The Flossy Flossy
Keeping it “on the real” the best I can.Archive for ephemerality
Майк: Yo lo sé, que el mundo encontraré viajando en tu mirada…
I was pretty pissed and homesick the last time I wrote, but that usually happens when I have a lack of things to do. I don’t think I’ve stayed home during the weekends since…after the New Year, maybe, so it was a bummer that I didn’t go anywhere.
其实，我也不是设么都没干。新奇六我坐霍尔滕-莫斯渡船去东福尔见 Франк-Турэ。但是回家以后就又感觉无聊了。然后，这个新奇–哎呀！我则么能开始讲哪？兴奋高潮，哈哈。我感觉自己像个十四岁的小女孩儿一样。
Je me sens comblé de joie–il mio cuore sta per scoppiare, me estoy enamorando. Та щин Чы.
Pero sé conmigo jugarás, como has hecho siempre.
¿Qué sonrisa inventarás?
No, yo quiero resistir. Si pienso en ti yo tiemblo.
Nå føler jeg at jeg skulle si noe om historien. Vi møtte gjennom en nettsida for rundt–jeg husker ikke–et år siden? Rundt våren 2008. Jeg husker ganske godt at jeg hadde det største crush på ham fordi han lignet skikkelig på Nek. (Alle italienerne må riste på hodene sine over dette, haha.) Men allikevel var han mer enn bare kjekk–han var intelligent og kunne skrive så bra og vakkert. Og i tillegg har han opplevd mye: en mor som døde foran øynene hans; rasisme fra de andre på barneskolen–ikke et ukjent skade; flytting til utlandet for å begynne et nytt liv–ikke en ukjent opplevelse; leiting etter et behagelig sted mellom to verdener og den oppdaging at ingen av de to vil virkelig akseptere deg–ikke en ukjent skuffelse. (Men han har ingen idé at jeg veit alle disse tingene.) Jeg har aldri følt en slik forbindelse med noen. Hvis det finnes noe slikt som én ekte kjærlighet, da var han min.
Men vår korrespondanse var sparsom og sjelden, og snart sluttet vi å snakke med hverandre. Men jeg klarte ikke å glemme ham. Min tanke var en fugl, og han var redet sitt. Uansett hvor jeg fløy, kom jeg alltid tilbake. Så én natt skreiv jeg et brev til ham. Men etter én og en halv måned uten respons, blei jeg håpløs. Og plutselig, ut av det blå, et svar–et après, la conversation la plus romantique de ma vie.
So many warm and gentle words, so many soothing and tender images of being together. Même si l’instant est passé, mon cœur brûle encore. Même si le moment ne reviendra jamais, ces images de bonheur me resteront longtemps en mémoire.
Le bonheur est si petit. Je ne veux pas qu’il passe entre mes mains. Je ne veux pas qu’il passe entre ma vie.
Almost Gone…
So thanks to Xenia/Jessica/Italian girl, I realize that we only have four more months left in Norway. I can’t begin to relate how I’m feeling right now: overwhelmed and empty at the same time. It’s a difficult feeling–knowing that the end is coming, and that this year will never happen again.
The fact that I’m used to life here, that nothing’s out of the ordinary anymore, only makes it that much harder to leave–because I’m not just leaving Hvitveisstien, I’m leaving home; and I’m not just leaving a “host” family, I’m leaving Mamma, Pappa, Joakim and Marie. I’m so amazed at how lucky I was to be placed in this household–so welcoming, endearing, and fun. And I’m so amazed at how natural it feels, and how attached I’ve become.
I remember all those evenings coming home after a night or a weekend away. I remember that familiar, cozy feeling as I’m walking up Apenesbakken, the house looming into view. And above Pappa’s Gecom company car, I can see the warm orange glow of the living room through the window. I love seeing that orange glow; it means somebody’s there…and awake. I love opening the door, taking off my shoes and enjoying the smell of home. And I love hearing the hi’s and hallo’s from whoever’s sitting above. I love going to my room to find Zaiko kosing on my bed (even though he sheds EVERYWHERE), and going up the stairs all the while wondering what we’re having for dinner that night, and seeing them and telling them how my day or weekend went, and hearing theirs. I love that feeling of coming home; it feels so right.
I love our hytte. Up in the mountains where there’s nothing there but forests and wilderness. I love picking mushrooms even though the trees make me dizzy. I love kayaking, ice-bathing, and grilling sausages by the nearby lake. I love the lack of technology and the feeling of being immersed in nature. I love sitting outside at night, with a warm fire, gazing up at the starry night sky, listening to Eva Cassidy or Josh Groban while sipping a cup of glugg. I love getting into that bed at night–I have never slept so well as I do when I sleep in that bed, no exaggeration. I love the feeling of not having a care in a world when I’m up there.
And I love Pappa’s jokes, especially the terrible ones; I love how he’s always in a good mood. I love Mamma’s patience, and the special way she explains things; I LOVE her cooking–I swear I have been culinarily spoiled rotten this year; I even like her occasional reminders on taking shorter showers. I love the differences between me and Joakim; he’s opened my eyes to so much, whether he knows it or not; I love his determination and fierceness. I love sitting on the couch with Marie every night: Top Model Mondays, CSI: Miami Tuesdays, CSI: NY Wednesdays, Bones Thursdays, and all the other miscellaneous TV shows that she watches; I love her fjortis, her sharp sarcastic sense of humor, her infatuation with make-up. And I’m leaving all of this behind. È follia!
Smørbrød with salami, the special cheeses Mamma would buy from time to time, the bottle of maple syrup on the counter that I would occasionally over-abuse à cause de Tilly, PIZZAKVELD, visits from Bestemor, Firkløver chocolate after volleyball practice (which I don’t go to anymore on account of laziness/snow), the geniusness of saft, Zaiko sleeping on my bed.
And my friends! Midnight walks with Luiza when she could still walk. Going to Tønsberg with Xenia to get my ear pierced and finding out how strange she really is…Learning how to break on slalom skis from Balazs and our desires to visit Prague–and sing Lips all night long. Listening to Francesco talk about music, and philosophy, and life. Watching a cup of tea seep with Tilly and Marie and talking about whatever random thing is running through our minds. Going up to Drammen to make and eat authentic and GOOD Chinese food with Yanzi and reminescing over our–or rather, my–childhood in China. Yo sé que nada es para siempre, but couldn’t it last a little bit longer?
XIX, Fleeting
My name is Greg, and I am 19. Gotta get used to saying that. Man, I feel old. It’s like, all of a sudden, I’m being bombasted by these regrets of “typically18″ things I missed out on. (Not that I even know what they are. Sex on prom night, maybe…) It’s like that one episode of Friends when Phoebe laments about not having done any of the things she was going to do at 30. I don’t know, sometimes it feels like I’m just not doing enough. But that’s something else entirely.
Had a little gathering last weekend–first birthday party I’ve had since the 5th grade. (Went a lot better this time, though.) Invited a few from AFS and some others from school. Xenia made pizza, Balazs sang “Ring of Fire,” and Hauge–well, it’ll be a while before he sees hair on his right breast again.
Other than that, things have been normal. After falling sick and taking absence from school almost all of last week, I am pretty proud of my so-far perfect attendance this week. (I even went to History; I don’t think I’ve been in that class for over three months.) Hope I won’t screw it up by blogging this late.
But you know, today, sitting in class, I realized something: I’m starting not to make a big deal out of things anymore. Well, it must sound pretty obvious, but it happened really subtly: I don’t log about “who I talked to at school/what I ate today” anymore, I’m getting used to the snow (and I’ll admit, sometimes walking in it can be a real drag)–it’s not that I don’t appreciate these things, but they’ve become so normal to me that they’re no longer worth mentioning. It’s a very strange thought, on s’habitue à tout. Even if we have something, permanent, unforgettable, it loses its extravagance eventually…a preferred dish, a favorite song. Change is the only solution.
I watched The Curious Case of Benjamin Button today, an excellent and thought-provoking film. And parallelly thinking, even if we could capture ourselves in a dance, a night, a moment and stay that way, would our satisfaction in that moment be the same? If Benjamin and Daisy were to have stopped aging or de-aging then, would things still have remained as beautiful? Surely it would wither into something average–the charm is in the ephemerality of it.
Perhaps it’s best to let memories stay in the past and enjoy the fleeting moments while one can. Perhaps these memories are the only things that remain the same, snapshots of one’s emotions–but only to be reflected upon, never to be relived. And in a bittersweet way, perhaps it’s better this way.
