Wednesday 1 March 2000

Pic of the day: Throwing away all the papers ... this time the 1997 issues of The Economist. While they are all worthy papers, I haven't read them in a while, and anyway there is always economist.com.

I just looked at my analog clock, and it said 30. As in thirtieth of February. No, I've already worked one day more than usual for that month. Wish that all months were that short, and with the same pay. Why don't people strike for that? All months 28 days!

There is a long March ahead ... 31 days, yet I hope to collect them all. The sun will shine ever brighter over my subarctic homeland, and the days will grow longer. Far south of here, birds will grow restless, not quite knowing why, and look towards the north more and more often. Finally they can not bear it any longer, and take to their wings, forced by an ancient instinct they cannot hope to understand.

On the bus to work I read further in The son of Tarzan, by Edgar Rice Burroughs. Cute book. But not many chapters into the book, the story veers off conspiciously in the direction of a girl. Hello? I thought this was a boy book. I have this nagging suspicion that there will be some "boy meets girl" stuff. Oh well. In a few days, if all goes well, I will know.

It's a funny thing how every thing in nature is composed of particles with an opposite charge, that are drawn to each other but yet never quite manage to merge, like protons and electrons. The hapless electrons keep hovering around the protons seemingly forever, and in this way has come into existence every thing that we see, hear or touch in the world.

As the bus arrived in the city, I thought I saw SuperWoman on the opposite side of the street. But after the first glimpse, I looked again; and as she turned around I saw clearly from her face that it was not the long time friend I had mistaken her for, but just a well dressed stranger. This I had already known as soon as my brain had caught up with my eyes, for my friend is yet in Germany and will not be here until next week. Even then it is quite unlikely that I should happen upon her in the street of Kristiansand. For while I work in the city, she will work in the suburbs where I live.

Reading again my account of the day's events, it seems to me that there is entering into my prose a certain influence from the literature which I have recently perused. And small wonder; for my own mind is feeble and in tatters right now. Lack of sleep is my best excuse; for the almost daily nap on the bus has been replaced by the avid reading of various jungle adventures. Meanwhile, my sleep at night has been stealthily substituted by that most alluring of strategy games, Master of Magic.

Why, last night I was pleasantly playing at half past one in the night when I noticed that I started to lose consciousness for short moments, and that my vision was so blurred and unsteady that it availed me little any more. Quickly finishing my current round, I saved my game, and after a short prayer consigned myself to sleep. I noticed briefly that my bedding was uncomfortably lumpy, and straightened it somewhat. Thereafter I slept soundly for the balance of the night, until I woke from the most peculiar dreams, of which I will now briefly tell.

In my dream, we were on the sands of a tropical beach. An associate whose name is now passed from my memory, had spotted someone in the surf. Hastily he dived to the rescue, but far to late. Three men we found dead in the sea. But more perplexing was the presence of three beach chairs. From the proximity of the corpses, it would seem that they had been sitting in their chairs when the tide engulfed them. But if so, they must surely have been dead.
This was later verified by our forensic staff, who claimed that the three of them were all killed by poison. Furthermore, the marks of the fatal injection were placed such that we became convinced that they had received these by their own free will.
The spoors led us to a secretive and occult sect, whose teachings were inspired by ancient Egyptian mythology. There we found a female cult leader, who aspired to become a goddess. Twice a year she would perform a ritual which she hoped would elevate her to that coveted position, each time sacrificing the lives of three men. The men were told that they would be transferred to a twin Earth on the other side of the sun; here they would rise to their next level of spiritual development. This they had blindly accepted, and thus ended their earthly life.

After I woke from this dream, I no longer found myself willing to succumb to slumber, even though there were still ten minutes left before my alarm clock was supposed to wake me up. I rose instead, and have now spent the whole of the day without any further sleep. So you will forgive me if my account is disjointed and imperfect.