First Job

Money.. ahh .. Money first came in the form of my parents as it did for most. First taste of tax evasion even though I didn’t know it then. Physical labor in the exchange of hard cash, seemed like a bright idea, well, before the physical labor began. I cleaned, ironed scrubbed, folded and tidied. My own residence. Felt a fleeting feeling of satisfaction, even if I knew I was being paid too much and the work was relatively easy, but relatively has nothing to do with it, as I had nothing to base the relative on. Anyway, sixty pounds, three twenties, Elizabeth in my pocket. My hands hurt from the cleaning substances, who knew that bleach would require huge amounts of moisturizer. So there was my first purchase, hand cream. Then swiftly along to the music store to buy some brand new, Ernie Ball bass guitar strings to keep the dream alive. I was more miffed than satisfied. The money conundrum got right on top of me, and I’m not sure I understand the balance between hard work and monetary reward still. Something seemed terribly wrong. So I made the CV, a declaration of what I was worth, detailing hobbies and interests subtly, sure to list my vast work experience, of two weeks, thanks education and handed ONE CV to the music store, as a job was open and waited for a reply. It was the only job I was suitable for, both considering my background and the jobs available. I waited a whole summer. Played bass. Began writing about the confusion. Got nothing. It was suggested by my father to ask at places that knew me. There was only one place. So out of desperation, I applied at the outdoors store, run by my ex scout leader. Positive response. I was in the club. I extracted my national insurance card from my wallet and proceeded at once to my first trial shift.
The first job is always an incredible eye opener. Your eyes are then so wide open to … the value of the pound, the value of labor, societies expectations, the actuality of what you are actually going to be able to make in life, judgment of others, the reality of loans and social survival to keep up with the joneses. Oh and tax.
I thought twenty five thousand pounds per annum was a despicable wage, something students are forced to put up with before a the few years of hazing was up and they start to scratch into the hundreds of thousands. Then I learned, rather sharply, that the average wage back in two thousand and five, when I first started working, was sixteen thousand pounds sterling a year. FOR A FUCKING ADULT. An immediate list of questions rolled off my naive tongue. How do they buy houses, cars, televisions and food?
On the up side I believe I was on around ten thousand for my first job, I was certain to meet national average in a matter of weeks, as soon as I started managing the place. After all I had a brain, good customer sense, an exceedingly polite manner, higher education. Sorted.
I distinctly remember as most will probably on walking into their first day of work asking the first question. What should I do? I was immediately hand three lists. ‘The List’ (which I will come back to) ‘The Immediate Tea List’ and ‘The Lunch List’. The smile fell off my face like a suicide victim from the Eifel Tower, maximum velocity.
So I did the last two lists, to a high standard, playing the game, delivering them both with a newly acquired false smile, whilst the steam rose off the budget tea. That smile has done me well, though I never liked to lie. Now it’s a necessity. I learned words such as ‘Customer Service’, ‘Quality Control’ and ‘Hygiene Safety’.
I was given the title ‘shed monkey’ as the stock for the shop lay literally in a shed. I had the task of finding the items sold the day before in that dank dark place for between two and four hours a day. The hours increased as my inquisitiveness prevailed. Now I was organizing the place as well. Labeling hundreds of cardboard boxes, I watched my education float out the small crack of light they called a window, I turned on the stereo and put in ‘How to Clean Everything – Propagandhi’ organized, sorted and structured to the upbeat melancholy undertones of political punk. It slowly became my religion.
Every day for three weeks this happened and I developed an anger that resides in most of us, until I received my first pay cheque. It was a momentous occasion, eight hundred odd pounds sank into my bank account, three hundred into the governments. I hadn’t been asked to give that money, I just read in hindsight that it wasn’t mine anymore.
I became the compost for society that day and began cultivating my way forwards, not upwards.
p.s. the boss was an asshole.

WORK

Work
Work seems like quite a trivial thing to me, almost comic in its enivitable disaster. We all strive to find work, and it’s the most important thing, we have all been terribly excited at the prospect of starting a new job when we have no money and then one hour into that shift, you are all ready beginning to get the loathing sweats whilst the never ending story develops at a pace faster then a pair of HUMAN hand should work. Im not suggesting animals have hands, or that they should work. Maybe machines should take our place, but then we would have no work.
Work is entertainment, purpose, productivity, progression. Work is also a time vat, depression and oppression.
I have had the privilege in my last four years away from home having many “works”.
Lawn Mower
House Cleaner
Sales Person
Sales Person
Waiter
Machine Operator
Postman
Potwasher
Food Runner
Glass Collector
Waiter and Dishwasher
Painter
Removal Man
Wine Bottle Washer
Construction Labourer
Stock Room Manager
Glass Collector
Cook
Sign Holder
Promotions Person
Car Driver
Snow Mover
Sales Person
Trainee Chef
Chef?
Substitute Nursery School Teacher

INSANITY. I like music, painting, writing. Im good at thinking. Problem Solving (clearly not my own problems). Computer Fixing. Lying. Talking
A short paragraph will follow on this chronological disaster ,if I keep up the motivation, on each one of these chosen vocations. Maybe it will solve my life. Realization and all that.

Svalbard Diaries Paragraph

On the plane on the way to svalbard

PLANE
Electricity pulses through me as i enter the plane. Im going where i desire to travel, seeing what i wish to see. Im amongst the few privileged humans on the face of this earth that can do this. Im not sure what the flicks of my finger tips will produce but armed with my vocabulary im determined to write about the arctic.
Coldest place on the earth i hear, easy to die, hard to survive. Sounds like my kind of adventure.
The plane is packed, but it may as well just be me. Im in my head as usual. i nod and smile at the plastic air hostess, her teeth like a grill on a cheap shiny car, hair stuck to her head with some kind of fashionable adhesive, her tounge primed with instructions and procedures. I sit at fourteen E, inbetween two overly sized men, not giving a shit about my personal space, their arms strune over the arm rests and refusing to move, i suck my shoulders in and open a book about addiction, tolerate the masses for a few more hours, soon there will be no one. The airhostess proceeds with her drill, smile still attached to her face. All i can think of is inflating the life jacket under my seat and throwing it at her, screaming at the top of my lungs, “we know how this fucking thing works, we are all going to be dead anyway if we hit those icy frigid waters”. Although i think i could survive. Maybe il just steal the life jacket, would be a good party piece.
The flight is underway, the mechanical beast hovering at thirty five thousand feet, propelling its self along, emitting delicious amounts of kerosene fumes into the troposphere. I always get nervous when im so high and so vunerable. So i always recall the scene from fight club, when the plane is breaking up mid air and the chaos clams me. I would also be sitting there clam, absorbing the minus fifty air as my retinas freeze over, contemplating my life insurance, knowing that someone else somewhere will be benifitting from my death. My own form of charity.
Im served coffee for a change, free of charge, which is an unusual luxury for commercial air transport these days. It tastes utterly repulsive, although anything free that isn’t going to kill you should be graciously accepted. I heard they are going to make you pull out your wallet to piss. Id piss in a bottle or on their CEO before i pay a quid to use that cubicle. Although i do like the functionality of the aeroplane lavatory, there are lots of hidden gadgets in there for your convenience, an engineer surely designed that space. Im sure to poke and prod every nook and cranny of that toilet before i leave, making the most of my time on my legs. Im in my imagination thinking about what other inventions could be packed into that cubic meter.
Every time the pilot announces that our destination is Longyearbyen, Svalbard my spine shivers. My soul is filled with happiness. Im free. Finally free to make something of myself in that baron icy landscape, away from judgement, responsibility and slavery. A feeling of home overwhelms my body and I’m infinitely content. Ive made the right decision.
Stories echo in my consciousness about the darkness, that the sun doesn’t dare peek over the horizon, the people there are incestuous, lonely and devoid of any emotions. Still it sounds better than the alternative. I will have my space to think, speak, decorate, live, create, control, be. im thinking about the bears. Those wild creatures living out in the wilderness, i marvel at their creation, how they can withstand such conditions, reproduce and raise young in temperatures as low as minus fifty celcius. Im in awe at their evolution and although i know my body will never change to be the same i know my mind set can be one of the strong.
Im scribbling thoughts and feelings down, this bastard broken wrist won’t stop me, i curse the cast on my arm and continue through the dull pain. My handwriting is as if i’m in a military vechical in a warzone, earth shattering explosions surrounding me. My hand shaking from? Excitement? Pain? Withdrawal? Who knows? But i keep the pen to paper, ink rolling off the ball into my elegant leather bound notebook, which im so proud to possess. Its all about appearance, titles, status and rank are all an illusion. Im the second dr of journalism as far as im concerned, justifying my status, its scrawled across my keyboard in black marker, its scrawled across my mind in the scared caverns, its scrawled in every stroke of insanity crawling on to the virgin white paper. Scrawled. I don’t mean to sound egotististical but if i don’t have confidence in my confidence then no one will. We are all alone.
Heading north, away, away to be alone, to become, to be. nothing before, everything after. The memoirs of a struggling twenty somethings male, finally a genuine smile. Making. Making it? Making something atleast. Trying, trying to make my parents proud. I’m here to wonder off into the twisted caves of my mind, where beauty exists in me all the time. A place so full of contentment i question why others don’t have it. One day my adventures will end there and il choice no return. But til that day documentations of the interpretations of the caverns will begin to exist and il explain how i see the world. Others will realise what it is to hold an uncontrollable imagination.
The aeroplane engines hum and i inspect the rivets and joins that are keeping us from falling. Its incredible and man is magnificent. I start seeing flickers of icebergs below, marvellous things, floating so majestically through the salty arctic waters. My heartbeat starts to race, jaw falling, pupils dilating, time stopping.
Out the triple glazed inert gas filled windows i get my first glimpse of the indescribable geography. Gargantuan peaks and troughs line sea level. Far far into the distance. Their edges complimented with a blue that only the arctic glaciers possess, it is rich, untouched, perfectly created. If god were an artist he would have this hue firmly in his pallet. Using it sparingly, appropriately to represent perfection in solitude. There are no signs of life. This is where i need to live. There is a reason why fifty percent of the time the landscape is swallowed in darkness. Its too perfect. Humans wouldn’t be able to appreciate it if they were allowed to witness this all of time. I feel privileged. Looking around the plane every face is like mine. Stunned, in awe, content with just being in this moment. The plane is deadly silent. As we adjust our course something appears far of in the distance. Nothing could have prepared me. I grin and fully absorb. The sun, sorry. The Sun. In all its majesty, exploding, creating, giving, everything. Its rays pierce our fragile atmosphere, coming in eight minutes, directly, on order, its never late. The inconsistent reflection off the sea shimmers and sparkles in a way that will stay with me forever. Im scared to look away, soaking in every second, my brain rejoices, wants more, more like a junky in the depth of a lethal binge. I will be happy forever because of this moment. I knew this was what existed here. A beauty so harsh. Perfection. Im laughing out loud because i know there is more to come. Im spending a month here. Bring it on. Il die here.
It knows its beauty. Welcomes me. Congratulates me. You made it.
I breathe back in my thoughts ideas and ideals. They nearly escaped into medusas eyes, I pick up the pieces of myself from the grubby, hard packed floor, gather my emotions. Pack them back into my finger tips, continue scribbling.

Story Book Coming ....

The Little Red Boat

Another thirteen hour shift had been completed. Hung-over, again. Working is only productive if you drink, if your brain is operating on a primitive level, writhing in pain. All of you thought concentrated on surviving the next minute, dosed on caffeine, sugar and whatever bland food your stomach can with stand, before loping to the toilets, head pounding with every step, greeting it with bile and blood for the fifth time that day.

That infinite monotony of cooking for fat-cats, at the pace I would run from the law. It is not living to work. It is just working. Corporation controlled working. The hierarchy above not interested in how:

You cook the chicken on a medium high heat in the freshest garlic oil and white wine, seasoned with salt, pepper and light sprinkling of thyme, developing the flavour over three minutes, dropping a small ball of chicken stock, weighed by eye, left to cook and work its way into the chicken but add forty percent fat cream before the harsh salty flavour ruins the succulent meat. Reduce. Fresh vibrant vegetable are added and the bulk of the meal is finished. Pasta boilers ready, one hundred degrees, fifty litres of scalding water. The pasta needs only seconds in the alarming temperatures before it has reached its optimum texture. Now mix and toss, use a large spoon to serve the pasta centrally in the dish, top with finely grated pecorino cheese and garnish with a sprig of fresh thyme. The dish should be at the table within thirty seconds, if the service aren’t over worked and understaffed from cuts. Usually they are.

They don’t care, they don’t care as long as they make their filthy money somehow. And this makes me not care. And if I have the slightest opportunity to fuck them, and only them, I’ll take it every time. Fuck their margins, budgets and schedules. I should have spat in your food when you brought your filthy clients to dinner. I had the opportunity to feed you chemicals and rat poison. Fuck it.

What does my directionless rage have to do with anything? This is why we drink. Drink poisons to make ourselves feel like we are living an adequate existence. Drinking is no longer the privileged ecstasy it used to be, more a brittle lifestyle that’s killing our imagination and productivity, not to mention our organs. The truth is hard.

We make the most of time we have off. And seeing as that is not when the business executives wish to eat, the night becomes our recreational consumption ground.

We each take two bottles of fine Italian red wine the company cellar, for the first time today I feel human, peeling off the foil, digging in the twisted metal, rotating and pulling. My lips suffocating the neck of the bottle, not really how such a wine should be drunk, although it was my only source of a legal drug for the evening, a necessity. Chugging. Chug, chug, chug. About 30cl gone straight to my poor tired stomach. I’m sure it has just realised what the substance is and is now preparing for a day of cramping tomorrow. No food. Just drink.

(As a side note, I would consider myself to have a problem, but it seems to be normal, as all my peers seem equally as eager to consume, forget, work and regret. I guess we can conclude that we have a problem.)

A friend hurries the four of us along, speaking in Swedish I understand little, but the urgency in his voice seems ample evidence for my brain that I have to move faster and drink more. If A: I want to drink enough before some kind of authority catches us with open liquor. B: We want to make the last ferry to the island. And C: if we want to finish the bottles before arriving at the gathering, as only purchased poisons are permitted.

We get the twelve twenty three boat, walk straight past the kiosk for tickets and head to the upper deck with confidence that we were above paying for transport, unless it was to the moon. The bottles are taken out from under our jackets and the drill commences. Drink until you feel sick, until your stomach regurgitates, until you feel positively uncomfortable. Then drink more. I’m not sure if any other generation had the tolerance to alcohol that we have, but either way it’s too much, a counsellor would class all of us as alcoholics, but since its all of us, it’s still normal. This is how modern society functions in every capitalist system. Drink until you forget your job. Drink until you forget the people who have that abstract control on you. Drink until your memory is in a state of paralysis 3-5 times a week. Drink.

As the boat docs a sense of mischievous adventure is in the air. It is a warm balmy evening, the flies are teasing the fish in the water, playing with their wits, basking in the midnight sun, until finally a snap. The fly is no more.

My sense of coordination is faltering. I speak internally, “perfect”. Speech slurred, mindset is confrontational and content and I follow the blurs that I believe are my friends. Still whittling away discussing the best navigational route, I possess no idea where we are going, which is beyond perfect as surprises are something my conscience desires. We walk to a bar about 2km from the ferry station, an ample amount of time to have that entire fine alcoholic beverage pass down my throat.

Walking in, a wall of sound confronts me, far too loud at first, on the edge of the decibel rating that came with my body. Although the alcohol subdues the noise and I scream to my nearest friend. “DO YOU WANT A DRINK?” As to not repeat the amount of effort it took to make vocal contact, he knew that the chords lying deep in my oesophagus are now scared, the tall Viking nods. I refuse to ask him what, as punishment for his laziness. Two tequilas, with lemon balanced on the glass, small packets of salt, designed for this procedure. Two ice cold refreshing beers to whisk away the pain that is about to greet our tongues.

My drunken stupor forces me to prop up the bar, now relying, as I always do on the people around to guide me through the night ahead. I attempt to make intelligent conversation and be enthusiastic for about thirty minutes. I can feel roar pain inside of me from expressing myself, my thoughts, my feelings, my opinions. In an environment that is as harsh to talk as the Alaskan tundra is to walk.

I leave to find some new scenery, as I’m sick of the inside of bars, this has been a constant now for four years and everyone is the same. “I thought this night was going to be special?” My drunken conscience says to its self, my coordinated conscience replying with melancholy undertones, “it’s never special.”

A taxi arrives and as always I presume it’s for me, to the next adventure, grabbing a familiar face I tell him to direct the integrated Norwegian citizen to our final destination of consumption. Words are exchanged. I’m aware that the vehicle is moving. We are putting miles under our belt. I try for focus on the meter, the red light emitting diodes dancing around, specifically meant for drunken peoples impaired vision. I could have moved a mountain before I read that fucking frustrating device. I ponder the thought of clambering forwards, ignoring whatever advice anyone gives me, stopping as if the situation was resolving it’s self and then striking that bastard meter with my bare hands, launching out the window into the wilderness to count the time (and money) that it’s going to take before the unfriendly shit-face driver finds it, whist I run into the night free. I don’t do that. But I spend the rest of the journey silent, pondering within my imagination at my drunken creativity, marvelling at myself and how if there was as god I am certainly a direct relation for coming up with such a magnificent plan. Really it was just vandalism and stealing. But things are different when you’re intoxicated. We arrive. I resentfully pay the cunt. Get my bearings.

I’ve never been to this place. My brain is lost, confused and surprised. Perfect.

Still being guided, I hear a faint din over the horizon. We take a small path into the woodland which seems to have been trodden more than the average amount. My eyes drift, I see excessive left over’s of other self inflicted body abuse littering the grassy verge. Containers of all shapes and sizes vulgarly decorating the nature. I pity the poor woodland bumblebee that is going to elegantly hum into the brightly coloured metal flower, consume the nectar, take an abstract way home and then beat his wife until she turns to the metal flowers as well. Ten minutes pass.

In the not so distant distance, I’m shocked to see a small booth with a man decorated as a hells angel standing on guard. It has a sign stating 250kr. I’m not about to argue, but I mull over fighting the brut and how excruciatingly one sided that battle would be. My wiry fame could only hope to humiliate him for a few second before my comeuppance was served, cold. I open my wallet and his grubby fingers claim a few notes of one of the strongest currencies in the world.

We come across a lot of two wheeled motor vehicles parked in no order, no consideration of another person wishing to leave, no consideration at all. As if this was the last mass gathering they would all be going to. At least knowing that operating a large robust motorcycle was the last thing they would be attempting to perform at the nights end.

I’m in a beach cove that is holding four stages, set up in an amphitheatre style. All focus was on the rough and dirty blues musicians that were greeting the stage in no order. Music started, they danced. Music stopped, they drank. It was in an infinite cyclic pattern that was for as far as I was concerned was going to last for the rest of time. A bonfire was raging in the centre, eyes were mesmerised, wood was pulverised, ashes to ashes and all that.

I could see a fellow chef that had been thinking, then drinking, now drunking, rolling around in the light dirt, enjoying the liberal attitude of the bikers, everything was an expression of one’s self. I greeted him, drink tokens were sprawled everywhere and a gesture that was indescribable was made, I just bought more drinks. It seemed to be the order of the culture. Drink until you have had far too much and then drink yourself out of that dark, dim, rotting rabbit hole.

The bearded poncho-wearing biker handed me the ice cold beers, in exchange for the sodden tokens, with a scowl that said “don’t do it again you little fucker.” The plastic began to crumple under the clutch of my dirty hand. A mixture of condensation and soil was now running between my fingers. A brainwave struck me, so genius that the devil himself could not have intervened. I took several carefully placed steps to my right, cupped the underside of one of the vessels and launched the insufficient glass towards my companion. We began to brawl like ruffians, throwing and spinning, brushing each other with our fists in a playful manner, soaked in the pale golden ale, losing ourselves, losing ourselves. Soon to be pulled apart by a large man completely adorned in black leather. “We don’t tolerate this kind of behaviour.” I thought everyone here was on the brink of grabbing the nearest living creature, beating them until they were happy, laughing it off, drinking some more. However this new breed of Hippy-Hells-Angles stared us down to the point where our actions were silenced. I spoke to myself “what do they expect if alcohol, the most vile, corrupting substance known to man was their drug of choice?” A drug where all you try to do is hold on to yourself until your grip with sanity is broken, your only choice then was to ride the rollercoaster, or put yourself into a coma. I voiced daringly under my breath “pussys”.

The rest of the night was sprinkled with unfathomable conversation, erratic dancing and pure thinking from the id. We enjoyed ourselves, they enjoyed their selves. A crooked harmony was lived until the earliest hours.

Someone grabbed my arm and I was thrust away from the campfire, told that we needed to find some accommodation to rest, so we proceeded, proceeded back up the woodland trail, trudged and trudged. I was still in the mood for trouble, so when least expected it I set my palms towards the oafish viking like figure. He tumbled and tumbled down the grassy bank, head over heels, loosing possessions, orientation and stature as the man he once was. I laughed. I laughed at his wailing, i laughed at the fact he lost his wallet, I laughed at the effort he had to put in to stand. A twenty degree slope is hard enough to walk up when you can walk. He crawled back up in a fury, fishing around for the money he didn’t have, fishing around for the overdrawn bank cards, fishing for the coppers. Fishing. Eventually the black piece of cloth that housed these useless possessions was found and after a brief exchange of outraged drunken speech we were back on the road.

Walking, my least favourite method of transport has been happening for about twenty minutes, every vehicle, taxi, family sports wagon, motorbike, drove past us with a scowl on their faces, we couldn’t even pay our way out of this situation. I was ready to drop, sleep, anything apart from this recurring rhythmic step after step bullshit. It was at this point my eyes awakened from their glazed drunken state and I caught a glimpse.

The water sparkled and shimmered in the bright morning sun, I knew its beauty was going to be overwhelming, healing and it was calling me directly. Nothing was going to stop my advance to the edge of shore. I needed that water, in me, on me, surrounding me.

I made a swift dash away from my peers, now tumbling myself, down through the woodland, getting ever closer to my goal, sanity, purity, medicine. I heard distant cries, my name was ringing in the crisp morning air. I replied and told them I had to go to the water. It was an impossibility to go back to that road. It was at that point I realised my goal in life. Lining the dirt road I saw ‘free’ water transport devices everywhere, different shapes, sizes, expenses. One of them was for me.

I heard footsteps and shrieks coming from behind, instructing me to come back to the road, no human tells Steve Lewis what to do when he’s this close to such a momentous personal glory. I stated my intentions and offered the small Swedish girl that she could be a part of this or leave immediately, that she had better be strong, willing and courageous if she was coming along. Contemplating this hadn’t even crossed her mind, but now, but now the notion had been placed in The River Styx of her mind and sailing closer and closer towards the devil. We were stealing a boat and making it back to the mainland on personal merit, without cost, gaining liberation and freedom.

We are now in a sleepy boatyard. 6am. Our wits switched on. Me barking instructions in a hushed yet forceful manner. “GET SOME OARS” I whispered. “HELP ME WITH THIS BOAT”. Both requests were executed swiftly and efficiently. Drunken determination is not an emotion to be questioned when stealing is involved.

We gave the little red boat a final push and it entered the calm glassy water with elegance. It looked proud to be floating again, serving its purpose and using its buoyancy. Not over turned, gathering moss, waiting for the next child to clamber over it, whilst playing a game of hide-n-seek.

We boisterously jumped in, litres of water flowed over the sides, determination thrust the fjordian water out. Palms wet and minds on the edge we grabbed an oar each and began rowing for the headland to the north. Every stroke was like evading some sort of mythical authority. We were free at that moment, free from the clutches of society, free from laws, parents, regulations and corporations. Free.

Once the headland was passed, justification of our possession was concluded and our consciences were clear. We rowed at a lazy pace, taking in the pristine Norwegian nature that surrounded us. Talked about life and living in the privacy of the open. The past, present and future was all discussed with positivity. A minor feeling of enlightenment was in the air. Cue montage.

Eventually after 4 hours of rowing, the novelty of the little red boat had worn off. Tiredness and hunger were among the strongest convincing emotions to ditch our noble steed and make our way back to the mainland. We moored the in a space that was meant for a much larger vessel, although we felt that it deserved not just a space in the boat yard, but a boat yard to its self. Snapping a quick photo for evidence, we fled the scene of the crime. Skipped a bus and ferry back to the city. Decided that free food could be the only bonus of our the corporation of choice. So we stumbled back to the prison we had escaped from 11 hours ago.

Ironically I was only asked to start a shift unexpectedly. Checking my mental stature, I came to the conclusion I was hideously hung-over. The perfect state for productivity at work. And so the cycle began again. Work, drink, work, drink, work. I wonder which will kill me first?

This is not the lifestyle schooling is supposed to hand us. Doubt and worry plagues my levels of consciousness, lashing my soul, striking it with invisible whips, pleading it to take notice. The generation I belong to is lost. Realisation of reality is far from being realised. The youth need to start experiencing the extremes. Living Choice. We are expected to grow into the corporations, become the flourishing leaves and flowers but it is an impossibility when the roots are monetarily corrupted, selfish and rotten.

We are doomed to become dead leaves. Compost to the same machine. Compost in The Garden of Ignorance.

Hausmania

In -22 conditions my first steps were precautious. You could see gaping layers and trickles underneath . The hole through the ice is three meters away. Maybe it just gets deeper there. Or maybe a pocket of air forced a poor fox to its death. Anyway. I put doubt behind me and science in front (as every man should) and stepped out in the river, which I had previously waded across in the summer. I was Jesus, walking on water. Did anyone ever consider that that fateful lake might have just been frozen when old Jesus performed that miracle? He just didn’t tell his mates what time of year he did it?

Back to the main point. I was back on my way to Hausmania for some follow up of another type of documentation. The camera would provide some kind of credible proof. Even if photography can’t capture voices it allows a playground for your mind to wonder in, whilst I explain the insane liberal genius that lies in the centre of Oslo.

I had heard through various sources that there was an underground indoor skatepark in the middle of Oslo that very few people knew about. To me that was a gold mine, something in the true spirit of skating, somewhere that everybody is welcome to skate anytime, I headed out there, with a Swedish companion, 8pm bitter arctic winds blowing in, not knowing what I was getting my brain into.

The very small details that I had managed to squeeze from the stone were ones stemming from fear.

Comments like: “thats a crazy place”, “things happen there”, “good luck getting a key”. All with heavily negative undertones. I had to go. My curiosity wouldn’t let me rest.
As we walked along the river, all the buildings changed from being of Neo-Classical Architecture to turn of the century, old industrial. Heavily covered in what could be described not as graffiti, but colour, messages, as if there was a creative lion wanted to be released on to the dusty African plains. These people were definitely caged, protected in a prison, not by force but by choice. The graffiti isn’t of the commonly recognised tagging artists usually do around town. They are provocative images, messages, emotions. These were not done out of gang warfare but lust and necessity for creativity.

With music powering my subconscious in one ear, I walked in confident. Your pace slowed as you walked through the exterior of the complex, your steps soft, hushing noise, conscious of the sounds your body makes. Your brain perceiving, careful to judge everything, with an open mind. Amongst run down caravans, trash art and snow there were creations scattered. A giant ice block, perfectly smoothed into a miniature bolder. It had had air bubbles previously dragged through it. Forced to meet a cryogenic fate until the spring, with a purple light wired into it, to illuminate the freak of nature. Things had been twisted and bent here, way out of proportion.
Wandering through the two and a half meter iron gate, with heavy chains on it, my heart beat raced. I wasn’t thinking of skating anymore. Although it was certainly still my legitimate excuse for being there. The courtyard seemed to be roughly sectioned. Artwork hanging everywhere, not made for permanence, just to represent the mood of the moment, ice and snow weathering the makeshift canvas’. It seemed that this was a place where psychedelia had become concentrated, carried on, progressively taking steps since the golden era of the sixties.

There was no sign posts. Things were labelled, but not in a geographically useful way. There was a motor cycle garage, theatre and stage. All realised through groups of iconic representation. Mechanical parts sprawled, the Norwegian spelling for theatre and the raising of a platform which commanded the attention of the area. A number of other doors had unknown purposes. I decided to explore further, to make other people aware of our presence. I called into the empty corridors, hello?! .... using English only as a cover. Purposefully knowing that I would be more accepted even, if it were just because of my pre supposed ignorance. But I was ignorant to the situation.

Nothing called back. There was a stair way which led up and down. I didn’t dare venture either way. My eyes were attracted to everything. Focus was hard to achieve. I was certainly intimidated. I carried on exploring autonomously. My hand grasped the handle opposite the entrance. I again repeated the procedure .. hello?! ... nothing. I felt that if I had stepped in I might become a victim to the rabbit hole before it was my time. Alice should wait.
I backed out like a small curious rabbit entering a foxes den. Realising I was seriously out of my depth. I was almost too intensely affected by the emotions pouring and screaming out of the walls. I think it was time for me to leave and render this information.

As I led us out, weaving though the potential scattered manmade art, I was confident that we had tried as hard as we could to skate. I had fooled my brain. Not admitting that I was leaving because I was terrified.

Someone else came into our comfort zone of the empty courtyard. Wheeling an old bicycle, wearing heavy protection against the cold and displaying signs of subpar cleanliness, I again presented ... hello?! This time a response was granted. The man began a conversation at rapid speed in Norske. I spat out the few words of Norwegian I knew to make a peace offering and to show I had bothered to learn a few words of the forgotten Nordic language. I questioned whether it was possible to skate here and wondered if he knew where the skate park was? He responded with movement towards entrances we were yet to explore. He explained that he didn’t skate but he liked it. All three of the doors were locked and bolted- I recalled the thought, “good luck getting a key”. As he ignored the signs on the door, as if he had looked at many instructional things in his life and he got where he was by ignoring signs of any kind, he got his phone and immediately started calling another resident. Brief words were exchanged. He then explained that the park was closed due to structural problems with the load bearing wall. “The government are fixing it ....” I saw no signs of government activity here since the planning permission was made back in industrial times. I accepted fate and thanked him for his help. He began to walk back before my mouth blurted out “What is this place anyway?” He turned around, looked me up and down, judged me and saw if I was ready for the exposure to a place that was so infinitely liberal that it scared everyone except its residents.

He began to explain what the different sections of the courtyard represented. Telling stories of bands playing in the summer, him helping build a friends motor bike and that there were short movies and productions happening all the time in the basement theatre. As he walked away I instinctively followed, giving him the impression he was now our tour guide and our key to getting in.

We were about to get in from this acrid cold, thank god. He pulled out a key, attached to a grimy lanyard of door opening devices. They seemed like keys to portals not rooms. The door was the front door. A big heavy door. The type you find in an iron works. We stepped up and in. As the latch clicked behind us, there was an understanding that no one else would enter that wasn’t supposed to be here. I kept conversation flowing with light hearted expected questions. “Do people live here?”, “how long have you lived here?”, “what’s in that room?” etc. He answered all of them in detail. Exclaiming there are 63 rooms here, a large, high demand waiting list, he has lived here 9 years and that the specific room was a cafe. He asked if we would like to see his room and of course the offer was graciously accepted. On the way we met people in the corridors, he explained the rest of the complex, justifying that a place like this is needed to rehabilitate the lower than low and support the higher then high. Homeless people were taken in, artists were allowed to flourish. Anything went as long as there was an eventual purpose. Eventual didn’t have any time limit. There was a cafe, yoga area, martial arts dojo, musical practice rooms and art littering every pixel of my eyes.

You could hear people, I felt comforted, there was a much warmer feeling indoors. A feeling of sanity, unlimited creation and no judgement. Creation here affected you, even without explanation. You couldn’t even consider the state of the mind of the people that had been in these spaces. It wasn’t a prison, it was a school.

He led us up a series of staircases of which I was left with only mental traces like breadcrumbs. We walked over rubbish, the creations of the desperate, and numerous bicycles. We came out at the end of the corridor on what I thought was the third floor.
His room looked like a collection of unfinished inventions and ideas that had never quite made it into society.

His first question was a predictable one, one that I had thought about before even entering the building. Drug related. Do you smoke hash? I replied with a relaxed “yes”. Then offering my dope which I had previously acquired, with this situation in mind. He decided to mix both and roll a joint. I had already made myself at home, trying on strange items of clothing and asking kind but probing questions about the artefacts. As he sat down I made a point to introduce myself. Saying short but poignant facts about myself. That I was from Oxford, England, I pose as a Chef, I was very liberally minded and curious, I make music, write and paint. A dormant thought awoke in his brain. “Most people call me Kanute”. The name given to him after an extensive period actually spent in Oxford at a Medical facility. Kanute the Flute. I said I liked it and that I wished I also had a name associated with a musical instrument. The truth is that I didn’t know what I thought. So I though it was best to just be positive and kind.

As the evening progressed, hours whittled away. He told stories. Like of travelling on his own boat up and down the fjords, the Oxford mental health medical facility, his periods of success with his poetry, living out on an island with hippies in summer, battling his addiction with meth-amphetamines, constantly stopping to explain objects in his room e.g. The First solarium ever invented. A bulb the size of a human head, with a metallic claw around it, which he claimed reflected the UV rays as to achieve perfect skin tone. I doubted its function until he illuminated the whole room with it. I’m sure that the energy from an entire power grid was needed to power this contraption.

I cannot recall the details of every conversation but I’ll let the readers imagination play with the subject matters, imagine the most twisted yet beautiful use of English, from a man that only spoke in poetry. Both Phillip and I felt like we had witnessed something very heavy. We judged the amount of time we had been there and I expressed a want to pick my girlfriend up from work. He saw the evening was closing, clearly sad to lose his conversational resources then showed us his favourite possession. It was a miniature, portable, tape recorder, that had four, three and a half millimetre inputs. This surely must have been one of the first portable music recorders. Jealousy struck. It was in safe hands though.
I followed the artistic breadcrumbs out. Relief struck me when the icy air began to freeze my beard again. Space, freedom, enlightenment. My brain then began processing. When I first passed the initial negative connotations, that I realised the media had given me; ideas that this was a bad place, that people shouldn’t squat, you shouldn’t be weird, graffiti is the devil and a source of crime, modern art wasn’t and isn’t talent, people shouldn’t live without a healthy income of money to sustain your land lord and your eventual children. (A bank is just a cooperate landlord if your old)- and when I started thinking about what the world would be like if this laissez faire model of socio-economic structure had never been created, I was able to apply this mentality to regular society in my imagination. I considered that with the right support, these people could flourish. There was everything I liked about modern culture here, respect, understanding, balance, trust. The bourgeoisie are going to get a hell of a shock if this place was exposed on a major mainstream medium of which we have zero power over, protected by layers of corruption.

Kanute expressed that “Some people just need more time to develop than others, we just provide them with that opportunity”. I felt a strong significance when this was told to me. I began questioning how rigid our education had been. How outdated the subjects and mentality of teaching are (far too broad and narrow minded at the same time). How ninety percent of my peers left school scared of the world not knowing their eventual fate. There was no fear here. Kanute had helped me see that this was the key. The portal to where I wanted to be could be found in his words. Development is individual, and state bound education will never support this, but support for our creativity doesn’t always have to come from one centralised source.

errr html?

wishes to compain about blogging already.

why is everything still in html ... surely there is some kind of java blog invented where its easy to update things. and create things as your wish to put them on your wall. not this bull shit. out of date. html. learning an entire language just to put a few pictures where you actualluy want them on the page. when will the creators realise that some of our brains cant figure out that shit. im off to find a better blog place. you will be redirected ... stay tuned ...

turns out i have to build a website in xml. il find a nice template

woods

rambling in the woods, stumbling upon a brooke, playing in the icy water. like it. surrounded by natural beauty, small sounds conflict with me.




details are noticed. ants on my legs. the sticks broken under my feet ... an occasional adder or three. black. setting traps for dinner. hopefull we are eating. liam an aussie catches a fish in an impossible poool of reeds. we share the fish. white meat has never tested so fresh and satifying. tea is great. it makes you warm what ever. or even just warm water. when there is purple mist on the lake. and the small flies on the surface of the water are communicating with each other. all the large fish staying firmly away from my lure. ive lost about six. i dont want anyone to be angry with me but im starting to think its an enivitability. ive caught nothing. ive been loud and over encouraging. spent far too much time trying to seek out where rabbits run in the forest from watching you tube videos of bear grylls and ray mears. and i catch nothing and liam catches a fish. we devour the rest of the sausages we have wrapped in norwegian flat bread. its not about the taste its about the feeling you get when food hits your stoamch. but a feeling i have is that the food wont be sufficient for the rest of the trip. im thinking about who i would kill in a crisis situation. or if they would kill me. apparantly there is a half baked swede also attending this gathering. but 3 hours walk north from the outskirts of oslo into the forest in no particular direction sounds incredible to me. at night. high. fuck that. everyman for himself. eventually after i had given up all responsibility of this human beings where abouts he finally immerges from the thicket. impossibly walking in unnapproprite swedish fashion clothes. carrying the dimmest torch. high. it took him twice as long as it should have. anyway he comes and

turns out probably saved my life as he was the one after i fell asleep to contiue putting wood on the weak fire. frost on the sleeping bag has never looked so dangerous.

still alive the next day i walk back through the sickeningly beautiful norwegian nature to find out that we were not alone. the lake was populated. but in our own minds for one night. we were far in the depths of insanity. survival. surival of the fittest. using our hands again to carve wood for satisfaction of creating.

appreciating the sun when it rose and warmed our foolish bodies. eating what we forraged. very humbling indeed

all photos copyright

Timmy Bürgler!

TOM Guilmard + Steve Lewis. Oslo

there are books to be written on cities. oslo is no exception. however this is an article. the concise version is going to be reflected by a recent new years trip by tom guilmard.

first impressions , everyone arrives into oslo via central station. its harsh in every sense. run down architecture, the homeless living outside in -20, crime. if you escape the clutches of the forgotten then the city is a playground for the liberal individual.

everything is expensive. its was always going to be a survival of the monatary fittest. 16 heiniken bottles cost £40 if anyone wished to percieve a perspective.

the city has been transformed four days ago by the recent refurnishing. it turns out the gods didnt favour the hard icy tarmac and snow was now on the menu. all of oslos pedestrian assistance bars were now gourmet untouched handrails. for shredding. drops and gaps suddenly appeared out of the familiar architecture. a new light was certainly shining out of the winter darkness, and tom wasnt even here to snowboard.

inevitably a call was recieved next morning. the message was decrypted and our mission was to make it to the local mountain, Tryvann. Acessible by city train. (T-bann). Blue Skies Dominated. about 3/4 of the way the train ceased its journey. we joined a hoard of families and punters armed with sleds and cross country ski's. it had also become apaprant that we would have to wait a life time for replacement bus services. hitching was in order. new luck and a very hard half an hr of walking later a mode of transport apeared that guided us to our final destination. bus. the park was unpretencious and full of fun. kickers of all sizes, rails to suit everyone. just for fun. landing happy hips with smiles already firmly placed on our cheeks. we maybe also didnt pay for this luxuray. there is a small gap which you can slip through to bunk the lift. that money was later spent wisely on some waffles and paint supplies. nothing front cover worthy went down but progression was in the air.

in the oppinion of the immediate masses tryvann is under rated. it has all its bases covered. the convenience of it is incredible ... when public transport is punctual.

after a few brushes with death and a "last run" call is made by and unknown IDIOT. it was time to leave. we accompanied two locals and two not so local australians back down . the norwegian shredders car had 4 wheels. thats a fact. back in the city we dropped off one of the sardines from the back seat of the car. we were now three positioned near the back of the car.

a bout of road rage came across the young driver. he furiously used his horn in order for another driver to back up. once the situation was resolved he proceeded to flail his arm around with his middle finger clearly at attention. a situation was developing. fact. not with the driver of the other car but the car infront unloaded two plain clothes policemen. as i reached for my seatbelt, high as a kite i soon realised it was too late.

few words were exchanged in the forgotten nordic language. they waved us on. we were sure to make a right as soon as possible to remove ourselves from this situation. liqour store.

as a side note, there is authority everywhere in norway. although it seems that they are reluctant to follow through with with any force. their presence is enough . a society of fear, with no force. to inforce. perfect...

new years eve dawned on us. it was decided in the icy conditions that skating was a priority. 3 places exist of indoor skating in the vacinity of the city. hausmania, haugensteua, bekkesteua. all three would be explored by the end of the trip. there was a slim chance of skating at hausmania but it was closest and an essential on the anti culture list. tom wasnt informed of this chance as its important to keep moral at a high when trying to skate in -20 conditions. hausmania is an indescribable place. the complex boasts many cultural suprises. on this visit i just showed tom some art, the motorcycle garage, the music stage, the theater, the inside of a few of the buildings (which all the walls are leaking with emotions, paint and pen scrawl emotion of the moment on all the walls. there is a feeling of intense curiosity and insanity). from art to poems to pleas ....the thrid door we open we hear voices and travel cautiously towards them. when we encounter the man and woman the man demands in norwegian to use my phone. i give it to him and ask the girl if we can skate. there is a bit of a communication break down and the point of why we are there is completely lost. tom stares in awe at the walls. i keep conversation flowing nicely. even 1 minute spent in the house is an experience. i once spent 4 hours with a local in his room analysing strange artifacts and getting loose. diaries of that to follow ....

the skatepark at hausmania is under lock and key until trust is gained. its good to keep it that way.

we end up heading out by train to haugensteua where i assure tom we can skate. (he needs his fix) sure enough after wondering through a maze of snowcovered streets in rural oslo we arive at the giant blue tent and hear the familliar noise of skating. happiness strikes. although quickly taken away when the realisation that the heating has been locked for some unknown reason. survival skating commences. the cold doesnt seem to bother t. i have to defrost my feet quite litteraly several times. my fashionable ballet shoes yet again cease to be appropriate. tom is shredding as usual and i manage a sketchy krooks down a rail there. tom calls it and we are out of there before you know it. back at the train station i start talking to an old man. who comments on our foolish choice of dress. he is going to visit a friend in a mental institution for new year. we are heading up to a local hill, packed with locals, lots of fireworks, champagne, friends. a girl that looks like audrina from this hills tells t that he has got nice teeth whilst he was double snussing. we from that moment coin the phrase "living the dream"

ALL PHOTOS LIAM TEAL COPYRIGHT INNIT

a detailed actual status update.

new media i have aquired

1. Youtube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1hxOr3q7nrk
2. Music: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8oKQSAt4c4c me when im older
3. Film: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9pyBB7y8fDU double bonus. elliot smith and royal tennebaums.
   
4. Phillosophy: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_GD69Cc20rw

anna theresa says there should be more of me in the world. imagine a clone army of me. holy diver.

these were also the stereotypes of a skater that she had. lazyness, leads to drugs, crazy, alcohol use, tagging and graffiti, its all the same shit, if your into graffiti your a criminal, and so it goes on. they wear crazy colours, not decent colours. however the stereotype has changed in the last few years ... there is alot of confrontation (what? softest city int the world) in oslo, in the west noone says anything.

this was my conversation with magda last night .. poor girl

do you like your shadow? i think i talk to my shadow when i travel .. do you? no. oh ok .... do you think .... your concience is god, you are your own god, you are god, you own god ...

god

i learned how to make my dos screen different colours (or colors and dos reckons) the first command i have learnt that twists the retro operating system into a more playful, even if it is a bit extreme mood.

at least seek the settings availible to you. even if the defaut is the best. that way you will know. seek the settings in everything ...

if you get angry at your computer then stop right there

people who get angry at their computer then you had best be going home from that date at the cinema. because before you get young kimmy knocked up you need to consider parenthood. if you you cant manage a computer, a thing ment for management, then dont even think about getting a kid.

rediscovering dos

just open the command prompt and enter help then just type the letters in capitals in and start fucking around with the circuits in your computer. dont blame me

Attention ... Change of Lifestyle Needed

If you wish to become more intelligent then leave your laptop power cable in a library. you probably spend most of your time near your laptop. maybe you will be encouraged to doooo more libraryish things. like chess, reading through archives of ancient newspapers, get addicted to the reference section, make other library friends. go to library social events, write a book, get sponsership by a library, become a writer, quit your slave job

First Blog Entry

Im not sure that i completely understand blogging. but i think its a good thing. people enjoy it to obsession. people also make money out of it. its also a fun personal tool to use amoungst friends to see an interesting activities update. possibly jealously will strike. and then that person will come to visit on a nice little holiday. i hope you can share and upload music easily on this blog. possibly connect a microphone to a computer. like a live update on your life. your own bigbrother. i brother.

madness. maybe i should stay away from this ....