Tuesday 25 May 1999

Path of Daggers

Pic of the day: Path of Daggers is out in paperback here. Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time epic fantasy series is still a pretty good read. And unlike many fantasy books it is not sexually explicit and still manages to attract a lot of young readers. Now that's impressive. It's a real time thief though - the books are thick.

Recently, I've taken a liking to cheesecakes. It's not as cheesy as it sounds: I mean the white, soft, edible ones. They don't even taste like cheese. And unlike the various whipped-cream cakes, they don't taste like fat with some small extras. I liked cakes when I was a kid, but later they fell into disfavor. In the later years especially, I could go entire seasons without tasting one, unless I was forced to eat a small piece out of politeness to my hosts.
In connection with the wedding this spring I discovered that cakes can be pretty good still. A certain girl had made a cake based on quark (?), some cheese stuff I've never seen around here (she brought it with her from Germany) (OK, that pretty much tells the regulars who it was, too) (what is this, paranthesis parade?). It actually was good, it wasn't just because she made it. Honest to dogginess. Anyway, I've tasted a few pieces of cakes this spring and finally found these deliciously soft cheesecakes. My faith in cakes is temporarily restored - I've become at least a bit more like a little child again.

Oh, and regarding that entry of last Thursday: No, I've not spent the last 27 years gawking at women's breasts. Quite the opposite. Meaning I've been staring at their rear ... no, actually I mean that I've been very actively NOT staring at their chest. In fact, my gaze used to flicker all around the clock, I guess. The net effect, though, is probably pretty much the same. My female friends tended to wear shapeless XL wool pullovers indoors for a few years there ... though this may have other reasons, I must admit I wondered for a while...

This gets seriously disjointed, but I feel I must comment on the song I'm listening to now, disturbing and inappropriate as it may be. It's a recording of "Seasons in the sun". I remember that the Norwegian translation of this song was all the rage just before I moved out from my parents' farm. Because I remember I was thinking of it, or perhaps even singing it, as I turned and took a last look at the farm. I was 15 then.

The CD this song is on, is the one I used to play in my discman day in and day out the summer after my friend Kristian died. His grave is only a leisurely walk from here. Not that he is there, of course. The mind that was him is long gone, and even his body is hopefully decomposed after a few years. I sure don't expect him to hang around there and look for visitors. It would have been very unlike him, even if it were feasible. But I see that there are occasionally still people who put flowers there, for reasons they know but I can only guess. He was nearly 20. He had known for a long time that his hourglass was running out of sand, but even his family was not aware of how conscious he was of it. I remember we talked together a few weeks before he left this world. He wanted so much to come together with his girlfriend again before time ran out. And so it came to pass. He loved her dearly. She was a good girl, too.

Goodbye, my friend ...

Blasts from my past:
Back to my May page.

I welcome e-mail: itlandm@online.no