Bergen's Ancient Wharf and more....

Greetings, fellow Bottom-dwellers!

This cafe feels like it could be nestled in a tree far from the forest floor.

A single room of pine walls, floor, and ceiling with century-old ragged pine rafters to support its slanting structure. Bryggen is an over-underworld of planked alleyways and staircases in a hive of ancient housing built to accommodate the lives and goods of sea-traders.

The city of Bergen was founded in 1070 by a certain King Olav Kyrre. Bryggen, as the city's largest wharf and trading center, was the best-established area of Bergen during medieval times. By the 13th Century, Bergen was trading with many countries, but the black plague entered through its port in 1349 and annihilated most of the city's population. Half of Norway's population was wiped out. About a decade after this, a Hanseatic trading office was established in Bryggen's wharf. For the next three-hundred years, Bryggen life flowed to the rhythm of Hanseatic culture. Norway exported fish. Ships imported grains and textiles. After a fire in 1702, which destroyed the entire city, Bryggen was once again reconstructed. What I walk through today is all that is left of Bryggen and also of Hanseatic trade housing.

The trade offices, storage spaces, and boarding rooms from this archaic period have all been recycled into airy shops of handmade luxury items, pub-cafes, and a few discreet offices tucked away on some tilting third floor.

Having been brought up in a completely different context, this landscape of invincible heart wood, bare and weather-worn, through the open-air walkways of the second and third stories, reminds me of a tree house neighborhood.

To others of a saltier imagination, it could very well lend itself to revelry in the sea and sailor-beaten surfaces of an old wooden ship.

The gently restored cabin which hosts the cafe has been perfect for such an afternoon escape. Cars, Concrete, and city sounds are nonexistent in this harvested forest. Bryggen is an island of wood in a sea of cobbled and paved routes. The barista is wearing black, boot-shaped slippers. I, too, would wear slippers if wide, creaky boards lived under my feet as I moved through the day.

Back at the apartment crows appear outside of the windows, positioning themselves to be flung by the lofty gusts of wind at exactly sun-down. 3:54. The trees near the middle of the mountain seem to be a favorite landing spot. A pit-stop on the flight back to their roosts. Of course, we know that birds never make that kind of pit-stop. Otherwise, they might have a better reputation. There are no nests in the branches of these bare trees, but at this time of day the topmost twigs and branch-tips are weighted by dozens upon dozens of the vigilant scavengers. It is a coup d'air

Grieg Hall before the concert.

Perfumes and pressed clothes.

Showered people

Programs and polite laughter.

Greying hair

Coffee or wine.

Comfortability. 

Mild excitement.

Glancing men

Automated chimes.

Minds gathered to be carried elsewhere.

Unexplored thoughts to be temporarily visited.

Traditions to honor.

Images to maintain.

Ideals to uphold.

Monotony to break.

Generations to impress.

Loved ones to support.

So many reasons and whims for an audience to attend to

Mozart and Brahms.

Observations on a mountain walk and at the kitchen table.

Fireweeds of Autumn are no longer bright purple and pink. They stand solemnly with white curled hair. Seeds for next year. Fallen beech leaves on the flat sides of rain-slicked boulders spell out the philosophy of Autumn. Detachment. A necessary willingness to end. Freshness with each Spring's luminous new set of unfurling leaf-buds is only possible through the voluntary release of the previous year's leaves. Insects forfeit their lives at this "fall" bend in the cycle to ensure that the next generation may also make the same loop. I make the meandering loop up and down the mountain, descending just as my hands begin to tingle uncomfortably with cold. Glad to weather another approaching Winter.

Back at home, I sit at the table and wonder who I should be and what that person would be doing at this second. The old adage "Be True to Yourself" floats into my head wearily. Like an old clown. The clown seems still to carry some secret. I try and cipher its magic.

To be "true to one's self" is a quite popular directive meant to reassure people that they can choose to do what they feel compelled to -be who they feel compelled to be. Many of us, myself included, find it difficult not to be very "thoughty". If our thoughts aren't always repetitive- in a closed loop- new ideas often join the slideshow and shake us, skew the menagerie, but at the same time renew us. These new experiences and their "aftermath" can be comforting or traumatic, but we need it all to grow. Actually, we need it to be alive.

Being alive (which, in my opinion, doesn't mean sitting on a pillow with eyes shut) is all bonding and reacting. With every impression, there is a reaction. With every reaction, we live.

To be true to oneself isn't to be true to a single idea (of oneself) but to be true to a real, living self; a self whose image isn't the main concern and whose entire being is available and honest for the world. A living self is one with mental and emotional reactions taking place. 

It can be tricky when one's ideas of who his or her "real" self has proven to be in the past battle for the present title. However, being true to an idea of oneself- is different than being true to oneself.

This is why being one's "true self" is being aware of one's present surroundings, senses, and peers so that we can bond and react. When we react to what is going on around us, however we feel compelled to (without checking with some computerized hardware conception of ourselves) we reveal the self. So, self and thought should not be confused. Self is awareness, and in being true to that, all we can do is react.

Makes sense, I think.

With that, I see that this table needs tidying and feel that it is time for lunch. 

Enjoy yourselves!!!

Doing some drawings of late

Hello dear readersThis entry I ask that you quench the thirst for words with images. I sunk into a pleasant pattern of scratching some staedtlers across a pad this week. Here is some of what I came up with. The link is to one of the drawings which I submitted for a T-shirt contest. Thank you, Phil Puleo for your technical genius. Everyone please cross your little piggies.

A cat to spare and pre-concert scribble.

Today, cats rule the hill. Below my bench I emptied a cup of leftover pasta. I figured that some crows would discover it sometime that afternoon. Only a moment later, however, did a young tabbycat cross the leaf-carpetted street, following her nose to the clump of tomatoey noodles. They did not seem to suit her, though. Immediately after devouring one by my foot, she turned to the neighboring grass and nipped off a few of the most accessible vomit-inducing blades. I didn't think that batch of pasta was especially good either. Whole wheat is always too dense.

This all occurred without any personal acknowledgment from the cat until, like anyone trying to catch a skulking feline's attention, I hissed gently through my teeth. She froze, beaming the yellow lanterns of her gaze at me before swiftly jumping into my lap. 

The unexpected visitor enjoyed my puffy coat's warmth, cushioning, and concealment. Whenever a sniffing dog was ushered round the bend and down the road just in front of us, she shrunk lower into the space between my protective embrace and behind the blind of my crossed legs. 

I tried to write, but she attacked my pen and paper. She even tried to sneak a sip of my coffee. So I gave in to being an attentive massage-chair for the time-being.

Cats seem to live strictly from one sound to the next. And most sounds, judging by the way a cat's emotions pique from them, are heard as fate's knocking or the clattering of apocalyptic hooves. The wind blowing dead leaves around was treated as a serious omen for my candid cat friend. And the people rolling suitcases down the street or slamming their doors could all have been conspiring with the devil. A whole neighborhood of evil noises-makers. A large tree-trunk (which must also have created some type of disquietude-you'd think) was spontaneously attacked with a leaping assault of unsheathed claws. 'Shut up, you sinister tree!... or I will cut you down one scratch at a time!'

When the most fearsome canine was spotted zig-zagging his way up the hill with his obese keeper in tow, my accessory ran to the middle of the street some thirty feet ahead and crouched provokingly in full view. Are all animals with alpha-attitudes born under the assumption that they are the largest beasts walking the earth? I suppose that hiding from the dogs who had already trotted our way was done to prevent any association with those possessors of such short legs and dull teeth. Only the largest canines were worthy opponents.

The woman and her German Shepherd froze. The dog about to spring through his collar and the woman to turn back. My pen had just run out of gas, so I scooped the suicidal feline up with my free arm and carried her down the steps in a different direction. After a fair distance, I set her back on the ground and continued to our apartment where the door made an nasty slam behind me.

Nov 2

Hoping not to be removed from the church concert I have snuck into. At least two hundred other people  are crowded into this age-old church on a dark raining night. An introduction to the music being given by an unamplified speaker. I don't understand anything specific, but the sound of so many ears stirred by the single, acoustic voice is clear. The audience chuckles occasionally.

Painted white stone. It is suitable for a place of hope and sanctuary in the darkness of Bergen's Winter shadows. White walls, not grey stone or murky carvings. On this particular night, I can appreciate the sense which may not have existed in thought until now. Though, many other Norwegian churches are dark with a structure hewn only from bare wood. Staves. And they were once attended. 

This being has Love for so many others and so much!

This being has strength and grace.

This being is still learning and growing and always will be.

This being has touched both friends and strangers.

Her friends are also her family.

This being would do anything for her family.

She is loved by so 

many!!!!!

This Being has the Knowledge to be Humble and Grateful 

This being has the Wisdom of Forgiveness and Patience

This being only occurs every infinity years.

If this being wasn't such a good Mother, she wouldn't be such a good friend to me!

This being is   e x t r e m e l y    g e n e r o u s (or liberal)

Her love transcends form.

Her smile is never insincere.

Her sense of fun is contagious!!!:-) I love her giggles!!!

This being's creativity is boundless but sensitive.

This being's intuition is miraculous.

 This being's trust is a privilege.

This being is still a child in all the best of ways!!!!

This being happily has a while yet to explore, give, and feel.

This Amazing Being, my MOM!!

I Love you! Happy 50th!!!!! 

The Palette

Why couldn't I hear an account of the legend of the Flying Dutchman instead of Wagner's opera? 

 For over two hours- frustrated, bored, and bothered.

Sitting there, blaming myself, I thought, 'Love isn't an analyzed experience. Stop thinking and just witness it'. 

But, there was no gaining access to such pleasure.

 When the Opera sans intermission was over, I found myself on the street thrown against a brick wall of milk chocolate. Evening saved. Bravo, Chocolat! Encore, Chocolat!