Track the traces, trace the tracks.

A shoppingcenter is to be build close to my place of living, and by that fact, and some expectations concerning traces and sights on the surface of the fields, archeologists started excavation of the area. The findings though, exceeded far what was to imagine. These are tombs dated 550 ad. ( The irregular holes in the middle are from plundering )

Unbeleavable beautiful light pillars is reported seen at the nightskies lately. And this image is taken just some kilometers from where I live. Newspapers are full of speculations about the phenomenom. Here`s what it is http://www.atoptics.co.uk/halo/lpil.htm.

earth...

even the word sounded strange to me, how unfamiliar...

how long had i`d been gone?....

how long had i`d been back?...

did it matter?...

I tried to find the rythm in the world where I used to live,

I followed the current...

I was silent and attentive..

I made a conscious effort to smile..

to nod...

to stand and perform the millions of gestures that construct life on earth...

I studied those gestures until they became reflections again...

but I was haunted by the idea that I somehow remembered her wrong...

that somehow I was wrong about everything...

• stanislaw lem

solaris

Inger Christensen died on the 2. of january

Like no one else she gave me images both present and of another time, or.... of another way of experiencing time. And gluing them all together she did, like streams of continuity, consciousness, musical waves, seconds from line to line, years from word to word. And it all goes on right now, ..all these nearby inconceivable changing nuances around us all, and the freedom coherent in seeing these invisibilites. And just like this her work will live on, and adapt like all that`s relevant, into the visible.

Images from my mountain at this years last day. Blessed with this extraordinal period of blue skies this part of the year, lets hope this is to be the global significance of the forthcoming period.

Happy new year to whomever`s reading this.

A friend of mine brought me this to my birthday, pure vinyl purchased in Paris by courier. And spell-bound I am. Coming into age one tends to seek the glory of past, ...but the distance gained, the ability to separate, not being absorbed by the spirits of time once present, ...well it all makes us critic, makes us seek the true nature of the period. We may look back with a smile,...we may look back with this ironic distance,.....but this record....its the core of it all; the late seventies. And a beauty nevertheless.

Giorgio Moroder "from here to eternity"

My garden taking its final sigh, before sleep, before the litteral dark. Like showing us our certainty of being present, being more than everything. Blending us to tell; everything must pass. This leavness of voices.

Another one of these wonderful tv-programs about dead painters, living paintings. Rembrandt this time, the man who loved the grease and texture of oil painting above expectations and vision. Like us in degeneration, in decay, his wealth gained by marrying this wealthy woman, in love without doupt, but playing life like this lotto-millionaere, turned him into this above-life-being, celebrated, worshiped. Death, feeling of insufficiency turned him into this rebellion. Faces, faces, faces unmasked, wrinkled. Agony and disappointment;the difference between thoughts and reality, between sketches and finitness was all erased. Into how we are and always have been.

"Does not we all carry this little child within ourselves, this child always being neglected, not being alloved coming into light? This wild little creature wanting to be its self? This what we are, beings trying to get access to our own feelings. A lot of us kill this child because of the inconvenience carrying about this lot of intractability. And to this degree we all enter this social life of conventions, order and rationality. Then again there is these many, creating these magnificant and complicated games to get access to this child within, instead of killing it, supress it. Art is such a game, about control and liberation. Acceptation. So here we are; the interresting thing is not this; the control and liberation in itself, but what this game is to project about society, mankind and nature."

Mehren

Just watched this television programme here, about Piero della Francescas painting "Resurrection" 1490, described by Aldous Huxley and others as being the best picture in the world. "Has this Mr. Huxley seen all other pictures in the world?" a child asked his teacher during the event. A marvellous question me thought. Nevertheless I had to admit my facination by its enigmatic expression. A lot of academics, a lot of views came to speech, but gave me no satisfaction, and I kept wondering what,....why does it leave this impact?

Its of course the face, the energy of the face, the power and the immediate of the face in whats to define as a motionless scene. But images like this florish; mona lisa, the icons, portrets of all kinds.

What is it here that makes a difference, apart from being a painting of the sublime all over. And I kept thinking.....looking at the face, wondering it suddenly appeared to me; the face is completely "raceless", its an image of us all coherent. And not of success it is about as to believe at first glance. Rather like anybody it talks, as we are...bottomliners, the average. Despite this, its resurrection, its victory. While the people of indifference and privilege are sleeping beneath. Not aware whats happening. This what I like; bringing the story of christ into everyone, into the lost ones.

I don`t know, ....wonderful world, hopeless project we do. Mankind.

By the way: on the left, nature dead...on the right side, living green nature.

Freefall patterns:

7: the bipole donut

8: frisbee

9: taj mahal

10: donut

11: norwegian box

12: stereo bipole

13: double satelite

14: accordian - opposed stairstep

15: opal and zipper - zipper and opal

16: canadian tees - the monopods

17: buzzard

18: sidebody donut

19: compressed diamonds

20: cat diamond - the cat-accordian

21: lego - eye

22: old bone - compressed stairstep diamonds

my third grade teacher told me i had no future. i run through snow and turn around to make sure i`ve got a past

hera

I`ll string along, i`ll string along. Deaf ear to sounds tear.

Mitt døve øre til lydens tåre.

"sommersyner av forsvunne døde"

nabokov with butterfly

views from a grain of sand:

any inclination (in life) is to be moved through, towards a backyard. Dispositions is nowhere to be. Just places to create mythologies, ovidian fickleness like drapery around the self. But, you know, like bubbles ready to burst they are. And if.....the world turns out simple, like grains and molecules to hold it all. This is how you disappear.

Move and resonate

we have a name for almost everything

every noun to point towards sense of enclosure

raspberries, night of july, bread

maybe the words seeks its nature

maybe it`s all about nature seeking us

and my name

egil n......

meaning "the one to fear, from the farm at the headland"

if words seeks its nature

maybe me am the one to change

lost in nouns, in language,

"a virus from outher space"

Back on track with musicmaking and like joy it is; it actually sounds like music now. By disbelief and uncomfort towards making impressions and images within this channel; sound, like never before this really sounds like difference. This right here is the corner of my life now. This is all there is.

the dam is opened, the water`s flowing free. Oh how i long for spring; the light, its lattice through leaves and thoughts.

Lost in blues, by palmfulls after palmfulls it slips by reconing, but the sights and apparations makes me never get lost no more. This because i think the birds are the best of ideas, the Sitta Europea, Spettmeis. Visitting the bird table, the only one to climb my birch head down.

http://kirstenopstad.no/

If we are to survive, our will must stretch behind sunset, I read someone say. Last year I had my father here, helping me clean my terrace with the help of this amazing machine doing this purpose by waterpressure. By very few minutes my exterior residences was cleaned and shiny. My father, this enterprising being, had no intention to stop by this; every aged patina to bless my sight, this man pointed his gun towards. And me at the end, had to drag out the wall outlet in despair.

The one planting a tree have to wait this 50 years before thimber is to cut down. The one to trade the marked of values knows the score after minutes or seconds. Everywhere its all about rapid results. Long therm thinking, by the whole, is by helplessness not a part of the agenda at all. Is the world turning into this unity, or into ever more fragmented parts?

In this dark out-of-the-way corner of my garden, behind the outhouse, down in this forgotten tub of plastic, i found, the other day, this bunch of left-behind daffodils. Tiny, distinct sprouts, that, despite their misplacement, their helplesness, generated this positive, undrneathmyskin participaion to the eternity, of survival. I watch them grow. I watch spring come to life: the moving has come through.

http://www.longnow.org

Begun wearing glasses i have, and little did i know about my poor visions; the trees actually have these tiny branches out at the end, thousands there may be upon a single three, ..and grainy, rich the world is. Slightly reborn is the feeling. The sad consequence might be this: My cadencial images of lights and mountains wich i am to present, (taken just some hours ago as a matter of facts) as this tradition is; to rinse my brain at the years end, will possibly turn out more kitchy than ever, ..happy new year whomever!

The orchid family of Epipactis, to wich we have three species in N.way. Epicactis helleborine, have a mainspread here where I live, along the coast. And me the one to crawl among with magnifiying-glass, to watch allegory: The flowers have this lip, a runway for wasps to desire the inebriate of the nectar inside, and the wasps like lost souls by their the intoxication is doomed. The nectar innherent a narcotic fast habit-forming chemical , turning the wasp into junkies, crawling unconsciously from flower to flower in desire, carrying this load of pollen, more, more the wasps brain tells.

the moving has come throught, were on the other side...now

My son there, playing drums on "message in a bottle", and damn well too he does...am i proud?....well proudness.., among these "Brechtian-pointed" ideas of demonic virtues, ..how fortunate the man with none. This displacement of the quality essential.. , not about me this is. his this is about, my love towards... this whats saves me!

NO DIFFERENCE IN CHASING OR WAITING II

bjørn endreson 1922-1998 one of the worlds greatest Beckett intrepreters throught stages in the ..70-..80.

......

as this man being a friend, a companion of both Beckett and Pinter my youth was pierced by his productions staged at the Rogaland Theatre,and through late tuesday-night performances on the single- channel norwegian television -nrk named: "Fjernsynsteater"...thanks eternaly

no difference in chasing or waiting