself, in case your wife prefers to stay away.
Here’s what the chemist might supply:
Liquid paraffin, like the one used for low fat mayonnaise
Cream of tartar – Kalii hydrogentartras
Bitter orange powder – Aurantii amari pericarpum
The local shop will provide the rest of the ingredients unless you already have them at hand.
And to those searching the web for sheep starving to death in Norway:
Sorry. All the innocent lambs of our herd are thriving on their mothers’ milk, enjoying life! The shepherd is however dead beat, keeping watch all nights. The urban financial masterminds derogating Norwegian agriculture will of course tell him that there is no peace for the wicked. They keep terrorizing him by paying their underlings to phone at all times, dying as they are to cash in on opium to the people, non necessities and entertainment.
Births on hire purchase.
In Aftenposten Berthold Grünfeld, the Norwegian psychiatrist and professor of Social Medicine, recently qualified his views on in vitro fertilization (IVF) and pre-implantation genetic diagnostics (PGD).
A former child victim of KZ-camps of The Third Reich, he has perhaps a better standing of judgement on ethics than many of his Norwegian fellow professionals. His views are neither cynic or sentimental. He fears that if these methods of getting a family and securing healthy babies are denied people by the Public Health Care, they shall be offered at a price payable just for the loaded.
The way the stinking rich are allowing themselves to be presented as role models, we sometimes sense that they cannot take a claim on a better genetic material than those of lesser means.
Apparently some of us think that money buys it all. It doesn’t. Public or private, medically assisted procreation certainly won’t provide future generations with confidence by the mass producing of them in hired wombs. When so many already here are short of bare necessities, please bear in mind that the brave new lucrative technology derives from experiments with live humans in racist camps.
Like mixed marriages, adoption may be a careful step towards becoming one race of a kind.
And that, is as deep my fangs delve. I keep filing them.
Jens P. Heyerdahl, formerly heading the Norwegian stockholders’ wet dreams, Orkla, let his now decapitated head speak for itself when he was called upon to bare his soul in public on the first of May.
Totally oblivious of its originator’s scruffy appearance, the tongue of Heyerdahl’s liberated upper bodily extreme loudly smacked from its gold platter. The message was that our Prime Minister is a conceited dandy.
Now, then! Kjell Magne Bondevik is insecure and easily flattered, like most of his compatriots, no better and no worse than other available lovers of illusionary power.
The loose tongue also spat at the Minister for Finance, Per Kristian Foss. As if he’s got a say against the leader of The Financial Committee, the bill boarded Ms. Siv Jensen of the conservative extremes, Fremskrittspartiet.
This ‘Fortschrittspartei’ grew out of the near fascist movement of a pig and dog breeder, the late Mr. Anders Lange. The party’s smooth talking leader, Mr. Carl I. Hagen, was a member of Mr. Lange’s ‘Jugend’, called the Dog Boys (Hundeguttene). Mr. Hagen’s Extreme Right Movement has gained popularity at the loss of all other Norwegian political fractions’ liberty.
Still Mr. Foss was according to the tongue at loose on May 1st, a good enough reason to grab all available dung forks to bury the whole of the present Norwegian Government.
Those loose conjunctions are not surprising. We knew Mr. Heyerdahl’s head to be so light it may roll of the platter if someone broke wind, let alone if the winds turn.
Getting a coalition Labour Government now could never change our wilderness of bureaucracy created by Norway paying for being governed by Brussels, while owned by the United States.
A coalition of the socialist parties would, after having demonstrated exactly the same impotence as their predecessors, create a surge of vexed punters seeking comfort in the highly advertised bosom of Ms. Jensen.
Just to say that heading doesn’t vouch for wisdom.
President's Statement on House Passing Budget Resolution:
‘I applaud the House for passing a budget framework that protects America, helps economic growth, funds our priorities, and keeps us on track to cut the deficit in half by 2009. This is a responsible budget that reins in spending to limits not seen in years. I appreciate the Members of Congress in the House and the Senate who worked hard to produce this agreement and who support its passage. It is not the government's money that gets spent in Washington, D.C.; it is the people's money -- and taxpayer dollars must be spent wisely, or not spent at all.’
Seems there is going to be a formidable year for sustainable government saving in the United States.
The same President, G. W. Bush, also warmly congratulates Iraq with their new Parliament, now that the US intervention has arranged everything so brilliantly for their future democratic liberty.
El Ahram in Cairo has doubts about the US arrangements, though. Most of the Arab world is tiptoeing with fear, since the Iraqi Parliament by far is fairly represented by the various religious and political fractions. This make-believe democracy may snap at the tip of a hat. The everyday blasts are too small to bother a President who’s got the whole world in his hands.
If I was a foetus I’m not sure I would be dying to be born.
Not if the birth was caused by pheromones hoodwinking hormonal havoc. Or if I had, say, meningocele, or a congenital disease shortening my lifetime and its quality. Not to mention if my being alive was a sheer medical experiment.
I cannot be sure though, if the hoodwinking havoc or an experiment is to blame, as there is a person in another part of Norway who is my look-alike. All of a sudden there also appeared from the US a cousin who was another double. My father who was then 90 years old, (may he rest in peace) confronted with this cousin’s likeness, said: - Now then, who was her mother again?
Some people take biblical decrees very seriously, ‘to multiply on the earth and be fruitful and increase in number upon it,’ (Genesis 8:16-18) - unless it’s just a matter of succumbing to hormones.
To be honest, I haven’t bothered much with the Norwegian look-alike. Norwegians mostly look the same, think alike and behave as one body. To be original here is somewhat dangerous. People I feel related to don’t have to be close relations.
In any case there are a lot of us on earth, all related somehow or other. And we who are already here are not one too many. When Prime Ministers and ministers of the church dare talking of the lost souls of the Western World’s abortions, it’s a sentimental way of wooing people into obedience.
They pretend there are no desperate Chinese parents who abandon babies in the gutter or worse places (sorry for mentioning this, but there you are) – and prefer not to mention that small children must make a living by selling their bodies, or work in factories instead of playing and going to school.
Maybe the US has ratified the UN’s Child’s Convention by now. If so there will surely be set up yet another Commission (for sustainable – baerekraftig - child care). More words shall be written on thousands of sheets of paper, spread and read without effect. Thus some UN employees have safe jobs for the next twenty years, led by a sanctimonious Bush-alike.
A just cause to die for.
We were brought up in fear and awe. That is love to us. We were made to respect what the public authority, our family and religion prove to be the truth for all. It is their right to sustain their grip on our minds. Our minds belong to the spirit of the community. We need to know nothing but what’s taught by the authorities. And they, whom we love, are lied about abroad. They are refuted as egoist usurpers, villains and scoundrels, by thieves and liars understanding nothing but their own greed.
Our leader is good. We love him. He and his army protects us. Hail to him and his kin. Down with all opposed to their kindness. For their sake we gladly survive on bare necessities. We’ll be honoured to die for their sake. Their sake is our sake, we owe them everything. We know it is the leaders in other countries and their loyal subjects who are corrupt, and of the wrong faith.
They thrive on producing war equipment. At exorbitant prices they sell us weapons to procure fear that we might attack them. Then they need more guns to attack us, to prevent our attacking them. Their industry thrives. They get richer. Those liars from abroad are paid at the expense of our daily bread. They steal our future. The authorities and our Leader have proofs that they are the greedy villains. The men of the right faith know it for a fact too.
What rightly belongs to us, were stolen by the scum of the earth, those who know no awe. Who do not respect the honour taught us by our superiors. We know what to think and do. They know nothing. They dislike the way we are. They want us to behave badly, like them, demeaning the human race. Their disbelief and manners are disgusting. Our duty is to help them convert to our way of thinking. We must teach them to respect what’s holy, the truth of divinity, its right laws, and share the feelings of all who obey and worship the one and only worthy idol.
We shall drum into their heads what our Leader and preachers have drummed into our heads. Drum our fear and our superior honour into their heads. They demand of us their kind of tolerance. As if we were not armed to teach them proper tolerance.
The promised prosperity of the beyond will leave two third of us behind.
In the Book of Psalms, 11:25 men praise you when you prosper, this concept of prospering perhaps explained by the Proverbs, 11:25, A generous man will prosper. Jeremiah 12:1 still poses the question of why the ways of the wicked prosper. It sometimes do.
The aftermath of some women known to have been wickedly generous doesn’t seem to have prospered much, apart from those pecuniary prosperous, selling customers’ names under the cover of cultural activity, calling it literature. Now, there certainly are some tough customers about. No doubt some deserve commemoration however unmemorable they’re described. Names dropping is always a market hit to survive on.
I still think there ought to be a limit to the mindless satisfying of such lust for prosperity that may refute the future posterity’s reputation. Eh.
Some wicked men’s ways really proved prosperous, and therefore got praised. Such are the ways of this world, albeit the more prosperous, the less generous people often are.
Prosperity and lust for more of it may take people to the stars. The stars may not find the surviving explorer’s presence in the least prosperous to them. And if there is gold to bring back from the beyond, the previous concept of eternity, where’s the catch for the stock market? Will the third world prosper quickly from expensive technology invented to rip off outer space? Is now the time to bask in the glory of having conquered the far above, when mastering down to earth problems by far is accomplished?
To search extra terrestrial terra incognita for gold instead of solving the problems of terror in known terrains, may send the price of gold to a rock bottom or actualize the fate of King Midas for inhabitants of the Western world. What kind of prosperity do we want? Spending power, or a future made possible by caring and sharing?
One of these days I’ll pull myself together and defend terrorists. Well now, I’ll not defend terrorism, just the despair beyond comprehension.
If threatened, cultural variety must, according to the Minister for Culture in Norway, be secured by using new opportunities following in the wake of globalization. In Dagbladet on April Fools day last year the Minister defined culture as ‘open processes in constant change. They occur and grow, developing where humans and culture meet.’
In the Norwegian Parliamentary Bill no. 22 (2004-2005) the visions are even more savoury: ‘Workers must be creative, including those not employed in creative sectors.’ That’s a cliff-hanger, I’d say.
The leader of The Norwegian Composer’s Organization, Synne Skouen, asks for more contemporary Norwegian Music in The Oslo Philharmonic’s program. At which the Managing Director of this orchestra, Trond Okkelmo, replies: ‘Norwegian contemporary composers are responsible for their not being played’ - at home and abroad. I.e. they are not asked for. That people miss what’s available if they are not getting a taste of it, doesn’t seem to bother anyone. No demand, no pay and no play. Well, not missing the unknown is perhaps no amiss?
The market liberalism’s shady concept of culture paid by demand, is close to a variety show, sharply contradicted by our multibillion new opera house on stilts in deep waters. Opera in Norway has traditionally never been in demand. No wonder. Certainly some of The Norwegian Opera’s ‘open processes in constant change occur and grow where humans and culture meet’, but are best forgotten. (That’s a personal opinion formed in the wake of globalization.)
All these creative governmental intents will surely secure a bright future for all, without anyone having to kick up a fuss of personal incentive. A circus is always on the road, closing up to the vicinity.
The now to-be is probably going to claim space for contemplating the price of just prosperity.
Rise and shine! The (American Empire’s) President’s Commission on the Moon, Mars and beyond, must be an optimistic bunch. They recommend for the American nation a new vision for space exploration in order to ‘propel’ the whole of the US into ’a prosperous, secure and bright future’.
With the size of their new defence budget this might come in handy. The question is if any US citizen may enhance his brightness by this march to prosperity in the moonshine.
I vaguely remember something about another nation who sought ‘lebensraum’ to exploit for their own good. The result of that unfortunate nation’s attempted conquest was a long step back for humanity.
As to the sombre and insecure future of my non prosperous Norwegian colleagues, I’ll propel my next smoke signals back to what on earth our public administration’s concept of profitable culture and commercial superior art imply.
Merely being alive is no standard of value for human dignity.
The debate on the use and cost of available medical technology as nature’s assistant, reveals uncontrolled emotion rather than reason, particularly when making babies is the agenda. By attempted ethical zeal, some opinions made public send their originators stumbling into the role of high priests of sadism, doctors as lay politicians, politicians as lay doctors. Views on sorting the unborn are seldom coupled to the Public Administrations’ always failing resources for those already in need of special care.
The handicapped by birth are not spurring the happiness held out to loving parents by the expectations of society’s fine words. In this respect the mentally retarded are badly off. If lucky enough not to mature into a ‘self’ – as opposed to ‘the other’, there might be a chance of some retaining a happy innocence. Normally that change of consciousness occurs around the age of two to three, the balky age with all the connected traits. Some unfortunate mentally retarded experience this late and may never get passed that stage. Naïve medical experts believe that smiling and laughing identify joy. They therefore see no reason why all children shouldn’t be welcomed. The notion is that lack of maturity unable the retarded to think or feel enough to make them sad. This is not true.
The smile of a child is often a reflex, more than an expression of pleasure. The more so if we talk of babies. Smiles are mostly endearing, those who muster one are by social consent sweet and happy. Smiles, like tears however, can be a straining effort towards acceptance and love, attention and care. Love on is not automatically bestowed on anyone. We who are close to handicapped or permanently ill see that many do not get sufficient social and medical support. Some, also the mentally retarded, are drugged not to be a nuisance. Others don’t get the medication they need. Economy now sets the standard for human dignity. That doesn’t deter the specialist Dr. Thomas Aabyholm from warning against the technology giving parents-to-be a choice, be it by the diagnostic selectivity possible in assisted in vitro fertilization, or by prenatal diagnostics.
A Norwegian professor of social medicine, down to earth Berthold Grühnfeldt, recently pointed out that when the technology is available to avoid parents’ and children’s suffering, he could see no reason not to use it, or else to stop the practice of assisted fertilization. This made Dr. Aabyholm fume to the extent of creating a suspicion he might fear for his position next to the Almighty, bestowed on him with the license to practice medicine. This almightiness is now perhaps the sole solace to a profession which has become dominated by women and therefore comparatively low-paid. The power of deciding who is worthy of assistance and who is not, and to jugde what is a worthy life may still procure top positions on the ladder to social distinction.
Sadly most of our mentally retarded co-citizens suffer. Those with Down syndrome are no exception. They have senses and emotions, but often a limited range of expression. Few are able to speak for themselves. Integration in ordinary school classes is underlining their insufficiency. They inevitably feel stupid and good for nothing compared to ‘the other’, whether exhibited on a stage or allowed to work in the community for a song and dance. Smiles and laughter certainly do not secure dignity. Some local community administrators also decide at random that this group is drawing too heavily on the resources they administer on behalf of the taxpayers. It’s saving money not to pay for the work the ablest of retarded are offered, and cheaper to drug a permanently balky aged than spending money on experienced and compassionate staff to help.
The handicapped born to suffer the torture of a welfare state’s civilities and broken promises is perhaps a help to the normal who fail to se a point in life without people worse off to compare with. At best that’s selfish. I call it sadism.
Right enough, when my litter of youngsters where in their blooming teens, it did happen they discovered flaws to tease a poor mother with, hah, didn’t I just qualify to be admitted to the witches’ convention! Now, that was all in the family. Children and drunkards have their ways of ceonveying truth.
Last time I appeared on the screen (ages ago as I am not aspiring or rich, young and beautiful,) my face, due to the mishap of a couple of Norwegian medical professors’ ignorance, was moonshaped and ruddy. Not a soul commented on this before or after the séance in the studio or after the program were sent.
I count myself lucky. Both for surviving the maltreatment by those exponents of the Norwegian medical profession and for not being persecuted by a single soul for my then unfortunate looks.
I didn’t think of unfortunate looks at the time. Survivival was more vital. I thought of it a lot some years later, how kind people where. I had grown fat. Finally to the extent of not being able to tie my shoelaces. It was hell.
It’s always hellish to stick out as different.With an eysore handicap. The more so when people are inconsiderate enough to point it out to you, or make a point of in front of anyone interested, and to your face. You are instantly transformed to the fat woman who does something fat women are not expected to do, instead of being spoken to as a professional capacity who dares to be audacious, if that’s the case.
Now it may seem I’ve got a general grudge against professors. Sometimes I do wonder though, how little some of them need of skull ballast to become one. Maybe it’s a matter of being well connected, who knows. This female scantily upholstered professor of something, in that infamous talk show, endeavoured to call a female professional capacity with an obvious handicap, a fat woman. On the screen. Best viewing time. The talk show host not reacting.
It’s understandable that some are too dumb or young to understand what they’re saying. But regarding a talk show host, or a professor, it’s somewhat hard to come to grips with the fact that they got into their positions without being favoured with even a slight trace of manners.
Just Now will soon reflect on the dim, daft and dumb. A total take-off into the politically incorrect.
The intention was to get entangled in questions concerning the fashionably young, high income urbans, those short of nothing but consideration for others. Unshamedly they state that the price of living in Norway (taxes, duties and charges included) is a fair match to the average income. This was to be tied to the Labour Party’s shot for the Prime Minister post, Jens Stoltenberg.
I decided against it. There is litttle wrong with Jens Stoltenberg. He has no visible handicaps and even puts his shoes on before he meets the press. To be his father’s (Torvald Stoltenberg’s) son and any mother in law’s favourite wasn’t his choice. As opposed to Britains Tony Blair, Jens is the ladies’ favourite, counting out the baby boy now heading the Department of the Environment, the cuddly Hareide, whose nappies all sexes of the brooding age die to change.
Jens Stoltenberg doesn’t ned to change much. Edward Heath renewed his set of teeth, Gro Harlem Brundtland went on a diet and Berlusconi lifted his face. They felt voters were not comfortable facing them, or didn’t like to confront the Mirrors of this world as they were. Young Stoltenberg is all round average and edible, in bicycle helmet, bow tie or inflatable life saving jacket. His articulation could improve though, provided he knows what he’s on about.
I couldn’t possibly know. The slurring consonants and swallowed wovels are almost equal to the epitomizers of Norwegian culture, the skiers’. The politician’s speach might be equally uninteresting.
So what does he stand up for? Hopefully he is not young and urban enough to harbour dreams of a cut-through average anything matching the everyday of real people.
The class division in Norway to-day is much worse than in the sixties of the previous century (before the fashionably inconsiderates were even ‘a glimpse in their fathers eye’ as Knut Hamsun said it). At that time we trusted society inevitably would abolish social classes. Soon. Which goes to say we’ve all been young and naive, if not necessarily urban, inconsiderate and badly in need of a sense of history.
Given a chance, what would Labours’ prime candidate do about all this averageality, the seducing statistics that fakes equality in its columns, and leaves the rich to their riches and the poor for the poorer?
Speak up, Mr. Stoltenberg – if you just a sec can stop your infatuated mate Kristin Halvorsen stealing the show. Are we goi ng to keep on as Europe’s last DDR state, or are you lining us up in a greedy consumers’ capitalist paradise lost? Have you ideas or are you just another con man?
Just Now will soon deal with the rampant insensitiveness allowed by TV talk show hosts – and others.
Being just is difficult now: The Norwegian political parties line up their conventions in the one entertaining show after the other, presenting insufferable temptations for any amateur vultures of translations.
That’s why the preference, shared with quite a few other compatriots, is to postpone the mentioning of the Norwegian Tony Blair Labour counterpart for now, Mr, Stoltenberg Jr., and rather site the opportunistic Minister of Agriculture, head of the Norwegian liberal Left, Mr. Lars Sponheim, who seems to be swelling by the hour into full curves, by keenly exclaiming: ‘Now Venstre (The Liberal Left) shall consentrate on pushing money in the direction of those who need it, we’ll not smear it out thinly.’
It must be great spending funds belonging to everyone when you have n no part in the toil of earning them yourselves. Investment in new ideas and intersting enterprise for the benefit of the many, do’nt seem to have enlightened this hobby farmer who enjoys snuggling to his 30 sheep in the West Country, whereas at the same time as his parti co-members claim they are going to be more urban than the urbanized urbanist to snatch the Socialist Left’s voters in front of Kristin Halvorsen’s nose.
My. We sure need money in our parts. No thin smears for us. Come on, greasy, well all hopefully join your ponderousity and rush to Oslo clutching our flattened purses to get them filled by your party’s wise consideration for the elderly, the handicaped, those dependent on and efficient health system and the children in need of inspiration from people who are genuinely interested in their jobs! And maybe we may be lucky eough to behold the great man himself, Mr, Sponheim, ‘the new icon of the urban youth. If our eyes are wide enough by the time we reach the metropole of the Norwegian Lib. Left.
Trygve Hegnar is a self made, next to lucky duck in the Oslo financial pond. His intention was to make it as a gorilla too, but the jungle of more well-stocked investors so far hasn’t taken to this. The now slightly faded Norwegian wizard of figures therefore treads the water as editor cum director - and owner of the sparse value for money financial paper, Finansavisen.
Five days a week Finansavisen offers to proposed well-offs advice on how to fail and remain unhappy. Being unhappy is an achievement for most Norwegians.
Trygve Hegnar appears obsessed with bananas. The innocent fruit pops up as a tell-tale metaphor in his daily column. Is it a hangover from the gorilla ambitions or does it stem from a childhood deprivation?
Blunt satire would hitch Mr. Hegnar’s bananaisms to hunger for phallic strength. On the other hand he might simply subconsciously fear an infarction of the heart. Bananas are rich on kalium. An imminent infarction may be preceeded by low kalium blood levels as far as I remember. Some people get cravings, whether for lobster or fruit. Beware!
Primary school children are explicitely warned not to subtract one single banana from three apples. Some weeks ago Mr. Hegnar fruitily joined the Oslo pond’s hip cry for abolition of the expensive Norwegian agriculture in order to benefit cheap food import from the third world. ‘Where shall we get the bananas from (if we rely on Norwegian self- support)?’ he childishly sniveled.
Is he oblivious of the fact that selling one single of his Gyldendal shares, enables him to secure crates and crates of them? Third World produce come so cheap that import from those parts is nothing but wily exploit.
Subtraction is tricky business and may lead to abstraction, notably for those addicted to addition.
The other day Mr. Hegnar juxtaposed bananas and oil. The goal was to demean the Labour’s head ladies’ man, Jens Stoltenberg and his ideas of an eventual Labour National Budget.
Growing bananas and harvesting not so easily renewable resources as oil and gas, are not quite comparable. I’d like to remind readers that it’s possible to get both Hummers, Ferraris and Jaguars running on home grown rape-oil, water and electricity, if owners of such energy devouring contraptions agreed to a devaluation of their mineral oil-venture shares, that is.
To be fair though, bananas and oil share a risk. Putting your foot in, you might slide in the slippery stuff, topple and break a leg.
Before delighting in Jens Stoltenberg’s personal traits and intricate insight, I’m off to the pond to feed the ducks with home made farm bread and dry rape. And to see the hatching. Have a remarkable week-end!
The key word for any progress in Norway now is ‘baerekraftig’ – a mixture of financial capacity and – might it mean dead weight carrying, or carrying capacity? One could smell an unviable rat when everything, from the tribes of predators like wolves and bears, trade, culture and arts as well as health care and education must be ‘baerekraftig.’
There doesn’t seem to exist any ‘baerekraftig’ ideology behind this veiling concept of carrying capacity. That feeling of absence might of course be due to my being a fool, not detecting anything of the sort behind the figures of speach.
Talking of figures: Olemic Thommesen, the spokesman for culture announced about the newest Parliament’s Declaration: ‘It’s not particularly difficult to reach an agreement when we have so much money to spend.’
The Minister for Health and Care, Ansgar Gabrielsen really needs a guide dog too. He joins Olemic Thommesen by continuing to make a fool of himself. Calling smokers fools, Gabrielsen may shortly qualify as a genius too, come the disclosure of further endearing considerations. If his mental exercises carry the same dead weight, that is.
Politicians’ manner of speach as well as their communicative ability in general, are like bags of hoary chestnuts to gluttonous gobblers. Those poor mercenary souls of an officialdom keeping itself intellectually alive hand to mouth, need guide dogs to scent sense in their hopefully marketable fashionlingo.
Just Now next will be devoted Trygve Hegnar and his over the counter bananas.
The Norwegian Right Wing party’s spokesman for culture is named Olemic Thommessen. His attitude is that a feasible Norwegian culture must pay for its own existence
This spokesman was apparantly among the ‘intellectual’ engineers behind the Norwegian Parliament’s declaration no. 155 (2003) on Norwegian culture towards the year 2014.
That declaration firmly names the ‘cultural sector’ a valuable counterpart to the indoctrinating forces of commercialism. Norway’s small (‘avgrensa’!) population and widely spread settlements necessitate a comprehensive economic participation from the public authorities.’
The engineers’ concept of art and culture is not explained nor defined. These political animals simply assume an existence of a ‘dynamic and pulsating cultural sector’ involving ‘high quality as a source for creative inspiration, knowledge and experience for people of all ages – and for special (‘avgrensa’!) groups with particular interests and needs.’
Not even a less biased translation could conceal that cranky message.
It proved impossible to detect definitions of the Norwegian Government’s alleged economically promising culture and art, entitities of supposed vital importance to national trade and industry if priced to match the market.
The unsuccessful chase through political and Parliamentary propositions and announcements from the last 10 years was exhausting. Just Now then is forced to postpone now by a day.
Subsequently tomorrow’s present will be a displaced past, quite in accordance with the ‘ideas’ the very former and out of date Price Director Egil Bakke hamfistedly bangs on the table. In 1997, just as of some weeks ago, he strongly recommended No Government Sponsing of arts or culture. He still goes on about Art to be paid by demand, and culture as industry’s PR.
Which leads to the suspicion that neither Egil Bakke, nor other active politicians in this country know much of other aspects of culture than how to behave at table and the ‘art’ of conversation. – Till tomorrow then!
The master of our house was utterly pleased. He’d been summoned to inspect the new Welsh Princess, the Duchess of Cornwall’s great appearance. The Norwegian composer Edvard Grieg’s The Spring – ‘Now yet again emerges a spring, chasing the winter-‘, wasn’t all that promising as an introduction, but little did we know what was to come:
The pertinent ceremony, the amazing Russian singer, Prime Minister Blair facing Her Majesty as one of the choir boys, and the disclosure of the origination of the metaphor ‘fountain of light’ (lysfontene) which no-one in Norway had a clue that the writer Ari Behn and his wife had pinched from William Wordsworth. Joy all around!
It was worth enduring the BBC chit chat of hats and ‘don’t you think Camilla thinks - and that Charles is going to - and it’s higly likely that she’ll wear this and that, as she’s got fairly good legs.’ (Good grief.) All that reduced me to a screengoggling old hag, bar the abscense of celebratory mugs.
But as my superior said: ‘Great ceremony. I wouldn’t have missed that music. This Charles knows what his up to. Thank you,’ he said to his fat old missus (me), ‘for tugging me in.’
He’s too only in it for the music. He’s even put behind him the affront of hearing that someone else has a sexy voice. But as yet we didn’t shake hands on anything.
To assure that noone shall detect erroneous grammar zones, misspellings and other maltreatment of the Anglo-Saxon linguistic heritage: Next chafe on this site will be devoted to the Norwegian ‘expanded notion of culture’ and its ‘financial muscles implemented’ in the now so beloved market liberalism. Key names will Olemic Thomassen and Egil Bakke.
To be born, or married to, an icon appears to be equivalent both with the loss of human dignity and canonization. Market forces decide at face value.
Every family experience joy as well as tragedy and humdrum. Fortunately few have to endure a spurious media industry creating pulp for faction out of their looks and jokes.
At the spur of the moment most people make blunders that luck only prevents producing those five minuts of fame due to each and one, according to Marshall McLuhan. Being the talk of the town us is OK if favourable but devastating when spiteful.
Really unfortunate specimens cannot bat an eyelid without media making cheap points of it in a manner fit to trigger a sales galore.
This Saturday Queen Elizabeth’s oldest son, proposedly also the son of the Duke of Edinburgh, takes as his bride the plucky Mrs. Camilla Parker Bowles.
She’s sure to have noticed Prince Charles’ dead sexy voice. For his part, he can be dead confident that his bride fears next to nothing. Not being her father in law’s piece of cake, the bride might even amuse Her Majesty, the Queen.
You may study their faces and contemplate their infantile glee: My oh my, look at me, am I not doing well!
They’re Prime Ministers and Presidents, or hopeful Ministers to be, like some of the members of the Norwegian Socialist Left. Their jumping for joy at the prospect of snatching power for real, embarasses and leaves me sceptic as to their future political performance.
Our present Minister for Defense, Kristin Krohn Devold, is grown up though. Criticized, even verbally abused and politically battered for other peoples’ misconduct, her straight face and unflinching behaviour when confronting media’s lust for sensation, could serve as an example to many a pretender.
Mrs. Krohn Devold is hoewever due to leave the political scene. I don’t blame her. The male attitudes surging to the surface in her wake show how the Norwegian womens’ liberation has reached its dead end years ago.
Similar attitudes also try to bind professor Janne Haaland Matlary’s intellect hand and foot. A female Norwegian scholar has no real right to offer an opinion to those with muscle strength’s upper hand. The home page of the Norwegian Home Guard is a sight for anti feminists.
It’s also illustrating to see that the professor’s name pop up ten times more often abroad than in Norway. Norwegians are all in a class of their own and generally don’t accept anyone stepping out of line. Especially not a woman.
Tomorrow I’m planning to sneer at media cashing in on cheap scores made on a famous couple’s personal life.
The lack of sensibility demonstrated by some politicians is flabbergasting. The present Norwegian Minister for Health and Care, Mr. Ansgar Gabrielsen, recently defended his views on reducing hospital beds in the psychiatric sector by saying: ‘To be hospitalized in a psychiatric ward is a confession of failure.’
Increasing suicide rates and tragic incidents involving patients who don’t receive proper hospital care or even an appointment in outpatients clinics, is his confession of failure.
Re the burning Bush, it’s also interesting that The Wall Street’s commentary on Paul Wolfowitz states that ‘dictatorship causes poverty.’
Poverty was historically known to be a foundation for the rise of most dictators.
By using pulling power to cut the UN down to President’s pocket size, while refuting The United States’ own huge poverty problem, the US administration can safely conduce the economic and military striking power necessary to seek and maintain world leadership.
Smart people wait in line to earn their living on rewriting history to suit dictators’ present.
Commemorating the diseased Pope John Paul, the World’s self appointed President, G. W. Bush yesterday made public that the world has lost a champion of human freedom.
I thought that the aim of any unifying religion is to control freedom by preserving nessecary rules for unanimious interaction in coherence with highlighting other goals than immediate self gratification. But now, being a woman, I may not have the necessary ability to comprehend profound spiritual matters.
The effect of the late Pope’s untiring efforts to unite and reconcile by carrying his message of peace across religious and political borders, may however be incomprehensible to someone profiting on war and retaliation, using techinques well known from various autoritarian regimes.
Mr. Bush refrained from reminding us that we, all the subjects of his empire, can rely on the President’s efforts to run for this championship himself. He may be surprised to find that his concept of freedom by force and strategic positioning might not correspond with everyone’s ideal.
Maybe he’d just as well pay heed to Wall Street Journal’s comment on Paul Wolfowitz’ appointment to chief of the World Bank:
‘It is the world’s dictators who are the chief causes of world poverty.’
Paul Wolfowitz was the mastermind behind the Iraqi war. Now who shall be behind Mr. G. W. Bush when he lunges out to teach Iran obedience? A few European puppets won’t suffice, and as far as I can make out, Russia’s Putin isn’t inclined to be bushed around to play atomic roulette. But then again, women cannot make out much.
April Fools’ Day has lost its charm. The cheating is no longer innocent jokes, but incorporated in grown ups’ business, where lying is earning and earning is power. Power acuumulates more power to distort facts, blow up rumours, gain and win.
The lore this week is that Kofi Annan is a bad guy, allowing his son to compare with Margaret Thatcher’s greedy brat. Furthermore, Annan was vicious enough not to put an end to the genocide in Rwanda, while the Americans benevolently didn’t care for that part of the world, squinting to more lucrative projects.
For reasons surely known to Condoleeza Rice and her kneeling Emporial boss, Bush, Kofi Annan’s not yet criticized for UN’s inability to stop the last Iraqi war.
Next we’ll see George W. (who also has profited heavily on a father Bush) easing himself into the vacancy created by aspersing Kofi Annan, his family, country and soul.
Bush shall receive expert help from his alibi, the politically correct black and female next presidential candidate. And from all of us, the constant fools.
Anne Oterholm, charirwoman for the Norwegian Authors’ Association has today obtained an audience with the Norwegian Minister for Culture, the as yet obediently clammed up Mrs. Valgerd Svarstad Haugland.
A few of us regard Mrs. Svarstad Haugland as slightly more sincere than some of her fellow party members. But since she firmly believes in a life after death, one shouldn’t rely on her reulctance to co-sign the death warrant for all Norwegian literature without immediate sales appeal.
At one point Mrs. Svarstad Haugland confessed of her taste for a glass of wine. Now the best selling wine is the low price bag in box variety. Surely this first choice is not in question when Government members are dined and wined. Even Jesus served up the best quality wine as the guests’ last choice in Kanaan. At least Mrs. Svarstad Haugland must have read her Bible.
Maybe this parable is not particularly beneficial, as the Bible is cheap and easy to come by, due to excellent marketing through some thousands of years.
However, the Bible is supposedly not a consumers’ commodity. Neither is it a piece of art. Or is it an intriguing and poetic scrawling prompted by artistic minds concerned that the ‘prosperity of fools shall destroy them’?
Beneficial or not, the parable fits at one point: The Bible, like a lot of other litarature, took some time to cash in.
The collected Norwegian assumed Knowledge making up for lack of any strategic thinking, may indeed be tempting in various respects and to varying camps. But some Norwegians beleive in all earnest that their country is such an important alliance that all dependent of it shall run to its rescue come any kind of crises.
The fact that foreigners ask whether Norway is the northern part of Sweden, or for that matter, where in Britain it is, doesn’t go home. A Norwegian politician travelling abroad is his own center, representing the center of the world, while the foreign hosts are failing to notice this urgent importance.
And he travels on business class, with an entourage, members of committees and their secretaries, to Australia and Peru, from Canada to China. To study. Which they certainly need, few of them being educated or experienced as otherwise employed.
Thus tax payers support parliamentarians’ migratory chasing of experience, free information, sun and good food.
Already informed, experienced and well travelled people might come cheaper. Surely there must be capacities available who’re not only in it for the money or to boost their egos.
Chasing facts on prominent Norwegian females led me to this unsigned statement in the communist paper Friheten:
’We bear the end of the Fifties in mind, when Wilhelmsen, alone among Norwegian shipowners, transported freight free temporary expedients to Algerian refugee camps in Tunisia, prompted by one female employee, Claudia Olsen – the most light-red right wing lady of Norway ever. The decay on the feminine side of politics seems formidable, from the value conservative Claudia Olsen (in Parlament 1945 – 1961) to the reality excorcist Kristin Halvorsen (now leader of left wing socialist party) to-day.’
According to the journlist Anton Beinset, Claudia Olsen had an eye for and enough courage to put on the agenda matters concerning every day problems for ordinary people.
My, do I remember the discord some claimed sounded when this formidable woman had raised her voice! And doesn’t the same kind of discord sound to-day through reported accounts on female capacity of similar standing?
Claudia Olsen and the former WHO chief Gro Harlem Brundtland has their sturdyness in common. But when Claudia Olsen sternly said her piece whatever might come out of it for her personally, Gro Harlem Brundtland eased her way through the jungle of officialdom, using all means, including feminine tricks. That made her less of a danger in the men’s competitive world. It was a possibility to charm her into obedience, see?
No-one would have dared to or dreamed of pawing, nor charming Claudia Olsen. Her correct apparition prohibited such dreams. Then she was lucky not to be of the apparantly attractive kind. That may come in handy.
This luck has not befallen a Kristin Halvorsen. Translucently blonde, she allows herself to go gooey, flattered and beflirted by the talk showing Otto Jespersen. How can anyone envisage such lack of selfcontrol when confronting more serious situations staged by competitive pawers?
Preparing for the election it’s interesting to se how the socialist left energy is trickling to the right, whereas the conservatives politicians’ instinct of self-preservation is beckoning to the left. Left, right and center smirks another blonde, the self appreciative, power loving Mrs. Haga. Singlehandedly she may direct a flood of voters into the arms of the ultra conservative populist party’s Siv Jensen, yet another blonde, who keeps the Minister for Finance as her parrot.
The only strong personality of the present day Norwegian government is the lady of the Defence Ministry. Highly educated, representative, unfearing, well spoken - unwavering also when faced with an unfairness that beats me. Blond. Attractive enough to create lust for pawing. Strong enough to disappoint the lusty. How then do men and envious women react?
By creating a front. They crawl around all over the place to find faults, failures and mismanagement, heaping all of their petty guilt on top of her head.
Janne Haaland Matlary, Norway’s first female professor of political science, catholic, connected to the Christian People’s Party: I wonder if she’d have an eye for and enough courage to put on the agenda matters concerning women’s real predicament in this world of eqaulity shiners. Or is she surrendering to the continuous mental battering from the selfpronounced wiser and better manly females and female men, feeling it’s a just act of God?
The Norwegian Prime Minister’s planned palace will emerge close to the royal palace in a densely populated area of Oslo, and to the living quarters for Members of Parliament and dwellings for foreign embassys’ employees.
Attacks from mad hatters and terrorists can then be concentrated within a small area, saving both personell, bombs, fuel and intricate planning. The cost of this Parliament sanctioned enterprise is but approximately 266 mill. Nkr.
The options were a designer villa which might have promoted Norwegian architecture & design, already owned by the gvmt., or a stone wall enclosed grand property up for sale at 45 mill., half an hour from the capital’s center.
Modernish designer villas of Norwegian origin is however not attracting our up to date political administration. Tyrolerhaüser and Franco-arches are perhaps easier to take to.
Besides, spending big money on behalf of us all enhances a feeling of potency, commonly known as showing off. An incessant trait of the new rich.
Like the hugeish contributions to the UN system, claiming that it’s typical for Norwegians to be good.
How and at what? In Dagbladet Wednesday, an editor overtly refuted his own statement in claiming that Norway has knowledge to trade with, in addition to fish, oil and electric power. Therefore we need no military defence. Another furtive kick in the direction of two Norwegian women with more power than most Norwegian men. (About them tomorrow, Kristin Krohn Devold and Janne Haaland Matlary.)
More relatively ambulatory people of the press have by now pointed out that recirculation of Norwegian politicians can happen through the Government’s paving their way into the UN organization with cash. If Norway’d been a member of the EU, there would have been room for surplus political masterminds there, at a lower cost.
Low costs only count for our Minister of Finance when considering bare necessities for worse off compatriots. Funny this lack of compassion. Some climbers fail to recall where they came from. Mr. Per Kristian Foss surely didn’t learn to handle big sums in his younger days. Having discovered which side to butter his bread, he’s perhaps forgotten how that feels. His politically correct attempt to gain popularity by turning his sleeves out in public, while zipping up his purse, leaves no doubt about his personal standing. His live-in lover’s earnings amply cover the bread for both of them.
The paws of the Norwegian Minister for Modernization, Mr. Morten Andreas Meyer, bungle in all anthills visible to him. His zealous impopularization of the present government is doing ample justice to the efforts of the Minister of Agriculture, Mr. Lars Sponheim. Between them, the two secure a radical change in government come the autumnal election.
Mr. Meyer is perhaps lucky being both unwell read and insensitive. He’s like a bear straight out of hibernation, bewildered and possessed with ambition to get it’s fill regardless of the ants’ sting. Even when ridiculed, he seems not to comprehend.
Apart from advocating Norwegian illiteracy, the modernization ardency includes restructuring the care for and rehabilitation of drug addicts. Mr. Meyer’s up to date scheme for this secures that no-one now knows who’s economically or otherwise responsible.
Mr. Morten Andreas Meyer may next indulge in outsourcing (it’s very in) all our bureaucracy. Importing low cost trained bureaucrats from the former Soviet Union would releive the National Budget considerably and hand in glove suit the present Norwegian politicians’ woebegone woeing the long lost idea of a functionally viable socialist democracy.
The hobby farmer from Hardanger, Mr. Lars Sponheim can likewise congratulate himself. He is utterly successful in reducing Norwegian farmers to scapegoats for his personal shortcomings, and Norwegian agriculture to a balancing entry in the national account. His most successfull shortcoming was plunging Animal Health Administration and Food and Drugs Administration into one impenetrable bungle called Mattilsynet.
The adminstration of Mattilsynet immediately proved impossible. Animal welfare is endangered. The vets are enraged. Farmers at a loss. Producers of food must fill in so many forms that they’re left with no time to wash their hands. The Minister of Agriculture has thus made himself indispensable. Who’d want to clean up that expencive mess of his?
Well. Voters ought to remember they’re the ones paying up. Time we’d show an interest in where the money goes.
To-morrow I’ll indulge myself, Easter Holidays and all. I’ll tell the tale of our Prime Minister’s planned palace near the Royals’ abode, and the price of it.
Yesterday the now tabloid Aftenposten printed the right wing Morten A. Meyer’s feeble arguments for abolishing our current and vital protection of Norwegian literature.
As Minister of Modernization he has delusions of grandour regarding market mechanisms: Reading popular literature will lead to an increased interest for better literature.
He’s however flying high on his sole right wing, totally oblivious of the fact that products which cannot pay for display and promotion won’t be seen or sold.
As the former publisher Brigt Jensen once asked his friend, the cantankerous misogynist philosopher Arild Haaland on the telly: - Don’t you think that what’s being made invisible at last will disappear?
Mr. Meyer referred to Sweden, where depopulation of country districts has been increasing since the fifties, and where local book stores now are hard to come by. He also referred to Britain, where serious writers have very bad conditions indeed, few manage to survive with their project untill they might be discovered and appreciated. (Ian McEwan.)
The one winged Mr. Meyer didn’t refer to the major Norwegian publishers who’ve bought most book selling chains and also own the book clubs, thus controling the public’s attention, taste and purses, while already cooperating on setting both prices and standard for the literature fit for profit.
Mr. Meyer’s smirking for mass societies’ market liberalism shows an adamant weakness towards the political and economic forces a Norwegian government has to negotiate with. Norway is a small country with particular terms for it’s existance. The result of Mr. Meyer’s weakness will be a country still more insignificant as a cultural and economic self contained unit.
Sacrificing Norwegian literature and culture on the altar of The European Commission in order to gain access for a financially more important export industry, is signifying how Norwegians are easily abashed abroad, while brawling at home.
Sadly Aftenposten exiled to their economy section a far better informed enclosure by Erling Roed Larsen, the editors knowing full well that few, other than the stock market speculators, like Ulrichsen and Must (majority owners of the publishing house Gyldendal – and of the cheeseproducing Synnoeve Finden) may read it. Erling Roed Larsen stated:
‘Our cultural heritage doesn’t always give a profit. Therefore it shouldn’t be administered by the market.’
I sincerely hope that no Norwegian in the foreseeable future should sport international fame reflecting upon Mr. Meyer and his co-dilettante modernization visionaries.
To-day my sisters and brothers of profession are protesting against the fatal lack of comprehension demonstrated by the Norwegian government’s Minister of Modernization, (!) Morten Meyer. A population of 4,5 million may survive well with an unprotected and commersialized literature if they welcome the death of their language word by word.
The proposed modernization is in reality a long haul backwards, to the times Norwegians had noe identity of their own. They were speaking and writing Danish and publishing in Copenhagen while curtseying their Swedish superiors.
This long haul back will enable smart profitmaker’s cheap B-literature (airportbusters) to flood the the land, drowning any attempt to promote literature of quality in Norwegian.
That will be the final crush on Norwegian polticians’ ability to express themselves. Already they appear unaware of a necessary correspondance between facts, logic and utterances. Their clumsy repetitions of the 350 words known to them, distributed in stacks by their government offices, already tell the tale
I wonder if Mr. Meyer also will regulate the prices of tickets to football matches as to avoid economic competition between clubs of different standard. For that matter, will the Minister of Culture just hail kicking of balls and downhill sloperacing? Why doesn’t she dare to speak?
Not protecting Norwegian written culture is to lose it once and for all.
My novel from 1981, The Unauthorized Assistant (Adjutanten) pops up for sale all over the place increasingly often. The story behind this might appear tall, but here goes:
We bought and paid for all remaining copies ages ago. Likewise ages ago, we fetched those books at the publishers’ storage hall. The unpacking shockingly revealed a second set of remaining copies - of another book which were already paid for and stored here.
Plucky people, selling legally non-existent matter even to the owner of the rights.
Then artists are so daft they won’t notice. I’ve even heard publishers naming the daftest.
No wonder the then economy director of Adjutanten’s publishers also embarked a bout of personal hysteria when asked to present the ten years’ accounts publishers by contract were committed to present on demand. He never did. Neither did his successor.
My, was he uncivilized.
The remaining copies of Adjutanten perhaps walked at their own accord out of the publishers’ storage, while sizing up crates of non-existent matter draws on my account.
I’m very pleased to have seen that I was utterly mistaken about Anne Oterholm, the new chair woman of the Norwegian Authors’ Asscn. (Den norske Forfatterforening.) Anne Oterholm is as far from a power seeking slint of any old polit bureau as one can get, that description applies to someone else entirely.
So much for mixing up names.
I wish more authors dared having a stronger personal profile, that they were less humble so that their names stick both to their appearance and their way of turning out a message in an assembly. And I wish Anne Oterholm all the guts she needs both for profiling her fighting spirit, clear views and her sympathetic character. That lady is a stayer.
The Norwegian Authors Association (Den norske Forfatterforening) arranges their general assembly this week-end. They were recently criticized for awarding grants to the same authors over and over, leaving lots of members to their own means. This recurring issue is a plague on most of our meetings. Why, don’t the members trust those they elect to the deciding Literary Board?
One new best selling member, I’m sad to hear, Unni Lindell, is also murmuring of her reluctance to share her book-club earnings with fellow low income authors. The Association has a solidarity fund from which one can apply for economical support. This fund is founded on a fraction of authors’ book-club earnings.
Oh yes. It must be terrible to renounce 3% of your earnings to colleagues in need, instead of leaving it to the book-club – which seems to be the alternative.
Solidarity and compassion are of no interest to some until they need it themselves.
All visual art sales are taxed with 3% to a similar fund. I’ve never met a painter og sculptor who complained about this. Rather the opposite, they are happy to contribute.
Why don’t complaining authors turn their discontent to the more blatant squandering of the money their writing accumulates, garden parties and publishing director’s weekly dinners, the flooding of alcohol into thereby complying guests, not to mention coctail parties that make their publishers a laughing stock abroad, like investments in Airbus aeroplanes and private villas?
To take a cue on Der Spiegel’s term Schwarzdruck, is gibberish. We all now know how cheating never happens in the State of Norway, where nothing ever is rotten, but honest, clean and just.
No news are said to be good news. I heartily disagree. Some news don’t reach the headlines because they’d harm local or international trade, diplomatic relations, or the reputation of much admired persons. That’s no news.
This not being so hereabouts, we are as of to-day happy to congratulate the fine author Britt Karin Larsen with the women’s day nomination as one of the most powerful women in our county. She is speaking up for an oppressed minority, fighting for their recognition.
The fact is that some of the Romani people has been treated no better in Norway than they were treated in Hitler’s Germany. The same goes for the mentally ill and the retarded. These facts are spoken of and quickly forgotten. Like women’s rights, a vulnerable issue, still so young.
Making a fool of oneself is risky. Others often feel they are the target. So much for preoccupations. Perhaps it’s less timeconsuming to make a fool of someone else. This someone will immediately reciprocate. Then one’s spared the effort of stealing a march on him.
Talking of respect for privacy, the theologist Solveig Oestrem was exquisitely disloyal to her former friend, the author Hanne Oerstadvik. Publishing her disgust for the author’s alleged use of their friendship in her novels, was no more ethical than a breach of confidence from an author.
It goes without saying that any accusation flaunted, will collaps in the accusers face once the wind turns. It always turns, at some point.
And no, Esmeralda*, I wouldn’t dream of revealing that nasty episode you never forget. The journalist who raped you will remain at loose. Nobody would beleive it anyway, and if presented in a novel from these parts, well – rest assured that it would have been read as nothing but a mediochre self portrait. So really, nor Per, Paal or Espen** have it coming to them. Neither had you, whatever the lore.
Have a peaceful Monday.
* Esmeralda is a fictionous name.
**Per, Paal and Espen are characters from Norwegian fairy tales.
The news are trying. Our time is quickly up for empathy. There are chores and business to attend to, sips of wine with friends and talking parrots to enjoy.
The Brits, Danes and the Ams are surely not going to execute atrocities again, no more than the UN soldiers will, or those opposed. Germans don’t. Norwegians never did. Not for long.
See? The people next door couldn’t have. Really. I never. You neither. None of it happens here. Not now.
If so, blame the temptations of power, of beauty, and childrens’ innoncense. Send the invoice to poverty. Let it pay. Fear not. Mind not. Talk to the parrots. They won’t mention it when you’re trying too.
*The barrister Tor Erling Staff once put forward that it might be a pleasure for children to be used by grown-ups. Perhaps this commendation was an advertisment to get more clients to defend. Isn’t Staff well enough off, or was he simply not well?
*Talking of the UN soldiers’ behaviour in Africa, Kofi Annan’s face expressed more than words ever could. I admire that man.
Marianne Hamsun, Knut Hamsun’s daughter in law, lamented the Norwegian trait of degrading all who raise above mediocrity.
Using the word mediocre is my choice. Mrs. Hamsun was far more diplomatic and kind.
The latest Norwegian Hamsun biography drops brick after brick on private family matters which no one but the long gone participants can know for a fact, far less interpret correctly. Some of Knut Hamsuns living relations are struck as well. But pooh! to their feelings, as well as to anyone’s personal integrity – living or dead.
Common decency doesn’t exist for some writers when they are at a loss for ideas.
By all means, apart from a few linguistic blunders, those biographic tomes make a good read for anyone wanting to dive with Ingar Sletten Kolloen into the knickers of fame.
Having nourished on the name of a genius, though, any biographer may next churn out a mediocre novel and get it praised as a masterpiece. Gyldendal knows.
The author Anne Oterholm is aghast in Dagbladet. Last week she bitterly vented her imminent resignation as second in command of the Norwegian Authors’ Asscn. Members of the election board don’t wish her to gain more power as their new chair woman.
Might that be due to Oterholm appearing as a slip from an outdated politbureau?
Personally I distrust anyone coveting power, even though the secret agenda is to enhance sales. Being chair woman of the Authors asscn. might tease the tills. Whimpering won’t.
The tsunami catastrophy hit us. Some Norwegian journalists challenged authors to, as artists, address the news readers. We were supposed to be of comfort to the readers.
I presume the paper people found difficulties phrasing everyone’s anguish and awe.
Most articles, poems or comments remain unpublished after having reached the news desks, while their ideas and mode of expression, find their way into the columns anyway.
OK by me if the cause is good.
But the safe and well fed Norwegian who into the bargain possesses funds to buy a daily paper, needs comfort least of all. To nourish a market for tragedy by making people sorry for being lucky, is a business ‘newsters’ thrive on without artistic aid.
Really, spending time with a homeless person, we have a lot of them in Norway too, seems far more important than writing an article about the catastrophy of being homeless.
The other day I wrote an appendix. (See Noe aa slekte paa if you read Norwegian.) Some may be pleased to think that the author does not know the difference between appendicitis and an appendix, nor between genetical and congenital. It's not that simple.
The appendix briefly mention Hashimoto's thyreoditis, a disease often genetically related to people suffering from Down's syndrom.
Now I've heard medical experts state that there is nothing genetical about Down's. Down's is a congenital failure of the 21st chromosome, a ransom occurance, most often, but not always, when older women give birth.
How come those with Down's syndrom are genetically disposed to Hashimoto's?
There are countless possibilities within the DNA chains.
Some fetal anomalies cannot be detected until after 12 weeks of pregnancy. Still politicized doctors, medicalizensationing politicians and clergy in Norway and elsewhere deny women under a certain age the right to have fetuses diagnosed in the womb.
Or, as both Mr. G.W. Bush and the Norwegian Prime Minister, Kjell Bondevik try to advocate, like an echo of the ailing pater primas of the catholics: No to abortions.
In our present day world some thirty thousand children die each day from starvation and neglect - and as vitctims of wars. Some of those could have had a life, given the care, loving and resources spent on congenitally handicapped babies of the rich world.
The no. 1 president, a Mr. Bush, declared before he took off to make peace with his Euopean opponents, that the United States has reached its peak: ‘We’re an empire now,’ was his words.
My spouse thinks my hearing must be off limits, that I’m getting senile: ‘Sane politicians are not correspondingly oblivious of the history of all empires and the fate of self-elected emperors,’ he warned.
He is of course right.
More on Mr. Bush, see The New Enlightenment. Have a great week-end!
The Norwegian Police Force yearn to use expanding ammunition in armed operations. The argument is to stop bullets penetrating the person behind targets. The bystanders are not considered.
The Force also wants permits to be carry guns on all missions. Last year the Elverum Police, armed to the hilt, rashly caught an armed criminal inside a roadside cafeteria. Waiting for him to come out after his dinner was no alternative for the brave hunters.
I have seen members of the Norwegian Police Force acting irrationally on mere hearsay, and hesitate to imagine what may be the results if our local country police should brandish such permits and weapons loaded to match their whims.
Knowing how game flesh and bones are maltreated by expanding ammo, one might wonder what the Police Force is aiming at. The proposed expanded care for public and their own safety may get anyone shook up.
Most authors work, live and die in obscurity. Seeing the way Knut Hamsun is exploited by scandal mongering biographers, it may be just as well.
However, it’s sad to know that some, like the furtively smiling Gunnar Lunde who all of a sudden was no longer with us, never reach a larger audience.
A dead author is 20% more worth than a living one. It’s not always the case. Some best selling ones may be worth considerably less dead than alive.
The Norwegian Government Cultural Council recently appointed a new member, Knut Haavik, founder of the gossip mongering Se & Hoer magazine. He now uses this position to drag the Cultural Councils decisions throgh the mud, abusing on TV the works of art bought by the Council.
If you appreciate springy journalism and correct use of the Norwegian language, the Saturday edition of Dagens Naeringsliv is the obivous choice. To-day few Norwegian journalists and writers know the difference between them and they, he and him, not to mention the variety of prepositions at hand. Proofreading data programs cannot replace the grip of an experienced, human language hawk.
Being a financial paper, though, DN seems to be a bit mixed up on the cultural bit. This Saturday they presented eight best selling authors as Norways greatest. Three of those greatest write crime. Two of them certainly are excellent writers, Karin Fossum and Unni Lindell.
The biggest earner though, has a background including years as a television journalist. Then she acquired a law degree, followed by a brief appearance in national politics as a member of the Norwegian Government. Whereupon, as a much publicized out of the closet lesbian, she "parented" the baby of her wife, an editor at her publishers.
In DN she confides to the journalist that her publishing company Cappelen, which she noisily left last year, taking her editor wife with her, always worked meticulously with all her manuscripts.
In her case Cappelen might have had no option.
The responsibilty of providing the family's daily bread is a touchy matter. Living in Norway, this land of the attempted monopolized Tine milk, and Statoil's lubrictating honeyed oil, you'd expect ready made bread to fly into the mouths of all and sundry.
Affluance of that kind is yet not bestowed on our underdeveloped and sparsely populated region of the rich man's world. It takes a couple of hours to reach the supermarket shelves stuffed with imported loaves and get the staples back to the house. With a petrol price adamantly sky high and no public transport, there is no option but rolling up your sleeves and kneed your own dough.
The family chasm developed when the female involved declared she'd had enough of giving birth and being both co-bread winner and baker, and why could'nt the male family members get friendly with flour and yeast? They were aghast by the idea of using muscles in the kitchen, though.
Luckily The Observer brought an article about the then latest fad among the Oxford male students, they were all into kneeding - bread dough being their priority. This caught on. Who'd want to be less adept than a mere student?
That students in Britain also made dough off quick delivery of needed material for private self fertilization by spoon, was never mentioned in our bread debate. Just in case. What people do when hard up is always at stake.
Recently the economist Carsten O. Five called upon Norwegian farmers to find another livelyhood. Living off the land should be reserved for the inhabitants of the Third World. Smart geezer. His colleague, Trygve Hegnar, is similarly disposed: 'If the State pampers farmers into producing enough food for Norwegian self-sufficiency and restrict import, where shall we grow the bananas?'
How come he asked? The Oslo hothouse is already overproducing bananas. The problem is how to export them.
Anders has arranged for 340 pregnancies in the past few months, which explains his worrying about the plight of fathering.
Like other ladies of modern stock it's all the same to his flock of lady sheep whether they share a few males between them or get pregnant by proxy. Sheep fathers have noe say, and sheep family bonding is uninteresting to the involved parties. Thus all sheep family responsibility on this farm is left to the one shepherd.
Might housetraining and moral indoctrination of sheep be the next step for the Goverment Food Supervision? GFS, Mattilsynet, is the special baby of Lars Sponheim, the Norwegian Mininster for Agriculture. Sponheim's aim is to be the dux of the EU class, albeit refusing membership in the Union.
The Norwegian government recently suggested obligatory bunk beds for sheep to sleep in. As this idea is somewhat original, sheep didn't take to it. Sheep farmers all over Norway are now awaiting Lars Sponheims new educational program for sheep. Surely it pops up soon: Any government may suddenly be short of other presentable friends.
To-day's puzzle is the many hats worn by members of the medical profession. They appear as philosophers, politicians, retailers and profitmakers and now even guardians of private spending. Maybe they really are, as one doctor put it, specialists in omnipotence?
Rikshospitalet's doctors don't want competition from private firms advertizing services Rikshospitalet has been known to deny many patients suffering from leukemia. Nucleus cell transplantations and designer babies must, according to the guardians Thorstein Egeland and Thomas Abyholm, be heavily controled by legislation in order to stop spendthrift new parents paying for an insurance Rikshospitalet only gives to their chosen few. People, and in particular mothers, are too stupid to recoginze a sound investment or detect advertizing blurb.
In our family the policy is to keep our offspring heavily insured. By fluke it's been flinging money out of the window, they're fit as fiddles all the time. By this squandering of money we however fund the insurance company's ability to help those who need it.
The gist of the puzzle is how those omnipotent medicals state that procuring and freezing nuclear cells from placenta blood is of no value - except when the Norwegian National Health Service employ this transplantation technique themselves.
The other day VG described the traumas suffered by women forced to take abortions. Reluctant fathers to-be are the scapegoats. It's beyond me why in these days men's feelings seldom is focused upon. Making babies ought to be by mutual consent.
In Aftenposten to-day Solveig Oestrem, theologist, wants an ethical debate on restricting novelists' freedom of expression. She claims that the author Hanne Oerstavik has spilled the secret beans from their friendship, and seems to be offended that her alleged presence in one of Oerstaviks novels is degrading her to a one dimensional character. On the other hand Oestrem states that worst of all is that when reading the books by her earlier friend, little of the content is recognizable. How can she then be sure of being portrayed?
One of my readers once exclaimed: 'How come you knew how I feel?' He seemed to be pleased, as opposed to some of the characters in my books; they complain of being reduced to minor entities. Sure I understand them. Like other people they would appreciate to be the main characters in their own lives. As yet I have never experienced anyone stepping out of a literary context to fret in public.