7. Cover me

The first record of you, that I heard – came out right before my life bursted, and the ice found it’s way through the roof. I will never forget the time I LISTENED to your music.  That day it was more than distand music on the radio.  We had a party, celebrating the end of elementary school, and the start of high school, the year was 1985.  Breivoll is a fantastic public area/beach just by the feet of the steep hills of Nordby.  Summer was in the air, and the sun was shining.  Breivolls rich grass plains ran to meet the blue ocean and the forest behind us forming arms stretching against us. It was a celebration… High School was in front of us and soon, youth was to enter us… In between, a burning hot summer.

I did not celebrate.  I was there just because that was expected from me.  I would rather be miles away, on the back of my horse in the direct opposite direction.  I would go to Mars, Jupiter or (preferably) Pluto, right there – if I could.  Out there, in outer space I could have lowered my shoulders and made stardust from the pain behind my ribs. But I was stuck and earthbound, standing outside the sisterhood forming several groups of people on the grass.  I would so much like to fit in, but always fell between chairs.  In one day, out the next one.  Always that insecure feeling as the week closed in on the weekend… In, or out? That day at Breivoll: Out. So, no reason to dance.

I was not good to see the signs, or to play by the unwritten rules. The art of manipulation was not strong with me, but I could recognize it from miles ahead.  I had seen to many people pulling the puppet strings and THAT was something I didn’t like.  I didn’t wanted to be harnessed, bound to follow.  It was my own small steps that was supposed to get me where I wanted.  I was deeply independent, but strived at the same time for the sense of belonging.  A place I could just be me.  Without looking over my shoulder. Always on watch, always a quick beating heart – with a hope that one day, everything was to be ok.  I looked for hints of change every day – but the day for changes did not come then.  Maybe I have to grow up, I thought? Maybe we have learned then? How to carry friendship with dignity and confidence. That IN means IN, not soon out.  That friendship is not power, but fellowship and equality.

As an adult it is easy to see that the sisterhood game is about positioning, power and control. And that slandering, scorn and insults is about making the others smaller, and their selves bigger.  I was then, like now, not ready to be a part of making people smaller og being made small myself. Still it bothered me so much… It made me unfree and seeking.  Luckily I had spaces that made me free. The stables and my horse and the marching band.  And the time with the boys.  They were straight forward and honest. Loyal and secure, and they talked a language I understood.  Boys that allayed and balanced.  Friends like that I had been blessed with as my friends since kindergarten, probably because I was a tomboy.  High and low, cowboy and Indian, soccer-playing and adventurer. Out doing pranks, without doing anything wrong.  My consciousness was to big for that. I was just very properly.  I had my things… Some lessons is to be learned during life, and they… seldom is to be learned if you do everything by the book.

So there I was at Breivoll, not thinking about lessons learned or to be learned – that what’s the night is for.  The only thing on my mind was the nauseating feeling stuck in my throat. My look over the ocean, away – away – away. Over the waves, to Oslo, up the steep hills of Holmenkollen, into the deep woods to “goneaway-land” and Pluto. But then, out of nowhere, you came.  Someone had brought a beast of a ghetto blaster, powered by 8 huge A-batteries squeezed out The E-Street band, so you could hear it all the way over to the other side of the fjord. There you found me, and by a firm grip – you brought me back. You sang “Cover me”. And was it something I was screaming for then and there – it was cover.  You sang like my own soul had written that lyrics. Damn, it felt better stamping my feet against the smooth hot rocks of June.  I wasn’t alone about the need for cover.  Even The Boss had felt need for cover.  The waves brought the night in and your words were like an extra layer of skin on me, covering my exposed inner. And just then, I just didn’t give a damn about anything. The “shit” that were running in the sisterhood being 13. My mum and dad, in the always present death.  I stood there with both my feet IN the music and I just… was. You were strong and safe, and just that tough one can get being born in the USA. With my humble “Born in Norway” I felt your strength pulsate in every nerve-fiber in my body. Yes, it was rough times – and it was to be even rougher. But if no one could cover me from the outside, I would certainly make sure to cover from the inside.  It was the time to meet – no more running away.

 The times are tough now, just getting tougher 
This old world is rough, it's just getting rougher 
Cover me, come on baby, cover me 
Well I'm looking for a lover who will come on in and cover me 
Promise me baby you won't let them find us 
Hold me in your arms, let's let our love blind us 
Cover me, shut the door and cover me 
Well I'm looking for a lover who will come on in and cover me 

Outside's the rain, the driving snow 
I can hear the wild wind blowing 
Turn out the light, bolt the door 
I ain't going out there no more 

This whole world is out there just trying to score 
I've seen enough I don't want to see any more, 
Cover me, come on and cover me 
I'm looking for a lover who will come on in and cover me 
Looking for a lover who will come on in and cover me

With these words, I went stronger into summer. THAT was good, because I had a rough fall waiting for me.  I owe you a great Thank You, Bruce.  You saved me that day. You gave me cover, when I could not provide cover myself.  I have walked a long distance since that summer, and in 2012 I have ploughed what can be ploughed.  I wouldn’t be anything near what I am today, if I didn’t fight so much that I have fought on the way.  And the best thing I have learned on this journey, is to cover me!

Once again, the night strikes – and the starts shoots their way against Pluto. This time I’m in it for the ride.  I was done running away for years ago. Good night Bruce, see you when I get there.

Rikke.
Posted in Norwegian February 11. 2012

6. Walk of life

The years at Nesset went by- The exhaust-coated house of ours did get more and more skewed.  At slow speed it sunk down into the soaked “Everglade-like” foundation, while on the inside… was a storm heading our way.  Like a glacier, the mood of the house and it inhabitants went from warm to cold. Like an old guitar not being tuned, the mistuning became a part of every room in the house.  It was like the invisible glacier spread inside the walls, growing hard – through the kitchen floor spreading to the second floor, making frost roses on the windows.  A painful silence was established, like a thin layer of ice – all the way up to the attic, where my grandfather lived.  Sorrow was silently added to both adulthood and childhood.  It took the dance away from our feet, laughter out of the heart and joy out of life.

Not that we noticed it in the beginning.  Me and my brother had as much fun as before.  I had a horse, riding through the everyday life in full gallop.  And I marched, with the marching band, and my clarinet to the beat of the drums, and I played soccer with the girl team. The last with any trace of coordination or talent (but I put my soul into it).  Besides, I was blessed with a grandfather on the attic buffering everything that was unpleasant.  Grandfather in the attic, the world’s most caring man, with bushy eye-brows and groomed hair.  With his strong arms, after many years as a longshoreman at the docks in Oslo.  Plumber, with a past as banana-boat loss boy, but he also had worked as a dentists assistant during the second world war. I’m not sure this was before or after he received his certificate as plumber, but the point is that he did not – under any circumstances – have any education to justify his work as a dentist’s assistant.  During the war, he pulled out all the teeth of a German patient.  And nobody cared, except from the patient maybe…

My grandfather’s fingers were yellow from excessive smoking, and he always had a curled up pouch of tobacco in his chest pocket.  The beer was not exactly out of reach either.  Green glass bottles were lying dew-cold in his bag. Always. Within arm’s reach.  My grandfather drank. Periodically.  Some periods longer than others, but I didn’t mind at all.  My dad probably thought otherwise, but for me he was the nicest, most caring granddad. Granddad who always had porridge ready during the winter, when we came home from school, and the snow was blowing round our ears. Rice Porridge, semolina porridge, butter porridge.  Nobody could make butter porridge the way he did.  To this day, I have never experienced butter porridge like that, I haven’t really eaten it since… But IF I had, it wouldn’t even be close.  Granddad that always listened carefully to what we had to tell about that days events, and willingly sharing his own events  - from the times that consisted of more than drinking buddies at the docks. He was mild, warm and THERE.  Loving, honest and caring,  in the middle of the moist.  When the storms between mum and dad raised – he was walls, roof, house and home.  The anchor.  That never let go. My rock, in everything floating.

In 1985, the ice hit the roof, punching a big hole – and mum and dad divorced and split up. That would say, my mom stayed, and my dad went to the end of the world… I sent him there.  I was angry and unforgiving.  An attacking warrior on horse.  Attacking was the best defense. Total rejection.  The tears found their way like a flooding river, and the house unnoticeably continued it’s journey down in the “everglade”, together with, mum, my brother and myself. Everything real became unreal.  I did not recognize the world.  The paradise of childhood slammed the doors at me and I dived into a ocean of anger, sorrow and bottomless despair.  I desperately cut bonds, then tried desperately to tie them back together. I was 13 years old, and what was I to belive in, when the one’s creating me did no longer exist?   My landscape was torn to bits and pieces, it was the end of the world and a new world war at the same time. Catastrophe and chaos. Pain and darkness. There was moments where even the heartbeats froze to ice, I was numb and empty.

After a while, my mum packed the remaining of the past into boxes.  She locked the doors of ice and proclaimed it was time for a new life. She put on her skates and kickstarted life again, while listening to Dire Straits. Walk of life pulled the days, and blew gently a warm breeze on the black ice.  She refused to stay “knocked”. So we stood up, mum, my brother and myself – led by Mark Knopfler and his brilliant guitar.  Slowly the winter turned into spring. I had to grow up, before I could understand how hard that journey was for my mother.  What a strong mum I have, she never quit walking.   She always got up.  At the time I was to busy with my own sorrow.  The anger I had towards my dad was raging inside me. How could he leave us? His family.  That was the first hard lesson in life for me.  Nothing lasts forever, not even those emotions – thank god for that.

I don’t remember to much from that time.  I cannot even remember the day we moved, and my grandfather had to find himself a new attic.  I don’t remember if I went down to the creek to say goodbye to my beloved sticklebacks, who now could live a life free from worries of me and my brother.  I don’t remember if we said goodbye, or had a farewell party in the fields. Probably, we grew from that, too fast.  It didn’t really matter – it was the end to the fairytale.  We left the highway behind us, and let the house live it’s own life – as the Atlantis feat. The Everglades.  It was the end to a hell of a way, to get to school. 2 kilometers a day, straight up… Or down, dependning on what end of the day we are talking about. Some hills, you don’t need to conquer them every day.  Even followed by the “Walk of Life”. When I think back, it would have been great if it was one of your songs that carried my mum through this.   Maybe you would have listened a little more carefully then… For let’s face it, so far, I haven’t spoken a word about YOU.  Maybe you are getting impatient, but I cannot ADD details that are not correct, not a part of the truth.  I am not building this project on a lie, it’s a little like: Take it, or leave it.  You will soon enter the story, first as a guest visit, a small one.  I just hope that you are still reading.  I hope you are just not skimming the story, that would be a bad sign, luckily I’m not looking over your shoulder to see if that is what happens.

Now, in 2012 lies a beautiful February-day out there. February, my month.  Quite ironically actually, since I freeze my butt of just getting the mail. In a few days time, I will turn 40… And I can’t wait ‘til spring. When everything comes to life, when life springs from the crust of the earth. When life itself comes to life, and warms the cold souls so that dreams and new roads are let free. Can’t be long, I heard the spring birds sing yesterday.  That makes the wait shorter. I am working the night shift today, finally having time for you on the other end of the day.  Usually I have to stay up all night, but today I have had the sunlight with me – and the cold outside.  And I can promise you, that it is much better to have the cold outside, than on the inside.  This is the hardest chapter of this journey so far.  I have been over this over and over again, also with my dad.  Because he has his story, just like my mum, and my brother.  And when all this is brought together, you get the truth about the past.  But remember, you only hear my voice in this story.  Mum and dad is backing me up every step on this road.  I hope I am worthy that trust.  It’s for their honor I am able to take this journey.

I wish you a great day, Bruce. Where ever you are. Talk to you soon.

Rikke.
Posted in Norwegian February 10. 2012

5 .Daddy cool

Wow Bruce!  What a day!!!  Our project is just like a magnet to the youth – and this afternoon, we had the first meeting with “Breivoll Experience 2012”.  We have tripled the Experience-gang, and work is being laid out and distributed.  Full house at the Clubhouse by Nordbybanen – a sporting area, also the place for my soccer career, where I was known as “Ms. Drible-herself”.  I was eager with the ball, you have to give me that.  Arms and legs, all over, making the opponent dizzy from toes up, and that was that.  You have to play with what you’ve got – then victori is within reach.  That’s the way it is with the “Experience” also. The sum of all the youths talent and abilities  and their courage to show the way.  Last but not least the sum of power to believe in things to happen, everything is possible – Bruce Springsteen also.  That is what will get us there, in the end.  If we stumble across the finishing line, dosen’t matter – the important part is to participate and to complete. Just ask Northug (Norwegian Skier, look him up). If you reach the goal, you have completed the task… I believe that Mr. Northug does not quite agree with me on that, but if you ask ME: You necessarily doesn’t have to be the first one over the finishing line to be a victor. My god, think if THAT was the purpose of it all? Run like hell and get it over done with in no time. “Allo! Allo St. Peter! Did I do allright?!?” “Yes, my dear, no life – but in bloody good time”.

The Experience-group landed some rules, forming the climate of the group.  We agreed on some things, important to make this work.  One of the most important things we agreed upon was RESPECT.  Meaning that we should respect each other.  Saying that – in wide terms, one can pick from the top shelf: But for our part it is about safety, care and recognition. Everyone means something, everyone has the right to be heard.  Everybode works together on the same premises. Everybody has equal opportunities.  Everyone, needs everyone – to reach the finishing line. Therefore no shit, no denigration. You build… And make those around you strong. We did the wave, and the first stone is in the ground.

So, back to the eighties (Got to work with the translations… I’ll get there). Summer of ’82. Me and my brother, down at the pier at Nesset. We loved that pier – boats everywhere, in all sizes and all shapes – the pier almost went for miles out into the ocean, all filled with boats. We raced til the end of the pier, waves gently touching the pier from underneath. To walk was just not possible. “That one’s mine” We screamed, pointing at our favorite boats. “No, that one”. The boats were rocking gently, looking at us with their sleepy faces as we ran past. One boat, more white than the other, chrome that sang into the sun. Decks in polished hardwood.  We constantly changed our minds about what boats was our favorite. In our fantasy, WE were the one hoisting the anchor, taking the boats smotthely out on the sea, freeing them from the soft embrace of the pier.  WE were the ones sitting in white leather seats, drinking Coke from high glasses while the wind gently touched our necks. WE dived from the platform, and were hanging gently from the ladder, with pearly water glittering on our backs.  The fact that we didn’t even was close to having a small dinghy, just made the dreams stronger.  Even more real. The boats were ours. King and queen of the harbor. When we were tired from racing and running, we sat down on the pier – just where it connects to mother earth.  Sitting there, the legs in the water dangling, we fished for crabs – while watching our own mirrored images from the calm sea. Then we headed back home, with a basin between us containing today’s catch, we arranged crab-races on the lawn.  The crabs literally ran for their lives when we emptied the basin. In all directions.  Several weeks later our property was surrounded by the stench of dead, sun hot crabs… Mom and dad were freaking out from the smell – but me and my brother did not say anything about what we had done.  I felt bad for this many years after… What were we thinking? I have not harmed an animal since. Well, except from a wasp now and then, and maybe some spiders.  But that’s something else.  Insects are not protected the same way.

The summers lasted forever at that time. Forever, slowly and filled with laughter, making jam, lemonade and my dad’s poker nights.  Everybody was welcomed in our house.  My mom and dad’s friends were colorful, who loved me and my little brother like their own kids.  We were so lucky, surrounded by love. Sometimes me and my brother were allowed to join the grown ups card game. Dimes and cents were like small mountains on the dinner table.  The smog from cigarettes filled the room from floor to ceiling.  Remember, this was the 80’s - long before someone talked about passive smoking, and the health risk as a cause of that. Glad I didn’t know about that… I would probably be wearing a gasmask to avoid the consequences.  Smoking were as natural as sun and rain to me, at the time – I even breathed the mood into my lungs with deep breaths… And let my heart grow because I was happy to be allowed to the grownups community.  The eyes around the table were warm, the hair jagged and a beer or two were consumed.  A nice feeling of safety surrounded us.

Pekka, one of my dads friends from his youth years was one of our favorites.  He was a red-haired, fast-talking, with large necklaces in gold and tattoos. A more happy man, you would have to search worldwide for. He was full of stories from their wild youth years, and especially I loved the story where he and my dad were cruising down “Karl Johans Gate” (Parade street of Oslo) in a Mini Morris. This was the late 60’s.  With the pedal to the metal they flew down the street, folding like a black necktie from the Kings castle in the vest, to the central station east. They were young rebels, and flying like the city-seagulls, with the tank filled with pranks and laughter.  Just around Oslo Cathedral, the car was slammed to the ground, the suspension were not good enough to cope with the speed.  The car screamed, and was split into two parts – like god had splitted it with an axe, just by the gear shifter.  I will never forget the pictures Pekka painted for me by telling this.  Pekka and daddy, split by heaven.  They tipped, sitting in each their leather seat.  Pekka to the left, my dad to the right.  Screaming of laughter, they got out of each half of the car – patted each others  back while they took a look at the car.  “Shit” said Pekka. “I had just washed the car”.

Later, it turned out that Pekka was alone in the car, and daddy… He was long gone… But the rest is true. Either way, I will let the canvas stay like it is, with my dad in the story.  For me, daddy will always be sitting next to Pekka flying in each their half of a red Mini Morris over the Kings curled necktie. And me… I’m going flying… To the land of dreams, with every possibility that gives.  I’ll be back sometime tomorrow morning.  My life motto, after Alice’s dad. Remember: 6 impossibilities before breakfast. I usually get 5 of them done during the night... The last one? I will use the rest of the day for that one. Even I have my limitations.

‘nite Bruce

Rikke.

Posted in Norwegian February 9. 2012

4. Dead or alive

It’s time.  I’m hesitating a bit. With the door ajar and my heart in my hand. I’m stepping in to the point of nu return.  I cannot undo this.  There is probably a hundred ways to approach you, the only one I know… is this one. I believe in the core.  I believe in giving something from the heart, a piece of me. This makes me vulnerable , but trough that I can achieve strength.  One cannot just THINK that it is that way. One have to LIVE by the principles you believe in – if not: What’s the point?  To create, one has to act. Passiveness has never laid down a single brick to the foundations of the world. So,...here we go:

I grew up in a small place called Nordby. A small parish a couple of miles outside Oslo.  Today there is about 5000 inhabitants here. Then, a lot fewer.  The last 25 years a lot of changes has come to this small place, but the character and the culture is intact.  We have great fields, deep forests, and a rich history dating back to the stone age. We have hills with no endings, fjords with polished rocks that makes the very soul come to ease, and provides calmness on a hot summer day.  And we got THE Oak.  The beautiful majestic Nordby-oak with a crown diameter of 30 meters!!!  It has settled with deep roots on the roof of this small place, and ut is a landmark.  I don’t know how old it is, but it is most certainly old. Did you know that the oak was known as Thor’s (God of thunder & lightning) three?  Me neither, but that is just things that comes up when browsing and searching the internet.  Not the most important of knowledge, but still a fun fact.  Come to think of it, it isn’t that strange that Thor + Oak = true, since the lightning always has had a special love for oak trees.  Not the place to stay on a scary rainy afternoon.  But other ways: One can never visit the oak to seldom.

The house I was living in was placed, not beautifully, clammy rendering to the European Higway-6. Så close to it, that when the snow shoveled trucks passed by during winter, glass often shattered due to a shower of ice and gravel.  The facade of the house became grey from the exhaust, daily gluing itself layer on layer with the remains of the combusting engine. We tried to paint the house brown after a few years, but it did not help. The exhaust-coat was still hanging there.  But it was a great place to grow up.  Actually we didn’t pay much attention to the traffic pounding outside our walls 24/7.  This was our Eldorado. Mommy, daddy, little brother and mine. The highway was just a trivial thing compared to the other side of our house.  After living my first years in a skyscraper in Oslo (Hold your horses, a skyscraper in Norway is not exactly what you call a skyscraper), this was like coming to Alice’s Wonderland.  Oh, joy!!! Two thousand square meters of garden – enormous, filled with up and abouts, bushes with blackcurrants and trees with rope-swings.  And the best of all a huge creek by the end of the property. Pounding with life from small fish and eels. A field of reed was located by our property – and we made huge rooms by stamping around.  We made ballrooms out in that field.  And not a single soul could see the parties we had behind the yellow swaying walls. My brother and I. During summer, we lied flat on the ground by the creek, flies summing around us, and we caught sticklebacks in numbers.  During winter, we skated on the ice by the garage.

I was quite happy as a child. Curious about life, observant, happy and active.  But I carried a big secret. I was constantly afraid of dying. Might seem like a contradiction, loving life, being happy and at the same time being afraid of death, I know. I don’t know why it was like this – it doesn’t make me a category A, just to have that being said.  It is just one of the truth about me and my life, together with many other truths at that time. I think I am born this way.  Most people looked at me as a secure, strong willed and unafraid girl.  But people often don’t se what’s below the surface – they are too busy noticing.

Life comes in every shade, and I believe that you are a man that understands just that. It is a part of me, but it did not stop me or handicap me, until I reached a certain age.  For the time being, I don’t go up in airplanes or drive boats – but working on that.  Even to eat can be dangerous.  It nearly killed me two times.  First time it happened, I was around 9 years old.  I came over a news article about a man suffocated by a piece of meat at a restaurant – well, that made it. That article was the direct cause to me being frantic when a piece of chocolate got stuck in my throat. I was sure that my time had come, that I was going to die. I bought the chocolate for a fistful of change in a small kiosk at Nesset – A small red building, by the pier at the end of the Bunne-fjord. I worked there some years later, but I didn’t know that when I was nearly killed by a almond chocolate.  It was like a ticking bomb some abstract place below the ears – and my only thoughts was: This is it. This is as far as I go, no further.  At the same time, I ran as quickly as my feet could possibly make along the pathway – heading to our house 500 meters away.  Never has a dying child reached this kind of speed alongside the European Highway #6.   My mom was kind of terrified when I came running in, and water eyed proclaimed I was to draw my last breath.  At the end she said “Ok…” “But you’re still breathing”. And that I did.  I didn’t die that day – and neither did I die 20 years later when I managed to stuck a taco shell in my throat.  I drove, just as hysteric as I was running, to the ER in Oslo. I was waiting 3 hours for someone to take the piece of shell out of my throat, while watching limping, bleeding and drunk people who also needed medical care.  Everyone was put before me in the queue.  “HELLO!!!” I screamed, “Nobody noticing that I am dying?”. But no, please sit down and wait.  They told me to drink water, to soften the shell. Hola Mexico. What has become of this world? I drank water ‘til my eyes got wet, but the shell itself was stuck, and the edges of the dangerous piece of tacoshell was digging into me, like large voracious tentacles.  “It just FEELS like it is still there” said the lady, dressed in white.  I just had to pack up, and leave. Both me and the taco. Beware of your ability to swallow things.  Not everyone knows how lethal it is.  I was spared, but next time, maybe I won’t be as lucky…

Yep, I eat fast.  And I work slow.  Again, it is late night and tomorrow we are throwing the last high school meeting. I better get some sleep, so I can be fit for fight. Cross your fingers Bruce.  And sleep tight.  Tomorrow there isn’t going to be much death – but then again more… of life and happiness.

Rikke.
Posted in Norwegian February 5. 2012

3. Faith

Yesterday, you should have been a fly on the wall, Bruce.  In the auditorium of Nordby High School.  You would have performed a backflip, at least a wings-up.  We spoke in front of all the talented youth of Nordby about “Breivoll Experience”, every seat was taken.  And youths that were presenting the project was just AMAZINGLY good.  Just to see them standing there, talking about the long and winding road with that youthful pride… That touched me, deeply.

The youth that were with us last Easter, to start this project, did not receive much credit by their fellow classmates.  The fact is that the wind blew against them, from all directions – but they did not quit.  That takes some guts, I’ll tell you that.  This year is going to be different.  First of all we will make sure that everyone that want to be a part of this can participate.  Last year only a handful were given the chance.  That might be the reason that so many turned their back against them.  Second, we will try to tell the story, so everybody knows what this is about.  It’s kind of easier when having something to show for. Last year it was a vision of what this could become.  Now it has turned into a panting with clear vibrant colors that everyone can relate to.

That was why we visited the high school, to give them that painting.  But just not only the painting, we wanted to give them THE FEEL of how it was to paint it.  Because it is THAT feel that drives this project ahead. The feeling of NOT quitting, even though everybody tells you what you’re doing is stupid.  The feeling of making a difference, makes you strong, and make your legs keep walking – up the steepest hills.  The feeling.  From the very bottom of your soul, that gives you a guiding light, and air beneath your wings. I think we made it.  With 30 new youths signing up for the project, to build, create and develop “Breivoll Experience 2012”. 30 new youths saying that they want to make this happen.  As of now, we are 40 youths aged 13-17 is with the project.  And on Monday we can get even more, as we missed 80 of the pupils in yesterday’s meeting.

But that is now, I promised you then.  Still I believe that it is good that you get a glimpse of today, even though the past is what we do, here.  Professional writers make this happen easily, the switch between now and then, without the reader thinking about it to much.  But I am no writer.  And not a professional. So you will have to do with what I give you.  God knows if you are interested at all, but I will not let me thinks such thoughts at all. Before I open the door, and let you into my childhood, I want to point out that it is important that you get to know me.  From scratch.  Probably you will get to know me, more than I will ever know you.  But I have concluded the deal already, so that’s fine with me.

So, for me not to be a completely stranger from the other side of planet earth, I will let you in. Not in a weird way, it will get personal, but not to private. Is it possible to be personal but not private? The core of myself is essential either way, the question is how much core?  People in this world is good at appearance and “outside finish”, so to show strangers a little bit of inside-substance is not what we do every day – but maybe society had been a more generous place if we showed each other who we really are?  Ok, enough digression for you – but I feel it is important to tell you why I am giving you some of my story.  It is actually necessary to do this, to make you understand so that you will not reject this as a wild and impulsive idea. Wild maybe, I’ll give you that, but this has been thought thru, because you have been on the way here for a long, long time.  Most of all I’m afraid that you will categorize me, and put me in one of the following three categories:

A: She’s just a nutcase. (There is some of those around, so I don’t blame you).

B: She’s a wannabe-groupie-superfan with no inhibitions. (Like so many other wannabe-groupie-superfans with no inhibitions).

C: A combination of the two above. (I must admit, that that would not be really flattering).

In your eyes, I can probably be an A, B or C anyway (God forbid)… I have my money on the D alternative, and if we can get there, I’ll have a chance.   I have to deny to the category B right away, not sure if that is to my advantage.  But I have to be honest.  I’m not your biggest fam.  I just don’t have it in me to be head-over-heels fan of another human being.  I have of course listened to many of your songs, and the record I love the most is “Born in The USA”.  That is also the only one I have… I bought it on iTunes, and it is just recently I bought it.  I have never seen you live in concert, I have never owned a poster with you on it.  I have never read books about you, news about you, or seekd information about you… Until recently of course.  Still: You are the big mission. Or a part of the big mission.  Why? Well, you will get to know that, but not today.  It`s night in Oslo.  I have a big-city-weekend and a timeout with my husband. He is by the way patient with his wife, sitting in front of her laptop and tries to ingratiate with another man…  He has the company of some angry birds on his iPhone, so I’ll push “post” and contribute with some wing beats of presence.

See ya!
Rikke

Posted in Norwegian February 4. 2012

2.Turn back time

I promised you the beginning, and you will get that.  But before we go there, we have to take a pitstop in Prinsdal (Suburb of Oslo), the year is 2000.  That’s when you for real came into my mind.  As you soon will figure out, my biggest strength is not chronology.  BUT, im just the best when it comes to go round and about.  I guess it’s supposed to be this way, or else my cells would have been assembled in another way.  I will try to keep the faith to chronology, but count on some detours – this is the first.

Prinsdal.  I lived in a worn down house, a “two family home” type of house – faced to the wrong side, as far as the sun goes. Constantly in the shadows even in the middle of the day.  Our properties best assets were two old apple trees that quarreled about space, about as big as a dime – on a lawn full of moss.  They produces delicious august-fruits on branches twirling together in orderly chaos.  It was just made to climb in, those trees.  Just staying up there. Dreaming.  The worst asset to the property was our garage.  In it’s own rotten nonchalant way, it leaned towards the house, as if to manage to stay up.  Having one hour of sun up by the roof, I used to hang my washed clothes way up there during the summer.  They dried quickly during that hour.  And dressed in clothes that smelled like the sun, the shadows were easier to bear.  It wasn’t great.  But it was home.

In the year 2000 I had extended my maternity leave with my son number two. On year extra to be with the greatest miracles on earth – my children.  The days went by slowly in the small valley of Prinsdalen, and there was time to think of the big things in life. I didn’t spend much of my time doing that.  One day, while stuffing myself with waffles on the Thursday-meetings for those staying home, in Prinsdalen church – all of the sudden I saw myself from the outside.  Sounds like a postcard… In church, eating waffles. A pleasant sight.  Not too bad for  a woman not attending church to often.  Surrounded by other mothers. Being social.  But it wasn’t about the instant image.  It was the whole picture – where was i?  Where did Rikke Soligard go?

The woman eating waffles in the church had changed drastically, from being the girl who bounced around in Nordby (the small place I’m from) in the 80’s.  Thinking she was to be someone. SHE was the one who should push the world.  As soon as she just grew up.  The woman, eating waffles, didn’t push anything else than baby carriages, shopping carts, lawn movers and quarreling closet doors, that liked to stay open, no matter how many times I closed them.   The little time I had spare after changing diapers and spending time with my family was used on anything else than pushing the world in the right direction.

I read those glossy, pink magazines for woman.  I loved the interior magazines, with their shiny interior dream homes (free from rotten garages, dust and dirty dishes) I let myself hunger for everything I did not have. And most proably would never get.  I used hours on early hour soap-trash-TV, totally missing both purpose and soul. And on Thursdays, attending church coffe, I discussed things that did not matter. I am not against TV-entertainment or smalltalk.  Sometimes it is pleasant to relax, log out, with activities that does not require the brains full attention.  By the way, smalltalk can be used as to build relations with new people.  But the ability to smalltalk is not my finest asset.  Everybody that knows me knows that: Rikke. Sucks. At. Smalltalk.  It’s ok for you to know that, in case we meet.  Bigtalk on the other hand, that’s one of my talents, but I didn’t know that back then.

So there I am, on the churchbench (eating waffles) and the hordes of not-interresting-at-all words, and between to pieces of waffles I suddenly realize: Either, I did not grow up. Or I grew up to fast.   

Where was that stubborned girl with a master plan? What did become of the drams? The big visions on life itself? I know you probably don’t have the answers to my questions.  Not to sure I have them myself.  What I know is that much of what is lost, can be found again.  If you wanted.  And i: WANTED.  The strange part is that as soon as the thoughts formed in my brain, I could feel that girls heartbeats over my own heartbeats.  All of the sudden, on the inside, the girl was there, with a plan.

The problem was that the plan was not to ready for me, to begin with. It took years before I figured it out.  That it would take me on a long journey filled with the possible impossibilities.  The “dept. of enthusiasm”, pink dinosaurs and “The Dream Bank”… I didn’t know what was to come… Well, you don’t, either.

To make you understand how you are a part of this, I will have to take you back to the stubborn angry girl, the way she was before she was forgotten. But, that will have to be tomorrow.  It late night, and the “Big Dipper” has parked on my roof.  I’m thinking to climb aboard it… is a good idea.

Good night Bruce. Talk to you tomorrow.
Rikke
Posted in Norwegian February 2. 2012

1. Return to sender

Ok, Bruce. I’m about to take this one step further.  The letter I sent you “over there” was returned to sender.  The US Postal Services is probably not committed the same way our Norwegian Postal Service is.  Here you can write “To Santa”, nothing more, and the heart and souls of the employees is put into delivering that letter to Santa… The letter is most likely to end up in Drobak (Small Norwegian coastal Town who houses Santa during the cold winter months).  The address on your letter was in best case inadequate, so you might say I drew to early.   But it was worth a try! After all, I put it in the mailbox on Christmas eve.  Since I in a way anticipated this, I also mailed the same letter to your record company Sony Music here in Norway and... to the “concert fixers” in Live Nation, also in Norway.   Not a word from neither of them either… Just as I thought, but not as I hoped.
So, maybe I got to use my outdoor voice then?  Well, I came up with the bright idea to blog about it.  As you don’t know, but would have known, if you had read my first letter… The history behind me wanting you to come here is loooong.  Int the letter (that you haven`t read) I promised you the whole story - if you made a deal with me.  But since landing a deal with you is, as of now, far fetched – I will have to give you the story up front.  Then we can land the deal. 
I’m not sure if a blog will work as a “letter”, I have very little experience in the blogging-world, I’m a super-beginner.  Blogging for me is interior design, fashion and tips and tricks about staying thin, becoming fit,  wrinkle-free, and happy in a shining home.  Many people may think there is where happiness lies.  I am probably in the other end of the scale.  But that’s good for balance, right? Time will show if this is the right approach.  A challenge is born. The blog has to be read from start to finish, to make it make sense.  After all, this is a very long letter from start ‘til end. I will try to figure out a way that works for you.  I don’t wan’t you to stop reading.
The best way is to start with the beginning, and then take it from there. Then I will give you more of the story a couple of times a week.  Is that ok?  Too much?  Too little?  Let’s just put it this way: It is what is is.

Then I just have to say: Dear Mr. Springsteen!  You are so very welcome ...to enter the big letter J

Best regards from Rikke.
Posted in Norwegian February 1. 2012