Youthfull folly

I'm contemplating my sheltered youth today. I can vaguely remember there being some rumblings between parents at the end of seventh grade because of an impossible walking distance (I say impossible, but what I really mean is riddled with cars, profusely spewing out their deadly ghost-sperm impregnating our young bodies with carcinoma and other malignant bastards, too long to walk, too short a distance for the state to pay for our bus fares.), the fact that my class was to be cruelly ramified between two schools and some talk of drugs a.k.a devil worship that would suck us into a world of malevolent folly, hi jinx and jubilance.

It didn't...

I had the best grades of my academic career, was insanely awkward and uncomfortable around other people and generally had a bit of a bad time during 8th grade. Got better as the years went by and I slowly regained control of my limbs! Never even met a drug addict. I might have been weird and wore clothes 5 sizes too big... that I inherited from my cousins... I found a pair of old sneakers in my closet size 45(!?!?!) I WORE THOSE! "You'll need something to grow into" was what my mother said. I think she had a thing for Goofy and wanted me to look like him for her amusement.

The reason for this ponderment is that I just finished watching The Inbetweener and I have earlier experienced the magic of Skins. Insanity, I feel like a privileged indoor cat with one of those insane pet castles, being fed grapes by adoring eunuchs with a bell to ring whenever I might need my belly scratched compared to those kids. I would not have lasted long in a British school.
Skins, good lord they profoundly shake my very essence and redouble my convictions of not having children!
And The Inbetweeners enhance the love I have for my parents and the fact that they stayed married and NEVER moved!

Hare Krishna

Siren

Pulcinella thy name is Siren...

I have now spent the last 12 hours scribbling down 5780 words about Le Misanthrope by Molière and Pindars 6. Pythian Ode. Serching every crevice of the infinite internet to scramble together enough bourgeois nonsense to make sense. Of these piles of vile genius. My brainbox is cracked and I can't find the power in famished brain for the final read-through. This is why I must blog, I must grant my minds fever relief in non-straining written blibbety-blobb.

When I started writing the assignments I thought that this could not be done. But I have done it. I have written the two worst analysis of famous works of written art in the history of UIO slackers. I wish I could see the faces of the bored middle-aged single men and women whom revel in the pure non-sense I have spewed. I cannot be sure, but I think I might have drawn parallels between Philinthe and Peter that treacherous little worm in the Bible.

I didn't much care for old Greek poetry, but after three hours of Pindar I fell into a Stockholm Syndrome-like trance where I felt the praise on the very deepest pits of my soul.

I fell asleep a few seconds and Le Misanthrope caused a dream of a deluded Gregory House climbing a mountain to get to his Rocky Mountains cabin made from sturdy lumber and delusions of self-empowering solitude.

I might be going insane in the worst way possible. I'm devoured by French Classicism and Greek mythology. Must... read... modern literature! Must... watch... silly cheerleader movie!

If this wasn't enough to drive me clinically insane (luckily Oslo Hospital for mental problems is only two stops away by tram) I realised that I had misspelled Molière about 52 times when finally finishing the text... Molieré... One must understand the confusion my neighbours must have felt as a slender woman suddenly acted like aggravated monkey with no poo to fling.

Well, time to do some breathing-exercises before attempting to read through my foul-smelling rubbish, turning it in and sleeping for days until I must succumb to incessant sparknotes reading in the hopes I get Hamlet or well... Hamlet on my final exam on May 26. If I get Commedia Divina or some obscure poem I will either cry or laugh uncontrollably and leave the exam.

When will I learn?

Hare Krishna

Siren

Between a rock and a crazy place

I am soon to be caught between to devilish insatiable spending crazes. I must reluctantly admit to the fact that I seem to have a devious tendency towards addictive behaviour. I don't mean drugs, I have sensibly scared myself silly in that respect.

My current craze is EBAY. EBAY is a place where dreams are born. EBAY is a deity that cannot be written with in anything but capitol letters. I might never buy clothes anywhere else. Their vintage clothing selection stimulates my insatiable taste for weirdo 80s fashion, pretty dresses and insanely high heeled shoes. EBAY however, does not respect our, and my economic crisis. Obviously I care immensely more about my own economy than that of the world... aka USA... EBAY is like winning, one feels like a winner every time a bidding war is won, damned be the price! Until one realises that payment is due, but it is usually manageable. Money always seems to pop up from the infinite depths of the credit hole, at present. I fear it won't last long.

But now I have a new problem. I just saw the new Star Trek cinematic nerd-pull and instantly loved it like a dear aunt. I went in with trepidation and a preconceived notion of that I would like this picture in the way I liked the new Star Wars pictures in their time: not that much.
After gosling down every witty comment, curiously peering at the different species of aliens and my heart rate elevate and fists clench at the special effects and stuff blowing up, I fear I might soon arrive in the ranks of nerds and Spock-dressing creeps as divulged in the cast of The Big Bang Theory, except I'll be stupid.

What happens if one combines poverty, fashion obsession, EBAY and trekki-ness?! It will be my "red matter"(see I'm already starting up the Star Trek talk... It means I will collapse into myself until I vanish)

I must nip it at the but and fight the urge to watch the ten or so movies and millions of episodes of Star Trek in existence. I think I can manage, I've heard most of it's crap. Although, the new Spock is one tasty alien nerd!

Winona Ryder's his mum (Spock, not Zachary Quinto)!!

Live long and prosper

Siren

There is no doubt in my mind that you were one of the best people to ever walk this planet. I could always come to you throughout my childhood if I felt a little out of place. You always had the meatballs ready and always knew what to say to make me feel better. I never saw you angry or sad, even though I knew you were sometimes. You were too proud and strong to show it. Who else would have let me play with priceless artefacts from around the world without question. You're the poshest person I know, but still it seemed like material things never mattered that much.

You've sailed around the world and survived wars. The stories you told never got boring.

Even though you had an extraordinary life, it ended in years of confusion. I never want to get old... I'm so sorry I didn't visit you more often, I couldn't be strong for you when you needed me. I'm not strong like you. I thought you'd live forever...for me...

I love you and I miss you

Harriet Kitty Løkaas (1924-2009)

Extras, Hotel Cæsar style

This morning I journeyed into the extras universe, which I had been looking forward to. Even if being an extra isn't exactly acting, especially not in the Norwegian soap opera Hotel Cæsar, but I would be in front of a camera non the less; exciting!

I got the script via e-mail last night with an apology of lateness on their part, I didn't mind because it does not take an immeasurable amount of time to learn two lines... The story takes place in the local Kiwi where a distraught cashier (me) sits glumly behind the counter doing the business of any merchant: money in exchange for goods.
Then the winner of some open audition for the part of Runa comes over to my character and shows her concern for me since my grandmother is in the hospital and, as I said, I look gloomy. Not the most original or likely scenarios, but who am I to complain? I would get to sob on a soap! I reluctantly take her up on her offer of taking over for me since I want to go visit my grandmother. We have a heart-warming moment and I leave. I can safely say it will be my three seconds of fame, an Oscar worthy performance!

Easy right? No... not when you're me!

I had to be at the studio in Torshov at 9am to start filming and therefore had to get up quite a bit earlier than 9am to apply make-up, have some coffee and generally rise from the depths of my deathlike morning state. I overslept, took a two minute shower and bolted out the door, make-upless and with toothpaste on my t-shirt. As I arrived a few minutes late I resembled a heroine deprived transient with rain-drenched hair and PMSing skin.

I was greeted politely and sent up to a room of make-up artists. I of course thought: Thank Waits, they will fix my face with a sufficient layer of TV paint. They however just discussed how to hide the microphone in the minuscule amount of hair on the back of my head. They magically managed to do so with their superb make-up artist skills and some ducked tape; I wonder how long I will have these sticky squares of memory on my neck...

Two of the actors from the show, neither of whom I recognised, two other extras and I where rushed over to an enormous van with the Hotel Cæsar logo on the side and off we went towards ICA Birkelunden! There, we were put in unflattering ICA uniforms three sizes too big, got attached microphone-box-antenna things to (yes, the sound man got to put his hands in my pants) and where issued a new script. They had found the dying grandmother to be a smidgeon too cheesy and instead I was now in distress over an aching back.

I could see the distressed look on the new girls face (Runa) as she had rehearsed copiously for her tellie début. She was such a lovely girl and therefore I felt the need to convey love and went over to her, helped her out with some last-minute rehearsal and encouraging words. She got through it and was astonishing! I might even start watching the horrid show to see her!

I however had to overact my pain like a Days of Our Lives Jim Carry, watch my angles because I had ducked tape on my neck whilst fully aware that they where zooming in on my heroine addict and make-up deprived pasty face.

During the waiting time I bonded with my very own Maggie, personified by a guy studying at BI. He seemed overly happy about his part as "guy who puts groceries in bag" and it irked that I couldn't figure out why he was there; but he was funny and a little weird. I, of course assumed the part of the socially awkward, constantly confused and reluctantly annoying Andy Millman and had my own fun.

The cast and crew of Hotel Cæsar seem like a family of loving, accommodating and encouraging people... with exception of the one crew member who laughed and the acting skills of a fellow extra and the man who commented that I had quite a strong accent.

I think there should be more accents on Norwegian tellie! LOUD and PROUD!

Hare Krishna

Siren

Freedome!

A cloud of evanescent bliss cradles my tired and wired head as I have finally finished my paper in Exphil03! I grew weary of the dull dribble Charles Freid bestowed upon me in an even duller Norwegian translation; howbeit I have manipulated the few decent sounding philosophic words that I have imbibed over the years and from the innards of my brainbox I spew them into a cacophony of incoherent ramblings, 3007 words to be exact.

A little bit of Kant, a smidgeon of Fried, A sprinkling of Hume with a side dish of monkey-science courtesy of the always riveting Noam Chomsky and his new friend Marc D. Hauser.

"Stability means we run it. There are countries that are very stable. Cuba is stable, but that’s not called stability." Oh Chom-Chom, you crack me up!

Time for exuberant sleep!

I leave you with the image of La Roux, my new favourite 80s inspired troubadour:


XX

5AM life

There is nothing funny about walking alone at 5AM. Me and a fellow future Aesthetics know it all created a spur of the moment pre-party last night where literally threes of people showed up, but it was an enjoyable evening; the kind of evening where it needn't be a more the merrier frenzy! Good wine.. well, wine, music and agreeable if not titillating conversation. I stayed there until her boyfriend came home from a party about 4-5am before snuggling into my impossibly beautiful and excruciatingly high-heeled pumps to walk a short distance to the nearest taxi.

As I walked out the door of her building in Frogner I felt the cool breeze and suddenly sensed a belonging with the outdoors; I thought: "I should walk a bit, I don't walk around at 5am nearly enough"
As I stood there marvelling at the prodigy of night whilst fiddling the ever-entangled earphones attached to my ZEN a handsome man stumbles drunkenly towards me asking me to help him call someone with his smart phone. Ironic, no? I giggled at the thought of a complicated smart phone. After my act of heroic mobile problem-solving he asked a question that made me doubt my outfit and the thought of walking at 5am: "Hm, why are you here so late? A "short" visit (wink-wink, nudge-nudge)?" Did he think the high-heeled, shortskirted, bow-tie wearing chippie with the dark make-up was a prostitute? I'm pretty sure he did until my flustered look and explanation; at that moment I decided to take a taxi the whole way home...

Luckily my appearance struck a chord with the taxi driver, not a big enough chord to get me into coital turmoil, but I did pay just 200kr for a taxi from Frogner all the way home to Jomfrubråten. Made my day!

Hare Krishna (I'm off to see Wolverine!!!)

Siren