Fish posted Tuesday, Apr 06, 2004 16:23 (edited Tuesday, Apr 06, 2004 17:23)

I once had a friend named Sjur. I had actually known him many years before we became friends. In that pre-time I knew him only by his eccentric appearance. This was way back in the mid eighties, where all that mattered was the right looks. Thinking about just that I am not sure that is the right definition for that specific decade. Hasn`t this been the case with all decades? Hm. Well, the YAP-era was there heavily, and everyone tried to look as close to a smooth-talking Bryan Ferry or George Michael as one could get, plus or minus the white suit with the pink shirt. Or look like Brooke Shields or Madonna, if you were female. Life was all about getting drowned in Lagerfeld, synth-pop (with the thin hexagon-drums), smoking cigarettes in fear (no, not of cancer, but of parents` knowledge), dreaming of sex with pin-up-poster girls and the general requirement of becoming something Larger Than Life after school/university (no, my current profession as a salesman doesn`t indicate I succeeded in that respect either). If I recall correctly all men wanted to be pilots (as Tom Cruise was in "Top Gun"), lawyers or doctors. The women wanted to be rich, famous and Barby. I guess few of us survived the razor-nineties with our mental health intact. Sjur wasn`t like that at all. He wore clothes from the seventies, and had his blond, curly hair totally unkept. He also smoked a pipe Sherlock Holmes would have committed crime to get. He had a redicolous big hawk-noise, and wasn`t really a pussy-magnet back then. He also read philosphical and political manifests for fun, so ofcourse I only dared observing him from distance. He looked like an old mind trapped in a young body. I had no idea how Scotsmen looked, but I nevertheless imagined him being a Scottish seaman. I guess I thought Scotsmen were ugly and exciting back then. I simply could not fail to memorize him from that time, contrasts rarely come this clear. When we finally became friends I was drinking heavily (early nineteies, and yes, he suddenly was in and populare with the local youth). One night I was trying to make up from some mistake I had made with a girl I wanted to bed. I never got to bed her, so I guess I didn`t succeed making up from my mistake; which I now have no idea of what was all about. By the way; this just proves that men and women do come from different planets, and noteably should just rarely mingle for the common good of reproduction. Anyway, after I had stopped fooling around, I found him at the bar. He carried a suitcase with him which was all full of notes, lyrics and manuscripts of all kinds. We just sat there, shit-drunk, and read lyrics to one another for the rest of the evening. After that he took me to his friend`s appartment (a fellow I still call my best friend, by the way), and we went to sleep while Leonard Cohen`s voice from the sixties whispered to our intoxicated souls. Much later he read a short-novel he had written, and I still regard it as the best short-novel I have known. I can ofcourse not pay it decent enough respect here, because the task of putting it together again surpasses my skill by far. But, being the no good fool I am; I will be the Judas and tell the damn story: (I can`t remember the title so this will have to do) "FISH When I woke up in the old cottage I could tell it was early. All sounds in the thick forest had yet to surface; just the quiet tune from the occasional bird and the buzz from some lonely insects at my half-opened window. Somewhere far away somthing made silent shuffles in the dead leaves of yesteryear. The delicate sound of the little river near by; lazely pouring out in the lake, awoke a tingling in my mind. This was to be the day, I had postponed the moment for so long now, that it was almost unbearable not to skip all the routines. But, being the careful person I am, I went through the necessary preparations, as I always do. When was the last time I did this? Last year? No, it must have been longer than that. I ate a solid breakfast with the panfried eggs and bacon. I selected the specific green trousers and the very old fishing-hat I got from my father when I was just a boy. No good fortune without the worn hat. I went over the rods, the net and the reels. Some of the hooks were rusty, so it was a good thing I had brought some new ones with me. I oiled where it was needed, and looked proudly on some memorable scars in my equipment. After all that I took my razor and wet my face with water, foamed it, but decided against a total clean shave. Wouldn`t want to look too skinny here in all this wilderness. The old boat was still sleeping by the trees near the lake, and I was glad to know that it still bore no rot-holes. My God how old it must have been. I think my grandfather used it when he was five or so. After I had it floating I tied it to the tree, and went for the gear. The lake was still covered partially with ice, and the air still bore a memory of the winter. It didn`t bother me because I did remember that my father got as many fishing through the ice in the winters, as I did fishing from the boat in the summers. Thinking about the ice again I remembered to bring the drill with me too. Ice-fishing is very difficult if you can`t reach them down there. I didn`t stress when I took the boat out to the middle of the lake. Slowly we went, the boat and me. The salt sweat dripped down on my eyes and lips, and I could smell the scents of the spring all around me. The sun was starting to kiss me softly on the neck. Here, this was an excellent spot. I could see the hill were the cottage lay. In some few hours there would be time for a quick lunch. The sun spread it`s warm light over the mountains behind. I started to cast long shadows over the skin of the lake. Yes, this was the ideal place and time, I decided. The ice was not anywhere near me here, and the surface of the lake was so perfectly soft, inviting and still. I leaned over, grabbed my heavy drill, and pushed the tip of it with great force into the bottom body of my old wooden boat. It made a silent noise, and then I started to turn it slowly downwards. And turn. And turn."

Layers posted Tuesday, Apr 06, 2004 08:01 (edited Tuesday, Apr 06, 2004 12:21)

Many years ago I was in my wet period. I was out cliché, trying to bury my bad consciousness in booze. It didn`t last that long, some 2-3 weeks maybe. If it had lasted longer I guess I would have succeeded with the separation from my ex about 7 years earlier than I actually managed. Anyway, during that time I met all sorts of characters in all kinds of settings. Many of them so dull I have trouble to successfully memorize them now, and some of them rather interesting. One of the most hopeless I met was, at the time, a full-time alcoholic. I am not sure he lives now, and if he actually does, he should be around 40 minus. He was an every-day comedian, and when he laughed you could see that he was missing too many teeth. I guess this has nothing to do with the sugar-level in alcohol, but rather the price-level of alcohol versus dentist-bills in Norway. Add some neglection to the dull practice of hygiene, and I guess a fairly believable general platform of understanding should surface. At one time only can I recall he didn`t laugh. He laughed at anything in life, no sorrow got him, no pain seemed to touch him at all. We were standing in a toilet, trying to aim simultaineously when we pissed. I am not sure if it was piss, it might have been 100% pure beer occasionally hitting the target. Anyway, when we were finished, he must have decided it was time for a handwash. He faced the mirror, and suddenly got that unique (and rare) grimace of seriousness about him. "You know I read this book once", he said, while he was looking at the distorted reflection of himself in the greasy mirror. "It was about a man that decided to tear off the false masks that he covered behind", he continued. "To find his inner-self, the original self", he went on. "He hasn`t finished yet". Then he faced me with that newfound and common wide grin, and I replied with smiling and laughing myself. Then he once more faced the mirror, and while he never looked at me again, he started to sob. The sob turned into spasms and crying. I left him silently there in that dirty toilet. I am not sure if we ever spoke again.

The Curse of Easter posted Tuesday, Apr 06, 2004 02:54 (edited Tuesday, Apr 06, 2004 06:24)

This is what vaccation does to ya, when u still have to be at the job pretending to do a day`s work: nothing.