Konsvinger | 3 degrees | cloudy
back at the Sentralstasjon
hot coffee in hand
all about are padded and muffled
grey and black
matt and flat
gloves and hats + hiking boots
someone asks me something in Norwegian
I look confused and search for something
to say – I manage ‘Hei
though not singsongy enough
shrug and say I’m english
the train travels smoothly
out of the city
through spindly woodlands
sparse and white with thin crisp snow
daydreaming, reading yesterdays paper
should really pay attention
look around, look outside
photograph this small place
with it’s mustard station house
photograph that black lake with
blobs of ice on the surface
drifting in the breeze
at Kongsvinger station – much smaller
than it’s google photograph –
cold winds dither around it’s 6 bus stops
walk around looking for my bus
assured that everyone speak english, I ask
and yes here it is –
the driver lifts my case up
barrelling along narrow roads
woods on either side
timber yards alongside
slender trunks piled up in undulating rows
bus driver asks where i’m going
and he drops me at the door !
the door is open and here is Astrid
welcoming and smiling
her’s the studio, and this is my story…
here’s the bathroom
this is your room – you can get a heater
there’s the kitchen and help yourself,
enjoy, be creative !
meet the shadowy boy from Taiwan
smiling sweetly and with halting english
he is friendly but moves quietly
from room to room
to be alone
and meet the tired girl just back from Oslo– buying canvas
she’s from Ottowa and a painter
in a Munch like manner
she seeks wintery residencies
in places just like home
she sleeps much of the day
and on waking blinks about her
and paints right into the night
to make a start – I find an empty place
at the long table in the big windowed studio
it is warm and the heating blows noisily
in the background
am on Wi Fi and connect again
with the world
I think about a blog and how to do it
make a plan
make a list – stuff to finish off
stuff to begin – stuff to think about
a friend sends me a link to the
Beatles’ Norwegian Wood which
starts a train of thought
about lyrics being a distillation
of complex things
I spend a couple
of hours listening to their greatest hits
new things can wait – clearing the decks
is best for now –
alone in the house, in the dark,
near dense forests and deep lakes
it’s strangely thrilling
I think of Stephen King novels and
The Shining – should I read/watch them
maybe another time
why is being alone and in nature
reminiscent of such things –
is it something Sublime ?
is it something Unheimliche I’m feeling ?
is it just me ?
anyway it’s still thrilling and strange
I can only see myself and the glow
of a small lamps reflected in the window
left it rather late but
I cook an omelette in a pan
something smells horrible
it’s the smoking pan
with centuries of ancient acrid Elk fat
(I imagine – it is late after all!)
emanating from it’s base
I cook the omelette and feel
quite ill
the acrid smell becomes a taste
that lingers on until the next day
this bird has flown ... 