Larvik Reads, Part III

'Ignore the words. Let me explain it to you

Some day, maybe, I will learn more how the interwebs work, how to read between the lines and decipher a photo and a descriotion's  hidden truths. 

Even against the longing and the strain, the gasp of immersion into the North Sea, I try to play it straight, as clear as one can. I watch others move quickly, bagging their prizes..not always sure they want OR need. I wonder if I have allowed myself to be pulled subtly off course by the wants and needs of others, demands of a culture that doesn't allow for compromise.

Modern life asks so much of us, 

To trust in an algorithm for romance, to communicate through a backlit screen, to flick right when one could easily flick left, instead of engaging in real time.  I look up from a short story about affairs of the heart and the space-time continuum as my travel companion asks 'What about Tinder? That's how I met CC.'  I hand her my phone. She flicks through on my behalf. Is it lying, I ask myself, or a variant form of having a matchmaker assess options? I'll go with the latter, I think, returning to my book. A couple idle chats, one person says 'You seem more as though you are meant for relationships.' I unmatch and delete the app. Casually seriously, seriously casual, is it really this hard to find someone worth spending a few hours horizontally with? 

I've always been more of a bricks and mortar, 'Shop Around the Corner' kind of gal, one who can fall into a moment just by watching someone take a sip of their drink, 

But did that work out any other way but true?  Are those moments enough to sustain a life? These and other questions are presented to me for pondering in E. Saxey's collection _Lost in the Archives_. There is a familiarity to the writing - two of the stories remind me of Louisa May Alcott's writing as AM Barnard. I have enjoyed the collection so much, I can feel a wave of fangirl obsession coming on. Also, self-chastisement. Why am I not working more on short stories? Why am I so convinced everything has to be an epic? I'm not writing the KAVELA (ugh, way to ruin a poem, Bookshop Skulker...I think I still have those emails. 'Oh, you're Jewish? That's not a problem...really.'). I love short stories, it seems mostly what my fiction is geared to, maybe even my life, so why not engage and see where it takes me?  Where will it take me?

My darling lebekuchen, it has been a day of discovery and falling a little bit in love with Colin Archer (so much easier to love than be loved, Auntie Carson reminds us, to be the action rather than the object. Is it easier to love the a dead man, centuries gone? Would be but for the longing of another's skin against one's own, to be marked by heat and desire, tangled limbs. Imagination only gets a girl so far). 

After a massage at Kanokwan Thai massage, which I heartily recommend I set out to make my way over to the old Customs House, now a museum.  The house was built in the mid 1600s, decorated by the lead customs official in preparation for the King's visit. The king came to Larvik but didn't stay at the house, instead staying on his ship. The agent used money from the coffers and was sentenced to 20 hours a day prison labor for  five years.  But the rooms are stunning and have been painstakingly restored. The care exquisite. I feel humbled and slightly bereft. I have no place for my passions to rest at the moment. I miss my most recent collection.  I sigh, turn away. Suddenly, I miss more than just the collection. I miss my dad. He would have gotten a kick out of the Customs House story, would have been fascinated by the Colin Archer 14. It hurts and a flurry of panic slides down my body. I can't breathe. 

I ended up doing a bit of climbing and came across a lovely cove at the base of Larvik Church. Of course, it wasn't easy to get to and I ended up the water before I meant to, which sounds like a metaphor for something, only I'm not quite sure what. 

The Colin Archer 14, has been fully restored and is in Larvik, whilst the Fram is in Oslo. 'Oslo always wants the famous thing,' the volunteer says, pursing her lips. 'But they can't have this.'  It's quite something, the boat, as was Archer himself.  Born in Larvik, he was one of 13. His parents immigrated from Perth, Scotland and took over a house on the eastern cliff face of the town.  He was passionate about naval safety, and worked to create a resilient rescue fleet.  He played the cello, was well-liked by his fellow townspeople and by all accounts seems to have been a kind, determined man.  

Throughout the last few days, I've dipped in and out of Saxey's collection.  'Lucidity,' puts me in mind of AM Homes' _The End of Alice_, the seeking and yearning.  'I thought that true was was simply obsession. I'd read Nabakov and Thomas Mann as instructions, not cautions.  I didn't know that love can be part of depression, dragging the brain's chemistry down in a whirlpool of adoration. Lucidity allowed me to graunch my brain along the same rut, night as well as day. It didn't satisfy, and it didn't nourish.'

There is so much, so much here layered and tempered with longing and dread creeping in, literally, through mist, dust, concrete. Lines from each story strike a chord. You'll have to read it yourself, of course, to see if they grab you. There are a few editing inconsidtencies, a font slip that would irritate if I hadn't enjoyed them so much.  There are the moments I did not want to move away from. I could sit in individual stories for longer than would be allowed. 

 'I'm wondering if a king could have something to say to a princess. I am dazzled by a crown and cannot see beyond it.' 

'A door is hard to open when the wind is against it.' 

There's flesh on show, in the art and around. The students like the sex dreams. I tell myself that I am married to my dataset. But then I realise, no, I am the dataset's nice guy chum, giving away the death stare to its suitors, whining that no one understands its potential like I do.' 

'When was the last time I did anything with my body?' 

'Follow your passion,' I catch myself thinking. And later: 'Is this my passion? It's passion. Is it mine?'

'I felt a fleeting panic, how can I live like this, desperate not to desire too much?' 

Of course, its timely, reading these during a new moon, setting intention, when my dreamscape as so near to my waking I don't always know a difference, especially someplace where the light is obn almost 20 hours a day, 60 seconds less every one that flicks by. I've been dreaming so vividly, even conversations echo.