​Norwegian Voices

Start with a bark from a Northern Angel and transgress to the form of whispering silences. Sunday came with a whisper. Dull heads and stinging eyes pressed on, piercing cold like the keenness of their Mind and Spirit. Sleep can wait, so can fate we are here in Oslo, here to create.

There are lots of young cats in Oslo and young mothers pushing lambent kittens. That’s the impression of a morning glance. Calm, humble Sunday’s, the English city shall wince. Noir of Black, theatre wall greets and welcomes with soft blue eyes. He listens to our call of Wonder with the stillness of old. Cats he cries, Dolls he means. Time has come for a vision of string-less theatre. Children absorb tales of old, they watch patiently, quietly, with a kind of wisdom. A wisdom that holds crystallised love in the palms of their small hands. Nothing fancy here. The story rises and falls, travelling by its own momentum. The gumption of whizz bangs and flashing lights find no relevance here, amongst the attentive Norwegian young. And all the while we sat there allowing the vacuum of incomprehensible speech to ignite our imagination. A tale of two sides, tragedy and hope rub shoulders as wild flowers beneath the night sky. Our Minds drift. Colours set but never sit as the infusion of myth,

Norse talk reaches a choral mass of light bending, eye swarming, ignition of situational madness. Within this assembly of Peace, we see and feel the room’s imagination seek and reach.

The contained comfort and soft lighting of the Victoria Jazz House soothes us, tired travellers into a soft stupor. The place has the hum and poise of a hipsters haunt. Happening. Hoping. Gravity of performance holds the tiered seating around, reminiscent of the Pomp Pa Pa of an Opera house, but there are enough shadows in here. The jazz music strokes our eyes shut.

Oslo won’t hold us. We have somewhere to go before dark. The cold brick and quiet class ushers us into its origins. The wild allure of Norwegian Natural Beauty. Harsh, Proud and Elemental. Frozen sinews pave a climate of change, but no pain, as the forefront of adventure has sunken into our Beings. The flip of a golden coin brings a remedy to the soul. Sweetness takes, as Sun Sets, over lamped up, iced headlights. Take stock brother and sister, we ride into the night with Komfort, yet an unending breath brings us back to the origins, to the fullness of the Now.

Skien ‘s photographer crowns the streets. Flashes of gold build on a frozen landscape, leads feet to faces and the tide of smiles is welcoming as the night unfolds.

‘Can we sit?’

Asks the birth of nights flow. Scarred incidents lead to top roof, top proofed by the masses that kindness exists.  Highs set as words flow. The exchange of music and far flung dreams of first light furnish the hour.

Yet our quest is in the present and we coax out all the lessons we can, ears pinned back, wide eyed. And then I see, the more experience, the more wisdom, the wider the eye.

The nights dancing now! Uninvited to the floor space but thrilled by kindness all the same, we leave traces in a hotel, with a guardian who talked for the dozen and skipped into the still young night. Trails blossoming, blazing behind us. The likely pub was our unlikely home. In that pub was Norways Viking spirit, distorted by darkness and drink. Wildness and affection make up the double edged axe they swing.

Lubricated by a familiar dark drink and further by the regions choice shudder, the aroma of happy chance spiralled. Conversation dances like light in the wind. Foreigners and hosts exploring what ways they are not. Our parting cries convey understanding and twin hearts,

‘Dangerous travels’

The scarred broad blond Viking bellows.

The sun rises and with it a free breakfast. Food is an easy thought, in Norway. A mess of nonchalant morsels reclines before us. Bread for the journey taken from its manger and wrapped in swaddling. We strike out, no thought of how, only where. We are going that’s all. Open roads empty pockets. We walk the frozen streets anxious to arrive, all the while waiting to turn the corner and be there. All the while we are there, it’s here and it’s now, we tell ourselves as we retrace our steps. A frail messenger points us to where we can use our own thumb to point a ride. Despite the best advice from a thin thinking horizon hugger, well meant as it was, soon we were screaming into the horizon. The very horizon. Our ride a kindly business man who knew however smart his leather seats were they were still empty, until now.

Fat Cat, Young Cat speeds by in the street car, pulls a U-turn to pick up the corner Rats looking through to Mountain Avenue. Young heart, firm set mind. No bills to pay but viewing a house boat from North Shores brings the taste of greener days. Yet his senses are strong as he views us from seats of hunger.

‘Ever been hungry boy?’

Break the bread brother at station drop off, let’s ride through this with one another. Cold stomping feet, this corner is as good as day, a temporary home. Swamped by school kids, we stand an animated anomaly of their hum drum, hike home.

Screech of tyres! Sudden instant arousal! Animal anticipation. Adventure seizes such a man, his hope in the good and expectancy reverberates, his instinct is to respond to the other with a spontaneous smile, life is nurtured in this wise soul. Saxophone diffuses from the car, rise and fall, the enchanting mystery envelopes us. The tall gnarled grey figure has Frulistiv alight in his eyes, in the very fibres of experienced muscles, in the decibels of his voice. A noble lineage coursed through him, as he told us stories of the first Norwegians in the deep North. Dare to exist. A glowing invitation to imagine authentic sinew. And we pay tribute to ArnaeNasse and we felt we have met him. 

From the vision of foresight of old mind take to hoof.

Run on white lined streets through the towering wooded sides until silent mother heart hears our call.

The time between sounds lends itself to brief moments of reflection on family values and the retreat of the body to quiet times.

Grooves on to suited boredom, the necessary roll of the bodily rhythms lost to the carted drum of dollars worth. Dollar brought from environmental concern, hydro space, but lost in the space of rhythmic battle. Dropped off, left underneath vast skies on the smudge of sum road.

Crossroads bring twilight concerns, freezing thwarted fools stomp their hope onto the tarmac, boots of frost trying to keep warm their dreams as dark night injects itself into this nowhere. Until, we are sheltered by the laughter and hope of delivery wheels. Two Iraqi men delivering thoughts from war torn customs, brought to life through transcribing the memory of family and friends.

Fly by the natural sights, just as natural minds create an instant harmony for musical chatter to unfold. Ears pricked as sounds are sweet, yet through their kindness and calm is seen a reverence and need for security and home. A home not torn by the unnecessary greed of the mindless few, but a flow of thoughtful engagement with earths soul seekers.

These men lived under the weight of warring tragedy yet carried their story with a lightness and sadness, sharing themselves with joy, nothing is forced. Drop your props and commune with one other, no longer noticing the colour of each other’s eyes.  Uprooted, they carry home in the journey, a glowing beacon of laughter, still practicing hospitality a thousand miles from home. Music of a third culture gives rise to jokes, finally gives way to happy stillness.

Basking in each other’s company and sharing the views, craning to see in the squeezed space, it fly’s by as we dwell in this singular unique moment, crystal lake, knowing a oneness with each other. Simple gifts left only as pale reminders and on. 

Night has brought a bed formed from tales of Scottish liberalism. Words and Souls create political solace as agreements from the greener pastures is strong. 

Wake to eyes being crowded by mountain snow, Bodies and Minds craving the Wild. We move. Feeling the breath of avenues on high we jump and run to journeys progress on skins of silk, gliding through the frozen streams and forested paths. Heavy breath and heavy fall brings our bodies into existence. We feel what the mountains have seen for an eternity, climbing and falling within us and without us.

Stumble into another Komfort occasion, but these minds surround us with joy. Similar eyes and toes offering various sounds as each displays her journey from the day’s voyage. A bed of heat draws our bodies to rest as the knowledge of silent endurance is to come.

Sail Now, Sail on Don Juan up and through unmarked territories, eyes seeking the unpaved way, finding the heat of the iced wilderness take grip and grow within our feet. Days progress draws into twilight hours, bird song settles on the sun down air.  We now stumble through the Komfort addressing the world as ‘2 English boys seek ride’. Ride on into the night as days images settle within our eyes.

Back to road basics, travel basics though, now Time has altered, a need to move at mechanical speed, biological needs are done. Clocks stop as the seated windows offer a way through but never IN. We sit and rest as bodies cease up. Return to the creation, the birth of myth making as full circle brings us through to sea shores.

Alien voyage out into the blackness reflects the wealth of portland marriage of land and sea. We creep the floors of this callous warren of vice. Sickly urges of repulsion draw us back to our windowless, airless chamber, only altered by the occasional tin radio blast of lost soul sounds. Floodlit thank you’s. Let it lie. We find ourselves lying in this tight windowless cabin. Far from the sea air, and its waters that keep us afloat. For this is a boat. Some boat. This cruise of joy finds us unlikely crew members, startled into hopeful submission. There must be something on board, something for us to sink our teeth into and extract the life blood of an actual experience. An experience befitting our grandiose imaginations. Something to humour our fantasy of the landed gentry sprawling and lolling amongst islands of the Mediterranean or Spinning on the titanic. After all, we were led onto this vessel by a band of attractive pirates, not before a one man band and captain played a captive audience onto the deck, an inverted walking of the plank where only the children danced.

Anyway we find ourselves in quarantine, hidden away from the madness in a heady vault. A vacuum of heavy choppy space. Our sanctuary. As perverse as the incessant music that jives into our ears and drives us to the floor, gambling. Is there dancing? Not in this buoyant disco. So we wander into the posh section and flitter awkwardly around the pampering scents until we realise that we have arrived the right side of a gourmet feeding operation the extent of which our travelled beat feet had not seen before. Still it wasn’t long before the oxygen rose to unimaginable levels. We were able to enjoy a pipe beneath the stars and seagulls as we watched the lights of Oslo fade. Snatched, we hasten back to this synthetic habitat with some found wine, resolved to rest, for the rest of the adventure.  Odd dreams mastered us as we were rocked by the endless sea.   

New shores, new light. The morning’s breath is sweet as a new isle takes our feet and leads us to lost views of forgotten wastelands, built up of industrial minds as the wilderness creeps and seeks revenge. Our step is a quick one as time observing is left to quieter times, the last rush is on.

To A hoose, Aarhus, my house, IN DA HOUSE. Creating the drop, sub drop the plot to sounds of white cats dining on fine voices, on hips moving, hops grooving incessant pounding of that bass. We lend our ears to the floors pump as the crowdsholla to the battles of voices on staged arenas.

Our minds sway as eyes are drawn to the floodlit dockland for night’s owl.

The night owl calls us to her wings, to sleep the night away under watchful eyes of dockland steps. The gentle lap of water and wood wise creaks of the boatyard masts mating in the night, creating audible visions for the night’s dreams. The frozen sinews return as the gravelled bed creates short moments for silent contemplation.