| The night torn with mad footsteps |
[Jan. 31st, 2007|05:12 am] |
The train up into the mountains of Oslo was one of the most (scenic) beautiful experiences I've ever had. Also one of the coldest. Also one of the most foolish.
Olympic ski jumps and ice crystals upon my breath (I kept thinking how in Serbia it's so cold that when they breathe out it instantly turns to ice. They call it the whispering of the stars and I smiled, imagining this, and became colder. Warm drinks and gazing out upon the valleys and the sun gently falling outta the sky.
And headin' back out to the station, in the middle of nowhere, absolutely deserted and taking the train further up the mountains, further still, till the very last stop. All the signs are in Norwegian and I'm going mad crazy with oh-who-am-I-upon-this-edge-of-the-world-and-freezing-to-death? existencial traumas like none other and my hands turning blood red, shaking, violently. and trying to find this place where one can hire a sledge but not finding it, till while telling myself to go back and find warmth, I hear some crazy voice inside me urging me to keep on, keep on and so I did, and found a lodge that hired out sledges, and so I take my sledge and soar down the toboggan run, all the way down the mountains.
(view)
Only I do not sledge, for a while, I sledge and fall. See, you turn one way, and it goes the other. It takes a while to control and master. and then I do, but the bends are sharp, and by now my hands are purple from diving headfirst into the snow so much. And the turns, some of them have barriers, some of them don't. And theres 20 foot steep drops on some bends. And there I go, soaring through the air. One time I just miss a telephone-wire post and dive into a big mount of snow, and incredible speeds. It felt like flying. They say you can go 50mph down there. Eventually, I'm flying through the air on this dayam sledge, mighty and my jeans now a solid block of ice, my hands unable to move and my feet like painful red cold daggers.
Later, trains journeys and peanut butter feasting and heaters and words to find the poetry in all this again, and this creepy roommate in the hostel that demanded we go 'DISCO' and shuddering at the thought and quickly leaving when his phone rang and I'm wandering down sidestreets, past the frozen river and gazing into dark, dimly lit restaurants and the occasional 7-11 and bars packed with people for no reason other than to soak in the atmosphere. And wandering, for so long, and coming down to the river side again, and finding this dimly lit, intimate pub with a candle at each table.
After writing for a long while, with coffee fueling my veins, I asked the barmaid if she could recommend me any traditional Norwegian drink. She was Swedan and told me to there in the summer, by the beaches. She poured me out a shot of something, and I asked if there was anything to eat, and there was only nuts. She filled up a huge glass and gave it to me for free, smiled and asked me where I came from, who I'm with and for how long. We talked for a while, and I was struck by the surrealism of being in Norway, in a beautiful bar, talking to a cute Swedish barmaid at midnight all the urge of spontaneosity, and felt a great sense of personal power in actions, and possibilities in this world. I read a little more, watch the candle and those around me, and head back into the night and upon my first ever Tram ride in my life. |
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[Jan. 31st, 2007|05:25 am] |
I wish I could create some kind of mantra on today
on all of it's despairs
and joys.
the triumph of our tired eyes |
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