SOWWY

I am going to take a little break from this blog as i have made a new one.. A Norwegian one... I apologize to English readers, but i seriously need to focus on my Norwegian writing skills now, they have just been going downhill lately..

I will update this blog too, but not so often.


My new blog is: www.karusellmusikk.blogspot.com

Flowers, Sweat and Ganja (part 2)

I woke up in a strangers house this morning, on a sofa in a filthy living room. My mouth was dry.

There were at least thirty big boxes of cat food stacked on top of the fridge there, and if i hadn't been overtaken by a strong and sudden urge to watch 'Camp rock', then i might have found it a bit strange.

But i am supposed to tell stories from Africa now.. Um, OK.

THE DANCING AMERICAN

Big chunks of this tragic story is made up. Not by me, but by everyone who's ever told and listened to it, everyone who's ever met him, the dancing American.
He always stands outside of Choosan, a nice little bar/restaurant in Senegambia. Every night, and always dressed up, like he is on his way to a wedding, or to a really good party.
In the beginning he just stands there, looking completely normal, just like the other hustlers the security guards won't let in, they all just stand there outside of the restaurants and bars, waiting for someone who will fall madly in love with them and take them to Europe.

But not the dancing American, no. He has other plans. Every time the band starts playing, and it doesn't matter what they're playing, he starts dancing.
And this is where i get a problem. I cannot for the life of me describe his moves with words.
Think... Michael Jackson on speed... Think... Saturday night fever, only more extreme... Facial expressions like a mix between complete bliss and agony, and a strangely fascinating personal style.

He is weird, but completely harmless and a bit sad. I asked about him and they told me he used to live in the US (he is African, i think, i think). He had children and a wife, he had money. Some say he was rich, but that might be exaggerating to make the story even more tragic.
Anyway, rumor says that he lost it all. His family, his fortune and finally his mind. He moved to Gambia, and now the dance is all that he have. Every night, with body and soul he dances to the rhythm of whoever or whatever playing around him.
I remember once, we came out of a meeting with a night club owner and walked through the garden in his club before opening hours. A band was warming up on stage, preparing for this evenings performance.
And who did i see, standing in front of the stage, dancing his heart out? Yes, the dancing American. How he got past the super strict VIP security guards when we, both expected and invited, hardly got past them is beyond me.
But it made my day.



Oh, look i found a picture of him! One of the few days where they actually let him come inside the restaurant.
The man in the background speaks fluent Norwegian and cheat tourists. He's a bastard and you don't like him either.
Now I'm gonna watch High School Musical 1. Don't judge me and i won't judge you.


(We're all in this together?)

Flowers, Sweat and Ganja (part 1)

I am not sure if i spelled ganja correctly, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. It's the strongest weed i have ever, well, not me, someone i know. Really, i never smoked it, i was warned beforehand. But a.. Lets call her an acquaintance of me tried and found her self paralyzed on a hotel bed for the entire night, hearing voices and seeing strange animals.

I have decided to break the Africa post into three or four pieces, it's just too much to write it all at once, and i don't want to leave anything out. It's a shame i couldn't blog while i was there, the images were more vivid then. I did take some notes, but you'd be surprised of how many interruptions you have to go through before the rest of the people in the restaurant/pub will leave you alone and stop asking what you are writing on the napkin.

Some people might have noticed a new picture on the blog, you might wonder who it is sitting there beside me? Yes? No? I'll tell you anyway.
It's my boyfriend, we're engaged. And no, i won't tell more here, not really. I know it sounds like a contradiction to write this in ones blog, but i actually don't want to share everything with everyone.
Besides, I'm sick of telling the story now, it's quite long and it gets boring to repeat it after a while, no matter how romantic it is.

I think i will stop there for now, I'm tired after spending a night at a friends house. We didn't sleep much, but we had a writing work shop, which was fun and so worth losing a good nights sleep over.
And i watched season two of the 4400, i am now officially hooked. Why did he kill him? And why is the baby lying? WHY I ASK YOU, WHY?

Odd socks and sweet tea.

I do recall having a conversation with my mom before we went to Africa, and it went something like this:

'Mother dear?'
'Yes my precious firstborn female?'
'Will The Interweb be accessible for me and my fellow lodgers when we go to this far away place they call The Gambia?'
'Why yes it will be, ye shall have a room filled to the brim with all the Interweb you could ever desire!'
'Oh mama, i am so, so happy and pleased!'

Well, we didn't speak quite like that, but it's the gist of it. And it brings me to the point. My mother is such a unintentional liar! We had no Interweb, and there was no pie. There should ALWAYS be pie.

Sorry, i don't make any sense. Have been awake since the 22 of February now, so don't expect me to write down my entire holiday tonight, or today is the more correct term.


After i wake up from the coma i am slowly surrendering into, i promise to write about all the crazy stuff that happened. The Dancing American, the Night of the Dusty Curtains, My Engagement and much more!

I just wanted you all to know that i am still here, the blog was only temporarily abandoned, and i didn't mean to do it.


Well, good day/night or whatever, I'll write more when i wake up.


Promise.

Insomnia.

It's in the middle of the night now, i am leaving in four hours. I just finished packing after i realized that now matter how many different ways you put your shoes into your suitcase it's still not going to weigh any less.
So two kilos overweight, it shouldn't be too much to pay. Mehopes..

I would love to entertain you with a witty, sharp and wise entry, but that's just not going to happen tonight. I am going to eat chocolate, watch a film (not Mamma mia it was horrible) and try to nap for an hour maybe.

It's raining and soon i'll be on a bus for five hours, going to the airport.

My time in England is over for now, but i shall return.

I had a good time and will miss people. And English. And Eastenders.

Bah humbug.

How to kill a wife.

The post title this time comes from yesterdays late night pondering. I had, for some unexplainable reason, the song 'How to save a life' on my brain, in my brain, in my head, seriously it was everywhere except for maybe in the fridge (cold places are often silent places, i don't know why). But instead of hearing the original lyrics i heard... well, the post title. So i didn't get much sleep last night as i was slightly worried about the morbid way my head works.

Me blogging now is just an excuse really, i should pack. I should prepare, i should, i should. But i don't want to! I mean, i want to go to Africa, don't get me wrong, but why does it have to be so much preparation involved? The cleaning I'm alright with, i don't mind making things look nice and tidy. But the sorting out what to keep and what to throw away or give to charity is hell on earth for a sentimental person.
Everytime i pick something up from the ridiculously huge pile of things i own, i get these vivid flashbacks of summers past and old dreams, and i just want to keep it all. But i shan't (is that a word? It is now), i shall throw it all away never to see it again. How dramatic.

The only sentimental treasures i allow myself to keep are my diaries and notebooks, and the jewelry given to me by old friends, lovers and relatives. One of those pieces is a homemade sheep tooth necklace given to me by a friend just to mock my vegetarianism, i feel like Luna Lovegood everytime i wear it, but i refuse to depart from it.

I have 17 notebooks, some of them over ten years old, and i love them all to bits. Reading all the bad poetry and silly short story ideas is like watching my imagination and creativity growing up, like i am two people at once. My diaries tells a completely different story, they tell about boyfriends, arguments, alienation, all the regular teenage rants. I do have some disturbing 'what's so bad about suicide' pages in there, but i guess that's just part of the whole diary thing.
I mean, who haven't thought about suicide at least once while growing up? Or thinking that they might be gay or religious? Or both? I even went through a period where i refused to step on grass, convinced that it must be excruciatingly painful to be stepped on all the time.

I must say thank the birds for Neil Gaiman (just a stray thought really) if it weren't for him my favourite author would be a dead, gay man. And if you do not know who i am referring to, you are not worthy of reading my blog. So there.