nirinia: (Default)
Do I need to take my computer to the cottage? There's no internet, but there are a few hotspots in town I could use. Will I live with just my iPhone, pen and paper? It's huge and heavy, but I could watch DVDs without interference. And I have my music, and somewhere to write. I think it is coming with me. But then I'll have to find some smart way to pack it.

All this leads up to us leaving for the cottage today (we're already late, though it's not my fault for once). Summer holidays, so I'll be gone approximately three weeks. Swimming, wine, reading and long walks with the dog monster. One of my favourite things is swimming just before bed: running down, dropping my robe and diving in naked. It doesn't compare to anything. I'm taking Karenina, DeLillo's Underworld and Bolaño's Savage Detectives with me.

See you in three weeks! (Or perhaps earlier, if I go mad with cabin fever.)
nirinia: (Default)
Do I need to take my computer to the cottage? There's no internet, but there are a few hotspots in town I could use. Will I live with just my iPhone, pen and paper? It's huge and heavy, but I could watch DVDs without interference. And I have my music, and somewhere to write. I think it is coming with me. But then I'll have to find some smart way to pack it.

All this leads up to us leaving for the cottage today (we're already late, though it's not my fault for once). Summer holidays, so I'll be gone approximately three weeks. Swimming, wine, reading and long walks with the dog monster. One of my favourite things is swimming just before bed: running down, dropping my robe and diving in naked. It doesn't compare to anything. I'm taking Karenina, DeLillo's Underworld and Bolaño's Savage Detectives with me.

See you in three weeks! (Or perhaps earlier, if I go mad with cabin fever.)
nirinia: (Default)
I'm running away tomorrow. To the cottage, with no technology except a crappy tv with one channel. To eat so much I readily swear off food when I get home, cackle over board games like Monopoly and Ludo (I slay at them!), drink too much wine, and make things like 'munker' (a type of pastry, looks much like these, only mine rarely turn out pretty). As always, I set out with a stack of books, a mission to get through them, write clever things about them, and arrive at some epiphany. It never happens, at most I read two books and think about the last half of the first one. The last three I forget to take back home, never to retrieve them. The shelves are enormously happy to be rid of the burden, I imagine.

Anette asked if I would like to go on an InterRail trip this summer. While we get along great, long, dirty train journeys and I do not. (The Orient Express I could survive, though.) Neither do I get along well with hostels, or holidays involving backpacks – unless they also entail mountains and dogs. The conversation went something like this:

'Alex, would you like to join me for an InterRail trip?', she said, offering a cup of coffee.
'Er, well, perhaps. Yeah. Where and when?' I said.
'Oh, no, wait. You're you. I don't think this is such a good idea, after all. I'm thinking a month, with backpacks and no showers.'
'Right. I could do it, but you'd have to feed me every third–fourth hour, and make sure I get to at least wash my face every day.'
'Let's just go with New York.', she concludes, looking down at my new boots.

She was taken aback when I told her the cottage is not a palace we retreat to in the summer. I don't know where she gets these ridiculous ideas. A girl cannot, apparently, like both cities, shoes and forests. (I say all this with great affection, even as I try to teach her how to survive in the city.)

By the way, I suspect my aversion to cheap travelling is hereditary. Father yelled up at me, when he was making reservations for a trip in England a few years ago: 'I am sick of hotels being a let-down, beds with a oblivions in the middle and crappy breakfasts. We're doing this properly. You will apparently have to wear something that is not jeans to breakfast.'

Will catch up with everything on Monday. Will miss being scared to death of Bioshock 2 til Monday.
nirinia: (Default)
I'm running away tomorrow. To the cottage, with no technology except a crappy tv with one channel. To eat so much I readily swear off food when I get home, cackle over board games like Monopoly and Ludo (I slay at them!), drink too much wine, and make things like 'munker' (a type of pastry, looks much like these, only mine rarely turn out pretty). As always, I set out with a stack of books, a mission to get through them, write clever things about them, and arrive at some epiphany. It never happens, at most I read two books and think about the last half of the first one. The last three I forget to take back home, never to retrieve them. The shelves are enormously happy to be rid of the burden, I imagine.

Anette asked if I would like to go on an InterRail trip this summer. While we get along great, long, dirty train journeys and I do not. (The Orient Express I could survive, though.) Neither do I get along well with hostels, or holidays involving backpacks – unless they also entail mountains and dogs. The conversation went something like this:

'Alex, would you like to join me for an InterRail trip?', she said, offering a cup of coffee.
'Er, well, perhaps. Yeah. Where and when?' I said.
'Oh, no, wait. You're you. I don't think this is such a good idea, after all. I'm thinking a month, with backpacks and no showers.'
'Right. I could do it, but you'd have to feed me every third–fourth hour, and make sure I get to at least wash my face every day.'
'Let's just go with New York.', she concludes, looking down at my new boots.

She was taken aback when I told her the cottage is not a palace we retreat to in the summer. I don't know where she gets these ridiculous ideas. A girl cannot, apparently, like both cities, shoes and forests. (I say all this with great affection, even as I try to teach her how to survive in the city.)

By the way, I suspect my aversion to cheap travelling is hereditary. Father yelled up at me, when he was making reservations for a trip in England a few years ago: 'I am sick of hotels being a let-down, beds with a oblivions in the middle and crappy breakfasts. We're doing this properly. You will apparently have to wear something that is not jeans to breakfast.'

Will catch up with everything on Monday. Will miss being scared to death of Bioshock 2 til Monday.
nirinia: (Default)
I lead a sort of half-life at the cottage. I eat, I sleep, I read, swim, cross-stitch and write occasionally. With the creature gone, I hardly walk, and I think we can safely say that it is more a quarter-life, for now. Oh, and I talk to people at meals, but the discussions are so bland these days they hardly count. And I answer my two cousins' silly questions on either my reading or cross-stitching.

Had I not known better, I would have donned dresses and taken long walks on the surrouding fields, all the while contemplating poetry and beaus, thinking I was a character in one of Austen’s novels. As it is, I contemplate not poetry, but my future. My uncle works at UiO (the university of Oslo, roughly translated), and has engaged himself on shipping me safely off to Oxford. He suggests – wisely, I fear – that I take the first year at UiO, and get some councellor or study guide to help me get into Oxford. I then get a taste of university life, have a few well-suited papers I can throw the admissions office’s way, and I will have someone to do the rough work for me. Is this the way to do it? There is, he claims, quite a few scholarship thingies I can apply for and get some much-needed funds when the time comes.

On other notes, the world is still empty and the house a void. It all lacks doggie, but we're getting by. Actually, we're dealing very well with everything - or so I imagine.

We contemplated buying a dog from some new breeder, but decided against it when the one we bought Nero from said she hoped we would buy one of hers, and offered, quite sincerely, to lend us one of her flats for a while. She is a remarkably sweet woman, and is a breeder of wonderful dogs. So, nine months it is, approximately, before there is a new dog in this house.

I got through Diane Setterfield's "The Thirteenth Tale" between cross-stitching and doing nothing, and despite a serious violation of the sacred semicolon, it was pretty good. I'm not quite sure yet, but I think I enjoyed it. I think I liked Vida, if nothing else. It induced something trance-like at times, but I don't know.  "The Sea, the Sea", by Iris Murdoch,  seems intriguing. For the life of me, I can't resist tales of the theatre narrated by middle-aged men. Aslo, it is allegedly Murdoch's best novel. It can't be a bad place to start with a new writer, can it?

"Strong Opinions" & "Lectures on Literature", both by my favourite emigré, must shortly be added to my library. Life without them might just not be worth the while. Nabokov is, quite possibly, the most wonderful man that ever lived.

P.S. I had no idea "The Tale" was such a hype, had I known I might never have picked it up. There's even a dedicated site. Good gracious.

P.P.S. I am in desperate need to discuss literature, theatre and all things related with someone. I am bursting to quote things at someone, and have them grin, or preferably smirk, back at me in understanding, because they've read just the same thing. No, disregard the understanding, I just want someone to know what I'm talking about, and to recommend me good reading. I want someone to tear the world apart with. (I think I just might type the Dickens-thingie I've been longing to write up tonight. I need to use my brain for something other than mush.)

Did I mention I have an urge to write about Dickens' characters, and their relations to his quest to change the world? If I happen to have omitted it, consider this the mention of it: I want to write some sort of essay about it, for the sheer heck, practice and good fun of it.

Perhaps writing fairy tales would be fun. "There once was a town built not unlike one of our skyscrapers: its houses clawed themselves into the face of a hill. A hill so steep only the lowest houses could be accessed by ground, the rest were reached by ladders or winding stairs. Owing to the steepness of the hill, the stairs could not be built outside the houses - the inhabitants would fall to their death -, so people walked straight through the neighbouring houses to get to their own."
nirinia: (Default)
I lead a sort of half-life at the cottage. I eat, I sleep, I read, swim, cross-stitch and write occasionally. With the creature gone, I hardly walk, and I think we can safely say that it is more a quarter-life, for now. Oh, and I talk to people at meals, but the discussions are so bland these days they hardly count. And I answer my two cousins' silly questions on either my reading or cross-stitching.

Had I not known better, I would have donned dresses and taken long walks on the surrouding fields, all the while contemplating poetry and beaus, thinking I was a character in one of Austen’s novels. As it is, I contemplate not poetry, but my future. My uncle works at UiO (the university of Oslo, roughly translated), and has engaged himself on shipping me safely off to Oxford. He suggests – wisely, I fear – that I take the first year at UiO, and get some councellor or study guide to help me get into Oxford. I then get a taste of university life, have a few well-suited papers I can throw the admissions office’s way, and I will have someone to do the rough work for me. Is this the way to do it? There is, he claims, quite a few scholarship thingies I can apply for and get some much-needed funds when the time comes.

On other notes, the world is still empty and the house a void. It all lacks doggie, but we're getting by. Actually, we're dealing very well with everything - or so I imagine.

We contemplated buying a dog from some new breeder, but decided against it when the one we bought Nero from said she hoped we would buy one of hers, and offered, quite sincerely, to lend us one of her flats for a while. She is a remarkably sweet woman, and is a breeder of wonderful dogs. So, nine months it is, approximately, before there is a new dog in this house.

I got through Diane Setterfield's "The Thirteenth Tale" between cross-stitching and doing nothing, and despite a serious violation of the sacred semicolon, it was pretty good. I'm not quite sure yet, but I think I enjoyed it. I think I liked Vida, if nothing else. It induced something trance-like at times, but I don't know.  "The Sea, the Sea", by Iris Murdoch,  seems intriguing. For the life of me, I can't resist tales of the theatre narrated by middle-aged men. Aslo, it is allegedly Murdoch's best novel. It can't be a bad place to start with a new writer, can it?

"Strong Opinions" & "Lectures on Literature", both by my favourite emigré, must shortly be added to my library. Life without them might just not be worth the while. Nabokov is, quite possibly, the most wonderful man that ever lived.

P.S. I had no idea "The Tale" was such a hype, had I known I might never have picked it up. There's even a dedicated site. Good gracious.

P.P.S. I am in desperate need to discuss literature, theatre and all things related with someone. I am bursting to quote things at someone, and have them grin, or preferably smirk, back at me in understanding, because they've read just the same thing. No, disregard the understanding, I just want someone to know what I'm talking about, and to recommend me good reading. I want someone to tear the world apart with. (I think I just might type the Dickens-thingie I've been longing to write up tonight. I need to use my brain for something other than mush.)

Did I mention I have an urge to write about Dickens' characters, and their relations to his quest to change the world? If I happen to have omitted it, consider this the mention of it: I want to write some sort of essay about it, for the sheer heck, practice and good fun of it.

Perhaps writing fairy tales would be fun. "There once was a town built not unlike one of our skyscrapers: its houses clawed themselves into the face of a hill. A hill so steep only the lowest houses could be accessed by ground, the rest were reached by ladders or winding stairs. Owing to the steepness of the hill, the stairs could not be built outside the houses - the inhabitants would fall to their death -, so people walked straight through the neighbouring houses to get to their own."

October 2012

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