Thoughts, quotes and impressions
Never let your sister talk you into watching too many episodes of Doctor Who. It will mess with your mind and leave you with an altered reality perception.
The summer’s really finally over now. The temperatures are plummeting and it’s time to summarize.
We were in England this summer. All the way from Edinburg to Cornwall to Brighton we went. It was the best event of the year, there were lightning bolts and sun and lots and lots of rain. I wrote a lot. I really did. It was mad how many thoughts went through my head at the most inconvenient of times.
I made the mistake of bringing The Hound of the Baskervilles along today, on a sunny day! I don’t know what went into me, but there I was in Bath, on a bench, reading Sherlock Holmes next to ice-cream-eating Germans.
It was just wrong.
I cannot for the world understand people who only read one book at the time. What if it’s sunny and all they’ve got is Sherlock Holmes? Or they’re sad and the only book they have is Pride & Prejudice? They must read really fast.
I loved Bath. It is, quite possibly, the friendliest city I’ve ever been to. I can’t tell why it’s friendly, but it is. It is also beautiful, in a weird, uniform way.
You don’t really notice that you’re in a different city if you look at the architecture only. Not really. At least not in Britain. I don’t, anyway. We arrived in Edinburgh three days ago and it wasn’t ’till I saw the Scottish moors and mountains surrounding it that I really accepted that we were, in fact, in Scotland. I was standing on the National Monument -…-what’s-it-called-again-hill and only then did my brain say “Oh yes, we seem to be in Scotland.”
I actually finished my old journal on that trip. A journal that was started in London in 2007. This tells us two things; that I’m good at wrapping things up in style, and that I used insanely much time finishing a not-that-thick book.
It was a lot easier getting used to York than Edinburgh. Maybe this city, despite that I love everything about Scotland and Edinburgh, is slightly more appealing to me. It’s got a tiny second-hand book shop on every corner. Night-clubs and restaurants are flanked by mediaeval churches and port-ways. There’s something magical about York, and I’m not only saying that because of Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell. A lot because of Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell, but not only. This city really is magical.
The accent, of course, is lovely too.
In short; I’ve spent two fantastic weeks this summer watching people, listening to different accents, reading, writing, exploring, experiencing, living, and everything else England got for foreign tourists. I’ve stocked up on Doctor Who and watched it night after night. I even was at the Doctor Who Exhibition at Land’s End. I’ve had an amazing time and enjoyed about every moment of park-walking, café-sitting (we even were to the café where J. K. Rowling wrote Harry Potter), tea-drinking and dancing weird dances while talking loudly in Norwegian. There’s really nothing for it, I’ve got to live there.
Our last day in England. It’s been wonderful, magical, life-changing, or something. Yet I look forward to sleeping in my own bed and not having to be so fucking polite at eight in the morning.
I fill my legs and quote book with quotes and they make me laugh, but still it is the inevitable truth that something is ending. That a Rose by any other name doesn’t always smell as sweet. That however much you reach out someone always run faster than you. That sand is slipping through your fingers.
I dress myself in my longest, brownest cloaks and make woshing sounds. I run like a madman, I fall through glass roofs, I pick up every screwdriver I can get my hands on.
I close my eyes and ruffle up my hair.
I do realize that the time has come. That it doesn’t matter whether you like it or not, five years is only five years. It begins to come clear, even to me, that all things have to end, and when that time comes all your running and hair-ruffling and cloaking have been for nothing.
This is the end, the end of time.
I don’t want to go.
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Do you think I’m taking this a little too seriously?
I was one of Faramir’s men the other day. For a few glorious moments I was a grim and fearless archer willing to risk everything for his country. Then reality returned.
But still.
I find the level of belief I had those few moments beautifully scary. It made me remember how I used to play ten years ago. I’m not old, I’m truly not. Yet there are certain aspects of my younger years I have forgotten. I play too seldom and am too frivolous when I do. What happened to serious games where you actually are Faramir or Pocahontas or a troll? You don’t pretend that you are them.
You are.
It scared me that I felt so grown up. The only remedy I can think of is a few shots with my bow and pick a bunch of flowers. That’ll get the job done nicely.
I can do what I want,
I can go my own roads,
Sing my own song,
dig my own holes,
No one can me what to do,
I can live wild!
But I’m choosing to stay home…
Two girls sitting by a main shopping-street i Oslo, eating Ben & Jerry’s and considering the possibility of earning enough as living statues to make up for the fortune spent on the ice-cream, listening to a gypsy playing ‘when the saints’ on his accordion.
I like my friends.
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