Nordic language, a mini lesson

(Or, the making of a bed)

“Laus” is loose. “Laus við” is without. “-leysa” is a bit of the same, but it’s used as the latter part of a combined noun, so what it ends up meaning depends on what comes before.

“Vit” is sense.

“-ingur” is someone who the qualities stated before apply to.

Today I am a vitleysingur with a measuring tape, a drill and a saw and a few pieces of wood. Would illustrate with a photograph if it was less embarrassing.


The pieces lay scattered on the floor, as if I were a kid playing with her Legos. I put them together, take them apart again. See that I shouldn’t have drilled that hole there, but there. Drill again. Mount again.


Thank god for the internet.


I am going to sleep on that? (see above about illustrative photograph)

City of cars, city for cars

The program

Fun–fact. In Bergen Norway there is a program called Bergen the bike town (my translation). For non–driving road users it’s a little hard to figure out weather to laugh or cry.

Quick backstory

There is some infrastructure for cyclists in Bergen, that can’t be denied. But practically all of it is in the southern part of town and towards its centre. In other areas, some of which are homes to the most people, there is none. It’s fairly rare that I ride my bike in these areas, not because I don’t have errands to run there as I do in other parts of town, but because getting there—and getting around there—is a pain in the butt.

But why?

Personally I am a bit puzzled by the program’s existence. It seems as if the politicians who kicked it off it never* had any intentions to follow it through, so why start it in the first place? Sure, cyclists and pedestrians can make a bit of a racket—especially online—when they feel the cards they’re being dealt are too shitty, so some amount of preventive PR may be useful at times. On the other hand, the vast majority of voters probably haven’t ridden a bike since they were kids, if they have at all, and seem fairly determined not to take it up either.

*Fair enough, for all I know they might have had best of intentions. For some reason though my imagination is reluctant to think of it that way.

Oh well..

That said, here they are—for your enjoyment—a few photographs of Bergen the bike town.

Freeway infrastructure

Traffic sign and freeway infrastructure

Drive–through shopping
It should be mentioned that this particular photograph was taken from a walk/bike path. To understand how someone in a position to influence urban planning has come to the conclusion that a single path, combining cyclists and pedestrians, is a good idea takes a more creative mind than mine.
Traffic sign
In case you wondered where to turn (your car) for the next shopping centre



When you wake up in the morning and and you can feel the very core of you, right in your middle. Thinking I am here, I have myself, I have faith in me, trust. I trust myself. And it feels good.

And it goes from there to but I’m sick of me, I don’t want to be with myself, not always, not now.

To thinking about a certain dream you had or a wish or an expectation, hope, and go who the fuck are you to dream of ___ (insert appropriate). Emphasis on fuck, of course.

And no matter how much you know better you grab the largest symbolic bat or steel pipe or whatever nasty you can imagine and you hit yourself with it, so hard that it crushes, not only the dream and the wish and the expectation but the place where they come from, and you hit and you pound and crush until there is nothing left of it, until it is all dead. Dead.

And you notice its last spasms right after it breathes for the last time.

Right before you don’t notice it anymore, right before you don’t notice anything at all anymore.

And then it is there again. Breathing, whispering, moving, speaking. Kicking. Normally one might be tempted to think how nice, how strong, isn’t it,.. how this, that.

Not so, not when all it does is to make it thoroughly clear to you the void between you and everything else. Everyone else.

When not to forget to bring a camera?

When at the neuro, having an EEG.

But I did, so the stupid phone–snap has to do. Damn!

A couple of decades and a half ago, doctors told me I was epileptic. Arguing with them was not an option, I’m afraid. Long story short, I’ve been eating these pills ever since, and now—after being without seizures for almost a decade, well that’s the simplified version—I would like to say farewell to the medication. And they—doctors again—won’t let me without first having a peek at what’s inside. So, just a check..

Fire, walk with me?

Whoever came up with the absurd idea that a burnt child avoids the fire had no kids and probably never was one himself, and most certainly never lit a match. In fact, it sounds like something a man in a suit might be overheard saying, attempting to sound clever at a social gathering with other suits.