Laugh

laugh - verb 1. to express mirth, pleasure, derision, or nervousness with an audible, vocal expulsion of air from the lungs that can range from a loud burst of sound to a series of quiet chuckles and is usually accompanied by characteristic facial and bodily movements. 2.to experience the emotion so expressed

One of my closest friends said this to me today: I wish I found things as funny as you do.
For some reason it felt like a huge compliment, although I suspect it was more a statement tumbling over the edge of annoyance. I laugh a lot.

It fits very well with the theme of this week, which seems to be people talking about my laughter or me being painfully aware of my own laughter. Example time.

1. People who in mental age fluctuate between 5 and 80 should probably not study Children's Literature

Last week I was catching up on my reading. I was in the LRC (Pretty much exactly the same thing as a school library, but when they call it the Learning Resource Center, they get to pile in a whole bunch of computers, a cafe and some study areas, make it look fancy and then brag about it in their brochure). I want to point out right away: I was not in the silent study area. Even so, I tried so hard to laugh quietly and not burst out in manic giggling that I nearly chocked.

So much laughter got caught between my lips and the back of my throat, that I couldn't breathe or swallow. If I had opened my mouth a large and inappropriate sound would inevitably escape, making every person in the library turn around to witness the giggling that would follow. That didn't feel like the best option to me. I considered using my book as a shield to hide my face, but when I lifted it up in front of me, I saw the sentence that got me in trouble in the first place, and a horrific, high pitched humming began deep down in my throat. Desperately I tried to get rid of some extra air by breathing out through my nose, which did absolutely nothing but make me sound like I was practicing yoga breath. By then I was already getting dizzy, shaking with laughter, tears running and my cheeks bulging like a hamster trying to save a winter's worth of laughter in its mouth. Ungraciously, I lost the battle. Ever wondered what it sounds like when a hippo has been holding its breath for a very long time and then gasps? I don't anymore.

2. I should probably not play Mikado with Santa, if there are other people near.

Last week I played Mikado with Santa, and I was winning. I always win. Except this once, when I let him win, because he was being a sore looser and I figured it wasn't worth the money if we would only play 6 games before he lost interest, so it would be an investment to let him win for once. (Or maybe my hands were shaking, I can't really remember). It was his turn, and as he skilfully edged the Mikado (highest scoring stick) out of the stack, I could feel my victory slip. Oh well, I thought graciously, I'll win the next one. But as the Mikado was clear of the heap, Santa got cocky, waved the stick in my face, lost his grip and dropped it. It hit the heap, causing havoc, giving me loads of free points and happiness. I laughed in the appropriate fashion: Loud, Wild Eyed, Evil.

Every syllable of that laugh drove home the hurt and confusion over the lost Mikado. Which was now mine. For free. Because it landed way off the side of the other sticks. It was a brief laughter, two seconds or so, but it was enough to celebrate the moral and actual victory that passed to me in that stupid, foolish move.

However, I forgot that there was an extra person in the kitchen. A normal one. One who doesn't understand the pleasures of beating Santa in Mikado. He stared for a second, composed himself and said: That was... quite a cackle.

I answered: Yes I'm a witch.
Santa shrugged (he's used to my evil laughter by now).
But in the tension that followed we both knew this had been a horrible error in judgement. Too much personality on show. And the smugness in Santa's face said it all: I might have won the game, but I had lost the sanity card. I still haven't gotten it back.

Amendment to 2.: Santa is a nickname for an actual person I know. He's not an imaginary friend, and it's not the real Santa. I wish it was. The real Santa has probably got no time to practice Mikado, and he doesn't seem like a guy with very steady hands. But I already win every time, so it doesn't really matter, but he could give me sleigh rides, which would be good too.

3. People who have never had a blueberry should never admit to it. It can get you stabbed in the feet.

Santa's never had a blueberry. Ever. Not in pie, not in cake, not in pancakes, desserts, nothing. Having grown up in Norway, next to a forest, going to a kindergarten with a tiny forest, and having a idealistic mum who every autumn would fill the freezer with jam (because if one should ever need jam, it would be a shame to have to buy it) blueberries has been such a common occurrence in my life that the very idea of someone never having had one...

Santa told me while leaving the LRC months ago (and I'm still laughing). It took way too long before I realized he wasn't joking. I was laughing so hard my voice just came out as a shriek as I kept asking follow up questions:

Me: III II IIIIIH IIIH IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIH???? (Have you never had a bluberry muffin?)
Santa: No.
Me: HH HHH HHH (Ha ha ha)
Santa: Why is this so funny?
Me: II! II! II IIIH HII IIIIIIIIIIIIH IIIH IIIIH-IIH? (Have you never had blueberries on pancakes?)
Santa: NO! I've never had a blueberry!! Oh, will you get up??!

By that point I was laughing so hard I had to crouch down and put my head between my legs because I was scared I would faint, die or scare people. I looked deranged with mascara smudged around my face, bent double, gasping for air while squeaking questions, sitting down seemed like a safer option.

But he wouldn't let it go! He kept yelling: WHY IS IT FUNNY THAT I NEVER HAD A BLUEBERRY?
It was downright dangerous. He could have killed me.

We spent a good 45 minutes (I was very dizzy so my sense of time and distance might be a bit off) on the walk back to the flats, which normally takes around 3 minutes. By the time we got there my face was blue, and I said it was from all the blueberries, but Santa wasn't amused, and all the way up the elevator I was trying to compose my self and failing miserably. When we got in to the apartment one of Santa's flatmates wanted to know what was funny, and I nearly screamed in her face: Santa's never had a blueberry!
I then resumed laughing so hard I had to support myself against a wall, but she didn't understand why it was so funny, and she looked like she wanted to stab me in my feet, and I got scared and stopped laughing.

Twice I could have died. Over blueberries.

I have been accused of laughing too much, but I now know it's just jealousy.

4.  People should wish they found things as funny as I do.

Quirky

Quirky - noun 1. an individual peculiarity of character; mannerism or foible 2. an unexpected twist or turn 3. a continuous groove in an architectural moulding 4. a flourish, as in handwriting

I sometimes get into asking people for words they feel describe me. I recently did, and because I'm in a new environment with new people, who have learned to know me in a different way, I ended up with a whole new set of words. I was very pleased. However, a few years ago someone gave me the word "quirky," with the following explanation: It's not that you as a whole is weird, or even that you as a person is weird, it's just that you have so many quirks to navigate around. Like an old house.

I didn't like the explanation much at the time. I could see my self standing there as a house with "loads of potential," but with squeaky floor boards, a heavy draft, stairs that would be 'perfectly safe as long as you walk along the wall,' water that would freeze in winter, walls you couldn't hang pictures on because they tilted too much, that place in the wall where mice come to die, and that overpowering but impossible to locate smell of mothballs and dust, and possibly dead mice from the wall. I gave it a lot of thought, for about fifteen minutes, and then I forgot about it until this week.

Living abroad has given me the opportunity to rethink the neighbourhood so to say. And yes. I admit it. There are quirks in this building, oh boy, are there quirks.

1. Obviously no neighbourhood association to care about façade. 
I dress like a deranged art teacher, there's no way around that. My clothes are all either too big, too small, flowing in the wind, brightly coloured, heavily patterned or extremely simple and all-black-and-mysterious. The art teacher hasn't quite decided if she's the flowing preschool version or the I'm-so-indie-it-hurts-to-look-at-you art school version. Oh well.

2. Serious draft problems. 
Some things doesn't register with me at all. The most problematic thing of these: skin colour. I'm having a hard time explaining this one, but I can assure you it's absolutely true. I can _see_ colour, I can _name_ colour, but for some reason - unless it's pointed out to me, or I actively have to do something to remember someone's looks, I just don't _notice_. This is fine in Norway. Only been awkward twice. Here, however, it's all sorts of awkward and let me tell you, the question "wait, what, are you black?" doesn't go down well with everyone.

3. Knocking in the walls.
If I've been inactive for too long, I cannot sit down without drumming at things. No anecdote or anything, I'm just annoying.

4. More than one bat in the attic. 
I've done a lot of weird stuff. I've had a lot of odd ideas, that I haven't realised are odd until I've put them into life. I've been proud of all of them. Some of these are still flapping around up there growing and sucking the life out of my sense of "how things are in real life." They are obviously vampire bats.

5. Treasure room/that room where everything useless ends up. 
Closely connected to the last point. I have anecdotes, random encounters, memories and odd stories enough to make anyone think I am a liar. That, however, I am not. Just a tip: I usually have pictures.

6. Might be haunted.
I have a seriously scary witch's laughter. It pops up at the oddest times, usually when someone hurts themselves (mildly to moderately) or do something stupid, and it does makes me sound insane. Luckily people tend to give me all sorts of slack. Quite the cackle.

7. Might be haunted 2.
But I try to hide it as much as I can.

8. Squeaky floorboards and howling when the wind blows. 
I sing. A lot. Out loud, while walking, while thinking, while cooking. Usually I am surrounded by people who tell me to shut up, but not here. Creepy.

9. A steady leak from the roof. 
I cry when I am happy. I cry when I'm sad. I cry when I'm touched or enthusiastic or stressed. Not sob. I rarely sob. But tears come running very easily, and I never remember to mind.

10. Loads of extra, unexplained rooms.
My house is annexed in every direction. But at least that means there's room for a lot of people!

11. The X  factor. 
Maybe it is a combination of all my quirks. Maybe it is the "kind" façade, the stories in the treasure room, or the number of extra rooms to rest in. But my house attracts a neighbourhood, and has the best lawn parties. Just saying.

Addiction

addiction - noun The state of being enslaved to a habit or practice or to something that is psychologically or physically habit-forming.

This is me coming out as an addict. I'm sorry you have to find out this way. If anyone in my family reads this, and particularly my parents, please forgive me for the harm this has caused. The abnormally heavy boxes when you've helped me move, the lack of space for guests to sleep on, the news of entire collections of books, a complete bargain, of course, directly followed  by a month without money. I am sorry. I am, in all honesty, an addict.

I arrived in England, to my tiny box of a room, with eight books. 4 of them about English grammar and language, four novels. I later also had a few more books shipped over, two about linguistics and one more novel, so all in all 11 books in my room I've had since before September (except, that's not really true, because I bought two of the books right before I left, as a goodbye present to my self, which I later understood was a bit stupid, because I was the one who was leaving, but still... they were bought before England). Right now, the honest and absolute number of books I own on this side of the pond is, counted to include kindle (digital) books, but not audio books, novels, anthologies, short stories, cook books, grammar books, books I got for free, books I got as a present and books I've bought is: 103. At least it was. A couple of hours ago.

I counted them this morning, and the number stressed me out. Okay, so a few of them were handed to me by strangers on the street (the book of Mormon, Bin Raiders, something about chanting your way to happiness), some I got as a present (Roskilde, the 20th Century in Poetry, the Student's Cookbook), some are absolutely essential to my studies (about 40 novels, the Philosophy of Language, the Norton Anthology of English literature) but the rest... they are just books.

There's the collection of essays by Oscar Wild I really wanted, and justified by seeing it as a good extra source for the Utopian/Dystopian Literature module I was reading for (never mind the fact that it was 12 hours before deadline on the last assignment).
Right next to me I have a book about translation studies, which had a funny title, and seemed relevant to my studies... at home that is. Not here. But I thought: "Oh well, I'll be going home in a few months," and I bought it anyway.

I've got the complete collection of Sookie Stackhouse novels. Novels I never thought I'd read, and I've heard little good about them. But the boxed set was marked down from 79.99 to 9.99 you see, and I was really tired, and I wanted a quick read, something to keep me entertained. So I bought them. There's the two children's novels I bought at a talk with the author. They're signed, and have a little drawing in them from the author to me. A few classics I've always wanted to read, but never had time to have sneaked into the collection ( I still haven't read them). A book named 'weird things customers say in bookshops' kept me laughing for hours. There's the book I bought as a present I never dared give. And there's the book I bought for my husband, that I've been intending to send him, but never remember to.

There's a book about words that are no longer in use. There's a book about words that should be used more often. There's a book about Shakespeare. A book about peace. And I've bought them all because I wanted them, and couldn't let them be. I tried, with a few. But I pictured them there on the shelves, never being bought, or even worse, bought by someone who didn't appreciate them for what they were, and let them dust down on a shelf. I bought them to feel better. To calm down, to make myself happy. But no reason takes a way from the fact: I filled my room with 103 books in just a few months.

I'll be the first to admit I've spent quite a bit of money on this, but less than one would think. Although a few of the books have been very expensive, many, probably most, have been three pounds a piece or less, and quite a few have been free. The money is not the biggest issue, though. I've bought practically nothing else but books since I got here. The issue is the stupidity of it. I haven't had time to read half of them, I will have read about 60 of them by the end of this semester, because they've been part of my degree or books I've read in between, but the remaining ones have just cost me money, cost me time, taken up place, and will take even more money and place to get home to Norway. It's just so stupid.

So I realized I am addicted. A realization that made me stressed. I was unhappy, and I was scared of this addiction and what it would mean for me in the future. Will I need a house with extra bedrooms just for my books? Will I be forced to stop buying books until I've read the ones I've got?

I went for a walk with a friend. An aimless walk. A calm-down-now one. And like a bright beam of sunshine through dark, dense clouds, a book store appeared. After a quick browsing, a quick exchange of money,  we found another. I feel much better now.

What is the difference, really, between 103 and 106?

Eyes

Eye - noun, verb 1. the organ of sight 3. this organ with respect to the color of the iris 6. the power of seeing; appreciative or discriminating visualperception 9. regard, view, aim, or intention 11. a center of light, intelligence, influence 17. the hole in a needle. 28. to fix the eyes upon; view 36.have an eye for: to have the ability to appreciate distinctions in

So I don't write too often, but New Year's Eve, I feel,  is one of those occasions that prompt an update.
This is an end of year summary, and perhaps some predictions for the year to come. Not of interest to many but myself, but and update nevertheless.

I asked a friend to describe me with one word that "summed me up." He answered "eyes," and in a way, that's also a good word to describe the year that went by. Because it's been about seeing things. Seeing, noticing and seeing in new ways.

I don't remember what expectations I had for this year. I knew this was the year I would go abroad for an exchange year, but other than that, I think the plans for the year were wide open, and the expectations not made. And although this is a feature that worries my parents, that is how I prefer my years to be. Open.

I've never been that into New Year's eve. I think it's a very odd thing that we divide our life up like this. Saying tonight is definitely the end of something, and the start of something new. Projects, commitments, plans for my life - they tend to be divided up like school years. The start of something new is always in the fall, the end of something is always in the spring. The summer - wide open.

The summer of 2012 I did something stupid. I said yes to something I didn't really want to do, that would be a very bad decision financially, and was something completely different than what I'd normally be into. To top it of, come departure day, it coincided with a horrible event in a friend's life. The type of event there's no good way out of, and the type of friend I really should have been there for. But I had a contract, and I left. I had a few horrible days, and then I had two brilliant weeks. I worked through anxiety on a whole new level, and I met such lovely people, and learned so much about myself, that it became worth it. Step by step.

I entered that summer on a high. I had done well academically. I had done a good job as a student representative. I was nominated (and won) a price for being an "exemplary student." And that fall would bring me an adventure. England. Study abroad.

And it has truly been an adventure. I've refocused. I've reconfigured. I've restarted.

This is the year I finished my first novel.
This is the year I finally brought Thomas to Prague.
This is the year I rediscovered how important music is to me.
This is the year I found friends that I can't imagine a future without.
This is the year I looked inside myself and found my centre. My absolute, unbreakable core. What makes me me. The place where my value, as a human being, was forged, and now glow bright as a crystal right in the middle. The place I can always return to when in doubt. A place of worth.

And such things feel good. I have realized that my blue eyed naivety is part of what makes me me. That feels good too.

The most important lesson of this year: I am a writer. I have an eye for words. I'm eyeing a feature with words and writings. Envisaging the future is not an exercise I feel very comfortable performing. But it's getting more interesting. It's getting more crowded. It's getting less frantic.

I'm read for a new year. A year with few plans but plenty of opportunities. I see no reason to start scheduling the upcoming year. The next five months will be more of the same, new modules, new people, but more of the same. And I like that. My summer is still wide open. I know I'll do something, but I don't know what. There's no reason for me to start scheduling yet.
Not as far as I can see.

Freak

Freak - noun, adjective, verb 2. A person or animal on exhibition as an example of a strange deviation from nature 5. Philately:  a stamp differing from others of the same printing because of creases or dust  6.Slang:  a. a person who has withdrawn from normal, rational behaviour and activities to pursue  one interest or obsession b. a devoted fan or follower, enthusiast c. a hippie. 8. unusual; odd; irregular 9.to become or make frightened, nervous, or wildly excited

Hello, world. I haven't written in a very long time, and my life has taken sharp but expected turns. This is all fine. I am now in England - Hatfield to be precise. School is in session and I read, study and discuss my way through new and interesting topics. But although I've talked about nothing else for a year than the joy of being a student, and everything that (in my mind) happened last year was school related, I doubt this year will be like that.

I am a freak, and I've always been one. I feel weird and uncomfortable in large groups of people. I find great pleasure in the darnedest things, like badly taxidermied animals (preferably in clothes), owls and pictures of  unsquished dead people. I fill my life with colour and whimsy, cry when I'm angry and spontaneously burst out in song at the least opportune moments.  I either dress like a 70s art teacher or a really old lady, but can't resist hats with ears, striped mittens or headbands with feathers, flowers or butterflies. All this a smidge to the left of whatever "the norm" is, but the world in general and I get along.

And then there is that lovely perk that comes from being a curious freak. The instant radar that beeps and lights up if anyone within a radius of 20 metres is lonely, awkward, different, or just in that second feels he or she doesn't belong. So I smile, I nodd, I compliment and small talk, and from all these random encounters, my freak magnet drags the best ones along. And like this the groups are created. Oddballs and spear parts and half broken toys. Non of us fit, and certainly not each other, but we chat and we laugh and we find a middle ground.

I feel like Dorothy,  picking up an entourage on my way down the yellow brick road. We're all hoping to find different things. The Tin Man doesn't need a heart, he's got a really big one. He would, however, like to find love, by the end of the road, or along the way. The cowardly lions (I've now got two) are unbelievably brave, but hope to find proof so they can see for themselves. And the beautiful scarecrow - as sharp as they come - will hopefully find the self confidence to shine like The Tin Man. Some are looking for direction, most are searching for love, some I hope will find mirrors that show them their beauty, others I hope will find guts to speak up for themselves. So we're all searching for different things, but we stick together nevertheless, just because it's safer to navigate these woods as a group.

As for me? I hope I find more freaks along the way, to fill the void as these move on, find what they're looking for or go back to where they belong. Because this is just Oz, we're not in Kansas anymore, and for most there is no place like home. Not so for me. I keep returning to Oz. I don't want to find the end of the road, so I stay barefoot with the ruby slippers in my hands. As long as I have my basecamp, I'll never stop doing this hike.

For here, in the land of freaks searching for meaning, I can ask the question "Does Floridian blood smell like orange juice to vampires," and get the answer "probably." There is no place like home.

Society

society - noun, adjective 1 .an organized group of persons associated together for religious, benevolent, cultural, scientific, political,patriotic,or other purposes. 2. a body of individuals living as members of a community;community. 13. of, pertaining to, or characteristic of elegant society: asociety photographer.

I've just arrived home after spending three weeks as a course leader at a summer camp. It's been an experience I'll never forget, and I've learned so much about myself, about kids and about the feeling of being part of a community.

For the last three weeks, everything I've experienced, everything I've talked about, everything I've considered real has been related to the same 100-and-some kids and 18 "grownups." A small and closed society with its own particular rules for what's acceptable and unacceptable behavior. The tightly defined hierarchy of power never came close to reflect the "real world" standings of each individual. Most of the inside jokes will never be considered funny by anyone outside, and the logic behind many decisions will never make sense again. In this small gap of time in this particular place, however, it all made perfect sense.

It is an odd crossing between superficial and deep the kind of friendship you build up during a thing like this. Most of the conversations you have are centered around the kids and the kids' welfare. You discuss, you tell and you let off steam, you support and are supported by the others in the team. However, a few days later, none of it matters. What importance does a kid's annoying habits have when the kid is back home, and so are you and your confidante?

On the other hand - you do share your best and worst sides with these people, as you are among them constantly for 3 weeks. A nightly chat til 2 am can make you share information most of your friends don't know. Plus, getting through difficult situations or finding creative solutions for stupid problems makes for shared memories that can also create strong bonds.

During this trip I've twice mentioned a part of my life that I never talk about, a painful and complex memory that in this situation didn't bother me at all to talk about. I've laughed harder than I have in years, most of all from an inappropriate parody of one of the kids. Normally it would  have made me cringe but now it will forever stand as one of the funniest things I've ever seen. I've let myself be talked into playing bowling for the first time (at least since I was 7 or 8) without trying to make up a stupid excuse to get out of it, just for the sake of being friendly and positive around friendly and positive people. I've made a complete fool out of myself several times, and enjoyed it immensely  I've shared some beautiful hours on a wall where I felt like a normal girl sharing normal girl stories with other normal girls. I've laughed, I've cried, I've been really angry and frustrated and I've shared inside jokes (you know what I mean? Sunday, London, Honey? Where is Masha? Are you messing with my life?) that now are just words belonging to a society that no longer exists.

So what now then?

I doubt I'll remember the name of the kids for more than a few weeks. I doubt I'll recognize any of them on the streets in a year. The "grownups," most of whom I've considered friends for the last three weeks...? I doubt I'll see most of these people again. But I know whenever I look at pictures of two handsome men dressed up as girls, of two beautiful girls celebrating their three weeks anniversary as room mates, of colorful superheroes in the sun, or of me smiling like an idiot with my hair full of glow sticks - I'll remember the feeling of being part of an isolated group, unrelated to the rest of the world, and ask myself the all important question: Where is Masha? 

Hyponym

Hyponym - noun Linguistics: a term that denotes a subcategory of a more general class: “Chair” and “table” are hyponyms of “furniture,” "Armchair" and "Bar stool" are hyponyms of "chair"

So, I'm reading for my final exam, and going through linguistic definitions like there's no tomorrow. Come the zombie apocalypse; I'll at least be armed with a kick ass vocabulary.

Yesterday I refreshed my resume to apply for a job, and I struggled to see any kind of connecting thread between working backstage in metal concerts, being an office manager for a year, snorkeling on Iceland, writing poems and teach English for health workers. I think this bothered me more than I realized at the time, because several times tonight i woke up thinking random lines like "grouped in like-column it makes sense" and "how about if we consider this a category of its own?" I believe my brain had a subconscious discussion with itself trying to figure out how everything is put together, using the lovely system of hyponymy.

I'm not sure I'm quite there yet, but I have realized a couple of very interesting things. For instance: I have a column, in my mind's inner workings, of values that affect how I make decisions, dream and function. They are about 8 that I've figured out, but I'll only share two of them with you right now.

Be Helpful: This value seems to affect everything else I do, more than any other value, and (perhaps more disturbingly) more than any other concept in any other column. More than interests, more than things I like or love, more than dreams or hopes, helpfulness is the key. Realizing this gave me a whole new outlook on my resume. I have, more than once, said yes to work engagements I really didn't want, to be helpful. I have also spent quite a lot of time "being there" for people, I then never heard from again.

And, this is also responsible for one of my most annoying habits, correcting people. I sometimes confuse helpfulness with poking my nose where it doesn't belong. Insight.

To me, this is useful information because being aware of this may open up for a new way of dealing with things: value-shuffling. I'm excited to see if this works out.

The second value that seem to override everything but helpfulness is:

Be Grateful: This concept is extremely important to me, and I use it frequently to give my self a positive outlook on troubling  events. I really want to be grateful. But dividing this up into a chart of hyponyms and relations showed me that I frequently settle for less than I should, because I'm focusing more on being grateful for what I get, than getting what I deserve. A healthy balance should probably be in place.

This might seem like garden variety obvious facts to you, but to me they are ground breaking insights into "what's holding me back." Changes to come, but first an exam....