My Fine Feathered Friend

'If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfeild kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.'

I don't know why, but I really like books that focus on the loss of innocence.

You could say I had a rough night so instead of not-not-sleeping, I decided to read “Catcher in the Rye” again, and as always the book did it's magic, and I felt a lot better. It's just one of those books that restores hope. Now, I'm probably not the only one who likes this book, but I am probably the last to hear about J.D Salinger's passing. Which really breaks my heart. Through the years I've grown quite attached to this book, every time something happens I read “Catcher in the Rye”, and things get better, and now the author is gone. It's weird, and unnerving but I guess that life.

You probably know the story: A year after every thing's happened, Holden sits down to tell the story of when he got kicked out of this fancy prep school, got in a fight with one of his friends, took a train to New York, where he asked a lot of weird questions about ducks, went to the hotel, had some drinks with some women at a bar, caught a cab, asked some more weird questions about ducks, went back to the hotel, met a woman who is defiantly a prostitute, after earlier meeting a woman who is maybe a prostitute, then didn't do anything with the prostitute, went to bed, woke up the next day, had breakfast with some nuns, and then I won't spoil the ending. Although I don't know exactly what about the book could be spoiled, I mean like spoiler! Life is hard, and sad.

Throughout the book Holden wonders why he keeps putting on and taking it off this red hunting cap. Poor Holden, you're putting it on because it's your protective shield. Now we could talk about that, or we could talk about how incredibly lonely he feels, like in the beginning of chapter 9, "The first thing I did when I got off at Penn Station, I went into this phone booth. I felt like giving somebody a buzz." So who does he call? Nobody! He has no one to call! It's the equivalent of opening up your cell phone scrolling through your contacts and realizing there is no one on that list who wants to talk to you. No matter who you are or what you do, that is a profound unjokes experience.


Then when he's on his way to the hotel he tries to talk to the cab driver about a question that's really important to his, "What happens to the ducks at the central park pond in winter?", and the cab driver won't even take him seriously. Then he call this girl who is probably most possibly a prostitute, and even she won't talk to him. I mean when you call a prostitute, and she won't talk to you, you're in dire straights. All he's trying to do in pretty much the whole book is talk to someone. So no wonder he needs that security blanket. No wonder he puts on the red hunting cap, after his teacher humiliates him, and only takes it off in situations where grown-ups would make fun of him for wearing it. I mean everyone who's hung on to a stuffed animal for too long, because it provides comfort, understands what the hunting cap feel like to Holden.

Also one more way for Holden to protect himself from the pain of the world, is that he says "you" when he means "I". Like, in chapter 11, when he's talking about holding hands with Jane, and he says, "You never even worried, with Jane, weather your hand was sweaty or not. All you knew was you were happy." Of course he doesn't mean you were happy. You weren't holding hands with Jane, but to put himself back in that situation is so painful, partly because he's remembering the feeling of intimacy with a person, which he no longer has with anyone, and partly because he's remembering that feeling of innocence, of playing checkers and holding hands. It's so painful to remember, that he can't say I. He has to take a step away from it, and say that it happened to you. It's so frakin' sad!

I think we can skip the women, the book is just a wee bit misogynistic, like when he talks about how once you get passed second base, girls lose their heads and can't control themselves. That's a little troubling.

So we could talk about the tension between innocence and experience, and how that red hunting cap, which is the same colour as his dead brother Allie's hair, is this kind of security blanket
for Holden that he holds onto. Or the ducks in the pond, and how nothing ever chances in the national history museum, which is what Holden likes about it so much. And that heartbreakingly sad moment at the end with the carousel, and the hat and Phoebe and everything. But actually now that I've reread the book I don't want to talk about any of that.


I want to talk about what I think is the real purpose of symbolism, and metaphor and all of the tricks that authors use to try to make you believe in stories in a deeper way. Peter Berger once wrote that "the difference between dogs and people, is that dogs know how to be dogs.", and it seems to me that one of the ways we come into this world not knowing how to be a person, is that we don't really know what to do about empathy. Like the weird thing about self-consciousness is that you become aware of the fact that you can never fully feel someone else's pain, and that someone else can never fully feel your pain. I mean the same goes for joy, but since we're talking about Holden we have to narrowly focus in on the pain.

Now that fact that empathy is a limited human talent is a good thing, because our brains are too small and too primitive to function if we're feeling everyone's pain, and everyone's joy, and everyone's excitement, and everyone's loneliness, and everyone's boredom all at the same time. The question is how do we get to a place where we can empathize with each other enough, to take care of each other enough, to get through this veil of tears. And this is where the fact that there are two Holdens in the story comes into play. There's the Holden this story is happening to and there's the Holden who's telling us about it. The Holden this story is happening to is almost a total failure at getting people to listen to him. Basically throughout the book he walks around, meets some people and tries to get them to listen to him, but they refuse. Then towards the end you think there's finally an adult who's actually finally going to listen to him, but then Holden wakes up to find the guy patting his head, and it's totally creepy and hugely sad. And if that's you're only Holden I have to say I don't see a lot of hope in this novel.

What I see in the Holden who the book is happening to is a kid who's alone, and afraid , and scared, and who no one hears, and who no one ever bother to listen to. Now you can blame this on the people that Holden reaches out to, or you could blame it on Holden himself. But the fact of the matter is it's no one's fault, because it's not our fault that empathy is inherently limited. Everyone in the book including Holden is self-involved. But they're self-involved, because that is the nature of being a person. So if you only think about the Holden who the story's happening to it's pretty frak depressing. It's when I think about the other Holden that I get hopeful, because a year later he's writing a story about the person he was and the way he writes the story makes us care. Now we are able to listen to him. Now we are able to empathize, that's the miracle of text I would argue, but it's also the miracle of non literal communication. The hunting hat, the movies, the carousel, that's his way in to us. That's how he gets inside of us and makes us care, makes us believe in him. Makes us realize that he is a person in the same way that we are. So all that "English class stuff" that students say ruins books, is actually Holden way into us, and our way out of ourselves.


'You know what I'd like to be? I mean if I had my goddam choice?'
'What? Stop swearing.'
'You know that song "If a body catch a body com'in through the rye"? I'd like-'
'It's "If a body meet a body coming through the rye"! Old Pheobe said. 'It's a poem. By Robert Burns.'
' I know it's a poem by Robert Burns.' She was right though. It is a body meet a body coming through the rye.' I didn't know it then, though. 'I though it was "If a body catch a body"', I said 'Anyways, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some games in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff - I mean if they're running and they don't look where their going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to do. I know it's crazy.'

Well it wasn't crazy.
Thank you.

All right, Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up.

Da er den store dagen ankommet, min aller siste forestilling. Det er vel på tide å legge den fantastiske og helt fortryllende skuespiller karriéren min til side. Jeg føler meg omtrent som Gloria Swanson i Sunset Boulevard. Akk ja, men stykket er blitt skikkelig bra, så jeg gleder meg som ei lita høne.

I natt drømte jeg at vi var på ferie i Disney World og skulle kjøre Tower of Terror, en skikkelig awsome ride. Den starter med at man må gå gjennom et gammelt hjemsøkt hotell. Deretter kommer man til heisen og blir med den til øverste etasjé, så kjører men rundt i et bekmørt rom, mens en skummel stemme snakker. Det siste man hører er "Welcome to the Twilight Zone" også fyker man rett ned. Den er så fantastisk! Jeg husker jeg var livredd for selve filmen, men jo jeg drømte vi skulle ta den igjen, og denne gangen var det live actors på begynnelse og det var slik jeg møtte Dan Akroyk. Frakin' awesome I know! Han var favoritten min i Ghostbuster, vel han og Harold Ramis. Jeg kalte han Danny, yeah first name basis That's how I roll. Hvem likte du best?

Yours Truly,
Awkward Llam

Paper Stiptease

Every full moon my brain decides to resurrect itself, something that gives me the opportunity to do a little thinking. So I have a slightly weird thought, I'm guessing it's okay since I'm high on medication, and all alone.

Fact: Lewis Carroll based his children's novel on Alice Pleasance Liddell.
Fact: I love Alice in Wonderland, and Lolita.

Now, somehow I managed to compare Dodgsen's relationship to Alice, with Humbert Humbert relationship towards Dolores Haze. Set aside the assumptions that Dodgson was sexually involved with his 7-year old muse. Although that would only improve my connection. I don't care much for rumours, and at this point it would only be speculation. It's irks me that whenever an adult spends time with a child, people automatically assume the child's innocence is at risk. Anyway this is beside the point.

In Lolita, Humbert is a European intellect, with a history of mental illness. A man who falls madly in love with the nymphet Dolores Haze, or Lolita. I simply adore the fist page:

"Lolita, light of my life, fire of my lions. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip o the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.
She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Doloras on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita."

As a reader I feel in love with him, and his taboo relationship, due to his seductively skilled language, and somehow was able to look past the fact that he was capable of rape and murder. However I wish to focus on the romantic part of the relationship, even though Lolita never really managed to love him with the same force of passion, again I'm referring to the emotional spectra.

Charles L. Dodgson, better known as Lewis Carroll must have cared for Alice a great deal, seeing as he entertained her, and her sibling with tales of great adventure, later becoming Wonderland. Even though I know fairly little about the Carroll Myth, and the legend he has left behind for us to ponder. I believe both Humbert and Dodgson experienced, to some extend the same form of love, though Humbert Humbert is a fictional character. I take some strange comfort in believing this, for love is such a beautiful essence, and for something so fragile to have created such wonderful literature is beyond me. Anyway that's my opinion, their lives just amaze me. I hope I experience that kind of passion, that "circulated'' through their veins, even just half would suffice.

What I wouldn't give to have the missing pages of Dodgson's dairy. If only I had known the Time Traveller I might have borrowed his machine.

Yours Truly,
Awkward Llama

I Find These Truths To Be Self Evident

Da sitter jeg her igjen, etter å ha gitt opp på en natt med udødelighet. Det eneste jeg lurer på akkurat nå er hvorfor i helvete jeg la kontrolleren like ved stereoanlegget, istedenfor på nattbordet der den egentlig skal ligge. Hva er vitsen med å ha en fjernkontroller, dersom man likevel må bevege seg bort til anlegget. Så mens jeg vurderer om turen er verdt det skal jeg blogge litt.

Jeg fant nettopp ut at turen er verdt det, og mer. Det er så herlig å høre på den fantastiske musikken min.

*Sett inn dårlig innledning til et enda verre innlegg*

Jeg hater å sove, mens jeg er syk. Jeg hater å spise når jeg er syk. Jeg hater å snakke i telefonen når jeg er syk. Jeg hater sterkt lys og lukt generelt, når jeg er syk. Jeg hater Alle Elsker Raymond, til vanlig, men spesielt når jeg er syk. Jeg kan ikke fordra å snyte meg, selve handlingen sender frysninger dansene nedover ryggraden min for ikke å glemme lyden av herligheten. Jeg hater å nyse, når jeg er syk, mest fordi jeg nyser på en voldelig måte. Spesielt hater jeg å nyse på bussen, alle passasjerene begynner med ett å lete etter kilden og forbanner deg for hver minste mikroskopiske organisme man har slengt fra seg. Jeg vet de gjør det, fordi jeg gjør akkurat det samme, men med tanke på alle de andre bakteriene som befinner seg der er vel en syk person heller en fontene av renslighet. Jeg tenker alltid på biokjemisk krigføring, når jeg er syk. Det er kanskje ikke så merkelig når det følelse som Einstein har detonert en atombombe inni hodet mitt.

Det eneste jeg liker å gjøre når jeg er syk er å grave meg ned på rommet, skru musikken på døvende høyt og lese, men jeg kan ikke gjøre det. Jeg må nemlig ut av huset og gjemme meg på bussen, for å få med meg de verdifulle timene på skolen. Grøss. Jeg er ikke vant med å være forkjølet. Ikke siden barneskolen har jeg vært så... flytende. Vakkert, ikke sant? Vanligvis har jeg en fin og tør halsbetennelse, jeg har blitt vant å leve med en vond hals. En vond hals har jeg blitt en mester på å håndtere. Jeg savner den forbannende sykdommen. Forkjølelse er så ubeleilig, man ikke gjøre noe som helst uten å miste en del av verdigheten sin.

Jeg hater å være syk.

Yours Truly,
Awkward Llama

Followed By Other Amazing Hits Such As ''Blogging My Heart Out'' & ''Ops I Typed It Agian''

For kun noen få sekunder siden var jeg på nære nippen av å spille truth or dare online. Yes you heard me. Pathetic in ways your mom can't bend.

Jeg må nesten innrømme at jeg liker Pokerface. Død og førdervelse! Jeg syntes den er snasen, besides she cute with a chance of freaky. Ukens størrste nyhet er vel at jeg har ryddet det bomba horehuset mitt, annet enn det har det vært lite spenning.

Jeg lurer på hvordan andre ser meg, om det er positivt eller negativt? Det hadde vært intressant å kunne se seg selv fra en annens synspunkt, uannsett hvordan syn de har. Det er et aspekt av mennesker jeg har brukt mye av den begrensede hjernekapasiteten min til. Nemlig hvordan andre oppfatter verden. Det er så fjernt og tenke at min oppfattelse av for eksempel fargen rød kan være en annens turkis, men vi er begge blitt opplært til at det er svart. Skjønner du hvor jeg vil, annet enn inn i buksene dine selvsagt. Alt blir på en måte en illusjon, en form for opplært virkelighet. Det er nesten som å si at man kan bøye skjeen, fordi den egentlig ikke eksisterer. Det er jo helt utrolig å tenke at et fast objekt man kan holde egentlig ikke er der, men at de lille grå cellene holder oss for narr. Hjernen vår danner altså rammene for hva som er mulig, omtrent som et mentalt fengsel. Er det ikke fasinerende? Man kan umulig stole på noe idet hele tatt!



.... right, if you understood even one third of what I just shoved in your face I love you, if not you have much to learn young grasshopper. So brush you teeth before bed, don't do drugs, and if you walk in on your mom and I, it's not personal it's business.


Indecent References:
Tom Waits - Chocolate Jesus

Kanskje du hører på sangen hvis jeg spør deg direkte. Kathinka. Kan du høre på sangen? You know for once in your life.

Gratulerer med dagen Elisabeth!
If you begin to smell old people, don't worry it's just you.

Ello Polly!

Happy New Year! Let's hope it's as awkward as the previous one. Cheers!
After a good long x-mas holiday it's back to business, and when I say business I mean posting my life here. So, what's new you ask? Well, The year may be young but already it's been filled to the brim with awesome experiences. So, gather around childeren for I have a tale to tell, about a little girl and her family, and their wondrous trip to London.

As you may already know London is one hell of city, which is why we didn't get to see all the sights, fortunatly we saw them last time. This years trip consisted of Madame Tussauds wax museum, where I was finally given the chance to meet Micheal Jackson. My little ol' heart almost imploded.

We visited The London Aquarium, with some pretty nifty fish. I even found Nemo.

The next day we saw the Micheal Jackson Exhibition at the O2, and somehow ended up in the London Dungeon, where I became one of Jack's victims. Yes, we're on a first name basis. Let's not forget Harrod's and Hamleys.

This is actually beginning to sound like a very borring list, which is why I'll add some flavour. When we stopped by Starbucks, my favourite coffee place. I quite literally drool all over myself at just the mere thought of their amazingly tasty coffee! Anyway, after I toweled off and had finish my order, the lid fell off and the contents decided to pour itself over my hand. Painful would be an understatement, however it was hilarious walking around London with a mummified hand. I fit right in with Harrods' Egyptian escalator. Before we went to bed I even tasted Pimm's. You would not believe how good it is even after I've told you. Needless to say I got my hands on a bottle at the airport. We spent the last day visiting family in Gravesend, cheerful name! So there wasn't really any time for shopping, although I did manage to spend some punds and the airport. Naughty little me. All in all it was a delightful trip, and I hope to come back soon! Everything's so tiny and adorable in there, the buildings and cars, nothing at all like America where the word ginormous is an understatement, and the word small simply doesn't exist.


London Calling - The Clash
This version isn't actually sung by Strummer, it's more an ode to, but I like Elvis Costello so it ain't no thang but a chicken wang.