Old man's birthday

There is nothing special about getting old. In fact, people never cease to do so (Well, until they die, that is.). Still we continue to celebrate each time the Earth has done a total rotation around the Sun with each of us on it.

The first few times, we really don’t care. We’re more interested in sleeping, pooping and figuring out how the hell Aunt Maureen says “Pick-a-Boo!” and manages to disappear and then MAGICALLY REAPPEAR AGAIN! Then we like it (and by that I mean, really, really, really like it ohboyohboyohboyI’msoexitedIcan’twaitIcan’tsleepohboyohboyohboy). This is mostly because you get presents, cake, candy and the right to add an extra finger when your mommy asks you to tell people how old you are. The teenage years follow with all some great birthdays: Old enough to go out, old enough to not have to tell your parents when you’re getting home, old enough to drive a scooter, old enough to drive a car, old enough to drink alcohol (less than 22% at 18 and more than that at 20 if you’re Norwegian). So yeah, it’s pretty cool for a while. But then you become an adult.

When I say an adult, there is of course still a matter of what that means. I'm here simply defining adult as post-teen and with all rights and responsibilities society would normally throw at any sane person (and quite a few less-than-sane people). It’s debatable for certain social groups, like students, footballers and men, but that’s the definition I will go by. Anyway, it’s not like I was asking anyone, so now you may turn off caps lock. But I digress. After you've achieved status as a part of society, even the really low parts like politicians or bankers, there isn't much good ageing can do for you.

Sure, there are perks. No matter if you’re two or 82, you will for the rest of your life be able to look at those younger than you and be condescending. You’re older, more experiences. Of course you’ve got the right. After all, you lived through harder times than they ever did. But then there are all the negative things about getting old. First, the metabolism goes down: You actually can’t finish a large triple whopper menu with extra cheese and bacon. You may even find that the slim-fit jeans you wore at 17 are too small for you (I’m sure they shrank. What else could it be?).Then there is the physical deterioration: You first don’t feel like going jogging just because it’s a heavy snowfall outside and before you know it, you can’t run fast enough to tackle little Greek men who are running off with your rugby ball. There is also the mental deterioration, but I’m pretty sure that started long before I become an adult, so that’s not applicable.

With age, having your birthday suddenly doesn't seem as great as it used to. It serves as a reminder to you and everyone around you that you’re slowly but surely getting closer to falling into oblivion, Heaven or Hell, or maybe being born again (I want to be born again as a Komodo dragon. It may not breathe fire, or fly, but IT. IS. A. DRAGON!!!). Also, with age comes crankiness. All these young, carefree people are running around believing life is all about having fun and not enough about sitting and disapproving of what kids are up to these days. It really gets to you. It surely doesn't help that people want your stuff. They’ll be looking at you saying things like “That’s a really nice watch you've got there.” or “How much would your laptop go for on eBay?” Oh yes, I know what you’re thinking, I always do.

Thanks to Samantha Smith for taking this great photo of my 23rd birthday party. That cake was amazing.

One perk about getting older is the birthday party. But as a student, who really needs a reason to party? I've been to parties for celebrations I didn't even know existed until I receive the Facebook invite. So it’s silly to think you need a reason to have a party, and such an egocentric reason at that! However, there have been certain objections to me spending my celebrating my birthday solely with my house mates  This may have something with me only having one house mate this year, but it is tradition and I don’t argue with tradition (unless tradition is wrong and I feel like having an argument). Whatever the reason, some loud voices have gotten through and I have learnt that I henceforth need to keep quiet about it and remove my date of birth from Facebook. In addition, in an effort to try to conceal how much of a cranky old man I am becoming, I’ve decided I’ll really go all out and have a big birthday party this year. It will be bigger than anything I’ve had for years, with more preparations and celebrations than any party since primary school. It will so big, I will be remembering it for years to come.

That’s right. I’m going out for a drink. You can come too.

Stray, little Valentine

The other day I was, as often all too often the case, looking through the newsfeed on Facebook. One of my lovely colleagues at mechanical engineering had posted a cartoon from The Oatmeal. It was an old post where the essential point was this:

The most annoying thing about Valentine's Day isn't the massive consumerism, the tacky things you’re expected to buy or the nauseously sweet couples everywhere reminding you of just how long you’ve been single. The most annoying thing about Valentine’s Day is trying to ignore it while the majority of people use all their time and energy to tell everybody else how little they care about Valentine’s Day.

(Not a true quotation, but close enough I hope)

It was an old post, one that I had read a long time ago. But I had forgotten it and was at that time expecting to post something about the stupidity of St. Valentine’s Day on Facebook (as usual). The post therefore made me feel rather guilty and I decided to do exactly what it said I should do: To ignore St. Valentine’s Day in silence.

That proved to be surprisingly easy throughout most of the day. I live and work in Annecy, France and it seems as if the tradition of roses, love letters and heart shaped chocolates has not arrived here. There was cake at work, but that was just because my co-workers are awesome, not because the day was anything special. Neither was there anything special about Valentine’s Day at the gym this evening. I was expecting at least an “A Valentine’s gift that keeps giving – get your loved one a Visaform membership today”, but no, there was nothing. In fact, sitting here and analysing my day, I did not even notice any Valentine’s adverts while walking through the central shopping street either today. Truly, St. Valentine’s Day was not at all difficult to ignore.

It should be noted that in saying “ignoring” I am not referring to completely banishing St. Valentine’s Day to the depth of oblivion. I was all the time aware of the fact that today was the 14th of February, aka Valentine’s Day. I simply ignored it the way most people ignore 3rd of September (the day WWII started), Ramadan or the American National day: you might know it’s there, but that doesn’t mean you’re going to make a fuss about it (note: when I say “most people” I refer to the non-Muslims and non-Americans as is percentage of the world’s 7 billion people. I’m not trying to offend anyone, just making an educated assumption. Don’t worry though; I’m sure no one will be offended if you guys don’t care about the national day of Norway or Christ’s Ascension either). Still, it was rather strange not to have been exposed to ANY signs of Valentine’s Day. I guess two years in the UK really had set its mark.

Ignoring the date did however come to an abrupt end as I visited Facebook. The site itself had taken the liberty of finding all the St. Valentine’s comments from my “friends” so I could go through them in one batch (That was actually pretty neat. A pat on the back for you, Zuckerberg). The comments were often exactly the kinds the Oatmeal had been so critical to; criticising the tradition as a capitalistic abomination or just stupid. There were those who liked it, but the negative comments did make a much stronger impression.

All those comments made me decide to defend the tradition. I do not know if it was due to an inner need to go against the flow, if it was so that I could set myself as intellectually superior to the masses or if I all in all like Valentine’s Day. Never the less, here I am, writing this post.

I don’t know much about St. Valentine’s Day and for once I’m not going to read the Wikipedia article before writing the blog-post. All I know is this: At the centre of St. Valentine’s Day as I know it, there is love. Yes, it sounds really corny, but there it is. It would have been great if love was all around all the time, but it’s not. We’re often too busy to realise how much we love someone and we have even less time to show them how much we care. In that sense St. Valentine’s Day is nice. It reminds us of the fact that there is love out there and celebrates the greatness of love.

But there are other traditions that do just that. Christmas is one of those; God loved us all so much that he sacrificed his son so that we should live eternal. We are supposed to get together with our loved ones and celebrate how great it is love and to be loved. For if God could do so much to us all, the least we can do is to try loving each other this once a year. But it’s not just us Christians who celebrate Christmas. Atheists and agnostics might not believe in the religious principles of Christmas, but they can accept the message of love. The tradition has become secularised, being only a season of love for those that does not care about Jesus.

Christmas is also the greatest celebration of capitalism and consumerism there is. The shopping craze and decoration hype has taken the focus away from the message of love. Still we do celebrate, often finding back to the core when all the presents bought, the tree is decorated and the neighbour got the price for best garden decorations. So it should be about St. Valentine’s. Love is comes in many shapes and colours, not just pink hearts or red roses. Let lovers celebrate the day in the way they want to.

I hope that next year, I will not feel like ignoring the celebration of St. Valentine. I will ignore the pressure of consumerism. Instead, I will think of all the great things about this day: Schoolchildren blushing while reading homemade notes from secret admirers. Young couples holding hands, first kisses and confessions of love. Parents stealing glances and walking arm in arm while their kids look the other way. Older couples dining at a restaurant together, remembering when they used to be young and telling each other how they are still as handsome/beautiful as the first day they met. Even at the graveyards there can be beauty on St. Valentine’s; thousands of candles, each one telling of a love that not even death managed to quench. That is what we should think of today. Never mind what Hollywood or capitalism says. To love costs nothing. Let lovers have their one day. Better was if it was like that all year, but at least this one day.

All this is for couples. This is not a day for the single. However, that does not mean one needs to sulk. We can be happy for those of our friends and family who does have someone special on this day. We can look at all those things I mentioned before and rejoice; for if there is so much love out there, surely it will be some for us one day. And even if you are still not convinced and still believe it is all stupid, why bother about it? It’s a day a year. Let them have their ignorant bliss.

After all, it’s just like any other day, right?

Back to the Continent

Dear readers. I am not going to try to convince you that this blog is anything but dormant. But like Vesuvius, there will be occasional rumbling and as said volcano did in 79 AD, things here at Battle at Bull Mound may also get rough. Of course, I’ve got no intention of burying cities; it’s not really my cup of tea. France, on the other hand, now THAT is a cup of tea I’ll drink dry (no pun intended, if there is one). In fact, I’m just that Francophile that I decided it was a good idea to break from my studies and go work as a mechanical engineering intern in Annecy in France for a year.

I’m not inclined to promise that I’ll write much, as I’ve broken that promise before. On the other hand, I can say that if I had promised that, I would like to believe I would have no problem keeping the promise this time. I am imagining there will be some of you who finds it necessary to point out that “Arthur, why bother? There is no one who reads your blog anymore!” To those I would point out that, as far as writing or talking without anyone listening concerns, it has never stopped me before.

In The Wee Small Hours Of The Morning

"Knowledge is night"

Attributed to Professor Abdullah Nightingale by Bluebear in his book "The 13 1/2 Lives of Captain Bluebear"

On this blog, I have on several occations mentioned my relationship to the night. In many ways, I love the night. When darkness covers the land, and the roar of human life is reduced to a whisper, thoughts flow more easily. Some of my favourite texts, discussions and moments in general has taken place or been created in the domain of Nephthys (1).

The reason for this is probably in part due to the decrease in impressions: Darkness hides all those things the mind normally would have been processing. However, the brain does not slow down. Being used to work at full processing power (2) it just keeps going as before. In that it is not good at quickly responding to decrease in demand, ones brain is similar to a specialised assembly line production where the workers are stationary. But unlike manufacturing, your brain does not start downsizing and eventually moves the remaining processing to China. When there is nothing else to do, your brain starts going through your archives. All those impressions and thoughts that's already been catalogued and put away will be re-examined, compared against each other and used to create some new idea.

The increase in ideas that night brings have, in my case, not always been a blessing. As a kid, the mixture of vivid imagination and morbid ideas lead to many a night where I lay awake in fear of monsters, ghosts and other abominations (3) . I feel the need to point out that I was fully aware that none of these creatures existed, but if a fear is irrational, then logics needs to be backed by light, mum and dad. Fat good any of these did when I was too afraid to leave my bed to get help from them.

Years later, now in my early twenties, I have come to embrace darkness as a friend (4) . The feeling of calm is welcome in an otherwise stressful existence, and I enjoy those all too few moments of non-engineering creativity that follows (5) . The night-time calmness makes me feel more at ease and I get as close to a mystic state of mind as I ever get: I feels at peace with oneself and at one with the greater whole. A great friend the night is that grants me such gifts.

Now, of my friends and associates there are probably a few that will raise an eyebrow reading this. They may have seen me in other states at night, some of which differ and sometimes are direct opposites of the calm, quiet and philosophical Arthur I describe. To the people in question I want to make it clear, do not worry, neither you nor I have been hallucinating. To achieve my dark nirvana, several factors have to be in place. One, I need to be relatively sober. Two, I cannot be stressed about something. Three, there cannot be too many people present, as being social takes up great amounts brain processing power. Four, I need to be awake at my own free will. Remove one or more of these, and the night just isn't the same.

Which brings me to why I thought about writing this post. At 0:30 Thursday morning, I found myself lacking both factor two and four. When this happens, I am everything but peaceful and calm. Being hungry, tired or stressed makes me rather grumpy, and two out of three is a bad combo. I was awake because Shun and I were working on our design report, which was due in on Thursday morning. As Shun is the kind of person I would like to maintain on friendly terms with (6) , I was trying as best as I could to suppress the irritation that stress and deprivation of sleep was inducing. I felt as if I was failing. What one self believes one is expressing, does not necessarily correspond to the receiver's impression of what one is expressing. This means that feeling one is suppressing often shines trough even when one is trying to hide it. The result is this cliché dialogue:

"Are you angry?"

"No, I am not."

"Well, you sound angry."

"I said, I am not angry."

"You're definitely angry."

"KNOCK IT OFF, WILL YOU?! I SAID I AM NOT ANGRY!"

I am well aware of this, and as I could hear irritation in my voice, I was pretty sure Shun heard it too. Being aware of this is normally a good thing, but it does not need to be. In this situation, being aware meant I got annoyed over my failure to keep the anger inside, thereby making me more grumpy. It is like a small particle of dust floating through space: It's gravitational pull will pull in more particles, which in turn will produce a larger gravitational pull, and so it will go until it's a black hole that swallows all life in the galaxy.

Luckily, nights are measured in hours, not in millennia.

(1) I found that my allegory, though poetic, was rather obscure, and maybe not even entirely appropriate. Therefore the link .

(2) Whether or not my brain actually ever works at full processing power is, at best, debatable.

(3) Though the at the time I probably would have problems pronouncing the latter, let alone understand what it was.

(4) Not theologically, as I have kept my childhood faith. Certain irrational principles I have maintained even as I voluntarily let cynicism and realism taint my soul.

(5) I'm not with this implying that I have an unstoppable stream of engineering creativity, though luckily, I do have my moments for that too.

(6) He's just an awesome dude. Who wouldn't want to on friendly terms with him?

Fay Dragonsbane's Tale

Sunday evening, I was texting with a friend from uni. My friend told me she had burned her hand. I asked if it was "a great tale to tell friends and foes alike". Her story was so epic, I decided to write it down in verse. It is this epic poem that this post is all about. I hope for your understanding, as the verse is crude and needs a lot of work if it is ever to be recited at any tavern or inn (at least if the audience is close to sober). It was after all written in a short amount of time, with no further correction. Note that any resemblance in name or person is purely coincedental and may or may not have anything to do actual people or places.

I have been told, I sometimes take jokes too far. This just might be one of those occasions. Enjoy.

Fay Dragonsbane's Tale

Come gather around,

both young and old.

For I have a story,

that needs to be told.

Greater tales?

I vow there are few,

than that of Fay,

who the dragon slew.

Fay was a woman,

from lands far away,

and how she came to England,

I cannot say,

Her hair was like night,

and she didn't stand tall,

but for she who slays dragons,

it pays to be small.

In the heart of London,

this story is set,

and Fay was there with her Pretty,

who was as fair as boys get.

But the dragon of London,

saw them from it's lair,

and took Fay's Pretty,

cause it hadn't eaten all year.

Poor little Fay,

she fell into despair,

cause loosing ones Pretty,

is more than women can bear.

But lucky for her,

she heard of three men.

Who, could with their power,

help her meet her sweetheart again.

She met with these three,

and by them she was told:

“To slay such a dragon,

it takes more than to be bold!”

Drink, game and lie,

one quest given by each.

And against these three men,

that ain't no walk on the beach.

So she drank against the first,

and owned number two.

She told the third one a lie,

and he thought it was true.

The gifts that they gave,

was fit for a lord,

armour and shield,

and a magical sword.

Fay went forth,

armed with cunning and steel,

and found where the dragon,

was preparing it's meal.

Our hero fought the dragon,

and cut off it's head, I am told.

Now Fay got her Pretty,

and also silver and gold.

Happily ever after,

they lived those two.

Of children I am told,

they had quite a few.

Now if you ever believe someone

joy should gain,

then tell them the great story,

of Fay the dragon's bane.

Moving on

All right boys. Christmas is over, done, finito! Job well done and great work everybody. Now it's time to start the cleaning up and thinking about the next holiday. Hanukkah has, as you all know, been taken care of by the office in Tel Aviv, so there is nothing for us to worry about there. Tim, go get me a coffee. The usual.

First things first. Andreas, that thing you did in Western Europe, "white Christmas", awesome. But see to it that you get some of the guys downstairs to clean it up. Maybe get the temperature up a notch and put in some rain. Is Clause in yet? Oh? Only finished the Nordic countries and Eastern Asia? Who the hell put that idiot on the job? I always tell him to get it all done before midnight, but NO, he always goes on only finishing just before daybreak in Hawaii. Also, there is Only-God-Knows-How-Many ridiculously decorated trees out there. I wanted the usual bonfire, but the boss said otherwise. He's always nagging about recycling, so the trees will be material for the first quarterly rapport this year. Get the paper-mills going.

Someone needs to look into that business of knocking over the pope. Now don't blame yourself over that one Paul. You had no way of telling what was to come, and it could have happened on anyone's watch. Holy old dude is pretty unstable anyway. Just make sure "Pope-bowling" doesn't go all trendy or anything. Tim, what the hell is this? I asked for the usual, and you get me an espresso? Go fetch me what I asked for!

Moving a bit forward: Who volunteers for making sure getting back from holidays will become an absolute nightmare this year? Isabel, you're up for your first big shot? Just remember, after Andreas' success with messing up traffic before Christmas, you gotta think big. Snow, sand, floods, aliens... Hell, I don't care, just be creative.

On to New Year's Eve: Please don't make too much of a mess of it. I know some people loosing limbs and eyes from mishandling fireworks is part of the tradition, but keep it down. On the other hand, make sure there is enough alcohol for everybody. I don't want to see a single sober person on Time Square this year.

Wait a minute, Clause is calling. Yes, hallo Clause? One of the raindeers has a broken leg, you say? We'll send Alex and Pete over with a replacement. They will be there in ten. Bye.

Okay you guys, you heard me. Johnny will get you rifles. You need to let the poor animal out of it's misery. Oh, and we'll ask Arthur if he can make his famous raindeer steak for us again. Where the hell is my latte?

Bath Freshersweek FAQ

Last time I updated my blog, my location was Toulouse, France. This came to a sad end in late July this year, and the academics of Toulouse could breathe normally again. However, the great wonders of engineering might have eluded me, but not beaten me. I have simply chosen to move the battleground. It is under these back-lights that I arrived at the campus of the University of Bath. Challenges of herculean proportions awaited, and along with fellow students I stood proud and storing while a orchestra, a 1000 strong, played John Williams-soundtracks and angels sang in the sky.

Some critics have doubted my words, and I shall therefore avoid telling of the great battles between good and evil in the epic of Freshers week 2009. However, in an effort to quench your curiosity, I will write an FAQ (Frequently Asked Questions) to give people an idea how the world turned these days in autumn 2009. Bear in mind that it's the questions that's important. The answers can come some other time.

1. Where is Filip?

On the behalf of my readers, I might add: Who is Filip? Filip is one of my flatmates, or so it is written in the official papers. However, so far he has not been spotted on campus, even after extensive enquirers by the all the other inhabitants of the house. Now Filip is the ultimate Man of Mystery, and the little we know of has paved the way to greater legends. He was last seen battling against Chuck Norris for universal domination. You will never need an introduction with Filip: You know it is him at once when you see him. It is widely believed that when Filip arrives, it will be with a great parade, riding a white elephant. It is also widely believed that some of this information came from people who were in a heavily abbreviated state, and/or who were smoking tealeaves. This is unfortunately far more difficult to prove.

2. Which idiot thought togaparty was a good idea in freaking October?

These English and their dressing-up parties. It is never enough to dress as yourself, as you are probably pretty boring. That is sadly enough the truth, so the Freshers in Bath have seen their new comrades in lots of different outfits, from bikinis to togas. The amount of clothing per night varied greatly, and some of the days, it just was not enough. It is not exactly cold outside, not for a Norwegian anyway, but why on earth do you need to challenge fate? There are clothes made to wear in the autumn and Bermuda-shorts or togas are not amongst these.

3. Who the is responsible for the firedrill, and where does he live?

At 08:29 on Saturday morning I was sleeping quietly in my bed in Eastwood. I had been up to about o4:00, and was in desperate need of sleep, since it had not been prioritized throughout the week. I do not remember what I was dreaming, and to be honest, you might not have wanted to know anyway. The moment the clock hit 08:30, something bizarre happened: A high, annoying sound starting slamming into my eardrums, and I immediately woke up. The fire-alarm had started. Knowing I would be heavily fined if I ignored it and went back to sleep, I reluctantly got up. On the other hand, I also knew I had the time to get dressed before I got out. This was not known by many others, so boxers and t-shirts where the majority of the mannequin of the morning. There was a cold wind blowing that morning, and the leader was not afraid of his own voice. He used the time he needed to inform us that this was the only drill of the year, but that it was very important that we reacted if the alarm started. After about fifteen minutes, the angry students had transformed into cold, desperate forms, ready to get into bed. As we were walking back in, I could not help but to find comfort and even pleasure in the misery of the more lightly dressed. I went back to sleep feeling great.

4. Where are all the Norwegians?

-Hello. You are not by any chance Norwegian, are you?
-No...
-Oh, sorry. You see, I'm Norwegian and I heard there should be a couple of Norwegian girls around. I was told to look for someone tall, blond and beautiful.

There is said to be quite a few Norwegians around, but I seem unable to find them. I heard stories of two Norwegians girls, and made the worst pick-up line of all time based on that information. I also heard there was a Norwegian girl in the house next to mine. I did not take actions, as I was not going to go knocking just because of what some drunk teenagers were telling me (I turned 20 this April. Therefore, I now am entitled to patronize teenagers). I did meet two on Friday, and my neighbour was clearly visible in her "russe"-hoodie at the fire-drill. Still, the majority of Norwegians have still managed to elude me. Honestly, I'm okay with that: If I wanted to hang around Norwegians all the time, I should never have left Norway in the first place.

Happy birthday dad!

This is the story of a girl

with golden hair and eyes of pearl.

She lived down south, so far away,

but more than that, I will not say.

The girl she had a farther good,

but at what age, the question stood.

Many said, he'll fifty be,

and that's not bad, when you're sixty-three.

For her father's day she to him bought,

with love and after greater thoght.

Some music, on a CD small,

now don't you go and spoil it all.

She was so happy with every song,

and played it herself, all night long.

Back home they waited for her gift,

so she packed and sent, it went so swift.

And so the gift arrived at last,

but sometimes things just go too fast.

Yes, it is so strange, that this would be,

the cover came, but no CD.

The CD is back at the room of hers,

and that's why I wrote this little verse.

And if it doesn't make you merry and gay,

at least you got it, on the day.

Arthur Per Cowie

PS:
Dad's birthday was 4. june, and he did get the poem on the day. I just haven't remembered posting this before now.

Reflections and a bicycle

There are many perfectly plausible reasons for not liking to cycle in the rain. One of them, for example, is that you have to sing while you're cycling. This leads you to think about "Singing in the Rain" with Frank Sinatra, which brings back the traumatic memories of your aunt Betty's funeral, where the song, like in so many other funerals, was a natural tribute to the diseased. Aunt Betty was the one with whom you had a short, but raging love affair at the age of five. Okay, it might have a been one-way love, which was largely caused by her being an everlasting supply of liquorice, but still, it made an impression of Freudian dimensions.

On the other hand, I dearly hope that this is not a reason you would find yourself confronted with at a regular basis (if it is, then someone needs to go see a psychiatrist). With me, and probably most others, the reason for not liking to cycle in the rain, is that I just don't like to get my clothes wet. Of course, this is also the reason why people generally do not walk around in the pouring rain, but then, at least by walking, you don't get all warm and horrible in your raincoat, as body temperature does not rise too much while walking. I could of course cycle naked, but for some strange reason I generally do not feel like it. It does, however, not have anything to do with any aunt.

Science without religion is lame, religion without science is blind - Albert Einstein

You probably knew this already, but I am a Christian, and proud of being so.

I have for a long time kept my theological conceits out of my posts. It is partly because I have found no natural room for it here, and partly because I have had, and still have, no need to defend my beliefs. What I believe, I do believe, even if it is not all out of any Holy script or prophet's mouth. I have chosen to relate not only to trouth as being Earthly, but also, Heavenly. And as such, reason, even though I base large parts of my Earthly life on it, will never fully grasp the grandness of Heaven. Therefore, I cannot find it possible to base my whole existence on reason, even though I find great pleasure in using it. On the other hand, I will never succumb to find truth only through the words of others. I am told that Galilei once said: "I do not feel obliged to believe, that the same God who has endowed us with sense, reason and intellect, has intended us to forgo their use." I agree with this man, and do base parts of my theology on these three; sense, reason and intellect. Sometimes, the answer is inside you. But these are only minor, as the truth, as my theology is regarded, is based on faith, hope and love. Speaks a prophet of love, I will listen with all my might, and are there words of hope in the Holy Script, then I will save them and bring them to others. But if the prophet speaks of hate, and the Script of separation, then they will never find an open door to my mind. No threat will ever change a persons true feelings. Such are my beliefs, and if this makes me ready for the sulphur-pools of Hell, then it must be so. My only hope is that, if I am wrong, Christ will forgive, as he has done so many times before, even though I am, and forever shall be, unworthy of his grace.

The Withby teashop: Bandtravels/camp -07

I have not had the pleasure of being a fan of Sting for all to many years. In fact, I was at best in my confirmation year before I understood that giants do really walk on earth. One of my favourites was, and still is, "Englishman in New York". For those of you who are not familiar with the text, the key sentence to why Sting is mentioned in this post, is:

I don't drink coffee I take tea my dear

At the age of fifteen I felt an urge to be able to quote this line from time to time. To do that, I had two tasks to complete. First, I had to make sure I did not start drinking coffee. Not an overall difficult task, as I had no strong feelings for mixing water and burned beans (Although they do smell wonderful). The other was to start drinking tea. Now that was somewhat more of a challenge. God knows I've tried many different dishes through the years. Snails, snakes, dog and even elephant, I believe. But starting to drink tea? That was a new one. Anyway, I did it, and the result was beyond anything I had expected. The project ended up in with a passion for tea in general, and Twinings Earl Grey in particular. I love the hot drink, and none of my friends would ever expect not to be served tea at a visit to the Cowie Residence. Andreas, for example, regards my informal "teaparties" (Quotation, but I've started using the word too) as a must for any of his friends visiting Egersund. Tea is no longer just a drink. It is a way of life.

It was with my little passion in mind that I entered a small shop in Withby last week. It was a tea- and coffee-shop, and I was determined to walk out with some examples of English tea at it's finest. First, I just looked at the boxes, but then I found out that I could buy in loose weight. Suddenly I was asking about that and that tea, and "Please, could I have a smell at that one?". It felt great. This was my kind of shopping! But after just a few different sorts (All too many of the teas were fruity. Passion fruit, mango, apple and the rest did not sound right), I settled for Kenyan High Mountain and the blasting green tea named Imperial Gunpowder. Suddenly I had a reason to get back to beautiful Egerøy Island. Surprisingly, I'd rather stay for some more time in England than we did. The tea could wait. But hey, you cannot dream of what might have been, but rather concentrate on the future. At one point my time in England was at it's end - for this time. I was back home with to small bags of tea in my suitcase. Time had come to put the kettle on.

I write this post partly on request from Simon, a rather unique fellow with a strong liking for not only tea, but also more powerful drinks. He is also the only person I've met who wears a "Yoda's Intergalactic Tour"-t-shirt. Simon asked for a comment on my new experiences with Taylors of Harrogate (That was the brand of the tea), and this is it. He probably had not thought about it as being a theme for a longer text, as he had no knowledge of my digital hobby, but well, I love writing longer text about rather strange themes. I started with the Kenyan High Mountain. I put in all too much, and the result was that the water needed little time to extract just the right amount of flavour from the leaves. A nice thing indeed. Dad and I had it for our evening meal, and both were well satisfied. The Imperial Gunpowder was not not used before the day after. Andreas came to visit, and as always, tea was naturally served. Unlike me, Andreas was well accustomed to the taste of this green tea, and commented that he normally used to teaspoons for one cup of tea. I used four for one litre, but let the water extract flavour as long as it was need to put the taste to it. And so was the time for tasting. My excitement was at a definite peak of the day. Would I spit fire? Would I make loud bangs when I talked? Or would Tom Cruise finally come out of the closet? (As in the direct meaning. I've never doubted that Tom Cruise was anything but heterosexual. There are limits of how much shit homosexual people should have to put up with. Cruise is a good actor, but a Scientologist, nonetheless). No such things happened. It was a nice tea, and I congratulated myself for the good timing. A long conversation waited, and all in all, the day was a good one.

That was it for the day. And if anyone needs a talk, please, give me a call. I'll put the kettle on right away.

First impressions: Bandtravels/camp -07

I have been out travelling before. My family is of those people who believe that home is sweet only for so much of the year. And instead of having a cottage in the mountains or at the seaside (Not only are they rather expensive, they also tend to bring in a lot of work we do not want), we travel. But the thing about these travels are that a backpacking adventure company (mostly Intrepid), and more importantly, my father, knows what is to happen. I'm just as exited every time, both because of the adventures sights, people and travel will bring. This time, things were different. Of course, I could barely wait to meet both new and old friends. The problem was, I had no idea of what was to happen, or what sights to be exited about. Some days were partly clear, so that my schedule was not entirely blank. Others were big black holes, and so they were to all but our English hosts. Yes, the brightest of you might see what I'm trying to say: Not even our own Norwegian tourleaders knew the program in full detail. Things could have gotten even more exiting than I would have preferred.

The trip started early. I was up a Monday morning, swearing that next time, I'd be in bed somewhat earlier when waking up at 05:00. The journey was okay. Always fun when great people are around, but it still felt good finally to arrive when the time came. The place we were to stay for the next days was a scout-center in the middle of nowhere. I felt rather alarmed when the bus drove over the hilltop, and we saw absolutely nothing. Well, that was not entirely correct, as there where beautiful hills with meadows all over, and a large lake. But nothing, not even the scout-center was visible from the place I'm referring to. We later found out the area's remoteness made it perfect for dogging - sex in cars where the participants where more or less random. If you where tired, you could always sit outside the car and watch. This took place on meeting-places along the route, and most fortunately none of these were in walking distance from the center. Instead, we sat by the fence or at our room and talked, we practiced, and we mingled with the good people we met.

It was a good start, and there was more to come. Have a cup of the and wait. Another post might come, and if not, then at least you will have learned to be a bit more patient. I just hope that the timetable you'll have when my postings are finished, is more filled than what mine was at the start of our journey.

A rather polite hello to the other side of the pond

Good evening everybody. Or should I say good night? Ruth Iris is sleeping, at least (or, she is on this splendid picture, shot by no other than Pål M. Rake). But not me. No, I'm up doing what I do second best only to sleeping on a late Sunday night or early Monday morning: Blogging.

I have said it before, and I'll say it again. I play French horn in a school brass band, a fact that makes me per definition a bandgeek. To outsiders this might seem like an easy call in life, but it is fact not so. To become a good bandgeek, it is not enough to practise your on instrument, you have a much larger responsibility to think about. A Norwegian bandgeek, for example, has to make sure that on 16th of May, one of the mayor partying days of the year, he or she is relatively sober. If not, the parades on our national day (17th of May) would be lacking some of the grandness and power it normally possesses. Dozens of schoolchildren in ridiculous outfits (also called uniforms), trying to play some old marches and at the same time walk in line, really makes the difference. So, if the elders in the band had an abbreviated evening on the 16th, things might not work too well the next morning. It is though for all of us, but it is a sacrifice we will have to live with.

Another of these responsibilities is to keep up the myths of band camps. We can all thank the "American Pie"-movies for spawning these myths, or at least to bring them to the Egersundians and other ancient communities in Norway. But the Others (non-bandpeople) want more. They want to hear the real stories. So each year at least one greater gathering is needed, from where some juicy tales can be told. This year our quest for new band camp myths sent us over the North Sea, to a strange old island know to many as Great Britain. Halifax was the name of our destination, where Egersund Skolekorps' exchange band has it's nest. And there we stayed for the first week of July, making the most of the limited time a week was able to give us.

This post is not about those tales. It is just my way of saying hallo to whoever of my fellow band geeks who just now is visiting my blog for the first time. Hopefully, a more enlightening post about the trip will be ready soon, but I'm not giving anyone a guarantee. On the other hand, least I can tell you all that that next time I'm talking to some of the Others, I can tell them wondrous stories starting with the words: "And this one time, at band camp..."

Stikky svingdør

As I now officially announces the reason for my weeklong absence from the amazing world of blogging, I do realize that most of you probarly haven't noticed. That is the horriffic prize I have had to pay for neglecting my beautiful audience for so long. The very same magnificent audience that has been sitting for hours, ignoring the breathtaking risks for their lives that often migh occure while their waiting for updates. Because of my neglectence, the times are not few when you have had to admit defeat, and gone crying to bed without refill of these massive lines of glourious beauty.

My dear Eva (R.C.)! No need to throw up just because I get a bit carried away! (Do you really read this anyway?)

No, I was inspired to write this after arriving at Machu Picchu the other day (In other words, I'm in Peru now). After four days of Inca Trail, we were relived as well as proud to arriving at the great place. After the tour around the Inca city, I walked around and enjoyed it. Around me were all these sweetsmelling, fancy dressed wimps who had preferred to take the train. I really felt that I had earned coming to Machu Picchu, and that they had not. Among these were two guys, one with a fancy boyband-like hairstyle he must have used hours crafting, and another one with a immense camera of professional dimensions. They were proes. It was a British TV-team, and they were making a traveling documentary for Peru. I could not keep the smile back when the ending lines of the program ended up being a parody of British documentary (with equally out-of-proportions BBC-accent and facial expression):

"And so, sadly, we come to and end of our filling and fulfilling journey through this massive country! And yes, Machu Picchu is expectantly impressive, but as we have shown in this program, there are hundreds of other equally good reasons to visit Peru!"

And then he looked over his shoulder and down at Machu Picchu. What a laugh.

PS:

"Svingdør" has a frightning resemblance to an english word synonomuos to "asshole".

Woolly mammoths

Okey dokey. This one is going to be written in incredible bad English, but, well, you're all Norwegian, so who cares:

I had the great privelege to wach Ice Age 2 last night. Then, I got one little question: What is the difference between a woolly mammoth and a mammoth? Probarly there is none, but what if there where not just woolly mammoths, but also other types of mammoths?

Skin-head mammoth, for example? Mammoths that could trumpet "Deuchland, Deuchland uber alles", and that hated for example elephants, since they where grey, and did not belong to "the great mammoth race"? Mabye tha's why mammoths and elephants never were to see together, because of the racist skin head mammoths?

Or what about the kashmire woolly mammoths? Those must have been very expensive. I'm not sayning woolly mammoths weren't expensive, but the kashmire must have been extra expensive. Of course, they were not raised in the mayham Kashimr is today, but at least then you did not have to collect the wool under heavy artillery fire. And the wool probarly never smelled of gunpowder.

Yes, I know it is all rubbish, and of course, there are only woolly mammoths. But still, love the thougth...