nirinia: (Default)
Since I've been knee-deep in life lately, and haven't been posting regularly, I thought 'what better way to post something again than with a meme?' Stolen from, er, no one in particular? It seems to be all over. HI LJ!


Say you were meeting a new person, blind date, new friend, who knows, and you wanted them to have some idea of what kind of person you are, and who you are. But you can't actually tell them in so many words.

Instead, you have to give them a box, with a baker's dozen things in it for them to look at/read/listen to/taste/whatever. What would you put in the box?

01. Norton Anthology of English Literature Volume 2
02. A pair of ridiculous heels.
03. My favourite red lipstick.
04. My iPhone.
05. A first, or other valuable edition, of a book.
06. A bottle of champagne
07. A rapier.
08. A picture of a flat-coat (I don't suppose I can stuff an entire dog into a box)
09. The black Cruella dress.
10. My glasses.
11. Coffee beans.
12. A kiwi.
13. A copy of Norges lover (Norway's laws collected in book form, I – embarrassingly enough – have no idea what it's commonly translated to)
nirinia: (Default)
Someone needs to sponsor me a wardrobe, there's so much I would love to wear. Or I could just ditch this whole 5-years-more-of-uni plan.
nirinia: (Default)
Someone needs to sponsor me a wardrobe, there's so much I would love to wear. Or I could just ditch this whole 5-years-more-of-uni plan.
nirinia: (Default)
I've had too many pastries, too much coffee and not enough dinner, so now I'm nauseous (which, by the way, is a hideous word, it both looks and sounds ugly) and stuck on the sofa. The plan to get rid of the last few kilos? Working out about as well as it sounds. Though I don't suppose that's really a cause for serious complaint.

I started taking the pill (Microgynon) a month or so ago, and was assured it would make my periods much lighter. But, alas, no. I still haemmorrhage.

My brother won a Judo cup in Copenhagen, beat a guy he's had trouble with before and actually won money – it's usually just endless expenses. He works his work, I mine; he throws people around, I think.

It's no secret I have a shoe problem, I have too many and never enough. I've budgeted one pair of sandals, and now I have to choose: United Nude Abstract, United Nude Haiku, Alexander Wang number one or the second Alexander Wangs. Decide for me, LJ?
nirinia: (Default)
Hi, LJ. Remember me? The discontent Norwegian undergrad. Still malcontent, still so pale I reflect flash (and try very hard to stay out of pictures at parties), still drinking too much, reading too little and doing far too little work – not proper work, thank god, university work. I think better on paper, and I need to think. Medicine or law? (Kristine, don't worry, I'm leaning towards law.)

So, I think, and write sketches by hand, read fashion blogs, drink coffee with friends and tag along to friends' coffe dates with friends. All the while trying to figure out what to write my bachelor's thesis on. Oscar Wilde is currently in the lead, ahead of Joyce and Woolf. But Woolf or Joyce entail dealings with the Basket Witch: she's 4'9, has badly bleached hair in a short bob, stares at us encouragingly from under her fringe, showed up in something suspiciously like reworked curtains today, and thinks 'What did you think about 'The Tell-Tale Heart?' constitutes teaching at university level.
nirinia: (Default)
Hi, LJ. Remember me? The discontent Norwegian undergrad. Still malcontent, still so pale I reflect flash (and try very hard to stay out of pictures at parties), still drinking too much, reading too little and doing far too little work – not proper work, thank god, university work. I think better on paper, and I need to think. Medicine or law? (Kristine, don't worry, I'm leaning towards law.)

So, I think, and write sketches by hand, read fashion blogs, drink coffee with friends and tag along to friends' coffe dates with friends. All the while trying to figure out what to write my bachelor's thesis on. Oscar Wilde is currently in the lead, ahead of Joyce and Woolf. But Woolf or Joyce entail dealings with the Basket Witch: she's 4'9, has badly bleached hair in a short bob, stares at us encouragingly from under her fringe, showed up in something suspiciously like reworked curtains today, and thinks 'What did you think about 'The Tell-Tale Heart?' constitutes teaching at university level.
nirinia: (Default)
I have one serious new year's resolution, the first one in years: prepare for my exams, preferably more than a day in advance. I might postpone it till I start Law school, but I may give it a whirl this spring semester. And I'll try to be responsible enough to care about this semester, though I won't guarantee that.

Second, half-serious one, is to read on the tube. Not just stuff my iPod in my ears and let it erase my thoughts for the duration. Got through 60 pages to and from meeting Katrine today, and it's an extra ten minutes to uni.


I'm reading Zadie Smith's On Beauty, and I'm not overly fond of it. But I got caught up in the phrase 'pearls at her throat'. I can't tell you why, but I love it. And need to use it.
nirinia: (Default)
I have one serious new year's resolution, the first one in years: prepare for my exams, preferably more than a day in advance. I might postpone it till I start Law school, but I may give it a whirl this spring semester. And I'll try to be responsible enough to care about this semester, though I won't guarantee that.

Second, half-serious one, is to read on the tube. Not just stuff my iPod in my ears and let it erase my thoughts for the duration. Got through 60 pages to and from meeting Katrine today, and it's an extra ten minutes to uni.


I'm reading Zadie Smith's On Beauty, and I'm not overly fond of it. But I got caught up in the phrase 'pearls at her throat'. I can't tell you why, but I love it. And need to use it.
nirinia: (Default)
Happy Christmas, everyone!
nirinia: (Default)
Happy Christmas, everyone!
nirinia: (christmas)
I do not usually care for love stories, I prefer them tragic if at all and I cannot stand happy endings. But that of Amanda Palmer and Neil Gaiman is lovely. They mention it occasionally, both of them, but these two blog posts are my favourites so far: Gaiman talks about how his father died, schedules, tomatoes and bananas, and Amanda under cover of her new song 'Map of Tasmania', tying it to their story and mostly leaving out the song. I suppose I can pretend to love it under cover of interest in intertextuality.

Go read.
nirinia: (christmas)
I do not usually care for love stories, I prefer them tragic if at all and I cannot stand happy endings. But that of Amanda Palmer and Neil Gaiman is lovely. They mention it occasionally, both of them, but these two blog posts are my favourites so far: Gaiman talks about how his father died, schedules, tomatoes and bananas, and Amanda under cover of her new song 'Map of Tasmania', tying it to their story and mostly leaving out the song. I suppose I can pretend to love it under cover of interest in intertextuality.

Go read.
nirinia: (Default)
I am now officially on holiday. No lectures to attend, poems to decipher or allusions to pick out. It feels glorious! Because I postponed everyone 'til after exams, I juggle appointments and do it badly. Colour-coding my filofax doesn't help when the plans are jumbled as well. What's happened since I last updated?

Was dragged to a concert with the Boys of Silver (not my translation! 'Sølvguttene' in Norwegian, literary the silver boys). Met my parents downtown to have dinner, and we ended up in Stiansen's basement restaurant. They're changing the concept a bit: the chairs were better, the lighting less harsh, the food as good as ever. But five courses was a bit much when I'd had lunch not long before. It was only half the choir, Father and I spent half the recital poking each other to stay awake or making bad jokes. But it was a beautiful overdose of holiday cheer.

My chai lattes aren't very good, all the ingredients are there, but they never turn magical.

One of my exams I never got to take at all - failed to turn in the assignment in New York –, the other two didn't go as badly as I feared. For Renaissance literature I wrote about a Herbert poem, with the text, and invented Christian symbols. For Fiction and Film I compared Mrs Dalloway to The Hours, ranted about adaptations, name-dropped theorists, and concluded that bad adaptations are not only bad cinema, but an affront to the original novel. If my lofty ideas do not get me an undeserved C I don't know what will.

I plan to spend the holidays reading, re-acquainting myself with French and trying to piece together a few Russian texts. I'm so far gone I find Russian beautiful. And I'm having gingerbread dough for lunch with Katrine.

Tried reading Roth's The Human Stain, but could not get past page 213. I hate the narration, the shifts in perspective, the endless referring of present events in a ridiculous past-tense mess. There is a handful of actual dialogues in the half I read, the rest is half-repeated by either Zuckerman or Silk. It's almost as bad as Pears' The Portrait, or Theroux's The Blinding Light. I was told on twitter that I should read Roth for the stories, not the writing. But I can't divorce the story from the writing. Should I try anything else by Roth, or will I hate the rest as well?


P.S. This turned out completely random. It's written over the course of today, in-between seeing friends, watching Boardwalk Empire and eating.
nirinia: (Default)
I am now officially on holiday. No lectures to attend, poems to decipher or allusions to pick out. It feels glorious! Because I postponed everyone 'til after exams, I juggle appointments and do it badly. Colour-coding my filofax doesn't help when the plans are jumbled as well. What's happened since I last updated?

Was dragged to a concert with the Boys of Silver (not my translation! 'Sølvguttene' in Norwegian, literary the silver boys). Met my parents downtown to have dinner, and we ended up in Stiansen's basement restaurant. They're changing the concept a bit: the chairs were better, the lighting less harsh, the food as good as ever. But five courses was a bit much when I'd had lunch not long before. It was only half the choir, Father and I spent half the recital poking each other to stay awake or making bad jokes. But it was a beautiful overdose of holiday cheer.

My chai lattes aren't very good, all the ingredients are there, but they never turn magical.

One of my exams I never got to take at all - failed to turn in the assignment in New York –, the other two didn't go as badly as I feared. For Renaissance literature I wrote about a Herbert poem, with the text, and invented Christian symbols. For Fiction and Film I compared Mrs Dalloway to The Hours, ranted about adaptations, name-dropped theorists, and concluded that bad adaptations are not only bad cinema, but an affront to the original novel. If my lofty ideas do not get me an undeserved C I don't know what will.

I plan to spend the holidays reading, re-acquainting myself with French and trying to piece together a few Russian texts. I'm so far gone I find Russian beautiful. And I'm having gingerbread dough for lunch with Katrine.

Tried reading Roth's The Human Stain, but could not get past page 213. I hate the narration, the shifts in perspective, the endless referring of present events in a ridiculous past-tense mess. There is a handful of actual dialogues in the half I read, the rest is half-repeated by either Zuckerman or Silk. It's almost as bad as Pears' The Portrait, or Theroux's The Blinding Light. I was told on twitter that I should read Roth for the stories, not the writing. But I can't divorce the story from the writing. Should I try anything else by Roth, or will I hate the rest as well?


P.S. This turned out completely random. It's written over the course of today, in-between seeing friends, watching Boardwalk Empire and eating.
nirinia: (Default)
Two more exams – I failed the first one in New York –, then I see Up, drink wine and write. And I will read LJ, O'Brian and Mrs Dalloway again. Two days, done in 24 hours. I have to buy ink for my pens and take tea, to keep my fingers from going white and useless.
nirinia: (Default)
Two more exams – I failed the first one in New York –, then I see Up, drink wine and write. And I will read LJ, O'Brian and Mrs Dalloway again. Two days, done in 24 hours. I have to buy ink for my pens and take tea, to keep my fingers from going white and useless.
nirinia: (Default)
Leaving for New York tomorrow. There should be an exclamation mark there, but I'm so sick of packing, thinking, worrying and planning that there is not. Tomorrow, there will be. Tonight I am going to bed with a massive headache, which means that I'll sleep well, at least. If I do anything while I'm away (back in a week), I suspect I'll be tweeting – I'm Nirinia there as well – if I do anything.

Really, for fuck's sake, Alex, you're going to New York. Cheer up!
nirinia: (Default)
Leaving for New York tomorrow. There should be an exclamation mark there, but I'm so sick of packing, thinking, worrying and planning that there is not. Tomorrow, there will be. Tonight I am going to bed with a massive headache, which means that I'll sleep well, at least. If I do anything while I'm away (back in a week), I suspect I'll be tweeting – I'm Nirinia there as well – if I do anything.

Really, for fuck's sake, Alex, you're going to New York. Cheer up!

Hopscotch

Nov. 11th, 2010 09:35 pm
nirinia: (Default)
LJ has fallen by the wayside the past few weeks, I'm sorry. I've tried to write this post at least four times. We're celebrating Mother's birthday today, which means I've had enough wine and fireplace gazing to be sleepy and feel like posting. So I'm throwing together all the drafts I have laying around, into one giant catch-up post.

Carina invited a bunch of us along to the Lord of the Rings marathon at Colosseum. From 24:00 Friday, the three movies back to back, with half an hour's break in-between. The book was one of my first true loves of literature. I read if the first time the summer before I turned ten, and I remember being spectacularly spoiled by my uncle:

'How far in are you?' he asked.
'They're going through Moria now.'
'Have they met the Balrog yet?'
'What's a Balrog?'

I think I skipped most of the songs at my uncle and parent's behest. And I rediscovered them this summer. Re-reading books is not really something I do, it steals time from other books. Though I've rehashed some novels for university, and Disgrace on my own. Before I read Tolkien I sped through the Goosebumps series, Nancy Drew, loved and knew Narnia by heart, had no more Roald Dahl to read, and was spectacularly sick of anything 'young adult'. I re-read it this summer, and found that ten-year cycles is ideal: you forget enough to enjoy it. This time I even appreciated the appendices.

The marathon was exhausting and fun. 10 hours in a cinema chair makes for creative sitting: there were legs and arms everywhere, even on the stairs. We were armed with three breakfasts, fruit salad, chocolate, and coffee. People clapped randomly: whenever Aragorn appeared, when someone delivered an internet-famous one liner ('they're taking the hobbits to Isengard!'), we quoted 'Sagan om de Bannlysta' (a ridiculous Swedish voice-over of the films), when Boromir died, and we giggled through most of The Battle of Helm's Deep.

We cooked like mad for the annual birthday party (we celebrated 40 years between us this year). I've discovered that I love it, and am not bad at following good directions. Equip me with a good cookbook and I can create food. Two days' cooking culminated in a smorgasbord of nine dishes, not including desserts. I was so full of food I didn't know what to do with myself. It was all I could do not to topple in my ridiculous shoes (I wore the Ysl cage sandals). Though it may be the wine's fault.

And then actual birthday. Lovely day: Anette meeting me with two chai lattes in her hands – our favourite, from the tiny hole in the wall near her flat. Kristine met us, Anette left us. Kristine brought me a small cardboard box with a white bow. It contained a 'coffeeteapot' necklace. A small brass tea-/coffee pot with a pearl in the middle. I love it! (I'll take a picture of it with something better than Photo Booth later.)

It's now wintry enough that it smelt of frost when we left for the marathon on Friday. We tried to pin it down, rather than just call it 'frost'. It is a combination of snow, the sheets of ice on the asphalt, there is an aim of rotten leaves. We couldn't pinpoint it more than that, it just smells of frost. The always-scientific Kristine thinks it is the minerals in the water that smells. Double-distilled water has no noticeable smell, so she might well be right. But it does kill the mystique, doesn't it?

Father called from an Apple Store in Montreal, wondering if he ought to buy an iPad. I hadn't slept for a day, and just yelled that 'if you want one, just buy the damn thing!' So now we're thinking of ways he can use it. I secretly root for him not finding a use for it, so I can steal it. Bye, boring commute! You may pretend to be surprised that I've fallen head over heels for another Apple product.
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Kings of Convenience's 'Me In You' has been on repeat since Sunday afternoon, and I'm not sick of it yet. It is barely there in the background, blocking out the to-do list in my head. I've finished Volpone, am halfway through The Tempest, the fiction and film essay only lacks a paragraph of theory, read Greene's The Third Man on Saturday – why do I worry at all? Because it is all lackluster. I had fun with the introductory course for all of five minutes yesterday, when I wrote that 'literary science is a science of abstractions'.

But the introductory lit. course is good for one thing: people watching. There is one boy in particular, who is an endless source of amusement. He wears faded purple pants, cornered me at the McEwan sining to talk about Coetzee (though he had only read half of Disgrace), knows everything, and does not stop talking. His favourite Shakespeare character is Othello, played by Laurence Fishburne. He spent the summer mowing his parents' lawn, now works at an olive oil shop. I'm told he introduced himself, added that he has a flat at Majorstuen (expensive neighourhood), 'and would she like to have a coffee?'

We exchange Ole stories. I wonder if he's as full of himself in bed? Though he isn't quite as legendary as Rapunzel: A tiny, black-clad man with peculiarly well-kept hair down to his arse. He tends to flick it over his shoulder and caress it in lectures.

October 2012

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