A Dark Time

It is a struggle to stay awake.

I am in a constant state of drowsy powsy. My eyelids hang, heavily, suspended by sheer will power and forced concentration.

It is like a permanent early morning. This is not good. I am grumpiest in the early morning.

It is autumn here in the Northern Hemisphere, a dark time.

The summer solstice in June delivers 20 hours of daylight in Oslo. We are now heading for the winter solstice in December which delivers 6.

The 6 or so hours of light are obfuscated by the grayness of the autumn sky.

We are fortunate. The poor buggers in Tromsø are now in a total darkness known as mørketid, polar night, or dark time literally translated. They will not see the sun until the middle of January.

For a sun worshipper like me, it is a huge struggle.

I was in the habit of popping to the loo for a quick afternoon nap at the office. I don’t bother now. I simply clear my desk, make a pillow with my scarf and get horizontal.

No one bothers with me, I am too grumpy.

Thank goodness Christmas is coming. Xmas in Norway is magical. It is like being in Whoville but without the Grinch.

The run up to xmas is filled by many dinners and revelry with colleagues and friends in preparation for the big family holiday. The ambiance of the town centre, the pagan symbolism, and the good nature of my fellow Norwegians lights my soul.

We spend our xmas in the mountains, and the ski conditions look to be good this year! I am moist with anticipation.

A special time to look forward to, and help get me through this dark period.

Following xmas, it is a short run to March and the spring equinox which delivers and equal 12 hours of sunlight and darkness.

My tan will be back by Easter. Thank the sun gods for that.

Beaverboosh

Hearing Voices

I am standing on the airport train platform at Oslo airport.

I hear a woman whispering. I cannot clearly make out what she is saying.

She is speaking softly, in a slow, articulate, deliberate and monotone cadence.

“SOME PEOPLE TRAVEL ALONE…”

I look around. I appear to be the only person on the train platform. A chill tingles down my spine.

It has finally happened. I have been waiting for this day for years, anxiously, but knowing it would arrive.

I have finally gone fucking bonkers.

I am hearing crazy chick voices in my head. They have come back to haunt me.

“SOME PEOPLE ARE IN A HURRY AND PAY NO ATTENTION TO OTHERS…”

The voice is picking on me. It is right out of a scary horror flick. I cannot even watch scary horror flicks. They, well, scare the bejesus out of me!

The whispering starts again, this time in Norwegian. I crack a smile. I am relieved. I may be going bonkers but my brain is not clever enough to scare me in a foreign language. Hehehe, gotchya!

I look up. There is a proximity sensor inside a small dome with a speaker. I am standing directly under the dome and have activated the sensor. It is art. It is pretty fucking freaky art.

4 young beauties arrive and stand in front of me. They are giggling and enjoying their own company.

The whispering starts. Each of them looks around, and looks at me. I am deadpan. They look confused.

One of them walks a bit closer, inspecting me as if I was the source of whispering. I curse myself for not having paid more attention in Ventriloquy class in high school, this is a great spoof.

She looks up, sees the apparatus, looks at me and smiles.

“Freaky eh, I thought I was hearing voices in my head,” says me.

She looks at me sympathetically as if this is wholly plausible. We laugh.

The scary art has transformed to funny art.

Nice. An inspiration.

I make plans to digitally sample spooky voices on my phone. I will scare the shit out of my godchildren. By gods life can be fun at times.

Beaverboosh

Recharge

The bush is listless and perfectly silent. It is deafening, but for the ring in my ears. I inhale the crisp moist coniferous autumnal air deeply into my lungs. I love the boreal forest. It has a magical healing quality. The Northern hemisphere is part of my dna. I am decompressing at a fast rate.

Last weekend Goldenbollocks and I caught Muse in Oslo. They blew me away, again. They arrived in typical grand style, as if they had just landed from another planet. They are from another musical planet. The dedicated army of tweenies in the mosh pit was peaking. They rock.

When Hunterboy picked me up on Friday afternoon, there was no one in the world I was happier to see. I am on the phone for the whole 5 hour trip to Sweden, ranting. I apologise. I take one final call, I am silent and say nothing on the call. I hang up. He turns to me and asks me how my wife is doing, smiling.

There are not many birds this year. A cold spring and a low stock of alternative species for predators has hit the bird population hard. The morning sesh is done and we make camp and the fire. We eat, drink and fire up a couple of Habanos. We are lying on our backs with the dog snuggled between us looking up at sky blue. The sun is blazing. We laugh like school boys falling dizzily into the arms of a boreal nap.

I met Renny and the Bitches last week for a beer in Oslo to discuss the blogfest next August. Renny and I are impressed the Bitches rock up, a couple are from a different city. Cool. Renny is a beautiful human being. The bitches are absolutely lovely, and quite tasty. The animated discussion is infectious. Everyone will contribute to making the blogfest a great success. I make a note to name my new band Renny and the Bitches.

Hunter's dinner consists of pork filet in juice, fresh veg and 2 bottles of excellent claret followed by whisky for desert. The dead soldier count of the day’s pils consumption is high. The half bottle of aquavit was medicinal. I am horizontal at 7:00. I am fucking exhausted. I am sawing major timber by 7:01. I am woken 12 hours later by the sound of the dog slurping his balls. By gods that’s a great design feature.

I have taken so many flights in the past two weeks I am thinking my next property purchase will be an airport. The purchase of a tour plane, of course, must follow.

We saw 12 birds and got 4 shots away between us. There is nothing in the bag. It is the worst season on record. We are ready to depart the boreal forest. We have a long drive ahead of us. I promise not to use my phone. Anyway, my phone battery is dead. Thankfully my mojo battery has started to recharge, but I think it will take a couple of months to get it fully charged again.

Beaverboosh

In The Bush

Beaverboosh is in the bush.

Think BIig

A few months back, I dropped blogger chum Renny (RennyBAs Terella) a note suggesting we stage an Oslo blogfest. Nothing elaborate, a Thursday evening in the pub, a meet and greet over a few beers.

I suggested Renny compere the event. I have anointed him the spiritual leader of the Norwegian blogging community. He is a prolific networker, connector, and blogger of global proportions. Though I have never met him personally, his optimistic zeal in communicating all things Norway to the world endears him to me as a kindred pedestrian of the universe.

And hey, face it. Any Norwegian that (still) leaves cheery comments on my blogs after epic rants about Norway and Norwegians is pretty cool in my books. I think he really knows I love it here, though I am unreliably informed, there is a death squad of Norwegian socialist xenophobes out to exterminate my blog.

I digress.

So, how delighted was I to find a comment on my blog last week from Renny apologising for not being around lately. He has been attending to the details of an Oslo blogfest. Pregnant with excitement I linked to his blog to survey the details.

Well, no wonder he was busy. The global alert has gone out. Renny is hosting the Oslo Blog Gathering 2010, the 11th to 15th of August. This 5 day extravaganza is a passport to Oslo and includes tours, dinner, and a chance to meet other bloggers. Check it out.

RennyBA’s Terella

Official Program Site

What ambition, what vision, what scale, what inspiration. I like the cut of Renny’s gib.

Of course, I have pledged my humble services to Renny, and the humble services of the local blogging bitches I have blogging crushes on. We are on duty and ready to serve.

I am going to meet Renny next Tuesday night at the pub for a beer. I am excited. I am already brainstorming how I can contribute. I have a few initial ideas:

• A walking tour of my favourite Norwegian honey babe shopkeepers, barmaids and waitresses
• A lecture on the history and importance of cod to the Norwegian economy, 1700s to the present day
• A guided tour of Oslo’s suburban mall sex toy shops followed by an evening walk of the red light district.

More of a brainsquall that a brainstorm really. I’ll do a bit more thinking before I meet him Tuesday!

Anyway, I hope that all of you can make it or participate in some capacity. You are all welcome.

If you can’t make it, I’ll see if we can run a webcam on the school disco night.

Beaverboosh

Mirror Mirror

I am not the most observant person in the world, as Mrs. BB will attest, but I have become painfully aware of something disturbing about myself this week. It is my vanity you see.

I am vain.

Well, more accurately I am becoming (more) vain. Many of my male friends are very vain though they would never admit to it. I know men who are just as vain as the women they claim are vanity queens.

I have made a point of rejecting this unsavoury behavior, as much as humanly possible, not just because of my contrarian nature, but because its, well, unsavoury behavior for a gentleman.

There is a mirror in the bathroom in the office I am working at. I cannot bear to look at myself. It is a hideous site. The blotches, lines, gouges, blood shot eyes, and then there is the hair… I mean wtf… my hair has always had a mind of its own but every strand is reaching out diagonally in different directions attempting to connect to another hair universe. I think I can see little horns growing atop my head. I am Lucifer incarnate, I am repulsed.

There is mirror just outside of the bathroom in the office I am working at. I cannot take my eyes off myself. Good lords, I am tall, dark and handsome, and looking v dapper and tastily proportioned. My skin is olive tanned, my eyes have a deep penetrating gaze, and my coiffe says ‘hey girls, I am your stud muffin… sex on a stick darling'. Man I look really royally buffed, my blood must be blue. I am a prince, I am getting aroused.

I had a fine bottle of wine at dinner last night with a colleague before polishing off a dirty dozen of wifebeater in a club. I am well hung again and my mind is playing very cruel tricks on me.

Or the gods are trying to tell me something.

Beaverboosh

Exam Celebration

I had the pleasure of taking my hunting course instructor Crocodile Lars for a celebration dinner at Lofoten in Aker Brygge last night.

Crocodile Lars is a class act. There is no question that without his most excellent guidance, I would have struggled with the Norwegian language in the state administered exam.

We were joined by my young brother in law, a keen hunter himself, and his girlfriend, with whom I did the course. There is no question that without their most excellent support, I would have struggled.

I am grateful! There was plenty of Montrachet, excellent fish, and lively discussion.

Through his course lectures, Crocodile Lars demonstrated to me in many ways he was a world class instructor. Though I had difficulty understanding his Sworsk, his acting out of hunting vignettes was theatre on a grand scale.

The man is an outstanding communicator, and a passionate one.

One of my favourite lectures was his instruction of how to gut and de-bowel an elk after shooting. Using his own body, he simulated hanging the elk by its front legs to a tree branch. Sitting on the edge of a table, feet dangling, with hands in a diagonal crucifixion pose, he began.

Directing his imaginary knife to a spot just under the neck, he made a careful incision, slowly unzipping his fleece to just over the groin area. Meticulously peeling back his fleece, he proceeded with an elk biology lesson pointing out major organs, and how to best use gravity to complete the job. Truly magnificent!

Dinner conversation revealed that he is a classically trained pianist and a world class yachtsman, in addition to training the prime minister and other dignitaries in matters of hunting. This from a man in his 60s who looks like Woody Allen with a 5 o’clock shadow, and dresses as if he has just walked out of the bush! Never judge a book by its cover.

When I sent him the invitation email, I made a point of communicating my appreciation for his support and the enjoyment of receiving world class hunting instruction. World class is not a term I use often in Norway for reasons I will not bore you with. It is good to know I can still pick them having lived here for almost 4 years.

While Crocodile Lars and I discussed being in the zone, peak performance, the importance of teamwork, social anthropology, and standard deviation, my young brother and law and his girlfriend became bored. They like Crocodile Lars but think he is a bit weird. I have found a new friend with whom I can share life experiences.

You just cannot explain a lot of things to some kids in their 20s, they either get it or they don’t.

It is like passion. You either have it or you don’t.

I thank the gods for being genetically endowed with passion and love to meet others as infected. I am not sure I'd cope well without it!

Beaverboosh